Pitch Black (book 5)

by Alex Gray

  Janis Faulkner’s court case, he suddenly thought. If she’d killed her husband, was there anything stopping her from passing on details about the murder weapon? How would that work to her advantage? If she’d killed him, she might well be latching on to these two subsequent murders to obfuscate her own part in Nicko’s death. Already Greer was dropping huge hints that all three killings were linked. Judgement by media, Lorimer thought grimly. It was happening all too often now. How the hell anyone got a fair trial these days was beyond him. He paused, one finger in the air. If Janis Faulkner’s story was true, that she had left before her husband had come home – but what if she was lying? What if she had discovered Nicko’s body but not touched anything, what if she had recognised that bread knife as one of theirs? In fact, she could be experiencing flashbacks from the murder scene. And had she spoken to anyone about what she recalled? Lorimer nodded to himself. It was a feasible theory. Janis Faulkner might well be innocent of her husband’s murder but was she sticking to a story that would show her up in a better light? After all, what manner of wife would leave her husband bleeding to death?

  The M9 was full of rush-hour commuters as Lorimer swung the Lexus into the outside lane towards Stirling. Through the mist he caught glimpses of the castle, high upon its rocky outcrop, a fortress towering over the carse below. And there, pointing skyward, the pencil tip of the Wallace Monument. It never failed to give him the same rush of pride. Whatever William Wallace had been in his own day, he was an icon in this twenty-first century when Scotland badly needed some heroes. Lorimer smiled ruefully. They weren’t likely to find many of those sporting a Scotland football jersey, despite the efforts of people like Pat Kennedy. Yet to lots of wee boys, there were heroes out on the parks every week, fighting battles for promotion or relegation.

  His smile faded into a frown. What was likely to happen to Kelvin after this season? Could they possibly hope to recover from the events of these past weeks? During the summer, Kennedy had stated publicly that his team would be certain to achieve Premier League status next year. They’d just been relegated by a single point last season. And with the combination of Faulkner and White, he’d sounded confident that they were on to a winner. The twin creases between his eyes deepened as Lorimer considered the implications of these deaths. Was it too far-fetched to harbour the notion that someone was deliberately trying to sabotage Kelvin FC?

  His thoughts were left in a cloud bubble as a line of traffic cones forced him to slow down and join the inside lane. Now the city was looming up through the drizzle, the parapets of Stirling Castle almost invisible in their shroud of mist. He’d asked them not to alert Janis Faulkner about his arrival: he didn’t want to lose any advantage this unexpected visit might achieve.

  CHAPTER 29

  She didn’t mean to let him see how she felt. It was as if they were both back on that quayside in Mull, his glance piercing through to a panic she wanted to suppress. Then she had let her guard slip, the way one does to a stranger that passes by, never to be encountered again. Yet some odd quirk of fate had placed them together. He’d towered over her as he entered the room and she found herself admiring his physique. She’d always fallen for the sporty types and Janis could swear that DCI Lorimer had been a keen sportsman in another life. But it was the look in his eyes that had undone her reserve; a mixture of pity and – what could she call it? Was it interest or curiosity? With a sudden realisation she saw that he was prepared to like her. So she’d smiled and now he was offering her his hand across the table that separated them, before bending his tall frame into the plastic prison seat.

  ‘Thank you for agreeing to see me,’ he said, still looking at her with those disconcerting light-blue eyes.

  Janis pulled her hands away and hid them out of sight below the table, anxious that he would not see her fingernails digging into the soft flesh of her palms.

  ‘That’s okay,’ she replied, hoping for nonchalance. But the sound coming from her lips was a strangled croak, as if she’d forgotten how to make polite conversation.

  Lorimer nodded and gave a small smile of his own. She cursed inwardly. Voices were a great giveaway and now he’d know that she was nervous, though she’d tried to make her handshake firm and she was still holding his gaze.

  ‘How have you been?’

