Hold Hands in the Dark (8 page)

Chapter 17

T
he tail end of some kind of trans-Atlantic storm was whipping up the Clyde that evening, splattering rain onto the windows of The Castle Hotel, as if a person was standing outside with a bucket, creating a scene for a low-budget horror movie.

              Sam and Andy had decided to book rooms there for the night, after a day of asking questions around the shops and farms of Portencross and Seamill. The detectives ended their labours seated by one of the open fires, a couple of peat dark single malts on the table between them. The place was empty apart from a group of seasoned golfers congregated around the bar.

              A handful of locals had recalled the Faulkners when they worked Crosbie Farm back in the seventies, but none gave them as much information as Rob Shepherd had.

              Sam took a swig of his dram. ‘Damn, that’s seriously good stuff. Almost worth the weather.’

              ‘Steady on, that’s fightin’ talk,’ Andy rumbled, before cracking a grin. ‘Aye, it’s fair dreich out there the’ nicht.’

              ‘I’m not sure what you just said, but I think I’m in total agreement.’

              Andy laughed.

              Sam’s expression became more serious. ‘So, Dani’s happy with this James guy?’

              ‘I have to admit that she is. I wasn’t sure about him at first, but he’s grown on me.’

              ‘Yeah, I can tell she’s more grounded.’

              ‘To be honest, the boss was a mess when youse two were together. We had that case in Norway and it played around with her head. It was just a shame that it was you she was with when all that stuff with her mother kicked off as well.’

              Sam shuffled forward. ‘Yeah, speaking of the Norway investigation, I always thought something went on with Dani on that trip. She was different when she came back. Can you shed any light on that for me?’

              Andy put the whisky glass to his lips, hoping he might be able to side-step the question. Then he found he didn’t have to. The door to the public bar flew open. At first, the DC thought it may have been dislodged by the wind. He soon realised there was a more human cause.

              A huge man in a black raincoat stood on the threshold. It quickly became evident that it was one of his substantial boots which had forced the door practically off its hinges.

              Rob lifted the hatch and walked round the bar to face him. ‘I don’t want any trouble Mac.’

              ‘I’ve no argument wi’ you or your missus. But I hear that a couple of polis have been asking after the Faulkners. A wee bird tells me they’ve wound up here.’

              ‘Just a few routine inquiries, I think.’ Rob kept his tone neutral.

              Mac’s hooded eyes took in the room. ‘Is that them o’er there by the fire?’

              Rob shrugged noncommittally.

              Sam decided it was time to intervene. He stood up. ‘I’m Sergeant Sam Sharpe. This is my colleague DS Calder. We’ve been the ones asking the questions. Is there a problem with that?’

              Mac was lighter on his feet than he looked. Within seconds, he’d moved in on Sam, grabbing his lapels and placing his face so close to the American’s that their noses were practically touching. ‘The problem pal, is that I’ve been looking for that scumbag family for the best part of four decades, so if you know what rock they’re all hiding under, you’d better tell me noo, or I’ll knock those perfect yankee teeth doon the back of yer throat.’

              It didn’t take long for Andy to sweep Mac’s arm behind his back and lodge a knee firmly into the base of his spine. The man winced with pain.

              Sam took a good look at his heavily lined face. It was clear that Mac was at least sixty years old and not as strong as he thought he was. ‘Now, if you promise to behave, my friend will let you sit on that stool there and have a little chat with us. If not, we’ll drag you down to the jailhouse in Seamill for the night. What do you say?’

              ‘Just let go of my arm for Christ’s sake,’ he whined pitifully.

              Andy manoeuvred his captive onto a stool and released his grip, just a fraction.

              Rob came over with another glass of whisky. ‘He’ll be fine after he’s drunk this. Mac’s harmless enough.’

              Sam brushed down his shirt, not sure he was inclined to agree.

              Andy took the seat beside the big man, making certain he could quickly restrain him again if necessary.

              ‘Now, Mac is it? Just why have you been searching for the Faulkners all these years?’ Sam looked him up and down. The man was old, but had clearly at one time in his life been a serious piece of muscle.                            

              Mac downed the drink before answering. ‘I had unfinished business wi’ Magnus, that’s all.’

              ‘What kind of business?’

              ‘He owed me money. When I went up to the farmhouse to get it off him they’d all gone. The place was cleared out. They didn’t ever come back.’

              Andy wasn’t surprised, with a younger and fitter Mac lying in wait for them here in Portencross.

