Simon nods. ‘Yeah. Don’t want to make a fool of myself again.’
‘I have a car. We could go and sit in that. Nobody will see you if you cry.’
‘Nah. Let’s just walk.’ He looks into Leonard’s eyes as if searching for something. He puts a hand out. Touches his forearm. ‘And, thanks. I barely know you and you’ve…’ he struggles with the right thing to say. Repeats, ‘Thanks. You’re a real mate.’
Leonard looks away. Discomfited. Can’t remember the last time someone touched him in such a way. Honest and grateful. He can feel the heat of it as he judges the traffic, waiting for a double-decker bus to pass before crossing the road. He’s only ever been touched in an effort to harm.
A memory so sharp, he stumbles over the kerb. He sees a small, pale face. A weak smile, and a hand touching his arm. The last time he saw his twin brother alive.
Here, in the present, a hand reaches out to stop him from falling. He finds his feet, whirls round to attack and sees that it is Simon. He steps back from the look in the young man’s eyes, a flicker of alarm appearing on his face.
‘Sorry.’ Leonard holds a hand up. ‘I’m not myself today.’
‘If you want…’
‘We’re fine. You’re fine. Let’s keep walking.’
Leonard turns left, walks to the bank at the end of the block and takes a right. A young, smartly dressed man steps in front of them. Grey suit, purple tie. Slicked-back hair tops a handsome face. Tries to sell them what he calls the bargain of the week.
‘You guys got a girlfriend? A mother? They’re going to love this,’ he chimes, holding out a glossy piece of card. His fake sincerity gleams and Leonard sticks his hand in his pocket, feels the flick-knife resting there and imagines whipping it out and scoring it across the guy’s throat.
He leans into his space.
Says, ‘Fuck off.’
Two steps further and Simon coughs a laugh. ‘Brilliant. I’ve always wanted to do that.’
‘Feel sorry for him, actually,’ Leonard lies. ‘Can’t be easy standing there all day, mustering the energy to sell to every single person that passes.’
They walk past the new glass entrance to the St Enoch subway station, over gleaming concrete and on to the space beyond.
‘Where are we going?’ asks Simon as his pace slows. He stops.
‘What’s wrong?’ asks Leonard.
Simon is staring straight ahead. Leonard knows what’s going through his head.
‘That’s the river just ahead.’ There’s a shiver in his voice. ‘And that’s the actual bridge that…’
‘God, I’m sorry,’ says Leonard, thinking this is working out nicely. ‘I had no idea.’ He examines Simon’s face. Assesses his possible thought process. Has he misjudged the boy?
‘We can go back that way? Up to George Square? Grab a seat there?’
‘Nah. Too full of tourists,’ Simon answers. He stays locked in position. Eyes aimed at the bridge in the distance.
‘You know, it might actually help,’ says Leonard. ‘Might help lay him to rest?’
Simon says nothing. Simply looks straight ahead. Then, he reaches a decision and without a word starts walking again.
They come to a pedestrian crossing. Simon presses the button and they wait in silence for the traffic to come to a halt.
It stops. They cross and walk up to and under the grand sandstone arch entry. When Leonard has judged they’ve reached the middle of the bridge, he stops. Simon walks on another pace and turns to face the water. He looks down. Shudders. His face glistening with tears.
‘Matt,’ he says. ‘Matt, what were you thinking?’
Leonard says nothing. Feels the energy of the young man’s grief. Savours. Acknowledges his part in orchestrating the whole affair. He takes a step closer, symbolising his willingness to accept some of Simon’s burden. Feels his knees weaken. Holds a hand out to steady himself, and again Simon provides the support, reaching out and grabbing him by the wrist.
What is it about this boy, thinks Leonard? His thoughts are interrupted by the drum of feet and a familiar voice.
‘Simon? Simon Davis?
Then Leonard feels a pull at his arm that nearly pulls him off his feet.
‘Leonard, what the hell are you doing here?’ asks Detective Inspector Ray McBain.
53
I leave my meeting with Elaine Gibson feeling utterly drained. Whoever said that confession was good for the soul was full of shit. I just want to take a shower and go back to pretending that everything is just fine.
