Madness Lies

by Helen Forbes

  The DI frowned. ‘Will we get someone else to do it?’

  Joe shrugged. ‘It’s up to you, but I’ll be professional.’

  ‘Okay, take Tonto with you.’

  Roberts almost rolled on his back to have his tummy tickled. As they walked down the corridor towards the interview room, he coughed and tapped Joe’s arm. ‘Sarge, I just want to say something.’

  Joe stopped. ‘Aye?’

  ‘I would never have told anyone what you said about Jackson the other night. Never. I hope you know that.’

  Joe’s feminine side was taking a real beating these last few days. He patted Roberts on the shoulder. ‘Appreciate that,’ he said, making an effort to lower his voice.

  ‘So we’re sound?’

  ‘We’re sound as a pound, Nigel.’

  For once, Roberts didn’t grimace at the use of his hated first name. He smiled all the way down the corridor.

  At least Ryan had the decency to look a little shame-faced. It didn’t last. ‘Not you two. Don’t even think of asking me about Jackson’s ‘fall’. I’ve told those other tossers everything.’

  Joe smiled and wondered if there was a little less animosity and rage than before. He was probably just imagining it. ‘I’m not here to ask you about that, Ryan. I’ve read over your statements about Gordon Sutherland and Danielle Smith. I just want to tidy up a few loose ends.’

  Ryan rolled his eyes. ‘I doubt there’s anything else I can say.’

  ‘Let’s see. We didn’t get any of your prints on the outside handle of Gordon Sutherland’s car. How is that possible?’

  ‘He held it open for me.’ Ryan looked sad. ‘He was a nice man.’

  ‘And only a partial thumb print inside. How did you manage to open the door without leaving prints?’

  Ryan shrugged. ‘Dunno. I used my hand.’

  ‘That’s very odd, Ryan. Were you wearing gloves?’

  ‘In June?’ Ryan shook his head.

  Anne Morrison, the social worker, leaned forward. ‘Can I say something?’

  Joe nodded. Anne put her hand on Ryan’s arm. ‘Were your hands like they are now?’

  He had pulled his sweatshirt sleeves down over each hand. He studied them and nodded. ‘Thanks Anne,’ Joe said. ‘You told the others you don’t know where Todd Curtis lives. Did he ever take you to Carlton Terrace before the day Danielle Smith died?’

  Ryan shook his head.

  ‘Castlefield Apartments?’

  Ryan shrugged. ‘Where’s that?’

  ‘Up near Asda, off the distributor road. Fancy flats with glass fronts and balconies.’

  ‘Definitely not.’

  ‘Did he ever give you any hints about where he might live?’

  Ryan was certain he had never been to Todd’s house. Yes, he’d been to flats and houses; he’d waited outside, but there was nothing to make him think Todd lived in any of them. ‘If there was no one in, he’d come out and say he’d get them later.’

  ‘Get them? What did you think he meant?’

  ‘I think he meant he’d half kill them when he got hold of them.’

  ‘Was he ever injured when he came out? Any signs of a fight?’

  Ryan laughed. ‘Have you seen him?’

  Stupid question. ‘That’ll be a no, Ryan; we haven’t seen him. But we’d very much like to. What did you mean by that?’

  ‘He’s enormous, terrifying; no one is going to stand up to him. Not without a baseball bat or a gun.’

  ‘You did.’

  Ryan looked down at the table. ‘For all the good it did.’

  ‘It was a very brave thing to do.’

  ‘I wasn’t brave when I ran off, was I?’ He looked up and his eyes were full of pain and regret. ‘I could have called the cops; I could have stopped it. I thought she was gone. She was, but I don’t know where. Couldn’t have been very far when he got her. If only she’d ran the same way I did. It all happened so quick. Bastard.’

  ‘Did you suspect he was capable of that?’

  ‘Of murdering a young girl? No. Even when he was angry with her in the car, I didn’t think that would happen. I thought he was just going to give her a fright and let her go. What kind of sick bastard does that?’

  ‘So you’ll understand why we want to find him, before anything else happens?’

  There were tears in Ryan’s eyes. He nodded. ‘Of course I understand. I wish I could help you more, but I’ve told you everything.’

