27

DS William Sawyer

Fifteen years earlier

The first time I set eyes on Roddie Drummond he was in the sole interview room of the wee police station here. Me and Gavin Burke, a Detective Inspector so new to the rank the ink wasn’t dry on his new warrant card, had been sent over on the first ferry that morning. We knew a young woman had been murdered. We knew her live-in lover was found beside the body, his hands and clothes covered in her blood. It seemed to me from the off we had what the Americans would call a slam-dunk. A case barely open before it was shut.

DI Burke said he wanted to keep an open mind, but I’d been in the job long enough to know that the most obvious culprit in a case was usually the one responsible. All that mystery crap was for the telly. If a man is found standing over the body of his girlfriend, then chances are he is the one who put her on the ground, simple as. No different here.

Drummond had agreed to attend voluntarily and had signed the form to that effect. He had allowed them to take his clothes and swabs of his fingernails. He hadn’t contacted a solicitor—good luck with that anyway, I thought; there wasn’t one on the island and none of those bastards could get themselves over from the mainland as fast as us. Instead he’d phoned his mother, who had shown up with some fresh clothes. He didn’t want to see her, though. I spotted the woman sitting at the public bar as I passed through, waiting.

Since Drummond was there voluntarily, he could leave at any time, but the island sergeant told us that he had elected to sleep in the cell. The uniform checked on him over the next few hours and Drummond hadn’t slept much. He had asked how Mhairi was, but the sergeant had lied to him, said he didn’t know. I wanted to go in hard but the DI wanted to take the softly, softly approach. I knew that was a mistake but I was outranked so I let the boy do what he wanted. I was confident I’d get my chance later. I’d get the truth.

We faced Roddie Drummond across the table. He looked tired. When he spoke, he did so slowly, as if he was drugged. His eyes moved from the DI to me and back again as I began the audio recording process. Drummond was nervous, he licked his lips, his eyes never settled, his hand moved restlessly on the tabletop.

When you’ve been in the job as long as I have, you can smell guilt, and it was wafting from him across that table like rotten meat.

Burke introduced us, then I asked for his name, address, date of birth—the usual. Drummond gave the details, as if by rote, his voice dull but his eyes alive, still darting back and forward. Once the formalities were completed, Drummond begged to know how Mhairi was. But we didn’t tell him right away.

DI Burke took the lead. ‘Roddie, let me first make it clear that you are here voluntarily and that during the course of this interview you can request a solicitor present or refuse to answer any questions. Okay?’

Drummond nodded, then started to ask about Mhairi again, but Burke just carried on.

‘But any answers you do make will be recorded and may be used against you. Do you understand?’

Drummond blinked. ‘Am I under arrest?’

I could see the guy was really spooked now. Burke said he was merely helping us with our inquiries at this stage, then checked he understood the rights and asked if he wanted a solicitor. Drummond waived his rights, I’ve no doubt he knew what he was doing, he said he had nothing to hide—aye, right, I thought—and then he demanded to know about Mhairi.

DI Burke took a deep breath. Time to hit him with it, see how he reacts. ‘Roddie, I’m sorry but Mhairi died early this morning. She never regained consciousness.’

Drummond stared at him, his mouth gaping as he took this in. His lip twitched, as if he was going to say something, but didn’t say anything. His right hand began to tremble, his nail tapping on the table. His eyes swam. ‘But . . .’ he began, his words still seemingly unwilling to come. ‘The paramedics were there. She spoke . . .’

‘Her injuries were too great,’ said Burke, his voice soft, as if he meant what he was going to say next. Maybe he did. ‘I’m sorry, Roddie.’

Drummond’s hand stopped quivering and his entire body was very still for a second, but then he suddenly got up and turned his back on them, resting his head against the wall. We saw his shoulders quiver, as if he was weeping quietly. I saw sympathy all over Burke’s face as he nodded to me to switch off the recorder. Christ, I thought, the stupid sod is buying this.

I checked my watch. ‘Interview suspended at 10.05 a.m. to allow Mr Drummond to compose himself.’ I clicked the recorder off, sat back, folded my arms. Burke may have fallen for the grieving lover routine but I certainly had not. Drummond was putting on an act, I would bet my pension on it.

‘Roddie,’ said Burke, his voice gentle, ‘you understand that we have to ask you questions, don’t you? We need to find out what happened as soon as we can.’

