A Wife Worth Dying For

by Wilson Smillie

  ‘I’m not going back inside.’ He started to shake, beads of sweat becoming visible on his face.

  ‘What did you do to her, Jacky? She was an awful mess.’

  ‘I didn’t touch her.’

  ‘Who were you drinking with? Nathan Butler was with you, could he corroborate your story?’

  ‘Naw.’ Dodds strained at the seat belt. ‘I need air, I’m havin’ an attack.’ He punched the dash and kicked the footwell. ‘Small spaces,’ he shouted, panic rising in his voice. ‘I cannae handle them.’ Frantically, he pulled at the door lock, trying to get out.

  Carter drove up Morningside Road with the Smart car rocking from side to side. He turned onto Church Hill at the traffic lights, pulled over to the kerb, but kept his finger on the lock button. ‘You and Butler walked home together, didn’t you? He lives not far from you.’

  ‘Naw, naw. Let me out!’ He unplugged the seat belt and tried to stand up but hit his head on the roof lining. Twisting and turning, looking for a way out, he swung his arms in desperation, smacking Carter hard on the nose. Carter’s fingers released the lock, letting Dodds burst out of the passenger door. He ran along Church Hill as fast as his big legs would take him.

  Carter’s face throbbed. He looked in the rear-view mirror and saw blood running from his nose into his mouth, the red stark against his pale skin and shock of white hair. He searched the car fruitlessly for paper or tissues.

  ‘Bastard!’ he shouted at nobody.

  He jumped out of the car and ran into a coffee shop holding his nose. ‘Tissues! Quickly,’ he said to the nearest server.

  35

  Customer Service

  Carter sat in the back of the Salt Café nursing a bruised nose with a free latte on the side. Jacky Dodds’ reaction to his questions had caught him by surprise.

  Dodds was long gone, but Carter was intrigued by what he’d said.

  He logged into the ICRS app, skimming the latest notes on Alice’s case. An interview team was being assembled to doorstep the twenty-eight names he’d requested. DI Mason didn’t hang about. The names and addresses were listed in a table, but Jacky Dodds wasn’t one of them. He added Dodds to the list there and then – otherwise, Mason and McKinlay would ask for a ‘please explain’. He noted names of extra detectives that had been browsing the case. Must be the Major Investigation Team McKinlay was worried about. Keeping themselves informed.

  From the list of twenty-eight, he found the address and phone number for Nathan Butler. He noted it down, assigning his warrant number against the record, so no other copper would double-bubble him.

  Next, he went into the case evidence tab and scrolled through the lists, finding the items Rocketman had added on his behalf. No stars: they weren’t considered important items at the moment. One exclamation mark: the evidence may be inadmissible. He didn’t want to open any of the three attachments as there would be an audit trail. He knew what the summary would say, anyway: unmatched DNA profiles of a man and woman, plus possible contamination by DS Carter.

  He finished the latte and made to move, then remembered the cotton wool swabs up his nose. He pulled both out and dropped them into the dirty latte glass. Proffering thanks, he promised to return another day and received cheery-byes from the staff as he dashed over Church Hill. The Smart car sat where he’d abandoned it, although he thought he’d left the door open in his rush to stem the blood. When he saw the ticket stapled under a wiper, he knew it was the same traffic warden. Bastard must’ve enjoyed that. Two in a week; only sixty quid if he paid them early.

  Nathan Butler’s flat was in Dorset Place, no more than a hundred metres from Jacky Dodds’ tenement block, but on the other side of the canal. A nineteen- nineties build, the external rendering of the blocks was dirty white. The repeating square windows reminded Carter of a doocot or a bad upgrade to Saughton Prison. As usual, the street was littered with cars, so he drove around, eventually finding an empty space on Merchiston Avenue, checking first what the parking rules were. He found the meter number and tapped it into the newly installed parking app on his phone. Thirty minutes it warned him; else, financial meltdown would accrue exponentially.

  He had to access the blocks from the canal pathway. Besides the buzzers, Block 4, Flat 2D didn’t have Nate Butler’s name on it. Instead, Krishna Chellani, Menakadevi JM, Jigar Jobanputra, Bhavesh Mhatre and two others dominated the sub-continental name-fest. He rang the bell anyway. The door opened, revealing a skinny young Indian man with thin black hair and a not quite grown moustache.

