Only the Dead Can Tell

by Alex Gray

  ‘I have nothing to say while the case is ongoing,’ Rosie replied. She turned sharply away, feeling a sensation of giddiness as she climbed the stairs once more, clutching at the banister for support.

  ‘I’ll just print that then, shall I? Pathologist refuses to revisit botched case?’

  Rosie clenched her teeth, a surge of anger coursing through her. Then, a movement within reminded her that she had more to consider than the nasty attempts of the press to discredit her. She continued to climb the stairs, heart thumping. As she rounded the corner, the sound of the main door closing with its customary bang made her stop and sigh with relief.

  ‘Here, what on earth?’ Solly took his wife’s arm and led her through to the airy lounge where the linen curtains were blowing in the breeze from the open window. ‘You look terrible. What’s happened?’ he asked as Rosie pressed her face against his shoulder and began to sob.

  Bit by bit the story emerged of the stranger from the Gazette and the way she had caught Rosie off guard.

  ‘She must have followed me in,’ Rosie wept. ‘Th-thought she was so clever . . . addressing me as Mrs Brightman!’

  ‘Here.’ Solly handed her a clean white handkerchief and watched as she blew her nose. ‘Look, sorry to say this, but I think it was only a matter of time before something like this happened. That SIO has no love for you, my dear.’

  ‘You think Alan McCauley leaked information to the Gazette?’ Rosie’s mouth fell open in astonishment.

  ‘It’s possible,’ he sighed. ‘He’ll feel threatened by your refusal to go along with his . . . ’ he paused for a moment, trying to pick the right words, ‘interpretation of the facts,’ he said at last. ‘Come on, darling, sit down and I’ll make you some tea. Camomile. No caffeine,’ he added with a mock stern expression.

  Rosie let herself be led to the chair with its plumped up cushions that Abby had taken to calling ‘Mummy’s chair’. She slumped down, head still ringing with the woman’s words. How could she! Rosie raged. Then, feeling another flutter inside, she closed her eyes and began to take a few deep breaths.

  Today was supposed to have been a day off. The appointment at her antenatal clinic had been fun, chatting with the other expectant mums and enjoying the frisson of excitement that always came from realising their babies were that much closer to being born. How did that Bradford woman know she was going to be at home? Had someone been following her? The thought sent shivers down her spine.

  But then the image of the woman’s body and the stiffened fingers clutching the Laguiole knife rose unbidden to the surface of her mind. She would be under oath one of these days to tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth and by golly she was going to have her say, no matter how much the press would try to discredit her.

  ‘Here, drink this up,’ Solly said gently, handing her a porcelain mug with violets printed on it, a Valentine gift from their early courting days.

  She smiled up at him, seeing the concern in those deep brown eyes, their long lashes a feature inherited by their little daughter. ‘I’ll be all right. It was just a fright, I suppose . . . ’

  ‘She had absolutely no right to be in this building,’ Solly remarked, his tone serious. ‘I think a word in the right quarters . . . ’ He tailed off thoughtfully.

  ‘You want to tell Lorimer?’ Rosie looked up, eyes widening.

  Solly knelt down beside her and began to stroke the wayward curls back from his wife’s face. ‘Actually, I was thinking of someone nearer home,’ he murmured. ‘Kirsty.’

  A day off at last! Kirsty strolled hand in hand with James through Kelvingrove Park, watching the mums wheeling baby buggies along the paths. And not only mums but a few dads too, stopping with toddlers to point out the waterfowl on the pond. And there, with a group of small folk gathered beside him, was the Bird Man, hands outstretched as finches fluttered down to peck at the grain.

  Kirsty watched intently as the thin man spilled more seeds into the cupped palms of the children and saw them copy his silent stance. Gradually the birds returned and she smiled, hearing the exclamations of glee as they landed on a child’s hand. Squirrels hopped at a safe distance, ready to pounce on any of the spilled grain, and wood pigeons too, cooing as they waddled closer to the group, unafraid of the many pairs of feet.

  She felt her hand being squeezed and looked up at James with a grin.

