I chipped the smoke out the window, three-pointed on the gravel and left the lay-by, heading south. Out on the moors, the rain turned to sleet. I prayed for snow, great banking drifts that might trap me in the car till the news got better.
It was after seven when I parked outside the house. The curtains were parted to show off the tree, a fancy white one, swathed in silver tinsel. Globular baubles in hard metallic reds and greens, candy canes like the handles of umbrellas.
‘Gerry.’ She seemed pleased to see me, stood aside to let me enter, cocked her head for a peck on the cheek.
‘The girls in bed?’
‘More or less.’ I could hear muffled shrieks from upstairs, bare feet pounding a hardwood floor. She turned away and I followed her down the hall.
‘You want a drink?’ She stopped in the kitchen doorway. ‘I’m having one.’
‘I’ve got the car,’ I said. She looked at me. ‘Yes, I want a drink. Small one.’
*
The living room smelled of furniture polish and coffee. The girls’ toys were neatly stacked in bright plastic boxes along the far wall. The painting above the fireplace was new – a cool blue abstract with hard clean lines – and a photograph of Martin hung beside the bookcase, a studio portrait in black and white, a jumpered Moir smiling hopefully out, ten years younger. One of the overhead spots caught it full on.
‘Here you go.’ Clare was back with two brimming glasses. I took mine in both hands.
‘That’s small? Jesus, I’d hate to see a big one.’
She smiled. ‘There’s an answer to that but I’ll restrain myself. Saw you on the telly.’
‘Aye.’ I’d been on Spectrum at the weekend, pretending to know about the referendum.
‘Martin used to do that. In the old days. Not staying?’
‘Sorry.’ I shrugged out of my jacket, dropped onto one of the sofas as the door burst open and Esme skidded in.
‘Mum, Chloe’s in my bed and she keeps rumpling around. Hiya Uncle Gerry.’
‘Hiya, sweetheart.’
She backed onto Clare’s lap, threw an arm up and round her mother’s neck.
‘You excited?’ I jerked my head towards the tree.
She nodded rapidly, sat up straight. ‘It’s fourteen sleeps. Mum, is it fourteen sleeps? It’s fourteen sleeps, Uncle Gerry.’
‘I know it is, kiddo. I’m marking them off.’
‘Alright, chancer.’ Clare lifted Esme by the waist and set her down on her feet. ‘Off. Tell madam to get to her own bed, or else.’
She skipped over to say goodnight and I kissed her cheek. Clare refilled my glass and sat back in the armchair, nursing her own. The blues, greens and purples played on her left cheek, on the skin of her bangled forearm. Christmas lights. I sipped my wine and tried not to feel like the bad Santa, though she must have known that to come unannounced like this, through the driving sleet, with a death-knock face, when the girls were in bed, could bode nothing good.
She was ready now, waiting for me to speak. I set my glass on a coaster, nodded at the photograph. ‘That new?’
She turned to appraise it.
‘Had it for years. Just never got round to putting it up.’
‘Clare, there’s a guy called Hamish Neil.’
‘I can read. I read the papers. My husband was a crime reporter.’
‘I’m sorry. You know him, then?’
She was swallowing a gulp of wine but she waggled her head.
‘Hamish Neil? No, of course I don’t know him. I know who he is.’
‘Well your husband knew him. Martin knew him.’
Her eyes above the wine glass gave nothing away. I leaned forward, draped my hand over my own glass, twisting it back and forward on its coaster.
‘Knew him pretty well.’
She nodded, sipped her wine. ‘Say it then, Gerry. Don’t be shy.’
‘He was on the take, Clare. Your husband was bent. He wrote stories for Hamish Neil, stories Neil supplied him with.’
I was staring down at the coffee table. When I looked up she was frowning.
‘That’s it? He got his stories from a gangster? That’s your big revelation? Gerry, that’s the job. That’s how you do it.’
‘This was a bit different, Clare. There was money involved. He drew a wage. He wrote the stories that Neil wanted written. He wrote stories to order, for a Glasgow gangster.’
There were folds in Clare’s brow, a deepening crease between her eyes.
‘Why would he do that? Why would a gangster want stories?’
