Alex Gray - Pitch Black

Janis Faulkner shook her head, staring at the prison officer as if seeing her for the first time. ‘No,’ she said at last. ‘I’m fine. Really.’

The woman gave Janis another quizzical look as if to reassure herself that her news was not going to precipitate an incident. ‘Well, if you’re sure…’

‘It’s okay, just a bit disappointing, that’s all.’ Janis looked as if she was forcing the smile on to her face. The officer took the hint. She’d want to be alone for a bit right now and was probably willing this messenger of bad news to get up and go away. She stood up, nodding her understanding and smiling back at Janis with an expression of relief.

‘I think she’ll be all right,’ she told the duty officer downstairs. ‘Just keep an eye on her, though. You know what can happen,’ she added, raising her eyebrows significantly.

It couldn’t be true. Marion Peters had as good as promised that she’d be granted bail pending an appeal. For days now she’d dreamed of having a proper shower or a bath. Putting on clean clothes and walking along a street where nobody would be looking at her, watching her every move. Now all these thoughts were crumbling into dust. Janis clasped her hands together tightly, willing herself not to cry. How long had she been in here already? And how long would it be till her case came to court? Lips trembling, she made the calculation. God! She might still be here at Christmas. The idea was unbearable. And if they found her guilty? Janis tried to stand up but her knees were weak beneath her and she sank back on to the chair, letting her hair cover her face so nobody could see the tears that weren’t too far away.

Images of Nicko came into her mind then, his laughing face and the memory of his arms holding her hard against their bed. And in that moment Janis Faulkner knew such hatred that it made her gasp. He was the guilty one, not her. His life had been full of brightness, charm, success and power. Now what was she to have? Punishment? But hadn’t she been punished enough already? She’d been at his mercy when he was alive and she was still suffering now that he was dead.

Lorimer put down the telephone and leaned back, staring into space. So, only two sets of prints had been found on the dummy and none on the knife. There had been plenty of partials and a few whole prints inside the boot room itself but since people went in and out of there every day these were not of any significance. The players had been subdued when they’d had their prints taken, still shocked, no doubt, from the macabre discovery. But not one of their prints matched up with the ones that held most significance. Nor had they matched with any of the club’s personnel. It was frustrating. How had someone managed to slip past the police presence and into the boot room in broad daylight? Albert Little had been beside himself with fury when he’d seen the mess, Baz Thomson had confided in the DCI. And how somebody had unlocked the room without his knowledge or Jim Christie’s was a sheer mystery. ‘Maybe it was Ronnie Rankin’s ghost,’ Baz had joked, making Lorimer wonder if the striker had in fact had some hand in the incident. But that was just Baz. He couldn’t resist a cheeky comment even when faced with the presence of Strathclyde’s finest.

Still, it wasn’t over yet. They had more results to come in from those players who had left early and from the Gazette ’s senior reporter. Meantime there was plenty for the team to do. The TV appeal had produced a good response and officers were collating information and following it all up. There had even been a possible sighting of Donnie Douglas. DC Cameron had tracked down the man who had been spotted but it turned out to be a false alarm. Lorimer pursed his lips. He didn’t like to appear heavy-handed with his officers but maybe having Alison Renton in for questioning in a police environment might elicit a better response than Cameron and Weir had received. He would put it to the Detective Constables as tactfully as possible.

The girl sat in the interview room, her dark hair smoothed back from her face with a shiny butterfly-shaped clip. It glinted in the sunlight as she turned her face towards Lorimer.

‘Alison Renton?’

The girl nodded as he put out his hand. The soft, warm clasp of her fingers in his reminded him just how young she was. But the expression on her face lacked the innocence of that brief touch. This one had been around a bit, he thought, seeing the frank appraisal that swept over the men in the room. Groupie number two , the footballers’ words came back to him just then and Lorimer wondered what sort of young girl followed in the wake of these sportsmen, hoping for cheap thrills. Yet she’d dressed nicely for this interview, a short-sleeved white blouse billowing out over a neat black skirt. Had this been her school uniform not so long ago?

‘Donnie Douglas,’ Lorimer began. ‘We wondered if you’d had time to think where he might have gone. Or,’ he added, keeping the girl’s eyes fixed on his, ‘why he left his flat so suddenly.’

Alison Renton looked away from him towards the uniformed officer at the door then back to Lorimer. She bit her lip then, leaning forward, she whispered, ‘Does he have to be in here? Can I no speak to you on my own?’

Lorimer cocked his head to one side. What was this all about?

‘Afraid not. Security regulations demand that you have the protection of other officers present.’ His voice sounded suddenly stuffy to his own ears and so he grinned and whispered back, ‘I might eat a wee girl like you for my dinner.’

Alison sniggered, her face changing in an instant to the young lassie she really was underneath the layers of cheap make-up. She wasn’t as streetwise as she liked to make out, Lorimer decided.

‘Anyway, why would you want to talk to me on my own?’

Her gaze fell and she mumbled something into her swelling bosoms.

‘What’s that?’

‘Don’t want everyone to know,’ she repeated.

Lorimer leaned back, smiling encouragement. ‘This meeting is taking place in the strictest confidence,’ he told her. ‘Not a soul outside these four walls will be allowed to divulge what you say unless I let them.’ He tried to look both grim and encouraging. It must have worked because the girl heaved a sigh that could only be relief.

‘I havenae told my maw,’ she began. Then she looked down at her lap again and Lorimer could see her twisting the ends of her white shirt. She risked a glance up at him again. ‘It’s why Donnie left,’ she said at last.

Lorimer nodded, letting her continue without interruption.

‘We had a big fall out,’ she admitted, ‘Donnie was mad at me cos …’ She fell silent, biting her lower lip again, fingers still working nervously at her blouse. ‘Cos I wouldnae do things his way,’ she added lamely.

Lorimer let the silence grow between them, watching the girl begin to rock back and forth, torn between keeping her secret and revealing it to this policeman who kept staring at her.

‘Why did Donnie leave, Alison?’ he asked at last, his voice quiet and reassuring, inviting her confidence.

She put both hands up to her face, covering her mouth as though to stop herself from bursting into tears. Then, shaking her head as if an inevitable moment had come, Alison Renton gave a strangled sob.

‘I’m pregnant,’ she said.

Maggie turned from the kitchen sink, her face lighting up as she saw her husband coming towards her.

‘Hey, give me time to take these off,’ she said, waving her rubber-gloved hands in the air.

Lorimer stepped back, watching his wife pull off the yellow gloves and throw them to one side. Then she was in his arms, her head tucked against his shoulder. It was the best time of the day, this sweet moment of coming home, he told himself, hugging her closer.