Deadly Harm

by Owen Mullen

  By the time he’d eaten the cereal, the tea would be stewed black – just how he liked it. No need to check on the thread – it wasn’t there. The boy had been at it again.

  His grandfather wondered how much he’d taken, then dismissed the thought: it didn’t matter. Forty years ago, money was all he’d cared about. In those days he’d been reckless, prepared if need be, to shoot. People responded to guns so he hadn’t had to actually kill anybody although if it had come to it, he would have. That’s how important getting the cash had been. Crazy days. In the end, the sand had fallen through the glass, all he’d ended up with were years and more years behind bars. He’d no wish to go back to that time: what was done was done.

  The news the serious young GP had given him wasn’t a surprise – he’d known for months. When Billy asked how long he had, the doctor shied away from offering a guess, maybe believing dying was the worst thing that could happen to you. It wasn’t. Not even close.

  He’d settled for telling him in a roundabout way. ‘It would be an idea to get your affairs in order, Mr Cunningham.’

  On an otherwise bleak morning, that made him smile. Affairs? Billy had no affairs. Everyone related to him was dead. Apart from the devil’s spawn in the room next door: The Boy.

  Four sugars transformed the tea into the nectar of the gods. Billy refilled the cup and shuffled down the hall towards the living room, stopping outside the spare bedroom door to listen. Nothing. But he was in there.

  Billy eased himself into his chair. Old age was a bastard. And it didn’t come alone. Folk assumed you were half-daft and treated you like a child, talking about you as if you weren’t there. Billy Cunningham wasn’t looking to be noticed – he’d had more than his share of that after he’d robbed the sub-post office in Riddrie – the twelfth one in three years and a stone’s throw from Barlinnie – the Big House – where he’d end up when they caught him. The police were on to him by then – it had been only a matter of time. Tommy Boyle was ready to set him up, and now his bastard son was sleeping his hangover off in Billy’s house and stealing from him just like his father had done: Hannah had been a daddy’s girl, running to him when he came into the street to be scooped up into his arms. Sometimes, even after all that had gone between them, he could still feel her adoring kisses on his cheek.

  A sense of loss rolled over him. So much wasted time.

  Billy sipped the tea, enjoying the underlying bitterness cutting the sweetness of the sugar. Few things stayed the same. Hannah grew up, rebellious like him. They’d quarrelled more than talked. In the middle of one tempestuous row, she’d told him she didn’t love him. That was the worst. There was no coming back from that. Because they weren’t just hot words spewed in the heat of an argument, intended to wound and soon forgotten: she’d meant it.

  No kisses now.

  Truth was, he’d already lost her before Tommy Boyle came on the scene. It suited Billy to blame him. Later, when she’d come to the house he was sitting in with his brat in tow, it was too late for both of them. Turning her away empty-handed after her rat of a husband deserted her hadn’t cost Billy a minute’s regret. He’d squared the account, no more than that.

  Hannah had made her choices. Picked her side. Pity it was the losing one.

  His grandfather was wrong. Malkie wasn’t asleep – he was lying on his back with his hands folded behind his head, thinking. He’d heard the floorboards creak, stop for a minute, then start again. In the beginning, although old Billy had been sullen and surly, behind the grey head and wrinkled skin, it was possible to imagine what a hell of a man he’d been in his prime. Not now. His clothes might have come from one of the charity shops on every main street and hung from him like a scarecrow, his cheeks were hollows in his face, his eyes sunken and watery, making him look constantly on the edge of crying.

  Crying? Billy Cunningham? Not fucking likely.

  When she was sober, less and less often towards the end, his mother didn’t mention her father. With a few gins inside her, she’d retreat into the past, telling stories that always began and ended the same – rosy tales of a childhood which probably never happened, followed by the inevitable and predictable tears of regret, then anger when she’d bang her fist on the arms of the chair. Once, she’d thrown her glass across the room, cracking the TV screen, and stormed off to bed – taking the bottle of Gordon’s with her, of course. Apart from those drunken trips down memory lane, her lips were sealed. Malkie spent his young life listening, picking up the details one at a time until a picture formed. Above the fantasies and drink-fuelled fables, one incident stuck out from the rest: the final rejection from the man he called Granddad. Lately, Malkie hadn’t been able to get that particular humiliation out of his mind.

