Flesh and Blood (DS Vicky Dodds Scottish Crime Thrillers Book 2)

by Ed James

  ‘You don’t know the half of it.’

  But Vicky had an inkling that she knew a good fraction of it, if not a half. ‘Did you have an argument?’

  ‘We didn’t, but Marianne… Marianne wasn’t the most forthcoming of people. Always kept secrets. Amy was the same. She got involved with this man, a married man, and he got into her head and under her skin and all of the clichés. And Marianne never talked to me about it, oh no, she just kept on seeing him. Just like her bloody father before her.’

  ‘You don’t have any other kids?’

  ‘No, but there was a gap between Amy and Marianne. My husband had this idea we could have another child and it might save our marriage. Stupid as I am, I went along with it and lived to regret it.’

  And Vicky caught a flash. A pregnant teacher, her belly swelling and growing over the course of a school year, and educating her children about what was going on in her body. ‘Was this while you were my teacher?’

  Stella frowned. ‘You know, it might be. Marianne was born in 1990, just after the World Cup. Thank God it wasn’t during, otherwise I wouldn’t have seen my husband for love nor money, not that there was a lot of either.’

  ‘We’ll need to speak to him.’

  ‘You really don’t want to.’

  ‘Be that as it may, I do need to.’

  ‘Well, good luck. The girls’ father left not long after Marianne was born. I had to raise both kids myself. Her big sister helped out, but I think she found it all such a strain, like everything.’

  ‘Is there anyone who might know where your husband is?’

  ‘Amy tracked him down, I think. I’m not sure if they kept in touch.’

  ‘Can you give me Amy’s address?’

  30

  Vicky pressed the buzzer and waited.

  Dens Road thrummed around her. One of those Dundee back streets that seemed to get more than its fair share of traffic. The address was a flat, the last in a row of stone tenements dotted with satellite dishes that overlooked the bank opposite, the trees shrouding the houses from view. The adjacent plot was a gap between tenements, though the other side was that characterless style of fifties block that seemed everywhere in Dundee. Behind the electricity substation was a building offering “Love For All, Hatred For None”. In Dundee. Sure.

  ‘Hello?’ A female voice.

  Vicky leaned over to the intercom. ‘Police. Looking for Amy Gall?’

  ‘This is she.’

  The door buzzed and Vicky pushed inside the musty stairwell.

  A cat was mewing outside a ground-floor flat. It looked round at Vicky, then up and down like she had the temerity to come into her domain. Then it went back to the door. ‘Meow.’ It sounded sarcastic.

  The door opened and skinny arms reached out to gather up the cat. ‘There you are, Catlyn!’

  Vicky edged towards her, warrant card out. ‘Amy?’

  ‘Honey…’ Amy gave an exaggerated eye roll. And not just that movement, but she looked like she should be on one of those high-glam reality shows, though definitely not Housewives of Dens Road. Bright yellow nails that were like the cat’s fully extended claws, and accessorised with a thin yellow scarf. Tight black trackpants showing off well-developed buttocks and toned abs. And really showing it all off. Flaunting it. Like she was trying to draw the male gaze to her.

  Amy, Vicky’s supposed pal and she still had no idea who she was. Maybe she’d lost a lot of weight since school, but… Christ.

  She smiled at Vicky and something like recognition sparkled in her. ‘Oh look at you, honey. You look divine.’ She hugged the cat to her and grabbed Vicky’s free hand and pulled her inside the flat. ‘We’ve got so much to catch up on.’

  Not the actions of someone who’s just heard their kid sister was in the mortuary.

  Vicky managed to shake free of her grip in a fancy kitchen. Glossy units and worktop, looked a million pounds more expensive than a Dens Road flat should be. ‘I’m here about—’

  ‘Marianne. Mum called me and told me what happened.’

  ‘Right. Are you okay?’

  ‘It doesn’t feel real. Sorry.’ She leaned against the counter and tugged her hair back over her shoulder. ‘Can I get you an espresso?’

  ‘I had a coffee with your mother.’

  ‘Uh huh. So why are you here?’

  And Vicky got another glimpse of someone she recognised, something in the way she frowned maybe. ‘I need to speak to your father.’

