Deadly Harm

by Owen Mullen

  Geddes had a boozer’s face. So where did he keep the drink? Malkie tried the kitchen and found an almost full bottle of Talisker malt whisky at the back of a cupboard. Not what he expected. The policeman must be trying to impress Goody Two-Shoes. He poured himself a large one, then took a tour of the rooms. People’s houses were fascinating; he’d been in plenty, uninvited, of course. There wasn’t much to see in this one. The flat was small – bedroom, bathroom, kitchen and living room. By the look of it, Police Scotland wasn’t paying much if this was the best he could afford. A built-in wardrobe held T-shirts and jeans, a police uniform, a couple of dark suits and eight or nine shirts, all white. The dresser drawers were empty apart from one filled with socks – all black – and another for underpants, reminding Malkie of the room he was staying in, functional, at best. Temporary. All the usual stuff was in the bathroom: toothbrush, toothpaste, shaving foam, razor and, hiding on the bottom shelf, a bottle of Grecian 2000. Christ! Had he looked in the mirror lately?

  He picked it up and read the label. ‘Didn’t have you down as vain, Mr Policeman. Don’t fancy going grey? Wouldn’t worry about it. Your hair’s the least of your troubles.’

  In the kitchen, the contents of the fridge told Malkie everything he needed about the detective’s eating habits: half-a-dozen Weight Watchers ready meals, two blackened bananas and a jar of mayonnaise – low fat. Not drinking? Dyeing his hair? On a diet? This guy was trying hard. Well seen he had a female on the go.

  The furniture in the living room was cheap and mismatched. Malkie imagined Geddes there night after night, drowning his sorrows by himself, staggering to bed and falling asleep with his clothes on in the days before Goody came along and forced him to smarten up his ideas. A photograph on a table next to the phone caught his attention – Geddes with his arm round a brunette Malkie recognised as the woman from the refuge in Lennoxtown: Mackenzie Darroch. They were smiling, obviously happy. He picked it up and studied it.

  Malkie Boyle was smiling too.

  He drained the whisky, washed the glass and returned it and the bottle to where they’d been. On his way to the door he lifted the photograph, letting his eyes run over the faces. Nice pic. Seeing it surprised him. Hardmen detectives like Geddes couldn’t afford to be soppy. Sentimentality could get you killed in this town. Malkie folded it down the middle, tore one of the halves into ragged fragments and left them on the table. The other one went in his pocket.

  Sylvia Scott wasn’t happy. Seeing earth fly as Juliette dug the ground up had panicked her and she’d snapped at Andrew Geddes. When the DI left, Mackenzie and Caitlin went their separate ways without mentioning it, but the incident highlighted a serious problem – sooner or later the body would be found. A connection with Mrs Thorne’s daughter and the cottage wouldn’t be far behind.

  Juliette nuzzled Sylvia’s hand. ‘Nearly dropped us in it, didn’t you, girl? You know something’s under there. Can smell it, can’t you?’

  Adorable big brown eyes looked up at her.

  ‘No more back garden for you.’

  38

  The bedroom door was open. Usually The Boy kept it closed. Billy pushed it wide and went inside. Why not? Whose fucking house was it anyway? Billy hadn’t been in there since Malkie had arrived on his doorstep in the middle of the night, out of his head, grinning like an idiot and calling him Granddad. Nobody needed to tell an old hand like Billy Cunningham what was going on, he could guess – he was running. From something or someone, it didn’t matter. But if he’d expected to be welcomed like the prodigal returned, he was mistaken. The Boy had trouble written all over him – just like his worthless father. Hannah wouldn’t listen and look how it ended.

  The room was a mess: an overflowing ashtray on the bedside table, empty beer cans on the floor. None of that bothered Billy, his own room wasn’t exactly pristine. He poked around in the wardrobe and drawers, muttering to himself until he discovered something that did – a wad of silver paper wrapping a chunk of tobacco. Except, it wasn’t tobacco. The Boy was smoking marijuana in there. Probably taking LSD. The moral high ground was an unexpected place to find a man with Billy’s criminal record. Given the things he’d done, getting high on dope or acid was inconsequential. He didn’t see it that way. As a young man in the so-called “Swinging Sixties”, he’d avoided drugs and the people it attracted. Unreliable types, airy-fairy dreamers only a damned fool would depend on. Later, what he was about took a clear head and any of his crew caught messing with anything stronger than alcohol had pulled his last job.

