Deadly Harm

by Owen Mullen

  Her death ended any chance of a relationship with Andrew Geddes; he’d realised it too. Neither of them said it out loud – they wouldn’t see each other again. It was over before it had ever really started. And he was right, he’d failed. They both had.

  How could you be with someone knowing they were responsible for an innocent girl’s murder? How could they be with you?

  The rain left the air cool and fresh, as if the world had been washed clean. Most of the women had gone to bed early, tired and happy. Sylvia and Mackenzie were the exceptions; they hadn’t come down for dinner. Caitlin felt sorry for the older woman. She’d tried to talk to her again but Sylvia hadn’t been ready and started crying – heartbreaking to watch. She apologised for pushing her on the beach. ‘I’ve never told you, you’re so like my youngest daughter, and when you took my arm it was like her. I was angry. I’m so sorry.’

  Caitlin had hugged her until the tears stopped. And now Mackenzie was upset too. Caitlin had gone to her room to talk about Sylvia and found her face down on her bed, breaking her heart. She wouldn’t tell her what was wrong and Caitlin assumed she’d had a row with Andrew. It had been difficult with Sylvia, but watching her new friend weep, powerless to help, was worse. Mackenzie was the rock the rest of them leaned on.

  In the garden, with the shadow of the refuge behind her, Caitlin drew hard on the cigarette between her lips and blew the smoke through her nose in a slow stream. The crowd in the minibus laughing and joking had been great and given her a lot to think about. She’d been living there for over a month now and was starting to realise what “normal” looked like. Ayr was an important step in building shattered confidence. It had been fun. Even Rita – though she’d never admit it – enjoyed herself. Everyone, in fact, except the usually irrepressible Sylvia.

  Caitlin flicked a length of grey ash off the end of her cigarette, thinking about Sylvia. How traumatic to have life as you’ve known it turned upside down at her age. What kind of courage did it take to come back from that? Everybody had problems. Just when you imagined you were safe, they could appear and blow you out of the water. She lit a second cigarette and stubbed the first one under her shoe into the gravel. An owl hooting in the trees beyond the greenhouse startled her and her fears came rushing in. She chided herself. Was this how it was going to be? Jumping any time she heard a noise? Surely not.

  No, she was edgy because of Sylvia and Mackenzie.

  Caitlin’s thoughts moved to her own situation. She lifted her eyes to the yellow moon over the hills. Her husband would move heaven and earth to find her, but in four and a half weeks he hadn’t. Maybe he’d given up. Forgotten about her.

  Perhaps she really was safe.

  safe as houses

  An owl rose from a branch above Peter Sanderson into the night sky. He’d been in among the trees for hours, confident that sooner or later, his wife would appear.

  The journey from Ayr had been tricky in more ways than one, especially the last part – out in the country, the only vehicles on the road and nowhere to hide. Easy to spot if anyone was paying attention. It seemed nobody was. Six miles from the coast, near Kilmarnock, the rain had come on in earnest and the wipers struggled to clear the windscreen. Water gathered in pools, dragging the car towards the verge. He’d reduced speed, turned off the radio and tightened his grip on the steering wheel. Ahead, the minibus drove steadily into the torrent while a fool in the outside lane overtook it. Sanderson stayed well behind, his eyes on the wet road.

  Running into her out of the blue was a game changer.

  Crossing the Kingston Bridge, the sky began to clear. Sanderson saw it as an omen. Caitlin was his wife. He didn’t intend to let her go. Ever.

  The minibus headed east on the M8 and he assumed it was going to Edinburgh until it turned off and headed towards Kirkintilloch. The voice – the one that had encouraged him to put a thousand pounds on the first favourite – assured him he could handle this.

  Somewhere between Lennoxtown and Strathblane, the minibus turned down a narrow lane. Instinctively, he tapped the brake and held back. They were almost there. Had to be. He stopped at the side of the road, got out and walked. It wasn’t long before he got his reward. The bus was parked behind a car at the side of a sandstone house. Another car was at the gate with two people inside, busy talking; they didn’t notice him. By the looks of it, Caitlin had joined some hippy commune in the middle of nowhere, become one of the happy-clappy brigade. That explained why he hadn’t been able to find her.