  ‘Us, one day?’ he murmured and she nodded, conscious of the unfamiliar diamond solitaire on her left hand. A family heirloom, he’d murmured that morning as he’d slipped it on her finger. Just till I can afford something better. But it had turned out to be a perfect fit. She sighed happily. It was good right now to know how much she wanted a future with this man, someone to share her dreams with; dreams that included children of their own, something they talked about in the wee small hours.

  Then, as they continued to stroll along towards the bridge that spanned the River Kelvin, Kirsty felt the vibration from her mobile phone.

  James raised his eyebrows and mouthed ‘Work?’ But she shook her head.

  ‘Hi, Solly. Yes, we’re just in the park right now, as it happens.’

  She turned to look up towards the terrace of houses that sat overlooking the park, eyes fixed on a top flat window. There was something in the psychologist’s voice that made her listen carefully. ‘Of course we can. Not doing anything special? Are we?’ She turned to James who shook his head and shrugged. ‘Fine, be with you in a few minutes. Have the kettle on!’

  ‘Invitation to tea?’ James asked, turning back with her and clasping her hand once more.

  ‘Aye.’ Kirsty frowned. ‘But I think it’s more than that. Solly sounded . . . I don’t know, kind of worried.’

  She’d been in two minds about sharing the information that Dr McDougall had given her but now that James and Kirsty were about to arrive, Rosie made up her mind. There were things that still bothered her about this case and perhaps DC Kirsty Wilson was the very person to do a little bit of digging on her behalf.

  ‘Where’s my favourite girl?’ James asked as they breezed into the flat.

  ‘At a little friend’s birthday party,’ Solly told them as they entered the lounge. ‘All afternoon. She’ll be dog-tired by the time she comes home, I bet. An early night tonight for Miss Abigail Brightman!’ He grinned.

  ‘Come on in,’ Rosie called from her customary place by the bay window. ‘I was watching you cross the park. What a heavenly day!’

  ‘Aye,’ Kirsty agreed. ‘Nice to have a bit of fresh air instead of being stuck in Helen Street or the Queen Elizabeth.’

  ‘He’s woken up, I heard,’ Rosie remarked. ‘Any further news?’

  Kirsty bit her lip, not sure just how much to divulge. The rumours that had reached CID claimed to involve a prison officer but that was all she knew and they’d been warned not to talk about it to any enquiring journalists.

  ‘The press . . . ’ she began.

  ‘Don’t talk to me about the papers!’ Rosie snapped. Then she explained about the visit from the Gazette’s features writer.

  ‘That’s shocking,’ James growled. ‘Wish I’d been there. I’d have marched her off the premises double quick!’

  ‘You think she’d been following you?’ Kirsty asked.

  ‘No way of telling but how else would she have known where I’d be at that particular time? Unless she’d been sitting in a car waiting for me to appear? Anyway, there’s a lot more I want to talk about besides this nasty stuff,’ Rosie said, brushing biscuit crumbs off her smock top and into her hand.

  ‘Okay, I’m listening,’ Kirsty told her, settling down on the rug by Rosie’s side.

  ‘It’s about Dorothy Guilford,’ Rosie began. ‘I think you ought to know a bit more about her medical background. I visited her old GP, and he said there was a lot he could tell me about that family, and he did, especially about Dorothy.’ And she went on to relate the visit to Dr McDougall. ‘So, there you have it. “Sleekit”, he called her. An interesting
choice of word.’

  ‘That does chime with another person’s viewpoint,’ Kirsty said slowly. ‘Cynthia Drollinger, Guilford’s secretary said that Dorothy had a history of self-harming. And she mentioned the sister.’

  ‘Did she say anything about where this sister is now? Shirley?’

  Kirsty shook her head. ‘But I could find out,’ she offered. ‘DI McCauley hasn’t seen fit to instruct a visit to her. Thinks it’s all done and dusted since the husband’s arrest, I guess. But from what you tell me this sister is someone else who had no reason to love Dorothy Guilford.’

  Even as she spoke, Kirsty could feel the pathologist’s eyes on her. Rosie was so determined that the woman had taken her own life. But, what if that wasn’t true? What if someone else had plunged that steak knife into the woman’s heart? Someone with a long-standing grudge, perhaps?