  Things had changed with The Boy. He’d started going out during the day instead of at night. Restlessness was understandable – he’d been cooped up a long time. Over-confidence would do for him. The police were like elephants, they never forgot. Billy had taken on one robbery too many and been caught. Eventually they’d catch The Boy too.

  That would be a good day. Billy looked forward to it.

  Geddes fell into the armchair, tired and depressed, and thought about having a large whisky. He deserved it. It had been a shit day from start to finish. Dropping in on Mackenzie was meant to be a pleasant surprise. Apparently, that wasn’t how she felt about it. She’d been uptight. Couldn’t get rid of him fast enough. Even turning her face away at the door when he’d tried to kiss her. Could be she didn’t appreciate him showing up, unannounced and uninvited. Perhaps her friends didn’t approve. Or she might be losing interest, although it hadn’t felt like it the last time she’d stayed with him.

  The shift hadn’t gone any better. A key witness in a case he was on suddenly retracted his statement, claiming to be uncertain about exactly what he’d seen. Months of work down the Swanee. For sure the guy had been leaned on. Unless the witness changed his mind again, the case was in the bin. Breaking the news to his DCI hadn’t gone well, and at the finish – just what he needed – some bastard had slashed his tyres. Right outside the station too. Unbelievable.

  So a whisky. Definitely.

  Just one.

  He lifted the bottle of Talisker from the cupboard and stopped; the level was lower. Strange. His mind must be playing a trick on him; over the years he’d emptied so many. In the lounge, he put the glass on the table, pulled off his shoes and noticed the photograph of him and Mackenzie taken on Christmas night was missing. Their first selfie she’d called it, and later given him a printed copy. In its place was a neat pile of glossy scraps.

  Geddes tensed and downed the drink in one without tasting it, his expression a rictus of disbelief, his stomach gripped with fear. Some time that day Mackenzie had been here. How was it possible? What the fuck was going on? Everything had been good until he’d stuck his neb in about the bloody dog. That couldn’t be it.

  He laughed a nervous laugh, on the edge of breaking down, more upset than he’d ever been. His fist closed over the tattered remnants. He grabbed his mobile, finger raised and ready. Wanting to – needing to – speak to her. If it was over, let her say it to him face to face.

  Geddes threw the phone across the lounge and paced up and down, mumbling incoherently. Surely she wouldn’t end it without even a goodbye. The undeniable evidence was in his palm. Destroying the photograph, ripping it to shreds and leaving it for him to find, was her way of telling him it was over. But why, for Christ’s sake, why? What had he done?

  He sat down, stood up again and walked aimlessly round the modest room, judging it and himself. A place to sleep, nothing more. Not much to show for four decades on the planet.

  Andrew Geddes hadn’t cried in thirty-five years, even when his mother died, but he cried now, salt on his lips and a pain inside he was certain he wouldn’t survive. Didn’t want to survive.

  When he stopped, he wiped his wet eyes on the back of his hand.

  ‘Not such a tough guy after all, Detective Inspector.’

  His mind went over that morning at the refuge again. He’d been convinced Mackenzie was different and he’d been right. What a fucking idiot. Why hadn’t she been honest with him? Didn’
t he merit that much? Destroying the photograph was an angry act. He must have said or done something inexcusable he wasn’t aware of because, at first, she’d seemed pleased to see him. It hadn’t lasted. By the end she’d practically thrown him out.

  He spread the pieces with his fingertips, drawing them together like a jigsaw puzzle, waiting for her smiling face to reform, remembering how perfect the night had been. Geddes recognised himself but not Mackenzie – she wasn’t there. He searched the floor thinking he’d dropped some. He hadn’t – she’d cut herself out of the picture and ripped up the rest.

