by Kerry Watts
Jessie pursed her lips and nodded. ‘Of course, yes – that’s why we’re here.’ She turned to Isla and handed her some change. ‘Get a couple of coffees, will you?’
Colin moved towards the row of chairs by the entrance and sat down.
‘What’s up, Colin?’
He slid forward in his seat and tucked his head in his hands, then lifted it up to face her.
‘Look, it might be nothing at all, but I think you need to know about the arguments.’
‘Arguments?’ Jessie’s eyes widened.
‘Claire and Darren, they’ve been having terrible rows. I’ve heard Claire screaming, really screaming.’
Jessie was alarmed. ‘Do you think Darren ever got physical?’
Colin shook his head firmly. ‘No, no, quite the opposite, Detective. She seems to have such a temper on her, Claire. I wouldn’t like to be on the wrong side of it. I hate to think she’s…’
Jessie knew what he wanted to say but couldn’t. It was unthinkable to her, too, but if Benito was right, Claire wasn’t responsible for cot death, no matter how bad a temper she had. The violent battering of his dead body, perhaps, but not his death.
‘Could you ever hear what they were arguing about?’
A small voice, barely audible over the clattering and chaos of the department, called Colin’s name.
‘I have to go.’ Colin stood and left Jessie scratching her head. Still no clearer. If anything, her confusion deepened.
‘Here you go,’ Wilde smiled and handed over a plastic cup of coffee. ‘Watch yourself, it’s hot.’
‘Shit, you’re not wrong.’ Jessie put the cup down on an empty seat and sucked her burned thumb.
‘What did Davidson want?’
‘He says Darren and Claire argue, I mean really argue, proper screaming fights, and he suggested that Claire possibly gets violent with Darren.’
Jessie struggled to see Claire’s small frame being able to cause Darren much damage, but she knew domestic violence wasn’t about that. It was about control. She shrugged. So many questions. She glanced at Isla as they carefully sipped their scalding coffees. She inwardly applauded PC Wilde’s enthusiasm, and knew she’d make a good detective one day. Before she could start planning the PC’s potential place on her team, she received a text. A number she didn’t recognise. That made Jessie feel uneasy.
* * *
‘Everything OK?’ PC Wilde asked, seeing the DI frown.
‘Yes, it’s fine, don’t worry,’ Jessie told her. ‘You get off. See you tomorrow.’ Jessie’s eyes dropped straight back to her phone. She had to open the message, didn’t she?
I’m sorry it had to come to this.
Had to come to what? What the hell did that mean? Jessie knew instinctively that the message was from Dan. She feared what her ex-husband meant. After suffering years of abuse at his hands, she knew he was capable of almost anything.
Fifty-Eight
Jessie felt like she was no closer to learning the truth about Finlay’s death, or more accurately, what had happened to him after he died. It was more the why that bothered Jessie. If he’d died in his cot, who’d moved his body, and why do that? Why had he suffered so many post-mortem injuries? Why compound the already awful tragedy? Jessie increasingly saw Theresa Moran as the key to this whole mess – she’d been seen at the house on the day Finlay disappeared, and near the woodland where his body was found – but she was unfit to be spoken to. Bridget Moran must know more about what Theresa had seen and done that day than she’d let on.
Rather than drive home straight away, she decided to have one last try with Father McKinnon, alone. Dylan had texted to let her know that the priest had played his questions with a straight bat, but she refused to give up, and would seek legal advice on the subject if she had to. She wanted to avoid that, though. She also wanted to avoid her flat for a little while longer, and any potential follow-ups to Dan’s text awaiting her there.
St Mark’s Chapel had a handy location, just on the edge of the centre of Perth and on a bus route that had services every fifteen minutes. No excuse to miss Mass. She turned into Melville Street, and cursed the fact that she couldn’t find a space outside the building. Instead she found herself halfway along Balhousie Avenue before she could find a place to park up. It was dark now, but the snow that lay thick on the North Inch, reflecting the large moon that was already up. She walked past the derelict St Mark’s school building, pondering how sad it was that such a sturdy structure had been left abandoned for so long.
