The one that got away, p.19
The One That Got Away, page 19
part #1 of DI Heather Filson Series
She pressed it, but it did fuck all.
She held it down, and after a few seconds and a final indignant sounding beep-beep, the racket finally quietened down.
“Thank Christ,” Heather muttered.
She dismounted the stool, turned to the door, then ducked as a lampshade came swinging wildly at her. It missed her head by inches, and she moved quickly to block it before it could make contact on the backswing.
“Jesus! Dad! Dad, it’s me!” she cried, holding onto her father’s wrist.
He tried to pull free of her, his eyes wide with fear, his thinning hair standing wildly on one side of his head, like he’d just woken up from a long but restless sleep.
“What do you want? What are you doing here? What do you want?” he demanded, still gripping the lamp.
“Dad, calm down. It’s me. It’s just me. It’s Heather,” she soothed, injecting some levity and calm into her voice, neither of which she genuinely felt. “You’re alright. You’re OK.”
“Heather?” There was a flicker of recognition, which soon settled into confusion as he looked around the smoke-filled kitchen. “What the hell have you done now? You trying to burn the place to the bloody ground?”
“What do you mean? It was you, you daft old bugger! Were you cooking something on the rings?”
“Me? No. Who would I be cooking for? Your mum does the cooking.”
An ache twinged in Heather’s chest as she watched her dad looking around the kitchen, searching for the wife he’d lost long ago.
“She’ll have left the bloody ring on again. You wait and see.”
“Aye. Probably. I’ll maybe just clean it up before she notices, though, eh,” Heather said. “Don’t want her feeling bad about it.”
Her dad smiled and gave her a wink. “You’re a good girl, Heather. There’s a couple of pound on the mantelpiece. You take it and get yourself a wee sweetie.”
Heather coughed out the opening few bars of a laugh. “Thanks,” she told him. “I’ll do that.”
Scott’s grin widened, then fell away again when he noticed the lamp he was still holding. He turned it, looking at it from a variety of angles, like it was some strange alien specimen no one had ever seen before.
“What the hell have I got this for?” he wondered.
“Here. I’ll take it.” Heather said.
She took the lamp from him and sat it on the counter next to the sink. Scott immediately picked it up and shuffled with it to the other side of the room.
“Water and electricity don’t mix. You should know that by now,” he said, very deliberately placing the lamp down as far from the sink as possible.
He sniffed as he turned to her, nose raised like an animal picking up a scent.
“Here. Hang on. Is that smoke?”
He sighed and flashed his daughter a look of such disappointment that Heather was suddenly fifteen again, and he’d caught her sneaking back home in the wee small hours, reeking of fags and booze.
“Don’t tell me you’ve gone and bloody burnt something,” he said, groaning.
“It’s fine, Dad. I’m sorting it. You away and sit down, and I’ll bring you a cup of tea.”
“Aye. Right. Well.” Scott looked around the kitchen again, shaking his head, then settled on his daughter again. “Maybe try and no’ recreate The Towering Inferno this time. Some of us can’t shimmy ourselves out a window as easily as we used to.”
“I’ll see what I can do,” Heather said, then she took an arm and steered him out into the hall, being sure to aim him in the direction of the living room door.
Once she was sure he’d gone the right way, she opened the window up as far as it would go, turned on the main extractor and the one above the hob, then switched off both rings, which she realised she’d left burning away.
That done, she allowed herself a moment to collapse against the side of the fridge freezer, and spent the next several seconds standing with her head in her hands while the smoke continued to clear around her.
She should’ve been here. This was on her. Another few minutes, and…
There was something on the floor by the back door. A red square, about the size of a CD case lay there on the lino.
Had it been there a second ago? In her rush to get the door open, she hadn’t noticed. She didn’t remember seeing it, but then her attention had been fixed on the somewhat more pressing matter of stopping her house from burning down.
Wheezing out a final lungful of smoke, she crossed to the door, squatted down, and picked up what she realised was an envelope containing a card.
Her first name was written on the front in neat block capitals, with a line drawn underneath it.
There was no letterbox in the back door. Either someone had slipped the card beneath the door while it was closed, or…
Heather rose quickly to her feet and rushed out into the back garden. The gate was closed, and the light spilling out through the open kitchen window revealed nobody in the garden.
Beyond the back fence lay a darkness that stretched on for several metres before a street light drew back its veil. Heather took a step along the path towards the gate, peering through the gaps in the fence, searching for any sign of movement.
For any indication that someone was standing out there.
Watching.
Her breath emerged as a fine white mist that dissipated quickly in the cold evening air.
She stared into the darkness beyond the fence.
She should go out there. She should check to see if someone was lurking in the dark.
But the knot of dread that she’d carried for decades felt heavy in her gut, and she returned to the house, already telling herself that there was nobody there. Convincing herself that she was getting carried away.
But the card was still in her hand, and her name was still on the front.
She set the envelope down, took a pair of thin blue rubber gloves from her jacket pocket, and then fished a small, sharp knife from one of the drawers. She used the blade to slice open the top of the envelope, then carefully removed the card from inside.
