Gallery Whispers

  if there had been anything in it about a night visit from a gentleman

  caller I'd have remembered.

  'Let's just check while we're here.' She led the way across the grass

  to Gaynor Weston's front door, and opened it with a key from the

  labelled bunch in her pocket. Switching on the lights, she trotted up

  the short flight of stairs to the attic room which the dead woman had

  used as an office.

  The laptop lay on a small desk, plugged into a wall socket. Quickly

  Rose opened it and looked at the small keyboard, until she found the

  start-up button in the top right-hand corner. The two detectives waited

  as the machine booted up. 'Do you know these machines?' asked the

  chief inspector.

  'Yes. No problem.' Steele placed the cursor on the apple symbol in

  the menu bar and dragged it down until he found a folder headed

  76

  'recent applications'. He triggered it open and looked at the software

  list. 'Right,' he said briskly, 'Claris Organiser; that'll be it, if there's

  anything on here.' He opened the program, revealing a fresh, clean

  diary page for that day. Swinging the arrow up to the menu bar he

  selected Calendar, and a different page appeared showing four full

  days. Steele clicked on a tab at the side of the page. The display

  changed once more, setting out a full month. Several of the dates

  showed appointments.

  'Look at the last one,' Rose whispered, pointing at the screen. 'It

  says; "Write to Ray", on the afternoon before her death.'

  'But there was no note,' said Steele.

  'No; yet I'll bet this was a woman who kept her appointments.

  Let's look at the rest.'

  They went back over the month. In the two weeks before the reference

  to her son, there were no entries, none until two words: 'St Martha's',

  and a time: '10am'. Three days before that was a further entry, 'Terry

  Futcher; 8pm', and on the Saturday before, 'NW, Ray; Aberdeen.'

  'This is all personal stuff, Steve. No business appointments at all.'

  Rose scanned quickly through the month. 'But I don't see anything

  here that helps. Can you go back?'

  The Sergeant nodded, clicked on a minus symbol at the top of the

  page, and the previous month's listings appeared. He read through

  them, carefully. 'There,' he said, with a slight nod of his head towards

  the display. 'Look at the entry for the twenty-eighth; "Deacey, dinner, OH ; 8pm" OH means Oldbams, I guess, but who's Deacey? Surname

  or forename?'

  'Who knows? Let's see if he features earlier. Run over the previous

  months.'

  The sergeant scrolled back through six more months of entries:

  they revealed four more visits by 'Deacey', the first of them, as Joan

  Ball had said, seven months earlier. There were also three entries

  referring to theatre dates with the same person.

  'Looks like Mrs Weston's third arrow,' Rose murmured. 'Our

  mystery man.'

  'Let's see if the mystery's answered here,' replied Steele. He went

  back to the menu bar and selected 'Contact list'. A series of names

  and telephone numbers appeared, listed alphabetically. Nolan Weston's

  name was there, also Terry Futcher's; there was no Deacey, no listing

  beginning with the letter 'D'.

  'Bugger,' the sergeant swore quietly.

  'Never mind, Stevie,' said Rose. 'He might not be listed in here,

  but with a name as unusual as that, it shouldn't take us long to fit a

  face to it.'

  77

  23

  'It's a step forward, Brian; but don't let the team get too carried away

  about it. Even if you identify and trace this Deacey character, you're

  still a bit away from placing him at Oldbams on the night ofGaynor's

  death.'

  'Not if his DNA matches the trace Dorward's lot found on that

  glass.'

  'Straws on the wind, man, and you're clutching at them.'

  'We'll see. There's another straw as well. There was an entry on

  Wednesday, reminding her to write to her son.'

  'I wonder if she ever did?'

  'You bet she did. She was thorough and methodical, this woman.

  That letter's kicking around somewhere. I'm going back to see the lad

  tomorrow morning; I'll take Maggie with me.'

  'Just you do that, mate. But that's enough for today. Call me over

  the weekend if you have to, but otherwise, I'll see you next week.'

  Martin replaced the receiver.

  'Are you a step nearer to tracing Doctor Death?' asked Alex, as he

  turned towards her.

  'Don't use that term even in fun,' he replied, a little sharply. 'I've

  been dreading the tabloids picking it up. So far this has been a quiet

  low-key investigation into what most of them have decided is a suicide,

  thanks to the careful wording ofAlan Royston's press release.'

  'Maybe if you were a bit more forthcoming the person you're after

  might came forward.'

  'Maybe if you buy a bikini, it'll be warm enough for you to go

  swimming in the sea tomorrow. People do not walk into police

  offices asking to be locked up for life; not as a matter of course,

  anyway.'

  She beamed across the table at him as he resumed his seat, sipping

  at his coffee, which had cooled during Mackie's call. 'Surely this

  might be the sort of person who would do just that. Helping a friend

  to die must be an awful thing to do; I'll bet that whoever did it, it's

  preying on their mind right now. I'll bet they'd love to get it off their

  chest, whatever the consequences.

  78

  'Why don't you let Brian Mackie call a press conference and explain

  exactly what's happened? I'll bet it would work.'

