Farrell let himself in to his cheerless flat and fought the urge to slump onto the sofa. He collected up and binned the remains of last night’s takeaway. His head still throbbed from whisky. He knew he was sliding towards a drinking problem, but couldn’t resist the urge to seek oblivion these days. Alcohol had filled up the space left by the departure of God.
He couldn’t let the Dumfries station witness the wreck he had become since they saw him last. He winced as he turned on the lights in the small bathroom. There were dark shadows like bruises under his bloodshot and bleary eyes. The beard that he had allowed to colonize his face suddenly reminded him of his brother, Michael. He shuddered. That hadn’t struck him before. Determinedly he lathered up. It had to go.
That done he stripped off his stale clothes and stepped into the shower. Setting the heat to all but scalding he soaped vigorously before turning the water as cold as it would go. Every day he looked for new ways to punish himself, but it was never enough. He knew the whip he kept in the wooden box had become addictive. The welds it raised upon his back a self-indulgence that was now frowned upon by the Church.
Ten minutes later he opened out a blue shirt from its cellophane and threw three other packs into his open holdall. He also tossed a bundle of new underwear and socks into the bag and a selection of ties then looked at his suits. All of them, bar one, were spotted with food stains and stinking of nicotine. He threw them in a black bag. Nothing the dry cleaners in Dumfries couldn’t sort out. He pulled off the price tags of a navy suit that he’d had the self-preservation to keep untouched. Looking in the full-length mirror he reckoned he could just about pass muster as the version of himself they would all remember.
Glancing round the shabby impersonal living space, he felt he would either return from Dumfries ready to make a fresh start or he would give up on himself entirely. Right now he couldn’t call which way the chips were going to fall. He left the most important thing to last. Henry was glowering at him from the top of the wardrobe. Farrell retrieved his carrier and slung his cat’s considerable accoutrements in another bag.
‘Right, Henry, I know you’re hacked off, but there’s no point making this even worse,’ he murmured as he pulled him down into his arms. The large black and white cat twitched his tale but purred in spite of himself. Farrell gently shoed him into the carrier, picked up the bags and locked the door behind him.
He met Mhairi outside in the car park. She was carrying an identical carrier with an equally frosty cat inside. When she turned and looked at him her eyes welled up. It stung him that she still cared. He had to do better.
‘Time to get this menagerie on the road,’ he said, deflecting her tears with a grin. ‘We can drop the moggs off at my mother’s then head straight to the scene from there.’
She nodded, as if not trusting herself to speak. He squeezed her arm as he passed and got into his dumpy Citroen. She opened her own car door and followed him out into the morning city traffic.
DC Thomson had loaded up all the necessary equipment into a police van and should be well ahead. Henry’s plaintive meowing grated on Frank’s ears. It had been nearly two years since they had last set foot in Dumfries and none of them wanted to return.
Although it was well into May rain lashed against the windscreen and fog rolled in from the hills as he drove down the motorway towards Dumfries and Galloway. A wave of depression swept over him. Not for the first time he found himself sizing up the trees he passed along the way for the potential to deliver a death blow should he ram his car into them. The world would still keep turning if he was no longer in it. He was dragging everyone down into the abyss with him. An angry miaow startled him from his reverie, as if Henry had read his mind. He switched on the radio, trying to lose himself in cheesy music that reminded him of happier times, but turned it off after a couple of minutes.
Ninety minutes later he pulled up outside Yvonne Farrell’s neat bungalow, with Mhairi’s red Fiesta tucked in neatly behind him. The rain had eased off but the humidity stuck his shirt to his back. Farrell rang the doorbell, guilt twisting his guts that he hadn’t been back to visit his mother before now. He expected her to look frailer but the woman who threw open the door was positively glowing. Her jaw dropped in dismay when she saw him, though.
‘Frank. What’s happened to you? Are you ill?’
Never one to mince her words.
‘I’m fine. We’re down for a case. Can we drop off the cats? We need to get to the scene right away.’
