I pick up Aileen’s iPhone, switch it on, and I’m asked to enter a password.
‘You any good with these things?’ I ask Alessandra.
She takes it from me and peers at the screen. ‘People are usually quite lazy when it comes to passwords. We can get this down to the techie guys, but I’ll have a wee go and see what happens.’
While she’s footering about with passwords, I enter our system and do a search. I key in the words ‘head injury’ and ‘masturbation’. I want to see if there are any ongoing investigations in the UK with similarities. The computer thinks for a minute or two and comes up with a request to redefine the search.
An email pops up on my screen to distract me. It’s from Chief Superintendent Harrison telling me he is calling a news conference at 5pm. He wants all the information we have.
This I’m happy to provide, and happy he’s not asking me to front it. I’d rather pierce my scrotum with a fish hook than appear in front of a TV camera. Especially when I look like I’ve been bingeing on Mars bars.
Daryl and Nick are still viewing the CCTV footage. I text Daryl to tell him approximate time of death. That’ll save some time. I then phone Harkie.
‘How you gettin’ on?’
‘There’s lots of snot ’n’ tears. People who probably didn’t even know Aileen are queuing up to tell us how much she meant to them. Fuckin’ rubberneckers. But they’ve given us a wee office in the main university building, and we’re working our way through all of her classmates. There’s half a dozen who haven’t turned up for lectures today so we’ll get on to them once we’ve spoke to everyone here. Nothing interesting so far though.’
‘Keep an eye out for a plump-faced lassie with long, dark hair, big tits and a wee red Ford.’
‘Sounds like my kind of woman. She lookin’ for an older man to teach her a few lessons?’
‘Time ’n place, Harkie. There was a sexual element to this murder, and I find your attitude highly inappropriate.’ The words are out before I can stop them. Lighten up, McBain. He’s only working the same script we’ve always used.
‘Eh … eh’m…’ I can tell he’s not sure whether I’m serious or not. I decide to let him off the hook and inject a smile in my voice. ‘The girl with the car is important, Harkie. See what you can do to track her down.’ I hang up.
I try another search on the system with ‘head injury’ and ‘sex’. There are a number of hits throughout England. The nearest one is Newcastle. Wouldn’t be outside the realms of possibility for a predator to jump on a train or a car. I check Newcastle.
Ale’s looking over my shoulder. ‘Nah, that included rape. Our guy’s not going back to having a wank after he’s gone the full way.’
‘Fair comment, DC Rossi.’ I close the screen down. ‘This is getting us nowhere. Time for some police work the old-fashioned way. You ready for a pub crawl?’
She makes a face. ‘There’s a lot of bars in that part of the city centre.’
‘Aye, so the sooner we start, the sooner we finish.’
4
It’s 10pm, and I just got home after nearly six hours of canvassing through the city-centre pubs. It’s one of those jobs I should delegate, but on this occasion I wanted to get stuck in myself. Lets the team see I don’t mind rolling my sleeves up. Harrison said at my last staff appraisal that I should be sitting at the centre of the flow of information where I can best collate, weed out and decide on the next part of the investigation’s strategy. I say that’s how you get fat and lazy.
The canvassing was ineffective. No sign of the girl with the red Ford, and no one recognised the photo of Aileen.
I park, climb out of my car and lock it. Spot the laptop which is still in the backseat. Curse. Unlock the car and pluck it out.
As I walk towards my front door, I look up at the window of my third-floor flat. The light’s on. I’m sure I didn’t leave it on this morning. There are only two people with a key. Maggie and Kenny. This time of night and it’s got to be Kenny. My criminal friend.
Upstairs and inside the flat I’m greeted with the sight of Kenny’s size-eleven feet hanging off the end of my brown leather sofa.
‘Where the fuck have you been?’ he asks as he sits up.
‘What? Did we arrange…’
‘Na,’ he gives me a giant Kenny grin, ‘just messin’ with you.’ He nods towards the kitchen. ‘I could murder a coffee.’
