Ripped

by Frederic Lindsay

  'It wasn't really that,' she said. 'Mr Heathers thought I might be upset because Malcolm had been sleeping with another woman. That's what he came to sympathise about.'

  'The world didn't stop because John Merchant got himself killed,' Heathers intervened. 'Nobody's indispensable. A little bit of trading, a bit of in-fighting – they'll get themselves a new Convenor. While that's going on, while the new man's finding his feet, your brother could be a little bit more important not less. That's what I was thinking about. Right?' He paused as if expecting to be contradicted. 'And Bradley – him that was your brother's boss – he's dead.' The word fell like something heavy and inert on the carpet with its white pool of sun, and Murray stared down, rubbing the fur of milk on his tongue against his palate. 'Your brother might have a future. But he needs to make friends. You could help your brother.'

  'I don't do favours,' Murray said. 'My brother's the one who does the favours.' As soon as the words were out of his mouth, he heard them as being stupid; if he had asked how, he would have learned what Heathers wanted. To ask the right question was part of his trade, when to open your mouth and when to keep it shut; feeling ill wasn't an excuse for being bad at your trade.

  'I'm not talking about favours. I'm talking about hiring you.'

  And when to keep your mouth shut...

  'From what I hear you're not a bad snooper. You did all right for Billy Milligan.'

  It had been his best effort; it hadn't been easy and it had persuaded him he might be able to make a living as an investigator. It had been Milligan who, out of gratitude, had talked the lawyer Bittern into giving him a chance. A chance at small debt and the maybes of adultery; so it was hardly his fault if nothing afterwards had let him show what he could do.

  'Since then my rates have gone up.'

  'I know what you charge,' Heathers said. 'I play golf with Andrew Bittern.'

  'He's one of the people I work for.'

  'I know how many people you work for. And I know how much you charge.'

  'I lost some time this week,' Murray said. 'I can't afford to get beaten up. If I don't do anything about it, it could put ideas into people's heads.'

  'Please, oh, please!' In her excitement, Irene jumped up and laid her hand on Heathers' arm so that the old man startled at her touch. 'It's a wonderful idea. I'm sure that Murray could help. Mr Merchant was a nice man and he was very kind to Malcolm.'

  Her eyes shone with emotion. She looks as if she might cry real tears, Murray thought, and to his surprise Heathers gave the appearance of catching the infection. With almost a snuffle, and a shake of the head, he sighed, 'Ah, John was a gentleman. An old friend.'

  'Are you asking me to find who killed John Merchant?' Murray wondered.

  'Christ, no!' Heathers exclaimed in astonishment. 'There's plenty of policemen to do that.'

  'Why did you say you wanted Murray then?' With the excitement gone, Irene's voice sounded flat and oddly disappointed.

  'A retainer, I was offering him a retainer. Putting him on the books for a bob or two. And when something turns up for him to do, I'll get him to do it.'

  Back to the small debt, Murray reflected wryly; but then Heathers would already have a firm for that.

  'If you're going to pay him anyway, why shouldn't he try to find who did the murders?' Irene persisted. 'You said he was a good detective.'

  'Computers,' Heathers said as if talking to a child. 'And dozens of detectives. And bloody thousands of man hours – not to mention the overtime.' He wriggled himself forward out of the depths of the chair, leaning forward towards Murray. 'Chances are they'll manage without you. I'll find something for you to do – but not now, that's what a retainer's about. And the thing is, I know what you get paid, mister. That's what I'm offering – and whatever expenses you need. Within reason. And no bloody garbage about lost weeks. I'm running a business not a charity.' The insignificant physical task of getting to the edge of the low chair had cost him a visible effort, and perhaps it was the consciousness of that which made him venomous. He sank back and took his breath. 'If you did hear anything, of course, I'd expect to be told. If John Merchant was tortured, I'd like to know why. But that's only if you happened to hear something. I don't want you going around stirring things up. You try that and the money stops – I don't want things stirred up.'

  'Tortured?' Murray wondered.