              ‘And you’re sure
you
never tracked them down?’ Sam watched Mac’s expression carefully. ‘You would have been real mad after all these years when you finally got hold of a member of the Faulkner family.’

              Mac whipped his head up. ‘Did they go to
America
? Is that why there’s a yankee detective here askin’ questions about them?’ His thick legs began twitching ferociously.

              Andy was genuinely concerned he might have to fight the man again. ‘They’re all dead, pal. You won’t be getting your money now, even if you do find out where they took off to back then.’

              Mac banged a fist down hard on the table, sending the empty glasses a couple of inches into the air. ‘Those thieving bastards got away wi’ ma money!’

              Sam sat back against the bench and said nothing. He simply marvelled at the terrible, tragic irony of the man’s words.

Chapter 18

V
icki Kendrick’s agent, Kenneth Rachmann, ran his business from a suite of offices on Baird Street, not far from the college where his client had taught music.

              DS Mann had made an appointment and was expected. A middle aged secretary made the detective a cup of tea whilst she waited in a seating area. It didn’t take long for Rachmann to open the door to his office and invite her in.

              Alice brought her mug along too. ‘My name is Detective Sergeant Mann. We spoke earlier.’

              ‘Do take a seat, Sergeant. I see Maggie has already furnished you with a drink. She’s very good that way.’ The man made himself comfortable in a large leather chair. He was diminutive in stature and almost entirely bald.

              Alice struggled to imagine him capable of overpowering Ms Kendrick, although Dan had told her that the ex-husband would have be more than capable of doing so. ‘I need to ask you a few questions about Vicki Kendrick, I’m afraid. Had you worked together long?’

              ‘Vicki approached my agency in 2001. I took on her representation a couple of months after that. I’ve had clients for longer, but I considered Vicki a dear friend.’

              ‘I’m sorry for your loss, sir. When did you last speak with her?’

              ‘It was on Saturday morning. I called to remind her about the recital at the Concert Hall on the Thursday evening and to discuss a tour we had planned for Canada in the summer.’ Rachmann sighed heavily. ‘Of course, the dates will all have to be cancelled now and the relevant people informed. Her fans will be deeply upset by the news.’

              ‘How did Vicki seem when you spoke – what was her mood like?’

              ‘She was very upbeat. It felt as if I’d interrupted her as she was about to go out of the door as a matter of fact. The conversation was brief but pleasant. I believe she was looking forward to the Canadian trip particularly. Vicki has good friends out there.’ He rubbed his hairless chin. ‘I wonder if they’ve been informed yet. Perhaps I should do it.’

              ‘I expect it will be on all the news bulletins by this evening. The international press will get hold of the story soon enough,’ Alice replied brusquely.

              Rachmann felt the policewoman had missed his point slightly. ‘Has Guy been told?’

              ‘Yes, Mr Kendrick has already been interviewed. He thought you might have more insight into Vicki’s social life in the weeks leading up to her death than he did.’

              The man shrugged his shoulders. ‘Vicki was a private woman. She was very well known in the classical music world. Her television appearances in recent years had made her recognisable to the general public too. She preferred to frequent the bars and restaurants in the cities we toured rather than her native Glasgow. It was more anonymous that way.’

              ‘Did Vicki have a boyfriend?’

              ‘To my knowledge, she did not. Since her divorce there were a handful of discreet romances but nothing serious and nobody within the last year.’

              ‘I’ll need you to provide me with the names of these men, please.’

              ‘Of course, in the cases where I can recall them. A couple were rather casual.’

              ‘Yet Ms Kendrick still told you about the affairs?’

              ‘We were friends and spoke about everything. My life was an open book to Vicki. After my wife died I went through a very trying time. She was my confidante.’

              ‘I will need to look at Vicki’s diaries for the last five years. We’ll need to see the records of where she performed and who with.’

              ‘Yes, I can do that with ease. The information is all computerized.’

              Alice looked up from her notes. ‘What did you know about Vicki’s background?’

              Rachmann’s expression became guarded. ‘Vicki was a private person, I told you that. I knew her grandmother before she died. Other than Guy, that’s the only family of hers I’ve ever met.’

              ‘Did she tell you what happened to her parents?’

              He sighed deeply. ‘I suppose you already know about it so there’s no point in being cryptic. Her parents moved to America in the 70s and Vicki remained in Scotland. They lost touch and I think Vic was ashamed about the situation, so she told people they were dead.’

              ‘Even her own husband of fifteen years? Didn’t you think that was odd? Why did she tell you the truth and not him?’

