Night Watcher (2 page)

CHAPTER THREE

Bill Murphy stamped out of his ground floor flat in the run-down Victorian villa. He had not invited Evie, his ex-wife, but when she had turned up at his door with a skinful of booze he had not had the heart to turn her away. Then after she passed out on the sofa he knew he had to get out. She had caused him enough grief already so in case he ended up doing something he would later regret, he covered her up with a duvet and left.

His anger simmered below the surface as he got into his beat-up red Fiesta, and for a moment he thought about curling up on the back seat and sleeping there, but it was too close to Evie, and the April night was chilly.

There was nothing else for it. He would go into the office. With a bit of luck he would be able to get some shut-eye in the staff room.

Headquarters car park was as full as it was during the daytime but Bill managed to squeeze his Fiesta into a tiny space at the end. He straightened his tie and ran his fingers through his unruly brown hair as he strode towards the building. The vestibule was empty and he glanced briefly towards the main office where a glass fronted wall separated the horde of desk-bound, white-shirted staff from contact with the outside world. A constable raised his head and waved a greeting. Bill waved back before inserting a number into the entry keypad. While he waited for the door to unlock he wondered idly whether the glass was bomb-proof.

The upper corridors had that strange hollow feeling of an empty building and there was no one in the detectives’ room. A computer hummed quietly on one of the desks and every now and then its screensaver beeped. A coffee mug and a half-eaten sandwich lay beside it. Bill felt the cup, it was still warm.

‘Where is everybody,’ he muttered, rubbing the bump on his nose – the aftermath of a thump from a bottle. ‘It’s like the bloody Marie Celeste in here.’

The staff room was also empty, although there was a stink of curry and an empty foil container on the coffee table. Bill stretched out on a sofa, but he was too tall to fit it and his feet dangled over the end. After a fruitless attempt to get comfortable he reckoned enough was enough and wandered down to the ground floor to share a joke and some gossip with the night shift officers.

It was the usual madhouse in the duty room: phones ringing, voices raised, officers rushing in and then out again.

‘Damn it,’ Max, the duty inspector said to Bill. ‘The town’s gone mad tonight and I don’t have a single officer to spare if anything comes in.’ He looked at Bill curiously. ‘I didn’t know you were on duty tonight, but I’m bloody glad you’re here. All the other detectives have been called out.’

‘I’m not on duty but seeing I’m here . . .’ Bill let the sentence dangle.

Max grinned, ‘I’ll take that as an offer.’

‘Sure,’ Bill said. He had known Max since their training at the police college at Tulliallan Castle and had a lot of respect for him.

Max hurried off in the direction of a gesturing telephone operator while Bill turned to the coffee machine and tried to persuade it to dispense a cup of the usual sludge, but the machine was not playing and refused to part with a drop.

‘Bugger it,’ muttered Bill. He would have gone home if Evie hadn’t been there.

‘Remember what you said?’

Bill had not heard Max come up behind him and he turned with a jerk. ‘What was that then?’ He stared gloomily at the empty paper cup.

Max carried on as if Bill had not said anything. ‘There’s been a 999 call from a hysterical woman. The operator had a bit of difficulty making sense out of what she was saying. But apparently she’s terrified to go outside her front door because of a disturbance at her block of flats . . .’

‘A domestic, just what I need,’ groaned Bill.

‘It might be a bit more than that,’ Max said. ‘She says she thinks there’s a body hanging from the banisters over the stairwell.’

‘Hysterical, you said? You sure she’s not a nutter?’

‘Nutter or not, it needs to be looked at. You up for it?’

Bill crumpled the paper cup and threw it into the bin. ‘You got somebody to come with me?’

‘If I did I wouldn’t need to ask you to go. But I’ll get one of the cars to join you as soon as they’re clear.’

***

The address was in Lochee, known as Little Tipperary because of the influx of Irish immigrants, seeking work in the jute factories, in the nineteenth century. Now, Lochee had been swallowed up by Dundee, being bypassed on its south side, cutting it off from the main traffic flow and allowing it to retain its small town image.