  'That's what your friend Peerse thinks. And he's got brains instead of cow shit between his ears.' As Heathers mouthed the harmless vulgarity, Murray saw his head turn as if he couldn't resist a glance at Irene. Did he think, the old man, he might shock her?

  'Business information? Your business?' Murray asked.

  'If it was, I'd want to be the one that was told about it,' Heathers said, his voice suddenly flat and ugly. He made a gesture of impatience. 'You won't hear anything. I'm not expecting you to hear anything.'

  'You already told me that.'

  'I'm telling you again.' Heathers clenched his plump white fists on the arm of the chair and lifted himself to his feet. 'You're getting paid for waiting, that makes you lucky.' With his hands behind his back, he paced to and fro; he strutted as small men sometimes do; if he had been apprehensive when he first saw Murray, the last trace of it seemed to have gone. 'Usually men who work for me work hard. Not as hard as me right enough – not the way I worked, building up everything from nothing, nobody who hasn't done that knows what hard work is. But that's me, not you. You take it easy, you'll get a cheque every week. Take time, get over your accident. Think of me as a friend of the family.'

  When he had gone, Irene came back from the hall and instead of sitting on the couch again took the seat he had left. After a pause, she said, 'I'm disappointed.'

  'His money's as good as anybody else's.'

  She thought about that and then said, 'That's not what I meant. I was disappointed because I thought he was going to ask you to find the murderer.'

  'You heard him – I don't have a computer.'

  'But you're going to take his money.'

  It's my trade. Only this time he was to be paid for not practising it.

  'When he saw you coming in, he was frightened,' she said. 'It was because of him you were beaten up. That was it, wasn't it? He thought you would hit him.'

  'He's an old man.'

  'He didn't know you were a gentleman. That must have been why he offered you the money.'

  'Why were you disappointed?'

  'Because –' she began emphatically, but she had already answered that question. 'If you caught the murderer, we would be the first to know.'

  He was tired of sitting on the couch facing the window. His head ached with staring into that brightness.

  'When does Malcolm get home?' he asked.

  'Didn't you know?' Out of the brightness, her surprise mocked him. 'He's been sent away – to do a course on computers. At the moment, he'll be sitting in the North British in Edinburgh drinking coffee and conferring. They were being kind – sending him away, after all the fuss. Only for a few days. You'll see him at Mum Wilson's on Sunday.'

  'All the fuss...' He supposed that was one way of describing it when a whore's alibi for murder was that your husband had slept with her. 'Did you know about her? Her name's Frances Fernie. Did you know that?'

  'She was a friend of mine,' light, clear, hasty, just the tone in which she cried 'Mum Wilson'. 'In London. After we were married, she turned up here. She came to see me – and met Malcolm. It must have gone on from there. Not that I knew anything about it, of course.'

  On an impulse, he held up his hand, stretching the thumb away from the palm so that the flesh at its root grew taut. With the forefinger of his other hand, he touched the drawn skin. 'I saw the body of the first man who was killed, not Merchant, the first one. That was in the lane. I shouldn't have been there. His hand was lying out to the side and it was...torn. There, just there. A lot of other things had been done to him, but that was the one I noticed. I haven't been able to get it out of my head. I
t had been bitten – or it looked like that. As if it had been torn with teeth.'

  He got up and the light came out of his eyes and he moved so that he could see her face.

  'It doesn't make sense. It sounds stupid when I say it. The thing is, I haven't been able to get it out of my head.'

  Unexpectedly, she was smiling. 'Is this how you begin?' she asked. 'It's all new to me.'

  15 Fear of Dying

  SATURDAY, SEPTEMBER 15TH 1988

  'That's some keeker,' old Barney said, admiring the yellow bruising round Murray's eye as he folded the newspaper before handing it over. 'How'd you get it? It's not as though you're married.'

  'I got hit by a champagne cork.'

  'Eh?'

  'Would you believe the bucket?'

  'Were you at a wedding? You want to keep away from them. I've seen some terrible fights at weddings.'

