The Inglorious Dead (A Doug Michie Novel)

by Tony Black

  ‘That would be Bert?’ I said.

  ‘Bert Nichols, yes … He’s one of our own, and we look after our own.’

  Andy started the nodding dog treatment. I looked away from him and fixed on Davie. ‘I’m a bit confused. You see, Andy told me it was Bert Nichols who wanted to hire me to look into his son’s death. If that’s the case, why am I not talking to him?’

  Andy started to speak but was cut down by Davie’s flagging hand. ‘You’re correct, son, on both counts.’ He put down his drink and sat forward; a tyre of gut spilled from beneath his shirt. ‘We’re all one big family here, you understand. When Stevie Nichols took that knife in his heart it was a wound to us all, not just his father.’

  It had the ring of a cult to me. ‘So you see yourself as Stevie’s father, do you?’

  He didn’t like that, but masked the reaction with a smile. ‘Like I say, we’re family. And if somebody hurts my family, you can guarantee I’m going to have something to say about that.’

  His tone petered into menace on the final words. It was a subtle indicator that he was not a man to be messed with, as if that was in any doubt. I knew I didn’t want to be beholden to someone like Davie Grant and that’s what I sensed this visit was about: he was hiring me to look into Stevie Nichols’ death. Why he wanted to do that I didn’t know, but I wasn’t buying the ‘we’re all Orangemen together’ line. If I had a vague feeling before that there was much more to Stevie’s murder than a random street stabbing, then I was certain now. Call it a nose for trouble or the inalienable need of a cop to see wrongs put right, but the case had my attention now.

  ‘Andy’s told you about my fees, I take it?’ I said.

  Davie pressed out another sly smile, stood up with his hand out. ‘You’ve no worries on that front, Mr Michie.’

  As he gripped my hand, held tight, all I could think of was those beefy fingers of his sticking in the Marlin’s bloody gills.

  Chapter 7

  A white Range Rover was pulling into the driveway as Davie Grant stood on his front doorstep waving to Andy and myself. I recognised the girl behind the wheel at once; and she was a girl; if you were to call her a woman you’d append the word ‘barely’.

  Davie called out to his young wife, ‘Don’t tell me the shops shut early!’

  The girl drew me a sour look, turned her gaze on Andy for a minute and then stomped towards the house with the sharp points of her high heels firing like gunshots. When she reached Davie she pushed past him and he spun round before shouting out her name.

  ‘Cassie …’ His hands were in fists, as he showed us his back he slammed the door with the heel of his hand.

  ‘What do you think her problem is?’ I asked Andy.

  He was looking at the Range Rover’s badge, it read Evoque. ‘How much do you think one of these would set you back?’

  I could hear voices raised in the house. ‘A bundle, you can bet on that.’

  Andy straightened himself and sighed as we made for his battered VW Polo.

  ‘There’s more to life than a flashy motor, mate,’ I said.

  He started the engine; it coughed and spluttered. ‘I know, there’s the likes of Cassie as well.’

  I grinned to appease him but didn’t think for a moment that Davie was getting the return he’d anticipated from this particular investment; Cassie looked like another source of stress for the businessman.

  We took to the road, the sun starting to shine down on the roaming flats of Burns Country. The occasional bow-bent tree genuflected beyond the greens and browns and glinting coppers.

  ‘Auld Hermit Ayr staw thro’ his woods … An ancient borough rear’d her head …’

  ‘What’s that poetry?’ said Andy.

  ‘It’s Burns, you heathen!’

  His brows creased in a blunt plumb line. ‘I’ll take your word for it.’

  I changed tack, got onto more familiar territory for my friend. ‘It’s a funny old town, Ayr, is it not?’

  ‘You’ll not get any argument from me, there.’ Andy loosened his grip on the wheel, settled into his seat and kept his eyes front. ‘Some of its folk are queer enough to spout poetry!’

  I laughed and turned towards him; workmen in high-vis jackets had started to cone off the other side of the road, a sticky load of tar glistened from the black of a lorry, its slug line smear shining in the hot sun. ‘How did Davie Grant make his money?’

