A parting gift, p.13
A Parting Gift, page 13
She had a good arrangement here. A team she mostly liked and enjoyed working with. A decent lifestyle. An opportunity to live in a strikingly beautiful part of the world. When she allowed herself to stop and think about it, she realised that she was, by and large, pretty content. How many people could say that?
But another part of her brain was telling her this was precisely the trouble. She was still young enough to have a future in front of her. She wasn’t a middle-aged cop eking out the last few years till retirement. She wasn’t even someone like Alec McKay who’d found his only vocation and had no ambition to do anything more or different. Alec was only a year or two older than she was, but she knew he was now here for life – or at least until someone, most likely Chrissie, dragged him unwillingly into retirement.
Grant was more than happy here, but she still had hankerings for something more. The current set-up wouldn’t last forever. McKay might well be part of the furniture, but people like Ginny Horton and Josh Carlisle would move on. Perhaps it was time for her to seek a new challenge, and the project sounded like a low-risk opportunity to stick her toe in the new waters.
‘I’ve been thinking about it,’ she said to Everly. ‘It’s an attractive idea and I think I’m definitely ready for a new challenge.’
‘Do I sense a “but” coming?’
‘Only that I like my current job. I wouldn’t want to feel too divorced from – well, real police work. I spend too much time pen-pushing as it is.’
‘Like it or not, the higher you climb up the ladder, the more pen-pushing you have to do. But the project role would give you the chance to get a feel for some of that, as well as potentially opening some doors for you. If you decide they’re not for you, then you’ve not lost anything. But I think you might be surprised. You’re a very capable officer, Helena, and with the right sponsorship you could go a long way.’
‘You make me sound like a charity walk. Sponsorship?’
‘Maybe that’s not the right word. Support. Guidance. Someone pushing your case.’
‘Someone like you?’
He took another mouthful of beer, perhaps so she couldn’t easily read his expression. ‘I wasn’t really thinking of me though I’m happy to do whatever I can to support you. But through the project you’ll meet a number of senior, influential people. If you impress them, you’ll establish some important allies.’
‘And if I don’t?’
‘That’s a hypothetical we don’t need to worry about. As I say, you’re a very capable officer.’
She wished she shared his apparent confidence. That was the other part of her concern, she supposed. The prospect of taking on the project work felt intimidating. It was work she’d never done before, in the company of people she’d never previously had to deal with. She didn’t know what to expect or whether she’d be up to it.
Which, she told herself, was exactly why she needed to do it. She’d been stuck in a rut for too long, nervous of stepping outside what she knew. She needed to take a few risks. ‘Okay, then, you’ve talked me into it. I’ll do it.’
Everly’s smile broadened. ‘That’s great, Helena. You won’t regret it. This really could be the stepping stone to big things for you. I’m sure you’ll enjoy it. I’ll sort out the formalities in the morning, but it’ll be good to have you on board.’ He looked over his shoulder towards the bar. ‘Look, the food’s pretty decent here. If you’ve nothing pressing, how do you feel about grabbing a bite to eat?’
She hesitated, conscious that this risked turning into precisely the kind of evening she’d intended to avoid. On the other hand, Everly had been nothing but entirely professional, and she’d just committed herself to working relatively closely with him for some months to come. ‘Why not? It’s that or something microwaved at home.’
‘I’ll get us a menu. And, well, here’s to the project. And to us.’ He held up his nearly empty glass in a mock toast.
‘To the project,’ she echoed cautiously.
Chapter Twenty-Two
‘You’re kidding.’
‘Aye, it’s that old one about the dead hamster in the cardboard box,’ McKay said from the other end of the line. ‘Always has them rolling in the aisles.’
‘But why?’
‘For once your guess is as good as mine. When are you planning to head back up?’
Horton had handed him her phone when McKay had called and was standing listening. McKay, probably not accidentally, was speaking loudly enough for her to hear his responses.
‘Is there anything I can usefully do this evening?’ Nightingale asked.
Horton guessed McKay would be biting back the reply he wanted to give to that question. She heard him say, ‘Probably not. The examiners are going over the house at the moment.’
‘Not much point in me rushing back tonight, then. I imagine you’ve got it all under control?’
‘Aye, all going swimmingly up here. We’re still looking into how and when the Gillans’ BMW arrived at Loch Morlich. We’re getting all the CCTV in the area checked out in the hope of spotting something, but it’s a long shot. The more interesting news is that the plates on the van that delivered the box to the Gillans’ house turned out to be fake–’
‘So the box was actually delivered by the killers?’
‘Looks like it. Or someone working with them. We’ve a witness who saw the driver, though only from a distance. Again, we’re checking out the local CCTV and road cameras. It’s the sort of neighbourhood that has no shortage of security. So plenty going on.’ McKay paused. ‘How are you getting on down there?’
‘Not so bad. We’ve been over the Dawson house.’
‘Anything useful?’ Horton knew McKay well enough to detect the scepticism in his tone.
‘Some useful background stuff on Dawson’s work. Some type of occupational psychologist.’
