The Blood is Still

by Douglas Skelton

  ‘She said you named her to the police.’

  ‘I didn’t!’

  ‘Well, apparently that’s not what the police told her. A detective was here, a woman. She left Anna with the distinct impression that you ratted her out over something. What have you done, Becks?’

  Roach, it had to be. She was desperate to find out who had been leaking material from the set. Rebecca was confident she had not even inadvertently identified Anna. Elspeth didn’t know, Barry and Les didn’t know, not even Chaz and Alan knew that she had been her source regarding some aspects of the story. And she told them everything.

  ‘Alan, I don’t know what’s happened, but I didn’t tell the police anything of the sort. I’ll call her, sort this out.’

  ‘She’s left for the day. She was very upset. Said she had to go and sort her head out, or something. Fix this, Becks. Anna is a nice woman and I don’t like seeing her hurt, especially by a friend of mine.’

  ‘Alan, believe me, I did not give her name to the police. You know me better than that.’

  ‘Fix it, Becks.’

  ‘Leave it with me.’

  She was already selecting Anna’s number from her mobile’s contact list as she hung up on Alan. It rang out, then jumped to voicemail. Shit! She heard Anna’s voice dictating a stilted message, then a tone.

  ‘Anna, it’s Rebecca. Listen, I don’t know what DCI Roach told you, but it’s not true. We need to talk.’

  She terminated the call and stared at the blank face of her phone for a time. She felt guilty for no reason. The woman had been doing what she thought was the right thing. Rebecca had protected her. But now she was being manipulated by a police officer. Bloody Roach! Rebecca liked Anna, she felt they could be friends. She didn’t like the idea of her being angry or, perhaps worse, disappointed in her. She had to see her, talk this out, convince her she had not let her down. She looked at the clock. Half three. She couldn’t just leave the office, not after the conversation she’d just had with Les. On the other hand, she couldn’t let someone she liked believe she had been let down.

  A few minutes before, she had known she was heading towards a decision, but she didn’t think it would happen this soon.

  She stared at the clock, at the second hand jerking oh so slowly, time passing in increments, one second, another, another. Her mind ticked along with it.

  Go.

  Stay.

  Go.

  Stay . . .

  55

  Nolan remained deadpan as he contemplated the young man on the opposite side of the table, for he knew that would only unnerve the boy even further. He had called him up, told him to meet him at Barney’s, warned him to say nothing to Scott. There was always the chance that the boy would tell his brother anyway, but Nolan gambled that his fear of him was greater than his loyalty to Scott, whose power over the lads was based on flash and bang. Nolan was much more subtle. They all knew that when it came down to it he was the one to watch because you didn’t know what he was thinking. Scott would be away mouthing off, smiling, acting the big man, but Nolan was quieter, on the fringes, calculating. The boys knew where they were with Scott, there was a predictability to his unpredictability, but they were out of their depth when it came to Nolan. In many ways he was at his most expressive when he was inexpressive. It scared the shit out of boys like Deke.

  ‘So where was my brother the other night?’

  The boy’s name was Derek but he preferred Deke. ‘What other night you talking about?’

  ‘Couple nights ago, when that guy was killed in the graveyard.’

  ‘The perv?’

  ‘Aye. Were you with Scott that night?’

  Deke preened. ‘I’m wi’ Scotty most nights. Him and me, we’re pals.’

  Nolan let that pass. Scott didn’t have bosom buddies. It was a failing they shared. ‘Of course. So where were you?’

  Deke’s expression turned decidedly shifty. ‘How you want to know, eh?’

  Nolan kept his face stony. ‘All you need to know is that I want to know.’

  Deke tried to maintain an aura of stoic manliness but Nolan’s cold gaze had its effect. His tongue darted out to dampen his lips. ‘So . . . where did Scotty say he was?’

  ‘Never mind what Scotty said. I want you to tell me.’

  Deke worked this over in his mind. Nolan knew how much effort that would take, which was why he’d asked Deke and not the other balloon who palled around with his brother. There was more chance he would talk without thinking. When the boy reached towards the phone on the table, Nolan wondered if he’d underestimated him. ‘Maybe I should check with Scotty, you know?’

