Only the Dead Can Tell

by Alex Gray

  ‘It was Max back there,’ she began. ‘He was the one who set the place on fire. He wanted us to die there like—’ She stopped suddenly, a sob wrenched from her throat.

  ‘It’s okay,’ Molly said, ‘take your time.’

  ‘My mother . . . ’ Juliana began again. ‘She died in that other fire. My papa, too. When I was a baby . . . ’ The girl swallowed hard and took a deep breath, every officer around the table intent on her words.

  ‘Max was burned in that fire but he came out alive,’ she said. ‘The story was told about a miracle . . . ’ She shrugged a little. ‘I don’t know, it was like a . . . what do you say . . . something to be told to a child out of a book?’

  ‘A fairytale?’ Molly suggested.

  ‘Maybe,’ Juliana said. ‘We heard it sometimes. Then one day he comes back.’ She gave a shudder and Lorimer watched as Molly put a comforting hand on the girl’s arm.

  ‘They all said he was changed. His face . . . ’ She tailed off and shook her head. ‘It was all smooth and . . . and . . . he did not know how to smile,’ she stammered. ‘But they were happy for me to go away with him in the big bus, all of us girls off to Scotland to find work . . . make lots of money . . . ’

  Juliana looked around at the faces regarding her solemnly, turning at last to Lorimer.

  ‘I was there,’ he told her. ‘In Aberdeen. I saw what they did to you.’ He remembered the frightened face of the child he had wrapped in that grubby blanket. ‘We rescued many of the girls, perhaps some from your village. But you were not with them.’

  Juliana hung her head for a moment. ‘No. Uncle Pavol, he gave me their money. Lots of money . . . ’ she whispered. ‘I came to Glasgow and tried to find him but there was nobody at the place where he told me to go . . . ’

  There was silence as the girl sat, staring into her lap.

  ‘Then you met me,’ Molly said, encouraging Juliana to continue her story.

  ‘I was hoping for work, proper work. But they took me away before I could return to see you,’ she told Molly. ‘I thought you were somebody else, you said your name was Sasha . . . ’

  ‘What happened after you were taken?’ Lorimer asked, turning his attention to DC Newton.

  Molly described the darkened basement room and her attempts to escape, though Lorimer knew she was probably glossing over many of the more lurid details.

  ‘They came in a car, three of them,’ she said. ‘We managed to lock one into the cellar.’ She stopped and shuddered suddenly. ‘I knocked out the second man and left him lying on the floor . . . ’

  Lorimer watched as she closed her eyes for a moment.

  ‘And the third man?’

  ‘We couldn’t believe it,’ Molly said slowly. ‘He had a petrol can . . . then he set fire to the house as we watched from our hiding place high above, in a mass of rhododendrons.’ She turned to face the officers around the table. ‘He meant to kill them. And us. Who was he? Why did he do such a terrible thing?’

  The voice that answered did not come from Lorimer but from the Slovakian girl.

  ‘It was Max,’ she said simply. ‘I saw him. In that car, the one that took me away. He wanted to destroy me in another fire just like the one that burned my mother to death.’

  Professor Solomon Brightman looked out across the waving trees as a breeze blew amongst the lime green leaves. All of the pieces of the puzzle had come together at last, despite the knowledge that Max Warnock was still out there somewhere, a dangerous man hunted by scores of officers from Police Scotland.

  Mothers, he thought. Shirley Finnegan, the Ferenc mother, the Pettigrews . . . all different people with children who had gone astray in one way or another.

  He breathed in deeply, glad to know that one mother at least was safe from the fall-out of this case. Rosie had made the decision to go on maternity leave now and was at this moment resting at home, Morag, their beloved nanny, staying with her to look after Abby.

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

  Shirley was folding the last of the bed linen when the knocks came on her door, making her blood run cold for a moment. Only two sorts of people knocked loudly like that and right now she didn’t wish to see either of them.

  Then, to her horror, the sound of the letter box flapping and a male voice called, ‘Open up. Police.’

  Dropping the sheet in her haste, Shirley almost ran along the hallway and slipped on the door chain before unlocking her front door.

