Only the Dead Can Tell

by Alex Gray

  Kirsty pushed open the door and found herself in a modern reception area that was bigger than she had expected. Two grey plush settees sat at an angle either side of a square glass-topped table, several glossy magazines artfully fanned out on its surface. A pale wood desk held a slim vase of white lilies, their heads not fully opened, as though they had been put there that very morning.

  ‘Nice,’ Geary remarked, picking up one of the magazines then letting it fall back again.

  Behind Kirsty the muted sound of traffic blurred against strains of music that she recognised as the theme tune to the old TV adaptation of The Railway Children, a film she’d loved watching with her mum. It was a nice place to be waiting, she decided, wondering whose inspiration had been behind this particular interior.

  ‘Hello, can I help you?’

  A tall young woman wearing a tight black skirt and a short-sleeved white blouse appeared from a side door into the reception area and took her place behind the front desk, a frown of annoyance on her face.

  The lines on her forehead only deepened when Kirsty held out her warrant card for inspection.

  ‘Detective Constable Wilson, Detective Sergeant Geary,’ she announced. ‘I’m here to speak to Peter Guilford’s secretary. I did telephone.’

  ‘Cynthia?’ The young woman laid her well-manicured fingers protectively across the desk. ‘Oh, well, she didn’t tell me,’ she said crossly.

  ‘Would you be so kind as to tell her we’re here?’ Kirsty asked sweetly, the receptionist given the benefit of her brightest smile. It never failed to disarm them, she’d learned. A polite word, a smile, could elicit far more cooperation than an authoritative command.

  ‘Oh, of course. What did you say your names were again?’ The girl seemed suddenly flustered, twin points of real colour heightening her sharp cheekbones, under sweeps of peachy blusher that looked newly applied.

  ‘DC Wilson. DS Geary. Police Scotland,’ Kirsty added, just to add a little gravitas to the situation.

  She looked around the place more intently as she waited for the secretary to arrive. It was not luxurious by any means but money had been spent to make it calm and welcoming and Kirsty suspected that the classical music floating from a speaker set high on one wall was designed to give the impression of a superior establishment. She’d taken note of the company’s annual turnover and been impressed by their profitability. Dorothy Guilford had been married to one of the city’s more successful businessmen and could easily have afforded a wardrobe full of designer gear, not the drab stuff she’d found after the woman’s death. It was a puzzle Kirsty was still trying to understand when a woman emerged from the same door as the leggy receptionist.

  ‘Miss Drollinger?’

  ‘Yes.’ The woman was about the same height as herself, dark hair drawn back into a knot that accentuated her gaunt features. She extended a hand to Kirsty then took it back abruptly as their fingertips touched, as though contact with a police officer had scalded her.

  ‘Please come through to my office, will you?’ The tone was clipped.

  Cynthia Drollinger stood aside to usher the detectives into a short corridor that led to an open door, giving Kirsty no time to scrutinise the woman further. But her first impression had been interesting nonetheless. Hostility seemed to waft from Peter Guilford’s secretary as though she was seething inwardly and finding her emotions hard to control.

  Seated on the other side of the secretary’s desk, Kirsty took note of the clenched jaw and the cold stare and immediately felt a stab of sympathy for this overwrought woman whose morning she was about to spoil.

  ‘I’m afraid I have some rather bad news, Miss Drollinger,’ she began, before adding gently, ‘I thought it better to come here in person than to let you know over the telephone.’

  Cynthia Drollinger stiffened up, her hands clutching the edge of her desk.

  ‘What sort of news could be worse than hearing that Peter . . . Mr Guilford was in prison?’ she retorted. Then a hand flew to her mouth. ‘Oh! You can’t mean . . . ?’

  ‘Mr Guilford was attacked by another inmate yesterday,’ Kirsty told her, watching closely as the colour faded from the woman’s cheeks. ‘He’s been in surgery and his condition is still considered to be critical.’

  She saw the secretary’s mouth open in a moment of disbelief.

  ‘Why . . . ?’ she whispered at last.

  ‘That’s what we are trying to find out, Miss Drollinger. And I hoped that you might be able to help us.’

