by Owen Mullen
Mackenzie would’ve laughed if it hadn’t been so serious. ‘That isn’t what I’m thinking at all. Apart from anything else, it’s too dangerous. Somebody might see us.’ She glared at Sylvia. ‘They did last time. My solution is a shed, a garden shed. We’ll use it to store tools and stuff from the house. I’ll organise it as soon as the weather picks up, and poor Juliette can have her garden back.’
The relieved expressions told Mackenzie the solution she’d come up with had calmed their frayed nerves. It would be short-lived. What she had to say was guaranteed to set them off again. It couldn’t be helped. They had to know.
‘One more thing. A reporter called wanting to speak to me. Claimed she’d got my name from Emily Thorne.’
Caitlin was confused. ‘She promised not to talk to anybody about you. Why would she give your name?’
The phone conversation had kept Mackenzie awake half the night. ‘She didn’t, Caitlin. Somehow this woman made the connection.’
‘Somehow? How?’
Mackenzie didn’t have an answer.
‘Have you spoken to Mrs Thorne about it?’
‘Of course, I telephoned her immediately. The reporter used my name to get in the door. I’ve no idea how she’s joined the dots, only that she has.’
Sylvia had been quiet. ‘What was this reporter’s name?’
‘Gina Calvi.’
‘Who does she work for?’
‘She didn’t say. Why is that important?’
‘Maybe it isn’t. It’s just the name sounds familiar.’ She rolled it around. ‘Calvi. Calvi. It’ll come back to me.’
Caitlin said, ‘What could Judith’s mother tell her anyway?’
Mackenzie shrugged. ‘That she’d come to the refuge asking for help.’
‘That would prove what, exactly? The police had already been to the cottage and found nothing. Surely that lets you – us – off?’
Sylvia interrupted before Mackenzie could reply. ‘Calvi. Now I remember. Wasn’t she the one who wrote the piece on the conference and didn’t mention you?’
‘I think you’re right, Sylvia.’
‘I am. It struck me as odd that anybody would cover the event and not mention the one person in the room who had first-hand experience. The others were talking heads. I asked if you knew her. You said you didn’t, yet here she is again. Is it me or is that too much of a coincidence?’
Caitlin said, ‘Don’t believe in coincidences.’
‘Neither do I.’
‘What does it mean?’
Mackenzie summed it up. ‘It means we’re in more trouble than we realised.’
The front of the house was in darkness when Malkie drove past. The bitch who’d turned Kirsty against him was in there somewhere, probably holding court. He imagined the poor bastards living in the refuge, pretending to hang on everything she said so they didn’t find themselves out on their arses. Her car was parked at the side – too close for comfort if anybody decided to go for a wee stroll. Unlucky for them if they did. He fingered the knife in the waistband of his jeans.
Getting into the car and nicking it was easy enough, he’d done it hundreds of times and would’ve again, except wouldn’t it be like the thing to get pulled over in a stolen vehicle. Months on the run and tumbled in a dodgy motor. That was why he’d got Vinnie to set him up legit, and the reason he felt confident enough to go out during the day.
Not every day. No need to kick the backside out of it.
The door clicked open and he was inside, resisting the urge to piss over the driver’s seat, settling for leaving the scraps on the passenger side. Sticking to the plan. He locked the car from the inside and closed it.
Seconds, that’s all it needed. The shockwaves would last a lot longer. What he’d give to see their faces when they wised-up to what he’d done.
Pure dead brilliant!
He crept round to the rear, scouting out the territory for the day he returned in earnest. That day wasn’t far. He’d tan the rest of old Billy’s money and quit the city once and for all, and wouldn’t look back – there was nothing for him here. Billy was getting difficult. Make that more difficult.
