by Owen Mullen
Since New Year’s Eve things between him and his wife hadn’t been good. Wallace was to blame; he recognised that much. And turning up at Jimmy and Martha’s covered in blood and unable to remember how he had come by his injuries was the last straw. They’d barely spoken since and he stayed away from the house; walking during the day and when night fell, walking some more. Anywhere he wouldn’t have to look at the reproach in her eyes and know he was the one who put it there. By now, she would be asleep. Time to head home.
In his heart, he didn’t believe he was capable of killing anyone and Law’s accusation had come as a shock in more ways than one. Criticism from a fellow professional, especially one who was present at the operation, was difficult to take. Law should have understood. The Coopers were desperate to have a child. He’d acted to keep that dream alive.
With a complete abruption, an emergency caesarean and a hysterectomy was the obvious course. He’d chosen to do the bold thing. The brave thing. It wasn’t his fault the bleeding wouldn’t stop and her brain had been starved of oxygen.
He’d tried. God knows he’d tried.
Colin McMillan was a different story. Maitland hadn’t a clue where he was coming from. Clearly the man was unstable. McMillan was a quiet individual who kept himself apart. Wallace didn’t know him socially and couldn’t have named anyone who did. As an obstetrician, he seemed first-class. As a colleague, he was an enigma.
Maitland had only met McMillan’s wife once, at some cheese and wine do Jimmy insisted they attend and nobody wanted to be at. She’d been a looker, though he’d detected an intensity in her and marked her as the kind of female it was better to avoid. Too much like hard work.
They’d discussed poetry, of all things. She’d rattled on about Sylvia Plath. Wallace had switched off, satisfied his first impression was correct. His knowledge of modern poets could be written on the back of a beer mat yet he knew Plath had committed suicide and, later, so did Joyce McMillan.
How about that for irony?
A glance at his watch told him it was after midnight. Usually he’d be home by now. He turned right into Mitchell Street and quickened his pace. In the narrow passage, his echoing footsteps startled him. Maitland looked over his shoulder, nervous and uncertain, seeing nothing except blackened walls covered with posters advertising clubs, and a couple of out-sized rubbish bins, crammed to the brim with cardboard.
His nerves were shot; he cursed himself for being a jittery old woman. No surprise with the pressure he was under. At any moment, the police might discover Gavin Law’s body and come for him. Law’s complaint could end his career. That gave him motive. He’d be the prime suspect.
Christ!
A dosser, sleeping under newspapers and boxes, called out incoherently from a bad dream, and Wallace was struck by a terrifying thought. He might end-up like this: during the day, shuffling through the city scrounging cheap wine to get him through another freezing cold night, his comfortable life just a distant memory he wasn’t sure had ever been real. Maitland followed the nightmare scenario through to its conclusion – dementia and death. He shuddered, more afraid than he’d ever been, and hurried on.
The car park was deserted. He put the ticket into the machine, paid the exorbitant charge and climbed the stone stairs with the sound of his own laboured breathing in his ears. At the second level, he stopped and listened. Somewhere behind him in the darkened stairwell he heard footsteps. Maitland fumbled for his keys and broke into a run. On level three, sweating and panting, he dragged the door open, fired the ignition and roared towards the exit. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a figure draw into the shadows and his heart leapt in his chest.
It wasn’t paranoia. Someone was following him.
-------
James Hambley lay in the dark going over the events for the hundredth time, starting with Margaret Cooper. Wallace wasn’t the first surgeon to make the wrong decision; neither was he the first to refuse to accept responsibility. “The operation was a success but the patient died” wasn’t a cliché for nothing. It happened. More often than people would believe. And when it did, doctors could be confident of the support of their peers. Quite right, too. The profession had to be protected otherwise they would be inundated with lawsuits, most of them without foundation.
Gavin Law’s complaint, in itself, wasn’t such a big problem. It could’ve been dealt with and contained. Threatening to add his weight to the other side took it to another level. Hambley had seen that coming and was concerned until the rape allegation effectively neutralised the righteous Law. From there, they had little to worry about, because with Law on the back foot, the case against Francis Fallon would certainly collapse.
