Death Parts Us

by Alex Walters

  ‘You know about Galloway and Crawford?’

  ‘I know they’re dead. Unfortunate accidents.’

  ‘Aye, very unfortunate. You know they’d both been getting letters?’

  McKay was stony faced. ‘Letters?’

  ‘Threatening letters. For years.’

  ‘How’d you know they were getting threatening letters? I thought the three of you weren’t bosom buddies anymore.’

  ‘Jackie wouldn’t talk to either of us,’ Graham said. ‘Reckoned we’d sold him down the river.’

  ‘He wasn’t far wrong, the way I heard it.’

  ‘If we hadn’t, he’d have taken us down the river with him.’ There was no note of embarrassment or regret in Graham’s voice. ‘Billy and I got on well enough. We were never “bosom buddies,” as you put it. Just people who ended up working together. Not close, but we rubbed along okay at work.’

  ‘There was me thinking you were one tight little band of brothers.’

  ‘Aye, well. Jackie had his own ways of promoting loyalty. But outside of work, not so much.’

  ‘That why you were prepared to shaft him to save your own skins?’

  For a moment, Graham looked angry, then he shrugged and smiled. ‘Let’s say, neither of us shed too many tears.’

  ‘The letters?’

  ‘I received them. Every six months or so. I checked with Billy, and he’d been getting them too.’

  ‘What did these letters say?’

  ‘Just “NOT FORGOTTEN. NOT FORGIVEN.” Nothing else.’

  ‘Did you keep the letters?’

  ‘I threw most of them away. Thought it was just some gobshite with a grudge wanting to scare us. Wouldn’t have been the first. When they kept coming, I held on to a few, just in case.’

  ‘You didn’t think to report this?’

  ‘Not got many friends in the force. Wasn’t going to make myself a laughing stock by reporting something like that. Not without good reason.’

  ‘What about Galloway? How’d you know he was getting them?’

  ‘I used to run into Bridie Galloway from time to time. Around the village. At first, we avoided each other. Then – well, after Jackie became ill, we’d stop and chat a little bit. I asked her about the letters, and she said they’d been getting them, too, though she only found out once Jackie was unable to deal with things like that.’

  McKay nodded, as if this was news to him. ‘So, all three of you.’

  ‘Aye, same letters. Same frequency, roughly. I saw some of the ones that Billy got. They were identical.’

  ‘When did you first start receiving them?’

  ‘Maybe five years ago. Something like that. Then regularly after that.’

  ‘Any idea who it might be?’

  ‘Could be anyone. You know as well as I do, in our line of work, we get up a lot of people’s noses.’ He shifted on the wooden seat, and McKay had the sense that he might not be telling the whole truth.

  ‘What about the wording? That mean anything?’

  ‘Not that I can think of. Nothing specific.’

  McKay decided there was no point in pushing it. ‘But you think that the deaths of Galloway and Crawford might not be accidental?’

  ‘Well, it’s a bloody odd coincidence, isn’t it? Let’s put it this way. I’m watching my back.’

  ‘And trying to sell the story to any passing hack?’

  ‘Ach, that was the drink talking. But I’d feel better if someone was taking this seriously.’

  McKay smiled. ‘We’re taking it seriously enough. But at the moment, we’ve no real reason to treat the deaths as anything other than accidental. Coincidences happen.’

  ‘And the letters?’

  ‘Aye, well, that’s a consideration right enough.’ McKay sat in silence for a few moments, reluctant to offer anything further. ‘How come the three of you were all living up here?’

  More shifting on the seat. ‘How’d you mean?’

  ‘Just wondered. Doesn’t sound like any of you were bosom buddies. But you all ended up retiring up here.’

  Graham looked away, making a play of lighting up another cigarette in the chill breeze. ‘I was already up here,’ he said. ‘Lived here for years. As for the others, you’d have to ask them. Well, their widows.’

  ‘You prepared to come in and give us a proper statement, Rob? Let us have a look at the letters? Mind you, we wouldn’t pay you as much as the Record or the Sun.’

