Deadly Harm Page 4

  She’d tensed as if she was about to come at him again, then thought better of it and stayed down. Sanderson smashed the glass against the wall, staggered to the bedroom and collapsed on the bed, instantly asleep.

  One half-closed eye watched him go.

  The banging was like a drum beating underwater in Peter Sanderson’s head. Whoever was at the door clearly didn’t intend to leave until they got an answer. He dragged himself downstairs, still affected from the night before. A champagne hangover was the worst. The police officer eyed him up and down and introduced himself. ‘Morning, sir. Sorry to disturb you. I’m Sergeant Vernon and this is Constable Owens. Mind if we come in?’

  ‘What’s this about?’

  ‘I’d prefer to discuss it inside.’

  The constable was young enough to be his grandson. Sanderson wasn’t a fan of the police. In the lounge of his own home, he was damned if he’d hide it. ‘Okay, for the second time, what’s this about?’

  The sergeant answered with a question. ‘Are you the owner of a Mercedes registration DAX 437?’ He rattled off the number like an accusation and stared impassively, maybe expecting him to deny it. The chat was lifted straight from some training manual; stiff and wooden and meant to intimidate. They’d come to the wrong door. Peter Sanderson wasn’t in the mood. ‘You already know I am.’

  The sergeant kept his voice even. ‘Is that a yes, sir?’

  Sanderson sighed; his aching temple reminded him to give Moet a miss. Or count what he drank in glasses rather than bottles. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Where is the car now?’

  ‘In the fucking garage, where else?’

  The flicker of a smile pulled at the corners of the policeman’s mouth and disappeared. ‘Are you certain about that?’

  Sanderson was suddenly less sure of his ground. ‘I parked it last night before I went out.’

  ‘Could you check please, sir?’

  Sanderson stomped off, cursing, and was back a minute later. ‘What the fuck’s going on here?’

  The sergeant read from a notebook in police-speak. ‘At approximately ten past five this morning, we received a report of a burned-out vehicle on the–’

  ‘What the fuck!’

  ‘–on the A891 between Strathblane and Lennoxtown. Can you explain how the vehicle came to be there, who was driving, and why this incident wasn’t reported as required by law?’

  ‘No, I can’t. As I’ve already said, I parked it before I went out. After that, what happened is obvious, isn’t it?’

  ‘Is it?’

  ‘Somebody must have stolen it.’

  ‘In that case there should be some sign of forced entry. Do you mind if we take a look?’

  A statement of intent masquerading as a question.

  The officers inspected the garage door and found nothing.

  Back inside, the questions continued. ‘Where are the keys kept?’

  ‘Upstairs.’

  ‘Can you get them for me?’

  ‘They’re on the bedside table.’

  ‘Do we have your permission to get them, or would you prefer to do that yourself?’

  ‘Just hurry up about it and get out of my house.’

  The sergeant nodded to the constable.

  When he returned, he shook his head imperceptibly to the senior man and Sanderson started to understand: the bitch had landed him in it – she’d waited until he was asleep and taken the car. The policeman’s neutral tone didn’t waver. ‘The garage doors open electrically. Was the remote control with the car key?’

  ‘Of course. Where else would it be?’

  ‘I’ve no idea, sir. That’s why I’m asking you.’

  The full force of the hangover hit Sanderson, his stomach turned and he thought he might be sick. Above the roaring in his head, the questions kept coming. ‘Where were you last night?’

  ‘In town.’

  ‘What were you doing?’

  ‘Having dinner.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘The Rogano.’

  ‘Alone?’

  ‘No, with my wife.’

  The notebook came out again. ‘Could we have a word with her?’

  Sanderson snarled. ‘Nobody’s stopping you.’

  ‘Is she here?’

  Sanderson couldn’t keep his anger in check. ‘Does it look as if she’s here? Does it?’

  The officer stayed calm. ‘Can you tell me where we can find her?’

  ‘She can’t tell you anything I haven’t.’

  ‘I’d still like to speak to her.’

  ‘You and me both.’

