Murderabilia

by Craig Robertson

  ‘The clock altered because the victim’s father is an MSP? Sir, I’ve always operated on the basis that all murder victims should be afforded that sort of urgency. Even DCI Kelbie pretended he thought that too. On top of that, urgency should always come second to accuracy, and I’m much more likely to give you that than Kelbie.’

  The DCI heard her spit out his name and came running like a dog eager for a fight. She could see the snarl form on his face and began to arrange one of her own.

  ‘Rachel!’ Addison’s voice was thick with warning but she ignored it and plunged headlong down the path of righteous self-destruction.

  ‘This is not only unfair and most probably sexist, it is entirely detrimental to the investigation. DCI Kelbie’s credentials for solving a case of this kind are dubious to say the least. His career—’

  ‘Rachel!’

  ‘His career has been mediocre at best and his history of failure is—’

  ‘Rachel!’

  Her head was swimming with it now, indignation and resentment and anger and frustration. It was hot in the squad room and getting hotter. She couldn’t stop herself even if she’d wanted to. She was on some sort of spiral that was irresistible. Kelbie wasn’t exactly helping by being in her face now, shouting back at her even though she couldn’t make out a word through the fog of adrenalin and the oxygen that seemed to be making her head lighter with each passing second.

  She couldn’t even hear her own words and had no idea what she’d just said. All she knew was that everyone remaining in the room was looking at her. Kelbie, Addison, Giannandrea, Crosbie. She could see Winter staring in through the window, too. All with their mouths open and concern or shock written on their faces. They were all spinning, moving, distorting. Suddenly, they were above her and she’d no idea how they’d got there.

  ‘Rachel!’

  Something bumped against her head and she’d vaguely wondered what it was. Turning to look, she realised her cheek was cold against the floor and it felt comforting, like ice against a cut. She was on the floor yet still falling and had no idea if there would ever be a bottom to it. She was just about to ask what the hell was going on when she realised she had no voice and someone had turned out all the lights.

  CHAPTER 5

  ‘Rachel. Rachel!’

  The voice came to her through a curtain of pain and confusion. Something deep in the middle of her pierced and stung and bent her double. It made her teeth grind and her eyes water. Crying. She was crying in pain.

  Lots of voices. All urgent. All somewhere above and distant. They were drifting in and out – or else she was. The floor so cold. Her face so hot.

  ‘Rachel!’

  Tony. He was loud and angry and worried. She couldn’t lift her head, but looked up to see him pushing Denny Kelbie forcefully aside. His face loomed large over hers and she saw him mouth something close to a scream.

  No! Don’t tell them. She didn’t have words. Don’t tell them. Not yet. Too soon. Please.

  Shit, how could it hurt so much? Had someone stabbed her in the stomach and then sliced her veins?

  All those voices. Everyone shouting at her. But there was darkness calling at her, too, and it seemed much more inviting. Just slide into the dark and the pain might stop. Seemed so obvious and easy.

  ‘Rachel!’

  She looked up into his eyes to say goodbye. Bye-bye before she went to the dark. It hurt so much.

  ‘She’s pregnant,’ she heard him tell them. ‘Get an ambulance, now. She’s pregnant!’

  CHAPTER 6

  She couldn’t actually be sure she remembered being on the floor with the men above her. She may have dreamed it or overheard it second-hand from the doctors and nurses who fussed round her bed thinking she was asleep. She was in the Southern General, she knew that much, but whether she’d been there five minutes or five days she couldn’t say. The pain had largely gone, drowned in something that had been shot through her veins for that very purpose, something that killed the discomfort and her ability to be awake.

  When the effect of that eased enough that she could hear and see at the same time, the room settled into a soft focus and she rediscovered the ability to speak. The two words croaked out of her, scratching their way free of a throat denied water for too long.

  ‘My baby.’

