Pitch Black

by Alex Gray

  Curious in spite of himself, Lorimer opened the car door and walked towards the policeman.

  ‘What’s up?’ he asked, recognising the man as PC Gordon Urquhart, one of the team from the Royal Society for the Protection of Birds’ Eagle Watch. They had been privileged to stay in a hide with the man for a whole morning, watching as an adult bird fed its growing chicks.

  ‘Ach, there’s been a report of some egg snatchers in the area. We’ve got their registration details but we have to check all cars coming on and off the island,’ he explained. ‘Not quite in your league, Chief Inspector,’ the man grinned, recognising Lorimer.

  Lorimer was about to reply but the familiar sound of Gordon’s two-way radio made the policeman step away from him. He watched the other man’s expression deepen; this was surely some business that far outweighed egg thieves?

  As the island cop turned back in Lorimer’s direction he was met with a pair of questioning blue eyes.

  ‘We’ve got some real trouble on our hands now!’ he groaned. ‘Got to pick up a woman coming off the next ferry,’ he explained.

  ‘Not an egg stealer, then?’

  ‘No,’ Gordon replied then stared at Lorimer as if seeing him properly for the first time. ‘More in your line, sir.’ He turned away and nodded at the car ferry making its way from Loch Aline.

  ‘Looks like she’s killed her husband.’

  There was a dull thud as the metal hull of the boat made contact with the pier. Lorimer saw the ferry-men heave in the massive ropes, securing them to bollards on shore, then watched as one by one the cars made their tentative way down the metal ramp and on to the island. Urquhart stepped up to each one and smiled at the driver, his clipboard at the ready. Lorimer scanned every vehicle to see which one belonged to the murder suspect. He didn’t have long to wait. A second officer appeared from the crowds and ushered a woman out of a dark green Ford then took her place at the driver’s seat while Urquhart led her away.

  As they passed him, the DCI caught a glimpse of shoulder-length blonde hair and a pale, haunted face. Perhaps it was his intent stare that drew her gaze but for a second the woman looked up and met his eyes before she disappeared into the waiting police car. But in that single glance he could see such suffering that he stepped back into the shadows. What was the story behind this face? He’d probably never know.

  Lorimer turned to see Maggie waving frantically at him to come back to the car.

  ‘Just in time!’ Maggie scolded, as the line of cars moved off towards the ferry. ‘What kept you anyway?’

  ‘Oh, nothing,’ Lorimer said. His curiosity was still unsatisfied but something stopped him confiding this incident to Maggie. It was unfair to burden his wife with anything that smacked of work, he told himself; if it was a murder case she’d see it in the papers soon enough.

  Janis Faulkner sat staring at the floor. The cup of tea they had brought for her had long gone cold. Her stomach growled, reminding her that she hadn’t eaten anything for hours, but the very thought of food made her feel sick. All these questions about Nicko! When had she last seen her husband? What was she doing up here on Mull? Did she have a solicitor? Only this last question had drawn any response from the woman and that was an open-mouthed ‘Oh!’ of surprise as if the enormity of her situation had only just dawned upon her. Now she sat slumped over the formica-topped table in Craignure Police Station, her eyes fixed on something that only she could see.

  The woman shivered despite the stuffiness of the room. It had been madness to think she could find a way to escape. Every port in Scotland must have been on the lookout for her car once they’d found Nicko’s body, even here on this island where she’d thought to find some kind of sanctuary. What could she say? How could she tell them what had really happened? And, anyway, who was going to believe her?

  CHAPTER 2

  FOOTBALL STAR FOUND DEAD

  Police are today making inquiries into the sudden death of Nicko Faulkner, the new Kelvin mid-fielder, after Faulkner was found stabbed to death in his home in Glasgow early yesterday morning. The footballer, who had recently signed a contract with Kelvin FC, had been in the city during the last few weeks for pre-season training. Kelvin’s new boss, Ron Clark, said, ‘It is a terrible blow for the club as well as to Nicko’s fans. Our condolences go to his loved ones.’ Nicko was a well known player at Sunderland before his transfer to Kelvin. His had been a rags to riches tale: with no family to support him, Nicko had to struggle on his own as a youth footballer, but his skills soon earned him the respect of the English league clubs. He will probably be best remembered for his performance for England in the 2006 World Cup that earned him an England cap. Several Kelvin FC scarves and bunches of flowers were left today outside the club’s gate as a mark of respect.

