Deadly Harm

by Owen Mullen

  As police stations went, Stewart Street was okay – he’d been in better and in worse. Moving on didn’t appeal, though certainly that was likely. Leitch had never fancied him. Now, his card was marked. Geddes understood the script. Butting heads with a senior officer was the road to nowhere. More and more, he’d find himself behind a desk rather than involved in real policing. For a while he’d grin and bear it, until it got too much. Eventually, when he submitted his request for a transfer, it would go through in double-quick time, the DCI would make certain it did. And he’d be on his way. Wherever he eventually landed, one thing was certain: the coffee would be shit.

  What angered him most was Leitch’s criticisms. Not because they weren’t justified, but because they were. He’d behaved unforgivably, worse than the young constable in the car in Renfrew Street. The sergeant had clocked his reaction to Kirsty’s dead body and treated him like a rookie – a virgin copper – brushing up against the violent underbelly of the city. Geddes hadn’t forgotten the contemptuous look, and the assumption he was suffering from too much bevvy the night before. On other days that might’ve been true. Not this time. He’d spent Friday evening in the Shish Mahal in Park Road with Mackenzie, sharing plates of pakora and the best lamb biryani he’d ever tasted. Afterwards, he’d taken her home because the women in the refuge were off on a trip to the seaside in the morning. By half past eleven he’d been asleep in bed, believing all was right in his universe.

  Dennis Jamieson was in the middle of the squad room with his hand out to take the file. This was the moment he’d waited for. He shook his head, tut-tutting through thick sensuous lips. The detectives were the same height but couldn’t have been more different. Jamieson was leaner and younger by half-a-dozen years. Today, it showed. He’d known what was going down before Andrew Geddes climbed the stairs to the second floor, and was happy to ditch his plans for Saturday and come in. The brutal murder of a teenage mother in the middle of Glasgow was certain to attract media attention; the kind of case that made careers. Better still, Geddes had been taken off it. The officers disliked each other.

  To Jamieson, the DI was an old-school dinosaur, unaware his time had passed. Why people were keen to work with the dour fucker was a mystery. For his part, Geddes had to stop himself wiping the smirk off the smug bastard’s face. He detested his sloppy police work – another reason to be disgusted by his own performance in Renfrew Street. Dennis Jamieson was a lazy bastard who’d been bailed out by his colleagues more times than they could remember. The rape case tape was only one instance of his lack of ability. He was a cretin who refused to take responsibility for his actions and couldn’t detect his way out of a cardboard box. The police could do without him.

  But his face fitted, and that was what mattered.

  Jamieson said, ‘Understand you weren’t feeling too smart this morning. All got a bit much for you, so I hear.’

  Geddes slapped the file into his waiting palm. ‘You’ve got what there is, now find Malkie Boyle.’

  The name meant nothing to Jamieson. ‘Solved it already, have you? Christ, that was quick. Without even spending half an hour at the scene. Now that’s clever.’

  Geddes brushed past him. ‘Piss off, Jamieson.’

  The DI wouldn’t let it go. It wasn’t every day the mighty Andrew Geddes – the man who’d caught Richard Hill – was forced to eat shit.

  ‘You clairvoyant all of a sudden? Or do you know something the rest of us don’t?’

  Geddes was unable to keep his mouth shut. ‘I’ll tell you what I know. What every policeman in this station knows. You shouldn’t be allowed within a mile of any case because you’ll screw it up. Guaranteed.’

  Jamieson sneered. ‘Like you did this morning, you mean? After a skinful of Johnnie Walker, the sight of blood can be a bit much, can’t it?’

  In two strides, Geddes was on him. He grabbed his lapels, lifted the detective off his feet and drew back his fist. Some sixth sense made him hesitate. DCI Leitch towered in the doorway, his long face livid. Along with anger was something else, something Andrew had hoped never to see in the eyes of a fellow officer: pity.

  ‘For once in your life, Geddes, do as you’re told. Go home before you end up in the cells.’

