by Alex Gray
‘But the newspapers reported that Peter had been taken into custody as the police’s prime suspect?’
‘That’s correct. And I’m not exactly flavour of the month with the SIO, I can tell you,’ she said ruefully.
‘So . . . ’ Donald John paused for a moment then leaned back in his recliner chair as Jane appeared with a tray of drinks.
‘Here you are.’ Jane laid down a tea tray then handed Rosie a large glass of cool water. ‘I’ll just be through in the kitchen if you need me. Leave you two to talk,’ she added with a nod to Rosie.
‘She’s a good lass,’ Donald John murmured once Jane was out of earshot. ‘Works far too hard, of course. They all do these days. But between you and me she’ll be taking it easier in the months to come.’ The creases around his eyes deepened as he waved a hand towards Rosie’s bump.
‘She’s expecting?’
‘Oh, I think she’ll tell me any day now but I know the signs,’ he chuckled.
Rosie took a long drink of water then heaved a sigh of relief. ‘Hope she’ll be fine,’ she said at last.
‘Och, Jane’s younger than she looks,’ the old man told her. ‘She’ll do all right when the time comes. Now, let’s get back to Dorothy. Never wanted to be a mother, that one,’ he muttered. ‘What else can I tell you about her?’
His smile faded as he poured himself a cup of tea, adding milk and just one spoonful of sugar. ‘Aye, Dorothy was always an odd one,’ he began, taking a sip of the tea and cradling the cup against his chest. ‘She was the younger daughter of elderly parents who kept a tight rein on their girls. Too damn tight, if you ask me. It was no surprise when Shirley went off the rails but Dorothy never showed any sign of rebellion. Which is strange for a teenager, don’t you think?’
‘I’ll live to find that out,’ Rosie said. ‘Our daughter, Abby, starts school after the summer so we have a while to wait for that time in our lives.’
‘Well, Dorothy was a quiet wee girl but the sort that folk sometimes describe as “sleekit”. Good Scots word, that,’ he added. ‘Not like the “wee, sleekit, cow’rin tim’rous beastie” that Burns described, no, not that. She was sly, that one, watched you with these eyes of hers, solemn as you like but you always felt that she was plotting something, plotting and planning, waiting to catch you out.’
‘Even as a child?’
‘Especially as a child, I would say. I could tell you a lot about that family. Her parents believed in the “children should be seen and not heard” philosophy and Dorothy stuck to that, at least as far as outward appearances were concerned.’
‘But not the elder sister?’
‘Ah, no. Shirley was quite different. Loved bright clothes and dyeing her hair, going out with boys, all the things her parents found to be abhorrent.’
‘They were strict for a reason?’
‘Fervently religious.’ Donald John nodded. ‘Wouldn’t allow the girls to wear make-up but Shirley defied them at every turn. It was little wonder they threw her out in the end.’
‘They did that?’ Rosie raised her eyebrows in surprise.
‘Aye. Poor lass came to me weeping one day. Found she was pregnant by a lad who had no intention of leading her to the altar. Wee brat scarpered off to join the army, leaving poor Shirley to fend for herself.’
‘And Dorothy? Didn’t she help her sister?’
‘Help?’ Donald John gave a derisive snort. ‘Dorothy revelled in her sister’s misfortune. She was the good one, the favoured child who could do no wrong.’
‘But she got married to Peter Guilford. Did the parents approve of that?’
Donald John gave her a solemn look as he sipped more tea. ‘She married that one long after her parents died,’ he said. ‘Not while they were living. And,’ he sighed heavily, ‘it was rumoured that Guilford only married Dorothy for her money. She inherited everything; house, car-hire business, the lot. Shirley didn’t get a penny piece.’
‘Then the vehicle-hire business wasn’t Guilford’s but Dorothy’s?’
The old man nodded. ‘It came into her possession but he may have persuaded her to sign it over to him. Who knows? There were a lot of things that he forced her to do,’ he muttered.
‘I’ve seen her injuries,’ Rosie admitted. ‘There were several that might be construed as signs of abuse.’
