by Tana Collins
Carruthers read the menu with interest, surprised to see whale meat on it, although he knew that the Icelandic government had made a controversial decision to resume hunting these beautiful creatures. The national dish, however, was fermented shark, which was also on the menu. He decided to give it a wide berth, thinking it sounded disgusting. Also, he noticed there were such delicacies as reindeer, the expected salted cod and guillemot. He was coming to realise that Icelanders were a hardy and resourceful bunch whose food had traditionally been more about necessity than luxury, although that was starting to change. In the end he settled for the reindeer and a glass of red wine. Even if he hadn’t been working the next day, the prohibitive prices would have stopped him from having too much to drink. Deciding that was a good thing, he settled back in the chair with his guidebook.
After a second glass of wine and a surprisingly good meal he made his way back to his hotel. He was surprised to see he had five missed calls, one from Andie, one from his mum and three from Gayle Watson. Anxiety gripped him. Despite his tiredness he rang his mum back straight away. The phone was engaged. He then rang Gayle.
‘Where have you been? I’ve been trying to get hold of you.’ She sounded edgy, nervous.
‘Sorry. I was travelling and then having a meal in a restaurant. I didn’t have mobile reception. What’s up? How did your meeting with Angus Dawson go?’
‘That’s just it, Jim. I didn’t have it. I turned up to find there’d been a RTA just outside the hotel. Looks like a hit-and-run. I was the first on the scene. I did what I could but he was already dead.’
‘Well, look, I’m sure if you explain it to Dawson, he’ll understand. Get him on the phone and set up another meeting.’
‘I can’t. That’s what I’m trying to tell you. Dawson was the hit-and-run victim.’
‘Jesus Christ.’
‘Jim, I don’t know what’s going on. With Andie in hospital… and now Dawson dead…’
‘Were there any witnesses? Was it an accident?’
‘It was no accident. According to witnesses, a car pulled out of a space, driver put his foot down hard on the accelerator deliberately smashed into Dawson as he was crossing the road. At least two witnesses say it was almost as if the driver was lying in wait. Third witness doesn’t remember the parked car starting up. Just saw the accident. Ditto the fourth. All the witnesses saw the driver get out of the car once he’d run the victim down and pick up what looked like a satchel from the victim’s body. He then jumped back in to his car without even checking the victim was alive and sped off.’
‘Christ. Did anyone get a number plate?’
‘No. All said it looked like a dark car. Two thought it was maroon. Maybe a Mondeo.’
‘Look Gayle, I’ve got a meeting set up with Paul Fraser tomorrow morning. I’ll get back as soon as I can. OK? Just keep me informed. Does Andie know?’
‘I haven’t told her yet.’
‘Ok. Look, I need to speak with her anyway. I’ll tell her. Just keep in touch.’
‘Aye, boss.’
Carruthers hung up. He rang his mother a second time. Still engaged. His anxiety was beginning to build. He tried to ignore the tight feeling in his own chest. Christ, he hoped nothing had happened to his brother. He listened to the message from Fletcher. She had been released from hospital and was convalescing for a couple of days. Knowing her, she would be working from her laptop at home. She wanted to know how things were going with him. He debated calling her back, then decided against it. They both needed a good night’s sleep. He’d call her tomorrow. Too tired for a shower, he stripped off, climbed into bed. But he couldn’t sleep and in the end tossed and turned for what seemed like hours. He eventually fell asleep at 4am to the sound of breaking glass and the loud raucous laughter of some drunken Icelanders leaving a bar outside.
‘I don’t know what Jim’s going to think,’ said DS Watson. ‘You’re supposed to be recovering at home. I don’t want you to have a relapse. I could have taken Dougie with me.’
That’s probably exactly what she wants, thought Fletcher, for me to have a relapse. It would leave the way clear for her. She glanced at Watson. The stockier woman was immaculately dressed as ever wearing a smart shirt and tie and black trousers over which she was sporting a black woollen overcoat. Fletcher had phoned Watson and suggested they interview Agnes Noble together. Watson had sounded unconvinced but in the end had agreed. They were in the station car park, walking towards one of the pool cars. Watson drove out in silence towards the home of Agnes Noble.
