‘Make sure you are back here in time, McBain.’
‘Sir.’ I hang up with a curse. My mind goes straight back to Kevin Banks. ‘Fathers and daughters, eh?’
‘Aye.’
‘You never talk much about your dad.’
Ale looks at me. ‘You know he was in the polis, right?’
‘Think I knew that.’
‘He died when I was a teenager. Hit and run. They never caught the guy. Or woman.’
‘Do you have good memories of him?’
Ale smiles. ‘Yeah. Worked long hours. But when he was present he was present, you know? We used to see him sitting in the car before he came in the house. As if he was leaving the shit of the day out there. As if he wanted to protect his girls from all the horrible stuff he had to process in his working life.’
‘Sounds like a clever man.’
‘What about your dad?’
‘He was an arse.’ Smile. I search my memory. Don’t come up with much. ‘He was drunk a lot.’
The grief we experienced from Banks earlier on is making us both melancholic, and in the confessional of the car we are just two people who happen to be police. Listening to Alessandra talking about her dad, I wonder what kind of parent I might be. Would I have the sense to leave the job behind me when I walk in to the family home after a hard day dealing with the worst that people can do? I wonder about parents and their children. At the pain they feel at their loss. From what I can see, parents view children as their better selves. What they themselves might have become had life and its vagaries not intruded. They emotionally invest in that potential, and the grief becomes more acute because the potential will never be realised.
I wonder if I should shut up about the parental thing. Theresa made it quite clear she wanted nothing more to do with me. I haven’t told anyone in the job about my suspicions of potential parenthood and I regret the words as soon as they come out of my mouth.
‘Did I tell you I might be a dad?’
10
The day of the funeral was warm for autumn. The sky was a peerless blue, the breeze no more than a huff from the mouth of a bored god. The trees that bordered the cemetery were a burnt auburn and the pathways through the headstones provided a crisp litter bed for those leaves that had given up the fight.
The surviving twin said he wanted the funeral to be a celebration of Ken’s life. The colour black was banned, and in keeping with this request the attendees fought to outdo each other, wearing the gaudiest colours in their wardrobe.
Robert Ford himself was wearing cream trousers, a post-box red jacket and a paisley patterned tie with God knows how many colours on it. Jim was by Robert’s side for most of the day, wearing the only jacket he had, which was a dark green. Robert insisted he borrow a tie, so against his better judgement he went for one with luminous pink and blue stripes.
The service was mercifully brief, Jim thought. Being in such a prominent position, so near the family of the bereaved, he was aware that he would be in the vision of most of the people there. How to keep the bored expression from his face and wear something that approximated grief was almost beyond him.
Robert almost inevitably was the one to find the dead body. And almost succumbed to the gas himself had his first action not been to turn the heating off when he walked into the house. The house was like a sauna, he told Jim. As he described events of that afternoon, he said that he felt the heat as soon as he walked in the door. Shouted for Ken, got no answer. He walked through the living room and through into the kitchen. No Ken. He turned off the heating before he then went upstairs. To find Ken, fully clothed, face down on the bed. As if he’d been making his way there for a lie down and fatigue had overtaken him before he could get into a proper sleeping position.
Jim was a wonderful listener. He gripped the older man’s forearm in a show of support and silently willed him to continue, hoping that his mounting excitement would not be recognised for what it was.
Robert detailed his puzzlement at his brother’s position on the bed. Then his chest began to tighten, he felt that he couldn’t breathe. His head was pounding and he felt alarmingly dizzy. And confused. What was Ken doing lying like that?
And how he had the presence of mind to open the bedroom window, he’d never know, he told Jim. Which, on learning what had killed his brother, was something of a minor miracle. And the action that had saved his life. The doctors told him his higher fitness level might have been why he had been able to stave off the effects of the gas longer than his brother.
Tea and sandwiches were being served back at the church hall after the burial, and while Jim listened to the great and the good of the parish eulogise the deceased, he dreamed of the moment he would have Robert to himself.
