by Stuart David
But he was like a fucking limpet. ‘There’s a mirror here,’ he said. ‘I hate changing rooms, they’re too claustrophobic. Hang on to my coat, I’ll just fire them on here.’
It’s a wonder the staff hadn’t already turfed him out onto the pavement, the nick of the gear he was wearing. The coat he handed me could very well have come out of the station archives, removed at some point in the past from a particularly grotty flasher they’d busted in Maxwell Park. Mind you, it turned out the coat had been performing an admirable public duty by shielding the world from the suit that lay beneath it. Have supermarkets started selling suits now as well? I know they’ve been stocking shitey pyjamas and T-shirts, fleeces and tracky bottoms for a while now, but this number McFadgen was sporting strongly suggested that one of the lower-end hypermarkets must have decided to expand its range into office wear on top of everything else.
‘Jesus Christ . . .’ I muttered when I clapped eyes on it. It was an involuntary reflex – my aesthetic sensibilities deeply offended on a purely instinctual level.
He peeled off the suit jacket and handed me that as well. There were big sweat stains under the oxters and I quickly dropped it onto the pole that the blazers were hanging on. And then, to my great relief, the boy appeared from the back room with the suit he’d gone to get me, and he marched up to liberate me from the distressing experience of watching McFadgen trying to wiggle his way into the purple blazer I’d set him up with.
‘There’s a slight problem,’ the boy said. ‘We sold the one in your size about half an hour ago. I can reorder it, but I’ve brought you one that’s slighter smaller and one that’s slightly larger, just to try. Sometimes you find the sizes aren’t completely standardised anyway, so you might be in luck. Are you happy to try these?’
I wasn’t for hanging about. ‘Aye, I’ll take a crack at it, son. No problem.’
I grabbed the merchandise and legged it towards the changing rooms, leaving McFadgen grunting and wheezing behind me, getting himself into a right fankle as he tried to wrestle his flappy shirt into the sleeves of the jerkin.
‘Is there something I can help you with there, sir?’ I heard the boy asking him as I made good my escape. ‘That’s a lovely jacket, but you might just need to try it in a slightly broader fitting.’
There’s something ritualistic about stepping into a quiet cubicle in changing rooms and pulling the curtain shut behind you. It’s calming. You’re all set to re-upholster yourself, try out a new skin. You’ve got the item in question hung up on the convenient hook, you’re sitting on the wee bench untying your shoelaces, and you just think to yourself, here we go – fired up to see how this particular item’s going to look on you.
Few moments in life are quite as pleasurable. It’s like a place of sanctuary in there, an oasis of peace in a world gone mad. Especially, I find, when there’s a homicide detective on the other side of the changing-room wall, fully intent on asking you some pretty awkward questions – no matter how much he might be trying to convince you he’s just bumped into you by accident.
With the shoes off, I took a right good look at the suits the boy had given me, delighted to be seeing them up close again. I ran my fingers across the material to feel the quality, and then just stood there more or less awed at the beauty of the objects. The lining was something else altogether. It had a purple tinge to it, but only when the light caught it, and the stitching in there had been done in an orange thread. Fucking amazing. The pattern on the material itself was spectacular, leafs and branches, and as I looked at it closer, even the odd bird hidden here and there.
I gave some thought as to whether I’d try the larger or the smaller suit first, and in the end I plonked for the bigger of the two. More of a chance it would just be a no-no, and I wanted to save the more likely contender for last.
I’d just removed my trousers and started wrestling the replacements off the hanger, though, when there was a clinking noise on my left-hand side, and my protective curtain flew open.
‘How does it look?’ a voice asked, and I turned round expecting to see the boy from the shop floor, playing his hand too soon.
It happens.
Overenthusiasm.
Sometimes I even think they pull the stunt deliberately in the expensive places, just to check you’re not stuffing any of the merchandise into your rucksack, ready to make a quick escape.
But as it turned out, it wasn’t the boy at all. Not by a long shot. It was fucking McFadgen – posing in a blazer that looked like a flotation device on him while I stood there in my Y-fronts, exposed to the world.
