by Alex Walters
‘You driving?’
‘Yes. I’ve got the hands-free on, though, so carry on.’ She slowed for the second roundabout at the retail park, watching the stream of Friday night traffic heading into Tesco.
‘Got a little something for you, maybe.’
‘Alec –’
‘Don’t worry. I’m not going to put you in a difficult position.’
‘You’ve already done that. I had to tell Helena about your conversation with Bridie Galloway.’
‘Aye, well, I assumed you would. How’d she take it?’
‘Not best pleased, let’s say. But she was interested by what Bridie Galloway had to say. We’ve sent someone to have another chat with her, see if we can find out any more. I’ve been going through the case files from that time. Haven’t spotted anything so far, though.’
‘That’s why I’m calling. I’ve just been talking to an old journo pal of mine.’
‘Turned gregarious in your old age, Alec?’
‘You know me. Life and soul of the bloody party.’
‘So, what did this pal have to say?’
‘He knew Galloway in the old days. I was asking him what he remembered about Galloway’s last few months in the force. Anything out of the ordinary.’
‘And?’
‘There was one odd little titbit. He said that, around that time, Galloway had got himself into a stooshie about some hit and run killing in Inverness.’
Horton’s hands tightened on the steering wheel. ‘Hit and run?’
‘Some electrical fitter. Patrick O’Riordan. Northern Irish.’
Horton released the breath she hadn’t even realised she’d been holding. Not her father, then. ‘Why was Galloway interested?’
‘Galloway seems to have got it into his head that O’Riordan had underworld connections. Kept badgering my pal to find out what they were.’
‘And did he? Have connections, I mean’
‘Didn’t seem so. Just what he appeared to be – a poor wee bastard who’d got on the wrong side of a speeding lump of metal.’
‘Why would Galloway have cared? You think he was the driver?’
‘It’s not beyond the bounds of possibility. But I wouldn’t have expected him to care who the victim was. He’d have been more concerned about possible witnesses or CCTV.’
‘He might have been worried if this guy O’Riordan really did have underworld connections.’
‘Galloway wasn’t the sort to run scared of the local villains. Even the biggest players up here were small fry in those days. Galloway had them where he wanted them. I can’t see him getting jittery, unless there was something bigger at stake.’
‘You think there might have been something your friend missed?’
‘He’s a good journalist, and he’d have known all the local players. But if this guy had wider connections, the local crowd might not even have known.’
‘You said O’Riordan was Northern Irish,’ Horton said. ‘That would open up a few possible avenues.’
‘Aye. Right enough. That would have been enough to give even old Jackie something to think about. It’s one thing to get on the wrong side of some two-bit local dealer. It would have been another to get on the wrong side of the Provos or the Loyalists back in the day.’
‘Wouldn’t this have been around the time of the Good Friday Agreement?’
‘Just before,’ McKay said. ‘This was around the time the IRA committed to a ceasefire. But there were still trigger-happy nutters around. So, aye, I suppose it’s possible. Though Christ knows what anyone with those connections would have been doing in Inverness.’
‘Sounds worth looking into, though. Given we’re not exactly inundated with leads.’
‘You’ve not managed to get me off the hook yet, then?’
‘Our enquiries are continuing, Alec.’
‘Aye, point taken, lass.’
‘It’s Helena’s backside on the line.’
‘Aye, I know that. I don’t envy her that. This one’s got the potential to screw us all over. Ex-coppers. A multiple killer.’
‘And now, you’re suggesting the paramilitaries might have been involved, too. That’s sure to lower the heat.’
‘You can always rely on me to make life easier.’
She finished the call as she reached the turn off to Ardersier. She’d stayed on at work until she could ensure her arrival home would coincide with Isla’s. She didn’t believe David would play anymore games, particularly now they’d set up the meeting for the next day. Even so, she was still reluctant to be in the house by herself.
It was already nearly dark as she approached the village, the sky clouding over again after the day’s brief respite from the rain. Behind her, over the city, the setting sun reddened the western sky. Ahead, there was only a looming blackness that presaged more rain.