During the day Lochee High Street was like any other small town High Street, with smaller shops jostling for space beside slightly larger ones. Here you could find traditional bakers and butchers shops as well as a supermarket and a local Woolworths. But at night the place had a derelict feel, due in part to the heavy steel shutters on shop doors and windows – a sign of more turbulent times.

Bill parked his car on the double yellow lines at the kerb. The tenement building, flanked by steel-shuttered shops on one side and an undertakers on the other, was in darkness. After rummaging in the glove compartment to find a torch, he got out, crossed the pavement in two strides and pushed the heavy front door. It opened onto a long dark lobby. At the end of the lobby was the stairs. And in the flickering torchlight, the body that hung there seemed to dance and twist.

Bill shivered. Bodies always had that effect on him. No matter how many he saw he never got used to death. He wished the reinforcements would hurry up. It was bloody eerie standing here on this dark staircase with only the John Doe for company. And where was the hysterical phone-caller? You would have at least thought she would have been here to meet him.

Oh, well. Better make himself useful. Tightening his grip on the torch he shone it upwards to illuminate the face then wished he hadn’t. It was purple and contorted and the tongue protruded out of one side of the mouth. There seemed little doubt the man was dead, but Bill climbed the stairs anyway and reaching over the banister pulled an arm up and felt for a pulse. There was nothing, except the cold, clammy feel of dead flesh.

The wail of a police siren announced the arrival of the police car. Two uniformed policemen joined him in the lobby. ‘Bloody high time,’ Bill said. ‘Better phone it in. Tell them we need the police surgeon here, and make it fast or else we’ll be here all night.’

‘Right you are, sir.’ The older guy in the uniform turned and ran out of the lobby.

The second uniform looked sick. He was a fresh-faced lad, hardly old enough to be shaving yet, Bill thought, uncharitably. Probably fresh out of police college and not yet hardened to the job.

The first uniform clattered back up the lobby. ‘The doc’s on his way,’ he said. ‘But shouldn’t we be asking for a SOCO team as well?’

‘Call out those scene of the crime buggers and we’ll definitely be here all night. But I suppose we’ll have to, although it looks like a straightforward suicide to me.’ He peered along the landing at the closed doors wondering which one the hysterical phone informant was hiding behind.

‘Should we cut him down, sir?’ The second constable looked as if he would rather be anywhere else but there.

‘It might be best, lad,’ Bill said gently. ‘The doc’s not going to be able to do much with him up there, and once you’ve done that see if you can find a bulb for that bloody light,’ Bill nodded at the dangling flex. ‘And then the pair of you can do a bit of door-knocking upstairs and find out if anyone saw anything. I’ll try the doors down here.’

There were only two doors in the lobby, and one of these was slightly ajar with a sliver of light slanting out. Bill tapped, then pushed it open, saying, ‘Anyone there?’ His feet crunched on glass and he bent down and picked up the framed picture which lay shattered on the floor. His stomach turned over as he looked at the image of the woman’s face.

‘Evie,’ he muttered, staring at the mischievous blue eyes and blonde hair.

The churning in Bill’s stomach eased, the nausea receded and his vision cleared.

He had thought for a moment it was a photograph of Evie. She had the same eyes, the same blonde hair and the same expression. But it was not Evie. It was someone he had never seen before. Still, the likeness gave him a shiver.

The slam of the outside door jolted him. ‘Where’s the body, then?’ The voice was gruff and unfriendly.

Bill sighed and placed the photograph on the table. He had hoped that it would be Doctor Armstrong. She was far gentler in manner than Chisholm, who was obviously past his sell-by date and it showed. But he pasted a smile on his face and turned to meet the old curmudgeon. ‘He’s at the back of the lobby, doctor.’ He did not dare call the police surgeon by his first name as he would have done with Rose Armstrong.

‘Hmmph! How’m I supposed to see anything back there.’ Whisky fumes wafted from his breath.

Bill frowned. The constable apparently had not located a light bulb. ‘I can take a bulb from the flat, or we could move the body inside, whichever you prefer. Body’s been moved anyway so it doesn’t really matter.’

‘Who gave you permission to move the body before I got here?’

‘Didn’t think you’d want to examine it while it was still dangling from the stairwell. And anyway, what if he’d still been alive?’ Not that there had been any doubt in Bill’s mind that the man had been long gone.

