Their Final Act

by Alex Walters

The door was open, the sun streaming through, and Jane had been told she could step out at any time she wanted. Elizabeth seemed already to have done so, and Jane didn't know whether she was likely to return.

  But Jane was already beginning to recognise she wouldn't be able to do the same. She was going to stay here. She didn't know for how long, or what that might mean. But she didn't have much doubt it was true.

  Good material, she thought. Was that what she was, all she would ever be? Someone else's good material.

  31

  'This is amazing,' McKay said.

  Chrissie shrugged. 'Thought I should put in a bit of effort, you know. But don't go expecting it all the time.'

  That statement carried all kinds of implications, McKay thought, but now didn't really seem the moment to explore them. 'You can really cook, Chrissie,' he said instead.

  'When I can be arsed, yes. Maybe I should be arsed more often. I actually enjoyed doing it.'

  'Not easy when you don't know what time your husband's going to get in from work though. You pointed that out to me a few times.'

  'Aye, that's what I married, wasn't it? I knew fine well.'

  This was certainly a new mellower Chrissie, McKay thought. He couldn't recall how many arguments they'd had because he'd been late from work and she'd had some dish ruined in the oven. But you could unpick that in countless different ways. The way, for example, they'd allowed themselves to drift into the same marital dynamic as their parents, with McKay as primary breadwinner and Chrissie as the wee woman who stayed at home looking after the house. Neither of them had wanted that and there was no real reason why it should have happened. Chrissie was a graduate. She'd had her own career as a hospital pharmacist.

  She'd chosen to give that up when Lizzie had been born, at first supposedly just on a temporary basis. But the months and years had drifted by and Chrissie had ended up not going back. Even when she did eventually go back to work part-time she hadn't returned to her original profession but had taken routine administrative and reception jobs. It had been her choice, but McKay recognised he'd just gone along with it. He'd never thought to question whether he should be contributing more to the marriage, to Lizzie's upbringing. Looking back, he suspected they'd both acted in bad faith, storing up resentment for the future.

  They both seemed to have accepted that they were starting again. McKay hadn't exactly been invited back but they'd both assumed, without articulating it, that he'd be staying over tonight. McKay assumed that, for the moment, this would be just another one-night-only arrangement, but it felt like the start of something more permanent.

  The truth was, of course, that this wasn't a new Chrissie. This was the old Chrissie, the one he'd married. The one he'd lost sight of since Lizzie's death, just as Chrissie had no doubt lost sight of the Alec McKay she'd once known. The question was whether they could sustain it, or whether they'd find themselves drifting back into those old recriminations.

  So far there was no sign of it. They had an enjoyable evening, working their way through the smoked cheese soufflés, sea bass and cranachan that Chrissie had prepared, fortified by a few glasses of red wine and, after dinner, by a couple of single malts.

  'So what happens now then?' Chrissie asked, when they'd repaired back to the living room, whiskies in hand.

  'If it's like the old days,' McKay said, 'I get a call from the office telling me to come in to deal with some unexpected development.'

  'You dare, Alec McKay.'

  'Ach, I've told everyone, up to and including the Chief Constable, that it's more than their fucking life's worth to call me back in tonight. They'll bear that in mind.' In reality, short of another killing, there was unlikely to be any reason for him to be called back in tonight.

  'I reckon they will,' Chrissie agreed. 'But I meant beyond tonight.'

  'Ah.' He was silent for a moment. 'The ball's in your court on that, Chrissie. You know what I want well enough.'

  'I know what you want. The question is do you want it enough to make it work.'

  'I hope so. I reckon we've both got to help each other with that, don't you? It seems to be working okay at the moment. I don't feel as if I'm treading on eggshells, the way I did sometimes before. But I don't really know if I'm doing anything different.'

  'You're being open, Alec. You're telling me what you feel. You'd stopped doing that.'

  'Did I ever mention I'm a middle-aged Dundonian male?'

  'Aye, many times. It was the smokescreen you hid behind. It fooled no one, Alec. You know that?'

  'It fooled me.'

