Davie won’t be ridiculed. He’s been worried about Marie, but she’s thrown all his attempts to talk to her back in his face. She’d been like a different person last night in the pub. That little scrote Sam hanging around, smirking. Something’s going on between the two of them. Sam and Marie. Davie can sense it, the awkwardness. But Marie won’t say anything.
He knows this has nothing to do with him.
There’s still no sign of Woodley though, and that is a problem. He’s going to text Marie the link to the article. See if he can draw her out like that. He wants her to talk, but she won’t. What else can he do?
He drops a packet of diced chicken into a pot, covers it with a jar of madras curry sauce. Slams the lid on. He opens the pouch of Uncle Ben’s basmati rice and wanders through to the living room, scrolling through his phone. He’s got a Paul Weller album playing low on the stereo. That’s him in for the night. Settled. Marie can sort herself out. He’s not running after her any more.
He’s about to ring Malkie for an update when the phone buzzes. It’s Malkie. Funny that. Twice that’s happened recently. Davie doesn’t believe in coincidences, but sometimes it does spook him when things like this happen. It’s not much of a shock, though. They have been talking most days.
‘Was just about to call you . . .’
‘Aye. I’ve been down at that hospital. Still no sign of Woodley, but they’ve been investigating the “situation”, as they’re calling it. Fucking balls-up would be a more accurate description. They’ve discovered that Woodley was using someone in there to help him with stuff on the staff computer. One of the admin girls. Young. Impressionable. Apparently Woodley could be quite charming. Quite funny. Anyway, she’s gone AWOL. They can’t get hold of her. I can’t work out if they’re worried about her safety or just pissed off that she’s done a runner. They can see that’s she’s accessed Woodley’s next-of-kin information. I’m waiting for the warrant for them to confirm the details. Should be any time now. And Davie . . .’ Davie hears him take a deep breath. ‘I’ve got some news for you, and you’re not going to like it. Woodley’s sister . . . It’s Marie.’
Davie feels an icy cold hand gripping the back of his neck. ‘Shit. Listen, I’ve been doing a bit of investigating of my own. I didn’t want to say anything until I was sure because I had nothing concrete. Just a feeling. Marie’s got a stack of letters in her kitchen cupboard. There’s a crest on the postmark. I thought it looked familiar but I wasn’t sure . . . And she gave me her keys. There’s a photo on there of her when she was sixteen. They’ve got the same eyes. Jesus.’
‘Christ, man. Why didn’t you say anything before? The link has been there since the beginning. Our lookalike Jane Doe . . .’
‘I tried to ask her about them but she all but threw me out. She’s all over the place. I don’t know how to talk to her. But I get the feeling that she’s torn . . . So now I know Woodley is definitely her brother. Her twin brother. And, er . . . I think she might know where he is. She hasn’t said as much, but she’s knows something. I’m sure of it. I’m trying to be supportive, but—’
‘You need to take a step back here, Davie,’ Malkie interrupts. ‘Forget about any relationship you might or might not have with her. You need to talk to her. Properly. Bring her in. Have a chat at the station. Make her realise this is serious. Tell her about the poor cow that Woodley attacked. Tell her the details. Go round and see her. If you genuinely think she’s got any inkling of where Woodley might be, we need to know. If it was him, then he needs to be up on an assault charge. He needs to be back in high security. It drives me mad the way these places work. They’re dealing with the most manipulative people in society and they let them go on day trips!’
‘Graeme Woodley is schizophrenic, that’s not the same as a psychopath, Malkie. We don’t know if he’s manipulative. He’s mentally ill. He’d been assessed and downgraded. They didn’t think he was dangerous. That’s all we know right now.’
‘Don’t give me that. You’ve seen those articles. You must’ve read the one written by that fancy-pants heid doctor. He said that Patient X had most likely been manipulating Victim Y for years. He had some sort of control over her. There were hints of there being a sexual element too – it tied in to what he did to her, and the fact that she had a boyfriend at the time. Woodley was jealous. He tried to damage her so no other men could have her. Tell me that’s not manipulative. As for what he did to that poor woman who just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. People like him should be locked up . . . And there shouldn’t even be a bloody key!’
Davie sighs. ‘I’ll go round. But I’m not expecting her to talk to me. It’s gone past that now. I think you need to come down tomorrow. I’ll ask her to come into the station. We’ll tell her everything. I think she’ll talk. She just doesn’t want to talk to me.’
