Lies of the Land

by Chris Dolan

  “And when did my cousin Gina tell you this – about my cousin Dante?”

  “Last night.” She sat down across the table from Maddy. “And it’s your fault.”

  “Oh gawd. Here we go.”

  “If you had helped him… Maybe he wouldn’t have done it.”

  “Done what? No, don’t tell me.”

  “Run away. Jumped in the river, blown his brains out for all I know.”

  Maddy rolled her eyes. “He’ll turn up.” Maybe Dante really was family – a tendency towards overreaction. “And anyway there was nothing I could do to help.”

  “If you want to believe that.”

  “I thought you said I was working too hard? But I have to run and help every member of the extended di Rio clan?”

  “I didn’t say you were working too hard, dear. I said you weren’t getting enough sleep. Look at you, big black eyes, puffy face. Just as well your boyfriend is far away.”

  If Maddy had come round, without admitting it to herself, for maternal support and solace, Rosa was delivering precisely the opposite. She got up to go, and her mobile pinged a text. She glanced at it – from Louis. She decided to wait till she was out of her mother’s sight before reading it. This was the worst place on earth to receive more bad news.

  She walked down Queen Margaret Drive, the text still unread. Like a bill, or a court order, you can’t bring yourself to open. There was, she noticed, just the barest hint of spring in the air. Sun somewhere, buried deep in cloud, like a shy child hiding in its mother’s skirts. The trees over the Kelvin showed signs of budding, covered in tiny green plooks. She wasn’t in the mood for spring. It was like hearing a happy song when you’re miserable – it just makes you more miserable. She passed the old BBC which a millionaire had bought as his private home and built a bloody great wall round: Piss off, I’m rich; ordinary smelly people Keep Out. One night she’d come here and piss on it. Then, to really rub in her self-loathing, one of the jogging ladies came sprinting past. All Lycra’d and defined, she waved merrily, ponytail and glutes bobbity-bobbing, shipshape. Maddy mustered a grim smile in return, and thought: at least she’s flat-chested.

  She’d go home, get a quick shower, change. It was still only 8 a.m. She’d be in the office the back of nine. But on Kew Terrace the not knowing became too much to bear. Making sure there was no one around, like a housebreaker scoping the scene, she took out her phone. Before she’d even brought the message up she could feel tears welling. Tears of misery, of rage, self-pity; a potent blend of all three.

  “Sorry. This is unfair. You okay? Thinking of you.” Smiley face.

  It’s ridiculous. You’re forty, Maddy. Nine vague words and a wee drawing and suddenly, in a flash, you’re as skittish as a puppy? You’re screwing up an important case, possibly two; your job’s on a shoogly nail; you’re mum’s a pain in the bahookie and your dad’s about to make an unwelcome return. You look like shit, apparently, and feel worse… Yet here you are skipping along the road, a song in your heart.

  At about the same time, DS John Russell got some good news too. One of the snitches he’d been given by the local East End boys, and on whom Russell had been leaning hard finally came up trumps. When he got back from the meeting – the price being a fry-up in a greasy spoon on Shettleston Road – he ran straight up to tell Coulter. The sergeant wouldn’t have liked that he had something in common with Maddalena Shannon: that he, too, was acting like a child, eager to please the teacher, hoping that the dunce’s hat would be replaced by a gold star.

  Unfortunately Coulter wasn’t in his office, but upstairs seeing the chief. He’d be in a hellish mood when he got back – having failed to please his own teacher. So Russell got on the phone and set things up himself. The only problem was that Coulter would see the news as reason to go further down the Shannon line of contamination and protestors. A blind alley, to Russell’s mind.

  As anticipated, Coulter came in like a goalie who had just let the ball slip from his hands.

  “Robertson doing your nut in, boss?” Russell never called Coulter “boss”, but he made an exception in this case. Teachers’ pets are respectful.

  “I haven’t given him much choice, have I? A fortnight in, two corpses and a mummy, and I’ve got nothing.”

  “Well I’ve got something.”

