Willow Walk

by SJI Holliday

  Graeme.

  2

  Sergeant Davie Gray is meticulously scrolling down through the list of results from his recent search on the Police National Computer. He started with ‘legal highs’ then changed it to ‘herbal highs’ after getting too many hits on the word ‘legal’. Finally he searches on NPS – ‘New Psychotropic Substances’ – the official name that is supposed to be added to all reports since the government started trying to define them. He normally leaves it to Lorna to check things like this, but she’s not in today. Operating the PNC is her job, as well as other admin in the small station. Banktoun only has three members of staff now, including Lorna. Davie is in charge.

  For now, anyway.

  Inspector Gordon Hamilton was happy to take the retirement package offered to him, albeit under a bit of a cloud, and it’s only a matter of time before Davie, Lorna and PC Callum Beattie are offered redundancy or transfer. Despite a recent and unexpected flurry of criminal activity in the town, there is little reason to keep the station open. They’ve already gone down to part-time hours and, in truth, Davie is bored.

  So when his old college buddy, DI Malkie Reid, called him to ask for some assistance with some background searches on a recent spate of drugs overdoses, Davie was glad to help. Who knew where it might lead?

  Banktoun has no shortage of drugs. It’s the scourge of small towns, and Davie’s region in particular is currently going through a bad time of it. Or maybe it’s just perception. The latest craze involves various ‘herbal’ or ‘legal’ highs, as they’re called. Problem is, herbal doesn’t mean safe, and when you drill down, some of the components aren’t actually legal at all, but, with them being manufactured in places like China and sold under the labels of pet food and bath salts, they are impossible to regulate. The other issue is it’s a different type of kid experimenting with them. The type that should know better. The type that can’t blame their lack of prospects or a lack of education. The type that can’t blame their parents for neglecting them, or knocking them about.

  There have been seven overdoses so far in the whole of the Lothians. Two deaths – one on the scene, and one in hospital caused by multiple organ failure. Banktoun hasn’t been affected yet, but it’s only a matter of time. The biggest issue that CID is facing is trying to find the source, as although toxicology reports have shown that there were some of the same elements in each of the cases they’d analysed, they weren’t exactly the same. The regional head of toxicology has a theory that this is down to each individual metabolising the drugs differently, which means that people don’t know how much their bodies can tolerate. Davie has a feeling that these current cases are only the tip of the iceberg, and he wants to see this stuff stamped out. He has a low tolerance for people who make their money from selling drugs and he finds it hard to sympathise with the idiots who choose to take them.

  He highlights the results of the recent search and clicks ‘print’ just as the phone rings. The noise echoes around the empty office, making him jump.

  ‘Morning, Banktoun Station. Davie Gray speaking, how can I help you?’

  ‘Davie, it’s Malkie.’ The detective’s voice is low, anxious.

  ‘Oh hello. I was going to call you in a bit. I need more to go on. I’m getting hundreds of hits here and I know they’re not all relevant, but I don’t want to miss anything, so—’

  Malkie interrupts: ‘I’m not calling about that. It’s something else.’

  Davie listens while Malkie takes a slurp of something. Coffee probably. Davie glances at the time. It’s too early for anything alcoholic. Hopefully.

  ‘A woman’s been attacked outside Dalkeith. She was waiting for a bus on the Pencaitland road. We don’t know what happened yet, but she managed to crawl to the nearest house before she passed out unconscious. One of the farm cottages out there. Householder was alerted when he thought someone was trying to smash his front door in. He opened it and found her lying there in a pool of blood.’ He slurps again.

  Davie waits. He feels his heart start to pick up speed. What does this have to do with him? He almost doesn’t want to ask.

  ‘Can you come to the hospital, Davie? I’d like you to assist . . .’

  ‘I’m on my own here today, Malkie. Callum and Lorna have gone shopping for engagement rings. Came as a bit of a shock, actually. I didn’t even realise they’d been dating. Shows how observant I am . . .’

  ‘You’ve had a lot on, Davie. I’m sorry to dump more on your plate, but this is important. We’ve not been able to ID the victim yet. She’s still in ICU, but the doctors are confident she’s going to pull through. She’s got some horrendous injuries, though. Horrendous. I’ll explain more when you get here. But listen . . .’ He pauses again, draining whatever it is he’s been drinking. ‘This is going to be distressing for you, but I need you to see her.’

