Madness Lies Page 2

  Or it might have, if the living-room door hadn’t opened with a kick that almost took it off its hinges. Sharon sat up, her head spinning as the calm evaporated. Ryan dashed past with a pile of clothes in his arms, heading for the kitchen.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  No answer. Ignorant wee shit.

  ‘I said, what the fuck are you doing?’

  Nothing.

  She counted to forty, before she went through to the kitchen. The air was thick with the scent of lotus flower and jasmine, and Ryan was standing watching his clothes immersing and turning darker in the washing machine, a look of sheer terror on his face.

  ‘Ryan, what is it? What’s wrong?’

  He often ignored her, but not like this, like he didn’t even know she was there. She wanted to touch him, to hold him. She reached out a timid hand. A thump stopped her. And another.

  It was his new trainers, thumping round in the washing machine. And was that his jeans and his new jacket? She’d lived with his father long enough to know what this meant. ‘Get to the shower.’

  And still he stood there, watching his circling clothes. She shoved him as hard as she could. ‘In the shower. Go.’

  He went. There was something white under the table. A sock, with a splatter of small red specks down one side. The phone was shaking in her hand. ‘Christopher, I need you. Now.’

  ***

  Chapter 3

  The victim had looked quite serene for someone who’d taken a bullet through the chest. Probably hadn’t a clue it was coming. He’d been shot in the back, through the car seat. Maybe he’d been chatting about something pleasant, completely unaware that his back-seat passenger was about to cut the conversation in the most drastic of ways.

  Joe was back at the station now, a map of Inverness spread out on the table. Had the sprinting youth been in the car with the murder victim? The timing was right. The victim’s car had been stopped on Kenneth Street near Central School, heading towards Tomnahurich Street. The driver of the next car that came along hadn’t seen anyone leave the abandoned car. When he came up behind it, the front passenger door and the door behind the driver were open. He’d signalled, pulled out, glanced to his left to give the driver a glare for stopping in such a stupid place. And freaked out.

  He’d swerved onto the pavement, embedding his car in a wall, as an oncoming car crunched into his passenger side. The road was well and truly blocked. Minutes later, Joe was on the scene. When he’d called in the incident, he’d mentioned the boy and the direction in which he was running. A patrol car had a look, but no luck. Joe checked his watch. Almost two hours had passed; plenty of time to destroy any evidence.

  But was the boy the shooter? If he’d been in the back seat behind the driver, surely he’d have been on the other side of the road when he bolted past Joe, several cars further back, just before the lights at the top of Fairfield Road.

  Though he hadn’t seen the boy’s face, Joe was certain he knew him: the build, the way he ran, the hair. The more he tried to think, the cloudier his head became. The lack of sleep wasn’t helping. On cue, he felt his scar start to itch. Bloody Stephen MacLaren.

  But wait. There was something, a vague shadow flitting through Joe’s head. He tried to grasp it, but it evaded him. Something about Stephen MacLaren and the youth. A connection. A slim one.

  Instead of trying to follow the shadow, he traced his finger down Kenneth Street. The guys in the patrol car had concentrated on Dalneigh and the Carse. Joe looked for routes on the other side of Kenneth Street. The boy could have gone down Celt Street or Wells Street and along the riverside to Grant Street. There were any number of streets and lanes he could have taken to stay off the main roads. And from Grant Street? Did he cross the Black Bridge towards the town, or turn left towards the Ferry?

  The scar was itching again. No surprise. Stephen MacLaren had murdered Moira Jacobs down the Ferry last year. That was where it all began. And MacLaren had befriended Moira Jacobs’ neighbour, Sharon MacRae, to get access to his victim.

  Sharon MacRae. Joe smiled. Of course. Much as he’d have liked to challenge Sharon’s son, Ryan, as soon as possible, Joe knew he couldn’t go near him. Not after being at the scene. The possibility of cross-contamination would give Ryan’s lawyer a field day, if it ever came to that.

  *

  Sharon wanted to hammer Ryan. Cocky wee shit, eyeballing the Filth like an American gangster, just like his father would have done.

