by Alex Walters
‘Ach. I suppose so. Can’t pretend I’m happy, though.’
‘No point in breaking the habit of a lifetime, Alec.’ She paused and looked at him, her expression serious. ‘This is about protecting your arse as much as anything else, Alec. You know that.’
‘Aye, I know that. Doesn’t make it any easier. I’ll be climbing the walls at home.’ He shook his head. ‘If I can call it home.’
‘Take the opportunity to sort things with Chrissie. You know you want to.’
‘Maybe. But I don’t know if I know how. Or if she wants to.’ He allowed himself a smile. ‘Christ, women, eh?’
‘Aye, I know, pet. They’re nearly as bad as men.’ She tapped her pen on the desk in front of her. ‘What do you reckon’s going on here, Alec? With these deaths, I mean.’
‘Christ knows. Back in the day, there’d have been plenty of people only too pleased to top those three. But now? Why would anyone still give a shit?’
‘Someone gave enough of a shit to send them all periodic threatening letters,’ Grant said. ‘Assuming that’s what they were.’
‘Even so, why act now? It wouldn’t have been long before Jackie Galloway popped his clogs anyway.’
‘Maybe that was it,’ she said. ‘Maybe someone thought that would be too good for him.’
‘If so, all they did was put him out of his misery. Or, more to the point, helped Bridie Galloway out of her misery. She’d still have been top of my list, but I don’t see why or how she’d have killed Crawford or Graham.’
‘Aye, well, maybe it’s all just an unfortunate coincidence after all,’ Grant said. ‘Let’s wait to hear what Graham’s post-mortem tells us. And what the Procurator thinks.’
‘Except I won’t care, will I?’ McKay said. ‘Because I’ll be sitting in my bungalow watching daytime TV, halfway to being Jackie fucking Galloway myself.’
‘Alec, if you think I’m going to allow myself to be a staff member down for any longer than I can help, you’ve another think coming. We’ll get you back before you get addicted to Jeremy Kyle.’ She smiled. ‘Now bugger off home, and let us get on with it, okay?’
17
As she drove down the hill into Rosemarkie, Ginny Horton was almost tempted to turn off and pay McKay a surprise visit. But it was too soon, she told herself, and she had no idea how he’d react. He might be pleased to see her, but McKay could be a cantankerous old git, and he’d have taken his enforced exile badly, however temporary it might prove to be.
She was still feeling disturbed by her earlier conversation with Helena Grant. Horton had been surprised, returning to the office after a couple of off-site meetings, not only to find the office empty but also to see that McKay had left his desk tidier than he managed most evenings. Ten minutes later, Grant had popped her head around the door to advise that McKay had been, as she put it, encouraged to take his outstanding annual leave.
‘You can’t be serious,’ Horton said. ‘Nobody would really think Alec’s a suspect.’
Grant was silent for slightly too long. ‘No, of course not. It’s just –’
‘Just what?’
‘I don’t know. Alec never lets anyone get too close, does he? You never know what he’s thinking.’
‘I know he’s not a murderer.’ Horton was surprised at her own vehemence. Like most people, she’d had her run-ins with McKay. She was surprised now by how much loyalty she felt towards him.
‘I don’t think that. We’ve just got to do things by the book until we can eliminate him from the enquiry. But he makes everything so difficult for himself.’
Horton had been surprised by how emotional Grant had seemed. She’d always suspected there was something more between McKay and Grant than simply the fact that they were long-time colleagues or even long-time friends. After McKay’s wife had walked out on him, Horton had wondered whether that something might blossom into a relationship. But the two had just seemed to keep stalking around each another, tense as barroom bruisers looking for a fight.
‘So where are we up to with the investigation?’ Horton asked, keen to move the conversation on.
‘We’ve managed to expedite the post-mortem on Graham, so that should take place tomorrow. With any luck, that’ll tell us whether there’s evidence he was unlawfully killed. If so, then we obviously have to look more closely at the other two deaths. But even if not, I think the coincidence justifies our treating these as suspicious deaths. I’ve reported to the Procurator’s office on that basis.’
