‘What age is your son?’ There’s a photo I take to be quite recent. He looks in his late teens. I consider the street outside and the type of individual who makes it his hunting ground. I don’t know if I’d like a son of mine growing up in an area like this.
‘He’s no’ mine.’ Was that regret that flitted across her face?
‘Sorry.’
She shrugs. ‘It’s no’ your fault.’ Normal service is resumed.
‘Does he still live with you?’ Rossi looks at me. She’s wondering where this line of questioning is going. The boy is important here. I know it. I just don’t know why.
‘No. The ungrateful bastard left me to go and study in England.’
‘What happened to his mother?’
‘Life,’ is the cryptic answer. From her tone, I assume she’s dead. And the reason is one of the myriad of ways men and women make their existence miserable.
‘Is he your nephew then?’
‘No.’ She gathers her eyebrows together in irritation. ‘What is this? You fancy him or something?’ Then she looks to the side as she processes other possibilities for my line of questioning. ‘You don’t think he did it. Do you?’ Her tone is one of complete amazement.
I smile. ‘This is an early stage of our investigation. We are not discounting any possibilities.’ There is something I’m missing here. Why would this woman take on another woman’s child? She hardly evidences the milk of human kindness.
‘Christ. You’re a smug bastard.’
‘That’s as may be.’ I smile again. Hold it in silence for a second. ‘Can you tell me where the boy was on the night of the murder?’ I give her the date.
‘That’s easy,’ she twists her face, in an attempt to match what she sees as my smugness. ‘He’s studying Media down in Manchester. He’s no’ been back since term began. See what I mean about abandoning me?’
‘You keep the place nice and clean,’ I say. I’m trying to unsettle her. See what rises to the surface once the cold irritation has been stirred.
‘And what the fuck is that supposed to mean?’ she glares.
‘Nothing.’
‘Just because I stay in a rundown street, doesn’t mean I have to live like a pig does it?’ A row of white knuckles sticks out from the scrubbed pink of her flesh.
‘Not at all.’ I decide to be a little more direct. My head is still beating its hangover drum. ‘Where were you on the night of the murder?’
‘Why would I want to crucify a man I’d never met?’ The word hangs in the air between us.
‘I don’t think I ever mentioned that the deceased was crucified. Did you, Allessandra?’
‘No.’
‘So someone knows more that they’re telling.’
‘I must have read it in the papers.’
‘And the fact that you didn’t know the man made it all the more memorable?’
‘I didn’t know him,’ she assures me.
‘C’mon Carole. You expect me to believe that? You stayed in the convent. You were there the same time as a serial child rapist and he somehow escaped your attention. It’s not as if you’ve the excuse of being too young. You would have been what, a teenager while Connelly was at it?’
‘I don’t remember him.’
‘What are you hiding from us, Carole?’
She sits back in her chair and crosses her arms, ‘Nothing.’
‘Do you like a drink, Carole?’ I remember the beer Connelly’s companion drank on the night preceding the murder.
‘What’s wrong,’ she leers. ‘Can’t get a girlfriend, Ray?’ Then in a quieter tone, ‘or are boys more your type?’
‘They might be if you were the only other option.’ My head is not feeling any better and I’m getting tired of this verbal tennis. Rossi gives me a look that says, “Way to go, McBain. Why don’t you just really piss her off?”
Carole Devlin stands up. ‘Next time you want to ask me some questions, make it formal down the station.’
Allessandra and I are in the car. I’m rubbing my eyes as if that will stop the pain radiating the space behind them.
‘She called you Ray, in there.’
‘It is my name.’ I had noticed. Why didn’t she mention she knew me?
What could she possibly gain by not doing so? Maybe it was something as simple as she didn’t want to get into a reminiscing session. No, that sounds lame.
‘But I was sure you introduced yourself as DI McBain.’
‘No. Ray McBain,’ I couldn’t allow Allessandra to speculate that Devlin knew me. It would bring up the whole issue of Bethlehem house and me all over again.
