On the television, two Celts were having a boast battle about how many enemies they’d killed. More violence. Mark remembered the first time Nathan had made a gun shape with his hand, pointed it at Lauren and said ‘Bang’. Just past two years old. Something picked up from older boys at nursery. Always the boys.
Mark and Lauren had been shocked, but once that floodgate was opened, that was it – toy guns, swords, an awareness of boxing and wrestling, violence in cartoons and, of course, lightsabers and blasters. But so what? It turned out you didn’t need all that shit to kill someone, all you needed was a pair of strong hands and some serious willpower.
The buzzer went. Mark couldn’t even think who it might be. He went to answer it.
‘Mr Douglas?’
He knew the voice. Ferguson. ‘Have you found out something about Lauren’s murderer?’
‘Can we come up, please?’
He buzzed her in and opened the door.
She was with a different sidekick this time, the uniformed kid from the reception desk at the station. He was about twenty with bumfluff on his face and a line of spots along a crease in his forehead that reminded Mark of Vyvyan from The Young Ones. He wondered if the kid was born when that was on television. Worked it out and realised the show was on ten years before this kid was even alive. Fucking Jesus.
He let them in and ushered them to the other end of the hall from the living room.
‘I’m glad you’re here, I have something to tell you. I saw Taylor today, he’s definitely into something dodgy.’
Ferguson pushed a strand of hair behind her ear. ‘You went to see Gavin Taylor again?’
‘Well you didn’t seem to be trying too hard to talk to him.’
‘I strongly advise you to leave the investigating to us, Mr Douglas.’
‘I would if you were actually doing any investigating.’
‘We are progressing as fast as resources allow.’
‘In other words, doing nothing.’
‘Mr Douglas, that’s not helpful.’
‘I followed him, and I saw him meet someone in Bruntsfield Links.’
‘You followed him?’
‘A guy called Innes Fisher, do you know him? He lives in Napier Road, number 40. The place is a mansion. He’s obviously doing well for himself. Maybe he’s into something criminal. Can you run his name through the police computer or something?’
‘Mr Douglas, we’re not here about your wife’s death.’
That pulled Mark up. ‘What?’
‘We’ve had a formal complaint about you.’
‘From who?’
‘Mrs Kelly Robertson.’
Mark shook his head. ‘Never heard of her.’
‘She claims you assaulted her yesterday afternoon in the infant playground of Towerbank Primary School.’
Lee’s mum. Shit. ‘That was nothing.’
‘She says you punched her in the face in full view of pupils, parents and staff.’
‘It was a misunderstanding.’
‘We’ve got plenty of witnesses to confirm her statement, Mr Douglas.’
‘I’m sure you do.’
‘This is extremely serious.’
‘As serious as finding my wife’s killer?’
‘In light of Mrs Robertson’s statement, you’re going to have to come back down to the station and answer some more questions.’
Mark shook his head. ‘You’re fucking joking me.’
‘I’m afraid not,’ Ferguson said.
Mark listened through to the living room. Horrible Histories was still on. He could hear the Grim Reaper singing ‘Stupid Deaths’. One of the boy’s favourites.
‘What about Nathan?’
Ferguson shrugged. ‘Same as before. Either get a babysitter or bring him and a social worker will sit with him.’
‘What if I refuse to come?’
‘Then we’ll formally arrest you right now and take you anyway.’
Mark shook his head. He looked at the spotty kid copper. He had no clue about life yet, none whatsoever. Neither did Ferguson. How quickly it could shit on you from a great height and all you could do was smile and say thanks.
‘That doesn’t really give me much choice, does it?’
31
Same interview room as before, same scratchy carpet and squeaky chairs. No scrapping gulls outside the window this time, though.
Ferguson and Green sat opposite, Ferguson fiddling with the digital recorder, Green clicking a cheap pen. Mark had already been advised he was under caution but not under arrest. Ferguson read him his rights, straight off a TV cop show. He waved away the offer of a duty solicitor when it was explained that it might take several hours to find one. Nathan was in a room downstairs with a social worker. Mark had phoned Ruth but just got her voicemail.
‘Can we get this over with,’ he said. ‘I just want to get home with my son.’