‘And in Alec’s absence …?’
Grant sighed. ‘I guess I’ll have to take over as Senior Investigating Officer. It’ll be you and me against the world, Ginny.’
Horton had a lot of respect for Helena Grant. She managed to operate very effectively in what was still a male-dominated profession without too obviously aping any of the worst traits of her senior colleagues. No mean feat, Horton suspected, and she was happy to treat Grant as a role model. Probably a more positive one than Alec McKay, for all his undoubted investigatory skills. ‘I was scheduled to interview Graham’s widow and to have a shot at tracking down his two mates from the pub, if you’re happy with that?’
Grant had been more than happy with that, which was why Horton was now heading down the hill towards the shoreline in Rosemarkie. She passed the narrow road that led to McKay’s rented bungalow, and instead took the seafront road. According to her satnav, the Grahams’ house was just a few hundred yards along.
After the anxieties of the previous evening, Horton was cheered by the bright morning sunshine, the clear blue sea of Rosemarkie Bay. She’d allowed herself to be spooked by David’s unexpected appearance. In the light of day, her fears felt groundless, a child’s lingering nightmares. If David should turn up, she could handle him.
She pulled up on the seafront and peered out of the car window to identify the Grahams’ house. It was a far cry from the cramped bungalow where Jackie Galloway had eked out his final days. A solid-looking detached villa, elevated above the road, with views out over the bay. No doubt worth a bob or two.
The front door was opened almost as soon as Horton had pressed the bell. She had the impression that Shona Graham had been observing her progress up the steep drive.
‘Mrs Graham?’ Horton showed her warrant card. ‘I was wondering if you were up to talking to me for a few minutes?’
Graham’s widow was a handsome-looking woman, much younger than her husband had been. Horton guessed she was probably late forties, but doing her best to look even younger. Her hair was immaculately blonde, her face skilfully made-up. She clearly hadn’t allowed the news of her husband’s death to distract her from her usual routine.
‘I’d assumed you’d want to. I know enough about how this sort of thing goes. Your two colleagues were here this morning.’
Horton nodded. The news had been broken to the widow by two trained uniformed officers. They’d offered her support, but reported that she’d seemed content to look after herself. Looking at her now, Horton could see no obvious signs of distress.
Shona Graham led her through into an impressively decorated sitting room. None of the decor was to Horton’s taste – too much fine china and chintz – but she could see real money had been spent on it. Graham had done well for a DI.
‘Can I get you a tea or a coffee?’
Horton shook her head. ‘Thank you, but I won’t keep you any longer than I need to. I’m sure you’ve a lot on your plate.’
Graham offered a smile that failed to reach her eyes. ‘Less than you’d think,’ she said. ‘I can’t progress the funeral arrangements until you release the body. I’ve just handed the rest over to the solicitors to look after.’ She spoke as if completing a business transaction. ‘How can I help you?’ She gestured for Horton to take a seat.
‘Mainly factual questions,’ Horton said. ‘Just so we can pin down what happened when.’
‘You’re treating Rob’s death as suspicious?’
Horton felt as if she were being
tested. ‘We treat all unexplained deaths as suspicious. We don’t yet know the circumstances of this one. We understand your husband was last seen in the bar last night. Can I ask what time he left the house?’
‘You can ask, but I’m not sure I can give you an answer.’
Horton raised an eyebrow. ‘No?’
‘I don’t want to give you the wrong impression,’ Mrs Graham said, ‘but Rob and I lived fairly separate lives. Not in a negative way, you understand. We’d come to an accommodation over the years, and he tended to do his thing and I tended to do mine. Last night, mine was a fairly boozy night out with the girls in Inverness.’
‘So, you don’t know what time your husband left the house?’
‘I left around seven. He was still here then, watching TV.’
‘Did he have any kind of routine? For going out, I mean.’
