by Alex Walters
‘Aye, Alec. I know.’ She sounded kindly enough, though McKay guessed she’d mostly be relieved she wouldn’t have to squeeze Chrissie into a house already barely large enough for herself, her husband and their three kids. ‘What are you doing, though? Where are you staying, I mean?’
‘I’m renting a place up over in the Black Isle. Rosemarkie. It’ll do for the moment.’ He paused. ‘I’ve left details of the address and suchlike back at the house.’
‘Look after yourself, won’t you, Alec.’
‘I’ll do my best,’ he said.
‘Alec –’ She stopped suddenly, as if she’d bitten back the words she’d been about to speak. ‘I’ll pass the message on,’ she said, finally.
‘Thanks, Ellie. And give my love to Chrissie.’
He ended the call before she could respond. Night was falling as he passed Munlochy Bay, and he could see a scattering of lights across the water. He still didn’t know what had brought him up here, rather than just finding himself somewhere in Inverness. Partly, he wanted time to himself. Somewhere quiet where he could think. Partly, he wanted a complete change. A place where he wouldn’t constantly be reminded of what he’d left behind.
There was something else as well, though, he thought. Something else he was seeking. Something to do with his daughter, Lizzie, who had somehow been lost to him even before her death. Something to do with the lost and the rootless. Wanting, perhaps, to engage with that.
He turned down into the small housing estate where the bungalow was located. It was at the end of a cul-de-sac, and there were no immediate neighbours – another reason he’d been attracted to the place. He pulled into the small parking space and turned off the engine. In the pale orange glow of the street lights, the bungalow looked as bleak and unwelcoming as ever.
Most of the houses back along the street would be occupied by couples and families, enjoying the warmth of an evening at home. It wouldn’t take much to make this place homely, though it had sat unoccupied for some months. The owner was English, the agent had told McKay, and had inherited the property on the death of his grandmother, the previous occupant. He was waiting for the market to pick up before trying to sell it and had hoped to let it to holidaymakers, but the facilities were too old-fashioned, and the owner hadn’t been prepared to invest in updating them. The agent had told McKay all this, with amusing candour, although only after he’d ensured that McKay’s signature was firmly on the contract.
McKay hadn’t cared much about all that, anyway. All it meant was that the property was being let at a price he could afford.
He sat for a few seconds longer, wondering how it had come to this. Then, he climbed out of the car and took out the front door key to what, for the moment at least, he was going to have to learn to call home.
When she finally heard the sound of the car pulling up outside, Ginny Horton hurried back into the hallway to unbolt the front door for Isla.
She wasn’t sure whether it was some instinct or simply her mounting anxiety that made her pause and peer through the small window beside the front door. It had grown dark while she’d been sitting huddled on the sofa, and, other than in the kitchen, she hadn’t so far turned on any lights in the house.
The car at the end of the drive was not Isla’s familiar little Audi. It was something else, a model she didn’t immediately recognise. It was parked across the entrance, catching the glow of the street light above. There was a figure in the front seat, but from there, she couldn’t make out whether the driver was male or female.
She expected the occupant of the car to emerge and approach the house, but the figure remained motionless. She realised she was holding her breath.
Was it David?
There was no way of knowing. She had no idea what car he drove. She had no real idea even what he was doing these days.
She remained transfixed at the window, wondering what the hell to do. She could try to call Isla on her mobile, but she knew Isla turned her phone to silent when driving. She could call the police, but if this turned out to be just some random passer-by, paused to check directions or make a call, she’d just make herself a laughing stock. McKay would get more than his two-penn’orth out of that story.
In any case, she didn’t want to move. She needed to keep watching. If the car door opened and David emerged, she told herself, she’d do something. But for the moment, she didn’t want to look away, didn’t want to risk the unknown. Didn’t want to risk that David might approach the house without her even being aware of it.
She tried to calm her fears, telling herself she was being idiotic. Even if it was David, she wasn’t the same person she’d been back then. She could look after herself. How old would David be these days, anyway? He couldn’t threaten her physically. Just let him fucking try.
