Carter gripped the chair like he’d just been electrocuted.
57
High Octane Strategy
Once outside McGregor’s practice in Great Junction Street, Carter hung about, looking for something substantial to grasp. No straws flew past on the wind. Everything he’d thought was certain about his married life had just been shredded by McGregor’s mastery of legal procedure. Everyone knew about Kelsa: his grandparents, his mates, his work colleagues. He wore two wedding rings, for fuck’s sake. Could it get any worse?
The marriage issue was more common than might be imagined, McGregor had explained. Unfortunately, Carter couldn’t fix his problems by legally marrying his legally dead girlfriend again. As that was water under the bridge, a DNA test was the only way to prove paternity. DI Mason’s comment in the Raeburn came back to haunt him. Was his judgement being blinded by Kelsa’s death? And these revelations about Nathaniel’s birth certificate? Could he really go back to the station and carry on investigating as if nothing had changed? Last week, if McGregor had told him what he’d told him today, he’d have said no. Probably.
But Kelsa’s dying wish was now entangled in Alice’s rape. Sitting at home swearing into the air at his lying, cheating, bitch of a decaying maybe-wife would hardly equip him to start a bright and bubbling future afresh. He turned right at the Great Junction Street crossroads, trudging up Leith Walk towards Princes Street like a condemned man eyeing the approaching gallows. It was warmer today, and he felt sticky underneath his dark Crombie coat, but he needed the air as well as the time to cajole his ducks into a row – so he could shoot them.
Under the weight of his thoughts, he’d been wandering for ten minutes when he glimpsed a dark-haired and well-dressed woman weaving her way through the throng of pedestrians. She was going his way, twenty metres ahead. Something about the way she walked gripped his focus. The heels she wore orchestrated a flounce in her step that swayed through her hips up to her shoulders. She turned her head briefly, and he caught her profile. A slim nose and scarlet lips. It was— but couldn’t be. The coat was hanging in her bedroom wardrobe. He broke into a run.
‘Kelsa—’
Suddenly, all Edinburgh bore down on him. Couples walking on the pavement holding hands, teenagers and families pushing buggies, singles walking dogs, the injured limping on crutches, cyclists, buskers, old ladies stopping for a gossip, window shoppers, travellers hailing taxis, getting off buses, getting on buses. Everyone was in his way. He lost sight of her. Where was she? He jumped into the road. A bus honked, its slipstream nearly sucking him in. A taxi followed the bus, flashing its lights at him in warning.
It was her. He pushed his way frantically onto the pavement again, barging people over. Had she gone into a shop, or turned up a vennel? He looked up and down the street. He climbed onto a bin to survey the big picture but could see no sign of her. He jumped down. A gap in the traffic allowed him to run into the road again and he scanned up and down Leith Walk’s wide thoroughfare, looking anxiously across the street, gazing back to where he had come from. Another taxi swerved around him, the cabbie screaming an obscenity through the open window. Wearily, he trudged back onto the pavement and slumped in the door of a kebab shop, holding his head in his hands.
She was gone.
It’s time you learned to be a cold, hard bastard of a copper, he heard DI Mason admonish him.
Half an hour later, at the top of Leith Street, feeling a sticky sweat and standing under the statue of Wellington-on-horse, he’d reconnected with reality as others saw it.
The ghost of his dead wife was an apparition only visible to him. He’d also decided to tell no one about these new legal predicaments around his family, including his employer. If confronted with Police Scotland’s HR gunslingers’ allegations, a promising career would be dead and buried. But if he willingly confessed, throwing himself on their mercy, he’d still bite the bullet.
It was a high-octane strategy, but what else could he do?
His phone rang.
‘Where are you, Sergeant Carter?’ DCI McKinlay asked suspiciously.
‘I’m on my way to examine new evidence in Alice’s case,’ said Carter, giving nothing away.
‘I’m on Rankeillor Street. Call me when you’re done.’
He made his way to St Andrew Square, where he caught a westbound tram. Twenty-five minutes later he alighted at Jenner’s Depository on Balgreen Road and entered the self-storage centre.
When she’d returned from her missing weekend, Kelsa had stripped off the clothes she wore and soaked herself in a hot bath for hours. Occasionally he heard her crying. Although he’d suppressed his instincts at her insistence, he dealt with her clothes, because she couldn’t. He packed them the way he’d been trained and deposited them in their storage unit, out of sight, but always in mind.
