Death Parts Us: a serial killer thriller (DI Alec McKay Book 2)

by Alex Walters

  Horton had already called the garden centre. The manager there said that Donald hadn’t turned up for work that morning and hadn’t called in sick. He’d been surprised because Donald was normally what he called a “very reliable employee,” who hadn’t previously taken any unauthorised time off.

  ‘You’ve heard nothing more since?’

  ‘Not a word. I’ve tried his mobile, but it goes straight to voicemail.’

  ‘Has anything like this ever happened before?’

  ‘Not like this. I mean, Ally liked to keep me in the dark about what he was up to. Thought he was being clever. Pulling the wool over my eyes. Most of the time I knew but just didn’t care. The work thing’s different, though. Ally was a stickler for discipline. He complained all the time about the youngsters at the centre. How they’d throw sickies or suffer from Monday-itis. How they couldn’t even be bothered to phone in if they were off. Ally wouldn’t take a day off without very good reason.’

  ‘You did right to call us, Mrs Donald. We’ll need some information on your husband. His mobile number. A recent photograph, if you have one. A description of what he was wearing last night.’ She paused. ‘I’m sorry to have to ask you this, Mrs Donald. But do you know the name of the woman your husband was seeing?’

  ‘Aye. Name and address. That was another area where Ally wasn’t as smart as he thought. I’ve known fine well who she is for months now.’

  Horton nodded, feeling slightly weary. She was tempted to wonder how people could live like this. But she remembered her own mother’s endless compromises and concessions. How long it had actually taken her to do something. How she’d pretended, for years on end, that it was all tolerable. That it would improve. ‘DC Carlisle will take down all the details,’ Horton said. She sat for a moment in silence then added, ‘One more question, Mrs Donald. Since your husband’s retirement, do you know if he’s received any – odd letters?’

  ‘Letters?’ Mrs Donald looked baffled. ‘What sort of letters?’

  ‘Letters than might be construed as threatening, for example.’

  ‘Not that I’m aware of. But Ally wouldn’t share that sort of thing with me. Is this relevant?’

  ‘It might be.’ Horton hesitated, then, deciding the news would be breaking in the next couple of hours in any case, she said, ‘Are you aware that two of your husband’s former colleagues, William Crawford and Robert Graham, both died in the last few days?’

  ‘Somebody mentioned to me that Billy Crawford had been found dead. Drowned or something, they said.’ Mrs Donald stopped. ‘What does this have to do with Ally?’

  ‘Very probably nothing,’ Horton said. ‘But it’s looking as if Crawford and Graham were both unlawfully killed, and we think there’s a possibility that their deaths might be connected.’ The Head of Comms couldn’t have put it more circuitously, she thought.

  ‘They’d both been receiving threatening letters?’

  ‘Letters that might be interpreted that way. We don’t know if the letters have any connection with their deaths.’ And there’s a faint possibility the Pope might not be Catholic, Horton added silently to herself. ‘You’re not aware that your husband received anything like that?’

  ‘You think Ally –?’

  ‘We don’t think anything yet,’ Horton said firmly. ‘But we have to look at all possibilities.’

  ‘Ally never mentioned anything. But there were lots of things he didn’t bother mentioning. I can have a look around, if you like. See if I can find anything.’ She smiled. ‘I know most of Ally’s hiding places.’

  I bet you do, Horton thought. ‘If you come across anything that might be relevant, let us know.’ She slid a business card across the table. ‘We’ll keep in contact, but if you need me, use those numbers.’

  They spent a few more minutes collecting details about Ally Donald and then left Mrs Donald to her searching. As they walked back down to the car, Carlisle said, ‘She didn’t seem too troubled by her husband’s disappearance.’

  ‘That’s one way of putting it,’ Horton said. ‘Can you blame her? If you ask me, her biggest fear is that the old bastard might decide to come back.’

  33

  They called in at the pub on their way back through the village. It was late afternoon, and the bar was deserted. They found the landlord behind the bar, busy polishing glasses. Horton waved her warrant card under his nose.

  ‘This about underage drinkers?’

  ‘Should it be?’

  ‘Not that I’m aware. But that’s usually what you lot pester me about.’