  The sergeant said, ‘Your car was found abandoned in the early hours of this morning – something you appear to have been unaware of until a few moments ago. You claim it must’ve been stolen, although there’s nothing here to suggest that. I’m trying to establish what exactly happened. Your wife may have witnessed something you didn’t.’

  ‘Okay, okay. Keep your fucking hair on. I’ll see if she’s sleeping.’

  They heard him climb the stairs. The constable raised his eyebrows and voiced what they were both thinking. ‘Bloody obvious what’s happened. They’ve had a right royal bust-up. She’s done a runner to get away from him and crashed the car.’

  Sergeant Vernon agreed. ‘Looks like it. Place is a shambles. He’s cut and bruised and smells like a brewery. Hasn’t a clue where she is, let alone their car.’

  They stopped talking when Sanderson came back down. ‘She must’ve gone out. And before you start, I’ve no idea where.’

  ‘Could you telephone her, please? It’s important we speak to her.’

  Sanderson’s mobile was on the floor beside an overturned chair. He picked it up and punched speed dial. Caitlin’s number was unobtainable. ‘Must have her phone switched off.’

  His explanation was unconvincing; the policemen exchanged knowing looks.

  ‘May I ask how you got those cuts on your face?’

  ‘I fell.’

  Not very original.

  An image swam like a shark on the edge of Sanderson’s memory, a featureless shape he’d rather not face – Caitlin on the floor glaring up at him, her face red and twisted.

  don’t be here in the morning

  ‘Then I’m afraid I’ll have to ask you to come with us.’

  Peter Sanderson got down on one knee, picking at the charred bark, crumbling it between his fingers. Eventually – after twelve fucking hours – the police had let him go; the bastards certainly enjoyed their job. The taxi driver who’d picked them up in Queen Street had confirmed how out of it he’d been and they’d accepted he couldn’t have made it home from the burning car.

  Sanderson gently caressed the marks on his cheek, imagining how it had been: Caitlin behind the wheel, her face taut with fear as the Mercedes – his Mercedes – skidded on the wet road, swerved out of control and crashed into the tree. The police hadn’t found a body in the blackened shell, so she’d got out before the fire scorched her tight little arse.

  He pulled his coat around him and dug his hands into the pockets. The insurance people had already said they’d inspect what was left of the Merc in the next few days – he’d be hearing from them once the police completed their report. Sanderson understood: insurance companies were another shower of bastards. The very last thing they intended to do – ever – was pay out on a claim. Proof of negligence on his part would be the excuse they’d be searching for. No sign of forced entry didn’t help his case. And the business they were in was legal? Well, the bastards would be getting the bill for the hire car.

  Black tyre tracks dug into the road – the stupid bitch had to be doing eighty at least, which meant she’d either miraculously walked away or somebody had given her a lift, probably to a hospital. Except, the police checked that out and found nothing. Lennoxtown was a couple of miles. Lenzie and Kirkintilloch beyond that. Sanderson shook his head; she could be anywhere by now. If it was him, he certainly wouldn’t hang around here – the back end of nowhere.
At the house he’d looked for her passport. Sure enough, she’d taken it. The cow could be lying on a beach in Spain by now.

  A vague memory flashed behind his eyes: he’d given some old dosser fifty quid. And he’d splashed it about a bit. But could he really have got through three grand? No way. The bitch had to have helped herself.

  Sanderson took no responsibility. This was down to her. A car drove by. He watched it go, talking out loud to no-one, spitting resentment against the wind.

  ‘Think you can fuck Peter Sanderson? Well, think a-fucking-gain.’

  6

  Women Together Conference

  Crowne Plaza Hotel

  Glasgow

  In the room a stone’s throw from the River Clyde, every seat was taken. At eleven o’clock the crowd hushed in anticipation. For two days they’d listened to female celebrities and prominent Scottish politicians give fiery speeches about violence against women and the need to end it. Stirring stuff. So far, nobody had heard from a victim.

  That was about to change.

