by Alex Gray
‘No,’ Kirsty replied.
‘Had me up all bloody night,’ Ailsa Doyle grunted, leaning forward and picking up a cigarette packet that was lying on top of a scratched wooden coffee table. ‘That’s how I saw the old lady’s visitor,’ she said, nodding towards the window. ‘Used to seeing them come at different times of the day. Regular as clockwork, so they are. Till this morning, early on, like.’ She paused to light up then closed her eyes, inhaling the smoke as though it were the best moment of her day. Perhaps it was, Kirsty thought, watching the woman while wondering just how his mother’s smoking might affect a small baby.
‘Can you tell us what the visitor looked like?’ Kirsty asked, taking a notebook from her shoulder bag.
Ailsa Doyle tilted her pink head to one side, thoughtfully. ‘It wis dark, like,’ she began. ‘Kinda misty mornin’. Saw him walking along the street. Navy jaicket, an’ that.’
‘He didn’t get out of a car?’
‘Naw. Like ah said, walked up tae the door and jist went in. Must’ve had a key, know whit ah mean?’ She shrugged. ‘Anyroads, the wean wis greetin fit tae burst so ah didnae see ony mair till he cam oot.’ She frowned suddenly, flicking ash into a green glass dish on the windowsill. ‘He didnae see me. Didnae look up. The light in here wisnae oan.’ Ailsa Doyle shrugged again. ‘Got tae watch the electric bills,’ she said, lips pursing in a gesture of defiance. ‘Besides, ah like tae see the sun come up ower thae trees.’ Her voice softened as she nodded towards the line of golden-leaved chestnut trees across the road that screened the derelict industrial estate beyond. ‘Went doon when ah saw th’ambulance. Telt that Nurse Morgan wummin what ah’d seen. Asked if that ither nurse hadnae been able to help old Miss Maitland earlier oan.’
Ailsa Doyle turned to face Kirsty, her sharp eyes crinkling thoughtfully. ‘He wisnae supposed tae be therr, wis he?’ she asked, a look of perfect understanding passing across her face. ‘An’ it’s always women that come aroon; they’re arenae any male community nurses at oor surgery.’
Kirsty stopped taking notes and tried to look as authoritative as she knew she should.
‘You’ll need to tell DS Murdoch all of this as well, Ailsa,’ she said slowly. ‘It’s important that we find the man who came to see Miss Maitland this morning,’ she added, trying to maintain a neutral tone of voice. How was it that Lorimer managed to talk to folk without giving them ideas? The man could discuss the grisliest facts and still sound as if he were talking about the weather! It was a trick that DC Wilson must strive to emulate, she reminded herself, something that instantly put a witness at their ease so that they told their stories clearly, not missing out any details. Would Murdoch employ a similar technique?
The heavy rap on the door told her she wouldn’t have long to wait as Ailsa Doyle gave a curse and headed back along the corridor to the front door.
She heard their voices as Ailsa Doyle and Murdoch came towards the front room then there came a piercing cry as the baby awoke, and light footsteps as the young mother went into the bedroom next door.
‘Right, Wilson, get all of her statement?’ Murdoch glanced at Kirsty’s notebook.
‘Yes, sir, but aren’t you going to question her yourself?’ With me there to corroborate, she wanted to add.
Kirsty bit her lip and wishing she hadn’t spoken as Murdoch’s face clouded over with disapproval.
‘Let’s see what you’ve got,’ he replied, gesturing for Kirsty to hand over her notebook.
‘Hm, looks like that’ll be enough to go on meantime. Good. Let’s get out of here.’ He wrinkled his nose in distaste as the baby’s cries grew louder. ‘Probably a complete waste of police time,’ he grunted. ‘And there’s plenty for us to do back at Stewart Street.’
Kirsty watched him stride along the corridor, only hesitating for a moment to look into the bedroom, aware that the baby’s howls had suddenly ceased.
‘That’s us off, thanks for your help,’ she said, smiling at the sight of the young mother nursing her child, a look of utter contentment on Ailsa Doyle’s young face.
CHAPTER TEN
Kirsty watched as Murdoch closed the car door behind him and sauntered away, one hand already pulling a cigarette out of the packet. They were back at Stewart Street where the owners of Paton’s jewellery shop, a father with his son and daughter, were to meet them.