  It was earlier than the day before, but then, in contrast to what had happened when he first came out of hospital, Murray had hardly slept at all the previous night. He felt hungry but as if food would make him sick. He had breakfasted on cups of tea. It was a fine morning though, bright sun again and windless; he lingered beside the old paperseller. Two bachelors taking their leisure together, they squinted against the sun.

  'You ever hear of a guy called Kujavia, Barney?'

  He was conscious of the old man's sudden stillness. 'What was that name again?'

  'You heard me.'

  Barney spat a yellow loop into the gutter. 'It's not that I don't want to help you, Murray. But I'm out here in the morning and at night on my own. Trouble's what I don't need.'

  'You've told me things before. There's never been any comeback. I'm a wall, Barney.'

  'Aye, right,' Barney said, in what might have been agreement or scepticism. 'But you've never raised that particular name before.'

  'There could be a couple of notes in it for you. Not right away – next week. I've got a cheque coming from a client. I'll call you expenses.'

  'He's a bad bastard, I'll tell you that for nothing.' But having begun he didn't stop; dribbling out what he knew in a hoarse grunting murmur, never looking directly at Murray and breaking off abruptly not just to sell a paper but whenever anyone came witl1in earshot. It was unpleasant that amount of caution; it smelled of fear. Most of what he told, Murray had already heard from Billy Shanks.

  'What about an address?'

  'Away to hell, that's over the line. If I knew, I wouldn't tell you.'

  'But you don't?'

  'He moves around. Know what I mean? A man with enemies.' He sighed as Murray kept silent. His passion was information, and that appetite made it hard for him to keep what he had sterile and unshared. He scraped a hand across the grey bristles on his chin, and said almost angrily, 'There's Mary O'Bannion. She's a pro-built like a bloody mountain. He's with her most of the time. And before you ask me – I don't know where she lives.'

  Murray didn't believe that, but he had been given more than he could have expected. As he began to walk up Moirhill Road, he thought about the important thing Barney had told him about Kujavia, the thing Billy Shanks hadn't mentioned.

  The bar was functional, a counter, glasses, drink, a lavatory that was a urinal without towels or hot water. The Crusader was a trough in which poverty stuck its snout and found nothing in the way of comfort but alcohol.

  And company, of course.

  Two men standing together at the bar checked on Murray as he came in, one with no more than a sliding of the eyes, the other with an odd tilting motion of the face like the muzzle of a suspicious dog; an old man sucked toothlessly on a tumbler of red wine; a woman at a table brooded over an empty glass. On the strength of Heathers' expected cheque, Murray bought a whisky. He asked what the lady drank and the barman poured a double. Having accounted for him, the two men lost interest.

  It was true the city had some of the ugliest prostitutes in the world; strictly functional – like the Crusader.

  Misunderstanding, the woman responded to the dark man's smile. Her teeth showed yellow.

  'I'm not looking for trade,' she said.

  'Have the drink anyway.'

  She emptied the glass with a greedy swallow as if he might change his mind without warning.

  'It's just that I have an appointment,' she explained.

  'You're going to get your hair styled.'

  'No,' she said seriously. 'It's with the doctor. That's why I couldn't break it, like. I need to see him. My stomach's giving me laldie. If it wasn't –'

  'Take this – it'll cure you. Save you a visit to the doctor.' He pushed his own glass across to her. She took it but stared at him uncertainly. 'It's okay. I'll get myself another one - in a minute.'

  'If it wasn't for the doctor, mind you,' she continued automatically and drank. 'It was a doctor that did it to me. A black doctor in Greenock. He made a mess of me inside.'

  'Tough.'

  'Have you got a car?' Murray shook his head.

  'You see if you'd wheels... I was going to say I could've given you relief, like. And been in time for the doctor. It's time – that's the trouble.'

  'You'll make time for another drink though.'

  'If you're offering.' She stirred with a dull animal suspicion.

  He collected drinks from the silent barman and as he sat down told her, 'I'm looking for somebody.'

  'I know, love. Listen, what about later –'

  'Mary O'Bannion. I'm looking for Mary O'Bannion.'

  'Oh. You're a man with a weapon.'

  'How would that be?'