As he’d told Wallace, these things had a way of resolving themselves so long as they kept cool heads. McMillan was a case in point. Look how easily that had gone away.
But that hadn’t been good enough for the headstrong drunken idiot.
Hambley didn’t know what his brother-in-law had actually done on Hogmanay. Wallace arrived with evidence of violence on him, and no one had seen Gavin Law since. Had Maitland killed Law, or had Law run rather than face his rape accuser?
As director, Hambley couldn’t escape the consequences. A question had been tabled for the next hospital board meeting about the loss of two surgeons in such a short time. His management at Francis Fallon was coming under scrutiny. Not a problem. He could handle the board – most of them didn’t have a clue – but if the police suddenly found a body, then that would change everything.
The phone rang. Hambley lifted it on the third ring, hoping it hadn’t wakened Martha upstairs in bed.
‘Jimmy? Jimmy, I’m being followed.’
Wallace.
‘Calm down and tell me.’
‘Tonight. Somebody was there.’
‘Wait a minute. You’re telling me…what, exactly?’
Maitland’s voice was a savage whisper. Shona mustn’t hear what he was saying. ‘I was in a car park in town. There were footsteps behind me.’
‘Did you actually see anybody?’
‘No. But somebody was there. I swear. I didn’t imagine it.’
‘Wallace, have you been drinking?’
Maitland lost his temper. ‘No…yes…no. Only a couple. That isn’t the point.’
Hambley’s tone hardened. ‘I’m rather afraid it is, Wallace. Your lifestyle’s catching up with you. It doesn’t take much these days to set you off. We all saw that on Hogmanay. My advice is the same, except now you don’t have a choice. Seek help.’
Maitland was close to tears. ‘You’re not listening. I heard him. He stayed in the shadows but he was there.’
Hambley sighed; he was tired of this. ‘Who? Who was there?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Shit! I forgot. A private investigator was here asking about Gavin Law. Somebody called Cameron.’
Maitland froze. Fear crashed over him; he felt ill. The investigator hadn’t known Maitland’s name until Hambley let it slip. ‘What should I do?’
Wallace really was pathetic. At the other end of the line, a cruel smile played at the corners of James Hambley’s mouth. If he hadn’t been Martha’s brother, he would have sacked the bastard long ago. ‘Better hope he’s as good at his job as you are at yours. You could show him where you buried Law.’
‘Jimmy. Don’t joke. It isn’t funny.’
‘No it isn’t, is it? Not funny at all. So listen you gutless fucker. I need you back here before this board meeting. I’ve got enough on my plate without having to explain your absence as well. Keep your head down and do your job. And if I so much as sniff drink on you I’ll call the police myself and tell them what I should’ve told them on New Year’s Eve. Got it?’
‘All right. All right.’
‘Assuming this investigator catches up with you, say nothing. Not a word. So long as you keep your mouth shut, you’re in the clear.’
Maitland calmed down. ‘I’m spooking myself. Sorry, Jimmy. And th
anks. I feel better.’
‘Good. Get Shona used to the idea of having you around the house more often. Like every day.’
‘What d’you mean? I don’t understand.’
‘Perhaps you thought I wasn’t serious. I am. Francis Fallon will be better off without you. As soon as the dust has settled on the mess you’ve caused, I want your resignation.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
In the black Lancia, Tony Daly sat beside someone he’d never seen before tonight. The two in the front were strangers as well. All of them acted as if he wasn’t there, ignoring him when he spoke to them. At the lights at Charing Cross, he’d tried to get out and got punched in the stomach for his efforts. Now, strong hands pinned him to the seat and bile tasting of vanilla and molasses rose in his throat.
He’d expected to see Lachie and Rutherford at the City Chambers but there was no sign of them. As so often happened, the meeting went on longer than planned and Daly assumed the vehicle with the door open was a courtesy car laid on by the council to take him home. Too late he realised his mistake.
