Alex Gray - Pitch Black

‘Hey, where did you come from, fellow?’ she asked, smoothing the animal’s coat. It moved away with a little cry as Maggie’s fingers touched a lump on its back. ‘Someone hurt you, pet?’ Maggie whispered. The cat returned to her side as she spoke, eyeing her thoughtfully. ‘Would a wee drink of milk make you feel better?’ She stood up slowly, half expecting the cat to bolt out of the kitchen but instead it followed her to the fridge where it sat, gazing longingly.

Maggie watched, bemused, as the cat lapped daintily from the saucer then looked up expectantly when the dish was clean.

‘You are hungry, aren’t you?’ Maggie said. The animal gave a clear meow, as if it understood what she meant. Green eyes followed her to the larder and watched as she pulled a tin of tuna from the top shelf.

‘Fancy this, then?’

The cat kept a small distance while Maggie filled the saucer but as soon as she stepped aside, its head was over the food, eating hungrily.

Again the dish was wiped clean so Maggie refilled it and waited until the cat had finished the whole tin. He stretched, sat down in a spot of sunlight and began to lick his amber fur as if this was something he performed every day in the Lorimers’ kitchen.

Watching him, Maggie wondered. Had he been coming into the garden in their absence? Was he a stray? And what on earth had happened to his poor sore back? Maggie knew most of the neighbouring moggies by sight but this fellow was a stranger to her. Maybe the local vet could help? But as it was Sunday that would have to wait until tomorrow. Meanwhile, she’d stick to her plan and fetch out the sun lounger and her paperback.

There was something infinitely sensual about lying under the parasol, a sleeping cat nestled into the crook of her arm. It was a sensation she could happily live with. Perhaps the cat was a stray and needed a good home, a little voice suggested. Maggie smiled. She wouldn’t mind. And besides, there was little she could do until tomorrow. Surely Bill wouldn’t begrudge her the cat’s company for one night? It probably belonged to someone nearby, anyway, and would make its own way home before the day was over. The thought of the animal wandering off again troubled her and she knew with a pang that some indefinable bond had been created between them. In the space of a few hours Maggie Lorimer had fallen under a spell and was now bewitched by the little creature. Her hand stroked the soft ginger fur and the cat stretched in its sleep, one languid paw coming to rest on Maggie’s arm.

The dust motes swirled round, captured in the one beam of light that filtered through a gap in the blinds. Behind him an insect buzzed drowsily against the window, seeking to escape from the confines of the room. Listening to its feeble struggles, Lorimer felt some empathy for the tiny creature. At that moment he would have given a great deal to walk out into the warm air of the city streets. Before him on the videoscreen were pictures of the deceased, not happy snaps at all. The scene-of-crime photographer had managed to convey each and every aspect of the man’s death, from the bread knife sticking out of his chest cavity to the open-mouthed grimace portraying that final scream of agony. Close-ups of blood spatters surrounded the main pictures, adding graphically to the image.

‘It was hot,’ Mitchison commented, somewhat unnecessarily, releasing the stills and letting the film pan in on the body. The black patches around the wound showed a moving mass of flies. Lorimer could almost smell the scent of corruption and was glad for once that he had not been first on the scene. But now Mitchison’s peremptory call had stolen the final day of Lorimer’s break and he had to be brought up to speed if he were to take charge of this case.

‘We’ve got the woman in custody and she’ll appear in court in the morning,’ the superintendent began, ‘but there are some problems.’

Lorimer raised his eyebrows.

‘She says she didn’t do it, of course, despite the fact she drove all the way up to the Hebrides …’ Mitchison’s drawl tailed off.

‘So, the problems are…?’

‘We need to have some forensic evidence to connect her to the crime. There’s been nothing on her person and we couldn’t find anything else in the house. Either she was extremely forensically aware and managed to remove any traces of blood from the scene, or she’s telling us the truth.’

Lorimer, fixing his gaze on the images of a man who had bled to death, wondered what had provoked the attack. ‘What’s your own opinion, sir?’

Mitchison frowned. ‘She certainly had the means to do it. There was a huge rack of knives on one of those magnetic strips. It was one of these that was the murder weapon. No prints, I’m afraid. No residual traces, either. And the door was locked. There was no sign of a forced entry.’

‘Just circumstantial evidence, then?’

Mitchison nodded and screwed up his eyes in the half-light, then blinked. He’d probably been working through the night, Lorimer realised.

Method, means and opportunity , a familiar voice intoned in Lorimer’s head. It had been old George’s mantra. A wave of nostalgia for his former boss washed over him just then. Weary or not, George would never have delegated a case like this. He’d have ferreted away at it, looking for something more than the obvious. Though a runaway wife was a fairly obvious place to begin, Lorimer had to admit to himself. The method was straightforward enough and, despite his level of athleticism, the victim might have been taken by complete surprise. His expression alone was testament to that theory. She’d had the means easily to hand. And the opportunity? Who could say? Knife attacks were usually random affairs undertaken in a moment of frenzy.

‘What d’you reckon, then? A domestic gone wrong?’

The super made a face. ‘Janis Faulkner’s saying nothing. No plea for mitigating circumstances. Just a persistent refusal to admit she’d had anything to do with her husband’s death.’

‘Anything else suspicious?’

Mitchison paused for a moment then looked past Lorimer. ‘What would I call it? A strange absence of grief, I suppose.’

Lorimer gave a non-committal shrug. You couldn’t charge the woman for failing to mourn her dead husband, but still … His thoughts wandered for a moment to the sight of Janis Faulkner’s face as she’d glanced up at him on Fishnish pier. Had she been showing remorse? That haunted look had stayed with him since he’d seen her yesterday.

‘What do we know about her own movements before she scarpered?’

‘Says she was down at the gym. We’ve checked and her signing in and out times tally with her story. But as for simply setting off afterwards and not returning home first, well that was fairly unlikely, don’t you think? A few rounds on an exercise bike then she suddenly decides to leave her husband. It doesn’t make sense.’

‘So she’ll be charged?’

‘Yes, first thing tomorrow. There’s not another shred of evidence to show anyone else was in the house. I don’t care what Janis Faulkner claims; she did it, all right.’

Lorimer looked at his boss. The vehemence in Mitchison’s tone surprised him. Or was it simply that he was afraid Lorimer would see things in a different light, take away his prime suspect and cause problems? There was a past between these two senior officers that had never been adequately resolved. Mitchison had been promoted to superintendent when everyone’s expectations had been on Lorimer stepping into his old boss’s shoes, but it was their different attitudes to police work that had been the real cause of friction between them. Mitchison did everything by the rule book, creating masses of paperwork for everyone, while his DCI preferred a more hands-on approach. Lorimer remained silent. He was being officially designated as SIO and unless something new emerged, Janis Faulkner’s guilt or otherwise remained a matter for the jury.