I reply.
‘This is Strathclyde Police. If you are a friend of Aileen Banks you may have valuable information. Please reply with your address.’ I click send before I realise this might not be the best approach.
Nothing.
Minutes pass and still nothing. Then…
‘Yeah, fuckn right. It’s the middle of the night. Police my arse. Who r u? If this is Aileen u r sick. Totally sick. I haven’t stopped crying all night.’
I type as fast as I can.
‘This is Detective Inspector Ray McBain. Please call me on 07988 521235. Or come to the police station in Stewart Street, Glasgow, tomorrow and ask for me. It is VITAL we speak with you.’
Again, nothing. I stare at the screen willing a response. Long minutes pass. I’m begging the screen to do something. Then two small letters appear.
‘ok’
5
I have no recollection of going back to bed, but I wake with a start, stretched across the mattress, quilt wrapped round my legs. My mind filters out unnecessary information. There was a noise. The letter box clunked. That’s what woke me.
I sit up as if spring-loaded. Shit. If I’m still here when the postman delivers that means I’ve overslept. I stretch for my phone. It’s 8:15.
Fuck.
I jump out of bed and go past the front door on the way to the shower. A small pile of mail waits for me. I bend and pick them up. Two white envelopes. They’ll be bills then. And a postcard. I place the bills on a small table at the side of the door and study the postcard. Who sends postcards nowadays?
The picture on the front gives me a chill. I flip it over. Read my address on one side and my brain struggles to take in the words on the other. I flip back to the image on the front. What the hell is going on here?
The picture is a religious scene. A photograph of a giant wooden carving that portrays Christ on his cross with two women kneeling at his feet. I flip to the back.
It reads. “Come and visit. Urgent. Joe.”
* * *
Joseph McCall has changed since the last time I came to visit him in Barlinnie Prison just over a year ago. For one thing, he’s looking me in the eye and he’s sitting back in his chair like he’s the one who is enjoying his freedom.
I try to work out what age he is. Twenty-four? He looks younger now that he’s clean-shaven. Life without parole was his sentence, and it looks as if he has warmed to the idea.
Still, life on the outside was no jolly for our Joe. His mother was the victim of a childhood rape, Joe being the result of this detestable union. Then he was handed over to a series of faceless men. His soft parts offered as payment for his mother’s drug habit. Eventually he ended up as accomplice of the serial killer known to the media as Stigmata. Except Stigmata got free and Joe took on his identity, accepting blame for the crimes. A fact known only to the three of us. I was unable to convince the court they had the wrong man.
‘So, how’s life in the Bar–L?’ I say, looking around the visits hall. High ceilings, long room dotted with tables and chairs. If I was visiting a loved one here it would depress the hell out of me.
‘You came,’ Joe says with a lift of his left eyebrow. ‘Wasn’t sure you would.’ His right hand is on the table hovering over a piece of card. His index finger is tapping on the table’s surface with the speed of a woodpecker. So, he’s not as relaxed as he wants me to think he is.
‘Do you need anything?’ I ask. ‘You should have sent a letter with a few requests. I would have been happy…’
‘I don’t want anything from you, DI McBain. You don’t get to satisfy your guilty conscience on my behalf,’ he says with a sneer.
I lean back in my chair and cross my arms. ‘I don’t feel guilty, Joe. You chose to take on the crimes. Your confession was more powerful than my arguments that they had the wrong man.’
‘I’m doing a course,’ he says. ‘Doing lots of reading. Psychology. You’re showing classic signs, McBain. Displacement. Your real guilt has nothing to do with me. The old man you and your mates killed in Bethlehem House. That’s the guilt you will always live with…’
‘Shut up, Joe.’ Despite myself I am back in that bedroom. Age ten. Blood splattered, breathing in feathers and terrified beyond movement.
‘…and you think being nice to me during your, what, bi-annual visit will assuage … good word that, innit? You think it will help you feel better.’
‘Spare me from the I’ve Read One Book genius. You sent me a card. I came. What do you want?’
‘That card said a lot, didn’t it?’