  His question was so unexpected and asked in a tone of such gentleness that Janis felt the beginning of tears behind her eyelids. He wasn’t supposed to be doing this. He was there to deal with her case, not to make her feel so vulnerable. For a moment she wanted him to come around that table and take her in these strong arms, to hold her and tell her that everything would be all right. But some inner sense told her that if she wasn’t careful this surge of self-pity would betray her completely.

  So, ‘Fine,’ she said, trying to inject some lightness into her tone. ‘It’s a real holiday camp.’

  ‘Not spending your days stitching mail bags, then?’

  ‘Actually it’s not that bad,’ she said. ‘There’s a good educational programme and plenty of stuff to do, really. Some of them are better off here than they are at home.’

  Lorimer nodded. ‘I know,’ he said. ‘But you’re not one of them, Janis, are you?’

  At last her gaze dropped and she knew he could see the struggle to maintain an outward calm.

  ‘Tell me about finding Nicko. Was he dead when you came home that night?’

  Janis sat bolt upright, feeling the colour draining from her face. She glanced to one side, making a mute appeal to the female prison officer who stood motionless by the door. But that one was staring straight ahead as if she couldn’t see or hear a thing.

  Janis bit her lip. It was decision time. What she said now might very well seal her fate.

  ‘He was dead,’ she replied, her voice husky.

  ‘Tell me what you remember about his appearance.’

  Janis swallowed. Was he trying to trick her into something? But a quick look from under her dampened lashes showed her that same concerned expression.

  ‘He was lying on his back,’ she began. ‘There was all this blood …’ Her voice tailed off in a whisper.

  ‘What about the knife?’

  ‘I – the knife?’ Janis looked up. Her mouth was open but no words came. Licking her lips, she stalled for time. What had it looked like?

  ‘God, this is a nightmare!’ she said at last. ‘Do I have to try to see it all again?’

  His gaze told her that she did, so, closing her eyes, Janis Faulkner visualised the last time she had seen her husband.

  ‘It was sticking out of his chest,’ she began, shuddering at the memory.

  I was terrified he’d get up and come for me again.

  ‘Someone had stabbed him. I could see it was our bread knife, the one with the serrated edge.’

  I just wanted to get away from there.

  ‘I just wanted to get away from there. Can’t you understand?’

  ‘Didn’t you think to feel for a pulse? Or to phone someone? Like a doctor or the police, perhaps?’

  Janis opened her mouth to protest.

  Does he think I’m some sort of monster?

  ‘No. I was frightened.’

  ‘So you ran away?’

  He made it sound so reasonable. Yes, she’d run away. Who wouldn’t under those circumstances?

  Janis nodded. ‘That’s why they think I did it, isn’t it?’

  He didn’t reply but continued to look at her as though he could understand her. Suddenly he reminded her of Lachie. She’d trusted Lachie all her life. Maybe she could trust this man too?

  ‘It must have been some lunatic,’ she insisted. ‘Look at these other deaths. It’s obviously the work of some mad person.’

  ‘Did you tell anybody about the knife?’

  Janis frowned, puzzled. What was he harping on about the knife for? Why wasn’t he listening to her?

  ‘What d’you mean?’

  ‘Have you described the murder weapon to anybody?’

/>   ‘No, of course not. I mean, I only just told you I was there after he died...’

  ‘Tell me again. Where had you been that night?’

  ‘I – out at the gym. I came home and found him in the kitchen...’

  Where is he going with this?

  ‘You told your solicitor you’d left the house earlier after a quarrel with your husband. That he’d given you one beating too many and you decided to leave him.’

  The voice was more matter-of-fact now, less cosy. She chewed on her lower lip, considering.

  ‘That seemed to be the best thing to say,’ she said slowly, watching as he nodded. ‘I didn’t want to seem a heartless bitch. And anyway, I was going to leave him.’

  ‘After all the terrible things he’d done to you,’ Lorimer agreed, still nodding his head.

  ‘I didn’t kill him,’ she said suddenly. ‘And there’s no proof that I did.’

  There’s no forensic trace to link you with the murder, Marion Peters had told her.

  ‘A jury would understand the provocation that might drive a woman to kill her husband,’ Lorimer suggested.

  Janis shook her head. She wasn’t going down that road, not now and not ever.

