Death Parts Us

by Alex Walters

  She’d split up with him after Christmas. They’d been due to go to a party at one of his mates for Hogmanay, but she hadn’t been able to face it. Instead, she’d spent the evening by herself, her parents out at some local shindig, listening to gloomy music through her headphones. Happy New Year.

  In fairness, she knew that Greg would have had a worse one. Whatever her reasons, she’d treated him badly. As far as he was concerned, the news had come from nowhere and knocked him flat. He’d assumed she must have someone else, but that hadn’t been the case. Whether that would have made him feel better or worse, she had no idea.

  They hadn’t spoken since. They’d managed to avoid each other back at Uni. They were doing different subjects, and there was no particular reason for their paths to cross. Back here, she’d half expected to run into him at some point, but so far, it hadn’t happened.

  Now, it had. But he still hadn’t noticed her, and she turned to Maggie. ‘You look busy. I can go and sort out the barrel. I know how to.’

  ‘Well, if you’re sure. It’s still a bit of a mess down there.’

  ‘It must be better than it used to be. I’ll be as quick as I can.’ She could see Greg and his mates moving towards the bar. Before he could spot her, she turned and disappeared through the door at the rear of the bar, heading for the cellar steps.

  The cellar could hardly have been described as pristine, but, like the rest of the pub, it was changed from the old days. The previous forty-watt light bulbs had been replaced by bright halogen spots to ensure the business end of the room was fully illuminated. Denny Gorman’s old junk had been cleared out, and the place had been repainted. The new range of cask and keg ales had necessitated a reordering of the barrels and pipes. Whereas before the room had felt narrow and cramped, now it seemed relatively spacious. Farewell, ghost of Denny Gorman, she thought. This place had been her last lingering phantom from the old regime, and with one visit, it had been exorcised. She wished she’d made herself come down here before.

  It took her only a couple of minutes to change the barrel – even that task was so much easier with proper lighting and more space. She completed the job and then turned and stopped.

  There was a figure standing in the cellar doorway, silhouetted in the light from the stairs. For just a moment, her mind was whisked back to the previous summer when Denny Gorman had stood in that same spot, refusing to let her pass. It was as if, despite everything, his spirit was still haunting the place.

  ‘Kelly?’

  Oh, Christ, she thought. Not Denny Gorman. Worse than Denny Gorman. ‘Does Callum know you’re down here, Greg?’

  ‘Who the fuck’s Callum? Your new boyfriend?’ He sounded like a spoilt child, she thought.

  ‘Callum’s the owner,’ she explained patiently. ‘My employer. Get back upstairs before you land us both in the shite.’

  ‘I’m already there.’ He sounded angry, she thought. Angrier than she’d expected after all these weeks. ‘Why don’t I drag you in with me?’

  She walked back across the room. Already the echoes of her last encounter with Denny Gorman felt too strong. ‘Grow up, Greg.’

  ‘I thought I had done. I thought we’d grown up together.’

  She was only a couple of metres away from him now. ‘We did. But now, we’re finished. I’m sorry, Greg. I didn’t mean to hurt you –’

  ‘Well, you did a fucking brilliant job. I’d hate to see what you’re capable of, if you really try.’

  ‘Greg –’

  ‘Why did you do it, Kelly? You humiliated me. You didn’t care what I felt. You didn’t care about anything.’

  ‘Look, let me past, Greg. I’ve a job to do.’

  ‘I don’t care about your fucking job.’

  She moved to push past him. As she did so, he grabbed her by the shoulders and thrust her back against the wall. Just as Denny Gorman had done.

  But even Gorman, she thought, had seemed desperate rather than furious. ‘Greg, stop it –’

  ‘You okay, Kelly?’ The voice came from the stairs behind Greg. Then, ‘Hey, son, what the hell are you doing down here?’

  Immediately, Greg released his grip. He turned to face Callum who was standing glowering at the bottom of the steps. ‘I was just –’

  ‘I don’t care what you were doing,’ Callum said. ‘This place is off-limits, except to staff. Get the hell out of here.’