  To the side of the stage, out of sight, Mackenzie heard the chairwoman lay out a potted history of events too harrowing for words, omitting the most graphic details. ‘The premeditated callousness alone would’ve been enough to break a lesser spirit. Not her. She recovered and fought back. Since then the refuge she opened has offered sanctuary to many women and helped them rebuild their lives.’

  Mackenzie’s mouth was dry, her heart beating so fast she thought she might faint, and her palms were moist. Coming here was a mistake. She should never have told Gavin about the invitation to speak at the conference. Her brother had been adamant: it was an honour she couldn’t turn down. ‘The media will be there – STV, The Herald, some of the nationals probably. Got no choice, sis. Never get a better chance.’

  ‘I don’t want a better chance. Besides, I’d be too nervous.’

  ‘In the beginning, sure. Then you’ll hit your stride. You have to do it.’

  ‘Why? Why me?’

  ‘Because you’re the real deal, not some policy wonk from Holyrood or Westminster. An ordinary person who refused to let what happened to her define the rest of her life.’

  ‘You make it sound noble when it was anything but. You know, you were there.’

  Gavin had shaken his head. ‘It’s more than noble, it’s inspirational, can’t you see that? What you’ve done in the last five years is amazing. Your story helps women trapped in abusive relationships find the courage to break free.’

  Mackenzie had scoffed. ‘Should I tell them about being afraid to go out of the house for months, even after it was over? Being spooked by every man who passed and if any so much as looked at me, running away as fast as I could? What about the nightmares every time I closed my eyes? What about the baseball bats I still keep under my bed and in my car? Will they want to hear about them?’

  ‘Tell them the truth, whatever it is. They need to hear from a survivor.’

  ‘And that’s me?’

  He hadn’t forgotten the cellar in the derelict house where she’d been held captive by a monster for nine days and nights. ‘Yeah,’ Gavin had said, ‘I think it is.’

  They sat in the kitchen after breakfast, gathered round the big wooden table surrounded by the smell of bacon and coffee. Doreen was in her pink dressing gown, flicking through the paper until she found what she was looking for. ‘It’s on page seven.’

  ‘What does it say?’

  She scanned the article, speed-reading to the end. ‘Doesn’t mention you.’

  Mackenzie wasn’t upset. Pushing herself forward didn’t come easily. Without Gavin’s encouragement she would’ve turned down the invitation. In the aftermath of the ordeal in the Lowther Hills, she’d had enough of the spotlight to last a lifetime and didn’t need any more.

  Sylvia felt differently, annoyed enough for both of them. ‘How can somebody write about yesterday and not include you? What’s the reporter’s name?’

  Doreen ran her finger up to the byline. ‘Gina Calvi.’

  ‘A woman? And she missed you out?’

  ‘It wasn’t about me. Other people made speeches: famous people.’

  Sylvia didn’t see it like that. ‘Famous? What’s that got to do with anything? You’ve been there and come out the other side. Doesn’t that count?’

  they need to hear from a survivor

  Sylvia’s expression was rigid with indignation. Mackenzie said, ‘Don’t get yourself worked up about it. I’m not trying to save the world. All I care about is the refuge and the women who come here.’

  ‘We know, but leaving you out of the article seems bloody strange,’ Doreen said. ‘Have you met Gina Calvi?’

  ‘Not so far as I know, why?’

  Doreen folded the paper and put it on the table. ‘Wondered if there’s a reason she didn’t like you.’

  It was time to close this down. Sylvia and Doreen meant well, defending her when she hadn’t even been attacked. They were reading too much into the article. Nice, though unnecessary. Mackenzie had work to do. ‘Look, I’m flattered you think she should’ve included me, but she’s entitled to say whatever she wants. If that means leaving me out, then I’m fine about it.’

  ‘Except she didn’t talk about the refuge either.’

  ‘Maybe that’s just as well. We’re full ninety-nine percent of the year. Publicity would only attract more. As it is it breaks my heart to turn people away. I’m just grateful we’re here.’ She changed the subject. ‘Was that Caitlin I heard singing this morning? What a lovely voice.’

