Hour Of Darkness Page 7

  ‘I’m sorry to break into your weekend, Bob,’ he said, ‘but I thought you’d want in on this.’

  ‘Time will tell,’ Skinner replied. ‘You’re breaking into my holiday, not just my weekend. I’ve got to talk on the move, though. Sarah and I are heading for Barcelona soon. Here, love,’ McGuire heard him say, ‘you drive.’

  A car door slammed, then another; an engine barked into life.

  ‘So tell me.’

  ‘Just before you left,’ McGuire began, ‘Sarah did an autopsy for us.’

  ‘The messy one? Woman with stab wounds and important bits missing? She only gave me the headlines, mind. I asked her not to share the details. What’s up? Have you put a name to her yet?’

  ‘Not yet, but . . .’ He ran through the story of the morning’s events, from the meter reader’s discovery to Karen Neville’s summoning of the CSI team. ‘Everything fits; all my experience, and Karen’s, is telling us that Cramond Island woman lived in that flat and died in it too, and that it’s her blood that’s all over the kitchen.’

  ‘That’s my instinct too, from what you’ve just told me,’ Skinner agreed. ‘Have you put a name to her?’

  ‘I want you to do that for me,’ the ACC said. ‘I’ve just forwarded you a photo from the flat, by email. I want you to tell me who it is.’

  ‘Okay, but I’ll need to end this call. I’ll open it, if I can, and get back to you.’

  The ACC’s phone went dead. He pocketed it and restarted the car, letting the Bluetooth take over. In the back seat, Paula was putting everything back in place while propping Eamon against her shoulder. The baby burped, gently, and regurgitated a quantity of sweet-smelling milk. ‘Clever lad,’ his father exclaimed, just as the sound of Jimmy Buffett and ‘Margaritaville’ sounded from the speakers.

  Mario accepted the call. ‘Well?’ he asked quietly. ‘Am I right?’

  ‘You surely are,’ Skinner told him. ‘Assuming that you get a DNA match to the body, it seems that some bugger has done for Bella Watson.’

  Eleven

  Bella Watson!

  That was a name from the past, and one that I’d hoped would stay there. On the other hand, I reasoned, if Mario and I were right in our shared hunch, then she wasn’t going to be part of my future, so no real worries.

  Bella’s path hadn’t crossed mine this century, nor had I even heard word of her. The last time I’d seen her had been in the lair of one of her men friends, a serious Edinburgh gangster by the name of Tony Manson. He had gone to hell a few years later, whereas Bella, as seemed likely, had gone to Caledonian Crescent, a better neighbourhood altogether.

  If I was given to florid comparisons, I might say that Bella Watson had been to homicide in Edinburgh as Mary Mallon was to typhoid in New York. She had two brothers and two sons, and every one of them was a murder victim.

  Brother Gavin and son Ryan, who was then aged no more than fifteen and a drug pusher like his uncle, had ripped off a major crime lord, bigger even than Manson, and both had paid the price of their stupidity, age being no mitigating factor with those people.

  Brother Billy had set out to avenge them but had found out that not all gunfights end like High Noon.

  Son Marlon, a few years later, he had somehow got himself jammed between the proverbial rock and hard place, and wound up squashed.

  After my second conversation with Mario, I had been so preoccupied with my thoughts about the Watsons and Spreckleys that I’d said nothing about it to Sarah, and she had left me to it, until we were on the train and halfway to Barcelona.

  ‘Are you going to tell me about those calls?’ she asked, eventually. ‘All I know is that it was Mario McGuire who rang you, but I couldn’t really hear what it was about once the engine started.’

  ‘Yeah, of course,’ I said. ‘Sorry, love. I should have said before now; not least because you’ve got a professional interest. It took me completely by surprise, that’s all. Mario thinks his people have put a name to that last autopsy you did before we came away, the woman in the water. It looks as if she’s someone I used to know.’

  I gave her a rundown on the violent life and likely death of Bella Watson.

  ‘What a family!’ she exclaimed when I was finished. ‘The poor woman. How tragic can you get?’

  I nodded. ‘Agreed, but don’t get the tissues out for Bella. She was the hardest of them all. We were never able to prove that she sent Billy out to get the crew who killed Gavin and Ryan, but I’m quite sure that she did.’

