Darkness Looking Back, The (3 page)

'He seems to like playing detective, doesn't he?' Kirkpatrick's tone was thoughtful. Another couple of seconds passed before he said, 'Right, well, I'll let you get on with it. I know it's not going to be pleasant, but we have to do it. The price of justice is bloody steep these days.' He sighed. 'Like everything else. Good luck.'

Kirkpatrick clicked off. Stirling jabbed the end button with his thumb and slowly walked back to the kitchen. Hiscocks and Nielsen both looked up when he opened the door. Hiscocks was looking much better. He was chatting softly to Nielsen about his wife, looking beaten but finally calm. Stirling cursed all the few stars he could name.

'Excuse me, sir, I wondered if I might ask you something.'

Watching Ian Hiscocks' expression change to shock, then denial and anger, seeing the tears come back to the surface, he also cursed James Paxton.

'SO THAT'S WHY you joined the force, Andy, is it? You just can't resist consorting with freaks and lowlifes.'

Stirling stopped as a familiar voice nailed him between the shoulder blades. 'Oh sorry, Ray. Did I miss our lunch date?'

He checked his watch, turning in time to see the smirk segue into a scowl on DS Gardner's pasty face.

Gardner's retort was hamstrung by the entrance of Nielsen, fresh from parking the car. He limited himself to: 'You'll wise up one day, Andy. And that'll be a lesson you'll never forget.'

'Stirling? Wise? That'll be the day.' It was Nielsen's first attempt at a smile since they'd left Hiscocks. It wasn't a very good one.

'You hear what Andy's been up to?'

Nielsen looked between the two of them, out of the loop and not liking it. 'Andy's been out with me.'

'No, Vicky, this was last night. Remember our New Age friend from the stranglings last winter? I told you about him.'

'You mean that psychic guy?'

'Yeah. Well, guess who Andy's all chummy with? He went to him for a reading on your victim last night.'

'That's bullshit,' Stirling muttered. 'He's just a friend. And he's not like that — he
hates
all this psychic shit.'

'Then why the hell is he always sticking his nose in? Or was going round to her house
your
bright idea?'

'What's this?' Nielsen's face was turned towards Stirling in surprised expectation.

Stirling gritted his teeth. 'I had no idea he'd do that.'

Gardner gave a derisive laugh. 'We couldn't take a step in the last investigation without tripping over the stupid bastard. He's convinced himself he's Sherlock Holmes crossed with What's-His-Name, that moony shyster on TV who tells people their dead grandmothers say hello . . .' He put on a gormless expression that Stirling thought suited him. 'What was her name again? Was it Judy? No, Doris? Maureen?
Mary
, that's right! I knew it began with an M . . .'

'You mean Colin Fry?' asked Nielsen. 'I've watched him when I've been at home with the kids. It was okay. Better than your usual daytime television.'

'Man's had one too many sticks of incense up his nose.'

'I'm off to grab a coffee,' said Stirling. It was that or something else.

'Hurry up, Andy, you might just catch the end of it. Before he blesses everybody.'

Stirling pushed on through the building, hearing their conversation fade behind his back.

'It's on in the afternoons actually. Have you ever even seen it?'

'I don't have time for that rubbish.'

'There are quite a number of things you don't have time for, Ray . . .'

Then Stirling was out on the street, and the voices were gone. He stared at the traffic for a beat or two, then pulled out his cellphone.

THAT WAS THE good thing about this house. You could get from anywhere to the phone in two seconds. Paxton picked it up on the second ring, a boot in his other hand in preparation for heading to Lena's.

'Hello?'

'Oh good. I'm glad you're home. What the hell did you think you were doing last night?'

Paxton blinked. 'They told you.'

'Yes they bloody well told us — and believe me, I heard all about it too.'

'I'm sorry, Andy. I'm really sorry, I didn't mean to —'

'I told you
not
to go sniffing around there, and what do you do? That very same night! I've had the OC on my case, as well as Gardner.'

'Oh shit, not
him
.'

'Yeah, well you've got yourself to thank for that. Do you know how
terrible
that made me feel? The bloke's just finished telling the sergeant what a wonderful woman his wife was, how much in love they were — how she was such a hard-working good Samaritan, at clients' houses at all times of day or night, for Christ's sake!' Stirling's laugh would have frightened a child. 'And
I
have to go in there and tell him
that
. My sergeant looked like I'd shot her. I don't want to tell you what
he
looked like.'