‘This is a very serious situation,’ Ferguson said.
Mark pinched the bridge of his nose. ‘You don’t say.’
Ferguson stopped fiddling with the recorder and laid it on the desk.
‘So tell us what happened at Towerbank,’ she said.
‘We’re really doing this?’ Mark said.
Ferguson nodded.
‘Look, I admit I slapped her,’ he said.
Green pointed at the machine. ‘Could you speak up for the recording.’
Mark stared at him. ‘I admit I might have slapped Lee’s mum.’
‘She said it was more than a slap,’ Ferguson said. ‘She had to go to hospital to check whether or not her nose was broken.’
‘Was it?’
‘That’s not the point,’ Ferguson said. ‘So you are admitting you assaulted Mrs Robertson?’
Mark thought for a moment. ‘Things got out of hand, that’s all.’
‘Out of hand in what way?’
‘Her son was hitting Nathan. There’s your assault. I just went over to stop him.’
‘Mrs Robertson said Nathan was the one who instigated the fight with her son.’
‘Mrs Robertson is a fucking liar. If you knew Nathan at all, you’d know that’s not like him.’
‘So what happened in the playground?’
‘I broke the boys up,’ Mark said. ‘She came over and started mouthing off.’
‘So you hit her.’
Mark dragged his hands down his face. ‘I know I shouldn’t have, OK? I’m not some knuckle-dragging moron. I’d just found out about Lauren, for Christ’s sake. I wasn’t thinking straight. Surely that has to be taken into account.’
Ferguson glanced at Green. ‘There are obvious mitigating circumstances,’ she said. ‘But this remains a very serious matter. We’re still collecting witness statements, but you’ll likely be charged with assault. If found guilty, you could even face a custodial sentence. Social services will have to be involved.’
Mark scratched at his neck then put his hands out.
‘Wait a minute, let’s not go mad here. I’m all Nathan’s got. I made a mistake, I admit that. I’ll apologise to her, whatever it takes. I’ll explain to her about Lauren.’
Green sat forward. ‘Yes, Lauren. We need to talk about that.’ He slumped back, as if the effort of speaking was too much.
Mark looked at him.
‘What about it? Do you have some more information? Did you speak to Taylor?’
Green shook his head. ‘We need you to talk us through your exact movements on the day your wife went missing.’
‘What?’
Ferguson spoke. ‘We’re trying to help you.’
Mark shook his head. ‘It doesn’t sound like it.’
Green’s turn. ‘In light of Mrs Robertson’s claims, our focus has shifted.’
‘Because I slapped a shitty school-mum bitch, now you think I strangled my wife?’
Ferguson tilted her head. ‘Look at it from our point of view. We’re now aware of you committing two serious assaults. You’ve attended anger management classes
under court order. Your father-in-law went missing years ago and turned up dead. The same man who abused your wife when she was a child. And now your wife has been murdered.’
‘No, I’m not having this. I explained about both times I hit someone. I’ve only ever done that twice. And I already explained that we didn’t know about William abusing Lauren when he went missing. Anyway, what fucking reason would I have for killing Lauren?’
‘That’s what we’re trying to establish,’ Green said.
‘Fuck you,’ Mark said, voice shaking. ‘No reason, OK? No fucking reason. I loved my wife and I want her back.’
Mark was standing up, fists pressed down on the table. Green pushed his chair back in readiness.
‘Sit down,’ he said.
Mark looked from him to Ferguson then down at his knuckles, skin stretched tight. He eased himself back into his chair.
‘So,’ Green said. ‘Talk us through the day your wife went missing.’
Mark sighed. ‘She left for work around half eight. I took Nathan to school. Then I went home. Didn’t do much in the morning except go to the shop for milk, watch TV and go online for a bit.’
‘When did you start work?’
‘I was on the backshift, started at two. I didn’t go into the office because I knew my first job was to photograph the whales, no point slogging into town just to head back out.’
Ferguson and Green exchanged a look. Ferguson picked up a piece of paper and studied it briefly, although she clearly already knew what was on it.
‘You didn’t start until two?’
‘That’s right.’
