Dark is the Day

by Tana Collins

  ‘It’s not against the law.’

  ‘Stalking is though. Sit down.’

  Campbell remained standing.

  ‘I said sit down.’ There was a steely edge to McTavish’s voice Carruthers hadn’t heard before. Reluctantly, Campbell righted his chair and sat back down on it. His agitation was clear for all to see.

  McTavish picked up her notes and shuffled them. ‘Let’s talk about Rachel Abbie. We’ve got evidence you harassed her. You bombarded her with text messages. You’ve been following her around taking her photograph. What we want to know is when did your thoughts turn to murder? Was it after she turned your advances down?’

  Campbell turned white. It was finally dawning on him that he was in serious trouble. ‘She didn’t turn my advances down. I’ve slept with her.’

  Disgusted, Sandra McTavish turned away. ‘My God, you really are a fantasist.’

  ‘It’s true. We had a fling not long after she got together with Will. She said she was confused. Didn’t know what she wanted. In the end she chose him.’

  Carruthers watched this exchange through the glass. For once, he got the impression Campbell was telling the truth.

  ‘And you couldn’t cope with that, could you? Is that why you killed her?’

  ‘I’ve already told you I didn’t kill her.’

  ‘Well, the fact she threw you over for Will now gives you motive for murder. Wouldn’t be the first time a lovesick boy had killed his ex.’

  Campbell shook his head. ‘I don’t see her as my ex. Like I said, we had a fling. It wasn’t serious.’

  ‘Perhaps not for her.’

  ‘I didn’t kill her.’ Campbell stretched his legs out under the desk and folded his arms. ‘I want my father. And a solicitor.’

  McTavish stood up. ‘It’s getting late. We’ll carry on with the interview tomorrow.’ She turned to the uniform present, who was quietly standing in the corner. ‘Take him to the cells.’

  The student jumped to his feet. ‘You’re not seriously going to stick me in a cell overnight?’

  McTavish remained unsmiling. ‘That’s exactly what I’m going to do.’ She walked out of the interview room, and as she passed Carruthers, she whispered, ‘Cell’s the best place for him. I need to get going. It’s late. Go home, Jim and I’ll see you tomorrow at eight.’

  Carol Nichols watched the tall boy she’d had a crush on all term from her vantage point of a high stool at the bar in the Earl of Fife pub. He was standing talking to a couple of his male friends.

  Right, that’s it, she thought. Enough Dutch courage. She looked away from him to put her glass of vodka lime soda down on the bar. Really, she didn’t want to take her eyes off him, he was so hot – but she could just imagine trying to put her glass casually on the bar but actually dropping it so it smashed all over the floor. Definitely not the cool look. And it smacked of that tragic episode in Only Fools and Horses.

  You don’t want to be pissed when you talk to him, she thought. The bartender said something to her. Over the noise of the bar Carol didn’t hear him. Perhaps he was asking her if she wanted another drink. She waved her vodka lime soda at him as if to say, look, I still have half the glass left. But when she had put the tall glass back down, and turned round, she couldn’t believe her eyes. The two friends had disappeared to be replaced by a redhead sitting on Toby’s knee. What a tart! She’d missed her opportunity.

  Disappointment welled up in her. She grabbed her glass and walked over to her own friends. ‘Have you seen that?’ she hissed. ‘I’m too late. That American girl is throwing herself at him. She’s practically wrapped round him like a boa constrictor.’

  Her housemate Hazel tried to put a consoling arm round her while trying not to spill her Jägerbomb. ‘Look, come back and join us instead.’ Carol shrugged the arm off.

  ‘I have to say you did look a bit desperate sitting on that bar stool all on your own. And it was pretty obvious you fancy him. His friends were laughing at you.’

  Carol was starting to feel dizzy and a bit sick as the drink took effect. ‘I had to pick my moment. Couldn’t concentrate being around you lot. Anyway, don’t want to join you. Want to go home. And they weren’t laughing at me.’ She plonked her drink down on the table.

  Hazel tried to grasp her arm but she prised it away and started walking off.

  ‘Don’t walk on your own. Wait for us. I’ve nearly finished my drink. I’ll come with you.’

