Dark Is the Day

Prologue

Tuesday: about 3pm

Hearing footsteps behind her, she clutches her canvas bag tighter to her chest. As she picks up her pace she feels the moisture of sweat on her hands and tastes it on her top lip. A sudden sense of claustrophobia comes over her in this dark, cobbled, medieval alley with its high stone walls. The light barely penetrates here and everything is in shadow. Her heart hammers in her chest. It is almost painful.

Greyfriar’s Wynd is empty except for her and the person behind her. She is wearing red wedge sandals but can still hear the other person’s footfall, measured and deliberate. All her senses are on alert. Why did she take this short cut? She descends three worn steps quickly. She always takes this short cut from the library, that’s why, and nothing has ever happened before. But she’s never been followed before. And with the recent news of that girl being attacked, what is she thinking?

She doesn’t dare turn round. She can’t. She stops abruptly and the footsteps behind her stop. Hairs prick up on the back of her neck. She hears a strange tuneless whistling. She feels a sudden shiver. Panic threatens to overwhelm her. She tries to scream but can’t. She can’t turn back, there’s nowhere to hide, so the only option is to keep going forward. Thank God, she’s not wearing heels, although the wedge sandals are bad enough on cobbles.

A sudden noise behind her. The sound of heavy shoes. Oh my God. The man is running. She starts to run too, cursing as her tight denim skirt impedes her progress. Why does she think it’s a man? He’s getting closer. He’s closing the gap quickly. She can hear his breathing, smell his sweat. She’s a fast runner, but not in this skirt. Another couple of seconds and she knows she’s not going to be able to outrun him. A large hand grabs her shoulder, swings her round. Her shoulder bag slips to the ground, the contents spilling out.

It is then that she sees the mask and the knife.

Chapter 1

An eerie artificial light bathed the alley. The lighting system was already set up and the scene of crime officers had cordoned off the entrance and exit. Dr Mackie knelt by the body in the ancient close. A strobe flash signalled another photograph from Liu, the diminutive Chinese photographer.

Mackie tilted his head so he was looking up at Carruthers. ‘It’s a nasty one, Jim.’

DI Jim Carruthers, all kitted out in his paper overalls, ducked under the tape and entered the close. Dark-haired DS Andrea Fletcher followed closely behind him.

Mackie tried to straighten up. Carruthers looked at his shock of white hair and worn face and wondered fleetingly how long the pathologist would keep going. He must be getting close to retirement age.

‘She’s been slashed across the face, laddie. It’s no’ pretty. My estimate is that she’s only been dead less than an hour.’

‘So about three in the afternoon then.’ Although Carruthers felt butterflies in his stomach his professionalism kicked in. ‘And the perpetrator had some kind of knife or sharp implement. Any puncture wounds elsewhere?’ He leant into the slim body lying still in its last repose.

‘Not that I can see. I’ll start the PM as soon as it’s possible.’ Mackie’s voice sounded husky to Carruthers – was that emotion clouding his voice, or did he have a head cold? The detective knew Mackie hated violence, especially violence against women.

‘However, look at this.’ Mackie leant over the corpse of the young woman, gesturing at the neck. ‘We may have our cause of death.’

Carruthers could see bluish marks on the neck and what looked like fingerprints. ‘Manual strangulation?’ He turned to Fletcher. ‘We need to find out who she is.’ He gazed back at the slim figure and blonde hair of the dead woman.

‘Can you tell me anything with any certainty?’ asked Carruthers.

‘All I can tell you at the moment is that she didn’t take her own life.’ Mackie’s standard response to a suspicious death, thought Carruthers.

‘Reckon she might be a student. She’s about that age,’ said Fletcher. ‘Any ID on her?’

Fletcher nodded her thanks to a scene of crime officer, or SOCO, who offered her the bagged possessions. Carefully, Fletcher pulled a pair of latex gloves on. She opened the clear plastic bag and rifled through. ‘Looks like our victim’s name may be Rachel Abbie. There’s a jotter with that name on it on the front. But no student ID, which is unusual, and no purse or bank cards.’ She gave Jim the bagged possessions. ‘There’s also a library book in here.’ It was a slim paperback. She looked at it. ‘David Hume. A Treatise of Human Nature.’

