by Marion Todd
What They Knew
Cover
Title Page
Dedication
Thursday, 31st December
Chapter 1
Sunday, 3rd January
Chapter 2
Monday, 4th January
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Tuesday, 5th January
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Wednesday, 6th January
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Thursday, 7th January
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Friday, 8th January
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Saturday, 9th January
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Sunday, 10th January
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Monday, 11th January
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Tuesday, 12th January
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Wednesday, 13th January
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Thursday, 14th January
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Friday, 15th January
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Saturday, 16th January
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Acknowledgements
Canelo Crime
About the Author
Also by Marion Todd
Copyright
Cover
Table of Contents
Start of Content
For my brothers, Iain, Stuart and Kenneth,
who field my endless questions about crime
without raising an eyebrow between them
Thursday, 31st December
Chapter 1
Alison Reid studied the changes she’d made to her dating profile on Attracto while Jools Holland played boogie-woogie piano on the annual Hootenanny TV show. She had turned the volume down low to concentrate on the task and she could only just hear the tinkling of piano keys as she scrolled through.
‘Bo-ring,’ the girls at work had said when they’d seen her first attempt; and when she compared it with other profiles on Attracto, she had to admit they were right. There had been a couple of messages from men on the site and one promise of a date but nothing had come of it.
‘You need to change that profile,’ the girls had said. They were full of suggestions, some of which had made Alison blush, but she jotted down the better ones and promised she would update it over the festive break. And she had determined to do it before the new year dawned.
It had taken an hour or two but she was pretty pleased with her evening’s work. Out had gone:
Thirty-something who enjoys country walks
and in had come:
World’s worst skier – but I have a Roomba!
The photo was new too – taken at her work desk, with the background blurred. Fay had brought in Velcro rollers to give Alison’s usually straight bob a tousled look and Kezia had taken dozens of photos which she had uploaded to her office computer. She and Fay then played about with filters until they were satisfied with the result.
‘There,’ Kezia had said, turning her monitor round so Alison could see. ‘Don’t you look fab?’
Alison had to admit the photo was a huge improvement. Instinctively she’d put a hand up to her hair, patting the unfamiliar style as she stared at the screen, taking in her new look. But she stopped short of letting the girls loose on her profile. ‘I’ll do it myself, at home,’ she had said.
‘We’ll be checking,’ Kezia warned and Alison had assured her she would do as they suggested.
A blast of jazz trumpet from the TV momentarily distracted her and she checked her watch. Her guest was late. But it didn’t matter. She turned back to the laptop, running her eye over her profile again. She hadn’t made all the changes the girls had suggested but she was pretty happy with it. She glanced at the clock. Five minutes to midnight. Five minutes until the new year and Alison was determined that this year was going to be different.
She clicked the Update button and rose from the table. Glancing at the TV screen she saw the large studio clock on the Hootenanny, the hands approaching twelve. She should have poured a drink, really, but she wanted to wait for her guest. She thought back to the plans they had made a few days earlier. She hoped her directions had been clear enough.
A sharp trill on the doorbell took her attention from the screen and she quickly closed the laptop.
Ten, nine, eight, seven…
The Hootenanny audience were counting down, as Alison moved into the hall. She crept up to the door and put her eye to the spy glass that gave her a wide-angled view of the doorstep and beyond. It was dark of course, only a few streetlights casting a dull glow on the houses opposite. But her outside light shone down on the person who stood on the threshold. She scrutinised the face for something familiar. She was faintly nervous, but not quite sure why.
Happy New Year, Jools announced, and the sound of a pipe band playing Auld Lang Syne drifted into the hall. A new year. She took her courage in both hands and opened the door.
A smile spread across the visitor’s face. ‘Alison – so sorry I’m late. Forgive me?’
Alison stood for a moment, hesitant, then she returned the smile. ‘Of course,’ she said. Then she stepped aside to admit her guest.
The visitor held out a bottle of red wine. ‘Let’s toast the new year. I hope red’s okay. It’s a good one.’
In the kitchen Alison switched on the oven to preheat, uncorked the wine and took glasses out of the cupboard while her visitor waited on the living room sofa.
‘Can’t beat the Hootenanny,’ the visitor said, as Alison appeared with two glasses of wine. She set these down on the coffee table. ‘I’ve put some food in to heat. Just veggie sausage rolls but they’re pretty good. Quite like the real thing.’
‘Sounds great.’
She chose a seat opposite her visitor and made to raise her glass.
The visitor took the other glass then said, ‘Sorry – I hope this doesn’t sound cheeky but I don’t suppose you’ve got any food we can have now. Crisps? Or nuts? I missed dinner and I’m starving.’
‘I’m sure I have something,’ Alison said. She rose from her seat and went back into the kitchen.
