Only the Dead Can Tell

by Alex Gray

  ‘Cynthia?’

  ‘His secretary.’

  She would pursue that in a moment but first Kirsty needed to wheedle out more information about that blunt statement concerning Peter Guilford’s treatment of his late wife.

  ‘You said he had been bad to her . . . ’ she began.

  ‘Aye, and surely they’d have seen a’ the bruises an’ that? There wis a post-mortem, eh? Like on Silent Witness, Gawd that’s a brilliant programme, so it is!’ Margaret Daly exclaimed, lifting a chocolate teacake and popping it into her mouth.

  ‘Yes, there was a post-mortem but I cannot comment on its findings,’ Kirsty told her.

  Margaret gave her a sideways glance, narrowing her eyes until they almost disappeared into pockets of wrinkled flesh. ‘Bet they learned a lot, though. Ye cannae hide broken bones and the kind o’ bruises wee Dorothy Pettigrew had oan her body. Ah seen it,’ she added nodding. ‘So did her GP, nice wee wumman, cannae mind her name. Aye, ah seen it often enough an’ ah heard his rages as well. Had that puir wife o’ his like a tremblin’ wee jelly, so he did.’

  ‘What sort of things had you heard?’ Kirsty prompted, noting that the cleaning woman had used Dorothy Guilford’s maiden name, a sign that she had worked for this family for many years.

  Margaret Daly leaned forwards, her bosoms straining across the table top. ‘I c’n tell you they weren’t nice things, not nice at all. I swear tae God I wance heard him tell her he’d kill her if she didn’t do what he wanted.’

  ‘And would you also swear to that in a court of law?’ Kirsty asked.

  The woman sat back again, a shadow of doubt crossing her face.

  ‘Don’t know about that,’ she mumbled. ‘Don’t want to interfere, you know?’

  ‘It wouldn’t be interfering,’ Kirsty insisted. ‘If what you say is the truth then it would give the Crown Prosecution more reason to tell a jury to convict your boss of murder.’

  ‘He wisnae ma boss,’ the big woman replied. ‘It wis her. Ah’ve been with that family since I wis a girl. Kent them all. Young Shirley afore she wis sent away, auld Mr and Mrs Pettigrew when they both ran their business frae here.’

  Kirsty looked down at the bottom of her cup and gave a smile as she handed it over for a refill. ‘Would you mind? I’d love another please?’ she asked winningly. Inside, she felt a sense of triumph. She’d struck gold here, if she was not mistaken. Everything this woman might tell her could be passed on to both McCauley and Lorimer for their different interests. But first she had to gain the woman’s confidence sufficiently to ensure she would give a full and frank statement back at Govan.

  For a moment Kirsty knew the satisfaction that came from a real breakthrough. But then she remembered James and his proposal, a question that still remained unanswered. Would she really be able to choose her boyfriend over the job she loved so much? And yet, how could she bear to let him go?

  Then, dismissing her own preoccupations, she looked straight at the woman across the table once more.

  ‘Tell me more about the Guilford business,’ she asked. ‘And why would Mr Guilford’s secretary give you permission to come back here?’

  The woman dropped her gaze and Kirsty saw that the question had made her uncomfortable.

  ‘Didn’t know who else to ask, did I?’ she said, squirming a little on the kitchen chair. ‘And someone has to pay my wages, don’t they?’ Her chin jutted up again as though that were the correct answer to give.

  ‘You were paid as a private cleaner. Not through an agency, then?’

  ‘Aye . . . all above board. I pays my taxes like onybody else, you know. Not that it amounts tae much wi’ me on a widow’s pension . . . ’

  The trembling lip and the way she turned her head as though to avoid Kirsty’s eyes told a little story of its own. She was probably paid by the hour and didn’t declare it as income at all, Kirsty guessed. Happened all the time, older folk trying to eke out their pension any way they could. And who was she to make a fuss about that?

  ‘I’m sure that is all above board, Mrs Daly,’ she soothed. ‘But I really think it would be wonderful if you could repeat all of this for my boss. He’d be so pleased to hear it from you and use it as a proper statement, if you know what I mean?’

