Deadly Harm

by Owen Mullen

  ‘What did you do?’

  ‘I knocked on the door and called through the letterbox. Judith didn’t answer. Nobody answered. But I wasn’t leaving it. The police were no use, they’d proved that, hadn’t they? It was up to me.’

  This tiny woman had more courage in her little finger than most people had in their whole body.

  ‘I crept round the side and tried the kitchen door. It was locked too, so I hammered on a window, shouting to her. By this time I was really scared. If my daughter wasn’t there, then where was she? Breaking the law doesn’t come easy to me, but I was desperate. I had to get inside.’

  Mackenzie tried to imagine her creeping around somebody else’s house in the dark. It wasn’t easy.

  ‘There were logs piled against the wall. I picked one up and was ready to throw it through the glass when a noise stopped me.’

  Mackenzie sat straight in her chair. ‘A noise from inside?’

  Emily Thorne brushed a strand of hair from her face. ‘No, from behind me.’

  Age had caught up with Billy Cunningham. His grandson saw it and turned it to his advantage; stealing from the old bastard was the easiest thing he’d ever done. The universe of the man who’d once been among the most respected figures in the city’s underworld had come down to the council house he’d lived in most of his life. More and more, Billy spent the day in bed, only getting up in the afternoon for his favourite TV programmes. Malkie’s idea had been a success. Hiding hadn’t been difficult because there were no visitors, and months after he’d seen to Kirsty, the police hadn’t a clue where he was. According to the STV News at the time, the neighbour was in a coma. Since then he’d heard nothing. Not that he gave a tuppenny damn one way or the other.

  He looked into his grandfather’s room: Billy was sound, his grizzled head buried beneath the covers, snoring loudly, the whisky glass he took to bed with him at the end of every night, half-full on the cabinet. When Malkie first arrived at the house, it would be empty the next morning. What was the point of living if you couldn’t get it up to bevvy?

  Siphoning off a couple of hundred at a time to sponsor his new nocturnal adventures meant the twenty-two thousand under the linoleum in the kitchen had barely been scratched. Usually, after dark, he went to Asda in Prospecthill Road and stocked up on wine – not the kind ponces talked shite about – the kind that guaranteed an out-of-body experience if you drank enough of it.

  It tickled him to add a bottle of The Famous Grouse and a packet of Liquorice Allsorts to his trolley so he could tell Billy he’d bought them especially for him. Bought them with his own money, mind you, a detail he’d miss out. Asda was open twenty-four hours. Malkie liked to hit it around ten o’clock. Any later risked drawing attention to himself because, apart from one or two oddballs, it would be empty. As an added precaution, he’d alternate supermarkets. When he did, Tesco in Toryglen got the shout. A helluva lot of walking; he’d never been fitter.

  A few times he’d chanced his luck and gone into a pub. Standing beside a pissed painter and decorator, still in his overalls, had been a strange experience. Malkie was probably the most wanted man in Scotland, yet there he was. His confidence grew and he’d gone into the city centre, though never to the same pub twice: a long walk.

  But those were the exceptions. Mostly he wasn’t much better than old Billy, sleeping during the day, staying up most of the night drinking and eating sweets. With him it was fags and booze. How great it would be to suddenly show up and surprise his mates: they’d be at the bar on a rainy Tuesday night – potless – making the one pint they could afford last. Conversation would be slow. Nothing happening so nothing to say. Maybe his name had been mentioned. Suddenly, the door opens and in he’d come: large as life and twice as ugly. When they’d recovered from the shock, he’d buy a round. And another after that. Then he’d send one of them to score for him. How good would that be? Before he left he’d lob some big photos of the queen at each of them and bask in their gratitude.

  No need to tell them to shut it about his unexpected appearance, they’d know better. And if they didn’t, he’d come after them, just like he’d come after Kirsty and the cripple.

  Eventually he’d make a move. Probably to London with the old man’s cash.

