Her flat in Glasgow. Her lovely flat in the west end of the city with its high ceilings and original Edwardian windows now belonged to a young couple from Carlisle. It was signed, sealed and gone from her life. Now there really was no going back. Not for the first time, Clare wondered if she had done the right thing. Had she sleepwalked through the past few months, not really knowing what she was doing?
She went to the wine rack and pulled out a bottle of Chianti. In the warm May evening it was at the perfect temperature and she poured herself a large glass, spooning the lasagne out onto a plate. Benjy, smelling the pasta, trotted up, his nose in the air but he was to be disappointed. Clare sat at the table, poring over the letter and eating mechanically.
When she had finished, she loaded her plate and cutlery into the dishwasher and took the wine glass and bottle into the sitting room. She placed these on a small table and sat down with her feet up on the brown, leather settee. Benjy jumped up and settled down beside her, burrowing into her legs. It was warm and comforting and Clare wondered if she might like to have her own wee dog. Particularly if it was as affectionate as Benjy. The flat was gone now, netting her a tidy profit. Maybe she could make a life for herself here in St Andrews. Buy her own flat – a house, even. There were quite a few estate agents dotted along South Street she could visit. Was it time to think about settling down?
But then she remembered. That couldn’t happen, not until she knew about…
An impulse seized her, and she jumped up, making Benjy bark. She went quickly to the kitchen table and picked up the long, cream envelope, weighing it in her hands for a few moments, then carried it back to the settee and carefully peeled back the seal.
She knew what it was before she read it.
And there it was. The news she had expected but also dreaded.
Confirmation that the family of the late Francis Ritchie had applied to the high court to pursue a private prosecution against Clare for his murder.
It was a year ago now. Thirteen months, actually. And she could see it as clearly as if it had happened yesterday.
The screams of the woman in the off licence… screaming for her life? Clare didn’t know – no one did – they had no idea what was going on in that shop. Didn’t know the guns were replicas. Didn’t know the shopkeeper wasn’t in any real danger. Not from the guns, at least.
She was an experienced firearms officer and it was a textbook operation. Well rehearsed. They took up positions. The negotiator tried to speak to them on the phone. Then the other lad had ripped the phone off the wall and suddenly it was quiet inside the shop. No sound from the woman. Had they killed her? Produced a knife and stuck it in between her ribs?
And then he came out of the shop. Francis Ritchie. Just fifteen years old but looking older; toting a gun like a seasoned gangster. The gun that wasn’t a gun. Only, they didn’t know that. And he was pointing it right at Clare. She had a Kevlar vest on but that wouldn’t stop him hitting her in the head, or the femoral artery.
Clare’s mouth was dry and she reached over for the glass of wine, draining it in one go.
She saw him steady himself. He was going to shoot. She was sure of it. Semi-automatic. How many could he kill? She took the decision and the shot rang out. Clare was good at her job and it only took one shot.
‘Killed him outright,’ she told Benjy who simply wagged his tail in response. Clare wished she could wag her tail.
Tom had been beside himself. ‘You could have been killed,’ he said. ‘I could have lost you.’
And he had lost her. He had lost her the minute the Ritchie family engaged Tom’s employer to represent them.
The Ritchies had chosen well. Jamieson Curr were well known in Glasgow as the champions of lost causes. Tom himself had won many a court case for them, against the odds. He had stepped back from this one, of course. Clare knew that much. Conflict of interest, he said, and she believed him. But the fact remained that every morning he kissed her goodbye and went to work for the enemy. Or that was how Clare saw it.
The Fatal Accident Inquiry drew near. Clare asked Tom to take the week off work. She had hoped he might come with her, sit alongside her in a gesture of solidarity. Show the world where his loyalties lay. But he said he was better being occupied. Better with something to do. She didn’t ask him again; and, every day, she went to the Inquiry with only her federation rep for support.
The Ritchies had sat at the front, flanked by two of Tom’s partners. Rumour was that the newspapers were paying their fees.
