Dark is the Day

by Tana Collins

  She ripped open the file and started reading. ‘It’s the information I asked for on Sarah Torr.’ She skim-read. ‘All looks pretty normal to me.’ She shut the file. ‘Can we organise a reconstruction, Jim? There were two lads who were picked up on CCTV moments after Rachel Abbie was spotted. We need to find them.’

  ‘Leave it with me. I’ll ask McTavish.’

  Carruthers let himself into his cottage in Anstruther with his fish supper. By rights he should be eating something healthier, but it was late and he was too exhausted to start cooking. The plaintive crying of Rachel Abbie’s friends was still ringing in his ears. Dumping his supper on the coffee table in the living room, he walked into the kitchen and pulling open the cupboard door, selected a bottle of Old Speckled Hen. He loved the ale’s rich, malty taste and fruity aroma. It was one of his favourite beers.

  He noticed the winking of the answer machine. He sighed. Absentmindedly, he played the message. It was his brother. Carruthers was aware he was only half listening to what Alan was saying. Something about asking to stay with him for a few days. It barely registered as he glanced at his watch, his head full of the investigation.

  He sat in his favourite shabby, brown leather chair and settled himself in front of the TV, having long since forgotten his brother’s call. He debated putting the wood-burning stove on but in the end decided against it, instead switching on the evening news as he tucked into his fish and chips. When he saw the news item he’d been waiting for, he sat upright, his Speckled Hen fizzing over the side of the bottle as he placed it on the table.

  ‘Is it true the attacker has struck again? Do we know who the victim is?’ asked one reporter.

  ‘Does Castletown have a serial killer who mutilates women?’ Carruthers recognised this sharp-faced female reporter who worked for a tabloid newspaper. Shit. Does she know about the missing finger? No – calm down. Of course she doesn’t. She’s talking about the fact they’ve been slashed.

  ‘Why haven’t you caught this deranged psychopath?’

  ‘What are the police doing to stop him?’

  Carruthers watched Gayle Watson, calm and collected, reading the prepared police statement. She ignored the flashes of light from the bulbs of the cameras that lit up the room.

  ‘At approximately 3:40pm yesterday afternoon the body of a young woman was discovered in Greyfriar’s Wynd, Castletown. Her family have been informed. Cause of death was by strangulation. It’s too early to speculate as to whether her attack is linked to the earlier attack on Serena Davis. The police are currently following several lines of enquiry. We ask the public to remain calm but vigilant and at the moment we would recommend that if you are female you make sure you don’t walk on your own. I’d like to confirm that we’re not saying we are looking for a serial attacker of women but the advice we are giving is just precautionary in the circumstances. If anyone has any information, they should call the number I’m about to give out. We are particularly keen to talk to two young men who were seen in the vicinity just before the attack.’ Gayle Watson described the two men and then read out the number of the hotline from her prepared speech.

  ‘Serena Davis was also an attempted strangulation. How do you know this is not the work of a possible serial killer?’ shouted one reporter.

  Watson made eye contact with several of the reporters before continuing to speak. ‘There will be a further update tomorrow. In the meantime, can I just ask that everyone remain calm. And can I repeat that if anyone has any information, however insignificant it may seem to you, or concerns about anybody acting suspiciously, can I ask them to call us. I’ll just repeat that number.’ Watson gave out the number once more, thanked the press for their time and walked out the room, followed by a number of journalists still shouting their questions over each other.

  She handled that well, thought Carruthers. The only sign that Watson had been under any stress at all was the telltale sign of a pink flush spreading up her neck. It was not an easy task to handle the press, especially the tabloid press, under these circumstances. Carruthers idly wondered how his new boss, DCI Sandra McTavish, was bearing up.

  Carruthers put his mouth to the neck of the bottle and drank from it. Despite not having eaten much that day he was losing his appetite. He picked at the fish and chips, pushing the food around on his plate.