‘Of course. That’ll be the murder that was on the news, Gina Campbell. Solicitor’s wife. Lived in one of those posh houses on the Edinburgh Road. Left two wee kiddies. Mind you by all accounts it was the nanny raised them not her. She spent half her life in that fancy beauty parlour in town.’
‘They said all this on the news?’ said Farrell.
‘No dear, of course not. One of the ladies at my bowling club lives beside them. I bumped into her in town this morning.’
‘Did she find the body?’
‘No, that was the husband. You might have come across him. Local criminal defence lawyer, Fergus Campbell? His parents are County types. They attend St Margaret’s. I gather they’ve rather washed their hands of him.’
‘Doesn’t ring a bell. Anyway, thanks for stashing our stuff. Mhairi’s staying with Ronnie and Vera. She’ll collect Oscar later.’
He gave her a quick hug then ran to the Citroen.
The address given for the Campbells was a detached sandstone house set well back from the road.
‘Not short of a bob or two then,’ muttered Mhairi as they walked up the curving driveway.
‘He must have family money behind him,’ said Farrell.
The SOCO van was still there. PC Rosie Green was manning the outer cordon and brightened when she saw them approach.
‘I was hoping they’d send you down, sir.’
DS Byers popped his head out of the front door and motioned them over.
‘Long time no see,’ he greeted them. ‘Miss me?’ he said to Mhairi, nudging her with his elbow.
She glowered at him.
‘Like a plague of boils,’ she said.
Byers too looked well, fit and happy. Had they really all been able to put what had happened to Lind behind them so easily?
Janet White and Philip Tait were still processing the scene. Farrell and Mhairi suited up and walked along the spacious hall towards the kitchen. Everything they encountered spoke of muted good taste. The place was stuffed to the brim with valuable antiques. They stood at the threshold and looked in. The metallic stench of blood hung in the air. A toxic cloud mixed with undertones of waste and decay. Farrell looked at the corpse and felt unusually detached as if he was viewing a scene from a film.
Even in death, Gina Campbell was beautiful. Spread out on the oak flooring like a collapsed mannequin, her long brunette hair fanned out behind her. She was wearing an emerald green silk dress with a full skirt and one black stiletto, the other not far from an outstretched leg. A large carving knife lay on the floor a couple of feet away. An exotic bloom that didn’t belong in this subdued house filled as it was with relics from a past she couldn’t share.
‘The stab wound appears to have sliced through an artery, judging by the volume and distribution of blood. If so, she would have bled out quickly,’ said Janet White.
‘Was she already dead when the husband found her?’ asked Farrell.
‘Allegedly,’ said DS Byers. ‘I spoke to him here just minutes after he called it in.’
‘Could he have stabbed her himself?’ asked Mhairi.
‘Not if his alibi checks out. He claims he was with friends all night, playing poker.’
‘Are his friends lawyers too?’ asked Farrell. ‘Odd thing for them to do on a Monday night.’
Byers consulted his notebook.
‘Yes, two of them are criminal defence lawyers but from different firms. Max Delaney and Jack Kerr. One of them is a prosecutor, from the local fiscal’s office:
Peter Swift. Delaney and Kerr both contacted the station after hearing about the murder this morning, to vouch for Fergus Campbell, the husband.’
‘Bit odd, wouldn’t you say?’ said Mhairi.
‘Almost as if they’d been primed in advance,’ said Farrell.
‘That’s one way of looking at it,’ said Byers. ‘However, given their occupation they’re bound to think we’d be looking at the husband, so it’s only natural they’d jump straight in there if the alibi is genuine.’
‘What about Peter Swift, the fiscal?’ asked Farrell, rising to his feet after examining the body. ‘He’s nominally on our side at least.’
‘He was apparently there until around midnight,’ said Byers. ‘He went home because he didn’t want to leave his fiancée on her own.’
‘She confirmed that?’
‘Yes, a Beth Roberts. She was still up watching TV when he returned, and they went to bed not long after,’ said Byers.
