Where the Dead Men Go

by Liam McIlvanney

  I was early – the new motorway had shaved ten minutes off the journey – so I drove on down to the town centre and turned into my old street. A short terrace of red sandstone villas confronted a short terrace of blonde sandstone villas. When I lived here each house had a square plot of flinty sandstone chips or small white quartzy pebbles out front. As boys we chased each other through these gardens, the chips shelving and mashing under our plunging feet. We sounded like the sea pounding a shingle beach. But now all the gardens were gone. The low retaining walls we tightroped along were gone and where the pebbles had been there were slick black flats of tarmac where angled cars were beached like boats.

  I stopped in front of our old house, garden gone. The paint on the windows and eaves was wrong – it was white now, not blue. But there was my bedroom window, thin as a sentry box above the glass front door. I thought of walking up the path and ringing the bell, asking to see round the place, but what was the point? A tortoiseshell cat padded out from somewhere and wound in and out of my legs.

  By the time I pulled up at Clare’s front door I was late. The Moirs lived in one of the new estates and I lost my way in the yellowbrick crescents. I parked in the driveway behind a muddy silver Lexus, two years old. The house was detached – you could have ridden a bike between it and the house next door, if you tucked your elbows in and didn’t waver – and not much older than the car in the drive.

  No one was home. I thumbed the bell a third time and was bending to lay the muffins on top of the folder when the snib clicked.

  ‘Gerry Conway.’

  I gathered the stuff and rose from the step, knee cracking. When I went to hug her with my free arm Clare turned aside and I kissed her cheek instead.

  That morning on the phone she had sounded woozy. Tranquillisers, I thought, but now I could smell it, the rank tang of whisky and something else behind the booze, a stale, sweetly sexual reek.

  I followed her down the hall. The living room was humid and dark and here they were, shining in the gloom, white orchids, their horns jutting out from a vase on the table. That fleshy smell, like something’s crawled into the floor space and died. I started at a movement in the gloom, something stirring on the room’s far side, but it was only us, our awkward shapes in the streaky mirror.

  She didn’t offer a seat. Her hand rose vaguely, pushed the hair from her eyes. We stood there for a moment as if listening out for something, straining to hear. When I mentioned coffee she waved her hand distractedly and drifted off to stage a decorous riot, yanking drawers and banging cupboard doors like somebody rifling the kitchen for drugs.

  I threw back the curtains. Two white sofas faced each other across a coffee table and a slippy strip of laminate flooring. There were toys and clothes on the floor, a bunched yellow towel. I gathered the towel and a stripy kid’s T-shirt and a pink cloth that became, as I lifted it into the light, a pair of women’s knickers. I bunched the lot together and pushed them under the sofa.

  The mantelpiece was crowded: sympathy cards with swirly golden copperplate, the smaller Mass cards like holy football stickers with their robed, androgynous saints. The room was too hot. I shrugged out of my jacket and dropped it on a couch, drifted over to the bookcase. Major, Blair, Mandela, Clinton: a sheaf of political bios, none of which I had read. That was the difference: Moir believed in politics. The things that were just words to the rest of us – democracy, the rule of law, the parliamentary process – meant something to him. He’d seen the alternative, I suppose; what happened when you swept those off the table and went to work with guns and bombs. But we laughed at him a little, around the office, down the Cope, teacher’s pet, the Ulster anorak, the boy who said his prayers.

  The riot in the kitchen had stopped. Brittle plinking sounds were coming from behind me, guitar strings at a barely audible volume. The hi-fi in the corner. Between the tall, thin speakers was a flat slab of silver, its surface flawed by sticky rings of red. I ran my finger along the dusty edge and bent to read the tiny lettering: LINN KLIMAX DS. The CD case was open on one of the speakers: Andrés Segovia, Picasso’s Still Life with Guitar on the cover.

  ‘Here you go.’ She passed me an over-full mug, scalding, I practically dropped it onto the coffee table.

  We sat on opposite sofas. I could feel the heat at my back and my palm leaped like a cat when I slipped it behind the sofa to check the radiator. I sipped my scalding coffee, shallow-breathing to mask the scent of the orchids. The ball of my thumb was throbbing from the radiator. Clare looked at a spot on the floor just in front of my shoes. She was waiting it out. I was just another well-meaning, irrelevant distraction.