  ‘I’m looking for Nathan Butler,’ said Carter, showing his warrant card. ‘Police.’

  The man’s eyebrows shot up in alarm before he smiled and held his hand up in the universal ‘please wait’ sign.

  ‘Can you call someone?’ Carter made the sign for a telephone, with index and little fingers extended and held to his ear.

  ‘Yes, yes, please,’ the man rummaged, found a mobile phone and dialled a number. A minute of language exchange ensued in a dialect that Carter couldn’t even begin to guess at. The man handed him the phone.

  ‘Hello,’ said Carter. ‘Do you speak English?’

  ‘Indeed, sir, I do. It is my cousin Sivanagaraju, just in from Chennai in Tamil Nadu. Do you know it, sir? A very fine place. He will get a job locally, please do not worry.’

  ‘I’m a police officer. Who are you?’

  ‘Is there a problem, sir, that I can assist you? My name is Krishna, I am the premier customer service manager at the Scottish Gas call centre in Granton. Do you know it, sir?’

  ‘The flat is rented?’

  ‘Of course, sir.’

  ‘Are you the tenant?’

  ‘Of course, sir.’

  ‘Rented from a Mr Nathan Butler?’

  ‘No, absolutely, sir. From New Town Tenant Agency LLP.’

  ‘You don’t know anyone called Butler?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘OK, thank you. I apologise for disturbing your cousin’s sleep.’ He handed the phone back to Sivanagaraju and walked away.

  36

  Friends and Neighbours

  The letting agency was in Stockbridge, a fifteen-minute drive from Dorset Place. A young receptionist sat him down, pending an audience with the senior partner. Giles Smythe looked every inch the big businessman in a small office, wearing a banker’s stripe suit, pink shirt and shiny polka-dot tie. He was effusive, offered coffee, tea or water. When these beverages were refused, he resorted to whisky, vodka and gin.

  ‘Dorset Place in Merchiston,’ Carter said. ‘The address has turned up in an investigation. I’m trying to trace the owner. Currently rented by a Krishna Chellani.’

  Smythe picked up his office phone and asked for the file to be sent through.

  ‘Ah, yes. Owned by a company that has six other properties with us. Deptford Management Services. The named landlord is Mr Nathan Butler.’

  ‘Do you have a home address for Mr Butler?’

  ‘Yes, in Ravelston.’

  ‘Have you met him?

  ‘Not personally; the account was opened two years ago by an associate who is no longer with us.’

  ‘Any issues?’ Carter went fishing.

  ‘Rents are paid on time. Occasional plumbing and heating issues, but we handle all that on Mr Butler’s behalf.’

  Carter left with Butler’s address; it was no more than ten minutes’ drive, but Easter Murray Avenue was a universe away from Dorset Place. Accessed through a narrow gateway, it boasted affluent detached properties, and manicured driveways populated with expensive cars. BMW, Jaguar and Mercedes, mainly. From what Carter could see driving along the private road’s quarter-mile length, the size of front and back gardens was on par with Murrayfield Stadium.

  There were no cars in Nathan Butler’s driveway, so Carter parked where he liked. The front entrance displayed a high, massively thick double storm door. He rang the large bell push, hearing the jangling coming from inside. After a few minutes, he tried again, eventually concl
uding that no one was home. Wandering around, Carter realised he couldn’t see the back garden, let alone get into it. A double garage was built into one side of the house. The other side had a solid sandstone wall with a locked garden door. High walls separated one property from another, ensuring privacy. Discreet CCTV cameras were set under the eaves. Clearly, these properties could be a target for burglars, given the individual settings and presumed wealth of their owners.

  Back in the Smart car, he dialled the number he had been given for Butler. It rang out. No voicemail, so he contented himself by updating ICRS. ‘Nathan Butler required to corroborate Jacky Dodds alibi.’

  How would Jacky Dodds know someone like Butler? Carter wondered if Jimmy Logan had a house like this. Dodds had connections to Logan and was allowed to drink in his pub, but what was Butler to Logan? And Alice? Was she a random, or was she connected to them all? Dodds and Butler were only two out of many people in or around the Reverend that Carter had identified as being close to Alice’s phone that night. Why would a man living here, be miles away in a Dalry pub, owned by an Edinburgh boss, if he wasn’t connected in some way? He walked to the next driveway where a new model BMW X5 sat beside a battered green Skoda. The storm door was open, so he rang the bell. A woman appeared in silhouette through the inner glass door. She opened it, offering no greeting. A maid, Filipino or Thai. He flashed his warrant card.

