by JD Kirk
Chapter Twenty-Seven
“So?” asked Logan, as he sat with his indicator flashing at the junction that would take them back onto the A82, and southbound to Fort William. “She tell you anything?”
“Quite a bit, actually. Aye. How did you get on? How was the husband?”
“Complete arsehole,” Logan said, but he chose not to add anything more for the time being.
“Doesn’t surprise me. She’s scared of him,” Sinead said. “He sounds controlling. Violent, too. I’m sure of it, although she refused to say. Not sure we’d get her to even admit what was happening, let alone press charges.”
Logan said nothing, and instead let the look on his face do the talking. He’d lost count of the number of domestics he’d been called in on over the years, all the way from his first days in Uniform to his current role in the MIT. Getting a testimony was often the hardest part. Getting them to stick to their guns and not withdraw the accusations came a very close second.
“I don’t get it,” Sinead said as if reading his thoughts. “Why does anyone put up with that? It’s been going on forever, I think. She used to turn up to school all bruises and stuff.” She shook her head. It moved slowly, like it was heavier than usual. “I just… I don’t get it.”
“People are complicated things,” Logan said. “That’s about the gist of it, unfortunately. We do what we can, but ultimately, they’ve got to make the decision for themselves. And there are consequences. There’s always consequences. You think, aye, husband’s knocking you about? His arse is out the window.” He gave a shrug, his shoulders apparently hampered by the same additional weight as Sinead’s head. “But it’s not always as easy as it sounds.”
“No. No, I suppose not,” Sinead said, although she sounded unconvinced. “Anyway, Lana admitted that she and Fergus were—as she put it—in an ‘intimate relationship.’ It’s been going on for about two years. Started about six months to a year after Fergus started at LHS.”
“Weird pairing, isn’t it?” Logan said, flooring the accelerator and powering the car out onto the main road ahead of a camper van that came trundling down the hill on his right. It was only ten miles back to the station. Stuck behind that bastard, it’d take them all night.
“How do you mean?” Sinead asked.
“Well, she’s much older than him, isn’t she? They’re in different departments. PE and English? Not like they’d be working in constant close contact.”
“She said they just clicked right away. Just sort of hit it off. They’ve been seeing each other regularly since then. Initially, just for sex.”
“And later?”
“She said it’d become more of a relationship. More romantic. They’d spoken about running away somewhere. Her, him, and Bennet, her son.” Sinead glanced down at the notebook in her lap, then out at the dark road ahead. “She was in love with him. No doubt about it. She reckoned he felt the same about her, too. Recently, anyway. To start with, they’d just meet up for sex. Guess where.”
Logan side-eyed her. “Where?”
“Well of the Seven Heads.”
“No way. Seriously?”
“She called it their ‘secret spot.’ Reckons no one else knew about it.”
“Some bugger clearly did,” Logan replied. “Did she reckon the husband knew about the relationship?”
“Definitely not, no. She was adamant about that. Says that if he did, he wouldn’t have been able to keep it to himself. He’d have lost the plot.”
“How do you mean? Like by cutting a man’s head off?” Logan asked. He flexed his fingers on the wheel, then gripped it more tightly. The headlights of the camper van had already been left behind, far back in the gathering gloom. “He’s got a workshop, access to power tools, violent tendencies, and a pretty solid motive.”
“Reckon he’s our killer, sir?”
“I’d say he bears some closer scrutiny, put it that way,” Logan said. He caught Sinead stifling a yawn. “But not tonight. Some of us have a bloody speech to be working on.”
Sinead smiled at that. “High time, too.”
“We’ll look into Clyde Lennon first thing in the morning.”
“Sounds like a plan, sir,” Sinead said. She turned away from the window to the man in the driver’s seat. “After breakfast, though?”
“Oh God, aye. After breakfast,” Logan agreed. “We’re no’ bloody savages!”
