by Owen Mullen
He came out of the blackout, half running half staggering, with no notion of where he was going. The locked gates of a public park offered temporary sanctuary. Malkie climbed the railings and wandered on the grass until he found a bench away from the street and lay down. The slats bit into his back, he was thirsty beyond belief, his head hurt and somewhere along the line he’d lost his jacket. Focusing was impossible: unless he got his thinking straight he was going back inside.
Ideas – each more desperate than the last – arrived and were dismissed. With no money, where could he go? The police knew his friends. Later today they’d pull them in. What could they say? The last time they’d seen him was in the pub; there was nothing to tell.
He had to think. Think straight. Malkie smiled. Suddenly he knew where he was going.
Every house was in darkness apart from the one at the corner where a drunken singsong drifted tunelessly into the night. Malkie ignored it and forced himself to concentrate; he’d only been here once, with his mother, a long time ago. Further up the street, he tapped on a window at the rear, guessing that’s where he’d be, praying to a god he didn’t believe in. When a light went on, he crept to the front and lifted the heavy brass knocker.
After a minute, a voice hoarse with sleep asked, ‘Who is it?’
He didn’t answer.
‘Who’s there?’
He tapped again, slow and deliberate rather than loud, three times: one, two, three.
The door opened. In the crack, a face from the past peered at him – the hair was white, the skin wrinkled, the eyes wary but no less empty than when he’d refused his mother in this very house.
‘It’s me, Granddad. It’s Malkie. How you doin’?’
11
Geddes swirled the brown dregs in the bottom of his cup, wondering if he could be bothered making another. No matter what police office he’d worked out of in the city, one thing was always the same: the coffee was shit. Whether the jar was expensive or cheap made no difference, it was still crap. The other day a DC suggested they throw in for a machine that used pods. Good idea, except it wouldn’t happen unless an enterprising bean lover got off his lazy arse and organised it. Even then, four or five people would end up paying for it while the others skated by, not putting their hands in their pockets for as long as they could get away with it.
Saturday was the original “morning after the night before”. More crime was committed in Glasgow on Friday after dark than on any other night of the week. The current upward trend in knife attacks, often fatal, was taking the city back to the bad old days, when it had a well-earned reputation as the most dangerous place in the UK.
It was half past nine. Cold and sunny outside. Geddes had been at his desk in Stewart Street since before eight o’clock and, so far, no-one could accuse him of doing anything remotely resembling graft. Experience told him to enjoy it because it wouldn’t last.
He rejected the notion of a second cup, pulled a file off the top of the pile on his desk and opened the folder: the case of an Asian shopkeeper, stabbed and left in a pool of blood behind his counter was ten days old and not close to getting solved, the few leads they had going nowhere. Though money was missing from the cash register, Geddes wasn’t convinced theft was the motive. That left a personal grudge or racism. A grudge offered hope of a link between victim and perpetrator which, with luck, might be uncovered. On the other hand, a racist attack with no personal connections would be more difficult to crack. In other parts of the country, down south especially, ethnic tensions had existed for decades. Not much of an issue north of the border, at least not yet. But Scotland hadn’t escaped – it had its own curse. Witness the scenes before and after any Old Firm match and the madness on the terraces of Celtic Park and Ibrox during the game.
His phone rang. DS Kevin Turnbull was on the desk and began with an apology. ‘Sorry to cut your tea break short. Just received a call – a woman found dead.’
‘Where?’
‘Up the road. Flat in Garnethill.’
Geddes wrote down the address.
‘Happened in the early hours, by the looks of it. Officers are already there and the scene examiners are on their way. Too good to last, wasn’t it?’
‘Always is.’
He grabbed his keys and headed for the car.
Traffic on Cowcaddens Road was light – later, as Saturday got underway and the city flooded with shoppers, it would be a different story. Minutes after he left Stewart Street station, he passed the burned-out shell of the Glasgow School of Art, the iconic landmark designed by Charles Rennie Mackintosh destroyed by fires four years apart. The last he’d read, restoration work on the building had been abandoned.
