by SJI Holliday
As they approach the front door, Louise sees that something has been smeared down the paintwork. She follows the slimy trail, sees the broken egg shells scattered on the doormat.
‘Little bastards,’ Davie says.
‘You think this was kids?’ Louise asks.
Davie sighs. ‘Probably. It’s a kids’ sort of thing to do, isn’t it? Throwing eggs, running away. They probably don’t even know why they were doing it. Egged on by their mates . . .’
‘Is that supposed to be a joke?’
‘Best I could do. Sorry. Sometimes you have to lighten the mood or else you’d drive yourself mad.’
Don’t I know it, Louise thinks.
‘Well, it was a poor attempt, DS Gray. I can only imagine that your brain is feeling a bit fried . . . or scrambled . . .’
He shakes his head. ‘I thought my yolks were bad.’
They’re still laughing when the door opens and they have to try hard to straighten their faces. The moment has passed. Back to reality.
‘Lucas Crisp?’ Louise states.
‘Yes,’ he says. Louise looks at his eyes, dark, red-rimmed. A man who is suffering. ‘You’d better come in.’
He doesn’t need to ask who they are. He’s been expecting them. Perhaps Jon called him to let him know they’d be coming round. Or maybe he knows that whatever it is that is causing suspicion will bring them to his door, one way or another. Louise tries to shake the thoughts away. She doesn’t want to jump to conclusions, but unfortunately, after seeing him, she already has. Good-looking young teacher. It didn’t take much to work out why people had started throwing eggs at his front door.
‘We came round last night,’ Davie says. ‘You didn’t answer . . .’
He ushers them into a small lounge. It’s sparsely furnished. A decent sofa, TV in the corner. The rest of the space is taken up by bookshelves. He doesn’t look at them. Ignores Davie’s statement. ‘They started last night. I was in my bedroom, I had the blinds down. Eye mask, earplugs . . . I don’t know if either of you have ever had a migraine, but, I can tell you, it’s painful. There’s not much you can do but wait for it to pass. I must’ve drifted off, I mean, obviously I did, because I didn’t hear you knock . . . but I woke up to hear the thump thump against the front door. The door’s a piece of shit, I need to get it replaced anyway. A gust of wind could blow the thing in. It was eggs, I take it? Can I get either of you a drink?’
‘Eggs, yes,’ Louise says. She sits down on the couch. Davie stands. He’s perusing the bookshelves. ‘Tea for me, please. Milk, no sugar.’
‘Same,’ Davie says. ‘You read a lot of crime. Like a mystery, do you?’
Lucas disappears into the kitchen. ‘Complete escapism,’ he calls through from the other room. ‘I’m sure none of it’s anything like what really happens, though, is it?’
Davie pulls out a hardback from the top shelf. ‘Mo Hayder?’ he says. ‘I’ve read some of hers. Jack Caffery is a bit of a maverick, isn’t he? All that supernatural stuff too, bit weird. All a bit dark for me.’
‘I’m sure you get enough that’s weird and dark in your job, no?’ Lucas appears carrying a tray. ‘Kettle was already boiled,’ he says, by way of explanation. ‘I think I must’ve sensed you . . .’
‘You probably want to steer clear of the true-crime stuff,’ Louise says, taking her mug. ‘Much worse than anything a crime writer can come up with.’ She helps herself to a biscuit. ‘Custards creams. Retro,’ she says.
Lucas smiles and sits down on a footstool that seems to have appeared from nowhere. ‘Modular furniture,’ he says, nodding at the gap under the sofa where the extra seat has come from.
‘Clever,’ Davie says. He takes a sip of his tea.
All very jovial. Civilised. Louise doesn’t want to ruin things by asking him the questions they needed answers to. Best just get it over with.
‘So,’ she says, ‘you were Katie Taylor’s teacher? Is there anything we should know?’
Lucas closes his eyes. Louise watches as he grips his mug tighter, trying to stop his hands from shaking. He’s done well, up to this point, but she can feel it now. He’s been going along with the charade. Keeping things light. It can’t continue.
