Madness Lies

  Madness Lies

  Helen Forbes

  ThunderPoint Publishing Ltd.

  ***

  First Published in Great Britain in 2017 by

  ThunderPoint Publishing Limited

  Summit House

  4-5 Mitchell Street

  Edinburgh

  Scotland EH6 7BD

  Copyright © Helen Forbes 2017

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  All rights reserved.

  Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of the work.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters and locations are used fictitiously and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and a product of the author’s creativity.

  Front Cover Image © Cara Forbes

  Rear Cover Image © Huw Francis

  Cover Design © Huw Francis

  ISBN: 978-1-910946-30-5 (Paperback)

  ISBN: 978-1-910946-35-0 (eBook)

  www.thunderpoint.scot

  ***

  Acknowledgements

  To all my family, friends and readers, thank you so much for your support and your patience. Grateful thanks to Detective Sergeant Stuart McNae for his kind help and invaluable procedural advice. Thank you to all at ThunderPoint for taking another chance on me. And finally, a special mention for Allan Goddard, who single-handedly boosted the sales of my last book by persuading everyone he knew, and quite a few that he didn’t, to buy a copy. Thank you, pet – keep up the good work.

  ***

  Dedication

  For Cara and Nye, with so much love.

  ***

  Chapter 1

  The blood is dark. It surrounds and changes the patchwork of lichen on the rock, slipping down through cracks and fissures, seeking a return to the earth. The knife is sticky in his hand. He lets it drop to the ground. At his feet, the dead man’s eyes are blank and open to the sky, all malice and vengeance gone.

  What now? What price for taking a life? Even if the alternative was to lose your own? Even if there was never a choice, no other way? A mocking seabird flies overhead, its wanton cries echoing through him. And he knows. The price will be everything he has.

  Joe Galbraith struggled to rise from the dream, but it kept pulling him back. The body. The blood. The price. When would it end? A beating noise, repetitive and strong, filled his head. He clung to it until the dream let him go.

  Rain. On the window above his bed. He turned over and opened his eyes. Four thirty a.m. He’d be worth nothing if he didn’t get back to sleep, at least for a couple of hours. But the man in his dream, the man he’d killed, was determined to keep him awake.

  Not that he had killed anyone. The dream had distorted reality, so that Joe held the knife and used it on Stephen MacLaren, instead of the other way around. Was it regret that sculpted the dream? Did Joe wish he had killed Stephen?

  No, though he’d have done anything at the time to save his sister. But as he and Stephen had fought on the rugged shore in Harris last year, Joe was stabbed, leaving him with a scar that itched whenever he remembered, and frequent haunting dreams in which the story played out a little differently each time.

  Would the dreams end if Stephen’s body was found? He was last seen jumping into the sea. Surely his remains must come ashore eventually. And maybe then the dreams would stop.

  *

  Five hours later, DS Joe Galbraith yawned as he took a call from his boss. A smell coming from a storage unit; surely that was something for uniform? Aye, it was, DI Black agreed, but he’d be very grateful if Joe would just take a quick look.

  When he’d transferred to the new Major Investigation Team, Joe had imagined something a little more challenging than checking up on smelly storage units. On the other side of the room, DC Jimmy Jackson was slouched over his desk, his clothes dishevelled and his hair lank and greasy. ‘Jackson, you seen Roberts?’

  No response. That was nothing new.

  ‘Jackson?’

  He sighed, looked up and put his hand on his chin. ‘Eh… dunno…is he tall, dark hair, skinny long legs, a bit like a stick-insect?’

  ‘Very funny. Have you seen him today?’

  ‘Nuh.’

  Joe would have liked to have taken someone with him, but when the choice was Jimmy Jackson or going it alone, there was no choice.

  The smell was in unit 36, Duncan MacPhee told Joe. It had started two days ago, and if there wasn’t something dead in there, he’d eat his broomstick putter. That explained it. MacPhee was a golfing pal of DI Black.

  There was something dead all right; a whole barrel of something dead. MacPhee and Joe backed off, but the smell followed them. Joe picked up a stick and advanced on the barrel, his arm over his nose. He poked the lid off.

