Cold Grave

by Craig Robertson

  He sat like that for what seemed like an age until she saw a flicker of recognition in his eyes and he smiled a smile that warmed her world.

  ‘Rachel? How are you, love?’

  ‘Fine, Dad. Fine. How are you though?’

  ‘I’m all right; maybe not quite myself this morning. Not sure what’s wrong with me.’

  She traced a finger gently across the side of his head.

  ‘Looks like you’ve had a bit of a bump. I think maybe that’s the reason.’

  Her dad’s eyes opened wider in confusion and his own hand reached for his head, following where her finger had been.

  ‘Oh. I don’t . . . I don’t know how that happened.’

  Narey fought back the anger that choked in her throat and just smiled at him.

  ‘It’s okay. It doesn’t look too bad. Listen, I’m just going to have a word with the nurse. It’s so warm in here. I think I’ll need to get them to turn the heating down. I’ll be back in a minute.’

  She kissed him on the cheek, comforted again by the smile he rewarded her with. But as she turned, her own smile vanished and she went looking for the carer who had brought her in. She didn’t have far to look: the woman was still standing outside her dad’s room. Narey took hold of her elbow and led her further down the corridor to make sure he didn’t hear.

  ‘What the hell happened to him?’

  ‘He fell, Miss Narey. Sorry, I thought you knew and that was why you were here.’

  ‘No, I bloody well didn’t know. How did he manage to fall? Was no one looking after him?’

  ‘Yes, of course, but we can’t be with them all the time. Your father’s been getting a bit more unsteady on his feet and he tripped over a plant pot and he . . . he hit his head against the wall.’

  ‘You can’t be with him all the time? Then what the hell are we paying you people for? How would you like it if I hit your head against the wall?’

  The moment the words were out of her mouth Rachel regretted them. She saw the fright in the woman’s eyes and knew she had the wrong target.

  ‘Where’s the person in charge? I’m not happy about this. Not happy at all.’

  ‘Mrs McBriar. She’s probably in her office.’

  ‘You go find her. Tell her that I’ll want to see her after I’ve spoken to my dad. And make sure she knows I’m not a happy bunny.’

  The nurse backed away, obviously happy to be getting away from the crazy daughter. Narey watched her go, mentally kicking herself for losing her temper the way she had. She wasn’t finished on that front, not by a long way, but she’d keep it together.

  ‘Hi there,’ she said to her dad as she slipped back into the room. ‘You miss me?’

  For the second time in as many minutes, she regretted the words that fell from her lips. Clearly he couldn’t have missed her; he’d forgotten she’d ever been there.

  ‘Rachel! What a wonderful surprise. You didn’t say you were coming.’

  ‘No. Sorry, Dad. I thought I’d just drop by.’

  ‘Sorry? Don’t be daft. You never have to be sorry for coming to visit your old dad.’

  ‘You’re not old.’

  ‘Ha. Who are you kidding? Come over here.’

  She sat on the bed again and let him hug her. Funny, it felt so much better than when she had to hug him. He kissed her on her forehead. He could sense her sadness and was making her feel better, the way he always did.

  ‘We need to get you out of here, Dad.’

  ‘No we don’t. We’ve been through this. This is the best place for me. I’m a silly old bugger. I fell yesterday and cracked my head. Silly old bugger.’

  ‘You’re my silly old bugger,’ she told him as she nuzzled into him.

  Her dad laughed but it was an empty sound that coughed and died on the soft skin of her neck. She hugged him tighter and they both let their tears flow. She made a mental note to make sure those were the last tears she would shed that day; instead they would fuel her anger when she went to see the woman in charge.

  Mrs McBriar was waiting for her, of course. She sat tense and upright behind her desk, quickly getting to her feet as Narey strode into her office. A handshake was offered and grudgingly accepted before Narey sat opposite the nursing home’s owner and stared her down.

  ‘Well?’

  ‘Miss Narey, your father is, I’m sorry to say, rather unwell. His condition is deteriorating quicker than we might have expected.’

