The Eye in the Dark Read online

  The

  Eye

  in the

  Dark

  DCI Dani Bevan #12

  By

  KATHERINE

  PATHAK

  THE GARANSAY PRESS

  Books by Katherine Pathak

  The Imogen and Hugh Croft Mysteries:

  Aoife’s Chariot

  The Only Survivor

  Lawful Death

  The Woman Who Vanished

  Memorial for the Dead

  (Introducing DCI Dani Bevan)

  The Ghost of Marchmont Hall

  Short Story collection:

  The Flawed Emerald and other Stories

  DCI Dani Bevan novels:

  Against A Dark Sky

  On A Dark Sea

  A Dark Shadow Falls

  Dark as Night

  The Dark Fear

  Girls of The Dark

  Hold Hands in the Dark

  Dark Remedies

  Dark Origin

  The Dark Isle

  Dark Enough to See

  The Eye in the Dark

  Standalone novels:

  I Trust You

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any form or by any means - graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or information storage and retrieval systems - without the prior permission in writing of the author and publishers.

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  © Katherine Pathak, 2019

  #TheEyeintheDark

  Edited by: The Currie Revisionists, 2019

  © Cover photograph Pixabay Images

  Prologue

  The noise was so loud it seemed to rattle the very foundations of the building. The deafening rumble of the engine was disturbing enough, but what made the dread tingle like pins and needles down her spine, were the eerie mechanical whines and jolts of the landing gear being engaged.

  Autumn Carlisle knew exactly what each of these sounds meant. She was aware of precisely which moment the pilot would pull back on the throttle and dip the nose of the aircraft for its final descent. She’d been on hundreds of flights in her career. But lying now in the centre of her double bed, the silky covers pulled up to cover her head, the noises felt as if they’d been summoned up from the pits of hell.

  When the plane had finally passed over, the nerve-shredding cacophony was replaced by the soothing hum of urban life. In this part of south-west London, it was like a piece of background music that never got turned off, regardless of whether it was day or night.

  Autumn slipped out of the bed and padded into the kitchenette of her spacious flat. The air was warm and sticky. She picked up a clean glass from the draining board and held it under the cold tap, gulping down the water so thirstily that a stream ran down her chin and wet the front of her nightdress.

  She put down the glass on the worktop. She splayed out her hands on the dark granite beside it, breathing deeply, in and out, until she felt calm again.

  Autumn had been in the flat for three months. She had wanted to be closer to Heathrow Airport for the early morning flights. The commute had begun to wear her out. The move seemed to make perfect sense, even if it felt like a throwback to her early days as an air stewardess, fresh out of college and without the experience and status she now held.

  But at the same time as she’d packed up her tatty but pretty and quirky little cottage in East Sussex, Autumn’s nightmares had started. Despite working on board aircraft for over a decade, her dreams were filled with lurid images of tangled metal and pierced flesh, the reek of spilling aviation fuel. She woke in tepid sweats night after night, with the horrible sensation that she had been falling and spinning out of the sky towards the hard earth lying far below. To certain death.

  Autumn shuddered at the thought of these dreams. When she moved into the flat in Hillingdon, the nightmares appeared to have become reality. Her open-plan flat under the eaves of a converted Victorian villa was rocked by regular visitations of 747s and Airbuses, manoeuvring towards the nearby landing strips at Heathrow.

  Until a few months previously, the noise of aircraft hadn’t bothered her at all. It was a natural part of her job and signalled the pleasant excitement and anticipation of a visit to yet another exotic location. Now, Autumn cowered from the sound, burying herself under the bedclothes like a dumb animal scrabbling terrified into its subterranean den at the sound of an unexpectedly loud noise.

  She had begun to hate herself for this pitiful display of weakness. Autumn was scrupulously considerate to passengers whose fear of flying made them uncomfortable during take-off or landing, or whilst experiencing a particularly bad phase of turbulence. But behind the soothing words and reassuring gestures, she’d always felt a certain distaste for them. These people weren’t strong and resilient like she was. Her top lip would curl an imperceptible fraction at the thought that their vulnerability might be contagious. Then, all of a sudden, Autumn found herself as fragile as they were. Perhaps she’d been right, it was contagious after all.

  Her last trip was a short haul to Amsterdam, with an overnight stay in a hotel. She had good friends in the city. It would usually have been a job she’d look forward too. But the moment she’d entered the cabin, the sweat had pooled at the base of her spine. She was acutely aware an unsightly sheen was settling on top of her immaculately applied foundation; threatening to streak her expensive mascara and eyeliner.

  Passengers expected their flight crew to exude confidence and assuredness from every pore. When the doors slid closed and the pilot fired the engines, Autumn could feel her body tensing up. It took all her strength to prevent her hands from shaking. It wouldn’t be long before her fellow crew members noticed the change in her and then the passengers themselves. When that happened, she knew she was finished.