  ‘Yeah, she’s settled in well, hasn’t she? Probably won’t need to be here much longer.’

  Sylvia said, ‘The refuge has worked its magic yet again.’

  Mackenzie went upstairs and lay on the bed, staring at the ceiling, thinking about the day before: at nine o’clock a car picked her up. As they’d passed through the city, she’d gone over what she was going to say for the hundredth time while Glasgow went about its business. At Finnieston, they’d made a left towards the hotel. At the bottom, away to her right, traffic poured over the Kingston Bridge. Mackenzie hadn’t allowed herself to look at it or the muddy river flowing underneath.

  Too many memories.

  When they arrived at the Crowne Plaza Hotel, she was taken to the Green Room and offered a glass of wine, which she’d refused. The waiter had been helpful. ‘Is there anything else I can get you?’

  ‘Tea would be good.’

  It had been five years since she’d drunk alcohol – during her time in the awful rat-infested Baxter house the addiction that had scarred her adult life disappeared and hadn’t returned. Instinctively, Mackenzie knew it was still there. There were moments – when she was stressed or under pressure – she sensed it on her shoulder like a serpent, coiled, ready to strike, waiting for her to take the cork out of the bottle and go back to the hell she’d clawed her way out of.

  In the Green Room, faces she’d recognised smiled hello. She’d stood, awkward and alone until her contact in a dozen e-mail exchanges about the arrangements, introduced herself. Ursula was in her early twenties, brimming with confidence, dressed in a dark-blue two-piece suit.

  They shook hands. ‘Nervous?’

  ‘A little bit, yes.’

  ‘There’s no need. For you of all people. I’ll come and get you ten minutes before you’re due to go on.’ Ursula patted Mackenzie’s shoulder. ‘Relax. Enjoy it. Everybody out there thinks you’re a hero.’

  ‘I’ll try not to let them down.’

  ‘Couldn’t do that if you fell off the stage. You’re an icon, don’t you know that?’

  She had to be talking about someone else.

  ‘Okay. See you soon.’

  Mackenzie never discussed her ordeal even with Adele, her sister. Counselling had been suggested. She’d decided against it, preferring to bury the trauma in the deepest part of the deepest part of her, to turn an invisible key in an imaginary lock and throw it away. The rashness of agreeing to tell a room
full of people about herself hit home, and for a moment she hadn’t been certain she could go through with it – hero or no hero.

  The nerves passed, the speech had been a success and afterwards, basking in the handshakes and praise from dozens of delegates, she’d realised a weight had been lifted from her. Talking publicly, forced to revisit the past, had cleansed her too. Without wishing to repeat the experience she realised she’d benefitted from it.

  She closed her eyes and was almost asleep when her mobile rang and a gruff male voice said, ‘Mackenzie Darroch?’

  ‘Yes.’ Mackenzie didn’t recognise the number. ‘Who’s this?’

  ‘It’s DI Geddes.’

  ‘DS Geddes. Great to hear from you.’

  Andrew Geddes had been a detective sergeant and a football acquaintance of Gavin’s. The policeman came across as someone whose patience with his fellow man ran out a very long time ago. She hadn’t caught what he’d said; he corrected her. ‘DI these days.’

  ‘Promotion. Fantastic. What can I do for you?’

  ‘I’d like to have a chat about something.’

  ‘Sure. Want to give me a clue?’

  ‘Rather speak to you face to face, if you don’t mind.’

  ‘No problem. When do you want to meet?’

  ‘This afternoon if possible?’

  Mackenzie was intrigued. It must be important. ‘Shall I come to you or will you come to me?’

  ‘I’ll come to you.’

  ‘Do you want the address?’

  ‘I already know it.’

  The years hadn’t been kind to the policeman. Standing at the door with the sun behind him, his eyes were tired and hooded, the skin around them puffy, as if he’d had more than a few sleepless nights recently. He wore a raincoat over a dark suit. Under it he’d put on weight.