Bad Samaritan

by Michael J Malone

  29

  We’re back in the office. I’m staring at a dark computer screen and thinking I’ll switch it on in a minute. Ale is looking at me as if I’ve got a ponytail growing out of one of my nostrils.

  ‘What?’ I demand.

  ‘What was that all about?’ she asks, and with a sharp movement of her head indicates Peters’ desk.

  ‘The man’s a bawbag, Ale. The sooner we all accept that the better,’ I answer, trying to dampen down my irritation at the man. As soon as we were back in the office, he was over checking if we had anything to add to the investigation. A perfectly reasonable thing to do, but coming from him, and in addition being a reminder of how I had fucked things up, I all but told him to go fuck himself.

  ‘You’ll get no argument from me on that score, Ray. But if you want to be kept on this case … kept in the office and not forced to take leave … you need to accept he’s chief investigating officer and give him the details he needs to know.’ She leans forward and pins me in my seat with a look.

  ‘I know,’ I say and exhale. ‘Every time I see his ugly face I just want to take a cheese grater to it.’

  ‘Take another deep breath, Ray,’ Ale says. Smiles. ‘Out with anger and in with love.’

  ‘Fuck off, Rossi.’

  We share a laugh, and I feel a little of the tension lift.

  I push a button and my computer flares into life. My email inbox is a tad on the busy side. You have 187 unread emails, it tells me. I groan and scroll down the senders and headings. One jumps out at me and with a self-satisfied smile I aim my mouse and click. The satisfaction comes from the fact that the medical guys don’t know that Peters has taken over the case and that this should have gone to him.

  It’s the post-mortem report, and I have to read it several times before I can make any sense of the medical speak. It seems that poor Aileen Banks suffered from an extradural haemorrhage caused by a ruptured middle meningeal artery.

  The forensics person has invited me to phone them if I have any questions. I dial their number.

  ‘DI Ray McBain here,’ I say when they answer. ‘Thanks for your report…’ I read the name on the email, ‘Doctor Flannery.’

  ‘You have questions?’ she asks with a soothing lilt that has strains of the song ‘Molly Malone’ running through it.

  ‘Yeah. If you could translate for this thick Jock, that would be grand.’

  ‘Happy to, DI McBain.’

  ‘Call me Ray.’ And I want to keep this young woman talking. For hours if need be.

  ‘Happy to, Ray…’ She infuses my name with a smile that carries down the line. ‘This is the file for Aileen Banks, yes? Extradural haemorrhage or EDH is most often due to a fractured temporal or parietal bone damaging the middle meningeal artery or vein, with blood collecting between the dura and the skull.’ Before I can interrupt, she adds quickly, ‘It is typically caused by trauma to the temple just beside the eye.’

  ‘Right,’ I say.

  ‘Remember that young Aussie cricketer who died last year?’

  ‘You’re speaking to a Scotsman and you’re referencing a cricket incident?’ I say, but a TV news report flashes up from my memory. A fast ball to the temple and in a terrible accident a young man dies playing the sport he loves.

  ‘Sorry,’ she laughs.

  ‘No worries,’ I say. ‘I have a faint memory of some poor kid getting hit on the head and dying a couple of days later.’

  ‘Well, this is the same kind of injury. But in this instance death happened a good deal sooner. I would suggest within minutes, rather than days.’

  With that pearl of information, my instinct to continue to flirt with Dr Flannery is completely curbed.

  ‘And another thing you need to consider,’ she says after a pause for thought, ‘is that people who suffer this often have a lucid period straight after the injury. So your girl might not have suffered the injury where she was found.’

  ‘So she could have been struck and moved, of her own volition, somewhere else where she deteriorated and died?’

  ‘Yeah. This happened late in the evening? In the city centre?’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘Someone could have seen her. Thought she was drunk and without realising that she was dying, left her to sober up.’

  I shudder at this.

  ‘Any way of telling if that’s what happened here?’

