Last Will

by William McIntyre

  ‘What’s this?’ Sandy asked. ‘Has Tina not been playing nice with the other kids?’

  ‘She’s just been sticking up for herself,’ my dad said. ‘Isn’t that right, sweetheart?’

  Tina was too busy carrying out a blunt dissection of Mr Food-Face to answer.

  ‘A boy was annoying her,’ I said. ‘He wasn’t sharing.’

  Tina looked up from her surgery. ‘He wouldn’t let me play with the bricks and he said I talked funny.’

  Though she’d picked up her mum’s Scots accent, every now and again there was a distinct Aussie twang to my daughter’s voice.

  Sandy knelt down by her side. ‘Don’t worry, Tina. People, they say that I talk funny too.’

  ‘That’s because you do talk funny,’ my dad said. ‘Now, would the pair of you leave the girl in peace to eat her lunch?’

  Sandy ruffled Tina’s hair and shuffled off, I presumed to serve some new customers because I heard the bell above the door tinkle. I’d just taken a bite of a bacon roll and was poised for another when I realised that my dad was sitting immobile, staring over my left shoulder. I turned to see Jake Turpie standing a few feet away.

  ‘What do you want?’ my dad growled at him.

  Ignoring my dad’s words of welcome, Jake came over and stood by our table. ‘This her, Robbie? This your new daughter?’ he asked, as though I’d had an old one and traded her in for the latest model.

  ‘I said what do you want, Turpie?’ My dad threatened to stand. Still chewing, I shoved the plate of rolls at him hoping he’d take one and shut up.

  ‘I’m here to ask a favour—’

  ‘Robbie’s got no time for favours,’ my dad said, taking advantage of the silence caused by my mouthful of bacon roll. ‘He’s got a wean to look after.’ He snatched a bacon roll from the plate and ripped a chunk out of it like it was Jake’s head from his shoulders.

  ‘And to give him this.’ Jake produced an envelope and handed it to me. ‘For you to buy your wee lassie something nice.’

  I spirited the envelope away inside my jacket pocket. Jake took a few steps back. I stood.

  Tina looked up. ‘Where you going, Dad?’ she asked through a clown’s mouth of spaghetti sauce.

  ‘He’s abandoning you,’ my dad said.

  ‘He’ll be back in a minute, pet,’ Jake said.

  Taking the napkin out of the neck of Tina’s T-shirt and wiping my mouth with it, I followed Jake out of range of my dad. Almost.

  ‘With some folk, money talks. With your dad, it gives orders.’ I heard the old man grumble to Tina. It was okay for him and his police pension.

  ‘I need you to come with me, I’ve a job for you,’ Jake said.

  I would have protested but for the warm feel of the envelope nestling in my inside breast pocket, next to my heart. ‘What kind of message?’

  ‘I’ll tell you all about it on the way.’

  I turned to see my daughter, head down and shovelling spaghetti hoops like a stoker feeding a furnace, while her grandfather glowered at me, moustache rigid in disapproval.

  Jake strolled to the counter and slapped down a ten pound note. ‘Get the wean some ice cream when she’s finished,’ he said to Sandy. ‘Extra sprinkles.’ He gave me a shove in the small of the back. ‘Come on. Deek’s out there on the zigzags.’

  6

  Deek Pudney was waiting directly outside Sandy’s in a dented white Ford Transit van that had never seen a soapy chamois since the day it had rolled off the assembly line.

  I climbed in through the passenger door. Jake went around the other side and gave Deek a shove.

  ‘Move over. I’m driving. Robbie’s in a hurry,’ he said. The big man budged along into the middle, his bulk squashing against me, keeping my right arm pinned to my side. Jake took a pair of black leather driving gloves from the top of the dashboard where they’d been lying amidst a gathering of Mars Bar wrappers, crumpled fish-supper papers and a half-drunk bottle of Irn Bru. He stretched the gloves across his hands, knuckles poking through the holes in the back, and leaned forward to look at me past the massive obstruction that sat between us. ‘Don’t worry, this’ll only take ten minutes.’