‘She was my friend,’ he says, so quietly Louise isn’t sure she’s heard him correctly.
Louise glances at Davie. Davie replaces the book he has been looking at on the bookshelf, sits down on the sofa next to Louise.
‘It’s not what you think,’ Lucas says, sensing the change in the atmosphere. ‘She was a good student. A good person. We got on well, that’s all.’
‘Did you see her outside school?’ Davie says.
Lucas looks up at the ceiling, then back down at his lap. ‘A few times. I was helping her with her science prep work for university. She didn’t need help with the curricula items. That stuff was too simple for her. I was trying to give her a head start with the uni work. It’s a big jump from school to uni, bigger than some realise. Especially if she was to go to London, like she wanted. She’d be up against A-Level students there. The Scottish Highers and Sixth Year Studies are supposed to make things equivalent, but I’m not sure. I found it a big transition. But maybe that was just me.’
‘Was there any indication of this being anything other than a teacher–pupil relationship, Lucas? I’m sorry, you know we have to ask this. What with you disappearing from the school yesterday too . . . Doesn’t look good.’ Louise knows she needs to push the point home. People are talking. That is clear.
He shakes his head. His expression is annoyed. Angry, almost. ‘No. It wasn’t like that. I’d tell you now, honestly. I don’t want to piss anyone off. I don’t want that lot outside my door shouting on the street, shoving things through my letterbox. Bunch of animals. Anything for a bit of drama. They need to be having a look at themselves. Trying to work out who might’ve hurt Katie. Why would I want to hurt her? I told you, right or wrong as it is, she was my friend.’
Davie nods. ‘I think we’ve got enough for now, Lucas. Don’t go anywhere too far though, eh. We’ll probably have to come back and have a bit more of a chat, if that’s OK. You might be able to help us. You’ll know the type of people she hung about with.’
Lucas looks away.
‘Just one last thing,’ Louise says, standing up, wiping biscuit crumbs off her trousers. ‘When was it you last saw Katie? Friday, was it?’
‘That’s right,’ Lucas says quickly. Doesn’t hesitate. Doesn’t meet her eye.
You’re lying, Louise thinks. Question is: why?
28
Polly
She knows that lunchtime is the worst possible time for him, but she can’t wait any longer. She needs to talk to him, needs to find out if he’s OK. She’d hoped to have had a conversation the night before, but she’d fallen asleep, and she was glad he’d let her.
She goes around the side of the pub, to the kitchen door at the back. She feels nervous all of a sudden. They haven’t told anyone about their relationship yet. Not that she has anything to be ashamed of: she’s single now, and he’s been single a long time.
Their chance meeting that night at her brother’s gig in town had been weird and brilliant and not something that she’d ever expected. She remembers the moment she recognised him, after he’d already been talking to her for twenty minutes, in the break between the warm-up act and the main event. He’d sat down opposite her. Didn’t bother to ask if she was waiting for anyone else, or if the seat was taken.
‘So you know this lot then, do you?’ he’d said, gesturing at the band.
She’d glanced across at them, smiling. All five members of Zohra Gee and the Quickies were sitting on stools at the bar, having a few preparatory pints. Ed, her brother, had come up with the name. Something to do with a sexy Afghan girl he’d met on a lost weekend in London when he was younger. She’d never got the full story out of him, but she knew it involved a party at a random celebrity’s house and too much marijuana.
She’d turne
d back to the handsome stranger at her table. Despite his presumption that she was alone, she’d liked the look of him straightaway. Good looking, but with a neat scar running down the side of his face. A face that told a story. He was slim, but his arms were muscular. His eyes were bright. He was drinking Coke, and there was something she liked about that too.
Simon liked to roll back from the golf club in the early hours, stinking and gropey. It’d been a long time since she’d fancied him and could barely remember what it was she’d seen in him in the first place. This guy though, he looked like he had a story, and she’d decided to throw her usual caution into the gutter and talk to him. Going to the gig alone had been a big deal in itself, but Ed had assured her he wouldn’t leave her on her own for long. That’d turned out to be a lie, straightaway. Or maybe not a lie, but she could see he was caught up with the rest of his band mates, the five of them standing in a row, laughing, getting ready to down a row of lurid green shots. She was nursing a bottle of Peroni, trying not to feel self-conscious in her newly purchased for the occasion skinny jeans and artfully faded (over-washed) Nirvana T-shirt.
