Torn

by Anne Randall

  ‘You didn’t want to fuck him and he got pissed off?’ asked Josh.

  ‘Yes, I thought we were in love but—’

  Rob got up and walked into the kitchen. ‘I’ll leave you to it.’

  ‘When it came to it, I couldn’t do it and he flipped. He got really angry, started yelling abuse, asking me what kind of a game was I playing? I was crying and trying to reason with him, but it just made him angrier. He grabbed the candle and threw it across the room. The curtains took hold but Paul just laughed, took out his lighter, threw it into the blaze. It exploded. He kept shouting at me, said some horrible things and then left.’ She swallowed. ‘And I didn’t know what to do and then Mum ran in and screamed at me to get out. I was scared. I went back to Dad’s. Mum told me later that she managed to get into the downstairs bedroom and grab you.’ She looked at Josh. ‘Upstairs was in flames, there was no time to . . .’

  ‘And your mother stuck to her story,’ said Cutter.

  ‘She told them Amber must have snuck into the living room and knocked over a candle and set the curtain alight.’ Lyndsay sniffed. ‘What good would it have done if everyone had known what happened? It wouldn’t have brought Amber back, would it? Mum said he would ruin my life if I told on him, that he would’ve gone to prison and you don’t do that to someone like him. So, what would it have changed?’

  ‘It might have helped Josh to get closure.’

  She tried for the moral high ground. ‘My mother went into a burning house to save you.’

  ‘She was supposed to be looking after them,’ said Cutter quietly. ‘She was his foster carer. There’s a duty and responsibility right there.’

  ‘What is it you want from me?’

  Cutter stood. ‘Nothing much; just go to the polis and tell them the truth.’

  ‘They’ll ask me who else was there.’

  ‘And you’ll tell them the fucking truth.’

  ‘And if I don’t?’

  ‘You’ll have upset Josh, which in turn affects me. Do you know what that will make you?’

  Silence.

  ‘My enemy. Can you see where this might end? Folk who cause me any fucking inconvenience have got to understand that I’ll inconvenience them. Understand?’

  Lyndsay nodded, reached for her glass of water. Took a gulp.

  Chapter Sixty-Four

  Interview Room One

  Stewart spoke. ‘We have a full match, placing you at Karlie Merrick’s house the night she died.’

  Eddie Furlan smiled, tried for a bravado he didn’t feel. Mark Ponsensby-Edward should have been in touch already. And why the hell was Gregor McCoy not returning his calls? ‘You know I have nothing to do with any of this, you’re making a grave mistake.’ He continued, his tone authoritative. ‘You’ve already been advised that Wheeler’s on a witch-hunt.’

  ‘Forensics have your DNA at Karlie Merrick’s flat,’ repeated Stewart. ‘A complete match.’

  ‘Crime scenes have been known to have been contaminated. Wheeler’s out of control. Why don’t you turn off the tape and we can have a chat?’

  ‘Why don’t we keep it on and you start talking? And, I repeat, your DNA was found at Karlie Merrick’s flat. Let’s begin there.’

  Eddie swallowed hard. Looked at the floor. He knew what the lack of contact from the DCC and Mark Ponsensby-Edward meant. They had cut him loose; he was on his own. Well, if he was going down, he was damn sure he wasn’t going down alone.

  ‘Well?’

  Eddie smiled. It was still early days. ‘I’ve nothing to say.’

  Two hours later, he’d had plenty of time to consider his options. Had tried to contact the other two, but to no avail. They were all fighting for their own lives now, establishing their own lies, making their own deals. Eddie knew, however, that he was at the bottom of the pecking order. Mark and Gregor could perhaps still pull in favours, threaten and cajole people in power. But he had nothing. Except the truth about what happened. It wouldn’t save him, but it might ensure that they were brought down with him.

  Finally, he returned to the interview room.

  ‘You lied about you and Karlie not being in touch,’ said Stewart.

  ‘She’d pester me two or three times a year. She was always trying to solve her father’s murder. I knew that she wanted to stage a reconstruction for television. She asked me to take part in it. As the original detective who’d worked the case, she thought it would bring a certain gravitas. Of course, I refused.’

