THE Evil Man

Part Two - Featuring Inspector Walter Darriteau

David Carter

TrackerDog Media

The Evil Man – Part Two

Featuring Inspector Walter Darriteau

© Copyright David Carter 2024

Follow David on Twitter @TheBookBloke

www.davidcarterbooks.co.uk

First edition 2024

The right of David Carter to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publishers, except by reviewers who may quote brief passages in reviews.

This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Our Guarantee

This book was written by a human being for human beings. No part of this story was created by AI (Artificial Intelligence) and that is important, and will become more so in years to come.

Readers should be aware:

It has been necessary to divide the case of "The Evil Man" into two books (Parts One & Two) because of the length of the story.

This is Part Two. If you haven’t yet read Part One, we strongly advise you do so first to appreciate all the threads in the story.

All threads and plot points will be resolved by the end of this book.

We hope you enjoy the read.

Contents

1. Chapter 1

2. Chapter 2

3. Chapter 3

4. Chapter 4

5. Chapter 5

6. Chapter 6

7. Chapter 7

8. Chapter 8

9. Chapter 9

10. Chapter 10

11. Chapter 11

12. Chapter 12

13. Chapter 13

14. Chapter 14

15. Chapter 15

16. Chapter 16

17. Chapter 17

18. Chapter 18

19. Chapter 19

20. Chapter 20

21. Chapter 21

22. Chapter 22

23. Chapter 23

24. Chapter 24

25. Chapter 25

26. Chapter 26

27. Chapter 27

28. Chapter 28

29. Chapter 29

30. Chapter 30

31. Chapter 31

32. Chapter 32

33. Chapter 33

34. Chapter 34

35. Chapter 35

36. Chapter 36

37. Chapter 37

38. Chapter 38

39. Chapter 39

40. Chapter 40

41. Chapter 41

42. Chapter 42

43. Chapter 43

44. Chapter 44

45. Chapter 45

46. Chapter 46

47. Chapter 47

48. Chapter 48

49. Chapter 49

50. Chapter 50

51. Chapter 51

52. Chapter 52

53. Chapter 53

54. Chapter 54

55. Chapter 55

56. Chapter 56

57. Chapter 57

58. Chapter 58

59. Chapter 59

Author's Notes

Also by the same writer:

Chapter one

The busy passenger train hurtled towards the capital, as Jimmy Quigley slept through the two-hour ten-minute journey from Chester to London Euston.

After an hour, a ticket inspector arrived, checking fares. He saw the skinny man asleep with the ticket sticking out of his breast pocket, and reached down, slipped it out, saw it was valid, clipped it and eased it back; pleased he hadn’t woken the sleeping man.

The train pulled into Euston and people headed for the doors, some in a hurry needing to be first off, others taking their time, relaxing and enjoying the trip. Too many people never slowed down for anything. Quigley slept on, missing out on the queue and the crush for the doors. Five minutes later, he was alone in the carriage.

Cleaners arrived, doing their walk-through, collecting rubbish, looking for left baggage, phones, and tablets. There was an enormous amount of travelling detritus on board, and it never grew less. Drinks cans, sandwich packets, some with half-chewed contents, magazines and newspapers, half-full bags of sweets, and the usual extra items, some strange, some not, like nail clippers, pens, silver strips of medication, some empty, others with ammo still in situ. A pack of three still-sealed condoms. They might be missed later, plus lipstick, and the forbidden cigarettes, and the new nuisance on the block, vaping, and loads of it, and all that went with that weird performance. Mango flavoured! Geez! Cleaners were never surprised at what turned up, and sometimes that included money, though there was nothing on that Chester train, other than a handful of copper coins.

They spotted the man sleeping in the corner and went to shake his shoulder. It was time to get off. He had reached his destination, but he didn’t wake up. They left him to it. It happened sometimes. They’d come back in ten, and no doubt he would be gone.

When they returned with their bulging black bags of discarded junk, he was still there, and that was unusual. He wasn’t dead. That much was obvious. His breathing was long and slow, but regular, as if he were in the middle of a deep sleep. Maybe he was a night-worker, and everyone had to catch up on sleep sometime. But he couldn’t do it there, on their watch, on their comfy seats, on their train, which needed to be made ready for a return trip to Crewe. Reinforcements were called for.

A guard accompanied by Railway Police turned up in five. They did the usual things. Prodded and poked, shouted in his ear, before they realised he might be ill. They summoned an ambulance. While they waited, they checked the lonely bag beside him, and found ID. It seemed the guy was one James Quiggins, no residence or next of kin, no money and no forwarding address.

The medics arrived. Took one look at the pasty-faced guy and the leading hand said, ‘Looks drugged to me,’ and fast tests followed. ‘Yes, vital signs all over the place. It’s hospital for you, matey. No idea what you’ve taken but you have over-indulged, haven’t you?’ speaking as if the guy could hear every word.

The other one said, ‘Maybe he’s been on a country rave somewhere. Perhaps his drink was spiked,’ and minutes later, he was loaded on a gurney, wheeled down the platform, and slid into the waiting ambulance to be driven away.

In the hospital, copious tests followed. He had been drugged, some kind of powerful sleeping pills, and far too many of them. A stomach pump might reveal more about that, and that brought the thought of attempted suicide into the conversation.

He didn’t wake for five hours, and when he did, the first thing he saw was a police officer sitting beside the bed. Some bright spark, on hearing the gossip of a drugged man on the train with the name of James Quiggins, remembered an APB out for one Jimmy Quigley. Okay, the names weren’t the same, but were close enough, wanted for a cuckooing scam up in Chester, where hundreds of thousands of pounds were stolen, the same town the train had departed from.

Interesting that James Quiggins possessed a charge sheet as long as a fresh bog-roll, and only he imagined his new name of Jimmy Quigley would protect him from identification.

Mr Quiggins, AKA Jimmy Quigley, had a lot of questions to answer.                           

Chapter two

Months before, Hamish Cairney was back in his happy hunting ground of Chester. He intended staying the night and was winging it, no hotel accommodation booked.

It was his way of encouraging himself to become successful in finding someone amenable to spend the night with. It made matters more interesting, and he always enjoyed a challenge.

Squash was his chosen sport that day, as he hung around the courts, decked out in a white, short-sleeved shirt displaying his biceps, tight white shorts emphasising his impressive lower physique, brandishing his racket, swishing it about, waiting for his non-existent partner to arrive.

If it took an hour for a young woman to show, it didn’t matter. He was patient when he needed to be.

A potential candidate arrived. She stood near the entrance to the courts and played several practise swipes, the racket whistling through the air, producing an exciting sound, as she noticed the older, well-built guy.

Some might call him handsome, though she imagined he loved himself too much, and tried not to look at him as she waited for Sally to show.

Minutes later, he made the first move.

He called across, ‘Waiting for your partner?’

She didn’t want to look at him, but did.

‘Yeah, she’ll be here in a sec.’

‘I’m the same,’ he said. ‘Partners, eh? You can never rely on them.’

‘Sally will come,’ she said. ‘Never misses.’

‘Hope so.’

She was decent looking, slim with strawberry blonde hair, and the tiny cute greyish-green skirt did something for her.

Another couple appeared, glanced at them, moved past, and stepped onto a vacant court.

‘Look,’ Hamish said, ‘do you fancy going on court for a bit of a warm-up until your Sally arrives? It looks like my partner’s a complete washout.’

‘Oh, I don’t know,’ she said. ‘It’s not like Sally to be late. I’ll pop back, get my phone, and call her,’ and not waiting for an answer, she scooted back towards the lockers.

In the next minute, she rang Sal, who said, ‘Hi?’

‘Did you forget we had squash?’

‘No, sorry, Laila. Dad was sick, and I had to rush to Bestdas to get medication.’

‘You could have called me.’

‘Yeah, sorry. With everything going on, and then my phone went dead.’

‘It seems to be working now.’

‘Yeah, I’ve just charged it.’

Laila heard a hum of conversation in the background, and what sounded like glasses being chinked.

‘Are you in the pub?’

‘No, course not, sorry Lay, but the battery’s going. Call you tomorrow, yeah?’ and the phone died, or was switched off.

Laila snapped the F word and hustled back towards the courts.

Wonder-man was still there, tapping his racket against his impressive thighs, looking up through expressive eyes.

‘You’re on!’ she said, sweeping past him and onto a vacant court.

Hamish inwardly smiled, relaxed, and went after her, and once on court, closed the door.

‘Quick warm up,’ he said, ‘and then we’ll start.’

‘No warm up!’ she snapped, ‘straight to it,’ and they began.

He was gentle with her to begin with, sizing up her ability. She was decent, had clearly played before, but never a match for his skill and power. He let her win a few points, but when he upped the ante, overpowered her with ease. To one high ball clearing his head, he leapt into the air to crash a volley back that whistled past her nose, reminding her she was on a hiding to nothing. Perhaps she gave up right there, and didn’t win another point. A good tonking was how Sal would have described it.

He enjoyed himself, working up a decent sweat, revelling in the knowledge he’d squashed her, for he loathed losing, the girl dashing about, looking as if she were swatting wasps, without ever getting close.

‘Again?’ he said.

‘No…thank…you. Once was enough!’ and they strode off court, the defeated one leading the way.

Heading back to the locker-rooms, he said, ‘Fancy an après squash drink?’

‘Yes,’ she said, ‘the least I deserve after that thrashing.’

They were showered, dressed, and ready after thirty minutes, though she was ready before him because he was a mirror hogger, as he preened himself, and besides, it might do her good to be kept waiting.

When he appeared, he saw her leaning against the far wall, sports bag on the floor, a hint of annoyance on her face.

‘I thought you’d scarpered,’ she said, picking up her blue and white bag.

‘Nope, there was a queue for the showers,’ he lied.

She looked good in tight blue jeans and a thin short-sleeved white blouse, her tanned arms emphasised against the pristine cotton.

They went outside and back to her sporty car. She flipped open the hatch and set her bag inside, and invited him to do the same. He did, and in the next second, they left the car park and walked away, heading down the busy road.

On the opposite side, maybe a hundred yards distant, was a national steakhouse chain. It wasn’t cheap, and it wasn’t brilliant, but it was handy, and they never considered going anywhere else.

Inside, he bought drinks and asked if she’d eaten. She hadn’t, and was hungry, and happy to head through to the restaurant, where they found a table and sat down.

‘I don’t know your name,’ she said.

‘Callum McGrory,’ he lied.

She had no business knowing his real name, and never would.

‘How old are you, Callum?’

‘Thirty-nine,’ he said, knocking off a couple of years.

‘I thought you were about that. Don’t you want to know my name?’

‘I’m sure you are going to tell me.’

‘My name’s Laila, and I’m thirty-one.’

‘Laila what?’

‘Broadsword,’ she said, taking her time pronouncing it, loving and hating the name in equal measure.

He grinned and said, ‘Where did you get that?’

‘What?’

‘The name.’

‘From my daddy, of course. Where else?’

They both ordered a rare-done T-Bone with salad, and he picked a bottle of French red. She went at it as if it were a long soft drink, a thirst brought on through chasing the bloke’s fierce shots.

‘Go easy on that,’ he said. ‘It’s potent stuff,’ though he was happy to see her slurping it down, and they needed a second bottle before the main course vanished.

Some kind of chocolate tart creation followed. Cream for her, none for him, and the bill came soon after.

‘I’ll get this,’ he said, seeking to put her at ease.

‘Nope!’ she said, ‘halfy-halfies, it’s only fair,’ and she tugged a small purse from her jeans and produced a big note.

‘You don’t need to do that,’ he said, smiling across the table.

‘I know, but I’m going to,’ and she reached over and patted his impressive tanned arm, as she slipped him the money. ‘And besides, I want you to escort me back to my car before you go on your merry way.’

‘You’re not driving after all that drink?’

‘Course I am. No probs. It ain’t far. Constitution of a fox, that’s me.’

‘I think you mean ox.’

‘That’s what I said. Constitution of a fucking ox.’

Hamish paid the bill, including her note, handing over plenty of cash to the eager waitress, telling her to keep the change. In the next minute, the couple were standing up, a she linked his arm, and he guided her out, the girl talking nonstop slurred nonsense. The waitress glanced disdainfully at her, shaking her head. Fancy having a hunk of a date like him, and getting rat-arsed drunk. Some girls never learnt.

Laila didn’t stop talking all the way back to her car.

He said, ‘I still don’t think you should drive,’ as she produced a car key.

She peered across the car park. There were only four vehicles left.

‘Which is your motor, pal?’

‘I didn’t bring one. I came by rail.’

‘What! You didn’t bring one? Where did you say you lived?’

He hadn’t, but said, ‘Shrewsbury.’

‘Shrewsbury!’ she shrieked. ‘Freaking hell.’

‘And I’ve missed my last train.’

‘Have ya?’ she said, thinking about it, her hand on top of the car as she rocked back and forth.

‘What are… what are ya… what are ya gonna do?’

‘I guess I’ll have to find a late room somewhere.’

The comment took some time infiltrating her fuzzed-up brain before she said, ‘I know what your game is, Callum McGrory. Getting young girls drunk and hoping they take you back to their place. That’s what you’re up to, isn’t it? It’s so obvious. I’ve met devious men like you before.’

‘No, I didn’t think that, but now you mention it, I wouldn’t mind bunking down on your couch, if you possess such a thing.’

She thought about it for quite a while, humming and hawing, before saying, ‘I do, as it happens, have a couch. All right, Callum, you can come back to my place, but no hanky panky spanky nonsense. That clear?’ And without waiting for an answer, she said, ‘Get in the car.’

He went to her and snapped the key from her hand, saying, ‘I’m driving. You’re in no fit state, and that’s final. Get in the passenger seat!’

She gawped at him, open-mouthed. No man had told her what to do in ten years. She wasn’t used to being spoken to like that, and wasn’t sure she liked it, but it sure was different. Such a big fellow, too, and she knew if the feeling took him, he wouldn’t take no for an answer.

Despite the doubts and missed signs, she couldn’t stop herself saying, ‘Ooh, I like a masterful man,’ and took her time creeping round the car to slump into the offered open door.

After they’d belted up, he asked where she lived.

‘Drive,’ she said, ‘I’ll point ya. It’s not far.’

Chapter three

During big inquiries, Inspector Walter Darriteau trimmed his sleeping time at both ends, going to bed later, getting up earlier. He’d always done that going back to when he was a detective constable all those years before in London.

It gave him more thinking time, more minutes to ponder and plan, reason and speculate, figuring out the criminal mindset, jumping on their trail, cornering villains, making an arrest, all damned hard work he hoped would contribute to a successful prosecution. Often it worked, many times it didn’t.

When it came to hours spent at the coalface, he liked to be first in and last out. But give her credit, Karen was a competitor. Maybe she had taken her cue from him, for she would often beat him in to the desks and workstations and computer terminals, spewing out fresh intel and orders and demands.

Sometimes, she collected him from home and they would gossip and travel in together. But that morning she didn’t, as Walter grabbed the little bus and was happy with that. It was early, and the bus was a quarter full. As he disembarked and walked towards the police station, he saw her car flash down the ramp towards the basement car park. It would be an honourable draw.

But the lack of sleep during an extended inquiry could become a problem. He couldn’t keep nibbling at both ends and still be as bright as a button. It wasn’t possible, especially after a long and complicated investigation, and he was savvy enough to realise as he grew older, he couldn’t keep working at breakneck speed. Mrs West knew it too, and insisted after every big case ended, he took a holiday or a break, like it or not.

Sometimes he did and sometimes he didn’t, and besides, at his age, logic told him he only had so many new and interesting cases to sink his teeth into, and for the foreseeable future he would continue to give it everything, even if his body told him otherwise.

Five minutes later, they sat opposite one another, glancing across, checking each other out. She looked great, the continued summer weather topping up her tan. White blouses against browning skin, a classic look. He looked tired, bags under his eyes, and maybe he had put on a little weight in the face.

‘Get much sleep?’ she said.

‘Same as usual, you?’

‘Like a log, but you know me, Guv. I can sleep anywhere.’

‘I’ve had one or two ideas,’ he said.

‘Funny you should say that, me too. Can we leave it a sec? I want to have a look at something, and the big update meet will begin soon?’

‘Sure,’ he said, ‘it can wait,’ and she hustled off to search into old records for something.

The others drifted in, some yawning and bleary-eyed, others bright and raring to go, including Mrs West, who arrived like a whirlwind, sweeping in, hustling past workstations, floating loose papers to the floor, leaving a definite draught behind her, as she headed for her office. Walter wanted a word, but would give her ten minutes to settle in.

When he imagined she might be more receptive, he sloped off towards her office door. It was half open, and he tapped and peeped inside. She glanced up from studying screens and fresh printouts on her desk.

‘Walter,’ she said, ‘I want you. Come in, sit down.’

Before he could impart his latest wisdom, she began.

‘Jo Tap’s coming in. On his way now. Should be here in minutes, and we can get the daily briefing under way.’

‘He’s finished at Wisteria Cottage?’

‘I doubt that. You know what he’s like. He’ll be there for a good week yet, but I am hoping he’s coming in to give us more than a waffly update. I want developments that push things forward. No doubt he’ll be straight back to Nantwich as soon as we have finished.’

Talking of the man, he appeared in the office, and made his way to knock on Mrs West’s door.

‘Ah, Jo,’ she said, ‘I hope you have something juicy for us?’

‘Morning, ma’am, morning, Walter,’ he said, nodding down at the pair of them. ‘I have bits and pieces I think you should know about. I’d like to start as soon as poss, for there is much to do.’

‘Suits me,’ said Mrs West, clutching her huge notebook and standing up.

Walter stood too, and they trooped out and hustled towards the incident room.

Inside, they had moved the large white boards in front of the windows, with three chairs set to one side.

‘You two sit with me,’ she said, pointing to the chairs.

It was an unusual setup. Normally, she sat at the back and monitored everyone and everything. Walter wasn’t averse to sitting amongst the crew, though he’d get up and direct the orchestra when required.

The three senior monkeys, as Darren called them, sat at the front and faced the gathered throng. It seemed everyone was there. Darren and Kate Foster, delaying their trip to Winsford to see Ryan the Horrid, as she had christened Emily’s boyfriend. Martin and Jenny, eager and ready to get going, Jenny keen on note-taking, Martin not so much. Karen on the front row, trying not to grin at Walter, keen to get involved, and planning how she would run things when the day came when she moved into Walter’s, or better still, Mrs West’s chair, directing everyone and everything. For her, that day could not come soon enough, and she hadn’t let the temporary demotion from acting inspector to sergeant affect her ambition. She knew she was ready for the top job, and if it didn’t come soon, she might look elsewhere.

There must have been at least fifty people present, including loads of uniforms, and Mrs West was the first to stand and speak.

‘Has anyone any idea where Hamish Cairney is?’ she demanded, to be met by a sea of blank faces.

‘Thought not,’ she said. ‘You’ve failed! We’ve all failed, and failure is not an option. You’ve failed the force, you’ve failed me, you’ve failed Walter, and you’ve failed yourselves. I know you are putting in the hours, and thank you for being here on time, but there is little point in putting in long hours unless you produce results. Results! Ladies and gentlemen, progress. That is the only thing that interests me, and you can be sure you will have an unhappy Chief Super on your case unless and until you come up with something better than you have.’

She paused and stared round the room. Walter and Jo shifted in their seats. Public dressing downs were rare and never enjoyable.

‘Bit harsh,’ whispered Darren to anyone who heard.

Kate Foster grinned but didn’t comment.

Mrs West spoke again. The woman never needed a microphone.

‘As you can see, we have with us this morning, Mr Joseph Tapper. For those new on the team, Mr Tapper is the chief forensics officer here in Chester. He has come straight from Wisteria Cottage near Nantwich, where his team are beavering away, and we are hoping he has something of interest to say. The floor’s yours, Jo,’ and she nodded at him and took her place beside Walter.

Jo stood up and moved into the centre of the boards.

‘Good morning, everyone,’ he said, ‘especially to those I haven’t met before. Straight to it. There is no time to lose.’ He sniffed and turned round and pointed to the horrific pictures of Emily Chatteris, crucified against the wall in the basement. ‘The young woman has been positively identified as Emily Chatteris. I can confirm that. Facial recognition was impossible. Maggots are hungry beasts and leave nothing that can be devoured. The teeth, in what remains of the face, are a perfect match for Emily’s dental records. Her DNA matches the DNA taken from the hairs found on her hairbrush. It’s Emily, and I wish I could say different.’

All very interesting, thought Mrs West and Walter, but it didn’t tell them anything they didn’t know.

‘Cairney?’ she snapped.

‘I’m coming to that,’ said Jo, taken aback by her abruptness, though he shouldn’t have been, for he had known her for years.

‘Hamish Cairney spent considerable time in the cottage.’

‘Now we are getting somewhere,’ said Mrs West, unable to keep quiet.

‘His DNA is all over the place, and thank you to the people who collected his gear from his Melverly house. It all matched.’

Karen said, ‘Where did you find his DNA?’

He fixed her with his beady eyes and said through a steady voice, ‘As I said, all over the place,’ though Jo could not speak to her without a slight smile. ‘Semen stains on the bedding. His! Traces of blood on the sheets, hers, mingling with tiny flakes of his and her skin. And you’ll like this. We discovered a huge brown admiral of a floater in the lavatory that once came out of Hamish Cairney. A rear admiral, you might say. Plus, his hairs were all over the bedding and pillows. More were found in the soap in the tiny bathroom, and still more hairs within the plughole belonging to both him and her in the shower, and perhaps the pièce de résistance, the man found the time to clip his finger and toenails where he placed them neatly in the metal bathroom bin.’

Darren said, a little louder, ‘I thought the brown admiral was the pièce de résistance,’ bringing a titter from several, as Karen turned and glared at him, and said, ‘Show some respect, Darren.’

He nodded and muttered, ‘Sorry, Sarge.’

Walter said, ‘Can you tell us, Jo, how long he was living in the house?’

‘We can’t be certain, but a considerable time, perhaps as much as a week or two. Though it might have been on several visits, two or three days there, two days somewhere else, that kind of thing. But we are certain he was there a lot, and while he was present, he did a lot.’

‘Meaning?’ said Walter.

Jo took a breath before starting again.

‘To begin with, he made a mud pie, utilising the soil in the garden. As you know, the weather has been hot, and the gardens are bone dry. He dug up soil, placed it in a plastic bucket, took it into the kitchen, and poured water on it until it was the right texture. He then spread the muddy slime all over Miss Chatteris, and I mean all over, including into, over, and through her hair, and other places you don’t need me to describe. We believe he left it until it set hard. Perhaps overnight. I imagine he trundled back to his loving wife at Melverly, before returning the next day for a second session, where he washed it off using neat bleach. We cannot tell if the poor girl was alive at that stage, but if she was, she must have suffered excruciating pain.’

‘One sick individual!’ said Mrs West.

‘Bastard!’ said Darren.

Jo continued. ‘Yes, ma’am, that would be a fair description. We found traces of mud in the bed, though not so much, but can you believe, in the washing machine we discovered another complete set of bedding that I can only describe as looking as if they had been used in a dirty protest. Covered in thin mud that once adorned the back garden. Blood and semen on them too. We have the bucket as an evidential exhibit, containing what remained of the muddy mess, and get this, Cairney’s fingerprints all over the bucket. The man never worried about leaving traces behind. It was almost as if he wanted to show us and tell us he had been there, committing atrocities, scattering his calling cards everywhere. I have never seen anything quite like it.’

‘Cause of death?’ said Walter.

Jo sighed and said, ‘Could be any number of things. We will know more about that after the post-mortem. If I had to guess, I’d say strangulation, but it could have been something as simple as blood loss. Nails hammered through the body might have been sufficient.’

‘When will we have the PM?’ demanded Mrs West.

‘As you know, ma’am, that’s not my area of expertise, but I spoke to the pathologist last night, and he is hopeful of completing later today.’

‘Good! I hope he does. Anything else, Jo?’

‘I believe the man possesses a van. We found faint tyre tracks, not belonging to the Cayton, where one tyre, front passenger side, is running thin, and the vehicle is also leaking oil, which should again prove his presence.’

Mrs West said, ‘Is that it?’

‘For now, but we are not finished.’

‘Thank you, Jo, very helpful,’ and it was, but Walter wasn’t alone in thinking it took them no nearer to apprehending the killer. Yes, it proved Cairney had been there and most likely killed Emily, but he’d thought that all along.

Mrs West turned her eyes on Walter.

‘Inspector Darriteau,’ she said, formally he thought. ‘Your turn. I believe you have something to add.’

Walter bobbed his head, stood up and stared benignly around the room.

‘I was thinking last night, and I came up with a theory I would like to share.’

‘We know your theories,’ said Mrs West, grinning at Jo Tap, ‘and sometimes they are outright bonkers off-the-wall nonsense and go nowhere, dare I even say time-wasting, while other times, your strange ideas morph into massive heffalumps that take us off into a whole new universe. Which one is it this time, Walter?’

Despite the horrific photographs of pain, torture and death that surrounded them, he couldn’t resist a grin. Perhaps he was becoming immune.

‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘I’ll let you decide.’

‘Let’s hear it! Time is of the essence.’

He turned his back on the crowd and studied the boards before he spoke.

‘One dead young woman and two missing young women,’ he said, pointing to the first happy photo of Emily, culled from her Bookface page. ‘Full of life, but an aspirational existence cut short.’ He moved across the board to the next face. ‘Isla Aitken, missing, no trace of her in Chile, as Mrs West’s contact confirmed. No trace because she never went there. No recent trace of her in Scotland either. I believe Isla was lured into having an affair with Hamish Cairney, and they fell out over something. Maybe to do with his peculiar practices, to put it mildly, and when she wouldn’t have anything further to do with him, he killed her. What he did with Isla’s body is yet to be discovered. And then there is Florence Dolby. Pub Licensee. Missing, presumed dead, after having an albeit brief affair with Cairney. We have an eyewitness who stated he saw her attack Florence, before throwing her off the colonnades down onto the playground below.’

‘All very interesting,’ said Mrs West, ‘but you have told us nothing new.’

‘I’m coming to that,’ he said. ‘Bear with me. What happens if we move Isla Aitken’s photo from second in the line to first?’ and he took Isla’s picture and moved it over to the far left of the board and set it there.

The crowd pulled faces. Mrs West did too. Karen studied Walter, trying to tap into his thinking.

‘I have no idea!’ snapped Mrs West. ‘What does?’

‘A for Aitken, C for Chatteris, D for Dolby.’

There was a collective silence before Mrs West said, ‘B’s missing! You think he’s killed another girl whose name begins with B?’

‘Could be. Why not? But if that’s the case, there is not much we can do about Miss B. It’s Miss E I’d be concerned about.’

‘The alphabet killer,’ said Martin, glancing at Jenny.

‘Could be just coincidence,’ said Jo.

Walter said, ‘Of course it could. Just struck me as odd, that’s all.’

Kate Foster couldn’t stay quiet any longer, and raised her hand.

Walter nodded her on.

‘Why would anyone select and kill people, young women, based on their surname? Does that make any sense?’

‘Good question, DC Foster.’

She was chuffed he remembered her name.

‘Why do killers ever do anything? Why do they kill? It’s a method he has stumbled on, and I believe he will continue, working his way through the alphabet, and unless we are careful, he could get all the way down to Zidane.’

‘God, I hope not,’ said Mrs West. ‘So, what are you saying? We should alert every woman between sixteen and fifty whose surname begins with E to be on the lookout?’

‘Not quite. But perhaps we should be looking at his known acquaintances. People at his schools, teachers, assistants, dinner ladies, and the younger mothers. Find out what clubs and activities he has. Did he go to church? We know he likes a drink and frequented pubs and clubs. Are there any barmaids or manageresses whose name begins with E? That’s the road I would go down. He already knows this person, is my best guess., and if he knows her, we should be able to find her.’

Mrs West pulled a confused face and said, ‘It’s going to take a lot of resources, and it could be a red herring that diverts our attention from more urgent work.’

‘There is that chance,’ said Walter. ‘But if you let me follow the thinking through, give me maybe three or four others to concentrate on this, and we will see what transpires.’

That didn’t sound too bad, and before she changed her mind, she said, ‘You got it, Walter. But I want a heffalump, and not a time-wasting shrivelled cast-off snake skin.’

‘We will do our best. We also need to investigate any missing women whose name begins with B. There is mileage in that.’

‘Of course! Goes without saying!’ and the meeting came to something of an impasse.

Chapter four

Laila Broadsword enjoyed a modern ground-floor flat overlooking the canal. It boasted private parking at the back, as she pointed Callum in, and he slipped the car into her allocated space.

In the next second, they were out of the car, Laila fiddling in the boot for her bag, handing the man’s to him. During the brief journey from the health club, it seemed she had sobered up a tad.

She produced a handy bunch of keys and opened the outside door of the redbrick block, and stepped inside. Hamish followed; they turned left along a corridor, walked past two other flats, before coming to Number 3. Another lock and another key, and in it went. She turned the key, and the door eased open. Laila stumbled inside and Hamish followed, closing the door behind him.

It would be another night where the expense of a room was saved, and a night that was young and promised much. He accepted the invite to sit on the single long sofa set before a huge TV. She asked if he wanted a drink. Wine or coffee? He chose coffee; she went for wine. A few minutes passed, and Laila returned with the drinks, set them on the coffee table, and sat close beside the man she knew as Callum.

It had been a while since she had entertained in her flat. He smelt good; the time spent in the showers pampering himself afterwards with top of the range man-thing cosmetics, doing its work, and it wasn’t long before the inevitable happened. The kissing, and hard kissing at that, and soon afterwards he scooped her up as if she were a doll, and carried her to the bedroom.

The alcohol weakened her defences, if there were any. It miffed Laila her friends were having so much fun, exciting days and nights she was missing out on, and Callum was her way out of that depressing cycle.

An hour later, he finished with her, and she was desperate for sleep. He stood from the bed and dressed before glancing back at the girl. She was lying on her side, facing the far wall, her shoulders bare, her breathing long, deep, and slow.

He left the room and closed the door. The searching of the property was about to begin, something he always enjoyed.

In a long and low modern sideboard, he found three photo albums. He sat on the sofa and scampered through her life.

She was a pretty kid, and that was no surprise because she was decent as an adult. Prettiness rarely faded until age kicked in and knocked it over. There didn’t appear to be any brothers or sisters, and as a teenager and an early twenty-something, she featured with a string of unsuitable suitors, as Hamish guessed her parents saw them.

He turned the page. A printed booklet in blue told him of the funeral service for her father, Maurice, dying young at just sixty-two. It didn’t say what he died of, but on a printed Order of Service, maybe it wouldn’t.

A photo on the next album page showed a group of seven people, dressed in formal black, giving the funeral a Victorian feel, with Laila the youngest; and it seemed none of her close friends attended, or were invited, or even existed.

Hamish flipped over another photo album page to find another card and another funeral. Laila’s mother, dying even younger at sixty-one. On the right side of the Order of Service booklet was a handwritten note in blue ink, presumably in Laila’s hand: She died of a broken heart.

On the next page was a large colour photograph of mourners, but one so different from her father’s. People were crammed into the shot. Hamish counted the heads. Fifty-one smiling faces, all dressed in the brightest reds, yellows, pinks, blues and greens. Laila had written another note: Party of the year, just as mum would have wanted.

He sniffed a laugh, set the albums on the coffee table, and went back into the sideboard to find a large, crammed ring binder. It looked promising. He took it back to the chair and opened up. She had protected every document in clear plastic sleeves, a neat and tidy person with her housekeeping and personal documents.

Most people stored their paperwork bits and pieces in cheap card folders. It forever amazed him the things people kept. Everything was there. School reports, examination results and certificates aplenty, driving test success, and an updated CV he might come back to, as he sifted through the pages.

Parents’ wills, both leaving everything they owned to Laila, including a smart detached house in Hawarden, plus a not insignificant sum of money. He thought it surprising she lived in a small flat when she owned an expensive property.

Maybe the memories the family home held were too much and too recent to bear. He turned the page again and discovered a rental contract for an assured shorthold tenancy, leasing the house for two years at a whopping rental, well into four figures, to a Mr and Mrs Shah.

If Laila was not wealthy, she was sure comfortably off. He pulled an impressed face, his bottom lip extending, his head shaking in thought. Maybe she was a keeper. The loyal and loving younger mistress who hankered after a powerful man to sweep her off her feet, someone to look after and protect her, and he could do that for a while. It was how he imagined they, the women, thought of him, and he’d sure had worse entanglements. He’d think on that before deciding.

He turned another page. Her birth certificate, registered at Goldsmith House, Goss Street, Chester, and the date. He mulled it over in his mind. It made her thirty-seven, thirty-eight next birthday! He stared at the arithmetic and checked the numbers. He was right. The woman was a liar, and there was one thing in life he could not abide, and that was liars.

Laila told him she was thirty-one. Brazen about it, she was, almost teasing him she was so much younger than he, and she hadn’t knocked off a year or two, but almost seven years! Liar, liar, knickers on fire. Bitch! Ailish would never dare lie to him, for she knew what she would get if she did. He went to the bedroom, eased the door open, and glared inside.

The liar hadn’t moved a muscle, breathing like a slowed-down clock, or an old record player set to 16rpm at low volume. He pulled the door to and resumed his search.

In the hallway was a large floor-to-ceiling cupboard, painted white. He tugged it open to find a glory-hole most houses possessed. A secure place out of sight to dump the cleaning technology, and the things we all used but didn’t want people to see.

At the back was a luggage case, one of those wacky things on wheels, a wimpy item Hamish would never own. The kind of thing he saw excited youngsters, maybe students, or old fogies tugging towards the station. He thought it bigger than the norm, the top covered in a film of settling dust.

He moved mops and brushes and junk to tug it out for a closer look, brushing dust away with his fingertips, and in the next second, it was standing in the centre of the narrow hall. It felt heavy, as if there was something inside, and it piqued his curiosity. Opening an unexpected box or case always excited before the event, but invariably was a huge let-down afterwards. Wouldn’t it be fun if he found something interesting inside, like the shrivelled heads of several of those unsuitable lovers?

He stifled a laugh, grabbed the case, and unzipped the woeful thing. Inside were lots of heavy items wrapped in old newspaper. He grabbed the first package and lifted it out, only to be disappointed. Ancient porcelain, maybe over a hundred years old. Odds on, the parent’s stuff, perhaps inherited in turn from their parents, or grandparents. Too precious to use, too dull to clean, and too ingrained in the family psyche to toss out.

Or perhaps it was part of Laila Broadsword’s burgeoning bottom drawer, though at her advancing age, she’d better get a move on or the boat would have sailed or sunk.

He left it in the hall and crept back to the bedroom. She hadn’t moved a muscle. He weighed things over in his mind. Four choices circled his brain. Undress, slide back into bed and do what he’d done before. Write a note, ordering her to be at the health club in a fortnight, as they set out on their mistress and master relationship, before he dumped her. The third option was to forget all about her, slip out of the flat, and out of her life forever. That made good sense. She could never contact him, for she had no idea who he was or where he lived. Only the most exciting choice remained. Termination

It was the lies that swayed the argument. They always did. He couldn’t see beyond them. It might have been amusing to keep her dangling on a string for a year or two, at his beck and call, but no, that route had been obliterated. He could not abide liars.

Hamish breathed in and out heavy through his nose like a weightlifter before attempting the impossible. The three paces towards the bed accomplished in silence. He knelt on the mattress and slipped his hands around her slim, white neck, and exerted pressure.

When he was nineteen, he picked up a summer job at the Loch Lomond and Trossachs National Park, north of Glasgow, working for the Forestry Commission. He loved the job. Always outdoors, so much fresh air, away from the grimy city, copious exercise, building up those muscles he imagined would last a lifetime.

He adored being part of the felling teams. There was a machine there that terrified the trees. It would grasp a felled pine-tree trunk in a vice-like grip as if it were a matchstick, evoking a picture in his mind of two metallic robotic hands clasping together in a perfect fit, asserting its dominance, shaking the life out of a growing thing, before sliding along the trunk, stripping and ripping off minor branches as if they were immaterial, until it was nothing more than a dead log, to be tossed on the back of a dirty truck. The felling sites were nothing less than an abattoir for trees.

He never grew tired of watching the machine in destroyer mode, and in that Chester flat, his hands went round Laila’s neck, borrowing the machine’s technique, fingers inter-locking, pressure oncoming. She may have been almost comatose through alcohol, but the grip woke her up.

She tried to struggle, and tried to scream, but it was all too feeble and far too late. His hands enjoined as one, the power rushing in, crushing the neck, smashing bones, wreaking havoc, releasing her from this world, squeezing the life out of her. It was all over in seconds, his overwhelming power winning the day, or the night. Thrashed at squash. Trashed in the bedroom. Everything fell silent. It was so easy. His heart rate had barely moved.

He let her go and pushed her away, stood back, breathed out heavy, and smiled. There was something innately satisfying in terminating someone or something. Nothing quite like it. Killing a cat or dog couldn’t compare, and the more one did it, the more one appreciated the high it brought. It made him truly happy and content, and engendered a feeling of fulfilment nothing else could.

Hamish retreated to the kitchen to make a fresh cup of coffee and a decent cheese sandwich. He had always been capable of constructing a mouth-watering snack, though most of the time, ordered Ailish to assemble them to his exact specification.

Refreshments downed, he returned to the wheeled case. It annoyed him lifting out the separate packs of dishes to return them to the cupboard, when he’d rather tip them out in one crashing fall, not caring how many shattered. But he didn’t want to alert other inhabitants in the block to weird smashing noises going on deep into the night.

Hamish fought his impatience until the job was done, and wheeled the black contraption to the bedroom. He unzipped the case, wondering why he’d closed it in the first place. At the dead of night, even the unzipping sounded like thunder, before going for the girl.

He yanked away the silky duvet to reveal her naked carcass. Her soul had departed. He reached down and grabbed her body to fold into three. The package wasn’t small enough, but it would be when he crushed it beneath his sizeable feet.

Broken bones crushed aloud. To him it was like snapping a chicken leg or a wishbone, such was his power. He grabbed the improved parcel and presented it to the case, head first, disappearing down until only tiny feet protruded from the top. He slapped them hard and forced them in, issuing a warning he would snap off the ankles if they didn’t obey. It was as if they understood, as they withdrew into the darkness to avoid further pain and punishment.

‘I should think so,’ he said aloud, as he zipped up and wheeled it into the hall as if making ready to go on holiday. His eye returned to his sports bag, and he hooked it over the long handle of the wheeled case.

He thought of going out and running it back to his van, but it was a fair way off, and in the small hours of the morning, a big man wheeling chunky luggage across town could interest any alert officer of the law. Just what have you in there, sir? He imagined a smart-arsed kid just out of college, asking.

No, he would grab some sleep and depart early in the morning. He returned to the bedroom, undressed, and lay on the bed to pull the duvet across him, though it was a warm night and hardly necessary.

He turned off the light, lay down, and thought of his evening. It had been the perfect end to a perfect day. Laila’s aroma surrounded him. Her expensive perfume, the wine, and her womanliness, his bedfellows for the night, and he loved everything about it. But scents only lasted a short while, before fading like butterflies in the frost.

He wouldn’t let it interrupt his sleep. Nothing could do that. And besides, he had an important day ahead. The disposal; and that was almost as exciting as the termination. He knew where she was going, a place he imagined no one would discover in twenty years.

Sleep came quickly. Dreams didn’t dare enter his determined mind. They rarely did. He was not like other men. He imagined he was fireproof, possessing a bulletproof brain. A superior being in every way, and he knew it, and always had.

Chapter five

After the major case meeting, Walter added Martin and Jenny to his team before they were assigned to other projects.

Darren and Kate Foster went off to Winsford to interview Ryan the Horrid. Had he been to Emily’s house? Did he know of, and had he ever met Cairney? And if he did, would he have any idea where the man might be? And why had he and Emily broken up?

Martin, Jenny, and Karen sat around Walter’s desk, as Martin said, ‘Where do we begin with this, Guv?’

‘We look at Cairney’s known acquaintances, seeking any woman whose surname begins with either B or E. If we discover a B and she is missing, we will fear for her, but it might prove the theory. But it’s the E’s I am more interested in. He must know some women whose surname begins with that letter. I’ll ring Harry in a second and see if he knows of any woman down there who fits the bill. Also, where is Cairney’s mobile? If he has it, is it transmitting? If it is, pinpoint his whereabouts, and if he has left it in the house, go and get it. The log of contacts in there will throw up all the E’s he knows. If you need to go to Melverly, get down there.’

Walter’s desk phone rang. Karen and Walter exchanged a glance, a look that told her to pick up.

They heard her say, ‘Yes, he’s here,’ and she held the phone away and said, ‘It’s Roddy Jeffries.’

Walter nodded at Karen and said, ‘While I speak to him, you ring Harry and ask about B’s and E’s.’

Before Walter spoke, Roddy said, ‘I’ve found her!’

‘Who?’

‘Mary Cross, except she is no longer a Cross. She’s Mary Lambert, a married woman with children.’

‘Oh,’ Walter said, ‘I thought you meant you had found Isla Aitken.’

‘No such luck.’

‘Have you spoken to this Mary Lambert?’

‘I’ve tried. She doesn’t want to speak to me. She said she has left that business behind long ago, and doesn’t want her husband to know anything about her troubled early years.’

‘I can understand that. Where does she live?’

‘Berwick-on-Tweed. The husband’s called Hugh, and he’s a fisherman.’

’Have you got her number?’

‘I have,’ and Roddy read it out, before adding, ‘How are you getting on?’

Walter told him their latest thinking, slipping into using the hackneyed phrase, the alphabet killer.

‘So, you want me to check on any young woman who Hamish Cairney might have known up here whose surname begins with B or E?’

Walter grinned and said, ‘You read my mind.’

Roddy laughed and said, ‘Leave it with me,’ and cut off.

Walter asked Jenny to ring Ailish and ask if she or Hamish knew anyone with either initial, and inquire about Hamish’s mobile. How many phones does he possess and where are they? Jenny looked hopeful and returned to her desk to make the call.

Walter took a moment for thought before punching in Mary Lambert’s number. It rang four times before a soft-spoken woman answered, saying, ‘Hello?’

He introduced himself, told her where he was ringing from, and asked if he could have a quick word.

‘I’ve already spoken to the police, and I’ll tell you the same as I told him. I knew Hamish Cairney many years ago, and that’s it. I’ve never seen him since, and I’ve nothing else to say on the matter, and I don’t want my husband knowing anything about this. He’s a nervous man and I don’t want him worrying.’

‘I appreciate that, and there is no reason why Hugh should be involved, but we need your help. Two young women have been murdered in the most brutal fashion, we believe, by Cairney, and two more are missing. Either way, the man seems set on killing his way across the country. I’m sure, as a thoughtful person, you would want to help in tracking him down before he kills again.’

‘I have no idea where he is, and I am sorry, but I can’t help you,’ and he thought she was about to cut off, when she added, ‘I will not speak about this on the phone.’

‘What if we came to see you?’

That surprised her. Mary thought about it.

‘Oh, I don’t know. It’s a long way.’

‘We will come when Hugh is at sea. He doesn’t need to know. How about that?’

‘I live in Berwick.’

‘I know, but we can drive,’ and he glanced at Karen. She had finished her call to Harry. ‘Just a second, Mary,’ and he asked Karen how far Berwick was from Chester. Hundreds of miles, came the reply, but I’ll check. The computer told them it was 250 miles, with a journey time of around five hours, dependent on traffic.

He stared at Karen and said, ‘Could you get us there and back in a day?’

‘What do you think?’ she said, grinning. ‘Don’t you know I adore driving?’

Walter nodded and went back on the phone.

‘Mary?’

‘Yes.’

‘How about if Karen and I came to see you tomorrow? That’s Sergeant Karen Greenwood. We could be there around noon.’

The idea the stranger of a man was prepared to travel that distance, accompanied by a woman officer, swayed the argument.

‘Alright,’ she said, ‘that fits. Hugh is sailing tonight, so long as it’s the pair of you. But don’t come alone. If you do, I won’t open the door.’

Walter agreed.

Mary gave the address, adding, ‘If the red pickup truck is outside, don’t even think of ringing the bell. I won’t answer.’

‘I’ve got it. Red pickup equals a red flag.’

‘It does!’ she said. ‘I can’t say as I am looking forward to seeing you, but I will,’ and she added a good morning, and cut off.

He glanced at Karen and said, ‘We’re on. Plan the journey.’

‘Already have. Keeping it nice and simple. M56. Get on the M62, then A1 all the way.’

‘Very good. Make sure a reliable car is fuelled and ready to go.’

‘On that. The big Beemer, I think.’

That sounded suitable.

Karen said, ‘What are you hoping she will tell you?’

‘I have no idea. Background, mainly. But any tiny sliver of information might help. How did you get on with Harry?’

‘He’s on it. His initial thoughts were there is an E, a Mr Edwards, so I told him it must be a woman, and his second was a Miss Brown. She’s a nurse at the school, and in his words, ancient. But he said he’d give it more thought over lunch.’

Jenny returned and said she had spoken to Ailish. Mrs Cairney said as far as she knew Hamish had his latest mobile with him, and she had tried it ten times and left messages, but it was always off, adding there were two of his old phones in the kitchen drawer. She reckoned they hadn’t been used for at least a year. Jenny asked for the number of the new phone and Ailish recited it from memory. Ailish confirmed there were no B’s or E’s that jumped out at her, but said she’d investigate and get back to us if there were.

Walter said, ‘Well done, get his number over to the Tech boys ASAP. I want to know the moment it is fired up, and where it’s located. I’m surprised that wasn’t done before,’ but sometimes with everything going on, obvious things were missed, and it was better late than never.

He ordered Martin and Jenny down to Melverly to collect the old phones. They might hold the key to Cairney’s thinking, and bring back any names or intel Ailish hadn’t thought of before.

He glanced at Karen and said, ‘Pick me up at seven in the morning. Might be an idea to bring plenty of water, and some chocolate to stave off hunger,’ and he slipped her a tenner.

‘You got it,’ she said. ‘I’m off to check on the car and get it fuelled.’

Chapter six

Months earlier, Hamish Cairney woke at half-past six in Laila Broadsword’s flat. He sat up and ran his hands through his hair, before jumping from the bed wearing just briefs. In the kitchen, he set about making toast and coffee.

There was an unopened jar of Scottish marmalade in the cupboard, boiled up in Dundee. He plastered a thick coating on the toast, as the wheeled case sat upright by the main door, awaiting its last journey.

He took a shower, dressed, and was ready within half an hour. All his instincts told him to carry the case. He could do that one handed, even with a human body inside, but knew it would look peculiar, and he would swallow his pride, and roll it along behind him like the weaklings did.

The small bunch of keys was still where she had left it the previous night. He grabbed them and stepped out into the corridor, easing the case behind him, before locking the door and pocketing the keys.

The main building exit was easier to open from the inside, and he was out into the fresh early sunshine, pulling the trolley behind him as if he did that every morning. If anyone in the flats saw him leave, they could only describe his back. On the journey across town, if anyone saw him, they might think he was scurrying to the railway station to catch an early train.

It was a fair walk to the van. When he’d left it there, he had no idea where he would spend the night. He crossed the canal and pressed on, passing dog walkers aplenty. On another day, some might have smiled at him, but the big guy didn’t appear approachable, and they kept their heads down as they passed, not looking at him, and that suited Hamish. He’d always possessed the ability to scare and unnerve strangers through his physique, body language, and demeanour, and he enjoyed the strange power, and used it to his advantage.

Cyclists rolling along public pavements were his bête noire. They had no business being there. They should be on the highway. He wanted to shove them off, but didn’t, and instead glared at them, and most times they caught his drift and either apologised or moved away to get on the road. That morning, he didn’t want anyone to notice or remember him, and he reined in his glares and displeasure as they swept past without giving him a second glance.

Hamish arrived at the van, happy to see it unmolested, the tyres hard and ready to go. He opened the back door and tossed in the case as if it were empty. In the next second, he started the diesel engine, turned the Peugeot round on a quiet street, and headed south for Whitchurch, and Melverly beyond.

By the time he arrived home, Ailish was away on her morning rounds, delivering his kids to their destinations. He would leave the case in the locked van all day. If he could get away early, he’d hurry back and tell his wife after dinner he had a message to do for the head. He would leave at nine and would be away for three hours. She would believe him. She always did, knowing what he was like, and expecting never to be questioned.

The night jaunt deeper into the country appealed to him. It would be fun. Who wouldn’t adore the excitement of driving a cased dead body across the county? If there were people who didn’t find that exhilarating, they must have dead minds and an absent spirit of adventure. In a way, it was a game, similar to 3D chess. One pawn had been slaughtered and removed from the field, as the king swaggered across the board, seeking to dominate, while the queen remained at home, protected, cherished, and loved, as the police, or the rooks as he saw them, had no idea mischief-making was abroad.

The day dragged, but he arrived home for six. He kissed the wife, and she looked at him as if wanting more, and if she still felt that way when he returned, her luck might be in. He tickled the girls, slipped them pocket money, and kissed their soft red cheeks before they headed upstairs for bed.

There was time to sit and read the local paper, though nothing caught his eye. It was time he left, and he called through to Ailish he’d be back later, and in the way he spoke she knew what he meant. Experienced couples who’d lived together for years communicated in intonation as much as in the meaning of words. She’d make sure there was a good supply of clean sheets in the airing cupboard because the bed might need changing later.

She heard the van door slam, the diesel engine cough into life, and in the next moment, Hamish drove away from the happy home.

It took him less than half an hour to arrive at his destination. South to Shrewsbury, skirting the large town, grabbing the twisty A488 heading south-west. Once beyond the town, traffic was light, as the sun set away to the west over Wales. Even the busy farmers had headed home, taking their giant toys with them, affording them just enough time for a hearty meal, a shower and a sleep, before getting up again at 5.30.

In recent years, many of the country pubs had closed, and there was little to bring people out on rural roads at half-past nine at night. Teenage kids still appeared; nothing would stop them, some with driving licences and some without, not that they cared, all believing they were the next Formula One champion, driving too fast on bendy undulating roads. Little wonder so many of them slipped off the tarmac and ended up in the Royal Shrewsbury Hospital, nursing broken bones that could take months to heal if they were lucky.

Hamish had travelled that road once before, though he knew where he was going. Before they barred him from the Thundering Horse, he often drank there, keeping his ears open. One regular, Kit Kenyon, had a mouth that ran away with itself once the beer flowed. He was an amiable chap to talk to, and Hamish made it his business to become a listener. He’d buy Kit an occasional pint and log his tales.

Kit worked for SCAC, an acronym Hamish thought sounded like a cross between vomit and the brown stuff. It was short for the Salop County Agricultural Cooperative, whose members controlled large swathes of the south Shropshire countryside. Kit explained the name Salop was gifted by the Normans when they showed up in the district after 1066 to name the area Salopesberia, soon abbreviated to Salop, something Hamish had wondered about.

Kit Kenyon let slip SCAC had endured three dreadful years, and financial changes were afoot. Three seasons of unfriendly weather decimated the grain harvest. Two years went by with little rain, meaning the seed heads were dry and shrivelled, while the third brought heavy thunderstorms, flattening extensive crop-growing areas, leaving it to rot in the fields.

The other local staple product, sheep, had also suffered a disaster. Every fleece sold at a loss, and the animal meat prices weren’t much better, forcing SCAC to introduce harsh cost-cutting measures, including redundancies.

Some of the first to go were the gamekeepers. People were expensive, signs were not, and fresh notices appeared across many parts of their domain.

Kit said, ‘Oh, there’s still old Freddie McKensie about, though he’s pushing seventy, and the chances of bumping into him are one in a hundred thousand,’ all interesting information that lodged in Hamish’s cunning brain.

‘Fancy another?’ he said.

‘Don’t mind if I do.’

Careless talk costs lives, thought Hamish, as he called the gangling and interesting Florence Dolby over to set the drinks up.

She smiled at him as she always did, not knowing he’d marked her card. One day, Florence, one day.

He was almost at his destination. Still a smidgeon of light showing, enough to see the lay-by coming up on the right side of the road. No other vehicle there, and that was a bonus. Hamish would have been surprised if there was. He eased in, came to a stop, tugged on the handbrake, glanced through the driver’s window, and there, a matter of yards away, was one of the new feisty signs.

He left the car and closed on the metal fence for a better look.

It was a large sign, maybe four feet wide by three feet tall, supported on not one but two hefty timber posts, boasting text to the left and pictures on the right. He read the block capital letters.

SCAC Ltd.

THIS GROUND IS PRIVATE PROPERTY. STRICTLY NO ENTRY. ARMED GAMEKEEPERS PATROL THESE GROUNDS. TRESPASSERS WILL BE ARRESTED AND PROSECUTED. YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED!

Yeah right, but thanks to Kit’s mumbled intelligence, Hamish knew they had pensioned the gamekeepers off, except old Freddie. It was true the signs had an effect, especially to begin with, though there would always be determined lawbreakers who’d enter, intent on bagging a pheasant or two.

He glanced at the pictures on the right. Sketched drawings in black and red featuring on the left, an Alsatian dog, its mouth open, teeth bared, growling and ready to bite, the dog restrained; hauled back by a young handler. To his right was a traditional gamekeeper wearing a deerstalker hat, carrying a twelve-bore shotgun, broken in half, ready to be snapped into firing mode at a moment’s notice.

Hamish let go a single syllable laugh. The fools! It was bunk and baloney, threats backed up by cost-cutting that had emasculated any force or menace they ever possessed. He glanced at the fence. It was of unusual construction. Four horizontal metal strips, the thin metal maybe an inch deep, supported on vertical metal stakes every ten yards. The strips had once been painted green, but the weather had dealt with that, and most of it was bare rust-proof metal. The fence came up to Hamish’s waist, and would be easy to step over. No barbs or electricity running through it, nothing other than yelling signs to dissuade naughty folks from entering.

Beyond the fence was a ten-yard-wide strip planted with wild flowers, doing okay. Poppies and cornflowers in flower and many others he couldn’t name, or make out in the gloaming, plus the ubiquitous outlaws, giant hogweed, docks, and the hated ragwort, all prospering, grabbing their share of precious minerals, light, and water. Cost-cutting again, the planted border would be left to its own devices, though it was good for the insects, great for the birds, and heavenly for the planet. Good to know something was working well on SCAC land.

Beyond the flower strip, the forestry began. Pines, quick growing, if trees could ever be described as quick growing. Hamish did not know they were Loblolly pines imported from North America, capable of growing to sixty feet, putting on over two feet every year.

He glanced at the tops and reckoned they were twenty feet tall. He may not have known the variety, but his forestry training in Scotland told him they would be there for at least another fifteen or twenty years. One thing was certain, they were not going anywhere soon, and that suited him.

He returned to the van and checked the road. Nothing coming either way. Only one vehicle had passed, a post van, rushing the letters and parcels to the right place to be delivered in the morning, if the receivers were lucky. He hadn’t looked at the driver, and the postie, hurrying to get finished, didn’t look at him.

Hamish opened the back, took a last look at the road, nothing coming either way, and tugged out the luggage, set it down, and shut and locked the van. He grabbed the case and heaved it up, setting it longways on his left shoulder, before walking towards the fence. He placed the case on the other side, glanced round, and sniffed. No one there, as he kicked his leg up and over to join the bag, and there he was, standing on SCAC territory.

Around his forehead was a dark plastic strap, and within the front of the strap was a thin and powerful light. It was new and cheap, potholers used them, and anyone working in confined, dark spaces. He glanced round as the last of the light slid away. The air smelt of resin. The light wind in his face balmy, with sound restricted to the swaying canopy, occasional late squabbling rooks, cawing a goodnight to neighbours, barking foxes a good way off, and damn all else.

One push-button switch turned on the light, as he picked up the case as if it were a box of crackers, set it on his shoulder, and approached the trees. There would be no telltale wheel tracks on the wild meadow or within the plantation.

With twenty years growth to come, there was still decent space between the loblollies, not planted in straight rows as in Germany, but in a diamond pattern, and that meant as well as heading forwards he was always veering left or right. Hamish counted the steps. It was dark in the woods, over a hundred paces in, and he planned on going two.

As his head and body changed direction, the beam played to different spots, one time picking out a startled grey squirrel, another American import, looking to hunker down for the night. It was a scary, creepy place, though it didn’t bother him. He didn’t believe in ghouls or ghosts, and if Kit Kenyon was to be believed, there were no keepers in that part of the forest.

During his forestry training, all recruits were required to spend at least one night alone in the woods, with one bottle of water, no food, a thin sleeping bag, and a small tent to keep them snug. The planners believed, to be a good forester, all recruits had to understand trees, and no one could do that if they hadn’t shared nights with them, a rite of passage, furthering one’s education, as if they were a wicked mistress, and if it was raining, so much the better.

The thinking was bunk, though they treated it seriously, and Hamish enjoyed everything about it. It gave him time to think, and it brought forth dozens of exciting ideas into his skewed brain. He was young back then with his life ahead of him, and he intended to live it to the full.

As he trudged through the darkness, following his one narrow beam of light, he searched for a special place, and would recognise it when he came upon it. Up to one hundred and ninety-six paces, and the bag on his shoulder was growing heavier with every step. Strange to think the Broadsword bitch was inside, and then it appeared.

On the edge of one diamond, where the undergrowth was thicker and wider, maybe a resourceful fox had brought additional dead vegetation into the diamond block to protect itself from the winter. The wild construction came up to Hamish’s waist. He set the bag down and tugged minor fallen branches up for a better look.

He thought it a wild animal’s burrow or nest, though there were no scats around to prove it. Hamish guessed it long abandoned, and it was perfect for his needs. He held up the makeshift roof and eased the heavy bag inside with his right foot. It didn’t go in far enough, and he fell to his knees and burrowed in after it, pushing it ahead of him until it was resting against the nearest trunk.

