by Alex Walters
‘You probably know the layout of this place better than we do,’ Donnelly said. ‘The cellar’s the one bit that hasn’t changed too much. We’ve tidied it up, obviously. But we still need to tackle it properly.’
Kelly recalled the gloomy space beneath them, the shadows in the corners. The way that, even while he was alive, Denny Gorman had haunted the place like some malevolent spectre. She shivered slightly, wondering if she was doing right in coming back here. ‘I think you should do that,’ she said, trying to turn her words into a joke. ‘Tackle it properly. Get rid of any trace of how it was.’
Donnelly laughed. ‘You make it sound like the place is haunted.’
Kelly managed to smile back. ‘Only for me,’ she said. ‘And only by memories.’
20
Still shaken by his unexpected encounter with Chrissie, McKay drove back up to the Black Isle in a pensive mood. The weather was holding fair, and as he’d crossed over the Kessock Bridge in the early evening, the waters of the firth were a deep blue under the empty opal sky. In other circumstances, it would have been a sight to lighten the heart, but McKay was feeling a long way from that.
He dragged the bags of shopping into the kitchen and began to unpack. Maybe now was the time for him to teach himself to cook properly, with time on his hands and the unenticing prospect of endless ready meals for one. He’d never been averse to the idea, but cooking had been Chrissie’s territory, and she’d made it abundantly clear she didn’t want him intruding. In those respects, their relationship had been all too traditional, and looking back, McKay couldn’t really understand why. They’d drifted into the familiar Scottish stereotypes – the male breadwinner, the little woman left to look after the domestics. Neither of them had really wanted it, but neither of them had ever thought to question it.
He was contemplating these questions when the doorbell rang. His first instinct was to ignore it. Hardly anyone knew he was living here, so it was unlikely to be a welcome visitor. Most likely some young scrote supplementing his benefits by hawking sub-standard dishcloths. A quick flash of his warrant card was usually enough to send that type on their way.
But what if it was Chrissie at the door? She had his address. Maybe she’d thought over what he’d said and decided now was the time for a conversation after all. Stranger things had happened.
When the doorbell rang a second time, he hurried back through the hall and pulled open the front door.
‘Alec? Sorry. You look like you were expecting someone else. Is this a bad time?’
‘No. Christ, no. Who’d want to come and see me up here? Well, you, presumably.’ He shook his head, conscious he was rambling. ‘Ach, ignore my blethering. It’s good to see you, Ginny. Come in.’
He led Horton through to the kitchen. ‘Coffee? I’d offer you something stronger, but I assume you’re driving.’
She nodded. ‘I’ll wait for that ‘til I get home. I was up interviewing Rob Graham’s drinking buddies, and it seemed rude not to call and say hello.’
‘You’re treating Graham’s death as foul play, then?’ McKay had his back to her, busying himself filling the kettle.
‘Until we’ve a reason not to.’ She paused. ‘I shouldn’t be discussing the case with you, really, Alec. Not in the circumstances.’
‘Don’t tell me you’ve got me pegged as a killer, too? I must be scarier than I thought.’
‘Don’t be daft, Alec. You know full well that Helena’s done this for your own protection. We just need to do everything by the book.’
He finished spooning coffee into the mugs and turned to face her. ‘Aye, I know. It’s just a bit hard to take.’
‘Don’t think any of us are going to let you skive off for any longer than we can help, Alec McKay. You’ll be back on board before you know it.’
‘I hope so. I don’t want to spend any longer than I have to in this place.’
She looked around her at the tiny functional kitchen. ‘It’s very – compact.’
‘You hate it, don’t you?’
‘Well, it wouldn’t suit me. But maybe it suits you, Alec.’
‘Christ knows.’
‘You’re too good for this, you know, Alec. You don’t have to punish yourself.’
‘You reckon that’s what I’m doing?’
‘Looks suspiciously like it from where I’m sitting.’
He finished making the coffee and pushed one of the mugs across the small kitchen table towards her. ‘Aye, well.’
‘Have you been in contact with Chrissie? Maybe it’s time to give it another go.’
‘We’ve been in contact. She tells me she needs more time.’
‘It’s none of my business, but why did she walk out?’
He was tempted to agree that, no, it was none of her business, but he knew she meant well. ‘She blames me for Lizzie’s death. Just like I blame her for it.’
‘You know that’s bollocks, don’t you, Alec? You don’t really even know how or why Lizzie died. Whether it was just an accident or – well, something else. Either way, you can’t hold yourselves responsible. She was an adult. She made her own decisions.’
‘We brought her up,’ McKay said. ‘We created that adult.’
Horton shook her head. ‘If she was depressed, that wasn’t anything you created. You did your best. You did a decent job.’
‘Doesn’t stop either of us feeling guilty. Or trying to transfer that guilt to each other.’
‘Jesus, Alec.’
Saying nothing, he rose and walked across to the kitchen window. ‘Look,’ he said. ‘You can see the sea. It’s not all bad.’
‘You’re changing the subject.’
‘Of course I’m changing the fucking subject. What do you expect me to do?’
She picked up her coffee mug and rose to stand beside him, peering out through the glass. ‘Okay. Where’s the sea?’