Paxton tried to step back, unmuddy his thoughts. 'I'm sorry it had to be you, Andy. But that's your job. I know I shouldn't have gone round there. I wasn't trying to interfere, I was just looking. But it would all have come out sooner or later. I've only brought you the lead a bit faster. I thought time was of the essence in these sorts of cases.'

'We can't have members of the public willy nilly questioning witnesses!'

'I didn't. It was kind of the other way round, in actual fact.'

'Do you know how much damage that can cause? We've had cases thrown out of court,
months
of hard work flushed down the toilet all because of one word to the wrong person. Not to mention my job! Did you think about that?' Paxton could almost feel Stirling's breath icing up the receiver. 'I can't ever trust you again.'

Paxton felt his own anger getting the better of him. 'Then why did you tell me? You just
happened
to drop by and casually slot all the details of a murder into the conversation! Ta for the coffee, and oh — sorry, did I give you the name, street address and graphic description of this woman who's just been done in? Pardon me, but what the fuck kind of friendly conversation is that?'

There was just heavy breathing down the line. Paxton shook his head in disgust. 'Thanks for all your help on the last one, James. You can piss off now,' he said mockingly. 'You wouldn't have found him if it weren't for me.'

'They thought I was getting a reading done! You should have heard Gardner.'

A second of deadly silence ticked by. 'So that's it. I should have bloody guessed. You're ashamed of me.'

It took Stirling too long to come up with a reply. 'I'm —'

'
That's
your problem, really, isn't it? And I'll bet our favourite detective sergeant was laying it on with a front-end loader. But you still haven't learnt to deal with it, have you?'

'I've had enough of this conversation.'

'Sorry, what conversation?' Paxton hung up.

He sat down on the sofa with a creak of springs.

Well, that's the end of another friendship,
he thought.
I'm becoming an old hand at this.

He bent forward and started pulling on his boots, but his fingers
struggled with the laces.

PERFECT NIGHT FOR Latin dancing, thought Helen McCowan. The sort romance novelists would call sultry, although the gallons of sweat dripping down her front had all the sex appeal of a packed lunch. It was well after midnight. Their dance group had chosen to celebrate in its usual style, and now that she was back on her own doorstep she had to admit she was half cut as well as half dead. She flapped her blouse to create a bit of air, wiping the droplets off her top lip.
I'd ft in well with all those spicy Latin senoritas. I've got the moustache to match.

'What are you grinning at?' asked Rob, his habitual twinkle in his eye. It sounded more like 'Wha' are
yew
grunnin' ah?' More than two decades abroad hadn't even put a dent in the armour-plated Glasgae.

'Never you mind,' Helen retorted. 'I don't want to be giving you ideas tonight. I'm tired.'

'Oh really? You still look pretty perky to me.' He reached out and gave her left breast a squeeze. She jumped, giggling, slapping him away.

'Randy Rob, that's what I should call you. Just got into dancing so you could feel up women.'

'Och, rubbish! I got in so I could ogle 'em.
You
were the one introduced all the groping. I didnae know where to look! I'd 'a run from sheer embarrassment, except I couldn't walk!'

'Oh, that's bloody typical of you lying Scots. Making up all these stories about how the English did you over. Boo hoo! You'll be hoeing into my Johnnie Walker and whistling "Scotland the Brave" in a minute.'

Rob grinned. 'Can I take that as an invitation?'

'No.' She smiled at him cheekily from the doorstep. 'You'll have to go whistle elsewhere. You're not getting anything out of me tonight but snoring.'

'Ah, spoken like a true Scotswoman. Sounds like the name's rubbing off . . .'

'My dearly departed was as Yorkshire as I am, Scotty boy. He'd have eaten
your
haggis for breakfast.'

Rob smirked. 'Yorkshire born, Yorkshire bred, strong in the arm, thick in the —'

'Oh piss off, you porridge-eating twit.' Helen shut the door in his face.

A second later, the door reopened and two twinkling eyes peered around it. 'Come on, it's only just been Hogmanay! Can I at least come round for a drink tomorrow?