‘Joe, spare me the cryptic act. Why do you want to see me?’
‘I got a card of my own,’ he says and slides it towards me. I search his eyes for a clue and then pick it up. The cover is a photograph of a line of trees at the edge of a river. In the distance is the curve of a heather-decked mountain and beyond that a blue sky. A card that would be in any number of tourist traps across Scotland.
My mobile rings. I look at the screen. It’s Alessandra Rossi, and I realise why she’s calling.
Shit. This thing with Joe threw everything else out of my head.
‘Hi, Ale,’ I say.
‘There’s a young girl just left the building. Said you wanted to see her.’
‘It’s Aileen Banks’s pal. Can you keep her till I get back?’
‘She was here about half an hour ago. The message has just been sent up by reception. Where are you? It’s not like you to be late.’
‘Something came up.’ I look at Joe. He’s staring at the tabletop. ‘She didn’t happen to leave contact details, did she?’
‘No. Said something like, “she knew it was a wind-up.”’
‘Right. Get over to Morrison’s. You know the one on Titwood Road? I’m guessing that’s where she works. Ask the manager if they employed Aileen Banks and take it from there. I’ll be with you as soon as I can.’ I close the connection.
‘A copper’s work is never done,’ says Joe with a half-smile. He looks back at the card. I pick it up. Two words. Gone hunting.
There’s no signature, but whoever wrote it has signed off with a small symbol. At first glance it looks like a T. But the cross bar is too low down the vertical line. It’s a cross.
‘It’s Leonard,’ says Joe, somewhat unnecessarily. I knew as soon as he indicated he wanted to see me that it was going to be about Leonard, aka Stigmata. He stares at me. Chews at a hangnail. His eyes are a mess of conflicting emotion. I think I can name two. Fear, and for a moment there, resignation.
‘If you ask me,’ says Joe. ‘He’s about to start a new killing spree.’
6
He watched the two men walk across the road. An image soared in his mind like a gift. He was running after them. A knife in his hand. One of them turned on hearing his footsteps. The blade entered his throat. Disappeared into the flesh like the skin and muscle was hungry for it. A hand grasped at his arm before the old man fell to the ground. Blood sprayed in a jubilant arc. His brother turned, mouth open in a scream as if it was him who had been fatally wounded.
The picture was so strong his knees give way. His thighs tensed at the last moment, and he managed to keep upright. Heart pounding to the sharp rhythm of his blood-lust, he stepped off the kerb. There was a loud scream of protest as a car braked. The fender touched his leg. A man leaned out of his car window. Face bright with fury. Jaw, lips moving. Sounds. Words. He can’t hear anything.
Then.
‘... fuckin’ death wish, mate?’
He nodded. Mumbled. Stepped back on to the pavement.
The brothers crossed the road, faces twisted with concern. One had a hand on his shoulder. He shrugged it off. Can’t bear to be touched.
‘You OK, son?’
He looked into the man’s eyes. The image was so strong, he was amazed this man was not lying at hi
s feet, soaking in a puddle of blood. Shook his head. He couldn’t be seen like this. Must focus.
‘Aye,’ he managed to say. ‘Took a wee turn.’
‘That priest is working you too hard, mate,’ one brother said. Ken? His face a mirror reflecting his sibling’s alarm.
‘We’re just going home to watch the match,’ said Robert. ‘Pie, oven pizza and a few beers. Not very traditional, like, but we enjoy it.’
‘You’re welcome to join us,’ said Ken. ‘We always end up throwing some food out.’
Match?
‘Sky sports is too expensive,’ says Robert, ‘so we go halfers and watch it together.’
‘Today’s game is Manchester United and Liverpool. Bound to be a cracker.’
‘Aye, c’mon. Have the rest of the day off and join us.’ Ken’s face was up close, kindness a glimmer in his eyes.
‘OK.’ Muscles tug a smile into place, and he allowed the men to guide him.
* * *
The front door was unlocked. Ken pushed the door open and the other men entered. They turned right into the living room. Above the fireplace the black stretch of a plasma TV came to life when Ken pointed a remote at it. Energetic voices. Bright colours.
