Dark is the Day

by Tana Collins

  Watson turned to face Mr Abbie. ‘Can you tell us a bit about your daughter, Mr Abbie. What was she like? You said her mother had died in a car accident?’

  ‘Yes, when Rachel was fifteen.’

  Fletcher spoke encouragingly. ‘That must have been hard.’

  Mr Abbie nodded. ‘Yes, it was. You don’t get over something like that. Terrible shock. The suddenness of it. The next few years were very hard. It’s not easy for a teenage girl growing up without her mother. I had to be both father and mother to her and hold down a job. However, we got through it. No other choice. If you don’t cope you go under.’

  Fletcher looked at the prematurely-lined face of a man who she put in his late forties, who had not only lost his wife but also his daughter. She hoped he would find the support he needed to get through this latest terrible ordeal. She wondered if his faith was strong. It would need to be. He had already borne more than most people his age. How could she ask the sort of questions Carruthers wanted her to ask? How could she find out about the state of their marriage at this delicate time? She just decided there was no easy way. All she could do was throw herself in. For once she was actually glad Gayle Watson was with her. She found the efficient and quietly-spoken woman a reassuring influence. Thanking her lucky stars she didn’t have the insensitive Dougie Harris to deal with, she pushed on.

  Fletcher made her voice gentle when she asked her next question. ‘Was it a good marriage?’

  Mr Abbie looked surprised. ‘Yes, very good. She was my soulmate. We met young. When we were still at school, actually.’

  ‘You were together a long time then.’ She chose her words carefully. ‘Sometimes when people have been together that long things can get a bit stale. You were never tempted by an affair?’

  Mr Abbie suddenly stood up, looking affronted. ‘God, why would you even ask?’

  Fletcher had received the response she expected. ‘Please sit down. I’m sorry if these questions appear insensitive. I’m afraid it’s routine to look into the backgrounds of those affected in this sort of investigation.’

  The man drew a long breath and expelled it slowly. Then he shakily sat back down in the chair. ‘Yes, I suppose it is. Go on then. Ask the questions you need to ask. However, in answer to your question, no I never was. I was still in love with my wife when she died. In fact,’ he said sadly, ‘I still haven’t been able to look at anyone else.’

  Fletcher pondered what he’d just said. She had no reason to disbelieve him. He seemed like an honest man to her. She couldn’t imagine a love like that. She hoped one day she might experience it.

  She tried a different approach. ‘What line of business are you in?’ She remembered the comment from the Yorkshire police that he and his daughter lived in a mansion. Either he had some inherited wealth or he was in an extremely well-paid job. Perhaps both.

  ‘I’m a surgeon.’

  Fletcher wasn’t sure what a surgeon earned but guessed it would be a hell of a lot more than a detective sergeant.

  She frowned. Something Mr Abbie had said was bothering her, but it was like a shadow and she couldn’t work out what it was. She struggled hard to remember. Wait, she thought. Hadn’t he said the two men in the photograph were business acquaintances? That was a strange choice of expression for a man who had just told her he was a surgeon. What sort of business acquaintances would a surgeon have? She opened her mouth to ask him some further questions, but before she could speak Watson had jumped in with a question of her own.

  ‘So presumably you have no financial worries?’ asked Watson.

  Mr Abbie looked rueful. He scratched his forehead just above his eye. It appeared a nervous gesture. ‘I didn’t until I lost my wife. I’m afraid I didn’t cope well. I started gambling.’

  ‘Are you in debt?’ asked Fletcher, wondering whether that was the reason he was currently staying in such an awful hotel room. Or maybe that was all he could find at short notice. Castletown was popular with tourists all year round. Fletcher could imagine it might be a struggle to find decent accommodation if not booked well in advance.

  Mr Abbie looked at Fletcher. ‘Look, why are we talking about my financial situation when you have a murderer on the loose?’

  ‘I’m sorry, Mr Abbie. We’re just trying to look at things from every angle. I do need to ask you though. The two men in the photo that was found in your daughter’s bedroom. Who are they?’

