Dark is the Day

by Tana Collins

  McTavish’s voice took on a steely quality. ‘That’s Rachel Abbie’s mobile. I want to know why there are over fifty nuisance texts from you on it.’

  Silence.

  ‘I understand you’ve also been threatening Mairi Beattie?’

  Staring straight into McTavish’s eyes unflinchingly, Campbell said, ‘We’re having a relationship.’

  ‘That’s not what she says.’

  ‘Well, she wouldn’t, would she? I mean, you’re not supposed to sleep with your students. Won’t she get struck off or something?’

  Carruthers swore under his breath again. He could sense the power struggle going on in the interview room. He felt the tension building. Gallant to the last. In one fell swoop Campbell had got both Carruthers and his ex-wife into trouble. The interview hadn’t started well. All Carruthers could hope for was that Campbell would slip up and lose his cool. He wanted to know why the boy was being so cocky. And why had he refused a solicitor? Most suspects brought in for interview were nervous, defensive even. Not John Campbell though. Something didn’t add up.

  McTavish leant forward, maintaining eye contact with Campbell, her face unsmiling. ‘Where were you between one-thirty and three-thirty Tuesday afternoon?’

  ‘Why you asking? This the time Rachel Abbie got killed?’

  ‘Murdered. Yes. Are you going to answer the question or are you going to answer every question with another question? If so, this is going to be a long and tedious interview.’

  ‘I don’t have classes between one-thirty and three-thirty on a Tuesday so I guess I was at home studying.’

  ‘You guess? Can anyone vouch for you?’

  Campbell shook his head. ‘I don’t think anyone was at home. Frances, my housemate, came back at about four. We had a cup of tea together then I went out to rugby practice at five.’

  Carruthers put his hand against the glass. Mackie had said that Rachel Abbie had been killed within the hour and her body had been found at three-forty. Campbell could have killed her and been home for four o’clock. All he could think of was that John Campbell had no alibi.

  Fletcher pulled up in the car park of Campbell’s residence. Unusually for Castletown it was a new build.

  They both got out of Fletcher’s green Beetle and shut the car doors. She caught Watson looking up at the building. The older woman whistled. ‘You really telling me this is student accommodation? Obviously high end.’

  Fletcher laughed. ‘Looks more like a modern stately home, doesn’t it?’

  ‘Right, number 82,’ said Watson. She yawned. ‘I hope we catch this maniac fast. It’s wrecking my social life.’

  Fletcher wondered about Gayle Watson’s private life. She was even more reluctant to discuss it than Carruthers was to discuss his. Fletcher wondered if Watson had a partner in her life.

  ‘Have you got a partner, Gayle?’ Before she knew it, the words were out.

  Watson turned to Fletcher, frowning. ‘I have, yes. Why?’

  ‘Oh, I just wondered, that’s all. It’s just you don’t say very much about them.’ Fletcher worked hard to keep her language gender neutral.

  ‘I like to keep my work and personal life separate.’

  ‘That’s understandable. Look at the gossip doing the rounds about Jim at the moment. His ex-wife’s back on the scene.’

  ‘I had heard.’

  ‘Can’t be bloody easy. Apparently, Sandra won’t let him conduct the interview with Campbell. She’s citing a conflict of interest. He’s fizzing.’

  ‘Well, there is a conflict of interest. C’mon. Let’s get on with this. We don’t know how long he’ll be at the station for.’

  Disappointed she still hadn’t found anything out about her colleague’s private life, Fletcher followed Gayle up to the building and watched her press the bell.

  A studious-looking teenager opened the door, her blonde hair in plaits. ‘Can I help you?’

  ‘Do you have a housemate called John Campbell?’

  The girl nodded. ‘Yes, what’s this about?’

  The police officers took out their ID cards and showed the student. ‘We need to come in and conduct a search of his room,’ said Gayle.

  The young woman looked at them both in turn. She didn’t look too happy. ‘He won’t like that. He doesn’t let anyone go into his room. He keeps it locked.’

  ‘Where does your landlord live?’ Fletcher knew he or she would most likely keep a spare set of keys.

  ‘Glasgow.’

