‘What’s Roberto up to these days?’ Peters asks.
‘His knees. In rich clients.’
‘My wife is bored with me,’ Peters ignores the umbrella that Allessandra threw into his drink. ‘Says I am so dependable Switzerland could run its trains by my internal clock.’
‘Dependable must be an asset in this job,’ says Allessandra hoping that this isn’t a precursor to a lame chat-up line.
‘Mmm. But there’s more to life than this job, Allessandra. And don’t you let anyone tell you differently. Just look at McBain.’
‘Och, he’s just going through a bad patch.’
‘A bad patch? Is that what you call throwing yourself at suspects and half-throttling them?’
‘He did what? When?’
‘Just the other day. The Connelly case. A young guy, Crichton. McBain went mental. I had to pull him off the lad.’
‘Je-sus.’ Allessandra considers her recent experiences with the man. His recent drunkenness, the scene at the convent with the Mother Superior, telling her to keep her mouth shut in the café. And that thing with the feathers. What was that?
Peters reads her discomfort. ‘Everything okay, Allessandra?’
‘Aye…’ Something niggles about that visit Allessandra has yet to articulate. Peters senses her slight withdrawal from the conversation.
‘Listen,’ he says, ‘If you don’t want to say anything, I’ll understand. Ray McBain can be quite an impressive man.’
Allessandra bristles. ‘There’s nothing like that…’
‘Sorry, that’s not what I meant…’
‘There’s… no… that interview at the convent went okay.’ Actually it didn’t, and it just occurs to Allessandra why. McBain is a big man. In fact he dwarfed the tiny nun, yet he appeared frightened of her. Just what was going on in that man’s head?
Chapter 15
Fragments of the night before pierce the pain in my head. I’m at the kitchen table, wearing a dressing gown and clutching a cup of coffee like it’s a wonder of modern medicine. My legs are aching. It feels as if somebody gave me a kicking last night. But hey. Result. No dreams.
I can remember the taxi. The driver’s face is a blur. The crumpled up newspaper on the kitchen floor testifies to the supper I had. The swamp of regurgitated food on the carpet at the foot of the bed tells me what happened to it.
I must have fallen asleep as soon as my head sunk into the pillow. Then I woke up, God knows when. Two things struck me at the same time. I was going to be sick and I was completely disorientated. Where the fuck had the door gone? I groped my way along the wall. Too late.
The smell was horrific. I would have to get a new carpet. That would never come out. I should have cleaned it up at the time. But I just lay back down on the bed, curled up and fell fast asleep again.
Shit. And I brought a woman home. She'd been waiting for a taxi. We shared. She fell for my version of charm. The rest, as they say, is my sordid history. Mind you she didn’t stay long. Just long enough to put me to bed. I can’t remember what she looked like, can't remember her name. Can’t remember a thing about her.
My head is so sore, I can barely move it. Instead I put my hands on either side of my face and move them. Doesn’t make it any better really, but I’ll pretend it helps.
Oh no. Rossi and Peters. I met them last night. Shit. It will be all around the cop shop. Unless they don’t want to attract attention to themselves. Although Peters is a more senior officer, he’s not her boss, so it shouldn’t have any ramifications.
And I have a horrible feeling I phoned Theresa last night. That would mean I’d broken the golden rule. She’d made me promise from the very beginning that I don’t phone her. She would phone me if and when she wanted to see me. It suited me just fine. Until now.
As the alcohol kept out what the nuns might have called “dark thoughts”, it replaced them with thoughts of Theresa.
I can’t remember what I said, or who I spoke to. Shit.
And Allessandra Rossi. What was all that about? What does she see in Peters? She doesn’t strike me as the type to go for the older man. He’d be delighted if everyone knew about it. Recently divorced, an attractive young woman interested in him. The fucker will be really pleased with himself. We can only hope she’s just using him.
The boss calls me into his office. I fall into a chair. He looks like he’s ready for a police promotional photo-shoot: like he’s already been airbrushed for the occasion.
‘You look like shit, Ray.’ One trimmed eyebrow is higher than the other.
