Safe Home (ARC)

by Kerry Watts

  The boy picked his way through the trees towards the ball, rubbing his bare arms against the cold – his jacket was too thick to play football in. He scooped up the ball, but a little way past it caught sight of something shimmering against the snowy ground. He moved closer, and when he got a good view of what it was, he let out a blood-curdling scream.

  ‘Don’t touch it!’ his friend exclaimed after rushing in after him. He snatched out his phone. ‘I’m calling my dad. Come on, let’s get out of here. They might come back.’

  Sixty-Five

  ‘Answer that, will you?’ Jessie asked Dylan when her phone rang in her bag.

  ‘DI Blake’s phone.’ Dylan frowned while he listened before his eyes popped open at something he’d been told.

  Jessie stopped at the traffic lights on the Edinburgh road as Dylan hung up.

  ‘They think they’ve found the knife that killed Paul McKinnon. Well, they’ve found a knife, I mean. A couple of lads playing football found a large kitchen knife, and it’s got blood on it.’

  Jessie doubled back at a roundabout and headed back towards the station.

  ‘Where was the knife found?’ she asked.

  ‘Seems like it was tossed into a clump of trees on the Inch. Close enough to the chapel house to be our murder weapon. Chucked by a panicked assailant?’

  ‘They got any fingerprints off it?’

  ‘They’re working on it now. It’s literally just come in.’

  ‘Did the examination of McKinnon’s home give us anything?’

  Dylan shook his head. ‘Forensics are still gathering trace evidence, but nothing yet – apart from the blood, obviously. No sign of forced entry. It looks like Father McKinnon either knew his killer or felt safe enough to let them in.’

  Jessie indicated onto the Dunkeld road and then into the station car park.

  ‘He was a priest. You don’t get much more trusting than that, do you? But if it was a junkie there would have been plenty for them to nick, but nothing was taken.’

  ‘True,’ Jessie acknowledged as she reversed into the space closest to the front door. ‘So, we’re back to him letting in someone he knew, aren’t we?’

  PC Wilde smiled to greet them as they arrived back at the incident room.

  ‘Forensics have got their samples from the knife. They managed to pick up a fingerprint on the handle. A good one, too. They’re looking for an owner now. And they’ve got a blood match – it’s Paul McKinnon’s.’

  ‘That was flipping quick. Good on them.’ To say Jessie was pleased was an understatement. DNA and fingerprints never lie. They can’t keep secrets. She picked up a photo of the knife from Isla’s desk. Dylan whistled theatrically when he saw it.

  ‘You know who has knives like this?’

  Jessie’s eyes widened.

  ‘The Morans have a block of this kind on their worktop, next to the cooker. I saw them when I followed Bridget into the kitchen earlier.’

  Jessie playfully punched the top of his arm. ‘Yes! I knew you’d be useful one day.’

  ‘Very funny. She’s one scary woman.’

  ‘Seriously, though, you definitely recognise it?’

  Dylan narrowed his eyes at the picture. ‘Yes, I’m sure. Viner. My mum has them, too. The Morans’ block wasn’t full – that doesn’t mean much yet, but I bet if we search the kitchen we’ll find a very large knife missing.’

  Jessie uncurled her thick wool scarf, draped her jacket over the chair and picked up her desk phone. Bridget wasn’t going to let them in again without a warrant.

  Sixty-Six

  Maggie McBride was nervous, and wished Calum would stop rambling in her ear. They were twenty minutes early for the ultrasound scan. The nausea and sickness were really starting to bite, and her appetite was terrible. The only thing she was managing to keep down for now was chicken soup. The tiredness was becoming a problem, but she was lucky to have a sympathetic employer who was happy to let her have a few days off. Maggie was desperate to pee, but she had been told to ensure she kept a full bladder for this scan. She struggled to get Darren out of her mind. He had asked both the McBrides to give them space. Maggie understood his reasons, but that didn’t make staying away from him any easier. Darren and Claire knew she and Calum were only a phone call away.

  ‘Maggie McBride?’ the small, shrill voice of the radiographer called out.

  Calum was first to his feet, enthusiastically grinning back at her. ‘That’s us, Maggie.’

