The Hunted

by Jo McCready

  “All rise,” called a court clerk. Dunn placed his pen in line with the top of his papers, subtly adjusting its position as he stood.

  The sheriff entered from a side door, his black robes flapping as he walked to his place at the front of the room. White, frizzy hair poked out from under his horse-hair wig. So many judges in the country and beyond had chosen a less formal approach, ditching their wigs and gowns in civil cases. She wondered if Sheriff McIlvanney was of the more traditional breed, or if he felt the occasion required a more somber approach. As the court sat, RJ looked across at the tear-stained face of a middle-aged woman who clutched a teenage boy in her arms as if hanging on for dear life. The boy held onto his mother and stared lifelessly at the sheriff.

  RJ couldn’t take her eyes off the woman and her son. It felt wrong to impose on this family tragedy, but in doing so, she might be able to provide answers to someone else going through the same pain, or maybe even prevent another family from going through the same process. If there had been two deaths already on the estate, would there be more?

  The fiscal stood up to outline the case of Thom Malone, who had fallen overboard when struck by a winch on the Meriwether while fishing for cod three months previously. After a lengthy description, he called upon the captain of the boat, Kevin Haldane. Kevin held his head high and walked resolutely to the box at the front, his meaty hands held in tight fists at his sides. Throughout Fiscal Dunn’s questions, this big bear of a man broke down no less than three times. He had seen his friend perish on his watch and bore the responsibility of his death as visibly as an anchor weighing around his neck.

  Dunn’s questioning held no place for sympathy. All the man was concerned with was the truth and getting to the details of what had led to Mr. Malone’s death. He gave Kevin time to compose himself after each breakdown but displayed no emotion as he continued his inquiry. The fiscal was almost robotic in his interactions. It was difficult to tell if he cared about the people at all, but what was evident was his competence and skill. It further fueled the idea that no one would be able to pull the wool over his eyes in the case of a wrongful death.

  When Kevin left the stand, it was Thom Malone’s widow who moved over to comfort him in their shared grief. The sounds of their sobs mingled together in a heartbreaking harmony of sorrow.

  The sheriff called a short break to allow the upset to diminish before the fiscal called upon another crew mate from the fishing boat, the marine mechanic who had installed the winch two years previously, and the doctor who had attended the scene once the boat had returned to dock with one less living soul on board.

  In all his questioning, the fiscal was relentless in his search of answers. At no point was he rude or disrespectful, but his sense of authority was an overbearing power, perhaps more so than the sheriff’s, who listened carefully to each witness in turn, asking questions when he felt the need for clarification.

  The process lasted all day and left RJ emotionally and mentally drained. She wasn’t surprised when Sheriff McIlvanney ruled it an accidental death. It seemed to her that Thom Malone had suffered an unfortunate turn of fate that no one in attendance could be blamed for. This gave little comfort to the people waiting to hear the verdict, not least of which Kevin Haldane, who would no doubt blame himself for the rest of his days. The sheriff detailed how an accident like this might be avoided in the future, so that no others had to suffer the same fate as the Malone family or the crew of the boat.

  They rose again as the sheriff left. Alexander Dunn solemnly shook hands with Thom Malone’s people, then left them to their tears as he strode out of the courtroom.

  RJ followed, seeing him disappear down a corridor and into a room at the end.

  Well, that hadn’t told her anything. She was no further forward than she had been that morning. All she’d learned was that the fiscal was good at his job but was a cold-hearted brute when it came to the people he was supposedly working for. Who knows, maybe it had to be that way? RJ didn’t know. She’d never had any dealings with the Scottish justice system herself. The drunk driver who had killed her parents hadn’t lived to face the justice doled out by the courts.

  She walked out into the fresh air of late afternoon, welcoming the breeze that eased some of the heat from the unprecedented heatwave. She stretched her arms as she walked to the corner across from the courthouse to wait. The fiscal hadn’t glanced her way during the proceedings. He’d had no reason to, as his focus had been at the front of the court room. For this reason, she didn’t think he would recognize her and so decided to wait for him based on a hunch. It paid off when, ten minutes after she had exited the courthouse, he came out wearing a tweed jacket and tan trousers. To him, it must have constituted as casual clothes after the formality of his court attire.