‘Yeah. Couldn’t sleep last night,’ I mumble. He leans towards me, grimaces and sits back in his chair.
‘And you stink of booze.’
Memo to me. Don’t drink when you’re working the next day. Nausea swirls in my stomach and flows up my throat. Another memo to me. Don’t fucking drink ever again.
‘Sorry, sir. Won’t happen again.’
‘So. What developments have we got then?’ he asks. I want to laugh at his use of the royal “we”, but my head is too sore.
‘It’s a struggle to find a strong enough connection with the deceased and any of the suspects.’
‘What about this chap in Aberdeen?’
‘Yes.’ I pretend to think, it hurts my head too much to actually do it. ‘He’s a possibility. There’s definitely something wrong there.’
‘Ray!’ he claps his hands. ‘Get with it. We’ve a murderer to catch. You can suffer a hangover in your own time. Don’t bring it into work with you.’
Bastard.
I walk along the corridor towards my office. Is it just my imagination or are people staring at me? They’ll be delighted. Ray McBain, wonder-boy, has slipped from his pedestal. Why were you so stupid? I berate myself. Fuckwit.
‘Sir.’ It’s Allessandra Rossi. She’s actually pulling at my sleeve. I stop and turn to her. Slowly.
‘Yes, Allessandra.’ I half-expect Peters to be with her, but he’s nowhere to be seen.
‘There’s a name on the Bethlehem House list.’ She steps back from me. Presumably the smell of booze and vomit is too much for her of a morning. ‘I think it might be quite interesting. Carole Devlin.’
A face flips forward from my memory-bank. Black NHS spectacles and brown, stringy hair. She was a good bit older than me and a Donny Osmond freak. Used to scream, actually scream, when he was on the TV. On one occasion she pretended to faint.
Allessandra is still talking. ‘We’ve been going on the assumption that it’s a man. What if the “woman” seen with the deceased actually was a woman?’
‘Then she’d need to be built like the proverbial brick shit-house to subdue and kill our guy.’
‘S’possible.’ She inclines her head to the side.
‘True. We should never discount anything.’ Right, McBain. Police work. But my head is so sore. ‘What’s come up on the system?’
‘Serious Assault, sir. And get this. The victim was a man.’
‘Was it a domestic?’
‘Well… yes. They weren’t married. Just living together. She claimed it was self-defence.’
‘Anything else on her record.’
‘No…’ she pauses in thought. Her head to the side again. ‘DD was the arresting officer. We can ask him if he remembers her.’
On cue, Daryl Drain stalks across the corridor to the toilets. He turns and faces us. Senses our attention.
‘What?’ he asks.
‘Carole Devlin?’ says Allessandra.
‘Who?’
‘Carole Devlin.’
‘Assault?’ asks Drain.
‘Yes.’
‘What can you tell us about her?’ I join in the less than elaborate discourse.
‘Nutter… Look guys, can I go for a piss first?’
‘What do you mean “nutter”?’ I ask. I realise through the fog of exhaustion and pain that I could have some fun here.
‘Just that. Something not quite right.’
‘What do you re
member about the case?’
He’s all but holding his groin in his need to go to the toilet. ‘I… can this wait for two seconds?’
‘Was it a domestic?’ asks Allessandra realising where I’m going with this.
‘Read the report, for chrissake.’
‘Was it a domestic, Daryl?’ I ask.
His body is facing the toilet door, straining towards the urinals. Only his face is pointed in our direction. ‘Yes.’
‘Were they married?’ We edge closer to him.
‘No… look… give us a…’ He looks like he’s going to start hopping from one leg to the other.
‘They were living together then?’
‘Aye.’ The fingers of his left hand are wrapped round the door handle, those of his right are travelling towards his zipper.
‘What damage was done to the victim?’ I ask.
‘He was in a bad way… look can this not wait for two minutes?’ His eyes are watering.
‘How bad was he?’ Allessandra asks. I’m struggling to keep my face straight. Allessandra on the other hand looks like she would be a great poker player.
