by William Paul
Chapter Forty-Four
Friday, 20.15
Matthewson finished entering his notes to the computer system. He was cutting it fine in getting to his rendezvous with Janet Dunbar but he would make it. He had told no-one about what she had said. She was his rabbit to be pulled out of the hat in front of everyone else at tomorrow morning’s big case conference when everybody came together.
He grabbed his coat and was on his way to the stairs down to the rear car park when his phone rang. He went back to answer it.
‘DS Matthewson, how can I help you?’
‘The very man. This is Assistant Chief Constable George Rusling in Inverness, sergeant. I need to contact DI McBain immediately.’
Matthewson had reached across the desk to get the phone. He rested on his elbows, jarring himself so that his teeth bit into his tongue and bounced off as if it was a piece of rubber.
‘Yes sir,’ he said. ‘She is with DCI Fyfe. I have his mobile number here.’
‘I have it too but the phone appears to be switched off or out of range. Do you know where they are?’
‘Yes sir. They’re still working on the inquiry. The phone may be off if they are interviewing somebody.’
‘I need to speak to DI McBain urgently. Where is she spending the night? Can you give me the name of the hotel?’
Matthewson bit his tongue, regretting the act because it was already tender from the previous bite. Fyfe, wearing his black eye as a battle honour, had joked about taking Moya back to his flat to ply her with drink and seduce her. It was only a joke but Matthewson was quite clear there was some regulation or other that prevented them hiring out their private property to visiting officers. He couldn’t clipe on his boss. He might need a return favour some day and it was more likely to come from Fyfe than from an assistant chief on another force. Loyalty ran deep, especially when promotion assessments were compiled. But this was an assistant chief constable asking and the inquiry was live. It had to be important.
‘It’s not a hotel, sir.’
‘Guest house then.’
‘I can’t quite recall. DCI Fyfe will be at home later tonight. He’ll be able to tell you.’
‘No time for that. I need to know where he is now, sergeant.’
‘I’m not exactly sure, sir.’
‘I think you are, sergeant. Look if DI McBain was my escort I might want to get conveniently lost as well.’
‘I don’t know what you mean, sir.’
‘Well you can’t be that clever a detective.’
‘Maybe they’re walking the dogs?’
‘What dogs? They’re supposed to be on duty, aren’t they? Look this is urgent, top priority. I need to know where Fyfe and McBain will be. It’s to do with the murder inquiry.’
‘I could probably get a message to him, sir.’
‘If you can get a message to him you know where he is so I can deliver my own message. Tell me.’
Matthewson stopped stalling and told Rusling the address of the flat. What else could he do, he reasoned. It wasn’t as if Fyfe was serious when he joked about seducing her. Surely they wouldn’t actually be caught with their pants down? Surely not? He tried to phone Fyfe but clipped female vowels informed him the phone was switched off and he should try again later.
Matthewson shrugged helplessly and picked up his coat again. He could go round to the flat and warn Fyfe only he didn’t know what he was supposed to be warning him about. Besides he had a date with a woman who was going to help him catch a murderer.
Chapter Forty-Five
Friday, 21.16
Moya’s mouth looked incredibly inviting. The tiny grooves on her lips, each one with its attendant shadow, drew Fyfe in. He was on one knee. One hand was on the chair, the other was on the floor so that she was encircled by his arms. He was sure her smile was growing wider as he lowered his head down towards her face. No going back now. He had made his decision. He closed his eyes.
He kissed her. Her forehead jerked forward and hit him on the bridge of the nose. Her hand slammed into his face. He fell to one side, collapsing over her legs and rolling off onto the carpet. She got up on her knees. Number Five was barking at the outbreak of excitement. Jill sat up on the sofa and looked down at him disdainfully.
‘Are you all right?’ she asked. ‘What did you think you were doing? I got such a fright.’
