by Alex Walters
‘Maybe went to relieve himself?’
She looked amused by the euphemism. ‘He’d have been quicker just ringing the doorbell if he was that desperate.’ She was watching him closely, as if trying to weigh up what else she ought to tell him. ‘Look, I don’t know if it’s relevant,’ she said, finally, ‘but I don’t reckon Billy was quite himself in those last few weeks.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘Well, you know Billy – you remember him, I mean. He wasn’t a man lacking in self-confidence.’
That was one way of putting it, McKay thought. If McKay himself had been a cocky wee bugger in the old days, Crawford, like most of his senior associates, had been a full-blown egomaniac. ‘Aye, so I recall.’
‘That was Billy all over. Always thought he could do just as he liked.’ She smiled, reading the expression on McKay’s face. ‘Just like he did with me, that’s right. And we were all daft enough to let him get away with it. But the last few weeks, he wasn’t like that.’
‘In what way?’
‘If it was anyone else, I’d have said he was scared. But I don’t recall Billy being scared of anyone or anything.’
‘We’re all scared of something,’ McKay observed. ‘Maybe it just took Billy a bit longer than most of us to face it.’ He paused, thinking. ‘Could he have been ill? Something serious, I mean.’ If there was anything like that, McKay thought, the post-mortem would reveal it.
‘I wondered that,’ she said. ‘I guess it’s possible. But it didn’t feel like that. He wasn’t just worried or preoccupied. He actually seemed nervous. As if he was constantly looking over his shoulder.’
‘Literally?’ McKay thought of the dark street outside, the shadows clustering at the far end, away from the street lights where the path led down to the firth.
‘Maybe. He seemed rattled by noises. Even when we were in the middle of – well, you know – he’d stop as if he’d heard something downstairs. I could feel him tense.’ She seemed to have abandoned any tendency to innuendo now, as if this was what she’d been wanting to say all along. ‘He could tell I noticed. Tried to joke about it. Said it was just the old copper’s instincts. But he never used to be like that.’ She paused. ‘I could see it when he left here. He’d started looking both ways, up and down the street. As if he thought there might be someone waiting for him.’
‘How long had he been like this?’
‘I’m not sure exactly. A few weeks.’
‘You’ve no idea why?’
‘Billy wouldn’t even admit there was an issue. I tried to raise it once when it first started. You can imagine how he responded.’
‘Aye, I can imagine.’ Crawford hadn’t been the type to show any kind of weakness, especially not to a woman. ‘You didn’t see anything that might have accounted for the way he was behaving? Anybody suspicious hanging around? Anything like that?’
‘Nothing at all.’ She allowed herself a laugh. ‘I thought he was finally getting past it.’
He pushed himself to his feet. ‘I’ll leave you to it, Mrs Barnard. Thanks for your time. That’s really been very helpful.’
She followed him to the door. ‘You really think someone killed him?’ It was the second time she’d asked the question. However blasé she might pretend to be, it was clear she was rattled.
‘We’ve really no reason to think so, Mrs Barnard,’ he said as he pulled on the heavy waterproof. It was true, as far as it went, at least until the post-mortem had been completed. ‘But, like I say, we have to consider every possibility.’ He paused as she opened the front door. ‘Look, we’ll be as discreet as we can in handling this. But I can’t make any promises.’
‘I understand. It may seem a bit late for this, but I really don’t want Jeanie to be hurt.’
Aye, a bit bloody late for that, McKay thought. Out loud, he said, ‘We’ll do what we can. I imagine my colleagues may well want to talk with you further.’ Especially, he added to himself, when Helena Grant finds out what I’ve been up to.
He stepped out into the chill night, watching his breath cloud the damp air. As Meg Barnard closed the door behind him, he found himself involuntarily echoing Crawford’s behaviour and glancing down to the dark end of the street.
27
The rain had stopped for the moment, and McKay’s first instinct was to head back to the bungalow. He’d done himself more than enough damage for one night.
Then, he took another look down towards the far end of the street. Bugger, he thought. That was his problem. He could never leave things be. Still muttering to himself, he trudged slowly down the final hundred metres to where the road ended. There was a fenced-off patch of ground to the left that looked as if it had been bought by a developer with the intention of building more housing. Now, it was overgrown and abandoned. Maybe the money had run out, McKay thought, or the market hadn’t been there.
Ahead, beyond the end of the adopted road, the land fell away, grassland dotted with trees descending towards the firth. McKay took another few steps forward, feeling the wet undergrowth give beneath his feet. He moved to the right, peering into the dark until he found a clear line of sight to the sea. He could only just make it out, the water faintly translucent in the blackness, but it was no distance away – thirty or forty metres at the most.
He made his way further down the hillside, wondering how Crawford could have accidentally fallen into the water. Even if he really had been desperate for a piss, there was no reason to detour far from the road. It was possible that Crawford had entered the water elsewhere – there were other points in the village that gave access to the firth. But it was even harder to imagine what might have taken Crawford to any of those.