  Not such a viable idea to get them to open the door. They couldn’t afford to wait while the landlord came through from Glasgow. How interesting, thought Fletcher, that John Campbell never let anyone inside his room. What has he got to hide? ‘Can we come in please?’

  ‘Yes, of course. My name’s Frances, by the way.’ She showed them down a long hall which had doors on each side. She stopped outside one. It was the only door that was closed.

  ‘This John Campbell’s room?’

  The girl nodded.

  ‘You’ve never been in his room?’

  ‘God no.’ The girl looked appalled at the mere thought.

  ‘Does he have a girlfriend?’

  The girl looked a bit cagey. ‘I don’t know.’

  Watson raised an eyebrow. ‘You don’t know if he has a girlfriend?’

  ‘Well, he’s very private is John. He won’t be happy with us discussing his business. I think he has a girlfriend but none of us have met her.’

  ‘What do you know about her?’ Watson looked frustrated as she asked the question.

  ‘She’s older than him.’

  Fletcher jumped in with her own question. ‘How many students live here?’

  ‘Just three of us. Me, John and Aaron.’ The girl glanced at her watch. ‘Is this going to take long, only I have to go out?’

  ‘It’ll take as long as it takes,’ said Watson smartly.

  Her colleague certainly didn’t mince her words, thought Fletcher, as she asked her next question. ‘Okay, we’ll need to talk to both you and Aaron. Is he here at the moment?’

  ‘Studying in his room. What’s John done?’

  Watson glanced at her watch. ‘Nothing as far as we know. This is just a routine police enquiry but we don’t have time to waste.’

  The girl frowned. ‘It doesn’t sound like a routine police enquiry – breaking into someone’s bedroom. Aren’t you supposed to have a warrant or something?’

  ‘This you mean?’ said Watson, flashing it under her nose, as they turned the door handle. As expected, the room was locked. ‘I don’t think it will be too difficult to get in.’ She stepped back and then gave it a hefty shove. The wood splintered as Frances gasped. They were in.

  ‘Right, we’ve had enough beating about the bush, John. We have irrefutable evidence on the mobile of Rachel Abbie that you have been harassing her.’

  Carruthers thought about this as the new DCI spoke. It occurred to him that not one of her housemates had told the police about the harassment. Why not? Surely, she would have said something to them.

  Campbell brought out a packet of Marlboro and laid it on the table.

  ‘Can I smoke?’

  McTavish bristled. ‘You know as well as I do smoking is forbidden inside a place of work.’

  ‘I bet that really rankles, doesn’t it? Bet you’d like nothing better than to let me light up in your police station. I bet you’re just dying to say yes.’ Campbell waved the cigarette right under the DCI’s nose. ‘After all, you’d have my DNA all over that cigarette butt.’

  ‘What good would that serve?’ Carruthers could see McTavish was still maintaining her cool but he knew she was inwardly seething.

  ‘By the way, are you on your period?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I can smell it.’

  Campbell sat back in his chair, laughing. Carruthers felt the colour rise to his face. He balled his fists together. He glanced at McTavish. She looked like she wanted to explode. He couldn’t blame her. He wanted
to slap the ned for that comment. That’s all he was. A jumped-up ned. And in that instant the realisation hit him. His new boss had done the right thing by insisting on conducting the interview herself. He was far too emotionally involved not to lose his cool.

  He thought back to the first case he’d conducted in Fife. Welsh terrorists operating in Scotland. Who would have thought…? And the terror expert they’d had to bring up from England, fellow Glaswegian, McGhee, came back into his head. His nemesis. Only after their punch-up in the station McGhee had then saved his life by taking a bullet meant for Carruthers.

  ‘Like I said, you’d love me to light up. You’d love to analyse the DNA found on this cigarette after I walk out the station. And I will be walking out of the station, by the way. We both know you won’t be able to hold me.’

  ‘You were going to tell me why we would so badly want your DNA, John.’

  The young man put the cigarette back into its packet. ‘Well then you’d be able to match the DNA found on this cigarette to the DNA you’ve found on the fag in Mairi’s home in Ceres.’