Two large cushioned chairs faced the television. The twins in leather. To the side, along the window, rested a matching sofa.
‘Have a seat, son,’ said Ken, ‘and I’ll go get us a beer.’
‘You do like a wee beer?’ asks Robert.
Leonard nodded. Found his vocal chords were working again. ‘I’m not much of a drinker, but I don’t mind the odd can of lager.’
‘Just you take a load off, mate. I’ll be two seconds.’ He sat. Robert bustled from the room. Ken fell into his chair, pointed the remote at the screen and the noise increased. An out-of-tune, throaty, male chorus hungry for battle.
‘Just in good time,’ he said. ‘The match is about to kick off.’
Robert joined them. Thrust a can into his hand and sat to the left of his brother, eyes locked on to the screen.
A whistle. The noise from the crowd intensified.
‘And we’re off,’ said Ken. ‘Hope Liverpool gub them.’
‘Not a chance, brother,’ said Robert. ‘Man U are a well-oiled machine. They’re not going to slip up today.’
‘Be honest, mate. You’ll be happy with a draw.’
Robert flicked his eyes to the side, catching Leonard’s attention. ‘My brother is deluded. He’s going to be a tenner short by the end of this game.
‘Whatever, loser,’ said Ken with a smile.
Leonard slid a thumb along the edge of the ring-pull. Crack. Hiss. Placed the can before his lips and sucked at the cool liquid. Eyes never leaving the brothers, he leaned back into the cushioned leather, lifted his right leg and rested the foot on his left knee. He felt his body relax as his mind raced through the possibilities.
This had worked out better than he could ever have imagined.
7
We’re in the supermarket manager’s office. The girl in front of me has long, straight, dark hair, generous breasts and is staring like she thinks the Grim Reaper is my best friend. Her mascara is a black and grey smudge, and her eyes are puffy and red.
Karen Gardner is her name, and she was Aileen Banks’s best friend. She’s sitting with her fist clenched, white knuckles pressed against her mouth as if trying to force the grief back down her throat.
‘Can’t believe it,’ she says over and over while shaking her head.
The manager is beside her with her arm across her shoulder, and she is in a similar state but hiding it better and doing her best to offer support to the younger woman.
‘Karen,’ says Ale, ‘Can you tell me some more about what happened that night when you and Aileen went out?’ From her tone there is no way you could deduce that this is not the first time Ale has asked her this question. I mentally send her a “well done”.
Because I arrived later and Ale already broke the news, I allowed her to carry on with the interview. The girl did look at me sharply when Alessandra mentioned my name. She opened her mouth as if to say something, and then grief stole the words. A sob clutched at her throat. Her bottom lip trembled.
‘You picked Aileen up at what time?’ asks Ale.
Karen’s head falls onto her boss’s shoulder, whose name badge reads “Jane Cameron”. She has a nose sharp enough to cut a steak with, and her hair is red, straightened to within an inch of its life and thick enough to fill a pillowcase. I feel a childish urge to spray it with water to see if it frizzes up to an afro.
Jane looks at Ale, ‘Can this not wait?’ she pleads. ‘The poor girl’s distraught.’
‘I understand that,’ says Ale. ‘However, the first few hours of a murder investigation are crucial. And the time it has taken to locate Karen has already cost us too much.’ She turns her attention to Karen. ‘Do you understand that, Karen? We need your help to stop this man doing the same to some other poor girl.’
Karen straightens in her chair, swallows and nods. She wipes a tear from her cheek using her sleeve and whispers, ‘Yes.’ Then, louder, ‘But I don’t know what happened.’
‘Trust me,’ I say, ‘you don’t realise it, but somewhere in the information you give us will be a wee gold nugget that will help us catch this guy.’
‘OK,’ she says. ‘I picked her up at her house after I finished my work. We went into town. A couple of pubs…’ Her eyes focus on the near distance as the events of that evening play in her mind. She bites her bottom lip. Gathers her strength and continues. ‘We went to a couple of pubs. I wanted to come home early.’ Shrug. ‘I was driving cos I was skint … and bored cos I was sober. Aileen got angry with me cos she wanted to stay out.’ She stops speaking. Clenches her eyes shut. Her shoulders start shaking. She says something in a high squeal.
