by Owen Mullen
‘Yeah, who would that be?’
‘Malkie Boyle been in lately?’
‘Never heard of him.’
‘Really, you surprise me? From what I’m told, this is his pub.’
The barman raised his head and jutted his chin. ‘No idea who you’re talking about.’ He leaned a reptile elbow on the counter. Geddes smelled his bad breath and wanted to draw away. Instead he held his ground.
The man said, ‘We don’t like nosey cunts in here.’
‘Is that what I am?’
‘Fucking sounds like it.’
Geddes grabbed his fingers and bent them back. ‘Save the tough guy chat for somebody who appreciates it. I’m not in the mood. Malkie Boyle. When was the last time you saw him?’
The DI heard the chair leg scrape the floor behind him, grabbed the warrant card on a lanyard round his neck and held it in the air. The sight of it was enough to stop the intervention. He let go of the barman’s fingers, slowly poured water into his whisky and turned to the crowd. All eyes were on him. In the silence, the only sound was the wood-on-wood clack of dominoes from a table in the corner, where two grey-haired old men refused to allow the drama to interrupt their game and didn’t lift their heads.
Apart from them, the pub had become a still life drawn by a talentless artist, every expression a rictus of hate.
‘I’m looking for Malkie Boyle. Who’s seen him?’
A big man with a beard, wearing paint-stained overalls and heavy boots, tapped the butt of his pool cue menacingly in his palm, but stopped when Geddes’s eyes lingered on him a moment longer than they needed. In places like this, violence was the first resort.
‘Malkie Boyle? Comes in here.’
Geddes scanned the angry faces.
‘Who’re his friends? I need a name.’
Nobody answered. He turned to the snake charmer. ‘Unless you’re keen on coppers turning up here day and night, I’d tell me what I want to know.’
‘He hasn’t been here since the day he got out of the Bar-L. Nobody’s seen him.’
Geddes raised his voice and spoke to the crowd. ‘Boyle butchered a teenage girl and murdered a disabled pensioner. All you hard bastards fine about that, are you?’ The DI shook his head contemptuously, spat on the floor and threw money on the counter. ‘Hard bastards, my arse.’
Guilt had driven him here. But it had been a waste of time. He’d always known it would be.
Part II
21
Three Months Later
They were in the lounge discussing the radio interview with spiders’ webs of frost glazing the windows and a January wind rattling the wooden frames; winter was making its presence felt.
A smiling Irene brought the coffee. When she’d gone, Geddes said, ‘Can’t believe the change in her. She’s happy.’
‘Giving her a job was the right thing to do. This is her home now. She feels safe.’
‘Looks like it.’
‘It’s been good for Sylvia too. She’s a mother to the women here, and they’re the daughters she misses so much. Between them there’s hardly anything for me to do.’
‘What about Caitlin?’
Mackenzie shook her head. ‘Caitlin’s young. It wouldn’t be right to tie her to this place. Eventually, when she’s ready, she’ll leave. Until then, she knows she’s here for as long as she needs to be.’
Geddes toasted Mackenzie with his cup. ‘Smart decision. Leaves you free for other things.’ He peered over the rim and voiced what they were both thinking. ‘You know they’re bound to ask, don’t you?’
‘I’ll tell them the truth.’
‘Which is?’
‘I’ve got a job and I’m not looking for another one.’
‘That’s what everybody says just before they announce they’re standing for election.’
Mackenzie wasn’t persuaded. ‘Don’t care whether it is or it isn’t. Politics doesn’t interest me.’ She drew a hand through her hair. ‘Who starts these rumours?’
‘Usually the people at the centre of them. It’s how they get their name in front of the public.’
‘Couldn’t they just admit they’re ambitious and get on with it?’
Andrew leaned over and squeezed her hand. Mackenzie was naïve; one of the things he loved about her. ‘Looks better if they’re seen as selflessly answering the call of a higher purpose. Known as optics in the trade.’
‘That’s devious. Why in God’s name does the BBC want to talk to me? Who cares what I think about anything?’
He didn’t miss his cue. ‘They’ve been tipped off you’re in the running.’
