by Alex Walters
She was gazing fixedly at McKay as if trying to imprint him in her memory. ‘An accident like Billy’s, you mean? Falling into the sea. But why was he anywhere near the sea? He’d just gone to the bar. It’s a ten-minute walk back straight along the high street.’
‘I’m sure there’s a simple explanation,’ McKay said. ‘We’ll be investigating the circumstances.’ She was still staring at him, and it took McKay a moment to realise that the expression in her eyes was one of fear. ‘We’ve no reason to suspect foul play.’ He hesitated. ‘Unless you know of some reason why your husband might have been in danger?’
‘He was a police officer. Like you. There are always people who want to hurt you.’
In his own case, McKay reflected, those people were probably mostly his own colleagues. But, of course, she was right. You made enemies in the job. The scrotes who decided to take their convictions personally, as if it was your fault they’d mugged some defenceless pensioner or committed an armed robbery. The toerags who thought their manhood would be questioned if they didn’t swear revenge on you. Even the relatives sometimes – the wives or parents who blamed you for the fact they’d married or sired a malicious deadbeat. ‘Your husband has been retired a long time, Mrs Crawford.’
‘I know,’ she said, her eyes still bright with fear, ‘and that’s why I’m asking you. Why Billy? Why now?’
10
They’d left Mrs Crawford in the care of a neighbour who had appeared promptly in response to a telephone call from the newly bereaved widow. McKay had the impression that, within the half hour, every female in the village over the age of sixty would have descended to pay her respects.
‘She seemed genuinely scared,’ Horton pointed out, as they walked back up the high street.
‘Grief strikes people in strange ways,’ McKay offered. ‘Hard to see who would have bothered to take Billy Crawford out after all these years.’ He paused. ‘She’s right, though. It’s a weird coincidence. Two accidents. A day apart. Unexplained elements in both cases. Merits a bit more digging.’
Horton laughed. ‘As if you were ever going to let it lie. You’re desperate for a proper case to get your teeth into.’
‘Nah, I’m just out for a quiet life,’ McKay said. ‘Let’s go and pay a visit to the Caley Bar, shall we? For old times’ sake.’ He turned back to her, his face serious. ‘If you can face it.’
The last time they’d been in the Caley had been at the tail end of the previous summer’s major murder enquiry. ‘Yeah,’ she said. ‘Back in the saddle and all that, you know.’
‘I hear it’s going up in the world,’ McKay said. ‘Mind you, it would have taken some sort of special genius to take it down market.’
From the outside, the Caledonian Bar looked much improved, with new paintwork and sparkling freshly cleaned windows. Once through the double doors, the changes were even more striking. The walls had been repainted a gleaming white, and the previously filthy floor had been stripped back and sanded. There were arty prints on the walls and vases of fresh flowers in the windows.
‘Christ almighty,’ McKay said. ‘I think we’ve come into the wrong place.’
It had only just turned twelve, and the place was still empty. A tall young man with blond hair and Viking features was standing behind the bar. He looked up hopefully as they approached. ‘Afternoon,’ he said. ‘How can I help you?’ He had an accent, but it was barely discernible. Irish rather than Scottish, McKay thought.
McKay slid his warrant card across the bar. ‘Not customers, I’m afraid. DI McKay and DS Horton. Mr –?’
‘Donnelly. Callum Donnelly.’ The young man was looking anxious.
‘No need to worry, Mr Donnelly. We’ve not spotted anyone drinking underage or found you fiddling the till.’ He gifted Donnelly on of his rare smiles. ‘And frankly, you’d have to go a long way to surpass your predecessor in those departments. Denny Gorman wasn't exactly the model landlord.’ He looked around. ‘Nice job you’ve done with the place, eh, Ginny?’
Horton nodded. ‘I’d barely have recognised it.’
Donnelly was looking relieved. ‘We’ve only just begun, really. It’s been a challenge, more than we expected.’
‘Aye, I can believe that,’ McKay said. ‘I imagine Gorman would have left a few skeletons in the closets. And probably things less pleasant than that.’