  He gave Sandra McTavish an insolent look as he sat back in his chair with his arms above his head. Carruthers went cold. Here was someone who was playing a dangerous game. Campbell had just admitted to being in Mairi Beattie’s house. But just how dangerous was he and what sort of game was he playing, and why?

  ‘You’ve just admitted to being in the home of your lecturer, Mairi Beattie?’

  ‘Of course I’ve been in her home. I’m having a relationship with her.’

  ‘Are you a fantasist, John?’

  For the first time since the interview started John Campbell appeared to lose his cool. He leant forward so quickly his chair legs clattered. ‘Now that’s not very nice. Why are you calling me a fantasist? Do you think it impossible that I could be shagging my lecturer?’

  McTavish narrowed her eyes and looked at Campbell squarely in the face. Although she maintained a dignified silence the look on her face said it all.

  The first thing that hit Fletcher after they’d broken into John Campbell’s bedroom was the smell. She wrinkled her nose in disgust. It was a mixture of sweat, smelly trainers and mouldy food. She snapped the light on. His overflowing bin and empty food packets told their own story. But it was when Fletcher looked at the walls of his bedroom that her heart nearly missed a beat.

  There was an enormous montage of photographs on the wall. Every spare inch was covered with pictures of Mairi Beattie and, more importantly, Rachel Abbie. What became immediately apparent was that none of the photos had been taken with the knowledge of the subject. The women had simply not known they were being photographed. Fletcher shook her head. She found this sort of thing seriously disturbing.

  They wandered round Campbell’s room looking at each individual picture. ‘There are no photographs of Serena Davis,’ said Watson.

  Fletcher took a closer look at a picture of Mairi Beattie. ‘No. That’s a shame. We still don’t have anything to link Campbell to her yet.’

  ‘Perhaps not, but we definitely have a lot to link him to Rachel Abbie. And not just text messages. Look at all this. It’s like a shrine in here.’ Fletcher had moved away from the earlier photograph she’d been looking at of Mairi and waved her hand round the room. There must have been fifty photographs of Rachel Abbie. Her eyes then alighted on an ashtray on Campbell’s bedside table. There were several cigarette butts in the tray. ‘Bingo,’ she said. She whipped out an evidence bag, donned a pair of latex gloves that she produced from her pocket, and dropped a couple of cigarette butts in the bag.

  ‘Now hopefully we might be able to find out if the DNA on this butt matches the cigarette butt he left at Mairi Beattie’s house. And if it does, then it will prove he’s been in her house without her permission.’

  ‘But it won’t though, will it? My understanding is that he’s claiming they’re sleeping together. It’s her word against his. And there’s no evidence a crime’s been committed. Leaving a rose on someone’s pillow isn’t a crime. If it was, thousands of lovesick people would be locked up.’

  Fletcher shrugged. ‘Oh well, at least we’ll have his DNA on file if nothing else.’ Fletcher left Campbell’s study desk and went back to the wall. There’s lovesick, then there’s this. God, look at all these photographs. They are seriously creepy. I think we need to get Jim down to see this room. Bloody hell, I wonder how he’s going to feel when he’s sees that one?’

  She was pointing to a photograph of a nude Mairi Beattie stepping out of the shower. The photo had been taken with a long lens. It was a side profile and once again it had clearly been taken without the knowledge of the subject. Unaccountably, Fletcher felt a twinge of insecurity coursing through her. This woman was at least ten years older than her and had a better body. Look at that flat stomach and toned thighs. She must work out at a gym. Fletcher placed a hand on her saggy gut. She still hadn’t found her mojo. As she scrutinised the other photos she decided that she really must get back into her exercise.

  She couldn’t stop herself exclaiming out loud. ‘Oh, my God. Has this man got a buttock fetish or something?’ There were several photos of women’s buttocks.

  Gayle came over. ‘They’re all photographs of the same woman. If you look closely you can see a birthmark on the left buttock.’

  ‘Jesus, so that’s how he knew she has a birthmark on her backside. What a sicko. Well, this will be the end of his university course, I should imagine. And Beattie certainly won’t want to tutor him after news of this gets out. If nothing else, he’s clearly a serial stalker of women. We can get him for that. And he’s a fantasist.’

  ‘Being a fantasist isn’t a crime,’ commented Watson.

