Deadly Harm

by Owen Mullen

  Q: ‘Tell me about them.’

  A: ‘Women’s voices.’

  Q: ‘Inside the cottage?’

  A: -------------------- [no answer]

  Q: ‘How many? How many voices?’

  A: --------------------- [no answer]

  Q: ‘How many voices do you think you heard, Judith?’

  A: ‘Two.’

  * * *

  A handwritten line added in black ink at the bottom of the transcript noted the subject’s transfer to Gartnavel Royal.

  Gina emptied her gin and poured herself another. Yes, it had been worth it.

  41

  Kelvingrove Art Gallery and Museum was a Glasgow institution just about everybody in the west of Scotland had visited at some time or another as part of a school trip, running up and down the stone steps to the cries of an exasperated teacher or, in later life, on a Sunday in winter with a girlfriend, stealing a kiss in front of an Old Master. The red sandstone building at the far end of Argyle Street was iconic, arguably the most recognised architecture in the city, the collection it housed an eclectic jumble of fantastic art, stuffed animals, the skeletal remains of prehistoric beasts, ancient Egyptian artefacts and classic Charles Rennie Mackintosh. A mismatch – not unlike Andrew Geddes and Mackenzie Darroch.

  Geddes bought himself a coffee in the tearoom and waited for her to arrive. The exchange on the phone had been brief, both of them fighting to keep their emotions in check. Since then, he’d spent painful hours marshalling his thoughts, going over what he wanted to say – rehearsing the questions in his head, drowning in resentment, wisely dismissing them when they’d make a bad situation worse.

  At twenty-past-three she came through the door, as beautiful as ever, walking towards him unsmiling, her heels echoing in the huge hall. The fingers in his pocket closed round the fragments of the photograph.

  She apologised. ‘Sorry if I’m late.’

  His reply was cold. ‘You aren’t, I’m early. I presume you’re here to give me back my key?’

  Mackenzie stiffened. ‘You’re welcome to it after you tell me why you left this in my car.’

  She tipped her pieces onto the table.

  Geddes held his fist out and opened it, letting his scraps fall on top of hers.

  ‘Snap! You left these in my flat.’

  She immediately rejected the statement. ‘No, I didn’t. I haven’t been near your flat.’

  ‘Then who…’ The detective in him took over. ‘Where were they?’

  ‘In my car, on the passenger seat.’

  ‘Any signs it had been broken into?’

  ‘None I noticed.’

  Part of Geddes was elated – it wasn’t over after all. His joy was short-lived, the sinister implications screamed at him.

  Mackenzie was still standing.

  Geddes said, ‘I think you better sit down.’

  Her dark eyes searched his face, asking for an explanation. ‘What does it mean, Andrew? Who could’ve done this?’

  Geddes didn’t answer. His mind raced through the possibilities. Going to Stewart Street to check who’d been released recently was the place to start. Narrow the field and lessen the threat. So far, no real harm had been done, a warning delivered now might keep it that way. The more he thought about it the less plausible it seemed. Targeting Mackenzie was something else: a portent of intent.

  ‘And why? Why both of us?’

  To protect her before she figured it out for herself, he threw her off the scent. ‘Is it possible somebody at the refuge might hold a grudge? Maybe someone you had to turn away?’

  Nonsense. Geddes didn’t believe it for a second.

  There was a link, a tie binding them as victims. Whoever had broken in had known what they were about. Same with her car. Destroying the picture, leaving part of it with each of them, was meant to frighten. Good job. So far it was working.

  She bought into his red herring. ‘Or a husband who blamed the refuge for losing his wife.’

  Geddes hated what he was doing. Mackenzie deserved to be told the truth.

  ‘Yeah, maybe.’

  The DI felt ashamed. She trusted him and he was deceiving her. Telling himself it was in her best interests didn’t help.

  ‘What should I do?’

  A question without an answer.

  ‘Nothing. Go home. Act normal.’

  ‘I’m afraid, Andrew. I’m scared.’

  The policeman’s chest tightened at the thought of her being hurt. He reached across and held her hands in his, forcing confidence into his voice. ‘Don’t be. The world’s full of nutters. It’s probably some sick bastard’s idea of a joke. Freaking us out because he can. I’ll speak to the local guys. Have them keep an eye on the refuge.’