‘What do you think?’ he said, swinging himself from side to side, presumably so’s I could get a vague view of the jacket from a wheen of ever-so-slightly-different angles.
‘About what, McFadgen?’ I said. ‘About the constant police harassment and invasion of my privacy? I’ll be perfectly honest with you, pal. It’s beginning to wear a bit thin.’
‘About the jacket,’ he said. ‘The assistant recommended this one, but I’m swithering. I told him I’d get your opinion.’
‘McFadgen,’ I said, ‘I’m standing here in my scants. Come back in ten minutes. You’re a never-ending nightmare.’
I threw the curtain shut, and started pulling the suit trousers on, but McFadgen wasn’t for moving.
‘You got a good enough glimpse of it anyway,’ he said. ‘What’s your opinion based on first impressions? Is it a goer?’
‘I think the assistant’s taking the piss,’ I said. ‘The same as you’re taking the piss trying to pretend you’re in here to shop. I know it’s a crock, and the boy knows it’s a crock. So he’s taking you for a ride.’
The suit trousers were a touch baggy at the crotch. The extra length I could live with, it was easy enough to get that taken up. But the roominess in the groin area was a no go. Everything was flapping about. I made a grab for the jacket anyway, just in case it might sit better.
‘I’ll wait out here till you’re finished,’ McFadgen shouted, even though there was only a square of curtain between us. ‘Maybe there’s something else you can pick out for me. Take your time. I’ll wait in this cubicle across the way.’
The jacket was better than the trousers, but still baggy. It gave me a fair idea of how I would look in a properly fitting one, though, and the prognosis was positive. They were my colours, no doubt about that. It was a hell of a look. Majestic, you might say.
‘Listen, McFadgen,’ I said, ‘this is serious business for me. I’m a connoisseur of this stuff, and I need peace and quiet to get it done properly. Away out into the main body of the kirk and I’ll see you when I’m done. You’re hampering my critical faculties, sitting in there like a big lummox.’
‘No problem,’ he said, and I heard the bench creaking as his ample weight eased up off it. He stepped out of his cubicle, but then he stopped. ‘Oh, by the way,’ he said, ‘there’s been a bit of a development in the Dougie Dowds case – we’ve made some further progress. A minor breakthrough, I think.’
‘You don’t say,’ I muttered. ‘That’s the last thing I’d be expecting on the back of you turning up in here. On you go then, hit me with it. What’s the latest revelation?’
And just as I dropped my kecks to try on the next suit he pulled the curtain open again.
‘Aww, for Christ’s sake,’ I said. ‘This is getting beyond a joke, pal. Is there something you like about seeing me standing here in my jockeys?’
‘Not exactly,’ he said. ‘But I do like to see you standing in that confined space, Johnson – reminds me of something. Or maybe it’s a vision of the future, rather than a memory. It’s deeply pleasing anyway. It makes something sing deep down in my soul.’
We were getting to the nub of the matter now. I pulled the roomy trousers back up and sat down on the bench.
‘Tell me this,’ he said, leaning in towards me. I had an inkling he was attempting to look menacing, but the fact that he was standing there to all intents and purposes in a buo
yancy aid spoiled the effect somewhat. Nevertheless, he stuck with it.
‘Where were you on the afternoon of the nineteenth of June?’ he said. ‘Between the hours of two and three p.m.?’
‘How in the name of Christ would I know?’ I said. ‘What day was that?’
‘Scratch it,’ he said. ‘Let’s try a different approach. How about the night before last, between nine and eleven – where were you then?’
‘Probably in the living room,’ I said, ‘watching the telly.’
‘Can anybody back that up?’
I gave it some thought. ‘The wife was at her sister’s, so it was just me. On my tod.’
‘Exactly,’ the wise one retorted.
I started to feel a bit dizzy. ‘What are you talking about?’ I said. ‘What’s supposed to have happened the night before last?’
He elbowed his way deeper into my cubicle and crushed up against the suit I had hanging on the hook.
‘Nothing,’ he said. ‘Sweet F.A. And that’s precisely my point.’
This was all starting to get a bit too much for me. All I wanted to do was try that second suit on and see if it was too tight or just right. I leant forward, put my elbows on my knees and my head in my hands.
