Only the Dead Can Tell Read online

  Alex Gray was born and educated in Glasgow. After studying English and Philosophy at the University of Strathclyde, she worked as a visiting officer for the DHSS, a time she looks upon as postgraduate education since it proved a rich source of character studies. She then trained as a secondary school teacher of English. Alex began writing professionally in 1993 and had immediate success with short stories, articles and commissions for BBC radio programmes. She has been awarded the Scottish Association of Writers’ Constable and Pitlochry trophies for her crime writing. A regular on the Scottish bestseller lists, her previous novels include Five Ways to Kill a Man, Glasgow Kiss, Pitch Black, The Riverman, Never Somewhere Else, The Swedish Girl and Keep the Midnight Out. She is the co-founder of the international Scottish crime writing festival, Bloody Scotland, which had its inaugural year in 2012.

  ALSO BY ALEX GRAY

  Never Somewhere Else

  A Small Weeping

  Shadows of Sounds

  The Riverman

  Pitch Black

  Glasgow Kiss

  Five Ways to Kill a Man

  Sleep Like the Dead

  A Pound of Flesh

  The Swedish Girl

  The Bird That Did Not Sing

  Keep the Midnight Out

  The Darkest Goodbye

  Still Dark

  SPHERE

  First published in Great Britain in 2018 by Sphere

  Copyright © Alex Gray 2018

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  A CIP catalogue record for this book

  is available from the British Library.

  ISBN 978-0-7515-6846-2

  Sphere

  An imprint of

  Little, Brown Book Group

  Carmelite House

  50 Victoria Embankment

  London EC4Y 0DZ

  An Hachette UK Company

  www.hachette.co.uk

  www.littlebrown.co.uk

  This book is dedicated to

  Dr Jenny Brown, my dear friend

  and agent extraordinaire

  Love the sojourner therefore; for you were sojourners in the land of Egypt.

  Deuteronomy 10:19

  Revised Standard Version

  CONTENTS

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  CHAPTER FORTY

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

  CHAPTER FIFTY

  CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

  CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  PROLOGUE

  Dorothy Guilford spent a lot of time thinking about death. Her own death. That it would not take place when her body had suffered the decrepitude of old age was something to which she was resigned. Especially now.

  The letter had trembled in her hand as Dorothy read it for the second time. To her it showed clear proof of her suspicions. But others might not see it that way, of course. A duplicitous character like Peter Guilford with his easy charm could explain away almost anything; the bruises on her arms, the black eye that he claimed was a gardening accident. No difficulty for a man like Peter to tell his family and friends that Dorothy wanted to increase the premium on her life insurance.

  She could imagine him, eyes downcast, voice breaking with feigned emotion, telling how much his dearly departed wife had wanted to be sure that he was looked after in his later years.

  She longed to screw up the letter in that moment but then he would know she had read it, guess that she had an inkling of what he was about to do.

  Bastard! The word stuck in her throat, making the woman choke for a moment. Then she gasped aloud, panic setting in. Would that be what Peter had in mind? Suffocation, a pillow over her face? Or would he fake yet another accident, injuring her in a way that meant a slow and lingering death? What if he were to push her over a cliff? Run her down in the driveway? Bash her head in and pretend it was the work of an intruder?

  Dorothy clutched at her heart as the sound of buzzing filled her ears and her eyelids began to flicker. She backed into a chair and slumped down, head spinning as the dizziness began again. Palpitations, the doctor had told her. Nothing to be overly alarmed about.

  But what if Peter had already begun his deadly scheme? What if he had put something into her food . . . ? A red mist appeared before her eyes as the beat of her heart intensified. Was she about to die? Here and now?

  CHAPTER ONE

  Dr Rosie Fergusson gave a tiny gasp as she felt the kick in her womb. Her mouth curved into a smile, glad of the timely reminder of new life, aware of the irony as she bent to examine the body lying on the kitchen floor. Life and death. The smile faded, replaced by a frown as Rosie bent lower to scrutinise the position of the woman’s hands grasping the knife.

  At first glance it would appear that the victim had been trying to pull it out of her chest. But what if the fatal wound had been self-inflicted? Rosie had seen cases before where there was a dubiety in the cause of death, sometimes having to argue across a courtroom as the evidence began to tell her a different sort of story from the one that seemed most obvious.

  The pathologist narrowed her eyes. There had been another case, early on in her career, one Rosie preferred to forget, but she had to admit her interpretation of the evidence in that case had caused a whole lot of grief for the family of the deceased. They’d been so certain their father had taken his own life and Rosie had wanted to believe that too. But the police investigation had shown a different scenario and a man was still languishing in prison, convicted of murder. Yet he’d been at large for so much longer than he might have been if she’d made the correct judgement.

  ‘Time of death, doctor?’ A voice behind her made Rosie tur
n to see DC Kirsty Wilson, her young friend and sometime babysitter for Abby, her four-year-old daughter.

