Blood Red Roses (6 page)

A police team was going through the video
footage. Especially footage of the Rose room. If there was evidence that
Eden
was being used for prostitution, Belcher was in big trouble.

The best lead they had was the car number plate. It belonged to a Sir Geoffrey Helden who was bankrolling a Scottish first division football club. DI Wilson had already made contact and would speak to Sir Geoffrey with his lawyer present.

Rhona spent the morning putting the Bacardi bottle back together. Concentrating on that stopped her thinking about what had happened the night before. When the phone rang, Rhona let Chrissy answer.

Chrissy covered the mouthpiece. ‘There's a guy in reception. Insists on seeing you.'

‘Who?' Rhona mouthed.

Chrissy checked. ‘Sean?'

Rhona shook her head and then thought better of it. She would have to face Sean sometime and it might as well be now.

‘Tell him I'll be straight down.'

It was the first time she'd seen Sean agitated. Normally he was relaxed and easy. When she
appeared he looked over, relieved.

She headed for the door without speaking and he followed. She walked quickly past the guard on the gate and down the hill towards the park, her breath condensing in the cold November air. When she reached the bridge she stopped. Below, an autumnal mist clung to the River Kelvin.

He stood close, sharing her view of the muddy swirling water.

‘What's wrong?'

She shrugged, unable to look him in the face. ‘It's nothing to do with you. It's work.'

He lifted his hand and stroked her cheek. A shiver of longing ran down her spine and anchored itself deep in her groin.

‘You can't work all the time.'

She laughed. The sound was harsh and unforgiving in her ears.

‘Rhona. Look at me.'

His eyes drew hers. Powerless to stop herself, she looked into their blue depths. She hardly knew this man and yet she had let him enter her body, possess her, at least for a short time. What was he really like? How much of herself could she entrust to him?

‘Tell me when I can see you.'

‘Tonight.' She gave in to desire. ‘Come round tonight.'

His finger traced her cheek, her lips, her neck. He didn't kiss her, though he knew she wanted him to.

She watched as he headed for the Art Gallery; the tall dark-haired figure confident now. She felt like a tune Sean had chosen to play.

 

Donna and Jonny's text messages were designed for their eyes only. Three quarters of them were short, repetitive and sexual. A sex act by phone. Bill imagined Jonny sitting in the long night shift, putting in time by fantasising.

The tone only changed near Donna's death. Tense and angry, Jonny demanded to know where Donna was and why she didn't answer. Jonny was running scared. Scared and jealous.

They had never recovered Donna's mobile. Bill was beginning to think Tracey had removed it from the handbag before they arrived at the scene of Donna's death. If Tracey listened to the messages, did that make her suspicious of someone? Is that why she was killed?

He'd insisted on interviewing every footballer who used the lap dancing club, which hadn't gone
down well with the Superintendent. Bill didn't care.

He didn't like any of them on principle. Beckham look-a-likes with money and an inflated sense of their own importance.

The one that sat in front of him now was different. Quietly spoken. Slightly built with the intensity of a young Jimmy Johnstone.

Thomas Watkins. Bill had seen the name in the paper a lot recently. A rising star. Scotland's hope for the future. A lot of pressure for a nineteen year old.

Bill pushed Donna's photo across the interview table.

‘Donna Stevens. Known to you as Rose.'

Thomas gave the photo a quick glance. Too quick.

‘Sorry. Don't know her.'

Bill consulted his notebook. ‘You and three mates booked Rose on the night of the... '

‘We booked Rose, but it wasn't this girl.'

Bill withdrew Donna's picture and substituted Tracey's battered body.

The face went white. Bill could swear he heard the stomach churn.

Watkins' voice was a whisper. ‘That's her.'

Bill waited.

Watkins cleared his throat. ‘My mates were a bit high. She chose me first, probably because I wasn't as drunk as them. I liked her but the rest of the guys gave her a hard time.'

‘How?'

‘Called her names, handled her... ' He wasn't proud of this.

‘And?'

‘I went back to apologise the next day. We drank champagne. She danced. I left.'

‘You brought your own rose.'

He looked startled. ‘How did you know...'

‘You bought roses in Marks and Spencers. Someone recognised you.'

‘I bought a bunch. I was going to give them to her to apologise.'

‘And then you poisoned her.'

‘What?'

‘Tracey was given strychnine in a drink.'

‘Not by me.'

‘Then dumped in a skip.'

‘No!'

He was shocked, but there was fear there too.
Fear that he was linked in some way to the crime. Bill went for it.

‘The mouth swab you gave. What if I told you we found a DNA match in Donna's flat.'

Watkins thought about that. ‘You can't have. You're lying.'

