by Alex Walters
‘Probably as well as you know Culbokie.’
‘It’s what you might call up and coming. Or up and come, really, these days. Full of bijou delis and cafes and bars. So there’s lots of that kind of work going.’ He paused. ‘We wondered whether she might be on the game, but there was no evidence for that. I think she was just what she seemed to be. A bit of a drifter. Lost soul.’
‘That would fit with what we know of her background.’
‘I’ll send you all the info we’ve got. Give us a shout if there’s anything else you need.’ Warren wasn’t exactly being obstructive, but McKay had the impression he wouldn’t be contorting himself backwards to help either.
‘And if we wanted to talk to anyone in your neck of the woods?’ McKay asked. ‘The neighbour or the landlord, for example?’
‘Just let us know. We’re not precious.’
‘Just one more thing—’
‘Go on.’
‘It’s a long shot. But if there is a consistent MO here, it might be worth double-checking whether our second victim could also be one of your mispers. We’ve not identified her yet—DNA and fingerprints have produced nothing—so we’re working in the dark.’
‘You’ve no reason to think she might be from Manchester, though?’
‘Just thought it might be worth trying. We’ve looked on the national list, but can’t find anyone that looks a match. You might have more recent cases worth looking at.’
‘Happy to check,’ Warren said. ‘You never know.’
‘Thanks,’ McKay said, making a mental note to chase Warren in a few days if they’d heard nothing. ‘Been good to talk to you.’
When Horton reappeared a few minutes later, McKay filled her in on the conversation with Warren. ‘How were Darby and Joan?’
‘Usual bundle of laughs. He grumbled all the way downstairs about the inconvenience. Being dragged all this way just to identify his daughter’s remains.’
‘He didn’t say that?’
‘It’s what he meant.’
‘And how was she?’
‘Quiet,’ Horton said. ‘Nervous-looking. What you’d expect.’
‘We need to keep an eye on them,’ McKay said. ‘He’ll try to find out what she said to you.’
‘My instinct is that she’s learned to be a very good liar.’
‘Jesus, the lives people lead.’
‘Well,’ Horton responded sagely, ‘in my experience, there'll always be enough utter bastards out there to make life miserable for the rest of us.’
‘You know what, Ginny,’ McKay said, expertly flicking out another strip of gum, ‘you may never have spoken a truer word.’
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Greg reacted exactly as Kelly had predicted he would. He’d borrowed his mum’s car to drive them into Inverness to see the film, and they were heading along the coastal stretch between Rosemarkie and Fortrose when she broke the news.
‘You’ve done what?’
She was looking out across the fields towards the blue waters of the Firth. It was another glorious evening and the early evening sun was stretching shadows across the pastureland. ‘Just a couple of hours a day. At lunchtime.’
‘Yeah, but the Caley. That dive.’
‘You’ve never been in there. How do you know it’s so bad?’
‘I don’t need to catch Ebola to know I wouldn’t like it. Couldn’t you find something at the Anderson or the Union?’
‘They weren’t advertising. And where’s the harm? It’ll help me get a few more quid together before uni.’
They drove into Fortrose, passing the Anderson Hotel on the left and the Union Tavern on the right, before they reached the unprepossessing frontage of the Caledonian Bar. An elderly man was standing outside the door, enthusiastically sucking on a cigarette. ‘There’s your clientele. They won’t be able to keep their hands off you.’
‘You’re just jealous.’
‘You said yourself the landlord’s a creep.’ Once they were through Fortrose, the road ran close to the sea. Outside the harbour, small boats bobbed on the sunlit water. ‘That’s what this is all about, isn’t it? Lizzie whatsherface.’
‘Hamilton,’ she said. ‘I liked her. I’m just curious to know what happened to her.’
‘Nothing happened to her,’ Greg said. ‘She did a runner.’
She didn’t want to get into that argument again. ‘I’m sure you’re right.’
‘But that’s why you’ve taken this job at the Caley, isn’t it?’
