by Tana Collins
‘You don’t say much, do you?’
Fletcher looked into Ross’s smiling eyes. She shook her head. ‘Sorry. Was miles away. Yes, I do make a difference. Or at least I like to think I do.’
‘Can I ask you a serious question?’
‘Aren’t all your questions serious?’ She looked up, head tilted to the side, a smile in her eyes. She’d forgotten how cute he was with his smattering of freckles. What was she doing playing with him? She was on dangerous territory.
‘I know it’s none of my business but are you seeing anyone at the moment? I’d really like to get you know better. Outside work, that is.’
She dropped her head for a moment and looked at her plate before looking back up at him again. In his eyes she saw a mixture of hope, anxiety and something else. It might have been lust. She wasn’t sure. She felt a surge of hope – of excitement. Then that feeling died, to be replaced by something else. She couldn’t pinpoint what it was. Wariness maybe. What could she say to him? How did she feel about going out on a date with him? With anyone?
‘Um, the thing is, Greg, I’ve been badly burned not that long ago. I’m still getting over the – well, what happened. I–’ God, what was wrong with her? Why couldn’t she get the words out?
A shadow fell across the table. Fletcher looked up, frowning. The bulky form of Willie Brown came into view. ‘Sorry to spoil your date,’ he said with a smirk, ‘but Boy Wonder’s looking for you.’
Fletcher picked up a few crumbs that had fallen on the table and put them on her paper plate. ‘Tell him I’ll be right there, will you. And Willie?’
He looked down.
‘You’ve delivered your message. You can piss off now.’
He shrugged, and walked off, whistling. Fletcher stood up.
‘Boy Wonder?’
‘Oh, Willie and Dougie’s silly joke. That’s what they call Jim. It all stems from him having been a fast-track graduate.’
Fletcher hurried off, knowing she still hadn’t given Greg Ross a proper answer, and at some point she’d have to decide what she wanted.
Carruthers was buried under a pile of paperwork when he heard footfall approach his desk. He was still waiting to hear news of John Mackie and kept glancing at his watch. While he had every sympathy with Mackie’s predicament, he was itching to get the PM underway. He looked up to see Fletcher.
‘You wanted to see me, Jim?’
‘Thought you’d want to be in on this, Andie. A young woman’s arrived at the front desk asking to speak with someone about the recent murder. I’ve put her in interview room one.’
‘What’s her connection?’
‘Says she was out very close to where our latest victim was murdered. Thinks she heard something.’
‘Does she have a name?’
‘Carol Nichols. Thought you might want in.’
‘I’m in. Let’s go. Doesn’t do to keep a witness waiting.’
Carruthers gathered his notebook up from his desk and followed Fletcher out of the office.
‘You look a bit flushed. Not coming down with something, I hope? You don’t have time to be ill.’
‘I’m fine. Nothing like that. Greg Ross just asked me out.’
Carruthers punched the air. ‘What did you say?’
‘That’s just it. I didn’t say anything. Not really. I just babbled. To be honest I can’t think of anything at the moment but these cases. Perhaps when they’re over…’
Carruthers understood. When they were in the middle of a murder investigation everything else had to be put on hold. He still hadn’t had a proper chat with his brother. He wondered if Alan was even still in his cottage.
Fletcher looked hopeful. ‘Any news about John Mackie and the PM?’
‘Not yet. I’m still waiting, but at least it means I’m here to sit in on this interview.’
Carol Nichols was sitting fidgeting with her mobile phone in the interview room. She had a bottle of water in front of her and a cup of coffee. She looked up when she heard the door open.
‘Thanks for coming in, Carol. I’m Detective Inspector Jim Carruthers and this is Detective Sergeant Andrea Fletcher. I believe you wanted to speak with us about something you may have seen last night?’
Carruthers pulled up an extra plastic chair for Fletcher and sat down facing Carol Nichols. He took in the mass of blonde curls that framed a lively, oval face.
