THE SAM BRYSON COLLECTION

by McLean, Russel D; Chercover, Sean

  “Didn’t know we had private investigators in Dundee.”

  “Well now you do.”

  “Even in Scotland? What do you really do?”

  I didn’t have time to argue with him. Said, “Thomas Foster.”

  The gaunt man didn’t bother checking the register. He just rolled the name around once and then said, “He’s leaving us soon.”

  “Aye?”

  “A real success story.” Heavy on the sarcasm. “Turned himself around. Found the Lord and aw that shite.” He gave up. “Jesus, suckered some poor wee bint into taking him in.”

  “Who’s the… bint?”

  “Like I pry? Look, I sit here, I hear things, and I don’t really care.”

  And he seemed so socially conscious, as well.

  “So is he here tonight?”

  “Like I said, pal, you’re not the police.”

  “This important.”

  He looked at the card again. “Christ, you can print these at service stations. They put a machine in the Overgate where you pay a quid, get fifty of these tae pass around tae anyone who cares.”

  I pulled out my ABI licence.

  He wasn’t convinced. “Association of British Investigators? Never heard of it.”

  The average bloke on the street thinks that investigators exist only in the pages of cheap crime novels. They’re mythical creatures, products of an overactive imagination. Sometimes that perception works to our advantage, gives us as professionals the element of surprise. Most of the time, like with the gaunt prick behind the desk, it means that our work is railroaded, knocked right off track.

  He wasn’t about to let me in to see Fosty. He wasn’t even going to call the eejit downstairs. He offered to “take a message.”

  It wouldn’t work. Fosty wasn’t the kind of man to get back in touch with someone he didn’t know. And if I said what I wanted to talk to him about, he’d probably do a runner and I’d have to start over. By which point Kirsty would be even farther out of reach.

  Maybe even…

  No, don’t think like that.

  I turned to leave.

  I was at the door when the gaunt man said, “Why do you want to talk to him?”

  “It’s a personal matter between my client and –”

  “I can get you to him.”

  I hesitated. He wanted something, surely. Money?

  I turned round “How much?”

  He raised his arms, mock-affronted. “Aye, you think that little of me?”

  “I only just met you.”

  “And already here you are, thinking you know me.”

  “So tell me what you want.”

  “Is it to do with… the girl?”

  “You mean the bint you mentioned earlier?”

  He hesitated, maybe regretting his choice of words. Figuring me for her brother, perhaps. Or her father. “Aye, her.”

  “Maybe.”

  “She’s young, y’see. Folks who pass through… you get all kinds. People who’ve fallen on hard times, they’re the worst to see. Cause, see, they’re people. Real people. But then there’s… guys like Tom Foster. And this girl… she’s… what, seventeen, eighteen?”

  “Sixteen.”

  “Jesus. And you think, whatever he’s got coming…”

  “Aye, he deserves it.” Making out like I was on his side, but I didn’t commit to anything.

  “Like I say, you see these people, talk to them, make nice because its your job. But every so often you wish that someone would…”

  I knew what he was saying. He was backwards coming forwards, right enough, but it didn’t stop him from making the point. I wanted to talk to Tom Foster, I’d be doing it with my fist. That was the guarantee this gaunt bastard wanted.

  I tried to weasel my way out. “If he deserves it…”

  “He deserves it.”

  “I used to be a copper. Learned about interrogation. I need something from Foster. Sometimes you can get more out of a man if you’re not trying to knock his head from his shoulders.”

  The gaunt man said, “Pish.”

  ***

  I didn’t know how I was going to play it, but I figured something would work out. Maybe Foster wouldn’t play ball. Give me an excuse, at least, to look like I was playing ball.

  The gaunt man knocked on the door to Foster’s room.

  No reply.

  Again.

  Nothing.

  The gaunt man sighed, pulled out a swipe card. “Master key.”

  “What about privacy?”

  “For emergencies. The people who stop here… we hope they’re clean, like not using, but sometimes…”

  I nodded. “All the same…”

  “Like he’ll be crying about invasion of privacy when you’re done with him, eh?”

  He swiped the key. Opened the door.

  Recoiled.

  I pushed past, saw the blood on the bed sheets first and then saw what had once been Tom Foster crumpled in the corner. Head bowed down, chin balanced on his chest. His skin was pale where it wasn’t stained near black by blood. His arms hung uselessly by his sides and his pale chicken-legs were splayed out in front of him. It would have been funny if it wasn’t so horrific.

