Deadly Harm

by Owen Mullen

  Mackenzie made a right turn and headed towards Whitletts Road and Ayr town centre. Many of the women hadn’t been further than Lennoxtown in months and an excited murmur ran through the bus. Thanks to a Google search – one of the world’s greatest inventions for a time like this – Mackenzie knew where she was going and parked in Boswell Car Park.

  ‘Thought we’d take a look round the shops first, then go for a walk on the beach. That way we might miss the rain. Everybody up for that?’

  ‘Bit chilly for the beach, isn’t it?’

  Rita, of course.

  ‘Nonsense, it’s exactly what we need. Blow away the cobwebs. Afterwards we’ll go for fish and chips.’

  Caitlin fell in beside her.

  Mackenzie said, ‘How’s Sylvia doing?’

  Caitlin glanced over her shoulder to where Sylvia was walking by herself. ‘I’m worried about her. She didn’t say a word on the way down. She seems older today.’

  ‘Strange. Normally she’s at the centre of whatever’s going on.’

  ‘I tried to get her to talk, she wouldn’t, just stared out the window the whole time.’

  ‘All I can think is she’s had bad news of some kind.’

  ‘From her husband or her daughters?’

  ‘Yes. If I get a chance I’ll ask.’

  ‘Must be serious to have affected her like this.’

  They spent the next hour strolling up and down the main street, occasionally going inside to ask about something in the window; an everyday event had become a novelty. Predictably, Rita was the first to complain. ‘This is a bloody waste of time. Look at us. We’re like a band of marauding gypsies.’

  ‘The rest of us are enjoying it.’

  ‘You’re obviously easily pleased.’

  ‘No we’re not. We know when we’re well off.’

  ‘Well off? Nothing well off about it. I’m cold and I’m hungry.’

  Every time Rita opened her mouth, a complaint tumbled out. Why did she have to take the good out of everything? They were in a Scottish seaside town at the end of the season not New York or Hong Kong, but they were out in the world. Not how Rita saw it. Her voice grated in the afternoon air. ‘When’re we eating?’

  Mackenzie checked her watch. ‘It’s after one, so any time you like. If we don’t get to the beach first we might not get there at all. Sylvia, what do you think?’

  ‘Actually, I’m starving.’

  Some of the others nodded.

  ‘God, you’re a hungry lot. Thought Irene’s sandwiches would’ve kept you going for a while.

  Okay, we’ll eat now then go to the beach. Is that all right?’

  Nobody objected.

  According to the Internet, the Wellington Fish Restaurant on Sandgate was the best fish and chip shop in the town centre. Mackenzie sat beside Sylvia and Caitlin and Rita. Mackenzie rubbed her hands together. ‘I’m looking forward to this.’

  Rita said, ‘Couldn’t you have found somewhere larger? Hardly swing a cat in here.’

  ‘Be surprised if they let cats in.’

  The joke went over her head.

  Caitlin lifted a menu. ‘Okay, what’re we having?’

  Doreen couldn’t resist making an old joke. ‘Don’t know about anybody else, I’m having a whale and a bag of tatties.’

  ‘I asked them to give everybody the fish tea – fish, chips, peas, bread and butter. Gets rave reviews on TripAdvisor.’

  ‘That’ll do me.’

  Sylvia broke her silence. ‘And tea?’

  ‘Tea, of course. Nothing else goes with fish and chips.’

  Rita went to the toilet and Mackenzie spoke to Sylvia. ‘You’re very quiet. Sure you’re okay?’

  ‘I’m fine.’

  ‘No, you aren’t fine, Sylvia. What’s wrong?’

  The older woman refused to be pressured. ‘Don’t want to talk about it. Not here.’

  ‘You’ll tell me later?’

  Sylvia turned her head away.

  13

  Andrew Geddes was tired. Tired of coming face to face with the reality of the city he loved. He had no doubts about the identity of Kirsty McBride’s murderer – Malkie Boyle was responsible. Glasgow had more than its share of Malkie Boyles. More than anybody wanted to admit. Many of them only a bellyful of cheap wine away from going berserk and knifing some innocent bystander waiting for the last bus home. Not for the first time, the detective found himself questioning if this was really what he wanted to do with his life. He’d been here before and knew the empty feeling in the pit of his stomach would pass and he’d do what he’d done more often than he could remember – get on with the job of catching a killer.

