by Kerry Watts
‘OK. If I can help, obviously I will. You know that.’
‘Can you confirm how many times you stabbed Paul McKinnon?’
‘What? Why does that matter?’ He shuffled back in his chair and glanced sideways, whether to avoid Jessie’s eyes or seek guidance from Michael Rogers was unclear. ‘I told you. I killed him, and I know that was wrong, but I, erm, I thought it was the right thing to do at the time.’
‘Please, how many times? For the record. Tell me exactly what happened.’
‘I, erm, took the…’ He coughed and then ran his fingers across his brow. ‘The, erm, knife – from the kitchen.’
‘Your own knife?’
‘Yes, yes that’s right. Then I drove to Paul’s and could see him in his office window. He saw me and waved me to come inside, so I did. He met me in the hallway and offered me a whisky.’ Phil hesitated and scratched his head. ‘I followed him back into the study and watched him pour two drinks from the bottle of single malt.’ He paused.
‘So you were in the study?’ Jessie encouraged him to continue. It was becoming clear he didn’t know Jessie had been first on the scene.
Phil nodded. ‘Yes. Then I asked him about Bridget and what she’d told him, and then I can’t remember exactly what happened next. I can only remember standing over him with the knife in my hand. He was on the floor holding his chest. Then I ran.’
‘You stabbed Father McKinnon once in the chest, then left, is that what you’re saying?’
‘Yes. I’m sorry, I really am. He was a good man.’
Jessie stared at Phil Moran, wondering exactly how big of an idiot he thought she really was.
Seventy-Three
Jessie had never wanted to scream bullshit more in her police career than she did when she listened to Phil Moran claim to have murdered Paul McKinnon. She knew he hadn’t done it. Perhaps it was admirable that he’d tried to protect his family, but the best thing he could have done for them was to call the police as soon as Theresa reached out to them for help. It would have been better for everyone, including Claire and Darren. The sight of Paul McKinnon lying in a pool of his own blood still haunted her. It had been a while since a case had crept into Jessie’s dreams, but this one had the night before. Not surprising when she’d spent all evening chewing over Phil’s confession.
Why would Phil Moran come clean about the concealment but lie about Paul’s murder? Did he really believe his wife was capable of murdering Paul McKinnon? But why would she? She understood the sanctity of the confessional. Wasn’t that why she went there? To unburden herself, safe in the knowledge he couldn’t tell anyone? They were all up to their necks in it anyway. Was it really simply a case of protecting them? Jessie was glad to have the office to herself for a change this morning – it gave her some space to think.
Isla Wilde’s digging into Lisa McKinnon’s finances had shown some interesting changes in her spending patterns recently, and rapidly growing debts, so Jessie had sent the young PC and Dylan to her hotel to find out more. Lisa did seem genuinely upset by Paul’s death, but it played on Jessie’s mind that the police hadn’t been the ones to tell her. Perhaps Gertrude Laing had called her. She needed Dylan and Wilde to check on that, too. Gertrude had been unquestionably upset when her statement had been taken, and there was never any suggestion in Jessie’s mind that the old lady was involved. Gertrude was clearly very fond of Father McKinnon, and had even explained exactly how Paul liked his tea: strong, with just a splash of milk and no sugar. He only drank coffee on special occasions, and even then it had to be good-quality beans and not cheap supermarket brands.
It’s the little things, Gertrude had said. That’s what she was going to miss the most. Gertrude was also concerned about what was going to happen to all of Paul’s antique books, some of which were already fragile. She hated the thought of having them moved.
Jessie’s phone buzzed with a text, snapping her out of her thoughts. She was delighted to see it was from David Lyndhurst, the pathologist. She’d been worried about him and was glad to read that he was recovering well, but perplexed as to why he had examined Finlay Lucas’s post-mortem results, which seemed to be the main reason for the text. He should be resting, but he said he needed her to meet him – now.
Seventy-Four
Given the woman had severe financial problems, it was odd that Lisa McKinnon was staying in such an expensive hotel. This is no Travelodge, Dylan thought as he pulled into the car park of The Parklands Hotel.