As she walked up to the church, she was surprised to see the lights on in the chapel – she’d thought to catch McKinnon at home rather than in the church itself. She tried the door, but it was locked. She thought that strange, if the priest was inside. She hammered her palm on the door and listened for movement, but when she got no response she moved down the drive towards the chapel house door. She rang the doorbell and listened to the chime echo through the listed building. When she got no answer, she walked around to the back door and knocked again. This time she heard a loud crash, like a glass or cup smashing on the hard floor. She tried the door handle and it gave immediately. She called out as she cautiously entered the property, which was in darkness.
‘Father McKinnon, it’s Detective Inspector Blake.’
She switched on the hall light, realising that what she thought was a back door actually led into a small utility room that had been added to the building sometime in the 1980s. She pushed open the door between it and the main house, which led into a large oval kitchen. In the darkness she heard gurgling. Water draining slowly down a blocked sink? She switched on the kitchen light and gasped.
‘Father McKinnon!’ She pulled out her phone to call an ambulance.
She watched him try to speak as she gave details of their location to the emergency services. Blood was seeping from several stab wounds to his chest, trickles of blood also dribbling from the sides of his mouth. That had been the source of the gurgling sound. Jessie dropped to her knees and grabbed a tea towel from the back of a chair, narrowly avoiding the smashed glass scattered around them. She pressed hard on the largest of the wounds, which oozed onto her hand, quickly covering it completely.
‘Hang in there, help is on its way.’
She was torn between telling him to relax and keep his strength and begging him to tell her what the hell had happened. He struggled to talk through the blood travelling up his throat, coughing to clear his airway. She watched the remaining colour drain from his face while his blood poured onto the hard wood floor of the kitchen. His attacker couldn’t be all that far away. The speed with which the blood was leaving his body suggested the attack couldn’t have happened that long ago, otherwise he would have died long before help arrived. As it was, Jessie feared he wouldn’t make it. He gave one long, horrific gurgle before his eyes rolled back until all Jessie could see was the white. He fell silent. His chest stopped moving up and down.
‘Father McKinnon, can you hear me?’ Jessie shouted, shaking his shoulders to get a response. ‘Shit! Don’t you dare die on me, you hear me?’
She laid him completely flat and began compressions. She could hear sirens blast in the distance and literally prayed they were for them.
‘Come on, come on, don’t you dare die on me,’ she repeated. She could hear running footsteps on the stone-chipped driveway. ‘In here, side door!’ she heard herself scream at the top of her lungs.
‘What’s the casualty’s name?’ The paramedic – who looked about twelve to Jessie – asked as he prepared his equipment. ‘I’m one of the first responders. Keep going with the compressions. You’re doing a fantastic job.’
Jessie didn’t feel as confident as he was suggesting she should. She was covered in Father McKinnon’s blood, which had even sprayed into her hair. She could feel it hardening by the minute. She had never been so relieved to see anyone than when two more paramedics ran into the kitchen. Jessie did as she was told and moved back so they could do their job.
‘He’s in VF!’ one of the paramedics shouted. The woman yanked a mobile defibrillator out of a large red bag and had it ready to use in seconds, as a third paramedic grabbed a ready-prepared syringe from his bag.
Jessie was in awe of their teamwork. All three of them knew exactly what to do and when to do it.
‘Clear,’ the woman called, before she shocked Father McKinnon’s motionless chest, causing him to rise and fall with a jolt. The younger man felt for a pulse before stepping back so she could shock him again, but not before turning up the dial on the defibrillator.
It was like a beautifully choreographed dance – all three of them had done these moves many times before. She watched them load him into the back of the ambulance while one of them continued with the compressions.
‘I’ll follow you in my car,’ Jessie called out, and ran down the street.
