Cause of Death

by Peter Ritchie

  ‘Definitely not. The page had been almost surgically removed from the book. The notebook is no more than a scribble pad – it’s not like a diary so we can’t say it was definitely on such and such a day, but we could probably tie it down a bit from the entries before and after.’

  Macallan knew in her gut that it had meaning. The killer was waiting at the end of the clue; they just had to make sense of it. ‘Do you have it here?’

  Young drew the small black notebook from her briefcase and handed it to Macallan, who handled it as if it was laced with toxins. She pulled open the marked pages and held it up to the light.

  ‘Well, well. Whoever it was either forgot about indented writing or took the risk because removing more pages would be too obvious. I’m going to get this to the lab and I’ll get back to you as soon as I get the result.’

  She bagged the notebook, but as she dropped it into her case an alarm went off in her mind. ‘If this is something then why not just bin the notebook before we got it?’ Young said nothing, knowing Macallan was just thinking aloud. ‘Unless it was done after arrest – but how could that be?’ She stared at a blank wall.

  ‘Who examined the notebook?’ she asked Young.

  The analyst rubbed the lenses of her glasses again. ‘Mick Harkins examined it,’ she admitted. ‘It was Mick.’

  66

  Macallan headed for HQ feeling like she had a time bomb in her briefcase but wasn’t sure just where and when it would go off – and, more importantly, who would end up as collateral damage?

  As Macallan was driving into the car park at the south side of Lothian and Borders HQ, Harkins filled in a four-line form, handed it in to the pensions office and became a retired officer in less time than it took him to eat his lunch. O’Connor didn’t even know that he’d gone, and the only person he made a point of telling was the office cleaner, who’d been there for even more years than him. The squad detectives who were there watched him leave the office without a backward glance. They’d overheard it all, and as soon as he closed the doors behind him the theories started to catch fire. Most thought it was to do with the breakdown at the top and blamed O’Connor.

  Harkins stepped out into the yard and looked over at the rows of marked cars and vans liveried with the Lothian and Borders crest. He walked across the car park to the barrier as the winter darkness pushed its cover over the city, pulling his collar up as he walked through the gates and headed away from his career and everything that had made him who he was. As he walked along Stockbridge he lit a damp cigarette, coughed painfully and decided that at least he could drink what he liked and not worry about getting into the office in the morning.

  He wandered round the supermarket trying to avoid the other shoppers who looked like they might have a life. The young girl at the checkout seemed to be giving him too much eye contact, and it made him feel uncomfortable. What did she see, and was that pity in her stare? It didn’t help that he had to pay for the small bag of goods with handfuls of change, and he could feel the annoyance coming from the punters in the queue behind him.

  He relaxed as he escaped back into the dark street, boiling with rush-hour traffic and tired citizens escaping the working day, and fixed his gaze on the ground ahead of his pounding feet. All he wanted was to be safely inside his flat and let tomorrow be another problem.

  Harkins saw the apartment building lights beckon him and stared up at the unlit windows of his fourth-floor flat. It was empty but safe, and he was going to drink and drink hard – he was on his own, and he could do whatever he wanted. Doubles, trebles, or mixing it, it was all fine, and he got stuck in. He’d loved his time with Felicity but maybe it was all just as well and she was better off without him. He didn’t know, and for a while he ached to hold her and – who knows? He was Mick Harkins so fuck it all.

  Three-quarters of the way down, the bottle started to work its magic and he began to relax, remembering the days when he’d meant something . . .

  He woke up in the chair as if an electric charge had been pumped through his body, struggling to clear his head as he watched Jeremy Paxman giving someone a hard time on Newsnight. For some reason the sound was turned down, but it didn’t really matter – he couldn’t stand the bastard.

  In the morning, which was nearer afternoon, Harkins opened the door feeling as if he hadn’t slept in a month – which was close to the truth if he subtracted drink-induced comas. He realised that he could collect his lump sum and do whatever the fuck he liked with it – money wasn’t a problem, so he headed for the bookies and then on to the boozer.

  67

  O’Connor was sitting in his office and decided that he couldn’t spend the rest of his life turning the same thoughts over in his head. He was intelligent enough to know that his period of isolation was driving the squad towards total failure on the Waddell case and anything else they might touch. He had to take action and regain control of it all.

  The sleet hit the windows like machine-gun fire and he stared across the city skyline as dark smoking clouds hurried towards the North Sea. He’d been hurt by Macallan, but much of what she’d said was true, and he knew that he was just wallowing in self-pity. It was time to get back on the job, and he needed Macallan whether they had a relationship or not.

  He walked out of his office and said he needed Harkins and Macallan. It took all his self-control to stay calm when he was told that Harkins was gone.

  ‘Get me Chief Inspector Macallan now!’

  Macallan was in the lab when the message reached her that O’Connor was on the prowl. The results of the indented writing weren’t quite ready, and she asked that they be delivered to Felicity Young in a sealed envelope. She couldn’t tell O’Connor about the notebook in case it was nothing and took him over the edge.

  She took a deep breath before she walked into his office because she had no idea what was coming next – and certainly didn’t expect to hear that Harkins had left.