I walk past the entrance to the footbridge. Think about taking a walk over to the other side, to revisit the scene of my near suicide attempt. Shrink from it in case the water’s invitation still stands.
Oh, c’mon tae fuck, I tell myself. Need to face your demons, Ray. I look back at the door to Gibson’s office. Then over to my left and the safety of my parked car.
Fuck it. Take a walk, Ray.
I pass under the arch and on to the bridge. A man passes by on my left. He’s tall, lean as a post and whistling. He pulls his cigarette from his mouth, squints a smile through the smoke. ‘Fucking brilliant,’ he says.
Right, I think. Get me whatever this guy’s on. My own face twists into a smile in response. Bloody hell, it’s catching.
A couple of steps on and another guys passes. He’s wearing a dark suit, white shirt, dark tie. He’s bald, with thick spectacles and carrying a briefcase. I pass on the greeting from the previous guy.
He glares in response.
‘Can’t win them all,’ I say out loud, now suspicious of my lift in mood.
A couple of men standing in the middle of the bridge catches my eye. The younger one seems familiar, even from this distance. I take a few more steps forward. Jesus, it’s Simon Davis. What the hell is he doing here?
I look at his mate. There’s a similarity in height and build. A relative? There is a similarity about the eyes. Then recognition sparks, and I’m off running.
When I reach them I push the older man away.
‘Leonard, what the hell are you doing here?’ My mind is coming up with all kinds of links. A chain of thought that I dismiss in seconds. Each of them as confusing as the last. The scars on my wrists burn. Adrenalin sparks in my scalp.
‘McBain,’ says Leonard. ‘The proverbial bad penny.’
‘Simon, get away from that man,’ I say and step up to Leonard. ‘He’s a murderer.’
Simon looks from me to him and then back again. His mouth falls open. He manages to speak. ‘What?’
‘Get away from him. He’s murdered…’
Something gleams in Leonard’s hand. He lunges towards Simon, pulls him into a hug and whispers something in his ear. The boy falls to the ground and Leonard spins and runs off.
He’s here within my grasp. Fuck. I’m torn between checking on Simon and chasing off after Leonard.
Simon groans in pain. I look down at him and the blood that’s spilling from a wound in his side to flower on his grey t-shirt. I make a decision. Kneel down. Press on the wound with one hand and pull my phone from my pocket with the other.
‘You’ll be fine,’ I try to reassure him. My mind is like a row of spinning plates. Any one of which holds the truth. I dial a number and hold the phone to my ear. ‘We’ll have an ambulance here for you in a minute.’
The boy begins to sob.
‘Are you in pain, Simon?’ I ask.
He nods. ‘A little.’ He tries to shift into a more comfortable position. Grimaces at the pain. ‘Who is that man, really?’
‘Jim Leonard. He’s wanted by the police for a series of murders,’ I answer. Or he would be if I had told them the truth.
‘What the hell does he want with me?’ he asks, his face pale.
‘Who knows how that sick fucker’s mind works.’
‘Do you think he was going to kill me?’
I think over the moment of violence just passed. ‘Normally, people don’t survive an encounter with that man. He deliberately stabbed you somewhere non-fatal. It was an attack meant to distract me and allow him to get away.’
‘Why?’
I sense that Simon’s question is more fundamental.
‘What did he say to you? Just then. It was like a hug. Then he whispered in your ear. What did he say?’
Simon shifts his position. Grits his teeth against the pain. His legs are visibly shaking. As I wait for him to speak, I feel a spit of rain on the back of my neck. Then another.
‘He said, “Sorry, John”.’
54
Ale and Peters wait for a uniformed officer to take Jack Foreman back to his cell. Once he’s been led out of the room, Peters turns to Ale.
‘Well done, DC Rossi. What’s next?’
‘Karen. We need her version of events.’ Thinks. ‘But she needs to stew just a wee while longer.’ She looks at Peters. ‘I need to go back to my office for something first. Wait here for a second will you?’
As she’s half-walking, half-running back to her desk it occurs to her that she just treated Peters as if he were the lower ranked officer. Mentally shrugs. If the shoe fits. He’s not half the cop Ray McBain is, and everyone knows it. Even Peters himself.
