The Blood is Still

by Douglas Skelton

  The paving stones were still slick from the rain earlier and everything smelled fresh and clean. He didn’t mind if it rained again, though, because he liked to walk in the midst of a downpour. He liked the cool, clear feel of the drops on his face. Also, it kept most others off the streets and he liked that. It made him feel as if he was the only man left on earth and that the world was his and his alone. He was uncomfortable among other people, especially now. He was only happy alone. People scared him, they always had. His time in the jail, even though much of that was spent alone, had terrified him. The court had terrified him. The hostel terrified him. He found it difficult to relate to others. He couldn’t talk to men, much less women, had never had a sexual relationship in his life. He didn’t tell people that, though. He was forty-two and had never touched a woman. Or a man. He wasn’t that way inclined. That was why he watched those things on his computer, those kids. He would never touch in real life, but on the screen it was different. He felt safe. He felt secure. He found images of children unthreatening but he would never, ever approach a real child. That was why he wasn’t a danger. Why couldn’t they get that and for Christ’s sake leave him alone?

  A figure brushed past, dunting his shoulder. He had been lost in his own thoughts and hadn’t heard the footsteps behind him. The person, who neither apologised nor looked round, was clad in a long, loose waterproof, like a poncho really, and the hood was up, waterproof leggings underneath. All camouflaged. Despite his anger and disappointment, Lancaster felt a smile twitch as he watched the person stride on ahead. Camo gear. In the middle of Inverness. Frightened the seagulls will see you, mate? Lancaster permitted himself a slight laugh and it made him feel better.

  He rubbed his shoulder where a dull ache persisted. The guy must’ve hit him harder than he thought. He glared at the figure striding ahead.

  He kept walking, heading away from the bustle of the Old Town grid, not that there was much of a bustle that night. Fewer people were walking the pavements on this part of the street, not at this time, with the shops closed and most of the pubs behind him. Even the pancake place on the other side of the road was quiet, no one going in or coming out, no one having a smoke in the elaborate archway. He looked ahead again. The bloke in the camo gear had vanished.

  Lancaster was passing Church Lane when he began to feel strange. His vision began to swim, the edges of the green signs of the second-hand bookshop up ahead and, beyond it, the stark grey architecture of the BT building growing indistinct, as if someone had smeared Vaseline across them. He squinted to try to clear his sight, stopped, swallowed hard, rubbed his eyes, but his arms felt so heavy.

  There was a small stone bench near the opening of the lane and he managed to reach it before his legs gave way. He didn’t feel well at all. He wondered if he had eaten something, or was it merely the stress of the past few days catching up? Hell, the past few years. His heart thudded in his chest and he began to panic. Was he having a heart attack?

  He hunched on the bench, his chin down, and threw up. It happened so suddenly he couldn’t even bend over properly, so the vomit shot from his mouth to spatter across his chest. He didn’t care. This wasn’t right, not right at all. He tried to raise his head, to even move it, in the hope that someone might be passing, but he couldn’t even do that. He couldn’t move at all now. His arms were useless at his side, palms up, knuckles resting on the damp bench. Not that he could tell it was damp because he felt nothing at all, apart from his heart setting blood roaring in his ears. He opened his mouth to cry out, to perhaps attract someone’s attention, perhaps someone living above the shops, but all that came out was a hoarse croak and more puke.

  And then someone stepped into view. Waterproof boots, waterproof leggings, the bottom of a waterproof poncho. Camouflaged. The person who had brushed past him so rudely earlier. But Lancaster was glad to see him. He tried to speak, to explain he wasn’t feeling well, but couldn’t. Surely the guy would see the vomit all down his front and put two and two together? He felt hands grip him under his armpits and hoist him to his feet. Good, he was being taken somewhere to get help. He’d be fine. He’d get some treatment and he’d be fine.

  Everything was going to be okay after all.

  But when he looked up, trying to say thanks, his gratitude evaporated. He wanted to scream but his throat was as paralysed as his limbs. All he could manage was a strangled but terrified groan.