  Sanderson returned to his car and drove slowly past the house. She’d blagged her way in here, the last place anyone would think to look for her. Clever girl. He parked further down out of sight on the grass verge and circled the house on foot. From trees in the field at the bottom of the garden, he saw figures through the kitchen window. She would be one of them.

  Peter Sanderson was a man of few virtues – patience was one of them. The first race would be starting at Shawfield. Too bad. There would be other nights. He knew his wife’s habits well. Every night she had a last cigarette. He leaned against a low-lying branch wet with rain and settled down to wait.

  Caitlin heard the beating wings and saw the white flash of the owl’s belly in the moonlight as it hovered in the sky over the field next to the refuge. The bird dived then soared with something in its claws, probably a mouse – they were in the country after all, plenty of them about. In nature, the rules of the game were clear. Nothing harsh. Nothing cruel. Only survival.

  She picked her way across the lawn towards the greenhouse, chuckling quietly to herself.

  ‘Bloody philosophical tonight, aren’t we?’

  A noise from the trees made her stop. The owl might be back, or a cat with the same idea.

  Normally, she limited herself to two cigarettes before bed. Tonight, she felt like a third and tapped one from the packet into her palm. The lighter flared amber and blue in the darkness. Caitlin bent her head to meet it, already savouring the smoke in her lungs. Suddenly a hand closed round her throat and she was thrown to the ground. Peter Sanderson stood over her, grinning the way she remembered.

  ‘Enjoy your paddle, did you? Pity the rain came on and cut it short. Looked like you were having fun with your friends.’

  Caitlin was too shocked to speak, fear like she’d never known welled in her. Peter dragged her to her feet with one hand and punched her in the stomach with the other. She doubled in pain and fell.

  ‘That was for the Merc.’ He licked his lips. ‘Have you missed me? Bet you have.’

  His fist drew back ready to strike again. ‘This is for the money you stole.’

  She knew what was coming, dropped to the ground and crawled on her hands and knees on the wet grass.

  ‘Don’t know where you think you’re going.’

  He kicked her, sending her sprawling and put himself between her and the house. Caitlin tried to shout for help. No words came.

  Sanderson was enjoying himself. ‘Forget it. Say goodbye to your dyke pals some other time. You’re coming with me.’

  He hauled her towards the road on the other side of the refuge, his nails digging into her arm, biting to the bone. If he succeeded, God alone knew what he’d do to her. The pain was unbearable yet no sound escaped Caitlin’s bloodied lips. Sanderson hit her again on the temple and her vision blurred. A rushing noise filled her head – she was going to pass out. He released his grip and she fell.

  Sanderson mocked her. ‘You really are a stupid fucker, aren’t you?’

  Behind him, every window was blacked out. No-one was coming to save her.

  ‘The easy way or the hard way? Up to you.’

  Caitlin panted. ‘Okay. Okay. All right.’

  He reached to help her to her feet, satisfied he’d won. When he got her home he’d show her what winning meant.

  In desperation her free hand searched the ground for something – anything. Her fingers closed around a rock that edged the beds; rough and cold and welcome against her palm. Eve
ry ounce of strength in her body went into the blow, catching him on the side of his head. He staggered and fell and she was on him, crashing the stone against his face.

  Even after he was dead she kept on, growling like an animal, teeth clenched like a savage with his blood on her face.

  Finally, the rock slipped from her grasp and she collapsed, sobbing, unable to comprehend her husband lying on the grass with his face obliterated.

  A noise startled her and Mackenzie said, ‘What the hell’s going on?’

  The second priority was to get rid of the car. The first was to find out where Peter Sanderson had left it.

  They came across it parked further down the lane on the grass verge, not even locked. The next challenge was dumping it far away from the refuge. The women were exhausted from digging the grave. Emotionally, they were worse. Driving anywhere was the last thing they wanted. But it had to be done.

  As quietly as they could, they went to their rooms, changed into jeans and trainers and met up again in the kitchen. Mackenzie was wearing gloves and holding two anoraks. She handed the white-faced Caitlin one of them. ‘If we pull the hoods up and keep our heads down, CCTV cameras won’t be able to tell if we’re men or women. I’ll drive his car so you can’t be connected to it.’