  Andy brightened at the change of subject. ‘Well, that’s a question I can answer. He had a quarry, still does as far as I know, but it’s mostly played out now. He had his own trucks at the quarry, you know, for the hauling and that … that’s where he makes most his money now, at the haulage.’

  I smiled. ‘He makes one hand feed the other …’

  ‘You could say that … But Davie Grant is a man with his fingers in several pies. He’s got a few puggies, you know, amusement arcades, as well. Oh and there’s a stack of flats he rents in the town, I think they call them executive apartments.’

  ‘So that’s how he can afford to keep Cassie in her Jimmy Choos.’

  ‘What …?’

  I shook my head. ‘Never mind.’

  I kept my impressions of Davie Grant, his wife, and their marital set-up in the wilds of Dalmellington to myself for the remainder of the journey back to Ayr. As we pulled off the by-pass onto the Maybole Road at the edge of Alloway, I released my seat belt and pointed out my mother’s house to Andy.

  He slowed the car to a halt. ‘When are you putting the house on the market?’

  ‘Soon.’

  ‘Must be tough.’

  ‘It’s the old family home, lot of memories in there.’

  Andy nodded, drummed two fingers on the rim of the steering wheel. ‘Well, if you need any help, with the moving and that, let me know.’

  ‘Going to ask Davie for one of his flats, are you?’

  ‘That’ll be right … you couldn’t afford his rents!’

  As Andy pulled out I waved him off. I stood at the foot of the path, beams of sunlight lancing from the sky, as I eyed the neighbour’s lawn. It was perfectly manicured, the mower must have been guided by a sextant, I thought. The lawn I was responsible for looked like an unkempt eyesore by comparison. I bowed my head and descended the path.

  As I stuck the key in the door I felt a knot twisting in my gut; I was returning to an empty home, not even Ben was around anymore. The thought gored me. It was just me now; me, my demons, and a houseful of memories.

  As I closed the door behind me I felt a jolt as the phone started to ring.

  ‘Hello …’

  There was a pause on the line.

  I spoke again, ‘Hello …’

  A woman spoke. ‘Hello, Doug.’

  I recognised the voice at once, it sparked a dizzying rush inside my head. I was confused, this was the last person I had expected to hear from. When we had parted, it was final and not on exactly the best of terms.

  ‘Lyn … I can’t believe it’s you.’

  A sigh; I imagined her twisting the phone cord nervously in her fingers. ‘Well, I-I sent you a few texts but didn’t get a reply … I thought you must have changed your number.’

  I lowered myself onto the stairs, sat. ‘Ah, now that explains one mystery.’

  ‘So you got them?’

  I turned down the edges of my mouth, knew that I’d backed myself into a corner. ‘I did, yeah … to be honest, I thought someone had made a mistake.’

  It was a weak excuse for my lack of reply, but she seemed to let me off the hook.

  ‘Well, I’ve got you now,’ she said, her tone brightening.

  ‘Yes, Lyn, you have got me now.’

  Chapter 8

  I spent the night going over the case as I understood it; it seemed like a better option than going over my past history with Lyn. I’d agreed to meet her in the morning, ‘just for coffee,’ she’d said, but I had my reservations and never liked picking at old wounds. If Lyn had been a familiar face for me when I�
�d returned to the Auld Toun, she was also a nice distraction from the wreckage of my career in Ulster. I knew I’d come home to forget, to put the past behind me, and by being there Lyn seemed to do just that for me.

  She represented a time in my life that I had all but closed myself off to, I’d forgotten so much of those days of our shared schooling at Ayr Academy and the sly summer pints sneaked in the beer garden of the old Bacchus. We were taking our first steps into adulthood and it was exciting, exhilarating. Neither of us was to know the years to come would be such a disappointment to us both, in our different ways.

  I’d liked Lyn, when we were kids and when I’d met her again; it was an instinctual grasp for some security, not a relationship, or even a friendship, but something else entirely: familiarity. Our shared past was something solid, we could hold it in our memories, regurgitate certain moments and feel like they meant something to us. Even when all we were recounting was inanity.

