Blood Tears

by Michael J Malone

  ‘I’m DI McBain and this is DS Drain. We’re here to ask you about Paddy Connelly.’

  ‘Your guys were here yesterday. I told them all I know, mate.’

  ‘We’d like to hear it again, mate.’ I smile, ‘If you don’t mind.’ I try the good cop approach.

  ‘Can I get youse something to drink?’ He puts his hand on the till to let us know the house won’t be paying.

  ‘No thanks.’ I see a couple of guys drain their pints. They suddenly have an appointment elsewhere. I fix their faces in my mind. Keep them in my scrapbook. Scanning the room, I spot a familiar face. One that looks as out of place as a blue sock in a barrel of green ones, despite the fact that he’s trying to dumb down his appearance. A blue skip hat, with the skip pulled forward to hide part of his face, covers his normally perfectly blond hair and his trademark camel coat is nowhere to be seen. Instead he’s wearing a dark blue Harrington jacket over a dark blue turtle-neck sweater. I pretend I don’t see him. If he’s here incognito, I don’t want to spoil it for him. He may be a criminal and a highly successful one at that, but he doesn’t murder anyone, at least not to my knowledge, and that means I leave him alone. Besides, outside of work, he’s the closest thing I have in this world to a friend. I swing my line of vision back to the barman.

  ‘Do you know anyone that might want to kill Mr Connelly?’ I ask.

  ‘Only if being a miserable bastard has become a capital offence, mate.’

  ‘Not as far as I’m aware,’ still smiling. ‘Who did he drink with?’

  ‘Look around you, officer.’ I do. ‘Guys don’t come here for the chat.’ He’s right. The room is dotted with men and a couple of women all staring purposefully at their drinks.

  Wondering if he serves razors with his drinks I ask, ‘So what about this woman he was with on the night of his death?’

  ‘Hey, that caused a stir around here. Paddy with a wummin.’ He puts a flabby palm up to his mouth and looks quickly around, ‘Any of these sad bastards with a wummin is front page news.’

  ‘Can you describe her?’

  ‘Again? I went through all this the other day. This is harassment, mate.’

  ‘Listen, mate.’ I load the word with sarcasm, ‘A patrol car parked at your door every day might be construed as harassment.’ I pause to let this sink in. The flab on his face sags even more at the thought of what this might do to his trade.

  ‘But I’m sure we could persuade the courts otherwise.’

  ‘She was… five-eight, say. Well-built. Not fat, mind. Almost muscly. Brown hair to her shoulders, quite plain. Tiny tits.’

  ‘Age?’

  ‘Looked around thirty… forty?’ Well that’s pinned her age down then.

  ‘Was there anything remarkable about her?’

  His lips bunch below his nose, as he thinks, ‘Na. Except… she paid for all their drinks. That’s what made me think she couldn’t be a prossie. That and the well-hidden female charms… she looked more like a nun on her day off. Shy as well.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘Kept hiding behind her hair.’

  ‘How did she pay?’ Fingers crossed there would be a cheque, or a credit card slip.

  ‘Cash. No credit here, mate.’ We must be back on friendly terms again.

  ‘Did you manage to overhear any of their conversation? Pick up a name, perhaps?’

  ‘Na.’

  ‘What did she drink?’ Daryl Drain asks.

  ‘Budweiser. Bottle.’

  ‘Did that not strike you as odd,’ I ask, ‘a woman drinking from a bottle of beer?’

  He smiles, pleased to have found a weakness. ‘Quite acceptable for women to drink beer nowadays. You don’t get out much, mate, do you?’

  ‘Na, mate,’ my face devoid of humour, ‘Too many arseholes needing locked up.’

  He wasn’t listening. Judging by his vacant stare, his memory was replaying the events of that evening.

  ‘Her hands. They were strange. I was just thinking about her with a bottle of beer in her hands, when it came to me.’

  ‘What about her hands?’

  ‘The colour. If Dulux were to put them on one o’ them paint charts they’d call it “Scrubbed Pink”.’

  Back in the car.

  ‘Do you want me to order a patrol car to park here for a few days, give the bastard a shock?’ Daryl asks as he clicks his seatbelt in place.

  ‘Don’t tempt me.’