  ‘Not this time. Do you know Ally Donald?’

  ‘Ally? Aye, I know him. As a punter, anyway.’

  ‘One of your regulars?’

  ‘Helps keep me in business, you know.’

  ‘Was he in here last night?’

  ‘Aye, too right he was.’

  ‘What sort of time?’

  ‘Came in about seven, I guess. I threw him out just before nine.’

  ‘Threw him out?’

  ‘Well, in a manner of speaking.’ The landlord continued ostentatiously polishing a pint glass, as if expecting that a genie might emerge from its innards. ‘He’d had one too many. Well, several too many.’

  ‘He was drunk?’

  ‘Not incapable, you know. Donald can hold his drink usually. He ought to be able to, the practice he’s had. But he was getting a bit belligerent.’ He placed the glass back on the bar and appraised it for any remaining blemishes. Horton couldn’t believe he treated each individual item of glassware with this level of care. ‘He came up to order another pint and a whisky. Lad behind the bar quite rightly asked him if he was sure that was a good idea. Donald got a bit pissed with him, asked if he was refusing to serve him. Lad said he thought perhaps Donald had already had enough. Donald offered to take him outside. You can imagine.’

  ‘I can imagine,’ Horton agreed.

  ‘Part of the job. I’d been in the kitchen sorting out some stuff with the chef. Heard this ruckus out front so came to see what was going on. By that time, Donald’s mates were already calming him down. I just gently suggested to him that maybe the lad had been right, and it was time to be making tracks. Donald may be a pisshead, but he’s not a numpty. He took the hint.’

  ‘You say this was around nine?’

  ‘Aye, something like that. We stop serving food at nine, and we’d just got the last order out. That was why I’d gone into the kitchen.’

  ‘Donald left alone?’

  ‘As far as I know. I made sure he went out the door and kept an eye out that he didn’t come back. His mates all stuck around.’ He shrugged. ‘I say mates, but it’s just the four or five older regulars. I don’t suppose they know each other beyond that.’ The landlord put the pint glass back on the shelf and straightened up. ‘What’s this all about, anyway? Donald cause some trouble on his way home?’

  ‘Donald never went home,’ Horton said. ‘He’s been reported missing.’

  The landlord’s surprise looked genuine enough. ‘Missing? Since last night?’

  ‘Since he left here, as far as we’re aware at the moment.’ Horton decided to twist the knife slightly, on the off-chance it might provoke some further information from the landlord. ‘You may have been the last person to see him.’

  ‘Jeez. Well, Donald was a pain in the arse at times, but I wouldn’t wish him any ill. You think he might have had an accident? The state he was in, I wouldn’t be surprised.’

  ‘We’re not speculating yet,’ Horton said. ‘He may be perfectly safe and well somewhere. As far as you’re aware, he was heading home once he left here?’

  The hesitation was noticeable. ‘I’ve no idea. I just assumed that.’

  ‘You’re not aware of anywhere else he might have gone?’ It was worth checking, Horton thought, whether Donald’s infidelity was common knowledge among his drinking associates.

  ‘Look, it’s none of my business. But in this game, you hear things.’

  ‘Wh
at did you hear?’

  ‘Everyone knew, really. Donald was never discreet about it. Boastful, even. He was having a thing with the woman who runs the gallery down by the waterfront. Lucky bugger, I’d say. She’s no spring chicken, but she’s still a looker –’ He read the expression on Horton’s face and stopped. ‘He might have gone there.’

  That answered one question, Horton thought. Donald’s relationship, whatever its nature, was an open secret. ‘We’ll look into that. Thank you for your help.’

  ‘Look, I hope you find him. He was one of you lot, wasn’t he?’

  ‘Once upon a time,’ Horton agreed.

  ‘Aye, he never let us forget,’ the landlord said.

  That, Horton thought as they turned to leave, answered another question. Ally Donald’s past would have been no secret either.

  They left the car in the small car park at the bottom of the hill and walked the last few metres along the waterside. The sky had largely cleared, and the Cromarty Firth was an unaccustomed deep blue, flecked by white wave caps. There was a stiff breeze blowing from the sea, and it felt as if spring might finally be starting to arrive. They cut up to the right, away from the sea, in search of the address Mrs Donald had given them.