She shrugs, ‘You were a wee bit over the top there, Ray.’
‘She had it coming. What a load of crap. Never knew Connelly. My arse.’
‘So telling her you’d rather be gay than give her one was designed to open her up?’
‘Aye. You mean it didn’t work?’ I grin.
‘Is she a suspect, Ray?’
I review what we just experienced. A woman who likes DIY. A woman who appears to be obsessive-compulsive. She could have the physical strength. She does have mental health problems. But to balance that off, we have a woman who has raised
another woman’s child. The question is, can we tie her in to the deceased?
‘She has a violent side. I think she has the capability… but does she have a motive?’ Something is taking shape in my mind, making camp in a dark corner and sending out wave after wave of decay. I force my thoughts away. It scares me shitless.
I look over my shoulder, back in the direction of the house. Carole Devlin is standing at the window, arms crossed, face expressionless apart from her lips. They are compressed. It’s as if she’s stifling a smile.
This pub is quite nice. The emphasis on the word quite. They’ve gone for the country look, with dried flowers and pictures of pastoral scenes. It ties in nicely with the stains on the walls and the way your elbows stick to the bar when you lean on it. But hey, beggars can’t be choosers, the nuns used to say. I thought there would be less chance of running into someone I know if I went to a “local” pub rather than one of the trendy café/bars that are springing up all over the city.
If the only places you visited were the café type you would think the city was losing its hard-drinking status, but it’s alive and well in the wee locals, where hard-working men and women jostle with those whose hardest work of the day is cashing in their social security cheques and then seeing how fast they can drink it. They liquidise their cheques in the keenest sense of the word.
Who am I to talk? Elbows glued to the bar, while holding my drink of the moment, Bacardi Breezer. After a not too lengthy market testing, I decided I didn’t really like the taste of alcohol, all I was after was the effect, a numbing of the senses, if you like. So why bother spending all night swallowing it with a grimace as if it was the foulest cough mixture you’d ever tasted?
The barman in here thinks he’s a comedian. Every time I order one he puts a straw in it.
‘Will you fuckin’ stop that?’ is as polite as I can be when he does it again.
‘Sorry, mate. Force of habit. It’s usually just the women that drink that stuff and they aye like a straw.’
‘What gives it away that I’m not a woman, I wonder? Could it be the lack of tits? Or the stubble on my cheeks?’
‘Oh come on pal,’ the barman grins, ‘You’re describing most of the women that come in here.’ This is met by some titters to my left. Two guys are sat at the bar. They look less like they are ensconced in their chairs than they are blended in with the stains. Their laughter, I sense, is not directed at the barman’s joke but at me.
My look dampens their laughter. They’re a matching pair of hard-drinking bookends. Both bald, with comb-overs like the strings on a guitar. I can actually see the hairy flesh of a belly through the gap between buttons that are straining to contain the blubber beneath. But they’re both holding pints of beer, so they’ll be real men then. I smile, and
this pisses off the one nearest to me.
‘You got a problem, mate?’ Folds of fat in his face bunch around his nose as he scowls in what he thinks is a menacing manner.
‘Several actually. But that’s enough about me. Where do you get your hair done?’
At this he is so riled he almost gets off his chair.
‘See you, ya bastard, I’ll have ye.’ His face is doing a tomato impression now.
‘Better watch you don’t have a heart attack, big guy. Then the secrets of your sartorial elegance will be lost to society forever.’ He stops in his struggle to work out what I’m actually saying. While he ruminates on this his pal says, ‘Just ignore’m, Stu. He’s no’ worth it.’
A hand presses firmly on my shoulder and I’m about to swing my bottle into the owner’s face when a voice I recognise speaks.
‘Detective Inspector McBain, what are you doing working up the natives?’ I turn around to be greeted by a large set of teeth out of a toothpaste advert.