  ‘But then Steve Penwell got in touch and told her about seeing the man with the patch and she called you?’

  ‘She said she had new evidence, insisted that she was going to take it to the police. I tried to discredit him, reminded her that Steve was schizophrenic and very sick, that it wouldn’t hold up. But she wouldn’t listen. She was desperate to make it public. The little bitch would have done anything to get on television, regardless of how many lives it ruined. I couldn’t let that happen. I’d have been immediately connected to his murder. Everyone at the station had seen the patch. I’d taken a lot of ribbing about it. I told her I’d come over, that we’d discuss it.

  ‘Why did you kill her?’

  ‘Because she would have linked me to her father.’ Furlan studied his hands. ‘Twenty years ago, I’d made Paul go for therapy for his anger management issues. He had a dreadful temper, needed to get it sorted before he went into the army. Hugo Ponsensby-Edward was a client of Merrick’s, recommended him. Hugo was an addict trying to get clean, but there had been a couple of rumours about rape allegations. Nothing formal. Hugo told Merrick everything and then got drunk at a party and confessed to his father, told him Merrick would have it all in his notes. Mark called me. He’d already spoken to Gregor McCoy. I feared that Paul’s behaviour at Susan Moody’s house would be recorded too. We all agreed that I would warn Merrick off. I reminded him about client confidentiality but it didn’t wash. He was an arrogant prick, said he’d encourage both boys to go to the police and confess. If they didn’t, he’d report them. He said that it would do them good to be congruent. He laughed in my face.’ Furlan paused.’ That’s when things got out of hand.’

  Stewart waited.

  ‘However flawed he is, Paul’s the innocent in all of this. I can assure you, he’s done nothing.’

  They had continued the interview for another twenty minutes, teasing out information and gathering facts until, finally, Eddie Furlan was led to a cell.

  Chapter Sixty-Five

  The O2 Academy

  It was nearly time. The four of them clustered backstage. Skye began his pre-show ritual, sank the tequila shot in one, listened to the noise of the crowd, stamping their feet, somewhere between expectation and impatience. He downed a second shot, walked through the door into the corridor, through another door. The others followed behind. Skye ran to the front of the stage, adrenaline coursing through his veins as he grabbed the microphone and yelled, ‘Good evening, Glasgow!’ Heard the roar, as the crowd surged forward to be met by the bouncers who’d lined up in front of the stage. One fan got through and leapt towards him. Bouncers raced in from the side and grabbed her. Lexi started on the drums, made them thunder. Josh kicked in on bass and then Joe came in on keyboards. The band was flying. Skye was on fire and fed off the energy of the crowd who sang every single word with him. He paused at the end of the song, let them carry the final few bars before he bellowed into the microphone, ‘Thank you for the duet. I love you, Glasgow!’ Heard the roar again. He felt the intense heat from the lights and amps. He was high on the energy.

  Skye began the second song and the crowd responded, swaying as one. Tonight, he thought, I am immortal. I am a rock god. He watched a blonde-haired girl launch herself into the crowd and be lifted high and passed, hand over hand, towards the stage. A gift to the god. He knew that the crowd would support her, take care of her as she journeyed towards the stage. We are one, thought Skye, as she made her way towards him. As he sang, he moved towards the audience, caught the eye o
f the girl being passed to him. Smiled. Reached out his hand. A bouncer intercepted and grabbed her and she was rushed backstage. Skye knew that she would be run through the labyrinth of corridors and led back into the arena from a side entrance. He finished the song, listened to the rapturous applause. Began again. As he sang, he glanced at the rest of the band. Josh was bent over his Fender Precision; he’d found his own little piece of heaven. He paced the stage cradling his guitar, drinking in the vibes. Lexi smashed the drums, also in his own world. Joe sat behind the keyboards, frowning slightly, as he always did, as if, by deduction alone, he could unravel a great sound. Skye thought about their recent interview, how Dougie had insisted that the band were very tight, but Skye knew it was a lie; they all inhabited singular worlds, they just happened to share a stage.