The evenings were tense. Tom was solicitous, cooking stir-fries, pasta bakes, even fillet steaks one night. He set the table while Clare languished in the baths he ran for her. He lit candles, put on music and opened the wine to breathe. They ate. Tom chatted, even daring to ask how the Inquiry was going.
‘Fine,’ was all Clare would say. ‘It’s fine.’
After dinner they watched TV, avoiding news reports of the Inquiry, Clare opting for an easy chair, rather than her usual place beside Tom on the settee.
At night, in bed, they lay back-to-back, clinging to their respective sides, pretending to sleep. Tom always fell asleep first. Clare who, by now, was spoiling for a fight, found this hard to forgive. How could he fall asleep when the air was so heavy with tension?
And they went through this same routine every day for a week. It was the most exhausting week of Clare’s life.
* * *
On the final day of the Inquiry the verdict was delivered at lunchtime. She was exonerated of course. Praised for potentially saving lives. There was even a slight nod of respect from one of Tom’s colleagues.
Her federation rep wanted to buy her lunch. Bit of a celebration, he said. Clare politely declined. Said she just wanted to go home and take a long bath. But she didn’t go home. She found a quiet pub and ordered a bottle of red. She sat in the corner, her phone on silent, watching a succession of calls from Tom. He would know the verdict by now. His colleagues would be back at the office and he would know. She finished the bottle then ordered another. The barman looked at her, suggested she go home. Clare had told him to fuck off and left the pub. She found another pub and drank some more. And every time Tom tried calling her she poured another glass.
She left the pub at closing time and the fresh air hit her like a brick. And when she finally fell up the steps to her flat, grazing her knee and chipping a tooth in the process, she found Tom asleep on the settee, and the remains of a shepherd’s pie on top of the cooker.
The next morning he had tried to tell her he was glad. Relieved it was over and that she’d been praised for her actions. But Clare didn’t want to hear it. She knew then that it was too late. Tom was a Jamiesons’ man and she could never forgive him that.
And so she had put her flat on the market and applied for a transfer. Anywhere, she had said. Anywhere away from Glasgow.
They had all tried. Her parents, friends, her sister Judith and her colleagues. Tried to persuade her to stay. It’s a rough patch, they had said, bound to pass. Just give yourself time. But Clare had been determined. She wasn’t one to wait around for things to improve. If they weren’t right, it was time to go.
‘Would you like me to come with you?’ Tom had asked. ‘Start again somewhere new.’
But she knew he didn’t mean it. Give up his career for her. Especially when he didn’t think he’d done anything wrong. If she was being completely honest, Clare didn’t think he’d done anything wrong either. But things had changed between them and she could be with him no longer.
And then the post in St Andrews had become vacant and she had grabbed it.
‘You sure?’ her DCI had asked. ‘Maybe give things time to settle down.’
But she had been sure. And here she was now, in this rented house with this borrowed dog, investigating a double murder with an arse for a DCI breathing down her neck.
And the Ritchies were coming for her.
Clare poured herself another glass of wine and began the process of
drinking herself into oblivion.
Chapter 10
Tuesday, 21st May
Clare woke early on Tuesday morning. Even with the blackout blinds she could see it was light outside, but she had no idea of the time. Her head felt thick from the wine and she reached for the glass of water at her bedside, draining it in one go.
She checked her phone and was relieved to find no messages or missed calls. Then she heard Benjy, clearly unsettled in his new surroundings. She had made him a bed at the top of the stairs with her spare room duvet, enticing him there with a trail of dog biscuits. But now, thanks to the sun rising just after five, he was awake and looking for attention.
She padded across the floor and opened the door. He rushed in, tail going nineteen to the dozen.