  The older woman looked doubtful again. ‘They’d jist want tae know stuff I’d heard, is that right?’

  ‘That’s right,’ Kirsty agreed. ‘By the way, have the front door locks been changed in all the years you’ve worked here?’

  The woman shook her head. ‘Naw. Same keys, same lock. Same front door. Ither folk changed theirs tae wan o’ thae fancy double glazing wans but this is the original,’ she remarked with a tilt of her chin as though she was proud of the fact.

  ‘So it’s not just you who has keys? All the family would have had them?’

  The cleaning lady shrugged. ‘S’pect so. That Cynthia has wan, too, I bet,’ she added darkly.

  Kirsty nodded. Was that why Guilford had been so eager to say nobody else had a key? There was certainly someone he’d been trying to protect . . . or conceal.

  ‘Mine’s always bin the same, see?’ She sauntered over to the back door where a pink poplin jacket hung. Rustling in a pocket she produced a bunch of keys with a huge key ring that bore the Rangers FC logo.

  ‘Thanks. I’ll make sure you are allowed to keep them but meantime I better check with my boss in case he would rather the house is kept empty. Is that okay?’

  Margaret Daly nodded doubtfully and Kirsty was reminded that the older woman probably depended on this regular income.

  ‘I can take you back with me just now, if you like. My car’s outside and Govan station’s not far away. I’d make sure you got home afterwards too. Where is it you live?’

  Margaret Daly shrugged. ‘Paisley Road West. Just up the road frae Helen Street. Oor Geordie wis a cop till he got his bad leg,’ she added. ‘I know fine where you lot are.’

  And, with a look of resignation on her face, she heaved herself to her feet and began clearing the tea things away.

  ‘Jist let me do these the now then I’ll get my bag and come wi’ ye, lass.’

  Kirsty watched as Margaret shuffled across to the sink, her worn slippers making padding sounds across the clean laminate floor exactly where the body of Dorothy Guilford had lain.

  ‘Good work, Wilson.’ McCauley slapped her on the back. ‘Lorimer told me he’d asked you to take a look into Guilford’s business dealings with regard to that matter up in Aberdeen. Bit of luck finding the old biddy in the house though, eh?’ He gave her a grin. ‘I won’t let this be forgotten, you know. Between you and me I think you’ve got a long way to go. One of these bonny days someone will be calling you “Ma’am”,’ he winked.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  It was an automatic gesture to cross his hands over his genitals as the shadow stopped outside the shower.

  ‘I won’t be long,’ he began, his words lost in the torrent from the overhead spray beating against the floor tiles.

  The cubicle door opened and the shadow became a thickset man, one hand raised menacingly.

  Peter tried to squirm sideways as the man lunged at him, the chib that had been concealed in his fist striking his neck.

  For a moment they grappled, the soapy floor making both men slip and slide.

  ‘No! No! Help!’ Peter screamed as the man grabbed hold of his testicles and began to twist.

  Peter felt the blow on his face as the bigger man struck him with his forehead. He screamed as another blow landed in his stomach, then his knees buckled and he felt himself slither helplessly into the pool of slimy water.

  ‘Stop! Stop!’ he yelled, but his voice was lost in the steam and drilling of the jets as they washed red streaks from the Perspex walls.

  He tried to call out again but another blow to his head made him fall forward, his chin impacting on the hard floor.

  For a moment there was nothing but the drumming and gurgle of water, then he froze, eyes tight shut,
fearing the slash of that sharp weapon. He sensed the shadow coming closer, heard the deep irregular breathing as his attacker bent down beside him.

  ‘Tell Dorothy hi when you see her on the other side,’ a voice whispered.

  Then Peter felt blow after sickening blow as a sharp-booted foot thudded into his body.

  The buzzer rang insistently, its noise half drowned by the sound of running feet as prison officers scrambled to the shower block.

  A couple of young men dressed in denims stood back, arms hugging bare chests as they waited to be questioned.

  Inside the shower they could see a prone figure, his body curled into a foetal position as he had attempted to resist the attack.

  ‘Turn that damn thing off!’ the voice from a dark-suited figure barked and another officer stepped forward, one arm stretched out towards the shower switch.