A few minutes later, Lisa placed her cup down by the kettle when she heard the knock at her room door. DI Blake had told her that her colleagues would be arriving some time that morning to ask her some questions. She glanced at herself in the mirror above the antique pine dresser and checked her lipstick, then flicked her fingers through her hair, which she realised she probably should have washed.
‘Come in, I’ve been expecting you.’ She forced a smile and held the door wide open.
‘Please sit,’ Lisa pointed to the two armchairs in the corner as she stood by the window and looked out across the hotel garden, that was filled with yellow and blood-red dogwood shrubs, as well as a selection of forsythia and winter-flowering clematis. ‘What can I do for you? Has there been a development?’ She directed her question towards Dylan.
‘Not exactly. We just have a few things we would like you to clarify for us.’
‘If I can.’ Lisa felt nervous all of a sudden. She didn’t enjoy the way the young female police officer was gazing at her leather jacket, which was hanging from the handle of the wardrobe door.
‘Nice jacket, is it Gucci?’
Wilde’s question surprised Dylan.
‘What? Erm, no,’ Lisa stammered. ‘It’s an Armani.’
‘It’s lovely,’ she smiled.
Dylan’s eyes drifted from the jacket back to Wilde, who smiled at him then tried to shrug without catching Lisa McKinnon’s attention.
‘OK, so it’s come to our attention that you have had a few financial difficulties very recently. Can—’ Dylan was interrupted before he could continue.
‘I beg your pardon?’ Lisa exclaimed. ‘What business is that of yours?’
‘Miss McKinnon,’ Wilde intervened. ‘When someone becomes the victim of a brutal attack, like your uncle, the police have to consider every possibility in order to eliminate all the wrong ones, thus leaving only the truth. Do you understand?’
Dylan was stunned. Wilde was damn good at this interviewing thing. She would make a great detective one day, if she chose that route. He watched Lisa hesitate then swallow hard before answering.
‘Yes, well, it’s private, and I would rather not discuss it with you.’
‘Can you at least confirm that you and your husband have suffered a considerable financial loss?’ Dylan took the baton and ran with it, then paused to give her time to answer.
‘He’s not my husband, and…’ Lisa hesitated and pursed her lips. ‘OK, yes, Anders has a gambling addiction. He’s in treatment but he spent pretty much everything we had, well, I had.’ She slumped down on the corner of the kingsize bed. ‘I was really here to ask Paul for money, not to visit friends.’
‘Mm,’ Dylan responded.
‘“Mm”? What’s that supposed to mean?’ Lisa snapped.
Dylan lifted a hand. ‘My apologies. I didn’t mean to offend.’
Lisa sighed. ‘Good.’
‘Where were you two days ago between three and five o’clock?’ Wilde asked abruptly.
‘Are you two serious?’ Lisa blasted, and stood to walk towards the door. ‘I want you both to leave.’
‘Could you please just confirm for us where you were?’ Wilde repeated as she stood.
‘I was here,’ Lisa boomed. ‘Arguing with my addict boyfriend on the phone. Telling him our wedding will not happen until he proves to me he can be trusted. Telling him how much he has broken my heart. Here’ – she pulled up the call log on her phone and showed them the relevant entry – ‘is that enough for you?�
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‘Thank you, Miss McKinnon, you’ve been very helpful,’ Dylan told her on his way out the door.
‘Thank you,’ Wilde said too, as the door was slammed, almost hitting her back.
‘Wow. Remind me not to get on the wrong side of you, Officer. Wilde by name, wild by nature. I thought Jess was a bulldog.’
Her heart had been racing the whole time, but Isla wasn’t about to admit that to him. She liked that Dylan saw how strong she could be – she knew that sometimes a woman has to be twice as fierce as her male colleagues to succeed. Jessie Blake had taught her that much already. Maybe she would look into a career as a detective. It wasn’t something she had considered until a couple of days ago, but Jessie was becoming a bit of an inspiration.
‘You’re a lucky man, though.’ She grinned.
‘How’s that?’
‘You’ve got two strong women to take care of you.’