Malkie’s footsteps crunching on the gravel forced him to be extra careful. Just as well. One of the dykes was standing in the shadows smoking, the telltale glow of her cigarette giving her away. Another couple of paces and they’d have been face to face. No thanks. Some of these women would be fucking scary, especially if you bumped into them on a dark night. This one was in a world of her own, staring towards the dark shape of the Campsie Hills like she had a poem coming on. Maybe it wasn’t tobacco she was smoking. Maybe it was something stronger in the corner of her mouth. How great would it be to suddenly step out of the shadows and grab her arse?
Pushing his luck? You’d better believe it.
He realised he was being stupid. He’d done what he’d come to do, anything else was asking for trouble. Although, she wasn’t bad, was she? Nice figure. From what he could see, a nice face too. It was tempting. Somebody with a bit of fight in them would make a change. Paula had just lain there and let him get on with it. The sense of power was almost overwhelming. But no, it wasn’t worth it. He’d go to Kirsty’s pal and bang her all night. Not as much fun maybe, but a lot safer. Besides, there was a bottle of voddie and four cans of Special Brew waiting for him under his bed at old Billy’s place.
“Time to go” time.
It was daylight when Billy Cunningham heard the back door open and The Boy come in. Christ alone knew what he’d been up to, creeping around Glasgow. For the rest of the day he’d lie in his pit. Not for much longer. Behind the changes in his routine, Billy sensed a greater change in the wind. Earlier, when he’d checked the money under the floorboards, more was missing. Soon – very soon – he’d take it all and disappear. Except he wasn’t the only player in the game. Billy Cunningham knew a thing or three himself and, at his age, he could indulge himself. The coughing was worse – much worse – wracking his thin body, dredging up blood and mucous and black pieces spat into a hanky.
What could they do to him? To him or for him?
Not much.
Malkie didn’t bother keeping quiet. Anyway, the old bastard was practically stone deaf. Malkie kicked his trainers into a corner, dragged his jacket and jeans off and stuck his hand under the bed, feeling the cool glass against his hand. The clear liquid ate the back of his throat like acid. Great. What was the point of drinking if it didn’t kick like a horse?
He hadn’t changed his mind – no reason to. Coming there that night was still the smartest thing he’d ever done. The bedroom could’ve been worse than prison. Instead, it was a fucking holiday camp. Finding the old man’s secret stash was the difference. After that it had been piss-easy. And now he had Kirsty’s pal Paula spreading her legs on demand. Life was sweet.
In some ways he’d be sorry to go because, when he might’ve been on the run, cold and hungry, he’d landed lucky. As long as the money lasted, he had all his orders. Except it wouldn’t. The old man was obviously ill, the party would be over and Malkie would be back where he’d started.
Maybe he should talk Billy into doing one last job to top up the dwindling resources. Yeah, just one more, Granddad. Just the one. Show us how good you used to be. The alternative didn’t have much going for it when you thought about it: coughing your lungs into a cardboard pot in the Beatson while some specky trainee doctor practised diagnosing you.
‘Seventy-six-year old man. Lung cancer. Recommended treatment. Nada.’
No. Fuck all that.
Plunder a subbie in Duke Street and go down thinking about your mates waiting for you on the other side. Go down fighting.
Die like a man. That’s the form, Granddad.
40
Mackenzie unlocked the car and eased behind the wheel, still unnerved by the scene in the garden. Thank God Sylvia had managed to stop Juliette before she’d really got started – next time they might not be so lucky. Andrew hadn’t understo
od what the fuss was about, why they were panicking over a dog digging a hole. In another few minutes he’d have realised and, no matter how painful it was for him to do it, there would be no crisis of conscience.
But he’d be devastated. Her involvement would shatter every illusion about the woman he loved, unleashing an emotional tsunami he might not survive. As it was, he’d been bundled out the door with Sylvia’s sharp admonishment ringing in his ears and was probably angry with Mackenzie. No wonder.
That was the least of it. With nobody left to run the place, the refuge would close, its reputation in shreds, the years of good work at an end.
Mackenzie started the engine and was about to pull away when she noticed the torn scraps scattered over the passenger seat. She picked one of them up, fingering the ragged edges. Nobody had to tell her she was holding a photograph of herself. Her eyes darted to the window. It was closed. And the car had been locked.
