A Wife Worth Dying For

by Wilson Smillie

  ‘It’s fine,’ Carter said, unsure whether Mason was flying solo, or whether the rest of the team knew about this. ‘Tell me about the accident.’

  ‘It was Burns Night, 1989,’ Deek said with care like he’d been practising it for thirty years. ‘We had a do at the Club an’ all, so you’d been taken to your granny in North Berwick.’

  ‘What were things like between you and the McKenzies?’

  ‘We didn’t see much of them. North Berwick is no’ exactly next door, but your da’ didn’t say anything was wrong. We all of us were at your Christening an’ your birthdays, so we got along fine.’

  ‘But after the accident?’

  ‘Things changed. Aye. Well, ye know some of it. I would call them; they’d put the phone down. Tried quite a bit for the first few years, but they never spoke and wouldn’t answer the door. Grief probably: she was a braw girl, your mum. Ye know what families are like; maybe they blamed Dan. Eventually, we got on with it. Tried again when ye were older.’

  ‘The accident – where did it happen?’

  Deek looked at him thoughtfully. ‘This what yer man was really here about?’

  ‘I can’t say too much. There’s an open case, can’t be any leaks. You understand?’

  ‘We’re no’ daft,’ Deek snorted. ‘How come the crash has come up after thirty years? The polis investigated at the time. Do you no’ have case files you can look up?’

  ‘It’s not a lending library. And you were involved. Close up.’

  ‘What about the ghost?’ Deek persisted.

  ‘Someone going by the name of J.’

  ‘I don’t understand,’ his gran said, ‘about this ghost.’

  ‘Somebody who was there, Sarah,’ Deek explained, squeezing her hand gently, comforting her. ‘It happened the morning after, at the Dirleton junction to Drem. Your mum was drivin’ the Astra, Dan was in the passenger’s seat. You were strapped into yer seat in the back, and that’s what saved you. Polis said she was doin’ sixty. Heading home after picking you up.’

  ‘Where was home?’ Carter saw tears in his gran’s eyes again. It never occurred that he’d had another home, and suddenly it hit him how little he knew about his early life. His memories were shards, but he could never connect them together. Flowers was right, he was incomplete.

  ‘Portobello, a flat around Abercorn Park,’ Gran said. ‘It was lovely.’

  Deek picked up the story again, now that he knew the urgency. ‘The other car pulled out suddenly from the Drem junction, and yer mum ploughed into them. She had right of way. Polis said the Astra corkscrewed, landed on its roof thirty yards beyond the junction crumpled against a tree. Dan and Caroline—’ Deek paused, tears suddenly present, remembering when the police came to him, man to man, as it was then, with no Victim Support. ‘They died instantly.

  ‘When the ambulance arrived, ye were screaming but didn’t have a single cut or bruise. You were kept in the Sick Kids hospital at Sciennes for two weeks. You screamed all day and night, and they thought ye had internal injuries. Even once ye were home with us, it was months before the screaming an’ crying stopped. You just clung to us all the time.’

  Deek wiped the tears away. ‘We just got on wi’ things. You seemed fine when ye started school. We hoped you’d forgotten about it.’

  J’s text now made sense. He and J had both been in the children’s hospital.

  ‘What about the other family?’

  ‘We didn’t know for a long time, a year or more. The local polis came to the door with a detective from Edinburgh. Rutherford, his name was. Said the other driver had been over the limit, even though it was the next mornin’. She and her husband had been transferred back to London. They’d had serious injuries too’.

  ‘And that was it?’

  ‘No’ really. The detective said they’d both died months later. Complications from their injuries, he said, so it was a real tragedy all around.’

  ‘What about the boy?’

  ‘I dinnae know. There was a fatal accident enquiry in Edinburgh, but it took years to arrange and by then— I went some days. Once I heard the description of injuries suffered to Dan and Caroline, I couldn’t face goin’ back.’

  ‘What was the other family called?’

  ‘Butler.’

  ‘And the boy’s name?’

  ‘Nobody ever mentioned him.’

  69

  Bungalow Country

  His grandparents wanted to know how he was coping since Kelsa’s death. He promised he’d come and see them soon and talk.

  Driving back to the city, he called DC Garcia. ‘Any news?’