  ‘Me?’ Cynthia slumped back, clearly in shock. ‘Why do you think . . . ?’

  Spots of pink flooded back into her face, telltale signs of emotion. Or embarrassment?

  ‘We wondered if Mr Guilford had any enemies in the business world?’ Kirsty asked. ‘We are following this line of enquiry for the moment.’ She noted the sudden sigh of relief from Guilford’s secretary. What had she been expecting? Something closer to home? Did Cynthia Drollinger’s reaction say something about her relationship with her employer, perhaps? Or was that a fanciful notion on her own part? Kirsty wondered fleetingly.

  ‘No, of course not.’ Cynthia Drollinger was brisk and businesslike once more. ‘The firm runs smoothly, our accountants assure us that we are well in the black with no creditors demanding payment . . . Why on earth should you think that Peter had enemies?’ She shook her head. ‘The very notion is absurd,’ she added, clasping her hands firmly on top of the desk.

  ‘There were several vehicles rented out to a client in the north-east,’ Kirsty said, drawing out her notebook and flicking over the pages as though looking for some details. ‘A client whose personnel included several men who have subsequently received prison sentences for people trafficking,’ she added, her eyes on the pages.

  ‘That’s preposterous!’ Cynthia exclaimed. ‘Are you trying to say that we provide transport for bringing in illegal immigrants?’

  ‘That is something that the Crown Prosecution Service may well be asking, Miss Drollinger.’ She exchanged a glance with Geary who nodded encouragingly. ‘But I’m sure you have nothing to worry about.’

  ‘What our clients do with the vehicles they hire isn’t any of our business!’ the secretary snapped. ‘We hire out vehicles daily all over the country. All we require is payment in full and a clean vehicle on return.’

  ‘So, I suppose they could have been used for an illicit purpose?’

  ‘What? You’re not seriously suggesting that Peter had anything to do with . . . with something like this?’ The woman had leaned forward now, clearly agitated.

  ‘We need to follow every line of enquiry,’ Kirsty replied smoothly. ‘If your boss’s attacker was nothing to do with his business life then we have to assume it may have been to do with the crime he has been charged with,’ she said, her eyes never leaving the woman’s for one second.

  ‘He didn’t kill his wife,’ Cynthia hissed. ‘I know that.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘I mean . . . I know the sort of man he is,’ she blustered. ‘I’ve worked for Peter long enough to know him incapable of murdering anyone.’

  ‘And Mrs Guilford? Did you know her, too?’

  Kirsty saw the change in the woman’s expression immediately, the coldness as she narrowed her eyes, the slight shake of her head.

  ‘Dorothy Guilford was a mean woman, Detective Constable. She led Peter a terrible life. Pretending to be so ill and yet all the time she was doing everything in her power to make his life a misery.’

  ‘What sort of things . . . ?’

  ‘I . . . ’ Cynthia faltered for a moment. ‘I only know what he told me,’ she said at last, glancing sideways to avoid Kirsty’s stare. ‘Peter used to confide in me. Said he had no one else to talk to.’ She bit her lip. ‘A secretary in a firm can often see more of a person on a day-to-day basis than a wife at home,’ she added at last, flicking a glance between Kirsty and the silent DS who had remained impassive all through the conversation.

  ‘I suppose that’s true. And
did Mr Guilford also tell you that his wife had suffered several injuries?’

  Cynthia Drollinger gave a frosty smile. ‘Attention-seeking. I think there’s a name for that. It’s a sort of illness, I suppose,’ she added grudgingly. ‘Dorothy was forever self-harming. Had been since she was a child, I believe.’

  ‘Really?’

  Cynthia nodded. ‘Ask her sister if you don’t believe me. As I said, she led Peter a dreadful life. Always demanding that he be there, never trying to make the best of herself.’ She broke off, unconsciously stroking one perfectly manicured hand with the fingers of the other.

  And had he found consolation with another woman? Kirsty thought to herself, looking intently at Cynthia Drollinger.