  ‘Sorry, no. I’m just giving you a hypothetical. She could have been struck and died on the spot, but in many of these injuries … we reckon about a third … the wounded is able to move and speak and all that before they deteriorate into death.’

  I thank her and she rings off.

  ‘And?’ Ale is in my face.

  I relay the information.

  ‘Bloody hell,’ she replies and shakes her head. ‘Poor girl. The thought of her staggering about, dying and people thinking she’s just pissed…’

  We lapse into silence, each of us lost in our imaginings of the Aileen Banks’s last moments. Guilt sours my mouth. If I hadn’t been so lost in my own troubles we could have found the guy who did this.

  ‘Don’t go there, Ray,’ says Ale.

  ‘What are you…’

  ‘I can tell what you’re thinking. What’s past is past. We’re in a better place now. Thinking what might have been isn’t going to help.’

  ‘Sure, sure,’ I reply in imitation of the nosy neighbour. Humour is my line of last defence as I deflect from how accurately Ale read me. But still…

  I see her again. Beside the dumpster. Confused. Scared.

  Dying.

  ‘We need to go and have another look at the CCTV pictures,’ I say. Something is nagging at my mind. There’s something obvious here that we’re missing.

  ‘DNA results in yet?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You’re chasing them, right?’

  Ale gives me a look, as if to say, don’t push it, mate. Then reaches for her mouse. Clicks a couple of times. Reads something from the screen and then punches a number into her desk phone. Speaks. Listens. Hangs up.

  ‘There’s a backlog.’

  ‘There’s always a fucking backlog.’

  ‘Another couple of days is what they’re saying.’

  * * *

  We’ve been sitting here for hours, and I’m wondering if your eyes can get repetitive strain injury. We’re in CCTV central. Banks of screens and rows of seated viewers. How the hell can they keep their concentration, I wonder?

  The staff were incredibly helpful. Probably relieved to get away from the tedium. They provided a desk and a screen and quickly linked in to the date and area of the city we were interested in.

  I lean my head back, twist from side to side and hear the bones grind. I stretch my arms out to each side and groan.

  ‘If this was TV they’d have seen something by now,’ Ale says.

  ‘Yeah, well, what can I say? Life disappoints.’

  ‘And on that philosophical note…’ Ale moves her eyes from mine to the screen in front of us. ‘Jesus, the things you see when you’ve not got a gun.’

  The street is empty apart from one man. He’s walking strangely. Then he stops. Looks around to see if he has an audience. Then he reaches back between his cheeks and has an energetic scratch. Clearly this isn’t sufficient, because then he slips his hand under the waist band of his trousers and goes at it again. We can see the look of relief on his face and Ale giggles.

  Just then a couple walks into view. Hand in hand. They exchange a look as they assess the antics of the young man. They are too far away from the camera for us to make out their features. But something about the woman has me on alert.

  ‘That’s Helen Davis,’ I say and pause the action on the screen.

  Ale leans forward. Peers. ‘So it is.’

  We both look at
the man. And if my expression is a mirror image of Ale’s, my mouth is hanging open.

  ‘Oh my God,’ we both say at exactly the same time.

  30

  ‘Tell me about your twin’, Leonard types.

  ‘Happy to. But this is about you’, Simon replies.

  ‘I’m still a bit shaky discussing this. I’ve never talked about it with anyone. It helps me to know that you understand how it feels. To have a twin. Are you identical?’

  ‘Yes. Although, as we’ve grown older we’re looking less and less alike.’

  ‘How come?’

  ‘He’s into sports. I’m a desk jockey. Spend most of my time on the computer.’

  ‘What sports is he into?’

  ‘Rugby. Trains hard for it. Has a neck thicker than one of my thighs.’

  ‘So, people won’t ever mistake you for one another?’

  ‘They used to. All the time. We had fun with it. But now it never happens, cos I’m so skinny. With a grey complexion. Did you and your twin get mixed up?’