At the far end of Renfrew Street, beyond a ribbon of blue and white tape stretched across the road, two police vehicles were parked at the kerb, a female in the back seat of the nearest one, an ashen-faced constable in his early twenties staring ahead from the other. Officers were stationed at the boundary to further protect the integrity of the scene. Somebody was on the ball. Geddes put on a white over-suit and latex gloves and showed the uniform at the door holding a clipboard his warrant card. His name and rank were entered into the record. He nodded towards the officer in the car. ‘What’s wrong with him?’
‘Bit too much for him, sir. Needed some air.’
‘One of those is it? Who’s the woman?’
‘Social worker. Came round to make sure everything was all right.’
‘She the one who made the call?’
‘No, sir.’
Down a narrow dimly lit hall, a detective sergeant stood at the door to a flat, like the street outside, cordoned off with tape. He wasted no time in bringing the DI up to speed. ‘Nobody’s been in the room apart from me and the neighbour who discovered her.’
‘Examiners not here yet?’
‘We’re waiting for them.’
Geddes nodded and went inside. On the bed, the victim stared at the ceiling, a sky-blue nightdress pulled up exposing her naked body. The killer hadn’t been satisfied with beating her face to a pulp; bloody fingerprints marked the pale skin of her breasts and thighs where he’d pawed her.
‘Do we have a name?’
‘We have. Got it from the social worker. Kirsty McBride. Been here less than a week.’
Geddes felt as if he’d been struck from behind – he put his hand against the wall to steady himself. Bile rose in his throat. That wasn’t right. It couldn’t be. They’d promised her she’d be safe. He’d met Kirsty three times – twice at her place in Haghill and once when he’d driven her to and from the meeting with Mackenzie in the Dakota Hotel.
He hadn’t recognised her.
Sweat broke on his brow. Miles away, the sergeant was talking. Geddes couldn’t make out what he was saying. ‘The neighbour – a Mrs Flynn – lives across the landing. Around nine she heard the baby crying and noticed the front door open.’
The sergeant checked his notebook.
‘The lady from the Social arrived at the same time. Both pretty shook up, as you can imagine.’
He squinted at the detective, uncertain about whether to keep going. ‘Are you okay, sir?’
The DI didn’t reply and the sergeant went on. ‘Kitchen window’s been forced. Not difficult in an old building like this.’ He pointed to the empty cot against the wall. ‘Social Services have taken the baby. Gave her to them myself. Cute wee thing. Howled the place down.’
Geddes spoke in a whisper. ‘She’s called Alison.’
‘Sorry?’
‘I said the baby’s name is Alison.’
‘Really? You know them? You know these people?’
Geddes had to get out of there.
On Renfrew Street a crowd had started to gather behind the tape. Passers-by, drawn to another’s misfortune. He intentionally ignored the police cars and their white-faced occupants, reminders of the betrayal he’d instigated. Shock turned to rage: at the animal who’d murdered a defenceless girl; Social Services for no
t keeping her out of Boyle’s reach; but mostly, at himself. He ducked under the tape, walked further up Renfrew Street and stood in a doorway, opening and closing his fists, cursing under his breath. Twenty minutes ago he’d been at his desk in the station, complaining about coffee, readying for the aftermath of Friday night in Glasgow to reveal itself.
This wasn’t what he’d had in mind.
If Kirsty had never met him she’d probably be on the floor of the flat in Haghill, happily playing with her daughter, jumping every time she heard a noise from the bedroom where Boyle would be sleeping off the previous day’s excesses, already realising the mistake she’d made.
No way to exist. But at least she’d be alive.
Geddes leaned as far forward from his shoes as he could and vomited on the pavement. His eyes watered. Acid burned his throat. For seconds his vision blurred. He pulled himself together and went back down the street with the smell of sick in his nostrils.
The DS was in the car taking a statement from the social worker. When he saw him he looked away, the rebuke clear on his face. Geddes flushed. The officer was a professional and expected the same from a senior man. He’d established two perimeters: inside and externally on Renfrew Street. It was always wise to secure an area larger than was needed. Later, it could be reduced. Then he’d set up a log. Good work.