‘My brother Ed plays the bass,’ she’d said. Swigging her beer, trying to look calm and cool. She’d slopped it down her T-shirt.
‘Oops.’ His eyes had flicked down to her chest, and back, and she’d felt herself flush.
‘Bloody hell, can’t take me anywhere,’ she’d said. She’d given him a self-conscious smile and he’d grinned back.
‘That an original, is it? From back in the day? Wasn’t really a fan myself. I was into all that happy house rave back then. For my sins.’
For my sins.
Polly had looked into his eyes then and imagined there were many sins hidden somewhere deep in there. Something else too. A tiny spark of recognition.
‘Jamie Quinn,’ he’d said, holding out a hand. ‘You’re Polly McAllister.’
Polly had felt like she’d been slapped.
‘You’re not . . . you’re not Quinn, are you? You went to Banktoun High?’ She’d felt like an idiot as she’d said it. She’d recognised him at last. He was about three stone lighter than when she’d last seen him, about twenty years before. He’d appeared at the swings at Garlie Park just after Mandy Taylor had . . . She didn’t want to think about that again. ‘Jesus, you are! Bloody hell . . . it’s been, what—’
‘Twenty years? I never saw you again after that day in the park. I, er, I was away for a bit.’ He’d looked sheepish.
She’d heard some rumours that he’d gone to prison, others that he’d gone to rehab. Either way, she hadn’t cared. Something about him was very different now.
‘You, um, are you still with Mandy?’ she’d said.
‘No. I’m very much single,’ he’d replied, winking.
That’d been the start of it. He’d filled her in with the rest over the next few times they’d met. Dates, she supposed they were. It was more than that now, though. She was carrying his baby now. She’d moved back to Banktoun to be with him. But now everything had changed, hadn’t it?
She knocks on the window. It’s steamed up, but she can still make out his form, moving back and forth inside. He appears at the back door, drying his hands with a dishcloth. He looks grumpy, distracted, but as soon as he sees that it is her, his face breaks into a grin.
‘Hello you,’ he says. He pulls her into an embrace, kisses her. He is hot, sweaty. He smells of chips. She steps back, scared suddenly that she’s about to burst into tears.
‘Are you OK?’ she says. ‘Have you seen Mandy?’
He frowns. ‘I phoned last night. She didn’t want to talk to me. She’s in bits. I think the doc gave her some vallies. I spoke to the kids. It’s difficult, you know. I still can’t believe it’s happened. I keep thinking someone’s going to turn round and tell me it’s all a stupid joke. Some idiotic prank. Katie’s set it up to piss off her mum and Brooke. It’d be her style, actually. She was funny. Clever. I’m sure everyone’s told you this . . .’
‘Of course they have. But it’s different coming from you. You knew her—’
‘She wasn’t like a stepdaughter, you know. Not really. She was always just a good kid, someone I got on with. It was her who helped me get clean, you know. Did I tell you that? She told me she didn’t want me to die.’ He swallows, and she can see something pulsing in his cheek. He’s trying hard not to let this get to him. He still likes to play the hard man, but she knows him. Katie knew him too. It’s all just too horrible. She wants to tell him about the baby, but she can’t. Not now.
‘I was wondering if you thought it might be a good idea for me to go round and see Mandy, you know, sort of officially. See if she needs any help with the kids.’