‘Look, I didn’t know whether to come in or not. I don’t have a huge amount to tell you. It probably won’t be useful.’
Fletcher smiled at the girl. ‘Let us be the judge of that. Just tell us what happened last night. I believe you heard something?’
‘Yes, God, I must have been so close to where that attack took place. It sends chills down my spine. I don’t really know what I was doing walking home alone. It was so stupid.’ The girl was rushing her words. Carruthers suspected she was still in shock at the terrible news of another murder and at how close she had been to the killing.
‘Take your time.’
The girl drew in a slow, deep breath. ‘We’d been drinking in the Earl of Fife and I was walking back to Edgecliffe.’
‘The student halls?’ asked Carruthers.
‘Yes, that’s right.’
‘Anyway, God, I’m so stupid. I suppose I was in a bit of a mood. The thing is, I really fancy this boy called Toby, and I was just plucking up courage to make a play for him when next thing I know I turn round and that American girl is sitting on his sodding knee.’
Carruthers tried to suppress his irritation. Some people liked to give blow-by-blow accounts of a story and Carol Nichols was clearly one such person. The police waited impatiently while she got to the point.
‘Anyway, look, what I’m trying to say is I wouldn’t normally walk alone in these circumstances late at night, but I wasn’t thinking too clearly, I’d had a fair bit to drink and I just decided to take off and get home.’
‘Okay. Please carry on,’ urged Carruthers.
‘I wasn’t far away from the halls at Edgecliffe when I heard a noise.’
Carruthers knew those halls of residence. He’d visited them on a previous case. He thought of the pretty, black-haired student, Siobhan Mathews, that he’d met during his first big case. An arresting image came to mind of the green-eyed girl wearing a green shift dress over blue jeans.
‘Where exactly were you when you heard this noise?’
‘Just down by the harbour. I’d passed the boats and lobster pots.’
Carruthers knew exactly where she meant. It was close to the pier. ‘Can you describe the sound you heard?’
‘Well, sort of a scuffling noise, I suppose. And then what sounded like a muffled shriek.’ There was a pregnant pause. ‘Did I hear the girl being attacked?’ She shook her head. ‘I thought it was just someone horsing around. I didn’t realise someone was being murdered.’ She put her hands to her face.
‘Which direction did you hear the noise coming from?’
She thought for a moment. ‘Somewhere behind the Castle.’
‘Do you have any idea of the time?’
‘Oh yes, I’d just looked at my watch. It must have been a few minutes after 9pm. I mean, I didn’t want to be too late going back with a murderer on the loose.’ She put her hand over her mouth as if she might be sick. ‘Did I hear the murder? Please tell me I didn’t hear that poor girl being killed?’
‘Did you hear anything else?’
‘Well, I did get a bit worried cos someone crept up behind me and grabbed me round the neck. Actually, I had a total fright, but it was my housemate, Hazel, who’d left the pub and caught up with me. I think she thought it was funny, grabbing me like that. Silly cow.’
Chapter 22
The bags under Dr Mackie’s eyes told their own story. ‘I think I’m getting too old for this, Jim. Let’s get this over with. I know you’re needing answers.’
‘Are you sure you’re well enough to conduct the PM, John?’
‘Aye, laddie. Whatev
er I had was over pretty quickly. I could have tried to get someone else in at short notice but to be honest I want to do this myself.’
So, I was right, thought Carruthers. For some reason Mackie saw this as personal. The pathologist’s bespectacled assistant, Jodie Pettigrew, pulled the sheet away from the body and the post-mortem of Sarah Torr began.
Carruthers was too exhausted and anxious to think of his failed relationship with the attractive pathology assistant. All he wanted to know was how their victim had died and ultimately who had killed her. He gave Jodie a curt greeting then kept his head down.
‘Another young woman who had her whole life ahead of her.’ Carruthers wasn’t sure if Mackie was talking to himself or addressing his comments to them. In close proximity to the old pathologist, who stank of cigarette smoke, he gazed at the slim figure of the now dead nineteen-year-old.