  Mr Abbie’s shoulders hunched. ‘I might as well tell you. You’d find out anyway. Moneylenders. Sorry, I should have said straightaway but I was too embarrassed.’

  ‘Are you having problems meeting the repayments? Have you been threatened?’

  ‘Well, I wouldn’t say threatened exactly.’

  ‘Does your daughter own a camera with a long-angle lens?’ ventured Watson.

  Mr Abbie nodded, looking confused for a moment. ‘Yes, she’s a keen photographer.’

  Why would Rachel Abbie have a photograph of the men who were lending her father money, thought Fletcher. Unless… There hadn’t been a camera found in her bedroom so presumably it was back at the family home. ‘Do you think your daughter was trying to conduct her own investigation into who was sending you those menacing phone calls and that’s why she took these pictures?’

  Mr Abbie weighed up the question. ‘It’s possible. When she was young she wanted to be a police officer.’

  ‘We’ll need all the contact details you’ve got for these moneylenders. I’m sure I don’t need to tell you just how dangerous some of these people can be,’ said Watson.

  Moneylenders? More like loan sharks, thought Fletcher.

  Fletcher swallowed a huge lump the size of a golf ball. It was time to tell Mr Abbie about the severed finger. They couldn’t keep it a secret forever and Mr Abbie had a right to know the details of his daughter’s death.

  She took a deep breath. ‘Mr Abbie?’

  He looked up at her. ‘You have something to tell me about my daughter’s death?’

  Fletcher steeled herself. ‘Yes, we do. It’s not very pleasant, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Not very pleasant? Surely the worst has happened already? There’s really nothing you can tell me at this stage that could make me feel any worse than I already do–’

  The younger cop bit her lip. Mr Abbie misconstrued the sign. ‘Oh my God, you are not trying to tell me she was… interfered with sexually, are you?’

  Fletcher shook her head rigorously. ‘No, no, no, nothing like that.’

  She needed to tell him quickly now his mind was going into overdrive. Watson broke in. ‘Like DS Fletcher just said it’s nothing like that. But it’s still very unpleasant, I’m afraid. After your daughter died, the person who we think killed Rachel then went and severed her finger.’

  ‘Severed her finger? You mean deliberately?’

  Fletcher nodded.

  Mr Abbie buried his head in his hands for a few moments. At last he was able to make eye contact with the officers again. ‘Did you find it? The finger?’

  Fletcher shook her head. ‘No, we haven’t. It seems… it seems the killer may have taken the finger as some sort of trophy.’

  The look on his face was sheer horror. ‘So, someone somewhere has my daughter’s finger.’

  ‘It’s likely.’ Fletcher noticed Watson spoke gently. Once more she was reassured by her presence.

  He looked at both officers in turn. ‘Is this common with these sorts of deaths?’

  ‘It is with…’ Fletcher stopped herself saying the words, ‘serial killers.’ It had been on the tip of her tongue. After all, they didn’t know what they were dealing with yet. ‘It can happen,’ she said instead. ‘But it’s not common.’

  ‘And it was definitely done after Rachel died. Not while she was alive?’

  ‘Definitely after she was killed.’ Fletcher was reassured that, at least in this, she could give the girl’s father peace of mind.

  Gayle Watson, the press liaison, once again took over. ‘We want to keep it out of
the papers.’

  Mr Abbie nodded.

  ‘It’s not in the public interest to share this information. And the police do strive to be sensitive to the bereaved. I would urge you not to tell anyone at this stage, Mr Abbie.’

  Mr Abbie suddenly looked up, a thought occurring to him. ‘Does Will know about Rachel? About her being murdered, I mean? God, he’ll be devastated. Does he know?’

  Fletcher looked at Mr Abbie. She knew that for the family of a murder victim the grief would never end. As a police officer she saw the very best and worst of human nature. She liked this man. In the middle of his own grief he still had the capacity to worry about someone else.

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘We’ll send someone round to tell him and the rest of Rachel’s housemates.’