It was filthy in there, dusty and dank, reeking of decay, with beds of rotting pine needles beneath his body, blown in, gathered over past seasons, and it gave him a base feeling of safety and warmth which excited him. Everything withering away to dust, and hadn’t all human life emanated from stardust? Perhaps that explained his fondness for filth.

He switched off the light and stayed motionless for ten minutes in the pitch dark, lying on his back, breathing in and basking in the earthy aroma, and the knowledge that none of the six billion people who shared the planet had an inkling of where he was. How many times in your life could you say that?

He could die on that spot from a heart attack and no one would ever find him, creating the mystery of the missing gym instructor. That thought brought him back to reality, as he switched on the light, eased himself out, and dusted himself down, before collecting three fallen branches to block up the entrance, with a final one going on the top to crown his hide.

Under his narrow spotlight, he could not see the wheeled bag from any angle, and there was no reason why anyone should disturb it. As the seasons rolled by, the undergrowth would be covered by overgrowth, reinforcing the protection encasing the bag, entombing the remains of Laila Broadsword.

Once a year, a qualified forester might stop by with a tablet and software to mark the health of every tree, but he or she would never think of entering the thick undergrowth. Why would they? It stank in there. Inhospitable to humans, the kind of place they would turn their nose up at, and move on.

The naked woman’s body in the bag would fester and rot. Insects would appear through the tiniest holes created by wind and rain, to do their work, destroying flesh, cleaning up the mess. For a while a stench might seep out, and that could interest foxes and badgers, but the wheeled bag was sturdy, and foxes hadn’t learnt to open zippers.

He stood before the makeshift tomb, speaking final words, his clasped hands hanging down before him. ‘You shouldn’t have lied to me, Laila. It’s your own fault. We could have had so much fun, and you lost it all,’ and he turned about and strode away.

It was much easier trekking without cargo, and he was back at the lay-by before he knew it. The road was dark and empty, as he hurdled the fence.

In the next moment, he started the van, did a three-point turn, and headed north towards Shrewsbury and Melverly beyond. As he drove, he thought he might have missed an opportunity. Maybe he should have brought a bag and trowel to scoop up thousands of decaying pine needles. They might have made life interesting. Never mind, there would be another day. She was in for a dirty night, and she knew it.

While travelling the Shrewsbury by-pass, his mind turned to Moreton Corbet Castle, away to the east. Hamish had learnt there was an ongoing dig there, and among the dirt, dust, and muck, someone mentioned there were several newly qualified young women, and that needed investigating.

He would visit the following week, mentioning his forestry qualifications, offering an additional pair of hands, cost free. He enjoyed voluntary work and was happy to contribute to the educational community. No one in their right mind would refuse such an offer. It made him feel good, and life was all about feeling good, because the alternative was horrendous.

He wouldn’t think of Laila Broadsword again. Why would he? She had lied and paid the penalty, receiving what she deserved, and besides, it was all about the future, and what was coming next. Do-gooders might say she didn’t deserve that, though the truth was, she damn well did.

Chapter seven

Karen drew up outside Walter’s house at two minutes past seven. By five past he was in the car, and the BMW swept away. It would be another sunny day, Karen wearing designer sunglasses.

He thought she resembled a Californian film star, and he had sunshades too, but they weren’t in the same chic league. A long non-stop journey lay ahead, with the usual busy spots of packed traffic crawling along, circumventing Manchester, and again at York and Newcastle, with the obligatory delay at Scotch Corner, as many vehicles took a sharp left over the hills for Penrith.

Walter glanced at the dash clock as they closed on the Lambert’s house in Berwick, both delighted to see the red pickup was absent. Ten minutes after noon, the handbrake went on, and the machine could take a well-earned rest. Karen and the car had done well.

They were relieved to be out of the vehicle, taking an ultra-short walk up and down, before Walter went to the red front door to bang the brass knocker. A neat woman opened up, presumably Mary Lambert, nee Cross.

‘You made it then,’ she said. ‘You’d better come in.’

‘Thank you,’ said Walter, stepping into the long and narrow hall.

His nose told him there was a slight smell of smoked fish, and maybe that wasn’t a surprise.

She took them into a reception room on the left and official intros were done, including photo IDs Mary studied hard.

‘Would you like tea?’ she said, ‘after your long trip.’

‘We would,’ said Walter, ‘but first, may we use your bathroom?’

‘Of course,’ she said, and she took them out and opened an opposite door off the hall to a cloakroom shoehorned beneath the stairs.

Walter returned to the sitting room alone, Mary away fixing tea, Karen still in the cloakroom. On one wall was a large, recent family photo. Mary and Hugh standing at the rear, his arm around his wife, with five children before them, most sharing Hugh’s sandy hair. Two boys and two girls, and one it was hard to know.

Five minutes later, Karen, Mary, and Walter sat together, Walter and Karen on one sofa, Mary on a matching armchair opposite, with mugs of tea on coasters on an oak coffee table. Karen rarely drank tea, but that day, made an exception and sipped and swallowed.

‘Lovely photo,’ said Walter, glancing back at the pic.

‘Yes, taken last year. All the gang. An heir, a spare, and a dare… and the other two,’ she said, which sounded an odd thing to say.

‘A dare?’ said Karen.

‘Yes, we’d had the first two, and we were undecided about having any more, and one night we’d run out of contraception, and he was, well, you know what men can be like on a Saturday night after a wee dram, and he said it didn’t matter, and I would probably not get pregnant, and we’d risk it, anyway. He dared me to, saying I’d be fine, and we did, and the rest is history, and along came Connor, and maybe after such an inauspicious start, he turned out to be the confused one who doesn’t quite know what he is. One week he bats for one side, the next, it’s something different. I love him to bits and will always support him, but I wish he’d find some inner peace.’

‘And the other two, as you described them?’ said Karen.

‘Ah, they are not ours.’

‘Fostered?’ said Walter. ‘They look so much like the others.’

‘Oh, I had them, all right, Inspector, and it’s a long story. They are the progeny of Hugh and myself, but in every other way they are not our kids, not really, though I try hard not to let that show to either them or Hugh, but it is difficult.’

‘I’m not sure I follow,’ said Walter.

‘I don’t think you’d believe me if I told you.’

‘Try us,’ said Walter. ‘In our line of work, there’s not much we haven’t seen or heard before.’

She pulled a face and shook her head as if debating whether to say anymore, before she started again.

‘Some time ago, it must be eight years, I had a dream, but much more than a dream, more of a vision, in full colour. None of that drippy nonsense that says dreams are in black and white, and in my dream, Gina McGregor came to me in the night.’

‘Your childhood friend?’ said Walter. ‘Go on.’

Mary nodded and continued. ‘I know you will think it ridiculous, but Gina insisted I must have two more children. For me, Mary, she said, my children, for I cannot have any of my own, and you must produce them. It was such a powerful dream it was there in the forefront of my mind when I woke, and I realised she was right, and it would be just, and I must do as she asked. Hugh and I had already decided we would not have any more kids, especially after the Connor episode, but after that I had not one but two lapses with the pill, and along came Jimmy and Morag. Oh, they weren’t my choice of names. In fact, I don’t like either of them, and Hugh’s the same. He hates both names, and it was all I could do to persuade him to accept them. Right up to the last moment at the christening, he pleaded with me to change one to Andrew and the other to anything else. But they were Gina’s choices, and that is what they were called. When Gina was alive, she was always going on about having her Jimmy and sweet wee Morag, even as a young kid when playing with her dollies in that scruffy old doll’s pram. One doll was always Jimmy and the other Morag, and I could never name them anything else. Yes, I love them as my own, but in secret, they will always remain Gina’s children. Without her intervention, they would not exist.’

‘Wow,’ said Karen.

‘Please don’t tell either Hugh or the kids. It wouldn’t be fair.’

‘We won’t,’ said Walter.

‘I’ve made sandwiches,’ said Mary, eager to change the conversation. ‘I thought you might be hungry after your long drive. They are only cheese or ham, but please eat them, or Hugh will wonder why there are piles of sandwiches left when he comes back.’

Walter and Karen shared a look, as Walter said, ‘That’s very kind of you. We don’t mind if we do, do we, Karen?’

She forced a nod and a yes, and picked at one cheese sandwich when they arrived, as Walter did everyone proud by ploughing through more than he should. Mary took one of each, leaving the rest for him.

‘But you didn’t come all this way to talk about my kids, and Gina visiting me in the night.’

‘No,’ said Walter, glancing across at her, and her neat straight dark hair sitting on her shoulders in a girlish fashion, bookish as a kid, and still was, judging by the crammed bookshelves covering one wall. He imagined her back on that Helensburgh beach, thirty years before, half the size, but looking much the same. ‘You are right. We’d like to talk to you about Hamish Cairney. Could you tell us when you first met him?’

‘Before we start,’ said Karen, ‘do you mind if I record the conversation,’ producing her phone to set on the coffee table.

‘Oh, I don’t know about that,’ she said. ‘I wouldn’t want Hugh to hear what I have to say.’

‘He won’t,’ said Walter. ‘Look, Mrs Lambert, we know Cairney has killed one young woman. We believe he has killed another, and it’s possible he has murdered at least two more, and could be planning further vile attacks. We need to fill in his background, and anything you could tell us might help put him away for good.’

‘If you put it like that,’ she said, ‘I guess it’s alright,’ and Karen pressed record and set the phone down.

‘He was always there,’ said Mary. ‘He’s a little older than me, and there was never a time in my childhood when he wasn’t lurking in the background. To begin with, I treated him as the older brother I never had, but I soon became wary of him, and even afraid of the boy. There was something strange about him that alerted me to his danger. The first time it happened, I was only five. Mum had to go to work and dad was away seeking work, and mum left me with the other kids, saying: look after wee Mary, and to make it worth my while she bought me a mivvi and I was thrilled about that, and thought nothing of mum rushing away to grab a bus.’

‘A mivvi?’ said Karen.

‘Aye, a fruit ice lolly with ice cream in the middle. We all thought mivvis were the best,’ and she glanced at Walter and said, ‘The younger generation, eh? Fancy not knowing what a mivvi is.’

‘Go on,’ said Walter, nodding and smiling. ‘What happened next?’

‘Perhaps you can guess. As soon as mam had vanished down the road, Hamish turned up. He saw the fresh treat in my hand and snatched it from my tiny fingers. You don’t need that, he said, they are not for kids, and it’s far too good for you, and he walked away biting chunks out of my lolly. I watched his back ambling away down the street with tears tumbling down my face, and how I hated that boy, and I never forgot it. How could anyone be so thoughtless and unkind? One thing though, it taught me a lesson, and I never trusted Hamish Cairney again.’

There was a pause for thought before Walter said, ‘Did you know his sister?’

‘I knew of her, though I didn’t know her well.’

‘She died young, I believe?’ said Karen.

‘She did, and an awful death it was.’

‘Do you know what happened?’ asked Walter.

‘I wasn’t there, and I didn’t see it, but I know they were playing daresey.’

‘Daresey?’ said Walter.

Mary nodded and said, ‘Yes, they were all gathered on one side of a busy road, so I heard later. And they would dare everyone to run across the street, but only when a lorry or a big double-decker bus approached. The drivers would yell and make angry faces and fist signs through the windscreen, and pump their horns. The trick was to run across as late as possible, and the one who got closest to the onrushing wheels was the winner, and top dog for the day. That kind of stupid nonsense.’

‘Did you ever do it?’ asked Karen.

‘No fear! Certainly not. I had more important things to do with my life, and more sense than get involved with that idiotic stuff. And the mere fact Hamish orchestrated the business was good enough reason to steer clear. He was the most daring, of course, and I guess the others were in awe of him for his bravery. He would leave it till the last second to leap out and grin at the driver, before rushing away.’

‘And his sister?’ said Walter.

‘He was baiting her, calling her terrible names. Saying she was a scaredy-cat, feeble and weak, and not worth having as a sister, a disgrace to the family, and far worse words I won’t repeat. He had a tongue on him, that’s for sure. Gina was there and the next morning told me all about it. Jenny became real upset, and was thinking of running across, just to show him she wasn’t scared, but she kept pulling back, until Hamish closed on her and yelled into her face: go on, you fecking donkey! Or you’ll feel the back of my hand, and Gina told me his face went scarlet, as he drew back his hand to strike her.’

‘Poor kid,’ said Karen.

‘Yes, and that hesitation cost her dear. She was so scared of him she dashed out across the street without looking, into the path of an onrushing bus heading fast down towards the city centre. She never stood a chance. All the kids saw it, and I will be forever grateful I was elsewhere, playing in the park on the swings. And do you know what he did? He stood there on the pavement with his hands on hips, laughing like an idiot, muttering there would be more dinner for him in future, and he was still there smirking when the fire brigade arrived to mop up the mess. I don’t know if there is an actual thing as evil, Inspector, but one thing I do know is Hamish Cairney was one evil boy, and I have no reason to believe he didn’t grow up to be an evil man.’

‘It’s why we are trying to nail him,’ said Karen.

‘Can you tell us about the day on the beach?’ said Walter. ‘The day Gina drowned.’

‘I have shut that incident away in the far reaches of my mind for all these years, and it’s not a place I ever wish to revisit.’

‘I can believe that,’ said Walter. ‘But maybe it’s time to bring it out into the open to give yourself some kind of closure. It’s not good to bottle up unpleasant experiences and memories throughout life.’

‘I can’t tell you the number of times I have glared at my image in the mirror and castigated myself for being such a monumental coward. I should have come forward and told the police what I saw from the first moment, but I didn’t, and after that it became more and more difficult to suddenly say I did see something, when all along I had denied it.’

Walter said, ‘Now’s the time to put that right, Mary.’

‘I tackled him on the beach afterwards. Did you know that?’

‘We did not,’ said Karen.

‘It was after he had been treated as the hero of the day. He was basking in the glory, older folks who hadn’t seen it all, patting him on the back, and telling him what a good and courageous boy he was. I followed him over to the lavatories.’

‘What happened?’ asked Karen.

‘I told him I’d seen what he had done, and would tell the police. He grabbed me and tugged me behind the pebble-dashed building into a narrow, stinky place where no one ever went. Hamish said he liked it there. I remember that. He pushed me up against the wall, pinning me by the throat, making it difficult to breathe. I thought he was going to strangle me right there, but what he did was worse.’

‘What?’ said Walter and Karen as one.

‘The swine produced a flick knife, and in the next second, brandished the shiny blade before my eyes. He said if I ever said a word to anyone, he would stab me in not one eye, but both of them. He said I would never see anything ever again. No one would ever want a blind ugly bitch like me, and I’d never have children. He threatened to bring an end right there to any happy life I hoped to have, in that stinking narrow space behind the toilets. I was so terrified I almost wet myself. To tell you the truth, I am still scared he will find me even today if he discovers I have spoken to you. I can see him in my mind, turning up when I am alone, forcing his way in, stabbing me in the face, blinding me. Sometimes I dream of Hugh coming home and finding me blinded and bleeding, blundering about, useless to anyone, and becoming, as Hamish described, part of the living dead.’

‘That is never going to happen,’ said Karen.

‘It isn’t,’ said Walter, ‘because we are going to catch him and put him away for the rest of his unnatural life.’

There was a short reflective pause for Mary to dab away tears appearing around her eyes. They dribbled down her red cheeks before Walter said, ‘Can you tell us what happened to Gina McGregor? We need to know.’

‘I will,’ she said, ‘and it was terrible, but I need to spit that evil out of me once and for all, and this is the right place to do it, in the house where Gina’s children were created, a place where they live their happy, peaceful, and contented lives, wanting for nothing, just as she would have wished, if only she had lived long enough to see it.’

‘Gina McGregor?’ said Walter. ‘What happened on that sunny day beside the sea?’

Chapter eight

With Walter and Karen hundreds of miles away in Berwick-on-Tweed, there could not have been a worse time for news of the murder inquiry to break into the public domain.

Mrs West was incandescent when she spied the news seeping out of her television, and demanded an immediate inquiry into which officer had leaked the story.

Her ire was ill-directed, for soon after, John Dolby was seen being interviewed on the lunchtime local television news programmes. It seemed he was the whistleblower, selling his story for a handful of silver.

Karma stepped in. The newshounds didn’t give him an easy ride. How long has your wife, Florence, been missing? Why didn’t you report it earlier? Why did your wife leave you? Has she gone absent before? Which police force is dealing with the search? Do you believe she is still alive? And even, did you kill your wife, John?

All questions he looked uncomfortable answering, squirming his way through one awkward interview after another, and his shady manner and appearance did nothing to throw fresh light on the missing Florence Dolby. Afterwards, John was happy to skulk away at the earliest moment.

The national media picked up the thread in minutes, and with greater resources and the willingness to reward whistleblowers with large cash payouts, unfounded rumours of Florence’s gruesome death surfaced before teatime.

Mrs West rang Walter without success. Either his phone was switched off, he had forgotten to charge it, or there was no signal. She cursed her luck and sent for Martin and Jenny.

Over the Shropshire border, Professor Oxford, Saint Norman’s head, ordered a blanket silence on the matter. Educational establishments wallow in fame when press coverage is complimentary, zeroing in on their name and achievements, but hated it with a passion when anything negative surfaced. If ten parents pulled their kids out of school and suspended fee payments, it would have a dire effect on the bottom line.

All teachers, staff, pupils, and suppliers were ordered not to discuss the matter in public, be interviewed or speculate on social media, on pain of having their contracts cancelled, or renegotiated. It was a futile exercise. The natural curiosity of human beings, once roused, would keep working and searching until they were satisfied they knew all there was to know.

Two hours after the initial news breach, the nationals broke the story of a gruesome body being found in a cottage south of Nantwich.

Earlier, DC’s Darren Gibbons and Kate Foster interviewed Ryan the Horrid at his swish blinds business in Winsford. The man lived up to his sobriquet, saying he couldn’t care less what happened to Emily Chatteris after she finished with him. She deserved all she received. So long as she was unhappy, that pleased Ryan.

But she wasn’t unhappy. She was dead.

Darren was close to losing his temper, and thought of giving him a slap, saying, ‘That poor young woman was crucified, and her body left to be devoured by maggots. I’ve seen the pictures, and it’s among the worst things I have ever seen. Her face was unrecognisable, and you have the nerve to say you couldn’t care less!’

Even the rookie, Kate Foster, realised Darren had overstepped the mark, revealing information to a member of the public, facts and events so far remaining secret. She tapped his forearm and tried to bring him back on track, firing questions at Ryan.

‘Did you ever go to the cottage? And if so, when? Did you ever meet a man named Hamish Cairney, and if so, when and where, and when did you last see him?’

Ryan’s abrupt answers were an outright no to everything, which seemed unlikely. Did he never get invited, or invite himself to Wisteria Cottage? He was lying. But he denied being there, and they had no proof he had been, and reluctantly, they left him alone with his Venetians, and a final word from Darren ringing in his ear, ‘This is strictly confidential, and you don’t share anything we have said with anyone.’

The fact the news broke via a regional branch in Manchester of a London national, raised suspicions Ryan called them soon after Darren and Kate left, and those rumours proved correct when a bung envelope containing three grand in readies found its way into Ryan’s grubby hand in the back seat of his car, in exchange for everything he knew of the police inquiry.

If he could follow up with salacious tales featuring him and his late sex-mad girlfriend, then he could expect the same again in a week’s time, and that sent Ryan’s mind into overtime, with everything they had done on their Portuguese holiday, something he was more than willing to embellish.

No one alive knew what had taken place in their bedroom, or at her cottage, now that Emily was gone. He had a blank canvas and an active imagination, and couldn’t care less what anyone thought so long as they paid him. It was too good an opportunity to turn down.

The important thing leakers and whistleblowers of police investigations never considered before they acted, were thieves, villains, rapists, and murderers also paid a great deal of attention to the media. They did so for two reasons. Almost without exception, they adored seeing their names in the papers and on TV, for it gave them a buzzing high, and attached some notoriety to their lifestyle, crimes, and criminal activities.

The second reason was they often incriminated themselves, though many were too dim to realise they had.

One only needed to study their social media pages, where many of the more stupid lawbreakers bragged of their activities, posting proof of their misdemeanours, proud photos of a stolen car, a bag of coke, or piles of illegally gathered cash. The more intelligent criminal studied the socials, for it gave them an inkling into where the police had reached in their enquiries, and sometimes they picked up an early warning when things were about to get hot.

It happened with the missing women case, and Hamish Cairney. He was considering returning home to Shropshire in secret, hunkering down somewhere on the Saint Norman’s estate, where Ailish could bring him regular supplies of clean clothes and decent food. But he realised that was no longer possible, and went into full-on thought about how best to throw potential hunters off his scent.

He sussed out a small, musty, dusty B&B on the edge of Chester where they didn’t run to CCTV, with the owners away on holiday in Cyprus for a month. The few staff left to man the fort at The Oak Apple guest house were foreign, could barely speak English, didn’t earn the minimum wage, and only attended the place when necessary. They couldn’t care less who came and went, or who stayed there, and if those people were illegals or outlaws, so what? Who cared?

They had been there, in that same situation, and they knew what it was like to be working outside the system, and held no love for authority. For the staff, it was all about having two or three cash-in-hand jobs, and making as much money, and as fast as possible.

When the local police stopped by, as they did on occasion, they would plead no English, ossifer, big boss away, and the beat cops and special constables, who knew little, would likely give up and move on to something less demanding, where at least the people could speak the lingo.

For a while, Hamish would be safe there, and he wouldn’t leave the city because he had lined up a Miss E, and was excited at the prospect. Only after that was sorted and completed, would he scoot back to his Scottish homeland.

As a bonus, he’d read on Parkfield High’s website of a smart young woman who had taken Isla Aitken’s position, except the righteous newcomer had been roped in to teaching geography and RI. A Miss Fletcher by name, and a slight, earnest, and perfect individual she appeared to be.

He’d dumped using the van, the threat of ANPR sightings too risky, and stopped using his main mobile, after buying a cool burner phone in Khan’s Phones in Chester market. The only change he would make was to bring forward the final scene featuring Miss E. As soon as that was accomplished, he would leave the Oak Apple and head north for home, and Parkfield High, to carry out a preliminary scouting mission. Every time he looked at Miss Sarah Fletcher’s picture, he became more entranced. The perfect ten, the perfect F.

His first goal would be to meet her by accident, and turn on the charm. In his experience, some religious women were often neglected, and appreciated any attention that came their way.

The second stage would be to befriend her. He’d attend a bible class if that’s what it took. He could do pious if need be. While the third step involved a cosy drink, orange or apple juice, if she was temperance, and maybe a meal, before he moved on to the fourth and biggest step, accompanying her home. After that, anything and everything was possible, as his mind ran riot at the thought.

Saint Luke’s church on the way out of Chester was built in 1832. It was over-large, and the exterior was black through not being cleaned in over sixty years. Damp and draughty with a steeple that needed fixing at great expense, and even the dopey Church of England realised it wasn’t a long-term option for Chester worshippers.

At a parish council meeting, its fate was disclosed to the few people who still cared. The closure wasn’t a great problem, for there were two other finer and warmer churches within a mile. Saint Luke’s hadn’t had its own vicar for three years, and the small congregation would have the comfort of seeing the same familiar face taking the services, as the over-worked man looked after three places of worship.

‘But what will happen to the old building?’ asked a concerned elderly lady, and before she could receive an answer, another chipped in with, ‘And what will happen to the gravestones?’

It was true there was a tiny cemetery clustered around the base of the building, but it was no longer used, and prior research revealed twenty-four graves interred there, starting in 1833, with the last in 1851.

It was likely there were no living relatives of the deceased, but a token effort to track them down would be mounted. If no one came forward, it was not unusual for old graves to be scooped up as one, and re-buried in the nearby main cemetery, accompanied by a brief service, with one or two of the still readable headstones placed on the new communal resting place as a token of their history.

It seemed callous to some, and sinful to others, but were graves and gravestones meant to stay in the one place forever? Even long after all known relatives had followed them into the ground? It wasn’t a new problem for the church, but it was an ongoing headache, with no easy answer. Land was scarce and expensive. Recycling and reusing, the only answer.

The same old lady repeated her question, ‘What will happen to the building?’

Another concerned parishioner answered, ‘Going up for auction. Barkshire & Brown, in the city, five weeks today, I believe.’

‘And what will happen to it after that?’

‘Maybe turned into a mosque,’ a tongue-in-cheek comment that produced a collective look, as if most were sucking lemons.

The committee offered a collective shrug, before the one who fancied himself as a local property expert said, ‘Could be made into a glorious house, or a block of flats, a fancy pub selling cheap beer, or more likely, it will be demolished and turned into new affordable housing, built on the site.’

The feisty old girl looked at him askance, and said, ‘And you’d want to live on that, would you? Hallowed ground, atop the graves and bones of former Cestrian citizens who deserve so much better?’

It was a question property-man didn’t have an answer for, and wisely remained silent. Soon after, the meet broke up, with no one leaving happy, other than a few secret property developers who’d snuck into the meeting to sound things out.

The future of Saint Luke’s had been decided. It wasn’t a listed building, and didn’t possess influential friends. The church would go to auction together with boarded up pubs, a couple of abandoned police stations, a damp-ridden primary school, a fire-damaged hotel, and three tottering nursing homes.

No doubt it would be snapped up by the person with the fattest wallet and biggest ego, and with stiff competition from other decrepit buildings, it was possible not too many people would take an interest in the hulk of Saint Luke’s, for its decaying fabric promised a time-consuming money pit of a project, a proposal smarter folks would avoid.

Matters had been decided. Christian services would end, worshippers would be bumped elsewhere, and it only remained to be seen who the new owner would be, and what they intended to do with the sad and abandoned building.

Chapter nine

Walter and Karen stared across at Mary Lambert, waiting for her to speak. For a moment, Walter imagined she wouldn’t say anything further.

After a considerable sigh, she said, ‘I can remember everything that happened on that fateful day. I shouldn’t be able to because I had a brilliant book on the go, and when I fall into the magic of a good story, I’m lost to anything else. I still remember the book thirty years on. Romance, unicorns, zombies, and mermaids sums it up. It was all the rage back then. But the fact I stopped reading, and started watching, says everything about Hamish Cairney. I never trusted him, but I watched him, and I was right to be wary.’

‘Go on,’ said Walter.

‘A few days before, I bought an awful orange bikini.’

‘I know,’ said Walter, unable to hide a grin. ‘It made it into official reports.’

Mary smiled a distant smile and said, ‘Did it? I’m not surprised. It didn’t fit me, or rather, I didn’t fit it, and I hated it, and it made me feel self-conscious. When Hamish saw it, he said both me and the bikini looked like we had spent the morning in the washing machine before being dragged through the wringer. You know, one of those old-fashioned things that rolls out the water.’

‘I do. We had one, a mangle, and it did a great job.’

Karen had no idea what they were talking about.

Mary started again. ‘Hamish said I looked a disgrace, and he was embarrassed to be seen with me on the beach. He sure had a great way of putting people down, belittling them, and he seemed to know when anyone felt uncomfortable about anything, and would rub the wound as much and as hard as he could.’

‘Teenage angst, don’t worry about it,’ said Karen, ‘and it all fits his profile of picking at sores.’

‘I was almost a teenager, though I know what you mean. Anyway, minutes later, he turned his back on me, and chased Gina out into the sea.’

‘Tell us about her.’

The memory brought a warm smile to Mary’s face.

‘She was an unusual girl, an archetypal tomboy, and much better than the boys in so many ways. Gina could run faster, was a better and faster swimmer, quick in the brain, bright as a button, and always won at cards, much to Hamish’s annoyance. And she was strong, so strong she would challenge most boys to an arm wrestle, and often win. That was the one thing he was better at, because he was stronger still. Thinking back on it, when I saw him chasing her out to sea, I believe I saw something menacing in his body language. It was as if he had already decided he’d give his chief competitor a beating. Whether he knew then he wanted to drown her, I don’t know. But that is what he did. He set out to drown her, to kill her in such a clever way he would never be blamed, but applauded for the way he went about rescuing the girl. It’s a clever trick, if you can pull it off.’

Walter said, ‘Could it have been an accident?’

‘No, nae chance.’

‘Just to be clear,’ said Karen. ‘You saw Hamish Cairney drown Gina McGregor?’

‘I saw him hold her under the water until she was dead.’

‘Same thing in my book,’ said Walter.

Karen sucked her lips and said, ‘And you told no one what you saw?’

‘No, and I will regret that till my dying day. But I’ll tell you this much. I don’t think any of the others, if they had witnessed it; would have uttered a word, either.’

‘Such was the power and fear Hamish held over other members of the gang?’ said Walter.

‘Correct, Inspector. Have you met him?’

‘I have seen him once, from a distance.’

‘When you do, don’t take your eyes off him for a second, and never turn your back on him. He’s cunning, and waiting for his moment. If you ever have him in custody, he will attempt to escape. He will make up some story about needing the toilet, and he’ll make a break for it. It could be through a window, or a dash down a corridor, or employing a diversionary tactic, and if you leave him alone with women, he will attempt to beguile them, and if that doesn’t work, he will attack them.’

‘He won’t be the first man who’s acted like that in custody,’ said Karen. ‘We know what we are doing.’

‘And that is a sign of weakness,’ said Mary. ‘Because you underestimate him.‘

‘We’ll see,’ said Karen.

Walter thought it time to change tack.

‘Have you heard of a woman named Isla Aitken?’

Mary’s brow furrowed as she went into thinking mode.

‘It rings a faint bell. Isn’t she the Edinburgh teacher who went missing?’

Walter nodded and said, ‘That’s the one.’

‘Cairney again?’ said Mary.

‘Yes,’ said Karen. ‘We believe so.’

‘I hate to say the words killed or murdered, but just how many do you suspect he is responsible for?’

Walter said, ‘We have no idea about that, but he seems to be running through his current crop in alphabetical order. Aitken, B is so far missing, Chatteris, Dolby, and E is up next. I don’t suppose you know anyone whose surname starts with an E or B who might be a target?’

‘That’s a big question. I would have to give some thought to that, but off the top of my head, I can’t think of anyone.’

Karen said, ‘And you do not know why he might adopt such a strategy?’

‘Not really, other than he was always methodical and hated anything out of place. The alphabetical thing stinks of his doing, right enough.’

Walter bobbed his head and issued the tough question he had kept in reserve.

‘When he is in the dock charged with multiple murders, would you be prepared to testify against him?’

‘Ah,’ she said. ‘I thought I made it clear; Hugh must know nothing of my background. If I went to court, he would know everything.’

‘You don’t need to decide today,’ said Walter. ‘We haven’t caught him yet.’

Karen said, ‘Where did you meet Hugh?’

That brought another smile to her pale face.

‘Not long after I left school, I took a temporary job serving in an upmarket bar in Glasgow city centre. He came in one night with a band of fisherfolk mates. They were at a sea-fishing dinner held in the city. He started talking to me, and I quite liked the look of him, and before the night was through, he asked me for my phone number. Before that, I’d never worked out how I would ever snare a man, and I so wanted to. I was desperate to have kids, and all that went with it, and Hugh was presentable and softly spoken, which I liked. After that, I didn’t consider anyone else. Maybe I should have, but I always underestimated myself, and didn’t want to be left alone. Two months later he asked me to marry him, and three months after that, we did the deed.’

‘And he brought you down here?’ said Karen.

‘That’s right. His friends and family were shocked at my broad Glaswegian accent, and were forever making fun of it, and of me, and Hugh persuaded me to tone it down and speak more like a borderer. The truth is, he embarrassed me into doing so. And I’ll tell you something…’

‘Go on,’ said Walter.

‘I imagine Hamish did the same thing. When he moved to Edinburgh, he must have noticed some people in positions of power and influence looked down on his western accent. There’s a fair bit of snobbery on the east coast about Glasgow accents, and I couldn’t see Hamish living with that. I reckon he went the whole hog. I’ll bet he changed the way he spoke, but more than that, he’s such a devious man, he will have invented a complete new backstory for himself. Brought up in Edinburgh, influential father, that kind of revamp. He would never remain loyal to anything that hindered his progress.’

Walter glanced at Karen as if to say: anything else? She recognised the look and shook her head. Walter took a card from his pocket and set it on the table.

‘Call me any time if you think of anything further.’

‘I will,’ she said, before adding, ‘there is no way Hamish Cairney could find my address, is there?’

‘Probably not,’ said Karen, ‘but the internet is a powerful tool. If you are there anywhere, he could sniff it out.’

‘That wasn’t the reassurance I was hoping for.’

Walter said, ‘Until he’s caught, and we hope that will be soon, don’t take any risks. Don’t let anyone in the house you don’t know, and try not to be alone more than necessary.’

Karen added, ‘And take comfort from the fact he is well past the C in his wicked quest.’

‘Yes, but not the L.’

Walter said, ‘We are working day and night to make sure he gets nowhere close to that,’ and he stood up and Karen followed suit.

Walter said, ‘Thank you for seeing us, and filling in the background. You have been a great help.’

‘Least I could do.’

‘And thanks for the tea and sandwiches,’ said Karen, as Mary showed them to the front door.

She nodded them away without another word, and in the next minute they were sitting in the BMW, where the dash clock announced half past four.

Walter said, ‘I’ll ring Mrs West.’

She was glad to hear from him, though moaned she had been trying to get through all day.

‘What’s happened?’ he said.

‘The story’s broken across the media. TV, the lot.’

‘Who broke the news, and how the heck did that happen?’

‘Two candidates, it seems. Not an outright leak from our side. John Dolby gave an interview to the press and TV, though it came back to bite him, as to put it politely, he came across as a complete tosser.’

‘And the other?’

‘Darren slipped up. When he was interviewing Ryan Woods, Emily’s former boyfriend, the bloke wound Darren up so much he let certain facts slip about what happened to Emily, and it seems the cretin couldn’t wait to take the offered shilling from a TV company.’

‘It’s about time Darren learnt to hold his tongue.’

‘I told him that.’

‘That means Cairney is aware we are on to him.’

‘Yes, though I think he realised that before.’

‘Might not be such a bad thing. It could flush him out. He might panic and do something stupid.’

‘True, though let’s hope that doesn’t include another attack.’

‘Indeed. We are starting back now, and won’t be home until almost ten, so we’ll see you in the morning.’

‘Okay, before you go, one other thing, Melvin Varnes rang and wanted a word.’

‘Did he say what about?’

‘Not that I know of. Call him tomorrow.’

‘I will,’ and they both cut off.

‘Get the gist of that?’ he said, glancing across the cabin as they made their way south out of Berwick.

‘Darren shooting off his mouth again, by the sound of things.’

‘That’s about it, but I think we could use this to our advantage. It might panic the prey and flush him from the undergrowth.’

‘Let’s hope so.’

She accelerated the car as they rushed onto the A1 on the long journey south, before snagging the M62 and M56 for Cheshire.

Chapter ten

On another visit to the Chester gym, Hamish parked his van some distance from the club. He enjoyed walking, and he’d walk fast as a mini warm up, before the promised exercise to come.

During the stroll across the city, maybe halfway to the gym, he passed two buildings, and both caught his eye.

The first was a chunky old church, jet black, not cleaned in decades, featuring an impressive tall steeple, with a few weathered gravestones cuddling in against the old building. The church was set on an oblong island with busy traffic circling it. No doubt when it was built, cars hadn’t been thought of.

Hamish wasn’t a churchgoer and had little time for God and his weird sense of humour and odder creations. The reason he noticed the church was because there was an estate agent’s sign fixed up where the steeple joined the main body of the building, and he couldn’t recall seeing a For Sale sign on a church before.

On getting closer, he noticed it said: FOR AUCTION, with an auctioneer’s name, Barkshire & Brown. It struck him as peculiar, and he wondered how much an old church might fetch, and what kind of idiot might buy it.

The second building that interested him was an Edwardian or Victorian structure that might once have been a music hall or a small local theatre. To the left of the wide half-glazed double doors, fixed on the wall, was a glass-fronted display unit, maybe three-foot square, where they once displayed posters promoting forthcoming events. Within, pinned to the beige board, was a single A4 notice someone had knocked up on a computer. Hamish was curious, and paused and stared at the announcement.

Headlined: The White Nancy Little Theatre, and after that, Proud Members of the Little Theatre Guild and The Cheshire Theatre Guild. It made a fancy letterhead, but it was the next tall wording that caught his eye, written in an old-fashioned theatre style font, upper and lower case, all capital letters, headlining the main announcement.

MEN WANTED, it said. Any age between 20 and 60. Clear diction essential. Come on, menfolk of Chester! We urgently need men to join our vibrant theatrical troupe. No Experience Necessary. Full Training Given, and a Chester phone number followed.

Interesting, he thought. I have clear diction, and if men were wanted, it meant women outnumbered them, and that brought countless thoughts and ideas into his buzzing brain.

The good news was, he’d had a little experience in AmDram amateur theatre productions, joining a small company for a laugh when he first moved to Edinburgh, and it wasn’t long before he discovered it was a great way to meet people, make friends, and date women.

It wasn’t long before he discovered he adored flouncing around the stage, being admired, speaking aloud, smiling and grinning, feigning fright and opprobrium, and so what if he wasn’t up there with the great actors of the day? He sure looked like an all-action movie hunk, or did in his florid mind. He enjoyed everything about it. The man had always been a show-off, and weren’t all actors just that? He would have kept attending, but for the unfortunate business with Martina Hosegood.

Hamish insisted she led him on, though she denied it in no uncertain terms, and the fact they were discovered in the dressing room, with him bending her over before the Hollywood mirror and the twelve popping light-bulbs, while Martina pleaded with him to stop it, stop it, and her loud cry went against him. The interruption couldn’t have come at a more opportune moment, for Ms Hosegood.

Everyone knew theatricals led an exciting life, and allowances were often made, but they made it clear his behaviour that evening was beyond the pale. They ordered him to leave the building on the spot, never to return, or the Director would call the Edinburgh police. Either way, his acting career was over. But that was decades before, in a different place, in a different country, and didn’t everyone deserve a second chance?

He took out a pen and scribbled the number on a ten-pound note.

The following day, late afternoon, sitting in his van in a busy car park, studying the main weekly Chester newspaper, he took out his phone and the bank note, and rang the number. After three rings, a soft-voiced man answered.

Hamish thought he’d be bold.

‘I saw your announcement outside the theatre.’

‘Oh, yes.’

‘I wondered if you have your recruiting boots on today?’

A few seconds passed for thought before the man spoke again.

‘I haven’t any boots on at all, but I could be persuaded.’

Hamish laughed and said, ‘You need men?’

‘Damned right. We always need men. Frankly, we are desperate, my friend. Are you offering?’

‘I could be up for joining you.’

‘Glad to hear it. I don’t know why modern men are so hard to find.’

‘I was wondering when I could stop by?’

‘Tuesdays and Thursdays, 7.30 for 8.’

‘Excellent, I’ll come at the first opportunity.’

The guy laughed in a strange fashion before saying, ‘You do that. Ask for me, Ronnie Ripple… and your name is?’

‘Callum McGrory.’

‘You’re Scottish.’

‘I am.’

‘Do you wear a kilt?’

‘Not often. Only in the bedroom.’

The man squealed a laugh, and said, ‘What a pity, anyway, Callum, I look forward to meeting you,’ and he actually said, ‘nighty-night,’ before cutting off.

Before making the call, Hamish thought he might mention his previous acting experience, but dumped the idea as they might seek a reference, and that wouldn’t be good, but the idea of becoming part of the White Nancy troupe thrilled him.

What better place to flaunt his looks, ego, physique, and deep voice, playing lead roles? What better location to find and suss out women, and especially women without family or ties? It was as if that crazy God he shared a turbulent relationship with, had set that theatrical notice before his eyes on purpose, giving him a tremendous buzz, and he couldn’t wait to join.

He was there before the week was out, meeting Ronnie Ripple and the gang of maybe thirteen or fourteen frustrated actors. Ronnie knew within a minute of meeting Hamish he wasn’t the man for him, but he was happy to welcome him into the crew, asking, ‘Have you any experience?’

‘A wee bit, a long time ago. I might be a bit ring-rusty, but I’m sure I’ll get back into it.’

Ronnie glanced at Callum, repeating the words ring-rusty under his breath, before glancing back at the mainly female throng, to say, ‘We’ll soon bang the rust off him, won’t we, girls?’

‘Yes,’ they said, taking an eyeful of the muscular Scotsman who’d arrived among them. ‘Be our pleasure.’

Hamish knew within ten minutes of joining there were two women who fitted his criteria.

When the time was right, he would make a play for both of them. Susan Vairs, a late twenty-something, a long swirling-haired brunette, who considered herself the glamour girl of the gang, not without some justification, and Elspeth Evans, an early thirty creature, Hamish estimated, who had something about her. A woman with secrets, he imagined, and the good thing was, neither displayed a wedding band.

There was no doubt Sue Vairs was the one he’d most like to discover in his bed when he woke in the morning, but Elspeth Evans had other attractions, the most crucial of those being a surname beginning with the letter E.

Chapter eleven

A new day, and the hunt for Hamish Cairney stepped up a pace. With the story broken across the media, Mrs West allowed the release of the latest picture of the man.

Walter and Karen had been at their desk for more than an hour before the boss appeared. They weren’t to know it was the lull before the storm. The note to ring Mel Varnes sat on Walter’s desk, but was pushed to one side, as he thought it would be too early to call an almost eighty-year-old.

At half-past nine, Roddy Jeffries rang from Edinburgh with a quick-start sentence.

‘We’ve found her!’

‘Who?’ said Walter, his mind elsewhere.

‘Isla Aitken, or at least, her remains.’

‘That’s both good news and bad,’ said Walter, before imagining the comment might be construed as callous. ‘Where?’

‘He’s a crafty devil,’ said Roddy.

‘Care to elaborate?’

‘Outside Edinburgh, there is or was a funeral director by the name of Scott & Wilson. Mr Scott of that name passed away a year ago, and Mr Wilson’s bookkeeping skills were horrendous, which is a polite way of saying Mr Wilson lived way beyond his means. Six months ago, the company ceased trading, and the place has sat idle ever since. We don’t have an official receiver up here, as you do down south. A Sheriff court has to issue a bankruptcy petition, and you know what it’s like with any cases bumbling through the legal system?’

‘Things can take forever?’

‘Correct, and there are lots of hoops everyone has to jump through, with many strange and ancient legal terms needing to be complied with.’

‘And to cut a long story short?’

‘It seems Mr Wilson realised he could not meet his obligations. In fact, the latest figures suggest he’s going to miss them by over a million quid. It all got too much for him and he went to pieces, closed the business, locked the door, and walked away, indicating it was all his late partner’s fault, and he, Mr Wilson, would wait to see what the court decided.’

‘Go on.’

‘Somehow, someone, and I believe it was Cairney, gained access to the premises when it was empty, which it had been for a while, and delivered Isla Aitken’s body to the funeral parlour, where he set it in a mid-range coffin, and screwed down the lid.’

‘How was she discovered?’

‘Good question. It seems the civil servant appointed by the courts struck a provisional deal with a former rival to take over the building and assets, such as they were. Their staff went there yesterday afternoon to compile an inventory, found the sealed coffin, and were intrigued enough to open it.’

‘Must have come as a big surprise.’

‘You can say that again. They called us; the call came in at half past four. Officers were dispatched, nominated it a crime scene, cleared the new owners out of the building, sealed everything off, and forensics have been there ever since.’

‘Any doubt it’s Isla?’

‘Until she is officially identified, there is always doubt. But I don’t have any other missing people of her age on my books. I’d be amazed if it wasn’t. We hope to have ID confirmed later today.’

‘What sort of condition was she in?’

‘You don’t want to know, Inspector. Not great, is the answer. Savage, not a picture anyone would want to see, because if you did, you’d struggle to remove it from your mind. A post-mortem is not yet underway. We have to wait for the PF to direct that, the Procurator Fiscal. He or she will investigate the cause of death, and decide if a PM is necessary, which the law says it will be. More legal hoops to be jumped through, you don’t want to know, Inspector. There is a legal requirement for it to be done quickly, so we are doing all we can to satisfy the PF, and keep things moving. I’ll keep you posted on that.’

‘Thanks. I appreciate it.’

‘Any sign of Cairney down your way?’

‘Not yet. He’s gone to ground. As you may have seen, the case is now out in the open and fresh photos of the man will be published today, and I believe a decent reward is being considered for his capture.’

‘You’ll get him, Inspector. I’m confident of that. Anything else?’

‘We went to see Mary Lambert, nee Cross, yesterday.’

‘Did you? How did that go?’

‘Pretty good. I asked her if she would testify against Cairney. She said she would be reluctant to do so. It seems she’s worried what her husband might say, but she confirmed without any doubt in her mind, Cairney held Gina under the water until she was dead.’

‘Murdered her, in plain terms.’

‘Correct, though it was almost thirty years ago.’

‘No statute of limitations on murder cases in Scotland, Inspector, as I presume you know. Not to mention we have our own unique laws relating to murder up here where “wickedness” comes into play.’

‘Gee whiz, good luck with that. No statute on murder here either. I’ll keep you informed on everything to do with Cairney if you could do the same for us on Isla Aitken.’

‘That’s an easy thing to agree.’

‘And don’t forget, Roddy, there is still a strong thought he might have returned north. I’ll send you the latest photos. Feel free to plaster them across the country.’

‘Consider it done,’ and both officers cut off.

In the Marlston Avenue house, a legal letter arrived addressed to Mr & Mrs Varnes, confirming they still owned the property. Any monies paid to a third party would be chased down, and the Varnes couple would not be held accountable for any losses. They were in the clear, and the letter ended with a profuse apology for the transaction reaching the stage it did.

Both solicitors and the estate agent would be investigated to toughen up laws and procedures to ensure nothing like it happened again. Melvin sat in the rear sitting room, as the letter slipped from his fingers, where it floated to the floor. Maybe if it had come two days earlier, Ann might still be alive.

Mrs West arrived at Walter’s desk, looking and sounding chipper over something.

‘You’ll never guess what?’ she said.

Walter wasn’t in a guessing frame of mind, looked at her, and said, ‘What?’

‘Ground penetrating radar machine,’ she said, her tongue slipping from the side of her mouth as she glanced at Karen.

‘You’ve bought one?’ said Walter, though he didn’t believe it.

‘No, but…’ and she paused as if it was a big “but”. ‘You know that murder inquiry going on in the Birmingham suburbs, the three-story Victorian house where they found two bodies beneath the basement, and another two buried in the garden, tracked down by GPR, well…’ and she took a breath, ‘I spoke to West Midlands Chief Constable, and he kindly said we could have it for three days next week, at no expense. They have rented it till then, and he said they will be finished with it by the weekend.’

‘Well done,’ said Walter, trying to show enthusiasm.

‘Thought you’d be pleased. We’ll discuss who’s doing what when it comes,’ and she smiled at them and hurried back to her domain, where she closed the door.

‘I’d be interested in that,’ said Karen.

Walter thought about it before saying, ‘Yes, me too.’

In Marlston Avenue, Melvin sat in the chair staring at the hearth, pondering on what he should do. He had no one to turn to. Sylvia was still in Portugal, living it up as if they were her last few days. The neighbours were useless and mean articles who never spoke, as his mind returned to the previous morning.

He’d woken at half-past eight, still catching up on sleep after the home invasion nightmare. She was asleep beside him, and he thought he’d slip from the bed and make breakfast. He hoped she’d be in a better mood after sleeping, for the previous evening she had been curt with him over something and nothing, and that wasn’t like her.

Melvin patted her hand as if to say, you’ll have a better day today, sweetie pie. Don’t let the wicked world get you down. Her hand was icy cold, but that was nothing new, because her hands were always cold. He propped himself up and glanced at her beautiful face. It was all he could do not to stoop and kiss her, but that might wake her, and he didn’t want to do that. It was only then he noticed she wasn’t breathing.

A short while before the hunt for Hamish Cairney became public knowledge, Hamish called the estate agency acting for the seller in disposing of Saint Luke’s church to enquire about viewing.

The young guy said they were rushed off their feet with their weekly auction, but they had a key in the office, and after a couple of questions about his name and profession, questions Cairney answered by saying he was Callum McGrory, a maths teacher working at a local school, throwing in a top-notch educational establishment to embellish his story, he was given the all clear.

‘You can view by yourself if you don’t mind going alone. Sorry, I can’t make it for a few days,’ said the guy. ‘Everything of value’s been removed,’ and he ended with, ‘there’s a ten-pound deposit for the key. I’ll leave it in reception for you.’

Hamish thanked him and said he’d pick it up later. Two hours passed before he went into the auctioneers to speak to a young woman he thought a trainee, paid the tenner deposit, collected the key, and went straight to Saint Luke’s.

The big key opened the big door, and he stepped inside and closed up behind him. To his left was a bank of old metal light switches, the kind with miniature planets on the end. He flicked them on more in hope than anticipation, and was surprised to see the lights throughout the church shining bright.

There hadn’t been a service in months, even a year or two, and the place was musty and dusty, with cobwebs falling down like gossamer stalactites.

He crept down the aisle towards the altar. In his mind he heard All people that on earth do dwell booming out, seeping outside to entertain passing open-windowed cars. It was his favourite hymn; he adored the climax, soaring into the rafters high above, written by William Kethe in 1561 when religious intolerance was at its height, a Scottish clergyman, and a Scottish hymn, so it had to be good.

He arrived at the altar and stopped. The imagined music stopped too, forcing him to glance round at the fusty silence. The estate agency guy said all items of value had been removed, and that was bunk. All the dark varnished pews were still in place, waiting for a procession of posteriors to wander in and warm the timber. Hamish had seen single pews fetching good money on daytime antiques programmes. Someone could do well with those.

The altar looked grand and imposing, with ornate designs on the facia. Yes, the crosses and communion cups, precious metal and regalia, and no doubt the communion wine had been stripped and removed, but other than that, it was still an intact house of worship. Even the reredos was there, the antique screen set behind the altar close to the wall. It was quite something, faded perhaps, embroidered, showing the parables of Jesus, with two Latin words, or were they Spanish? He couldn’t remember, woven into the tapestry on the right side, No Matarás.

Hamish knew well enough what it meant and scoffed. Thou shalt not kill. Human beings had been killing their own kind since they first appeared, (wasn’t there an open and shut murder case involving the first four humans?) and it was as if they were programmed to kill, and always would. If anything, the killing rate increased with each passing year. The sad truth was they would keep up the slaughter until the species went extinct, or evolved into something more intelligent.

If the young man had valued the church contents, he was way off beam. That screen alone must be worth a small fortune. Hamish’s eyes wandered upwards. Behind and above the reredos, going up almost to the beams, was an enormous cross.

It was hard to tell what it was made of because it was covered in dirty, worn, and frayed gold leaf. Could be plaster, could be timber, maybe metal, could be anything, and it sure was an impressive thing.

The installers had attached it to the red stone wall using four chunky bolts, one at the top, one at the base, and another on each cross beam, and even the ancient bolts had been prettified with gold leaf. The whole thing stood proud of the stone by about a foot and made a statement no one could miss.

Hamish glanced at his watch and realised he needed to get moving. He returned to the porch, turned off the lights, went outside, locked the door, and hurried away to the key cutting shop he had spotted on the way there.

The guy laughed when he saw the key, and said, ‘We don’t often get these.’

‘Can you do it?’

‘Oh yeah, but they are expensive. Thirty quid a pop.’

Hamish nodded and ordered a replacement, so long as the guy could do it while he waited. The ruddy faced fellow nodded hard, bumped it to the head of the queue of outstanding orders, and set the machinery going, grinding away to produce a perfect copy in under ten minutes.

When Hamish arrived back at the auctioneers, he was pleased to find no one on the enquiry desk. He reached over and set the original key and tag on the high stool behind, turned about, and left, not bothering about his lost deposit.

In Marlston Avenue, Melvin recalled ringing triple nine, reporting what he had found. A clipped voice fellow said they’d send an ambulance, police, and maybe a doctor, and they all arrived within the hour. The doctor told the officers it looked a straight forward death in the night, probably heart failure, age related, and the woman had only recently been discharged from hospital, and was on boxes of medication. In the circumstances, a PM seemed unlikely.

In good time, Ann’s body was set on a gurney, with Melvin standing by watching, as they pulled the white cover over her head, as if drawing the final curtain across her face, signalling her life was over. It was time to go, time to say farewell to the house, and five decades of precious memories, time to leave everything behind. We might not like it, but it happens to us all. No exceptions. The only time in life when we are all truly equal.

Melvin turned away and left them to it. He didn’t know what else to do, and returned to the chair, lost in thought.

He was so disappointed the police officer hadn’t rung. The man had said if there was anything he ever needed, just call. And he did need things, and he had called, and the damned man hadn’t bothered to ring back.

In Melvin’s eyes, that summed up the failing twenty-first century in a nutshell. Nothing ever fucking worked! He wouldn’t be too disappointed to leave it behind, and it was all he could do not to burst into tears, or yell a curse word at the medics who were on the move, heading for the front door, on their way out, Ann leaving Marlston Avenue for the last time.

Nigh on eighty years he had been on the planet, and it was all to end in confusion, with him sitting alone with his memories, and sod all else. It didn’t feel right, and it didn’t sit right. What to do? He had no idea. What did everyone else do in similar circumstances? They rang their loved ones, hoping they would take charge. The difficulty was, he didn’t have any.

Chapter twelve

Callum McGrory’s start at the White Nancy went well, though it could have gone better. On his second evening he asked Sue Vairs, the glamour brunette, if she’d like to go on for dinner later.

She laughed it off, used to being courted and invited out. Said she was spoken for, thanked him for asking, and made light of it. Hamish thought she was lying, though he didn’t show displeasure, instead made a mental note of it, as he switched his attention to Elspeth Evans.

He hadn’t yet asked for a date, playing it cool after the first knock-back. Maybe the women shared secrets. Callum imagined they did, and didn’t want to land an early reputation for being a nuisance. They flirted, and in his mind that flirting came back with interest, and the more he grew to know her, the more he liked her, for she was an interesting if secretive woman, and thus the more suitable he imagined she would be.

He planned to complete the E and leave the area soon after, travelling by rail, back north of the border to check out the F, and after that, he would take a well-earned holiday, before resuming activities, seeking a suitable G. It sounded wonderful.

Walter glanced at Mel Varnes’ note and went to pick up the phone, but at the last moment Jenny Thompson called over, ‘Guv, I have the desk sergeant on the phone from downstairs. She says she has a woman caller down there who wants to discuss the Cairney case.’

‘Oh? What’s her name?’

‘Sally Williams.’

Walter thought about the name, though it meant nothing to him.

‘Does she sound sensible and straight?’

‘Very. She says her best mate, Laila Broadsword, has gone missing.’

The B initial wasn’t lost on anyone. Mel Varnes could wait; a red-hot lead could not.

‘Okay, have someone bring her up.’

A couple of minutes later, a young male DC accompanied her out of the lift and introduced her to the waiting Inspector Darriteau and Sergeant Greenwood. They led her down a corridor to a private room, where they sat on either side of a rectangular table.

Walter kicked things off with, ‘Tell us what you know, Sally.’

She took a breath and sailed away. It seemed she had a date to play squash with Laila some time before, but Sally had double booked, admitting she’d picked up an invite from a bloke she hoped might ask her out for months, and it was too good an opportunity to miss. She and Laila shared frosty words on the phone and hadn’t spoken since.

To begin with, Sally thought it would blow over and Laila would soon be back on the phone, but she never rang. You know how it is when people fall out, she said. They either get back together soon, or they never do, and it was no big deal. After two weeks, Sally tried phoning again without success, and getting no reply, imagined Laila had taken it to heart, and didn’t wish to speak. Fair enough, she’d give her more time to cool off, and besides, she and Greg hit it off, and were having tons of fun, and she wanted to devote all her time to him.

She thought no more of it, until the murder case hit the press, flaunting a picture of a man the police wanted to interview. Sally said she lost sleep over it, her mind in turmoil, thinking over and over, what if this, and what if that? What if Laila had met this guy at the health club and had fallen into his clutches? Everyone knew the place was used as a pickup joint, and maybe he’d met her there on the night Sally didn’t show.

Walter thought about that. Was it a regular pickup place? Was that a well-known fact? It was news to him. One learnt something new every day. He didn’t know it, perhaps because he had never boasted a gym membership in his life, though it was never too late to start.

Karen said, ‘Which gym?’

‘The new upmarket place, the one with the enormous pool.’

‘I know it,’ and she looked at Walter and said, ‘and it is, a pickup joint.’

They took all the information Sally had about Laila, address, dead parents, lack of brothers and sisters, and fifteen minutes later, Walter, Karen, and Darren left the station, heading for Laila’s flat.

As Karen drove, Darren said, ‘How old is Laila?’

Karen answered.

‘Thirty-seven, though Sally said she often trimmed years from her age, and she could get away with it because she kept herself fit and trim, and looked a lot younger.’

At the block of flats, a young man was coming out, smiling and holding the outside door open for the three to enter the building. Maybe not such a great idea, but it helped.

At Laila’s flat, after knocking with no reply, Darren went to work on the lock. He had been taking extra lessons from Josh Cannon, the approved locksmith, and Josh supplied Darren with a couple of nifty implements for fifty quid he said could get into most easy-open locks.

It didn’t take long, and in the next second, he eased the door open, and they trooped inside, gloved up, careful not to touch or disturb potential evidence. There was no one there, but the bed had been slept in, though it was cold to the touch when Walter removed a glove for one second to check.

Glove back on, he said, ‘Does that bed look like it’s been slept in recently?’

‘It does not,’ said Karen.

‘How can you tell?’ asked Darren.

‘It’s settled. It looks abandoned. Trust me, I can tell.’

Neither man would argue. Maybe it was a female thing. Walter sniffed the bedding and detected the faint aroma of designer scent, though it was difficult to tell if it was male aftershave or an expensive female brand, or perhaps a mixture of both. One thing was clear, it was old, distant, and fading fast, and backed up Karen’s suggestion the bed hadn’t been used in a while.

They searched for blood and found nothing, or obvious weapons that might have been used in any assault. They found pristine kitchen knives, none missing, all clean and dry and back in the block. They could have been used to kill someone, and there would be blood splashes somewhere, even if the killer had carried out a deep clean. Walter guessed the flat was splash free. If Laila had been attacked, Walter imagined Cairney’s brute strength forced the life out of her. The man would never need additional tools.

