Kiss Her Goodbye

by Allan Guthrie

  So the pair outside the door weren't missionaries. Praise the Lord.

  The short man's voice boomed through the letterbox again. "You know the guy in the picture?"

  "You were joking?" Tina said.

  After a moment: "Huh?"

  "About being Jehovah's Witnesses?"

  The short man laughed. The sound rumbled in his chest. After a few seconds he stopped and coughed. He said, "Me and God, we don't really see eye to eye."

  Knowing they weren't religious freaks made a big difference. "What do you want?"

  "You recognize him? In the photo?"

  "What's it to you?"

  "We're his friends. Joe's in trouble. He needs your help."

  Joe. Now she knew his first name. It was a start. Get his surname off these dicks and financial opportunities beckoned. She'd always assumed Bob, whoops, Joe was rich. Nice car, nice clothes. Most of the time, when he wasn't drunk, he smelled expensive. And he chucked money around like he had his own printing press. She wasn't looking to blackmail the poor bastard, but if the opportunity came up to her and tapped her on the shoulder she wasn't going to pretend it wasn't there. Tina hadn't been sentimental since she was six years old.

  She could pinpoint the exact time.

  1990. Couple of weeks before Christmas. After a month of solid nagging, her mum finally gave in and took her to a cat and dog rescue home. An assistant led them to a sprawl of kennels. Hand in hand, Tina and her mum strolled along the row of cages. Dozens of puppies scrambled over each other to jump at the wire mesh and bark and squeal and yelp and howl at the young girl and her mother. Dozens in each cage. Seven cages later they came to the end of the row. Another three rows awaited them.

  Her mum said, "I didn't know it would be like this. I think we've seen enough."

  Tina's excitement was curbed by her knowledge that the pups nobody wanted would be put down, and, although she didn't know precisely what it entailed, she knew that being put down was a very bad thing. She was crying when her mum said she could only take one puppy home and that she had to choose now. She cried harder. Still crying, she retraced her steps. Stopped halfway along. Backtracked to the previous cage. Pointed.

  "A terrier," her mum said, close behind her. "Good choice. I like his beard."

  The assistant pranced towards them without unfolding her arms. "That one's a bitch."

  Tina put her hand over her mouth. She waited for her mum to thump the assistant for her bad word and was glad when nothing happened.

  They left the kennels and went to an office where her mum had to fill in some forms before the man in charge of the home would hand over the puppy. By the time she'd finished, Tina had stopped crying and was looking forward to seeing her puppy outside its cage. She was trying to think of a name for it.

  "Fraser," she said, and started bobbing up and down.

  "It's a girl puppy." Her mum passed the completed form to the assistant. "Fraser's a boy's name."

  As the assistant read the form, a frown creased her brow. She said, "I'm afraid we can't give you the dog."

  "I don't understand," Tina's mum said. "What's the problem?"

  "Your income."

  "I don't have one."

  "That's the point. It's standard policy." She looked at Tina. Tina looked at her mum. The assistant said, "I'm really sorry."

  "What are you saying?" her mum said.

  "You live with your boyfriend?"

  "Davie," Tina said. "He's in the Salvation Army."

  The girl ignored Tina. "And neither of you are in employment?"

  "At the moment?" her mum said. "You mean right now?" She shook her head.

  "We can't release a dog to a home that doesn't have a stable income."

  "Can we not have Fraser, Mum? What's going to happen to her if we can't have her? What if nobody else wants her? Mum?"

  "Shut it, Tina." Her mum was wearing her angry face. And she was starting to use bad words that she'd have to wash out of her mouth when she got home. "This bitch would rather let the poor beast die than give it to dogshite like us."

  Tina wet the bed that night. When she told her mum, her mum ordered her back to bed. Tina didn't do what she was told. She slept on the settee. In the morning Davie spanked her for being a dirty little girl. Then he made her change her bedclothes and fling the soiled sheets in the washing machine. After that, he made her lie face down on her freshly made bed while he rubbed cream into her burning bottom.

  "That's better," he said. "Isn't it?"

  Her mum didn't hear him, didn't see what he was doing. She was sleeping off a hangover. Something she did most mornings.

