Their Final Act Read online

  Their Final Act

  Alex Walters

  Contents

  Also By Alex Walters

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  NOTE AND ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  Copyright © 2018 Alex Walters

  The right of Alex Walters to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by Alex Walters in accordance with him.

  Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  First published in 2018 by Bloodhound Books

  Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law, this publication may only be reproduced, stored, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, with prior permission in writing of the publisher or, in the case of reprographic production, in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency.

  All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  www.bloodhoundbooks.com

  Also By Alex Walters

  DI McKay Series

  Candle & Roses ( Book 1)

  Death Parts Us ( Book 2)

  Expiry Date ( Book 4)

  Praise for Alex Walters

  "I really enjoyed this new crime series and will definitely be looking to read the next book when it comes along." Joanne Robertson - My Chestnut Reading Tree

  "Alex Walters’ crime debut is a great read, it is exciting and intriguing and I simply loved this detective novel." Caroline Vincent - Bits About Books

  "Superb!" Chris Nolan - Goodreads Reviewer

  "This is the first book in a new series for Alex Walters which I am positive will gather quite a following very quickly, myself being one of them." Susan Hampson - Books From Dusk Till Dawn

  "Dark, powerful and utterly absorbing with a satisfying ending I didn’t see coming. Loved it." Deborah - Goodreads Reviewer

  "A book of many threads that are skillfully drawn out and all solved by the novels end - a definite, must read." Sue Gale - Goodreads Reviewer

  "The pacing & smooth prose makes for effortless reading, one of those books where you’re surprised to see how far you’ve gone when you finally look up. " Sandy - Goodreads Reviewer

  "A fantastic thriller that I would have no hesitation to recommend and will be keenly keeping an eye out for more books featuring Alec McKay!" Kate Noble - The Quiet Knitter

  "This is a fast paced easy read full of twists and turns that I didn't see coming not to mention the OMG moments." Shell Baker - Chelle's Book Reviews

  "I thought that this was a brilliant book and as soon as I finished I knew it was going to have to be a 5 stars read and up there with my top crime reads of the year!" Donna Maguire - Donnas Book Blog

  "A great detective thriller and I look forward to McKay’s next investigation!" Clair Boor - Have Books Will Read

  "This book was a nail biting ,crisp dark read...that keeps you guessing all the way through...." Livia Sbarbaro - Goodreads Reviewer

  1

  'That you, Jimmy?'

  Jimmy McGuire winced, hearing yet again the beginning of the accidental catchphrase from the days when he'd been half a double act. As always, it was called out in a parodic version of the already exaggerated Glasgow accent he'd used on stage in those days.

  Christ, couldn't the buggers even let him have a piss in peace?

  'Aye,' he responded wearily. 'It's me. Here to serve.' It had never been funny, or even intended to be. It was just the throwaway opening of some routine, which for some reason had got a laugh. They'd used it again, more incongruously, in some other piece and the laugh had been bigger. So it popped up more frequently, initially as an in-joke between the two of them. But somehow it had gained a life of its own, ensuring a round of applause at the start of every show. In the brief golden period when they'd attracted the interest of television commissioners, the producers had been obsessed with concepts based on 'here to serve'. Unsurprisingly, none of the programmes had ever been made.

  The phrase had become a bloody weight on his shoulders, reminding him of where he was and how far he'd come. Here to bloody serve.

  'Great show, pal,' the voice said from somewhere off to his left. 'You still got it.'

  'Aye, well, thanks,' he muttered. Rule one, he thought. Never engage in conversation in a public toilet. Rule two: never look anywhere but down into your own urinal. There were more rules they'd once developed a routine around, but he couldn't immediately remember what they were. That one hadn't been particularly funny either.

  He finished off and zipped up his fly, turning to survey the small room. His unwelcome admirer had already left, though Jimmy hadn't heard the door open. That was something. At least he wouldn't have to wash his hands while making awkward small talk about how brilliant his set had supposedly been.

  His set had been okay. He'd enough experience to wring the laughs out of the pissheads who frequented this kind of comedy club. He could deal with the hecklers and get the audience on his side. He gave them a good time. As far as he could tell, the only person not enjoying it was him.

  He didn't even know why he'd come back up here. Because he'd been invited, he supposed. That and curiosity. See how much the place had changed. Spoiler alert: it hadn't, or at least not in any ways that really mattered. He'd thought he might look up a few of the old crowd, but in the end he didn't have the energy. All he wanted was a quick bite to eat if he could find somewhere still open, a walk along the river for old time's sake, and then bed. In the morning, he'd get an early train south.