  ‘I know, I heard her,’ Maggie told him. ‘I’m pregnant, not deaf.’

  ‘Hop onto the bed and lift your top and slide your trousers down just a little,’ said the radiographer once they were in the consultation room. She smeared the probe with jelly, which exited the tube in a crude splodge, then was forced to shake the tube hard to empty it completely. ‘Sorry, this is a little cold.’

  She isn’t kidding, Maggie thought to herself. She saw Calum’s eyes searching the screen, trying to make out a shape amid the blob of moving pictures.

  The radiographer brought the screen further round and turned the volume up. She pointed out a moving oval blob and drew her finger along the edge. ‘OK, we have a very healthy heartbeat, and this line is your baby’s spine, which from what I can see looks normal.’ She screwed up her eyes for a closer look and typed something into the keyboard in front of her. ‘Good, yes, everything looks good. Do you have any idea how far along you are?’

  Maggie couldn’t remember when her last period was. ‘No, I don’t.’

  ‘I would say you’re about nine weeks along, giving you an early summer baby. Congratulations.’

  Calum covered his mouth with one hand and squeezed Maggie’s with the other. He couldn’t take his eyes off the screen. Maggie could see a tear forming in the corner of his eye. He wouldn’t admit it in front of this stranger, but he wanted to cry with joy. He had always told her he wanted children.

  ‘Would you like a picture? It doesn’t cost anything.’ The radiographer ripped a pile of paper from a huge roll and handed it to Maggie, before pulling the screen back to face her. ‘You can give yourself a wipe clean with that.’

  ‘Yes, a picture would be great,’ Maggie told her, trying to soak up the jelly as best she could. ‘Nine weeks, you think? How accurate could that be?’

  The radiographer smiled. ‘At least ninety-nine per cent, although babies sometimes are a law unto themselves. They come when they’re good and ready. My son was two weeks early and my daughter was three weeks late, so it’s not an exact science. Be sure to make your first antenatal check-up appointment on your way out.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Calum said while he wiped the tears away with his thumb.

  Maggie reached for him and hugged him once they were back in the waiting room. ‘You big softy, come here.’ Calum clung on and then leaned down to press his lips to hers.

  ‘I love you so much, Maggie. You’ve made me the happiest man in the world.’

  ‘You go on. I’ll catch you up. I’m going to give my mum a quick call.’ Maggie smiled to hide her lie.

  She should feel guilty, but seeing her baby on the screen had already filled Maggie with pure love, no matter what was about to happen. Whether this baby was Calum’s or Darren’s didn’t matter. This was Maggie’s baby. She would decide its future. She sighed and hung up without leaving a message when Darren’s phone went to voicemail.

  Sixty-Seven

  The smug sneer disappearing from Bridget Moran’s face as she read the search warrant was the best thing Jessie had seen in a very long time. She could sense the anger pulsing through Bridget’s veins. Jessie sent PC Wilde into the living room and Dylan upstairs. She wanted him in Theresa’s room before Bridget could obstruct him.

  ‘Phil, call your solicitor.’ Bridget glared at Jessie while she spoke. ‘You have no grounds for this. I hope you realise what you’re doing, Detective, because you have just made the biggest mistake of your career, I can assure you.’

  ‘Excuse me, please. I would lik
e to get past.’ Jessie was enjoying every minute of this, but in particular the moment Bridget stepped aside so she could walk towards the kitchen.

  ‘Hello there,’ Margaret Moran greeted Jessie with a cheerful grin as she sat at the kitchen table sipping a cup of tea.

  ‘Hello again, Peggy. How nice to see you,’ Jessie replied. She moved closer to Bridget’s knife rack and glanced into the empty space – it certainly looked like it would hold the size of knife used in Paul McKinnon’s murder.