It was back at Robert’s house later in the day, when all the mourners had gone home to their own living, breathing families, when Robert crumbled. He had been at attention all day, his bearing rigid with his refusal to publicly show his grief. Only when he and Jim were on their own did he give in.
They’d been sitting side by side on the sofa in silence for many minutes when Robert gripped Jim’s knee.
‘You were the last person who saw Ken alive,’ said Robert. His face long, eyes anguished. ‘Tell me again what he said?’
‘He made me a cup of tea,’ said Jim. ‘Said he wasn’t your keeper when I asked where you were.’
‘The old git,’ Robert half-laughed half-sobbed.
‘Said he couldn’t understand why someone would spend all that time swimming up and down the same stretch of water…’
‘Ha.’ Robert shook his head slowly. ‘Anything else?’
‘Nope,’ said Jim. ‘Apart from saying he wanted to watch some guy on the TV called Kyle. The man he loved to hate, apparently.’
‘Yeah,’ said Robert. ‘He loved to watch that crap. Joked that we should make up some rubbish so we could get on the telly.’ He jumped up from his chair and ran into the kitchen as if he was going to vomit. Curiosity drove Jim to follow. Robert was hunched over the kitchen sink. His legs gave way and he fell to the floor. He managed to get himself into a seated position and drew his knees up to his chest. Holding everything tight.
He was stuck there. Anchored to the spot with anguish. A line of spit shone from his lower lip, down past his chin. He rolled his head slowly from side to side, moaning his brother’s name.
Tea, thought Jim. That’s what people do in this situation. They deflect their thoughts by making tea. But he couldn’t move. He was transfixed by the beauty of the other man’s sorrow, by the drama of his hurt. He wanted to be up close. Forehead to forehead. Breath to breath. Pain to pain.
He took a step closer and soaked up the other man’s energy. His eyes smarted, his chest puffed, adrenalin sparked in his fingertips. He stumbled to his knees, rapt, his arms out, wanting to touch the older man.
Robert misread his intention and held a hand out to take one of Jim’s.
‘You really cared for him, didn’t you?’ he asked in a whisper through his clenched throat.
Jim nodded the lie. The ability to speak momentarily lost, his mind reeling. Until now, the black hole in his life had only been filled by the death of another. But this was an incredible charge. He felt replete. Sated.
Grief would be his feast from now on.
11
The clock never stops. It is inexorable. One moment moves to the next with an inevitable but inaudible tick. People go about their daily lives: what gadget to buy next, what processed crap to shovel down their neck for dinner, what wine goes with what meat, who said what to whom? And the pettiness of it drives me fucking nuts.
That’s probably why I’m still single. I can’t switch off. I can’t leave the horrors of the day in the car before I enter my front door with a genuine smile on my face. I unlock my front door and think of Kevin Banks. How will that man ever find normal
ity again?
But the clock keeps on moving. One tick before another tock. Unceasing and soon the unbelievable becomes the normal. Mankind’s greatest trick. The ability to adjust. We have to or the species would never have survived the millennia.
One of the first cops I worked with, Harry Fyfe, was always going on about how mankind was doomed. A pathetic pile of shit, was how he succinctly put it. We do some God-awful things to each other, he would say. We’re ruined. Hopeless cases. I used to laugh at him. After a day like today, I’m on his side.
Jeez, I’m full of it tonight. Need to switch off. But I slump before the telly and switch it on. Some magazine show on the Beeb blares into the gloom of my living room, and they’re talking about the nation’s greatest fucking casserole.
‘Oh for f … Turn that shite off,’ I shout and aim the remote at the telly. ‘Dinner,’ I say out loud. ‘What will I have for dinner?’
You do that, don’t you, when you live on your own? Talk to yourself.
There’s feck all in the fridge. And nothing apart from a tin of tuna in the cupboard. That’ll do. Hardly filling for a growing man. I pat my expanding belly. It’ll do.
Aileen Banks’s laptop is still on my sofa. Oops. How did that happen? I need to get it into the office and recorded into evidence. Tomorrow.
