A Wife Worth Dying For Read online

  Wilson B Smillie

  A Wife Worth Dying For

  First published by Bad Typewriter Publishing 2021

  Copyright © 2021 by Wilson B Smillie

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise without written permission from the publisher. It is illegal to copy this book, post it to a website, or distribute it by any other means without permission.

  This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

  Wilson B Smillie asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

  Wilson B Smillie has no responsibility for the persistence or accuracy of URLs for external or third-party Internet Websites referred to in this publication and does not guarantee that any content on such Websites is, or will remain, accurate or appropriate.

  Designations used by companies to distinguish their products are often claimed as trademarks. All brand names and product names used in this book and on its cover are trade names, service marks, trademarks and registered trademarks of their respective owners. The publishers and the book are not associated with any product or vendor mentioned in this book. None of the companies referenced within the book have endorsed the book.

  First edition

  ISBN: 978-1-8383759-1-3

  Editing by Abby Parsons

  Cover art by Cherie Chapman

  Advisor: C M Taylor

  Illustration by Brian Wilson

  This book was professionally typeset on Reedsy

  Find out more at reedsy.com

  Contents

  Preface

  Acknowledgement

  1. Dead of Night

  2. A Text from Hell

  3. Days Without Kelsa

  4. Call an Ambulance

  5. Approach Road

  6. Bondage

  7. Inner Workings

  8. Flying Lesson

  9. I AM

  10. Crime Scene

  11. Dalry Burial Ground

  12. Babysitter

  13. Action Man

  14. Bring Me Flowers

  15. Rocketman

  16. Team Meeting

  17. Upwardly Mobile

  18. Brief Encounter

  19. Comedy Rehab

  20. Anger Therapy

  21. Victim Support

  22. Bear’s Den

  23. Young Fathers

  24. Buddies in Crime

  25. Served with Relish

  26. Data and Information

  27. Delia’s Kitchen

  28. Lennymuir

  29. The Simplicity of Karma

  30. A Spider’s Web

  31. Waiting Room

  32. Relationships

  33. The Bastard and the Bitch

  34. Church Hill

  35. Customer Service

  36. Friends and Neighbours

  37. TGI Friday

  38. Alice in Chains

  39. Sweet Happiness

  40. Keeping Secrets

  41. Snog Marry Avoid

  42. A Magical Place

  43. Proof of Dominion

  44. Shoogly Nails

  45. Leashed

  46. Suspect Suspect

  47. More Drawing Boards

  48. Call Me Carter

  49. Doing the Right Thing

  50. Who the Fuck is Alice?

  51. Hugo

  52. Under Pressure

  53. Tough Love

  54. Head Fuck

  55. Talk is Cheap

  56. Legal Difficulties

  57. High Octane Strategy

  58. Goalkeeping in the Playground

  59. Helplessness

  60. Greetings

  61. Listening Devices

  62. Brief Relationship

  63. Stretched Loyalties

  64. A Friendly Chat

  65. Game of Numbers

  66. Pick a Card

  67. Secret Squirrel

  68. Ancient History

  69. Bungalow Country

  70. Tea’s Up

  71. Distractions

  72. Tracking Your Tears

  73. By Royal Appointment

  74. Stretched Loyalties

  75. Slings and Arrows

  76. Crumbled Empires

  77. Pattered Pish

  78. Walking Wounded

  79. Reset and Recovery

  80. Trainspotting

  81. Pictures of Lily

  82. Major Investigation Trauma

  83. JFDI

  84. Murder by Proxy

  85. Crimewatch

  86. Boxed Set

  87. Post-mortem

  88. Surveillance

  89. Miss Hetty

  90. Cracking Up

  91. Leading the Witness

  92. Sheep Heid

  93. Home Run

  94. Capture

  95. Sniper, Sniper

  96. Fallacious Logic

  97. False Dilemma

  98. Blast Radius

  99. Cuffed

  100. Inner Space

  101. Heels and Toes

  102. Private Enterprise

  103. A Cupboardful of Skeletons

  104. Epilogue

  105. Story Notes

  106. Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Also by Wilson B Smillie