McKay was turning to head back up to the street when he heard the movement behind him. He froze, suddenly struck by an irrational sense that someone had been watching him all the time he’d been here. He’d been half-crouched, peering down at the water, but now, he straightened and stared back into the blackness. He could make out nothing but the slow sway of the trees against the buffeting sea wind.
Then, suddenly, he felt a weight against his back and the tight grip of gloved hands on his throat. He stumbled forward, flailing wildly against whoever was behind him, but could gain no purchase. The fingers on his throat tightened, the sharp edges of leather gloves biting into his flesh, forcing him down on to his knees.
His instincts working more quickly than his conscious mind, McKay rolled to his left, trying to pull his assailant on to the ground beside him, hoping that the impact would loosen the grip around his neck. He reached behind, straining for his attacker’s face, his fingers searching for a point of vulnerability.
The grip slackened only momentarily as their two bodies struck the ground, but it was sufficient for McKay. Lying sideways on the wet earth, his feet found a grip, and he thrust himself backwards, driving his attacker’s body hard against the trunk of an adjacent tree. He heard a brief gasp of surprise, and the hands on his throat loosened enough for McKay to pull free. He rolled forwards, twisting to see who was behind him.
He’d expected his assailant would be too winded to make an immediate move, but even before McKay could fully turn, the figure was up and running down towards the water. McKay lay, breathless, contemplating whether to give chase. But the figure was already out of sight, presumably heading back up towards the village, and McKay was in no state for running.
He dragged himself to his feet, looking down ruefully at his damp, mud-stained trousers. Jesus. What the hell was going on? Had someone been watching him all the time he was down here? Had they seen him visiting Meg Barnard’s house? And why the fuck were they even interested in him?
Galloway, Crawford and Graham. A poisonous fucking trio back in the day. Watching each other’s backs, but all too ready to stick a knife in them too. Lining their own pockets whenever they got half a chance, and not caring who they screwed over to do it.
Once upon a time, he could have named a dozen individuals who’d have b
een glad to see the back of all three of them. But that was a long time ago. Half those people would be dead, and the rest would be in their dotage. Why the hell would all this start up now?
He began the slow walk back into the centre of the village. The rain had started falling again, chilling the air and misting the orange street lights. McKay’s body was bruised and aching, his clothes stained and damp. At that moment, even the bleak bungalow in Rosemarkie – the only place he could think of calling home – felt a million miles away.
And, of course, Helena Grant was going to be pissed as hell with him.
Well done, Alec, he thought. Another great evening to write up in the fucking diary. Another fucking fine mess.
28
‘You know, Alec,’ Helena Grant said, ‘I think that’s the first time you’ve ever begun a conversation with me by saying “you’re not going to like this.” Usually, you just try to brazen your way through whatever it is you’ve royally screwed up.’
‘Aye, well,’ McKay said from the other end of the phone line, ‘it was a bit of an experiment. Thought I’d try a different approach.’
‘Which means that, this time, even you know you’ve fucked up. It must be something really fucking serious.’ She held the phone away from her and squinted at it, as if that might provide her some additional insight into McKay’s unfathomable mind.
‘Ach, well, it’s not so bad,’ he said. ‘I just found myself getting a bit more – involved than I intended.’
‘Go on, Alec. Tell me all about it,’ she said wearily. The truth was, however much she might want McKay back in the fold, this conversation was the last thing she needed. She’d spent the first hour of the morning having an earnest heart-to-heart with poor Ginny Horton. Horton had been waiting outside Grant’s office, looking more uncomfortable than Grant had ever seen her.
‘Ginny?’
‘I thought I’d better come and talk to you before anyone else did.’
Horton’s confession, as it turned out, had been largely innocuous – essentially that she’d called out the uniforms the previous night for what sounded to Grant like entirely legitimate reasons.
‘You did the right thing, Ginny. Obviously. You’re not denied access to the emergency services just because you’re a police officer yourself.’
Grant had nodded. ‘Yes, I know. It’s just – embarrassing. Especially as David had already buggered off by the time they arrived. I don’t even know that he really meant me any harm.’
‘It sounds as if, at the very least, he wanted to scare the hell out of you.’
‘He succeeded pretty well on that front.’
She’d listened patiently while Horton had recounted her history with her stepfather. She’d encountered too many men like that – arrogant, manipulative, abusive. Plenty of them, truth be told, in the force. For a certain kind of copper, at least in the past, it had pretty much gone with the territory. She could only give thanks that the particular copper she’d chosen to marry had been a very different breed. But, of course, he’d been snatched from her far too early.
‘You still think he might be a threat, though?’
‘I honestly don’t know,’ Horton had said. ‘Maybe there are things he really does want to tell me.’
‘He could always write you a letter. He doesn’t have to try to force his way through your front door.’ Her guess was that, whatever he might want to share with Horton, the stepfather was playing the same games he’d always played. Making others dance to his tune. Men like that never really changed.
‘Anyway, don’t worry about it. No doubt there’ll be a bit of gossip below stairs. But they’ll always find something to gossip about. Give them twenty-four hours and they’ll have moved on.’
Now, an hour or so later, Grant found herself having yet another heart-to-heart, this time with Alec McKay. Except, of course, that being Alec, it was far less straightforward.