‘You’re driving me daft, McFadgen,’ I said. ‘What the hell are you playing at here?’
‘I’m showing you how things function in the everyday world, Johnson. That’s all. You take any random human and you ask them where they were and what they were doing at any particular time on any particular day. There are two general outcomes. One, they can’t remember. Or two, nobody can corroborate their story. The instances where somebody knows exactly where they were in a particularly narrow time frame, and that they’ve got a whole squad of witnesses to back them up, are exceptionally rare. That’s just a fact of life.’
‘It sounds like a lot of shite to me,’ I said. ‘How can that be right?’
McFadgen shrugged. ‘Where were you on Wednesday last week? Say, between three and four?’
I gave it some serious thought this time. Wednesday night I was at Jinky’s place; before that I’d had a fish supper with the wife. I worked my way back.
‘I was driving up to Largs to pick up a delivery for John Jack,’ I said.
‘So you were in the car.’
‘Bingo.’
‘With who?’
I got his point. It was just me. Still, I was pretty certain he’d just hit a lucky instance.
‘So here’s what I’m thinking,’ he said. ‘How is it, with that being the case, with you being unable to remember or prove where you were for the vast majority of dates and times I might care to mention – how is it that for the very moment when Dougie Dowds was killed you can prove exactly where you were, without a shadow of a doubt, and with witnesses and corroborators up the yin yang? Does that not seem like a bit of an unlikely coincidence to you?’
I shrugged. ‘A happy coincidence,’ I said. ‘What of it?’
‘I’ll tell you what of it, Johnson,’ he said. ‘I’ll tell you right now.’
But he never, cause right at that minute the boy from the front of the shop appeared, calling out ‘Hellooo’ as he sauntered down the aisle, stopping now and again to pop his head into various cubicles.
‘Up here, son,’ I shouted, and when he reached us he lifted his eyebrows to see McFadgen stuffed into the wee box alongside me, trussed up in his life preserver. Still, give the boy his due, he took it in his stride as if it was the sort of thing that happened every day, and moved past it to ask me how I was getting on.
‘This one’s a bit roomy,’ I said, standing up. I gave the material a tug at the front to show him what I was talking about, and he signalled his agreement.
‘I’ve still to try the second one,’ I said. ‘The detective inspector here stopped in for a quick natter mid-session.’
‘No hurry,’ the boy said, still doing an admirable job of suggesting this was all completely normal. ‘Just give me a shout if you need anything else. I’ll be right outside. How about the blazer, sir?’ He turned to McFadgen. ‘Any decision on that yet?’
‘I’m still getting Mr Johnson’s opinion,’ McFadgen said. ‘I think we’re leaning towards a no, but I’ll keep you informed.’
‘Very good,’ the boy said, and he wandered off.
Since I was already standing up I took the opportunity to nudge McFadgen back out beyond the confines of the cubicle.
‘Let me get at that other suit,’ I said. ‘Do you think we’re about done here?’
He laughed. ‘Far from it. We’re only just getting started. And I’ll tell you why. I’ve known from the get-go it was you that killed Dougie Dowds. And it’s that alibi of yours that’s always been the deciding factor – it’s too neat. It’s absolutely watertight, and that’s always a red flag, in my experience. I told you the other night I was determined to crack it. I’m like a dog with a bone, Johnson – I’ll stay with that type of thing until I can smash it to smithereens. Night and day. However long it takes me. I’ll stick at it till it’s done.’
‘Aye,’ I said. ‘Well, good luck with that, McFadgen. All the best to you, pal.’
I started buttoning up the second jacket and it was clear from the off that it was going to be too tight. I sucked my belly in to get the buttons done up, but I was kidding myself.
‘Oh,’ McFadgen said, ‘I don’t need any luck. Not in the least. I told you already, we’ve had a new breakthrough in the case. There’s been a further development. What did you think I was talking about all this time?’
I gave up on the jacket and peeled it off with a sense of sadness about the whole enterprise. Buying on impulse – that’s what you often need to get you over the line when it comes to a purchase in that price bracket. I had the feeling that waiting for the boy to order the suit in my size would lead to a cooler head prevailing. And I hung the jacket back on the hook with a certain sense of defeat.