Drummond kept his back to us, face down, forehead and both hands flat against the wall. He made no sound, he didn’t move, apart from the slight jerking of his back.

‘Roddie, do you want us to come back later?’

I gave the DI a sharp look. I didn’t care if he outranked me, we didn’t have time for this. Give this joker a break and he might decide he wants a solicitor present, or refuse to answer. I wanted to sort this pronto and get back to the mainland. Burke caught my look and waved his hand dismissively, indicating that he knew what he was doing. I doubted that very much indeed.

Drummond surprised me by pushing himself away from the wall, wiping his eyes with the sleeves of the sweatshirt he was wearing and sitting back down. Burke looked at me, his eyebrows raised in a pretty annoying self-satisfied way, as if he’d got one over one me. Aye, well—we’d see. I clicked the recorder on again. ‘Interview with Roderick Drummond resumed at 10.09. DI Gavin Burke and DS William Sawyer conducting.’

Burke said, ‘Okay, Roddie, let me ask you once more, do you wish a solicitor present?’

Roddie shook his head.

‘For the benefit of the tape, Mr Drummond shook his head,’ I said.

‘Now,’ Burke continued, ‘why don’t you tell us in your own words what happened last night?’

Roddie placed both hands on the table, laced his fingers together and squeezed so tight his knuckles shone white through the thin flesh. He took a deep, wavering breath. ‘I had been out working . . .’

‘Where?’ Burke asked.

‘On the estate. We’d had rain and a burn had burst, flooded one of the estate tenants. I was out operating the digger, shoring up the walls of the burn.’

‘Can anyone corroborate that?’

‘Aye, some of the lads who do odd jobs. Henry was there, the laird’s son. We were all pitching in.’

‘What time did you get home?’

Roddie thought about it. ‘Maybe half-one, quarter to. I don’t really know. Round about then.’

I knew the 999 call was logged at 1.53 a.m.

‘And what did you find?’ Burke asked.

The young man’s hands began to shake again, his breathing grew irregular and he moved his head slowly from side to side, his eyelids blinking back the tears as he remembered. ‘She was lying on the floor . . .’

‘Mhairi Sinclair?’

He nodded.

‘For the benefit of the tape, Mr Drummond nodded his head,’ I said, my voice sounding like a bellow in relation to the low tones of the other two. But I didn’t care. Burke began hitting him with questions, one after the other, fast as he could. That’s the way, I thought, don’t give the bastard time to think.

‘Was the front door locked or unlocked?’

Roddie said it was unlocked, they never locked it when they were at home, neither him nor Mhairi. I could see he was thinking fast, maybe placing himself back into that room, determined not to make a mistake.

He said he came into the house, saw her on the living-room floor, next to the fire. It was a coal fire, Roddie said, they burned logs on it and Mhairi must’ve lit it when she came home. It was cold and he’d set it before he’d gone out. He dropped down beside her when he saw her, he said, spoke to her. Touched her shoulders, he thought. Held her hand, maybe stroked her face. He said he placed her head in his lap to try to clear the blood from her eyes.

Then his eyes began to drift as if he was reliving it all. He shuddered slightly, as if he was cold. I almost laughed.

Burke told him he was doing fine and repeated some of what had been said. Entering the house, the fire lit, her lying on the floor.

‘Covered in blood,’ I said, just as a wee reminder as to what this bastard had done. He flinched then. I liked that.

Burke asked if she was conscious.

Drummond said he wasn’t sure. She was groaning, he said. She didn’t say anything, nothing coherent. Maybe his name a couple of times.

Burke switched back in time, asked if he’d tried to help her. Drummond said he wiped away some of the blood, repeated he held her head and her hand.

Next question: ‘Was this before or after you dialled 999?’

Drummond stopped to think about this, said he thought it was before. Then he grew more certain that he wiped the blood away before he called it in, then went back to her. That, at least, was consistent with what we had been told. The uniform who attended had done his job well. He reported that he’d observed blood on the handle of the phone.

Burke asked where the baby was during all this and Drummond seemed puzzled at first. Sonya, Burke said, Mhairi’s daughter. Where was she?

Drummond said she was in her cot, asleep.