  Even as the nurse turned to look at her, Narey realised she was questioning her own words. Baby. If anyone else had used the term just a little over four months into pregnancy, she might have doubted that it was even that. Can it be a baby yet? But it was suddenly very, very different when it was growing inside her and at clear risk. It – he or she – hadn’t been planned and had come as a rude shock. She’d spent four unhappy, uncertain days before she’d told Tony. Even then the pair of them had been more overwhelmed than overjoyed. His job, her job, her dad. They had so much to deal with already and, while of course they wanted this, or at least they were pretty sure they did, someday – but today? The nine-month tomorrow today? Now?

  It changed with the growing acceptance and the end of shock. It changed completely with the sixteen-week scan and the sight of the little someone with definable ears and a nose. It changed beyond all recognition when she hit the media room floor and the unborn life was in severe danger of being snatched away.

  ‘My baby.’

  The nurse’s plump face assumed business and she gave an insistent nod of the head, holding out a hand to plead with her to wait as she turned on her heels and went in search of someone else.

  It took an age. Long enough for her to launch a search within herself. Some bizarre, inexplicable, mind exploration for the something that she needed to be there. Could she not feel it? Surely she would know? The panic grew with every passing second and didn’t ease as she heard the urgent clatter of shoes on the polished corridor floor getting closer and closer to her bed.

  She looked up to see the irritatingly calm features of a man in his fifties, his dark-brown eyes peering at her with concern.

  ‘Do you know where you are, Rachel? And how you got here?’

  ‘Yes and no. And it doesn’t matter. My baby, Doctor. How is my baby?’

  He took a deep breath and leaned back, straightening up away from her in a way she didn’t like. He was preparing himself. She’d seen it, done it, often enough to know the signs. It scared her.

  ‘Don’t feel the need to sugar-coat it for me, Doctor. I’m as used to breaking bad news as you are. I’d appreciate if you just told me straight.’

  ‘Your partner, Mr Winter, is on his way. We—’

  ‘Tell me now, please. I don’t need my hand held.’

  The doctor was Asian and a mister according to his name badge. Mr Tillikaratne. She wasn’t quite sure of the significance of the mister, maybe just a specialist rather than a surgeon, but she didn’t take it as a good sign. He had a good face, though. Kind with nice brown eyes under grey hair.

  ‘I’m sorry to tell you that you may be suffering from pre-eclampsia.’

  The colour drained from her face and her eyes reddened. ‘But I can’t be. Not yet. The baby . . .’

  ‘Is at risk but with the right care and rest I’d be hopeful that he or she will go full term and suffer no ill effects.’

  Risk. Hopeful. Suffer.

  She did need her hand held. She needed all of her held.

  ‘It is incredibly rare for pre-eclampsia to occur before twenty weeks. There have been instances of it, however, and my opinion is you are not yet suffering from the condition. But we cannot take any chances or it could develop. We must take steps to protect both of you.’

  ‘Both?’

  ‘Pre-eclampsia can be fatal for the mother too. We cannot allow you to endanger yourself. I have to be quite clear and honest with you, Ms Narey. If necessary, we will terminate your pregnancy to save your life.’

  The air was sucked out of the room and she couldn’t hear a word. The doctor was still talking but she could only see his mouth opening and closing. Trying to proces
s what he’d said was all she could cope with. If she could cope with anything at all. Her hands went to her stomach, cradling herself and her own.

  ‘. . . only with complete bed rest,’ he was saying. ‘You do understand that?’

  What? She didn’t understand anything. Where was Tony? She needed him. Needed him to explain and reassure and just to be there.

  ‘I feel fine,’ she heard herself saying. ‘Whatever it was, I’m fine now.’

  The doctor’s headshake was kind but firm. ‘You’re really not.’

  ‘You don’t understand. I’m in the middle of a case and my maternity leave doesn’t start until—’

  The doctor put out a hand to cut her off in midstream. ‘DI Narey, I’m sorry but it’s you that doesn’t understand. You won’t be working any case for a considerable time. Your maternity leave started the minute you hit the floor. You will be confined not only to home but to bed for at least five weeks. There is no alternative.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘No alternative. None.’