‘Whoa, put them away, Kenny. You’re blinding me.’ The grin increases by several watts. Two minders flank Kenny O’Neill, Glasgow businessman, with his camel coat draped on his shoulders. A series of “How ye doin’, Kenny?” rings round the room. Like visiting royalty he acknowledges everyone with a smile and a wave.
‘What brings you down this neck of the jungle, Ray?’ He grips my hand. I try to rub it discreetly after he lets it go.
‘Oh you know, the company, the atmosphere, the booze,’ I take a sip with my straw.
‘Everything all right, Ray?’ His handsome face reflects real concern. This is more hurtful than any insult; that I present a picture that immediately has him pity me. Our relationship has always been about being equals, albeit in different sides of the law, but equals nonetheless. I force a smile on to my face and ignore the impulse to hit him. If I so much as laid a fingernail on that finely sculpted nose of his, the least I would receive from his two minders would be two broken legs. Friend or no friend.
‘Didn’t know this was one of yours, Kenny,’ I stand up. He owns a string of pubs in the city, a front for whatever other business he’s involved in.
‘You don’t need to go, Ray. In fact,’ he motions the barman, ‘have one on me.’
‘S’all right, Kenny.’ I put a hand on his shoulder, ‘It’s time I was away.’
He walks me to the door and follows me outside. A huge Mercedes is illegally parked. Kenny points at it.
‘Can I give you a lift somewhere, Ray?’
‘Better watch out, Kenny. People will think you’re getting soft.’
‘When it comes to you, mate, I couldn’t care less.’
‘Oh fuck off back to your punters and leave me the fuck alone.’
At this he throws his head back and roars with laughter, his gold hair catches light from the street lamps ahead and casts it around his head like a halo. Like a fifties movie idol, he is aware of his appearance at every moment. As he should be, having spent his life perfecting it. My friend Kenny. The crook.
Walking the poorly lit streets in search of a taxi I think of the first time I met Kenny. We were both around twelve, or thirteen and he was curled up in a ball, his school blazer the target for the fists and feet of around six other boys from my school. Without a thought for my own safety, I waded in and attacked the bigger boys with a viciousness that took even me by surprise.
Luckily, there was a stick on the ground that I used to even things up and the boys from my school backed off but not before they had offered me a few threats for turning into a Proddie.
The ball on the ground straightened up and faced me with a smile. ‘Thanks pal,’ he said, and then gingerly touched his nose, ‘That was close, nearly lost my handsome profile there.’
‘Why did they go for you?’ I asked, trying to ignore the tremble in my legs, still taken aback by my instinctive action.
‘See the tall guy. The one with the plooks.’ I couldn’t think of who he was talking about. I was so scared I didn’t see faces. ‘I asked his girlfriend out at the disco. He’s obviously threatened by my good looks.’
‘Right,’ I turned to walk away. Displays of conceit tended to make me not want to get to know someone.
‘Want a sweet?’ A Mars bar appeared from a pocket. I turned back. Something that is always guaranteed to get my attention is chocolate. ‘Go on, have it. I can always nick another one.’ He handed it to me and plucked one more from his pocket. This public admission of theft both appalled and thrilled me. I would never have dreamed of stealing even as much as a penny dainty and boys who did were somehow simultaneously worse and better than me.
It was a dichotomy that was to rule our relationship, but I had no idea of grandiose notions such as this at that age, I was just happy to have a friend. By silent consent we walked in the same direction chewing happily, talking about football and lying about girls, all thoughts of violence banished to that place that boys send thoughts they want to ignore.
Our paths didn’t cross for another seven or eight years. I was now a terribly keen police constable and Kenny was building a reputation as someone not to be messed with unless you came up against him mob-handed. Which was exactly what I was met with when I was called to a disturbance just off the Pollokshaws Road. Once at the scene my partner and I were greeted with a sight that would normally have us waiting until the neds had done themselves sufficient damage before intervening. That way they are more amenable to our demands and less likely to turn on us.
