by Tana Collins
Starting to wonder how he was going to drive himself home, he opened the car door to answer a call of nature. No sooner had he left the car and had undone his fly than he heard another noise. This time it was no car engine. Growing louder it seemed to fill the whole sky. And then he saw it. A helicopter. Circling. Carruthers could almost feel the trees sway. At one point he felt he was so close he had trouble remaining standing. It disappeared behind the trees. Carruthers limped towards the noise and within minutes of pushing his way through undergrowth was rewarded with the sight of the helicopter, blades still rotating in a large clearing.
Under cover of darkness it was difficult to see the occupants of the copter. Carruthers was just able to make out a man alighting holding the hand of a giggling woman in a short dress. A second woman got out, then a third and a fourth. But it was when Carruthers saw them illuminated by the lights of the aircraft that he got a better view. All the women were scantily clad in short dresses and ridiculously high heels. Carruthers wondered how in God’s name these women were going to manage the wet grass wearing the most inappropriate shoes he had ever seen.
He edged ever closer, trying to get a good look at the man in the party. He was tall and slim, that much was obvious. Dark hair, which he wore in a ponytail, and a hooked nose. He had a deep accented voice. But it was when the girls started to talk to each other that it got interesting. As he caught only snatches of conversation from his safe distance, one thing became clear. They weren’t speaking English.
Carruthers struggled to work out what language they were speaking. To his ear it sounded Eastern European, perhaps Russian. The party cut across the manicured lawn and disappeared inside. Carruthers limped back to his car. Opening the driver’s door he sat behind the wheel while he decided what to do. Despite the painkillers his knee was throbbing. He felt he had got about all he was going to get. Couldn’t see how he was going to get closer to the guests with his injury. He had committed the man’s face to memory and was pretty sure if he worked with a police artist he could get a good likeness. Decided to call it a day, go home, tend to the wounds, take some more painkillers and try to get a good night’s sleep. The following day he’d go and pay Derek Sturrock a visit. He started the engine, straining his body to put his seat belt on.
Back in Anstruther, Carruthers climbed out of his car with great care. The Anstruther Fish Bar had long since shut up shop. A couple passed him walking arm in arm. They gave him a strange look and moved further away. He realised he must look a sight with his arm covered in blood and his trousers ripped at the knee. Bringing out his front door key from his rucksack he suddenly heard his name. Looked up and was surprised to see Gill McLaren. She was accompanied by two men. She left the two men and hurried over.
‘Oh my God, Jim, whatever’s happened to you? Why are you limping?’
‘I fell. I’m just going inside to clean myself up.’
Brushing a stray tendril of blonde hair off her face she said, ‘I think you should go straight to emergency. Look, I’ll drive. I’ve got the car.’
‘No, no, I’ll be fine. I think they’re superficial wounds. You can give me a hand to get me indoors though, if it’ll make you feel better.’
She turned to her concerned looking colleagues. ‘Jim’s in the police. He’s a friend. I’ll see you guys tomorrow. OK?’
‘Are you sure?’ said one of the men, looking rather doubtfully at Carruthers.
She laughed. ‘Yes, I’ll be fine. It was a lovely evening. Good night.’
Out of earshot, Carruthers said, ‘I think he had designs on you. Wasn’t at all happy you were going off with me instead.’
‘If only.’ Patting his hand she said, ‘Now I smell a story coming on. We’ll get you inside, get you cleaned up and I want to hear everything.’ She suddenly stopped, looking serious. ‘I still don’t like the look of your arm. Are you sure you wouldn’t rather me take you to hospital?’
He looked down at her, saw the concern etched on her face. Felt warmth spreading through him. Thought how nice it was to have someone care about him again. Even if it was only because he was covered in blood.
Inside, she was gentle as she washed his wounds in hot soapy water. Making him take off his ripped T-shirt at the basin sink, so he could feel her breath on him. Her lightness of touch made him tingle. Told himself to get a grip and hoped he wasn’t about to get an erection. She prodded his cut and bruised arm. He flinched.