‘Well, maybe she was an abused wife and maybe she wasn’t. Dorothy never ever accused him of anything like that. We were all shocked when the husband was arrested for her murder, you know, though perhaps I shouldn’t have been.’
‘Oh?’ Rosie looked up at the retired doctor, the shake of his head and the deep sigh both signs that he was feeling some sort of remorse.
‘There was never any proof that he had hurt her and Peter Guilford would have given anyone the impression that he was a charming man.’ Donald John paused, his eyebrows raised as though he now had some doubts about the matter. ‘Let me give you some idea of what Dorothy was like as a patient before her marriage, eh?’
Rosie sat back, enjoying the comfort of the rocker as much as the old doctor’s tale.
‘Dorothy was an attention-seeker,’ the old man went on. ‘Though why she needed anybody else’s attention when her parents doted on her is anyone’s guess. She was adept at self-harming in such a way that you knew fine she’d done it but her reasons for the injuries were always just plausible enough to make us write them down in her case notes.’
‘What sort of things did she do?’
Donald John regarded her steadily before answering.
‘She’d cut herself,’ he told her. ‘And always with a kitchen knife to make out she’d been busy doing chores. Parents swallowed her stories every time but we knew better,’ he said, his lips compressing into a grim line of disapproval. ‘And after their death she was regularly at the medical centre, fussing about a wee mole on her breast or a dark vein on her leg, things that she had decided were sufficient to merit the attention of a consultant. Things that might require a surgeon’s knife,’ he added darkly. ‘Then, more recently, in between the real injuries that, with hindsight, might have been inflicted by the husband, she’d try to persuade me that she was suffering from some obscure disease or other.’
‘Really wanting to draw attention to herself.’
‘Oh, absolutely. I can just imagine her bent over her computer screen, looking up as many odd symptoms as she could find. We began to dread it every time she made an appointment,’ he sighed. ‘And I was jolly glad to hand her over to poor Jane on my retirement.’
‘Dr Loughman said that Dorothy continued to be a regular at the surgery,’ Rosie said.
‘Aye, but things changed towards the end. Did she tell you that?’
‘No,’ Rosie replied.
‘She would call me up here at home, usually in tears.’ The old doctor shook his head. ‘Maybe I should have taken her more seriously than I did,’ he said.
‘Why?’
Donald John McDougall heaved a sigh once more. ‘She kept insisting that she was going to die.’ He bit his lip and avoided Rosie’s stare.
‘You see, Dr Fergusson, Dorothy was convinced that Peter Guilford was going to kill her.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Being dead might have been preferable after all, Peter decided as he glanced at the tall man sitting staring at him from the visitor’s chair, a pair of keen blue eyes giving him the impression that this fellow could see right into his soul.
But then the man spoke and everything changed.
‘We’re so glad that you’ve come through this, Mr Guilford. The doctors tell me that you are still pretty weakened by these injuries but it looks like you’ll make a full recovery.’
The voice was soothing, the words sounding genuinely sympathetic, and Peter felt himself relax a little under the crisp white sheet.
‘My name’s Lorimer,’ the man told him. ‘I’m with a team of police officers who are trying to find out who attacked you, sir,’ he said gravely.
Peter
blinked. ‘Why . . . ?’
‘Mr Guilford, Peter, we’re looking at the attack as attempted murder. As a prisoner on remand you are seen to be quite innocent of any crime until a jury decides otherwise. We look for justice on your behalf, no matter what you stand accused of.’
Peter looked away from the blue stare. It was hard to believe that any outcome would see him a free man again, but perhaps this police officer could help him?
‘I need to ask you about the attack, Peter.’
He looked back at the man. He was smartly dressed in a suit and tie, hair a little tousled perhaps and with a face that had seen a lot, Peter reckoned, examining the firm jaw and the deep cleft between those startling eyes. Here was someone who didn’t suffer fools gladly. Even Peter was better off telling the truth: this guy would know a lie in a heartbeat.
‘I don’t know who he was,’ Peter began. ‘Didn’t really see his face. He was a big fellow, broad . . . ’ He broke off, closing his eyes for a moment, the scene vivid once more. ‘Had something sharp in his fist.’ He took a deep breath, a sudden pain from the broken ribs making him bite his lip. ‘Couldn’t see what it was for the shower spray . . . ’ He clenched his fists as the image became clearer.