  ‘Do you have any idea who it could be?’

  ‘Not yet, but I will.’

  The situation made his insides churn. Reality kicked in. Someone had followed them, watched them, invaded their private space and left a clear message – an obvious threat.

  She glanced at her watch. ‘When will I see you?’

  ‘Soon. Tomorrow?’

  ‘Promise?’

  ‘Absolutely.’

  ‘Everything’s all right between us, isn’t it?’

  He smiled. ‘Better than all right.’

  ‘What will you do now?’

  ‘Go back to the office.’

  ‘Can I call you later?’

  ‘There’ll be trouble if you don’t.’

  They walked together as far as the door and kissed, her fragile frame pressing against him. Geddes scanned the car park over her shoulder, his eyes staying on her until she reversed and drove off into the late afternoon traffic on leafy Kelvin Way.

  The DI went back to his seat – he should be happy. He wasn’t. Mackenzie hadn’t made the connection. Not yet. But she would. It was obvious – the girl they’d tried to help and failed: Kirsty McBride, her young life brought to an end by a man not seen in the city since the day he’d come out of Barlinnie. Popular opinion had him in London.

  Popular opinion was wrong.

  If he’d ever gone south, he wasn’t there now. Three nights ago, he’d been in Andrew Geddes’s flat.

  Malkie Boyle was in Glasgow.

  Paula Reid was on the floor playing with her wee boy. Acting normal was impossible. For his sake she tried. The knock on the door startled her. Kirsty had been her only friend. Since she’d died, nobody visited. Boyle was on the couch rolling a joint. He put a finger to his lips and slid the knife out of the waistband of his trousers. He wasn’t worried, not really. They’d had a nice long chat about it. Paula knew the score. One wrong word and he’d slice the boy’s throat before they could get near him. Not his first choice. He wasn’t an animal. But if it came to it, he’d do it.

  Geddes expected to be kept at the door. He knocked and waited for it to open. When it did, he spoke quickly. ‘I really need to speak to you again.’

  Paula was shaking.

  She was afraid. Of him? The DI didn’t think so.

  ‘Please.’

  She looked anxiously over her shoulder, coming to a decision she’d rather avoid. Without a word she turned and walked down the hall to the living room. Andrew Geddes breathed a sigh of relief and followed.

  Malkie heard the copper’s voice and opened the bedroom window as quietly as he could. Behind him, the baby was asleep in her cot. Two young boys kicked a football around on the uncut grass, one a ginger-haired kid wearing a Celtic jersey, his mate, a Rangers strip. How long would that last? This was Glasgow.

  It had been fun fucking with the policeman and his slag – dropping the torn photograph on the passenger seat in her car, helping himself to his whisky while he messed with his head; behaving like a juvenile delinquent and slashing the copper’s tyres. Great fun. But not smart.

  By now they would’ve compared their piles of confetti, put two and two together and come up with Kirsty. And him. The police thinking, whatever it had been, would change as they tr
ied to figure out where he could’ve been hiding since he’d got out of the Big House. Inevitably, they’d delve deeper into his past and discover the long-lost connection with Billy Cunningham.

  He itched to hurt the detective, step from the shadows some night and lay an iron bar across his fat skull. Goodnight and goodbye Mr Policeman. Except, that would let the bastard off too easily. There was a better option than killing both of them: scar the woman and leave him alone. He’d blame himself. The pain would last forever. Poetic justice.

  The plan appealed. Two birds one stone, then he’d be offski to pastures new with old Billy’s money in his pockets. Advertising his presence had made it harder. Her boyfriend would’ve warned her to be careful, but a pound to a penny, she’d ignore him. People were creatures of habit; they never learned.

  Malkie balanced on the ledge, hearing the murmur of conversation from the living room, remembering Paula’s creamy thighs; he was going to miss them.

  Down the line he’d look back and see good days. But it was over. The man who could send him to prison for the rest of his life was next door talking to her.

  Geddes came to the point. ‘Have you seen Malkie Boyle since we spoke?’

  ‘No. Why would I?’