  14

  Peter Sanderson crushed the betting slip in his hand and dropped the mangled pink paper on the ground, quietly cursing. He forced his fists into the pockets of his black leather jacket – a present to himself after going through the card on a balmy June night at the Saints and Sinners meeting at Hamilton. Five winners out of seven; he’d been inspired. Could do no wrong. Not today. Fuck! When would he learn? The afternoon had been a disaster. Plunging heavily at the start instead of easing himself into the flow had been reckless. At the time, he’d felt powerful; invincible – seeing the future, knowing the result before the race had even been run.

  The girl taking the punters’ bets hadn’t lifted her head to look at him when he passed the bundle of crisp new banknotes through the glass partition. If she had, she would have recognised the manic intensity in the eyes of the dark-haired man sliding a thousand pounds across the Formica.

  A 25/1 outsider called Harlequin drained those eyes of every emotion except abject disbelief, crossing the finish line to beat the favourite – his horse – into fourth place.

  That was the chance, the moment for him to recognise his powers of clairvoyance were a delusion. He hadn’t, and gone back for more.

  The voice inside his head wouldn’t be denied, urging him to follow his instincts, reaffirm his omnipotence – the last result had been a one-off, it assured his heart hammering in his chest; a fluke not to be repeated. With the memory of his initial redress fresh in his mind and the fever in him hot on his brow, he’d laid the notes on the counter, casually pushing them towards the girl so she wouldn’t see the excited tremble in his fingers.

  Walking to his seat in the stand, filled with the confidence of the hopelessly addicted gambler, the recent setback was forgotten. Losing didn’t cross his mind. His only regret was he hadn’t been able to go for it. Really go for it. Eight hundred on an even-money favourite wouldn’t even get him to where he’d been. Not great, but better than nothing.

  The runners were still in the paddock. Sanderson bought a pint of Stella in the bar and stood beside a frail man who had to be at least seventy-five.

  They nodded to each other, kindred souls on a shared journey. Threadbare cuffs poked from the arms of the crumpled suit. His nails were caked with dirt and an unlit cigarette hung from his lips. Normally he wouldn’t have given the old bugger the time of day – the wad of cash he was counting in his shaky wrinkled liver-spotted hands persuaded Sanderson he might be judging him prematurely.

  He raised his drink in a salute, one sportsman to another. ‘Somebody’s off to a lucky start. Good on you.’

  The man drew fingers down a grizzled cheek white with stubble. ‘Luck? If you believe that, you’re kidding yourself.’

  Sanderson admired his spunk. ‘Oh yeah. Got a system, have you?’

  ‘No such thing as a system.’

  ‘What’s your secret?’

  The man laughed. ‘As if I’d tell you.’

  Sanderson blew the top off his lager and took a drink; foam coated his top lip. ‘Just making conversation.’

  Out on the track, the runners and riders were cantering to the start. The old geezer pointed to the NO SMOKING sign on the wall behind him. ‘EU bastards. What’ve you got in this one?’

  Sanderson replied in kind. ‘As if I’d tell you.’

  ‘Fair enough. Let me guess. You’re on the favourite: Tweedle Dum.’

  Sanderson smiled. ‘Suppose you’re right, what’re my chances?’

  His new friend peeled a ten-pound note off the bundle in his palm and flicked it across the bar. ‘Get yourself a fish supper on your way home.’

  ‘You don’t fancy it, then?’

  ‘It’ll still be going this time next week.’

  ‘Really? That w
hat your system says?’

  ‘No system, told you.’

  ‘Then how come you’re so sure?’

  The man tapped the side of his nose. ‘Unless you know something the bookies don’t, why bother giving them your money?’

  ‘What should I be on, then?’

  ‘Too late now. Off in a minute.’

  The old bastard was starting to annoy him. ‘Stop fucking about, what’ve you got?’

  He shrugged and headed for the door. Over his shoulder he said, ‘You don’t want to know.’

