‘Oh, Maggie could be getting a birthday shag after all.’ Cue more giggles.
‘Ignore them,’ Maggie says.
‘They seem a good bunch,’ I say.
‘Could do a lot worse,’ she replies with a fond smile. She touches her lips with the tips of her fingers. Lightly. Then scratches her cheek, deflecting my vision.
‘So,’ she says.
‘So.’
‘Haven’t heard from you…’
‘Been busy. Lots of bad people out there,’ I say, thinking, when did we get this awkward? Is it because her pals are here? I lean forward with a grin. ‘I suppose a birthday shag is out of the question?’
She laughs. Head back. Sounds like the scatter of gold coins on a cobbled street. God, she looks gorgeous.
‘Takes more than a fifty quid bottle of champagne,’ she replies.
‘We could do a lot worse than each other, you know.’
‘Yeah. Well. Not going there, Ray. Not tonight.’ She opens her mouth as if she’s going to say more. Then changes her mind. ‘Did you really come in here tonight on a case?’
‘Aye.’ Shit. I’d momentarily forgot. ‘Looking for a couple of young women.’
‘Oh, aye?’
‘Aye. Friends, sorry, acquaintances, of a girl that was murdered.’
Maggie shivers. ‘Right.’ She coughs. ‘Let’s not go there either. It’s my birthday.’ She turns to the bar. ‘And where’s that handsome young barman with my champagne?’
Just then Beardy appears. In his hand the foiled neck of a bottle jutting out from a silver bucket full of ice.
‘How many glasses, sir?’
‘Don’t worry about glasses, son,’ says Maggie. ‘We’ve got a sufficiency. Unless, of course, you want to join us, Ray?’
‘I’ll just have a glass of fresh orange.’ I say to the barman. I scan the room. No sign of the girls I’m looking for.
‘Not here?’ asks Maggie.
‘No.’
‘Come and sit with us then.’
‘Ach, I’ll just be cramping your style.’
‘Ach nothing. Get over yourself, McBain.’
The women at the table cheer when they see us returning with the gold-foil-topped bottle. And give each other knowing looks. I carry a chair over from another table, take a seat and the next half hour flows past in a flurry of laughs and chatter. I almost hold my own, but the women are too quick even for me. Taking the chance when the conversation moves to the far end of the table, the woman beside me, Gillian, moves in close. She puts a hand on my thigh and says, ‘You could do a lot worse than our Maggie, you know.’
‘I know.’
‘You men. I’ll never understand you.’
Maggie looks at us, a quizzical expression light on her face. ‘What are you cooking up, Littlejohn?’
‘Me? Nothing.’ She leans back in her chair and takes a sip of her champagne. ‘Just telling Ray here that you’re not getting any younger.’
‘Ha,’ Maggie laughs. Then she shakes her head. ‘See what I’ve to put up with?’
The rest of the conversation goes past me as I noticed a group of young people enter. Three boys, two girls. I recognise the girls from their photos – thank you, Facebook. I consider how I’m going to get a chance to talk to the girls on their own, when I see the group split by gender. Good. I wait until the girls are settled at a table with their drinks before I go and talk to them about a murder.
12
There’s a line of weak light coming through a small space in the curtains. It divides the room, slices through a pile of hastily shed clothes on the floor, before it reaches the bed and the naked woman lying beside me. She turns to face me, a smile on her face.
‘Well, happy birthday to me,’ she sings.
I lean forward and kiss her. Long and slow.
‘Ooh,’ she chuckles when our faces part. ‘Tongues and everything.’
‘Well, it is your birthday.’
She laughs.
‘Don’t know how many times you said that last night,’ I say.
‘How many times did we…’
‘Three.’
‘Well, there you go.’ She cuddles into me, her naked skin lining mine. Makes a small groan of pleasure. ‘Can we stay here all day? I don’t want to leave this bed ever.’
My belly rumbles in response. We both laugh.
‘Can we leave it for some food?’ I ask.