Also in the kitchen, they found a mug, knife, and plate, neatly washed and standing tall on the drainer, as if someone had cleaned up after eating a light breakfast. They were bone dry, as was the sink, supporting the theory no one had run the water in weeks. The electric kettle to one side was cold and devoid of water, and the little food in the fridge was past its sell-by date and beginning to stink.

‘What do you think, Guv?’ said Darren. ‘Is Laila Broadsword the missing B?’

‘I think she is, though it is not yet proven. Call forensics and get them here ASAP. If they can find Cairney’s DNA, we have the positive link we need.’

‘On it, Guv,’ and he fired up his mobile.

Karen took plenty of shots of the flat, for one never knew when they might prove useful.

Walter took her to one side and said, ‘You know about health clubs. Ring them and ask about CCTV. My guess is they will have loads. Most new businesses open to the public do. Get them to zip it up the wire, and get Darren gawking on it, as soon as. He’s good at that. If he can find Hamish and Laila coming or going together, we are in business.’

‘You think she’s our missing girl?’

‘Every possibility.’

‘Then, who’s the E?’

‘Million-dollar question, Greenwood. She’ll be in this dark business somewhere soon because he ain’t going to stop. And before you go, knock on some doors in the block. When did they last see Laila, and was she with a man? You know the drill.’

Karen said, ‘If Cairney killed her, what did he do with the body?’

‘Great question. She could be anywhere. With this guy, anything is possible.’

‘Buried at Moreton Corbet, you reckon?’

‘Could be. We’ll go there as soon as they switch on the radar. I’ll leave you to it. Come back the moment forensics arrive.’

‘Where are you going?’

‘I have a call to do, and make sure Darren doesn’t do anything stupid,’ and Walter turned for the door and went outside, leaving them in the flat.

Chapter thirteen

Sometime earlier, Cairney bought a roll of jute rope when it was on special offer, fifty feet long and twenty millimetres in diameter. One never knew when one might require a quantity of top-quality rope, as he tossed it in the back of his van.

He bought it online where you could buy just about anything, no questions asked, biodegradable jute, it said, environmentally friendly, easy to use, packed in a coil, and very strong.

It wasn’t in the van any longer. He’d placed it in a super large Bestdas bag for life, and it slept in the back of the musty wardrobe in the Oak Apple guest house, though it wouldn’t remain there long. Under cover of darkness, he moved it to Saint Luke’s church, where he hid it within the altar, via the cupboard door at the back.

Altars were never used for storage. It was a big no-no, though Hamish didn’t know that, and didn’t care. Just as well, he shifted the rope, for his face hit the media a few days afterwards, and after that, moving around would become more difficult, as he worried about the copious CCTV popping up everywhere.

Not that it mattered, for he had invested in disguise equipment and would change his appearance when necessary. He enjoyed a quick shopping spree, buying narrow, soft cord, additional clothing, an electric shaver, painkillers in case he developed a migraine, medication he added to his overflowing toilet bag of potions and pills, plus a small tube of ping-pong balls.

The longer he stayed at the Oak Apple, the more he grew to like it. There was never anyone staffing the small reception desk, just an electric bell fitted into the countertop, with a rough note taped next to the buzzer, and he came and went with no one knowing. No CCTV either, which was a big bonus.

The note said: RING THE BELL FOR ATTENTION IF YOU NEED IT in large capital letters with big spaces between the lines, and because the point size was high, the first line only said RING THE BELL with a space beneath, before text continued.

Some wag had scribbled after the RING THE BELL… RUN LIKE HELL! and it looked as if it had been done sometime before, and no one thought of removing the wacky words. It brought a smile to Hamish’s face every time he saw it.

In the opposite corner was a small worn chair, where he would sometimes sit reading a local paper, keeping his head down, studying the transient clientele who came and went.

Legions of foreign workers, often in groups of two or three, jabbering away in languages he didn’t understand. To a man and woman, they avoided eye contact with the hefty guy in the seat.

A young army squaddie was next in, shifty, and looking guilty about something. Hamish imagined him to be a deserter as he hurried upstairs to hide. Travelling sales people were always coming and going, seeking a cheap bed, displaying pinched, worried faces, perhaps working on a commission-only basis, wandering through a tough economy, making little progress. Small wonder they looked depressed and desperate.

The fornicating adulterers amused many. Forever coming and going, glancing around to see if anyone was watching. Smirking and appearing guilty, as they dashed up the stairs to revisit their creaking double bed, the brown timber headboard banging against the wall for most of the afternoon like a pile-driving drill, making the Oak Apple appear and sound like a knocking shop.

Hamish guessed they were married, though not to each other, and couldn’t risk meeting at either marital home. It wouldn’t last. It never did, as at least one discovered they preferred a return to the safety of their so-called better half.

A balding vicar came and went, smiling at everyone, keen to engage with anyone who needed company, offering reassurance the world was a better place than they imagined. It was hard to tell if he slept in the OA, or felt it part of his remit to support and encourage the downtrodden. He once tried engaging Hamish in conversation, though was brushed away as if he were an irritating earwig.

The biggest bunch were the steady stream of young women, some heavily pregnant, often with two or three clinging babies cum toddlers, desperate for accommodation, money, and sleep, rammed in there by Social Services, until a grotty flat came available. Even grotty flats in the grottiest neighbourhoods were better than living in the Oak Apple, and Hamish wished them well, and never enquired of their surnames. They could all have been a G and he wouldn’t have cared less. It seemed he was the only one bunking down there who wasn’t desperate to leave, but it was an education, and that was something he knew a great deal about.

He enjoyed studying struggling humanity; for he had been there, and the more desperate, the better, as he pondered on who would draw the lucky ticket of being a suitable G. Sometimes he thought he was the only lodger to be sane and normal, and he wouldn’t want to mix with any of them out in the real world, as he thought of what best to do with Elspeth Evans. He had plans for her, something he had been working on for days.

Walter’s initial idea was to walk to Marlston Avenue, but it was a hot day, and further away than he thought, and quite by chance, he stumbled on a cab rank. The driver was standing by the gleaming car, sucking a fag for all he was worth.

He spotted the loitering man and said, ‘Wanna cab, mate?’

‘I do.’

‘Jump in,’ and Walter eased into the back.

If the cabbie was disappointed at the ultra-short journey, he didn’t show it, gabbling about climate change, and the glorious weather he hoped would last forever. Maybe the big tip made up for the meagre fare, as Walter slipped out of the diesel car, and the cab puffed away.

Walter was looking forward to meeting Mel and Ann again, and wondered why Mel had rung, guessing the call was to update him on the cuckooing scam, and the potential house sale Walter stopped dead in its tracks.

The happy little Ford was there, staring out, smiling, as Walter patted it on the top as he made his way to the front door and the bell. In the next moment, Mel shuffled to the door and opened up.

On seeing Walter, he forced a pathetic, polite smile and said, ‘Ah, there you are. I rang you. Come on in.’

He didn’t look well, pallid and lethargic, and perhaps age was catching up with him, as Walter stepped into the wide hall.

Mel stared at him as if not knowing what to say.

‘Where’s Ann?’ said Walter.

There was only one answer to that.

‘She’s dead. Gone. Died in the night, and you said if I needed anything I could call, and I did because I’m alone, and I don’t know what to do next. I hope you don’t mind.’

They trained police officers to give bad news to the public, and it was rare when startling news came back the other way. Melvin didn’t move, swaying back and forth as if he might topple over.

Walter said, ‘Let’s go in the sitting room,’ and he beckoned him in there as if they were in Walter’s house, a feeling that grew when Walter said, ‘Shall I make tea?’

Melvin grunted a yes, and shuffled into the sitting room to fall into his usual chair, as Walter went into the kitchen diner in search of clean mugs.

Two nights before, Hamish was growing into the acting scene fast, landing a big part in a new play about modern life that featured all the ills of today, with bucket loads of cheek, slang, and foul language Hamish wasn’t comfortable uttering.

‘More feeling, Callum!’ Ronnie Ripple yelled, and Hamish would try harder to get it right.

During rehearsals, Hamish and Elspeth exchanged several warm glances and grins, and that was good, so far as Callum was concerned. He didn’t like his part and hated the play. He portrayed a wicked property landlord because there was no one else who could do it, Ronnie said, which wasn’t him at all, Hamish thought, a scoundrel on the make. While Elspeth played a tarty barmaid, covered in red lipstick Hamish found amusing, both in the play and in real life. The landlord was spending more time at the bar than he should, and rumours were rife.

The thought returned to him of eyeing up Florence Dolby across the bar when she’d donned red lippy, before they barred him from the Thundering Horse, and their short and sweet affair that followed. Funny how make believe could mirror real life. It turned out Florence was a demanding woman, and he was in no mood to put up with that. Back then, there had been another D in his mind, but Florence’s behaviour changed all that.

After the rehearsal, Susan Vairs made a sharp exit, braying about her latest waiting fervent lover, while Elspeth hung around, a reluctance to leave that interested Hamish.

‘Fancy a drink?’ he said.

‘I don’t mind if I do. The way I feel now, I reckon I might drink the pub dry,’ and a few minutes later they left together, eager to get to the bar, Ronnie Ripple watching them go. He wasn’t surprised. She was playing a slut, and maybe that was right in character, while he imagined Callum the kind of guy who’d rush from one pair of knickers to the next without breaking sweat. It wouldn’t last; it never did with the hit-and-run affairs between frustrated theatricals.

Walter put the teas down on the coffee table, sat opposite, and said the only thing he could think of. ‘I’m so sorry, Melvin.’

‘Aye, well, I knew it would happen one day. Though it was still a surprise. It’s just I don’t know what to do next.’

‘Can I give your number to a FLO?’

‘A FLO?’

‘A Family Liaison Officer. She’ll help you with anything you need.’

For a second, Melvin looked happier, and said, ‘That would be great.’

‘In short, you need to register the death, and you will should to do that as soon as you can. They’re based in Goldsmith House, Goss Street. The place to register. You’ll be pleased to know there is no charge to die, but there is a payment for the death certificate. It’s not too much, and you’ll need to take Ann’s birth certificate and the paperwork, I assume the doctor left.’

Melvin passed over a bunch of papers.

Walter said, ‘When’s the funeral?’

‘I have no idea, haven’t thought about it. I always thought, being older, I would be the first to go. It’s caught me on the hop. ’

‘The FLO will help with all that.’

‘Thanks, I know I shouldn’t ask, but could I prevail on you to come to the funeral? She liked you, Inspector. Always saying you were a good’un, and I have this fear I will be the only one there, standing alone in front of the vicar, and I don’t want that to happen.’

‘I’m sure it won’t come to that. What about family, and the neighbours?’

Melvin scoffed and wanted to say plenty, but held his tongue and shook his head.

‘Let me know when it is,’ said Walter, ‘and I’ll be there if I can.’

The old man ducked his head and whispered a thank you.

Walter said, ‘I’ll tell you what, I’ll ring the FLO’s now,’ and he did, explaining Melvin’s plight. The trained-to-be-helpful lady asked to be put on to Melvin, and they had a long chat, as they fixed up an appointment for the following morning at the house.

‘That’s champion, Inspector,’ said Melvin.

‘Call me Walter.’

The man nodded and said, ‘Put my mind at rest, that did,’ and fifteen minutes later, he let the officer out to walk back into the city, giving Walter the opportunity to consider what would happen when his turn came. Who’d make the arrangements for him? And who would attend, if anyone, and what would happen to the house? Many people needed to make arrangements, and never did, imagining the sheer act of planning might kick-start the event.

He had never thought it necessary to make a will and put his affairs in order, so busy was he, and with no one to leave anything to, he hadn’t thought what would happen.

If he did nothing, he imagined his chattels and cash would go to the crown. The Queen would have it, though there was no longer a queen.

Not that there was a lot of value, though the old house would be worth a pretty penny. A bloke had moved into Buck House, King Charles the Third, and he wasn’t short of a bob or two, and didn’t need Walter’s pennies. Maybe it was time to think of doing something else. Time to put everything in order, just in case, for the big dark D came down the track to smack everyone in the face, and faster than anyone thought, no avoiding it; and it was better to leave everything shipshape and Bristol fashion.

He’d make an appointment with his solicitor before the week was out. Be interesting to see what she had to say, and how much she would charge for saying it.

In the Black Horse, Callum and Elspeth drank too much, pausing only to order two fat hamburgers, before switching back to wine. He didn’t drink as much as she did, or as much as she thought. Callum used her frequent breaks to the loo to get rid of unwanted booze in a variety of imaginative places, and water down what remained.

Her absence gave him the perfect opportunity to slip rohypnol into her glass. He reckoned she was putty in his hands, but a decent dash of the clear, tasteless liquid made it a certainty. The E girl, the fifth, would soon be on her way, and then he could travel north, and scout out the F. He’d already bought the rail ticket. Chester to Edinburgh, and though it cost a small fortune, it was better than risking the van.

Elspeth returned, refreshed perfume, eyes and nose reddening, though her appetite for alcohol remained undimmed, as she sat down and took a slurp of wine.

‘There’s something I want to tell you, Callum,’ she slurred.

He imagined it would be similar guff to what they had discussed all night, dissing every actor in the troupe, revisiting the fruity gossip of Ronnie Ripple’s countless men friends, only to be outdone by Susan Vairs’ register of lovers that would rival the Chester phonebook, if such a directory still existed. As it turned out, it wasn’t inane gossip.

She grinned across the table, eyes wide, wine in hand, and said, ‘You’ll never believe it, but I’m a criminal. What do you think of that?’

Hamish laughed, forgetting for a moment he was Callum.

‘Get away with you, lassie. You’ve had too much to drink.’

‘Nope,’ she said, shaking her head more often than necessary, exhaling hard, letting go a quiet burp from the side of her mouth, before adding, ‘Is it hot in here, or is it me? I’m feeling sleepy.’

It was the signal to go. He called for the bill and a business-like woman appeared. Hamish paid cash, added a tip, neither too small nor too large to be remembered.

He stood up and went round the table, grabbed her shoulder, and shook her hard. She perked up a little, though not enough. Hamish glanced round the emptying bar. No one there, with no one looking back. He slapped her face. Zero back lift, not too hard to attract attention, no great smacking sound echoing across the room, just enough to bring her round.

‘You hit me!’

‘No, I didn’t. You’re mistaken, and you’re drunk. Come on, Elspeth, it’s home time for you,’ and he dragged her to her feet and ordered her to hold on to his arm, and a moment later, they slouched out together, the imperfect perfect couple, into the balmy night.

The last words she said before she lost the power of speech were, ‘I’m staying at the Green Lodge Hotel.’

‘Course you are, darling, and that’s where we are going,’ and that relaxed her beyond belief, as she closed her eyes and hung on to his hunky arm, happy in knowing he was seeing her safely back, for she would never make it by herself.

Chapter fourteen

The new health club had CCTV aplenty and were happy to share it. Video surveillance records were never over-recorded , and wouldn’t be for at least six months. The police officers wished every business operated the same policy.

The health club asked what dates they were interested in. All of it, came the reply, and a surprised manager said, ‘Oh, okay,’ wondering if they had any idea how much footage there was. Within the hour, they began streaming it to the police.

Darren groaned there was too much of it for one set of eyes, and asked Walter if he could recruit Kate Foster into helping. She hadn’t done CCTV work before, but was keen to learn, and Darren was the best possible teacher, for he possessed an innate ability to find and see things others could not. They granted Darren his wish for an extra set of eyes, and great eyes, they were.

Twenty-four hours passed with no hint of a hit. Maybe Sally had given them the wrong date for their supposed squash match. It didn’t help the only things they had to match against was a photograph of Hamish. They did not know what Laila looked like, other than a small blurred head shot in a shared photo of ten women on a hen night, and in frustration, Darren collared Walter to say, ‘Look, Guv, Sally Williams is the one person who could recognise Laila. What about getting her in, plonk her down beside us, and set her looking?’

It was a decent idea, though how many members of the public would give up their day, annoying their boss, and maybe lose a chunk of pay?

Walter said, ‘Do we have Sally’s number?’

‘It’s in the file,’ said Darren, turning over papers. ‘Yep, here it is,’ and he read it out.

Walter noted it and rang Sally.

He introduced himself and said, ‘We need your help, Sally. We are finding it hard recognising Laila. You’d know her in a second, wouldn’t you?’

‘Sure, so long as the video is decent.’

‘It is. Very good indeed. Any chance you could come in and sit with our video search team?’

‘Yeah, I could do that. When did you have in mind?’

Walter sighed and said, ‘How about right now?’

‘Ah, I’m just about to go to work.’

‘I appreciate you have commitments, but what if this man has kidnapped Laila, and is holding her? Time is critical. Her life could be on the line. We need to find her, like now, and we need to find him.’

‘You think she’s alive?’

‘I hope she is, though who knows for how long?’

‘Okay, I’ll come. Be with you in about twenty minutes.’

‘Well done! Do you want me to ring your boss and explain your absence?’

‘No, but thanks for offering. I can handle him. There’s a shortage of staff in our business. He couldn’t afford to fire me.’

‘What business are you in?’

‘Chemicals, I’ll see you soon,’ and she cut off.

She turned up half an hour later. Walter introduced her to Darren and Kate, and they brought a fresh chair up, and she sat between the two.

Darren said, ‘Can you tell us which day you think it is?’

‘As I said, I can’t remember the exact day, but it was mid-week so it has to be between the 12th and the 14th.’

‘And time of day?’ asked Kate.

‘Early evening, between seven and eight, I’m sure of that.’

‘Okay,’ said Kate, scrolling through the days and times until they were looking at the twelfth, starting at a quarter to seven.

There was no sign of either of them on the twelfth, and they looked right through till ten. It was amazing how much time they spent searching. Every second of every minute of every section of video had to be studied in real time, for scrolling through could be fatal. The thirteenth came and went in the same way, producing nothing.

Sally’s brow furrowed, feeling a failure, and they had already stared at screens for over six hours, as they moved to the fourteenth.

It was hard to make out who was the most relieved when Sally’s face lit up, as she stood and said, ‘There! Look! That’s them. That’s my Laila, and I presume that is your guy,’ her turquoise-nailed finger jabbing at Hamish’s image.

They watched the two of them standing outside the squash courts, limbering up, tapping racquets on thighs, not looking at one another, until Hamish made his move, attempting conversation. Laila seemed to brush him off, making excuses, before she returned to the lockers.

‘She must be going for her phone to call me,’ said Sally, sitting down, thinking back to that fraught cut-short conversation, and wishing to God she could have done a different thing and given a different answer.

The video rolled on, showing an anxious Cairney standing alone against the wall, glancing at people coming and going, hoping to snare another gal. A second later, Laila returned, glaring at him, snapping a let’s get going comment, or something similar, and they stepped through to the court and went out of sight.

Darren called the Guv over.

He watched the performance and said, ‘Our first positive link between Laila Broadsword and Hamish Cairney. We now know he knew her. So, what has he done with her, and where is she now?’

‘Just so long as she is alive,’ said Sally, a comment no one responded to because none of them thought she was.

Walter asked, ‘How long would they play for?’

‘Only an hour, Inspector. Trust me, after that, she would be frigging knackered,’ and she grimaced at her words and apologised for the language.

Walter nodded and said, ‘Okay, fast forward an hour and find them coming out. Is there CCTV covering outside?’

Darren said, ‘There is, Guv, we haven’t got that far yet?’

‘That’s the next step; I want to see them outside. I want to see them getting in a car together, and if they do, we can search further, CCTV tracking its progress,’ and he glanced at Sally and said, ‘Don’t worry. You won’t need to do that. Once we see which vehicle they get in, Darren and Kate will take it from there.’

Darren said, ‘What car has she got? Do you know the number?’

Sally had been in the car half a dozen times, and knew the make and model, but not the number.

‘No worries,’ said Kate. ‘If we ID it in the car park, we can zoom in on the registration.’

Sally was relieved she wouldn’t have to stay much longer, as Walter left them to it, Sally said, ‘He’s very demanding, your boss.’

‘He is,’ said Darren, not adding anything, because no one would want him any other way.

It took an hour to find them moving together through the foyer and out of the main entrance. The time clock in the corner gave an exact time. Darren had worked out how to switch to the exterior camera, covering a chunk of the parked cars. They watched the pair wander back towards a car.

‘That’s it!’ she said. ‘Laila’s car,’ as Laila opened the hatch and dumped her bag in the back, and his went in beside it.

Kate said, ‘Pictures are good enough to read the reg. All we have to do is find it.’

Neither of them jumped in the car, which was a surprise. Instead, they turned back and right, and ambled away together out of shot.

‘Where are they going?’ said Kate.

‘Golden Goose, I would think,’ said Sally. ‘It’s not far that way, and they do a decent meal for not too much cash.’

Darren called Walter back and showed him the fresh pics.

Kate said, ‘Do you want us to track the car? See if we can find out where it went?’

‘I know where it is,’ said Walter. ‘It’s parked in her reserved space at the flats. Darren, get forensics on it as soon as they can. If Cairney’s DNA is in the car, it’s another definite link, and another pointer to him visiting her flat.’

‘Are you going to find her, Inspector?’ asked Sally.

‘We are doing our best,’ said Walter, ‘and no one can do more, and thank you for your help. You’ve been great, and when you are ready, Kate will see you out.’

After she had gone, Walter sat and thought things through. He couldn’t imagine Laila Broadsword still being alive, but until they found her body, they must assume she was. If she were dead, what had Cairney done with her? Moreton Corbet still seemed the best hope, and using the marvels of modern technology, the underground search of that territory was about to begin. And if not Moreton, where? Where did one begin to look? In such circumstances, even the combined counties of Shropshire and Cheshire seemed as vast as the universe.

Isla Aitken dumped in a disused coffin. Emily Chatteris, crucified in her own basement. Laila Broadsword and Florence Dolby missing, and there was still the matter of the oncoming E. Who was that, and where was she? And where had Cairney met the lady? And the most important question of all. How far had the monster progressed with Miss or Mrs E?

Chapter fifteen

Callum or Hamish didn’t escort Elspeth back to the Green Lodge Hotel. He took her to the church, and by the time they arrived at Saint Luke’s, she was asleep.

His hand and arm were round the small of her back, forcing her along, her feet dragging more than walking, as he held her against the wall beside the door, fishing for the big key. One last look round, and with no one about, he turned the key, went inside, dragging her in after him. He locked the door and looked back at Elspeth. She’d slumped down, sitting on her backside, her head on her right shoulder, as sleep, or was it unconsciousness, overtook her.

He put minimal lighting on, for he didn’t want to attract undue attention. Hamish wondered if the young auctioneer who thought he knew everything had brought anyone else to view, or had given the key to others. Hamish left Elspeth close to the door and hustled down the sloping aisle towards the altar.

In the next second, he looked inside to see if his rope was undisturbed. No one had been there. He was sure of that. Everything good, and everything cool. He returned for the girl, throwing her across his shoulder as a firefighter might carry a child from a burning building. In the next second, he laid her on her back on the altar as if she were a human sacrifice. She didn’t move a muscle, her breathing long and slow, and he reckoned she’d remain that way for another eight or nine hours.

She was easy to ignore, as he tugged the coil of rope out to unroll, sniffing the end to take in the straw-like aroma. Hamish enjoyed the earthy, jutish smell. It appealed to him for reasons he never understood.

He sat on the front pew and formed the end of the rope into a noose. It was a difficult task, but he’d studied it on the internet, and the person who’d written the article, a man who swore he was the grandson of one of Britain’s last executioners, sure knew what he was talking about. It took him an hour to complete, and when done, he produced a perfect sliding noose.

Hamish stood up and played out more of the rope, waving it in the air, the noose on the far end like a lasso on a fat rope, round and round, whirling it, creating a whishing sound, making an ever-increasing circle in the musty air, until using all his strength, he launched it upwards, aiming for the top of the cross. He missed, though not by much, and he’d try again, for he had all night.

On the fourth throw, the noose circled the apex of the cross and slipped down to the patibulum, a fancy word for the crossbeam. He yanked on the rope, pulling it tight. The cross didn’t shiver. Hamish went to climb the rope, and he was an ace rope climber.

When he studied to become a gym and PE master, he was involved in races to the top of the ropes, and always won. He possessed all the equipment. Strong arms and thighs, rock solid determination, and a total lack of a fear of heights. It amazed his instructors to watch him shimmying up the rope like a squirrel or a monkey or even a bear cub seeking safety. Often, he’d reach the top when others had barely left the ground.

It wasn’t the time to ascend. It was a test to see if it would carry his weight, a test it passed with ease. He returned to Elspeth. Her eyes still closed and her breathing slow and steady. In the rope bag he’d brought a supply of thin, strong cord, and brown plastic parcel tape, while in his pocket was his faithful knife, small and razor sharp, capable of inflicting horrendous wounds.

He thought of running the brown tape around her head and mouth, leaving the nostrils clear, though even if she woke and cried out, he doubted anyone outside would hear, and besides, he intended returning at first light, confident she would still be unconscious.

He reached down to strip her. Going about the task with care, for there was no point in ripping the clothes from an inert woman. A late change of heart, no clue why, left her in pink bra and panties. He wasn’t a pervert, and even Jesus boasted a loincloth, if the gospels were to be believed.

Before going up, he cut three short sections of cord, plus two longer pieces, and rammed them into his trouser pocket. He slipped the knife in his rear pocket and was ready to ascend. Hamish grabbed the woman, tied one of the longer cords around her waist, and on around his shoulder and under his armpit. He didn’t want her falling. She could get injured if she did, as he scratched his nose and was ready to go.

With Elspeth on his shoulder, he strode towards the rope, her naked feet bumping against his midriff, her head to the side of his back, as he grabbed the dangling rope.

His vanity told him only one man in a hundred could climb that vertical length of jute with a woman across his shoulder. Maybe not even that many. He tugged on the rope once, twice, as his feet left the ground. The two of them were airborne, where he paused, sizing up the task in hand, before expending energy.

‘Go!’ he said to himself, and his hands reached up and pulled, never stopping, one after the other, hand over hand, the rope between his soles, hitch-kicking ever higher, the jute forced into a question mark between his feet. Pull-up, pull-up, go, go, go!

He enjoyed it, as sweat broke out on his forehead, sliding down towards his eyes, though he never considered stopping and resting until he had reached the patibulum for a breather, and a well-earned break. Phase one completed. Everything going to plan.

Chapter sixteen

Martin and Jenny were busy working on the jewellery robbery case and the Guilden Sutton house, where Peter Madden was arrested. Pete spotted the car draw up outside and knew they were cops.

‘Quick!’ he said to Aleri. ‘Get out the back door. Go to your cousin’s.’

‘What about you?’

Before he could answer, the doorbell rang five times, and heavy thuds followed.

‘We will smash the door down!’ was bellowed across the neighbourhood.

‘I’m done with running,’ Peter said, ‘but you can still get away. I’ll keep you out of it. I will insist you were never there. Save yourself, Ally. Go!’ and Aleri turned tail and sprinted out the back door.

Of the six who attacked Baskin’s jewellers, only she remained free.

Jenny recalled interviewing Peter. He insisted Aleri did not take part. But when shown CCTV of his wife departing the scene within seconds of the others, he said it was pure coincidence, and refused to talk about his wife again.

Her relatives were checked out. The officers gained an impression she had stayed at her mother’s house over the border in Ruthin, but the mother remained tight-lipped, and Aleri’s whereabouts remained secret. It wouldn’t have been the end of the world if she wasn’t standing in the dock with the others, for she could be construed a minor player, but it would make everything neat and tidy if she were.

Two days later, in the middle of the afternoon, Martin received a message: Peter Madden wanted a word. All five arrested had been denied bail. The four men were held at HMP Altcourse in the Fazakerley district of Liverpool, while the solitary woman, Madeleine Fennence, was sent to Styal, near Wilmslow in Cheshire.

‘I wonder what he wants,’ said Jenny.

‘No idea, but you could imagine him wanting some kind of deal to get his sentence reduced. Do you think I should run it past the Guv?’

‘For sure. He’d be livid if he found out, and you hadn’t told him.’

‘I will.’

‘I wouldn’t mind going with you,’ said Jenny.

Martin smiled at her and said, ‘I’ll see what I can do,’ and went to see Walter.

The Guv was taking a call and told Martin to hang about.

The caller was Roddy Jeffries, and as ever, he sounded upbeat.

‘Positive ID,’ Roddy gushed. ‘The body in the coffin is Isla Aitken’s.’

‘No surprise,’ said Walter.

‘How are you getting on down there? Any sign of Cairney?’

‘None at all, but we have identified the B girl, one Laila Broadsword. We have pictures of him and her leaving a health club together. As far as we know, she hasn’t been seen since.’

‘That sounds promising for you, but unpromising for her. You think she’s dead?’

‘It’s a recurring thought in my brain, yes.’

‘So, we have an A, a B, a C, and a D?’

‘Correct.’

‘What a riddle. Why work through the alphabet? It makes no sense to me.’

‘Nor me, though it’s what he is doing. I have nightmarish thoughts we might still be chasing him when he gets to Z.’

‘Nah! Nae chance. He’ll make a big mistake before then, and we’ll pounce. Any thoughts he might be back up here?’

‘We think that is a possibility because we can’t find him on CCTV down here.’

‘Fair enough. I’ll remind our people to keep an eye out for him.’

‘Thanks, Roddy, appreciate it,’ and the call ended.

Walter glanced up at Martin and nodded him on.

Marty told him Pete Madden wanted a word, saying, ‘I came to you because Mrs West is not about.’

‘You think he’s got further info for us?’

‘I can’t think of another reason he wants to see me.’

‘Okay, ring the prison; fix an appointment, and get it done PDQ,’ and before Martin could ask if he should take Jenny along, Walter said, ‘Take Jenny with you.’

Martin was still quite new, and Jenny knew how the team worked, and would keep him on the straight and narrow.

‘Sure, Guv,’ and he returned to Jenny and said it was on, mentioning he’d persuaded the Guv to let her go.

‘Well done,’ she said. ‘I’ll finish up here. You ring the prison.’

Darren and Kate were getting square eyes, staring at screens, seeking more pics of Hamish.

‘I don’t know how you do this job all day, every day,’ she said.

‘I don’t. Not every day, just a big number of them.’

She grinned and said, ‘It’s so dispiriting when we can’t find him. And after a while, all the bodies and faces look the same. Don’t you find that?’

‘That’s when concentration kicks in. You must keep reminding yourself not to let standards slip. Stare at the photo of his face beside the monitors and check every moving man you see against the pic.’

That was easier said than done, and before long she said she needed a break, and stood up to leave the room. ‘Do you want a coffee when I come back?’

‘Always do. If coffee is on the go, I’m in. You never need to ask.’

Kate Foster nodded and disappeared.

Martin and Jenny walked by, nodding at Darren, on their way out into the sunshine, leaving a jealous Darren staring at slow-moving pictures.

Neither Martin nor Jenny had been to HMP Altcourse before. Martin drove the Volvo up the Wirral motorway, through the Wallasey tunnel, under the river, and on to Fazakerley, sticking to the A580, better known as the East Lancs Road.

Altcourse was the first privately owned and built prison in England, two storey, red brick, with a reputation for being riddled with drugs, though no doubt the operators would dispute that. It housed over 1,100 people, a mixture of adult men and young male offenders, and like most prisons, it could be a tough place.

It was unusual for all five robbers to be held in custody. Normally they’d be bailed, but at their prelim hearing, when mention was made of a loaded and recently fired gun being seized from one suspect, that swayed the argument hard in favour of custody for all. Their trial was fixed for three months down the line, and would take place in the Crown Court in Castle Square, Chester, close to the river.

Martin and Jenny’s IDs were inspected and checked before they were invited inside the secure part of the prison. They were escorted along a long corridor to a square room on the left side. Everything appeared new, modern and clean, quite different from old style prisons, more like a secondary school for grownups.

There was a blue framed window in the room looking out to the interior of the prison grounds, the window boasting four bright blue vertical beams with hidden metal bars inside, leaving little glass between. If smashed, no prisoner could slip through.

Beige tiles on the floor, a blue dado rail halfway up the wall, with cream paint on the upper section, and sunshine yellow on the lower. In the centre of the room was a small rectangular table with beige metal legs, and a cream top, with four modern armless chairs standing ready. It seemed beige, blue, and yellow were the colours of choice.

Martin pulled out a seat and sat down, as Jenny went to the window and stared out, inhaling hard, sniffing for cannabis, but there was nothing. The only aroma coming back, cleaning products sluiced over the tiled floor earlier that day. Maybe the drug infestation problem was exaggerated, or had been eradicated, or the users were dabbling in non-smelling products.

The door opened and a prison officer stared in. He nodded at the plainclothes officers before ordering the custodial, Peter Madden, into the room. All people held in custody awaiting trial were presumed innocent until proven guilty. Pete entered, grunted a hello, thanked them for coming, and sat down.

Martin said, ‘What can we do for you, Peter?’

‘I’m a worried man,’ he said through a lined face.

‘So you should be,’ said Jenny.

He glanced at her, dismissed her remark, and looked back at Martin.

‘Have you found Aleri?’

‘We have not,’ said Martin, ‘as I think you know. Where should we be looking?’

‘I don’t know where she is! Have you tried her mother’s?’

Jenny said, ‘All known relatives have been checked and visited.’

‘Come on, Peter,’ said Martin, ‘you must have some idea where she is? Taken a train to London, you reckon?’

‘No,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘She knows no one there.’

‘Has she money?’ asked Jenny.

‘A bit, not much, maybe a couple of grand.’

‘Let me get this straight,’ said Martin. ‘We are seeking your wife for taking part in an armed robbery, and we think you are harbouring her somewhere, and you have called us all the way out here to report her missing. Is that right?’

‘It wasn’t an armed robbery, as you well know. It’s the police twisting things again to make suspects look as bad as possible. As far as Aleri is concerned, I have no idea where she is, and my spies tell me she has vanished, so yes, I am confirming she is missing.’

‘You have a lot of spies, do you?’ asked Jenny. ‘Beavering away outside on your behalf?’

‘No, not really. Spies was the wrong word. Contacts and friends, that’s more like it. They all say she is nowhere to be seen.’

Martin said, ‘I would ask if you wanted us to search for her, but we are doing that already, and it’s taking up too much of our time.’

‘I appreciate that, and I thank you for it, but I wanted to assure you I am not hiding or shielding her, and I’ll be a happier man when she is found.’

Jenny thought about that for a second and said, ‘You had better put on your thinking cap, Mr Madden, and come up with credible ideas where she might be,’ and she took the first of her new printed cards from her purse and slipped it across the table, saying, ‘call me when you have.’

He took the card and read it, and realised she was the senior officer, and maybe he had given her a hard time.

‘I will, for sure, thanks.’

Martin said, ‘That it?’

‘For now.’

The officers stood and went to the unlocked door and opened up. The same PO was still there, leaning against the opposite wall.

‘All done?’ he said.

‘Yep,’ said Jenny, and they left the complex and returned to the Volvo.

In the car, Martin said, ‘I didn’t know you had printed cards. When did you get those?’

‘A week ago. I think they come on a time-served basis.’

That didn’t sound right, and he’d make enquiries. He wanted cards with his name on, and wouldn’t let it lie until he had. After that, he went quiet as he drove back into Liverpool, seeking the Wallasey tunnel.

‘You’re quiet,’ she said, as they hit the tunnel approach, going down and round to the right towards the twin-tubed tunnel.

He took a time-out before replying. ‘There’s something I want to ask you.’

She thought he was still angling for his own cards.

‘No time like the present.’

He took a breath and said, ‘Would you have dinner with me one night?’

‘Ah,’ she said, caught off guard, before parroting, ‘serving officers, especially those working together, should not date.’

She couldn’t remember where she’d read it, but it was somewhere in the morass of paperwork detailing countless do’s and don’ts.

‘All little rules get broken sometimes,’ said Martin, grinning across at her.

‘I don’t consider them little, and I never break rules,’ she said, words coming out perhaps too officiously, before she added, ‘I’ll think about it.’

‘Good enough,’ he said, easing the car up the incline and out into the Wirral sunshine.

Back at base, Walter said, ‘What did he want?’

‘Believe it or not, Guv,’ said Martin, ‘he wants us to look for Aleri, only to be told, what the hell does he think we are doing?’

‘Was he being serious?’

‘Definitely,’ said Jenny. ‘He’s worried.’

‘So, his wife’s missing. What’s her name again?’

‘That’s what we wondered, but there’s no E involved. It’s Aleri Madden.’

‘Okay, then you’d better re-double your efforts and find her, hadn’t you?’

‘On it, Guv,’ said Jenny, her mind still processing Marty’s request for a date. She recognised another do I, don’t I, moment. Do I want to? Maybe, maybe not. Should I? Probably not. Will I? She didn’t know, not yet, hadn’t decided, and would keep him waiting for an answer until she did.

Walter ambled over to join Darren and Kate Foster. He squinted over their shoulders at varying quality CCTV footage.

‘How are you getting on?’

‘Awful,’ said Darren. ‘I reckon we must have clocked half the population of Chester, and none of them was Cairney.’

‘At least half,’ said Kate.

Time was shooting by and people were getting tired, and another early start looked on the cards for the morning, as Walter saw the signs and said, ‘Time to call it a day. Get home, have something good to eat, take an early night, and come back in the morning, bright and refreshed.’

They were never going to argue, as Kate said, ‘Thanks, Guv,’ and Darren made a mental note where they had reached in their quest, before setting about closing down.

Chapter seventeen

From his position high on the crossbeam of the cross, Hamish glanced down at the altar, and Elspeth’s clothing he’d left lying around. His gaze switched to the empty pews, lined up all the way back towards the door.

He imagined a packed and grateful congregation, just after WWII, when people were struggling back to some kind of normality. Perhaps on a Christmas morning, with kiddies clutching sparse presents, and a tall patchy Christmas tree, despite it being a pagan symbol, set to one side, culled from nearby Delamere Forest, lit up in silver and red, with live shimmering burning candles, blue smoke swirling up towards the rafters, hot wax dripping onto the green needles and the stone floor below.

Or an earlier grand Victorian society wedding, the church packed with the great and good of Chester, circa 1870, more than a hundred and fifty years before, featuring several generations, and the best-looking bitches of the county, wearing their finest and fussy summer dresses and hats, too warm for the hot day, to witness the marriage of two minor aristocrats, The Right Honourable Horace Graveney, and Harriet de Romana. She’s foreign, you know, Hamish imagined snooty locals murmuring, fresh in from their impressive new fortress-like houses overlooking the River Dee.

Centuries floated by, but human beings and their inbuilt prejudices never changed.

It would have been just the same when the Romans first established the city two millennia before, long before churches were thought of. Can you imagine? Marcus has chosen to marry a local girl? They are so rough. No! Surely not! The scandal! What will they think of it back in Rome?

Hamish wondered what the Christmas congregation and the vast wedding gathering would think or say when they glanced up to see him manipulating what looked like a naked young woman onto the vast cross. He doubted that kind of thing happened much back in Victorian times, or in the weary mid-forties, and the thought brought a smile to his face, and a guttural laugh that echoed through the doomed and dying building.

Should anyone here present know of any reason why this couple should not be joined in holy matrimony speak now or forever hold your peace?

‘Yes, Vicar! What the hell is going on up there?’ as all heads tilted upwards to witness a sight never before seen in Chester, twenty-five feet above the altar.

Hamish shook his head to banish such ridiculous thoughts and was a content man, for there was an unexpected bonus. Fixed on the cross was a small seat for the punished one to perch on, and two and a half feet below that, a tiny footrest. They were invisible from the ground, or at least he had not noticed them before. On ancient crosses, the seat even boasted a name, the sedicula, though Cairney would never know that.

He untied Elspeth the theatrical from his shoulder, and set her on the seat, securing her around the waist, and another shorter cord around the neck, not tight, just sufficient to stop the head from drooping. Hamish stretched out her arms and tied them to the crossbeam, before he dropped a metre on the jute rope to set her feet on the tiny footrest, securing her shins to the vertical beam. He took one last look at her, sleeping still, looking comfortable, quite serene, not in pain, unaware of where she was or what was happening.

He pulled a satisfied face and slid down to ground level. Grabbed the rope and tugged it round the back of the cross, and secured it out of sight with tape. It wouldn’t fool a determined searcher, but any casual visitor might not notice it. Her clothes were gathered, rolled up, and stuffed in the void beneath the altar, and he was done for the night.

He exhaled hard and made his way up the aisle, away from his sleeping prey. At the top end of the church, close to the main door, he stopped and turned about. He could see her up on the cross, but in the dim light, and unless one looked hard, she wasn’t noticeable. It wasn’t unusual to see a semi naked figure strung up on a cross in a church, and there was no reason to look there.

He turned off the lights, leaving her alone in the darkness, opened the door, let himself out, locked up, and skulked away. A risky trip back to the Oak Apple lay before him, avoiding streetlights and cameras, walking in the shadows, facing the buildings, not looking at anyone, desperate to get back to his room, for he had preparations to make.

As per normal, there was no one in evidence on the ground floor, either in front of the reception desk or behind, as he scooted up the stairs to safety.

Back at Saint Luke’s, three hours later, a big truck thundered by the church, breaking the speed limit, shaking every building in the vicinity.

It jolted Elspeth’s brain, and for a brief second, she came round. It was pitch dark, but not cold. She imagined she was naked, tied to a cross, an evil man lurking in the shadows, as crazy fantasies and visions streamed through her drugged-up mind, the like of which only came in nightmares or sex dreams. She closed her tired eyes and fell back into unconsciousness as the dream evaporated.

Hamish turned in to bed as soon as he was back in the room. He was tired and wanted to be up at six. Hours later, a crying baby woke him at ten minutes to the hour, and that was good enough. He slipped from the bed and crept to the bathroom. Fired up his electric shaver, the expensive one with several gadgets, presented it to his forehead, and eased it all the way back.

Short, dark hair tumbled to the ground, as it did with every front-to-back movement, and he needed to go over every inch several times to give him the bald look. It left him with scruffy dark tufts on either side he hated. Another gadget was needed, as he buzz-cut both sides, taking great care round the ears, until every hair was ultra short, neat and tidy, looking like a cool trendy modern dude.

He spread a double page of the local paper he had picked up downstairs across the bed and collected all the fallen hair to wrap into one tight bundle. That went into the small shower-room and down the lavatory to be flushed away, and it was time to dress.

Plain grey trousers, navy blue shirt, white dog collar facing the front, fastening around the back of the neck. A strange thought struck him. Funny how when female vicars came into being, their dog collars weren’t christened bitch collars, though maybe it wasn’t surprising. It seemed they preferred the male version, and that was rare in anything, and he couldn’t blame them.

He grinned at himself in the mirror, looking quite different with no hair on top, crew cut on the sides, and was confident anyone searching for him on the city’s ubiquitous CCTV systems wouldn’t take a second glance, as he sauntered across their screen. To be on the safe side, he grabbed the tube of ping-pong balls, rolled out two, and tucked one in either cheek. They produced the image of a different man, adding fifteen years to his age, maybe getting out of condition, puffing and blowing through fat cheeks, though speech was impossible, as he morphed into the archetypal Church of England vicar.

He left more than enough money on the chest of drawers to settle his bill, grabbed his two bags, and made for the door.

One bag contained clothes and personal effects, while the other was a cricket bag. Long, narrow, and creamy white, with obligatory soil scuff marks, a bag that normally housed polished timber. Cricket bats, stumps and bails, and hardened shapely plastic boxes to protect the more vital and delicate parts. The heavy bag contained timber, six pieces of it, waiting to be taken out and used in action.

One last scan round the room revealed he had left nothing behind, other than money, and he was ready to go. He opened the door and stepped out to creep down the grubby stairs. He was lucky, there was no one about, and no one coming in, run like hell, yelled the altered sign, and a moment later, he was outside, strolling back towards Saint Luke’s, confident in his disguise not to skulk, the fat-faced cricket-playing vicar hurrying towards the church. What was weird about that?

An hour later, the genuine vicar entered the Oak. Just as well he hadn’t been early. That could have been difficult, Hamish coming down the stairs, a puzzled vicar, staring at him, smiling that Sunday School smile, and nodding, maybe with a hint of recognition, as he ascended the stairs.

Chapter eighteen

Walter was at his desk at five past seven. Darren arrived two minutes later. Karen and Kate Foster soon after, followed by Martin and Jenny.

‘I’ve got good vibes about today,’ said Darren, the alcohol from the three cans of lager he’d swooped on the previous night with his Chinese takeaway still in his system.

‘I hope you’re right,’ said Kate.

In the hunt for Aleri Madden, the lead-inducing computer pointed Martin and Jenny towards short-term lets in the city. If someone wasn’t at home, and they weren’t in custody or hospital, or had left the city, short-term lets was the next best place to look, so AI said.

AI could and often was bonkers, though you couldn’t tell it that. But it gave Martin and Jenny something to fill their day, and they told Mrs West what they were about, and minutes later, she ordered them out to check on the large number of short-term lets a city like Chester had to offer.

Karen glanced at Walter and said, ‘Any fresh thoughts on where Cairney might hide?’

She hated it when inquiries came to an abrupt stop, and was easily bored.

‘Scotland perhaps, or maybe he’s also shacked up in a short-term let. Perhaps Martin and Jenny should check on that while they are visiting these places.’

‘Perhaps Cairney and Aleri Madden are shacked up together,’ said Karen, though it was hard to tell how serious a suggestion that was.

Walter glanced at her and said, ‘Can you check when the GPR scan is scheduled to begin? If we have a start time, ring Professor Billings and advise him we will be attending, and while the scanning is ongoing, his team will have to stand down and vacate the site.’

‘He will not like that.’

‘Not our problem. We are searching for two women we believe could be dead,’ which put things into perspective, and Karen went on the phone.

Five minutes later, Darren said aloud, ‘Look at this joker!’

It was enough to drag Walter from his chair and amble over and stand behind Darren and Kate.

Darren shook his head and said, ‘One fat fucking bald vicar, with a cricket bag, before eight o’clock in the morning.’

Walter grimaced and said, ‘Darren! I have told you before. The F word is banned in the office, and especially in front of ladies.’

‘Doesn’t bother me,’ said Kate, shaking her head. ‘I’ve heard loads worse. You should hear my dad.’

‘It bothers me,’ said Walter, ‘and I don’t wish to hear it again. You’re fined a fiver, in the Christmas party fund, Darren. We have warned you enough times.’

‘Oh, fucking hell!’

‘A tenner,’ said Walter.

Kate laughed.

‘But look at him,’ said Darren, digging out his wallet, his eyes fixed on the screen. ‘Whoever heard of a vicar playing cricket?’

‘Loads of vicars play the great game,’ said Walter. ‘In fact, the Right Reverend David Sheppard, the Bishop of Liverpool, played twenty-two Test matches for England back in the day, and he’s still the only ordained minister to play Test cricket.’

‘Fascinating,’ said Kate, as Darren and Walter shared a look, for they weren’t sure whether she was being sarcastic or serious.

‘And I’ll tell you something else,’ said Walter.

‘If you must,’ whispered Darren, grinning at the girl.

‘He gained a reputation, somewhat unjustifiably, of dropping vital catches, until Freddie Trueman said to him one day, ‘The only time ya keep tha’ bluddy hands together, Bishop, is on a Soondee.’

Darren grinned, while Kate had no idea who or what they were talking about.

The fat bald vicar moved out of shot, carrying his two bags, one a heavy cricket bag that might have contained more than a few bats.

Walter returned to his seat, puzzling where Laila Broadsword’s body might be, if indeed the unfortunate young woman had met a premature and violent death. He pondered on whether it was right to introduce a note of levity into an inquiry where young vulnerable women were being murdered. It was a hard call. A delicate balancing act. Important to maintain the correct respectful tone, businesslike, while keeping the mood upbeat, cheerful and positive. Everything had its place.

Twenty minutes later, he stood up and hustled back to Darren and Kate.

Chapter nineteen

Hamish Cairney, aka Callum McGrory, arrived at Saint Luke’s church and set his bags down by the door. He glanced around.

Traffic was picking up, though pedestrians were thin on the ground, and those folks that were awake were going about their business with vigour. He fished in his pocket for the gleaming copied key and opened the door. Grabbed the bags, stepped inside, closed and locked the door, and switched on minimal lighting.

He ambled into the nave and gazed down towards the altar. High above, Elspeth Evans was still in situ, proving no one had been there. His echoing footsteps woke her from a deep sleep. She shook her head in a vain attempt to dislodge a fearsome headache, before detecting movement down below, as her eyes focussed on a man, a bald vicar, and what a relief that was.

‘Thank God!’ she said. ‘Am I glad to see you? A maniac of a man took me to dinner, bought me a burger, and drugged my drinks. He set me up here and disappeared. I’m in great pain. Call the police and summon the fire brigade to get me down.’

In the police station, Walter said, ‘Can you show me that video of the vicar again?’

‘Sure, Guv,’ said Darren, scrolling back.

The fat-faced fellow strolled into shot, carrying a bag in each hand, looking content with his morning.

Walter said, ‘Could that be Cairney?’

Darren scoffed.

Kate said, ‘Don’t think so, Guv. Look at his hairline, or lack of it, and look at his face. Not a chance.’

Walter said, ‘Can you freeze the pic?’

‘Easy,’ said Darren, stopping the action.

Walter handed Kate his felt-tip pen, saying, ‘Draw his hair on as best you can.’

Darren said, ‘You mean you think he’s shaved his head?’

No one answered.

Karen sensed excitement amongst the team and wandered over to stand beside Walter.

The impression of hair made an enormous difference.

‘That looks a lot more like him,’ said Kate.

‘But his face,’ said Darren, ‘this guy is a fat oik. Hamish Cairney is a gym monster.’

‘Use your imagination,’ said Walter. ‘Anyone could pack stuff in their cheeks. A couple of plums would do it. He must know we are looking for him. He’s disguised himself.’

‘I can’t see it,’ said Darren.

‘I can!’ said Kate. ‘I think it’s him.’

‘I agree,’ said Karen.

‘Which way is he heading?’ asked Walter.

Darren consulted the street map in his mind, featuring the old city where he had been playing and working all his life, his hometown, where he knew the roads blindfolded.

‘Towards the old abandoned church,’ he said, ‘the one set in the middle of the road.’

‘An old abandoned church,’ said Walter, savouring the words. ‘That’s it! Darren and Karen come with me. Kate, stay here and staff the fort. Keep us informed if there are any developments, no matter how small or ridiculous they might seem.’

She hid her disappointment and said, ‘Sure, Guv, good luck, and keep me in the loop.’

In the next minute, the three jumped in the lift to head down to the basement, where they would jump in the first available car.

In Saint Luke’s, Hamish spat out a ping-pong ball. It hadn’t been the best disguise idea, making it impossible to speak.

The ball bounced hard, the noise echoing through the weary building, the slope taking it down towards the altar, bouncing again and again, not so high every time, until it was running on flat and free, all the way to the front. The second one followed, bouncing hard and loud, chasing the first, until two balls rested together against the altar.

He ambled down the aisle, stopping four rows from the front, where he set his bags down, and slipped into a left-side pew.

‘Come on!’ Elspeth said from on high. ‘Hurry! There’s no time to waste. He might come back.’

He stared up at her. She looked magical up there, serene and sexy in the same moment. A pity there wouldn’t be time or opportunity to take that line of thinking further.

Hamish had always possessed good diction, a loud voice he kept under wraps most of the time, a voice he was proud to use, and he’d project it when the need arose.

The White Nancy people were impressed when he first fell among them, shooting his words throughout the room, sometimes with venom, other times with passion, the slight Scottish accent adding something special, setting a fizz of excitement up Ronnie Ripple’s spine, firing something within the women, too. On occasion he was brilliant, though they would not tell him that, because it was clear he possessed a volcano-sized ego.

At Saint Norman’s School, irritating and misbehaving boys were often upbraided by voice alone, as were Ailish and the girls, if they stepped out of line, though he saved his strongest vocals for his alphabetical conquests. They deserved more menace before they departed to wherever they were heading.

He peered up at the woman, projected his voice that way, and said, ‘It’s time to share your criminal past, Elspeth. I want to know everything about your crimes.’

The harsh Glasgow accent, tempered by years of deliberate softening in the nation’s capital, echoed through the church. It stunned Elspeth, realising it was him, introducing goosebumps of terror, before an icy wave swept through her semi-naked body, forcing her into a momentary silence.

Karen jumped behind the wheel of the diesel Ford Focus. It was old but comfortable, and loaded with fuel. If not a speedster, it did the job, taking them less than ten minutes to arrive at the blackened old church. Darren was right, the traffic went all around the oblong site, and every foot of road was daubed with double yellow lines.

Little wonder Cheshire East and Cheshire West had been nominated as the worst two places in the country to find a parking space, when taking into account the number of residents.

Not that a double yellow line would worry them. Karen bumped the Focus half onto the pavement on the left side of the oblong, pinged on the hazard flashers, and jumped out. Darren and Walter followed suit and headed for the main door.

It was locked. Walter banged on the timber. No one came. He ordered Darren round the church to find another entrance. High above Walter’s head was an estate agent’s sign announcing the church was going to auction. A large white phone number bleated from the base of the board. He stared up, produced his phone, and banged in the number.

Chapter twenty

Inside the church, Hamish spoke to Elspeth through his clear, if accented, voice.

‘Come on, Elspeth!’ he demanded, ‘while you still have time. Tell me everything.’

‘It’s you!’ she said. ‘Callum McGrory.’

‘Yes, it is. You didn’t think I abandoned you, did you? I haven’t finished with you yet. I’m still waiting, Elspeth. Criminal activity? Confess your sins.’

‘It was something and nothing,’ she whispered.

‘Louder! I can’t hear.’

‘Something and nothing!’ she yelled, her strained voice echoing through the building. ‘It was the wine talking, nothing more.’

‘I don’t believe you, Elspeth. You’re telling porky pies. You will have to do better than that.’

She thought about it. What had she to lose? If she kept him talking long enough, maybe someone would come; or he might take pity on her and bring her down. She told him of a scam to generate substantial funds, and how it had all gone wrong, with other crooks muscling in to steal her share of the loot.

Hamish exhaled and shook his head.

‘It’s the way of greedy human beings, Elspeth. I thought you would know that. It’s always best to work alone. The risk-reward ratio is so much better. Do everything yourself, and you bask in the glory of knowing all the rewards will be yours. You get a real sense of achievement that way. Is that the sum total of your criminal career?’

She nodded and said, ‘It is, Callum. You know everything now.’

‘I doubt that,’ he said under his breath, as he stood up, collected his bags and moved down towards the altar, where he heaved the cricket bag up to place on top. Had a cricket bag ever sat on a Church of England altar before? He doubted it and wondered what the Bishop of Chester would make of his sacrilegious act if he were to enter the church and see.

No matter, Hamish set his hand on the heavy brass zipper that ran the full length of the bag, and tugged it open. Fifty pop-pop-pops echoed up towards the woman above, as she gazed transfixed at the maniac’s slow unzipping. What was he doing, and where was his hair?

The auctioneers put Walter through to the young guy looking after the disposal of Saint Luke’s. Walter told the guy where he was and what he wanted. Someone must bring a key right away to let them in. ‘I mean, within ten minutes, max.’

‘We’re so busy at the moment, sir. I might be able to get down there in a couple of hours.’

‘No!’ said Walter. ‘I don’t think you understand. If you don’t deliver the key right now, we will arrest you for obstructing the police. If what I think is happening inside, and you don’t deliver, we could arrest you as an accessory to murder.’

The penny dropped, the guy blew out hard, and said, ‘I’m with you. I’m on my way.’

Darren came back the other way after circumventing the church.

‘Only two other entries, Guv. One down some steep steps, secured at the bottom by black metal bars, not used in years, and the other, a small door on the far side, was locked and bolted. I don’t know if you know, but there is lighting on inside, so someone could be in there.’

‘I had noticed. The key’s coming,’ said Walter. ‘Five minutes from now, I reckon.’

Inside, there were no cricket bats or any cricket paraphernalia in the grubby white bag. There were six pieces of honed timber. He removed the first two items with the care of a verger, passing a full communion cup to the bishop. A pair of flat polished pieces, two feet long, one foot wide, and two inches thick.

On one of the longer sides of each part, he had fashioned a tenon joint, better known as a mortise and tenon. It had taken months of preparation, lovingly done in his workshop at home. He told Ailish he was helping with woodworking classes, and why should she doubt him?

His craftmanship was top-notch, and it was easy to see how much he loved his work. He’d become fascinated with all things treen when working with the forestry people, and had taken evening classes to soak up vital experience and expertise from lifelong carpenters.

Hamish took the first section of wood, the tenon, the male part as he saw it, the tongue, and offered it to the other piece, the mortise, the female, the slot. He introduced the tenon into the mortise, where it slid in to perfection, and so it should, because he had made it that way. The finished article produced a two-foot square piece of polished oak, expensive kit, all done, ready to go, and well worth the money for the quality it exuded.

No glue required, no dowels or plugs or screws to keep it rigid and strong. He’d been perfecting it for weeks, waiting for the right day to arrive, a special occasion, and it was ready to earn its keep. He carried it round to the rear of the altar as if it were a holy relic, and set it on the floor, adjusting its position from left to right. When fixed together the join was invisible, so good the workmanship, and within each section, on the flat surface, were two round holes, four inches in diameter, one and a half inches deep, going down into the timber base.

He returned to the cricket bag and brought out the next item. A ginormous sharpened round pencil, painted yellow, two foot six inches long, a smidgeon less than four inches in diameter, the sharpened end showing bare grained timber as a normal pencil would, the needle-like lead painted on with a narrow black felt-tip pen.

It had taken months to complete to his exacting standards, work done over the previous winter, Hamish sitting before the fire, Ailish watching, sunshine yellow paint going on, the dutiful wife wondering what he was doing, marvelling at his craftsmanship and attention to detail.