  ‘You know I can’t give anything but an approximation, Kirsty,’ she said, swivelling on her heels. ‘But I’d say the victim died some time after three o’clock this morning. Rigor is incomplete,’ she added, nodding towards the body on the floor. ‘You say she was found at seven-fifteen, that’s right?’ Rosie glanced towards the scene-of-crime manager who, like the others, was clad in the regulation white forensic suit.

  ‘Aye, the husband found her lying on the floor here,’ DS Jim Geary replied. ‘Said he came downstairs and heard the radio on. Thought his wife had got up to make breakfast.’ Geary’s eyebrows rose under his forensic hood as though to indicate his scepticism.

  ‘Strange that she didn’t clear up from the night before, isn’t it?’ Kirsty observed. ‘Even I do the dishes before I make breakfast. And the rest of the kitchen looks spotless.’ She turned to cast a glance over the dark granite worktops and gleaming stainless steel oven and hob.

  Geary nodded, eyeing the sink full of dirty dishes and pans, grease congealing in the cold water. ‘Have a look at that, Wilson,’ he said, nodding towards the sink. ‘See if there’s anything worth noting before the SOCOs and DI McCauley get here.’

  Kirsty moved towards the kitchen sink, light from a window shining on the utensils. There was a large griddle pan immersed in the water, a single plate leaning against it. Fishing in the water with her gloved hand, Kirsty found a fork and a non-stick spatula under the pan. To one side of the sink lay a black plastic container, its label rolled back. Careful not to disturb the evidence, she lifted it between her finger and thumb.

  ‘Looks like she cooked a sirloin steak for her supper,’ Kirsty remarked. ‘Just one plate, unless she cleared up after herself and left her husband to do his own dishes. But there’s no sign of a knife,’ she added.

  ‘Laguiole,’ Rosie told her.

  ‘What?’ Geary asked.

  ‘French steak knife. We’ve got a set at home. Look for a flat wooden box somewhere with one missing,’ she added.

  ‘That’s what . . . ?’

  ‘I can say with a degree of certainty that the weapon in the victim’s hands is a Laguiole knife, yes,’ Rosie agreed grimly. ‘But whether or not she actually ate that steak needs to wait until we carry out the post-mortem and see her stomach contents.’

  Rosie looked back at the body, concentrating on the hands clutched around the heft of the knife. She would examine the wound more thoroughly once the weapon was withdrawn, see what its shape and depth could tell her. But meantime there was something she could offer to the detectives hovering above her.

  ‘Cadaveric spasm,’ she muttered, her gloved fingers touching the dead woman’s own.

  ‘What?’ Geary repeated.

  ‘Her hands have stiffened up considerably,’ Rosie replied to the detective’s question. ‘Could mean one of two things. She may have been trying to stop the penetration of the blade . . . ’ The pathologist tailed off.

  ‘Or?’ Geary persisted.

  ‘Or it was suicide,’ Rosie said quietly.

  ‘Really?’ The detective sergeant’s voice was tinged with disbelief. ‘Wouldn’t it have been easier to take an overdose? Can’t think that a middle-aged woman would thrust a knife into her own heart . . . ’

  Rosie swallowed hard, the memory of her mistake coming back with an unwanted force.

  ‘We’ll know more once we have her in the mortuary,’ she replied stiffly. ‘One thing is quite certain, though. Mrs Guilford was clutching that knife at the moment she died.’

  ‘I can’t believe it,’ the man moaned, rocking back and forwards on the edge of his chair. ‘I just can’t believe it. Why would she do something like that?’ He looked up at the two officers who stood over him, his eyes flitting from one to the other.

  ‘When did you last see your wife before she died, Mr Guilford?’ DI Alan McCauley asked.

  Peter Guilford shook his head, frown lines appearing between his brows. ‘I . . . I don’t remember,’ he faltered. ‘Some time last night, I think. She was in bed asleep when I turned in. Don’t know what time that was . . . ’ His mouth fell open as he glanced beyond them to the door that separated the lounge from the kitchen area. ‘I didn’t hear her get up . . . Sound sleeper.’ Guilford attempted a shrug but his shoulders did not relax and both officers could see the telltale signs of tension in the man’s body.

  ‘And before that,’ DI McCauley persisted. ‘When did you last see Dorothy awake?’

  Peter Guilford licked his lips nervously before replying. ‘I . . . ’ he stuttered, ‘I think it must have been around teatime. Dorothy, my wife, hasn’t . . . ’ he swallowed before continuing, ‘. . . hadn’t been feeling very well lately.’ He looked up at the two officers in turn. ‘She went to bed straight after I’d finished dinner.’

  ‘Would you mind telling us what you ate, sir?’

  ‘What?’ Guilford frowned.

  ‘It would help us if you could, sir?’ McCauley persisted.