  ‘A real Ma Barker, from what you’re saying. What about Mr Watson?’

  ‘He left them to get on with it.’ I paused. ‘No, that’s not being quite fair to him. He was a straight guy, and didn’t like what was going on. Eventually Gavin put a gun to his head and told him to get out of town. Most people, me among them, thought he was dead, but he showed up at Marlon’s funeral. On the day, that affected Bella more than anything else.

  ‘It was a bizarre event, that funeral,’ I recalled. ‘There weren’t enough men there to take all the cords of the coffin; Jeez, there were no men left in the fucking family by that time. Mario and I, we’d gone along out of duty, no more, and we wound up helping bury the poor lad. It was surreal, with Tony Manson, the gangster Bella was involved with, and me at either end of the grave, lowering him down. I’ll never forget the look on Manson’s face. He was a real swine, but that day he showed me that he had a human side. He went the same way in the end.’

  ‘Did you go to his funeral?’ she asked.

  ‘Tony’s? No chance. I did solve his murder, though.’

  ‘Did I do the autopsy? I can’t remember.’

  I laughed. ‘No, love, you were too busy at the time, having James Andrew.’

  ‘That’s right! I do remember now; I’d forgotten the name, that was all. You showed me the photographs when I was in the Simpson Maternity Unit and I showed you how I thought he’d been killed. I told you that when you found the killer he’d have scratch marks on his wrist from where the victim had resisted him, trying to stop the last knife thrust.’

  ‘And you were right, as it turned out.’

  ‘They won’t find any marks like that on whoever killed this woman,’ she pointed out. ‘He had her restrained and stabbed her from behind, over and over again, until he hit the spot.’

  I’ve been a cop for going on thirty years and for most of that time, a detective. I’ve known the aftermath of violence, many, many times, far more often than has been good for me, so that now, when I see it, or when it’s described to me as Sarah did then, it’s as if I’m right there at the crime scene watching it happen.

  ‘I don’t get this, you know,’ I told her. I wasn’t puzzled by the manner of the murder, but by its motive.

  ‘What’s not to get?’

  ‘Why would anyone want to kill Bella Watson now? Once upon a time, sure, when she was at the heart of the action and every bit as bad as her two brothers, it wouldn’t have surprised me, but now, with her well into her sixties, it does. Back then her enemies would have filled a good-sized pub, but today most of them are dead and those that aren’t are decrepit. She’s been living quietly since her younger son died . . . and trust me, if she hadn’t been, I’d have known about it one way or another.’

  ‘Perhaps it was just a random attack,’ Sarah suggested.

  ‘After which the body was stripped of any identification and dumped in the Forth? That’s more than a wee bit doubtful in my experience . . . but then again I’m not part of the investigation. I’m sure that Mario only involved me so that I could confirm what he suspected.’

  It was her turn to laugh. ‘Don’t kid yourself. He knew it would get your juices flowing.’

  She had a point, but . . . ‘If that’s so, it won’t do him any good. It’s Maggie’s force now, not mine, so I can’t, I won’t get involved.’

  I really did believe that at the time.

  Twelve

  ‘I’m glad you’re on your own, dear,’ Mrs McConnochie said, as
she came back into her living room carrying a tray, laden with a cafétière, two cups in their saucers, a sugar bowl, a milk jug and a plate of biscuits. She may have caught a frown on Karen Neville’s face for she continued, ‘I have nothing against Indian people, mind. I knew his mother when they lived here, remember, a very nice woman. It’s just that yon Tarvil is so big it would have been a tight squeeze to fit us all into this wee room.’

  The detective sergeant smiled and replied, ‘Of course. He is a family-size unit, isn’t he.’

  She waited while her hostess poured the coffee, and took a chocolate biscuit when it was offered.

  ‘Well, dear,’ the elderly lady began, once she had settled herself into her armchair, ‘how can I help you?’

  ‘By telling me as much as you know about the lady upstairs.’

  ‘Of course, dear. What’s happened to her?’

