Hour Of Darkness (5 page)

Seven

If Detective Sergeant Karen Neville had put her mind to it, she could have hated Alexis Skinner; not for stealing her husband, but for dumping him when she had and throwing him back into the Edinburgh man pool, just as she herself was rebounding hard from a disastrous relationship.

But she believed that life was wasted if it was spent carrying grudges, plus she and Andy were agreed that they had done at least two things right in what had become, eventually, a sad, distant marriage, a point she had reiterated the evening before when he had picked up Danielle and Robert from her new house in Lasswade.

She believed also that hatred could only be destructive. She had seen enough of it in her career, and looking at the file that sat on top of the small stack of live investigations on her desk, her conviction was reinforced.

When she had applied to rejoin the police force, after her divorce and her move from Perth, she had expected to be accepted at her former rank but had assumed, more or less, that her first posting would be in uniform, somewhere, anywhere on the force’s extensive area. Her interview had been conducted by Mario McGuire, with a po-faced bloke from Human Resources sat alongside him, to keep the ACC serious and on message, she guessed.

That had worked, until they reached the point of confirmation, and the HR bod had produced a list of available postings for a uniformed sergeant. The big guy had taken it from him, politely, crumpled it into a ball, and tossed it into a waste basket, ten feet away. If he had missed, it might have spoiled the moment, but he hit it, dead centre.

‘With respect,’ he lied, ‘if Personnel thinks that I’m going to deprive CID of the services of a proven, experienced detective officer, it’s got it badly wrong. Karen, do you want to go back into CID?’

Her reply had been automatic. ‘Absolutely, sir.’

‘Okay. I need somebody in the office at the West End. Becky Stallings is going off on maternity leave, Jack McGurk’s being bumped up to acting DI, and with young Sauce Haddock . . . you probably don’t know him . . . going down to Leith on promotion, I’m light on experience at detective sergeant level. If the chief constable approves, and I believe she will, are you up for it?’

‘Yes please. Can my shift pattern include weekends?’

‘Are you sure about that? The stuff can hit the rotor blades on Saturdays and Sundays in that division.’

She had smiled at him. ‘Been there, and been splattered by that stuff; it would help with the kids, that’s why I ask.’

‘Then you’ve got it. That brings me to something else. What are we going to call you, Detective Sergeant?’

She had thought that one through before the interview, indeed as she was filling out the application form. ‘I style myself Ms Martin, sir, in my private life; I’m not going back to my maiden name, not with children. I’ve talked it through with my . . . former husband,’ she had come close to calling him ‘Andy’, but had maintained formality, ‘and he’s perfectly fine with that. But professionally, I want to be what I always was, Karen Neville.’

‘Suppose he wasn’t, that wouldn’t matter to me, even though the Director of the Serious Crime and Drugs Agency and I go back to the last century as colleagues. Congratulations, Detective Sergeant Neville, and welcome back.’

She beamed at the recollection. Back in the moment, the huge man behind the desk opposite raised his eyebrows. ‘You’re one strange woman, Sarge,’ he said. ‘I draw weekend duty by rotation and I grumble about it. You volunteer and you’re smiling.’

‘How do you know what I’m smiling about, Detective Constable Singh?’ she replied, deadpan. ‘For all you know . . .’

‘True,’ he conceded, quickly. ‘Do you want a coffee?’

‘No, thanks; one promise I’ve made to myself is that this time around I’m going to drink a hell of a lot less of that stuff. Stains your teeth, rots your guts. What incidents have you got on the go?’

‘Traffic passed on a hit-and-run from last night,’ he told her. ‘That’s the most urgent. The victim’s a nineteen-year-old student, a lassie. She was making her way home from not one but several pubs, along Gorgie Road, when she was hit by a car, probably blue, heading westward, out of the city.’

‘Jesus,’ Neville muttered, ‘kids and alcohol; nothing changes. Did she survive?’

‘So far, but nobody’s making any promises. She’s in the Royal Infirmary with serious head injuries.’

‘I take it we don’t have a number for the van, since it’s been tossed our way.’

The Sikh shook his head. ‘No, and no chance of getting one. The uniforms who took statements at the scene said that the three witnesses, the girl’s boyfriend and another couple, were all pretty well pished, as was the victim herself. They’re emailing everything across, but the picture seemed to be that the girl stumbled out into the roadway, right in front of the driver.’

‘Is it possible he didn’t know he’d hit her?’