  ‘Oh, him.’ Amy stood there, fists placed carefully onto her wide hips. ‘Trust me, nobody wants to speak to him.’

  ‘I need to break the news and, you know the drill. Find out if he has any idea why someone would kill his daughter.’

  ‘Man like that doesn’t think he has any kids, let alone a daughter.’

  ‘All the same, if you—’

  ‘He’s in Turkey.’

  ‘Turkey?’

  ‘Uh huh. Used to run a pub, then he owned one, then he owned three. Sold the lot to a brewery and moved out there. He’s letting me keep it. After what he put us through, it’s the least he could do.’

  ‘So, can I get his number?’

  ‘It doesn’t work.’ Amy folded her arms. ‘Just tried it when… when Mum called me. He must’ve changed it, or he’s dead, or who cares?’

  ‘Right. Then I need to ask you a few questions about your sister, is that okay?’

  ‘You really don’t remember me, do you?’

  ‘I don’t, sorry. Your mother said we were at school together.’

  ‘In Carnoustie.’ Amy snorted. ‘Glad to be away from that place.’

  ‘Your mother was playing the same game with me. Kept me guessing. She taught me in primary. And sorry, Amy, I don’t remember you.’

  ‘We sat next to each other in Geography. Remember Mr Harrison?’

  ‘Wait a second…’

  ‘Uh huh.’ Amy tugged her hair back until it was flat, her jawline tightening to a grimace. ‘I was called Martin at school. Martin Brewer.’

  And now Vicky remembered her. Him. Her. She took another look at Amy and started to see features she definitely recognised, hidden under make up and maybe surgery. Whatever she’d done, Martin was long gone. Maybe traces of his perpetual frown or his nervous smile, but this person was now fully Amy.

  She could still see her friend in there; maybe the closeness they’d shared was not externalised somehow. The raucous sense of humour, the kindness, the darkness. All still there.

  ‘Wow.’

  ‘You’re not the first person to say that.’ Amy pranced over the kitchen floor and wrapped Vicky in a hug. ‘It’s good seeing you.’ She smelled amazing, like she’d shopped at the most exclusive Dubai scent palace. Maybe she did. She pulled away, still holding Vicky’s hands. ‘You’ve aged well, sugar.’

  ‘Sorry I didn’t recognise you.’

  ‘That’s kind of the point. Our school was brutal. I mean, can you remember anyone who was even gay?’

  ‘What about that boy who got pissed and shouted about how he fancied David Beckham?’

  ‘The one who got hospitalised, you mean?’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘I’m Amy. Always have been. Part of being transgender is accepting that who you were born as to the outside world doesn’t have to be who you are. At school, Martin was bullied for being a “poof”. I mean, if they knew…’

  ‘I remember.’

  ‘You always stuck up for him.’

  Vicky laughed.

  Amy’s glare tore her apart though.

  Vicky held up her hands. ‘I’m sorry. I’m finding this difficult.’

  ‘Don’t be sorry. People find it tough, but maybe it gives a little window into poor Martin’s life. And he’s history now. It’s okay to mourn him. When Mum went back to her maiden name, I thought what the hell, that can be my maiden name too. And Amy Gall was born.’

  Vicky felt a flicker of tears in her nostrils. ‘Either way, Amy is very vivacious.’

 
‘Uh huh. Always was, just in my bedroom.’

  ‘I’m sorry we lost touch.’

  ‘It’s called university.’

  Vicky smiled. ‘Where did you go? Glasgow, right?’

  ‘Strathclyde.’ Amy shook her head. ‘It was okay, but… The people were good, the course was good, but I wasn’t. I dropped out, worked at a call centre in Dundee. Then I found myself, accepted who I was, and here I am. I work as a rape crisis counsellor.’

  ‘Wow.’

  ‘Hey, you’re the one who has to catch those fucks and prosecute them.’

  ‘I don’t do the prosecution bit, but okay, I’ll take the compliment.’

  ‘Well, even so. It’s horrible what you have to do.’

  ‘Tell me about it.’ Vicky stroked the cat now marching along the worktop. ‘Were you and Marianne close?’

  ‘As close as we could be with that sort of age gap. Martin was, well, having trouble when she was still just a rugrat. And he just didn’t have time for her. I moved out when I went to uni and Mum was a typical Dundee wifie, like you.’

