A Deadly Deception Read online

  DEDICATION

  I always believed that an angel was a flimsy, ethereal creature. Now I’ve discovered that she is a very down-to-earth, plain-spoken Glasgow woman with a great sense of humour.

  Her name is Evelyn Pullar. Evelyn works as a sheltered housing manager and is much admired and loved by everyone in her care.

  I dedicate this book to her with heartfelt thanks.

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  The following people helped me with the research for this book and, to them, I am very grateful.

  The dedicated people of Women’s Aid, especially Evelyn Shaw and Carol Mundy.

  As usual, police officers were very generous with their help and advice. On this occasion, because of the unexpected way the story worked out, I didn’t need to use most of what they told me. Nevertheless, I must express special gratitude to Detective Superintendent Stephen Heath who was a great help with the telephone idea in the plot.

  Many thanks also to Detective Inspector Bannerman, Constable Gerry McEwan and Constable Alan Meikle.

  I don’t know the name of the concierge at the Red Road high-rise flats but I’d like to thank him for his patience in showing me around and answering all my questions.

  CONTENTS

  TITLE PAGE

  DEDICATION

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  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

  ABOUT THE SAME AUTHOR

  COPYRIGHT

  1

  Talk about easy money? This was easy money all right. And nobody knew. That was the beauty of it. Nobody knew. Mabel Smith squeezed herself tightly together and mentally rubbed her hands. Oh, how she’d blessed the day she’d been sitting in the doctor’s waiting room and picked up one of the magazines spread over the coffee table. The table had cloudy patches and rings made by cups, and initials scratched on it, no doubt by one of the many young criminals in the area. The magazines were tattered, out of date, the covers gaudy with pictures of flashy cars and motorbikes.

  She had been alone in the waiting room and had begun leafing through one of the magazines to pass the time. It was the back pages that caught her eye. Shocked her eye. She’d never seen such pictures before in all of her long life. Not even on television. They weren’t just of naked or half-naked girls, but girls posing open-legged and touching themselves. She was hypnotised by the pictures and could not believe the filthy words accompanying them. Here was a world she had never even guessed existed. Never in a million years. Not knowing exactly why, she crushed one of the magazines into her handbag, then sat rigid-backed with burning face and pulse racing, waiting for the receptionist to call her into the surgery.

  Later, at home, she studied the back pages and, after having made sure that a photograph was not necessary and real identities could not be traced, she wrote to one of the box numbers, an agency. By return, she was given a private telephone number and it was explained to her exactly how she would be paid.

  Talk about easy money? Such a good addition to her pension. All she ever needed to do was talk. And listen, of course. Often she had to listen. At first, she had been terrified. Paralysed with terror. She had to keep silently repeating words in her head. ‘No one knows. No one can ever find out. This will always be my very secret life.’

  Gradually, she had become successful, not so much in a dirty way. She persuaded herself that she was being more romantic than anything else. There was one man in particular with whom she had managed to become more confident and intimate. He just seemed lonely, poor thing, and in need of comfort and love. Not like some of the others, who sounded so enthusiastically disgusting and then furious if she didn’t respond in equally explicit and filthy terms.

  The lonely man’s name was John, although it might not be his real name – just as Angela, the name she gave him, was not real. It was not a real world they were inhabiting on the phone. She was sure he realised that, just as she did.

  He phoned her every evening between 6 and 7 p.m. She pretended she had to go out after that, but in fact she didn’t want to miss Coronation Street. She had become very involved with the lives of the Coronation Street characters.

  Eventually she and John became like friends, as well as telephone lovers. He didn’t seem to mind the cost. They began calling each other ‘darling’ or ‘my love’ or ‘my dearest love’.

  She really enjoyed the calls. She had plucked up courage to use sexual imagery and even enjoyed that now. He did too. He responded in kind and they both had orgasms as a result.

  It was as if they were intimate in every way and yet they had never even set eyes on each other.

  He began to ask her what she looked like and she certainly couldn’t tell him about her pebble-thick lenses and her crippling arthritis. She thought, however, there wouldn’t be any harm in enjoying this extension of their romantic fantasy.

  ‘I’m about five foot six,’ she said. ‘I’m quite curvaceous, with long blonde hair, blue eyes, and quite full, pouty lips.’

  ‘What are you wearing just now?’ he asked.

  ‘One of those very short denim miniskirts and a low-cut …’ she laughed, ‘a very low-cut pale blue top with the letters fcuk embroidered on it. The top is a bit tight because I’ve quite a large bust.’

  He became quite excited, as she knew he would. Now he asked, ‘Is your hair long?’

  ‘Oh, yes. I sometimes have it held up by combs stuck in at the back, sometimes by frilly covered elastic bands, sometimes tied back with a ribbon. Blue usually. Blue’s my favourite colour.’

