Only the Dead Can Tell

by Alex Gray

  Several nail bars in the city had been targeted and the girls who worked there identified, many of them illegal immigrants suspected of having been trafficked. There had been pressure from Immigration to swoop on them all but the MIT’s operation had taken precedence, the need to catch those responsible for trafficking of far greater importance. A few of the girls were regular employees of the salons, mostly teenagers who were doing City and Guilds courses with the hope of furthering their careers in the beauty business. None of them knew that their journeys to and from home had been carefully monitored by police officers, nor that their Eastern European handlers were being watched day and night.

  Night-times had been the hardest for the surveillance team, knowing that some of these young women were being used for prostitution and yet until today they had been helpless to do much about it, secrecy being paramount. Most of the men who had frequented the dark alleys and tenement buildings had been identified and now, as the clock ticked towards five-thirty, each and every one would be brought to account.

  Lorimer felt the tension in his chest, the familiar adrenalin rush that always came at moments like this. One false move and the entire operation could collapse, leaving officers scrambling to capture whom they could. But it wouldn’t go wrong. Everything had been put into place and all were waiting now for one word from the detective superintendent, who sat silently staring up at the row of windows beneath the dark grey slates.

  He saw the man next to him turn his head, a question in his eyes. Lorimer nodded and reached for his radio.

  ‘Foxtrot One to all units . . . Go!’

  The once deserted street was immediately teeming with men in riot gear, booted feet racing up the tenement stairs, the detective superintendent watching them go. He would wait here a little longer, see that every device was in place, then make his way up the three flights of stone steps to the brothel at the top of the building.

  Somewhere in these pale forget-me-not-blue skies a drone was hovering, watching and recording all that was happening in the city street. Later, many eyes would inspect its footage but right now he was part of its creation.

  The sound of the battering ram reached Lorimer’s ears as he climbed the steps, looking upwards, noticing an officer placed at each landing door, keeping the other residents safe from the disturbance.

  A splintering of wood, a crash, then screams . . . his feet hurried up the remaining flights of stairs, grim-faced officers nodding recognition as he passed them by.

  The door hung off its hinges as he slipped into the darkened hallway, voices yelling from different areas in the house.

  ‘What are you doing to me?’ a man’s voice protested as Lorimer walked along the corridor. Two officers had hold of a skinny wretch of a fellow dressed only in trousers and a dirty vest, his arms pulled behind him and fastened with handcuffs.

  ‘Who’s he?’ The man stopped struggling, jerking his head towards the detective superintendent.

  What did he see? A tall man in a raincoat, no helmet, no black clothing but clad in something that even this stranger recognised as authority.

  Lorimer’s mouth curled in the semblance of a smile.

  ‘Let him get a pair of shoes and a jacket,’ he said. ‘It’s cold outside.’

  Then, ignoring the man’s open-mouthed gape, he moved into the first room off the hall where a girl sat sobbing on the edge of a bed, a crumpled sheet hardly covering her naked body. Dark hair hung over a pale face and he could see her bare shoulders shaking.

  Lorimer bent down beside her till his eyes were level with hers.

  ‘It’s all right,’ he told her. ‘We’re from Police Scotland. We’re here to take care of you. Keep you safe.’

  But the brown eyes that met his were still filled with fear and now the girl’s entire body was trembling with shock.

  He made to pull the duvet across her shoulder but the girl gave a yelp of alarm, pulling back as if bracing herself for a blow.

  ‘Dear God, what have they done to you, lass?’ he murmured as she tried to make herself as small as possible, cowering against the pillow. ‘I’m here to help you,’ he said once more, his voice calm and gentle.

  She looked at him again, head tilted to one side as though she were absorbing his words then she shook her head.

  ‘No En-gleesh,’ she said at last.

  Lorimer nodded his understanding. God alone knew what nationality this shivering girl was. He looked around for something to cover her nakedness, saw a dressing gown hung on a hook behind the door and grabbed it.

