A Wife Worth Dying For

by Wilson Smillie

  He nodded. ‘He also knows about Kelsa and my son.’

  ‘Somethin’ strange going on,’ she said, pondering. ‘Nick wants to give you a latex finger, but I’m not keen – it could be a distraction. Your privacy trumps your role as a policeman in today’s environment, and you cannae investigate yourself. I’m assumin’ if he’s sent you two messages, he’ll send more. I’ll authorise Gavin Roy’s team to poke deep into Alice’s phone, maybe we can identify him from there, eh?’ she said, explaining her reasoning.

  She looked at DI Mason and shook her head. ‘My call, my responsibility. If you get another message, Leccy, tell us straight away.’

  17

  Upwardly Mobile

  Scoop took the investigation up a level, Leccy felt. But it spawned a whole new puzzle. Leith was a hotbed for narcotics in Edinburgh, but it wasn’t the only suburb where dealers dealt. Any of the council schemes that pockmarked the city had a drugs market if you knew where to look – or who to call.

  Carter called Andrew MacIntosh in Drylaw, a needle’s-length from the Pilton and Muirhouse housing experiments in the north of the city.

  ‘Mac, it’s Leccy,’ Carter said.

  ‘Aye, this won’t be a social call then, unless you’re calling in that beer I owe you.’

  ‘Forget the beer if you can tell me who does scoop around your way.’

  ‘What’s the gig?’ asked MacIntosh, suspicious as always that he might be kept out of something big. ‘Does Cheryl know you’re calling me? She wasn’t too chuffed when you came over to review the evidence we had on McCalman’s rackets last year.’

  ‘She doesn’t know I’m calling you – yet.’ Carter said. ‘A girl’s been thrown off a bridge and is in a coma in hospital. She’d been raped too.’

  ‘Easier than a goodnight kiss, eh?’

  ‘Anyone making it on your patch?’

  ‘Around Drylaw?’ MacIntosh was incredulous. ‘You’re kidding. It’s not like growing cannabis. You need special equipment and the knowledge of a chemist. You can cook it between the soup and the tatties, though.’

  ‘Anyone trading?’

  ‘It’s the kind of thing McCalman was into, but he’s in HMP Saughton and won’t see daylight for a decade. But you know what they say about vacuums, eh? You want me to sniff around?’

  ‘Aye. Where would the goods originate?’

  ‘Livingston – Bathgate, maybe. More likely Glasgow or Dundee, or from down south. Birmingham, Manchester, London.’

  After agreeing that Mac would look into it, Carter ended the call. The drug markets were invisible; many operated on the dark web, and big onshore busts were rare for drugs like hyoscine. Cocaine had to be imported, but legal organic drugs could be just as profitable, have similar effects, and be manufactured easily if you had the knowledge, resources and motivation.

  Back at his desk, he opened his computer and turned his attention to Alice’s mobile phone. The case records on ICRS said she was eight months into a two-year mobile contract with InterMide. The record also indicated they’d tracked her locations on the night she’d been attacked. He called the Operational Services Department at Helen Street in Glasgow.

  Gavin Roy’s Cybercrime Investigation Team was colloquially known as OCD. It was responsible for liaison with mobile phone network operators, internet service providers and the big tech companies, amongst other darker arts.

  ‘Gavin, DS Carter from St Leonard’s. The Alice Deacon case.’

  ‘That’s the one DCI McKinlay authorised?’

  Carter gave Gavin the ICRS reference number and Alice’s phone number. He asked for the location data on a map overlay.

  ‘Sending it to you now,’ said Roy. ‘It’s interactive, all the data is in a pivot table, so you can slice and dice your way to heaven. An interesting approach to messaging on this phone. I can see why your boss wants a deep dive done on it.’

  ‘You seen anything like it before?’ Carter asked him.

  ‘Total identity cloaking and bleeding-edge tech altogether. In phones, an app is usually pre-installed to enable SMS messages and consumes about fifty megabytes of storage. On this one, the app and its message are one and the same. It’s a nano-app – meaning microscopic – and it consumes only two-point-five kilobytes of storage per message so it can be sent over low-speed networks. It’s Cold War spy tech in digital form, using a one-time, unbreakable, 160-character cypher. The 160-character message is coded using the cypher then sent with a random, sixteen-character origin code all wrapped up in TLS encryption. When she responds, the origin code and cypher are never used again. He’s the controller and could erase all the messages on her phone in one click. But he’s not done it.’