  *

  The next time Autumn woke, a soft grey light was filtering through her blinds. She could hear the rumble of the traffic on the main road outside, but nothing more menacing than that. It hadn’t been another low-flying aircraft that had disturbed her sleep.

  She glanced at the digits on her bedside clock. It was nearly 5am. The alarm would be going off soon anyway. She kicked off the thin sheets and swung her feet round to settle on the wooden floor. The coolness that seeped into her toes from the newly fitted parquet was calming.

  Autumn ran the shower in her en-suite and moved back into the bedroom to lay her uniform on the bed, waiting for the water to warm up. She always dressed carefully for work. Her appearance was an important part of her role as cabin crew. You needed to be easy on the eye. She took her time selecting a matching set of lace underwear, reckoning the shower would take ages to heat up anyway. The building may have been fully refurbished within the last year, but the plumbing was still an antiquated nightmare. The water never seemed to be properly hot.

  Autumn was about to slip her nightdress over her head and brave the lukewarm flow when she sensed a movement in her peripheral vision.

  She remained absolutely still.

  After months of battling anxiety which appeared to have no real cause, in the face of what may have been genuine danger, Autumn found herself oddly calm.

  She spun round and addressed the shadows in the corner of the room, where the eaves dipped lowest. “Who are you? What do you want? Why are you watching me?”

  There was no reply.

  Autumn was about to reach for the main light switch when the blare of a jet engine p
assing directly overhead made her automatically put her hands up to cover her ears. She closed her eyes tight shut. The roar reached its peak; a crescendo of pure noise. Autumn didn’t even resist as a pair of gloved hands encircled her and dragged her across the bedroom floor, into the shower cubicle; the heavy footfalls masked by the din of the low-flying aircraft.

  And when she felt the sharp cut of the blade, slicing her wrists to the bone, Autumn experienced a moment of intense relief. The terrible noise had finally ceased. She heard nothing after the brief rush of pain except an oddly welcome and absolutely total, silence.

  Chapter 1

  Dani Bevan was enjoying the sensation of the sun warming her skin. She had her eyes closed but was not asleep. A paperback novel was resting in her lap. The sounds of suburban Glasgow on a Sunday morning were buzzing all around her, but in her own little bubble, she felt amazingly at peace.

  She could hear James moving around on the patio, awkwardly shifting the heavy base of the parasol. The detective didn’t open her eyes. The garden chair next to her creaked as he finally settled his weight into it. A warm hand covered her own. She smiled to herself. The soft crack of a paper spine signalled that he had opened his book.

  Dani must have dropped off. When she opened her eyes again, James’s book was placed on the table in front of her and the man himself was standing just inside the patio doors with the phone in his hand.

  “Darling, it’s for you.”

  She levered herself up. “I knew it was too bloody good to be true,” she muttered darkly.

  “It isn’t work,” James added encouragingly. “It’s Rhodri Morgan.”

  Dani furrowed her brow. She’d not heard from her psychologist friend for weeks. She hoped it was a social call and nothing was wrong. She got to her feet and accepted the receiver from James’s outstretched hand.

  “Rhodri! How are you?” Her tone indicated she was genuinely interested.

  “Hello, Danielle. I’m very well, thank you. Retirement is suiting me down to the ground.”

  “I’m glad to hear it. But I bet you’ve still got a long list of private clients.”

  Professor Morgan was a criminal psychologist who had worked with both the victims and perpetrators of crime for many years. Now that he had stepped down from his teaching role at the Clydebank University, he was concentrating on his private practice work. “Yes, I still have a core base of clients. But there are now a good few who I feel are ready to face the world without our sessions. It’s time for them to stand on their own two feet. Besides, I may not be around forever. The time has come to wean them off, as it were.”

  Dani detected a maudlin note to his words. “Are you sure everything is alright, Rhodri?”

  “Well, I did receive some bad news, but I’m reluctant to burden you with it. I know how busy you are.”

  Dani glanced wistfully in the direction of their small courtyard garden, where the twin loungers had been positioned to take best advantage of a rare display of Glasgow sunshine. She sighed inwardly. “Actually, I’ve got a day off, so if you wanted to meet for lunch, we could have a proper chat?”

  *

  Despite the warmth of the day, there were very few people sitting at the outside tables of the restaurant. Dani was determined to catch a few precious rays before the clouds moved in to cover the sun once more.

  Today was the first chance the detective had had to experience this unusual spell of sunny weather. She led Rhodri straight to a seat with a view of the river, slipping off her cardigan before her friend had a chance to object.

  The professor gazed at the sunshine glinting on the water. “What a lovely day,” he commented in surprise, as if the heatwave which had enveloped most of Scotland for the previous fortnight hadn’t until now registered in his consciousness.