‘You know what?’ she said to his upturned face, ‘I think I’m going to miss you.’ She shoved her feet into slippers and went downstairs, the dog at her heels. In the kitchen, she freshened his water and poured some of his dried food into the other ice cream tub. How often did you feed a dog? She hadn’t a clue. Still, he would be reunited with Jennifer Gilmartin this afternoon, once Jim brought her back from the airport. Jennifer’s flight was due in just after two o’clock so hopefully Jim would have her in St Andrews by four. In a bizarre coincidence, DCI Gibson had booked her a room at the Kenlybank Hotel, where Andy Robb had met his fate on Saturday night. But it was no longer a crime scene and only a few miles from her home, so it made sense.
‘Get to the airport a bit early, please, Jim,’ Clare had said, when the DCI was out of earshot. ‘I want to make absolutely sure that she did go to Amsterdam and that she’s only flying back today. Not a word to anyone else, mind?’
The dog food disappeared almost as quickly as Clare had put it out. She squinted at the instructions on the pack and reckoned she’d probably underfed him, so she poured some more into the tub. Again, he devoured it as if he hadn’t seen food for days. She opened the back door to let Benjy out and he scampered off to find somewhere to pee. The phone rang. Clare’s heart sank. But then she saw it was her sister and made an effort to brighten.
‘Jude. Great to hear from you.’ Her voice was husky from the wine and she cleared her throat. ‘Are you all okay? It’s a bit early for a chat.’ Clare could hear whimpering in the background. ‘How’s my nephew?’
‘Teething, which is why I’m up at stupid o’clock. Again.’
‘Oh God. Remind me not to have kids.’
‘Listen, Clare, Mum rang me. Tom was round—’
Clare’s heart sank. ‘Don’t tell me. He told her about the private prosecution.’
‘Yes. You never mentioned it. When did you find out?’
‘The letter came a few days ago. Just haven’t had time to open it.’
‘Ten days ago, Tom told Mum. Look, Clare, she’s worried about you. Dad too. We all are.’
Clare sighed. ‘Jude, there’s nothing I can do about it. It’s gone to the Lord Advocate for a decision. If he thinks there’s sufficient evidence to proceed against me it’ll go to court. If not, it won’t.’
‘But Tom said—’
‘Tom is irrelevant.’
Benjy started to scratch at the back door, but Clare was too distracted to notice.
‘Oh Clare, come on. That’s not true. He still loves you. You know he does.’
Clare was dying for a coffee. She put the phone on speaker and filled the kettle.
‘You could come back to Glasgow, you know,’ Jude went on. ‘Tom said he’d heard they were missing you. I think he misses you too…’
‘Tom…’ Clare began, then she didn’t know what else to say.
‘Clare, he knows how difficult it was for you. I think he genuinely regrets not being more of a support. Maybe if you met you could…’
‘Jude, I can’t talk to you about Tom. He’s part of that time in Glasgow. I had to leave it behind. And now this prosecution might happen, well – until I know – I can’t think about Tom, or anyone else.’
‘Tom says…’
There was a muffled wuff from outside, and then another, but Clare was too busy fending off her sister.
‘What Tom says doesn’t matter any more, Jude. I wanted him with me. At the Inquiry. I wanted him there and he wouldn’t come.’
‘Yes I know, Clare. But think how difficult it was for him, with Jamiesons representing the Ritchies. He was in a tricky position.’
‘Oh yeah,’ Clare said, her voice harder than she had meant. ‘He was having a really hard time!’
Benjy was barking now. The kettle came to the boil with a rush of steam. Clare spooned coffee into the cafetière as her sister continued to plead Tom’s case.
‘But he was there for you, wasn’t he? Oh maybe not at the Inquiry but – Clare, is that a dog I can hear?’
Clare opened the door to let an excited Benjy back in. He wagged his tail at her. She raised her eyebrows at him, indicating the phone.
‘It’s a long story,’ Clare said. ‘I’ll fill you in later but I’ve a double murder on the go just now.’
‘Phone me when you can then, yeah?’
‘I will. And tell Mum and Dad to stop worrying. Tom did message me to recommend a shit-hot criminal advocate so, if it comes to it, I’ll be well represented. And the federation will pay the fees. Now I really must go, Jude. Kiss James for me.’
