by Chris Dolan
The forensics lab was further east in the Scottish Crime Campus at Gartcosh. Coulter drove through the dead, stagnant streets, just the faintest hint of dawn somewhere directly ahead.
He’d hardly found where Terry Walls was working before the call came through from the hospital. Crichton had suffered a traumatic seizure. He might survive it, and since the episode an hour or so ago, he was more settled. But he might not.
“Can the man speak?”
John Russell was already at the hospital. “No idea. If Marion Miller would stop greeting and screaming we might find out.”
Maddy lay on the floor, her head propped up against the couch Doug was still sprawled over. Out the window day looked as if it couldn’t be bothered breaking.
“Go. Get a shower.”
“Okay.”
They’d had the same fascinating conversation three times now.
“I didn’t even drink that much last night,” Doug moaned.
“Yeah right.” They’d had that deep discussion already too.
Then she heard the key in the door. Shit. This was early even for her mother.
“What the hell? It’s not even seven yet.”
“Ugh?” Doug had heard nothing.
“Does she know I’m on leave? How can she? She’ll have some mad plan for me.” She called out: “Mamma?”
She got up quickly from the floor. Rosa would make a meal of this. A semi-naked man and Maddy in joggers and half-unbuttoned shirt.
The door opened, and the bunch of flowers entered first. And Maddy knew at once.
“Hey. Surprise!”
Louis came in a bit ruffled from his flight, but beaming. For about a second, before his eyes darted from Maddy to Doug – who suddenly had the motor skills to sit up straight – and back to Maddy again. The smile morphed to a moment of puzzlement, and then dismay.
“Caught you at a bad time?”
They wouldn’t let DI Coulter into Bill Crichton’s room. He was standing, looking through the window, with WPC Morrison who had relieved the night-duty officer, John Russell and the still sniffling Marion Miller. Crichton’s condition had been described in that age-old meaningless phrase, “critical but stable”.
“Usually means they’re gubbed,” DS Russell had said. In Miller’s hearing, earning him a frown from his boss and Alison Morrison. Marion Miller seemed to have agreed, however, just closing her eyes, resigned.
The consultant, Gavin Hood, came out now. “Mrs Miller, you can step inside. Inspector, sorry, but I’d rather see how Mr Crichton gets on with Mrs Miller first.”
“Can he speak at all?”
“He has managed a word or two.” He turned to Marion. “Including your name.”
Marion rushed in, a glimmer of hope in her eyes. Before she closed the door, Coulter stepped behind her, touched her arm. “Marion. If he speaks to you at all, ask him something from us.”
The woman looked in no mood to do any such thing.
“A name. Who was with him in the restaurant that night. Apart from your husband and Tom Hughes.” She stepped away, but he kept his light touch on her arm. “Whatever happens now, if Bill can help us in any way, it’ll be so much better for him. And for you. Will you do that?”
As she closed the door behind her he couldn’t tell if she would or not.
“You know she’s not next of kin,” Russell said to Hood.
“I’m aware of that, Sergeant. But the next of kin hasn’t been near him for two days, and that lady has kept a constant vigil.”
They watched from outside as the nurses cleared a space for Miller and put the chair next to his bed again. She bent her head down close to Bill’s. She wiped his forehead and tidied his hair. Her lips were moving, talking to him. His lips seemed to move too, but whether he was just struggling for breath or actually uttering a word or two, Coulter couldn’t decide.
“Is there any chance of recovery?” Coulter asked. When there was no reply he turned and saw that Hood had gone. Looking back into the room, there was air of finality, of surrender, about both Bill and Marion. He’d seen, sensed, that before. Several times in professional situations such as this. But also with his father, who had gone in for a small operation but had taken a heart attack just after. The twenty-six-year-old Alan Coulter had had just under an hour to watch his dad give up the ghost.
That terminal loneliness, it infects everyone close to the immediate victim. That day by his father’s side he wasn’t with his family. They were all there, circling the bed, his mother, brother and sister, but each of them were alone. If there was a connection at all it was with the dying man, solitudes intersecting. Right now, he wasn’t standing there with long-term colleagues, but with strangers.
He felt the need to make contact with somebody. Not Martha. Not because he didn’t want to but because it would damage her. He hadn’t called her at times like these since way before she had taken ill. It wasn’t fair. Bad enough living with a policeman, no need to take the worst of it home. Too early to call the kids, and anyway, they were “home” too and should be quarantined from this part of his life. There was only one person he knew would be awake, and who would know how to talk to him.
“Hey. It’s early, sorry. Listen, Maddy, I know you’re supposed to be getting away from all this. But I know you,” he tried to keep his tone light. “Chances are Crichton is going to die. And without giving us anything.” He was aware of her being unusually monosyllabic. He’d probably woken her up after all. Except she sounded as if she was moving around, busily. “It’s not supposed to work out this way, is it? They’re supposed to give you the one thing you need before they go. That’s how it was going to be, in my head.”
“I’m on my way over now.” Was all she said.
“No, wait, Maddy, I was only calling because…” But she had hung up.
