Alex Gray - Pitch Black

Peeking round the edge of the tractor’s massive wheels, Marion Peters gave a sigh. There were more cars coming in their direction. Mentally she apologised to the drivers in the line of traffic snaking behind her (they would all be men and they would all be cursing her) but in truth, there was nothing she could do about it.

Suddenly a pale blue BMW appeared out of nowhere, overtaking three cars plus the tractor, roaring into the lead and narrowly missing an oncoming silver saloon.

Marion’s hands gripped the steering wheel in a moment of terror.

‘Wanker!’ she yelled and was gratified to see the same expression of disbelief etched on the face of the driver of the silver car as it passed.

For the next few minutes she resigned herself to the tractor’s pace until, thankfully, it turned left at the end of the road.

Marion was already ten minutes late as she swung on to Stirling’s ring road and headed through the town centre, past Tesco and into the Cornton area. Her heart was still thumping, but now it was with a sense of growing excitement. Could it be that she might manage to have the charge against her client dropped? And would this latest murder alter everything for the woman who was languishing so silently within these prison walls?

Janis read the newspaper with shaking hands. ‘Three Murders at Kelvin’ the headline proclaimed before going into details about Nicko, Mr Cartwright the referee, and now Jason White. For a moment Janis tried to remember if they had met this boy-about-town as the journalist had described him, but she could not recall the face that stared out at her from the front page of the Gazette . What she saw was a good-looking man of about her own age with close-cropped hair, his friendly grin belying all the facts that were being spread down these column inches. He’d been a gambler, was used to mixing with dubious company … She read on. Recently the footballer had been charged with assault and had missed Kelvin’s opening match against Queen of the South as a result, a crime that seemed to gain disproportionately more lines than his other misdemeanours. And now he was dead, shot by an unknown Glasgow gunman. But it was the writer’s thinly veiled hints that had caused Janis’s hands to shake. Was he really suggesting that all three murders had been committed by the same person — that someone had a massive grudge against the club? She looked for the byline. Who was this Greer fellow, anyway? Was it the same reporter who’d made her look like a right little money-grubbing tart? If so, then he’d fairly changed his tune.

Janis raised her eyes and looked out of the square window towards the Wallace Monument and the hills beyond. Whoever he was, Jimmy Greer might well become her guardian angel. Her mouth curled into a tentative smile. Perhaps it was time to begin to speak again. And maybe it would be no bad thing to start with Mrs Marion Peters.

‘Bit of a change in that one,’ the prison officer remarked, walking past the closed door of the small room that led off from the prison’s reception area. The interior of each room was visible due to the half-glazed door giving on to the corridor, but nothing of the conversation that was taking place could be heard. That was one advantage a prisoner’s lawyer had over police officers: they were permitted to have private discussions alone with their client. The other woman glanced into the room. It was true. Janis Faulkner seemed almost animated for the first time since she had arrived at Cornton Vale. It wasn’t that unusual for prisoners to be withdrawn and scared in the early days of their remand, but this one seemed to have come back to life pretty suddenly. With a shrug of her shoulders, the prison officer moved on; her mind was already on other responsibilities, but a faint look of puzzlement remained on her face.

‘Tell me everything you can,’ Marion Peters urged. ‘Anything that can make your case plausible will help to sway the judge.’

Janis Faulkner thought for a moment. ‘Ask them about the bruises,’ she said, slowly, aware of having been stared at by the two female officers outside. ‘They wanted to know about them when I arrived. There was this form — all these questions — and I didn’t let on. Too shocked, I suppose …’ She ducked her head, hiding her expression under that swathe of corn-blonde hair.

Listening to the lilting accent, Marion wanted to believe her. There was something quite beguiling about her client’s voice, she was not a Glaswegian by birth, maybe from Inverness, or even farther north. Wherever she had originated, her accent was pleasing to the ear.

‘Tell me about the bruises, Janis.’ Marion leaned forward across the desk, her tone confiding, woman-to-woman.

A huge sigh escaped the younger woman and she sat up again, tossing back that mane of hair with one slender hand. ‘He hit me. All the time. For anything.’ She shrugged. ‘I just couldn’t take it any more and that day I decided to go away.’ A faraway look came into Janis Faulkner’s eyes then as she added, ‘How was I to know that Nicko would be …’ She left the word murdered hanging in the air.

Their eyes met and for an instant Marion had the feeling that there was something being communicated between them that she could not put into words. Was it a plea for understanding? No, it was a lot more than that. There but for the grace of God, the woman seemed to be telling her: it could have been you, a woman, a victim of male brutality. And had she ended it all by sticking a kitchen knife into her husband?

Marion Peters, happily married wife and mother, put out a hand and touched her client’s sleeve. ‘How long?’ she asked.

Janis looked away again, her lips twisted as if she were trying to stop the tears from spilling over. ‘Ever since we were married. I never knew he could be like that, thought it was my own fault most of the time. Nicko made me feel bad, stupid, worthless …’ The tears had started for real now and Marion fished in her pocket for a Kleenex tissue and passed it over.

‘Especially when I … lost the babies.’ Janis’s voice had dropped to a husky whisper and she was shaking her head as if further words were simply not possible.

Marion Peters paused. Was it true? She could certainly check out the woman’s physical condition from the prison’s admission records and past medical history might well show a series of miscarriages brought on by so-called ‘accidents’. Was this woman really more sinned against than sinning? If that was really the case, a jury might be prepared to show some sympathy.

‘He’s on holiday, I’m afraid. Can I ask who’s calling?’

‘This is Strathclyde Police. We were hoping to speak to Dr Brightman.’

There was a short pause and a rustle of papers. ‘I think DCI Lorimer has his home number,’ the secretary’s voice came back, crisply. ‘We are not at liberty to give out details about our staff, you know.’

WPC Annie Irvine made a face at the handset as she hung up. Silly of her, she knew, but Lorimer had asked her to contact Solly Brightman asap and she had rung the university before thinking. Irvine dialled again. This time a man’s voice answered.

‘Hello?’

Annie Irvine felt a shiver up her spine. That dark velvety voice of his always had this effect on the policewoman. She instantly visualised his black beard and huge brown eyes, fringed with those thick lashes. That Rosie Fergusson was one lucky lady, she thought, wistfully. Maybe if Annie had the petite blonde pathologist’s face and figure she might have attracted the man on the other end of this line, she told herself.

‘Strathclyde Police here, WPC Irvine calling. Is that Doctor Brightman?’ Annie added quite unnecessarily, but she was enjoying this call too much to let it end.