‘But I’m not. Who would tell them I was?’
‘As usual, you underestimate yourself. People have heard about the refuge and they’ve heard about you. And, just for the record, I care very much what you think about everything. You’ve got my vote.’
She smiled. ‘That’s nice, but you haven’t answered my question.’
‘I assume your name was mentioned at a Labour Party Selection Committee meeting and someone let it out.’
‘Nobody’s spoken to me about it.’
‘They will.’
‘And I’ll tell them I’m not interested.’
‘Only if you’re absolutely sure, because you’d be great at it. But if your mind’s made up, the interview’s your chance to nip it in the bud once and for all.’
Light from a cold sun glanced off the impressive glass exterior of BBC Scotland. Mackenzie parked, got out and walked towards reception, still wondering why on earth she’d allowed Andrew to talk her into this. Without him pushing, she wouldn’t have considered it. He was in love with her and it showed, imagining she was a woman in control of her life, capable of making a go of anything she put her mind to.
That wasn’t the truth.
No one had come to the refuge asking about Peter Sanderson, but the fear of what her and Caitlin had done on a night in late September hadn’t gone away. Neither had the determination to help the Kirstys of the world. If she could change the life of just one person in a situation like that, it would be worth doing. An intern with an Australian accent and Julia on the name badge round her neck, took Mackenzie to one of the six studios used for radio broadcasts. The host, Veronica Graham, shook her hand and for the next ten minutes Mackenzie listened to her go through her paces. Between music tracks they chatted. ‘Good to finally meet you. Been trying to get you on the show for ages. Heard you weren’t keen. Any particular reason?’
Mackenzie told her the truth. ‘I’m not comfortable talking about myself. I avoid it if I can.’
Graham laughed. ‘Thank Christ for that. Thought you didn’t like me.’
‘No, no, not at all. It’s just how I am.’
Graham put her feet on the desk, leaned back and yawned. ‘That’s refreshing. Somebody who thinks “it” might be them. People push to get on air. Selling something, aren’t they? Usually, themselves.’
‘I’m not.’
‘Really? Then you should. There’s interest in you and the refuge. Milk it while you can. Ever thought of writing a book?’
‘God, no.’
The presenter was serious. ‘Give it some thought. Your story would be a bestseller.’ She swivelled in her chair and spoke into the microphone. ‘Got a very special lady in today, so stay tuned.’
More music.
‘Is there anything you’d rather I didn’t mention?’
what’s buried in the back garden
‘I’m happy to talk about the refuge. Please don’t ask too much about me.’
‘I understand, except that’s the part my listeners are interested in. Your abduction was kept out of the papers at the time. Naturally, people are curious.’
Mackenzie had said all she was going to. Graham got the message, ‘Okay. Let’s focus on the refuge – how you started it, how it’s going, that kind of stuff.’
‘Fine.’
‘When this song finishes, I’ll introduce you. No need to be nervous
, you’ll be great.’
“Great” wasn’t how Mackenzie would’ve described herself. For fifteen minutes she answered questions about how the refuge started and what life was like for the women lucky enough to be there. At the end, the presenter said, ‘One final question if I may? There’s a whisper doing the rounds you’re thinking of standing for parliament, any truth in it?’
Mackenzie batted it away. ‘Absolutely none. I’m happy to leave politics to others.’
Veronica tried to pin her down. ‘Then you agree you’ve thought about it?’
Mackenzie gently corrected her. ‘Not what I said.’
‘But you’ve been approached?’
‘I haven’t, and if anyone did approach me, they’d get the answer I’m giving you.’
‘Could change your mind further down the line?’
Mackenzie sighed and tried to explain. ‘The refuge and places like it are more needed than ever. Giving it up isn’t an option. There are people in Edinburgh and Westminster doing a far better job of running the country than I ever could. I’m happy to leave them to it and concentrate on where I can make a difference.’
‘Then that’s a no?’
‘A very definite no. I consider myself privileged to be doing what I’m doing.’
The host thanked her for her time and ended with an aside for the listeners. ‘Something tells me in the not too distant future I’ll be talking to Scotland’s newest MP.’