  He’d never met Kat before the day Danielle was killed, he said, but he’d heard Todd speak to her on the phone, giving her names and times, or telling her to look after someone well. He didn’t remember any of the names.

  ‘Do you know Christopher Brent?’ Roberts asked.

  Ryan sighed. ‘Yeah. And before you ask – and you probably won’t believe me – I don’t know much about him either. I don’t know where he lives. He’s posh. Rich. He’s…he’s good for my mum. Almost got her off the methadone. All she eats now is organic chicken, hummus and carrot juice. And a shit load of vitamins.’

  ‘Do you know how she met him?’

  Ryan shrugged. ‘No idea. It’s been a while, though. Nearly a year.’

  ‘Is he acquainted with Todd Curtis?’

  Ryan nodded. ‘Curtis said to me in the car at Portland Place that Brent was involved in Gordon Sutherland’s death. And I heard them speaking on the phone a couple of times.’

  ‘Was Brent out and about with you and Curtis?’

  ‘Never.’

  ‘Did you ever hear Todd say anything about Brent and Kat?’

  Ryan shook his head. He looked so tired, his face drawn and thin. Joe smiled at him and saw a hint of shame in his eyes. ‘Thank you, Ryan. Just one more thing – you said you were parked at the canal the day Gordon Sutherland and Curtis met up. Did Curtis say anything about the canal that made you think he might have disposed of someone’s body there?’

  Ryan shook his head. ‘Do you think I’d have stuck around if he had?’

  ‘No, but you might not have realised what he was saying.’

  Joe saw it come to him, a slight widening of his eyes. Ryan nodded. ‘He did. The day we were waiting for Gordon Sutherland. He’d parked facing the canal. He said something about the crap they’d find on the bottom if they drained it. ‘Worthless shit’, he said. He kept saying it, over and over.’

  Joe wanted to punch the air. ‘Well done, Ryan. And this was beside the Muirtown Bridge, in the car park by the boarded up house?’

  Ryan nodded. There were tears in his eyes. He wiped them away with the back of his hand. ‘He’s a fucking animal.’

  Ryan cheered up when he saw their e-fit. ‘Whoever helped you with that was having a laugh. Curtis is less Shrek and more Michael Chiklis on stilts and steroids.’

  Soon they had a picture approved by Ryan. ‘That’s him.’

  As Ryan was leaving the room, Joe thanked him again. ‘You’ve been a big help.’

  Ryan looked helpless, like the child he was. He shook his head. ‘I haven’t, and I’m sorry. Really sorry. I was scared and I panicked.’

  Joe smiled. ‘I know.’

  Ryan looked at his feet, then he looked up. ‘Thank you.’ He almost smiled. ‘For…for everything.’

  ‘What’s that all about?’ Roberts asked, when Ryan had gone.

  Joe shrugged. ‘Who knows?’

  ‘Mmm. I bet you do. Probably offered to help him out, if he ever sees the light of day.’

  ***

  Chapter 50

  There were two phone numbers on the pad in front of DI Black. He tried the number Allingham had for Todd Curtis first. Straight to voicemail. The second number belonged to the person that had called Christopher Brent on Saturday night, the person Brent had called back twice. He’d tried it before, with no response. It was a pay as you go, and there were no registered details for the owner. It had to be Curtis. It rang for a time, then went to voicemail. The second time he tried, it rang once before going to voicemail. He left a br
ief message.

  Within five minutes, his secretary put a call through to him. The voice made something shiver inside him. He was glad they weren’t in the same room.

  *

  The sun slid behind the clouds as the diver came to the surface and held up his thumb. He was close to the steps by the car park. It was a while before the wrapped bundle was lifted from the murky waters of the Caledonian Canal. Joe shivered when he saw the shape. It could be nothing other than a body. And such a small body, the thick black plastic encircled with duct tape around the neck, the waist and the ankles. The head and feet looked distorted. There was something else in there. Something heavy, no doubt.

  Despite the efforts of the police to clear the area, there was a small group of bystanders huddled together on the other side of the canal. Most of them had dogs; their daily walk would never be the same again. They weren’t for moving on, though. Maybe they expected to see the SOCOs opening the top of the bundle for him, like they did on TV, when the detective never wore protective clothing and always recognised the deceased. It would be some time before this bundle was opened.