  ‘Would you mind if I was the one to tell them? I’ve met them all and I know how upset they’ll be.’

  Fletcher thought about his request. Perhaps he needed to be the one to tell them. Maybe he needed to do things to keep himself busy. And if he could find any solace in spending time with Rachel’s boyfriend and friends… but officially, it had to come from the police and she needed to be there herself to see the reaction on the faces of Rachel’s housemates.

  She shook her head. ‘I’m sorry, Mr Abbie, I’m afraid it does need to be the police who break the news of your daughter’s death.’ She would have to ask each of them if they had an alibi in order to rule them out of their enquiries. As she knew only too well most murders were committed by someone close to the victim. The possibility of the murderer being a stranger or worse, a serial killer, was very rare.

  Mr Abbie nodded. ‘Yes, of course. I understand.’

  ‘But we have no problem with you speaking with them afterwards if it will give you some comfort.’ She thought of the press release that would be going out later that evening. She would need to get round to the student accommodation and speak to Rachel’s housemates before then.

  ‘What societies or clubs had Rachel joined?’ This from Watson.

  ‘There was quite a list. Women’s Rugby Club was the latest. She was a great one for trying out new things. Really was starting to come into her own.’

  Fletcher was trying to picture the petite, slim young woman playing rugby and couldn’t, but then again, she’d never watched women’s rugby. ‘Can you make a list of the societies or clubs Rachel was in, Mr Abbie?’

  ‘I’m not sure I’d know all of them. You’d be better off asking Will.’

  ‘Mr Abbie,’ said Watson, ‘you told my colleague here that you’d been receiving anonymous phone calls and that although the person on the line hadn’t spoken, you’d heard somebody whistling?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘This needs to be kept strictly out of the press but you’ll also be aware that another young female student has been attacked within the last week?’

  ‘Yes, is there a connection?’

  ‘We’re still trying to establish if there is. However, in the last couple of days a new piece of evidence has emerged, and that is that the young woman, Serena Davis, heard tuneless whistling just before she got attacked.’

  ‘Oh my God. Surely it’s the same man?’

  ‘At the moment it’s the only thing we’ve got to link the two cases. We just wondered if you‘d ever met this other student – Serena Davis?’

  Mr Abbie shook his head. ‘No, I don’t think she’s one of my daughter’s friends.’ He leant forward. ‘I’d like to speak with this girl, Serena Davis. Would that be possible?’

  Fletcher exchanged a look with Watson. ‘Oh, I don’t think that’s a good idea. The lassie’s still pretty traumatised and, to be honest, what information could she give you that she couldn’t give the police?’

  Mr Abbie put his head in his hands and let out a sob. ‘I just need to do something. Anything. We need to find this man and I need to know why he attacked and killed my daughter. Maybe he’ll do it to someone else’s little girl. He has to be stopped.’

  A few minutes later they left Mr Abbie in his hotel room. As Fletcher shut the door quietly behind the two officers, she stole a backward glance at Mr Abbie, who had got up out of the chair and was now sitting on his bed leafing through the Bible.

  As they took the lift down to reception Watson glanced at her watch. ‘Shit. I need to get back to the station and prepare the briefing that’s going out later on TV. Can you manage without me?’

  Fletcher was checking her mobile for messages. Reassured she had none, she put it back in her bag. ‘Yeah, sure, I’m needing to speak with Jim’s ex-wife, then I’m going to head over to break the news to Rachel Abbie’s housemates and boyfriend.’ She glanced at her watch.

  ‘Shouldn’t you be doing it the other way round? Speaking to Rachel’s housemates first and then interviewing the ex-wife?’

  Fletcher felt a surge of annoyance at what she perceived as criticism.

  ‘Ordinarily, I’d do it the other way round, but I’ve got a better chance of catching Mairi Beattie now, before she leaves the university to go home, and the students later once they’ve headed back to their accommodation.’

  Watson shrugged. ‘Fair enough.’