‘No, because he stopped, immediately afterwards, for a few seconds. Then he drove away.’

‘And still nobody got the number?’

‘No. One of the lads thought it might have been a zero-eight registration, and the other girl said it began with S, but that’s the lot.’

‘What’s the camera coverage like in that area?’

‘Patchy, but there is some; not at the scene of the accident, but we can check around the time. I’ve asked Traffic to get all the footage they can on to DVD and send it over to us.’

‘Thanks, Talvin. Have we got addresses for the witnesses?’

‘Address. They all share a flat in Denholm Crescent.’

‘Handy,’ she said. ‘In that case, let’s get ourselves up there sharpish, and re-interview them. The booze should have worn off by now, and we might get some sense out of them.’

They were heading for the door when the phone rang, a direct call, not a front desk reference. Singh swore softly, but turned back and picked it up. ‘Western CID’, he announced.

‘Who’s that?’ a brusque voice asked.

‘DC Singh. Now it’s your turn.’

‘This is Detective Superintendent Mackenzie, smart-arse. You may have heard of me; I’m your boss.’

‘Yes, sir,’ the DC replied evenly, ‘I’ve heard of Mr Mackenzie, and I know what he is. But how do I know that you’re him?’

He heard a deep breath being taken. ‘You could take my word for it, Singh, or you could hang up and ask the comms centre to raise me on my home number. Which is it to be?’

Smart-arse
, the big man thought; but he liked CID and so he chose to risk his tenure there no further. ‘What can we do for you, sir?’

‘That’s better. I’ve just had a message passed to me by uniform. It came from Scottish Power. They had to gain entrance to a flat this morning to read the gas meter. They’d been unable to raise the occupant and had to make an arrangement with the owner. A lawyer looks after the place on his behalf, ’cos he’s away. Anyway, a girl from the lawyer’s office met the meter reader with a key, at nine o’clock. They couldn’t find the meter at the front door, where you might expect to, so they went into the kitchen. There was blood all over the place, more than a cut finger would leave. Who’s your senior officer there?’

‘Detective Sergeant Neville.’

‘Right, you and he . . .’

‘That would be she, sir.’

‘Of course it would, wouldn’t it. How could I forget? Okay, you and she drop whatever you’re doing and get round there, now. The address is one forty-two Caledonian Crescent. Check it out and report back to me.’ There was a pause. ‘Through the communications centre,’ Mackenzie added, heavily.

As Singh replaced the phone, Karen whistled.

‘You were pushing your luck, Talvin, were you not?’

He shrugged his vast shoulders. ‘He called me “smart-arse”,’ he grumbled.

‘Could be he was right.’

Eight

‘I like this plan of yours.’

Her smile said that she wasn’t kidding. It was warmer than I’d seen it since the early days of our marriage, and it seemed to come from deeper within her. I couldn’t remember Sarah ever looking more relaxed. I hoped I looked the same, for that was how I felt.

We’d spent a whole week in L’Escala, and never left town; we’d walked, we’d swum, we’d eaten, we’d loved, we’d caught up with some friends, British and Catalan, but most of all we’d talked. We’d talked about us as a couple, we’d talked about Sarah’s career and we’d talked about mine. Yes, we’d talked about the kids too, but less and less as the time went on. More and more we’d found ourselves talking about me; about what I wanted, and how I wanted the rest of my life to be.

And at the end of it all, I’d made a decision.

That plan that Sarah mentioned? Oh yes, that was a good one. We’d have an early lunch in La Clota, then take the train to Barcelona Passeig de Gracia, check into a gastronomic hotel in Placa Reial and explore the city for all of Sunday, before getting back to Scotland and the family that we’d made, split asunder, but, thank God, reunited.

Everything was good, even the calamares. I’ve found that squid can be a risky choice in a restaurant, because not every chef knows how to cook it properly, but I’ve rarely had better than I did that day. I didn’t have anything else, as I wanted to keep space for dinner, but it hit the spot.

‘That okay?’ John, the ever-solicitous proprietor, asked, as I finished.

‘It’ll do,’ I replied: I like to keep him on his toes.

‘Good. My father-in-law caught it; I’ll tell him to fish in that place again.’

‘In that case I’m not going to ask where your beef comes from.’

He grinned. ‘Hah, funny man. You be back soon?’ he asked Sarah.

‘Yup,’ she told him. ‘We’re bringing the kids for the October school holiday.’