Slowly the cold reality of what it meant became clear.
Andrew had left them for her to find. Sending her a message.
A message to tell her it was over.
Gina didn’t waste time – they both understood how the arrangement worked. The first words out of her mouth set the agenda. ‘I need you to get me the file.’
Frank’s grin contradicted his reply. ‘Not possible. It isn’t our case. Isn’t even Glasgow, for Christ’s sake.’
‘You said a mate of yours was involved in the investigation.’
He toyed with her. ‘You know me, Gina. I say a lot of things.’
This wasn’t some courtship ritual. She wasn’t interested in playing games.
‘Cut the crap. Are you telling me you can’t get it?’
‘No, I’m telling you it would be bloody difficult, and wondering why I’d bother.’
‘Maybe because I’m asking you to?’
He couldn’t help himself, he laughed. ‘You never give up, do you? Unbelievable, you really are. Coming on with I’ve missed you, Frank after dumping me.’ He snorted. ‘Think I’m an idiot, Gina?’
She would’ve loved to answer him; she didn’t – it wouldn’t help her get what she wanted.
‘All right. Let’s not waste each other’s time. Can you get what I’m asking for or not? Yes or no.’
‘You haven’t convinced me why I should. What’s in it for me?’
‘The same as last time.’
‘Not good enough.’
‘Really? You surprise me. Seemed pretty happy with it at the time.’
‘Because that was what the information was worth. This is different. Not only would I be putting my career on the line, I’d be expecting somebody else to do the same.’
‘What are you saying, Frank?’
‘It’ll take more. A lot more.’
Gina Calvi hadn’t expected this. ‘Specifically, what?’
‘Getting hold of the actual file’s impossible. Getting a photocopy of what’s in it fired through isn’t. Though, no promises. Wasn’t joking about how hard it would be.’
‘When will you be sure?’
‘Give me a couple of hours. And speaking of hard…’
Gina shivered and got a grip of herself. ‘Until you’re holding the file in your hand, don’t even think about it.’
The forecast was rain: a bank of low cloud in the western sky, moving slowly from the coast confirmed the possibility. Gina Calvi had too much on her mind to notice the weather. She ate lunch in Ingram Wynd, scribbling in her notebook with one eye on her mobile, expecting Frank Armstrong’s call and his demand for sex in exchange for the police file on the murder in the cottage in Clackmannanshire. The restaurant was a short walk from her flat. They knew her and gave her a seat in the corner at the window. Often her laptop, her phone, her notebook and the soup would be on the table.
The victim didn’t interest the reporter – from what she’d read, the dead man deserved to die. What Judith Thorne told them did. So far, all Gina had to base her hunch on was the faltering denial from a concerned mother. Proof of nothing. But an alert reporter thrived on hesitation. Mrs Thorne’s unguarded response and Mackenzie Darroch’s flustered rejection had triggered Gina Calvi’s instincts and she’d fallen on it like the predator she’d always been.
A waiter cleared away and asked if she wanted to see the dessert menu. She shook her head, ordered a decaf Americano and the bill. The sleaze had asked for a couple of hours; that time was up. An address and a telephone number were small things to let slip. Maybe his mate in Clackmannan had drawn a line at scanning an active file and emailing it. A firing offence, definitely. Probably a prosecution. Friendship might have nothing to do with it. More likely cash would change hands.
She sipped the coffee, wondering what it would cost her when her phone rang. The conversation was short. Frank Armstrong said, ‘Got it.’
‘You’ve got the file? Fantastic. Where will I meet you?’
‘You won’t. We’ll meet you.’
‘We? What do you mean we?’
‘Norrie’s finishing his shift about now. So am I. Still Merchant City, is it?’
It was Gina Calvi’s turn to falter. ‘…Norrie? Who the hell is Norrie?’
‘My mate – the one I was telling you about. Had to offer him something, didn’t I?’
Across the city, she imagined him smiling.
