by Alex Gray
There was certainly no trace of a suicide note, she realised, opening the sliding wardrobes where several rails of gentlemen’s clothes hung, a row of well-polished shoes lined up with military precision. Kirsty thought of the airmail letters. Was there an army connection here, then? That was something else to find out back at headquarters, she decided, returning to the big room and picking up the packet of letters where she had left it.
The sound of feet on the stair made her turn around.
‘Anything up here?’ Geary was standing in the doorway, looking around. ‘Fancy,’ he said, eyebrows raised. ‘Dead old-fashioned, though. Think this lot’s been here since the ark.’ He snorted derisively. Then he shook the plastic bag he held in one hand. ‘See what I’ve found.’ He grinned, pointing at the papers inside the bag. ‘Reckon our pal Mr Guilford has some explaining to do.’
Kirsty drew up in the Helen Street car park and heard the click of Geary’s safety belt being unfastened. The DS was in a hurry to take this new evidence back to show the boss, and no wonder. It certainly looked from these recently signed insurance papers as if Peter Guilford might have had a good reason for killing his wife. Geary’s discovery certainly trumped anything she had found in the dead woman’s bedroom. She followed him into the building and they headed straight for the CID room and the faraway cubicle where the outline of McCauley’s seated figure could be seen through the frosted glass.
One quick knock and the pair were called into McCauley’s tiny sanctuary.
‘Boss, look what we’ve found.’ Geary thrust the plastic bag into McCauley’s hands and both watched his face for the inevitable reaction as the DI read the papers within.
‘Bullseye!’ McCauley exclaimed at last, looking up at his two officers. ‘Dated just last week, an’ all. Didn’t waste much time, did he?’ He tapped the insurance papers that showed the premium on the life of Dorothy Guilford had been increased to more than a million pounds. ‘Whew, that’s a lot of money!’ He turned the pages of the Will. ‘And that’s not all. See?’ The DI’s finger pointed to a sub section of the document.
McCauley looked up at the pair in turn to see their reaction. Both officers were silent, their faces expressing astonishment as they read the paragraph.
‘The business was in Dorothy’s name?’ Geary shook his head in disbelief.
‘Inherited from her parents, by the looks of things,’ McCauley agreed. ‘One more reason for Guilford to take things into his own hands.’
‘She’s signed it,’ Kirsty noted, as McCauley turned the final page.
‘Do you have a sample of her handwriting?’ the DI asked.
‘Right there, boss,’ Geary told him. ‘Under these insurance documents there are a couple of letters with her signature. Found them in the study.’ He leaned forward and gave the papers a little tug.
Kirsty had been on the point of mentioning the airmail packet but held her tongue. That particular production would no doubt be sent downstairs to languish amongst other recorded evidence bags, not required unless new evidence came to the fore that made reading them necessary. She had learned that much from other cases. Geary was obviously one step ahead of her.
McCauley spread them out on his desk, lining up the position of all three signatures for comparison.
‘Doesn’t look much like her real signature on this will, does it?’ he murmured.
‘No, sir,’ Kirsty agreed. ‘Bit shaky, maybe,’ she added, imagining a woman signing this document under duress. ‘A handwriting expert could verify if it’s a forgery, you think?’
‘Bound to be.’ McCauley grinned. ‘Guilford is going to go down for this, just you wait and see.’
‘Are you going to charge him, then?’ Kirsty asked, wondering for a moment if there was actually enough evidence to do so.
‘We’ll certainly hold him for as long as we can,’ McCauley said, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. ‘Need to see the PM report, of course, but I think another chat with Guilford might actually produce a confession when we confront him with this.’
CHAPTER FIVE
Lorimer glanced at his sleeping wife and smiled. She’d left the window open again so that they might waken to the early sound of birdsong. It had been a beautiful evening after the earlier rain showers, the sunset dusky pink, fresh green leaves on the beech trees glowing in the twilight. Only a few more weeks and Maggie would be finishing the school session then they could make their way north to the island of Mull where Leiter Cottage awaited them. The detective superintendent sighed with pleasure at the thought of the whitewashed house nestling in the foot of the hill. A boat was at their disposal this year, pulled up on the shores of Fishnish Bay so they might enjoy a bit of fishing once in a while, or take a trip further along the coast. Lorimer rolled onto his back and stared at the ceiling.
He’d need to climb a hill or two just to get back into condition after spending more time behind a desk in recent months than he would have liked, though he had to admit that the new job in the Major Incident Team was demanding in so many other respects. With the success of the Quiet Release case had come some welcome plaudits from his colleagues, an affirmation that his selection for this top job was a popular choice. Since then he had been busy appointing new officers to replace those recently retired, as well as overseeing some major incidents, like Operation Fingertip, across the country.
Ever since Police Scotland had changed from several regional operations to one single force, William Lorimer had travelled to different areas throughout the country where serious crimes had occurred. The recent deaths of three immigrant men in Aberdeen had left a trail of fear in their wake but happily his team had made the necessary arrests of the perpetrators although there was still suspicion that gangmasters from Eastern Europe continued to operate elsewhere within Scotland. Cheap labour in the form of illegals had resulted in a collaborative exercise with the Immigration Services, keen to root out the criminals that exploited these desperate people. Promises of work in fish factories had been lure enough for the young Slovakian women they had rescued. Of course, they had never seen inside a factory of any description, their destiny a hovel in one of these Aberdeen tenements where they had been used as prostitutes. Operation Fingertip had been a success so far, but there was still a lot to do.