  Karen longed to tell her that her proper title was Detective Sergeant, but the coffee was light years better than the crap in the CID room, and she was hoping for a refill, so she held her tongue. ‘Nothing, we hope, but she seems to be missing.’

  Mrs McConnochie ventured a small conspiratorial smile. ‘She hasn’t done a moonlight, has she? Were those sheriff’s officers at her door?’

  ‘No, no,’ Neville assured her, ‘nothing as serious as that.’ She decided to volunteer some information. ‘The man’s a meter reader. Miss Spreckley’s hasn’t been read for over a year and it has to be done annually.’

  ‘And the young woman?’

  ‘She’s from the law firm that factors the flat.’

  The neighbour’s eyebrows rose. ‘You mean Bella doesn’t own it? Well, fancy that! She told me that she did, the deceitful besom.’

  ‘You can forgive her that one,’ the DS said. ‘She lives there rent-free.’

  ‘Oh, she has a life-rent, does she? That’s different.’ Clearly, the old Scots legal term carried weight with Mrs McConnochie.

  ‘How long has she been there?’ She had put the same question to the girl from the law firm, only to find that she had been told nothing beyond the information she had needed for her weekend task.

  ‘Oh, quite a long time; maybe not as much as ten years, but not far short of it.’ The answer was followed by a question. ‘If Bella doesn’t own the flat, then who does?’

  ‘I have no idea,’ Neville replied, truthfully. ‘A client of the law firm, that’s all I’ve been told. I was half hoping you might be able to tell me that, otherwise I’ll probably have to wait until Monday to find out.’

  ‘It’s important then?’

  ‘Not necessarily, but . . .’

  ‘Ah, so you do think something’s happened to her.’

  Bloody hell, Karen thought. How stale am I? I’m supposed to be questioning this old bat, but it’s the other way around.

  She yielded. ‘We can’t say that for certain, but it’s a possibility.’

  Mrs McConnochie’s tight smile was more than a little smug. ‘And maybe a little more than that, dear, yes? I watch television; Silent Witness is one of my favourites. When I had a look upstairs I saw people on the landing putting on those white paper suits, and I know what that means.’

  ‘All it means,’ the DS assured her, defensively, ‘I promise you, is that we need to check some things. I’d love to tell you more, but I’m not allowed to.’

  ‘And far be it from me to get you into trouble, my dear. Would you like some more coffee?’

  ‘Yes, please.’

  ‘And another biscuit?’

  ‘Yes please. Do you and Miss Spreckley ever have coffee together?’ she asked, in a near-desperate attempt to regain the initiative.

  ‘Yes, but not regularly; I invite her in occasionally, but she never seems to return my hospitality. As a matter of fact, the only times I’ve ever been in her flat were when I’ve run out of milk and the shops have been closed.’

  I’ll bet you had plenty in the fridge, Karen thought.

  ‘From what I was able to see, it’s very nice upstairs. Whoever does own the place spent a lot of money on it before Bella moved in. I remember it well, the joiners, painters, plumbers, carpet fitters all coming and going. They made a lot of noise . . . not that I complained, mind you. Bella doesn’t, though; she’s very quiet.’

  ‘And did she,’ Damn it! ‘does she, live alone, yes?’

  ‘Oh yes.’ The old lady’s smirk told Karen that she had picked up on her faux pas. ‘There’s no man involved, if that’s what you mean. I’ve never seen any gentlemen callers, not of that sort anyway, in all the time she’s been here. In fact she very rarely had visitors.’

  ‘Has she ever spoken to you about family?’

  ‘No. Not in any detail. She did mention a sister once, and a niece. That’s right,’ she exclaimed, with a flash of recollection, ‘there was a girl came to visit her, with a toddler in a pushchair. I had to let them in as the lassie was like you two were earlier, not knowing which button to push. She asked me where her Auntie Bella lived.’

  ‘When would that have been? Do you remember?’

  ‘It was this year some time, and it had been snowing; maybe February, that would be right. Oh yes, and there was a man. He came to pick them up; I’d to let him in too. A rough-looking chap he was, I didn’t like the look of him. He didn’t even thank me when I let him in and told him where to go.’ She paused. ‘Here, you don’t think that he could have been involved, do you? Involved in whatever’s happened to poor Bella, that is.’