  For the person who was helping him had no face.

  37

  Swearing.

  Fists.

  Bodies surging around her.

  That was what Rebecca was aware of after the first punch was thrown. She didn’t know how many Spioraid people had infiltrated the crowd; there couldn’t have been that many, but perhaps old enmities had been aroused. Tom had his supporters certainly, but not everyone agreed with him. She had heard that in muttered comments and seen it in faces. Some people bought the Dalgliesh version and they were taking the opportunity to express their views with fist and foot.

  It grew worse when the youths piled in. Rebecca didn’t really see where they came from, merely heard them shouting and saw a bunch of them running up the street, some with sticks, others wielding home-made weapons. She had to assume they had been lurking somewhere, waiting – hoping – for trouble to kick off. They hit the crowd like a wave, sticks rising, falling, connecting.

  Glass smashed.

  Screaming.

  Yelling.

  Rebecca and Chaz were pushed together for a moment, then she was snatched away as waves of bodies surged to and fro, people either joining in or trying to get away. Chaz vanished in the swell and she cried out his name once, pushing people out of the way to try to clear her path, before someone shoved her from behind with such force it knocked the wind from her lungs and she pitched forward. She managed to get her hands out to break the fall but she still hit the road hard, the shock of it travelling up her arms and jarring her shoulders. She was on her hands and knees in the centre of a perfect storm of anger and panic and she realised this was not a good position to be in.

  She sucked in a jagged breath, her lungs still recovering from the force of the blow, and tried to edge her feet under her, but someone slammed into her and threw her onto her side on the unyielding road. This was worse, a lot worse. She felt something thud into her back and she realised with horror and panic that someone was kicking her, actually kicking her. She tried to roll away, but the forest of legs in her way, each jostling for position or escape, meant she couldn’t get far.

  She managed to evade whoever was putting the boot in and heard someone call her name. Chaz, she thought, and she cried out in reply, but her voice was muffled by the very vocal fury and fear around her. She tried to get up but was knocked back again. Shit, she thought as she attempted to catch her breath, she could be trampled to death here.

  She saw something white drift across the sky, a languid movement at odds with the frantic activity below, and for a fleeting moment it was as if everything froze, all movement stopped, all sound died, as if she was in the eye of a storm. The gull’s flight seemed so relaxed, so peaceful, as if it was in a completely different world. It floated out of her eyeline and the roar around her erupted in full voice again and she knew she had to move.

  A slight lull in the pushing and shoving around her meant there was space for her to pull herself up. Agony took shape in voices. Anger formed in words. Hatred manifested in actions. There were calls for it all to stop, but they went unheeded. She saw dark uniforms now among the civilians, the police wading in, pulling combatants apart, the occasional baton being flicked open. She searched the heaving mass of struggling bodies for Chaz, saw him briefly, then lost him again as she was jerked to the side once more.

  A man stepped in front of her, his hands on her shoulders, his face drenched in rage and hatred. He swore at her, called her a media cow, might have said more but she wasn’t in the mood, so she rammed her knee deep between his legs. His hands slid away and he doubl
ed over. He might have called her something unpleasant but she couldn’t hear. Okay, maybe she shouldn’t have done that, but she’d been insulted, pushed, kicked and damn near trampled. She wasn’t going to be a victim, not tonight.

  She felt another set of hands grab her and she whirled to fend off what she thought was an attack, but it was Nolan. He let her go, held his hands up in a placating gesture. ‘It’s me,’ he shouted. ‘Take it easy, slugger.’

  She had never been so glad to see anyone in her life. Not that she would ever tell him that. The man she had felled was trying to stand up again, but one look from Nolan made him slink away, still slightly doubled over.

  Nolan pulled her tightly to him and began to shoulder his way clear of the fray. Her back hurt and she was still slightly winded but she managed to gasp one word: ‘Chaz.’