  This one was different. A girl had met a violent death at the hands of a psycho, thanks to him. She’d been afraid and alone. He’d persuaded her she’d be safe if she did what he wanted her to do. On top of that, he’d selfishly dragged Mackenzie into his world.

  Realisation hit him. Christ! Somebody would have to tell her Kirsty McBride was dead.

  He would have to tell her.

  Geddes looked round the office and the unoccupied chairs. The detectives who hadn’t been called to a case were busy ploughing their way through the paperwork mountains in front of them. Bureaucracy had ruined the job. Endless hours filling in forms instead of making the streets safe places for women and children. He unlocked the left-hand bottom drawer of his desk and pulled it open. Cutty Sark wasn’t the DI’s favourite whisky – far from it – yet the green-glass bottle, ignored and forgotten for months on end, was where he turned in moments such as this, like a friend he was fond of but preferred not be seen with in public.

  His cup still held the remains of the God-awful coffee from earlier. Geddes tipped them into the waste paper basket at his feet and unscrewed the top off the bottle. What would come next was all too predictable – he’d pour a stiff one and drink most of it down in one go. The alcohol would hit his insides like a flash fire. His hand would close over his mouth to stop himself reacting to the searing heat. Then, almost immediately, he’d feel better. Without it he’d have had to quit years ago. But that was then. Now, a woman trusted him enough to let him in. Drinking like this would be a betrayal of that trust and he’d already betrayed one female today – the proof was lying in a crimson sea in Renfrew Street. The thought was enough to make him return the bottle to its home. Nobody saw him, or if they did, pretended they didn’t.

  Geddes attached a label to a Manila folder: Kirsty McBride. The next day – maybe even later that day – the statements made by the social worker and the neighbour would slip between the covers. And it would begin: a week from now, 10 x 8 photographs of Kirsty, in black and white and colour, taken from all angles, the sergeant’s initial report as well as his own and others added to Linda Adam’s findings, would thicken it. On a corkboard in a room upstairs, Boyle would stare at the detectives. Sullen and unreachable for as long as he remained free: a face every policeman in Glasgow – from the chief constable to the newest recruit – would come to recognise. Andrew Geddes had been there many times and knew only too well how it would go. In the end, the fact checking and cross-checking, the brainstorming and the tireless night-and-day searching, would count for little.

  Boyle would make a mistake or the investigation would get lucky.

  Whichever it was, Geddes hoped to Christ it happened soon.

  Geddes picked up the phone and rang the desk. ‘I need officers for a house search in Haghill. I’ll meet them at the front door.’

  Turnbull had known Geddes long enough to speak frankly. ‘Don’t think so. DCI wants to speak to you.’

  ‘Leitch?’

  ‘Arrived ten minutes ago.’

  ‘What the hell’s he doing in on a Saturday?’

  ‘Judging by his expression, he’s asking himself the same thing.’

  ‘When does he want me?’

  ‘Now.’

  The sergeant threw in a cautionary note. ‘Something or somebody’s hauled him off the golf course. I
f that somebody is you, keep it shut and take whatever he gives you. Doesn’t like you to begin with and the feeling’s obviously mutual.’

  Geddes was a hard man to help. ‘No idea what you’re talking about, Kevin.’

  The veteran policeman sighed; he expected no less. Andrew Geddes was a guy who went his own way. ‘Suit yourself. He’s waiting.’

  Geddes cursed and headed for the second floor.

  Detective Chief Inspector Hamish Leitch’s grandfather had been born in Ballachulish and died without once leaving the village. His grandson, an unsentimental man, visited his ancestor’s grave in St John’s Episcopal Church just once, finding it in the small cemetery almost immediately. Made from local slate, the name on the headstone had been as clear as if it had been carved the day before. Leitch’s father moved to Glasgow and joined the clergy – the old man was in a nursing home, on his knees by his bed every morning, even at eighty-eight, asking his god to forgive him for sins he’d never had the imagination to commit.