  ‘And I want to interview them when they’re all together.’ Fletcher fished her mobile out of her bag. ‘I’ll see if Jim wants to come with me. It’ll also give me a chance to fill him in on the debt Mr Abbie’s in.’

  Chapter 11

  Fletcher jumped into her green Beetle and made the short trip to the philosophy department to interview Carruthers’ ex-wife. Carruthers was still happy for her to go and interview Mairi Beattie on her own, but he wanted to join her when she broke the news to the students of their friend’s death.

  Ever practical, she was a firm believer in trying to kill two birds with one stone, especially when in the midst of a police investigation and time was of the essence. So, it was perfect that the students lived within a fifteen-minute walk of the philosophy department.

  Before she got out of the car, she dragged her hairbrush through her hair and reapplied her lipstick. Then she wondered what on earth she felt she needed to do that for. It wasn’t like she saw Mairi Beattie as competition. Nor did she see Jim Carruthers as partner material. And she wasn’t going for a job interview. All she could conclude was that since she’d lost Lara, she’d lost her confidence among other women. Thankfully, for the most part, it was starting to come back at work, but not yet in her personal life.

  She flicked away a fleck of dust from her skirt and opened the car door. A fine rain had started to fall. Fletcher turned up the collar of her coat. Just as she was about to step onto the pavement a female student walked straight into her path. She cursed and jumped out the way. The young woman looked up, startled. Fletcher almost gasped out loud. With her short cut hair, masculine face and stern expression she was the dead ringer for the woman in the photograph on the back of the book found in Rachel Abbie’s room. The woman must have been aware of Fletcher staring. She gave her a brief quizzical look and muttered an apology before continuing to walk with her head down. No doubt she’d walk into a lamp post if she carried on with such little regard for everything around her. Irritated, and feeling old, Fletcher shook her head and carried on walking.

  That Mairi Beattie was every bit as stylish and attractive as she had imagined was an understatement. Slim and petite, she made the now size fourteen Fletcher feel like a hippopotamus, which was ridiculous.

  ‘Thanks for agreeing to see me.’ She introduced herself to Jim’s elegant ex-wife and flashed her ID card.

  Mairi Beattie tucked a tendril of dark hair behind her ear. ‘Please take a seat.’ She looked worried. ‘How can I help you?’

  Fletcher met the woman’s worried look after taking in the small office which was tastefully decorated in mute colours. Like the secretary, she also had a sea view. Fletcher sat down on the chair she’d been offered. How wonderful it must be to have a sea view at work, but then she decided if it was her, she’d never get any work done. Sh
e smiled at the lecturer, who looked almost as young as the students she taught.

  The police officer started the conversation carefully. ‘This piece of news isn’t yet in the public domain and I would like to keep it that way, so please keep this as strictly confidential.’

  Mairi Beattie nodded, looking even more troubled than before.

  ‘I needed to speak with you because one of your students, Rachel Abbie, has been found dead, I’m afraid.’

  Mairi put her hand to her mouth. ‘Oh my God, that’s absolutely awful. Was it suicide?’

  ‘No, but that would be a reasonable assumption to make.’

  The young professor nodded. ‘I suppose when you think of young people dying, especially students, you often think of suicide. I’m afraid we’ve had a few over the years. Young people are so vulnerable, aren’t they? We help them in any way we can but I never feel it’s enough.’

  Fletcher nodded. Being a police officer in a university town, she was all too aware that self-harm was the biggest cause of death among people in their early twenties in the UK.

  ‘Going away to college can be a very stressful time in a young person’s life,’ continued Mairi. ‘Can I ask what happened?’

  ‘It can indeed.’ As she said this, Fletcher remembered her own college experience, first in London, then in Scotland. She’d enjoyed getting away from the confines of rural East Sussex, although she still loved her home visits. She hadn’t had any trouble adapting to student life or being away from home, but she knew this wasn’t the case for every student. She brought her discussion back to why she was here. ‘Unfortunately, Rachel didn’t die by her own hand.’