  The answer wasn’t, in any sense, the one Narey wanted to hear but it took some of the wind, or at least the heat, out of her sails.

  ‘Mrs McBriar, how often do residents here fall and injure themselves in this way?’

  ‘It happens. Rarely. By the very nature of old people, they can be frail and unsteady on their feet.’

  ‘My father is neither old nor frail.’

  ‘Relatively speaking, no, he isn’t,’ McBriar agreed. ‘However, his Alzheimer’s changes that. It affects his spatial awareness and his ability to judge distances. You have already witnessed his memory loss but he also suffers from poor judgement. His cognitive and behavioural patterns are not what they were.’

  ‘All the more reason to look after him.’

  ‘I agree, Miss Narey. We monitor all our residents round the clock but unfortunately these things can still happen.’

  ‘I want to take my father out of here. I will look after him myself.’

  The care home owner looked out of the window for a few moments before turning back to face her.

  ‘I understand that you are a police officer, Miss Narey. Long hours, I’d imagine. Shifts too.’

  ‘I can change that.’

  ‘Can you? I know that your father was in the force for thirty years. He didn’t change it and I’m not sure you would find it easy to do so either.’

  ‘Don’t presume to know me.’

  ‘I don’t but I do know how exacting it is to look after elderly people, particularly those with degenerative conditions.’

  ‘Look after him properly then,’ she retorted.

  The woman looked back at her quietly and Narey cursed herself for losing her temper. It was bad enough they had let her dad hurt himself but even worse was that this woman was right. She couldn’t look after him, not the way things were right now. At least three things needed to be sorted before she could even think about it: she had to find out who Lily was, who had killed her and who had killed her killer. And then there was Tony . . .

  ‘Look after him properly,’ she repeated as she got to her feet. ‘I don’t have time for you right now but I do have time for him. I’ll be back soon and we’ll talk again. Don’t tell me I can’t look after him.’

  She regretted slamming the office door behind her almost as soon as she had done it. It felt good but even as she fleetingly enjoyed the sound of it banging shut, she knew it wasn’t McBriar she was angry at but herself.

  CHAPTER 33

  They’d driven round Victoria Park several times, giving them plenty of opportunities to see people coming and going from the white house with the snowy garden. Winter was in the passenger seat. They’d timed it right, and had seen a man going down the path muffled up in coat, hat and scarf and letting himself in with a key. After another circuit, they saw that a car had appeared and parked directly in front of the house when there was plenty of space on either side of it. They looked at each other and Narey nodded. It was time.

  They pulled in in front of the red Ford, Narey reversing until the bumper of her Megane was all but touching the car behind. They pushed the car doors open against the force of the wind and hurried down the path towards the front door. Narey stopped long enough to pull out her identity card and held it by her side as she knocked briskly on the door. She could hear voices inside and said a silent prayer that it was the husband who lost the argument and had to see who was disturbing their peace.

  As the door was pulled back, she saw that her prayer had been answered. Better still, as she raised her ID card, she saw the look
that crossed Deans’ face and knew immediately they had come to the right house. No one was ever too happy to see police officers on their doorstep but for those with nothing to hide the overriding reaction was surprise. The principal look she’d seen on the face of Greg Deans was fear. Oh, he pulled it back pretty quickly but she’d seen it and he knew she had.

  Winter had seen it too. A widening of the eyes and a fleeting dropping of the jaw, muscles tightening, the merest suggestion of a backward step. Winter stood six inches taller than Rachel and watched over her head as Deans’ eyes flashed from the card to her and then finally to him. The man had regained his composure by the time he got round to Winter, his gaze level and his mouth relaxed. But he was rattled and they all knew it.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Mr Deans? I am Detective Sergeant Narey and this is Anthony Winter of the SPSA. May we talk to you please, sir?’

  ‘Well, yes. Of course. But may I ask what it is in connection with?’

  ‘I think we all know the answer to that, Mr Deans. May we come in? It’s rather cold out here on the doorstep.’