  'You hit her, and she hits you. I don't do that stuff, darling. I've had too much pain in my life. No offence, like.'

  A pulse of pain like anger flared behind his right eye and at the base of his skull. It was bad, but he could cope with it. What troubled him was the unremitting ache; too slight to be painful, it was like the pressure of some small muzzled animal pushing to get out. It had been trying since he had wakened in the hospital.

  A man with a weapon, there was nothing to smile about in her now. Nothing at all.

  'Would fifty pounds make you late for the doctor?'

  'I need to see him.' Once an idea had lodged in her head it took time for it to make room for another. Greed began the nudging process. 'Fifty? What would you want?'

  'You stand against a wall and let me punch you in the stomach.' He watched the colour leave her face.

  'I wouldn't be surprised if you've got something wrong with your stomach right enough,' he said. 'You should see a doctor.'

  'I told you,' she said vacantly. 'I'm going to see him. I told you. That's not on, what you wanted.'

  'Not for a hundred?'

  'Have you got a ton on you?'

  Perhaps deliberately she let her voice rise on the question. From the corner of his eye, Murray caught the tilt of the dog's mask turning. Because of the pain, because he had been offended, he had behaved like a fool.

  He laughed easily.

  'You must think I'm a clown. It was just a joke. With you going on about having to see the doctor...like... No offence?'

  By mere instinct, she reacted to the aggression he gave off despite himself.

  'You want to watch it,' she said with a yellow grimace. 'If I put the boys on to you, you'll get a tanking.'

  Murray took a deep breath and sat back. He rubbed a hand over his face.

  'I'm sorry, love. I know you're not feeling well. You're worried about the doctor. You've had a rough time. Here, I was just wanting to give you a drink – something to take the pain away, eh? A joke can do that too sometimes, isn't that right? But that was a stupid joke. Definitely a stupid joke, eh?'

  He offered a monotone of sympathy like a man soothing a spooked horse.

  'Definitely,' she said. 'You want to watch your mouth.'

  Under the influence of his sympathy, however, everything dull and compliant in her was surfacing. When for the second time he pushed his own glass, still full, across to her, she accepted it witho
ut question.

  'You need it more than I do,' he said.

  'Just so it doesn't go to waste, eh? Oh, Jesus!' She made a face as it went down. 'You're right about me feeling rough.'

  'Have another one.'

  'I'm going to the doctor,' she said without conviction.

  While he was ordering drinks, Murray watched, in the mirror behind the expressionless barman, one of the men cross to the table and bend over the woman. Meticulously taking no interest, the second man stared into what might have been a glass of lemonade, tilting his head and sniffing into the stillness. More than alcohol, a lot of the hard men now who were on drugs craved the sweetness of the mixers.

  'Are you a fucking cop?' she asked as he sat down.

  'No,' Murray said, keeping it simple.

  'You're big enough for one. You're a big fellow.'

  'I'm big all over,' Murray offered, suggestively.

  'Right enough,' she went on, heeding the warning voice in her head, 'you're not drinking. You're buying, but you're not drinking. And another thing, you don't look like one of Big Mary's regulars. I was surprised when you said you were wanting Big Mary.'

  'No,' Murray said, more emphatically this time, 'you weren't surprised. You're just saying that now – but you had it right before. I'm a man with a weapon. Big Mary's the right one for that, okay? So what's the problem? I need her address – it's worth a fiver to me.'

  As she thought about it, he made the mistake of pushing. ‘Anyway, it takes all kinds to make a world. You're not telling me all Big Mary's customers look the same.'

  'They're frightened,' she said. 'They want it and they don't want it.'

  Murray blew out his lips contemptuously. 'Some folk are like that and some aren't. Look, if I was a policeman, I wouldn't have to ask you her address. I'd know it, wouldn't I? Stands to reason.'

  'Aye, but, if you've been with her...you should know.' She said this not searchingly but as if she had just worked it out.

  'My place. She used to come to my place. But I've moved away from there, so I need to get in touch. She'd be glad if you told me – but even if she wasn't, who's to know? Might be worth more than a fiver... That's easy money.'