Kirsty’s heart thumped in her chest as she approached the rear door of the police station, keeping one eye on Murdoch who was leaning against a railing, tapping a number out on his mobile, the cigarette bobbing up and down between his fingers. His back was partly turned from her as she passed, but Kirsty decided that he’d probably have ignored her anyway.
There was just time for a quick freshen up before the meeting with the Paton family and Kirsty took the stairs two at a time, remembering exactly where the ladies’ room was in this building.
A huge sigh escaped her as she closed the door behind her.
‘Bad morning?’
DI Jo Grant looked up from the wash basin, an open make-up pouch on the worktop beside her.
Kirsty nodded. ‘Feels like I’ve never stopped,’ she admitted with an attempt at a grin. She was glad that it was DI Grant, an officer she had known since her university days. They hadn’t always seen eye to eye, but Jo was a decent sort and Kirsty knew that both Lorimer and her dad shared the same respect for her.
‘In at the deep end,’ she told the woman, deciding on a phrase deliberately vague. ‘Jewellery theft,’ she added.
‘Oh, I heard about that,’ the detective inspector said as she turned to use the hand dryer. ‘One of a series happening across the UK, by all accounts. Murdoch will have told you all of that, though,’ she added. Then, stopping for a moment she gazed straight at Kirsty and asked, ‘How d’you find him?’
‘Murdoch?’
‘Aye, Len Murdoch.’ Grant nodded. ‘Our latest crime scene manager.’
Kirsty tried not to show any of the doubts that were making her stomach clench with anxiety as she shrugged.
‘Haven’t really had time to get to know him yet,’ she replied, avoiding Jo Grant’s eyes and trying to affect a nonchalance that she did not feel.
‘Has a decent track record,’ Jo admitted, stepping closer to the mirrors. ‘Not sure just how he’ll fit in here, though. So many of our lot have been in Stewart Street for most of their careers.’
She was speering, Kirsty suddenly realised. Did Jo Grant have any reason to share her worries about the DS? Was she really asking for intelligence on the man? Or was this simply another sort of test? Officers were loyal to one another; that was the unspoken rule, wasn’t it? Kirsty Wilson had learned that much since she’d first joined the force.
‘I hadn’t even heard of him till this morning,’ Kirsty told the other woman. ‘Dad never mentioned him.’
‘No?’ Jo Grant’s eyebrows rose in a moment of surprise. Then she ran slim fingers through her short dark hair, gazing at her reflection in the mirror. She caught sight of Kirsty watching her and grinned. ‘Well, I’m sure he’ll be a competent enough mentor for you.’
The DI fished a lipstick from her make-up bag then paused, holding the lipstick in the air as though she were about to add something, her expression serious for a moment. Then she blinked as if changing her mind and started to fill in her lips in a shade of dark raspberry.
‘See you in the canteen for a coffee sometime? My treat.’ Jo grinned, patting Kirsty’s shoulder as she gathered up her belongings and left the ladies’ room.
Coffee would be nice, Kirsty thought, hearing her stomach growling. But she really needed something to eat. No time, she scolded herself. Shouldn’t even have stopped to blether with DI Grant. But the DI’s words had thrown up all sorts of questions.
Kirsty locked herself into one of the cubicles, her mind turning somersaults. What on earth had that been about? What was it that Jo Grant had been about to tell her concerning her mentor? Suddenly she wished that it was Lorimer who was to be conducting this interview with
the Paton family and not DS Len Murdoch.
The smell of greasy bacon hit Kirsty as she opened the door to interview room two, reminding her again that she hadn’t eaten since breakfast. Perhaps, she thought gloomily, eyeing the empty paper plate and the crumpled serviette, she ought to have bought herself a roll when she’d gone for Murdoch’s. Someone else had been here before her, not stopping to clear up after themselves, she saw, sweeping the table clean with one hand and crunching up the greasy paper with the other before tipping the lot into the waste bin by the door.
A quick glance at the clock told her that there were only five minutes before the meeting was due to take place. Her first instinct was to have a quick look at the chairs, making sure they were clean and crumb free before the Paton family arrived.
Kirsty was just setting one of the metal chairs back down when the door opened wider and DS Murdoch ushered three people into the room.