For it was not only to the north-east that the MIT’s eyes were turned; intelligence had provided some clues that the gangs had been operating in the Glasgow area and Lorimer knew that it was only a matter of time until some serious crime was committed against one of the vulnerable folk whose slave labour was used to fill the pockets of unscrupulous men and women. Sometimes it was a case of selling a girl to an Asian bent on getting his European passport the quickest way possible: a sham marriage for which these men were prepared to pay as much as £10,000. Ten K, Lorimer thought: the price of a hired assassin’s hit. Was that all human life was worth to those on the wrong side of the law?
The detective superintendent sighed again, this time because his mind had turned inevitably to work instead of lingering on the edges of a vision of his beloved Mull. Yet, he had to admit, being in Govan and heading up the MIT was the best job he’d ever had. And if he could clear up this hidden gang it would be all the sweeter.
A glance towards the bedroom window showed that darkness was falling at last, a sweep of deeper blue covering the skies. Tomorrow promised to be another warm day, rain or no rain, as the days crept towards midsummer.
Rosie turned on her side, stifling a groan. It was the law of natural cussedness, she supposed, that this baby preferred to frolic around during the night rather than in daytime. Definitely a boy, she told herself, feeling what might have been a tiny foot kicking within the safety of her womb. A wee footballer, perhaps? She smiled at the thought, wondering if a son would bring a new dimension into their family. Abby was growing up so quickly, starting school in just a couple of months, and the little girl had begun to draw scrawling pictures at nursery of herself with a smaller person holding her hand. Already R
osie was looking forward to time away from work and she had promised herself that she would take the maximum amount of maternity leave possible.
Dr Jacqui White would take over as consultant in her absence, her younger colleague, John, away on loan to Northern Ireland, and Rosie was recruiting for another pathologist to help in the department as her replacement had the additional load of being a media darling, frequently attending television studios for a series of documentaries about forensic medicine, something Rosie had also been asked to do but had declined.
Tomorrow would bring the final candidate to her Glasgow office, a woman she had never yet met but whose CV had impressed enough to allow this interview for a position as locum. Dr Daisy Abercromby’s career had been mostly in her native Australia but her letter had expressed the hope that she might settle in the UK, something that had given her the edge over other candidates. The need for practising pathologists was greater than ever and if an Aussie were to come here instead of their own graduates heading Down Under, then the department of forensic medicine would be in a much better shape.
Dr Daisy. Rosie smiled, running the name in her head. Well, if she was as good as her CV suggested, the young pathologist’s name was of no consequence, though at present it brought to mind a friendly cow in one of Abby’s favourite picture books.
She turned onto her side and began to take deep breaths, one hand across her abdomen. Soon the baby appeared to have settled, the warmth of her hand soothing the little child. Not time yet, Rosie told the baby silently. A few more weeks and you and I will see one another.
Rosie closed her eyes in the hope that sleep would come. But the image of a woman lying on her back, both hands clutching a dark-handled knife, was enough to keep her awake, thinking hard, wondering just what had happened two days ago on that short summer’s night.
The object was one of six that were kept in a flat wooden box, the remaining five now in a production bag back at Govan CID. It was a remarkable thing, this Laguiole knife, really, the pathologist mused as she turned it over in one gloved hand. The bloodstains had darkened now to a dull rust colour, the curved handle blotched with fingerprint dust. Now it was back on her desk, Rosie examined it in a detached manner. The French had a way of creating things that had an aesthetic appeal as well as being practical. These knives had started out as simple pocket knives, probably carried by artisans all over the country before their use in the kitchen became popular. Nowadays, a set of the handsome steak knives could be found in any decent ironmongers but the design had remained faithful to its original, the emblem of a bee set onto the stainless steel shaft before the flowing line of the blade tapered to a point. She traced her finger along the decorated line of steel that ran through the knife, the wooden shaft pinned into place on each side. It was, Rosie admitted, a little work of art and as far as she knew each knife was still hand-crafted, the maker’s signature stamped onto the thickest part of the blade. The word Laguiole was partly obscured by the bloodstain, making Rosie wonder yet again about the state of mind of the woman whose body lay in her mortuary.
Had Dorothy Guilford thrust this into her own heart? Or was the husband a murderer and the woman’s clutch merely a sign that she had struggled for her life? Some strange cases had come her way in the past so she was never too ready to assume what looked like the most obvious explanation was actually the truth. The blood spatter had not been conclusive and Guilford’s clothes were still being examined for possible traces since there had been nothing visible to the naked eye on his pyjamas and dressing gown. Had he disposed of any bloodstained garments? The scene of crime officers had taken pictures of the blood spray and it seemed to indicate that nothing had impeded the pattern. In other words, no person had been in front of the woman as the knife had been plunged into her heart. But was that right? Had he taken care to cover any traces? So many people were forensically aware and this man had form. McCauley was determined to prove that Guilford was his wife’s killer on what evidence they had so far.