In the car park, Mackenzie breathed a sigh of relief and made a promise to herself. No more publicity – she didn’t want it and the refuge didn’t need it. What she did need was coffee. Andrew had suggested meeting in New York Blue, the café bar in the Italian Centre he’d been going to for years. He’d waited almost three months before bringing her there, probably because it was his place and he wanted to be sure their relationship was solid.
The manageress, Jackie Mallon, was behind the bar and smiled when she saw Mackenzie. ‘He hasn’t been in today.’
‘He’s on his way. I’m early.’
‘Can I get you anything?’
‘Latte, please.’
‘Coming up.’
The only other customer was Patrick Logue, at the end of the bar in the middle of a tale about his latest bad luck with the horses. Jackie, the manageress, was expressionless. Obviously bored. Experience told her where the story was headed – he was skint. In a minute he’d ask if he could drink on the slate. She turned to the coffee machine and interrupted him over her shoulder. ‘Just so you know. I stopped listening five minutes ago.’
His reply was instant and unabashed. ‘Then you’ve missed some great stuff.’
Mackenzie laughed, she liked Pat Logue, Andrew didn’t. “Waster in Residence” he called him. In Andrew Geddes’s world, everything was either black or white. He was scathing about anybody who crossed the line, the only thing about him Mackenzie didn’t like, and she understood why; it unnerved her. How would he react if he discovered what she’d done? Would he let her explain? Believe her when she told him that, after what Boyle had done to Kirsty, she didn’t have a choice? Mackenzie didn’t have to ask, she knew – he’d arrest her and Caitlin on the spot. His feelings wouldn’t come into it – he wouldn’t let them. Admirable. Unless you found yourself on the wrong side of it.
Patrick walked over to the Rock-Ola and pressed a couple of keys. On his way back to the bar, he winked at her like the Jack-the Lad he imagined himself to be. Seconds later the bright piano intro of Bruce Hornsby and the Range playing Valley Road filled NYB. The music snapped Mackenzie out of it. Worrying was unnecessary – Andrew wasn’t going to find out. Peter Sanderson was dead and buried; it was over.
By the time the second track – the Doobie Brothers Long Train Running – faded-out, she was looking forward to seeing Andrew again.
In the first weeks, Caitlin had searched the newspapers looking for a report on a missing man and found nothing. Months on, she seemed to have put the horrific episode behind her, gradually taking some responsibility for the day-to-day running of the refuge. The previous day was an example: Doreen’s last morning with them.
Caitlin gathered the whole house at the front door to say goodbye and brought them updates. ‘She’ll be down in five minutes.’
To Mackenzie she’d said, ‘Doreen makes a joke of everything. Underneath she’s more sensitive than she lets on. She’s going to be all right, isn’t she?’
‘Nobody expects to stay here forever. She knows that. She’ll be fine.’
‘Must be scary though.’
‘We’ll always be here if she needs us.’
Doreen had put on a brave face. The women could see she’d been crying. She came downstairs carrying the case she’d arrived with on a hot August evening.
Caitlin said, ‘Ready? The taxi’s waiting.’
Somebody shouted, ‘Send us a postcard!’
‘A postcard. Bloody hell, I’m only going to Motherwell.’
‘Send us one anyway.’
She’d thrown her arms round Mackenzie. ‘You saved my life. I’ll never be able to thank you.’
Sylvia said, ‘Good luck in the new job.’
‘Back running my own life. Wonder if I can handle it.’
Caitlin shook her hand. ‘You’ll be great.’
‘Least I won’t have to see your ugly mugs over my cornflakes every morning.’
Mackenzie agreed. ‘There’s always that.’
‘Tell Andrew he’d better take good care of you or he’ll have me to answer to.’
Doreen closed the gate and didn’t look back. Mackenzie waved until the taxi was out of sight, whispering under her breath, ‘Good for you. Good for you.’
Everybody was delighted for the woman with the big personality and bigger heart; she’d be missed. Mackenzie remembered her shouting up the stairs, frightening her rigid.
