Only the Dead Can Tell

by Alex Gray

  Up until now the conversation had been fairly predictable but the woman’s reaction was completely unexpected.

  Kirsty stood in the hallway. ‘Are you all right? Mrs Finnegan?’

  There was no reply, just the sound of a toilet flushing and a tap being run in the bathroom sink.

  A few minutes later Shirley Finnegan crept out, a threadbare towel in one hand, mopping at her mouth and eyes.

  ‘Okay? Can I get you a glass of water?’ Kirsty asked, anxious now that there might be some repercussions for herself. Nobody had authorised a visit to this woman’s home and there was the possibility that Dorothy’s sister could make a complaint. What would McCauley say if he found out she’d been moonlighting for Rosie Fergusson?

  ‘I’m all right,’ Shirley said, walking slowly past Kirsty, not brushing off the younger woman’s hand as she as guided back into her chair. ‘Got a problem. Stomach acts up. Just happens without any warning.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Kirsty replied. ‘Do you need anything? Tablets? A cup of tea?’

  Shirley Finnegan shook her head and Kirsty was astonished to see tears in the woman’s eyes.

  ‘It was Dorothy’s fault,’ Shirley began. ‘All of this.’ She swept a hand around to indicate the untidy room with its chipped furniture and flyblown windows. ‘She got everything, didn’t she?’

  Kirsty heard the bitterness in Shirley’s voice.

  ‘Threw me out on my ear. Didn’t even take me back when I’d had the kid, did they? Then she inherited the lot!’

  Kirsty watched as Shirley fumbled in her skirt pocket and pulled out a pack of chewing gum then stuffed several pieces into her mouth.

  ‘Takes away the bad taste,’ Shirley sniggered. ‘That’s what I was to them, you know, a bad taste in their mouths. Didn’t want anyone to know about their other daughter. It was all Dorothy this and Dorothy that and then she ends up owning the house, the business then gets a husband into the bargain.’

  ‘But you . . . ?’

  ‘Oh, aye, I did get married. Finnegan was a decent enough bloke at first but kept bad company. I think you know what I mean, officer?’ The final word was spoken as a sneer. ‘In and out of jail, on benefits. Threw him out eventually, didn’t I? Spending all our money on booze and the dogs.’

  Kirsty glanced around, expecting to see a couple of small animals, but the woman threw her a withering look. ‘Greyhounds. Gambled it all away at the dog track and left me with nothing for the rent.’

  Not all Dorothy Guilford’s fault, then? Circumstances afterwards had dictated the ruined face and figure of Shirley Finnegan. But there was no denying that she continued to blame her younger sister for the way her own life had turned out. And, thought Kirsty, she still hadn’t answered her question.

  ‘Sorry to harp on about it, Mrs Finnegan, but we just need to know the facts so we can eliminate anybody that might have had access to the house in St Andrew’s Drive. So, where were you that night?’

  Shirley Finnegan looked straight at Kirsty without blinking. ‘Here,’ she said. ‘On my tod. With nothing except the telly for company.’ She folded her arms defiantly across her heaving bosoms. ‘So?’ she added, cocking her head to one side as though to ask what are you going to do about that?

  ‘Anyone able to verify this?’ Kirsty asked, knowing that the question was hopeless.

  ‘Nope,’ Shirley retorted. ‘Why are you asking? Do you think I hated her enough to stick a knife into her guts?’

  Kirsty blanched at the venom in the woman’s tone.

  Shirley unfolded her arms and leaned forward. ‘I hated her enough to do that, Detective Constable, oh, yes I did. But someone else got there before me!’

  Kirsty heaved a sigh as she turned the ignition key and glanced automatically in her rear-view mirror. Something would have had to prompt an act of murder that particular night. After all, hadn’t she simmered with resentment for decades without attacking her sister?

  Suddenly she wished that William Lorimer was here instead of a mere detective constable. He’d have known what to say, used his keen blue eyes to his advantage and maybe even found clues in that ramshackle flat. She sighed again and for a moment the notion of escaping to Chicago actually seemed a most attractive option.

