‘Sorry, sweetheart. This case I’m working on…’
‘No wonder you’re still single, McBain. Who would put up with your shit? Between the job and your winning personality…’
‘Who fuckin’ phoned who?’
Silence. Then the phone dies. I wonder if I should call her back. Nah, can’t be arsed. I mentally review the contents of my fridge and my cupboards. Nothing there that’s making me salivate. The lights from the chip shop are winking at me. Deep-fried pizza. Now you’re talking. Should really eat a light snack before going to the gym. But I’d rather pierce my scrotum with a fishhook. I mentally flip a double-headed coin. Heads it is. Chip shop here I come.
It’s only later, when my dinner is nothing more than a straining belly and a faint scent of vinegar wafting from the kitchen bucket that I regret my tone with Theresa. The feeling I’ve had all day hasn’t faded and I really could do with some company to take me out of myself. I suddenly seem to be surrounded with too much space. The telly is on, beaming utter crap into my living room. Some celebrity tosser is trying to be something he hasn’t the training or the talent for and the camera is following his every move. But if I switch it off, there’ll be just me… and the dream. And the pictures. And the thoughts.
A body lying in a pool of blood and feathers. I remember more. His wrists were slashed. But it’s not Connelly. This guy’s older. If I think harder I can hear voices. Screams. And the laughter of children.
Whoa. Enough. There’s only one likely outcome to stepping further into that movie. Being driven mental.
I screw my eyes tight against the images. ‘Go away. I’m not mad. I’m perfectly sane.’ Perhaps a spot of meditation could clear my head.
Making myself comfortable, I prepare my body. I tell each part to sleep and within seconds my limbs are heavy as though encased in concrete. In the spot where my third eye resides I hang a crystal and enjoy the rays of light it sheds. And so I try to lose myself…
A memory squeezes past the spinning crystal.
Sister Mary towers over me. ‘What are you doing, boy?’
Instantly, I recoil. I must be about five. Although I’ve only been in the orphanage a matter of weeks I am already sensitive to the anger that emanates from the lady in the strange clothes in front of me. I liken it to the statue of Our Lady with the beams of light exploding out from around her head, except with Sister Mary the colour is black.
‘Nothing,’ I whisper. Everything that had been going on in my life in the previous ten minutes has been wiped from my memory with the force of her anger. All I could think of was that my hands had been in my pockets. What was so wrong with that?
Sister stares at me, her eyes as black as her habit. Each word is clipped and edged in fury.
‘What you have just done is evil of the purest kind. Just look at you. You’re covered in sin, boy. ’ I don’t see her fist move. Next thing I know the side of my head is exploding with pain and I’m on all fours. ‘If I ever see anything like that again, you will be sent before Mother Superior.’
The other side of my head attracted her fist.
‘May God have mercy on your immortal soul.’
What have I done that is so evil? If the lady says I’m covered in sin, then there’s no hope for me. The pain this induces is worse than that pulsing on each side of my head. That is already beginning to fade and I know it will show no scars.
I’m lying on my side on the bed. Nerves on the sides of my head throb with the memory. My cheeks are wet with tears. I’m pulling my knees up to my chest. Loud sobs fill the room. It’s like I’m two people: the man in pain on the bed, each spasm causing him to raise his legs in towards his chest, and the other man, watching and wondering with detached calm. Was that really me all those years ago? Why did that memory surface now?
Chapter 12
After this morning’s shower, I catch myself avoiding my naked reflection in the full-length mirror. What’s that all about? I make myself go back and stand in front of it. Time for honesty. Look at that belly. And the tits. I cup one in each hand. If they weren’t so hairy, this could be quite pleasing. I grin. Nah. Maybe not.
Still. Theresa likes it. I mentally shrug. That’s got to be worth something.
I move my hands down to my belly and pinch about six inches either side. You’re a heart attack in waiting, McBain. Time to get your act together. Somebody at work mentioned a soup diet the other day. I’ll ask around and see if I can get a copy. Seems you can lose half a stone in a week.