‘It’s taken a bit of cleaning up,’ Donnelly agreed. ‘We’re working on the kitchens now. Want to be able to do a proper range of food. Not sure we’ll have that up and running for the start of the season, but we’re giving it a go. Got to get the exterior sorted too.’
‘Good luck to you,’ McKay said. ‘Nice to see some life coming back to the place.’
‘How can I help you?’
‘Billy Crawford,’ McKay said. ‘Was he in here last night?’
‘He was,’ Donnelly confirmed. ‘He usually is. Then his wife came ‘round later looking for him.’ He stopped, staring at them. ‘Oh, my God. Do you mean –?’
‘I’m afraid so. His body was found this morning.’
‘That poor woman. I’m afraid I didn’t take her all that seriously. I thought he must have just gone on for a chat somewhere with his mates, and that she was being hysterical. I never imagined –’
‘There were no signs of anything wrong with him earlier in the evening?’
‘Not that I remember. Was he taken ill?’
‘It’s too early for us to be sure about the cause of death,’ McKay said. ‘His body was found washed up this morning at Chanonry Point.’
‘My God. That’s dreadful. How could that have happened?’
‘That’s what we’re trying to find out,’ McKay said patiently. ‘You didn’t see any evidence he was unwell?’
‘I don’t think so. He was pretty drunk by the end, though.’ He paused, clearly wondering whether this raised any questions about his own responsibilities as the licensee. ‘I mean, not incapable or anything. But he’d had a few. Four or five pints and a couple of chasers, I think.’
‘Is that usual?’ Horton asked. ‘For Crawford, I mean.’
‘If I’m honest, pretty much so. He usually came in about six-thirty. Didn’t usually stay more than a couple of hours – usually away about eight or eight-thirty. But he often managed to knock back a fair amount in that time. The crowd he mixed with were all a bit like that, but some more than others.’
‘Not the clientele you’re aspiring to, I imagine?’
Donnelly shrugged. ‘They’re not so bad. It’s hard to turn away business, especially outside the season. They’re not trouble makers. They just sit there in the corner, gossiping away and getting quietly bladdered. The tourists are more likely to come in at lunchtime or early evening.’
‘We’ll need you to give us the names of Crawford’s drinking companions, if you’re able to. I imagine you may know them better than his wife.’
‘I can do that,’ Donnelly said. ‘They’re all regulars.’
‘So what time did Crawford leave last night?’ McKay asked.
‘About nine, I think. I didn’t notice exactly because we were fairly busy. But that’s when he usually left, and I remember noticing he was gone a while after that.’
‘Do you know if he left alone?’
‘I couldn’t say, to be honest. Most of them tend to peel off around that time, if not earlier, though there are a few who stay for the duration. If you want my honest impression, I’d say Crawford was less clubbable than the others. Most of them come in for a bit of company, have a couple of pints and then head off. I think Crawford came in for the booze, mainly, and possibly to get himself out of the house. He always seemed a bit detached from the others. He usually headed off on his own. I don’t know whether last night was any different.’
‘And this group,’ Horton added, ‘I assume they’re all men?’
Donnelly laughed. ‘Not much space for a woman among that lot. Why?’
McKay shrugged. ‘Just trying to get a picture.’<
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Behind them, a young couple, presumably tourists, had just entered and were looking around the bar approvingly. ‘First trade of the day,’ Donnelly said. ‘I’ll see if I can tempt them with one of our deli-style sandwiches.’
‘Jesus,’ McKay said. ‘Last time we were in here, you’d have been lucky to get a bag of stale crisps.’
They left Donnelly to his business, taking away with them the list he’d provided of Crawford’s drinking companions. He’d come up with eight names in total, though not all had been present the previous evening. Donnelly had known where most lived, and McKay assumed they wouldn’t have much difficulty tracking down the rest.
‘What do you think?’ Horton said, once they were back in the car. ‘Worth taking further now?’
