by Alex Walters
'Looks that way,' Grant agreed. 'Pretty distinctive approach certainly. But I'm intrigued as to why the McGuire death seems different.' She'd taken her seat back behind the desk and was double-checking to ensure she really had left out nothing compromising. Compromising, in this context, meaning anything, however trivial, that he could use to his advantage.
McKay nodded. 'Aye, the thought had occurred. Young's and Dingwall's killings appear to have been carried out somewhere isolated or private, as far as we can judge, and the killer seems to have gone to some lengths to conceal the corpses, at least temporarily. McGuire's happened in a public place, at a time when there was a risk that the killer might be interrupted by a passer-by, and no real attempt was made to conceal the body.'
Grant was always impressed by McKay's ability to be one step ahead of her own thinking. In this case, she was even more impressed, though not surprised, that he'd managed to get the gen on the Dingwall killing even before she and Ginny had arrived back. But McKay always had his sources. 'It's all guesswork though,' she said. 'Dingwall seems to have been killed in his back garden. Young could have been killed anywhere.'
'Aye,' McKay said. 'And multiple killers don't always follow neat patterns like they do on TV. Sometimes the killings are just opportunistic. Maybe McGuire was just unlucky enough to be in the wrong place.' He stopped. 'Which might make sense if these were random killings. But that doesn't seem to be the case, at least as far as McGuire and Dingwall are concerned.'
'What about Dingwall's visitor?' Horton asked.
McKay looked surprised. 'Visitor?'
'So there are some things you don't know,' Grant said. Presumably, she thought, because he'd talked to one of his uniformed mates before Henderson and Carrick had finished with Dingwall's cottage. 'It looks as if Dingwall had a visitor yesterday evening.'
'Friendly or hostile?' McKay asked. 'Or can't we tell?'
'Looks like a friendly visitor. Or at least someone he knew well enough to invite in for a glass of wine. There were two used wine glasses on the table.'
'Which may just mean that Dingwall was profligate with his use of glasses.'
'Nope. Multiple fingerprints too, according to Henderson.'
'Okay, sounds like a friendly visitor. So the question then is whether the visitor and the killer are the same.'
'Dingwall didn't get many visitors apparently. So two on the same night would be quite something.'
'But not impossible, especially if they are connected in some way,' Horton added. 'And it would be a pretty careless killer who left their prints behind, particularly on something like a glass where they're going to be easy to pick up.'
'We'll put them through the system,' Grant said. 'See if they match anyone we know. DNA too.' It was all sounding too easy, she thought. But sometimes it was. 'Anyway, what have you been slaving away at while we've been having fun with garrotted corpses?'
'A few things.' McKay briefly sat himself down opposite Grant, with Ginny Horton sitting beside him. Then, as he invariably did in Grant's office, he stood up and prowled round the edge of the room with the air of a caged animal. 'I've been trying to find out a bit more about Dingwall. What he's been up to since he got out. He served half his sentence. Model prisoner, by all accounts. Kept his nose clean, got himself out at the earliest opportunity. Looks as if he still had a bit of money stashed away so was in a better position than most ex-offenders. His wife had left him when the original scandal broke and they were divorced after he got out. I've an address for her and we'll need to speak to her, though it doesn't look as if she's had any contact with him since the split.'
'What's he been doing since?'
'It looks as if he went back to writing. Comedy writing, I mean. Material for other stand-ups.'
'Surprised anyone wanted to go near him,' Grant said.
'Aye, I was a bit too. This is just what I picked up from a bit of discreet ringing round this morning.'
'You didn't tell anyone about Dingwall's death?'
'How long have I been doing this job?' McKay asked.
'Long enough to have reduced my life expectancy by ten years,' Grant said. 'But go on.'
'I just spoke to that guy Drew Douglas at the comedy club. Told him we were still in the process of confirming McGuire's identity so not to say anything till it's officially announced.'
'You reckon he'll do that?'
