Only the Dead Can Tell

by Alex Gray

  ‘Exactly. Did she have a single soul on earth she could confide in, apart from her doctors?’

  ‘Is that what you’d like me to find out?’ Kirsty asked, the reason for her visit becoming apparent.

  Rosie nodded. ‘You’ve met the cleaning lady. Did she give any indication that Dorothy used to chat to her? Who else might be her confidante?’

  ‘Women often talk to their hair stylist or spa therapist but I doubt if poor Dorothy ever indulged much in that sort of thing,’ Kirsty mused.

  She cast her mind back to the day when she and DS Geary had traipsed in and out of the rooms of the big empty house looking for evidence that might suggest a murder had taken place. The bedroom with its tidy surfaces, the prescription pills in the bedside cabinet . . .

  ‘Wait a minute!’ she exclaimed. ‘I do remember something. The blueys.’

  Rosie shook her head, clearly puzzled.

  ‘Blueys, that’s what Dad used to call them when my cousin Ruaraidh wrote from his posting overseas. The blue airmail paper,’ she explained. ‘I found a bundle of them in Dorothy’s bedside drawer, all tied up. Took them and bagged them as a production.’

  ‘What happened to them?’

  ‘Nothing, as far as I know. Geary found the insurance papers then DI McCauley reckoned that was enough to pinpoint Peter Guilford to the murder.’

  ‘So, you don’t know who sent them or whether it was someone Dorothy might have written to on a regular basis?’

  ‘Someone she could tell about her fears?’

  ‘Exactly,’ Rosie concurred. Then the pathologist smiled a winning smile. ‘Don’t suppose you could take a look at them for me, DC Wilson?’

  Solly watched as Abby threw handfuls of crumbs into the pond, the ducks gobbling eagerly and approaching them without the least fear.

  ‘Now, ducks, be good,’ Abby was telling them. ‘Don’t be so greedy,’ she scolded in a tone that made Solly want to laugh, she sounded so like Rosie. ‘It’s good to share.’ She nodded at the quacking birds that were now gathered at their feet. ‘Here, that’s it aaa-ll gone,’ she sang, flinging the last handful into the air and stepping back as the ducks rushed forward.

  Solly took his daughter’s hand in his and felt its warmth as they strolled along the path. They would walk as far as the bridge, see if they saw a flash of turquoise down below: kingfishers had been spotted there last week, the Bird Man had told them. But the psychologist’s thoughts was not really on these or any other birds but on the questions that had gathered in his mind since that conversation back on his front door steps.

  What had happened to Shirley’s child? Had she kept him after her marriage to Finnegan? And if so, where was the boy now? Solly blinked as a pair of pigeons swooped low overhead, making Abby dance on the spot with glee. He’d be much older, surely? The woman had been thrown out as a teen, and was middle-aged now. And, what had happened to the child’s father? The old doctor had told Rosie that he had fled the scene and joined the army. Michael Raynor and Max Warnock had been soldiers, too. Was this a link that hadn’t yet been made?

  ‘Abby,’ Solly kneeled down and took his daughter’s hands in his, ‘would you like to come with Daddy to visit a different park?’

  ‘Are there ducks?’ Abby asked, her eyes widening.

  Solly smiled, wondering if Maxwell Park was going to prove a disappointment or not. ‘I don’t know, darling. Shall we take a taxi there and see?’

  Donald John McDougall was going to be at home and yes, it was no trouble to bring the little girl, he assured Solly. The old doctor put down the telephone and looked into the distance. The celebrated psychologist wanted to talk to him about Shirley Pettigrew and her background, particularly about her son. Could he help?

  He hadn’t said why but Donald John guessed it had more to do with the death of Dorothy Guilford than the birth of her nephew.

  *

  Abby was asleep by the time the taxi drew up outside the house and Solly had difficulty paying the driver as he struggled with the little girl against his shoulder.

  ‘Professor Brightman . . . oh . . . ’ Donald John stepped aside as he saw the bearded man, the child fast asleep in his arms. ‘Just lay her on the settee,’ he whispered, beckoning Solly to follow him through the house and into a bright conservatory.