As soon as she was out of sight the visitor slipped a small tablet silently into Alison’s glass, swirling it around to help it dissolve.
Alison returned, bearing a bowl of pistachios and another of Bombay Mix. ‘Is this okay? The hot food shouldn’t be too long.’
‘Perfect.’ The visitor picked up the other glass. ‘Cheers. Here’s to us.’
On the TV, Jools was chatting to some celebrity.
‘Who is that?’ the visitor asked but Alison shook her head.
‘Soap star, I think. Not sure, really.’
>
The visitor indicated Alison’s glass. ‘Drink up. It’s bad luck if we don’t finish the bottle.’
As Alison drained her glass and held it out for a refill the visitor checked the time. Half an hour ought to be long enough. Just thirty more minutes and then the fun would start.
* * *
It was just after one o’clock when the visitor left, taking the wine bottle and both glasses. No point in leaving DNA evidence or fingerprints. A few snowflakes began drifting down from the sky, settling on the pavement outside the house where Alison Reid had lived for the past five years and where, this evening, she had died. Not quite the start to the new year she had planned.
Sunday, 3rd January
Chapter 2
Clare stood ankle deep in snow in a field to the south of St Andrews, her collar turned up against a biting north-easterly wind. The snow had finally stopped the previous afternoon and, as the skies cleared, the mercury had dropped, giving the white blanket a crisp coating that crunched satisfyingly underfoot. Although it was now almost nine thirty, a watery sun was still struggling to peep over the horizon. Out to the east the grey North Sea merged with the sky making it difficult to see where the sea ended and the sky began. The fields around her were plump with their wintry coating and the trees hung with snow, softening the bare branches. Overhead a lone buzzard was circling, its eagle eye alert for any small movement on the ground. It was an idyllic view – redolent of the Christmas cards Clare had hurriedly stuck onto the door frames on Christmas Eve. And yet, as she looked without enthusiasm at her companions on this wintry morning, she thought, if this wasn’t hell, she could probably see it from here.
Benjy strained on his lead as a middle-aged woman in a Barbour jacket and Hunter wellies went past, picking her way carefully through the snow. A handsome German pointer trotted obediently beside her paying Benjy no heed. They took up their place, a few yards from Clare, and stood waiting for the class to begin.
Clare’s feet were starting to feel cold and she flexed them inside her boots, thinking longingly of the cosy cottage she had just left. It was the first proper snow of the winter, and she cursed herself for not digging out her thermal socks. There was snow in Boston, too. She knew that now, thanks to the new year text message from Geoffrey Dark, her on-off partner (boyfriend seemed too juvenile a word). The new year message that hadn’t actually arrived until late last night. It had been full of news – the parties, fireworks over the harbour, skating in the park… Oh yes, Clare thought. Lots of news. But very little else. Very little about us, she thought.
Her own new year had been tame, by comparison: a glass or three of red in front of the Hootenanny with only Benjy for company, and bed by one o’clock.
Two more women arrived with a pair of German Shepherds. Clare recognised the dogs as Zander and Leila, although she’d no idea what the women’s names were. To her relief, she saw the familiar figure of Ralph, the exuberant and completely wild Border collie, coming through the gate into the field. Clare was always pleased to see Ralph at the classes. Not only could he be relied on to be far more disruptive than Benjy, but his owner – one of the few men who attended the dog training – was particularly easy on the eye, as far as she could tell from the other side of the training field. He had a new hat today, Clare noticed. A soft grey beanie with a Nordic pattern. A Christmas present, she assumed. On some men it might have seemed girlish and wrong. But, with his swarthy complexion and stylish clothes, he somehow carried it off. Clare studied the other dog owners. Mostly swathed in long padded Puffa coats and ski jackets. Ralph’s owner, by contrast, cut a striking figure against the grey sea in a dark brown pea coat, a scarf with a fine stripe knotted casually at his neck. Clare noticed most of the other women glanced across at him, although that could have been due to Ralph’s boisterous attempts to round up their own dogs.
‘A happy new year to you all,’ boomed Isobel, the dog trainer. ‘I’m glad to see so many of you back here, despite the weather. So… let’s begin with a clockwise circuit please.’
The owners began moving round in a well-practised routine. Most of the dogs walked obediently, paying heed to their owners’ instructions while Benjy and Ralph, distracted by the presence of so many other dogs, barked, tugged and jumped around, to Isobel’s obvious impatience.
‘Benjy’s mummy,’ she bellowed across the field, as Benjy made to run across to greet Ralph.
Clare thought she saw Ralph’s owner laugh and she could only hope Isobel would refer to him as Ralph’s daddy before the morning was out. He really was very good-looking but he probably had an equally attractive wife or girlfriend. All the good ones did. But you never could tell…
As she led Benjy round the perimeter of the training area she thought again about Geoff.
