Dark of Night

by Oliver Davies

  The evidence left at the scene had left no doubt whatsoever as to who the culprit had been, and Archie Ramsay had been apprehended five days later, in Glasgow. Several of the stolen items had been recovered from the room he’d rented there, but the professor’s insurance company had paid out to her family on a valuable collection of gold sovereigns that had never been found. Archie denied all knowledge of the missing coins and repeated attempts to get him to disclose their whereabouts had all failed. The sovereigns had been valued with the insurance company at £150,000.00. That value had probably increased since then too.

  Well, I’d been hoping for a possible motive to make itself known, and now I might just have found one. Did one of Archie Ramsay’s old cronies believe that he’d hidden those missing coins back at his childhood home? That his brother, Gareth, may even have been aware of them? I sent an urgent request through to HMP Shotts, the high-security prison where Archie had been serving out his final sentence. I wanted to see their records of his visitations, phone calls and correspondence addresses, and I wanted to see them today. I looked back through Archie’s earlier record and found the ex-wife’s details from that period. I printed the sheet off and headed out to the main office. I’d heard muffled greetings through the thin connecting wall not long ago, as a couple of the other DCs had wandered in.

  “Bryce?” I called, spotting him at his desk

  “Yes, Sir?” He gave me one of his keen ‘new boy’ looks as he came to a stop in front of me. I handed him the sheet.

  “Mrs Wendy Ramsay as was. May have remarried or moved away. Find her for me please, the quicker, the better.”

  “Yes, Sir. Will do.” He scampered off back to his desk, invisible puppy tail wagging. Bryce wasn’t a great deal of use yet, still wet behind the ears from his DC training course, but I had hopes for him, and we were all doing our best to bring him along. Running a search like this one was well within his current competence, and I didn’t want him spending too much of his time on admin tasks. He was a junior detective constable, not the team secretary.

  Collins was hammering away at his keyboard, updating those domestic B&E case reports I imagined, but Mills had spun around at the sound of my voice and looked as if he wanted a word. I went over to see him.

  Darren Mills was a ginger-haired, freckly lad of twenty-five whose face, misleadingly, usually held the dull expression of a thick, bored minimum wage drudge. He’d always been a straight-A student, through both school and university, and he had an intelligent eye for picking out which minor details were most worth pursuing. If he hadn’t made DI by the time, he was thirty-five, I’d be very surprised. Not as much natural talent for the job as Mary Walker, who I expected to achieve that rank much sooner, but definitely an above-average DC.

  “All done with the CRC on our class of budding young agriculturalists, Mills?” I asked him.

  “Yes, Sir, all fifteen of them. Mainly clean, but a couple of them had DUIs, they got licence suspensions and hefty fines for those. Also, Martin Smith and his pal Stephen Wilson came very close to criminal prosecution for some cannabis plants they were growing last year before they graduated. Pushing for a prosecution on ‘Intent to Supply’ was deemed not provable though, so they never went to court. From the case file, it seems pretty clear the plants were for their own consumption.”

  Yes, and none of us wanted to clutter up the courts, or the prisons, with cases like that if we could avoid it.

  “That’s all there was to find, for the students,” Mills went on, “but I’m still waiting to hear back from the Polícia Judiciária, over in Portugal, about Miguel Rodrigues.” I nodded and gave him an approving pat on the shoulder.

  “Let me know when they get back to you, please, and email me the Smith and Wilson case number over now, I think I want to look at that.” He quickly copy/pasted the number for me and sent it off. “I believe DC Walker will probably want you to go out to the Kerr estate with her in a bit,” I told him, “but you can help Collins with the other cases until then, alright?” He nodded agreement. “Oh, and send DS Murray in to see me when she arrives please,” I added as an afterthought.