Fifty-Nine
Jessie flashed her ID at the A&E receptionist, but imagined she knew her pretty well by now, given the amount of times she’d visited this week.
‘I’m with Father McKinnon. Can you tell me where they’ve taken him?’
‘He’s been taken straight to Resus. You can wait outside, and the doctor will come and talk to you soon.’ She turned away to answer the phone.
Jessie nodded her thanks and jogged towards the uncomfortable, flimsy-looking chairs outside the double doors to the resus area. She peered through the small window in the door to see a flurry of bodies working on Father McKinnon. An older man in blue scrubs lifted his head to look at the clock above the bed. The curtain was pulled around the cubicle and Jessie’s heart sank.
Her legs became uncertain beneath her and she bumped down onto one of the plastic chairs. She stared down at her hands. There wasn’t an inch of skin that wasn’t covered in his blood. Adrenaline had pushed her through the trauma, but now it was over. She hadn’t noticed the doctor walk out until the double doors almost hit her knee on their backswing.
‘Hi, I’m the A and E consultant. You’re the police officer here with Father McKinnon? I’m sorry to tell you that he passed away from his injuries a few minutes ago. We did everything we could, but his injuries were just too severe. The knife ruptured his liver, spleen and penetrated a major artery.’ He dropped a hand onto Jessie’s shoulder. ‘I believe you did your bit, too, in trying to save him.’
Jessie could only nod.
‘Again, I’m sorry.’
First Finlay. Now the murder of a priest. Not to mention the fact that Jessie had to decide whether they were linked – but it didn’t take a genius to figure that one out.
St Mark’s Chapel and chapel house were now active crime scenes.
Sixty
Dylan was shocked to see a bloodstained Jessie when he and PC Wilde arrived back at the hospital. They’d both rushed there when Jessie had texted them about Father McKinnon’s murder. She looked terrible, and was now dressed in a set of blue scrubs. She held up the bag that contained her clothes.
‘Evidence.’ She tried to smile, her face white as a sheet. ‘We need to get this to Forensics.’
‘We can deal with this.’ Dylan took the bag out of her hand. ‘Go home, boss. We’ll be fine until morning. You can give your statement then, too.’
Jessie couldn’t disagree with him. She was now desperate to get home. She felt like Paul McKinnon’s blood clung to every part of her. The smell was sickening and she wanted to claw at her hair to remove the blood that had sprayed her. She was looking forward to a long, hot shower, that was for sure. The sight and sound of him gurgling and gasping for breath haunted her. She wondered if there was more that she could have done, but what?
‘You’re right. First thing tomorrow morning, you two. I don’t want to hang around on this. Isla – plain clothes, please. You’re with CID for the duration of this case.’
‘Thanks, boss,’ Wilde chirped. ‘See you in the morning.’
Jessie was heartened by the way Isla had blossomed, and was glad that she had pushed for her to help out on this case.
Jessie closed the front door of her flat, glad to shut out the rest of the world, but was confused by the silence – Smokey didn’t come running to meet her. Then she spotted the scrap of paper on the floor. She picked it up and stepped out of the clogs the hospital had given her. They were not the easiest of footwear to drive in, but she was home in one piece at least.
‘Smokey,’ she called out with a frown, as she lifted the glass from the draining board and poured herself a small glass of wine, sinking a good portion of it immediately. Just what the doctor ordered. ‘Smokey, where are you hiding, you silly wee man?’
It was unusual for him to stay away this long. As she walked she unfolded the note that had been stuffed through her letter box and her blood ran cold. First the birthday card, now this.
Sixty-One
Phil Moran put down the phone. He was in complete shock at the news. Who would do something like that to such a lovely man? A man of God. Bridget would be devastated when she got back from visiting Theresa. He’d have to tell her when he got back from Claire and Darren’s. What a mess.
‘Claire, you have to eat something.’ Darren pushed the plate of toast and jam closer to her.
When she didn’t respond, he walked away. There was no point getting into an argument over toast. If she didn’t want to eat, then fine. His phone buzzed on the kitchen table.