  Back in his seat in the Princess Royal Stand, Sanderson watched a three-year-old called Storm Trooper lead from the start to finish twelve lengths ahead of the much-fancied Tweedle Dum. Ashen-faced, he went back to the bar. Desperation took over. He made the classic error of chasing his money. Modest wagers – all he had left. If they pulled, they’d be enough to keep him in the game. The next two races – a novice chase and a fillies handicap over a mile and four furlongs – cleaned him out.

  In the car he tried to figure where he could get more cash, wracking his brain. There was a night meeting in Glasgow at Shawfield dogs on Rutherglen Road. Anything – even a couple of hundred – would give him a chance. Shawfield had been lucky for him; he’d had two grand on The Other Reg, the winner of the Scottish Greyhound Derby, at 5/2.

  But there was nowhere: his credit cards – all seven of them – were maxed and his checking account at Virgin Money in Queen Street was tapped out. Even the old guy’s tenner was gone.

  The roar of the crowd rolled across the car park. Sanderson heard the distant thunder of hooves and imagined the field: tightly packed, moving like a single multi-coloured beast into the last furlong; striking for home round the final bend, the blur of jockeys high in the saddles crouched over their horses as the pack split and the leaders broke away, racing down the home straight.

  Sanderson gripped the steering wheel with both hands, conscious of the familiar shortness of breath and the emptiness in his stomach, his mind picturing the winner crossing the finish line.

  Just thinking about it made him sick.

  When it passed, he switched on the ignition and edged out of the car park onto Whitletts Road.

  15

  Rita stopped at the top of the worn concrete steps leading to the beach and stood defiantly with her hands on her hips. ‘I’m staying here.’

  Mackenzie jollied her along. ‘Come on. Who knows, you might even enjoy yourself.’

  ‘No, thank you. My mind’s made up. You go ahead. I prefer not to catch pneumonia, if it’s all the same to you.’

  The others ignored her. On the sand, Doreen kicked off her shoes. ‘Who fancies going in for a paddle? Any takers?’

  Irene said, ‘You’re mad but I’ll join you.’

  They hitched up the bottom of their trousers and stepped into the sea. Caitlin shouted, ‘What’s it like?’

  ‘Bloody freezing! You’ll love it!’

  They walked with the tide washing their ankles.

  Irene said, ‘This is the best time I’ve had since…’ The sentence went unfinished. The others understood.

  Doreen felt the same. ‘Same here. Can’t remember when I’ve giggled so much.’

  Sylvia hung back from everyone, whispering to Juliette.

  Sylvia Scott’s story was different from the others who’d found their way to the refuge. For three and a half decades she’d been the wife of Robert, a successful Edinburgh lawyer and, by her own account, for most of those years the marriage had been happy: they’d had two daughters, both married to doctors – one in the south of England and one in Montreal, Canada – and three grandchildren they doted on. They regularly entertained their wide circle of friends in the detached house in Corstorphine on the outskirts of the city bought when a younger Robert was made partner in the firm.

  It had been a nice life. Until her husband retired and everything changed.

  He became depressed and withdrawn and wouldn’t speak to her for days. His sudden mood swings from a loving husband into a domineering tyrant frightened her, though she believed she understood what was happening: Robert had lost who he was and was struggling to make sense of his new role. At a party she’d overheard him remark, ‘One day I’m standing in court, the next I’m pushing a trolley round Tesco.’

  Suggesting he should speak to somebody about it brought tirades, delivered with a volcanic anger. In front of people, Robert was the charming man he’d always been while she became withdrawn. Social occasions stressed her so she avoided them. Whenever Doctor Kyle – a family friend – called to check on Sylvia’s diabetes, Robert would sit beside her, reassuringly patting her hand, whispering that everything would be all right. As soon as the doctor left, the brooding monster returned: Jekyll and Hyde. If the girls called – and this was the part that hurt most – the devious way he made sure they heard him being sweet to her, then accuse her of turning them against him as soon as he hung up, made her wonder if she’d ever really known him at all.

