2007 - A tale etched in blood and hard black pencel

by Christopher Brookmyre

  She stops and looks around for a few moments, trying to filter out the sounds of radios squelching from open car doors and jacket pockets. She wants to picture the place without polis motors and Forensics vans, see it as it looked to the people who died here and to those who walked away.

  Of those, Turbo’s immediate destiny is in the hands of a surgeon at the Southern General, while they’ve got Noodsy safely locked up in Braeside nick. She’s going to interview him later, but not before she’s developed her own picture of what they’re dealing with, in order to see how his version holds up; and not before she’s let him sweat a while. Noodsy never was much good under pressure back when she knew him. He was so used to getting caught that the mere sight of an authority figure accusing him was usually enough to elicit a resigned acceptance of his fate.

  Alex emerges on to the wooden-decked patio at the focal lodge’s entrance. He notices Karen’s approach and gives her an amused smile. More criminal masterclass stuff to be found within, then. He hands her a spare face-mask, but mercifully not for the reason she anticipated. The fumes hit her as soon as she steps on to the decking.

  “Sainsbury’s must have been fresh out of Shake ‘n’ Vac,” Alex says. “They’ve been using drain cleaner to get rid of the bloodstains from the carpet.”

  “Should I pick some up the next time I spill red wine?”

  “Does the trick, aye. As long as you don’t mind your carpet looking like this.”

  Alex ushers her inside with a wave of his left arm and she gets an instant eyeful of what he means. There’s no obvious trace of blood, but the otherwise brown carpet looks like it’s gone down with a bad case of vitiligo. The largest of the bleached—nay, scorched—patches are both in the centre of the floor, though there are plenty of others between there and what she learns is the door to the bathroom.

  “I’d posit that they had a go at dissolving the bodies with the drain cleaner and then used it on the bloodstains some time after they had their change of plan. Covered up the fact that the stains were made by blood, but not exactly inconspicuous, is it? Specially if they were hoping to make it look like this Temple guy just disappeared.”

  “How do you know it was drain cleaner? Can you tell just by the smell?”

  Alex gives her that smile again. “Found the receipt. It was folded over umpteen times and twisted back and forth—by the fingers of a very nervous individual needing to keep his hands occupied—but it was perfectly legible. Dates, times, it all fits. B&Q Darnley—for all your corpse-disposal needs. Typical DIY store, though. The stuff you buy never quite does the job when it’s not in the hands of a professional. And these were definitely not the hands of a professional. The receipt was in the bin, for Christ’s sake.”

  “The bin?” she asks, barely able to believe the criminal ineptitude until she casts her mind back and remembers the only thing either Noodsy or Turbo was good at was getting into trouble.

  “Amazing, isn’t it? In my experience, it’s the mark of the true numpty that he can create almost as much new evidence in his attempts to cover his tracks as he actually removed from the scene of the crime.”

  “Which will be your way of saying you don’t have a weapon.”

  Alex shrugs apologetically. “Or shell cases.” He laughs a little. Found out. “It’s early days, but I’d have expected to find some rope fibres by this stage too,” he confesses.

  “Rope fibres?”

  “Aye, going by the locations of these two big stains. They were both shot point blank in the head only feet apart in the same room. Can’t see how you can do that to two people without restraints. One, sure, element of surprise, but not two.”

  “That’s assuming they were both killed by the same gun.”

  “Which we are going to be lucky to establish without bullets.”

  “Well, as you say, it’s early days.”

  Alex shakes his head, then points to fist-sized marks in two of the walls. “Something’s been dug out of those and the holes filled in with Polyfilla. Also on the B&Q receipt, by the way. They’ve obviously watched enough telly to know to get rid of the dramatic stuff. The plan must have been to make the victims vanish and dispose of the ballistic evidence. Not entirely stupid in theory, just badly lacking in the concept-execution part.”