  ‘You can’t do that. Please.’

  Another voice came from near the door. ‘He can and it’s already done. She looked up to see Addison walking in.

  ‘Boss, you need to have a word with this doctor because he—’

  Even in the middle of denial, she knew how ridiculous everything she was saying was. She was reaching, looking for some reversal of a reality she couldn’t cope with.

  Addison grimaced. ‘I see you’ve been told the news. Don’t take it out on him and don’t even think of starting on me. This isn’t up for discussion. You’re off the Queen Street case completely and your enforced leave of absence has already begun. You’ve been stood down, Rachel. Accept it.’

  ‘This is ridiculous. I’m fine. I just had a dizzy spell and once I’ve—’

  ‘No!’

  ‘Can no one let me finish a sentence round here? It’s my body. Surely I’m best placed to judge what I can and can’t do?’

  Addison shook his head and loosened his tie. ‘Rachel, if you don’t do exactly what you’re told and stay in bed, then I’ll arrest you myself. I’ll charge you with . . .’ He struggled for an option. ‘Doc, give me something here.’

  ‘Endangering the life of an unborn child.’

  ‘Yes, that. Exactly that. Be sensible, Rachel. Please. I’m counting on being a godfather in five months’ time.’

  ‘You? No chance.’

  ‘What? I’m offended. Who means more to you two than me?’

  ‘Piss off. Sir. Seriously, this is how it’s got to be?’

  His voice softened. ‘Yes. Anything else is way too risky.’

  The air and the anger escaped from her, drifting away on a heavy sigh as her eyes closed over.

  ‘In that case, leave me alone now. Please. I’m pretty sure I’m going to cry and the last thing I want is to do that in front of you.’

  CHAPTER 7

  He was there about ten minutes later, bursting through the door as slowly and as quickly as he could. She knew it was him without lifting her face from where it was buried in the pillow. Smell or sense or need or something. Something she didn’t need to begin to explain. All she knew was that, when his hand went through her hair, she knew. When his mouth pressed itself against her forehead, she knew.

  She knew and she felt better for it. He couldn’t take away all of the pain and the fear and the risk but he could take some of it. His share.

  The dread wasn’t all hers, she knew that. She could hear his in the shallowness of his breathing and feel it in the tremor in his hands. He was striving to be strong for her but he needed to be held as much as he needed to hold. This was two-way hugging.

  He was remembering the look he felt must have been on his face when she’d first told him she was pregnant. His mouth must have been stuck open. As if her being pregnant were the most unlikely thing in the world. As if it were a bad thing. As if he were the most selfish bastard in the world. He was ashamed and embarrassed now just thinking about it.

  He couldn’t get his head round it at first. A baby. Their baby. Out of the loins of a tumultuous relationship, another being. It had scared him right from the off. Nothing compared to how it scared him now, though.

  And her, her. He loved her so much that it frightened him to death.

  She could feel he was nervous to hold her too tight, as though there were a risk of breaking her. She wanted to tell him she was unbreakable, that she’d survive this, survive anything. She’d always told herself that was true. Any situation, any problem, she’d cope. But how did she cope when her body was betraying her?

  She felt his hand slip its way into one of hers, fingers entwining like the roots of a tree. He was bonding his body with hers for mutual support, scaffolding for each other. Whatever his faults, he’d be there every step, do whatever he could. He held on for dear life and she did the same.

  It had easily been ten minutes without either of them saying a word. She finally spoke but the words could have come from either.

  ‘It will be all right.’

  Neither of them knew that would be the case but they were desperate to believe it, so they did. Fingers brushed at wet eyes and they both managed a laugh at their shared thinking.

  She half sat up, half propped herself on his shoulder. ‘Great work with that photograph. It’s been everywhere.’

  ‘Forget that. It doesn’t matter.’

