by James Oswald
I knock anyway. There’s no doorbell. The door, like the window, looks as if it was fitted when the estate was built. A lot of these houses are in private hands now, and even the ones still owned by the council have been upgraded with better insulation and double glazing. The story of improvement and persistent salesmen is written across the whole estate, and yet this one semi-detached house has resisted change with an almost religious zeal.
‘Who are you?’
The question takes me by surprise, and I realise I’d let my mind wander as I waited for the door to be answered. A short, thin woman with a severe face stands in the open doorway, staring at me with a look of deepest suspicion.
‘Mrs Jones?’ I’m unsure now. The young lad I found around the back of my block was dark-skinned, whereas this diminutive woman is the pasty white you might more normally associate with Scotland. She looks old enough to be the young man’s grandmother, but that might just be the mark of a hard life.
‘Who wants tae know?’ She cocks her head to one side slightly as she asks, and something about the movement makes me revise her age down twenty years. Definitely a hard life.
‘My name’s Con. Con Fairchild. It’s about Dan.’
Her expression softens for an instant, then the scowl comes back twice as harsh. ‘I tellt the polis already. I’ll no go doon to London. Who’d keep an eye on this place?’
‘I’m not . . .’ I’m about to say that I’m not the police, but strictly speaking that’s not true. ‘It’s not that, Mrs Jones. I was the one who found him and called the ambulance. I really just wanted to let you know how he’s doing.’
The scowl drops slowly from her face and her shoulders sag, as if the effort of being angry at the world has exhausted her.
‘You didnae have tae do that,’ she says. Then her eyes widen as a thought explodes in her mind. ‘Och, you didnae come all this way just tae tell me, did youse?’
‘No. I was coming this way anyway.’ I look around the housing estate briefly. ‘Well, Edinburgh. Wasn’t much of an effort to come out here.’
She gives me a glance that says she wasn’t born yesterday, but something about her stance changes, her face softening just a little, and she stands back, beckoning me in.
‘Ach well, youse might as well come in for a cup of tea.’
My first thought is that I’ve somehow stumbled into a parallel universe where my mother wasn’t born to a wealthy banking family and then married into minor aristocracy. This is surely how she would have lived her life even without the benefit of privilege and wealth. The narrow hall of Mrs Jones’s semi is as decked with religious symbolism as the corridors of Harston Magna Hall. I count at least a dozen crucifixes hanging from the walls, some carrying the full dead Jesus, some just plain crosses. A small table holds an ancient telephone with a rotary dial that must have been new around the time my father was born, and above it a calendar shows a picture of Arles Cathedral. Saints peer out at me from several small picture frames, hands raised in benediction even though their best efforts at blessing will surely be wasted. It puts me on edge and I have to remind myself that I’m not here to judge.
‘It’s wicked what happened to my boy. Just wicked.’ Mrs Jones leads me through to the front room, no more appealing from the other side of the net curtains than it was from out on the street. She doesn’t switch on the lights, directing me to an ancient sofa that looks like it’s only rarely been sat on in its many decades.
‘I’ll away and put the kettle on. Won’t be a moment.’
I wait until she’s gone before crossing the room to the slab-like, painted mantelpiece. It sits over a gas fire that must be a health and safety nightmare. A small wooden case carved with yet another cross holds a box of matches to light the gas, the built-in ignition having no doubt given up the ghost long ago due to neglect. The room has that deep-set chill and dampness about it, the unmistakable scent of a place that is only seldom used.
There’s a carriage clock dead centre above the fire, its hands stuck at a quarter to two, most likely in the previous century. Either side of it, two pictures stand one at each end of the mantelpiece, as if the people they depict cannot bear to be near each other. The first I recognise as the same photograph I saw from Missing Persons when I gave DCI Bain a name for the victim. The other picture must be Daniel’s father, an older, darker but otherwise perfect copy of his son. There is almost nothing of the mother in the boy at all.