  Next up was ‘My Desire for You’. It had been their first big hit and had been voted the perfect love ballad of 2013, an anthem for lovers across the country. The Kill Kestrels had been sent video links and messages from weddings, engagement parties and anniversary celebrations thanking them for the song. Smiling couples sharing the love. Skye remembered the woman he’d written it about; she’d been a Slovakian sex worker and she had been the best he’d ever had; she’d been full on. He’d taken sex to the extreme with her, just as he had with the blonde girl at the McIver.

  He finished the song – ‘And it was the best that ever was . . . the best that’s ever been . . . And you and me . . . a memory for eternity . . .’ The lust of death. The pain. The knowledge. Nothing else mattered. Pain. Sex. Death. ‘And you were the best that’s ever been . . .’ Perhaps this time next year the love anthem would be the one he was currently writing about the woman from the McIver. She hadn’t been the best he’d ever had but she’d given her life for his pleasure. Something like, ‘I gave you my all.’ The fans would think it was about him being in love, they always did. He thought of the two girls who’d won the tickets. He couldn’t recall their names; why would he? He’d never see them again. But knew that they would be out there in the audience, worshipping him. He’d nearly got the blonde’s mobile number before Dougie had blundered his way into the room and disturbed them. Fat bastard. Once they’d really made it they’d dump Dougie and get some proper fucking management. Skye looked out over the audience, listened to the applause. Revelled in it. He was a God. A Rock God.

  Chapter Sixty-Six

  Party Over

  The Incident Room was busy, information was coming in quickly and phones were ringing.

  Stewart strode into the room. ‘Update?’

  ‘Holly Lithgow’s body has been taken to the mortuary. Forensics are crawling all over her car,’ said Ross.

  ‘I’m checking through CCTV from Prestwick Airport,’ said Wheeler. ‘We have a clear window of time. CCTV puts the car being driven into airport parking around ten o’clock on Thursday night.’ She scrolled through the grainy CCTV footage; people moved in awkward frame shots as they exited the car park. Slightly blurred, grey shapes, jerky movements. She was excluding families with children. Groups of young women. Her gut instinct told her she was looking for a man or men. She discounted an elderly man walking with a stick. The group of probably drunk men wearing Stetsons, deliberately pushing into each other. A stag do. Lone men hurried across her screen, carrying briefcases, rucksacks. She jotted down notes, freeze-framed the images. She stared at the screen. At ten past ten, a lone man walked through the exit. He was wearing a fleece, hood up. Jeans and trainers. Hands in pockets. But it wasn’t what he was wearing, it was his walk. Unmistakable. He led with his shoulders. They already had his DNA on the system.

  She turned to Ross. ‘Deoxyribonucleic acid, you’ve got to love it.’

  ‘DNA,’ said Ross. ‘What do you have?’

  ‘I’ll bet money that this figure—’ she tapped the image ‘—is Paul Furlan. Holly’s car was parked at Prestwick Airport. Less than ten minutes later, he’s leaving the airport.’

  An hour later, in Interview Room One, Stewart faced Paul Furlan. ‘You killed Holly Lithgow.’

  ‘Rubbish.’

  ‘CCTV has you parking her car at Prestwick Airport on Thursday night. DNA has been recovered from the vehicle and will be checked against yours.’

  Furlan paused. ‘I dumped her car, but I didn’t kill her. It’s not what it seems.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘That’s not what happened.’

  Stewart sat forward in his chair. ‘Then tell me what did happen.’

  At the end of the interview, Stewart sent out a command. Skye Cooper was to be arrested and brought into the station.

  Lyndsay Moody was in Interview Room Two and the tape was running. ‘I want to make a statement. On the night of 3 September 2004, I was at my mother, Susan Moody’s house. I was there with my boyfriend at the time, Paul Furlan.’ She paused. ‘It’s a long story, but, in essence, we had an argument. He got mad, grabbed a candle and threw it across the room, and the curtains took hold.’

  ‘Then what?’

  ‘Paul laughed, took out his disposable lighter, threw it into the fire. Like it was some kind of game. It exploded, the fire was out of control.’ She buried her face in her hands. ‘It all happened so quickly. I was upset, I wasn’t thinking straight. Mum rushed in, shouted for me to go home. Paul vanished. There were two kids asleep in the house. One of them, a little girl named Amber, died.’