At her desk she fires off an email to the DNA team, with the heading, please, please, please. The content: compare DNA and fingerprints from Ian Cook with the material taken from Aileen Banks. Then she adds, check the fingerprints on the hate mail left at the Davis house.
When she gets an immediate reply, she speaks out loud to the room. ‘Well, roger me with a bonsai tree.’
‘I’m too much of a gentleman,’ says Daryl.
Should have this back to you by the end of the day, it reads.
‘What’s this?’ she says to Daryl. ‘Hashtag: efficiency?’
‘You are so down with technology, DC Rossi,’ he replies.
She stands up. Says, ‘Fucking yes.’ Rubs her hands. ‘Little girl, you are mine.’ And walks with a measured pace back to the interview rooms. Picks up the pile of photographs from the table and places them back in the folder, which she tucks under her arm.
* * *
Once the formalities have been observed, Ale studies the girl sitting across the table. She’s pale beneath the fake tan, her eyes are puffy from lack of sleep, but her hair is sitting perfectly, as if it had just been arranged by a master hairdresser. Ale makes a mental note to get her hair straighteners replaced. Then swallows a laugh. As if.
She makes a mental comparison with the girl in the photograph. Teeth are hidden behind the thin line of her lips, and her breasts are buttoned out of view under a brown work blouse. Ale looks into her eyes. Sees a girl who has acknowledged that life is not a shiny bauble. It’s no longer a series of pissed-up nights out followed by a snog and a grope with the boy of her choice. Judging by the cast of her face, she’s haunted by the death of her friends.
Karen opens her mouth to speak. Ale gets there first.
‘Thank you for your patience, Miss Gardner. And thank you for agreeing to help with our enquiries.’ She’s all starch and business. Places the folder on the table.
‘Yeah,’ Karen replies, not sure where to go next. Settles for, ‘Should I be asking for a lawyer?’
‘This isn’t a TV show, Karen. And as I said, you’re just helping with our enquiries. If we decide to charge you with obstruction…’
‘Obstruction?’
‘Attempting to pervert the course of justice, Karen. When you knowingly make a false statement to the police and it holds up an enquiry.’
‘Right,’ says Karen and places her hands on the table in front of her, one on top of the other to try and disguise the tremble.
‘It’s only fair to let you know that the sentence for such a crime can be anything from four to eighteen months. Longer for more serious crimes, like murder.’
‘Right,’ says Karen, and the tremble from her hands reaches her voice. Ale feels a moment of sympathy but stifles it. Once she knows the truth, that will be time for the supportive Ale.
‘Now that we have established the severity of the situation, could you tell us the nature of your relationship with Ian Cook, please?’
‘We had sex a couple of times,’ she says. Her head falls forward.
‘Was he your boyfriend?’
‘Kinda. It wasn’t a regular thing, like. Just whenever.’
‘Whenever he felt like it?’ Ale asks.
An expression of humility on Karen’s face. ‘Aye.’ She sniffs. ‘He only saw me when we had a foursome with Jack and Aileen.’ She looks up. ‘I mean a date foursome, not a foursome foursome.’ She grimaces, and for the first time in this meeting Ale sees a hint of personality. ‘Yuk.’
‘Did you want it to be a regular thing?’
Karen nods. Says, ‘Aye.’
‘Were you in love with him, Karen?’ Ale allows an element of softness into her voice.
‘Kinda. Yes.’ She nods.
‘And you would have preferred it to be a more regular thing?’
‘Yeah, but I was happy enough just to see him now and again. Life’s for partying, right? Don’t want to get tied down with the one guy at my age,’ she says, and the lie twists the shape of her mouth.
‘How would you typify Ian’s relationship with Aileen Banks?’
‘Mates. They were just mates.’ Her mouth twists again.
‘Was Ian Cook in love with Aileen Banks?’
Karen looks up at Ale as if to say, please don’t make me answer this. She crosses her arms, then gives into the silence. ‘Ian had a thing for Aileen.’
‘Did you ever wonder if seeing you was the best way for Ian to be in Aileen’s company?’
Karen shoots Ale a glare. An unspoken, “Bitch”.
‘Answer the question, please, Karen,’ says Peters.
Karen blows out of her mouth. Cocks her head to the side, aiming for defiance and failing. ‘Yeah. So?’