  He looked back at her, unsmiling. 'For a cautious lawyer, you're

  throwing a few bets around tonight. You're also forgetting basic legal

  principles. If Brian did that, he'd have the Fiscal down on his neck in

  an instant for compromising the whole investigation, and prejudicing

  a future trial.'

  'Okay, he doesn't need to spell it all out, just enough to let the

  press draw conclusions.'

  'Alex, I don't care whose daughter you are; just leave the police

  work to us, okay.'

  Her gaze dropped as she sat back in her chair, hurt by his snub.

  Then tossing her napkin onto the table, she stood, picked up her mug

  and stepped silently into the kitchen. She was pouring herself more

  coffee when he appeared in the doorway.

  'You can get your own!' she snapped.

  'Alex, love, I'm sorry,' he said, 'I didn't mean to bite your head

  off.'

  'Well, I meant to bite yours,' she fired back, unappeased.

  'Sorry, sorry, sorry. Let's not shout at each other all night. We've

  got unfinished business, you and I, from a couple of nights ago. You

  know it as well as I do, but you've been dodging the subject ever

  since.'

  Alex had never been able to sustain anger for any length of time;

  she had never been sure whether this was a strength or a weakness.

  'Okay,' she said, quietly. 'Truce. Let's talk: I've been working myself

  up to have it all out with you tonight anyway. That's probably why I

  was so snippy.' She picked up her coffee, walked past
him, back into

  the living room, and sat on the long sofa, staring across the room,

  without a hint of a smile.

  'I don't want to break off our engagement, Andy,' she began. In

  spite of himself, he felt his heart take flight in his chest... and then

  she shot it down. 'Yet I think you're right: we need to stand back from

  each other and take a look at our future together and how it would be.

  For unless each of us gets what we have a right to expect out of life, it

  isn't a future I want to contemplate.

  'From where I stand,' she looked at him for the first time, a light

  smile on her lips. 'or in this case, sit, I have as much right to a career

  as you have. You, on the other hand do not have the right to put

  pressure on me about having children; or to make me feel guilty about

  not having them - as you've done already.

  'I want what my step-mother has; a successful professional life,

  built up to the point at which she can adapt her work to suit her

  79

  circumstances. The age difference between my Dad and Sarah is

  about the same as it is between you and me, yet they've made it

  work. Yes, even after Pops' mid-life crisis - in spite of it - they've

  made it work. If you want to be jealous of anything, Andy, don't

  make it my job, be jealous of them, for they are what we should be

  aiming to be.

  'We should be thinking long-term, but you don't seem capable of

  that.'

  His green eyes seemed to lose their sparkle as he looked at

  her. 'You're getting it off your chest, all right. I wonder if you

  realise just how calculating you sound. Does love come into this at

  all?'

  She turned on him. 'Of course it does, and do I love you. But

  taking for granted comes into it too, and that's what you do with me.'

  He opened his mouth in a retort, but she cut him off. 'Ask yourself

  this. Just lately have we been making love, or have we just been

  fucking? I know the difference. Do you?'

  'Let's try not to wound each other any more than's necessary, eh,'

  he whispered.

  She softened at once. 'Oh I'm sorry,' she exclaimed, taking his

  hand. 'You know what I mean though.'

  He nodded his blond head. 'Yes, I know, I know. So what do you

  want to do about it?'

  'I'm going to move out, Andy,' she said. 'I really don't want to

  break off our engagement, far from it: but please understand; I'm still

  learning to be me as an adult. I think I need room to finish the

  process.'

  'Christ,' he chuckled, 'you're more grown up than me in some

  ways. Where will you live?'

  'I'll buy a flat. I still have the money from selling my student flat in

  Glasgow; and my furniture's in store. It's a sensible thing to do; when

  you and I have ourselves sorted, and when eventually we do get

  married, maybe I can rent it out. In the short term, Gina, my pal in the

  office, has room to spare at her place in Comely Bank. I'm going to

  move in there with her.'

  She paused. 'I want you to leave me for a week, till I get things

  sorted. Then maybe we could go out for dinner next Saturday, like we

  used to, and start again from there; try to build a more comfortable

  relationship.'

  'Okay,' he agreed, still reluctantly. 'When will you go?'

  'Tomorrow. Then I'm taking a couple of days off at the beginning

  of next week.'

  'All planned, eh?' ,

  80

  She smiled at him, cautiously. 'It was time for someone to be

  decisive, wasn't it?'

  'Yes, sweetheart, I suppose it was. Tonight though . ..'

  'What?'

  'Let's make love.'

  81

  24

  'You're not serious,' gasped Mackie, with sudden, shocked incredulity.

  He pulled his car to a stop on the Greenway.

  'How I wish I wasn't,' said Maggie Rose. 'Neil asked Mario to

  have a drink with him last night; he told him then.'

  'Ahhh,' murmured the superintendent. 'I really was trying not to

  think about it. Andy and I saw them at the Western yesterday, when

  we went to see the Prof. Later on, we agreed that we hadn't if you

  know what I mean.