  MacPhee gagged. ‘Holy mackerel.’

  Joe peered closer. ‘Herring, actually.’

  ‘There could be a body in there.’

  Joe nodded. ‘Let me know if you find anyone.’ He backed out and pulled the door closed.

  MacPhee’s wee sharp chin was jutting out. ‘What are you going to do about it?’

  ‘Sweet Fanny Adams. There’s no law against curing herring in a storage unit, no matter how badly it’s done.’

  ‘Clause 63 of the contract: no perishable food products.’

  ‘Aye, your contract. It’s not a police matter.’

  ‘No?’ A rush of colour surged from MacPhee’s neck to his cheeks. Flecks of spittle waited at the corners of his mouth, and Joe moved to the side, just in time. ‘That’s not very good. Thought you were here to keep law and order, see that people don’t overstep the mark. That is what I call stepping well and truly over the mark.’

  Joe shook his head. ‘You really think I’ve got nothing better to do than chase up some numpty for breaching clause 63 of your contract? I’ve wasted enough time.’

  ‘Suit yourself.’ He wiped the spittle away, rubbing the back of his hand against his crumpled trousers. ‘I’ll maybe phone Brian Black again, see what he’s got to say about it.’

  ‘You do that.’ Golfing chum or not, Joe knew his boss wouldn’t expect him to take this any further.

  *

  The youth looked familiar but Joe couldn’t place him, as he sprinted past the car. He was wearing a black puffer jacket, gleaming white trainers, and drop-crotch jeans. Not easy to run in them, but he was making a good effort. As Joe waited for the lights to change, he watched the youth in the mirror. Still running, a glance over his shoulder, starting to cross the road, and jumping back as a jeep just missed him. The vehicle pulled up behind Joe, and the driver opened his window and shouted abuse. Joe wondered. Had he had dealings with the boy before? Maybe he should turn and go after him.

  But something was happening up ahead. Someone screaming. Someone crying. People gathering. Lights changing and cars going nowhere. At times like these Joe wished he’d stuck to being a joiner. He’d have turned the car and driven away without another thought. He’d have read about it later in the newspapers and wondered what Inverness was coming to. He’d have talked about it on the job, speculated with his workmates about who had done it and why. And then he’d have forgotten about it.

  But he’d become a policeman, which meant he had to investigate. And it meant he’d keep seeing the body over and over in his head, whenever he closed his eyes. And he’d have that smell of blood and the subtle hint of gun smoke stuck in his nose for days. And that sinking feeling, wondering how long it was goin
g to take to find out who did it, how many more might die while they tried to figure it out, and when the hell he would next get a day off.

  *

  DC Nigel Roberts was not happy. He’d come back from a union meeting and been sent straight out with Jimmy Jackson to a sneak theft in the Crown. An old dear, went upstairs to hoover. Came down and found the back door burst open and her TV, purse and laptop gone. Jackson had been a sarcastic pig. Why weren’t her laptop and purse out of sight, instead of sitting on a table in the living room? And why did she need a laptop anyway? Online gambling?

  The old dear had been fit for him. Skype was much easier than bush telegraph when it came to contacting her family in Australia, she’d said. Jackson looked puzzled. He probably didn’t even know what Skype was.

  While Jackson was dusting the kitchen for prints, the old dear told Roberts to take a seat in the living room. ‘Is he your superior?’

  Roberts winked. ‘What do you think?’

  She laughed. ‘Coffee?’

  ‘Yes please.’

  There was a shout from the kitchen. ‘Milk and two sugars.’

  She rolled her eyes. ‘Don’t remember offering him anything. Chocolate biscuit?’

  Roberts nodded.

  Proper coffee and a couple of decent biscuits. If only they were all like that. She’d never see the goods again, but hopefully her insurance would pay out. Roberts tried to let her down gently.

  She shook her head. ‘Don’t worry about me. The laptop was playing up. I was thinking of getting rid of it for a tablet. iPad Air 2, maybe. Fingerprint recognition – no need to bother with a passcode. Weighs less than half a kilo. What do you think, son?’