Clare put down her phone and watched Benjy. He was chasing his tail round and round in her sitting room and had already knocked the TV remote control to the floor. ‘Looks like someone could do with a walk.’
* * *
Clare arrived at the station just before eight, feeling as if she’d done half a day’s work already. Was it always this tiring, having a dog? Benjy, now fed and exercised, resumed his position on the front office counter from where he kept a beady eye on the morning’s events. At half past eight, DCI Gibson called a briefing.
‘Before we start, we’re joined by three detectives from Edinburgh. Connor, Steve and Phil – appreciate your help, lads. Make them welcome, please, everyone.’
The three newcomers sat perched on desks in near-identical sharp suits. One was looking round the room without enthusiasm. The others nodded their thanks and the DCI carried on.
‘So, Inspector, what do we know about the brewery?’
Clare moved to where she could see everyone clearly. ‘Bruce Gilmartin was a popular boss, staff mostly upset, although the general manager seems over keen to step into his boss’s shoes. Otherwise, the business appears healthy – they’re planning a takeover of rivals near Dundee. McMillan’s.’
‘Which we know is unwelcome.’
‘Yes. I spoke to the MD yesterday but don’t think there’s anything there to interest us. They weren’t friends but she seemed genuinely shocked by Mr Gilmartin’s death.’
‘Okay,’ the DCI said. ‘Anything else?’
‘His PA said he did charity work on Thursday nights. Chris is looking into local charities to find out if he had any links with them.’
‘Any luck?’ The DCI looked over at Chris.
‘Sorry, sir,’ Chris said. ‘Nothing so far.’
‘I can help with that,’ Jim offered, and Chris nodded his thanks.
The DCI turned back to Clare. ‘What about his bank statements? You took them home last night, Inspector.’
‘Sorry, sir – after feeding the dog, then myself, I fell asleep.’
‘Make that a priority this morning, then.’
Clare nodded. Jim raised a hand.
‘Sergeant?’ The DCI looked faintly nettled by the interruption.
‘I brought back a file of papers from the house. I think there are some credit card statements there.’
‘Let me have them, Jim, and I’ll go through them too,’ Clare said.
The phone rang and Chris went to answer it.
‘Now, we hope to hear back from Tech Support this morning,’ the DCI said. ‘With luck, they’ll pick something up from the computers DS West took down last night. Who
ever takes that call: I want to be informed immediately.’
A few cops nodded at this and he continued.
‘Anyone been round the pubs and hotels to ask about Thursday nights?’
‘Not yet, boss, but it’s on the list.’ Clare told him.
‘Let’s get that done today, then. Photos of both victims please.’
Clare looked at the Edinburgh lads. ‘Sara will help you with a list of likely places and the locations.’
They nodded but said nothing. One of them, Phil, looked Sara up and down then gave her a wink. She returned his gaze, her face stony.
Chris returned. ‘SOCO,’ he told them.
DCI Gibson raised an eyebrow. ‘And?’
‘They managed to cast part of a tyre track at the Gilmartins’ house. It’s not a great imprint, so they can’t be absolutely sure, but it does look like the same kind of tyre that ran over Andy Robb. On balance, they reckon it’s probably a match. Definitely not the Gilmartins’ Range Rover, though.’
‘And the numbered cards?’ Clare asked.
He shook his head. ‘Clear prints on both, but not the same person and neither set of prints on the system.’
‘What sort of murderer leaves a card on a body covered with his prints?’ Phil asked.
‘It’s a fair point,’ Clare said. ‘I’m guessing, as the prints aren’t on our system, they didn’t see it as a problem. Not everyone’s that way minded.’
Phil shrugged at this.
‘So, it might not be the same vehicle,’ DCI Gibson said.
‘No. But it’s a bit of a stretch having two near-identical cars running folk over,’ Chris said.
‘I agree,’ said Clare. ‘There’s the similarity in MO plus the similarity in the tyre tracks.’
‘But there’s something else,’ Chris went on. ‘The first card – the one with the number five on it – doesn’t have a full set of prints.’
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