  He looked down and turned her left hand over. The skin had been scraped off when she fell and blood seeped through. ‘You okay?’ he asked. He seemed genuinely concerned.

  She pulled her hand away. ‘Chaz,’ she said again, still unable to form more words.

  His mouth compressed. ‘Let’s get you clear, then I’ll find him.’

  ‘Now,’ she said. She wasn’t going without him. Nolan sighed, pushed someone out of the way and stretched to see over the heads around him. Rebecca did the same, the dull ache in her back sharpening, but she could not see much.

  ‘He’s clear,’ said Nolan, pulling her away again. She didn’t know whether to believe him, so she tried to stand her ground, but once again was pushed from behind. Nolan thrust this person away with one hand and faced her. ‘Look, he’s safe, believe me. Now, come on . . .’

  Without waiting for an answer he grabbed her hand and dragged her the few feet to where people merely stood and watched the drama in front of them. Some had their phones up, videoing for posterity and the possibility of a few quid from the hated media. She saw police officers dragging people away. Behind her, the riot was losing steam. It had only lasted a matter of minutes.

  ‘Where’s your car?’ Nolan asked, and she nodded down the street.

  And then he was gone, skirting around the main body of what trouble there was, to find Chaz. She waited for a moment, her lungs still protesting, her hands stinging and muscles growling at their mistreatment, then wondered why she was waiting. She was about to turn away when she saw what was now a familiar face finishing off a conversation with a police sergeant.

  ‘Mister . . .’ She stopped, realised she didn’t know his surname. ‘Tom!’

  He looked in her direction, saw the traces of blood on her hands. ‘You’re hurt, hen.’

  She looked at the blood. It wasn’t too bad. Some Savlon and a couple of plasters would set it right. She’d cut herself worse shaving her legs. ‘I’m fine,’ she said. ‘Took a tumble. My name’s Rebecca Connolly, I work for the Chronicle.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ he said, but he smiled.

  ‘I’d like to talk to you, if you have time.’

  He looked back at the crowd, where the police had finally brought some semblance of order. ‘Not tonight, darling.’

  She reached into the pocket of her coat and produced a card. It was crumpled and tattered because it had been in there for some time. She’d had them printed up herself because the company had decided reporters didn’t need them. ‘Please take this. I really would like to talk to you about all this. That’s my personal mobile number, so call me if you change your mind.’

  He took the card but barely looked at it before he thrust it into the pocket of his jeans. Then he nodded at something behind her. ‘Your boyfriend’s here – and he has your snapper.’

  She craned round to see Nolan and Chaz heading their way. Nolan had Chaz by the arm, as if he was under arrest. She guessed that he had not come along willingly. ‘He’s not my boyfriend, he’s . . .’ she began, but when she turned back Tom was gone.

  ‘Let’s go,’ said Nolan, ‘unless you want to be hoovered up by the law.’

  She led him down the street to the car, Nolan still gripping Chaz by the arm, the occasional grunt and curse following them from pockets of violence. Chaz tried to protest but Nolan told him he had enough shots for one night. When Rebecca took his side, Chaz finally relented and came along quietly. Reluctantly, though, and he kept casting eyes back for photo opportunities.

  Once behind the wheel, Chaz safely ensconced in the passenger seat, Rebecca lowered the driver’s side window. ‘Thank you, Mr Burke,’ she said.

  ‘What do I have to do to get you to call me Nolan?’ When she didn’t answer, he leaned in closer, his face serious, as if he was looking for a kiss. She was about to say something when he said, ‘Listen, that guy, the one they found on Culloden?’

  ‘Yes?’

  He paused, looked around, moved in even closer. She edged back a touch but he didn’t comment on it. ‘I’ve got a name for you. Jake Goodman.’

  ‘You know him?’

  His head bobbed slightly from side to side. ‘Kind of. I’ve seen him kicking around with Scotty.’

  ‘He’s a friend of your brother’s?’

  He shrugged. ‘As much as Scotty has pals, aye.’

  ‘Is he local?’

