A Fine House in Trinity

by Lesley Kelly

  The worst case scenario is that he’s found out about me pumping his wife on her Hen Night and has been waiting to frame me for the first suitable murder. On the other hand, maybe he also pumped some lassie on his Stag Night and is not too bothered about Babs and me. After all it was eight years ago, and you know, what happens on tour, stays on tour.

  Who am I trying to kid? He’s going to kill me.

  ‘Staines.’

  ‘Hiya Danny, I mean DS Jamieson. How’s it hanging?’

  Danny looks like he’s not slept for a week. His ginger hair is receding fast, apart from an optimistic tuft that’s clinging tight to the middle of his forehead. His face is the colour of wet suet, and I’m sure I can see white hairs sprouting in his moustache. He ignores the pleasantries and waves a folder in my face. ‘The late Mrs Isabella Stoddart. Anything you’d care to tell me about her death?’

  ‘I am as baffled as you are, I swear to God.’ Aye, well, maybe not quite as baffled. A picture of a heavily-indebted blonde goes through my mind. If Danny was a half-decent cop at all he’d know the answer to Mrs Stoddart’s death lies in her tallybook; even Lachie knew that much. If he was any kind of plod at all, he’d at least wonder where the tallybook was.

  ‘Really? ’Cause here’s the funny thing – all over the scheme people can’t wait to grass you up to me as Mrs Stoddart’s killer.’

  ‘What?’ I can’t believe what I’m hearing. ‘People think I killed Mrs Stoddart?’

  He nods. ‘That’s what I’m hearing. You,’ he points at me, in case I’ve not got the message, ‘killed Isa Stoddart.’

  We look at each other over the interview table. I don’t understand what’s going on, and I’m starting to panic.

  He drops the files onto the desk. ‘Care to tell me why everyone is grassing you up?’

  This is no good. No good at all. ‘There are some right backstabbing bastards out there that would tell all sorts of lies about a person.’

  ‘You’re not wrong. And I think to myself, I’ve known Stainsie a long, long, time. Can I really picture him as a murderer? Can I really picture him repeatedly battering a woman over the head? So, I pull out your records and what do I find but Mr J Staines with a cast-iron alibi.’ He waves Isa’s file at me again. ‘Isabella Stoddart – Pathologist’s Report - estimated time of death, early hours of February 4th.’. He picks up another folder. ‘Joseph Staines – early hours of February 4th – sleeping it off in a police cell in Gayfield Square.’

  He flings both the folders onto the table. ‘Why is half of the scheme trying to finger you for a murder you couldn’t have committed?’

  ‘Jealousy of my good looks and high-flying lifestyle?’ I don’t know exactly what the bastards are up to but I’m going to find out.

  Danny doesn’t laugh.

  I’m getting so desperate to move the conversation away from me being an alleged murderer I try a high-risk tactic. ‘How’s Babs?’

  He throws me a sharp look but he answers. ‘She’s fine.’

  ‘And the bairns – is that three you’ve got now?’

  ‘Number four arrived two weeks ago.’

  ‘Jesus! You’ve been blessed and no mistake. Is the wee one keeping you up?’

  Danny shakes his head, but, try as he might, he can’t quite stifle a yawn.

  Danny knows that I’m not being straight with him, but he’s got nothing of substance on me, so two hours later I find myself free to go. I’m not quite sure what to do with my freedom due to my current cashflow problem, but I scrape together enough loose change for a couple of cans of Special and head for my favourite bench at the Foot o’ the Walk.

  It’s a great spot for people watching, and I’m on the lookout for a certain someone, possibly the only person who can shed some light on my reincarnation as an assassin of elderly crime bosses. Michael Murphy, known to most people as Wheezy, and to Marianne as ‘Uncle Mick.’ I’ve known him a long time, although I wouldn’t exactly call him a friend. But, then, these days I’m not sure I’d use that term about anyone. Anyway, if old times’ sake isn’t enough to persuade him to help, I’m pretty sure he’ll know it’s in his own best interest to get me back out of town as soon as possible.