  ‘You can come in, Sergeant, but I have to say that I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  Narey smiled widely and Winter mimicked her gesture, knowing it was designed to keep the man off guard. They stamped their feet on the doormat, leaving as much of the snow behind as they could before entering the house.

  ‘Through here.’ It was as much an order as an invitation and the reason became clear as he led them into the sitting room and promptly left them, saying he was going to speak to his wife.

  As soon as he left, Winter was back on his feet, camera in hand. Rachel smiled as he stalked the room, quickly and quietly capturing the images of Deans’ family life. It was a comfortable room, one for living in rather than adorning the pages of some interiors magazine. The two sofas, a three-seater and a two, looked well used compared to the single armchair, which sat in splendid isolation to the side. A hooded sweatshirt hung casually over the back of the two-seater and a pair of slippers peeped out from under it. A maze of framed photographs was dotted along a mantelpiece and Winter swooped on them, snapping the snaps and stealing the Deans’ history. There were what he assumed to be grandparents and nephews and nieces in various group shots – Christmases, graduations, birthdays and the like – but in the main there were the three of them: Greg Deans, his attractive blonde wife and a flame-haired daughter in her late teens. Winter focused, literally, on what he took to be the most recent photograph of them together.

  They were at a wedding, squeezed together in a happy grouping, Deans in the middle. He was in a light grey suit with striped pink tie, his arms around the women in his life. Mrs Deans wore a red pillar box hat above her heavily styled hair and a beaming smile below it. The daughter had a feathery fascinator in her red hair and a heart-shaped rhinestone necklace that reflected the sunshine. They were clearly at ease in each other’s company, not even a sulky teen embarrassed by being with her parents.

  Footsteps signalled Deans’ return and Winter stepped away from the sideboard towards the window, making a show of studying the snow-laden garden. As he closed the door behind him, Deans eyed Winter suspiciously, letting his stare linger long enough to let him know he was on to him. Narey caught the play within the play and revelled in it, relishing anything that kept Deans guessing. She wanted him off balance and would cheerfully kick one leg away if that was what it took to achieve it.

  Deans had a full head of light red hair and pale, freckled skin. He stood about five foot ten with a stocky build and looked slightly younger than his forty-two years. He was also obviously nervous, his hands popping in and out of his pockets and tugging at his sleeve as he threw edgy glances towards the door, presumably keeping a wary eye out in case his wife came through it.

  He clearly wanted Narey to speak first but she wasn’t willing to indulge him. Instead, she just sat and looked at him, letting a heavy silence settle in the room, waiting for it to smother Deans’ nerve. He pulled at his sleeve some more, wrenched his eyes from hers and looked impatiently out of the window at the falling snow.

  ‘Well?’ he asked her at last.

  She smiled. It was her way of telling him she’d won the first round.

  ‘It can’t be easy to keep an old house like this warm in such weather.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Places as old as this tend to leak heat like a sieve. You must need to have your heating on day and night.’

  ‘What is it that you think I can help you with, Sergeant?’

  ‘Well, I wouldn’t say no to it being a bit warmer to be honest. I’m not exactly keen on the cold.’

  ‘You said we all knew what this was about. Well, I don’t.’ Deans held his arms wide to emphasise his claim.

  She laughed.

  ‘Come on,’ she mocked.

  ‘Sergeant,’ he snapped, then lowered his voice. ‘What is it that you want?’

  She smiled again. Round two to her as well.

  ‘Laurence Paton. Adam Mosson.’

  He didn’t respond but that was more of a giveaway than if he had. He knew the names were coming; he must have done.

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Are you?’

  ‘I mean . . . What is this? I’m not playing your games. You either tell me what it is you are talking about or you leave my home. Now.’

  ‘Okay,’ she nodded, conceding the point. ‘You know both Laurence Paton and Adam Mosson. Is that correct?’

  ‘I went to Jordanhill with them, yes. Long time ago.’

  ‘Uh huh. What was it they called you back then? Dixie, wasn’t it?’

  There was more of a reaction this time. She saw in his eyes he hadn’t expected her to know that. His leg was teetering before her and she was ready to boot him over.

