by Alex Gray
‘Thank you, that would be fine.’
Cameron waited until he was certain she was out of earshot before he began. ‘Donnie Douglas: do you know where he is, Alison?’
The girl frowned at him. ‘Whit d’ye mean?’
‘We’re investigating his whereabouts. He’s been reported as a missing person,’ the detective explained. ‘I hoped you might be able to tell us where he could have gone,’ he added, gently.
The girl curled up into her armchair as if she were trying to lose herself within the voluminous folds of pink towelling, tucking the collar up around her white, sleep-starved face. With no make-up she looked about fourteen, but the eyes that regarded him seemed as old as her mother’s. Alison dropped her gaze and picked at the edge of the armchair where a piece of leather piping had worked itself loose.
‘When did you last see Donnie? Alison?’ Cameron bent forward, trying to catch her eye, to make her look at him, but she simply wriggled further under the dressing gown.
‘Cannae mind,’ she said at last. ‘Mibbe Sunday?’
‘Last Sunday?’
‘Naw, day after that ref copped it. Havenae seen him since.’
‘And has he been in touch? Phoned or texted you?’
‘Naw.’ The response was followed by a yawn and she turned her head to look blearily at them both.
Mrs Renton bustled in with a tray full of mugs. Her hair had been raked back with a clasp and her lips were a newly-painted shade of pink. ‘Therr we are now. Whit’s a’ this aboot Donnie?’
Cameron considered the woman as she placed a mug in front of him; her tone was a forced lightheartedness but he could see panic in those narrow eyes.
‘He’s missing, Mrs Renton,’ he said quietly, deliberately meeting her gaze. ‘He’s not been near the club since last weekend and his flat’s empty.’
The woman sat down heavily, spilling coffee on to her bare knees. She hardly seemed to notice the brown liquid seeping into her denim skirt. Her eyes flicked between the policemen and her daughter who sat, head down, refusing to meet anybody’s eyes.
‘Alison! Whit d’you know aboot this!’ Mrs Renton demanded, her gravelly voice harsh with suspicion.
‘Nuthin.’ The girl shrugged an indolent shoulder and cowered further into the cocoon of dressing gown.
‘C’mon, hen, ye must know sumthin,’ her mother wheedled, changing tack so quickly that Cameron guessed this was a regular routine between the pair of them. ‘Did he no say if he wis goin up home?’
Alison shook her head. There was a silence broken only by DC Weir slurping the scalding coffee.
Cameron put down his mug. This was getting them nowhere fast. If Dr Brightman had been here maybe he would have seen something in the girl’s behaviour. As it was, he felt she was definitely keeping something from them and so did the mother, he could see that from her expression.
‘If you remember anything he said – or if you hear from him again – you will contact us immediately,’ Cameron insisted, shoving a card across the narrow, ring-stained coffee table.
Alison Renton grunted in reply, leaving the card where it lay. Cameron could feel her mother’s temper rising, but whether it was directed at Alison, the police or indeed Donnie Douglas himself, he could not tell.
‘Let us know if you hear from him,’ he repeated, this time to Mrs Renton as he prepared to leave. DC Weir put down his mug and followed Cameron out into the street where a small group of young children had gathered close to his car. He glowered at them then pulled a face, eliciting a few giggles as they backed away. It wouldn’t do to foster bad feelings with even the most junior of the locals when so much effort was being put into community relations. These kids were tomorrow’s citizens, one way or another.
‘Okay, we drew a blank.’ Cameron sighed as they drove off. ‘Just wish we’d had Dr Brightman along with us. I’m sure he’d have asked the right questions.’
CHAPTER 27
‘What exactly is the prognosis?’ Solly asked. It was the one question he’d been longing to ask yet dreading to utter all through these last days.
Since that fateful Friday night, Rosie had been in a high-dependency unit, her airways kept functioning by machinery that Solly didn’t rightly understand. All he knew was that she was deathly pale and that her vital signs were still being monitored by nurses carefully avoiding eye contact with him. Now he had summoned up enough courage to ask the consultant in charge of her case.
The Indian doctor smiled wearily at Solly and folded his hands in front of him on the desk. ‘We hope she will make a full recovery, of course,’ he began. ‘There’s a lot of damage from the impact. Normally we would expect some fractured ribs and even a punctured lung but the nature of the crash meant that Miss Fergusson sustained more internal injuries than would have been normal.’