He carefully examined them now, photographing each garment with his phone. It was still evident: she would never have willingly worn clothes like these – second-hand with faded high-street labels. So where did she get them? What happened to the clothes she wore on the Friday night? His unspoken fear at the time was a sexual assault, but for her the subject had been closed. He repacked and reset the unit and returned to the tram stop.
The clothes had held a message for him and him alone, one he had been unable to understand at the time because of his highly emotional state. She’d always said reading him was easy. So much of what she communicated was non-verbal. But he had learned that far too late.
Somehow, in those months leading up to Nathaniel’s birth, Kelsa made Carter believe her love for him was more vital than ever – even as her mind surrendered her body to the inevitable. Death had been her goal. Now Carter knew she’d prepared for its coming religiously, putting secret arrangements in place for Nathaniel’s future and for his future too, all achieved with the help of lawyers. It was feasible to explain to Dunsmuir why no entry in the father’s section was appropriate for Nathaniel’s birth certificate.
He stared at the pictures on his phone and kept coming to the same conclusion. He sat back and imagined himself in her shoes that night, wearing degrading clothes and crying her eyes out when she was singularly alone in a decrepit hotel room or sterile hospital cubicle. Wondering how to deal with the life-changing fallout of a brutal assault.
She had no future. Her dignity had been wrenched from her violently. She wore no knickers and no stockings.
J had taken those things as trophies.
Along with her favourite leopard-print heels.
58
Goalkeeping in the Playground
At Rankeillor Street, Carter flicked through his phone. McKinlay’s number was in his contacts, but he hesitated before letting her know he was here. Their last real conversation had been direct. ‘End of the week, Sergeant Carter. Bring me a solid case, or you’re back on your couch.’
It wasn’t unknown for senior officers to be removed from post overnight in the current climate, leaving the survivors nervous of a Stalinist HR purge. Rumours of a fresh sacrifice for the Chief Constable’s role were rife. Secretly, Carter didn’t care who they chained up in the big chair as long as stability followed. Putting geopolitics aside, he hadn’t made as much progress as he’s hoped. Still a few days before McKinlay’s weekend deadline though.
‘Ma’am,’ he said when DCI McKinlay answered.
‘I’m around the corner.’
What was this all about? Clandestine meetings between officers? Was there a schism forming in St Leonard’s? If so, which faction had decided they wanted him onside? It reminded him of football in the playground, where he was always at the coo’s tail. The boys would line up, and captains would make their choices, the best chosen first. He was a breed apart, the goalkeeper nominated to take the blame for the losing side.
A blue BMW pulled up on the street. The door opened, he got in, and she drove off, not even saying hello. She drove towards the Commonwealth Pool, swinging left at the traffic lights into Holyrood Par
k. Two minutes later she parked at Holyrood Palace.
Definitely goalkeeper-signing talks.
It was cold outside, and she left the engine running.
‘Why were you hounding Jacky?’
‘I wasn’t—’
‘I told you he had nothin’ to do with Alice Deacon.’
‘I know that now, but—’
‘Has Logan been in touch since?’
He hesitated, remembering the conversation in Logan’s Mercedes. The phone in his pocket now felt like he’d been caught in possession and was about to let another one in.
‘Tell me what was said.’
‘About what, ma’am?’
‘Don’t fuck with me Carter,’ she raised her voice. ‘You were in his Merc.’
‘How do you know?’
‘He told me.’
So there it was—her confession.
‘Said he’d given you a lift. Said Jacky was prime suspect. Said he’d warned you to leave Jacky be. Is that how it went down, Sergeant Carter?’
‘He said you and him had an “understanding”.’
‘He’s a manipulative cunt,’ she grimaced wryly. ‘I told you to report any contact to DI Mason, but you knew better, eh? You were in Cramond with Lenny Yule. Stop fucking me about.’
Carter had no idea who was the bad guy was here, but he definitely felt like he’d conceded too many.
‘Yule’s a chemist,’ she told him. ‘He’d worked for McCalman, on and off, until we put McCalman away. Logan’s been after his skills ever since. You forgot that all informer contact has to be reported to a senior officer in E Division. MacIntosh followed protocol. You didn’t follow my order. Did Logan see you with him?’