‘Not as bad as first feared,’ she said. ‘Think you’re right – the injury’s pretty superficial, thank goodness.’
He shook his head. ‘It’ll be fine. If you can put a plaster on it that would be a help. There a first aid kit in the cabinet there.’
When they’d finished with his arm she said, ‘How’s your leg?’
‘Sore, but I’ll live.’
‘I think you should take your trousers off and let me take a look.’
He put his hand on her shoulder. ‘Gill, that’s really not necessary.’
She smiled and it lit up her face. ‘Let me be the judge of that. Come on. If you show me where the bedroom is you can sit on the bed whilst you take your trousers down. It’ll be easier that way.’
‘Has anyone ever told you how bossy you are?’
‘Many times,’ she said with another smile. ‘That’s probably why I’m not married.’
‘I think you’d make a wonderful wife.’ The words were out before he even thought about them. What on earth had made him say that? He blushed.
‘Do you know it’s been a long time since I saw a man blush? I didn’t think people blushed anymore. It’s an endearing quality, Mr Carruthers. Especially in a man.’
There was a moment, just a moment when he wondered if something was about to happen. He waited, uncertain, cursing himself for his hesitancy. Not being sure what he wanted to happen.
‘Come on. To the bedroom.’
Carruthers led the way. It wasn’t often he got a request like that.
Having unbuckled his belt and pulled the trousers down to his hips he sat down on the bed. Gill knelt down before him and tugged at his trousers. He felt like a child.
‘C’mon, I need to get these over the knees.’ Somewhere in the house a door slammed. He wondered if he’d left a window open. As if to echo his thoughts he heard a windowpane rattling. The wind had clearly picked up again. This weather front is relentless, he thought.
Suddenly he felt shy. A final tug meant the trousers came down and he felt very silly sitting on his bed with his trousers around his ankles in front of this beautiful, vivacious woman.
He heard a sharp intake of breath. ‘Ouch. Look at your knee.’ He looked down. Purpling, and cut. ‘Don’t think you need to go to hospital, but we’ll get some ice on it.’
‘Just as well. I don’t have time. The cases…’
‘Ah, yes, you were going to tell me about how you ended up in this mess. First I need to find some ice.’ She stood up.
‘If you’re sure?’
She nodded.
‘I have some ice in the freezer. Kitchen is downstairs, second on the left.’
‘Won’t be a tick.’ She disappeared out of the bedroom to return a few minutes later with some ice cubes wrapped in a dishcloth. She knelt down and administered the ice pack over the knee for a few minutes. ‘You’ll need to elevate that leg,’ she said. ‘How’s it feeling?’
‘A lot better.’ Carruthers smiled. ‘Do you fancy a whisky while you’re here?’
‘You know how to tempt a girl, but I’d better not. Clear head needed for tomorrow and all that. If you’re OK to leave, I’d better be getting back to the B&B.’
‘Fair enough.’ Carruthers tried to stand up.
Gill laughed. ‘Before you start trying to walk you might want to pull your trousers up.’
9
At 9.30 the next morning Carruthers pulled up outside Sturrock’s house. Overnight another weather front had pushed in. He’d awoken at five, unsure if the wind rattling the window pane
or the throbbing of his knee had robbed him of sleep. He’d had to get up to shut the window, popped two more painkillers and hobbled back to bed but he’d struggled to fall back to sleep. Eventually he’d got up and had put the news on. Listened to the damage the severe weather had done further north. Was mightily glad he wasn’t living on Shetland, where the storms had caused severe structural damage and had knocked out broadband for some users in Vidlin and Burravoe. Before leaving for work he’d had to help his elderly neighbour upright her fallen bins. He wondered if his bird table was still standing in the back garden. It had fallen over that many times that he’d had to tie it to the washing line with rope.
Carruthers could see Sturrock’s wife through the window doing the washing up. He wondered if she had much of an existence. Suddenly the front door opened. Out came Sturrock, black holdall slung carelessly over one shoulder. Carruthers opened his car door and, grimacing with pain, limped, head down into the wind, across the road to meet the gamekeeper.