  Kirstie McLeod’s house was in the middle of a narrow alleyway leading up from the sea to the main street behind. It was a two-storey, white-fronted cottage, with a front door on to the street. To its left, half a dozen steps led down to a small courtyard with a shop front at the far end. A neatly painted sign read: ‘Kirsty McLeod – Artist – Gallery’.

  Glancing at Carlisle, Horton made her way down into the courtyard and peered into the shop window. It was filled with watercolours depicting what she took to be local landscapes. Competent enough to her untutored eye, but nothing special. She imagined they went down well with the summer tourists.

  As they entered the shop, a woman looked up expectantly from behind the counter at the rear.

  ‘We’re looking for Kirsty McLeod,’ Horton said.

  The woman frowned. ‘You’ve found her. How can I help?’ She rose from behind the counter, a tall, statuesque woman with an undoubted presence. She had swept-back, silver-grey hair, and a face that Horton would have characterised as handsome rather than conventionally beautiful. Striking, though, she thought. She could see why the landlord had been smitten. Despite her name, McLeod’s accent sounded more English than Horton’s.

  Horton showed her ID. ‘You know an Alastair Donald?’

  ‘I think you’d better come through.’ McLeod led them back behind the counter into what was clearly her studio, and then through another door into a sitting room in the adjoining cottage. She gestured for them to take a seat on an overstuffed sofa draped in a flowered cover, and sat herself down in one of the other armchairs. ‘What about Ally?’

  ‘When did you last see him?’

  ‘I’m not sure. A few days ago.’

  ‘You didn’t see him last night?’

  McLeod looked from Horton to Carlisle and back again. ‘What’s this about?’

  ‘Mr Donald has been reported missing,’ Horton said. ‘We’re trying to trace his recent movements. We were advised you might be able to help us.’

  ‘Were you, indeed? I wonder by whom.’

  ‘Mr Donald was an acquaintance of yours?’

  ‘You might say that.’

  ‘What would you say?’

  ‘Lover. Sexual partner. Maybe something more vernacular.’

  ‘Friend?’

  ‘If you say so.’

  ‘Did you see him regularly?’

  ‘Frequently but not regularly.’

  Horton sighed. ‘Can we cut to the chase, Ms McLeod? Our understanding is that you and Mr Donald are involved in a relationship. Is that correct?’

  ‘That’s correct.’

  ‘And he visits you here?’

  ‘Nowhere else.’ McLeod shifted in her seat. ‘Look, Ally and I have an arrangement. It suits us both. And frankly it’s no one else’s business.’

  This was beginning to sound very like the way McKay had described Billy Crawford’s relationship with Meg Barnard.

  ‘Not even his wife’s?’ she asked.

  ‘His problem. Not mine.’

  ‘But Donald didn’t come here last night?’

  ‘No. Should he have done? I can let you organise my diary, if you like.’

  ‘Our information is that he left his home around seven. From there, he went to the bar, and he was in there until around nine, when he left. He didn’t return home, and he didn’t turn up to work this morning. Nothing’s been heard from him since he left the pub.’

  There was silence for a moment as McLeod took this in. ‘What makes you think he might have come here?’

  ‘Would you have expected him to?’ Horton said. ‘In those circumstances.’

  ‘Maybe. I’m not keen on him coming here if he’s the worse for wear. If he’s had a few drinks, Ally can be – difficult.’

  ‘Violent?’

  ‘Nothing I can’t handle,’ McLeod said. ‘I’ve thrown him out physically before now. But I can do without that kind of grief.’

  ‘So, you wouldn’t necessarily have expected him to come here after a visit to the pub, even if he’d had an altercation with his wife?’

  ‘Is that what happened last night? Well, that’s not unusual. Sometimes, he’d come straight here when that’s happened. If he chose the comfort of alcohol instead – well, Ally might have more sense than to treat me as second in line.’

  ‘You’ve heard nothing from him in the last twenty-four hours?’

  ‘I wouldn’t expect to. We don’t chat on the phone. If he turns up, he turns up. If I’m in, I’m in. If I’m not, he has to go without.’