The wind had started to pick up, buffeting the side of the car. Watson found a place to park and angled the car in to the space. To Fletcher’s embarrassment a gust of air had caught her car door and had partially closed on her. God, what is it with me and car doors, she thought. Watson had walked round to Fletcher’s side and held the door open for her. Without looking at her Fletcher thanked her and they both started walking across the road.
‘Are you sure you’re OK? asked Watson.
Standing on Agnes Noble’s doorstep Fletcher rooted around in her shoulder bag for some paracetamol. Popping two from the blister pack, she threw them in to her mouth. She washed them down with a couple of gulps from the bottle of water she was carrying. ‘I’m fine to work. It’s just bruising, not brain damage. If it makes you feel better, you take the lead.
‘Thanks, said Gayle evenly, ‘I will, but I wasn’t worried about your ability as a cop, I was worried about your health.’
‘I’m fine. Really.’
‘OK.’
Fletcher wondered why she’d told Watson to take the lead when she’d wanted the lead herself. Had she felt guilty about excluding Watson from the earlier interview, or did she feel insecure questioning Agnes Noble in front of her more than capable colleague? She wasn’t sure. One thing she did know though – this self-doubt was both alien and unwelcome.
Gayle looked as if she were about to say something more, but the door was opening, and it was time to get to work.
A spindly elderly lady introduced herself as ‘Joan, Agnes’s next-door neighbour’. She tutted when the two police officers showed her their ID badges, almost as if having the police call round was an inconvenience.
‘I know this has come as a terrible shock,’ said DS Watson wiping her feet on the mat and following the woman into the living room, ‘but we do need to ask Mrs Noble some more questions.’ She directed her next question to the woman sitting in an armchair with a tartan travel rug round her legs. ‘Are you up to answering them now?’
Agnes Noble nodded. Her face was pinched and she looked all of her eighty-two years. Her neighbour, who was a similar age to Agnes Noble, started fussing around her. ‘I dinnae ken why you have to ask her these questions now. Still looks groggy to me. Must be the shock. Doctor’s given her something.’
‘Believe me,’ said Fletcher, ‘we wouldn’t, if it wasn’t important.’ She took a seat on an uncomfortable armchair opposite Mrs Noble. She had taken off as many layers as she could without causing the old dears offence but, with both the central heating and gas fire full on, it was still oppressively hot. Her head was throbbing. Watson sat on the far end of the couch, angling her body so she was able to look at Mrs Noble.
Watson leaned forward, making contact with Agnes Noble’s clouded eyes. ‘How long had you and your husband been together?’ she asked.
‘Oh dear. Is this relevant? Are you going to trawl through her entire life history? Why aren’t you out there catching the murderer?’Mrs Noble’s elderly neighbour started fussing with her hair pins, managing to drop one on the floor. ‘Oh, now look what you made me do.’
Watson leant over and picked it up for her.
‘Look Joan,’ Mrs Noble turned to her neighbour, ‘I’m sure the police are only doing their jobs. Why don’t you go back to your house now. I’ll see you later.’
‘Well, if you’re sure.’ Mrs Noble’s neighbour sniffed then with difficulty stood up and walked off on her spindly legs.
‘Thirty-seven years. I married late in life. Henry had been married before. We met in 1978 and got married in 1980.’
Fletcher paused from scribbling in her notebook and looked up once more at Mrs Noble. ‘What did he do for a living?’
Agnes Noble sniffed. ‘A handyman when we met.’
Fletcher listened carefully and saw an opening.
‘And before you met?’ She found she was holding her breath, which was no bad thing. Apart from it being oppressively hot the room had the faint smell of mothballs that some older people’s homes have.
‘A care worker.’
Fletcher exchanged a glance with Watson.
‘Do you know where he used to work?’ said Watson.
Fletcher’s heart was in her mouth.
‘Up at Braidwood.’
