by Alex Walters
6
She looked up again at the clock on the mantelpiece. Not yet ten. There was no cause to worry at all.
But she always did, and she always had, although in the old days, she’d had a lot more cause. These days, the biggest risk was that Billy would have a coronary or stumble under a bus after one pint too many. As the years went by, both of those seemed increasingly likely.
The television was flickering away unwatched in the corner, a reality show featuring a bunch of supposed celebrities who meant nothing to her. Mostly they looked like children, though there were a couple of older faces she vaguely recognised. Someone from some sitcom decades ago. Another from a soap opera, though she couldn’t remember which.
At ten, she’d switch over to the news, just as she always did, though these days the stories meant about as much to her as the unfamiliar celebrities. Usually Billy would be home by ten and they’d watch the news together, or at least they’d sit in the same room while she watched the TV and Billy snored noisily beside her. She’d wait until the news was finished, then wake him up and help him stumble his way, still half-asleep, into the bedroom.
These had been their evenings, pretty much, since Billy had retired all those years ago. It wasn’t too bad, she thought, everything considered. Billy drank too much – everybody drank too much these days – but he’d never been a difficult or violent man. Not with her, at any rate. That must count for something. He was still decent company in the daytime. She’d be awake early, leaving him in bed to sleep off the night before. Sometimes they’d go and grab a bite to eat at the local café. Sometimes they’d even have a trip out, over to Beauly or Strathpeffer, or into Dingwall or even Inverness. Billy wasn’t so keen on driving these days, but they both enjoyed these occasional excursions. All in all, it wasn’t too bad a life, even if the evenings seemed to stretch out emptily.
When the clock reached ten, she switched over to the news. A story about a bombing in the Middle East. Politicians pontificating about something or other. A football team beating some other football team. It washed over her, and she hardly knew why she bothered with the nightly ritual of watching. It was just another activity to fill the evening.
Ten-twenty. Billy was usually back by now, though it depended who was there in the pub. If there was a group of them, they could blether away all night about the football or whatever it was they talked about, and Billy would lose track of the time and how much he was drinking. Those were the nights he came home well and truly stoshied. Not her favourite nights, though it was usually just a question of steering him towards the bedroom and letting him fall asleep in his clothes. It seemed likely that was what she had in store tonight.
When it reached ten thirty, they cut to the news “wherever you are.” Not much news where I am, she thought as she always did, except that Billy’s even later than usual. The news across Scotland didn’t seem much more interesting. Another bill she couldn’t be bothered with passing through Holyrood. Complaints about roadworks on various Highland routes.
Then, she peered more closely at the screen and turned up the volume. It was a location she recognised. The next village along the Isle, in fact. But that wasn’t what had attracted her attention. It was the fact that she knew, not just the village, but the house that was in the shot.
‘Police are not yet commenting on the cause of death, but neighbours have said that Mr Galloway had suffered for a number of years from Alzheimer’s Disease …’
She clicked off the sound. Jackie Galloway. It was years since they’d been in contact. Billy had tried to build some bridges in the early days, had approached Jackie to explain to him. But Jackie had made it quite clear he didn’t want to talk, didn’t want to meet, didn’t want to have any communication. He blamed Billy for what had happened. But then, he blamed everyone for what had happened, everyone but himself. That had always been Jackie’s way. She’d told Billy that. Told him again and again that none of it was his fault. But that hadn’t stopped Billy feeling bad about it. Here they were, not exactly living in the lap of luxury but comfortable enough. And there was Jackie Galloway, stuck in that pokey little bungalow, living off his savings, struggling to make ends meet.
She suspected that was one reason why Billy had gone back to the drinking. Not that he’d ever really stopped, but he cut it back for a long time. Then, slowly, he’d begun knocking it back again. Partly it was just the boredom of retirement. He’d tried to find another job back in the force or with some local security company, but times were tight, and there was nothing available other than night-security stuff. In the end, he’d drifted back into the inertia of doing not much. The drink was an escape from that, no doubt. But she’d always felt there was something more.