  ‘Anyway, there it is,’ I said. I had laid the slim folder of tributes on the smeared glass top of the coffee table, beside the muffins. She barely glanced at it, sat with her hands between her knees. The stink of the orchids was making me heave. Say something. The girls.

  ‘How are the girls?’

  She shrugged. ‘They’re at my sister’s just now.’

  I nodded.

  ‘Just till I get things together,’ she said.

  ‘No, that’s good. That makes sense.’

  There was a pinkish smear on the rim of my cup, a lipstick trace.

  ‘They still don’t know.’ She was staring at the floor again. ‘I’ve told them more than once but they don’t take it in. They think he’s coming back. They bring his shoes through from the porch and walk around the house in them.’ She shrugged, put her hand to her face, I could see the features crumple.

  There was nothing to say. I rubbed the pink smear with my thumb but it wouldn’t shift. I wanted to cross and comfort her but the slope of her shoulders, the jut of her elbows, the tight quivering ball of fist pressed to her mouth made me pause.

  ‘I’m here for you Clare.’

  ‘Yeah.’ She spoke to her mug. ‘You’re here now.’

  Suddenly it was chillier, even in that hothouse. Okay, I thought. Let’s hear it.

  ‘He used to admire you,’ she said. She was looking at me now and I winced at the raw blue eyes in their reddened rims. ‘Gerry Conway. He wanted to be you. The big reporter.’

  ‘He was twice the journalist I’ll ever be.’

  ‘He was, though, wasn’t he? And do you know why? Because he meant it.’ Her ponytail tossed as she shook her head. ‘The stupid fucker. He meant it. He believed all the shit you’re supposed to believe.’

  It was true. I set my cup down on the table. ‘You’re right. Clare. I’m sorry.’ I stood up. My keys hissed as I lifted my jacket. ‘I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have come. I’ll get out your road.’

  She seemed to see me then for the first time, reached out as I passed, gripped the hem of my jacket.

  ‘Don’t go, Gerry.’ She tugged on my jacket. ‘I’m sorry. It’s not you. Stay, for God’s sake. Finish your coffee.’

  ‘Is that what you call it?’

  She looked up. ‘What?’

  ‘Coffee? Jesus, I’ve tasted nicer engine oil.’ I sat back down. ‘I was trying to make my escape before I had to drink the stuff. Or find a pot plant to pour it into.’

  She was laughing now, it might have been a laugh, wiping her eyes with the heel of her hand. ‘Cheeky bugger. Hey, you want me to fix it? Wait here.’

  She came back from the kitchen with a half-bottle of White Horse. It wasn’t the best whisky but it could hardly make the coffee any worse. She tipped a good half-inch into each of the mugs.

  ‘It’s good to see you, Gerry.’ She tucked her legs underneath her, raised the mug in a silent toast.

  ‘And you.’

  ‘I must look fantastic.’ She dabbed at her eyes, choked out a laugh. Her eyes and the tip of her nose had turned pink and her lipstick was smeary.

  ‘You look fine.’

  ‘Jesus, that’s your idea of a compliment? No wonder you turned me down.’ She shook her head. ‘I’m sorry, Gerry, I don’t know why I said that.’

  ‘Don’t apologise, Clare. It’s fine. You’ve had a sh
ock.’

  ‘It isn’t that.’

  She looked away across the room and her lips tightened and her eyes filmed over again.

  ‘What, then?’

  ‘It’s something else. Money.’

  She nodded meaningfully.

  ‘You mean they won’t pay?’

  ‘Pay what? Who won’t?’

  ‘The insurance company. They won’t pay out for, you know, how Martin died.’

  ‘No, they won’t. But that doesn’t matter.’ She rose from her chair. ‘That’s not what I meant.’

  The little drawer in the sideboard rattled as she yanked it open. She sorted noisily through some papers and when she found the one she wanted she flourished it fiercely and thrust it at my chest.

  A woman, I thought; Moir had a woman. She wants money. She’s written a letter.

  But it wasn’t a letter. It was an official document, on thin A5 paper. A building-society statement.

  She stood over me as I read.