  As the car drove off, Shirley twitched back the grey net curtain that kept any nosy neighbours from peering into her ground-floor flat. Thank God it hadn’t been a patrol car and a uniformed cop! But just the one officer – wasn’t that a bit strange? Didn’t they always work in pairs like those Family Liaison ones? Shirley Finnegan watched as the car disappeared around a bend then she picked up her mobile phone and tapped in a number that she knew off by heart. The call rang out, then, hearing a familiar voice, she sank back into her armchair with a sigh of relief.

  ‘It’s me,’ she said. ‘I need to talk to you. Can you come round here now?’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Peter was propped up on a bank of pillows, the man by his side watching intently as he took up a pair of spectacles in one trembling hand.

  The sheaf of papers had photographs of every single one of the prison officers in HMP Barlinnie. Each page held six different faces, mugshots really.

  Detective Superintendent Lorimer frowned. He’d have preferred the images to be printed on single sheets but McSherry had sent them over like this, probably to save himself time if they’d simply been pulled from office files. He’d glanced through them, noting the scowls and wondering if these men had been hand-picked for their intimidating looks. Maybe he was being unfair; weren’t they all supposed to have unsmiling passport pictures these days? Perhaps it was the same in an institution like a prison.

  Give him his due, Guilford was looking carefully at each sheet, his eyes examining the faces. It would take just one flicker of recognition, Lorimer knew from experience. Then they could apprehend the prison officer who had carried out this heinous attack.

  One by one, the pages were turned over and laid on the counterpane, the detective never taking his blue gaze from the patient for a single moment.

  Sometimes Guilford stared a little longer at one sheet of photographs then gave a small shake of his head before discarding yet another page.

  The bundle was almost spent, Lorimer gritting his teeth in frustration, when Guilford’s manner changed.

  He could see the man’s pupils dilate, the jaw tighten as he focused on one particular face.

  Gotcha! Lorimer thought triumphantly.

  But then, Guilford laid that page aside too, though the fingers that resumed their search were trembling.

  The final page was scrutinised then Guilford sat back on the pillows, the strain on his face easy for anyone to see.

  ‘Who was it?’

  Guilford closed his eyes and did not reply.

  ‘Peter, I saw how you reacted!’ Lorimer pulled the pages towards him, extracting the last but one and holding it up in front of the man.

  ‘Look at it!’ he commanded.

  Guilford’s eyes opened briefly to glance at the sheet of faces then he looked away and shook his head.

  ‘Nobody I can recognise,’ he said at last.

  But Lorimer knew a lie when he heard one.

  ‘Peter,’ he continued, ‘we need to find this man. He’ll never harm you again, you have my word for that!’

  Guilford looked at him for a moment, a faint smile playing about his lips. ‘McSherry’s deputy came in to see me this morning,’ he said. ‘I won’t be going back to Barlinnie.’

  Lorimer frowned. ‘But, once you’re well enough you must be returned to custody,’ he told the man.

  Guilford’s smile broadened a little. ‘Aye, but they’re sending me to Low Moss, aren’t they?’

  It had not been a complete waste of time, Lorimer told himself as he sat in the Lexus outside in the hospital car park. At least he had one page of faces that had produced a reaction from Guilford. One of those six faces belonged to the officer who had carried out that attack, he was sure. He just ne
eded to find out which one.

  Damn McSherry! If Guilford had suspected that he’d be returning to Barlinnie surely he would have revealed the identity of his attacker? But why hide it? The prison officer was someone that Guilford knew, Lorimer told himself; someone close enough to instil fear into the man. For that was the expression that Lorimer had seen flickering over Peter Guilford’s face.

  He looked at the faces on the sheet once again, reading the names below each shot. Fairley, Grimshaw, McTaggart, Thomson, Raynor, Whitehead. It had to be one of those men. He drew out of the car park, grim faced, and turned in the direction of the M8, already calculating how long it would take to arrive at Barlinnie.

  ‘I’m sorry you didn’t find him more cooperative, Superintendent,’ McSherry said, his tone clipped, no offer on this occasion of tea or coffee for his unexpected visitor.

