Twelve Days of Winter (7 page)

‘See,’ Val beamed, more content than she’d ever been in her whole life, ‘I told you it would work.’

‘Yes. Yes you did.’ Norman leaned over and kissed her, then turned the car around and drove them home.

The sky sparkles in the pink glow of dawn: quarter past nine on a cold December morning and the air is crisp. Normally they’d go to the boating lake in Montgomery Park, but today is special. Today they’re going out on the river.

Shrieks and giggles echo out across the dark, sluggish water as the small flotilla of rowing boats pushes away from Dundas House. The girls are noisy and boisterous: all keyed up because they’ve won the regional finals. Next stop: Edinburgh and the Scottish under fifteens’ swimming championship. This is their day and they’re going to enjoy it.

‘Please, sir.’ It’s Sarah Morrison: breaststroke; tall and gangly with long ginger hair and a complexion like bleached bones; just on the cusp of twelve and changing from a confident wee girl into a shy teenager. ‘Are we going to be on The Bellows long?’

James Kirkhill looks over his shoulder at the snail-shaped island in the middle of the river. A pair of dilapidated buildings cling to the rocks and grass, brooding silently. Mourning their missing inmates. The faded blue and white sign still says ‘M
AC
A
NDREW
’
S
S
ANATORIUM
’, but no-one’s been treated here since the end of World War II. ‘About four hours, plenty of time to do some sketching, take some photos. . .’ He nudged the hamper sitting at his feet. ‘Have a picnic. Why?’

‘Oh.’ She blushes, looks away. ‘I just wondered is all.’

James throws her a wink, even though he’s old enough to be her grandfather. ‘Got to be back in time for a hot date, is that it? Who’s the lucky boy?’

Sarah’s blush goes nuclear and the other two girls in the boat laugh. She mumbles something, and puts her back into the rowing. Her oar slices through the water. Sitting next to her, Danielle takes this as a challenge and matches her stroke for stroke.

‘Slow down, slow down. . .’ James holds up his hands, grinning. ‘We’ll end up in Norway at this rate. Got to give the rest of the team a chance to catch up.’

Danielle. She’s got gold medal written all over her. Popular, mature beyond her years, friendly, attractive, smart, outgoing, and one hell of a swimmer. Give her another four years and she’ll be
unstoppable
. Everything is going to happen for Danielle. She’s radiant.

Half an hour later they’re tying up at the old jetty, clambering up the stone steps and running all over the island.

James takes a deep breath and makes a loudhailer out of his hands. ‘Be
careful
, no swimming, make sure you’ve got someone with you at all times!’ His words echo impotently between the buildings’ empty husks. ‘I mean it!’

James wraps the scarf tightly around his neck and sets out for a brisk walk around the island. Trying to keep warm. Eventually he finds a spot in the lee of the staff wing, where the morning sun has melted the frost from the grass. Leaving it a rich and vibrant—

‘And were you alone at this point?’

James Kirkhill looked up from the table, blinking – as if he was trying to remember where he was.

Interview room number six was in the old part of Force Headquarters: peeling paint, stained carpet tiles, a scratched table, and four creaky plastic seats. A storage radiator clunked away to itself in the corner, the smell of burning dust mingling with the sour armpit stink coming from DI George ‘Stinky’ McClain. Not his fault. It was glandular. But James Arnold Kirkhill didn’t seem to notice, just sat there staring at the tabletop.

He was an English teacher at Kingsmeath Secondary: mid-fifties, slightly overweight, trendy oval glasses, and purple bags under his eyes. Wild grey hair and nine pm stubble.

At least he’d stopped crying. According to the DS who’d interviewed him after the accident, the man could barely speak for blubbering.

‘Was I alone? I think so.’ He wrapped his arms around himself. ‘It was the only warm place on the island and I’m . . . well, I broke my ankle a couple of years back and it aches when it’s cold. I was going to read my book.’

‘But you didn’t?’

A frown. ‘What?’

‘You said you were “
going
to read your book”. That implies something else came up.’

‘Oh. . . No, just a turn of phrase. I was reading a Ruth Rendell.’ A fleeting smile. ‘My guilty secret.’

‘OK. So it’s just you and Ruth Rendell. No one else was there. Then what happened?’

‘I’ve already been over all of this.’