  ‘Fuck off, McKay. Christ, I remember when you were the resident tea boy.’

  ‘Long time ago, Rob. These days, we have business cards and everything.’ He slid one of the cards across the table. ‘Give me a call, Rob. We’ll do this properly. If there’s anything you need to be worried about, we’ll sort it.’

  ‘Aye, the tea boy’s on the job. Fills me with fucking confidence.’

  McKay pushed himself up from the table. ‘You best get back to your friends, Rob. They’ll be missing you.’

  Graham looked up and regarded McKay thoughtfully. ‘So, what is it you’re doing up here, then, McKay? Eating alone in a bloody bar.’

  ‘Must be this place, Rob. Coppers’ bloody graveyard. Where we all come to die.’ Before Graham could respond, he turned and walked out on to the main road. After a moment’s thought, he turned left, taking the road down to the sea. Some cold air, he thought. Some cold air to blow away the stench of the past.

  14

  ‘So, tell me.’

  ‘Tell you what?’

  ‘Whatever you want. Whatever you can.’ Isla paused. ‘Whatever helps.’

  They were back in the sitting room, an opened bottle of wine on the table between them. Ginny Horton had already knocked back one glass. ‘I don’t know that any of it helps,’ she said. ‘It feels like stirring up stuff I might rather let lie.’

  ‘It’s your decision. I’m not pretending to be a psychotherapist. Whatever feels best.’

  Horton took a breath. ‘Okay, I’ve told you some of this, haven’t I?’

  ‘You’ve told me that David was your stepfather. And that he treated you and your mother badly. Not much more than that.’

  ‘Jesus. I thought I’d told you more than that.’

  ‘Depends what you mean by told. I mean, I know you better than anyone else. I’ve worked out quite a bit.’

  Horton nodded. She’d felt sometimes that there was some kind of telepathy between the two of them. There were things each understood about the other, without words having to be exchanged. She knew, for example – or at least she thought she knew – how much grief Isla had received from her own family simply because she was gay. She felt she knew what that had felt like, what the impact had been, even though the two women had never really discussed it. Maybe it was an illusion, but it was a comforting one.

  ‘He wasn’t even really my stepfather. Not legally, anyway. My mum never remarried. She stuck with the bastard for far too long, but at least she never married him.’

  ‘What happened to your father?’

  ‘He died.’ She stopped and turned to Isla. Her eyes were damp. ‘Before I was born. I never knew him at all.’

  ‘Except that he’s part of you.’

  ‘Yeah. Except that.’ She managed a smile. ‘Which I suppose is everything.’

  ‘So, tell me the story. Tell me what happened. How your mum came to be with David.’

  There was a long silence. ‘This is the bit I never tell anyone,’ Horton said, finally. ‘The bit I don’t even want to tell you. Because it’s so bloody corny.’ She took another swallow of the wine. ‘My dad – my real dad – was a police officer. Up in this neck of the woods.’

  ‘You mean, that’s why you’re doing what you’re doing? Why you dragged me all the way up to this godforsaken part of the world?’

  Horton managed a laugh. ‘As I recall it, you were the one who was desperate to get as far away from the home counties as possible.’

  ‘Well, that’s true enough. This suits me down to the ground. It’s jus
t I hadn’t realised I had Dr Freud to thank for being here.’

  ‘It was never conscious. I mean, I knew what my dad had been. What had happened to him. But that was just some vaguely interesting titbit from the past. Then, when I graduated, I didn’t know what to do with my life. Spent a few years doing jobs I didn’t enjoy –’

  ‘You were a crap legal secretary,’ Isla said. That was how they’d met. Isla had been a newly-qualified lawyer on some graduate scheme. Horton had been temping in secretarial roles.

  ‘So that was why you encouraged me to apply for that police scheme,’ Horton said. ‘I always wondered.’

  ‘That, and so I could have my wicked way with you without worrying about the office gossip,’ Isla said. ‘I’m very strategic.’

  ‘I can see that. Anyway, I joined the police just because the opportunity was there. Never connected it with my dad. Didn’t really think about it ‘til we came up here, to be honest.’