‘If you want to speak to the alibi witnesses, Kerr and Delaney, today, it might be worth your while popping down to the court. They should be getting clear in about half an hour. The husband and his two kids are at the nanny’s house until we’re done here. He said he’ll make himself available at the station when you want him.’
‘Were the kids in the house at the time?’ asked Mhairi. ‘What age are they?’
‘They’re one and three. Fortunately they were staying the night with the nanny.’
‘Bit strange for the nanny to keep them at her house, isn’t it?’ asked Mhairi. ‘A place this size you’d have thought she would stay with them here so as not to disrupt their routine. Unless the wife wanted them out the way for a particular reason?’ she said, nodding towards two red wine glasses on a low coffee table beside the settee. There were a few bowls of snacks set out that appeared to be untouched.
‘Who have you appointed as Family Liaison Officer?’ asked Farrell.
‘That would be PC Rosie Green, if you’ve no objection,’ said Byers, a sudden undercurrent of hostility hardening his gaze.
‘Excellent choice,’ said Farrell. Although it had been nearly two years since Police Scotland had come into being, it was the first time he had been sent down here with a Major Inquiry Team to lend expertise. Their reception had varied across different stations. For the most part, as long as they didn’t throw their weight around, they were welcomed with open arms.
‘Is Dave Thomson not along for the ride?’ asked Byers.
‘He came down in the van with the equipment,’ said Farrell. ‘He’ll have arrived at the station and be setting up the MCA room by now.’
‘That’s us done here,’ announced Phil Tait, the other SOCO, packing away their gear. ‘You can call the bus to pick up the body.’
Farrell thanked him and glanced at his watch.
‘Mhairi and I had better head off to the court then,’ he said to Byers. ‘I’d prefer to speak to the alibi witnesses as soon as possible. We’ll keep it informal for the time being. It’ll give us a chance to observe them before they know who we are.’
Chapter 4
The court was located in Buccleuch Street. As they approached the weathered sandstone building they could see a small throng gathered outside. The usual assortment of mates and girlfriends with the odd scrappy mother in their midst. They wore their sense of grievance and outrage with pride. Alliances were forged and relationships severed in scenes like this across all the courts in Scotland. Farrell stopped suddenly causing Mhairi to run into the back of him. She swore under her breath, but when he paused and took out a packet of fags and offered her one, she immediately twigged and played along, searching her jacket pockets for matches.
‘Got a light?’ she asked a young guy with a pockmarked face and the obligatory baseball cap.
He paused mid-flow and extracted a lighter from his jeans pocket.
‘Cheers, mate,’ she said, passing it to Farrell who lit up and handed it back. ‘They’re taking their time in there. I thought my sister’s trial would be finished ages ago. We’ve got better things to do than hang around this dump all day.’
‘I was meant to go to trial but my brief didn’t turn up.’ The guy pocketed his lighter. ‘Turns out some wanker offed his wife.’
‘No kidding,’ said Farrell, inhaling deeply.
‘I was in the dock waiting for the sheriff and heard some of them talking. She was running around on him.’
‘They said this in front of you?’ said Mhairi.
‘They weren’t exactly shouting it from the rooftops, but they were at the table right in front of me and I was quiet like.’
‘I bet they didn’t have the balls to say who it was?’ said Farrell.
‘No. I reckon a couple of them know though. I could tell by the way they looked at each other.’
Farrell stubbed out his cigarette and handed over the packet to his unwitting informant.
‘Here mate, keep the packet. I’m trying to quit. We’d best go and see what’s what.’
‘Cheers, man,’ he said, sounding as if he couldn’t believe his luck.
The court clientele had thinned out considerably by this time, so they were able to walk straight up to the court officer’s desk. Farrell thought the tall angular man looked vaguely familiar and rumbled about in the recesses of his mind for a name. It had been a while. As usual, he was saved by Mhairi.
‘Bob, how are you?’
‘DC Mhairi McLeod,’ he exclaimed, his face splitting in a smile. ‘You’re a sight for sore eyes.’
‘It’s Sergeant now,’ she said with an answering grin. ‘You’ll remember my boss, DI Farrell?’
