by Mark Bailey
Milly sat the paper on her lap and continued staring at it. The article was well written. Then she looked under the headline and read it for the umpteenth time — by Cameron Chadwick and Dan Atherton. Yeah, and fucking Simone Kelly too, thought Milly. She was dragged back to reality by screeching wheels as the Boeing 767 touched down in Edinburgh. She rolled the newspaper up, placing it in her bag, where she would shift it to her luggage later. She didn’t want the Russells reading it. Then, taking it out of her bag, she handed it back to the old lady. ‘You take it. I’ve read it a hundred times.’
‘Thank you, dear, you’re very kind.’ She craned her neck to get a peek at Milly’s hands and fingers. At least she’d read that far. Milly showed them to her.
‘Don’t know what all the fuss is about … do you?’ asked Milly smiling.
The old lady perched her reading glasses back on the end of her nose as she peered at Milly’s upturned hands. ‘No, dear, but you know what they’re like.’ She put the paper in her bag.
As the aircraft stopped and passengers disembarked Milly thought back to Simone. She considered changing her strategy and calling her out before the third installment. Maybe she should call Cameron Chadwick. He didn’t know Simone had jumped the fence, as Dannii put it, in her sexual preference. No, she decided, Simone could wait; she would keep her on side. She would square the ledger with her later.
The doctors Russell knew Milly would grace them with her presence sometime in mid-May but weren’t sure when. There were no seats on flights to Dundee where they lived when Milly wanted to fly. She thought it unfair if they felt obliged to pick her up in Edinburgh over an hour and a half’s drive away in the middle of the night on a Sunday, so she didn’t tell them. She wasn’t sure if John was still working but assumed Ella was, so she booked to stay at the Premier Inn Edinburgh Airport Newbridge. It was about ten minutes’ drive from the airport and had some good reviews on the Internet. She rented a Vauxhall Astra for six days, which she could drop back to the hirer in Dundee. She would need a car to drive to H.M. Barlinnie Prison to visit with Joe. Milly decided she would rather visit Joe in Glasgow on her own; she wouldn’t push John into taking her.
She had diverted 100 K Australian to her personal account as her fortune flew by in cyberspace on the way to its growth portfolio. Perhaps this rather large gift from her uncle wouldn’t be so bad after all, she thought to herself, smiling. It just needed managing properly.
It was after 12:45 a.m. by the time she got the keys to her room at the Premier Inn in Hallbarns Crescent. She wasn’t especially tired, as she had slept some of the way from Australia. She got to her room and messaged Dannii via WhatsApp: ‘Just arrived at my motel in Edinburgh; it’s 1:00 in the morning here. Make sure you read the article on the front page of the Sunday Times … very interesting. No mention of Matthew Boyd. It’s all about me. Sorry about being a little sour over the past few days, mate. Love ya heaps, thanks for looking after me, talk soon, XXX’
It was around 8:00 a.m. in Perth. Dannii replied : ‘Matthew who??? XXX. Talk soon, love you too.’
Milly smiled. ‘Exactly,’ she said out loud to herself, adding, ‘Matthew Boyd Sr., bottom bunk, Casuarina Prison … that’s who.’ She danced a naked jig to the bathroom, singing AC/DC’s Jailbreak, playing lead on her air guitar. The early morning was cold. She showered and got into bed for what she expected would be an interrupted night’s sleep. She slept soundly until 8:00 a.m.
She left the motel, eventually turning right onto the M9 driving out of Edinburgh for Dundee. It was cool; the temperature displayed eleven degrees outside. It felt cooler, though, as misty rain marshaled water sensors and wiper arms, jumping to attention, cleaning the windscreen, clearing the way ahead as they sprang into life intermittently, focusing Milly’s attention on the road.
She drove on, heading for the Forth Rd Bridge when she caught a glimpse of herself in the rear vision mirror as she checked with traffic merging onto the A90. She recalled her discussion with her dermatologist friend, Dr. Kenway Cross. Milly’s bloodline had evolved; her complexion with her white skin and red hair was perfectly suited to the cool Scottish climate. Research indicated that synthesis of vitamin D was wholly tied to skin color. Paler skinned humans were six times more efficient at making vitamin D from the sun than their dark-skinned relatives. Then there were decreased sweat glands, another manifestation of her genetic condition. Was that part of her adaption to the Scottish climate too, she wondered; probably not, she concluded. How would no fingerprints fit in? The wipers jumped to action again, diverting her attention back to the road.
