Death Parts Us

by Alex Walters

  She looked around. ‘With a bit of effort, you could make it quite cosy. But you’re not going to put the effort in, are you?’

  ‘I doubt it. What can I get you? Coffee? Tea? Something stronger?’

  She hesitated. ‘I’m driving. But to be honest after the night I’ve had, I think I need some fortification.’

  ‘We can organise you a taxi back. Your car’ll be safe here. And tomorrow’s Saturday.’

  ‘Which doesn’t mean I won’t be in at work.’

  ‘Your choice,’ he said. ‘I can offer you a decent whisky. One of the few things I made sure to bring with me from home.’

  ‘Home?’

  ‘Ach, you know.’

  ‘You’ve talked me into it,’ she said. ‘Whisky and a taxi.’

  He returned from the kitchen with two unmatching glasses and an unopened bottle of Dalmore. ‘So, what’s been bad about tonight? Apart from having to deal with a washed-up corpse in the pouring rain.’ She was slumped on the cheap vinyl sofa. He seated himself on the armchair opposite.

  She told him what had happened while she was waiting by Munlochy Bay. McKay was silent for a moment. ‘I should have told you,’ he said finally.

  ‘Told me what?’

  ‘What happened to me in Fortrose the other night.’ He placed the two glasses on the table and poured them a decent measure each.

  ‘Which was?’

  ‘That I was attacked. Out of the blue. After I left Meg Barnard’s house.’

  ‘Oh, Jesus, Alec. Why the hell didn’t you tell me?’

  ‘You seemed pissed enough with me already. I didn’t need your sympathy as well.’

  She allowed him a laugh. ‘You do realise this is technically withholding evidence? Like you’re not deep enough in the shite already.’

  ‘That’s always been my motto. If you’re up to your oxters, keep digging. But, aye, you’re right. I should have said something.’ He took a mouthful of the Scotch. ‘Sorry.’

  ‘Worth it just to hear you say that word,’ she said.

  ‘Don’t you think I’ll be making a habit of it.’

  She took a deep swallow of the whisky, with the air of someone forcing down an unwelcome medicine. ‘What the hell’s going on here, Alec? Jackie Galloway’s team apparently being picked off one-by-one. You and me may be on the list, even though we were the most junior members of Galloway’s crew. Who the hell would bear that sort of a grudge after all this time?’

  ‘Plenty of people capable of bearing a long-term grudge,’ McKay observed. ‘The real question is why they’ve waited so long.’ He stared into his glass as if seeking inspiration. ‘I’m still interested in this Peter Horton.’

  ‘Ginny’s father?’

  McKay swirled the whisky for a second, then took another mouthful. ‘Aye. It’s like a piece of the jigsaw that doesn’t fit.’ He paused. ‘I made a phone call earlier.’

  She eased herself back on the sofa, resting her feet gently on the edge of the coffee table. ‘Is this something else I’m not going to like?’

  ‘Nah, I was very discreet.’

  ‘Go on, then.’

  ‘Spoke to Craig Fairlie.’

  ‘The journo. Oh, aye, very discreet, Alec.’

  ‘Ach, he’s an old pal.’

  ‘Aye, they all are, if they think you’ll give them some inside intel.’

  ‘I just asked if he recalled any coppers being killed around that time. Craig’s Mr Memory. If anyone would remember, he would.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Not a scoobie. Nothing at all. He remembered a couple of officers who’d died in service, but they were both victims of the great Scottish coronary.’

  ‘So why did Ginny believe it?’

  ‘Because that’s what she’s been told, I’m guessing. She’d have been told this as a child. Her mother wouldn’t have imagined she’d end up as a police officer back up here. Yes, there was always the possibility that she might start digging into her natural father’s background, but maybe that wasn’t foremost in her mother’s thoughts at the time.’

  ‘But why lie at all?’

  ‘People lie for all kinds of reasons, don’t they? We don’t know who Ginny’s father really was or what happened to him. Maybe her mother just wanted a positive story.’

  Grant considered for a moment. ‘In which case, all this might have no significance after all. Just a nice story to tell the wee one.’

