Alex Gray - Pitch Black

‘How’s Dr Fergusson?’ Wilson ventured.

‘Don’t ask,’ Lorimer answered shortly. He had to keep thoughts of Rosie from his mind. Concentrating on three murders was all he could cope with right now.

Wilson nodded. The closed face staring ahead of him could have suggested a hard, unfeeling officer to anyone who didn’t know him. There was real suffering under that grim exterior. For a moment the Detective Sergeant was tempted to place a hand on his boss’s shoulder, but he resisted. They had to pretend a strength they might not feel — it was par for the course in this job, sometimes.

Fingers tapped on the relevant keys to enter Kelvin FC’s unofficial website then rested limply against the edge of the table while words formed upon the screen. Idiot , the fan had written. Fool . Well, perhaps it was best that way. The fingers came together in a handclasp, thumbs tapping together, considering. If everyone else, including the police, thought this was the work of a crank then Patrick Kennedy would have lost any chance of protection, wouldn’t he? The hands unclasped slowly then one formed the shape of a gun, two fingers pointing towards the screen.

‘Bang!’ said a voice, then the mock barrel was raised, and fingertips blown gently from lips that curled into a smile.

He was coming after her again. This time the knife was in his hand and he turned it this way and that, to make her see the overhead light glancing off the blade. He was smiling, eyes bright with malice, sandy hair flopping over his forehead, that white sports top accentuating his golden tan. Janis thought she’d never seen him look so good, but it was a dispassionate appraisal: there was no flicker of desire, no bits tingling. That was something she’d stopped feeling long ago.

The sound of a key turning in the lock made her eyes open. For one panic-stricken moment Janis imagined he was back, coming in to get her, then she lay back on her narrow bed, relieved to remember where she was. It was all right. She was safe in Cornton Vale, though for how much longer?

A patch of brightness shone opposite the window, heralding yet another sunny day. It wasn’t so bad, Janis thought. She’d imagined being incarcerated within a tiny cell all day, every day, but the reality was quite different. In some ways it was like being back at school with a timetable to follow, educational classes to attend and a decent gymnasium. The women were even split into different houses and placed on work teams like laundry or kitchen duties. It wasn’t all hard graft. Already she’d been to beauty therapy and hair-dressing sessions run by the inmates themselves.

‘No whit ye’re used tae, hen,’ the woman who combed out Janis’s wet hair had remarked. But there had been nothing bitchy in her tone and Janis had just smiled and shrugged.

‘See when ah git oot o’ here, ah’m gonnae open ma ain salon,’ the hairdresser had told her. Janis had made some innocuous reply but later she’d been surprised to learn that it was true. The woman was being given a prison grant to start up her own hairdressing business.

There had been lots to wonder at in this place. Many of the girls were self-confessed junkies, repeat offenders who were glad of the chance to get clean in the sanctuary of Cornton Vale prison. Their life outside was what really trapped them, not this institution. A lot of them looked like wee lassies and Janis was appalled to find that some had been mothers three times over. She’d blanked out her feelings whenever they went on about the weans ; her miscarriages were out in the public domain now that the papers had a hold of her story. But the women seemed sensitive enough not to pry. They might find out what you were in for, but it was an unspoken rule not to ask questions. Some of them were just poor souls who were caught in a spiral of theft or prostitution to feed their drug habit and pay their dealer. Funnily enough, they were the easiest ones to talk to, once they’d come out of their self-enforced lock-up.

Janis was allowed out into the grounds every day now. The gardens were extensive and well maintained by the women themselves. At first she had been wary of these hard-faced women with their hoes and spades but none of them ever brandished their tools as weapons as she’d imagined they might. She walked past them each day, keeping her eyes close to the gravel pathway before finding sanctuary in what was called the family centre. In reality this was a chapel where services were conducted by a friendly priest, Father Joe, but behind the main hall that doubled as a spare classroom was a series of smaller rooms that were kept especially for family visits. Mums would have time to see their children in these bright, toy-filled rooms and for a time it would seem almost like a church crèche. They put on a brave face, these mothers, but once the visits were over Janis had seen them suffer inconsolable storms of weeping. More than once Janis had felt a strong compulsion to reach out and give them a hug, but she’d controlled these urges, fearing the consequences of what a physical touch might bring.

There were other surprises, too. The idea of prison brought with it an image of stern guards who could mete out punishments at random. She’d been frightened of them at first, these officers in black, chained to bunches of jangling keys, but gradually Janis had come to recognise their humanity. Most had a sense of humour and could josh with the girls just as easily as they might restrain them. The members of the medical staff were far and away the best, perhaps because of their different uniforms and the fact that they were there to make the women feel better. Janis had been amused by one nurse who had a predilection for brightly coloured tunics with cartoon animals. It seemed to work, though, and the younger women were more relaxed with her than any other health official.

She lay looking at the light shift around the room. In some ways this was the best part of the day, a quiet respite before the clatter of washing and breakfast. It gave her a bit of peace, a chance to reflect. But that dream had disturbed her and she could still see Nicko’s laughing face coming at her.

All she could think of now was what had happened and, more to the point, what was to come. She recalled Marion Peters’ words: ‘It would be an admission of guilt if I didn’t try to have you granted bail, Janis.’ It was the available evidence that was crucial, the lawyer had explained. Once there was deemed sufficient evidence to link all three murders, the words hammered a rhythm in her brain, she’d be let out, granted bail . That word was spoken in here like something religious. Since Marion Peters’ last visit they’d been watching her, the prison officers, watching and wondering. Why? Were they in cahoots with the police? Did they report back to them for any reason?

Janis Faulkner squeezed her eyes shut and shook her head as if all these thoughts were flies buzzing around her. She’d go mad if she didn’t watch out. She needed to play it cool now, act as if she had all her emotions under control. That wouldn’t be so hard, now, would it? After all, she’d had years of practice.

‘Anything yet?’

‘Depends on what you’re looking for, Mrs Peters,’ Lorimer replied. He paused, considering. There was no need to go into details about Donnie Douglas’s disappearing act.

‘But my client needs to know,’ the woman persisted. ‘She’s locked up in there for a crime that she didn’t commit, and you and I know fine well there is not a scrap of forensic material to link her with her husband’s death.’

‘She ran away from the crime scene,’ Lorimer began slowly.

‘Because she was afraid of her husband,’ Marion Peters objected. ‘And how do you know she didn’t leave before he was killed?’