‘He wrote about the Walshes, Clare. He went after the Walshes. Not every week, but enough to keep up the heat. The polis follow the papers. We’re still good for that. You make something stink enough in the papers, the cops have to clean it up.’
I lifted the bottle, splashed some pinot into my glass. Threw it back, splashed some more. I’d to drive across the moors in the dark and the snow but I couldn’t get through this sober.
‘You mean it keeps them off Neil’s back?’
‘Yeah, but mainly it ties up the Walshes. You’ve got the cops camped out on the front lawn, it tends to restrict your movements. It’s about the contracts, mainly,’ I said. ‘Martin was just doing his bit to clear the ground for Neil. Take out the competition. He’d probably have got them anyway.’
She was rubbing her wrist; the bangles shivered.
‘The money,’ she said. ‘The twenty-six grand.’
I nodded.
‘You said contracts?’
‘The Games, Clare. The Commie Games. Building, demolition. Transport. It’s all up for grabs. Security. They’re all out to tender, there’s plenty at stake.’ I finished the wine and stood up. ‘Anyway I’m sorry.’
She was nodding, still rubbing her wrist. ‘How much?’
‘What?’
‘There’s plenty at stake. How much?’
‘I don’t know.’ I lifted my jacket, squeezed the pocket for my keys. ‘Over a billion, I think. I don’t know the exact figure. Big biccies anyway.’
She shook her head. Her eyes flicked round the room, took in the Linn, the wall-mounted plasma.
‘Should have held out for more, shouldn’t he? Sold himself short.’
She walked me to the door.
‘Don’t say that, by the way, Gerry. Pay us both the respect.’
‘What?’
‘“Sorry.” You’re not sorry.’ We stopped in the hallway. ‘Coming to my door with your hangdog face.’ She shook her head. ‘He’s off his pedestal now, isn’t he? Bad as the rest of you. Worse. Got what you wanted.’
‘I never wanted this, Clare.’
I zipped up my jacket and took out my car keys. I was waiting for her to open the door but she wasn’t finished.
‘Doesn’t change anything,’ she said. ‘It doesn’t mean he wasn’t killed.’ I’d hoped she wouldn’t go down this route. ‘Even if it’s true, Gerry, even if you’re right. Martin was on the take. Doesn’t mean he wasn’t murdered.’
‘I’m thinking it does, though, Clare. I’m thinking a guy ties himself to the wheel and drives into a quarry, that’s a guy who hates himself. Well, maybe now we know why.’
I let the door swing free as I walked down the path, the dull crump of snow under my boots. I had to scrape the fresh snow from the windscreen, run the engine for a minute or two. When I pulled away she was still standing in the doorway, backlit by the hall light. I didn’t wave.
Chapter Twenty-six
The first thing I saw when the lift doors parted on the newsroom next morning was Niven and Maguire, choppers bared in rictus grins, a snapper crouching in front of them, angling for the shot. They each had a grip of an ugly, angular object, a kind of jagged plastic shield. The snapper stood up as I passed them and Maguire’s smile slumped.
‘Gerry.’ I turned. Niven was already heading for the lift. ‘Gerry, a word.’
Maguire was wearing a new suit, fitted, black, a skirt instead of trousers. Her hair was differen
t. The object she was holding looked like some kind of trophy.
‘Greater Glasgow tag-team champs? Scottish press corps mixed doubles?’
The curled lip, the hooded eyes. ‘I thought you’d like to see this, Gerry.’
She passed me the thing, a jagged hunk of Perspex. It was shaped like the silhouette of Scotland. In frosted white, floating in the plastic ice, was the stylised nib of a fountain pen above a line of smart italics: Martin Moir Award for Investigative Reporting, 2011. I turned it over in my hands. She was waiting for my verdict. I passed it back.
‘We need to talk.’
‘What’s stopping you?’
‘Not here.’
She sighed, hefted the trophy in a scarlet-taloned hand and marched off towards her office. I watched her unaccustomed calves above the glossy black heels. In the office she turned and leant against her desk, arms braced. She raised her eyebrows at me. I closed the door and leant against it.
‘He was working for Neil.’
