Half an hour later he was sitting on a park bench in the Meadows when a mature woman pushing a Silver Cross coach-built pram approached him. He stood up and kissed his mother-in-law on the cheek.
‘How is my beautiful boy?’ he said, leaning in to see Nathaniel. His son’s eyes were open and radiated blue in the dull grey light.
‘He’s fine,’ said Judith Dunsmuir. ‘James told me about the interdict. With some glee, I might add.’
Carter said nothing.
Judith sighed. ‘What a horrible and vindictive man he’s become. He turned Kelsa’s funeral into a social opportunity to advance his career. Obviously, I didn’t tell him that. It would have caused the most enormous row.’
‘Can I hold him?’ Carter asked, deliberately refusing to engage in the topic.
‘Of course, he’s your son.’
Carter carefully lifted Nathaniel from the pram. Saliva bubbled at his lips, and for a moment Carter thought that he’d recognised his father, but it was a notion. He cradled him tenderly in his arms. ‘Before Kelsa, I’d never really thought I’d ever have a family, but during those final weeks, I was sure I was going to lose him, and I felt numb. Kelsa had made up her mind, so I had to make up mine. We were going to live. And I’d make sure he’d have the best chance in life he could get. Then to have him snatched away—’
‘Don’t,’ said Judith. ‘I knew nothing at all of James’s scheming in court before Kelsa went into hospital. It was only after the funeral he told me of it. For Kelsa to seek his help, she must have been absolutely desperate. They were gunpowder and spark, the pair of them, but she had the sense not to provoke him – too much, anyway. The boys followed dutifully in their father’s footsteps, but she was strong-willed and determined even before she could talk. She was a force of nature; James was always going to lose to her.’
They talked for another hour before it started to rain, so Judith prepared to move. Carter kissed his son and wrapped him up cosily in the pram.
‘I’ll see you tomorrow,’ said Judith. ‘James won’t notice when I go out with the pram. Women’s work,’ she tapped her nose.
‘Thank you, Jude,’ Carter said as he hugged her. He watched her walk across the park then made a call on his phone.
Half-an-hour later he stepped aboard the number 7 bus at the Bernard Terrace stop. Charli was already sitting at a window seat, dressed exactly as she’d been in Jeanie Deans the night before. He sat beside her and pulled out his phone again.
‘Why the bus?’ she asked him. ‘You had a car last night.’
‘You can get to anywhere in twenty minutes or so. If I don’t need to drive, I’ll take the bus.’
‘I like buses too. Even if I could afford a car, I’d spend money on something else.’
‘Tell me about yourself,’ Carter said, making conversation.
‘It will cost you many bus fares,’ she smiled.
‘The highlights will do.’
‘Well, I was raised in Rhonda, a village above Marbella.’
‘I’ve never been to Spain.’
‘It’s a tiny village, very beautiful, but the locals don’t trust strangers.’
‘Sounds like Gorebridge.’
‘Mama was from Manchester. She had a holiday affair with Papa, and I was the result. She died from breast cancer in 2008. I came to the UK in 2012 and got a place with Greater Manchester Police. I put in for a transfer to Edinburgh last year. Is that brief enough for you?’
‘Sure, for now.’
‘What book are you reading?’ she said, watching him swipe the pages on his phone.
‘Plender by Ted Lewis. Classic noir.’
‘What happens?’ she asked.
‘A psychopath seeks revenge on his long-forgotten school tormentor,’ he replied.
‘Ha! There should be more books like this. Tell me more.’
‘Later, maybe. We’re here.’
Inside the Royal Infirmary, they stopped at reception and Carter asked for Dr Murray. Both were given visitor passes.
‘Hello again,’ Dr Murray greeted Carter. ‘You’re back. Alice’s parents are in the café. Have you spoken to them?’
‘No,’ said Carter, ‘but Ellen in my team spoke to them last week.’
Dr Murray opened the private room. Carter and Garcia went to the side of the bed opposite the monitors. At the same time, Dr Murray glanced at the monitor readouts.