  Mr Murphy shouldn’t be hard to track down, but I’m reluctant to show my face in the pub or the bookies until I’ve worked out what’s going on. However, if my instincts are correct, sometime this afternoon he’ll scurry out of Shugs and along to his favourite book-maker, so if I sit tight and keep my eyes open, like a small, scruffy comet he will pass through my orbit.

  After about ten minutes my patience is rewarded when I see a donkey-jacketed figure hurrying along the other side of Great Junction Street.

  ‘Wheeze,’ I shout and wave him over. God, it’s good to see a friendly face.

  He turns and stares at me, open-mouthed. Rumour has it that in his day, Wheezy was quite the Dapper Dan. One of the old guys from Shugs told me that way back when, all the lassies were after young Michael. Which just goes to show what a lifetime of alcohol, gambling and dental neglect does to you, because the kisser on him now would frighten a ghost.

  He hobbles across the road as fast as his legs will carry him, all the time hurling a string of obscenities in my direction, which leads me to believe that he’s not quite as pleased to see me, as I am to see him.

  ‘What are you doing back? Does Marianne know you’re here?’

  ‘Aye, I went round to see her.’ And I’ve still got the bruises on my foot to show for it.

  ‘Did she take it all right?’ His face is scrunched with worry. One of Wheeze’s very few redeeming qualities is that he’s genuinely fond of Marianne. Possibly because she’s the only family member he has that still speaks to him.

  ‘Oh aye – she invited me in for a cup of tea and a range of sexual favours.’

  Wheezy smacks me so hard I drop my can. ‘That’s my niece you’re talking about.’

  Shit. I’m not being overly tactful here. ‘Sorry, pal – shouldn’t have said that.’

  Wheezy grabs my shoulder and leans in toward me, until his face is an inch away from mine. His breath smells like a pub toilet. ‘Ach, save the apologies – you’re coming with me.’

  I stare past him at my can, which has rolled as far as the man selling hot chestnuts from the fake Victorian oven. He’s not noticed yet that he’s standing in a wee pool of Special, and I suspect he’s not going to be happy when he realises.

  ‘Aye, Wheeze, whatever.’

  ‘I have to say I’m very disappointed, Staines, very disappointed indeed.’ Father Paul shakes his head to emphasise his unhappiness. I feel like I’m fifteen again and in confession admitting to lustful thoughts. I stare at Wheezy. For a man who hasn’t set foot in a church since his bairns were christened, he’s suddenly very pally with the priesthood. Needs must, I suppose. He glares back at me over the top of the sports page of the paper, and jerks his head in the direction of the priest, indicating I should pay attention. Father Paul continues with the lecture.

  ‘We gave you that money in good faith, in return for you leaving town with…’ he lowers his voice, ‘a certain item. We certainly didn’t expect to see you back here a mere six weeks later.’

  ‘Amen to that,’ says a voice from behind the paper.

  Father Paul looks mildly irritated at the interruption, then returns to his interrogation. ‘Are you looking for more money, is that it?’

  ‘God no, I just…’ And I’m not entirely sure how to answer that question. I don’t feel inclined to share the real reason for my return.

  ‘Are you thinking blackmail, perhaps?’

  ‘That’ll be it, Father,’ the sports pages pipe up.

  ‘No!’ I grab the newspaper out of Wheezy’s hand. He smirks at me, and I realise I can’t think of a convincing explanation for my reappearance. ‘I’m just…’ I tail off.

  Father Paul sighs. ‘Right. We can’t have you wandering round the scheme shouting your mouth off the first time you get drunk. You can st
ay here where I can keep an eye on you.’

  ‘In the Priest’s House?’

  He nods. I can’t say I’m too struck on this idea. The Priest’s House consists of three floors of Gothic misery, and the general gloom isn’t helped by Father Paul having taken out every second bulb in an effort to save money. I play for some time.

  ‘Will your housekeeper not mind?’

  ‘While you are living here, Staines, you are my housekeeper.’

  Wheezy snorts.

  ‘And perhaps your first task could be to see Mr Murphy to the door?’