  *

  Roz Sutherland looked better. The PF had released the body, and she’d buried her husband this morning. Now she had people back at the house. She seemed more positive. Joe had often seen that. A sudden and temporary respite. The act of laying a loved one to rest somehow made everything seem much better. For a time. When the stark and lonely reality hit home, there was often another deeper slump. For now, Roz was upbeat and talkative. Joe got her alone for a moment and asked about money. He’d gone through their bank statements, and found nothing, but he wondered if there had been any problems. Not that she knew of. Gordon looked after the money, but she’d met with someone in the bank at the end of last week and it seemed he’d left her well provided for.

  ‘He was a good man,’ she said. ‘There were so many people at the church, from all parties. He’d have liked that. He tried to avoid being too partisan. That wasn’t easy over the last couple of years. He understood the desperate fears of the other side, and he hated that the referendum divided Scotland so bitterly. The lies and scaremongering of Better Together frustrated him, but he understood. The Party needs people like him. Fighting and division just won’t do it. People need to be persuaded rationally. He was just the man to do it. I’ve lost count of the people that have told me what a wonderful councillor he was. You know – ’

  ‘Detective Sergeant Galbraith.’ It was the lovely Alice McGarvie. She looked Joe up and down. ‘You’re back. That must be a relief.’

  Joe smiled. He wouldn’t give her the satisfaction of a response. DI Black had told Joe of his suspicions that she had a mole in the Force.

  ‘Perhaps you’ll catch this killer now. Another two deaths, I hear. How many more?’

  Joe still didn’t answer. He hadn’t wanted to tell Roz Sutherland of the other deaths, but Alice McGarvie clearly had no such qualms about upsetting anyone today.

  ‘Roz.’ She put her hand on the widow’s arm. ‘What a lovely send-off for Gordon. He’d have been so proud to see you and the children so composed. You know, he told me, oh it must be ten years ago…in fact, it is ten years ago next month, isn’t it? He told me then how it was only the thought of you and the children that helped him escape the darkness and chaos of that dreadful day. He said…’ She paused and wiped an imaginary tear from her eye. ‘He said he didn’t think you would have coped without him if he’d died. I hope he was wrong.’

  Bitch. But what darkness and chaos? What dreadful day?

  Roz gave Alice McGarvie a smug wee smile. ‘We’ll cope. We have each other. It would be much harder for someone on their own, like you.’

  ‘Did I not mention it?’ Roz looked puzzled. ‘I thought I did, but my head’s been all over the place. Gordon was on the London Underground on 7th July 2005. He was going to the second day of a teaching conference. He was very lucky; the bomber was in the carriage next to him. He took a long time to recover emotionally, as you might imagine. So many deaths and horrific injuries, and he escaped with only minor cuts and bruises. That’s why he decided to take early retirement. He’d glimpsed just how fragile life is. He wanted to make the most of the time he had left.’

  Joe nodded. He’d seen a documentary recently. Some of the survivors were interviewed, and they’d met up over the years. ‘Did Gordon keep in touch with any other survivors?’

  Roz shook her head. ‘He’d have hated that. He wasn’t one for looking backwards. He had the opportunity to participate in the official reports, when they wanted to interview survivors, and he refused. He wouldn’t even read them. I did, and I wished I hadn’t. The suffering was horrific.’ She stopped for a moment, remembering. ‘ Remarkable stories of courage too.’

  ‘Did Gordon speak about it much?’

  ‘Not with me. I don’t believe he discussed it with her, either.’ She nodded towards Alice McGarvie, who was in conversation with Roz’s son. ‘No matter what she says. Sergeant, are there really two more dead?’

  Joe nodded.

  ‘Is one of them the other girl in the picture? I heard there was a body of a foreign girl found at Ness Castle.’

  ‘I’m afraid so, but we’ve arrested someone in respect of that murder.’

  ‘But not for Gordon’s murder, or the other girl?’

  ‘Not yet. I’m sure they’re all linked, though.’