‘And you were on Portobello beach from then until when?’
‘Until I got the call from Towerbank about Nathan at three thirty. We’ve been through all this a million times.’
‘Lauren was last seen at the Caledonia Dreaming office at 12.20 p.m.’
‘So?’
‘So what were you doing between 12.20 p.m. and 2?’
Mark’s whole body was rigid. ‘I was at home, probably eating a sandwich and watching Loose Women or some other shit, I don’t know.’
Green folded his arms. ‘Did anyone see you between those two times?’
‘Not unless they were spying on me through the window.’
‘How were things between you and Lauren prior to her disappearance?’
Mark’s hands on the table began to tremble. ‘I’ve told you all this already. Me and Lauren were fine. I had nothing to do with her going missing and to be honest I feel sick at the thought of what you’re implying.’
‘Did you ever argue?’ Green said.
‘No more than any other couple.’
‘Is that a little or a lot? What are we talking about here?’
Mark waved a hand, exasperated. ‘Hardly ever.’
‘Did you ever hit her?’ Green’s face was deadpan.
Mark breathed out. ‘No. How dare you.’
‘Well you’ve hit two other women. That we know of.’
‘Fuck you.’
Ferguson raised a placating hand. ‘Please, Mr Douglas.’
‘No.’ Mark stood up again. His legs felt liquid, like he might collapse. ‘I’ve had enough of this. I came here willingly, but this is bullshit. I had no reason to do any harm to Lauren, and I resent you suggesting it. I want to leave, take my son home and put him to bed. So either charge me with something right now or I’m leaving.’
Ferguson looked at Green, who nodded.
‘OK, you can go,’ Ferguson said. ‘But expect to hear from us soon.’
32
Bedtime was a nightmare.
‘I’m not tired.’
‘Doesn’t matter.’
This went on for ages. Mark tried to put the interview to the back of his mind. He was itching to get back on his phone, spend a few hours looking into Innes Fisher and Caledonia Dreaming. See if he could find a connection. He tried not to think about Lee’s mum, the trouble she could cause. Social services. Assault. All of it.
‘Bed.’
‘Don’t want to.’
‘Stop being a little brat and get your jammies on.’
‘No.’
Mark lost it and shouted. As loud as he could, right in Nathan’s face. The boy’s body slumped and his face crumpled, tears ran down his cheeks. It was instantaneous.
Mark tried to hold him. ‘I’m sorry, Big Guy.’
But Nathan pushed him away. With sudden focus in his eyes, the boy leaned back, pursed his lips and spat in Mark’s face.
Mark slapped him without thinking.
Not hard. But hard enough.
Nathan’s eyes widened for a moment, then he swung a fist at Mark who caught his arm easily. Another fist came and Mark grabbed the boy’s other wrist. He was holding on tight, too tight, could feel the sinews running along the bones of Nathan’s arms, could feel the muscles tensing under his grip.
Nathan raised a foot and slammed his heel into Mark’s shin, the kind of kick that was a leg-breaking tackle in football. Luckily the boy was just in his socks. Mark grabbed Nathan round his waist and pulled him tight to his own body, felt the boy’s arms and legs thrashing, Nathan’s little fists pounding on his back and head as he screamed and cried and gulped for air.
‘It’s all your fault.’
‘Calm down.’ Mark tried to keep his voice quiet. He couldn’t even hear himself over Nathan’s tantrum.
‘You killed Mummy.’
‘Take it easy.’
Mark had a flash to when Nathan was a baby, the sleepless nights, the incomprehensible screaming, the constant shushing and rocking and comforting. He remembered having the occasional insane, evil thought. About what he could do to make this baby quiet, to make him stop. Thoughts he’d never mentioned to Lauren because he knew they would shock her, even after her depression. Thoughts that sickened him.
He squeezed hold of Nathan now, felt the tremors coursing through the boy, the uneven twitches of his chest as he tried to breathe between sobs. Mark’s own chest was heaving as well, tears wetting his cheeks, running into Nathan’s hair, the boy’s head pulled tight to his chest under Mark’s big hand. Mark had to do this alone now, he was the guiding light for this kid in the world, him alone, without Lauren. And he was slapping him and shouting at him.