‘I don’t think so. Yule went off towards Granton, on the promenade. Logan stopped me at the top of Cramond Glebe ten minutes later.’
McKinlay went silent, staring out the windscreen at Arthur’s Seat rising steeply above them.
‘Can I trust you, Leccy?’ she asked calmly. ‘Do I have your loyalty?’
His keeper’s gloves still fitted. ‘Of course, ma’am.’
‘Logan’s on the warpath. He’s got connections on the High Street and at Holyrood. There’s a train of thought saying he’s got a finger in the pie of nasty stuff goin’ on in the Police Authority. If it’s true, it makes him a very dangerous man. He’ll get young guns like you to compromise yourself for information, so he can chuck a carcass to the wolves when he needs out. Know what I’m saying?’
‘Maybe this will clear your mind, ma’am,’ Carter reached into his pocket and offered up the ball.
They sat in silence while the recording was played back.
‘I have a question,’ Carter asked afterwards. ‘About your relationship.’
Cheryl McKinlay sighed, letting the leather car seat take the strain of her long experience. ‘We go back, Logan and me – Jacky too. We were all at school in the seventies, different years though. Do you know why I was so sure Jacky didn’t rape the woman?’
‘Duggie McLean told me.’
Her eyes softened, then the tears flowed. ‘You get about, Leccy. You’re a good copper, but you’re too trusting. Duggie was in our gang. After the incident, Jacky was in the hospital for months, and when he got out, he was different. The police were blamed for lettin’ it happen, so they roughed up Dalby’s crew and charged them. Dalby got five years, and the others got three each. Dalby got chibbed in Saughton, and the prison hospital doggedly followed procedure till he died of blood loss. Logan wasn’t much more than a gadge then, but he knew that confronting the police was a loser’s charter. He took over Dalby’s crew and built them up to what they are today. Justin Greig – the cunt that strangled you in Logan’s car – was the one that held Jacky down.’
She wiped the tears away and took a deep breath while Carter waited, knowing there was more to come. ‘Logan looked after Jacky. I’ll give him that. Whether he felt sorry for him or was lookin’ for leverage over me, I don’t know, but he kept him close. Jacky trusted him.’
McKinlay went quiet, staring out of the car but not seeing anything. Carter said nothing while she built herself up to speaking again.
‘What’s on the recordin’ is Logan trying to convince you I’m bent because he had Jacky onside.’ Her voice broke. ‘I’m sure Jacky told him what happened in the Reverend. But we can’t bring Jacky in now, because he’s dead.’
‘What?’ Carter was shocked. ‘How?’
‘He was run over by a bus on North Bridge yesterday,’ Cheryl McKinlay’s grief overflowed. ‘And I think you, Sergeant Carter, drove him to suicide.’
Carter looked out the window of the BMW, staring across the car park. It had started to rain, big drops exploding on the windscreen like artillery shells without being wiped away.
‘You’re not suspended,’ Carter said with insight. ‘You’re bereaved. Jacky was your brother.’
59
Helplessness
McKinlay dropped Carter off at Rankeillor Street, close enough to walk to St Leonard’s station, but far enough away that the gossips wouldn’t have wares to peddle.
‘I’m sorry I said you drove him to suicide,’ she apologised, ‘but this is personal Leccy. After he ran away from you, did you ever catch up with him again? Or speak to him on the phone?’
‘No ma’am, his phone rang out.’
‘Jacky was easily led, but I know there must have been more to it than that. I just know Justin Greig’s fingerprints are on it, the slimy bastard.’
The BMW sped off, leaving Carter wondering. He was still wondering when he passed the desk with a catch-you-later wave to Tam Watson, so he wouldn’t be tempted to engage in conversation. He went straight to Charli Garcia in the detectives’ room, pulling up a chair next to her.
‘You’ve spoken with the boss, yes?’ she said when he sat down.
‘You two in the thick of it?’ Carter asked.
‘A family member died unexpectedly,’ Charli said. ‘She wouldn’t speak more. Ellen told me a man killed by a bus on North Bridge was related to her.’
‘It was Jacky Dodds. I tried to talk with him a few days ago, but he got upset and ran off. Call Ellen and ask if we can have read-access to the case notes for the accident.’
