by Tana Collins
Her shoulders sagged as she let herself in to her flat and dumped her handbag on the purple couch in the sitting room. The phone was winking at her. She played the message wondering if it was from Mark. It wasn’t. It was from her mother. Returning the call could wait. She trudged in to the kitchen. After making herself a pot of scalding tea, she took a couple of paracetamol. She kicked off her shoes and changed out of her skirt and blouse into jogging bottoms and T-shirt. Sat down cross-legged on the couch.
She tried not to think of the purple couch. It was where she and Mark had last made love, just before she’d had her miscarriage. How everything had changed in the shortest of time. Six months ago she was pregnant, getting ready for motherhood and had a boyfriend who loved her, or so she thought. She swallowed hard.
As she grabbed her laptop, the phone rang. She let it go to answer machine as she switched her computer on. She heard her own voice telling the caller that neither she nor Mark could get to the phone and would they please leave a message. The message would have to be changed to say ‘I’ instead of ‘we’. She was loath to do it feeling that she would be announcing her single status to the world. A lot of her friends still didn’t know that she and Mark had split up. It was too much to cope with at the moment. She was still trying to come to terms with her miscarriage.
When she heard the voice on the other end of the phone she felt sick. It was Mark. ‘Er hi, Andie. It’s me. God, I hate these machines. If you’re there pick up.’ There was a pause then he continued. ‘I’ve got some stuff I want to collect from the flat. I’ll come round tomorrow about six. It would be good if you were there. We need to talk.’ There was a tightness in her chest and she felt she couldn’t breathe. What a bastard he was. There was no hint of concern in his voice for her – no question of whether she was OK. In fact, apart from the hesitancy, he sounded like he was in a business meeting. Well, to hell and back with him. She was better off without him, the shit.
She tried to concentrate on catching up with her friends’ lives on Facebook but hearing his voice had really unsettled her. She set the laptop aside and padded through to the kitchen. Pulling open the fridge door she rooted around for some food. There wasn’t a huge amount in it, but she did find eggs and mushrooms. She decided to make herself a mushroom omelette and have it with a glass of orange juice.
Feeling better after eating, she settled down with a small whisky. Told herself it was for medicinal purposes. In the mood for some Scottish folk music she put on a CD by King Creosote, and as the first few notes started playing, she settled the laptop back on her knee and tried to focus on the constant stream of mostly mind-numbing nonsense on Facebook.
Picking up her whisky glass, she swirled the glass around, coating it in the viscous amber liquid, before she downed it in one. Replacing the glass on the table she frowned. Her thoughts turned to Jim. What had he said? ‘A lot’s riding on the case, for both of us.’ What had he meant by ‘both?’ Well, it was obvious what was riding on it for him. Perhaps bloody DS Watson was here to stay after all, and, if Golden Tits out-performed her she’d be the one booted out to another station. She couldn’t let that happen. She and Jim worked as a team, he was Batman to her Robin and he was a great boss to have. She knew they complimented each other. She groaned. What had she been thinking, going alone to Cellardyke? Although she was loath to admit it, he was right. She was lacking in confidence. She’d been off work for three months. It was a long time to be out of the field. But with a murder investigation there was no time to ease herself back in gently. There was only one thing for it. She’d have to find a backbone.
3
Carruthers ran his hands through his short greying hair. He sat staring at the phone. He was worried about his brother, wondered if he was at risk of a second heart attack. According to his mother one of the arteries was still blocked.
DC Brown put his head round the door. ‘That’s me away, boss.’ Not one to normally say goodnight, Carruthers wondered what Brown really wanted. He looked up to find Brown still loitering at the door. ‘Was there anything else?’ he asked.
‘You missed the makings of a good cat fight earlier.’ Brown’s face lit up as he said it.
Carruthers raised an eyebrow.
‘Andie and Gayle going head-to-head. Could have been a fair old stramash.’
Carruthers’ heart sank.