As she pulled into the driveway, she was surprised to see the house still in darkness. Her first thought was that Isla must have been delayed in the office, but Isla’s car was already there. Perhaps she’d only just arrived back herself. The front door, Horton could now see, was ajar.
She climbed out into the darkness, involuntarily glancing behind her. The path and the road beyond were both deserted, the evening silent except for the rustle of leaves. The air felt damp, as if rain were imminent.
She stepped into the dark hallway, fumbling for the light switch. ‘Isla?’
The interior of the house was as silent as the night outside. Horton blinked at the brightness of the hall light, pausing till her eyes had adjusted. ‘Isla. I’m back.’
There was no response. Puzzled, Horton moved towards the kitchen. Then she stopped. There was a dark shape on the kitchen floor below the front window, half concealed in the shadow cast by the kitchen door. ‘Isla?’
Horton stepped forward slowly, her eyes fixed on the doorway and whatever lay beyond. Reaching inside the kitchen door, she found the switch and turned on the lights. Then, she released a sharp breath that she only just prevented turning into a scream.
Isla was face down on the kitchen floor, head twisted away from Horton, her body motionless. Beneath her hair, a small trickle of blood was visible on the stone floor tiles.
For a moment, Horton stood frozen. Then, barely thinking coherently, she crouched beside the prone body, desperately feeling Isla’s neck for a pulse. She realised that, probably for the first time in her life, she was praying.
It took her a few agonised seconds to find the pulse, her senses confused by the pounding of her own heart. But there it was, strong and steady. Isla was unconscious but not dead.
Horton twisted round, her relief allowing her the presence of mind to recognise that she had her back to the kitchen door. Someone had done this to Isla. Someone who could still be in the house.
She dug in her pocket for her mobile, thumbing 999 even as she was dragging it out. There was an interminable moment until the call handler answered, and then, Horton found herself babbling, ‘I need an ambulance and the police. My partner’s been attacked –’
The handler, with calm professionalism, talked her back into coherence until Horton was able to provide the details and the address. ‘You think the attacker might still be there?’
‘I don’t know,’ Horton said. ‘The front door was open when I arrived.’
‘We’ve made it a priority call,’ the handler said. ‘Stay on the line ‘til they arrive. There’s a car coming from the airport, so it should only be a few minutes. The ambulance won’t be far behind.’
Mumbling thanks, Horton lowered herself to sit beside Isla’s body, her eyes fixed on the kitchen door. Was it possible David had done this? Could he have turned up here, got into some kind of argument with Isla?
She reached for Isla’s hand. As their fingers touched, Isla stirred and her eyelids flickered. ‘Ginny,’ she murmured.
‘There’s an ambulance on its way.’ Isla’s eyes had already closed again, as if she were drifting back into sleep.
She co
uld already see the reflection of blue lights on the surrounding trees through the kitchen window. Moments later, she heard a car pulling up in the driveway outside. She said to the call handler, ‘I think the police are here.’
‘Do you need to let them in?’
‘No, I left the front door open when I came in.’
She heard the call handler relaying the message to the dispatcher in contact with the officers. Almost immediately, the front door opened and the comfortingly familiar face of PC Billy McCann peered round the kitchen door.
It took McCann a moment to take in the situation. ‘How is she?’
‘Alive, anyway,’ Horton said. ‘Unconscious, but her pulse seems strong enough. She stirred a moment ago.’
‘Ambulance should be only five minutes or so behind,’ McCann said, crouching over Isla’s body. ‘Any idea what happened?’
‘None at all. When I got here, the front door was ajar, and I found Isla like this.’
‘You think whoever did this could still be in the house?’ McCann glanced back to his companion.
‘I don’t know. I just came straight in here. I’ve not heard any movement.’
‘We’ll check it out. You think this is connected with what happened the other night?’
