Bad Samaritan

by Michael J Malone

  Karen nods in agreement. A smile ghosts through the tears.

  ‘The people you recognised from uni … girls or boys?’

  ‘Girls.’

  ‘Did you know any of their names?’

  A shake of the head.

  ‘Sure?’

  Then with reluctance. ‘The girl with bleached hair. Her name is Emma.’ Karen pauses and looks to the side. ‘She was a bit of a bitch. It was like, who are these two crowding in, you know? Her and her pal, Claire.’

  ‘Could you describe this girl Claire?’

  ‘Skinny. Black, straight hair. Tall.’ Pause. ‘Like, model tall.’

  ‘How come you recognised them from uni? In the same building? Same course?’

  ‘Dunno. Just seen them about.’

  ‘We had girls like that when I was at uni,’ says Ale. ‘The cool ones. The ones that every girl wanted as a friend and every boy wanted to shag.’

  Karen snorted an “as if”. Quite unconvincingly.

  ‘What can you tell me about Aileen’s boyfriend?’

  Karen looks up at me. ‘Didn’t have one.’

  ‘What about Simon?’

  ‘That was long finished.’

  ‘He wasn’t sniffing around?’

  ‘I used to warn Aileen that she was leading him on too much. Mind you, he was the one that did the dirty. But then he regretted it. Asked her to get back together. She said she was over him. But then she’d snog him in a corner somewhere, get him all hot and bothered and then walk away laughing.’ Pause. ‘You don’t think…’

  ‘At this stage we are just following every possible line of enquiry,’ I answer.

  8

  Dave Smith, aka Jim Leonard, was getting a guided tour of Ken’s house. Like it was some kind of stately home rather than an ex-council house. “This is the kitchen,” the old duffer had said, when the room couldn’t possibly have been anything else. A master of the obvious.

  The units were fairly new, apparently. So were the appliances, but the central heating was a bit ancient. In need of replacement, but a service would do for now, thanks. Jim nodded as if he actually gave a shit.

  ‘Where’s your brother today?’ he asked.

  ‘How should I know, I’m no his keeper.’

  Interesting, thought Jim. A crack appears in the twin unity.

  ‘He likes to go for a swim in the afternoon,’ the older man said in an apologetic tone. ‘He’s the fit one. I cannae be arsed with all that exercise. How bored must you be to go up and down the same space in a pool for forty minutes? Better going for a walk or something. Get some fresh air in your lungs, eh? Rather than some chlorinated water that some wee brat has pissed in.’ He laughed. ‘Anyway, just put your tool bag on the floor there.’ He pointed to a space in front of the sink. ‘And I’ll make you a wee cup of tea before you get started.’

  ‘Thanks,’ said Jim, putting his bag down and having a seat at the table.

  ‘The boiler is a good twenty years old,’ said Ken. ‘I’d get the gas company in to do a service, but they charge you silly money. You sure Father won’t mind you doing work for members of the congregation?’

  ‘No need to tell him,’ said Jim. ‘What I do in my own time is nobody’s business but mine.’

  ‘Good man,’ said Ken. ‘Last time I had the gas man in he kept telling me I needed the radiators drained and a completely new boiler. He kept going on that I should really get a new heating system. But that would cost me a bloody fortune. So, a wee service from your good self will be sufficient as far as I’m concerned.’

  ‘Aye,’ said Jim, using as even a tone as he could manage while imagining his hands round the old man’s throat. Thankfully there was silence while Ken filled the kettle and waited for it to boil, allowing Jim to drift away into thoughts of his real purpose here.

  Death.

  It had been a year since the nun. A year of working that memory. A memory of diminishing returns.

  At first, reliving it had been enough. The rip in the fabric of life and the continual ache it left in him was assuaged for a time, but the urge to harm was creeping up on him. Fast.

  From the moment he met the twins he knew one of them would be his next victim. Twins. Why didn’t it occur to him before? And the request to service the boiler had given him the perfect excuse.

  A report in the newspaper had given him the method.