  Davie hung around for a couple of years, which presented plenty further opportunities for smacking Tina. And for easing the pain afterwards. Then one day he was gone. Her mother said he'd stolen some money from his church.

  Tina was happy. She told her mum she hadn't liked it when Davie rubbed cream on her bum. Her mum cuffed her on the mouth, which made her lip bleed. Told her to wash her filthy mouth out and never mention that again.

  Tina hunched over and spoke to the eyes peering through the letterbox. "Who are you?"

  "Cooper," the man said.

  "You got a first name, Cooper?"

  "Just Cooper."

  "Who's your friend? He just got one name as well? Sting, is it?"

  "That's Mr. Park," he said, eyes glancing to the side. "Joe's lawyer."

  "What's Joe done?" Tina asked.

  "Can't we discuss this inside?"

  "You don't like chatting through a letterbox?" Tina straightened up and unhooked the chain.

  "Thank you." Cooper stepped into the hallway, brushing past her.

  Mr. Park was more courteous. He held out his hand and said, "Pleased to meet you."

  "Likewise," Tina told him, then gestured for him to follow Cooper into the sitting room.

  Cooper was sitting on the settee, in the same seat Bob — damn — Joe had sat in last time she'd seen him. Mr. Park hitched up his trousers and eased into the seat next to Cooper. Tina remained standing.

  "What's this about?" she said.

  "No easy way to say it," Cooper said. "Joe's in a spot of bother. He killed his wife."

  Tina gasped. Couldn't help herself. She knew Joe's marriage was far from ideal, but she didn't see Joe as a murderer. "An accident?"

  "Hard to accidentally beat someone to death with a baseball bat."

  The lawyer spoke. "Equally hard to stuff a body in the boot of your car. Accidentally."

  "When was this?"

  "The night you invited him here," Cooper said. "In the early hours of the morning."

  "How come the police haven't been to see me?"

  Cooper smiled. "They don't know about you. Joe hasn't breathed a word."

  "So why are you here? What do you want?"

  Cooper said, "I'm Joe's friend. I want him to get away with it."

  "What's that got to do with me."

  "You're his alibi."

  "But it wasn't that late when he left."

  "He didn't leave," the lawyer said. "He was here all night."

  "I'm telling you, he left well before midnight."

  "I don't think so," Cooper said. "You understand what I'm saying?"

  "I think I'm beginning to get the picture."

  Cooper stood up. "How much do you want?"

  "For perverting the course of justice? That's got to be worth five grand."

  "Easily," Cooper agreed.

  "So make it ten."

  Mr. Park chuckled. "We don't have that much cash. You take a cheque, Tina?"

  "One second." She hurried through to her bedroom and rummaged in the desk. She returned to the sitting room. "I can take Switch, Delta, Visa, MasterCard, Amex or Diners." She placed the credit card machine on the desk and looked at their puzzled faces. "I run a legitimate business under my real name. How would you like to pay?"

  Cooper said, "What's the business?"

  "I teach self-defence," Tina said. "Mainly t
o women."

  "You work in a gym?"

  She shook her head, but didn't expand on the subject. She held weekly classes in a disused church. The rental was next to nothing, but it had to be. With Cooper's donation, she was thinking she might be able to hire somewhere with heating. Somewhere that didn't have broken windows would be a start.

  "A woman of many talents." Cooper put his hand in his inside pocket, took out his wallet. "Joe's often commended your blowjobs. You wouldn't like to throw in a freebie? Cement the deal, as it were?"

  "I wouldn't suck you off if you paid me."

  "Got plenty spunk already, I see," Cooper said.

  "Let's do this quickly," she said. "I want you out of my house."

  "Some people have no taste." Cooper sat down. "You pay a percentage on that?" He jerked his head at the credit card machine.

  "Four point six percent."

  "Extortionate," Mr. Park said.

  "I'll get the cash together for you," Cooper said.

  "Let's get this over with now," Tina said. "I want you out."

  "Four point six percent of ten grand is four hundred and sixty pounds."

  "I went to school," Tina said. "I can do sums."

  "Can you do logic?"