'Not for a minute. He'll already have told everyone he can. But I'm one for observing the protocols.' He ignored Ginny Horton's derisive snort and continued. 'I just asked him if he could tell us any more about McGuire and Dingwall's background, or if he might know anyone who could. He seemed pretty knowledgeable himself so I've fixed up for him to come in to give us some more detailed background this afternoon. He said that Dingwall had always primarily been a writer who'd fallen into performing more or less by accident. Even in the double act days he'd written for other comedians, so he turned his hand back to that after he got out. I asked him whether Dingwall's reputation would have been a barrier to that, and he reckoned generally not. A lot of the stand-ups just want material.'
'I always assumed they wrote it themselves,' Horton said.
'Most do apparently. But as you start to become successful, some find it a big machine to keep feeding, so they don't mind a clandestine helping hand. Whatever else people might have thought of him, Dingwall was seen as one of the best. Not just new material, but helping to polish up the material others gave him. Looks as if he was also writing stuff for TV and radio, though most of that under an assumed name.'
'You can make a living doing that?' Grant said.
'Of sorts.'
'We've taken his laptop. So we can check all that out. Be interesting to see what else we find on there, given his track record. Okay, so you're seeing this Drew Douglas this afternoon? You reckon he's got anything useful to tell us?'
'Not sure,' McKay replied. 'I spoke to him briefly after we found McGuire's body, but that was really just to confirm details of McGuire's movements during and after the gig. But I got the impression today that he was quite steeped in the whole comedy and music scene, particularly the stuff with local connections. I thought he might be able to give us some insights into McGuire and Dimmock – and maybe even Young. It's not like we're exactly awash with leads at the moment.'
'That's true enough,' Grant agreed. 'Anything else?'
'One other thing,' McKay said. 'I've managed to track down an address for Henrietta Dowling.'
'Henrietta Dowling?' For a moment, Grant looked puzzled, then she said, 'The woman who accused Young of rape.'
'The very one. Took me a bit of time, as she's obviously moved about a fair bit. As you said, she seemed to have a biggish reputation on the country music circuit a few years ago. Even made some appearances on the telly. BBC Alba stuff. But in recent years she seems to have disappeared. Couldn't find any recent mentions of her performances, and she didn't show up on the electoral roll or any of that stuff. Thought at first she must have moved out of the area, but it looks like she's just retired and decided to keep her head down. Did a bit of phoning round and eventually found someone who remembered the name and did a bit more digging for me.'
This, Grant thought, would presumably have been one of McKay's mates on the local press. Fair enough, she thought. For all his posturing, McKay was old enough and wise enough not to get caught out. She imagined he got far more out of the journalists than they got out of him, even if he managed to leave them with the opposite impression. 'And?'
'She's living over in the Black Isle. Makes guitars these days. Once I knew that, I managed to track down her business details fairly easily. Just outside Culbokie.' He glanced across at Horton. 'Fancy a trip up there, Ginny? Or does Culbokie hold too many painful memories?'
'I came away without a scratch,' she said, referring to one of their recent cases. 'A lifelong deep-seated trauma, probably, but not a scratch. No, fine by me. Always helpful to bury a few more ghosts.'
McKay glanc
ed at his watch. 'Drew Douglas isn't coming in till three thirty. So we've got time for a trip up there.'
'Lead on,' she said. 'I think it's your turn to drive.'
35
'How's Chrissie?' Horton asked when they were in the car and heading out of town. Somehow, she'd still found herself driving. Not that she really minded. She'd long ago accepted that she made a better driver than a passenger. It was just that she didn't want McKay to think he could always get away with it, even if he generally did.
'Ach, she's okay.' McKay was staring out of the window so Horton couldn't read his expression.
'How are things looking? Between the two of you, I mean.' Horton knew she was walking on a minefield. It was always impossible to know how McKay would react to such questions. But she genuinely wished him and Chrissie well. She'd met Chrissie only a few times, usually at office events, but Horton liked her and thought her well matched to McKay.