The driver turned right into Kelvin Way and carried on through Kelvingrove Park towards University Avenue. Even at this hour, cars lined either side. Daly glanced at one of his captors and in the harsh streetlight, saw the face of a killer and wanted to be sick.
They took a left into the darkened car park, behind Kelvingrove Museum and Art Gallery. A fresh stab of terror ran through him.
His voice trembled. ‘Why’re we here?’
His question went unanswered. The men got out, rubbing their hands together against the freezing air and shared cigarettes. Daly heard them talking. Their conversation was casual. None mentioned the petrified man in the back of the car or the awful thing they were about to do. One of them joked and the others laughed, while behind them, the ghostly outline of Glasgow University’s tower pointed to a black sky.
They weren’t in a hurry.
An hour later, the leader crushed the last of his smokes into the ground with the heel of his foot and barked an order. ‘Let’s do it. And remember: no marks.’
Daly saw them approach the car and felt warmth between his thighs. Without warning, his head was yanked back and thick fingers forced his mouth open. The guy in the front screwed the top off a bottle of whisky, straddled the seats until he was almost on top of him and poured the contents down Tony Daly’s throat. Daly gagged and retched and struggled to escape. He couldn’t breathe. Alcohol soaked his clothes.
The councillor pleaded for his life. He spluttered half-formed words and his eyes filled with whisky tears. He begged them. ‘Please. Ple... I’ll do… Tell, Sean. Tell him I…’
A choking fit brought temporary relief. His tormentors waited for it to pass – they didn’t want him dead. Not yet.
Again, the gangsters prised their victim’s lips apart and kept going. When the first bottle was empty a second took its place.
The driver started the car, drove along Kelvin Way and on to the heart of the West End. They crossed a deserted Great Western Road and pulled into the kerb close to the bridge on Queen Margaret Drive. From the boot, the thug who’d emptied the whisky down the councillor’s throat got a length of rope that smelled like tar and ended in a noose. Daly was dragged from the car, moaning, and carried the few steps to the bridge just as a couple appeared. The girl’s head rested against her boyfriend’s shoulder; he whispered and she smiled.
Daly’s persecutors threw their arms round him, pretending he was a pal who’d overdone the bevy. A hand pressed against his mouth prevented him from calling out, while another clapped his back in a show of support.
‘You’re all right. No problem. We’ll get you home.’
An unnecessary performance; the lovers were blind to everything but each other. Daly tried to focus and couldn’t. He knew he was going to die. In a final futile attempt to save himself he slurred and blubbered.
‘I’ll do it! I’ll do it! Tell Sean I’ll…Don’t…’
Nobody was listening. They tied the rope to a lamp post and put the noose round his neck; he slumped, exhausted and defeated, against the wall, crying like a lost child. When they lifted him and rolled him over the concrete parapet, he screamed.
The rope tightened and the scream died.
Sean Rafferty was miles away, playing cards and winning, when Tony Daly went off the Queen Margaret Bridge.
But the message had been sent. It remained to be seen who heeded it.
-------
At one o’clock in the morning the temperatures dived and, for the first time since the New Year, rain became snow. For an hour it melted and vanished but, around two-thirty, it started to gather. By five, it was inches deep, coming down thick and fast. Glasgow was in for another day of train cancellations and traffic jams.
In the hours after dawn, the Kelvin Walkway was deserted. The Walkway was one of the city’s best kept secrets. This early, the jogger had it to himself. Sometimes, especially in summer, he went as far as Milngavie. Today he didn’t consider it. Beyond Maryhill, the narrow, muddy single-track would be rutted hard and dangerous. Even on the flat the soles of his shoes struggled to find traction. His friends already thought he was crazy. If they could see him now he would never live it down. They didn’t understand what it was to feel you were the only person on the planet. Staying fit they got but missed the most important parts. The beauty. The peace.