  He pushed the table over to the other side of the kitchen and peeled the faded linoleum away just as he’d seen his grandfather do the first night he arrived when he thought Malkie was asleep. The stupid bugger hadn’t trusted him. Not so stupid after all, because as soon as he went to bed he’d checked and bingo! Malkie was careful to put the legs back exactly where they had been.

  The linoleum was cracked at the edges and had a funny smell. Underneath was stained and worn and riddled with tiny holes: woodworm. He lifted the loose floorboard like the old man had done and stuck his hand into the gap. In spite of himself he smiled. Give Billy his due. He was a devious bastard, right enough. Who would’ve thought after all these years he’d still be in funds.

  Malkie spilled the contents onto the table and counted, savouring the feel of the notes, then put the bag back where he’d found it. His grandfather’s cash had thrown him a lifeline. There was nothing to keep him in Glasgow. He should leave now – tonight – while he had travelling money. A rasping cough from the bedroom killed the thought; Billy was getting up. Malkie decided, for now, to wait it out. Nowhere was better than here. And there were unanswered questions which refused to go. Days before he came out of Barlinnie, he’d spoken to Kirsty. She’d promised to be there to meet him. What changed her mind? More to the point, who changed her mind? No way she’d have the bottle to do it on her own.

  Paula had been her best pal. She’d know if anybody would. Paula Reid: doe-eyed and thick as a brick. Maybe he’d pay her a wee visit one of these nights.

  Emily Thorne’s eyes were wide, and they weren’t grey, they were green. ‘Jack was watching me. He’d come back and I hadn’t heard him.’

  ‘Did he speak? Was he angry? Didn’t he ask what the hell you were doing sneaking about his property?’

  ‘Behave like an ordinary person, you mean?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Not a word, he just stared. I’d never hidden my dislike for the man. My mistake was in thinking I was alone. Wrong. The way things were, only a blind fool would’ve gone to his house. If he’d waited two seconds longer, the log would’ve smashed his window and he’d be the one calling the police. I’d tried to talk Judith out of marrying him. Few people could forgive that. And in that moment I knew he hated me. Had always hated me.’

  The hairs rose on Mackenzie’s neck. Although the room was warm, she shivered. Mrs Thorne caught her reaction and matched it. ‘It was scary. I ran and kept running. Now I’m here.’

  ‘When was this?’

  ‘Three nights ago. Since then I haven’t been able to sleep, out of my mind trying to decide what to do, until I heard you on the radio and knew you were the one I had to speak to. There isn’t anybody else. Please, please help me get my daughter back.’

  ‘How do you think I can?’

  ‘By finding out what he’s done to her.’

  Mackenzie had been ready to turn this woman away. Now, how could she? The story reminded her all too clearly of her own. ‘We can’t be certain Judith’s even there. If she is, why did the police see nothing amiss when they went to the cottage?’

  ‘Obviously she was afraid to say anything with him sitting there.’

  Mackenzie spoke gently. ‘Mrs Thorne… Emily… have you considered the possibility that Judith has left him and didn’t want to face you?’

  ‘I have. Of course I have. But that isn’t what’s happened.’

  ‘How can you be so certain?’

  ‘Because, when I was at that cottage, I felt her. She’s there and she needs me.’

  ‘Unless we’re sure – absolutely sure – your daughter’s being held against her will, there isn’t much we can do. We can’t involve the police a second time without proof. They wouldn’t take us ser
iously and who would blame them?’

  ‘I’m terrified of that place, but I’m willing to go back if you’ll come with me.’

  Mackenzie wouldn’t consider it. ‘No. You’re her mother. You shouldn’t go there. I know a private detective in Glasgow, Charlie Cameron, he’s very good. This is his kind of thing.’

  The strain Emily Thorne was under overwhelmed her – she broke down. ‘I’m a stupid woman who couldn’t keep her opinions to herself. I antagonised him.’

  Mackenzie held her. ‘You aren’t to blame. Men don’t make their wives a prisoner because they don’t get on with their mother-in-law. My advice would be to give Charlie Cameron a call. He’ll know what to do.’

