by Alex Walters
McKay had produced an evidence bag and a pair of disposable gloves – Grant was always bemused by what he managed to carry in his pockets – and was bending down to retrieve the object that Hamilton had dropped to the ground. He was obviously experiencing some difficulty in getting it into the bag without risking any contamination. He finally succeeded, winding the wire carefully into a loop. He looked up. 'Looks like a guitar string.'
Grant nodded. It made as much sense as everything else in this enquiry, she thought. 'Okay, Let's go and track down Netty Munro.'
45
'It doesn't make sense,' McKay said. 'I mean, it would make our lives a hell of a lot easier, but I just can't see it.'
Grant leaned back in her chair and peered at him through narrowed eyes. 'You like to make things difficult, don't you, Alec? Always keen to add your little extra layer of complication.'
'I just like to make sure we've got things right. Just because I'm the only one around here with standards.'
'Aye, that'll be it, Alec. Not because you're the only one who's a major pain in the arse.'
'I'm sure this constitutes some form of bullying. What do you reckon, Ginny?'
Horton was watching the exchange with her familiar bemusement. 'You're not seriously expecting me to express a view about that?'
'So what have we got?' Grant said. 'We've charged Hamilton with Netty Munro’s murder. We're on pretty safe ground with that one, given she was found holding the murder weapon. One of Munro's own guitar strings.'
'She was found presiding over the dead bodies of her father and a man who'd abused her,' McKay pointed out. 'She still managed to get herself acquitted. She didn't actually confess to Munro's murder. She just said that she had to die, whatever that meant.'
Grant nodded, wearily. It had been a long day already, and they weren't at the end of it yet. She wondered, tangentially, whether McKay had taken the trouble to call Chrissie to let her know he'd be late home yet again, and she wondered how Chrissie might have taken this start to their rebooted married life. 'Okay, but accepting she might still pull off a "one leap and she was free" deal, we should be on safe ground. Even the Depute Procurator agrees.'
'Bound to be fine then,' McKay said sardonically.
'So what about Jack Dingwall? We have clear evidence she was in Dingwall's house on the night he was killed. Killed using the same or a similar method as that used to kill Munro.'
They'd found Munro's body in the patch of woodland, just as Jane had told them. The cause of death was the same as that of the previous victims. The steel guitar string had been pulled round her throat and tightened until it had cut deeply into her throat. The removal of the string had released the blood spread copiously around the body. In the end, they'd had to leave the paramedics cooling their heels, awaiting the arrival of the examiners.
'What was it she said about Dingwall?' McKay said.
'Assuming that it was Dingwall she was referring to, she said something about a "he" being wrong about him, just as this "he" had been wrong about Munro. So who's the "he"?'
'McGuire, maybe?' Horton offered.
'Maybe, but did McGuire know Munro? He might have done, I suppose. But that just brings us back to the question of how all this fits together.'
'Time for us to go and interview Hamilton some more?'
'Aye, once the doc's finished with her and given us the all clear. We need to make sure we do this by the book.' Hamilton's solicitor had argued she was in no state to be interviewed and had insisted that her condition should be reviewed by a doctor.
'Ach, she's fine,' McKay said. 'This is just her up to her usual tricks. It's like the guy who kills his parents and claims mitigation because he's an orphan.'
'Nevertheless,' Grant said. 'We do it by the book. Don't want anyone to accuse us of being – what was it? – "acerbic and unsympathetic".'
'Bugger off,' McKay said. 'What about the other killings then? McGuire and Young, and then the two Baillie brothers. Do we really think she's capable of that?'
'You thought she might have been capable of committing the Candles and Roses killings,' Grant pointed out.
McKay nodded. 'Aye. All that still keeps nagging at me. On the one hand, I don't have much doubt she'd have been capable of those killings and these ones. Psychologically, I mean. She's a genuine psychopath. There's something about her eyes, about the way she looks at you. There's no warmth, no feeling. No sense she's anything but utterly calculating and manipulative.' He paused. 'Her father's daughter, I suppose.'
