by Lin Anderson
45
David checked the path below before rising from his hiding place. With dusk approaching he felt more confident about venturing out. He’d now spent two nights on the street; the first, he’d slept in an alley behind Sauchiehall Street and found the experience terrifying, with drunks looking for a fight and the police looking for the drunks. He’d moved to Kelvingrove Park after that. It was colder and wetter, but he’d felt safer hidden among the undergrowth on the steep incline from the Kelvin walkway.
His legs felt unsteady as he ploughed his way through thick ivy towards the path. He needed food, but if he bought cheap alcohol it might both stave off the hunger and help calm his anxiety. He made his way swiftly by the river walk towards Kelvinbridge, hood up, head down.
When he reached the main road he headed for a corner shop. He’d checked the stands every day for anything on Melanie and there had been nothing so far. He was beginning to believe he’d dreamt it. Maybe she hadn’t been dead after all? Maybe she’d just been unconscious and he’d panicked for no reason.
He walked in and picked up a bottle of strong cider. He had enough for that and a chocolate bar, which was better than nothing. He approached the counter.
The male assistant pointed at a sign that said, ID required for all purchases of alcohol.
David checked his wallet as though looking for ID. ‘Sorry, mate, forgot to bring it.’
‘No ID, no alcohol.’
‘That’s OK. I’ll just take the chocolate.’
David handed over his basket. The guy removed the cider and stood it to one side, rang up the chocolate and handed him his change.
David thanked him and made a point of putting the chocolate bar in his backpack while the next customer took his place. He waited until the assistant was occupied with the next guy, then snatched the cider and bolted for the door. On the way to the door, his head whipped back as he spotted the headline on the topmost of a pile of newspapers.
Friend of funfair victim found dead
Next to a photo of Melanie was one of himself. He registered all this in a split second, then scrambled out of the door as the shopkeeper was still coming around the counter.
Darting across Great Western Road, he made for the underground station. Entry was by escalator from street level, and he ran down the moving stairs. His quick glance back had showed no one following – chances were the man would do nothing. Why hassle the police for a bottle of cider?
He hung around inside for a while, his heart thumping against his ribs. When he was certain no one was following him, he reemerged and took the steps down to the park. Heading for the nearest bench, he opened the cider, gulping down as much as he could at one go.
When he was sure his stomach wasn’t about to reject it, he swallowed some more. Already the gnawing hunger was retreating, and with it the numbness in his fingers and toes. He screwed the lid back on and tore the wrapping off the chocolate bar. He ate slowly, letting each square melt on his tongue before adding another.
While he savoured the chocolate, he worried whether the guy in the shop might have recognised him from the photo in the paper, then realised that he didn’t look like that any more. In the picture, his hair had been styled, and one of the first things he’d done when he went on the run was wet it and brush it back. Without the gel to hold it in place, it had sprung back into its natural curls, and now he looked like the geek he’d been before Kira had taken him in hand. The memory of Kira brought a wave of self-pity; this was what life was like without her. He took another slug of cider, then anchored the bottle inside his jacket.
Where to now?
He gazed at the lights of the funfair. It had only been scheduled to stay for a week but notoriety had brought out the crowds, delaying its departure.
The alcohol had taken effect, lifting his mood. He was seized by the drunken idea that if he visited the funfair, he could pretend the last nine days had never happened. Maybe he could even convince himself for a while that Kira was alive and waiting for him there.
He rose unsteadily to his feet, slung the backpack over his shoulder and headed for the lights. The path ran alongside the river, and he realised that if he walked far enough he would end up directly below Kira’s house.
The night of the party had been only the second time he’d been allowed inside. On both occasions her parents had been away. The first time, they’d drunk vodka from the drinks cabinet, and he’d got pissed and revealed his sexual confusion and inexperience to Kira. She had vowed then to help him end his abstinence.