  Caitlin shook her head. ‘I can’t. I can’t do this.’

  ‘Of course you can. We don’t have a choice.’

  ‘We should’ve gone to the police.’

  Mackenzie put a hand on her shoulder. ‘Listen to me. You didn’t cause this. You didn’t call it in. He came for you. Attacked you. And he’s dead. Now, we have to protect you.’

  ‘I’m not sure I can drive.’

  ‘You’ll be fine. Stay behind me.’

  ‘Where’re we going?’

  ‘Speirs Wharf.’

  ‘Port Dundas. Why there?’

  ‘People come and go all the time. During the day it’s impossible to park. At night, when the businesses close, it’ll be easier. The car won’t be noticed.’

  ‘How far is it?’

  ‘Not far. We’ll be back in an hour.’

  Every breath, every footstep, seemed to echo in the quiet. The car engines were like cannons going off. Somebody had to hear. Caitlin followed Mackenzie onto Campsie Road, emptying her mind, concentrating on the red taillights in front of her. They passed through a deserted Bishopbriggs without meeting another vehicle. On Craighall Road, Caitlin drew up and watched Mackenzie turn right into the former grain store converted into flats on the banks of the Forth and Clyde Canal.

  Mackenzie drove slowly over the cobblestone, past the houseboats moored alongside, and parked in an empty bay at the far end. She locked the door and walked back, careful to keep her face hidden under the anorak’s hood. At the end, she dropped the keys into the water and went to where Caitlin was waiting. When she got in Caitlin was afraid to look at her. They didn’t speak. Further down at the roundabout, she turned and headed back the way they’d come.

  The clock on the dashboard glowed twenty minutes to three. The man who’d attacked Caitlin was in the ground, his car was miles from where he’d died.

  Was it enough?

  Mackenzie prayed it would be.

  19

  They sat at the big wooden kitchen table, drinking cocoa from white mugs Mackenzie found in a cupboard when she’d bought the place. In the background, the washing machine churned through its cycle cleaning the clothes they’d had on. Caitlin was wearing the faded pink dressing gown given to her the night she arrived at the refuge with nothing.

  Mackenzie stood with her back against the sink in T-shirt and pants. She brought the half-bottle of whisky from a drawer in the Welsh dresser and offered it to Caitlin. Caitlin refused.

  ‘Take it. It’ll calm you down.’

  Reluctantly, she put it to her lips and took a sip.

  ‘Not like that. A real drink.’

  ‘I don’t like it.’

  ‘Doesn’t matter what you like. After what you’ve been through, you need it.’

  The alcohol numbed her gums and set her throat on fire, but she felt better. ‘Do you think anybody heard?’

  ‘No, we got away with it. For now, at least.’

  ‘God, I want to believe that.’

  Mackenzie pointed to the bruise on Caitlin’s forehead. ‘If anybody asks about that, say you tripped in the dark. There’s no reason for them not to believe you. Tell me what happened.’

  The second mouthful went over easier than the first. ‘I was having a last cigarette out in the garden, like I always do before I go to bed. The moon was over the fells. It was beautiful and I was remembering what a great day we’d had.’ She choked back tears. ‘He must’ve been there watching me the whole time.’

  A noise in the hall outside made her stop talking. The door opened and Sylvia came in.

  ‘Sorry. Needed a drink of water. Didn’t know anybody else was up. Can’t sleep.’

  Mackenzie smiled. ‘No problem, we couldn’t sleep either.’

  Sylvia filled a tumbler from the tap. On her way out, she said, ‘Sorry again.’

  When she’d gone, Caitlin continued. ‘He must’ve been hiding in the trees, waiting for me.’ Her fingers closed over the lighter and the packet of Benson and Hedges in her pocket. ‘Do you mind if I smoke in here?’

  Mackenzie did mind. That wasn’t what she answered. Caitlin’s hand shook so badly it took three attempts to get the cigarette started. ‘He was choking me. I couldn’t breathe. And I knew he’d come to kill me. Suddenly, there was a rock in my hand. I hit him with it and he fell.’ She shuddered. ‘I wanted to run except there was nowhere to run to. Then you came along.’