‘Why? What happened?’ Solly asked, suddenly bewildered. ‘I thought the lorry had crushed the windscreen …’ He trailed off, remembering the state of Rosie’s BMW: the mangled metal twisted out of shape, the chips of glass sliding around inside like an unexpected shower of giant hailstones.
‘There was a metal strut that came loose from the load the lorry was carrying,’ the doctor explained. ‘It came through the window like a javelin and impacted against the air bag. Her injuries are mainly from that missile, Dr Brightman,’ he added solemnly. ‘That was why we needed to perform surgery so quickly. She needed intubation immediately and we had to set up artificial ventilation. This type of blunt chest-trauma is unusual in such a traffic accident,’ he told Solly, as if that would console him somehow. ‘Your fiancée has suffered severe pulmonary contusions,’ the consultant continued, his tone still grave. ‘We can see how these resolve from three to five days after surgery. But I’m afraid it is still too soon to give you a definite prognosis.’
‘But it’s four days now,’ Solly pleaded.
‘I know.’ The doctor turned soulful eyes upon him. ‘We are trying to keep her condition as stable as we can, but you must be aware that there is a risk of pneumonia setting in and of subsequent organ failure.’
‘All these tubes...?’
‘All these tubes,’ the consultant answered gently, ‘some of them are keeping her secretions cleared and others are pumping in antibiotics to prevent any possible infection.’
‘Secretions?’ Solly pounced on the word.
The consultant nodded again. ‘Blood in the alveolar spaces provides a breeding ground for infection. The tracheostomy was necessary to allow us to drain it away.’
Solly held up a hand. His stomach was trembling now with a sudden desire to expel what little breakfast he’d managed to eat. The consultant rose from behind the desk and came around, putting a sympathetic hand on Solly’s shoulder.
‘Would you like to use the lavatory?’ he asked, indicating a small door to one side of the consulting room.
Solly made it just in time, retching over the gleaming porcelain. He groaned as he stood up, a hot flush of embarrassment sweeping over him: the man must take him for every sort of feeble wimp. But when he emerged from the toilet, the consultant came towards him and grasped his hand warmly.
‘You’ve been through a lot, my friend,’ he told Solly. ‘It takes courage to do what you’ve been doing.’
Back in Rosie’s room, Solly wondered at the doctor’s words. Courage? He didn’t feel as if he was doing anything at all, simply waiting by her side: waiting and hoping that she would wake up, look at him and smile that wonderful smile of hers. Then he would know that the world had not stopped turning on its axis after all and that there was more to life than this small space where they breathed the same air. He shivered suddenly despite the sunlight’s warmth through the glass, imagining Rosie’s breath disappearing in a moment and leaving only his own exhalations swimming through the atmosphere. She was so still, so small and still, her body functioning at the whim of all these contraptions that looked more as if they were hurting her than saving her poor damaged tissues from further attack.
And if she should die? He shuddered at the thought, banishing it with a determination that surprised him. No. He would stay here and will her to live. What else was there to do?
Patrick Kennedy put down the telephone, his hand trembling with rage. How dare they? He had given a terse reply to the question from that reporter. Had it been too abrupt? Should he have tempered it with some tact? The very cheek of that man Greer had thrown him. Where were you the night Jason White was killed? Kennedy had sworn at him, told Greer to mind his own business. But of course, he thought reluctantly, that sort of stuff was a hack’s business, meddling in other people’s private lives. It would have been better to have cut him off without a single word. Let him come to his own conclusions. But what if he already knew? The massive fists that had balled in anger now uncurled in lines of clammy perspiration.
Would Barbara remember he wasn’t at home that night? Kennedy’s lip curled in contempt. Of course she would. His wife knew every minute of every day: when he was home and when he was out. Her fretting over dates and timetables drove him crazy. Sometimes he wondered why he put up with it then he would look out over the green sward of Kelvin’s pitch and remember. If he gave up on Barbara, with her controlling interest in the club, he’d have to give up on all of this. Once everything was sorted he’d begin divorce proceedings. But not until then. Too much still hinged on Barbara selling what looked like becoming a load of worthless shares. But there would come a time … Kennedy looked into the distance, imagining the future he’d so carefully planned. A thought came to him suddenly and he lifted the phone again.
