by Owen Mullen
In the pub he’d talked for ten minutes about the merits of the real ale he was drinking and another fifteen about himself, then ignored the fact they were in a public place and tried to put his hand up her skirt, reminding her why their affair hadn’t lasted. Frank Armstrong was a self-absorbed moron as well as a lousy lover.
The moment they went through the door of his flat, he dived at her, pulling the sweater she was wearing over her head, burying his face in her breasts, while his fingers fumbled to unhook her bra. The wall, cold against her back, made her shudder. He mistook it for passion and moved faster, unzipping her skirt and sliding it down her legs to the floor; tearing her knickers away. His trousers fell to his ankles, a knee roughly parted her naked thighs and he was in her, moaning.
Gina felt nothing. The insistent slapping of skin against skin in sync with his grunting, faded. Over his shoulder she studied the ornate cornice on the ceiling, wondering if it was an original feature or just a plaster moulding put there by a property developer to add character to an unremarkable room.
When it was over, he staggered to the bed, lay down and closed his eyes. Gina picked her clothes off the floor and started to put them on. The sound got Frank’s attention; he sat up.
‘Where do you think you’re going?’
‘Home.’
‘What’s the rush? Wouldn’t you like an address to go with that phone number?’
Gina hesitated. ‘…Yes.’
‘Then come here.’
She crossed the room and stood in front of him. Frank cupped her bare buttocks and squeezed them. ‘How badly do you want it?’
Stupid question: she was here, wasn’t she? She sat beside him on the bed, gazing into his eyes. Not only a moron, a sleaze. She kissed him. In for a penny…
‘I want it.’
He patted the mattress, smiling slowly. ‘Then turn over and kneel on the edge.’
In the car on the way back to her place, Gina tried to put the last two hours out of her head. She’d hated every minute of it and could still feel his hands on her. The piece of paper in her pocket with a phone number and an address written on it better be worth it.
She punched in the number and heard it ring at the other end of the line. Emily Thorne had just come from the supermarket and sounded out of breath. The reporter measured her words. ‘Mrs Thorne? My name is Calvi. Gina Calvi.’
Emily Thorne had been warned to expect the gutter-press to hound her daughter. Because of the nature of the crime, Judith’s identity was being protected. Apart from the doctors looking after her, no-one knew – or might ever know – who the woman in the cottage was. The FLO – Family Liaison Officer on the case – had been specific: ‘We understand how important it is for victims to be given time to heal. Physically, mentally and emotionally. The people who would turn what Judith’s suffered into a media circus won’t respect that. All they’re after is a story. Today it’s your daughter, tomorrow they’ll move on to ruin somebody else’s life. So if anybody contacts you, it’s in your best interests to say nothing.’
Mrs Thorne knew good advice when she heard it and answered the reporter stiffly. ‘I’m sorry. Do I know you?’
Honesty was Gina Calvi’s better option, a lie now and the door would close forever.
‘No, you don’t. And I’ll be frank with you. I imagine you’ve been advised by the police not to speak to people like me. In their position that would be my advice too. I promise, all I want is to talk. Not to Judith – I understand why that isn’t on – to you.’
The voice was warm; persuasive. Judith Thorne’s mother wavered, very much wanting to discuss her daughter with someone. Other than the doctors and Mackenzie Darroch in Lennoxtown, she’d spoken to no-one about the awful event that had her visiting Gartnavel Royal twice a day once Judith was transferred from Forth Valley hospital in Larbert.
Gina turned the screw. ‘It’s difficult to know who to trust, isn’t it?’
Emily faltered. ‘…Yes.’
‘Eventually you have to trust somebody because it’s too much on your own.’
Emily Thorne caught the misstep. ‘How did you know I was on my own?’
Gina Calvi swore under her breath and walked back her error. ‘…I didn’t. I just assumed you–’
Emily remembered the police advice and cut through the explanation. The conversation had been short. Now it was over. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t have anything to say.’
The line went dead. Gina hadn’t expected to be welcomed with open arms, but the rejection was unequivocal. For other, less resourceful people, that would have been the end of it.
Gina Calvi wasn’t other people.