  The relationship deteriorated to the status of strangers occupying the same space until one day the inevitable happened – he lost his temper over some trivial thing and hit her. He’d cried and begged her to forgive him. She had and life returned to what nowadays passed for normal in their house, each of them going their own way, awkward meetings in the kitchen and sleeping in separate beds.

  Divorce wasn’t a road she was keen to go down, so she’d stuck it out. On the few occasions she managed to start a discussion with him about what was wrong, he’d insist she was the problem. Counselling was rejected as an admission of failure. No psychology graduate with the ink still wet on their degree was poking around in his marriage, thank you very much.

  It couldn’t go on.

  Afterwards, Sylvia wasn’t able to recall much about that morning: they were in the conservatory listening to rain batter against the roof, watching it run down the windows. As usual, they hadn’t spoken. The blow came out of nowhere, so hard she fell over the cane chair, toppled the table and landed on the floor. He towered over her, clenching and unclenching his fists, ready to strike again. Then he’d walked away.

  Sylvia didn’t know who to turn to and called her eldest daughter in Montreal. Her reaction was unexpected, more shocking than anything she could’ve imagined – she didn’t believe her, suggesting she was the one who needed help and her sister agreed.

  Sylvia realised he’d got to them and probably their friends too.

  Thirty-eight years after the young Robert and Sylvia pledged their love for each other, their marriage ended; an hour later she left. In the city, her credit card was refused by a cashline in Haymarket. An enquiry at the Bank of Scotland in Shandwick Place confirmed her worst fears; their accounts – including their joint savings – had been emptied. Sylvia was numb. And angry.

  She’d rolled up to the refuge at ten-thirty at night in a taxi with a suitcase in one hand and her Pekingese – Juliette – in the other. Pets weren’t allowed; she’d already been denied a room in half a dozen places. The desperation in her eyes, so at odds with the proud stance, persuaded Mackenzie to make an exception.

  On Ayr beach, Rita was still firmly rooted to the stairs while the others giggled their way along the sand in groups. Mackenzie decided to take the opportunity to find out what was wrong. Because something definitely was. She waited for Sylvia to catch up.

  Sylvia drew her coat around herself and shivered. ‘This is a stupid idea. It’s too cold.’

  Mackenzie put a hand on her shoulder. ‘Want to talk about it?’

  The older woman bristled. ‘I just think it’s the wrong time of year.’

  ‘For what it’s worth, I disagree. There isn’t a “wrong time” to enjoy yourself. Anyway, that isn’t what I meant and you know it. Something’s upset you, what is it?’

  Sylvia considered denying it, then changed her mind. ‘The girls sent me a letter. They want me to go back to their father. If I refuse, they don’t want to hear from me again. If I teleph
one, they’ll hang up.’

  ‘Why?’

  Sensing something wasn’t right, the dog licked her face. ‘They blame me for abandoning Robert. I didn’t. I didn’t abandon anybody. I didn’t have a choice.’

  Finding something positive to say wasn’t easy.

  ‘They’ve agreed he should split his time between them. Six months in England and the other six months in Canada. When I was there, it was as much as they could do to visit us. All of a sudden they’re rearranging their lives to accommodate him.’

  ‘It might never happen.’

  Sylvia snorted. ‘Don’t kid yourself, it is. They’ve given me two weeks to reply or get my lawyer to contact them.’

  ‘But that’s crazy. What for?’

  ‘They’re putting Corstorphine on the market.’ She shook her head. ‘Thirty years we lived in that house.’

  ‘The girls will come round when they understand the position you were in.’

  ‘No they won’t. Robert’s poisoned them against me.’ Unhappiness made her lash out. ‘And please stop calling them girls. They’re grown women who should know better. It’s one person’s word against another, I understand that. But I’m their mother. To come down on their father’s side without even talking to me, asking me.’

  Watching this proud woman broken by her family was hard.

  ‘All I did was protect myself because I had to. It’s Robert who needs to speak to somebody about anger management. What was I supposed to do? Just keep letting him hit me?’

  ‘Of course not, you did the right thing whether they realise it or not. I could write to them if you’d like. Explain your side of it.’