'But?'
'But it's whether she'd have been capable of it physically. I mean, she's a wee slip of a thing.'
'But isn't that the thing with the garrotting?' Horton said. 'It depends more on the element of surprise than physical strength. If you get the wire round the victim's neck, they don't have much of a chance to fight back.'
'I'll bow to your expertise,' McKay said. 'I'm sure you're right. I was thinking more about the physical effort involved in dragging Young's body into McDermott's Yard or dragging Dimmock's body down the hill to the field where it was found. Or even dragging the two Baillie brothers' bodies up to the top of that bloody garden to push them down the other side. The same's true of the Candles and Roses killings. Whoever was responsible managed to get the bodies out past the Clootie Well, out to the caves in Rosemarkie, up to the top floor of that old retirement home. None of that would have been easy.'
'She managed to drag her father's and Denny Gorman's body into the car and then down to Rosemarkie Beach,' Grant said. 'People are often capable of more than you expect.'
'Maybe,' McKay said. 'Let's just say it's left me with a few doubts.'
'You think she didn't do these murders?' Grant paused. 'Or the Candles and Roses ones?'
'I don't know. The Candles and Roses killings we had pinned on her father anyway, so maybe we can forget about those. Maybe. These killings – I don't know. The evidence points to her, but I just can't quite see it.'
'So if you're right,' Grant said. 'Then either she didn't commit the other murders or…'
'Or she had an accomplice,' Horton said.
McKay nodded. 'Which might explain the "he".'
'But–' Grant stopped as the phone buzzed on her desk. 'Grant. Yep. You're sure about that? Happy to put your name and your professional reputation behind it? Aye, well, I appreciate that the latter probably isn't much of a sacrifice. But thanks anyway, Rob. That should make life a little easier.' She ended the call and turned back to the other two. 'That was the doc. Clean bill of health with regard to Hamilton. He reckons she might have been suffering from a touch of shock.'
'Aye, shocked that she'd just put a fucking guitar string round some bugger's neck,' McKay muttered.
'And she might be in a fragile emotional state, but he says she's perfectly fit to be interviewed as long as we don't push her too hard. Reading slightly between the lines, I had the impression that he thought she was putting it on a bit, but he could never prove that.'
'Let's go then,' McKay was already on his feet.
'Sit down, Alec. I reckon, in the circumstances, that I should lead the interview with Ginny. You can watch from the viewing room.'
'Oh, for–'
'"Acerbic and unsympathetic", Alec. Which by coincidence is also the name of every firm of solicitors I've had to deal with. Look, we're doing this by the book. I don't want her to have any chance of slipping out of this one on a technicality, even if your ego gets bruised along the way.'
'It's not about my ego,' McKay said. 'It's just about making sure the job's done properly.'
'You're saying that Ginny and I aren't capable of doing that?'
'No, no. Of course not. It's just–'
'Stop digging, Alec,' Horton said. 'You'll only make it worse.'
'Okay then, you two go and do your best. I can always step in and sort it out if I need to.'
'Don't be holding your breath, Alec,' Grant said. 'Tell you what, why don't you go and make a nice cup of coffee
for those of us who are doing the real heavy lifting.'
46
Grant went through the formalities of starting the tape and introducing the interview, then turned to Elizabeth Hamilton. Before she could speak, Hamilton's lawyer, a skinny balding middle-aged man with reading glasses he left permanently balanced on the end of his nose, leaned forward. 'My client isn't prepared to answer any questions relating to the death of Natasha Munro.'
'Is that so?' Grant said slowly. 'Why would that be, Mr…?' She consulted the card which the lawyer had handed her earlier. 'Why would that be, Mr Bannatyne?'
'For the moment, she doesn't wish to add anything to what's already been said.'
'Which is very little indeed. But for the moment that's fine. Ms Hamilton, can I ask you about Mr Jack Dimmock. Also known by his stage name of Jack Dingwall. I believe from what you said earlier that you may be acquainted with Mr Dimmock. Is that correct?'