  Davie feels dread creep up under his shirt, like poison ivy. Prickling and itching and refusing to let go.

  ‘Why?’ Davie says. He doesn’t want to hear the answer.

  ‘Because I think you might know who she is.’

  * * *

  He takes the panda car from outside the door. The hospital is fifteen miles away, on the outskirts of Edinburgh. There’s little traffic as he races up the city bypass, resisting the urge to stick on the blues and twos. It’s not an emergency. Just an enquiry. He’s going there to help.

  He tries not to think of the possibilities. Of who it might be, and why Malkie thinks he might know her. Maybe she’s from Banktoun. Maybe there’s something on her that indicates that. A bus ticket from earlier in the day. A receipt from a shop. Unless . . . No. He shakes the thought away.

  The hospital is the usual melee of anxious visitors and wandering patients. The obligatory man in a wheelchair attached to a drip-stand, puffing away outside the front entrance, a bored-looking orderly lurking nearby. He tries to stay calm, although he doesn’t feel it. The thoughts of who he’s going to find in ICU are whirling around inside his head. He stands at the front desk, waiting for the receptionist to hang up the phone. She smiles at him, raises a hand, gesturing she’ll be with him in a minute.

  ‘Can you point me in the direction of ICU, please? Detective Inspector Reid is expecting me.’

  She nods and gives him a wide, practised smile. She has lipstick on her front teeth. ‘Follow the yellow line. It’s on this floor. You can’t miss it. DI Reid is in the waiting area outside. You’re Sergeant Gray, is that right?’

  ‘Yes. Yes.’ Davie starts off along the corridor, following the yellow painted line on the grey lino. His shoes squeak. He glances back briefly as he’s about to turn the corner, then shouts, ‘Thanks.’

  Calm down, Davie. You’re getting ahead of yourself, he thinks.

  Malkie Reid is standing next to a row of orange plastic chairs, Styrofoam cup in one hand and a measured scowl on his face. Davie remembers that face from their college days. The female recruits were always taking the piss out of him, saying, ‘Smile, love, it might never happen.’ Malkie’s face is set in a perpetual grimace: it’s down to his heavy brow and an unfortunate mouth that looks like it’s been painted on upside down. He enhances his look by remaining in a constant state of grumpiness. But today Davie sees something different in there. His eyes are wide and wet. His face more solemn than disgruntled.

  He nods a greeting.

  ‘Ah good, you’re here. Can I get you a coffee? Tea? Have a seat and I’ll brief you on the details. DC Jennings is around. She’s away powdering her nose, or whatever it is they do in there.’

  Davie feels his hackles rise at the forced joviality. ‘Cut the crap, Malkie. You didn’t bring me up here for tea and cakes. Who’s in the unit? Don’t mess me about.’

  Malkie lays his cup down on the nurses’ station, and one of the nurses opens her mouth to complain but shuts it again quickly when she clocks Davie’s thunderous stare.

  ‘I don’t like being scared half to death, Malkie, as much as it might be the way that you get your k
icks. What’s going on?’

  Malkie gestures for him to walk over to the observation window. ‘We can’t go in right now, maybe later. But . . . Well, I didn’t want to wait. I wanted to rule her out . . .’

  Davie takes a deep breath and turns to look through the window. The bed is raised, a white sheet and pale-blue blanket covering the figure underneath. Her face looks peaceful, despite the black and blue markings that someone has seen fit to decorate her with. Her mouth is swollen, her eyes closed. Dark specks of blood dot her hairline where they haven’t managed to clean it all off. She has short, dark hair. A few tendrils escape across the pillow underneath. She’s barely recognisable, yet Davie can see why Malkie thinks he might know her.

  He draws in a breath.

  ‘Here,’ Malkie says. He offers up a clear plastic bag. It’s full of clothes. A neat white blouse folded on top. Dark-brown stains streaked down the front. ‘Black skirt. White blouse with that little black rim on the collar. Black boots. It looks like what she wears to work, doesn’t it? You sent me a photo of the two of you—’

  ‘No . . .’ he stutters. ‘It can’t be. I only saw her yesterday. I thought she was working today . . .’