  Karen looks again at the filled marks and the stains on the carpet. “I don’t know about concept, but I think Johnny Turner and Colin Temple might argue they managed the execution part just fine.”

  Coins

  It’s playtime and Golin is on the loo, something he had been looking forward to since shortly after drinking his milk. He had asked Mrs Murphy if he could go out to the toilet, like a few of the other children had been allowed to after that skinny girl Karen wet herself, but had been told just to wait because it would ‘soon be the interval’. He didn’t know what the interval was, though it sounded like that thing his mum had gone to Glasgow for recently. Mummy had been really pleased when she came back, so it must have been something good, but he didn’t understand why you wouldn’t be allowed to do a pee before it. Fortunately, the bell rang a wee bit later to signal playtime, so he had the chance to relieve himself before whatever the interval turned out to be.

  He had seen toilets like this when his dad took him to the baths. As well as the normal toilets and sinks, there was a row of white things stuck to one wall, like teardrops cut in half. These were what Dad peed into, standing up, but Colin wasn’t big enough to reach, and the one time Dad held him up, he went all over his trousers and they had to go right home to change instead of to the canteen for chips. The same thing had happened at home when he tried to do it standing up. His mum had told him he’d have to wait until he grew a bit and got trousers with flies, and Dad said he’d soon have flies on all his trousers if he kept getting pee on them. The teardrop things at school were much lower down than at the baths and Colin wouldn’t need lifted up to use one, but elevation hadn’t helped at the swimming, and he really didn’t want to end up with pee—and flies—all over his trousers. Lots of people had laughed at that girl Karen and she’d had to wear a spare skirt that the teacher got from a cupboard, with no pants\

  Colin had gone straight to the toilets as soon as the teacher told them they could leave the classroom, and found himself the first one there. This was just as well, as there were only two cubicles to have a sit-down in like at home. It felt good, like that time they’d been in the car on the motorway and he had to hold it in for ages until they got to Uncle Jim’s house. There wasn’t as much wee this time, but the feeling of relief was just as great.

  Another boy comes in just as Colin is exiting the stall. He looks about the same size as Colin, so must also be a Primary One, but Colin didn’t see him before, so maybe he is in the other teacher’s class. He goes into the cubicle next to the one Colin was using and locks the door. Colin walks over to one of the sinks and turns on the taps to wash his hands. He usually only gives them a quick skoosh if it’s just a pee, but he likes the look of the big pink blocks of soap that are next to each basin.

  He is drying his hands on the blue roller-towel thing when a load of bigger boys—Primary Twos and maybe even Threes—come tumbling into the room, laughing and bumping into each other. Most of them go and pee into the teardrop things, but two of them just take a drink from the water-fountain. It is one of this pair whose interest is suddenly taken by the cubicles.

  “Heh, somebody’s in there daein a shite,” he announces with a joy that Colin finds odd, and a hint of malice of which he instinctively knows to be wary, something compounded by the use of a bad word. Now finished peeing, several of them approach the cubicle. None of them washes their hands, not even a quick skoosh. One of them bangs on the door.

  “Are ye daein a big huge toley in there?” he shouts.

  “Big broon shite,” laughs another.

  “Big smelly keech.”

  “Mingin big plops.”

  There is no response from within. Colin, having been seate
d in the next stall only moments ago, can vividly imagine why not.

  He remains confused, if darkly fascinated. What’s so unusual or remarkable about doing a poo? Are they making out they don’t, or something? Surely not washing your hands is far more deserving of ridicule, if smells are the issue?

  Then one boy, who had not joined in with the shouting, steps forward among the small gathering. He is taller than the others and looks a bit fierce. “That’ll dae, yous,” he says. “Stop it. That’s a fuckin sin. Lea the boy alane. Just a wee Primary Wan. Staun back.”

  They do, allowing him to approach the door, which he knocks gently.

  “Wee man? It’s awright. Mon oot. Naebody’s gaunny touch ye, okay? It’s awright wee man. I’ll look efter ye.”

