The Storm Without

by Tony Black

  The car park was half empty; I was sure it wasn't half full. As I pulled up outside what had once been a popular café and 19th hole I clocked the decay of years. I had to double take. There didn't seem to have been enough time for this level of ruin to take hold. I looked around. The place had once been full of people; dog-walkers, children playing. It was surprising how quickly they'd disappeared. Abandoned the place. I wanted to join them.

  I spotted Mason's car in the bays at the far end of the enclosure and looked around for him. There was no sign. He'd told me: 'On the dot. By the cages. I won't hang around.'

  I knew where he meant. I'd taken my sister's kids to see the animals they kept there: small animals — rabbits and birds. But as I passed the derelict summerhouse with its crumbling structure and dirt-blackened windows, I doubted my chances of seeing anything resembling life that wasn't a weed.

  Mason was drawing on a cigarette, his collar raised around his beefy neck. He eyed me momentarily then walked towards the wooded path.

  I caught him up. 'I see why you brought me here.'

  He turned, bit the tip of his fag. 'Like the grave.'

  'You'd see more folk in a graveyard.'

  He knitted his brow, brushed some stray cigarette ash from his sleeve and flicked his dowp towards the gutter. 'Let's walk.'

  I nodded, opened a palm. 'After you.'

  As we went I felt my own cravings ignite, reached into my pocket and removed my Regal Kingsize. It was the same pack I had turned to earlier. The tobacco strayed from the tip of the paper. I shook my head. 'Oh, man …'

  Mason tilted his face, raised an eyebrow as he took in the pack. 'Hmnn.'

  I lifted the cigarettes. 'They're fakes, you know.'

  'Oh, I know. You obviously didn't.' He allowed himself a smile. Two rows of teeth stained with coffee and nicotine on display.

  'Local problem is it?' I held up the pack as I spoke. I couldn't believe things had got so bad here that there was a black market in knock-off ciggies. What was next? Razor blades? Pretty Pollys? It was like 1944 all over again. 'Are you not doing anything about it?'

  Mason lunged for the pack, scrunched it in his great mitt, said, 'Excise isn't my department, Doug!'

  I bit. 'Flogging them in your manor is?'

  He shook his head. The extra collars round his neck quivered as he moved. 'I'll give you one of mine … if it'll shut you up.'

  I accepted. Lit up. Could see it was time to change subject. 'Okay, so why am I here?'

  Mason retrieved the lighter he'd given me, put his hands back in his pockets and turned to face the path. A pile of damp leaves blocked our way as we progressed. He raised himself on his toes, momentarily, then kicked the obstruction away like a rugby ball. His cheeks flushed slightly with the exertion. 'Well, not because you asked me, for sure.'

  'Oh, really.'

  He turned, his nostrils flared. 'Yes, really, Doug.' He lifted a finger, wagged it at me as he spoke through those stained teeth. He looked fierce. 'I've been doing some digging, on you … mate.'

  'Oh yeah, better watch that. I hear it gives you dirty hands.'

  Mason recoiled. Forced a laugh. 'From what I hear, you're the one with dirty hands, boy.'

  'That right?'

  'Yes that's right!' The finger was back, wagging, pointing. 'Not exactly flavour of the month in Ulster are you?'

  I felt my chest inflate. He'd done more digging than he had call to. We'd been friends, once. 'You've been busy.'

  'Yes, I have … and it's a good job.'

  I drew the tip of the cigarette to my lips, inhaled. I held the smoke for a moment, then slowly blew it out, white against the still air. 'You should take all you hear with a pinch of salt, Mason. You know as well as me that you make precious few friends in this racket.'

  'By the sounds of things you made quite a round number … zero.' I wondered who he'd been talking to, but found I didn't really care. Ulster and the RUC was behind me. I'd moved on. There was nothing there that could harm me here, unless I let it.

  'Okay, Mason, you've made your point. But we're not in Ulster.'

  The corners of his eyes creased; his lids slanted as he looked at me through narrow slits. 'No. You've missed the point. I'm warning you, I don't want you repeating your old mistakes on my patch.'

  I played it cool, tried to laugh him off. 'And what makes you think I'd do that?'