  ‘Do you remember Poolers pub?’ she’d once said.

  ‘Where was that?’

  ‘Kyle Street, y’know round from Finnie’s …’

  ‘Wasn’t that called Legends?’

  ‘Yeah, it was … but that was after. Poolers had all the pool tables.’

  ‘Oh yeah, and Legends had the pictures of Marlene Dietrich and Jimmy Dean on the walls.’

  She was starting to get irritated with me; mine wasn’t the memory she wanted to have, then.

  ‘But back to Poolers … you remember all the tables, pool tables, must have been eight or nine of them. I remember you falling for the old what colour’s that ball? It was some hardneck, from Jabba likely, I can see him laughing at you when you said maroon …’

  I huffed. ‘Yeah, I remember that … didn’t know whether I was going to be expected to go to the bar and buy him a drink after I’d said it’s ma-roon.’

  ‘It was all so new to us.’

  ‘Yeah, it was. Back then …’

  I smiled at the thought that I was recounting the memory of us recounting a memory. It was only twelve months ago that I’d seen Lyn, said goodbye. I didn’t think I’d be seeing her again so soon; I chided myself for being stupid enough to think that anything in this life was so final, surely by my age and wealth of experience I knew better than that.

  I cracked the seal on another San Miguel; there was still heat in the air and the beer and weather both set me in mind of summer holidays. There was nothing in the few internet printouts that I had from the reports on the killing of Steven Nichols that spoke to me, but the visit to Davie Grant and the brush with his wife, Cassie, seemed to suggest otherwise. Call it instinct or my tried and tested assessment of the nature of people, but I knew something didn’t sit right. I knew also that I didn’t like the thought of messing about with a death in the Orange Order, I’d seen enough fanatics in Ulster playing the religion card.

  The Nichols boy was somebody’s son, though. And Andy was a friend I’d sworn to help out. The cop’s call for justice still burned in me, whether the force wanted me or not.

  I put down my beer and walked through to the front lounge. The place was in eerie darkness, a glabrous moon beyond the window providing just enough light for me to catch the old white net curtains billowing in the slight breeze. I reached for the light switch and flooded the scene with brightness; my eyes stung as I scanned the room for the telephone.

  Bert Nichols was slow to answer; it made me wonder about the time. I checked my wristwatch, it was after eleven.

  A rough throat-clearing: ‘Hello …?’

  ‘Mr Nichols?’

  ‘Yes. Who is this?’

  I tried to ease my way into the subject subtly. ‘I’m sorry to call so late, my name is Michie … I’m an investigator, of sorts.’

  ‘A what?’

  I explained the situation, who I was. The mention of Andy and Davie Grant seemed to set some distant bells chiming in the recesses of his tired mind.

  ‘Ah, I see. Pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr Michie.’

  ‘I was actually hoping to meet with you, if that was at all possible?’

  ‘At this hour?’

  ‘I was thinking more like tomorrow afternoon.’

  His voice stuttered, ‘I’m afraid that won’t be possible … we are marching then, you realise.’

  I’d forgotten it was the season. ‘Ah … then what about before, or after?’

  ‘Mr Michie, I’m tied up for the entire day. I could snatch a few minutes here and there with you, but that’s the best I could do – I wouldn’t want you wasting a day running after me.’

  ‘No, that’s fine. I can join you before the march and take it from there.’

  ‘Well, if you’re sure.’

  ‘Yes, I’m sure. There are a few things I need to know before I start digging.’ I winced on the final, inappropriate word.

  ‘Well, I’ll see you bright and early tomorrow, Mr Michie.’

  ‘Tomorrow it is. Goodbye.’

  As I put down the phone I knew I was going to have to pick it up again right away. The fragile arrangement I’d made to meet Lyn for coffee would have to be cancelled now.

  I let out a long exhalation of breath and reached for the receiver.

  Chapter 9

  The radio alarm woke me with the news from Razorlite that there was trouble in America.

  When is there never? I thought.

  I reached for the off button; I had troubles enough of my own to think about.