  ‘Detective Sergeant Carter, Edinburgh police. Who lives here?’

  ‘Moment,’ said the woman, closing the door and disappearing into the depths of the house. After a few minutes, Carter began to feel cold; the afternoon was progressing, dusk was settling in. The temperature was dropping fast. A tall elderly woman appeared, holding herself stiffly, grey hair conservatively styled.

  ‘How can I help you, officer?’ she said in a cut-glass accent that reminded Carter of his mother-in-law.

  ‘Next door,’ Carter replied. ‘Mr Nathan Butler. Do you know much about him?’

  ‘I’m not sure I can say. You could be anybody. Everyone is entitled to privacy, you know.’

  ‘I apologise, madam if you think I’m snooping. Mr Butler may have been an inadvertent witness to a crime. I’d like to eliminate him from the enquiry, but I’ve been unable to contact him.’

  The explanation seemed to satisfy her.

  ‘I don’t know a great deal. He lives on his own, works away a lot. He’s an executive with some company or other. I’ve only met him once since he moved here a few years ago. A New Year’s party we hosted for the neighbourhood.’

  ‘What did you make of him?’ Carter went fishing again.

  ‘Quite entertaining. A big personality that matched his stature. I liked him.’

  ‘Do you have a telephone number for him?’

  ‘No, sorry.’

  ‘Thank you, madam.’ Carter turned and walked away, unsurprised that a self-entitled Edinburgh neighbourhood trailed such stench behind it.

  37

  TGI Friday

  He wasn’t even back onto Murrayfield Road when the call came in. He took it hands-free.

  ‘Carter?’ DI Mason’s Glasgow drawl enquired on his whereabouts.

  Carter immediately wondered what sin he’d committed to deserve the Inquisition. ‘I’ve been following up on witnesses that were in the Reverend around the same time as Alice.’

  ‘Such as?’ Mason inquired.

  ‘Nathan Butler, but he wasn’t at home. And Jacky Dodds, bearing previous for sexual assault.’

  ‘I didn’t know Jacky Dodds was in the bar. Did Logan give you his name?’

  Carter hesitated, not sure if Mason was taking notes intending to brief a higher authority. ‘Logan hasn’t come through yet with any names. At least, not to me.’

  For the first time, Carter could hear background noise through the phone. Mason sounded like he was in a bar. ‘What did Dodds say when you questioned him?’

  ‘That she was still there when he left,’ said Carter.

  ‘You got a statement?’

  ‘No. He ran off after I cornered him.’

  Mason sniggered down the line, seemingly amused at the very idea. He changed the subject.

  ‘We’re havin’ a wee soiree at Jeanie Deans. Get yourself over here, team bonding session.’

  Friday drinks weren’t unusual, but not regular enough to forge a culture of in-crowd versus out-crowd. Under present circumstances, Carter would probably have declined, but things had changed. He remembered the outcome of his session with Dr Flowers. The rose-tinted view he’d had of Kelsa as his perfect dead wife was discolouring fast as each revelation took hold. He’d been with her such a short time. Only twenty-two months from first meeting to burial. Months during which, he now acknowledged, he didn’t really know anything significant about her life before him. They’d covered the basics: births, dead family (him), living family (her), fee-paying school (her), comprehensive education (him), first-class university (her), third-class university (him). Obvious gaps had appeared in the floorboards that they didn’t wish to fill as a couple – exes accounting for the largest of these. But such trivialities had never mattered. Their future together was assured. Therefore, everyone else had been buried in the archive. So much so, that digging them up for discussion over drinks would have felt like tainting the purity of their love. None of his ex-girlfriends were inclined to send their used underwear to him or do anything that suggested rancour for the death of the relationship.

  The evening became properly dark and, being a Friday, the roads around town had clogged up with traffic. Getting through Roseburn junction was his first challenge, even in a vehicle as nimble as the Smart car. The junction’s traffic lights had a weird sequence, and the narrowing road squeezed everything city-bound into single-file. Throw in pedestrians, parked cars, and lycra-clad cyclistas and progress was near impossible.