  ‘Except that David Kirkland was a copper.’

  ‘Maybe that was what gave her the idea. And made it plausible.’

  ‘And Kirkland’s now dead. Apparently killed in the same way as the rest of Galloway’s crew. And he’d been trying to talk to Ginny.’

  ‘We don’t know that he was really trying to talk to her,’ Grant pointed out. ‘It looked to me that he was trying to harass her. If he wanted to talk, there’s always the phone.’

  ‘Depends what he had to say,’ McKay said. ‘Some things are better said face to face.’ Both their glasses were empty. McKay leaned forward and refilled them.

  ‘Alec McKay, expert in interpersonal communications. What sort of things?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ McKay said. ‘Maybe something like everything you’ve been told about your background is a lie?’ He paused, thinking. ‘Or that the man you thought was your father didn’t exist?’

  ‘You’re making an awful lot of leaps there, Alec.’

  ‘I’m just thinking aloud. Never a pretty sight.’

  Grant emptied her glass. ‘I’ll do some digging into it tomorrow. But surely Ginny’s mother wouldn’t have just made him up?’

  ‘Who knows? If she had some reason to be embarrassed by the real identity of the father, maybe she thought it better to create some idealised figure instead.’

  ‘If you’re even half right about any of this, it’ll be devastating to Ginny.’

  McKay refilled their glasses for the third time. ‘We seem to be getting through this Scotch.’

  ‘Spirits evaporate,’ Grant said. ‘Scientific fact.’

  ‘Aye, no doubt. You’re right, though. It’ll be a shock to Ginny if there’s anything in this. But she’s a tough little thing.’

  ‘I hope so.’ Grant leaned her head back on the sofa, looking as if she might fall asleep at any moment. ‘I still don’t see how this has anything to do with Galloway and his gang, though.’

  ‘Me neither,’ McKay acknowledged. ‘A lot may depend on what it was that Kirkland wanted to tell Ginny.’

  ‘We’d better start doing some digging into Kirkland as well.’

  ‘Good luck with that. If the rumours were true, I imagine Kirkland’s tracks will have been well and truly covered.’

  ‘If the rumours were true,’ Grant said, ‘how come he ended up working as a glorified security guard down south?’

  ‘Maybe he’d been compromised in some way. Time for him to get out. Who knows?’

  ‘We don’t, certainly,’ Grant said, yawning. ‘Christ, I’m tired.’

  ‘You want me to phone for that taxi?’

  Her eyes were still closed. ‘I suppose.’ She paused. ‘If you want me to go.’

  There was an extended silence. Finally, McKay said, ‘I don’t think it would be right for you to stay.’

  ‘We’re both single, Alec.’

  ‘I’m not. Maybe I will be. Maybe I won’t. But I’m not now.’ He was silent for another moment. ‘And you’re my boss.’

  Grant laughed. ‘Jesus. How the hell did that happen? Alec McKay being the cautious sensible one. But, aye, you’re right, Alec. It was the whisky talking.’

  ‘I’ll phone the cab, then.’ As he climbed to his feet, he leaned over and poured her another measure. ‘While you’re waiting, you can let the Scotch have a few last words.’

  ‘Christ,’ she said. ‘I’m going to regret this in the morning.’

  It wasn’t clear, McKay thought as he dialled the number of the taxi firm, whether she was referring only to the whisky.

  48


  She was standing in the small car park at the rear of the bar, fumbling clumsily for her car keys, when he appeared. The rain had lessened to a fine mist, and it was almost as if he materialised from the darkness. She stood, frozen, car keys clutched too tightly in her hand.

  ‘Kelly. I’m sorry –’

  She took a breath. ‘You’d better go back inside, Callum. I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to talk to me like this.’

  ‘What did she say to you?’

  Kelly was still feeling shaken by her conversation with Maggie Donnelly. It was only a couple of weeks until she went back to university. She could just jack all this in and focus on her studies. It would mean she had a bit less money for next term, but that would hardly be life-changing. She didn’t need this hassle. ‘You know what she said, Callum.’