The phone call hadn’t worked. Plan B was more direct – go to the door and ring the bell.
The lady who answered was small, grey-haired and suspicious. Her opening statement told Gina she’d have to be clever to win her over. ‘Whoever you are, whatever you’re selling, the answer’s the same. I don’t want any. Is that clear?’
Gina stepped back. ‘Absolutely clear. I’m not selling anything, and at least let me introduce myself before you decide you don’t like me.’
The straightforward defence of her presence on the step stopped Emily Thorne from closing the door in her face. ‘You’re trying to get me to talk about my daughter, aren’t you?’
‘No. Not if you don’t want to. What you say is up to you. Off the record if it makes you more comfortable.’
‘How did you find us?’
Gina let the question go unanswered. ‘All I’m asking is you hear me out. You’re afraid I’ll exploit your daughter’s pain. I won’t.’
‘So why are you here?’
‘I’m writing a series of articles about people who’ve come through horrendous experiences, stuff we can’t begin to understand. Judith and others like her are an inspiration to the rest of us. They’ve overcome tremendous odds. They’re survivors.’
Emily studied the young woman. ‘How do you know her name?’
‘I’m a reporter.’
Said as if that explained everything.
‘The police told me nobody would know.’
Gina sighed. If she admitted what she’d had to do to get the information, this woman would be shocked. ‘These things get out – they just do. That’s why it’s important to use Judith’s story for good. I’ve no idea what she’s been through. Neither has anybody else. What was she thinking? Did she ever lose hope? The things ordinary folk are fascinated by and other victims need to hear.’
‘Who else will be in it?’
An inspired lie came from nowhere, a memory of the woman from the conference who’d been held prisoner in a derelict house in the Lowther Hills. ‘Mackenzie Darroch. When she was abducted her name was kept out of the news. Eventually, she told the story herself.’
‘Oh yes, she’s very nice.’
‘You know her? How did you meet?’
Mrs Thorne tried to cover her mistake. ‘No… I don’t… not really. I saw her on television once.’
Gina Calvi spotted the slip and pressed her on it. ‘Has she visited Judith?’
‘No, I told you. I saw her on television. We’ve never met. And I haven’t changed my mind about not talking about my daughter. In time, Judith may decide to, I can’t say. That will be her decision. Being her mother doesn’t give me authority to speak on her behalf.’ She started to close the door. ‘So, if you don’t mind, I have things I need to do.’
Gina hadn’t been thrown out – that would’ve been impossible because she hadn’t been allowed over the threshold – but she wasn’t leaving empty-handed. The woman had no talent for deception – she was hiding something.
On the drive home, Gina considered what it might be. Obviously, the daughter’s ordeal had taken a toll on her. Any parent would react the same way. Except she’d seemed to be coping until the “Mackenzie” reference rattled her. Why? What was the connection? On the surface, the link was clear. Both Judith Thorne and Mackenzie Darroch had been prisoner
s – not many women had that in common – it would be natural for them to bond. So why not say so? Why deny it? Unless there was more to it.
Directory Enquiries gave her the number.
36
Andrew Geddes parked at the side of the house and peered through the windscreen at the heavy sky. The day had begun grey and overcast with the temperature in single digits. Now, it looked like they were in for some more of the white stuff. What must it be like to live where the sun shone all the time? On his salary he was unlikely to find out. He knocked on the front door, turned the handle and went inside. In the beginning he’d felt uncomfortable there – not because he was the only male, because of the circumstances that brought the women to the refuge.
‘Hello. Anybody there?’
He stuck his head round the lounge door. Half a dozen females were watching a chat show on TV. Rita said, ‘She’s outside, Andrew. Has it started snowing yet? They’re mad. Wouldn’t catch me out there.’
Juliette ran ahead of the policeman to the back door, whining. When Geddes opened it, she darted past into the garden. Mackenzie, Caitlin and Sylvia huddled under a duvet drinking tea.
‘So, this is how you spend your day. Sunbathing. It’s all right for some.’
Sylvia was wearing a coat with a scarf. ‘We’re pretending we’re actors, resting between jobs. You wouldn’t grudge us a couple of minutes to ourselves, would you?’