Sturrock appeared startled, as well he might.
‘Mr Sturrock?’
Sturrock kept walking. ‘Fuck, what is it now?’
‘What were you and Barry arguing about last night?’ Carruthers found himself shouting. He had to make himself heard over the noise of the gale. ‘You were seen having a heated debate during the party.’
Sturrock opened the boot of his car, threw the holdall in and slammed it shut. Walked round to the driver’s side. ‘Look, I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ he said, jumping in.
‘I know enough about Barry Cuthbert, Derek, to know that he’s not going to save you if it means, by dropping you in it, he can save himself. That’s all I’m saying.’ Carruthers caught the driver’s door as Sturrock tried to shut it. He stooped down and leant into the car. ‘If you know anything about Cuthbert’s illegal activities you need to tell us.’ Carruthers took a deep breath. Decided to go out on a limb. He had long been an exponent of the means justifying the end as long as, of course, he could get away with it. He wouldn’t tell Fletcher his thoughts. She wouldn’t approve. He wondered just how much trouble this case would get him into. ‘Cuthbert’s going down, Derek. It’s only a matter of time before we find evidence he’s involved in the trafficking of Eastern European prostitutes and my gut tells me he’s involved in the art thefts. The question you need to ask yourself is, are you going down with him? At the moment you have the choice. You won’t always have that. What we also know is that he’s ruthless, as are the people he works with. Two people have already been murdered. Do you want to be the third?’
Remaining silent and without looking at him Sturrock slammed the door, turned the ignition and drove off at speed.
Carruthers stared at the phone on his desk. Picking it up, he made a call.
‘Get me the police artist, will you?’ Out of the corner of his eye he was aware of the door to his office opening.
‘Glad you decided to grace us with your presence.’ Superintendent Bingham moved around Carruthers’ office with the speed of light. Carruthers wondered what had brought the man out of his room. No doubt he was on the prowl for his wretched forecasts.
‘You look awful, man,’ said Bingham. ‘You alright?’
‘Fine.’ Carruthers didn’t feel fine at all. He was waiting for Bingham to leave so he could open his desk drawer and pop another couple of painkillers. He tried to remember how many he’d already taken and when he’d taken the last lot.
‘Well, I hope you’re not getting this summer flu that’s going around. Can’t afford for you to be off.’
Carruthers was just wondering how to tell Bingham about the argument between Cuthbert and Sturrock without giving away his own activities when Bingham spoke first.
‘I need to talk to you. There’s been another art theft.’
‘What?’ said Carruthers. ‘When?’
‘Overnight. Christ, I was only there a few hours before. It’s unimaginable.’
Carruthers found himself standing up. ‘Are you telling me it was Barry Cuthbert’s estate that got hit?’
‘Yes. Bastards got away with the Stubbs.’
Carruthers felt completely poleaxed. He was starting to feel nauseous and didn’t think it was anything to do with the throbbing pain from his knee. Thank God he’d worn the gloves otherwise his fingerprints would have been everywhere. He thought quickly. Had Derek Sturrock known anything about it? He decided he couldn’t have, which meant he must have left the party before it occurred.
‘There’s more. This time they got violent. Cuthbert’s in hospital.’
‘How bad?’
‘He’s got a fractured cheekbone.’
‘I need to interview him.’
‘Not possible at the moment, I’m afraid. He’s severely concussed. Apparently he lost consciousness for a few minutes.’
Carruthers tried to swallow. He had been starting to form a theory. His theory had placed Barry Cuthbert right at the heart of the art thefts. Cuthbert had known all the victims. Liked expensive works of art. The man even had a criminal record for theft, for Christ’s sake. So, if Cuthbert wasn’t responsible for the art thefts then who the hell was? Carruthers’ blood ran cold. Could it be the Estonians? He remembered the girls who had got out of the helicopter with the dark-haired man. He’d just left Sturrock, and the man hadn’t said anything about Cuthbert being in hospital. Perhaps he didn’t know.