‘Well, you know where the kettle is, O’Neill. And while you’re at it, I take mine black with no sugar now.’
He jumps to his feet. ‘Riiiight. Getting fed up with folk talking about how much beef you’re putting on?’
I shoot him a finger. He spots the laptop under my arm.
‘Finally getting into the digital age, Mr McBain?’
‘Black, no sugar,’ I repeat.
‘Not answering the question suggests this is police work.’
I ignore him and place the laptop on the coffee table.
‘Miserable bastard,’ he mumbles. ‘You people not heard of work–life balance?’ He goes into the kitchen. As I power on the machine I hear him organise the drinks. By the time the computer has wakened up he’s returning with a pair of mugs.
‘So,’ he sets them down in front of us and takes a seat beside me. ‘You shagging Maggie yet?’
‘None of your business.’
‘You sound a bit frustrated, mate. I’m guessing that’s a no.’
I ignore him and study the prompt in the middle of the screen that’s asking for a password. Alessandra got nowhere with the iPhone. It’s a safe bet this isn’t going to be straightforward either. A small button below the space for the password reads “Hint”. I click on it. The word “vampire” appears.
‘For chrissakes, Ray. At least respond to my good-natured attempts at banter,’ says Kenny as he holds his mug to his mouth.
‘Oh, snookums, is nobody talking to you?’
He decides to be direct. ‘Fud.’ He picks up the remote and, switching on the telly, leans back into the leather. ‘Anything decent on tonight?’
Vampire. What the hell could that be? I picture myself in Aileen’s bedroom again. I’m looking at the bookcase. Didn’t her dad say she was still into those Twilight books?
‘You got your phone on you, Kenny?’ I ask.
‘Ooh, I get to help you with police work. What’s the story?’
I get him up to speed.
‘Shit. I saw that wee lassie’s picture on the news tonight. That’s what you’re working on?’ He fishes his phone out of his pocket. ‘You’re looking for password ideas linked to vampires? Try typing in Twilight.’
I do.
The computer suggests I speak to the administrator.
‘Do you guys not have IT specialists who can do this for you?’ Kenny asks.
‘Aye, but I wanted to have a go. If I get nothing I’ll take it to them first thing in the morning.’
‘Is that not a wee bit unorthodox, DI McBain? You’ve been in bother before.’
‘Shut it. Do a search on Twilight for me. What’s that actor’s name? English. Big hair.’
‘Robert Pattinson.’
‘Get you.’
‘I am SO down with the kids,’ he grins.
‘Latent homosexual are the words you’re groping for,’ I say as I try Pattinson and Robert and then both together.
‘Vampire is the clue,’ says Kenny as he keys something into his phone. ‘Ah, the wonders of Google. Try Edward Cullen.’ Kenny spells out the surname.
‘Who he?’ I ask.
‘The main vampire character in the books, apparently.’
I type. The password screen vanishes, and I’m in Aileen’s laptop.
‘Excellent,’ I say, rubbing my hands together. ‘You’re the man who’s down with the kids. What am I looking for now?’
&
nbsp; ‘Social networking sites. Go to her internet home page.’
I do, and the Google legend appears in the middle of the screen with a search box. Below it are quick links to Facebook, Twitter and Glasgow University among others.
Kenny is reading over my shoulder. ‘She’ll also be using her phone to get on Facebook.’
‘You can do that?’ I ask.
‘Christ, you’re pathetic.’
‘Naw, I’m too busy locking up arseholes to be bothered with this shite.’
Kenny leans in, takes over the trackpad and clicks on Facebook.
‘Hopefully the computer has saved her password,’ he says. We go straight in.
‘So this is what it’s all about,’ I say as I scan the page, not knowing where to look first. ‘It’s a bit busy.’
Kenny moves the mouse, clicks on something. The page reloads and all the entries are from Aileen.