Then he opened his eyes and looked straight at Lorimer. ‘Don’t know who he was,’ he repeated, ‘but I know it wasn’t another inmate.’
‘A prison officer? You’re saying that a prison officer attacked you?’ Lorimer tried to keep the astonishment out of his voice.
Peter Guilford nodded then began to cough. ‘Wore a uniform,’ he added. ‘Could it have been someone in disguise? I’ve had time to think about it since I woke up, you see.’ He broke off, his voice becoming hoarse.
‘Here, have some water.’ Lorimer stood over him, a plastic cup in his hand, helping the man to take sips.
At last the policeman sat down again and Peter turned with a yawn. ‘Sorry, still so tired . . . ’
‘That’s all right. We will have officers nearby at all times, Peter. If there’s anything else you want to tell them I’ll know about it, okay? Now, take some rest and I will be back another time to let you know how this matter progresses.’
Peter watched as the man gathered up a slim notecase and ran his fingers through his dark hair. He was even taller than he’d imagined. A good height for a goalkeeper, that random thought coming from nowhere.
Lorimer was about to leave when he turned back again and smiled.
‘Oh, just one other thing. Do you happen to know a chap called Max? Might have done business with your company recently?’
Peter froze. His head felt heavy under the bandages but he wanted to shake it fiercely.
‘No idea,’ he croaked at last, receiving a long look from the detective.
‘Oh, well, just a thought.’ Lorimer smiled again then left the ward, leaving Peter Guilford pulling up the sheet to his chin as he began to shiver.
‘He is probably quite correct,’ Mr Ahasan, the consultant neurosurgeon told Lorimer. ‘The injuries we saw were more than likely inflicted by someone wearing steel-capped boots. We even had an imprint on his ribcage,’ the man said, raising his dark eyebrows to underline his point. ‘I’ve seen things like that before in the aftermath of a fight. Sometimes the patient doesn’t survive a brutal kicking like that. Our man was a little luckier, however.’
Lorimer nodded. After almost two weeks in a coma, nobody had expected the man to pull through. He had taken steps to keep everything about the prison attack from the press whilst the police had been interviewing every single inmate in an effort to establish a link between Guilford and any of the prisoners in Barlinnie. The neurosurgical team had kept them pretty much at bay until Guilford had recovered sufficiently to talk to the police but now it seemed as if much of the man hours spent interviewing these men had been in vain.
‘You cannot and must not breathe a word of this to anyone,’ Lorimer warned the consultant. ‘I don’t want the papers getting hold of the story. It could jeopardise not just the inquiry into the attack but quite a lot more.’
‘We also have patient confidentiality to think of,’ Ahasan told him with a steely smile. ‘You can be assured that nothing we have discussed will venture outside this room, Superintendent Lorimer.’
Barlinnie Prison was generally safe and secure although there had been incidents when inmates had managed to access mobile phones and spread their malice out into the world again. The very suggestion of Peter Guilford’s attacker being a prison officer would send shudders through the entire prison service.
So it was with a heavy heart that Lorimer drove up to the prison and parked in front of the entrance.
The usual security routine was undertaken, no exception made for a senior police officer of his rank. All mobiles had to be left with the officers behind the safety screens or not brought into the prison at all, identities checked at every visit. Lorimer’s warrant card sufficed to identify him and a security badge was thrust through the grille then he made his way through the airport-style body scanner and was met by a prison officer at the foot of the stairs.
‘Detective Superintendent. Welcome. The governor is waiting for you, sir. Another smashing day, eh? What a month we’re having.’ The prison officer grinned as they made their way up the flights of stairs that led to McSherry’s office.
This man was burly, quite tall, and Lorimer found himself scrutinising the fellow. Could this be Guilford’s attacker? Was every officer fitting the prisoner’s description going to be a possible suspect?
‘Yes, it’s been grand, so far,’ he answered politely, his eyes lifting as another prison officer stepped swiftly down past them, bunches of keys dangling from his belt. Another big man: another possible suspect? Lorimer stifled a sigh as he was led along the corridor to the governor’s office.