Andrew Geddes needs to speak to you
he says it’s urgent
Geddes pulled his unbuttoned coat tight against the wind that had sprung from nowhere and hurried down Buchanan Street; the temperature was falling. More snow might be on the way. It certainly felt like it. Winter had kicked in early and was lasting forever this year. He’d read it was because of global warming. Fair enough, except why was it so bloody cold?
He cut through Exchange Square and on to Ingram Street. Mackenzie would be at NYB, anxious to ask how she’d done. It wasn’t fair to keep her waiting.
Geddes had listened to the interview in the car, unable to understand why she’d wanted to cancel it – she’d sounded relaxed, almost as if she was enjoying herself. The detective knew that wasn’t the case. Last night she’d phoned him at ten minutes to twelve to tell him she’d decided to call it off: her mind was made up. Changing it hadn’t been easy, but he’d succeeded.
Why someone who’d overcome what she had shied away from the spotlight, didn’t make sense. Mackenzie was beautiful and smart. Better than that, she cared, devoting her life to the refuge in the shadow of the Campsie Hills. If she ever did stand for parliament, he was sure she would throw herself into it and he’d rarely see her. His loss would be politics’ gain. But what she’d gone through wasn’t over, that much was clear the first time she’d stayed at his flat: he’d wakened to find her standing naked by the window. When he’d slipped his arms around her waist, she was shivering, or maybe trembling was a better description.
He’d whispered, ‘What’s wrong?’
She’d hesitated. ‘…I couldn’t sleep. Let’s go back to bed.’
Before dawn broke, he was wakened again. Mackenzie was sitting up in bed waving her hands to ward off an attack only she could see, shouting, ‘No! No! Please, no!’
And Geddes realised the nightmare she’d endured was very much alive.
The next morning she’d been pale and withdrawn, refusing the breakfast he’d made for them. Soon afterwards she’d left, and in the days that followed, when he’d telephoned, she was distant and cut the conversation short.
A week later she’d invited him for dinner which ended with them upstairs in bed.
The incidents weren’t mentioned; the relationship carried on.
As a policeman in Glasgow, Geddes had been involved with enough victims to recognise trauma when he saw it. Mackenzie was scarred – damage only time and love could heal. He had both. Telling her about Kirsty had been hard and he’d skirted the details, instinctively knowing she wasn’t strong enough to hear them. Boyle hadn’t just murdered Kirsty McBride, he’d taken a hammer to her. Geddes went to the city mortuary to view her body and had nightmares for his trouble. The public wrongly imagined seasoned police officers took the violence, so much a part of the job, in their stride. Often that was true, otherwise they wouldn’t be able to function.
Not always.
He didn’t lie to himself. He’d made the cardinal error of getting too close and recognised the tragic outcome was, at least in part, his fault. A gnawing sense of responsibility coupled with a need for vengeance raged in him. Giving the case to Jamieson had been a mistake on the DCI’s part – not one the big bastard would ever admit. The closest he’d come to an apology was not putting pressure on the DI to follow through with a transfer request. Boyle had never been apprehended. Geddes’s greatest wish was that he be the one to catch him – preferably alone. Five minutes was all it would take.
Something else Mackenzie would never know.
22
Malkie Boyle put the tip of a nicotine-stained finger into the ring pull of a can of McEwan’s Export, hearing the satisfying hiss as it popped open. The clock on the bedside cabinet showed almost four o’clock. Afternoons were the worst – hour after hour stuck in the house with nothing to do. In the next room, the TV blasted away. He pictured the scene: Billy parked in front of the set, dipping his purple-veined snout into a box of Bassets Liquorice Allsorts or toffee caramels on the floor at the side of his chair, his rheumy eyes glued to some daytime television crap nobody in their right mind would watch: morons in red and blue jumpers rummaging in antique shops and leaping up and down like they’d won the bloody lottery if they made a profit of seven pounds fifty; punters who’d sold their basement flat in Bayswater for a fortune and were looking to move to the country; or daft folk who believed living in a shithole in the Mediterranean was better than living in a shithole in Greenock. Tossers. Billy loved all that, sad fucker that he was.