  There is a long, silent pause, then Colin hears the lock being slid back on the cubicle door.

  “Mon oot, wee man,” the tall boy repeats. Brian, one of the others called him.

  The Primary One emerges cautiously, looking scared. He’s not greeting, but he’s not far off it, either. The tall boy puts a hand out like grown-ups do when they want you to come with them or trying to stop you being feart. The Primary One takes it and steps fully away from the stall, now in full view of everyone.

  “You okay?” he asks.

  The wee one nods shakily.

  “Did you do a wee poo?”

  Another nervous nod.

  Then the tall boy lets go of his hand and points right into his face. “Aaaaaaaaah—jobbie-bum, jobbie-bum, jobbie-bum,” he sings, at which all the others start howling with laughter.

  The Primary One bursts out crying and runs through the door. Colin follows him. He knows he has had a lucky escape, that it could have been him, could yet be him, but he has also learnt an important lesson. Wet trousers, flies or not, he will be peeing at the teardrop things from now on and will never, ever, do a poo-poo in school.

  §

  Martin is talking to Scot and the boy who said his squirt of milk was doing the nineties. His name is James Doon. Martin heard this when the teacher called him out to get his name written, and noted his second name because there are two Jameses in the class. They have been wandering around the playground, exploring the place together. They have walked as far as the wall to the Big Ones’ playground, then around the back of the Infant Building, past big smelly metal bins as tall as trees, and back to where they started.

  There is another boy standing nearby, against a drainpipe close to the Primary One and Two double doors. The Primary Threes have their own entrance round the other side. Martin can’t remember for sure, but thinks the boy’s name is Robert. His desk is at the front, nearest the door, and Martin noticed he was watching him when he went back to get his milk. He looks very serious, not like Scot and James. Scot likes Slade and has a big sister who owns singles, so he can hear the songs all the time, not just when they come on the radio. James doesn’t know about Slade. Scot asks him who he likes. He says, “Celtic.”

  Two girls walk by and stand at the foot of the stone steps leading to the double doors. One is Alison, who sits next to Martin, and the other is Joanne, the girl who gave out the jotters.

  “We’re gaunny be first when the teacher calls the lines,” Joanne announces.

  Martin feels a moment of anxiety at this. It’s always good to be first. He doesn’t know how long playtime lasts, other than until the bell rings, but doesn’t understand why anyone would want to spend it just waiting on the spot. However, as it is his first day and other boys and girls—especially those with big brothers and sisters—seem to know more than he does, perhaps there is something he is missing.

  Martin looks to Scot for his response to this. He shows no intention of moving, so Martin decides he’ll wait and see what advantage Alison and Joanne win from their vigil before deciding whether it’s worth it in future.

  There is, however, a reaction from the serious boy, Robert. He narrows his eyes until they are like slits and tells Joanne: “You’re a fuckin sook.”

  “No I’m urnae,” she protests.

  “Aye ye are. Giein oot books for the teacher, staunin first in line. You’re a fuckin sook.” And with this he finally smiles, though it seems no more friendly than when his face was all serious. He confirms this when he turns to look at Martin next. “You an aw,” he says. “I saw ye oot there wi the teacher. “Very good, Martin.” Fuckin sook. You’ll get fuckin battered. Ma big brer says sooks get battered.”

  Martin doesn’t know what a sook is, but knows he doesn’t want to be one if it means you get fuckin battered. “I’m not a sook.” He searches his mind for proof of other status to offer in defence, words conferred by Mum and Dad. “I’m a good boy. I’m clever.”

  “Aye. At’s whit ma big brer says. Sooks are fuckin clever. Good boys are fuckin sooks.”

  Martin is horrified by having apparently supplied the evidence for his own conviction. Fortunately, Joanne comes to his rescue. “You’re a porteed,” she says shrilly.