  ‘I told you, you were defending yourself.’

  ‘Maybe we should’ve called the police. Tried to explain. Make them believe me.’

  Mackenzie screwed the top back on the bottle without taking a drink herself. ‘Would you? I mean, a dead man in the garden’s bad enough. But beside a half-dug grave?’

  The questions came, frightened and frantic. ‘And you’re certain we did the right thing with the car?’

  ‘The best we could do in the circumstances.’

  ‘You think we’ll be all right?’

  ‘So long as nobody decides to dig behind the greenhouse.’

  The answer was flippant, meant to defuse the panic rising in the woman across the table. In truth, Mackenzie wasn’t sure of anything except that she was as much to blame as anyone. Calling the police would’ve been the wiser option. Caitlin could’ve told them her story and taken her chances. In the moment, it felt like abandoning her.

  Half an hour and a couple of whiskies later, colour was back in Caitlin’s cheeks. On the table, a saucer overflowed with ash and cigarette butts. She blew a cloud of cigarette smoke into the air. ‘Seeing me like that must’ve been a shock for you.’

  ‘You could say.’

  ‘Most people would’ve just called the police.’

  ‘Would they?’

  ‘Yeah, they would. You didn’t. Why?’

  Caitlin knew nothing about Kirsty McBride. Mackenzie wasn’t about to tell her, the shame was too much. ‘The refuge is supposed to be a safe place, and it was, until he came after you.’

  ‘You still could’ve called them.’

  ‘No, I couldn’t.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I just couldn’t.’

  Caitlin said, ‘And what you did… don’t know how, but I’ll pay it back someday.’

  Alone in the kitchen, Mackenzie looked out of the window at the grey dawn streaked with red breaking over the hills and the garden where Peter Sanderson was buried. They’d made a decent job of covering their tracks, flattening the earth behind the greenhouse. Nobody went down there and if they did they’d see nothing out of place.

  If she hadn’t known...

  But she did know.

  And it terrified her.

  She washed the glass Caitlin had used under the tap and put it and the whisky back in th
e Welsh dresser; the simple task brought a kind of peace. Short-lived. Mackenzie slumped into a chair, cradling her head in her hands. What were the chances of getting away with what they’d done? They were amateurs making amateur mistakes – like not burying the body somewhere else. Somewhere far from the refuge. Like not covering up the number plates on her car. CCTV cameras would have no difficulty identifying… she stopped. No good lay down that road. In the heat of the moment, they’d panicked. Now the threat of it being discovered would always hang over them. With no time to think or plan, Speirs Wharf was as good a place as any to dump Sanderson’s car. Eventually, some eagle-eyed resident would notice it hadn’t moved. Questions would be asked. So long as they remained unanswered everything would be fine. If they led here, finding the body wouldn’t be difficult – sniffer dogs would show them where to dig – identifying it even easier. Between them they’d put the future of the refuge and the women who depended on it in danger.

  Tears welled in Mackenzie’s eyes. For a minute she couldn’t stop them falling. The previous day’s good feelings were a dream: the drive to the coast with a bunch of chattering females; surreal images of Irene and Caitlin and Doreen paddling in the cold sea; blinded by the storm and the rain hammering the windscreen; eventually outrunning it.

  Mackenzie remembered the car overtaking them and the one that held back all the way to the city. At the time she’d thought nothing of it, assuming whoever was behind the wheel was being cautious in the difficult conditions. Wrong, so very wrong. It had been him, coming to finish what he’d started.

  Then, arriving home and Andrew waiting for her with the pain of the burden he was carrying on his face and shadows at the corners of his eyes. She could still hear the sorrow in his voice as he delivered his news and the awful moment whatever feelings they might have had died, and they were strangers unable to look at each other. Peddlers of untruths a trusting girl had mistakenly – fatally – put her faith in. When she didn’t show for dinner, Caitlin had come to her room and found her face down on the bed, breaking her heart. She’d seen her in the car with Andrew and thought they’d had a row. She knew nothing about the remorse driving Mackenzie or that discovering Caitlin kneeling beside her husband’s dead body was her chance to atone for Kirsty McBride.