‘She’s stable again,’ she said.
‘Again?’ Carter picked up.
Alice looked just the same as the first time he’d seen her, nearly a week ago. Her head was still bandaged, face covered in yellow and green bruises, eyes taped shut, and she was hooked up to a couple of IV lines, one in each arm, with a pulse clip attached to her left index finger. He didn’t want to think about what was under the bed cover.
‘She had a cardiac arrest on Wednesday evening. We lost her briefly but got her back.’
‘Should we have been told?’ Garcia asked.
‘You’re not in charge of her treatment, or her recovery. She’s my responsibility until she dies, then she’ll become your responsibility. Remember that Alice is the victim here, she’s not just a case number. She had a life and has a family who love her and want her back. Anyway, I’m glad you’ve come here to see her, that says you’re not robo-police, but she’ll never be the same again. Have you arrested the arsehole yet?’
‘No,’ said Carter. ‘We haven’t got much forensic evidence. There’s some technical evidence, but we need a lucky break.’
‘What is the diagnosis?’ Garcia asked.
‘Now all the tests are complete, her short-term prognosis isn’t good. Damaged kidneys, spleen and liver, broken ribs, legs, pelvis and a cracked spine, are the main concerns, along with a fractured skull, which caused a severe concussion. We’re being careful with how we start the process of bringing her back to consciousness.’
‘Is it likely she’ll wake soon?’ Carter asked. ‘If she could tell us who did this to her, it would be a breakthrough.’
‘I can’t make predictions, but I’m familiar with trauma patients. The heart attack is a pointer like the body is testing itself. She passed, so that’s a good thing.’
‘Any bad things?’ Carter asked.
‘Plenty. There will likely be more cardiac episodes. If she gets through them, the survival index will notch up a bit. If she survives, she’ll be in a wheelchair for a long time, maybe even for the rest of her life.’
‘Thanks, Angela,’ said Carter, heading for the door. ‘I appreciate everything you’re doing. She couldn’t be in better hands.’
Once outside the room, Dr Murray closed the door and turned to Carter. ‘I trust you to find this sick bastard, Sergeant.’
She walked away, leaving Leccy to watch her go.
‘She is very annoyed, yes?’ Garcia said.
In the café, it took Carter two attempts to locate Alice’s parents. After they’d introduced themselves, her father gave a motivational speech.
‘I’m a good friend of the Chief Constable, and I demand to know what progress you’ve made in catching this person. If you need more men, I’m sure he’d prioritise my request.’
‘George is a retired councillor,’ said his wife, proudly. ‘He was chair of the Police Committee when it was Lothian and Borders.’
‘What do you know about Alice’s professional life?’ Carter asked them both.
‘Very little,’ said George. ‘Marketing. Brochures and videos, I think. She made a living.’
‘Did she ever introduce any clients to you, or mention names?’
‘You think someone she worked with tried to kill her?’ George’s shock was plastered on his face as he choked out the words.
‘It’s the theory,’ said Carter. ‘Her diary has regular references to meetings with someone who goes by “J”. We don’t yet know who that is. What kind of person was she?’
‘Very outgoing,’ said her mother, smugly. ‘We pushed her hard at school, but she thrive
d on it. She moved out when she went to university and started her own life – something I was keen on. Some people may call it driven or adventurous. The downside was we didn’t see much of her, until these last years. You know, she’d matured a bit. I think she thought we might not be around for very much longer and she has no siblings.’
‘Does that help, Sergeant?’ asked George.
‘About her termination,’ Carter probed. ‘Did you know the father?’
‘We don’t talk about that,’ said Alice’s mother stiffly. ‘It’s not relevant.’
‘That’s for us to decide,’ Carter said.
‘Come on, George, it’s time for us to go,’ she stood up, taking the huff. The old man obeyed.
‘If you can think of any reference to “J”, please let me know,’ said Carter.
‘What did you think of that?’ asked Garcia once they arrived back at the bus stop towards town.
‘Edinburgh is full of Georges. Let’s find a bar.’