‘She battered him with a…’ he stops. ‘You bastards.’ Ignoring our laughter, he pulls open the door and all but runs towards the urinals.
‘That was funny.’ I chuckle. And groan. Laughter makes the pain in my head throb at an even greater intensity. Allessandra is leaning one hand against the wall.
‘Did you see the look in his…’ fresh laughter peals from her lips. ‘That was brilliant.’
Heads pop out of various rooms along the corridor as people wonder at the hilarity. Seeing only Allessandra and me, they all close their doors.
By the time we recover Drain is back.
‘Very funny.’
‘Prostate problems?’ asks Allessandra.
‘I’m not that old.’ He looks at me as if for the first time. ‘Jesus, Ray. You look like shit. If I didn’t know you better I’d think you were on the sauce last night.’ He leans towards me and sniffs. His eyebrows jump three inches higher. ‘You were…’
‘Can we get back to work now?’ I’ve had enough camaraderie for the moment.
What can I say? Touchy subject. I walk into the office, followed by the two of them. I fill a glass with water from the cooler.
‘Devlin?’ I face Drain.
‘Yeah. I remember it quite well. Any women I’ve come across in that situation have tended to act in the heat of the moment. But she waited until the poor bastard was relaxing in the bath before she went at him with one of his steel, toe-capped boots.’
The classic equalizer. Wait until the larger individual was in a more vulnerable position and then strike.
Chapter 16
To be on the safe side, Rossi is driving. I’m probably still well over the alcohol limit. She takes a corner too neatly. My brain swims within my skull. Much more of this and I’ll be sick.
‘What’s the fucking rush?’ I ask.
She shoots a glance at me, ‘Sorry, sir. I forgot you were feeling… fragile this morning.’
‘Touch of the flu.’ I examine the other cars in the traffic as the obvious lie stumbles from my mouth.
‘Right.’ In a disbelieving tone.
We’re on the M8 headed towards the east of the city. Impressive buildings line our route. Here and there cranes stretch their frames into the sky. Glasgow is a “happening” city, I read daily in the papers. One of the top shopping destinations in the UK. Oh happy day. Used to be the Second City of the British Empire. Examine how our priorities have changed.
I look beyond the buildings towards the sky. Nature is reminding us that whatever we come up with, she can trump it with a simple light show. The sky is a bright, light blue. For once the clouds are sparse. Those that do appear in the sky are in the formation of a shoal of fish. Their underbellies are aflame from the rays of the sun, as it begins its journey for the day.
I think about Theresa. She hasn’t called for a few days. I surprise myself, find that I miss her. I think about her smiling. One eyebrow is raised. Her lips are plump. Ripe. Opened in laughter. Her issues are so… normal. Whether or not to go out and work? Whether to wait for the sales or buy that coat now. Whether to cheat on her husband that night?
Her arm is across my shoulders. I can feel her lips pressed against my cheeks, her breath damp on my skin, like a prelude to the connection. But there’s a shadow behind her. The shape shifts in a slight breeze. Reforms and shifts again. I can see the outline of a head and shoulders. Wide shoulders. The arms that hang off them taper down to the full stop of clenched fists.
‘Do you want to go for a bottle of Irn Bru?’ asks Rossi.
‘What for?’ I’m dazed by the dream. And a little disturbed. Was it a warning about Theresa’s husband, or am I just seriously fucked up? ‘Irn Bru?’ I try to enter the conversation with Allessandra.
‘Best flu cure known to man.’ She examines me. ‘You all right?’
‘How does it work for a hangover?’ I ignore her question. She’s a bright girl; I better get my act together. Don’t want her asking too many questions.
Teeth coated in sugar, stomach filled with gas, I knock on Carole Devlin’s door.
The neighbourhood looks like it’s never seen any good days. The only cars on the street look like they are held together with rust. Some of the windows are boarded up. A couple of residents have defied the collective state of mind and worked on their gardens. Everywhere else grass and weeds flourish.
