Raw Bone

by Scott Thornley

The practice ended at six. Dylan gave a brief wave to MacNeice before disappearing into the locker room. Knox came over to usher the two men out of the gym, but neither stood to leave. “Have you got a few minutes, Coach Knox?” MacNeice asked.

  “Well, no. Normally I’d go over what we did and the corrections I want to see.”

  “I understand. It won’t take long. Perhaps your assistant coach could fill in.”

  Knox reluctantly pulled out a chair and sat opposite them. “The assistant coach is the shop teacher. He’s just started—well, you know that, of course.”

  “Good scrimmage, coach,” Swetsky said. “Initially, I thought you had a two-man team, but judging by their ball control, you’ve got quite a few strong players. Great passing and hustle all-round, which makes it difficult to double up on Nicholson or Smylski and shut them down.”

  Knox nodded his thanks. “They’re good, but there’s a long way to go. And four of them are graduating next year, so I’ve been getting them to work with the younger players. Hopefully, we won’t feel like we’re starting over.”

  “But that must be an annual concern,” MacNeice said.

  “It is. Tomorrow, I’ll mix them up, get Dylan and Tom on opposing sides. I haven’t wanted to do that recently, since Dyl’s been through so much.”

  “What was it like, having David Nicholson as an assistant coach?” MacNeice asked.

  “Look, I already spoke to your detectives. Nicholson was only assisting because his kid was on the team.”

  “How long had you known David Nicholson?”

  “I’d been here for two years when the Nicholsons arrived.”

  “How would you describe your relationship with him?”

  A long pause. “It was okay. He loved the kid. Though even that, I personally found … a bit creepy. He didn’t give Dylan much space. But that was none of my business.”

  “And his wife, did you also know her?”

  “I did. She was an amazing woman, a great teacher—a natural. It was a blow when she disappeared. And it’s worse, now we’ve heard what happened to her.”

  The door to the locker room opened and the assistant coach stuck his head out and called, “Coach, are you going to speak to the team, or should I let them go?”

  “Let them go. I’ll follow up at tomorrow’s practice.”

  The door closed and MacNeice said, “I know Dylan told you that his father was responsible for her death—were you shocked to hear that?”

  Knox looked out to the court, studying the gleaming urethaned surface broken by circles and straight lines—white, red and blue—the elegantly rendered rules. “Frankly, I always thought Nicholson was a creepy control freak. But Dylan … that kid is so healthy. He’s balanced … smart. You saw him out here. He’s passionate, fair, shares the ball, has an eye for where the play is going and manages to find himself—more than anyone—in a position to capitalize … either by scoring or assisting.”

  Knox stopped abruptly. “I don’t know—maybe he takes after his mother. Maybe four years with her was enough to set him on this path.” He shook his head as if to erase what he’d said. “Look, I teach mathematics, not psychology.”

  “Still, that you think Dylan takes after his mother is an interesting observation. Thank you for your time, coach.” MacNeice stood up, helping Swetsky to his feet. They came around the table and, as MacNeice offered his hand to Knox, he said, “Your first name is Al—is that short for Allan?”

  “No, it’s Alexander.”

  “Do you have kids of your own, coach?”

  “No. Thankfully, my wife and I divorced before we had kids … Sorry, that didn’t come out right.”

  MacNeice smiled and said he understood what he meant. “How long ago was that?”

  “Thirteen years this September 18.” Knox’s voice was flat, matter of fact.

  “If anything else occurs to you about David Nicholson, anything you’d like us to know, here’s my card. Please call me.”

  They shook hands at the gym door. As he let go of Swetsky’s hand, Knox told him he’d be welcome to come out again. “I can use guys who know what they’re doing. We can’t pay, of course, but it’s clear you love the game.”

  Pulling away from the Mercy parking lot, Swetsky said, “Dylan’s a star—royal jelly all the way. Smylski’s good, could be great: physically he’s got all he needs.”

  “And the coach?”

  “He’s a math teacher. Maybe creativity’s not his thing. He sees the players like geometry in motion. He’s built a well-trained and disciplined starting line, but what the juniors and freshmen are making of it, I can’t tell. I think the key is having a chance to go head to head with the seniors, not to sit there watching them play. But he’s a winning coach and this was one off-season practice, so what do I know.”