Fletcher got to her feet, fishing her mobile out of her bag. Agnes Noble looked up. ‘Just going to make a call to the station.’
Agnes Noble nodded.
‘Did he continue to be a care worker after you got married?’ Watson asked.
‘No, the care home shut down. He became a handyman. Self-employed.’
‘Did he talk much about his time at Braidwood?’
No.’
Fletcher shut the door on the conversation, interested that Noble had never talked about his time as carer. She punched in the numbers, gave the station the update, finished the call and re-entered the room putting the mobile back in to her shoulder bag.
‘So… he never told you about his work there, the boys, the other care workers?’ said Watson.
‘I’ve told you, no.’
‘Is his ex-wife still alive?’ Watson continued.
‘I have no idea.’
Fletcher noticed Agnes Noble was making quick darting movements with her fingers as she scrunched the tartan rug on her lap.
‘Have you any idea why they split up?’ said Watson.
‘Henry said that she never understood him.’
‘So you have no idea at all where she would be now, if she’s still alive or how we would find her?’ continued Watson.
Agnes Noble jerked her head up sharply and stared at Watson. ‘Why would you want to do that?’
‘Your husband was murdered, Agnes,’ said Fletcher. ‘At Braidwood. This is the second body we’ve found there. We believe the deaths may be linked to the site and perhaps to its time as a care home. Did your husband know a man called Ruiridh Fraser?’
‘Doesnae sound familiar.’
‘Are you sure?’ asked Watson.
‘Quite sure. Is he the other dead man?’
‘Aye. Have you heard of a man called Angus Dawson?’
Agnes Noble shook her head. Fletcher kept scribbling in silence, reminding herself that she had given the lead to Watson. But she wanted to ask the woman if she had felt she’d had a close relationship with her husband. The heat was now starting to make her feel woozy and her head felt as if it was being pierced by a needle. She licked the salty sheen from her top lip.
‘Did your husband own a computer or a mobile phone?’ asked Watson.
There was no answer. For a moment Fletcher wondered if the old lady had nodded off. Eventually she lifted her head and answered, but Fletcher could see that the strain of answering so many questions about her husband so soon after his death was taking its toll.
‘Aye but he doesnae have the mobile anymore. Told me he had no need for it.’
‘So he got rid of it?’
‘Aye, that’s right.’
‘When?’
She sniffed. ‘Couple of months ago.’
‘We’re going have to take away your husband’s computer,’ said Watson.
‘I dinnae ken why you’d need his computer but if that’s what you need to do …’ She shrugged. ‘I cannae use one so I have no need for it.’
‘What was your husband’s mood like on the day he died?’ asked Watson.
‘Well, now you mention it, he’d been a wee bit crabbit recently.’
‘Any idea why?’ Watson stretched across to pick up the tartan rug that had once again started to slip off the old woman’s knees.
‘None. Just thought it was old age. He had some mobility problems.’
‘How long had he been a bit, er, crabbit?’ said Fletcher, using the Scots word.
‘A couple of months.’
‘And you have no idea what was bothering him?’
‘No.’
‘Do you happen to remember your husband’s mobile number?’
‘Aye, I’ve got it written down.’
‘You said your husband was in the habit of going for a short walk.’
‘Aye.’
‘Was it always the same route every day?’
‘More or less. Aye.’
‘Ever to Braidwood?’
‘Never.’
‘I’ll take that mobile number now if you’ve got it?’
Grabbing the tartan rug, Agnes Noble reached over to the low coffee table in front of her for her glasses and put them on. Watson passed her a pen and a piece of paper she had ripped out of her notebook. Mrs Noble scribbled the number down for her. Watson took it, looked at it long and hard before passing it to Fletcher. There was something about it that looked familiar. She would have to check back at the station but she was pretty sure she had seen it before.
‘What sort of man was your husband?’ asked Fletcher.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Was he sociable? Did he go out much? Have friends? Was he a drinker?’
‘He had a couple of pals.’