‘I’ll be perfectly honest with you, McFadgen,’ I said. ‘I’ve rarely got a Scooby Doo what you’re talking about at the best of times, and as far as this afternoon’s concerned, I’ve been totally in the dark. So hit me with it, what’s this development you’re banging on about? What have you discovered?’
‘It’s not so much a question of what we’ve discovered,’ he said. ‘It’s more something we’d overlooked. Beforehand. Dougie Dowds died some time between ten to eight and twenty-five past, that’s the template we’ve been working with. That was based on the fact that his body was found by a neighbour at twenty-five past eight, and that he texted me to rearrange our meeting just before ten to. So it stood to reason he died some time between ten to eight and twenty-five past. But then we realised what we’d overlooked.’
He paused and stared at me, and I got the feeling he was waiting for a response. He was a good deal more interested than I was in any of this, but I humoured him – just to try and put an end to it all.
‘What’s that?’ I said.
‘His phone,’ McFadgen answered. ‘It’s slowly emerged that we don’t actually have his phone. I’ve got his text on my phone, and we’ve got the record from the network proving the message came from his phone. But we don’t actually have his phone. It’s gone AWOL. Which, potentially, alters the estimation of the time of death considerably. If somebody else had his phone, and sent me that text at ten to eight, say from, oh, I don’t know, say from somewhere like Rogano’s, while they were out celebrating their anniversary, that would mean Dougie could already have been dead for an hour at that point. Maybe even two. Which, correct me if I’m wrong, leaves you high and dry without an alibi for the actual time of his death. Am I right?’
This didn’t look great. Not so far as getting McFadgen off my tail was concerned. But I carried on with my business as if it was neither here nor there, dropping the baggy pants and stepping out of them, before I reached out for my own trousers hanging on the hook.
‘I don’t suppose you’ll mind me asking where you happene
d to be at, say, seven o’clock on that night, Peacock. Or maybe even six? Have you got anything quite as solid for that time frame?’
I thought about it for a minute. ‘I’d have to get back to you on that, Duncan. I’d probably have to check my diary. But here’s the thing – it’s all totally academic anyway. In fact, what you should do is pull out your own diary and we’ll make ourselves a date for tomorrow, say for four o’clock in the afternoon, if you’re free. Cause here’s the thing – I didn’t actually steal that painting from Pollok House. In fact, I had absolutely nothing to do with it. But I’ve been to see John Jack, and John Jack’s doing a spot of research into the question of who did nick it, right at this very minute. So if you want to set something up for tomorrow, I’ll gladly pass that info on to you. And then we can call a halt to this constant harassment you’re indulging in because you happened to read a bit too much into a daft book by Ian Rankin.’
I pulled up my Versace jeans, stuck my feet into my shoes, and sat back down on the bench to lace them up. But despite my heartfelt pitch, McFadgen seemed unmoved. He footered about inside the life jacket for a minute till he located something in his shirt pocket, and he pulled it out – a folded piece of paper.
‘Nice try,’ he said, ‘but we’re beyond that now. Way beyond that. You see this?’
He waved the paper about a bit, and then tapped it on the side of the cubicle. ‘You know what this is?’ he asked.
I gave it some thought. ‘Your certificate for winning Fanny of the Year?’
‘You wish,’ he said. ‘And well you might, cause if it was – it would mean a sight less trouble for you, Johnson. But unfortunately, what this is’ – he gave it the wee tap on the cubicle wall again – ‘is a warrant. A search warrant giving me the authority to search your flat. With the express intention of finding Dougie Dowds’ mobile phone.’
He shook the paper till it unfolded and took a good look at it. ‘Two Regent Park Square, flat number five – that’s you, right?’
I nodded.
‘Then we’re all set,’ he said. ‘I was round there earlier this morning – ready to get going. No answer. The boys were keen to knock the door in, but I convinced them to hold off. Makes a hell of a mess. I didn’t like the thought of your wife having to deal with that, while you were sitting cooped up in your cell.’