She listened to his account of his visit to the Caledonian Bar in silence, already seeing where this was going. ‘Please don’t tell me you went ‘round to see this Meg Barnard, Alec.’
There was a pause. ‘Aye, well, I can see, with hindsight, it maybe wasn’t the smartest of moves –’
‘You can see that, can you, Alec? With hindsight? Just remind me again how long you’ve been a police officer?’ She didn’t really feel angry. Just very weary. But McKay often had that effect on her.
‘Well, I know –’
‘Look, Alec. Yesterday, I came within a hair’s breadth of suspending you. For your own good. I tell you to take some leave and spend some time mending fences with Chrissie. Instead, you stick your nose back into the case and take it on yourself to interview a bloody witness. Potentially compromising anything she might have had to say.’ She took a breath. ‘You’re not stupid, Alec. So, I can only assume you’re doing this to drive me into an early grave.’
‘It was only –’
‘Don’t even think of trying to justify this, Alec. Whatever I might or might not think, the truth is you’re still potentially a bloody suspect in this case. I should do this by the book.’
There was an extended silence which told her that McKay knew he’d pushed it too far this time. Christ, he could be a numpty sometimes.
Finally, she said, ‘I’m probably going to regret this, Alec. But I’ll give you just one more chance. Stay at home. Mind your own bloody business. And, like I say, go and talk to Chrissie.’
‘I ran into her,’ McKay said, sounding relieved to change the subject. ‘In the supermarket.’
‘How was she?’
‘Ach, you know. Civilised.’ McKay made this sound like a disreputable quality. ‘I said we should talk.’
‘And what did she say?’
‘She said, aye, when she was ready.’
‘That sounds positive.’
‘Maybe. She didn’t exactly sound eager, though.’
‘It’ll take time, Alec. But you need to keep trying.’
‘Aye, well. Maybe I’ll give her a call. See how she responds.’
‘You do that, Alec.’
There was another pause before he said, ‘And thanks, hen.’
Before she could respond, he ended the call. Thanks for what, she wondered. For, once again, letting him off the hook? For encouraging him to talk to Chrissie? Either way, she knew it must have cost him to say it. Alec McKay wasn’t a man to show his feelings, even at that rudimentary level.
Just as long as he really did keep his nose out this time. As it was, she’d have to arrange for someone else to go and talk to Meg Barnard. It didn’t sound as if Barnard was likely to be a material witness, but she looked to be another piece in an increasingly complex jigsaw.
They’d had the expedited post-mortem and forensic results back for Jackie Galloway, but those had told them little. The cause of Galloway’s death had been the trauma caused by the fall. There was no other evidence of foul play, but there’d been no reason to expect any. If Galloway had been pushed, it wouldn’t have taken much force.
The forensics on the Galloways’ house were equally inconclusive. There was a jumble of fingerprints and DNA traces, but Galloway had received care visits three times a day. According to Bridie Galloway, there’d been a handful of regular carers but a large rotating cast of stand-ins, with unfamiliar faces popping up several times in a week. They were in touch with the care agency, trying to identify all those who might have visited in recent months. But Grant wasn’t confident much would result from those efforts.
The forensics on Crawford had told them nothing. The body had been tossed and turned in the firth for too long for any useful evidence to be left. There was some evidence of bruising that might have suggested a physical assault, but Jock Henderson had been reluctant to offer a view. The post-mortem report should be with them today. Maybe that would shed further light.
As for Graham, foul play looked more likely. It was difficult to see how he’d have ended up with his head face down in the burn otherwise, though
Grant had come across stranger events in her career. They were still waiting on the forensics and post-mortem there.
She leaned back in her chair, gazing through the office window at the strip of grey sky visible above the Inverness skyline. There was something McKay hadn’t told her, she thought, reflecting on her telephone conversation of a few minutes earlier. Not, in fairness, that she’d given him much chance to get a word in edgeways.
But, after all these years, she knew Alec McKay. There was something he hadn’t said. And that worried her. If there was something he’d held back, it was either because of something he’d done or something he was planning to do. Either way, she thought, if Alec McKay was involved, the outcome was likely to be trouble.
29
McKay sat in silence, staring at the screen of his mobile as if it might tell him something more than the fact that his call to Helena Grant had lasted precisely four minutes and thirty-four seconds. That was the trouble with the modern world. You had every last scrap of useless information at your fingertips. But nothing that really mattered.
Why the fuck hadn’t he told Grant about the previous night’s attack? Was it because he’d been afraid she wouldn’t believe him? That she might think he was concocting some story to demonstrate that he was another victim here, not the potential perpetrator? After all, in the cold light of morning, McKay could hardly believe it himself.
McKay had little doubt that the attacker had wanted to kill him. After the incident, he realised now, he’d been partly in shock. It was as if his emotions had shut down, preventing him from appreciating the impact of the assault. It was only as he lay down to sleep in that narrow, rented bed that he registered how lucky he’d been. If his instincts had been less acute, if he’d been a second slower in responding, those gloved hands would have tightened remorselessly around his throat. His body would have ended up tossed into the firth, just as Billy Crawford’s had been.