Carruthers raised his eyebrow. ‘David Hume? As in Scottish Philosopher?’

Fletcher looked at the blurb on the back of the book. ‘The one and same. Maybe our victim’s a philosophy student?’

He frowned. ‘Anything with her address on it?’

Fletcher shook her head.

‘Get over to the philosophy department. The David Hume book is our only lead. See if they have a student by the name of Rachel Abbie.’

He watched the younger Fletcher shiver. Despite the fact Scotland was in the throes of spring it was a cold, windy day. What was the expression people used? ‘‘Ne’er cast a cloot, till May be oot.’’ He smiled as he thought of the translation he’d have to give his English DS. Don’t throw away your clothes until May is over. There’d been an unexpected frost that morning. A reminder that winter wasn’t long behind them.

‘Nobody saw or heard anything apparently, which in itself is strange.’ He was thinking that this was a busy university town in the East of Scotland. The area was also popular with golfers and tourists. And the local RAF base was just six miles down the road in Edenside.

‘Who found the body?’

‘A couple of male students walking back from the Earl of Fife.’

One of the better frequented student pubs in the centre of town. ‘Okay, don’t let them leave without taking a statement from them.’ He asked hopefully, ‘Do either of them know the deceased?’

Fletcher shook her head. She was very quiet, Carruthers noticed. Unusually so.

‘Pity. Was worth a long shot.’

He’d noticed Fletcher’s mood had plummeted the last couple of weeks. Wondered what was wrong. He thought she’d managed to put her relationship breakup with Mark behind her. But what about her miscarriage? How could she put that behind her?

His eyes trailed back to the prostrate figure of the young woman lying on the ground. What was she? Eighteen or nineteen? Too young to have seen much of life. Not long out of childhood herself; on the verge of adulthood. Once again, he silently cursed the fact that someone could take another human being’s life. He added her to the growing list of the dead who would haunt his dreams.

Fletcher wrapped her coat protectively around herself and walked the ten minutes to the philosophy department through the ancient streets of Castletown. She could smell the fresh sea air in her nostrils and hear the cry of gulls as she crossed the cobbled street by the Quad. She looked up at the turreted gothic building against its backdrop of the North Sea as she walked across the tarmacked road. It wouldn’t look out of place as Hogwarts on a film set. She ran up the worn stone steps and through the open blue door. Fishing in her handbag she brought out her mobile, glanced at it to see there were no new messages and slipped it back in the bag.

A few minutes later she was up two flights of steps and in the secretary’s office. As the middle-aged woman with the silver coiffured hair busied herself going through the student files, Fletcher stared beyond her out through the second-floor window at the sparkling blue sea. A thunderous noise signalled two low-flying Tornados from nearby RAF Edenside.

‘Rachel Abbie, you say? Yes, here it is. I thought she sounded familiar. We do have a second-year student by that name. If you hold on, I’ll just get her term-time address.’ The secretary tapped at her computer with her short, manicured nails, opened her desk drawer, brought out a sheet of paper and wrote the address down for Fletcher.

The door opened and a young woman with shiny black hair came in, carrying a black shoulder bag. She looked ready for a night on the town in a little red dress. Fletcher wondered if she’d come to work looking like that or if she’d made a quick change in the toilets. It looked as if she’d just brushed her hair and put on a slick of red lipstick.

‘Can I get off? I don’t want to keep Dave waiting.’

The secretary checked her watch. ‘Go on then. It’s nearly five anyway – see you tomorrow,’ she added as an afterthought as the woman closed the door.

She rolled her eyes at Fletcher. ‘Temps.’

‘Do you have an out-of-term address for her too? Rachel Abbie?’

The secretary nodded. ‘Pateley Hall, Pateley Bridge, Nidderdale, North Yorkshire.’ She scribbled that down for Fletcher too.

‘You wouldn’t have a photograph of her, would you?’ Fletcher asked hopefully.

The secretary pulled a face. ‘I’m afraid not. And to be honest I wouldn’t know what she looks like. They’re mostly just a sea of faces to me. I don’t get to have much personal contact with the students on an individual basis. Can I ask what this is about?’