  MacNeice said, “It’s interesting that the coach divorced roughly around the time the Nicholsons were together at Mercy. It’s a major leap, of course, to link the two events, but Knox clearly resented David Nicholson posing as a coach so he could watch over his son. And one other small point stood out: his first name is Alexander.”

  “So?”

  “Sandy is a common diminutive for Alexander. We’ve gone through that school looking for anyone with a name that begins with S, because Nicholson refers to someone by that initial in the diary he kept.”

  “Jesus. Does Knox fit the profile?”

  “He does. Nicholson would have had to be unconscious, but Knox is big enough to manhandle him onto that wagon … Mission accomplished: I didn’t even have to ask whether you could be involved. He invited you himself. And, as you’re still on medical leave, will you start attending practice?”

  “I’m in, absolutely.”

  Pulling up in front of Swetsky’s house, MacNeice noticed his wife at the door. By the time he stopped at the curb, she was striding down the front stairs. “Brace yourself, John.”

  “Her bark is worse—no, come to think of it, her bite is much worse. I’ll blame it on you.”

  As Swetsky got out of the Chevy, his wife was standing at the end of their front walk with her arms folded. With his big paw on the roof, Swetsky ducked back into the car and whispered, “I won’t tell her there’s a second grenade.” He slapped the roof and shut the door.

  Chapter 31

  It was 7:50 p.m. when he shut the Chevy down, near Samantha’s apartment. He sat in the car, frozen by the thought of Fiza. While there’d never been anything explicit said between them, he couldn’t help feeling that he’d cheated on her. And Fiza’s frosty but civil response didn’t change that. Worse, though he was looking forward to seeing Sam, the week had gone by without her crowding his thoughts. Yet this was the first person he’d slept with since Kate’s death. What kind of sense did that make? It was just after eight when he buzzed her apartment, then climbed the steps to her door. When it opened, Samantha greeted him wearing a long black cardigan. As she slid her arms around him, he realized that was all she was wearing.

  All his reservations flew, and he was about to pick her up and carry her into the bedroom, when she said, “Hey, let’s slow down a moment. I’ve ordered in from Thai Village. I’ve chilled the champagne … I thought you were the delivery guy, and even the delivery guy takes his time.” She smiled up at him as she pulled her sweater down to mid-thigh.

  MacNeice smiled back, but he felt foolish and was thinking, I’m too old for this.

  The doorbell rang and Sam reached past him and pressed the buzzer to let the delivery man in.

  “Can you get it? I’m not decent.”

  MacNeice patted his pockets for his wallet. He was retrieving it from the inside pocket of his jacket when there was a knock at the door. He opened it and looked up at the broad, smiling face, saying, “How much is it?” He didn’t have time to register whose face it was, before the impact and the brief but not unpleasant sensation of falling backwards.

  “Aye, the blow is extremely crude but spectacularly effective. Ye may be interested ta
know, ah learnt tha growin’ up in Clydeside and not in the service of Her Majesty.” Bishop was wearing a grey T-shirt and black jeans. Squatting in front of MacNeice, he appeared immense, a gorilla studying a caterpillar. “It’s better if ye doan close your eyes, MacNeice. They swell shut if ya do.” He lifted MacNeice’s head so they were looking directly at each other. “MacNeice—ah know the name. Your family is from Perthshire, just north of Glasgow. Your clan motto is ‘By courage, not by craft,’ aye, but nae t’day.” He studied the detective’s face then let his head drop again. “You’ll feel a mighty pounding behind those eyes. Ah’m afraid ah’ve split the bridge of your nose, but otherwise, you’ll survive.”

  He showed MacNeice two bloodied pencils, then dropped them on the floor. “While ye were out, I shoved ’em up yer nostrils. Then ah snapped them together like chopsticks ta reset your nose. You’ll have a fine straight beak, laddie—no charge for the medical services rendered.”

  MacNeice could taste the blood in his mouth. His nose was already so swollen it intruded grotesquely into his sightline. Disoriented, he attempted to scan the room.

  “Auch, your lady friend—a wee bit underdressed for the occasion but not unattractive.”