  Greg didn’t need to be asked twice. Head down, he scuttled back up the stairs as Callum called after him, ‘And if you and your mates are still there when I get back up, I’m calling the police.’

  He turned to face Kelly. ‘What was all that about?’

  ‘I don’t know. He just –’

  ‘Do you know him?’

  It felt like the final betrayal, but she didn’t know what else to say. ‘Not really. We were at school together. He just appeared.’

  ‘You sure you’re okay? Do you want me to call the police?’

  She took a breath. ‘No, no. I don’t suppose he meant any harm, really.’

  Callum gave her a smile. ‘I’m not so sure about that. I knew we shouldn’t have let you go and change the barrel.’

  ‘Changing the barrel wasn’t the problem,’ she said.

  ‘No, I suppose not. Bloody wee toerag.’ He was already making his way back up the stairs, muttering to himself.

  She followed, a step or two behind. At the top of the stairs, she glanced back down into the stairwell, half expecting the ghost of Denny Gorman to be staring back up at her.

  35

  Horton was almost home when the mobile buzzed on the car seat beside her. It was her personal phone rather than the office one, and she hadn’t bothered to connect to the car’s hands-free arrangement. She rarely received urgent calls on that phone, and Isla knew to call the work number if she wanted to speak while Horton was driving.

  Keeping her eyes on the road, she fumbled for the phone and glanced at the screen. A number she didn’t recognise. If it was anything important, they’d leave a message.

  It was nearly seven-thirty. She’d stayed late at the office, partly because there was plenty to get done and partly so she wouldn’t have to be home on her own. Isla had had a late meeting but expected to be home by seven. In a day or two, Horton knew she’d feel comfortable in the house again, but for the moment, after everything that had happened, she didn’t want to be there alone.

  It was already dark, and as she pulled into the driveway, Horton felt a slight frisson, knowing she’d have to navigate the short distance between her car and the front door. But Isla’s car was already there, and she’d have heard Horton’s car arriving.

  There was a moment, as Horton fumbled with the key in the lock, when she half expected to hear that voice again whispering threateningly in her ear. She pulled open the door, stepped inside and, feeling as if she’d finally reached sanctuary, closed the door firmly behind her.

  Isla was in the sitting room watching Channel 4 News. She’d already opened a bottle of wine and set it out on the low table with two glasses. ‘I thought you might need it,’ she said.

  ‘Too bloody right,’ Horton said. ‘It’s been quite the day.’

  ‘Go and get changed,’ Isla said. ‘Dinner’s cooking.’

  ‘You’ve been busy.’

  ‘It was a real effort, taking it out of the freezer and sticking it in the oven. I’m glad my efforts are appreciated.’

  Horton made her way upstairs to change out of her office clothes into something more comfortable. That was part of their ritual – putting the day behind them. Tonight, those domestic rituals felt more important than ever.

  She threw jacket and handbag on to the bed and began to dig out a suitable sweatshirt and pair of jeans. As she did so, she remembered the call she’d received in the car. She retrieved the phone from her bag and checked the screen. Whoever it was had left a voicemail message. There was also another more recent missed call, received while she’d been chatting to Isla, this time from a number
she recognised.

  She thumbed the return call button. ‘Alec?’

  ‘Hi, Ginny. Sorry to trouble you in the evening. Thought it might be better than office hours, in the circumstances.’ McKay usually made a point of not disturbing his team outside work time unless it was absolutely necessary.

  ‘I think I’m still allowed to talk to you, Alec.’

  ‘You sure about that?’

  ‘As long as we don’t discuss the investigation.’

  ‘Aye, well. About that –’

  ‘Alec.’

  ‘Not a discussion. I just want to tell you something.’

  She sighed. ‘Go on, then.’

  ‘I ran into Bridie Galloway today.’

  ‘“Ran into”?’

  ‘Ach, it’s a wee village. I can’t avoid everyone. It was in the local store.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘She was talking about Jackie. Well, she would, wouldn’t she? She thought we ought to be looking at the last few cases he was involved with. Before his retirement.’

