Fair Friday

by Peter Turnbull

  Donoghue let the clutch in with a jerk, turned on to the Kingston Bridge and joined the M8 Westbound. He nudged the Rover over the seventy mark and drove steadily in the middle lane, occasionally overtaking in the outside lane. Ray Sussock knew Donoghue was angry. He sat silently in the passenger seat, wanting to put on the seat-belt but lacking even the courage to move. He did move, once, while Donoghue was speeding through Gourock: he pulled his tie out of his jacket pocket, buttoned up his shirt and clipped the artificial knot of his tie on to his collar. Donoghue slowed the car at Wemyss Bay railway station, turned sharp right into the ferry-passengers’ car park and down the ramp. At the foot of the ramp the 9.30 ferry was preparing to leave, the water was churning under the stern and the tailgate was being raised. Donoghue flashed the headlights and hammered on the horn. The tailgate was lowered and Donoghue drove on board and parked by the side of a coach full of trippers. He switched off the engine and applied the handbrake.

  ‘Morning, Ray,’ he said. ‘That is what is known in the trade as a damn close-run thing.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said Sussock, breathing easier.

  Donoghue spent the crossing on the upper passenger deck, looking out across the Firth of Clyde, north to the green and brown hills of the Cowal Peninsula, and the bright blue water of the Isles of Bute where a tanker swung at anchor awaiting a pilot to take her up river. He walked around the wheelhouse and looked south; he could make out Great Cumbrae clearly, but a haze obscured Arran. He breathed deeply, filling his lungs with fresh sea air, leaning on the railings. He watched a one-tonner come about under skilful handling, and put its bows behind the ferry’s stern.

  Ray Sussock spent the greater part of the crossing in the lounge eating sandwiches and drinking coffee. He was glad he could eat without Donoghue’s presence and inevitable questions. It was his breakfast.

  He had separated from his wife the previous winter and was still finding living in a bedsitter tough going. It wasn’t just that fifty-four wasn’t exactly the right time of life to live in the city’s netherworld of freaks, oddballs, cast-offs, the mental hospital discharges, all of whom make up the adult population of bedsit land. It was also the difficulty of surviving on his own, of coping with the never ending day-to-day domestic hassles while holding down a job. It was a problem of his which had manifested itself acutely on Fair Sunday morning. He awoke late for his rendezvous with Donoghue and having lacked opportunity to get to the shops or the bank because of the McGarrigle investigation, now found there was no food on his shelf, that someone had pilfered the last of his tea bags and that he had less than two pounds in cash. So here he was, the station eejit, the old boy of the Division, getting respect because of age and nothing else, ten years older than his senior officer, the man with the failed marriage and furtive affair with a WPC and here he was—broke.

  On top of everything else he had to admit to not getting to a bank before they shut for the Fair. Or had he? The more he thought about it the more he realized his shaky image could not withstand the knock it would have to take if he were to openly admit to being a bad manager by asking to borrow ten quid till Tuesday. The more he thought about it, the more four days did not seem to be such a long stretch, he had a little cash, he could make it, with a little economic rationalization he was sure he could make it.

  He left the lounge and went out on to the car deck and was amused to see a seagull hitching a ride on the cab of a lorry. In other circumstances he might have enjoyed the trip, seeing it as a perk of his job, but there were problems weighing on his mind, not the least of which was that it was 10.10 a.m. Sunday, and he now had 53p in cash to last him until the banks opened on Tuesday morning.

  He rejoined Donoghue at the Rover as the ferry was docking at Rothesay. They drove off the side ramp and along the wide concrete jetty which separates the two pools of Rothesay harbour, turned left along the front and followed the coast road to the southern most tip of the island, where stood the old school house. Donoghue drove up the driveway. He could still make out the lines of the old village school, a long low roof, a tall square column at one end and an imposing doorway. There, however, the resemblance ended. The windows were expensively stained, the school yard had been landscaped into hanging gardens with running water, leaving just enough room by the door to park a Mercedes station wagon and a Range-Rover, both less than twelve months old. Donoghue parked on the driveway in front of the Range-Rover.