  The message couldn’t be clearer. Geddes brushed the meaningless bits into his palm and dropped them in the rubbish. Then he poured himself another whisky, thought better of it and brought the bottle through to the lounge.

  Back in the old routine.

  Malkie had never felt better. By now the policeman would’ve checked his flat, found no damage and nothing missing, other than the photograph, and be scratching his head, wondering what the fuck was going on. Malkie’s new creative approach pleased him. He was going to enjoy turning the screw. Slashing his tyres had been childish – at best a minor inconvenience – no less enjoyable for that. But destroying the photograph and leaving it where he couldn’t miss it was a stroke of genius. Now it was the bitch’s turn.

  Things were changing; Malkie was back in control. The previous night, for the first time in ages, he’d stayed in his room with a bottle of Buckfast and hadn’t gone out. Billy was in the living room watching a movie with the sound blasting loud enough for people in the next street to hear it. When he dropped into an armchair, the old bastard kept munching his sweets and hadn’t acknowledged him.

  ‘What you watching, Granddad?’

  ‘Film.’

  ‘Yeah, I can see that. What’s it called?’

  Billy waited until he’d swallowed before he answered. ‘The Count of Monte Cristo.’

  ‘Any good? What’s it about?’

  The old man put an Allsort in his mouth and didn’t offer him one.

  ‘Revenge.’

  39

  Frank Armstrong was pleased with himself. He’d enjoyed the sex – loved it actually, especially the second session – and wouldn’t say no to a repeat. But he didn’t kid himself there was any more to it. As soon as he heard her husky voice on the other end of the line telling him she’d missed him, he’d known she was after something. And it wasn’t his body.

  News reporters were constantly scrabbling for information, the lazy ones settling for the official statement when it came – short on words, even shorter on details – although, in the race to be first to break a story, it offered no advantage. The force was notorious for leaks. More enterprising hacks had a source who could put them ahead of the game.

  Gina Calvi was beyond enterprising; without scruples. Kick her granny if it got her what she wanted.

  Earlier in his career, when he was a constable, he’d often stop the car to chat to the “working girls” hanging around Blythswood Square at night. For a good-looking young guy in a police uniform, there had been no charge and he’d been sorry when he was transferred to another part of the city. Eventually he’d met Gina. They’d hung around together, off and on, until she told him she didn’t want to see him again. He’d shed no tears. There were other fish in the sea.

  Gina Calvi wasn’t a hooker, yet yesterday she’d shagged for a phone number.

  Armstrong was still thinking about what she’d let him do for an address.

  Andrew Geddes dragged himself from a dark pit into the morning. Or was it afternoon? His day-old shirt chaffed his neck – he hadn’t made it to bed and was still wearing his clothes – a party trick he thought he’d left behind. Apparently not. His stomach lurched. He realised he was going to vomit and only just managed to make it to the toilet in time.

  Staring into the bowl with the sour stink of bile in his nostrils, the memories returned slowly, painfully, each more devastating than the one before: Sylvia chastising the dog, then turning her tongue on him; Mackenzie avoiding his kiss, almost pushing him out the door, and after, the neat little pile on the table, the unspoken finale to the best months of his life, and his predictable response – the swift self-pitying, oh so familiar, descent into oblivion.

  Physically he was in a helluva state – the worst ever, bar none. Stewart Street wouldn’t see him today. Geddes crawled on his hands and knees to the kitchen, desperate for a drink of something, anything, to wash the foulness from his mouth. He got unsteadily to his feet, leaned against the sink and put his cracked lips under the tap. The water, cold and clear, tasted wonderful. Shame he hadn’t stuck to that last night.

  The phone ringing was like a bomb going off in his head. Geddes picked it up to stop it making a noise. The voice on the other end hadn’t been where he’d been. Charlie Cameron sounded fresh. ‘Just checking you’re all right.’

  ‘I’m fine.’

  ‘Glad to hear it. You weren’t fine last night.’