39
Sweet Happiness
The number 33 took them north-west, towards Cameron Toll, then true north up Dalkeith Road. They alighted at the Grey Horse, a traditional pub a mile south of St Leonard’s station, but they had no intention of checking in with Tam Watson. Garcia liked red wine, Spanish Tempranillo. Carter went with Innis & Gunn IPA.
‘Are we going on a pub crawl?’ she asked.
‘When is your next shift?’
‘Monday. Day shift.’
‘Then we’re going on a pub crawl. Where do you live?’ He held up his hands. ‘Just asking what your experience of Edinburgh’s pubs is.’
‘Easter Road,’ she swallowed a mouthful of wine.
‘Leith-ish. The police station is on Queen Charlotte Street,’ he said, laughing.
‘Call yourself a comedian?’
‘What’s your local?’
‘Middletons.’
After an hour of chatting, they moved on. ‘We’ll give the Auld Hoose a miss,’ said Carter. ‘Too close to home. Southpour on Newington Road is next.’
By 5 p.m. they’d worked their way to Bristo Place. Carter took her into Sandy Bell’s, where a music session was in progress.
‘I’ve never heard a violin played like this,’ Charli said. ‘Papa plays the violin, but he likes Spanish and Italian opera.’
‘This is Celtic folk.’ Carter whispered into her ear so as not to disturb the players.
They sat in the window seat, looking onto the street, away from the musicians. Ardbeg whisky was poured.
‘Tell me about your son,’ Charli asked, as the alcohol loosened their inhibitions.
‘It’s the talk of the steamie, is it?’ Carter asked.
‘What’s “steamie”?’ she asked. ‘Another Scottish word?’
‘A wash house in the green. A place where gossip was rife.’
‘Not a nice place, no?’
‘It’s what happens. Can you keep a secret?’ He looked directly at her as if her answer would make a difference to what he was about to reveal.
She stared back at him, with eyes as wide as her ears. ‘You don’t have a baby son?’
Carter laughed, then got all serious and leaned into the table.
‘Nathaniel has been taken from me. The court decided I’m not fit to care for him, so he’s living with Kelsa’s parents. Her father got a court order.’
‘Oh, my God.’ She crossed herself. ‘Can it be made up? How old is he?’
‘Nearly two months.’
Charli reached over the table and grasped his hand in solidarity. ‘What can you do?’
‘Well, today, before we went to see Alice, my mother-in-law brought him to the park, and I was able to hold him for an hour. We’ve agreed more visits, without the old man knowing.’
‘This news is great,’ she said. ‘I will cover for you if you need to spend time with him.’ She smiled and then looked around. ‘What now? I’ve had enough of Celtic’s fiddling.’
Carter thought, then answered. ‘I need someone to make me laugh.’
Carter pushed his way to the front of the queue, flashing his warrant card. Garcia, following behind him, did the same but didn’t know why. At the ticket office, Carter recognised the compere.
‘Susie, any chance of two compos?’
Two seats left side of the small stage. They sat while the audience streamed into the small venue.
‘What is this place?’ Garcia asked.
‘The Stand,’ he said. ‘Edinburgh’s best comedy club outside of the Festival. I’ve gigged here before; this is The Saturday Show. A compere and five comedians doing fifteen minutes each.’
The audience settled down. The spotlight came on, and a butch woman with viciously cropped hair and tattoos on her arms assaulted the microphone. She swore.
‘Susie McCabe,’ Carter whispered into Garcia’s ear. ‘From Glasgow, a brilliant storyteller in the mould of Billy Connolly, so it’ll be close to the bone.’
After her slot, Susie introduced the next comedian.
‘She is brilliant,’ said Garcia. ‘I’ve never been to Glasgow, are people there like her?’
‘Later, look who’s coming on now,’ said Carter.
Into the spotlight shuffled a tall guy in a T-shirt, wearing dark glasses and swinging a white stick. He stopped at the microphone stand, folded up his stick and started waving it about.