‘Marie? How did that journalist get my direct number?’
Back in the glass box that was the Gazette’s offices, Jimmy Greer took a celebratory swig from the half-bottle he kept in his desk drawer. He’d fairly rattled Pat Kennedy’s cage. Maybe there was something in it after all, a wee crumb of information that he could chew on and digest. The anonymous phone call that had suggested he ask about Kennedy’s movements on the night Jason White had been shot had piqued his interest. Why call him and not the CID? Should he let Lorimer know that Big Pat was unhappy to be asked his whereabouts the night his bad lad was topped? Maybe. But his story would be all the sweeter if he could find out a bit more without having Strathclyde’s finest ruining it on him. Still, it would have to be handed over to the police press office eventually but the timing of that was in his own hands.
Greer imagined Lorimer’s fury at not being told this latest snippet and the picture made his face break into a large grin. Serve the bastard right, he thought.
CHAPTER 28
The boot room was possibly the smelliest place in the whole club, Jim Christie decided, closing its door on sweat, leather and polish, then turning the key in the lock. Big Pat had stormed at him that morning about locking up, as if Jim was less than conscientious in his duties. The kitman had taken the huff. It wasn’t just these wee boys running daft out there on the pitch, he’d reminded the chairman. He worked his butt off week-in, week-out so the club could turn out their teams properly.
Jim kicked the door of the boot room, adding one more scuff mark to the thousands that had accumulated over the space of several decades, then, as he spotted Wee Bert watching him, he scuttled back up the stairs.
*
Albert Little scowled as he rubbed the boot room door with a damp cloth. The kitman had been right out of order, kicking it like that. It just gave him more work to do, Bert grumbled to himself. When he’d first come here as assistant groundsman, there had been three of them to do the work that he had to do nowadays. Out in the open air, Bert wanted to spit on to the gravel pathway but he stopped himself; the sight of the swirling pattern that his rake had made calmed him down in a way that no soothing words could ever have achieved. He took a deep breath and scanned the grass, running his eyes across the camber and nodding in satisfaction at its perfect curve. Drainage hadn’t been a problem this summer. Bert looked up into a sky that was devoid of cloud, a burning blue that claimed every speck of moisture that he showered over his precious turf. It couldn’t last, this endless heat. Surely there had to be a break in this relentless sunshine? The forecast was for more sun later in the week. There were only four more days until the next game; four more days in which to cosset and cajole the pitch into a state of perfection. Bert closed his mind to Jim Christie’s childish behaviour. He had better things to think about, like how long he’d leave it until setting the sprinklers to dance across his grass.
Something made him look up at the windows above the stadium. A face was peering down at him, a reminder that they were all being watched. Well, let them watch. What would they see? A middle-aged man going about his lawful business, that was what. And, thought Bert with a sudden shaft of malice, it was a damn sight more than could be said for some of them.
‘We have to be careful.’
‘I know,’ she hissed. ‘Think I’m not aware of all these journalists around the place?’
Pat Kennedy bent his head. ‘Sorry. I’m just so keyed-up these days.’
‘Och, I know. It’s no wonder with all that’s been going on.’ Marie slid her narrow rump across the chairman’s desk, circling one hand around his bull-like neck.
‘No,’ Kennedy said shortly, disengaging her hand and pushing her gently but firmly away. ‘We have to be careful,’ he repeated. ‘Maybe I should spend a bit more time at home.’
Marie McPhail raised questioning eyebrows at him, her arms folding across her chest, pulling her rows of chains into a golden river that fell between her cleavage.
‘Life’s complicated enough as it is,’ he said testily. ‘Maybe when this is all over—’
‘Maybe what? You’ll leave her? How often have I heard you say that?’ Marie spat out in mock laughter.
‘We could go away somewhere for a bit,’ he mumbled.
‘Aye? And when would that be? You wouldn’t miss a match, and the fixture list’s full till next May!’ She shook her head at him as she left, swiping the air in disgust. ‘Just don’t annoy me, okay?’
Pat Kennedy bowed his head into his hands. How had all this happened? Less than two weeks ago he was on top of the world, a whole season stretching out before them, all his plans ticking along nicely. Now everything seemed to be crashing around him and even the woman who had proved adept at providing solace was no consolation.