  The door was answered by a tall woman wearing jeans and a fisherman’s style smock. She had a deep tan, which hadn’t been acquired by sitting around in the West of Scotland. There were bracelets by the dozen on each wrist, heavy rocks on her long fingers, and an expensive-looking cigarette smouldering between them.

  Sussock noted the woman looking down her nose at him, the way the rich do when they’re putting the plebs in their place, usually from an elevated position such as the top of a horse or, as in this case, the top of a flight of steps. Donoghue, for his part, noticed that the cigarette had only recently been lit, probably when she heard the doorbell chime; it hadn’t caught properly at the tip and there was not a trace of lipstick on the filter although the woman’s lips seemed heavily rouged. Donoghue guessed that underneath the image Super Cool Sophie was all jelly.

  Donoghue flashed his ID. ‘Police,’ he said.

  The woman raised her eyebrows.

  ‘We’d like to talk to Mr Spicer,’ said Donoghue.

  ‘He’s not at home.’

  ‘When will he be back?’

  ‘Sometime today. He’s sailing.’

  ‘So he’ll be out all day?’

  ‘I can’t tell you. He’s been out since Friday morning. Do you always work on a Sunday, a public holiday Sunday at that?’

  ‘If it’s necessary,’ said Donoghue. ‘In this instance, it’s necessary that we talk with Mr Spicer.’

  ‘Why?’ She put the cigarette to her mouth and drew in the smoke deeply, exhaling in a long thin plume which she directed upwards past the tip of her nose.

  ‘I’m afraid we can’t tell you.’

  ‘There are no secrets between John and me.’ There was a note of forced indignation about her voice and Donoghue guessed that there was a whole world of secrets between John and her. She didn’t know when he’d be back, she didn’t know exactly where he was, and Donoghue doubted that she trusted him.

  ‘Your husband might be back any time, you say?’

  ‘Yes. He could phone me in a couple of minutes and ask me to drive down to the harbour and pick him up. But he could phone at ten this evening, he may even extend his sail until tomorrow. He doesn’t have to work until Tuesday.’

  ‘I see. Can I ask which of the cars belong to him?’

  ‘They both do,’ she replied.

  Donoghue looked at her: poor young rich thing, nice home, nice clothes, bangles and rocks and fags but no possessions of her own, there to look pretty, to set the ideal home off just right, having to stay at the post, his to come home to.

  ‘I wonder if we might wait?’ asked Donoghue. ‘In case he should return earlier rather than later.’

  ‘If you wish,’ said the woman. ‘You may as well come in.’

  She turned and went into the house. Donoghue and Sussock followed her.

  She led them into a room with a sunken lounge in which four light grey deeply upholstered settees surrounded a glass-topped coffee table. The room had a large window which looked south, out across the estuary. There was an elevated dining area off to the right, which looked out on to a well-kept lawn at the rear of the house. She sat on a settee and curled her legs up under her. Donoghue sat opposite her and Sussock sat as far into the corner as he could. A Persian cat leapt on to Donoghue’s lap. Both its presence and its sub-species hardly surprised him.

  ‘That’s Maxwell Eddison,’ said the woman by means of introduction. Then changing the subject, ‘We often get policemen calling on us.’

  ‘Do you?’ replied Donoghue. He put her at about twenty-six or twenty-seven a
nd provisionally assessed her as being bored to tears.

  ‘I don’t know what they come for—to talk about John’s cases, I expect. He usually talks to them in the second sitting-room.’

  ‘The second sitting-room?’

  John won’t have a television in here and so we have a few old chairs and a set in a small room just back there.’ She waved a well-manicured hand above her head.

  ‘We’re investigating a murder,’ said Donoghue suddenly. It was a gamble to say that, a risk, but none the less he took it. He was interested in her reaction.

  ‘A murder,’ she said and raised her eyebrows. She stuck the posh fag in her mouth.

  ‘Uh-huh.’ Donoghue began to stroke the cat.

  ‘One of John’s cases?’

  ‘Probably.’

  ‘Probably?’

  ‘We won’t know for certain until we talk to your husband.’ Then he took another gamble. ‘He doesn’t keep any documents in the house, does he?’