Bannatyne leaned forward to whisper something into Hamilton's ear. Her expression suggested she'd decided to ignore his advice, whatever it might have been. 'Yes, I know Mr Dimmock. I've known him for years.'
'How do you come to know him?'
There was a brief silence before Hamilton responded. 'He was a friend of my father's.'
Grant hadn't been expecting that. 'How did he come to know your father?'
Hamilton shrugged. 'I'm not sure, initially. Probably because my dad gave him some therapy. He's the sort who always needs therapy. But he became a sort of – friend of the family.'
'Have you seen him recently?'
The lawyer leaned forward again, but Hamilton waved him back dismissively. 'Aye, couple of nights ago.'
'Where did you meet him?'
'At his house. Up in the hills.'
Grant caught Horton's eye. 'Why did you go to see him?' Horton asked.
There was a hesitation this time. 'I went to have a brief chat with him. About some business.'
'What sort of business would that have been, Ms Hamilton?' Grant asked.
Bannatyne leaned forward again, clearly intending to be heard this time. 'Look, I'm sorry, but does this have any relevance to the charges you've brought against my client?'
'That's what we're trying to ascertain,' Grant said.
'You don't need to respond to any of these questions if you choose not to,' Bannatyne said to Hamilton.
Hamilton was staring at the table, her expression unreadable.
'When we found you at Natasha Munro's house,' Grant said, 'you said that "he" was wrong about Jack. By Jack, you meant Jack Dimmock?'
'Aye.' Hamilton's voice was almost inaudible. Bannatyne looked as if he was about to intervene again, but Grant shot him a look and he settled back into his seat.
'Who was wrong? Who's "he"?'
'Jack wasn't one of them. He wasn't like that. He tried to protect me.'
'What do you mean by "one of them"?'
More silence. Grant sat back, content to let the silence build. Bannatyne looked as if he was desperate to chip in with some worthless two penn'orth, but Grant's glare seemed to persuade him otherwise. Hamilton was still staring at the table, as though she could see something there that was invisible to the others in the room. At last, in a voice that was little more than a whisper, she said, 'I went there to warn him.'
'Warn him of what?'
'That he was in danger. That his life was in danger.'
'Why was his life in danger?'
'Because–' Hamilton stopped suddenly, as if up to that point she'd forgotten where she was, who she was talking to.
In the resulting silence, Bannatyne tried again. 'I really don't see what relevance–'
Grant looked up at him. 'Mr Dimmock was found dead. We believe he was unlawfully killed, and the manner of his death is very similar to that of Natasha Munro. We have clear evidence of your client's presence at Mr Dimmock's house on the evening of the killing.'
Bannatyne looked deflated. 'What kind of evidence?'
'Fingerprint evidence. DNA evidence. Unequivocal.'
Bannatyne looked as if he might be about to challenge that assertion, but Hamilton spoke again. 'I've already told you I was there. I went to warn him. He gave me a glass of wine. He was kind like he always is. But I could tell he wasn't taking me seriously. He never did until it was too late. That was one of the problems.' She paused, her expression suggesting she'd only now registered what Grant had said. 'He's dead?'
Grant nodded. 'He was killed the night you were there.'
Hamilton was staring at her open-mouthed. 'But… he was alive when I left. I told him to take care. I told him to take what I'd said seriously.' Her expression shifted suddenly to one of anger. 'Shit! That stupid stupid fucking bastard…'
It wasn't clear to Grant whether this comment was directed at Dimmock or someone else. 'Just to be clear for the record,' Grant said, 'you're saying that Dimmock was alive when you left his house?'
'Of course he was fucking alive. I didn't think anything would happen that night. For Christ's sake.'
'What time did you leave?'
'I don't know. About ten, I suppose.'
Grant consulted the notes from the interviews they'd already conducted with Jane McDowd and Alicia Swinton, the two other young women who had both been staying in Netty Munro's house. Both had been provided with temporary accommodation until their futures could be resolved. 'According to Jane McDowd, you left Natasha Munro's house early that morning. What had you been doing for the rest of that day?'