‘Hmmph! Just shine your torch on it, that’ll do.’ The doctor bent down, felt for a pulse in the wrist and then the neck; held a mirror to the mouth; placed his stethoscope on the man’s chest; and then stood up. ‘Dead as the proverbial doornail,’ he said. He polished the ends of his stethoscope and slid it into his pocket. ‘See you at the post-mortem.’ He grinned for the first time.

The bugger knows how much I hate post-mortems, Bill thought grimly. No wonder he was smiling.

Bill returned to examine the John Doe’s flat more closely while he waited for the SOCO team to arrive. It was going to be another long night.

CHAPTER FOUR

The Mile was quiet, with only the hum of far off traffic from Princes Street breaking the early silence. Julie tramped upwards, savouring the freshness of the morning air and the feeling of peace that would vanish as the day wore on.

A slight breeze caught the edge of her gypsy style skirt, swirling the end of it – where the grey merged into pink – around her legs, revealing the straps of her Egyptian style, high-heeled sandals, winding upwards to her knees. Her pink top, cinched round the middle with a grey belt, was the exact same shade as the pink at the bottom of her skirt. While the silk jacket draped over her arm matched the silver-grey of the material before it merged with pink.

If it had not been for the aura of sadness that surrounded her she might have been beautiful, although interesting would have been a more accurate description. Her features were regular, an oval face with a slightly pointed chin, lips neither too thin nor too full, straight blonde hair brushing her shoulders, eyes a misty greyish-blue. But her eyes had a dispirited look, her step lacked bounce, her shoulders drooped and – hidden under the long sleeves of her pink top – her arms bore multiple scars, evidence of the dark place she had been in for the past year.

This sadness had been part of her life for so long now she found it difficult to hang onto former happier times. However, there was a glimmer of hope because Dave had phoned earlier in the week to say he intended to come home so they could talk things over. When he came, it would be up to her to persuade him to stay. Surely all their years of togetherness and their love for each other – which Dave had momentarily forgotten in his obsession with that woman – would count for something.

There was no need for Julie to come into the art gallery so early, but ever since Dave left she had been restless, sleeping little and waking early. The flat was like a morgue without him there, and she was glad to leave it behind. Besides, she liked the Royal Mile at this time of the morning when it was too early for the sightseers who would later throng its narrow steep street, jabbering in a multitude of tongues, and snapping photos with their obligatory cameras.

The gallery was in a prime position; one of the last buildings before the castle which, perched high on its rock, overlooked Edinburgh. And it would not be long before the first of the tourists arrived to ‘ooh’ and ‘ah’ over the paintings and sculptures.

Julie leaned against the door while she rummaged in her bag for the keys. Her hair spilling forward to obscure her vision caused her hand to still, and brought a sigh to her lips as she remembered how Dave used to run his hands through it, lifting the strands and winding them round his fingers. He had a weakness for blondes. That bitch in Dundee was a blonde as well. She compressed her lips, and angrily shoved her hair back behind her ears. He was tiring of her though, she was sure of it, but now her patience had been rewarded and he would soon be home. Still thinking of Dave’s return she pushed the heavy double doors open.

Adrian had not arrived yet, which was nothing out of the usual, and Julie busied herself pulling the dust covers off the exhibits. She looked up when the old-fashioned bell that hung over the top of the door, tinkled. Her welcoming smile faltered when she saw the policewoman.

‘Can I help you?’ She supposed policewomen were allowed to appreciate art as much as anyone else.

‘Mrs Julie Chalmers?’

‘Yes, that’s me.’

‘Is there somewhere we could talk?’

Julie stared at her. A feeling of apprehension tightened her chest. ‘Have I done something wrong?’ she asked, although she could not think what it could be.

‘No, no. It’s not that. It’s just that what I have to say may be a bit upsetting and you might want to sit down.’

‘Well, I can’t leave the gallery unattended until Adrian gets here, so maybe you’d just better say what it is you’ve come to say.’

The policewoman pulled a notebook from her pocket and looked at her notes. ‘Your husband, would he be David Chalmers?’

Julie nodded, her throat suddenly dry. ‘We’re separated,’ she whispered. ‘I haven’t seen him for over a year. Has he done something?’