  Boyd let her talk, heard all about the fire and the subsequent lies and the fear of confronting Paul Furlan. The fear of holding him accountable.

  Across from him Robertson sat, listening. He was silent.

  Forty-five minutes later, Wheeler witnessed the tears and self-pity. Watched as Skye’s kohl-rimmed eyes filled with tears. Wheeler knew that the pity had little to do with Holly Lithgow and everything to do with Skye himself. Paul Furlan had told them the full extent of Skye Cooper’s involvement in Holly Lithgow’s death.

  She began the interview.

  Chapter Sixty-Seven

  Survival

  Dougie sat in the bar and monitored the Facebook and Twitter accounts, which had gone stratospheric. The UK newspapers had clamoured for interviews and Paulo Di Stefano’s photographs had been splashed across the UK press, particularly the one of Skye taken on the hotel roof garden, arms outstretched like a modern-day Christ. Under the photographs, the sound bite from Skye, ‘Make me immortal.’ Christ, but this was a fucking nightmare. Dougie gulped the Jack Daniel’s. Because of Skye’s monumental fuck-up, the rest of the band needed careful handling, if they weren’t to go down the proverbial drain. On the upside, and fuck knows how this had happened, sales of ‘Death of an Angel’ had soared. Their fans had rallied. From what he could gather, Skye’s fans were in complete denial that their hero could have done anything wrong. This was simply a mistake that would be cleared up soon. The others all wanted to protect the remaining members from the fallout and were anxious for the band to continue.

  Dougie watched Josh come into the bar. Saw Cutter Wysor hover in the doorway.

  Dougie looked at Josh. Handsome guy, sensitive. ‘You want to front the band? I could get someone to step in for a bit? Let you make up your mind, but I think you’d be great.’ Watched him consider it. Gave him time to visualise himself in Skye’s shoes, the adulation, the adoration of the fans. ‘Remember, we don’t want to let the fans down, to disappoint them when they are in such turmoil. This might help them through a tough time, that’s all I’m concerned about. All those young folk who looked to the band for inspiration? You could help them through this. What do you think? I’m thinking of Ellie and Isla, the two wee lassies we had over for the photo op. They’ll be gutted.’

  ‘I had something I’ve been trying to resolve for a long time.’

  Christ, now what was coming? ‘OK, I get it. That’s why he’s here.’ Dougie glanced at Cutter. ‘What is it?’

  ‘A personal matter. It’s resolved, it’s with the police now. Let me think about fronting the band.’

  ‘Tak
e your time.’

  ‘Skye’s really fucked this up.’

  Dougie watched him leave. Ordered another drink. Watched his hand shake as he lifted the glass. Christ, what a fucking mess. Without careful handling, his retirement fund was going up in flames. In fucking flames.

  Chapter Sixty-Eight

  Old Patterns

  ‘I’m bloody starving.’

  ‘Is there ever a time when you’re not?’ asked Wheeler.

  ‘When I’m asleep.’ Ross studied the menu. ‘Have you come into money? An inheritance you never mentioned?’

  ‘I’m feeling generous.’

  ‘Always a first time, I suppose.’ He sipped his wine. ‘This place is expensive.’

  She didn’t contradict him.

  The waiter approached. Wheeler ordered the sea bass with potatoes.

  ‘I’ll have the salmon.’ Ross hesitated. ‘And frites.’

  After the waiter left she turned to him. ‘You couldn’t not order chips, could you?’

  ‘See, that right there, is where you’re wrong, they’re frites.’

  ‘They’re potatoes and oil and salt.’

  ‘Different shape altogether from chips,’ said Ross. ‘Besides, a place this posh, they’ll be more of a garnish. Anyway, we’re celebrating the case.’

  ‘It all started when bloody Mark Ponsensby-Edward pulled rank so his precious son would be removed from John Merrick’s client list,’ said Wheeler.

  ‘And then Eddie Furlan planted the porn at Merrick’s house to discredit him and influence the investigation.’