  Preface

  by C.M. Taylor

  I was lucky enough to speed through the pages of Wilson Smillie’s debut procedural noir, A Wife Worth Dying For, as it was being written. Quite apart from the pleasure I gained from a personal sentimental journey - I had lived in the City of Edinburgh, the book’s setting, in my early 20s and was delighted to have it conjured back to my eye – I was also impressed by the tortured character gloweringly planted at the root of the novel.

  The stony heart of Detective Lachlan Carter had opened once, to admit his wife, who he had then lost. But not before she had given him a son. Another tough break for a scarred cop. Mix into that his father-in-law, a Scottish judge with whom ‘Leccy’ has to routinely deal - and who, guess what – hates him for where he comes from. You’ll get the picture: it’s a challenging gig. The desperate life of Detective Carter, a man fighting to keep some semblance of normality in his existence, is the dark base on which Smillie builds his plot, as a series of crimes and a taunting antagonist make Leccy question everything he believed about his venerated, deceased beloved. Speeding through overdoses, comas and infidelity; taking in Vegas weddings, cold underground car parks and sealed envelopes, this is the noirest of noirs spreading its switchback plot across the bitter-but-gorgeous Capital city, as the last honest man in town tries everything he can to keep his heart beating.

  It was a delight to have eyes on this novel as it came into being and I wish it, with its committed and modest author, and its beleaguered, tenacious detective all the best in seeing off the baddest of bad guys.

  C M Taylor

  Author of Premier Psycho. https://cmtaylorstory.com

  Acknowledgement

  For Boyd and Lexi

  1

  Dead of Night

  Lachlan Carter gate-crashed his wife’s funeral despite his father-in-law banning him from attending. Now hiding under bare winter trees in Old Calton Burial Ground, he peered through the low cloud settling over Edinburgh, contemplating the great, the good and the iffy assembled in the graveyard. The Old Town streetlights threw a shroud-like sodium glow over this entourage of questionable characters. Leading the party, Death lingered, eager to
claim his prize.

  Packed to the gunnels the cemetery was. Plus one.

  Only a thin plastic mac defended Carter from the relentless January rain. His white hair had turned shades of grey, trickles of water had found their way down his back, causing him to shiver, but otherwise, he couldn’t have cared less. These last weeks had been torment and, in his current state of grief, he endured rightful atonement. He’d stood by powerless, a horrified spectator, as Kelsa had wasted away before him, the illness consuming her body hour by callous hour.

  A chorus of ‘amen’ wafted up through the damp, heralding a new beginning for him and a final ending for her. He choked on his anguish as her coffin vanished deep into the rich east coast soil. Ceremony complete, her family and guests were ushered up onto Waterloo Place where the city’s bars promised vibrant life.

  He wiped the rain from his face, tasting bitter tears. Her moment had gone and his had come. In these ebbing minutes, she deserved to know his love would endure eternity. The downpour muffled the sound of his footsteps on the gravel path winding down to her grave. As he approached, a woman emerged from the deluge, stopping at the grave, quietly paying her respects.

  He dodged behind a tomb and used the opportunity to check for lingering mourners in the ancient necropolis, studying her as she scanned the graveyard from under her umbrella. Unaware of his presence, she was of slender build, of his generation, her black hair cut in a bob, her pale neck featuring a distinctive St Christopher pendant.

  Up at the cemetery gates Sheriff James Dunsmuir, his father-in-law, was glad-handing yet another senior judge. Turning back to the grave after a moment, the woman had gone.

  Finally, alone with his wife, his knees buckled onto soft mud. He mumbled a prayer his grandparents had taught him. ‘Protect her above all others. Saints, sinners, paupers, murderers and judges.’

