The Sunday Stitch up Circle

By Dale Henderson

Young Kenny Fraser finds himself in a tricky situation. He's guilty, but it's not his fault. He's been stitched up by a group of little old ladies with a penchant for knitting, gossip, and killing off their spouses. Now there's only one murder left, and they want Kenny's help to commit it. What does he do? Go along with it, or run away. It’s a stark choice Kenny can’t make - so he does both. Will confession to the detective tasked with questioning him get him out of the mess, or make matters far, far worse?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Blue Quill Books
• Release date: Jun 21, 2022
• ISBN: 9781005873325

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THE SUNDAY STITCH UP CIRCLE

Copyright © Dale Henderson 2019

All rights reserved

This is a work of fiction. Any references to real people, living or dead, real events, products, businesses, organisations and localities are intended only to give the fiction a sense of reality and authenticity, otherwise all names, characters, places and incidents, are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously and their resemblance, if any, to real life counterparts is entirely coincidental.

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. It may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

For Derrick; dear friend and muse.

One

Day One

Out of the mist Holmsgarth terminal hove into view. A beacon of light in the depths of a dark and murky November morning. After twelve hours sailing north from Aberdeen the large white ship with the blue Viking on its side had reached safe haven.

The ferry’s engines rumbled into life as they prepared to work to manoeuvre the vessel into her berth, sending vibrations shuddering through the deck, accompanied by low groans and moans. From the bow came the clanking of chains and ropes as deck hands in hi vis jackets and life preservers prepared for docking. One final growl, a last stem to stern shiver, before the engines died and all was still.

Bing bong; ‘Good morning ladies and gentlemen and welcome to Lerwick. The weather today here in Shetland is a balmy minus six degrees Celsius so I hope you remembered to pack your thermal underwear.’

Light laughter followed by the usual safety announcements; a request for passengers with vehicles to make their way to the car deck, and those who were disembarking right away to ensure they didn’t leave any belongs behind. For those in no particular hurry to leave, breakfast would continue to be served until 9.00 in the main cafeteria at the stern of the ship.

‘On behalf of the entire crew of the MV Hjaltland, we hope everyone had had an enjoyable trip and look forward to seeing you again very soon. Have a great day, and thank you for sailing with Northlink.’

The ferry’s journey had come to an end, but mine, like it or not, had just begun.

With the trip having been somewhat, shall we say, unplanned, I had no particular place to go, and so I lingered onboard, leaving a visit to the washroom until the last minute. Didn’t want to get caught short later on and not know where to find a loo did I?

The only other occupant of the washroom stood drying his hands with a wad of paper towels. He nodded and managed to get out the ‘Good Morn’ part of his greeting before the rest died on his lips. He goggled at me open mouthed. ‘Good grief! What happened to you?’ He cleared his throat, his face flushing. ‘Sorry. Didn’t mean to stare. It’s just…crikey.’

I offered a benign smile to show I didn’t blame him for staring. ‘No problem. It does look a bit of a mess doesn’t it? I had a bit of a bump in the car. The airbag deployed and I forgot to duck.’

A blatant lie, but I couldn’t really tell him how I’d come to look like I’d been hit in the face with the back of a spade could I?

‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ the man said, a strained smile of polite sympathy stretching his face, his eyes conveying; ‘I don’t want to get involved, mate.’ He finished drying his hands and pointed at the door. ‘I gotta go. Wife’s waiting. Feel better soon, mate and best of luck.’ And he was gone.

Kind words from a total stranger. I was touched. Yet only one word crossed my mind at the solid thunk of the door closing behind him. Witness.

Satisfied I could do no more to improve my appearance, I grabbed my rucksack and made my way to the concourse and off the ship, past the life size cardboard cut-out of a policeman and his drug sniffing cocker spaniel, through the unmanned baggage check point to the main waiting area and the lift down to the ground floor.

Being one of the last to disembark and with all the other passengers having somewhere else to be already, apart from the cleaner pushing a reluctant mop over an already pristine floor, the place was eerily deserted.

I strode my way past the empty seats, the racks of tourist information leaflets and the unmanned reception desk to the automatic doors. They slid open at my approach, admitting needle sharp morning air and the raucous squawk of seagulls. I stepped through, closed my eyes and breathed deeply. Diesel. Seaweed. Fish. Not everyone’s cup of tea set of aromas, but they smelled like freedom to me.

