See Them Run

by See Them Run (epub)

  See Them Run

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Acknowledgements

  Copyright

  For my mum and dad,

  Catherine and Jack

  Chapter 1

  Saturday, 18th May

  ‘And if the bride and groom would like to lead the way… let’s have you all up on the floor for the Orcadian Strip the Willow.’

  Couples began streaming onto the dance floor. ‘Strip the Willow’ was popular enough, but the Orcadian version was a floor-filler and the highlight of any Scottish wedding reception. From within his sporran, Andy’s phone began to buzz. He fished it out. A text message from a number he didn’t recognise.

  HEY YOU. LIKE THE KILT!

  Andy looked at the message. No name at the end. He ran through a few options in his head then typed back:

  GLAD YOU LIKE IT.

  The dancers were lining up now. Andy watched as his wife, Angela, rose unsteadily from her seat across the table. She pulled off the gold, sparkly shrug she had worn to keep her arms warm and let it fall to the floor. A whiff of stale sweat reached his nostrils and he hoped she wouldn’t try to persuade him to partner her. He slid his phone off the table and back into his sporran, but he needn’t have worried. She tottered over to one of the ushers seated at the next table and hauled him up to dance. Always the same. She never could hold her drink. His sporran buzzed again.

  SO, R U A REAL SCOTSMAN? WOTS UNDER THE KILT?

  What indeed! He felt a familiar stirring and leaned back in his seat, stretching his legs out under the table. The dance floor was busy now, but the alcohol had been flowing all day and the dancers were taking some sorting out. Angela stepped out of her shoes and fired them across the floor in Andy’s direction. A few others followed suit. Andy reckoned there’d be some bruised and broken toes by the end of the dance. He had to admire the smart ones who had brought trainers in a poly bag. But that wasn’t Angela’s style. Always done up to the nines: hair, nails, shoes – the full works. Only she didn’t look so glamorous now, after nine – or was it ten – vodkas.

  Fergus, the accordionist, his eyes almost obscured by his thick, dark hair, ran his fingers up and down the keyboard. Impatiently. He looked, Andy thought, as if he’d had enough for one night. Who could blame him for that? Weddings were one long hang-about. Andy studied the band. He could see why Hammy was the front man and not Fergus. Tall and sinewy, as fair as Fergus was dark, Hammy had the patter and the twinkle in his eye to match. Andy thought he might be a good lad to have a pint with, judging by the beer he’d swilled over the course of the evening. Probably knew his way round the ladies as well. Anyone who could sink pints and tease those reels and jigs out of his violin, while winking at the dancers had to be worth getting to know.

  Hammy tried again. ‘Two long lines, ladies over this side, gents over here. Bride and groom at the top. Where are you, Sandra and Davie? Ah, here they come.’

  Fergus gave a quick trill of ‘The Wedding March’ to cheers from the guests. Hammy gave him a look that told him to quit it, and he turned back to the dancers. ‘If the bottom half could move down a bit… from the man in the sexy trews…’

  There was a laugh at this, and the tartan-clad man acknowledged it with a flourish and a bow, before leading his partner further down the room.

  Andy took his phone out again. So, she was wondering what was under his kilt, was she? He typed back a reply.

  WOULDN’T YOU LIKE TO KNOW

  The bride was shouting to the guests still in their seats to get up and dance. A few of the elderly rellies declined with a wave. Andy looked for Angela and saw she was near the top of the hall, thrusting her hips towards the usher who was responding in kind. Hammy began to explain the dance with the bride and groom demonstrating. The phone buzzed again.

  I WOULD AS IT HAPPENS.

  Andy scraped his chair back until it was almost touching the wall. He glanced left and right then tapped back:

  WE’LL HAVE TO SEE ABOUT THAT THEN

  There was a flourish from the accordion; Hammy picked up his bow and the drummer began beating out a rhythm. Andy watched as Sandra and Davie started to whirl each other round and he smiled as Sandra slipped and slid across the floor on her back, colliding with two men further down the line. His phone buzzed again.