  Mrs Thorne’s thin fingers closed round Mackenzie’s wrist, so tight they hurt. ‘You’re the one I want. The one I trust. Not some private detective I’ve never heard of. Even if he believed me, what could he do that you couldn’t? I’m begging you. Please get Judith away from him. Please.’

  And there it was: the chance to make a difference to one life.

  24

  They were upstairs in Mackenzie’s bedroom, Caitlin listening while she repeated the conversation she’d had with Emily Thorne. When she finished, she said, ‘Sounds to me like her daughter’s moved on with her life and her mother can’t accept it.’

  ‘Nobody except my brother believed I was in trouble. There wasn’t any evidence there either.’

  ‘We aren’t talking abduction here. Don’t forget, Judith left of her own free will to be with this guy. Then she married him.’

  ‘Okay, except look what’s happened since: she stops speaking to her mother, pulls away from her friends, abruptly packs her job in, and when Mrs Thorne went to the cottage, she saw Jack Walsh but not her daughter. Now Judith’s mobile’s dead. Taken individually, I agree, these things don’t prove anything. Together, I’m not so sure.’

  ‘What’re you thinking?’

  ‘Honestly? I’ve no idea. The police haven’t worked it out. Emily Thorne doesn’t know where else to go, so she came here. To me. To us.’

  ‘Could you speak to Andrew?’

  Mackenzie dismissed the suggestion. ‘You overestimate my influence. Andrew would do almost anything for me. But when it comes to the law, he’s his own man. The first thing he’d ask would be had she spoken to the police. If I told him she’d not only spoken to them but they’d visited the cottage and found nothing…’ She corrected herself, ‘I mean, apart from the daughter, who was supposed to be in danger, playing Scrabble with the partner her mother disliked. Can you imagine his face? I can.’

  ‘Then what does that leave?’

  Mackenzie realised her reply would take them down a road it might be better not to travel and paused. ‘We could see for ourselves.’

  Caitlin let the idea sink in. ‘You mean go to the cottage?’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘But what could we do?’

  ‘Take a look around for starters. All I know is a woman might be in trouble. If she is, maybe we could help. That’s what we do, isn’t it?’

  The plan to leave without telling anybody failed at the first hurdle. Sylvia came across them in the hall on their way out the door. Sylvia Scott was nobody’s fool. She guessed they were sneaking away and eyed them up and down. ‘Going somewhere?’

  Caitlin lied for both of them. ‘A quick trip into Glasgow. Catch the shops before they close.’

  ‘Cutting it a bit fine with the traffic, aren’t you?’

  * * *

  Mackenzie put the car in gear and pulled away. Caitlin said, ‘She didn’t believe us, you could see it.’

  ‘Wouldn’t make great spies, would we? Let’s hope the rest goes better than that.’

  They headed towards Stirling and crossed the muddy waters of the Firth of Forth on the Clackmannan Bridge under a black sky.

  ‘Will we find it okay?’

  Mackenzie suddenly felt unconvinced about what they were doing and wished she hadn’t told Caitlin. Her reply sounded clipped. ‘That’s the least of our problems.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Sorry. I’m a bit uptight, maybe I’m overreacting. And maybe you’re right about Mrs Thorne. Maybe this is a waste of time.’

  ‘We’re nearly there. May as well see it through, then we’ll know one way or the other.’

  ‘You’re right. Let’s agree what we’re going to do. When this Jack character goes to the pub, we’ll check it out for ourselves.’

  ‘And if he doesn’t go to the pub?’

  ‘Then we’ll go up to the door and pretend there’s something wrong with the car.’

  ‘Aren’t you forgetting what happened to Mrs Thorne?’

  ‘She struck me as the nervous type. Maybe she read too much into it.’

  ‘Or was lucky to escape.’

  Caitlin voiced what they were both thinking. ‘What’ll we do if he’s hurt Judith? Will we call the police?’

  Mackenzie kept her eyes on the road and didn’t share the fear bubbling inside her. They were out of their depth. If it went wrong, they could be putting themselves in danger, and Emily Thorne’s daughter in deadly harm. ‘We’ll deal with that when it happens.’