He stood by the window, watching the detectives getting back in their car. Watching them driving off. Watching their lips flapping as they talked about him, and about her, and about everything that had been spoken of in the house.
The room was dark now. The detectives had turned back as they’d reached the car, but they hadn’t seen him standing there, hadn’t seen him staring.
How much did they know? How much did they suspect? He’d have loved, more than anything, to have asked them, but that would have drawn suspicion. Made him look involved. Made him look guilty.
He’d have to go to the workshop. Tonight. Make sure everything was squared away. Make sure it was all properly hidden.
He couldn’t have it all falling apart on him. Not now. Not after all that time spent planning. Not when he’d come this far.
He watched until the taillights had turned out of the driveway.
He waited until the car would be safely on its way down the road.
And then, as the first stars appeared in the darkened night sky, he made his excuses and left.
While Ben and Hamza slept, Tyler studied his arse in a full-length mirror, and Sinead did her best not to laugh, Logan sat at the desk in his room with his laptop open. His fingers were poised and ready to type. Unfortunately, his brain wasn’t sending them any signals.
He’d given his father-of-the-bride speech some thought over the years. Not a lot, but definitely some. Usually, it was after Maddie had done something embarrassing—like the time she’d knocked over and smashed that vase at a Glasgow School of Art exhibition, or her first ever camping trip, when she’d unknowingly pitched her tent in the same field as a particularly randy shorthorn bull.
Once the drama had all passed, he had always made a wee mental note of the incident. “Good fodder,” he’d say, for the speech he’d one day be called on to give.
And then, of course, he hadn’t been. Not for Maddie, anyway. Not for his wee girl.
He was honoured, of course, to have been asked to fulfil all the fatherly duties for Sinead, and by God, he’d do his damnedest for her.
But it wasn’t the same. It wasn’t the speech he’d waited his life to deliver.
Someone else had given that. And Logan hadn’t known a thing about it.
He removed his fingers from the laptop keys and took out his phone. He felt a surge of hope when he saw he had two missed calls, but it spluttered and died when he discovered that both were from Detective Superintendent Mitchell.
He’d have to call her back tomorrow and take the bollocking that he had coming to him.
Flicking to his contacts, Logan pulled up his daughter’s name. Her picture appeared on-screen above her number. She was younger in the photo. Fifteen, sixteen, maybe? Smiling, despite her obvious resentment at having her picture taken.
He tried calling the number. It went four rings before diverting to the answerphone system. He listened to it, thinking of all the things he might say after the beep had gone, but all he could think of were recriminations.
He could almost hear the words coming out of his mouth now. Why hadn’t she invited him? Was he really that bad? Did she really hate him that much?
The more he thought, the more he resented the way she’d treated him. He knew, of course, that he was to blame. But… her wedding. He was still her dad, and she was still his wee girl.
But, she hadn’t invited him. She hadn’t wanted him there. She didn’t even want him knowing.
So, even if he hung on, what would he say?
What would be the point of saying anything?
There was
a beep as the voicemail greeting finished. He opened his mouth, but no words came until he thumbed the red button that terminated the call.
“Jesus Christ. Nicely handled, Jack,” he muttered, then he placed the phone down, returned his fingers to the keyboard, and stared at his laptop until sleep eventually came upon him.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Olivia was halfway down the stairs when she heard the voices in the kitchen. A low murmuring. A man. A woman. Her mother, she thought, although it was unheard of in recent months for her to be up this early. Or, unheard of for her to be able to talk coherently this early, at least. At best, she’d manage a grunt as she knocked back a handful of painkillers and went shuffling back off to bed.
Today, though, she sounded bright. Cheerful, even, like she was happy to see whoever was in the kitchen with her. Like she was greeting an old friend.
Or an old lover.
Olivia waited. Listened. Tried to place the voice. It was too low, though, too hushed, and she got the impression that whoever the man was, he didn’t want her knowing he was there.
That he wanted to keep his presence a secret.