  HOW ABOUT NOW?

  Andy looked round. Was the mystery texter someone in the room? The bride was back on her feet now, hauled up by the men she had almost bowled over. She re-joined the dance and began whirling again, from arm to arm, working her way down the line of dancers. The second top couple began turning each other as the band belted out ‘The Atholl Highlanders’ jig. As the dance progressed it was harder to see across the room. Most of those sitting down were older couples. Certainly not anyone who looked like she might be the mystery texter.

  WHERE R U? he texted back.

  He watched the screen, impatiently but the reply didn’t come immediately. The music switched to another jig as more and more couples joined in the dance. One over-enthusiastic young lad, all arms and legs crashed into the chair next to Andy and carried on as if he hadn’t noticed. Andy rose and began walking to the door at the back of the hall. It would be quieter outside the ballroom. As he walked the phone buzzed again.

  BOTTOM OF DRIVE. COME NOW!

  He glanced back at the dancers. Angela wouldn’t even miss him. He pushed open the ballroom door and walked out into the reception area. A slim man in a suit looked up from behind the mahogany desk, his smile fixed but pleasant. Andy gave him a nod and carried on to the front entrance, forcing the heavy brass revolving door into life.

  He emerged into the cool evening air and stopped for a second as the odour of cigarette smoke reached his nostrils. From the sound of it, the smokers had gathered at the side door and he was briefly tempted to join them. Time enough for a fag after, he told himself and picked his way softly across the gravel to avoid being heard. A burst of laughter from the smokers confirmed he had nothing to worry about and he quickened his pace.

  The front garden was illuminated by fairy lights, strung along the drive which curved gently towards the main road, lined on one side by a high beech hedge. As he walked, he wondered about the mystery texter. Who the fuck was it? He had an idea. A couple of ideas, actually.

  He took out his phone and looked at the text message again. Real Scotsman? He’d show her what was under his kilt all right. He glanced round to make sure he wasn’t being observed, then stopped and pulled his boxers down. His sporran was already stuffed with a handful of crumpled tenners, so he screwed up the boxers and hid them in the hedge. Easy enough to retrieve them on his way back.

  As he walked further down the drive, the hotel vanished from view and the drive narrowed. The hedge gave way to high sandstone walls on both sides, the aged stonework picked out by the headlights from an unseen car. It must just be round the bend. He quickened his pace, feeling the stirring beneath his kilt turn to a full-blown hard on.

/>   And then he saw it; or, rather, he saw the headlights. Dazzled by the full beam, he stood for a minute, then lifted his kilt to give her a flash of the Real Scotsman.

  The car revved in response.

  Oh, she was ready for it, all right.

  The car revved again and lurched forward.

  Calm the fuck down. I’m coming!

  But the car didn’t stop. Looked like it was speeding up.

  No escape on either side. He turned and started to run back to where the path was wider.

  Stupid fuckin—

  There was no bang. No crash. Just the crunching of tyres on gravel. No time to cry out. The ground came up to meet him and the pain shot through his legs. Instinctively he tucked his head into his chest, pushing down into the gravel. And then it was over.

  It was over, and he was still alive.

  He lifted his head and tried to focus. He saw the car ahead of him, picked out in the fairy lights. Saw the tail lights and the square number plate. Looked like an old Land Rover. Bastard! He forced himself to look. To remember. He’d get the bitch. He clawed at the ground, trying to raise himself up and away from the car. But the pain was indescribable. Oddly, not in his legs now but up his back and into his brain.

  He blinked as the brake lights came on. He waited for the door to open. For her to jump down mobile to her ear as she dialled 999. But the door didn’t open. He heard the idling of the engine then saw the white reverse lights. Panic seized him and he gasped for air. Someone must come, surely someone? He gasped again and tried to cry out as the white lights came nearer. He tried to roll over towards the wall but his limbs wouldn’t obey. The white-hot pain in his head was overwhelming. His phone buzzed again, a message he would never see, and the blackness overtook him.

