Alex Gray: Pitch Black

Albert Little had been committed to an asylum for the mentally insane. Background reports suggested that he might have been suffering from Gulf War syndrome but this had not tallied with his years of capable — nay, outstanding — service to Kelvin FC, Solly had insisted when they’d discussed the man’s behaviour. Even Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder was out of the question in someone who had been capable of holding down a demanding full-time job, the psychologist had told Lorimer. If Solly had been able to follow through with this case could he have given them the clues that would have led to apprehending their killer sooner? The question was academic now, but Lorimer found himself wondering at the quirks of fate that had dogged this case, and realised just how much he had missed the psychologist’s profiling techniques. This had become another tool for Lorimer over the years, one that he had learned to value.

The veritable arsenal of weapons hidden inside the boot room ceiling — hand guns and rifles, even a Kalashnikov — must have been picked up by Bert during the Bosnian conflict. The ex-army man had left a trail of devastation behind him. Not only were there entire families left bewildered by the man’s killing spree, but the football club that he had lived for was now in serious trouble.

Just this week, the administrators had been called in following Barbara Kennedy’s decision to sell her shares in the club. She’d make a pretty profit, contrary to the plan that her husband had envisaged. Kennedy had wanted to bring down the club and sell off the place, then buy back the shares for a rock-bottom price. He’d thought everything had been within his control, quite unaware that Wee Bert had discovered some of his schemes. Now the chairman was on bail pending a date on which he would be called for trial. Albert Little’s statement had opened up a whole can of worms that included bribery and fraud on a massive scale. Norman Cartwright was not the only person who had been caught up in Kennedy’s wheeling and dealing. Baz Thomson’s bank accounts also showed discrepancies that had made the striker an integral part of this inquiry. He’d led Weir a merry dance, feigning ignorance of his finances and lying about his accountant being away on holiday. Lorimer had sympathised with their new DC; Weir had taken the matter personally, feeling he should have sussed out the Kelvin player. Only Ron Clark appeared untouched by the scandal. The manager had appeared on television several times stating his belief that Kelvin could again rise from the ashes of its present disgrace. The boys were all behind him, he had claimed, and they were hopeful of fulfilling all of the remaining fixtures of the season, though that was still a decision in the hands of their administrator. Lorimer had watched every news item that related to the football club. A special fund-raising drive had begun, led by Big Jock MacInally, and banners proclaiming ‘Save the Keelies’ were being unfurled at every match. Whether the club had a future in Scottish football remained to be seen.

A sudden draught blew across his desk, rustling the papers. For a moment Lorimer remembered that small, cold wind that had passed him by as he’d lifted the rifle away from the hands of the man who had tried to kill him. Could a hardened cop like himself ever believe that the spirit of a long-dead footballer had really intervened that day? He shook his head. But maybe the legend of Ronnie Rankin would be powerful enough to save his beloved club from a different sort of destruction.

It was late when Lorimer reached home. The rain had stopped and the grey clouds were scudding across the horizon, bringing a freshening wind whistling through the treetops. Summer was almost over and soon the trees would be turning yellow. But there would be no wee ginger cat to play among the fallen leaves.

‘Hi,’ he called out, ready to have Maggie throw herself into his arms in a storm of weeping. But when he walked into the kitchen Lorimer was met by the last thing he expected to see.

‘He’s still here?’ he asked, looking down at Chancer, who was busy washing his paws, then at Maggie who was looking smug.

‘Yes, and he’s ours!’ And now she really was in his arms and he was kissing her face, her lips and she was laughing and crying at once.

‘His owner’s going into a retirement home. Can’t take pets,’ she burbled between happy kisses. ‘And we were asked if we wanted to keep him!’

Lorimer held her tightly, feeling her warmth, sharing in her sheer joy. Then he felt a familiar tap against his trouser leg and he looked down and laughed.

It was Chancer. And their little ginger cat was looking up at them both with an expression on his face that could only be described as a grin.

When she opened her eyes it was pitch black. Tonight there would be no moonlight to shine through the thin curtains of her cell. After all these weeks of light-blue skies and rosy sunsets, the nights had become dark and full of shadows. Outside she could hear the wind as it blew a scattering of leaves across the courtyard. Tomorrow might bring more rain and she’d have to wear a warmer jacket.

Janis lay back, staring into the darkness. It would all be over soon. Marion Peters had briefed her well on what to expect. They’d changed her plea to ‘guilty’ so the odds were that she might be out of there within five years, probably a lot less if tomorrow’s judge looked on her case with a modicum of sympathy.

It was strange how she felt a sense of peace now that it was almost over. The weeks of denial had made her tense and brittle, but she had begun to feel a sense of rousing from a bad dream in the wake of Albert Little’s confession. How could she have hoped for someone to get away with these murders? That fact alone had given her a gnawing sense of guilt. In retrospect, it hadn’t been very likely but so long as the killer was on the loose there would be a doubt in people’s minds about Nicko’s death, and Janis Faulkner could continue to hope for a full acquittal.

In the end it had been a relief to tell them the truth. At first she had hesitated then it had all come out in a rush, every last detail. How she’d pulled that kitchen knife out and lunged at her husband as he’d come at her again; how she had washed away every trace and thrown her blood-stained clothing into the dark waters of Loch Lomond. She’d told them every bit about that night and about the day that had followed, even about her efforts to find sanctuary in Mull with her grandfather, Lachie.

But she didn’t quite tell them everything. Not about the continual nightmares, when he came after her. Nor about his eyes and his laughter mocking her or how she’d woken up sweating and trembling night after night. Once she’d almost told that tall policeman, the one with eyes that reminded her of Grandpa Lachie. But she’d persisted with the lie, telling herself that she’d been punished enough already, protesting her innocence to anyone who would listen, even that journalist Greer. And maybe the judge would agree. Maybe tomorrow would bring some sort of future that was untainted with the memory of Nicko’s vicious hands and his voice that had disturbed her sleep for so long now.

It was not yet tomorrow, Janis told herself as she closed her eyes against the darkness. Tomorrow was a new day and might bring a new hope.

She turned on her side, heaved a deep sigh and fell into a dreamless sleep.