Alex Gray - Pitch Black

‘Mind if I get a drink?’ he asked, heading towards the kitchen. A tumbler of water would help him to see straight, to think fast.

‘Looks like you had a skinful already. Good party, was it?’ Wilson asked.

Greer made a noise that was midway between a grunt and a mutter as he left the room.

‘Mind if we open a window?’ Wilson called out as loudly as he could. He grinned to himself, imagining the pain throbbing in the man’s skull.

‘He’s in a bad way,’ Cameron remarked.

‘Ach, don’t waste any sympathy on that one. Besides, it’s self-inflicted. Wonder what he was celebrating?’ he added.

Greer came back into the room, a half-empty tumbler of water clutched in one hand. ‘Right, what do you want at this time in the morning?’

‘My goodness, Jimmy.’ Wilson folded his arms and grinned. ‘Do you not see it’s nearly eleven o’clock? Must be nearly time for your midday snifter, eh?’

‘What?’ The journalist’s jaw dropped and he pulled up a shirt cuff to peer at his watch. ‘Bloody hell,’ he muttered.

‘Should have been somewhere by now, maybe?’ Wilson suggested. The Detective Sergeant was clearly enjoying Greer’s discomfiture.

‘Aye, well, you’re here now, so I suppose I can say I was on official business,’ the journalist replied, his usual cockiness reasserting itself.

‘Can we sit down?’

‘Go ahead,’ Greer said, plonking himself into the nearest seat, an ancient leather armchair that did not match any other furniture in the room. ‘What’s all this about?’

Wilson nodded briefly at Niall Cameron who sat forward, fixing Greer with what he hoped was his best imitation of DCI Lorimer’s famous stare.

‘We’re investigating certain matters surrounding the Nicko Faulkner murder,’ Cameron began. ‘We believe you have been in communication with Janis Faulkner.’

‘No me, son,’ Greer blustered.

‘That’s not what the officers in Cornton Vale have been telling us, sir,’ Cameron replied stiffly, never once taking his eyes off the journalist.

‘Aye, well.’ He shifted uneasily in his chair. ‘Maybe I did give her a wee phone call.’

‘Maybe you gave her more than one,’ Wilson chipped in, his words eliciting a scowl from Greer.

‘We would like to know the nature of your conversations with Mrs Faulkner,’ Cameron continued.

‘Ah, classified information,’ Greer sneered. ‘Cannae divulge that.’

‘If you don’t divulge what was said between you then a court would likely find you guilty of obstructing the course of justice, Mr Greer,’ Cameron said mildly.

For a moment the journalist looked from one officer to the other, searching their expressions as if to gauge the seriousness of this threat.

‘And what if I cannae remember what we said?’

‘I’m sure you’ll have written notes transcribed from tape,’ Cameron suggested encouragingly. ‘Isn’t that the norm in your profession?’

Greer licked his lips then took a gulp of water from his glass. Wiping the drops from his moustache, he gave a resigned sigh. ‘Okay, what exactly is it you’re after?’

‘What did Janis Faulkner tell you about Nicko’s murder?’ Wilson asked.

‘She didn’t do it.’

‘That’s not what we want to know. Did she give you any details about the murder scene?’

‘Like what?’

‘Like the MO.’ Wilson nodded grimly.

‘He was stabbed, wasn’t he?’ Greer was evidently trying to play for time as his eyes flicked from Wilson to Cameron and back again.

‘And the murder weapon?’

Greer stayed silent but the beads of sweat that were gathering on his brow were nothing to do with the heat in the room.

‘She told you what it was,’ Wilson persisted. ‘Didn’t she?’

‘Cannae mind,’ the journalist muttered.

‘Oh, come off it, Greer, that’s one juicy bit of info you wouldn’t forget in a hurry.’

‘All right then, she says it was one of these Kitchen Devils. A big bread knife.’

‘And you told how many people?’ Wilson shot back.

‘Don’t know. Can’t remember. Maybe I didn’t tell anybody,’ he said, running a hand over his head with a groan. ‘Haven’t used it in the paper. You lot would have had my guts for garters.’

‘Well you should think very carefully, Mr Greer. Try to remember exactly who else might have this information,’ Cameron warned him.

‘Aye, well I’ll let you know. If I remember,’ he mumbled. There was a silence that made him look up in time to see the two men exchanging a glance.

‘Is that it, then?’

‘For now,’ Wilson replied, standing up, ready to leave. ‘Oh, there’s just one more thing,’ he added, looking back before he and Cameron left the room. ‘You need to come down to HQ to have your fingerprints taken.’

‘What for?’

‘Process of elimination,’ Cameron told him blandly, then followed his colleague out into the fresher air of the Glasgow streets.

‘He’s not my idea of what a senior newspaper reporter would be,’ Cameron remarked as they set off in Wilson’s car.

‘Och, don’t let him fool you. He’s not so daft, that one, believe me,’ Wilson chuckled. ‘Anyway, we got what we wanted. Now let’s see if Greer has had dealings with any of the Kelvin players.’

*

Back in his flat, Jimmy Greer looked vacantly into the empty tumbler. What if he’d left a trace? What if they really had a print? He examined his hands, first one then the other, watching each of them shake. And for the first time in a long time he wondered if what he had done in the name of capturing a good story would come back to haunt him.

The prison officer walked past the flower beds, admiring the neat rows of annuals that the girls had planted. They’d excelled themselves this year. The prisoner who’d brought them all on from seed was there every day, tending to her beds with a devotion that had surprised the prison staff. She had been found guilty of assault to severe injury and would be here for several more years, able to take at least a small pleasure from the changing seasons and what they might bring. Anyone looking at her, absorbed in her work, would never dream that she’d left her partner fighting for his life and permanently disfigured after her rampage with a baseball bat. She’d meant to kill him and had almost succeeded. Maybe, just maybe, this ability to care for living things would rub off when the time came for her release.

The thought of gardens was quickly banished as the officer unlocked the blue door and closed it behind her. Some duties were harder than others and this was one she didn’t relish at all. Telling a prisoner bad news could provoke all sorts of behaviour: some went quite loopy, smashing stuff and howling hysterically; others merely shrugged, used as they were to life’s hard knocks. How this one would react was anybody’s guess.

She was sitting in the main recreation room, flicking through a magazine that someone had brought in for one of the other girls. The officer sat down opposite her, saw the prisoner glance up then look back at the article she’d been reading as if wishing to ignore this unexpected visitor.

‘Janis,’ the officer began, leaning forward so that only the prisoner could hear her.

Janis Faulkner looked up, then, seeing the expression of the other woman’s face, she let the magazine fall from her hands. ‘What is it?’ she whispered.

‘They’re not letting you out on bail,’ the officer told her.

‘Why not?’ she asked. The question burst from her lips.

‘Don’t know. Your solicitor can probably tell you more.’ Then, watching the blood drain from Janis’s face she reached out a hand and touched the prisoner’s shoulder. ‘You okay? Want a drink of water or something?’