I’m in a good mood, if I had any more dreams last night they have stayed in the dreamzone. I feel good. Rested and optimistic. I grab my belly and give it another forceful wobble. You are gone, fatboy. The diet is back on and under here is a six-pack in waiting.
‘Whose fucking birthday is it now?’ I’m at this morning’s briefing and there’s another box of cakes on the table, strawberry tarts. The jelly on them quivers with the promise of tongue-coating, tooth-decaying sweetness.
‘The boss handed them in, sir. He didn’t say anything, just flung them on the table,’ answers Drain. ‘Probably doesn’t want us to know his age.’
‘What do you reckon?’ asks Gary Wilson. His right hand is pulling at his left ear, his arm almost hidden behind his head. Looks like a contortionist. ‘Late fifties?’
‘Is that sore?’ asks Peters.
‘What? This?’ He lifts his arm up and waves his hand about. ‘I dislocated my arm at school. Can nearly pull it out the socket. Want to see?’
‘For fuck’s sake, Wilson. Are you going to get your dick out next?’ I wonder if some men ever grow up. ‘Right, listen up people. We need to talk about our suspects so far. What have we got?’
Peters describes the young man he and I spoke to the previous day. ‘There’s something about this guy. He has the motive. And a flimsy alibi.’ He avoids my gaze. Obviously still unsure about what to do. The fact that I am standing in front of him at the moment, I take as a good sign. Means he has kept his own counsel for the moment. And if Crichton had complained, things would also be vastly different.
‘Why flimsy?’ I ask suddenly feeling the need to argue with somebody.
‘Says he was with his wife and weans. His wife’s a junkie. Could easily be discredited in court.’
‘That doesn’t make him a murderer though, does it? Gary, did you pick up anything interesting in Aberdeen?’ I ignore the shadow that falls over Peters’ face.
‘One possible so far. Another avenging relative.’
‘Name?’
‘Ally Irving. But he’s Mr Respectable. Nice wife. 2.2 children in the nice house. Beamer in the drive. But the kids aren’t his. It’s her second marriage. Her first husband died three years ago in a car crash.’
‘From your tone I detect you don’t approve of Mr Irving?’
‘Can’t put my finger on it, sir. Just spoke to him on the phone. Seemed a right smarmy bastard.’
‘What does he do for a living?’
‘He’s in computer sales.’
‘Well that explains the smarm. Doesn’t make him a murderer or you lot would be away for twelve to fifteen.’
‘It’s not that,’ he continues, unruffled by my comments. It takes more than sarcasm from yours truly to wind up Gary Wilson. ‘I can’t put my finger on it.’
‘Right. We’ll go and see him.’
‘What, all the way up to Aberdeen?’
‘You got anything better to do? A booking to get your back waxed at the Rainbow Room perhaps?’
He smiles, ‘People in glass houses…’
‘Shut it.’ I turn. ‘Allessandra…’ I trust her, but there is always room for doubt. And I have to ask her. It would look odd if I didn’t. ‘Have you done any digging on our people from Bethlehem House?’
‘Nothing concrete as yet, sir.’ She can’t quite meet my eyes either. ‘I’ve managed to get current addresses for most of them. Just one missing,’ she flicks the pages of her notebook with an index finger, and reads. ‘A c
hap called Leonard. Can’t find where he’s got to.’
‘Right. Good work. Keep digging. Aberdeen here I come.’
All heads in the room turn as the door squeaks open.
‘Ray. Can I see you in my room?’
I follow Detective Superintendent Campbell into his office. I can feel sweat lining my palms. Did someone talk? I’d bet my next month’s wage it was Peters.
Campbell sits down behind his desk, motions for me to take a seat and sits with his elbows on the desktop, his hands in a prayer pose before his mouth. He looks about to say something but he examines my face and says something else.
‘You okay, Ray?’
‘Fine, Tom. Thanks for asking.’ What is this about?
‘You’re not… sick or anything?’
‘No. I’m not sick or anything. Why do you ask?’
‘It’s just… you look like shit.’
‘Oh. Right. Thanks.’