  ‘Would you do a little digging for me, Kirsty? Find out what you can?’

  ‘Even if I come up with answers you don’t want to hear?’ Kirsty rejoined.

  Rosie looked at her young friend and nodded. ‘Even then. If I’m mistaken then I’m mistaken. It’s the truth I’m after. I just feel there are too many things wrong about this death.’

  It was only fair, Solly reasoned, that he too did some digging of his own. Dorothy Guilford’s was an interesting personality to profile and no mistake, he thought, gazing out over the faded blue of the afternoon sky. From an early age she had been the favoured child, the spoiled one. But was that right? As the daughter of fervently religious parents, had she been denied the sorts of things she actually craved? Nice clothes, make-up and cheap jewellery, stuff that seemed part of the trappings during a rite of passage for young teenage girls. Shirley, now, she had had the gall to step across the line drawn by these parents but Dorothy had succumbed to their rules and regulations. Was there an innate fearfulness in the girl’s character that had come with her into womanhood? Had she been programmed to obey, like the children from a bygone era? That was one thing to consider but the self-harming was quite another. Did she crave attention so badly? Probably, was his honest answer and he felt a twinge of pity for the dead woman who had cut herself repeatedly since childhood. Nobody would ever know the whole truth but Solly could imagine a scenario where the little girl had been in hospital and shown kindness from the nursing staff there, given treats perhaps that had been denied at home. Had she learned that sort of behaviour might result in the petting she undoubtedly craved? And, was her gloating over her sister’s misfortune, the status conferred on her of ‘the good daughter’, enough to satisfy her for a time?

  And yet, if that was so, she would have wanted the satisfaction, the glow that came from being fussed over after yet another accident. Had that plunging knife been a cry for yet more attention that had gone disastrously wrong?

  Why had she killed herself? That was the question he came back to again and again. An accident seemed unlikely on the face of it; pills by her bedside would have given her that last deep sleep drifting into oblivion had she really wanted to end it all with less pain and less drama.

  Solly sat up suddenly. That was a word that agreed with the profile he had in his mind. She’d been a lover of seeking attention, creating little dramas . . . had she any reason to have made this her final exit? His head spun with the possibilities. Dorothy Guilford had claimed that her husband was trying to kill her. Had she, in a mood of revenge, sought to rob him of that desire?

  He sighed. It was all so nebulous. If Rosie was correct in her assessment of the cause of death, no one would ever really know the answer to such questions, would they? For only the dead woman could have revealed what was in her mind at the time when the knife entered her heart, cutting off her breath for ever.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  It was the way she’d always looked at her, a determined stare in those large eyes, mouth closed but with the feeling that next time she spoke it would be to sneer or put her down in the clever way that Dorothy had with words. Sticks and stones may break my bones, she’d chant, knowing fine well that it was Shirley who felt the sting from her taunts. The photo was an old one, no clues to tell the story of the woman Dorothy Guilford had become in the end.

  Shirley put down the newspaper with a slap. It was curled at the edges now but she had been unable to bin it with the other papers. Was she gloating, perhaps? The thought came into Shirley’s mind as she reached for the pack of cigarettes, regarding her chubby hands with disgust. Dorothy had always had nice hands, stretching them out to blow on her perfectly curved fingernails as she carefully painted them in shades of palest pink. Never the brassy reds and magentas that other teenagers their age had favoured, the woman thought, curling her own bitten nails out of sight. No, Dorothy always had to be the little lady, that mouse-brown hair tucked behind her ears, school uniform tidy and smart, her waistband never turned over and over again to create a miniskirt like Shirley’s. A parent’s pride and joy, she’d overheard their father telling someone as he’d drawn the younger daughter to his side, Dorothy smirking at Shirley before looking up at Dad with those big cow’s eyes. She could have stabbed a knife into the little bitch right there and then! Shirley ground her teeth in a rage, the memory as clear as though it were yesterday.

  Then she let the newspaper fall with a cry. It was stupid to dwell on such things. Besides, now that she was dead why should Dorothy still be troubling her thoughts?