  ‘I’m telling you, it was one of these men!’ Lorimer insisted, slapping the page with the back of his hand.

  ‘But you haven’t been given a positive identification, have you?’ McSherry’s eyes were steely.

  ‘I saw his face. That was enough for me.’

  ‘Wouldn’t stand up in a court of law, though, would it?’

  The two men glared at one another and Lorimer knew a rare moment of defeat. The governor was bent on protecting his officers. At all costs? Perhaps he was protecting a lot more than that though. The reputation of his prison mattered since every slur against it would rebound on McSherry himself.

  He glanced down at the sheet still in his hand.

  ‘I’m not finished with this,’ he told the governor. ‘If you aren’t prepared to give me detailed information about each of these six men then I will be asking the Crown Office for a warrant to search their homes.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  The sunshine that had warmed the city for several balmy weeks disappeared behind a skein of clouds, its rays beaming down on the horizon like a benison from an unseen deity. Maggie Lorimer looked up at the sky and smiled, clasping a hand to her chest. It was more than she could have wished for. An exceptional way of storytelling, this particular editor had written to her agent; more please!

  And she would write more, her little ghost taking on a sense of reality in Maggie Lorimer’s imagination. They want to publish, I think, her agent had written. Just a matter of finalising the offer. Will be in touch soon. Might even come to a bidding war!

  Maggie thought of the agent’s email once again, scarcely able to believe the words. Little Gibby might appear on the bookshelves of her local library one day, she thought, eyes sparkling. Her wee ghost boy! Only Rosie had been taken into her confidence; even her best friend at school, Sandie, was not aware of the English teacher’s project. And, once a publisher had been found, a contract drawn up and signed, she would present Bill with her story as a fait accompli.

  The evening was still and Maggie watched as clouds of tiny flies hovered above the table in the garden where she sat, her glass of white wine half finished. A salad was already prepared and waiting in the fridge, some cold chicken and home-made coleslaw ready for their meal once Bill was home. Chancer strolled out and stretched then flopped onto the warm slabs of the patio. Somewhere in the shrubbery a blackbird called its warning but the old cat did not respond, happy to lie and doze, his hunting days pretty much at an end.

  Maggie smiled fondly at her pet. They had no real idea of how old Chancer might be since he had appeared one day as a stray, wandering into their lives and deciding in the way of cats that this was his home. Their next-door neighbours were kind enough to feed him whenever holidays took the Lorimers away, Maggie reciprocating by looking after their aquarium full of tropical fish.

  Perhaps she could write a different series of stories, Maggie pondered. Tales about cats, using Chancer as the main character? As if he had read her thoughts, the big cat looked up and mewed before flopping back down then rolling this way and that. Maggie bent to tickle the fur on his tummy, trying to think what life was like for the cat, imagining the world from his perspective. Wasn’t that what she had been teaching her seniors today? Keats’ ‘Ode to a Nightingale’ demanded a sort of understanding of how the poet empathised with the bird. Should she be trying to do the same with Chancer the cat?

  Maggie raised her eyebrows speculatively. Chancer the Cat. The alliterative effect pleased her. After all, he had been a cat given a second chance, hadn’t he? she thought, a story forming in her mind already.

  ‘Hi, I’m home!’

  Maggie shook herself out of her reverie in time to stuff the agent’s printed email into her skirt pocket and turned to see her husband coming through the open kitchen door.

  ‘Hey, beautiful,’ he murmured, bending to kiss her neck. ‘Any of that left for a poor, hard-working cop?’ he asked, glancing towards her wine glass.

  ‘In the fridge,’ Maggie replied sleepily. ‘Bring it out, eh? Wouldn’t mind a refill and it’s far too nice to go back indoors just yet.’

  Lorimer nodded. ‘Aye,’ he replied, looking up at the sky, the first vestiges of pink tingeing the slow-moving clouds. ‘Think it’ll be a cracker of a sunset.’

  Maggie smiled and stretched. The sun reappeared from the drift of apricot-coloured clouds and she turned her face up, relishing the warmth.