Andrew Geddes had been in situations like this more often than he could remember. Twice a year he lectured at the police college in Tulliallan, always beginning his talk with the same sentence. ‘The first job of any crime scene officer is to secure the scene.’
Maybe the sergeant had been in the audience.
In the hall the sergeant caught up with him. ‘We’ve taken statements from both the social worker and the neighbour, essentially telling the same story. Neither saw anybody.’
Geddes pointed to the people watching the show from their windows, two of them taking pictures. Every case nowadays brought the obligatory social media trophy ghouls.
‘What about them?’
‘Already on it. Early days but, so far, nothing.’
Voices at the main door made them turn round: the crime scene examiners had arrived. One of them, a woman, came towards Geddes and shook his hand, smiling. ‘Well, well. We must stop meeting like this, Andrew.’
Linda Adam had been a forensics examiner for twelve years. Like Andrew Geddes, her propensity for calling a spade a spade made her an acquired taste, which explained why she was unmarried. But when it came to gathering and analysing forensics, there was nobody to touch her. Kirsty couldn’t be in better hands. ‘I’m glad they sent you. Always interested to hear your take.’
Friendship didn’t stop her from correcting him. ‘Sorry to disappoint you. Won’t have a “take”, as you call it. Or an opinion. Not how it works. I’ll give you what the science says and leave the rest to you.’
Geddes wasn’t in the mood for sparring. Yards away, the dead body of an eighteen-year-old kid was covered in blood, beaten beyond recognition by a man who shouldn’t have got within half a mile of her. Linda picked up his energy and softened her approach. ‘I’ll do my best, you know I will.’
He nodded.
‘Right then, where’s the victim?’
When she came back, the smile had gone. ‘Since it’s you, here’s something for nothing. You’re not going to be short of evidence. There are prints on her body visible with the naked eye. Whoever did it dipped his fingers in her blood and smeared it on her. No attempt to cover his tracks.’
The sergeant threw in his two-bob’s worth. ‘How can you be sure it’s a he?’
‘Good point. Especially after my speech, eh? Their tracks.’
Geddes listened to the exchange, unimpressed. He didn’t need a report from Linda Adam or anybody else to tell him who had done this.
12
Sylvia had been quiet at breakfast and eaten very little, afterwards slipping out of the kitchen without a word to anyone. Since then she’d kept to her room. On the minibus steps she stopped, with her dog, as usual, clasped to her chest. ‘Where do you want us to sit?’
Mackenzie didn’t see the tension in her and made a joke. ‘Ask the driver.’
‘I thought you were the driver.’
‘I am.’
Sylvia wasn’t amused. ‘Where do you want us to sit?’
‘Down at the front.’
‘Then why not just say so instead of a lot of stupid nonsense?’ Her voice cracked, close to tears. ‘Juliette isn’t a good traveller. It makes her sick. Promise me if she isn’t well, we’ll stop.’
It wasn’t the dog she was talking about.
Mackenzie said, ‘What’s wrong?’
Sylvia snapped. ‘Nothing. I don’t like to be made a fool of, that’s all. I’m asking you to stop if Juliette’s sick.’
‘Of course. She’ll be fine and so will you. We’re going to Ayr, not Timbuktu.’
‘But if she’s sick–’
‘If Juliette isn’t well, we’ll stop.’
The exchange was unlike the Sylvia Scott Mackenzie knew. Something had upset her.
Rita was last. ‘Might’ve picked a better day. Can see us all getting soaked. What’ll we do if it rains?’
Mackenzie was still thinking about Sylvia; her reply was terse. ‘What’ll we do if it doesn’t rain?’
Rita shot her a look and got on.
Inside the bus the women chatted like kids on a school trip. Normally Sylvia would be busy organising everyone. Instead, she sat stone-faced, staring ahead, not taking part. Mackenzie made a mental note to get to the bottom of what was wrong with her.