  ‘More fuel to add to the DI’s fire, don’t you reckon, Wilson?’ Geary asked as they headed back through the city centre. ‘That one was just biding her time to become the next Mrs Guilford, if you ask me.’ He raised his bushy eyebrows as he smiled at Kirsty. ‘Think her boss killed the wife?’

  Kirsty gave a sigh and shrugged. ‘I don’t know, sir,’ she replied truthfully, though the conversation with that bitter woman had revealed more than Cynthia Drollinger had probably intended. She was a woman who had clearly despised Dorothy Guilford. And had she, perhaps, had a reason for wanting her dead?

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Barlinnie Prison was a place that William Lorimer knew well, having been there countless times to interview its various residents, yet it still made him grimace as he walked along the corridors beside a prison officer, bunches of keys at the man’s belt. The interior had been modernised to an extent but outside, its high grey walls were the stuff of Gothic nightmares, looming darkly over stone pathways, blotting out the summer skies. ‘Harsh’ or ‘bleak’ were words he would have used to describe the architecture of the place but within these walls the regime was the same as every other Scottish prison. The governor sought to keep a tight rein on the inmates whilst delivering a programme of rehabilitation. The attitude of ‘lock them up and throw away the key’ had largely died out although some of the more extreme experiments in turning around their more violent inmates had also fallen by the wayside. The Special Unit was now a thing of legend, a story to be told of how creativity might affect a person’s whole life and change it for the better, reformed Glasgow gangster turned artist Jimmy Boyle its most famous example.

  Lorimer waited for the next door to be unlocked then followed the officer along yet another corridor lit only by artificial light towards the door of the man who was currently in charge of over a thousand prisoners. It was some responsibility, Lorimer knew, running this, the biggest of the prisons in Scotland, several of the inmates known for horrific crimes that had made tabloid reading for months. Despite this, there was rarely any trouble within these massive walls and the attack in the shower block could indeed be described as an isolated incident.

  The man behind the desk rose to his feet and came around, one hand outstretched.

  ‘Lorimer, good to see you, though perhaps I shouldn’t be saying that under the circumstances, eh?’

  Martin McSherry waved his visitor into a chair and nodded towards the officer who was still standing in the doorway.

  ‘Coffee? Tea?’

  ‘Coffee, thanks, Martin. Just black, no sugar,’ he added, turning to the prison officer who merely nodded and disappeared along the corridor, closing the door behind him.

  ‘Sorry you’ve had to come over here, Lorimer. Pretty bad thing to have happened but there was no way we could have foreseen anyone in that block presenting a problem for Guilford.’

  McSherry gave a sigh, steepling his fingers together thoughtfully.

  ‘He wasn’t in the secure block, then?’

  McSherry shook his head. ‘No reason why he should have been. No known addictions, not a vulnerable prisoner of any description.’ He shrugged. ‘A prisoner on remand is, as you know, kept amongst the regular inmates but doesn’t follow the same sort of work programme. Guilford had been assessed by our resident psychologist and deemed to be of no risk to himself or to others.’

  ‘Any idea who might have carried out the attack?’

  ‘Hm, difficult to say. We’ve got plenty of blokes here capable of that but nobody saw a thing, as you’d expect.’ He gave Lorimer a sardonic grin. ‘And if they did they wouldn’t grass up a fellow inmate anyhow. You know the score.’

  ‘Our forensics people have found no trace of anything that might be useful in identification. So far,’ Lorimer added.

  ‘All down the drain,’ McSherry sighed. ‘It’s what usually happens if someone wants to attack another prisoner. Showers leave practically no trace and if you jump them fast enough they won’t have time to retaliate.’

  ‘So, no new superficial injuries on any of your lads?’

  ‘Every last one of them checked out,’ McSherry assured the detective superintendent.

  The prison officer entered the room once again and laid down a tray with two mugs and a plate of biscuits then, with a perfunctory nod at the two men, left quietly, closing the door behind him.

  ‘You said on the telephone that there were a couple of the inmates serving their sentences here who had been arrested in Aberdeen. Chaps who might have had dealings with Guilford,’ Lorimer began, coffee in hand.

  ‘Aye.’ McSherry scratched his ear. ‘A long shot really. Both of them are from Slovakia, seem to speak very little English.’