              ‘I suppose that somewhere in her heart she never fully trusted Guy. It turned out that her instinct was accurate. I don’t know why she chose to share the truth with me but I’m honoured she did so.’

              ‘I will need to get you to make a statement accounting for your movements on the evening Vicki was killed. We require it of everyone who knew her.’

              ‘Of course. I’ll get Maggie to type it up for us.’ Rachmann leant forward. ‘Although Vic told me the truth about her family, I always sensed there was more. The woman had many secrets, I’m certain of that. I really hope it wasn’t one of those secrets that got her murdered, not when she could have come to me for help. But Vicki thought she was completely alone in this world, Detective Sergeant, perhaps in a way that only those who’ve learnt to live without their close family can ever hope to comprehend.’

              Alice nodded, feeling she was beginning to understand the strange way that Vicki Kendrick had lived her life.

Chapter 19

T
he fierce gales and torrential rain of the previous night had subsided. Sam stood at the window of his room and gazed out across the Firth at the impressive view, a cup of instant coffee from the refreshment tray cradled in his hands.

              It turned out that ‘Mac’ was Ciaran McAlister, a long term resident of Portencross, who once owned the shop and garage on the A78, just past the town of Seamill. Rob Shepherd was required to drive the man home to his flat after the bar closed. He was in far too much of an emotional state to have managed the walk alone.

              Sam didn’t seriously believe that McAlister could have organised the hit on Dale or murdered Vicki in her Glasgow home. But the fact remained, he was the only person they’d come across so far who actually had a motive to do so.

              There was a knock at the door.

              ‘Come in, it’s open!’

              Andy entered with his own mug of tea. ‘I’ve brought bourbon biscuits for breakfast.’ He tossed a mini pack of three on the bed, glancing across at the window.  ‘Ah, I see you’re the one with the view.’

              ‘I suppose Rob thought I was the closest he had to a proper tourist.’

              ‘Not a problem. I know that landscape well enough.’

              Sam bent down to retrieve a biscuit from the packet. He examined it closely. ‘Is there actually bourbon in these?’

              Andy laughed. ‘Sadly not. I haven’t got the slightest idea why they’re called that. They taste great so I’ve never questioned it.’

              Sam munched on the biscuit for a while. ‘So when the Faulkners set out for Richmond they had unpaid debts here in Scotland. Do you think that’s why they left?’

              ‘It’s very likely. Maybe they owed money to people even nastier than our friend Mac.’

              Sam gazed out to sea. ‘But why kill the children all these years later, if we’re looking for a disgruntled creditor? I don’t see what it could have achieved. Vicki Kendrick
had
got money, but the person who murdered her didn’t take anything valuable from the house or force her to give them access to her bank account. Her savings and investments are intact.’

              ‘The crime scene details seemed to suggest a frenzied and personal attack. You were there, what did you reckon?’

              ‘The killing was brutal and merciless. Vicki was a small woman, unable to defend herself against such anger.’ Sam turned back to look at his colleague.

              ‘Is a forty year old bad debt left by her parents enough to explain the ferocity of that hatred?’ Andy asked levelly.

              ‘No,’ the American said quietly. ‘I don’t believe it is.’

*

The McNeil family were well known in Seamill. They’d once owned the large Hydro Hotel and plenty of descendants of the clan were still scattered about the area.

              Sam and Andy were waiting to meet one of them, in the lounge bar of the town’s main hotel. He was a local historian called Ian McNeil, who Calder found through an internet search.

              McNeil, broad and middle aged, approached their table and put out his hand to the men. ‘My name is Ian. I take it you’re the police officers from Glasgow?’

              ‘Are we that obvious?’ Andy replied with a grin.               ‘At this time of the year you’d either be a golfer or visiting the hotel for a pensioners’ lunch. You don’t fit the bill on either score.’

              They ordered morning coffee from a waitress in a fetching tartan outfit.              

              ‘How may I help you?’ Ian placed his hands on the table and eyed both detectives.

              ‘You wrote a book on the history of the McNeil clan, I believe?’

              ‘Aye, it was published by a local operation five years back. It’s not topped the bestseller lists yet but you’ll find several copies in the village shop.’

              ‘And you teach at the local school?’

              ‘That’s right, I’m Head of History at the High School in West Kilbride. Are you American? I thought you were both down from Glasgow?’

              Sam smiled. ‘I’m from Richmond, Virginia. A case involving a couple of your clansfolk has brought me over this way.’