  Roberts hadn’t a clue. He might try and give Joe Galbraith the impression he was a technical whizz kid, but it wasn’t hard to impress Joe. There would be no fooling this old bird.

  ‘And see that FaceTime? Far better than Skype. My grandkids in Sydney have their own iPhones. I’ll just contact them direct. Bypass the scowling parents sitting like stooges in front of the family PC. I’ve been thinking about it for ages – this has given me the shove I needed. Every cloud, son; every cloud. And speaking of clouds, plenty of space on the iCloud for the photos and music.’

  Roberts smiled, and kept quiet. She looked at her watch and nodded towards the kitchen. ‘Himself’s taking his time. If he’d hurry up, I could get a taxi to Argos. There’s a cracking deal on a 42 inch Wi-Fi enabled smart Sony. I saw it in Which? You can even talk to the thing. Tell it what films you want to watch and it’ll come up with a list.’

  Roberts smiled. ‘Aye? I shout at mine all the time, but it’s not that obliging. You’ll need to get the door fixed before you go anywhere. And definitely before you bring any new technology into the house.’

  ‘Aye, son; you’re right. I’ll get hold of a joiner when you leave.’

  Roberts thought of Joe Galbraith. He used to be a joiner. He’d probably offer to repair the door in his own time. He was a bit of a softy, though he hid it well. Roberts’ phone rang. It was Joe Galbraith.

  The old dear smiled when Roberts ended the call. ‘That fair brightened you up. What is it? A gun battle down the High Street?’

  She wasn’t far off the mark, only it wasn’t down the High Street.

  ***

  Chapter 2

  As she passed through the women’s clothing in Debenhams, Sharon MacRae saw herself in the mirror and smiled. What was it her mother used to say about a pig’s ear and a silk purse? Or was it a sow’s ear? Whatever it was, turns out the old cow was wrong. You could do it, if you had money. You could do anything with enough money. Should she worry where the money was coming from? Aye, right. She was doing nothing wrong. Someone had fallen for her. Someone rich. Why would she worry about that?

  A smiling sales assistant approached. ‘Can I help?’

  ‘No, just looking.’ But why not? Just because she’d never asked for help before, it didn’t mean she couldn’t now. ‘Eh…aye, you can help, please. I was looking for one of those bras, the ones that push you up.’ She pushed her hands further down in her pockets, just to stop herself from showing the girl what she meant. She waited for the shop assistant’s scorn. It must be coming. In fact, was that not the bird that had caught her in the home department two years ago, with a frying pan up her jumper? The frying pan had pushed her boobs up, all right. And made a hell of a mark on the side of the assistant’s face. She peered closer. No mark on the girl’s face, and she was still smiling, waiting to help.

  Sharon left with three bras. She wore one of them, the pink balcony bra with black edging, and she felt fabulous. In M&S, she checked the recipe from the Tesco magazine. Spinach, ricotta, fresh pasta and crème fraiche. A year ago, she wouldn’t have set foot in M&S, and she certainly wouldn’t have got excited over finding organic spinach.

  She decided to stop by Linda’s for a quick cookery lesson, if her friend was home. Linda was a cook on an oil rig, and there had been a time when her schedule was imprinted on Sharon’s brain. She’d count the days until her friend came home, so she could tap her for a tenner.

  Linda was home. They hadn’t seen each other for a while. She looked Sharon up and down. ‘Looking good, Shar. Your hair’s gorgeous.’

  Sharon smiled. ‘Cheers.’

  ‘And check the teeth. Is that crowns?’

  ‘Bridges.’

  ‘Must be going well with Christopher.’

  ‘Not bad, Lind; not bad at all.’

  They drank coffee while Linda talked Sharon through the recipe.

  ‘Thanks, Linda. You’re a pal. When are you away again?’

  ‘Next week.’ She dipped a biscuit in her coffee. ‘How are the boys doing?’

  ‘Sound. Liam’s a wee darling, and Ryan’s still a big gobby shite.’