  ‘Yeah, that’s it,’ she said. ‘Dixie Deans, Laurence Paton and Adam Mosson. Oh, and Paddy. We can’t forget Paddy.’

  Deans looked back at her stony-faced. He had regained control and registered nothing at the mention of the fourth name.

  ‘You know they’re dead, don’t you?’ she asked.

  He gasped but something in the opening and closing of his mouth didn’t ring true.

  ‘I heard about Adam,’ he told her. ‘It was terrible. Poor guy.’

  ‘But not Laurence?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Fell off a ladder. Cracked his skull open.’

  ‘That’s . . . It’s been a long time since we knew each other. But that’s very sad.’

  ‘When did you last see him?’

  ‘Laurence? Not since we were at Jordanhill.’

  ‘And Adam Mosson?’

  ‘I’ve bumped into him a few times over the years. Our schools aren’t that far apart. But I haven’t seen him in a year or two.’

  ‘Hm. And what about Paddy?

  ‘I’m not sure who you mean. I don’t think I remember a Paddy.’

  ‘No? Maybe I should ask your wife if she remembers him. Maybe she can help jog your memory.’

  Deans’ face tightened and she saw anger chase panic across his features.

  ‘I don’t think there’s any need for that.’

  ‘Not if you can remember on your own, no. Can you?’

  ‘No.’

  Narey got up from her chair and began to make for the door.

  ‘No problem. In that case, I’ll just have a quick word with Mrs Deans.’

  ‘No. Stop.’

  She turned, barely bothering to hide the smirk on her face.

  ‘Well?’

  Deans hesitated, his eyes burning angrily into Narey’s.

  ‘Well, it could have been Peter Bradley, I suppose.’

  ‘You suppose?’

  ‘It was probably him, yes. He was called Paddy because he was such a big Celtic fan. There weren’t many of them on campus. He even called himself it after a while.’

  Narey took her seat again, perching on the edge of it so she was nearer to the man.

  �
��Tell me about Mr Bradley.’

  Deans drew his hand across his face, wearily rubbing at his eyes.

  ‘There’s not much to tell. We were at college together. I haven’t seen him since we left. He was from . . . East Kilbride, I think. Somewhere like that.’

  ‘Okay. And do you know where he teaches?’

  ‘No. I don’t even know if he still does.’

  Narey turned to look at Winter, shrugging at him.

  ‘Do you think he knows?’ she asked him.

  ‘I think he probably does.’

  ‘Yeah, me too,’ she replied before turning back to Deans. ‘We think you do.’

  The man’s face reddened, not with embarrassment but with the flush of anger.

  ‘Don’t come into my house and call me a liar. I haven’t seen Laurence or Paddy in nearly twenty years and I haven’t seen Adam in ages. I can’t help you and I’m going to have to ask you to leave.’

  Narey didn’t budge.

  ‘What did you tell your wife when she asked why the police were here?’

  ‘Not that it’s any of your business but I told her the little I knew: you wanted to speak to me but hadn’t told me why. She knows I wouldn’t be involved in anything . . . untoward.’

  ‘No?

  ‘No.’

  ‘Well, in that case, maybe you have reason to be worried.’

  She received a hard stare from him.

  ‘Is that a threat?’

  ‘Not from me, no. But two of your friends have met with very unfortunate accidents. They do say that things happen in threes.’

  ‘It certainly sounds like a threat.’

  ‘It’s a warning, Mr Deans, an entirely different thing.’

  Deans got up out of his chair, put his hands in and then took them out of his pockets before crossing his arms defensively in front of him.

  ‘I’ve already asked you to leave, Sergeant. Now I’m ordering you to go right now.’

  Narey nodded. ‘Maybe I could have a word with your wife before I go, though.’

  ‘Absolutely not. She’s upstairs sleeping. I will not have her disturbed.’

  ‘Maybe next time. Because I will be back, Mr Deans. We both know that.’

  Deans walked to the door and held it open until Narey and Winter followed him through it, leading them down the hall to the front door. A blast of icy wind greeted them as he pulled the door wide and ushered them onto the front step.