'Not so bad, you know,' McKay said vaguely. Then he allowed her a smile. 'Think I might have wasted money on that fucking bungalow in Rosemarkie.'
'You're moving back in?'
'With immediate effect,' McKay said with satisfaction. 'I suppose we can use the bungalow as a weekend retreat till the end of the lease. I've always wanted a weekend retreat.'
'Chrissie deserves a few clandestine weekends away with you. She probably deserves a few clandestine weekends away with someone better than you, but she can't have everything.'
'Bugger off, Horton. Anyway, how are you and Isla? Everything settled down again now after all the traumas?'
'Never been better. If that doesn't sound too smug.'
'Trust me, it sounds too smug.'
'But, seriously, all that stuff brought us closer together. Meant we had to talk about everything, things from the past we'd skated around. It brought home how much we really cared about each other.'
'Jesus Christ, Ginny. Stop it. You're making me feel nauseous.'
She pulled out into the right-hand lane to overtake a lorry. 'Let's just say everything's okay now.'
'Aye, let's just say that.'
'Makes me nervous when everything's going well. Makes me think there's more trouble around the corner.'
'That's life though, isn't it? Every silver lining has a cloud.'
'Usually the way. Straight on here?' They were approaching the Tore roundabout.
'Aye, stay on the A9. Another mile or so.'
'Second time up here today.'
'They should award you some sort of medal.' Ahead of them, they could see Cromarty Firth and the solid mass of Ben Wyvis. 'This is the turning.'
They took a right onto the road into Culbokie, passing between stretches of farmland. The north side of the Black Isle had a different feel from the south. The south was fishing villages, most no longer working but with cottages clustered round once-busy harbours. The landscape was largely farmland, the villages strung out over fields and woodland.
Culbokie itself was little more than a gathering of relatively recent bungalows, interspersed with the occasional older cottage, mostly positioned to take advantage of the striking views out over the firth to the mountains beyond. They passed a village shop and a pub, a new primary school on their right and a church on their left.
'This one,' McKay said.
Horton turned left into a small estate of bungalows, probably dating from the 1970s or 1980s, fairly anonymous grey-fronted buildings with neatly maintained gardens.
'From the map, I think it's right at the far end,' McKay said.
* * *
Henrietta Dowling's bungalow was obviously a later addition than the remainder of the bungalows. It was a small but attractive building, designed in what McKay understood to be "steading" style. Chrissie had explained all that stuff to him when they'd been considering a house-move a few years before, but most of the detail had passed well above his head. There was a well-maintained garden dotted with spring blooms, and a small four-by-four car parked outside the front door.
'Nice place,' Horton commented. 'Must be an impressive view from the back too.'
She pulled up behind the four-by-four and they climbed out to survey the scene. A slight breeze blew in from the firth, but otherwise the place was silent. McKay walked forward and pressed the front doorbell.
He heard the bell sound somewhere in the depths of the house but there was no immediate response. He glanced at Horton and pressed the bell again, holding it for longer. This time, he saw movements through the frosted glass panelling. A second later, the door was opened a crack and a face peered out. 'Yes?'
'Henrietta Dowling?' McKay said.
'Who's asking?'
McKay held out his warrant card. 'DI McKay and DS Horton. I wonder if we could have a word.'
The door opened an inch or two further, and the face peered more closely at McKay's ID. 'What's this about?'
'We're just following up an enquiry. We'd like to speak to Henrietta Dowling.'
The door opened more fully this time. The face proved to belong to a middle-aged woman with long dark hair. She was wearing a faded tracksuit and looked as if she might have just crawled out of bed. 'I'm Henrietta Dowling. What's this all about?'
'May we come in, Ms Dowling? We just need a few minutes of your time.'
Dowling looked hesitant for a moment, then pulled the door open fully and gestured for them to come inside. 'I guess so. Come through.'