  ‘Because he’s in Glasgow and he knows who persuaded Kirsty to let Social Services in.’

  Paula Reid stared at the floor.

  ‘Has he been here?’

  No answer.

  Geddes ignored the strain on her young face and pressed her. ‘You were closest to Kirsty. If he asked anybody about her, it would be you.’

  ‘I’ve told you. I haven’t seen him.’

  ‘The police assumed he’d gone to London. Easier to hide in a place that size. Either he’s come back or he’s never been away, but he’s in the city.’

  No shock. Not even surprise. And Geddes knew. Boyle had already been here. Geddes got to his feet, fighting against the panic rising in him. ‘I have to go. Be careful. If he’s cornered there’s no telling what he’ll do.’

  Outside in the street, the DI punched Mackenzie’s number on his mobile and got no answer. He tried the refuge, close to losing it. Sylvia answered on the second ring. Geddes almost shouted. ‘Where’s Mackenzie?’

  ‘Oh, hello, Andrew, she’s gone out.’

  ‘Out where?’

  ‘With Juliette.’

  He wanted to scream. ‘Fucking where, Sylvia? Where did she go?’

  ‘The woods near Lennox Castle. Is something wrong?’

  He didn’t hear the question. He was already running to his car.

  42

  A hard wind blew from the Campsies across the fields, rippling the river in muddy-brown peaks. The sky was grey and it was cold. Juliette didn’t mind. Mackenzie hardly noticed. She hadn’t shared finding the shredded photograph with Caitlin and Sylvia – they didn’t need something else to worry about. Andrew had been threatened more often than he could remember. Seeing him so calm reassured her. But she still couldn’t stop thinking about it. Breaking into a CID detective’s flat just to tear up a photograph was the work of a sick mind.

  People were capable of anything, that much was true, though in this case there was nothing to suggest a husband or partner of anyone at the refuge was involved. Most of the women had run from violent relationships of one kind or another. Some of their partners believed they were the injured party, abandoned by a wife or a girlfriend for an exaggerated transgression – or even a series – out of character and relatively inconsequential.

  Those men, the ones too ready to forgive themselves, were the worst. Drowning in misguided self-pity and resentment, unable to see let alone admit the wrong they’d done.

  Andrew’s guess some criminal he’d helped put away was trying to scare him was the most logical explanation. Leaving Kelvingrove, she’d seen him in her mirror, standing inside the door of the gallery, watching until she was out of sight, protecting her.

  Geddes overtook a blue Vauxhall on the inside and swerved in front. The irate driver blasted his horn; a protest which didn’t register with the DI. His concentration was fixed on getting to Lennoxtown and the refuge as fast as he could – nothing else mattered. He cursed himself for being so blind. Nobody had seen Malkie Boyle since he’d left the pub on his way to murder Kirsty McBride and the disabled neighbour who’d crossed him. He’d probably been hiding in some low-life mate’s attic.

  Geddes raced through three sets of traffic lights in Maryhill and two in Milngavie, one hand on the wheel the other holding his phone, zigzagging between everything in his path. He’d called the station to get officers to Paula Reid’s house. Now he was trying to speak to Sylvia again.

  The number rang out. Nobody answered.

  Frustration and fear boiled over. He threw the mobile onto the empty passenger seat, stamped his foot to the floor and headed out into the countryside towards Strathblane. The mobile rang. Geddes reached over for it and barked, ‘Mackenzie?’

  Sylvia said, ‘It isn’t Mackenzie, it’s me.’

  ‘I need you to show me where she is. I’m on my way. Meet me outside. There isn’t much time.’

  The car screamed to a halt. The last time Sylvia saw the detective she’d been rude to him; he was owed an apology. Clearly, he had other things on his mind. His face was pale and a film of sweat covered his brow.

  ‘Tell me where we’re going.’

  ‘Back down the lane and right, away from the village.’

  ‘How far is it?’

  ‘Five or six minutes. Will that be enough?’

  Geddes anxiously drew a hand across his forehead. ‘I hope to Christ it is.’

  Boyle cut the engine and rolled silently to a stop beside her car. This was going to be fun.

  He shook his head. People never learned, did they?

