Only the Dead Can Tell

by Alex Gray

  He sighed again and closed his eyes. Maybe he should be concentrating on the Slovakian women instead? Sometimes, Solly knew he could tell himself a story that sounded attractive only to abandon it when further intelligence pointed in a different direction. After all, it was just conjecture. He was weaving a story around what scraps of information he had been given by Lorimer. Yet, if this tenuous theory was correct, where had the boy gone after 2001? Seventeen years had elapsed since the end of that horrific war and many Bosnian refugees had gone back home again, disillusioned by life in Britain. He remembered a paper that had come out some years back from a fellow psychologist showing that Bosnian refugees had suffered significant traumas after arriving in the UK. Many had found conditions here poorer than in pre-war Bosnia, certainly their lifestyles and income were worse here than they had been back home. And the majority had been Muslim Bosniacs.

  How many had stayed? And, among them, had there been a young man ruthlessly determined to make his own way in life? It was an idea formed from very little substance, he knew, but it was a start, and the longer he thought about it the more he could see a profile forming in his mind. Was this a man who had been robbed of something; his childhood, his innocence or just his faith in humankind?

  CHAPTER TEN

  ‘What d’you think, Kirst?’

  She looked at his face, the expression both eager and hopeful. A face she loved, wanted to see smile, always. But this . . . ?

  ‘America?’ she asked eventually.

  ‘Aye, Chicago. Hot summers, cold winters.’ James grinned. ‘But if they decide they want me we can plan on exactly whereabouts we want to live. It doesn’t have to be in the city centre. Plenty of good suburban areas, I’m told—’ He broke off and took her hands in his.

  ‘I know it’s a big step, Kirst, but it doesn’t have to be for ever. It’s just a beginning,’ he told her. ‘A real chance to establish myself in the business world, make some decent money . . . ’ He tailed off at the sight of her sudden frown. ‘I didn’t mean . . . your job pays fine, lass, we know that, and I’m so, so grateful for all the support you’ve given me, but now I feel it’s my turn.’

  ‘What about my job?’

  ‘You don’t need to work again, if you don’t want to, not with the sort of salary they’d be paying me,’ James countered. ‘Anyway,’ he slid one hand up her arm, ‘I thought maybe . . . in time . . . ?’

  ‘Aye?’ Kirsty reckoned that she knew where this was going but she was determined to make James spell it out.

  ‘Och, lass, you know I want us to be together. All our lives. Properly together . . . ’ He folded her into his long arms and she relaxed against him in a sigh, part of her glad for this moment.

  ‘Will you marry me, Kirsty Wilson? Let me carry you off on an adventure?’ he murmured into her hair.

  Safe and secure within his grasp, Kirsty wanted nothing more than to look up, smile and say the single word that would seal this question.

  I want to, she thought, I want to so much, but . . . Images of the house she had visited, the victim on the kitchen floor, the DI’s warm words of approbation promising a future with Police Scotland stopped her giving him an answer.

  ‘I’ve sprung this on you too soon, haven’t I?’ James said at last, drawing apart and looking down solemnly into her eyes. ‘Sorry. Just been so excited ever since I opened the letter.’

  ‘Can I see it?’

  ‘Course you can. Here.’ He picked up the letter and handed it to her. ‘I’ll make us a cuppa. Then, how about we both get togged up and go out for a meal? I feel we should celebrate, even if it’s just me being given a chance, eh?’

  Kirsty nodded and returned his grin. Her boyfriend’s mood was infectious and she had to resist the temptation to succumb to it too soon. What was she thinking of? Wasn’t this the sort of opportunity that every young couple grabbed if they could?

  Yet one half of every young couple did not necessarily include a detective constable keen to work her way up the ladder in Police Scotland, a little voice reminded her. No way did she want to be a part of an American police force, however. But, if she did go along with James’s plans, if he did get this job, what would she do with her own life?

  Kirsty slumped into the settee, smoothed the sheets of paper in her hands then began to read.