‘Reginald worked in the dockyards, away over at Rosyth. Such a kind-hearted man. The Lord brought him to me, and then He took him away again. Ten years it’s been now since the cancer, and I pray for him still.’
‘I’m sorry for your loss.’ The words are almost a reflex, but she takes them as if they’re heartfelt. Now that I am in her house, Mrs Jones seems a little more hospitable. She carries a tray with tea things on it that reminds me curiously of Rose across the city. I wonder what the two of them would make of each other. Rose’s religion is of an entirely different nature.
‘Please, have a seat. You must be exhausted wi’ all that travelling.’ She points me at the sofa again, and this time I do as I’m told. I don’t try to correct her misapprehension that I’ve come straight from her son’s hospital bed to her door. We neither of us say anything for a while as she goes about the process of serving tea. Only once she’s handed me a cup and taken her own to a narrow armchair opposite does she speak again.
‘Is the Lord a light in your life, Miss Fairchild?’
‘I am perhaps not quite as rigorous in my devotion as you, Mrs Jones.’ I consider turning my evasion into an outright lie, but it’s always best to keep things as simple as possible. She looks at me shrewdly, but decides to let it pass.
‘Tell me about my boy. How is Daniel?’
I tell her what I can, about how I found him, how he has been treated and his prospects for recovery. She asks about the injuries he has sustained, and I tell her as kindly as I can about his tongue and his testicles. She takes it all in quietly, sipping from her tea occasionally, and says nothing for a while after I have finished. When she does finally speak, I am not surprised by her words.
‘The Lord moves in mysterious ways, his wonders to perform.’ She places her cup back on the tray, stands and walks slowly to the mantelpiece to fetch the photograph of her son. ‘Daniel and me. It hasn’t been easy since his father passed. He was too young when that happened, needed a firm hand to guide him. I thought the church would be that hand, but he opened his heart to evil.’ She presses her fingers against the glass, a slight tremor in her arms that might be grief or might be the early onset of some neurodegenerative disease.
‘Do you go to a local church? Did Daniel?’ I’m not quite sure why I ask the question, except that I’m fairly sure I’m not going to get much of use out of Mrs Jones. Judging by the house, there’s every possibility Daniel was an altar boy, which means he likely had the confidence of a priest. That might have been purely innocent, despite what you read in the papers these days. It’s still another person who I can talk to, and a way to make my excuses and leave. I place my own cup, still mostly full of bitter tea, back down on the tray, noticing the lack of cake or biscuits. Maybe not so like Rose after all.
‘Aye. Normally I would be there for benediction, and I usually clean the church after that. But Father Gregory’s taking a group of us into the city this evening. We’re going to a prayer meeting at the All Saints Hall. You know, in the city?’
Something about the way Mrs Jones says ‘prayer meeting’ makes me think it’s not an arrangement of which she approves. Her assumption I know all the various churches and meeting halls in Edinburgh is a bit wide of the mark too, if well intentioned. As it happens, I do know the All Saints Hall, but only because it was a popular venue during the Fringe. The last show I saw there was most certainly the sort of thing Mrs Jones would disapprove of.
‘Prayer meeting?’ I put a li
ttle hint of incredulity into my voice as I ask the question, and she picks up on it exactly as I’d hoped.
‘Aye, I know. It’s shocking, the modern way of things. But Father Gregory speaks well of Father Edward, and he’s an African like poor Reginald. I will hear what the Lord has to say through him before making judgement.’
24
‘Get anything useful from Mrs Jones?’
I’ve unlocked the Volvo and opened the door when the voice startles me, much closer than I was expecting anyone to be. When I turn to see who it is, I recognise the young woman from yesterday evening, Detective Constable Harrison. A quick glance around the street shows she’s on her own, which is unusual. Coppers usually come in pairs, especially detectives.
‘She’s very . . .’ I search for the right word. ‘Devout?’