  Creeping shoes made a soft crunch on the wet gravel. He turned quickly, expecting to see the old bastard come to remonstrate with him for disobeying his command to stay away. Nothing there but rain falling like stair rods. Was he losing it? Was life to be defined by the death of his loved ones?

  ‘You’ve found your peace, Kelsa. You showed me who I could be. Our life with Nathaniel promised so much, but where do we go from here?’

  The crunch sounded again, softer and more cautious.

  ‘Dunsmuir? Show yourself.’ Carter stood up in anger, striding across the sodden grass to a marble obelisk with its head in the clouds. He searched its surrounds, finding no one. Back at his repentance, he wrapped up his amen on his knees.

  ‘Until we meet again, darling.’

  A shoe kicked him hard between the shoulder blades. He fell forwards, tumbling into infinity, embracing her in perpetual darkness. Landing hard on the coffin, breath escaped his chest. Soil poured down on him, smothering his face, penetrating his mouth, nose and eyes. The sodden earth continued to flow in, trapping him deeper under its avalanche. Thrashing desperately, he clawed for traction with hands and feet as the soaking walls collapsed inwards. He coughed mud from his mouth and cried out in panic.

  For long moments rescue ignored him. Then, timely boots landed on the opposite end of the coffin.

  ‘What the fuck are you doing, you stupid bastard?’ Strong arms hauled him up by his lapels and pointed him towards life. Other hands, equally strong, reached down from above and dragged his flailing body over the muddy edge of her grave. The incessant rain washed his face as the diggers struggled to get him out.

  Flapping on the ground like a beached whale, he lifted his face to the sky in gratitude and sucked on solid air. In the saturated atmosphere of the cemetery, he thought he heard someone singing: ‘Bye-bye Kelsa baby, don’t cha cry no more’.

  A few metres away, the woman looked on, mesmerised.

  2

  A Text from Hell

  Carter arrived home many hours after the funeral. Somehow, his life with Kelsa had spiralled out of control these last ten months. Now, he’d been cut adrift to deal with her passing alone. To lose his parents early in life was unfortunate, but to lose his soulmate so soon in marriage was a fucking disaster. It was clear anyone who got close would pay the ultimate price. He was toxic, but even that insight didn’t fully explain why his father-in-law had felt he had to inflict that despicable snub with no explanation. Dunsmuir’s curt email before the funeral left no room for discussion.

  The woman had vanished again before the grave rescue team had cleaned him off. In a stupor, he’d wandered the drenched streets of the city hoping to find her, intrigued as much by her identity as her ability to appear and disappear at will. After a wasted hour, he gave up and sunk a galleon-load of whisky at Captain’s Bar in the Old Town. Later, he took the number 31 bus to Liberton, on Edinburgh’s south side, where he lived. His profession as a detective sergeant in Edinburgh’s Specialist Crime Division consumed all. How would that change now he had a baby son to care for? He knew mothers who juggled two or three kids and still held down a career. If they could do it, he could too. Nathaniel would never taste Kelsa’s kisses again. Faded snapshots would be all he would know, supported by rose-tinted memories sung by his father – he parked coming to terms with single parenthood for yet another day.

  While Kelsa had clung to life in hospital, her mother, Judith, had cared for Nathaniel to allow Carter to spend time with his wife. Now she was gone, contemplating chucking in his job to look after Nathaniel seemed impossible.

  The extent of the night’s plan had been to pick up Nathaniel from the Dunsmuir mansion, but he was in no fit state to drive. He tore off his dirty, sodden clothes, stumbled into the shower and allowed the hot water to cleanse him of his woes. Then, he scrambled under the duvet in the back bedroom to sleep it off.

  He woke sometime later, disorientated by darkness and listless sobriety. The bedroom glowed softly. In his groggy state, it took him a minute to realise it was his phone. He retrieved it from the bedside table and fumbled to unlock it with his finger. There was no missed call or notification on the screen. He was about to turn over when a red dot flashing beside an unfamiliar icon invited him to tap.