  ‘Well, obviously –’

  ‘The thing is, she reckons his whole attitude changed around that time. He became less cocky. More anxious. Worried about his own safety. Not your typical Jackie Galloway at all.’

  ‘This was before that last case that finished him off?’

  ‘She says so. Sometime in that last year or so.’

  ‘We’re going back through those last cases anyway. But I don’t see why someone would have waited twenty years to follow through.’

  ‘Me neither. But I promised Bridie I’d pass on what she said. You might want to talk to her again. Get it from the horse’s mouth. But don’t tell Helena I sent you.’

  ‘It’s a deal. How are you doing, Alec?’

  ‘Ach, you know.’

  ‘I can imagine.’

  ‘I saw the news tonight. Crawford’s and Graham’s deaths being treated as suspicious. I’m guessing that means I’m not off the hook yet?’

  ‘Alec –’

  ‘I’m not fishing. Just acknowledging I’m not likely to be readmitted to the fold in the immediate future.’

  ‘We all want you back, Alec. As soon as possible, as far as I’m concerned.’

  ‘Aye, I know. And it’s much appreciated.’

  ‘Have you heard anything from Chrissie?’

  ‘Not a dickie bird. I’m not sure if the ball’s in her court or mine.’

  ‘If neither of you picks up the phone, nothing’s going to happen.’

  ‘I can’t argue with that. Doesn’t make it any easier, though.’

  ‘Let me know if I can help.’

  ‘Aye, lass, I will. Don’t think I don’t appreciate it. Beneath this curmudgeonly exterior lies – well, a deeply misanthropic interior. But you get my point.’

  ‘I think so, Alec. Keep well.’

  ‘Aye, and you.’

  She ended the call and finished getting changed. She knew she was delaying checking the voicemail, increasingly certain what it would be. Isla would probably advise her simply to delete it. Then get the number blocked.

  That was the sensible response. But she couldn’t bring herself to do it. For one thing, if it was David, he’d find other ways to try to contact her. She could try to take legal action to stop him, but on what grounds? She felt threatened by him, but there was no evidence that he’d actually threatened her. All he wanted to do, he said, was talk.

  In the end, just as Isla was calling up the stairs that dinner was ready, she played back the voicemail. It was exactly as she’d expected. ‘Virginia. David. Look, I’m sorry about the misunderstanding last night.’ Misunderstanding. ‘I didn’t mean to frighten you. But I really do need to talk to you. There are things I need to tell you. Important things. Urgent things.’ There was a pause, and she could hear him down the phone. ‘Look, Virginia. I’ve found out what it is you do now – funny old world, isn’t it? – and I don’t want to make more trouble for either of us. But I do need to talk to you. Whenever you like, wherever you like. If you’re worried, we can meet somewhere public. Bring someone with you, if you want. Maybe that – friend of yours. Think about it. Call me back on this number. I’m staying up here as long as it takes.’

  The message ended. ‘As long as it takes.’ Another sign-off that felt like a threat, however David had intended it.

  ‘Ginny?’

  She looked up. Isla was standing in the bedroom doorway.

  ‘Something wrong?’

  Horton held up the phone. ‘David. A message.’

  ‘Shit. Can’t that bastard just leave you alone? You should have deleted it.’

  ‘I need to bring this to a close. I can let it keep running on.’

  ‘So, get a restraining order.’

  ‘He wants to speak, he says. He has things to tell me.’

  ‘He’s playing with you.’

  ‘I know.’ She shook her head. ‘He says he’ll meet me anywhere I want. Somewhere public. He says I can bring you too.’

  ‘If you did that, do you really think that would be an end of it?’

  Horton shrugged. ‘For the moment, probably. It wouldn’t guarantee he’d leave me alone forever.’

  ‘Well, it has to be your decision,’ Isla said. ‘If you want me along, I’m there. Come and eat, and then, we can think about it.’