  It was good to have another warm evening in this crowded city, people spilling out onto the pedestrian areas where tables and chairs made for al fresco drinking. Music was everywhere, from the lone singer whose songs had made her stop and listen, his guitar playing better than she had expected from a street musician, to the rhythmic beat of dance music that floated from an open window high above the streets, and the taped sounds coming from inside the nearby restaurants. Juliana hesitated, the smells of grilled meats wafting from the open doorway. She was hungry but didn’t wish to draw attention to herself by stumbling over the words needed to order a meal, the thought of actually sitting alone at a table more than she could bear.

  For weeks she had been given food and clothing by the men who had kept her in that apartment, no need to think about where her next meal was coming from. But now Juliana Ferenc had learned to keep to the takeaways, her accent never once commented upon as she mumbled her order. Her feet took her along a now familiar street towards the big railway terminal and the chip shop where so many young folk hung around. The smell of greasy food hit her as she crossed the road but Juliana’s eyes were everywhere, on the people streaming past, the youths shouting on the pavement, the Big Issue seller crouched against the wall.

  She passed a Romany woman sitting on the street, headscarf on, hands reaching upwards, the obsequious expression in those dark eyes striking her heart. The girl wanted to stop, fling a few coins into the woman’s plastic cup, but she dared not for fear that someone else might be watching. Sometimes those women were part of a bigger operation, Juliana guessed, their protectors hovering around to lift any money gathered and later the women themselves, spiriting them away to goodness knows what hovel deep within this city.

  Uncle Pavol had said to wait for them here, in Glasgow. He would find her, he’d promised. But days were passing into weeks and Juliana feared that she was now alone here with no protection from the predators who sought a foreign girl like her. We will meet at the station, he’d insisted, take a train to London then go home. Home! Juliana felt tears start in her eyes as she imagined her own village, the sun setting behind the mountains, her friends calling for her to join them. They’d be running down the hill, hands linked, screaming with the carefree laughter of young girls who knew no evil in their lives. She pursed her lips. The things she had seen and done had destroyed any vestiges of her childhood; that old life now denied to her for ever.

  She sat on the metal seat in the main concourse, eating chips and black pudding sausage from the greasy paper, watching the people come and go, occasionally looking up at the timetable board as if to check a particular arrival or departure. It was sensible to play-act, she’d learned. Juliana knew that there were p
olice officers here, sometimes standing around in pairs, always watching the crowds coming and going. At first she had dreaded their glance but none had ever looked her way and gradually she had come to see them simply as young men and women in uniform, often chatting to each other, and, as she watched them, her imagination created relationships between them. They were there to help, not to hurt, she had decided after watching how they behaved towards the occasional drunk, smiles and consideration instead of the blows she had suffered at the hands of her captors.

  Juliana crunched up the empty packet and strolled back out of the station to find a bin. She looked up at the velvety sky. Night would be falling soon and she must make her way back to the tiny hotel across the city where no questions had been asked, only nods as she paid the nightly rate and took a fresh towel from the receptionist’s hand.

  He wasn’t coming, she decided. Something must have happened to Mario and Uncle Pavol and Juliana had no way of finding out what that was. The money he had shoved into her hand? Was it stolen, perhaps? And had he been caught? Juliana shivered, imagining the beatings an old man like Pavol could have received. But he’d managed to get her away before the raid began so surely he had escaped too?

  ‘All right, hen?’ A man leered at her, swaying towards her as Juliana stood at the edge of the pavement. She turned away, feigning disinterest so that he would take the hint, then, watching which way he crossed the road, she turned on her heel and walked swiftly in the opposite direction.

  This money would not last for ever, Juliana told herself. And in all the months that she had been in this country there had only been two ways of earning more. She looked down at her bitten nails. Tomorrow, she promised herself. She would find a decent nail bar and have a manicure then ask if there were any openings. She was good at threading, something she’d learned from her aunt, so perhaps she could find a salon where that particular skill was in demand.

  With that thought in mind, the girl walked uphill, towards her destination. She looked ahead, eyes on the evening skies streaked with crimson, promise of another fine day ahead.