by Tony Black
‘Bastard . . .’ said Sinclair beneath his breath. Gallagher would be laughing on the other side of his face when he brought in the real story behind the Ayr murders. ‘Bloody right he will . . .’
‘Say something, mate?’ It was just another pleb in a Rangers top.
‘Sorry . . . you got the time?’
‘You just looked at your watch!’
‘It’s bust . . . Battery must be flat.’
The man seemed suspicious, but rendered the time and walked away, glancing over his shoulder through slitted eyes as he went. Sinclair nodded his thanks and made a brief wave that skated so close to the common touch that he thought he deserved congratulations. He was still waving after the man when he noticed Danny Gillon’s white van pulling up outside the bus station on the other side of the road. He jogged towards the roundabout, then slipped into the slow traffic on his way to the vehicle. The van’s door dragged heavy in his hand and jammed a little; he applied another hand and tugged harder. The passenger seat wore a dusting of white powder, plaster perhaps. Who knows what he had been moving in the vehicle: it was filthy, chocolate bar wrappers and empty cans littering the foot well. Sinclair shook his head, hoped his tetanus shot was up do date, and moved inside.
‘This is a bloody mess,’ he said.
Gillon grinned. ‘It’s my office.’ He was holding a cigarette in his hand as he spoke, but he was also holding court, waving the cigarette expansively and feeding the wheel with the lightest of fingertip touches from his other hand.
‘Calling this an office doesn’t lend legitimacy to your . . . business.’ Sinclair spat the last word like it was the epitome of disdain, a fishbone that had lodged in his trachea.
Gillon over-revved the engine and pushed through an amber light; there was a hail of loud horns as he turned the corner with Sinclair gripping the dash. He smiled as the journalist straightened himself and brushed his hands on the front of his trousers. ‘Try and not get us killed.’
‘Oh, I’m always very careful in that direction,’ said Gillon, the grin returning to his face.
Sinclair caught himself staring at Danny Gillon’s teeth: they were not like any normal teeth but tiny yellow stumps, cracked and chipped like old headstones. Had he ever visited a dentist? How did these people live, here? He couldn’t believe that he had grown up in the same country as some of the invertebrates he was brushing shoulders with now. They were a class above maggots, but only just. He had an overwhelming urge to wind down the window and vomit his objections onto the street.
On Racecourse Road, the conversation took a turn. ‘I hope you had a word with that bloody whore of yours,’ said Sinclair.
Gillon pressed the cigarette to his lips and exhaled the smoke in his passenger’s direction as he replied. ‘Oh, I had a word with her all right. But not the way you’re thinking.’
Sinclair contained the urge to laugh. ‘What would you know about what I’m thinking?’ He turned his eyes to the side window; the grass on the old racecourse was brighter than it had been in the summer months.
‘See that?’ Gillon raised a hand from the wheel and drew a fist: his gnarled knuckles were bruised and reddened. ‘That’s the only language she understands.’ He dropped his hand and grabbed his groin. ‘That, and this!’
Sinclair felt a queasiness rising in his stomach. He knew he had reached a new low with Danny Gillon, but he also knew that the pimp had something that he wanted. The whore had been reticent at their last meeting, but Gillon obviously had ways of getting information out of her that Sinclair didn’t. For a moment he thought to ask of Leanne Dunn’s condition, but when the thought of her bruised and bloodied features flashed in front of him he found his real feelings were only of distaste.
‘This better not be another wild goose chase,’ said Sinclair.
Gillon riled. ‘Are you saying I don’t know what I’m doing? Are you saying I can’t make one of my own whores say what I want them to say?’
‘I’m sure you know your business very well, Gillon, but is the information going to be any use this time?’
He wagged a finger in the direction of the dashboard. The green Magic Tree air freshener hanging from the rear-view mirror came within reach and he pulled the tree down, crunching it in his hand. ‘Look, I told you she knew the fat paedo they found out at the track with a plank up his hole.’