‘So. Any good leads yet?’ he asks, his two seconds in the act of caring senior officer obviously over for now. He sits back in his chair and fixes the cuffs on his shirt. Ensures the creases are just so and the cufflinks are square to the end of the sleeves.
‘A couple, Tom. But nothing concrete as yet.’ I force calm into my mind and my pulse to settle. No-one had talked. Yet.
‘Give me a time-frame.’
I lift my hand in the air before us and pretend to pluck something from it. I look down at my hand, ‘Three months.’
A fucking time frame he wants.
‘Don’t be a smart arse, McBain.'
‘Well, with all due…’
‘All due… kiss my arse. We need answers. Now. You know as well as I do that the trail runs cold the longer the killer goes undetected.’ One thing we both know, most killers are known to their victim. Recent stats quote ninety per cent. When there is a connection between the two a conviction usually follows. No quickly discernible connection, no quick conviction. No nasty killer locked up behind bars.
‘We’re doing our best, sir.’ Sometimes it works well to play to his ego. Remind him who’s the boss and then go and do what the fuck I like.
We stop in a wee roadside café a few miles north of Perth on the Aberdeen road. A sign ahead points the way to Kinnaird. The café has a large car park in front, polka-dotted with puddles.
There’s a large wooden wheel at either side of the door, as if someone had the idea of going for a Western theme. Nothing else in the location hints at this, apart from the chequered curtains. Maybe that was the extent of their imagination.
‘You sure you want to go in here?’ I ask Gary Wilson. I have a recent bad track record when picking places to eat. The early signs are not good.
‘Aye. I’m starving. I could eat a bullock between two bread vans. I could eat a scabby-headed two-year-old. I could eat…’
‘Shut the fuck up, will you? If you mention anything else you could eat, I’ll no’ be able to eat anything.’
The sign inside the door reads Self Service. There’s a chrome guardrail defending the food counter from the hungry hordes, who have obviously decided to eat elsewhere. Wilson and I follow the path dictated by the rail and peruse the choice, which is not too bad. Lentil soup heads the menu. I love lentil soup. The Soup Diet flashes through my brain. This could be a start, I think.
‘Yes?’ A young girl leans against the till, prepared to take my order. She has black hair that looks as if it’s been dyed blacker. Her eyelids have been shaded by what I could guess at as being coal. The only colour on her face is a spot on the left of her chin that could fill custard pies in its spare time. From the expression on her face she would rather dip her no doubt black-varnished toes into a pool of toxic waste than serve us. I stretch my face into as wide a smile as I can.
‘Hello, gorgeous,’ I say.
‘Can I help you?’ She raises one eyebrow. ‘Sir.’ This she adds as an afterthought. In case the boss is listening.
‘Having a busy day?’
‘Aye,’ she looks over my shoulder pointedly at the empty room, opens her mouth as if to say something else. Then closes it as if I’m not worthy of her witty riposte. She stares at her pad, pen poised.
‘A plate of your finest lentil soup.’
‘'Zat all?’
I see a basket of homemade muffins. Toffee and banana or apple and cinnamon. They look huge. And gorgeous.
‘A muffin, please. Toffee.’ I hand over the required amount and I’m served with my soup straight away.
Gary joins me at the table. ‘Nice tits on the waitress.’
‘Hadn’t noticed. I was waiting for the zit to explode and fill my soup plate.’ The soup is delicious. The spoon catches a sliver of ham. Just the way I like it.
‘So what else do we know about this guy?’
‘Just what I told you, so far. He appears to have everything that we would all want. The family, the house, the business. But as my old ma used to say, if it looks too good to be true, it probably is.’
Briefly, I considered that curiously British trait of bringing down the successful. He’s done well for himself, so we’ll be pleased at first. And then we’ll think he must be a rank, rotten bastard to have gotten that far. And then we’ll look for evidence to prove it.
‘Let’s just wait and see what he’s like when we meet him.’ I look at my muffin, feeling strangely full. ‘You want this?’
‘Aye, magic.’ He grabs it from my hand.