  A couple were found dead in their bed. Carbon monoxide poisoning. A faulty boiler was to blame. The paper went on to say that carbon monoxide, nicknamed the silent killer, killed on average one person per week in the UK. Mainly down to a fault in the central heating boiler. This is a gas that is odourless and tasteless. A gas that the human blood cells pick up on all too easily and which within a very short space of time can lead to coma and death.

  Jim stood up. ‘Actually, Ken, I’m not too bothered about a cuppa. Why don’t you just see to yourself and I’ll crack on with the boiler.’

  ‘Aye, sure,’ said Ken while pouring boiling water into a mug. He added a spoonful of dried coffee and then some milk. He then picked up the mug, sipped at it and turned and rested his back against the worktop.

  ‘Do you mind?’ Jim said wearing his best apologetic expression. ‘I hate when folk stand over me while I’m working. Daft, I know.’

  ‘Och, no worries, mate,’ said Ken. ‘I’ll just go an’ watch some crap TV. That Kyle fella makes my blood boil. Love watching him.’

  * * *

  Jim took the cover off the appliance. Cleaned a few pipes with a rag and looked to where he could cause the most damage. Then he wasted some more time, banged on a few pipes with his screwdriver and then eventually replaced the cover.

  He needed to be sure the levels of carbon monoxide generated after his “service” were enough to kill. At lower levels they would only be enough to cause damage to Ken’s health. Which wouldn’t be enough for his purposes. Migraine, nausea and dizziness ain’t fatal. Kidney failure or tachycardia could lead to complications, but again, would be to slow to push the man into his coffin.

  The levels needed to be high enough to kill. And by his reckoning, once they were at that level it would only be a matter of minutes.

  ‘That’s me, Ken,’ Jim shouted above the people shouting on the TV. ‘Are you cold? Want me to leave the heating on?’

  ‘Aye, please,’ said Ken. ‘There is a wee chill in the air.’

  9

  We’re at muster and reviewing the case information so far. Harkie and the new girl are detailing the results of the samples taken from the victim. Semen was identified on her clothing and skin was lodged under her fingernails.

  ‘They’re going to run the DNA through the database, see if we can get a match.’ The new girl sounds hugely optimistic. Cases rarely run quite that smoothly, but I don’t want to ruin her feel-good mood, so settle for a nod by way of thanks. The best lessons are the ones you learn for yourself. Better that than me sounding like a miserable shit.

  ‘Emma and Claire, the two “it” girls from university are proving difficult to find, Ray.’

  ‘What? You were with Daryl Drain, the notorious womaniser, and you couldn’t find two attractive young ladies?’ I ask.

  Daryl leans back in his seat, crosses his arms. ‘Changed man, mate. Since I met Cath my days of scouting for talent are over.’

  Ale blows through her pursed lip. Then, ‘Aye. Right.’

  ‘Honest.’ Daryl looks wounded. ‘Cross my heart. From now on, I’m a one-woman man.’

  Looks of scepticism through the room.

  ‘Naw, don’t, DD,’ says Harkie. ‘My sex life is entirely vicarious. Through your shenanigans.’

  Drain shudders. ‘Man, that is a horrible thought and jeezuz, what did I do to deserve such a bad rep?’

  ‘Anyway,’ I interrupt before someone sounds off a list. ‘Anybod
y got anything else?’

  ‘Aye,’ says Drain. ‘Spoke to a few more of the neighbours, and they all confirmed that neither Mr or Mrs Banks left the house that night.’

  Which means we can score Dad off the potential list of suspects.

  ‘What about the ex-boyfriend? Who was chasing him up?’

  The phone rings. Ale answers. Listens. Whatever she hears has her mouth form an “o” of surprise. She hangs up.

  ‘That’s Dumbarton Road police station. They’ve just locked up Mr Banks. Seems he went looking for the ex-boyfriend and tried to tear his head off.’

  My stomach lurches. ‘Is the boy badly hurt?’ The Banks have enough to contend with. No need to add GBH or worse to their lot.

  ‘Didn’t say. He’s been taken to hospital to assess his wounds.’

  ‘Right. Ale, you’re with me. We’re going to see Mr Banks. Daryl, you get back on the hunt for Emma and Claire. Take Nick with you. He might improve your chances.’