‘We established that last time . . .’
‘But she knew the other one, the banker guy as well . . . Urquhart . . . Not even the police know this. I could be getting myself into deep water just talking to you: it’s two bloody murders we’re going on about here.’
Sinclair turned his attention to the driver as he gesticulated above the wheel once again. ‘Keep your eyes on the road.’
‘Are you hearing what I said . . . ? They knew each other.’
They’d reached the edges of Alloway, heading in the direction of Monument Road.
‘And do you think the police haven’t asked the Urquharts about that? It would have been their first question. What in the hell makes you think us turning up on their doorstep is going to make an ounce of difference?’
They’d reached the Urquhart’s home. There was a man at the gate pouring petrol into a ride-on mower, and he stared at the van with thinned eyes then raised a hand and walked towards the passenger’s door.
‘Yes, can I help you?’ he said.
Sinclair peered down the bridge of his nose and sharpened his already cut-glass vowels. ‘I’m sorry, and you would be?’
‘My name’s Bell; I’m a very close friend of the Urquharts.’
‘Then you had better let us in, Mr Bell . . . We’re here on a pressing matter.’
The man retreated a few steps, seeming somewhat stunned to be greeted by Estuary English in such plain wrapping as a white Bedford van. As he placed the petrol canister on the path, he released the gates and the van started to roll up the drive.
Sinclair waved regally as they passed the first hurdle and returned to his earlier conversation. ‘Well, you still haven’t answered me.’
Gillon brought the van to a halt in the gravel driveway. There was a scrunch of tyres and then he lunged to his left and yanked on the handbrake. ‘I’m sure the police have asked the Urquharts if they knew Knox and I’m just as bloody sure they got a well-rehearsed answer . . .’ He paused to flick a cigarette butt out the window. ‘But have the police asked them about Leanne?’
Sinclair allowed a slow smile to creep up the side of his face. ‘You may have something there, Gillon.’
‘I know I have . . . and so do you, mate, or you wouldn’t be coughing for the information in such a tidy manner.’
‘I’ll see you all right, don’t worry about that.’
Gillon unlocked his door and inched towards the opening. ‘Oh, I know you will. Of that I’ve no doubt at all, Cam boy.’
When the pair met on the driveway, they faced each other for a brief moment until a wide grin spread over Gillon’s face. He left the expression to hang between them for a moment like a statement of intent, and then he turned and made for the front door.
‘Some gaff, eh?’ said Gillon.
Sinclair was still translating the pimp’s expression into his own language: he couldn’t find the correct words but knew somehow that there was a veiled threat in there. It was concealed about his person like a sheath knife, but it was there: of that he had no doubts whatsoever.
Gillon was the first to the door of the house. He leapt forward, delicately balancing on his toes like a comedy ballet dancer, before depressing the button that rang the bell. As he spun round, another broad grin crossed his face like the mark of an invisible cleaver and he rubbed his hands together in a sudden gesture that incorporated both his glee and gallusness. His demeanour put Sinclair on edge.
‘I think you should leave the talking to me,’ he said.
‘How?’ A new tone entered his voice: mock indignation.
‘Because I know what I’m doing, what I’m looking f
or . . . I do this sort of thing for a living.’
The bigger man tipped back his head exposing a meaty neck. ‘Oh, aye . . . We don’t want to mention what I do for a living.’ He looked away, then turned briskly. ‘Or maybe we do.’
‘Just leave it to me, OK?’
Gillon kept his eyes front. There was the sound of door fastenings being moved, a key turning in the lock. ‘Whatever you say, Cam . . . Just shout if you get into trouble, if there’s any rough stuff.’
Sinclair had his reply paused on the tip of his tongue as the door opened and a figure he recognised as Adrian Urquhart took them in with a raking gaze. The young man seemed perplexed to see them at first, but soon gathered his composure.
‘Yes?’ he said.
‘Hello, Adrian . . .’ said Gillon. He was still smiling, dripping a false avuncularity that slightly embarrassed his associate on the doorstep.