Fyfe clutched his injured eye. The pain was intense. He could feel the skin growing larger under his hand, like a balloon inflating. Blood was leaking internally. He thought if he pressed hard enough he could keep it small. His nose was bleeding too. A warm sensation was spreading down his chin onto the front of his shirt. When he tried to speak he realized the blood was in the back of his throat and he choked on it. Moya knelt beside him with her arm round his shoulders.
‘I’m sorry. I’m sorry,’ she kept saying. ‘You gave me such a fright, for goodness sake. I didn’t mean to hurt you.’
Fyfe kept his head down. He was too embarrassed to look at Moya as she helped him to his feet and led him into the bathroom. Only cold water was available from the tap. What must she think of him and his clumsy efforts at seduction? His eye throbbed painfully like something attached to his head rather than something that was a part of it. What a bloody clown he was.
‘It’s my self-defence training,’ Moya said. ‘The instructor told me I had shit-hot reflexes. Oh dear, it looks as if your eye is swelling badly again.’
Fyfe looked in the mirror above the sink. The eye was closed, a smooth-edged slit in a rounded mound of black and blue. He held a handful of toilet paper to his nose to catch the blood. It rapidly turned pink. The blood that escaped spread sideways, caught up in the maze of stubble on his chin. At least Moya was laughing about it. Things couldn’t be more colourful, but they could be worse. He wanted to apologize for his behaviour but was uncertain how to put it into words. God, he was embarrassed.
‘I’d better go,’ he said.
‘Once the bleeding stops,’ she insisted.
He did as he was told. He waited at the sink until the bleeding all but stopped and Moya stood behind him patting him on the back. The cold water seemed to make the blood clot more readily. After five minutes he was battered but no longer bleeding. His shirt and the lapels of his jacket were a mess. Moya dabbed at the blood with tissues and decided that she wanted to be more than friends. It was her nervous stupidity that had ruined what should have been a beautiful moment between them. If he didn’t make another pass at her she would take the initiative.
‘I’d better go,’ Fyfe repeated. ‘I’ll leave you the dogs. They’ll keep any ghosts at bay and I’ll come back and get them in the morning.’
‘That’s very thoughtful of you.’
‘Do you think so?’
‘I’d better be going.’
‘Why? I haven’t had a chance to say sorry properly yet.’
Moya pushed him against the sink and kissed him on the lips, forcing his head back and running her tongue over his teeth.
‘If you’re going to kiss me, David, don’t sneak up on me like that,’ she said. ‘Do it when my eyes are open. I prefer it that way.’
‘Do you now,’ Fyfe said, his confidence restored. ‘I’m afraid I can only open one eye at the moment.’
‘So I see. Never mind, the rest of you is in working order.’
She kissed him again, harder, making his head spin as the sensitive bruised flesh round his eye was stretched. This time he put his arms round her and pulled her in as tightly as he could. She felt as good as she tasted, staying in close as they paused for breath. He worried that the sink would not be able to support their combined weight and would come away from the wall.
‘Careful,’ he warned. ‘The sink won’t take this kind of punishment. You’ll have us on the floor.’
‘Do you believe in destiny, Chief Inspector?’ Moya said breathily.
‘Sometimes,’ he replied, trying not to show how painful his eye was. ‘Despite everything we’ve le
arned today.’
‘A reason for everything.’
‘A reason for us being alone together here.’
‘What could that reason be? I haven’t read it anywhere recently, have I?’
‘Kiss me and you’ll get a better idea,’ she ordered.
He pulled her in and was just about to kiss her when the doorbell rang. It drilled into the silence between them, creating a physical barrier that prohibited further contact. Three times it stopped and three times it re-started, screaming its urgent message and destroying the mood of romance. The dogs were barking. Fyfe’s nose started to bleed again.
‘Who can that be?’ Moya said angrily. ‘It must be about the inquiry. I’d better answer it.’
She was gone before he could do anything about it. He turned and let the blood from his nose drip into the sink. He looked at his ravaged face in the mirror and sighed wearily.
‘Destiny David,’ he told himself bitterly. ‘Looks like bloody destiny’s got it in for you.’