  Dylan pulled on his gloves and opened the top drawer in Theresa’s bedside cabinet. The drawer was disorganised and chaotic. Loose sheets of paper with lists written and then scribbled over, then repeated on the same page. He lifted up a diary, which had a pink glittery unicorn on the cover. A bit immature for a woman in her twenties, maybe? But maybe he only thought that because Shelly had never been a fan of pink or glitter in all the time he’d known her. Every page of Theresa’s diary was written and scribbled on, with the margins full of sketches of flowers, principally daisies. He pushed the diary into the back of the drawer and lifted out a small wooden box with a daisy painted on the lid. He opened it and took out a locket, then dropped the box onto the bed. After struggling to open the locket, he was shocked to see the smiling face of Finlay staring back at him. She clearly loved her nephew. Dylan unfolded the slip of paper that had been in the box with the locket.

  ‘Thank you for being the best Auntie in the world,’ he read, then exhaled slowly.

  PC Wilde couldn’t help but think she’d been given the raw end of the deal, as Bridget stared at her every move. She carefully replaced the cushions she had lifted, out of fear more than respect, but was nevertheless followed by Bridget plumping and moving them back into the positions of her choosing. The mahogany television unit in the corner had a drawer on either side, with a shelf in the middle. The unit was dwarfed by the widescreen television on top of it, which Isla figured to be at least fifty inches. She could feel Bridget’s eyes bore into the back of her neck while she opened the first drawer. The contents were much as she expected – neatly lined-up telephone directories and takeaway menus.

  ‘What did he say?’ Bridget boomed at Phil when he returned from calling for legal advice. ‘Surely they can’t do this,’ she insisted.

  ‘He said we have to let them do their job, and to let him know of any developments.’

  ‘Developments?’ Bridget blasted. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

  ‘It means if we find anything of interest,’ Jessie told her as she walked into the living room to join them, with the knife rack in a clear plastic evidence bag.

  ‘Why do you have that in a bag?’ Bridget roared, barely able to control her fury. ‘I need them.’

  Jessie held the bag up to allow Bridget to look more closely. ‘Can you tell me where this one is?’ She pointed to the only empty space, and watched Phil frown then move towards his wife without saying a word.

  ‘What? Why are you asking me such a damn stupid question?’

  Phil’s eyes widened. His wife had never uttered a swear word since he had met her over twenty-five years ago.

  ‘Look, what’s this about, Detective?’ Phil intervened. ‘I don’t understand what’s going on here. Could you just explain what you’re doing?’

  ‘Certainly,’ Jessie nodded. ‘The knife that was used to stab Father McKinnon matches the knife that is missing from here.’

  Bridget released an immediate snort of indignation at Jessie’s inference. ‘Are you serious? Are you really trying to tell me that you think I killed Paul?’ She shook her head and ran her fingers over her neatly pinned grey hair. ‘I am speechless. First you accuse us of having something to do with Finlay’s death, and now we’ve apparently murdered Father McKinnon.’

  Jessie allowed Bridget to finish, then added, ‘I’m not saying you were all involved.’

  ‘Ah, I see, just me then?’

  ‘Where were you yesterday between three o’clock and four thirty in the afternoon?’

  ‘I was here at home, alone.’

  ‘Can anyone verify that?’

  Bridget laughed with derision. ‘I said I was alone, so unless the invisible man was here to give me an alibi—’

  ‘I think, then, that perhaps I have more questions for you, Mrs Moran. This time under caution.’

  ‘Are you arresting me for something?’

  The two women eyeballed each other, neither one willing to budge.

  ‘Not yet,’ Jessie began. ‘But I would appreciate it if you could come in to the station to clarify a couple of things for me.’

  The tension in the room was electric. Jessie became aware of goosebumps on her arms, and not because she was cold. She bristled with anticipation. She became aware of everyone’s eyes on her while she pushed Bridget to the brink. She could arrest Bridget for obstructing an investigation, but she needed more than that. What was it about the woman? Jessie struggled to understand her opposition to every aspect of her investigation. She was shocked to see Bridget turn away first, then stunned by what she said next.

  ‘I will come to the station this evening once I have made arrangements with my solicitor.’

  Dylan’s voice shouting from upstairs drew Jessie’s attention.

  ‘Excuse me a moment.’

  Jessie’s heart rate returned to normal now that she was removed from her verbal duel with Bridget. She headed upstairs, taking them two at a time, and joined Dylan in Theresa’s room.