  He handed a fleece rug to Solly who tucked it around the sleeping child then the two men stood, regarding one another.

  ‘Professor . . . ’

  ‘Solly, just call me Solly,’ he said.

  ‘Donald John,’ the doctor replied, giving the psychologist a firm handshake. ‘I’m bursting with curiosity to know what’s behind all of this.’ He lowered his voice in case he woke the professor’s daughter. ‘Please, take a seat.’

  ‘It concerns Shirley Pettigrew’s son,’ Solly told him, sitting next to Abby. ‘I wondered if you could tell me what became of him.’

  Donald John’s bushy white eyebrows lifted for a moment as he considered the question.

  ‘Well now,’ he began. ‘He was a healthy enough baby. And I should know.’ He chuckled. ‘Delivered him myself. Local hospital had what they called a GP Unit back in those days.’

  ‘And she kept the boy?’

  ‘She did, though it can’t have been easy for her. On benefits, in a rented flat near Ibrox, nobody to give her a helping hand. It was shocking, really, the way those people washed their hands of her,’ Donald John remarked. ‘Even back then being an unmarried mother didn’t carry too much of a stigma. But they were fiercely against anything that smacked of immorality, that pair.’

  ‘The Pettigrews?’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘And Dorothy? Didn’t the girl want to see her sister’s baby?’

  Donald John’s eyes clouded for a moment. ‘Hard to say. Most wee girls want to be around babies, don’t they? But I was never sure about Dorothy. She was always a strange one, even as a child . . . ’

  ‘They were still your patients, even when they moved to Ibrox?’ Solly asked.

  ‘Oh, yes. She kept the boy with her. Married that ne’er-do-well, Paddy Finnegan, some time later. Moved away to Castlemilk once the boy upped sticks and left home.’

  ‘So you don’t know what happened to them after that?’

  Donald John grinned. ‘Oh, that’s where you’re wrong. Finnegan was a right waster. A drunk. Died of cirrhosis eventually and Shirley moved back nearer home. She told me all about it. The boy was long gone by then, Shirley completely on her own.’

  ‘Do you know what happened to the son?’

  ‘It was a sad story. But all too common. Finnegan resented the child. He was a bright wee lad, clever at school, apparently. Left home as soon as he turned eighteen. He joined up,’ Donald John mused. ‘Just like his father before him.’

  ‘And did he ever come back to help his mother?’

  The doctor shook his head. ‘Not as far as I know. Think he resented the fact that his mother had chosen the Finnegan fellow over him. Strange boy, as I recall. Very bright, as I’ve said, but quite intense.’

  ‘And you never saw him again after the father’s death?’

  The old doctor shook his head. ‘He may have been reconciled with Shirley, who knows? She’s a poor creature herself, these days,’ he continued vaguely.

  Solly simply nodded. It would not be professional of the doctor, retired or not, to comment on the medical history of one of his patients.

  ‘Ach, who knows what good it would do her anyway to have Maxwell back into her life,’ Donald John said at last, shaking is head wearily.

  ‘Maxwell?’

  ‘That’s what she called the child,’ the doctor chuckled. ‘The local gossip was that he had been conceived one night in Maxwell Park. Of course,’ he went on, unaware of the psychologist staring at him intently, ‘we just knew him as Max.’

  Solly and Donald John strolled around the edge of the pond, Abby clutching their hands, sometimes asking to be swung off her feet. It had been a rewarding afternoon, Solly th
ought as they circled the pond, a few mallards swimming in and out of the water lilies that were opening up to the sunshine. The doctor had remembered Archie Warnock, one of his own patients, when his parents had come to live in Glasgow for a time. He’d been an only child, a bit spoiled, Donald John remembered. But it was interesting that Shirley had given her baby his name, despite the fact that he’d abandoned her.

  The sound of a diesel engine made both men look up.

  ‘Think that’s our taxi,’ Solly said, letting go of Abby’s hand for a moment and shaking the outstretched hand. ‘Thank you for all of this. It’s information that may be crucial to an ongoing police investigation.’