Finally Helen shut the door, tired but almost giddy with it. Nothing like Latin dancing for putting a bit of a sparkle back into the week. It was an adrenaline rush, way better than putting her feet up alone in the fat and scoffing Tim Tams in front of the telly. The attentions of a certain charming and totally immodest Scotsman weren't entirely unpleasant either. Helen slung her handbag on the sofa, wondering if she were really all that tired after all. Lord knew, Rob knew plenty of ways to keep a woman from sleeping. He was almost as good on his feet . . . But she heard his car starting up in the drive, and saw the lights swing round as he backed onto the road. No hard feelings, she knew. Rob always liked a challenge.

Helen went into the kitchen, suddenly in need of a strong cup of coffee. A flash of something dark and a soft thud at the window stopped her heart for a moment, but it was only Morris, the cat, leaping over the sill. She left it half open for him in the summer, and for the breeze. Nothing for intruders to steal in here; not on her pension. Not unless you counted her blood, which the thieving mozzies took in pints. She pulled the window shut and put the kettle on, spooning the sugar into the mug. Her mother would have turned in her grave, but why bother with a mingy little china cup when you could damn well have a whole mug of the stuff? Left more room for the whisky too. Say something for the Scots, they were all mad as stoats, but they could do great things with grains. Helen splashed in a fair measure of Johnnie Walker.
Only half a bottle left
, she thought.
Better cut back on the coffee
. . .

A hand shot out from behind her, latching onto the bottle and ripping it from her grasp before she was even aware of it happening. Her head was still stupidly turned towards her empty hand when the bottle landed hard on the back of her skull. It didn't shatter — that time. It landed again, harder, glass and Scotch exploding over her shoulders. Helen staggered forward, her knees buckling, throwing a hand out to the bench to save herself from falling. Her mind was out of service, simply flashing up useless questions —
Who? Why? What?

A hand grabbed her by the back of her blouse, while another pressed hard on her mouth. A voice rasped in her ear. 'Who are you thinking of now you're about to die, Helen?'

Staring ahead, Helen saw the kettle not far from her hand. She seized it, twisted round and slopped a load of boiling water on her attacker.

Through the crushing pain in her head she heard him scream. Feeling a rush of adrenaline, she spun round, arms raised, ready to fight with everything she had. Damned if she was some little old duck, wetting herself with fear in her own home. As she raised her hand to strike him, her eyes lit on his flushed face, and the blow didn't land with all the force she'd intended. Her jaw fell open, her eyes widening, as recognition hit. Then his fist hit her face.

Helen let out a gargle of pain. He used that second of distraction to wrench the kettle out of her hand, and brought it down like an anvil on her head. It was as heavy as a full tin of paint. The kettle was still half full of water, which swilled out of the nozzle, scalding her upper body. She fought him, of course she did, but she was only making it worse for herself, jogging more boiling water onto her tender skin. Adding to the pain of more and more direct hits from the kettle, until it was impossible to know where the pain stopped and she began . . .

Finally the blows stopped. She was no longer putting up a fight. Or breathing either. He watched her for a minute, feeling his own breathing slowly normalise. He gave her head a sharp kick. It flopped back, the eyes unblinking. He turned and opened her kitchen drawers, going through them until he found what he was looking for. A sharp knife. He knelt by her warm body, raised the knife high, then nailed it hard through her chest. Straight into her heart. Then he rose and stepped over her body, heading for the handbag on the sofa. He tipped it out on the cushions. A whole pile of crap — typical female. He extracted her purse from under a packet of tissues and a bottle of perfume.

She had forty dollars in there. He folded it and stuck it in his pocket, but it wasn't what he was after. Her credit card was a Visa, issued to Helen M. McCowan. He turned it in his fingers and smiled. Going to the phone, he picked up the receiver and dialled. Difficult to hit the correct numbers in these gloves. It took a while for them to pick up, time for him to get his tone right.

He looked at her while he waited. The blood on her white blouse went beautifully with the red and black flamenco skirt, rucked up to reveal her scrawny, flopping chicken legs, spotted with age marks. The skin on her face glowed like a boiled lobster where the water had got it, and patched her upper arms. He raised his sopping shirt and looked at the damage the water had done to his own stomach. It was an angry red and, now the adrenaline was leaving him, it hurt like hell. But at least it wasn't visible. He looked back at the dead body on the floor. Her mouth gaped open and gummy, oozing blood, missing the upper row of false teeth that lay near his foot. He kicked them idly, watching them skate through the pool on the floor, leaving a trail of red until they hit her outstretched hand. Even from here, she seemed to be screaming. He smiled again as they answered.

'Hi — yeah, I'd like to request a couple of titles.'