Somewhere behind her, back in the living room, she heard the buzz of her mobile, and momentarily, instinctively, she glanced away from the window. She hadn’t even realised she’d left the phone in there. She hesitated, listening to the phone ring, wondering whether she should retrieve it. Maybe it was Isla to say she’d been delayed.
When she looked back out of the window, something had changed. The car door was open, and a figure was climbing out. A male, she thought, tall, thin, dressed in a dark suit. She still couldn’t make out the face.
Then, there was the sound of a car horn, and the figure was turned into a silhouette by the glare of car headlights. Another impatient blast on the horn. The figure scrambled back into the car, as if in a hurry. Moments later, Horton heard the engine starting, and the car headed off down the road, wheels screeching from the acceleration.
Isla’s Audi pulled into the driveway. Horton waited for her to emerge, as if expecting that, somehow, Isla might have been replaced by an impostor. It was only as Isla approached that Horton finally pulled back the bolts and threw open the door.
‘Jesus,’ Isla said. ‘Stupid bloody tosser. Just stops in front of the drive without a second thought – What’s wrong?’
‘I –’ Horton could barely speak. She led Isla into the kitchen and rummaged in the bin for the letter. Smoothing the crumpled paper on the table, she finally said, ‘This.’
Isla took in the contents of the note and looked back at Horton. ‘When did it arrive?’
‘Today. It was there when I got back. Hand-delivered.’
‘You mean he’s here? I mean, up here somewhere.’ She glanced towards the front door. ‘Jesus, you think –?’
‘I don’t know. It might have been.’
‘If it was him, he scarpered PDQ when I arrived.’
‘Did you see his face?’
Isla shook her head. ‘He was just a shape in the headlights. Then, he ducked back in the car and buggered off.’
‘You didn’t see the car reg?’
‘I didn’t take it in. I think it was a new one. This year, I mean. Maybe a hire car?’
‘If he flew up here, he’d probably pick up one at the airport,’ Horton agreed. ‘I can’t see him traipsing all the way up by car. Not his style.’
‘We don’t even know it was him,’ Isla said.
‘But we know he’s around.’ Horton was beginning to feel calmer now. ‘Hang on.’ She left Isla in the kitchen and went to find her phone in the living room.
She looked up as Isla followed her into the room. ‘I had a call. Before he got out of the car. Just before you arrived.’ She held up the phone, screen towards Isla. ‘Number withheld.’
‘Could have been anyone,’ Isla said. ‘Just a junk call probably.’
‘Maybe he tried to call me before he left the car. See if I was in. Most of the lights were off, so he wouldn’t have known if anyone was here.’
‘Ginny, it could have been anyone. Why would he have called you? How would he even have your number?’
Horton sat down heavily on the sofa. ‘I don’t know. The whole thing’s shaken me up. I’d been keeping watch on him out of the window. Then, the phone rang, and I was distracted. Th
at was when he started to get out of the car –’ She stopped, knowing she was sounding uncharacteristically hysterical.
Isla sat down and took Horton’s hands in hers. ‘Look, Ginny. Stop. Think about it. This isn’t like you. The call was probably just coincidence. We don’t know if it was David out there. Okay, so we know he’s around. But maybe he’s telling the truth, and he does just want to talk to you.’
‘I don’t want to talk to him.’ Horton was conscious of sounding like a petulant child.
‘I know that. We can make that clear to him, if we have to. But we don’t know that he’s got an agenda other than that.’
‘So why is he approaching me like this? It all seems designed to unnerve me.’
Isla shrugged. ‘Maybe he intends the opposite. Seems to me he might be nervous about approaching you. Calls when you’re not likely to be here. Sticks a note through the letterbox when he knows you’ll be at work. And, if it was him just now, sits in the car, unsure whether to ring the doorbell. Perhaps this is as much of an ordeal for him as it is for you.’
‘If so, he really has changed.’