  ‘No change there, then.’

  As Sharon walked down Grant Street, she wondered if it was time to ask the Council for a move. Kinmylies, maybe. Dalneigh? Raigmore? Not that any of these areas were perfect, but there was no escaping the stigma of living ‘down the Ferry’. It didn’t seem to have put Christopher off, but still. Maybe it was time for a change.

  But how would Ryan feel about a move? Liam would be fine no matter where they went. Nine years old and still talking about being a copper. He wouldn’t mind, as long as he was with his mum. But Ryan was different. He scared Sharon sometimes. That look, as if he might be thinking of hitting her. Maybe she was mistaken. Maybe it was the memory of her brother battering her mother that time, before they took him away. A memory that had scarred her and scared her and fucked her right up. Ryan wouldn’t do that; he wouldn’t. Maybe she’d best just stay where she was.

  *

  She had no idea she was being watched. Too busy gloating over her hair and her new teeth, her designer gear and her shopping bags. Smug bitch. Did she really think any of that cosmetic shit could change what she was? First time he’d seen her, about a year ago, she was such a mess. No way did he think she’d ever be a threat to him, that she’d take what was his. Look at her, thinking she was something special, as she walked down to the Ferry. Down the fucking Ferry? Bitch. If he had his way, she’d be six feet under, along with everyone else that had crossed him.

  But he couldn’t stick around here. The town would be crawling with cops by now. As he drove away, he smiled. He might not be able to bury her yet, but the shit was about to hit the fan in her smug little world. Big style.

  *

  Life might be looking up, but Sharon didn’t half miss her fags. It wasn’t the same drinking coffee and watching TV without a proper fag. Christopher had bought her a fancy e-cigarette, but it didn’t really hit the spot. It stopped Ryan nicking her fags, though; that was one plus.

  As she sat down with a coffee and the remote control, she heard a key in the door; Ryan must be home early. She winced as the door slammed and the walls shook. And again when he slammed his bedroom door. Why was he always so noisy and aggressive and bloody annoying? And why wasn’t
he at school? At least when she’d skived off school, she hadn’t the barefaced cheek to come home. She used to hang out in the park or down the canal. Not that her mother would have given a shit whether she went to school or not; she just wouldn’t have wanted Sharon around any longer than absolutely necessary, cramping her style.

  Style? Aye, right. Scared one of her paedo boyfriends might fancy trying his hand with Sharon or her sister. It didn’t work, did it? Not when you left said paedos to babysit so you could go out with your mates. Old bitch. If Sharon ever came across her again, she’d kill her.

  Her hands shaking, Sharon rummaged in her bag for the e-cig. What she wouldn’t give for a good lungful of carcinogenic compounds and toxins, a healthy dose of formaldehyde, ammonia and arsenic. They couldn’t be that bad for you, could they? Arsenic? Christopher was probably making it up. Gullible cow, she’d taken his word for it. She could look it up on her new pink Acer netbook, if she wasn’t a) terrified of the damn thing, and b) terrified he’d check what she’d been looking at, and hammer her.

  Sharon’s mood plummeted. A rich boyfriend didn’t change anything. She would always be a useless junkie, and he would never be anything but a man. Nothing good had ever come from a man that showed interest in her. He needed his head examined, and so did she. Just ‘cos he’d never hit her, it didn’t mean a thing. Maybe he was reeling her in, just like her dead husband, Peter MacRae, had done. Treating her like a princess until she was hooked. Then it would start.

  This was no use. She had to do something to change her way of thinking. Nip to the shop for fags and a half-bottle? It was tempting. Nah; she’d try the abdominal breathing exercises Christopher had taught her when she started reducing her methadone. She lay on the couch, one hand on her chest, the other on her belly. As she inhaled, she imagined her diaphragm contracting and her lungs stretching. She was getting better at this; her chest hadn’t risen at all. She held her breath, then she tightened her tummy muscles, forcing the air out through pursed lips. Three or four times, and her mind was quieter, her body relaxing into the sofa. This shit worked.