‘I know, but it’s better if I hear it first-hand. In your own words.’ There was a long pause. George drummed his fingers on the tabletop. ‘You want a cup of tea, or something? I can get DC Richardson here fetch it if you like?’

Kirkhill didn’t say a word, just shook his head and gave a long, shuddering sigh.

The girls are having a great time. It took some organizing – not many people visit The Bellows these days – but James knew they’d love it.

That’s the great thing about coaching the under fifteens’ swimming club: the enthusiasm. Give them a few years and they’ll turn sullen and cynical. But right now they’re still young enough to enjoy themselves without feeling self-conscious.

Well, everyone except Sarah. She sits off on her own, staring out over the Kings River towards the castle. Pining.

Probably thinking about her boyfriend.

James calls them all together at half past twelve. It’s time for the picnic.

They come from all over the island, running, laughing, their breath streaming out behind them.

Danielle takes the role of ‘Mother’, handing out the sandwiches and vegetarian whatnots while he cracks open a couple of thermos flasks, pouring cream-of-tomato soup into polystyrene cups. The steam fogs up his glasses.

After lunch, they pack everything back into the picnic hamper and get in the boats for the trip home.

Sarah’s distracted, her rowing sloppy. She’s been chewing at her fingernails, worrying them down to the quick.

Danielle tries to cheer her up, but it doesn’t work. She rolls her eyes at James and pulls a face. Isn’t Sarah
silly
. . .

And then there’s a loud thump and the boat lurches sideways. Danielle is half out of her seat, hauling on the oar when it happens. One minute she’s in the boat, the next she’s in the dark, swirling water.

Oh dear Lord. . .

It’s a moment before anyone can react. James scrambles to the side of the boat, reaching for her, but she’s gone.

Three feet from the boat: a flash of blonde hair, a flailing arm, a shriek. He grabs Danielle’s abandoned oar and tries to reach her with it.

Splashing.

Panic.

Sarah screams.

Danielle surfaces again, bright red blood coursing down her face. She splutters, arms and legs thrashing in the cold water, as—

‘Thought you said she was a strong swimmer.’ George sat back in his creaky plastic seat, frowning.

‘She. . . We’d only just eaten. It was bitterly cold. The shock must have been terrible. Unable to breathe. . .’

‘Why wasn’t she wearing a life jacket?’

‘I. . .’ He shook his head. Shivered. ‘I don’t know, I thought she was, but it’s all so difficult. . .’

‘So you tried to reach her with the oar?’

She’s drifting further and further from the boat, churning the water around her, head slipping beneath the surface. All around him the girls are screaming as he fights with the river for Danielle’s life.

Too far away.

He shoves Sarah to the floor of the boat, grabs both oars and rows for all he’s worth; muscles groaning, wood creaking. Faster: row
faster
.

This is his only chance. ‘Grab my hand!’

She reaches, but her fingers slip through his. Danielle goes under again. James plunges his arm into the icy water, gritting his teeth against the pain. Grabbing for her. . .

She’s struggling . . . so
cold
 . . . and then she’s gone.

‘Her. . .’ Kirkhill swallowed, the tears starting again. ‘We found her body caught up on Calderwell Bridge. She. . . She was. . . Oh God. . .’ He buried his head in his hands and sobbed.

‘I see.’ George pulled a sheet of paper from the pathologist’s preliminary report. ‘We did a post mortem on Danielle’s body: just routine, we do them following any fatal accident. You’ve been a naughty, naughty boy, haven’t you Mr Kirkhill?’

The teacher stared at him, mouth going up and down, but nothing came out. He cleared his throat. ‘I. . . I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

‘No? You mean you don’t remember sexually assaulting a girl in your care?’

‘What?’ His eyes widened. ‘No. . . I never!’

‘Come off it, Kirkhill. The pathologist says Danielle was sexually active, and guess what happened when we went through her diary?’ He held up a clear evidence pouch with a hard-backed jotter in it. The pink cover was festooned with blue biro hearts.

‘I never touched her, I swear!’

‘She was pretty – I saw her before they cut her open – very well-developed for a twelve-year-old. Did you tell her you’d make her a woman?’

‘I never touched her!’