‘Let’s head back to town and have a chat with Helena. It’s not like we’ve got capacity to spare. We need to decide whether there’s anything in this one.’ He paused, a small smile playing around his lips. ‘Mind you, if the local media were to make anything of the unexplained deaths of two ex-coppers within a mile or so of each other, it might rise up the priority list a bit.’
‘You’re not thinking of tipping them off?’
‘Ach, no, Ginny. What do you take me for?’ He paused, still smiling. ‘But, well, I might mention the possibility to Helena. Just in passing, you understand?’
11
Ginny Horton spent the rest of the day working through paperwork, trying to get on top of the numerous cases she had on the go. It felt like a fruitless task – no sooner had she completed one form or dispatched another document than half a dozen more seemed to bounce into her inbox to take their place. But it was just as important, if not more so, than the other aspects of investigatory work.
She’d been happy to leave McKay in conference with Helena Grant. Despite his acerbic manner, McKay had the ability to wrap most people round his little finger, if he put his mind to it, and even Grant was no exception. If he wanted time and resources to devote to the two recent deaths, Horton was fairly sure he’d get it.
Sure enough, half an hour later, McKay reappeared, looking buoyant. ‘Permission to carry on,’ he confirmed. ‘At least for the moment.’
‘Helena thinks there’s something worth investigating, then?’
‘She agrees there’s enough to warrant some further digging. And it’s close to home. You know, police family stuff. Even if, in this case, we’re talking about a couple of disgraced old uncles.’
‘Crawford wasn’t disgraced, was he?’
‘Only just avoided it, the way I understand it. The word was that he was the one who shopped Galloway. I don’t think he actually grassed him up as such. Reckoned he hadn’t really seen what had happened in any detail. But, the way I heard it, his version of events cast enough doubt to pull the rug from under Galloway. Some said he’d done a deal to save his own skin. I don’t know. He was disciplined, but he walked away on early retirement, kept his pension and all that.’
‘Must have left Galloway well and truly pissed off.’
‘No doubt about that. They were thick as particularly thick thieves, but haven’t exchanged a word since, I heard. Not even an expletive.’
‘Yet they were living within a mile or so of each other?’
‘Aye, weird, isn’t it? Assume it was accidental, but maybe the old attraction was too strong.’ McKay returned to his desk, rebooted his PC and grimaced at the stack of new emails now filling his inbox. ‘You got that list of Crawford’s drinking pals?’
Horton pulled out her notebook. ‘Here. Why?’
‘I’ll set someone on tracking them down. See if they can cast any light on Crawford’s movements last night. Josh Carlisle got much on at the moment?’
‘As much as everyone else, I’m guessing. But he’s bogged down in the admin, like all of us. He’d probably welcome a trip out.’ DC Carlisle was a young, enthusiastic member of the team, generally only too happy to do anything that would keep him in McKay’s good books.
‘His lucky day, then.’ McKay was already back on his feet. ‘Don’t worry, I won’t let him anywhere near your notebook. I’ll photocopy the page.’
‘You lose my notebook, Alec McKay, and I won’t be responsible for my actions.’
The rest of the afternoon passed uneventfully. Sick of pounding at her keyboard, Horton left earlier than usual, heading out of the office just after five. The traffic on to the A9 was already heavy, tailing back into the city, and she was pleased when she finally reached the Aberdeen Road, heading for home.
Isla was unlikely to be home for another hour or so. Horton’s plan was to stick on something for supper – probably one of the casseroles they made in batches to keep in the freezer – and then head out for an early evening run. She was a serious runner, but she was conscious that, at least by her own standards, she’d allowed the frequency of her runs to slip over the winter months. It was always harder to drag yourself out into a cold, frost-ridden morning or to force yourself back out into the darkness after work. But now the mornings and evenings were growing lighter, she was keen to get back into her former routine.
She parked in front of their neat little cottage, climbed out into the chill evening, and dug out her front door keys. It cheered her just to return to this place every day. It was only a small house on the edge of the village, but they’d spent time and money turning it into the home they wanted. The upper floors had a view of the firth, and in the summer, the garden at the rear formed a suntrap that retained the heat whenever they managed to get a few warm days in a row.
