He looked at their tight, impatient faces and smiled to himself, knowing it would be the same in every city in the country at that moment – it was the part of the one day of the year when the last thing on anyone’s mind was peace on earth and goodwill to men. That altruism only started to kick in later the same night when the shopping was finally over and the living-room curtains had been pulled shut to wrap families together in a warm glow of seasonal togetherness.
McBride once adored the time and the promise it held. Now all he hoped for was its swift passing and, with it, the memories of the last day on earth of Simon, the most magical little boy who had ever been born.
After the accident, neither he nor Caroline could find the courage to open or dispose of the early Christmas presents they had bought for their son. They lay unopened under the tree at home for six weeks before they took the tree down. The presents, still in their shiny Santa Claus wrappings, were put away in the attic, to be dealt with at some future time that never came. As far he knew, they were still in the same state in Caroline’s new attic.
When McBride made his way to the Apex Hotel, the office Christmas lunch parties were in full swing though it was now closer to teatime. He watched the procession of inebriated women weaving back and forth through reception and, not for the first time, he wondered why the opposite sex appeared to think they could really only dress up if they removed as many clothes as possible. He decided the same principle probably applied at The Fort on Christmas Eve and resolved to go there that evening. With luck, he would find distracting company.
His instincts didn’t let him down. The bar had been jammed since lunchtime and, whenever a group departed, the same number were admitted from the queue outside. Most of the women, indoors and out, were semi-naked and most of the little they did wear was black. That was another thing about celebrating ladies – they always wanted to dress up in the same colour they used for funerals. The species created a lot of discrepancies in logic but that was what made them interesting – that and their other differences.
John Black was too busy making money to chat so McBride searched for a face that might be even remotely familiar. One spotted him first. ‘Campbell, Campbell …’ a voice called out from a column of bodies blocking his way to the bar. A hand lifted up at the second shout of his name and McBride detected who was trying to attract his attention.
It was not someone he recognised at first. He squinted through the mob at the smiling man beckoning at him and tried to imagine more hair of a different colour on the balding head and fewer double chins on the purple face. Even then, it took him several moments to identify Daniel Ford, a court reporter on the Evening Telegraph and the undisputed bore of the journalistic community twenty years earlier. At that time, Ford was universally shunned by every reporter in town, except those in search of a cure for insomnia. He was teetotal but had an overwhelming addiction – to himself. He hung around bars for no other reason than to discuss Daniel Ford and to offer his views on the topics on which he was an expert, which was every subject in the universe. The passage of time had not changed matters.
He squeezed through the rows of revellers to arrive at McBride’s side. ‘On your own?’ he said by way of welcome, adding, unsurprisingly, ‘Me too.’
McBride resisted the temptation to pretend he was someone else. ‘Didn’t recognise you at first, Dan,’ he said. ‘How’s business?’
The figure moved closer, his halitosis forcing McBride to edge backwards. ‘Good, good,’ he replied. ‘What about you? Just written a book, I see. Selling well?’
Before McBride could offer a reply, the man, who did not understand humility, launched into an instant follow-up. ‘Funny you should have done a book. I’ve been contemplating one for years. Folk keep telling me that with all my experience of life in the courts – and in general, of course – that I’m capable of a best-seller. What do you think? They’re probably right, actually. As a journo yourself, you know we get around a bit – maybe me and you more than most others. Do you think I should give it a go? The more I think about it, the more I’m beginning to realise it’s the thing to do.’
McBride had glazed over. Even the forest of hair sprouting from both of Ford’s nostrils had ceased to transfix him. He knew all that was required was an occasional appreciative nod. His mind turned to the time he’d been in The Fort with Richard Richardson and he interrupted Ford’s incessant flow. ‘Do you see anything of Double Dick these days? I met up with him the other night but he seemed a bit subdued. Are things OK with him?’
Ford shrugged a shoulder. ‘Women problems. Fell out badly with one, I believe. God knows why. But it seems to have set him back. That’s one of the reasons I don’t get involved with them – in the end they just give you grief. Me? I prefer male company – not that I’m queer or anything, you understand. It’s just that you get more conversation out of a guy. We have more to say to each other.’
He droned on, impervious to McBride’s total disinterest in his self-obsessed monologue. After half an hour and at the point where McBride was about to remember a pressing appointment elsewhere, the Evening Telegraph reporter spotted another target across the bar. He interrupted himself in mid flow to call out the newcomer’s name. ‘Andy,’ he shouted over the heads of the two rows of drinkers between them. Andy was too late in trying to make himself look invisible. Before he could vanish into the throng, Ford had begun pushing his way towards him.
‘Sorry, Campbell,’ he said as he departed, ‘must go – haven’t seen Andy in ages. Been great getting all your news. We’ll need to meet up again and I’ll give you an update on what’s been happening in my world. Give me a ring at the office sometime soon and we can fix up to eat together.’
McBride barely nodded, knowing his lack of enthusiasm would not register with Daniel Ford and that he could never be hungry enough to want to share a table with the hairy-nosed journo.
He was contemplating his next move when a woman’s voice broke in at his elbow. ‘Excuse me,’ it said, ‘are you Campbell McBride? Did you write that book?’