  ‘Constantly. ‘

  ‘Tell me more.’

  ‘The nuns put a sticking plaster on the back of our necks. With our names written on them. People used to have to turn us round to check who they were talking to.’

  ‘Nuns?’

  ‘It was an orphanage and old folks’ home, run by an order of nuns.’

  ‘Were they nice?’

  There’s a pause while Leonard counts out a minute.

  ‘They were not.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘What for? You weren’t there.’

  ‘If I hit a nerve.’

  ‘I was trying to work out a way to answer. I went with honest and succinct.’

  ‘Always a good combo I find. Back to you and your twin. Did you have fun with the whole identical thing?’

  ‘No. We were too scared.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Of being caught. The nuns were a bit too handy with their fists.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘You need to stop apologising. What kind of things did you and your twin do?’

  ‘It was mostly at school. One of us would misbehave and then we would blame each other until the teacher was dizzy with it. And we both got detention.’

  ‘In my day it was The Belt.’

  ‘Mum used to talk about that. Was it sore?’

  ‘Depends on who was giving it to you. Some teachers used to make it their mission to cause suffering. Others hated it and would barely use the thing.’

  ‘What was your twin’s name?’

  Leonard paused before answering. Counted out two minutes on the computer clock.

  ‘John.’

  ‘Sorry. That was clearly difficult for you.’

  ‘You’re going to have to stop saying sorry. Lol.’

  Leonard hated the use of “lol”, and even using it with a sense of irony made him want to hurt someone. But sometimes you had to use all of the tools at your disposal if you wanted to make a connection.

  ‘Oops. Almost did it there again. Tell me about the orphanage.’

  ‘We used to call it The Home. And it just occurred to me that there is a subtle but powerful distinction between calling it home and calling it The Home.’

  ‘Yeah. I “hear” you. Did it feel like home?’

  ‘Felt like a place where we were parked until the adults worked out what to do with us. The word “home” has connotations of safety, love and comfort. The Home had little of any of those three words. What kind of home did you and your brother have?

  Dad died when we were young. Army. Afghanistan. Mum was amazing. And tough on us. Didn’t let us away with anything.’

  ‘Good for her. Did you miss having a positive male influence in your life? Boys do need their dads.’

  ‘You don’t think about those things as a kid. You just get on with it. As long as there was food on the table, cartoons on TV and a decent internet connection, I was sorted. What helped you get through your time in the home?’

  Leonard considers typing the truth for a moment. Helping a group of friends, including an almost famous police detective, murder an old man we thought was terrorising us. He grins at the thought of the impact this might have. Goes for…

  ‘Comics. I loved Superman and Batman and all those guys. Perfect escapism for a lonely wee boy.’

  Which is of course a lie. Why would you want to help people? Unless it was for your own brutal ends.

  ‘Do you miss your twin?’

  ‘Every day.’

  ‘What’s your abiding memory of him?’

  He pauses. Knows the boy is really looking for something pleasant. Considers the truth. And nods to himself.

  ‘He wet the bed pretty much every night. The usual cure was to be woken up at 5am and dumped in a bath of cold water. This morning his “carer” decided that he should learn a lesson and she stripped his pyjamas from him, wrapped him up in his piss-sodden sheets and left him there for hours while the rest of us went to morning mass and had breakfast. He was suffering from bronchitis at the time. It developed into pneumonia and he died.’

  ‘Man, that’s awful.’

  ‘Yup.’

  ‘How did you feel?’

  Leonard stops. That’s enough, he thinks. If the boy wants more, he’s going to have to earn it.

  ‘I’ve said enough. There are some places I can’t quite go yet. At least not remotely like this.’

  ‘That’s a shame. It feels like we’re making some kind of breakthrough here. Please go on.’

  Leonard can almost see the desperation to help. This boy really is a Samaritan.

  ‘Can’t. Just can’t.’

  ‘What would it take?’