‘That’s good; we’ll still be here. Maybe you can help carve the meat . . .’ he laughed, ‘. . . or would that be too much like your work?’

I looked around; the terrace tables were fully occupied, and a few diners had been seated indoors. The staff were bustling around, doing their best to keep everyone happy.

‘You flying one short?’ I asked John.

‘What you mean?’

‘The kid who was here last weekend; I don’t see him.’

‘Nacho? No, he left. He said he had to go back to Cordoba. He’s a good waiter even though he doesn’t speak Catalan. He say he come back next year, but with kids, you never know.’

‘Tell me about it! We have our dropouts in the police force too. It’s a bugger when you’ve spent serious money training them, only for them to piss off and join private security firms.’

Sod it! He’d got me talking about work, and I had forsworn that for the rest of the break.

‘Gimme a bill, please,’ I asked. ‘We’ve got a train to catch.’ To speed the process, I handed him a fifty euro note.

‘Thanks,’ I said as he left. Sarah looked at me, puzzled.

‘Thanks for what?’

‘Thanks for making my life complete again. For having faith in me. For showing me the way forward when I was uncertain and confused. For loving me. Come on, let’s go to Barcelona and have the time of our lives.’

We stood and I waved farewell to John, stopping him as he headed back with around twelve euro in change. Sarah took my arm and we walked off, towards Club Nautic, where our car, the one I keep out there, was parked, looking at the ranks of moored boats, and feeling the comfort of the early afternoon warmth, rather than full-on heat. In the days that we had been there the season had begun to change, as summer morphed into autumn.

‘One day,’ I murmured, ‘we’re going to spend more time here. Seonaid hardly knows this place, and the boys haven’t seen nearly enough of it. That’s my fault; if I hadn’t messed us up . . .’

She squeezed my bicep. ‘We’re done talking about that. We messed us up, not just you, and now we’ve put us back together again.’

I kissed the top of her head as I clicked the remote to unlock the car. ‘Agreed,’ I said. ‘I’ve never looked forward to growing old before, but I do now, knowing I’ll do it with you.’

It was a beautiful moment, one of those you wish you could encase in plastic and keep for ever.

And then, with timing that could have come from the pits of hell, the phone rang, and I took the call that started a chain of events that changed everything that I was, and might have been.

Nine

‘How far along is it?’ Karen Neville asked as Singh turned their unmarked police car into Caledonian Crescent.

‘I can see one of our vehicles right at the far end,’ he replied, ‘so I guess that’s it.’

The street was less curved than its name implied. On either side, grey four-storey tenement blocks rose above them. ‘I should know, I suppose,’ he added. ‘I lived here when I was a kid; number ninety-eight. It’s changed a lot since then. We didn’t have door buzzers in the streets; all the stairwells smelled like prisons.’

‘Prisons?’

‘Aye. You know; boiled cabbage and pish.’

He drove slowly between the ranks of cars; Saturday, so the resident parking bays were all full. There was a disabled space opposite their destination; he took it and put a ‘CID on business’ card in the window.

The police car that he had seen was unoccupied, and the entry door to one forty-two was closed.

‘Did Mackenzie give you a flat number?’ the sergeant asked.

‘No, he was too busy giving me a hard time. Smart-arse, indeed,’ he growled.

‘Live with it,’ she said. ‘Push some buttons till we get the right one.’

Singh was about to begin the process of elimination when, to his surprise, the door clicked and opened an inch or two. The two detectives stepped into the hallway, and came face to face with an elderly lady, standing at the entrance to what they guessed was her home.

‘I took you for police,’ she announced.

The DC beamed. ‘So much for plain-clothes duty.’

The householder smiled, gently. ‘You, son, could not be anything else.’ Then she frowned. ‘Here, did you not live in the Crescent, what, oh, twenty years ago?’

‘That’s right’

‘What’s your name again?’

‘Talvin.’

‘That’s right. I used to talk to your mother. How is she?’

Unlike quite a few other neighbours
, Singh recalled. ‘She’s fine,’ he told her. ‘My dad died a few years ago, though.’

‘Aw, I’m sorry to hear that, son. You tell your mum that Greta McConnochie was asking for her.’

‘I will indeed.’ He paused. ‘I don’t suppose you know . . .’

‘Where the other police are? Yes, they’re one floor up, flat one. What is it? No’ a burglary, I hope.’

‘We’re not sure yet. But it’s nothing for you to worry yourself about. Thanks, Mrs McConnochie.’