  It had taken years for his mother to die – long years, slow years – the last four spent as an invalid as, day-by-day, her connection with reality ebbed and flowed and slipped away. During the final hours, whenever he’d come into the bedroom to check on her, she’d mistake him for Billy, and beg all over again. Malkie held her hand, comforting and despising her at the same time for allowing him to do that, not just to her, to them.

  His hand dipped under the bed, found the supermarket carrier bag, hauled it out and lifted it, pleased to discover it held two unopened cans. He pulled the top off one and drank. The beer was lukewarm. No matter, it was beer. This house, this room, had kept the police from discovering where he was. Dredging the address from the depths of his memory and coming here had been genius. He’d helped himself to the old man’s food: tins of soup, corned beef, the odd pound of mature cheddar from Asda with “Special Offer” written on it; eggs, bread, and enough packets of toffees and Liquorice Allsorts to sink a fucking battleship.

  Money wasn’t the only thing he stole when the old bastard was asleep. If he lived to be a hundred, he wouldn’t eat another Allsort.

  He emptied the can, tossed it into the corner and considered hammering the second one. Not a good idea – it was too early – he had the whole day in front of him. His restless brain settled on the same unanswered question. Something had made Kirsty betray him. Not something: someone.

  After Vinnie delivered the car, the first place he’d visit would be her pal, Paula.

  In his time, Andrew Geddes had worked out of every police station in the city – they called them police offices now, all part of a PR attempt to make them less intimidating to the public. Geddes didn’t get it. His opinion, like all his opinions, was fixed: if you’d done nothing wrong, what was there to be intimidated about?

  Stewart Street, tucked away at the top of Cowcaddens with the hum of the M8 audible whenever someone opened a window, was an old friend. He’d been stationed there twice in the last twenty-odd years and knew his way around. The hangover was passing, thank Christ. Not for the first time he was forced to admit drinking was a younger man’s game. The desk in his office had a pile of case files awaiting his attention. Kirsty McBride wasn’t one of them. Just as well. He’d given himself a doing over Kirsty more times than he could remember. And he was done.

  The man who’d murdered her was Malkie Boyle, nobody doubted that. As Andrew had rightly predicted, catching him had proved to be beyond the Menace. To say the trail had gone cold suggested that, at some time, it had been hot. Half the policemen in Glasgow knew how untrue that was. Geddes hated to admit it, but Jamieson wasn’t to blame. Boyle was probably on his way to London before Kirsty’s body was even cold. So far, his crimes – double murder when the old man in the wheelchair died – had gone unpunished, though not unsolved.

  But the world turned, and on any weekend there was plenty on Andrew’s plate. Being a policeman in Scotland’s second city meant running to keep up. Old cases got forgotten. Nobody’s fault.

  Around four in the afternoon, he felt strong enough to unwrap a sandwich he’d bought in Queen Street Station; egg and cress. The thought of it made his stomach churn, but he was hungry. The first bite was a step into the unknown, gingerly masticated, swallowed
in small pieces.

  He let a minute pass to convince his tortured system it wasn’t under fresh attack. Two constables on the way to their car saw the performance and elbowed each other. The enquiry seemed genuine, though it wasn’t. One of them called over in an exaggerated cheery voice. ‘Feeling all right, sir? Look a bit green about the gills.’

  Geddes didn’t reply. Ollie Norman, the duty sergeant on his tea break, came over. Norman was grey-haired and overweight. He’d seen everything there was to see and hadn’t been surprised by any of it. Him and Geddes went all the way back. He sat on the edge of the desk.

  ‘Cheeky young bastards.’

  ‘No problem, John. Next week or next month – doesn’t matter how long – I’ll get my chance. And when it comes, I’ll make their life hell.’