  They had regular conversations like that now. Each time she’d describe a different outfit, short tops that showed part of her belly above low-cut denim trousers and teeteringly high-heeled sandals.

  But then he began asking if they could meet. Meet in real life. Oh no. Definitely not, she’d told him.

  ‘The whole point of all this is complete confidentiality. We can relax and be at ease and completely ourselves.’ And make some money, she could have said but didn’t.

  Meeting him would put a stop to that and she needed the money. It was safer this way anyway. She’d learned a thing or two about men since she’d started the phone business. Most of the other men who phoned were really terrible, like beasts, monsters, and certainly not to be trusted. Admittedly John sounded different but you never knew … Best to be on the safe side. Anyway, the money was such a consideration.

  She tried to talk him out of the idea.

  ‘We’re perfectly happy as we are,’ she insisted.

  He wasn’t, apparently. Not any more. He pleaded with her. She remained firm.

  ‘I don’t want to risk spoiling our relationship,’ she said. ‘It’s so perfect for me and I really thought it was for you too.’

  But it wasn’t, apparently.

  Every time he phoned her now, at some point in the conversation he brought up the subject of getting together in person
. Now she was beginning to almost dread his calls rather than enjoy them. It wasn’t that she blamed him. She understood how he felt. Nevertheless he was beginning to spoil what for her had truly been a perfect set-up. She really did enjoy it.

  Now every time the phone rang, it made her sigh. It would be ringing again soon, she knew. She went over to the window and gazed out at the scene below. Her flat was in one of the high-rise buildings on the Balgray Hill in the Balornock district of Glasgow. Her building was called The Heights. The flats on the other side of the building enjoyed a magnificent view over the city and far beyond to the distant hills. But her windows – the sitting room and bedroom to the front and the kitchen to the side – had no such pleasant outlook. Well, there was a view over Springburn Park but it was partly blocked at the front by other tower buildings. There was an entrance to the park a bit further down and she sometimes ventured into the park for a walk. There were so many thugs and vandals and gangs roaming about the area, however, that she didn’t feel safe. She had a thing about safety. A phobia, you might even call it. Who could blame her in a place like this?

  She went through to the kitchen to make herself a cup of coffee and gazed from the window as she filled the kettle at the sink. There had once been a few shops further along. Now there was a notice which warned, ‘Dangerous building. Keep out’. The place was falling to bits. Had been for ages. Rubbish swirled around and the walls were covered in graffiti. There were a few shabby-looking shops still further along, also much decorated by graffiti. She hated having to go into them. It was so much better to catch the bus into town and get decent food from Marks & Spencer’s. She always bought her food there now. Marks & Spencer’s wasn’t cheap, however. That was one of the reasons for continuing to talk with John on the phone. She never used to be able to afford Marks & Spencer’s food.

  As she went through the long lobby from the kitchen to the sitting room, she heard bawling and screaming outside. She flinched nervously. She could never get used to the noise and the outbreaks of violence in the place. Everybody just minded their own business and didn’t interfere. How different it was, or so her mother used to say, from the old tenements, where apparently everyone knew each other and helped each other. And before that, too, when they had lived in the Highlands.

  Downstairs, two of the flats were being used as a refuge for battered women. Another two flats on the same landing had been knocked into one big place for the Women’s Help office and a public room for meetings. There were all sorts of people living in the building. There were even some immigrants. She’d seen a couple of big black men and one brown-bearded man with a woman in a long robe and her face covered.

  Anything could be going on. Every day there was some kind of bedlam or other, the violence a deep hollow echo in bare landings and dark lift shafts.

  As she passed her front door, she eyed it anxiously to make sure the security chain was on. Best not to take any chances.

  That was what she felt about John as well.

  2

  Janet Peacock didn’t want to leave her lovely big villa in the select area of Bearsden. To think she’d come to this! Especially at her age. She would be sixty-two on her next birthday. She and her husband Charles were members of the local bridge club. They were both regular attenders of the church. Charles was an elder and a personal friend of the minister. She was a member of the Churchwomen’s Guild. Each member took a regular turn of hosting a coffee morning. She was always complimented on her home-baked fruit scones and carrot cake.

  Charles was a company director, a member of the golf club and much admired for his skill at bridge. He was a popular man and a generous host. His guests could always be sure that at any dinner in his home, he would regale them with a good vintage wine and an excellent malt whisky.

  Janet wanted to continue with the normal routine of her life. She wanted to keep her regular appointment with Sharon, the local hairdresser, who could always create such a beautifully neat chignon at the nape of her neck. Then there was the dress shop in ‘the village’, as the main shopping centre in Bearsden was affectionately called. Miss Peters took such an interest in making sure Janet was well suited. Both Sharon and Miss Peters always greeted her with a welcoming smile and respectful ‘Good morning, Mrs Peacock’ or ‘Good afternoon, Mrs Peacock’.