  Roz shook her head. ‘I can’t see what Gordon has to do with any of this. It makes no sense.’

  *

  DI Black was looking pensive. ‘So London’s the only link we have? And a random quote from Shakespeare. This Curtis doesn’t sound like a literary buff to me.’

  Joe nodded. ‘I know, it’s not much. Would it be worth getting the names of those that were in the same train as Sutherland?’

  ‘Can’t do any harm. Listen, I called those numbers. Nothing from the one Allingham gave us.’

  ‘And the other one?’

  He had a dreamy look about him. ‘Elena Conti. She lives in London. Sounded foreign; well-to-do and plausible. Very helpful. She and Brent have been friends for years, though they hadn’t been in touch since he left London. She said she was also a friend of Katya Birze, but they’d lost touch. Katya called her in hysterics on Saturday night. Said she was somewhere that sounded like Balloon Road, and she was scared and needed help. Elena Conti says she called Brent and asked him to look for Katya. Brent phoned Conti twice to say he couldn’t find her. And that was that. The Met are taking a full statement from her.’ He paused, his brow wrinkled. ‘Can’t make sense of it all. Listen, the plods from Teuchterland have been looking for you. Some news about the stolen hire car, apparently. What is it with you and the islands, eh? Unlucky or what?’

  The yellow Fiat had been abandoned down a track near Sponish Bridge in Lochmaddy, the constable from Uist told Joe. No damage. And a neighbour had seen the man that was living in a caravan down by the shore leave the village in the hire car around 6.30 a.m. She’d thought it odd he was driving a car, when he didn’t seem to have two ha’pennies to rub together, but she’d seen the car the previous day at Ronald MacKenzie’s house, and his was the nearest house to the caravan, so she’d thought no more about it. The police had been to the caravan and he was gone. Had Joe met him?

  ‘No. Carla did, and Ronald. You’ll have spoken to them?’

  ‘Yes, Sir. PC MacKenzie said he gave no hint of intending to leave, but Mr MacKenzie said, on reflection, he may well have been saying his farewells when they spoke last night. He didn’t say as much, but he was very grateful for the food Ronald had given him. Wished him all the best for the future. We’ve seen the passenger registration cards from Lochmaddy. There’s one with a ‘W Hill’, which might have been him.’

  ‘Will Hill?’

  ‘Yes, sir. Sounds odd, I know. Anyway, there was someone matching his description on the ferry and on the Inverness bus from Uig. The driver thinks he got off at Cluanie Inn.’

  ‘What
about prints?’

  ‘We’re waiting for those. Chances are he’s not on the database, but we’ll be in touch as soon as we have anything more.’

  ***

  Chapter 51

  The wind was ruffling the feathers of the short-eared owl perched on the post. It held fast, its head tilted to one side, watching Carla with a quizzical gaze. Perhaps it wondered at the tears that trickled down her face unchecked as she stood at the kitchen window. The phone was still in her hand, her fingers clutching it tight as the words turned over and over in her head. There were gulls in the sky, fluttering like windswept paper, pulled this way and that by forces they couldn’t control. Just like her.

  But the owl knew. Carla saw it in the golden eyes, wise and ancient. One final long gaze, before it spread its mottled wings and took off. As she watched the pale grey of its underwings flashing in the morning sun, she remembered to breathe.

  She dialled again, expecting no answer. His voice startled her. She rubbed away the tears. ‘Joe?’

  ‘Carla, are you all right?’

  There was noise in the background. Voices. The hum of printers. Phones ringing. A room full of people trying desperately to piece together a puzzle that felt so far away from her, it was almost unreal and unimportant.

  ‘Joe. It’s…it’s my results.’

  ‘Wait a minute.’ The sound of talking faded. She pictured him in a corridor, his face pale, his blue eyes troubled. ‘Carla?’

  ‘My bone marrow…it’s normal.’ And then she was crying again.

  *

  Joe felt as if his legs might give way in the corridor. He forced them to the nearest toilet, and slammed the cubicle door. A virus, he heard Carla say. There were more results to come, but the doctor didn’t expect to find anything sinister.

  ‘Joe, are you still there?’

  ‘Yes.’ He swallowed. ‘Carla, that’s fantastic.’