  ‘Moore’s finances are complicated,’ she replied. ‘HMRC confirmed he pays tax through a personal service company and Companies House shows his company makes a profit. He’s a customer with NatWest Bank and has multiple accounts. Source of funds is the Isle of Man. The IoM Bank provided evidence for NatWest’s funding sources requirement, but they have no visibility of any overseas sources.’

  ‘He’s legit?’ Carter asked.

  ‘Yes, but the NatWest man says he has “a bad smell”. Nothing can be proved without reasons to follow the money to the “steamie”,’ she said.

  ‘Money laundering?’

  ‘The last deposit was on the third of January, for fifty thousand pounds.’

  ‘What about his address? You said the Met was checking it out.’

  ‘I was spinning for a while, but eventually, the name of a retired sergeant was given. He knew the area and the people. Said it was once his place. After redevelopment, the address doesn’t exist. A family once lived there, there was a fire, and the house got destroyed. He’s going to dig deeper.’

  ‘Moore’s using a non-existent address,’ Carter whistled, ‘and gets his money from off-shore accounts. What did your NatWest man say about the address?’

  ‘Paperless statements. Said customer’s homes are not checked unless they flit around. His InterMide account uses the same non-existent address.’

  ‘Good work, Charli. Is DI Mason in yet?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘If you need help to get other details, ask him.’

  Carter killed the call. He was back inside the city boundary but didn’t want to return to the station just yet, so he dialled another number.

  ‘Leccy,’ Cheryl McKinlay answered. ‘You collared J yet?’

  ‘Can I pick your brains?’

  ‘Thanks for your help with Justin Greig, by the way. He’s now on the snitch fast-track. I’m considering askin’ Financial Crime to investigate Edinburgh City Council. I think there’s an expenses scandal just waitin’ to pounce onto the stage.’

  ‘Councillor Taylor has his hand in the till?’

  ‘Aye, something like that. It’ll keep Logan’s gas at a peep too.’

  ‘A detective in the eighties. Name of Rutherford.’

  ‘Inspector Rutherford?’ McKinlay’s tone told him he had to explain.

  ‘He spoke to my faither years ago, about the car crash that killed my parents. I’m curious why a detective from Edinburgh got involved with a car accident in East Lothian.’

  ‘What’s the relevance to Alice an’ Jacky?’

  ‘Was Nick Mason authorised to visit my grandparents?’

  The sudden low background hum from McKinlay’s phone confirmed it was.

  ‘Rocketman and I have cleared up the shambles of your wife’s underwear,’ McKinlay retorted. ‘And its relevance to the Deacon case. Once the scope of the facts were revealed, I let Nick loose to probe your background. Tactfully.’

  ‘Why wasn’t I told?’ Carter asked, feeling bruised.

  ‘Why wasn’t I told about your dirty washing?’ McKinlay raised his bruising to a slash.

  ‘What’s the conclusion?’ Carter played poker face.

  ‘Nick’s in his kennel. With instructions to sit, as long as you keep bringing your inner copper to work. There’s more to Kelsa than you think, eh? Rutherford?’

  ‘DI Rutherford mig
ht have information he doesn’t know is important.’

  ‘Stuart Rutherford was Drugs Squad,’ she said. ‘Why?’

  ‘You’ll have to trust me,’ Carter played his ace.

  ‘Do I have a choice?’ She gave him Rutherford’s last known address. ‘Be nice to an auld man.’

  Squeezed between Blackhall and Davidson’s Mains, Vivian Terrace crouched in bungalow country. Number 87 boasted a high hedge and mature trees to keep the bairns from tearing up the daisies. Whitewashed render, white door, white facings. Two white-painted dormer windows in the black slate roof completed the look of the panda-eyed retirement home. Carter wondered if the hedge got sprayed white too. Only in summer though.

  The ring of the black doorbell was answered by a white-haired old woman. She was thin with wrinkles and grey with fatigue, like she was training for death.

  ‘He’s retired you know,’ she said. ‘Some tea?’

  Carter declined.

  Stuart Rutherford glanced up from where he sat in the bright conservatory. His view over a manicured lawn was blocked by the broadsheet newspaper he then began to fold. He had a thick head of black hair and a chiselled jaw below hedgerow eyebrows. He didn’t look seventy-something; more like still-shagging-his-younger-mistress age.