  He took a further step or two towards her. ‘I know the kind of thing she’ll have said, aye. You know it’s all nonsense, don’t you?’

  ‘I don’t know, and I don’t care.’ She was still feeling too much like a gauche teenager, but was determined not to show it. ‘I don’t want to get involved.’

  ‘There’s nothing to get involved with,’ Donnelly said. He held up his hands. ‘Have I done anything, Kelly? Have I tried it on with you?’

  ‘Well, no –’ She could already feel her initial certainty crumbling.

  ‘That’s not me, Kelly. It’s not the man I am.’

  ‘It’s none of my business –’

  ‘That’s Maggie. She’s a bonny woman. But she gets – well, jealous. She imagines things.’

  Kelly was thinking back to that moment behind the bar. Something had happened then, but she couldn’t have said what it was, or whether Callum had been responsible. Maybe she’d been imagining things too. ‘Like I say, Callum, it’s none of my business. Look, I need to get home –’

  ‘Aye, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t keep you. I just didn’t want you to go away with the wrong impression. I’m sorry for what Maggie said. She gets things – out of proportion sometimes.’

  Kelly couldn’t read the expression on his face. When he’d appeared unexpectedly out of the darkness, her first thought had been of the previous landlord, Denny Gorman, lurking in the shadows of the cellars. Gorman had been a sleazy piece of work, and she couldn’t see Callum Donnelly in the same light. But she didn’t know what to think.

  ‘It’s none of my business,’ she repeated. ‘I’m just here to work behind the bar.’

  ‘Things are difficult between me and Maggie at the moment,’ Donnelly went on, as if he hadn’t heard her. ‘That’s all it is.’

  ‘Look, I really do need to be getting back.’

  ‘Aye, of course. You’re getting wet.’ He said this with a note of surprise, as if he’d been unaware of the persistent drizzle gradually soaking both of them. ‘You’ll come back, though? Tomorrow, I mean.’ His tone was that of a small child being left at nursery for the first time.

  A few moments before, she really had been on the point of giving it up, driving off and not bothering to come back. ‘Okay,’ she said, finally. ‘I’ll be back tomorrow. But Callum –’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I really want nothing to do with this. If there are – problems between you and Maggie, that’s your business. I’m not part of it, and I don’t want to be. If Maggie starts to think –’

  ‘Aye,’ he said. ‘Understood.’

  She climbed into the car and turned on the engine, then reversed carefully out of the narrow parking space. Donnelly stood to one side, head dipped against the steadily falling rain.

  As she pulled on to the high street, she glanced in the rear-view mirror. He was still there, head bowed, watching her drive away.

  Ginny Horton had hoped they’d allow her to stay overnight with Isla, but the charge nurse had made it clear this was not hospital policy. ‘I just want to make sure she’s all right,’ Horton had argued.

  ‘Of course you do, dear,’ the nurse had agreed. ‘As do we all. And the best way to do that is for her to get as much rest as possible.’

  McKay had returned the house keys. There was no reason why she couldn’t simply go back and get herself a decent night’s sleep.

  Except that the idea still unnerved her.

  She was being ridiculous, of course. Her only cause for anxiety had been David’s behaviour, and that was something she need never worry about again. It was hardly pleasant that his body had been discovered in their home, and there still remained the unanswered question of who was responsible for his death. But unless David’s death had been merely coincidental, it was difficult to imagine why the killer would have any interest in her or Isla. She didn’t know what business David had been involved in. But he’d always sailed close to the wind, and she imagined the reasons for his death had nothing to do with his visit up here. Maybe his killers just preferred to avoid soiling their own doorstep.

  In the late evening, the journey home took her little more than half an hour. When she turned on the hallway light, everything looked normal, as if the evening’s events had never taken place. She moved quickly through the ground floor, turning on the lights in each room.

  She suspected that McKay had done some tidying of his own once Jock Henderson had completed his work. There was nothing obviously out of place, no sign of where Isla had been lying on the kitchen floor, or of where David’s body had been spread-eagled in the sitting room. She checked that all the downstairs doors and windows were locked, closing each set of curtains as if she were physically excluding the outside world.