It was him. It had to be.
She’d gone home soon after Shona’s bombshell the night before. Made some excuse that she now couldn’t remember, called Borys, and made the trip home in silence.
It had passed in a blur. The drive. The drop-off around the corner. The walk to her house, the trudge up the stairs, the barricading of her bedroom door. She could recall only snatches of it, like glimpses of open sky above an ocean as she kicked and thrashed and tried not to drown.
One body. Not two.
She’d been sure he was dead. Certain of it. How could he not be?
One body. Not two.
He was still alive. Still out there. He knew what she’d done to him.
And he knew where to find her.
What would he do, if it was him? How would he punish her? How would he make her pay?
He had been dangerous before, but now? After what she’d done?
Olivia’s gaze went ahead of her, plotting a route to the door. Down the stairs, quietly. Don’t stop to pick up a jacket, just creep past the kitchen door, along the hallway, and sneak out the front. He wouldn’t dare come after her at school. She’d have time to think, at least. Time to make a plan.
She had money now. Not much. Not nearly enough, but some. It could buy her time, or protection. Buy her a chance.
Olivia was just passing the kitchen door when it opened suddenly. All the tension she’d been holding in escaped as a little yelp of fright at the sight of the man standing there.
The man with the wide grin and the fluorescent yellow running jacket.
The man she had never clapped eyes on before in her life.
“Oh! Sorry! Didn’t mean to give you a fright,” he said.
Olivia regarded him with a look that was somewhere between suspicion and contempt, but leaned closer to the latter. He was in his forties, she’d estimate, but he looked like he lived well. Or better than most of the men her mother associated herself with, anyway.
Which wasn’t saying much.
He had good teeth, nice hair, and an obvious eagerness to please that made him look a touch manic.
“Who are you?” Olivia demanded, then she spotted the strip of white around his neck and laughed out loud at the absurdity of it.
Her mum appeared in the doorway behind him, all tits and teeth and tan, and not one of them natural.
“Alright, sweetheart? Have you met Father Conrad?”
“No.”
Conrad thrust a hand out for her to shake. “Well, you have now. Put it there, young lady!”
Olivia shook the hand. If her mother wanted to get in tow with a priest, and embrace her holy moly, fine. Great, in fact. Maybe she wouldn’t lie around wasted half the day, or shack up with anyone who’d have her.
Besides, finding a random priest in the kitchen was a far better outcome than the one Olivia had been expecting.
“We’re going jogging,” her mother announced.
“Fucking hell,” Olivia muttered, then she smiled apologetically. “Sorry. Just surprised. But, you know, in a good way. Have fun!”
Father Conrad raised a hand for a high-five as he passed her in the hall. She returned it, despite the cringe-factor, then stepped aside to let her mum go lumbering past, already looking like she was regretting letting herself get talked into this.
“Have a good day at school, sweetheart.”
“Cheers,” Olivia said.
Her mum jogged out after the priest, and closed the door behind her, leaving Olivia all by herself in the house.
She stood there in the hall, half expecting the door to open and her mum to return with a shake of a head and a, “Bollocks to that.”
But the door remained closed.
The house remained silent.
And Olivia suddenly felt very, very alone.
Logan was the last one down for breakfast, and arrived at the table just as Tyler, Hamza, and Sinead were mopping up their bean juice and egg yolk with the last of their toast.
“Thought you weren’t coming, boss,” Tyler said. He scooted his chair over to make room for the DCI to sit, and let out a grimace of pain as his weight returned to his buttocks.
Logan frowned, opened his mouth as if he was going to ask about it, then shook his head.
Sinead stacked her and Tyler’s plates onto a tray, making room for Logan to sit his breakfast down. He’d attacked the buffet as soon as he’d entered the restaurant, loading his plate with the sort of fry-up that could harden arteries at twenty paces.
“Well, how bad is it?” he asked the group in general.