  Karen finished her second cup of coffee, ignoring the leap to conclusions. ‘At this moment, Mrs McConnochie, I don’t think anything. But when I can see things a bit more clearly, if I do need more information, then I promise, you’ll be the first person I’ll ask.’

  Thirteen

  ‘Do you know your trouble, David?’ Cheryl Mackenzie challenged her husband. ‘In your eyes, everyone is always messing you about, or out to get you. You’ve always been like that, and I don’t believe you’ll ever change.’

  ‘What the fuck do you mean by that?’ he shouted, spinning round in his chair to glare at her, his chin jutting out in a gesture that signalled sheer aggression.

  ‘You know bloody well!’ she yelled back, then paused, for second thoughts. ‘But maybe you don’t. I was going to say, “Just listen to yourself,” but why would you do that when you never listen to anyone else?’

  ‘That’s a laugh,’ David Mackenzie snapped. ‘I’ve got no choice but to listen to you.’

  ‘In that case, I’ll carry on,’ she shot back. ‘You’ve been sitting there all day, pretending to watch the football, but really you’ve been brooding, quietly boiling away. I don’t know what the ACC said to you yesterday, but whatever it was you’ve been in a foul mood ever since. It makes me glad the kids are at my mother’s and not in your way. Well, do you know what? I’ve had enough of it.’

  ‘Enough of what!’

  ‘You!’ she shouted. ‘I’ve had enough of you and these bloody grudges you carry all the time. Even when we were through in Strathclyde, and your career was going well, you were the same. You could see slights where none existed, and you decided that your colleagues were jealous of you when they didn’t actually give a damn.’

  ‘You’re making this up,’ he said, scornfully.

  ‘Am I? Do you remember Willie Crichton, that DI you worked with in Paisley for a while? Of course you do,’ she went on, not waiting for a response. ‘You never forget an enemy. Remember that police charity night we went to in the Hilton Hotel? No, probably you don’t,’ she conceded, ‘because you got completely trousered at it. I was dancing with Willie at one point while you were leering down the tits of some young WPC, and he asked me, straight out, what he’d ever done to make you hate him. The really terrible thing was, I knew.’

  ‘I’m glad somebody does, for I don’t know what the fuck you’re on about.’

  ‘Oh no? Does that mean you’ve forgotten about the case you worked on where Willie was asked to give evidence for the C
rown and you weren’t?’

  ‘Oh, that one,’ Mackenzie muttered, his face darkening even further.

  ‘Yes, that one. You went on about it for months, accusing him of brown-nosing McMinn, the chief superintendent, the deputy fiscal, and everyone up to the master of his Masonic bloody lodge.’

  ‘He did too,’ he growled.

  ‘Like hell he did. You weren’t called as a witness because you were off with man flu on the day when you were supposed to be interviewing the guy you’d arrested and Willie had to sit in for you.’

  ‘That’s bollocks.’

  ‘No, it’s the truth,’ Cheryl insisted. ‘I know it is because you were so angry about it, you even convinced me you’d been stitched up. I went to see Mr McMinn, and asked him why. He was very nice about it, when he might not have been. He sat me down and he explained what had happened. He even showed me the log of that investigation.’

  Mackenzie stared at her wide-eyed. ‘You . . .’ he gasped, ‘. . . you did that? You fucking idiot!’ he screamed, suddenly. ‘I wondered why I was transferred to fucking Coatbridge out of the blue. Now I know.’

  ‘Yes, now you know,’ she snapped. ‘And you weren’t there long before everybody there was against you too. I was so happy when you met Bob Skinner, and he offered you a job in Edinburgh on his drugs squad. I thought that in a smaller force running your own section, you’d get over all that aggro inside you.

  ‘But you didn’t, no, not you. You were hardly here before you were complaining about that man Martin muscling in on one of your investigations. And that was nonsense too, because at the end of the day you got the collar and the glory that went with it.

  ‘But as usual, that wasn’t enough, so you took to the drink, big time. Skinner could have got rid of you then, but instead he gave you a second chance . . . and a promotion not much later. But in your eyes he was doing you down as well, by keeping you out of CID.’

  ‘And he fucking was!’ he hissed.