  She went through the same routine with the upper rooms, although there was no sign they had been disturbed. When she found herself compulsively wanting to double-check the rooms she had already visited, she decided it was time for bed.

  In the end, she slept better than she’d expected. She lay awake for a while, listening to the rain against the skylight, and eventually, the soft white noise was enough to lull her into unconsciousness.

  She woke once in the night, aware of the absence in the bed beside her. Half-awake, it took her a moment to recall the events of the previous evening, the fact that Isla was still sleeping in Raigmore Hospital. Lying awake, she was struck by a sudden unease.

  Her first thought was that something might have happened to Isla. But the ward had her contact details, and she’d missed no calls to her mobile. Her second, equally irrational thought was that someone was in the house. She lay still and listened, but could hear nothing. The rain had ceased while she was sleeping, and the night was silent.

  She climbed out of bed and, slipping on her dressing gown, she walked over to the window. Finally, she recognised the source of her unease, the probable reason why she had woken.

  The security light at the rear of the house had been triggered and the back garden was flooded with light. The glare was bright enough to illuminate the square of the bedroom window through the curtains.

  She lifted back the curtain and peered out into the night. As far as she could see, the garden was deserted, the wet leaves of the trees glistening in the white glow. Most likely, the light had been triggered by some animal. It had happened before from time to time.

  She was about to close the curtains when she caught a movement at the edge of her vision. She pressed her face against the glass. For a second, she thought she glimpsed a human figure, dark against the green backdrop. Then, it was gone, if it had ever been there. A second later, the light was extinguished, and the garden plunged back into darkness.

  Her rational mind told her it was nothing more than an illusion, a shape created by the night and the movement of the leaves. She stepped across the room and silently opened the bedroom door, listening intently for any sign of movement. But there was nothing.

  She couldn’t bring herself to go downstairs, even at the price of leaving her fears unchecked. In the end, she closed the bedroom door and pulled over a high-backed chair to wedge under the handle. It was primitive, but it would delay any intruder long enou
gh for her to dial 999.

  And, she told herself, there is no intruder.

  She forced herself to return to bed. This time, sleep really did prove elusive, and she lay awake, her ears alert for any sound, falling into a fitful slumber only as the first glow of dawn showed through the curtains.

  49

  Helena Grant’s regrets the following morning were as she’d predicted. Mostly, she regretted the excess of whisky which had left her with a mild but nagging headache and a general sense of not being up to speed with the world. Partly, she regretted what she’d said to McKay. The words had been out of her mouth before she realised what she was saying. She still wasn’t sure what had motivated her – a genuine desire, the whisky, or just her nervousness about coming back home alone. Whichever it was, the words had been said, and there was no way to take them back.

  And there was part of her, she realised, that was regretful about Alec McKay’s response. He’d been right, of course. He wasn’t single, and in a soberer mood, Grant would never have wanted to risk hurting Chrissie. And she was his boss. She was already sailing close enough to the wind in her dealings with McKay. The last thing she needed was anything that might compromise her further.

  Even so, it had taken all her courage to return home alone the previous night. She’d been tempted to reveal to McKay how nervous she was feeling, but she’d been afraid he’d invite her to stay merely out of sympathy. She’d asked the taxi driver, a young local man whom she knew from previous trips, to wait until she was safely inside the house. Then, she’d locked all the doors firmly behind her and checked all the rooms, before finally retiring to bed.

  Now, as she sat drinking her coffee and gazing out over the firth, she decided her biggest regret was simply that she’d allowed herself to become so spooked the night before. In the light of a fine morning, her fears felt absurd. The rain had passed, and the sky was clear, reflected in the choppy waters below.

  The footprints last night proved nothing. She’d assumed they were new, because otherwise the rain would have washed them away. But maybe they were less recent than she’d assumed. Perhaps they’d been left by one of the Renshaws or some passing walker earlier in the day. In hindsight, it seemed ridiculous to imagine that anyone might have taken the trouble to follow her down there, whatever their motivation. Alone, in the dark, with only a corpse for company, she’d allowed herself to get the jitters.