There was no way to break it gently so I didn’t try.
‘Who was?’
I nodded at the trophy. ‘Wonderboy.’
‘Martin?’
‘He was on a retainer. He was writing stories for Neil, bringing heat on the Walshes. Screw them over for the Commie Games contracts.’
She pushed away from the desk, lowered herself into a seat, rested her arms on the little round table, slumped down. I drew out a chair and sat down opposite.
‘That’s where he got the money, the twenty-six grand. The Linn hi-fi, the Lexus. He was bent, Fiona. I got it from a cop, drug enforcement, an Agency guy. They’d marked his card. A piece he wrote last year about the pizzeria shooting, he knew things the cops hadn’t revealed. Details. The number of shots, that kind of thing.’
‘What does that prove?’ She raised her head.
‘It proves he was bent. I’ll sit on this for the moment, Fi, but if you’re stupid enough to go through with this—’ I jerked a thumb at the trophy.
The head drooped again, the arms sliding out till the crimson nails clicked against the base of the trophy. A clang like a bell as it dropped into the metal bucket.
‘Do yourself a favour,’ she said. ‘If you see Niven in the lift over the next few days, take the stairs.’
‘I’m sorry, Fiona.’
‘Merry fucking Christmas, Gerry.’
*
At the flat that evening I was re-reading The Sportswriter and waiting for my coffee to brew. Three heaped tablespoons of Blue Mountain were swirling around in the pot and the sharp dark smell was filling the kitchen. In some ways I should have been happy. Packy Walsh had been arrested and charged as an accessory in the murder of Helen Friel. DNA recovered from the forest where the body was dumped had placed one of Walsh’s charmers at the scene: Radislav Gombar, the Slovak enforcer whose name had been linked with the phantom child sex case in Govanhill. The search was on for Mister Quis Separabit. Gombar had fled – presumably back to Slovakia – and Walsh was safely banged up in Barlinnie. But Walsh hadn’t killed Martin Moir and I couldn’t shake the feeling I’d been scammed. When I thought I was fighting for justice I was doing Hamish Neil’s dirty work again.
I put my palm on the ball-shaped top of the plunger and pressed. It hadn’t been the smoothest of days and I hoped that things would look a bit brighter after a hit of high-country Jamaican. At forty quid a bag, it was dearer – and probably purer – than most of the coke in the city.
I looked at my watch: not yet eight. Still early enough to call James.
‘Hey, Killer.’
‘Hello, Dad.’
‘How many?’
One of the many shitty things about working Saturdays was that I always missed his games. Adam took him instead. There was a whole cohort of teammates and touchline fathers who thought that James’s dad was a skinny bald guy with a beard.
‘Two.’
‘You or the team?’
‘Me. We won five-two. I got two.’
I fetched a still-warm mug from the dishwasher.
‘The old left peg?’
‘Yeah, one of them. And one with the head.’
‘Brilliant. Who got man of the match?’
‘It’s “Player of the Day”, Dad. Morgan got it.’
‘The greedy one?’
‘He scored three goals.’
‘Yeah, he’s greedy. Bet you made most of his.’
‘I made one.’
‘There you are. I’m proud of you, son. Is your mum around?’
I poured the coffee, black, bright, oily, the scent of bitter oranges. Elaine was calling to someone, her heels clacking on the kitchen floor.
‘Gerry, yes. What is it?’
In the old days, when our separation was fresh, we spent hours on the phone. We talked more when we’d just split up than we’d done in the last few years of our marriage. Elaine was diligent, solicitous, took my calls at all hours, soothed me, lulled me, talked me down. Not now.
‘Hello to you, too.’
‘I’m busy, Gerry, People here. What do you want?’
‘Aye, OK. This Aberdeen thing. Where are we?’
‘We?’
‘I mean is he taking the job?’
She breathed through her nose. I knew the sound, not a good one.
‘When we reach a decision,’ she said, ‘we’ll let you know.’
‘I don’t get a say?’
‘In what job Adam does?’
‘In where my children live.’
In the silence I could hear voices, laughter, knives on plates, the sounds of civilisation. I could picture the dining room with its yellow walls, the blue vase in the alcove, the placemats with the phoenix motif.