  The doorbell ringing made her heave herself out of the chair and waddle down the hallway, cursing whoever was on the other side of the door. If it was the man to read the electric meter she’d have to let him in, but the last bill had only just been paid.

  Through the spyhole Shirley could see a smartly dressed young woman. She frowned then set the chain and opened the door so that she could see the person to decide if it were friend or foe.

  ‘Mrs Finnegan? I’m Detective Constable Wilson,’ the woman told her, holding up her warrant card so that Shirley could see it clearly.

  ‘Is this about Dorothy?’

  ‘Yes,’ the police officer replied. ‘I’d like to talk to you about your late sister.’ She paused, regarding Shirley with the sort of expression that people reserved for addressing the bereaved. ‘I’m sure Family Liaison have been to visit but I wanted to ask you some questions. May I come in?’

  ‘S’pose so,’ Shirley mumbled, taking off the chain and turning her back on the detective so that this DC Wilson had to close the door after them. ‘In here, place is a mess. Find a seat if you can.’ She nodded towards a chair that had a pile of folded towels waiting to be put away. ‘The lawyer called to tell me all about it.’ She drew a hand across her nose and sniffed. ‘Peter finally had enough of her, then?’ She hadn’t said anything like that to the sympathetic officers who’d doorstepped her after Frank Dawson’s telephone call. It had been hard to act like the grieving sister then and she wasn’t about to keep up the act any longer.

  The detective placed the pile of towels to one side, sat down then looked at her sharply. ‘Did you know he was attacked in prison?’

  ‘Saw it on the telly, didn’t I?’ Shirley shrugged, her massive shoulders straining the washed out white top that was at least a size too small for her now. The woman sitting opposite was one of those skinny types, probably went to the gym five times a week and lived on rabbit food, Shirley told herself, a tinge of envy creeping into her mind as she regarded the detective’s shapely legs and fine cheekbones. There was an engagement ring on her finger too, a promise of good things to come, no doubt. Shirley ground her teeth, disliking the detective already.

  ‘I’d like to ask you about your sister, Dorothy Guilford. Did you see one another regularly?’ the young woman asked.

  Shirley gave a mirthless laugh. ‘See her? Not on your nelly! We weren’t on social terms, her and me,’ she said. ‘Hadn’t been for years.’

  ‘When was the last time you saw Dorothy?’

  Shirley’s eyes fell unbidden to the fallen newspaper. She’d looked at
that monochrome photo hundreds of times now, memorising the plain features, the superior expression in those eyes. ‘Can’t remember,’ she said at last. ‘Why? Is it important?’

  DC Wilson regarded her thoughtfully. ‘The house in St Andrew’s Drive, where Dorothy and Peter lived, that was your family home, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Ye-es,’ Shirley drawled, wondering what the point of this question could be.

  The woman smiled then, a rather coy smile, Shirley thought, then asked, ‘I don’t suppose you happen to have a key for your old home, Mrs Finnegan?’

  Shirley stared at her for a moment. ‘Why?’ she blustered. ‘Why should you think I had a key for that place?’

  ‘Oh, it was the cleaning woman, Mrs Daly, who gave me that idea,’ Wilson replied cheerfully.

  ‘Well, suppose I do?’ Shirley answered defiantly. ‘What about it?’

  ‘The door keys are still the same ones you had when you were living there as a family,’ the detective said. It was a statement not a question so Shirley simply nodded.

  Then the woman’s face changed and became more solemn, making Shirley fidget in her chair.

  ‘Where were you on the night of Dorothy Guilford’s death, Mrs Finnegan?’

  Kirsty waited in the filthy living room, listening to the unmistakable sounds of retching that came from the bathroom. Shirley Finnegan had rushed out of the room as fast as her fat legs could carry her and was now being thoroughly sick. What on earth had prompted that? Kirsty’s head was spinning with possible answers. Was she guilty of something that had made her nauseous? Had she been instrumental in the death of her own sister? No sooner had Kirsty asked where Shirley had been on the night of her sister’s death than the woman’s face changed to a ghastly white and she had put a hand to her mouth, ready to throw up.