  Nolan pulled the phone towards him. ‘Maybe you should just answer my question, Deke, and maybe you shouldn’t piss me off. I don’t like being pissed off. It pisses me off.’

  Deke watched his mobile being dragged away from him and swallowed hard. He looked around the bar, as if searching for backup, but the place was empty. The telly wasn’t even on and Jack wasn’t about, Nolan had seen to that. He watched Deke work out the odds. He could lie, but he wasn’t too good at that. He could refuse to tell Nolan what he wanted to know, but that might not end up too good for him. According to legend, there were bloodstains in the cellar of the bar that couldn’t be washed out. Nolan knew there weren’t, but it was a handy rumour to cultivate. Deke’s final option was to talk, but Scott would be none too pleased if he found out. The boy was in a quandary. Nolan felt bad putting him in it but he needed to know.

  He decided to raise the ante. He rose slowly to his feet. ‘Come on, son, let’s take a wee trip through the back . . .’

  ‘We were down the shore by South Ferry,’ Deke blurted.

  Nolan sank back into his seat again. ‘Doing what?’

  ‘Sorting out this boy that was skimming gear. Scott said he had to teach him a lesson.’

  Nolan knew this was the truth. Deke was too scared to lie. ‘Sorting out how?’

  Deke fidgeted. Doing it was one thing, talking about it another. ‘Well, you know, sorted him out. Give him a slap or two.’

  Nolan thought about the blood on Scott’s shirt. ‘How much of a slap?’

  Deke was uncomfortable. ‘Well, Scotty was really annoyed by it, you know? He worked the guy over really bad. We tried to stop him, we really did, Nolan, you’ve got to believe me, but it was like he was out his head, you know?’

  Nolan knew. ‘Had my brother been using?’

  ‘Aye, we all had, but see what happened? That was out of order. We tried telling him but Scotty was away on one, you know? I mean, giving a boy a slap is one thing, but beating him up and then sticking a gun in his mouth . . .’

  Nolan felt something crawling up his back. ‘A gun? Scotty had a gun?’

  ‘Aye. We didn’t know he had it. He was battering the boy about, and then he had him down on the ground, lying in the rocks and seaweed, and he pulls out this gun and rams it in the boy’s mouth. Seriously, man, I was shitting myself. I really thought he was going to pull the trigger.’

  ‘He didn’t, did he?’

  ‘No, he just yelled at the boy, then yanked it out. I think he broke a couple of his teeth.’

  ‘And this boy, where is he?’

  ‘My sister’s. We didn’t want him going to a doctor or nothing. She’s a nurse. She’s taking care of him for now.’

  A gun. Scotty had a gun. The one thing that Maw – and Dad – never wanted, because once you bring guns into the equation, things change. The drill was bad enough, but a gun was something else.

  The question was, where the hell was Scott now? ‘Have you seen my brother today?’

  ‘Aye, a wee while ago. He wasn’t in the best of moods, you know? He said he had something to deal with. I was gonnae tag along, but he said it was personal. Family stuff . . .’

  Scott hadn’t taken his eyes off the doors to the newspaper office.

  He drummed the steering wheel with his fingers, as if he was following a music beat, but he had none playi
ng. He had done a few lines of coke while he waited, to take the edge off his jitters, but he was still hyped. Nolan would have said that the gear would not help, but his brother was a sanctimonious bastard who didn’t know how to enjoy himself. Except maybe with that reporter lassie. Scott would bet his stash he had shagged her. If not, what the actual fuck was he doing with her? That’s all lassies were good for, wasn’t it? Looking good and getting horsed.

  He didn’t know why he was here, hadn’t really thought it through. He had stormed out of the house, got in his car and drove around for a while, hoping his anger would evaporate, but it didn’t. Maw had no right to tell him to cut off all ties with Spioraid, no right at all. She couldn’t see what he saw, how their way of life was threatened by all this liberal political correctness. When it came down to it, Scott had nothing against foreigners or queers. They bought his product like everyone else. But they had to know their place. Moslems, though, were a different matter. He didn’t trust them one bit. They were all terrorists, if you asked him. Potential terrorists at least and that was just as bad. They had to be watched and they had to be sorted. They had to know that Scotland was for white people. He’d never darkened the door of a church but in his mind he knew this was a Christian country and Moslems and Jews and whatever had to understand that. Go and worship whatever you want, but don’t try to take over, mate, because you know what? We’ll fight back. And we will win. You want your fucking Sharia law, go back to where you came from. We’ll wave you off. Bye fuckity bye.