  She had to admit that it did sound more than hopeful. With all of the other stuff about housing and additional benefits (a car, health insurance, resettlement allowance . . .) this bank really did sound as if they wanted to employ James Spencer. With a postgraduate degree under his belt, James had attractive qualifications, after all, and this was a big organisation, the Federal Reserve Bank, one that even Kirsty Wilson had heard of. So, why did she have this funny feeling in her stomach?

  ‘Hey, don’t look so upset. Is it the thought of leaving Scotland? The police? Your mum and dad? They’re retired now, bet they’ll want to come over for Christmas and everything . . . ’ James beamed at her as he set down the two mugs of tea on the table.

  ‘No, it’s not that . . . ’ Kirsty picked up the mug. ‘Thanks for this. Like you said, it’s all so sudden, you know . . . takes a bit of getting used to . . . ’ she admitted, letting the real reason for her hesitation remain unsaid.

  ‘Okay. I get that,’ he replied, sitting next to her, one arm slung around her shoulders. ‘Let’s have a nice meal out and we can talk about this later. After all, I don’t need to reply till tomorrow. And I may not even get past the next interview stage.’

  The evening sky was bright as they strolled along Great Western Road, hours of daylight still remaining as midsummer approached. It was a time of year that Kirsty loved, she realised, her hand clasped in James’s, the pavements dry and warm, the river a mere gurgle over piles of stones as they crossed Kelvin Bridge. It reminded her of the carefree days between leaving school and beginning her university course, a degree she had abandoned in favour of joining the police. Back then in the summertime anything had seemed possible, long days ahead, mornings radiant with promise. In a way, she had managed to recapture that feeling now. The idea of moving to a new country, settling down with the man who wanted her to be his wife, held the same sort of appeal. It was like the ending of a really good movie where you just know everything is going to be okay.

  She glanced up at James and he caught her eye and grinned, the squeeze on her hand making her feel warm and safe.

  Then she looked away, across the main road at the pedestrians on the far side. A woman was pushing a baby buggy, a man by her side, and they were arguing about something, that much was evident from their body language. Had it been the woman’s shouting that had made her look at them?

  Suddenly the man jerked the buggy out of her hands and made to cross the road but the sound of a car horn and a scream stopped him as he edged over the kerb.

  Gasps came from several of the people around Kirsty and James as they all stood still, shocked at the almost accident, the driver of the car gesticulating at the young father, his vehicle slewed at an angle, the traffic behind him forced to stop.

  ‘Stupid idiot!’ Kirsty heard James exclaim. ‘Could’ve got that baby killed.’

  For a moment Kirsty hesitated, watching and waiting to see if there was anything to be done, her warrant card ready to be pulled out if necessary. But it was soon all over, the buggy back on the pavement, the woman snatching it from her partner and marching determinedly ahead. A quick V sign and the man scurried after her, leaving the driver to concentrate on straightening up his vehicle and heading off towards the city centre.

  She was still quiet as they entered the cool interior of the restaurant, the magic of her sunny moment spoiled by that little incident.

  As if reading her thoughts, James put out his hand and stopped her with a rueful smile. ‘Glasgow,’ he said, cocking his head as if to indicate the stupidity of the young father. ‘Chicago can’t be any worse, surely?’

  And Kirsty grinned, in spite of herself, knowing that what he said was
true.

  But I don’t know Chicago, she told herself silently. And this has become my city.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Rosie smiled as she walked beside her husband, their sleepy daughter curled into his shoulder. It was a perfect night, collared doves cooing from the leafy treetops, kids out playing in the park, several other couples having a final stroll with their little ones before bedtime. She’d be glad when the baby came, months of maternity leave ahead when she could stay home, watch over her newborn and forget all about work. Though, she admitted, that was not strictly true. There were several cases that might demand her presence in court, including this latest. If Guilford pleaded not guilty and went to trial then she might well be called to testify, perhaps, this time, for the defence?

  ‘Time this little girl was in her bed,’ Solly murmured as they crossed the road to their home in Park Circus. ‘She’s becoming quite a weight, even for me.’ He smiled, shifting the child in his arms.