‘No. It’s just a job. And how hard can it be at lunchtime?’
‘Not very, I suppose,’ Greg conceded. ‘Three old blokes smoking Woodbines and knocking back the Mackeson would be my guess.’
‘There you are, then,’ she said. ‘Money for old rope.’
He laughed. ‘Money for old grope, more like. Fending off their wandering hands. Bet you won’t last a day.’
She’d been determined to prove him wrong, and the following lunchtime she walked into the Caledonian Bar at eleven-fifty. She’d selected clothes which, while smart, were as unprovocative as she could make them—a dark blouse and a skirt that was longer than anything she usually wore. There’d be plenty of time for feminist principles later, she’d reasoned. For the moment, her primary concern was self-preservation.
The bar was almost as quiet as the previous day. Two elderly looking men whom she vaguely recognised were sitting in the corner, blethering over a couple of pints. Gorman was sitting at the customer side of the bar flicking through a copy of The Scottish Sun. As she entered, he nodded and smiled, gesturing her to take her place behind the bar. ‘You didn’t chicken out, then?’ he said. ‘Bit quiet so far. Will give you chance to get settled in.’ He pushed himself to his feet and followed her behind the bar. ‘I’ll show you the ropes and then off you go.’
It soon became evident why Gorman wanted assistance even though the bar was largely deserted. As far as Kelly could judge, he had little inclination to do anything himself. After spending a desultory few minutes explaining how the cash register worked and showing her where various items were stored, he poured himself a pint and returned to his perch at the bar. ‘If you need any help, just shout,’ he said. ‘If a barrel needs changing, I’ll show you how to do it.’ He allowed his gaze to progress the length of her body. ‘Word of advice. Maybe don’t dress quite so smart tomorrow. It gets dusty down in that cellar.’
The bar became slightly more lively over the next hour. Most of the customers were, as Greg had predicted, elderly men in search of company. Most drank pints of lager, with the odd pint of heavy interspersed here and there. A couple asked for whisky chasers. They greeted her cheerfully, saying it was nice to see a pretty young face in the place. ‘Makes a change from Denny’s miserable mug,’ one said, chortling away at his own joke. Just after one, there was a noisy influx of half a dozen young men from a building site nearby. There was more banter from them as they crowded round the bar, but it was amiable enough. So far, the work had been straightforward and none of her worst fears had been realised. Gorman sat on his bar-stool working his way steadily through his third or fourth pint, watching her approvingly.
By one forty-five the bar had quietened again. The young men had finished their pints of lager and returned to work. Four or five of the older blokes were still chuntering away over a card game in the corner. Gorman pushed his pint glass back across the bar and gestured for her to refill it. ‘You’ve done well, lass,’ he said. ‘Reckon them builder lads will be back in, now they’ve seen your pretty face.’ He grinned, in a way that was only just the right side of a leer. ‘Word’ll get around.’
She began to refill his glass, but the stream of lager spluttered and died. ‘Looks like the barrel needs changing,’ she said.
Gorman sighed wearily. ‘Aye, it does that. Right, lassie, come with me and I’ll give you a wee lesson.’ He made his way back behind the bar, leading her through the doorway into the rear of the pub. There was a further door which presumably led into Gor
man’s own living accommodation, and a passage to the right which led down a flight of stone steps into the cellar. He clicked on a light-switch, and took her down into the gloomy space beneath the bar.
He’d been right about the dust. Kelly made a mental note that, if she was expected to come down here frequently, jeans and a sweat-shirt would be more appropriate. The place looked as if it had never been cleaned. Piles of unidentifiable junk were scattered in the dark corners, and there were thick cobwebs across the couple of skylights intended to allow some natural light into the place. Barrels and kegs were distributed randomly around the room.
Gorman walked her across to the row of pumps, and demonstrated how to identify the empty barrel and how to detach and reattach the piping. ‘Not difficult,’ he said. ‘But the kegs are under pressure so take a wee bit of care.’ He gestured for her to have a go.