  Back in my office, I read through Martin and Stephen’s little brush with the law. The daft idiots had made themselves a little hydroponic set-up in a wardrobe, in their rented student flat. Only a couple of plants each, but they’d been lucky to get away with a PND penalty notice and an £80.00 fine each. Both had already had possession warnings prior to that, in their first year at Uni. No wonder they’d been nervous; next time they were caught in possession of any illegal substance, we could prosecute them for that alone if we felt like it.

  I sometimes wondered about the intelligence of the average university student. Far too many of them seemed damned stupid, considering they were supposed to be the brightest of the country’s school leavers.

  I put everything we had so far into a folder and sent it off to Shay. No need to inform anyone else of that, or at least not yet. He had the required security clearance to assist, and I never revealed his involvement in any of my cases unless, or until, my discretion and/or circumstances made it seem advisable to do so. An email from Bryce came in then. Wendy McGregor née Ramsay née McIntyre had indeed remarried, and she was still living in the area.

  I looked up at the sound of a familiar double rap on my pushed-to door as Caitlin stuck her head in. I locked my screen and stood up, reaching for my ‘wet weather’ jacket. No more brollies for me this week, thank you very much.

  “I hope you’ve had your breakfast and a cuppa already,” I told her, grabbing my laptop bag too, “because I’m ready to head out. We’ve got a couple of people we need to visit before lunch.”

  “I’m good,” she assured me. “And good morning to you too, by the way.”

  I gave her a sheepish smile. “And there you are, reporting for duty twenty minutes early too. I’m an ungrateful sod of a boss, aren’t I?” She grinned back at me, tipping her head slightly as she considered the apology.

  “More of a frequently over-focused but generally appreciative one, I’d say Conall. You’ll do. Where are we off to?”

  “Dalneigh, St Mungo Road first,” I told her as I shut my office door behind me, “To see Archie Ramsay’s ex-wife. Just a tick, sorry.” I went to remind Collins that the Allen’s were due in that morning and he assured me he could handle taking their official statements.

  Caitlin and I headed out, and I filled her in on everything I’d discovered so far that morning as we walked, got settled into the car and headed off. Caitlin drove us up to the bridge, the traffic fairly light for the time of day, and we headed over to the west bank of the river and then south, following the Sat-Nav’s directions along Harrowden Road After turning off onto Fairfield Road, three more turns through the residential area took us to our destination. A trip of fewer than three miles, door to door.

  Wendy McGregor lived in a red-painted, two-bedroom semi with a decent little front garden, and a gate to a rear garden in view down a path at the side of the house. It all looked very neat, well maintained and respectable. Not the sort of place I would have ever expected to find a man like Archie Ramsay living in. She’d done better for herself after that early, inadvisable first marriage. We got out of the car and went to ring the doorbell.

  We were lucky. Wendy McGregor was at home. A well-built lady in her early fifties answered the bell. Her carefully styled blonde hair, dyed I think, and smart shirt and slacks, together with her carefully made-up face, reinforced the impression that this was an eminently respectable household. I answered her enquiring look by showing her my warrant card.

  “Mrs McGregor? I’m Inspector Keane, and this is my colleague, Detective Sergeant Murray. I was hoping you could spare us a little of your time to answer a few questions.” Her inquiring expression melted away instantly, replaced by a suddenly anxious look that aged her by a few more years.”

  “Is it my Billy?” she asked, wringing her hands agitatedly. “Only, we’ve not heard from him, n
ot since he sent a card at Christmas, and I don’t know where he’s been living or what he’s been doing. Is he alright? Has there been an accident?”

  “We’re not here about Billy, Mrs McGregor,” I said quickly, recognising a mother’s serious concern and wishing to allay it as fast as possible. “We just wanted to ask about your time with your first husband, Archibald Ramsay.”

  Her expression cleared, relieved, then clouded over at a scowling thought of Archie. “He’s dead, isn’t he? The no-good blighter. What’s there to say? Oh well,” she looked us up and down resignedly, “I suppose you’d better come in.”

