‘OK. Cool.’ She straightens her jacket, checks the top button on her shirt. Wants to look the ultimate professional. Scare the shit out of Karen Gardner. She hadn’t said a word to the girl all the way here in the car. Allowing the silence to intimidate her.
‘Let’s allow Miss Gardner to stew a wee while longer. We’ll speak to Foreman first.’
She runs back to her office, picks up the photographs from her desk, puts them in a brown folder. Runs back.
Peters gives her a strange look.
‘Props,’ she answers and waves the folder at him. Peters opens the door. They walk in together and each take a seat in front of the young man. Ale gives him the once over. He’s wearing a plain, black t-shirt that looks like it might have been taken out of the to-be-washed basket and stretched out to try and get rid of the worst creases before being pulled on.
Foreman is slumped in his chair. Arms crossed, chin tucked into his chest and his eyes on a fixed point on the table between them. Peters clicks on the recorder and speaks to record who is present in the room.
‘Hi Jack,’ says Ale. ‘How are you doing?’ A little friendly voice might be just the thing to get him to open up. She places the folder on the table between them.
‘Oh, you know, dandy,’ Jack answers. Ale can read the small, frightened boy behind the attempt at bluster.
‘You understand the charges?’
He nods.
Peters says, ‘For the tape, Jack Foreman has nodded his assent to the question.’
Ale recalls the moment she arrived on the bridge and broke through the cluster of angry young men. Matt Davis was standing on the railing, holding on to the supports with his right hand. He swung out with his foot, trying to catch Jack on the side of the head. Jack moved out of reach. Ale was face on to him and could see at that moment he had come to his senses. The chase had got his blood up. And then at the moment that his prey was cornered and in a vulnerable position, his mood changed. Perhaps he recognised the danger Davis was in, for he then held a hand out.
What he said was lost in the shouts that were going on all around them, but to Ale it had the feel of being conciliatory.
‘I saw your face just before Matt Davis fell into the river.’
‘Aye. So?’
‘You realised that things had got out of hand, and you were trying to tell him that he was safe. You weren’t going to do anything.’
‘Doesn’t matter though, does it? He’s still deid,’ he says, and his eyes move from Ale to the wall to the right. He swallows, and Ale sees guilt and acceptance. Someone’s son is dead, and he was the ringleader in the chase to his death. What he doesn’t know yet is how he’s going to live with that fact. His chin falls onto his chest again.
‘Sure, there’s no way round the manslaughter charge, but the judge might go a little bit more lenient on sentencing if I testify that at the last moment, you changed. You tried to talk Davis down.’
‘Yeah. Well,’ he says. His eyes fill with tears. ‘I was so fucking angry. I wanted someone to know, you know. But I didn’t want anyone to die.’ He puts his head on the table and gives in to his tears.
‘Can we get you a glass of water, Jack?’
‘Nah,’ he sits up. Sniffs and wipes his face with his hands. ‘I’m just … I can’t believe this has happened.’
‘The defence will argue that the murder of your best friend, Ian Cook, drove you over the edge. That you’re normally not a violent guy.’
‘Yeah, well.’
‘You have no prior convictions. Not even a parking ticket.’
He nods. Remembers that Peters had to fill in for his last silent gesture, says, ‘Aye.’
‘And if you are seen to help us with our enquiries, all of this will be in your favour when it comes to sentencing.’
He’s listening intently now.
‘Right.’
‘So tell me, what was Ian Cook doing outside the Davises’ house on the night he was murdered?’
‘He was delivering a letter.’
‘A letter. As in, Dear Mrs Davis, you have a lovely home?’
He attempts a smile. Fails. ‘A letter as in, Dear Mrs Davis, your son is a murdering bastard.’
‘Is that not what Twitter and Facebook are for?’
‘Ian wanted to do it up close and personal.’
‘So it was Ian’s idea? The hate mail?’
He nods. Looks over at Peters and before he can speak, he says, ‘Yes, the hate mail was Ian’s idea.’