Bill was, but he didn't let it show. ‘Amazing what you find between the sheets – bits of skin, hair, semen. I believe you had sex with Donna Stevens the night she died.'

For a moment, Bill thought his instinct was wrong. Then Watkins' face crumpled: ‘Okay. Okay. I was with her that night. But I didn't kill her.'

Bill waited patiently.

‘She really wanted that dress. Showed me a picture of it. She said her boyfriend would kill her if he found out...' he stopped suddenly realising what he'd said.

‘Go on.'

‘That was supposed to be the last time I saw her. One last time, that's what she said.'

‘But you didn't want that, did you?'

A quick flush crept up the pale neck and across the face.

‘You were angry with Donna because she wouldn't see you again. And you'd spent all that money on her.'

Watkins swallowed hard, his lips trembling. Bill almost felt sorry for him.

‘I want to speak to my solicitor.'

‘I think you'd better.'

 

There were hardly any bits missing, only slithers here and there. If you looked at it casually, you were looking at a whole bottle.

Rhona dusted it all over with lampblack powder, pulled over the light and lifted the magnifying glass. Donna was the last person to handle the bottle, most likely by the neck. But Donna had been wearing long black gloves as part of her devil's outfit.

Rhona concentrated the magnifying glass on the lower part of the bottle. When she spotted the print, her heart leapt in her chest. She quickly took a series of photos. Then applied the lifting tape.

Her old mentor had been right. A murderer will always leave something of himself at the scene of crime, however well hidden.

‘I have a print from the broken bottle.'

Bill was incredulous. ‘How the hell did you do that?'

‘I'll explain later. I ran a check on it and a name came up. Alec Bankfoot. Convicted of assault on a prostitute in 1995, sentenced to two years.'

‘But Thomas Watkins was the one with the rose.'

‘Watkins didn't kill Donna or Tracey.'

‘But we thought Donna knew her killer.'

‘She did.' A horrible thought had entered her head. ‘Is there a policeman guarding Jonny Simpson?'

‘No. But his mate Banks has taken time off work to sit with him. Seems he's there round the clock.'

There was a brief silence as they both digested this. Then Rhona said:

‘I'll meet you at the hospital in fifteen minutes.'

The room smelt of disinfectant and singed flesh. Jonny lay still and alone. Rhona pulled up a chair and sat beside him. She tried to imagine what it
would be like to lose your love in such a way and to feel responsible.

She would probably want to die. It would be the only way to truly forget.

Banks came in and stood behind her.

‘How is he?' she said.

‘He's going to die.'

‘They've told you that?'

‘He's given up. I'm his mate. I can feel it.'

She looked up at his cold furious face.

‘That bitch did this. I told him what she was, but he wouldn't listen. He wanted to marry her, can you believe it? You screw bitches like that, you don't marry them.'

He turned away. ‘I'm going for a coffee.'

She waited until he was at the door before she called him back.

‘Alec!'

He turned instinctively. For a moment he didn't know what he'd done. Then realisation dawned on his face and he came at her.

She tried to duck the blow but he was too quick, a fireman's reaction. His big hand circled her neck. She felt herself lift off the floor then the lights went out.

Somewhere in the darkness she heard Bill's voice shout her name.

 

‘Banks was seeing Donna before Jonny met her at the club. He was obsessed by her. When Jonny started to go out with Donna, Banks did everything he could to stop it. To him Donna was a thing. To Jonny she was the woman he loved. Donna didn't tell Jonny about Banks. Firemen are close mates. They have to be. Their lives depend on it. Sharing women screws that up. But she told Tracey. Which is why Tracey died.'

‘Donna loved Jonny,' Rhona said.

‘That's what Banks hated most. The fact they loved each other. Donna used what she had to give herself a future.'

‘A fairytale wedding dress.'

‘A romantic trying to live in the real world,' Bill said.

Rhona smiled. ‘A bit like yourself.'

‘So. What's happening with the saxophone player?'

‘How do I explain fingerprint bruising on my neck?'

‘You'll think of something.'

Sean fell asleep as soon as they finishing making love. The French called such sudden sleep,
the little death
. Rhona reached out and touched the warm cheek.

Love and death.

When she explained about the bruising on her neck, Sean had called her Lady Death. At the height of passion it sounded sexy and exciting.

When he woke, Rhona was in the kitchen making coffee. Sean wrapped his arms about her and placed a kiss in the hollow of her neck.

‘What you said... about us... ' she began.

He turned her round, hope on his face.

‘Yes?'

‘We could give it a try?'

Rhona remembered the scent of Sean's skin long after he left. She walked through the flat, imagining him there, wondering how it would
feel to share her space with him... and found herself smiling.

She and Sean were bound together now. For how long, she had no way of knowing.