There was a bird on the front. It was a cartoonish drawing of a chicken or a turkey, with its wings held over its face. One eye was staring through a gap in the feathers, which were splayed like the fingers of a human hand.
Beneath the image, in the same hand-drawn style, were the words:
Peek-A-Boo! I See You!
Heather glanced over at the door. It still stood open, letting the air circulate. She closed and locked it before easing open the card and reading the message.
There was nothing printed inside as part of the design. Instead, the sender had written to her in the same meticulously neat and evenly-spaced block capitals as on the envelope.
I saw you on the TV today, the message read. You looked so tired, I wanted to cry for you.
There was a drawing of a simple emoji-style sad face below that line, with tears falling from the dots of its eyes.
Beneath the image, the message continued.
Have you been sleeping, Heather? Or have you been lying awake, thinking about me? Thinking about our time together? Because I think about that. I think about it all the time. I hope we can do it again soon.
There was a big space below this, then at the bottom, it had been signed off with a jarringly professional, Yours Sincerely, You Know Who.
Most of the card had been hard to read, thanks mostly to the way her hands had started to shake after the first sentence.
She read the words on the inside again, then suddenly threw the card onto the kitchen worktop, like it had become too hot to touch, even through her gloves.
She felt the floor beneath her lurch. The kitchen began to spin around her. She reached for the counter, but it wasn’t where she expected it to be and her hand found only empty space.
It was only the shout from her dad that anchored her and stopped her from falling to the floor.
“Heather! Heather!”
She heard his panic. Felt his fear. She was running before she knew it, stumbling out into the hall, skidding through the doorway and into the living room.
Scott sat in his chair, the telly remote in one hand, a frown underscoring all the lines on his face.
“What? What’s the matter?” Heather gasped, her chest heaving, the blood rushing through her veins triggering the beginnings of a headache. “What’s wrong?”
“Is it just me?” her dad asked. He sniffed the air. “Or do you smell smoke…?”
Kenny apologised. Of course he did. Unwarranted shouldering of guilt was kind of his thing.
“I should’ve stayed longer. But, he seemed fine when I left. Good, even. He’d had his dinner. Even helped me make it. But we turned everything off. I washed everything up. Sounds like the daft bugger got peckish again.” Kenny sighed. “I’m sorry. I should’ve waited.”
Heather lay on her bed, on top of the blankets, her head resting against the wall behind her. She hadn’t gotten around to redecorating the room since moving back in, and the green walls were pitted with holes from the pins she’d used on all her teenage posters.
At the time, she’d wanted to go for a pale pastel shade of green, but her dad had come home from the pub with a big tub of something almost luminous that he’d got cheap off some random guy.
She’d spent the rest of her childhood feeling like she was sleeping inside a migraine, and while time had taken some of the edge off the colour, it still took her by surprise every time she entered the room.
It had been an hour since she’d managed to get her dad into bed, and to get enough fresh air into the house so it no longer smelled like the arse end of a furnace. The kitchen would need repainting. Maybe she’d track down her dad’s guy from the pub, and get something eye-wateringly hideous, just to repay the favour. An electric blue, maybe, or a neon pink.
Then again, he probably wouldn’t even notice, and she’d be the one left dealing with the headaches.
“No, it’s my fault. I should’ve been home,” she told Kenny. “I just… I got caught up in the case.”
There was a moment of hesitation before Kenny replied. His voice was soft and lacked much of its usual colour.
“I heard. About the girl. It’s all over town,” he said. There was another pause before he asked, “You alright?”
“Me? Aye. I’m fine,” Heather said. She tried to laugh off his concern, but it came out sounding almost cruel. “I mean, it’s always rough. You know? Stuff like this. Everyone assumes you get used to it.”
“How could you? No bugger could,” Kenny said. “Well, listen, I’m here, alright? No’ just for your dad. You’ve always been my favourite niece, you know that.”
A smile teased up the corners of Heather’s mouth. It was an old joke that he’d made a million times before, but she needed to hear it right now. She needed the normality of it.
“I’m your only niece,” she said, fulfilling her role in the age-old exchange.
“That’s neither here nor there,” Kenny said, and Heather could hear he was pleased to be able to repeat the joke for the umpteenth time. The more he said it, the funnier he seemed to find it. “The point stands. I’m here if you need to talk. We could head out to the old house if you want. Get the axe throwing on the go. You used to love that.”
“Ha. Aye. Maybe,” Heather said, being careful not to commit to anything. “Is it not about time you sold that place, though?”
“Here! That’s your inheritance,” Kenny replied, all mock bluster and outrage.
Before she could tell him she’d rather have the money, a movement across the other side of the room caught Heather’s eye. It was small and slow, and it took her a moment to realise what it was.
The bedroom door had inched open. Just a little. Just a crack. Just enough for her to see the strip of darkness out on the upstairs landing.
She was sure she’d left that light on. She always left it on in case her dad needed to get up to use the toilet in the middle of the night. Now, though, the gap in her door was a line of solid black.
“Eh, listen, I better go, Kenny,” Heather said, swinging her legs down off the bed. “I’ll give you a call in the morning and let you know how he is.”
