by Owen Mullen
Going by its condition, nobody had read it: winning had been enough. Hannah’s intelligence had rubbed off on her son – evading capture for months when every policeman in the city had your description burned into their skulls was no small feat. Geddes put it back, then changed his mind: Boyle was a rootless ne’er-do-well, why keep this stuff? What was its significance for him? The answer was obvious: it belonged to his mother. Could a heartless killer be sentimental? Apparently so. He’d kept her birth certificate as well as his own. The DI was exhausted; he ran a tired hand through his hair. There had to be something more. Surely he hadn’t thrown away his reputation on this pile of shit?
Jamieson’s smug face rose to taunt him. Leitch would come down hard. He’d be the laughing stock of Stewart Street, of Glasgow for Christ’s sake, never able to live it down. Shame flushed his neck.
‘Fuck you, Jamieson! Fuck you, Boyle! Fuck the lot of you!’
He fired the book across the garage and watched it slap against the wall.
‘That’s personal property you’re abusing. Any damage…’
The rage in the detective’s eyes shut him down. Geddes’s brain was on fire. Arrogantly assuming he’d known better had got Kirsty McBride killed. Mackenzie had been within inches of joining her because he’d drawn her into something which wasn’t her concern. Butting heads with his DCI and Dennis Jamieson were distractions, excuses for bottling it in Renfrew Street.
Jamieson was right – on this showing he’d be lucky to get hired as a security guard.
Across the garage, the book lay on the concrete floor, its spine broken by the impact; a piece of paper lodged between the pages had fallen out. He picked it up and opened it. The newspaper clipping was thirty-five years old. October 1984. Its headline read – END OF THE LINE. Underneath was a report on the final day of a trial and a summary of a spree of sub-post office robberies the prosecution hadn’t attempted to pursue, rightly believing they could prove the last one beyond a shadow of a doubt.
In the line drawing, three men stood in the dock as the judge delivered the sentence. It meant nothing to Geddes – well before his time. But it had been important enough for a young Hannah Cunningham to hold on to. He studied the page with the same intensity he’d given the photographs, reading the names of the accused out loud to himself: James Dillon from Airdrie. Billy Cunningham and John Shaw from Castlemilk. Sir Robert Overton, the presiding judge, gave Dillon and Shaw eight years each, Cunningham, the leader, got twelve.
The landlord sidled up to Geddes. ‘Looks like you’ve wasted your time. And mine.’
The detective didn’t reply. There was a connection he wasn’t registering.
Fox said, ‘If you remove anything I’ll want a receipt. You people have a habit of–’
‘Shut up. I’m trying to think.’
He read the birth certificate: Hannah Cunningham. Born 17th May 1972. Father William Cunningham. Billy Cunningham was Malkie Boyle’s grandfather.
‘Got you, you fucker!’
Fox was at his elbow. ‘That’s a seriously bad temper, Detective. I’d watch that if I was you. Could get you into a lot of trouble.’
Geddes resisted proving him right. ‘That temper just saved my arse.’
He punched the station number on his mobile. DS Kevin Turnbull answered.
‘Kevin? It’s Andrew Geddes. I need an address in Castlemilk.’
The sergeant didn’t ask unnecessary questions. ‘Name?’
‘Cunningham. Billy Cunningham. It’s urgent. How soon can you get it?’
‘Be right back to you.’ He added a cautionary word. ‘Andrew, listen, if this is about something Jamieson’s done, I think–’
‘It isn’t. It’s about what he hasn’t done.’
44
Detective Chief Inspector Leitch lifted the phone when the call was patched through. Andrew Geddes was the last person he wished to speak to. Geddes was a first-class detective with a record second to none, no doubt, but not the kind he wanted working under him: a hardhead with an attitude. Officers of any rank who played by their own rules had no future in his police force. It seemed the man hadn’t learned his lesson.
Leitch took a deep breath. ‘This had better be good. This had better be very good.’
Geddes let the DCI make up his own mind. On the passenger seat his notebook lay open. The address DS Turnbull had given him was scrawled on the page.