He said he was making something for the first-year boys, a new game to keep them inspired and entertained, an amusement they had never seen before, and she believed every word.

Hamish carried the large yellow pencil round to the back of the altar, presented it to the base, poised over the left corner hole, standing it vertical, easing it in until it was standing erect. Like everything, it fitted like Ailish’s hand into the white kid gloves he bought her for Christmas. The perfect fit, as if it belonged, a natural marriage, no forcing necessary, no glue to hold it, and nothing would move it until the time came for him to twist it out.

‘What’s that?’ Elspeth said from on high, thrusting out her neck for a better view.

‘A little game for you, my sweet, a little game.’

‘You’re crazy, you know that? Batty as hell.’

‘And who are you to decide on such an important matter? A failed common thief. A bad actress, and a drunk. I think not.’

Back to the cricket bag for the second pencil. Green this time, a masterpiece of carpentry, carried round with care to set it up next to the yellow. A red pencil followed, and then the blue fellow completed the team. Yellow, green, red, blue, sounded like a nursery rhyme, standing tall in a square, side by side, same height to the millimetre, identical replicas, resembling North Korean spy rockets about to blast satellites into space.

On the altar, the faux canvas cricket bag exhaled and sank down through being empty, as if disappointed. He zipped it shut, and returned to the fourth-row pew, sat down, looked up, and said, ‘Tell me, Elspeth, when did you last lie to me?’

It was a strange question. Of course she had lied to him, but didn’t everyone lie? She said she wasn’t married, but she was. She said she was thirty-three, but the truth was, she was thirty-six. So what? It was none of his damned business, and she was clever enough not to admit it. Placate him; that was the way to go. But how? Maybe a slight admission was the preferred direction, for she knew he wouldn’t accept blanket denials.

‘Well?’ he said, through a harsher voice.

‘Is it that obvious?’

‘It is to me.’

‘I shaved a couple of years off my age.’

‘How many years, Elspeth?’

‘Three.’

‘So even that was a lie, when you said a couple.’

‘Sorry, so it was. A slip of the tongue.’

Hamish always knew she had lied. They were all liars, and liars must be punished. He glanced at his watch. The minutes were slipping by, and it was time to move things along. He returned to his bags and opened the second one to pull out two small, modern L-shaped candlesticks. Cheap tat things made of silver-coloured plastic.

On one end of the L, beneath the candlestick, was a sucker, the card topping on the packaging boasting it could stick to anything. Any known substance. What about sticking to water? Would that work? Of course not. Another big international porky pie lie. Sometimes it seemed the world was full of liars. Liars to steal your money, liars to steal your heart, liars to steal one’s dignity, liars to steal one’s future. They couldn’t help themselves. It was normal behaviour. They all lied.

Chapter twenty-one

Walter, Darren, and Karen stared up the road, looking for the estate agent. Glaring at drivers, hoping for a wave, and a hint of recognition.

Rush hour was picking up, traffic travelling slower. Any minor breakdown for any driver would produce a big snarl-up. A minute later, and the slow traffic became a crawl. Round the far bend, a hundred yards away, a low sky-blue Toyota came into view.

Darren said, ‘That Japaneser looks a dead cert for an estate agent’s car.’

‘Could be,’ said Walter.

The traffic came to a standstill.

Darren shot off, dashing between cars and vans, finding the far pavement where he jogged back towards the car. Thirty yards from it, he could see the young solo driver. Smart suit, big hair, big tie, pound to a penny the estate agency guy. Darren waved cross-handed above his head, the universal signal to pay attention, slow down, or stop. The guy grinned, nodded, and waved back.

Hamish had experimented with the candlesticks back at the Oak Apple, sticking one to the bathroom mirror, and the other beneath the wide overhanging windowsill, and cheap or not, they worked well, and would suit his needs.

In the church, he pushed a candle into each stick and took them to the front pew to set down. In his right trouser pocket was a cheap cigarette lighter and his knife, in the left, a small bottle of fruit flavoured water. He ripped off the dog-collar and threw it to the floor, before undoing the top four buttons of his shirt, placed the loaded candlesticks inside, and fastened them again.

It was time to ascend. He enjoyed climbing ropes and headed round to the back of the cross to release the rope. Out of habit, he yanked it towards the ground, testing its strength. Not a problem. He grabbed the rope, heaved himself up, hitch-kicked higher, grabbing and pulling, moving faster all the time, until he was at the level of her feet.

Untying the cord around her shins with one hand took some doing. But he was a patient man, and no matter how long it took, he managed, releasing the cord, to drop to earth.

The two lead actors on the stage thought the same thing at the same moment. Elspeth’s reasoning: if I kick him hard in the face, sufficient to make him fall from the rope, he would crash down to earth twenty feet below, and the least he could expect would be a broken bone or two, and if things went well, he might smash his head on the stone floor. She pictured it in her mind. His broken body splayed on the slabs, blood swilling away in all directions, his last breath coming out as an ugly grunt.

But what if she kicked him off and he died? And what would happen if no one came? She would remain there, tied up, starving to death, alone, hungry, frightened, and afraid of what was to come. Maybe it wasn’t a great idea.

Hamish smirked and said, ‘If you kick me, bitch, I will slit your throat, and your warm, fresh blood will rain down on the altar. You follow? The blood of Christ, and all that.’

‘I understand. I won’t kick you.’

He hauled himself up another yard and reached across to untie the cord holding her head back. The cord came away and dropped to earth. Only the skinny rope around her wrists held her up, plus the tiny purchase she could extract from the miniscule footrest, and the narrow, uncomfortable seat. Knowing she was in a precarious position, she remained stock still.

Outside, Darren reached the car. The estate agent buzzed down the nearside window and tossed the key through to Darren, saying, ‘Good luck, pal.’

‘Tah,’ said Darren, turning and bolting back towards Saint Luke’s where Walter and Karen were waiting by the door, Walter’s hand out like a relay runner, searching for the baton, as a breathless Darren arrived on scene, thrusting the key into Walter’s large paw, a key he would never drop.

Hamish pulled the bottle of water from his pocket and sucked water through the nipple-type top. When he’d done, he said, ‘Wanna drink? You must be thirsty.’

Elspeth nodded and muttered, ‘Yeah, thanks.’

He rammed the plastic nipple in her mouth. She sucked as if she had just exited the Gobi Desert; all the way until the skinny bottle was empty, collapsing in on itself.

‘Don’t say I neglect you,’ he said, leering at her, dropping the spent bottle as it toppled over and over in flight, falling to the ground.

Needles and pins in her arms, buttocks, and feet intensified, weakening her, as she tried to figure out his next move, and her response. Maybe kicking him off hadn’t been the worst idea.

Still holding the jute, he grabbed the right crossbeam, and pulled himself out towards her left arm. She watched him reach inside his shirt and produce a small loaded flexible candlestick.

He licked the sucker and banged it on the underside of the beam, manoeuvring it until it was beneath the tied cord. One last minor adjustment and he was satisfied. The standing proud wick close to her wrist, though not too close. He took out his lighter, snapped it on, and produced fire.

She stared at the flickering flame. He was going to burn her down. Why would he do that?

‘That hurts,’ she said, as the first heat travelled upwards, warming and scorching her skin, the flame licking around the cord.

‘Everything hurts,’ said Hamish. ‘Being born hurts, dying sure hurts, being in love hurts, being an outcast, rejected, an unwanted, or a failure hurts. Being hungry or thirsty hurts, even living hurts, every damned tortuous day hurts like hell. Suffering a tiny burn in comparison is nothing! Stop whingeing and think yourself lucky!’

‘Ah!!!’ she winced, trying to move her hand and arm away from the flame. ‘I’m burning.’

‘No, you’re not. Quit whining!’

He grabbed the beam and pulled himself across her to the other side, and as he passed over, she tried to bite him.

‘Bitch!’ he said, tapping the side of her face. What was it with women biting him? They were like ravenous hyenas. ‘Behave yourself!’

Beneath her right wrist, he set up the same arrangement. Candlestick and candle in position, lighter, flame, blue smoke, and burning.

‘Don’t burn me!’ she said.

‘I’ll do what I like. It’s a liar’s punishment.’

She couldn’t release her hand to knock the candle away until the cord had burnt through, by which time she would be falling, or hanging precariously, until the second cord disintegrated. Two narrow plumes of blue smoke drifted up towards the rafters, producing a fitting incense-like aroma.

‘Let me give you some advice,’ he said. ‘If there is something to this nonsense of there being another life, another place, then I advise you not to tell any more lies. And when we meet again, as one day we might, I will be waiting for you, and you will worship me as a God.’

She stared into his horrible face. There were no words to answer his ridiculous hypothesis. It surprised him she didn’t reply, but it didn’t matter. It was what it was, and he needed to return to terra firma because he wanted to be at ground level with his mobile running, filming her denouement.

He would splash it across the internet for all to see. Not a snuff movie, a pencil movie, and something no one had ever seen before, or would ever forget. Neither of them spoke again, as he abseiled down, rappelling, as the Americans called it, and Hamish liked the word, and always enjoyed a good rappel.

Chapter twenty-two

At the church door, Walter turned the chunky key anti-clockwise. They heard the lock turn over. He leant on the heavy door and it opened inwards. Inside, it was dismal.

They rushed through the wide internal entrance, heading for the nave.

High in the church, confused thoughts burrowed through Elspeth’s brain. Her only hope was to cling to the cross once the cords had gone. But even if she did, what would she do afterwards? She still had to get down, and it was a long way. Perhaps she could cling to the main central beam and slide down. It was the best idea her scrambled brain could produce.

Walter, Karen, and Darren were at the top of the aisle. It sloped towards the altar. Beyond the altar, in front of the far wall, was an enormous cross, with candlelight shimmering down from on high.

‘There’s a woman on the cross,’ said Karen, and they focused on the semi-naked figure, ‘and I think she’s alive.’

She was, because her feet were moving, her arms squirming.

The fat faced vicar, who was no longer fat in the face, was filming the girl. He turned and stared up the aisle at the sound of impostors.

‘Stop what you are doing!’ ordered Walter. ‘We are police officers; the place is surrounded, and you are under arrest.’

Another liar; thought Cairney, and he didn’t answer.

Walter motioned Darren away to the left, saying, ‘Get round behind him.’

Karen said, ‘What I’d give for a handgun. One shot and it would all be all.’

‘Not going to happen,’ whispered Walter.

‘Or a taser,’ said Karen, moving out to her right.

Cairney yelled, ‘Do not come any closer! I am armed and will not hesitate to strike,’ and from somewhere he produced a knife.

Walter shouted to the girl to hang on. Help was on the way, as the officers split up and closed in.

Cairney’s vision switched from Elspeth to the coppers, but it was becoming difficult because the ’lice had separated.

Up above, the right candle burnt through the cord.

Elspeth screamed. Her left hand and arm fell free from the cross. She reached up to grasp the crossbeam, but the brute had rubbed candle wax on the top edge, making grip difficult.

‘I’m going to fall!’ she shrieked.

‘Grab the cross!’ said Walter.

‘It’s slippery!’

Hamish smirked at the thought.

Only Elspeth’s tied right hand kept her up there. Using her free left hand, she tried to reach across to knock the remaining candle away, but couldn’t reach.

Darren made it far enough down the left aisle to see the erect, razor-sharp pencils hidden behind the altar.

‘There are spikes!’ he shouted, ‘under where she would land.’

‘There are!’ grinned Cairney. ‘Waiting and ready to impale Elspeth Evans. Won’t that be fun? A bloody sight the likes of which you will never have seen before. I planned for them to jab right through her soft body, and they will. Don’t come any closer or I will stab you in the eye.’

Darren ignored his bluster and crept closer, as Cairney flashed the knife towards Darren’s face. Only his sharp reflexes saved him, as he swayed back fast, feeling the draft of honed steel whistling past his eyes.

Walter ordered Karen to assist Darren. Two on one would divide his attention, saying, ‘Be careful!’.

Karen nodded and dashed from right to left, heading for Cairney.

Darren said, ‘Watch him, sarge, he’s mental.’

Walter made his way towards the right side of the altar, gaining his first sight of the erect coloured pencils of death. He wondered if Cairney had used them before. Had Isla Aitken met her end that way, impaled on those same oak hard points? Might there be traces of her blood still there?

The filming stopped, Cairney’s attention taken by Darren to his right and Karen to his left.

‘I’ll kill you both!’ he said. ‘I’ve warned you. I won’t hesitate.’

‘You’re under arrest for threatening police officers,’ said Karen. ‘Best if you set the knife down, and come quietly.’

‘In your dreams, bitch!’

Walter rushed towards the pencils, intent on smashing them down.

High above, the candle burnt through the second cord. Elspeth screamed again, as she scrambled to cling on, shouting, ‘I’m falling! I’m falling! The beam’s too slippery,’ and in the next second, she fell off.

Chapter twenty-three

Mrs West sat at her desk, wondering where all her best officers were. Kate Foster advised her Walter, Karen, and Darren had rushed to Saint Luke’s, though why they went there, the youngster couldn’t explain. Or maybe Mrs West was having a dull day.

Everyone was tired and weary, and perhaps she couldn’t grasp what she was being told. She grabbed her phone and rang Walter. It went straight to voicemail, and she left him a message to call as soon as possible.

She then rang Martin, hoping to hear positive news they had traced the whereabouts of Aleri Madden. He answered, but there was nothing fresh, and the day hadn’t started as well as hoped.

In Saint Luke’s, four sets of ears heard Elspeth Evans scream as she fell from the crossbeam. Hamish glanced towards the girl, hoping to witness her bloody and gory demise.

Darren and Karen saw him off guard and rushed in. Darren grabbed the wrist holding the knife and barged him over. Cairney went down hard on the stone, winding him. Karen was there a second later, getting one hoop of the handcuffs onto a free wrist.

Everything happened real fast, though it seemed as if it were occurring in slow motion.

A moment earlier, Walter glanced up at Elspeth, and saw her grasp weaken, before she tumbled towards the floor. His vision switched from the falling woman to the vicious spikes. Keeping one eye on the girl, he closed on the pencils, attempting to kick them away, but they were not for moving.

On the other side of the church, he was aware of a three-person scuffle playing out on the cold floor. There was only one thing left for Walter to do. He stared up with arms outstretched, looking to catch a falling woman, as a desperate firefighter might do from a blazing building.

He just had time to call, ‘I’ve got you!’

He extended his arms in front of him, above the vicious pencil spikes, bracing himself for the oncoming impact, knowing the one thing he could not afford to do was let the weight force him lower, or she and he would both be spiked.

She came down fast, gravity doing its thing. Walter gritted his teeth, summoning his strength, ready to catch and lever her to one side, away from danger.

In the next second, a nine stone ten-pound woman crashed into his broad waiting arms. One hundred and thirty-six pounds, as the Americans preferred, falling from over twenty feet, creating a hellish down-force. Walter’s maths and physics were not brilliant, though he knew it would take some holding.

A wriggling mass of woman crashed into his arms, all arms and legs at crazy angles, in an exaggerated weight. At the moment of impact, in one motion, he both held and threw her away to the right. She smacked down on the stone floor, injuring her ankle, banging an elbow, knocking the wind from her, lying motionless, wondering and hoping she had survived, staring at the timber ceiling high above, dazed and confused, but conscious and breathing.

Across the church, three angry humans wrestled and rolled around like mating snakes, unaware of what was happening with Walter and the girl and the pencils.

Walter heard Karen yell, ‘You are under arrest! Stop struggling!’

Her demands were met with filthy curses, promises of what he would do to her, as the rolling and struggling and bawling continued.

As Walter caught and deflected the girl to one side, it forced him towards the spikes. He knew they were there, and tried to step back, like a tightrope walker desperate to regain balance, moving towards a fall, swaying back and forth, going on tiptoe, worrying he would topple over.

The blue pencil pierced his baggy trousers. He always preferred loose pants because he thought them more comfortable, and besides, on a man of his bulk, and his age, tight-fitting slacks looked ridiculous. The extra material helped absorb the incoming assault, but could not stop the razor-sharp point slicing through his tweed and nicking his left thigh. He felt the wound and imagined blood flowing, with no idea how bad it might be. The pain hadn’t kicked in. He overbalanced and fell backwards, narrowly missing banging his head on the corner of the altar.

Elspeth sat up and examined her swollen ankle and throbbing elbow, before glancing across at the big man.

‘Are you alright?’ she said.

‘I’ll live,’ muttered a dazed and bleeding Walter, as he struggled to get his mobile from his damaged trousers to call for backup.

He told them they were at Saint Luke’s, the disused church, and ordered an ambulance for Elspeth, reiterating how important it was they arrived fast. An ongoing struggle with a crazed murderer was unfolding.

He glanced back at the erect spikes. The red, yellow, and green still stood tall as if expecting more falling flesh, while the blue remained in its holding bay, standing askew, a hint of scarlet on its point.

Walter reached up and grabbed the edge of the altar to tug himself to his feet. He limped to Elspeth and examined her swollen ankle.

‘I’m sure it’s painful,’ he said, looking into her face, ‘but don’t worry, the docs will fix it. The ambulance is on its way.’

‘Thanks. You’ve blood on your trousers.’

‘A slight cut,’ he said, ‘it’s nothing.’

He turned about and limped towards the writhing threesome. They were still hard at it, though it was no surprise Hamish put up a fight. Darren and Karen were both fit young officers, but Cairney was a bulked-up gym fiend, and gym monsters enjoyed every challenge. Three on to one, and a big additional one at that, would sway the argument, and knock the stuffing out of him.

Walter bided his time, spotted his moment, and sat down hard on Hamish’s right shoulder, hefty enough to bring a yelp from the muscled man.

Darren said, ‘Watch it, Guv, he’ll bite you!’

‘If he bites me, Darren, I shall bite his head off,’ and to reinforce the point, he bared his teeth and growled like an over-excited Rottweiler.

Karen saw her chance. Cairney was winded, weakening, and slowing down. She forced the second loop of the cuffs onto his free wrist and clipped it. It didn’t stop him struggling, but it brought the war towards an end.

Walter heaved himself to his feet and helped Karen and Darren drag the man up.

Walter said, ‘Hamish Cairney, I am arresting you for the murder of Emily Chatteris, and the suspected murders of Laila Broadsword and Florence Dolby, and the attempted murder of Aleri Madden.’

Darren and Karen shared a puzzled look before Darren said, ‘Cairney said the woman’s name is Elspeth Evans, Guv, the E girl.’

‘Cairney has made a mistake. That woman is Aleri Madden; I recognise her face from our composite pictures. I should have picked that up earlier. She might once have been an Evans, though no more, not since she married Pete Madden, and that reminds me, she is to be arrested for taking part in the robbery at Baskin’s jewellers, where hundreds of thousands of pounds of gear was stolen, where we suspect a loaded gun was carried.’

Overhearing the conversation, Aleri or Elspeth snapped back, ‘There was no gun used. I never saw a gun until Corin produced one, before he nicked all the money. He’ll get his comeuppance, nothing more certain. Traitors and snitches always do.’

Karen glanced at Walter and saw his trousers were damaged and bloodied.

‘You’re bleeding, Guv. Are you okay?’

‘Flesh wound,’ he said, shrugging it off, ‘a slight nick.’

‘That looks more than a nick to me! Here, sit on the altar and take off your trousers so I can have a look at it.’

‘I think not, and besides, the bishop wouldn’t like it.’

‘Bugger the bishop,’ she said, as the need for medical action was superseded by the wailing emergency vehicles beep-borping outside, bullying their way through the city traffic, homing in on Saint Luke’s.

Darren and Karen handcuffed Hamish to a timber beam within the front pew, and even he wouldn’t attempt to bolt through the town dragging a heavy oak pew behind him.

Darren went to see Aleri.

‘Is the Guv right? You are Aleri?’

‘I am.’

He glanced at her naked body, except for the low-cut bra and skimpy knickers.

‘Where are your clothes?’

‘Inside the altar.’

‘I’ll fetch them,’ and he went over, opened the rear door, and there they were, ready and waiting.

Standing on one leg, Aleri slipped on her clothes, and not a moment too soon, for two medics and two uniformed officers dashed into the building, looking for injured people, brawling hoodlums, and murderers.

Karen nodded the lead medic over and said, ‘That woman has a damaged, maybe broken ankle, and my boss here has sustained a cut on his thigh. He says it’s nothing, though I think it’s worse than that. Maybe look at the bloodied wound first.’

The medic bobbed his head and said, ‘Sure thing,’ and went to Walter and led him to the front pew to sit, but not before Walter removed his bloodied pants.

As he sat there, muttering to himself, a phrase his old Aunt Mimosa used came back into his mind.

‘Never go out in poor underwear. Always wear clean clothes in case you get run down by a bus. You never want to be embarrassed in front of strangers, wearing dirty and raggedy underpants.’

He’d always lived by the code, and just as well.

The medic took one look at the cut and said, ‘It is a flesh wound, but it will need stitches. Hospital for you, chummy.’

Darren and Karen grinned. Neither could remember Walter being addressed as ‘chummy’ before.

‘I haven’t got time for that,’ said Walter, trying to grab his bloodied trousers. ‘I’m in the middle of something important.’

‘Rather bleed to death, would you?’ said the medic, not brooking any argument. ‘It’s the hospital, and that’s final!’

Walter scowled and said, ‘At least let me put on my pants.’

‘Nope, not even that. It’s on the gurney for you, sir. There’s a cover to hide your modesty,’ and minutes later, it was Walter they carried from the church, the fit medics struggling under the weight, with Walter all the while yelling instructions: ‘This is a crime scene and must be secured! The pencils are vital evidence. Don’t touch them. Don’t move a thing until Jo-Tap says so… and…’

‘We’ve got that,’ said Karen, slipping on gloves and nodding at Darren to do the same. Better late than never.

As the departing gurney neared the main door, the medic shouted back over his shoulder, ‘We’ll be back for the girl in two ticks. They can share the ambulance.’

Darren glanced at Aleri.

She said, ‘I thought you’d forgotten me.’

‘Nope,’ he said. ‘I have a good memory. Trained for it, we are. The gurney won’t be long.’

‘Don’t need it,’ she said, hopping on one leg. ‘Give us a shoulder, will you?’ and Darren said, ‘Sure,’ and in the next second, she was limping up the aisle, holding on tight to Darren’s taut body.

Cairney slumped back against the pew, staring at the blonde officer. In another time and another place, she’d be fair game. They were alone, and he was manacled to heavy timber, and she was wise enough not to venture within striking distance.

‘Fancy going out for a drink one night?’ he said, grinning and winking at her.

‘In your dreams,’ and in the next second, Darren hustled back into the church.

At the Countess of Chester Hospital, they sewed up Walter’s wound, introducing eight stitches.

‘How on earth did you do that?’ said the young, fragrant doctor.

‘It’s a long story. I fell on a pencil.’

‘I believe you, thousands wouldn’t. There’s not much I haven’t seen or heard before. People falling on milk bottles that lodge themselves in strange places.’

Walter guffawed.

The doc was talking again. ‘Must have been a giant pencil, and I’ll tell you this, if that wound had been two inches to the right, it could have been catastrophic, if you get the picture. You are signed off work for two weeks.’

‘Not possible. Too much to do.’

‘Suit yourself. Your choice, but don’t be surprised if the stitches break open. No strenuous exercise for two weeks, you hear?’

‘I’m getting too long in the tooth for vigorous exercise.’

‘No one is too old for exercise, sir, and I mean no one, and that includes you. You could do with losing a little weight. I can’t force you to do anything. Just passing on good advice, that’s all.’

For a moment, he felt sorry for her. Maybe she had a point, and heaven knows how much verbal abuse she received from patients doing the opposite to what she suggested.

‘Thanks, doc,’ he said, ‘sorry for being a grump,’ looking into her face.

She pursed her lips, nodded, and headed off to the next injured local, a man who had sliced off a finger with his power saw, and was making sure everyone in the county knew about it.

Aleri Madden, nee Evans, suffered a broken ankle, but it was a clean break, and she was relatively young, and it would soon heal. She had been lucky. If Walter hadn’t intervened, all three officers knew she would have been impaled on the giant spiky pencils, and there would have been no coming back from that.

They plastered her ankle, and that ended any idea she had of making a break for it. She would be kept in hospital overnight before a squad car arrived to collect her to take her to the station to be questioned and charged with robbery, and it was still possible that could be moved up to armed robbery, and if that happened, she could expect any sentence to be doubled.

Karen’s phone rang as she stood on the church steps, brushing down her dusty jeans, as they waited for the forensic people to arrive. Mrs West calling, and she was not happy.

Without bothering with any intro, the big boss said, ‘What the B hell is going on?’

‘Where do you want me to start?’

‘Give me the condensed version!’

‘Well, Walter is in hospital.’

‘Eh? What the hell has the old fool been up to now?’

‘Not much. Only assisted in arresting a violent serial killer, while saving a woman’s life, before falling on a sharpened pencil. Oh, and we’ve arrested Aleri Madden.’

Chapter twenty-four

With Hamish Cairney locked in the cells, the debrief began without delay. Karen led the narrative.

Inspector Darriteau was in hospital after injuring his thigh whilst catching the falling woman who turned out to be Aleri Madden. Only the Guv figured out who she was. Aleri Evans, as was before marriage, and Elspeth Evans, to Hamish, a stage name, was the same person, a woman he had met through their amdram performances.

It took three officers to subdue Cairney. He was a powerful man and they would not have wanted to come across him when alone. When Cairney was asked if he needed a solicitor, he replied he did not, for he would answer for himself, because he was used to doing that in all walks of life.

To Mrs West, fell the task of who should interview Cairney. Karen and Darren were excused after their rough and tumble with the guy on the floor at Saint Luke’s. That wouldn’t have been fitting. She ruled Kate Foster out through inexperience, while Walter was out because he was SIO and absent, and SIO’s rarely, if ever, interviewed suspects.

Almost by default, the task fell to Jenny and Martin. They were qualified to do so, both having passed Tier 3 interview techniques, Jenny a year before, Martin more recently. Mrs West was relaxed with her choices, and both officers were keen to do the job, capable, and able to take onboard advice and suggestions. They would be prepped with a long list of questions Mrs West oversaw, taking into account Karen and Darren’s suggestions.

The boss preferred the PEACE method of interviewing, not least because it was written down and easy to follow. P for plan and prepare. E for engage and explain. A for account for your actions. C for closure, giving the interviewee an opportunity to correct any earlier inaccuracies, and E for later evaluation, when everything would be pored over, and evaluated, before going back in for round two.

That was the basic framework, though everyone knew it often went out of the window as proceedings developed, and juicy tangents off the grid presented themselves.

Mrs West said, ‘Does anyone have any idea if he intends no commenting?’

If the suspect was being legally represented, their solicitor would be asked the question about no commenting, before proceedings began, and most times they would answer, perhaps revealing a prepared statement had been made, and would be made available at the interview.

From the outset, prior to being officially interviewed, Cairney repeated he wanted no one near his business, and could look after himself, speaking with an underlying menacing tone.

The interview would begin at half-past two in the afternoon. There would be the three of them in the room, with Mrs West, Karen, Darren, and several others monitoring proceedings outside.

At ten past, Walter ambled into the station and made his way upstairs. Everyone was keen to know how he was, though he brushed that off, saying it was a minor flesh wound, and he was more interested in discovering how far they had gone.

Mrs West called him to her office, saying she was surprised he was back so soon, and wouldn’t it have been better if he had taken a few days off? They were pointless, time-wasting words, as she revealed who was conducting the interview.

He had no problem with that, though suggested Cairney should remain handcuffed because he was dangerous, Mary Lambert’s warning words coming back to him. Mrs West brushed it off, saying it was impossible, and besides, Martin was a big powerful guy, and more than capable of looking after Cairney. If it eased Walter’s concerns, she requested extra doors along the corridor be locked in case the man had a brain fade, and made a break for it.

At twenty-five past two, they brought Cairney up from the cells. At half-past two on the nail, Jenny unwrapped a new disk, set it in the recording machine, glanced across at Cairney, and introduced themselves. DC Jenny Thompson and DC Martin Kane conducting the interview.

The machine went on. Jenny identified herself and Martin for the record, explained where they were, stating the time and date, before adding, ‘For the benefit of the recording, please identify yourself with your full name and date of birth?’

Cairney did, speaking in his soft faux Edinburgh accent, looking unruffled and confident.

Martin reminded Cairney he was still under caution, before saying, ‘You have been asked if you require a solicitor present, and have declined. Is that correct?’

‘It is. I intend to represent myself.’

Engage and explain came back into Jenny’s mind. She found it a restrictive nuisance, preferring to jump right in, and get to the meat of the matter, though she knew Mrs West was watching, and would expect her to keep to the brief.

‘You were arrested in Saint Luke’s church where, but for the prompt action of Inspector Darriteau, a woman would have fallen from a height of over twenty feet onto pre-prepared razor-sharp spikes, which could have killed her.’

Did that cover engage and explain well enough, mused Jenny? She thought so, as she waited for Cairney to comment.

‘Was there a question in that? Because if there was, I missed it.’

‘I was hoping you might like to comment on those events.’

‘You’ll have to be cannier than that, lassie. You ask the questions, and I’ll do my best to answer them.’

Martin butted in.

‘Please refer to my colleague as DC Thompson.’

Cairney sniffed and looked down his nose at the big guy opposite, and said, ‘Whatever.’

Jenny tried the same scenario with a question.

‘Can you tell us what happened in the lead-up to those events, when you were apprehended in Saint Luke’s?’

‘That’s better. A proper question, well done. Sure. I can do that.’

There was a brief pause, as Jenny and Martin and those outside monitored and waited for his response. Jenny nodded him on. He grinned at her. He’d enjoy getting her on her own, and couldn’t help wondering what she would have looked like strung up on that cross, naked and helpless, and couldn’t believe his luck they had put her on his case.

Talk about being way out of her depth. They didn’t have a clue, the senior officers, but hey, they had come up through the ranks, and as was often the case, the thickos who crawled the highest up the greasy pole, were good at crawling, and bugger all else.

‘Sure,’ he said. ‘Arnold suggested it.’

‘Arnold?’ said Martin. ‘Arnold who?’

‘I’m not sure of his second name. Palmer, maybe, though I could be mistaken.’

Outside, Mrs West said, ‘Did we know about this?’

Walter said, ‘No! He’s playing games. No such person, I reckon.’

Darren said, ‘Arnold Palmer was a famous golfer.’

In the interview room, Jenny said, ‘Where did you meet this Arnold person?’

‘In the guesthouse.’

‘What guesthouse?’ said Martin.

‘The Oak Apple. You don’t know much, do you?’

Mrs West looked at Walter and said, ‘You know this place?’

‘Yes, ma’am, it’s a ten-minute max walk from Saint Luke’s. It’s a bit of a doss-house. Not good enough to house immigrants awaiting processing, more likely taking in young women with children before the council finds them something better. I’m surprised he stayed there… if he did.’

Mrs West fired up her phone and ordered someone to the Oak Apple to find out if Hamish Cairney had stayed there, and was there an Arnold on the staff, or registered as living there? Walter guessed that would be a waste of time, but didn’t say.

Jenny said, ‘What did Arnold tell you?’

‘He said if I was interested in a bit of fun, I should get round to Saint Luke’s before it closed for good. I was at a loose end, and I’ll be honest with you, lass, DC Thompson, I’m a hot-blooded man, and sometimes a bit of fun is good for all of us, don’t you think?’

Martin said, ‘You went there because you thought there could be loose sex on offer?’

‘I’m not sure I’d put it quite like that.’

‘What would your wife make of that?’ asked Jenny.

Cairney shot her a threatening look and raised his voice.

‘You leave her out of it. This is between you and me. It’s nothing to do with Ailish. You people have no idea. You are not fit to lick her boots.’

Martin said, ‘So, why did you go there?’

‘More out of curiosity than anything. I went there as Arnold suggested, and when I went in, I was amazed to see a semi-naked young woman strung up on the cross, with candles up there burning. Real kinky, and I wondered what I had walked in on. I was about to climb up and help her down when your mob barged in and, without warning, attacked me. You might as well know; I will seek to have charges laid against all three officers for aggravated assault.’

Jenny said, ‘That does not agree with the account the young woman gave of the incident.’

‘I’ll bet it doesn’t. Isn’t it obvious? I reckon she was into deviant games. She looked the type, no doubt waiting for her fella to come back, when I stumbled in. She’d be too embarrassed to tell the truth, wouldn’t she? And I’ll bet she’s married. She is, isn’t she? Doesn’t that tell you everything? No happiness at home, extra curricula, know what I mean? Anyway, that’s how I happened to be there. I think you’d better move on, assuming you have something more you want to discuss.’

Jenny and Martin shared a look that told Hamish they didn’t think they had begun well.

Jenny said, ‘I want to talk about Florence Dolby.’

‘Oh yeah, the horny bitch who used to run the Thundering Horse before she ran off with one of her many fancy men. That Florence?’

‘Yes,’ said Martin. ‘How well did you know Florence?’

Cairney grinned and rubbed the top of his head where the hair was thinking of growing back.

‘She was flighty, that’s the truth. Without warning, one afternoon, she kissed me under the cherry tree, as the blossoms were falling around us like snow.’

‘She kissed you under the cherry tree. I’m assuming that is not a euphemism?’ said Jenny.

‘Course not! What a filthy mind you have,’ staring into Jenny’s eyes, a look designed to unnerve her, and she knew it, and fought it away, as he added, ‘I guess that’s because of the business you are in. I thought of becoming a police officer once, until I discovered how hamstrung you are, and the grubby world you inhabit, and the sordid things they expect you to do.’

‘Which cherry tree, and where?’ asked Martin.

‘On the school grounds, Saint Norman’s at Melverly. Have a look. I’m not lying.’

‘Why would she do that? Why there?’

‘You’d have to ask her. I stopped going to the Hooves soon after. It was becoming embarrassing. If you must know, she said she wanted sex. My sex. Said she wasn’t getting any at home. Said her John had gone floppy, her exact words, and she needed a real man. Suggested we went to the Golden Orb in Shrewsbury for the weekend, and she’d make it worth my while. She was so desperate it was hard to see. I told her I was a happily married man, which I am, and she sulked away, probably to chase a teacher. She was that kind of woman. You know how it is. Some of the opposite sex we attract, and some we don’t. Know what I mean?’ he said, glancing between Martin and Jenny, and a fancy thought came out of nowhere, illuminating his mind.

They were an item, weren’t they? The coppers perched opposite. The thickos had put up a breeding pair, and most likely, the hierarchy didn’t know it was going on. What a discovery. That could be worth something further down the line. He’d tuck that juicy piece of intel under his belt for another day.

‘Look! between you and me, she always had the hots for me. It was nothing new. Everyone in the Hooves knew it. Go and check. What more can I say? I’m an attractive man. I attract loads of women, and always have,’ and he flexed his impressive biceps. ‘Look at that, children? There are more than 650 muscles in the human body, and there’s a certain kind of girly out there who can’t get enough of that kind of thing, especially toned up and massive ones, if you get my meaning. Turns them on, it does, every time, the packed solid physique. What do you think, DC Thompson?’ his arms still flexed and up. ‘Do it for you, does it?’

‘Just answer the questions,’ said Martin.

‘As you wish, DC. I work out every day, as I suspect you do, and my daily chores include plenty of labouring, and that helps keep me trim and desirable. Anyway, to cut a long story short, as I said, Florence asked me to go away with her for the weekend to that hotel by the river. Pretty, it is, a fornicator’s paradise, adultery central, king-size bed, silky sheets, a cut above most places, luxury double shower, and an enormous selection of cosmetics and massage oils in the bathroom. As bold as brass, she was. Ask her when you see her. She said she’d been there before, and I’ll bet she has. You can check that too. Lots of times, I should think. She was becoming obsessed with me, and I had to stop going into the pub because it was getting so difficult, her flirting with me across the bar, low cut dress, get the picture, with her dozy husband, John, standing in the background, polishing glasses like the tit he is, no idea what was going on. It wasn’t glasses he should have been polishing. You can check all that. Ask around. I’m not lying.’

Jenny said, ‘We will check every little detail, Mr Cairney. Did you have an affair with Florence Dolby?’

‘Of course not! Do me a favour, woman. Give me some credit. Have you seen her? I have certain standards. Gangly piece of nonsense. I wouldn’t look at her twice, or touch her with next door’s.’

‘We can’t see her,’ said Martin, ‘because we can’t find her. She has vanished.’

‘Yeah, now you mention it, I heard something about that. Probably ran off with another man, the first man who’d have her, though it never seems to last. She’s done that before, you know, and you can check that too. She’s far too forward for most guys. It puts them off. They like the thrill of the chase, not someone who lies down before them. If I were you, take a look at the dray wagon delivery guy. He told me he loves his job because he travels round from pub to pub, and most of those country inns have a flighty bitch behind the bar on the lookout for a muscly man. Come to think of it, he is too, not as muscled as myself, of course, though muscly enough.’

Jenny said, ‘We have an eyewitness who states he saw you engaging in sexual activity with Florence Dolby, and more than that, you strangled her to death, and tossed her off the colonnades, I think it’s called, where she fell to the ground below. After that, you picked her up and carried her off towards your house. What do you say to that?’

Cairney smiled and laughed loud and long.

‘Are you serious? My first reaction would be to say you are talking a load of bollocks, but I will be a little more polite than that. Who is this witness? Name the man or woman. I challenge you to do so. Bring him or her here right now, and we will have it out with them, though I know you won’t, because you know he or she or it is talking nonsense. You think I took her home to do what, exactly? Introduce her to my wife? You are being absurd, it’s laughable, and you are going to have to do a great deal better than that.’

Martin said, ‘Where is Florence Dolby, Mr Cairney?’

‘How the hell would I know?’

‘You had an affair with her, didn’t you?’ said Jenny.

‘Nope, never happened. I repeat, bring your so-called witness here and we would straighten it out in seconds. But you won’t do that because you know your fluffy, flaky peeping Tom, or Tomasina, would crumble in seconds.’

Martin said, ‘Is Florence Dolby still alive, Hamish?’

‘My name is Mr Cairney, seeing as you are so particular about titles. My answer to that is, I do not know. I would think so, though finding her might be tricky.’

‘We believe you strangled her and buried her,’ said Jenny.

‘You can think what you like. Thoughts are still free in our mixed-up society. The question is, do you have one shred of evidence of that? No, you don’t, because it did not happen.’

‘We’ve already told you,’ repeated Martin. ‘We have a witness who saw you strangle her.’

‘Where and when? Tell me that!’

Jenny glanced at her notes and said, ‘Between half-past two and three o’clock in the morning in the early hours of...’ and she read out the date.

‘Oh, come on. There’s a reason you two are still both DCs. Not a single step up the promotion ladder between you. I have a demanding wife at home, and when I say demanding, I mean demanding with a capital D. Five girls go to prove that. Don’t you think she might notice if I slipped from the bed and swanned off in the middle of the night to have sex with a giggling giraffe? Can’t you see how ridiculous your suggestions are? No one in their right mind would be swayed by that. Sorry, folks, you are going to have to do a hell of a lot better, and if you’ve nothing more, I’d like to be released right away, as I have a good job to go back to, where they need me.’

‘We are only just starting,’ said Jenny.

‘Well, take my advice, apprentices, and crack on with it before I fall asleep.’

Martin said, ‘Why did you shave your head?’

That was a fresh line of questioning, and for a moment it set Cairney back on his heels.

Chapter twenty-five

Jenny glanced at her watch and wondered if it was time to take a break. Cairney hesitated in answering the vanished hair question, until he said, ‘Felt like a change, that’s all. It’s the in thing. The smooth, bald look. Women go for it, so they say.’

Martin grimaced and said, ‘I’ll take your word for that.’

Jenny said, ‘We want to talk about Laila Broadsword.’

‘Can’t say as the name means anything to me.’

Jenny shifted her laptop to the side so he could see the screen. She pressed play, and they watched a picture of Cairney leaving the health club.

‘Is that you?’ she said.

‘It bears a strong resemblance to me; I’ll give you that.’

‘It is you, Mr Cairney, and here…’ and she moved to another video clip, ‘is you with Laila Broadsword.’

He stuck his head closer to the laptop and stared.

‘Was that Laila? Aye, I remember now. My squash partner didn’t turn up, and neither did hers, and we had a brief game. She wasn’t much cop, and we didn’t play long. It was like a father playing with a daughter, going easy, giving her a chance. To tell you the truth, it was boring, and I lost interest. I could have thrashed her with one arm tied behind my back.’

‘Where did you go afterwards?’

‘Went home, I think. I can’t remember. It wasn’t a night to live long in the memory, if that’s what you think.’

‘No,’ said Martin. ‘You went to the local steakhouse just up the road. We have video of the pair of you going in, and coming out later, Laila looking worse for drink.’

‘News to me. As I say, it wasn’t a night I remember.’

‘You took her back to her flat, didn’t you?’ said Jenny.

‘Didn’t happen, and I’m not lying.’

‘And in that flat,’ said Martin, ‘we believe you murdered the defenceless and drunk young woman.’

‘She wasn’t that young,’ he said in a rush.

‘Oh?’ said Jenny. ‘How do you know that?’

‘She must have mentioned it on the squash court.’

Jenny exhaled hard, as Martin said, ‘Where did you take her after you left her flat?’

‘I never went to her flat.’

‘Really?’ said Jenny, ‘and if we find your DNA there?’

‘If you find my DNA there, rissoles, it’s because one of your crooked bastards planted it.’

‘Who was your playing partner who didn’t show?’

‘Why do you want to know that?’

‘Well, it will give some semblance of proof to your story, if he or she could corroborate it,’ said Jenny.

‘Arnold, it was Arnold.’

‘Ah,’ said Martin, ‘the mysterious missing Arnold makes another phantom appearance.’

‘Aye, you find him, and he will confirm I am telling the truth.’

‘We can’t find him,’ said Jenny, ‘because we have no evidence the man exists.’

‘You can’t find him because you haven’t looked hard enough, and are crap at your job. It’s always the same with the coppers. You can produce any amount of evidence putting suspects in the darkest light, but you rarely find any facts that clears people. Funny that, don’t you think?’

‘You have a lot of experience dealing with the police, do you, Hamish?’

‘It’s Mr Cairney to you, girl, and I am sure you know I have never been charged with any crime throughout my life. Check on it, if you don’t believe me.’

Jenny glanced at her watch and said, ‘I think that’s a good point for a break. Would you like a drink? Coffee, tea?’

He smiled at her and said, ‘A glass of malt whisky is my drink of choice, but if that’s off the menu, make it a coffee, strong, black, with plenty of sugar.’

Martin told the recorder a break was being taken. He stopped the machine, removed the disk, set it in its box, added a seal, and took it with him, leaving Cairney alone with his thoughts.

Outside, Jenny and Martin joined Mrs West, Darren, Karen, and the Guv.

Jenny said, ‘What do you think?’

‘You’re doing well,’ said Walter.

‘I worry he’s going to get bail, pending further enquiries,’ said Martin. ‘He’s such a slippery sod, and so confident.’

‘Never going to happen,’ said Mrs West. ‘You can be sure of that.’

‘That right?’ said Jenny.

Mrs West nodded and said, ‘The CPS has already approved a charge of murder for Emily Chatteris. That means he stays in custody for the foreseeable, and that gives us unlimited opportunities to question him further.’

Martin said, ‘What about the abduction and attempted murder of Aleri Madden?’

‘Yes, I’m sure we’ll get there, though it is a tricky one. The principal witness who will testify against him, assuming she does, is in custody after being charged as part of a gang of what could be armed robbers. That will devalue her evidence. I shudder to think what a smart barrister might do to her in the witness box.’

Mrs West mentioned officers sent to the Oak Apple could not find any trace of an Arnold, surname or first name. It seemed he was a figment of Cairney’s imagination.

Karen said the GPR team was due to start probing at ten the following morning, and after the operators sent an expert to look at the place, it was agreed with Professor Billings that as the site was big enough, they could continue their workings, with the GPR beginning on another part of the grounds.

Karen said, ‘Do you still want to go, Guv?’

‘No, I think I’d prefer to stay here and monitor Mr Cairney’s ridiculous replies. Why don’t you go, and take Kate Foster with you?’

He glanced at Mrs West for approval, and she pursed her lips and nodded it through.

Walter looked at Martin and Jenny and said, ‘The one time you riled him was when you spoke about Ailish. Keep doing that. Always do what the opposition least likes. See where it takes you. A man who loses his temper is a man who spills secrets.’

‘Sure, Guv,’ said Jenny.

‘And,’ said Mrs West, ‘you haven’t started talking about Mary Cross, Isla Aitken, or Emily Chatteris yet. There’s so much there to go at in the firm knowledge we will charge him with Emily’s murder before the day is out, though don’t tell him that. He will be going nowhere, and hopefully that means forever.’

‘Keep him talking and get as much out of him,’ said Walter, ‘because eventually the ego that is Cairney will resort to no commenting, and after that, we’ll get nothing more.’

Jenny nodded at Martin and he looked back, wanting to smile, but holding it in, and ten minutes later, after a bathroom break, they were ready for round two.

When they went back in, they found two plastic beakers of coffee in front of him, one empty, the other half full. Cairney glanced at them and saw them studying the drinks.

‘I conned the kid into giving me two. Want to charge me with daylight robbery? Nothing would surprise me.’

‘On the house,’ said an upbeat Martin, unsealing the disk to set it in the machine. He turned it on and updated it with time and people present.

Jenny nodded as if she meant business, and said, ‘We want to talk about Mary Cross.’

Hamish pulled a face and pretended he didn’t know anyone of that name.

‘There was an incident,’ said Jenny, ‘on Helensburgh beach when you were both kids. You must have been about twelve or thirteen. Enjoying a day out at the seaside from Glasgow, when one of your party, a girl named Gina McGregor, drowned. That bring back any memories?’

‘My God, you’re scraping the barrel. But you’re right. I remember now. It was such a long time ago. I dived in and saved her, brought her up from the deep, but sadly, she was already a-goner. They hailed me a hero. It was in all the newspapers. Oldies on the beach applauded me, as I carried her ashore.’

‘That’s interesting, because Mary Cross told us she saw you pushing Gina under.’

Martin added, ‘Drowning her. Murdering her.’

Cairney laughed long and loud. It may have been real to begin with, but he continued too long, taking it into forced, false, and unnatural laughter.

‘Come on, give me some credit. I did a good thing that day, and despite that, you want to twist it into something corrupt and evil.’

‘You didn’t like Gina McGregor, did you?’ said Martin.

Jenny added, ‘You couldn’t stand the competition, could you?’

‘Competition? From that mixed up bitch? Don’t make me laugh.’

Jenny saw he was uncomfortable discussing it, and said, ‘She was a better swimmer than you, wasn’t she, Hamish?’

Cairney scoffed and said, ‘No, she was not. I’ll tell you what she was; a lesbo in the making, that’s what. She’d always been a peculiar child. Challenging the boys in everything, running, rifle shooting at the fair, eating pickled eggs, anything they could do, she said she could do better, until she challenged me to an arm-wrestle, where I put her bang in her place. Almost broke her flabby arm. Her problem was she wanted to be a boy, and that came out when she endeavoured to humiliate any boy whenever she had the chance. She always picked on the weak lads. It didn’t matter if they were only seven or eight, she’d still humiliate them. She was a bully-girl, that’s what she was, and it was down to the likes of me to keep her in order, and set her straight.’

‘And you did that, didn’t you, Hamish?’ said Martin, ‘by drowning her.’

‘Don’t be absurd. Check on the newspapers of the day. GLASGOW SCHOOLBOY HAILED A HERO. That’s what the local newspaper said. It’s all there in black and white, on the record, and I’ll bet you won’t dig that out, will you, because it not only exonerates me, it shows me up for what I truly am.’

‘And what is that?’ asked Jenny.

‘An honourable man, that’s what, and yes, when the chips are down, I can be heroic.’

Martin said, ‘Gina McGregor went to the beach that day to enjoy a pleasant swim with her friends, when you took it on yourself to make sure she never returned. Mary Cross, lying on the beach, witnessed everything, and afterwards she tackled you about it outside the public toilets. Remember that, Mr Cairney?’

‘No, I don’t.’

‘Convenient, if you’ll pardon the pun,’ said Jenny, ‘then I will remind you. She told you she had seen what you did, and would tell the police about it, and you said if she ever uttered a word to anyone; you would stab her in both eyes, blinding her, spoiling her life, ruining her chances of ever having a family. That’s what happened, isn’t it?’

‘You have a vivid imagination; I’ll give you that.’

Martin added, ‘And you did the same thing to Gina, didn’t you, denying her any possibility of having children?’

‘Don’t be absurd. She would never have had a family in a million years. No one in their right mind would have gone near that. She wasn’t the marrying kind, and besides, women couldn’t marry their own kind back then.’

The officers gave him a minute to think about what he had said, before Martin continued, ‘We are turning now to your salirophilia habit.’

‘My what?’

‘You heard my colleague,’ said Jenny. ‘Your interest in salirophilia.’

‘Sorry, love, you’ve lost me. I have no idea what you are talking about.’

Martin explained, ‘Your habit of smothering women with dirt and mud, rubbing it into their hair and body, before washing and cleaning them, sometimes with bleach. When did that fetish come into your life, Hamish?’

‘No, I’m not having that. You are stepping beyond the pale. I’m not discussing contemptible nonsense. And besides, what goes on in the bedroom stays in the bedroom. This is a free country, and a bit of fun and games in bed never harmed anyone.’

Martin said, ‘You admit it is one of your practices?’

‘I admit nothing, and I do not know what you are talking about.’

‘You did the same thing to Emily Chatteris, didn’t you? You went digging on the Moreton Corbet site beside her, and later, in the Magpie, her grubbiness turned you on so much, you wanted to take it a stage further, much further, and eventually you got your way, didn’t you?’

‘More imagined events that never took place. I don’t know where you dig up these pathetic and, may I add, sordid ideas.’

‘You covered Emily in mud, didn’t you? We found her, Mr Cairney. The remains were still there after you left, as was your DNA, and you couldn’t even be bothered to clean up,’ said Martin.

‘Or flush the lavatory,’ added Jenny.

‘I’m not discussing this any further.’

Martin said, ‘We can understand your reticence, though we are curious. What’s it like when you do it to Ailish, Hamish? Does she put up with it? Put on a brave face. Let you do whatever you want? How does that work? God knows what your laundry bill must be like. Or maybe Ailish enjoys it? Is that what happens?’

‘You snivelling English bastard!’ growled Hamish, as he stood up and thrust himself across the table, giving Martin a thunderous Glasgow kiss of a head-butt on the bridge of the nose.

Martin went over the back of the chair and banged his head against the wall. Jenny’s mouth fell open as she said, ‘What the hell?’

Hamish brushed her away to the floor with his left arm as if she were a piece of fluff, went for the unlocked door, and was through it in a second. Outside, Darren said, ‘Here we go. It’s all kicking off,’ as he jumped up and headed for the rumble, Karen close behind. Mrs West leant over and pressed the wall-mounted alarm bell, there for just such an incident, as Walter stood and wandered outside.

He saw Hamish approaching two burly uniformed officers guarding the locked door at the end of the corridor. In the next second, Hamish threw himself at them and all three tumbled to the floor in a human wrecking ball, wrestling, grunting, heaving, blowing, shouting, and thumping. Darren and Karen arrived on scene, and each grabbed a flailing limb as Hamish screamed, ‘English bastards! I’ll kill the lot of yer.’

Walter arrived in case he was needed, and found the troops had the man under control, and left them to it. Cairney was handcuffed and marched away down to the cells, hollering obscenities, as Walter rejoined Mrs West, who hadn’t left her ringside seat.

She looked at him and said, ‘You did that on purpose, didn’t you?’

‘Ma’am?’

‘Don’t ma’am, me. You know what I mean. You knew he’d lose his rag when Martin persisted in dragging Ailish into it, something he did at your suggestion, and that is what happened. Did it improve our situation in any way?’

‘Maybe,’ said Walter. ‘We now know where his weak spot is, and where his temper boils over. Useful things to know, I’d have thought.’

‘We knew that already! Sometimes, you have a funny way of looking at things, Walter. Did I ever tell you that?’

‘I’m interested in the human psyche, if that’s what you mean.’

Minutes later, during an update for all parties, it was revealed Martin suffered a broken nose. It had been broken before, and would be broken again in the future. Fair play to him, he declined medical treatment, and insisted he wished to continue. Mrs West put the kibosh on that, saying his presence would be a red rag to the bullish man, and thank goodness there was no solicitor present.

She turned to Walter and said, ‘I don’t know if this was part of your grand plan, but if it was, you have your way. You will conduct the next interview with Jenny when we resume, if she is not too shaken up, and see where we go from there.’

‘Thank you, ma’am. A wise decision, if I may say.’

‘Time will tell, Walter.’

When asked, Jenny grinned and said she couldn’t wait to accompany Walter. She would never have admitted it, but felt uncomfortable conducting the interview alongside Martin, in view of his feelings for her. Sitting close beside him, she found it distracting.

Mrs West said, ‘We’ll give him three hours to cool off and take it from there.’

‘Suits me,’ said Walter. ‘Gives me the chance to grab a sandwich.’

‘I’ve brought fruit,’ said Jenny. ‘Call me when you are ready.’

Chapter twenty-six

Half an hour later, Roddy Jeffries rang from Edinburgh, saying, ‘I hear on the grapevine you have caught Cairney.’

‘How did you know?’ asked Walter. ‘On second thoughts I don’t want to know. But you are correct. He’s back in the cells after attacking one of my men during questioning. I blame myself. Mary Cross, as was, warned me he would do the precise same thing.’

‘How did you catch him?’

Walter told Roddy a condensed version of events at Saint Luke’s, and the rumble that followed, before Cairney was dragged away to the station.

‘Sounds like the lassie on the cross was right lucky.’

‘You can say that again. If we’d arrived five minutes later, she would have fallen onto those needle-sharp spikes. How could anyone do that to another human being? Aleri Madden was no saint, she was a wanted person, up on a jewellery robbery case, but she sure as heck didn’t deserve that.’

Roddy sighed and said, ‘He’ll go down for the rest of his natural, won’t he?’

‘We wouldn’t be doing our job if he didn’t. And talking about spikes, were there any puncture wounds on Isla Aitken’s body?’

‘Not that I’m aware of. Her post-mortem is underway. That was my main reason to call, and we hope to have the full report tomorrow. Want me to send you a copy?’

‘That would be great, or call me, I don’t mind which.’

‘Consider it done. Has your questioning finished?’

‘No, not even halfway through. Yours truly is taking over from the injured one, beginning in the next couple of hours.’

‘Good luck with that.’

‘Thanks,’ and the call ended.

Walter sat back and thought about the inquiry, going back to when the school kid rang from Shropshire, and that reminded him Harry deserved to hear something of an update before Cairney’s arrest became public knowledge.

He grabbed his phone and rang the kid, half expecting the call to go to voicemail, when Harry answered, sounding as bright as a button.

‘Harry, it’s Inspector Darriteau.’

‘I know who it is. Any news?’

‘There is. Mr Cairney is in custody. Keep it to yourself. I’m only telling you because you set this whole thing in motion, and we will charge him with serious offences later today. There’s no way he’ll get bail, and if we do our jobs well, he will go away for the rest of his days.’

There was a momentary silence before Walter said, ‘Did you get that?’

‘I did. I was just taking it in, and all the ramifications. Does Mrs Cairney know?’

‘Not yet. I have that job to do once we have finished with Hamish. So, you can rest easy, Harry. Mr Cairney will never bother you or anyone else again.’

‘That’s a relief, I can tell you.’

‘Are you still taking your midnight jaunts?’

Harry laughed and said, ‘Oh, yes, it’s become a big part of my life, and I don’t see it ending anytime soon. I reckon I’ll keep doing it long after I have left here. Is there any news on Florence?’

‘Not yet, though we are scanning a dig on a Shropshire site tomorrow. We’re hoping that might throw something up.’

‘You think he buried her?’

‘It’s possible. You saw him possibly driving her away. We know he was working on an archaeological dig. It would seem the natural place. I’m torn. I want to find her body, though I’d rather discover her alive and well.’

‘I can imagine. Your job is both horrific and tremendous at the same time. I’m not sure I could cope with that. Huge highs and incredible lows on the same afternoon. How do you sleep?’

‘About as well as you, I reckon.’

Harry laughed.

‘Now then, young Mr Sparsholt, there will come a time when the big trial looms, probably here in Chester. How do you feel about testifying?’

‘I have been wondering about that. Is it essential I do?’

‘Afraid so. Age is no bar to calling witnesses. You can rest assured the trial won’t be for a while, maybe six months or even a year down the line.’

‘I’ll be eighteen by then.’

‘You will, and an adult, to boot.’

‘I don’t think I’ll feel any different.’

‘Perhaps not, but I thought it might be an idea to jot down everything you saw, and everything you know, so it remains fresh in the mind, and we’ll pop down and take a statement. We will meet before the trial and go over everything again. You have nothing to worry about. Just say what you saw. It’s as simple as that.’

The kid thought about that for a second before saying, ‘Will everything rest on my testimony?’

‘No, certainly not. There will be dozens of witnesses. You will be in good company.’

‘That’s a relief.’

‘Okay, I have to go. I’ll keep you posted.’

‘Thanks, Inspector, I appreciate it,’ and the call ended.

Mrs West took it on herself to visit Cairney in his cell. The door was opened, and she stepped inside, accompanied by two big officers. Cairney was huddled under a blanket on the bench in the foetus position, back towards the room.

‘Mr Cairney?’ she said, ‘I have come to speak to you before the interviewing continues.’

He didn’t move a muscle.

One officer tapped his back and said, ‘Sit up straight when the Chief Superintendent is speaking to you.’

The thought of a high-ranking person visiting his cell brought him to his senses, and he shrugged off the blanket and sat up.

She nodded at him and said, ‘Before we recommence, I want your word you will not attack another of my officers. We need to get through this process together, and will not tolerate violence. Do we need to handcuff your wrists and ankles to the table for hours on end, because that would be most uncomfortable for you, though we will do it, if need be?’