‘Did Ian kill Aileen Banks?’
‘No, absolutely not.’ Karen sits forward with the first show of real energy since they all gathered in the room. ‘Whoever told you that is a fucking liar.’ Her voice is a shout. ‘It was butter-wouldn’t-melt-in-his-bloody-mouth Simon Davis who killed her.’ She pauses, her face a stew of conflicting emotions. ‘Actually, if Simon killed Aileen, I’d be amazed.’ She speaks softer. ‘He really is as nice as he appears. He’s a sweet, sweet guy. Truth be told, he was too nice for Aileen.’ She puts a hand up to her mouth as she realises what she’s just said. ‘Oh my God, I’m a horrible person.’ She falls back in her chair. ‘Must’ve been some random, cos I know it wasn’t Ian. He was gentle, you know. Nice. Wouldnae harm a fly.’
‘Nice? As in he’ll only shag you after he’s been in Aileen’s company? That version of nice? Sounds like he was a bit of a prick, Karen.’
‘Yeah. Well.’
‘Did he discuss the hate mail he was posting in the Davises’ letterbox?’ Ale asks.
Karen looks genuinely surprised. ‘No. He did that?’
‘Does that surprise you?’
‘Well, yeah. It’s a bit cloak and dagger, innit? Most folk just settle for a wee session of trolling online.’
‘Do these surprise you?’ Ale judges that this is the right time to unveil the photographs of Aileen. ‘We found these on Ian’s phone.’
‘What?’ She studies the first couple. ‘Wait a minute.’ She looks at Ale. ‘Really?’ For the first time Ale sees a bit of fight in the girl and perhaps a reduction in her loyalty for Cook. ‘Holy shit, he was proper stalking her.’ She crosses her arms. ‘That’s scary.’ Doubt flits across her eyes. ‘I didn’t think Ian was capable of…’
‘Did Ian k
ill Aileen?’
‘No,’ she says. Her voice quieter, less sure. Then again, louder, ‘No.’
‘In your first statement to the police for that night, you were less than helpful, Karen. Perhaps you can tell us what really happened.’
She closes her eyes. Exhales. ‘Doesn’t matter if I tell you now. Matt’s dead, eh?’
‘What do you mean?’ asks Ale. ‘What does Matt Davis have to do with it?’
Karen’s face colours and her eyes dim with the knowledge that she has to present the worst version of herself to strangers. ‘Back when I still fancied him, like, I sent Matt a photo. One of those Snapchat things that show up for a second before vanishing forever.’
Thinking, oh Karen, Ale asks, ‘What kind of photo?’
‘And remember that time you saw me and him chatting in the bar?’
‘Yes?’
‘He met me to show me that he had saved a screenshot of the photo, and if I talked to anyone about the night that Aileen died, he would post it everywhere online and even send it in to my work.’ She pleads with Ale for understanding. ‘I couldn’t afford to lose my job.’
‘What was on the photo, Karen?’ asks Ale.
‘And besides, I didn’t really think that Simon did it, so what’s the harm, eh?’
‘The harm is that you delay a murder investigation, Karen. What was in the photo?’
‘I was totally naked. Using my rabbit thingy,’ she exhales. ‘Everyone has a wank now and again, eh? But to have that on Facebook would have been totally humiliating. I would never have lived it down. And my mother. Jeez.’
Ale fights the urge to act the disapproving adult. How naïve are these kids?
‘You do realise that it would have broken their decency rules and they would have deleted it almost immediately?’
‘Aye. Almost. In the meantime, all his friends see it. My friends see it. Everyone takes a screenshot and I’m the slut of the year.’ She shudders. ‘Social network hell. No thanks.’
Right, Ale thinks, time to get this interview back on course. ‘The night Aileen died?’
‘Right. We were in The Drum. In the corner. Me, Aileen, Ian and Jack. Hanging out. Just having a few drinks, you know? We weren’t drunk or anything at that point. Matt Davis comes in with a couple of pals, and suddenly Aileen changes. Before that her and Jack were just acting like mates, having a laugh, you know? But now she’s all over Jack, showing off the puppies.’ She pushes out her own chest to demonstrate. ‘Totally flirting. Trying to make Matt jealous.’
Bad Samaritan Page 26