  By all scientifically recognised standards of measurement, Jake’s estimation of time was way out. It must have been forty minutes later that we neared our destination, a farmhouse somewhere to the south of Livingston, near the village of East Riggburn. This was West Lothian at its deepest and darkest, and our slow journey, full of bends and B roads, gave my landlord the opportunity to set out my remit in detail.

  I knew Jake operated an, on-the-face-of-it, legitimate used car business. What I didn’t know was precisely why; though it probably had something to do with offsetting those genuine receipts against the cash payments he received via his much larger scrap-dealing operation. As he went on to explain, he’d sold a vehicle to a farmer who was now way behind in instalments. Getting money out of the average farmer was like growing orchids in a West Lothian winter, but credit ratings meant little to Jake and late-payers were a novelty thanks to his efficient credit control system. A credit control system that was sitting right next to me, squashing me against the interior of the nearside door.

  Jake gave Deek a nudge. ‘Which way next?’

  Unfortunately, next was a sharp right turn. I’d been hoping for a left, the only manoeuvre that gave me a chance to breathe properly. Jake spun the wheel, Deek leaned into me and I thought I felt a rib crack.

  ‘This Mrs Adams we’re going to see,’ Jake said, oblivious to my pain, ‘she’s some kind of lady farmer. I didn’t want to send Deek ‘cos I thought he might frighten her.’ There was no ‘might’ about it, but wasn’t frightening people into parting with money Deek’s main purpose in life? ‘If she called the cops, you can see how it would look, and I’m not wanting the big man getting himself into any more bother.’

  So, there I had it. Displaying a so far unrevealed chivalrous side to his nature, Jake had decided on a softly-softly approach. Rather than send Deek to the door, I was instead to explain politely to the lady farmer all about the need to keep up payments, failing which further legal steps would be taken which would involve her in considerable additional inconvenience, embarrassment and expense. I was glad I was wearing my suit because it would make me more lawyerly-looking.

  ‘Give it to her tight,’ Jake said, as we trundled towards a red-brick farmhouse, along a rough track, fields either side, the only sign of life a bored-looking pony with a dirty canvas coat on its back, standing beside two hypothermic donkeys. ‘Use all the big legal words. It was her who wanted to pay cash. I only done it as a favour. Cash is no good to JT Motors, I’ve still got to put it through the books.’ By which I supposed he meant the set of books the Taxman was shown.

  In a hail of gravel, he pulled our vehicle to a halt at the front of the building, where a red 4x4 SUV was parked. As arranged, we weren’t going to visit mob-handed. I went to the door alone and knocked. No answer.

  ‘She must be in – the car’s here!’ Jake yelled at me from the van, when there was still no response despite repeated knocks and a few loud rattles at the brass letter box. ‘Try round the back!’

  It was the route of least resistance just to do as I’d been told. The sooner I was done the better. I could imagine what my dad would be like when I got back home after having abandoned my child. Turning the corner of the house, I found a small area of garden ground sectioned off by a wooden trellis with a wrought-iron gate and a path leading up to a side door.

  I’d only taken a couple of steps along the path when I noticed splintered wood sticking out from the frame and the door slightly ajar. ‘Mrs Adams?’ I called. ‘I’m here about the car.’

  I could have left it at that. I should have left it at that, gone back and told Jake she wasn’t in, but he would never have listened. So, approaching the damaged door with caution, I gave it a push, not expecting it to fall open and hang suspended on its middle hinge; the only one of three that remained intact.
As the top of the door toppled inwards and the bottom swung upwards and outwards at me, I jumped back, narrowly avoiding being hit by the door if not by the smell. The sweet, sickly smell that I’d thankfully encountered only a few times previously, and on those occasions insufficiently camouflaged even by the pine-fresh tang of mortuary disinfectant.

  I clamped a hand across my face, pushed the collapsed door with the toe of my shoe and looked in to what at first sight seemed like a normal farmhouse kitchen. To my right a cream-enamel AGA range. Straight ahead an immense oak dresser, plates neatly lined up, mugs hanging from hooks, and, beside it, a cast-iron and porcelain double sink with a few pots and pans upside down on the draining board. Pride of place, dead centre of the room, was an enormous wooden table, and centre of that, and very dead indeed, was the body of a man, one arm outstretched, the other across his stomach, legs hanging over the edge of the table, milky eyes staring up at the squadron of flies that had scrambled, taken off and now hovered above him.