Cairney grunted and said, ‘Won’t be necessary.’

‘Good. Thank you. One of my officers has gone to hospital, and we cannot allow any repeat of that.’

‘I’m sorry about that. He shouldn’t have riled me, and I admit, I lost my temper.’

‘No more of it, Mr Cairney, understand?’

Cairney nodded and said, ‘Aye, you’ll be alright.’

‘We will start again in half an hour. In the meantime, is there anything you need?’

‘Another coffee would be good, hot, sweet, and black.’

She nodded at one of her protectors to fix it.

‘And what about a solicitor? Take my advice, Mr Cairney, you need one. Have such a person by your side. It can often take the sting out of things, and that might benefit everyone.’

‘No! No solicitor. I’ll represent myself. I’ve told you that before.’

‘As you wish. Half an hour, and I expect you to be on your best behaviour.’

She nodded at him again and left the room.

No one could remember her visiting anyone in the cells before, or her predecessor, come to that. She had spoken to the prisoner as if he were a naughty schoolboy, and he sat there and took the rebuke in the same fashion. It would become legendary, spoken about by weary officers late into the night, in quiet backstreet city pubs.

They brought Cairney back to the interview room. A minute later, Jenny and Walter entered, and Jenny fixed the recorder and did the intros.

‘I’m glad it’s you,’ said Cairney, staring at Walter on the other side of the table. ‘I like you.’

Walter nodded and opened with, ‘Where will we find Laila Broadsword’s body?’

‘I’ve no idea. Is she dead?’

‘We don’t know. You tell us. If she is, the poor woman deserves a Christian funeral. Come on, Mr Cairney, we need your help.’

‘Sorry, I know nothing about that.’

Jenny said, ‘It would save everyone a great deal of trouble if you told us.’

He switched his gaze to her and said, ‘You still here? How’s your boyfriend? When you next see him, tell him I’m sorry. He just kind of got in the way. He’d never be a match for me, big man, though he is. I thought you would have known that. It was nothing personal, and I’m sure he’s a great lover.’

‘I wouldn’t know about that,’ said Jenny, working hard to keep her cool, and control a blush.

Walter changed tack, as he did throughout the interview. The beloved PEACE formula had long gone out of the window.

‘I want to talk about your sister.’

‘My sister? What the hell has she got to do with anything?’

‘Tell us how she died?’

Cairney sighed and said, ‘You know how she met her end.’

‘Remind us,’ said Jenny.

‘A Glasgow Corporation bus ran her down. Not a penny in compensation, either. Zilch! The mean bastards! No doubt the driver was going too fast, hurtling through the city, desperate to get back to the bus depot, finish his shift, and jump into the nearest and cheapest pub.’

Walter said, ‘I understand you were there with your friends, playing a game of daresey. That right?’

‘Who told you that?’

‘Please answer the question,’ said Jenny.

‘Yeah, we might have been. We played it sometimes when we had nothing better to do.’

Jenny said, ‘How did it play out? What were the rules?’

He sighed again and said, ‘Rules? You must be joking. Och, I don’t see the relevance of this, and there weren’t any rules. The object was to dash across the road in front of onrushing buses and lorries, and the one who got the closest to the hot throbbing engine would be decreed the winner.’

‘A dangerous game,’ said Walter, ‘especially for children.’

‘It could be, and the drivers didn’t like it, I can tell you that.’

‘I’ll bet,’ said Walter.

Jenny said, ‘What was your sister’s name?’

‘Jennifer, same as you.’

‘And she was there, joining in?’

‘She was.’

Walter said, ‘But she wasn’t keen to play, was she?’

‘Not at first. I had to encourage her a wee bit. It was like a rite of passage. All the kids did it, or most of them had a go. At least the ones wi’ a bit o’gallus. That’s courage to you.’

‘What did you say to her?’ asked Jenny.

‘I can’t remember my exact words. This was over thirty years ago. Can you remember every sentence spoken to your family from back then? I doubt it.’

‘I might,’ said Walter, ‘if my sister, if I had one, ended the day being killed right in front of me, beneath the wheels of a double-decker bus. That would stick in the memory, don’t you think?’

‘Fair point, I suppose. The thing is, Jennifer was weak in the head and needed to toughen up. Glasgow was a rough place back then. Still can be in some areas, though most cities have their darker corners, and everyone needed to be tough because if they weren’t, they’d fall easy prey to any hoodlums they might stumble across. It was for her own good.’

Jenny, both Jennys, didn’t think so, as Walter said, ‘What did you say to her?’

‘I told her I’d tell her when to run.’

‘And did you?’ said Jenny.

‘Aye, of course I did. She wasn’t paying attention, and that wasn’t unusual. Her mind was all over the place. Scatty, that’s what she was. She wasn’t looking to the right, up the road, as she should have been. She was peering back at me.’

‘Isn’t the truth of it, you told her you would give her the back of your hand if she didn’t do as ordered?’ said Walter.

‘Who said that? You’re talking nonsense again.’

‘And you told her when to run?’

‘I did! I said: Do it! Go now! And the dopey girl paused before setting off, and that moment of hesitation cost her dear.’

‘Is it possible,’ said Jenny, ‘you sent her out into the busy street, knowing she would never make it across?’

‘No!’

‘You yelled her out into that busy city street, knowing she would be run down?’

‘Now, hang on! That’s out of order. You’re making me out to be a devil. It wasn’t like that. Jennifer hesitated, that’s what happened, that’s what cost her, and she paid the price.’

Walter said, ‘A damned big price. Was Gina McGregor there?’

‘Of course she was. She was always there, hanging around like a foul smell floating off the glue factory.’

‘And did she run across?’ asked Jenny.

‘Yes, she did, in her strange nonchalant style, looking as if she were running slowly, ambling, cocky like, moving faster than it appeared, dashing away from those whirring wheels, looking triumphant, standing on the other side, turning round to grin at us, hands shaking above her head, grinning and yelling nonsense, like some kind of ancient Gaelic warrior.’

‘And you took that as an affront to your position, to your leadership of the gang?’ said Walter.

‘Not an affront, a challenge, maybe. Yes, I did. She did well, but I knew I could do better. That’s how things usually turned out.’

Jenny said, ‘Was Mary Cross there?’

‘No! She never took part in something like that. Anything that needed a dash of courage, she was scared shitless. A big pussy, a real scaredy-cat. Probably playing on the swings with the wee wens in the park. That was more her style. Years behind the rest of us. Mary was late growing up, in every way… if you get my drift.’

Walter said, ‘We have it on good authority you bullied Jennifer into running across that road, giving her no chance of getting across, sending her out, knowing she would be flattened.’

‘Good authority?’ he scoffed. ‘Who the hell said that?’

‘Gina McGregor did.’

‘Oh aye, talking to her from beyond the grave, are you?’

‘No,’ said Jenny, ‘but she and Mary Cross were close buddies. They talked about everything, sharing secrets, and she told Mary about it that same night, telling her what happened, just as we described, and what you did, sending her out at the wrong moment, and Mary was never likely to forget that, was she?’

‘Mary Cross was a tit; except she didn’t have any. Take my word for it. You don’t want to believe any nonsense that jumps out of her thin-lipped, miserable gob.’

Walter said, ‘What happened afterwards?’

‘After what?’

‘After your sister was run down and killed?’

‘Not much. The Fire Brigade turned up. It was a fearful sight. A squashed and mutilated body is not for the squeamish. I guess you folks know all about that. Part of her needed to be scraped up from the oily tarmac. Looking back on it, I imagine I thought, as she was my sister, I’d better stay there until she had been cleared away, and afterwards, when the fire people sluiced down the road, I saw reddened water running down the gutter, splashing my worn shoes. I’ll never forget that, before it dived into the nearest grid.’

‘Were you the only kid left there?’

‘No, Gina was still there. I think she was unhappy at home. The tomboy; or tomcat, as I called her. She witnessed everything, and she enjoyed it, I’ll tell you that. If any of our gang had a bloodlust, it was her.’

Walter said, ‘Amazing how many people close to you suffer violent deaths, or disappear, Mr Cairney.’

‘Oh? I hadn’t noticed.’

‘Really?’ said Jenny. ‘Let me recap. Jennifer, your sister; violent death, run down by a bus, with you egging her on from the sidelines, to jump in front of it.’

‘I didn’t egg her on.’

Jenny ignored him and continued.

‘Gina McGregor, the strongest swimmer in your group, mysteriously drowned off Helensburgh beach, a crime witnessed by Mary Cross.’

‘Mary Cross was and still is, I imagine, a weak individual. She would do or say anything you told her to, and if she said that, no doubt you put her up to it.’

‘We never put words into witness’s mouths,’ said Walter. ‘We only ask questions, and note down their replies.’

‘Oh yeah? Really?’

Walter continued.

‘Then there’s Florence Dolby, where a witness saw you strangle her, and throw her twelve feet onto hard-standing ground below. So far as we know, you were the last person to see her alive.’

‘Plus,’ said Jenny, ‘there’s Laila Broadsword, another young woman who simply disappeared, and again, you were the last person we can trace who saw her alive.’

Hamish shook his head and said, ‘I know nothing about what happened to any of them.’

‘And we must not forget Emily Chatteris,’ said Walter, ‘whose cottage you visited, your DNA is all over it, where you were attracted by her grubbiness. We have another witness to corroborate that, and later, we found Emily’s remains abandoned and dead in the cellar of her cottage, and I believe you were the last person to see her alive, too.’

‘So that’s two disappeared, still unaccounted for, and three deaths,’ said Jenny. ‘Quite a roll-call, and it’s all just a coincidence, Mr Cairney. That right? Seems a little far-fetched, don’t you think? Isn’t it time you fessed up and started being honest?’

Hamish allowed a slight grin to seep over his face, a grin that morphed into a full-on teeth display smile, before he giggled and started laughing loud and long. Something he had done before.

Walter said, ‘I don’t see there is anything to laugh at. Young women and girls of varying ages being killed, murdered, slaughtered, and you think it’s funny? Some might say your actions deserve to be investigated on a mental health basis.’

Hamish stopped laughing, smiled at Walter, pulled a hideous face, set his head to one side, and said in a strange voice, ‘There’s nae wrong with me, mate, it’s everyone else.’

The officers allowed a brief pause for him to gather himself before Walter said, ‘What’s this alphabeti-scetti business? What’s that about?’

‘Eh? How do you mean?’

‘Come on, Mr Cairney,’ said Jenny. ‘You know what we are talking about. B for Broadsword. C for Chatteris. D for Dolby, and E for Evans, and God knows who F was going to be.’

Walter took up the thread.

‘Which brings us to Aleri Madden, or Aleri Evans, as was. Where did you meet her?’

‘At the White Nancy, and she wasn’t Aleri, she was Elspeth Evans.’

‘Who or what is the White Nancy?’ asked Walter.

‘Don’t you know anything? How long have you lived here? It’s a white folly at the top of Kerridge Hill in Cheshire, built after the Battle of Waterloo to celebrate Wellington’s victory, and Napoleon getting stuffed. It’s in the shape of a gigantic white beehive, and it’s believed to be hollow, though the door has long since been sealed. It’s a peculiar thing. Some say there are weird things buried inside. Wouldn’t it be funny if Florence Dolby was in there? That would explain a lot. As for the name, no one knows what it means. It’s a real-life mystery, so someone, long before I became involved, decided the amdram theatre company, to which I am a proud member, thought it a great name for promoting mystery plays and the like, hence the White Nancy Theatrical Troupe. No charge for the info, peeps.’ Cairney sat back and crossed his arms. ‘And by the way, as for your daft alphabet theory, you might not have noticed, you are missing an A.’

‘Which brings us neatly to Isla Aitken,’ said Walter. ‘Another of your former lovers who also went missing.’

‘Ah,’ he said, ‘we were never lovers. No idea where you dragged that lie up from.’

‘One Ailish Cairney,’ said Jenny. ‘Your wife. It was her input on that.’

‘I have told you before!’ he said, his face turning red. ‘You leave Ailish out of this. It got your boyfriend into hot water, and you’re not immune, even if you think you are.’

‘Calm down,’ said Walter, ‘and I think that is a good place to take another cooling-off break. Do you need anything?’

‘Only a bit of common sense on your side of the table. That would make a change, and early bail for me, so I can get home to see my better half. She’ll be missing me like crazy. Know what I mean?’

‘I wouldn’t count on that,’ said Jenny, ‘the bail thing,’ as she updated the tape, removed the disk, sealed it, and went outside to ask the big men to escort Cairney to his cell.

Chapter twenty-seven

The following morning, the team were desperate to get the questioning underway. They were ready for Cairney in the interview room before nine. The door opened and two officers ushered him in.

Jenny said, ‘Good morning, Mr Cairney.’

One escorting officer spoke.

‘He’s in something of a strange mood this morning. Acting the goat. I hope you have better luck with him than we did. He threw his cornflakes over the floor and peed on them. Didn’t you, Mr Cairney? What was that about?’

Hamish ignored the man and went round and sat in front of Jenny and Walter.

She set the machine running and stated who was present.

‘Today,’ said Walter, ‘we’d like to talk about Emily Chatteris.’

Hamish smiled and said, ‘I’m a goshawk. Did you know?’ and he stood up before them and flapped his arms hard, creating a breeze, disturbing loose papers on the table.

Walter and Jenny shared a look, and let him continue.

‘Goshawks are rare and hard to find. Beautiful creatures, living in the forest. Ferocious killers, though we won’t go into that,’ and he grinned and paused.

‘Is that it?’ said Jenny.

‘No, lassie. You should know that when I am let out into the yard for exercise, I shall fly away over the wall, and you will be mystified where I have gone. Though now I have told you what I am, perhaps you won’t be surprised. I’ll give you a clue. I will fly across Liverpool Bay and perch atop the highest mountain on the Isle of Man.’

‘Sit down, stop talking nonsense, and let’s get on with things,’ said Walter.

‘I will sit down, and you will be glad I did, because I have two terrible confessions to make today, but first, I want to advise you overnight I joined the White Nancy Naturist Club, and I reserve the right to discard any clothing whenever I choose, and the weather is suitable. I mean, no one would want to do that in the winter, would they?’ and Hamish stood up and began undoing his shirt.

‘Sit down and behave yourself,’ said Walter.

‘In a second, Mr Darriteau. Please be patient, and your patience will be rewarded with startling confessions.’

The man removed his socks and unzipped and dropped his trousers, revealing bright purple boxer shorts. Walter and Jenny shared a horrified look. Cairney slipped his thumbs beneath the elasticated top.

‘That’s far enough!’ said Walter. ‘We don’t need or want to see any more.’

Hamish glanced at a grimacing Jenny, and said, ‘Ah yes, I see, we must not shock the ladies, must we?’ And he sat down and pulled in his chair, as the officers stared across the table at the all-but naked muscular man. A moment later, he caught her checking out his pecs.

‘Impressive, aren’t they?’ he said. ‘But they don’t happen by accident. They have to be worked on. Built up over many years.’

Outside, observing, Mrs West and Darren were enjoying the show.

‘The man’s a complete loon,’ said Darren.

‘It’s an act,’ said Mrs West. ‘He’ll calm down in a moment.’

‘Emily Chatteris?’ said Walter.

‘We’ll talk about that in a minute. Honest, we will. There is something important I wish to say first. I know my rights. I am entitled to speak.’

Walter huffed and said, ‘Go on, Mr Cairney, two minutes. After that, we get down to business.’

‘Climate change is here to stay; and it will get much worse in the years to come. It will become too hot to wear clothes. The only items humans will need are knickers and jockstraps. Can you imagine going to the theatre or the rugby, where everyone is wearing just knickers or a jockstrap? Quite a change, wouldn’t you say? A major culture shock for many. The people on the Tube, the folks on planes. Bare chested, bare everything, except for you-know-what. Naked flying, naked feeding, naked in the cinema, and naked in church. We will return to the era of wearing loincloths and little else. You must agree, it will be interesting.’

‘You are being ridiculous,’ said Jenny.

‘No, lass, there’s more. Lots more. Sports will be affected. Motorcyclists will discard their leathers. They will stop races when the riders fall off, their heads air-fried in their helmets until their faces resemble burnt fried eggs, black, crackly, and pockmarked. Gas and electricity companies will go bust. No one will need their smelly, expensive, and murderous products. Housing will not need to be heated. No one will use gas again. People will go outside and fry their breakfast on the bonnet of their hydrogen cars. We could roast a whole chicken in a discarded metal helmet, free of charge,’ and Hamish paused and stared.

‘Is that it?’ said Walter.

‘Not quite. You remember that prison escape film where the hero dived through a film star’s poster and burrowed away to safety? I thought I’d let you know; I’m going to do that. All I need is a picture of that sexy new star, Lizzy Marigold. She’s so good, isn’t she? Gives me the horn every time. I will fix her to my cell wall, only a picture, sadly, and dive clean through her, and when your fat and out of condition goons come for me in the morning, they will find is a round hole in the wall, and me long gone, back to the forests in the Highlands where I will always be safe. Wouldn’t that be great?’

He glanced at Jenny and said, ‘Would you get me a Lizzy Marigold poster? I’ll give you the money. You needn’t worry about that. I’m not a skinflint. A little favour for me. I think I deserve at least that. ’

‘Stop talking tripe!’ ordered Walter.

Hamish switched his eyes back to the man, saying, ‘He is an impatient fellow, isn’t he?’ before glancing at Jen. ‘The big old grumpy bear coming to the end of his useful life. His trouble is, he is used to getting his own way in all things, and that’s a bad thing. He represents a different generation to us, and his time has passed. Now, what was it you wanted to know?’

Jenny said, ‘Confessions. You said you had confessions to make.’

‘Oh, aye, I do. Shock you it will, too.’

‘Go on,’ said Walter. ‘Let’s hear it.’

‘I want to confess I carried out two murders.’

Outside, the watchers sat up and paid closer attention.

‘Only two?’ whispered Jenny, glancing at Walter, who stared at the naked man, and said, ‘Which two?’

‘Mr and Mrs Cairney, of course.’

Walter sat back in his seat.

‘Your parents?’ clarified Jenny.

‘Aye, if you could call them that. Did you know I hated the pair of them?’

‘Names?’ said Walter.

‘Jimmy, that’s James, and Agnes Cairney.’

Walter wrote the names down and said, ‘This fresh info needs checking.’

Mrs West picked up the signal, and told Darren to run checks on what they had on James and Agnes Cairney, and he scuttled off to dig up facts.

Walter said, ‘How did you kill them?’

‘Agnes was an alcoholic, and when she should have been spending her money on food for the kids, she bought whisky and gin, and only if there was anything left, did she buy the cheapest bread and margarine. That’s the reason, as a child, I developed a shoplifting habit, to put food on the table, though things got better after Jennifer’s premature death, because I could grab her share.’

‘And your father?’ said Walter.

‘Ah, him? A revolting man in every respect. Farted a lot. His addictions were nicotine and violence. He’d leather her, and he’d leather me whenever he had the chance, and even his favourite, young Jennifer, wasn’t immune from a good slapping. She’d go to school with bruises on her calves where the stupid teachers never picked up a thing. They must have been blind. Faither always had a fag in his mouth, puffing and blowing away, smoke everywhere, leaving no money for food and bills, and all walls soon became a dull shade of defecating brown, making the flat a hellish place to live.’

Walter said, ‘How did you kill them?’

Hamish smiled and said, ‘I’m so glad you asked that. Nice you have entered the spirit of things.’

‘Go on,’ said Walter. ‘You can’t tell half a story.’

‘I’m with you. Don’t fret, you’ll get to hear the tiniest details. The council finally got round to refurbishing the block where we lived. They brought loads of building materials round and dumped them out the back in the open. Overnight, against the weather forecast, it drizzled. Not much, but enough. There was a large bag of cement that caught the worst of the damp. The men glanced at it and said it was useless, beyond help, and left it there. Over the next weeks and months, it stayed where it was, in the corner, by the tall grey wall. If you know anything about cement, it continues to get harder throughout its life, and became so heavy no one could lift it. It was only a couple of years later when I developed into the powerful man you see before you; I could handle it.’

‘And?’ said Jenny.

Hamish smirked and said, ‘This is the clever thing. You remember the old kid’s trick of putting a book on top of an ajar door, or the more mischievous ones, a bucket of water, and when an unsuspecting person enters the room, the missile, whatever it is, crashes down on their head?’

‘I do,’ said Walter. ‘Did it myself once or twice before I grew out of it. Go on.’

‘By the time I was fifteen, I developed enough strength to lift that bag above my head, and somehow, I reached up and set it on the top of a half-open door. It was so heavy I could tell even the door didn’t enjoy it, bowing a little under the weight.’

Jenny said, ‘What would have happened if Jennifer had opened that door?’

‘Oh, she had long gone by then. If she had been there, it would have smashed open her young and pretty head, an image I don’t wish to think about.’

‘What happened?’ said Walter, losing his patience.

‘I’m coming to the gory bit, Inspector. I’d set it up over the kitchen door. Canny thinking, you see, because it was in the kitchen where all the hard drink was stored on the top shelf in the pantry. Agnes was at the bingo, and by then she looked hellish old. Alcohol does that to the skin. Seems to attack the womenfolk worse, don’t you think?’ he said, asking Jenny, peering at her eyes, seeking non-existent lines.

‘I’m not a slave to alcohol,’ she said, going against all advice that officers should never tell suspects anything of their personal lives.

‘And when she came in?’ said Walter.

‘The plan worked to perfection. She arrived home and before doing anything else, rushed towards the kitchen, opened the door, stepped inside, desperate for booze, and the bag of cement could not fall fast enough, crashing down several feet, picking up real speed, the weight doing its thing, grasping gravity, smashing across the top of her grey-haired head, stopping her in her tracks, cracking open her skull, where blood and muck oozed away. Even I could see she was dead. She was gone in seconds.’

‘What happened next?’ asked Jenny.

‘I grabbed hold of the bloodied cement bag, carried it outside, and set it back in the corner by the wall. Went back in for her, picked her up, took her out, and laid her body out close to the solid cement. Setting the scene, I think you call it. And if I say so myself; it looked the dog’s bollocks.’

‘Didn’t blood seep over the kitchen floor?’ asked Jenny.

‘Aye lass, it did, though nothing a powerful bleach couldn’t swill away. I left it an hour or two before I called out for help, and by then, the kitchen floor was cleaner than it had been in years.’

‘Blood would still have been detectable,’ said Walter.

‘Aye, maybe, but your hopeless colleagues never thought to look. It was an obvious case of an accident, caused by careless council employees leaving building materials in the backyard. She tripped on a brick and fell against the hardened bag of cement, banging her nut. The coroner agreed, saying it must have been an horrendous sight for the young man Cairney to witness on returning from school. I remember the man saying it could have scarred me for life, though I don’t think it did. Can you believe he awarded me a hundred pounds in compensation to make up for the trauma suffered? What do you make of that?’

His question went unanswered, as Jenny said, ‘And your father, or faither, as you called him?’

‘Not so dramatic, I admit. Quite dull, to be fair. Decades of smoking had taken its toll. The man was skinny and weak, and I was young and strong. I arrived home from school and straight away I could tell he was looking for a fight. He must have been blind, not noticing I had grown into a sturdy youth, while he had shrunken into a wizened specimen of dry rot. He said he’d leather me. I laughed in his face, and took the belt from him like taking an ice lolly from a toddler, and he turned and ran into the bedroom, yelling obscenities, saying I had always been a mad bastard. Me? He should have looked in the mirror. I followed him in and something uncontrollable came over me. All that pent up anger, I reckon. Why had I been blessed with the worst set of parents known to man? Little wonder I showed the odd sign of aggression throughout my life. I slapped him on the head, and he fell across the bed. I grabbed a pillow and forced it over his ugly face, not wishing to see him ever again. He didn’t struggle much, just gave up. He’d always been a coward. Only his crooked feet twitched for a short while. He must have been dead in less than a minute.’

‘And then?’ said Walter.

‘I went about setting the scene. I think all this scene setting business came out later when I embarked on acting. It was good preparation.’

‘What did you do?’ said Jenny.

‘I undressed him, and that is not a sight you would want to see. Shrivelled, wrinkled and wrecked in all the worst places, and I couldn’t get his pyjamas on him fast enough. I fluffed up the pillows, drew back the grubby sheets and blanket, and set him in the bed, tucking him in as neat as a fifteen-year-old youth could do. I nicked the few coins in his dirty trews and walked away, closed the door, and went out for a fish supper.’

Jenny said, ‘What happened after that?’

‘The next morning, I went into his bedroom, carrying a cuppa strong tea, as I always did, to find he hadn’t moved a muscle, and was cold as ice and very dead. I yelled out for help, though no one heard and no one came, so I went out onto the communal landing and screamed again for someone to come. I’ve always been able to act up when I need to. Old ladies came running. On hearing my news, two rushed into the flat, eager for a good look, where they found old Jimmy Cairney dead in bed, and no one was surprised. Someone rang the polis, and they turned up dead quick, not like today, when you are lucky to see anyone at all, and the lightweight carcass was carted away for a post-mortem. The results came back. After thirty years of heavy smoking, it decimated his lungs. They said he’d suffered a heart attack early in the night, killing him in minutes. Heavy use of nicotine, which, as you know, is a poison, can do that to anyone. No suspicious circumstances, they said. No further enquiries necessary, and only I knew I brought the heart attack on when I suffocated the bastard, but please don’t tell anyone, will you?’ and he laughed loud and long.

‘And what happened to you?’ asked Jenny.

‘They put me into foster homes, though it never lasted more than a few weeks. As soon as I was sixteen, I ran away. I was a big kid, and no one messed with me. I had set out on my journey through life, determined to better myself, and I did just that. It’s been a roller coaster ride, I’ll admit, and I wouldn’t have missed a second of it. Girls, women, power, excitement, children aplenty, and not just those at home, the odd dram or two, and as someone once said, where did it all go wrong? The truth is, it never did. I wouldn’t have changed a thing.’

The interview room door opened and a young uniformed officer entered. She went to Walter and whispered in his ear, ‘Mrs West wants to see you now, straight away, you and Jenny.’

‘Fine, we’ll be there in a tick.’

The young kid went out.

Walter glanced at Jenny, and she guessed what was happening.

‘Interview to be suspended?’ she said.

‘Correct,’ said Walter, and the officers stood up.

Hamish leered at Jenny and said, ‘Don’t forget to bring a Lizzy Marigold poster? I need some exciting company to warm me through the night.’

Walter replied. ‘Do you want coffee?’

‘Yeah, that would be great.’

‘You’ll get some, on condition when we return, you are dressed.’

‘I know what your problem is, Walter, darling. You cannot abide facing a naked body the likes of which you have always aspired to, yet never attained. Don’t fret, Inspector. That boat’s long since sailed for you, if it ever floated in the first place.’

Walter and Jenny left him alone, heading next door to see Mrs West, as a minder outside locked the interview room door. The prisoner had previous, and was not to be trusted.

Chapter twenty-eight

Before Mrs West could begin the conversation, the same young woman officer who interrupted the interview returned and said, ‘I have Sergeant Karen Greenwood on from Moreton Corbet, wishing to speak to Inspector Darriteau. She says it’s urgent.’

Mrs West nodded and looked at Walter and said, ‘Take the call. Put it on speakerphone.’

Walter picked up and said, ‘Hi, Karen, you’re on speaker. I’m here with Mrs West and Darren,’ said to avoid any embarrassment, as had happened before when Darren once rang in and Mrs West was listening.

‘Okay, got it,’ Karen said. ‘Thought you’d like to know on the second GPR sweep, the machine began buzzing like crazy. Images show a large parcel buried. They need diggers present and went off to the local church, where the young vicar gave them a number for their preferred gravedigger. He’s due here in a couple of hours.’

‘Very good,’ said Walter, glancing at an impressed Mrs West.

Karen said, ‘You think it’s Florence Dolby down there?’

‘All I’d say is, it’s possible. Perhaps by close of play we will know for sure.’

‘We’ll stay on site and monitor progress. How goes it with Cairney?’

‘The man’s playing an idiot. Took all his clothes off.’

‘Wow, bet that was a sight.’

‘He’s confessed to murdering his parents.’

‘What! You think he did?’ but before Walter could answer, Mrs West said, ‘He didn’t! Just had confirmation the mother misplaced her mind several years ago, is in a nursing home, and will never come out, while Jimmy Cairney lives alone on the fourteenth floor of a Glasgow tower block, and according to latest information, only comes out to buy fags, booze, and the odd loaf. He’s wasting away to nothing, but he is alive.’

‘I’m not surprised they are still alive,’ said Karen.

‘Me neither,’ added Walter, before saying, ‘we must get on,’ and Karen took the hint and the call ended.

Walter looked at Mrs West and said, ‘I presume that’s what you wanted to tell us?’

‘Yes, that, and in my opinion, he is pretending to be mentally ill, hoping you go easy on him.’

‘Our thoughts, exactly.’

‘And one other thing.’

‘Yes?’ said Walter.

‘We need to wrap this Aitken thing up in the next hour or two. If not, let’s get him charged with the Chatteris murder, and the attempted murder of Aleri Madden. The CPS have approved those. Do it today, and we keep him in custody for as long as it takes, while we question him.’

‘Fine, ma’am, and the assault on Martin?’

‘Yes, charge him with that, too. The longer the list, the better.’

‘Will do.’

Mrs West nodded to the door and said, ‘Back in for another round, and wind it up if you can,’ and Walter and Jenny stood and headed for the interview room.

They found Cairney dressed, looking sheepish, as if his antics embarrassed even him, two empty coffee cups before him.

He looked up and said, ‘Something important?’

‘Possibly. Time will tell.’

Jenny set the recorder running and updated the machine, as Walter booted things off.

‘We want to talk about Isla Aitken.’

‘Oh aye, and what do you want to know?’

Jenny said, ‘Where did you meet her?’

‘At Parkfield School. To begin with, I thought she was a stuck-up snob, though after a while, her attraction grew. I’m a sucker for educated women.’

‘Who asked who out?’ said Walter.

‘I did. I think she expected it. The man taking the lead. If I had waited for her, it would never have happened.’

‘Did Isla know you were married?’ asked Jenny.

‘Of course she did, but it didn’t bother her. Between you and me, I don’t think she was getting much attention. Some women see married men as a challenge, to put the married man under their spell, as if they cannot believe a man can be faithful to one wife. Sometimes they are right, sometimes not. In my case, she was spot on. Ailish was expecting our last girl, and I was ready, and needed extra curricula activity.’

Jenny huffed and said, ‘And you think your wife would have approved?’

He shot her a look.

‘Of course not. But what she didn’t know couldn’t hurt her.’

‘Previously, you said you were not lovers.’

‘Did I? Must be getting confused. Had so many of them, you see,’ smirking, before adding, ’What’s up? You jealous?’

‘Definitely not!’

Walter said, ‘Where did you go?’

‘All kinds of places, from cheap travel inns to top-notch hotels when the money was available. She invented a special code for it. Conferences in Dundee, she called it, and I’d make that excuse at home. Told Ailish I had a conference to attend in Dundee. After a while, that became abbreviated to C.I.D. and Isla noticed the police connection, and began talking louder when we were having dinner about the next C.I.D. meeting we needed to fix, and adjoining diners sometimes jumped to the wrong conclusion and thought we were police.’

‘It’s a serious offence masquerading as a police officer,’ said Walter.

‘I know, and I told her not to, and we didn’t, but one day after we’d finished eating and were in the bar, a scruffy bloke came up and produced a speeding ticket, and asked her advice on how he could get it rescinded.’

Jenny said, ‘What did Isla say?’

Cairney threw back his head, puffed out through his mouth, and said, ‘She said we were on border patrol duties, chasing illegal immigrants, and he looked disappointed and buggered off. I told her never to do that again because it was bound to attract attention, and for once, she did as she was told.’

‘Go on,’ said Walter.

‘She got off on it, the police thing, as some do with nurses or maids, and one day she produced a pair of handcuffs. Sturdy things they were, I couldn’t get out of them. I have no idea where she got them, and to please her, we did a bit of role playing. You know the kind of thing,’ he said, leering at Jenny. ‘She’d cuff me and take me in for questioning and interrogation, and then it was my turn, and I’d do the same to her. She said it was the best, and I’ve no reason to doubt her.’

Walter said, ‘How, why, and when did your relationship sour?’

‘Ah, that’s an easy one. We were away at another C.I.D. and I’d given her two hours straight of you know what, and we were both naked and resting on this huge bed, lying at crazy angles, her lean body across mine, me on my back, and I’m not sure how it started, but we began talking about her mother. To tell you the truth, I was never interested in any of their families, and didn’t want to know how good or bad an upbringing they received from their parents. All that stuff left me cold. Anyway, Isla began talking about her mother, who according to Isla, the sun shone out of her backside,’ and Cairney paused and pulled a hideous face at the memory.

‘Go on,’ said Jenny.

‘She went on about how she could never measure up to such a lady, a woman named after a legendary animal. Bored me to tears, it did, as perhaps you can imagine,’ he said, glancing into Walter’s dark eyes. ‘Lupa this, Lupa that, Lupa Aitken, the godlike woman who never did a wrong thing in her entire life.’

‘The Wolf?’ said Walter.

‘That’s right!’ Cairney said, grinning. ‘Your boss is an educated man,’ smiling at Jenny. ‘I had no idea about any of that. I went to a run-down council school and rarely bothered going. My education was all self-taught later on, through what they called the University of Life.’

‘I went to a council school too,’ said Walter, ‘and it wasn’t great, but I guess it’s down to whether you wanted to soak up information or you didn’t.’

‘I didn’t go to a council school,’ said Jenny. ‘The buildings were magnificent and the teachers smart, but I haven’t the first clue what you are talking about.’

‘You tell her, Mr Darriteau,’ said Cairney. ‘It’s beyond me.’

Walter sat back and sighed and said, ‘Romulus and Remus were abandoned as babies after a decree by their uncle, a wicked king, who ordered them be dropped in the River Tiber to drown. Ancient stories say a sympathetic man, a slave, set them in a basket and cast them adrift on the fast-flowing river, where they were swept away. Later, it snagged on an overhanging fig tree. The babies were discovered, crying out, by a woodpecker and a wolf, and were protected and cared for by both creatures. The she-wolf, named Lupa, allowed the babies to suckle, and that night, they clung beneath her body, as the wolf retreated to her cave. There’s a famous ancient bronze showing the little ones clinging to the animal’s underside as the wolf mothered them in every way. Even today, Lupa means she-wolf in Italian. Time passed, and when the boys were toddlers, a shepherd found them, still with the wolf, and he chased off the animal, taking in the children as his own. They grew fast, and grew strong, and later, as young men, they heard about the wicked king who threw babies into the Tiber, and they knew what they must do. They rushed to his palace, slew the king, and afterwards, drew many followers to them.’

‘Now you know,’ said Cairney. ‘Learn something new every day.’

‘There’s a postscript,’ said Walter. ‘Romulus set about building a city with walls around it to protect the inhabitants from invaders. Remus was disdainful and jumped over the feeble walls as if they were nothing. Romulus was furious at the disrespect, and killed his brother, and returned to building it stronger, a city that took his name, and went on to establish one of the greatest empires the world has ever seen, stretching from Portugal to Persia, from the Sahara Desert to the highlands of Scotland.’

Jenny nodded and said, ‘Thanks for the history lesson, Guv, but I don’t understand what this has to do with Isla’s mother.’

‘Fair question,’ and they glanced at Cairney.

‘I was sick to the back teeth with everything to do with Lupa, and ancient history, and was happy when Isla changed the subject, though my happiness was short-lived, because she said, cool as you like: I always knew gym teachers were thick, and put it down to all that boxing, wrestling, and weightlifting they did. Taking too many blows to the head, that kind of thing, but until today, I never knew they were pig ignorant.’

Chapter twenty-nine

It became clear they could not complete the interviews in the time span Mrs West allotted. They ploughed on, urging Cairney to come clean on Isla Aitken’s fate.

Walter and Jenny both felt he was close to telling them everything, and their strategy to keep him talking was the correct one, regardless of how long it took.

Walter said, ‘What did you think when she suggested you were pig ignorant?’

‘What do you think? What would you have thought?’

‘We don’t know,’ said Jenny, ‘we want you to tell us,’ as she followed the correct procedure, and typical of her to keep the man on track, encouraging him to tell his story.

‘Well,’ he said, thinking on his words, ‘if you must know, a cold sweat came over my back. There are two things I hate in women; and men, come to that, can’t abide, and one is being lied to, and the other is being belittled or teased or made to feel small. In that one phrase, she did all three. I didn’t answer her comment straight away, as my brain raced, and I knew she would have to pay big time for saying that. At the time, I didn’t know in what way, as it festered in my mind.’

Walter said, ‘You wanted to get even?’

‘Damned right I did!’

‘You wanted to kill her?’ said Jenny.

‘Now, hold up, you’re putting words into my mouth, lass. I didn’t say that, did I?’

Jenny said, ‘Let’s get to the heart of the matter. Did you kill Isla Aitken?’

Cairney hesitated, close to answering, though not close enough, thinking on his words, which when they arrived were: ‘She would have deserved it. That’s for sure.’

Walter felt Cairney wasn’t ready to confess and opened a new line.

‘When did you go to your next conference in Dundee?’

‘You went on another, didn’t you, Mr Cairney?’ added Jenny.

‘Too right, we did. I would not let her get away with saying that.’

‘Where did you go?’ said Jenny.

The man smirked and grinned at the memory, and said, ‘I pushed the boat out.’

Jenny said, ‘You went on a boat trip?’

‘No! Don’t be stupid. I took her somewhere special, the ideal place, where we could get away and be alone, without interfering busybodies coming and going at all hours of the day and night.’

‘Where to?’ said Walter.

‘A place called Bincraigie Castle, north of Perth, between Dunkeld and Pitlochry. It’s a stunning venue set in 5,000 acres, quite remote, but only a couple of hours’ drive north of Edinburgh. The place is to die for, impressive ancient grey Scottish stone, a cross between a grand French Chateau and a Disney castle, reeking of our history, like a spectacular CGI creation from a monster movie. I don’t think we in Scotland appreciate what grandeur we possess on our doorstep, and you lot down south certainly don’t. It was the perfect place.’

‘Expensive?’ said Jenny.

‘You can say that again. I’ve never taken Ailish anywhere near as grand, and she’d go crazy if she found out.’

Both officers knew she would soon enough, though didn’t say.

Jenny said, ‘I don’t understand. Isla slighted you, and you spent big money on making a fuss of her. How does that work?’

His face adopted a benign pose, and he sniffed a clipped laugh before saying, ‘Good question, lass. Perhaps I wanted to show her I didn’t bear a grudge, or maybe I wanted her to relax and understand I’m not a Philistine.’

Walter said, ‘Why was it the perfect place?’

‘Ah,’ he grinned. ‘You are right on it again, aren’t you? I’ll have to watch you.’

‘So, why?’ said Jenny.

‘Picture the scene. Bincraigie has forty luxury suites within the rambling castle, and another twenty-two additional rooms set within independent buildings dotted around the vast estate. Former stables, old refurbished cottages, grand shooting lodges available out of season, salmon and trout angler’s cottages, it’s got the lot. The beauty is, you can be as close to the main castle and facilities as you want… or as far away.’

Walter said, ‘And you wanted to be as far off as possible?’

Cairney grinned again, nodded, and waved his right hand across the table.

‘Why was that?’ asked Jenny.

Cairney shared a look with Walter, a glance that said only the men would understand. He was going to say: why do you think? But didn’t bother, as Jenny jumped into the momentary silence.

‘Come on, Mr Cairney. Why?’

Before Cairney could speak, Walter said, ‘You took her there to kill her, didn’t you, Mr Cairney?’

He sniffed, sat right back, set his left hand on his left hip, and his right before his mouth, before saying, ‘You seem obsessed with that, the killing business,’ and Walter knew he wouldn’t say another word about it.

Walter said, ‘Tell us about the place where you stayed?’

‘Oh, it was fab, Ordie Cottage, it was called, chocolate boxy, chunky grey stone, black timber half-glazed door in the centre, long windows to either side, three smaller windows set upstairs within the grey slate roof. It was a happy house. It looked jolly, and made visitors feel happy, relaxed, and content, as soon as they opened the black iron gate, admiring the heathers, foxgloves, and flowers in the sizeable cottage style front garden. Smelt divine, too. Pine sap and heather. Immaculate inside and out. No expense spared on the constant upkeep, and miles from anywhere, not a hint it was set in the castle grounds. A narrow lane wound past the front door, set between the pines, with maybe one vehicle coming by every two hours if you were lucky. You go there if you get the chance, take the love of your life, and you’ll create memories that will remain with you till your dying day.’

Jenny said, ‘Did you receive any visitors?’

‘What? You mean like Ailish?’ and he scoffed a laugh. ‘I don’t think so.’

Jenny persisted. ‘I didn’t mean her. Did anyone else stop by?’

Hamish sighed and thought back to that dry afternoon.

‘No one, only the Polack. Sorry, I shouldn’t say that. It’s disrespectful. I meant the Polish girl, the housekeeper, blonde out of a bottle, and hard-faced. She came by to ask the best time to come in and clean and tidy and faff around with the beds, that kind of interfering nonsense.’

Walter said, ‘What did you tell her?’

‘I slipped her a twenty, Mr Darriteau, and told her I never wanted to see her face again. Said we were honeymooners, and if she barged in, she might see something she’d regret. She got the message and was happy with the cash. I think she was only there for the money, as so many workers are. Either way, I never saw her again. Besides, the cottage had everything we needed, though the bathroom left something to be desired, featuring a big old-fashioned style white bath, but that was cool. We had loads of fun in that, I can tell you. And downstairs there was a new washing machine, plus a good supply of linen, the lot, if we ever wanted to do any laundry. Clothesline out the back, balmy westerly breeze blowing across from Fort William, looking for action, desperate to dry clothes.’

‘Did you use it?’ said Jenny. ‘To dry washing?’

‘What do you think? We used it a lot. She was a dirty woman, that Isla Aitken. If you must know, it was her who introduced me to the word and world of salirophilia. To look at her, butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth. I’d never heard the word before. I didn’t even know there was a word for it, and I imagine that’s what having a good education buys you. You learn all the fancy words for the rare and unusual. I wonder if Lupa told her about that. Anyway, to cut a long story short, and an exciting tale at that, the sheets had to be washed five times in our three-day stay. That new washing machine was whirling, I can tell you,’ and he grinned at the memory.

‘And Isla enjoyed that kind of weird behaviour?’ said Jenny.

‘What do you think? And who’s to say what’s weird and what isn’t? Either way, she was into experimentation. I can confirm that. There are degrees you can go, and places you need to stop. Put it this way. She didn’t need much persuading, and it just goes to show. The image people project to the world is often not the picture they see of themselves from deep inside. Not remotely the same. Certainly not in her case. Lots of people possess dark secrets they never wish to share. I’ve learnt that on my journey through life.’

Walter said, ‘Was it the last conference in Dundee?’

‘Aye, it was. You’re on the ball again.’

‘And some time after,’ said Walter, ‘Isla’s emaciated corpse turned up in a coffin with the top screwed down in a disused and bankrupt funeral home in Edinburgh.’

‘Aye, we know that now. We all listen to the news or see things on social media. There’s no getting away from it. No hiding things these days. Even in Ordie Cottage, they had cracking broadband, and the tablets were on all day, from breakfast to supper, introducing the latest scandal and violence from the outside world. You wouldn’t have thought that, would you? About the broadband.’

Walter said, ‘Is it possible, during one of your more outrageous experiments, Isla Aitken met her end? Did something go catastrophically wrong, leaving you with a hideous situation to sort out?’

‘No, for once you are way off beam. Though I grant you, I can see where you are coming from. Others treading the same path might have stumbled that way, but not I. You see, Inspector, I am meticulous. I always have been. I plan things to the n’th degree, leaving nothing to chance, and I know how far I can go, and I know when to stop.’

‘You didn’t with Emily!’ said Jenny.

‘That was different, and a whole new ballgame. I thought we were here this afternoon to discuss Isla Aitken.’

‘We are,’ said Walter, ‘but DC Thompson is right. It’s all part of the same investigation. If you want to continue talking about Isla Aitken, we will, and you must tell us more than you have. She was never seen alive after your visit to Bincraigie, so the question is, what happened there when the fun and games stopped, and the time came for you to leave?’

‘That’s simple. We jumped in the car and drove away, tired but happy. What do you think?’

‘And she was alive?’

‘Of course she was alive!’

‘And you dropped her off where?’ said Jenny.

‘At her house.’

‘No,’ said Walter. ‘I’m not having that. I think we need to rewind. Something happened in that cottage you are not telling us. Isla Aitken accused you of being ignorant. That offended you in more ways than you could cope with. This young and pretty teacher said to your face you were ignorant, and you took her there to teach her you were not. You took her there to teach her a lesson, didn’t you, Hamish? Stop prevaricating, and tell us what happened, and what you did, or do you have a mental block discussing it?’

‘You are one annoying fecker, Mr Darriteau. I’ll tell you that. I imagine you have been told that many times before. It’s why you are half-decent at your job, though the question remains as to why you have never been promoted. A little like me, it has to be said. There are millions of people out there who have never been given a proper opportunity to show what they can do. I’d bet any money you could do your boss’s job better than she does, and I know I could have done the same with mine. Sadly, that’s the way of the world. The hard grafters who make things happen, people like you and me, are held down, restrained and restricted, handicapped like a successful horse, more weights piled on the back like a north African donkey, and the world is a poorer place for it.’

Outside, Mrs West grinned at the thought, as Walter continued, saying, ‘I don’t want my boss’s job. I never have. Return to the scene in the cottage, Mr Cairney. It will do you good to tell us what occurred, and it will help us understand more about you.’

‘You think I’m an evil man, don’t you?’

‘I think you are a troubled man, with dark matter in your head, and I’m sure you will be relieved when the day comes when you unburden yourself by sharing your worries and fears. I know you won’t believe this, Mr Cairney, but we are here to help you.’

‘You are wrong. I don’t have any worries or fears. Look at me? I can smash anyone I come up against. Why would I have fears about anything?’

‘Physically, yes,’ said Jenny. ‘Mentally, that’s another matter.’

‘Hah! You’ll be wanting me to see a trick cyclist next. And as for helping me, you can do that alright. Get me bail. I’ll promise to behave myself and go on my merry way, and I’d even turn up at court, if it ever came to that. Scout’s honour.’

That wasn’t worth another word, as Walter moved on. ‘The alphabet syndrome?’

‘What about it?’

‘Where did it come from? Why did you adopt it?’

‘It made things more fun, more interesting, and introduced an element of chance. It meant fate would decide who the next one might be. It took the choice out of my hands, and I can live with that. Sometimes I came across candidates who were perfect in every way, and I had to hold myself back because their initial didn’t fit, though I’d make a mental note about them, perhaps for later, as I progressed through the letters.’

‘Who? Which person?’ said Jenny. ‘Name one.’

‘You think I lie, don’t you? I’ll prove I’m not lying. In fact, I have never lied to you. There was a glamorous woman at the White Nancy, a frustrated actress who thought she could put any man under her spell. I’ll be straight with you. I looked forward to the day when I could get hold of her and show her she had met her match with me. Thinking about it, it could still happen when I get out of here.’

Jenny said, ‘What was her name?’

‘Susan Vairs, if you must know. I’m not lying, and I’m not making it up. Elspeth Evans’ friend, though younger and better looking, taller and slimmer, wavy auburn hair, voluptuous, and getting loads of attention. She was the one I wanted out of the White Nancy troupe. I had to slap my face and bite my tongue, because I could not take her, not yet, and I admit I was frustrated. Self-control, you see. I still had it. It’s an important thing. V is a long way down, and rules are rules, and must be adhered to. Though I can assure you, there’s a reminder sleeping up here,’ and he tapped the side of his head, and said, ‘one day V will come round, and Susan will get a visit, and I’ll get my way, and she will get hers.’

In your whacko dreams, thought Jenny, though she didn’t say.

Walter was talking again.

‘Did you have an F lined up?’

‘I did!’ he said, beaming at the thought. ‘Fletcher!’

‘And who is she?’ asked Jenny. ‘Assuming it is a she.’

‘Oh, it’s always a she, officer, going right back to Gina McGregor and that nosey bitch, Mary Cross. Never interested in boys and youths. I’ll leave that to the rank perverts.’

‘You wanted to kill Mary Cross?’ said Walter.

‘Kill’s a strong word, Inspector. Maybe not kill. I’d liked to have hurt her. In fact, I should have done all those years ago. To clip her wings, so to speak. To keep her mouth shut and ensure she remained obedient. When she was a girl, she always obeyed me. Shit scared of me; she was. Did as she was told. Aye, she might slag me off behind my back, and I knew that, but whenever we were near, she wouldn’t utter a word against me, and if I told her to feck off or do something, she did it every time. Aye, you are right. She deserved more disciplining than she got. That’s true. I should have clipped her.’

‘Clipped?’ said Jenny.

‘Aye, clipped her wings like a pet pigeon.’

‘Tell us about the Fletcher?’ said Walter.

Hamish grinned and couldn’t stop himself.

‘A Miss Sarah Fletcher by name; employed to teach geography, and roped in to RI. Religious Instruction at Parkfield. A slight and fancy individual. One of those happy, clappy Sunday School teacher types who live life by the good book, and is desperate to convert us heathens into doing the same. If you take a moment to look a little closer, underneath that pious veneer, who knows what goes on? You wouldn’t like her, Walter. Don’t drink. Don’t smoke. Don’t gamble. Don’t get excited. Don’t fornicate. Don’t have opinions. Don’t sin. Don’t step out of line. Don’t eat meat. Don’t drive a car. Don’t do damn all! What’s wrong with these interfering individuals? They can feck off and do what the hell they like, so long as they leave the rest of us in peace. Yes, she was the perfect F, and still might be when I get hold of her. She’s the teacher, but by God, I could teach her a thing or two. Though I suppose now I have mentioned her name, you will wrap her in cotton wool, and hide her away. No matter, one twenty-sixth of the population has a name beginning with F, or thereabouts, Fitch, Ford, Fotheringay, Francome, Fryer, Fanny, there are hundreds out there to choose from.’

‘There will be no F,’ said Jenny. ‘You can be sure of that.’

‘You reckon? Don’t count on it, rissole, and the good news is, the G has appeared on the horizon, and not too far from where we sit,’ and he sat back and smiled at the door, as if he had scored a vital point.

After a moment, Jenny said, ‘Karen?’

Hamish grinned, bobbed his head, and thought about talking, though paused before starting again.

‘You wouldn’t believe it. It came to me in Saint Luke’s like a vision, though perhaps not quite a vision.’

‘What did?’ said Jenny.

‘Picture the scene. Elspeth Evans high on the cross, candles burning through her restraints, panic setting in. Yer man, here,’ and he nodded at Walter, ‘trying to kick over my immaculate coloured pencils because Elspeth was about to crash down on them at any second, and those perfect pencils were going to mark her homework for the last time. Meanwhile, on the other side of the church, yours truly was grappling on the floor with one of your gorillas, plus the Greenwood thing, all three of us wrestling and writhing about on the cold stone, and she tried to handcuff me. So, I grabbed her with my large free hand, just any part would do, and the nearest flesh happened to be her breast. I snatched and squeezed it real hard and she let out a yelp, sounding as if I’d trodden on a dog’s paw. It was a strange thing. I think even in the heat of the moment, she was embarrassed, and I didn’t know her name was Greenwood then, though I did soon afterwards, and straight away I knew my G had fallen into my lap through divine intervention, in a church, and I was looking forward to squeezing her again. By the way…’ staring at Jenny, ‘In case you are wondering, I have never been a groper, or a wandering hands merchant. I wouldn’t want you to get the wrong idea about me. I respect women for what they are. Ask Ailish if you don’t believe me.’

Jenny sighed and looked away. She couldn’t care less what he thought.

‘You are talking nonsense,’ said Walter. ‘You’re making up voyeuristic claptrap.’

‘No, I’m not.’

Jenny said, ‘Tell us what happened in the cottage?’

‘You will never let this lie, will you? Alright, alright, I’ll tell you a little more. Picture the scene. You will remember it was a hot summer, and the garden was dry and hard. I went outside in the front garden with the plastic bucket I found in the scullery, to scoop up hard pieces of crumbly soil. Someone had spent a lot of care on the garden, and the soil was broken down into similar sized pieces as the sweet Scottish fudge you can buy in the town. Only they were rough-edged chunks, like miniature alien planets that hadn’t smoothed off. I filled the bucket, perhaps three-quarters full, and took it inside.’

‘Go on,’ said Walter.

‘It was useless as it was, hard and crumbly, like one of those flaky chocolate bars. I needed to add moisture to make it into a pliable batter, like making mud pies with the girls, and that’s always fun. I gave it some thought, and realised there were two liquids readily available, and both would do the job equally well… water… and blood.’

Chapter thirty

At the Moreton Corbet site, the gravedigger and his apprentice turned up and introduced themselves to Karen and Kate Foster.

The women took them over to where the GPR machine had gone ballistic. The chief digger strolled around close to the site and came back and said, ‘Yes, I can see a different hand did this work.’

Karen said, ‘How can you tell?’

‘You’re good at your job, and I’m good at mine. You want us to dig here?’

‘Yes, we do. The GPR guy reckons there’s something around six feet down.’

‘You saying you want us to be extra careful when we get close?’

Karen smiled and said, ‘You got it.’

The main man looked at the apprentice and said, ‘Show the ladies your muscles, Douglas,’ and the younger guy slipped off his shirt, spat on his hands, grabbed his sharpened spade, and thrust it into the turf.

Back at HQ, Mrs West continued to monitor the Cairney interview. At the mention of water or blood, she ordered Darren in there, for it was a good place to bring matters to a temporary close, saying, ‘Tell Walter it’s time to charge him.’

‘Ma’am,’ said Darren, and he jumped up and hustled to the interview room to whisper in Walter’s ear.

He listened, nodded, and said, ‘Give us a minute,’ and Darren disappeared.

‘What’s going on?’ said Cairney.

‘We are taking a break, and during the interlude, the powers that be have decided it is time to charge you with various offences. After that, we’ll get you something to eat, and when we’ve dined, we’ll reconvene.’

‘Okay,’ Cairney said. ‘Pity though. I thought we were getting on fine.’

‘We were, but ours not to reason why.’

Jenny shut down the recorder, and the three went outside, as Walter pointed the way to the sergeant’s high desk where charges would be read aloud.

The sarge was a big bald guy, harboured a pleasant demeanour when needed, as he glanced across the desk at the gym monster. He’d sure take some stopping if he kicked off, hence the pleasant way proceedings were conducted.

‘Mr Cairney, you understand why you are here?’

‘I do.’

‘Excellent. Mr Hamish Cairney, you are charged that you did murder Emily Chatteris, and in addition, you are charged with the attempted murder of Aleri Madden, sometimes known as Elspeth Evans. Furthermore, you are also charged with assaulting a police officer, namely DC492, Martin Kane, causing actual bodily harm. Do you understand the charges?’

Cairney nodded and said, ‘I do, and I admit I attacked Martin Kane, but he incited me. The other charges I deny, because they are plain nonsense.’

‘Your comments are noted, sir.’

‘What happens now?’

‘You will be taken to the Magistrates’ Court in the morning, and they will decide what happens next. A Crown Court appearance is odds on, and you will probably be held in custody. I understand there is questioning continuing regarding those and other matters.’

‘It seems so. They have a good imagination, dragging up silly slights and minor misdemeanours from my long-forgotten past.’

‘I’m sure that will get sorted, Mr Cairney. It’s always best to clear the slate of everything in one go. Is there anything you need, bearing in mind you might be here awhile?’

‘Mr Darriteau said something about food.’

The sarge nodded and said, ‘I’ll make sure you get a decent feed. Someone will call to see you with the options for today. Is there anyone you’d like us to contact to tell them you are here?’

Cairney thought about that for a moment. Did he want Ailish involved? Not really, but she would be worried, and she’d have to know sometime.

‘Yes,’ he said, ‘my wife, Ailish.’

‘Would you like to call her?’

‘Aye, I would.’

The sergeant brought a phone out from under his high counter and set it on the top, saying, ‘Help yourself. I should advise you; all calls are recorded.’

‘Nanny state,’ he said. ‘No surprise,’ and he picked up the phone.

Down at Moreton Corbet, the hole was getting deeper. Three feet down, the chief digger called for Douglas to stop for a break, get out, and he’d take it from there. The women officers stood by watching, amazed at the automaton-like way they went about their work, the sides of the hole pristine straight, the men never pausing, sweat pouring from their toned bodies, glistening in the sunshine. The girls would have a laugh about that in the car on the way home.

Just over thirty minutes later, the speed and vigour in which the hole was being excavated slowed. Karen and Kate stepped closer for a better look.

The chief guy called up, ‘Almost there,’ and a minute later, ‘yes, there’s something here, and it’s not an approved coffin,’ and two further minutes slipped by before he said, ‘black bin bags tied with cord,’ and he stopped and stepped to one end to give those above a better view.

Karen photographed the black package at the foot of the hole. Kate did the same, ensuring the man was well in shot.

‘What now?’ called the guy.

‘You need to come out. This is a crime scene. Forensics will be summoned. The package must not be disturbed.’

‘You’re in charge,’ he said, holding his hand high.

Duggy grabbed the grubby fingers and yanked his boss up and out of there.

The senior bloke said, ‘You’ll want us to fill it in?’

‘Yes, though not for a few days. We’ll call you.’

‘And the bill for the digging?’

‘See the vicar. We’ll reimburse him.’

‘Sounds like a plan.’

They slipped their shirts on, tidied their short dirty hair with their fingers, as the older one said, ‘Been a pleasure, ladies. Hope to see you again.’

‘And you,’ said Kate, as the two guys grinned, grabbed their spades, and trooped away.