  36

  McKay had spent the rest of the afternoon trying to maintain his sanity. After leaving Bridie Galloway, he took a long walk along the beach, traipsing around the bay towards Chanonry Point. It was a fine afternoon. He stood at the far end of the bay, looking back along the curve of the beach and the scattering of buildings in Rosemarkie, enjoying the chill wind off the water. He wasn’t normally one to enjoy walking for its own sake, but this at least made him feel less imprisoned by the small bungalow and his own head.

  When he reached Chanonry Point, he sat for a while on one of the wooden benches, watching the early tourists mill around him. There was no sign of the famed dolphins this afternoon, but, in any case, McKay preferred watching the dolphin seekers. They ranged from the serious enthusiasts, who’d sit there on their foldaway stools, expensive-looking cameras set up beside them, through to the casual tourists, shrieking to each other whenever they mistook some wave cap for a dolphin or seal.

  The walk back felt longer and harder work, perhaps because there was only the bungalow to look forward to at the end of it. By the time he reached the outskirts of Rosemarkie, the sun was low over the hills, throwing shadows across the water. Another day drifting to its end. Another day of going nowhere, doing nothing.

  Still lacking the will to cook for himself, he microwaved a frozen chilli con carne, and watched the news as he ate. The Scottish national news carried a short piece on the investigation into Crawford’s and Graham’s deaths. The regional news included a lengthier clip of the press conference featuring Helena Grant alongside the Chief Super.

  Grant had acquitted herself well, as he’d known she would. She was good at that kind of thing, sounding authoritative and reassuring without actually giving away much of substance. The script had presumably been carefully prepared by the Comms team, focusing on possible linkages between the two deaths and the men’s previous lives as police officers. The implication was that this might be some kind of revenge killing. Fortunately, it didn’t seem to have occurred to any of the attendant reporters to ask how long the officers had been retired or why anyone might have chosen to exact revenge at this particular time.

  He poured himself a beer and made the call to Ginny Horton. He could tell that Ginny, for all her politeness, was wondering why he was telling her how to do her job. Even without Bridie Galloway’s prompting, they’d be looking carefully at the cases investigated by Galloway’s team. If this was some kind of belated revenge killing, that was where its roots would lie.

  Afterwards, unable to face any more television, he’d booted up his laptop and sat aimlessly exploring the internet. One of the few facilities the bungalow did have was
half-decent Wi-Fi, presumably a legacy from the days when the owner had had aspirations to use it as a holiday let.

  Grant had forbidden him from getting involved in the investigation, but she couldn’t stop him searching the web. He found the website for one of the local papers and began to search for any reference to Galloway or members of his team.

  The search was frustrating. The public archive of material went back only for the last decade, long after Galloway had retired. He could find nothing other than a couple of mentions of Rob Graham being on the winning side in some seniors’ amateur football competition a couple of years before.

  He tried other local journals, but found no more. It seemed easier to obtain copies of local newspapers from the nineteenth century than from the 1990s. Running out of ideas, he explored some social media sites to see whether any of the men had any presence there. He could find only a page for Shona Graham which looked as if it hadn’t been updated for many months.

  So much for all human life being exposed on the internet, he thought. It might be the case, if you were a teenager, but not so much if you were a sexagenarian retired ex-copper. For McKay himself, it was an alien universe. He’d never used any kind of social media and had no understanding of why anyone might want to.

  Irritated by his lack of progress, he took a second beer out of the fridge. Another slippery slope, he thought, as he opened the bottle. But for the moment, he was feeling just like letting himself slide.

  It was as he was walking back into the sitting room that an idea struck him. He couldn’t fool himself that Helena Grant would approve, but he couldn’t see it would do any harm. After all these years, he could rely on Craig to be discreet.

  He scrolled through his phone’s address book until he found Craig Fairlie’s mobile number. It was seven-thirty. Craig was a stereotypical Scotsman in many ways and would have finished eating long ago. He’d probably be settling himself down to a beer and the telly.

  He dialled the number, and after a moment, the call was answered. At first, all McKay could hear was an incomprehensible roar. He held the phone away from his ear, assuming here was some technical problem with the line. Then, he heard a voice say, ‘Alec? That you?’