‘Just making some enquiries,’ said Fletcher, privately wondering if any woman was safe in Castletown at the moment given recent events. This was the second attack in days. She wondered where the temp was heading. Wherever she was going she hoped she’d take care. ‘Can you tell me anything else about her?’

Two more Tornados flew low overhead, drowning out the secretary’s answer. The woman stood up and walked over to the window. ‘No, like I said, I don’t know her personally.’ She pulled on the sash window and shut it. ‘I’m very sensitive to noise. Sometimes you can’t hear yourself think with those jets. I once knew a student who had to ask for ear plugs during her exam in this building. I did feel for her. Even more sensitive to noise than me, poor dear, although I’m sure stress played a part.’

‘Did the student pass the exam?’

‘What? Oh yes. With flying colours.’ Smiling, she turned and faced Fletcher. ‘You could ask her supervisor, Professor Mairi Beattie. She will have had more personal contact with her, although she’s not in the department at the moment. I believe she’s coming back later. She sometimes stays late marking students’ papers.’

‘Mairi?’ asked Fletcher, frowning. ‘Is Beattie her maiden name?’

‘Why yes. I believe she’s recently returned to it. Do you know her?’ said the secretary.

Finding she was holding her breath, Fletcher asked, ‘Just out of interest, what was her married name?’

‘Carruthers.’

Mairi Carruthers. Oh shit. Jim’s ex-wife.

Chapter 2

DS Andrea Fletcher leant over DI Jim Carruthers’ desk. He looked up at her, and taking his glasses off, put them on his prematurely greying head. He rubbed his face with his hands. ‘How did you get on at the philosophy department?’

Fletcher read from her little black notebook. ‘There is a Rachel Abbie registered. I managed to get her term-time address. It’s over at Strathburn Halls. But there was nobody home when I went round. I put a note through the door so I’m hoping someone will ring soon. I’ve also been given a home address for her. It’s in a village in Nidderdale, North Yorkshire, called Pateley Bridge. I’ve been in touch with the control room at Bilston and they’re going to get hold of the local constabulary and dispatch someone to the property.’

An image came into Fletcher’s head of the picturesque market town in the middle of the Yorkshire Dales. She’d seen it recently in a magazine that celebrated England’s natural beauty. There’d been an article in the magazine about a Dark Skies Festival in North Yorkshire that she’d been interested in. She frowned, wondering what she’d done with the magazine. She wanted to pass it on to Carruthers. With his love of the outdoors she could imagine a Dark Skies Festival would be right up his street.

‘Good work.’ Carruthers picked up his polystyrene cup and drained the remains of his cold tea. She knew he was trying to drink less coffee these days. He pulled a face. She also knew he wasn’t much of a tea drinker. ‘Andie, I want you to get Dougie to pull all the files on crimes involving similar MO in Scotland in the last few years and get on to the CCTV, will you? See if we can pick anything up of her last movements.’

She nodded, privately wondering if it wasn’t a massive waste of time to try to pull all the files on previous similar crimes. Her gut instinct told her that they had no bearing on recent events. But then it was nothing more than a gut feeling and, in the end, nothing beat good old-fashioned police work.

With no leads or motive she wasn’t going to voice her thoughts to her DI. They both knew they were currently clutching at straws.

Her thoughts turned to Dougie Harris. That man usually needed a rocket up his backside to get him motivated to do any proper work. However, this year she’d seen a more conscientious side to him, although sadly it hadn’t been work-related. He’d recently returned from taking some leave to look after his sick, disabled wife.

As for the CCTV, they’d found nothing that had been of any help in the search to catch the attacker of Serena Davis, the first victim. Fletcher couldn’t make up her mind whether she’d prefer it to be the same attacker or not. Of course, one person would be easier to catch, in theory, than two, but then a single perpetrator of these crimes meant it was more likely to be a serial attacker. She sighed. If the situation had been different and Serena Davis had died they could now be searching for the killer of two women, not one. They certainly didn’t want a serial killer.

As if to voice her thoughts Carruthers said, ‘At least the last one’s still alive. Two girls in five days. What do you think the motive is?’

Fletcher shook her head, her eyes dull. ‘Does there have to be one?’