The second time had been for the party, when Kira had produced the green mask and insisted he wear it. High as a kite, he’d had sex with Melanie. She hadn’t been the only one that night – drugs, drink and the mask had combined to make him lose all his inhibitions. He’d felt like he’d actually become Dionysos.
He laughed at the memory of another encounter on the stairs to the back cellar. Then, wearing the mask, he had been the focus for someone else’s lust, someone he knew would never admit to such leanings. That had been the most liberating experience of his life, because he finally realised what Kira had said was true.
Everyone can take what they want.
There was a vibration in his pocket as his phone registered an incoming message. He stood, swaying slightly, undecided. Should he read it? What if it was the police? He glanced round surreptiously. The crowds continued to walk past him as though he was invisible. If Kira had been with him, everyone would be staring at them. She always looked so cool. He smiled at the memory, then his face crumpled and tears oozed from his eyes. I am pathetic, he thought, and I don’t care. There was nothing to care about any more. He pulled out the phone, checked the sender’s name and opened it.
W R U? I need 2 spk 2U
He texted back: at funfair.
The reply was almost instantaneous. W8 thr am cmg I know who kild Kira
He spotted the mirror maze in the near distance and staggered towards it, alcohol swirling through his brain. The lights and throbbing music of the funfair enveloped him, heightening the acuteness of his memories like a drug. Kira. He recalled the scent of her skin – milky and sweet, like a baby’s. Her voice. He laughed at the memory. She always sounded so posh, even when she was swearing.
He stopped, realising he was at the mirror maze. The pain flooded back. He whimpered and slid to the ground, anchoring his arms round his chest. He felt the bulge of the cider bottle and pulled it out, opened it with shaking hands and began to drink in large, rapid gulps, desperate to blot out the image of Kira’s bloodsoaked body. When the bottle was empty he threw it to one side. The world swam before him, ebbing and flowing, but the acute pain had lessened to a dull throb.
Some time later, he didn’t know how long, he heard a voice and looked up. The words made no sense. He lowered his head again because it felt too heavy and settled his eyes on the boots that stood before him. They were red. He thought about stepping in Kira’s blood, sliding in it. Falling. He felt the thump as his head hit the wood and winced. His eyes were closing and he forced them open again. That smell was back, jolting his memory. He slid further down, began curling himself into a ball. Now he was inches from the red boots. And he remembered. The flash of red under the mirror when he’d fallen.
‘You were there,’ he said in disbelief, his voice slurred.
46
Bill skimmed through the social services report, looking for confirmation that Geri Taylor was pregnant.
Magnus had seemed saddened by Dr Shan’s confession, although Rhona had already suggested to him that the doctor might be involved. Before leaving, he had said, ‘I want to take another look at Coulter’s diary, to see if anything in there suggested who else he might have been in touch with. I can’t help but feel that’s why he wanted me to have it.’
‘If I discover who Coulter called, or who Caroline is, I’ll let you know,’ Bill had promised.
Now Bill glanced at his watch and realised guiltily that he should have called
Margaret and let her know he wouldn’t be back to eat with the family. Time had simply run away from him.
He closed the file and slipped it in a folder to take with him. He wouldn’t read it properly until Margaret was asleep, to give her at least a couple of hours of his time. He nodded to the night shift on his way out, but DS Clark was nowhere to be seen. He hoped she was at home relaxing – after the bollocking she’d got from him today, she deserved it.
When he reached home, Margaret was in the dining room, a pile of jotters on the table in front of her. She gave him a weary smile.
‘It’s curry,’ she said. ‘Just pop the plate in the microwave, and put the naan bread in the toaster.’
He busied himself in the kitchen, suddenly ravenous. When the microwave pinged, he extracted the steaming plate, flipped the naan from the toaster and carried it all through to join Margaret at the table.
‘You look tired,’ he said, concerned.
‘I’m OK. But I’m heading for bed when I finish this.’ She had two more books to mark.
‘I could join you, bring us both up a whisky?’