‘Not really. We’re retired, but we’re not that stuck in the mud just yet. My guess is that, with me out of the way, Rob would have strolled down to the bar around nine, just to see who was in. There’s a group of them collect there. Chances are, there’s usually someone in to have a blether with.’
‘Do you know who these people are?’
‘Some of them. But you’d best ask the landlord. They’re all regulars.’
Horton had already done just that and had obtained the names of the two men who’d been drinking with Graham the previous evening. ‘What time did you get back last night?’ Nobody had yet broached the question of why Shona Graham had failed to raise any alarm about her husband’s absence. Perhaps, Horton thought, this was another part of the couple’s “accommodation.”
‘I didn’t,’ Graham said. ‘That’s why I didn’t realise that Rob was missing. I drove into Inverness and stayed over with one of the girls. Thanks to you lot, you can’t risk driving after a packet of wine gums these days, let alone what I’d drunk. And it’s a nightmare trying to get a taxi to come out here late at night.’
They’d have to verify Mrs Graham’s account, but Horton didn’t have much doubt that she was telling the truth. ‘So, you had no contact with him after you left yesterday evening?’
‘I wasn’t really expecting to.’
‘What time did you arrive back this morning?’
‘About eleven, I suppose. I didn’t want to set off too early. Might have still been over the limit.’
That fitted with the notes Horton had seen. It had taken the two uniformed officers a little time to track down Rob Graham’s address – there had been nothing in his pockets, other than a wallet containing some cash and a couple of bank cards. They’d initially visited the house just after ten, but had found it and the neighbouring houses empty. They’d returned a couple of hours later to break the news. ‘You weren’t surprised he wasn’t here?’
She shrugged. ‘Like I say, we didn’t live in one another’s pockets. I assumed he was out somewhere. He’d left the place tidy. But then, he was fairly domesticated.’ She made her late husband sound like a pet dog. ‘I didn’t think anything of it until your people arrived.’
‘I’m sorry to ask this,’ Horton said, ‘but is there anyone who might have wished harm to your husband?’
‘You really do think he might have been murdered?’ Mrs Graham’s face gave nothing away.
‘We can’t discount any possibility, at present,’ Horton said carefully.
‘Well, he was a police officer.’ She gave Horton another humourless smile. ‘You make enemies, don’t you? But that was all a long time ago. I can’t think why anyone would want to harm him now.’
‘You’ve received no threats? Threatening letters? Anything like that?’ Horton knew from McKay that Graham had received the same mysterious letters as his two former colleagues, but she had no idea whether he’d shared this with his wife.
‘No. We received the odd poison pen when Rob was still working. But nothing recently. Not that I’m aware of.’
‘Your husband would have told you if he’d received anything?’
‘Maybe. Maybe not. If he had received anything, I doubt whether it would have troubled him. You’re barking up the wrong tree. I can’t envisage anybody bothering to murder Rob.’
‘Is there anyone else locally we should be talking to? Close friends. Other people locally who might have more idea about his movements last night.’ The word “mistress” was hovering on Horton’s lips, but she had no grounds even for raising the possibility.
Even so, she detected a momentary hesitation in Mrs Graham’s response. ‘I don’t think so. Other than his drinking mates. And the landlord will know those better than I do.’
‘I won’t disturb you any longer for the moment, then, Mrs Graham.’ Horton eased herself up from the plush sofa. ‘We may need to talk to you again, if that’s all right?’
‘As much as you want to,’ Mrs Graham said. ‘Though I don’t know how much I’ll be able to say in return.’
‘And you’ll be okay here? On your own, I mean.’ The question sounded absurd even to Horton.
‘I think so, dear.’ Shona Graham smiled. ‘Don’t you?’
18
McKay managed to kill a couple of hours visiting the large Tesco in Inverness, stocking himself up with groceries for the empty week to come. Traipsing his way round the aisles with his trolley, he marvelled at his fellow humans’ uncanny ability to block his path at every possible opportunity. It was as if, he thought, they had no sodding conception that other people even existed, let alone that they might want to complete their shopping sometime this fucking year.