‘Why?’
‘He was convinced that Simon Davis had killed Aileen, and he didn’t want him to get away with it.’
‘Did he have any evidence?’
Jack looks surprised for a moment. ‘Evidence? No. He just knew.’
‘So, this was like, a superpower thing for him?’
Jack snorts. ‘Simon was the boyfriend. It’s usually the boyfriend, eh? He hated that Aileen was seeing other guys, so he went postal and in a moment of … I don’t know, rage, he kills her.’
‘And you have no evidence of this, other than Ian’s assertion?’
‘Makes sense to me.’
‘Right. You were an ex-boyfriend of Aileen’s. Why weren’t you on Ian’s suspect list?’
‘Cos we were together on the night Aileen died.’
‘All night? You never left each other’s sight?’
He looks vacant for a moment, and it’s as if he’s about to snort again and answer in the affirmative. ‘Well, we had to go to the loo and stuff.’ He thinks some more, obviously considering that his admission might make him a suspect. ‘But, like, it would have been just a few minutes. Not long enough to kill anyone.’
Ale is about to ask, how would you know how long it might take to kill someone, and decides that might not be wise.
‘…and Ian has the odd smoke when he has a beer, so he would have left me to go outside for a cig. Other than that. We were together all evening.’
‘What happened with you and Aileen?’
‘Wasn’t much of a thing. Really.’ His expression is apologetic as if he’s sorry he’s about to be disrespectful to the dead. ‘There wasn’t much of a spark. For either of us. We had a laugh about it after. She said it was like kissing damp wallpaper. I said I got a bigger charge from sooking on a drainpipe.’
‘Nice,’ Ale says.
‘She was cool. Didn’t take herself too serious. Liked a laugh.’
‘How many dates did you have?’
‘About half a dozen.’
‘And when did you realise the earth wasn’t going to be moving any time soon?’
‘On the first date.’
‘So why carry on seeing her?’
‘Ian and Karen. She totally fancied him and kept pushing Aileen to double date,’ he says and makes a face. ‘I didn’t mind, Aileen was good company, like, and a looker, and she understood if I got a better offer and legged it.’
‘And what was in it for Ian?’
‘Karen. She was all over him. Made it clear she was his for the taking.’
‘And did he take her?’
A shrug. ‘Far as I know.’
‘How did Ian get on with Aileen?’ Ale asks, thinking of the group photograph.
‘Fine.’ His face forms a non-committal expression.
‘Just fine?’ Ale asks.
He looks quizzical. ‘What do you mean?’
‘It was Ian’s idea to mess with the Davises, yes?’
‘Yes.’
‘Seems like a pretty extreme action to take for someone your mate had a failed date with and who got on with, just, fine.’
Jack shrugs. ‘Never really thought about it before.’
Ale looks pointedly at the folder on the table.
‘What’s that?’ Jack takes the nibble.
‘Open it and see.’
With a look at Ale’s face, trying to gauge the importance of whatever is inside, Jack lifts up an edge. Pulls back the paper. The first photograph catches his attention.
‘She was a beautiful girl,’ says Ale.
‘Yeah,’ replies Jack as he looks at the next one. And the next. Ale puts a hand on his before he gets a chance to look at the very last image.
‘What strikes you about these pictures?’ Ale asks.
‘That the photographer doesn’t have the best camera in the world.’
‘And?’
He studies the first two again. He looks up at her with a spark of realisation. ‘Aileen had no idea these were being taken, did she?’
Clever boy, thinks Ale. Didn’t take him long to catch up.
‘What’s this about?’ he asks, his expression wary.
‘Carry on,’ says Ale, aiming her vision at the pictures.
‘It’s like she’s been papped.’
‘Sorry, you’ll have to explain that,’ interrupts Peters.
Jack looks at him like he’s the stupidest person in the city. ‘Paparazzi. They stalk celebs, take photos of them in everyday situations and sell them to newspapers and magazines.’