  The news focused on another story. Something about two brothers who were missing out walking in the Cairngorms. Once again, his mind was back on his brother. Carruthers looked at his watch. Too tired to call him back now to find out what he actually meant about staying with him, he watched the rest of the news and weather, stripped off, had a quick shower then got into bed. He looked at the copy of Ian Fleming’s From Russia with Love that lay forlornly on the bed. He was too tired to even read his favourite author.

  He lay on his back, naked, staring at the ceiling with the white sheet scrunched over half his torso. He thought of the tuneless whistling. Was this the connection they needed that linked the two cases? Having spoken to Fletcher it was now looking as if they had a potential serial attacker who carefully targeted their victims rather than picking them at random. That showed a degree of premeditation that caused a knot in Carruthers’ stomach. Carruthers’ gut instinct was telling him, like Fletcher’s, that the two cases were linked. And it was possible that the killer knew his victims.

  Chapter 12

  Thursday: 8am

  ‘The hotline has taken several calls. They need to be chased up,’ said McTavish. ‘The normal share of nutjobs. Three callers all claiming to be the murderer and a fourth claiming these attacks are the work of the Devil. Clearly a religious oddball but I still want her interviewed.’

  Carruthers wiped the sleep out of his gritty eyes. He hadn’t slept well the night before. Tossing and turning, he’d been awake till the early hours. When he hadn’t been thinking of the case, he’d been fretting about why his brother had been calling him. His brother never called him and what was this about wanting to stay a few days? What was wrong with his own pad?

  Impatiently, he pushed thoughts of his brother out of his mind. Returning the call was just going to have to wait. He then felt immediately guilty. How many times had he said that to himself particularly when his mother had rung him? His family had to understand though, that being a police officer was not a normal job and being in CID carried with it a huge weight of responsibility.

  Thinking of phones, Carruthers was thankful that so far Sandra McTavish’s mobile had been quiet. They needed to keep the momentum going. He’d really love to know what was going on in her personal life though. He dragged his mind back to the cases. Hopefully the previous night’s TV interview would produce some fresh leads.

  ‘Okay, people, come on,’ urged McTavish. ‘What have we got?’

  Andie Fletcher was first to answer. ‘It appears Mr Abbie is in financial difficulties which he’d kept hidden from Rachel. At least he was honest enough to admit he has a gambling problem. He’s clearly found it difficult to cope after his wife died.’

  ‘Do you think those calls he’s been receiving have been from loan sharks?’ said Carruthers.

  ‘I wouldn’t be surprised. We all know how these people operate.’

  McTavish nodded. ‘Might be worth putting a tap on his phone with his permission and finding out who these people are.’

  Fletcher nodded, writing into her notebook.

  ‘Okay, I want to know where Mr Abbie has been borrowing money,’ said McTavish. ‘If it is loan sharks as I said, we want to know.’

  Watson, who had also been taking notes, put her pen down. ‘I’ve been thinking about this. I actually think we might be wasting valuable time. It’s highly likely the attacks on both women have been carried out by the same person. Why are we wasting time looking at Mr Abbie’s finances when there’s no connection between the Abbies and Serena Davis?’

  ‘I agree we’re clutching at straws at the moment but what else do we have to go on?’

  Carruthers was
listening to his new DCI carefully. He had his head tilted at an angle.

  ‘But to be honest we’ve already found one link between the two cases – that of the whistling. Unless it’s just a massive coincidence, but when have we believed in coincidences? I’ve been thinking it over and I do think there might be something significant in the whistling. We need to find out what it is.’

  McTavish turned to Fletcher and Watson. ‘I want you to start looking into the family of the other victim – Serena Davis. See what you can find out, however small.’

  Gayle Watson nodded.

  ‘Have we found anything out about what was worrying Rachel Abbie before her death?’

  Fletcher shook her head. ‘I went back and reinterviewed her housemates. Nobody knew what had been worrying her, but Will agreed that she hadn’t been herself for a few weeks, so her dad was right. Something was troubling her.’

  ‘Keep digging,’ McTavish said. ‘Somebody must know something. Just to say we’ve got Bingham’s permission to organise a reconstruction. I want that to go ahead as quickly as possible before the trail goes cold.’ She looked across at Carruthers. ‘Can you oversee that?’