  O’Connor was surprised that she hadn’t known and felt foolish for imagining it was some conspiracy cooked up to make things even worse for him.

  ‘Have you any idea what happened to Mick?’ he asked Macallan, doing his best to look as if he was back in control.

  She hoped he wouldn’t pick up her discomfort, but she had to see if they could make sense of the indentations before she mentioned anything about the notebook. A problem with a squad officer – and particularly Mick Harkins – was the last thing O’Connor needed to admit to the ACC.

  ‘I’ll try and get a hold of him at some point to see if there’s anything we can do, but I suspect he’ll be hard to reach if he doesn’t want to be found.’ She tried to act matter-of-fact, but they were both struggling to hide the non-verbals.

  At the very least O’Connor seemed to be thawing towards her and that gave her some feeling of relief.

  ‘I’m sorry I’ve been a bit out of it, but whatever happens let’s get back on the case, although I know you’ve been working flat out. How are we doing, and is there anything we need to concentrate on at the moment?’

  She gave him all she had apart from the notebook; she had no idea how she would tell him if it turned out there was a trail to follow from the notes.

  ‘I still think we need to look back at Barclay in case he’s the wrong guy.’ She waited for O’Connor’s response, unsure how he’d take the implication.

  The superintendent flinched but didn’t lose control; however, it was confirmation enough that she had to be careful.

  ‘We’ve been through this. We go for a copycat. Barclay didn’t put up a fight and the forensics from his clothing was 100 per cent. If things change we can go back but that’s our focus. Are you with me on this? If not, I need to get someone who is.’

  And that was it. Those cold words changed it all and condemned what they’d had to another time and place. He was telling her in no uncertain terms that she could be replaced if she didn’t play ball. There would be no discussion or sharing of ideas. She set her face and listene
d to her own thoughts rather than what he was saying. Fuck you, Mr O’Connor. I’ll drag this bastard in myself and lay him out on your desk.

  He was playing his game so she would play hers. She’d trained and fought in Northern Ireland against an enemy that gave no quarter and hunted Branch officers like dogs. She was more than equipped to deal with this.

  She smiled and rose from her chair. ‘I’m on it, sir, and will keep you informed.’ The word ‘sir’ was enough confirmation that they had a problem. She kept her control, her expression cold and hard, but it was just a mask to cover her anguish. Once again she’d been let down by a man she’d trusted and loved. She promised herself it was a mistake she’d never repeat.

  She closed the door and walked back to her desk, only to find a text from Young asking for another meet.

  68

  Macallan brought sandwiches and coffee into her lounge as Young spread a stack of photocopies out on the floor, one of which was the page of indented writing. Macallan stared at it for a couple of minutes without comprehension then let Young have her moment.

  The analyst’s face was drawn, her expression anxious as she said, ‘From the previous and following pages I was able to relate the notes to other information in his diaries, which gives us a pretty accurate indication of the dates involved. The problem is that what was written wasn’t what I expected.’

  Macallan felt her stomach knot. ‘What is it? Tell me.’

  ‘It’s Mick’s name and phone number. On its own that could have a reasonable explanation – he could’ve been calling on behalf of a client or something like that – but why on earth would they want to get rid of it?’

  ‘I don’t get it; none of this makes sense.’

  Young was exhausted, but it was clear she wanted to work out what had happened to Harkins more than anyone and Macallan thought there was no better time to ask the question.

  ‘You were close to Mick at the time. I don’t want to pry, but what do you think?’

  Young looked beaten and there were lines under her eyes that were new, and for life. ‘Everything was good with Mick, and he really made an effort. He’s not the ogre that some people think, and he can be quite gentle in his own way, but he puts on this show in public.’

  Macallan nodded. ‘I know that, and I was so happy when you two got together. Mick was the man who kept me sane when I arrived here.’

  ‘Looking back, when the case started, he thought Barclay was just a suspect who’d be cleared eventually, and he was just going to enjoy watching him getting a hard time. It was like some private joke,’ Young continued. ‘But when the forensic evidence was found at the house, it was as if he’d been told he had a terminal illness. It was downhill from there – he was like a stranger. I know he’s in some sort of trouble, but until this thing with the notes, I thought it was something personal. Now I don’t know.’

  Young looked down at the floor, at a loss for anything else to say.

  Another few pieces drifted into place and Macallan saw the direction the arrows were going.

  ‘Work what you’ve told me into a statement,’ she told Young, ‘but don’t give it to anyone else at the moment.’

  69

  When Macallan walked into the custody area the following morning, the chill air wrapped round her shoulders and she wished she was back in France with some sun on her face. The trail was heading to a place she didn’t want to go, but she wasn’t prepared to leave it to anyone else.

  The custody sergeant’s career had always placed him well away from the front line, although he’d convinced his family and friends that no criminal was safe while he was about, and the visit from Macallan made him feel part of something bigger. It would make a good story, him helping out the murder squad who were struggling with the Waddell case, and he gave Macallan the information she needed immediately.