  His son hadn’t committed them either. He joined the police, dedicating his life to catching those who had, driven by beliefs with John Knox, the leader of the Protestant Reformation, written all over them – hard work, porridge and fear of the Lord. And they’d served him well.

  DCI Leitch was a natural born loner. When he smiled, a rare thing in itself, the right side of his mouth curled, making it look like he was sneering. A dour six feet three, his long face and over-large ears meant he’d never been handsome. Social occasions were avoided, especially where alcohol was involved and, though he wore a wedding ring, nobody had ever met his wife.

  Andrew Geddes couldn’t have been more different from his boss. His methods weren’t always in line with law enforcement norms, he didn’t believe God existed, and he liked a drink. If he hadn’t been an effective policeman, he wouldn’t have lasted two minutes in any unit the DCI headed up. Fortunately for him, he was. But there were limits.

  Those limits had been reached.

  Geddes knocked on the door and went in. His boss kept his eyes on the papers in front of him, shuffling without reading: a prop to disguise his mood.

  ‘You wanted to see me, sir?’

  Leitch lifted his head. ‘Not exactly how I would’ve put it.’

  Geddes edged into the room, his throat still raw from the stomach acid. Guessing what brought the DCI to Stewart Street on the weekend wasn’t difficult. The senior officer started with a question. ‘Can I assume you’ve opened a file on the death in Renfrew Street?’

  ‘You can, sir.’

  ‘Good. Pass it and anything else you have on to DI Jamieson.’

  For the second time that morning, Andrew Geddes was stunned. ‘Why?’

  Leitch glared at him. ‘Why, sir. Remember who you’re addressing, Detective Inspector. He’ll be taking over the case.’

  ‘I’ve just organised a search of the victim’s old flat.’

  ‘Jamieson will take care of it if he thinks it’s appropriate. His decision.’

  ‘You can’t be serious. Jamieson? Dennis the Menace?’

  The DCI took a deep, exasperated, breath. ‘I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that. As of right now he’s in charge. Any objections I suggest you put in writing. Better still, don’t bother. Keep them to yourself and let the rest of us get on with our jobs.’

  Geddes couldn’t take in what he was hearing. The least competent detective in the station was being given the Kirsty case. His nickname – Dennis the Menace – was earned. Putting him, of all people, on it was a mistake. The wisest course of action would be to do as he’d been ordered. This wasn’t a battle he could win.

  ‘Sir. May I speak frankly?’

  The DCI ticked an imaginary box on a sheet of paper. ‘Never known you do anything else, more’s the pity.’

  ‘I was the first DI on the scene. I saw what was done to the deceased. Statements have been taken from the neighbour who discovered the body and the social worker who arrived to make sure Kirsty – the victim – and her baby were all right. Door to door is in progress. I’ve also talked to the crime scene examiner. She–’

  Leitch cut him off, his anger barely under control.

  ‘Don’t insult my intelligence with half-truths. You contributed nothing. You weren’t in a fit state. The witnesses gave statements, yes, but not to you. Likewise, the house-to-house. You played no part in it.’ He shook his head. ‘Taking credit for somebody else’s work says a lot about a man, don’t you think?’

  The DCI leaned across the desk. Geddes could see every bleak line on his horsey face. ‘From what I’ve been told, you left the scene and came back just as the examiners got there.’

  His eyes stayed fixed on Geddes. ‘Have I been misinformed, Detective Inspector? Think carefully before you reply.’

  Andrew Geddes told the truth. ‘I knew her. I knew the dead girl. Seeing what had been done to her turned my stomach, so I took myself out of it. Under the circumstances, the best thing I could’ve done.’

  Leitch sat back in his chair. ‘How well?’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘How well did you know her?’

  Geddes sighed. This was going to end badly.

  ‘She was in an abusive relationship and was afraid to leave. She wouldn’t let Social Services look after her and her baby. I persuaded her.’

  ‘And she believed you?’

  ‘Unfortunately, she did.’

  The DCI scratched behind his ear. ‘One more reason to bounce you off the case. Personal involvement. Conflict of interest. Reads better than unfit for duty on your record when you put in for a transfer, which I expect you to do when this has blown over. Meanwhile, DI Jamieson will run the case.’