‘Oi, I can take care of myself.’ Dylan laughed as he patted his pockets. ‘Erm, do you know what I did with the car keys?’
Seventy-Five
‘Are you sure?’ Jessie’s head spun at the news.
The sombre nod of David Lyndhurst’s head was like a punch in the gut. The only comfort in the whole case was that Finlay Lucas had passed peacefully, but that outcome was now in tatters.
‘You see these tiny red pinprick marks under his eyelids, and the two in the whites of his eyes? It’s much harder to spot them in such a young baby.’ David glanced at Benito, then moved back so Jessie could lean right down to see. ‘I’m afraid they mean he was suffocated.’
With Benito standing nearby Jessie felt terrible about asking questions, but how the hell had he missed that?
‘But time of death is still the same, right?’ Jessie asked.
‘I’m so sorry,’ Benito spoke up from behind them. ‘I just didn’t see them.’ He grabbed a pile of folders from the worktop and left the room, Jessie and David still standing next to Finlay’s body.
‘It was easy to miss them. Like I said, with such young babies it’s difficult,’ David pointed out. ‘But Benito’s giving himself a hard time.’
Jessie didn’t know what to say. She had to focus on how this changed the investigation.
‘But there’s no evidence of bruising on his face or neck, so what does this mean?’
‘My experience is telling me this was a tragic accident,’ David explained.
‘Accidental suffocation?’ Jessie suggested. ‘But how?’
‘It’s much easier than you think. Co-sleeping, for example. Adults rolling or leaning on a sleeping infant.’
Jessie shook her head. ‘No, that’s not possible. He was in his cot. I know that for sure.’ She fidgeted with her hair tie. A nervous tic. ‘Well, at least I thought I did. I feel like I don’t know anything any more.’
David shrugged. ‘I’m sorry, but I guess you’re going to have to figure that one out. Was Finlay a fussy baby who cried a lot?’ he probed.
‘I don’t think so.’
‘What about the parents. What are they like?’ David asked. ‘Don’t you always look at them in situations like this?’
‘We did, until Benito gave us his findings.’ She paused to stop herself shouting out how angry she was that he’d messed it up so badly. ‘Thanks, David. Let me know if you find out anything else. And it’s good to see you. You had me worried there.’
David covered Finlay’s body and moved away from the cold steel table to wash his hands.
‘I scared myself, if I’m honest. Makes you think about your own mortality even more than being surrounded by death every day like I am. Cheryl was fussing something chronic, as you can imagine. Thankfully it was just a scare. Nothing else. Cardiac arrhythmia. They’re going to keep an eye on it, but you know me. Take more than that to topple me off my perch.’ He grinned. ‘She’s on at me now to retire, though, Jessie, and I’m beginning to think she’s right. Twenty-five years I’ve been doing this. Did you know that? I suppose part of me knew time was running out. It’s kind of why I hired Benito.’ David stopped before he said any more.
Jessie couldn’t blame Cheryl, Lyndhurst’s wife. It must have been terrifying to see a big man like David reduced to helplessness like that.
‘If you do retire, I’ll miss you and your big smiling face looking at me over a corpse,’ Jessie teased.
‘You say the sweetest things, Jessie Blake.’
Jessie’s mind was in turmoil as she shoved her shoulder into the double swing doors. She turned her head quickly when she heard her name being called from an open office door.
‘I have to go, I’m sorry,’ she told Benito, whose sombre expression told her exactly how sorry he was about everything.
‘OK.’ She heard his answer just as her phone buzzed in her pocket. She didn’t have time for his self-pity. She had to figure out who had suffocated Finlay Lucas. This case was becoming more and more confusing by the day. ‘Hey Dylan, how did you get on?’
Jessie allowed the hint of a smile to grow while she listened to Dylan describing Isla’s interview technique; she felt a flush of pride on hearing how far her protégée had progressed in such a short time. It didn’t take long for her thoughts to return to the memory of Finlay’s little body, though, lying there battered and broken. Perhaps it was an accident, as David suggested. She stopped in her tracks and told Dylan she would meet them in the office, before running back into the mortuary, almost crashing into Benito.