McBride turned to find a small blonde smiling up at him. She held a drink in one hand and a half-eaten sandwich in the other. She was early thirties and over-rounded but attractive if you liked women with too much make-up. Her perfume was unspectacular and revived distant memories of an interesting, if unemotional, encounter with a hotel receptionist in Barcelona but at least she’d made the effort.
‘The very same,’ he replied, fixing her with a worked-at admiring gaze. ‘If we’ve met before it had to be in heaven.’ He was almost ashamed at dredging that one up but it was Christmas, the mood was easy and there wasn’t a female alive who didn’t like a bit of flattery, even when it was from the Stone Age.
She yawned mockingly, giggling at the same time. ‘No. It was in Waterstone’s. I saw you signing books. Actually, I bought one a few days later as a Christmas present for my dad. If I’d known I was going to bump into you, I’d have brought it with me for a signature.’
They spoke for another hour and that was as serious as the conversation got. Her friends in black dresses called her a groupie and she laughed. Then she took McBride back to the flat in Craigiebank where she lived by herself.
He didn’t ask why she was also alone on Christmas Eve or why her tidy, anonymous apartment contained so little evidence that it was the festive season. He didn’t care. The last thing he wanted to do was to open up her particular can of worms when he had demons of his own.
His selfishness extended to his performance in bed. He took what he wanted and, after claiming his moment of satisfaction, his instinct was to go as swiftly as politeness would allow. However, he stayed – not out of consideration but because the soulless room in the Apex was a worse alternative. So he made a weak joke about it not being quite the time of the year for a second coming, embraced her briefly, then turned on to his side, trying to convince both of them that he had fallen asleep.
The next morning the strangers observed t
he ritual of a breakfast that consisted of coffee without milk or meaningful conversation. McBride, feigning the need to deal with some urgent business back at his hotel, declined the offer of a shower and dressed quickly. At the door on the way out, he held the woman whose name he was struggling to remember in his arms and squeezed her gently.
‘That was a great night,’ he said with as much sincerity as he could muster. ‘Thanks for everything – really. Give me your number and I’ll ring you before I leave town.’
She scribbled quickly on a scrap of paper on the table in the hallway. ‘My pleasure – any time. Hope the book goes well. The name’s Carol, by the way.’
Then they remembered at the same time what day it was. ‘Merry Christmas!’ they said in unison.
McBride was halfway down the garden path before the significance of his bed-mate’s name hit him and he wondered whether she was being serious or had more wit than he gave her credit for – not that it made any difference either way.
11
It took McBride less than an hour to realise that the only thing worse than spending Christmas Day with the wrong person was to celebrate it alone.
He’d given up trying to find an available cab and, as he made his way on foot back to the Apex, every house he passed seemed to be packed with happy families. The only people out walking were couples in their party clothes, arms linked and carrying bags heavy with parcels, as they made their way to share company with those behind the brightly decorated windows.
McBride turned off the main road and crossed into the dock area where the only pedestrians he would be likely to encounter would be far-from-home seamen, who did not celebrate Christmas, making their way to and from ships. It lengthened his journey but shortened the time he had to kill.
Back in his hotel room, he changed out of the clothing of the night before, conscious of how strongly it smelled of mediocre perfume. Then he showered, dressed again and called reception to ask for his evening meal to be sent to his room in a few hours’ time. There was not the kind of money on earth that would have persuaded him to sit at a solitary table surrounded by laughing hordes in party hats pulling Christmas crackers.
He left the hotel immediately afterwards and drove purposefully away from the empty city centre, taking a route that was familiar but which he hadn’t followed for a handful of years. He journeyed for thirty minutes before pulling up at the gates to a park. McBride sat in contemplation for a moment then walked inside. After a hundred yards, he halted at a deserted children’s play area. He gazed vacantly at the frost-covered roundabout and climbing apparatus. Then he sat on a swing, pushing himself gently back and forward, his eyes still directed at his surroundings but seeing the past.
It was where he and Caroline had taken Simon and where their son had always laughed loudest in games with young playmates. It was also the spot where they had gone with his ashes after driving north with them from Kent. The choice of location hadn’t been difficult to make. All three of them had experienced happiness there and it was a place where there would always be other children to keep him company, even if they went home afterwards and he remained behind.
McBride tried to imagine how Caroline might be spending Christmas, but couldn’t.
He stayed on the swing until his hands and feet had lost all feeling and darkness dropped over him.
12
The next morning, while the cleaners and chambermaids were still doing their best to remove the debris of the night before, McBride checked out of the Apex. He drove the short distance along the shore to the airport, dropped off his hired car and bought a seat on the London flight that departed twenty minutes later. He was one of only three passengers on the plane. The other two were obviously together but had apparently fallen out. They did not speak to each other or to McBride, which suited him – he had things to occupy his mind.
He had to decide, for instance, how he would explain to the news desks of at least three national papers why he would not be accepting any assignments for the foreseeable future and that he would be moving out of London to live in Dundee again. Whatever explanation he gave, he knew it would not be the truth, which was that he had become convinced an innocent man was languishing in prison for a murder he did not commit, though he had absolutely no evidence for that belief.