The country was beautiful. Not unlike Tasmania, she imagined, with its high rainfall, but Tassie would be warmer during the summer months. She made a mental note to visit there next time she flew home. She wanted to make the acquaintance of a Tasmanian devil and Tassie wombat — Vombatus, urs…, tasmaniensis — she remembered, forgetting the second part of its scientific name. She had donated to the Devil’s Advocate, an appeal whose theme was ‘Keeping the Tasmanian devil alive in the wild.’ They needed all the help they could get to save the beautiful marsupial her uncle so dearly loved and generously donated to; it could still go extinct. She drove across the Firth Road Bridge, which connected Edinburgh to Fife, and over the ‘Firth of Forth’ as she looked out onto the North Sea on her way to Dunfermline.
She passed to the right of Dunfermline proper on the M90, missing the built-up area with its historical buildings and its countryside with its modern agriculture. She had driven over an hour when she drove off the M90 and headed into Perth, only around forty minutes west of Dundee. As she drove into Perth, she recalled Sim Charles telling her Sibby had worked at the Perth Royal Infirmary, completing some of her training there. It was only 11:00 a.m. so she stopped for coffee.
She messaged Dannii asking on news of the trial; it was early evening in Australia. ‘Zilch, darling,’ replied Dannii.
‘Thanks, Dannii XXX’ replied Milly. Then Dannii sent her another message.
‘What was that flashing amber light thingy you were going to tell me about Simone, darling? XXX’
‘The article in the Sunday Times.’
‘What about it?’
‘See who wrote it!’ There was a five-minute pause. Milly assumed Dannii was looking for the paper.
‘Shit, I never noticed it. That bastard.’
‘Don’t say anything, will you, darling? Remember you promised! She’ll have an excuse, saying she didn’t know. That orange light’s still flashing.’
‘No, I won’t say a thing. Be careful. Talk tomorrow, XXX’
Milly wondered how Dannii ever got two university degrees. It was like she was color-blind. She could look at something but could never see everything there, often missing the obvious; that’s why Simone was running rings around her. She looked out from Willows Coffee Shop with its alfresco dining; it was too cool for Milly outside, as she recalled her last trip to Scotland.
She had driven down to Glasgow with Sim. She had attempted to entice him into roadside sex after visiting Joe in prison when she had traveled to Dundee for Sibby’s funeral. No wonder Naomi held on so tight at the airport. Milly’s hormones had raged at the sight of Joe when her little friend nominated Sim; Joe couldn’t help — he was in prison. Sim wasn’t having it; he wasn’t interested. He played dumb; not one word passed between them. Anyway, who could blame him? Naomi was beautiful. He could never know, but Sim stopped Milly regressing that day, back to her old ways. As Dannii so elegantly put it, Milly was only ever one prick away from disaster. Sim had done her a favor.
She drove into Dundee mid-afternoon. There wasn’t much point contacting the Russells, especially if they were working. She didn’t want to put pressure on them in case either, or both felt obliged to stop what they were doing and attend to some need Milly didn’t have. She sent Ella a phone text at 4:30 p.m. announcing she would arrive shortly. Milly knocked on the Russells door at 5:15 Monday afternoon. They were happy to see her.
Chapter 16.<
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‘Come in, Milly,’ beckoned Ella.
‘It’s good to see you, Milly,’ said John. They both arrived at the door at the same time; they had obviously been waiting for her.
‘We were expecting a phone call to pick you up from the airport.’
‘I apologize for not calling, Ella. I couldn’t get a flight to Dundee to connect with my arrival in London, so I flew into Edinburgh early this morning and stopped at the Premier Inn in Hallbarns Crescent. It’s about three miles from the airport.’