‘My money’s on Gayle,’ continued Brown. ‘Definitely a heavy-weight to Andie’s bantam. Ha ha. Na. Seriously. You should have seen them.’ He jumped about on his toes and did a bit of shadow-boxing. Rubbed his hands together. ‘Thought I was going to have to throw a bucket of the wet stuff over them.’ He grinned. ‘Pity Fat Dougie missed it. He loves to see girlies scrapping. Still, back from hols tomorrow, eh? Sure he’ll have plenty of stories.’ His eyes were twinkling. ‘Reckon we’ll see round two soon enough,’ he said with relish. Not waiting for a response, Brown disappeared.
Carruthers heard the door slam as he threw his pen down and thought about the evening ahead. He’d been looking forward to meeting with Jodie immensely, but suddenly his mind strayed to Fletcher and it had taken some of his appetite away. It wasn’t like her to deliberately disobey an order and a repeated one at that. He was worried about her and, in her current mercurial mood, wasn’t looking forward to having it out with her. He looked at the time, tidied his paperwork away and made a move home. There would be time for a shower and shave if he was quick.
He stooped as he entered the front door of the Dreel Tavern. These old doorways didn’t suit his tall frame. He walked to the bar where he ordered a pint of Shipwreck IPA. After passing the time of day with the barman he took his drink over to one of the scuffed wooden tables in the corner by the piano and waited for Jodie.
There was a smell of fish and chips in the air. He sniffed appreciatively. The truth of it was that he was starving. Now he came to think about it he couldn’t remember eating lunch. As he looked around him he noticed a group of people sitting eating at a table close to the window. At least three of them had the fish. Their English voices rose above the sound of the music being played. It was the Beatles ‘Strawberry Fields’. They were rather well dressed for the pub, but from the babble of noise and hearty laughter coming from their direction, they seemed to be enjoying themselves immensely.
Glancing around him he noticed this popular pub was busy. Although there was no shortage of drinking houses in Anstruther, this and the Smugglers Inn were his two favourites. He liked a good old-fashioned pub with a bit of atmosphere and the Dreel Tavern had atmosphere in spades.
Reputed to be the oldest pub in Anstruther, with a back room dating from the fourteenth century, it had characteristic low ceilings, wooden beams and stone walls. The huge fireplace looked original. The pub was lit by yellow glass lanterns, which bathed the pub in a golden glow. From the piano in the corner to the bass guitar propped against a wall, it had the cosy comfortable feel of a welcoming pub where a good time was had on a fairly regular basis.
There were one or two men at the bar who had come in for a quick pint after work. Carruthers recognised one face and nodded a greeting. There were a couple of old boys with weather-beaten faces, looking like characters from the past, propping up the far end of the bar. Probably fishermen. Picking up his menu he was starting to study it when a cold gust of night air greeted him as the front door opened.
He almost did a double take. It was Jodie. She looked completely different. Gone were the over-sized glasses and white lab coat. Her hair was shoulder length and loose, and it had been styled so that she had a side parting with a partial fringe. It suited her, as did everything else about her. She was wearing a fitted black belted coat over a bronze woollen dress and black knee-length boots. She looked sensational.
‘Wow.’ He got up and almost knocked his drink over. She laughed.
‘I take it I meet with your approval?’
‘You look absolutely stunning.’ He was serious. He couldn’t take his eyes off her. There was an awkward
moment whilst he decided how to greet her. In the end he kissed her lightly on the cheek. Her hair tickled the tip of his nose and a delicious citrus scent filled his nostrils.
‘What’s your poison?’ he asked.
She looked over at his glass. ‘Thought you weren’t going to drink.’
‘I changed my mind,’ he said, thinking about Fletcher.
‘Well, seeing as you’re having a pint, I’ll have a rum and coke, please.’
‘Be back in a minute.’ He studied her from the bar when he thought she wasn’t looking and hurried back with the drink.
He put her glass in front of her on a stained and tatty beer mat.
‘How’ve you been?’ he asked.
She laughed. ‘You only saw me yesterday, Jim.’
‘Of course I did. Sorry. Feels longer. Must be the investigation,’ he added quickly.
‘How’s it going?’