  It was the same in her favourite tearoom. She always enjoyed a rest and a cup of tea before tackling the long walk back home. She had her four-wheeled shopping trolley, of course. It was much easier and more dignified pushing that before her as she walked along, a good support too. She didn’t feel fit enough to carry a shopping basket. Indeed, she was hardly fit enough to do anything now. She ached so much. To all appearances, she seemed perfectly all right. She was well dressed and with a good felt hat covering her grey hair. Underneath her smart clothes, however, her body was discoloured with bruises and throbbing with pain. Behind her dignified expression was abject fear. She was in a constant state of tension thinking of her husband’s return from his office in Glasgow or from one of his business trips. It was such a blessed relief when he went away for a few days, sometimes for a few weeks.

  She had never stopped trying to please him and to avoid, in any way she could think of, his physical and verbal abuse. She knew now that it didn’t matter what she did or did not do or what she said or did not say. He would still verbally torment her and then physically abuse her. It had been going on for years. Not all the time. As well as being charming to other people, he could be charming to her, mostly when other people were present, of course. But she never knew what mood he would be in and his vicious moods were getting worse and more frequent.

  She could never fathom why he behaved as he did. Did he hate her because she’d never been able to give him a son and heir? Did he despise her because her fear of him had weakened her constitution? She had long ago developed a slight stutter in his company, even when there were other people there. Her memory sometimes deserted her too. Her mind could go blank with fear – especially if she made a mistake at bridge. On such occasions, he would be patient with her. Everyone admired him for his patience and gentleness. Only she knew what he would be like afterwards when they were alone.

  No one would believe her if she told them. Of that she was quite sure. They would not even think it was one of her ‘little nervous attacks’ that she admitted having from time to time. They would think she’d gone mad.

  Now, despite not wanting to leave her lovely home and all the special amenities of such a good area, she wasn’t able to continue living with Charles. She couldn’t stand the pain or the fear any longer. The problem was she had no money so where could she go? How could she keep herself?

  Then one day, she saw a programme about battered women and a telephone number went up on the screen. It was the number of ‘Women’s Help’ where, it was said, help and advice would be given in complete confidence to any woman who phoned.

  So desperate had she become that, one day after Charles had gone to work, leaving her almost unconscious after an unbearable beating, she lifted the phone and dialled the number. The sympathetic voice at the other end, and the fact that she was being believed, made Janet break down and weep uncontrollably. Years of secret unshed tears rushed and tumbled down her quivering cheeks. All she could manage was, ‘I’m so sorry.’

  The voice at the other end of the phone kept gently repeating, ‘It’s all right. Everything’s going to be all right. We can help you. Would you mind telling me where you live?’

  ‘Bearsden.’

  ‘All right, I’ll give you your local East Dunbartonshire number and you can phone them. They have a twenty-four-hour helpline and, if you phone, you can speak to them. Or if you’d like to speak to someone in person, you can do that too.’

  ‘I need to get away from here. I can’t stand it any longer. But I’ve no money and I don’t know where to go.’

  ‘If you phone the East Dunbartonshire number, they’ll be able to give you all the help you need. Have you a pe
n or pencil handy?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Good. Just write this number down.’

  Janet copied the number on to the notepad that always sat beside the phone. Within minutes, she had phoned that number and was told what she should do if she decided on the option of leaving.

  ‘Put everything you might need into a suitcase. Also put your birth certificate and marriage certificate, pension book and medical card into your handbag. Then phone for a taxi.’

  ‘I don’t have money for a taxi.’

  ‘Don’t worry. Take the taxi to this office address, and we’ll pay the driver when the taxi arrives. Once you’re here, we’ll let you know what options you have.’

  Janet’s hand trembled so much, she had difficulty in dialling the taxi number. She was terrified that Charles might appear before she had got everything packed into two quite roomy suitcases and had succeeded in escaping. She didn’t know how she managed it but she did. Within half an hour, she was in the office and a pleasant woman called Elsie was making her a cup of tea.

  ‘Now, no one is going to tell you what you should or should not do, Janet. But rest assured, no matter what you decide, you’ll have our total support.’

  ‘I just want to be somewhere safe where my husband won’t find me. I know it sounds silly but I’m frightened.’

  ‘No, it doesn’t sound silly, Janet, and don’t worry. We have places of refuge, safe homes at secret addresses.’

  ‘Oh please, can I go to one of them?’

  ‘There’s not always one available but, as it happens, there is one today. You can go to it now, if you don’t mind sharing with another woman.’

  ‘No, no – as long as I’m safe and he can’t find me.’

  ‘All right. I’ll tell Betty and she can take you to the refuge. She’s been here at a meeting today but her office is at the refuge you’ll be going to.’

  Betty, a tall, firm-fleshed woman much younger than Janet, was introduced and in no time they were outside and Betty’s strong arms were helping Janet into her car. She was trembling and shivering, hardly able to credit what she was doing. Everything seemed to be happening so quickly.