‘You mean, did David do this? It’s possible.’ Horton was still clutching Isla’s hand tightly, as if afraid she might literally slip away. ‘If he lost his temper –’
McCann nodded. ‘Aye. I know the type. I’m sorry about my mate the other night, by the way. Arsehole.’
‘No worries.’ Outside the window, there were further blue lights flickering through the trees. ‘Looks like the ambulance,’ she said.
The second officer was already at the front door, waiting to greet the two paramedics as they alighted from the vehicle. Horton reluctantly released Isla’s hand and stood back to let them get on with it.
‘We’ll check out the house,’ McCann said. ‘If there’s no sign of anybody, we’ll get a bulletin out on the surrounding roads. Mind you, there won’t be a lot of spare resource on a Friday night.’ He gave her a smile. ‘But you’d know that.’
The paramedics were going through their routine of tests. One of them, a tall, skinny young man with floppy ginger hair, looked up. ‘I think she’ll be fine. Unconscious, but she’s stirred a couple of times while we’ve been moving her. Doesn’t look too deep.’
‘She did the same while I was waiting. I thought at first she was going to wake up.’
‘The head wound looks worse than it is. Lot of blood but a fairly superficial gash. We’ll take her in and get her checked out, though. Might be concussion. Do you want to come in with us?’
‘I’ll follow behind,’ Horton said. ‘If you’re sure she’s okay.’
‘Sure as I can be,’ the paramedic said. ‘Obviously, until the docs have looked her over. We’ll probably need to keep her in overnight.’
Horton nodded. ‘I’ll get some night things and a washbag sorted, then I’ll follow you over.’ It would be a relief, she thought, to busy herself with some prosaic tasks.
The kitchen door reopened, and McCann stuck his head in. ‘I think you’d better have a look at this.’
Puzzled, she followed him out into the hallway. McCann was standing by the living room door. ‘You’d best prepare yourself,’ he said. ‘It was a shock for us. You don’t need to look, if you don’t want to.’
‘What is it?’
‘A body.’
‘A body?’ She couldn’t process this for a moment.
‘It’s a man. That’s really all we can tell. I’m no expert, and we’ve tried not to disturb things any more than we could help, so we don’t get the usual bollocking from you lot.’ He gave her a smile, and she could see he was doing his best to play down what he was saying. ‘But there are rough red marks on his neck. I’d say he’d been strangled.’
Horton’s first thought was to wonder whether Isla could have been responsible. If she’d been attacked and fought back, maybe. But while Isla might conceivably have used a kitchen knife or a heavy object to defend herself, she was hardly likely to strangle an intruder.
She could see McCann had been following the same train of thought. ‘Do you feel up to taking a look?’
‘I imagine I’ve seen worse.’
‘That’s what we thought. But it’s different when it’s your own house, isn’t it?’
He wasn’t wrong there, Horton thought. ‘Let’s give it a go,’ she said. ‘If we can do it without contaminating the scene. I don’t want a bollocking any more than you do.’
‘We were careful,’ McCann said. ‘Went in there just long enough to check he really was dead. Artie’s upstairs making sure there’s no one else about. You should be able to see his face from the door.’
She followed McCann and peered round the door into the sitting room. McCann had turned on the lights when they’d first begun their search of the house so she had no difficulty in making out the body spread-eagled on the carpeted floor, its white face twisted towards her.
It still made no sense, but somehow, she was unsurprised by what she saw.
The dead man in their living room was, of course, David.
41
Helena Grant had known the call would come. It was always an evening like tonight, at the end of a total shitehole of a day when all she wanted was a half a bottle of wine, a microwaved supper and an early night.
Today had been worse than most. She’d spent most of it either getting nowhere or briefing chief officers who wanted to know why she was getting nowhere. Then, there’d been another media conference where they’d still had nothing of substance to say, so she’d had to spend half the morning with the Head of Comms working out how they were going to say it. Then, a series of other meetings had dragged her away from where she should have been focusing her energies. All while she was still several officers down on her establishment, including the irritatingly indispensable Alec McKay.