  ‘Yes, I’ll get it organised immediately.’

  ‘Good.’

  At that moment the door to the incident room opened and balding Willie Brown popped his head round.

  McTavish looked up. ‘What is it, Willie?’

  ‘You’re no’ going to like this. That was the hospital on the phone. Mr Abbie has turned up and is making a bit of a scene outside Serena Davis’s room.’

  Fletcher turned to Carruthers. ‘Shit, I forgot to tell you, Jim. He wanted to speak with Serena Davis himself. Thinks we’re not doing enough to help catch the perpetrator. I told him to keep away.’

  Willie Brown continued speaking. ‘He’s been detained by security staff, but he was caught trying to push his way into the bedroom of Serena Davis. Apparently, the wee lassie’s freaked oot.’

  Carruthers ran his hand over his bristles. ‘Oh Jesus.’

  McTavish made eye contact with Carruthers. ‘Okay Jim, get someone sent to the hospital, will you. The last thing we need is the father of a murder victim turning into a lone vigilante. I want you to try to persuade him to go back to Yorkshire and leave the policing to us.’

  ‘You cannae blame him,’ said Helen Lennox. ‘He just wants answers.’

  Don’t we all, thought Carruthers.

  ‘We’ve got a young woman currently recovering from a horrific ordeal in hospital, clearly very frightened. I want a guard on her door until this man’s caught.’

  He was surprised Clare Stott hadn’t chucked the man out. Perhaps she wasn’t currently in the hospital. Probably too busy liaising with whatever newspaper she worked for.

  Fletcher raised her hand. ‘Will the budget–’

  ‘You leave the budget to me,’ said McTavish. Carruthers wondered if it was because she had a daughter herself only a few years younger. He also wondered if she would end up butting heads with Bingham the way he had been since he had arrived at the station. This he would pay money to see. And as loath as he was to say it, Sandra McTavish would have his full support.

  Fletcher laid a hand gently on Mr Abbie’s arm and tried to guide him out of the hospital. ‘We understand how upset you are over your daughter’s death but what did you think might be gained from terrifying Serena Davis? Don’t you think she’s been through enough?’

  Mr Abbie pushed her hand away roughly and, turning round, started walking back in the direction of Serena Davis’s room. The two hospital security staff men jumped forward and grabbed Mr Abbie none too gently. Fletcher put her hand up to stop them. ‘Show some respect, will you? This man has just lost his daughter.’

  Fletcher caught up with him and stood in front of him. ‘I can’t let you do this. You’ve been asked to leave the hospital. Imagine if that was your daughter lying in that bed.’ As soon as the words were out she regretted them. Once again, she very gently put a comforting hand on his shoulder.

  Mr Abbie’s face was contorted with remorse. ‘I wish it was my daughter. At least that way she’d still be alive.’ He allowed Fletcher to guide him down the corridor. She briefly stopped at the nurses’ station and took a handful of tissues out of the box offered by one of the staff. The look of concern on the face of the nurse said it all. The unimaginable pain that man was going through right now didn’t bear thinking about. Certainly something no parent should ever have to go through. And he wasn’t thinking rationally. That much was clear.

  He dabbed at his eyes with the crumpled tissues. ‘I don’t know what I was thinking. I wasn’t thinking. Not really. I just felt she had to know more.’

  ‘How could she? The man was wearing a mask and the attack was over within seconds.’

  ‘So my daughter died not even seeing the face of the person who killed her? She died at the hands of a coward. And that coward is still walking the streets. God knows, maybe he’s following another young woman as we speak.’

  Fletcher’s skin crawled and she felt a sense of foreboding. Would there be another attack? And when would the police get that elusive breakthrough? They couldn’t afford to wait to see if someone else got murdered. This evil person had to be stopped. She thought of something that might placate this distraught father.

  ‘We’re organising a reconstruction. They can be highly successful in jogging the memories of the general public. There’ve been several documented cases of how they’ve nailed the murderer. And we’ll keep you fully informed, of course, but I don’t think you can do anything useful here, Mr Abbie. We share your anger and frustration but you don’t want to start hampering the police investigation.’ Fletcher looked at him kindly. ‘Perhaps it’s time to go back home?’ She hoped to God Clare Stott wouldn’t suddenly appear. She didn’t want a further confrontation with the woman.