  ‘Put this on,’ he told her. ‘You’re safe now, child. Whatever nightmare you’ve had, it’s over.’

  The tone of his voice must have reassured her as much as his kindly gesture of turning away for a few seconds to allow her to wrap herself in the gown because when he looked back, she was standing before him, arms hugging her body, resignation etched on her features as if something like this had happened before. Had she been dragged from place to place against her will? Used as no young girl ought to be used? The thoughts were fleeting as he led her out of the room and handed her over to one of the female officers who were now in the flat.

  She turned and looked at him for a moment, eyes solemn as though assessing this man who had entered her room and yet failed to touch her like all of the others. Then she put out a hand and he took it, shaking it briefly. As he let it go, he noticed the red nails, perfectly curved and polished to their fingertips. How would her story end? He might never find out but, as she let the officer take her along the corridor, Lorimer wished her a silent good luck.

  *

  Afterwards, there was the inevitable sensation of anticlimax tinged with relief. In his imagination Lorimer had seen other officers ramming doors, catching hold of screaming, frightened young women, cuffing their captors’ wrists. All over the city the same scenario had been played out. Girls from different ethnic origins were taken, bewildered and scared, to Aberdeen’s Divisional HQ; men were bundled into cars and vans; the dingy apartments where the girls had been kept examined by the forensics team. Already reports were being typed up, the police press officers readying themselves for the first conference where the man from Glasgow would make a statement.

  By nine o’clock it was all over, interview rooms and cells full of the men taken from these premises, calls from interpreters being swiftly answered. And hundreds of daily commuters now ready to begin their day’s work were blithely unaware that their journey across the Granite City had been preceded by such drama.

  CHAPTER THREE

  ‘Why on earth would she do it?’ Rosie muttered to herself. ‘Doesn’t make sense. And yet . . . ’ She pursed her lips in the determined manner to which her husband was accustomed. Sometimes, he had told her gently, she needed to step back from things a little more, consider the options. Well, as a consultant forensic pathologist, Rosie had done that all through her career. Nothing was ever set in stone; there were always statements made that considered likelihoods and possibilities. Only the dead could ever really tell what had happened. But the options here frightened her. They resembled far too closely that other case, the one she thought she’d put behind her a long time ago.

  Rosie heaved a sigh. Perhaps the PM would show a little more, or maybe the toxicology results might give an indication of what had been happening prior to death. If there was a large enough amount of drugs in her system then perhaps they could indicate a certain state of mind. Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps . . . Rosie frowned, irritated by the word drumming in her brain. She was tired already and there were hours to go till her working day ended.

  Baby appeared to have settled down again, his kicking spell over for the moment. Rosie’s hand circled the bulge under her smock, a gentle touch to let her child know she was thinking of him. She was so sure that this was a little boy; the pregnancy had been quite different from her first. And yet she and Solly had chosen not to find out . . . the mystery of birth was something too special for each of them. Besides, Abby had been
talking about wanting a wee brother; Chloe, her best friend at nursery, had a baby brother and it seemed logical to Abby that her own sibling should be a little boy. Well, she would have a while yet to wait, Rosie thought, moving the cushion on her chair to make herself a little more comfortable.

  Dorothy Guilford . . . She wrote the heading, wondering what words would follow once everything had been examined, tagged and dissected.

  ‘He’s got previous,’ DI McCauley told the offices standing outside the interview room.

  ‘Peter Guilford?’ Kirsty Wilson’s eyebrows rose in surprise. ‘But he’s . . . ’

  McCauley nodded. ‘I know who he is. Owns Guilford’s, the truck rental outfit. So what? Like I said,’ he repeated, ‘previous. Assault to severe injury. Did a spell inside years back.’ He looked at her sharply. ‘Been clean since then, but . . . ’ He shrugged and made a face. ‘Doesn’t mean to say he’s changed, just been clever enough or fly enough not to get caught beating up a woman.’