  The sergeant nodded. Geddes was serious.

  ‘Something queer going on in Clackmannan last night.’

  ‘I haven’t heard.’

  ‘A mate of mine on the force in Alloa’s just off the phone. They got an anonymous phone call in the early hours about a dead body in a cottage. Expected it was kids having a laugh. Of course, they followed it up. Got to, haven’t you?’

  He had Geddes’s attention. ‘And?’

  ‘Wasn’t a hoax. Found a guy lying in front of the fire with his head beaten in. Not just the head. According to my mate, his whole face was raw meat.’

  ‘Nasty. Any theories about who did it?’

  ‘None at all. This is the odd bit. A woman was bound and stuffed into a wardrobe in one of the bedrooms. The wardrobe was locked. So was the bedroom door.’

  ‘So that rules her out.’

  ‘My mate says she’d been beaten so badly, it had to be personal.’

  ‘Why didn’t the killer get her out if it wasn’t him who put her in there?’

  ‘Why, indeed?’

  ‘More likely he didn’t know and it wasn’t about her. Corpse smelled like a distillery, according to my mate.’

  ‘Glad I’m not on that one. When will they make a statement?’

  ‘Tomorrow, he thinks. Haven’t been able to interview the woman. You can imagine she’s not in great shape physically or mentally, so they don’t have a clue where to start. I said the beginning might be the place, wherever the hell that is. He didn’t appreciate the joke.’

  Geddes understood how the officer in Alloa felt and disagreed with the sergeant. ‘No, the anonymous phone call’s the key.’

  ‘And what does it tell you?’

  ‘I’ve no idea, Ollie.’

  31

  Geddes got home to his landline ringing. He lifted the receiver and breathed a sigh of relief when he heard Mackenzie’s voice more like her usual self, the weariness of earlier in the day gone. Her question instantly lifted his spirits. ‘Listen, I know this is short notice and feel free to turn me down. Would it be possible to meet tomorrow morning for a couple of hours? Say no if it isn’t. I realise I’m not the only busy person in this relationship.’

  The DI slumped into an armchair, a stupid grin on his face. ‘Absolutely, couldn’t be better. I don’t start until the afternoon. What d’you fancy? Coffee? Lunch and a walk?’

  ‘I’m not bothered. I just want to see you. Shall we say eleven o’clock at your place?’

  ‘NYB? I’ll be there.’

  ‘You normally are.’

  Geddes pushed his luck. ‘Hope it isn’t Charlie Cameron you’re after. He’s a pretty handsome guy, so I’m told.’

  Mackenzie laughed. ‘Expect he’s got more women than he can handle. I’ll settle for you.’

  She rang off and turned to Caitlin. ‘How did I do?’

  Caitlin hugged her. ‘Great. Andrew’s a good guy and he’s crazy about you. Why should he be punished for what we did? Unless you’re prepared to finish with him, you had to face him sometime. If you want him in your life, you better let him know. The sooner the better.’

  The words hit home. Another man would’ve walked away, tired of the uncertainty. Andrew Geddes hadn’t. That couldn’t last. She’d chosen to keep distance between them because of things he’d had no part in: her own abduction, Peter Sanderson buried in the garden, and now, Emily Thorne’s daughter and Jack Walsh. Time to make a decision.

  Geddes sat for a minute, letting what had just happened sink in. From the beginning, he’d made the running. And made a pretty good job of it, even if he said so himself. This was a turning point – the woman he believed Mackenzie to be had emerged. Delighted, he shucked off his jacket and went into the kitchen. A bottle of Talisker Storm kept for special occasions was waiting for him when he opened the cupboard. Geddes paused for a second then reached behind it for the HP sauce. Scrambled eggs and HP: a match made in heaven. He boiled the kettle and made himself a cup of tea. Tomorrow he intended to be on top form, so no whisky. Not that night, or any night if that’s what it took.

  For the first time in his life, “never again” actually meant something.