  He towered over MacNeice’s chair. “Don’t trouble yourself, MacNeice. She’s trussed up, but not a feather of tha pretty head is outta place.” He pointed and MacNeice painfully turned his head to see Samantha gagged and sitting on a chair in the doorway of her bedroom, her arms and legs tied in precisely the same way he was. The cardigan was twisted, exposing one breast and her entire lower abdomen, and she was trying to wiggle so that less of her was bare. Her eyes were wide with shock and fear.

  The plastic ties cut into his wrists and his ankles, which were tethered awkwardly to the rear legs of the chair to ensure he couldn’t get his footing without toppling face-first onto the wood floor. Using his tongue, he tried pushing the cord out of his mouth to speak, but gave up and shook his head in frustration—which only served to increase the pain in his head and the flow of blood into his throat.

  “We have a wee bit a business ta attend ta, am I right, Detective Superintendent MacNeice?”

  The big man took him by the hair and shook his head up and down. When MacNeice tried to pull away, Bishop shoved his head hard against the wall.

  “Ma name is Bishop. But ye know tha. Ye bin makin’ a bit a fuss o’er me, detective. Jacko Bishop. Ah go by Mars—the candy bar, not the god, eh—and Bishop’s not ma real name, of course, just another amusing nom de guerre.”

  He retrieved another chair and placed it in front of MacNeice. Bishop watched him straining to see Samantha over the man’s shoulder.

  “Aye, ah’d prefer she was more modest too.” He walked past her into the bedroom, emerging with a blue blanket. Glancing down at her breast, he looked at MacNeice and smiled. “Ah’m sure ye agree, the more plump and firm the better.” He tilted his head to look at the breast again. “Very pretty, Miss.” He pulled the cardigan closed and dropped the blanket on her legs to cover her groin. Turning away, he said, “There, tha’ should help ye to concentrate, detective.”

  MacNeice tried to speak past the cord but started coughing.

  “Auch, cough it up, man. Ye need ta get tha out. Ye’ve already made a fine mess of your shirt. Here.” He pulled the cord out of MacNeice’s mouth and told him to spit the blood onto the floor. “It’s only blood and spit,” he said. “Ye’ve yet to cough up an organ.” He shoved the cord back in MacNeice’s mouth.

  “Ma stay in your fine community is at an end and ah need ta be on my way. I took the liberty to pay for yer dinner—aye, with a bonnie tip ta boot.” He picked up the plastic bag of Thai Village takeout from where it sat by the front door, put it in the oven and turned the gas on to 250 degrees. “Tha’ should take care of it.”

  Returning to the living room, he sat down, crossed his arms and studied MacNeice. “The smell is somethin’ terrible, d’ye nae agree? Ah mean, as a Scot, ye cannae possibly enjoy the foul smell of tha.” He shook his head slowly in disbelief and looked at his watch. “By the time those wretched vittles are alight, we’ll be finished and I’ll be gone. Ta business then.” He rubbed his hands. “A wild guess, Detective Superintendent: ye’re lookin’ at me for the deaths of Duggie Langan and his Scandinavian sweetheart. As well, tha bonnie wee girl, Sherry—ah dinna remember her last name.”

  MacNeice’s eyes went to the tattoos on Bishop’s arm.

  “Ye recognize these, do ye?” He pointed to each word in turn, emphasizing the syllables. “Belfast—we took as good as we gave, and they lost. Herzegovina—treacherous cunts, the Serbs. But they have their reasons, eh?” He put his index finger on the next name and shook his head. “Mogadishu—ah was in the employ of the Queen, but only barely. Queensberry rules never made an appearance there. By Iraq and Afghanistan, ah was a soldier of fortune and, for the love of God”—he moved his finger to the last tattoo—“the Congo’s no place for gentlemen soldiers, paid or no.” He took a deep breath and pointed to the SAS tattoo above the place names. “Do ye also know this insignia, detective? Jus’ nod if ye recognize it.”

  MacNeice nodded.

  “Aye, so now ye know, or think ye do, that Her Majesty spared no expense nor worldly resource in the making of me.” He was smiling broadly. “And what Queenie didn’t teach was taught ta me long before in Glasgow.

  “Ah’m being reassigned abroad, but before ah take my leave, ah felt you deserved the truth about my stay here.”

  MacNeice blinked to indicate his interest in hearing the truth. The intense pain in his head wouldn’t allow him to nod again.