Admittedly he had come for Christmas. Joined Clare and her family on Christmas Day at her parents’ house in Glasgow. Then he’d driven back with her to Daisy Cottage for a few days. And it had been fun. He was fun. Full of life and vigour.
And then, two days before new year, he had breezed out of her life again – places to go and people to see. Back into a taxi – no need to drive me, Clare – then onto a plane and back to his job in Boston. The job that was supposed to have been a secondment but that was feeling increasingly permanent as time went on. He had repeated his offer for her to join him, as he did now and then. But they both knew she wouldn’t go and the offers were becoming more casual and less frequent.
As she came to a halt with the rest of the group to await the next instruction, Clare wondered if this would be the year she finally found someone to settle down with. She had thought Geoffrey was that person. But that was before he’d decided to move to Boston.
And then there was her fling with her boss, DCI Alastair Gibson. They had been rubbing along quite well together and then Clare had ended up in hospital and Geoff had flown back to be at her side. Al Gibson had melted into the background and they had never really given their relationship a proper chance.
Isobel barked the next instruction and half of the owners turned to begin walking their dogs in the opposite direction, while Benjy, Ralph and a few others were instructed to stand still. This sent Benjy into transports of delight as he tugged and strained towards each dog that passed. Clare stood watching him and quite suddenly she came to a decision. It was time to stop messing about. She would end things once and for all with Geoffrey and take it from there. ‘Before I’m too old to care,’ she said aloud. At the sound of her voice Benjy looked up and sniffed at the pocket where she kept the dog treats and she bent to ruffle his neck, suddenly grateful for his unconditional love and affection.
Monday, 4th January
Chapter 3
Clare was just returning from her morning walk with Benjy when she felt the phone buzz in her pocket. The temperature had risen, and all round her snow was starting to melt. Walking through the wood she’d heard the sound of water running off an adjacent field while the trees dripped steadily as snow slipped from the branches.
She fished in her pocket for the phone and glanced at the display. Jim, her desk sergeant. Clare’s first thought was for Jim’s wife Mary whose health had been poor since her stroke. Jim wouldn’t be at work today – there was only a skeleton staff covering the public holiday. Unless…
She swiped the phone. ‘Jim?’
‘Clare – sorry to disturb you on your last day off…’
‘It’s not Mary, is it?’
‘No, Clare. She’s fine, thanks. It’s work, I’m afraid. We’ve had a call-out. Woman found dead in her bath this morning. Robbie attended but he thinks you should take a look.’
Robbie was one of the younger uniformed officers but generally pretty reliable and Clare wondered why he thought this particular death suspicious. ‘Locus?’
‘Lindsay Gardens. It’s off Canongate.’
‘I know it, Jim. I’ll be there in half an hour.’
Clare ended the call and took out her door key. She stepped out of her we
llies, banging them together to shake off the wet snow then put them down in a corner of the kitchen. Benjy made to wander through to his favoured spot on the sofa but she grabbed his collar and subjected him to a thorough drying. He bore this patiently for a minute then wriggled out of her clutches and padded through to the sitting room. Clare threw the wet towel into the washing machine and went upstairs to change into her work clothes. She sent a quick message to her nearest neighbour and dog walker Moira asking if she could look in on Benjy later, then she headed out to the car.
A snow plough had been along the road leaving it passable. The snow from the road was banked up on the verges and melting fast now. Clare reckoned there would be some flooding if the thaw continued. She drove on through the slush that remained, spraying it left and right, but as she neared the town the roads were clearer and the pavements gritted. All round her drains had been overwhelmed and water was running along the channels at the side of the roads. As Bogward Road gave onto Canongate she passed a large area of grass peppered with snowmen. A clutch of children brightly kitted out in hats and scarves were wandering along the pavement trailing sledges in their wake, probably heading for the gentle incline on Hallow Hill.
Lindsay Gardens was a quiet residential street, many of the houses decked out with Christmas decorations. A few had bushes hung with strands of lights and one garden had a family of reindeer arranged in a semi-circle. The pavements were a messy mix of slush and dirty-brown grit, marked with footprints and the snow now appeared more nuisance than novelty.
She pulled in behind a marked police car and nodded to a uniformed officer standing in the drive of a 1970s-built house. A low wall bordered a patch of snow-covered garden to the front with a path leading to a half-glass door. The house itself was a two-storey semi, clad in a brown-coloured stone, unremarkable but in good order. As she stepped out of the car, Clare wondered who the owner was and what had caused her to be found dead in her bathtub.
She took a white forensic suit, overshoes and gloves from the boot of her car, noting as she did so that the curtains were drawn on the front room windows. She made her way up the drive, dodging past drips as the snow melted off the brown roof tiles. Jim was waiting at the door to meet her.