She was English, McKay thought, or at least she had an English accent, albeit with a burr that suggested she might have been living up here for many years. They followed her through into a living room. It was an attractive room, with a large picture window looking out over the firth. It was a while since the place had been tidied or dusted, McKay observed. The small coffee table was dotted with used glasses, a plate which looked as if it might have recently held an Indian takeout, and an array of books and CDs. There was an empty bottle of Scotch under the table. McKay wondered whether this was the result of a night with friends or a solo binge. From Dowling's appearance, the latter looked quite probable.
'Can I get you both a coffee?'
'Aye, why not?' McKay said. 'If it's no trouble. White, no sugar for me. Thanks.'
'No trouble. I need one myself.' Her words echoed McKay's own judgement. She looked like a woman who might be more responsive to their questions once she'd had a shot of caffeine inside her.
Dowling disappeared into the kitchen and McKay took a seat on the sofa, Horton perching awkwardly beside him. 'We woke her up,' Horton whispered, glancing pointedly at her watch.
'Not everyone goes running at sparrow fart like you, Ginny,' McKay pointed out. 'Some people have lives.'
'Well-lived ones.' Horton tapped the empty whisky bottle with her toe.
'It's called fun, Ginny. You wouldn't understand.'
* * *
A few minutes later, Dowling returned, bearing a tray holding a cafetière, three mugs and a jug of milk. There was even a plate of shortbread, McKay noted.
Dowling sat on the sofa opposite them and poured the coffee. 'Sorry. I'm becoming more civilised now.' She gestured round the room. 'Bit of a late one last night. Had a friend round.'
'No problem,' McKay said. 'I'm sorry if we disturbed you.'
'I was about to drag myself out of bed anyway. You just stopped me from procrastinating any longer.'
'Always glad to be of service.' McKay paused. 'I should warn you that we want to talk about an issue that might be distressing for you.'
Dowling pushed the coffee mugs towards McKay and Horton, gesturing for them to help themselves to the shortbread. 'Really? There's not much I find distressing these days.'
'It concerns a man called Ronnie Young. Ring any bells?'
'Young. That bastard?' She stopped and then smiled. 'Don't tell me someone else has finally come forward with more accusations against him?'
'I'm afraid it's not that. Mr Young has been found dead.'
She looked up at them. She looked surprised, but there wa
s something else in her eyes that McKay couldn't interpret. 'What happened to him?'
'I'm not in a position to say too much at this stage. You'll appreciate that the enquiry is continuing. But we have reason to believe we're looking at an unlawful killing.'
Dowling took a sip of her coffee, taking this in. 'Is that why you're here? Am I a suspect now? For what it's worth, I haven't had any contact with Young for years. He was a bastard. But I've long moved on.'
McKay nodded. 'We appreciate that, Ms Dowling. You'll understand that we have to follow up any possible line of enquiry. At the moment, we're primarily interested just in finding out as much about Mr Young as possible. Any background that might throw up potential leads.'
'To be honest,' Dowling said, 'if you're looking for potential suspects you'll find dozens of them. A lot of them women like me. I was the only one who ever had the bottle to bring a formal complaint against him, but I wasn't the only victim.'
'You're saying that other women were assaulted by him?' Horton said.
'I don't know how many, but yes.'
'He was your manager?'
'For a time, yes. He was seen as a big thing in this neck of the woods in those days. He'd scout round the local talent – in every sense – and then snap up anyone with an ounce of talent. And one or two who didn't even have that but who appealed to him, if you get my drift. Then he'd feed you bullshit about how you were just a step or two away from the big time, and how he had the contacts and know-how to help you make it.'
'And did he?' McKay asked.
'Did he buggery. He was just a bullshit merchant. He had decent contacts locally so he could get you a few gigs. If you were any good, he could even find you the odd gig down south. But that was about it. He'd make demos – which in fairness he was good at –but usually at the artist's expense, and he reckoned he was sending them to his mates in the industry. But as far as I'm aware nothing ever came of it. It was mainly a ruse to get in your pants. And if you didn't succumb willingly, he had other methods of getting his way.'