  ‘What the fuck’s he doing here?’ Ryan looked Roberts up and down, then he smirked at Jackson. ‘And who’s that ugly numpty?’

  Sharon saw rage in the older policeman’s eyes. If she wasn’t here, he wouldn’t think twice about hitting Ryan. Roberts smiled. ‘Come to see you, Ryan. Me and Detective Constable Jackson. What you been up to today?’

  ‘Nice of you to show an interest. This and that. Nothing much.’

  ‘Why are you not at school?’

  Sharon wanted to give him an alibi, tell them he was sick or something, but she’d never been good at lying, so she kept her mouth shut.

  ‘Wasn’t feeling well, so I came home.’

  Roberts nodded. ‘Is that what you were wearing today?’

  Ryan glanced down at his white t-shirt and black trackie bottoms. ‘Looks like it.’

  ‘So you weren’t down on Kenneth Street a couple of hours ago, in white trainers, drop-crotch jeans and a puffer jacket?’

  Sharon could have sworn there was a hint of fear in her son’s eyes. Just for a moment. A blink and it was gone. She’d probably imagined it. She knew she hadn’t.

  The thumping grew louder. Sharon and Ryan both glanced at the kitchen door. The officers ran. Roberts banged on the washing machine. ‘Stop this thing. Now!’

  Sharon hadn’t a clue how to stop it. It was brand new, all flashing lights and annoying jingles. When the cycle was finished, it played Schubert’s ‘Trout’. Why play a tune? What was wrong with a beep or a blinking red light?

  ‘Where’s the plug?’

  She had no idea. Christopher had had it installed while she was out. She came home to find her thirty year old third-hand Hotpoint gone, and this shining streamlined Samsung in its place.

  Roberts lunged at three switches on the wall. The first two put the oven and the fridge off. The third stopped the washing machine, with a whining reluctance and a sad little tune.

  Jackson crouched before the machine. ‘Looks like a puffer jacket, jeans and trainers to me. Son, you’re nicked, and so is this monstrosity’.

  *

  ‘You?’ Jackson’s face was contorted into a sneer. ‘Sitting in while we question Ryan? I don’t think so. For all we know, it was you that put the washing on, trying to destroy evidence.’

  Sharon shook her head. ‘But Ryan’s told you it was him. And the boys don’t have a social worker now. I’m clean. I have been for ages.’

  ‘Aye, as clean as your son’s clothes. Might look all right on the surface, but go any deeper and it’s all there, all the shite of the day, just waiting to come out. Shame your fancy new machine doesn’t have a DNA removal cycle, a special programme for dealers, pimps and general scum.’

  Sharon’s fear turned to rage. She pointed at Jackson. ‘Who the fuck are you calling scum?’

  As Jackson laughed, Roberts stepped between them. He frowned at Sharon. ‘I really don’t want to have to arrest you, but I will if you don’t calm down.’

  Jackson shook his head. ‘Mental bitch.’

  *

  Sharon was glad it was Galbraith that questioned her at the station. He seemed to believe her when she said she hadn’t put the washing on. The female cop that accompanied him wasn’t quite so accepting. How many fourteen year old boys knew how to work a washing machine?

  Sharon shrugged. ‘Just the ones with a retard for a mother. I hadn’t a clue how to use it. He read the book and showed me. He often puts his own washing on.’

  ‘And where does someone on benefits get a top of the range m
achine like that?’

  Sharon hesitated. She didn’t want them knowing anything about Christopher. ‘Eh…a friend.’

  ‘What kind of friends buy – ’

  Galbraith stopped her. ‘Sharon, Ryan was in school first thing this morning, but he didn’t come back after the morning break. He’s been taking a lot of time off lately, and showing up the next day with a note from you.’

  Shit. What was Ryan up to? ‘He goes off every morning and tells me he’s going to school. What can I do if he leaves during the day?’

  The woman screwed up her wee red face. ‘It’s your job to see that he goes to school and stays there. Not a lot to ask, is it? Not as if you’re working yourself.’

