The Inglorious Dead (A Doug Michie Novel)

by Tony Black

  I showered and dressed, a fresh pair of 501s and a grey-marl sweat-top. It was a look that said smart but casual, what would once have been referred to as man at C&A, when we still had the big store out front of the Kyle Centre. What a draw for the town that had once been; I managed a smile for happier days Christmas shopping for the cheap clobber I’d get my dad every year: packets of hankies, God-awful shirt and tie combinations in plastic packs held together with a million and one pins; he always smiled and looked grateful but when he went we found a stockpile of them – must have been years’ worth – in a sideboard in the garage.

  The thought of Dad made me want to call Claire again, try once more to reconnect what little was left of our family ties. I knew if I didn’t make the effort to hold onto my last remaining family member, I’d be set adrift. I was at that point in my life where people slipped away from me; old friends I’d lost in the divorce, old family members I’d lost in the passage of time. I looked at the phone, disconsolately perched on the hallway stand, but couldn’t summon the strength or gumption to get it. Picking up the phone had once been the easiest thing in the world, even after an argument or rough exchange of words it was not something I’d balk at; but age and a delicate wisdom gleaned from the consequences of my words had started to hold me back. It all seemed like conflict now and I was tired of that. I wanted some peace, I knew that might mean loneliness as well, but I guess that was a set of options I’d have to weigh up when the time came.

  In the garden, as I opened up the car I caught sight of a white van pulling up.

  ‘Morning … Mr Michie, is it?’ He looked like a workie, high-vis vest over white T-shirt.

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘I’m from the estate agents, got a for sale sign for you.’

  It took me a moment to register what he had said, the accent was Glasgow and required a slight adjustment of the antennae. ‘Yeah … I mean, go ahead.’

  He tapped his brow and headed for the back of the van as I got in the Audi and pulled out. I tried not to look at the sign as it emerged from the van, the finality of the transaction was something I still needed a bit of time to deal with.

  I’d decided to pay a visit to Steven Nichols’ fiancée out Prestwick way. She had a flat on the main drag, across from The Dome – or was it Bonne these days? I could never remember the name of that pub. The little town had almost become subsumed into greater Ayr, only the no man’s land of Tam’s Brig separating them, but Prestwick seemed to be faring better, much better, than its rival. Trendy bars, cafés and boutiques had sprung up along the road leading into the centre – in all the areas Ayr was failing, Prestwick was thriving. If it had been just a bit further from the Auld Toun I would have put it on my list of possible places to settle.

  The notes Andy had gave me directed to a door down from the small-ish supermarket, a Co-op with a side-line in the bunches of flowers I thought only garages sold as peace offerings from late-home husbands.

  I took the road down the side of the police station and parked behind the taxi rank. The flat wasn’t any more than a five minute walk and there was only two names on the buzzer.

  I took out the notes, scanned the names again. ‘Milne … here we go.’

  There was a lengthy silence, I thought about pressing the button again, but allowed for the walk to the front of the property.

  Static cackles preceded a strangled voice. ‘Hello.’

  ‘Hello, I’m looking for Jan Milne.’

  I waited for a reply but none came. The door clicked and unhinged itself from the lock. As I took the steps I wondered if she knew who she had let in; perhaps Bert Nichols had told her to expect me.

  At the top of the steps a young girl peered round the jamb of the door. ‘Who’re you?’

  ‘I rang the door …’

  ‘I know, I thought you were the postie.’ Her hair, in tight black curls, was dripping wet. She tightened the neck of her pale-pink dressing gown as she took me in.

  ‘Eh, no … My name’s Doug Michie, I thought perhaps Bert Nichols might have told you to expect me.’

  Her face didn’t register a flicker. ‘No, he didn’t.’

  ‘I’m investigating Steven’s … death.’

  Her look remained impassive, I sensed a shrug was coming but she didn’t move.

  ‘It’s not a good time, I’m going out.’

  ‘I’ll only take a minute of your time. You and Stevie were engaged, weren’t you?’