‘People do, Ginny. Not always, I know. But sometimes. He’s getting old. Maybe he’s alone. That might be enough.’
‘Maybe,’ Horton said doubtfully.
‘And you’re a grown woman. Christ, you fight off hardened criminals with your bare hands. Why have you any reason to be scared of that fuck-up?’
There was a long silence. They were still holding hands, staring into each other’s eyes. Finally, Horton said, ‘He was a bastard. An utter evil bastard.’
‘You’ve told me some of that –’
‘I’ve not told you it all. Not the worst parts.’
‘Okay,’ Isla said. ‘So, tell me.’
13
It took McKay even less time to unpack than it had to pack. He left the suitcase of clothes unopened in the bedroom, arranged the few trinkets he’d bought with him randomly around the sitting room, and sat down on the battered sofa to take stock.
The bungalow was less bleak than he’d remembered. Probably that had just reflected his mood the day he’d visited. It had seen better days, undoubtedly, and most of the furniture looked like it had been there for decades. But it was clean and comfortable enough. It wouldn’t have taken much effort to make the place welcoming. But McKay knew even that much effort was likely to be beyond him.
He didn’t even know whether Chrissie would take the cue to return home. She probably would, if only because she knew she was imposing on her sister. But whether she’d stay there any longer than she needed to – well, who knew?
Not McKay, certainly. He didn’t even really know why she’d gone. He knew in general terms, of course. That was clear enough. All those years of circling each other, trying to offload their guilt at Lizzie’s death, slipping further and further apart. And he supposed that last big case had acted as a catalyst, driven Chrissie to take the step she’d never quite managed before.
He’d finally brought himself to read the note she’d left on the night of her departure. He’d read it once, then thrown it away. It told him nothing he didn’t already know. Nothing that helped him understand. Other than a few monosyllabic exchanges on practical issues, they’d barely spoken since. He had no reason to suppose things were likely to change now. All he could do was wait.
He’d known he’d be in no mood to prepare food tonight. He’d never been completely useless in the kitchen, but Chrissie had always insisted that was her role, and he’d not been inclined to argue. Maybe that was another part of the problem. On his way from the office, he’d stopped off to grab a supermarket sandwich, a bag of crisps and a six pack of beer, along with a pint of milk and a jar of instant coffee. They were sitting in the middle of the table, looking as enticing as everything else about this house.
It had only just gone seven. As far as he could recall, the pub in the village did food until eight. Maybe it was time to head out and get to know the locals. Find out what this place might have in store for him. So much for being alone, he thought. So much for giving himself time to think. He should have known by now that that was the last thing he ever wanted.
The small front bar of the pub was deserted, though he could hear some chatter from the back. There was no one behind the bar, but after a moment, a figure came trotting along the corridor. ‘You okay there?’ A young man, probably early twenties. Eager to please.
‘You still doing food?’
‘Sure. ‘Til eight.’ He reached behind the bar and slid a leather-bound menu across to McKay. ‘Just yourself?’
‘Just myself,’ McKay confirmed. He skimmed quickly down the menu. Standard pub fare. He ordered a scampi and chips and a pint of the local Cromarty Brewery beer.
‘You want to eat in here or go through the back?’
‘Is it busy back there?’
The young man shrugged. ‘Not so’s you’d notice. Too early in the year for the tourists, and too early in the week for the locals. Just a few of the older lads, you know.’
McKay nodded. ‘I’ll go through there, then.’
He followed the young man through to the back of the building. The rear bar was laid out restaurant-style, and three middle-aged men were clustered round the bar. They fell momentarily silent as McKay entered. He took a seat at the far end of the room and nodded to them. ‘Evening.’
One of the men nodded back. ‘Evening.’ They lost interest in him and resumed their chat. McKay sipped at his beer, watching them without curiosity. He’d spent too many years doing surveillance work to feel awkward eating alone, and the same experience had taught him how to make himself inconspicuous.
The food came quickly and was fine. McKay finished it off and knocked back his pint. Then, he made his way to the bar to get a refill.
