by Owen Mullen
She got out of the car and took a deep breath, more nervous than she could remember. The police showing up had given her time to consider things: she’d seen the photographs of Jack Walsh, his face so badly beaten his own mother wouldn’t recognise him. Perhaps coming here alone was a mistake – at least two of the women in this place had committed murder. Not just murder – launched a frenzied attack, albeit on a callous coward who’d taken his wife’s liberty from her and treated her with barely imaginable cruelty. Gina had no doubt the voices outside the cottage were Mackenzie Darroch, morphed from victim to avenging angel, and whoever was with her, taking the law into their own hands, exacting retribution. Any court in the land would surely put Walsh away for a very long time for what he’d done. But had he deserved to die at the hands of vigilante justice?
The door was opened by a grey-haired woman in her sixties.
‘I’d like to speak to Mackenzie.’
The woman’s expression changed. ‘I’m afraid she isn’t available at the moment. Is she expecting you?’
Expecting her, no. Expecting somebody, maybe. ‘She isn’t, although I’m sure she’ll see me. My name’s Calvi. I’m a reporter.’
Sylvia bristled. ‘Can I ask what it’s about?’
‘Sorry, I’d rather tell her face to face.’
The gatekeeper eyed her up and down. ‘Wait here.’
Gina didn’t mind. She knew what would come next: the women would deny they’d ever been to the cottage in Clackmannan. Lying wouldn’t save them.
Over her shoulder, a voice said, ‘Can I help you?’ Gina turned round. The change in Mackenzie was impossible to miss. She was pale, her eyes hooded, her lips almost bloodless. From a distance she’d seemed relaxed. The visit from the police had shaken her.
‘It isn’t a good time.’
‘Really? Why is that?’
Dread crept through Mackenzie. First the attack by Boyle, now this.
‘Excuse me, who are you again?’
Gina wanted to laugh at the feigned ignorance. ‘I’ve just had an interesting conversation with a friend of yours.’
Mackenzie didn’t ask who.
‘Judith Thorne, Mrs Walsh, says she heard voices. Women’s voices.’ Gina’s eyes hardened. ‘Your voice.’
‘I’m sorry, I’ve no idea what you’re talking about. I don’t know a Judith Thorne.’
‘But you know her mother. Mrs Thorne let it slip then tried to deny it. Stupid old bat was protecting you.’
‘Protecting me from what? As for Mrs Thorne, I met her once for a few minutes.’
Gina came to the point. ‘We can do this all day or you can admit you killed Jack Walsh.’
Mackenzie took a step back into the house. ‘What a ridiculous accusation. What makes you say that? Where’s your proof?’
A slow smile parted Gina Calvi’s lips. ‘I think we’ll let the police worry about that. Shouldn’t be difficult for them. They’ll find DNA that doesn’t belong to Walsh. What they don’t have is something to match it to. Once I tell them what I know, they will.’
‘And this is why you’ve come? You’re crazy. The police were just here, why haven’t they arrested me?’
The reporter was unfazed. ‘No, they don’t know what I know.’ Calvi’s confidence rattled Mackenzie. ‘The truth is going to come out. I’m offering you a chance to tell your side of the story before it does.’
‘You’re crazy.’
That smile again. ‘You think so?’
‘I don’t have a story.’
The reporter folded her arms across her chest. ‘Let’s stop playing games. Why you killed him doesn’t matter, I couldn’t care less. Up to now, you’ve got away with it. Nobody else has figured it out.’ Gina looked at her watch. ‘If I haven’t heard from you in four hours – by nine o’clock tonight – I’m calling the police.’
Mackenzie wanted to lie down and close her eyes. Kirsty McBride and Malkie Boyle; Emily Thorne’s daughter, Jack Walsh, and now this reporter. She couldn’t take any more.
‘But you’re wrong.’
‘Tell them that and see how far it gets you.’
‘Why are you doing this?’
Gina thrust her card at her and snapped. ‘Oh, please, spare me the bullshit. Four hours. After that, it’ll be too late.’
For the third time that afternoon, Mackenzie, Caitlin and Sylvia were in the lounge. Sylvia closed the door. Before she sat down, Caitlin blurted out her fear. ‘What’re we going to do?’
