Alex Gray - Pitch Black

Lorimer was about to reply but the familiar sound of Gordon’s two-way radio made the policeman step away from him. He watched the other man’s expression deepen; this was surely some business that far outweighed egg thieves?

As the island cop turned back in Lorimer’s direction he was met with a pair of questioning blue eyes.

‘We’ve got some real trouble on our hands now!’ he groaned. ‘Got to pick up a woman coming off the next ferry,’ he explained.

‘Not an egg stealer, then?’

‘No,’ Gordon replied then stared at Lorimer as if seeing him properly for the first time. ‘More in your line, sir.’ He turned away and nodded at the car ferry making its way from Loch Aline.

‘Looks like she’s killed her husband.’

There was a dull thud as the metal hull of the boat made contact with the pier. Lorimer saw the ferry-men heave in the massive ropes, securing them to bollards on shore, then watched as one by one the cars made their tentative way down the metal ramp and on to the island. Urquhart stepped up to each one and smiled at the driver, his clipboard at the ready. Lorimer scanned every vehicle to see which one belonged to the murder suspect. He didn’t have long to wait. A second officer appeared from the crowds and ushered a woman out of a dark green Ford then took her place at the driver’s seat while Urquhart led her away.

As they passed him, the DCI caught a glimpse of shoulder-length blonde hair and a pale, haunted face. Perhaps it was his intent stare that drew her gaze but for a second the woman looked up and met his eyes before she disappeared into the waiting police car. But in that single glance he could see such suffering that he stepped back into the shadows. What was the story behind this face? He’d probably never know.

Lorimer turned to see Maggie waving frantically at him to come back to the car.

‘Just in time!’ Maggie scolded, as the line of cars moved off towards the ferry. ‘What kept you anyway?’

‘Oh, nothing,’ Lorimer said. His curiosity was still unsatisfied but something stopped him confiding this incident to Maggie. It was unfair to burden his wife with anything that smacked of work, he told himself; if it was a murder case she’d see it in the papers soon enough.

Janis Faulkner sat staring at the floor. The cup of tea they had brought for her had long gone cold. Her stomach growled, reminding her that she hadn’t eaten anything for hours, but the very thought of food made her feel sick. All these questions about Nicko! When had she last seen her husband? What was she doing up here on Mull? Did she have a solicitor? Only this last question had drawn any response from the woman and that was an open-mouthed ‘Oh!’ of surprise as if the enormity of her situation had only just dawned upon her. Now she sat slumped over the formica-topped table in Craignure Police Station, her eyes fixed on something that only she could see.

The woman shivered despite the stuffiness of the room. It had been madness to think she could find a way to escape. Every port in Scotland must have been on the lookout for her car once they’d found Nicko’s body, even here on this island where she’d thought to find some kind of sanctuary. What could she say? How could she tell them what had really happened? And, anyway, who was going to believe her?

FOOTBALL STAR FOUND DEAD

Police are today making inquiries into the sudden death of Nicko Faulkner, the new Kelvin mid-fielder, after Faulkner was found stabbed to death in his home in Glasgow early yesterday morning. The footballer, who had recently signed a contract with Kelvin FC, had been in the city during the last few weeks for pre-season training. Kelvin’s new boss, Ron Clark, said, ‘It is a terrible blow for the club as well as to Nicko’s fans. Our condolences go to his loved ones.’ Nicko was a well known player at Sunderland before his transfer to Kelvin. His had been a rags to riches tale: with no family to support him, Nicko had to struggle onhis own as a youth footballer, but his skills soon earned him the respect of the English league clubs. He will probably be best remembered for his performance for England in the 2006 World Cup that earned him an England cap. Several Kelvin FC scarves and bunches of flowers were left today outside the club’s gate as a mark of respect.

A woman is said to be helping police with their inquiries.

Tom Cairns, Gazette

Lorimer folded the Sunday paper. So that was one part of the story. He looked thoughtful. Perhaps the other part was waiting for him down at police headquarters. As the phone rang out, some sixth sense told Lorimer that this last day of his holiday was going to be cut short.

‘Lorimer?’ He listened as the familiar nasal twang of his boss set his teeth on edge. The superintendent was telling him exactly what he didn’t want to hear; his presence was required at the Division. Yesterday would have been preferable, Mitchison grumbled, but now would just have to suffice. Officers were being deployed at the anti-war riots that had broken out in Edinburgh and Glasgow. And now he had this case on his hands. As his grip on the phone tightened, Lorimer wished the man would just tell him to shift his backside and get over there. It would have been easier than having to listen to his polished vowels and thinly disguised contempt. He hung up, biting his lip. Maggie wouldn’t be too pleased. But as he thought about his swift return to the job, Lorimer realised that there was a quickening inside him that was not annoyance at all, but rather anticipation. Just what was he going to find out about Nicko Faulkner’s murder?

‘See you later!’ His voice echoed along the sunlit hallway as Maggie heard her husband leave. With a sigh she contemplated the rest of the day; it stretched ahead like an empty canvas for her to colour as she chose. Well, she thought wryly, there was always another load of washing to put out on the line. The warm July weather still held and she had already pegged out their holiday bed linen. Maybe it would be dry for ironing by now? There was plenty to fill the hours till Bill returned home, whenever that might be. The prospect of a half-finished paperback and a lazy lie on the sun lounger was a more tempting prospect, she thought to herself as she grinned and sauntered out into the back garden.

Maggie felt the sheets; they were dry, right enough. She unpegged and folded them, and dumped them into the laundry basket. Just as she bent over to pick it up, a flash of something orange moved in the shrubbery. Maggie froze. Was it a fox? The garden, unkempt at the best of times, had become wildly overgrown in their absence. Could the creature, whatever it was, be lurking in some den of its own making? She remained motionless, eyes fixed on the spot where she’d seen the animal. Had it been her overactive imagination? Had the weeks of training binoculars on island wildlife made her think that every movement in the long grass was a wild animal?

The strain of holding the basket full of washing proved too much and Maggie let it sink into the uncut lawn with a groan. At that moment the animal shot out from under a trailing buddleia and bolted straight into the house.

It was a ginger cat. With a sigh of relief that was tinged with annoyance, Maggie followed the intruder indoors. Goodness knows what mess it might make. She dumped the laundry on to the nearest worktop. There was no sign of the cat.

‘Here, puss. Here pussy pussy,’ she called softly. Then, as if bidden by her voice, the animal emerged from behind the dining-room door.

It padded lightly towards her, regarding her with what Maggie could only later describe as a smile on its ginger face. The cat came right up, rubbing its head against her legs. The feel of its soft fur on her skin made her crouch down, instinctively returning the gesture by scratching behind the creature’s ears. A low growl of pleasure emanated from the cat’s throat, then it began to purr.