  The interior of the cabinet was streaked with blood, though much of it had been washed down the drain hole by the spray.

  ‘Is he deid?’ one of the young men hugging the corridor wall whispered.

  The prison officer who had issued the order was now kneeling down, one hand feeling Guilford’s limp wrist.

  ‘There’s a pulse. Get an ambulance. Now!’ he ordered. ‘Either of you two see what happened?’ He stood up and glared at the young men, his face darkened in rage, making them take a step backwards.

  ‘Naw, we jist came along and seen the mess . . . Joseph here,’ he indicated the other lad, ‘ran tae get help and I stayed wi’ the man. Are you sure he’s no’ deid?’ he asked again, looking at the twisted shape lying face down in a pool of water that was now gurgling into the drains.

  ‘Not yet,’ the officer replied, giving both of the men a hard stare. ‘Get some clothes on. You’ll both be wanted for statements when the police arrive.’

  ‘Is he dead?’ McCauley unwittingly echoed the question that the prisoner in the remand block had asked.

  ‘No, but he’s very badly injured,’ the voice on the telephone told him. ‘We won’t know for a while if he’ll pull through.’

  ‘So where is he now?’

  ‘The Queen Elizabeth. In the operating theatre, as far as I know. He’ll be taken to a secure room afterwards and we’ll need a round-the-clock police presence. We don’t have the staff available to do that right now.’

  ‘Okay,’ McCauley sighed. ‘I’ll come over and bring a couple of officers with me.’

  He put down the phone and ran a hand over his head. ‘Bloody Guilford!’ he exclaimed. Why on earth should the prisoner on remand be targeted in such a vicious way? Barlinnie ran a tight ship, everyone knew that, but someone had managed to evade the prison officers long enough to inflict some serious damage to Peter Guilford. McCauley shrugged. It might save the courts a whole lot of expense if Guilford karked it. And yet as a detective he was curious enough to want to know who had organised this attack. And why.

  *

  Kirsty walked along the corridor beside DI McCauley, two uniformed cops in their wake, conscious of the faces turning to stare. It was obvious that something was happening in the hospital and natural human curiosity was making these patients and visitors want to know more. It would probably not be long before the newshounds began sniffing around, she thought.

  And just when she had thought that her coup this morning was bringing her a modicum of kudos, here she was, landed with the task of waiting probably for several hours until Peter Guilford woke up. If he ever did, a small voice murmured gloomily.

  ‘Wait here,’ McCauley ordered and Kirsty sat down in the plastic seat outside the room where Peter Guilford would be brought once he was out of surgery. She watched as her boss strode along the corridor and through a set of swing doors. The officers in uniform, two young men who were unknown to Kirsty, began a muttered conversation, ignoring her for the time being.

  It was hours since the incident had occurred in HMP Barlinnie and daylight was beginning to fade now. This pair had probably just come on duty, Kirsty surmised, brought in from a city division. She stifled a yawn. Well, at least she was earning overtime, one advantage of being a lowly DC. And, sitting here gave her time to think. Why would anybody want to attack Peter Guilford? He’d been accused of murdering his wife, just another domestic, as far as anyone could see. Stats showed that a crime like this happened with horrible regularity, so why a revenge attack? Or was it about something else? Something to do with the business?

  Kirsty chewed her lip as she let her mind wander amongst the possibilities. If it had been an attack by another inmate then it had been planned beforehand since a makeshift weapon had been used, the old-fashioned chib left where it had fallen in the shower. Was there anybody from that trawl of people traffickers who had been remanded in Barlinnie? McCauley had already asked for a list of names but it was someone from Lorimer’s team who needed to cross-check that to see if there was any sort of link.

  If Guilford did survive this horrendous attack there were definitely questions he would be compelled to answer, even for his own safety.

  The whine had disappeared and his ears were filled now with low voices, murmurs that ebbed and flowed in waves of sound. Everything was like a haze; white shifting to palest blue, sudden lights dazzling his eyelids, then that dull red as he slipped back into the welcoming darkness.

  A beeping noise made his eyelids flicker and Peter blinked, not sure if what he was hearing could have come from the machines by his bedside.