She nods. ‘And while you’re up, making me bacon and eggs, have a shower first, eh?’ She sniffs at my armpit. Makes a face. ‘You’re minging.’
I jump out of bed and feel incredibly energised despite having had little, make that no, sleep. ‘Kitchen?’
‘That’s right.’ Maggie sits up on the bed and makes a face. ‘You’ve never been in my flat before. Second door on the left as you go into the hall. The first door is the toilet. Where the shower resides.’
‘OK. Towel?’ I ask with a distracted tone. I’m too busy enjoying the view of her naked breasts.
‘There should be one in the bathroom. And don’t stare at a lady. It’s rude.’ She grins and makes no move to cover up.
* * *
The shower is one of those power ones. The water drills onto my scalp and shoulders. I turn my face up to the flow and feel it drum on to my forehead. Then I realise I’m humming. Bugger me. Ray McBain making happy noises. So that’s what a night of sex can do for you.
Then I realise it’s not the sex. I’m not anxious to run for the hills. I want to stay.
It’s Maggie.
Another realisation. I hadn’t thought of the case for hours. Welcome to the human race, Ray.
My chat with Aileen’s Facebook “friends” was a bust.
They were both sitting with a glass of something, spiked with a straw, their iPhones face up, resting just a fingertip away. They barely looked at me when I introduced myself. Made a slight face of recognition when I mentioned Aileen’s name and scarcely raised enough interest to acknowledge that they knew her. I asked a few questions and got a series of ‘dunnos’ in reply.
Thinking about it while I am standing in the shower, and it occurs to me that they were more concerned that I was putting a dampener on their evening than they were that someone they knew had been murdered.
‘So, what can you tell me about that evening?’ I asked again.
‘Nothing,’ the Claire one said, flicking her long, black hair out of the way before she leaned forward to sip at her drink through a red-striped straw.
‘Look, mate,’ Emma said, finally showing some animation. ‘We didn’t really know her that well. To tell you the truth, and I don’t want to speak ill of the dead, but she kinda, like, stalked us, you know? Made the mistake of making her our Facebook friend and she knows everything about us and always makes sure she’s with us and trying to worm her way into our company. Not cool, man.’
When did we all suddenly become American?
‘Did you see her that night? Anything you can tell me might help catch the man that killed her.’
Emma blew out of her pursed mouth, sat back in her chair and crossed her arms. ‘She came over and joined us, her and that chunky mate of hers.’ She looked over at Claire. ‘Karen?’
‘Aye. Karen,’ Claire snorted. ‘They’re still into Twilight. How sad is that? I’m like grow up, ladies.’
‘How would you describe the relationship between Aileen and Karen?’ I asked. Don’t know why I did, but the words come out before I could edit.
‘What?’ Claire leaned forward. ‘Do you think they were lezzies or something?’
‘There are all kinds of relationships. Family, friends, colleagues … not just sexual ones. We’re relating right now.’
‘Ewwww,’ both girls grimaced at exactly the same time.
Claire thought for a moment.
‘Aileen was the boss. Karen followed her about like a wee puppy. Like she was totally in love with her or something.’
‘Hence the lezzy response,’ Emma said. The insouciant pose had momentarily gone and I could see from her direct gaze that there was a sharp mind in there. She just didn’t want me to see it.
‘And she was delighted when Aileen and her boyfriend fell out. Even we understood that.’
‘Simon?’ I asked.
Claire squinted. ‘Don’t think that was his name…’
‘Ian,’ said Emma. ‘Or…’ Looked at Claire. ‘Jack?’
‘There was a Ian and a Jack?’ I asked.
‘Yeah, after Aileen and Simon split she had a couple of one-nighters. Nothing serious you know?’
‘How do you know all this, Emma?’ asked Claire.
‘Hello, Facebook,’ she answered. ‘And Aileen pure cornered me one night in the loos over at the student union and poured her heart out.’ She made a face.
‘You poor thing,’ said Claire. ‘Where was I?’
