Grievous Angel bs-21

by Quintin Jardine

  He was still eating well, though. He always had done, and when I saw him tuck into Mrs Mann’s famous steak and kidney pie, I could understand why he had rejected the offer of chemotherapy. It would have been torture to him.

  We had a table in the bay window; as we ate he was able to look out across the first and eighteenth holes of Number One golf course, at the steady stream of players starting and finishing their rounds. ‘Anybody who’s a member here is a lucky man,’ he declared. ‘Will you put my name forward?’

  ‘Of course I will,’ I replied, taken by surprise.

  ‘Then please do. I know that the waiting list here’s as long as God’s arm, but it does no harm to have ambitions in life. The day you run out of things to look forward to, you might as well be dead.’

  My spirits were lifted. Thornie might be making preparations, but he hadn’t given up. Whatever he might have said earlier, he had a few quid on at twenty to one.

  ‘Isn’t that right, Alexis?’ he continued. ‘What are you looking forward to?’

  ‘Getting that CD from Mia,’ she replied, instantly.

  He laughed. ‘I was thinking more long-term.’

  She shrugged. ‘Being older. Being sixteen so that Pops doesn’t have to get someone to be with me all the time he’s not there. Leaving school and going to university. Being a lawyer and having my own money.’

  ‘What about boyfriends?’

  She frowned. ‘I haven’t seen anyone I like yet, Grandpa.’

  ‘Good answer. There’s no harm in being hard to please. But what about exciting things? When I was your age I wanted to play for Rangers. I made it too, but it was only Cambuslang Rangers, not the big team.’

  She shifted in her seat; Alex didn’t show diffidence very often. ‘I’d like to be a singer,’ she admitted. ‘Next year I’m going to try to get into the High School musical.’ That was news to me. ‘Mrs Medine, the music teacher, thinks I’m good enough.’

  ‘Then go for it, my love, but remember this: never let your dreams cloud your judgement.’

  As we walked home, steadily, along the main street, the weather was breaking, and storm clouds were gathering in the west. Thornton decided that he would head for home, before the worst of it hit. We stood on the green to see him off; just before he turned the corner he waved, and that was the last his granddaughter ever saw of him.

  I was still shocked, profoundly, by everything that had happened, when Alison arrived a few hours later, although by that time I’d made some phone calls and found a seconder and additional nominees for Thornie’s membership application.

  She cheered me up, as soon as she stepped through the front door, by walking straight into the kitchen and looking round, including behind the door, then doing the same thing in the bathroom and, finally, the bedroom.

  ‘What are you doing?’ I asked her, puzzled.

  She grinned. ‘Checking for another woman.’

  ‘No women have been here today,’ I promised, ‘other than Her Upstairs with her headphones on. Just one elderly gentleman, her granddad, but he’s gone now.’

  ‘I didn’t know she still had one.’

  I almost said, ‘Not for much longer,’ but stopped when I realised that it wouldn’t be fair to load her with a secret to be kept from Alex. It was going to be tough enough for me to do that. ‘Yes,’ I replied, instead. ‘She’s the apple of his eye, and vice versa.’

  I led her back into the kitchen and opened a bottle of New Zealand pinot gris that I’d been persuaded to try by the nice lady in the upmarket grocer opposite the golf club, to go with the chicken salad that I’d knocked up. ‘How did the girlie night go?’ I asked as I handed her a glass.

  ‘It was the quietest we’ve ever had,’ she confessed. ‘Leona wasn’t drinking, since she’s great with child, and I was still a bit morose after making such a tit of myself in the Sheraton.’

  ‘Get over that,’ I told her. ‘I’ve never had a woman throw a wobbly at me before. I’m beginning to see it as flattering.’

  ‘Well, don’t. If you want to screw little Miss Radio Star, you carry on. I’ll get over that too. In fact, why don’t you put your name on that “Two’s Company” dating thing they have in the Scotsman. I’ll write the ad for you. “Thirty-something vulnerable widower, GSOH, own teeth, two cars, one nice, one crap, seeks twenty-something lady with ample tits with a view to companionship, hill walking, fine dining and lots of shagging.” You’ll be amazed by the responses you get.’