‘Interesting choice of words there, Jack,’ says Ale. ‘Stalk.’
Jack’s eyes widen. ‘Aileen was being stalked?’
‘I couldn’t say,’ replies Ale.
‘Who by? That’s your guy then,’ he raises his voice. Animation showing for the first time in the interview. ‘You’ve got the guy. Brilliant.’ Pause. ‘Where did you find these photos?’
Ale picks a photo from the bottom of the pile. Places it in front of Jack.
It’s a happy, smiley photo of four young people, untouched and untouchable. Jack and his BFF, Ian Cook, are front and centre. Jack has his arm over the shoulder of Aileen Banks.
She’s smiling. But it’s clearly fake. She’d rather have someone else’s arm in that position. At the other end of the small group sits Karen Gardner. She’s holding Ian’s hand in hers and is all tits and teeth.
Cook’s smile is weak. His face turning away from Karen, focused on the girl at the other end of the foursome. His eyes have an unmistakable look of longing.
Jack looks at it and then looks up at Ale. ‘I don’t understand.’
‘Look at your pal, Ian. Who is he focused on?’
Jack looks at Ale, his face a study in confusion.
‘Look at the photo, Jack,’ she says gently.
‘He looks like he’d rather be sitting beside Aileen than Karen,’ Jack says, as if the words cause him pain. He looks from Ale to Peters and then back at the photograph. His mind struggling to take this all in.
‘We found all of these images on Ian Cook’s mobile,’ Ale says.
Jack starts. Jumps back. His hand goes automatically to his mouth, as if holding back the words that might spill from it.
‘Oh my God,’ he says. ‘Ian.’
51
The brass plaque has an almost blinding shine, reads “Chalmers, Crowe and Gibson”, and I never thought I’d see it again. It’s pinned to a block of sandstone at the doorway to an imposing Georgian terrace. I’m in Carlton Place, and if I look behind me I can see the arched grand entrance to the suspension footbridge from which poor Matt Davis recently took a header. Only the Victorians could have been so extravagant as to adorn a footbridge in such a manner.
With an apology over my shoulder, aimed at his ghost, I press the buzzer.
From a small speaker a voice says, “Chalmers, Crowe and Gibson.”
‘I have an appointment with Elaine Gibson,’ I say. ‘McBain. My name’s McBain.’
The door clicks. I push and I’m in.
I nod at the receptionist and take a seat in the low, red cushioned chairs, and just as my arse is relaxing into the padding, one of the doors opens. Elaine Gibson walks towards me, hand out.
I take it and shake.
‘DI McBain,’ she says. ‘Nice to see the sun shining after such a miserable summer.’
‘Yes,’ I agree, struggle to say anything else and wonder, again, at a beautiful woman’s ability to turn my brain to mush. Settle for, ‘You’ve done your hair.’
After the “Stigmata killings” – or deaths caused by Jim Leonard, as only I know him – I spent a few weeks receiving therapy here. It was difficult and revealing, but only partially exorcised the ghosts of my childhood. And I was happy to deflect many of the therapist’s questions on to the subject of the deranged child abductor I was – unofficially – chasing at the time.
She smiles and, with a flick of her index finger, clears her fringe from her eyes. My brain helpfully provides an image of her stepping out of her shower, naked, wet and gleaming. I blush.
‘Shall we?’ She points towards her room, and I walk past her through the door and take a seat. As she joins me I take a look around the room. The same plants. The same bookcases. And it feels like the intervening months happened to someone else.
‘Thank you for seeing me at such short notice,’ I say.
She sits and crosses her legs with the grace and polish of a dancer. ‘Luckily we had a cancellation.’ Her smile is quiet, non-committal. Meant to confer nothing but a professional interest, and I find myself wanting to see it in full bloom.
Jesus. Enough, McBain.