Coulter sighed. DS Russell was going to love Shannon turning up. Not even in any official capacity. Oh God, the rumours…
Marion looked round at them through the window. Coulter, putting away his phone, raised his eyebrows in hope. Marion Miller just shook her head and, turning back to Crichton, she took his hand and wept.
“Where the hell are you going?!”
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I’ve got to get out of here.”
He had believed them. He’d even laughed. But Maddy knew that a seed of doubt had been planted. What would she have thought, had it been the other way round? She’d have done what Louis was doing now, trying to look cool about the whole thing, assuring everyone it was fine. But inside her head, that image would always be there. Till her dying day.
To make matters worse, ten minutes after Louis had appeared, in the midst of her convoluted explanation – it didn’t even sound true to her own ears – her dad had started to call her. She’d dingied him three times already. Then she got a text saying he was leaving tonight and he’d – dearly – like to see her. Please say yes, Flutterby. Just for half an hour… She’d almost missed Alan’s call, thinking it was Packie again.
“Wouldn’t it have been more likely for me to storm off?” Louis said, more exasperated than angry.
“I’m not storming off. It’s work.”
“I thought you just told me you were on holiday.”
Doug had gone off to shower. Once he’d made his plea of innocence, crossing his legs as if that somehow made his trouserless state more socially acceptable, he’d grabbed his clothes and slunk off.
“Well I am. But this case…”
“I’ve a feeling you shouldn’t be going wherever it is at all.”
“And you’d be right. But I can’t stand this, Louis. I can’t stand myself. Here. With you, like this. And though I shouldn’t, I need to know what’s going on there.”
“Give me your car keys. I’ll be your driver.”
The journey was absurd. They tried to make the conversation that should have taken place an hour ago had circumstances been something approaching normal. How are you? That’s great you came over. So how come
you’re on leave? How’s your viral thingy? Things okay at work?
They each answered the questions in turn, but neither of their minds were on it. Louis, presumably, was still trying to work through the shock of this morning, his lovely little plan turning to shit. He had to concentrate, too, on the driving – he hadn’t much experience of Glasgow roads. Once or twice he almost turned into oncoming traffic. It occurred to Maddy that that might be the best thing for her right now. That’ll teach you.
Her mind was everywhere at once. Was she pleased he had just popped over the Atlantic Ocean? Was that a romantic surprise, or interference? What the hell was she going to do about Dad? Should she tell her mother or not. But most of all she thought about Crichton. Work. What did people do without it? Work you could think about with some degree of logic.
Just as they were driving into the Royal Infirmary, she caught sight of Morag Boyd, standing outside the reception area, having a smoke.
“Louis. Let me off here. I need to speak to that woman.”
“Where will I find you?”
“Just stay in the café, will you? I’ll come get you. Once I know what’s what.”
He nodded, having no choice. Maddy got out just as Morag was finishing her fag.
“Morag.”
The woman was about to go back in. But she nodded, changed direction, and walked over to Maddy.
“You here for Jason?”
“Today’s his big day. They’ve had to put it back a day or two – he needs to be at his strongest.”
“And is he?”
“He’s a brave wee lad,” she smiled. “He’s more worried about us.”
They went inside together, and stopped before going their separate ways.
“Kenny up there with him now?”
“We’re taking turns for ciggies. We’d both given up, then… Cathy’s up there too.”
“Give them both my regards, will you?”
“Aye. Sure. Thanks.”
Maddy finally found that William Crichton was in a room off ward 52. Coulter was waiting for her at the lift. Five minutes after the man had been officially declared dead.
“Without saying a word.” Coulter looked glum.
“Because he couldn’t?”
“Oh probably. But… Did Marion even ask him? I can see why she wouldn’t. Their last words … if there were any.” He put his hands in his pockets. Maddy knew him well enough to know it was a sign of stress. “I can’t tell you quite why, Maddy, but I get the feeling that they did talk. Well, exchange some words. And he decided not to tell.”
“Protecting his reputation? His legacy.”
“It’s what we all do, I suppose,” he sighed. “It’s certainly what everyone’s doing in this bloody mess. Him. Harkins. The Mrs Crichton and Miller…”
Where they were standing, she could see DS Russell and a policewoman along the corridor. She took Alan’s arm and led him round the corner where there was a little waiting area with seats.
“The fourth man. I keep trying to put a name, a face, to him.”
“Aren’t we all.”
“The medal I got. Like the one in the Miller house. The bullet put through my letter box. It’s all connected to Belvedere and Petrus and Costello.”
“Yeah, well, I worry about finding a story that seems to link everything, but—”
“Who else was involved, or even might look like they were involved, in all of that? Start with me.”
“You’re not a middle-aged man, and you’re alibied up to the hilt for that night.”
“Forbes Nairne.”
“He might be the next victim.”
“Even if he’d been deceived himself, it must look like he was party to the cover-up.”
“Talking of which. We found the Abbott file. Or box. Forensics are looking into it now. Looks like Kenny Boyd’s photograph is the real thing. I think you might have your proof for Petrus and the rest of them dumping toxic waste.”