              Ian leant forward. ‘Now, that
is
interesting. There is a chapter in my book dedicated to the McNeils in the USA, but my research was only very perfunctory in that area. It really deserves a book of its own and I’d need to travel out there to do proper justice to the topic.’

              Sam slipped out his notebook and showed the man a page from it. ‘This couple, John and Rita McNeil, claimed to have ancestors who hailed from Portencross, although they were both born and bred in the US. They taught school in downtown Richmond.’

              Ian pulled on a pair of dark rimmed glasses and reached for a bag by his feet. ‘I’ve brought along some documentation of my own.’ He pushed aside the coffee cups and laid out a large and detailed family tree which had been rolled up inside a cardboard cylinder. ‘These are the McNeils, going back to the early nineteenth century. I’ve got a tree at home which stretches back even further, but for our purposes, I thought this would do.’

              ‘It will do very nicely, sir,’ Sam muttered gratefully.

              ‘What age would this John McNeil be now?’

              Sam rubbed his stubbly chin. ‘The tenancy details suggested he would be around sixty years old.’

              Ian ran his finger down the divisions and subdivisions of the intricate document. ‘A small branch of the McNeil family set sail to the United States in the 1840s. The men were headed out to make their fortune in the construction boom taking place in your great cities during that time.’

              ‘Do you know if any of them ended up in Virginia?’ Sam’s interest had been piqued.

              ‘As a matter of fact I have some information about that.’ Ian sat back and folded his arms across his chest. ‘I’m sure you’re aware that Richmond was a Confederate stronghold during the Civil War.’

              ‘I sure am.’

              ‘In the 1860s, Richmond possessed the largest factory in the confederacy. It was called the Tredegar Iron Works. It turned out hundreds of tons of heavy ordnance machinery, artillery and other munitions. My ancestor, William McNeil, travelled to the city to find work there in 1862. He and his wife had two grown up sons then, both who fought in the Confederate army.’

              ‘Do you think this may have been the branch of the family that John McNeil descended from?’

              Ian leant forward again and pointed at the diagram. ‘Here is William McNeil and his wife Mary. One of their sons was killed in the Union campaign against the city in 1864 but the other, Samuel, survived the war and had three children. Your John McNeil must be the great grandson of Samuel’s youngest boy, George William McNeil.’

              Sam looked closely at the section of the tree Ian was indicating. ‘Yes, I see. The birth dates seem to match. How did you get this information? Do you know anything more about John?’

              Ian smiled sadly and shook his head. ‘Everything I’ve got here originates from American online genealogy sites. The information comes from birth and death certificates, census reports, that kind of thing. I did find some books that had been written about the Tredegar Iron Works during the Civil War which gave me a little more context. But like I said before, I’d need to visit the States myself to come up with anything more substantial.’

              Sam sighed, he wasn’t sure if this knowledge actually took them any further forward. ‘So all of this stuff is of public record? John McNeil would most likely have known about his family history and the connection to West Kilbride?’

              ‘Oh yes, if he had an interest in his family’s Scottish roots then it would have been straightforward for him to find out all of this for himself.’

              ‘John McNeil told his classes that his family were Scottish and that his ancestral home was Portencross, West Kilbride. So this guy had clearly done some research into the family tree,’ Andy clarified. ‘Then Dale Faulkner, one time resident of Portencross, winds up dead in a house who’s most recent tenants were the McNeils. How can that be a coincidence? What’s the connection between them?’

              ‘I don’t know the details of your case,’ Ian added, ‘I can only speculate using my knowledge of how the typical genealogist works. Perhaps John McNeil came across Faulkner’s name as part of his research into the McNeils of West Kilbride. The communities here are small and intertwined. This may have prompted him to contact the man. That’s what I would do, if I wanted to add another name to my tree, or clarify a historical detail. I would get in touch with a living descendent.’

              ‘But Dale didn’t want anyone knowing about his past in Scotland,’ Sam said quietly.

              ‘That’s very unusual for an American, if I might say. I find that your citizens are very keen to celebrate their Celtic heritage. John McNeil would certainly not have thought the subject was taboo, I should imagine.’

              Sam placed a hand on the man’s arm. ‘You’re quite right, Ian. But if John McNeil
had
approached Dale in Richmond about his past, my old friend sure wouldn’t have been too happy about it.’

              Andy nodded to the older man. ‘Thanks for the input. This has been a really great help. And can we get some kind of copy of this?’ He gestured towards the document laid out across the table.

              ‘Of course, I’ve several at home. I might even throw in a signed copy of my book whilst I’m at it.’