However, I soon realised that there were four men against one and although the single, blond guy was looking after himself, he was going to tire soon and I felt the odds should be evened up. This time, I came with stick attached. My partner followed my lead with, ‘You fuckin’ mad?’ and we got stuck in.
Two of the foursome were easily dealt with. As soon as they saw the uniforms they did a runner. The other two decided that the time had come to get really smart and they each produced a flick-knife.
‘You don’t want to do that, guys,’ I said ignoring the chill in my stomach. ‘Injure a copper with a knife and you’ll have every policeman in Glasgow hunting for you. And they’ll not be as polite as us.’
Knives slashed through the air. I got my baton ready. The blond guy had nothing.
We had to disarm these men before someone got seriously hurt. One of them lunged, the blond guy stepped in and to the side of the swing. A knee in the balls and a fist in the face and one was down.
The other knife-wielder dived in to try and cover his mate and that was my chance. A quick blow with my baton on the back of the head and he was felled too.
Before anything else could happen I reached across both of the felled men, picked up their knives and cuffed them.
‘No need to do that,’ the rescued man said as he wiped the dirt from his trousers. ‘I’ll no’ be pressing charges.’ He turned to face us and ignored our protests. ‘Got a bit tricky for a moment there. Thought I was a goner.’ He looked at me below the rim of my cap, ‘Ray McBain!’ It was only then I that I really looked at him. It’s a rare occurrence for someone involved in a brawl to know my full name.
‘Bloody hell. Kenny O’Neill. This is getting to be a habit.’
‘Aye, is it no’ just. Once every… what, seven years? That must make you my guardian angel. I owe you, man.’ We gave each other a look over. He was slightly taller than me, at least six feet two and from the way he filled his fashionable shirt, packing quite a bit of muscle. Not enough to hinder movement, but enough to let those who know what they are looking at that this man was not to be easily dismissed. Aware of his gaze, I pulled my gut in.
‘When do you guys get off your shift?’
‘Eleven,’ I answered. My partner was deep in thought.
‘Well in that case, let me buy you a drink.’ He named a bar and a time.
‘No thanks,’ my partner said, ‘we were just doing our job.’
‘How about you then, Ray? We could catch up on old times.’
‘I’ve heard of that guy. Can’t remember where. But he’s trouble. Keep well away.’
I didn’t. We met every now and again for a drink, but as I grew deeper into my career and he into his, we grew apart. Our paths would cross now and again, but we would rarely do more than nod in each other’s direction. In another life we would have likely been best friends or soldiers at arms together.
On the rare occasions we did meet the implicit agreement was that neither talk about their working lives. The irony wasn’t lost on me that when relaxing I preferred the company of a criminal to the men and women I worked beside day in day out. Kenny never lost that glamour that drew me to him as a boy. He had a confidence, a charm that you couldn’t fail to respond to. I keep out of his affairs and my personal knowledge of a criminal has not affected my career, so why bin the relationship such as it was?
Stories about Kenny found their way back to me over the years. He grew a fearsome reputation but was never found with his hand in the swag bag. Always clever enough to let someone else dirty their hands, he managed to avoid the ultimate occupational hazard of every career criminal.
Never having had a visible regular girlfriend, he preferred the company of prostitutes, and being so good looking, he attracted debate over his sexuality. This never bothered him. Indeed he played up to it and used it to his advantage. Word got out among the criminal fraternity that he had brutally beaten and then raped an adversary. Any man he then winked at became the subject of speculation from his mates, but Kenny was no weakling and no-one would stand against him unless they had an Uzi, so he was given respect and left to go about his business.
‘It didn’t do the Krays any harm,’ he said during our last meeting, at least a year ago. I asked him about a girlfriend.
‘What? No way, mate. I prefer a good, clean honest transaction. She knows exactly where I stand and I know where she stands.’
‘What about intimacy?’ I asked.
‘A myth,’ he replied, ‘a myth put about by your Catholic priests and feminists to make us men keep our peckers in our collective pants.’
Blood Tears Page 11