Still Midnight

by Denise Mina

  ‘You just starting again?’ The old man’s voice was low and rough, his nose a blistered mess of skin, but he stood upright.

  ‘No.’ Pat looked down at his packet and pulled out the silver foil, crumpling it into his palm and pulling a cigarette out. ‘Just . . . sometimes. When I’m stressed. Have ye a light, faither?’

  The old man reached into his pocket and brought out a dun tin lighter, flicked the wheel and held the flame to the tip.

  Pat puffed, superficially, not really inhaling but getting a wild buzz off it none the less. He felt dizzy and reached back to steady himself against the building, smiling when the stone hit his palm. She was in there, on the other side of this wall, and he was touching it.

  ‘Well, son, ye look pretty happy for someone under stress. Are ye visiting?’

  ‘Aye, but she’s getting out.’

  ‘Oh, lucky, aye.’ The man looked away. ‘You’re lucky.’

  He wanted to be asked about the person he was visiting, a wife or a son maybe, but Pat didn’t want to talk. He opened his paper and pretended to read the front page, leaning his back on the wall, feeling cold from the smooth stone chill at his back. He forgot to smoke his cigarette. He let it burn out in his fingers as he looked at the picture and thought of her upstairs and him down here, just about to visit her with yet more flowers, with women’s magazines and sweeties.

  And she would sit up in the bed when she saw him walking towards her, and her face would open towards him and her hands would slide from the blanket over her knees to her sides, and he would walk, faster and faster, until he was inches from her face and he would hold her face in his big warm hands and he would kiss her.

  It was counter-intuitive to trust Kevin Niven. He had greasy hair, wore trackies, had the bad skin and vague speech patterns of a junkie. In fact he was a decorated officer with years of undercover experience. He sat alone in the canteen though, nibbling a poor homemade sandwich, looking shifty and attracting sidelong looks from the officers who didn’t know him.

  Morrow could imagine how uncomfortable he made them, like someone dressed in a Nazi uniform hanging about a synagogue: you might know he was dressed like that for some higher purpose but in absent-minded moments you’d still feel the urge to punch him.

  ‘That’s, like, no easy, like, to say . . .’ He trailed off, head jerking to the side. ‘Know?’

  One question in, he already had Bannerman’s hackles up. ‘Where could we find out?’

  ‘Dunno . . .’ He seemed to suddenly absorb the information. ‘That’s not that usual, though, eh?’

  ‘What isn’t?’

  ‘Someone with a supply or bulk-buying and moderating it, know? Using like a medicine.’

  ‘What would normally happen if someone had a supply?’

  He opened his arms wide and grinned. ‘Gorge.’

  Morrow laughed but Bannerman was staring at him intently. ‘Can you think of another reason for this then, this chemical profile of the residue?’

  Niven looked at the lab report, considered it, tipped his head one way at one possibility, the other way at another. ‘Here.’ He drew a meaningless mind map on the table, tapping with four fingers to the left. ‘New supply from someone with a lot of milk powder.’ His hand traced a long line. ‘Pattern emerges later.’

  Morrow smiled, getting it, but Bannerman looked angrily at the table.

  ‘Here . . .’ Kevin tapped another portion of the table. ‘One off, bad mixing, milk powder clustered in one part of a mix.’

  ‘Hm.’ Morrow was disappointed. ‘So it could mean nothing?’

  ‘Or,’ Kevin opened his eyes wide, ‘holiday supply, bought elsewhere, used here.’

  Morrow nodded. ‘In short, fuck all use then?’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘Means nothing?’

  ‘Nah, s’not evidence. Well, he mibbi knows someone, early stages. When ye find him he’ll mibbi be someone’s pal.’

  ‘Part of a crew?’

  ‘Nah. Unreliable.’

  ‘So we can only use the connection for confirmation?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  Bannerman looked sadly at the table.

  Kevin sucked his teeth noisily. ‘Check for prints, but?’

  ‘On the foil?’ Bannerman looked up. ‘Don’t know.’