  ‘Oh, but it does. Our baby is going to need shoes. So you need to go to work.’

  ‘You’re something else, you know that?’

  ‘I do. The clothing that you photographed. That’s your story. They weren’t all there.’

  ‘What? Rachel, stop—’

  ‘No, listen to me. Kelbie will never see it because he’s an idiot but the way those clothes were left was a message being sent. It was all very deliberate. And there were items missing. That’s your story. That’s the key.’

  CHAPTER 8

  Being a journalist was not something that had come easily to Winter. If it was a natural skill of some sort, then he was missing the gene.

  It had been nearly a year since he’d picked up pen, notebook and laptop and added them to his cameras when he went to work. He was still much more comfortable with a lens than interviewing someone, but he was getting there. He knew what questions to ask and which ones not to. He knew when to walk away and when to run. Maybe most importantly, he now knew a story when he smelled one.

  That final piece of knowledge had been earned the hard way. He’d had plenty of those that turned out not to be stories at all – in the eyes of those that mattered – to finally recognise the difference.

  He was never going to win a Pulitzer prize but at least he could now get through the day without completely embarrassing himself. Usually.

  Much of that was thanks to the man he was going to speak to now, Archie Cameron, the news editor. He was a good guy, solid and smart, and had been round the houses often enough to know which doors to knock and which to avoid. Archie had been around for two decades and that qualified him as old-school even though he’d just turned forty. He was last man standing as far as the newsroom was concerned, the only competent one not earning enough to get bulleted by the accountants. By the measure of that double-edged compliment, he was now in charge.

  He could, despite his undoubted good points, be a grumpy and short-tempered bastard but that was par for the course for journalists, and if you ignored that then you’d see he was more than okay. He’d talked Winter through the tough early days, shown him the ropes that were left and kept him from getting sacked. Archie had either seen enough in him to make it worthwhile to coach him or was just a decent enough guy that he’d have done it anyway. Either way, Winter was grateful.

  He didn’t look up from his computer screen as Winter approached the desk, his gaze fixed on whatever was scrolling before his eyes. He looked frazzled, with worried waves printed on his forehead, but Winter had never known him to look any other way. He’d
seen photographs of Archie as a young reporter and the man now looked like his own grandfather.

  ‘I hope you’re coming to my desk with a good story or a great photograph, Tony. If not, do us both a favour and fuck off again. I don’t have time for anything other than good news right now.’

  He hadn’t looked up but Winter wasn’t surprised he’d known it was him. Archie had some superhero form of peripheral vision that negated the need to lift his head.

  ‘It’s possibly good news.’

  Archie did glance up this time but only to give a look that made it clear that ‘possibly’ wasn’t good enough. His eyebrows mocked the credibility of Winter’s words; indeed he was incredulous they’d even been uttered.

  ‘Possibly? Partick Thistle are possibly going to win the Champions League next season and I’m possibly going to find cream that will sort my piles, but I wouldn’t bet two bob on either of them.’

  It’s what he did, or tried to do. Full-on irascible journo in the way he’d been brought up, witnessing real news editors do their stuff. Whisky-soaked arseholes with nicotine on their fingers and ink in their blood, prime ministers’ home numbers in their contact books and a complete inability to be nice about anyone other than their mother as long as anyone was watching. Archie tried the best he could but few of the staff really thought he meant it. It was a half-hearted nod to the past; it was what he thought he should do.

  ‘So what the fuck is it?’ Archie was playing the hard man but he wasn’t winning.

  ‘I’ve got a lead on the McAlpine killing and I want to pursue it. I think it’s worth a go.’

  That won him a heavy sigh and a long stare. ‘What kind of lead? The kind that means you’re going to disappear for a few days and come back with nothing but a handful of expense receipts? Or the kind that’s going to make my life easier and fill the front page?’

  Winter played the best card he currently had. ‘The kind that has already filled the front page. The kind that has been picked up by the London papers and all those TV stations. That kind, Archie.’