There was another long silence before Hamilton said, 'I took the bus back into Inverness. I needed to think. I spent most of the day just walking by the river.'
'Thinking about what?'
'About what was happening. He'd called me. Told me it had started. What we'd always talked about.'
Another mention of the mysterious "he", Grant thought. She had the sense that Hamilton didn't want to say more, didn't want to expose this other individual. Her instinct was to approach the issue obliquely. She didn't want Hamilton to clam up entirely. 'What had you always talked about?'
'Revenge,' she said. 'Proper revenge. Full revenge. Like we'd already done with my father.'
Grant decided to leave that particular avenue unexplored for the moment. 'Revenge for what?'
'For what they did. For what they all did.'
'What did they do, Elizabeth?'
It was the first time Grant had used Hamilton's forename in the interview, and Hamilton looked at her as if she'd used some term of affection. 'They traded us. They used us. They exploited us.'
'Who are they?'
'All of them. My dad. McGuire. Young. The Baillies. All the bastards.'
Grant exchanged a look with Horton. 'But not Dimmock?'
'Not Dimmock, no. He tried to stop them, when he realised the extent of what was happening. He was going to blow the whistle. That's why they stopped him.'
'Stopped him?'
'Framed him. It was a set up. The woman who accused him was one of theirs. One of us.'
Grant frowned, unsure she was entirely following this. 'So why didn't he expose them anyway? He wouldn't have had much to lose by that point.'
Hamilton laughed unexpectedly. 'You think? They'd concocted a whole lot more on him. Worse stuff. Stuff that would have got him sent down for much longer. He'd already lost credibility, and he had a reputation for drinking anyway. Even if he'd tried to expose them at that point, no one would have believed him. So the deal was that he did his time, kept his head down and his mouth shut. He did, and they left him alone.'
'Until now.'
'But that wasn't them. That was the point. That was Andy.'
Grant tried to keep her face expressionless. 'Andy?'
'I told him Jack wasn't one of them. That Jack was different. He went along with that, or he pretended to, but I knew he didn't really believe me. He wanted to take Jack down along with the rest of them. He thought he deserved it…' She looked back up at Grant. 'So you're saying he went there that n
ight after I'd been there? The stupid, stupid bastard…'
'You said you spent the day wandering round Inverness, just thinking,' Grant said. 'So what made you decide to go up to Jack Dimmock's house in the evening?'
'It was Andy. Like I say, he'd phoned me earlier to tell me it had started. He told me he'd dealt with Young. That he'd left the body where it wouldn't be found for a while.'
Grant nodded. The detail of Ronnie Young's death hadn't yet been made public. 'Did he say where, Elizabeth?'
'He said he'd left it in McDermott's Yard, that place near the airport.'
Grant drew in a breath. They were making progress. 'Okay,' she said. 'So you knew that Andy had… dealt with Ronnie Young. Why didn't you head up to Dimmock's straightaway, if you wanted to warn him?'
Hamilton gazed back at her as if the question was nonsensical. 'Andy told me he was going to do it slowly, take his time. Minimise the risks. I thought there'd be time.' Her eyes were brimming with tears. 'He hadn't told me about McGuire…'
'McGuire?'
'I only saw it because I was in town, though I suppose I'd have seen it on the news soon enough. I'd been walking down by Ness Islands and then I walked back up the river into the centre later in the afternoon. I saw all the police activity going on. Something big, obviously. I stopped and asked one of the police officers what was going on. He told me it was a murder.'
Grant cursed inwardly, wondering what numpty had said that to a passing member of the public. 'You thought it was McGuire?'
'I knew he'd been performing at the club in town. Andy had told me about that, and we'd wondered whether it would give us the opportunity. But Andy's plan had been to do it more discreetly, later. He'd done that with Young. Kept an eye on his movements. Caught him outside his home when he was returning from Edinburgh. Had him dealt with and in the back of Andy's car before he even knew what was happening. He told me he was planning for the longer term with McGuire. If he was up here performing for longer, there'd be more time.'