  ‘But could they have attacked Guilford?’

  ‘Perhaps if both of them had had a go, but not as individuals. They are wee guys and not exactly wiry types. I wouldn’t have thought that Guilford went down so easily to a pair like that. Still . . . ’

  ‘Still, I would like to talk to them,’ Lorimer finished for him. ‘Even if it wasn’t them, they may know who did carry out the attack.’

  ‘We’ve got an interpreter coming here,’ McSherry thrust back his shirt cuff to examine his watch, ‘in about five minutes.’

  There were several officers to whom he could have delegated this particular task but Lorimer knew his own capabilities, one of which was an ability to wheedle the truth out of even the most reluctant suspect in an interview situation. He had decided that a face-to-face interview with the two men was to be his particular task and there were two prison officers on hand not only for corroboration but to ensure the safety of the interpreter and the senior officer from the MIT.

  Lorimer watched as Pavol Ferenc sloped along the corridor to the interview room. The man clearly suffered from some sort of disability, one leg trailing. As he shuffled into the seat Lorimer noted the tremble in the man’s hands, something far more than stress or nervousness; maybe a sign of something like Parkinson’s disease.

  It was going to be hard going, he realised as he introduced himself, the middle-aged interpreter careful to enunciate each word in a loud voice as though Ferenc was deaf.

  ‘I want to talk about Peter Guilford,’ he began, stressing the name to see what reaction the Slovakian would give. But there was none, not even a flicker as the name was repeated and Lorimer knew then that this was a waste of time as far as the attack on the vehicle-hire boss was concerned. Still, there was a secondary reason for his presence here today and he would not let the opportunity be wasted.

  ‘How long have you been in Scotland?’ he asked, waiting until Ferenc had heard the question in his own language then the reply, nine fingers held up and a grin that revealed gaps in the man’s discoloured teeth.

  ‘Nine years or nine months?’ he asked and discussion between the prisoner and interpreter ensued.

  ‘Months,’ the interpreter told him.

  ‘And where did you come from, Mr Ferenc? Whereabouts in Slovakia?’ he added, glancing at the interpreter.

  A conversation ensued where Lorimer noted the frown on the old man’s face, a sigh then a shake of his head, his hand gestures making Lorimer wonder if he was sad to be so far away from home. Or was there something else? He had seemed to listen intently as
Lorimer asked the questions. Did he have a better grasp of English than he was letting on? That was something that the detective had come across before; foreign nationals hiding behind the pretence of not understanding what was being said.

  ‘He’s a Romany, a gypsy,’ the interpreter explained. ‘They’re from a little village in the east of the country near the Ukrainian border called Streda nad Bodrogom. They call it Gypsy Town.’ Lorimer guessed that the man had not been given that information from the old man beside them. Ferenc was not the only one from that village, Lorimer pondered; some of the young women rescued during Operation Fingertip had also lived there. How much did this gypsy know about the gang master? And would he tell them more than the facts they had gleaned so far? He could imagine the scenario: the offer of working in the UK, a pretty girl lured away from her country village and the expectation that she would provide for her impoverished family back home. That was what he wanted to stop, he and hundreds of other professionals like him across Europe and beyond. But until they caught the people behind it there would always be a continuing rise in this trade in human flesh.

  ‘Who was the big boss in Aberdeen?’ he asked then, sitting back and smiling as if this was a casual question to ask.

  The interpreter spoke in the same tone of voice, unhurried and measured as Lorimer locked eyes with the prisoner. But the old man blinked then looked away, head bowed. What was he trying to hide? The identity of this man? Or something more personal?

  ‘Who was the boss in Aberdeen?’ Lorimer repeated.

  At first he pursed his lips as though considering the question then shrugged as if to say that he did not know. Or did not understand?

  ‘Who brought you to Scotland, Mr Ferenc?’

  The question was again relayed through the interpreter and this time Ferenc nodded and spoke aloud. ‘It was Max.’ He nodded, a grin on his face as though delighted to be able to answer in the few English words that he knew. ‘Max,’ he repeated.