Karen said, ‘Switch your brain on, girl. Get back to the car and collect CRIME SCENE tape and poles and block off the area.’

Kate nodded and hurried back to the car.

A moment later, Karen spotted Professor Billings edging his way towards her.

‘Please don’t come any closer,’ she called out. ‘This is now a crime scene,’ and she went to him.

‘You found something?’

‘There’s a large human length package wrapped in black plastic. Something isn’t right.’

‘Interesting, though it could be a pony or a diseased calf. Animal disposal is expensive these days. Hard-up smallholders are always looking at ways and places to reduce their outgoings. You won’t know what you’ve got till you open it, and nothing would surprise me.’

Kate returned with the tape and began cordoning the area.

The Prof said, ‘We alright to carry on digging over the far side?’

‘I don’t see why not, for now. The forensics guys will decide on that. Please ensure your people don’t stray this way.’

‘You got it. You think it’s the missing woman?’

‘We hope it’s the missing woman… but then again, we hope it isn’t.’

‘Of course. Ah well, good luck with it,’ and he turned away, as Karen dug out her phone to update base.

Walter took the call. He was eating something, as was Cairney, tucking into Lamb Tikka in his cell.

Karen advised Walter of progress.

‘Have you secured the area?’

‘Yes.’

‘Have you called forensics?’

‘Yes.’

‘Have you advised the others not to go anywhere near?’

‘I have.’

‘Have you called the local station to guard and protect the site round the clock?’

‘Yes.’

‘Well done. Four yeses. You seem to have everything in hand.’

She shook her head and didn’t know why he asked such obvious questions, before saying, ‘How goes it with you?’

‘Cairney has been charged with one murder and one attempted. Still insists he’s innocent of everything, though I can’t imagine he will stay aboard that horse for long.’

‘That guy is one scary monster.’

‘He is, and guess what?’

‘What?’

‘You were the G.’

There was a momentary silence before she said, ‘No!’

‘I kid you not.’

‘He’d better not get bail.’

‘There is no chance of that.’

‘He might, on a technicality.’

‘Not going to happen.’

‘I hope not. You want us to stay here until the package comes out?’

‘Yes, and see what Jo-Tap has to say.’

‘I will. I think Kate has fallen in love with the younger gravedigger.’

‘I can see the attraction in that. Get a discount on your own hole.’

Karen shrugged and said, ‘Yuck, what an awful thought.’

‘See you when I see you, and sleep easy.’

At six o’clock that evening, Cheshire Police issued a press release. A man by the name of Hamish Cairney had been charged with the murder of Emily Chatteris and the attempted murder of Aleri Madden. Inquiries were ongoing on several other matters, including the disappearance of Florence Dolby and Laila Broadsword, and the suspicious death of Isla Aitken up in Scotland. The statement ended by appealing again for help in tracing the two missing women, and any additional information relating to Isla Aitken’s death.

By then, Ailish Cairney knew what was happening. She’d spoken to Hamish, and he was calm, saying it was all one gigantic misunderstanding. She had always known he was a way-out character. But a mass murderer? A serial killer? Possible but unlikely, and she would continue supporting him until she had seen and heard concrete evidence to the contrary. That was what married-in-church people did until death them do part. But how could she show her face in the village or at the girls’ schools? That would be tricky.

At seven o’clock, Walter ordered Hamish Cairney be brought up from the cells for further questioning.

Jenny set the recorder on, as Walter said, ‘Enjoy your dinner?’

‘It was okay. Bit of indigestion, but you buggers brought that on. Nothing to do with the food.’

‘You’ve had a good time to think, Mr Cairney. Is there anything fresh you’d like to tell us?’

‘Nae, not a thing. I’m more determined than ever to clear myself of all charges, except the silly incident with your mate,’ glancing at Jenny.

‘You broke his nose,’ she said, ‘and that’s not silly.’

‘He baited me, as you well know. You’ll have it on tape. As a matter of interest, what punishment would I get if found guilty?’

Walter said, ‘Assaulting an officer is a serious offence. You could receive six months, or maybe community service and a big fine. But really, Mr Cairney, that is the least of your worries.’

‘Time will tell, Inspector, time will tell.’

‘Water and blood?’ said Walter.

‘Aye, I thought you might want to return to that. I’ve been thinking, before I give you anything further, there is something I want you to tell me.’

‘Go on.’

‘What is the name of the eyewitness who said they saw me kill Florence?’

‘I can’t reveal that.’

‘That’s a shame, because until you do, I am saying nothing more.’

Walter and Jenny shared a disappointed look.

Outside, Mrs West and Darren were showing renewed interest.

Jenny said, ‘Water and blood?’

Hamish shook his head and repeated, ‘You might as well talk about lemonade and sulphuric acid, for I am not saying another word until you give me a titbit in return. I am fighting for my future here, Inspector, and it’s about time something came back my way.’

‘Not going to happen,’ said Walter.

‘Then you may as well return me to the cells.’

Walter said, ‘Interview suspended at…’ and read out the time.

Jenny shut off the machine and removed the disk.

As they headed for the door, Walter said, ‘Don’t go anywhere, Mr Cairney. We’ll be back,’ and he cursed to himself.

It was often the case with unscheduled breaks, messing things up, for they gave the interrogated ones, time to reflect and think on progress, and it gave them a chance to change tack and correct any errors they had made, as happened right there.

The break was a damned nuisance, because he knew they were close. Would they ever get back to that place in the narrative? Maybe, maybe not, and it wouldn’t be through any lack of trying.

Chapter thirty-one

They found Mrs West and Darren lounging back in their seats, looking interested. She said, ‘I know what you are going to say, Walter, and the answer is a definite no.’

He sighed, sat down, and said, ‘You heard him, ma’am. He will not say anymore. We are so close to getting him to tell us everything.’

‘That’s as maybe, but we are not revealing the identity of a vulnerable youth.’

‘Cairney will know soon enough, and he’s certain to be held in custody. There’s no risk involved, and the potential reward is huge.’

‘If we mentioned Harry’s name, and Cairney got bail on a technicality, he could head straight to Melverly and silence our witness for good. You want that on your conscience?’

‘No, I don’t, and in the unlikely event they bailed him, we’d take Harry into our care. There would be no risk to anyone.’

‘Sorry, Walter, it would be on my head, not yours.’

Darren piped up, ‘Why not invent a fictitious pupil?’

Walter said, ‘One thing I know about teachers is the first thing they do is learn and memorise all the pupils’ names and faces. He’d spot a plant in a heartbeat.’

Mrs West pulled a face and said, ‘At this stage he is not to know anything about Harry Sparsholt. I think I have made myself clear, and we need to crack on with the questioning,’ and she nodded him to the door.

‘Ma’am,’ said Walter, and he and Jenny headed back.

On the way, Jenny said, ‘You did your best, Guv.’

‘Maybe I did, though once again, it wasn’t enough.’

When they returned, Hamish studying his fingernails. He glanced up as Jenny reloaded the disk, updated the conversation, and questioning resumed.

‘Well?’ said Hamish. ‘You got a name for me?’

‘No,’ said Walter. ‘We are not at liberty at this stage to release his name. You will get to know that in due course.’

‘So, it is a male?’ grinned Hamish. ‘You said “he”, and it’s a pupil, isn’t it?’

Jenny said, ‘Water and blood?’ aiming to get things back on track.

Hamish ignored her as he often did, and said, ‘While you were away, I’ve been thinking.’

‘And where did that take you?’ said Walter.

‘Sparsholt! It’s that slimy turd, Harry Sparsholt.’

Interesting, he should use the word slimy, when Harry said all the school referred to Cairney as the slug. Jenny wondered how he’d come up with the name, and it must have shown in her body language, for she was always a hopeless poker player.

‘I can see it in her face!’ smirked Cairney. ‘Writ large, so don’t tell me I am wrong. It’s him!’

Outside, Mrs West cursed and glanced at Darren and said, ‘How the hell did he know?’

‘No idea, ma’am. Perhaps we are about to find out.’

Walter thought of asking the guy how he knew, though that would confirm he was right, but had no need to, for Cairney was talking again.

The man sat back in his chair, still examining his nails, and said, ‘About a year ago, Shorty Long, our batty chemistry teacher, had one or two drinks too many in the Masters’ Club, and he mentioned he had seen a boy walking about outside late at night. The confused old bugger was ribbed about it. They accused him of seeing things, sniffing too many chemicals, and his eyesight was appalling anyway, and everyone wrote it off as another sighting of the legendary Melverly Ghost. He’s eighty-four, Shorty is, and they’ve been trying to pension him off for years. To my certain knowledge, he hasn’t had a pay rise in five years, hoping he’d get the message and bugger off. The fact he’s an ex-Army captain saved him, and the governors haven’t the heart to sack him. If you ask me, the pupils risk their lives every time they step into his laboratory, because he’s as likely to blow them all to kingdom come, as teach them anything. I remember it now. He said he thought it was Harry Sparsholt, I’m sure of it,’ and he glanced into Jenny’s eyes for confirmation, and there it was, reflecting back. She couldn’t hide a microdot in a sequin factory.

‘Can we get on?’ said Walter.

‘In a minute! Listen, you don’t want to take any notice of anything Sparsholt says. He’s a born liar and comes from a family of liars. His father’s a liar, a philandering bastard, everyone knows that, and philanderers always lie. He’s dumped his kid in the school to give himself a free run, and rarely visits, even misses Speech Day most years. What sort of father would do that? As he floats from one woman to another. Harry will be the same. Mark my words. I can see it now, rushing round, breaking hearts, getting into constant mischief. Anything he has told you should be discounted, because you can be sure it would be in any court of law, if any of this blatant nonsense ever got that far.’

Jenny said, ‘He’s not the only philanderer in the parish, is he, Mr Cairney?’

He gave her a long withering look, ne’er a blink within it, before saying, ‘Oh, who’s the clever one? What’s your surname again? Thompson, isn’t it? A T, pity it’s so far down the alphabet, don’t you think?’

Walter said, ‘Stop talking nonsense, Mr Cairney. Are we going to get back to discussing what happened in Ordie Cottage? Because if not, you may as well return to the cell.’

Walter guessed Cairney didn’t want to be cast back alone and was proved right.

‘Water and blood?’ said Jenny.

‘I know. I’m coming to that.’

‘Go on,’ said Walter.

Cairney sat up straight, sighed, and said, ‘The earth was dry. It needed moisture. I was going to use water, and that set me thinking, blood is so much more fun, don’t you think? I’d brought all the gear, and you don’t need much. As for the blood, I’d guess Isla had around nine pints swilling around her young and fit body. Blood donors give a pint every time they go, with no ill-effects. It wasn’t a problem. Isn’t the body marvellous? Drain a pint out, and within a few hours, the body has manufactured enough to replace it. It’s a never-ending resource that should be tapped more often in my humble opinion. Should be compulsory. No messing about. All fit citizens must comply. Enshrine it in law. That’s what I’d do, if I were PM. Pity it couldn’t be done with brain cells too, as some of us need them, don’t we?’ glancing at Jenny. ‘I donate blood myself; you can check. Every twelve weeks, reliable as clockwork, and that is the most regular anyone can go. I believe it’s everyone’s social responsibility, and you meet all kinds of interesting characters from dukes to dish-washers, and the nurses are great, or at least the female ones are. The men, well, enough said about them.’

Walter said, ‘Did Isla have any say in the matter?’

‘Oh, aye. She was up for it. She was more into experimentation than any of them. Just a pint, she said, and we agreed, and that was what I extracted.’

Jenny said, ‘Are you seriously expecting us to believe Isla Aitken was happy with you sucking a pint of blood from her body?’

‘I don’t care what you believe, chickadee. I’m only interested in the truth, as I imagined you would be, and I didn’t suck it out. I had the proper gear, as I believe I have told you already.’

Walter said, ‘What did you do with it?’

‘The blood? What do you think?’

‘Talk us through the process,’ said Jenny.

‘If that’s what you want, I will. I splashed it in the bucket.’

‘All of it?’ said Walter.

‘Oh, aye, every drop.’

‘And?’ said Jenny.

‘I mixed it up. What do you think? Used a new wooden spoon from the kitchen. Had a hell of a job cleaning it afterwards. Stained the bugger maroon, I can tell you.’

‘Made a nice paste, I imagine,’ said Walter.

‘Yeah, sure, it did. Not too runny. Just perfect. Look, some people like an all-over chocolate rub, and other people play about with different perfumed mixtures and textures for their massage oil. It just so happened, Isla and I shared a love of the soil, a vital ingredient of the earth, along with blood, another essential component. It produced a more exciting mixture, giving it a unique texture, a wonderful colour, fantastic aroma, and a base excitement it’s hard to replicate or describe.’

Jenny said, ‘And you covered Isla with the resulting sludge?’

He leered at her and said, ‘Aye, you’re getting there, girl. That’s exactly what I did, and she loved every moment.’

Jenny was not to be put off.

‘What did you do next?’

‘Ah, now that part I am going to leave to your imagination, young woman. Let’s just say it was incredibly exciting, both for me and for my co-experimenter. Trust me, she enjoyed it as much as I did, and before you sneer or look down your nose, I suggest you try it for yourself, before you condemn. It might surprise you how much you like it. Come to think of it, I could see him doing it to you back at his place,’ glancing at Walter and back at Jen. ‘What do you think, hen?’

‘Don’t be ridiculous! Stick to the facts,’ said Walter, ‘or the interview ends.’

‘As you wish. Maybe he’s too old for you, darling. I could understand that, and you’re in charge, for now.’

Outside, Mrs West glanced at Darren and whispered, ‘Ever done anything like that?’

He blew out hard and said, ‘Chocolate spread, maybe, ma’am, but blood? No, never. You?’

‘Certainly not! What do you think I am?’

Inside, Walter was talking again.

‘I put it to you, Mr Cairney, you deliberately took Isla Aitken to an isolated cottage in the Highlands, knowing you would not be disturbed, where you extracted blood from her, enough to be fatal, and afterwards, you threw her in the back of your car, and drove to Edinburgh where you crept into a disused funeral parlour, laid her body in a coffin, and screwed down the lid.’

Cairney laughed aloud and said, ‘Gone into over-active imagination mode again, have we, chief? Why on earth would I do that? What’s the point? Where’s the motive?’

‘Simple,’ said Walter. ‘Revenge, it’s as basic as that. She said to your face you were ignorant, and that cut you to the bone, and from that moment, she was doomed, as you made plans to exact your wicked revenge on a helpless young woman. It was meticulously planned from start to finish. You researched Bincraigie Castle and discovered it gave you the perfect site, private isolated cottages far from prying eyes. You bribed the Polish maid not to visit, and no one did, and your plan fell into place.’

Walter took a breath and continued.

‘The problem was, you extracted too much blood, either by mistake or design, where forty per cent or anything close is the critical number that endangers life. You sucked out three pints of Isla’s lifeblood, maybe more, perhaps all of it, and she died right there in front of you, and you imagined you had put matters right by erasing the slight. She was right. You were the ignorant one. And afterwards, you cleaned her with bleach, threw all the sheets and covers into the washing machine you checked was there, thus destroying any evidence of what you did. You might have needed two or three cycles to get rid of everything, and you could do that. After all, you had plenty of time, and free electricity, and you are a thorough man. Even if faint traces remained, dozens of people might have used that machine after you, obliterating traces of Isla with every spin.’

Cairney said, ‘I don’t know how, but I’m still listening.’

Walter ignored him and continued.

‘You dressed her and carried her lightweight body to the boot of your car. Blood is heavy. We all know liquids are the heaviest items whenever we go to the supermarket. Isla was super-lightweight after you had finished with her. That’s what happened, isn’t it, Mr Cairney, and I’m wondering when you will find the courage to face up to what you did, and admit what you have done?’

Cairney shook his head, grinned at Jenny, and said, ‘Did you have any idea just what a barmpot your boss is? I’d worry about him, if I were you.’

Jenny said, ‘I think you should worry about your own predicament. Everything he said sounds logical to me. You are an evil man who murdered Isla, and you are also a coward because you haven’t the guts to admit it.’

Cairney went red in the face, and sat back in his chair, before staring at the ceiling to say, ‘I think fancy-knickers here just brought this interview to an end… for now. Next time, bring another man, and one other thing. I could amend my system to include first names, and J is not far away. ’

Chapter thirty-two

Hamish Cairney was delivered to the Magistrates’ Court in Grosvenor Street in the city centre, close to the museum, under heavy guard at half past ten in the morning, to face three charges; murder, attempted murder, and assaulting a police officer.

Walter attended as SIO, there to oppose bail in the unlikely event it was offered, and to answer any questions the magistrates might have. Cairney pleaded not guilty to the two serious charges in a loud and confident voice, though he admitted he head-butted DC Martin Kane, after a day of being baited, an action out of character, he said, and one he was deeply ashamed of, and sorry for. He peered round the court, seeking Martin to apologise, but the man wasn’t there.

The magistrates took less than two minutes to decide Mr Cairney would remain in custody because of the seriousness of the charges, and the case would be moved to the crown court on a date in the new year. They accepted his guilty plea to the assault charge, sentenced him to three months in prison, and that would be served and off the book by the time the Crown Court trial began.

Outside the court, Walter phoned Karen to tell her he had another appointment before he slipped away for a couple of hours.

Six people attended Ann Varnes’ funeral at Blacon cemetery. Melvin along with his FLO, Molly, plus Sylvia, who flew in from Lisbon the moment she heard the dreadful news. A flying visit, she said, where she took charge of preparing the food for a small wake, before flying back to her hot boy, Francisco, scheduled to leave Manchester at eleven that night.

Starlina Floodgate always intended going, and brought along her niece, Savoy Tyler as company, and the sixth soul there was Walter, who made his excuses at work, telling Mrs West he had promised Melvin he would attend, as he left their busy inquiry.

Afterwards, back at the Marlston Avenue house, Sylvia showed off the three bottles of rosé wine she’d brought back, and the food on sticks she had risen early to prepare. Cheese, ham, tomatoes, sausages, all the usual fare that once belonged on sharpened sticks at cocktail parties from a quarter of a century before, the culinary star attraction being the sliced octopus tentacles, also on sticks, Sylvia had picked up in the cheap supermarket earlier that morning.

‘They’re fab,’ she insisted, ‘and there was a vast pile of them in the store, on special offer.’

Her enthusiasm persuaded everyone to try one, though that was as far as it went. Too tough on aging teeth, the unanimous verdict, and even next door’s cat would sniff at them and trot away in disgust when presented to the animal the following morning.  

Melvin stood in the kitchen in a corner, enjoying a whispered conversation with the FLO regarding his next task. Across the room, Sylvia and Starlina discussed the disposal of Sylvia’s quantity of knick-knacks from her home. Valuable items, Sylvia insisted, though Starlina had heard that line a thousand times before. Sylvia asked because she was considering moving to Portugal full time, and had mountains of stuff to clear, so loved-up was she with her handsome young beau.

Across the room, Walter and Savoy stood beside the window, sipping the iffy wine, glancing through the double glazing at a back garden overflowing with flowers.

Walter said, ‘I’m surprised you came.’

‘I only did to keep Starlina company; though it’s a good excuse to get out of work. How is the robbery inquiry progressing?’

‘Good, almost wrapped up. Six people in custody, and they will stand trial in three months.’

‘Glad to hear it. They won’t get off, will they?’

‘I can’t see that. We have your eyewitness statements identifying them, you and your colleagues. We also have loads of CCTV of them leaving the scene soon afterwards, on the right day and time, and one of them has since turned King’s evidence, saying he will testify against the others. He’ll be the star witness. I don’t think you need worry.’

‘But what if he changed his mind?’

‘I don’t think that will happen, and besides, we have ample additional evidence. More than enough to send them down, and I think as a deterrent, they will get long prison sentences. I’m confident of that.’

‘But you haven’t recovered any of the stolen goods, have you? Nothing from any of their houses, or discovered for sale elsewhere?’

That was true, but it made no difference.

‘Don’t give up on us yet. We know it went to Antwerp, and we are in constant contact with our Belgian colleagues, and they are hopeful of success.’

‘I hope so. Our insurers are dragging their heels. I’m sure you won’t be surprised to hear that.’

They glanced across at Starlina and Sylvia, deep in conversation.

Savoy said, ‘Starlina insisted I came, but it was only after we arrived, I discovered she was here on one of her usual mischievous matchmaking operations.’

‘Oh?’ said Walter, studying Melvin, his hand on Molly’s forearm. ‘I’d have thought Melvin was far too old for you.’

Savoy pulled a face, moved her head once from right to left, and back again, before saying, ‘I don’t think it was Melvin she had in mind,’ as she moved away to refill her glass.

Ten minutes later, Walter’s phone rang. It was a prearranged call from a loud-voiced Karen, insisting he return to the office on urgent business.

‘Okay,’ said Walter, ensuring everyone heard. ‘Got that. I’m leaving now.’

Before he left, he made his way over to shake Melvin’s hand and wish him well.

Mel said, ‘Do you play chess, Walter?’

‘Badly, but yes, I do.’

‘And cards?’

‘Sometimes.’

‘You’ve got my number. If you ever fancy a game, give me a ring.’

‘I will,’ said Walter, though whether he would, was another matter.

After he had gone, Sylvia went into the bathroom to ring Francisco, leaving Starlina and Savoy chatting.

‘Well?’ said Starlina. ‘How did you get on?’

Savoy sighed and said, ‘Dreadful. Don’t you think he’s a bit timid?’

‘Timid? What, Walter? No! Whatever made you say that?’

‘I thought I made it obvious enough, but either he isn’t interested, or it flew right over his head.’

‘It will be because he is a police officer.’

‘Eh? I’m not with you.’

‘You must have read of the many cases in the media where unscrupulous officers pressurised vulnerable women into relationships they were not interested in, and the coppers ended up in big trouble. He doesn’t want to compromise himself, that’s all. He’s as straight as a dye. Listen, Savoy, sometimes in life, if there is something you really want, you must go after it with all you’ve got, because if you don’t, the moment will pass, and chances are, it may never return.’

‘Perhaps, though I’m not convinced.’

Starlina scoffed and said, ‘Your loss, my girl. But I’ll tell you one thing, if I was twenty years younger, I’d open my legs for him before you could say Jack Robinson!’

‘Starlina! I’m shocked. I can’t believe you said that.’

‘Why not? I’m only telling you how it is, darling.’

There was a moment’s silence for thought before Savoy said, ‘Who was Jack Robinson, anyhow?’

Starlina scratched her cheek and said, ‘Seventeenth century, I think. A bloke who kept appearing and disappearing before anyone spoke to him, or got to know him. Something like that. Perhaps a Romany, I reckon.’

Half an hour later, those remaining made their excuses, leaving Melvin sitting alone in a kitchen chair, thinking of Ann, and of how he’d miss her, and how nice it would have been if she had been there, and wondering what the hell life had in store for him next, if anything at all.

He glanced at the forest of erect cocktail sticks and surplus food, and portions of repulsive looking octopus tentacles, resembling so many impaled miniature white car tyres, and the thought of them turned his stomach.

He wasn’t yet ready to die, though he knew it was hurtling down the track towards him like an out-of-control train. Maybe it would be a blessed relief, or perhaps not. He thought of the mourners. It was good of them to come. He hadn’t expected it. It would have been beyond terrible if he had sent her off alone.

The following morning he’d return to the crem to collect her ashes, though he hadn’t the faintest idea what to do with them. The thought of setting them in an urn on the mantelpiece didn’t appeal. She’d still be there, 24/7, watching and listening, to moan at him. Why haven’t you washed the dishes? Did you lock the front door? Is the bin out? Are you certain you have locked the front door? And comb your hair, for Pete’s sake.

Maybe the multi-coloured dahlias might see the benefit. Good fertiliser, ashes were, so he believed. That made more sense. Waste not, want not. Dust to dust, and all that.

He went to the fridge and pulled out the last green bottle of beer Jimmy Quigley left behind, flipped off the top with his thumbnail, and as he sipped the bitter drink, a solitary tear floated down the side of his face, a tear wiped away with his shirt cuff, and a shrug.

Chapter thirty-three

When Walter arrived back, everyone seemed busy with the ongoing inquiry.

Karen said, ‘Good timing, Guv. I’ve just received confirmation the black plastic package in the grave at Moreton Corbet contains a woman’s body, and it’s likely to be Florence Dolby. The husband has been informed, and is on his way to identify his wife, if it’s her.’

‘Keep an open mind, sergeant, because Laila Broadsword is still missing.’

‘True, I suppose it’s possible it could be her, and maybe there is more than one woman buried at Moreton.’

‘Are the GPR people still looking?’

‘They are,’ and she glanced across the desk and thought he looked hungry. ‘Did you get any lunch?’

‘Octopus legs on sticks.’

‘Oh, lucky you. I bought a packet of cheese sandwiches…’

‘That’s not like you.’

‘And now I don’t like the look of them. Fancy them?’

He sighed and sat back, and the thought of the tang of cheese butties on his tongue had some attraction.

‘Okay,’ he said, ‘I’ll pay you for them.’

‘Don’t be daft,’ and she tossed them over.

He ripped them open, began munching, and spied two messages on his desk. The first: Please ring Mary Lambert, Cross, as was, with a number, and another piece of scribble saying; Roddy Jeffries rang from Edinburgh.

He picked up the phone and rang Mary.

‘Thanks for returning my call.’

‘Not a problem. What can I do for you?’

‘You’ve charged him, so the news programmes say.’

‘We have. Caught him attempting to murder one woman, and we have plenty of proof he murdered another in the cellar of her country cottage.’

‘Poor things. I can’t imagine what they went through.’

‘No, me neither. The good news is,’ said Walter, ‘he will be going away for the rest of his natural life if I have my way, and that means he can never attack anyone again.’

‘As it should be. I’ve been thinking, Inspector. Actually, I have thought of nothing else since I saw you.’

‘Go on.’

‘If I can be of any use, I’d like to testify against him.’

‘Well done! It’s the right decision, and I know it was a hard one. What about Hugh?’

‘Hugh can lump it. If he and his family can’t cope with me being a proud Glaswegian where we talk in our own way, they can go to hell! I’ve given him five wonderful kids, and if I haven’t done enough for them, he can run down the jetty and jump into the cold North Sea, boots first, for all I care.’

Wow. A major sore point had resurfaced`.

‘I’m sure it won’t come to that. He should be proud of you. I would be. But to answer your question, we would be delighted if you were to testify. If it’s okay, I’ll call you from time-to-time with an update, and let you know where we are, and when you need to be in Chester. Ho`w would that be?’

‘Perfect. I could do with a week away on my own. It’s never happened before, and it’s long overdue.’

Walter didn’t mention it could be longer than a week, contenting himself by saying it would be after Christmas, well into the new year. He thanked her again, and the call ended.

He glanced at Karen and said, ‘Mary Cross wishes to testify against Cairney,’ as he demolished the last of the second sandwich, and made to ring Roddy Jeffries.

‘Excellent,’ she said. ‘It’s all coming together. Another brick in the wall.’

Roddy was a huge Heart of Midlothian fan, and they’d just appointed a new manager, and he was bullish about it. He was the guy who spoke about football at every opportunity, and he’d be happy to be talking about his beloved Hearts an hour later.

Walter struggled to bring him back on track, and asked, ‘You have news on Isla Aitken’s post-mortem, I take it?’

‘Oh, aye, I do. It’s little wonder the poor girl looked shrivelled and decimated.’

‘Go on.’

‘There wasn’t a spoonful of blood left in her. Not a drop. Her body was a husk.’

‘Oh, my Lord,’ said Walter, as Cairney’s phrase, blood and water, came back into his mind. The guy admitted he’d extracted a pint, another whopping lie.

‘Yep,’ continued Roddy. ‘He sucked every last drop from her like a starving vampire. Can you believe anyone could do that to another person?’

‘He’s a sick one, for sure. Any DNA links?’

‘Report not back yet, though we are hopeful. There is evidence he cleaned her with bleach, and everyone knows bleach kills DNA stone dead whenever they come into contact. Off the record, my lassie over there is upbeat and confident they will find a link.’

‘Well done. Let’s hope so. And the cause of death is?’

‘The likely COD is blood loss, as simple as that. She bled out. Once you get beyond forty per cent evacuated, there is no coming back from that, other than an immediate transfusion, and from what we know of Cairney, he was never likely to provide that. How are you getting on?’

Walter told him they had located a buried body, presumed to be Florence Dolby, though it was still possible it could be someone else. They also discussed the young woman, Fletcher, another Edinburgh teacher, earmarked as the F, and Cairney had mentioned he’d taken a liking to Karen as a possible G.

‘What a prat that man is. We must be getting towards the end?’

‘I hope so, though I have no idea where to look for Laila.’

‘Keep at him, Inspector. The only place you are going to find that information is in the warped and crooked brain of Cairney himself.’

‘That is correct, though accessing that information is difficult. It means I have to keep being nice to the man, and that’s not easy. If he doesn’t decide to tell us, I fear she may never be found.’

‘He will speak, Walter, if I may call you that. When he is ready, because men like him can’t help themselves. He wants everyone to know what a fiendish person he is. Aye, he’ll keep you waiting, dangling on the end of a wire, but one day it’ll pop out, maybe when you least expect it.’

‘I hope you’re right,’ and the call ended as Walter repeated those last five words; when you least expect it. It couldn’t come soon enough.

The question was, how could they speed up the process?

Chapter thirty-four

Neither Walter nor Mrs West considered replacing DC Thompson from the interviewing process, and Jenny and Walter returned to the interview room with fresh questions to ask.

The usual hefty sergeant escorted Cairney, and he sat down, as Jenny slipped in the disk, turned on the machine, and updated it. Cairney didn’t mention Jenny being there, as Walter went straight to the point.

‘We have Isla Aitken’s post-mortem.’

‘Oh, aye. And?’

‘It shows there wasn’t a single drop of blood left in her body.’

Jenny said, ‘How do you explain that, Mr Cairney?’

He pulled a face and said, ‘Maybe we used a little more.’

‘A little more!’ said Jenny. ‘And there’s no “we” about it. You stole every drop.’

He paused and thought about that before saying, ‘That’s an interesting theory. Do you know, in all my life, I can never remember a case where anyone was charged with stealing blood? Is it a criminal offence, you reckon? And if so, what is the actual offence?’

Walter said, ‘It’s grievous bodily harm of the worst kind, and it’s covered under The Declaration of Helsinki.’

‘The what?’

‘You heard me. The Declaration of Helsinki, dating from 1964, and it covers human experimentation, and the theft of body parts.’

‘I have never heard of it, and I doubt if your mate has either. How do you know this stuff, anyhow?’

‘I took the trouble to look it up.’

Cairney pulled a face and said, ‘Can I have a pen and paper?’

Walter and Jenny shared a look. Walter nodded, and Jenny slipped stationery across the table.

The man began doodling, at the same time saying, ‘Maybe she didn’t have so much blood to begin with. She was a skinny thing, wasn’t she?’

‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ said Jenny. ‘Isla Aitken was a healthy young woman, and she would have had around ten pints of blood within her body.’

‘How do you know?’

‘Like the Guv, I took the chance to ask the doctor about it.’

‘The question is,’ said Walter, ‘what did you do with it?’

Cairney shook his head from side to side, pulled a face, and said, ‘The soil was bone dry. I must have needed more moisture to get the right texture, but I can tell you one thing: she enjoyed it.’

‘I don’t think so,’ said Jenny.

‘Oh yeah, I remember now. I did run out. You’re right. I took it all, but there was no way she possessed ten pints, and that made me think of the Polish bitch. If she had stopped by, maybe I could have tapped her to make up the shortfall.’

Walter said, ‘Why didn’t you?’

‘I imagined if she went missing, there would be people out looking for her before nightfall, and I didn’t want nosey busybodies coming round. I would have used her otherwise. It could have been interesting. Can you imagine Isla and the Pole on that bed, side by side, together?’

Walter said, ‘If you removed all of Isla’s blood, as you have admitted, you know what that means, don’t you?’

‘I’m not with you,’ as the doodling continued.

Jenny said, ‘It means you killed her. You murdered her, in plain terms. Isn’t that right, Mr Cairney?’

‘You can phrase it how you want, but proving anything is a different matter.’

Walter said, ‘The next thing we know for sure, Mr Cairney, is Isla Aitken’s shrunken and withered body was discovered lying in a screwed down coffin in a disused Edinburgh undertakers. How did you get her there?’

‘Ah, now that I know nothing about.’

‘Come on, Mr Cairney,’ said Jenny. ‘She didn’t fly there by herself, did she?’

‘As I say, I know nothing about it,’ and he stopped scribbling and stared round the room. ‘I’m getting hungry again. Must be all these ridiculous probing questions of yours, especially the ones featuring blood. They make me peckish. How about some grub?’

Walter looked at his watch. Maybe another break might do everyone some good.

‘Okay, you’ll be returned to your cell, and I’ll send someone down to advise you what’s available.’

‘Fair enough, and there’s something else.’

‘Go on.’

‘Can I have a book to read? Sitting alone in that depressing cell with nothing to do is a right bummer. Even in prison they have TV and radios, books and magazines, and they are all guilty people, supposedly. I haven’t been convicted of anything other than nutting your mate, and he deserved that, and I have nothing to occupy my mind.’

‘I think it’s designed that way,’ said Walter. ‘It gives you time to reflect on your actions and get your story straight.’

‘I’ve done all the reflecting I’m ever going to do. Do I get my book, or what?’

Jenny glanced at Walter for input.

He said, ‘Okay, we will provide a book.’

‘I’ll do that, Guv,’ said Jen.

‘Ace,’ said Cairney, finishing his doodling. ‘Thanks.’

Jenny wound up the conversation, advising the machine they would take a break, turned it off, and went to the door to summon the hefty bloke to return Cairney to his cell. On the way out, Hamish stopped at the door, screwed up his paper, and tossed it in the wastepaper bin in the corner, before following the sarge away.

The moment he had gone, Walter and Jenny pounced on the bin to recover the paper, where they set it on the table and smoothed it out.

Outside, Mrs West, Darren, and Karen, fresh back from Moreton, observed. Everyone wondered if there could be anything of interest concealed in the scribbles and diagrams.

‘He’s playing with us again,’ said Mrs West. ‘I wouldn’t trust anything he says or does.’

‘Agreed,’ said Karen.

In the next second, Walter and Jenny joined them.

Jenny said, ‘I’ll fetch a book,’ and she returned to her desk and handbag in the big drawer. Inside was the syrupiest Mills & Boon romance novel, so sickly even she could not finish it. She took it out, gave it to the sarge, and asked if he could deliver it to Cairney along with his meal, telling him the Guv approved. He glanced at it, grinned, and said, ‘Sure thing, leave it with me.’

Chapter thirty-five

The only topic anyone wanted to discuss was Hamish Cairney’s doodles. Karen ran off five quick photocopies, and each had their own sheet, the original set to one side in a plastic cover.

There was a lot of circular doodling going on towards the top, aimless curved lines, the kind of thing Cairney’s youngest daughter might have done. After that, it became more interesting.

Child-like one-dimensional sketches of girl’s or women’s faces, proving he was either a dreadful artist, or was out to mislead. None of the juvenile pictures bore any resemblance to the missing or murdered women. Mixed in there were random words, some over-written, as if for emphasis: Funeral, Undertakers, Hearse, Black Tie, Black Rain, Black Vicar, Coffin, Mourners in Mourning. Hims and Hymns.

‘It’s claptrap!’ said Mrs West. ‘Utter nonsense. I told you; he’s playing with us.’

‘They sound like indie songs to me,’ said Darren, ‘with maybe a suicidal undertone going on.’

‘The question is, do they mean anything?’ said Walter. ‘Or are they designed to confuse and sidetrack?’

Karen said, ‘What is the point of the doodling thing? If he’s trying to tell us something, why not come right out and say it?’

‘Maybe he’s too ashamed,’ suggested Jenny.

Walter said, ‘Possibly. Or he wants us to think about this gibberish, rather than what we should be doing, because he believes he is far cleverer than us.’

‘Exactly!’ said Mrs West. ‘And what is this nonsense at the bottom right, as if it’s a modern art masterpiece, and he’s signing it for his fans? A2. What the hell does that mean, if it has any meaning at all?’

‘I think it’s AZ,’ said Walter. ‘Ay Zed, or Ay Zee, as our American friends would say.’

‘Is it?’ she said, looking at it again, turning it sideways as if that might make it clearer.

‘I think it’s AZ,’ said Darren.

‘Me too,’ said Karen.

‘Reserve judgement,’ said Jenny. ‘Maybe even that is obscure or blurred as part of his plan to confuse us.’

‘We will not be confused or sidetracked,’ said Mrs West. ‘No chance! We press on. We have enough evidence to charge him with another murder, Isla Aitken’s, and later today, perhaps Florence Dolby’s as well. He can strew red herrings across the path as much as he likes, but every time we interview him, he gives us more gems we can use to convict him. Give him enough rope, and all that. I think it’s time to switch back to Laila Broadsword. We know he met her, and we believe he was the last person to see her alive. He killed her. I’d bet my pension on that. She’s the last piece, and I want you to zero in on that. Find her, and nail him.’

Walter wasn’t sure Laila was the final piece, and said, ‘Could they be a person’s initials? AZ, maybe even another victim?’ said Walter.

Mrs West harrumphed, and said, ‘Oh, don’t say that, please God. It can’t be, surely? Z’s as far down the damned alphabet as you can go. That doesn’t fit in with anything, does it?’

Darren said, ‘And what percentage of people have a surname beginning with Z? I mean, how many Z people are in the phone directory? How many Z people do you know?’

‘A lot more than there used to be,’ said Walter. ‘It’s quite common in Poland and Pakistan.’

Kate Foster stopped by and said, ‘I know you are busy, Guv, but I have Roddy Jeffries on the phone. He says he has more news.’

‘Let’s all hear it,’ said Mrs West. ‘Put it on speaker.’

In the next moment, Roddy’s soft Scottish east coast accent floated across the room, as Walter warned him he was on speakerphone, and asked what he had.

‘Just a small development. You remember I told you about the bankrupt funeral director, Scott & Wilson?’

‘I do.’

‘I went to see the new people who took over the business, and they told me the first day they had the keys, when they arrived at the premises, before the coffin was examined and opened, they discovered the glass in the back door was broken, lots of smashed shards on the sterile floor, and the previous owners, maybe not that bothered with how they left things, left the key in the door on the inside. It would have been a simple job to break in. The alarm was disabled because the bill went unpaid, and it’s real quiet round the back, and no one would have seen or heard anything. A simple job to reach through, unlock, and open the door. The new fella told me the first thing they did was get their maintenance people to clear away the rubbish and fix the glass, and that was done before we were called, and no one thought to tell us.’

‘So, Mr Cairney, or anyone else, could have pulled up at the back, break in, carry in Isla Aitken’s body, select a suitable coffin, place her in it, and screw down the top?’ said Walter.

‘That would fit, the only loose end being how he knew the place was empty, and suitable for his vile purposes.’

‘Perhaps it was as simple as him scouting all the local undertakers, and hey ho, he found the ideal place.’

‘Could be. How are you progressing?’

Walter told him of Cairney’s doodling, of faces, words and initials resembling a signature. ‘Some of us think it’s AZ, other’s A2. Mean anything to you?’

‘The only AZ I know is AZ Alkmaar, the Dutch football team.’

‘Where are they based?’

‘I know little about them. Alkmaar’s a Dutch city, and I guess the AZ is the district where they are, but don’t ask me for any connection with Cairney.’

‘Thanks, Roddy. I’ll be in touch,’ and the call ended.

‘Where does that take us?’ said Mrs West.

Walter said, ‘We now know how he gained access to leave the body there.’

‘If it was him,’ said Darren.

‘It was him,’ said Walter.

Mrs West flicked her wrist, studied her gold watch, and said, ‘Right, take a half hour break. Grab a coffee and a snack. Freshen up, and we’ll begin again at the top of the hour. Ask about his doodling by all means, and what does AZ or A2 mean? But move him along to talking about Laila Broadsword as soon as you can. Where are her remains? Find them, and if he runs true to form, his scent, his marks, his MO, his DNA, and his vileness will be all over it.’

The meeting broke up. Walter went in search of food. Darren for a cola and to throw water over his head, Karen for her flavoured water and a huge orange, which introduced a summery scent into the room, while Jenny finished her made-at-home salmon paste sandwiches, bringing on a touch of indigestion, though they were tasty.

Down below, Cairney opted for another curry, hot and filling, and good it was too, he would later say.

Chapter thirty-six

Suitably refreshed, the interview continued. Walter produced a copy of Hamish’s doodling and said, ‘I know you meant us to see this, and we couldn’t let it go without comment.’

‘Did I? I never thought.’

‘Come on,’ said Jenny, ‘you must have known we would look at your work.’

‘I threw aimless rubbish away. I can’t imagine why you bothered with it.’

‘Look at this,’ said Jenny, holding her photocopy across the table, tapping the base. ‘Is that A2 or AZ?’

He studied it and said, ‘Did I write that?’

‘You know you did!’ said Walter.

‘I may have written it, but it arrived out of my subconscious, and I have no idea where it came from or what it means.’

Jenny said, ‘Did the murder of Isla Aitken come out of your subconscious? Is that who is responsible?’

He pulled a face, stared at her, and shook his head.

Jenny said, ‘For the record, Mr Cairney is shaking his head.’

Walter said, ‘Do you like indie music?’

‘What? That boring death-laden earnest stuff the kids get off on, but grow out of when they grow up? No fear, not me. What made you ask that?’

‘I am reliably informed your words come straight from indie songs.’

‘Can’t imagine how? I don’t listen to such crap.’

‘What music do you like?’ said Jenny.

‘Bit of classic, bit of folk, bit of brass band, trumpet, my thing, though I was never a rabid music buyer.’

Walter said, ‘Are you a football fan?’

‘Certainly not. Where are you going with this? Listen, I was brought up in Glasgow, where there are two so-called football clubs that are giant fronts for political and religious divides. They spawn hatred and divisiveness from one year to the next, and all too often, it breaks out into violence. Not for nothing are they known in some quarters as the Evil Sisters. Why would I want to be involved with that?’

‘That may be your opinion, Mr Cairney, though the clubs wouldn’t agree,’ said Walter.

‘Some of their supporters would, and you know what I mean.’

Jenny said, ‘You’re against violence, are you, Mr Cairney?’

‘Stupid question. Yes, I am.’

‘But what about your violence towards women? Doesn’t that count?’

He didn’t seem remotely ruffled by the question, or the thought of it, and paused before commenting.

‘I think you’re getting mixed up between violent hatred and sublime pleasure.’

‘Did you get pleasure when drowning Gina McGregor?’ asked Walter.

‘Or crucifying Emily Chatteris?’ added Jenny.

‘Or strangling Florence Dolby?’ continued Walter.

‘Or sucking the lifeblood out of Isla Aitken?’ said Jenny.

‘I didn’t suck the blood out of her, as I have told you three times. She was a willing participant and enjoyed it. Maybe it went a little too far, but I never needed to persuade her to join in.’

‘I find it hard to believe she was a willing participant in her own death,’ said Jenny.

‘That’s because you have no imagination.’

Walter said, ‘The evidence against you is massive and conclusive. The likelihood is you will go to prison for the rest of your days. Now is the time to confess your sins, and you can start that process by telling us what happened to Laila Broadsword.’

‘Not that again. You know as much as I do about Laila, probably more.’

Jenny said, ‘What did you do with her body?’

‘Give me a break!’

‘Who is AZ?’ asked Walter. ‘Come on, Mr Cairney, Annie Zidane, Angela Zamora? Adele Zeigler? Am I close?’

The man exhaled and said, ‘If proof were ever needed you make things up as you go along, there it is, right in front of your eyes. When you don’t have any actual evidence, you invent it to fit the crimes you profess to investigate. Let me ask you a question, Inspector. How many men, and no doubt women too, have you sent to prison throughout your career, by concocting and fabricating evidence based on lies? It isn’t me who deserves to be sent to prison, but you, for all the evil you have done. You’re the evil man in this room, not I. You’re a shyster and a conman, and have inveigled your way into a position of power, clambering over the backs of more capable men and women, and we all know why that is, don’t we?’ he said, glancing between the pair of them.

‘I don’t,’ said Jenny. ‘Tell us more.’

‘Box-ticking, of course. It’s as clear as day. I know you cannot agree with me in front of him, but deep down, you know I am right. Ask him face-to-face when you get the chance. Do it in a quiet moment when just the two of you are present. Don’t pull your punches. Ask him how many people he has wrongly sent to prison, and some of those for the rest of their days. I’ll bet the number runs into hundreds, so don’t you dare try to pin crap on me, because it won’t stick.’

Walter said, ‘How did you kill Laila Broadsword, Mr Cairney?’

‘Suck my…’ though he stopped himself when looking at Jenny’s face, ending his sentence with: ‘lollypop. I’m not saying any more,’ and he sat back in his seat and folded his arms. ‘I’m knackered and need some sleep.’

Walter glanced at Jenny and whispered, ‘Enough for today.’

She closed down, and Cairney went back to his cell.

Outside, Darren addressed the paper elephant in the room.

‘Come on,’ Guv, he said with a smirk. ‘How many people have you fitted up and sent down on rigged evidence?’

There was a momentary silence, before Karen let go a clipped laugh, enough to bring Mrs West’s face to a smile, followed by laughter, and a moment later, Walter was surrounded by four laughing detectives, a sight reducing him to grinning, giggling, and laughter, too, before he stopped and said, ‘Hundreds! Didn’t you know?’

Chapter thirty-seven

Overnight, the sunny weather broke. Everywhere from Chester down to Worcester received a thorough drenching. Right on cue, after breakfast, the sunshine returned.

The police began the day by interviewing Cairney again, Walter and Jenny issuing the questions.

Cairney could not have been more different.

He began by saying he wished to apologise to both of them. To Jenny, for forgetting to thank her for supplying him with reading material.

‘Okay,’ Cairney said, grinning, ‘maybe The Countess and the Vicar would not be my usual reading fare, but it sure as hell beat staring at four sky-blue walls all day. I read it in one sitting. If you have any more, I’d be glad of them.’

Jenny said she had plenty, and would bring in another the following day.

Turning to Walter, Cairney said, ‘My apology to you, sir, is a grander one. Right from the outset, I realised you were never bent. I pride myself on sussing people out, and I was wrong about you, and I’m sorry for what I said.’

Walter thought for a moment before accepting the apology. The man was a serial killer, responsible for torturing and murdering defenceless young women, and saying anything kind to him was not in the script, but he bit his tongue and said, ‘Apology accepted,’ and it was as well he did, for Cairney nodded and said, ‘Good, excellent, and with that out of the way, I want to tell you something important.’

‘Carry on,’ said Jenny, eager to extract anything of interest before he changed his mind.

‘Last night, I had a dream.’

It wasn’t what Walter wanted to hear. Dream sequences were often hippy junk and nonsense, and went nowhere, but there was nothing wrong in giving him a minute.

‘It wasn’t so much a dream, more a nightmare.’

‘Go on,’ said Jenny, not tolerating any delay.

Cairney gave her a look that told her to be patient, before saying, ‘I dreamt I disposed of Laila’s body.’

Walter said, ‘And did you dream you first murdered her?’

‘No, I don’t believe I did.’

‘Who killed her if you didn’t?’ asked Jenny.

He shook his head and said, ‘That’s a mystery to me.’

Walter said, ‘Where? Come on, where did you dispose of her?’

‘A good way south of here. Shropshire, so the dream told me. South of Melverly, at a place I barely know.’

‘Whereabouts?’ said Jenny.

‘I’m not sure.’

Walter said, ‘Could you take us there?’

‘Maybe.’

‘You need to tell us where it is,’ said Jenny.

‘It’s on SCAC land. I can tell you that.’

‘SCAC?’ said Jenny and Walter, as one.

‘Yeah, it’s a farming cooperative. I can’t recall the exact meaning of SCAC.’

‘Let’s get something clear,’ said Walter. ‘Are you telling this from your memory, or from your dream?’

‘Dream. Definitely. Let’s face it, friends, none of us understand dreams, or where they come from, what they mean, or who sends them.’

‘No one sends them,’ said Jenny. ‘They ooze out of your brain.’

‘Maybe you’re right. I’m only telling you what I remember.’

‘Could you find this place?’ said Walter.

Cairney sniffed and said, ‘I’d give it a go.’

Walter and Jenny looked at each other before Walter said, ‘Interview suspended at…’ and Jenny recited the time.

She turned off the recorder and removed the disk, as Walter said, ‘We shouldn’t be long.’

Chapter thirty-eight

Mrs West, Karen and Darren monitored proceedings, as Walter and Jenny joined them. Darren said, ‘He’s just looking for a nice jolly-up in the countryside. Bit of fresh air, an enjoyable day out.’

‘You could be right,’ said Karen, ‘but I think his main objective is escaping. Mary Lambert had him nailed. He’ll search for weak spots in any security arrangements, and when an opportunity arises, he’ll jump at it. Nothing more certain.’

‘You are right,’ said Walter. ‘But does anyone have any better ideas on how we might find Laila’s body?’

No one did, as Mrs West said, ‘It’s the “might” word I don’t like. Might this, might that. He’s not saying he knows where the body is. He’s saying he might have dreamt it, and she might be there. Pigs might fly, but rarely do.’

‘It’s all hippy, hooky nonsense if you ask me,’ said Darren.

The women glanced at him and shook heads.

‘I repeat,’ said Walter. ‘Does anyone have anything better?’

Mrs West saw they didn’t, and said, ‘All right, on condition security will be as tight as a duck’s behind. You three and Martin will escort him there, and Cairney will remain handcuffed to Martin at all times. Jenny will remain with me to monitor proceedings.’

‘Maybe not Martin, ma’am,’ said Walter. ‘Bearing in mind their earlier coming together. Darren could do it.’

‘No!’ she said, ‘I want Martin linked to Cairney, so he knows if he kicks off Marty will be on hand, and might find it necessary to issue retribution. I have a feeling he would enjoy that.’

Walter didn’t like the idea, but saw the logic.

Mrs West spoke again.

‘I want two cadaver dogs with trained handlers to accompany you, and an AFO armed to the teeth, not just for show, carrying live ammunition. That’s a party of, let me see, eight people, including Cairney, and two dogs, meaning three vehicles. If that isn’t enough, I don’t know what is. If Cairney somehow makes a break for it, the AFO, whoever he or she may be, has my authority to bring him down. Ideally with a leg shot, or maybe the nether regions. That would slow the bastard down in more ways than one.’

Everyone glanced at her without seeking eye contact, viewing her in a different light, and perhaps that doubt transmitted into her mind, as she said, ‘I’ll clear this with the Chief Con. You don’t need to worry about that. It won’t be a problem,’ and she paused before saying, ‘When?’

‘No time like the present,’ said Walter. ‘Long light nights, officers on hand, ready to go, and we have plenty of daylight and the weather forecast remains fine.’

‘Agreed,’ she said, looking pleased with herself. ‘You leave at one. Darren, get hold of Martin and get him genned up. I repeat, handcuffs are not to be removed at any point, and all necessary force to be issued if he plays up. Karen, get hold of the dog people. Best animals they have. Jenny, find the biggest scale map we have, and you and Walter get back in there and ask him to point out exactly where you are going. He’s a forestry guy. Maps should be second nature to him. If he’s leading you there, he must know where you are bound. I want to know the exact spot he is heading for before you leave. Don’t take any flannel. If he can’t tell you where you’re going, tell him his nice day in the countryside is cancelled. If need be, I’ll put the police ’copter on standby, and I don’t need to tell you how important it is you take him there and bring him back unharmed, hopefully after you have discovered Laila’s remains. I want this to run smoothly, you hear? I want a concrete result. No muck ups or cock ups. It’s your idea, it’s on you. Oh, and one other thing. Walter, ring West Mercia and advise them what we are doing. I don’t enjoy treading on a neighbouring force’s toes without giving them a heads-up. Right! That’s it. Get to it, and get on with it.’

Chapter thirty-nine

Jenny found the largest scale map in the building, and she and Walter returned to the interview room.

Cairney looked up and said, ‘Hello, peeps. How goes it?’

Jenny set the map on the table, opened it, and asked him to point out where they would be going.

‘I told you, I’m not sure,’ he said, glancing at the rivers, towns, and villages scattered across the rolling, hilly, rural county.

‘Not good enough,’ said Walter. ‘We are not swanning around the countryside, wasting police time and resources on the off chance somewhere rings a bell in your head from an earlier fuzzy dream.’

‘I thought that was the point. Sights and smells and sounds break dreams. Everyone knows that. I won’t know till I see or hear or smell it.’

‘Not a chance,’ said Walter. ‘You either know where we are going or you don’t. It’s up to you. If you haven’t anything further, we may as well return you to the cells,’ and Walter rolled the dice and stood up.

‘Wait, a sec!’ Cairney said. ‘The map might help,’ and he stared at it again, long and hard, before saying, ‘I think it was off this road, there look, the red one,’ tapping it with his finger.

Jenny peered at it and said, ‘A488, not a primary route, goes towards Pontesbury and Minsterley, Guv, before it heads into the hills.’

‘I didn’t think it was hilly, though I could be wrong.’

Walter said, ‘One simple question. Is Laila Broadsword’s body buried somewhere off that road?’

‘I think so. My dream suggests it.’

‘Cut the crap, Cairney! Either you know, or you don’t.’

‘I’m saying it’s worth a try, but I can’t be certain.’

Walter sat back in his chair and stared across the table, weighing up the man. Had he buried Laila somewhere off that road, or was he looking for an enjoyable day out, hoping for a chance to break free? Or could it be both? The annoying thing was they would only find out by going.

‘Well?’ said Walter. ‘I’m not rambling across the county on the off chance.’

Cairney bobbed his head and said, ‘That’s understandable,’ before adding, ‘I think we should give it a try.’

A knock came to the door. Darren came in.

Jenny updated the machine.

Darren handed Walter a note.

Mrs West’s unmistakable handwriting: Get the man down there. No more delay!

Walter told Cairney they would leave at one. He would be handcuffed to DC Martin Kane. Darren and Karen, fresh from their wrestling with Cairney in Saint Luke’s, would also be on the trip, as would an Armed Firearms Officer, and the cadaver dog team. The AFO would have full authority to fire should Mr Cairney make any attempt to escape. That was reiterated, and the man would have no excuse.

‘Unlikely I would have thought,’ said Cairney, leering at Jenny, ‘seeing as I’ll be manacled to your hunky boyfriend.’

Walter said, ‘It’s important you know the protocol under which this trip is being made, and remember, it is at your suggestion, as recorded on disk. Right now, you’ll be returned to your cell. Use the facilities there, ask for a hot drink if you wish, and make sure you are ready to leave at ten minutes to the hour.’

‘You not coming, countess?’ he said, grinning at Jenny.

‘She is not,’ said Walter. ‘She has more important police business to conduct,’ and a second later, suitable officers were called to escort Cairney downstairs.

Chapter forty

The convoy left at two minutes past one. Two unmarked BMW five series, and a white van marked in small blue letters: DOG SECTION.

Inside, were two Alsatians housed in separate sections, quiet and resting, experienced animals, used to being transported by van. The lead BMW saw Darren Gibbons driving, with the armed AFO in front looking forward to his day in the limelight, with Martin and Cairney manacled together in the back, Martin’s left wrist attached to Cairney’s right.

Karen drove the second Beemer, with Walter directing, as they pondered on whether they would find success in the Shropshire countryside. Walter thought they might. Karen was sceptical.

They took the well-worn route south on the A41 heading for Whitchurch, taking the right fork at the last main roundabout after the town, onto the A49, no dual carriageway there, heading for Shrewsbury, where they circled the growing town to the south, before finding the A488, a left turn off the main dual-carriageway, onto a twisty country road.

They wanted an incident free trip, but at Whitchurch, the engine in the Dog Van began croaking and griping enough for the driver to stop and call for assistance. The second officer called Walter and Darren, advising them of the problem, and they would be delayed as they stopped, waiting for mechanics to arrive.

‘We didn’t need that,’ said Walter. ‘Our party of eight, ten if you include the dogs, is down to six.’

‘More than enough,’ said Karen, tracking Darren’s every move.

He rang Walter and asked if he wanted to stop to allow the canine squad to catch up, but Walter told him to press on. The last thing Walter said was, ‘Slow down. We’re now on the A488. Make sure our friend is alert and watching. If he gives any hint, we stop and check it out.’

‘Sure, Guv, the man’s sitting up, awake and alert.’

After that, Walter rang Jenny to update them, which set Mrs West’s nerves jangling.

They travelled at less than thirty mph, delaying impatient country traffic, but that couldn’t be helped. One follower tried to hassle the second BMW, tailgating and attempting to zip by on a narrow road with plenty of fast oncoming traffic. Walter put a stop to that shenanigans when he buzzed down the window and set a flashing blue light on the roof, no sound, just pulsing light. It was more than enough, and the driver behind understood, and pulled back.

Another eight miles slid by, twenty plus minutes, time that seemed like an age, everyone staring forward, or out to the right, before Cairney spoke.

‘I may be wrong, but I think we’re close. In my dream there was a lay-by on the right side.’

‘Dreams be buggered,’ whispered Darren, as the AFO, clutching his Glock, let go a clipped laugh.

Dreams or not, Darren slowed to twenty, as they peered ahead through the sunny afternoon, seeking a stopping place.

In the second car, Walter said, ‘Must be close.’

‘Yeah,’ said Karen, ‘if the place exists.’

Just as doubt was setting in, there it was, on the right side, dreams or reality, pretty much as Cairney described, a decent lay-by bordered to the right by a weathered metal fence. Darren snapped on the right blinker, but had to stop and wait for an oncoming milk tanker, rushing by as if every second was critical.

There was one car in the stopping place, a small family saloon at the far end, where a mother was supervising two toddlers, both desperate for a fresh-air wee. By the time Karen pulled in, easing to a stop behind Darren, the day-trippers had left their mark, and were back in their car, heading south towards Bishop’s Castle.