Carruthers placed the empty polystyrene cup back on his desk. ‘Few serious crimes are random. Most are committed by people the victim knows, which is why we need to start the investigation close to home for both women. But it’s interesting. Thankfully, he didn’t rape her. He didn’t rob her. But he did slash her. Just like the first one.’

Fletcher picked up the photograph that had been lying on Carruthers’ desk of the most recent victim. ‘Except it looks like he finally killed Rachel Abbie by strangulation, if that’s who our victim is.’

She listened to Carruthers as he continued to speak. ‘He slashed her right across her face. Then he throttled her. Why slash and then throttle?’

Fletcher sighed. ‘This act was committed by someone who hates pretty women? Perhaps someone who just hates women in general? There’s enough of them about. It’s a very intimate attack without being sexual. To slash someone across the face you physically need to get close enough to them.’

‘And using a knife on a victim… there’s not that disassociation between victim and perpetrator you get with a gun. On the other hand, guns aren’t as easy to get hold of as knives.’

Carruthers nodded. ‘Whatever the reason, he’s got to be caught, and soon. We’ll also have to handle the press very carefully. I don’t want them to cause widescale panic.’

Fletcher put the photograph down carefully. ‘Do we have a potential serial killer on our hands, Jim?’

‘I don’t know, but two similar attacks on two girls in five days doesn’t look good. One of the first things we need to do is to find out whether the two girls knew each other.’

‘I wonder if these attacks have been committed by a student?’ Fletcher mused. ‘I mean, assault on female students is rife.’

Carruthers looked at his watch. ‘Yes, but those sorts of assaults are usually of a sexual nature, aren’t they, including inappropriate touching or groping. This appears to be something very different.’

Fletcher nodded her agreement, but she wondered about the number of attacks on female students. She knew there was an epidemic of sexual violence at British universities, which she found really depressing. The police statistics were only the tip of the iceberg; most attacks still went unreported. She couldn’t imagine being the mother of a teenage girl nowadays. There were just so many perils.

Carruthers jumped up. He grabbed his jacket and mobile. ‘I want a quick word with our new DCI, then let’s head to the hospital. I want to go over Serena Davis’s statement again.’

‘Jim, there’s something you need to know about Rachel Abbie’s supervisor…’ She really did have to tell him before he found out from someone else that Rachel Abbie’s supervisor was his ex-wife. But typically, Carruthers had already left.

Carruthers felt himself tensing as he approached his old office. He lifted his hand to knock on the door, hesitating only for a fraction of a moment, before giving a sharp rap.

‘Come.’

The voice was curt. And female. He opened the door and walked in, closing it softly behind him. An unfamiliar smell greeted him, something vaguely flowery. The figure sitting behind his old desk stood up and smoothed her navy skirt before sitting down again. Carruthers didn’t kid himself that she was standing for him. Why would she be? Since his demotion he was just a DI now. She was wearing a long-sleeved cream blouse. It looked like silk. Her navy blue jacket had been neatly placed over the back of the chair. A lock of hair fell over her face. She swept it back with an impatient air, looking harassed. Carruthers couldn’t help but feel a small sense of satisfaction as he looked at his new boss, DCI Sandra McTavish.

She glanced up at him, a frown settling on her attractive face, making her look older than she actually was. ‘What is it Jim? You can see I’m busy.’

He looked into the brown eyes of the woman who was barely older than him, before glancing at the files laid out neatly on her desk. It had never looked like that in his day. He thought of the midden that was his own desk – the empty polystyrene cups and messy piles of paperwork. He and Harris always vied for the title of untidiest cop. He ventured forward, standing closer to her desk. He felt a moment not just of resentment but also of jealousy before he forced those unwanted feelings to the back of his mind.

‘I want to interview Serena Davis again.’ He avoided looking at the framed photograph of her husband and kids on the desk.

McTavish’s frown deepened. ‘For what purpose?’

‘Victims can remember important details of their attack or attacker days later once the shock wears off, and to be honest, she wasn’t up to much during her first interview.’

‘I need you here. Send someone else.’

Carruthers bristled but remained calm. ‘We’ve not got much to go on, Sandra. We’ve barely got a description of her attacker. I’m happy for Fletcher to go but I’d like to go with her. I’m pretty sure I could get more from Serena about the attack.’