  ‘You said you last saw him a few days ago?’

  McLeod thought for a moment. ‘Thursday last week. He turned up late afternoon. I’d just shut up shop. He was on his way back from work. Stayed a couple of hours. Then, I assume he went home. Unless he went to the pub.’

  ‘And you’re sure you can’t help us with Mr Donald’s movements last night?’

  ‘I had a quiet night in last night. The only thing that disturbed me was some fracas on the street out there.’

  ‘Fracas?’

  ‘Kids, I’m guessing. That would have been about nine-ish, as it happens. Something bumping against the front door. Sounded like someone fighting. I’m not a nervous woman, but I kept out of it. Last thing you want is some young ned with a knife.’

  ‘Do you get much of that sort of thing?’

  ‘What do you think? This is Cromarty not Sauchiehall Street. But we get the odd rumble after the pubs close. Usually drunks pissing in the alleyway. I waited until it quietened off then took a look outside. There was no sign of anything.’

  ‘Thank you for your time, Ms McLeod.’ Horton was already rising.

  ‘So, what do you think’s happened to the old bugger?’ McLeod said. ‘He’s not just vanished in a puff of smoke.’ She didn’t sound unduly troubled by the prospect.

  ‘We’re not jumping to any conclusions,’ Horton said. ‘It may well be that Mr Donald is safe and sound somewhere.’

  McLeod shrugged. ‘As far as I know, there are only four points to Ally’s compass. His wife, his job, the pub and me. Probably not in that order. But maybe he’ll surprise me.’

  ‘You don’t sound too concerned by his disappearance, Ms McLeod.’

  ‘Don’t I? Well, maybe I’m more concerned than I sound. But I’m guessing not many people will be shedding tears if anything’s happened to Ally Donald.’

  Horton nodded. That, she thought, was beginning to look like yet another pattern in this case. Another possible victim. Another unmourned bastard.

  34

  They were still only at the start of the tourist season, but the Caledonian Bar was doing well enough in its new guise. Most evenings now, alongside the usual regulars, there were clusters of couples and families here to try out the food. The kitch
en was fully up to speed, with a decent menu of hot specials alongside the sandwiches and salads.

  Kelly Armstrong could hardly believe this was the same place she’d worked in the previous summer. All memories of that time were behind her now – sadly, some of the good ones too. But she was well into a new year, a new start, and was generally feeling positive.

  She was working most evenings now, as well as the afternoons, allowing Maggie and Callum to focus on getting the food out. It suited her well, keeping her busy and focused but allowing her plenty of time to get on with her Uni work in the mornings. The place was busy enough to keep her occupied, but not so much that she was rushed off her feet. She was mostly on her own behind the bar, but Maggie or Callum would help out if there was a rush.

  She was serving one of their new range of cask ales when she realised the barrel needed changing. It was around seven, the busiest part of the evening, and for the moment, Maggie was working on the bar beside her. She glanced over. ‘Give me a sec. I’ll go down to change it.’ So far, Maggie and Callum had insisted on doing the dirty work in the cellar, even though Kelly had learnt how to do it in her previous stint here. For her part, Kelly was happy to let them. The last thing she wanted was to be reminded of her previous experiences down there.

  ‘Thanks, Maggie,’ she said. Then, she stopped. The front door of the bar had opened, and three laughing young men had come in. One of them, she realised immediately, was her former boyfriend, Greg.

  It shouldn’t have been a surprise. The only surprise was that he hadn’t been in here before. She knew that his favoured bar was the Anderson, just up the road, which served an even more imposing array of beers. But he was bound to try this place out, if only for a change of scene.

  She couldn’t face talking to him, not yet. She was the one who’d initiated their split. Even now, she couldn’t quite have articulated why, but it had felt like the right decision. Something to do with growing up. Becoming her own person. In retrospect, she thought they’d made the wrong decision in choosing the same university. They’d assumed it would enable their relationship to survive and flourish, but once there, she’d felt almost the opposite. She wanted to do new things, be a new person, but felt Greg was an anchor from her past, dragging her back into the same person she’d always been.