  “Thank you, Mrs McGregor.” We dutifully wiped our perfectly clean boots on her mat then moved aside so she could shut the door again before leading us to the living room. She took a perch on the edge of an armchair and gestured us both to the couch.

  “You keep a lovely home,” I told her, looking around over-appreciatively at the ordinary little room before seating myself. It was spotlessly clean and quite tastefully decorated and furnished. “Very nice.” I think the compliment softened her slightly.

  “How can I help you, Inspector?” she asked, casting a brief glance at Caitlin as she got her notebook out.

  “We are looking into the possibility that one of Archie Ramsay’s old associates may be involved in a case we’re currently investigating. I was hoping you might remember some names?”

  She grunted. “Well, there were only the two lads I’d say were close with Archie when we were together—and that was as short a time as I could make it, once I realised what kind of man he really was, believe me.” She sniffed disgustedly at her younger, foolish self. “Gerry Mitchell and Pete Ferguson, those were their names. The three of them used to meet up at the King’s Head, most nights, and they were as dodgy as he was, or so I thought. I didn’t like either of them and wouldn’t turn my back for a minute when he brought them round to the pokey little flat we had—we were living up in Merkinch, in those days.” No, I could see how unpleasant even thinking of them was for her. “Light-fingered, the pair of them. Unnerving too, the way that Gerry fellow used to openly eye me up and down as if he wouldn’t say no. Gave me the creeps.”

  “It must have been a very unpleasant time for you,” I sympathised. “But at least you had the good sense to move on and start again. I’ve met quite a few young women in similar situations who seemed resigned to sticking by their choices.” Wendy McGregor sniffed again, in a certain way that warned me that I’d spread quite enough butter on the bread, thank you very much.

  “What’s this case you’re investigating then?” she asked. So, no gossip from the village had reached her ears yet? Well, perhaps she no longer had any contact with old school friends or the people she’d grown up with. It had been nearly thirty years since she’d left the area.

  “I’m sorry to have to tell you that Gareth Ramsay, Archie’s brother, was killed at his farm under suspicious circumstances on Tuesday evening. In a few more hours, I expect to hear the death officially confirmed as a murder.” Her hands flew up to cover her mouth, genuine shock and yes, sadness in her eyes.

  “Oh, that poor, good man.” She blinked, three times, “And his poor bairns.” Her spine stiffened in outrage. “Gareth was one of the most decent soul’s I’ve ever met, Inspector. You just make sure you do your job and bring whoever’s responsible to justice.” It was probably best to let that pass without commenting.

  “Did you keep in touch with Gareth, after your divorce from Archie?” I asked, interested.

  “For a time, the first couple of years, yes.” she said, “And he’d phone to check in on us, every so often, for a few more years after that. Ask if everything was alright, if I needed anything, how Billy was doing.”

  Ah. Billy again. I glanced to the sideboard on my right, to look more closely at the family photographs on display there. A large group portrait showed Wendy with a fair-haired man, who was presumably her second husband, and three children, of maybe twelve, eight and six at the time it was taken. The eldest boy did have a lot of the Ramsay family look about him. Wendy met my eyes as I turned my attention back to her. She’d seen where my gaze had fallen.

  “So he looked out for you and his nephew?” I asked.

  “Those first two years, very much so,” she nodded. “I don’t know what would have become of us otherwise. He helped with the rent, so we’d have a decent roof over our heads in a quiet neighbourhood. He even paid for the day nursery, when I got a good office job. Well, like I said, he was a good, decent man. Then I met my Jonathan, and well, we fell for each other like a pair of moonstruck kids. Jon never minded about Billy not being his. He adopted my boy and brought him up just like he was his own flesh and blood, same as our David and Susan. I still wrote to Gareth every year, and let him know how we were doing, but he understood why I didn’t want him popping round again. I think he was relieved to have someone happy to take the responsibility from his shoulders.”

  “Does Billy know? About the adoption?” He must, surely.