  Perverts, though. Perverts were a different matter. They needed to be wiped off the face of the earth. The gays were one thing, as long as they stuck to their own, but the pervs went after the kiddies. Cut their bollocks off, stuff them in their mouths and string them up, that’s what Scott would do.

  Maw didn’t see it his way, though. The perverts, aye, but not the others. She didn’t know the danger their way of life was in. Finbar did, and the folk in Spioraid too. Patriots is what they were. Scottish patriots. Cut ourselves off from they bastards in Westminster and keep the rest of the world at arm’s length. Trade, aye, but fuck your European Union – there’s a whole world out there — and fuck your open door policy to immigrants. We’ve got enough of them now, we don’t need any more. And them that are here he’d happily wave bye fuckity bye to and all.

  Nolan, though. He should understand. He’s seen the way they bastards look at everyone else, like this was their country, like white people weren’t welcome. Scott had invited him to join Spioraid but he’d laughed at him. Actually laughed at him. Said they were a bunch of cranks. None so blind. Scott knew Nolan was a weak link, had known it for ages, man, and he’d been whispering in Maw’s ear, poisoning her against him. Now, with this reporter lassie in the picture, it was time for something to be done.

  And Scott was just the boy to do it.

  56

  The sun had finally broken through the clouds, as if in a final show of defiance to a day that had been resolutely dull and damp. No rain had fallen, but it was in the atmosphere like a premonition. Yet, there was the sun, reminding the world that it still existed, bursting through in a brilliant flash, striping the sky with colours and bathing the serrated surface of the water in a golden spotlight. However, the daylight was dying and would soon breathe its last behind the low hills beyond the Beauly Firth.

  In the east, the grey light was already diffusing the edges of the Kessock Bridge, its lights glittering on the drab waters not washed by the golden glow in the west. The beams of the vehicles blinking as they moved over the water like little glowing insects. The hump of the Black Isle grew even darker, and the houses that lined the shore and the wooded hill were already indistinct and only identified by the pinpoint glow of bulbs as they were switched on in living rooms and kitchens and porches.

  The late sun cast shadows across the grass, on which Rebecca had parked. A dog walker nodded to her as they passed each other on the towpath, his Labrador snuffling at the edge of the Caledonian Canal as it sliced its way to the firth. She wondered if it had ever jumped in. The water was black in this light and it looked deep, the bank itself steep. But the thought was washed away as she saw who she was looking for on the far bank, sitting alone on a bench, staring out at the bridge and the Moray Firth beyond. With the dog walker gone, the stretch of canal at Clachnaharry was left solely to Anna and Rebecca.

  The waist-high lighting that lined the path cast a faint glow as Rebecca headed towards the canal authority building, its white walls catching the sun in its death throes. There were two narrow retractable bridges framing the sea lock that allowed boats to manoeuvre the differing levels of water. The offices had closed at 4 p.m. and no boats waited for the morning. Rebecca’s footsteps on the bridge seemed very loud in the still air and she thought Anna would have heard her approach, but she didn’t. The woman was hunched into her coat, her hands thrust deep into her pockets, and she didn’t move even as Rebecca sat beside her on the bench. They sat in silence, each looking across the water but perhaps neither really seeing it. Now that she was here, Rebecca tried to think of what to say. When she shot a glance at Anna, she saw her eyes had a strange, unfocused look, as if only her body was there while her spirit, her consciousness, was elsewhere. Lost. Wandering.

  Rebecca took a deep breath. ‘Anna, I didn’t tell DCI Roach about you.’

