by Alex Walters
This bleak thought had been confirmed the next morning when he’d looked in the bathroom mirror and seen the purple bruising on his neck, felt the skin tender to his touch. That had been no opportunistic mugging. It had been attempted murder.
Even so, none of that explained why he hadn’t told Grant. If his life really was in danger, he ought to be shouting it from the bloody rooftops, not sitting here moping over a cup of coffee in this godforsaken bungalow, puzzling his own brain about why anyone might want him dead.
But it had never been his way to seek anyone’s help. He was a proud bloody Dundonian male, too sodding stubborn to do anything just for his own good. Chrissie had always told him that was his trouble, or at least one of his troubles, and he hadn’t honestly been able to deny she was right. It was why he’d never wanted to seek help in dealing with his daughter Lizzie’s death or in holding his marriage together. Whatever the consequences, he’d rather struggle on, doing his own thing.
Now, someone out there, for whatever reason, wanted him dead. And he still couldn’t bring himself to seek help. Without further antagonising Helena Grant, there was little he could do even to help himself.
All he could do was sit here, and wait and watch. And try to work out who the hell that someone might be.
That afternoon, they finally began to make some progress. Helena Grant had been trying to grab a spare five minutes in the company of one of the canteen’s tuna sandwiches when her phone rang.
‘Helena? Jacquie Green.’
Grant sat up straight in her chair. Dr Jacquie Green was the Senior Forensic Pathologist the local force mostly used for its post-mortems. ‘Hi, Jacquie. What can I do for you?’
‘More a question of what I’ve done for you,’ Green said. ‘Not that you’ll necessarily want to thank me.’
‘Go on.’
‘I carried out the PM on Crawford this morning.’
‘Something interesting?’
‘You might say that. Not easy to be sure. The body had taken quite a battering in the water. But there were signs of bruising on the neck that suggest to me his death wasn’t from natural causes. My view is that he was unconscious before he entered the water.’
Grant was silent for a moment. ‘You’re saying he was – what? Strangled?’
‘That’s exactly what I’m saying. The position of the bruising suggests he was grabbed from behind. Hands around the throat, I’d say.’
‘That would be possible? To render him unconscious, I mean.’
‘If you’re strong and determined enough, definitely.’
‘You’re sure about this?’
Green laughed. ‘You questioning my professional judgement, pal?’
Green was a tall, intense-looking woman with close-cropped dark hair. Most people, particularly her male colleagues, found her intimidating, but Grant had long ago discovered that she and Green were two of a kind. They got on well outside the workplace, especially when their conversation was lubricated with a decent bottle of shiraz or two. ‘I wouldn’t dare.’
‘Very wise. I mean, there’s always some element of doubt. In this case, more so because of the traumas that the body suffered in the water. But I’m pretty sure, yes. And not only that –’
Grant had already guessed that there was something else. ‘Rob Graham?’
‘Yup. In the circumstances, I thought I should get straight on to Graham. Exactly the same. And not much doubt there. Strangled. Unconscious. Then his head held in the water until he was dead. As clear as – well, as clear as Rosemarkie Burn.’
‘Jesus. So, we definitely have a case?’
‘I’d say you definitely have two cases.’
‘Which means we probably have three.’
‘Three?’
‘Aye. Jackie Galloway.’
‘Galloway? Died from the fall? You think that’s connected?’
‘Hell of a coincidence if not. Three ex-colleagues. All living in the same area. All dead within days of each other. And there are other connecting factors.’
‘You want me to take another look at Galloway?’
‘If you’ve time. But I imagine your original conclusions were right. If someone wanted to kill him, it wouldn’t have taken more than a gentle push. Easy enough to make it look like an accident.’
‘The killer might have managed that with Crawford, too, if the body had stayed in the water longer,’ Green said. ‘But it doesn’t look as if any effort was made to make Graham’s death look accidental. So, either the killer’s getting more careless, or they’re not bothered about concealing their intentions.’
‘My guess would be the latter,’ Helena Grant said. ‘If you wanted to be discreet, you wouldn’t commit three murders in as many days. This is someone who wants us to know what they’re doing.’
‘Fair point. So, the question is: have I made things better or worse?’
It was Grant’s turn to laugh. ‘Well, you’ve made them a lot clearer. At least we can confirm to the Procurator that we’ve got something worth investigating. Which means I can probably scrape up some half-decent resources to throw at it.’ She paused, serious again. ‘And this is police family business.’
‘I’d heard that,’ Green said. ‘I’ll get the reports to you by close of play. But I’ve told you the salient stuff.’
Grant ended the call and sat for a moment, thinking about what she’d just been saying. Police family business. That was true enough, whatever people might have thought about Galloway and his gang. This would be high profile. The top brass would be sticking their noses in. There’d be media interest. This would be national news.
That carried a lot of implications, for the force and for her as the Senior Investigating Officer.
One of which, she thought, was the question of just what she should do now about Alec McKay.