  ‘I’m not married.’

  ‘It’s the Dundee bit I’m referring to.’

  ‘Right. But I get it. She was hard on you both.’

  ‘And worse on Marianne. She was ten years younger than you and me. After… After all the stuff I went through, Mum didn’t take it well. So she doubled down on Marianne. Pushed her until she broke. She didn’t go to uni, just got a shit job. But I was on the scene now, and I rebuilt our relationship. In a lot of ways I was like her big sister.’

  ‘When did you last see her?’

  ‘Christmas. You know how it is. Round the table with Granny and Granddad, both asking me deep and personal questions about my nether regions without asking why Mum put up with that animal for so long.’

  ‘You keep calling your dad an animal.’

  ‘Right, I know. It’s just so raw. I mean, I could play him, could get what I wanted out of him. It’s come in handy over the years. He paid for my operation, gave me this place, but that’s it. End of the line. And Marianne never had that training. I mean, I pretty much raised her. Mum was useless. Just drank gin and felt sorry for herself.’

  ‘I had no idea.’

  Amy inspected her long nail and Vicky saw a flicker of Martin’s old torment again. ‘Nobody did.’

  ‘Your mother said your sister didn’t talk to her about her affair. Did she with you?’

  ‘No. I guess it’s a Brewer trait. That side of the family just don’t talk. But us Galls? Try shutting us up.’

  ‘Did Marianne talk about anyone she was seeing?’

  ‘Oh, him.’

  ‘So she did?’

  ‘Right. She mentioned someone at Christmas. Derek, I think his name was.’

  ‘You know how they met?’

  ‘So you know him?’

  ‘He’s on our radar.’

  ‘Did he kill Marianne?’

  ‘No.’

  She was leering now. ‘I smell bullshit, Victoria.’

  ‘Come on, Martin, that’s—’

  Amy flinched like she’d been slapped.

  Vicky let out a sigh. Come on, she had much more important stuff to worry about than what bloody name to call her.

  And she caught herself. That wasn’t for her to say. She could see Amy’s lifelong struggle and hurt reflected in that flinch. And here she was, being ignorant enough to dismiss her hurt when it would cost nothing but a moment’s consideration to spare her feelings.

  ‘I’m sorry, Amy. I shouldn’t have deadnamed you.’ Vicky raised her hands. ‘You called me Victoria, and it just took me back to us in the classroom, arguing over stupid shit. It just slipped out.’

  ‘Apology accepted.’ Amy came over and wrapped her in a hug.

  Vicky met her embrace. ‘Look, I’m not used to this yet. But I am proud of you. It can’t be easy.’

  ‘It’s a different world now, Vicky. It’s crazy. I’ve got a friend who’s a teacher in Forfar and there are four kids transitioning that I know of. In Forfar.’

  ‘Wow.’

  ‘You keep saying that.’

  ‘Sorry.’ Vicky laughed again. ‘I forgot how much fun we used to have. We should go for a drink sometime and catch up.’

  ‘That’d be good.’ Amy walked over to an expensive-looking espresso machine and fiddled with the controls. Some thumping and hammering later and the machine was hissing away, dribbling out perfect-smelling coffee into a small cup. ‘So the last time I saw my sister was just after my op and…’ She leaned back against the counter and sipped at her espresso. ‘Well, all Marianne was telling me about this guy was…’ She put the cup down. ‘Are you sure you don’t think he killed her?’

  ‘We don’t believe he did.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because he died before she did.’

  ‘Christ.’ Amy shook her head. ‘This is that case on that golf course out past Carnoustie, right?’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘The papers think it’s a copycat of that Atreus guy?’

  ‘The papers can think what they like.’

  ‘Is it?’

  ‘Can’t say either way, Amy.’

  ‘Right, well. This Derek guy seemed like a typical sleazeball. Married, kids, just like my old man. And he put her up in a shagging pad in Carnoustie.’

  The flat where Craigen’s family were living now. Where his wife died.

  ‘Did she say anything about him? Anything that you might think, now, oh that doesn’t stack up?’

  Amy shrugged. ‘Marianne worked as an escort.’

  ‘An escort?’