  'You were the only one. But you have changed, Alec. I noticed it in the counselling sessions. You were taking them seriously. You dropped the jokes.'

  He shuffled awkwardly on the sofa. 'I was missing you, Chrissie.'

  'I was missing you too, Alec. More than I'd imagined.' She laughed. 'God, I hope no one ever overhears us talking like this.'

  McKay said nothing for a moment, then reached out and took her in his arms. She offered no resistance. 'So am I being invited back then?'

  'Looks like it, doesn't it? Only on probation, mind. If you start sliding back into your old ways…'

  'You'll tell me, won't you?' He sounded genuinely worried.

  'Oh, aye, Alec,' she said, pushing herself towards him. 'Trust me. I'll fucking tell you.'

  It took him a moment to orientate himself. Not so much in location as in time. He'd thought he was dreaming and his dreams had some how led him back home, back to the marital bed. Back to Chrissie.

  It took him a few seconds longer to realise that was exactly where he was. He was back in the only place he thought of as home. Back with Chrissie. And this time it seemed as if it might be permanent.

  He realised his phone was buzzing away on the bedside table. Beside him, Chrissie said, 'You've set this up on purpose, haven't you? You're taking the fucking piss.'

  'No, I–' he began defensively. Then he realised Chrissie was laughing rather than angry. He pushed himself up in bed. 'I'm not,' he said. 'But I reckon someone in the fucking office is.' He thumbed the phone. 'McKay. What the fuck time do you call this?'

  'I call it 6.30am, Alec,' Helena Grant said. 'Almost mid-morning. You're missing the best part of the day.'

  'I'm enjoying it much more where I am.'

  'That right, Alec? I'm not sure I should enquire further.' There was a pause, which made McKay suspect this conversation was entirely pre-planned on Grant's part. 'Oh, right. Last night was the grand reconciliation dinner, wasn't it? I'm assuming it went well.'

  'Aye, okay.' McKay glanced across at Chrissie. She was pretending to be asleep but McKay guessed she was straining to overhear the other end of the conversation. 'That the only reason you're calling me at this fucking time in the morning?'

  'Funnily enough, no,' Grant said. 'Entertaining as that idea is. I'm calling to tell you we've found Jimmy McGuire's former partner. Jack Dingwall.'

  'Oh, aye. Thanks for calling to share that with me. Do you want me to get my kecks on and come in to interview him?' His tone was facetious but he'd already concluded that Grant wouldn't have called at this time just to confirm they'd tracked down Dingwall's address. Who'd be working on that at this time anyway?

  'When I say found, Alec, I mean just that. Stumbled across. Almost literally.'

  'Oh, shit.'

  'As you so rightly say, Alec.'

  'From the fact that you've called me, I'm guessing this isn't just natural causes.'

  'Unless you think having a garrotte pulled round your neck constitutes natural causes, I'd say not.'

  'Fucking hell.'

  'You're offering some lucid insights today, Alec. Yup, same MO as the other two.'

  McKay had dragged himself round until he was sitting on the edge of the bed. 'Where was he found?'

  'In a ditch, up near Dingwall. The town, I mean.'

  'Don't tell me. Dog walker. What the fuck would we do without them?'

  'Not this time. Dingwall's landlord, a farme
r. He'd come out early to check on some livestock in the field next to Dingwall's cottage. Went to the edge of the field to look at some fencing that needed repairing. His eye was caught by something in the bottom of the drainage ditch next to the field. And Bob's your uncle.'

  'And Jack's your corpse. We're sure it's him?'

  'Guy who found him wasn't too squeamish about getting up close, being a livestock farmer and all that. So pretty certain it's him. That's also how we're pretty sure it's the same MO as the others.'

  'Lovely. You want me to get up there then?' He was conscious Chrissie had rolled over in the bed behind him so that she was facing away.

  'That's the thing,' Grant said. 'I just wondered if you might want a break for once. I could handle this one with Ginny, if you like. You could join us later.'

  McKay bit back his instinctive response. 'This some sort of charitable impulse on your part, Grant?'