Darren stepped out into the blazing sun, grateful for his short-sleeved shirt, stretched his arms, as Walter and Karen joined him.

Darren said, ‘A bummer about the dogs.’

‘I don’t think they will be long,’ said Walter. ‘It didn’t sound fatal.’

An eager Karen said, ‘Do we wait for them, or do we start?’

Walter looked back at the first car and said, ‘Let’s get me-laddo out and see what he has to say,’ and he went to the car and opened the door.

‘Out?’ said Martin.

‘Yes, one out, all out, and don’t forget to lock the car. This is a valuable piece of machinery, and Mrs West would be mighty miffed if we mislaid it.’

Karen beeped hers locked, and in the next second, they were out in the sunshine, standing in a circle like druids, waiting for someone to say a prayer, and kick the ceremony off.

Walter stared at Cairney and said, ‘Well? Is this the place?’

‘I think so.’

‘Think so, isn’t good enough! Either it is, or it isn’t.’

‘I told you! I can’t be sure. Be patient. It seems familiar. Look! There’s the sign I mentioned,’ and they stared across the metal fence at SCAC’s warning sign, yelling: KEEP OUT!

Karen and Walter ambled ten yards away before she whispered, ‘What do you think, Guv?’

‘I wish I had more confidence in Cairney, but I’m not hanging round here waiting for dogs that may or may not arrive. Come on, let’s get to it.’

They turned back to the others, as Walter said, ‘Darren, you keep the dog boys informed,’ and one by one, or two by two in Martin and Cairney’s case, they clambered over the metal fence, passing the sign bearing pictures of an angry biting hound, to cross the ten yards of wild flowers, before entering the pine plantation, everyone grateful they were wearing stout country shoes.

Chapter forty-one

Five men and one woman headed through the pines. The trees still had growing to do, and there was space and light between them where rays of sunshine bounced off the brown carpet of fallen needles.

They had only been walking for thirty yards when Walter’s mobile rumbled.

‘What’s happening?’ barked Mrs West.

‘We’re in the pines, and it’s like looking for a needle in a field of needles.’

‘You didn’t think to wait for the dogs?’

‘We have no idea how long they would take to get here. I thought it best to crack on, rather than stand around in the blazing sun.’

‘Makes sense, I guess. Cairney still attached to Martin?’

‘He is, ma’am. Leading the way.’

Where did she think he was, swinging through the treetops, wailing like Tarzan?

‘Don’t lose him.’

‘Not going to happen, ma’am.’

‘The AFO there?’

‘Yes, beside me. Armed and ready, and Cairney is aware of that.’

‘What do you think, Walter? Is he leading us up a blind alley?’

‘I don’t know. But one thing I do know…’

‘Go on.’

‘It’s a great place to hide a body. Quiet, remote, undisturbed, and closed to the public. That all fits. You could hide something or someone here for years, and if it were buried, I doubt you’d ever see it again. If I stood in this same spot for a year, I might not see another human being.’

‘Cadaver dogs would find it.’

‘Yes, that’s possible.’

‘Okay, Walter stick…’ and the connection broke, and that made sense. Maybe the thickening canopy of overhanging trees, or the remoteness of the place, but whatever caused the line to disconnect, he hadn’t needed to pretend. Sometimes there was a god. He grinned to himself and slipped his phone away.

Cairney led them onward; manacled Martin at his side, Darren close on the other. All along, Darren was convinced the guy was fooling around and fired probing questions at him, attempting to trip him.

‘Did you have a spade? Did you bury her or cover the body? Was it day or night? Was she wrapped up? Why Laila, anyhow? Were you alone? Why did you kill her? Why did you kill any of them? Come on, Cairney, you are not making much sense. This whole charade is not making any sense.’

Cairney didn’t answer his questions, just looked at Darren as if he were an annoying child trying to endear himself to the adults. Walter didn’t mind the questions. They were fair game, and questions Cairney had not answered to his satisfaction.

They trekked onwards, deeper into the forest, tacking from left to right, and back, right to left, like a yacht against the wind, no straight line through the diamond formation planted trees.

Cairney found it hard to get his bearings. After a minute or two, one pine looked like any other. It was hard to tell. Had they gone too far, or not far enough? The lumbering yet static plants didn’t have name tags like herds of cattle, yet they did.

He hadn’t noticed it before. Each one boasted a spray-painted number, tiny fading figures you’d miss unless looking for them. The nearest tree numbered 1008, and it all came back to him. 1024 was where he’d set up camp, crawling beneath the undergrowth, to bask in the earthy smells, and think.

That was only 16 ahead, or 16 to either side, or 8 forward and 8 to the side? From there on, he’d study numbers, edging away from anything close to 1024.

Walter noticed the numbers too and called for a stop.

‘Interesting,’ he said, ‘if you look hard, you can see they numbered the pines.’

‘So?’ said Darren. ‘Is that relevant?’

‘It could be.’

Walter stared at Cairney and said, ‘When you buried Laila, what was the closest numbered tree?’

‘I never noticed any numbers.’

An interesting answer. He hadn’t said: In my dream, I never noticed numbers. He said: I never noticed any numbers. Cairney had been there before. He must have been, and that meant Laila Broadsword’s remains were there somewhere, too. Her, or someone else.

Walter’s phone rang again. Who could explain why phones worked in one place at one moment, and not another, not far away, but there it was, rumbling away. He braced himself for another Mrs West verbal salvo. No doubt she imagined he had cut her off on purpose.

But it wasn’t Mrs West at all. It was a far more interesting call.

Chapter forty-two

Mrs West paced up and down the lightly staffed incident room. Jenny and Kate Foster watched her on the move and exchanged a glance.

The boss-woman tried to ring Walter again, and it went straight to voicemail.

‘Shit! What is happening down there?’ she said to anyone listening.

Kate said, ‘Perhaps they have found something, ma’am.’

‘Hope so,’ said Jenny.

Mrs West glared at her and said, ‘Don’t be in too much of a hurry to find another dead woman’s body.’

Jenny didn’t reply, picturing in her mind Martin chained to Cairney. She knew Martin could look after himself, she’d seen him in action, as could Darren when required, but she also knew Cairney was a serial murderer, and as desperate as any man could be. If he saw half a chance of attacking the boys and getting away, he’d take it. Jenny took comfort in the armed AFO being present, knowing he had orders to fire if Cairney broke free.

Walter listened to his caller. Karen stood close by, wondering whose voice had made it through the ether. The other four had gone on ahead, maybe thirty yards, though she could make them out through the branches and tree trunks.

‘Wait for us!’ she called, and they stopped and glanced back.

Roddy Jeffries spoke into Walter’s ear, ‘I reckon it’s AZ, not A2.’

‘Go on.’

‘An Italian student went missing by the name of Andrea Zilli. It was known she was unhappy in Edinburgh, boy trouble or man trouble, her friend said, and Andrea talked about going home to Milan, and one day soon after, she skipped lessons, and everyone assumed she’d given up and gone home.’

‘How did you discover that?’

‘I had the team run a check on all students whose initials began with AZ. Andrea was the only one.’

‘Anything else?’

‘Aye, loads. I visited the college and spoke to her friends. They weren’t keen to talk about it, you know what students are like in talking to us, some of them busy hiding their spliffs, but one girl told me Andrea fell hard in love for a big guy, an older dude, she said, though Andrea kept him to herself, and my source never met him. Initially, he treated her well, and Andrea became besotted, meeting him whenever he told her to. Though all too soon he changed, and she’d arrive in class displaying bruises, brushing it off with a nervous laugh as frolicking rough and tumble.’

‘Rough and tumble, my backside. Was this before Isla Aitken went missing or after?’

‘Before, perhaps three months earlier.’

‘Anything else?’

‘My team did a major search to see if she left Scotland. There is no record of it. She might have travelled south and slipped away there, but so far, we couldn’t find any evidence of that.’

‘If she didn’t arrive home, surely someone would have reported her absence?’

‘That’s what I thought, but Andrea’s friend told me, when she was younger, Andy, that’s what everyone called her, was something of a wild child. Fell out with her parents big time, left home, coloured her hair in startling colours, black lipstick, buzz-cut hair, big boots, get the picture, as she bummed around from one service industry job to another, before getting her stuff together, shit together, her favourite phrase, before turning up here in Edinburgh for an art class, boasting an impressive Euro grant. That could explain why no one reported her absence.’

‘Have you got Andrea’s DOB?’

‘Nope, just a month and year,’ figures Roddy repeated, ‘but I’ll get it for you.’

‘Thanks. I’ll run more checks from here. Well done, you. So, we have a missing girl whose surname starts with Z, and soon after, the ABC thing gets underway.’

‘Aye, looks like some kind of word or letter natural progression. The question remains, Inspector, was there an X and Y, and maybe even more before that?’

‘I hate to think.’

‘How are you getting on down there?’

Walter glanced around the birdsong-filled forest, through the trees to the four men further on.

‘As we speak, I’m deep in a Shropshire pine forest with Cairney manacled to my man, an armed AFO on standby, as we look for Laila Broadsword’s body.’

‘You think he’s buried her there?’

‘It’s his idea. He brought us here, though he could be playing more games.’

‘Okey-doke, I’ll leave you to it. Ring me later for an update.’

‘Thanks, Roddy, I will,’ and the call ended, as Walter slipped the phone in his pocket, and glanced ahead.

A moment later, he looked at Karen and said, ‘Did you get the gist of that?’

‘I did. Andrea Zilli, a Z in the equation, missing, and maybe dead.’

‘That’s about the size of it.’

Walter peered ahead through the trees at the others. Dappled light brought an odd sight back to his eyes.

The AFO was looking away, his mind elsewhere, aiming at something, swerving his Glock left to right, right to left, up and down, seeking a squirrel or a pretend quarry, like in a kid’s game. Cairney was down on one knee, struggling to tie a shoelace, with Martin’s manacled wrist stretched down to give Cairney enough room, as Darren and Martin gossiped about something, a date, a woman, sports tickets, going drinking, could be anything except work, oblivious to what their charge was doing.

‘Hey!’ yelled Walter through the trees, as he and Karen hurried after them. ‘What’s going on?’

Chapter forty-three

Darren’s mobile rang. The dog people reported their van was being fixed, and they hoped to be back on the road in ten minutes.

Darren gave them directions, and they said they’d hurry down as fast as they could, find the lay-by with the Beemers, and let the dogs pick up the scent.

Walter and Karen arrived next to the others. Cairney was standing, looking nonplussed. The AFO tuned in and paid attention, as Martin said, ‘His shoelace was undone, Guv.’

Walter stared down at the neat knot and back at Martin.

‘He shouldn’t be wearing shoelaces.’

‘He didn’t have any slip-ons, Guv.’

Walter harrumphed and peered round at the silent trees.

‘Well?’ he said to Cairney. ‘You brought us here. It’s time you produced some results.’

The man stared at Walter and said, ‘I’m sure we’ll find something.’

‘Not good enough. It’s now or back to the cells for you.’

Cairney sighed and pointed away from Laila’s tree, and said, ‘I think it’s this way.’

Walter’s phone rang again, and this time it was Mrs West.

‘What’s happening?’

He moved out of earshot before answering.

‘We’re deep in the woods, and so far, we’ve found nothing.’

‘I knew it. A total waste of time.’

‘You could be right, ma’am, but I have something fresh.’

‘What?’

He told her of Roddy’s call, and Andrea Zilli, and her fiery relationship with an older man, who could have been Cairney. He gave Mrs West the DOB so far as he had it, and asked her to run a check on whether Andrea left the country.

‘How many more of these has the evil bugger up his sleeve?’

‘Only he knows that, ma’am. He is not aware we know about Andrea. When the time comes, we will keep him talking, and see what tumbles out of his mixed-up mind.’

‘And the dog people?’

‘On the road again. Expected soon. If we find nothing in the next half hour, I’m heading back to the cars. The canine brigade can take over. They will have far more chance than us. I thought I had a good nose for sniffing out roguery, but I can’t compete with our four-legged friends.’

‘Give it a little longer, Walter, and do what you think best,’ and she cut off.

The minutes dragged by, following the prisoner this way and that, him bleating nonsense saying he was sure it was this way, trying to recall his dream. But were dreams reliable, Cairney suggested, grinning at Walter, Cairney’s eyes taking on a sparkle not seen before, reminiscent of a French heartthrob.

Fifteen minutes later, Walter had seen enough.

‘Back to the cars, everyone, and when we get there, we’re changing seats. Karen and I with Martin and Mr Cairney in the back, the AFO and Darren in the other car.’

‘But,’ protested the AFO, ‘I was told to stick close to the prisoner. Never let him out of my sight.’

‘And you will. Darren will follow us like a rampant magnet, and you will always have him in vision. Don’t worry, Karen will wait for you if you get cut adrift.’

Twenty minutes after that, they were back in the BMWs, and eight minutes later, with Walter monitoring his watch, the white dog van pulled in, puffing and panting, the van, dogs, and officers, as they stepped out, looking sheepish, apologising for the delay.

Walter slipped out of the car and pointed into the woods, issuing as good a description of the direction as he could, telling them the trees were numbered, and maybe it was around 1020 when Cairney started acting up. ‘That’s the best I can offer you,’ he said, and the dog handlers thanked him, and were pleased to be left alone to get on with the job, confident their charges would find something, if there was anything to be found.

In the next moment the five officers and one prisoner watched the super-keen Alsatians hurdle the metal fence, dragging their handlers after them, and seconds later, they disappeared into the pines.

Walter eased back into the front of the second Beemer and banged the door shut in frustration.

‘Go?’ said Karen.

‘No,’ said Walter. ‘Caution the prisoner again, and set your phone on record.’

Karen set her phone on the dash and repeated the caution, as Walter turned and stared at Cairney and Martin and said, ‘It wasn’t A2, was it, Hamish? It was AZ all along, as you well know.’

‘I’m not with you.’

‘I think you are, Mr Cairney. Andrea Zilli? Another former girlfriend of yours. Tell us about her.’

‘I’m still not with you.’

‘You are! Don’t lie! You had an affair with her in Edinburgh, didn’t you? A student, this time. And soon after, guess what happened? She went missing. Another disappearance, Mr Cairney, and you told us about it with those scribbled initials. You gave us the lead. Why do that, Hamish, if you weren’t trying to salve your conscience? Was it to clear the book, so to speak? Was she the first, or one of many, and is she the last?’

Cairney thought on his words before speaking.

‘Dreams are amazing things, Mr Darriteau. Part reality, part fantasy, and we all have them, and no one knows how they materialise, and why they come on some nights and not others. If I wrote initials down, I don’t remember doing that.’

‘That’s convenient,’ said Karen.

‘Nice though it is to talk with you out here in the glorious countryside,’ said Cairney, ‘but we need to get going.’

Martin glanced at his prisoner and thought of telling him to show respect.

Walter said, ‘Oh, and why would that be?’

‘Because I am dying for the lavatory, and I’m not talking pee wees. I’m talking a big deposit, and you need to know it will not be denied. I think it was that vile curry you gave me. It’s still in the system, I reckon, swilling around, playing havoc, and it’s on its way back.’

Walter recalled the warning Mary Lambert gave them. Cairney would do everything and anything to escape. Say he needed the lavatory. How prescient a woman she was.

Walter said, ‘Don’t you dare crap in my car.’

‘It is a fundamental human right to defecate when one needs to, Inspector. I’m surprised you didn’t know that.’

‘I repeat, do not do it in this car. If you do, you will stay in filthy underwear for the rest of the day.’

‘I’ll do my best. I wouldn’t like to embarrass myself in front of a lady, in front of the G,’ and he sniggered, ‘though I give you notice, it’s close to coming, and it won’t be long before it joins us.’

Karen couldn’t hide a grin, as Walter said, ‘Where is the nearest police station?’

‘It’ll be Shrewsbury Central, Guv,’ said Karen.

‘Do you know where it is?’

‘I do, been there twice. It’s on a road called Monkmoor, big, rectangular, concrete and glass. An ugly boy, from what I remember.’

Walter said, ‘Martin, can you use your phone with one hand?’

‘Sure, Guv, and if I have a problem, I can always drag the other hand closer. I’m sure my friend here won’t mind.’

‘Ring them and tell them where we are and what we are about. They have been advised we are on their turf. It shouldn’t come as a surprise. We need to pop in and use the facilities.’

‘I’m sorry to cause you folks so much trouble,’ said Cairney, ‘but it is important, and I appreciate your efforts.’

‘Hold it in!’ demanded Walter, ‘and that’s an order.’

Martin fumbled for his phone as Karen said, ‘Go, Guv?’

‘Yes,’ and she set the satnav for Monkmoor, started the car, overtook Darren, and headed for the end of the lay-by before doing an ultra-sharp left turn to get them heading back the way they came.

In the other BMW, Darren said, ‘At last. I wonder what the delay was.’

The AFO sat back in his seat, cuddling his weapon, glaring forward, saying, ‘Maybe our mate has been playing up.’

‘Wouldn’t surprise me. He’s a weird one, that’s for sure.’

‘Make certain we don’t lose him.’

‘Never going to happen.’

Chapter forty-four

It took Karen ten minutes to get the BMW the twelve miles from the country lay-by to Monkmoor in Shrewsbury.

Ably assisted by the flashing blue light, as if yelling; Man needs lav! Man needs lav! and the authority to drive on the oncoming lane helped skip by any gridlocked traffic.

Shrewsbury was the capital of the sprawling rural county, not the biggest town, though the residents believed it the best. The size distinction belonged to Telford, fifteen miles to the east.

The Shrewsbury cop shop was where Karen remembered and described, resembling a secondary school. Maybe it had come from the same architect who designed the schools. Perhaps it ran, schools Monday, cop shops Tuesday, hospitals Wednesday, town halls Thursday, social services Friday, all similar siblings, was how Walter imagined it.

They swept off Monkmoor at a tiny roundabout, heading left, passing a blue and white sign, PRIVATE ROAD, POLICE VEHICLES ONLY, NO PUBLIC ACCESS, as they zipped by the parked orange trash lorry, and round the back to find two spaces.

In the next second, they were out of the Beemers, the AFO glad to be back at the side of his man, as they headed for the main entrance.

‘It’s coming,’ bleated Cairney. ‘It's coming.’

‘Press pause!’ ordered Walter. ‘Cheeks together! Squeeze! That’ll do the job. No pun intended.’

‘Your time is coming,’ said Darren to Karen from the side of his mouth.

‘Not before time,’ she whispered, as the six of them stood about in the foyer, looking for directions.

A short stocky, balding gentleman wearing blue trousers and an open-necked white shirt appeared, grinned at them, and said, ‘Facilities?’

‘That’s us, chief,’ said Walter, nodding at the manacled man.

‘Follow me, you’re in luck, we were expecting you, and they have been cleaned today,’ and they tracked him through a set of blue double doors, down a long corridor, took a right and a left, and another corridor, and it was as well they had a guide, before they approached a set of two matching doors, one marked Men and the other Women, as the guy said, ‘Take your pick, people seem happy to use either these days.’

‘The Men’s!’ snapped Cairney, and all the men hustled inside, the guide snapping on the neon, as Karen deemed it a good moment to bail out, having no desire to witness proceedings, or catch the smell, as she found her way back to the foyer, and the police magazines set on a low table to one side.

In the Men’s room, the guide pointed out there were no windows to the backs of any cubicle, with no possible escape route there, the only natural light entering the room via the long wavy wire reinforced glass, set above the bank of sinks and taps.

‘Hurry!’ said Cairney, ‘or your efforts will be in vain.’

‘Cubicle two,’ said Walter.

Cairney edged inside, dragging Martin with him.

‘I can’t crap with him in tow! I can’t get my pants down.’

Martin was relieved, forgetting Mrs West’s explicit instructions never to leave the man’s side.

The AFO exceeded his authority by saying, ‘Don’t panic everyone. I’ll blow the prisoner’s head off if he makes a break for it.’

‘Charming,’ said Cairney.

‘That will not be necessary,’ said Walter. ‘Uncuff him, Martin, but leave the door open.’

Martin released the cuffs.

Cairney went inside, saying, ‘Bollocks to that!’ as he slammed the door shut, and slipped over the small aluminium bolt. ‘I know my rights!’

‘What about the rights of the young women?’ snapped Darren, eager to have another tumble with the gym fuelled monster.

‘Take it easy, DC Gibbons,’ said Walter, as Cairney shouted, ‘I thought you said this place had been cleaned. I don’t think so. There’s a whopping floater grinning back at me. Filthy swine,’ and frantic flushing ensued, before all went quiet, but for the sound of dripping water.

Cairney reached down into the pan and scooped up a handful of what passed for clean water. He put the lid down without making a sound, and sat on it, never once thinking of dropping his slacks. He went to his left pocket and pulled something out. In the next second it was in his mouth, swilled down with the fistful of water, and the introduced matter dashed down his throat as if it knew its moment had arrived.

Three minutes dragged by. Monitoring ears from outside not hearing the noises they expected.

Walter said, ‘How are you doing, Mr Cairney?’

No reply.

The AFO went on his toes, imagining it to be his moment, visualising that somehow, when they opened the door, there would be no one there. The nervous silence was broken by reassuring noises floating from the cubicle, morphing into vomiting sounds, retching, and that didn’t sound right.

Walter went to the door and said, ‘Are you alright, Mr Cairney?’

Still no reply.

Martin said, ‘Want me to look over the top, Guv?’

‘Do it!’

Martin entered the next cubicle, jumped up, grabbed the top, and pulled himself up for a look at what was happening in cubicle two.

‘Well?’ said Walter.

‘He’s out of it, Guv. Sitting back, fully clothed, leaning against the cistern, vomit on his shirt.’

Darren said, ‘It sounds like he’s taken something.’

‘It does, Darren,’ said Walter, ‘but what?’ as he glanced up at Martin and said, ‘can you squeeze in there?’

‘Sure, Guv,’ and in the next second, he disappeared. A moment later, he opened the door and stepped out.

Hamish Cairney’s face was ashen. He was breathing, but barely conscious, with foam on his lips.

‘I’ll call an ambulance,’ said the local guy. ‘We get preference. It’ll be here in minutes.’

Darren said the obvious. ‘Mrs West will not like this.’

‘I don’t like it either!’ snapped Walter, turning to the local. ‘Where will they take him?’

‘The Royal Shrew, west of the town.’

‘How long will that take?’

‘Ten minutes max, maybe less.’

Walter cursed and whispered, ‘What a bloody mess.’

Chapter forty-five

The paramedics turned up fast, checked over their man, and knew he needed specialist treatment they couldn’t supply.

Walter wanted Martin and the AFO to accompany the sick Hamish Cairney, but the medical couple would not entertain an armed man in the van.

Walter ordered Darren, Martin, and the AFO to follow the ambulance, and they headed away from the police station, as Walter remained with Karen in the car.

‘Mrs West?’ said Karen.

‘Indeed.’

‘Better to ring her before she contacts us.’

‘You’re not wrong, Greenwood,’ as Walter made the call.

Mrs West listened to every word, recognising the concern in his voice.

‘Poisoned, you think?’

‘It looks that way.’

‘Any idea how?’

Walter had a sound theory, but wanted to flesh it out before sharing.

She said, ‘What are you doing now?’

‘We are going to the hospital to see what’s what.’

‘Is he going to die?’

‘He’s unconscious. He looked dreadful. Judging by the look on the medics’ faces, it could happen.’

‘Holy cow, though on the other hand…’ she paused, not completing her thought.

Walter knew what she was going to say, adding, ‘If he died at his own hand, it would save a lot of aggravation, and a great deal of money.’

‘Perhaps, though there would be an inquiry.’

‘Yes, a whopping one, and no one would look forward to that.’

‘You don’t think he’s fooling, do you, Walter? He’s such a devious sod. He’s not going to come back to life and leap out the hospital window?’

Despite Mary Lambert’s warning words running through his brain, he said, ‘I doubt it, but anything is possible.’

‘And the next step is?’

‘We are heading to the hospital as we speak,’ and he nodded across the cabin, and Karen took her cue and started the car.

‘Handcuff him to the bed!’ ordered Mrs West, ‘and keep me informed, and by the way, there is no trace of Andrea Zilli leaving the UK. If she made it out, it was illegally. She is, as of now, a bona fide missing person.’

Before Walter could respond, she cut off, and he pictured her pacing the incident room, wondering how it had gone so wrong.

Shrewsbury Hospital was another low-rise building, two stories, three maximum, in places, and as he suspected, similar design, concrete, brick, and glass, looking like Wednesday’s child off the same architect’s production line.

Karen parked the car in the busy car park where they shouldn’t, set a police permit in the window, and hurried for the main doors.

A quick visit to the enquiry desk, a flashing of two police IDs, and they were directed upstairs to the correct ward, where they found three officers waiting on a bench seat. On seeing Karen and Walter, they stood up and tuned in.

‘Update?’ said Walter.

‘Not much,’ said Darren. ‘We are not allowed in. You can tell from their body language it’s a critical situation.’

Karen said, ‘Mrs West wants Cairney handcuffed to the bed.’

Martin shrugged, though Darren was all for it.

Walter said, ‘There’s no chance of that happening while the doctors are treating him. Imagine if they had to turn him over. The boss’s worry is if he came back to life, somehow fooling us all, and leapt out the window. This thing isn’t finished. We must remain alert until we know what we are dealing with.’

Karen said, ‘Did anyone mention poison?’

Martin answered. ‘I heard one medic mumbling the P word, but nothing since.’

‘If he was poisoned,’ said Walter, ‘how and when did it happen?’

No one had anything constructive to say about that. Walter would bide his time, as they retook their seats and waited… and waited some more.

Chapter forty-six

Two hours after arriving at the hospital, the doors to the private suite of rooms where Hamish Cairney was being treated, opened, and a tall, skinny doctor stepped out.

Caucasian, IC1, wearing loose blue clothing, perhaps six foot six, with long, floppy black hair. Walter thought he looked like a basketball player. The doc glanced up and down the corridor, and saw five people waiting, one in uniform clutching a firearm.

‘I hope that thing is not loaded.’

The AFO said, ‘Of course it’s loaded. Yer man is a serial killer.’

‘I’m not happy with that. Who’s the senior officer?’

Walter introduced himself, and the doctor, Chris Young from his name tag, grabbed Walter’s arm and tugged him away from the others.

‘Mr Cairney is desperately ill. It’s touch and go. He may well not make it.’

‘Poisoned?’

‘Yes, some kind of fungi. Couldn’t tell you which. His stomach contents have gone to the lab. They may narrow it down, but some of those fancy mushrooms, once in the system, are impossible to treat.’

‘Look, I understand he is very sick at present, but is it possible it’s a ruse, that he is going to come back to life in the middle of the night, and make a run for it?’

‘Not going to happen. Out of the question. If you want my expert opinion, he’s far more likely to die.’

‘I bow to your superior knowledge, but my boss is insistent, to cover the eventuality of possible escape, no matter how slight, the man is handcuffed to the bed.’

‘Sorry, no, you don’t understand. How the heck are we supposed to treat a sick patient if we can’t move him? You are being ridiculous.’

‘I’m just repeating my boss’s words.’

‘Give me his name. I want a word with him about live weaponry on hospital premises. That’s unacceptable, bearing in mind how incapacitated the man is.’

‘It’s a “her”. Chief Superintendent Joan West,’ and Walter gave the doc his card. ‘Ring that number and they will put you through.’

‘Thanks,’ he said, slipping the card into the breast pocket of his grubby scrubs. ‘Is it true he’s a serial killer?’

‘Yes, five women we know of, plus other attacks being investigated. He’s all over the papers and TV. ’

‘Too busy here to watch TV, Inspector. You know how it is right now. Remember this: my job is to keep the man alive, and we will do everything in our power to do so. Though I’ll warn you again, we might fail.’

Walter said, ‘It’s what we want too, him alive, I can assure you of that.’

Doc Young looked back up the corridor at the four waiting officers and said, ‘What’s going to happen here? There’s no point in these people cluttering up the place.’

‘I agree. I’ll need to take advice on that.’

‘Good, you do that, and I’ll get back to the trenches,’ and he turned and walked fast away, nodding at the officers as he strode by.

Walter wasn’t looking forward to speaking to Mrs West again, though it turned out far better than he imagined. Doctor Christopher Young had already rung, and she appreciated the call and update from a man of his standing, and asked the same question. Could Cairney be fooling? Young insisted that was impossible, and handcuffing patients would never happen on his watch, and he would like the armed officer removing, to sit outside the building.

She pointed out a vast hospital like Royal Shrewsbury would have countless exits, and they reached a compromise. If the weapon was disarmed, he could stay.

They gossiped for longer than they should, and that only increased, when they discovered he and Mrs West’s husband were old acquaintances, but Young brought that talk to an early end, when he made his excuses and retreated to look at Mr Cairney’s vital numbers, updating in real time on the expensive bedside machinery.

Mrs West spoke to Walter again. ‘What do you want to do now?’

‘We’re forty miles from home. It’s not handy, is it? Perhaps it would be better if West Mercia took over guard duties.’

‘It might, though they are still miffed we stole a murder from under their noses, or that’s how they see things. Leave it with me, and I’ll see what I can do. In the meantime, send Martin and Darren home. There’s no point in five of you being there. I’m short-staffed as it is.’

‘Agreed. Consider it done.’

‘Oh, and Walter?’

‘Ma’am?’

‘I told the doc I would disarm the AFO, but you never heard the order,’ and before he could comment, she cut off.

On hearing the latest, Darren and Martin were buzzing at the thought of getting home, as there was nothing more they could do there. Karen and the AFO were not so pleased, wondering how long they would have to remain on site.

‘Mrs West is working on it,’ said Walter, ‘trying to get the locals to take over.’

They were glad to hear it, though doubted it would happen.

Walter’s phone rang again.

Karen studied him, as he said, ‘Go on.’

Chapter forty-seven

Mrs West’s chat with her West Mercia counterpart was polite and to the point, but could never be described as friendly.

‘By rights,’ the guy said, ‘we should have investigated the Melverly incident from the outset.’

‘That’s true, Chief Superintendent, but as I understand it, Mr Dolby never reported his wife missing.’

‘Hardly the point.’

‘We received a call from a concerned schoolboy, and as it turned out, the man involved with Mrs Dolby had a recent history of attacking women on our patch. We couldn’t let that go.’

‘I’m assuming that’s correct, though we will want a piece of Mr Cairney now he’s back in Shrewsbury.’

‘He is, and desperately ill.’

‘So you say.’

‘Let’s cut to the chase, sir. Will you take over guard duties for as long as he is in hospital?’

‘Yes, though I can’t promise you will get him back,’ a comment issued with a haughty laugh, and one Mrs West thought, chosen for its blurred meaning.

She ignored the underlying tone and said, ‘Excellent, sir. May I tell my inspector you will have officers there within the hour to relieve them?’

‘You may, as soon as we can get people in, but in future, might I suggest a closer relationship between our two forces? You keep me informed, and I will do the same for you?’

It was a simple thing to agree, and besides, she had nowhere else to go. The phone call ended, and she tried to ring Walter, but his phone was engaged.

He was still in the hospital, speaking on the phone to a dog handler. It was a brief conversation. The super-keen animals found a wheeled case hidden in thick undergrowth close to tree number 1024.

1024, he turned the number over in his mind. They had been so close.

‘When we pulled it out and opened it, Inspector, it was a sight I’d never wish to see again. The folded-up naked body of a young woman, and the stench was something that will remain with me till my dying day.’

‘Nothing you haven’t smelt before, I imagine. Well, you know what to do. Secure the scene. Keep all animals away, wild and tamed. Get gloves on if you haven’t already. Tape off the site. No unnecessary trampling. Ring Jo-Tap at forensics, tell him where you are, and what you’ve got, and impress on him the need to get down there as soon as possible. He’ll take charge and ring the doctor.’

‘Will do. My mate has left. He’s taken the dogs back to the van. They were getting a little over-excited.’

‘I can imagine. Good job. Call me if you need to, and ring me when Jo arrives.’

‘Consider it done,’ and the call ended.

Walter’s phone rang a second later.

Mrs West said, ‘I have news for you.’

‘And I for you, ma’am.’

‘Oh? In that case, you first.’

He told her the dog boys had found a zipped wheeled case with a decomposing woman’s body inside, presumed to be Laila Broadsword. The dog fella was getting on to Jo-Tap to get him there.

‘Interesting,’ she said. ‘Progress at last, and you’ll be pleased to know West Mercia will relieve you within the hour. I’ve agreed to keep my counterpart informed of any developments.’

‘Ah…’ said Walter.

‘Yes, ah. The point being, when do we share this news with him?’

‘The last thing Jo needs would be strange and over-excited boots trampling across the site.’

‘Agreed. I think I’ll keep it to myself until Joseph has arrived to make his preliminary assessment.’

‘That would be wise.’

‘He made one sarky comment.’

‘Oh?’

‘He said once they had taken over the watching brief on Cairney, they may never return him, or words to that effect.’

‘The fool! Too late. Doesn’t he know we have charged him with murder?’

‘Oh, he knows that. He’s just making sure I know he’s in control of his own patch. How sure are we the body is Laila Broadsword’s?’

‘Not sure at all, though I’d be amazed if it wasn’t. Cairney knew we were looking for her, and he took us almost to the exact spot. If it isn’t her, things are even worse than we imagined.’

‘True, though on his track record, that wouldn’t be a surprise.’

Walter’s attention was taken by two uniformed officers sauntering down the corridor towards them. A short man and a tall woman.

‘Looks like the cavalry have arrived,’ whispered Walter.

‘That was quick. I thought he might have kept you waiting.’

‘It’s the relief force, alright. Thanks for that, have to go,’ and he cut off.

A quick conversation followed, Walter impressing on them the man was a serial killer, charged with murder, and though the doctor insisted it would be impossible for the prisoner to recover and make a break for it, the prisoner had a track record of defying the odds, and he was strong, and it was imperative they stay awake and alert, because if they didn’t, and Cairney escaped, further vicious attacks on women could follow.

‘We’ve been briefed,’ said the tall one. ‘We know what to expect.’

Walter left them with one last sentence.

‘Don’t underestimate how cunning and ruthless a man he is.’

Five minutes later, Walter, Karen, and the AFO were in the BMW, cruising out of the car park, heading north, and home for Chester, the AFO still cuddling the metalwork.

Walter said, ‘What did you make of the tall woman?’

‘Crazy ambitious,’ said Karen. ‘She will stay awake for as long as it takes. I’ll bet she’s the type of career woman who will rush home after duty and write a big diary, recording every fact and figure and scandal, and everyone else’s failures, using a Dictaphone, dictating the latest instalment of her book before she went to bed. Tales to provide the basis for her memoirs, to be hawked around the moment she left the force, as she attempts to become a media crime expert and celebrity, popping up on true crime programmes, spouting nonsense; I was there that day, and I didn’t recommend they did that! Blah, blah, blah.’

‘Wow,’ said Walter, laughing, ‘I was asking what you thought of her, not a précis of her entire future life.’

Karen grinned and said, ‘It’s all there, Guv, in the back of the brain. You know that.’

The AFO, who never said much, said, ‘Is that it? All done and dusted? Put to bed. Either he dies, gets the fire, his ashes scattered to the four winds, or he recovers and goes on trial for multiple murders?’

‘Pretty much,’ said Walter. ‘Though there’s still the hurdle of body identification to get over, and then it’s on to Andrea Zilli, who is also missing, presumed dead. I’m sure Roddy Jeffries in faraway Edinburgh will be working his socks off to clean that one up.’

‘There is another scenario,’ said Karen. ‘Don’t rule out the possibility Cairney escapes through lacklustre security.’

‘The doc seemed certain that couldn’t happen,’ said Walter.

‘Doctors, like the rest of us, Guv, can be wrong.’

Walter turned that thought over in his head until he had a twisted brain. Karen was right. There had been numerous cases over the course of his career when doctors were proved wrong. This time, if Cairney defied the odds and escaped, it would be on the head of Doctor Christopher Young, though that didn’t make him feel any better.

Chapter forty-eight

At twenty-five to three in the morning, Cairney came round. For a moment, he imagined he had died. He didn’t know it, but he was as white as snow.

He was lying back, propped up by four pillows, machinery to his left and right, featuring coloured lights and numbers, accompanied by soft beeps that, like the Parkinson’s shakes, dulled when asleep. They always seemed louder when the patient was awake.

His eyes screamed. His throat and stomach fought a personal duel to decide which was the more painful. All his bones ached as if a lion’s tongue had rasped them clean. His mouth tasted like death, rotting and rancid, as if it belonged to a corpse.

He couldn’t move a muscle, and besides, he was rigged to the machinery. Low lights on the ceiling burnt, saving energy, watching the pennies, ready for action, as if waiting for the next round of visits and checks, and tortuous treatment.

The door opened, and a slim young woman entered, doctor, nurse, cleaner or janitor, it was hard to tell, they all dressed in a semi-industrial manner, resembling escapees from an atomic plant, or the local lunatic asylum. Perhaps that was where he was. She saw his eyes open and hustled to the bed.

Hamish thought her cute, not British, slim and prim with light brown eyes, dark hair, and not as tired as she might have been. He wondered what her name was, and what she did, as he dragged his eyes along her blurred nametag, advertising she was Staff Nurse Vista. Cute face, cute name, and a V.

‘You’re awake, are you?’ she said through a soft voice.

She possessed a pleasant demeanour, and on another day, in another place, she might have made an interesting experiment, though he knew the time for that had gone. Staff Nurse Vista didn’t know how lucky she was.

She was aware of what he was accused of, though it made no difference. Ever since training, she had devoted herself to tending the sick, and that included all suffering human beings. She wasn’t a nun, though might have been.

‘Do you want a drink of water?’

He tried to answer but couldn’t, struggling to open his mouth to present his yellow, stinking tongue. One soon learnt how to read body language from those unfortunates who could not speak.

She produced a plastic bottle with an inbuilt matching straw and fed it into his mouth. It was all he could do to suck, and then it arrived, like tepid rain on a parched summer forest, Cairney acting like one of his favourite pines, sucking up every drop of moisture as it appeared, for who knew when the next shower might arrive.

It did not surprise her he had rallied. Chris told her it was common for people suffering from serious fungi poisoning to appear to make a minor recovery, but in most cases, it was only a brief respite, before the liver and kidney damage wreaked untold havoc on the body, forcing it to shut down. Forcing it to die. Chris said he was convinced the damage was terminal, and few people would argue with Doctor Christopher Young.

She pursed her lips and peered at Cairney, and wondered what it was like to be in his skin, lying back, hoping for the best, fearing the worst, becoming resigned, losing hope, slipping away, wanting to recover, yet knowing deep down it would never happen.

What thoughts would rush through the brain? Warm and loving ones? Or hateful strands, aggressive and cruel, determined to make a last appearance, or perhaps a mixture of both. Her grandpa told her to never leave the world with hate in your heart. She thought it good advice. If the chance came, she might tell Mr Cairney that.

Did the monster man, known as Cairney, harbour regrets? Yes, he must, for in all of history, who would have no regrets? It didn’t seem natural, or possible, and he would have more than most.

He tried to speak. She knew it would be hard for him. He was a fighter and tried again. Many didn’t and gave up. She admired his resistance. There was precious little willpower left in him, and what remained was summoned to the front line, like straining to lift a heavier weight than he had ever raised before. It was time, the moment, or it would pass and vanish forever.

All his inner core massed to the fore, as if defending Rome from the barbarians, and stupidly, he imagined it akin to giving birth, as he pushed one last time, setting free into the world a single word. ‘Phone?’

She smiled. She possessed a sexy smile, and knew it, and said, ‘No, you’re not allowed a phone. They say you have been a terrible boy, and bad boys don’t get phones or any treats. Your mother should have smacked your hand when you were young, and that might have made all the difference.’

Or maybe it was the other way round. Perhaps he’d been smacked too often, and too hard. Maybe as a child, there had been little love in his life. Like so many things, discipline was a delicate balance.

Perhaps issuing his one spoken word cleared a passageway deep within him, or maybe a dying body finds a way to complete final tasks. There seemed a desperation in him. Whatever the explanation, he expelled more words into the sultry room.

‘Last words for the dear wife…’

She thought it a romantic notion, and wondered if there was a man on the planet who would ever wish to lay down his last words for her. Whoever she was; the wife, she didn’t know how lucky she was.

How could a tired and caring nurse refuse such a request?

One day it might be her begging for similar help. It came to everyone, their last days, hours, minutes, and seconds, their last thought, their last breath, when a second felt like a year, and she was in a position to know better than most. A day never slipped by without someone in the Royal Shrewsbury passing over, taking their regrets and secrets with them, thoughts and words and wishes and desires no one remaining alive would ever hear.

‘You’ll get me shot,’ she said, unable to hide one of her best smiles, digging out her new phone, setting it to record, and leaning it against the side of his bristly face.

It wasn’t a risk. He wasn’t going anywhere. He couldn’t steal it. Chris said the man would never walk again, and right there, she believed it.

Despite the warm night and faltering aircon, the phone screen felt cold against his cheek. Hamish wanted her to disappear, for he desired privacy and secrecy. She’d learn soon enough what he had to say. She remained there, bending a little at the waist, staring down at him, studying his dying eyes, and the last thing he needed or wanted was her pity.

Technology rushed to his aid. Her bleeper beeped. She took it out and read the message. Needed urgently. Gas explosion victims. All hands on deck.

Gas explosions waited for no man or woman, wreaking appalling injuries, and though rare, could happen at any hour of the day or night.

‘Have to go,’ she cooed, ‘I’ll come back as soon as I can,’ trying a smile that never materialised. ‘Don’t go without me,’ and she turned about and let herself out.

The shorty male officer lolled on the bench outside, his eyes closed, but the click of the door opening forced his eyelids apart, and he sat up.

‘Everything alright?’ he mumbled, checking out the slim nurse, for she was super cool, and smaller than him. Fancy going home to that every night. Some men were born lucky.

‘Fine,’ she said, ‘I won’t be long,’ and she hustled away, wondering where the tall woman was, remembering she possessed a voracious appetite. Perhaps it was the height. There were no people at home like her, and it stood to reason: tall people needed more fuel.

She’d gone downstairs on the lookout for extra rations, though at that hour, the best she could expect would be crisps and chocolate from the vending machines, to keep the hunger at bay.

Alone in the room, Cairney tried to speak. Nothing came. It would take more effort, as his brain produced memories of himself in his pomp, flexing his many and impressive muscles at the gymnasium, as if they alone could force words out, like trying to suck the last dregs from a stubborn tube of toothpaste.

‘Urrgh!’ he grunted, before shuddering speech arrived. ‘It’s Hamish Cairney. Listen!’

Chapter forty-nine

Late into the night, a short sharp shower pleased Cheshire farmers and holidaymakers alike by releasing its load before daylight.

By morning, it had gone, blown to the north-west, threatening the brooding Pennines, as the early sun went about burning off excess moisture.

Walter, Karen, and Mrs West were in her office, reviewing progress.

Isla Aitken, body recovered, cause of death, blood loss, all of it, Cairney’s DNA present. Laila Broadsword, body recovered, though identification, cause of death, and leads to other persons, still pending. Emily Chatteris, body recovered, some of it. Cairney’s DNA throughout the cottage, and Florence Dolby, identified, strangled, Cairney’s DNA covering the black plastic cocoon, containing her body.

It would have been five deaths, but for the courageous actions of her officers, stopping Cairney in his tracks, as he set about murdering Aleri Madden, nee Evans, intent on impaling her from a great height on those giant childlike pencils.

Aleri would soon be on her way to prison for armed robbery, though she would rather be there, and safe, than skewered on those needle-like points.

It seemed there were four violent killings, four definite murders, and that was before they added Gina McGregor to the equation. Not forgetting Andrea Zilli, reported missing, presumed dead, though there was no proof of that.

Roddy Jeffries, up in Edinburgh, was turning the Scottish Lothians upside down trying to find her, or a lead to where she might be resting, so far without success.

Walter said, ‘I want another word with Cairney as soon as he can speak. He knows where AZ is, and we need to give Roddy something to help him find her.’

Karen said, ‘If he stays alive.’

‘He will. You saw the size of him, and experienced how strong he was, and people like that don’t get to slip out through the back door.’

Their chat was disturbed by the hoped-for call from Jo-Tap.

Mrs West put it on speaker, and said, ‘Thanks for the urgency, Jo.’

‘You know me, ma’am. Exciting work brings out the best in me, and I like to get to the crux of the matter. The doctor and I are as one. The body is that of Laila Broadsword. There is no doubt about it, and we agree she was strangled, probably from behind. The hyoid bone was shattered, the usual mark of strangulation, and it wasn’t the only broken bone in her neck. I delayed ringing until we’d rushed through DNA tests. They have just come to hand, and you won’t be surprised to know there are ample connections to Cairney. Hairs, skin, semen, bite marks. What more do you want?’

‘Did she fight?’

‘Not that we can see, nothing under the fingernails, which supports the theory of an attack from behind. Remember, she had consumed a considerable amount of alcohol, and that alone would have weakened any resistance.’

‘Poor girl,’ said Mrs West. ‘I can’t imagine what she went through.’

‘Indeed. It must have been horrific. The only good thing to come out of this is Mr Cairney should never go free to do anything like it again.’

‘If he lives.’

‘Yes, there is that. What is the latest news?’

‘Hanging on by his fingernails, the last I heard.’

‘I hope he doesn’t die. I want to see him in court, and I want to see him sentenced, with him in attendance, to witness the look on everyone’s face.’

‘That, Jo, is what we all wish to see, and from the little I know of the man; I don’t think he will slip away. More likely put in a court appearance, hogging the headlines, seeking to enjoy his big day to the full, wallowing under the public gaze.’

Walter chipped in, ‘I’d agree with that.’

‘Oh, hello Walter,’ said Jo. ‘I thought you might be there. That’s me done, for now. I’ll email my full written report as soon as it’s done.’

‘Brilliant, man, brilliant,’ said Mrs West, and Jo basked in the comment for a second before cutting off.

She set her phone down. It rang again. She snatched up and heard the soothing voice of Doctor Chris Young. Not so much a great bedside manner, more a confident and clear telephone voice.

‘Hello, Joan,’ he said, as if they were bosom buddies.

‘Hi, Chris. Ringing with an update?’

‘I am, and it will be the last.’

‘I don’t like the sound of that.’

‘Nope, and there’s no way of sugar-coating it. Your man died thirty minutes ago.’

‘Oh, hell. I thought he was improving.’

‘I think I mentioned, with serious fungi poisoning, there can be a period of apparent improvement, and all too often, it is a false dawn. The damage was done, and once a stricken creature is sliding downhill, there is precious little anyone can do.’

‘Do we know exactly what he ate?’

‘Not yet, though I’d stake my life on it being one of the white fungi varieties, the ones resembling the edible mushrooms seen in supermarkets. Either Death Cap, Amanita Phalloides, I believe it is called, or perhaps Destroying Angel, Amanita Virosa. They are both toxic as hell, and both can bring on kidney and liver failure, leading to coma, and death. One of those fellows in the soup, chopped up and mixed in with their edible cousins, would be enough to kill everyone seated around the table, and cooking doesn’t destroy it. Makes no difference. I believe the Death Cap is the most poisonous fungi on the planet, and the good news is, it’s common in Britain. You will find it everywhere, and how many children in the country would know about that, or be able to tell them apart? Not many. That’s for sure. More education needed, I reckon, but I won’t bore you with my hobby-horses. Either way, Mr Cairney sure made a mistake tangling with them.’

‘We don’t think it was a mistake, Chris. More likely, a deliberate act. He knew he was heading to prison for the rest of his days, and figured the alternative, to slip from this world on his own terms, a better option.’

‘Takes all sorts, I guess,’ said the doctor, ‘I wouldn’t fancy it,’ struggling to hold back a yawn. ‘Pardon me, been on the go seventeen hours straight, and I am knackered. That’s me done, and unless there is anything else, I am off to my bed.’

‘No, Chris, you get away, and thanks for the call,’ and she set her phone down and glanced at the other two.

Walter said what they were thinking. ‘What an anti-climax, and I was so looking forward to wheedling out of him Andrea Zilli’s last resting place.’

‘We’ll never know now,’ said Karen.

‘Nope,’ said Mrs West. ‘No trial; and no more papers for the CPS. There are bound to be questions asked about how he got away with it for so long.’

‘Aren’t there always?’ said Walter.

‘No one is perfect, Walter. Don’t be downhearted. We can’t get everything right every time.’

‘True, but it doesn’t stop us trying.’

‘At least he’s gone forever,’ said Karen, ‘and not before time. Everyone from E onwards is safer for that, including yours truly. That’s the positive message we should take.’

An hour later, Doctor Christopher Young arrived at his woman’s flat. He let himself in, trudged to the bathroom, washed his hands and face, brushed his teeth, and headed for the main bedroom.

The thick curtains blocked out some of the fierce sunlight. Not that it mattered. When the body wanted to shut down and sleep, it would, and next to nothing could stop it having its way.

He threw off his grubby clothes, pulled back the thin summer cover, and slipped in beside his naked girl. She slept on. He kissed her on the small of the back and on the scapula, the shoulder blade, for luck, and turned on his side, away from her, and settled to sleep.

Chris had done his best, though it would never be enough, and even though he knew he had, he still felt he had let people down. It was often the case. Relatives, friends, the authorities, always believed he could bring sick people back from the dead, though all too often, he couldn’t.

It wouldn’t stop him trying, but it would be great if people woke up to the fact when someone wanted to die, or was destined to die, there was damn all he or anyone else could do about it. He wasn’t God and had no wish to be.

On the comfortable bed, his breathing slowed to the same pace as hers. The hot weather had tempted her into leaving the windows open. Bright sunshine forced its way through the thick curtains. Outside, busy traffic rushed by, braking hard at the roadworks fifty yards away. Maintenance workers were hammering, banging, and burrowing towards Australia, as an ambulance catapulted by heading for the Royal Shrew, its siren blaring. Yet despite all that, he fell asleep, and nothing would wake him for ten hours straight.

Chapter fifty

An unofficial internal inquiry followed as to how Hamish Cairney could poison himself with wild fungi.

Walter said, ‘The man was forestry trained, and he would know which toadstools would do the most damage.’

Darren said, ‘According to experts, it was most likely Death Cap or Destroying Angel, and both thrived in broadleaf woodland, but we took the man into a pine forest.’

Walter said, ‘I checked on that. Prior to planting the pines ten or fifteen years ago, that site was a broadleaf wood, and I believe I am right in saying fungi spores can remain dormant in the ground for many decades. When I caught up with you and Martin, the pair of you were chatting about something, not paying a great deal of attention. Cairney was on his knees, fiddling about on the ground.’

Martin said, ‘He was doing up his shoes, Guv. A lace had come undone.’

‘That’s correct,’ said Darren. ‘It had to be done.’

‘Sounds like a ruse,’ said Mrs West.

‘No one is doubting his shoe needed attention,’ said Walter, ‘but I believe that’s when he scooped up the poisonous material.’

Mrs West said, ‘And the action moved on to the Shrewsbury station, didn’t it? What happened there?’

Walter said, ‘No one knows for sure, ma’am. We went there because Cairney insisted he needed the lavatory, the result of the curry he’d eaten.’

Darren said, ‘He said he had the shits!’

Mrs West stared at him, and thought it best to move on, saying, ‘And he was uncuffed there. That right? Despite me insisting several times he was never to be freed?’

‘Correct, ma’am,’ said Martin. ‘He needed to take his trousers down. He couldn’t do that while cuffed to me.’

‘Why not? I could.’

The men exchanged glances at the thought, as they imagined her doing it. Was it possible? Yes, it was, though uncomfortable for all concerned, before Walter jumped into the silence.

‘The cubicles were checked, ma’am. There were no windows in any of them. None to be climbed through. No escape. That was our major worry, ensuring he could not make a run for it.’

‘That’s the whole point! He did make a run for it, but not in the way you expected, and he didn’t take his trousers down, did he?’ she said, glancing a fierce look at each of them.

‘It seems not, ma’am,’ said Walter, happy to take it on the chin.

‘If he hadn’t been uncuffed, he’d still be alive, and we wouldn’t be in this cowpat of a mess!’

‘Possibly,’ said Walter.

‘There’s no possibly about it! So, what happened?’

Martin said, ‘He went inside, slammed the door, locked the cubicle against our instructions, and flushed the lavatory several times.’

‘Why?’

‘He mentioned there were floaters,’ said Martin, grinning at Darren.

Mrs West scoffed.

Walter said, ‘I think he was after fresh water, and when it was clean enough to drink, it was there we believe he took the fungi from his pocket, and swilled the Destroying Angel, or whatever it was, down with a handful of water from the lav.’

‘And you stood outside like the barmy army and let him do what the hell he liked?’

‘We thought he was crapping,’ said Darren.

‘Give me strength! Would you do that, Walter? Drink lavatory water?’

‘No, but I have never thought of committing suicide.’

There was a brief silence for thought before Mrs West said, ‘There are lessons to be learned here for all of us. Pay attention to what I say. One: obey orders. I don’t issue them for no reason, and two: show more alertness when dealing with vicious criminals, murderers. That should go without saying. Yes, the man was cunning, and we all knew that, and we should have been more on the ball. You might be surprised to hear I will not be taking this matter further, but you should also know, there will be an inquest, and I have no doubt the coroner will call you before him or her, to hear your colourful stories, so make sure you get them clear and steady in your minds, and don’t under any circumstances think of telling lies. Stick to the truth, as it happened. If it reflects badly on you, so be it. Don’t be tempted to make pathetic excuses, or embellish things, because if you do, they will be sussed out. We know we could have done things better, so take any raps on the knuckles as they are meant. I’m happy to speak for you, you know that, so don’t make a fool of yourself, or me, or of our close-knit team.’

Walter monitored the look Martin and Darren shared; a mixture of resignation and annoyance, as if they felt they were being made a scapegoat. It wasn’t like that, but it felt that way.

Karen glanced at them, happy in the knowledge she hadn’t been tempted to venture into the men’s room, thus avoiding any metaphorical stains or stinks attaching to her.

Chapter fifty-one

Hilario Vista nibbled her single piece of toast, topped with low fat spread. It was her late breakfast, and the spread melted into water, soaking the toast, doing it no favours.

She returned to the bedroom to glance through the half-open door. The man turned onto his back, joined his hands behind his head, and smiled at her, standing in the doorway.

‘Come back to bed,’ he said, tapping a place. ‘I’m in the mood.’

‘No, we haven’t time. We have to be back on duty in just over an hour, and besides, perhaps you should call your wife.’

The smile vanished from his handsome face, as he said, ‘Why would I do that? You know she means nothing to me anymore. I’ve told you that fifty times.’

‘And the children? Do they mean nothing?’

‘That’s different, as you well know. Or you will, when you have kids of your own.’

Was that true? His wife meant nothing to him? She doubted it, but what could she do? She couldn’t resist his frequent advances, and the worst thing about it was, loads of the nurses felt the same way, and a man like him would never turn down any opportunity that came along. It was a conundrum she could not solve, and worse still, one he had no wish to end. Why would he? His bread was buttered every which way.

‘Anyway,’ she said, ‘get up. There’s something I want to talk about.’

He could guess what, and didn’t answer.

‘Do you want any breakfast, or is it dinner?’

‘I could murder a bacon butty.’

‘I can do that, but if you are not up in five minutes, I shall eat it myself.’

As she grilled bacon, she thought about her predicament. Chris had told her he’d leave his wife countless times, but never did, and though it had taken a long time, the penny had finally dropped. He never would.

Hard though it was, she knew it would be up to her to end it. Though if she did, the thought of working with him every day, close together, sharing looks and touches and stressful hours, great successes and colossal failures alike, was a dreadful thing to contemplate.

Perhaps a transfer might be the answer. A clean break, move away from the town, though she didn’t want to do that. She loved Shrewsbury, and the people, and was loath to throw it away. She had put down roots in Shropshire to the extent of bringing her aging parents over to stay with her. If she moved away, it would surprise them, after the many times she had told them how happy she was there.

Why couldn’t she have met and fallen in love with a single man, instead of a Lothario who schmoozed his way through life, taking what he wanted, breaking hearts, smiling at all and sundry, forever on the lookout for his next conquest?

It was what it was, and nothing would change it, and maybe it was that appalling cavalier behaviour he exuded that attracted her to him in the first place.

He appeared in the galley kitchen doorway, bare-chested, a large white towel tucked in around the waist.

‘Sure you can’t be tempted to come back to bed?’ he said, beckoning that way, which wasn’t like him, the asking part. Usually, he’d grab her when he wanted her, lift her up and carry her to the bedroom, or any other comfortable place, and she would be lying if she said she didn’t find that exciting.

She glanced at the gold watch he gave her for her spring birthday, and said, ‘No, we haven’t time. Do you want this or not?’ setting the bacon sandwich on the small white plate.

‘I guess,’ and she set it on the breakfast bar in front of a round black and chrome high stool.

‘Come on, Vista features,’ he said. ‘What did you want to talk about, as if I didn’t know?’

He often called her Vista features, and usually it seemed endearing, but his tone that day didn’t sound warm at all. She glanced at him, munching and chewing, the brown sauce he preferred, dribbling down his unshaven chin.

‘Come on, Hil, speak now or forever hold my piece,’ and he grinned at her, though no smile came back.

She was in two minds to say anything, but realised she must.

‘The man who died.’

‘Oh, yeah. The murderer, Cairney? What about him?’

‘Did you meet his wife?’

What an odd question, he thought, before saying, ‘You know how busy we have been. Even if I had, I doubt I’d remember.’

‘That would depend on how beautiful she was,’ Hilario’s reply slipping out fast, before deciding if it was the right response.

‘Now, now, Hil, jealousy doesn’t become you. To answer your question, I don’t recall meeting the serial killer’s better half. Why do you ask? Is it important?’

She told him of Cairney’s mumbled request to leave a last message for his wife on her phone. A romantic gesture, she thought, and even though she had been told the man was never to have access to any technology, she lent him her mobile, before being called away on the gas explosion catastrophe.