It was mercifully cool inside as McSherry stood up to greet him, the man’s shirtsleeves rolled up past his elbow, a fan whirring gently in one corner.
‘Lorimer, what news?’ McSherry was on his feet and grasping Lorimer’s hand.
‘Well, Guilford appears to be making a good recovery so far,’ Lorimer told him, sitting down in the chair that the governor indicated next to his desk. ‘He’ll be in that ward for a while longer, however, not just because his condition is pretty fragile but the security situation is better if he remains there meantime.’
‘And? Was he able to remember anything that happened?’ McSherry leaned forwards close enough for the detective superintendent to see beads of sweat on the man’s brow. Was it a sign of anxiety? Or simply the heat of this summer’s day?
‘Yes, he can,’ Lorimer began, watching the other man’s expression. ‘His head injury was particularly appalling. Lesions to the brain that were thought to have triggered that peculiar coma he drifted in and out of.’ He frowned. ‘But no permanent brain damage done as far as the neurosurgeon can see. And yes, he recalled the attack.’
McSherry sat back. ‘You’re going to tell me something I won’t like,’ he said suddenly. ‘I can see it in your face.’
‘It wasn’t an inmate that attacked Guilford,’ Lorimer told him. ‘The man he described was more than likely one of your prison officers.’
McSherry shook his head, his jaw working silently. ‘No, not possible. I don’t believe it!’ he exclaimed. ‘That wee scrote is lying through his teeth! Must be another prisoner! He’s just trying to make trouble for us!’
‘I don’t think so,’ Lorimer said slowly. ‘I’ve spoken to his consultant and he agrees that the assailant was someone wearing heavy steel-capped shoes or boots. And that isn’t possible if it was a prisoner, is it?’
McSherry slumped back in his chair, wiping his brow with the back of his hand. ‘What do we do now? Can he identify the man?’
‘Possibly. Best thing to do is to show him mugshots of every one of your officers. See if he recognises his assailant.’
‘I can’t believe this is happening,’ McSherry said, shaking his head again. ‘Every one of
these men is vetted scrupulously. Are you sure he isn’t making it all up?’ He looked appealingly at Lorimer then sighed. ‘No? Dear Christ, what a hell of a mess!’
‘Don’t say a word about this to anyone else,’ Lorimer warned him. ‘There could be far bigger things at stake than just finding out who attacked Peter Guilford.’
McSherry gave him a curious look and nodded. ‘You’re heading up the MIT now,’ he said slowly. ‘Of course. So it’s something major going on, right? And Guilford is just a small part of that?’
Lorimer raised his eyebrows slightly and smiled knowingly. No more needed to be said right now and McSherry would just have to wait until such times as he could fill him in with the whole story.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
‘Mrs Brightman?’ a cheerful female voice called out as Rosie took the first step onto the staircase that led to their top-floor flat.
Turning, Rosie saw a woman wearing a pretty flowered dress and carrying a large tote bag over her shoulders.
‘Oh, it is you! So glad I caught you,’ the woman gushed.
‘Sorry.’ Rosie frowned, stepping down and walking stiffly towards the stranger standing in the reception hall. ‘Do I know you?’
‘Sheila Barnard.’ The woman smiled widely, showing perfect white teeth against a slick of bright crimson lipstick. ‘I’m features writer for the Gazette,’ she explained. ‘I’ve been asked to do a little story about you.’
Rosie took a step back. This was odd, surely? Coming into a person’s home without so much as a telephone call or an email.
‘I don’t think there’s been any advance notice from your paper . . . ’ Rosie began.
‘Oh, we just had to run with what we were given.’ The woman grinned. ‘You know, see if it was really true or not.’ She gave Rosie a knowing look.
‘What on earth are you talking about?’
‘Oh, the Guilford murder, of course. Is it true that you are claiming she committed suicide? Just like that case back in 2001? You must remember that?’ The woman edged forwards and this time Rosie noticed the slim mobile clutched in the woman’s palm. She was actually recording this conversation!