  Andrew Geddes didn’t remember talking to his friend. ‘I called you? What time was that?’

  ‘Ten to three. Couldn’t understand what you were saying. Only word I got was Mackenzie. Everything okay there?’

  ‘Everything’s fine.’

  ‘Can’t imagine she’d appreciate seeing you in that state. You told me you’d kicked the booze, what happened?’

  The DI’s head hurt; he didn’t need this.

  Salt in the wound.

  ‘First, thanks for the concern, Charlie. Appreciated. Second, why don’t you mind your own fucking business, mate.’

  He slammed down the phone and immediately regretted it. Charlie Cameron was a good guy. He wasn’t to blame. Geddes fished the remains of a beautiful memory from the rubbish bin in the kitchen, took them into the living room and tried fitting them together. This wasn’t how it was supposed to end. Without a word of explanation? Surely not?

  Again, he asked himself the same question. What had he done to make her so angry?

  The only way to find out was to call. That wouldn’t be happening. Not today. Maybe not any day. Geddes couldn’t see where Mackenzie had left her key, but for certain it would be around. She’d sent him a message and he’d received it.

  Loud and clear.

  Mackenzie, Caitlin and Sylvia met in the greenhouse at the bottom of the garden. They hadn’t had a chance to talk since the previous day, all avoiding it for their own reasons.

  Sylvia was afraid Mackenzie would say she was sorry but having Juliette around was too big a risk and tell her she had to get rid of her. In that case, she’d be left with no option, they’d both leave the refuge. Where they’d go was a question Sylvia couldn’t answer. Her dog was all she had in the world. Living without Juliette was unthinkable.

  Caitlin had her own fears, guilty about the danger she’d put them in. Peter was under the ground – her fault. Watching Juliette digging him up yards from a detective inspector in the CID had been terrifying. Her heart almost stopped beating. Burying Peter had been Mackenzie’s idea, a spur-of-the-moment response to what she’d come across, at the time, the best option – the only option – they’d had. Caitlin cursed herself. She’d almost forgotten the moonlight night he’d come out of nowhere and attacked her. It was only a matter of time. If Juliette didn’t do it, some other animal, a cat or rats maybe, would.

  Mackenzie understood how the other two had to be feeling and sympathised. They’d both played a part in the drama. Her anxiety went further because she had more to lose. Not just prison and the refuge. Andrew would disown her and he wouldn’t escape unscathed. His career would be over when it came out he was the lover of a woman who hid dead bodies in her back garden.

  Some detective. He’d be a laughing stock.

  Sylvia began with the apology she’d had ready for hours. ‘I’m sorry. I always make sure Juliette’s locked in the kitchen. Andrew let her out by mistake. After that…’ she shrugged, ‘…at the end of the day she’s a dog and does what
dogs do. I bit his head off because I was freaked out.’

  Caitlin jumped in. ‘No, it’s my fault. I started this when I came here and brought my problems. Please believe me, if I could turn the clock back I would. Good intentions don’t always work out.’

  Mackenzie let her finish before she spoke. ‘Nobody’s to blame. Shit happens.’

  safe as houses

  ‘We have to decide what to do now.’

  Sylvia said, ‘If you want me and Juliette to go, we will.’

  Caitlin echoed her. ‘So will I. You should never have pulled me out of that car.’

  Mackenzie looked through the greenhouse glass towards the house. ‘Nobody’s going anywhere. We’re in this together. Yesterday we were lucky, we got away with it. How we act now is what’s important. Leaving things as they are isn’t on, we can all agree about that. I’ve given it a lot of thought and know what needs to be done.’

  Caitlin couldn’t stay quiet. ‘Mackenzie, I can guess what you’re going to suggest. You think we should dig him up and bury him somewhere else, don’t you? It’s been months. Can you imagine what he’ll look like? What he’ll smell like?’ She shivered. ‘If you’re counting on me, I won’t be able to. I just won’t.’

  Sylvia was made of stronger stuff. ‘She’s right, it won’t be pretty. But if that’s what it takes…’