  ‘Vulnerable,’ I murmured. ‘You said “vulnerable”. It’s the second time that word’s been used about me today.’

  ‘But you are, my dear. It’s part of your attraction. You are so patently lonely and bereft that every woman who sees you wants to give you a great big hug, then carry on from there. If you like, I could take the word out of your matchmaking ad copy and substitute “big dick”, but it wouldn’t get nearly as many replies.’

  ‘I really don’t have a clue, do I?’

  She took my arm and led me to the living room. ‘No, Bob, you don’t. It’s just as well you’ve got your daughter to look after you. She’s the best minder you could possibly have. Nobody will take advantage of you while she’s around.’

  ‘That’s good to know. So back to last night; sounds as if you had a real fun time.’

  She shook her head. ‘No,’ she murmured. ‘I hate to see my pal being taken to the emotional cleaners, but she is, by that shit of a husband. She’s vulnerable too, Bob. You’d make a great couple, if it wasn’t for Roland.’

  ‘I doubt that. She married a politician. That shows a lack of judgement in my book.’

  She giggled. ‘Don’t be cruel to my friend.’

  It was time to eat so I called for Alex, but had to go upstairs and pull the headphone jack from her CD player to get her attention. She had been singing along to something by Reba McEntire… yes, I hear you ask, what the hell was a Scots thirteen-year-old doing listening to Reba?… and her face flushed when she realised I’d heard. ‘You’re a cert for the school show,’ I told her, ‘but country music might be a bit risky for the audition. Something more mainstream, maybe. How about Kim Wilde?’

  ‘She’s your generation, Pops.’

  Whether she wanted to get back to band practice I knew not, but she went upstairs again almost as soon as supper was over, leaving us to watch a crime drama on television that soon had us laughing at its ineptitude. The storm had passed over, so we gave up on it, and took a couple of beers outside.

  ‘What does GSOH mean?’ I asked her, in the twilight.

  ‘Good state of health, man. You do have your own teeth, don’t you?’

  I bared them in a wolfman grin. ‘Vulnerable, eh?’

  She put her head on my shoulder. ‘Afraid so. Sometimes, I wish I loved you, Bob, but if I did, I’d only wind up getting hurt.’

  ‘I’d keep you safe.’ As it turned out I couldn’t, but that was a few years down the road.

  ‘Nobody’s safe,’ she whispered. ‘Not one of us. You should know that.’

  I did. Thornie’s visit had reminded me of that. I held her to me, as if I was shielding her… but equally, I might have been hiding behind her.

  We turned in early, and fell asleep quickly; deeply too, for when the mobile sounded on the bedside table, Alison didn’t stir, and for me it seemed to be part of a dream. It wasn’t though, and as I came to, I realised why I’d been so slow to react. Of course, it wasn’t my ringtone; it wasn’t my phone, it was hers. I shook her, but all she did was mumble and roll over and into me. So I took the call myself.

  ‘Alison’s phone,’ I growled. ‘This better be serious.’

  ‘It is,’ a male voice replied: a voice I knew, Detective Superintendent Alastair Grant.

  And he knew mine too. ‘Bob? Is that you?’

  ‘Yes. Now hold your fucking horses and give her time to wake up.’

  I switched on the light and watched her climb slowly out of sleep. I waited until she could focus on me. ‘It’s y
our gaffer,’ I told her. ‘He says it’s serious.’

  ‘What time is it?’

  I had no idea. I looked at my radio alarm. ‘One twenty-two.’

  ‘Shit.’ She took the phone from me. ‘Yes, sir.’ I watched her as she listened. I was thinking that she’d been excessively rank conscious for someone sitting up naked in bed in the middle of the night; the situation would have made me laugh, but for the look on her face.

  ‘I understand,’ she said, eventually. ‘Yes, I’ll get there as soon as I can.’

  By the time she’d pushed the ‘end call’ button, I was out of bed and reaching for my dressing gown on its hook behind the bathroom door. ‘What’s happened?’

  ‘There’s been another stabbing, fatal this time, in Jamaica Street. He thinks it may be linked to last weekend’s.’

  ‘Jamaica Street?’ I repeated. ‘That’s not your area.’

  ‘No, but it’s just round the corner from that pub, the Giggling Goose.’