  ‘No, but stalking is, and I reckon in light of all this it won’t be too hard to get permission to get his DNA analysed.’

  ‘True, but the big question is, is he also a murderer? There’s a hell of a gap between being a stalker and being a murderer.’ The stockier woman took a couple of books out of Campbell’s bookshelf, leafed through them and then put them back.

  ‘Oh, I don’t know. Stalking behaviour has been identified in a high percentage of these types of murder.’

  ‘I wonder how they’re going down at the station with the interview?’

  Fletcher gestured to his wall. ‘I reckon this is enough to hold him. At least overnight. There’s a few charges that could already be brought against him.’ She fished out her mobile. ‘I’m going to phone the station and tell them what we’ve discovered.’

  ‘Hang on. What’s this?’ Watson selected another book and showed Fletcher.

  It was a copy of Atlas Shrugged by Ayn Rand. ‘Didn’t you find a copy of this book in Rachel Abbie’s bedroom?’

  Fletcher walked over and took the book from Watson. She was still holding her mobile. ‘And also in the hospital room of Serena Davis. So, what’s the significance of this book?’

  Carruthers knocked on the door and then put his head round. He knew interrupting the interview at this stage wouldn’t be popular but this wasn’t something that could wait.

  ‘Sandra, can I have a word with you please?’

  McTavish frowned as she looked up. ‘What is it Jim? Can’t this wait?’

  Carruthers looked at Campbell before returning his gaze to McTavish. ‘No, I’m afraid it can’t. I think you need to hear what we’ve found.’

  ‘Very well’. She stood up, her chair grating on the floor behind her. She followed Carruthers out of the interview room, leaving John Campbell staring after them. In a matter of seconds he had lost much of his cockiness. For the first time in the interview he looked nervous.

  As soon as he had shut the door after the DCI, Carruthers spoke in a low voice. ‘I’ve just had a call from Fletcher. She and Watson are in John Campbell’s bedroom at his halls.’

  ‘And? Is this going to be a guessing game, Jim? We’re against the clock here.’ Carruthers looked into her eyes. They were beseeching him to give her something she co
uld use in the interview.

  ‘Fletcher says his bedroom walls are covered with naked photographs of both Rachel Abbie and Mairi Beattie. He’s clearly been stalking them both. The only other thing they’ve discovered is a copy of the same book that was in both the rooms of Serena Davis and Rachel Abbie.’

  ‘Just remind me what the book was again?’

  ‘Atlas Shrugged by Ayn Rand.’

  ‘Hmm. Well, sounds like we’ve got grounds to keep him in overnight at least with the discovery of the photos.’ She opened the door to the interview room and leant into Carruthers as she spoke. ‘I’ll just finish the interview then we’ll stick him in a cell.’

  They both looked at Campbell, whose left knee was now pumping up and down as if he was on drugs. Carruthers knew in his case it was more likely to be nerves.

  McTavish glanced at her watch. ‘I’ve got somewhere to be later tonight for a couple of hours which is bloody awkward, but I can’t get out of it. However, I’ll be on the mobile if you need me. I want Watson and Fletcher to go over that room with a fine-tooth comb.’

  Carruthers nodded solemnly. McTavish didn’t need to remind him. They were looking for a severed finger.

  Sandra McTavish retook her seat opposite John Campbell. She smiled at him. The dynamics of the interview had completely changed. She now had the upper hand and they both knew it.

  ‘If you don’t charge me, you’re going to have to let me go, you know.’

  ‘Plenty of time for that, John, and you won’t be going anywhere anytime soon. I’ve had a warrant to search your room in halls.’

  Carruthers watched carefully through the glass as Campbell exploded. He stood up so abruptly his chair crashed over. ‘You had no right to go into my bedroom and go through my things. My stuff’s private. I don’t let anyone into my room. I want my father present at the interview and I want a solicitor.’

  ‘Sit down. We had every right. You are clearly a danger to women. You’re not just a fantasist, are you? You’re also a stalker. You have quite a photograph collection in your room. The officers present wondered if you were going to open a gallery. Why are you taking pictures of Mairi Campbell and Rachel Abbie?’