‘The good news here, if there is good news, is that once again there’s been no sexual interference. No semen or blood around the vagina or anus. A small mercy for her parents at least. This young woman died a virgin.’
Mackie made the standard incision from sternum to pubic bone. Carruthers forced himself to watch despite the inevitable nausea. Even when he’d been a DCI he’d insisted on going to the PMs of his victims. He felt it was the least he could do for them.
The throat area of the victim was a mass of congealed blood and Carruthers tried to ignore the livid knife slashings to the face. As Mackie started the inevitable task of cutting and slicing, in a bid to take out and weigh the organs, a fresh wave of nausea took the police officer. Sweat beaded his top lip, his skin started tingling and a darkness descended. He excused himself and stumbled out of the room just in time.
A grey-faced Carruthers emerged from the men’s toilet sometime later. In all his years as a police officer he’d never been sick until now. The look of concern on Jodie Pettigrew’s face told its own story.
Carruthers looked at her; surprised to see something resembling worry in her eyes. Their brief dalliance hadn’t ended well. ‘Where’s Mackie?’
‘Away for another smoke. You okay?’
He wiped his hand over his mouth. ‘I’ll survive. Don’t know what came over me. Never happened before.’
‘Don’t beat yourself up. You’re only human.’ She jerked her head towards the window. ‘He’s out there if you want to join him. Getting a breath of fresh air and a cigarette might help.’
Carruthers nodded and stumbled out of the building. With the victim’s appalling injuries in mind he was certainly more human than the bastard who had done this to that poor girl. And Carruthers realised in that moment that the resolve to catch the perpetrator and put him away had never been greater.
He shared Mackie’s one remaining cigarette. Despite being an ex-smoker Carruthers could imagine it wouldn’t be his only one of the day. If he didn’t buy himself a pack he’d be trying to cadge cigarettes off other folk. He was still feeling queasy.
The pathologist handed him the dog-end of the fag. ‘You’ll get him, Jim. I know you will.’
Having taken the last drag of the pathologist’s cigarette he absentmindedly flicked it on the ground and, with shoulders hunched, walked away towards his car, leaving Mackie staring sadly after his back.
Chapter 23
‘Well, we didn’t get much from the Carol Nichols interview but at least we have a better idea of the time of death for Sarah Torr.’ McTavish checked her phone. Carruthers was currently standing in her office, having brought her up to speed with the latest victim’s PM. ‘If you had plans for later tonight, I need you to cancel them. I want to speak to you, Jim. And I want to do it away from the station. We can do it over supper.’
Carruthers shook his head. He had no plans. He stifled a yawn. By rights, he should get home and check in on his brother, but the thought wasn’t appealing.
‘No, I don’t have plans.’ He wondered why she needed to talk to him away from the station, thinking that what he really wanted was to go back to an empty house and a hot bath. He felt too exhausted to have a heart-to-heart with a brother he felt he barely knew. Anyway, his new boss needed to speak with him, and for some reason she wanted to do it over supper. He was so used to eating fast food during a murder investigation that the thought of enjoying a meal in a restaurant was a huge luxury.
He was aware the DCI was still talking. ‘Good. I want to talk about the case with you.’ She leant in to him. ‘There’s been a development. I’ve got a husband and kids to get back to so I don’t want to be too late. Why don’t we walk to the restaurant just down the road?’
‘The Italian? Fine by me. Will he mind, your husband, I mean?’ Carruthers was wondering why she didn’t want a meal with her husband and kids. After all, surely they could grab half an hour at the office for going over the case and whatever this latest development was. She didn’t need to do it over supper.