She managed the task without difficulty, conscious again of Gorman standing only centimetres behind her. At one point, he leaned around her to guide her hand, and her body tensed at his proximity. She could smell the acrid scent of beer on his breath.
‘Well done.’ He took a step back. ‘So now you know.’
He retreated a few metres and stood smiling, his arms folded. As before, his gaze swept the length of her body. She felt like a piece of livestock being assessed by a butcher. ‘Aye, you’ll do nicely, lass.’
‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘It’s been fine so far.’
‘You know what you’re about. And you’ll go down well with the lads upstairs. They’ve missed a pretty face about the place.’
‘Do you usually have barmaids working here?’
‘When I can find someone. Brings in the customers. No-one comes to see my face.’ He laughed. ‘Difficult to hang on to good people, though.’
‘Where do they go?’ More than anything, she wanted to get past him and out of this dank place. But Gorman was showing no sign of moving out of her way.
‘No-one stays in this kind of work for very long,’ Gorman said. ‘Either they’re temps, like you, doing it to raise a bit of cash before they go off to do something else. Or they get a better offer.’ He shrugged. ‘Some of them just bugger off.’
It was as good an opportunity as she was likely to get. ‘Lizzie Hamilton,’ she said. ‘She worked here for a bit, didn’t she?’
He was partly silhouetted against one of the two bulbs that illuminated the cellar, and she couldn’t read his expression or body-language. ‘You knew Lizzie?’
‘Sort of,’ she lied. ‘I met her a few times.’
‘She didn’t have many friends,’ Gorman said.
‘She did some work for my boyfriend’s dad. She seemed nice enough.’
She could see he’d registered her reference to a boyfriend. ‘Aye, well. She was one who buggered off, all right.’
‘You don’t know what happened to her?’
‘No-one knows. Probably did a runner.’ He began to turn, as if now keen to bring the conversation to an end.
‘You don’t think something might have happened to her?’
‘What could have happened to her? She just left. Simple as that. Just left.’
‘But—’
‘She just left.’ The voice was harder this time. He was already making his way back towards the stairs.
She hurried after him, suddenly struck by an irrational fear that, when he reached the top, he would shut the door and lock her in. But of course he didn’t. By the time she reached the bar, he was already striding back towards his customary seat.
She finished pouring him the pint and slid the glass across the bar. He took it with a nod of thanks. She thought there might be a new wariness in his bloodshot eyes, but it was impossible to be sure. Behind him, the elderly blokes were still engrossed in their card game, apparently oblivious to anything else.
Just after two, Gorman glanced at his watch. ‘Aye, that’s you then, right enough.’ He jerked his thumb over his shoulder. ‘If that lot want more, I’ll deal with them. But they’ll be packing up soon.’
‘Thanks,’ she said. ‘Same time tomorrow?’
‘Long as you’re up for it.’
The brief exchange in the cellar had left her uneasy, but had also aroused her curiosity. She couldn’t seriously see Gorman as a threat. But there’d definitely been something odd about his response. ‘Yeah, I’m up for it.’
‘Don’t suppose you fancy a few evenings as well. Got a young bloke who comes in, but—well, he doesn’t have your assets, shall we say?’
She ignored that. ‘I’ll give it some thought. I’ve got some other commitments so it may not be possible.’ Even if she could manage the transport, the prospect of being here with Gorman after last orders was hardly enticing.
‘Well, the offer’s there.’
She grabbed her coat and handbag and made for the door. She could almost feel Gorman staring after her, but she resisted the urge to look back.
She just left, Kelly thought as she pushed open the door, blinking at the unexpectedly bright sunshine. She just left.
But where did she go?
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
It was starting to rain again as she scurried from the bus stop on Princess Road through the backstreets of Hulme. It was warmer down here, but it seemed always to be raining. The Mancs reckoned that was all a myth, and they’d quote you chapter and verse about the average rainfall levels of the city compared with Barcelona or some such. But it was all bollocks. The sky was almost permanently iron-grey, and if it wasn’t actually raining it was about to.