Above all, the place felt like a haven. It was somewhere that, at the end of each day, she could just put all the world – every crime, every investigation, every toerag they’d had to deal with – behind her. She knew Isla felt the same. They could lock the doors, draw the curtains, and it was just them.
She closed the front door behind her and bent to pick up the post. The usual junk. A clothes shopping catalogue addressed to Isla. A bank statement. A flyer for some new store in Inverness.
And an envelope, apparently hand-delivered, with her own name printed on the front. Virginia Horton. She couldn’t remember the last time anyone had called her Virginia.
She took the envelope through into the kitchen and put the kettle on. She knew she was simply delaying. All her instincts were telling her to ignore the envelope, throw it away into the bin, unopened.
In the end, though, she knew she’d be unable to resist and she tore it open. Inside was a single sheet of paper, with a message handwritten in block capitals.
“Dear Virginia,
I don’t know whether you got my message. I want to see you. There are things I need to tell you. I called this afternoon in the hope that you’d be here. I will try again.
Best,
David.”
She stared at the words. The final sentence struck her with the force of a threat. “I will try again.”
Too late, she did what she should have done in the first place. She screwed the letter and envelope into a tight ball and dropped them into the trash can beneath the sink.
She realised suddenly that she was shaking.
You’re being ridiculous, she told herself. You’re a grown woman, a police officer. There is nothing he can do. Stop it.
But then she rose, returned to the hallway, and double-locked the front door. She entered the living room and sat, curled in a corner of the sofa, still trembling, longing for the sound of Isla’s returning car.
12
In the end, he took almost nothing. A few books. The portable CD player he knew Chrissie never used. A stack of his old CDs to play on it. A few other personal items – a framed photograph of his parents, a souvenir old-style bobby’s helmet presented to him when he’d spoken at a conference years ago, a couple of ornaments that had belonged to his mother. He was able to get his clothes into a couple of suitcases. He hesitated, looking at the framed photograph of his and Chrissie’s wedding day on top of the television. The two of
them looking delighted and absurdly young. Full of hope. He picked it up for a moment and then replaced it.
There was no point in taking more. The bungalow was a furnished let, basic but with enough to meet McKay’s limited needs. If there was anything else, he could pick it up from the supermarket in Inverness. He wanted to leave all this behind for Chrissie, as undisturbed as possible. At least pretend nothing had changed.
He’d sorted the details out with the agent the previous day, paying a month’s deposit and a month’s rent in advance. The young man still seemed slightly stunned that he’d managed to complete the deal so easily, and McKay hadn’t even bothered to haggle about the rent. He just wanted it sorted. The place was vacant, and they’d been more than happy to hand over the keys immediately.
It took him only an hour or so to get packed, and it was still early evening by the time he reached the Kessock Bridge. The days were lengthening, but the first lights were coming on around the firth, and there was a low mist hanging over the water. McKay wasn’t sure if this felt like the end of something or the beginning. Time, he guessed, would tell.
Once he’d made the turn off the A9 into the Black Isle, he dialled the number on the hands-free. It rang briefly then a voice said, ‘Ellie McBride.’
‘Hi, Ellie. It’s Alec. I don’t suppose Chrissie’s around.’ He’d always got on well enough with Chrissie’s younger sister.
There was a moment’s hesitation. ‘I think she’s having a wee lie down just at the moment, Alec. I wouldn’t want to disturb her.’
‘Aye, no, quite right.’ It was clear that Chrissie didn’t want to speak to him. It was what he’d expected. ‘Look, Ellie, I just wanted to let her know I’ve moved out now, like I said I would. Left everything as it was, so she can go back when she wants. Until we get this sorted out, you know.’
‘Aye, Alec. I know.’ She sounded kindly enough, though McKay guessed she’d mostly be relieved she wouldn’t have to squeeze Chrissie into a house already barely large enough for herself, her husband and their three kids. ‘What are you doing, though? Where are you staying, I mean?’