‘Jamie MacDonald,’ said Carter into Garcia’s ear. ‘I helped him set up his Fringe performance in George Square in 2016. The theatre he hired held a hundred people, but one night, not a soul showed. We went to the performer’s bar and got pished instead; he, his driver and me. He was a banker in the City of London but lost his sight in his thirties. A blind banker is no use to anyone, he’d said, they’d all just laugh at him, so he decided to make money from it. His act is totally non-PC.’
It was after 10 p.m. when they stepped back onto the street.
‘That was amazing,’ Garcia said. ‘But I must go home now.’
Carter had switched his phone on again and looked at it intently. He returned to his relaxed mood.
‘What was it, Leccy?’
‘Sorry, it’s a text message, that’s all. Nothing really. Another drink?’
‘It’s been a good day, we will do it again sometime?’
‘Yeah, sure. There’s a taxi there if you want it.’
She went to kiss him, but he hugged her instead. ‘Thanks, Charli. Really. Do something for me, please?’
She disengaged, got in the taxi and waited for the favour.
‘Go to Alice’s flat, look for DVDs or a computer. She might have made copies of videos for clients, maybe she has something on J.’
‘I am on it,’ she nodded before the taxi sped off.
Carter walked west along York Place, then turned left up the slope of North St David Street. Within twelve minutes he was on the number 11 heading south. The bus was busy, a bit noisy, but it was the weekend, what did he expect? At 11 p.m., he got off at the Braid Burn stop. A ten-minute walk under streetlights took him to what he thought was roughly one hundred and fifty metres from the Dunsmuir mansion.
There were no lights on in the house that he could see, though the ten-foot-high mature hedging prevented him from viewing the ground floor. It didn’t matter anyway; he wasn’t about to storm the barricades to rescue Nathaniel.
He looked at the picture of his smiling son, who had been texted to him while enjoying himself in the Stand.
40
Keeping Secrets
Sunday morning passed in the haze of a mild hangover, but Carter knew the best way to clear his mind and body of alcohol. He dressed warmly, with a rain jacket and waterproof walking boots, then stood at the bus stop at Malbet Park waiting for the number 31 into town. He jumped off at Newington Road, walked along Salisbury Road, and crossed the A7 onto Holyrood Park Road. From there he began the hill-climb around Arthur’s Seat, the two-hundred-and-fifty-metre-high volcanic plug that sat on the eastern edge of the Old Town.
It had always been a favourite walk of his. He’d convinced Kelsa of its benefits, so they did it together at least one weekend a month. At the Hawse, he came off the tarmac and climbed the steep path up to the Radical Road. He was blowing hard; he wasn’t fit and knew it. The initial ascent was steep because he was coming at it from the St Leonard’s side. Most leisure walkers started outside Holyrood Palace, at Haggis Knowe, where the slope was just a stiff walk.
He stood a moment to get his breath back, nodding at a couple dressed in colourful scarves, beanies and gloves. He set off clockwise and soon had the Salisbury Crags rising above him. The view was terrific. On his left, the Castle dominated the skyline and he could pick out the dome of the McEwan Hall too. Directly below, it was all residential flats. He tried and failed to pick out St Leonard’s police station. There were too many buildings crammed tight together. He reached the Palace of Holyrood and the Scottish Parliament in twenty minutes. But the footpath was badly in need of repair and in places it was downright dangerous. He gazed north towards Calton Hill, quickly picking out Old Calton Burial Ground, where Kelsa had been laid to rest only a week ago. He walked on.
Another half an hour saw him climb the Long Row pathway, which brought him up the last steep section from the south to the peak itself, where two cairns stood, each with Ordnance Survey markers cemented on top. At least fifty others had made it too, all of them scanning the view north to Fife and north-west to the Ochil Hills. On the west side, the hill fell away steeply, promising severe injury to anyone who lost their footing. Carter stayed for ten minutes, letting the wind blow through him, then found his way back down to the Hawse, via the Gutted Haddie onto the tarmac of Queen’s Drive. It was after 2 p.m. Time for another appointment with his mother-in-law.
A Wife Worth Dying For Page 13