Sinclair stepped forward. ‘My name’s Cameron Sinclair, I’m a writer, a journalist . . .’ The name didn’t register on Adrian’s face. ‘You might have been reading my stories in the Glasgow-Sun about your father’s passing.’
‘I’ve nothing to say to you.’ The door moved towards the jamb; their view of Adrian Urquhart’s features receded into a thin oblong.
Sinclair pressed the heel of his hand to the door front. ‘I think it would be in both our interests to talk.’
Adrian’s eyes widened as the door receded towards him once again; it was as if the shock of seeing a reporter on his doorstep had been compounded by the fact that they really didn’t take no for an answer.
‘Do you mind taking your hand off my door?’ said Adrian.
‘Oh, Jesus Christ.’ Gillon’s guttural voice sounded enough to force the door backwards, but for the avoidance of doubt he pressed his shoulder to the heavy wood and stepped inside. A brass knocker in the shape of a lion’s head that had previously looked like an immobile ornament let out a clattering roar as the door sent a shudder through the house and had Adrian back-pedalling on the polished-wood floor.
‘What the bloody hell do you think you’re doing?’ said Adrian as the two men walked into the wide hallway.
‘Oh, stop playing the innocent,’ said Gillon. ‘We’re here to talk to you about Leanne Dunn . . .’
Adrian Urquhart’s pallor lost some layers of its ruddy flesh tone, became almost a reflection of the white walls. ‘I’ve no idea who you’re talking about.’
Sinclair stepped out of Gillon’s shadow. ‘I think you might want to reconsider that stance once we set you straight on some stuff, Adrian.’
He backed up a few steps. His hands caught the banister behind him and he stopped still; only his eyes darted down the hall towards the sound of a television playing the evening news theme at some volume.
‘Look, my mother will be back soon, she’ll go to the police.’
Sinclair found himself turning to Gillon as if to share just how ridiculous the remark sounded; the pair started to snigger.
‘Oh, I’m sure the police will be the last port of call in this storm, Adrian,’ said Sinclair, who nodded to Gillon. ‘What do you say, Danny?’
‘Probably more chance of us calling them, once you hear what we’ve got to say.’
Gillon headed down the hallway, in the direction of the blaring television. Sinclair took a few steps in the same direction, then turned back towards Adrian. ‘Come on, son, we’ve some talking to do.’
34
Valentine resented the downtime forced upon him; it seemed a waste of precious moments that could be better utilised in graft. He knew, of course, it came from the same Calvinist dirge his father had sung to him in childhood that awoke during these moments. Life was not supposed to be idle, it was for toil, and it was time away from toil that blackened the soul. Eating and sleeping were permitted – in moderation – and even rest was OK, but only so much as it was utilised to renew strength for more work.
He remembered his father, back from the pits, black as night – just two white eyes and a moist mouth indicating he belonged to the human race and was not some beast sprung from the dark earth. He would gulp his meal – because eating itself was an indulgence, a wasting of the portion of precious time we were allowed on the planet – and then he’d spend an hour reading the newspaper from cover to cover. He didn’t feel his father enjoyed his hour with the Chronicle; he would shake his head over the pages and spit in the fire if the stories were particularly displeasing to him. But there was a use in it – those nights under the bare bulb at the kitchen table furnished him with some kind of knowledge, some kind of information, which however slight may indeed be useful in the outside world, the workaday world. Knowledge for knowledge’s sake was another matter: if it didn’t have a practical application, a clear use for the time burned in acquiring it, then it was mere decadence.
Valentine knew he had absorbed his father’s views through the twilight osmosis of those late nights at the kitchen table. He could still see him folding the paper reverently and appointing it on the mantle like a trophy of his distinction before taking to the tin bath – filled with water his mother had spent the last hour boiling and pouring – in front of the fire. These were early images, from his formative years, perhaps even pre-school when he thought about it, because there had been a big bath in a proper bathroom by the time he’d reached school. Something was gained but something was also lost when the tin bath went. He smiled at the memory. His father had feared his boy would be brought up soft – he recalled the very words, ‘You’ll have that boy a jessie’ – but nothing was further from the truth. His father’s work ethic, his pig-headed stoicism, was seeded early in the young Valentine to the point where even now he found the weight of idle time on his hands too much to bear.