  Rosie nodded. Once Abby was settled she needed to talk to her husband, ask his opinion about the Guilford case. She’d come close to it before but they had never managed to discuss it properly. Now, she told herself, if he had no other pressing matter, she’d see what Solly made of it all.

  *

  ‘You know, of course, that the human psyche is wired for survival,’ Solly began, glancing sideways at his wife. She had expressed her misgivings about the case already, insisting, however, that there was sufficient forensic evidence to suggest the possibility that Dorothy Guilford had taken her own life.

  ‘Yes,’ she nodded, ‘I know that. And I also know that those unfortunate souls who do commit suicide have gone way over what is “normal” in the way of human behaviour.’ She lifted her fingers to create quotation marks in the air. ‘Dorothy Guilford took all sorts of stuff to help her sleep. I’ve seen her medical records. Makes for grim reading.’

  ‘Do you think her husband had ever attacked her? He has got previous, after all.’

  Rosie sighed. ‘There was never anything like a charge brought against him. The medical notes suggest Dorothy may have been injured by something other than an accident but her practitioner evidently had insufficient proof of that to take it any further. Besides, the onus is on the victim to report any such injury to the police.’

  ‘Which she never did.’

  ‘Right.’ Rosie nodded. ‘Anyway, apart from her injuries there appears to be a history of mild depression. She was still taking prescribed drugs. Her husband said that she hadn’t been well recently.’

  ‘It would be to his advantage to point that out, though, wouldn’t it?’ Solly asked, continuing in his role as devil’s advocate. ‘And, if she did take her own life why would she choose to thrust a knife into her heart rather than overdose on pills she already had to hand? Hm?’

  Rosie sighed. She could imagine the prosecution’s argument already.

  ‘Okay, say she had planned it all down to the last detail. Was there anything about her death that she was trying to say?’

  ‘Like?’

  Rosie thought for a moment. Could she express the ideas that had been circling around her head? All those what ifs? Like, what if the woman had been deranged enough to have wanted to frame her husband for her murder? She had killed herself in a horrible way. What if she had placed that drop of blood on his jacket, secretly beforehand? Then plunging in that knife in a fit of rage and spite? Oh, to say these things out loud would sound so stupid! So, looking up at her husband, she shrugged instead.

  ‘Oh, I don’t know. A broken heart?’ She looked at Solly and saw the sympathetic smile on his face. ‘I know, it sounds pretty feeble, doesn’t it? I just wish I knew a bit more about the woman. About her past. Anything that would give me an idea to help me understand what happened that night.’

  ‘It was during the night?’

  ‘Aye, some time around three in the morning. The death hour,’ she said darkly.

  It was a fact that they were each aware of, the hour between three and four o’clock in the morning being one when the human spirit seemed to be at its lowest ebb. As a psychologist it was something that Solly took into consideration whenever he had to lecture on the subject of depression, and for Rosie, it was a wonder she hadn’t written a paper herself about the number of sad souls who had taken their own lives at this gloomy hour.

  ‘You won’t be doing yourself any favours, you know,’ Solly murmured. ‘You’ll be taking the stand for the defence and the evidence McCauley has gathered could easily sway a jury against Peter Guilford. Particularly if the press get hold of it and print anything about his previous jail sentence.’

  ‘I know that,’ Rosie snapped. Then, taking her husband’s hand she shook her head. ‘Sorry, I know you’re only trying to help but I just have this strong feeling that McCauley wants this all done and dusted without looking into the background a bit more.’

  Solly smiled and squeezed her hand. ‘That’s all right. Don’t think about it right now. The case won’t come to trial for months anyway and by the time it does you’ll be so glad to escape into town from a demanding little baby that you might even enjoy it.’

  ‘Demanding?’

  Solly stroked her belly gently, feeling the ripple of movement within. ‘This little one is making his presence felt already. I suspect we are going to have plenty of sleepless nights once he arrives.’

  ‘You think it’s a boy too, then?’

  Solly nodded and smiled. ‘But I won’t mind if we’re proved wrong about that.’