Carruthers debated telling her about his brother.
‘Any developments?’ she prompted.
He realised she was talking about the case. The moment had passed. Her voice was deep and husky. Carruthers was reminded of a well-aged malt.
‘Very few. The old man seems to have been pretty reclusive; although he’s had a few run-ins with the son of the people next door… Boy’s only fifteen… That’s one line we’re pursuing.’
‘What triggered that?’
‘Not sure. Looks as if the old man had an eye for the boy’s sister.’
‘It’s not a crime if he’s only looking.’
‘She’s only thirteen.’
Jodie picked up her menu. She looked over the top of it at Carruthers. ‘Do you think the kid’s capable of murder, though?’
‘I really don’t know, but somebody is. Anything new turn up at the lab?’
‘Not yet. We’re still awaiting toxicology.’
The conversation was put on hold as they studied their menus.
‘What would you recommend?’ she asked.
‘What would you prefer? Meat or fish? Or are you vegetarian?’ Even asking the question made him realise how little he knew about her, apart from what she did for a living. He hoped that he would have a chance to get to know her better.
‘No, I’m not vegetarian.’
Carruthers was relieved. ‘They do great fish and chips here.’
‘So I can see,’ she said, as a waitress sailed past, weaving in and out between the wooden tables carrying two plates of fish and chips high above her head. ‘OK, you sold me.’
Carruthers caught the waitress’s eye and ordered fish and chips for Jodie and a steak and ale pie for himself. Just as the waitress put her pen away, the door of the pub opened with another blast of cold air and a boisterous group of arty looking men and women spilled in. Most of the men had beards and some of them had long hair.
Jodie leaned forward and whispered, ‘They look interesting.’
‘They are. They’re folk musicians.’
‘You can tell that just by looking at them?’Her mouth dropped open.
‘I’m a detective, but I’m not that good. Na, I know them.’
They both laughed.
‘I’ve been thinking about your case,’ she said. ‘The thing that makes it so interesting is the gag in the back of the throat. Uncover why he gagged the victim and I reckon you’ll have your motive …’
‘That’s a bit of a leap.’ He paused. ‘You said he.’
‘Did I?’
‘Yes. You said uncover why he gagged him. Do you think it’s a he?’
‘I don’t know. I guess I must do. I don’t know why. Anyway, find out why he was gagged and I reckon you’ll discover why he was murdered.’
‘If only it was that easy.’
Their conversation was interrupted by a young waitress in black jeans and T-shirt bringing over two plates of steaming food. Carruthers fell about his steak pie greedily, approving of the way the rich and aromatic gravy oozed out when he cut the flaky pastry. ‘This is really good. I can taste some sort of herb in the gravy. Think it’s thyme.’ Between mouthfuls he said, ‘This case has got me thinking. Why gag him?’
Jodie laid her knife and fork down and looked at Carruthers intently. ‘I have no idea. But we see all sorts at the mortuary.’
‘I’ll bet,’ he said, hoping she wasn’t about to elaborate. Carruthers also put his knife and fork down for a moment. Jodie leaned forward. ‘You told me the old man had been broken into the week before, but hadn’t reported it to the police.’
‘That’s right.’
‘Any theories on why he didn’t?’
Relieved they weren’t about to start talking dissections, Carruthers speared a succulent looking piece of meat. ‘An awful lot of victims don’t report burglaries. Maybe he thought the robbers would never be caught?’ He shrugged. ‘Or maybe they didn’t get away with much.’
Jodie shook her head. ‘If you ask me, he’s got something to hide. Doesn’t want the police sniffing around. Why else would you no’ report a break-in?’
Carruthers was silent for a moment wondering if Jodie could be right. He suddenly smiled and leant forward. ‘So tell me something. What’s a nice girl like you doing as a pathologist’s assistant?’