Sandra McTavish appeared to be thinking it over, steepling her hands in front of her face. Finally, she nodded. ‘Okay. Stay close to your mobile. I’m waiting to hear back from the Procurator Fiscal. I’ll ring you when I get word from them. I want the PM done as quickly as possible. We need to know what we’re dealing with which means we need to contact next of kin urgently.’

‘Understood. I’ll head to the hospital in the next few minutes.’

She adjusted her glasses as she spoke. ‘Jim, we need to catch this person and quickly. I don’t need to tell you how serious these attacks are–’

‘I know.’

‘Keep me informed, will you?’ She picked up a pen and bent over her paperwork once more. Carruthers took the hint that he had been dismissed. Briefly, he congratulated himself on keeping his superiors better informed of his actions, and his temper in check. If he’d done this a couple of years ago, perhaps he’d still be a DCI with his own office. He retreated to gather his car keys and collect Fletcher.

Chapter 3

Fletcher hated hospitals and this one in particular. It was where she had lost her daughter, Lara. She tensed as she stepped through the door Carruthers opened for her, averting her eyes from the maternity unit as she walked straight to the lift.

‘Are you okay, Andie?’ She could see that Carruthers was looking at her and wondered if he knew what she was thinking.

‘Yes, I’m fine, Jim. Don’t worry about me.’ She was still going to counselling. It was helping, and she was learning to be more open about her feelings, but she wondered if she would ever get over her late miscarriage. At least it wasn’t a problem to talk about it now, but she still had one painful secret that hadn’t been shared with anyone and she knew that at some point she would need to talk about that. She pushed those unwelcome thoughts out of her head and replaced them with concern for her DI. Not only had he a new boss to contend with, but his ex-wife was now back working in her old department. She glanced at him, wondering how he would feel about that.

Carruthers pressed the button for the lift.

‘Jim,’ said Fletcher, ‘I need to tell you something a bit awkward.’

He looked at her. ‘Spit it out. You know you can tell me anything. I knew there was something wrong. You haven’t been yourself.’

‘It’s not about me. It’s about you.’ She pushed the words out. ‘The thing is…when I spoke to the secretary of the philosophy department, she suggested I talk to Rachel Abbie’s supervisor…’

She saw Carruthers stiffen. Perhaps he’s already worked out what I’m going to say.

‘The girl’s supervisor is your ex-wife, Mairi. She must be back working at the university.’

‘I know what my ex-wife’s name is, Andie.’

‘Of course you do,’ Fletcher said quickly. She stole a glance at her boss. It hadn’t been her imagination that she had seen him wince. It was almost imperceptible, but it had been there. As far as she knew, Carruthers hadn’t seen his ex-wife since she’d walked out on him. Would he have told her if he had, though? He was an extremely private person but the two of them had become close and she liked to think they were friends as well as colleagues. Yes, Fletcher decided that he would have told her. So he hadn’t seen her. But then he must have known he would run into Mairi at some stage. Fife could be so small and there weren’t many places you could teach philosophy. And his first response and the fact he nearly bit her head off frankly spoke volumes.

Being naturally inquisitive, she wondered just how much she could push with the personal questions before he snapped at her. She decided to push her luck as her burning curiosity overcame both her politeness and sensitivity. ‘Your wife? Didn’t she leave academia to write a book?’

His Adam’s apple bobbled and she watched him swallow. She felt momentarily bad that she was asking these personal questions but she really wanted to know the answer.

‘Yes, she wanted to write a book on how to make philosophy accessible to the masses.’

‘Did she manage to write it?’

He shrugged. ‘No idea. As you know, she didn’t keep in touch.’

Did he really have no idea or had he said that for her benefit? If your ex had written a book would you go to the bother of finding out? Granted it was an academic tome and not a work of fiction, but still… Fletcher looked up at her boss, watching, imagining a myriad of fleeting thoughts going through his head. He certainly seemed lost in thought. And for a moment he looked wistful. Despite his nonchalant response to her question she realised he must still care for his ex-wife. And it was obvious to her that he wasn’t happy Mairi hadn’t kept in touch. Once