She’d hoped for a few hours’ break, but was far from surprised when her work phone buzzed almost as soon as she was back in the house. It was one of the sergeants from the Control Room. ‘Another one for you, I’m afraid.’
She almost didn’t need to ask. ‘Another body?’ Ally Donald’s remains finally turning up somewhere, she assumed. Washed up at Munlochy Bay or dumped at Chanonry Point.
‘Aye. Over in Ardersier.’
‘Ardersier?’ A quiet but insistent alarm bell was sounding in the back of her mind. ‘Where?’
He read out the address, confirming her fears. ‘One of your lassies, I believe?’
‘One of my detective sergeants,’ she corrected, her mouth dry. ‘What do we know?’
‘Male. Late middle-age. Your lass reckons it’s her stepfather or some such, though we’ve not had a formal confirmation.’
Grant released her breath in relief, wondering whether the sergeant had been deliberately playing with her. Of course, she added silently to herself, this still didn’t mean the news was necessarily positive. ‘Do we know the cause of death?’
‘Again, not confirmed. But the PC on site reckons it looks like strangulation.’
‘Strangulation? How the hell could he get strangled?’
‘That’s your job, isn’t it? Finding out, I mean.’
Smart-arse, Grant thought. Sometime, when I’ve more time on my hands, you may find yourself regretting this conversation. ‘How’s DS Horton?’
‘Fine, as I understand it,’ the sergeant said. ‘But her … friend’s being taken into Raigmore.’ The mid-sentence pause was brief but undeniable. Another officer who still hadn’t grasped what diversity meant. ‘She was unconscious when your colleague arrived home. Some sort of head wound. They don’t think it’s serious, but they’ve taken her in to be checked out.’
‘I’ll get over there. Have the Examiners been called?’
‘On their way.’
Grant sighed and ended the call. Another perfect Friday night, then. She knew it went
with the job, and it wasn’t as if she had anything much else planned. But, just once in a while, she’d have liked the chance to enjoy the place she’d moved to after Rory had died. Her plan had been to start a new life in this new house – not to forget Rory but to allow his memory to take its due place in her emerging future. Instead, she felt in stasis, lacking the time or the energy to take on anything new. Every day felt like yet another call-out to yet another incident.
The last thing she needed was another unconnected murder. She’d obviously need Horton to stand back from this one, which left her staffing even more depleted. All she could do was find out as much as she could, and then decide how to handle it.
Wearily, she slipped her shoes back on and reached for her coat. As she did so, the phone buzzed again. The same Control Room sergeant. ‘You’re not going to believe this.’
‘Somehow, I think I am.’
‘We’ve got another one for you.’
‘It’s my lucky night, isn’t it? Go on.’
‘Body found washed up by Munlochy Bay. PCs have just arrived. Looks like the body’s been in the water a day or two, but they found some ID in the clothing –’
‘Alastair Donald?’
There was a moment’s silence. The undetectable sound, she thought, of thunder when it’s been stolen. ‘Aye, that’s right.’
So, her prediction had been right, even down to the likely location. She’d known, even when Donald had first been reported missing, that it would come to this. Another ex-copper. Another member of Jackie Galloway’s team. Another dead body. ‘Okay,’ she said, ‘I’ll get someone there as soon as I can.’ Though Christ knows how, she thought. ‘We’re thin on resource at the moment –’
‘Aye. Tell me about it.’ There was no trace of sympathy in the sergeant’s voice. ‘I can’t afford to leave our lads out there for too long.’
‘You’ll have to leave them there as long as it takes,’ she said shortly. ‘Give me the details, and I’ll see what I can do.’
The truth was, she thought as she left the house moments later, there was no one she could send. All her officers were either tied up or unavailable, apart from the odd rookie she couldn’t trust with either job. She was already conscious of the sensitivity of the Galloway enquiry, with the media sniffing at their heels. She wondered what the media would make of a body at the house of the detective sergeant working on the case. She could imagine them adding two and two and coming up with whatever the hell they wanted.