I push open the lid. Bring up Facebook and before I even articulate the thought I’m looking for the two girls as described by Karen. They were the “it” girls, so surely Aileen would want to follow them? I find her friend list. I’m looking for a Claire and an Emma.
As I scroll through Aileen’s list of friends I have to fight down the old curmudgeon in me. How can people be arsed? There’s nearly three hundred “friends”, and an alert is telling me she’s had over fifty friend requests … since she died.
As the online peeps say: WTF? Even I have heard of internet trolls. Are these internet ghouls? Befriending a dead person?
There’s a Claire. Skinny with black, straight hair was how Karen described her, and that’s how the picture looks. Claire Baird, it says. Tells me she works at Starbucks. Goes to Glasgow University. Lives in Glasgow.
Feeling ridiculously pleased with myself, I click on ‘About’.
Her birthday, email address and mobile number are noted. Her favourite quote is “I am the one who knocks.” She’s lost me there. Some horror movie quote maybe?
Is nothing sacred in this online world? All kinds of creepsters could get their hands on this information and do all kinds of weird with it.
Her timeline – that’s what they call it, right? – is banal taken to the edge of boring and beyond. With an added pinch of dull and a twist of trivial. She shops, like, a lot. Goes to clubs, like, a lot. And uses ‘like’ a lot. And LOL comes up fairly often. Lots of love? Lots of lollies? Look out lippy?
A picture of red shoes with the words, come to momma. And then a few rants about a TV show with too many initials to work out what it actually is.
I look for posts on the day of Aileen’s murder.
‘SO want that top out of Cruise.’
‘Never thought I’d say it but yuks to more coffee.’
And the last one for the day, at 7:17pm: ‘It’s a school night, but fuckit, who’s up for a pub crawl?’
This has eleven comments. One from Aileen. To my unpractised eye it looks out of place with the other comments. Like she’s desperate to join in. Claire replies to Aileen’s comment with ‘yeah, whatever, don’t wait up sweetie.’
I recoil, and it’s not aimed at me.
One of the comments in this thread is from an Emma. Emma Smith. Her details are much more scant than Claire’s, and her profile picture is a photo of a male pretty-boy – not Emma, then. Her date of birth just has a month and a day. No year. And her mobile number is missing.
I scan her photos. Nothing much until I see two girls. One is tagged as Claire Baird, the other, a girl of similar age and height with blond, spiky hair, as Emma.
Emma Smith, hello there.
Her timeline for tonight says, ‘A quiet night out at Cafe Gandolfi. Who’s coming?’
Don’t mind if I do.
* * *
Cafe Gandolfi was pure jumping, as the young ones say, when I arrived. Not been in here for ages. A bit expensive for my tastes. Haggis, neeps and tatties for £13. What’s that all about? I could rustle that up on my own for a couple of quid. But then I wouldn’t get to experience the L-shaped room, high ceiling, dark wood panelling and the tables and chairs that look like they were made from materials washed up on a beach.
Looking around the people in the room I feel like I’ve landed in an alternative Glasgow. When I do go out, I’m more used to the cheap and cheerful “whit’s your fuckin’ poison, mate” kinda pub. This is where you hang out if you’re on trend, wear the latest clothes and carry the newest iPad.
‘Ray McBain, what the hell are you doing here?’ a voice chimes in my ear. I recognise it and feel a huge smile form on my face.
‘Maggie.’ I turn to face her, lean down and draw her into a hug. ‘I could ask you the same question.’
She beams up at me. ‘The girls…’ she sweeps her right arm dramatically towards a table. Four inquisitive, shiny faces stare back. ‘…invited me out. Seeing as it’s my birthday.’
Shit. ‘It’s your birthday? Why didn’t you tell me?’ She’s looking great. All clean and primped and pink with a touch too much booze.
‘Cos then I get to crow at how rubbish you are as a mate.’ Four faces are still staring at me. ‘Anyway, what the hell are you doing here?’