  ‘In person? I could maybe open up in person.’

  ‘Can’t do that. Not part of the deal.’

  ‘Please? I really do feel we would get somewhere if we were face to face.’

  ‘Sorry.’

  He takes a gamble.

  ‘I live in central Scotland. We could meet up in, say, Glasgow?’

  ‘It’s really not allowed.’

  Leonard counts out two minutes. It feels like such a long time while online, even to him. Then…

  ‘Please?’

  There’s a pause for about forty-five seconds while the boy debates. Then two letters appear.

  ‘ok’.

  31

  ‘Bless me Father, for I have sinned. It has been a few days since my last confession,’ I blurt out, like the words are scalding me.

  ‘Would you rather go into the actual confessional box for this?’ the young priest asks. We’re sitting side by side on one of the pews.

  I shake my head.

  ‘Thanks for opening up for me at this time of the…’ I try to assess the weak light coming in through the high windows of the church and settle for ‘…morning.’ I haven’t managed to look him in the eye yet, embarrassed that I’m here. But the space around us is having the effect I hoped it might. The air is cool and filled with the scent of old wood and incense, and the air around me echoes with the easing of sin.

  ‘Your need was urgent. Judging by the energy you were putting in to knocking the door.’ His tone is chiding, but his expression is soft with a heavy-eyed smile.

  ‘Sorry,’ I say and look up at him. His eyes are thick with sleep, his hair dishevelled and his breath wears a hint of smoke, peat and the isles. This note of whisky makes him seem more human, and I offer a weak smile of acknowledgement. ‘And thanks.’

  ‘We do suffer the odd piece of vandalism here, so there’s a wee CCTV camera above the door. I saw it was you and came down.’

  I suddenly feel cold and cross my arms. ‘Thanks,’ I repeat, and I’m aware of his scrutiny. Empathy is cast in the shape
of his eyes and the slump of his shoulders. I want to punch him. I want him to hug me and tell me everything will be alright.

  ‘What’s going on, DI McBain?’

  ‘You know me?’

  ‘I recognised you last time. You were on TV talking about a big case.’

  ‘Call me Ray.’

  ‘What’s going on, Ray?’

  I look up. Meet his eyes, open my mouth and the words are trapped down the swell of my throat along with every anxious moment.

  ‘Take a breath,’ he says. ‘We’ve got all…’ his turn to look at the windows. ‘…morning.’ I hear the humour in his tone and manage a laugh. To my ears it sounds like a grunt.

  ‘I’m OK when I’m at work. Or, I should say, I’m almost OK at work. But when I’m home … the TV, a wee cuddle with the girlfriend distracts for a wee while, but when the world’s asleep…’

  ‘You’re alone with your thoughts and a tuned-up imagination?’

  ‘Something like that,’ I answer and think of Maggie curled up on her side, facing away from me and knowing that she’s awake and worried as I go through the pantomime of silently dressing and leaving the house. But that’s preferable to the roar of my pulse in my ear and the silent scream locked into the muscles of my jaw.

  ‘Do you have any support available from your employers?’

  ‘I had a good day today.’ I look at him. ‘So why was I so…’ I can’t find the right words. ‘I had to get out of the house. If my girlfriend had said anything to me I think I would have exploded.’ I feel the shame of that last sentence burn and hang my head.

  ‘It’s a pity that the ones we love often get the worst of us,’ the priest acknowledges. ‘Tell me why was today such a good day at work?’

  ‘This is under the confessional seal, right?’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘We saw CCTV footage from the night Aileen Banks died. Her boyfriend’s mother was out on the town. Walking along the street just yards from where her body was found.’

  ‘Right.’ There’s a note of interest from the priest.

  ‘But that’s not all. She was with someone. A man.’ I know he’s not going to say anything to anyone, but I can’t bring myself to say his name.

  He recognises this and asks, ‘And that feeling of having achieved something didn’t last when you got home?’