He looked at Darian and said, ‘Ah, you must be the young Ross, I can see the resemblance. I knew your father. He seemed like such a good man. It’s actually you I’m here about.’
‘Oh, why’s that?’
The dirty look Sholto gave Darian was the opposite of encouraging.
DI Corey, legs crossed, hands in lap looking comfortable, said, ‘You were involved in the arrest of Ash Lucas, I’m led to believe, which is strange given that you’re the employee of a research company.’
The mocking tone of the last two words made Sholto visibly wince; he wanted no part of anything in the world that would blow his thin cover. He was an ex-detective who could be convicted of running an illegal business, and was now faced with the sort of former colleague who would take cruel pleasure in making that happen.
‘I was asked to find out about his finances, for that I had to find out where he lived. I just happened to be at the same party as him, ended up outside the flat and heard the girl scream.’
DI Corey’s attitude blunted every clever thing he had to say. If your intelligence lives behind a sneer it’s unlikely to be quite as sharp as you think. He smiled happily and said, ‘All just a big happy fluke, huh?’
‘Good luck and good timing.’
‘Odd thing, though, that you wouldn’t be able to find his address without following him home. I’d have expected better of you. I mean, what the hell sort of research is that? We’re getting very close here, dangerously close, I think, to straying into police business, and I’m sure neither of you would want that to happen.’
Sholto said quickly, ‘Of course not, course not; we go out of our way to avoid anything that might interfere in an active case. I know how it works, Folan, don’t worry, I know.’
‘You know, but does your boy here?’
‘He knows.’
Darian stood uncomfortably beside his desk. He was being talked about rather than to, mockingly by Corey and angrily by Sholto, and that raised his hackles. He should have said nothing but instead he said, ‘I’m surprised you have any interest in Lucas, Detective. Last I saw of him he was at Dockside, being well looked after. I’m not sure I see how a rapist fits into the anti-corruption unit’s remit.’
Sholto’s eyes were wide now, and he was sitting bolt upright. Terror was the one workout his posture ever got.
DI Corey remained impassive when he said, ‘There are a lot of things about my department, about policing and about this city, that you do not understand. I know you want to hate me because I’m a detective, and we were the ones who put your father away, which means we absolutely must be the bad guys. All of us, all the time. It’s going to come as a grievous shock to you when you realise that even those of us who aren’t terribly pleasant are still trying to do a good job for the right reasons. Some people have a lot more value than you realise.’
‘People like Lucas?’
‘Even the worst people have the ability to do good. You’re young, you’re idealistic, you’re ignorant, and because of that you made a mistake. I’m a forgiving man, but I expect a higher level of professionalism from this office in the future or we might have to ask some questions about whether your behaviour on the street matches the description on your registration sheet. No more mistakes.’
Darian said, ‘I’ll learn.’
‘Too late for learning, boy, you learn before you leap. You jumped into the Lucas situation because you thought you knew it all, thought you were doing what us dim-witted policemen and women couldn’t, and now Lucas is back out on the streets. He won’t go to trial, and the only way he ever will is when a police officer, a senior police officer, gets involved. Someone like me.’
‘Someone like you.’
‘Yes, and not someone like you.’
‘What’s wrong with someone like me?’
‘Apart from the fact you’re not a cop and never will be? You’re an idealist. A hero. The saviour of the downtrodden, bringing justice to all those in peril. You go chasing after bad guys and to hell with the rest of it, right? You give your life to being something noble. That’s fine, I’m not mocking it, there’s nothing wrong with wanting to be someone’s hero, we’re all arrogant enough to want that at some point. Thing is, this city doesn’t need people to be heroes, it just needs them to use an ounce of common sense now and then. Real police work is about something less gallant. It’s about doing the dirty grind that people think you should be doing anyway, about doing work nobody ever finds out about so they curse your laziness because they’re ignorant of your efforts. It’s about keeping your head down and your mouth shut when ignoramuses shoulder-charge their way into your business and spoil years of effort. It’s no place for heroes.’