The scream that echoed along the corridor brought the sound of running feet.
‘What’s wrong?’ several voices seemed to be asking at once.
The boy stood, mouth open, unable to articulate his fear. They followed his pointing finger towards the end of the corridor.
‘The boot room?’ Andy Sweeney broke into a jog, several pairs of feet in his wake.
‘My God!’ The Kelvin captain slithered to a halt in front of the open door. The walls were dripping red from the huge painted words: Kill Kennedy. And on the floor the figure of a man in a Kelvin strip lay, face down, a blood-stained knife stuck into the middle of his shirt, intersecting the number eight. Sweeney took one step forwards, staring at the scene, then turned to face the others.
‘Is this someone’s idea of a joke?’ he snarled.
‘Is he no deid, then?’ the apprentice who’d sent them all racing to the boot room faltered.
‘It wis never alive!’ Sweeney kicked the body, sending a shower of sawdust into the air. Someone started to laugh but the captain turned with a furious expression on his face. ‘Who did this?’ he asked, killing the mirth stone-dead.
‘Ah thocht ah’d seen a, a, g-ghost,’ the apprentice stammered.
‘Was the door locked when you went down to do the boots?’ Sweeney demanded.
‘Naw. It wisnae. Ah hud the key a’ ready tae open it, but …’ the boy finished miserably, trying desperately to salvage some dignity from the situation.
‘Did Jim Christie give you the key?’
‘Aye. He always has it ready fur me.’
‘Go and find him,’ Sweeney demanded. ‘He’s
gonnae go mental when he sees this mess.’ The boy hovered for a moment, uncertain. ‘Go on, scram!’ Sweeney told him.
The boy hared off, his boots thudding on the stone flags, leaving the rest of them staring into the boot room.
‘Who d’you think it’s meant to be?’ asked Gudgie Carmichael, peering over their heads at the dummy dressed up in Kelvin’s colours. Now that they had all seen the ‘corpse’ for what it really was, there was a sense of curiosity dispelling the initial shock.
‘Number eight’s Donnie’s shirt,’ Baz Thomson said, looking at each one in turn as the significance of his observation hit home. ‘Someone’s got a sick sense of humour.’
‘We need tae tell Mr Clark. An I think he’ll call the polis,’ Sweeney said eventually. ‘So don’t any of youse touch anythin in here, right?’
‘What about the knife?’
‘Ah, strange you should ask about that. It’s like the one that killed Nicko Faulkner.’
A pulse throbbed in Lorimer’s head. What was the scene of crime officer trying to tell him?
‘Go on,’ he said.
‘The injury to Faulkner was inflicted by a bread knife with a blade just like the one missing from their knife rack. The one found at Kelvin Park was a dead ringer for it. There are loads of these Kitchen Devils on the market. Every married couple seems to get at least one set as a wedding present. It could be a complete coincidence.’
Lorimer grunted as he hung up the telephone. He wasn’t one to dismiss coincidences. ‘There was absolutely nothing in the press about the knife,’ he murmured to himself. ‘I’m sure about that. So who else knew the details of Nicko Faulkner’s murder?’ He tapped a pencil against his teeth as he gazed out into space. Details like this were kept within the investigating team. Reports mentioning weapon types had to be filed under ‘strictly confidential’, especially when a court case might be in the offing.
Janis Faulkner’s court case, he suddenly thought. If she’d killed her husband, was there anything stopping her from passing on details about the murder weapon? How would that work to her advantage? If she’d killed him, she might well be latching on to these two subsequent murders to obfuscate her own part in Nicko’s death. Already Greer was dropping huge hints that all three killings were linked. Judgement by media, Lorimer thought grimly. It was happening all too often now. How the hell anyone got a fair trial these days was beyond him. He paused, one finger in the air. If Janis Faulkner’s story was true, that she had left before her husband had come home – but what if she was lying? What if she had discovered Nicko’s body but not touched anything, what if she had recognised that bread knife as one of theirs? In fact, she could be experiencing flashbacks from the murder scene. And had she spoken to anyone about what she recalled? Lorimer nodded to himself. It was a feasible theory. Janis Faulkner might well be innocent of her husband’s murder but was she sticking to a story that would show her up in a better light? After all, what manner of wife would leave her husband bleeding to death?