‘There’s nothing we can do, she’s got us, hasn’t she?’
‘But we were careful. I mean, we cleaned everything and wore gloves and hats.’
‘We can’t be sure. It happened so fast.’
Sylvia said, ‘Don’t doubt for a second that bitch will do what she’s threatening. Unless we stop her.’
Reckless talk. Mackenzie ended it. ‘What we did needed to be done. If we hadn’t acted, Judith Thorne might be dead now. It was necessary. A one-off. But we aren’t murderers.’
The older lady was determined. ‘Then I’ll say it was me. I’ll tell them I killed Walsh. I’ve had my life. You have yours ahead of you.’
‘Except it won’t be your DNA in the cottage. It’ll be mine and Caitlin’s. So, even if we agreed, it wouldn’t work. Forensic evidence doesn’t lie. It’ll prove who was there and who wasn’t.’ Mackenzie shook her head. ‘Gina Calvi wants the story before it comes out. I’ll give it to her. After that…’
Caitlin had her own solution. ‘We tell them it was me. You stayed in the car and only came in when I shouted on you. I killed him.’
‘Nobody will believe you.’
‘Yeah, they will. We agreed I’d get a look at where he was keeping Judith. I told him my car had broken down and asked if he could help. When I was in the cottage, he attacked me and I lost it.’
Mackenzie’s tiredness had disappeared. ‘Absolutely not. No way am I letting you take the blame. It was me.’
‘You’re forgetting Peter. I wouldn’t be alive if it wasn’t for you pulling me out of his car. I’ve been dead since the moment I skidded into the tree.’
‘Not in a million years. You were against going to the cottage, I persuaded you. Look, you asked if it had anything to do with that night. Yes, it did.’ She told them what happened to Kirsty McBride. ‘I’ve been coming to this place since. I killed Walsh for Kirsty and me and you, and all the women who can’t help themselves.’
Caitlin admired her but was unmoved. ‘I hear what you’re saying but you’re wrong to blame yourself for that girl’s death. You tried to save her. Sometimes that’s just how it goes. You’re better than me, better than any of us. I won’t stand by and see you sacrifice yourself.’
Sylvia said, ‘What about this place?’
‘I’ve already thought about that. I’ll sign everything over to you and Caitlin. You’ll keep it going. Now, I must lie down before I fall down. Give me a couple of hours, then I’ll think about how to handle it. She won’t back down. Maybe I should just go to the police myself. Why give her the satisfaction?’
Caitlin said, ‘I’d do anything for you, you know that, don’t you?’
‘So would I. We owe you so much.’
Mackenzie put her arms round her friends. ‘I’m not important. There’s more at stake than just me – the women here, the ones who’ll come after and the ones after that. I have to do what’s right.’
46
On the motorway, traffic was moving; for most, the working day was over. Caitlin took the turn-off for Aberfoyle and a left towards George Square. Further down, outside the Mercedes dealership in Milton Street, a young guy in a flying jacket and jeans shook hands with a man whose shirt sleeves were rolled back to the elbows, then dropped behind the wheel of a deep blue A-class saloon and pulled his new toy up to the red traffic lights. Caitlin imagined his fingers impatiently tapping the gear stick, ready to race away the second they turned orange.
He smiled, obviously pleased with himself. She envied him t
hough it didn’t show: she was calm, her heartbeat returned to normal, hands not shaking anymore. Her expression was set hard, lips pressed together, eyes hooded in concentration, skin pale and smooth and unlined as if anxiety had been airbrushed out. Grey smoke trailed from the smouldering tip of the cigarette between her fingers. Mackenzie didn’t allow smoking in her car – she wouldn’t be pleased. Who was going to tell her? When the lights changed, the Merc glided soundlessly across the intersection, its driver still grinning at his good fortune. Caitlin turned left again and headed into central Glasgow.
Knowing she was on solid ground made the reporter confident, bold even. Certain their backs were against the wall, she’d turned the screw with the nine o’clock deadline. Mackenzie hadn’t given up and still hoped she could persuade her – obviously she didn’t understand who she was dealing with.