  I dressed quickly, in the still-belted jeans by my bed, a fresh white T-shirt and a sweat-top-cum-hoodie that had seen better days. I had a fair idea there’d be people groomed to the nines where I was going – bowler hats and the lot – and I definitely didn’t want to be confused with one of their number.

  Bert Nichols had sounded like a square peg on the phone, but I knew that was often the case; I could recall being warned early on that it was the ‘quiet ones you need to watch out for’. He was in the Orange Order, after all; that in itself took some out-there views in my book, even if he did hide his light under a bushel. Still, I was taking nothing for granted; I’d seen the loss of a child do strange things to people, some wailed like keening mothers of old and some held it in, let it fester.

  The postie had come early, the mat on the hall smothered in a rainforest of glossy flyers, the top one for the Iceland store up the road. I sifted through the pile and picked out the one genuine item of mail. It was a white envelope, felt like a card; as I ripped into it my suspicions were confirmed. It was a sympathy card from the vets offering condolences on the loss of my ‘good friend, Ben’. I felt a jab at my heart but it passed quickly as reality flooded back: I tipped up the card to find the bill – it wasn’t there. I felt genuinely moved by the gesture, and more than a little guilty I’d been cynical enough to question their motives; I suppose, if you look hard enough, there is still some heart in this world.

  I knew my way around my mother’s kitchen so well by now that I could just about make my morning coffee blindfolded. ‘Jesus, Doug … don’t get settled, now.’

  I brushed the stubble on my chin and leaned over the sink to look out the window; flat white clouds hung in the sky, a hint of low sun burnishing their edges.

  ‘Time to move on …’

  I knew now it was time to leave Auld Ayr. I was slowly coming to question that it had been a good move coming back at all. I couldn’t figure it out, why had I returned? When I’d been shown the door by the RUC they’d made it clear Belfast was no place for me: was it fear or familiarity that drove me here? I didn’t know the answer to that, but I did feel called. Perhaps that was it, to lay old ghosts to rest and move on, rebuild somewhere else. The passing thought found a new significance in my mind: I’d had to cancel on Lyn; perhaps it was for the best. She hadn’t taken it well and had gone all quiet on me; she deserved a fuller explanation.

  I picked up the phone and let my thumb hover over her name in the contacts book, but couldn’t press it. It was something about the disappointm
ent I knew was going to be heard in her voice. Lyn had faced enough disappointment in her life and I didn’t want to be the one to shovel more on there and watch.

  ‘Suck it up, Doug …’

  I resolved to text, a cop out I know, but that was the level I’d reached now. I had so much to face – the case, the house sale, my future – that I would be making a few more stark choices if I was to reach the end of the list in one piece.

  I tipped the remainder of my coffee in the sink and snatched up my car keys. The road out to Mossblown was quiet, unusual for the A77 these days, but I wasn’t knocking it.

  I’d found directions for the route of the march easily enough; I figured on parking up at one of the town’s two pubs and taking it from there. Mossblown was Apache country to me; it had been a mining village once, filled with decent enough types but – like everywhere else on the west-coast – now was fading fast. I pulled up at the Fourways Pub and made my way in, tried to blend. There was a group of lads pinting it already.

  ‘See wee Arthur had his shed burnt out,’ said one, an elbow on the bar but an eye on some banter.

  ‘His shed?’

  ‘Aye … they think it was that flag of his they were after.’

  Something seemed to be missing, it was the omnipresent smokers’ pall – pubs like this seemed undressed without it, the yellowed walls were almost embarrassed on full display.

  The barman came over and nodded; he took my order and joined the chatter. ‘Arthur’s only got himself to blame … can’t be flying a Union Jack in these times.’

  I looked down the bar, the crowd were nodding. ‘He kept it for the football, though.’

  ‘Well, it might be the right colours for the ’Gers but not for the country, some would say.’

  The youth raised himself off the bar and pointed a finger at the barman. ‘You trying to say something?’

  ‘All I’m saying is, there’s a reason for that sign above the door!’

  My pint was placed before me, some golden liquid evacuated over the edge and ran towards the beer mat. I paid up and glanced towards the door and the sign which read: NO FOOTBALL COLOURS.