‘Never say never, but that guy made mice seem positively gregarious.’
‘Ooo, gregarious. Who’s been reading their word-of-the-day toilet paper again?’
Ale shoots him the finger.
They both sit for a few minutes in silence. Each lost in their own conjecture. Ale chases one thought down after another. Frustrated by the lack of a result in this case and even by the lack of answers.
‘Where’s McBain?’ Ale asks.
‘Buggered if I know.’
Back to silence.
Then.
‘What else did you get from the scene-of-the-crime guys?’ asks Drain.
‘Just what we talked about there. No weapon found at the scene, so the perp likely took it away with him.’
‘What was Cook carrying?’
Ale looks at her notebook. Reads, ‘Wallet, matriculation card, twenty quid in notes. Driver’s licence. Mobile phone.’ Looks over at Daryl. ‘So, it wasn’t a robbery gone wrong. Nothing seems to be missing.’ Pause. ‘I’ve asked them to…’
There’s a knock at the door. A young officer sticks his head in. Short black hair, thick with gel. White shirt, blue tie. Takes one look at Ale and gets his dimples on. Jesus, thinks Ale. Save me from the office Lothario. Thinks flashing the enamel is all he needs to do to get into a girl’s pants. Ale is aware that being one of the few women in the department means there is endless speculation about who is shagging her. Consequently, when the subject comes round she’s as quiet as a nun in cloisters. And she gives nothing back when someone tries to flirt with her. She knows it drives them nuts. While there is no way any one of these guys is going to get groiny with her, she’s not averse to fucking with their minds.
He walks over to her desk. Sucking in his gut as he draws nearer.
‘Can you sign for this, DC Rossi?’ he asks. His extends his right hand, which is holding a small bundle. Ale recognises the formal packaging, and she grabs it from him.
‘Just in good time,’ she says, deliberately avoiding his eye. Looks at Drain. ‘It’s the phone.’
‘Sweet.’
They both look at the young cop.
‘You can run along now,’ says Ale.
Drain makes a shooing motion with his hands.
‘I hope the tech guys have unlocked it,’ says Ale as she pulls off the packaging. She’s aware that the deliverer is hovering at the door for a moment longer than he needs to, just in case. She gives him nothing. Holds the phone out in front of her. It’s a Samsung and yes, it is unlocked. There are a number of apps on the home screen. The usual social networks are there. She enters Facebook.
‘Bloody hell,’ she says. ‘There are literally hundreds of messages on here.’ She groans. ‘It’s going to take ages to get through all these.’
She reads a few. ‘Seems like our Ian is suddenly popular. Can you believe he’s had twenty friend requests since the news broke?’
‘People want to be friends with a corpse?’ Daryl checks for understanding. ‘I’ve heard everything now.’ He grins. ‘You should accept them and see what reaction you get.’
‘Now that would be unprofessional and worthy of disciplinary action,’ she admonishes him. ‘But it would be hilarious.’ She scrolls through some more. Thinks out loud. ‘Probably best to check what was going on in his timeline last night.’ She does so. But there are no entries for the last couple of days.
Daryl reads her expression. ‘How about you look at what his mates are saying now? Or what they were saying last night?’
Ale nods in agreement and moves about on the screen. ‘His BFF is a guy called Jack…’ She scrolls some more. ‘And here he is.’
He’s changed his profile picture to one that shows him and Ian Cook together. They each have an arm over the other’s shoulder, and they’re flashing white. Jack’s smile says, ladies I’m chocolate and you want to eat me. Ian’s says, you really do and I’m happy to take his leftovers.
A message alert comes through. Someone called Billy-Bhoy. And Ale is thinking, there’s a nice mix of Glasgow’s leading cultures right there. Billy for the “celebrated” William of Orange who is celebrated by a section of the Rangers fans. And Bhoy for the Celtic section of the city.
Billy, even in a Facebook post, is somewhat excitable. ‘Got the fucker. Spotted coming out of St Enochs.’