  A woman is said to be helping police with their inquiries.

  Tom Cairns, Gazette

  Lorimer folded the Sunday paper. So that was one part of the story. He looked thoughtful. Perhaps the other part was waiting for him down at police headquarters. As the phone rang out, some sixth sense told Lorimer that this last day of his holiday was going to be cut short.

  ‘Lorimer?’ He listened as the familiar nasal twang of his boss set his teeth on edge. The superintendent was telling him exactly what he didn’t want to hear; his presence was required at the Division. Yesterday would have been preferable, Mitchison grumbled, but now would just have to suffice. Officers were being deployed at the anti-war riots that had broken out in Edinburgh and Glasgow. And now he had this case on his hands. As his grip on the phone tightened, Lorimer wished the man would just tell him to shift his backside and get over there. It would have been easier than having to listen to his polished vowels and thinly disguised contempt. He hung up, biting his lip. Maggie wouldn’t be too pleased. But as he thought about his swift return to the job, Lorimer realised that there was a quickening inside him that was not annoyance at all, but rather anticipation. Just what was he going to find out about Nicko Faulkner’s murder?

  ‘See you later!’ His voice echoed along the sunlit hallway as Maggie heard her husband leave. With a sigh she contemplated the rest of the day; it stretched ahead like an empty canvas for her to colour as she chose. Well, she thought wryly, there was always another load of washing to put out on the line. The warm July weather still held and she had already pegged out their holiday bed linen. Maybe it would be dry for ironing by now? There was plenty to fill the hours till Bill returned home, whenever that might be. The prospect of a half-finished paperback and a lazy lie on the sun lounger was a more tempting prospect, she thought to herself as she grinned and sauntered out into the back garden.

  Maggie felt the sheets; they were dry, right enough. She unpegged and folded them, and dumped them into the laundry basket. Just as she bent over to pick it up, a flash of something orange moved in the shrubbery. Maggie froze. Was it a fox? The garden, unkempt at the best of times, had become wildly overgrown in their absence. Could the creature, whatever it was, be lurking in some den of its own making? She remained motionless, eyes fixed on the spot where she’d seen the animal. Had it been her overactive imagination? Had the weeks of training binoculars on island wildlife made her think that every movement in the long grass was a wild animal?

  The strain of holding the basket full of washing proved too much and Maggie let it sink into the uncut lawn with a groan. At that moment the animal shot out from under a trailing buddleia and bolted straight into the house.

  It was a ginger cat. With a sigh of relief that was tinged with annoyance, Maggie followed the intruder indoors. Goodness knows what mess it might make. She dumped the laundry on to the nearest worktop. There was no sign of the cat.

  ‘Here, puss. Here pussy pussy,’ she called softly. Then, as if bidden by her voice, the animal emerged from behind the dining-room door.

  It padded lightly towards her, regarding her with what Maggie could only later describe as a smile on its ginger face. The cat came right up, rubbing its head against he
r legs. The feel of its soft fur on her skin made her crouch down, instinctively returning the gesture by scratching behind the creature’s ears. A low growl of pleasure emanated from the cat’s throat, then it began to purr.

  ‘Hey, where did you come from, fellow?’ she asked, smoothing the animal’s coat. It moved away with a little cry as Maggie’s fingers touched a lump on its back. ‘Someone hurt you, pet?’ Maggie whispered. The cat returned to her side as she spoke, eyeing her thoughtfully. ‘Would a wee drink of milk make you feel better?’ She stood up slowly, half expecting the cat to bolt out of the kitchen but instead it followed her to the fridge where it sat, gazing longingly.