  The account holder was Martin Ronald Moir. The current balance, in bold black numbers in the bottom right-hand corner, was £26,420.

  Chapter Nine

  ‘A relative?’ I said. ‘Someone died and left it in their will?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘Uh-uh. I checked with his parents. Nothing like that.’

  I looked again at the statement.

  ‘Horses?’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Did he gamble?’

  She gave a short laugh. ‘What you asking me for? I’m just the wife. You know more than I do. Did he gamble?’

  ‘Come on, Clare.’

  ‘You asked the question. What do you think?’

  ‘I’ve barely seen him since I came back. He was never in the building. He worked his own stories, half the time he didn’t even come in to write them up. He stopped coming to conference. I’ve barely seen him, these last six months.’

  I could see what was coming next, see it in her eyes as clear as if she’d spoken. I slapped the statement with the back of my hand.

  ‘Well, look, it’s not that much, is it?’ I waved the piece of paper at her. ‘It’s not like we’re dealing with a lottery win here. It’ll be something obvious.’ I sighed, held the paper by a corner. ‘Look. This doesn’t mean he didn’t kill himself, Clare.’

  She was shaking her head, her eyebrows arching.

  ‘The week before his daughter’s birthday?’

  ‘Look, I don’t think—his priorities aren’t—’

  ‘We were going to Gleneagles for Hogmanay. Three nights.’

  ‘Oh, Clare.’

  ‘No.’ She backed away, her hands up to ward off my scepticism. ‘No. I don’t just mean a holiday. It was our anniversary. He was taking me to Gleneagles for our anniversary.’ They’d been married on the weekend between Christmas and New Year. Eight years ago, or maybe nine. Rod was still a toddler, skidding around the dance floor in his waistcoat and trousers. We stayed the night. Bathrobes. Dark wood. Tartan bedspread. Jamie was conceived around then, or soon after.

  I stepped towards her. This time I did reach out, I gripped her by the shoulders and held her at arm’s length but the words I needed wouldn’t come. Give it up, Clare, I wanted to tell her; people don’t clear their diary once they decide to kill themselves. They don’t need to. Driving into a flooded quarry with your wrists lashed to the wheel tends to do the job for you.

  But I didn’t. I released my pointless grip on her shoulders. I stood there for a minute and then dropped back onto the sofa and let the radiator slowly singe my shoulder.

  ‘He’d booked it all up. He only told me about it the week before he died. Why would he do that, Gerry? Why would he tell me if he knew he was going to kill himself?’

  ‘Clare, he wrote a note.’

  ‘Right.’ She laughed. ‘They showed me that. Let’s see your phone, Gerry.’ She had her palm out, four fingers flexing back and forth. ‘Give us it.’

  ‘The police took it. It’s still with the police.’

  ‘When you get it back, then. Check your old messages. Gerry, he spelled everything out. In full. All the time. He had a thing about it. He was a bloody bore about it. He thought text language was the end of civilisation, the first step to Armageddon. Thin end of the wedge.’

  Was this true? Did I remember this? I tried to think back, picture one of Moir’s texts on the Nokia screen but nothing came.

  ‘Do you not remember, Gerry?’

  ‘Yeah. I don’t know. He usually phoned me, Clare. I don’t know what his texts were like.’

  ‘Well look then.’ She strode over to the mantelpiece, snatched up her mobile, marched back, thumbs working. ‘Here!’ She held it under my nose. ‘Take it!’

  The screen showed a zigzag of speech bubbles, hers in green, Moir’s in grey. I scrolled up, read one of the greys: Another late one, Clarabelle. Sorry, babe. Will try to make in before twelve. xx

  ‘Okay?’ Her voice was fierce now, eyes flashing.

  ‘Aye. I suppose.’ I handed back the phone.

  It occurred to me that a man’s hang-ups about text abbreviations were liable to seem less pressing under certain conditions. Like when you’re lashing your wrists to a steering wheel and about to drive to your death. Or maybe she was right and Moir never wrote the text. Or maybe he wrote it with a gun to his head or a blade at his throat, and this was his way of conveying the message, telling us he didn’t kill himself.