  ‘Sergeant Lachlan Carter. Cheryl McKinlay said I’d find you here.’

  Rutherford completed the folding of his paper. ‘Mary, a wee pot of tea?’ He offered Carter a seat. ‘You a cold case man?’

  ‘No, and yes,’ said Carter. ‘Car smash at Dirleton. 1989.’

  ‘Aye,’ Rutherford mused.

  ‘Why were you involved? North Berwick uniform handled the wreckage.’

  ‘What’s your interest?’

  ‘The case I’m on,’ said Carter. ‘Woman drugged, raped and attempted murder. You ever come across Jimmy Logan?’

  ‘Aye,’ Rutherford sat back in his chair. ‘You’re shite at the poker, Sergeant Carter. Drugs don’t mature like old whisky.’

  Carter said nothing.

  ‘What else, Sergeant? The link to the accident.’

  It was Texas hold ’em, and Carter felt his heart dance to the rhythm of the deal. Rutherford wouldn’t have told Deek and Sarah; it would be an unnecessary wound. Local polis would be in the dark too.

  Had his dad been selling drugs?

  70

  Tea’s Up

  Carter held his breath. Rutherford’s experience interviewing druggies still gave him an advantage. ‘Your family? Thirty years ago, you’d have been—’

  ‘Three.’

  ‘The car you were in was the—?’

  ‘Astra.’

  Now it was settled, Rutherford began to talk.

  ‘We got involved after the casualties were removed. Traffic had started the clean-up. They wanted the road open again, then had to close it until we’d finished. There was a kid’s safety seat in the Astra. One in the Cavalier too.’

  ‘Why were you brought in?’

  ‘Cocaine and heroin found in both cars. Initially, we thought separate packages in separate cars. Traffic gave us the speeds and trajectories, and eventually, we worked out what happened. It came down to luggage. The suitcase in the Astra was coated with brown and white powder, on the outside only. A holdall in the Cavalier contained a mix of both drugs. It was unzipped, and the cellophane encasing the drugs must’ve got torn on the zipper when the car flipped over. Somehow, the Astra got contaminated with powder from the Cavalier. The wind was blowing in the right direction.’

  ‘What else?’ Carter asked.

  ‘The Sick Kids hospital called us about drugs covering two boys brought in from the accident.’

  ‘And the Butlers?’ Carter asked.

  ‘She was over the alcohol limit,’ Rutherford recounted. ‘And wasn’t wearing a seat belt. She was in a coma all the time she was here. He was conscious, had head and facial injuries, a broken wrist and a broken leg. He claimed he didn’t know what was in the bag. Said he was asked to deliver it by a man he didn’t know to a man he didn’t know. After his release from hospital, he was charged with possession with intent to supply and bailed to appear. Never did.’

  ‘You checked up on him, though, didn’t you?’

  ‘The Met knew Stan Butler as someone with form. He was suspected as a distributor and had connections with the Yardies. The price of a toke went up around Leith a few weeks after the accident.’

  ‘You’re poker-faced now, DI Rutherford.’ Carter was relieved.

  ‘She died later, in London. Back then the scuttle going around said Stan copped it soon after. His Jamaican pals got him.’

  ‘Jesus,’ Carter shook his head in disbelief.

  The conservatory door opened. Mary Rutherford nudged herself through the doorway, holding a tray with teapot, cups, milk and sugar. ‘Tea’s up, boys.’

  Rutherford opened up his paper and sipped at his fresh tea.

  ‘Why did this one stick all these years?’ Carter asked, getting up to leave. ‘You must’ve seen it worse.’

  ‘The kiddies car seats. Now I know what became of you both.’

  Outside in the Smart car, Carter analysed this new information. A puzzle remained, despite him now knowing the graphic facts of the 1989 accident. Nathan Butler had never initiated contact in thirty years, but Carter was confident Butler knew all about him. He lived in Edinburgh, his name was on Kelsa’s phone, and he was in the Reverend bar on the same night Alice was raped by Joe Moore, as evidenced by the phone data. What were the odds of all these data points being coincidental? Possible, but the threads of silk making the connections still only amounted to a hunch.