‘That right?’ This time the scepticism was more evident, though possibly aimed at Dawson’s work rather than Nightingale’s achievements.
‘Ironically dealing with stuff like wellness and mental health at work. Physician heal thyself, and all that.’
‘Who’d have guessed that kind of stuff might turn out to be a waste of time?’ McKay said.
‘We also found something interesting in the post there. Envelope addressed to Paul Dawson. Inside, just a printout picture of a young woman. No note or explanation.’
‘Presumably someone of significance to Dawson?’
‘We’ll get copies of the photograph circulated,’ Nightingale said. ‘And do an image search on the internet. It shouldn’t be difficult to identify her. Some of Dawson’s friends or associates must know who she is. It may turn out to be nothing, but it’s worth checking out.’
‘We need anything we can get,’ McKay said.
‘I get the picture, Alec. I’m here at the end of the phone if you need anything.’
‘That’s reassuring to know. Signal improved, has it?’
‘Sorry?’
‘I was trying to get hold of you earlier, but there was no answer. Assumed there must have been no signal. I was lucky to get hold of Ginny.’
‘It’s not a great signal here, no. Must have been while we were in the back of the house.’
‘You need to get back here to civilisation.’
‘I’ll bear that advice in mind, Alec. Have a good afternoon.’ Nightingale ended the call and handed the phone back to Horton. ‘I assume he’s been told he’s a chippy little bugger?’
‘Many times,’ Horton said. ‘It’s almost as if he doesn’t care.’
‘One day he might be forced to care.’
It wasn’t clear to Horton if this was a prediction or a threat. Nightingale looked around them. They were still in the hallway of the Dawsons’ house, Dangerfield waiting outside. ‘We need to have this place looked over properly. We can’t take anything for granted. None of this seems to make any sense. We’ll need to work closely with the team down here on this, so we might as well go back in with Graeme now. We can see what resources we can draw on. They’ll be as up to their ears as everyone else, so it might help if we can oil the wheels informally.’
‘Whatever you think best.’
Horton paused to take a final look around the Dawsons’ hallway, thinking now about that final time when the family had left the house to embark on the Highland holiday. She wondered what their state of mind had been, whether at that point Paul Dawson had already known what the future held.
She stood there for a moment longer and then, carefully closing the front door behind her, went to join her two colleagues.
Chapter Twenty-Three
McKay spent the rest of the afternoon co-ordinating door-to-door interviews with the Gillans’ various neighbours. The numerous marked and unmarked vehicles in the vicinity of the house, along with the uniformed officers sealing off the site, had inevitably drawn a small crowd of onlookers, including Fionnuala Erskine who had been smugly sharing her limited knowledge with anyone prepared to listen. The small crowd had eventually been persuaded to disperse and McKay had arranged for a team of uniformed officers to cover the houses in the immediate vicinity. He himself, with a slightly sinking heart, had accompanied Fionnuala Erskine back to her house in the hope of extracting a more detailed description of the delivery driver.
In the course of the short walk to her front door, she informed McKay that she was a widow, that her husband had died suddenly of a heart attack a couple of years before, and that she largely devoted herself now to what she unironically referred to as ‘good works’.
Though her house was less imposing than the Gillans’, it was still a sizeable residence for a woman living by herself. ‘Nice place,’ McKay commented as they entered the hallway, ‘but don’t you find you rattle round in it a bit?’
She nodded. ‘I did at first, but I’m used to it now. I didn’t want to move after Angus passed on. Too many memories.’
McKay grunted an acknowledgement, barely taking in what she was saying. He followed her through into the living room, accepting her offer to seat himself on the sofa but declining a cup of tea. The room was tidy almost to the point of obsession. She took a seat in the armchair opposite him. ‘So I was right then?’
‘Right?’
‘About something having happened to the Gillans.’
‘I’m not at liberty to say anything more at this stage, I’m afraid. Can I ask you again about the van you saw?’
‘Have you been able to track it down? Presumably you can do that with the registration?’
‘We’re just in the process of doing that.’ McKay had no intention of revealing to Erskine that the van had had fake number plates. ‘In the meantime, I wondered if you could remember anything more about the driver.’
She was clearly eager to help, which in McKay’s experience, was not necessarily a desirable quality in a potential witness. ‘I’m trying to visualise him, but I was some distance away. My impression was that he was youngish–’
‘And definitely male?’ It was better to assume nothing.
‘I’d have said so.’
‘Anything else? Height?’
‘Average height, I’d have said.’ This was what witnesses tended to say unless the individual in question was unusually tall or short. ‘For a man, I mean. Above average for a woman.’
‘That’s very helpful. And how were they dressed?’
‘As I say, some sort of overall. A dark colour. Black or dark blue. No coat or jacket. The shoes were a light colour. Probably trainers or something like that.’
‘And you saw the driver’s face?’
‘Only a glimpse really. Just as he came back from the front door. As I said earlier, he was wearing a face-mask and a peaked cap – I think that was black or dark blue too, but to be honest I couldn’t swear to it – so I couldn’t see much of the face. He was white, but I’m not sure I could tell you much more than that.’