‘So long as it’s only a couple. No time for slackers.’
Mackenzie deserved a good man and Andrew Geddes was certainly that. He didn’t visit the refuge often, claiming he preferred to let them get on with the important work they were doing without having him cluttering the place. The truth was simpler: he was fine with one-to-one conversations with females – a crowd of them unsettled him. Behind the bluster and the sometimes abrasive reactions, out of his comfort zone, Geddes was shy.
It pleased him to see Mackenzie relaxing with her friends. It meant she was moving on from Kirsty. Nothing would give him greater pleasure than putting Boyle away for the double killings, except the bastard had disappeared off the face of the earth. Experience taught the DI that the longer a fugitive evaded capture, the less chance there was of catching them. Geddes put it out of his mind. There were too many regrets down that road.
Juliette raced round the garden, chasing her tail, delighted to be running free. Geddes was busy speaking to Mackenzie. He didn’t see the uneasiness spread over Caitlin’s face or Sylvia’s hands grip the arms of the chair. The dog was at the bottom of the garden near the greenhouse, marking territory that had once been hers. She detected something in the grass, dived at it and missed, then sprinted back.
Sylvia called to her. ‘Juliette! Juliette!’
Juliette ignored her and found something else to play with.
Geddes smiled. ‘Somebody’s enjoying herself.’
‘She isn’t allowed in the garden.’
The DI apologised. ‘That’s my fault. I let her out.’
He should’ve kept his mouth shut. Sylvia snapped at him. ‘In future, please be more careful. If I wanted her out here, she’d be out here. Juliette! Juliette!’
Geddes didn’t have to be a CID detective to sense the atmosphere change. ‘I didn’t realise. Sorry.’
He bent forward, clapping his hands, gently encouraging the dog to come to him. Juliette’s ears pricked up. She stayed where she was. Caitlin and Sylvia stood, both calling to her. ‘Juliette! Here! Now!’
‘Here girl! Here girl!’
The urgency in their voices puzzled the detective. ‘What harm’s she doing? She’s a dog, let her play.’
Caitlin answered as calmly as she could. ‘Sylvia doesn’t allow her in the garden.’
‘Why not?’
Caitlin shrugged.
The DI thought he’d heard everything in his time. He was wrong; he hadn’t.
‘Juliette’s only playing, she doesn’t mean to damage anything.’
The dog ran behind the greenhouse, sniffing, growling a low growl. When Mackenzie finally found her voice, the words sounded hurried, frantic and forced. ‘Maybe we should go inside. Let Sylvia deal with her. It’s cold out here and I haven’t offered you anything to drink, Andrew. Would you like a coffee?’
Juliette’s paws tore at the hard earth. Sylvia ran at her, screaming. ‘Bad dog! Bad dog!’
She grabbed hold of the collar and dragged her away, whimpering.
Geddes didn’t understand what the fuss was about. ‘Don’t be too hard on her. She’s just a dog.’
The mild-mannered lady from Corstorphine had a sharp answer for him. Sylvia said, ‘For your information, Juliette isn’t just a dog. She’s my dog, and I think I know what’s best for her, thank you very much.’
The tartness caught Geddes off guard. ‘Of course. That isn’t what I meant.’
Caitlin gave him a look. Suddenly, he’d outstayed his welcome.
Mackenzie shepherded him inside the house and down the hall.
He said, ‘I seem to have upset Sylvia. Sorry about that.’
Mackenzie’s reply was terse. ‘You came at a bad time.’
‘So it would appear. Apologies again.’
The phone rang behind her. She flashed a weak smile – there and gone. ‘I have to go.’
‘When will I see you?’
‘I don’t know.’
Without understanding why, Geddes realised he’d displeased her – the hostility was unmistakeable. He leaned forward to kiss her cheek. She moved out of reach, picked up the phone and listened, her face tight with irritation. Whoever was on the other end of the line fared no better than him.
‘Can I speak to Mackenzie Darroch please.’
‘…Speaking.’
Gina launched into the spiel she’d rehearsed in her head. ‘Hi. I’m Gina Calvi. I got your name from Emily Thorne. I’m doing an article on her daughter.’