  ‘Right. I mean, I don’t think she was a hooker, but she was hired out to rich oil men in Aberdeen and American golfers in St Andrews and Carnoustie. She always looked much younger than she actually was. I guess for some, that’s what they wanted and they’d pay extra for. Most of the thrill with none of the fear of getting nabbed by you lot. But the way she told me it, this Derek guy hired her once, then he got obsessed with her, persuaded her eventually to stop doing that gig. He paid her money, put her up in that shagging pad, told her a load of bullshit about how he was going to leave his wife.’

  ‘He did.’

  Amy raised her perfect eyebrows. ‘Seriously?’

  ‘Push came to shove. He got caught, moved your sister into his big mansion, put his family up in that flat.’

  ‘Christ.’

  ‘You got an address for this agency?’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Well, it’s possible—’

  ‘You think some old dirty pervert has killed her?’

  ‘Not really, but I need to check it out.’

  Amy tossed her cup into the sink and walked over to the dresser. ‘My sister, bless her, gave me a card for them.’ She held it out to Vicky but didn’t let it go. ‘She wondered if I wanted to do some work for them. People don’t understand. I am Amy Gall, I’m a person, I’m not some sick weirdo’s sexual fantasy.’

  ‘I know you are, Amy.’

  ‘Thanks.’ And she let the card go. ‘And I’ll give you Dad’s number. See if he wants to talk to you rather than me.’

  31

  The address was an office in West Ferry, in a long row of upmarket townhouses looking across the Tay towards the north Fife coast, all lit up in the afternoon sunshine. And nowhere did the signage mention anything about escorts, not that it was likely to. Just seemed to be a high-end taxi firm, promising Mercedes and limousines.

  Vicky tried the number Amy gave her again. She assumed the dialling code was for Turkey, but it wasn’t something she’d ever had to know before.

  And it was answered. ‘Martin Brewer?’ Sounded like he was in a pub. Someone sang Hound Dog over a karaoke system.

  ‘Sir, my name is DS Vicky Dodds. I’m based in Dundee and—’

  ‘This is about Marianne, isn’t it?’

  So someone had managed to get through. Or he’d listened to Amy’s voicemail.

  ‘I’m afraid
so, sir. Is there anyone who you can be with just now?’

  ‘Eh? What are you talking about?’

  ‘To help you cope with your daughter’s death.’

  ‘Right, right. Well, I’m fine. I barely knew the kid.’

  ‘Sir, we need to—’

  Click, and he was gone. What a heartless bastard.

  She tried again but he bounced the call. Superb. Just superb. Made her appreciate her old man. And her mother. No matter how much bullshit she’d thrown at them, they’d been there for her. She’d always have a safe haven from the world.

  Not everybody did.

  Vicky sucked in a deep breath and gave it one last go but Martin Brewer wasn’t picking up. Despite the heat, she shivered. Maybe he’d been called up to the karaoke machine. Singing something utterly horrible like Wonderful Tonight by Eric Clapton. She got out and walked over to the door, then grabbed the handle.

  ‘Wait up!’

  She turned round to see MacDonald jogging towards her. What the hell? ‘Euan, how did you—’

  ‘Forrester told me to join you.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Well, he wasn’t happy about you speaking to people on your own. An old primary teacher of yours, and some girl you went to school with. So here I am.’

  ‘Remind me not to mention anything to him in future.’ Vicky twisted the handle.

  But MacDonald blocked the door with his foot. ‘Back up a bit. Why are we here?’

  ‘We aren’t here. I am. I identified our first victim and I need to know everything I can about her life.’

  ‘Right. And she was a hooker?’

  ‘An escort. There’s a difference. And a sleazy wanker like you should know.’

  ‘Charming.’ MacDonald picked at his teeth. ‘So you think she was still turning tricks?’

  ‘I don’t know, Euan. How about we ask?’ Vicky stomped on his foot and pushed through the door.

  It looked more like an undertaker than a taxi firm and it was freezing in there, with the kind of air conditioning you got in America. A man in his sixties lounged behind a desk, dressed in that silver grey suit you’d occasionally see toffs wearing at races, but it was all untied and loose. ‘Howdy.’ Raw Hilltown accent, like an open sewer. ‘You guys need a car?’

  Vicky walked over to his desk and could smell the booze halfway across. ‘Looking to speak to the owner.’