If the path to her door had any more cracks on it, it could be described as crazy paving. The door opens. A round face appears. Her cheeks are pockmarked. I pulled a dead body from the Clyde once. Its face had more colour than hers. Carole’s hair is brown and lifeless, hanging round her ears like a proclamation of her lack of care. She is wearing a baggy black T-shirt and a pair of black leggings. We introduce ourselves. She turns and walks into her house without a word.
Her living room comes as a surprise. The furniture looks fairly new and the table pushed against the wall reflects enough to base a close shave on. A door at the end of the room leads into a kitchen. It is open, I can see a half-built cupboard. Arranged on the floor is an array of tools.
She reaches a leg behind her on to an armchair and drops on top of it. Once seated she pulls her T-shirt over her outstretched knee with strangely pink hands and looks at us. Challenges us.
‘What do you want?’
I had taken a calculated gamble coming here. If memory serves me well, Carole is at least five years older than me. Chances are I hadn’t even registered on her childhood radar. Her eyes skim past my face and move to Allessandra. Good, she doesn’t know me. But I remember her well.
The attraction was purely linguistic. She could speak French. I wanted to learn. A Spanish boy and his pretty sister were attending our school temporarily. They were exotic to a ten-year-old and French was close enough. The nuns were horrified. Carole Devlin was a bad influence on a young boy like me, they said. She’ll lead you right to the gates of Hell, they said. I ignored what they said in the interests of international relations.
‘DI McBain and DC Rossi. We just want to ask you a few questions about Paddy Connelly,’ I say.
‘Who?’ Her eyes flicker behind the lens of her thick glasses.
‘He was a caretaker at Bethlehem House.’
‘Never heard of him.’ She frees her foot from her perch, then crosses her legs and her arms.
‘He was murdered a few weeks ago.’
‘Shame.’ She would have shown more emotion if I told her the dry weather wasn’t going to last.
I turn my head to the kitchen. ‘Doing a wee bit of DIY?’
‘Who needs a man when you know the business end of a screwdriver?’ She aims her humourless smile at Allessandra.
‘You’re better than me.’ I go for the nice cop routine. ‘I’d rather get someone in to do it for me. I’m hopeless.’
She just looks at me. Like I’m completely without wo
rth. I feel uncomfortable under her gaze and I’m lost for an explanation. Usually an interviewee displays some kind of emotion. It can range across the spectrum from admiration to hate, mild irritation to fury. But her eyes reveal nothing. Only her movements prove a person inhabits the shell.
‘So you have no recollection of Paddy Connelly?’ I fill in the silence.
‘No.’
‘How was your time at Bethlehem House?’ asks Rossi.
‘Oh you know. Great. All that was missing was the balloons.’
‘Eh?’
‘It was like living in a 24-hour party. Just fucking lovely. A pile of balloons would have just made it perfect.’
‘There’s no need for sarcasm,’ says Rossi.
Devlin squeezes up the sides of her mouth in a formation loosely based on a smile. Her expression reads more eloquently than the spoken word would have. Ask a stupid question.
‘So, it wasn’t very nice, I guess,’ I say.
‘No.’
‘Paddy Connelly was a caretaker in the home while you were there. You say you can’t remember him.’
‘You callin’ me a liar?’
Allessandra butts in, ‘Do you live here on your own?’
‘Mostly.’
‘Who stays with you?’
‘Why you askin’ that?’
‘Answer the question, please.’
‘Go look it up in the voters’ roll.’ She looks around herself at the photos that sit on every available surface. A boy in various stages of his life smiles out at us. There are two women in some of the photos, Carole and another woman. She is thinner than Carole. Her cheeks are sunken almost to the extent of being able to count teeth through the impressions they make on her paper-thin skin. Her eyes are dark and anxious and at odds with the beginning of the curl of a smile below them. It looks like clever camera work, putting the mouth and eyes of two different people together. She appears in most of the boy’s younger photos.
‘Good looking lad,’ I say.
‘Yes.’ Usually when you compliment the offspring of even the most taciturn individuals they respond. Not Carole. Not even a flicker.
Blood Tears Page 10