  "What do you mean?"

  "You don't want the extra money? You want to end up paying tax on it? I'll get you the cash."

  "When?"

  "Maybe today." She was about to say okay when he added, "Tomorrow at the latest."

  "Today, or it's no deal."

  "I'll see what I can do."

  Tina pretended to think about it. After what seemed an appropriate amount of time she nodded slowly. "You strike me as the sort of man who deals in cash a lot," she said to Cooper. "I wouldn't imagine my request would present too much of a challenge for you."

  "I like a challenge," Cooper said. "Don't mind admitting it."

  Mr. Park got to his feet. He held out his hand and said, "Pleasure doing business with you."

  Tina shook his hand. He had a surprisingly firm grip. "By the way," she said. "What's my story?"

  "Keep it simple." Cooper's knees clicked when he stood up. "Joe arrived at" — he looked at her — "whatever time he arrived. When was it?"

  "Back of eight. Half past, maybe."

  "Okay. He was drunk, yeah? He'd had some bad news. You went to bed early. You gave him a quick gobble and he fell asleep. In the morning he didn't feel too good, so he stayed here until his head cleared."

  "What time did he leave?"

  "Eleven? Doesn't really matter. The important thing is that he was tucked up snug in bed with you when he was supposed to be killing his wife."

  "One thing bothers me." Tina faced Mr. Park. "Why me? Traditionally, sex workers don't make the best witnesses."

  "Traditionally," Mr. Park said, "they do favors for money."

  "Come on." Cooper started to go. He turned mid-step and said to Tina, "Not a word. You say anything to anybody and I'll cut your face to ribbons. You understand?"

  Tina said, "I'd like to see you try."

  Cooper closed his eyes, clasped his hands in front of his stomach and stood perfectly still. "You want a taster, just say the word."

  Tina studied the little man stuffed into the charcoal suit. Short hair. Number three back and sides, slightly longer on top. Shit-brown peppered with grey. The heavy lines scoring his forehead betrayed his pretence at relaxation. He was tense. Lightly tanned face. Patches of white faded the edges of his mouth. Evidence of more tension. The lack of a tie exposed his abnormally thick neck. Muscles bulged under his open shirt. His chest strained against the buttons of his jacket, biceps swelled under his sleeves. He looked like he was about to explode out of his clothes.

  Tina could do without having to clear up the mess. "You can open your eyes," she said. "I'll be a good girl."

  Cooper raised his eyelids. "I like you." He offered her his hand. "And I can tell you like me."

  She took it. "Now piss off," she said.

  FOURTEEN

  Joe put his hands on the table. They hadn't cuffed him this time. He glanced around him. Yet another police interrogation room. Windowless, which was probably why it reeked of sweat. Bare walls. The table where the three of them were sitting, four plastic chairs, a tape deck. Same layout as the interrogation room in Kirkwall. The only difference was the color of the walls. Grey, this time, instead of yellow.

  Monkman obviously felt at home. Slumped in his chair, head hanging to the side. Slobber trickled out the corner of his partly open mouth. His arm twitched and he moaned.

  "You'd think he'd spent a night in the cells," Joe said to the other detective. "Want me to fetch his slippers?"

  "He was up all night." Detective Sergeant Grove's brown eyes were huge behind the thick lenses of his glasses. He was very much awake. "Working on your wife's case." He placed his hand on Monkman's shoulder and shook him gently. Monkman's eyes flipped open. He stared at Joe, bewildered, and no doubt a little disoriented.

  "The plane crashed," Joe said. "You're dead. It's just you and me and some ugly bloke with horns goes by the name of Satan."

  Monkman turned to face Grove. "Sorry. Don't know how—"

  Grove cut him off. "How do you take your coffee?"

  "Huh?"

  "Coffee, sergeant. I think you need it."

  Monkman yawned and cupped his hand over his mouth. He nodded.

  "How do you take it?"

  "White." Monkman wiped his lips with the heel of his hand. "No sugar." He sniffed his wrist and pulled a face.

  "Mr. Hope?" Grove said.

  "Very kind of you to offer."

  "How do you take it?"