  Stuck up bitch. Bet she didn’t have any kids. Sharon didn’t say what she was thinking. If it wasn’t for Roberts, she’d have gone for Jackson earlier, and she’d be in custody now too. She told them Ryan had gone to school as usual. She didn’t know what he was wearing; she’d been in the bathroom when he left. He went early, probably to avoid having to walk Liam to school. She didn’t know who he’d been hanging about with. His best mate was Sean Anderson, but there were others at school. ‘He doesn’t tell me much, but I know he’d never have anything to do with a shooting, with a murder. You must have got it wrong.’

  The female cop sneered. ‘You’re the one that’s been getting it wrong, for the last fourteen years.’

  Sharon didn’t know how to answer that. The bitch was probably right. ‘Can I wait for Ryan?’

  The officer laughed. ‘Your concern is so touching.’

  Galbraith frowned at his colleague, then he smiled at Sharon. ‘There’s no point waiting. I don’t think Ryan’s going anywhere any time soon. We’ll call you if there’s any change.’

  Sharon crossed to the petrol station and bought a bottle of water. Time was, she wouldn’t have paid for water. Even this stuff in plastic bottles wasn’t good for her, Christopher said, but it was better than a fizzy drink. She’d a bit of a thirst after last night. They’d been out for a meal and a few drinks, and she’d overdone the wine. It was the happiness that did it. Aye, right. Happy, sad, excited, down – was there a state of mind that didn’t make her want to drink? But she had been happy, and it wasn’t just the money Christopher had given her; it was knowing that someone liked her enough to want to spend time with her, to listen and learn about her. He wanted to know her favourite colour, favourite singer, favourite designer, favourite vegetable. No one else had ever given a shit about whether she had a favourite anything.

  He’d come straight away when she’d phoned him earlier. He hadn’t asked any questions and he hadn’t seen Ryan. He just listened to Sharon, then he put the sock in a plastic sandwich bag, as if he was a scene of crime officer. Stuffed it in his pocket and said he’d take care of it. She’d rung him again from the station, and he’d offered to arrange and pay for a solicitor for Ryan. The best. She didn’t ask how he knew the best criminal solicitors.

  Christopher came across as a decent guy. His father had died two years earlier and he’d inherited money. He’d moved up from London, bought property in Inverness and started a letting business called Brent Properties. It all seemed on the level, but really? No decent guy was going to fancy her. Decent or not, she didn’t want to lose him.

  Please, please, please. Not now. If she repeated it often enough, maybe he wouldn’t finish with her.

  ***

  Chapter 4

  The shooting victim was Gordon Sutherland, a local SNP councillor, DI Black told the officers gathered for the briefing. Married with two grown up kids, he’d left the council offices about an hour before he was found dead. He’d been expected at a constituency meeting that afternoon. His wife, Roz Sutherland, was at the opening of an art exhibition at a gallery near Beauly when her husband was killed. She’d been interviewed by DI Black and Joe Galbraith. She wasn’t being considered a suspect for now. Door to door enquiries were ongoing, but there was nothing of interest so far. The post mortem would take place in the morning.

  Roberts updated them on Ryan MacRae. He couldn’t remember where he’d been after leaving school. Just wandering about. Nowhere near Kenneth Street, of course, and DS Galbraith could really do with a trip to Specsavers. That got Roberts a laugh.

  Ryan had no alibi. A partial print on the inside handle of the front passenger door of the victim’s car might be a match for his thumbprint, but it wasn’t conclusive. The contents of the washing machine had gone for analysis. One black puffer jacket, a black sweat-shirt, white t-shirt, a pair of drop-crotch jeans, boxer shorts, white trainers and one white sock. They had turned Sharon MacRae’s flat upside down, but there was no sign of the other sock.

  Ryan was still in custody. It was unusual to keep a child of fourteen in a cell at the police station, but the severity of the crime and Ryan’s likely association with criminals gave the police the authority they needed. The situation had to be reviewed every few hours, and Social Work was closely involved. The other alternative was a secure unit, but there were none in the Highlands. Hopefully they’d get something from Ryan’s mobile phone and his clothes. If they didn’t get anything, Ryan would walk. For now.