Gina Calvi was where she was supposed to be, standing on the pavement in front of the old post office building. Since her visit to Lennoxtown earlier in the afternoon, she’d taken the trouble to change her outfit, dressing casually in dark corduroy trousers and a Parka with the fur-lined hood up to keep her warm. Yards away, a wild-eyed beggar sat cross-legged with his back against the stone wall nursing a beat-up Yamaha with a burnt amber scratchplate in his lap, the top E string trailing like the strand of a spider’s web from a tuning key in the street light. A white paper cup and a crudely-drawn cry for help – HOMELESS AND HUNGRY – written on a piece of cardboard, lay on the ground in front of him. His eyes filled briefly with hope when he saw the reporter, cold fingers the colour of wax pleading with her to recognise his existence while he mumbled incoherently through whatever he was on to get him through his miserable life. Gina ignored him and stepped forward to meet the car drawing into the kerb.
She opened the door and got in. When she saw Caitlin was by herself, she was immediately angry and suspicious. ‘You said Mackenzie wanted to meet me. Where the fuck is she?’
Caitlin fought down an overwhelming urge to slap her, checked her mirror, indicated and edged out into the road before answering. ‘She’s waiting for you.’
‘Where? At the refuge?’
A bronze Hyundai flashed its lights, signalling Caitlin to go. She raised an arm to acknowledge the courtesy, conscious of the reporter’s eyes boring into her from the passenger seat. Telling her would’ve been easy. She chose to make her wait.
The insult didn’t escape Gina. ‘I meant what I said today. Don’t fuck me about.’
Caitlin kept her voice low and neutral. ‘Nobody’s fucking you about. Mackenzie sent me to get you. All you have to do is sit back and enjoy the hurl.’
‘The hurl where? Where’re we going?’
Caitlin’s smirk got the reaction she intended. Gina lost her temper and banged her fist on the dashboard. ‘Stop the car! Stop the car and let me out!’
Halfway up John Street, Caitlin did as she was told. The women stared at each other. Calvi’s nostrils flared with temper. ‘Maybe your memory’s bad. Maybe you’ve forgotten our conversation.’
‘No, I haven’t. It was me who called you. And I remember every word of it, Gina.’
‘So what’s going on? Why isn’t Mackenzie with you? And cut the crap, I don’t want to hear it.’
Caitlin focused on a taxi in her rear-view mirror. ‘She wasn’t going to give you your exclusive. I persuaded her this is a way to get public opinion on her side. You should be thanking me. It wasn’t easy. Once she makes up her mind, nothing and nobody can change it.’
‘Except, you did.’
‘Except, I did. This time. But she still insisted on doing it her way.’
‘Meaning?’
‘She wanted another try at convincing you how it was with Walsh. I told her you wouldn’t listen. That it was over. We’d lost.’
‘And?’
Caitlin let a derisive laugh escape into the car. ‘What do you think?’
Gina sat with her back against the door. ‘You’re very relaxed for somebody who’s going to prison the day after tomorrow. If you’re thinking about having sex ever again, I’d go for it tonight.’
‘You’re confusing me with yourself. And relaxed isn’t the word. I’m resigned. Resigned to what is. That’s the difference between me and Mackenzie; I know when to give up.’
‘She doesn’t?’
‘’Course she doesn’t. Her history isn’t any secret. She wasn’t just abducted. She was brutalised. Anybody else would’ve crawled into a corner and stayed there. Mackenzie took the time she needed and came back. Have you the slightest idea how many women she’s helped? She’s saved?’
‘I can imagine.’
‘No you fucking can’t. But I can.’
‘Because you’re one of them.’
‘Yes. So I agreed to take you to her to give her one last chance to explain, even though she’d be better baying at the moon, because you’re a bitch who doesn’t give a damn about anybody except herself.’
Gina Calvi’s lips parted in a half-smile. ‘Harsh.’
‘But not inaccurate. I suggested a different solution.’
‘You’re just itching to tell me what that was, aren’t you?’
‘Itching, no, but I will tell you. I said we should find out where you live, break in when you were asleep and hold a pillow over your face until you couldn’t hurt us anymore.’