While he was waiting for the beer to be poured, one of the men turned and regarded him curiously. ‘You one of them newspaper types, then?’
McKay blinked, trying to translate this. ‘Sorry?’
‘You know, journalists. Or off the telly. You look familiar.’
‘I think you’ve got the wrong man, pal. Nearest I ever get to the telly is falling asleep in front of it.’
‘Oh.’ The man sounded disappointed. ‘You do look familiar, though. I thought you were maybe one of those – what do they call them? – investigative reporters.’ There was something about the way he said “investigative,” with an undertone of irony, that made McKay examine the man’s face more carefully.
It took him a moment. Then, suddenly, McKay’s imagination smoothed the man’s wrinkles and redarkened his hair, and McKay saw him as he’d been twenty years before. Rob Graham. DI Rob Graham, in those days. Another one of Jackie Galloway’s kitchen cabinet. Christ almighty, had they all settled in this neck of the woods?
‘Like I say, you’ve got the wrong man. Can barely read a newspaper, let alone write for one.’ McKay was already turning away. The last thing he wanted was to be recognised by Rob Graham. The one saving grace was that Graham had been the sort of senior officer who scarcely gave the time of day to his underlings. He probably wouldn’t recognise McKay if he spat in his face.
Graham was looking unconvinced. ‘Thing is, I thought you might be up here on account of these killings.’
McKay’s hand tightened on the glass the barman had just handed him. ‘Honest, pal, I don’t know what you’re talking about.’ He took a large swallow of the beer. His only objective now was to get out of there as soon as he decently could.
‘Police killings,’ Graham said. He was clearly two or three pints to the worse. Not drunk, but far enough gone not to care what he was saying. There was something else in his tone, too, McKay thought. A note of anxiety. As if he wanted to talk about this to anyone he could. ‘We were just discussing it,’ Graham went on. He looked back at McKay. ‘Bet the press would pay a pretty penny to anyone who could give them the inside track.’ It was clear that, having somehow given himself the idea McKay was a journalist, h
e wasn’t going to let it go easily.
‘You’ve lost me,’ McKay said. ‘I just came in for a quiet pint and a bite to eat.’
‘Leave him be, Rob,’ one of the other men said. ‘Poor wee bastard doesn’t know what the hell you’re on about.’
‘What’s he doing in here on his own, then?’ Graham said, his drunkenness taking on an aggressive edge. ‘Earwigging.’
‘He’s not earwigging, Rob. Poor bugger’s just trying to drink his pint –’
Suddenly, McKay decided he’d had enough. It had been a crap day at the start of another crap week in what was rapidly turning into a crap year. He’d had to put up with this puffed-up bullying from Graham and his cronies twenty years before. He was buggered if he was going to put up with it now.
He turned to face Graham and put his pint down on the bar. ‘Like your mate says, I’m just trying to drink my pint. If you reckon you’ve got information about criminal activity, you should be talking to the police, not trying to sell the story to imaginary fucking journalists.’
Graham laughed and looked around at his mates to share the joke. ‘Police? You know who I am, sonny? Do you know who I fucking am?’
McKay allowed himself a smile. ‘Aye, I know exactly who you are. Former Detective Inspector Robert fucking Graham.’
The amusement vanished from Graham’s face as if someone had flicked a switch. ‘How the hell –?’ He peered again at McKay’s face. ‘Who the fuck are you, pal?’
‘DI Alec McKay. At your service. Pal.’ McKay’s smile was unwavering.
‘McKay. Christ, that little snot-rag. How the fuck you make DI?’
‘Standards have slipped since your day, Rob. So, what’s all this about killings?’
Graham looked back at his companions. ‘I need a smoke. Let’s go outside for minute, eh?’
‘Anything you say.’
There was a small beer garden at the side of the pub. Graham sat himself at one of the tables and lit up a cigarette, waving the pack in McKay’s direction. McKay shook his head. ‘Given up.’ As if to demonstrate, he slipped out a stick of gum and popped it into his mouth. ‘Go on, then.’