  ‘Why wouldn’t he erase them?’ Carter asked. ‘Would he get an app like that from Google Play or the App Store?’

  Roy sniggered the way an adult would to a child who thinks farting is funny. ‘This is dark-web stuff. He must have skills, he’d have to side-load the app on his own phone first. If he used WhatsApp and a smart-arsed copper like you gets hold of an unlocked phone, he’d be fucked. But not erasing the messages tells me he’s been lazy.’

  ‘There’s another angle,’ Carter said. ‘He’s messaged my phone twice. Each time the message was erased.’

  ‘Oh. So, he doesn’t want those messages being read by anyone except you,’ Roy mused. ‘Maybe he’s not that lazy after all. But why go to all the bother?’

  ‘Keeping things from a wife?’ Carter proposed.

  ‘You, me and everyone else would stick with WhatsApp, smart-arsed coppers not assumed.’

  ‘Thanks, Gavin.’

  Carter opened the email Gavin sent him and saved the files in the case’s shared location. Opening the Excel data file, he ran the program that overlaid Alice’s movements in a twelve-hour timeframe, six hours before and six hours immediately after the rape. The time data-points were overlaid on a Google Map of Edinburgh. They appeared as irregular lines, coloured red, green and blue. The lines slithered their way through the hotspots of the city, like a kid who’d drawn a demonic railway track. Blue were GPS coordinates, mobile phone masts were red. They combined to green when both technologies agreed exactly where the phone was. Both gave him spot times in Universal Coordinated Time.

  With this granularity of data he didn’t really need the CCTV from the City Council; he could trace every step she took on the night just by following the coloured lines. He scrolled the map and zoomed in until he located Dalry Cemetery, then he checked the data in the Excel file. Her phone arrived at the crime scene at 23:34:06 UTC. She was on the bridge at 00:09:48 UTC. The ambulance crew had recorded hitting her at ten minutes after midnight. Half an hour later they were on their way to the Royal Infirmary A & E, via the city by-pass, arriving just before 1 a.m. After that, it all got a bit blurry.

  He scrolled up through the data looking for 23:00:00 but couldn’t see it. 22:21:02 was the closest time. Phone mast data said her phone left that location sixty-nine minutes later. He traced the reference backwards on the map, looking to find the most likely place where she could’ve been drugged.

  The Reverend bar on Dalry Road. Less than fifty metres from the entrance to Dalry Burial Ground.

  18

  Brief Encounter

  After lunch, Carter got pulled into a one-to-one meeting with DCI McKinlay. She’d had her hair done, but all that did was make her look more like his gran. He kept that insight to himself.

  ‘You knew Alice Deacon was in the Royal before I sent you there.’ She got to the point before he sat down. ‘Why didn’t you say?

  ‘I got a message from him. He said he’d left a calling card at Petite France. He didn’t mention Alice at all.’

  ‘Do you know this “J”? If he turns out to be your best mate, I’ll be pushed off the fourth-floor roof in a wheelie. But you’ll be washed-up at thirty-three and reduced to spitting out one-liners on the streets for coin.’

  ‘He knows things about me, but I haven’t got a clue about him. Hon
est, ma’am.’

  ‘Soon as you know more, you tell us. OK?’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘How’re you getting on with Dr Flowers?’

  ‘She’s said I should be off-duty, but you haven’t.’

  ‘Operationally, it’s my call. Don’t be open all hours and remember to delegate. And don’t wind up Nick, he’s got talents that others dinnae have.’

  ‘Thank you, ma’am.’ Carter wasn’t sure he liked the last bit.

  ‘Now, go home an’ relax. That’s an order.’

  So, Carter caught the bus to Leith.

  Tommy McGregor’s practice was on Great Junction Street, sandwiched between a Syrian tailor and a payday shark called Dosher’s Loans. The windows and door of McGregor’s surgery were reinforced with metal shutters. Above them, the sign screamed ‘Criminal Defence Lawyers – We’ll Get You Off’.