‘Hug me,’ she said to him. ‘Comfort me as if I’m crying. I’m crying so hard and you’re desperate to stop the noise.’
‘What?’
‘Just do it and do it hard.’
Benito moved forward in a state of total confusion and wrapped his arms around her. Jessie nestled her face into his chest, and had to admit her experiment wasn’t completely unpleasant.
‘Squeeze harder,’ her muffled voice rose from his chest. Benito’s grip tightened, and Jessie began to struggle to find air. ‘Harder,’ she stuttered, her words muffled in his chest until Benito’s arms pulled away.
‘What are you two playing at?’ David Lyndhurst shouted after hearing a commotion in the hallway.
‘Thank you, Ben, you’ve been a huge help,’ Jessie announced before running out of the door towards the car park.
Benito glanced at David and shrugged. ‘I have no idea.’
Jessie’s head was spinning. Finlay’s death had evolved from natural causes – a tragic event – to murder, or manslaughter at best. But who was responsible?
Seventy-Six
Tim McCabe’s entire body was covered in sweat despite the freezing temperatures. He’d struggled to sleep since he’d been asked to do it. Tim hadn’t dared tell his brother Peter what he was up to; he would be so angry that someone knew their secret. He had no option but to confess. Like poor Father McKinnon said, confession was good for the soul, and he had felt better for telling him.
Tim was different to his brother; Peter seemed so confident and sure of himself, able to compartmentalise his life. Tim had tried to tell Peter they shouldn’t get involved, and especially not to use the garage, but his brother didn’t want to hear it. It would be fine, he’d said, and anyway, it wasn’t for long. Not to mention the amount they’d been paid for their trouble.
Tim walked towards the station door, startled by the siren that started abruptly from behind him. His heart raced dangerously fast. He couldn’t do it. He couldn’t tell that detective. He had too much to lose. Peter would kill him if he found out. The blackmail probably hadn’t even been necessary. Not really. But bringing up Theresa like they did tugged at his heart anyway. He hadn’t realised until recently how much she still meant to him. He owed it to her to go and see her. That’s what he would do. That detective didn’t need to know. He hadn’t done anything really, had he?
With all of these thoughts whizzing around his brain, he hadn’t even realised that he’d turned away from the police station door and was walking back towards his car.
>
He tugged the collar of his fleece further up over his neck against the biting wind. He glanced back once at the two officers coming out of the police station entrance, smiling a greeting at them as they passed before getting into his car. He blew warmth into his cold fingers and started the engine before turning the heat up as high as he could get it to go, the fan blasting the warm air in his face. He slammed into reverse, glad that he hadn’t messed things up for him and his brother just because he had a guilty conscience. Peter would never have forgiven him, and Tim couldn’t cope with losing another part of his family. Not for this.
Seventy-Seven
‘Jeez, that changes things then,’ Dylan commented. ‘What now?’
Jessie stared at the board that hung behind her desk. Finlay’s smiling face was right at the centre of it, which is where he should be. It was this defenceless six-month-old who was the focus of her attention, plain and simple. Someone, whether deliberately or as a result of a tragic accident, had ended his young life. Being squeezed by Benito was horrible. The sense of helplessness at your body being overpowered was frightening enough for Jessie. It was sickening to think of a baby in that position. He must have fought for his life with what little strength he had.
‘Now we have to figure out who could be capable of this.’
‘Are we looking at Claire, do you think?’ Dylan took a cup of coffee from Isla, who had just joined them. ‘Thanks.’
‘Aye, thanks,’ Jessie smiled. ‘What do you guys think? You’ve both spent time with her. Wilde – you were first on the scene of his disappearance.’
PC Wilde recalled Darren’s desperate expression when he’d opened the door to her. Claire was more subdued, which she did think odd at the time, but as she got to know the couple, Claire’s medical problems could explain her behaviour. She took a small sip, accidentally spilling coffee on her chin. She blushed at Dylan’s grin. Thankfully Jessie was looking away from her, and had missed her making a fool of herself.