  ‘’Cause, know how ye go straight to one bit of the lab for residue, eh? Don’t want to dust for prints in case they mess that up, understandable but see they check inside for prints, eh?’

  ‘Right?’

  ‘Oh aye,’ said Kevin, looking at his empty hands, turning an invisible bit of foil around and around. ‘’Cause if there’s prints they’ll be good ones, man.’ He looked up and smiled. ‘They’ll be fuck-off good y’uns.’

  26

  University Avenue felt like part of a different city. The buildings were pretty architectural statements. The gothic main building with its high tower and quadrangles, the circular Reading Room, the new medical building. The students were well fed, tanned and tall, wearing clothes that were cleaner and better fitting than most of the people Morrow came into contact with.

  As they locked up the car on the steep approach to the university gates Morrow overheard a girl who looked all of seventeen tell another that it was just impossible to get a parking space around here. These people weren’t just better than the population they nicked, they were better than them: better starts in life, better homes, knew better people.

  Morrow had brought Gobby with her, just for peace, but was regretting it already. He was so quiet it was creepy, as if he’d been jinxed. His defensive swagger was exaggerated, his expression sullen and intimidated by the strange poshness of the university students. Alex wasn’t bothered; she spent her childhood being banned from friends’ houses. Single parent families were frowned upon then, her mother was half mad with depression and the reputation of a connection to the McGraths never left her. She grew up knowing that everyone was better than her.

  They got to the gate house and walked in, passing the porter’s box, entering the uni grounds. The Law School was separate from the main building, around the side to the right, across a grassy square. A long terrace of thin town houses, high narrow windows and small black front doors emphasised the stern look of the place. The houses must have been university accommodation at one time: a blue plaque on a wall notified disinterested passersby about a long-dead famous resident.

  The main entrance to Law was through one of the small front doors. They followed the numbers down and took the steps. The hallway was inauspicious. Electric blue carpet, blue wood-chip walls and white paint on the woodwork. Cork notice boards with bits of paper pinned to them, the same notice on all of them warning all students to check their email regularly. Morrow wasn’t the only idiot, it seemed. The town houses were joined together through passages punched into the adjoining walls.

  The hour must be turning: from the stairs and the door behind them students began to filter into the building.

  On the right-hand side, just inside the front door, a glass cubicle was marked ‘Enquiries’ and a man in a blue shirt looked out at them expectantly.

  ‘Hello, we’re looking for the tutor of one of your students,’ said Morrow amiably.

  ‘And who might that be, young lady?’ His eyes twinkled playfully, as if Morrow was in on the joke and knew she was neither a lady nor young.

  ‘Omar Anwar.’ She sounded cold. ‘Graduated last June.’

  The security guard took a deep breath, ready to reciprocate the rebuff. She pulled out her warrant card and slapped it on the window. He looked at it, nodding as he emptied his lungs, and turned back to the computer, asking her for spellings and telling her that Tormod MacLeòid was her man. He’d call up and see if he was in.

  Professor Tormod MacLeòid fancied the arse off himself. His office and personal appearance spoke of a man who lived for pretentious obfuscation and all things dusty. He kept them waiting for ten minutes in his secretary’s office and then came in, ordered the
secretary to bring him Omar’s student file before they began the interview. Once in his office he made them sit in a passive silence while he read the file. Happily it wasn’t more than five paragraphs long but it gave Morrow a chance to look around the office.

  Like the building itself the room was tall and narrow. Every bit of wall space was weighed down with books, most of which were old, battered and looked out of print. Layered in front of the books and on top of them were busts with missing noses, bits of stone and brick, mini reproduction Greek vases. On top of one of the shelves, rolled up into a cylinder, was a time-faded Fettes brown and pink tie. Morrow was sure that every single object had a story attached to it, and that every story would be long and ponderous.

  She had taken the single seat in front of his messy desk, leaving Gobby to sit on a chair near the door, perching in front of a precarious stack of essays, silently wringing his hands and contemplating the nuances of his discomfort.