She’d wait until the morning to break the news, even if he was in a state to take it in this evening. It was quarter to eleven now. Unusual for him to be as late as this. For the first time, with the news of Jackie Galloway’s death fresh in her mind, she began to feel uneasy.
She made her way out into the hallway. She was tired but didn’t want to head off to bed until Billy was safely home. She opened the front door and was met by the chill of the night air, a gust of the breeze from the sea. The drive and the street beyond were deserted. Her anxiety growing, she pulled her cardigan more tightly around her shoulders and stepped outside in her slippers. At the end of the driveway, she peered back down the street towards the centre of the village. There were a couple of young men lighting cigarettes under one of the orange street lights, but no sign of Billy. She could just about make out the lights of the bar.
She was tempted to walk down there, but she knew she’d look foolish if Billy was just sitting blethering with his mates. Unsure what to do, she turned back into the house.
She sat in her armchair, the television playing away unwatched, and waited until the clock turned eleven. Billy was never this late.
Finally, at a loss, she returned to the hallway and slipped on her coat and shoes. She checked she had her purse with the house keys inside and stepped out again into the night. The street was empty. She walked slowly down towards the bar, peering into every gateway and alley as if Billy might be hiding from her. She was feeling a cold grip of fear in her stomach now, though she couldn’t really have said why. Yes, Billy was normally home by now, but that didn’t mean he hadn’t got talking and stayed behind for another pint. After all, what else could have happened to him?
When she reached the bar, she was relieved to see that the lights were still on. But when she pushed at the doors, they were locked. Then, she heard the sound of movement and voices inside. Perhaps they’d decided to have a lock-in. She was surprised at that. The Caley Bar had been closed for some months following all the trouble the previous year, but had recently been taken over by an enthusiastic young couple up from the south. The place had always been a bit of a dive, but he had ambitions for it – sprucing up the decor, selling food, aiming more at the tourist market than just locals. He’d happily tolerated Billy and his aged mates continuing to drink there, but wasn’t likely to risk his licence by cutting them too much slack.
After a moment’s hesitation, she pressed the bell. She heard bolts being slid back, and then, a puzzled face peered out at her. The young man. Callum something, she recalled. Callum Donnelly. She could already see that the bar was empty, except for a member of the bar staff wiping down the tables.
Donnelly blinked at her. ‘Can I help you?’
He was nearly a foot taller than she was. She looked up at him. ‘I’m sorry to bother you at this time of the night, Mr Donnelly. I’m Mrs Crawford. Billy Crawford’s wife.’
He stared at her, clearly trying to compute what she was saying. ‘Oh, right. Billy. Is something wrong?’
‘I just wondered. Was Billy in tonight?’ She wasn’t even sure why she was asking. Where else would he have been?
‘He was in earlier as usual, yes. I’m sorry. I don’t really understand –’
‘Do you know what time he
left, Mr Donnelly? Roughly, I mean.’
‘About half-nine or thereabouts, I think. That’s what he usually does. I don’t recall seeing him much after that.’
She felt as if she’d been struck a physical blow. Up until now, she’d been telling herself that Billy must be here, that he’d just stayed later than usual.
‘Are you all right, Mrs Crawford?’ Donnelly had stepped back and was gesturing for her to enter the bar. ‘Do you want a sit down?’
She took a breath, telling herself to remain calm. ‘It’s just that – well, Billy’s not come home yet, and I’m getting worried. It’s like you say. He normally leaves around nine-thirty. He never stays much longer than that.’
‘Perhaps he went to one of the other pubs,’ Donnelly said. ‘The Union or the Anderson.’
‘He only ever comes here,’ she said. ‘This is where his friends come.’
‘Perhaps he’s gone back with one of them for some reason,’ Donnelly said patiently. She could see he thought she was worrying unnecessarily. ‘Does he have a mobile?’