  He grabbed me by the shoulders, pressed me hard into a tree. I wasn't expecting it and as my hands fell, the cigarette floated to the ground. I was pinned there, stuck.

  Mason spoke, 'Ulster wasn't the only place I did some digging. I did plenty close to home too.'

  'Will you get off me?' I kept my voice low. But my heart was pounding. A rage building in me.

  'Kirsty Donald … favour for a friend, an old friend, is it?'

  I struggled to free myself, bit the inside of my cheek. I tasted blood in my mouth. 'Get your hands off me Mason, I'm warning you.'

  He tightened his grip on me, pressed his chest closer to mine. His full weight held me back. I was close enough to feel the spray of his words on my face. 'That girl's file has alarm bells on it! The type that go off in the station when mugs like me start asking questions … What's going on, Doug? I want to know what's going on with Kirsty Donald's murder because some heavy people are taking an interest. And I don't like that … not one bit.'

  Chapter 12

  I was rattled. Being roughed up by an old friend will have that affect on you. I didn't know where Mason was coming from but his revelations had put a scare on me. Someone, other than me, was taking an interest in the murder of Kirsty Donald. One thing that my meeting with Mason had yielded in my favour, though, was that I'd succeeded in re-igniting his sense of justice. At least, that's what I told myself. Closer to the truth, I'd merely lit his passion not to be outdone. If someone in the station was stamping on toes, he was going to find out who, and why. I turned down the radio in the car; I needed a clear head to think. This ran deeper than I had imagined.

  The road was wet out to the Dunure Road, and the Donalds' family home. I'd done my fair share of death knocks in my time on the force, but there was something about lobbing up at the home of a recently bereaved family that still smacked at me. It was never pleasant, never welcome. I wanted to help Lyn find the truth of her son's involvement in Kirsty's murder, but the further I went with the case, the more doubts I had.

  As I pulled into Dunure Road the rain was subsiding. I located the house number quickly, parked up and got out the TT. There was a light spray on the breeze — a susurration from the sea. Compared to the battering of rain and gales of late it felt almost a comfort. I flicked the central-locking and turned away from the vehicle towards the house. The garden was strewn with leaves, a bird-table had been upended. Some more leaves had accumulated under the fallen eaves of the bird-table's roof. They'd been there for some time.

  I shunned the doorbell and knocked, gently.

  A dark figure appeared beyond the frosted glass, seemed to stall for a moment or two, then proceeded towards the door. I heard a key turning in a Yale lock, a slim chain removed. As the door edged open a few inches a whey-faced man in his fifties thinned eyes at me.

  'Yes …'

  'Mr Donald?'

  The door widened some more. 'Yes, that's me.' He strode forward, stepped out onto the top step. 'Are you from the police?'

  I kept my eyes fixed on him, allowed a momentary silence to sit between us while I avoided a direct answer to his question. 'I think it might be best if we went inside.'

  My practiced manner of officialdom seemed to have worked. He turned back towards the door, beckoned me inside. I noticed Mr Donald had bulked up with several layers of clothing, a scarf above his cardigan. He spoke, 'You'll have to excuse the temperature … boiler packed in.'

  I nodded. 'I can handle a bit of cold.'

  'Well, we're used to it, happens every year … hellish getting someone out, mind you.' He led me through to the kitchen, motioned me
sit at a large pine table. 'Tea?'

  I was tempted, but declined. Something stronger would have been closer to the mark.

  As I lowered myself at a seat by the wall, the door to the kitchen opened once more. A small, frail woman in a long Arran jumper appeared. I could tell from the pictures I'd seen of Kirsty that this was her mother; the resemblance was striking.

  I started to rise.

  'No, don't get up,' she said.

  'This is my wife, Sheila, and this is …' Mr Donald looked at me. 'Sorry, I don't think I caught your name.'

  'My name's Doug Michie … I'm an investigator, and I'm looking into your recent loss.'

  Sheila raised a hand to her shoulder, then another traced the line of her arm. The mention of her daughter's name seemed to be enough to unleash a torrent of grief.

  I went on, 'I should say, I'm not police. I was once, but this is a private affair.'