‘What did you offer him?’
‘You.’
The clock on the bedside table showed ten past six, which meant it had lasted almost three hours. They’d undressed her, joking lewdly as her naked body was revealed. Then they’d used her tights to tie her wrists to the headboard. Norrie had been first, burying his face between her thighs, licking her like an ice cream. Frank was happy to watch: this was his scene – he’d organised it and was determined to enjoy it.
When he’d had his turn, they loosened the ties and made her kneel on the bed, facing away. Most of the time it was impossible to know which one of them was having her. Gina tried to blot out the groans and the relentless slapping of their skin against hers, and waited for it to be over. Eventually it was. On his way out the door, Frank threw a manila folder on the floor.
‘Don’t say I’m not a man of my word. Hope it was worth it.’
Gina covered herself with the wrecked bedclothes. She hoped so too. There would be plenty of time to regret it if it wasn’t.
Something she did regret was bringing them to the flat – she should’ve insisted on a hotel. From now on, every minute spent in it would be a reminder of what she’d let them do to her.
The folder stayed unopened until she’d had a shower and a cup of strong coffee.
Still not satisfied, she drank the coffee and turned the shower on again, this time staying under until the water ran cold. Then she poured a large gin and opened it.
The photocopying wasn’t great: grainy images of the dead man taken at different angles hadn’t changed anything. Jack Walsh was still dead. A shot of the upended Scrabble board and the letters peppering the carpet. Reports, some typed, some written in a scratchy hand, chronicled events from the time of the anonymous call until Forensics had done their stuff. Gruesome. The two men who’d just left had this to deal with. No wonder they were twisted.
Everything about Judith Thorne was in a second folder inside the first.
A crime within a crime.
The photographs of the bedroom and the wardrobe she’d been held captive in were no better than the others. With one exception – the woman’s haggard face – mouth open, strands of lank hair falling over her brow like an Old English sheepdog or a terrorist from the 1970s, staring straight at camera with eyes sunk deep in her head. There was nothing in those eyes. At that moment, rescue hadn’t meant a thing. She’d been left to cry in the darkness for so long, perhaps she’d never be free.
Gina turned her attention to the reason she’d allowed herself to be used. The first sheet of paper gave an overview of what the police had found, describing the room and the wardrobe in detail, going on
to cover opening the door and the condition of the malnourished waif-like form curled in on herself. The second one was a list, an evidence log. Gina scanned it. They’d found plenty of prints and DNA – all of it belonging to Judith Thorne or Jack Walsh with the exception of one sample they hadn’t been able to match.
The third sheet was a transcript of the interview done three days later at Larbert hospital. It was dated, signed with two signatures – a detective inspector and a female constable – and began with a statement of the doctor’s reservations regarding the appropriateness of speaking to his patient at this time. Noted but disregarded. Then the interview had begun. Immediately it was clear Judith Thorne wasn’t going to be able to add much to what the police already knew.
Question after question with a blank underneath where no answer had been given. The woman was clearly unfit to be interviewed and Gina’s disappointment grew. Until she got to the bottom.
Q: ‘Before the police found you, did you hear anything?’
A: ------------------- [no answer]
Q: ‘A struggle?’
A: ------------------- [no answer]
Q: ‘Anything at all?’
A: ‘Yes.’
Q: ‘What did you hear?’
A: -------------------- [no answer]
Q: ‘What did you hear, Judith?’
A: ‘Voices.’
Q: ‘Whose voices?’
A: -------------------- [no answer]
Q: ‘Whose voices, Judith?’
A: ‘I’m not sure.’
Q: ‘Not sure of what?’
A: ‘Of anything.’
Q: ‘But you think so?’
A: ‘Yes.’
Q: ‘What were the voices saying?’
A: ‘Shouting.’
Q: ‘What were they shouting?’
A: ‘My name.’
Q: ‘Who was shouting your name?’
A: -------------------[no answer]
Q: ‘Could you have imagined it?’
A: -------------------- [no answer]