  The Butler-is-Moore angle meant Carter had to track down all the same data points for Butler to compare against Moore’s. The odds weren’t even. Was he chasing one man or two? A fragment of one of J’s texts came into his mind. ‘I’m not who you believe me to be’. Or something like that.

  Jacky Dodds had been the key witness. He’d known about the connections between Logan’s mob, Alice, Butler and Moore. Did Justin Greig know of Dodds’ connection with Butler? If so, then Greig knew Butler and may have something on him that could bring Logan into the frame. More than ever, Dodds’ death looked deliberate.

  But Kelsa had more information for him.

  He drove home to Liberton and picked up Kelsa’s phone and MacBook. Back on the road, he called DCI McKinlay again, offering her a summary of his conversation with Rutherford without giving too much detail. He told her his thoughts on Greig and Dodds, and it fired her up, as he hoped it would. She said she’d handle it, but she wasn’t daft either.

  ‘And what’s your next move, Leccy? While I’m running around like a bare-arsed DC chasin’ down your leads?’

  ‘I’m heading to Glasgow, ma’am, to ask a favour of Gavin Roy in OCD. There’s more data on these mobile phones than we think.’

  The Cybercrime Investigation team worked out of Helen Street in Glasgow, ninety minutes’ thinking time away. He closed the call before she could respond, hoping she would allow him the space to compute it all. He didn’t need more distractions.

  71

  Distractions

  Carter’s hands-free phone rang as he joined the M8 motorway at Hermiston Gait.

  ‘Lachlan?’ queried a familiar, but concerned voice through his phone.

  ‘Hi, Jude?’ Carter replied, immediately concerned for Nathaniel.

  ‘We had a break-in overnight. I think. Nathaniel is completely fine. Some strange things have happened in his nursery though – his cot has been moved, and he’s acquired a new teddy bear.’

  Carter drove onto the hard shoulder and stopped the car. What he was hearing didn’t make sense. Jude wasn’t flighty and usually took everything in her stride. ‘Have you called the police?’

  ‘That’s why I’m calling you,’ she replied. ‘What should I do?’

  ‘What evidence of a break-in? Broken glass, a busted lock, that kind of thing?’

  ‘Should I look outside? I’m afrai
d I’m not familiar with this kind of thing. I thought of calling 999 then felt I should speak to you first.’

  ‘You said “overnight”. It’s afternoon now, have you only just discovered it?’

  ‘Amanda, our nursery nurse, spoke to me twenty minutes ago. She thought I’d rearranged things in the nursery and assumed I’d bought the teddy. I hadn’t, and neither had she. I asked the other staff; they know nothing. James is working, and I don’t want to alarm him as he will think it’s your doing, and he might do something stupid.’

  Like call the police and accuse Carter of breaching the interdict.

  ‘OK,’ he said. ‘I’ll send someone round. Just leave everything as it is.’

  He dialled another number. ‘Ellen? Are you on Victim Support, or are you helping Charli?’

  ‘I’m helping Charli, but as you’ve called – we’re pulling threads together to update Nick. He’ll tell you later, official-like, but the unknown DNA in Kelsa’s underwear matches a profile in England for three rapes and another three unproven killings. Why are you calling?’

  ‘As soon as you’re finished there,’ he said, ‘go to my mother-in-law’s house.’ He gave her the address. ‘There’s been a break-in.’

  ‘I’m not a PC, Leccy.’

  ‘Ellen, please. My son is there, and I don’t think this is a random crime. Know what I mean?’

  There was silence for a moment.

  ‘Will I take backup?’

  ‘Call me as soon as you can.’

  Moore or Butler? Butler would take time to track down, to flesh out. As it stood, Butler’s connections were to Carter and Jacky Dodds. Moore made sense, if only for the J tag. Moore was dangerous, maybe Butler wasn’t. Carter’s memory of the early, erased, text messages was scant. Could both men be using the J pseudonym independently? A partnership of sorts.

  If it was one man using two identities, it wouldn’t matter who he prioritised. But if it was two men and he chased the wrong one, somebody else could get hurt. He was zooming past Harthill when the next text landed. Attempting to read it at eighty miles per hour wasn’t a good idea.