  ‘No, came up from Edinburgh a couple of years ago. He works – worked – as an odd-job man kinda thing. Last I heard he was doing some bits and pieces for that film company over by Glen Nevis. But here’s the thing. This guy, Goodman? He was a member of Spioraid, far as I could tell anyway. I heard him and Scotty talking one night. They mentioned Spioraid and Dalgliesh. And I heard this guy say something about New Dawn.’

  He paused to let this sink in and Rebecca’s mind began to move in many directions at once. The dead man was known to Scott Burke. Scott had links to Finbar Dalgliesh. Did this Jake Goodman? She already knew he was working on the film set, but now he may have been a member of the very group that had not only protested over the content matter but had also been responsible for a number of thefts and acts of vandalism on set. And he had talked about New Dawn. She needed to talk to Finbar Dalgliesh and she needed to talk to that security chief and she needed to talk to them really soon. Dalgliesh should be relatively easy, but she had tried to reach Donahue by phone and he had blanked every call. She’d have to drive over there. That thought did not fill her with pleasure – not the drive, but the inevitable hassle with Les Morgan. She could phone in sick, of course, she’d done that before, but . . .

  She realised she had drifted away into her own thoughts and looked back to Nolan Burke, still leaning into the window. ‘This is all off the record, of course,’ he said.

  ‘Of course,’ she replied. ‘Mr Burke.’

  ‘Nolan.’

  ‘Mr Burke, why are you telling me this?’

  He gave her a look that told her to work that out herself and stepped away. She knew she wasn’t going to get anything more from him and turned the ignition.

  As she pulled away, she saw Mo Burke had been watching them from the pavement on the other side of the road.

  38

  Rebecca leaned against the ticket machine outside the railway station, her eyes on the door to the hotel where Dalgliesh stayed when he was in Inverness. She could have waited in the comfortable lobby area, with its soft furnishings and dark polished tables, but she liked the place and didn’t want to sully the atmosphere with what might prove to be an unpleasant encounter. She planned to ambush the Spioraid leader, to burn him, and she didn’t know how he would react. Sometimes he was all charm and bonhomie, eager to get his face and name in front of his public, but other times he could prove less welcoming.

  A squad of taxi drivers chatted at the rank in the centre of the square and parked cars lined the spaces on either side. She would have preferred to have waited in her car, but she hadn’t been lucky enough to find a free space this time. Hotel guests had to be quick to nab one of the few dedicated spaces here, otherwise it meant paying for public parking.

  It was another grey Inverness morning. C
ommuters and travellers filtered in and out the glass doors of the station. Voices. Languages. Tannoy announcements on the concourse. Laughter from one of the taxi drivers. The sound of luggage on wheels rasping against the concrete. Life, doing what life does, going on.

  And here she was to talk about a dead man.

  She shifted her position and arched her back a little to try to ease the stiffness in her shoulders. Aftershocks of being knocked to the ground and kicked the night before still reverberated through her body. Her hands were already beginning to heal – they were little more than surface scrapes – but she had positioned herself in front of the full-length mirror in her bedroom earlier in order to study her back and could see bruising where she had been pushed. Bloody hell, she thought, someone had really meant business. She wondered who was responsible. Was it a random thing, or did someone recognise her, have something against the paper? A Spioraid member, perhaps?

  She hadn’t yet found out exactly how many arrests had been made, but an early morning call to the communication office at Inshes told her that there had been damage done to cars and windows, while nine people had been treated at Raigmore Hospital’s A&E for contusions and lacerations. Others had declined medical assistance. That made them tough in the Ferry.

  She was beginning to wonder if she was on a fool’s errand when Dalgliesh stepped through the hotel doors and down the steps, flanked by his two minders, each carrying two suitcases. The only thing Dalgliesh carried was an air of superiority. He saw her immediately, of course, because he was not the kind of man to miss anything. To his credit he made straight for her, his politician’s grin slipping easily into place. Today was a charming day, it seemed.