  Chapter 2

  Sunday, 19th May

  It was just after midnight when Clare heard the phone. Years of shift work and late-night emergencies at Glasgow’s busy Maryhill Road station had trained her to snap out of even the deepest sleep. After two rings, she was sitting up in bed. ‘DI Mackay.’

  ‘Sorry to wake you, Clare. We need you out.’

  ‘What’s up, Jim?’

  ‘Hit-and-run. Looks deliberate.’

  She put the phone on speaker and climbed out of bed, carrying on the conversation. ‘Locus?’

  ‘Kenlybank Hotel. Off the A917.’

  ‘A917…’

  ‘The coast road out of St Andrews. Head for the swimming pool and bear left. You’ll see the cars…’

  Clare had been to the East Sands Leisure Centre a few times since arriving in St Andrews a couple of months ago. It was a fun pool for families really, but better than nothing when she was short of time. ‘I know the road,’ she told her sergeant. ‘Give me fifteen minutes. Twenty, tops.’

  ‘Cheers.’

  ‘Oh Jim…?’

  ‘Aye?’

  ‘Give Chris a bell. SOCO too. And some uniforms to secure the scene.’

  ‘All done.’

  You had to hand it to Jim, Clare thought. He was no ball of fire but he got the job done. Young Chris could do with taking a leaf out of his book.

  Clare thanked Jim and hung up. She took a pair of work trousers from the wardrobe and stepped into them. A plain grey sweater hung over the back of a tub chair and she pulled this on. She drew back the bedroom curtain and glanced out into the darkness. No rain on the window pane at least. She brushed her dark hair quickly, scraping it back with an elasticated tie and ran downstairs. In the kitchen, Clare filled a water bottle from the tap and grabbed a Danish pastry from the bread bin. Her eye fell on a long cream envelope propped up on the kitchen table, still unopened, and a familiar knot began to form in her stomach. A knot that took her away from St Andrews, back to Glasgow. To Glasgow. To Tom and the past she had left behind.

  Later, she told herself. Later. Or tomorrow maybe…

  Forcing the memories to the back of her mind, she pulled on her coat, picked up her work bag, and headed out into the night, hoping it would be a straightforward one.

  * * *

  The journey from Clare’s house just off the centre of St Andrews, to the Kenlybank Hotel, a mile or so south of the town, took her just ten minutes. Ignoring Jim’s directions, she had taken a shortcut along Lamond Drive, easing her Renault Clio over the speed bumps. A few cars were parked awkwardly, and she cursed at an ominous clunk from the underside of the car as it passed over one of the bumps, lopsided. Maybe Jim had a point.

  At the Y-junction she left St Andrews behind and travelled along the coastal A917 for a mile or so. To the east of the road lay the North Sea and, glancing across, she could see a tiny speck of light. A ship, presumably, heading out to fish. As she drove on, the night sky, an inky carpet of stars, was lit up by flashing lights from the distant emergency vehicles. As the road veered to the right, she saw a row of police cars and an ambulance bumped up on the verge at what she presumed was the hotel entrance. The hotel itself was screened from the road by a high beech hedge but Clare saw the brown AA sign pointing towards the entrance and she pulled in behind the row of vehicles.

  She bit into the Danish pastry and jumped out of the car, taking a crime scene suit from the boot. Jim met her at the gate and led her past the cordon which took up most of the gravel drive. Beyond the tape, two white-suited scene of crime officers were bent over a body while another was carrying out a fingertip examination of the area around it.

  ‘Can I just?’ Clare began.

  One of the SOCOs looked up and shook her head. ‘Ten minutes, Inspector.’

  Clare nodded and turned back to Jim. ‘Chris?’

  ‘Up at the front door. Speaking to the guests.’

  ‘It’s a wedding?’

  Jim nodded. ‘Yep. Rotten ending to their big day.’

  ‘Thanks, Jim,’ Clare said. ‘You get back to the gate. I’ll find Chris.’