The minibus carried fourteen, which meant everyone was able to go. Mackenzie smiled when she saw Caitlin. ‘Sit beside Sylvia, would you? She’s in a funny mood today.’
‘Looks like a storm coming,’ Caitlin said. ‘What’ll we do if it rains?’
‘You’re the second person to ask me that. What’ll we do if it doesn’t rain?’
Driving to the coast was like embarking on an adventure. Everybody had dressed up, most were wearing make-up. Mackenzie kept her eyes on the road, listening to the banter behind her. With the exception of Rita and Sylvia, they were all in good form – these women were at a crossroads, heading towards a new life. Some, at least, were beginning to believe it.
Mackenzie thought about Andrew. The last eight days had been wonderful; they’d had dinner twice and been to the movies. As the policeman slowly opened up about himself, she’d discovered a thoughtful sensitive man behind the sometimes gruff exterior. He was keen on her, that much was obvious. Beyond liking him it was too soon to know how she felt, but in the cinema he’d taken her hand, and when he’d dropped her home, they’d kissed.
Before they got as far as the motorway, Irene was passing round ham rolls and offering coffee from vacuum flasks. When she came to her, Mackenzie shook her head. ‘You do realise we’ll be there in an hour?’
Irene shrugged. ‘I’m a feeder. Giving people something to eat’s my response to everything. Can’t help it.’
Nobody wanted her to help it – Irene was a terrific cook and an even better baker. She was thirty-seven, quiet and petite and always kept herself busy. Added to that, like almost everyone else here, she’d escaped a violent relationship. But a decade of emotional abuse had left deeper scars: her confidence was shot and she reacted like a frightened rabbit if anybody raised their voice. Irene had knocked on the door one Sunday morning with a suitcase and less than ten pounds in her pocket, a lost soul with nowhere to go. Within weeks, she’d made the kitchen hers. There were no objections.
‘Should’ve let me put together a packed lunch. It wouldn’t have been a problem. Could’ve eaten it on the bus.’
‘Except people need to get out. And that’s the point. On a day like today, fish and chips is a better option.’
‘Suppose you’re right.’
Mackenzie glanced at her then back to the road. ‘How’re you doing?’
‘…All right. Okay. Pr
efer to be working.’
‘Any thoughts about the future?’
‘Not really. Taking it a day at a time.’
It was obvious the question made Irene uncomfortable. Mackenzie understood why: the refuge was a short-term solution – in the beginning, a much-needed safe place, then a springboard into a new life. Irene had come a long way – far stronger than she’d been. The decision would always be hers but she’d realise the time to leave was coming closer. Mackenzie had an idea. For the moment, she kept it to herself.
She checked her mirror, indicated and joined the motorway at Charing Cross, enjoying the experience; it happened so rarely. She’d bought the minibus the day before the renovation work on the house was completed, thinking it was something they’d need. The reality was very different: she hadn’t driven it more than a dozen times.
A voice in the back shouted, ‘Are we nearly there yet?’ and Mackenzie smiled, remembering making the same joke with Andrew that first night. Further on, a plane with the familiar orange EasyJet logo rose to their right into the sky. Rita didn’t let the opportunity to be pessimistic pass her by. ‘Off to the sun, lucky buggers. Wish it was me. Bet it’s tipping down where we’re going.’
Somebody shouted, ‘Be glad you’re going anywhere, Rita!’
Signs for the Burrell Collection, Newton Mearns and Throntonhall gave way to Kilmarnock, Ayr and Irvine. The clouds parted and it brightened up. When they saw the sea for the first time, everybody cheered like kids on a school trip. Caitlin was behind her, sitting beside Sylvia. Mackenzie couldn’t tell how she was doing. How either of them was doing. Sylvia hadn’t asked to stop so she must be all right. It was so unlike her to be short-tempered, maybe she’d received a long-overdue letter from one of her daughters and it had upset her. Behind Sylvia’s motherly front hid a proud woman; if she wanted her to know she’d tell her.