  ‘Do you think the woman’s our man, so to speak?’

  ‘Mmmm.’ I was thinking about her hands.

  ‘What do you think that stuff about the hands means?’

  ‘A woman whose hands are scrubbed pink? Someone who works as a cleaner?’

  ‘She should wear gloves,’ Daryl grins. ‘I mean, look at mine.’ He holds his hands out for my perusal. I laugh. The back of every finger sports a tuft of dark hair and each one of his fingers is as thick as my thumb. ‘Never do the dishes without me Marigolds.’

  I haven’t been down to Ayrshire for years. Tend to avoid it. Stopped by memories of summer holidays where it was either raining or about to. The nuns subscribed wholeheartedly to the view that you had to visit the coast during the summer months. You had to swim in the sea regardless of the temperature. A summer thunderstorm was good reason not to swim in the sea. A summer hailstorm was not. And when it was sunny, you had to strip to your swimming costume all day and not cry in the evening when they burst the sunburn blisters on your shoulders. There was no factor-30 sun protection in those days. The adults used cooking oil and iodine. We kids had to rely on our own meagre natural defences.

  Grey skies, grey seas and green plastic shoes make up most of my childhood summer memories. The shoes had a grid on the front of them that over the summer left a nice chessboard effect on your feet. Weather-beaten and white. That, and calluses on your heels.

  ‘A penny for your thoughts, Ray,’ says Allessandra Rossi.

  ‘Take more than a penny, nosy.’ Didn’t take long for her to come out of her shell.

  She grins and then her expression grows serious, ‘What do you make of Connelly’s sister?’

  ‘She’s a cold fish. But what do you expect; having to live with Old Meldrew can’t have been a picnic. Some of that misery was bound to rub off. But I don’t think she had a part to play in the murder if that’s why you are asking.’

  ‘Just wondered what kind of approach you’re going to take.’

  Mental note to me: although Allessandra is sharp as a blade she is relatively new to the job.

  ‘What kind of approach would you take, if I wasn’t there?’

  ‘Display empathy and understanding,’ she answered without pausing to think, ‘…and then we grill her till her teeth rattle in her gums.’

  ‘You had me there,’ I smile, ‘Right up to the rattle.’ I turn my head to the right and watch the Fenwick Hotel slide past. ‘Good answer though. Empathy, not sympathy. We have a case to solve. The outcome of which may depend on the information in that head of hers.

  ‘Too nicey-nicey and all we’ll get out of her will be tears and snot.’

  We’re now approaching the town centre of Ayr. Lots of cars about. We’d be quicker walking. A huge poster catches my eye. A carnival mask with only one eye socket filled. We’re past before I can read the slogan. Traffic lights. Traffic lights. More traffic lights, then I follow the one-way system down towards the beachfront. To the right of the County Buildings, I was told. They loom before me. Imposing. The sheriff court is sited here, the building designed to serve as a reminder to those on trial that the weight of society is against them, if they are guilty. There is a disabled ramp at the side of the main entrance. If the building represents society, what does the ramp represent?

  Our goal is the imaginatively titled guest-house, Seaview. We pass it twice before we find a parking space. “Our Agnes’ house in Ayr” is a fairly substantial Bed & Breakfast. A white face appears from behind a net curtain, then at the door.

  ‘You’d better
come in. Before you frighten the neighbours,’ Irene Connelly says.

  ‘Good afternoon, Miss Connelly.’ I go for the charm offensive.

  ‘It was until you guys turned up.’ Maybe I’ll let Allessandra lead on this one. Miss Connelly is looking at me like I have some dreaded contagious disease. I stand aside and let Allessandra enter the house first. As she passes I give her a look and nod at the object of our visit. She inclines her head slightly; she knows I want her to do most of the talking. I’m impressed. This girl is a quick study. Her old man had an excellent reputation. Some of it must have rubbed off.

  We’re shown into what the wooden door plaque tells us is The Lounge. A bookcase filled with Wilbur Smith and Danielle Steel books blocks one corner, a TV and DVD player the other. Two sofas and two armchairs are arranged around the room. Large bay windows look out on to the houses opposite. Absently, I wonder where the sea view is.

  Allessandra is talking. Sounds like she’s been doing this for years, instead of months.