The policewoman looked up from her notebook and stared into the space over Julie’s right shoulder. ‘I’m afraid I have some bad news for you.’ She hesitated. ‘It’s your husband. He’s dead.’

The strength went out of Julie’s knees and her fingers tightened on the dust sheet she was holding. ‘Dead?’ she repeated. ‘But he can’t be.’ It was impossible. He was too young. But there was no mistaking what she had heard. ‘Has he been in an accident? Was it his car? I always told him he was foolish to buy that sports car.’

‘No, it wasn’t an accident. I’m very sorry to have to tell you that he was found hanged last night. It would appear that he took his own life.’

The room spun as a wave of dizziness overwhelmed her. ‘But Dave wouldn’t do something like that. He’s a Catholic,’ she said, as if that explained everything.

‘I’m sorry,’ the policewoman repeated, fidgeting with her notebook and shifting her feet.

‘How? Where?’

‘He was found hanging in the stairwell of the building where he lived. Apparently he had an argument with a lady friend earlier. One of the neighbours reported he seemed quite disturbed when she left.’

Julie’s head spun as darkness descended and the air diminished. She struggled for breath and a band of pain tightened round her chest. The word ‘Bitch’ punched itself into her brain over and over again.

‘Do you want to sit down?’

As the mists in her head cleared, Julie became aware of the policewoman’s arm around her.

‘No, no, I’m fine,’ she muttered, ‘I’ll be all right now.’

The door swung open and Adrian staggered in with an enormous canvas. ‘You should see this, Julie,’ he said, leaning the painting against the wall. ‘It’s absolutely marvellous.’ He hesitated when he saw the policewoman. ‘Oh, I say, we haven’t had a break-in, have we?’

‘No.’ Julie shook her head. ‘It’s Dave. He’s dead. They’re saying he hanged himself.’ Her voice broke on the last words and a tear slid down her cheek.

‘Oh, you poor thing.’ Adrian scurried to her side and wrapped his arms around her.

‘I’ll go now,’ the policewoman said with relief.

Adrian nodded. ‘I’ll see she’s all right.’

‘Oh, Adrian. Why would he do a thing like that?’

Adrian’s arm tightened round her. ‘Who knows why anyone does anything,’ he said.

Julie stiffened, pulling away from him, and in a flash of anger, said, ‘It’s her fault. She’s a bitch. I always said she was, but Dave wouldn’t listen. And now, she’s killed him.’

‘You don’t know that.’

‘Yes, I do. The policewoman said he’d been disturbed after a quarrel with her. He wouldn’t have hanged himself if it hadn’t been for that.’

‘You’re upset, Julie. You don’t know what you’re saying.’

‘She should be made to pay for what she’s done.’

Adrian looked at her helplessly. ‘You ought to go home, Julie. I’ll manage the gallery myself today.’

‘Home?’ Julie said bitterly. ‘It hasn’t been home since Dave left. And now he’ll never return.’ She dashed a tear from her cheek with the back of her hand. ‘No, Adrian. I don’t want to go home. I’ll stay here, at least I won’t be alone in the gallery.’

The rest of the day passed slowly. Julie went through the motions, smiling at customers, attending to their needs, trying not to think about Dave, and trying to suppress the anger building within her.

‘That’s the fourth time you’ve dusted the bronze fisherman.’ Adrian was looking at her with a worried frown on his face. ‘I really do think you ought to go home.’

Julie polished the sculpture a fifth time. ‘I’ve been thinking,’ she said, without looking at him. ‘I should go to Dundee and sort things out.’

‘But you’ve been separated from Dave for the best part of a year now. Can’t his lady friend do it?’

‘I’m his wife, Adrian, not her. It’s up to me to see that things are done properly.’

‘But won’t it be awkward if she’s there?’

Julie’s anger flared to a frightening level, and she struggled for breath before saying, ‘I hope she is so I can make her face up to what she’s done. But I know she won’t be.’

‘You’re in shock, Julie. Go home and rest, you’ll feel better for it.’ He plucked her silk jacket from its hanger in the small office they shared and handed it to her.