‘How about this then?’ George pulled the pink diary out of the evidence bag and flipped it open. A yellow post-it note marked the place. ‘Thirteenth of July. “James came to me after swimming practice today. He looks so handsome in his new glasses. He waited till all the other girls were gone then kissed me in the showers. I was trembling and naked, but he—”’

‘It never happened! She’s making it up!’

‘“—took me in his arms, the warmth of his body burning through his tweed jacket—”’

Kirkhill grabbed George’s arm, pulling the book away. ‘Look, it happens all the time. The girls: they get a crush on their teachers. It’s a difficult age for them, all those hormones. It’s just fantasy!’

‘Fantasy?’

‘Yes!’

‘I see.’ George nodded. ‘So you won’t mind giving us a DNA sample then?’

‘DNA. . .?’

‘If it’s just a fantasy.’

‘I. . .’

‘To be honest, it doesn’t really matter if you want to, or not. I’m detaining you on suspicion of sexually abusing a minor. That means I can get fingerprints, blood, urine, DNA, whatever I want.’

‘But—’

‘And then we’ll see if your DNA is a paternal match for the foetus Professor Muir cut out of Danielle this afternoon.’

Kirkhill sat there with his mouth hanging open. Like a startled fish. ‘I. . . But. . .’

George held the book up and started reading again, ‘“It hurt a little at first, but it was so beautiful having him deep inside me. Thrusting, thrusting. . .”’

It only took the Identification Bureau’s forensic science lab an hour and a half to make the match. James Thomas Kirkhill was the father.

Kirkhill stared at the report on the table in front of him. ‘Danielle was . . . she was more mature than anyone I’d ever met. Always knew what she wanted and how to get it. I mean she was
brilliant
, but manipulative with it. . .’ He licked his lips. ‘But I never did anything improper! Nothing. I loved her, yes, but it was . . . it was a
spiritual
love. I never laid a hand on her.’

‘So how come she’s carrying your kid then? Second coming is it? Immaculate conception?’

‘I. . .’ He picked at the skin around a fingernail until it bled. ‘I was going through a bout of depression, the anniversary of Molly’s death, I’d been drinking.’

‘And you thought you’d just help yourself to some hot twelve-year-old-schoolgirl action?’

‘No!’ Kirkhill shook his head, tears sparkling in the overhead lights. ‘Danielle turned up unannounced. I was about halfway through a bottle of Bowmore. Just going to drink the day away, get it over with. Try not to think about those last six months in the hospital, watching her die. . .’ He sniffed, wiped his face with a wrinkled hand. ‘Danielle said she wanted to make it all better, kept pouring whisky into me. I was drunk, I didn’t know what I was doing! She set the whole thing up. . . The next day at school she’s telling me we’re meant to be together.’ He blinked up at George, eyes glistening. ‘She made the whole thing happen.’

George placed the DNA report back in the file. ‘And did she make it happen again?’

Kirkhill’s mouth fell open. ‘No! Never! She wanted to, but I wouldn’t let her!’

‘So how come her diary’s full of the pair of you shagging?’

He grabbed George’s hands. ‘Please, you’ve got to believe me: she’s making it all up! She wasn’t like other girls her age, she was . . . so
focussed
on what she wanted. It’s why she was such a great swimmer, and—’

‘Not that great a swimmer: she drowned.’

‘I swear to you, I never laid a hand on her. Not since that first time when she got me drunk. Never.’

George took his hands back, tilted his head to one side, and gave Kirkhill a good hard stare.

Poor old git was probably telling the truth. There was something about girls that age that always made George’s flesh crawl. Like you could hear the Machiavellian wheels spinning inside them. People thought young men were the aggressive ones, but young women were fucking vicious. And Kirkhill was obviously wracked with shame and guilt. A grown man outmanoeuvred by a twelve-year-old girl.

George was about to suspend the interview when DS Raith barged through door and waved a manila folder at him. ‘Sorry to interrupt, Guv, but you might want to take a look at these.’ She stood against the wall, face impassive as George flicked through the report and attached pictures.

‘You. . .’ He cleared his throat and stared at Kirkhill. ‘You say that it only happened the one time, and that Danielle was responsible?’

The teacher nodded.

‘Well, want to have a go at explaining how these got onto your home computer then?’ He slapped the pictures down on the tabletop, one after the other. A series of explicit, hard-core pornography, all featuring Danielle and her school swimming coach – James Kirkhill.