  When Sheriff Dunsmuir discovered Kelsa had used Tommy McGregor’s services to buy the Liberton house, he’d nearly had an aneurysm. But that was Kelsa – she knew how to poke her father.

  Carter was on the fence about McGregor being the right choice for this task. They’d shared court time in the past, resulting in an honourable draw. McGregor dressed down for the part, oozing charm and professionalism, and Carter admitted to himself the reason he had come here was that McGregor took no prisoners.

  The brief’s secretary had gotten them coffee and Tommy McGregor wanted to establish the ground rules. ‘So, who am I talking to? Detective or husband?’

  ‘How many policemen do you have as clients?’

  McGregor shook his head slightly. ‘What can I do for you, Leccy?’

  Carter smiled. ‘Stenhouse Dunsmuir LLP.’

  ‘Ah,’ McGregor relaxed into his black leather chair. ‘Your father-in-law’s crew.’ His office was basic but colourful. Green and white walls, with photographs of smiling children and an attractive blonde woman that Carter assumed was McGregor’s family and wife. A signed Hibernian football strip. Framed certificates of law, Glasgow prominent in the crests.

  ‘Ever met them in court?’ Carter tried not to appear desperate.

  ‘A bit too upmarket for my clients. What’s your point?’

  ‘It’s no secret that Kelsa was— unwell.’

  ‘Why me?’ McGregor queried. ‘I’m flattered, but Edinburgh isn’t short of briefs.’

  Cut a deal with the devil. Hope not to see you in court again.

  ‘You’re hurting.’ McGregor filled the void when Carter said nothing. ‘But you’re not stupid enough just to put one over on Dunsmuir. What’s happened?’

  ‘Temporary residency for Nathaniel with his grandparents,’ Carter handed over the papers to McGregor. ‘That seems right, given my situation. I’m struggling at the moment, and Dunsmuir knows it. Whatever the future holds, I’m not ready to give full-time care to a vulnerable baby and still work as a detective. Maybe later. But Kelsa’s last testament says if I challenge the residency, I’m cut out of her will.’

  ‘First question – and don’t take this the wrong way – are you the father?’

  ‘Yes.’ Wrong way taken, you fucking shark.

  ‘Nathaniel’s birth certificate?’ McGregor asked.

  ‘Not with me,’ Carter replied. ‘Dunsmuir registered the birth because I was stuck at court. A witness for the prosecution – you know: the day job. Kelsa couldn’t do it, obviously.’

  ‘I’ll get a copy from the Registrar. When were you married?’ McGregor scribbled notes on a pad without looking up.

  ‘Las Vegas, eighth of December 2017. I have a copy of the Vegas licence at home.’

  ‘That must’ve pleased the Sheriff.’ McGregor looked up and grinned. ‘Did the family attend the wedding?’

  ‘A snap decision. We’d flown there for a holiday. Her father wanted Cramond Kirk on a summer’s day.’

  ‘As Nathaniel’s father, your parental rights trump any residency instruments. We can challenge the provision of access when you want and can petition to contest her will.’

  Carter hesitated. ‘I don’t know if I’m the best person for him to be with right now.’

  ‘He’s your son.’

  ‘He’s seven weeks old, he needs his mother more than his father.’

  ‘He doesn’t have that choice, and neither do you,’ McGregor said, with finality.

  Carter stood up. ‘Maybe this was a bad idea.’ McGregor’s reception room was stacked with a microcosm of the Leith underworld – nobody Carter recognised, but he was sure they all knew him.

  Following him out, McGregor held the door to the street. ‘Goodbye, Sergeant Carter,’ he said, blowing Carter’s cover wide open.

  Once outside, the coldness of the season hit him. He pulled the collar of the Crombie up around his neck. He had no scarf, hat or gloves so stuck his hands in his pockets, enduring the tingling cold in his ears. Darkness came early in January; already, it felt like the freezing depths of endless night, and it was only 5.30 p.m.

  Having McGregor lay the legal facts on the table had brought home to him just how little he knew of Kelsa and her family. The blindness of love at first sight. Was J another blind spot?

  Carter walked to the bus stop at the Kirkgate Centre where the number 7 would take him past Captain’s Bar. The number 10 would force him into Sandy Bell’s folk pub.