  Coulter didn’t look hopeful.

  “Joe Harkins received a delivery of firearms about a month ago, and passed them on locally.”

  “Who told you this?” the boss’s eyes lit up a little.

  “Publican. He’s reliable.” Russell wasn’t going to share his informants.

  “Reliable enough to put it in writing?”

  “Doubt it. We don’t need him to, do we.” It wasn’t a question, and Coulter knew he was right.

  “The Glocks?”

  “He doesn’t know. But he does know that a deal was made, on his premises. And another one a few days later.”

  “But we do know there was more than one gun?”

  “The way Harkins was throwing his money around after, must’ve been.”

  “Who did he buy them from? Who did he sell them to?”

  Russell shook his head.

  “It’s not much. But it’s the first break we’ve had. Thanks, John.”

  Russell shrugged, concealing his delight.

  “You suggested bringing Harkins in before. Looks like you were right.”

  “Nah. We’d have got nothing out of him. We can now, but.” The sergeant checked his watch. “And … he should be here about now.”

  Coulter actually smiled. “Top marks, my man. Let’s go.”

  Amy Dalgarno reckoned now that DI Coulter should have done this. Consultant Neurosurgeon Mr Hood was talking very politely to her, but behind the charm his god complex was in full working order. The inspector in charge of the investigation might have got further with him than she was. A mere sergeant. A lady one at that. If he’d talked to her in that way in a bar she’d have thought him a lounge lizard.

  “DS Dalgarno, I appreciate your situation, but I’m afraid your objectives are not ours. The well-being of Mr Crichton is our sole concern and the only circumstances that influence my decisions are medical ones.”

  Amy said that she appreciated that, of course she did. Could Mr Hood at least give them some idea of when Bill Crichton might be brought out of his induced coma? “Other lives might depend on it. Sir.”

  “And I appreciate that, Sergeant. You must be aware, however, that even if we have had any success with this procedure, it is still highly likely that the patient will be of little use to you for some time to come. If ever. It would be a crime, don’t you think, to rush things, risking Mr Crichton’s chances of recovery, perhaps only to discover that he has nothing of use to tell you?”

  Amy’s experience of doctors in her personal life was that she was in and out before you could say “urinary infection”. Yet Mr Hood appeared to have twenty minutes to spare to joust with her and subtly tell her how important he was and how weighty were the decisions he had to take, on a daily basis. In the nicest possible way, it has to be said. At the end of the consultation, as he was walking to the door, he said: “As a matter of fact, we are meeting today to take a decision. There is a reasonable chance that we will discontinue Mr Crichton’s regime in the next day or two.” He opened the door. “I wouldn’t get your hopes up, though, if I were you.”

  He left Amy sitting in the nurses’ room. Why the hell hadn’t he said that at the start? That’s all she’d wanted to know – when Crichton was being brought round. The man knew all along, yet felt it a good use of his time to talk round the matter.

  WPC Alison Morrison came in just as Amy was leaving. Until last night someone had been posted by Crichton’s bed, one of Alison’s colleagues covering between her shifts. Coulter, or someone, must have decided to dial down on that, the expense of it not giving them anything. For the moment, though, Morrison was still stuck with it.

  “Can’t be fun, sitting watch
ing a sleeping man all day.”

  “Most boring thing I’ve done. The only entertainment is watching the wife and the girlfriend crossing over.”

  Amy laughed. You would think, in such a man’s world, having female colleagues to talk to would be good. The sergeant liked the constable well enough but there was no particular spark between them, no meeting of minds. Rank, it seemed, outweighed solidarity in all things. Amy knew that other women in the force, Alison included probably, thought her “manly”. All that cycling and hillwalking, happier talking about Garmins and derailleurs than shoes or boyfriends. The police didn’t attract many girly girls but some of the women wanted to reclaim some femininity. Fair do’s. WPC Morrison struck Amy as being not so much more womanly than her, just younger. Amazing the difference seven or eight years makes. The few downtime conversations they’d had Alison talked about phones and clubs, and had asked her who Ben Macdui was.