‘There.’ He pointed between the row of houses. ‘You might have to stand on tiptoe.’ This was a joke. Horton was as tall as he was, if not slightly taller.
‘Yes, I see it,’ she said.
‘This case of yours,’ he said. ‘Graham and Crawford and Galloway. You’re not allowed to discuss it with me.’
‘Well, nobody’s actually said. But it seems sensible not to.’
‘Aye, I can see that. Sensible. My middle name. But if I just talk at you, that’s not a discussion, is it?’
‘Alec –’
‘That’s just me shooting my mouth off. Feel free to ignore it, like you usually do.’
She took a long sip of her coffee and made no response.
‘First thing. I’m sure Helena’s on top of this, but still. You need to check out the other members of Galloway’s team at that time. There were countless foot soldiers passed through, including me and Helena. I’ve never received letters like Galloway and his chums were sent, and I assume Helena would have mentioned it if she had. But it might be worth checking out former DSs Alastair Donald and Davey Robertson. Both retired now, as far as I know. Neither of them part of Galloway’s real inner circle, but both would have liked to have been. Be interesting to know if either of them have been receiving the same letters.’
Horton was watching him. ‘I’m just letting you talk at me.’
‘Then, there are the people that Galloway’s team put away. Particularly the ones where he might have used his – distinctive methods to get a result. Difficult to remember names after all these years, but I’ve had a shot at jotting down the ones I can recall.’ He pulled a folded sheet of paper out of his pocket and tossed it on the table in front of her. ‘That’s a start.’
‘You really are bored, aren’t you, Alec? You need to get out more.’
‘That’s exactly what I want to do. Preferably back into the office. Anything I can do to push along the investigation –’
‘Of course,’ Horton said, ‘if anyone really did think you were guilty, this might seem like an attempt to deflect attention. It’s not a helpful look, Alec.’
‘What else am I supposed to do, Ginny? I didn’t kill Graham. Why the hell would I have done? Okay, I didn’t much like the man, but if I killed everyone I don’t like, I’d be the world’s most prolific serial fucking killer.’
‘I know, Alec. But Helena will be on top of all of this.’ She paused. ‘And think about it this way, Alec. If there’s any challenge to Helena’s integrity, however unjustified, she’ll get taken off the case and replaced with someone more “independent.” And that wouldn’t help your position at all. I imagine there are a few people out there who wouldn’t mind seeing you dragged down a peg or two.’
McKay nodded. ‘Aye, you’re right enough, Ginny. As always. Anyone ever told you no one loves a smart-arse?’
‘Frequently. You, mainly. But be patient. Let us get on with it. We’ll do it by the book, but we’ll do it.’ She picked up the sheet of paper from the table, and finally allowed him a smile. ‘Mind you, since you’ve gone to the trouble, this might come in handy as well.’
21
‘Christ. How much have you had?’ He picked up the three-quarters empty bottle and held it in front of her.
She was sitting in her usual armchair, her eyes fixed on the television screen. ‘Not enough, Ally. Not nearly enough.’
‘For God’s sake, woman, it’s barely seven o’clock.’
‘It’s nearly eight. Where the hell have you been?’ It was only the wine that gave her the courage to respond like this.
‘Out. And?’
‘Out where?’
‘Is that any of your fucking business?’ He slammed the bottle down on the table so hard, she thought the glass might shatter. ‘I don’t suppose you’ve cooked anything?’
‘I had supper when I usually do,’ she said. ‘At six. You weren’t here.’
She never knew what would drive him into one of his rages. She no longer cared what he said, although her physical fear of him hadn’t diminished. The wine had deadened her emotions to that extent, at least. It was all unpredictable, anyway. Sometimes, an apparently innocuous word could send him into a fury. At other times, as now, he simply seemed uninterested in anything she might have to say.
‘You’d better get me something, then,’ he said and slumped down on the sofa opposite.
She was tempted to tell him to bugger off, but she hadn’t the energy. She dragged herself to her feet and made her way through to the kitchen, making a point of taking her glass and the remaining wine with her. ‘What do you want?’
‘What did you have?’
‘I just had a sandwich. Couldn’t be bothered with anything more.’
‘I want something hot.’
He sounded exactly like a spoilt child, she thought. A spoilt overgrown fucking child.
‘There’s a couple of frozen things. A curry and some Chinese thing. I could microwave one of those.’
‘Fine. Whichever. Curry.’ He put his feet up on the sofa and began flicking through the TV channels with the remote control. ‘There’s nothing but shite on TV.’
She suspected he might well have been drinking himself. He’d got himself a part-time job at the local garden centre, supposedly looking after security, but really, as far as she could see, just general dogsbodying. She couldn’t understand why he wanted to do it. It wasn’t as if they needed the money. They had a decent enough pension. But he was the sort of man who couldn’t stand doing nothing. Whatever his actual job at the garden centre, she could imagine him bustling around, bossing the youngsters who worked there. He’d never risen above Sergeant in the force, but he’d behaved as if he was the Chief fucking Constable. That was the kind of man he was.