  Martin doesn’t know what a porteed is either, but whatever it is, it has little impact on its target, who remains at his spot next to the drainpipe.

  He has learnt a few new words today, but none with the frequency of ‘fuckin’; and despite the number of times he has heard it, the context has never made its meaning clear or even consistent. The only thing he has been able to deduce for sure is that it is intended to add emphasis, but seems to be equally applicable whether positive or negative. He has been called a fuckin sook and warned he’ll get fuckin battered. However, earlier Scot told him that Gudbye to Jane is a fuckin great song and James described the bins behind the Infant Building as fuckin giant. Elsewhere on their tour, Martin heard talk of fuckin big dugs, fuckin wee weans, fuckin fast motors, fuckin slow buses, fuckin sweeties, fuckin shoes, fuckin troosers, fuckin teachers, fuckin tellies, fuckin puddles, fuckin skippin ropes, fuckin bells, fuckin jotters, fuckin milk and fuckin Rangers.

  He watched Scot put the ends of his forefingers together and invite James to ‘break the wire’. James did so with a digit of his own, upon which Scot announced: “You’re on fire.” This, according to James, was fuckin funny, but according to another, named Richard, it was fuckin ancient.

  In order to demonstrate something more recent, Richard had then placed a clenched fist on the palm of his hand and asked James to ‘sniff the cheese’. James obligingly placed his snib close to the offered outstretched fingers, whereupon Richard punched him on the nose and shouted, “Mousetrap!”

  This, James exclaimed, was fuckin sair.

  The bell rings and they make their way the few short yards to the steps, where Joanne and Alison have pride of place. The Primary Twos and Threes start forming separate lines, well versed in the procedure. The Primary Ones gather themselves in a less regimented order, gradually forming into two and then three and then four single-file queues as various new arrivals decide they like the idea of being head of the line and promptly start their own. After a few minutes, Mrs Murphy and another teacher appear. The first thing they do is tell the bigger ones to go in: first ‘Miss Taylor’s class’, then ‘Miss O’Neill’s class’, and so on. Then, with only the Primary Ones remaining, Mrs Murphy tells her class to form a queue on the far left and the others, Mrs Fitzpatrick’s class, to line up alongside. This sudden change of circumstance strands Joanne and Alison on the wrong side of the throng, and by the time the proper lines have formed, two abreast, the pair of them end up having to go around the outside and join at the very end. Martin doesn’t quite understand why, but he finds this enormously satisfying. Then he sees that boy Robert smiling sourly to himself about it and doesn’t feel so good any more.

  §

  Mrs Murphy is at the blackboard, drawing letters in white chalk. Each time she draws one, they all have to copy it over and over in their jotters while she walks up and down the rows to see how everyone is getting on. She has to tread carefully around a couple of areas where the floor is still a bit damp. The janitor’s mop and bucket sit b
y the door. Colin can smell something sharp and nasty, but it’s better than the smell of wee and definitely better than the smell of spilt milk, which nearly made him sick once when a carton burst in the car and Dad said he’d cleaned it all up but hadn’t, not properly.

  She started off getting them to do simple circles and lines, all the same size, which Colin thought was just a boring drawing exercise, but once they moved on to the letters he understood, because they were all made of circles and lines.

  They have done ‘a’, ‘b’ and ‘c’ and are now doing ‘d’. Mrs Murphy says, “No, dear, like this,” to the girl in the next row, and draws something for her. Colin looks across to get a glance at what the girl’s mistake was, but can’t see because her arm is in the way. Instead he notices through the window that some cars have pulled up outside the gates. One of them is a blue Cortina. He stands up excitedly and shouts, “Mummy!” At this, lots of the others look out of the window, too. There are now a few adults standing at the gates, which causes lots more children to get up from their desks.

  Mrs Murphy tells them it will be time to go soon, but for now they have to stay in their seats until the bell goes. She says this last bit in a stern voice and everybody does what they are told, though some of them start crying.