‘You’re doing very well. Anything else? Anything unusual in the way he walked or moved?’
‘Not that I noticed. I just had the impression of someone who was relatively young and fit.’
McKay finished jotting down the description in his notebook. ‘You make a good witness, Mrs Erskine. Not many people have your powers of observation.’ Or nosiness, he added silently to himself. He wasn’t sure how useful this was likely to be, but at least they had something. ‘What time was this delivery yesterday? Can you remember?’
‘Actually I can. I noticed the time because I was listening to the radio and the news had just been on. It was about five. I got up to make myself a cup of tea, and that was when I noticed the van.’
That would be useful in helping them to check the CCTV and traffic cameras in the surrounding area. ‘‘Is there anything else you can tell me about the Gillans? Anything unusual in their habit or behaviours? Any recurrent visitors recently?’ It was a necessarily vague question but Erskine struck him as the kind of woman who would notice anything worth noticing.
‘To be honest, I hardly know them. There’s a fairly close-knit community in the neighbourhood, but they’ve never really been part of it.’
‘How long have they lived here?’
‘Just a couple of years. I made a point of going to say hello when they first moved in. They were pleasant enough, but that was about all. I’ve not really had much contact with them, other than the occasional brief chat if we happened to run into each other in the street. Even then, they weren’t ones to stop and talk. Always gave you the impression they were in a hurry, had something better to do. You know the type.’
McKay could imagine that Mrs Erskine might have a similar effect on a number of her neighbours, but said nothing. ‘What about visitors? Did they seem to have many?’
‘Not that I noticed. There was the occasional unfamiliar car parked outside, but I never knew whether it was just one of their hire cars. Beyond that, I’m afraid I don’t really know.’ She sounded disappointed, as if she’d failed in her duty to McKay.
McKay pushed himself to his feet. ‘That’s been most useful, Mrs Erskine. I won’t take any more of your time now, but if anything else occurs to you that you think might be relevant, please do give us a call.’ He imagined she would need little prompting.
‘Of course.’ She jumped up to show him back to the front door. ‘I’ll be keeping an eye out for you.’
McKay had little doubt she would. He said his goodbyes and stepped back out into the afternoon sunlight. The shadows were lengthening now, the evening approaching. Across the street, a couple of uniformed officers were still guarding the scene, the police tape and remaining marked cars incongruous in the otherwise anonymous suburban setting. In the house, Jock and his team would no doubt be painstakingly carrying out their work.
The investigation was progressing in the only way it could, but all McKay could see or feel, at least for the moment, was a dense cloud of unknowing. His mind kept drifting back to what he’d witnessed in that chalet. To the blood-covered bodies. To those three dead children.
It wasn’t just that they lacked answers. They didn’t even know what the right questions might be. There were too many missing pieces, and the story just made no sense.
Just in that instant, he could almost bring himself to feel some sympathy for Brian Nightingale.
Chapter Twenty-Four
The sun was setting behind the squat bulk of the Black Isle, the front garden already deep in shadow. Isla glanced around her as she made her way to the front door. She fumbled in her bag for the keys, glancing over her shoulder. She’d had a sudden sense she was being observed, but there was no one visible in the garden or the road beyond. The shadows had thickened still further, though it was light enough to see all but the most shaded corners. It was a calm evening, only a gentle breeze stirring the leaves.
Isla stepped inside and closed the door firmly behind her. After a moment’s hesitation, she relocked the door with the deadlock and closed both sets of bolts. They generally double-locked the front door only before retiring to bed. Tonight, she needed the additional reassurance.
She walked through the house, turning on the lights and closing the blinds and curtains. For some reason, her nervousness had increased since she’d entered the house. She didn’t know what was wrong with her. She felt dread, almost a sick feeling in her stomach, as if she knew something bad was about to happen.
The house was oppressively silent. Taking a breath to calm herself, she turned on the television, mainly just to hear people talking. Then she returned to the kitchen and turned on the oven. She rummaged through the freezer and found a portion of lasagne they’d cooked a few weeks earlier. She transferred it to an ovenproof dish and placed it in the oven to cook through. Then she pulled a bottle of red wine from the rack, opened it, and poured herself a generous glass.
She returned to the living room and sat down in front of the television. An amiable TV chef was touring some supposedly obscure part of Asia. Exactly the kind of undemanding comfort-watching she needed.
As she settled back, glass clutched in her hand, the front doorbell rang.
She started, almost dropping the wine. It was obvious she was at home, so she could hardly hide behind the sofa and pretend to be elsewhere. Reluctantly, she made her way through to the hallway. As she did so, the bell rang again, more insistent this time. She straightened and, making sure the hefty chain was in place, she unlocked the door.
‘Evening, sis. Long time, no see. Bad penny and all that.’
Oddly, as soon as she saw his face, her earlier anxiety vanished. It was just Tristram. Just her brother. Just the kid she’d grown up with. A kid who was, and presumably remained, a pain in the backside, a poisonous influence, and generally a bad lot. But in the end just her brother.