‘You can try, doll, but I can’t imagine she’ll want to talk to you. She’s quite happy to wallow in it for now. She’s got a couple of neighbours. All she’s doing is saying the same things over and over. You won’t get much out of her. Not at the moment. Maybe wait a few days. The police are still all over the place anyway. Best thing you can do is speak to the kids, try and find out what’s going on with them. See if anyone knows anything, you know? Try and talk to that Hayley. Her and Katie were close, but I think they fell out. I don’t know the details. To be honest, I hadn’t seen Katie for a while. She used to pop round here sometimes, beg me for a bowl of chips. I think she’s been pretty wrapped up with that boyfriend of hers . . .’ He turns away, steps back inside the kitchen. ‘Put that back down, Jules. I’ll be in the now. Fucksake.’ He mutters the last word under his breath. Turns back to her. ‘Sorry, got to go. Another two checks have just come in and if I don’t get on with it, bloody Julie will start trying to cook fish again . . .’ He leans back inside the kitchen. ‘And we know what happened last time you tried that, don’t we, you muppet?’ He ducks back out, blows her a kiss, closes the door.
Polly stands outside, feeling lost. Alone. Suddenly remembering how cold it is.
THREEWISEMONKEYSBLOG
Telling It Like It Is
Posted: 1st Dec 2016 by SpeakNoEvil
Status: Draft
Comments: 0
Say say old enemy
Come out and fight with me
And bring your BB gun
And we’ll have lots of fun
I’ll scratch your eyes out
And make you bleed to death
And we’ll be jolly enemies
Forever evermore.
If I was one of those stupid girls that were prone to violence, I’d be doing everything it says in this rhyme . . . You can fire anything you like, but I’d have much MUCH more fun scratching your eyes out and watching you bleed to death. But, hey, you know me. Far too bloody nice for any of that. So what do I do instead?
Cry.
Pathetic, eh? I wish I hadn’t told you. I thought you would understand. I still don’t really understand why you don’t understand.
I’m not sure I’m even making any sense any more. I was supposed to be keeping it all anonymous. Talking about theoretical things happening to theoretical people. The point was it was supposed to be MADE UP – but no one would know that, would they? They’d all be reading the posts, wondering who knew their dirty little secrets . . .
They’re going to kill me when they find out what I’ve been writing here.
29
Louise
Louise sits in Polly’s office. She and Davie agreed that the questioning would be led by Polly, and this morning they’d let one of the uniforms sit in. Karen Zucarro: a decent PC, if a bit easily distracted. She’s out monitoring the playground now with her colleague Sarah Evans. The younger of the two, she is constantly bouncing or tapping or fidgeting, full of nervous energy. Louise had planned to pull one of them in again for this interview, but she’s seen Polly McAllister’s list and knows that Brooke Taylor is next. This isn’t one she can afford to miss.
In fact, she has a few questions of her own.
It had been a frustrating morning. Davie had dropped her of
f at the school after they’d finished at Lucas’s house. They’d batted a few things back and forth in the car. Louise was sure he was lying about something, Davie wasn’t so sure. He’d gone back to the station to catch up with Malkie and the rest of the team.
Louise makes tea for herself and Polly as Brooke sits in the chair opposite the counsellor, picking at her nails. Small pieces of bright orange varnish are piled on the desk in front of her. She’s paid no attention to the box of biscuits that Polly has slid over to her. She’s slowly tapping one high-heeled foot against the back plate of the desk. Louise is irritated by the girl already. Call it instinct.
‘Watch you don’t pull off the surface of your nails, there,’ Polly says to her. ‘I had those gels once. They look good, but it’s a nightmare to get the stuff off.’
Brooke ignores her.
‘How are you feeling, Brooke?’ Polly asks.
Louise admires the other woman’s ability to talk calmly to the girl. Surely Polly’s getting the same vibes as she is? Trouble. She looks bored, like this is all just a big inconvenience. Not like someone whose sister was found dead the day before. Louise had seen her at home. She’d been upset then. Could she really switch her emotions on and off so easily? Louise clicks the record button on her phone and lays it on the filing cabinet. ‘Just for my own notes. Nothing official.’ Not yet anyway, she wants to add, but doesn’t.
Brooke stops picking for a moment, looks up. Her eyes flit from Polly to Louise and back again. Her mouth is curled into an expression of pissed-off disgust mixed with apathy, peppered with a smattering of disdain. It’s a standard teenage-girl look. Louise was quite good at it herself, once.