‘You get good access, Gerry. You see them every weekend. It’s pretty bloody generous, actually.’
‘Is that a threat?’
‘What?’
‘It might not be so generous if I don’t toe the line?’
‘No! No, Gerry. Your access is good, that’s all. Whether we go to Aberdeen or not, that won’t change. Look, I’m in the middle of a dinner party. I can’t do this now.’
She rang off. No, access wouldn’t change. Everything would stay the same. Just add a round trip of three hundred miles whenever you want to see the boys. I had little enough time with them as it was. Now every Sunday I’d be up at the crack of dawn, hauling the Forester up the A fucking 90.
I yanked a carton of milk from the fridge: empty, a pissy dribble at the bottom.
‘Ah, did you not get milk?’ There was a girlish quiver in my voice. I put down the book, marched to the living room, shaking the empty carton.
‘What’s that, sweetie?’
‘I said there’s no bloody milk.’
She looked up from her drawings. ‘Well you better go and bloody get some then.’
I would have slammed the door if Angus hadn’t been in bed. I grabbed my old leather and clattered down the stairs. I hadn’t worn my leather in weeks and when I zipped it against the evening chill and plunged my hands in the pockets I felt a small object nestling under a packet of tissues. I traced it with the ball of my thumb, the surface ridged, scaly, it was Moir’s fish, the little key-ring charm that used to hang above his desk. I brought it out, bounced it on my palm as I crossed Kelvin Drive, when something struck me. I stopped on the bridge, under a streetlight. I hooked my finger into the key-ring and pulled on the fish’s tail. It came apart with a click. Glinting in the yellow glare as I held it to the light was a slim metal tab, a half-inch blunted blade.
Back at the flat, Mari glanced up from her work as I booted up the Mac, plugged the stick in the slot.
‘Where’s the milk?’
‘What? I’ll get it later.’
NO NAME: the device appeared on my desktop. I double-clicked and waited. A little box came up on the screen, framing a string of jpegs and Word docs and pdfs. I clicked on one of the jpegs. A man leaving a shop. He had the smug, furtive look of the illicitly photographed.
Curly hair, broad nose, the shadowed frown-lines; it was Hamish Neil, in a white T-shirt and dark jerkin, a chunky watch catching the light. Through the plate-glass windows on either side, where the sun’s reflection didn’t blind them, were wreaths and bouquets. A street number – 137 – was visible at the top of the photo. Next photo: Neil again, leaving the florist’s, this time in a V-neck Lyle and Scott sweater (you could see the yellow eagle at the chest), shoulders hunched against the rain. In neither shot was he carrying flowers.
For the next twenty minutes I clicked through the photos. Most of them were Neil. Leaving the florist’s, leaving what looked like a hotel, leaving a tenement building. In some of the shots, a fit-looking woman – thirties, dark bobbed hair, sunglasses – was leaving the same buildings. Were these photos from the cops? Had Moir been doing his own surveillance?
The pdfs were scans of documents – bills, receipts. There were invoices from Laurelbank Retirement Home in Bearsden, the monthly accounts for Mrs Margaret Strain, Mrs Joy Glendinning, Mrs Norma Ross, from March of last year to October of this.
‘Shit.’
‘What’s this?’ Mari was at my shoulder. She squatted down on her haunches, arm on the back of my chair.
‘It’s Martin’s,’ I said. ‘I think he might have been clean after all.’
It was a dossier. Moir was building a dossier on Neil. Was that what this was? Had Moir been playing a double game, courting Neil to uncover his secrets, getting close enough to hurt him?
Lewicki answered on the fourth or fifth ring.
‘You never hear of a home life, Conway? It’s nine o’clock on Saturday night.’
‘That’s the weekly jubilee, is it? Set the clock by you?’
‘You’ve got a dirty mind, Conway. We’re watching a movie. Beer, tattie crisps. Homey things. Normal things.’
‘Aye. Well it’s homey, normal crims I’m calling about. Hamish Neil. Moir was keeping a dossier on him. I think Moir was clean after all.’
Where the Dead Men Go Page 20