‘I’ve put an APB out on Malkie Boyle. I’m heading to Castlemilk. Requesting armed backup.’
‘What the hell are you doing, Geddes?’
‘I’ve found the connection.’
‘You know?’
‘I’m pretty certain.’
Geddes left out the sir.
‘Where?’
‘His grandfather’s been hiding him.’
‘I understood he’d no family. Jamieson reported nothing in his background.’
‘He didn’t dig deep enough.’ Geddes wanted to say ‘before you took me off the case’, changed his mind and chose his words. ‘The house-search I authorised wasn’t done properly. An important clue got overlooked.’
‘Overlooked? Who–’
Leitch cut the question on his lips short. On the other end of the line, Andrew Geddes smiled a grim smile. The DCI was confused. ‘I’m not getting this. Start from the beginning.’
Geddes forced a way through the traffic on Gallowgate and headed south across the city. At London Road, Celtic Park rose to his left against the grey sky. ‘Boyle’s grandfather is Billy Cunningham.’
‘Never heard of him.’
‘Been off the scene for decades. In his day his party trick was armed robbery. Sub-post offices. Got twelve years for the last one. Came out and faded into obscurity. Anybody who did remember him probably assumed he’d died.’
‘And he’s Boyle’s grandfather?’
‘Yes. I think what happened is this: once he’d murdered Kirsty McBride and the disabled neighbour, his choices were leave Glasgow or hide. So he goes to his mother’s father and lies low. Months go by. My guess is he was finally ready to move. Before he did he was determined to get back at the people he blamed for his girlfriend’s death.’
‘It makes sense.’
‘Today he tried to kill the woman who persuaded Kirsty to let the Social help her. He failed. Unfortunately, he got away. I went to Stewart Street–’
‘I heard.’
‘There was nothing in the file. The clue was with his stuff in the lock-up.’
Geddes swerved to overtake a car on Dunn Street. ‘I’ve got a location. I’ll be there in ten minutes. Tell them no sirens. I want to take him by surprise.’
‘Listen to me, Geddes. Don’t do anything. Wait until support gets to you. That’s an order.’
‘Am I allowed to say something?’
‘What?’
‘Don’t send Jamieson. Anyone but him.’
‘I promise you he won’t be coming.’
‘Expect a complaint from him against me claiming I assaulted him.’
‘And did you?’
Geddes was too tired to lie. ‘Yes, I did.’
‘Good man.’
The phone went dead.
45
Gina Calvi made the journey from Merchant City to the far end of Great Western Road more quickly than she’d anticipated. Gina didn’t dwell on what had happened with Frank Armstrong and his friend – she was a big girl and had known what she was getting herself into. She could’ve backed out at any time. She’d chosen not to. Her decision. The reason she hadn’t lay on the passenger seat next to her.
transferred to Gartnavel Royal
The scrawl on the bottom of the interview transcript told her everything she needed about the woman she was going to see: Gartnavel Royal in the West End, between Kelvindale and Anniesland, was touted as “the most modern and innovative mental health hospital in the UK” when it opened after nineteen million pounds was spent on it. Gina hoped the hype was true. It hadn’t always been so grand. T
wo hundred years earlier, when the original facility opened in 1814 in Cowcaddens, its official title was the Glasgow Lunatic Asylum.
For the less resourceful, getting in would’ve been a problem. Not for her. She went through the main door, quickening her step to Reception. The female behind the desk had efficiency written all over her. Gina had her act ready. ‘Excuse me. I’m Frances Russo. My sister’s a patient here.’
‘Name?’
‘Judith. Judith Walsh.’ Gina forced anxiety into her voice and hurried on with her explanation. ‘I live abroad. My husband’s illness kept me from getting here sooner. Which ward is she on?’
The receptionist scrolled the PC screen in front of her. ‘The Rutherford Ward. But you’re outwith visiting hours. It’ll be the ward sister’s decision whether she allows you in.’
‘I understand. Thank you.’
Gina waited while a nurse let the ward sister know she was there, staying with the pretence, pacing up and down, every inch the concerned sibling. The sister’s smile was fleeting – the smile of a busy woman. ‘I’m glad you’re here. Seeing you will do Judith good.’
