A Wife Worth Dying For

by Wilson Smillie

He went through the kitchen and into the garage. The Smart car sat expectantly in the glare of the strip lighting. However, he ignored it, going instead to the Master Lock safe bolted to the exterior garage wall. He kept their passports, birth certificates, the Las Vegas marriage licence, Kelsa’s phone, and their laptops in the safe.

  He keyed in the safe combination, opened it and removed the envelope his father-in-law had given him.

  Open only when you understand.

  It wasn’t bulky. He turned it over in his hand, wondering when he would understand . . . just what, exactly? Why she let herself die when she had so much to live for?

  Should he open it there and then? He tried to force his finger in the gap, as with the ordinary post, but it wouldn’t tear, almost as if she’d anticipated his clumsy attempt. He thought of the knives in the kitchen but stopped half-way, conflicted. If it were another half-clue, that would drive him mad, but when would he understand? Whether he opened it now or never, she’d never know.

  Committed, the paring knife dealt with the envelope and he extracted a single sheet of paper. Written on it, in her scrawl, was:

  8 2 6 4 2 8 9 5

  Licence to thrill, M

  Zip up a dress, Joe

  Frustrated at her conundrum, Carter deflated. This was no time for puzzles. All he wanted was a straight answer: why did she die instead of living? Why did she always have to be so cryptic? He returned the paper to the safe, beside her Apple MacBook Air and iPhone.

  After locking the safe, he shrugged on his Crombie coat, and a few minutes later was driving through the empty city streets towards Shandon. He stopped at an all-night convenience store in Wester Hailes, then, ten minutes later, parked the car outside Alice Deacon’s address.

  The block of development flats was decades old but in good repair, with white paint only peeling here and there on woodwork. The streets were freezing quiet, and parked cars huddled together along the kerbs, many already encased in ice. She lived on the third floor and breaking and entering was not his plan. He turned away and began walking the half-mile along the silence of Dundee Terrace towards the cemetery.

  At the bridge of Alice’s flying lesson, Carter stopped to listen to the night. No vehicles travelled on the road underneath. It was eerily quiet, but the silence was pregnant. As if an army of Armageddon’s nuclear babies would explode from the tenements and attack him at any moment. He crossed the bridge, leaning over the iron parapet again, trying to force the scene with Alice and J out of its icy history into this frozen moment. But it wouldn’t come, so he kept walking, crossing the main road, entering Dalry Burial Ground again.

  He repeated the tour of the middle tier of the graveyard he’d carried out with Charli Garcia two days earlier, reaching the neo-Gothic terrace with its pair of arches. He noted that the detritus was still there.

  ‘Hello?’ he called into the darkness of the vault. ‘I’m Leccy. I’ve a half-bottle of Clan Macpherson for you.’ He reached through the iron bars and stood the bottle on a ledge, then shone his torchlight on it. ‘You’ll have to come and get it, though.’

  He sat on a stone for five minutes, until his arse cheeks were solid ice. He considered taking a walk to get his blood going but held off. After another five minutes, his fingers were turning white. He was regretting not bringing gloves when he heard a noise from inside the vault. He shone the torch into the darkness, towards the source of the sound.

  ‘Hello? I just want to talk.’

  Too late, his sixth sense warned him of danger. He collapsed onto the hard ground, knocked unconscious.

  24

  Buddies in Crime

  ‘Sit down, Sergeant Carter. Time for a heart-to-heart before this morning’s session.’ Dr Flowers’ office was its usual mirthless self. Across the desk, her writing pad and pen were in their familiar places.

  ‘You’re late this morning.’ Her tone was ominous. ‘Where were you?’

  Carter couldn’t read her face, so he allowed dread to settle in his gut like a stone. The implications of her failure to remediate his grief slowly occurred to him. If he couldn’t convince her that he should continue working, then it could be a black mark against him. It might lead to disciplinary proceedings and, at best, he could be stuck on the DS rung forever. At worst? Civvy.

  ‘I was working overnight and slept late.’ He acknowledged her right to a truthful answer – with wriggle room. ‘And I’ve got a terrible headache.’