  "Same as Sleeping Beauty."

  Grove turned to the uniformed cop by the door. "Would you be kind enough to fetch two coffees, constable? White. No sugar."

  "If you think you're up for the challenge," Joe said.

  The constable grunted and let himself out.

  Monkman said, "I'm sorry I—"

  Again DS Grove stopped him. "We're all tired. Mr. Hope's been through a lot, too." Grove peered at Joe over the top of his glasses. "He must be exhausted."

  Joe said, "Is this rehearsed?"

  "I'm not with you."

  "You and him. Good cop, bad cop. You offer me coffee. What's he going to do? Spit in it?"

  Grove sat back, removed his glasses and squeezed his nose. "How are your ribs?" He put his glasses back on and looked at Joe. He pinched his nose again.

  "What's it to you?"

  "You feel well enough to proceed with the interview?"

  Somehow, despite the heavy strapping, Joe felt able to move more freely. And he could breathe now without feeling that somebody was chiselling splinters off his ribs. "I'm fine."

  Grove said, "Unfortunate you fell over."

  "Unfortunate," Joe said. "Sure."

  "Unfortunate, also, that you refused medical attention."

  "Is this concern for my health leading somewhere? What's your point?"

  DS Grove shook his head as if he was disappointed. "I want to establish something, Mr. Hope. Nobody's playing games here. No good cop, bad cop routine. We're not that inventive. I'll be honest. We like results. So we do what's most likely to obtain a conviction. And frequently, believe it or not, that means following protocol. Our insistence that you see a doctor and have your ribs looked at was entirely procedural."

  First thing last night after he was placed in the custody of Lothian and Borders police force, they drove him to the hospital, checked him for breakages, and, despite finding none, bandaged him up. Joe had to admit, the strapping helped. Even if he looked like a mummy under his shirt.

  From the hospital, they escorted him to St. Leonard's, Edinburgh's main custody center. They booked him in and immediately led him to the cellblock. When the turnkey opened the iron door, he released a stench that made Joe gag. "You'll get used to it," the turnkey said. Joe's eyes watered. The air was rancid. Puked-up alcohol, laced with stale sweat and piss.
The policeman holding his arm urged him forward. Muffled shouts escaped from the cells lining the corridor. Outside each locked door was a pair of trainers.

  They made him remove his shoes before shepherding him into one of the cells. Blue plastic mattress on the floor. Toilet bowl minus its seat in the corner. A combination of graffiti and smeared blood decorated the mustard-colored walls. The turnkey dropped a grey blanket on the mattress and said, "Try to get some sleep."

  The policeman removed Joe's handcuffs and left with the turnkey. Joe lay down on the mattress and buried his head under the blanket. He thought he'd never get to sleep. In fact, sleep came like a headlong fall into a pit.

  When he awoke, his mouth tasted like a cat litter tray. Still did. He should ask if he could brush his teeth.

  Grove was speaking again. He seemed to have a problem with his nose, the way he was squeezing and pulling it all the time. "Sometimes brute force won't open a safe. The trick is to get hold of the combination. We get results here. If anybody steps out of line we send them home."

  Joe glanced at Monkman and grinned. Grove seemed okay. For a policeman. "You know I'm not saying anything until my lawyer gets here," Joe said.

  Grove pulled back his cuff and looked at his watch. "Our young, idealistic Mr. Brewer appears to be late. It's practically lunchtime. You hungry?" When Joe shook his head, Grove took off his glasses and placed them on the table. He held the bridge of his nose between his forefinger and thumb and screwed his eyes shut as if he'd just experienced a stabbing pain. When he opened them, he said, "Touch of indigestion, excuse me." He gave his watch another glance. "If Mr. Brewer doesn't turn up within the next ten minutes, we'll give him a ring and find out what's happening. I apologize on his behalf for the delay."

  "Don't know about you," Monkman said to Joe, "but I've got nothing better to do today."

  "Now you mention it," Joe said, "I was going to visit a mate."

  "What's his name?"

  "Like I'm going to tell you."

  "This mate piss you off, did he?"

  "Why would you think that?"

  "Just wondering whether it's only women you beat to death."