‘You were shagging that English guy you said had a tiny penis and could barely get it up.’
Both girls threw their heads back and laughed. We’d moved from barely wanting to speak to over-sharing in just a few short minutes. It was like some silent signal had passed between them that it was OK to talk.
Someone’s phone pinged. Both girls looked at theirs. Exchanged a glance that said it was nothing, really.
‘Back to Ian and Jack?’
‘Yeah…’ Emma looked pointedly at her empty glass. I took the hint, asked what the girls would like to drink and went to the bar.
Drinks replenished, I steered the conversation back to the boys.
‘So. Ian and Jack. What can you tell me about them?’
‘Not much. Both were one-offs from what I could gather. Aileen dumped Simon. Realised it was a mistake. Tried to get him back, and then when he didn’t come running back with his tail between his legs Aileen went out with other guys to try and make him jealous,’ answered Emma.
‘I got the impression that Simon dumped Aileen to go out with her pal?’
‘Nah, Aileen said that was what she told her olds…’
‘Olds?’
‘Parents.’ Claire gave me a look that asked: don’t you know anything?
‘Yeah, so, she told that to her parents.’ Emma made a face. ‘You don’t want them to really know what’s going on, do you? And besides, Ian and Jack are players. Well, Jack is. Ian hangs on his rep. They’re all about shagging as many girls as they can, you know? And when Aileen didn’t give them everything they wanted, they moved on. But they’d hang out now and again. Like pals.’
‘Hey.’ Claire pushed at her friend’s shoulder. ‘How do you know all this?’
Emma tried not to look too pleased with herself and had a sip of her drink. ‘I pay attention, Claire. Gossip are us.’
‘Simon. What do you know about him?’ I asked.
‘He didn’t do it, did he?’ asked Emma as she crossed her arms and furrowed her brow.
‘My dad says there’s no smoke without fire,’ said Claire.
‘Yeah, it’s all over Facebook that Aileen’s dad kicked the shit out of him.’
‘How did I miss that?’ asked Claire.
‘There’s no evidence that links Simon to her murder. He’s just helping us with our enquiries,’ I said, trying to calm the conversation down.
‘Yet,’ said Emma. ‘No evidence yet.’
‘Yeah, Aileen’s dad wouldn’t take a flaky like that without something concrete, eh?’ said Claire. She shivered. ‘Jeez, we could have been speaking to a murderer.’
‘You wanted to go out with him at one point. You could have done more than just speak to him,’ said Emma.
‘Man, you are creeping me out.’ Claire crossed her arms and her eyes clouded. Then she reached out and pushed her drink away from her. Looked like a good time was no longer on the menu.
‘Look, ladies,’ I said. ‘We have to speak to Simon given their past relationship, but that doesn’t mean he did it. I can’t say any more than that. So please don’t go making any assumptions.’
Claire looked over at Emma. ‘I’d quite like to go home now. Should we phone a taxi?’
‘Our flat is just up the road, Claire,’ said Emma.
‘Yeah, but…’ and she looked like a wee girl who is missing her father.
‘Listen, guys, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to frighten you. You’re in no more danger out on the streets now than you were when you came in an hour ago,’ I said. Two pairs of large eyes looked back at me. ‘Finish your drinks. Look after each other, eh?’
* * *
Maggie sticks her head in the bathroom door.
‘You turned into a prune yet?’ she asks. Steps inside and hands me a towel. She looks me up and down with a grin. ‘Least I know you’re clean.’
‘Stop leering at me.’ I wrap the towel round my waist. ‘Unless you want morning sex?’ I grab her and hold her close.
‘No thanks, Ray. I need fed, and I need to get to work.’ She sheds her dressing gown and steps beyond me into the shower. I stare at her small but pert breasts, the narrow of her waist and the flare of her hips. I make a yum sound.
She laughs and pushes me away. ‘Get dry and make me some breakfast, will you?’
‘Say pretty please.’
‘Piss off. And bacon and eggs will do nicely, thanks.’