She knew Cairney was dying, and figured he did too, and didn’t everyone deserve a final opportunity to tell their nearest and dearest their last feelings? Even a killer, even a murderer like him? Perhaps he was trying to make his peace with her, before standing before God, where she guessed the interrogation would be beyond imagining.

If the roles were reversed, she thought she might do the same.

‘What did he say?’ said Chris, the last of the sandwich slipping down, before he wiped his mouth, fingers, and chin on the sheet of paper towel she provided.

‘I don’t know. I couldn’t listen to it.’

‘What! Why not? You must listen to it. It could be important.’

There was a momentary pause before she said, ‘It goes against my Catholic beliefs.’

‘Eh? What? Don’t be silly.’

‘You heard me, and I’m not being silly! Whatever he said was meant for his wife. It was private. His last words. To listen to it would be like reading someone’s diary, or their will, or listening in on their phone calls. That’s sinful in my book. No, the thing is, somehow, I must get it to his wife.’

‘Don’t be absurd! That man was a bloodthirsty murderer. He killed God knows how many women in cold blood. Tortured them, and you are trying to make out his final words and wishes are akin to something from a romantic novel. Get real, kid. Whatever he said could be important. A vital piece of intel. There might be other women out there. Perhaps he has kidnapped someone else, and he wanted others to know before it’s too late. The poor girl could be tied up in a grubby cellar, dying of thirst and hunger. You must tell the police, Hil. What about that black chap? What was his name? Walter Darriteau, that’s it. He seemed to have his head screwed on. There was something about him I liked. Wouldn’t stand any nonsense, and believe me, sister, I can relate to that. Better still, get your phone, set it on the bar, and play it right now, so at least we have heard it, in case the message is erased or lost forever.’

‘No, I’m not doing that. I don’t want to hear it.’

‘Listen, Hilario, you don’t understand how important this could be. Either you ring that guy in Chester, or I will.’

‘You wouldn’t do that!’

‘Watch me,’ and he turned about, heading for the bathroom, and the spare shaving gear he left there for his visits.

‘I’ll think about it,’ she shouted after him, ‘and while I am on the subject, you think about us, or soon, there will be no us.’

If he heard, he didn’t deem it worthy of a reply.

Chapter fifty-two

Throughout the day, Hilario’s brain insisted on returning to thinking of her phone, and the recording it contained.

Back at work, during a brief meal break in the canteen, she set it on the table, close by her lasagne, and considered it might be wise to listen to the dead man’s words before involving others, for it might be nothing at all. As she thought about it, Chris hustled through the canteen with two of his boisterous male chums.

He spotted her, and told his pals to go on. He wouldn’t be a minute, as he made his way to her table. She was sitting alone, deep in thought, though the time for thought had passed.

‘Have you rung him yet?’

‘No, but I will.’

‘You’d better. Last time I’m going to tell you, Hilario,’ and he turned away and ran after his friends.

His overbearing man-splaining bullishness had the opposite effect. It reinforced her certainty she should not listen to Mr Cairney’s private testimony. She would deal with it in her own time, and in her own way.

For the rest of the day, she avoided Chris Young, and skipped home as early as she could, intent on catching up on sleep. She put the phone on answer and went to bed. If he stopped by the flat, she didn’t hear a knock, or the bell, such was the deepness of her slumbers.

In the morning, she woke early, drank orange juice and ate a crumpet with honey, slipped on beige slacks and a white blouse, grabbed her bag, keys, and phone, and let herself out.

The white metal garage door protested as it always did when she lifted it high. Her small sky-blue Cayton Cerisa had gained a coating of fine dust. She ignored the dirt and backed out, smiled a good morning at a waiting neighbour, and drove away, heading for the northbound A49, with Whitchurch and Chester beyond.

The satnav took her straight to the main police station, which was as well because she was hopeless driving round strange cities. Local parking wasn’t simple, but she found a space, paying the extortionate parking charge, allowing herself a maximum of four hours.

Five minutes later, she was in the police station, looking about, disappointed it was so busy, kicking her heels. Half an hour slipped by, precious minutes preying on her mind, suggesting she was wasting her time, and it might be better if she left to call back later.

The memory of that dying man’s face, and his fading voice spoke to her, and she dug in her heels, and stayed put, waiting her turn.

She guessed they might treat her as an airhead, a scatty young woman, talking nonsense, wasting their time, though the cute young officer was considerate, and studied her nurse’s NHS ID, something she flashed to give herself gravitas, and it worked.

‘What did you say you wanted again?’ he said, paying more attention the second time.

‘The man who died,’ she said.

‘The serial killer?’

‘So, you say. Yes, Mr Cairney. I have a recording on my phone of his last words.’

‘Great! Why don’t you set it on the counter and play it?’

‘No! I couldn’t do that. I don’t want to hear it. It’s private.’

‘Perhaps you could go over there, out of earshot, and I’ll play it. Come back in five, and I’ll tell you if it has any value.’

‘You don’t understand. It’s for Inspector Darriteau only.’

‘Ah, I see. He’s a busy fellow just now.’

‘So am I. Saving lives,’ she said, staring into his brown eyes, holding eye contact, unblinking, hoping her firm stance would register, and maybe it did, for he picked up a phone, and punched in a three-digit number.

Walter answered.

‘I have a young woman here who says she has a last message from Hamish Cairney.’

Walter’s first thought was to imagine another whacko or attention seeker, though it was never wise to write people off.

‘What’s her name?’

The young guy looked at Hilario and said, ‘What’s your name again?’

‘Staff Nurse Hilario Vista.’

He went to repeat it, but Walter overheard, and said, ‘I know who she is. Send her up.’

‘I’m not allowed to leave the desk, Inspector.’

‘Okay, I’ll send Karen down,’ and he cut off and jumped up to speak to Karen, telling her who was downstairs, and to bring her up to interview room three.

While she was away, he hustled over to Mrs West’s office to tell her of the visitor.

‘If she’s telling the truth, I’ll monitor from here,’ said the boss, and a minute later, Karen and Hilario arrived.

Walter recognised her. She could have something interesting. A moment later, she was seated on one side of the table, with Walter and Karen opposite.

‘Like a coffee?’ said Walter.

‘No thanks.’

‘Can we see ID?’

‘Sure,’ and she slipped it across the table. NHS nurse, Royal Shrewsbury Hospital.

‘Hilario Vista, a nice name,’ said Walter.

‘I like it.’

‘Been in the UK long?’

She thought it a prying, uncomfortable question, not that she wasn’t legal, but because she didn’t believe it relevant. But they were police officers, and firing questions was their business.

‘Three years.’

‘Filipina?’

‘I am.’

‘From Cebu City?’

That brought a smile to her face. ‘How could you know that?’

‘Just a lucky guess,’ said Walter. ‘I’m the sad soul who sits alone all night, beer in one hand, fat atlas in the other, studying maps. Capital cities, big cities like Cebu, mountain ranges, rivers, flags, I’m your man. Ask me about Shakespeare or the Corn Laws, and I’m hopeless.’

‘I see,’ though it was clear she didn’t.

Karen guessed he was trying to put her at ease, and she knew for a fact, Walter knew Shakespeare well, and she’d bet her pension he knew about the blessed Corn Laws, whatever they were.

‘You have some information for us?’ he said.

‘I don’t know about information, Inspector. What I have, I believe, are the last recorded words Mr Cairney left behind.’

Karen said, ‘How did that come about?’ a question Walter would have left till later.

‘He asked me for a phone to record his words.’

Karen said, ‘He shouldn’t have been anywhere near a phone. He could have rung anyone.’

Hilario stared at Karen and frowned. Had she done wrong? She knew she had. So what? Did they want the information or not? It felt as if she was being painted as some kind of accomplice.

She sighed and said, ‘His arms and hands were immobile. He was on the brink of death. He couldn’t brush a fly from his nose. Be realistic. People have no idea what it’s like. Do you want to hear his last words, or don’t you?’

‘We do,’ said Walter.

‘For sure,’ said Karen.

Hilario opened her small black bag, took out her phone, and set it on the table.

Walter said, ‘Have you listened to it?’

‘No, I haven’t. It is none of my business. He said it was for his wife, a last love letter, if you will. I don’t even know who his wife is, or where I could find her. I thought you would know, and could get in contact.’

‘If it is for his wife,’ said Walter, ‘we will make sure she gets a copy.’

Karen said, ‘Does anyone else know about this recording?’

‘I told Chris, Doctor Christopher Young. He hasn’t heard it, and he was the one who suggested I come and see you.’

Both officers picked up the familiarity when she said “Chris”, before correcting herself, and Karen wondered if they were an item. It would be easy to imagine. The tall rakish archetypal Englishman, and the petite and pretty Filipina.

‘You did the right thing,’ said Walter. ‘Shall we play it?’

‘No! Not while I am here. I don’t want to hear it. It’s bad luck to hear voices from the dead. Life is hard enough, without having that in my head.’

She located the audio file, turned the phone round to show the screen, and slid it across the table.

‘There,’ she said, her pink nailed finger hovering above the PLAY icon on the screen as if the man was a complete technophobe. ‘You just tap PLAY.’

‘I can manage that,’ grinned Walter, ‘and if you don’t wish to be here, I’ll ring Darren, and he can look after you while we listen.’

She nodded agreement, closing her bag, making ready to vacate the room.

Darren told Walter he’d be right there, and he was, glancing at the girl as if he’d never seen a woman before, a look she could not miss.

‘Follow me,’ he said through his chat-up line voice. ‘Fancy a coffee or tea, cola or orange? Something to eat, maybe?’

‘All right,’ she said, ‘a coffee would be nice, no sugar, and nothing to eat,’ and a moment later, Karen and Walter were alone, with the door closed, as Mrs West watched and listened, hearing Walter saying, ‘Go ahead.’

Karen pressed PLAY, and the wafer-thin marvel of a machine uttered a faltering voice:

It’s Hamish Cairney. Listen!

Chapter fifty-three

With Hilario out of the room being entertained by Darren, Walter glanced at Karen. She was looking forward to hearing Cairney’s words.

From the off, it was clear he was having difficulty speaking, his voice unrecognisable, coming out slow and quiet, one moment husky, the next nothing more than a gravelly whisper.

Before I leave this place, I want to tell you about Andrea. I met her in the pub by the college. I’d go there sometimes, on the lookout for company. She was different from the others. I picked her out straight away, and she picked me. I was standing at the bar. She was sitting with friends and jumped up, came over, and stood next to me. She said she needed a drink. I bought her one, and it went from there. An hour later, we left together. We jumped in the van and I drove her to Roslin Forest. It was a chilly night when sensible and dull people stayed indoors. We parked in a remote spot, and I told her to get in the back. She asked me what it was worth. I said I’d never paid for it, and never would. I’ll give you a free sample, she said, flirting, and climbed over the seat and lay on the carpet I’d set there. She didn’t need persuading. She took off her clothes. I told you. She was different to the others. We went out for three months. She was a fiery character, and so was I. Little wonder we fought. Sparks would fly, and she always gave as good as she got. She gave everything. One day, she blackened both my eyes. I told Ailish I’d dropped a weight on my face at the gym. The fighting got worse, more violent. She was a disturbed kid, and she knew no one in Scotland. She was lonely. Desperate to make a connection. She should never have left Milan. One night, I drove her back to Roslin. The same place. The radio was on. A popular girl singer, I mixed up with someone else. Andrea laughed at me. She said: I knew you were old, but not that old. It woke something in me I’d not felt before.

Cairney broke off, and for a moment it seemed he might have finished, though a minute later he started again.

She said she was wasting her time with an old man more than twice her age. She said she didn’t want to do it again. Told me to drive her home. I’d taken advantage of her. She said she hated the English. We were all the same. She called me English! Can you imagine? I ordered her into the back. In your dreams, grandpa, she said. I didn’t have to think about it. I hit her with a solid right hook. Caught her flush on her narrow jaw. Sometimes I don’t know my own strength. It knocked her out cold. I’d never been so angry. Minutes later, she was coming round. I’d had enough of her griping and ignorance. She’d laughed at me. Belittled me. Showed me zero respect. Called me fecking English!

Cairney stopped. A long delay followed, as if he was summoning the last of his strength. The audio continued.

Before she regained consciousness, I slipped my hands around her neck and squeezed. It took a while. She may have been skinny, but she was tough. Then she was lifeless, like a toy. I shook my head, stared out into the dark night, and stepped out of the van. Reached in and dragged her out. She went up and over my shoulder. With her there, I opened the back, grabbed my sharpened spade, and a roll of plastic bags. We went deep into the woods. I didn’t need a torch. I have great vision. The forestry people taught me to see in the dark. There was a clearing I knew. The wind whistled through the trees. No one went there at night. I dumped her on the ground. The spade did the rest. I’m strong, and the blade was sharp. Her neck was thin. The head came off. I cut her into quarters. It wasn’t hard. Five bags for five pieces. She deserved it. She had no empathy. I gathered the bags and returned to the van. Only blood remained on the ground. I knew the night creatures would clean away the mess. I had driven to the Roslin Forest with one crazy girl, and returned to Edinburgh with bags of trash. I’m not an evil man. I never have been.

Mrs West’s frosty voice clattered through the connecting speaker.

‘Is there much more of this?’

Karen glanced at the phone, and the green progress bar beneath the file.

She looked at Walter before saying, ‘We’re about halfway through, ma’am.’

‘How can he say I’m not an evil man?’

‘Maybe we should hear the rest. He might elaborate,’ said Walter.

‘Can you play that last sentence again?’

Karen said, ‘Sure, ma’am,’ and fiddled with the machine to reprise the fading voice.

I’m not an evil man. I never have been.

‘He’s a damned liar!’ said Mrs West. ‘That’s what he is, or was. Play it again!’

Karen did. Mrs West snorted and thought about it.

‘Is this being recorded?’

‘It is, ma’am.’

‘Good! It wouldn’t do to lose it. I don’t want to hear any more, but I know I must. Sometimes this job stinks, and we’re not paid enough. Play the rest!’

Chapter fifty-four

Karen watched Walter nod as her slim finger moved to the phone to press PLAY.

When I worked for the forestry people, I loved it, but the pay was crap. My boss bought a greenhouse. He needed someone to erect it. He was hopeless. I needed cash for my night-time jaunts. I assembled it for fifty notes. It was easy money. I put an ad in the paper. Greenhouses erected. It produced steady business. Level the ground. Set down thirty flagstones. Secure with cement, and the greenhouse sat proud on top.

Cairney stopped talking. He tried to cough, though not much happened. He licked his lips and swallowed. It tasted of death. He knew where he was, and how far he’d come, and how few words remained. He needed to choose them with care, and he did. The one part of his body still alert was his brain. It didn’t surprise him. He’d always known he was set apart from the common herd. Brain-box, his mother called him as a kid. Ask the brain-box. So many others didn’t appreciate him. He sighed and summoned up what remaining strength he possessed.

My next erection, sticking up a greenhouse, I mean, and he tried a curt laugh, and failed. Was in Prestonpans. Willoughby Street, Appin Drive area. Big new houses with a nod to old design. Close together. Fancy homes. Can’t remember the number. Close to the A1. Handy to zip back to the Cap. Andrea’s pieces are there, beneath the flags. Family name, Whistler.

Mrs West intervened.

‘Did he say Whistler?’

Karen stopped the file and said, ‘I think so, ma’am, yes.’

‘Wait! I’ll see if a Whistler lives in that road.’

It didn’t take long, and she was disappointed.

‘There is no family called Whistler living in Willoughby Street, or Appin Drive.’

‘Perhaps they moved away,’ said Karen.

‘Let’s hope so. I don’t want to dig up fifty greenhouses.’

Walter could imagine that happening, though it would be Roddy Jeffries in charge of digging, and the powers that be at Police Scotland.

‘Play!’ said Mrs West. ‘I want to get finished.’

Karen’s finger set things in motion.

Cairney’s failing voice said: She deserved it. She laughed at me. Silly little girls do not laugh at Hamish Cairney. I wouldn’t stand for it. I never did. Isla Aitken was next. I noticed the Z-to-A connection. It went from there. The next must be B, and so on. It made it more fun. Left it to fate. Pity about the E, the F, and the G. I was looking forward to them. I am not an evil man. Just misunderstood. I should have been promoted at the forestry. I wondered why not. I broke into the office and searched the files. That bastard Gordon Stewart wrote lies about me. He said I was a sinister character, and any promotion was out of the question. He doted on his large poodle; big gangling idiot named Kenny. I shot it with my crossbow. The bolt went clean through its midriff. Dropped dead. The next day, Gordon came in with reddened eyes. He was a weak man. I felt sorry for the dog, but never the man. I made a mistake. I should have shot him, not the animal. I realised that later. No one messed with Hamish Cairney. Sinister! I left the forestry, and the rest is history.

I’m not an evil man. I’m a good man. I clear up crap, and sort out the maladjusted. Correcting things. I leave the world a better place than I found it. Survival of the fittest. I’m a survivor. The heroic one. The weak slither down the drain. I decide when I leave this place. Only the strongest do that. No one will decide anything for me. I’m free and independent. And now, before the sun comes up, I will be on my way, gone, and you’ll never find me. I know my place. They can’t save me. One day, far in the future, they will build my statue. I knew I would be famous, and now I am. Don’t dare think I have gone. I’ll be forever there, waiting in the shadows, hovering beyond the curtain, watching the E, the F, and the G, and the rest. For now, I have escaped. Free again. Gone to a place where no one can follow.

The man released a putrid gush of air as if spent. There would be no more talking, no more words.

Mrs West said, ‘Is that it?’

Karen glanced at the phone. ‘It is, ma’am.’

‘Walter, ring Roddy. Get him on the Whistler hunt.’

‘First job,’ said Walter.

‘Karen, get the Vista girl back in. Thank her for the information, and tell her we need to hang onto her phone for a week or two.’

‘She will not be happy with that. It’s a new one. Cost a fortune.’

‘I’m not happy with it, either. I’m not happy with any of this horse manure, but she will have to wait.’

‘Yes, ma’am.’

Walter picked up the phone, rang Darren, ordering Hilario back in. A minute later, she was at the door, Darren standing behind, looking happy about something.

Karen gave her the bad news about the phone.

‘I half expected it. Did the message help?’

‘The message? Oh, yes, it did. Thank you.’

‘Will you relay it to his wife?’

‘We will be in contact with Ailish, yes.’

‘That’s good. So long as everything is okay. I liked him. There was something about him. He never came across as evil. I think he had an eye for the girls. In another life, I might have been interested.’

Walter said, ‘It was as well you didn’t get involved.’

‘I suppose so, though no one could deny he was exciting.’

‘Show the lady out,’ said Walter to Darren, and he escorted her downstairs.

On the way, Darren said, ‘Can I have your phone number or email address?’

She paused and looked at him, as if debating the point, before saying, ‘I think not, sorry.’

‘No worries,’ he said. ‘Had to try.’

He’d keep asking women, no matter how many knocked him back, because that’s what men like him did. Besides, he received more than his fair share of yesses.

As he escorted her across the inquiry area, she glanced over her shoulder at the young cute one. He was busy with two enormous ladies, and didn’t notice her. A pity. He could have had her contact details if he had asked.

A moment later, she was out in the sunshine. Darren called a goodbye after her. Hilario waved and returned to her precious car. She’d have to get another phone, and fast. She couldn’t be without one, not for an hour.

As she drove away from Chester, she felt she had done the right thing. Chris had been right. It was important Mr Cairney’s wife received Hamish’s last audio love letter. It might bring her comfort and peace in her lonely life. She pondered on how romantic it was. Perhaps she should have listened to it after all. It would have been nice to hear his soothing words, though her principles returned, assuring her she had been correct in her reasoning.

As for her own love life, it was down to Chris. Would he, or wouldn’t he? She’d give him a little longer. Deep down, she was sure he would do the right thing, for he was a good man. Most men were. The Cairney chap was probably misunderstood. Perhaps he’d been mistreated as a child. That would explain everything. There was always a reason for wickedness.

Chapter fifty-five

Walter told Roddy everything he knew about Andrea, saying he would ask Mrs West’s permission to send a copy of Cairney’s last utterances through for their attention.

As Roddy waited, he searched for the Whistler family, seeking an address, and it took less than an hour. He ran the intel past his boss, and the man rang Mrs West for more information. She agreed and sent him a copy of Cairney’s audio.

After one listen, they applied for a warrant to dig up the Willoughby Street greenhouse, as a debate followed on checking all the greenhouses Cairney had erected, though they struggled to find records of previous works.

In Chester, Mrs West called Walter to see her, saying, ‘The thing that struck me was how many times he said he wasn’t an evil man.’

‘True. A delusional man, more like, and a coward.’

‘And the other thing I noticed was he barely mentioned Ailish. Not a word of apology for what he had done, and the angst and worry he brought on that poor family.’

Walter nodded and said, ‘Or a word of care and affection. I’ve met her. She’s a lovely woman, far too good for him, and when you think what she had to put up with, I’d say she was a saint.’

‘You don’t think there is any possibility she knew what he was like, and what he did?’

‘She knew he was a strange one, that’s for sure, with his kinky crap nonsense. But I’d bet a packet she did not know he was a serial murderer.’

‘God, I hope not, Walter. As for being a coward, he’s not alone in that with cornered killers. History is littered with them.’

‘Yes, though I had imagined the lure of grandstanding through his many days in the Crown Court would have been enough to keep him interested. An enjoyable last hurrah, if you will.’

‘I know it would have been nice to have seen him in the dock, Walter, but when I thought about it last night, I’m relieved we don’t have to go through that. Yes, we know there will be a coroner’s inquest, and an inquiry, but that is manageable.’

‘The relatives will feel cheated, ma’am.’

‘And so they should, but in the end, Walter, we did our best. If it wasn’t for you and your little friend down at Melverly, we would never have stumbled on this vile business.’

‘He’s not so little, ma’am. Harry’s quite a strapping young man, and bright, and that reminds me, I’ll call him with an update. He deserves that, at least.’

‘And the other thing that sticks in my mind is the matter-of-fact way Cairney described dismembering Andrea’s body. Hacking off the head, quartering the rest, packing it in bags, and carrying them to his van as if they were his latest fishing catch on the quayside.’

‘Yes, that said more about his mindset than anything. Proof if proof be needed his brain was wired in the wrong sockets. If he wasn’t an evil man, I don’t believe such people exist.’

Mrs West nodded and said, ‘You’re right. Talking about court cases, you know it’s the verdict and sentencing on the jewellery robbery business tomorrow?’

‘That hadn’t escaped my notice.’

‘Do you want to attend court to witness it?’

‘No, I think I’ll stay here. There are a few loose ends to tie up.’

‘Nothing major, I hope?’

‘Not really. So many horrific images were released along the way. Pictures we will never forget. The Moreton Corbet dig and burial site, Emily in the Nantwich Cottage, Florence falling for Cairney’s brutish charm, Laila and the pine forest, those pencils at Saint Luke’s, Andrea and Isla in Scotland, and yet…’

‘And yet, what?’

‘If only Mary Cross had possessed the courage to speak out about Gina McGregor all those years ago, we might have caught him early.’

‘You think he murdered Gina?’

‘I’m sure of it.’

‘Don’t be too hard on Mary, Walter. She was only a kid at the time, a young girl.’

‘I know that, ma’am, and she was terrified of him, and right to be. But on such fine detail, events later occur, that in another sequence, might have turned out so different.’

‘Yes, and for the better.’

‘I don’t think it could have been worse.’

‘I’ve had the boss of Police Scotland on.’

‘So, you said.’

‘I suspect he’ll be back within a day or two, reporting they’ve found Andrea.’

‘It’ll raise more questions if they don’t.’

There was a brief pause for reflection before Mrs West said, ‘Right, Mr D, I suppose your desk is clear?’

He grinned at her and said, ‘Not quite, ma’am, plenty to get stuck into.’

‘Anything I should know about?’

‘Not yet. Though I don’t envisage being unemployed for long, so to speak.’

‘No, quite. You take a well-earned rest while you can. Everyone needs downtime.’

Walter didn’t want downtime. He didn’t like it. He’d said that many times before. Downtime begat winding-down time, and that didn’t interest him one iota.

But he’d humour her, for he knew she liked to think he took onboard every suggestion, and he did. The ones he agreed with.

Chapter fifty-six

The following day, at half-past nine in the morning, Mary Lambert called Walter. Without waiting for introductory words, she said, ‘Is it true he’s dead, Inspector?’

‘If you mean Hamish Cairney, then yes, you are correct. He’s gone. Poisoned by his own hand, using toxic mushrooms, falling back on the knowledge he gained in the Scottish forests, is our best guess.’

‘I can’t tell you how much of a relief that is.’

‘I can imagine, and you won’t need to come to court to testify.’

‘That was the least of my worries. In fact, when I got used to the idea, I was looking forward to it.’

‘Thank you for all your help.’

‘I’m not sure I did much. I still lose sleep over not telling the police of what he did to Gina, and I can’t help wondering if he had been arrested back then, those women might still be alive.’

Walter was too polite to argue, contenting himself with, ‘You were a kid. A child. You were not to know what the future held.’

‘Kind of you to say, though I still lose sleep over it. That balmy day on Helensburgh beach all those years ago, showed my true colours of being a coward.’

‘I wouldn’t say that.’

‘The one good thing to come out of it, Inspector, is that ever since, I have always stood up for what is right. The older I get, the more determined I become. I’m a transformed person. Confident, and prepared to speak up. I am standing to be a councillor; did I mention that?’

‘You didn’t. Well done. Dare I ask for which party?’

‘Independent, straight down the middle, no overbearing bosses or party restrictions for me. I shall tell it as it is, every time, and I think that’s what people want. Straight talking; common sense, no party dogma, no lies and bullshit. And here’s the funny thing…’

‘Go on.’

‘The local bookie has me down as firm favourite to win the seat.’

It brought a smile to Walter’s face, and he wasn’t sure why, before he said, ‘Can I wish you every success in your new venture, if I may call it that?’

‘You may. Thank you. Must go, Hugh is due back in a minute with his latest fishy figures. Let’s hope they’re good,’ and she ended with, ‘Bye, Inspector,’ and set the phone down.

Before he could tell Karen about the call, Roddy Jeffries was on the line.

‘Big progress here, Inspector, thanks to you and your recording from the devil’s mouth.’

‘Glad to hear it.’

‘Mr Whistler died suddenly. Brain doings, by all account. Mrs Whistler sold the house, said it was too big for her, and bought a bungalow by the sea. She remembered Cairney well, and the greenhouse going up. He came and did it over a weekend while they were away, which suited them. She said he was a fine man in every respect, big and strong, always with a smile on his face, the kind of man most women would warm to, and feel safe around. Can you believe? Anyway, to cut to the chase, the greenhouse sat on thirty flagstones. When they were taken up, and digging began, guess what we found two feet down?’

‘Well, it has to be nothing or something.’

‘Something! A big something. Three cats, two dogs, and five bags of body parts, believed to be the remains of Andrea Zilli.’

‘Oh, goodness, words fail me.’

‘The boss is pleased. One more missing person we didn’t know was missing, found, one unknown murder solved, and we can close the case, as we know her murderer is dead. There was one other strange thing.’

‘Oh? What?’

‘Mrs Whistler came out with a weird remark.’

‘I can’t imagine what.’

‘Cairney told her it was as well her name began with a W, because that W would keep her safe for a long time yet. She asked what he meant, but he just grinned, tapped his nose, and said no more about it.’

‘Did you tell her?’

‘She already knew. There’s been plenty of press coverage up here. One paper christened him the Mushroom Masher, and another, The Alphabet Killer, and Hamish the Evil.’

‘I think the third one is nearer the mark.’

‘Agreed. Anyway, that’s it, Inspector. We will not be digging up any more greenhouses, thank goodness, unless you direct us to.’

‘I don’t think that’s going to happen.’

‘Neither do I. Ah well, stop by if you are ever in Edinburgh.’

‘Thanks, I will,’ and the call ended.

Walter’s next call was to Harry Sparsholt. He caught him just after lunch.

Walter said, ‘Have you heard the news?’

‘About Cairney being dead?’

‘Yes.’

‘It’s all over the media. My little friend in the newsagents has been saving all the papers for me. I’ll be honest with you; I don’t understand some of it.’

‘You will when you are older.’

‘You sound like my dad.’

‘How do you feel about it, Cairney being dead?’

‘Bit of a relief, if truth be told.’

‘You’re not alone in thinking that.’

‘Magic mushrooms, wasn’t it?’

‘Yeah, but not magic, but tragic ones. There’s no magic in a Death Cap, just killer toxins.’

‘What a way to go.’

‘Excruciatingly painful, I’m led to believe.’

‘Some might say there’s an ounce of justice in that, Inspector. I’m glad you called. You remember I told you about the deciding house cricket match?’

‘I do.’

‘It’s this Saturday. I don’t suppose you could stop by?’

‘Can’t your dad make it?’

Harry scoffed and said, ‘You have to be joking. He’s flying from Dubai to Cairo tomorrow, staying in Egypt for a week. Checking the cotton crop, he says, and I’d bet my last quid he’ll be taking along his latest floozy, and nothing ever interferes with that. He always said Cairo was the most exciting place, if you knew where to look, though I can’t imagine what he meant,’ and Harry let go a self-deprecating laugh.

‘What time on Saturday?’

‘Two, three, or four, any of those would do.’

‘I’ll see what I can manage, and see how Karen’s fixed. She’s my ace driver.’

‘Oh yeah, bring her along. She was a huge hit with everyone.’

‘I’ll show my face if I can.’

‘Thanks, be great to see you both,’ and the call ended.

At half-past two, Martin, Jenny, and Mrs West returned from the Crown Court.

‘Well?’ said Walter, though a quick glance at their faces told him everything he needed to know.

‘Result!’ said Mrs West. ‘Six years each for Peter Madden, Arthur Willcot, Madeleine and Jack Fennence, though it was never proved they went armed. Three years for Aleri Madden, and though the judge did not mention it was because she had survived a murder attempt by the late killer, Cairney, I can’t see any other reason she should have received less, and last, eighteen months for Corin Halligan, suspended for two years, because he saw the error of his ways, returned the money, and turned King’s evidence. As of today, he’s away and gone.’

‘You pleased?’

‘Delighted. Culmination of so much hard work. Anything new happening here?’

Walter nodded and said, ‘Roddy Jeffries has dug up the greenhouse.’

‘And? Find anything?’

‘Several cats and several dogs, and five bags of human remains, thought to be Andrea.’

‘Oh, wow. How crackers must that guy have been?’

‘Fully, is my guess. The world is a safer place without him.’

Mrs West gave him a look, for it wasn’t the kind of thing he’d normally utter.

‘Ah well, onwards and upwards,’ she said, hustling off towards her office, no doubt to update her superiors on her latest success.

Walter was glad the case was done. It never piqued his interest. There was something terribly dull about robberies. He put it down to long service. One became blasé and immune to them. He knew he shouldn’t, but he was, and that would never change.

His next called was to Ailish Cairney.

Before he could introduce himself, she screamed, ‘I told you before! I am not making any statements today. Don’t ring here again! Bugger off!’

She sure sounded fired up.

‘It’s Walter Darriteau,’ he said. ‘I thought I’d ring with my condolences.’

‘Oh, sorry, Inspector,’ she said, taking a breath, ‘and thank you, I appreciate it. It’s nice to hear a friendly voice. We are in hiding here. Windows, doors, and curtains all closed tight, even on bright sunny mornings. The girls hate it. They want to be out playing, and you can’t blame them. We are living under siege. Reporters, nosey parkers, tourists — you wouldn’t believe it. Come and see the home where the mass murderer lived with his conniving wife and kids. They even shout questions through the letterbox, and I’m sick to the back teeth of it!’

‘I am sorry you are having to put up with that. I’ll ring West Mercia and see if they can get someone round to keep people away.’

‘Thank you. That would be great. I’ve decided to move back to Scotland.’

‘I thought you might.’

‘But it takes time. Oh, the school is being fair, though I know they want me out. I hear on the grapevine, not that many people are still talking to me, they have already been in touch with a replacement, and no doubt he will want the house, so long as he can face living in this den of iniquity, and house of evil.’

‘It’s for the best, I would think. To return home.’

‘I can’t think what else I could do. I’m so glad you called. I need a bit of advice. There is something I wanted to ask you.’

‘Oh, about what?’

‘The thing is, Inspector, I’ve had a proposal.’

Chapter fifty-seven

Clive House won the cricket match at Melverly, cantering away with the impressive Saint Norman’s silver cup, though Harry’s contribution was minimal, and it would be the last time he would don cricket whites.

He had never loved the sport and had been a busy boy. Gayle Harrison accepted his invite to the Cineworld picture house in Shrewsbury during the first week of the summer holidays, and they sat together on the end seats in the circle, getting to know each other, kissing ere long, making mighty fine progress, he imagined. Though in time, she went to Cambridge University to study English, while he made it to Edinburgh to concentrate on aeronautics, and the two would-be lovers, after a couple of tepid letters, never met again.

Harry often thought of Cairney, and that eye-opening summer night when he’d first seen him with Florence, and the horrific night soon after, when he witnessed her murder. It would stay with him till his dying day, as did all murders ever witnessed by anyone. It wasn’t the kind of thing people could ever forget.

He thought of Walter and wondered if he would ever meet the man again. It was one of the rare genuine friendships he would ever make, and without such things, he would emulate his father, flitting from one pretty girl to the next, enjoying the moment, missing out on long-term happiness, and it would be too late before he realised it was his fate.

Jimmy Quigley had a stroke of luck. Magistrates, not in possession of the full facts, and not understanding the seriousness of the case, awarded him bail, while further inquiries were made. Jimmy was over the moon, left the court, and went on his toes, leaving London before the day was out, penniless, living on the margins of society, scratching a living, shoplifting and general thieving, while conducting his never-ending search for Tarquin Tatare.

One day he’d find him, but with no intelligence resources at his disposal, finding one man in sixty-five million would be an enormous task.

Meanwhile, Tarquin, intent on pursuing his housing scam, tried his luck in Birmingham, made little headway, and after three months, decided he would return to the big smoke. It made perfect sense. Hiding in nine million people was preferable to hiding in one, and he would take his chances there.

He possessed plenty of money and was considering opening a legit business. Jewellery took his fancy. Items could be high value, and were sought after, and often turned over for a decent return, and the great thing about the trade was, hundreds of thousands of pounds’ worth of stock could hide in one trouser pocket.

No one would ever know it was there. It made perfect sense, and with his clean new ID of Stockton Penrose, he might make a fist of it. No one was looking for Stockton, and Tarquin’s past was buried under a mountain of deceit. One day he’d cross the line into illegality, and when it happened, it would give the police another opportunity of catching and prosecuting him, though it hadn’t happened yet.

Jenny and Martin hadn’t dated. She would keep him waiting. Playing hard to get. Keen to see what he would do next, considering it a test of his persistence. It was a tricky game because she hadn’t decided if she wanted it to go anywhere.

She didn’t want to hurt his feelings, or fall into something that wasn’t right, but neither did she want him to go away. The fact she was uncertain worried her. If it was the real thing, something special, surely she would know. Why did everything have to be so damned difficult?

If he knew any of that, he didn’t say.

It made no difference. He would keep asking.

Chapter fifty-eight

Two weeks later, Walter found himself thinking of Melvin Varnes. On the spur of the moment, he called a cab, stopped off at the local off licence, bought a pack of four bottled beers and a large bar of dark chocolate, and continued on his way to the house in Lache.

He paid the fare, ambled up the crumbling drive, passing the tiddly car, to knock on the front door. Melvin came a minute later, taking his time to unlock, before spying Walter, bearing gifts.

Walter said, ‘I wondered if the chess school is still open?’

Melvin grinned and said, ‘It wasn’t, but it could be. Come in,’ standing to one side. ‘Go through.’

Walter half expected the house to be dusty and untidy, but the opposite was true. Either he had appointed a zealous cleaner, or he did it himself. That could make sense. If one was eighty and didn’t get out much, a little light housework provided excellent exercise, with an obvious positive result at the end, and it sure beat sitting before the telly all day. Or maybe he’d found himself a girlfriend. Anything was possible.

Walter set the beers and choc on the kitchen table, as Melvin went in search of chess pieces.

He was back in minutes, setting down the impressive Staunton board and two opposing armies, who couldn’t wait to get at each other.

‘Want a glass for these?’ said Mel, nodding at the green bottles.

‘Why not? Let’s be civilised,’ and Melvin produced two small glasses and performed his party trick of flipping off the caps with his thumb.

Whilst sinking beer, they played three games, and discovered they were evenly matched. Walter won the first, Mel the second, and the third ended in stalemate.

During play, they talked about this and that. Melvin revealed there was no girlfriend. The cleanliness all came about through his own hard labour.

‘I never will,’ he said. ‘Not now.’

‘Will, what?’

‘Find a girlfriend. When you’ve had the best, Walter, anyone else would pale in comparison, and that boat has long sailed. My sword is back in its scabbard for good.’

They talked about Walter’s work, and the case of the Scottish gym master whose journey through life had taken a wicked turn early on, and he’d never been able to correct course, as others paid a fatal price.

‘How many did he kill?’

‘Six for sure, and maybe others.’

‘Perhaps it’s as well he’s no longer with us.’

‘True, though we all wanted to see him in court.’

‘I can understand that.’

At twenty minutes to eleven, Melvin suffered an attack of the yawns.

Walter caught it too, and said, ‘I’d better be off. Fancy a repeat sometime?’

‘Yes, love to, same time next week if you like.’

‘I’ll tell you what I’ll do. I’ll ring first, in case of work difficulties. You know how it is.’

‘Suits me,’ said Mel, ‘and next time, I’ll provide the refreshments.’

They made it a regular date, shifting the day around to accommodate Walter’s work, and if they missed, both men viewed it as a lost opportunity.

Most times they played chess, though sometimes poker, but never for money.

Eight months later, Storm Patrick gushed and rushed up the Irish Sea, brushing boats and ships and coastal trees aside, taking a sharp right at Anglesey, before careering on to batter Chester and the Wirral peninsula. Cold rain lashed down as the gusting wind ripped slates and tiles from countless roofs.

Walter rang and mentioned he might give it a miss.

‘Yes,’ said Melvin, ‘good idea. Don’t you dare venture out in this.’

They rang off, and both men took an early night.

In the bedroom, Melvin glanced at the dressing table. There was no point in pushing it over the door. But Ann’s voice and presence were powerful, and he heard her telling him it would be safer, seeing as you are alone. He cursed aloud and shoved it across the door before climbing into bed.

At half-past three, Melvin woke with a start.

Death came calling.

It was strange that death woke people up, only to close them down, as if it were important they witnessed the event. Mel knew it immediately. Why couldn’t it have left him to sleep through? Not that it made any difference. The end result was the same.

He was heading out of the world, going to God knows where. Maybe he might see and hear Ann again, though he doubted it. It seemed clear to him. Either there was something beyond the curtain, or there wasn’t. Many people believed, a growing number didn’t, including Mel. He never had. Not really.

His old and decrepit body was shutting down, closing for business, his allocated time spent. Preparing to collapse into the beckoning black hole, where countless millions had gone before, and where everyone alive today, and all those yet to be born from the millions of years that lay ahead, until the sun went out, would end their days. There was no escape, and it was as well the oncoming black hole was super-gigantic.

Could it be believers went to a different place? Even if they did, it was too late for Melvin Varnes to alter course.

At seven minutes to four, his heart gave out. Blood that once rushed around his body for eighty years, ceased all movement, standing still as stone, like a locomotive bereft of fuel, gridlocked like holiday traffic on the Prestatyn coast road.

It was peaceful, and ended the way he planned, alone, with no fuss. He had never craved an audience for his final act. Perhaps he was frightened of being seen to be frightened, and that would never do, though wasn’t everyone?

Sylvia found him, a vacant look on his face. He had given her a key in case of emergencies. She came across the road bearing a big bag of surplus Bestdas groceries. She was clearing out the house, and everything, including the food, had to go.

Portugal beckoned, where she would spend the rest of her exciting life. Oh, Francisco had long gone, chasing younger, wealthier models, but Sylvia didn’t mind.

She’d met someone else. Still younger than her, only by eight years, and everyone said they made a fine couple, and they did, and she could live with that.

A quiet German gentleman with an amiable smile by the name of Marc Muller, who seemed forever grateful for any love, affection, and sex that came his way. Sylvia wasn’t sure she wanted gratefulness. Get a dog if you wanted that. Francisco was many things, though never grateful, but she’d run with Marc, for it sure as hell beat being alone.

She glanced back at Mel. He was lying to attention as if ordered by a superior officer. In his right hand, down at his side, was the faux femur, Melvin clutching it as if he were taking it with him to ward off any dark forces ranged against him. Sylvia remembered the first time he showed it to her, when he seemed so attached to it.

She tried to remove it, but could not. The mythical dead man’s grip came into play. Maybe she could have ripped it away, though that would be sacrilege. She left it where it was, in his hand, his plaything or comforter, and a week later, it accompanied the departed Melvin into the flames.

The same handful of people attended Melvin’s funeral, minus Melvin, which made the party even smaller, leaving Walter the only man there. Savoy Tyler attended, looking as if she’d enjoyed a professional makeover, new hairstyle, better makeup, toned down lipstick, brighter eyes if that were possible, and a refit of expensive clothing and shoes.

Walter couldn’t miss the transformation.

After the small farewell ceremony, back in the Varnes’ kitchen, he nudged her into a corner, and asked if she’d like to have dinner with him one night. Maybe the revamp had done the trick.

She flashed the impressive rock on her left hand, a signal to the world he hadn’t noticed, and said, ‘Can’t, Walter. I am engaged, didn’t you know? Tony Roberts of Roberts & Co, Jewellers in the city. We’re planning on merging the businesses, and after that, merging our lives. I’ve never been so excited,’ and she moved off to grab more dainty sandwiches.

The aunt, Starlina Floodgate, overheard, and said, ‘You should have asked her before. You missed your chance, Inspector. Dithering never won so much as a bagged goldfish. Such a pity. You’d have been far better for her than Glistening Tone, a wet week of a man if ever there was one,’ as Savoy returned with a heavy plate of octopus-free snacks, to share with her aunt.

Sylvia produced her bag-for-life of buckshee groceries, and Savoy, Starlina, and the FLO all dug in. Walter let the opportunity pass. It was like a kids’ game at the Cubs, and he’d grown out of grabbing free stuff.

He moved away, zeroing in on the FLO whose name he’d forgotten, a woman with a can of baked beans in one hand, and a half-used bottle of olive oil in the other, to talk about Melvin, and not long after, the wake, such as it was, broke up and shut down.

The women got together and bagged up far too many surplus sandwiches for Walter, fussing over him, as if they felt he wasn’t eating enough, which was ridiculous, as he clutched the brown paper bag, and bade them farewell.

Outside, two brigands turned up at the gate, one boasting a red neckerchief, hiding a filthy neck. Walter’s bandit-radar switched on.

The lead one spied Walter and said, ‘Mr Melvin Varnes?’

‘Nope, you’ve just missed him. Can I help?’

The guy glanced back at a crumpled piece of paper, and said, ‘But this is Mr Varnes’ house?’

It once was, that was true.

‘It is,’ he said, playing along.

‘Okay, cool,’ and they hurried back to the flat-bed van to grab something.

Walter stayed on site, wondering what was coming in. In the next second, they returned, carrying a heavy sign, and a moment later, they struggled to set it upright like soldiers in wartime after a bitter battle, desperate to raise the victor’s flag. It took some doing, as hammering and drilling broke out to secure it, and there it was, flying high and free for all to see.

FOR SALE. Bellew & Co, and a Chester phone number.

Walter shook his head. No peace for the wicked, or the dead. It was all part of the same macabre dark dance. Person dies. Person’s chattels and property up for sale, and it wouldn’t be long before the incomers forgot the former resident, as a new young family boasting boisterous kids, moved in to create fresh memories, playing out countless special days. At least the happy house wasn’t being knocked down to build flats. There was far too much of that brown-envelope ridden caper going on.

Walter thought for a second. Pity Melvin didn’t believe in ghosts, for he would have made such a fine and terrifying one. But what did Walter know? Perhaps ghosts did exist, and Melvin would remain there forever, or at least for as long as the house stood on that spot, the man creeping up and down the landing in silence, tapping on doors, whispering ‘Cuckoo, cuckoo,’ unable to contain a creepy grin.

That would be damned scary.

Walter grinned at the thought. The brigands had gone, sign job done, and he walked out of the gate and away from the house, never to return.

As the taxi crawled home, the day left him with one last thought mulling through his mind. Could it be we all did that? Remained forever in the house where we spent most of our days, patrolling the landing and stairs, watching, approving of some things, while hating others, like the catastrophic wallpaper going up, no, please, no, and unlistenable violin lessons, scary in themselves, and such naughty boyfriends doing strange and dreadful things, and the girls too, come to that, for they could be just as bad.

Perhaps occasionally leaving a mark or sound, or pilfering a delicacy, something someone knew they hadn’t touched, searching high and low for it, wondering where the heck it had gone. Occasional little interventions to keep the incomers on their toes. What fun that would be!

Walter laughed aloud at the absurdity of life and death, as the cabby said, ‘You remembered a joke, mate?’

‘Not really, my friend’s died.’

The cabby shook his head. Old folks sure laughed at the strangest things. He’d long since noticed that. Perhaps it was down to addling brains.

It was true, Melvin Varnes would make the perfect ghost, sometimes hearing the distant voice of his beloved wife, pleading, ‘Did you turn the lights off, Melvin? And don’t forget to lock the front door. We mustn’t let the vermin in. You know what you are like. Stinkers, they are, the lot of them, and you’ve forgotten to do up your zipper again.’

Chapter fifty-nine

Walter’s mind returned to his last conversation with Ailish Cairney, the one where she said she had received a proposal.

His first thought was marriage, though in the circumstances, that seemed unlikely, and he was correct to doubt it, as he said, ‘Marriage. Isn’t that a bit soon?’

Ailish laughed, and she had a cute laugh.

‘No, Inspector, don’t be silly. Not marriage.’

‘What, then?’

‘From the Daily Times in London.’

‘Ah, they want your story?’

‘They do, and they are prepared to pay big bucks for it.’

‘Dare I ask how much?’

‘That’s the thing, Inspector, £100,000 for my memoirs, and the man said if I had any juicy titbits not yet in the public domain, they might double that.’

‘Wow! That is a lot. And do you have any juicy titbits I don’t know about?’

‘No, not really, though they don’t know that, do they?’ and she laughed again, ‘and we have to live somewhere, and I’m not a wealthy woman, and I have five girls to think about, feed, clothe, protect, and educate, and it would help us buy a wee house. Hamish was well insured, though that went down the pan. They never pay out on suicides, do they?’

‘No, they don’t, or more people would do it, and I can see the money is tempting, but be careful. Don’t tell any lies because they have a habit of coming back to bite.’

‘I wouldn’t lie, Inspector. Perhaps fudge round the edges a little,’ and she let go another cute laugh. ‘The money’s too good to miss, and frankly, I no longer care what people think of me. It can‘t be any worse than it is already. You wouldn’t mind if I did it, would you? Sell my story? I wouldn’t be breaking any laws, would I?’

‘Not so long as it is the truth. The law puts great credence by that, though I’d add a word of warning.’

‘Go on.’

‘What you say or write down will not be printed, not word for word. They are expert at building up your framework into a sensational and sordid story. They’re in the business of selling newspapers. What you give them, and what gets printed, will bear little resemblance. You’ll not recognise it by the time it hits the streets.’

‘I see. I might have a word with them about that. Thank you for the advice, and you won’t forget West Mercia?’

‘Nope, my next call. I’ll do my best to give you a little peace.’

‘Thanks again, and I wish you well,’ and before he could say the same, she had gone.

The sensational story of the EVIL MAN MURDERER hit the streets five days later, and was still running a fortnight after that. Newspapers paying big money liked to get their money’s worth, spinning it out for days, teasing the readers with their FRESH REVELATIONS, and UNBELIEVABLE LATEST TWISTS!

Mrs West hated everything about it.

Walter mentioned Ailish said she might sell her story.

‘You should have told me! I don’t like being caught on the hop.’

‘She’s left with five young daughters, ma’am, no house, and no money.’

‘There is that, I suppose. You’ve read it, I take it?’

‘Some of it.’

‘And is there anything in there we didn’t know?’

‘Not that I can see, or at least nothing important.’

‘I’ll tell you one thing, Walter. I’d be quite happy if I never heard the name Cairney again,’ and she left him with that thought, and sent him on his way.

Three weeks later, Ailish loaded five excited girls into their rented people carrier, together with some prized possessions, and set off on the long drive to Edinburgh.

The girls were looking forward to seeing their grandparents again, for they hadn’t seen them in months, while the questions about when daddy was coming home hadn’t abated.

He would often disappear for weekends away, and sometimes for entire weeks, leaving them alone with mummy. But he always came back, and they couldn’t wait for him to return.

‘Will daddy be there, with granny and granddad?’ asked Mhairi.

‘No, he won’t.’

The youngest one grizzled and asked, ‘Will they know when he’s coming back?’

‘I don’t know. We’ll have to wait and see when we get there. Now, why don’t you play some games on your tablets?’ and that did the trick for a while, as Ailish switched from the eastbound M56 to the northbound M6, that would take them all the way up to the Scottish border.

She’d haggled hard with the newspaper, booting them up to £190,000, which was a fine result, as she sowed seeds of more titillating revelations to come, for another payment, though they stalled on that, wanting to see what was up her sleeve, before committing.

Truth was, she had loads more to tell, especially bedroom revelations, and readers were always hot to trot for that. Plenty of steamy stuff Inspector Darriteau or anyone else knew nothing about. Hamish had always been obsessed with experimentation, and it was about time it paid a few dividends.

How could she not know what Hamish had been up to, with his extra curricula activities? She wasn’t blind, and she wasn’t stupid. She’d lived with a philandering serial killer for years, and knew him better than anyone else alive.

From the moment she met him, she guessed he would never be faithful, and by the cringe, she was right about that. Twelve was the figure she knew about: affairs, trysts, bits on the side, mistresses, tarts, call it what you will. Though it wouldn’t surprise her to learn, it was double or even treble that.

He’d always had trouble keeping his trousers on, and his zipper shut, and no one could deny he was a magnetic man. Built for trouble, an individual who could look after himself, and look after the women in his life, a man who would never retreat from an argument, dispute, or fight.

The archetypal bad boy, though the word “boy” was never appropriate for Hamish Cairney. Women sensed it. They couldn’t help themselves, like moths to a flame, some of them, and Ailish noticed the way they looked at him from the first time he took her out on a date. She knew he would be trouble, yet couldn’t stop herself.

Worse than that, right from the off, she detected he possessed a darker side, a thread that could lead to violence, and like some other women, it was the dark, unruly element that beguiled her.

But unlike others, she knew she could never change him, because it wasn’t possible, and unlike them, she accepted him for what he was, flaws and all, because that was the only way to keep him, even if she had to put up with a certain amount of weird nonsense. That wasn’t for everyone, and she knew it. Yes, he’d stray once in a while, or three times a year, but he always returned when he grew bored and tired.

They never once discussed murders, not outright, but she was an intelligent and perceptive woman. Ailish had imagined his attacks from before the first one occurred. Pretty young women going missing, the timelines coinciding with his absences, and it encouraged her to believe she might have made a great detective.

The careless tossing of bloodied clothing in the wash. Minor injuries to his head and face, arms and neck, brushed off with feeble excuses, pruned branches falling down, carelessness in the gym, and she’d act as if she accepted every word, though never did. She kept quiet, salting away titbits of intel she imagined might one day come in useful, maybe in the divorce courts.

And besides, if some of those tramps took a beating, or worse, while attempting to drag him away from her and the girls, that was their lookout. Most times, she had no sympathy for them. No, every time.

On the long journey north, they stopped at Penrith for a doughnut and a wee, and were soon back on the road, the girls falling silent into innocent, sweet sleep. That suited Ailish, for her active mind insisted on rushing ahead towards their exciting future.

She had followed his criminal career with intrigued interest, without him ever knowing. His exciting double life, seeking conquests, filling his days and nights with new people and edgy excitement, and now he was gone, she missed everything about it. The thought of it, the imagined pictures, the clues, the dare-devilment, the raw excitement, and it sparked ideas within her.

There was only one thing she could do to recreate the extreme pleasure and exhilaration he enjoyed, sometimes bringing it home, and it was a simple step. She could do the same thing. She would go to school on his methods and madness. Who could provide a better roadmap than Hamish Cairney? And she would make certain she didn’t make the same mistakes.

Oh, she might leave it for a year or two, for the girls to grow up a little, and utilise the time to refine and perfect her plans, and only when she was quite ready, would she make her move.

There had never been a successful E, so she would start with that. Anyone with an E tag would be fair game.

If she completed six, that would take her down as far as J, and how exciting would that be? In her mind, she set an ambitious target of bettering Hamish’s numbers. Why not? No one would ever suspect an innocent mother of five girls with ne’er a stain on her record, not even a parking fine or speeding ticket, could be that wicked. It was the perfect cover.

And she possessed the gift of the gab, without having a loud mouth. She could talk her way out of anything, or into something, charm any man, she was confident of that. Look at the way the newspaper people had rolled over to her every wish. Shafted them, she had, and maybe they deserved it, enjoyed it, even. Consider too, how that Inspector gave her nothing but sympathy. More fool him.

She imagined she had him eating out of her hand. She guessed he was lonely, and in need of a good woman, and perhaps he had gone easier on her because he thought he had a chance. The idiot! Men were such dopes, never seeing what was right in front of them, under their nose, before their eyes. The reason for that was because 99% of them didn’t understand women at all.

And besides, it was time to even the score. Why not? The men couldn’t have it all their own way, slaughtering the opposite sex. That had gone on for millennia.

They wouldn’t know what hit them. She believed she was good-looking, and she was right, and would never be short of admirers. Single men, lonely men, inadequate men, divorcees, gay men seeking a fancy woman to stick on their arm as camouflage and a trophy, and most of all, frustrated married men. There were millions of them. Any category would do. She didn’t care, so long as their name began with an E. What fun she would have, culling the herd.

She drove across the Scottish border, no customs post, and no unnecessary stopping, not yet, home at last, back in the auld country, by-passing Lockerbie on the right, heading towards Moffat, and after that, seeking exit gate 13, and the A702, forking north east for Edinburgh, and as she drove, she became fascinated by the bleak and empty, hilly countryside, nothing out there, perfect for disposal. One could bury two complete alphabets in those bleak hills, and no one would be any the wiser.

Out of the corner of her right eye, she spotted birds of prey wheeling around in the blue summer sky, riding the thermals. She counted eight, no, nine impressive creatures. Quite an army, or air force, and no strangers to death and dismemberment. Hungry animals with young to feed.

She imagined they could become vital allies in the disposal business. At first light, they would clear away any mess left behind. It made perfect sense. The bigger, grander birds would even eat the damned bones. You had to admire their ruthlessness and determination. It seemed the perfect place.

She would buy a huge scale map, enabling her to explore the back roads and tracks, maybe buy a good secondhand 4x4. Why not? She guessed some of those tracks could be scary, though she had never been afraid of heights or twisty unmade lanes, the more remote the better, and she was a decent driver.

Even though she was newly wealthy, she might invent further lurid tales to pay for a reliable vehicle, for one wouldn’t want to breakdown on a desolate road at night, while trucking masculine remains.

A sweet call to that creepy editor should produce the funds.

Mhairi woke up and said, ‘Are we there yet?’

‘Not yet, hen, but we’re getting close.’

‘I dreamt daddy would be there waiting for us.’

‘You never know your luck, lovely. Anything is possible. One thing’s for sure, we are all going to enjoy an exciting future together.’

‘Yes,’ she said, ‘you betcha, mummy.’

You betcha, mummy. Strange words for a little girl to issue, and oddly, somewhere within, was a portent of things to come.

Who knows? Maybe in the future, when the girls had grown up, one or more of them might show an interest in the family business. How exciting would that be? It could open endless possibilities. Mother and daughter operating in tandem, a killing combination, and who could imagine where that might lead?

Could mummy possibly beat daddy’s score? Could mummy do what daddy had not? Get away with it. That would be the fun part, finding out, and a challenge, and as Hamish was fond of saying, ‘You will never know if you like something, until you try it.’

The newspapers reported Hamish Cairney was an evil man. The press had no idea what they were talking about. The papers were jam-packed full of lies. Ailish should know. She had written enough of them.

The icy truth was, the evil man lived on, lurking, watching and waiting, seeking victims, honing the scythe, stalking the earth… in women’s clothing.

I’ll be forever there, waiting in the shadows…

Author’s Notes

Thank you for reading my story, and I hope you enjoyed it. If you reached this far, I admire your staying power.

It goes without saying I’d adore a review. A single sentence or a paragraph or two would suffice.

The White Nancy Monument atop Kerridge Hill in Cheshire does exist, and here's the proof. (Photo reproduced under licence from iStock by Getty Images.)

Hopefully, there will be another Walter Darriteau case towards the end of the year. Please look out for that, and can I say again a big thank you for buying and reading my work.

A peaceful year to all, wherever you may be, till we meet again,

David.

Also by David Carter:

The Inspector Walter Darriteau Books

The Murder Diaries – Seven Times Over

The Sound of Sirens

The Twelfth Apostle

Kissing a Killer

The Legal & the Illicit

Five Dead Rooks

Old Cold Bones

Falling

The Death Broker

The Missing Man

The Final Door – Part One

The Final Door – Part Two

The Evil Man – Part One

The Evil Man – Part Two

The Inspector Walter Darriteau Box Set One

The Inspector Walter Darriteau Box Set Two

The Meredith Hawkes Books

Don't Forget to Breathe

Running Forever

Other Stories

The Life and Loves of Gringo Greene

Drift and Badger and the Search for Uncle Mo

State Sponsored Terror

Grist Vergette's Curious Clock

Down into the Darkness

The Inconvenient Unborn

The Bunny and the Bear

The Bookshop by the Moscow River