Julie’s shoulders drooped with defeat. Maybe Adrian was right, maybe she would feel better tomorrow, but she doubted it. Shrugging on the silver-grey jacket and knotting a filmy, pink scarf round her neck, she gathered up her Radley handbag. ‘Till tomorrow then,’ she said, aware of Adrian’s worried eyes on her as she left the gallery.

Her heel caught on a cobble as she crossed the road to the narrow pavement. An elderly man caught her elbow, ‘That was a near miss,’ he said and she smiled her thanks to him, although her thoughts were elsewhere.

The Mile was crowded now, voices yabbered on all sides of her in different tongues and dialects, but she did not hear them. Passing The Hub, she glanced across at the French Bistro just beyond the junction. One of Dave’s favourite eating-places. They had been there that last day. The day he left.

It was May Day and he had seemed strange all that day. The sun had been shining and they had lunched, sitting on the terrace, looking down through the iron railings to Victoria Street, far below. But he had only picked at his food, chasing it round the plate with his fork, just eating the occasional mouthful. It was not like him.

‘Are you ill?’ she had said, ‘sickening for something?’

‘No, no, I’m fine,’ he concentrated on his plate, avoiding her eyes.

Walking down the Lawnmarket afterwards, she had slid her hand into his. He hadn’t resisted, but he had not clasped it the way he usually did.

His silence made her uneasy and she filled it with inane chatter about anything and everything until they reached the end of The Mound and turned into Princes Street with its heaving crowds.

‘Let’s go into the gardens,’ he suddenly said as they passed the National Gallery. ‘It’s quieter, and there’s something I need to tell you.’

The gardens, stretching the length of Princes Street, were at a lower level than the main thoroughfare giving the impression of a sheltered oasis in the midst of the hubbub of city life. They found a spot on the grass to sit, away from the packed benches and wandering visitors.

‘I’ve met someone,’ he said, plucking at a blade of grass so he did not have to meet her eyes.

Julie drew a shaky breath and bit her lips. She did not want to hear this.

‘She’s interesting, dynamic and beautiful,’ he continued.

‘Do I know her?’ It was an effort for Julie to speak and her voice did not sound like her own.

‘No, she’s not someone you know.’ He plucked at the grass, ‘She’s called Nicole and we’re in love.’ At last he looked up. ‘I’ve rented a flat in Dundee and I’ve left my suitcase at the station. I won’t be coming home.’

That was when she had screamed at him, letting loose the emotion that had been churning inside her since his first words.

But he had simply looked at her and walked away.

His words still echoed through her brain, the world slowed, the sun was less bright, and everything her eyes could see was imprinted in Julie’s mind, coming back again and again to haunt her.

She leaned against the window-frame of a tartan shop, closed her eyes and saw once more – the young lovers sprawled on the grass; the elderly couple walking past, his stick clicking on the path; the boy kicking his ball; the baby in the pram; the sparrow picking at a crust; the tiny spider climbing a blade of grass – Dave walking away from her.

Rummaging in her bag for her mobile phone, she flicked it open and dialled Adrian’s number. ‘I won’t be coming in to the Gallery tomorrow,’ she said. ‘I’m going to Dundee.’

***

Julie felt as if she had been in a trance since the policewoman broke the news to her. Time passed slowly and the night seemed endless.

She slid into that dark place she thought she had left behind, where the pain inside her had been so great the only thing that relieved it was the physical pain she inflicted on herself with a knife – carving her arms over and over again, then picking at the scabs that formed to prevent the cuts from healing.

The psychologist who counselled her had explained that the physical pain from self-harming was something she used to mask the torment inside her and that the only way to stop would be to find a replacement for that physical pain.

It made sense, so she started going to the gym, punishing her body with a drastic exercise regime. But it was when she started running that things gradually grew better. She ran and ran until she broke through the pain barrier. Then she pushed further until she thought she was on the brink of death.

That was when she started to come to terms with her inner anguish and became calmer. She stopped cutting herself and started to lead a comparatively normal life again, although the ache for Dave was still there.

But the pain had returned, taking her back to that dark place, and now she was in Dundee harbouring thoughts of vengeance against the woman she held responsible for Dave’s death. How she had got there was a blank. She could not remember going to the station, getting on the train, nor even how she got to Dave’s flat. But here she was, sitting in his living room and talking to his landlady.