‘I’m not trying to be a hero.’
‘You are, and you’ll keep on trying, I know you will. It’s written all over your righteously offended face. But you will learn, just like Sholto here learned, back in the days when he used to spend his life hiding in an office at the station instead of hiding in this one. You’ll become like him, looking to get through another day without tripping up, praying for no fuss, no challenge. Your ambition will shrink to fit your talent and position, and when people come here looking for your help, for you to be their saviour after exhausting every other option, you’ll pretend you’re not home. You’ll learn, all right. I do not expect to bump into you again.’
Without looking at either of them he walked across the office and out, down the stairs where his acolyte MacDuff was waiting for him. Darian looked at Sholto and Sholto looked like he wanted to sprint down the stairs after his former colleague and boot him up the arse, but he didn’t have the courage or agility. Instead he looked furiously at a spot on his pile of papers until he calmed down enough to talk, although it still came out as a voice raised high.
‘You went chasing after Lucas when I said not to, when I told you to stay away from him.’
‘He was attacking a schoolgirl with a knife, and Corey’s let him go.’
Sholto was a decent man, so he hated that he was shouting at Darian instead of DI Corey, but his voice would never have the strength to attack the cop. He said, ‘Don’t you understand what this could mean, going up against a man like Folan Corey? I’m not saying you crapped the bed here, but there is an awful lot of crap all over the bed you were using. He is dangerous. Every cop can be dangerous to us, but him a hundred times more than the rest because he’d enjoy it.’
‘I didn’t know he had a connection with Lucas, and I still don’t understand what the connection is. How can you be relaxed about him letting Lucas out when you heard what Lucas has done before?’
‘I’m not relaxed, don’t say I’m relaxed, do I look relaxed? Never been less relaxed in my life. I’m at best a heartbeat and a half ahead of a coronary right now. I know what Lucas did, and he should be locked up for it, but he must be valuable to Corey. Him, Corey, he’s the sort that has a thousand dodgy contacts up his sleeve, anyone he needs help from falls on the floor as soon as he shakes an arm. That’s why I could never make it and people like him always can. He’ll have Lucas on the rack now, willing to do anything for him.’
‘That’s not...’
‘I know it’s not right, you don’t have to tell me, but it’s how it works round here. This city, it’s always been the same, always about the least worst people getting out on top. Just promise me, Darian, promise me you’ll stay clear of Corey from now on, and from Lucas. Corey’s good at what he does, and what he does isn’t for you and me. ‘
He paused and didn’t say anything.
‘Darian.’
‘Fine, I promise you.’
Whisper Hill
He had lived on the hill all his life and he didn’t know how long that had been, but he was certainly an old man now. His parents, oh, they’d died when he was young and that had left him alone. He had wanted a different life, back in his youth when he would watch the town from the hill with envy. Down across the loch there was a world of activity, people ru
nning along cobbled streets, boats sailing out to sea, noise and chatter.
He could see that it had changed over the years, the routines of the place different now. He remembered when he was a boy and the boats used to go out first thing in the morning but now they waited until afternoon. He always saw them leave when he took his break. He lived the way his father had wanted the family to live, separate from the people, alone.
He followed the same routine each day, getting up around sunrise to scavenge on the hill, going through the forest on the far side looking for things to eat. He always walked the same route, checking traps he had laid for small animals and taking a separate bag for vegetables. He had been doing it for more years than he remembered. The old man would get round to the front of the hill in the afternoon where there was a flat stone among wind-stunted trees that had a clear view across the loch. He liked to sit there for a few minutes, maybe eat a piece of fruit, and watch the town.