  “Yes, it is. The sunshine doesn’t appear to bring out the best in all of us. We’ve had a huge upswing in reported violence, particularly between drunks at chucking out time.”

  Rhodri nodded. “It’s a well-documented phenomenon. Historically, hot summers are often accompanied by rioting and violence.”

  “But why?” Dani shook her bob of dark brown hair in bafflement. “Surely the warm weather would put folk in a better mood?”

  Rhodri chuckled. “Human nature is a fickle beast. In fact, the heat only seems to stir up our more basic instincts. It may be as simple as the longer days giving people a greater chance to drink alcohol, take drugs and mix together socially. Clashes will inevitably follow.”

  Dani sipped her sour lemonade, which matched her developing mood. “I should be wishing for the rain back then.”

  Rhodri smiled. “It’s certainly what we are all more used to.”

  She shuffled forward. “Tell me why you wanted to meet? You said there was something on your mind?”

  Rhodri sat back and sighed. “I had a phone call from an old friend a couple of weeks back. Mike Carlisle was a fellow lecturer at the university. He too retired from the job recently. He and his wife received some terrible news. Their daughter, who was working as an air hostess down in London, was found in her flat by one of the neighbours. She’d slit her wrists in the shower.”

  Dani shook her head sadly. “It’s an awful thing to happen. How old was she?”

  “Autumn Carlisle was 29 years old. She’d not married yet and seemed dedicated to her career.” Rhodri furrowed his brow. “This was the reason Mike called me. He and Betsy haven’t been able to accept that their daughter would take her own life. She’d just accepted a job as cabin crew supervisor at Lomond Airlines, after more than a decade at BA. Autumn had been very excited about the opportunity.”

  “Where do Mr and Mrs Carlisle live?”

  “They have a house in Cumbernauld. But they spoke with their daughter on a weekly basis.”

  Dani felt a surge of pity for this couple. “Autumn was a long way from her parents and a grown woman. It’s not always possible to understand what goes on in another person’s head, even our closest loved ones. We should know that better than most.”

  Rhodri ignored the reference. He leant forward, his elbows resting on the table, causing the coffee to slop out of his cup. “That isn’t all. The neighbour let herself into Autumn’s flat because she’d heard the shower running upstairs for over an hour. She presumed Autumn had gone to work and left it on by mistake. She discovered her slumped awkwardly in the shower tray, the razor circling the plug hole and most of the blood long washed away. It struck me as an odd way for Autumn to go about it.”

  “Were there any prints found on the razor?”

  “No, it was assumed the water had washed it clean.”

  Dani narrowed her eyes, her suspicions piqued. “Any sign the flat had been broken into?”

  Rhodri shook his head. “But the building was a Victorian conversion with the original windows still in place. It wasn’t as secure as a modern block would be.” He passed a hand through his bushy grey hair. “The really odd thing was that Autumn had laid her work clothes neatly on the bed, ready for her shift that morning, even down to her matching underwear. Betsy and Mike simply can’t comprehend why she would do that if she intended to end her life?”

  Dani gulped the last of her lemonade. “That is an anomaly, I admit, but if Autumn had been considering suicide for some time, she may not have been thinking straight.”

  “I’ve some considerable experience of the suicidal, Danielle. That is why Mike called for my advice. I told him that Autumn’s organised behaviour was unusual for someone about to take their own life. That remains my clinical opinion.”

  Dani realised her friend was unlikely to let this go. “Was there a suicide note?”

  “No, and that’s another reason to doubt the assumption. A person like Autumn, who was organised enough to lay out her clothes so precisely, would undoubtedly have left a note for her poor parents, with whom she had very good relations.”

  Dani considered this. As a detective, she knew relationships within families could be complica
ted. Rhodri only had the word of his friends that relations had been good with their daughter. It was her job to be more cynical. More detached. They may have argued in the days before her death, there could have been tensions over Autumn living so far away.

  These possibilities would all have to be investigated. She also wondered if someone from the millennial generation would really write a suicide note. This wasn’t the age of Agatha Christie. Perhaps the police would be more likely to find a digital message somewhere in the woman’s social media accounts. Pen and paper weren’t really a thing for people under 30 years of age. “If you find out from the Carlisles who the investigating officer is, I will give them a call, find out more details. That’s really the best I can do.”

  Rhodri’s worn features cracked into a relieved smile. “Thank you, Danielle. They will very much appreciate it.”

  Chapter 2

  A hush had fallen over the department for serious crime at Police Scotland’s Pitt Street headquarters. DCI Dani Bevan had gathered her team into a semi-circle in front of her office. She stood side-by-side with a tall man in his late thirties. He possessed a smooth face and a flick of dark brown hair, worn just a fraction longer than Dani would have liked.

  “I want to introduce, Detective Inspector Dermot Muir,” Dani began.

  A chorus of muted greetings chimed around the room.