But there had been no sign of any struggle, Rosie thought gloomily. On the contrary, the kitchen where the body had lain showed nothing to indicate that a fight had taken place. What could she add to this? Simply that the knife had not moved around, one nice clean cut matching the weapon perfectly. It didn’t seem as if the woman had struggled to remove the blade and, even without the classical hesitation injuries it looked like one self-inflicted wound. She picked up the scene of crime photos of the body, noting the way that the woman had fallen, mouth open, eyes screwed tightly shut as if she had . . . what? Summoned up one final moment of courage to end her life? And, to Rosie’s eyes, that was what this looked like. Not a murder. Not a domestic fracas where a blade had been taken in a moment of drunken anger. She sighed heavily.
Maybe she was wrong. Perhaps it had happened so quickly that the woman had no time to react, simply fallen down, any attempt to remove the blade defeated as she gasped for breath? The pathologist frowned. DC Wilson had retrieved the cutlery from the kitchen sink, but if the husband had tossed them there after his meal, who had then taken the knife out, dried it and used it as a weapon? If Dorothy had washed it then why leave the rest of the dishes and cutlery? It didn’t make sense, Rosie told herself. But then, none of this scene of crime appeared to have any logic to it. She must find time to contact the victim’s medical practice, make a request to see Dorothy Guilford’s files. One more thing she must remember to deal with, she thought, cursing her memory. It was true what the old wives’ tales said, right enough; Mother Nature wanted you to concentrate on what was happening to your body so she cast a cloud over your mind. Rosie sighed, determined to think things through.
The SIO had decided that it was a murder scene and Peter Guilford was still being detained. He’d be charged if any further evidence were to emerge, taken to one of the local prisons on remand till such time as his trial came up. Unless he got bail. She shivered suddenly. What if the man was completely innocent? Rosie remembered other cases where a man had been incarcerated for weeks until evidence showed that the police had got it all wrong. It happened sometimes.
She would write out her report highlighting the facts as she perceived them from a pathologist’s point of view. McCauley wouldn’t like it but then it was not Rosie’s job to curry favour with the police but to interpret the evidence in terms that would be clear, succinct and balanced when brought before a court of law. It was her opinion that Dorothy Guilford had taken her own life, possibly while of unsound mind (given the amount of prescription drugs in her bloodstream, that was a reasonable deduction), and that no further action ought to be taken.
Rosie sat for a moment, hands folded as she looked at the blank screen. Words would appear there shortly that would create a dilemma for the Crown Service. Would they take her report and decide that she was correct? Or would Alan McCauley insist that more investigating was required that would overturn the pathologist’s findings?
‘She’s mental!’ McCauley thrust himself back in the chair, bumping against the filing cabinets that took up almost an entire wall of his tiny office. ‘Pure mental!’ He stared at the computer screen, an expression of disgust on his face, then eased himself back towards the desk, wondering what his next move might be.
Gillian had been all over the place during her pregnancy, he recalled, thinking of his ex-wife. At times a complete headcase. He ran the tip of his tongue across his teeth as he contemplated his way forward. Surely that was what was going on here, a woman whose hormones were creating havoc, obscuring her better judgement? For a moment McCauley sat still, thinking about the diminutive blonde who was now director of the department of forensic medical science, top pathologist this side of the country. She’d come a long way since they’d first met, he remembered, whereas he was still just a detective inspector and more than likely to remain in this post until retirement. It rankled a little, though in fairness he had never seen himself in any of the top jobs, preferring to continue as a hands-on detective.
Bu
t Rosie Fergusson hadn’t always been the star that she was now, he thought. Her face had appeared on the front cover of glossy magazines, comparisons made between the real-life pathologist and some of the TV actresses in crime dramas. Hadn’t there been some mistake she’d made way back in the early days? McCauley tapped a pencil against his teeth as he racked his brain. Nope, nothing was coming to the surface. But perhaps if he were to ask around, even look up some of her past cases . . .
The DI grinned to himself. He was right about Peter Guilford, he just knew it.
‘Always could tell a murdering bastard from an innocent man,’ he muttered to himself. And he’d prove it, sure he would. Just as he’d try to discredit the pathologist who was making life difficult for him right now.
The young woman swept her hair back over her shoulders and grinned, showing a set of perfect white teeth against a suntanned face.
‘Hi,’ she drawled. ‘I’m Daisy.’ She thrust out a hand and gripped Rosie’s for a moment, keeping the senior pathologist fixed in her gaze.
‘Glad to meet you, Dr Abercromby.’ Rosie smiled back, preparing to settle down and ask the questions that she had prepared for all the candidates hoping for a locum job during her maternity leave. Dr White had been too busy to come and sit in on the interviews despite the fact that she would be in charge once Rosie was on maternity leave, something Rosie would explain during this session. But, before she could utter another word, the Australian edged her seat forward.
‘Wow, that’s some bump you have there. Girl or a boy?’
Rosie’s eyes widened in surprise at the frank question.
‘We’ve chosen not to know till the birth,’ she murmured.