  After five minutes of feet-stamping and finger-blowing, the number 10 made up his mind. Inside the bus wasn’t much warmer than outside. Condensation rolled down windows, and everyone sat ignoring everyone else. But buses were a childhood comfort, reminding him of Gorebridge. Papa Carter had taught him to look after himself: if it’s too far to walk, get the bus. And with climate change threatening, he felt by taking the bus he was doing his bit.

  He glanced at the faces around him; the trodden-on classes, money worries ingrained in their manner and bearing; a mix of pensioners and the under-employed: school children chattering away about phones, boys or girls or football or computer games. He was of them, but not with them.

  After a twenty-minute ride, he alighted at Princes Street, walked breathlessly up the Mound, crossed the Royal Mile and hurried along George IV Bridge. He dodged pedestrians and selfie-snappers at the Elephant House, finally arriving at Sandy Bell’s on Forrest Road. Once inside, he stood at the bar and ordered his favourite Balvenie. Feeling the rich warmth find his stomach, a glow rose to his face, and its punch revived his heart. Sandy Bell’s was a venue of tall tales and live music – fiddlers, guitarists and whistlers of a folk bent – but it was early yet with an empty bench. He’d once gigged here as a young comedian but wasn’t invited back and never knew why.

  After more drams and a bit of chat with the worthies, he was tempted to settle in, but resisted. He’d fall to maudlin over Kelsa, twisting himself into drunken knots, then harangue some poor sod whose only crime was to listen.

  Left alone, anything could happen – except the return of his lover from the dead.

  He deserted the pub and headed home, catching the number 31 at Surgeons’ Hall, across from the Festival Theatre. At the Malbet Park stop on Lasswade Road, he walked for ten minutes through the residential streets until his darkened home in Malbet Crescent came into view.

  Mail lay on the carpet when he opened the door. He hung up his coat, switched on the lights and gathered the post. Calvin’s Obsession endlessly reminded him she wasn’t here anymore.

  The house was warm. The central heating was on a timer cycle, much like he was. Eat, drink, sleep, wash, eat, sleep, leave, return. Grieve.

  One envelope was addressed to him in handwriting. First-class, locally posted and thick. The others were bills and junk. The envelope contained a card. A black dahlia motif was embossed on the front, with ‘Deepest Sympathies’ as text. Hand-written inside the card was a list of names, colleagues of Kelsa’s, he assumed.

  From: Raymond Henderson, Sam Dingle, Jonathan Gordon-Davies, Ken Barlow, Roy Johnson and Stan Butler.

  Underneath was a signature written large in co
nfident, swirly script.

  J.

  19

  Comedy Rehab

  Ten miles south of Edinburgh, the village of Gorebridge sat in the black mine fields of Midlothian. Its coalpits, the Emily and Gore, had closed in the sixties. Work had still been plentiful for hundreds of miners at the Lady Victoria Colliery in the neighbouring village of Newtongrange until 1984 when the coal mining world changed forever. For two long years, the miners battled a suicide mission against the Thatcher ideology’s scorched-earth policies. Somehow, despite the decimation of the communities that followed, the village survived.

  The bowling club sat at the centre of the old village, in Hunter Square, up the steep brae from the railway station with its direct link to Edinburgh’s financial heart. The club was open for business all day, every day, because what else was there?

  Men dominated the bar, drinking cheap lager and cheaper whisky, their ages ranging from red-faced teenager to proto-corpse. January was a dead zone between the New Year and the Champions League second half in February. The club had stand-ups on stage all year round, but now was a perfect time to mine the depths of performers’ material.

  For Leccy Carter, detective by day and stand-up comedian by night, the experience was priceless. It was another step towards his holy grail of a month’s gig at the Edinburgh Fringe in August. The Scottish comedy circuit was still unthinkable. Mainstream TV was light-years away, but he had promise. All he had to do was get out there and make the right people laugh.

  He wondered what Dr Flowers would say if she knew about tonight’s alternative therapy. He stood at the side of a creaking stage that had suffered over the years, behind drawn curtains that had seen better days. Peeking through a slit, he watched his audience tank up. There were about eighty punters tonight. He even recognised a few folks from Gorebridge’s Siamese-twin village of Arniston. He was big-game nervous. Butterflies exercised themselves in his gut. He’d grown up with these people and they knew him. No quarter would be given.