  Through the trees he saw her, tiny and vulnerable in the shadow of the dilapidated castle, hands in pockets, kicking at leaves, dawdling while her mongrel explored every tree it came to. Mackenzie mistook him for a kindred spirit out with his dog and smiled. He waved and walked towards her. Mackenzie Darroch and Malkie Boyle had never met.

  When he was forty yards away, her instinct kicked in. Boyle saw it on her face and his right hand closed round the knife. She screamed and started to run, frantically looking for someone to help or a place to hide. But she was alone – there was nowhere except the woods. If she went there she wouldn’t have a chance. Younger and stronger, he’d catch her easily.

  Boyle savoured her reaction.

  Mackenzie turned towards the ruin and the holes in the fences where Juliette had chased the rabbit. Mackenzie squeezed through the first one, snagging her trousers on a ragged wire and headed for the second and its missing paling. She slipped through. Behind her, Juliette snarled and snapped at Boyle’s ankles. He kicked the growling animal hard, sending her sprawling across the leafy earth, yelping in pain. Mackenzie heard her whimper and wanted to go to her. If she did, he’d kill them both.

  She climbed over piles of debris, losing her footing on the cold hard surface, regaining it and scrambling into the derelict building.

  On the other side, Boyle gripped the fence, pleased with himself. The bitch who’d turned Kirsty against him was trapped.

  By himself, Geddes wouldn’t have discovered where Mackenzie walked the dog in time. As it was, they might still be too late. Sylvia had a hundred questions – this wasn’t the moment.

  ‘Turn left.’

  The DI did as he was told. Sylvia pointed to a path covered with leaves running through a wood. Geddes leaned over the wheel, glaring through the windscreen like it would help him see better. ‘Where is she? I told her to be careful.’

  ‘We’re in the country, Andrew. This is being careful.’

  Geddes blasted the horn, long and loud, and handed his phone to Sylvia. ‘Call the police. Tell them to send backup ASAP. Tell them Malkie Boyle’s here. And lock the doors.’

  ‘Who’s Malkie Boyle?’

  Geddes jumped out of the car. �
��Believe me, Sylvia, you don’t want to know.’

  Boyle came through the second fence, an insane grin plastered across his face. Above him, Mackenzie stumbled up a slope of broken stone, her breathing shallow and laboured. Boyle shouted, ‘You killed Kirsty! You and your policeman lover! If you’d kept your nosey beaks out, she’d be alive!’

  Mackenzie shut the accusations out.

  He watched her and laughed. Kirsty and the cripple had been easy, too young and too old to resist. A couple of minutes at most. The woman was putting up a fight. Fair play to the bitch. It wouldn’t save her. He’d planned to mark her so badly that every time the copper looked at her, he’d regret fucking with Malkie Boyle. He changed his mind; exhilarated, the sense of power like a drug. Now, the end would be the same for her as it was for them: she’d be just as dead as they were. Then it would be old Billy’s turn. Long overdue but worth waiting for. He’d take his time with him. Really take his time. Make it last. Send him out slow and hard. They’d both know why.

  ‘Ready or not, here I come.’

  The building had fallen in on itself. Ragged stumps jutted from what was left of the upper floors. Only the exterior walls remained, walls which had witnessed the suffering of so many misunderstood innocents.

  Mackenzie looked up at the skeleton of Lennox Castle, its blackened stone rising against the sky. Fear made her mouth dry. There was nowhere to go and Boyle was right behind her. She’d have to climb higher; she felt sick. Her vision blurred; she steadied herself until it cleared. She saw the wood and wished she’d gone that way. This was a mistake.

  Every step brought Boyle nearer. He waved his knife at her and smiled. ‘Wait for me!’

  The wind rustled the branches of the trees and tugged at her hair.

  Juliette wasn’t in sight but Mackenzie heard her frenzied barking. Mackenzie crouched against the boulders: this was how it had been for Kirsty. Alone and terrified. Knowing Boyle was going to kill her. Andrew hadn’t told her the details of how she’d died. No need, she could imagine them. Her fingers closed round a loose piece of rock. She threw it and missed. Malkie Boyle grinned at her like the maniac he was. Mackenzie felt exhausted; more tired than she could remember.