  A couple of hours later I’ve had time to reflect, and on balance, things could be worse. I’ve got free digs and all that’s required in return is that I stay put and see that Father Paul gets fed of an evening. I live up to my end of the bargain by giving him a hearty meal of sausage and mash, and he departs to continue ministering to his undeserving flock. I’ve not had a chance to talk to Wheeze about Danny’s comments, but then he wasn’t in what I’d call a cooperative mood. I’ll seek him out again tomorrow, if he’s not round here at the crack of dawn, threatening me with further violence for upsetting his niece.

  Father Paul has given me a bedroom on the first floor. From the smell of damp, it’s not been used for a year or two. I wrestle with the window for a good ten minutes before I can persuade it to open, then prop it up with a copy of Lives of the Saints. There’s not much in the room, just a bed, bedside table and a wardrobe full of old clothes. I go through all the pockets methodically and I’m rewarded with a bundle of fifty notes that has worked its way into a coat’s lining.

  I reap even more rewards in the little sitting room next door. There’s a drinks cabinet that doesn’t seem to have been opened since Noah was a lad. I’m just in the process of opening a dusty bottle of Macallan when I think I hear a noise. Not anything loud, more like a chair or something being knocked over. I wonder if Father Paul has a cat, though to be honest he doesn’t strike me as the Saint Francis of Assisi type.

  I’m a bit jumpy so blame my paranoia and continue hunting around for a tumbler. I’ve just laid my hand on a wee crystal number that will really do justice to the Macallan, when I hear what I could swear is the sound of glass breaking. Perhaps the cat that Father Paul never mentioned has upset something in the kitchen. I pour myself a healthy measure and settle down in an armchair. There’s a television in the corner with a layer of dust over it. Nothing happens when the on switch is pressed. It’s disconnected so I get down on all fours to look for the socket.

  I plug it in, press the button and the ten o’clock news appears. I’ve just settled back on my heels to admire it when the picture disappears and the lights go out.

  At first I assume that I’ve fused the lights; maybe sticking an old TV set on was not such a good idea. Then I hear the distinct sound of someone moving about downstairs. There’s nothing to hand to use as a weapon except the whisky bottle and I’m damned if I’ll risk wasting a twenty-one-year-old malt. On all fours I shuffle over to the curtains and pull them open. They shed some light into the room, but it’s fairly dark outside now as well. I carefully open the door and feel my way to the top of the stairs.

  My best bet is to head for the front door then leg it, so I edge down the stairs keeping my back to the wall. I make it down one and a half flights before smacking into someone large and unmoveable, and bounce arse-over-tit down the last half-flight. My trip leaves me face down on the hall carpet, which immediately sets me off coughing. It’s not seen a Hoover for quite some time.

  I push myself up onto all fours as quietly as possible. It’s dark as the Devil’s heart down here and I’m trying desperately to get my bearings. I try shuffling gently forward but the movement of my hands unleashes another set of dust bunnies, which makes me start coughing again.

  Next thing I know I’ve got a boot resting on my neck. It pushes me gently back down until I’m eating carpet again. I hear a match being struck and the room lights up briefly. The intruder takes a draw on his cigarette and speaks.

  ‘So, Stainsie, you’re back then?’

  1939-1949

  See, if I had to blame somebody for the state of my life, if I had to root around in the dark recesses of my past and choose the one person that I could legitimately point a finger at and say, ‘It was you. You started all this. You started me on the drinking, the sleeping around, the not holding down a job. Everything. It was you.’ See, if I had to do that, I know exactly who I’d name as the culprit, and I know exactly the date of his crime. The date? 24th July 1948. The person? Josef Wiśniewski. My grandfather.

  If you’d met him though, God rest his soul, you’d have thought him the sweetest old fellow going. And to give him his due, my grievances aside, he was a good man. He steered clear of most of the vices of men of his generation. His wages never went to line a bookie’s pocket. He never had his fill in the pub then gave his wife the benefit of the back of his hand. I never even heard him curse, although maybe he confined his bad language to his mother tongue. And he was always, always good to Granny Florrie (who wasn’t really our granny but, well, we’ll get to that one later).

  In fact, to my eyes the man only had one fault – an overwhelming love for Her Royal Highness Queen Elizabeth II. I know not everybody would see that as a flaw, but when you grew up in the Workers’ Republic of Leith like I did, it seemed a wee bit odd at least. But, Christ, the man was mad for royalty. His front room had so many pictures of Elizabeth II it would have put your average RUC canteen to shame.