He finished at the garden centre at four, as far as she knew. So, he’d been somewhere for the last few hours. She couldn’t bring herself to care where. Maybe he had another woman. If so, frankly, she was welcome to him. More likely he’d just stopped off and knocked back a few pints at the pub. He had no qualms about driving under the influence. He was one of those who thought it made him a better driver. And he was convinced that, if it came to it, his police background would be enough to protect him. Well, good luck with that, she thought.
She stuck the ready-meal curry in the microwave and set the timer. Then, she sat down at the kitchen table and poured herself the remainder of the wine. He was right, of course, at least about that. She was drinking too much. She was starting earlier in the day and not wanting to stop. But it wasn’t as if she had much else to live for.
As if to prove the point, she heard Ally shouting from the sitting room, ‘That curry ready yet? I’m fucking starving.’
That was far from literally true, she thought, judging from the way his fat stomach strained against his shirt. ‘Two minutes,’ she called.
‘I’ll have it in here.’
Like you’ve done with every meal for the last ten years, she added silently to herself. She waited until the microwave beeped and then, following the instructions to the letter as she always did, gave the food a stir and stuck it back in for another couple of minutes.
‘How long does it take to microwave a fucking curry for Christ’s sake?’
Two minutes, then lift lid and stir, she said to herself. Then another two minutes. Then allow to stand for one minute. Out loud, she said, ‘It’s coming.’
Finally, the microwave beeped again, and she took out the hot tray of food. She had a plate ready on a tray, and she carefully spooned the rice and pungent current out, adding a dab of the mango chutney Ally liked. There was a time when she’d have done that in the vain hope of trying to please him. Now, she did it only through habit.
‘About fucking time,’ he said, as she carefully carried the tray through into the living room. ‘Any other wife would have had a meal waiting for me.’
Most other wives would have some idea what time their husbands were coming home, she retorted silently, as she placed the tray on his knee. Relieved to be finished, she returned to her armchair and left him to it.
The explosion came, as somehow she’d known it would, after only a few seconds. ‘Jesus Christ, woman. This thing’s fucking stone cold. Can’t you even use a fucking microwave?’
She turned and then ducked back as the plate came flying in her direction, catching her glancingly on the cheek before shattering against the fireplace in a mess of rice and lurid curry sauce. She was expecting that Ally’s fists would follow and turned her head away in anticipation. Instead, she heard him say, ‘That’s it. I’m going out again. Don’t fucking wait up.’
Moments later, the front door slammed. She straightened and looked at the debris in front of her. The food had been fine. She knew that perfectly well. It was all part of the game Ally continually played in his head. Wrong-footing her. Doing what he wanted but always managing to make it her fault. Once, she’d have let it gnaw away at her. Now, she was numb to it.
The television was still playing silently, anonymous talking heads blethering about who knew what. She sat back, thinking about the next bottle of wine in the kitchen. And waited.
22
Ginny Horton had stayed chatting with McKay for as long as she could. McKay himself seemed ambivalent towards her presence. On the one hand, he was clearly enjoying the opportunity to chew the fat. They’d always got on well, and once past the sensitivities of McKay’s enforced absence from work, they’d moved on to the usual inconsequentialities of office gossip and Scottish politics.
But she sensed there was a part of him that wanted to be alone. It was as if he’d chosen that pokey, soulless bungalow to cut himself off from civilised society, like some latter-day religious hermit. When she eventually announced she had to be going, he looked both disappointed and relieved.
Although Rosemarkie and Ardersier faced each other across the Moray Firth, only a mile or two apart as the crow flies, the journey home took her the best part of an hour, with a short hold-up for roadworks by the Kessock roundabout. She was happy enough with that. It meant she was likely to arrive home at roughly the same
time as Isla. She was reluctant to admit it, but until she was sure David was no longer in the vicinity, she was keen to spend as little time alone there as possible.
As she turned out of the village towards their house, she was half expecting to see that same car parked outside their driveway. If it had been, she’d have kept on driving, turned back into the village and stayed well away until she’d managed to contact Isla. But the road was empty.
She pulled into the driveway and sat for a moment, the car doors still locked, overcome by a sudden panic. What if David was out there somewhere, waiting for her return? What if he’d left his car further up the road, so as not to alert her? The house itself was in darkness, and she could see nothing through the car windows.
She took a deep breath and pushed open the car door, the chill night air striking her face like a slap. There was a stiff breeze blowing in from the firth, and it felt as if a change in the weather was coming. Around her, she could hear the trees and bushes rustling like insistent voices in her ears. It’s you. It’s your fault. You deserve this.
She climbed out of the car and clicked shut the central locking, the flashing of the indicators throwing unexpected shadows around her. She fumbled for her house keys and took the half dozen steps towards the front door, thankful when the key slid smoothly into the lock.
She already had the door open when she sensed the movement behind her. She froze, unable to bring herself to look back, and heard the voice whispering, inches from her ear.
‘Virginia.’
23
Ally Donald stumbled in the darkness, telling himself it was the gloom rather than the drink that had caused him to lose his footing. He’d only had – what? A couple of pints and chasers early on, then a few more pints and whiskies just now, after that bitch had driven him out of the house. Nothing he couldn’t handle after all these years.