  His height was more evident now that he was among other people. He towered head and shoulders above most of the men and women who passed him. A small boy clutching his mother’s hand turned back to gawk open-mouthed at the giant that passed him before his mother dragged him along. He only turned his head forward once his mother reprimanded him. But the boy couldn’t help a quick glance back as he got to the end of the street.

  RJ followed the fiscal at a distance, wondering about this man who would never have the ability of blending into the crowd. Everyone would know who he was around here—not that anyone acknowledged him on his walk down the road. If anything, eyes were averted, roads were crossed and bodies moved aside to let him pass. Whether this was due to his physical stature or his role was difficult to tell. Whatever it was, he carried a presence about him that commanded respect. RJ was curious to know whether he was aware of his effect on people. If so, did he use it to his advantage? How?

  He turned sharply at the end of the street, and RJ rounded the corner to see him duck as he entered a door ahead. She caught up and looked at the sign, which read Stag’s Head in large block letters over a stylized print of a dear with full antlers. Making her decision in a split second, she entered the pub.

  She paused to let her eyes adjust to the gloom. Spotting Fiscal Dunn sitting at table near the back, she walked to the bar and ordered a drink. Surreptitiously checking out her surroundings as she waited, she concluded that the tables at the front would be the least conspicuous for her surveillance. She handed the barman a five-pound note and told him to keep the change before retreating to a table near a window. The window barely provided any light due to the grubby brown curtain that was pulled across the patterned glass. She lifted the newspaper that had been left on the table beside her, opened it, and tried to look absorbed in the articles within.

  She glanced up when she saw movement near the fiscal’s table. A barman set a glass and a half-full bottle of Laphroaig whisky on the table in front of him, returning to add a jug of water. Alexander Dunn smiled for the first time that day as he thanked the barman and poured himself a generous measure, tipping in a modicum of water from the jug. He took a swig, grimacing slightly as the amber liquid hit the mark. He swirled the glass and took another sip before sitting back to watch the front door.

  As if on cue, the door opened and Wullie Carstairs walked in, heading straight for the fiscal’s table. The fiscal stood and shook Wullie’s hand before he signaled for the barman to bring another glass.

  RJ took a pen from her pocket and pretended to do the crossword.

  The men were loud, but she couldn’t make out what they were saying. At one point, Fiscal Dunn threw back his head and laughed, Wullie’s shoulders shaking at the shared joke. Whatever their business was together, it seemed to be personal. The fiscal attempted to top up Wullie’s glass, but the gamekeeper waved him off with a shake of his hand. Wullie filled up his glass with water and slowly sipped on it. Alexander Dunn didn’t seem perturbed as he topped his drink off with another shot of whisky. The men chatted amiably, and eventually, they stood up, shaking hands. This time, the fiscal put his hand on Wullie’s upper arm in an unexpected show of warmth.

  Wullie sauntere
d out of the pub, oblivious to RJ’s presence. Alexander Dunn helped himself to another double measure from the bottle in front of him.

  RJ couldn’t figure out their connection. It had to have something to do with the estate.

  The barman went over to the fiscal’s table, then returned ten minutes later with a plate of fish and chips, which Alexander Dunn got heartily stuck into.

  On seeing this, her own stomach grumbled in envy. Seeing no point in tarrying any longer, RJ stood up and left the pub.

  Chapter 16

  When RJ entered the cabin, Stuart was still on the bed. “Been there all day?”

  “Just about,” he replied. “But I’ve probably had a more productive day than you.”

  “Probably.” She told him about her impressions of the procurator fiscal in court and his meeting with Wullie Carstairs.

  “Well, that I can’t explain,” he said, puzzled. “I did a little digging into the lack of fatal accident enquiries for Sullivan and the suspected suicide on the estate.”

  RJ’s eyebrows arched upwards in question.