  But to understand why he did what he did (and by-the-by ruined my life) you have to understand where he was coming from. Grandad Joe was born in 1924 in a wee village just outside Lvov in Poland. To hear him talk, it was a bloody countryside paradise. A rural idyll. Birds singing in the trees, sheep in the fields, yadda yadda. The only fly in the ointment was that he was Polish, and most of his neighbours were Ukrainian, but for the most part they all rubbed along together.

  There were five of them – Dad Filip, Mum Ewa, and his two younger sisters, Alicja and Anna, and Filip had high hopes for a couple more junior farmhands in the next few years.

  By 1939 Joe was fifteen. He was at the local school with ideas in his head about going on to university (first one in his family to go, if he made it, and everybody was rooting for him). He wasn’t really keeping an eye on world events, to be honest none of them were; politics was an urban thing - what did the government of Germany have to do with getting the harvest in? What did they care who was in charge of the Soviet Union? Stalin knew squat about keeping your chickens happy. No, Joe was not worried. He was spending the best part of his time mooning over the lassies in his class, with big plans for getting into their knickers. After all, they were not short of hay to roll around in.

  But that’s the thing about politics – just ’cause you choose to ignore it, doesn’t mean that it’ll choose to ignore you. On the 1st September 1939 German forces invaded Poland from the north, south, and west. A couple of weeks later, the Soviet Red Army invaded the eastern regions of Poland with the full support and cooperation of the Führer.

  Filip was worried, but as he kept telling Joe, Poland wasn’t on her own. The British and the French would be sending in troops any minute, there would be a bit of bloodshed, he couldn’t deny it, but Poland would be liberated.

  He was still holding to this line when the Red Army arrived at their house to tell them they didn’t live there anymore. Eastern Poland was now officially part of the Ukraine, and therefore the Soviet Union. Poles were no longer welcome to stay. Within days, Joe and his family were booted out of their house, and were on a train bound for the Soviet Union, and a life of communal paradise on a labour farm.

  Siberia was cold. Brutally, mortifyingly, cold. Before he left Poland, the coldest Joe had ever been was on the ritual 3 am trip to the outside lavvy in the middle of winter, standing there with his hands shaking and hoping his wee man didn’t get frostbite, and by the time he got back to bed he was always so damn c
old he needed to go again. That kind of cold? Siberia on a good day. In summer.

  Wee Anna was the first to go. It started with a cough, then she lost her appetite for the meagre rations that were on offer, then she couldn’t get out of bed. Two months after moving to the camp, Ewa woke to find Anna dead beside her. She didn’t have long to grieve though, because within six months, both Ewa and Alicja had also passed away.

  So, Joe and Filip were left on their own to try to make the best of life on the farm. They were used to life being hard back in the Ukraine but it didn’t compare to this. No equipment, no horses – they were trying to farm the soil with their bare hands. Just when they thought they couldn’t stand it any longer, politics found them once again. By 1941 Stalin and Hitler were no longer bosom buddies, the Poles were no longer the enemy, and they were pretty much free to go, if they could find their way back to Lvov.

  Joe and Filip got themselves on the first transportation they could find back to Poland. Joe would have been on top of the world, if it wasn’t for the fact that he’d noticed that Filip had started with that oh-so-familiar cough. Sure enough, Joe waved goodbye to his last remaining family member somewhere in Azerbaijan, as the train door was opened and Filip’s corpse was dumped by the side of the track.

  At the age of ieghteen, Joe was orphaned and alone in the world. He joined the Polish Army, and saw out the rest of the conflict in Italy. Come the end of the war, the Polish situation had become a bit of an embarrassment to Churchill. Stalin was keen to hang on to control over Poland, and Churchill was not going to rock the boat, so it was the bum’s rush for Poland and the Polish Army.

  Joe was flown to England, and demobbed. He was then given the choice – get flown back to Poland and take his chances with Stalin, or stay in England and take his chances here. He talked it over with his pals and they all came to the same conclusion. God Save the Queen.