‘This is Detective Constable Wilson,’ Murdoch breezed and Kirsty suddenly found herself shaking hands with a grey-haired man.
‘Jacob Paton,’ the jeweller told her then waved a hand towards a slim man of around her own age, his dark hair slicked back with gel. ‘This is my son, Joseph, and my daughter, Samantha.’ The daughter came into the room last, a busty blonde around mid to late twenties, Kirsty reckoned, with heavily made-up eyes and false lashes that were already fluttering at Murdoch. Her handshake was perfunctory, as though Samantha Paton was anxious not to soil her perfectly manicured fingers by contact with a mere police officer.
Never know where we’ve been, Kirsty wanted to tell her, taking an instant dislike to the woman. And those are definitely extensions, not your own hair, she thought, appraising the woman even as she pulled out a chair for her then took her place next to Murdoch.
‘Right, Mr Paton, you were going to bring me the inventory of all the missing stock plus an idea of the damage caused in the break-in,’ Murdoch said, pulling up his cuffs in a brisk let’s-get-down-to-business gesture.
Kirsty wanted to gape but stopped herself in time. Wasn’t that the same watch she’s seen him sling into the crime scene manager’s bag? She blinked, staring at the black and metallic wristwatch so blatantly on display. Murdoch’s hands were lying clasped on the table, the watch face turned in her direction. A Tag Heuer Formula 1, she noted, then looked away swiftly. It wouldn’t do to stare, yet even as she listened to the jeweller begin to read from his list of stolen items, Kirsty was memorising the make so that she could check it out on Google.
‘… and one Tag Heuer, Dad, don’t forget that.’ Samantha Paton interrupted her father’s voice, making Kirsty jump.
The blonde tossed her hair and glanced coquettishly at Murdoch as if… Kirsty’s heart missed a beat. As if she knew! But surely… Kirsty glanced from one person to the next to see if they, too, were regarding Detective Sergeant Murdoch with the same sly smile. But father and son were both poring over the sheets of paper in Mr Paton’s hand, serious expressions on each of their faces.
DS Murdoch simply nodded and listened coolly, seemingly unaware of Samantha Paton’s obvious flirtation.
Maybe she was just like that, Kirsty thought. A man-eater. There had been a girl like that in her class at university, she remembered; Madeleine Something-or-other; a strange girl who was in the habit of making up the most fantastic tales, always sidling up to the lads, a sexual innuendo at the tip of her mendacious tongue.
‘DC Wilson will see to that,’ Murdoch was saying and Kirsty’s mouth opened, alarmed at the realisation that she had missed his last few words.
‘Thank you,’ Mr Paton said, stretching across the table to grasp Kirsty’s hand. ‘It’s such a relief to know that the police take care of details like that. Contacting the insurance company was going to be our next nightmare,’ he added. ‘Joseph, give Detective Constable Wilson the insurer’s number, will you?’ he said, turning to his son. Joseph Paton dipped into the top pocket of his beautifully cut charcoal suit (Armani, Kirsty thought, or something damn near like it) and produced a business card.
‘Thanks for doing this,’ he echoed his father. ‘Goodness knows when we’ll be able to open for business again. Whole place needs cleaning up and the shutters will need to be completely replaced.’ He took one of the pieces of A4 paper from the table and passed it to her. ‘That’s a copy of what needs doing. Can we let our builder and the shutter company in to give estimates?’ he asked, looking at Murdoch.
‘Tomorrow,’ Murdoch answered. ‘The scene of crime officers will have finished by then. And hopefully there’ll be some trace evidence, like fingerprints, to help catch them, though I’m afraid you’ll find they came prepared with gloves on. It was a professional job,’ he said, beginning to rise to his feet as a signal that the meeting was at an end. ‘Thanks for coming in once again. DC Wilson will see you out,’ he added, nodding at Kirsty before shaking hands in turn with each member of the jeweller’s family.
Kirsty pulled her chair back and went to open the door, turning just in time to see Samantha Paton’s simpering smile as she held the detective sergeant’s hand. Murdoch’s face gave nothing away though, Kirsty noticed, his nod to the young woman merely polite. Had she been imagining things, then? And, was it simply a coincidence that Murdoch was sporting a flashy-looking watch? Had she really seen…?