‘You’re too close to her. She’s embarrassed.’
‘No, that’s not it. She’s been pushing me away recently, just doesn’t want anything to do with me. She doesn’t trust me. I don’t know what more I can do.’
‘All the more reason to get her in then, eh? Get her to tell us where he is. Talk to you tomorrow. I’ll be down about nine. Oh . . . wait. We’ve been following up on that stuff with the ethanol. Your theory looks sound. All the overdoses and the two deaths have all been in places within five miles of where the funfair has been. Your one there is due to close up after Thursday night. They’ll be moving on Friday morning to set up elsewhere. We’re going to leave it until then. I don’t want to chase them away too soon.’
‘You know that a local lad called Mark Lawrie was hospitalised after taking some of that shit. Are you sure you want to leave it until Friday?’
‘Aye. Speak to the boy, if you can. More we can get on them, the better. This is part of a bigger thing, Davie. I want the whole thing sorted out, not just this one fair and this one amateur chemist. He’s small fry. He’s not behind the whole thing, but he’s going to lead us to them. The IT boys have got some info from that forum thing you sent, but they’re having to jump through hoops. Masked IP address and all that. There’s an operation behind all this. I want all of it, not just a wee segment.’
‘Right then. I’ll go and see Marie. Talk to you tomorrow.’ Davie hangs up.
He walks back through to the kitchen, where the pot of curry is bubbling hard on the stove. Turns it off, leaves the lid on. It’ll be cooked by the time he gets back. He takes the scooter. He’s there in five minutes.
The side gate is blowing in the wind, banging against the latch. He presses Marie’s buzzer. It took a few goes the last time before she answered. Buzzes again. Waits. Tries it twice more, then knows that she’s either not in or she’s not going to answer. Wednesday night, she should be back from work. He takes the keys out of his pockets. Hesitates.
He remembers.
Ian and Anne’s party. He was invited, of course. But he’d forgotten all about it. He’d heard someone mention it in the pub the other day when he’d popped in to see Marie. Someone asked if he was going. He stands at the door, thinking. Weighing up his options. He could go to the party, have a few drinks. Try to forget about what’s going on, if only for a few hours. But it wouldn’t work. If Marie is there – which he knows she will be – it’ll only be awkward. He won’t be able to talk to her there.
Tomorrow then.
He’ll ask her to come down and chat to him and Malkie at the station. He’ll leave her to it tonight. He should probably go to the party and get her, but she’s with Anne. She’s with Ian. What harm could come to her there? If she has been in touch with Woodley, she’s hardly likely to take him with her. Wherever he is, he’s staying under the radar. Out of sight. Marie’s not alone tonight, and that’s all that really matters. Let her have this night. Let her have some fun. Tomorrow she’ll have to answer some difficult questions. Davie just hopes she will cooperate. Tell them where Woodley is. Help them lure him in. They don’t know for certain yet if he was responsible for the attack on the housekeeper, but he needs to be brought back in. For his own safety, as much as for anyone else’s.
It was all going to kick off tomorrow, he could feel it. Marie . . . Graeme Woodley. Then the next day would be a very different visit to Forrestal’s Funfair. He’d have pleasure watching that unfold. The little scumbag that was supplying the Banktoun residents might only be a small fish, but he was a slimy, repulsive little fish. Davie would be delighted to get him hooked and gutted.
He arrives back home, looking forward to his dinner and a quiet night. He turns off the engine. Climbs off the scooter and wheels it in through the gate. His head is down, and he’s humming to himself. One of those songs that’s always on the radio. Something annoyingly catchy about a secret potion to make you fall in love.
He hears a faint rustling noise. The song dries up in his mouth.
He’s not alone.
Someone is leaning on the wall next to his front door.
The figure has his hood up, arms crossed over his chest. Even in the dying light, Davie can see that the expression on his face isn’t a happy one.
Davie stops walking. ‘Hey. . .’ he says, his voice uncertain.
The man pulls his hood off and drops his arms to his sides. ‘It’s me, ye daft shite. Where’ve you been?’
Davie sighs. Tries to cover up the fear. The stupidity. Who had he expected it to be? ‘Jesus, Callum. What’re you doing skulking about outside my door? You scared me half to death.’ Davie pulls off his helmet, relieved.
A cloud passes across Callum’s face. ‘Wasn’t sure you’d be home, Davie. Listen – I need to talk to someone . . .’