  He stepped back out in the bar. The show was still going on – he hadn't even been top of the bill – so most of the punters were in the main room. A few of the more hardened drinkers were scattered along the bar, most apparently drinking alone. One of them turned and scrutinised him as he passed. 'You're him, aren't you?' the man said, his voice slightly slurred.

  Always be polite to the paying customers, Jimmy told himself. Even if they were probably paying to see someone else. At least this one hadn't come out with the bloody catchphrase. 'Probably, pal.'

  The man squinted at him through bloodshot eyes. 'Saw you were on tonight. What you doing playing a shithouse like this?'

  McGuire forced himself to laugh. 'It's a living. And it's not so bad. These clubs are the future of comedy now.' That was the line his bloody manager had fed him, anyway, when Jimmy had started playing this circuit.

  'You used to be big time though,' the man said. 'Well, bigger than this.'

 
'Long time ago, eh?' McGuire made to move past him.

  'You were good though,' the man persisted. 'Back in the day. Better than a lot of the shite around. Better than this place.'

  'Thanks, pal. Appreciated.' McGuire finally managed to make his escape. Truth was, he didn't want to spend another minute in that place. The noise. The smell of sweat and booze. The raucous laugher that would grow increasingly uncontrolled and humourless as the night went on.

  He pushed his way out into the street and stood for a moment drinking in the chill night air. It was only just after nine, but, apart from one or two smokers outside the bars, Church Street was deserted. Most people didn't come out on a school night.

  His intention had been to find somewhere to eat. It had always been a challenge, at least outside the biggest cities, to find anywhere still serving after a gig – even more so in the days when they'd been last on the bill. Indian or Chinese restaurants were usually the best bet, if you didn't mind sharing the place with groups of pissed-up youngsters.

  Now, though, his appetite had deserted him. The thought of scouting round for somewhere still open, having to go through the rigmarole of choosing and ordering – all that left him feeling exhausted. He'd managed to grab a sandwich at the start of the evening, so he'd survive till morning. All he wanted was a bit of peace and an early night.

  He turned off the main street into one of the narrower roads leading down to the river. He'd loop round that way, enjoy the night air and the views over the waterfront, and then head back to the charms of his budget hotel.

  Off the main street, the night felt eerily quiet. He glanced at the shadowy doorways, wondering if this was a wise move. But it was still relatively early. The only danger here would be from some wee ned looking for a fight after a few too many pints, and none of that would kick off till later.

  He could see the river glimmering with reflected light. Down there, there'd be other pedestrians. Dog walkers, people coming out of the restaurants. The usual passers-by.

  It had been warm when he'd left the hotel earlier, and he hadn't bothered with a coat, just the trademark jacket he wore on stage. It had turned colder, a stiff breeze blowing up from the river. He found himself increasing his pace to keep warm.

  Halfway down, he thought he heard footsteps. He stopped and looked back, but the street was deserted. Just a scrap of paper fluttering in the wind.

  As he turned back to continue, he heard the words hissed from the shadows beside him. 'That you, Jimmy?'

  McGuire was a big man. A little overweight, but more than capable of looking after himself. There wasn't much scared him. 'When you've died on stage in front of a crowd of hen parties, there is no other death,' he used to say.

  He turned to respond and, if necessary, defend himself. But he never had the chance. Before he could move, something whipped around his head.

  He stumbled backwards, fumbling at his collar, trying in vain to loosen the cord tightening around his throat.

  It took him only seconds to lose consciousness.

  2

  They'd had the conversation a couple of months before in DCI Helena Grant's office. 'You're joking.'

  'Do you see me laughing, Alec?' she'd responded.

  DI Alec McKay had leaned forward and peered at her face, as if taking the question seriously. 'Not now you mention it. But you've one of those poker faces. I'd never want to call your bluff.'

  'You call my bluff all the bloody time, Alec. Mostly you get away with it.'

  'But not guilty. How's she expect to get away with that?'

  'By playing the victim card for all it's worth, according to the Procurator.'

  McKay had been sitting in front of Grant's desk. Now, he rose and wandered about the office, occasionally stopping to gaze at her bookshelf or pick up some paper she'd left on the table. This, Grant knew, was a sign that McKay was feeling agitated. She'd once found the habit irritating. Now, she'd mostly learned to ignore it.

  'She can't play it very far though,' McKay pointed out. 'She killed two people.'

