In the Cage Where Your Saviours Hide

by Malcolm Mackay

  She scowled and said, ‘There is no inquiry to interfere with; they’ve given up on him. Not that they broke a sweat in the first place, because they don’t want to find the person who killed him.’

  Darian asked, ‘Why wouldn’t they?’

  Maeve looked across the room at him, Darian sitting behind his desk at the window. She appraised him in a heartbeat, a woman who always knew what her best chance looked like. He was seething, the kind of anger that would trick a smart person into making misjudgements. Darian wanted to do the right thing, to bring a morsel of justice to a city that wallowed in a lack of it. He was too good a man to avoid bad decisions. The fire of anger inside him had cooled, but he was still hot to the touch and Maeve Campbell touched him.

  He had taken the train up to Three O’clock Station in Whisper Hill that morning to tell the woman who had hired them to catch Lucas that her attacker was untouchable, thanks to the Challaid Police Force, a hellish conversation.

  It’s worth a detour to point out that the names of the station, the hill and that district of the city, the furthest north-easterly side of the loch, came from an old folk tale about Bodach Gaoith. It started as a story from the late seventeenth century, before it was updated in the nineteenth, fleshed out a little. That’s the version local kids get spoon-fed in primary school. The moral, they’re told, is that being adventurous is good and the elderly have great knowledge and much to offer. A better message might be to keep a closer eye on your children before they wander off and meet weird men up a hill.

  It’s also worth mentioning that the story first became popular when Scotland was trying to create its own little empire in Central America, and came back into fashion when we were thinking of war in the early twentieth as the three Caledonian countries were gaining independence. Through that prism the message that bold adventures are a good thing looks a little more cynical, doesn’t it?

  Maeve said, ‘My... ex, his name was Moses Guerra; he was involved in some things. He was a crook, that’s the truth of it, and his crookedness was probably what got him killed. He was the sort of criminal who made money for people who want the world to think they’re saintly, and that’s why the police don’t want to dig any deeper. The bones of credible people are down there, and they don’t want the scandal of finding them. They brought in the anti-corruption unit and they did a damn good job of shrinking the investigation until it was small enough to focus only on me.’

  Sholto was already shaking his hands in the air in front of him like a man in a foreign country who couldn’t verbalise his distress. ‘No. No, no, no. I’m sorry, but that’s not an investigation we can have any part in. That’s a case that only the police can handle, and any other research or investigative company will tell you the same. I’m sorry.’

  Maeve looked at him and then across at Darian, the target that mattered. ‘It was clear from the start they weren’t interested in catching the killer. A Detective Inspector Corey has been leading the investigation, and all I’ve had from him are sly hints that he thinks I was involved. That’s what he’s aiming for, to persuade the world that I was the main suspect but never actually arrest anyone. It keeps people’s eyes focused on me and off the truth.’

  ‘What did your boyfriend do?’

  ‘Ex-boyfriend. We had split up, although, I suppose, there was still a chance for us. Moses handled money, took in dirty cash and rehabilitated it. He was a sort of accountant, but not really, he wasn’t qualified, just talented, and he used qualified people to add legitimacy. He connected people in possession of money they shouldn’t have to people who’d take a small cut of it to make the rest look like it, always belonged to the original owner. He dealt with real accountants and businesses and banks. He was the point of contact for the people needing to use the service; they’d deliver to Moses and after a long journey of cleansing it would be filtered back to the original person by him. It was Moses who created the network in the first place, and it seemed to work. He met a lot of people that way, a lot of people who are more important than this city cares to admit.’

  She had turned in the chair to face Darian now, Sholto behind her still waving his hands as if semaphore was making a comeback. Darian said, ‘There are a lot of people fitting that description. Why does Corey think you might be responsible?’

  ‘He doesn’t. Moses and I had an argument, I hadn’t seen him in a couple of weeks, Corey has tried to make that tiff seem big enough to kill a man. I’m convenient, that’s all. My greatest crime was proximity to the victim. Corey doesn’t have to prove I’ve done anything wrong, he just has to persuade enough people with innuendo that I probably did so they have an excuse to stop looking elsewhere. I get to be the clichéd femme fatale so he can cover bigger beasts’ tracks.’

  Darian nodded, both to her and to Sholto behind her. ‘That’s a very serious accusation. I’m sorry, Miss Campbell, but a murder investigation really is a police matter and if we were to get involved we would be breaking the law ourselves. You can make an official complaint about the current investigation and try to force a change in the investigating team.’

  She had an angry smile now. ‘So you won’t help me? A man is murdered and nobody gives a shit about finding out who did it? My God, this is some city, it really is.’

  Maeve got up and walked quickly to the office door. She stopped as she opened it and looked back at them both, thinking of something clever and cutting to say, but the anger that filled her and Darian both, it smothered things like wit. She slammed the door behind her as a petulant alternative.