  The cause of death was obvious. The man’s throat was gashed wide open and the murder weapon, a black-handled carving knife, protruded from his chest. I stepped forward for a better look. The table top was stained black with dried blood, caked hard onto the wood. The hand dangling over one side of the table was swollen, the fingers stiff and black. Whoever he was, he’d been dead for quite some time.

  I turned to leave, only to bump into Jake in the doorway, Deek at his back, towering over him.

  ‘What’s taking you . . . ?’ Jake asked, his voice trailing off as first the smell hit him and then he saw past me to the corpse on the table.

  ‘Better not come in,’ I said.

  Jake shoved me out of the way and marched right up to the table. I followed, trying to tell him that we needed first to leave and second to call the police.

  ‘All right, all right, hold on a minute,’ Jake said. ‘I’m only having a look.’ He peered down at the body, gloved hands in his pockets, tilting his head at an angle for a better glimpse at the man’s face. ‘No, that’s definitely not her,’ he said after a moment or two, then, glancing around, ‘Where do you think she is?’

  What was he talking about? He couldn’t still be expecting me to continue with our mission. Yes, Mrs Adams, I know there’s a dead man on your kitchen table, but can I have a quick word about your instalment arrears?

  I took a grip of his arm. ‘Let’s go.’

  He shook me off and waved Deek over. ‘Look familiar?’ Deek stared at the corpse for a moment and then shook his head.

  Jake walked to the dresser. There was a twenty pound note and some loose change in a glazed-pottery fruit bowl. He took the money, shoved it in his pocket and started to look around, presumably in case there was any other cash lying about.

  ‘Jake, we’ve got to get out of here. This is a crime scene. Start touching things and the cops could come up with some very funny ideas.’

  I turned on a heel, hoping he’d follow. He didn’t. He walked to a door in the far wall, opened it and stepped through. I went after him into a dark hallway leading to the front of the house, a flight of stairs immediately to my right.

  ‘Seriously, Jake. We need to phone the police.’ I reached into my pocket for my mobile and remembered Grace-Mary’s big black handbag. No use asking Jake. He never carried one. Cellphones had solved more crimes than Sherlock Holmes. In Jake’s uncertain world it was better to leave it safe in a drawer somewhere, like his own personal alibi.

  A noise. Jake turned around. He heard it too. A whimper. At first I thought it must be a dog. Then I heard it again. It was definitely human and coming from upstairs.

  ‘Wait here,’ I said to Jake. From the kitchen I could hear the sound of footsteps and glanced back the way I’d come to see Deek strolling around, studying this and that like he might be thinking of buying the place. ‘And tell that idiot to stand still and stop touching things!’

  By the time I’d reached the middle landing, the initial whimpering and sobbing had increased to a wail, unmistakably that of a child. I turned the bend and saw a small face peering at me through the banisters on the top level. It was a small girl, lying on her stomach, blonde hair matted and greasy, face streaked black with grime and tears. She didn’t look much older than Tina.

  ‘What’s your name?’ I asked softly, taking the next step very slowly. The girl stopped crying, but didn’t answer. ‘My name’s Robbie,’ I said. ‘What’s yours?’

  ‘Is that her?’ Jake shouted from the hallway.

  I looked around to see him at the foot of the stairs. ‘No, it’s not. Now shut up and find a phone.’

  When I turned around again, the tear-stained face was gone. It wasn’t difficult to work out where. There were four doors on the top level; three wide open, one firmly closed. I tiptoed over and knocked softly. ‘Hello?’ No response. I tried the handle, the door opened. Inside I encountered a different smell; not death this time, but the equally unpleasant aroma of stale urine and faeces. The room was small; a single bed, cheap wardrobe and chest of drawers the only furnishings. Empty crisp packets and biscuit wrappers were strewn across the threadbare carpet. A gnawed piece of orange cheese, hard around the edges, lay on a damp patch on the bed sheet beside a soft toy. On the floor across the other side of the bed I could see the corner of a duvet and, poking from beneath it, a shoe and part of a leg.