  * * *

  Over at the Dumbarton Road office, the desk sergeant is Ron McKie. He’s one of the good guys. A don’t-take-any-crap attitude married with a generous dollop of common sense goes a long way in his position. Ron and I go back some. He was always a man that was willing to listen to the new boys. Kept them right but tore a strip off them if need be. He rests his capacious belly on the front desk and assesses Alessandra. Not in a lecherous, “who’s the totty” kind of way. But, he would have taken in her level gaze and confident stance and immediately thought: aye, we’ve got a good wan here.

  ‘Awright, Ed?’ he says when he sees me. He is a keen reader of US crime fiction, and I’d almost forgotten the nickname he had granted me all those years ago. ‘Soon as we put your man’s name in the system we realised what was going on. Poor guy, eh? His daughter murdered.’

  ‘Aye. Still. You cannae go around beating people up.’

  ‘Cos that’s oor job, eh?’ His large acne-scarred cheeks bunch in a grin. ‘Well, it is down south. Did you hear about those English numpties?’ Ron was always fiercely proud of the police service in Scotland, and any chance to laugh at his southern colleagues was quickly jumped on. ‘Tasered a blind man when they thought his walking stick was a samurai sword. A fucking samurai sword. How stupid would you have to be?’ He slams a meaty hand on the desk top. ‘Anyways, the young man Mr Banks attacked has suffered nothing worse than a few cuts and bruises. Possible concussion. The docs wanted to take him in to the hospital just to make sure there wasn’t anything more serious.’

  ‘Right. Good to know. Awright if we come in and speak to him?’

  ‘Sure.’ He opens the security door and beckons us through. ‘He’s in Cell 4 the now. Go into the interview room, Ed, and I’ll bring him through.’

  * * *

  Ale and I take a seat, and moments later Ron enters the room with Kevin Banks. He looks about ten years older than when we saw him yesterday. He sits in a chair as if his bones are aching.

  ‘Mr Banks, my name is…’

  ‘Aye. We met yesterday. Forgive me if I don’t shake your hand.’

  Looks like Mr Banks is firmly in the “anger” stage of grief.

  ‘You attacked a young man today, Mr Banks. Care to tell us why?’

  He sags in his chair.

  ‘I just thought … I wanted to…’ He leans forward, places both elbows on the table and rubs at his scalp with the palm of his right hand. ‘I don’t know what the hell I was doing.’ He then puts a hand over his mouth as he fights to control himself. A tear slides down his cheek. He sniffs. ‘Is Simon OK?’

  ‘He’s currently being assessed by a medical team at the Western,’ I answer. I don’t want to let him off the hook too quickly. He needs to learn the consequences of this particular action. Grieving parent or not.

  He mumbles into the desk top, ‘Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.’ He shakes his head. ‘Simon was only guilty of betrayal. He wouldn’t…’ He stumbles over the word “kill”. ‘The boy doesn’t have a vicious bone in his body.’

  ‘So why go after him?’

  ‘You’re awake all night. You go through all the possibilities, and you remember all these cop programmes where the boyfriend did it. I couldn’t shake that thought from my head. I just wanted to speak to the boy. Speak to him, you know. He loved her too. At one point. But when I saw him walking along the road … He was on his phone, smiling. Actually smiling. How dare he fucking smile when my daughter had been murdered.’ He exhales. A long, juddering breath. ‘I lost it.’ He turns sharply to the side as if he doesn’t want us to see the pain he’s in.

  ‘Aye.’ I’m wearing my disapproving face. Catch Ale’s face. She doesn’t speak, but her face says exactly what she is thinking. How can you ever get used to this level of grief?

  Kevin turns back to face us. Closes his eyes and fights with his emotions. He coughs. Opens his eyes and looks from me to Ale and then back again. ‘So what happens now? Is Simon going to press charges?’

  ‘That’s not how it happens in Scotland, Mr Banks. The evidence goes to the procurator fiscal, and he decides whether or not there is a case to be brought against you.’

  ‘Christ. The missus is going to go nuts.’

  Exhale.