  West of Alloa, an alarm ringing, two flashing lights and a barrier brought them to a stop at the Cambus level crossing near the River Devon. They sat in silence – the only vehicle on the road – each lost in their own thoughts.

  Above them a blood moon shone balefully, judging them for what they hadn’t yet done. Mackenzie could feel Emily Thorne’s fingers digging into her arm and hear her voice begging her to get her daughter away from the cottage. Beside her, Caitlin was remembering Peter Sanderson’s bloodied head. She shivered though it wasn’t cold. ‘I’ve got a bad feeling about this. We shouldn’t be here. What do we expect to achieve?’

  A hum on the rail told them the train was coming. Mackenzie looked at the clock on the dashboard. ‘One minute to eight. The cottage won’t be far.’

  The express thundered past, rattling the windscreen with its awesome power, the passengers staring out into the night no more than a blur. The barrier lifted and they drove on.

  The whitewashed cottage was on a grassy bank above the road, exactly as Emily Thorne had described it, right down to a dog barking in the distance. The curtains were drawn. A light was on in one room. They crouched under a hedge feeling stupid and scared at the same time. Now they were actually there, their next move wasn’t as obvious as it had seemed earlier. Nothing stirred. Nothing moved. When they spoke, it was in whispers.

  The luminous face of Mackenzie’s watch glowed. ‘It’s twenty past. According to the pub landlord, he should be leaving soon. If he doesn’t, we’ll do what we agreed – knock the door, pretend there’s a problem with the car. You can keep him talking while I try to get a look around.’

  ‘And if Judith’s there and she’s okay?’

  ‘Then her mother’s a deluded woman and we’ve wasted our time. At least we’ll have tried to do the right thing.’

  The rim of the moon rose behind the cottage. From inside the house, the rumble of a deep male voice travelled on the cool air. Making out what was said wasn’t possible. If someone replied, they didn’t hear them. The hands on the watch passed the half hour mark. Stars appeared in the black sky.

  ‘Another five minutes and I’m going up there.’

  ‘Agreed.’

  They didn’t get the chance – the door opened and a man stepped into the night: Jack Walsh was well built. He put a key in the lock and came down the stairs towards them, grinning at something. Close up he was tall, his hair scraped back and tied in a ponytail. Caitlin held her breath and gripped Mackenzie’s hand, flattening herself against the hedge, certain he’d see them. Fading footsteps and the tuneless whistling Emily Thorne had mentioned told them he hadn’t. They waited until they were sure he’d gone before approaching the cottage. He’d come back before and might again.

  Mackenzie pulled two hats and two pairs of gloves from her pocket
s. ‘Put these on.’

  ‘What on earth for?’

  ‘Because we shouldn’t be here. Let’s not leave any evidence we were. It went wrong for Emily Thorne.’

  ‘This is madness.’

  ‘In that case we can argue about it later. Just do it.’

  Caitlin peered through a crack in the curtained window where a light still shone, seeing no-one. At her shoulder, Mackenzie said, ‘Let me look.’

  On a low table in front of the fireplace, a Scrabble board was set up. In case somebody arrived uninvited? Caitlin knocked on the door and waited. The sound echoed around them. Nobody answered. She tried again with the same result. ‘There must be somebody here, we heard them talking.’

  Mackenzie corrected her. ‘No, we didn’t. We heard him talking. Maybe to himself, and Judith Thorne isn’t here.’

  ‘In that case, where is she?’

  A good question.

  ‘We’ll go round the back. For God’s sake stay alert.’

  At the rear of the cottage, the garden was untidy and overgrown: a rusty wheelbarrow with a flat tyre lay on its side near a wooden shed stained dirty brown, grey tongues of felt roofing torn free by the wind hanging loose. On the cracked doorstep, waterlogged plant pots sat broken and uncared for. Working as a farm labourer hadn’t made Jack Walsh a son of the soil. Like the front of the building, the windows were closed and curtained.