‘I hope so.’
‘But you mustn’t stay too long. She tires easily. Fifteen minutes at most, is that all right?’
For the reporter, it was very all right. The room was comfortable, with its own bathroom and a television mounted on the wall. With another 116 like this one, it was easy to see where the nineteen million had gone.
Judith was on her side, asleep. The door closing awakened her and she turned. Gina pulled a chair over to the bed and took out her notebook. ‘Hi, I’m DS Henderson. If you don’t mind, I’d like to go over your story one last time.’
She brought an old press card from her purse, flashed it and put it away. Weak and confused, Judith accepted it. ‘I’ve already told you everything. There isn’t any more.’
Gina was unmoved by the fragile figure in the bed not making eye contact with her. ‘We know that and we’re grateful. Only you might’ve thought of something else, something important. It’s common. Things come back gradually as you get stronger.’
Judith shook her head. ‘I won’t. I won’t. I’m sure I won’t. I’m trying to forget. Don’t make me remember it all over again. Please.’
She patted her thin hand. ‘Okay. Okay. Calm down. Just one question.’
Judith cowered under the bedclothes. Gina flipped open the notebook and pretended to read from it. ‘You’ve told us you heard voices. Women’s voices. That’s right, isn’t it?’
‘…Yes.’
‘Two of them.’
‘Yes.’
‘You were inside the wardrobe. How can you be sure?’
Judith didn’t offer an explanation. ‘I heard them.’
‘I believe you. Were they in the cottage?’
‘Outside. Shouting to me. Shouting my name.’
‘Who was shouting? Was it Mackenzie?’
‘I don’t know anyone called Mackenzie.’
‘Mackenzie Darroch?’
‘No, I don’t.’
‘She had a similar experience to you. We believe she might be involved.’
‘I told you. I don’t know anyone with that name.’
Gina pressed her. ‘Something doesn’t make sense. How did they know you were there?’
Judith’s reply was like a petulant child. ‘They just did.’
‘Did you hear them in the cottage?’
‘I heard noises. He was cursing.’
‘Him?’
Mentioning her jailor by name might be enough to send this woman over the edge.
‘Why didn’t they let you out after they’d killed him?’
Suspicion sparked in Judith. ‘You said you’d only ask one question. I’d like you to go.’
Billy Cunningham watched the water in the lavatory pan colour red. Nobody believed it would happen to them until it was too late. Because people were stupid? Because they were arrogant? A bit of both probably.
At first, he’d put the shortness of breath and the wheezing down to age. It suited him to pay no heed to the sore throat and the cough that wouldn’t go away. Shortly after the pains in his chest started he’d spat blood for the first time into his handkerchief and stopped kidding himself. Even then it was months before he went to a doctor.
Being dead held no fear for Billy Cunningham. The actual dying was the bit he didn’t fancy. If he could go quietly, painlessly, he wouldn’t mind. With no wife and his old friends gone, what was there to live for? Billy would’ve liked to ask The Boy about her. His most vivid memory was of the little girl running to welcome her daddy home, not the woman who’d betrayed him. He could still see her on that winter’s day, standing on the step, a cold north wind blowing snowflakes like scattered butterflies. She’d held onto The Boy’s arm, sadness in her empty eyes. Turning her away wasn’t what he’d wanted, but bitterness had been eating him away inside for too long and wouldn’t let go, so he refused to help and closed the door on both of them.
What was there to live for? Not a whole helluva lot.
But not nothing. Definitely not nothing. Tommy Boyle had quit Glasgow and never returned. His son had and he was a bastard like his father. Billy got off his hands and knees, went through to the kitchen and pushed the table aside.
His thinking was straight.
Gina sat in the car park, going over what, if anything, she’d learned. Judith’s experience had damaged her more than the reporter anticipated. Emily Thorne’s daughter was a nervous wreck, whatever confidence she’d had, destroyed. Finding her way back to a normal life, even if it was possible, would be a long hard road. She’d confirmed what was in the police report Gina had debased herself to get about hearing two women call her name. Those same women had killed Walsh. Nobody would shed tears for that guy – the world was better off without him – why not free Judith, especially since they knew she was in the cottage? Why make an anonymous call?