  ‘Jeezuz. You hear about this happening to other families and you wonder, don’t you? If something happened to your daughter, what would you do?’ His face blanches. ‘I always thought I was a reasonable man. I thought, if something ever happened … to … I would rely on the police and the courts to see that justice was done. But now…’ His eyes search mine for something. Judgement? Accord? We’re men together. Surely I know how it must feel. ‘But now, I know. I could wrap my hands round his neck, squeeze with everything I had and feel his last fucking breath.’

  His unasked question. Do you have kids? A daughter maybe? What would you do? I think of my erstwhile lover, Theresa. The last time I saw her she was heavily pregnant and refused to confirm whether the baby was mine or her husband’s. I never dared to check the gender. If I knew, I knew I’d never keep away. I’d bang down Theresa’s door till she proved either I was or wasn’t the father. And I realise I’m a coward. Not knowing the gender has helped me keep my distance. Helped me avoid taking any responsibility. Sure, Theresa doesn’t want me around, but if I’m the father, she doesn’t get to decide that.

  ‘Mr Banks, you are in a police station, and you have just stated how you could kill someone to two police officers.’ Ale stares at him, her expression a warning. He just stares back, blank.

  Ale softens her attitude. ‘We’ll have no more talk about killing anyone, eh? How do you think your wife is going to react when she hears you’re locked up in here? Does she not have enough to contend with? And if you had killed Simon, what then? Your wife has no daughter and a husband who is locked up for murder?’ Her tone is just the right one in this situation. That of an angry mother.

  Time for a change of tactic. ‘When you were lying in bed last night thinking that the ex-boyfriend did it, did anything else occur to you?’ I ask.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I know daughters can be secretive, especially where there father is concerned. But there just might be some clue she let escape? The people she met, the places she went to?’

  ‘Ha! I tried to friend her on shitbook, and she ignored my request. Told me nothing.’

  ‘What about her mum? Did she confide in her?’

  ‘A little, I guess. More, when she was younger. Lately they always seem to be at loggerheads. My wife was a bit of a tearaway when she was young, saw Aileen making the same mistakes and wanted to keep her safe.’ At that last word, he buckles again. Buries his face in his hands and allows the grief to flow.

  Ale’s eyes are filling up. I have a huge lump in my throat. I’ve been in so many situations like this over the years, but something about this man’s love for his dead daughter really gets
to me. Is it because I may well be a father myself?

  I take a deep breath, lower my shoulders, force calm into my voice. ‘Ale, would you see if Sergeant McKie can show you where the tea and coffee is? Maybe Mr Banks would like something?’

  She gives me a look of thanks and darts out of the room without asking what the man wants, as if she’s about to be overcome herself.

  * * *

  Driving back to the station and I get a text from the guys at the hospital. The boy is fine. Nothing more than cuts and bruises. He has given a few names as alibis. The team will check them out.

  Daryl phones in to say he has a lead on the two girls.

  ‘Excellent,’ I say. ‘So The Drain hasn’t lost his touch after all?’

  ‘Stupid question,’ says Daryl.

  ‘Let me know when you get them in. I want to be there for the questioning.’

  Ale is driving. The traffic is heavy. We’ve barely gone above ten miles an hour in the last twenty minutes. My thoughts are with Kevin Banks. His grief was palpable, like another person in the room.

  ‘How can a parent ever come to terms with the loss of a child?’ asks Ale, like she was reading my thoughts.

  I shake my head. Say nothing.

  ‘Sorry I nearly lost it in there, boss,’ says Ale. ‘If you hadn’t sent me away for the coffee…’

  ‘S’alright. You’re only human.’

  ‘Aye, but as a woman in the force, I don’t want the guys thinking…’

  ‘You know what, Alessandra? I was close to losing it as well, and as far as I’m concerned you’re a human first and a woman second. Next comes the job. And keeping all that in mind helps you become more effective in the job. But that’s just me. We all want to be the cool, calm professional, but there will always be times that the people you meet will get to you. Something in them speaks to the human in you. It’s inevitable.’

  Ale focuses on the road for a moment. Nods her head. Says, ‘Aye.’

  The phone rings again. It’s the boss. There’s a press conference on the Aileen Banks murder, and he wants me to front it. Hate doing that. Some of the guys, soon as they hear they’re going to be in front of the camera they rush off and get their best Ralph Slater suit on. Me, I hate being a public face.