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  The door was unlocked, making Kirsty Wilson step back in alarm. There was no sign of any forced entry and no one else was meant to have a key apart from the ones that Guilford had handed to the police.

  She fingered her mobile, ready to make a call should there be an intruder within the big house in St Andrew’s Drive. But not yet. Not until she knew for certain what was happening.

  Pushing open the door Kirsty saw dust motes dancing in the brightness of the air, the sunshine from the street creating a wedge of light in the reception hall.

  She stood silently, listening, wondering if her own arrival had been noted and already a figure was hiding behind a door, cosh in hand, ready to give her a thump.

  Then, despite her beating heart, she gave a wry smile. Faint sounds of a familiar tune came from somewhere beyond the left-hand corridor that led into the kitchen where the woman’s body had been found. The strains of ‘Fur Elise’ . . . She frowned, wondering who was listening to the music.

  More curious now than brave, Kirsty crept quietly along the corridor, hugging the wall so that she might not be spied as she came to the kitchen doorway.

  Her fears vanished at the sight of a large woman on her hands and knees, wiping the laminate floor with a cloth. A radio on the countertop nearby was filling the room with music.

  ‘Hello?’ Kirsty stepped forward, warrant card held out so that the woman would know she was a police officer.

  The woman jumped back onto her heels, one hand clutching her bosom.

  ‘My Gawd, lassie, you gave me a fright!’ She wiped the sweat from her brow as she sat on the floor. ‘Thought me heart wis goin’ tae stop, so ah did!’

  ‘Who are you and why are you here?’ Kirsty asked, though the answer to the second question seemed obvious. She was the Guilford’s cleaning lady, if Kirsty’s guess was correct.

  ‘Ah’m Magrit. Mar-gret Daly. Who’re you?’ The woman struggled to her feet, dishcloth still grasped in her hand so Kirsty helped her up, letting her see the warrant card more closely.

  ‘Detective Constable Wilson,’ she told her. ‘This is a crime scene.’

  ‘Aye, I heard,’ Margaret blustered. ‘But the lassie from the office telt me it was okay to come in again. This is my day to clean, see?’

  ‘So you know what happened here?’ Kirsty said, steering the woman away from the place where the body had lain.

  ‘Terrible, jist terrible.’ Margaret shook her head. ‘
And that awfu’ man in the jail now.’

  ‘You mean Mr Guilford?’

  ‘Aye, right bad lot so he was. Led that puir wumman an awfie life. I could tell ye things that’d make yer hair staun on end, so ah could.’

  ‘Really?’ Kirsty murmured, eyebrows raised. Perhaps this wasn’t a bad idea; the telling, at any rate. ‘Mrs Daly, do you think you might make us a cup of tea? Then we could have a chat about . . . things?’

  Kirsty watched as the woman moved away towards the other side of the kitchen, her slippered feet stepping gingerly over the still damp patches on the floor. There was nothing wrong with asking a few questions. She would make sure that everything was relayed back to DI McCauley, of course, but the fact was she had come here this morning primarily at the behest of a different person altogether. And Lorimer would be very interested to know that permission for the cleaner to resume work had come from Peter Guilford’s office.

  Kirsty’s eyes followed Margaret Daly as the older woman set the cups and saucers on to a tray, filled a small jug with milk and made space for a sugar basin and a plate of chocolate biscuits.

  ‘Strong or first out the pot?’ Margaret asked, bending over the kitchen table where Kirsty now sat.

  ‘As it comes.’ She shrugged, well used to all sorts of tea from pale beige scarcely brewed to builder’s tea that resembled a fake tan.

  ‘Hm.’ Margaret Daly poured the tea into two cups then sat down heavily opposite the detective constable. ‘Right, what’s going on?’ she asked.

  ‘I think that was going to be my question to you,’ Kirsty countered wryly. ‘As far as I was aware the house was to be kept locked up meantime.’

  ‘Not what Cynthia telt me.’ Margaret pursed her lips in a defiant gesture. It was evident that the presence of the police did not worry the woman in the slightest, something that Kirsty found rather intriguing.