  Sholto started speaking as soon as the door stopped rattling. ‘Now you listen here, Darian Ross, please. You are not to go after her, you are not to get involved in anything, and I mean anything at all, that Folan Corey is at the heart of. That woman, she’s only going to lead you down the road to ruin.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘You know, yes, you do, but knowing is only half the battle. A young man, all hopped up on justice and anger and seeing a vixen with legs up to her arse and dark eyes that weepingly tell you she needs your help, you’re likely to make a poor choice. It was a long time ago, but I’ve been there before and the scene hasn’t changed a bit. That woman is grief in nice packaging, and you stay away.’

  Darian smiled and said, ‘I hear you, Sholto, don’t worry. I’ll stay away from her and I’ll stay away from Corey.’

  7

  A FEW HOURS later Darian went looking for Maeve because he wanted to get at Corey. He lied to Sholto about it, sure, but that was a frequent part of their working relationship and Sholto would have been disappointed in him if he hadn’t. They lied to each other because the truth was the sort of whiny goody two-shoes that got in the way of a useful arrangement. They were a generation apart but making money from working together, and whatever motivated one shouldn’t weigh overmuch on the conscience of the other. Darian lied about Maeve because lying was best for business. And let’s remember, when all this happened Darian was twenty-two, so while he may have been intelligent that didn’t mean he was at all wise.

  Finding out where a person lives isn’t hard; there are so many companies and local government agencies that hold people’s addresses and however much they say they’ll protect people’s privacy, their defences are only as good as the will of their lowest paid, most disgruntled employee. One call to a contact at the council and Darian had her details from the electoral register – Maeve Campbell, twenty-seven years old, living at 44 – 2 Sgàil Drive, Earmam, Challaid. Darian, thank goodness, had a knowledge of the city that would make a taxi driver’s jaw drop, every street and almost every building. A good memory and a nerdish dedication to studying the detail, that was why. He knew Earmam, the region on the east side of the loch full of low-cost housing, people packed upon people, and he knew Sgàil Drive, a street whose name had started as a joke among the builders putting up the flats there.

  He got off the bus at the corner and walked down to her building, three blocks of flats on each side of the r
oad, all in a cross shape that might have been part of the architect’s graveyard humour. Hers was on the left side of the road, directly under Dùil hill, too close to the incline to be able to see the standing stones, An Coimheadaiche, above. He went in through the red front door and up the cold staircase because the lifts had stopped trying. These were buildings thrown up in a hurry and on the cheap within living memory, using a slice of land that had previously been considered inappropriate for development and had since proven that initial judgement correct. He knocked on the door to number 44.

  Maeve opened it and looked at him, no surprise in her expression. She had known Darian would come trailing after her when she left that office, whatever he had said and no matter how long it took him to find her.

  She said, ‘Come in.’

  Her flat was much more a home that Darian’s. It was cared for, and there was the ticklish sweet scent from a candle. The living room and kitchen were the same room, a living area some lying estate agent would describe it as, and there were two couches that were different shapes but had similar blankets tucked carefully over them. There was a small bookcase with a TV on top of it and a vinyl record player that was supposed to look old but had a USB slot on the front of it sitting on the floor under the window, a row of albums lined up beside it. The light was on already.

  She said, ‘Excuse the darkness, the sun doesn’t climb the hill until late and then it comes all of a sudden before it runs away and disappears in the mid-afternoon. You get used to the dark, eventually. Can I get you a drink or something?’

  Darian said, ‘No, thanks. You know why I’m here.’

  Maeve smiled a little because her dimpled little smiles could go a long way. She was strikingly pretty and knew it. She had changed since she was at the office, now wearing black trousers and a grey jumper that seemed shapeless, but when she sat on one of the couches and crossed her legs it still sent a confident ripple round the room.

  Darian sat opposite her and said, ‘I need to know everything you do about what happened to Moses Guerra.’

  ‘Then I will tell you everything I know. He was stabbed outside his flat on Seachran Drive in Bakers Moor, chased from there to an alleyway between Somerset Street and Morti Road and killed. The police have found nobody they’re willing to call a real suspect and one they’ve decided to imply is a suspect because they’re lazy fucking liars. Moses helped people hide money, like I said at your office, so he spent time with plenty of law dodgers who had the ability to make a thing like this happen. He knew them and their secrets.’

  ‘Do you have anything that would prove the sort of work he did, who he was working with at the time he was killed?’

  ‘Come on, Detective...’

  ‘I’m not a detective, I’m a researcher.’

  ‘Fine. Come on, researcher, men like Moses don’t keep a paper trail for a jury to walk along, you should know that, whatever you say you do for a living. Once he’d read something that told him what he needed to know he would shred and chuck it. Only just stopped short of burning the shreds and eating the ashes. No phone messages, emails, anything of that sort about work, he was too paranoid about online security. You won’t find anything about his work which in itself should prove he was doing things worth hiding, but it’s why he was killed and it’s why the police did nothing. They’re protecting the people he worked for, and even if they weren’t, people with Moses’ reputation don’t get the same treatment. A second-generation Caledonian with his biography, there aren’t many who will pretend he mattered. Well, he mattered to me.’

  ‘In which case he matters to me.’

  Maeve looked at him sceptically. ‘I think you say things because you think you ought to, not because you mean them. It’s automatic, the way you say it.’