  ‘Nothing to do with his practice. Just odds and ends to do with the business.’

  ‘The business?’

  ‘We run a pub, the Fleur de Lys. At least, John runs it.’ She laid the cigarette on the ashtray which was big enough to turn into an indoor water garden. ‘If things go badly then the creditors can’t get their hands on the house,’ she explained, ‘because it’s in my name. The house, that is.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Donoghue. ‘Is it going badly?’

  ‘I really don’t know. I’m not privy to such things.’

  ‘It certainly seems to be paying.’ Donoghue looked about him. ‘If you don’t mind my saying so.’

  The woman smiled. ‘We haven’t had the pub for very long. The money for the house came from Johns practice. I don’t know how well the pub’s going, John hasn’t been looking too pleased at the moment, but he wouldn’t tell me either way.’

  ‘You said there were no secrets between you.’

  ‘Ah, I meant of a personal nature. John rarely discusses his work with me. Frankly, I don’t particularly want to discuss it.’

  ‘Do you talk much to your husband?’

  ‘I don’t see him much to talk with. To get to his work he’s got to get the seven-thirty ferry and he doesn’t get back until late. Sometimes eight at night. He eats dinner and then retires.’

  Retires. That word somehow forced itself. ‘It’s a long day,’ Donoghue observed.

  ‘John thinks it’s worth it so that he can be on the island at weekends, right away from Glasgow. We used to live in the city, near the Botanical Gardens, but John always felt on top of his work. He does a lot of conveyancing, you see, and when he took me for a walk on Sundays he’d get upset because he’d see all the houses that he was conveying. So we moved here.’

  ‘It must have taken quite some effort to get the house in this sort of order.’

  ‘About four months.’

  ‘Is that all?’

  ‘Oh, John hired some men and they did it all. John didn’t even have to lift a hammer to a nail.’ Then she smiled as though that was a big achievement. ‘Would you care for some coffee?’

  She carried the tray into the room with a good poise and set it down neatly on the table. The tray was silver, the cups and saucers were good china, the coffee was cheap instant stuff with boiling water slopped over it. But at least she hadn’t apologized for it being the maid’s day off.

  Donoghue sipped the coffee and winced. It was strong and acid. ‘And yourself, Mrs Spicer, are you happy to live on the island?’

  ‘Well, yes.’ Mrs Spicer had curled herself back on to the settee. She hadn’t lit another cigarette and Donoghue thought she was beginning to relax and possibly even enjoy the opportunity to chat, since the two police officers, were, by her own admission, probably the first human contact she had had in two days. ‘One can’t have it all ways.’

  ‘Which ways do you, miss?’ asked Donoghue, not slow to respond to her invitation to ask her about herself.

  ‘I enjoyed the city; there was a sense of belonging.’

  ‘You feel remote here?’

  ‘Well, John likes it but I miss our flat in Hillhead.’

  ‘You certainly seem close to your husband,’ Donoghue commented.

  ‘Oh, we’re very close, John and I.’ She reached forward and picked up her packet of cigarettes and selected one. Donoghue took the lighter from his pocket and lit it, extending his arm over the coffee table. She leant towards him and lit her cigarette, looking at him with large brown eyes as she withdrew.

  ‘Have you been married a long time?’ Donoghue took his pipe from his pocket.

  ‘Four years.’

  ‘How long have you lived here?’

  ‘Two years—two years and a few months. I forget exactly. You know how the months seem to melt into each other.’

  Donoghue nodded sympathetically.

  ‘I still do miss the city if I have to be honest.’ She glanced over her shoulder towards the garden. ‘But one must stay with one’s husband, mustn’t one?’

  ‘Oh, marriage is not to be undertaken lightly,’ agreed Donoghue. Mustn’t one; one is sounding untrue to oneself. ‘Did you grow up in a town?’

  ‘Oh yes. Glasgow, as a matter of fact; in the north of the city.’ She raised her eyebrows slightly. North of the city, somewhere between Bearsden and Royston, a bit nearer Royston.