And nor could he tell them that he had examined the details of the case many months earlier when he was doing the research for a book and yet had found none of the circumstances exceptional. It would be safer, if he wanted to be offered well-paid employment in the future, to find a more acceptable excuse.
He would tell them he was taking a short sabbatical. Some would see that as a euphemism for laziness, of course, but at least it sounded semi-professional. Besides, if the best possible scenario – reporter springs convicted killer – came to pass, he would have one helluva story to sell them. McBride smiled wryly at the thought.
When he arrived back at the Maida Vale flat, which he had never considered home, he exhaled with relief. Nothing seemed to have been smashed and a quick inspection of his wardrobe revealed that no sleeves had been cut off his jackets. More importantly, the Trek still hung gleaming and unmarked on its hook in the small room that doubled as an office and bike shed. Sarah had evidently moved on to pastures new, taking her promise of destructive reprisals with her.
He was still checking for damage in the more obscure parts of the apartment when his mobile sounded ‘Strangers in the Night’, the song he shared with Caroline.
McBride did not recognise the caller’s number but the voice on the line was instantly familiar. Adam Gilzean was apologetic. ‘Mr McBride? Sorry to trouble you on Boxing Day, while you’re probably still recovering from a riotous Christmas, but it’s about the visit to Bryan. I went to see him yesterday and he can’t believe you might be prepared to speak to him. Actually, he’s ecstatic at the thought and said I couldn’t have taken him a better Christmas present. Will you go?’
It was a plea, not a question. McBride could sense Adam Gilzean’s anxiety as he silently awaited a response. He replied with matching gentleness. ‘Yes, of course, Mr Gilzean. I meant what I said. Can you give me a few days to sort things out? I’m back in London – I’ve got some stuff I need to do – after that, I’ll be heading back up as quickly as I can. We can get everything organised then.’
‘That’s wonderful. Thank you, thank you.’ Gilzean rang quickly off, as though any delay might bring a change of mind from McBride.
It did not take McBride more than forty-eight hours to temporarily close down his life in Maida Vale. In fact, it surprised him just how loose the connections were. Everything he required to transfer his existence to another country fitted easily into the back of his estate car. Reporters do not travel with bulky paraphernalia. What cannot be fitted into jacket and trouser pockets goes into the bag with the laptop. He loaded the car with more than he thought he needed and it was still half empty – even with the Trek carefully protected by a heavy-duty winter duvet.
McBride did not relish the 400-mile journey north. Although he never acknowledged it, he was not a good driver and his short fuse burned at its brightest when he was behind the wheel. His impatience had led to more roadside confrontations that he would admit to. The only reason he possessed a vehicle the size of a Ford Mondeo Estate was to transport his cycle without having to first dismantle it – a simple task which he found difficult.
The trip to Scotland was relatively uneventful, thanks mainly to the absence of heavy lorries, most of whose drivers were still on holiday. McBride had sworn at no more than twenty other road-users all the way north and congratulated himself on his unaccustomed restraint. His most practised motion had been to repeatedly switch off the radio at the sound of seasonal music.
He returned to the Apex on his first night back in Dundee. The following day, he took up the tenancy of a furnished flat. The choice of its location had been straightforward. It was on the Esplanade at Broughty Ferry, three minutes’ walk from The Fort a
nd overlooking the River Tay, the banks of which presented the finest running routes in the entire city. Even without a story to chase, he knew he would be content.
13
If it’s possible to imagine a smell that combines anticipation with uncertainty and anger with sex, then that’s what rises to meet you in The Tank at Perth Prison. It hits you full on the first time you meet it and you know you’ll never forget it.
The officers who patrol The Tank stopped noticing it long ago, as they did the rest of the aromas that make every penal institution smell the same. They experience it three times daily, every time a group of inmates are brought there to wait before moving through the system to meet their visitors for sixty minutes in the big room half a dozen locks away.
The faces of the prisoners who sit expectantly in the brown seats round the walls of The Tank tell different stories. Mostly it’s excitement at the prospect of the brief reunion with the woman they spend all of their waking time thinking about. Sometimes it’s anxiety about the kind of minor matter you’d shrug off on the outside but which makes your head want to explode when you’re banged up.
The worst thing that can happen in The Tank is to be told your visitor hasn’t turned up and you’re left alone on a plastic seat after everyone else has moved out. Society demands most of what you have when it locks you away. Remove the last link with the real world and you’d be as well dead.
The last thing Bryan Gilzean was feeling was any resemblance to a corpse. The scent he was giving off was hope. He rested his head against the cream-painted wall in The Tank, gazed into the middle distance of the afternoon and began to dream.
As the man serving the life sentence permitted himself to contemplate freedom, McBride was being subjected to the drawn-out security measures at the Gate Complex, the visitors’ section, which fronted the prison. He had remembered previous visits to Her Majesty’s penal establishments and travelled light. It cut down on the rigmarole. The less you had with you, the less chance there was to conceal drugs. Life was easier for everyone if you left the bulky clothing and mobile in the car.
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