  'I just thought this might be a good moment to remind you of the virtues of delegation.'

  'So why disturb my sleep if you were just going to tell me not to bother coming in?'

  'Because I know that if I hadn't told you, you'd have been even more pissed.'

  'You're right about that.'

  'Look, Alec, I'm dealing with what looks like a triple fucking homicide. I'm trying to do you a fucking favour. If you don't want to be helped, then, with the best will in the world, you know what you can do. The choice is yours.'

  There would have been a time, possibly only the previous day, when McKay would have wanted nothing more than to leap out of bed, drag on his clothes and head up north to view a semi-decapitated corpse. It was what made him feel alive. There was a large part of his brain that wanted to do it. But there was another more rational part of his brain telling him not to be such a fucking numpty. There'd be times when he wouldn't have a choice, when the only option was to throw himself into the job. But this wasn't one of them. Helena Grant had given him an out. She was trying to help save his fucking marriage, for Christ's sake.

  'If you're sure,' he said. 'If you think you and Ginny can handle it.'

  He could tell she was stifling a laugh and wondered whether Ginny Horton was already there with her. 'I reckon we can just about handle it between us. Even though we're only women.'

  'Aye, well, I know Ginny's up to it…'

  'Bugger off, Alec. I'll text you the address. Come up and join us when you're ready. No rush.'

  'If Jock Henderson and his pals are involved, we've got all morning,' he agreed. 'Okay. And, thanks.'

  'No worries.'

  He ended the call and lay back down next to Chrissie.

  'You're not going in yet then,' she said from beneath the duvet.

  'Looks like I'm not needed.'

  'Jeez. It's the end of days,'

  'Aye. Feels like it.'

  'So how long before you need to get up?'

  'Dunno. An hour of so, maybe?'

  'So what are we going to do with all that time?'

  'Not sure,' McKay said. 'Game of Scrabble?'

  She rolled over to face him. 'If you insist. Though I've never heard it called that before.'

  32

  'Turned a wee bit colder.'

  Helena Grant watched Jock Henderson and Pete Carrick stride across the field towards her, laden with their cases of equipment. 'Morning, Jock. Pete. Aye, you get the breeze up here.'

  She'd been standing looking out over the Cromarty Firth. The tide was full and it was looking glorious in the early morning sunshine, a deep blue under the clear sky. The wide basin of water around the old waterfront in Dingwall shimmered with flecks of light and she could see across to the Black Isle topped by the radio mast on Mount Eagle. The clean cold air was sharp in her lungs.

  Grant had been here for ten minutes or so, accompanied by a couple of uniforms and the farmer who'd found the body. Ginny Horton was on her way, a few minutes behind Grant, and she'd watched as the examiners' van made its way cautiously up the narrow track to where she was standing.

  The body was at the bottom of the field. She'd been down to take a brief look but hadn't wanted to risk compromising the scene. Not that it was likely to tell them very much. It was where the body had ended up, but she suspected that the killing had taken place elsewhere. When Horton arrived, they could check out Dingwall's cottage.

  Not that his name really was Dingwall, of course. His real name was Jack Dimmock, and that seemed to have been how he was known up here. When she'd spoken to the farmer on arrival, he clearly had no idea of Dingwall's background. She hadn't bothered to enlighten him.

  'How long's he been your tenant?' she'd asked.

  'Not long. Just a few weeks. And then this.' He shook his head. 'I should have known he was hiding something. Living on his own in a place like that. Why would you do that if you didn't have something to hide?'

  'We don't know that, Mr…'

  'Campbell. Tom Campbell.'

  'We don't yet know the circumstances of the death, Mr Campbell. It's better if we don't jump to any conclusions.'

  'Aye. He seemed a decent enough chap, I'll say that. Looked after the cottage well enough.'

  'This all your land, Mr Campbell?'

  'All of it. From the boundary over there.' He gestured towards some invisible point to the east. 'All the way to that line of trees over there.'

  'What about the cottages?'