Then he would return to his shack on the far side of the hill, a single-roomed small wooden building with a stone chimney. There was a time when it had been clear of the trees and had a small garden around it, but not now that he wasn’t strong enough to cut them back and they had overwhelmed the plot. They didn’t threaten the shack yet, but they kept it in deep shade. Not that he minded because the dark, the trees and the hill itself, these were things he knew, they were reliable and constant, and he had lived his whole life among them. He trusted them, and he trusted nothing else. He pulled the ancient, filthy blanket around him, lying on the floor of the shack, and thought nothing of the life he led.
*
The boy had always been intrigued by the wind, but nobody seemed to know anything about it and that troubled his inquisitive mind. He asked his parents and his grandparents, he asked his teachers and his neighbours, and none of them knew. That couldn’t be right. How could all these grown-ups not know the answer to such a simple question? Where does the three o’clock wind come from? They knew about the rain and the tides and the sun, but they didn’t know about the wind.
On Saturday he was going to walk around the harbour, over the moor and take the track up to the hill. He had been before with his friends, but this time he was going alone. He gathered a few things in a bag, slung it over his shoulder and set out. He didn’t tell anyone else, he was too smart for that because they would try to stop him. Little boys weren’t supposed to go onto the hill alone; they had all been told that. His teachers and his parents had said it to him in that stern tone they used when they actually meant something.
It was fun, getting through the streets and past the harbour and out round the bay, sneaking down backstreets, hiding behind trees, making sure nobody saw him. Not just an expedition of discovery but a secret one. He was glad he was on his own; it was so much better this way, more dramatic. He didn’t want to have to share the credit when he found out where the wind came from.
He pushed on into the trees, slowed down by branches and bushes nobody had had the good sense to cut a path through. Maybe he would suggest that when they were all marvelling at his soon-to-be discovery. It did make the truth of the wind, whatever it turned out to be, all the more special that he’d had to fight his way through the trees to get to it.
*
The old man had made his way round the front of the hill and up towards the stone where he took his daily rest. It was getting harder to keep this pace and he knew in coming years he wouldn’t be able to make the walk every single day. That thought filled him with fear. He had never found rabbit burrows near the shack; they were all on this side of the hill. He could get some mushrooms nearby, but even they required an effort he might one day not be capable of.
He sat on the stone, letting the relief of rest sweep through his weary muscles, and he opened the bag to see what he had collected so far. One dead rabbit that he would skin back at the shack, a few berries and some mushrooms he’d made the effort to gather today, having not done so for a couple of weeks. He took some of the berries out and wiped them clean on his dirty shirt. He put a couple in his mouth and looked down the hill and across the harbour at the town.
The boats were idling in the harbour with their sails loose, waiting for wind, and the old man could just see the movement of people in the streets, more than usual. There were days like that, a few a year, where there seemed to be an awful lot more people running around the town. From the top of the hill you could catch a glimpse of one end of the large town square, and you could see the celebrations. They held them every year in the winter, you could see the fire barrels and decorations they had up. It was nice to see them happy and it made him feel warm.
He took a deep breath and sighed because all this happiness belonged to other people. The boats in the harbour shot forward, sails billowing against the wind that carried them out to sea. He couldn’t hear it from so far away, but there were even a few cheers followed by laughs from the jovial crowd.
This was what he enjoyed, sitting on the stone, watching the town spring to life and become the sort of busy place he had always dreamed of being a part of. He’d had his five minutes of rest and it was time to go. As he stood he heard a rustle in the trees that made him pause, thoughts flashing automatically through his mind. It sounded too heavy to be any of the animals he usually encountered here, the old man knew he was the largest thing living on the hill. He was uncertain, a little afraid, when he watched the boy step forward.
*
He came close to the edge of the clearing, walking on soft moss, and saw the man. He hadn’t sat down yet, coming from the opposite edge of the clearing and walking across to the stone. He looked old and had white hair that appeared dirty and long, and he had deep lines on his face. He looked like the boy’s grandfather if the boy’s grandfather didn’t wash for a few months.