  “I phoned the procurator fiscal’s office and asked them about it.”

  “You just phoned them up and asked,” she said incredulously. “If we had known it would be that simple, we could have done that days ago.”

  “‘Simple’ is stretching it a bit. I had to do a bit of minor phone hacking to disguise my number, then reroute their phone calls to a helping hand at Kingfisher, who bounced it back to me.”

  “Who did you say you were?”

  “Monopolies Commission, investigating the land grab from the Buchanan Estate and questioning why the deaths that occurred there hadn’t had fatal accident enquiries.”

  RJ doubled over, laughing until tears leaked out of her eyes. “Monopolies Commission . . . oh my god.” The stress she’d held onto since the night of Stuart’s fall eased with her uncontrollable laughter. She didn’t understand why she found it so funny, but she couldn’t stop laughing. Normally, something like that would have simply been amusing, but for some reason, at that precise moment, it was the funniest thing she’d ever heard.

  Every time she looked up at him, she fell back into hysterics. If there was ever a man who didn’t look like he was calling from the Monopolies Commission, it was the man in front of her, huddled on an old bed in a tiny cabin at the back of a pub, one leg elevated and still iced, his face making him look more like the Phantom of the Opera than a government official.

  “Classic. I still can’t see how you pulled it off, but that’s a good one.” She finally regained control of herself, wiping her eyes dry with a tissue. “What did you find out?”

  With a shake of his head and what she assumed was supposed to be a derisive glare, Stuart continued, “His paralegal wouldn’t tell me anything, of course, especially not right away, so I had her look into the website and phone back on the official number. Which she did, except one of our friends at HQ intercepted the call, acted as the operator, and then transferred her to me. Very nice lady she was, too. Naturally, she couldn’t talk about specifics for the case, but she did tell me some interesting general information.”

  “Such as . . .”

  “For the shooting, the doctor on scene pronounced it as suicide. The estate called the police. They actually called them in first. The police called for the doctor. The investigation had already been done. In fact, it sounds as if the death wasn’t even reported to the fiscal since it was ruled as a suicide. It wasn’t a work-related accident. It just happened at work, so there was no need for an official inquiry. Seems to be a gray area, but sometimes it just happens, apparently.”

  “Doesn’t seem right to me.”

  “No, but I don’t think it points suspicion onto the fiscal.”

  “But what about James Sullivan? Surely it’s odd that there was no inquiry into his death?”

  “Well, according the paralegal, an inquiry usually starts when a coroner takes control of the deceased in their home country. A mix-up at the funeral home when a body is mistakenly cremated isn’t something they’ve come across before. There’s no precedent for what to do in that case. Fiscal Alexander Dunn got a report from the police and the doctor who, again the police called, being first on scene. Supposedly, he passed this on to the relevant authorities in Sullivan’s home state.”

  “She told you all of this?”

  “I read between the lines.”

  “What does this mean for us?”

  “Well, it means the fiscal didn’t cover anything up.”

  “Do you honestly believe that? What about his meeting with Wullie Carstairs? Plus, I saw him in action. He got right down to the bare bones of the truth in the fatal-accident hearing today. He gives the impression of the kind of person who does everything by the book, doesn’t stop until he gets to the truth. The man’s a machine, Stuart. Stuff like that just wouldn’t slip through the cracks.”

  If Stuart’s face could move enough to show any emotion, he would have looked mightily confused. As it was, he only looked monstrous. He sighed. “Aarrgghhh. Now I don’t know what to think.”

  “I do. If I hadn’t seen him in action and hadn’t seen him meeting the gamekeeper, then I’d be inclined to go along with your theory. But I did see him. What you found out doesn’t put him in the clear. What it does tell us, however, is that there are more people involved. The local police and the doctors are involved for a start. Not to mention the funeral home.”

  Stuart sighed. “It can’t be so big. We can’t cast our net that wide, can we?”

  “Is there any way for us to find out which police officers were on the scene? I agree with you, the whole lot of them can’t be in on it.”