I bring her up to speed with what has been happening since we last met. She takes notes in her pad. Stops her scribbling every few moments to listen, head cocked to the side. Every now and then she makes a small noise to highlight that she is actively listening. We must have gone to similar training courses. But with her the interest feels genuine.
‘So, life has not been without its challenges,’ she sums up, once I stop speaking.
‘That’s one way of putting it.’
‘How would you put it?’ she asks.
I want to say, fucked up. Settle for a smile and, ‘Life has had its challenges, right enough.’
‘And you say your boss thinks you have PTSD? What do you think?’
‘I think he’s an arse.’
She raises an eyebrow.
‘But…’ I continue, ‘he may have a point.’
‘And the panic attacks? Looking down into the river. Would you have jumped if those boys hadn’t thrown you out of that thought pattern?’
I sit back in my chair, arms crossed. Don’t think I have the honesty to answer this.
She waits.
‘Dunno.’
‘Mmmm,’ she says and writes something down. ‘The important thing, DI McBain, is that you didn’t.’ Her eyes narrow as she considers her next few words. ‘It can often take more courage to go on living.’
I purse my lips. Blow. ‘Forgive me, but that’s bullshit.’ This comes out with a tad more aggression than I intend. ‘Sorry.’ I swallow it down. Feel my fingers curl into my palm. Nails digging. ‘I didn’t have the guts to jump. That’s the truth.’
‘Yes?’ She’s not agreeing with me. She’s asking for clarification.
‘I’ve been to the edge, Miss Gibson. Forgive the hyperbole, but I’ve peered into the abyss. It doesn’t peer back, it pulls you fucking in. Anyway, how can you possibly understand this? Have you ever suffered from any of this shit?’
‘My situation is not up for discussion, Ray. But I will say, you don’t have to have had a heart attack to become a heart surgeon.’ Nicely answered, but we both know my attack on her was a poor attempt at deflection.
‘And what,’ she continues, too experienced to let my words affect her, ‘happened when you got pulled in?’
‘Noise.’
‘Noise?’
‘Chatter. Noise. All of the senseless crap we tell ourselves. Every damaging thought I’ve ever entertained until it was all I could do to keep breathing.’
> ‘What does the abyss represent to you?’
I don’t think about it too much. Just let the words come. ‘Me. My deepest thoughts. The unvarnished, the guileless, unprotected, wilful, most selfish, most cruel…’ I break off. Look down and see that my hands are shaking.
‘Don’t you think that it’s natural to question your existence? To wonder at your worth in the scheme of things?’
‘Yes, but not when the black dog is panting in the corner. Waiting to tear your throat out. Then it’s dangerous. The answer more likely to send you into even more of a spiral.’
‘Is that what took you down to the waterside?’
I nod.
‘What was going through your head?’
‘I wanted the chatter, the breathlessness, the sweats, the nightmares … I wanted it all to stop. I wanted to give my friends a break. It occurred to me that I would be doing them all a kindness if I jumped. Sure, they’d grieve for a while. Then life would be easier. Simpler.’ I look away into the distance. Seeing nothing.
I cringe from my words.
‘And?’
‘And now … saying it out loud? I can’t believe the conceit. That I could be of that importance to anyone.’ Pause. And I’m granted an insight. ‘I’m worthless.’ The last two syllables escape from my mouth in a whisper. I feel a tear moisten my cheek. I wipe it away with my right hand. Elaine waits until I control myself. Waits until I can lift my eyes up to meet hers.
She uncrosses her legs, puts her pad on to the table between us and leans forward. She speaks with an intensity that takes me unawares. ‘The good thing is that you’ve recognised there’s a problem, and you want to get help. We can work with that.’
A smile trembles across my lips. I can’t help but feel it’s too late.
52
Leonard leads Simon Davis past the stares of curious booklovers, out the large, glass doors, and into the bustle and buzz of Argyle Street.
‘Want to just walk?’ he asks, needing to raise the volume of his speech after the calm of the bookshop.
Bad Samaritan Page 25