She shook her head. ‘He won’t be doing with them. And he doesn’t normally go anywhere.’
‘I’m not sure what to suggest, Mrs Crawford. Perhaps you could call some of his friends?’
It was only a small village, and she had an idea who Billy’s drinking companions were and roughly where most of them lived. She even knew one or two of their wives. But she couldn’t envisage tracking down their names and numbers at this time of night. And she couldn’t believe Billy would have done that. He never did. He just came here, had a few beers and the odd dram, and then came home.
In any case, she was becoming increasingly certain that, even if she did call Billy’s mates, they would only confirm what, in her heart, she already knew.
That something had happened to Billy. Something bad.
7
Ginny Horton held up the bottle and stared into the green glass. ‘Enough left for a small one each,’ she said. ‘Unless you want me to open another.’
Isla Bennett shook her head. ‘Not for me. School day tomorrow. Just in the office, though. I’m getting sick of the London run.’ Isla worked as a commercial lawyer with a practice in Inverness, but because she was qualified in English as well as Scottish law, she found herself shuttling to England on a frequent basis. That usually involved an early flight from Inverness Airport and, to allow for check-in, a crack-of-dawn departure from home.
‘Makes me glad I’ve only got the commute into town,’ Horton agreed. ‘Not that that’s not bad enough some mornings.’ She poured them a half glass each and then eyed her own thoughtfully. ‘I’m really tempted to open another one,’ she said. ‘But I know I’d only sit feeling sorry for myself. And I’d feel even sorrier for myself in the morning.’
‘I shouldn’t have told you,’ Isla said. ‘Sorry.’
‘God, no. Of course you were right to tell me. I mean, I know you want to protect me and everything. But you can’t do that by hiding stuff from me. Not stuff like this, anyway.’
‘I know. It’s just that – well, from what you’ve told me, that bastard has no right to start pestering you again. For any reason.’
‘That won’t be how he sees it. As far as he’s concerned, he’s the centre of the universe. He’ll think I want to know what he’s up to. He’ll think I care.’
Isla nodded. ‘And do you? At all, I mean.’
Unexpectedly, Horton hesitated before replying. ‘No, of course not,’ she said finally. ‘But, well –’
‘Blood thicker than water?’ Isla took a small sip of her wine.
‘Well, it’s not even blood, is it? But Christ knows. It’s certainly not because I’ve got any interest in him as a human being. If I never see him again, it’ll be too soon. But maybe you’re right. I can’t escape the fact that he’s part of my past.’ She took another large mouthful of red wine. ‘You see what I mean about being sorry for myself?’
‘I do.’ Isla stretched herself out on the sofa.
In Horton’s eyes, both women looked distinctively English, especially up here. Horton herself looked almost a caricature of the English rose type – a rounded pretty face, slightly flushed cheeks and neatly bobbed dark hair. Isla, on the other hand, looked the horsey type – tall, fine cheekbones, well-scrubbed skin and long blonde hair. Both of these images contained a nugget of truth but were equally misleading. Horton sometimes wondered what their Highland neighbours thought of them, imagining they were dismissed as Sassenach degenerates. In fact, the welcome they’d received up here had been uniformly warm.
‘Are you telling me you’re not happy now?’ Isla went on.
Horton threw a cushion at her partner, taking care to avoid the glass of wine. ‘Stop fishing for compliments, Bennett. You know how happy I am. Just don’t start taking any of it for granted.’
Isla laughed. The truth was that they were both more settled and content than they’d ever been. ‘Anyway, what’s all this “part of my past” stuff? Even as a police officer, you’re not exactly about to pick up your pension.’
‘Oh, you know. Childhood. A bloody miserable time, most of it. But still part of me.’ She took a final mouthful of the wine and peered ruefully into the empty glass. ‘Bugger it, I’m going to have one more. Glass, I mean, not bottle.’ She pushed herself to her feet and went into the kitchen in search of the wine. It was a decent place they had here. Not large and not particularly luxurious, but comfortable and homely. When they got the woodstove going, as tonight, she didn’t want to be anywhere else.