  She had worked hard. Donoghue knew she had worked damn hard but she hadn’t quite made it. He was a street kid himself. He’d got out via Glasgow University, but roots were roots; they stayed with you, and he could recognize another child of the cobbles and the high kerbstones. Carol Spicer, it seemed, had got out by marrying into money and Donoghue saw her six or eight years previously, Carol McDonald, looking demure in the smooth bars, flashing her eyes at the. accountants and under-managers and the second-hand car salesmen. Now she was here and she was here to stay, but her chemistry was still wrong, she had the image but not the substance, like cheap coffee carelessly made and served in expensive china.

  ‘I grew up in Sighthill,’ said Donoghue. He threw that one in to test the reaction.

  It was a curious reaction. She tried to sniff at his past like she thought she ought, but it didn’t come off. She managed to pull her head back slightly and to wrinkle her nose, but the effect was spoiled by the look in her eye as she suddenly saw Donoghue as someone who has also been there, someone who understands, a fellow traveller.

  The room was silent. She looked at Donoghue, he looked down at the cat curled up at the side of him, loving his hand on its ears. Ray Sussock sat quietly in the corner.

  ‘Those were tough streets,’ she reached out, breaking the silence.

  ‘I dare say an outsider would find them tough,’ he replied, running his forefinger up and down the cat’s nose. ‘It wasn’t so bad if you belonged.’ There followed another silence and Donoghue knew he was caressing her nerve-endings with a feather.

  ‘If you belonged,’ she said.

  Donoghue grunted.

  ‘Did you belong?’ she pressed him.

  He grunted again, still looking at the cat.

  ‘I never thought I belonged.’ He knew by the way she said it that it was a hard thing for her to say. It came out like a confession.

  ‘Why was that?’ Donoghue spoke softly. Tell me, my child.

  ‘Well…’—she pulled hard on the cigarette—‘I felt I belonged in Hillhead but that was the West End; I feel comfortable here as well. But those streets, the Saracen, was—well, really there was nothing for us.’

  ‘Us?’

  ‘My sister and me.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘We both said we’d get out some day, but there’s horrible pressure to keep you there, from your mates, you know?’

  ‘Aye,’ said Donoghue, helping her to relax into street speak.

  ‘You get spat at, stabbed with spike-handled combs because you’re taken for posh.’

  ‘You got out all right in the end, though.’

  �
��In the end. We got flats in Hillhead, really cramped. My sister went first and shared with some girls, then I left and got a flat of my own. The West End was rare. I enjoyed it.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘The trick was to keep your legs together.’

  ‘What!’ Donoghue was startled by her statement.

  ‘Aye. That was the trick right enough. We thought it out one night, me and Anne. Open your legs too easily and you’re anybody’s and you end up with a ned. Keep ’em together and you build up a—a—Anne had a word for it—’ she moved her hand in a circular motion. ‘Aye, a mysticism. That way you get the right sort of guy.’

  ‘Like a solicitor?’

  ‘So what’s wrong with that? It worked, didn’t it? I got out, didn’t I?’ She drew angrily on her cigarette. ‘So I’m a kept woman; it’s better’n being in a council high rise with kids and a man who is no good. This world is for surviving in. To survive you need money. I’m surviving.’

  ‘That’s a simple enough philosophy.’ Donoghue lit his pipe.

  ‘I may seem hard, but I’ve done better than any I was at school with. I went back one day and walked along the streets. They didn’t recognize me but I saw them. I couldn’t believe it, they were as old as me, but they’d aged, got shapeless, and the worry on their faces and the kids at their feet! I’ve done all right and I don’t think it matters that I don’t love my husband; they don’t love their husbands. It’s an arrangement that suits both me and John.’

  ‘Has your sister done as well as you?’

  ‘Don’t be so bloody sarcastic!’ She ground her cigarette into the ashtray and then added. ‘My sister is dead.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘No, you’re not. But it doesn’t matter. She was murdered five years ago—five years last Friday. There’s a wee rat called Gilheaney doing time for it. He got fifteen years. It wasn’t enough. I always swore I’d kill him when he got out, but now he’s just ceased to exist as far as I’m concerned.’