  Sheila looked towards her husband. 'Frank … I don't understand.'

  'Neither do I,' he said. 'I think you should explain yourself.'

  I laced my fingers before me on the table, lowered my tone and tried to explain the reasons why I was looking into the murder of their daughter. My reasons didn't seem to matter, though; they had lost Kirsty and nothing I could say or do would alter that fact.

  'I don't know about this,' said Frank. He folded his arms across his chest, a defensive posture.

  Sheila moved towards the table, removed a chair. She turned back to face her husband but her words seemed to be directed towards me. 'I think we should hear him out, dear. What harm can it do?'

  Frank bridled, unfolded his arms and raised his palms towards the ceiling. He turned away from us and leaned on the sink, staring out the window into the back garden.

  I went for broke. 'Maybe you can tell me a little bit about your daughter?'

  Sheila's eyes glassed over as she spoke about her daughter: about her school days, her dance classes, her love for her job, all the promise she showed and all her parents' hopes.

  I let her speak herself out; if nothing else, it seemed to calm Frank.

  'You mentioned her job … '

  'She worked for me,' said Frank.

  I turned to face him. 'What did she do?'

  'She minded the show home … I'm a builder. I put some flats up by the harbour.' He brushed at the stubble on his neck with the back of his fingers. 'She loved that job, couldn't get her away from the place.'

  'Is that where she met … Glenn?'

  Frank looked at his wife; she raised a hand to his. He nodded slowly, words too much of a trial for him.

  I pressed. 'I take it you didn't get along with Glenn?'

  Sheila seemed to be the one with strength now. 'Mr Michie, he's in custody for the murder of our daughter.'

  I unlaced my fingers, leaned back in the chair and allowed myself a few seconds to compose my thoughts. 'I have to tell you both that in my experience an early arrest, like Glenn's, very rarely leads to a secure conviction.'

  Frank dropped his wife's hand. 'What are you saying?'

  I gulped down my words, let the pair adjust to the new atmosphere in the room. For a second, I thought I'd gone too far, then I saw Sheila's intelligence shining in her eyes. She spoke first. 'No. Let him finish, Frank.'

  'Well, what are you trying to say?' he said.

  It took all my courage to look Kirsty Donald's father in the eye as I spoke. 'I've seen cases like this in the past. I know how police forces work, and don't work. And I know a cover-up when I see one.'

  Frank looked down at his wife. Her face was firm, hard. All the colour that sat in her cheeks earlier had left. I tried to draw my gaze away, to take in Frank's expression, but I knew he wasn't the one making the decisions here. Sheila reached out to her husband and grabbed him towards her; she laid her face on his hand for a moment and placed a delicate kiss on his fingertips. When she spoke this time she was looking at me, but speaking for every mother that had lost a child. 'We need to know the truth.'

  Chapter 13

  We'd had a week of on-off storms. The Scottish media had likened them to hurricanes, but then we'd always been good at bigging up our misfortunes. The pavements outside were criss-crossed with bits of broken tiles and slates blown from the roofs. A bus had been toppled. A fallen tree demolished a garage. YouTube was full of runaway trampolines and airborne wheelie bins. I couldn't see what all the fuss was about; we'd had bad weather before but there was something in the collective psyche now that demanded a short-term beat-up of anything vaguely new. I shook my head as I took my pint from the bar, tried to ignore the storm without: I had enough troubles of my own to worry about.

  Smugglers was, for the main, empty. A few dole moles. A couple of bluenoses playing dominoes — making a racket every time they rattled the tray for a new game. The TV was playing; a bloke in beer-bottle glasses checked his luck at the ponies; the weather hadn't halted much then. It would truly be a national crisis if the footie was called off at the weekend. Somerset Boab would be doing a song about it.

  I blew the froth off my pint of heavy and picked up the Ayrshire Post. The paper had changed a fair bit since my last stint in my old home town — it seemed to have grown up and turned into a real newspaper. I remembered wading through page after page of random punters holding onto big cheques. Of scouring the photos for a squint at an old face you once knew. Not now. There was proper news. I wondered if it was a sign of the times: had the Auld Toun developed into a place worthy of detailed press scrutiny? I found myself nodding sagely to myself. I knew the place I called home once again had changed. But, it wasn't only the papers doing the digging.