‘You’re getting attuned to the drinking culture up here,’ Isla observed, as Horton returned with the opened bottle. ‘When I was at the airport the other morning, it looked like everyone but me was topping up with alcohol. It wasn’t even six o’clock. All these families going off on half-term holidays, knocking back the beer and the whisky.’ She sounded amused rather than shocked.
‘I’m not quite at that stage yet,’ Horton said. ‘Anyway, what exactly did David say?’
Despite her previous comments, Isla held out her glass for a refill. ‘Well, he started by asking for you. But I reckon he knew what he was doing, phoning at that time. He knows you usually work late. I think he was expecting the voicemail. Was a bit taken aback when I answered.’
‘I can imagine him squirming,’ Horton said, with a note of satisfaction. Isla had been working at home finishing a report that afternoon.
‘Anyway, I asked if he wanted to leave a message. There was a long dramatic pause, and then, he went into this spiel. Sounded to me like it was rehearsed, maybe even written down. That’s another reason I think he was expecting the voicemail. Something to surprise you with when you got back.’
‘You’re even more cynical that I am, Isla Bennett.’
Isla shrugged. ‘I’m not saying it wasn’t sincere. But it was calculating as well. I suppose that’s sort of impressive in the circumstances.’
‘That’s David, though.’
‘He said he was desperate to talk to you. That he had something urgent to tell you. Something you needed to know.’
‘Nothing else?’ They’d already been through this several times since Horton had returned from work. She kept expecting some punchline. Something that David wanted from her. Money, quite probably.
‘No, that was it. He just wanted to talk to you. Face to face, he said.’
‘But he didn’t leave a contact number?’
They’d already been through this as well. Isla looked quizzically at Horton. ‘You’re beginning to sound like you want to phone him back.’
‘No, not at all. And he’d know better than to ask me to.’ She stopped, thinking. ‘But I know David. I know what he’s like. He’s always got some ulterior motive. He’s always after something, even if it’s not always easy to work out what.’
‘So?’
‘So, I’m curious about why he phoned. What he really wants.’
‘Waiting for the other shoe to drop?’
; ‘Something like that.’
‘If so, he didn’t give any clues.’
‘He wouldn’t.’ Horton was staring at the woodstove, watching the play of the flames inside. She shivered. Partly, she thought, because the central heating had switched off for the night, the stove was dying down, and the weather outside was still chilly. Partly. ‘That’s the disturbing thing. He’s up to something. I don’t know what. But it’s as if he’s intruded here. Almost as if he’s physically walked in the door.’
‘He hasn’t,’ Isla pointed out. ‘All he’s done is make a phone call. And maybe he’s not up to anything. Maybe he really does just want to talk.’
‘Maybe.’ Horton sounded unconvinced. She swallowed the last of her wine and placed the glass on the coffee table with a clunk. ‘Okay, that’s enough for tonight. I’m off to bed. Are you coming yet?’
Isla smiled. ‘If you make it worth my while.’
Horton laughed and nodded. ‘Oh, yes. I’ll make it worth your while.’
8
The next morning, Horton felt relieved she’d not indulged further in the wine. She turned up at the office just before eight, as usual, to find McKay still wearing his battered anorak, feet up on the corner of her desk, ostentatiously chewing his ever-present gum.
‘What time do you call this?’ he said. ‘We’ve got work to do.’
‘Well, there’s a first time for everything. You know you’ve still got your coat on?’
‘We’re heading out, Ginny. Up into the wild blue yonder. Well, the wild Black Isle, anyhow.’
‘Something interesting?’ When McKay was this excited, it was generally because there was a serious case in the offing. Something more stimulating that a bunch of neds beating each other up on an Inverness Saturday night.
His enthusiasm dimmed for a moment. ‘Well, probably not. But I can always hope.’ He was already on his feet, ushering her towards the door. ‘You driving?’