  ‘A steak and some microwave chips,’ Guilford replied. ‘What’s that got to do with—’

  ‘You ate alone?’

  Guilford nodded. ‘Dorothy said she didn’t want anything.’

  ‘And did you cook your own dinner?’

  The man shook his head, still frantically gnawing at his lip. ‘She always cooked for me,’ he began then sniffed, running a hand across his nose. ‘It’s what she was like . . . good wife . . . ’ He bent forwards, burying his head in his hands.

  The two detectives glanced at each other as the man sobbed quietly. Was this all an act? Or was the manifestation of grief a genuine reaction?

  ‘What did you do for the rest of the evening, sir?’ McCauley asked.

  Guilford sat up, pulling his dressing gown sleeve across his eyes before replying. ‘Went down the pub. Quiz night, y’know? Had a few pints with the lads . . . Usual thing,’ he said. ‘Dorothy didn’t like drinking. She . . . she never minded me going out of an evening, though . . . ’

  ‘And she was in bed when you returned?’

  The man nodded, seeming too full of emotion to utter another word.

  ‘Okay, we’ll leave it there for now, sir, but you need to get yourself dressed, come down to the station with us to make a formal statement.’

  Peter Guilford’s mouth fell open in silent protest.

  ‘A necessary formality, in such circumstances, sir,’ he was told. ‘And if you don’t mind putting your nightclothes into this plastic bag . . . ?’

  The expression of fear on the man’s face might have been fleeting but it was something that the officers would remember to log later in the day.

  DC Kirsty Wilson gave a sigh as the last of the scene of crime officers trooped out of the front door. A small breeze rippled across the plastic tape that cordoned off the garden gate but Kirsty reckoned that it would probably be taken down pretty soon. Poor woman had killed herself, wasn’t that what the pathologist had told her? But what if Rosie was wrong? Wasn’t there the possibility that Peter Guilford had committed this act? There were no signs of a break-in, the front and back doors having been locked, according to the weeping husband, something that the officers packing up their van had all but confirmed. There was plenty of trace evidence to process and no definitive answer to the puzzle of the woman’s death could be given until that and a post-mortem was done. She locked the door with gloved hands then placed the keys in a plastic bag before thrusting them into the pocket of her raincoat. She would follow McCauley, Geary and the others in her own little car to Helen Street, where she was based, another day’s work just beginning.

  All over the city commuters were struggling through the traffic, nose to tail, the M8 a snake full of moving vehicles. It had been lucky that this call-out was fairly local, a nice house along St Andrew’s Drive. The detective looked up and down the road, noticing the schoolchildren heading towards Craigholme, the private girls’ school near
by. As she drove away, she saw their uniform, kilts instead of skirts, swinging as they walked. For the kids this was just another ordinary Wednesday but for the family of Dorothy Guilford, this would surely be the day that would be burned into their memory for years to come.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Aberdeen. The granite city, home for decades to the oil industry, a place where hard men thrived against North Sea winds and sharp-tongued women. Once it had been part of the fishing trade, the coastal waters teeming with herring, the ‘silver darlings’ of legend. Women had worked these shores, back-breaking toil, fingers raw from gutting and filleting the catches their men had brought in from the swelling seas, danger rife in every sailing. There lingered still a defiant attitude in this northern city, a determination to defeat any odds stacked against it. And yet the decline in the oil trade had meant falling house prices and a lowering of morale as workers left in their thousands.

  The city was looking at its best as Lorimer drove along Union Street, early morning sunlight glinting off the grey stones, sky washed clean after the shower that had swept along the coast. Who would guess that these fine buildings were a front for something darker? Like a stage set where the actors were hiding in the wings, he thought. Ready to come out and show what really went on behind this façade of respectability. And he would be there to see it happen, guaranteed a front row seat.

  The Major Incident Team from Glasgow had been here for days now, the final tip-off culminating in the raids that were scheduled to take place throughout the city centre. A network of trafficking in human misery had been uncovered, the gangmasters largely identified, the premises where the illegals worked already under surveillance. It was a highly structured operation, the Aberdeen police committing officers to various locations, Lorimer himself taking control of each and every movement.

  His driver slowed down and turned along a side street, the vehicle’s tyres juddering over the cobbles. A workman in dark trousers with a hi-visibility jacket strode along, head down, bent under the weight of a backpack, never giving their car a single glance. He might be a genuine workman heading home after a night shift or he could be one of their own; it was impossible to tell and that was all to the good. Their undercover officers had infiltrated this illicit business in several ways, relating snippets of intelligence back to the MIT, culminating in this morning’s business, Operation Fingertip. The name had come from one quick-witted DI back in Glasgow who had thought up the tag. We’ve got a few of them fingered already, she’d explained with a grin and a wiggle of her own painted fingernails. And that’s just the tip of the iceberg, right?