  I knew why she’d been called. ‘That’s a gay bar, isn’t it?’

  ‘That’s right. Mr Stein’s told the boss to get involved; he wants me to meet up with the Gayfield Square CID team.’

  ‘Why the fuck’s Grant not going?’ I complained, as she headed for the bathroom. ‘You haven’t been involved in the Grove Street investigation.’

  ‘Because he’s been at a family party in Perth, and he’s staying there overnight.’

  ‘Who’s in charge from Gayfield?’

  ‘DCI Pringle. I’ve never worked with him before. Do you know him?’

  ‘Yeah. Dan’s a sound guy,’ I added. ‘He’s old school, and he looks a bit like PC Plod, but underestimate him at your peril. You get ready, and I’ll make some coffee.’

  She was showered and dressed inside ten minutes. Her hair was still damp, but it would dry in the car. She was flustered. ‘Be cool,’ I told her as she took a wolf-sized bite from a slice of toast, ‘and don’t go charging in there. As far as Dan’s concerned, it’s his crime scene; you’ll be there more or less as an observer.’

  ‘Fine by me. All I’ve done is read the paperwork on our inquiry. A fat lot of use I’ll be.’

  I handed her a mug of Nescafe, strong, and heavy with sugar; I didn’t want her nodding off at the wheel. ‘You don’t need to be any use. Keep your head down, take notes and compare the scene with the photos you’ve seen of the other one. Were there any exceptional factors about that?’

  ‘One that struck me: the witness statement from Grove Street. I told you that the guy, Robert Wyllie, kept changing his story, yes? He started off by saying that he and his mate, Archie Weir, were attacked, no more than that, but finally admitted that they were out to rough up a gay bloke. However, he maintained that they never actually got that far. What he claims is that their target rumbled them.’

  ‘That he didn’t act in self-defence?’

  ‘Not according to Wyllie; his final account reads as if they were lured into Grove Street. He says that the man was heading up Morrison Street, then took a quick turn. They followed him but he was nowhere to be seen. They went a few yards and then he was on them. Wyllie was stabbed first, in the leg. He went down, Weir started to run away, but the man with the knife pursued him and went to work on him. Seven stab wounds in all, two in the back, one in each arm and three in the abdomen. He turned back towards Wyllie, who was still on the ground holding his leg, but just then the fourth person came round the corner and the attacker ran off.’

  ‘Okay,’ I said, as she gulped her coffee, pulling a face at its sweetness. ‘You have that background knowledge, they don’t. So go there and find out what they do have. Another live witness would be a good start. How’s the guy Weir, by the way?’

  ‘On a ventilator. They don’t expect him to make it.’

  ‘Mmm. Not good.’ I took the empty mug from her, and kissed her; on the forehead, to avoid smearing her lipstick. ‘On you go now. You’re a star, and you’re going to leave us all behind.’

  ‘Thanks,’ she murmured. ‘I’ll see you.’ I thought she’d go then, but she stayed in my arms. ‘Not for a while, though. I’ve got to be careful; waking up with you could be habit-forming.’

  I’d been thinking the same thing. I locked the door after her, then went back to bed, but I was done with sleep for the night. I lay there, aware of Alison’s scent on the duvet and on the pillow, my mind working, contemplating the crime scene that she was driving towards. My curiosity wasn’t idle. I found myself hoping that by the time they got there it would have been wrapped up, plenty of eye witnesses and an arrest made, either a gang killing or a dispute between a couple of macho guys that had gone too far, and nothing to do with the Grove Street attack that sounded as if it was going to become a full-scale murder inquiry before long.

  But if it wasn’t, if the evidence pointed to a link between the two, then it would be a single homicide investigation, crossing divisional boundaries. I had no intention of volunteering, but I knew there was every chance that Alf Stein would decide that it fell within the loose remit of my unit and thus would dump it in my lap.

  I could see the headlines as I lay in the darkness… ‘Gay Blade Strikes!’… and I didn’t fancy it at all.

  Ten

  I gave up trying to sleep just after six; apart from my pressing work problems, Thornton’s visit was weighing heavily upon me. He was the last of our parents’ generation, mine and Myra’s, and such a hearty fit guy, that it had never occurred to me that he wouldn’t be around for my fiftieth birthday, and for a few after that. I tried to imagine what I would say to Alex when ‘It’ happened, but I couldn’t. Instead, I had a vision of Jean, Alex and myself in the front row of the church where Myra and I had been married, and my eyes filled with tears.