  Two strangers stood there, one very tall and dark, the other a foreign-looking bloke with a bushy beard and horn-rimmed spectacles.

  The warrant card thrust forward made Shirley drop her gaze and read the name. Lorimer. She looked up again.

  ‘May we come in, Mrs Finnegan,’ the tall one asked. It was not a question, Shirley realised, her hand already slipping off the chain.

  ‘Sorry ’bout the mess,’ she muttered, standing aside and letting the strangers into her home, a feeling of dread creeping into her very bones as she followed them into the living room.

  *

  Lorimer’s eyes took in the untidy room. There were bundles of laundry piled up on every spare piece of furniture, black plastic bags and cardboard boxes lined up against one wall. It looked at first as if someone had been packing but then he saw the piles of folded linen and the freshly laundered towels packed into open bin bags and a faint smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

  ‘You take in washing, do you, Mrs Finnegan? Sorry to bother you when you’re so busy,’ he began, his voice both polite and apologetic. He saw the colour heighten in the woman’s face. If his guess was correct, Shirley Finnegan was part of the entire scheme. Someone had to take care of the laundry for these pop-up brothels; a dry-cleaning business was too easy to trace and it probably saved them money keeping it in the family. His eyes scanned the rest of the room for any sign of another person living there, but it looked as if Shirley Finnegan was on her own.

  ‘Max keep you busy then, does he?’

  Shirley put one hand to her mouth and sank into the nearest armchair.

  ‘You see, we know that Max Warnock is your son, Shirley,’ Lorimer said softly, leaning forward so that he could catch the woman’s eye, hold her there as he spoke. ‘And we know that he’s been back here in Glasgow,’ he continued. His gaze flicked across the floor where the discarded sheet lay in a heap, then back to her face. ‘What’s all this then? Fresh laundry for his . . . ’ he hesitated, watching the woman’s tongue run across dry lips, ‘businesses, shall we say?’ He folded one leg across the other. ‘Yes, let’s call them that for the moment, shall we? Not brothels. Not nail bars. Not these sorts of words.’ He leaned forward further, making the woman shrink back into her chair. ‘No, we don’t want to call them that, do we, Shirley? Because that would be too hard for you to hear, wouldn’t it? Your only son mixed up in nasty stuff like that?’

  He let the question hang in the air. Watching the terror in the woman’s eyes.

  He saw her swallow hard then her eyes left his and flicked across to where Solly was standing.

  ‘No idea what you’re talking about,’ she said, her voice cracking. ‘Not against the law to do some washing, is it?’ But the man with the beard did not answer and she turned back to her inquisitor.

  ‘Max Warnock,’ Lorimer repeated. ‘Where is he, Shirley? We need to find him before anyone else gets hurt.’

  She gave a shrug. ‘Don’t know,’ she said, clasping her arms together across her stomach in a defensive gesture.

  ‘Oh, I think you do, Shirley,’ Lorimer declared. ‘Max left you to join the army, didn’t he? Turned up with his friend, Michael Raynor.’

  Lorimer noticed the tightening of the woman’s jaw, the narrowed eyes.

  ‘But not here, perhaps? At his Aunt Dorothy’s big house in St Andrew’s Drive.’

  The flash of anger on the fat face was answer enough. He’d guessed correctly. And so had Solly. ‘Did that hurt you, Shirley? Did it make you jealous that your boy preferred the company of his A
unt Dorothy?’

  For a moment there was a silence then a snake-like hiss issued from the woman’s lips.

  ‘You’ll never find him,’ she declared at last. ‘He’s far cleverer than any of you lot! Just wait and see.’

  Lorimer stood up and signalled to Solly to do the same.

  ‘Get your jacket, Shirley, you’ll be gone a while,’ he told her. He watched while the woman heaved herself up, grabbing a pack of cigarettes from the arm of her chair and shoving them into an open handbag.

  ‘I’ll take that for now,’ Lorimer told her, glimpsing the mobile phone inside.

  She shot him a venomous look and shoved past him, not caring that he followed her out of the room.

  They would take her into custody, try to wring the truth out of her, but as they escorted the woman from her shabby home, Lorimer had grave doubts about whether this particular mother would yield up any more information about her son.

  CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

  She would have to sign for them; it was the only way. If the chain of official signatures was broken then any case coming to court could be called into question. Every piece of evidence from a crime scene had to be bagged and tagged then written up and left in the secure room down in the depths of the Govan police building, a civilian in charge of entering the data and handling the items. And there had to be an official reason for Kirsty to take the pack of airmail letters and read them at her desk. Just asking DI McCauley might work, she thought. But he was so obsessed with the thought that the case was done and dusted, Guilford dead and gone, so the station rumour-mill had it, that she hesitated to ask.

  Besides, there was her sergeant’s interview at the end of this week and she needed to be squeaky clean going into that. Tampering with any of the evidence would result in instant dismissal, she reckoned. No, she would have to do this properly.

  Just then DS Geary passed and dropped her a wink. ‘Looking serious, young Kirsty. Anything I can do?’

  ‘Well, sir, as a matter of fact, there is.’ Kirsty looked up at his friendly face bending down towards her. ‘D’you remember when we went to the Guilford house in St Andrew’s Drive?’

  Geary grinned. ‘Not likely to forget that place in a hurry,’ he said. ‘What about it?’

  ‘I bagged a pack of airmail letters that I found next to the victim’s bed.’ She drew a quick breath. ‘Any chance I could retrieve them and have a look?’

  Geary stood up and frowned. ‘What for? McCauley’s pretty well closed that case as far as he’s concerned.’

  Kirsty bit her lip. ‘Lorimer . . . ’ she began.

  ‘Ah, something going on upstairs, is it?’ Geary winked at her. ‘You being seconded again, kiddo? Won’t do your interview any harm if that’s the case, eh?’ he laughed. Kirsty smiled and said nothing. It was true that she had been seconded to the MIT on a previous case but her investigation now was purely on the sidelines and certainly not along official channels, even though she might have had Lorimer’s blessing.

  ‘I’ll nip down and sign them out for you, shall I?’ Geary offered. ‘I can make a note that this particular production is needed for background material, that do?’

  Kirsty exhaled a sigh of relief. ‘Oh, yes, thank you,’ she said. ‘Thank you so much.’

  ‘Nae bother, first pint’s on you once it’s all over and you can spill the beans, right?’

  He gave her a slap on the shoulder and strolled off, whistling, no doubt anticipating a friendly get-together in the local pub where he could hear all about whatever was happening upstairs in the MIT, police gossip and stories being meat and drink to most officers everywhere.

  ‘Oh, sir . . . ?’ Kirsty was on her feet now and following the DS. ‘Any chance I could have them today?’

  Geary looked at his watch. ‘Get it for you later unless there’s a particular hurry?’ He looked at her anxious face. ‘Ah, like maybe yesterday was soon enough, that the way it is?’

  Kirsty nodded.

  ‘Okay, give me half an hour and I’ll see what I can do.’

  Kirsty imagined the DS stomping down the flight of stairs that led to the dimly lit basement where huge shelves of evidence were kept stored, the grim-faced woman in charge like the gatekeeper of Hades. Geary would be kept waiting while she retrieved the particular box he needed, watched while he signed out the packet of letters and dated it all in her ledger. Always hard copy, she’d remind them, although every single transaction was written up on her computer and stored in an alternative basement somewhere in the ether where neither moth nor worm could damage them.

  The half-hour had stretched into forty nail-biting minutes before Geary appeared again, a packet in his meaty fists.

  ‘There you are,’ he told her. ‘Sign below my name and don’t forget to obtain further signatures from anyone else who handles them, okay?’

  ‘Thanks.’ She beamed. ‘I mean, really. I owe you one, sir!’

  ‘Aye, too right, but maybe you won’t be calling me that much longer, eh?’

  And he walked off, leaving Kirsty with a feeling that his words were strangely prophetic. Perhaps by Friday they would be on equal terms, detective sergeants both. Or perhaps she would be contemplating her resignation from the force?

  Dear Aunt Dorothy,

  Life here goes on just as normal, if you can call this normal. Not the sort of life you’d be accustomed to, I bet. Anyway, let me tell you a bit about the countryside around the little town where we’re billeted.