  The filthy, bloodstained baby socks in the evidence bag he held in his hands left a nasty taste in her mouth.

  ‘Where were they?’

  ‘Under the bed.’

  Finding those socks didn’t give Jessie the satisfaction that it should. Nothing would bring Finlay back to his mum and dad. But why did Theresa have his socks under her bed? Hidden away, as if they were a guilty secret? They needed to bring Theresa in. Having a mental illness does not mean you can hide from justice.

  Sixty-Eight

  ‘What’s up with you?’ Peter McCabe asked his brother. ‘You’ve had a face like fizz since I got in.’

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ Tim snapped back, angered that his big brother was so calm about everything. ‘Does none of this bother you at all?’

  Peter threw back his head and laughed. ‘My little brother. The voice of my conscience every time.’

  Tim shoved past his brother, shooting him a look of disgust.

  ‘Hey, there’s nae need for that, Tim. It’s just business, you know that.’

  That last bit was too much for Tim. He spun round and surged back towards Peter.

  ‘Business? Is that all this is to you?’ he roared, fearing he would lose control. He pushed Peter hard, once, with the palm of his hand. ‘Oor van was parked in that bairn’s street, for God’s sake.’

  ‘You think I don’t know that?’ Peter yelled back, and squared right up to his brother. Both men stood at over six foot. ‘You don’t think that’s been on my mind too?’

  Tim didn’t respond. Instead, they just stared each other down, breathing heavily to control the anger. Tim blinked first and stepped back.

  ‘Look, I’m just saying—’ Tim began.

  ‘I know what you’re saying. I’m no’ as hard-hearted as you’ve got me pegged,’ Peter shouted to interrupt him. ‘I know we were there.’

  ‘You were there,’ Tim boomed. ‘With oor van. I was here. With that.’ He pointed to the safe in the far corner of the room.

  Peter scoffed and shook his head. ‘Don’t tell me the money hasn’t come in handy.’

  ‘How long is it going to be here?’

  ‘Just until it cools down. You know the drill,’ Peter explained. ‘But the longer it’s here, the richer we become, little brother.’

  ‘Whatever.’ Tim knew when he was defeated and walked away. ‘I’ve got work to do.’

  He couldn’t yet tell his brother that someone else knew their secret. Not just that – they’d tried using it as leverage to
get him to do something unspeakable.

  Sixty-Nine

  The weather outside the station reflected Phil Moran’s mood. Bleak and icy-cold. The snow had been falling steadily since lunchtime and there was now a thick carpet covering the police station car park. The roofs and bonnets of the cars of the early shift wore a heavy layer, too. The garage next to the station had put up a SOLD OUT sign on the diesel, which didn’t help his mood – he was hoping to refuel after attending the station with Bridget. He couldn’t get his head around it. It was ridiculous to think Bridget could do something like that, and especially to Father McKinnon. If he was inclined to think that way, Phil might have been concerned that Bridget and Paul’s relationship was more than it should be.

  ‘Detective, how long is this going to take?’ Phil Moran shot up from his seat in the waiting area, but froze when he saw who was walking behind Jessie. ‘Theresa! What on earth is going on?’ He raced forward to hug his daughter, who was sobbing over and over that she was sorry.

  ‘Mr Moran, please take a seat. I’ll be back out shortly to talk to you. Your wife and daughter will be fine. I just need to ask them some questions.’ Jessie dropped a hand onto his arm. ‘Please.’

  Jessie turned to walk away, but was halted by Phil’s grip on her shoulder.

  ‘I need to make a statement,’ he insisted. ‘Now.’

  ‘So let me get this straight. You’re saying Bridget was with you yesterday?’ Jessie couldn’t find the words to describe her feelings. ‘You do know it’s a criminal offence to lie to the police?’

  Phil Moran looked at his feet and avoided eye contact. ‘Yes, I do. I’m not lying. I just forgot – got confused with my times, that’s all. Bridget must have been the same – that’s why she said she was alone. Everything has been so chaotic since Finlay. Bridget can’t have anything to do with Father McKinnon’s murder. She was with me.’