  ‘You think he killed his wife?’

  Kirsty saw the DI’s eyebrows lift as he gave her a knowing sort of look. ‘Don’t you?’ McCauley replied. ‘Statistically it’s the partner that does it; you know that and I know that but it’s proving it that makes our job so interesting, eh?’ He grinned.

  ‘No signs of forced entry,’ Kirsty agreed. ‘What are you going to ask him?’

  ‘Come in and see,’ McCauley offered, indicating the interview room. ‘Having a woman in there might help him open up a bit more anyway.’

  Despite herself, Kirsty gave a shiver of apprehension. Sitting in on an interview was not something she had done very often, and never here in Helen Street with a suspected murderer, though she’d already met some of those in her short career. Maybe DI McCauley was singling her out for special attention, saw some sort of promise in his detective constable?

  Yet it was a different thought that made Kirsty feel a little nervous: what if this was a genuinely grieving husband and they were about to accuse him of murder?

  Peter Guilford was sitting on his own, the polystyrene cup empty on the table. He looked up at the two figures entering the room, an expression of dismay on his face.

  ‘Do I have to be here long?’ he asked, shifting uncomfortably in the plastic chair. ‘Only I should be back home. Or at the office to let them know. So much to do . . . ’ He ran his hand across hair that had once been light brown and was now streaked with grey.

  ‘This shouldn’t take too long, sir,’ McCauley replied with a wintry smile. ‘We simply need to clarify what you told us earlier on, take a written statement from you.’

  Kirsty saw the relief in the man’s face, though the signs of strain were there: that furrowed brow and the downturned lips. His shoulders were high with tension, too, she noted as she tried hard to remain objective, battling against the natural inclination to empathise with his pain. Her eyes fell on the hands clasped tightly on the table, noting the thick gold linked chain on his wrist and that expensive watch. These hands could have thrust that knife into his wife’s heart, she reminded herself.

  She remained silent as McCauley began his questioning.

  ‘Mr Guilford . . . Peter,’ McCauley began. ‘This is hard for you, I understand, but we need to know a bit more about Dorothy at this stage of our enquiries, okay?’

  The haggard-looking man opposite them nodded, licking dry lips nervously.

  McCauley rubbed his wrist where he had taken off his own watch earlier and placed it in front of him as if to indicate that time was an issue here. Was this some sort of device he used in questioning a suspect? Kirsty wondered, reminding herself to ask afterwards.

  The DI began with the usual preliminary questions, routine stuff that was both necessary and helped to calm down the distraught man.

  ‘Could you describe for us what your wife’s state of mind was like in recent days?’ McCauley asked at last, his eyes staring intently at the bereaved husband.

  The detective inspector’s words appeared to have settled Guilford somewhat, his shoulders easing a little.

  Guilford leaned forward as though to share confidences.

  ‘She was always such a worrier,’ he told them. ‘Worried about her health, that sort of thing. Not that there was any need . . . ’ He tailed off, glancing between the two officers as if to affirm that he had their attention. ‘Dorothy was afraid all the time,’ he added. ‘Ask anyone. They’ll tell you how nervous she was, how she used to imagine things.’

  ‘Are you trying to tell us that your wife had a mental health problem?’ McCauley asked.

  Guilford sat back a little before answering. ‘Don’t know if I’d go as far as calling it that . . . ’ he mused thoughtfully. ‘Let’s just say she was a bit of a hypochondriac.’

  ‘She attended her local GP?’

  ‘A lot,’ Guilford confirmed. ‘She was always imagining that the least wee thing was something serious. Terrible bad with her nerves, she was.’ He nodded again and this time Kirsty recognised a certain satisfied look on the man’s face as if he had scored an important point. Did he hope that they would assume from this statement that Dorothy Guilford was of unsound mind and had taken her own life? With a kitchen knife? Kirsty realised, for the first time, despite the pathologist’s claim, how absurd the notion really was.