“Right, aye. Just let me know when to come over, and I’ll be there. And remember, anything you need…”
“Cheers, Unc,” she told him, then they said their goodbyes, and Heather tucked her phone back into the pocket of her jeans.
She eased the door open without it making a sound. The hinges used to creak something rotten until Heather, sick of being caught sneaking back in, had invested in a can of oil.
There were no windows in the hall, and the darkness felt absolute. A cool breeze came creeping up the stairs, nudging the door to the bathroom open just as it had done to hers, making it groan ominously somewhere at her back.
She knew the house so well that she found the light switch on the first attempt. The bulb in the light at the top of the stairs was one of the older energy-saving types that needed a good five-minute warm-up to reach full brightness. It didn’t so much sweep away the darkness as push it back a little, but it revealed something that made Heather’s breath snag in her throat.
Her dad’s bedroom door was open. The bed that she had tucked him into had now been vacated, the covers thrown back.
“Dad?” she said, stepping into the room and finding it as empty as the bed.
She returned to the upstairs landing, quickly checked the bathroom, then headed down the stairs.
She descended in a hurry, and yet was careful to pick the right spots for her feet, avoiding all the squeaky floorboards.
Who was she worried about alerting to her presence? She didn’t know. But, her heart was thumping, and her breath was short, and she wished, more than anything, that she had one of Kenny’s old throwing axes with her right then.
The breeze was coming from the kitchen. There was a light in there, too—a dim red glow that initially made her think of fire. It was too stable to be the flickering of flames, though, and as she sidestepped through into the kitchen she saw all the rings of the electric hob were on, the four red circles burning a fierce, warning-light shade of red.
The back door stood open. Heather quickly shut off the cooker rings, pulled a knife from the block on the worktop, then rushed over to the door.
She flicked the switch for the outside light, but it failed to turn on. No real surprise, given that it had been knackered on and off for more of her life than it had been working.
The kitchen lights would have to do. As she turned them on, their weak glow pushed outwards into the garden, revealing the figure of a man standing halfway down the path.
She saw his bare arse first, the angle of the light picking out the lower half of his body in more detail than the top.
It was an arse she had once naively assumed she’d never have to clap eyes on, but which she’d become increasingly familiar with over the past year or so.
“Dad? Dad, what are you doing?” she asked, rushing out to him.
He didn’t seem to notice her at first, and just stood there, fully naked, fingers wringing together, old eyes scanning the darkness beyond the fence.
She put an arm around his shoulder and almost recoiled at the coldness of his skin.
“Come away inside, Auld Yin. You’ll catch your death out here.”
“There was someone out here,” he said, not turning to look at her. Heather followed his gaze, and saw for the first time that the back gate stood open. “I heard someone. And I thought… I thought maybe it was Stewie. Maybe he’d got himself locked out. Him and Heather are always doing that sort of thing.” He looked at her then, but there was no recognition in his eyes. “Aren’t they?”
Heather’s voice sounded unnaturally deep, her tightening throat giving the words a low, hollow timbre.
“Aye. So I hear,” she told him. She forced a smile, and gently guided him back in the direction of the house. “Now, away you come inside. Let’s get you warmed up.”
He allowed himself to be turned, but kept staring at the gate for as long as he could.
“And what about Stewie? What if he’s out there?” Scott asked. The worry on his face when he turned to her almost brought Heather to her knees. “Will you keep an eye out for him?”
Heather pulled him in closer and kissed the thinning hairs of his head.
“Always,” she whispered, then she glanced back over her shoulder at the open gate, as she led her dad back to the warmth and safety of the house.
TWENTY-SIX
Dr Shona Maguire was halfway through a lukewarm sausage, baked bean, and cheese bake—and very much enjoying every bite—when the door to the mortuary swung open, and a bureaucratic nightmare in a leather jacket came striding in.
“Alright, Shona? Long time no see,” Heather said. She grinned. “Although, probably not long enough, I’m guessing.”
“No!” Shona said, spraying flaky bits of pastry over the desk. Even with her mouth mostly full, her Irish accent was unmistakable.
“No? Oh, that’s nice. And here I thought you didn’t like me.”
Shona shook her head, then held up a hand, urging Heather to wait while she hurriedly chewed and swallowed her pastry.
Heather watched as the pathologist cracked open a can of Fanta, and took a few big gulps to well and truly force the food down.
“No, you can’t be here, I mean,” Shona said. “I’ve been given orders. You’re not to know anything. I’m not to tell you.”
“Who said that?” Heather asked.
“Everyone! Everyone said that,” Shona replied. “Snecky—”
“Jesus, since when do we listen to that arsehole?”
“Detective Superintendent Mackenzie, Detective Superintendent Mitchell, Dr Osgood on the phone, who’d apparently been told to warn me not to say anything to you… I could go on,” Shona said, then she shook her head. “Well, no, I couldn’t. That’s it. But that’s enough.”
Heather held her hands up in surrender. “Alright, alright. Jesus. I was just in to say hello. Just a social visit.”