  It was like no text message he’d ever seen. In place of the sender’s name was a sixteen-character code. Beneath the code was the date and time. Finally, there was the chilling payload.

  [2019-01-14:0409] Did you kiss your baby bye-bye Leccy while you were crying on her coffin? You have no idea who she really was. I’ve left you a calling card at Petite France. J

  Now fully awake, Carter read and re-read the message but couldn’t see how to reply or dismiss it. He sat up in bed. J knew his nickname – that he’d just buried Kelsa. A shiver ran down his spine, a single momentary image of his dead wife’s scarlet-lipped smile. Was there a connection?

  He got out of bed and dressed. Petite France was a short five-minute drive away. Gripping the phone like a priceless bar of gold, he went downstairs into the kitchen and unlocked the internal door to the garage. The text nagged at him. What was the ‘calling card’? He unlocked Kelsa’s red-and-black Smart car, unplugged the charger, and folded himself inside the tiny motor. The garage door opened slowly. While he waited, he unlocked the phone to re-read the message.

  But the app and the message had gone as if neither had ever existed.

  3

  Days Without Kelsa

  Only just 8 a.m. Day One of life after Kelsa and Carter’s future promised to be full of bleak mornings and driving rain that would depress the happiest of resilient people.

  Officially, he was on bereavement leave. But his choices were stark: stay at home weeping over pictures of Kelsa holding Nathaniel, get pished on the Balvenie – or take his mind off both by working. He’d called the Dunsmuir household first thing to say he’d collect Nathaniel later in the day. A maid said she’d relay the message.

  ‘Morning, Tam,’ Carter said, breezing past the front desk of St Leonard’s Police Station, dressed in his Crombie coat over a suit and tie.

  ‘Eh, Leccy—’ Sergea
nt Tam Watson was caught off-guard, stumbling out his words before his brain engaged first gear. ‘Sergeant Carter. You’re no’ supposed to be in today. I mean, it was only yesterday you buried that bonny lass o’ yours.’

  ‘I can’t cry over her every day, Tam.’

  ‘Aye, well, but – listen, the boss wanted to know if you came in.’

  ‘Sympathy from Chief Inspector Cheryl, is it?’

  ‘Aye, she’s in her den.’

  Tam disappeared into the booking office while Carter loitered at the desk like a thug with a headache.

  ‘Go straight up.’

  DCI Cheryl McKinlay met him at the door of her office. Retirement was catching up on her fast, and she had amassed all the grey hair and worry lines necessary for membership. Crow’s feet were firmly established in the corners of her eyes, but the baby blues still sparkled. Serious Crime for Edinburgh City was her remit, however; rumour had it she practically ran E Division single-handedly, leaving Chief Superintendent Goodwin to implement her jottings at leisure.

  ‘Leccy, our thoughts have been with you these past weeks,’ she consoled him.

  ‘Thank you, ma’am.’

  Tea arrived, and McKinlay leaned back in her chair. ‘How are you coping?’

  ‘I want to get back to work.’

  ‘Nice girl Kelsa was, down to earth too, considering her parentage. We need you back. But I need to know you’re ready, eh?’

  ‘Ma’am?’

  ‘You’re the only one with no caseload at the moment,’ she said. ‘Get over to the Royal Infirmary. Bilston Glen took a call from A & E at 2.13 a.m. An ambulance crew admitted a woman; they thought she was a hit-and-run. There’s no ID. The Glen downgraded it because she’s in care, but a couple of PCs wandered over first thing, and they’ve asked for brains at the bedside. We dinnae have any, so you’ll do, eh?’

  Edinburgh Royal Infirmary at Petite France. He’d gone there in the wee small hours, despite the disappearance of the text from his phone. There had been no ‘calling card’ for him, and the night reception staff didn’t have a clue what he was talking about.