He crossed the river behind the Botanic Gardens and headed into woodland just as the snow cleared. His footsteps padding the ground and the rasp of his breathing as cold air burned his lungs were the only sounds, apart from the rushing of the swollen river. The remains of the North Woodside Flint Mill distracted him; he slipped, almost fell, and decided that, however much he loved it, in the conditions, what he was doing wasn’t wise. Tranquillity was one thing; a broken leg was something else. The chances of being found soon weren’t good. He would freeze.
A bend in the path brought him in sight of the Queen Margaret Bridge.
The body hung motionless from the rope. Ridiculously, snow patched its head like a hat and lay on the shoulders like white epaulets. The face was grey. Grey and dead.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
The police car raced towards the scene, siren blaring and blue light flashing. In the passenger seat, DI Barr ran a hand over his dark hair and felt a thrill of excitement run through him. He had imagined how it would feel, and now it was happening he wasn’t disappointed. This was what it was about, and he loved it.
On both Byers Road and Great Western, traffic was at a standstill. Cars sat bumper to bumper, unable to travel in any direction. And it wouldn’t get much better until the crime scene manager was satisfied and decided they could re-open them. For now, every artery near the tragedy was closed. Frustrated people sighed and drummed on their steering wheels as the realisation they were going to be late for work sank in.
At the lights, an officer waved the car into Queen Margaret Drive. Barr got out and ducked under the blue and white tape stretched across the street. Two other police cars were already there and an ambulance sat with the engine running: the back doors were closed.
Andrew Geddes was waiting. His boss strode past him. ‘What’ve we got?’
Geddes fell into step beside him. ‘Middle-aged man hanging from the bridge. Life pronounced extinct by the medics. Been there a while I’d say. CSM’s done his best to preserve the scene but it’s impossible. Too public to leave the body where it was.’
The temperature still wasn’t much above freezing. Barr rubbed his hands together and stamped his feet. DS Geddes wasn’t sure he was listening. ‘So, suicide. Okay, what else?’
Geddes read from a notebook. ‘Jogger discovered it at seven-ten.’
‘You’ve talked to him?’
The DS hesitated. Of course he’d fucking talked to him. ‘Took an initial statement. Said we’d need him to give a more detailed one later today. Guy’s pretty shook-up. Runs half a dozen miles every other day, come rain come shi
ne. Even in a blizzard.’
‘Mad.’
‘Keen. Though maybe not after this. Bit of a shocker to come across before you’ve had your breakfast. Might need help to get over it.’
The DI was unsympathetic. ‘Anybody who jogs in this weather already needs help. Where’s the body?’
‘In there.’
At the ambulance, Geddes touched Barr’s arm – a friendly gesture and a mistake. ‘Seen umpteen people hang themselves, but the first one, when I was in uniform, stayed in my head for months. As a way to go it’s definitely not recommended.’
His concern wasn’t appreciated. The DI shrugged off the warning. ‘Get on with it, can we? Haven’t got all day.’
Geddes signalled an ambulance man to open the door. Inside, a male somewhere between fifty and sixty lay on his back fully-clothed. The smell of whisky washed over the policemen; strong enough to make them gag. Geddes tasted bile in his mouth and watched the DI’s reactions. If there was any, he didn’t see it. Cold bastard.
Barr said, ‘Sure he didn’t drink himself to death?’
A purple mark at the dead man’s throat proved there had been more to it than that.
‘Who is he?’
‘Credit cards in his wallet say Anthony Daly. We’ll know more about him soon.’
Barr waved his hand through the alcohol fumes and gave his attention to the lines of traffic on Great Western Road. ‘Let’s get things moving.’
‘What about the family?’
‘Speak to them.’
‘Me?’
‘Yeah, you. Got a problem with that?’
Geddes did. ‘Don’t you want to interview them?’
‘Why? You can guess what they’ll tell us. Suffering from depression and recently something put him over the edge. Drinking heavily though nobody had any idea it was as bad as this.’
‘I agree, except it assumes it was suicide.’