  Kirsty read on, lines describing the gypsy town and the people that Max Warnock had met. No names but pen portraits of dark-haired folk and their different ways.

  He was a good letter writer, she’d give him that, Kirsty thought as she put down the first bluey, noting that the date had preceded the fire that had damaged Warnock’s face.

  Dear Aunt Dorothy,

  Sorry to leave this for so long but life here has been pretty full on. Met a nice girl and have taken her out a few times to a local bar. She seems quite keen on an officer in uniform. Must remember to wear mine when I come on leave to visit you.

  There was more about day-to-day life but no mention of Michael Raynor or anything that the military were actually undertaking in that part of Europe. No, Major Warnock was far too astute to let fall any crumb of information.

  Every letter was signed off in an affectionate tone:

  Your loving nephew,

  Max

  Kirsty sighed. Was this all a complete waste of time, after all? Had Max Warnock just written some casual stuff to entertain his lonely aunt? She flicked through the pack of letters, looking at the dates. Then she frowned. There was a huge gap between the first few letters and the rest. Looking at the dates, her eyes brightened.

  ‘After the fire,’ she whispered under her breath.

  Sure enough, several of the airmail letters bore a US mail stamp. Kirsty’s eyes gleamed. This would tie in with Warnock’s medical trips for reconstructive surgery.

  These letters were shorter and the style less chatty, the handwriting shaky as if the letter writer had difficulty in holding a pen.

  Dear Aunt Dorothy,

  Wish you were with me right now. Could do with a friendly face to keep me company. Can’t say much, just that I will not be back home for quite a while.

  You can write to me c/o the above address.

  Your loving nephew,

  Max

  Dear Aunt Dorothy,

  Please don’t worry. I had a bad accident overseas but everything will be okay, I promise. Sorry to hear that you’ve not been well. Is Peter doing all right with the business? Tell him to look after you.

  Your loving nephew,

  Max

  Dear Aunt Dorothy . . .

  Kirsty read on and on. Gradually the content of each letter increased and the handwriting became stronger, reflecting the recovery of the badly burned soldier. It was interesting, she thought, how often the man had asked questions of his aunt: What sort of vehicles did Peter hire out? Did she feel bette
r this week? Why was she thinking so much about death? Once he’d even joked . . . I was close to it myself but I’m still here . . . Don’t worry so much.

  And often he’d assured her, I’ll come and see you, I promise. Nobody’s going to hurt you . . .

  Kirsty rubbed her eyes, aware that she had been peering at the pages for hours now and the light in the room was becoming dimmer. It was like hearing a one-sided conversation and trying to fill in the other person’s words. What on earth had Dorothy Guilford written to her nephew that had elicited such questions about death and dying?

  She turned over another letter and saw that the next one was dated more recently. Lorimer would need to see these, she told herself. No doubt the MIT officers had some sort of a timeline for Max Warnock’s activities. But these looked as if they had been written long after his medical discharge. Had Dorothy assumed that Max was still in the forces? Had he conned her into thinking that his visits were to be few and far between? And only when it suited him, Kirsty thought suddenly. She squirmed restlessly in her seat, anxious to be off and present these to the man who had originally inspired her to become a police officer. But there were still several more letters to be read.

  As she scanned the lines on the final blue pages, Kirsty gasped. What on earth had Dorothy Guilford written to evoke such a response? Her gloved hands trembled as she read the words again.

  It made sense now, of course it did. Rosie needed to see these letters. But first she had to show them to Lorimer.

  ‘Sorry, the boss is unavailable right now,’ the female officer told Kirsty. ‘Can you come back tomorrow?’

  Kirsty bit her lip anxiously. ‘I’ve got a production from the Guilford murder . . . ’ she began. ‘I think it’s relevant to the trafficking case.’

  ‘You know about that?’ the woman asked.

  Kirsty nodded. ‘I’ve been doing a bit of background . . . er . . . research.’

  ‘Moonlighting?’

  Kirsty reddened. This sort of talk would do her career prospects no good whatsoever. ‘No, not really. Superintendent Lorimer asked me to help a little seeing as I was one of the officers at the scene of crime in St Andrew’s Drive,’ she explained.