Not that she minded, most of the time. She wasn’t exactly the type to sit outside sunning herself. She was Scottish, for a start, with red hair, pale skin and freckles. Ten minutes in the sun, and she looked like an embarrassed beetroot. Anyway, the rain was the least of her problems.
Another mind-numbingly dull day in the shop, serving customers who couldn’t even be bothered to pass the time of day. Another day of being bawled out by her psychopathic halfwit of a boss for no reason other than that’s what he thought management was about. Then, at the end of it, all of them being handed redundancy notices because the shop’s owners—some national chain owned by an anonymous overseas equity company—had decided to ‘rationalise their network’. Which, as far as she could understand it, meant shutting all but a handful of shops in the south-east. The only consolation had been that the idiot boss was in the same boat and had been as much in the dark as rest of them. He’d found out only when the head office bod had arrived at four-thirty and taken him into the back. Ten minutes later, they’d all received their letters.
So that was that. Another sodding job up the spout. She hadn’t even been there long enough to get redundancy pay. Back to the Job Centre, back to all the balls-ache of trying to claim Jobseeker’s Allowance, and back to frantically applying for any job she could find. She still had a few hours of bar-work each week, but there didn’t seem any prospect of expanding that, even if she could do so without tripping over the benefits threshold. She was no scrounger. She’d always tried to be self-reliant and was happy to take on any work she could find. But it was getting harder and harder. She wasn’t getting any younger, and employers were starting to look at her employment record and wonder why it was so patchy. Some of that was her fault, of course. For a start, she had a criminal record. A couple of convictions for shoplifting, and the second time she’d been given a short custodial sentence. It was long spent, but she’d got the sack from her job at the time and had found it hard to get work afterwards. From then on, it had been dead-end stuff. Many employers weren’t prepared to offer anything more than short-term or zero-hours contracts these days, and even when she’d found what was supposedly a permanent role, as with the shop, it had generally ended in being laid off as soon as they found half an excuse.
Every month she struggled with the rent and the bills. She’d been lucky there in that she’d found a house-share in a decent housing association place, but she wasn’t entirely sure of the l
egality of the arrangement. Apart from the difficulty of scraping the money together each month, she had a fear the whole set-up would fall apart. She’d spent weeks sofa-surfing on a couple of previous occasions and didn’t want to end up doing it again. It was a good way to lose what few friends she still had.
On top of all that it was, as always, pissing down. She’d lost her umbrella somewhere, and she had only a thin coat and hood to ward off the rain for the fifteen-minute walk between her bus stop and the place that, for the moment, she was able to call home. She hunched her shoulders and began the trek.
Hulme was decent enough these days. She’d heard people talk about the old days of the Hulme Crescents, the medium-rise estates that had been a disaster almost from the days they were built. By the 1980s, the council had more or less abandoned them and they became a haunt for drugged-up criminals and every kind of weirdo you could imagine. There was something oddly romantic about that, she thought. A derelict estate taken over by people from the fringes of society. But maybe it had been less romantic if you had to live there.
It was different now. There were still areas you steered clear of but most of it was neat rows of housing, well-maintained by the council and housing associations. The university area was adjacent, and the student population meant there was a decent selection of pubs and bars and a few interesting shops. It was only a short bus-ride into the city centre. The place would be perfect, if only she could afford to live here. Or to live anywhere for that matter.
From time to time she wondered if she’d be better returning back up north. But it was too late for that. She’d eventually put all that behind her. It was still there, lurking in the darkest recesses of her mind, and every now and then she’d wake from an unremembered nightmare, knowing it had seeped back into her consciousness like a toxic gas. But it was dealt with. She’d moved on. Maybe not far and in no clear direction. But away from all that. She had no intention of doing anything to risk bringing any of that back to the surface.
The rain was coming harder, clattering off the roofs of parked cars and the grimy pavements. She broke into a semi-run, hoping to reach the shelter of the house before she was completely soaked.