Chapter Forty-Six
Friday, 21.32
Moya couldn’t believe it when she saw Ian Dalglish standing on the doorstep in front of her. There was an artificial smile on his face making him look like a grotesque parody of a Punch and Judy puppet. She was totally at a loss for words. The dogs behind her provided the excuse to turn round and avoid looking at him by pretending to calm them down. Her cheeks burned, twin red badges of embarrassment. Guilt at being caught in the act with Fyfe wrestled with anger at Dalglish for coming looking for her.
‘What’s the matter Moya,’ Dalglish said. ‘Surprised to see me?’
The mocking tone of his voice got through to her. Annoyance clashed with frustration. She stiffened. Anger got the upper hand. What was she? Some kind of schoolgirl caught in the act of two-timing her boyfriend? Well, yes, actually. Ignore the age element and that was a pretty fair description of the situation. Guilt calmed her down. She held Jill’s head between her hands and wished her life could be as simple as an innocent dog’s. She kissed Jill’s cold nose.
‘Aren’t you going to invite me in then?’ Dalglish said.
‘What are you doing here, Ian?’ She turned, hoping she would be able to stay in control. ‘How did you find me?’
‘You’re hiding from me are you?’
‘You know what I mean.’
‘I’ve got friends in high places.’
‘I’m working. Don’t you realize I’m in the middle of running a murder inquiry?’
‘From a private flat?’
‘It’s a convenient place to stay.’
‘With Chief Inspector Fyfe by your side to see you through the night? It is his flat, isn’t it?’
‘So?’
‘So maybe you’re mixing a little business with pleasure.’
‘Ian, how can you think such a thing? I’m a professional doing a job. We’re working together on this inquiry. That’s all there is to it. Nothing more.’
Dalglish relented a little, unsure of his ground. Moya watched his expression change from anger through uncertainty to regret. She could see that he didn’t want to accuse her. His jealousy was overwhelming him. It appealed to her ego that he should be so upset. He had come all this way to find her. Thank God, it suddenly occurred to her, he had arrived in time.
How could she have considered cheating on him? How come she had ended up being seduced by Fyfe so soon after their first encounter when she had been convinced he was a typical cocky, patronizing male throwback? What was she playing at? David Fyfe was a threat, an amoral danger. Ian Dalglish was her future, her security. There was no contest. She would marry Dalgish now, just as soon as he asked her again. No messing around. That was settled in her mind.
It had been a narrow escape with Fyfe. Moya sighed deeply and shook her head at her impulsive foolishness. She shivered in the cold of the high-ceilinged hallway and stepped forward to kiss Dalglish on the cheek to begin the process of making-up.
‘We’re supposed to go to Paris tomorrow,’ he said.
‘I can’t. Not now. Not until this inquiry is finished.’
‘Don’t worry, I understand. Edinburgh’s a romantic city too.’
Dalglish came inside and embraced her fondly. Reasonableness had been restored, Moya thought gratefully. Her lustful aberration had been nipped in the bud. Another few minutes and she would have committed another crime of passion, one there was no legislation against. Now the embarrassment for her was that Fyfe was still in the bathroom bleeding into the sink. How was she going to get rid of him and retain her credibility.
Footsteps approached from behind. The dogs’ claws scraped on the floor tiles as they moved back into the flat. The burning in Moya’s cheeks was rekindled.
‘You must be DCI Fyfe,’ Dalglish said over Moya’s shoulder. ‘That’s a colourful eye. You’ve been in the wars.’
‘Goes with the job.’
Moya made the formal introductions. The two men shook hands and she looked from one to the other. Fyfe was holding a blood-stained tissue to his nose. The sense of absurdity made her light-headed and she covered her mouth to stop herself laughing.
‘Nice flat you’ve got here,’ Dalglish said.
‘It’s just sitting empty. We thought it would be a good idea to save the taxpayer some money on Moya’s accommodation. Better than some grotty guest house.’
‘Much better,’ Dalglish agreed. ‘Very cosy.’