  She rolled eyes; it wasn’t the reaction I expected. ‘I suppose.’

  ‘Then, if you don’t mind, I think you could be a help to me.’

  She sighed and retreated into the hallway, the door was widened and a hand gestured me in. It was on the tip of my tongue to remind her that I wasn’t selling double glazing, but I didn’t want the door slammed on me, which looked a definite possibility.

  Chapter 20

  I’d taken no more than half a dozen steps into Jan Milne’s flat when I noticed a familiar aroma. It was patchouli. When I joined the force one of the seniors I’d been buddied with early in my uniform career had shared some wisdom about patchouli. I could still see Mark Gilchrist’s face now – every time I smelled patchouli, it was the same flashback.

  ‘You smell that, Douglas lad?’ He always called me by my Sunday name.

  ‘Yeah, think so … incense, isn’t it?’

  He grinned on the side of his face, ‘Something like that, patchouli it’s called and if you ever come across the smell of it on a job again you’ll do well to remember one thing …’

  Gilchrist had paused for effect, raised his nose to the air like a bloodhound.

  ‘What’s that?’ I said.

  ‘The people in the house like to smoke a fair bit of the waccy-baccy … Either that, or they’re the first people I’ve come across that actually like the smell of patchouli!’

  It seemed like a lesson worth storing away; as a masking agent it worked a treat.

  Jan took me into the living room, a large, open area with one wall given over to a row of designer kitchen cupboards, a trendy sink and a trendier stove. There were two couches out front – definitely not DFS jobs – and in between them sat a solid-wood coffee table with an ashtray, full to overflowing; Jan made a dash for it as I sat down.

  ‘Sorry, bit of a tip this place today.’ She made a weak attempt to cover the distinctive roaches, made from green Rizla packets, with her hand.

  I tried to put her at ease. ‘It’s okay, Jan … I’m not the police.’

  The mention of the word police seemed to startle her, she instinctively tucked the ashtray behind her back and changed subject. ‘Can I get you a cup of tea?’

  I nodded, and as she left I glanced through to the next room: a man’s leg dangled from the corner of a double bed; there didn’t seem to be any other rooms in the generous flat.

  On her way back from the kitchenette, Jan closed the door and then nervously tucked her hair behind an ear as if she was uncomfortable with my presence.

  ‘Been staying here long?’ I asked.

  She took the half-lit cigarette from her mouth, ‘I’ve every right to be here … they said I could, the names have been changed over and everything.’

  Her defensiveness unsettled me, I sipped my tea slowly and tried again. ‘I’m sorry, it must still be quite raw for you. I take it this was Steven’s flat?’

  She dispersed a blue plume of smoke towards the ceiling. ‘No … I mean yes.’

  ‘Which is it?’

  ‘Stevie rented it but he never stayed here, it’s always been my flat.’

  I nodded, tried to appear understanding. As I lit my own cigarette she seemed to thaw a little – like anyone who took a cig couldn’t be that bad.

  ‘It’s on the up, this end of town …’ I said. ‘Must be an expensive place to live.’

  ‘It’s just a one-bedroom flat.’ Her eyes trailed off to the door she’d recently closed as if somehow the mistake was a hanging offence. ‘Anyway, I can afford it.’<
br />
  ‘That’s good to hear. what do you do to pay your way in the world, Jan?’

  ‘I work.’

  ‘Where?’

  She huffed, released a long exhalation of cigarette smoke. ‘Admin kind of thing.’

  ‘The last I checked admin wasn’t paying so well.’

  ‘I get overtime and that … look, I thought you wanted to ask about Stevie, not me?’

  I thought I heard movement in the other room, my gaze followed Jan’s earlier trail then returned to her.

  ‘Do you have a visitor?’

  ‘Just a friend.’ She stubbed her cigarette in the ashtray, it wasn’t finished and snapped in the middle. More sighing followed as she folded her arms and perched herself on the edge of the couch.