  “You never get anything from them – the Mrs Miller and Crichton?”

  “Not a word. Literally. They’re like two weans in a huff with each other.”

  “Must all seem like a waste of time? Hopefully it won’t last too long. Think they might be bringing him round.”

  “Any chance you could ask them to give me whatever it is they’re pumping into him. This doing nothing but sitting is knackering. I could do with a fortnight’s snooze.”

  Maddy never checked Facebook at work. She didn’t check it all that often at home, but the office was no place to catch up with school chums’ holiday snaps. She made an exception today, not having replied to her dad’s message. Social media was annoying these days anyway. Too much cod philosophy and worse, political barking. The exciting flowering of energetic debate over the period of the Scottish referendum had given way quickly to depressing sectarianism. People who were essentially in agreement over the big issues – Trident, NHS, Europe – had taken up dogmatic positions along party lines. SNPers screaming at Labourites and vice versa. It seemed to Maddy that having two left-of-centre, three if you include the Greens, was a good thing. But human nature preferred division to unity. Scotland: a land united by its schisms: east versus west, Highland, Lowland, Gaels and Sassenachs, island versus mainland, Catholic cats and Proddy dogs…

  Her good mood hadn’t lasted as long as it took her to shower. Louis was just being nice and, as her nonna used to say, it’s nice to be nice. But something vital, something structural, had changed in their relationship. A lever had been pulled. She had a horrible feeling that there was nothing left now but a series of miserable heart to hearts and the slow dismal slide to the final sad farewell. She thought of sending him a message now but had no clue what to say. That, in itself, was a first.

  And there was Packie Shannon’s message, unanswered, hanging in mid cyberspace. “Can we meet?” She had no answer to that either. She was right – it’s always a mistake to go on Facebook during work.

  This file – if that, indeed, was what Tom Hughes or someone was ransacking the Millers’ house for – what could it contain? It couldn’t be the documentation delivered to Lord Nairne. That had been read through by police lawyers, and herself. There was nothing so dangerous in it to make someone ransack a house – and die, or kill, in the act.

  “Tom Hughes was a wanker.”

  “That reason enough in your book, Mr Harkins, to kill him?”

  Fulton’s factotum was still in his hi-vis jacket, but instead of his hard hat he had a beanie, which he kept on in the interview room.

  “If I made the laws… But I don’t.”

  “Mr Harkins,” Coulter and Russell sat side by side across the desk, “a black Audi A3 was seen driving down Mr Miller’s street last night.”

  “An Audi in Killearn? Whatever next.”

  “Joe,” Russell smiled, “feel free to light up if you want.”

  Harkins looked at him then at Coulter. “You’re not suggesting, surely, that I break the law.”

  “Just give us your fag packet.”

  Harkins looked bemused, shrugged, and put his cigarette carton and lighter on the table.

  “Rothmans.”

  “‘Give you extra length.’ That’s what the old adverts used to say. Not that I’ve had any complaints.”

  “Mr Harkins, I really don’t have time for your banter,” Coulter pulled his chair in closer to the table. “Nor do you. A packet of Rothmans was found beside your boss’s body last night. We’re taking prints from it as we speak. But I’m willing to bet that yours is on that pack,” Harkins’s brow furrowed for a moment.

  “And the Audi, I’m willing to bet,” Russell mimicked Coulter’s body language; they’d done this double act before, had it down to a fine art, “was Mr Hughes’s own…”

  “…and we all know he was in the habit of getting you to chauffeur him around.”

  “You were there last night, at the Millers’, with your boss.”

  “And with crud from the site on your boots.”

  “Maybe your gloves too.”

  “So it’s odds-on you killed him.”

  “Whoa, back up there boys—”

  “But let’s leave that for a moment shall we? While you ponder on that and we wait for confirmation of the prints, we’ve another interesting topic of conversation.”

  “Just to pass the time.”

  “You received a case of guns—”

  “Glock compacts, G19—”

  “Certainly more than one. A month ago.”

  “And sold them on a few days later.”