  ‘How are you keeping, Miss Connelly? Getting over the shock?’

  She is twisting a white handkerchief in her hands, ‘I’ll never get over that shock till the day I die, dear.’

  ‘Is your cousin Agnes taking good care of you?’

  ‘Aye, dear. She’s a good soul that one.’

  At this the door opens and a short, slim woman with long black hair enters the room.

  ‘Can I get you officers a tea or a coffee?’ She smiles and loses about five years of my initial estimate of her age. I’d put her at 45-ish. Her hair hangs below ample breasts that push at a rose-patterned fabric. Her trousers are black and expensive. Our Agnes is doing well for herself. A smile hangs on her face like a garland, like she still believes in the tooth fairy. I warm to her immediately. Steady on, McBain, I tell myself. You don’t hit on a relation to a major witness to a murder. Or to put it the way my old sergeant, Bill Thomson used to, you don’t piss in your own tent.

  Allessandra and I give her our drink orders. Irene Connelly scowls at her cousin, as if annoyed that this might postpone our departure. The drinks arrive within seconds. They’d obviously been part prepared before the question was asked. Was this Agnes’ way of being included in the conversation? What would she have to offer by way of evidence?

  As she hands out the drinks, a steady flow of conversation passes her well-sculpted lips. Conversation of inconsequence that her B&B punters would lap up, would feel at home with.

  ‘Have you ever spent much time in Ayr?’ She is speaking to me.

  ‘Oh, eh, yes.’ The top button is loose on her blouse. ‘Sorry, no…’ but I can’t see anything, ‘I used to come down to Ayrshire for holidays when I was wee. Doon the watter and all that.’ I grin and adopt a broad Glasgow accent, ‘Doon to Err fur the ferr.’

  She laughs, ‘People that come down to Ayr for the Fair fortnight are my bread and butter. God bless them.’

  Allessandra looks at me. Get your brain out of your pants, is what she’s saying. ‘What can you tell us about Paddy, Miss Connelly?’ she asks.

  ‘I already told your man there everything,’ she nods over at me.

  ‘You have no idea who might want to kill Paddy?’

  ‘Do you people not talk to one another?’ She manages to catch us both in her glare. ‘I’ve nothing more to tell you. He was a miserable so-and-so, but he didn’t deserve that.’ Miss Connelly is sitting forward in her chair, legs crossed, arms crossed, with a bony forearm resting on her knee.

  Allessandra clasps her hands in front of her and leans forward. ‘It was a truly terrible thing that happened to your brother.’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘And for you to be the one to find him like that…’

  ‘Aye,’ Miss Connelly and Allessandra are nodding in time with one another.

  The older woman’s eyes glaze with fatigue. A liver-spotted hand moves towards her face, and with her thumb and forefinger she pinches the corners of her eyes.

  ‘He wasn’t the most sociable kind of guy, you know? He liked to be left to himself. A read of the papers in the morning, the afternoon in the bookie’s and a couple of pints in Harry’s Bar in the evening. Every other day he went to the bowling club. For a wee change.’ She sips at her cup, as if her mouth is too dry. ‘That was his sorry existence, in just a few lines. Sad isn’t it? Nothing that qualifies for the sort of attention he received.’

  ‘He worked hard over the years didn’t he?’ Allessandra’s voice is soft. Irene nods in agreement. Pleased to acknowledge something worthy of note in the man she called ‘brother’.

  ‘What was he? A caretaker? Janitor kind of guy?’

  ‘Aye.’ She softens in her chair.

  ‘In children’s homes?’

  ‘What are you insinuating?’ She is wound tight again. Eyes like pebbles. Why did she react so quickly to what was phrased like an innocuous question? Allessandra has struck a seam of oil. Time for me to get involved.

  ‘Allessandra isn’t insinuating anything. Merely asking a question. According to our research your brother moved about job-wise. We would like to know why.’

  A shadow moves across her eyes. Her throat dilates as if holding back the words she really wants to use.

  ‘What can I say? He was easily bored.’

  ‘Or, he had an even more compelling reason to move on,’ I ask.

  Agnes, eyebrows raised in warning asks, ‘Can I pour you more tea?’

  ‘Sorry, eh, no thanks,’ I wonder at Agnes’ reaction, mentally review my question and realise the tone may have been a bit strong.