She smiled. ‘That would be nice.’
She bent back over her marking, and he studied her soft, new curls as he ate his dinner. They reminded him of Lisa’s baby hair. He wanted to ask Margaret if she really was OK, if her return to work had been too soon after the chemotherapy. But instead he pondered how easy he found it to forget everything when he was working on a case, even his wife’s cancer. Thankfully it was in remission, but he still felt ashamed that it wasn’t in his mind every minute of the day. For a long time it had been, but you could grow used to anything in time.
‘Are the kids home?’
‘Lisa’s next door with Diane, and Robbie’s in his room. There.’ She placed the last jotter on the pile. ‘How long will you be?’
‘Ten minutes?’
‘Any longer and I’ll be asleep.’
He watched her climb the stairs through the open door. Did she always look so tired at the end of the day? He made a mental note to check that Lisa and Robbie were pulling their weight, although he was guiltily aware that, as usual, he wasn’t.
The spicy curry had lost some of its flavour. He took a couple more forkfuls, then pushed the plate to one side. He would go upstairs and spend some time with Margaret, then when she fell asleep he would come back down and study the social services report on Geri Taylor.
He poured a couple of whiskies, went through to the kitchen to add water, then headed upstairs. Margaret was already in bed, a book open on her lap. She smiled at him as he entered.
‘I was sure you’d get engrossed in that file you brought home and forget to come up.’
‘You know me too well.’ He handed her a glass, kicked off his shoes and stretched out on the bed beside her.
They sipped in companionable silence. This was what love was, he thought. Someone you could be quiet with.
He planted a kiss on the side of her head.
‘What’s that for?’
‘Because I love you.’
‘And I love you too.’
He switched the glass to his other hand and put his arm about her. She nestled close against him. He wanted to make love to her, but didn’t want to impose himself.
‘Get undressed,’ she ordered.
Later, Bill closed the file and pushed it to one side. According to the report, Geri Taylor’s baby was due any time. Bill couldn’t imagine how she could have visited Coulter in recent days and hidden her pregnancy. Might his partner’s pregnancy have anything to do with Coulter’s behaviour in this case?
He was done thinking about Coulter tonight. He poured another small whisky, double-locked the door and began to climb wearily to bed. He was on the third stair when the silent mobile vibrated in his pocket.
47
David lay close to the back canvas wall of the mirror maze, a plastic cider bottle by his side. In the dark he would have looked like a drunk, passed out on the grass.
The paramedic team had pulled aside his heavy jacket to reveal a knife, its blade buried deep in his left side under the ribcage. David’s cold hands still gripped the shaft as though he had made the thrust himself, like a Roman falling on his sword.
‘He was dead when we got here.’ The female paramedic looked not much older than Lisa, her hair pulled back in a ponytail, a stud glinting in her nose. ‘We found this.’ She handed Bill a scrap of paper. On it was scrawled, I killed them.
‘Could he have done that to himself?’
‘It’s do-able, if you’re determined and the knife’s sharp enough.’ She shrugged. ‘He’s all yours now.’
She picked up her bag and the two headed off towards an inquisitive and growing group of bystanders.
‘Get a tent up,’ Bill called to the nearest uniformed officer. ‘And get rid of the vultures.’
The shadows were back, advancing and retreating. Sitting in the semi-darkness, bunched under the duvet with the cat on her lap, Rhona was comforted by their presence.
McNab would always be there, just out of sight in the corner of her eye. She had decided she preferred his ghost to the nagging hope that he might still be alive.
Further calls to the answerphone on Skye had yielded only silence. She’d enlisted Roy Hunter’s help as planned. After anxiously listening to her concocted tale about a stalker, he’d agreed to check her mobile and also the phone number on Skye.
She’d been itching to ask him to compare the voice to McNab’s, but sensibly had not. She would have to be content with discovering the origins of both calls.