Jack replies. ‘No here, Billy. Ya bellend. Omerta!!!’
Ale wonders what the legendary Mafia code of silence has to do with a group of Glaswegian students. She looks down the side of the screen to see which groups Cook was a member of. She expects that if Jack is a member, Ian will be too.
There’s only one group. It’s called Omerta.
‘This detection thing is a piece of piss,’ she says to Daryl. ‘Especially when the people concerned are as thick as shit.’ A press of a finger and she’s in.
She can see there are seven members. And hello, here’s a familiar name. Karen Gardner. She’s the sole female. What on earth is she doing here? Before she can take this thought any further a new post comes through. Lee Kennedy is on Matt Davis’s tail. He wants “haunners”. A hand from his mates to take Davis on. They’re down the back of the St Enoch centre.
‘This guy done Ian,’ he posts. ‘Time for some payback.’
Ale grabs her jacket of the back of her chair. Stands up.
‘Right, DD. Things are about to get out of hand. We’re on.’
43
When Peters asked, no, commanded Ale to allow Simon Davis to go home, it was all I could do to keep my hands away from his throat.
I push my clenched fists into my trouser pockets and hold them there with all the strength I can muster. Ale looks at me as she leaves the room, offering a what-can-you-do shrug.
‘How the fuck did you ever get this job, Peters?’ I ask. I might even have sprayed some saliva over him.
He’s suddenly aware that he’s alone in the room with me and backs out.
‘Don’t worry,’ I say, aware that any response from me right now would be excessive. ‘Got to see a man about a dog.’ I brush past him and leave the room.
* * *
I’m breathing like an untrained marathon runner on the home strait. I somehow make it out the car park without assaulting anyone. But I do collect a lot of strange looks.
My neck heats. My heart beats a supercharged metronome against my ribs. Anxiety has narrowed my line of sight into a thin band of awareness. It’s like I’m looking in on myself, and I can’t affect what I’m doing.
Where has this come from? One moment I’m speaking to a colleague. The next, something switches, and I’m in full panic attack mode.
My next moment of awareness and I’m knocking on a tall, dark wooden door. It’s the church. And the door is locked. Who locks a fucking church door in the middle of the day?
I wait to hear the priest’s approaching footfall. Nothing.
I slide down the door until I’m sitting on my arse. Remember the breathing exercises. Focus on the in breath. Follow the exhalation. I imagine I’m inside the cool of the church and under the benevolent smile of the young priest.
Aww, man. How far have you fallen, McBain?
But it works. A little. My pulse has slowed to a jackhammer and my vision is restored. I breathe deep. In for a count of nine and out for nine.
This has to stop, McBain. This is no way to live. I don’t get fucking panic attacks.
All evidence to the contrary, you fanny.
Peters just followed protocol and his own internal dickhead rules and didn’t really deserve the kicking that I was desperate to give him.
I can’t believe that I’m reacting like this. This isn’t me. And if I’m being honest, Peters isn’t the issue. It’s Leonard. Missing him by hours. Can’t fucking believe it. Is he psychic or something? Did he know we were coming for him?
&
nbsp; A memory of my last visit to hospital just last year. I’d been stabbed in the arse by the deranged Moira Shearer when I acted to save the wee boy she’d kidnapped. Some important veins were cut apparently. The wounds were deep, and coming out of the fog of painkillers a familiar face hove into view. Leonard. And I was the only one who saw him. Or was it a drugged-up imagination?
No, it was him. He was keeping tabs on me then.
Is he still?
He must be. That leopard has indelible spots. And the fact is, he knows where I work. He can watch me on TV news. It wouldn’t prove too difficult to watch my movements.
I knock my head against the door. Calm down, McBain. You’re just being paranoid.
Just in case, I stand and walk back down to the street. Look left and right. Examine all of the people around me. An acne-scarred youth in a grey suit. A blonde beanpole in a red flowery dress and black leggings. A bald guy in faded jeans and dark blue casual jacket hoisting his backpack on to the other shoulder.