  Anna didn’t seem to hear. She didn’t move. Her eyes were still lost in the water, so leaden, so cold, its surface chopped by the breeze stiffening from the Firth. Rebecca didn’t know what else to say. To repeat herself would seem like begging forgiveness for something she didn’t do. So she let her words float there between them in the hope that Anna would respond.

  It was a full two minutes before she did. Not long in the scheme of things, but sitting there on that chilly promontory as the light eased slowly away behind the low hills to the west, its dying rays catching the wispy clouds floating like smoke against the denser cover, it seemed like an eternity. An eternity in which Anna seemed lost.

  Finally, softly, she spoke. ‘It doesn’t matter now.’

  ‘It does matter,’ said Rebecca, glad Anna was at least speaking, even if her voice did have a faraway quality to it. Once again, she had the sensation that the historian wasn’t really with her. Had DCI Roach’s lie really upset her that much?

  Another long silence. Then Anna mumbled something. It sounded like all too late now. Rebecca couldn’t be certain. ‘Too late for what?’

  Anna seemed to withdraw even further into her coat. She was a powerful woman but she seemed to be shrinking before Rebecca’s eyes. This wasn’t about DCI Roach’s lie. Something else had happened and Rebecca felt concern growing. ‘Anna, what’s wrong?’

  Nothing. Movement stilled, apart from the breeze ruffling her short blonde hair. She didn’t even seem to be breathing.

  ‘Anna? Tell me what’s wrong. Whatever it is can be fixed.’

  Anna’s eyes moved then and Rebecca saw fully the pain that lived in them. ‘It can’t be fixed. Not now.’

  And then she removed her hands from her pocket, as if in slow motion, and Rebecca saw the blood caked on her fingers, her knuckles, the palms. She reached out and grasped Anna’s hands, turned them over, looking for wounds, flakes of blood scraping off with her fingers, but found nothing. ‘Anna, are you hurt?’

  Anna retracted her hands. Pushed them back in her pockets, slouched again. The sound of Robbie Williams floated from Rebecca’s bag. Her phone. She ignored it. The call jumped to voicemail.

  ‘Whose blood is that, Anna?’ Rebecca asked, trying to keep the urgency from her voice. She needed to speak calmly to the woman. She needed to draw her out. Because something was very, very wrong here. ‘Anna? Tell me – whose blood is that?’

  It was Alan who found her.

  He had sat in his office for an hour, completing paperwork automatically, but his mind on Anna Fowler and her face as she had spoken to him. He felt guilty, because for an instant he had believed Rebecca had t
old the police about the history professor, but the more he thought about it, the more he was certain she would never do that. He had failed to assure Professor Fowler of that and felt he really needed to.

  University corridors can be lonely places when the students are in class or away for the day, as they were now. It was not a large campus – the university had other sites across the west Highlands – but the corridors did seem long when you didn’t meet another living soul. Sensors picked up his movement as he turned corners or pushed through doors, flickering lights on and off. Conserve energy. Stop the charge of the Light Brigade. His footsteps squeaked on the polished floors as he passed door after door. Lecture rooms, offices, toilets. Occasionally he glimpsed someone through the narrow glass panels that ran lengthwise down the door, but more often than not the rooms were empty, dull, chairs vacant, desks bare, computers dark.

  The door to Professor Fowler’s office was locked. Alan cupped his hands at the glass panel and peered in, but the room beyond was in darkness, the blinds drawn to block out what daylight was left. He could just make out her desk and the piles of books. He had left it too long. He should have come by sooner instead of sitting at his own desk ticking digital boxes. He gave the handle another jiggle, he didn’t know why. The door held, as he knew it would. He sighed, turned. He’d speak to her tomorrow. He didn’t know if Rebecca had spoken to her but even if she had he would make sure the professor knew Rebecca was one of the good guys.

  He was about to walk away when he heard the groan from inside.

  Chaz glanced at the read-out on his mobile before he answered it. Number withheld. He contemplated not answering it, but sometimes a newspaper withheld its number, so it could be work.

  ‘Chaz, it’s Nolan Burke.’

  For an instant Chaz felt concern grip him. Why the hell was Nolan Burke phoning him? And how the hell had he got his number? But he took a deep breath and said, ‘Hi.’ Then he added, ‘How you doing?’