What to do now? A spontaneous trip doesn’t allow time to make any plans. I looked at my watch. A quarter to ten, and the sun had barely breached the horizon. Far too early to be booking into a hotel. Maybe a walk around the town instead. Have a wander through some of those narrow alleys and cut throughs. Visit some of the shops I missed out on last time I was here. Pop into the Peerie Tearoom for a cappuccino and a fruit scone. Maybe have a look around Fort Charlotte, or take a bus trip out to the Textile Museum. I could sneak a peek at the Lodberrie, home of Jimmy Perez.

Yes, a day acting as a tourist would take my mind off my circumstances for a wee while. Give me a chance to think. Pretend nothing had happened. That I wasn’t about to…

A single attention grabbing whoop jolted me out of my musings.

The small white car blocking my way had the appearance of a real police car; distinctive blue and yellow fluorescent Battenberg markings down its side, the word Police and a crest emblazoned across its bonnet, blue jackpot lights dancing on its roof strafing me with light and shadow, and yet it looked so much like a detailed toy I couldn’t help but imagine the driver pedalling it rather than driving it.

The car’s door opened and a man unfolded himself from its interior, shattering the illusion. It was like watching a bear emerge from its cave. He just kept on coming, and I thought; ‘My God, it’s Ed Kemper in a police uniform.’

He fitted his flat cap and strolled around the car, looking me up and down as he did, until he stood looming over me, blocking out the light. Good gravy but he was enormous, a face like forty miles of cracked concrete, huge handlebar moustache, all framed by sideburns worthy of a Victorian industrialist. He didn’t so much speak as rumble like a fading thunderclap ‘Kenneth William Fraser?’

All the moisture left my mouth and I felt my entire world shrink to the size of a penny with just him and me in it. His sheer bulk and imposing presence broke me there and then. I’m sure I heard a snap. It drove the instinct to turn and flee clean out of me and I’m pretty sure that if my bladder hadn’t been recently emptied there might have been a nasty and embarrassing accident right there. Defeated, but with a thankfully dry crotch, my reply leaked out of me like air from a deflating balloon. ‘Yes.’

The policeman smiled, rearranging the cracks and showing a set of tombstone teeth through the curtain of whiskers, creasing his eyes into tiny slits. ‘You took yer time. I nearly had to come on the boat looking fer ye.’

‘I – I – I was having breakfast. And a pee. Sorry if I kept you waiting.’

‘Well, ye’re here now.’ He drew in a breath and laid a massive paw on my shoulder. ‘On behalf of Police Scotland, welcome to Shetland. My name is PC George Innes and I am here to escort you to Lerwick police station where you will be detained for the purpose of assisting us with our enquiries. You do not have to say anything but it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something you later rely on in court.’ He pulled a pair of handcuffs from his utility belt. ‘You’re not going to try and run are you? Because if you are I warn you now, I have a brand new TASER I’ve been dying to try out. You’ll still go to jail, only you’ll be a bit sore and woozy when you get there.

I didn’t doubt it. Fifty thousand volts frying my testicles as I lay on the floor quivering like a jelly in a puddle of my own making. Not risking that. ‘No. I’m not going to run, but thanks for the warning.’

He looked disappointed and sniffed. ‘Pity.’

‘Do you really need the handcuffs?’ I said. ‘I’ll come quietly.’

‘Aye. I do. Fer health and safety.’

‘Yours or mine?’

‘Yours of course.’

‘Of course. Front or back?’

‘Front will do.’

I held out my hands, wrists a couple of inches apart. Skrit. Click. Skrit. Click. The metal rings felt ice cold against my skin.

Innes opened the rear door of the vehicle. ‘In you get.’

Where? An eclectic collection of items took up more than half the rear seat, leaving very little space for me; a coil of rope, a pair of wellington boots, pink fluffy cowboy hat, a traffic cone and, most incongruously, a life-sized stuffed sheep. ‘Stag night?’

PC Innes put his hand on my head as a protective shield against braining myself on the door frame and gave it a firm push. ‘Get in.’

It was a bit of a tight fit, especially when Innes leaned across me to fasten my seatbelt. He set the child proof lock and slammed the door closed before dropping my rucksack into the boot. He then removed his cap and settled himself behind the steering wheel, making the little car rock and giving it a distinct list to the right.