‘I’m sorry, I–’
‘Mrs Thorne told me you’d been a great help to Judith.’
Mackenzie panicked. First Juliette digging up Peter Sanderson’s body right under Andrew’s nose, now this. It was too much. She cleared her throat, struggling to reply. ‘I’m afraid I can’t help you Miss Calvi. The refuge has a rule. We don’t comment to the press.’
She put the receiver down as Andrew closed the door.
Mackenzie found Emily Thorne’s number in the phone book. There was so much she didn’t understand, beginning and ending with why a woman who had gone out of her way to thank her would give her name to the press. It didn’t make sense.
As soon as Mrs Thorne heard her voice, she said, ‘Oh, Mackenzie. I’m so sorry. It’s about the reporter, isn’t it?’
Mackenzie tried and failed to keep accusation out of her voice. ‘She told me you’d given her my name. Why? I have nothing to do with what happened to your daughter.’
‘No, it wasn’t like that. She said she was writing a series about survivors and that you were in it… She asked if I knew you. Stupidly, I said yes, that you were nice. Then she wanted to know how we’d met and I realised I’d made a mistake. I stuttered and stumbled and denied it. She spotted it. I’m sorry, I really am.’
Mackenzie drew an exasperated hand over her forehead. This was a complication she didn’t need. So the reporter hadn’t dropped Mrs Thorne’s name into the conversation by accident – it was a test: letting her know she was onto her. Judith Thorne’s mother was out of her depth with Gina Calvi. Probably the whole conversation had been a trap.
‘It was a slip of the tongue, honestly. Is there anything I can do to fix it?’
Mackenzie didn’t reply. The conversation was more contact than she wanted. Emily Thorne’s last words didn’t reassure her – she’d heard them before. ‘I meant it when I told you not to worry.’
If only Mackenzie could believe that.
37
Andrew Geddes drew up outside Stewart Street to start his shift that same freezing Monday afternoon. Malkie Boyle was waiting, hunkered do
wn behind the wheel. Having his own transport had made him bold and he no longer left old Billy’s house only at night.
Malkie flicked the cigarette he was smoking out of the window and watched the detective enter the building. Once Boyle was sure the DI was well inside, he crossed the road to his car. Then, pleased with himself, he went back to the Citroen and put the knife, taken from a drawer in old Billy’s kitchen, on the floor under the passenger seat and pulled away whistling a discordant tune, happy with the decision he’d come to over the weekend. Kirsty and the cripple were spur-of-the-moment reactions, over and done too soon. The policeman and his do-good slag deserved better. What was the hurry?
Breaking into houses was where Boyle’s life of crime had begun. At fourteen, with two mates, he’d climbed through a neighbour’s open kitchen window and stolen cash from a drawer in the bedroom. Getting away with it had given him a taste for other people’s money. Other people’s cars. Other people’s everything.
Two years later, working alone, he’d burgled sheltered accommodation, thinking the old woman who lived there was at the shops when she was actually asleep in an armchair by the fire. The pensioner identified him at the second attempt – wrongly accusing another boy. By then it was too late to pin it on him and the police were forced to let him go. A close call. Not one he’d learned from. Malkie kept going until eventually he was caught and spent eighteen months at Her Majesty’s pleasure in Polmont Young Offenders Institution in Reddingmuirhead. Some of the boys in the prison had made a mistake and were paying the price. He avoided them, preferring the company of aspiring criminals like himself.
And an inglorious career began.
A psychologist might make the case that, with a father and grandfather like Tommy Boyle and Billy Cunningham, his destiny was already decided. Malkie would’ve disagreed. No, he was his own man and proud of it.
Pressing every button on the intercom until somebody buzzed him in was the first step. After that he used the skills he’d first learned in Polmont to get into the detective’s place – skills he could’ve used to get into Kirsty’s flat if he’d been thinking straight and hadn’t been so drunk. Malkie shook his head. The DI considered himself above the kind of security he’d no doubt recommended to other people scores of times. Alarm systems were all right for Joe Cunt, not a CID detective like him. Arrogant fucker.