  Since Kelsa’s death, he’d expected that bereavement would give him some licence with colleagues; that he deserved sympathy and they would indulge him. McKinlay, in her gruff Gorgie way, was handling him gently. DI Mason’s approach reflected the Glasgow man’s tough love, although he doubted Mason would put it in such terms. But now, in this instant, his failure to respond to Dr Flowers’ reasonable question could be interpreted as a refusal to engage with due process. A determination to go his own way, whatever the consequences.

  ‘Right.’ Lisa Flowers really did do sarcasm well. ‘Did you even think I might be sitting here waiting for you? Did it ever occur to you I might have other people to see? Is your phone broken? You, Sergeant Carter, are selfish and wilfully refuse to acknowledge your grief’s psychological impact on others. You are a serious risk to yourself and your colleagues. Police Scotland could be accused of breaking their own codes of conduct by allowing you to walk the streets. I’m seriously considering pulling you from this programme by telling the Chief you’re unfit for duty.’

  So, there it was; the elephant in the room had finally trumpeted. He was emotionally shattered. His wife was dead, his son had been snatched from his hands, his career was disappearing down the pan at pace and catching up quickly with his morning dump. While he took him seconds to contemplate his approach to life and death, Dr Flowers sat back in her chair and waited for a reaction.

  He shifted uncomfortably on the seat, which now felt like it had sharp nails growing out of it. He turned away from her disenchanted stare to gaze again at the picture window, wondering if she’d deliberately chosen this office for their sessions, and concluded she had. The picture window was a go-to relief, a Shangri-La with a rolling aspect; a daily feature film of Edinburgh life, complete with scudding weather and rollicking actors.

  It was a deliberate reminder that life went on, regardless of how he felt about it. He may be grieving the loss of his lover, but outside, no more than a few hundred metres away, the rest of the world was ignorant of his pain, would never know its source and cared less. He thought of walking out to the world, of strolling over to the young boys playing hockey in the fields of Fettes College. He’d tell them about Kelsa, about Nathaniel, about growing up after his parents’ death, about how he just put it all away. He’d tell them about his grandparents, about going to school and everything that happened there. What would they say?

  ‘You’re a fucking weirdo!’

  He was thirty-three years old. Papa Carter was eighty-eight and still going. Carter’s generation’s life expectancy meant he had a higher chance than ever of living beyond one hundred years. If he celebrated that birthday, it would be sixty-eight years after Kelsa’s death – and he’d still have white hair. Was he to live in suspended animation until then? Right now, those coming years were filled with indefinable activities – with new lovers, discarded lovers, more children and even grandchildren. How could he make it all happen? He had no choice but to travel on the train. But right now, he was messing around on the station platform, refusing to release the brakes holding him back. He had living family that loved him deeply but had childishly ignored their help.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said.

  ‘What for?’ Dr Flowers queried from the other universe. ‘Be specific, Leccy.’

  That was a hard question. It wasn’t fair to ask him something like that so quickly when he’d only just allowed the rest of his life to pile on the power.

  ‘For disrespecting your attempts to help me with my grief,’ he stated, warming slowly to these new concep
ts. ‘For believing I was the only one who’d ever had to cope with the death of his parents and wife. For not calling you to say I’d be late.’

  ‘Good,’ she sat forward. ‘How do you feel?’

  ‘Liberated.’ He could do sarcasm too.

  ‘It will help you become a more rounded man.’ A smile lit up her face, ‘And it won’t do your comedy any harm either.’

  ‘So, what’s next?’ he asked. ‘Learning to fly?’

  ‘Despite my recommendation that you shouldn’t be at work,’ she began, ‘I’m re-thinking that approach. Tell me about this case you’re working on.’

  Carter smiled at her gifted victory. ‘I’m not sure I can. Privacy and confidentiality, you see. You might blab about it to your Metropolitan friends over a bottle of Pinot Grigio. Then we’d both get fired.’

  ‘You don’t have to worry about that,’ she smiled confidently. ‘I’m joining your team.’

  ‘Cheryl McKinlay will never agree to that, she hates interference in her cases.’