‘I’ll see you in the morning, Moya,’ Fyfe said. ‘Bright and early. Don’t stay up too late. Come on dogs. Time to go home.’
Moya closed the door behind him. It would be easy to explain the remnants of the Chinese meal as a working dinner she and Fyfe had shared. Nothing wrong with that. She hoped there was no other incriminating evidence lying around. They hadn’t made it to the bedroom and started undressing. The sink was still firmly screwed to the wall, which was more than she had been, thank goodness. She was in the clear and her man was in a forgiving mood.
‘You don’t mind me staying the night, do you?’ Dalglish asked.
‘On the contrary, Ian,’ going all dewy-eyed and girlish. ‘I hate sleeping alone. You know that.’ She pushed him ahead of her into the flat, grimacing at her self-conscious display of hypocrisy but perversely pleased that she was able to carry it off so convincingly.
Chapter Forty-Seven
Friday, 22.00
Matthewson saw the woman in the Philip Marlowe trench-coat pacing up and down beside the pair of phone boxes. Her hair was held back in a bushy pony tail held by a yellow scarf. The collar of the coat was pulled up round her face and the belt was loosely tied. One hand rested on a bag at waist level hung over her shoulder. She smoked intermittently, not inhaling but blowing the smoke upwards with unconscious film-star élan.
He had parked his car some distance away so that he could approach on foot by the bridge over the Water of Leith. She saw him and seemed to guess who he was straight away. She stopped pacing and waited for him at the window of the launderette. She threw down a cigarette butt and crushed it under her shoe. Black boots, Matthewson noted, with slightly elevated heels. Knee-length or thigh-length? He hoped desperately that she wasn’t a time-waster. He needed something positive to give to Fyfe to make up for shopping him and the woman detective. God, what would happen if they were caught at it? Was it against regulations, like drinking on duty?
He crossed the road, past the round-faced clock on its stone pillar on the traffic island, and went up to her. There was hardly anyone else around except for a teenage boy in one of the phone boxes and occasional figures moving about in the distance.
‘I’m Sergeant Matthewson,’ he said, showing identification. ‘Did you phone me?’
She nodded. ‘Janet Dunbar.’
Close up, he could see her eyes were red with crying. She was an attractive woman, trying to look younger than she actually was. Her hair had light roots. Her face was just too heavily powdered. He felt sorry for her.
‘What can you tell me, Ja
net?’
‘I know Simon Wright. It’s his wife that was found . . .’
‘Yes, I know. What about Mr Wright.’
‘He wants me to be his alibi.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I was there last night, when you came. That’s how I recognized you when you arrived.’
‘Really.’ Matthewson frowned, pretending he hadn’t known.
‘Yes. I hid in the kitchen and listened at the door.’
‘Did you indeed? You and Mr Wright are friends?’
‘You could say that.’
‘Lovers?’
‘I’m a married woman with two teenage children. We were having an affair. He was my bit on the side. That’s why I’m here on this street corner. I couldn’t ask you to come to my home.’
Matthewson held his hands up. ‘I make no judgements, Janet,’ he said. ‘There but for the grace of God and all that.’
‘I only seem to be able to make bad judgements. After you were gone, Simon asked me if I would give him an alibi.’
‘And can you?’
‘No. At first I thought it was a joke but he was waiting for me in the car park this morning. He threatened me.’
She began to fumble in her handbag for the cigarette packet. She extracted one and held it between her fingers, making no attempt to put it in her mouth. In her other hand she held a cheap gas lighter. A group of four people hurried past. Two drunks were arguing loudly on a corner one hundred yards away.
‘How did he threaten you?’ Matthewson asked.
‘Well, he didn’t threaten me exactly. It was his manner. He scared me. On Tuesday night I was supposed to meet him. It was our regular arrangement. We meet in a pub and go for a meal. I waited for hours but he didn’t turn up. He came to my office on the Wednesday morning to apologize but he wouldn’t tell me where he had been, just that it was business, emergency business.’