  But Carol didn’t listen and was out the door before Hazel took her next swig.

  It was a clear, cool night, the air smelling of salt and the sea. Carol walked unsteadily through Castletown’s dark streets. As she took the coastal path by the now quiet children’s play area she could hear the sound of the sea lashing against the rocks. It sounded like the noise a seashell makes when lifted to the ear. She heard the noise of running behind her and a shout which made her stop in her tracks. The hair on the back of her neck stood up. She froze.

  ‘Carol, wait up. You know I was going to walk you back. Why didn’t you wait for me?’ Carol swivelled round to see drippy Stu standing holding his sides. He looked up at her. ‘I thought we had an arrangement? I don’t want you to walk anywhere on your own late at night until they catch the lunatic who attacked those students.’

  Carol tapped at her watch after looking at the time. ‘Stu, it’s only 9pm and it’s very sweet of you, but I don’t need you to walk me home. I’m perfectly capable of getting there by myself,’ she said through clenched teeth before hiccupping. God, thought Carol, if only Toby hadn’t gone off with that bimbo redhead. Carol had had her eyes on Toby for ages. She’d spent a good part of the night trying to shake off Stu so she could stand on her own, planning her move – only to turn round and see Toby with the bimbo sitting on his lap.

  She threw a furious look at Stu. ‘Look, will you just piss off. I don’t want you walking me back to my room. I thought I’d already made myself perfectly clear.’

  ‘Christ, well if you feel like that. I know you’ve got the hots for Toby. It’s all over the department. He’s not good enough for you. And he treats women like shit.’ He bowed his head in defeat, Carol caught the glint of tears. ‘What do they say? The good guy always comes last. Well, I’m not hanging around to be insulted.’ He almost spat the last words at her. ‘Get yourself home. And just so we’re clear I’m not helping you with that fucking term paper.’

  Carol watched Stu go, both shocked at his swearing and wondering why she had never noticed he was such a diva before.

  Letting out a sigh, she walked on. Bugger. She’d been relying on Stu to help her with her latest paper. She really didn’t have a scooby. She heard a muffled noise some way away and increased her pace. For the first time she felt misgivings about walking after dark on her own. Why hadn’t she listened to the police advice?

  She had just walked past the moored boats and empty lobster pots when she heard loud footfall just behind her. She then heard a scuffling noise. Christ, she hadn’t got rid of Stu, after all. What was it going to take?

  ‘For Christ’s sake, Stu, can’t you take a bloody hint?’ As she swung round an arm shot out and she felt herself being grabbed round the neck. She screamed.

  Chapter 18

  A weary Carruthers approached his cottage. Christ, he was tired. He had the start of a headache and every time he thought about the case it just got worse. When were they going to finally get a breakthrough? The only positive note was that John Campbell was now banged up until tomorrow morning, which was when his interview would continue. This time with a solicitor present. But Carruthers still wasn’t sure the perpetrator of these violent crimes was the philosophy student, despite the man’s stalking behaviour and history of violence towards women. But then if it wasn’t him – who was it?

  As Carruthers reached in his pocket to get his house keys, he saw a shadowy figure slink out of the darkness towards him from the side of his house. It was unexpected and Carruthers was immediately on guard.

 
; ‘Who’s there?’ The figure came into view. Dark-haired, gaunt-faced. It was his brother, Alan. ‘Jesus, you scared me half to death. What were you doing skulking round the back of my house?’

  ‘Hoping to find you’d left a window or door unlocked. I’m getting cold.’

  ‘I’d make a pretty poor detective if I’d left my own back door unlocked, wouldn’t I? Why didn’t you just ring me?’ Irritated, Carruthers opened the door to his property.

  ‘What’s the point? You don’t return my calls.’

  Carruthers looked warily at Alan. ‘You’d better come in.’

  Instead of following him into the cottage his brother slipped back round the side of his house again. Where was he going this time?

  ‘I’ll just get my holdall,’ Alan called out. Within seconds he was back with an enormous bag.

  Carruthers eyed it suspiciously. Dear God. Why the hell would his brother need an enormous holdall? Exactly how long was he planning to stay for? The size of the holdall suggested at least a week.