  ‘Must be nice staying here, having friends round; did Steven stay too?’ I immediately realised my question was more loaded than I intended.

  ‘No, he couldn’t stay here. He always went home, it was just a short walk.’

  I’d plotted the Nichols’ home on the map before I left – it was close, but he’d still have to run the gauntlet of late-night drunks on the main street.

  ‘Was Steven here the night he died?’

  She bit her lip. ‘Yes.’

  ‘What kind of state was he in when he left?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I mean, was he drunk? Stoned? Angry?’

  She shook her head, started to play with the cord of her dressing gown. ‘None of those, he couldn’t go home in a state because his folks would have a fit.’

  My tea had gone cold, I put down the cup. ‘He was afraid of his parents?’

  ‘Not afraid, just … it was difficult, they were so controlling.’

  I could tell from our first meeting that Bert Nichols was a man of high principles, but I didn’t have him down as a martinet and Stevie was old enough to rebel. ‘And Steven put up with their controlling?’

  She turned away from me, back to the door. There were definite sounds of movement. ‘I’ve told all this to the police, you know.’

  ‘I’m not police,’ I reminded her.

  Maybe it was the way I said it but she didn’t like my mention of the boys in blue. She threw down the dressing gown cord and returned her gaze to me. ‘I think he was so used to it that it wouldn’t have made a difference if he complained … but he always said he didn’t have a choice. It was the way he’d been brought up, with the religion and that … his mum and dad don’t even smoke or drink, they’re just square pegs and wanted him to be the same.’

  ‘Do you think Steven just went along with all this Order stuff to keep his folks happy?’

  ‘Oh, no …’ Her voice rose. ‘He was right into all that, him and Davie Grant were best of pals.’

  The sound of my employer’s name set my head spinning; if there was no love lost between Bert and Davie then it seemed strange – given his parents’ tight reins – that Stevie would be bosom buddies with him.

  ‘He was close to Davie Grant?’

  She nodded, rapidly. ‘Oh, yeah. He worked for him, Davie always said he was a rising star in the company. But I think he always felt he owed his dad for that, y’know, that his dad got him the job. I think he felt a little bit torn, to be honest …’

  As the bedroom door opened a tall twenty-something in skinny jeans and a Superdry T-shirt walked out and as quickly as she had started to open up, Jan signalled the end of the conversation to her guest. ‘We’re talking about what happened to Stevie … he’s just finishing up.’

  The lad flicked a flop of fringe from his eyes and tipped back his head in acknowledgement, then idled his way to the bathroom.

  ‘I’d like you to leave now,’ said Jan. She was already on her feet and indicating the door.

  Chapter 21

  I trooped over to The Dome and stationed myself in the window seat. There were chairs outside, under the awning, but I wanted to keep out of plain sight, for now anyway. I had a clear view of the entrance to Jan Milne’s flat and the coffee was good, so I was in no rush to go anywhere. The Dome was one of those places that I remembered from my youth, we’d make a trip up to Prestwick on the long, dark nights and sit around the open fire with pints of Guinness; the place felt exotic then, to a bunch of young lads. The thought that it was likely Steven Nichols’ local boozer needled me, he was too young to have died and a life taken so soon always unsettled me, fired my sense of justice.

  I wanted to find answers for Bert Nichols and for those that Stevie left behind, but it struck me that his fiancée was already moving on without too much difficulty. Jan wasn’t on my list of suspects, though, she was just a daft lassie with too little upstairs to know that others would look at her actions disapprovingly. I didn’t fault her – why would I? She was just a kid herself and to expect her to have useful coping mechanisms at her age was unfair, no youngster should have to deal with her burden. The new boyfriend, however, was a mystery to me and I’d have to do some background before I could dismiss him as irrelevant to the case.

  I was blowing the froth off my second latte when my iPhone let me know of an incoming text.

  It was Lyn.