The three of them exchanged some sheepish looks, then Hamza reached under the table and produced a small stack of tabloid newspapers. The Sun was on top, which was almost enough to make Logan reconsider his breakfast.
Almost.
“The Well of Eight Heads,” he said, reading the headline with a grimace of distaste. “Well, that’s original, isn’t it?
“They’re not the only one to run with that,” Hamza said, flicking through a few different newspapers to reveal the same identical text. “The Star was a bit more creative, though.”
“I dread to think,” Logan said.
“Well, Well, Well,” Hamza read, holding the rag up for the DCI to see. “Headless Horseman Haunts Highlands.”
“Jesus,” Logan grunted, liberally sprinkling salt over everything on his plate. “That’s just painful. Did any of them name him?”
“We’d asked them not to, but—” Hamza began.
“Bastards!” Logan swore loudly before the DS could reach the end of the sentence, drawing some dirty looks from the smattering of other guests who’d come down for breakfast.
“Aye. Most of them have put a contact number in for anyone who might know anything,” Hamza said. “So that’s something, at least.”
Logan didn’t voice an opinion on this, but from his expression, it was clear he found it a small compensation for naming a murder victim before the family could be contacted.
“They get worse every bloody year,” he muttered. “They’ll have hacked his phone by now, you wait and bloody see. Any joy getting into that yet, by the way?”
Hamza shook his head. “Don’t want to chance messing with it,” he said. “A few wrong guesses and it’ll be wiped, or permanently locked.”
“Best get it handed over to the tech bods,” Logan said. “Let them handle it.”
Tyler shifted his weight in his chair and let out a little groan. This time, Logan’s curiosity got the better of him.
“What’s wrong with you?” he asked.
“Got savaged by a dog, boss,” Tyler said.
Hamza tutted. “Savaged.”
Sinead rolled her eyes. “He got nibbled by a dog,” she corrected.
“Nibbled, my arse!” Tyler objected.
“Exactly. It nibbled his arse,” Sinead agreed
.
Tyler blinked in confusion. “What? No, that’s not what I… I mean my arse it just nibbled me. It was a savaging. Big bastard of a thing, too, boss. Have you seen Ghostbusters?”
“Course I’ve seen Ghostbusters,” Logan retorted.
“You know the dogs in that? The monster things? It was like one of them big buggers. I thought my time had come.”
“It didn’t break the skin,” Sinead pointed out.
“Not for want of bloody trying!”
“When did this happen?” Logan asked.
“Last night, out at that Dinky fella’s place,” Hamza said.
“Oh. Aye. Any joy there?” Logan asked, glossing right over Tyler’s dog encounter and getting down to business.
“Don’t think so, sir, no.” Hamza checked out the room around them. There were only a few other guests currently eating, and if he kept his voice down, none of them were within earshot. “Weird setup, and I’m positive he’s up to something, but he’s got an alibi for Monday, and he seemed genuinely furious that Fergus is dead. He’d lent him two grand.”
“Aye, well, he’ll no’ be seeing that again,” Logan said, stabbing a sausage with a fork and dunking it into the yolk of one of his three fried eggs. “What was the money for?”
“He didn’t know for sure, but reckoned it was something to do with a woman,” Hamza replied.
“Ohm?” Logan murmured, having just bitten the end off the sausage. He waved the fork, urging Sinead to take over while he chewed.
“We spoke to Mrs Lennon. She admitted that she and Fergus were in a relationship.”
“You mean shagging?” asked Tyler.
“I mean they were in a relationship,” Sinead insisted. “They’d spoken about running away together. The two of them, and Mrs Lennon’s son.”
“Reckon that’s what he wanted the money for?” Hamza asked.
“Could be,” Sinead replied.
“So… what are we saying?” asked Tyler, leaning over Sinead and using his fork to spear a final lonely mushroom that sat on his discarded plate. “They make plans to elope, or whatever, they get some money together, and then just before they can do it, bang. Someone cuts his head off?”