  ‘So, up until now nobody knows that you recognised the murder weapon?’

  What was it with the knife? Why was it so important?

  ‘No.’ Yet even as she spoke, Janis felt the sweat break out on her palms. Had she heard Marion Peters discuss the murder weapon? And what exactly had she told that reporter? For an instant she was about to mention Jimmy Greer but something stopped her.

  The DCI was leaning back in his seat, hands stroking his chin as he considered her. Janis froze. Had it all been a game? Could he see through her story and its shreds of truth and lies? Now he was on his feet and she stood up too.

  ‘Thank you for seeing me today,’ he was saying. She felt the warmth of his fingers clasp her own, then, giving a small smile and a nod to the prison officer, he was gone.

  For the first time since coming into Cornton Vale, Janis Faulkner felt utterly bereft.

  CHAPTER 30

  ‘I think you ought to go and see your client,’ Lorimer told Marion Peters. ‘She’s just told me that she was in the kitchen after her husband was killed.’

  ‘What?’

  Lorimer could imagine the lawyer’s expression of disbelief. In the ensuing conversation he tried to maintain a neutral tone but he feared his excitement was palpable. Janis Faulkner’s story could be true. Maybe she had come upon her husband’s body like she’d said. But if she had, why scarper like that? Unless she’d worried that she’d be fingered for the crime. He’d seen other cases where perfectly innocent people had reacted in a panic, only to plunge themselves into a bad light. It happened. But even as Lorimer tried to visualise the scene in that kitchen he wondered how the woman had felt. Hadn’t she realised that her dead husband couldn’t harm her ever again?

  Maybe there had been occasions when Janis Faulkner had considered plunging that knife into Nicko’s chest. And maybe she had reacted once she’d seen the visible result of all her guilty thoughts.

  He sighed. That was something for her lawyer to deal with now. He steepled his fingers against his chin, wondering yet again at how much truth had been in the woman’s words. Had she told anyone about that knife? Or was it simply a bizarre coincidence that an identical one had been plunged into Donnie Douglas’s shirt?

  Not for the first time DCI Lorimer wished he could talk things over with Dr Solomon Brightman.

  Donnie slumped down beside the riverbank, his trainers sending up small puffs of dust as their heels skidded against the dried ground.

  What had he done?

  He recalled the way he had stormed around his room, smashing stuff in a fit of rage. It was like his old man all over again. He’d smashed faces into walls, irrespective of whether they belonged to friend or foe. Even his family had come in for that sort of treatment. And violence had bred violence. That’s why he’d got out. Not just because the old man was in the nick. That was bad enough. But to stay, tainted with the name of being ‘one of those Douglas boys’ was more than he could stand.

  He’d never minded that they called him the quiet one, the baby of the family; he’d been lucky, indulged as he was by his older brothers and protected from the worse excesses of their brutish father. They’d been proud of the way he’d shown talent from an early age, kicking a ball about the playground then being chosen for the school team. None of the Douglas boys had bothered with school except Donnie and it was the footie that had kept him there until the day a scout from Inverness Calley Thistle had spotted him in a schoolboys’ league cup-final. That had been his ticket to better days and he’d taken it without a backward glance. Being transferred to Kelvin had been a dream. Not only had it taken him away from the residual influence of his family, but it had been a new start of a different sort: nobody down here had known who he was. His teammates just thought of him as Donnie, the number eight mid-fielder. And if his accent wasn’t pure Glasgow, what did that matter? There were English boys and others from farther afield, like Leo. He’d been accepted for what he was and so far nothing but the game had really mattered.

  Donnie heard a sound and lifted his head, suddenly aware that it was a groan escaping from his own lips. What had he done? He shook his head as if the memories could be as easily shaken from his mind. He’d run away from it all, terrified of the consequences, imagining the disgust on the faces of his mates when they found out.

  And he’d compounded his sin by absenting himself from the squad. Mr Clark would never take him back. He’d ruined everything now. What was it they called it in the army? Going AWOL. That’s what he’d done.