The detective seemed to have spent the day in introspection – never a good state of mind – navel-gazing rarely led to solutions, merely more thinking. He understood most of his breakthrough thoughts had arrived, fully formed and unbidden to his conscious mind, as the result of the deeper inner workings rumbling on while he was preoccupied with the immediate task at hand. He preferred to be busy, because the busier he was the more he got done. But today had been a day for deep ratiocination: he was examining his soul. He didn’t know what had happened at the Coopers’ home, and he wasn’t even sure he wanted to, because the truth – he was man enough to face it – was that it frightened him too much. There had been the stabbing pain that twisted like a hot wire all the way down his arm and into his middle finger – that was frightening enough – but then there was the loss of consciousness and the resulting visions. He was not right in the head: that was the only answer he had to the question of why he’d seen the young Janie Cooper from the photographs in the crime file. He was losing it, seeing things. The job was pulling him apart, his body had been weakened, attenuated by the trauma of the knife in his heart, and he was no longer capable of making sense of anything. It was all too much for him, it was like a psychic defence mechanism: his body presenting apparitions, a variant on the black dots in front of the eye, to tell him that something wasn’t right, to tell him he needed to withdraw for the sake of his health. But then there was the little girl, Janie Cooper, who seemed to be telling him the opposite. She was intoning him to help, to help her because nobody else could and because nobody else had. She had been abducted and murdered and her family had been denied even a Christian burial for her immortal soul. She was telling him that. Janie Cooper was telling him that her parents deserved to be able to get on with what remained of their lives: she wanted that, she was begging him for it.
Clare brought through their coffees and placed them on the table in front of Valentine. She eyed her husband with a cautious glare; she looked unsure how to tackle him where he sat in deep thought.
‘You’re doing it again,’ she said.
‘What . . . ? Sorry.’ Valentine felt as if he’d been shaken awake.
‘It’s this case, isn’t it?’
‘No, well, yes and no . .
.’ He sat forward and retrieved his coffee cup. ‘I was thinking about Dad, among other things. Tell me what happened again.’
Clare watched Valentine press the cup to his mouth and then she followed his actions like a mime. ‘Well, there’s not that much more to say: I took the book round and found him moaning at the bottom of the stairs.’
‘So he must have fallen down the stairs?’ Valentine creased his nose and raised a hand to touch his forehead. The information didn’t seem to be going in at all; there had been too much put up there already today.
‘He didn’t know, he was very groggy, but he didn’t remember falling, so that’s when I thought: stroke.’
‘And the ambulance crew, what did they say?’
‘Nobody knew anything, Bob, that’s why they’ve kept him in overnight. They’ll do a scan and we’ll know better in the morning when they see how he is . . . It’s not good, though.’
There was no avoiding the fact that his father was advancing in years. He had always been so hale and hearty, so capable, but those days were passing. Valentine noted how suddenly life brought these surprises to you: one day everything was as it had been – the daily treadmill of existence turned as it always had – and then there was a gear shift and all of the old markers changed at once.
‘I should be at the hospital,’ he said.
‘You can’t, visiting time’s over . . . If you’d had your phone on you might have been in a position to visit earlier.’
‘I’ll go tomorrow.’
‘And you know what he’ll say – why are you taking time off work?’ said Clare. ‘He’ll be here by the time you get in, and I’ll call you if anything comes up, just see him when you get in.’
‘He probably won’t be able to go back home to Cumnock, you realise.’
Clare crossed her legs and balanced the coffee cup on her knee. ‘I know that. I’ve told the girls they’ll need to share a room for a while.’