  The gaunt man risked entering the room again just behind me. I said, “Looks like someone beat us to it.”

  “Oh Jesus,” he said. Sounding ready to puke. His spiel earlier had been all talk, and I’d known that. There’s a line between fantasy and reality that most people can’t cross.

  I said, “Call the police.”

  “But –”

  “Call them.”

  The gaunt man left the room. I went to Fosty’s corpse, knelt down and gave him the once over. Just a look. I still retained my copper’s training, knew enough not to disturb him.

  “So tell me what happened to Kirsty,” I said.

  Fosty, unsurprisingly, said nothing.

  ***

  DI Sandy Griggs glanced at the corpse as he came into the room. “Tell me you didn’t do this.”

  “You know I didn’t.”

  He nodded. “The way Ros looks at you sometimes, I’m not so sure.”

  Like a kick in the gut, that. Sandy and me have known each other since high school. If there’s really such a thing as a best friend, I guess he comes close.

  “I wanted to talk to him.”

  “Aye? Guess he wasn’t up to it.”

  “So you’re Tayside’s brightest and best?”

  He tried for a smile, but it died when his eyes flicked back to Fosty. He said, “We really need to talk.”

  “There’s not much I can tell you.”

  “Procedure.”

  We left the room. Out in the corridor, Sandy stopped a uniform, said, “McNee, did the SOCO team give an ETA?”

  The young lad said, “Ten minutes, sir.”

  Sandy nodded. “Nobody goes in or out, got it?”

  “Aye, sir.” He stood point outside the door.

  Already a few curious neighbours had crept out of their beds to see what all the fuss was about. They were all the same; greasy hair, deep-lined features, soulless eyes. Haunted, but perhaps momentarily relieved to realise that it wasn’t them in that bloodstained room.

  Sandy and I went outside. He sparked up.

  “Thought you quit.”

  He offered me a cigarette. I took it.

  Sandy smiled. “Now we both have a secret.”

  “Katie still getting you on that health kick?”

  “And failing. Lately, though, she’s not been so bad.” Meaning after he got cleared on trumped-up charges of assault and corruption. An investigation that nearly screwed his career.

  “I haven’t smoked in six months.”

  “Aye?” He took a deep drag.

  I joined him. He knew I was lying. I hadn’t given up. Just learned self-control, enough that Ros would believe I’d quit. We all keep secrets, even from those we love.

  “Tom Foster,” said Sandy. He cracked his knuckl
es, rolled his head like he was stretching out a kink in his neck. “From what I know, a real prick.”

  “You don’t end up in a place like this if you’re life’s on track.”

  “Tell me about it,” he said. “But Foster… record long as your arm. B&E, ABH, GBH, one collar for rape. Dropped, sadly.”

  “A real character.”

  “That’s what they say.”

  “Someone like that probably has a lot of enemies.” I thought of the gaunt man on door duty. Barely knew Foster, and he practically propositioned a stranger to bounce the poor bastard’s head off a wall.

  “Did you get a good look at the corpse?”

  I nodded, tried not to visualise.

  Sandy said, “Vicious.”

  “I came here because it looked like Foster was going to provide a lead in an investigation.”

  “Care to share?”

  I shook my head. “Client information is –”

  “Privileged,” he finished for me. Shook his head, blew out smoke. It caught in the moonlight. “How many times do I have to hear you say that?”

  I tried a grin.

  Sandy looked away. “This is bad business.”

  “Its always bad business.”

  “If you were still on the force, you’d have back up.”

  “If I was still on the force…” But I wasn’t here to get into recriminations or start bad blood between myself and the one man I still considered a true friend. I bit my lip, hard enough I thought I could taste blood.

  Sandy said, “If you say you know nothing, aye, sure, I’ll take it at face value. But…”

  I turned away, took another drag on my cigarette. It tasted foul. Maybe it really was time to quit. I let it drop to the pavement, ground it beneath the toe of my boot.

  “Sam, you’re not alone.”

  I tried to laugh it off. “Nah, mate,” I said. “Don’t try it.”

  He walked past me, back inside the building. “I did it,” he said. “Gave you a chance, eh?”

  “Aye. What are friends for?”

  ***

  I drove a few streets away before parking under the orange glow of a street-light and taking the phone out of my pocket.