‘Aye, felt that myself when I spoke to her. Looks at you like you’re infecting her with your sinful thoughts. I expect she’ll be off to church before long.’
‘No. She said the local priest was taking her and a group of them into the city. Some prayer meeting, apparently. Reckon she’ll hold out on absolution until then.’ I lean on the car roof, all too aware that this conversation, this meeting, can’t have been an accident. ‘You seem to know this place well. I’d have thought it was a bit off your usual beat.’
Harrison shoves her hands into the pockets of her dark-blue Puffa jacket. Not typical plain-clothes officer wear, but a lot better for this weather than my tatty old fleece.
‘My family’s from these parts. Uncle runs a used-car place over the way.’
‘And you just happened to be visiting? Saw me and thought you’d say hello?’
She shrugs. ‘No’ exactly. It’s my day off. I was away seeing my aunt when I noticed that flash car of yours drive past. Didn’t take a genius to know where you were going, mind. Thought I’d have a chat.’
‘Off your own bat, or did someone tell you to?’
‘Bit of both. I mentioned you to the boss and he said to keep an eye out. Said he’d had a call from someone in the NCA to say you might be asking a few questions. Figured there weren’t many folk you’d be interested in talking to.’
‘Fair enough.’ She recognised me in the pub, after all. Just seems a bit too much of a coincidence her being out here at the same time as me, visiting auntie or no. And then it dawns on me what’s going on here. Or at least some of it.
‘You needing a lift?’
Her dimples deepen as she smiles again and steps up to the passenger door. ‘Aye, if you’re headed back to the city?’
‘Hop in.’ I open the door on my side and sink down into the seat, glancing over my shoulder briefly to make sure it’s not a complete tip in the back. Harrison’s already belting up, like a well-trained child.
‘Thanks. I really didn’t fancy catching the bus.’
‘Never thought I’d get a lift in a celebrity’s car.’ DC Harrison makes a show of looking around the cabin, glancing over her shoulder at the mess in the back, running one small hand over the faded black vinyl dashboard. ‘It’s no’ exactly what I thought it’d be, mind.’
‘Scoff all you like, but this used to be one of Essex Constabulary’s finest fast pursuit vehicles.’ I blip the throttle as we move onto dual carriageway, feeling a gentle pressure in the small of my back as the car accelerates to the legal limit.
‘Aye, I mind my uncle telling me about these things when they were new. Used to race them in the Touring Cars. She’s past her prime though.’
She. I’d never really thought of the car as having a gender, but I’ll take it.
‘No’ quite in the same league as the boss’s Alfa Romeo though. That fair goes when you press the loud pedal.’
I glance sideways at my passenger again. I don’t know much about her at all. She’s a detective constable, last name Harrison, first name Janie. It was her flatmate Manda who did most of the talking last night in the pub; this one’s more of a listener, which is a good trait in a detective. I get the distinct impression I’m being sized up, evaluated. If the local police think I’m here to cause trouble, they’ll want to keep an eye on me. I could play that to my advantage, of course.
‘I’m not a celebrity, by the way. Just a detective constable like you.’
Harrison’s dimples reappear as she smiles to herself, and she spends a little while looking at her hands. ‘Like me. That’s funny.’
‘It is?’
‘Aye, well. See, you come from a posh family, right? Grew up in a big hoose out in the country. I know most of what the papers print is pure shite, but they get some of the facts right, aye?’
I nod, fairly certain I know where this is going next.
‘I grew up on a cooncil estate no’ all that far from your pal Mrs Jones. Most of the girls I went to school with are mothers now, and some are grannies. No’ even thirty years old.’
I open my mouth to say that a fair few of the girls I went to school with are mothers too. Then I close it again without speaking. I need her on my side, so best not to antagonise.
‘Why did you go to see her anyway? Mrs Jones?’
I use the upcoming traffic lights and slowing cars as an excuse to not answer straight away. ‘You know I found the boy, Dan?’