‘Sorry, sweetheart,’ says Ale. ‘I don’t know what…’
‘It’s all my fault. We fell out, I went home in a huff, and she ends up deid and it’s all my fault.’ Her chest is heaving.
‘Karen, it is not your fault,’ says Jane Cameron. ‘You are not responsible for the actions of some sicko.’
‘But, but, but, if I hadn’t…’ She starts to cry again. Sobs like she has an attack of hiccups.
‘Look, you people will need to give the lassie a break,’ says Cameron. ‘Can you not come back tomorrow?’
‘Miss Cameron,’ I say.
‘Mrs.’
‘Right,’ I reply, thinking, you’ve got a husband, bully for you. ‘We really have lost too much time on this case…’
‘This “case,”’ she actually does the air speech commas, ‘being the death of my young colleague, Aileen Banks?’
‘Don’t think for a minute, Mrs Cameron, that we are anything but committed to this case…’
Ale interrupts by leaning forward and patting Karen on the knee. ‘You have a wee break, Karen. DI McBain and I will just go and have a wee coffee and let you gather your thoughts. OK?’
Jane Cameron sags in her chair. ‘I’m sorry, detective. This is such a…’
‘No worries,’ I say. ‘We all need a break for a moment.’ I stand up and walk to the door. ‘Give you guys half an hour or so for a breather, OK?’
With the door closing behind us, Ale and I walk along a grey corridor towards a glass door at the end and a set of stairs that lead down to the shop floor.
We make our way to the cafeteria, and minutes later, a mug of coffee in hand, we are facing each other across a table.
‘I wasn’t losing it,’ I say.
‘Didn’t say you were,’ Ale raises an eyebrow.
‘OK?’
‘But I recognised that tone. If she had come back to you with an answer you would’ve ripped right into her.’
‘No I wouldn’t, and anyway, who is she to judge me,
ginger witch.’
‘She seems genuinely upset about Aileen and trying hard to comfort Karen.’
‘Only because she’s now two members of staff short. I know what these management types are like.’
‘She reminded me of someone. The manager,’ she adds by way of clarification.
‘Aye?’ I say, wondering where Ale is going with this.
‘That nun. Mother I’m So Superior.’
‘Piss off.’
Ale takes a sip of her coffee. Makes a face. ‘Just saying.’
‘Just talking shite.’ I chew on my irritation. Sigh. Ale’s right. There is something about that woman. She has the same air of, well, superiority.
‘Piss off,’ I say again, but with less conviction. We sit in silence, sipping at our drinks. Minutes later, Ale is the first to speak.
‘So anyway. Maybe everyone has calmed down, and we can go back and finish our conversation?’ Ale stands up.
‘How did you get so good, Rossi?’
She raises an eyebrow and smiles. ‘I had a good teacher.’
‘Well, whoever the fuck he is, tell him to teach you how to be less smug.’
She punches my arm as I walk past. ‘See you.’
* * *
Back in the manager’s room Jane Cameron acknowledges me with the barest of nods and gives Alessandra a full smile. Karen is sitting by the table, arms crossed, legs crossed, face clenched.
‘So, where were we, Karen?’ asks Ale. ‘Aileen wanted to stay out…’
‘And she’s been getting right stroppy the last wee while. We always had the code, you know? Never ever split up. Always go home together.’ Her eyes fill up. ‘And the one time we…’
Ale leans forward and holds Karen’s hand. ‘Was Aileen on her own when you left?’
‘No,’ Karen sniffs. ‘We met a bunch of people from uni. Barely knew them, but they were kinda familiar, you know. So, Aileen latches on to them. We have another row, so I think, “fuck you hen” and leave her…’ More gut wrenching sobs. ‘If only…’
‘Don’t torture yourself, Karen,’ I say. ‘Sounds like Aileen was a bit of a character?’
Bad Samaritan Page 4