‘Anyone he’d know a long time? Anyone from his Braidwood days?’ said Fletcher.
‘I think his pals were more recent than that.’
‘You do know Agnes, that at the time your husband worked at Braidwood, there were allegations of sexual abuse?’
Agnes Noble took her glasses off and holding them with her right hand, said, ‘What does that have to do with Henry?’
‘Some of the boys made complaints against some of the staff, the care workers.’
She carefully put her glasses back down on the coffee table. ‘I still don’t see what that has to do with Henry. And it was over thirty years ago. What relevance has it got now? The care home’s closed, boys are all grown and have, no doubt, moved away. Got on with their lives. I’m assuming there was nothing in these allegations, otherwise arrests would have been made… Are you saying you think my Henry was one of the staff members who abused the boys? That is nonsense. Look, this isnae helping. I dinnae feel well. I think you should leave.’
Watson stood up. Fletcher followed suit. ‘We didn’t mean to upset you,’ said Watson, ‘And I’m not accusing your husband of anything. Look, we’ll see ourselves out.’
Agnes Noble said nothing and, as the two police officers walked towards the door that led to the hall, Fletcher stole a glance back at Agnes Noble. Shaking her head and muttering she looked like a troubled woman alone with her memories.
‘What do you reckon to Agnes Noble?’ asked Fletcher, gulping in the fresh air like she’d had a plastic bag over her head.
‘I’m not sure,’ said Watson. They both walked to the parked car. ‘I can’t believe she never spoke to her husband about his time at Braidwood. My gut feeling is she’s holding something back. But then she’s still in shock about his murder, so who knows.’
Fletcher remained silent.
Watson wrenched the door open. ‘Something isn’t right. It’s almost as if she’s in denial. She didn’t seem to find it odd he didn’t talk about his previous life at all. Not his work. Not his first marriage.’
‘I agree,’ said Fletcher.
‘Maybe she didn’t know. If he had something to hide about his past he wouldn’t want to talk about it, would he? Perhaps she accepted the fact he had a past he didn’t want to talk about. It doesn’t make him a paedophile. We all have secrets. And let’s face it, we all have a past and baggage, especially the older we get.’
Carrut
hers awoke to the sound of the guests in the next room going down to breakfast none too quietly. Rolling over he looked at his watch. It had already gone eight. He got up and headed for the small bathroom. Gasping as he stepped under the piping hot shower, he wrinkled his nose at the sulphurous smell that poured from the jets. He’d read that Icelandic homes were heated by hot water from the natural springs; Iceland being the first country using geothermal power, and wondered if all bathrooms in Iceland smelt as bad as this.
Carruthers managed to grab a seat on the end of a shared table with a group of young Germans in the breakfast bar. It was self-service so he got himself a coffee from the percolator, a continental breakfast and grabbed some cutlery. Sipping his bitter coffee, he pushed thoughts of the dead journalist out of his head to focus on his interview with Fraser’s estranged son.
He wondered if Fraser’s son had an alibi for the time of his father’s murder. How would he feel about his father’s death, and how willing would he be to open up and share his private thoughts about his father with a complete stranger? What had been the cause of the estrangement? Carruthers put the scalding coffee to his lips, breathed in the vapours and took a long sip whilst he stared out of the steamed-up window in to the pitch darkness. But his thoughts kept coming back to Angus Dawson and the hit-and-run. Deciding against speaking to Fletcher before his interview, he got the hotel to call a taxi and waited in the foyer.
Paul Fraser lived with his girlfriend in Hafnarfjörður, a suburb of Reykjavik. It was a short but expensive taxi ride. According to the guidebook, Hafnarfjörðurhad once been a separate town but was now part of the fast-growing and sprawling capital. It still had a lot of the old tin-clad wooden houses that Carruthers was beginning to like so much.
The taxi driver located the address and pulled up at a block of modern flats beside the old Maritime Museum. Carruthers paid the driver and stepped over an icy puddle to get to the front door. He looked up at the buzzers and selected the one marked Fraser/Gunnersdottir. He pressed it and waited.