‘Aye, I heard that. He was thrown out wi’ the rest o’ the trash. Something like that.’
‘Actually, I think he was hiding. He must have escaped from whoever was doing . . .’ I think of the horrific injuries, the blood loss, the unimaginable pain, shake my head to try and get rid of the image. Something else occurs to me as I do. ‘But he must have had help. There’s no way he could have got to where he was in that state. Not on his own.’
‘I’ve no’ seen any photos. Can’t really say.’
I look across at Harrison as she sits in the passenger seat, staring out at the traffic in front of us.
‘They didn’t send anything up?’
‘No. Just asked if we could interview Mrs Jones about her son. Felt like a box-ticking exercise to me, which is why I was surprised when my boss told me you might be turning up.’
‘I’m surprised they asked someone in CID to do it. The NCA have an office up here, don’t they? Could easily have sent one of their own out.’
‘Aye, but it’s over at Gartcosh. Can’t see them wanting to travel all that way. No’ just for a runaway kid. Easier to get someone local to do it.’
Harrison lays on the sarcasm a bit heavy, but I remember well enough the amicable enmity between the east and west of Scotland.
‘What about a runaway kid who’s had his tongue ripped out and his bollocks cut off in some kind of ritual ceremony? A kid drugged with something strong enough to keep him alive while they’re doing it, too. Probably awake as well, otherwise he’d not have been able to escape.’
‘Jesus.’ Harrison shudders gently as she says the word, and I feel bad for being so graphic.
‘You ever come across anything like that up here?’
‘The drug, or the ritual mutilation?’ From the way she says it, I suspect the answer is she knows of both. I say nothing, concentrating on negotiating the unfamiliar new road layout in the West End of the city, and hoping she’ll elaborate.
‘There was a drug doing the rounds a couple of years back. Something opium based, I think it was. Doesn’t really sound like what you’re describing though. Not sure about ritual mutilation. That’s the sort of case my boss would end up with though. He always seems to get the weird ones.’
‘Your boss sounds like an interesting man. I’d like to meet him some time.’
Harrison shakes her head slowly. ‘Aye, I’m no’ so sure about that.’
We’re crossing the Meadows now, and she suddenly waves towards the pavement as we near Jawbone Walk. ‘Here’s fine. I can walk the rest of the way.’
For once, there’s not much traffic behind
me, so I indicate and pull over. ‘You sure? I’m not busy. I can drop you at the station if you want.’
‘Day off, remember? It’s no’ far home from here.’ She unclips her seat belt and opens the door, then points up at one of the old wych elms that line either side of the walk. ‘See that drugs case I was talking about? We found a body right up in the top of that tree.’
I crane my neck, squint through the car windscreen at the branches, still bare but with buds on the cusp of breaking into new leaf. ‘Up . . . ? How?’
Harrison climbs out of the car, then leans back. ‘That’s the thing, aye? There was a wee boy reckons he saw it all happen. Convinced hisself it was a dragon dropped the man. Thanks for the lift.’
And then she slams the door and walks off without another word.
25
I’m not entirely sure why I decide not to go back to Rose’s house in Leith but instead carry on across the Meadows and into Newington. Well, that’s not strictly true. I know exactly why I take that route, it leads me to the All Saints Hall. What I’m not sure is why I decide to go there.
As a rule, I don’t do religion. Yes, I went to Roger DeVilliers’ funeral, but that was more to make sure he was properly dead than out of any great belief. I certainly didn’t have any respects to pay to him. Part of me’s relieved at the thought I won’t be going to Ben and Charlotte’s wedding now, as that’s another service avoided. There was a time when I enjoyed the ceremony, although if I’m being honest it was mostly the hymns. Even then, there was the naughty-schoolgirl thrill of deliberately singing the wrong words, the ruder the better, knowing full well that the teachers who ran St Humbert’s could never prove we were doing it.