  ‘Come out. It’s okay, you’re safe now,’ I said. More sobs. ‘I’ve got a wee girl. She’s about the same age as you. Her name is Tina. What’s yours?’ I was giving it my best shot, but no amount of encouraging noises from me would tempt the child from her cocoon. I knelt down and gently tugged the foot that was sticking out. It withdrew sharply and she shifted, wedging herself under the bed.

  ‘If you come out, we can go downstairs.’ More sobbing, worse now. The girl began to squirm and drum her shoes on the floor. Talk of going downstairs wasn’t helping. It should have been obvious to me from the crisps and biscuit wrappers that she’d been to the kitchen already. She knew what was down there.

  ‘I’ve got a car,’ I said. ‘Let’s go and see the police. Or how about you tell me the name of your teacher or . . . ’ My conversational repertoire was fast running out. What did you say to a starving child who’d been living in her own filth for several days with a dead body downstairs? It wasn’t something they taught you at law school, or else I’d skipped the lecture.

  I kept trying, but I might as well have been talking to the stuffed toy; some kind of bird, grubby-white with a long yellow beak, one wing hanging by a thread and, strangely, wearing a green waistcoat. It was no bigger than my hand. I picked it up. ‘What’s your birdie’s name?’ The frantic writhing and battering of feet on the floor slowed to a stop. A promising sign. ‘I think he wants you. He’s lonely up here by himself. He’s sad and scared,’ I said, pressing home my advantage. ‘He must be hungry too. Why don’t I take him and see if I can find him something to eat?’

  I picked up the soft toy, made as though to walk out of the door and then turned to see the girl peeking over the top of the bed.

  ‘Come on,’ I said. ‘Come with me and we’ll find your birdie some food. We don’t need to go into the kitchen. We can go outside where the donkeys are.’

  Slowly the little girl unwrapped herself from the bedclothes and stood up. She was wearing a yellow dress, little white flowers embroidered around the hem. The garment was damp and stained and the source of much of the smell. In one dirty little hand she gripped a mobile phone.

  ‘Can I see your phone?’ I asked, reaching out. The girl looked like she was going to start wailing again. ‘Please?’

  She threw it onto the bed. I picked it up and pressed a few buttons, but the phone was as lifeless as the man on the kitchen table. I put it into my suit pocket. ‘Come on.’ I held out the stuffed toy to her. ‘Let’s go.’

  Eyes fixed on the waistcoat-wearing bird, the girl raised an arm from her side in slow motion. She was only a few feet away.

  ‘Come and ge
t the birdie,’ I said. She took a step forward, then another and another. ‘That’s it.’ With a final step she took the toy from my hand, clasped it to her chest and squeezed it tightly.

  ‘Hold my hand and we’ll go downstairs,’ I said, and amazingly one little hand released its grip on the toy and an arm extended slowly in my direction.

  ‘What’s going on in here?’ Jake Turpie marched into the room and glowered down at the child. ‘Who’s this?’ he asked, as though wanting me to make formal introductions. We were joined by Deek who had to duck his head under the lintel to come in.

  The wee girl stood there, looking up at the three of us, slack-jawed. Her grip on the stuffed toy weakened and she made a small whimpering sound. Before she could start wailing again I whisked her up into my arms and, her dirty little face pressed into my chest, carried her downstairs and as quickly as possible out of the house.

  7

  On 1st April 2013, the Scottish Government unified Scotland’s eight territorial police forces into one state-controlled police service. The unification was supposed to be about efficiency and saving money. Many believed it had more to do with power and control. Easier for a Justice Secretary to give orders to one Top Cop than try and bully a room full of Chief Constables.

  Whichever it was, the radical change had led to the closure of nearly one-third of the police stations in Scotland, along with three-quarters of control rooms. It meant that, without a phone, finding a policeman wasn’t easy. To make matters worse, when I eventually did find a cop it turned out to be Detective Inspector Dougie Fleming. The years he’d spent training to be the world’s most obnoxious individual had not been wasted.

  ‘I don’t buy any of this,’ he said, leafing through his notebook for the umpteenth time. ‘Why don’t you have another go? Try the truth this time. It will make a nice change.’