Traffic was light and we didn’t take the scenic route, so the journey took all of ten minutes.

PC Innes led me through a door at the rear of Lerwick’s main police station and straight to the custody area where he presented me to another officer, a sergeant, explaining in some kind of legalese I didn’t understand the reason for my being there. The sergeant listened intently, then declared himself satisfied that my arrest had been lawful and authorised my detention for the purpose of interview and collection of forensic evidence. ‘You understand all that?’

‘Yes sir,’ I said, with what I thought to be just the right amount of contrition.

The sergeant and Innes then put me through the full ‘booking in’ procedure. Name. Date of birth. Nationality. Address.

They confiscated my rucksack, watch, wallet and belt, and searched me from head to foot, running a metal detector over me. Innes even ruffled through my hair with one of his bear paws in case I had a Swiss army knife hidden in there.

‘No phone?’ He asked.

I shook my head. ‘No.’

‘Seriously? Who doesn’t have a mobile in this day and age. It’s almost a life support system.’

‘I do have one,’ I said. ‘Just not on me. I forgot it. Sorry.’

Fingerprints next, and then I was asked to strip.

‘What? Everything? You mean…nude?’

‘No. Just your top clothes. You can keep yer knickers on.’

I won’t describe the depths of humiliation that brought. Although it could have been worse. One of them could have slapped on the rubber glove and gone spelunking without the aid of a lubricant. Could have, but he as he had no reason to, didn’t. A small mercy to be thankful for.

They took plenty of photos, giving special attention to my left eye - a livid purple, swelled to an arrow slit and so bloodshot the iris looked like a pale island in a sea of red - my left cheek bruised and swollen and rosy with friction burn, and my swollen and very tender nose. Snaps were also taken of the scratches and grazes on my hands and arms, eliciting a few hums and haws and bloody hells and when I turned around to show my back, neck and torso, as colourful as a Canadian sunset.

‘Nasty,’ the sergeant said. ‘We’ll call the medic to check you over properly. Just to be on the safe side, aye.’

My clothes and shoes were stuffed into paper evidence bags, leaving me in my grey Markies undershorts under a baggy white over-suit, a pair of blue plastic bootees over my bare feet.

When they came to take DNA samples – a cheek swab and head hairs plucked out by the roots – I had to sign the consent forms, which meant they had a sample of my handwriting too. Can’t complain they weren’t thorough.

I declined the offer of legal representation. What would be the point? A solicitor would only add to the confusion by advising me to no comment my way through the impending interview, dragging out the whole debacle to the limits of everyone’s endurance. And to be honest, now I was here I sort of felt I’d like to get the whole thing over with as quickly as possible.

The sergeant then asked me if I had any questions? Only one. ‘Can I have a cup of tea. I’m parched.’

He said he would see what he could do.

Two

The holding cell was basic to say the least; blue and white tiled walls sporting the ghosts of graffiti past, a panel of reinforced glass bricks serving as a window and a metal toilet with no seat. A light set into the centre of the ceiling turned night into day and the small black dome of a CCTV camera in the corner kept its beady eye on me. Above the bed painted on the ceiling, an advert for Crimestoppers urging me to turn informer via a free phoneline. Bit late for that.

I sat on the bench, hard concrete with a one inch thick blue plastic coated pad that offered no comfort whatsoever, to consider my situation. I could have curled myself into a ball on the floor, bawling like a baby and calling for my Ma. Instead I kept my dignity and sat with my back against the wall, arms hugging drawn up knees, calm, cool and collected on the outside, innards churning like a washing machine on fast spin in the inside, the cold seeping through the sleeping pad, overalls and cotton undies all the way through to my bones. It was indeed a room designed for solitary contemplation while you died of frostbite from the bum up.

I had a brief visit from a doctor called in from the hospital to give me the once over. Blood pressure, temperature, pulse; all the routine. A quick examination of my knocks and scrapes concluded no broken bones and no imminent threat to life. A few questions to assess my mental state ensured I wasn’t a suicide risk and I was left alone to spend the next three hours alone with my thoughts. They passed like molasses in December.

Finally the door clanked open. A PC this time, pasty looking with a shock of hair so blond as to be luminous. He handed me a pair of questionable looking socks.