  Throughout, Harkins switched his eyes from one policeman to the other, like watching a game of tennis on telly. An exciting one, judging by how the man’s pupils were dilating.

  “Who telt you that? It’s no’ true.”

  “Oh Joe,” Coulter sighed, “let’s not do this, eh? We know it was you.”

  “In the Brewery Tap. One of your locals. You shouldn’t piss on your own doorstep, Joe.”

  “Who told you this? ’Cause I’ve heard the rumours too. And the way I was told it, any shooters floating around the city come from your arsenal. Glass hooses and a’ that, gentlemen.”

  “The very fact you know that—”

  “So you’re admitting it?” Harkins laughed.

  “Right now,” Russell changed the topic, “we’ve got you down for the murders of Julian Miller and Tom Hughes—”

  “And we’ll figure out your role in Bill Crichton’s skydive.”

  “Youse are mental. And ye’s are on to plums.”

  But you could see the panic in his eyes. John Russell didn’t believe for a moment that Harkins had anything to do with Miller’s and Crichton’s fates. Probably not Hughes’s either. Coulter was keeping his mind open, but it was a long shot. However, all three men could see how a case could be built against him.

  “I really don’t want to confuse you, Joe,” Coulter said, leaning back in his chair again. “So let’s go back to the first question. You were there last night. In Killearn. Tell us about it.”

  “I’d’ve told you from the start if you’d given me hauf a chance, instead about going on about gunrunning and killing everyone I’ve met. Aye, I took Hughes to Killearn. I dropped him off, round about half eleven.”

  “And you went into the Millers’ with him.”

  “Naw. I didnae. He said he’d give me a ring if he wanted picked up again – we’d left Belvedere unattended. When I didn’t hear from him, I just thought he’d decided to get a taxi.”

  “No, Joe. That’s not right. You were there with him. The Rothmans.”

  “Och that. The aul’ skinflint was forever cadging fags off me. Instead of just taking one he’d take the pack off me, take out two or three, hand them to me, and pocket the pack. It was old trick of his.”

  Coulter and Russell glanced at each other – that had a ring of truth to it.

  “I don’t believe any of that for a single minute, Mr Harkins. If we find any traces of you inside that house, you are in very, very, deep trouble.”

&nbs
p; “What might help you at this stage, is names.”

  “Who did you buy the guns from, and who did you sell them on to?”

  Coulter recognised the signs. Harkins sat stock-still, but his eyes darted around the little room, avoiding the two men in front of him. His breathing became a little slower, trying to contain his nerves. Whatever he was going to say, Coulter knew it would be a lie.

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about. You’ve hassled some poor bugger, just like you’re hassling me, and he’s given you my name to get shot of you. Well, I’m no’ going to do the same.” His forehead glistened slightly under the light, but he was doing a better job now of covering his anxiety. “You’ve got nuthin’. I’ve told you the truth about last night – that will check out. You know as well as me I’ve no reason to waste Miller. Hardly even know who he is. Hughes might have been a pain in the fucking arse but he’s employed me for years. And the guns? Don’t make me laugh. You’ve got some grass somewhere feeding you a name you want to hear. It’s all shite, gentlemen. All shite.”

  Certainly some of it was, Coulter thought. But there was a lot of bravado in Harkins’s little speech. The man had no real idea how much of it could actually be used against him. Coulter stood up, and Russell followed.

  “Why don’t you take a little time to think over your situation, Mr Harkins. Be our guest.”

  “How much time?”

  “Oh, let’s say … till tomorrow afternoon?”

  “Fuck off.”

  Coulter didn’t think he’d have too much of a problem explaining the decision to Robertson. They had enough on Harkins to detain him. And the chief was as impatient as he was for something to move in this case.

  “One of our staff will be with you shortly, sir. I’m sure they’ll make you comfortable.” Russell smiled. “They’ll tell you your rights and make sure you get a solicitor if you want one.

  “Though if you would rather leave us earlier, it’s easily done. A name, Joe. Who did you pass those guns on to?”