  ‘Davie, I need you to be sure. Are there any identifying features that we can use to verify? Has she got any tattoos?’

  Davie nods. ‘Aye. A swallow. It’s on the inside of her left wrist. It used to be black, but it’s going green now. She had it done when she was sixteen, she told me. It was to signify escape.’ He pauses. ‘I don’t know what she was escaping from.’

  ‘There’s something else, Davie. The damage to her face is only superficial, although I know it looks worse. It’s mainly internal damage. That’s what almost caused her to bleed to death. She was lucky to pass out from the pain. Although her hands and knees are scraped to pieces from dragging herself along the gravel path to that farmhouse.’

  ‘What did he do to her, Malkie?’ Davie’s voice is barely a whisper.

  Malkie sighs. ‘He sexually assaulted her with a blunt instrument. Some sort of piping, maybe a crowbar. We’re not sure. She’s already had an emergency hysterectomy. They’re trying to patch up the rest.’

  Davie clenches his fists. Feels rage boiling beneath the surface.

  ‘And we don’t know the significance, but she had something stuck up inside her. A small piece of Lego.’

  ‘Lego? What the fuck?’

  ‘Davie, I’m going to need you to identify that tattoo. Can you do that?’

  Davie nods. Silent. He sucks in a breath.

  Malkie gestures to the nurse inside the room. Holds up his left wrist, mouths something at her. The nurse nods and pulls back the covers. She picks up the woman’s hand and carefully turns it over so they can see.

  There is no tattoo. The heel of her hand is criss-crossed with scratches and the remnants of dried blood, but the wrist is pale and clean. No scars, no tattoo.

  Davie exhales. His voice is barely a whisper. ‘It’s not her.’

  3

  Marie takes her time getting dressed. Pulls on a black pencil skirt and a tight white blouse that sticks to her damp back. She rough dries her short hair, combs it carefully as she stares at herself in the warped glass of the mirror. She doesn’t see herself any more. The eyes staring back at her are his.

  In the café, she drinks a cappuccino and eats a lemon and poppy seed muffin while listening to two young girls squabbling over who’s having the last slice of chocolate cake. Their mum brushes a lock of hair behind her ear and tries to pretend she can’t hear them. Marie watches. Smiles, when one of them catches her eye. The usual things. She has just about enough time for a second cup of coffee, so she sits and gazes at the happenings in the pool through the oversized porthole windows that line the edge of the café. The letter is burning a hole through her bag, but it can burn all it likes. She’s not taking it out here. This is her place. Not his.

  The second cup of coffee has made her late, so she decides there’s no point in rushing. She’ll take the long route to work. The others will manage. It’s usually her picking up the slack when someone doesn’t turn up. Someone else can do it for a change.

  She walks past the old children’s home, the once grand building now tired and weather-worn, grey brick blackened from neglect. Ivy is wrapped and tangled around the edges, holding the place together like string round a badly wrapped parcel. Most of the windows are boarded up; the remaining few on the top floor are caked with dirt, smashed and splintered. She stops at the gate, imagining what the place used to be like, years ago. Grounds neatly kept, the grass green and lush. Children playing football and running round the winding paths that snake around the building. She hadn’t known it when it was a children’s home. It closed down before she moved here, and for some reason it had never been sold.

  She stops and glances up at the dark, broken windows. The place has become a haven for junkies and tramps in recent years, but a newly placed sign from a building developer suggests that might change soon. She imagines there are only two options: knock it down or restore it. Either way, it’s bound to be turned into posh, overpriced flats. Maybe the ghosts are a selling point. Marie doesn’t believe in ghosts. Thinks it’s all tricks of the mind played by the subconscious. The only ghosts are the ones inside your own head. She’s tried to exorcise her own ghosts. But just like in all good horror movies, some things refuse to stay dead.