  She walked briskly up the drive and, as she rounded it, a large, Victorian edifice came into view. Probably a country house at one time, Clare thought, taking in the long, casement windows and ornate front entrance. The recessed revolving door had been added later, she decided, but the honey-coloured stone pediment over the door looked original. It reminded her of a stately home she and Tom had visited.

  She carried on up the drive, taking in the scene before her. Guests were milling about in their finery, some smoking, others huddled in groups. A child of three or maybe four in a white flower-girl dress clutched her father’s leg, a soft toy of some sort tucked under her arm.

  Clare hesitated for a moment, suddenly conscious that eyes were turning towards her. Even without a uniform, her wiry five-foot-eight frame carried an air of authority. Years of running major enquiries had given her that. But this wasn’t Glasgow, with its busy Major Investigations Teams to hand, Glasgow where experienced detectives were ten a penny. This was St Andrews – a small seaside town known for being the home of golf, its population swollen by the students who studied at its centuries-old university. As the most senior officer stationed in the town, Clare was in sole charge of what was happening around her. And, two months after moving from bustling Glasgow, it felt like a lonely place to be.

  She looked round, scanning the drive for Chris, her DS. He noticed her and began walking over. She waited for him, keen for an update out of earshot of the guests. Over his shoulder, Clare could see a woman in full bridal regalia, sitting on a wooden garden bench near the front entrance to the hotel, rocking and howling. She cut an incongruous figure, Clare thought, enveloped in layers of gleaming white taffeta, at odds, somehow with the ugly wailing. A couple of wedding guests were fussing round her while a kilted man stood awkwardly at her side, taking furtive slugs from a small silver hip flask.

  Clare nodded towards the woman as Chris approached. ‘That the wife?’

  He shook his head. ‘Victim’s sister. Wife’s over there.’ He indicated a woman in an orange dress. She sat, perched on the edge of a stone trough smoking a cigarette, her face devoid of expr
ession. Clare wondered if the woman was in shock. Or was there another reason for her lack of reaction?

  ‘Are we sure it’s her husband?’

  Chris nodded at the hip flask man. ‘Groom identified the tartan, what’s left of it. He was the only one at the wedding wearing that pattern.’

  ‘Okay.’ Clare nodded. ‘Name?’

  ‘Victim’s Andy Robb. Wife’s Angela. And there’s something else you should see.’

  Clare scrutinised her DS. Even in the dark, with only the fairy lights, she could see his eyes looked pink and there was the unmistakable odour of whisky on his breath. ‘You’ve been drinking.’

  Chris ran a hand through his hair and avoided her gaze. ‘Saturday night, boss…’

  ‘And you’re on call.’

  ‘Aye, but—’

  ‘Aye but nothing. You think if you throw on a three-piece suit, no one’s going to notice?’

  Chris shifted uneasily on his feet. ‘Sorry, boss.’

  ‘It’s not the first time, Chris, is it?’

  There was no response to this. Clare fished in her pocket and pulled out a pack of extra-strong mints. ‘Here,’ she said, ‘crunch a couple of these and, for God’s sake, keep as far back from witnesses as possible. Oh, and Detective Sergeant…’

  ‘Boss?’

  ‘If you insist on wearing a waistcoat, don’t do up the bottom button. It’s naff.’

  ‘Yes, boss.’

  ‘So, you said there was something else I should see?’

  ‘Yeah, over here.’

  Chris led her to a gap in the beech hedge where some clothing had been stashed. ‘Looks like a pair of boxers.’

  ‘You think they’re our victim’s?’

  ‘Probably. Poor bastard’s kilt’s ridden up. Caught in the car wheel, maybe. It’s not a pretty sight but he certainly wasn’t wearing anything under the kilt.’

  Clare glanced at the hedge and the crumpled clothing. ‘Get them bagged. I’ll see how the wife is. If we can get her to look at them…’ She looked across to the cordon. The SOCOs were standing now and she walked back over.