This old man could be dangerous, some sort of wild man. What a wonderful thought! Fighting through the trees and encountering a wild man in the woods, a chance to prove his courage. He knelt down beside a tree and watched, waiting for the man to do something wild, except he didn’t do anything. He sat on the stone like a normal old person, and then reached down into a bag. The boy watched as the old man pulled some berries from the bag and started to slowly eat them. Wild men didn’t eat berries slowly, they ate birds with their wings still flapping, ripping them apart with broken teeth and eating the feathers as well. This was just some old man the boy had never seen before.
Then he sighed. From his spot in the trees, the boy could see the old man do it, could see the dying leaves on the ground rustle in front of him as the wind ran down the hill and across the harbour. The boy grinned happily. He had found the wind. He studied the old man, watched him sit there staring down at the town. He only took a few minutes to rest and watch, and then got up.
This was the moment, time for the hero to confront his discovery. He stepped out of the trees and stood a few feet from the old man, looking up at him with a smile on his face.
‘Hello,’ the boy said.
‘Hello.’ The word sounded uncertain coming from the old man who wasn’t used to speaking out loud, or speaking to other people. The last conversation he’d had was, well, he didn’t know how long ago but it was decades, certainly.
‘I saw you,’ the boy said, ‘I saw you sitting there and making the wind. You did, didn’t you? You made the wind.’
The old man looked at him, afraid of the boy and what he was saying.
‘I don’t. I just sit there. It’s not me.’
The boy took a step forward, moving to the stone. He looked back at the old man and out across the harbour to his home town.
‘Can anyone?’
The old man looked at him and shook his head slightly as the boy sat on the stone and looked to the loch, smiling. He put his bag down and cleared his throat and then suddenly the boy blew out hard. Leaves kicked up on the hill and the few boats still tied in harbour rocked on the sudden waves.
With a grin on his face, the boy was about to say so
mething joyous when a hand grabbed him and pulled him roughly off the stone.
‘Careful. You have to be careful.’
The boy paused and looked up at the frightened old man. ‘I understand. Too much wind and you damage things, too little and it’s not useful. Yes, I understand.’
The old man nodded, relieved.
‘Okay,’ the boy said. ‘Is it just you?’
The old man nodded again.
‘I can help you. I can come up here with food and clothes because you really need them. I can blow the wind sometimes, but mostly I’ll leave it to you. And you’re old, so you have to stop working soon, because that’s what old people do. Then I can do it. Yes! I can do that, and it’ll be our secret, I won’t tell anyone.’
The old man smiled gently, and nodded again. There was someone to take over from him, to give the town the wind it needed. He didn’t want to be responsible for ending it. There would be clothes, the boy had said he could bring him new clothes, and maybe even a new blanket. All these years he had sat on that stone and delivered the wind, and it had finally brought something back.
6
NOW, THIS IS the point where the damn sexy woman walks into the private detective’s office looking like five feet five inches of pulp-novelesque seductive trouble. Her name was Maeve Campbell, she had long brown hair, dark eyes, a small mouth and when she smiled her cheeks dimpled. She was wearing a dark blue skirt under a dark coat and she sat with her pale legs crossed in front of Sholto’s desk. He cleared his throat and his dirty mind and welcomed her.
‘How can we help you, Miss Campbell?’
She tried to look decorously sad when she spoke, but there was too much anger and it spoiled the impression. She said, ‘My boyfriend, my ex-boyfriend, I suppose, was murdered, about a month ago. The police have been investigating, but they haven’t found anything and I’m certain they won’t. They don’t want to. I do. That’s why I’m here.’
Sholto said, ‘I’m very sorry about your, uh, ex-boyfriend, but I don’t think there’s anything we can do to help you. That’s a police matter, it has to be left to them. We can’t interfere with that sort of case, a murder inquiry; it would be criminal for us to do so.’
In the Cage Where Your Saviours Hide Page 4