30
Ginny Horton had been trying to lose herself in work. She didn’t want to think about what had happened the previous evening. She didn’t want to think about what her uniformed colleagues might be saying about her. Above all, she didn’t want to think about David. Where he might be or what he might be up to.
Luckily, throwing herself back into work wasn’t difficult. With McKay absent, her workload was even heavier than usual. She had half a dozen or more cases on the go, some continuing investigations, others completed but with administration still to do. And then, there were the cases still to come to court, like last year’s multiple murder. That was largely done and dusted from their perspective, but there would still be witness statements to give, briefings with the Advocate Deputy, all the usual paperwork associated with a major trial.
Horton still had an uneasy feeling about that case. It should have been cut and dried. The killer was dead, his daughter expected to plead guilty to his and another murder but with more than enough extenuating circumstances to limit her sentence. There wasn’t much doubt how it was likely to go.
But there was something about the way McKay had talked about the case that left her uncomfortable. As if there was something that troubled him. Something he wasn’t saying. As if he didn’t believe the case was quite yet closed.
That was all a matter for another day. For the moment, she had more than enough to be getting on with. And that had been before Helena Grant had come in to break the news about the Crawford and Graham post-mortems. Grant had already been working the phones, pulling together all the resources she could, drafting in additional support from across the division. They’d had a planning meeting that morning, allocating officers to various tasks, and the Incident Room was taking shape downstairs. Grant was currently meeting with the Communications team to decide how to play the story for the media. They couldn’t keep it under wraps for long now and, in any case, might well want to make an appeal for possible witnesses. But they all knew that the media would have a field day with a story like this.
For the present, they were supposedly making no assumptions about the linkages between the deaths, and Galloway’s was st
ill being characterised as “unexplained” rather than “suspicious.” That was good practice – it was too easy to be seduced into drawing premature conclusions – but no one had much doubt this was a single investigation.
She was missing McKay, she realised, and more than she’d expected. She’d always seen him as a mentor, if not always a reliable one, and had come to see him as a friend. At times like this, she had grown to recognise the value not just of his experience and knowledge, but also of his chippy self-assurance and resilience.
Her last conversation with McKay, though just the previous evening, already felt like a lifetime ago. Still, she’d remembered McKay’s advice to investigate more of Galloway’s former colleagues and – without mentioning McKay’s name – had shared that thought with Helena Grant. As she’d expected, Grant was already ahead of her and had drawn up a shortlist of those she thought worth approaching. Horton had been allocated to talk to some of these, including Alastair Donald and Davey Robertson.
She was on her way out of the office when she felt her mobile buzzing in her pocket.
‘DS Horton? Sergeant Willock here.’
It took her a moment to place Willock. One of the small number of officers attached to the largely civilian Force Control Room. He was a heavily built man, who, from what she recalled, was one of the old school. She half expected he was ringing to take the piss, with a cluster of associates hanging out in the background.
Instead, he went on, ‘You’re part of this Crawford and Graham investigation, is that right?’
‘That’s right. But DI Grant’s the SIO.’ With anyone else, she’d be using forenames by now, but Willock wasn’t one to encourage such niceties.
‘I’ve been trying to contact DI Grant,’ he said, with what sounded like a touch of impatience, ‘but she’s tied up at the moment. I was given your name.’ His tone suggested this represented some kind of booby prize.
‘How can I help you?’
‘We’ve had another reported missing person. We thought it might be of interest.’
She’d returned to her desk and, with her free hand, was fumbling for a pen and notebook. ‘Go on.’
‘Call came in early this afternoon. A Mrs Donald.’
‘Donald?’
‘Aye. Ringing a bell, is it?’
‘It might be.’
‘Mrs Donald told us her husband had gone out last night and not returned. Interestingly, she apparently hadn’t been too surprised or concerned about that. Far from the first time, was my impression. But then she had a call from his employer – local garden centre – enquiring why he’d not turned in to work.’
‘And that was more unusual?’
‘Seems so. Not one to miss a day’s work, Mr Donald. That’s how I remember him as well.’
Ah, she thought. Willock had been saving that up. ‘This is Alastair Donald?’
She was gratified to hear a note of surprise in Willock’s response. ‘You’re ahead of me, then?’
‘Not on the missing person front,’ she said. ‘But Donald’s on our list to speak to about the Crawford and Graham cases.’
‘Aye, that’d be right,’ Willock said. ‘He was one of that unholy crew right enough. Wee bastard.’
Willock was beginning to sound almost human, Horton thought. It was clear that Jackie Galloway’s team held a special place in his heart. ‘You weren’t a fan.’
‘Well, to be honest, it takes a lot for me to feel any respect for you plain-clothes lot.’ It wasn’t entirely clear whether or not Willock was joking. ‘But that bunch were worse than most. Arrogant wee gobshites, pardon my French. Thought they could do whatever they liked, or step on whoever they wanted.’
‘And Donald was part of that?’
‘I always thought he was a bit of a wannabe, to be honest. Not part of the inner circle. But that made him worse. Always trying to prove himself. You know the type.’
She knew the type well enough, and McKay had said much the same thing. ‘What’s your view on him supposedly going missing?’ she asked.