They finished their evening together by taking a stroll down to the picturesque cobbled harbour. Jodie said something as they looked towards the murky depths of the sea, but it was taken away by the sea breeze. Carruthers leaned in to hear her better and she placed his arm around her shoulder. Despite the coldness of the night he could feel the warmth of her body through her thin coat. She made a comment about not coming prepared for a walk in winter and they embraced whilst she laughed, shivering. Carruthers traced his fingertip over one of her rough sexy eyebrows feeling the coldness of her cheek.
To the sound of the moored boats bumping against each other and the harbour wall they had their first tentative kiss. Carruthers tasted salt on her tongue, which wasn’t unpleasant and smelt the faint scent of her perfume. He knew then that whatever the future held for him and Jodie, he would cherish this evening for a long time to come.
Carruthers was at his desk at seven the next morning, a little tired but clearer headed than usual. He really should stick to drinking whisky at the weekends. Managing to keep to his quota of only two pints last night and no whisky hadn’t been easy but at least he found it achievable. He liked achievable targets. Realised that as he climbed higher in rank there would definitely be fewer of them. At least he knew that if he was in control of his drinking, it wasn’t a serious problem.
Glancing out of his window he noticed the change in weather once again. A steady drizzle had given way to persistent rain sometime in the night. The temperature was warmer than the last two days. The trees and hedges dripped with rain and a small stream ran down the guttering of the station roof. He was glad of the romantic walk by the harbour with Jodie before the rain had set in.
At nine he walked into the next station brief. The first thing he noticed was Fletcher. She looked awful. Drained of colour with dark circles under her eyes. He wondered if her cold had worsened.
‘OK, listen up people,’ he said. ‘We’re conducting this brief without Superintendent Bingham so let’s get on with it. Quick recap for those dozing in the last brief. And for Detective Sergeant Harris who’s just back from his holidays.’
‘Tenerife,’ he shouted. ‘Check this bad boy oot.’ He rolled up his shirt sleeve to reveal his latest tattoo. It was of a rooster. ‘I was blootered. It was supposed tae be a stallion.’
‘Good choice. You’ve always been a bit of a cock.’ This from Brown. He roared. Harris looked at Brown as if he wanted to deck him.
Carruthers put his hands up. ‘Settle down. Settle down. Right, from cocks to corpses. This is what we know so far.’ He strode over to the incident board and pointed to the photograph of the body of Ruiridh Fraser.
‘Seventy-eight year old Ruiridh Fraser killed by a single stab wound to the chest somewhere between the hours of 6p
m and 9pm three nights ago. No murder weapon found, no fingerprints so far. Murdered at the scene and a gag was forced to the back of his throat after death. Why? Ruiridh Fraser’s a bit of a mystery man. Doesn’t seem to have any family, although an old photo of a child was found in his wallet. We want to know who that child is. Very few visitors. Neighbours say he was reclusive. None of them knew of his hobbies or even what he did before he was retired. We’re currently thin on the ground for suspects. The only suspect so far is fifteen-year-old Jordan Hunter, son of Fraser’s next-door neighbours.’ Carruthers pinned a photograph of a young-looking Jordan Hunter next to Fraser. ‘He seems to have had a vendetta against Fraser. Jordan admitted that he shouted abuse at Fraser in the street a few months ago, but not the other crime Fraser accused young Jordan of, namely slashing his car tyres. Jordan’s alibi is that he was at home with his mother and sister on the evening of Fraser’s murder. His mother said he spent the evening in his room apart from when he came downstairs for tea at seven. Let’s not forget that Fraser was also broken into the week before his murder, but didn’t report it. Andie, did Jordan Hunter’s alibi pan out?’
‘Yep,’ she said with a sniff, ‘school trip to France. Spoke to the school. There’s no way Jordan could have been responsible for the break-in.’
‘OK,’ continued Carruthers. ‘We need to find out what Jordan Hunter had against Ruiridh Fraser. One possible theory is that Fraser had an eye for young girls. Previously Jordan called him a paedophile. Jordan’s sister is a bit of a looker. Some might say provocatively dressed. Looks older than her thirteen years.’
‘What do you think, Gayle?’Carruthers asked.
‘I think we’re getting off the point,’ she said. ‘We need to find out more about Ruiridh Fraser.’