  A message pinged loudly through the car’s speaker. He was wary of the distraction until he saw the name of the sender. He read the message with more than a little satisfaction.

  Nearly an hour later he parked in the St Leonard’s police car park. If he really wanted to drink to excess, he could get the bus home.

  Jeanie Deans was busy. Many early evening diners occupied the restaurant, spilling over into the lounge area, raising the noise level. However, the collection of plain-clothed police had taken over the rear part of the bar. Nick Mason greeted him like a prodigal son.

  ‘I thought you’d given us a body-swerve, Leccy. What’ll you have? It’s on me.’

  ‘Half of IPA. I’m driving.’

  ‘Course you are,’ said Mason. ‘Can’t have our detectives breaking the law, eh?’

  While Mason ordered drinks, Ellen Podolski wandered over and planted a peck on his cheek. ‘You bearing up, Leccy?’

  ‘I’m fine, Ellen, really. I’m happy to chat about the usual suspects.’

  ‘And who are they today, Leccy?’ said Mason with a grin, handing him the small glass of beer and bringing him into the body of the kirk. Tam Watson nodded his respect; he was deep in conversation with another bobby, but both men were dressed in civvies. DCI McKinlay wasn’t around, which might have accounted for Mason’s largesse.

  Charli Garcia held a glass of Coke, maybe even with vodka in it, chatting away to Dr Flowers who sipped red wine from a balloon glass. The contrast between the two women took his breath away when they both turned to look at him. Garcia’s olive skin complemented her dark wavy hair tied back in a loose bun. At the same time, Flowers’ blonde tresses tumbled freely around her shoulders, softening her pale English complexion with a broad smile. Ellen stood next to him, chatting aimlessly, although he wasn’t listening. He was aware of Joanna Garvie wandering over. Recently divorced and with a child, she was on the market and trying to catch his eye. He was polite but kept his distance.

  ‘Ellen, Jo’s got me in her sights,’ he whispered. ‘But not tonight. Can you just head her off?’

  Ellen nodded and whispered, ‘It’s OK.’ She gently guided Jo
back towards the Victim Support team, where she’d feel more supported than victimised.

  Leccy slid his way off to one side, a little towards the windows where some potted plants offered cover and refuge, glad of the space and not really bothered if no one came to speak. Charli detached herself from Dr Flowers and made her way over.

  ‘Leccy. You need cheering up,’ said Nick Mason, appearing suddenly and putting his arm around Carter’s shoulder. Carter realised he was drunk. Not yet pished but following the guidebook religiously. Garcia didn’t seem phased by Mason’s intrusion. She put herself in front of both of them.

  ‘What do you think, Leccy, of our champion Spanish kick-boxer, eh? You kept your secret from us, Miss Garcia. That was unfair, don’t you think?’

  ‘Charli,’ she said. ‘Outside of work and to my friends only. For you, Constable, OK?’

  ‘A nippy sweetie, eh?’ Mason leaned in and whispered in Carter’s ear.

  Before he could put both feet further in, Tam Watson dragged him away.

  ‘Nick’s right though, Charli, it was an impressive display of confidence in the lair of the bear.’

  ‘I heard another Scottish word,’ she said, sipping from her glass. ‘Sergeant Watson asked if I felt “feart”.’

  Carter laughed. ‘He really asked you that?’

  ‘Yes. He winked, but he didn’t tell.’

  ‘Scared,’ said Carter. ‘The verb is “to be feart”.’

  ‘Ha, no estoy asustada! I was not feart.’

  ‘I’m off tomorrow,’ he said, as an idea came on the spur. ‘Let’s meet up in town so I can expand your knowledge of Scottish vocabulary.’

  38

  Alice in Chains

  On Saturday morning, Carter woke later than usual. Uniforms would be doorstepping the names on his list today – because it was the weekend – there being more chance the suspects would be home. After showering, he glanced outside. It was dull and damp, with grey clouds threatening rain. Jeans, a T-shirt and a warm jumper under his Crombie seemed appropriate. Perhaps an umbrella. By half-ten, he was sitting in the Kirkgate Café in Liberton having a Scottish breakfast and reading a book on his phone when the call he was expecting arrived. After a few minutes of discussion, he paid and left.