  As the door to the main bar opened, a shower of rain splashed on the floor. The young girl in the parka stamped her feet and started to shiver. When she took her hood down her lips showed blue against her pale white face. She looked around, exchanged a nod with the barman and then registered the Post in my hands.

  She took two steps towards me. 'Doug is it?'

  I stood up, held out my hand, 'You must be Rachel Maciver.'

  'You can just call me Rachel …'

  I smiled, almost laughed at myself. 'Sorry, I've been reading your stories in the paper … the ones with the big by-line.'

  She seemed to be thawing, pulled out a chair and ordered herself a half of Guinness. Rachel looked too young to be doing her job; nothing like the hacks they sent out to crime scenes I'd attended in Ulster.

  'So, you're a friend of Glenn's mum,' she said.

  I nodded. 'Old friend.'

  She smiled. Some colour was returning to her lips. 'I didn't know him that well, only through Kirsty … she was my wee sister's friend. You know that though.'

  I'd found Rachel on the list Lyn had given me; she seemed like a contact I could make some use of. 'Tell me a little bit about Kirsty.'

  'Not Glenn? I thought it was Glenn you were trying to get off.' I watched her pick up her half-Guinness and take a sip, wipe away a creamy layer from her top lip.

  For a moment, I felt tested. Was she after a reaction? I held firm. 'I'm simply looking into the circumstances of her death.' I felt like I was watching my words; she was a journalist after all.

  'Look, I'm not trying to be funny with you, Doug … I don't think Glenn was capable of murder either.'

  She seemed to have my mind made up for me. 'Either?'

  She put her drink back on the table, ran the back of her hand over her mouth. 'Nobody does … not anyone that knew him. Or Kirsty.'

  'What do you mean?'

  She lit up, leaned on the table and tapped a tattoo with a beer mat. 'I mean, they had their moments, their rows … but murder! Get real.'

  I wasn't sure where she was going with this, but she clearly had some kind of theory. I sat back in my chair, crossed my leg over. As I did so, I noticed an umbrella fly past the window; the sight distracted me, took my train of thought with it. Rachel traced the arc of my gaze with her own eyes.

  'What are you saying? You don't bel
ieve the official version of events?' I said.

  'Which is what? Kirsty had her first fit in years, brought on by a beating from Glenn … No. I don't go for that.'

  'Well, why haven't you said?'

  She huffed. 'Eh, hello … I think I just did.'

  'I meant to the police.'

  Rachel shook her head, made a moue of her mouth. 'Do I look mental?'

  'You don't think they'd believe you?'

  Her voice pitched. 'And like I'd be believed, Doug.' She scraped a fingernail along the table top as her voice continued to climb. 'You know, I might not have been a reporter all that long but I've seen enough of what goes on in this town to know that there's certain people you don't take on …' She stopped herself, started to scan the room to see who had been listening.

  'Like who?'

  'Uh-uh …' She clamped her mouth tight. She was practicing Rabbie's advice: learn taciturnity and let that be your motto. I couldn't fault her but neither did it help me.

  'Rachel, if you have something I can use, you owe it to Kirsty and to Glenn to let me know.'

  She took a long draft of her Guinness, wiped her mouth again and reached under the table for her bag. 'I'm not getting involved.'

  'Rachel …'

  Her eyes flared. 'I can't do anything. I'm a cub reporter on a local rag … not John Pilger.'

  'I'm not asking you to take on the establishment, Rachel.'

  That huff again. 'Oh, aren't you?'

  She was talking in riddles. She was also rattled, that much I could see. I watched her zip up her parka, wrap her scarf round her neck and wrestle the strap of her bag over her shoulder. With each movement she made I knew I was edging dangerously close to losing the chance to get her to reveal what she knew. 'You can trust me, you know.'

  My words seemed to trigger her sarcasm nerve; she tilted her head to the side. 'Weren't you filth?'

  I felt my neck tighten. 'I was police.'

  'Yeah, well … you all stick together don't you?'