See, McBain. Nobody here who wants to kill you.
I hold my hands out in front of me. Hold them steady. Well, steadier.
Back to the breath.
In.
Out.
Can’t go back to the office. I pull out my phone and dial a number.
‘Converse,’ says a familiar voice.
‘Kenny, it’s Ray.’
‘Aye, Ray, I know. These modern phones have a thing where the name and number of the caller show on the screen.’ He laughs at his own joke. An alien sound to my ears. People still laugh?
‘Smartarse. What you up to? Want to play hookey?’
‘Sorry, buddy. Crime never sleeps. People to do, things to see.’
‘Round ye.’ I hang up.
Ray nae pals. Any other friend I have is in the police. They’re kind of busy.
I cough out a barking noise. It’s the closest thing I’ve got to laughter. This is what you’re reduced to, Ray. A priest, some polis or one of Glasgow’s most notorious.
Or Maggie.
I can’t. I’m just going to let her down. I recall what Kenny said. She has to be the one to say no, don’t you say it for her.
That face. That smile. The way she looks at me. Accepting. Whatever I say and do is alright by her. I don’t deserve her. I think of the people in my life. Clever, brave and resourceful, the lot of them. So why did they choose me? I’m letting them all down. They’d be better off without me.
My throat swells. Tightens.
Don’t fucking cry, ya big Jessie.
I clench my face against the emotion that threatens to swamp me.
I take a step forward. And another. It’s just like the breathing thing, isn’t it? One after the other.
The pavement is grey. Scarred with old gum and cigarette ends. I move over it, lost in thought and barely mindful of the noise of the city around me. Then, a phone rings. A girl laughs. Someone crunches his way through a bag of crisps. The rustle and bustle of life is all around me, and I feel removed from it all. Like a patient freshly anaesthetised, on the countdown from ten.
Central Station is on my left. A line of people, all of them wearing jackets in primary colours, waiting for the airport bus. Seems everyone but me has a purpose.
The bronze statue of the fireman. A city’s show of gratitude to the firemen who have died in service. I reach out a hand. Fingertips brushing his shoulder, hoping for a transfer of strength. Feel nothing but the indifference of the inanimate. Just like the people who are brushing past me on their rush to put meaning into the meaningless.
Past the Hielanman’s Umbrella. The old name always fascinated me. There’s no brolly here. It’s a bridge taking trains into Central Station from the south and west, over the top of Argyle Street. Tall windows with green painted frames. Under which those seeking escape from the Highland Clearances would shelter from the rain they must have thought had followed them on their long walk from the north.
And on down past the business section of the town and to the River Clyde, and I’ve walked back almost to the spot I started. The tall buildings here seem to amplify the sounds of the traffic, and it feels like a blessing when I reach the river. The water is high and dark. Oil spilled by the nearby water taxi leaves a trail that’s part rainbow, part dust and scum.
I lean on the railings and bend over to get a closer look. Feel the pull of the fall. If I just stretch up on to my toes. Lean forward a little more. It will be like there was no intention involved. A simple case of overextension. I’m not a good swimmer. It would be over in minutes.
Don’t they say that death by drowning is a peaceful way to go? Once the initial panic is over and death is accepted.
Then, finally, I would get peace from being haunted and hunted by my own thoughts.
Peace.
I knock my forehead with a fist. I just want the shit in my head to stop.
Checking to my left I see a stand for a lifebuoy. It’s empty. A victim of vandals. The lack of replacement probably the fault of austerity. All of which is helpful. Means no passing Samaritan will be able to help save me.
A dark-haired woman runs past me. She’s tall, lean, head-to-toe in lycra, and she has the ungainly grace of the practised but awkward. See. Anybody can run. All it takes is the effort and the right, tight clothing.
I feel the bite of the railing’s edge on my forearms and push myself back onto my heels. Away from the water’s invitation. I lean forward again, rest my forehead on the railing. Feel its chill. What are you doing, McBain? Could you?