‘Found you these,’ he said. ’Be a bit warmer than the plastic jobbies, and a bit less slippy on the carpet. Don’t want any accidents do we?’

He waited in the doorway while I put on the socks, my frozen toes immediately feeling the benefit, before leading me with a firm hand cupping my elbow. He was a slight fellow and I gave a nanosecond’s thought to pushing him over and running for it. Then remembered that little guys could be stronger and faster than they looked and with my luck, this one would be a black belt at Amigurumi or some such, and have me on the floor and bleeding before I could say chopsticks. Besides, it was below freezing outside and I was all but naked underneath a paper suit. What could I possibly hope to achieve? The thought evaporated as quickly as it had formed.

The pale PC guided me through the building until we reached a plain door with a small round window of obscured glass labelled Interview Room 1.

‘Boss wants a wee chat, so behave yourself,’ the PC said, before knocking on and opening the door. Once we were in he closed it behind us and stood there in a feet apart, arms folded ‘none shall pass’ stance.

In complete contrast to the cold utilitarianism of the cell, the Interview Room was surprisingly pleasant. Calm blue walls, grey carpet tiles on the floor, a window with slatted blinds. There were even pot plants on the window sill. A single fluorescent tube buzzed lazily on the ceiling, giving off a warm white light. A faint smell of paint hung in the air giving the impression the room had been recently decorated.

A Formica topped table stood against one wall, four chairs around it, one of which had a jacket draped casually over its back. In that seat sat a man. He appeared to be in his late forties, sandy hair thinning a little on top, greying at the temples, a frown of concentration knitting his brows. The sleeves of his pale blue shirt were rolled neatly to the elbow, exposing hairy arms and a plain looking watch. The top button of his collar was undone, the thin white strip of t shirt beneath peeping out. On the table top in front of him were laid out a yellow legal pad, a buff folder and a silver Parker pen, all carefully spaced and squared away. The man didn’t look up as the constable and I entered. Too busy studying a small leaflet with crudely drawn illustrations. Instead a wave of his hand and a crisp, ‘Sit,’ indicated I should take a seat opposite him. I tried to adjust the position of my chair at the table, but it wouldn’t move. It was bolted to the floor.

‘So you can’t pick it up and throw it at me,’ the man said, and then favoured me with a glance. His eyes, a warm nut brown, met with mine for a heartbeat. Time enough, I sensed, for him to take a full measure of me.

He then looked past me to the blond haired PC on looming duty by the door. ‘It’s alright, Dave. You can go find something else to do. I don’t think Mr Fraser here is going to give me any trouble.’ To me. ‘Are you?’

I lowered myself into my seat and shook my head. ‘No.’

‘Good.’ To PC Dave. ‘Away you go then.’

‘Sir.’

‘Oh, and Dave…’

‘Sir?’

‘I sent Penny on an errand. Tell her not to stand on ceremony when she gets back. Straight in.’

‘Sir.’

The door clicked closed and we were alone. The man offered me a smile, friendly yet wary. ‘Okay then. Let’s get down to business shall we? My name is Detective Sergeant Campbell, and I take it you know why you’re here.’

‘Because a giant policeman a little too keen on TASERing my knob end handcuffed me and forced me to get in a car full of kinky stuff.’

The smile widened. ‘Ah. I take it you are referring to PC Innes. He can be a little…um, intimidating to say the least. Which makes him very good at his job. Do you wish to file a complaint?’

I shook my head. ‘I imagine it would create a lot of paperwork and I wouldn’t want to get on his wrong side, so I’ll leave it this time if it’s all the same to you.’

‘Wise decision. Now, let’s get down to brass tacks. As you are no doubt aware, a warrant was issued for your arrest in Aberdeen. Seeing as you are no longer in Aberdeen we have done the guys at FHQ the courtesy of executing that warrant for them. Wasn’t that kind of us?’

I said nothing.

‘Suffice it to say, while you are enjoying the hospitality here on our lovely islands, those self-same officers of the law will be drawing straws and the lucky winner be put on the next flight, boat, or back of a dolphin to take you back. As I haven’t yet heard back as to who it will be, when they are coming or how…’ He tapped the cover of the buff folder lightly. ‘I thought we could spend that time fruitfully. Get the ball rolling so to speak. Gather some crucial evidence while it’s still hot and fresh. We might as well. It’s not like we have anything else to do is it? My dance card is empty, and you’d only be bored off your tits stuck in a cell with nothing to do but contemplate the hole in your sock. It would be a shame to waste the time when we could be so productive. What do you say?’

