For Cheryl and Conner

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

I’d like to thank Dr Robert Ghent for

his assistance, once again, in helping

with the medical research. And to all at

Black & White Publishing for making

the process run so smoothly.

Contents

Title

Dedication

Acknowledgements

Chapter   1

Chapter   2

Chapter   3

Chapter   4

Chapter   5

Chapter   6

Chapter   7

Chapter   8

Chapter   9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Copyright

1

Agnes Gilchrist hid behind the open curtain in her front room. She’d seen some of her neighbours rushing by, grimacing, sneering at the window as they passed. When the new bus stop went in and the unruly wee brats from both ends of the street started to treat it like a gang hut, stones were thrown at her window. She called the police then, they knew her name now.

Frank was more cautious, worried about people’s opinions. He complained if she spent her time at the window, watching what went on in the street. But now he wasn’t there to complain, to tell her to get out in the world, get on with her life and leave others to theirs.

Agnes moved away from the curtain, she folded up Frank’s good suit, the brown tweed one, and put it in the carrier bag for the charity shop collection. Someone would get a wear out of it. She peered at the window once more, it was starting up again.

‘What a racket,’ she said.

Number 23 were a rowdy lot, even for this end of Whitletts. She couldn’t decide whether it had been worse with the police cars round every night of the week, before that boy joined the army. It might have been, but then was there a time when it had been truly quiet?

‘What in the name of God?’

Shouts and screams. Another disturbance. Even the mobile butcher didn’t park there now – he said it affected trade because no one wanted to queue up where a full-scale row was likely to break out at any minute. ‘You don’t want to see the chip pan coming through the window when you’re only out for a pound of mince!’ was his comment last week.

‘Animals.’ That’s what Frank called them. Things were better in his day, though. The Millars at 23 had got worse lately.

‘It’ll be herself rowing with the fancy man.’

Agnes reached for the telephone, pulled the chord to her, and when the receiver was within reach she placed her bony hand on it.

Shouting again. Screaming. The woman sounded hysterical now.

Agnes’s heart fluttered as she tightened her grip on the telephone. She lifted the receiver, made sure the line was working, and then lowered it again.

Everything went silent now. This was an unusual turn. Normally the rows went on for hours until there was some final act like a door slamming or a police car pulling up.

‘Oh, here we go.’

The door opened and a figure, pressed against the wall, eased silently into the night. Agnes squinted to see what was going on but there wasn’t enough light. The street lamps, smashed and never replaced, were no help in identifying the figure. She followed its stealthy trail into the shadows at the end of the road then returned her gaze to the house.

A woman, illuminated by the light from the hallway behind her, was sobbing on the front step. She was shaking; even at this distance that was visible. It was Sandra Millar, her face clearing into view every time she threw back her head.

‘He’ll have left her, that’ll be it.’

Agnes checked herself for sympathy – once she would have reached out, went over and offered to put the kettle on – but times had changed. These days you were more likely to be roared at, told not to interfere, and pointed back to your own door.

But Sandra Millar was truly in distress. The wailing and sobbing growing louder than it ever had before. Was she injured, in pain? The stories you heard these days, the things people did to each other. The old woman’s instincts begged her to get help.

‘Hello, police.’ She told the girl on the emergency line what she had just seen.

The operator recorded the details, was a kind enough sort. ‘There’ll be a patrol car around soon, just sit tight now.’

‘But what about herself? She’s in an awful state.’

‘I’d recommend you sit tight, just stay where you are until the police arrive.’

‘Right, OK.’

‘Would you like me to stay on the line with you?’

‘No, it’s all right.’ Her curiosity lingered.

‘Are you sure? Maybe just till the police get there.’

‘No, it’s fine. I’ll be fine.’

Agnes returned the telephone to its resting place and drew back the curtain once more, but as she saw Sandra holding her head in her hands she was compelled to go to her. She headed for the door and down the front steps, as she approached number 23 she heard low wails like a wounded animal. Agnes’s fluttering heart quickened, started to pound.

‘Hello, is everything all right?’

There was no answer. The sobbing stopped instantly. As the woman saw her neighbour’s approach, her mouth widened and her white face tightened in pain. She tried to scream, but the sound was trapped in her. She jolted upright and dashed into the house, heading for the kitchen. The door battered the wall, swung wildly, then she appeared again and bolted for the garden. She ran for the road and didn’t look back once.

Agnes’s breathing halted, she was cold. A chill breeze blew but that wasn’t the reason her temperature dropped. Beyond the doorway she peered into the fully-lit hallway and gathered her cardigan tight to her shoulders. The place was silent, appeared to be empty. She saw the wall-mounts with their smashed glass lying on the floor, and a smeared line, long and dark, running down the white wall towards the kitchen. She followed the smear-line like a pointer all the way to the next open door, to the sight of the kitchen table where he sat with a large wound above his shoulder blades and blood pooling on the well-worn linoleum beneath.

It took the old woman’s eyes a few moments to decipher the image in front of her and then the shock sent a shiver through her tensed body. Her knees loosened quickly as she fell into the open door, making a light thud as her delicate frame collapsed on the hard floor.

2

As Detective Inspector Bob Valentine left the station the red wash of sky was sinking into a jagged grey horizon. The King Street flats blocked most of the scene and allowed only a dim hum from the swelling traffic beyond. In the early evening, Ayr’s atmosphere pulsed with rushing commuters fleeing cramped offices. Previously sluggish limbs bursting with new energy. It was a time of day that never ceased to fascinate the detective, a strange place between the working world and the coming darkness that gave cover to a more sinister night.