  ‘Oh, that’s all right.’ Donald John smiled. ‘Happy to make a proper statement if it helps. I’ve enjoyed our little chat. And seeing you, young lady.’ He nodded at Abby.

  ‘Say bye-bye and thank you for the biscuits,’ Solly told her.

  ‘Thank you.’ Abby smiled shyly and ducked her head against her father’s legs.

  ‘Say hello to that wife of yours and make sure she rests,’ Donald John told Solly as he waved them off.

  Solly looked back as the figure became smaller and smaller, the man silhouetted by the brightness behind him, one arm aloft in a farewell salutation.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  Max Warnock might have agreed that he was a patient man. It had taken years now for his idea to become a reality and he was not one to let it slip through his fingers too quickly. He had them now, both of them in fact, the girl and that interfering woman from the nail bar. It had been a risk keeping the place open for so long but it had worked in the end and the Ferenc girl was now his to do with as he liked. The moment they had taken the other one the whole place had been shut down, of course, the other girls sent packing to different parts of the city.

  Michael had made a good job of that, Max told himself, grudgingly. He might be big and brawny but Mike Raynor had one other outstanding quality: obedience. It was an admirable quality in some situations but it would prove to be the man’s undoing once he had outlived his usefulness. At least he had managed to finish Guilford off this time, he thought, though the peripheral damage was going to mean far more police interference. No, despite what he had done for him, Raynor had to be sacrificed. He knew too much and was already showing signs of wanting more than his promised share.

  His mind turned again to the fire. The crackling sounds had been almost as fearsome as the heat and the pain. She’d held him tightly, screaming in his ear, trying to save herself, he remembered. If he’d managed to shake her off, perhaps he might have escaped . . . The memory faded but the pain lingered, a stiffness in his face, an inability to perform like a man . . .

  Let her rot in hell! Maybe she was in a place where fires burned her for eternity.

  His mouth twitched a little, an excuse for a grin.

  Soon he would have his revenge and it would be all the sweeter for knowing how it would have hurt her.

  The first sign that they were no longer alone made Molly sit up suddenly, ears straining to hear more. There was the sound of a car engine, then silence as though it had stopped close by the building. And, was that voices? She pressed her ear to the crack in the doorway, listening. Men’s voices.

  She turned to Juliana and drew her closer, nodding.

  It was time.

  Somewhere a door banged shut and then footsteps came downstairs, closer and closer.

  Molly gripped the chair, ready for whoever was coming.

  The sudden light streaming into the darkness let her see the figure entering the room; it was the same man who had grabbed her in that lane.

  She raised the chair and heard it crashing down on his head, knocking him to the floor.

  ‘Run!’ she yelled and Juliana dashed past her, heading for the stairs.

  The man was getting back onto his feet, one hand to his head, feeling the blood. Then, with a roar he launched himself at Molly.

  Years of practice made her quicker on her feet than this lumbering man.

  She ducked then side-stepped, pushing past and slamming the door fast behind her. It was with a steady and determined hand that Molly Newton turned the key, hearing it click as it locked.

  Inside the darkened room she heard the yells as he beat his fists against the door.

  ‘See what it’s like being a prisoner, now,’ Molly whispered grimly, blinking as the unaccustomed daylight hit her eyes.

  At the top of the stairs she met the girl crouched against a wall, shivering with cold or fear.

  ‘We need to get out,’ Molly told her urgently. ‘But there may be other men around. Can you remember if there was a back door?’

  Juliana shook her head so Molly took the girl’s hand and led her through the deserted house, creeping softly, keeping as close to the walls as they could.

  Soon they entered what appeared to be a huge kitchen, the sort that Molly remembered from farmhouse holidays in her childhood. Old pots and pans dangled from hooks in the ceiling over a large wooden table where a drawer was half open, revealing an assortment of kitchen implements. There might be something worth grabbing there, she thought, a knife, perhaps? But no blade glinted amongst the tools.

  The noise of a car door banging made them both stop and stiffen.

  ‘Someone’s coming . . . ’ Juliana began.

  ‘Shhh,’ Molly implored. Then she moved swiftly, pulling out the drawer a little more and grabbing a white marble rolling pin.