‘Right. That filters out everyone else and lets us see what your girl has been up to.’
I read a column on the left. ‘She has 285 friends? How can you possibly keep in touch with that many people? Why has she got that wee picture there?’
‘That’s her profile picture. Some people use a photo of themselves, but you can use any image – a symbol or an avatar. She’s using a photo of the actress from Twilight.’
‘A fucking avatar? Avatar? Isn’t that from some godawful movie?’ I suddenly feel a huge resentment at the world. People waste their lives on this shit while I’m out there dealing with all kinds of degenerates. I sit back in the chair, crossing my arms and shaking my head.
‘OK, granddad. Take a chill pill,’ says Kenny. His grin is about splitting his face in two. He turns back to the screen. ‘Right. This column down the middle shows your girl – looks like she calls herself LovesEdward on Instagram – and what she’s been up to.’
I sit forward, elbows on my thighs. ‘This is more like it.’
Under recent activity it says:
‘LMAO on Jenny Craig’s status.’
‘You did WHAT? LOL You go girl!’
‘Fucking exam. Fucking hate studying.’
I look at Kenny in frustration. He is still wearing that big-toothed smile. ‘Not even going to ask,’ I say.
‘Our girl has a potty mouth,’ he says.
I scroll down the list. Each comment is as inane as the last.
‘I’m sure it has some entertainment value,’ I say, ‘but for fuck sakes, this is what the future of our country is relying on?’
‘What age are you?’ asks Kenny
I start shaking my head again.
‘Get over yourself, ya eejit. You’re looking for clues here. Not an excuse to give up on modern society.’
I mentally thank Kenny for the reminder – it wouldn’t do to actually say it out loud – and I go back to reading the entries.
After several minutes of this Kenny stands up.
‘I can see you’re going to be riveting company tonight, so I’ll make myself scarce.’ He catches my eye and then adds. ‘L.M.A.O.’
‘Don’t let the door hit your arse on the way out,’ I say going back to the screen, determined I’m not going to ask him what those four letters stand for.
Ten minutes later and my eyes are rolling in my head with tiredness. I close the lid of the laptop and then go round the flat turning off all the lights and switches. In my bedroom I throw my shirt in the wash basket along with my socks and boxers. My trousers I throw over an exercise bike I bought recently in a moment of full-on insanity. I’ve used it once. For five minutes. And now it has become a very expensive clothes stand.
Lights out, alarm on my ancient mobile set for 7am, and I’m under the quilt and asleep in moments.
* * *
I wake with a start, heart thumping. I was dreaming. Can’t remember what it was about, but I feel that my cheeks are wet as if I’d been crying, and the feeling of menace lingers as I walk through to the bathroom for a piss.
I tuck it away in that place where all my unwelcome thoughts hide.
Back in bed and I’m lying staring at the black space in front of my eyes. I’m wide awake now. I get back out of bed and go through to the living room. Naked, I stand at the window and look up and down the street. Every window is in darkness. Other people next to their loved ones, safe in the hum-drum. Completely unmindful of the dangers around them and the men and women like me who keep them safe.
Taking a deep breath, I dampen down the feeling of loneliness that is my nightly companion. As usual, Theresa’s face pops into my head. That fat prick of a husband will be spooning into her back, still with no clue that she and I had an affair and that I could well be the father of his twins.
Shut it, McBain. That way lies madness.
I hear the scuff and echo of footsteps outside. I look along, and to the left I see a man staggering along the street. He’s half-singing, half-mumbling, doing the drunk’s dance. Two steps forward, one step back and then one to the side. At this speed he’ll be sober by the time he gets home.
He finds a note and bellows it. Then tells himself to shhh. ‘People are sleeping,’ he shouts and then giggles. I shake my head. Glasgow has all different categories of drunk. This man obviously gets his happy on when he’s full of booze.