  Just then, we hear the front door slam and the quick footsteps of children, before the lounge door is flung open and a family walks in. Two small boys dive towards the TV, while Mum and Dad notice the four of us in the room.

  ‘Sorry, we…’ the woman begins to speak.

  ‘It’s okay, love,’ Agnes stands up and smiles. Then she turns to us. ‘Why don’t we all go through to the kitchen? There’s plenty of room there.’

  As we walk through, I hear Agnes ask the couple if she can get them anything.

  They politely decline and apologise for interrupting. The boys have a more honest reaction to the mores of society and the music of a Disney movie follows us out into the hall.

  The kitchen is huge. A black range hugs the far wall and a long, wooden table takes pride of place in the middle of the floor. I would take bets that a lot of family crises have been sorted across the scrubbed varnish of that table.

  I walk over to the shelf at shoulder-height above the range. A pipe I’m sure I’ve seen before rests on it. I pick it up.

  ‘That’s Patrick’s,’ says Miss Connelly. ‘Found that in my pocket when I arrived here. Don’t know how it got there.’ I remember the bedroom and her holding it in her hands. I run my fingers along its stem and feel the weight of the bowl at the end. This belonged to a man who has just suffered a horrible death. I looked at it resting in my hand as if it might provide some answers.

  ‘He loved that pipe,’ Miss Connelly whispers. ‘It was like his best pal. Never answered back. Didn’t let him down. All it needed was a wee bit of tobacco and the heat of a flame. Better than a marriage.’ She reached up and wiped a tear off her cheek with the back of her hand as if it was a bug.

  Chapter 8

  The late autumn air has bite in it. Allessandra crosses her arms and holds her jacket against her chest, searching for some warmth. She and I lean against the bonnet of my car. I am still eating a bag of chips. Allessandra sent her scrunched up newspaper sailing into the big black bin provided by the local council for the chip-munchers who come from all around to eat deep-fried potato slices by the sea.

  ‘I like a woman that enjoys her chuck. Can’t be arsed with people going on diets all the time,’ I say.

  There is clearly nothing that Allessandra can think of as a retort, so she remains silent. I finish off my chips with a smack of my lips and move towards the bin. As I near it I pause and look at a white seagull fea
ther at my feet. I shudder and kick it.

  Allessandra looks at me with a quizzical expression.

  ‘Seagulls.’ I shudder again, searching for an explanation of my behaviour. Bird feathers have always bothered me and I’ve never been able to understand why. ‘Horrible creatures. White rats with wings.’

  We are facing a sea wall and a line of sand that stretches either side of us for what seems at least a mile in either direction. More than a few people are dotted about on its length, throwing sticks to a breeder’s catalogue of dogs.

  The sky is a cloudless palette of silver. The sea sliding lazily on to the beach. The Isle of Arran lines the horizon looking close enough to reach with a bracing swim.

  ‘This is the life, eh, boss?’ It had been Allessandra’s idea to get a bag of chips and eat them by the sea. Can’t come down to Ayr and not eat chips by the sea, was her argument.

  ‘Aye, some poor bastard gets cut up and we get a wee trip down to the seaside.’

  ‘Sorry sir, I’m just…’

  ‘Just trying to remind me that life is not all corpses and grieving relatives.’ I throw the car keys to Allessandra. ‘You drive, will you? I’ve got some thinking to do.’

  As Allessandra aims the car in the direction of Glasgow and as the miles flick past I replay the interview over and over in my head. Hadn’t Allessandra done well? Asked some strong questions. Listened to the answers carefully. Not bad for a newbie. One thing was clear however, the meeting was effectively over as soon as they entered that kitchen. Whatever momentum they had built up was dissipated by the physical act of changing rooms.

  Irene Connelly refused to say any more. Too tired, she said. I slipped a business card towards her across the table and asked her to call anytime, day or night.

  ‘The old dear was close to cracking.’ Now they were outside the urban sprawl of Glasgow, Allessandra obviously felt it was safe enough to begin a conversation again.

  ‘Mmm.’

  ‘She was hiding something. Something important.’

  ‘I’ll have to go back down and see Cousin Agnes some time.’ I think out loud.