  In the privacy of her office, Macallan ran her finger over Barclay’s custody record and there it was –Harkins had visited Barclay in his cell after the arrest and interview. So there was a connection that had been kept under wraps. But why? She needed to tell O’Connor – but only when she knew the whole truth.

  She walked to the car park and called Diana Barclay. ‘I wonder if I could come and see you? I need to tie up some loose ends.’

  The silence was long and heavy. ‘I suppose I’ve been expecting a call from you. When?’

  ‘Now.’

  70

  Diana Barclay walked to her window to wait for Macallan. The heavy make-up she wore couldn’t completely disguise the exhaustion that drooped the corners of her eyes. Her face was drawn tight with strain, and she struggled to contain the sense of panic that occasionally threatened to choke her.

  Even the remnants of what passed for her life were at risk now. Jonathon Barclay had been a high earner and the only breadwinner, but overnight that had come to an end. The possibility that she could lose her home was bad enough, but what terrified her was where she might end up. What friends they had weren’t calling, and she felt completely abandoned.

  She’d thought about calling her daughter, but there was no point – she would only see what had happened as confirmation that she’d done the right thing in putting emotional and physical distance between herself and her father.

  She bit hard into the top of her forefinger and squeezed her eyes shut, trying to block out her train of thought. In these moments, she remembered the hours she’d spent in airports and train stations, staring at the arrivals, the arms thrown around lovers, wives, children – displays of affection she could only dream about – wishing for a different life.

  She looked up as the nose of Macallan’s car pulled into the drive and knew that she couldn’t hold on to what she knew any longer. It had gone too far for that.

  Macallan closed her eyes briefly as she pulled to a stop outside the Barclays’ home. Her head was a mess and she needed help. She had no idea what the fuck this all meant, but she did know that Diana Barclay could tell her more than she had. She’d always known that – she just had to figure out how to open her up – and this time, Macallan decided, she wouldn’t leave until she’d made it happen.

  Inside, they sat down opposite each other, and Diana Barclay insisted on preparing tea. She’d managed to compose herself, but Macallan’s expression was troubling her. She felt like the detective was trying to stare into the depths of her soul and raking through her most secret places.

  ‘How can I help you, Chief Inspector?’ She’d dropped the piss-taking, addressing Macallan by her proper rank. The hard defences were gone.

  ‘By telling the truth,’ Macallan replied. ‘This has gone far enough. I was going to say you know that your husband is innocent, but of course that would be a poor choice of words in his case.’

  Diana Barclay’s back stiffened, and her dislike of Macallan turned into fear of what she knew. She’d always been regarded as a hard, unemotional woman but that had been in another life, when she’d had control. All the protective layers of class and privilege had now been stripped away, and she was facing a woman who had tested her own courage and integrity against the worst examples of humankind. Macallan’s eyes glittered with anger as she watched the woman fold in front of her, and for the first time in her life, Diana Barclay wanted to plead for help – to ask for forgiveness from this detective in the futile hope that she would understand.

  ‘You have to help us, Mrs Barclay,’ Macallan pressed her. ‘There’s no more time. I know some of it but not all so tell me why I’m sitting here and what it is I need to know. And just so you know exactly what’s at stake if you don’t, I want to show you what happens to the girls that are being attacked.’

  She shoved the photograph of the latest victim across the table at the woman.

  Diana Barclay couldn’t drag her eyes from the horror: the legs sprawled at a ridiculous angle, the gaping mouth frozen in the moment of death as the girl sucked blood into her flooded lungs. She choked down the sob, but it was pointless, and Macallan let her
take it in. She deserved to see it.

  Barclay’s shoulders shook with the release of emotion and eventually the tension in her chest eased. She remembered who she was and, worst of all, who she might become, so she looked up and apologised to Macallan, who didn’t see the point in answering. All she wanted was the truth.

  ‘You have to understand, Chief Inspector, that whatever you may think of me, at least consider the effect of what I am about to tell you on what remains of my life.’

  Macallan still didn’t see the point in answering.

  ‘I’ve known about my husband’s weaknesses almost since the beginning of our marriage. Our relationship was never about strong physical passion; it was more to do with producing two children, and after that it became an occasional event, usually when he’d had too much to drink.’

  Macallan wanted to tell her to cut out the history lesson, but she knew this was all part of the deal. The truth was on its way.

  ‘He had a strong drive, and I didn’t, so the fact that he became involved with other women, mostly lawyers, didn’t really trouble me at all. As long as he was discreet then I was happy to lead my life in the way I wanted. I thought I had what I wanted.’

  She delicately touched the side of her eyes with an expensive handkerchief and Macallan began to feel pity for her. She realised just how lonely this woman was and that it would only get worse.

  ‘When I found out that he was using prostitutes, that was quite another thing. I found a card among his papers one day, and to cut a long story short it turned out to be for an escort agency. He tried to deny it at first, and he may be a brilliant lawyer but I’ve always been able to tell when he’s lying. Eventually he admitted that his affairs at work bored him and the risks he took with prostitutes were what gave him satisfaction. Does this make any sense to you, Chief Inspector – though I suppose you’ve seen so much more than I have?’