  'Up there.' He pointed further up the hill. 'Couple of outbuildings I converted a few years back. Made three cottages. Use two of them as holiday lets in the summer. Third one was a bit wee for the tourists, so I've tended to look for longer-term lets. Seems to be a shortage of decent lets even as far out as this, so I've generally been able to find tenants.'

  'How long's Mr Dimmock been here?'

  'Couple of months,' Campbell said.

  'You hadn't known him before?'

  'Not at all. Some friend of a friend had told him I was looking for a tenant. He phoned me up one day out of the blue. Place had been empty over the winter and I was keen to find someone to take it on. I got a reference from a previous landlord but that was about it.'

  'Did he have many visitors?'

  Campbell shrugged. 'I wouldn't know. I didn't go to the cottage all that often. In the summer I go in a bit more frequently to check on the gardens and the general state of repair. In the winter, I take the opportunity to do any odd jobs that need tackling. Otherwise, I just come up if there's a reason, or if I'm passing by on the way to the upper fields. But I've never noticed any cars parked outside Dimmock's house except his own.'

  'When was the last time you saw him? Alive, I mean.'

  'Just a few days ago, as it happens. Passed by in the Land Rover and saw him standing in the front garden, so stopped for a quick chat.'

  'He seem okay? Not worried about anything?'

  'Some hidden secret, you mean.' Campbell grinned. 'Not obviously. He was never the most forthcoming individual. But he seemed content enough. Writer of some kind, I believe.' Campbell spoke as if referring to some previously unknown species.

  'When did you find the body?'

  'This morning. I'm always out and about first thing, especially this time of year when the sun's up so early. It was only fluke I found him. Had some damage to the fence down there in the strong winds a few weeks back. Been meaning to go and check what needed doing. Otherwise wouldn't have seen him from up here.'

  Grant nodded, taking in the implications. 'Why do you think he was down there?'

  'Buggered if I know, pardon my French. Far as I know, he wasn't a great walker. And even if he was I'd have expected him to head uphill. There are some decent trails in the woods up there. Not much down here.'

  Grant didn't yet know for sure how long the body had been there, but, as far as she'd been able to judge, probably not more than a few hours. There was no sign of decomposition or even the haze of flies that tended to indicate an older corpse. Her guess was that Dimmock's body had been there only since last night or early this morni
ng, during the low temperatures of the night. It seemed unlikely he'd been walking down there, so most likely the body had been dumped after being killed elsewhere. Maybe even just rolled down the hill from up here, she thought.

  If Campbell was right, it might have remained undetected for some time. She couldn't imagine there were many other visitors up here. It seemed that, like Young's body at McDermott's Yard, it was intended to be concealed. That in itself was potentially interesting. Three bodies, all with the same or a very similar MO. But two of them –presumably the first and third – with the bodies left concealed, while the second had been left, barely hidden, at the side of a city thoroughfare.

  It might mean nothing. Perhaps just an accident of location. But if they were dealing with a multiple killer, she'd expect the same pattern to be followed or for the killer to become more careless over time. So there might be a reason McGuire's killing had been handled differently from the others.

  She'd allowed Campbell to return home while she awaited the arrival of Horton and the examiners. She supposed he had to be treated as a suspect, but his connection with Dimmock, let alone with McGuire or Young, seemed nothing more than tangential. Not that their list of other suspects was exactly extensive.

  Jock Henderson was peering down the length of the field. 'I don't suppose the bugger could have found himself a less convenient place to get killed?'

  'Don't imagine it was his choice, Jock,' Grant pointed out. 'I suspect he wasn't killed down there anyway. I reckon we'll have to get you lot to take a look at his cottage too. I'll go and give it a once over when Ginny Horton gets here.'

  Henderson raised an eyebrow. 'Alec having a duvet day then?'

  The tone of his voice made Grant wonder whether he could have picked up something on the grapevine about McKay and Chrissie. That would have been impressive going even for Henderson. 'He's a busy man, Jock.'

  'Too busy for the third garrotting in as many days? Christ, you lot must have some business on at the moment.'

  'There's a body down there getting warm.'

  'Aye, aye, ma'am,' he said, in a tone that steered just the right side of insolence.