  “He does,” Wendy McGregor admitted. “Only I told him his father was dead.” She calculated backwards. “He’d have been six or seven then. Made up a story about how his first dad had been in the army and was killed in action. I knew he’d see his birth certificate, sooner or later. Seemed like the best thing to do. I didn’t like the idea of what the truth might do to my sweet little boy.” She slumped, wringing her hands in her lap. “Only it made him see my Jon differently, after. He was just a plumber, not a hero, and Billy seemed to resent him telling him what to do more and more as he got older and wilder. He could be very hurtful, could Billy, when he had a mean mood on. He could make the whole family feel miserable with just a few stabs of that tongue of his. I can’t pretend it wasn’t a relief when he moved out, when he was eighteen but, like I said, he doesn’t even bother to keep in touch these days.”

  It was a saddening history. This woman was still paying for her youthful error of judgement, despite a seemingly happy second marriage; torn between worry about her eldest boy and relief at his absence.

  “Well,” I said, standing up again, “thank you very much for your time, Mrs McGregor. We’ll be able to look into the men you mentioned now.” She got up as well.

  “I wouldn’t have pegged either of them as killers.” She gave me a sharp look. “But then again, I didn’t see that in Archie either did I, so who knows? Oh, aye, I know all about that poor woman he killed and those missing coins. I followed the trial in the papers. And now someone’s done the same thing to poor Gareth? You just catch them, Inspector, whoever they are. We pay our taxes in this house, and I’ll not begrudge the amount ever again if you do your job right.”

  I didn’t doubt, for a second, that she had paid Gareth Ramsay back every penny of the financial debt she owed him, once she was firmly on her feet again. That angry little parting comment had been born of the moral and emotional interest she still felt to be his due. Back in the car, as Caitlin set the Sat-Nav to the address of Martin’s girlfriend, I called DC Bryce, back at the station.

  “I’ve got some more searches for you,” I told him. “Billy McGregor, son of Wendy McGregor as a first priority, then two old friends from Archie’s past, Gerry Mitchell and Pete Ferguson, who used to spend a lot of time with Archie Ramsay in the King’s Head in Merkinch. That’s all the information I have. Check the database for all three of them, then follow our usual procedure if you have no luck there.” Caitlin pulled out as I was speaking, and we began to head back towards the main road.

  “Will do, Sir,” Bryce assured me. “Billy McGregor, Gerry or Gerald Mitchell and Peter Ferguson.” His way of letting me know he’d written down the names and hadn’t misheard me.

  “As soon as you can please, Bryce. Email me the results.” I hung up. Caitlin threw me a questioning glance before switching her attentive gaze back to the road.

  “Billy? You’re thinking maybe the apple didn’t fall far from the tree then?”

  I shrugged. �
��Possibly. Even his own mam wasn’t trying to give him a shining character reference back there. I suppose it depends on whether or not Billy ever heard Archie’s twisted side of the story, how the family had cheated him out of his share and all that. If Billy found out that his real dad was alive, somehow, he might have reached out to him.”

  “No, you’re right,” Caitlin agreed. “We can’t ignore the possibility. Let’s hope Shotts gets a move on with sending us the information you requested.” She didn’t expect a response from me, and she could see I was occupied with my phone again.

  I tapped out another email to Shay, containing all the pertinent parts of our visit to Wendy McGregor, and sent it off. My cousin had a much better chance of finding those three men quickly than DC Bryce did, and there was no harm in hedging my bets. I wondered how far north of Edinburgh he was by now, and when he’d stop for a rest break and send me anything back. I pulled myself up. It might be relatively harmless to indulge myself in impatient speculation whilst I was just riding in the passenger seat, on my way to the next interview, but I needed to put those thoughts aside and snap into focus again before we reached our next stop.

  Step by step, examining one piece of the puzzle at a time, missing nothing. There was no other way to build a clear picture of a case like this, or to draw yourself a map into the heart of it.