* * *
At the breakfast bar in her small kitchen we’re sitting on stools facing each other. Both of us grinning. It occurred to me that the last time we were this familiar it didn’t end so well, and I’m trying to work out why.
‘It was just a birthday shag,’ Maggie says.
I feel my stomach twist. ‘Right,’ is all I can say, and I study my plate.
‘I was using you for birthday sex.’
I look up at her, and she’s wearing a huge smile.
‘It was more than that, and you know it,’ I say.
‘Do I?’
I get off my stool and walk towards her. Move in between her open legs. Kiss her bacon fat smeared lips. ‘Aye. This is the happiest I’ve felt in a long time.’
‘One shag doesn’t make a summer.’
I laugh. ‘If that’s not the expression it should be.’
Her expression shifts to sombre. ‘I fell in love with you a long time ago, Ray.’
‘Feels like I just caught up with you.’ I kiss her again, and I don’t want to stop.
She pushes me away. ‘Let’s just take it one day at a time, eh?’
‘I’ve just had a thought.’
‘What?’
‘It’s really your birthday today, isn’t it?’
She smiles.
‘So we can do the whole birthday sex thing again tonight.’
13
The only light in the room was a flicker from the television, sound turned down to allow the older man on the sofa to sleep.
From his vantage point on the armchair, Jim Leonard assessed Robert Ford, stretched full length on the sofa, head propped on the cushioned arm, hands on his stomach, and thought it looked as if he was posing for his coffin. The only sign that the man was alive was the slight rise and fall of his chest.
They had been watching one of those Scandinavian crime dramas, so beloved of the great unwashed, when Jim became aware that Robert was no longer engaged in the programme and had fallen into sleep.
Jeez, it was boring, thought Jim looking back at the TV. Who cares if these people get killed? And he could care even less if the murderer got caught. And was it supposed to make it more interesting if they all spoke some indecipherable language? And what’s with subtitles?
Father Stephen had been in earlier. Pleased to see that Jim was still keeping Robert compan
y after his brother died. Said Jim was a saint. A Samaritan for helping the old fella cope with his grief. A bad Samaritan maybe, thought Jim.
The initial kick was fantastic. It was close to the feeling he got after a kill. But killing people could get him locked up, and he hoped this might be the next best thing. But as the old man’s grief inevitably quietened, and he became a shuffling, mumbling wreck, the charge he received from feeding on it was almost unnoticeable.
He had attempted to stoke it up on a couple of occasions. Asked Robert to remember happy times with his brother, but the response was less than gratifying. He wanted to talk about his brother less and less and would wander in to another room in the house, fall into a chair and stare at the wall. He was Scottish, he told Jim. He didn’t talk about his feelings unless it was about football or if he’d just drunk a barrel of whisky.
Jim looked at the TV screen. Someone was running for their life. He stretched out his legs and crossed them at the ankle. The poor sap on the telly, and of course it was a woman, would inevitably trip and fall, allowing her potential killer to catch up with her.
Yup. There she was. Caught. Now she was kicking and squealing. Fighting the inescapable fate the TV writers had dreamt up for her. Jim watched the killer, and it was his hands round the woman’s neck. His knee pinning her to the ground. His nose that could smell her panic. His heart that was racing to the charge of an impending death.
The programme ended with a blare of music and was replaced with some adverts and then a news bulletin. A familiar face filled the screen. McBain. Wearing an ill-fitting collar and tie. Talking about a recent murder. Jim could lip-read the words “helping us with our enquiries” only because it was such a cliché. And didn’t McBain look pleased with himself. Jim considered turning up the volume so he could hear what he was saying, but he couldn’t take his eyes off the TV long enough to locate the remote.
McBain.
All these years later and he, apart from Jim, was the only one of the kids involved in that death in Bethlehem House – his first murder – who was still alive. Something needed to be done about that, thought Jim. He gripped the soft arms of his chair. Felt the twist, then the surge and soar of cleansing, purposeful hate. Unfinished business.
Bad Samaritan Page 7