‘Aye, of course,’ he said, looking as blank as Farrell felt.
‘Can you tell us the name of that guy out there, the one with the blue hoodie?’ asked Farrell, opening his notebook. ‘He was meant to be up today but the case was put off. His solicitor’s Fergus Campbell.’
Bob leaned over the desk and squinted down the hall.
‘That would be Barry McLeish, one of our frequent fliers,’ he said.
‘Got an address and date of birth?’ asked Farrell.
The court officer rifled through a pile of complaints before pulling one out.
‘DOB 13/3/95,’ he read, ‘address is 29 Polton Avenue, Lochside.’
‘Thanks. We’re here to speak to two of your criminal defence lawyers,’ said Farrell. ‘Max Delaney and Jack Kerr?’
‘Yip, both still here,’ he said consulting his list. ‘You’ll find them in Sheriff Robert Granger’s court right at the bottom of the corridor. I suppose you’re here about Fergus Campbell’s wife? A terrible business.’
‘Did you know her?’ asked Mhairi.
‘I came across her a few times.’ He leaned in closer. ‘Gorgeous to look at but hard as nails. I wasn’t a fan, to be honest.’
‘How so?’ asked Farrell.
‘Well she was one of those who could flick the charm on and off like a switch. If you were of no use to her, she was barely civil.’
They took their leave and walked down the corridor. Entering the court, they paused while a solicitor was on his feet addressing the sheriff and then slipped in to the first row of spectators when he was done. Despite their consideration, they still attracted an ugly look from Sheriff Robert Granger as they sat down.
‘What’s his problem?’ whispered Mhairi.
‘Silence in the court,’ the sheriff thundered. ‘If I have to speak to you again, young lady, you will be removed.’
Mhairi flushed but said nothing. Her hand clenched into a fist in her lap.
A spotty youth was brought up to the dock.
A woman at the oval table stood. She looked to be in her late twenties and she was visibly trembling underneath her black gown.
‘Miss Roberts, your client’s fate hangs in the balance,’ the sheriff said, peering at her with ice-cold eyes. ‘As you know, I am considering a custodial sentence.’
She haltingly embarked on a plea in mitigation, putt
ing forward reasons for leniency which he interrupted and ridiculed at every turn. Farrell and Mhairi glanced at each other. It was painful to watch. The other solicitors at the table were clearly uncomfortable too.
The sheriff gave him six months.
‘Useless bitch,’ the man could be heard shouting as the door closed behind him. The young woman gathered up her things and rushed to the door.
The sheriff’s voice stopped her in her tracks just as she reached the exit.
‘Haven’t you forgotten something?’
‘Sorry, my Lord,’ she muttered and bowed her head.
The look of triumph on the man’s face was unmistakable.
Chapter 5
The remaining half hour was uneventful. The fiscal was concise and rattled through the cases efficiently. They soon identified the two men they were looking for. Jack Kerr’s accent had an abrasive Glasgow twang and he was tall and lean, the skin pulled back taut over his cheekbones. He had the restless energy of a habitual drug user, a cheap, shiny suit and dandruff on his collar. Max Delaney was plump and plush, the cut of his suit expensive and his demeanour confident and calm. The snarky sheriff failed to get a rise out of them. After he had gone off the Bench Frank and Mhairi approached the table as Delaney and Kerr were gathering up their papers.
The fiscal made them as coppers straight away and came forward with a smile and an outstretched hand.
‘Peter Swift, Fiscal. Can I help you with something?’
‘DI Farrell and DS McLeod,’ said Farrell. ‘Thank you, but it’s these gentlemen we’ve come to see.’
Quick on the uptake the man nodded and picked up his files.
‘I’ll leave you to it, then,’ he said.
They turned to the two men who were stuffing their files into worn briefcases as the last straggler from the public benches left the court.
‘We’d like to ask you a few questions in relation to the murder of Gina Campbell. Thought we would save you a trip down to the station.’
Avenge the Dead Page 2