  “I’ll put in a request.” He looked up at the ceiling. “The doctors’ names are on the death certificates. I’ll try and book an appointment with one of them. I do look like I need some medical intervention, after all.”

  “Might as well try and use it your advantage.”

  “Speaking of using things to our advantage, there are some times when it might be less suspicious if you investigate things on your own, instead of going as a couple. Your husband has arranged a day out for you to make up for the fact he’s stuck here, unable to go out.”

  “What have you done?” RJ asked, suddenly suspicious. She narrowed her eyes, waiting for him to explain.

  “Nothing terrible, I promise. I booked you in for clay pigeon shooting at the estate, followed by a grouse dinner with the other shooters.”

  RJ released the breath she’d been holding. It wasn’t as bad as she had suspected. “What on earth am I supposed to wear to that?” she pondered out loud.

  “Don’t worry about that. I’ve ordered you an outfit, appropriate for the occasion. It should arrive by special delivery tomorrow.”

  She picked up one of the scatter cushions on the couch and threw it at him. “Now you’ve got me really worried.”

  Chapter17

  RJ phoned the local doctor’s surgery early the next morning. The receptionist greeted her with a cheery, “Hello, Maxwell Medical Practice, how can I help you today?”

  “Hi, I’d like to arrange a house call for my husband. We’re here on holiday and he’s unfortunately had a fall. His face is pretty bad and I’m not sure if his ankle is broken or just sprained.”

  “You really should take him to A&E, dear, up at the hospital. They’ll be much better equipped to deal with any broken bones.”

  “Oh, but it happened a few days ago, and the thing is, now I’ve gotten him up all these stairs, I don’t think I’d be able to get him back down,” RJ explained. “We’re staying in one of the cabins at the pub in Ferlieclachan, you see. If the doctor could come out and check on him, then at least we’d know if we’d have to figure a way of getting him out, or if he just needs to rest. I’m quite concerned about the graze on his face. I’m worried it’s infected. We’re just at a loss of what to do and would really appreciate the doctor’s advice.” RJ hoped she’d managed to pla
y her role of concerned wife well enough to play on the woman’s sympathy.

  “Let me just check to see what I can do. The doctor does his house calls until eleven every day and you’ve called quite early, so . . .”

  RJ heard computer keys clicking in the background.

  “Dr. Maxwell can come out at ten-thirty this morning. Shall I book you in?”

  “Yes, that would be fantastic. Thank you,” RJ said before giving her Stuart’s details.

  RJ looked at Stuart. “That was too easy. When have you ever had a suspect make life so much easier for you by doing a house call?”

  “There’s a first time for everything. Maybe this fall was good for something after all.”

  RJ arched her eyebrow in his direction.

  “I’m not saying it was a good thing, just well, let’s use it to our advantage is all.”

  RJ tidied away the breakfast dishes and started to tidy the cabin. What was it about doctors that made you want to appear at your best, even this one who was a person of interest in a potential murder case?

  #

  There was a knock on the door at ten-thirty sharp. RJ opened it to find a small gray man who looked as if he needed to see a doctor of his own. His ashen skin looked about ready to melt right off his face. The effect was worsened by the gray suit that hung on his frame and his uncombed gray hair. Here was a man who had long since stopped looking after himself.

  “Dr. Maxwell to see Stuart Black.” He peered over her shoulder to see Stuart in the bed within.

  “Come on in,” said RJ, making way for him to enter.

  “Yes, I can see you’ve been in the wars,” the doctor said to Stuart as he looked for a place to set his bag.

  RJ pulled one of the dining chairs over to the side of the bed. The doctor set his bag down, opening it up in one swift move.

  He snapped on a pair of latex gloves. “Let’s look at that face first, shall we?” He turned Stuart’s face to the light and muttered a few ambiguous “ums” and “ahs”, gently prodding at the crust. “I think your own body has done the job of looking after you on this one. All this here is caused by your body getting rid of any dirt or foreign bodies that were left in your abrasions. If you let it all dry out, you’ll be fine. It’s likely you’ll be end up with minimal scarring. It looks worse than it is really.”