  ‘I mean it. Moses might have been a criminal, but nobody deserves to spend their last seconds in fear, lying in an alley, knowing they’re a breath away from the end. I’ll try to find out who did it, not just because you asked and because you’re paying me but because the person who did it shouldn’t be out there thinking they can do it again. Even in this city a dead man deserves at least a scrap of justice.’

  ‘Good.’

  That helped convince the employer of his commitment, always good to nail down early on, so Darian shuffled back to the awkward questions. ‘His personal life?’

  ‘He wasn’t on social media, didn’t send texts unless they were very ordinary things, and even then he shuddered when he sent them. He had a small group of friends and most of them were people who moved in the same narrow circles he did, so they’re not chatty sorts. The police have dug into it, I know they’ve tried to talk to anyone they thought would admit to being a friend of Moses, but they only got the minimum required by law in reply. Nobody wants to incriminate themselves, or others, which doesn’t leave them with much to say.’

  ‘What sort of person was he?’

  ‘Not the sort of person to jump into a hole without knowing there was an exit route at the bottom, or to pick a fight with anyone, not even one he could be a hundred per cent sure of winning. He was passive. We met at a party, we had mutual friends who introduced us, and I liked him. He didn’t ever wear a mask. All the actors you get in this city, trying to pretend they’re tougher than they are or smarter than they are or more dignified than they are. So full of shit. He was open.’

  ‘Were your mutual friends criminal types as well?’

  ‘I know a lot of people and some of them are on the shifty side of the tracks. If you know a lot of people in this city then you’ll have friends your minister wouldn’t love, but it doesn’t make you a bad person.’

  ‘How long were you and him together?’

  ‘Six, seven months. Long enough for it to matter.’

  ‘But you weren’t living together.’

  ‘Are you in a relationship?’

  ‘No, I’m not.’

  ‘I’m sure you’ve been in a relationship where having your own space was as important as sharing it with the other person. Just because you like being on top of someone doesn’t mean you want to live there. I liked him a lot, might even have loved him. I think I did, and I’m fairly sure he loved me back, but it wasn’t the sort of relationship that made you rush for a marriage licence. Moses understood that, although he didn’t always agree with how hard we should press the accelerator. He wanted me to live with him and I wasn’t ready. It was one of the reasons we had a falling out.’

  ‘He was older than you?’

  ‘He was, but not much and I don’t think that’s why he was in more of a hurry. He spent his life around people who thought might was right, thought they could be tough and dominant and everyone else would fall into line. It wasn’t his natural way, but it was still hard for him to shake it off, even in a relationship where it wasn’t needed. He didn’t like pushing things along, but he thought he had to, thought that was how it worked.’

  ‘What do you know about his family?’

  ‘Very little. He was second-generation; his father came from Caledonia in the mid-seventies, got married, had a kid, got divorced and didn’t see his son again. I think his mother’s alive somewhere, but I couldn’t point her out for you if she stood right in front of me. He was an only child as far as I know, although I suppose his father might have created a half-sibling or two. He had left his family behind and didn’t want to look back, not even to see his parents, forward all the way.’

  ‘Sounds a bit brutal.’

  ‘No, brutal would be the wrong word for him, he was sure. Moses decided that you had to live life moving in one direction and I liked that, the certainty of it. He was always honest about it, that he would never let the past put up a barrier around tomorrow. It was one of the things I thought I loved about him, his honesty. It was a positive thing, I thought.’

  ‘You thought?’

  ‘Perhaps he was denying himself too much, but that was his choice. He didn’t like any of his past so he wanted to pretend it wasn’t there anymore
. Maybe it’s the equivalent of a child closing their eyes and thinking the world has disappeared.’

  ‘You said you loved his honesty.’

  ‘Said it and meant it.’

  ‘When you came to our office you called him a crook, but he can’t have been much of one if he suffered from honesty.’

  ‘I’ve known a lot of people in my life that weren’t honest. Some were just built to be liars from the ground up, others were like you, honest in bits while trying to hide a lot of the truth as they went along. Did you tell your boss, Mr Douglas, that you were dropping in to visit me at home? Did you get my home address from an above-board source, because I didn’t give it to you? There are different kinds of honesty. Moses was genuine. I called him a crook because he was, but he never lied to me or to himself about it. You’re lucky if you don’t realise how rare that sort of honesty is.’

  ‘I know how rare it is.’

  ‘Then I’m not sure why I’m sitting here trying to explain it to you.’

  Darian paused, realised her tone had grown a steel spine and decided that if he was in for a penny he was in for a pound. ‘Was he rich when you started your relationship?’

  ‘I was actually under the impression he was a lot poorer than he turned out to be. Is this your strategy, to come in here and try to coax something juicy out of me with petty insults, rile me up until I spill my guts? DI Corey tried the same thing, with a lot more skill I might add, and got nothing, because I have nothing to give.’

  ‘Are you looking to hire me to clear your name or to catch who killed him?’

  ‘Both. Catching the killer will clear my name.’

  ‘It could be expensive.’

  ‘You tell me when the cost starts to hurt and I’ll tell you when to stop.’