They left the neighbour on guard duty and headed for the stone staircase. Flat one faced them on the landing; they knew that not by the number but by the black-clad woman constable guarding the door. She recognised Singh, one of those ‘once seen, never forgotten’ people. ‘Hi, Talvin,’ she greeted him. ‘You got the short straw?’

‘Nah, Whitney. I’m popular, that’s all. This is DS Neville, she’s new to the division.’

The two women exchanged nods, then the constable stepped to one side. ‘In there,’ she said. ‘Forrest, my oppo’s with the girl from the law firm and the meter reader. He’s seriously pissed off with us, by the way, for makin’ him hang on.’

‘Tough luck on him,’ Singh observed. ‘We’d be pissed off with you if you hadn’t.’

He stood aside to make way for his sergeant, but she nodded to him to take the lead. The windowless hallway was lit by a halogen ceiling fitment, and there were four doors leading off it. Only one was open, so he headed for it, to find himself in a sitting room.

‘About fuckin’ time,’ the meter reader barked as the DC’s shadow fell on the floor; he fell silent as he saw what had cast it.

‘Sorry sir,’ the man-mountain said. ‘But from what we’ve been told this might be a crime scene. You’re standing in it, so if we decide that it is, you’re not leaving without giving us a statement and a DNA sample.’

‘Now wait a minute,’ the man protested.

‘No, sir.’ Neville cut him off. ‘You wait, please, for as many minutes as it takes.’ She turned to the room’s other occupants, a girl who looked to be in her early twenties, and the second uniform, a stocky man whose tunic namebadge identified him as PC Wood. She blinked. ‘Whitney called you Forrest. That is a nickname, isn’t it?’

‘No such luck,’ he replied. ‘It’s for real: my nickname’s “Plank”. My dad was a comedian, but at least he put a second “r” in Forrest. Great name for a Woodentop, eh?’

‘You are blessed.’ She turned to the girl. ‘And you are?’ she asked.

‘Tilda Trotter, from the Lesser and Syme property department.’

‘Lesser and Syme?’

‘Solicitors. The owner’s our client.’

‘But he’s not the occupant?’

‘No. He lives somewhere else.’

‘So who is the occupant?’

‘I don’t actually know. This isn’t one of my files usually, but I’m the junior staff member. My boss told me to come along and let this man in, that was all.’

Singh looked at the meter reader. ‘Who pays the bill?’ he asked.

‘Search me, mate. Ah just read them.’

‘We pay it,’ Tilda Trotter volunteered. ‘Or rather we pay it on the client’s behalf. He picks up all the utility bills, and the rates.’

As she spoke, Neville glanced around the room. The flat had central heating, and a log-effect gas fire for back-up. There was a vase on the sideboard; it held flowers but they were withered and drooping. Copies of the
Daily Record
and
Hello
magazine lay on a coffee table positioned between a wall-mounted television and a cream fabric sofa, which was matched by a single armchair.

She picked up the newspaper and saw that it was three weeks and one day old. She dropped it and her eye moved on to a small side table. It was placed on the far side of the chair from where she was standing, and on it there lay an ashtray, a pack of menthol cigarettes and a lighter that could have been taken for gold, but for the pale patches where use had worn away the plating. She stepped round and peered into the ashtray; it held half a dozen white filter-tipped butts, each with traces of lipstick.

‘Whoever lived here left in a hurry,’ she said. ‘She didn’t take her fags or lighter.’

‘Not good,’ Tarvil murmured. ‘Where is it?’ he asked PC Wood.

‘The door facing you in the hall.’

He nodded and headed for it.

‘Hold on,’ his DS called out. ‘We don’t want to piss off the CSIs, if they need to come in here. You got overshoes and gloves?’

‘You’re right, boss,’ he conceded. ‘Yes, I always carry them.’

Since he seemed to take up much of the available space, Neville waited until he had donned the sterile coverings before putting hers on. When she was ready, she opened the door and led the way into the kitchen.

‘Bloody hell!’ she exclaimed, as she saw what was inside.

‘I couldn’t have put it better,’ Singh agreed.

The fitted units were modern and expensive, and the walls were tiled, white with a yellow flower motif. Above the sink, which faced the door, a rusty red fan shape spread out.

‘Tell me someone’s been shaking a ketchup bottle with a dodgy top,’ the DC murmured.

‘I wish I could,’ Neville replied quietly.