  She turns to leave and, out of the corner of her eye, a shadow passes behind one of the broken windows. Her skin prickles, and all the little hairs on her arms stand up. Goose walked over your grave, her mum used to say. She stares up at the window, hoping it was nothing yet intrigued all the same. Is someone in there? Probably just a bird. Maybe an insomniac bat. Stupid. She starts walking, smiles to herself, thinking idiot, but the feeling stays with her until she reaches the end of the road. She realises she is walking quicker. She doesn’t look back.

  She contemplates phoning in sick, but it’s not her style. She’ll be fine once she gets there. It’ll be busy, and there’ll be no time to think. That’s a good thing. In fact, maybe she’ll ask someone to swap shifts, do a double. Keep her away from home for longer. Might keep her mind off it all. Ever since she moved here when she was sixteen she’d done everything she could to forget about Graeme. Bumping into the postman had put paid to that. Coincidence? Maybe.

  She can’t keep putting it off. Once she’s out of sight of the old house, she sits down on a bench and pulls the letter out of the back pocket of her bag. She turns it over in her hands. The handwriting on the envelope is unmistakeable. Her name and address written with a blue gel pen, smudged at the edges. That familiar calligraphic script, making the ‘7’ look like a ‘9’, the top of the seven overlong and pulled back in on itself. He’d always had problems with those numbers. Just another one of his quirks.

  How did he get my address?

  She doesn’t want to open it.

  She’d been on her way out of the main door, heading for the leisure centre, just as the postman was coming in. He handed her the thick pile, and smirked – clearly expecting her to do his job for him and post them into each individual mailbox.

  She posted all of the ones that were marked with name and flat number, stuck the ones addressed to ‘The Householder’ in the junk pile, until she was left with one: Marie Bloomfield, Flat 7. She hoped that this was the only one. That the postie hadn’t been stuffing them into number nine’s mailbox, knowing fine that she lived at number seven. Mind you, the posties seemed to change a lot now. It used to be the same man who came every time. That one this morning didn’t look familiar. New lifeguard, new postman – makes her feel old. Like everything around her is changing, moving on – yet here she is, still in the same flat she’s lived in since she moved to Banktoun twenty-five years ago. On her own since her parents decided that Spain was where they wanted to be.

  She’s worried now. How many more of these letters have been delivered to the wrong address? Has he written to her
before? No one’s lived in Flat 9 for over a year, since a chip-pan fire gutted the place, and the owner – who lives in New Zealand and clearly doesn’t need the rental income enough to give a shit – hasn’t got round to getting it fixed yet. Maybe I need to find a way into that mailbox, she thinks.

  She puts the unopened letter back into her bag and goes to work.

  4

  ‘Whoooooooo! Whooooooo!’

  Laura punches the boy in the ribs. ‘Shut up, Mark. You’re not funny. It’s the middle of the day. I’m hardly going to be scared by some stupid ghost noises!’

  Mark’s face falls. ‘Aww, come on. I thought you were up for this. Look, if you’ve changed your mind, you can tell me. It doesn’t matter. I just thought . . .’

  ‘Don’t be daft.’ Laura grabs his arm and pulls him closer. She snakes an arm round his neck, and eventually he stops pouting and turns round. Their mouths are almost touching. Laura feels her cheeks grow hot, and she pulls back, almost stumbling on a small pile of rubble that’s been stacked up under the window. ‘Sorry, I—’

  Mark smirks. Laura wants a giant sinkhole to open up in the car park of the old children’s home and suck her right into it. She read something recently about a man in America who’d gone to bed and the whole bedroom had disappeared into a giant pit underground. They never found him. She coughs. ‘Right, can you go in first? I know you said it was easy, but I’d rather stay on lookout first, then follow you inside.’

  Thankfully, Mark says nothing. He knows that she fancies him. It’s not like she’s hiding it well. But making the first move? That’s a whole other story. Totally no way. She likes to think she can handle herself. She’s got a black belt in karate, for God’s sake. Apart from that stupid attack a few weeks ago, she knows that she’s completely able to deal with her own life without a man. Or even a stupid boy, like Mark. He’s only a year older than her, and she’s not even sure that seventeen officially makes him a man yet. Does it? Saying that though, he does look pretty manly . . . His little bit of stubble and his gruff voice make her feel all fluttery inside. When he asked her if she wanted to sneak into Marchmont Lodge with him, she was hardly going to say no.