  Maggie watched, bemused, as the cat lapped daintily from the saucer then looked up expectantly when the dish was clean.

  ‘You are hungry, aren’t you?’ Maggie said. The animal gave a clear meow, as if it understood what she meant. Green eyes followed her to the larder and watched as she pulled a tin of tuna from the top shelf.

  ‘Fancy this, then?’

  The cat kept a small distance while Maggie filled the saucer but as soon as she stepped aside, its head was over the food, eating hungrily.

  Again the dish was wiped clean so Maggie refilled it and waited until the cat had finished the whole tin. He stretched, sat down in a spot of sunlight and began to lick his amber fur as if this was something he performed every day in the Lorimers’ kitchen.

  Watching him, Maggie wondered. Had he been coming into the garden in their absence? Was he a stray? And what on earth had happened to his poor sore back? Maggie knew most of the neighbouring moggies by sight but this fellow was a stranger to her. Maybe the local vet could help? But as it was Sunday that would have to wait until tomorrow. Meanwhile, she’d stick to her plan and fetch out the sun lounger and her paperback.

  There was something infinitely sensual about lying under the parasol, a sleeping cat nestled into the crook of her arm. It was a sensation she could happily live with. Perhaps the cat was a stray and needed a good home, a little voice suggested. Maggie smiled. She wouldn’t mind. And besides, there was little she could do until tomorrow. Surely Bill wouldn’t begrudge her the cat’s company for one night? It probably belonged to someone nearby, anyway, and would make its own way home before the day was over. The thought of the animal wandering off again troubled her and she knew with a pang that some indefinable bond had been created between them. In the space of a few hours Maggie Lorimer had fallen under a spell and was now bewitched by the little creature. Her hand stroked the soft ginger fur and the cat stretched in its sleep, one languid paw coming to rest on Maggie’s arm.

  CHAPTER 3

  The dust motes swirled round, captured in the one beam of light that filtered through a gap in the blinds. Behind him an insect buzzed drowsily against the window, seeking to escape from the confines of the room. Listening to its feeble struggles, Lorimer felt some empathy for the tiny creature. At that moment he would have given a great deal to walk out into the warm air of the city streets. Before him on the videoscreen were pictures of the deceased, not happy snaps at all. The scene-of-crime photographer had managed to convey each and every aspect of the man’s death, from the bread knife sticking out of his chest cavity to the open-mouthed grimace portraying that final scream of agony. Close-ups of blood spatters surrounded the main pictures, adding graphically to the image.

  ‘It was hot,’ Mitchison commented, somewhat unnecessarily, releasing the stills and letting the film pan in on the body. The black patches around the wound showed a moving mass of flies. Lorimer could almost smell the scent of corruption and was glad for once that he had not been first on the scene. But now Mitchison’s peremptory call had stolen the final day of Lorimer’s break and he had to be brought up to speed if he were to take charge of this case.

  ‘We’ve got the woman in custody and she’ll appear in court in the morning,’ the superintendent began, ‘but there are some problems.’

  Lorimer raised his eyebrows.

  ‘She says she didn’t do it, of course, despite the fact she drove all the way up to the Hebrides …’ Mitchison’s drawl tailed off.

  ‘So, the problems are...?’

  ‘We need to have some forensic evidence to connect her to the crime. There’s been nothing on her person and we couldn’t find anything else in the house. Either she was extremely forensically aware and managed to remove any traces of blood from the scene, or she’s telling us the truth.’

  Lorimer, fixing his gaze on the images of a man who had bled to death, wondered what had provoked the attack. ‘What’s your own opinion, sir?’

  Mitchison frowned. ‘She certainly had the means to do it. There was a huge rack of knives on one of those magnetic strips. It was one of these that was the murder weapon. No prints, I’m afraid. No residual traces, either. And the door was locked. There was no sign of a forced entry.’

  ‘Just circumstantial evidence, then?’

  Mitchison nodded and screwed up his eyes in the half-light, then blinked. He’d probably been working through the night, Lorimer realised.