  She motioned the girl to follow her to the space behind the kitchen door then waited, one fist grasping the makeshift weapon.

  There was a sound of heavy footsteps on the flagstone floor. Then the door where they hid creaked open a little more.

  ‘Raynor? Have you got them yet? Which one am I having?’ a voice called out.

  As soon as he entered the room, Molly swung the marble baton across the man’s skull, felling him.

  Juliana grasped her sleeve. ‘Have you killed him?’ she gasped, looking up at Molly with shock in her eyes.

  Molly shook her head though in truth she did not know whether the inert figure sprawled at her feet was dead or alive.

  ‘We need to get out,’ she hissed. ‘Come on!’

  The back door to the kitchen was unlocked and opened easily. Molly stepped outside, head forward, listening intently, looking all around. Wherever that car was parked there was no sign of it at this side of the house. Straight ahead was a patch of shrubbery across a grassy path, overgrown rhododendrons with trailing branches.

  ‘This way,’ she whispered, pulling the girl along. She crouched down and on all fours scrambled under the bushes, creeping on the damp earth, desperate to hide from any prying eyes.

  The tangled branches made an ideal refuge, full bushes hiding them perfectly as they made their way deeper and deeper into the undergrowth.

  The ground rose a little as they crawled and Molly felt the softness of turf under her fingernails as she inched slowly forward, desperate to keep as silent as possible. Then the leaves parted and she could see the sky above, a bowl of shining blue.

  They had climbed higher than she had realised as they emerged from the bushes and looked back down on the old building, probably a deserted farmhouse. A car was parked to one side, its front door open. Molly sat absolutely still. She could see but not be seen, peeping through the topmost leaves of the extensive shrubbery. Rhododendrons might be an invasive species, she thought with a wry grin, but their sprawling habit had saved them from detection.

  She turned to look at Juliana as the girl tugged her arm.

  Then, at that moment a figure emerged from the back of the car and she ducked down again, a warning finger to her lips. From their position up here it was impossible to tell who he was but Molly watched as he walked around the car then opened the boot and took out a heavy object.

  ‘That’s him,’ Juliana whispered. But one look from Molly silenced her, both women now concentrating on what was happening below.

  Max
Warnock was carrying a can in one hand, the weight of it making him lean slightly to one side. Then he disappeared out of sight.

  Now was the moment to flee or remain motionless, hidden deep within the bushes. Silence would be their friend, Molly decided, motioning her companion to stay as still as possible.

  For several minutes nothing happened. Had he found the other men? Was he even now kneeling beside the one she had whacked? He would surely be aware that they had escaped, so sitting tight was definitely their better option; to make any noise would alert him to their hiding place.

  She frowned, puzzled, as he appeared beneath them and paused outside the back door, evidently locking it up. But why? Didn’t he know the other men were inside? Had he not found that the prisoners had made their escape?

  Her heart beat loudly, the questions making Molly stare silently as he walked around the side of the farmhouse and out of their sight.

  Waiting was the hardest thing to do but all of Molly Newton’s training told her that she should stay still and not move a muscle until this man presented no further danger to them.

  The smell was what hit them first, a pleasant woody whiff of smoke. Then a crackle as a fire began somewhere out of sight. But not for long.

  Molly’s eyes widened as she saw the flames rip up the side of the old farmhouse. Where was Warnock? And had that been a petrol can in his hand?

  The figure of a man running made her stiffen in fear. But he headed for the car and she watched as it drove off along the rutted track, then stopped, fifty yards or so from the house. She saw a glint of sun shining off the window as he rolled it down and realised with a sudden shock that he had stopped to watch the fire.

  He had heard a distant drumming of fists against the cellar door and grinned. These women would be trying to fend off Raynor and his driver, a man whose name he had never bothered to learn. Then, without even looking inside, Warnock had turned the keys in the lock. The front door was also secured and then the fun part began as he walked slowly around the side of the house where an old woodpile was stacked. It had been one of the first things he’d seen all those weeks ago, the grain of his idea planted. Wood and fire, smoke and death . . .