‘Aye, we know where it is, Milly. Why didn’t you call us? We would have picked you up,’ replied John, as Ella stood there looking miffed. The way she stood there, uncompromising and stern, indicated she was used to getting her way thought Milly. She knew they would willingly have taken the drive to Edinburgh; they would walk over broken glass in bare feet to get to her. John wiped tears away as he unloaded Milly’s luggage. They settled in the lounge area around a walnut coffee table with a glass top. John put Milly’s gear in Sibby’s bedroom.
She looked at the coffee table. There was an A4 size manila envelope with her name and the Tayside address handwritten on it. He had a beautiful hand, thought Milly, if indeed it was Stopford’s writing. ‘This came for you last week,’ said John handing her the envelope. ‘I’m sorry I get teary when I see you, Milly, I just can’t help it.’
‘We’ll get to that soon.’ Milly placed the unopened envelope back on the table and looked reassuringly at John. ‘So how have you both been?’ They talked for an hour and then Ella and Milly cooked tea. When they returned to the lounge, Milly opened the envelope.
‘Okay. I don’t know if I’ve done the right thing, but I thought the information in here might help give us some closure. Have the police told you that they now know who the semen belonged to found at the crime scene on Sibby’s body?
‘Aye, Milly. Rob Windsor kindly called us and told me they identified the male who donated the semen. He mentioned a roadside alcohol and drugs checkpoint and a young female police constable. He went through the detail; I was interested to hear it. He made the point the man wouldn’t be charged as he was totally innocent of any crime … just in the wrong place at the wrong time.’
’Yes, that’s right. I’m sorry I haven’t got a name for you, they wouldn’t tell me,’ lied Milly. A face would be enough, she thought.
‘They were lucky,’ said Ella.
‘Yes, very lucky,’ replied Milly as she ran a sharp letter opener through the top of the envelope seal. ‘I had D.I. Stopford mail this to us, which is not strictly legal. You can never mention this to anyone; he could lose his job. Right,’ said Milly as she was about to take the documents out. ‘… Oh, I nearly forgot. Do either of you know what D.N.A. phenotyping is?’
‘Yes, Milly we both do,’ answered Ella. ‘Rob gave us some detail, and we did some research. It’s wonderful technology. Soon criminals won’t be able to get away with anything.’
‘Okay then.’ Milly emptied the contents of the envelope onto the table. She returned the printout of the D.N.A. profile to the envelope — that wasn’t supposed to be there, she thought, it had Kerford’s name on it. Ella and John didn’t need to see it. She placed the photo-fit image depicting the subject unsmiling face-up on the glass table. All other documents were placed face down. ‘So, this is the photo-fit that was returned from the States with the phenotype data and the same photo-fit P.C. Stone had as an image in her mind when she picked the man out at the drug and alcohol stop.’
John looked at Ella. Ella looked back at John, as Milly looked up.
‘This one is a computer enhanced photo-fit, done here in the U.K. of the man in the photo-fit smiling,’ said Milly as she turned the next document over. She was getting lost in her enthusiasm for the technology. She checked herself, remembering who the subject was. Then she turned over the mugshot style photo taken of a smiling Kerford at the Croydon Police Station.
‘Right,’ said John as he looked at the images and back at Ella.
‘When P.C. Stone took the D.N.A. sample to Rob Windsor, they had it tested. Tests revealed the man at the drug and drink stop and the owner of the D.N.A. at the crime scene were one and the same. So, they looked to details P.C. Stone had taken at the testing point including the address on his license. They tracked him down and took some mugshots of him producing one of those images I have shown you. John looked at Ella and back at the images. Milly noticed it again.
‘Is there something wrong?’
‘That’s Daggy bloody Kerford,’ exclaimed John.
‘Who’s Daggy bloody Kerford?’ asked Milly.
‘He is,’ said Ella pointing rather disdainfully at the photo taken in Croydon.
‘I’m not quite with you,’ answered Milly who was starting to think this attempt at closure was a bad idea.
‘We know him, Milly. It’s Daggy Kerford. He lives here in Scotland … or he did. I know his father and his mother; I’m friends with them’ replied John. The three of them looked at one another. Milly was stumped. She was floundering.
‘Where does the name Daggy come from?’ she asked. It was a stupid question. She just blurted it out.