Petersson hadn’t been in touch since Saturday morning when she’d harangued him at his flat about her mobile. She found herself hoping she would never hear from the Icelander again, and suspected his silence meant he had been using her as much as she had him. But one thing kept nagging at her; she could not deny that everything he’d told her had turned out to be true. She wondered if Bill had challenged Sutherland on Fergus Morrison’s death.
The phone rang, and she checked the caller ID. Not Petersson. Good. She answered it.
‘David Murdoch’s dead,’ said Bill.
‘What?’
‘Found knifed near the mirror maze. He left a note saying he killed both girls. Are you OK to come down?’
It was all too familiar. The throbbing music, the lights, the morbidly curious crowds. And the forensic tent, propped against the wall of the larger mirror maze marquee and blazing in the hastily-erected arc lights.
She donned her suit and mask, slipped on latex gloves and picked up her forensic case. Despite the thinness of the layer that now separated her from the funfair, the sounds outside seemed to drop away as she entered the smaller tent. When she pulled back the mask a little and took a deep breath, the first scent she distinguished was the sweet, sickly odour of cheap alcohol. After that came blood, then the rank undertone of emptied bowels.
She stood for a moment and took in the scene.
The body was slumped close to the canvas. She estimated it was a couple of metres short of the exit, which placed David’s body roughly level with the place they’d discovered Kira nine days before.
He lay curled in a foetal position, knees bent up, both hands on the knife that jutted at an angle from his chest. Through his fingers Rhona could make out the rough, grey, shark skin handle.
He was unshaven, the formerly straight fringe now wavy and swept greasily back. His startled eyes were bloodshot, his fingernails grimy. The jeans were covered in mud, trainers soaked through. It looked as though he’d been living rough since he’d left home.
The placement of his hands round the knife handle puzzled her – the grip looked unnatural and she wasn’t sure why. If she had been intent on thrusting a knife into her guts, how would she hold it? She mimicked gripping an invisible knife, and instinctively her right hand curled over the left. In David’s case, the left hand was on top. Had he been left-handed?
She gently loosened his grip, which proved e
asy as David’s fingertips had been scarcely engaged with the handle’s surface. That wasn’t surprising; as he’d lost control of his limbs, his hold would probably have loosened. Of course, there was a possibility his hands had never held the knife in the first place. She dusted the handle for prints.
Bill had said he’d left a note, admitting to killing both girls. Knives weren’t uncommon in suicides, if you were desperate enough. And David looked like a desperate boy.
As she worked, the noise outside diminished further as the funfair shut down for the night. The police would be busy asking the same questions as before, trying to find someone in the crowds that had milled around the rides and stands who might have seen the last few minutes of David Murdoch’s life.
When she finally emerged, Bill was waiting with coffee. A nearby snack van had stayed open at his request to feed and water the SOCOs and uniforms still present.
Rhona added two sugars before taking a grateful sip.
‘What do you think?’ Bill said.
‘Well, the angle of entry could fit with a self-inflicted injury, so it may well have been suicide.’
‘Anything else?’
‘He’s been sleeping rough. Probably drinking rather than eating. There was no obvious sign of an attacker. I loosened his grip, took some samples from the handle and left the knife in situ. It looked like shark skin. Was David left-handed?’
Bill thought about it. ‘I don’t know. Why?’
‘It’s OK. I’ll check.’
‘I just don’t get it.’ Bill shook his head. ‘If David did kill Kira and remove the baby, what the hell did he do with it?’
Rhona sighed. ‘It doesn’t fit with the Coulter situation either.’
Bill swore softly. ‘I forgot to tell you! Coulter’s partner, Geri Taylor, is pregnant. Apparently it’s due any day now.’
‘What? Are you sure?’
‘It was in her file from social services.’
‘Coulter took it very badly when Magnus even suggested Geri might have a new partner. I can’t imagine what he would do if he knew she was pregnant. Have you spoken to her?’
