Alex Gray - Pitch Black

‘Life’s complicated enough as it is,’ he said testily. ‘Maybe when this is all over-’

‘Maybe what? You’ll leave her? How often have I heard you say that?’ Marie spat out in mock laughter.

‘We could go away somewhere for a bit,’ he mumbled.

‘Aye? And when would that be? You wouldn’t miss a match, and the fixture list’s full till next May!’ She shook her head at him as she left, swiping the air in disgust. ‘Just don’t annoy me, okay?’

Pat Kennedy bowed his head into his hands. How had all this happened? Less than two weeks ago he was on top of the world, a whole season stretching out before them, all his plans ticking along nicely. Now everything seemed to be crashing around him and even the woman who had proved adept at providing solace was no consolation.

The scream that echoed along the corridor brought the sound of running feet.

‘What’s wrong?’ several voices seemed to be asking at once.

The boy stood, mouth open, unable to articulate his fear. They followed his pointing finger towards the end of the corridor.

‘The boot room?’ Andy Sweeney broke into a jog, several pairs of feet in his wake.

‘My God!’ The Kelvin captain slithered to a halt in front of the open door. The walls were dripping red from the huge painted words: Kill Kennedy . And on the floor the figure of a man in a Kelvin strip lay, face down, a blood-stained knife stuck into the middle of his shirt, intersecting the number eight. Sweeney took one step forwards, staring at the scene, then turned to face the others.

‘Is this someone’s idea of a joke?’ he snarled.

‘Is he no deid, then?’ the apprentice who’d sent them all racing to the boot room faltered.

‘It wis never alive!’ Sweeney kicked the body, sending a shower of sawdust into the air. Someone started to laugh but the captain turned with a furious expression on his face. ‘Who did this?’ he asked, killing the mirth stone-dead.

‘Ah thocht ah’d seen a, a, g-ghost,’ the apprentice stammered.

‘Was the door locked when you went down to do the boots?’ Sweeney demanded.

‘Naw. It wisnae. Ah hud the key a’ ready tae open it, but …’ the boy finished miserably, trying desperately to salvage some dignity from the situation.

‘Did Jim Christie give you the key?’

‘Aye. He always has it ready fur me.’

‘Go and find him,’ Sweeney demanded. ‘He’s gonnae go mental when he sees this mess.’ The boy hovered for a moment, uncertain. ‘Go on, scram!’ Sweeney told him.

The boy hared off, his boots thudding on the stone flags, leaving the rest of them staring into the boot room.

‘Who d’you think it’s meant to be?’ asked Gudgie Carmichael, peering over their heads at the dummy dressed up in Kelvin’s colours. Now that they had all seen the ‘corpse’ for what it really was, there was a sense of curiosity dispelling the initial shock.

‘Number eight’s Donnie’s shirt,’ Baz Thomson said, looking at each one in turn as the significance of his observation hit home. ‘Someone’s got a sick sense of humour.’

‘We need tae tell Mr Clark. An I think he’ll call the polis,’ Sweeney said eventually. ‘So don’t any of youse touch anythin in here, right?’

‘What about the knife?’

‘Ah, strange you should ask about that. It’s like the one that killed Nicko Faulkner.’

A pulse throbbed in Lorimer’s head. What was the scene of crime officer trying to tell him?

‘Go on,’ he said.

‘The injury to Faulkner was inflicted by a bread knife with a blade just like the one missing from their knife rack. The one found at Kelvin Park was a dead ringer for it. There are loads of these Kitchen Devils on the market. Every married couple seems to get at least one set as a wedding present. It could be a complete coincidence.’

Lorimer grunted as he hung up the telephone. He wasn’t one to dismiss coincidences. ‘There was absolutely nothing in the press about the knife,’ he murmured to himself. ‘I’m sure about that. So who else knew the details of Nicko Faulkner’s murder?’ He tapped a pencil against his teeth as he gazed out into space. Details like this were kept within the investigating team. Reports mentioning weapon types had to be filed under ‘strictly confidential’, especially when a court case might be in the offing.

Janis Faulkner’s court case, he suddenly thought. If she’d killed her husband, was there anything stopping her from passing on details about the murder weapon? How would that work to her advantage? If she’d killed him, she might well be latching on to these two subsequent murders to obfuscate her own part in Nicko’s death. Already Greer was dropping huge hints that all three killings were linked. Judgement by media, Lorimer thought grimly. It was happening all too often now. How the hell anyone got a fair trial these days was beyond him. He paused, one finger in the air. If Janis Faulkner’s story was true, that she had left before her husband had come home — but what if she was lying? What if she had discovered Nicko’s body but not touched anything, what if she had recognised that bread knife as one of theirs? In fact, she could be experiencing flashbacks from the murder scene. And had she spoken to anyone about what she recalled? Lorimer nodded to himself. It was a feasible theory. Janis Faulkner might well be innocent of her husband’s murder but was she sticking to a story that would show her up in a better light? After all, what manner of wife would leave her husband bleeding to death?

The M9 was full of rush-hour commuters as Lorimer swung the Lexus into the outside lane towards Stirling. Through the mist he caught glimpses of the castle, high upon its rocky outcrop, a fortress towering over the carse below. And there, pointing skyward, the pencil tip of the Wallace Monument. It never failed to give him the same rush of pride. Whatever William Wallace had been in his own day, he was an icon in this twenty-first century when Scotland badly needed some heroes. Lorimer smiled ruefully. They weren’t likely to find many of those sporting a Scotland football jersey, despite the efforts of people like Pat Kennedy. Yet to lots of wee boys, there were heroes out on the parks every week, fighting battles for promotion or relegation.

His smile faded into a frown. What was likely to happen to Kelvin after this season? Could they possibly hope to recover from the events of these past weeks? During the summer, Kennedy had stated publicly that his team would be certain to achieve Premier League status next year. They’d just been relegated by a single point last season. And with the combination of Faulkner and White, he’d sounded confident that they were on to a winner. The twin creases between his eyes deepened as Lorimer considered the implications of these deaths. Was it too far-fetched to harbour the notion that someone was deliberately trying to sabotage Kelvin FC?

His thoughts were left in a cloud bubble as a line of traffic cones forced him to slow down and join the inside lane. Now the city was looming up through the drizzle, the parapets of Stirling Castle almost invisible in their shroud of mist. He’d asked them not to alert Janis Faulkner about his arrival: he didn’t want to lose any advantage this unexpected visit might achieve.

She didn’t mean to let him see how she felt. It was as if they were both back on that quayside in Mull, his glance piercing through to a panic she wanted to suppress. Then she had let her guard slip, the way one does to a stranger that passes by, never to be encountered again. Yet some odd quirk of fate had placed them together. He’d towered over her as he entered the room and she found herself admiring his physique. She’d always fallen for the sporty types and Janis could swear that DCI Lorimer had been a keen sportsman in another life. But it was the look in his eyes that had undone her reserve; a mixture of pity and — what could she call it? Was it interest or curiosity? With a sudden realisation she saw that he was prepared to like her. So she’d smiled and now he was offering her his hand across the table that separated them, before bending his tall frame into the plastic prison seat.