Sandra McTavish snorted. ‘No. He’ll be too busy looking after the children. Anyway, his mother is coming over tonight. I can’t stand her.’ She started moving towards the door, hesitated, then turned round. Eyeing the empty polystyrene cups and overflowing paperwork, she said, ‘I’ve been meaning to tell you, I think you could do with a clear up of your desk. I don’t want to micromanage you, Jim, but I’m a stickler for neatness. You should take a leaf out of Andrea’s book.’
Carruthers bristled. It hadn’t been the first time he’d been compared unfavourably to DS Fletcher. Superintendent Bingham had done it in the past too.
They headed out of the station and walked together to the local restaurant. Carruthers had been in it a few times with work colleagues but not since it had had its current makeover. He looked around him. It could be described as a contemporary restaurant with a Scottish twist. All exposed brick, wooden tables and soft black seats. He approved. McTavish steered him to a table in the furthest corner. She took the seat facing the front door. Carruthers wondered if that was so she could keep tabs on anyone from the station coming in for a quick bite. Unlikely during a murder investigation. They usually ate little more than pot noodles and sausage rolls.
She leant into him after glancing around the restaurant to make sure nobody was listening. ‘Look, there’s another reason I want to speak with you.’ Satisfied they weren’t being overheard, she continued, ‘and like I said, I want to do it away from the police station.’
Carruthers was intrigued. What’s with all the cloak and dagger stuff?
‘It’s about Bingham–’
Carruthers wasn’t surprised. ‘Can I just say I thought he was bang out of order letting Campbell go like that without first consulting you. I don’t want to talk out of turn but I thought it was completely unprofessional.’ He wondered if he was being unprofessional talking about Bingham in such a way, but then, Sandra McTavish was no fool. She would know that there was no love lost between the two men, given Carruthers’ demotion at Bingham’s hands. And it certainly looked from the little interaction he’d seen between the two senior officers that McTavish was having her own personal struggle with Bingham. He suddenly realised he’d done it again. He’d interrupted his superior. He fell silent.
‘Well, the super is the reason I needed to talk to you. I found out why he let the boy go. Do you know who John Campbell’s father is?’
Carruthers wracked his brains and came up with a blank. ‘No.’
‘John Campbell’s father is none other than a Superintendent Len Campbell. Apparently, he’s friends with Bingham.’
‘Shit.’ Carruthers’ mouth practically fell open.
Before he had a chance to speak further McTavish was continuing. ‘Why wasn’t I told about this, Jim?’
Good question, he thought. Come to that, why hadn’t he been told? ‘I wasn’t in possession of this information.’
She called over a waiter to bring a couple of menus and a jug of water, before turning back to Carruthers. ‘Is there some old boys’ network in operation at this station that I need to know about?’
He’d never been a fan of Bingham, who had already been caught out by his association with one career criminal. Surely if it came to light that he was doing favours for this Superintendent Len Campbell it would herald the end of his career in the force. No wonder the boy had been so cocky under interview. He probably thought, with having a father so high up in the police force, he was untouchable.
Carruthers was trying to think fast. He was aware that McTavish was scrutinising him and more than aware that she would be looking for a fall guy. The question was – was he willing to sacrifice Fletcher or should he put his own head on the block? His thoughts turned once more to Bingham. One of the last surprisingly personal conversations he’d had with the man had been when Bingham had told him that he was no social climber and that he hated golf – that it had been his wife Irene who had made him hobnob with the great and good.
He was aware that DCI McTavish was waiting for an answer. ‘I don’t know what to say, Sandra. You have my word that I’ll look into it. I can’t understand how this information wasn’t passed on. I’m as much in the dark as you.’
The waiter arrived at their table holding a couple of menus with one hand and a jug of water with the other. He put the jug down on the table and handed the police officers the menus. ‘I’ll be back with glasses in a moment.’
McTavish remained unsmiling. She leaned into Carruthers and hissed, ‘The expression, trying to shut the stable door after the horse has bolted, springs to mind. But I do want to know why I wasn’t informed. You are the DI, Jim, and as I said, I expect your support. I certainly hope you weren’t throwing me to the wolves.’