  I rose and took my time about getting ready for the day. The face that I saw in the mirror as I shaved was creased and lined, with dark bags under the blue eyes. My hair was all over the place, and looked greyer than ever. I could still find a few dark strands, but they were as outnumbered as the Spartans at Thermopylae. They had begun to retreat on the day that I cut off a lock and put it in Myra’s coffin, and had been quickly overcome by the silver hordes.

  ‘Vulnerable?’ I grunted. ‘No, you’re just a sad old bastard.’

  I chose a suit, a pale cream linen thing that was meant to look crumpled… or so I’d been told by a dickhead in Austin Reed, who hadn’t bothered to tell me that it would need dry cleaning after almost every wearing. I complemented it with a black shirt, but didn’t bother with a tie. I remembered my admonition to McGuire about flashy dressing but disregarded it; I wanted to leave my image with the man I’d be seeing that day long after I’d left him.

  I was on my second coffee, and had run almost half a loaf through the toaster, when Alex joined me, also dressed for action. ‘Why did Alison go?’ she asked, a little anxiously, as she filled a bowl with cereal. ‘Did you have a row?’

  ‘No, of course not,’ I reassured her. ‘She had a work call.’

  ‘Oh,’ she said, relieved. ‘That’s all right, then.’

  I laughed. ‘There will come a day in your life, kid, when you get a business call at half past one in the morning. When it happens, I promise you that it will not be all right.’

  ‘Lawyers don’t get calls in the middle of the night.’

  ‘No? I reckon that if this career choice of yours is definitive, it’s time I introduced you to a couple I know. There’s a man called Mitchell Laidlaw, one of my five-a-side football chums. I’ll ask him if he’ll have a talk with you. And there are a couple of advocates that you ought to meet.’

  She shrugged. ‘If you want.’ Then she turned to what was really on her mind. ‘This trip of Grandpa’s, Pops. Do you know where he’s going?’

  ‘No,’ I said… honestly, I believe. ‘I haven’t a clue.’

  ‘I think it’s weird, going on holiday and not knowing where you’re going.’

  ‘Not at all. People used to do it all the time, before
the days of packages to bloody Benidorm, back when you went on holiday in your own country, not in other people’s. When I was a kid, we went to Fife.’ That was the only place my mother would go, but I didn’t tell Alex that. She looked at me with a kind of pity.

  I was in the office by quarter to nine, but I wasn’t first. McGuire was there before me. He raised an eyebrow when he saw the suit. ‘You really do need to meet my tailor, boss,’ he said.

  I waved a middle finger in his direction and retreated to my sanctum. I hung my jacket on a hook… no sense in creasing it more than necessary… sat behind my desk and called Alison’s mobile. ‘How’s it going?’ I asked. ‘Has Dan got a result yet?’

  ‘Can’t talk now,’ she replied, quietly. ‘Office?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Give me five.’

  I replaced the phone in its socket and waited, looking out into the outer office, and waving, first to Andy Martin, then Jeff Adam, as each arrived. The DS stuck his head round the door. ‘Want me to get back on to Newcastle, boss, and ask them to dig up that car auction manager?’

  ‘No. Get them to give you his name and number and call him yourself. Cut out the middle man.’

  ‘Will do.’

  Alison called back a couple of minutes later, on my mobile. ‘Sorry about earlier,’ she said. ‘I was with Mr Pringle.’

  ‘Nuff said. I understand. Where are you now?’

  ‘I’m back at Gayfield now, in the ladies. Did you get a decent night’s sleep after I left?’

  ‘Log-like,’ I lied. ‘How goes it?’

  ‘No result, but we do have a witness, though. Mr Pringle’s team did a door-to-door; they knocked up everyone living in the area. The owner of a mews house in Jamaica Street Lane told them that he came home just after midnight and was just closing his garage after putting his car away, when a man came running past him, heading in the direction of India Street. He gave a decent description: twenties, tall, slim, clean-shaven, black hair, khaki-coloured cotton jacket.’