  Mr Abbie nodded and looked at Fletcher through red-rimmed eyes. ‘I’ll check out of my hotel today. Will you promise to keep me posted of any developments?’

  Fletcher’s features softened. ‘Of course.’ And as she responded, Fletcher made herself a promise that they would get justice for Rachel Abbie and Serena Davis.

  Carruthers handed Fletcher a cup of coffee and a ham sandwich. He was standing by her desk. ‘God, what did he think he was doing going to the hospital?’

  Fletcher thanked him and took a mouthful, thinking that if she drank any more coffee she’d explode. ‘He’s off his head with grief. I think he already regrets going to the hospital. Christ, I’m tired. And I’m actually starting to feel a bit sick with all this coffee but I need it to keep me going.’

  Carruthers pulled a face, but it wasn’t entirely unsympathetic. ‘We’re all tired, Andie. How’s Serena Davis doing?’

  Fletcher sighed. ‘Apparently she was hysterical. She didn’t know who Mr Abbie was. As far as she was concerned, he might have been her attacker.’

  ‘Yes, that was unfortunate. McTavish has put a uniform on the door. Apparently, she’s going to square it with Bingham later.’

  Fletcher raised an eyebrow. ‘Good luck with that one.’

  Carruthers took his mobile out from his trouser pocket and glanced at it. ‘Where’s Abbie now?’

  ‘Going back to Yorkshire. I left him checking out of his room.’

  Carruthers placed the mobile back in his pocket. ‘Oh well, I suppose that’s something. There’s nothing he can do up here. So, are any of our loose ends tied up yet? We’ve got a fake address given by our victim and a photograph of two men.’

  Fletcher shook her head. ‘We still have no idea why Rachel gave a fake home address. Mr Abbie thought it might have something to do with being embarrassed at having a posh house. You know how desperate youngsters are to be accepted.’ She looked up at him. ‘Oh, we do know something though, but it’s not good news. The swabs that were taken from underneath Serena’s fingernails are back. They’re not a match with anyone we’ve got on file.’

  ‘Bugger.’ Carr
uthers picked up the photograph found in Rachel Abbie’s room. ‘We need to find out who those two men in the photograph are.’

  ‘We’ve got the name of the money lending company,’ said Fletcher. ‘It’s GetMoneyFast. They’re based in Yorkshire. It actually looks to be a legitimate company but we’ll get it chased up. Perhaps it’s worth showing the photo of the two men to Serena Davis? After all, it’s possible there’s a connection in these cases.’

  ‘Let’s get the reconstruction done first. Who did you get?’

  Fletcher’s face lit up. ‘PC Amanda Selway. She’s very enthusiastic. She’s about the right height and weight. She’s going to wear a wig as she’s a natural brunette. And of course, she looks ridiculously young for her age.’

  ‘She’ll need to. She has to pass for a nineteen-year-old.’

  Fletcher picked up her handbag and brought out her miniature make-up case. She waved it under Carruthers’ nose. ‘Make-up can do wondrous things.’

  The young-looking Amanda Selway patted her blonde wig and adjusted her denim skirt. Her make-up was subtle and she had finished the look off with a slash of natural lipstick. ‘Do I look okay?’

  ‘For Christ’s sake yer no’ in a beauty pageant,’ said Harris. ‘Let’s just get on with it. I need to get back to the hospital and check on my wife.’

  ‘Okay, sorry sarge.’

  The young officer was clearly excited but nervous. Fletcher wondered if this was the PC’s first reconstruction. She looked at her watch. It was a few minutes off three o’clock. She had organised the reconstruction for three, which was the approximate time Dr Mackie thought Rachel Abbie had been killed.

  Fletcher scowled at Harris before giving an encouraging smile to PC Selway. ‘Oh, just ignore him. You look fine. And you’re doing an important job. The victim is the focal point of any crime scene investigation. Come on. Let’s get started.’