We are shown into his office. Everything looks and smells brand new. It is all red cedar lined with chrome. There is no clutter, everything is designed to give the illusion of space. It makes me think of the mask we wear to hide our true selves from each other. This man even extends his mask to his surroundings. There is nothing here to indicate the type of individual seated behind the desk.
He doesn’t look away from his seventeen-inch flat computer screen. With a hand that wields a silver pen, he simply motions for us to sit down. I take the opportunity to get a better look around the office. No, nothing of the man himself in here. Except… I notice a photograph by the door. A woman in her late twenties and a girl of nine or ten, I would guess. The staging of the subjects is bland. They are both wearing shirts of exactly the same colour of purple. I wonder what arse thought of that. I wonder what happened to the son. According to Gary he’s a little older. Perhaps he doesn’t like the new man of the house. Perhaps the new man of the house doesn’t want him around his new women-folk.
It is clearly not the best place to view the photograph, if you were looking at it from the desk. The potted plant obscures it. But as people left the room they would get a good view, and be reminded that the office’s occupant was a good guy: a family man.
‘Eileen. Where’s that report?’ he shouts over the screen. The door behind us opens enough to see a head of brown, permed hair.
‘It’s just about ready, Mr Irving.’ She sounds as if she is about to burst into tears.
‘I want it five minutes ago. Please?’ He glares at the door. Only then does he move his eyes to address us. He smiles, as if he’d learned it from a book. Placing his pen on the desk, he smooths down his fringe between his index finger and his middle finger.
‘You can’t get the staff,’ he laughs. And then has the decency to look discomfited when we don’t join in. Women would be attracted to this man, I thought. Despite themselves. He is a cliché of good looks; blond hair and blue eyes. Except the blond hair is receding and the eyes warn of remoteness.
He leans forward on his elbows, ‘How can I help you?’ We introduce ourselves. The smile recedes from his face as if it would never return when he realises that we are not prospective customers.
‘We’re here to investigate the murder of Patrick Connelly,’ I reply. He leans back on his high-backed leather chair and looks up at the ceiling as if flipping through a mental index of acquaintances.
‘Sorry,’ he purses his lips after a pause long enough to indicate he’d given this his full consideration. ‘That�
�s not a name I’m familiar with. Was he a client of mine?’
‘He was a caretaker cum odd-job man at Bethlehem House, here in Aberdeen, while you were staying there.’
His eyebrows all but meet on the bridge of his nose as he continues the charade of reviewing the name. ‘But that was years ago. How am I supposed to remember that? I was only a bairn.’
‘He abused your twin sister, Mr Irving. Perhaps that will clear the cobwebs from your memory,’ I say.
‘Right,’ he picks up his pen and retracts the nib with a loud click. ‘I… of course I remember that. But I didn’t remember the evil bastard’s name.’ Click. ‘So how can I help you?’ Thoughts fly across his face. Like an actor reviewing his performance, he quickly dons a variety of expressions and then just as quickly throws them off. Puzzlement, denial, anger. And several others I have trouble naming. Click. ‘You don’t think it was me, do you?’
‘We just want to ask you a few questions. So we can eliminate you from our enquiries,’ I say. He obviously then decides to adopt his “I want to, but can’t really help you” expression. I ask him where he was on the night of the murder. He slides his mouse over his desk and examines his computer screen.
‘Just looking at my diary… I saw the Hendersons that morning. Got a great sale. Celebrated with a glass of wine or two at home that evening.’
‘Can anyone corroborate your whereabouts that night?’
‘My wife and the kids, that’s them in the photograph by the door… they were at her mother’s that week. She has a home in Spain. My wife likes her own space.’
He offers us a let’s commiserate together, man-to-man expression. He gets no takers.
‘Would anyone else be able to prove you were where you say you were?’
‘No,’ he shrugs. In my experience, innocent people who’ve had little contact with the police become a little bit uncomfortable around now. I call it The Customs Moment. Like when you’re walking through the Nothing to Declare section. You have nothing illegal about your person, but still you feel the eyes of everyone in the room drilling into your luggage. It’s a behavioural double negative.
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