She gave a bitter laugh. “After all this time. When it’s too late. For me anyway. But more, for the poor buggers who suffered as a result.” She looked down, and remembered that she was dressed in old joggers and even older, crumpled, shirt. She must look like a madwoman. “What about Maxwell Binnie?”
“Your boss?”
“He’s the PF. He’s the one whose name gets in the papers. Or Crawford Robertson?”
“My boss?”
“Local bigwig in the police. Neither of them have been exactly helpful throughout this entire investigation. And didn’t you say that these Glocks originated in the police stockpile?”
Coulter had been trying hard not to think about that. “Stolen from the police stockpile. Are we talking fourth man in the restaurant here, Maddy, or next victim?”
“Either. Both?”
“In that case you might as well add my name to the list.”
“Or Detective Sergeant John Russell.”
Coulter almost laughed. “What the hell’s he got to do with it? You’re just saying that because you don’t like him.”
“I freaking hate the guy.”
They heard voices approaching. Russell and WPC Morrison stopped at the lift without noticing Maddy and Coulter, who sat stiff and silent, like schoolchildren, until the lift door had closed.
Along at Crichton’s room they looked in on the recently deceased William Crichton. They’d left him alone with Marion for a while. Maddy tried to remember the man she had vaguely known before all this began. The man who she’d thought was pleasant, quiet, decent. But all she could bring to mind was the night he’d come to her house. The excuses. The special pleading. The arrogance and angst of a minor-league bully.
Marion Miller was standing stock-still, her back to Bill, staring out the window. Morning had finally come forth, and with more confidence than it had indicated. There was even a chance that it might turn out to be that most elusive of things, a bright early spring day in the West of Scotland.
Seemingly out of nowhere – she was wearing gel-soled trainers – Clare Crichton appeared. She walked straight past them and into her husband’s room. Maddy felt Coulter tense, bracing himself in his policeman’s way for trouble to erupt between the women. Clare did not give her husband a glance, but went straight over to Marion. Miller couldn’t have heard her either, when she turned they saw the double surprise on her face. That someone had come in. And that that someone was her lover’s wife.
The women said nothing. Marion’s eyes burning, waiting to see what she was going to have to deal with, getting ready to hit back. But Clare simply took her hand, and held it. Marion looked down at their clasped hands as though they belonged to other people.
“It’s okay,” Clare Crichton said, and put her arm on Marion’s shoulder
It took Marion a moment to react. When she did it wasn’t so much a look of surprise on her face, as relief, then tearful gratitude. Clare slowly and gently led her over towards the door. Again, without a backward glance at Bill.
Coulter had to move back to let them pass. “Where are you going?”
Clare stopped, and looked at him. “What were you expecting, inspector? The virago? A she-devil? Is that what you were hoping for?” She looked at Maddy, with distaste. “This woman needs looking after. So do I.” She led Marion, who followed compliantly, in a dwam, along the corridor. “You’ve been following us both for weeks, so don’t worry, I’m not going to do anything terrible. I never have.”
They watched the two of them go. Anyone passing would have mistaken them for recently bereaved sisters.
“Do you trust her?” Coulter asked.
Maddy thought for a moment. “Yes. Yes I do.”
Coulter, however, was on his phone, making sure there was a detail on them.
Maddy remembered about Louis. “Louis’ here. You want a coffee?”
“Louis Casci? Here?”
She just smiled. But before they got to the café, Coulter’s phone buzzed several times. He’d been turning it off – this being a hosp
ital – and the messages had been stacking up. He was reading them and walking, until one of them stopped him in his tracks. It came with an attachment that took up all his attention.
“What is it?”
He didn’t hear her. She stepped back and looked at his phone. Photographs of documents, some of them soaked, eroded, the print smeared. Then more images, some of them enlarged and possibly digitally enhanced. Close-ups of dates, signatures.
“October 2010. That’d be, what, eighteen months before construction started at Belvedere?”
“Five months before JCG Miller’s case file was compiled.”
“And what’s that signature there?”
Coulter didn’t wait for an answer but closed the attachment down and made a call. “Terry? I think I can see what your photographs are suggesting. But you tell me.”
Maddy looked on as Coulter mumbled “yes”, and “I see”, and “can you be sure” for what seemed like twenty minutes but was probably less than one. When he finished the call she spoke before he did:
“Forbes Nairne had seen and signed off a different set of evidence, before the one he threw out?”
“And both were sent to him by Julian Miller.”
“With all the photographs proving the site hadn’t been properly sealed?”
“Maddy. Don’t jump to conclusions. Only Terry Walls, this forensics guy, and now you and I have seen these. We need specialists to look at them in greater detail. We need confirmation of times and dates.”
“Jesus.” Maddy looked shocked. “Forbes Nairne was the fourth man? In cahoots with Miller and Hughes?”
“Slow down. Bloody hell, you say you hate John Russell but you’re just like him. It’s a crucial step forward, and hopefully it’ll take us closer to understand what’s been happening here, but—”
“In which case, he’s undoubtedly on the killer’s list.”