He was at the point, just before he reached the checkout, of articulating this interior monologue out loud for the benefit of the two old biddies ambling along in front of him. The halt and the fucking lame, he thought. Why are they even allowed out?
He wasn’t in the best of tempers. The thought of a week, maybe longer, stuck in that bloody bungalow with nothing to do, nowhere to go, no one to see, was already beginning to eat away at his sanity.
He took a breath and allowed the two elderly ladies to progress in front of him towards the checkouts. It was then that he spotted Chrissie.
She was heading towards the checkouts, too, her trolley even more laden than his own. His first instinct was to head off down one of the aisles, but he could see she’d already spotted him. ‘Chrissie.’
‘Alec.’
They stood for a moment in awkward silence, their trolleys parallel by the checkouts. ‘Not like you to be out in daylight, Alec.’
‘Aye, well. It’s a long story.’
‘Don’t tell me they’ve finally found you out.’
‘I’m just taking a few days’ leave.’
She opened her mouth in mock astonishment. ‘Christ, is this you turning over a new leaf, Alec? You barely managed a day off for your own daughter’s funeral.’
He could see she regretted the words as soon as she’d spoken. She was right, though. She’d resented the way he’d thrown himself straight back into work after Lizzie’s death. It had been his own way of coping. But he’d never really thought before about how it must have been for Chrissie, stuck all day in an empty house with only the memories in Lizzie’s unaltered bedroom for company. ‘Like I say, long story. You moved back into the house now?’
‘Went back this morning.’ Chrissie sounded reluctant to admit the fact, or perhaps just reluctant to let him know. ‘Ellie was struggling to cope, so I thought I’d better.’ She gestured towards his trolley. ‘Looks like we’re both in the same boat.’
‘Mine’s got a few more instant dinners,’ McKay said.
‘You’re up in the Black Isle,’ she said. ‘Always thought of you as a city boy.’
‘Just fancied a change. Breath of sea air rather than petrol fumes.’
‘If you say so.’ She looked back at the checkouts. ‘I’d best be getting on.’
‘Chrissie –’
‘Alec?’ She turned back, her face expressionless.
‘We need to talk, Chrissie. Sometime
. When you’re ready.’
There was the faintest hint of a smile. ‘Christ, Alec. You really have turned over a new leaf, haven’t you?’
‘When you’re ready.’
‘Okay, sometime. When I’m ready.’
He gazed at her for a moment, hoping to see something more in her eyes. ‘I’ll let you get on, then.’
‘Aye, Alec,’ she said. ‘You do that.’
Ginny Horton spent the afternoon tracking down Rob Graham’s two drinking buddies from the previous evening. As Shona Graham had suggested, the landlord had been able to supply her with names and approximate addresses. A couple of calls back to the office had given her the final details she needed.
Both lived in the village. The first, Rory Craig, was a retired farmer who’d sold up and was living in a well-appointed villa above the village with a view out across the bay. The other, Kenny Wallace, was a younger man who worked as an accountant in Inverness and lived in one of the seafront houses a few doors from Shona Graham. Horton wondered whether there might be any significance in that fact.
Craig was able to add little to what she already knew. She found him in his front garden mowing his lawn. He silenced the electric mower as she pushed open the gate. ‘Can I help you, miss?’ He sounded the kind of man who resented visitors accessing his property without permission.
She held out her warrant card. ‘DS Horton,’ she said. ‘Mr Craig?’
He frowned, a worried expression flitting across his face. He was a squat man, with florid clean-shaven cheeks and a reddening nose that suggested a regular alcohol intake. ‘What can I do for you?’ To her slight surprise, the accent was English, noticeably upmarket.
‘You know a Mr Robert Graham?’
‘Rob? Yes, why?’
‘I’m afraid I’ve some bad news. Mr Graham was found dead this morning.’
‘Rob?’ he said, again. ‘I only saw him last night. What’s happened to him?’