  Finally the professor leaned back in his wooden throne, stroking his beard, adjusted his sports jacket and smiled a patronising yellow smile. ‘I do recall him, certainly, yes. Where was he from?’

  ‘Pollockshields,’ said Morrow.

  ‘Ah.’ His eyes widened at the implied correction. ‘Yes, the old colony of Pollockshields,’ he smirked. ‘Quite.’

  ‘He did honours in your class and got a first.’ Morrow thickened her scummy southsider accent to challenge his Fettes drawl. ‘So I kinda though you’d mibbi remember more about him than the shade of his tan.’

  Tormod’s face snapped into a mean squint. ‘I did not mention his skin colour.’

  She waited for a beat, letting him squirm. ‘What sort of student was he?’

  He cleared his throat testily and looked again at the file. ‘Very good, able, hard working.’

  ‘And your subject is . . . ?’

  He blinked long and hard. ‘Civil Law. Roman Law.’

  ‘Why would he study Roman Law?’

  Tormod drew a long breath, tipped his beard at them and launched into a stale speech he had given many times: ‘Civil Law is studied at honours level for one of two reasons. Either the student is hoping to become an advocate and, potentially, a judge, or else they have an abiding interest in the history of Law. It is, as it were, a more arts-based approach to the study of Law. Less black letter Law, more interpretative. In . . .’ he glanced at the file again, ‘Omar’s case, he wished to study with a view to advocacy. At least that was my understanding at the time of accepting him at the commencement of the course.’

  ‘And yet he decided not to go into practice. Not even to be a solicitor.’

  ‘Indeed.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘No idea. You’d have to ask him.’

  ‘Did you help organise any of the extra-curricular activities Omar was involved in?’

  He looked blank and glanced at his sheet for a prompt. ‘The mooting competition?’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘The mooting competition is just a debating society really, but with a legal emphasis. Role play.’ He sounded dismissive.

  ‘Omar was involved in that?’

  ‘Says so here.’

  ‘You’re not involved in it?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Do they get credits for it?’

  ‘Certainly not. Time consuming though.’

  ‘Suggests he was keen when he started the course, doesn’t it?’ She kept her face neutral but he heared the veiled reproach. Slowly his lip curled with disdain.

  Morrow stood up abruptly. ‘Thank you very much,’ and pulled her coat from the back of the chair. Gobby leapt to his feet.

  Tormod almost stood up to see them out but then thought better of it and sat down again. ‘I trust you can see yourselves out,’ he said briskly.

  Morrow pointed to the door Gobby was halfway through. ‘D’ye mean ye trust us to find the door here, in the wall?’

  He looked sulky and she realised he was just the sort to complain to someone senior at a golf club dinner, so she thanked him for his time and all the help he had been and then slammed the door behind her. If she had been an Asian kid studying under Tormod MacLeòid she’d have thought twice about going into practice too.

  Gobby was sweating as they walked down the stairs. The building was overheated and he didn’t feel comfortable enough to take his coat off. He couldn’t wait to get outside but Morrow stopped him at the bottom of the stairs. ‘No, wait.’ She was looking at a group of students gathering around the fourth year notice board. ‘Come on over here . . .’

  Gobby was almost moved to speak, but caught himself and followed her over. She picked the biggest, most confident-looking boy in the group and Gobby stood behind her, outside the cluster of students, sweating.

  The boy was tall and as healthy looking as any mother could wish, dressed in expensive casual clothes with brand names up and down the arms, a thick leather bag and sharp haircut.

  ‘Excuse me?’ He smiled at Morrow through perfect teeth. ‘I wonder if you could help me. We’re looking for someone who knows Omar Anwar, he graduated last June. He was involved in the mooting competition?’

  ‘Oh, yeah, yeah, Omar. Yeah, Omar, everyone knows Omar.’

  ‘Do you know him?’

  He frowned and touched his hair. ‘Yeah. Why?’

  ‘Are you involved in the mooting? What year are you?’

  ‘You’re the police, aren’t you?’

  ‘What are you, a fourth year?’ she said quietly. ‘We’re trying to find out who knows Omar.’