  ‘Did Mrs Guilford have any prescribed drugs from her family doctor?’ McCauley went on.

  ‘Aye, she did,’ Guilford told him, a tone of confidence returning to his voice. ‘Painkillers, sleeping pills, that sort of stuff. I think sometimes the medics gave her what she wanted just to please her.’

  McCauley frowned for a moment.

  He’s deliberately pausing, Kirsty decided, watching her boss’s face and listening intently as he went on to pose his next question.

  ‘How had Mrs Guilford’s . . . behaviour . . . been recently?’

  Guilford shook his head and gave a sigh. A real sigh or was this a bit of theatre for the police officers’ benefit? Kirsty wondered.

  ‘Worse than usual,’ he told them. ‘Really nervy and irritable. Said she wasn’t sleeping well at night. That’s how I didn’t worry when she went early to bed, y’see.’

  ‘Was she a difficult woman to live with, then?’ McCauley asked.

  The question surprised Kirsty. Should the DI be asking such a leading question, making the kind of assumptions that might be to the husband’s benefit?

  Again, that long sigh and then Guilford slouched back a little in his seat and shrugged silently as though to demonstrate how hard done by he was, having this awkward person for a wife.

  A wife who was lying in the mortuary, Kirsty thought to herself. Where was Peter Guilford’s compassion? Was this what McCauley was trying to do? Get onside with the man to figure out his real feelings for Dorothy?

  ‘How would you describe your relationship with your wife?’ the DI asked, the answer to the previous question still hanging in the air between them.

  ‘Och, we got along just fine,’ Guilford said at once, sitting up once more. ‘Anybody would tell you that.’ He glanced once more between McCauley and Kirsty. But there was tension back in those shoulders and Guilford had not looked directly at either officer, shooting a glance instead to the doorway.

  A sign that he was lying? Maybe, Kirsty decided. And maybe they would be doing that very thing; asking around friends and family to ascertain how Guilford had really treated his wife.

  ‘So you would describe your marriage . . . how?’ McCauley crossed his arms and looked at the man before him, his eyes still demanding answers.

  ‘Well, how’s anyone going to describe their marriage?’ Guilford lifted his hands as though to protest his innocence. ‘Ups and downs like most couples, I suppose,’ he continued when McCauley did not reply, his hands now grasping the sides of the plastic chair. ‘Like I said, she could be a difficult woman at times.’

  But you didn’t say that, Kirsty thought silently. It was McCauley putting words into your mouth.

&n
bsp; ‘She wasn’t the easiest of people to get along with, but, see, I’m a patient sort of man, don’t make a fuss about things, you know . . . ’ He shrugged again but now he seemed less sure of himself, biting his lower lip. ‘Dorothy imagined things . . . ’ He tailed off suddenly and shifted in his seat as if he had run out of things to say.

  ‘You told me earlier that you came back late last night. Was the door locked when you came home?’

  ‘Yes, Dorothy would never leave it unlocked. Far too paranoid—’ He broke off, glancing at Kirsty for a second.

  ‘So you had your own front door key?’

  ‘That’s right,’ Guilford replied, nodding, his shoulders relaxing under the routine question.

  ‘Anybody else have a key to your home, sir?’ McCauley’s voice remained detached, aloof, but Kirsty noticed a change in Peter Guilford’s face at once. He licked his lips then shot a glance to one side.

  ‘No, nobody,’ he told them. ‘I mean, nobody special,’ he added, wiping a line of perspiration from his brow. ‘I . . . I think maybe . . . the . . . the cleaning lady has one,’ he stuttered, swallowing hard.

  That was a lie, Kirsty thought suddenly. There was more than just a cleaner who had a key, she decided. Whose identity was this man trying to conceal?

  McCauley thought so too, she noticed, watching as the DI sat back and crossed his arms, his gaze never faltering as he regarded the man across the table.