  ‘But that was why we came up here?’

  ‘Not directly. When we started talking about getting out of London, getting somewhere that was right away, I thought about how my mum had always talked about the Highlands. That was what made me suggest it.’

  ‘What happened to your dad?’

  ‘Stupid accident, apparently. Hit by a car on his way back from the pub one Saturday night. Some drunk, probably, but then, he might have been drunk as well. There were no witnesses and a lot less CCTV in those days, and she reckoned they never identified the driver.’

  ‘That’s awful.’

  ‘It’s the way it is, sometimes. Today, he’d be caught on camera somewhere.’

  ‘And David?’

  ‘David was a copper, too. CID, apparently. I think he homed in on my mum as soon as she was – well, available. She was a decent looker in those days.’

  ‘There was I thinking you were as English as they come, and you’ve got all this hidden Scottish ancestry.’

  ‘Don’t tell Alec, will you? It would blow his mind. He’s got me well and truly pigeonholed.’

  ‘So how come you ended up down south?’

  ‘I don’t know the full story myself,’ Horton said. ‘Not long after he and my mum got together, David decided to leave the force, and they headed for London. He’d got himself some junior management job with this private security firm. That’s all I know, really. I was just a baby when we moved.’

  ‘You ever tried to find out more about your dad? Force records and suchlike?’

  Horton shook her head. ‘I’ve never wanted to. I suspect Mum idealised him. You know, the golden days before everything went wrong. For all I know, he might have been as big a bastard as David. I don’t want to know.’

  Isla topped up their wine glasses. ‘So, what about David? Tell me about him.’

  ‘He was a bastard. That just about sums him up. He was controlling, manipulative, violent. Apart from that, he was a real charmer.’

  ‘He was violent with you?’

  ‘Sometimes. But most of it was directed at Mum. It was the usual story. Enough to keep her cowed, in her place. Not so much that the bruises would show. Mostly, anyway.’

  ‘And this is the bastard who wants to get back in contact with you? I knew he’d treated you and your mum badly, but I hadn’t realised –’

  ‘It was the psychological stuff that was the worst,’ Horton said. ‘Looking back, I mean. At the time, I was terrified of his anger. He’d just go off on one, usually out of the blue and with no real cause. That was when he’d hit Mum. But between that, he used every trick in the book to put her down, make her feel stupid and small. He’d laugh at her with his mates. Would never let her get a job, but constantly criticised her because he was having to be the breadwinner. You know.’

  ‘I know,’ Isla agreed. ‘What about you? Did he do the same to you?’

  ‘Pretty much. The same kind of belittling. I think if I’d been older, it would have been worse. As it was, I was young enough that, after we finally got away from him, I was able to put it behind me and move on. As much as it’s possible to do that, anyway.’

  ‘How did you get away in the end?’

  ‘We walked out. I had no idea at the time just how brave and smart Mum must have been. She’d got some savings from before my dad’s death that she’d never allowed David to get near. She just upped and left. She’d had nowhere to go, but she had a couple of friends who let us stay while she sorted somewhere to live. It was a tough few years – not that I realised it at the time – but eventually, she got on an even keel, found herself a job. And it was okay.’

  ‘What about David?’

  ‘We basically hid from him for a year. He did everything he could to find out where we were living, but Mum’s friends were loyal. They all hated the bastard as much as we did. She lived in day-to-day fear that he’d find her. He did, eventually, but by then, she was a different woman. He tried hard to frighten her, threatened to get violent. But she just picked up the phone and called the police. I can’t even remember if anyone even came out, but he buggered off sharpish.’

  ‘Just your usual bully, then?’

  ‘I guess so.’ She paused, thinking. ‘I mean, you’re right. You call his bluff, he backs down. Probably. But he’s good at wrong-footing you. Making you feel small. Making you feel it’s your fault. Like I say, psychological bullying.’

  ‘That’s why you’re still afraid of him?’