  Sorry to desert you the other day, I’m just in a bad place right now. I thought you might have got back in touch though, but it doesn’t matter. I understand …

  I stared at the words and felt a crease forming in my brows. It didn’t make any sense until I realised the text sitting above hers, that I’d written the day she left the cafe, hadn’t been sent.

  ‘Ouch …’

  I knew at once Lyn was likely to have taken offence but I felt a deepening sense of guilt for having to dig myself out of trouble with her again. She was an old friend, after all, and we’d been through a lot together; she deserved better.

  I dialled her number.

  Ringing.

  ‘Hello, Doug …’

  I felt relieved she didn’t let me go to voicemail. ‘Lyn … look, I’m sorry I didn’t contact you sooner.’

  ‘It’s okay.’

  It wasn’t, but she was well aware of that. My tone of voice must have leaked contrition; when people sense that, they know there’s no point in rolling out the big guns because the small ones have done their job.

  ‘Would you believe I wrote a text, but didn’t send it?’ I couched it as a question but she obviously presumed it to be rhetorical and didn’t reply. ‘How are you now, anyway?’

  There was a gap on the line, I glanced down towards Jan’s door but there was still no movement.

  ‘Doug, it’s fine really. You don’t need to back-pedal, I know where I stand now.’

  That was it; did she know where she stood? She was my friend and I didn’t want to lose that friendship and the combined years we shared in memory. ‘Wow, that sounds dramatic.’

  ‘You know me, drama queen to the end!’

  I saw a flash of her performing as Lucille in The Slab Boys – a Christmas play we’d put on in third year at Ayr Academy. ‘Better than my Spanky, anyway!’

  A laugh; I’d broken the ice.

  ‘Oh, gawd … that hair-do.’

  ‘I think it was actually a hair-don’t!’

  We laughed together, dropped back into the kind of reverie we were better known for, but then the conversation turned to the present day.

  ‘Would you believe I’m in the Dome … the place hasn’t changed much, lick of paint and that but still much as I remember it.’

  ‘I haven’t been in there for donkey’s years … they used to do a great Sunday breakfast.’

  I could hear the longing in her voice, the call to be somewhere, anywhere other than where she was at the moment. She suffered the existential problem of not being at ease with her own company and for too long life offered very little else for her.

  ‘Well, why don’t you join me?’

  ‘Right now?’

  ‘Why not? I’m on a job but it’s nothing major, just tidying up a few loose ends.’

  Her tone lightened immediat
ely, I could hear the joy return to her voice. ‘Are you sure now, Doug? I don’t know that many men who can walk and chew gum at the same time.’

  ‘I think I’ll manage.’

  ‘Great. I’ll just grab the bus, maybe see you in twenty minutes.’

  The line died.

  As I stared at the phone and cursed myself for failing to send the last text, I felt a creeping anxiety engulf me. I hoped Lyn would understand my offer for what it was and not jump to the conclusion that I’d had a change of heart. As I weighed the thought I knew it was a pointless exercise because people generally let themselves believe what they want to, especially when they’re feeling at the low end of the human emotional scale. Lyn even had form for it, convincing herself that two wrongs made a right if it meant she was at least perceived to be happy, in a relationship, settled.

  I gulped the last dregs of my coffee. As I put the cup back on the saucer the door to Jan’s flat opened and she stepped out with her new man. She was dressed in typical office attire, a navy skirt, white blouse and a black leather jacket tucked over the crook of her elbow; her new bloke hadn’t changed.

  They were walking towards the bar, not quite hand in hand but exchanging intimate glances and nudges. When they came level with the window I focussed the phone’s camera at them and clicked away. I had three or four good, clean shots by the time they turned down the street next to the newsagents and got into a pimped-up metallic blue Clio. I snapped the back end of the car, number plate and all, just for good measure.

  ‘Bingo,’ I muttered under my breath as I watched the car speeding off.

  Chapter 22

  What was the old phrase? Something like, Man plans, God laughs … As I woke up and stared at Lyn’s head on the pillow next to mine I knew we’d crossed a boundary neither of us had foreseen; well, certainly I hadn’t.