  He lifted his head at the sudden thought. Maybe he should join up? That’s what blokes did in this situation. They joined the French Foreign Legion. Or maybe he could simply disappear.

  He looked up and down the riverbank. Masses of rosebay willow herb stained the slopes a bright pink and butterflies were dotting their way from bloom to bloom like drunken men on a pub crawl. Donnie envied the easy way they swayed from one flower to the next. He wouldn’t mind coming back as a butterfly if all that stuff about reincarnation were true.

  Shading his eyes from the sun, he gazed at the shapes of houses on the southern bank of the river. There were rows and rows of white houses with dark sloping roofs and, here and there, a patch of grass between. People were going about their lives over there doing normal things. How did it feel to belong to one of those houses: to close your door knowing the next day you’d open it again and be able to go out, free as a bird without a care in the world? He’d been sleeping rough for several nights now, making his way steadily downriver with no clear idea of his eventual destination, just following the instinct that had told him to get away.

  Donnie felt a lump gather in his throat. He missed his wee flat. It had been the first real place he’d had of his own. What he’d done had cost him that and so much more. He couldn’t go home. And he sure as hell couldn’t go back to Glasgow. So where on earth was he going to go?

  CHAPTER 31

  SHOCK DISCOVERY AT KELVIN FC

  The body of a dead footballer was what they saw on arrival at Kelvin Park this morning. But closer inspection revealed it to be a dummy figure dressed in the number eight strip, the one usually worn by missing player Donnie Douglas. Players and staff at the club are still recovering from shock at the discovery.

  A large kitchen knife had been stuck into the ‘body’, a macabre reconstruction of the death of player Nicko Faulkner. The words ‘KILL KENNEDY’ were scrawled in red paint on the boot room wall. Douglas is still officially listed as a missing person and now there must be real concerns for his safety. It has also emerged that there have been other threats to Kelvin chairman Kennedy in recent days.

  Sources close to the Gazette have been informed that Strathclyde Police are treating this as merely some sort of hoax. A possible reason for this is that the foot
ball team’s boot room is the source of alleged sightings of football legend Ronnie Rankin, or what some folk believe to be his ghost. Only last week one of the apprentices had to be taken off boot room duties after a scare.

  ‘It’s terrible that someone is trying to upset the team at a time when they are still struggling to get over the shock of the recent murder of their two teammates and the referee Norrie Cartwright,’ said manager Ron Clark.

  Whether or not this is the work of the triple killer has been the question uppermost in players’ minds. And what Gazette readers must be wondering is what sort of sick mind is behind this latest development and how long it will take for an arrest to be made.

  Jimmy Greer

  The reporter leaned back, a small laugh escaping from his thin lips. Sick mind? Aye, well, he supposed that was true enough. Inventive, though. Surely they’d grant him that. He’d love to have been a fly on the wall when they’d found the dummy. Pity there was no chance of a photo, but, hey, you couldn’t have everything. At least this kept the story alive for a bit longer, just what his editor wanted. The public would lap this up like a cat drinking cream; they just loved sensation and Jimmy Greer was the wee boy to give it to them. He put his hands behind his head, chuckling to himself. This one would run and run. Janis Faulkner’s case would see to that. In a way, he told himself, it was no bad thing they hadn’t caught the killer yet. Speculation sold more papers. And he could take the occasional dig at DCI flamin’ Lorimer so long as the SIO was still apparently clueless. Sick mind? They didnae know the half of it!

  Albert Little folded up the newspaper, heart thumping. Kelvin FC was looking like a laughing stock, now. There were all sorts of rumours flying around about one of the boys doing it as a joke. Clark and Stevenson had hauled them all up but not one of them had confessed to the mess in the boot room. He’d wanted to clean it up right away and had been horrified to find police photographers and forensic technicians crawling all over the place. Eventually, after much grumbling, he was being allowed to whitewash over the lurid red letters. For the first time since all those incidents, the groundsman felt a sense of unease as he filled the brush and swept it over the offending graffiti. He turned around more than once, the hairs on the back of his neck prickling, but there was nobody there, just a feeling of intense cold and the sense of being watched.