  “Ah encountered my friend Duguald in Liverpool. My employer had no immediate work for me, so Duggie arranged passage on the same freighter. Ah’d never been ta sea. Aye, it was boring as shite. Thought ah’d come along ta take in the local sights here in bonnie Dundurn till my call came.

  “I liked Duggie well enough, and everything would have been fine, except ah picked up a short-term contract to do some local security work. Ah will na say who my employer was or what, if any, instructions he gave mae ta act as ah ave.”

  But Bishop did insist it was only after many complaints about the “thieving mick bookie” went unheeded that Bishop responded, and then only reluctantly. “Duggie was a good lad, eh. Irish ta the core, mind ye—needed a chin smackin after a few pints—but a good lad.”

  Still, he had a job to do. “Ah bought anchors to sink Duggie, but when ah arriv’t tae pick him up in ma rented truck, he was walkin’ out with Anniken. Ah offered them a lift home and saw immediately tha Duggie knew home was not the destination.

  “Ah parked out by Princess Point, a bonnie place to die. Getting outta the truck, ah drew ma weapon … this one.” He reached under the T-shirt to reveal a large calibre semi-automatic. “We went inside the cargo area and ah closed the door.”

  The cargo space was empty but for the anchors, the line and the packing tape. Duggie tried to talk him out of it. Seeing that was futile, he switched tactics and begged Bishop to let Anniken go. “It dinnae please me ta refuse him, but there ye have it. Ah couldna let her go, now could ah?”

  Bishop carried on with his narration. “Ah knew he hadn’t touched her yet, and so ah says, ‘Duggie, that’s a beauty right there, a true, untouched beauty. Ah want ye tae at least see her.’ Ah told Anni to take off her clothes, and when the lass refused, ah smacked Duggie with mae weapon. She was shiverin’ with fear but started ta undress. At first, Duggie was wiping away the blood pourin’ from the top of his haid, but then he looked over at her. She was a beauty indeed.

  “Ah snapped her neck—she felt only a heartbeat of pain. Then, and only because he was behavin’ very badly, screamin’ and lunging at ma, ah garrotted poor Duggie. Ah used an anchor for each and tied them with clever knots, assuming tha would do the trick. Alas, the creatures of your dusky bay got the better of mae.”

  Bishop and Duggie had gone fishing in Byrne’s boat; he knew where it was moore
d and that the key for the motor was on Duggie’s Irish harp key-chain. When he took them across to Cootes, it was well after midnight; and when he dumped them over the side, he thought he’d said goodbye forever.

  Smoke was starting to come out the sides of the oven door, but the fire alarm had not been triggered. “Sherry … Auch, ah have ta admit, ah lost it there. We made spectacular love on her bed and when ah awoke, she was on top of me, running her fingers over ma tattoos. That’s when it started.”

  Interpreting the confusion on MacNeice’s face, he mimicked her, hitting a squealing falsetto. “ ‘Oh my God! Like that is so fab! Like really! Like awesome, like-like-like-like really—oh … my … God.’ ” He shook his head. “Ta ma mind, Detective Superintendent, ye have serious problems with your education in Dundurn. There was a university diploma on the wall of her boudoir. And yet, for a half-hour or more after I woke, she continued ta blather. Ah couldnae stand it and couldnae shut her up. My head was poundin’ from so many blue drinks and ah snapped. Ah felt like a right shite about it, but there it is.”

  He reached over and pulled the cord from MacNeice’s mouth. “Ye ave questions, MacNeice?” He dropped it under his chin and waited.

  MacNeice cleared his throat. “Why the tape on the girls’ eyes?”

  “Oh aye, the tape … pure superstition. Ah’d a fixer in Afghanistan who said it released the soul from the body … or some such thing. Ah’m not normally given ta such twaddle, but ever since, ah’ve taped them. Not for Duggie, though. By the time ah had him on the bay, his face and eyes were so black and swollen, ah just wanted ta be done wie him.”

  Bishop stood up, glanced back to the kitchen, where the smoke was billowing above the stove. Samantha was also looking, her eyes welling with tears. “It appears, miss, ye didn’t install a smoke alarm near your cooker. Ye better hope this one is working.” He pointed to the detector in the living room ceiling. He tried to shove the cord back in MacNeice’s mouth, but MacNeice jerked his head away.

  “One more question: Why did you come here to tell me this? You could have just left.”