  ‘That’s what it comes down to. I’ve not had many dealings with him since then. He turned up at Mum’s funeral, even though no one had invited him and nobody wanted him there. He took the opportunity to pin me in a corner and harangue me about how badly he’d been treated. Someone had to virtually drag him away in the end. Then, he challenged her will. She’d left what she had to me, but he tried to claim the will wasn’t valid.’

  ‘Presumably didn’t have a legal leg to stand on?’

  ‘Not for a minute. But I don’t think that was what it was about. It was about trying to put me in my place. Make me feel I’d got something I wasn’t entitled to. Make me feel that even the inheritance was – I don’t know, unclean, somehow.’

  Isla took another sip of her wine. ‘Did that work?’

  ‘More than it should have done. I mean, it didn’t make me want to hand it back, exactly. But it tainted things. Which is what he wanted.’

  ‘And since then?’

  ‘He turned up a few times. Always scared me more than it should have done. I keep telling myself I’m a grown woman, a fucking police officer, and he’s the one who should be scared of me. But still. He turns me straight back into a child again. A five-year-old afraid he’s going to hit me.’

  ‘Do you think he would?’

  ‘I really don’t know. I think the answer’s no. But I don’t know what he’s capable of.’

  ‘He sounds to me like a small man who gets his kicks from scaring people he thinks are weaker than he is.’ Isla laughed. ‘Does he know you’re a police officer?’

  ‘It’s a good point,’ Horton said. ‘I’m not sure he does. I don’t know how long it has been since I last saw him. I’d joined the force down there by then, but I don’t think I brought it up. I didn’t say any more to him than I could avoid.’ She was smiling now. ‘It just occurred to me. As far as I know, David was still a DC when he left the force up here. Never made it to the dizzying heights of DS. Never passed his sergeants’ exams. I outrank him.’

  ‘Just tell him that, and you’ll intimidate the life out of him.’

  ‘I hope so.’ Horton’s smile had faded, almost immediately. ‘But I don’t like the thought of him out there. Maybe he’s just a bully. Maybe he’d back off if I challenged him. But he scared me then. And he scares me now.’

  15

  It was a fine, clear night, the sky full of stars, a low three-quarter moon scattering silver across the waters of the firth. The sort of night that didn’t come around too often in these parts.

  McKay hadn’t been sure what had taken him down to th
e sea rather than along the more direct route to the bungalow. He didn’t even know why the encounter with Rob Graham had left him so disturbed. He’d never much liked Graham. But he’d never liked any of Galloway’s acolytes. Bastards who’d stitch you up in a moment, if it helped boost their conviction rate. Who’d beat a confession out of you, if they couldn’t get it any other way. Who’d happily leave you for dead, if you got on the wrong side of them.

  It was ironic to see Graham crapping himself about what might have happened to Galloway and Crawford, but McKay couldn’t bring himself to feel amused. For a start, there was the possibility, however remote, that Graham’s fears might be justified. That the two ex-coppers really had been murdered. That might mean that others, some of them less deserving than that bastard crew, might also be in danger.

  Then again, McKay thought, if you were looking for justice, maybe Galloway and Crawford had faced that long ago. Galloway had ended his days a lost shadow of his former self, able to do nothing but gaze senselessly at a flickering TV screen. Crawford had been stuck in that far circle of hell where all you can do is deaden your days with alcohol in the company of blethering idiots. If anything, their deaths had released them from all that.

  And where did that leave McKay? That, he supposed, was the real question that had brought him down here. What was there left for him but solitary friendless suppers in near-empty pubs, listening to the likes of Rob Graham spouting endless bollocks? Then back home to a bleak, companionless shell of a house.

  Ach, pull yourself together, man, he told himself. This is temporary. Things will sort themselves out. You just have to get on with getting on. That’s the way life works.

  The tide was high, the waters lapping at the top of the beach. To his left, he could see the spot where he and Ginny Horton had struggled with the young woman the previous summer. That was nagging at him, too. The case was still awaiting legal closure, but he knew that, whatever the formal outcome, his own doubts would remain unresolved. A police officer ought to be able to finish the case, close the file and move on, but that had never been McKay’s way. It maybe made him a better detective, but a worse human being.