The reporter studied her mobile while people came and went. This was a busy place. A handsome man in his fifties wearing a dark-blue pinstriped suit, striding with the assurance of someone who belonged – maybe a consultant on his way to the golf course – smiled at her through the windscreen. She stared blankly back. Gina had had enough of men to last her a while.
The answer was obvious: because they didn’t want her to be accused of his murder. Obvious maybe, but not plausible. Judith was emaciated and weak, not in a state to kill anybody. Whoever fatally wounded Walsh had known there was someone in the cottage and that she was a prisoner. Freeing her meant showing themselves. She’d be able to identify them. So they’d left her in the wardrobe after they killed him – not to protect her from an accusation of murder – to protect themselves.
On the drive from Lennox Castle to the refuge, Mackenzie sat in the back of the police car. Sylvia drove Mackenzie’s car with Juliette on her lap. The dog was quiet and Sylvia was anxious a vet take a look at her.
In the lounge, the officers refused a worried Irene’s offer of tea, preferring to get the facts down on paper as soon after the incident as possible. One of them went outside and checked the house and garden while the sergeant opened his notebook and began by establishing what Mackenzie had been doing at the castle and what had happened.
‘Did you know the man who attacked you?’
‘We’d never met. I guessed who he was, if that’s what you mean?’
‘How?’
She gave a potted version of her involvement with Kirsty McBride, describing the assault as best she could, and saw his expression tighten. Every officer in Glasgow considered the murders a stain on the city. When she finished, the policeman closed his notebook and stood. ‘The locals are sending a man. Stay indoors until you hear from DI Geddes. You’ve had a frightening experience. But you’re safe now. Boyle got away from us before. Rest assured, he won’t escape this time.’
Fine words. Mackenzie wasn’t certain she believed them.
She called Andrew and got put throu
gh to voicemail. The last time she’d seen him he was running to his car. Just hearing the dry, matter-of-fact way he spoke, reassured her. With the police gone, Irene appeared in the lounge with the tea the officers had turned down. Sylvia and Caitlin gathered round to hear the full story of why a maniac had come after her. Mackenzie appreciated it. They were good friends. But explanations would have to wait, she was exhausted.
Caitlin said it for her. ‘Think you’d be better in bed, don’t you?’
‘Honestly, I can hardly keep my eyes open.’
‘Delayed reaction. It’ll pass. Get some sleep. We’ll wake you if there’s any news.’
‘What about Andrew?’
‘If there’s one thing Andrew Geddes can do, it’s take care of himself. Don’t worry about him, he’ll be okay.’
Gina Calvi’s attention was on the car parked outside – a police car, the last thing she’d expected. Somehow they’d pieced the puzzle together and beaten her to it. Allowing herself to be humiliated by Frank Armstrong and his creepy friend to get the file had been for nothing. The reporter was crushed. How could the police have figured it out? Emily Thorne’s unforced error – admitting then denying she knew Mackenzie Darroch – was a gift, otherwise she’d never have made the connection. Judith heard female voices but hadn’t seen their faces. The DNA would tie Mackenzie to the crime.
Gina drove past and stopped, picturing the scene inside. They’d be charging her and her accomplice with bludgeoning a drunk man to death in his own home. The women would come out in handcuffs, tears wet on their cheeks, heads bowed with the shame of what they’d done. Any hope of the exclusive interview Gina desperately wanted would be gone.
She fished her mobile out of her bag and turned on the camera – at least she’d have the only photograph of the arrest. It wouldn’t sell for much but it was better than nothing. She trained it on the door and swore. ‘Fuck!’
Mackenzie was on the front step shaking hands with the officers, all of them smiling. They chatted for a minute before the policemen drove away. Gina didn’t understand what the hell was going on, except it was good news for her. The police could’ve come here for any number of reasons. They hadn’t arrested them which meant her plan was back on.