He needed to draw up a likeness of the man in the helicopter whilst he still remembered. Then get it sent off to the Estonian police as soon as possible. He was kicking himself for not asking the Estonian police for a picture when he last spoke to them. Still, that was easily remedied.
‘I’ve sent Fletcher and Watson off to the Cuthbert estate to take statements,’ said Bingham. ‘Apparently some of the staff were still on site and got threatened.’
‘Do you know if Cuthbert’s estate manager, Pip McGuire, was there?’
‘No. I don’t think she was. I didn’t get introduced to her at the party.’
‘Did those that were still at the party see the gang?’ asked Carruthers.
‘Wearing balaclavas. There were three of them. I want you to meet Watson and Fletcher over at the Ardgarren Estate.’
Carruthers pushed his chair back and made a grab for his jacket. Limped from his desk towards the door.
‘Whatever happened to your leg?’ asked Bingham.
‘It’s nothing. Had an accident, that’s all. What do we know so far?’
‘They weren’t quite so professional this time. Tried to gain entry by shimmying up the drainpipe. It’s come away from the building. Robber must have fallen into a clump of rhododendrons. You’re probably looking for a man with a number of injuries.’
Bingham looked at Carruthers, frowning, but didn’t say anything. The older man gave Carruthers one last quizzical look then left the office.
Carruthers swore. Ran his hands through his short hair. Never mind his fingerprints. His footprints would be all over the estate. There was something else on his mind, though. It was Mackie’s mention of his brother. He’d agreed to a family meal on Sunday, just the three of them, him, Mum and Alan. How was he going to take the time off to go to Glasgow with two suspicious deaths and now this? He was going to have to cancel. He hoped his mother would understand but since his brother’s heart attack… His mother would be really upset. Perhaps she’d accuse him of not wanting to spend time with his brother. He had to force these thoughts out of his head. Now was not the time to be thinking such things.
Carruthers arranged to see the police artist that afternoon at the station. In the meantime he hurried to join Fletcher and Watson at the Ardgarren Estate. It wasn’t an easy journey. The torrential rain had flooded several minor roads so Carruthers had to take a detour which added another twenty minutes on his journey.
‘I want someone ready to take a statement from Cuthbert as soon as he’s able to be interviewed,’ he said to Fletcher. Catching sight of Fletcher staring at his leg he sai
d, ‘Don’t ask. Long story.’
‘Uniform have an officer standing guard outside Cuthbert’s room. They’ll notify us as soon as there’s any change to his condition.’
‘Do we know what happened?’ asked Carruthers.
Fletcher shrugged. ‘Same MO as the last three robberies – except it looks like they attempted to gain entry by shimmying up the drainpipe. It gave way. Assailant landed in those bushes over there.’ Fletcher pointed to the clump of rhododendron.
‘Already dusted the drainpipe for fingerprints. Nothing to send to the lab unfortunately.’
Thank fuck.
‘But we’ve found footprints in the soil underneath one of the windows.’ Carruthers prayed they would have been footprints of the two men who had stolen out for a ciggie break. Not his.
‘So,’ said Carruthers, walking around the building, ‘how did they gain access?’
‘Different MO to the McMullans, which is interesting. Begs the question, is it the same gang? Back of the property. This time they rammed a Jeep through the French windows. Before you say anything, there was a Jeep stolen last night in Kirkcaldy. Could have been used as the getaway vehicle.’ She caught up with him. Laid a hand on his arm. ‘Watch your step. There’s broken glass everywhere.’
‘And Cuthbert?’
‘Put up a fight. He was punched in the face. Looks like he hit his head against a chest.’
‘What time was the break-in?’
‘Just after five in the morning.’
So Derek Sturrock must have left before five. ‘I wonder what time the party finished?’
‘Party?’
Carruthers thought quickly. ‘Bingham had a freshly laundered dinner suit hanging on his office door, yesterday. He said he was attending a black-tie event over at Cuthbert’s.’