  As Joe left the briefing and headed for the canteen, he wondered about Ryan. Chances were he’d inherited more than a surname from his late father. He fitted a profile that had been mapped out for him long before he was old enough to talk. Dysfunctional family. Mother an addict. Abusive drug-dealing father, that he probably now idolised. He’d been referred to the Children’s Reporter before for his behaviour. And yet, his little brother seemed so different. Liam was cheerful and friendly. And Sharon was okay; she’d had her problems, but she’d never been in trouble with the police.

  Who knew? One thing Joe did know was that he wouldn’t be seeing Carla tonight.

  *

  PC Carla MacKenzie was at her third call in as many hours. Another shop in Nairn targeted by a group of shop-lifters. Her colleague was taking a statement from the manager when Carla saw herself in the mirror. Thank God for the hat. She couldn’t remember when she’d last washed her hair. It was hard to distinguish one morning from another. Nausea, aching, greyness. So tired, the thought of even turning the shower on made her want to crawl back into bed. She’d forced herself into the shower each morning, but a quick scrub was as much as she’d managed this week, followed by a dusting of dry shampoo.

  She was supposed to be seeing Joe later. The very thought was exhausting. Another shower. A hair wash. Attempt at cheeriness. Something more. No way. Maybe she’d call it off, crawl into bed as soon as she got home. She glanced in the mirror again, and saw her face turning grey. Her eyes looked so dull, and were her cheeks starting to sink? She heard her colleague say her name. And then the grey in her head turned to black.

  Carla dreamed of a North Uist summer. Walking with her father down the track towards the beach. She wanted to run ahead. She wanted to pluck the dancing poppies that peeped out of the whispering crops, take them home to her aunt. She wanted to chase the rabbits that bolted this way and that, everywhere she looked. But she couldn’t. To do that, she would have to let go of her father’s hand. She couldn’t.

  When they reached the tickling marram grass, he let go of her hand. For a moment there was panic in her heart, and then he lifted her. She felt his body sink with each step into the soft sand. ‘Do your legs not get scratched, Daddy?’

  He didn’t answer. He was gazing through the gap, to a sea as blue as the stone in her mother’s ring. The water was bright with diamonds that danced on the shifting ocean like fairy lights.

  On the summit of the dune, he put her down. They held hands and ran down the slope to the stretching white sands, right to the edge of the sea. She giggled as the foamy water tickled her toes. A strand of seaweed tried to get her. It would have dragged her in if she hadn’t jumped. It would have taken her all the way to America.

  ‘Daddy, the seaweed’s not getting me.’

  There was no answer.
She turned and he was gone. The lonely sands stretched all around her.

  Her head was as light as air, her body like stone. There were people surrounding her, but she couldn’t make out their features. Maybe they weren’t real; just shadows, dancing and mumbling, caressing her arm with the lightest of touch, then the sharpest of pricks. Something looming closer, a brilliant white light searing into her eyes and forcing them to close. Her body getting lighter, rising, floating. The sky over the beach a deep turquoise. Her dad is hiding. He must be, just on the other side of the dunes.

  *

  Joe had just started on the Gordon Sutherland report when the custody officer at Nairn called. Carla was in Accident and Emergency at Raigmore Hospital. Joe phoned the hospital and was told there was no point in coming up to see her. She was drifting in and out of consciousness, and they were doing tests. Had she been ill recently? Could she be pregnant? His throat constricting with something that felt like fear, but could have been shame, Joe told the nurse he hadn’t seen Carla for a week. She hadn’t felt well at the weekend. He’d offered to go round, but she’d said she was too tired; she was going to bed. He didn’t tell the nurse he’d offered to join her there. Nice try, Carla had said, her voice weary. He’d wondered then if she’d had enough of him. It was only a matter of time; he knew that. But then she’d suggested doing something tonight – she was sure she’d be better by then.

  Pregnant? No way. She’d have told him. Just ‘cos they didn’t see each other as often as they’d have liked, she’d have told him. The nurse asked about her next of kin. They wouldn’t do that if it wasn’t serious, would they? He told her Carla’s mother lived in South Carolina. She had no siblings and no other close family. That made him the first point of contact. They’d call him as soon as they had any news.