  Alan stepped into Carruthers’ home and plonked the bag down in the hall.

  When Carruthers had shut the door behind him, he switched the hall light on, and turned to face his older brother. How long had it been? Months. Carruthers was shocked at how old his brother looked. He’d lost so much weight and it had aged him. Gone was the robust former rugby player he had grown up with. In front of him stood a shadow of the man he once knew. Carruthers swallowed a lump in his throat.

  ‘I know what you’re thinking. I look like shit. Have you got any lager? I could murder a drink.’

  How could Carruthers lie and say his brother looked well when he didn’t?

  Still facing his brother, Carruthers said, ‘I wasn’t thinking that. What I was thinking was how could you just turn up on my doorstep like this, with no notice, especially after the way you ended the last phone call?’ Before he had a chance to answer, Carruthers had covered the distance between them and enveloped Alan in a clumsy hug.

  In silence, Carruthers then walked into the kitchen. The older brother followed him. They stood awkwardly for a moment. Carruthers opened the cupboard and brought out a couple of real ales. Before his heart attack Alan had been teetotal, but he’d heard from their mum that the once fit older brother had started to drink, and heavily at that. Carruthers knew better than to tell Alan it probably wasn’t a sensible lifestyle choice, given his triple heart bypass, but he kept quiet and said instead, ‘I don’t have any lager, I’m afraid.’

  ‘You never did like the stuff.’ His brother looked at the Iron Maiden beer Carruthers had given him. He pulled a face. ‘That’s okay. I’ll still drink this.’

  Carruthers felt a moment of irritation. It was one of his favourites. He led the way back to the living area and took a seat in his old comfy armchair. His brother sat on the sofa. He opened his own bottle of Hobgoblin before passing the opener to his brother.

  Carruthers looked at Alan as he took his first swig. He still didn’t know why he’d turned up needing a bed in the first place, but he was determined to find out before they got stuck into the beer. Just as he took his second swig his phone rang. He picked up. ‘Jim.’ His ears pricked up. It was the voice of Sandra McTavish. What would she be doing phoning him this late? There was a lot of background noise. He could hear music and the low babble of voices. Where was she?

  ‘Sorry to phone you at this hour.’ Her voice was rushed, breathless. ‘You’re needed back here in Castletown. Another girl’s been murdered.’

  Carruthers shot to his feet, his beer jolted, and foamy liquid spilled down the sides of the bottle and all over the front of his jeans. It looked like he had pissed himself. ‘Fuck,’ he muttered. He’d have to change. Couldn’t leave the house smelling of booze, and trousers stained to boot.

  ‘What’s up?’ he heard his brother ask.

  He ignored him, focusing instead on the voice on the phone. He heard a tinkling laugh in the background and then McTavish’s voice came back on the line. ‘Can you drive or do you need someone to come and get you?’

  He looked at the bottle of Hobgoblin. He hadn’t taken more than a couple of swigs. ‘I’m fine to drive. I’m on my way.’

  ‘Right, I’ll text you the locus and I’ll meet you there.’

  He cut the call, turning to his brother, ‘Look, I need to go out.’

  His brother grasped his arm. ‘But I just got here. I need to talk to you. Can they not get someone else?’

  ‘I’m sorry. It’s an emergency.’ As he ran up his stairs to change his jeans he shouted, ‘There’s some food in the cupboard if you’re hungry. I wouldn’t wait up.’ Hesitating half way up the stairs, he turned round and shouted, ‘And we will have that talk, Alan, we just can’t have it right now.’

  Carruthers changed his jeans, grabbed his jacket, wallet and keys, shut the door and sprinted to his car. A squally wind was beginning to gust. Another girl dead? Surely this was now confirmation, if they had needed it, that Castletown had its first ever serial killer. He had no time to think about why Alan had pitched up on his doorstep. Whatever his brother wanted it was going to have to wait. Another dead girl.

  He drove the six miles from the fishing village of Anstruther to the ancient university town. He phoned Sandra on the hands-free for the locale as he hadn’t received a text. Her voice seemed strangely high-pitched. Perhaps it was the shock of another murder. They didn’t know how many victims there would be. They didn’t know how the killer targeted their victims. Or even what his motivation was. There was no certainty about any of this except for one fact: the killer of this victim couldn’t possibly be John Campbell. He was locked up in a cell at the police station.