A few minutes later, Garcia brought up notes from ICRS and read out the main points.
‘Early evening, dark, wet and cold. A car cut in front of the bus to drop off a passenger. The driver braked to avoid a crash. He didn’t see Dodds, was angry at the Corsa driver. Corsa driver didn’t see Jacky at all. The CSE said Dodds died instantly under the front wheels.’
Carter filled in the blanks. ‘McKinlay thought I’d driven him to suicide.’
‘Is she in deep sorrow?’ Garcia asked.
‘I was just shaking the tree, to see what fell out,’ Carter said ruefully. ‘Maybe I shook it too hard. His clothes will be at the mortuary in Cowgate, right? Did he have a phone on him?’
Garcia consulted the ICRS notes. ‘No.’
‘Eye-witness statements from passengers on the bus, or those in the shelter?’
‘In the shelter, three. Then bus driver and the Corsa driver,’ said Garcia. ‘Ellen read the statements. They are consistent. One hombre, to be tracked, went quickly into the road, and helped pull him out of the way. The driver came out of the bus, Dodds was underneath the wheel. Muerto. The driver, he will be in counselling for a long time.’
‘CSE is saying the driver’s side,’ Carter pondered again at ICRS. ‘He came from the other side of the road.’
‘Is this important?’ Garcia asked.
‘The Samaritan in the north-side shelter?’
‘What are your thoughts, Leccy?’
‘A key witness in our case has gone under a bus. Coincidence?’
‘No,’ Garcia voiced his thoughts.
‘Call Ellen.’ Carter stood up. ‘We’re taking Jacky’s case. I’m going to speak to DI Mason.’
Twenty minutes later DI Mason had squared away the in
ternal priorities and secured a marked car with a uniformed driver. Mason in the passenger seat; Carter, Garcia and Ellen Podolski in the back. They drove through the netherworld of Cowgate to examine Jacky Dodds’ clothing at the mortuary, then signed out his house keys.
Mason parked the car in Watson Crescent. The flat was on the second storey of four and opened quickly. A long hallway had two bedrooms and a bathroom running off it, and at the end, a kitchen on one side and the lounge on the other.
‘I’ll take the main bed,’ said Mason. ‘Leccy, you take the lounge. Ellen, the bathroom. Charli, the other bedroom.’
The lounge was a mess of newspapers and DVDs, mainly kids’ programmes, but Batman and the Marvel superheroes were prominent. Dirty plates were strewn across the floor. There was a two-bar electric fire in the fireplace, and opposite that a window looked onto Watson Crescent. A decrepit chair faced an old-style cathode-ray TV, the remote sitting on the arm, and a sofa offered evidence someone had sat there, an imprint on the cushion. Not Cheryl McKinlay, he thought; she would have cleaned up. Next to the chair, covering the floor, were sheaves of A4 copy paper, with crude schoolboy drawings in blue pen.
‘This bedroom is made up. No sign of use.’ Garcia came into the lounge and stopped at the door. She surveyed the sitting room. ‘What a fucking mess.’
‘Check the kitchen, will you,’ Carter asked.
‘What are we looking for?’ Garcia responded.
‘A phone, a computer. I don’t know. Connections to Jimmy Logan, Justin Greig or Alice Deacon. Maybe even Nate Butler.’
Nick Mason came through. ‘His bedroom looks like the lounge too.’ He saw the pile of A4 sheets on the floor. ‘There are more drawings and writings next door. I think he was scared of Justin Greig.’
Carter and Mason went into the bedroom, where Mason showed Carter sheet after sheet of confusing drawings. Of women screaming, crying, covering their eyes, ears and mouth. Names Carter knew and names he did not: Mr Logan, Mr Butler, Alec, Eddie, Joe, Ting, Ming, Slicer, Cheryl, Duggie. More drawings of men, some crossed out, like crude attempts to erase them—a man holding a knife bigger than him. Rev Booth featured prominently. Other men and women, with no names, bolts in their heads, one with a big blade cleaving his head in two. Justin, Justin, Justin, Justin. More stick men seemingly punching themselves in the head, some cutting themselves between the legs. And more and yet more and Justin, Justin, Justin scored out. A woman hanging from a noose.
A Wife Worth Dying For Page 19