‘I admire your honesty.’
Caitlin snapped back. ‘Don’t bother. All she had to say was “yes” and I’d have done it myself. So now you know.’
Gina tapped her front teeth with the tip of her index finger; her opinion of Caitlin had gone up. ‘Indeed, so now I know.’
The silence in the car lasted until the reporter said, ‘Who actually killed Walsh – you or her?’
Caitlin stared through the windscreen and didn’t answer.
‘It was her, wasn’t it? The reason I’m so sure is I’ve met your type before. Plenty of bluster and ballsy chat about what you’d do and wouldn’t do. At the end of the day, that’s all it is. Chat. Tough talk means fuck all. It’s the quiet ones you need to watch.’
‘Cliché. Spoken like a true newspaper hack.’
‘Because it’s an old chestnut doesn’t mean it isn’t true. I’d rather go up against the likes of you every time.’
The light was fading and in the shadow Caitlin’s face looked different. She glanced anxiously at the clock on the dash. ‘Ever read The Monkey’s Paw?’
‘Of course.’
‘Remember what it’s about?’
‘A mother uses a monkey’s paw to summon her dead son killed in a machinery accident. The son shows up mutilated and decomposing.’
‘Clever girl. Then you’ll know there’s a moral to it.’
‘Be careful what you wish for.’
Gina Calvi had heard enough. They weren’t even out of Glasgow: this was turning into a waste of time. ‘Last chance, otherwise I call the police right now and tell them what I know. Where’s Mackenzie? Where the hell is she?’
‘At the cottage.’
‘What? Jack Walsh’s cottage in Clackmannan? Is that where we’re going?’
‘Yes.’
‘Why, for Christ’s sake?’
‘She believes if you understand – really understand – how it was, you’ll change your mind.’
‘Then she’s more of an idiot than I thought. I couldn’t care less. Do you seriously think I give a monkey’s fuck, let alone a monkey’s paw, about the crusade or whatever it is you people are on.’ Gina Calvi laughed. ‘Grow up.’
‘Will you at least listen to her?’
Gina checked her watch. ‘You’re playing games. It’s quarter to seven. Get moving.’
‘I think we both know you’re the one playing games. This is exactly what you want for your “inside” story. This is your shot at the Big Time, isn’t it?’
The reporter ignored the question. ‘How long is this going to take?’
‘Forty-five, fifty minutes. Something like that.’
<
br /> ‘So what’re you waiting for. No more talk. Get going. Just drive.’
47
Malkie lay on his bed, holding his side and tried to think through his next move. Going after the copper’s tart in broad daylight had been a mistake he’d been lucky to survive. In the process he’d blown his cover. No use dwelling on it: what was done was done. The important thing was to get away. They still couldn’t know where he’d been hiding. For the moment, he was safe.
He’d hit his head and hurt his side in the fall. Good luck rather than bad. If he’d broken a leg they would’ve had him. There was no sign of old Billy – probably sleeping off a liquorice bender. In spite of the pain, Malkie laughed at his joke.
How much money was left under the floorboards? He couldn’t remember. Still plenty, that was for sure. It might’ve been a better idea to get away from Glasgow, get away from Scotland the day after he’d discovered it. No, in the immediate aftermath of Kirsty and the cripple, he’d been hot, the chances of being recognised a lot higher than they were further down the line. Until that afternoon, he could’ve walked down Sauchiehall Street without getting a second glance from any bugger. Not now.
As soon as her boyfriend showed up, the opportunity to do the bitch from the refuge was gone. If Malkie had been smart – if his thinking had been straight – he would’ve let it go and got out of there. The policeman – the detective – kept his nerve when his woman was on top of the wall and the knife was within touching distance of her smooth skin. Impressive. Cool; he hadn’t panicked. Instead he’d spoken to her, reassured her it was going to be okay even though he didn’t believe it. But they’d meet again and it would be different. Yeah, very different. No smart-arse toying with them. No games.
Time to go time. Get the money, do the old man and cut his losses. Malkie got off the bed, went to the kitchen and got down on his knees. With cash on his tail, he could turn it round. Done it before, hadn’t he?