  Where was he? And what he was doing lying on this white bed, his hands flat against the sheets, cannulas with tubes snaking out of sight? Above him hung a bag with yellowish liquid, its slow drip, drip mesmerising him for a few seconds.

  He felt no pain, just that dullness behind his eyes and a metallic taste in his mouth.

  Something had happened. Had he been the victim of a road accident? Had one of his vans crashed? Peter blinked again, only this time he was aware of another movement, a figure sitting quietly to one side, a woman. Had she come to tell him what had happened? There was no telltale lanyard, no stethoscope around her neck, so maybe not a doctor . . .

  ‘Peter?’ The woman had a nice voice, gentle, Scottish with an accent he couldn’t quite place . . . not broad Glasgow . . . somewhere else . . .

  He tried to swallow but there was something wrong with his throat and he began to croak.

  ‘D’you want some water?’

  She stood up and brought a plastic cup to his lips and he took small sips, grateful for the liquid easing the harsh gritty feeling in his throat.

  ‘Thhhh . . .’ His tongue made a feeble noise as he tried to thank her.

  ‘It’s okay, don’t try to talk just yet,’ she soothed. ‘I’ll be here when you can speak again. Don’t worry.’

  ‘Who . . . ?’ He wrinkled his brow, aware for the first time of the padding that encircled his head.

  ‘I’m Detective Constable Wilson, Mr Guilford. I’m here to take care of you. Okay?’

  He saw the smile, noted the dark glossy hair and keen eyes. She looked as if she meant it, Peter thought. Though why anyone needed to take care of him he could not understand.

  Kirsty watched as the man’s eyes closed once more and she waited until she was certain he had fallen asleep before rising from her chair and stretching her arms above her head.

  Outside it was dark now, the city lights twinkling like myriad golden stars across a velvet backdrop. The consultant had come and gone, checking on the vital signs, his mouth a straight line, giving nothing away. That Guilford had come round was nothing short of a miracle; his subsequent drift back into unconsciousness something that seemed not to have surprised the doctor. If the man survived the night there was some hope that he might make a recovery, he’d informed the detective constable, but it would be a goodly time, if ever, until he was fit to be returned to any of HM prisons to await trial for murder.

  Across the city James would be waiting, anxious to know how she was, wondering no doubt if a night like this had sickened her f
or the job she was doing. He would be disappointed to know, however, that on the contrary, Kirsty Wilson was finding this turn of events more fascinating than ever.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Guilford Vehicle Hire had several depots scattered around Glasgow but its main office was in the city centre, a short walk from George Square. Kirsty had left the car at the underground station in Govan and was walking alongside DS Geary, past the Millennium Hotel, glancing across at the beds of summer flowers blooming in the square and tumbling out of planters outside the City Chambers. It was a pretty spectacular edifice, she had to admit, gazing up; its neoclassical style pleasing to the eye even in this day and age of mirrored glass and steel. She remembered her history teacher at school telling the class that Glasgow City Chambers was a testament to the city merchants of old whose money had been spent on so many fine buildings, though in modern times the elected councillors who worked there had a lot less in their coffers to spend on luxuries like this.

  The lights changed to green and they crossed the road, heading along George Street in the direction of the older part of town. Her face lit up in a smile as she passed the University of Strathclyde, where she had first met James. She’d been conducting a little bit of an investigation of her own back then, before she had even considered a career as a police officer. It seemed so long ago now, she realised. The memory faded as Kirsty turned into Albion Street and slowed down to check the address she’d been given.

  ‘Your show this morning, lass,’ Geary told her with a smile. ‘I’ll just watch and listen, okay?’

  Kirsty nodded her agreement. One of these days she would be up for her sergeant’s stripes and she knew that Jim Geary was only too well aware that his young colleague needed all the experience he could give her.

  The office was at street level, tucked between a restaurant and the old Press Bar, a haunt for journalists from decades ago. There were no big illuminated words to tell her that this was a part of Peter Guilford’s empire, simply a number etched onto the glass lintel and a discreet brass plaque set into the stone wall: Guilford Vehicle Hire.