Gradually Nathan calmed down as Mark slumped to the floor and rocked the pair of them for an age, his mind seeing the curve of Lauren’s hip resting on the sand, Fisher’s gloved hand on Taylor’s throat.
Mark stroked the boy’s head, that unruly tussle of hair.
‘I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.’
He released Nathan from the embrace. Tears and snot had made a mess of the boy’s face, his eyes puffy from crying, his skin flushed. Mark tried to see if there was a mark. Ran his fingers softly across the boy’s cheek.
‘I’m sorry I slapped you.’
Nathan wiped at his eyes and nose with his sleeve.
‘It’s OK, Daddy. I’m sorry I said that about Mummy.’
It was like something from one of Nathan’s Be Responsible classes at school, anti-bullying, good behaviour initiatives that were rife in the classroom, trying to shape model citizens, everyone being nice and apologising all the time.
‘We have to stick together, Big Guy.’
‘Now that we don’t have Mummy, you mean.’
‘Exactly.’
Mark pulled a tissue out his pocket and wiped Nathan’s eyes for him, then his own, then did both their noses, making a joke of it.
‘Now it really is time to get your jammies on.’
Nathan put on puppy eyes. ‘Can I sleep in your bed again, Daddy?’
‘Of course.’ Mark wondered how long that would go on for, and realised he didn’t give a shit. It could go on forever for all he cared.
The boy picked out The Zax for his bedtime story, another Dr Seuss one. A simple moral about the perils of being stubborn. Like the whole Middle East conflict summed up in zany primary colours.
Mark uncou
pled his brain from the story as he read. He had to think about Caledonia Dreaming. About whether Lauren was involved in something, or if she was just randomly killed by a stranger. That seemed unacceptable, as if the killer had to have had a reason. Conditioning from too many crime dramas on television, all neatly wrapped up in an hour or two, motives and opportunity, forensics and resolution. But real life didn’t work like that. Sometimes there was no answer, no resolution.
‘Daddy?’
Mark realised he’d finished the story and was just sitting there with the book open at the last page, the two Zax standing there nose to nose, arguing away, as the whole world went on around them, not giving a flying shit.
‘Sorry, in a daydream there.’
They kissed goodnight then Mark put Vaseline on the boy’s chapped lips, trying not to think about Lauren’s lips as he smeared it on.
He noticed that Nathan had placed the piece of sea glass on the bedside table, sitting on top of Lauren’s pile of books. The boy was staring at it as Mark left the room, the bedside light still on.
Mark went to the kitchen, opened a beer and rubbed at his eyes. He walked through the flat then slumped on a sofa in the living room and got on the internet on his phone. No laptop. Started searching for anything on Fisher, Taylor and Caledonia Dreaming. Just a world of bland, corporate jargon with nothing of interest. He rooted around social media and a few chatrooms and blogs, seeing if anyone had mentioned them in a derogatory light. But there seemed to be no bad stuff, no disgruntled employees, no unhappy customers. Fisher had bought his mansion recently for piles of cash, the kind of high-end property Caledonia Dreaming dealt with. Was that the only link? Taylor had sold Fisher his house? But why meet up in the park, why be secretive about it, an hour after Mark had confronted Taylor? Coincidence? And why the aggression between them?
After the fourth beer, his eyes grew sore from staring at the tiny screen. He was no nearer an answer. He threw his phone down.
He tried to think good things about Lauren, tried to remember the best times. Their first trip to T in the Park together, back when it was at Strathclyde Country Park and the organisation was a shambles. They’d parked and pitched a tent next to the pond, shared their first ever Ecstasy and gone to see the Prodigy. Then there was their first holiday together, a cheap deal to Prague before it was full of stag and hen nights. Walking along the famous bridge that had just featured in the first Mission Impossible film, eating stew and dumplings and drinking strong lager, wandering around the cobbled streets in a daze of love. He was swamped by firsts – their first date, the first time they had sex, the first time they said ‘I love you’, the first time he met her parents, the first time they shared a flat, the first place they bought, the first dance at their wedding. Their first child.
Gone Again Page 14
