Alex Gray - Pitch Black

Rosie shook the drops of water from her hair. She was dressed now and ready to go home. The hot air would dry her blonde locks by the time she was back in the flat. Giving a sigh of pleasure at the prospect of being home, being with Solly, she gathered up her belongings and headed for the car park beyond the back door of the mortuary.

The High Court stood right across the road from where she had left her car, its pillars of justice intended to command respect. Often during the daytime Rosie would glance up at the knots of people standing on the steps: some would be smoking, flicking their ash on to the pale stones that had been trodden by those who were guilty of heinous crimes and those who sought justice for their victims, as well as the plethora of advocates whose business it was to determine how far the system served its clients. She’d been in countless times, seen some murderers sent down for custodial sentences and a few others who had slipped out on some legal technicality, thanks to the unstinting efforts of their sharp defence lawyers. Mostly it worked, but there were times Rosie had to bite her lip when she felt justice had not been done and remind herself that it was her job to present evidence that showed possibilities, rarely definitive truths.

As she pulled away from the mortuary, Rosie turned on the radio just in time to hear the end of the weather report and the latest warning about misuse of water. Shaking her head, she turned the air conditioning up full-blast and concentrated on negotiating her way out of the evening traffic.

She didn’t see the green lorry until it loomed up so close that she took her hands off the wheel, throwing them up in an involuntary gesture of protection. A sound like an explosion hit her as the side of her car was ripped open. Rosie was flung backwards, her neck jarring against something hard.

Then all noise, light and feeling disappeared into oblivion.

Solomon heard the buzzer and smiled. She’d forgotten her key. Again. What a woman, he thought. But the voice from the intercom was not Rosie’s.

‘Strathclyde Police. May we come up, Doctor Brightman?’

Solly murmured words of acquiescence and pressed the button to open the door. It would be something being delivered from CID, no doubt. He waited by the front door warily, watching through the spy hole. Once before he’d been conned by a bogus policeman, but the two uniformed officers, though unknown to him, seemed real enough and he opened the door to let them in.

‘Doctor Brightman?’

Solly nodded, feeling his stomach muscles tensing, suddenly aware of the gravity of their demeanours.

‘I’m afraid we have some bad news for you.’

‘How bad is it?’ Maggie clutched Lorimer’s sleeve. His arms were holding her tightly as if he couldn’t bear to let her go.

‘We don’t know yet. She’s still in intensive care. Solly’s down there now.’

‘Will she …?’ Maggie left the words unspoken, the tears spilling over and coursing down her cheeks. ‘I can’t believe it,’ she whispered. ‘Not Rosie. They had so much to look forward to. Not fair,’ she added, burying her face into her husband’s shirt.

Lorimer stroked her hair, his expression sombre. The news from the Royal Infirmary was not good. The BMW was a write-off and preliminary reports suggested that the air bag had done some damage to the diminutive pathologist’s upper body. That was as much as the officers on the scene had let him know. And the hospital staff had issued the usual ‘serious but stable’ bulletin. It would take the next twenty-four hours before they could properly assess the damage, and Rosie Fergusson’s chances of recovery.

Lorimer heard a noise by his side and looked down. The ginger cat had jumped up on the settee beside them and was regarding them, head to one side as if he could sense their anxiety. Lorimer put out his free hand and caressed the animal’s soft fur. The responding purr brought a lump to his throat. He remembered telling Rosie about the stray, recalling her amused delight. She loved cats. She’d even wanted to come over and meet him. Would that ever happen now?

There were times, thought Solly, when all the years of studying psychology counted for nothing. Nothing prepared you for this awful numbness.

He had been sitting by her bedside for what seemed like hours. The sky had grown dark for a while but now the light was returning over the city’s outline of tower blocks and the misty-covered hills beyond. They’d whisked her off to theatre for emergency surgery — exactly what he couldn’t tell, he’d been too shocked to take in all the salient details. Pressure on her chest cavity had been the main issue, though her poor face was bruised in several places.

Solly bent forward and ran a finger across her hair, glancing at the monitors beyond that recorded the performance of her vital organs. When it came down to it, was that all a person consisted of? A heartbeat that pumped fluids around the circulatory system; lungs that breathed gases in and out; a brain with synapses flicking here and there, signalling what a person thought, wanted, desired? Rosie wasn’t a believer in anything beyond this life. She’d made no bones about it. But Solly, gazing at her now, wanted to think that this woman he loved with a passion was wrong. Just for once. He couldn’t bear the thought that her spirit — that laughing, zany spirit — would suddenly be extinguished like a candle being snuffed. She had to come back to him, he thought. Then, closing his eyes, Solomon Brightman bowed his dark head and began a silent, imploring prayer to the God of his fathers.

Across the city another head was bent, another mouth was silently intoning words. Words that were directed not at an unseen deity but to those anonymous readers of Kelvin FC’s website. The letters were tapped out slowly by unaccustomed fingers, their image filling that stark white space on the computer screen. It had been easy. There was no need to provide a genuine identity, no way of the message finding its way back to the user of this particular server. Bit by bit the fingers continued their tapping, stopping now and then to see if that was the right word, the salient phrase. At last the hands drew back, then, with the cursor hovering over ‘send’ one finger reached out and the words disappeared into the ether.

The police presence at Dundee’s football ground was much greater than usual, augmenting Tayside’s usual numbers with some of Strathclyde’s own. Uniformed men and women strained their eyes gazing into a crowd that was hyped up by the recent events at Kelvin FC and the fact that Dundee and Kelvin were rivals for the top spot in this season’s league. Lorimer had driven up with Maggie. It was a good way to distract themselves from Rosie’s condition. He was keen to see the match, observe the players and it would be a day out together, he’d promised her. Now they were here, sitting amidst the sea of black-and-white scarves held aloft as the Keelies sang their alternative version of ‘Lord of the Dance’.

The detective’s eyes scanned the ground. There were TV cameramen on the opposite stand, their cameras covered in grey tarpaulin, and others situated behind each of the goals next to the sports photographers. Once this fixture was underway, their cameras would be swivelling this way and that, according to the pace of the game.

‘Now let’s hear it for Blake Moodie, today’s mascot,’ a voice called from the loudspeaker and a scatter of handclapping broke out as a wee tow-haired lad trotted out, clutching the hand of one of the club officials.

‘Now make some noise for your home team, Dundeeee!’ Yells and stamping followed as the home team emerged, followed by a mixture of catcalls and whistles as Kelvin’s players ran on to the pitch.