Kirsty’s thoughts were interrupted as Mr Paton strode beside her, his two children following.
‘We’re grateful for your help, you know,’ he began, his voice low, as though it was forbidden to speak in anything other than hushed tones in a police station. ‘It’s been a terrible shock. Never happened in all my years in the trade. You always wonder, of course, take the proper precautions…’ He tailed off. ‘Goodness only knows what this’ll do to our insurance premium now.’ He shook his head worriedly. ‘Costs us a fortune as it is.’
Kirsty made a sympathetic sound. The jewellery business was a pretty lucrative one to be in, she knew, her father having told her once about the enormous mark-up on items of jewellery.
They were at the front door now and the younger Patons were heading towards the row of cars parked in the forecourt.
Mr Paton clasped Kirsty’s hand. Then, giving her a shy smile, he lifted her other hand and for a moment she was startled, thinking he might raise it to his lips but he merely tapped her ring finger.
‘If you ever need to find a decent jeweller, do come to us first, Miss Wilson,’ he said softly. ‘You’d be sure of a good discount, you know.’
Then he was gone, crossing the car park to where his children waited in a sleek grey Jaguar.
Kirsty walked back inside, puzzled. Didn’t they know that officers couldn’t accept stuff like that? Any sort of gift might be misconstrued as a bribe. And didn’t the offer of discounted goods come into that category? She’d need to ask somebody. The thought conjured up an image of Detective Superintendent William Lorimer. If only she could speak to him, she thought wistfully. But he wasn’t here today. A family funeral, her father had told her. Shoulders heaving in a sigh, Kirsty turned and walked back into the building, wondering what task her mentor might have lined up for her.
She didn’t have long to wait. DS Murdoch waved to her from the muster room door, an impatient gesture that made Kirsty walk faster towards him.
‘We’re out again,’ he said shortly. ‘Another scene of crime. Over in Byres Road. Your neck of the woods, isn’t it?’ he added, striding back along the corridor.
‘Yes…’
‘Body’s been found in a flat. We need to be there now.’
The light was fading fast as they parked outside the row of tenement flats that lined the street, one of the busiest arteries in Glasgow’s West End, a popular area for students with the city’s oldest university close by.
Once again, a police car and scene of crime tape marked the doorway that had been closed off to the public. Kirsty parked the Honda close to the kerb.
‘Looks like one of the pathologists has got here before us,’ Mu
rdoch murmured, nodding towards a light blue Saab.
Kirsty smiled, recognising Dr Rosie Fergusson’s car. The Department of Forensic Medicine was close by, yet the pathologist would have had to bring all her own forensic gear with her.
In minutes, Kirsty and Murdoch were garbed up and heading up a flight of stone stairs.
The smell hit her as soon as she entered the flat, making Kirsty gag. A decaying corpse gives off a pungent odour, unlike any other, she remembered one lecturer at Police Training College telling the rookie officers, a grin on the woman’s face. Back then the words had been something to write in a notebook but this foul smell was the reality behind them.
Kirsty followed her mentor into the flat, noting as she did the sprays of blood arcing against the beige wallpaper. There were streaks of dark brown along the cobalt-blue hall carpet, as though a dead or injured body had been dragged along.
Murdoch placed the metal treads carefully to one side, avoiding the trace evidence. It was vital that a pathway was made from these treads by the scene of crime officer for the investigators to walk upon lest the scene become contaminated by their footsteps.
‘In here,’ a voice called, its timbre cold and echoing.
‘Bathroom,’ Murdoch told Kirsty. ‘Just look. Don’t do anything until I tell you, okay?’
‘Yes, sir,’ Kirsty agreed, her reluctant feet padding from one tread to the next as she watched Murdoch’s back disappear into the room at the far end of the hallway.
It was worse than she could have imagined.
The body of a man was lying beside the bath tub, his throat a gaping dark wound, the stain of old blood pooling the floor around his head.
Kirsty saw the movement on his neck at once and gagged. Maggot infestation had begun. She covered her mouth with one hand and turned away, wanting out of the flat, wishing that some other officer could have been there instead.
Murdoch was hunkering down beside DI Grant and the pathologist, as if this was something he saw and smelled every day of his working life. He gave a quick glance up at Kirsty and grinned at the expression on his DC’s face.