I’ve had enough of the pantomime, so I turn and move over to the sofa. The skin on my back flinches from the chill of the leather when I sit down. I lift the lid of the laptop and decide to have another look through Aileen Banks’s life. There must be a clue in here somewhere.
My mobile chimes. It’s through in the bedroom. Who the hell is contacting me at this time of night? The need to know gets the better of me, and I walk through to fetch it. I have a new text. From Maggie.
‘Having trouble sleeping again?’
I’ve given up asking her how she knows this stuff. She’s intuitive she tells me. She feels things. She also has a thing for me. We’ve acted on it a couple of times. The first time was a drunken disaster on my part, and the second time was an emotional disaster for us both, so she decided she only wants to be my mate while I’m still “besotted” – her word – with someone else.
I text back. ‘Yeah, thinking of you. It’s keeping me awake.’
Her reply is immediate. ‘Just have a wank then.’
‘Nah. I’m saving my man juice for womankind.’
‘How generous. Just a shame none of us appreciate your sacrifice.’
I type ‘G.T.F.’ Add a kiss and then send.
‘hehehe. You need to talk, big guy, you know where I am.’
I shut my phone down and walk back through to the living room. If I had any sense I would convince Maggie I didn’t care for Theresa and do my very best to make her happy.
Back at the laptop and I look through Aileen’s files. Her word documents are all degree essays, judging by the titles. There’s nothing in her picture files, but iTunes is busy. The websites she’s been looking at are all related to celebs, the Twilight movies and social networking sites. Don’t know what I expected from a young person at university these days. Evidence of a brain?
Oh, get a hold of yourself, McBain. There’s your inferiority complex showing. Just because you didn’t get a university degree.
Scrolling through her Facebook entries and I get another side to Aileen. Clips of political demonstrations, wildlife films and links to blog posts from green activists.
Her most recent comments are more reactions to other people’s comments, but I work through a time period and I find some of her own status updates.
‘Working at the weekend should be against the law. I’m on early at M’s Supermarket. Bugger, pee and poop. I’m knackered just thinking about it.’
‘I hate the mob mentality on here. Let’s be nice people.’
‘Laughing at yourself should be a legal requirement. Broke
a heel on gorgeous new shoes. Did I laugh? Mwahahahahaha.’
This run of comments makes me smile. I think I would have liked this girl.
There’s a few updates about her parents, which are frightening in their honesty and directness.
‘The olds are horrible. My dad’s a total wanker and mum’s a frigid bitch. No wonder he hates her.’
‘They think they rule my life. WRONG!!!!!’
‘Can’t wait till I get a proper job and place of my own. Then NOBODY can tell me what to do.’
Something in me cringes. I wouldn’t want a daughter of mine to be this honest on the internet.
I check out the people who are responding to these. They all seem to be mostly girls of the same age. The most regular commenter is someone who posts all the time about some bloke called Jacob. Her ‘avatar’ is a picture of a book cover. I click on her profile and see that she is much more active than Aileen.
Her whole life is on display. She works in M’s Supermarket as well, and I wonder if she is the girl with the red Ford. She has gone out with this boy and that boy. Been in that pub and another pub. Given what has happened to Aileen, it worries me that these kids have no idea of the predators who could be following their every move. There’s no need to attempt to groom these kids. They know exactly where they will be and when.
There’s a row of photographs at the top of her profile. I click on the first and scroll along. I spot Aileen in the third one along. She’s facing the camera, hair shining like an advert and offering a huge smile and a cocktail glass to the world. Beside her is a large-breasted girl with a round face. This must be the one who loves Jacob.
A message appears on the bottom of the screen. A direct message from the Jacob fan. I click on the blue line.
A box appears. It reads:
‘Where the fuck r u? I can see u r online. Why r u not answering yur phone. I’m worried sick. The news said you was killed. OMG. What the fuck? Call me PLEEZ.’
My heart jumps. How to deal with this?
Bad Samaritan Page 3