  Rule number one: never interfere with a crime scene. Maybe I was getting carried away. Maybe I was getting stupid. Maybe I knew that I had made a promise to my client and had to do everything within my power to close this case.

  There was a girl’s life at stake.

  And the police could handle that better than…

  I’d started this. Ros called me a stubborn bastard with good reason.

  I scrolled down the last received calls. A few anonymous numbers, then: KirstMob. Received earlier that evening, just past six.

  I dialled.

  Waited.

  A girl’s voice: “Hello?” She sounded nervous, as though she wasn’t sure she should really be answering.

  “Kirsty…”

  “Uh…”

  “I know it’s you. We need to talk… if you’re in trouble –”

  “Who are you?”

  “I work for your father… he just needs to know that you’re all right.”

  There was silence. I thought for a second that she might hang up. But instead, she broke down in tears on the other end of the line.

  …to know that you’re all right…

  Like by that point, there was ever a chance.

  ***

  Kirsty met me on a street corner, near a group of high rises due for demolition. With the lights off, the windows boarded up and their shadows soaking up any light, they were imposing monoliths; reminders of a social failure that we try to deny.

  She sat on the kerb, her knees tucked up against her chest. Her head rose slightly on my approach. She looked so small and fragile.

  I parked the car, got out and walked round. Even in the half light, I could see her pale skin standing out against the dark patches of bruises on her face.

  Her summery dress seemed torn and dishevelled and the backs of her hand were dirty, covered with… something.

  I didn’t want to draw conclusions, sat down beside her.

  “Your dad’s worried for you.”

  “I cannae go home. No after… Just… just tell Dad that this is better than…” She raised her hands to her face. I saw the backs of her hands clearly, realised it wasn’t just mud and dirt.

  “Tell me what happened.”

  “I can’t…”

  “Tom Foster had a violent history and –”

  “Its no his fault, not really.”

  “You can’t say it was your – ”

  “Like hell I’m saying that!” She got to her feet, and suddenly she seemed filled with a rightous anger that seemed to flow through the ground like an electric charge. Her muscles tensed and her expression was filled with hate. “No Fosty’s fault, no my fault – that bastard Mick –”

  “He told me you split up.”

  “More like he sold me on. Like his bloody property.”

  I felt sick, couldn’t bring myself to stand. Looking at Kirsty, seeing that anger and realising it masked a fear and shame that had been coursing through her. Because of what had been done to her.

  And what she had done herself.

  ***

  She came with me in the end. I took her to a hospital.

  Called her father.

  Then Sandy.

  I didn’t say much other than I had found her, that something had happened. Figured she could tell the police the rest if she wanted to.

  Davey arrived at the hospital, looking like he’d gained decades in the space of a few days. His eyes were red raw, supported by bags. He saw me in the reception at Ninewell’s A&E, came over and said, “Tell me.”

  I shook my head. “She’s been through some… I won’t lie and say she’s fine, Davey. But she’s alive and she’ll pull through this.”

  “Oh, Jesus.”

  I grabbed the attention of a nurse. Davey insisted on seeing his daughter. I waited until she relented and then slipped outside.

  My mobile started to ring. I looked at the number.

  Sandy.

  He could ask his questions later.

  I made sure I dumped Fosty’s mobile in the Tay before driving home.

  ***

  Ros was asleep on the sofa, the light from the TV illuminating her gently. Graham Norton on the BBC fawning over whatever celebrity he could get his hands on.

  I clicked it off.

  Ros stretched.

  “Hon?”

  I kissed her on the forehead, told her I needed a shower.

  She was already in bed when I got out. I slipped beneath the sheets, draped an arm around her waist, felt her body heat and took comfort in the simple fact of her presence.

  She turned over so that she could look at me. “There’s something –”

  “This is me,” I said, trying it with a smile.

  “Yeah, guess there’s always something, huh?” That Alabama accent usually sounded so comforting and yet there was a sting behind it, something I couldn’t quite identify. “Always.” She held it a moment. “Sandy called.”

  “Aye?”

  “I know what your work is, Sam. I know who you are. And I accept it all… but sometimes I worry.”

  I was silent for a moment. “I know. Lately, I’ve been –”

  She finished for me. “…A little intense. That’s how I’d say it, hon.”

  “Really?”

  She waited a while before saying, “I love you, babe.”

  “I love you, too.”

  “You know what that means, hon? That sometimes, you have to let me in.”

  ***

  The phone woke me around three o’clock.