She moved carefully around the small table in the centre of the room, then stopped in her tracks. The stains ran across the sink, down the front of the unit that housed it and into a pool, a thick reddish-brown pool, of something congealed and dried. There were splatters and smears all around, and indications of someone, something, having been dragged.

‘Mr Mackenzie was right.’

‘How?’ the DS asked.

‘This is more than a cut finger.’

‘So let’s get out.’

As they backed out, surveying the scene from the doorway once more, Singh pointed to a broad-bladed cleaver, lying in the floor next to the mass of blood. ‘Do you think that might have been used?’ he asked.

‘We’ll let other people tell us that,’ Neville replied. ‘Plank,’ she called to the PC, ‘get on the radio and ask for SOCO attendance here, right away.’ She had barely finished before the constable was speaking into his handset.

‘Should we empty the place?’

She answered DC Singh’s question with a shake of her head. ‘Not yet, Talvin. Let those two stay where they are, but go nowhere else in the flat.’ She opened the door next to the kitchen. ‘Bathroom,’ she peered inside. There were more bloodstains around the small basin and a blue towel lay on the wooden floor.

Singh looked over her shoulder. ‘Those boards, they’re rough, not sanded or stained. There’s been a carpet here.’

‘You’re right,’ she agreed. ‘Stapled to the floor.’ She knelt and looked closely at a metal fastening twisted as if something had been wrenched loose. There were fibres attached. ‘Purple,’ she murmured.

‘So who’s the victim?’ Singh mused. ‘The householder?’

‘Why are you assuming there’s only one? I’ve seen domestic homicides that looked just like this. The husband could have done the wife, disposed of her body and disappeared.’

‘Take a look behind the door,’ he replied, pointing. ‘That row of coat hooks. There are four garments on it, they’re all female and they’re all much the same size.’

The sergeant winced, knowing that she had missed the obvious. ‘You’re right, of course. Christ, I have been away from the job for a long time. Keep on watching my back, Talvin, will you?’

‘You got it,’ he rumbled.

‘So who is the woman . . . was, I should say?’ She looked at the door for a few seconds, frowning. ‘All the indications are that the place has been empty for a while, unread meter, dead flowers in the vase. I’m sure that when we look in the fridge we’ll find milk that’s at least a couple of weeks past its sell-by. And one other thing: where’s the mail?’

She led the way back into the living room. ‘Ms Trotter,’ she called out. ‘When you entered the flat, were there any letters behind the door?’

‘Yes,’ the girl said. ‘I gathered them up. They’re on the coffee table there.’

Singh picked up the handful of mail, and began to flick through it. ‘Most of this is the usual junk,’ he muttered, ‘addressed to “The Householder”, that’s all, but, hold on, here’s one . . . and another.’ He held up two envelopes and put the others back on the table.

‘Let’s see them, please.’

He handed them over, impressed by his new sergeant’s courtesy. He was used to orders, not requests.

‘I. Spreckley,’ she read aloud, from the first, then ripped it open. ‘Bank statement. It’s a current account and it’s well in credit.’ She paused as she studied it. ‘Okay, she’s over sixty, ’cos there’s a pension credit here. Plus, she’s claiming housing benefit.’

‘She does?’ Tilda Trotter, who was close enough to overhear her, exclaimed. ‘She lives here rent-free.’

‘Then let’s hope her sins haven’t found her out,’ Neville muttered as she opened the second envelope. ‘Miss Isobella Spreckley,’ she announced. ‘This one’s from the NHS; an appointment under the breast cancer screening programme. Miss,’ she repeated, then crossed to the fireplace, and picked up a framed photograph.

It was creased beneath the glass, as if it had been well-handled in its lifetime, and its colour had faded somewhat, lending it a pale yellow veneer. It showed a beach scene, and a woman in her thirties, dark-haired, full-bodied and not unattractive, with her arms around two boys, the older of whom could have been no more than ten. There was a clear resemblance between the trio;
mother and sons, for sure
, she thought.

‘If this is Miss Spreckley . . . I wonder who these two are and where they are now.’

‘And if they know where she is,’ Singh added.

The DS barely heard him, for she was staring hard at the images. ‘Maybe we know,’ she said. ‘This photo has to be thirty years old at least. Sixty-something, female, stocky build, had children. Tarvil, have you read the file on that body that was washed up a week ago? I’m not saying it’s her, but she’s definitely a candidate.’