  Flowers glanced at her watch. ‘I guess the Chief Super has just finished briefing DCI McKinlay by telephone. As of now, I’m your buddy on this case, whether she likes it or not.’

  25

  Served with Relish

  After leaving Dr Flowers, Carter descended the stairs into the main reception area of FOC Fettes. His phone pinged with an incoming message. His on-the-nose bet would be DCI McKinlay recalling him to St Leonard’s to ‘Please explain Dr Flowers’ new status’. And McKinlay would no doubt heap choice words on him for lashing a civilian to the team. Blame would be slapped on him like a black spot, and everyone would know it before tea.

  But it wasn’t McKinlay. Gavin Roy’s Castlemilk accent had left a voicemail asking him to ‘Gie us a call’.

  ‘I’ve got the mobile operator analysis authorised by DI Mason,’ said Roy when Carter called. ‘All connected mobile phones within a three-cell triangular pattern, either side of when you said she was on the bridge. InterMide, O2, EE, BT, giffgaff, blah, blah. Also includes GPS coordinates harvested from the operators’ data feeds.’

  ‘Did you run an initial analysis?’

  ‘Yep. The case notes say the Reverend bar on Dalry Road was the source, so I filtered out all the mobiles that never went near the bar or were in vehicles travellin’ past and those around the bar going away from the cemetery and bridge. We can bring them back in later if you want a different result.’

  ‘Good work, Gavin.’ Carter needed a computer.

  Dr Flowers had told him she had other matters to tidy up, that she’d join him at the next team meeting and introduce herself. She’d also inadvertently offered him snippets about her private life. ‘I have to change,’ she’d said about her patterned dress and black stilettos. ‘These aren’t suitable for fieldwork.’

  ‘Where are you staying?’ he’d asked.

  ‘During the week, Prestonfield House.’

  ‘And on weekends?’

  ‘Yes, OK – I live in London. North Hampstead actually, but my family is from Kent.’

  Carter smiled. ‘A southern softie, eh?’

  ‘What you’ve seen of me, Sergeant Carter, is as soft as it gets.’

  Carter approached Mary Brooks’ reception area, planning to ask if there was a room with a computer he could use. ‘Sergeant Carter,’ she said neutrally as he approached. ‘There are two gentlemen in Meeting Room Four waiting for you.’ The look on her face demanded to take the minutes if trouble was brewing.

  Carter walked into the meeting room and immediately knew trouble had brewed. Two bulldozers of men stood with their backs to the wall and their hands visible. Each wore a smile that suggested a long-desired experience was about to take place.

  On the desk in front of them, a thin buff folder awaited its reveal.

  Before Carter could ask, one stepped forward, keeping his clasped hands close to his groin for protection. ‘Detective Sergeant Lachlan Carter?’ He reeled off Carter’s home address in Liberton. ‘We represent Bentley McNaughton, Sheriff Officers for the Sheriffdom of Lothian. Please, sit down, sir.’

  ‘What’s this about?’ Carter asked.

  ‘An interdict has been granted against you by Sheriff John Robertson, QC, on behalf of Sheriff James Dunsmuir, QC. We’re here to serve papers and ensure justice.’

  ‘Really?’ Carter mumbled, dumbfounded. ‘I doubt you understand what justice means in this case. So, the vindictive old bastard—’

  ‘Sir, please refrain from swearing. We get upset at profane language, and you wouldn’t want us to get upset now, would you? An unfortunate incident took place at Sheriff Dunsmuir’s residence, on Hermitage Drive, Edinburgh, in the early hours of Tuesday, which the complainant considers a breach of the peace. Luckily, he has agreed not to press charges, provided you abide by the terms of the interdict.’

  He opened the folder, removed the papers and handed them to Carter. Carter hesitated, smiled wryly and took them. ‘Papers served,’ the man said. ‘In summary, sir, you are to maintain a minimum distance of one hundred metres from any property where Sheriff Dunsmuir or his family are resident or present. For example, in case of an accidental breach, you are in a restaurant, and a member of the Dunsmuir family should appear, you must leave immediately, without attempting contact, else you could be arrested. I don’t think that would be good for you, sir. Would it?’