‘I’d be inclined to take it seriously. Donald was a tosspot, but he was always a stickler for discipline. Not the sort to miss work and not even phone in. Doesn’t feel right to me. Shall I send the details over?’
‘Yes. Send them to me. Donald was on my list to follow up anyway. I’ll brief DI Grant.’
‘Thanks. Only too delighted.’
Shit, she thought as she ended the call. Another one. Another retired officer. Another former member of Galloway’s team. She logged into her email and saw that the information from Willock had already arrived.
It took her only a few seconds to read through the limited details in the note Willock had sent over. Donald’s address was up in Cromarty. Yet another retired member of Galloway’s gang living up in the Black Isle.
Grant’s mobile was still going straight to voicemail, so she was presumably still locked in discussion with Comms. At this rate, they might all find themselves overtaken by events, Horton thought. She left Grant a brief message explaining what had happened and confirming that, in line with the original plan, she’d head up to Cromarty. The difference now was that it looked as if she’d be talking to Mrs Donald rather than her husband.
Well, she thought, it ought to be an interesting conversation.
31
McKay spent the afternoon pacing up and down the narrow spaces of the bungalow with the air of a cage-bound animal seeking an escape route. He could already feel himself growing stir-crazy. He cooked himself beans on toast for lunch, spent fifteen minutes watching the daytime news, and then started pacing again, pausing only occasionally to stare out of the kitchen window at the distant line of the sea.
After an hour or so of this, he threw on his coat and stepped out into the damp afternoon air. The weather had improved from the previous evening, but the sky was still heavy with clouds. The waters of the firth looked grey and forbidding, and a strong wind was driving the waves high up the narrow beach.
As he reached the main road, he turned his back to the sea and trudged up the hill to the high street. His plan, born mainly from the lack of any other ideas, was to visit the local convenience store, buy himself a few beers and one or two other items he needed. As a former heavy drinker, back in the days when it was almost a requirement of the job, he was acutely aware of the dangers of solitary drinking. But a few beers wouldn’t do any harm, he told himself. He couldn’t face the thought of a long solitary evening in complete sobriety. And he was gradually rendering most of the local bars out of bounds.
The shop was empty. McKay imagined it did most of its business during the tourist season. It was a well-stocked little place, aimed at holidaymakers in self-catering cottages and caravans who couldn’t be bothered to traipse to the larger but more distant supermarkets. McKay threw some bread and a tub of butter into his basket, along with a pint of milk, and then selected some beers from the array of bottles on the shelves, most of them from the local breweries in Cromarty and Munlochy. He exchanged a few words with the bored-looking middle-aged man behind the counter then, laden with an embarrassingly clinking bag of bottles, stepped out into the daylight.
‘Mr McKay?’
He looked up, surprised. ‘Mrs Galloway.’
‘Ach, call me Bridie.’ Bridie Galloway looked a different woman from the person he’d spoken to a couple of days before. As if she’d dropped twenty years overnight. She was dressed in a neat, if slightly shabby, raincoat, but with a bright floral headscarf tied round her hair.
He smiled. ‘You’d best call me Alec, then.’
‘Aye, I think I can bring myself to do that.’ She gestured towards the bag. ‘What brings you back up here? Not just the quality of our local shops, surely.’
He blinked, slightly taken aback by her lightness of tone. A recently bereaved widow, her husband as yet unburied.
But then, the husband in question was Jackie Galloway. No wonder she was looking relaxed. ‘Actually, I’m living up here these days
. Temporarily, at least.’
She was astute enough not to follow that one up. ‘Ach, well,’ she said, ‘there are worse places to live.’ She paused. ‘Look, I was just popping over to get some milk. Would you fancy coming back for a cup of tea? I could do with a bit of company.’
He hesitated. Every rational impulse was telling him he’d be a fool to accept. Helena Grant had already made it abundantly clear that it was approaching kicking-out time in the last chance saloon, and here he was, being invited back for tea by someone who was at least notionally a suspect in her own husband’s killing. But the more prosaic truth was that she was simply an elderly widow looking for some companionship.
‘Aye, why not? And I can save you the trouble.’ He raised the bag. ‘I’ve a spare bottle of milk in here.’
‘If you’re sure you can spare it.’
He’d only really bought the milk, along with the other few staples, because he hadn’t wanted to be seen purchasing nothing but alcohol. ‘I reckon so.’
He followed her across the street and waited while she unlocked the front door of the bungalow. Inside, he noticed she’d already rearranged some of the furniture. The sitting room looked brighter, though he couldn’t immediately work out what she’d changed, other than to move what had been Jackie Galloway’s favourite armchair away from the fireplace and the television.
McKay sat down and gazed around the room while she brewed the tea. There were no obvious signs that Jackie Galloway had ever lived here. There were no joint pictures of the Galloways, and nothing that would obviously have belonged to a man.
Bridie Galloway came bustling back through with the tea on a plastic tray, placing it on the table in front of him. She sat herself at the opposite end of the sofa and busied herself pouring the two teas.