  Geddes tried again. ‘With respect, sir, I’ll put my record up against any detective in the building. This morning took me by surprise. What…’ He faltered at the memory of the bloody body on the bed. ‘Jamieson isn’t the right choice. He’ll fuck up.’

  ‘I disagree. And watch your language in front of me. I don’t appreciate it.’

  ‘His nickname around the station’s Dennis the Menace. You are aware of that, aren’t you? Nobody wants to work with him.’

  It sounded desperate even to Geddes. Sour grapes because he was effectively being demoted.

  ‘DI Jamieson is a well-respected officer. Bad-mouthing him tells more about you than it does about anybody else. Station gossip and personality clashes don’t interest me.’

  ‘Jamieson doesn’t have a personality to clash with. He’s a lazy bast… he’s lazy. Worse, he makes mistakes.’

  Leitch defended his decision. ‘God doesn’t ask us to be perfect, Geddes. None of us are, as your performance – make that non-performance – in Renfrew Street this morning clearly illustrates.’

  The argument had been lost from the beginning. Leitch’s mind was made up.

  ‘Okay. Give the case to somebody else if that’s how you see it. Just not him. He’s a Jonah.’

  The DCI was a church elder. The biblical reference infuriated him. ‘Watch it, Detective Inspector. You’re sailing close to the wind. Maligning the reputation of a fellow officer isn’t advisable. Especially in the light of your own inability to adhere to procedure. My advice would be to–’

  Geddes cut him off. ‘The child rape in Finnieston. They videoed the kid’s statement so she wouldn’t have to go through it again, then lost the bloody recording. Three copies should’ve been made as backup. It didn’t happen. Hardly a surprise. The case didn’t make it to the courts. That was Jamieson.’

  ‘This is outrageous. An internal enquiry cleared him and you know it.’

  Geddes stretched across the desk, his face inches from the DCI’s. ‘An internal whitewash, you mean. Somebody higher up didn’t fancy the publicity. Jamieson didn’t even get a reprimand.’

  Geddes wasn’t done. ‘Twice he’s got the address wrong and the accused walked. You can ask–’

  Leitch had heard enough. ‘Another officer’s conduct isn’t the issue.
Yours is.’

  He straightened in his chair. ‘I’ll overlook your behaviour because you’re upset and because we can’t afford to be a man down. But one more word. Just one more and it’ll be a disciplinary matter. Whether or not you realise it, I’m doing you a favour. Go home and don’t come back until you’ve got a hold of yourself. Do you understand? Dismissed, Detective Inspector.’

  The red mist cleared. Geddes was sweating, his hands were fists at his side. He’d come close to blowing his career. Maybe he had. Leitch considered himself a Christian but wasn’t known for forgiveness. His attention was back with the reports in front of him.

  At the door, the DI, foolishly, tried a final time. ‘Anybody, sir. Give the case to anybody except him. Kirsty McBride deserves better.’

  Leitch’s head came up slowly, his expression dark with rage. In all his years as a policeman, nobody had met his wife, seen him take a drink, or heard him swear. Andrew Geddes became an exclusive group: a group of one.

  ‘You never learn, do you, Geddes? Now fuck off before I do something I’ll regret. Take a telling. Go home.’

  The meeting on the second floor was supposed to be private. How could it be with two men shouting at each other? Word Geddes had been summoned by the DCI had gone round like a virus. He was a respected policeman, even if he wouldn’t win any popularity contests. Most of his colleagues rated him a top-class detective, responsible for closing any number of cases, including catching Dr Richard Hill, Scotland’s most prolific child serial killer. Geddes was aware the view wasn’t shared by everybody. His response was typical of him: everybody could go fuck themselves.

  He went back downstairs to silence. The same people who’d pretended not to see him swithering over the whisky bottle had, mysteriously, gone deaf. Geddes slumped into his chair, still raging at his humiliation. His boss had come close to having alcohol fumes breathed all over his teetotal face. After that, suspending him would be the next step towards the door – a twenty-three-year career ended in a morning. With his record and length of service, finding another job wouldn’t be a problem. But checking people going in out of some bastard fund manager’s country estate wasn’t Andrew Geddes. Working as a security guard was the last stop on the line. If monotony didn’t kill him, drink surely would. Nothing he could do about it – he’d be dead in a year.