  I remembered Hamish Neil in the Goldberry car park. Take him off the streets while the tally’s at two. Did he mean that the two deaths were murders? Walsh had killed Swan: he hit Billy Swan to get at Neil; that was clear. But did Walsh kill Moir, too? Was that what Neil meant?

  ‘But the cops, Clare. The post-mortem.’

  ‘It’s on its way. I’ve asked for a copy, we’ll see what it says. And the police thought it was murder, too – remember that, Gerry. That was their first response. It was just your text message changed their mind.’

  A shadow fell on the window, a dog-walker, pausing for the dog to sniff, do its business. The last rays of sun showed up the smears on the glass, dozens of hand-prints, kiddie-sized hands.

  ‘Have you spoken to the cops, have you told them?’

  ‘They’re not interested. I spoke to the woman, Gunn, her mind’s made up. They won’t even see me now, the proper police. They send round a “liaison officer”. I have to make her tea and biscuits while she tells me how she’s here for me.’

  I reached for my cup, three-quarters full, took a big burny gulp. I needed to get out before she asked me.

  ‘I’m not asking much, Gerry.’ She was sitting back down now and she leaned across to grip my wrist. ‘I don’t expect miracles. Just look into it. Dig around. Do what you’re good at.’

  I smiled, despite myself, at her naivety, the gauche stab at flattery.

  ‘Topping and tailing press releases, Clare. That’s what I’m good at. Transcribing interviews with bored front-benchers. I’m not a proper reporter any more. If I ever was. It’s why we had Martin.’

  She watched me over her cup, said nothing. Behind her in the window the light was dwindling, grey clouds massing on a luminous white horizon. Across the street the seedlings in their tubes of mesh were lashing in the wind.

  ‘Look, even if I could, Clare, I’m up to my neck. This referendum stuff, Martin’s crime beat. I’m doing two jobs as it is.’

  Silence. The red eyes over the mug’s chipped rim, the tousled hair, the sad, uncared-for room. I couldn’t hold out. I shook my head, took another pull on the fortified coffee.

  ‘No promises,’ I told her. ‘I’ll do what I can.’

  *

  I drove back to the city, windows down, cold air stinging my cheeks, the sense of regret filling the car. I wasn’t even sure what I’d offered to do. Look into Martin’s death. Do what I can. What did that mean? Where would I start? Away from the feverish heat of Clare’s living room, the evidence looked thin. A text message? Two dozen
characters on a screen? And the money? Twenty-six grand, not the stuff of heists and coke deals. I passed the Covenanters’ Memorial, a Celtic cross in a patch of purple moorland, the long grass switching in the wind. Let it lie, I thought; don’t dig it all up again, but then Clare’s words came back to me, the words she’d spoken as I stood on the threshold.

  ‘I want to know that the man I wake up crying about is the man I shared a bed with for nine years. I want to know that the man I loved was the man I loved.’

  I crested the rise at Priesthill and the lights of the city rose out of the dark. Somewhere in that vast illumination was the truth about Martin Moir’s death, if the truth hadn’t already been established by DS Gunn, chapter-and-versed in the PM report. Was there another story here, a different version of events? And if there was, how did I aim to find it? I had a building-society statement in my pocket. That this slip of paper might refute the approved conclusions of Strathclyde Police, the Procurator Fiscal and the state pathologist seemed a lot to ask. It was a fool’s errand and I was already looking for a way to shelve it. Anyway, I’d told Clare I would need to square it with Maguire. That was my out. Maguire would stamp on it. I flicked the indicator, pulled out to overtake.

  Chapter Ten

  It was after four when I left Clare’s. The city-bound traffic was light, all the headlights streaming south to the coast, the dormitory towns of Ayrshire. I stopped at Shawlands and ate dumpling soup in a Taiwanese restaurant and then drove on up to the Quay. Maguire was in her office but I couldn’t face her just then. Tomorrow would do. I worked hard on Sunday’s piece and it was half past ten when I raised my head, just the night ed and a smattering of diehards at their desks.

  I was checking my Twitter feed when a shadow fell on the screen.

  ‘Hard at it, as ever. Is there no stopping this man?’

  It was Neve McDonald, coat buttoned up, bag on her shoulder.

  ‘Matter of fact, no, there isn’t.’ I swivelled round to face her. ‘Just filed Sunday’s copy.’