  Geddes stared blankly at the movie on the TV. He’d missed the beginning of the film and couldn’t be bothered trying to figure out who hated who and why. Television was wasted on him. Working shifts meant he could go weeks without seeing it, so there was no point in getting into the shows half the country avidly followed. By the time he got home he was tired. As for those reality programmes – Christ Almighty! Where did they find them? Did they intentionally pick people with the IQ of a worm, or was that just luck. The world must have too much time on its hands to watch that garbage. Reading a book with the radio on in the background was his preferred way of relaxing, until the words on the page started to blur. Now he was happy just to sit, quietly sipping his tea, thinking about Mackenzie.

  She really was a remarkable woman – he’d known it from the moment he’d met her – but she hadn’t left the past behind and it showed. From the beginning he’d understood he would have to be patient, and he had been. When, eventually, they’d had sex for the first time, he’d held back, afraid she was too fragile to survive his passion. And though things were good between them, it was always him who instigated it.

  The phone call was a breakthrough. For a euphoric few seconds she’d needed him. Really needed him. “This relationship” she’d called it. Geddes said the words out loud, taking heart from them. It crossed his mind again to treat himself to a glass of celebratory whisky. He dismissed the idea. Who was he kidding? When had one drink been any good to him? One meant three meant half a dozen. He’d made a promise and he intended to keep it. Mackenzie had been hurt enough. She needed a man she could rely on, lean on. Someone who’d be there in the middle of the night when the demons rose in her troubled mind.

  The knock startled him. Geddes’s tendency to abruptness guaranteed he wasn’t a social animal; apart from Charlie Cameron occasionally showing up with a bottle of something twelve years old under his arm, visitors were few. At this time – close to two in the morning according to the clock above the fireplace – they were unknown. A career in the force had taught him to be cautious, with good reason. In his time, he’d helped put plenty of people away. Some hated him but accepted the outcome as part of the game, others vowed as they were led in handcuffs from the sheriff court to start their sentences to even the score. Every policeman worthy of the uniform had enemies who might decide to come after him when he was least expecting it.

  Geddes would need all his fingers and toes to count his.

  He stood at the door, listening, knowing the only way to find out who was on the other side was to open it. His brain raced through the possibilities, immediately throwing up half a dozen. The DI thanked a god he didn’t believe in that at least he was sober and able to defend himself.

  The knock came again, louder, more insistent.

  ‘Who is it?’

  The last voice he expected to hear replied, ‘It’s me. Let me in.’

  Geddes turned the key in the lock and pulled the door back. Mackenzie was leaning on the frame, her face flushed, a look in her eyes he hadn’t seen
. Before he could speak, she pushed him into the room and started kissing him – hot wet kisses that took his breath away. He tried to speak. ‘Mackenzie… what are you–?’

  ‘Shut up. Just shut up.’

  They stumbled against a chair and ended on the floor, tearing at each other. She straddled his naked body and eased herself onto him, slowly, deliberately, moaning softly. With the light behind her head and her long hair falling over her breasts, she looked like a goddess. Geddes played with her erect nipples. She took his hands away and pinned them to the floor above his head, moving her hips until all of him was inside her. Then she leaned forward, eyes hooded, her face rigid with lust, and rode him hard.

  When it was over, they lay side by side, satisfied and exhausted. Geddes couldn’t believe what had happened. He arched over her and kissed her breast. ‘That wasn’t expected. You should do it more often.’

  Mackenzie ran a finger down his chest. ‘I intend to.’

  32

  A gang of teenage boys laughed and joked their way along the street, talking too loudly, horsing around until they saw the figure hunched in a doorway opposite the pub, and the laughter came to an abrupt end. They didn’t recognise Malkie Boyle. They did recognise trouble. From the darkness, his eyes bored into their youthful faces. He took a last hard drag on the tiny stub pinched between his finger and thumb, dropped it to the ground, crushing it threateningly under his heel. The boys moved along, heads bowed. A smart move because Malkie was in a foul mood. Vinnie was late.