  Having parked up, he dashed to the scene. The first person he bumped into was Liu, the police photographer. The Chinese man was still doing up his flies. He had obviously left his post for a sly piss. Normally one to indulge in a bit of black humour at the scene of a suspicious death, he was strangely quiet. ‘Where’s the DCI?’ Carruthers asked, as Liu picked up his camera.

  ‘Over here, Jim.’ Out of the undergrowth stepped Sandra McTavish. She was wearing a short cream jacket over a knee-length red evening dress. The wind was tugging at the hem. She smoothed the floaty dress back down with a hand while pulling off her clip-on pearl earrings with the other. ‘I was at a dinner party with Mike. I’ve only just arrived.’ Delving into her jacket pocket, she brought out a white handkerchief and began to wipe off the red lipstick.

  ‘Where’s the body?’ asked Carruthers, taking in his boss’s uncharacteristically pale face. He noticed a sheen of sweat on her brow.

  She gestured with her hand. ‘Over there. We’re all professional, but I had better warn you, it’s not pleasant.’

  Carruthers walked through the undergrowth towards the unnatural glow of light provided by the SOCOs. The branches of nearby trees swayed with the wind.

  ‘No further until you get these on,’ said one of the SOCOs. Carruthers thought her name was Karen. She handed Carruthers the paper footwear, the latex gloves and boiler suit. Carruthers put them on with practised ease and followed her. He could sense Sandra McTavish struggling to get into hers behind him.

  He saw the legs of the victim before anything else. Her feet were bare, revealing slim ankles. ‘Where are the shoes?’

  ‘Haven’t been found yet.’ The gravelly voice was of Dr Mackie, who was kneeling beside the victim. Carruthers was betting the old pathologist would be desperate for a smoke.

  ‘What have we got?’ asked Carruthers.

  Mackie kept his head down. ‘A real mess. That’s what we’ve got.’ As he looked up, he said, ‘He’s made a real mess of this one.’

  Alarmed at Mackie’s uncharacteristic muttering Carruthers was craning his neck to get a look from behind Mackie’s frame. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘He’s used a blade to cut her throat.’

  Carruthers swallowed hard as he felt his heart lurch in his mouth. It had seemed that their perpetrator
had graduated from strangulation to using a knife, this time to kill. As Mackie rose up to the balls of his feet with difficulty, the round face and shoulder-length dark hair of the victim were exposed. Blood covered the girl’s top. Carruthers gasped out loud. He recognised her.

  ‘The perpetrator’s severed the carotid artery. Nearly severed her windpipe too.’

  So, if it was the same killer, he’d graduated from throttling his victim to almost severing the windpipe with a sharp instrument. The neck and throat was a mass of still glistening, congealing blood. Carruthers was glad he’d had no time for his supper. The thought occurred to him, that however seasoned he was, there was a chance he would have brought it back up again.

  The MO’s different, thought Carruthers once again. What can this mean?

  A horrible thought came into Carruthers’ head. ‘Have you seen her–’

  A grim-faced Mackie nodded. ‘I know what you’re about to ask. The index finger’s been severed. Looks like we’ve got a trophy seeker on our hands, Jim.’

  Carruthers swallowed hard, feeling his heart hammering in his chest. He wiped the sweat from his hands onto his jeans. ‘Is there any ID on her?’ He didn’t need to ask the question. The last time he’d seen her she’d been standing in a huddle with the rest of her housemates.

  A SOCO nodded in Carruthers’ direction. ‘Her student card says Sarah Torr.’

  He didn’t need to be told. Sarah Torr. Rachel Abbie’s housemate. And another dead philosophy student. Just what was going on in the philosophy department?

  ‘How long has she been dead?’ asked Carruthers.

  Mackie scratched his head. ‘Not long. I’d say she’s been killed within the hour.’ He turned to Carruthers. ‘You’re looking for someone tall, Jim. At least five-ten, five-eleven to be able to apply the force. Looks like he’s severed the jugular and the carotid before getting to the windpipe. Most likely, he was standing behind the victim when he did it.’