A siren in the distance. Part of any city’s aural backdrop.
Something off to the left catches my eye. From here I can’t exactly tell what’s going on. People running. There’s nothing strange about that in this city. Seems every other person goes for a jog in their lunch break. But these guys didn’t get the joggers memorandum. They’re wearing jeans and jackets.
Jesus fuck. You can’t even contemplate topping yourself in this city without being interrupted by some idiots. Fuck them. Let them kill each other. Might mean one less scumbag for us to deal with.
44
Harrison is sitting behind his desk, hands clasped on the clear surface. He looks from Peters to me and then back again.
‘Somebody want to explain this cluster of fucks?’ he says.
As soon as I heard what had happened, I knew that the guys I witnessed running down Clyde Street were the boys involved in the drowning.
My intention was to leave them to it, but I spotted Daryl and Ale pass me in a car and brake sharply at the suspension bridge. I ran along the riverside to see what was happening, but by the time I arrived it was all over.
‘Following our intelligence,’ Peters says before I can open my mouth to answer, ‘we tracked Jack Foreman and some of his friends to Clyde Street where they chased and crowded round Matt Davis on the suspension bridge. Davis tried to fight them off, and by way of evasive action, he stood on the railings. We didn’t arrive in time to stop the fight, and Davis kicked out at the other boys, lost his balance and fell in to the water.’ He pauses. Actually looks shocked. ‘The lifebuoy at the Clyde Street end of the bridge was missing. By the time we sourced another one…’
And I’m thinking, prick, even when you speak you sound like you’re composing a report.
‘By the time Alessandra and Daryl checked the other end of the bridge, retrieved that lifebuoy and threw it to the boy, he had drowned,’ I interrupt. Can’t take any more of Peters’ voice.
‘And what was going on with you, Ray? DI Peters told me you had run out of the office a couple of hours earlier, like your coat was on fire.’ He stared at me as if he could read my thoughts.
I looked at Peters, a question and an accusation in my eyes. Back to Harrison, thinking, better just be honest. Up to a point.
‘I had a panic attack, boss.’
And I feel the heat of shame at saying the words out loud to colleagues. ‘I had to go out for some air.’
Harrison says nothing. Just looks at me. He’s choosing his words with his usual care. Everything that comes out of his mouth is badged with the words self-preservation. And when he does speak, these ones are no different. He’s distancing himself from this mess and firmly putting the blame on me and Peters. That Peters is also in the doghouse is a small consolation.
‘DI Peters, you are the chief investigating officer on this case. Are you out of your depth?’
‘Boss, I…’
‘Shut up. That was a rhetorical question.’ I steal a look at Peters, and he looks utterly deflated.
‘DI McBain? Would any of this mess have happened on your watch if you’d been on your game?’ And I wither under his stare. ‘If you’d had the balls to admit you were having problems and taken proper care of yourself, we would have managed to get an experienced CIO on this case, and perhaps those two boys would still be alive.’ He’s referring to Ian Cook and Matt Davis.
I hear the truth in what he says and feel my self-loathing go up a notch. There’s a warring thought that it might have helped if he had contributed to an atmosphere where that kind of honesty was even remotely possible.
‘Do you really think they’re all connected?’ asks Peters. ‘Cook was…’
‘A girl is murdered and two known associates die shortly afterwards. Of course they’re connected, you halfwit.’ Harrison stands. Shuffles. ‘Sadly, I was the one who put you in this position, Peters, and you’re all we have at the moment.’ He looks at me. ‘Ray. I don’t want to see you back in this office again until you have been signed off as fit for work.’
‘But, boss…’ I say.
‘But nothing,’ he interrupts. ‘You used to be one of the best officers under my command, Ray. Now…’ he tails off. Then quietly, with a hint of concern, ‘Go get help, Ray. That’s an order.’
* * *
Ale and Daryl are at their desks. They both look up as soon as I walk in the room.
Bad Samaritan Page 22