  'One of whom, according to her, had abused her physically and sexually since her childhood. And she's saying the other was a serial rapist who'd abused her repeatedly and similarly in adulthood.'

  McKay was silent for a moment, clearly trying to make sense of this. 'Denny Gorman, a serial rapist?' he said, finally. 'Even if the inclination was there, the capability wouldn't be.'

  'You know as well as I do, Alec, that rape's not about sex. It's about the abuse of power.'

  'That's my point. Gorman didn't have any power. Ach, no one had a lower opinion of Denny Gorman than I did. He was a slimeball of the first order. But he was an utterly ineffectual one.'

  'Most rapists are ineffectual slimeballs,' Grant said.

  'Elizabeth Hamilton's original claim was that Gorman raped her when she'd had too much to drink. There was nothing in her statement about repeated abuse.'

  'Apparently she wants to make a new statement. She claims that when she made her original one she was still too traumatised by what had happened and wasn't in a fit state to give an accurate account.' Grant paused. 'Not helped by the fact that the police officer leading the interview was…' She paused again and looked down at the notes she'd scribbled when talking to the Depute Procurator earlier. 'The phrase was "acerbic and unsympathetic". Does that sound like anyone we know?'

  McKay dumped himself back down on the chair by Grant's desk and snatched up her stapler. For a moment, Grant thought he might throw it through the window behind her, but instead he just tossed it from hand to hand. 'For fuck's sake, Helena. This is utter shite. Grade A bollocks from start to finish. They must see that.'

  'Not up to them, is it? If this is the line she takes, it'll be up to the jury.'

  'Aye, but the Procurator will tear it to shreds, surely?'

  'He'll do his best. But he's clearly rattled.'

  'Jesus Christ, I thought this one was cut and dried.' McKay was still gently tossing the stapler as if about to use it as an offensive weapon. 'We caught her red-handed with the two fucking bodies, for Christ's sake. Even the bloody Procurator ought to be capable of making that stand up.'

  The case went back to the previous summer, the climax of an extraordinary series of multiple killings over on the Black Isle. Elizabeth Hamilton had been the daughter of John Robbins, who was now assumed to have committed the original murders. Hamilton herself had been a victim of Robbins' abuse and had had suspicions about his behaviour. The exact sequence of events had always been unclear, but it had appeared that, with the balance of her mind disturbed, Hamilton had sought revenge on both her abusive father and on Denny Gorman, a local publican, who she said had raped her at the end of a drunken evening. The story was messy and far from clear, but Hamilton had apparently drugged the two men and somehow pulled their bound bodies into the sea off Rosemarkie Beach with the intention of drowning them. Hamilton had been intercepted by DS Ginny Horton, a member of Grant's team, but by then Robbins and Gorman had already been dead.

  There had seemed little doubt that Hamilton would be convicted of murder, albeit with considerable extenuating circumstances. The assumption had been that she would plead guilty with the aim of seeking the shortest possible sentence. Now it seemed as if Hamilton, or her lawyers, had chosen a bolder route.

  McKay finally grew bored with the stapler and dropped it back on to Grant's desk with a clatter. 'So how's she trying to justify this shite?'

  'It goes back to how she ended up at Robbins' house that last time. She was vague about that when we interviewed her. Our assumption was that she'd finally lost it and gone back there to take her revenge on Robbins.'

  'Or that she'd gone back there to try to screw some more money out of him. Maybe she lost it when he said no.'

  Grant nodded. 'We never quite got to the bottom of it though, did we?'

  'She reckoned she couldn't remember how she'd ended up there. All just a blank. Doc told me that was not uncommon. Dissociative amnesia.' As always, McK
ay spoke the polysyllabic words as if chewing a mouthful of nuts. 'The mind makes you forget traumatic events. Never works for me.'

  'She could have been telling the truth,' Grant said. 'But she's claiming to remember more now.'

  'Like what?'

  'Like the fact that she didn't go to Robbins' house voluntarily.'

  McKay sat up straight in his seat. 'What?'

  'That's what she's saying. Reckons she was just walking in the centre of Inverness when Robbins drew up beside her in that van– '

  McKay had picked up the stapler again. 'Van?'

  'The van he used for the killings.'

  McKay nodded. 'Aye, I know. The one we found at the rear of the house.'

  'As far as Robbins knew, he'd bunged Hamilton a few quid and shipped her off to Aberdeen after she threatened to blackmail him. So when he saw her back in Inverness he wasn't best pleased.'