  'I supposed there must be something, but still ... Olive; lung

  cancer; poor lass, that's terrible. How's Neil handling it?'

  'Mario knows him better than anyone. He says that inside he's

  scared stiff, but on the outside he's putting on the strongest face he

  can. He and Olive have decided that they're not going to treat it as

  some dark secret; they're going to tell all their friends what's

  happening, and how things are going, all the way along.'

  'Are they going to operate?'

  'They can't; it's too advanced. She goes into the Western next

  Wednesday to start chemotherapy.'

  'How long will she have to stay there?'

  'Just a couple of days once a month, with top-ups on a day-patient

  basis.'

  'And what are her chances?'

  Rose smiled. 'Neil says she's going to make it. He won't contemplate

  any other outcome, and neither should we.'

  'Oh God,' muttered Mackie, still shaken. 'Let's just pray that he's

  right.'

  'Brian,' said his deputy, grim-faced once more, 'if you believe in

  prayer, give it all you've got.'

  They sat in silence for a few seconds, until it was broken by the

  insistent hooting of a bus, its driver furious to find a car blocking the

  lane which he regarded as his exclusive property. 'Ah, bugger off!'

  snarled the superintendent, with uncharacteristic ferocity, but he

  slipped into gear nonetheless, and moved off.

  They drove on for a few more minutes, heading westward along the

  82

  Glasgow road, until they arrived at the junction with Murrayfield

  Avenue. Mackie took a right turn, drove for two hundred yards up the

  sloping street, then turned left. Nolan Weston's house was only a few

  yards from the corner.

  It was Saturday, and so the detectives were not surprised when the

  surgeon opened the door; he on the other hand looked decidedly

  puzzled. 'Mr Mackie,' he said, 'I wasn't expecting you this morning;

  especially since you interrogated my son yesterday without my

  permission.'

  'I'm sorry if that upset you, sir, but the opportunity arose so I took

  it. I don't think any harm was done, do you?'

  Weston shook his head. 'No, I don't suppose it was.' He smiled. 'In

  any event, I keep forgetting that Ray is eighteen. You don't need my

  permission to talk to him, do you.' Maggie Rose had been on the

  verge of telling him that very thing.

  'Come in, please,' the professor continued. 'I haven't met your

  colleague.' Mackie introduced his deputy as he led them through to a

  small sitting room which opened into a semi-circular conservatory.

  The garden beyond was lush and well-tended, and rich with the colours

  of autumn.

  A heavily pregnant woman sat in a bamboo armchair on the left of

  the glass room. She smiled at Mackie, who nodded in acknowledgement.

  'Ah yes, you met my wife yesterday,' said Weston. 'Avril,

  this is Chief Inspector Rose. Now, what can I do for you?'


  'We need to speak with your son again, I'm afraid,' said the

  superintendent. 'Something else has come up, and it involves him.'

  'Very well.' He took a pace towards a door in the right-hand corner

  of the room. Rose could see that it led to the kitchen. 'Ray,' Weston

  called. 'Come on in here.'

  A few seconds later a young man ambled into the room. He was

  tall, at least six feet three inches, but fine-featured and rake-thin, his

  dark hair flying in all directions from his high forehead. There was a thick slice of buttered toast in his right hand, 'Wh' is it?' he mumbled, then saw the two detectives. 'Oh, hello.'

  'Morning, Ray,' said Mackie. 'Sorry to bother you again. This is

  DCI Rose. She and I need to ask you a couple of things. First, have

  you had any mail in the last couple of days?'

  The youth shrugged his shoulders. 'Not yesterday, that's for sure.

  Today, I don't know. Dad?'

  'I haven't sorted the post yet,' the Professor answered. 'Let me have

  a look. It's still on the hall table.' He left the room; the others waited

  for him in silence, Raymond munching on his toast. When he returned

  he was waving a brown A5 envelope. 'This is for you. Aberdeen

  83

  postmark.' He handed the letter to his son.

  The detectives looked on as he tore it open and peered inside.

  'There's a note,' he said, withdrawing a slip of paper and handing it to

  Mackie. It was a short message, a simple scrawl in a strong hand. The

  detective read it aloud. 'It says, "This arrived today" and it's signed

  "Beano". Who's he?'

  'My room-mate.' Raymond peered into the brown manila once

  more. 'It's a letter.' He shook it free and held it up for the detectives to

  see, a simple, cream-coloured envelope. As he looked at the handwritten

  address, his face paled. 'Dad,' he whispered, plaintively. 'It's

  from Mum.'

  'Then I think you should read it alone, Ray,' his father said.

  'Yes,' Rose agreed, 'but first, do you have a letter opener. Professor?

  That envelope has to be handled carefully from now on. We don't

  want any more fingerprints on it.'

  'Why?' asked Weston, puzzled.

  Rose took the letter from his son, holding it by a corner, and

  looked at it. 'It's post-marked Thursday. The day after Mrs Weston

  died. We need to find the person who posted it, and chances are his

  prints are on this.'

  'I see.' The surgeon went into the kitchen and returned with a thin-