  ‘God, it was him. On the news, the kidnap? Did his wee sister get shot?’

  She dropped her eyes. ‘Look, could we go somewhere to talk?’

  ‘Sure, come on.’ He made sure she was following him as he walked off through a doorway to the next building. They took the stairs up to the second floor and he opened the door to a large room, flooded with light through two long windows. A coffee machine as tall as a man stood next to a small table with a bowl of loose change. By the wall a corridor of purple leather Chesterfield chairs sat looking at each other.

  ‘This used to be the smoking room,’ he said.

  In front of the windows a ten foot long mahogany table was strewn with notepads and stacks of law books on it. All of the seats were empty, bagsied with jumpers and jackets. The students were all missing.

  ‘Lecture?’ asked Morrow.

  ‘Lunch,’ he said, dumping his bag behind the door. He pointed at the coffee machine. ‘Drink?’

  Gobby shook his head and Morrow wrinkled her nose. ‘Got one of them at our work. Leaves your tongue all gritty.’

  ‘Shall we sit then?’ asked their host.

  Morrow took a Chesterfield and the boy sat opposite her. Gobby slid into a chair next to her, still keeping his coat on, self-consciously yanking the edges of it out around his belly as she took her notebook out.

  ‘OK, what’s your name?’

  ‘Lamont, James.’

  ‘Lamont, like the judge?’

  He tipped his head in embarrassment and looked away quickly. She smiled kindly at him. The two great sources of shame: privilege and penury.

  ‘So, you know Omar?’

  ‘Not a bad word to say about him. Brilliant bloke.’

  ‘Who does he hang about with?’

  ‘His best mate’s Mo. He did Science, physics or something. Graduated at the same time. Those guys hung about together all the time.’

  ‘No real friends in Law School?’

  ‘Loads, but you know, towards the end of your degree everyone’s thinking about the next step and Omar didn’t want to go into practice—’

  ‘Even though he got a first?’

  ‘It’s not for everyone.’

  ‘What did he want to do?’

  ‘He started a business, I think, went into business. You know, like his dad.’

  ‘His dad owns a corner shop.’

  He seemed surprised by that, and pleased as well, as if they had been a little
competitive with each other and this was a point in James’s favour. ‘Really? I thought he had a few shops, that’s what Omar said.’

  ‘Hm, no, just one shop.’

  ‘Still his dad must’ve done pretty well with it.’ She could see him struggle, overlaying his win with more noble thoughts. ‘He’d seen the two boys through private school, didn’t he?’

  ‘Not his sister?’

  James jerked his head sideways as if he’d just remembered. ‘Um, no. The sister went to Shawlands Academy.’

  ‘A comprehensive?’

  ‘Yeah, but I always thought that wasn’t about money. Omar thought it wasn’t about money.’

  ‘Was it because she was a girl?’

  He shrugged, blushing a little at his implied membership of the patriarchy. She liked him more and more. ‘I dunno, I think she was the brightest of them, Omar said, I never met her. Really sharp, he said. Said she was a bit wild. So wild he wouldn’t introduce her to any of us.’

  ‘Wild in what way? Bad boyfriends? Drinking?’

  ‘No, no, just . . . I dunno . . . I got the impression she was contrary. He expected her to run off on her sixteenth birthday “like a greased rat”, he said.’ James smiled at that. ‘I remembered because of the phrase.’

  She nodded, made a note to enquire at Shawlands about Aleesha. ‘Did Omar say his dad had a few shops?’

  ‘No. No, now that I think about it, he just seemed to have money. His business had been doing well. Had cash. He’s certainly got money now.’

  ‘What sort of business?’

  James looked as if he’d never really thought about it. ‘I don’t know, I don’t think he said.’

  She smiled warmly. ‘But he’s doing well?’

  He reciprocated the smile. ‘God yeah, he showed me a picture of this car he’s buying. A fucking Lamborghini.’

  ‘Right?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘It’s blue, isn’t it?’

  ‘Is it? I thought it was yellow.’ He glanced at Gobby. ‘Banana yellow, I think.’