‘Would you believe it, work?’
‘Coming from you, aye, I would. Has there been a murrrdurrr?’ A drunken squeal of laughter follows this question.
Taggart, you have a lot to answer for.
‘There has, actually.’
‘Oh shit,’ she makes an apologetic face. ‘You know me, I don’t watch the news.’
I pat my pocket, check I have my wallet on me. ‘Anyway, it looks like the birthday girl isn’t nearly drunk enough yet. Can I buy you a drink?’
‘No thanks, Ray,’ she says with a smile. Flicks her hair away from her face. ‘It’s getting to the point of no return. Fast. If I have much more they’ll be pumping my stomach down at the Western.’
‘Would you no rather get something else pumped?’ one of her friends shouts. Laughter erupts from everyone else at the table. High pitched enough to pierce an eardrum.
‘Did you just turn down a drink?’ another friend asks. ‘You mental?’
‘We’re drinking champagne, Ray,’ says another one.
‘Are you one of the boys in blue, Ray?’
‘Why don’t you join us?’
‘Sorry, ladies. I’m working.’
A chorus of “awwwww” rings round the table.
Then.
‘Disnae mean you can’t buy us a drink.’ It’s the one with the brown bob. Mediterranean tan. Cleavage reaching all the way down to the table top. She catches me looking and winks.
‘So what it is then? What are you all drinking?’ I ask, caught up in the good mood flowing from the table.
‘It’s alright, Ray,’ says Maggie, patting the top of my arm. ‘We’ve more than enough, thanks.’
‘A bottle of their finest Taittinger,’ says one.
‘Naw, that’s cheap crap,’ says another. ‘They’ve a cheeky wee Dom Perignon on the menu.’
‘But you can only buy it if you join us,’ says another.
‘Seriously, Ray,’ says Maggie. ‘I apologise that my friends are badgering you…’
‘She’s thirty-one today,’ someone shouts.
‘Gawd, that makes me feel ancient,’ another responds.
‘Shut it, cheeky,’ says Maggie. Back to me. ‘There’s no need, Ray.’ She looks embarrassed.
I’
ve got to milk this.
‘Now what kind of friend would I be, Maggie…’
‘From what we’ve heard you guys have been way more than friends.’ More high squeals. Maggie looks like she wants to run away. I just grin. She throws me a “see you” look.
‘I’m going to have you, Littlejohn. And you, Weir.’
This is rewarded by a snort from one and a giggle from the other.
‘Excuse me a moment, ladies. I’ll just go to the bar,’ I say to a chorus of cheers.
Maggie follows me. ‘You don’t have to get me anything, Ray. My birthday isn’t really until tomorrow. But this was the best night to get everyone together.’ We reach the bar. ‘But if you insist.’ Cheeky grin. ‘You can get me this one.’ She pulls a menu out from a stand, and her finger-nail, painted deep red and crested with a diamante, rests on the description: “The granddad of all prestige cuvee champagnes, truly iconic. Moët ensure pristine quality, regardless of the volume produced. The 2000 vintage is full of life, with vibrant fruit and a piercing intensity of dried fruits, cocoa and vanilla.” It is indeed a Dom Perignon and comes in at a wallet busting £140.
‘You can fuck right off,’ is my succinct reply.
A waiter approaches. Male. If he’s a day over twenty-one, I’ve got fifteen toes. Shaved head, skin so fresh it looks like he applies it each morning and sporting a beard so thick and bushy it could have come right out of a photo of the troops in the American Civil War.
Surreal.
‘Am I drunk already?’ I ask Maggie.
‘What can I get you, sir?’ he asks.
I drag Maggie’s finger up the page. Find a price that suits. £47.
‘That one.’ I fish my credit card out of my wallet.
‘What? No moths?’ grins Maggie.
‘It is a special day.’ Caught up in the moment, I lean forward and kiss her. On the lips. Maggie steps back. Flushed. I hear a comment from the table.
Bad Samaritan Page 6