I glanced at my foot. There was indeed a hole, the tip of my right big toe peeping through. Eyes like a shithouse rat this one. ‘I suppose.’

‘Excellent.’ Campbell returned to studying the small pamphlet before him. ‘As soon as I can make any sense of this.’

Even upside down I could see it was an instruction manual for the brand new digital recording machine fastened to the wall, its two red lights blinking balefully. He examined the array of buttons one last time, matching them to the illustrations in the booklet.

I was on the verge of offering a suggestion; ‘Why don’t you call in the nearest five year old to sort it for you?’ when Campbell spoke. ‘Oh. I see. That and that at the same time. Got it.’ He formed his fingers into a V. ‘Ready?’

‘Is this normal?’ I interrupted.

‘What?’

‘Us being in here alone. Where’s your sidekick?’

Campbell looked at me, perplexed. ‘My what?’

‘Your oppo. Your gopher. The Lewis to your Morse. The Robin to your Batman. I thought you guys usually worked in pairs. Good cop, bad cop. To hold you back from giving me a slap at the very least.’

Campbell shifted in his seat. ‘Well, I have an inspector over me, so I suppose that would make me the Lewis. I usually have Detective Constable McLevy as my bagman and he does the legwork while I sit in the warm, feet up on my desk, drinking tea and eating biscuits. The reason I’m on my own is because he got himself laid up over yonder…’ He hoiked his thumb over his shoulder in the general direction of the Gilbert Bain Hospital. ‘In traction and in plaster from hip to toe. Both legs.’

‘Wow. What happened?’

‘Daft bugger went fishing off the dock on his weekend off. Slipped on some seagull shit and fell down the stone steps. Broke his right leg in two places, dislocated his left hip and shattered his left knee cap. Lucky he didn’t smash his skull or break his neck on the way down. Won’t be back on his feet for at least 3 months. Then there will be all the physical therapy. I doubt he’ll be back on duty before next summer. Just got him housetrained too.’

‘Sorry to hear that.’

‘Not as sorry as McLevy.’ Campbell made a circling motion with his fingers against his face. ‘What’s your story?’

‘Same story as your colleague. I fell down some stairs a couple of days ago. Hit every frigging one on the way down.’

‘Making your escape from the scene of the crime?’

I said nothing.

He made a V with two fingers again and hovered them over two buttons. ‘You ready now?’

I said a quick silent prayer that I could keep my anxiety in check long enough to not say something offensive or inappropriate and make a complete tit of myself, and nodded.

And press. The blinking red lights changed to a blinking yellow and the machine let out a very loud, very irritating buzz-whine. It only lasted fifteen seconds, but it seemed like it would never end. When it finally stopped and the blinking lights turned a steady green it took a second for Campbell to take his cue.

‘The time is 12 minutes past 2 on Tuesday 19th November 2019,’ he said, clearly and confidently. ‘This interview is being conducted in Room IR1 at Lerwick main police station. My name is Detective Sergeant Gary Campbell. Also present is, can you state your full name, date of birth and address please?’

I duly did.

‘Thank you. There are no other police officers present.’ Campbell clasped his hands together and rested them on the folder. ‘Right then, Mr Fraser, for your information, this interview is also being video recorded…’ He pointed over his shoulder to a black dome set in the ceiling.’ And the subsequent transcriptions may be used in evidence if you are brought before a court. You are being interviewed under caution in regard to an investigation currently being undertaken by colleagues in Aberdeen into the death of one Gerald Robertson sometime between Sunday 17th and Monday 18th of November 2019 at premises in Salisbury Terrace in the city of Aberdeen. The purpose of the interview is to elicit information into said death. We have a few formalities to go through first if you wouldn’t mind.’

‘Okay.’

‘First, how would you like me to address you? Mr Fraser, or are you okay with Kenneth.’

‘Everyone calls me Kenny.’

‘Okay. And what pronouns do you prefer?’

‘My what?’

‘Pronouns. He. Him. She. Her. Them. They, et cetera.’

‘I’m a bloke, so he and him. Why do you