And when Burke asked if he checked on her, he paused again and I knew right there and then that the first outright lie was coming. I saw it in the wee slide of his eyes to the side and in the blink that followed. Up till then, as far as I was concerned, he’d been basically truthful, maybe not told us everything, but he’d stuck closely to what happened. Now he was going to tell us he checked on the child when he didn’t. He didn’t disappoint me. He said he’d looked in and saw she was fast asleep. But he hadn’t done that, I knew it and he knew it. As for Burke, who knew?

We went back over things. Once you’d phoned the emergency services and checked on the child, you went back to Mhairi, Drummond? Correct?

Roddie nodded.

And you cradled her head and held her hand?

Another nod. He spoke to her and said her name. But she didn’t respond, he claimed, just groaned, maybe said his name but he couldn’t be sure.

Burke reminded him that he’d touched her head, her face and her hands, asked if he touched her anywhere else.

Drummond said he thought she’d stopped breathing and he didn’t know what to do. He’d probably touched her shoulders, too, when he tried giving her mouth-to-mouth. He had to lay her down flat to do it. Breathing into her mouth, pushing her chest. He’d managed to dredge up something they’d shown them in school, he said, some first-aid classes. Tilted her head back, cleared her airway, breathed life into her lungs, massaged her chest. He didn’t know if her heart had stopped. He admitted he didn’t really know what the hell he was doing, he just did what he thought was right and it seemed to work because she started breathing again.

So according to his account, he’d pretty much touched her just about everywhere—head, hands, shoulders, throat, face, chest. So that would explain any strong contact traces, him to her, her to him. He’d thought it all through.

Burke changed tack again, asked if he’d seen anyone hanging around when he arrived home. A car, maybe, lights leaving the scene. Drummond said he saw no one.

Burke asked who would know that they weren’t in the habit of locking their door when at home.

Drummond said everyone. No one locks their doors on the island.

Burke asked if they left the doors unlocked even when no one was at home.

Some people do, Drummond said, but added that they did lock their door when they were out because of Donnie Kerr. Mhairi’s ex. He was a junkie and Mhairi thought he might rip them off if they left the door open when they weren’t at home. He’d only do it to family. It’s an island thing, he said, as if that explained everything.

Burke scribbled Donnie Kerr’s name down then he asked how well regarded Mhairi was. Was she liked? Was there anyone who might wish her harm?

Drummond said everybody loved her. He said everything was all right between them. No arguments or disagreements. Nothing major. That was his exact words. Nothing major. I had a dead woman lying in a wee room somewhere who would say different if she could.

Burke moved onto Roddie himself, did anyone have a problem with him?

‘Or does everyone love you too?’ I chipped in.

Roddie looked at me, then paused. ‘Carl Marsh.’

‘And who is he?’ asked Burke.

The estate gamekeeper and estate manager, Drummond explained. He had the decency to look ashamed when he told us that he’d been having it away with Mrs Marsh, prior to him shacking up with Mhairi. Marsh found out about it and gave him a hiding, warned him that it was only the beginning. Drummond took that to mean that it wasn’t over. The attack was never reported to the police because it was a private matter, between two men. It was an island thing, he said again.

Burke asked him if this relationship with Mrs Marsh was still ongoing, but Drummond said it ended when he moved in with Mhairi. He claimed it was never that serious, just two people who needed people. I thought a bloody song was coming. He said Deirdre Marsh needed someone to be kind to her, because her husband wasn’t what you would call a warm human being.

I asked him, ‘And what about you? What did you need? Was this Deirdre Marsh just an easy shag or what?’

He just stared at me again, like he was sizing me up. ‘We all need affection, don’t we?’ he said. ‘A bit of warm human contact.’

‘And she gave you that, this woman?’ I said. ‘Warm human contact?’

‘Yes,’ he said ‘Until Mhairi came along.’

I gave him a wee smile. ‘And then you dumped her.’

He shifted in his chair, said it wasn’t like that. He loved Mhairi, had done since they were kids, but nothing had ever happened. But then it did. He said he didn’t want to hurt Deirdre, she meant the world to him, but Mhairi was special. Then he looked straight at me and asked, ‘Have you never had anyone special in your life, Detective Sergeant?’

I didn’t answer, whether I had anyone special was none of his bloody business, and Burke began his questioning again, circling back, going over what had happened, what he did again and again. Drummond didn’t waver from his version, didn’t add any unnecessary detail. And Burke really was falling for it, I could tell. But I knew. Drummond was a liar. And worse, he was a murderer. And I was going to do him for it.