  Method, means and opportunity, a familiar voice intoned in Lorimer’s head. It had been old George’s mantra. A wave of nostalgia for his former boss washed over him just then. Weary or not, George would never have delegated a case like this. He’d have ferreted away at it, looking for something more than the obvious. Though a runaway wife was a fairly obvious place to begin, Lorimer had to admit to himself. The method was straightforward enough and, despite his level of athleticism, the victim might have been taken by complete surprise. His expression alone was testament to that theory. She’d had the means easily to hand. And the opportunity? Who could say? Knife attacks were usually random affairs undertaken in a moment of frenzy.

  ‘What d’you reckon, then? A domestic gone wrong?’

  The super made a face. ‘Janis Faulkner’s saying nothing. No plea for mitigating circumstances. Just a persistent refusal to admit she’d had anything to do with her husband’s death.’

  ‘Anything else suspicious?’

  Mitchison paused for a moment then looked past Lorimer. ‘What would I call it? A strange absence of grief, I suppose.’

  Lorimer gave a non-committal shrug. You couldn’t charge the woman for failing to mourn her dead husband, but still … His thoughts wandered for a moment to the sight of Janis Faulkner’s face as she’d glanced up at him on Fishnish pier. Had she been showing remorse? That haunted look had stayed with him since he’d seen her yesterday.

  ‘What do we know about her own movements before she scarpered?’

  ‘Says she was down at the gym. We’ve checked and her signing in and out times tally with her story. But as for simply setting off afterwards and not returning home first, well that was fairly unlikely, don’t you think? A few rounds on an exercise bike then she suddenly decides to leave her husband. It doesn’t make sense.’

  ‘So she’ll be charged?’

  ‘Yes, first thing tomorrow. There’s not another shred of evidence to show anyone else was in the house. I don’t care what Janis Faulkner claims; she did it, all right.’

  Lorimer looked at his boss. The vehemence in Mitchison’s tone surprised him. Or was it simply that he was afraid Lorimer would see things in a different light, take away his prime suspect and cause problems? There was a past between these two senior officers that had never been adequately resolved. Mitchison had been promoted to superintendent when everyone’s expectations had been on Lorimer stepping into his old boss’s shoes, but it was their different attitudes to police work that had been the real cause of friction between them. Mitchison did everything by the rule book, creating masses of paperwork for everyone, while his DCI preferred a more hands-on approach. Lorimer remained silent. He was being officially designated as SIO and unless something new emerged, Janis Faulkner’s guilt or otherwise remained a matter for the jury.

  ‘Her solicitor is bound to ask for bail to be granted, pending a full investigation. We’ll see what happens in cour
t tomorrow, but I have my doubts.’ Mitchison passed over the case file. ‘Don’t expect you’ll have too much bother with this one.’

  Famous last words, Lorimer told himself as Mitchison left the room. Whether it was that quirk of fate placing him at the scene of her arrest on Mull or the victim’s high profile, the DCI had a strong feeling that this case was going to be anything but straightforward.

  The woman had been brought back from Mull and placed in the police cells for one more night until she could be brought to court and officially charged with Nicko Faulkner’s murder. Lorimer waited outside as the duty officer unlocked the cell and stood aside. The first thing he noticed was the smell. It wafted towards him, a mixture of stale sweat and something more pungent that he recognised as menstrual blood. He’d smelt it before from women banged up over long weekends without any facilities to shower or change their clothes. Janis Faulkner was sitting in a corner of the bunk, feet together, head down and clutching her stomach. A movement as the cell door was opening made him realise she had looked up for a split second but now her expression was hidden under that curtain of damp hair.

  ‘Anyone thought to give her some paracetamol?’ he asked the uniformed officer.

  ‘Hasn’t asked for it,’ the man shrugged. ‘What’s she want it for anyway?’

  ‘Just go and get some,’ Lorimer told him, ‘and a drink of cold water.’ He let the man close the cell door behind them and stood waiting for the woman to look his way.