‘Hey,’ he answered as he closed the door. Her call couldn’t have come at a better time. ‘Yes, I can talk.’
By the time Darren hung up, he felt better. He felt like someone was listening to him. Maggie cared how he felt. How he was grieving. It was just her and him. He wondered if he was selfish to lean on Maggie like that, but living through this nightmare was hell for him.
‘Only me,’ Phil called out as he shut the back door. ‘Claire, sweetheart, are you up?’
Darren met his father-in-law in the hallway. ‘Hey, Phil. Kettle’s just boiled if you’re wanting one. Help yourself.’
‘Aye, I will, thanks.’ Phil flattened down his thick brown hair. ‘Is she up?’
‘Aye, she’s in the living room.’ Darren told him, before heading into his bedroom with his cup of tea.
Phil pressed open the living room door with one finger to find Claire slumped on the sofa, a plate of uneaten toast on the coffee table in front of her. It was a pitiful sight. He wasn’t surprised to see her in her pyjamas because it was still early, but he could smell that she needed a shower and her hair was thick with grease. The living room was a mess. The floor looked like it hadn’t seen a hoover for months, and a thick layer of dust covered every available surface. There were piles of rubbish all over. He opened the living room curtains. The flood of morning sunlight reflecting off the snow-laden ground stirred Claire from her stupor. Phil opened the window a little. Just enough to allow some fresh air to penetrate the stale odour.
‘Daddy,’ she whispered.
‘Hey, I’m here, sweetheart.’ He sat down on the sofa and pulled her close to him, her head coming to rest on his shoulder while he stroked her hair. ‘I’m here.’
It was no good. Darren had to get out of these four walls. He felt like they were closing in on him. He grabbed his car keys and headed out the back door without saying goodbye to Claire. She had her dad; she didn’t need him. Darren switched on the radio in the car as he started up the engine. He pushed in the CD that was jutting out of the machine. A bit of metal sounded like a good idea. It was Calum that had got him into Metallica. The memory caused a flash of guilt, but without Maggie, Darren could not have coped. If anything he needed her more, now his life was a living nightmare. Was Maggie really pregnant? Could it be his?
He didn’t know where to turn. Thinking about a new life felt like a betrayal of his boy, his Finlay. Perhaps Finlay’s death was his punishment for his weakness. Darren accelerated, testing his old Ford Focus to its limits while ‘Enter Sandman’ blasted so loud, it drowned out the ongoing dialogue in his mind almost imme
diately.
Sixty-Two
Jessie pulled on the handbrake and switched off her car’s engine in the garden centre car park. They had reached a compromise, at least. It was a public place. He said all he wanted to do was talk, and that he was sorry it had to come to this. Sorry? Jessie scoffed. She didn’t think Dan Holland was capable of feeling sorry for anyone but himself, because if he was, then he wouldn’t have made Jessie live through his reign of terror. She feared he had harmed Smokey during the night. His note had made it clear Jessie had no choice but to meet him if she wanted her cat back. She questioned how he’d found out her address, but he said he didn’t want to get anybody in trouble. Or had he just been following her, she wondered?
She edged closer to the front door of the garden centre. Every step was like pushing through thick mud, fear making her legs heavier with every step. Her throat was tight and her lips dry, but she couldn’t forget the reason she was here. She had to dig deep and find every ounce of strength that was hiding from her. Then she saw him. Her heart quickened briefly and she stopped dead. Every part of her wanted to run. She glanced round the busy coffee shop. At least they weren’t alone. She’d promised herself a long time ago she would never allow Dan the opportunity to corner her again.
‘Jessie,’ Dan murmured and stood when he caught sight of her, the shock in his eyes obvious. It was clear to Jessie immediately that he could see the physical changes in her.
She approached his table and sat opposite, but avoided making eye contact.
‘What can I get you?’ the pretty blonde waitress startled her by appearing from behind.