  ‘No,’ said Carter.

  ‘Goodbye, sir,’ the man said. ‘Have a great day.’

  Both men left the room, leaving Carter to contemplate his options. It wasn’t long before Mary Brooks appeared, closed the door and sat down beside him. ‘Not paid your TV licence, son?’

  ‘Worse than that,’ Carter managed a response. ‘To do with my son, if you must know. That’s all I can say. Now, I really need to use this computer.’

  Mary Brooks patted his knee. ‘Your secret’s safe with me. You can have this room for an hour. There’s a senior management meeting at twelve o’clock – you’d better be out long before then.’

  The screen powered up, he logged onto his virtual desktop and opened his email. Gavin had sent him a link directly to the files. Otherwise, he’d have had to dig through mountains of competing records on the ICRS case management system to find it. If it did hold crucial evidence, it would rise to the top of the system, like cream. But for now, it was just another data point.

  In a few seconds, a map of Edinburgh’s West End appeared on the screen. The software put the Reverend bar at the centre, then paused. Waiting, like a theatre stage anticipating the start of Act Two.

  26

  Data and Information

  Mary interrupted him. Carter had five minutes to leave before the Chief arrived with his executive committee. He logged off, but his confidence required a reboot. Suppose he believed the data and Alice had really been in the graveyard alone. In that case, McKinlay might downgrade the case to attempted suicide and send him home to get his head together.

  Unless Alice miraculously woke up and ID’d her attacker.

  But he felt the data wasn’t telling him the whole story. Raw data can only take you so far. Knowing who really was in the Reverend at the critical times was the key to it all.

  Outside it was a typical January day, tetchy clouds threatening and sudden salvos of rain keeping the natives honest. He’d taken the bus to work because he couldn’t justify driving the short distance to St Leonard’s. Now he pulled his Crombie’s collar around his neck and walked down Fettes Avenue to the stop heading into town. While standing in the shelter, he felt the phone in his pocket vibrate. He looked at it.

  [2019-01-17:1243] I shot him when I was 7 years old. Didn’t need him anymore. Been many more since then. I know everything you think and feel, Carter. Look around and fear me. J.

  The number 29 took him south through Stockbridge, across Princes Street and onto North Bridge. His hands shook as he grabbed the screen. He felt helpless to do anything to stop these texts. He pushed a message out on ICRS: a team meeting
. He texted Dr Flowers, giving her the time and location. The number 29 continued south on Nicholson Street to St Patrick Square. He alighted and stood in the shelter to compose himself. After a time he walked leadenly along Rankeillor Street onto St Leonard’s Street. Twenty-five minutes was all it took for him to go from policeman to prey.

  While he waited for the team to come together, he opened the data plot on his computer and tried not to think about his phone. He delved deeper into the plot, researching names and addresses gleaned from the data. He cross-referenced them against the Scottish Criminal History database of convictions, finding a few names with minor form. A sex offender whose phone had been in the bar when Alice was present seemed like the best lead.

  An hour later, they were all in the detectives’ room.

  ‘We have an addition to the team,’ said Carter evenly. ‘Dr Lisa Flowers, a psychologist with interests in psychopaths and crimes against women.’

  ‘Is that why you’ve been spending your mornings with her, Leccy?’ Mason asked, attempting levity. ‘Is there something you want to tell us?’

  ‘Nick,’ Ellen interrupted him angrily. ‘You’re out of order. He was getting grief counselling. If you started acting the DI you’re supposed to be, we might make progress.’

  ‘Don’t lecture me, Constable Podolski. There’s a connection between Carter and “J”. How well up to speed are you, Dr Flowers, about these mythical text messages your “patient” claims he’s been receiving?’

  Lisa Flowers opened her writing pad and flicked through it. ‘I wrote this one down yesterday. It came in during our session.’ She passed the pad around so they could all read it for themselves.

  ‘Have you added this to ICRS, Leccy?’ Mason refused to back off. ‘What does “remember the Sick Kids” mean?’