‘Not every man in Scotland has the nickname Jock, you know,’ said John smiling faintly. Milly could see his mood lighten. ‘His father is a deer shooter and so is Daggy. When he was young, we were on one of our weekends away, and he was hunting with his father and needed to relieve himself. He always wore bib ’n’ brace overalls over his clothes whenever we went shooting. So, on this occasion he relieved himself and when he finished … well, you know how we always look behind us when we finish, Milly?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well the poor little blighter looked behind him and, obviously satisfied with the job he’d done, pulled his trousers up, then his overalls and you wouldn’t believe it …’
‘He hadn’t left it all behind,’ interrupted Ella joining in.
‘Aye, that’s right,’ said John. ‘He’d actually deposited some of it into the back of his overalls. So, when he flicked the back half of his overalls over to do up with the front half, some of it got on his shirt and in his hair. Then when he tried to get it out of his hair, he smudged it in and made it worse. He stunk to high heaven. They started calling him Shitty and then it became Daggy. You can’t call a young teenage boy Shitty,’ declared John. John looked at Milly, then the two looked at Ella, and they all started laughing. It lightened the mood.
‘I’m still not convinced it’s him,’ said Milly, ‘but I suppose we’ll never know.’ She was starting to feel awkward. If anything came of this, Stopford could get into a lot of trouble.
‘It’s him alright,’ said John pointing to the photo of Kerford smiling taken in Croydon. ‘See that left eyelid.’
‘Yes,’ answered Milly.
‘Notice anything?’
‘Not really.’
‘See how it’s ever so slightly lazy or droopy at the end closest to the ear?’
‘I do now. I didn’t notice it before.’
‘He got it from his mother. His sister has it too, like that beautiful American actress … what’s her name …?’
‘Ashley Judd,’ contributed Ella. Milly could see it now John had pointed it out.
‘It’s Daggy Kerford alright.’
They sat around discussing it. They all knew Kerford — or that person, as Milly put it — had nothing to do with Sibby’s death. Milly swore them to secrecy, lest they get Stopford into trouble and lose him his job.
‘So Daggy lives here in Dundee?’ asked Milly.
‘He did until he started his welding apprenticeship in Aberdeen. Then he moved up there.’
Milly thought about it. She was sure Stopford told her he worked in computers as a computer consultant. It might all be a coincidence, she hoped. She put it out of her mind, and they didn’t discuss it again that evening when John added Sibby’s diary to the evening mix of conversation.
‘Ella found a diary amongst Sibby’s clothes.’
The diary was blue, and the front cover said, ‘Hello Kitty mid-year 2017/2018 Diary.’
‘We were obviously meant to find it,’ said Ella.
‘There are things in here we can’t work out, Milly. I don’t expect you’ll know either, but it won’t hurt to have a look.’ Milly moved from her position next to Ella and sat beside John who opened the diary on the coffee table in front of them.
‘You can have a look at the whole diary at your leisure, but there are some entries in here I’d like to show you. She writes using a lot of those smiley face things; only they’re not smiling.’
‘They’re called emojis,’ said Milly.
‘Right then. You’ll notice it’s five dates to the page and the diary is an academic diary dated 2015–2016, July through to June. The entries we are looking at begin when Joe was taken into custody on December 20, 2015.’
Milly looked as John flicked through the pages to December 20. The entry read: I’m really worried. Haven’t heard from Joe.
‘Why do you think you were meant to find it?’ asked Milly, interrupting John.
‘To begin with, we found it in her clothes drawer when we cleaned her things out of her flat. Second, if Sibby was to have a diary and wanted us to read it she wouldn’t make entries on her computer — there would be a chance we could miss them. We are computer savvy, Milly, but don’t use a computer to diarize things like kids do. Sibby knew we kept yearly diaries for dates, meetings, that sort of thing. Obviously, we would find the diary amongst her clothes when we sorted through her things after, well …’
‘I’m sorry if discussing this is uncomfortable,’ said Milly, gently.
‘No, it’s a discussion we need to have,’ insisted Ella.
John continued. ‘Sibby began making entries in November 2015; there are no prior entries. That’s why we think she bought the diary probably early to halfway through November.’ John showed Milly. ‘We think … and we could be wrong … that Sibby bought the diary when Joe began making plans for that fateful last journey for his brother, carrying cocaine. We know she was against it and was concerned …’