The Inglorious Dead (A Doug Michie Novel)

by Tony Black

  The youths seemed to retreat, silenced but not calmed. I watched as one thinned eyes towards me as if trying to ascertain which foot I kicked with. I put out an unthreatening smile and headed for the window seat to hide behind my pint and the morning paper. I’d almost forgotten how tribal this part of Scotland became when football and religion entered the conversation. The running conflict was almost hard-wired in some parts of the populace. I felt my adrenaline spike as an atavistic fear rose in my chest, a programmed response that had not been called upon for decades.

  I had the pint to my lips as the rowdier of the group appeared before me, tipping his head threateningly and slapping his palms on the table.

  ‘You got some kind of problem, pal?’ he said.

  Chapter 10

  I had problems coming out of my ears, but something told me the pencil-neck in front of me wasn’t going to be adding to them, no matter how much he’d like to. There was a stock Ayrshire put-down queuing on my lips: ‘I’ve forgotten more than you’ve learned, son.’

  ‘What?’

  I sat back in my seat and spread my arms behind me in the most unthreatening gesture I could manage. The yob jutted his jaw in reply, he was the sort that collected trouble around the country villages like others collected muck on their boots. I knew the type and knew the routine for dealing with them. I felt myself sighing inwardly.

  ‘If you’re thinking of noising me up, pal, you might as well pick the window you’d like to leave through now …’

  He thinned his eyes, heavy brows drooped. I’d seen the look a million times before; in uniform it had been the cause to take a step back, but I hadn’t been in uniform for years – now I knew the look as the match to the blue touch-paper. I’d given him two choices: laugh it off and move away, or call in the Mossblown massive for back-up. I sat back and watched as the gerbils working the wheel inside his head put in a panic sprint.

  ‘What?’ The word seemed to drop out of his mouth like drool. I wasn’t playing by the rules and all pubs have rules – it was like playing pool in a pub for the first time and having to make clear two shots carry after a foul – I was merely pointing out that the local Young Team didn’t play in my league.

  I stood up, if there was one thing known to unsettle a prospective attacker it was the ear to ear grin: I smiled my widest, right in his face. I imagined myself knocking him over with Ultrabrite rays, but truth told, I wouldn’t have needed any help. As he staggered backwards the only thought on his mind was ‘get me away from this nut-job’.

  When the youth retreated my view to the bar opened up; a middle-aged man in a black suit and tie was standing there with his hands clasped behind his back. When he saw me looking he took two steps forward and spoke. ‘Mr Michie?’

  I turned off the full-beam. ‘Yes.’

  He brought his hands front, allowed one to clasp the black bowler and extended the other. ‘I’m Bert Nichols.’

  I took his hand. ‘Pleased to meet you.’

  Mr Nichols refused the offer of a drink and joined me at my table. I felt a slight embarrassment for him having witnessed the fun and games with the village idiot, but after a few moments in his company it was clear to me that Bert was a wise enough man to be unperturbed by such trivia. He seemed to take his position seriously; this was a man who had just lost a son, to be suited and booted for a march so soon showed a level of dedication I hadn’t counted on. Was he a zealot? My automatic assumption to all those with religion and politics was a definite yes, but there was more to him than that.

  ‘How long have you been a marcher?’ I said.

  ‘Man and boy.’ His answer was succinct, didn’t require clarification.

  ‘And I believe your son, Steven, was too …’

  His gaze met the middle distance, seemed to alter his focus. ‘Yes. That he was.’

  It might not have been the most subtle introduction to the subject, but having stumbled upon it now, it would be churlish not to make the most of it. I avoided a recounting of the murder and its details and tried to establish what background I could.

  ‘Stevie was an avid supporter of your … interest?’

  He turned to face me, seemed ruffled. ‘That’s an unusual way of putting it.’

  ‘How would you like me to put it?’

  ‘Do I sense a distaste for our interest, Mr Michie?’

  How did I answer that? I could spell it out flatly, or I could give details about how I’d grown up in the west-coast and seen school-mates’ family homes with pictures of King Billy on the wall. The Battle of the Boyne was 1690, that some people were still so obsessed with it was beyond me.

  I went for avoidance; it didn’t serve me to put all my cards on the table right away. ‘My opinions aren’t relevant here. However, the fact that you ask the question makes me think both you and your son were no strangers to hostile company.’

  A thin smile pressed itself on his dry lips. ‘You seem an astute man, Mr Michie. I’m sure there is no question of your professionalism being compromised.’

  ‘None whatsoever.’

  He didn’t reply, just looked at his watch then averted his gaze towards the window. A crowd was gathering outside.

  ‘I’ll have to be making tracks soon.’

  ‘Of course … before you go, can you help me out with some contacts of your son’s?’

  ‘Friends, associates, that sort of thing?’

  I nodded. ‘Was there a partner, a girl?’

  Mr Nichols coughed into his hand. ‘Yes, perhaps, at least I believe so.’

  ‘Well, I’d like to speak to her, and any others you think may be relevant. Especially those who were with him on the night of the …’ I clamped my mouth tight.

  ‘The murder, Mr Michie.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I’ll draw up a list and send it to you, will there be anything else?’

  ‘Not right away. Not until I get more of a handle on the case.’

  He stood up, collected his bowler and headed for the door. As he went he put a thinned stare on the group of youths I’d encountered earlier; they dropped heads towards their pints.

  ‘They tell me you were police once.’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘In Ulster, I believe.’

  ‘You’ve done your own investigation.’

  He raised his hat. ‘Due diligence, you might call it.’ He patted down the top of the bowler. ‘You’ll know John Scott, the investigating officer, I presume?’

  His casual use of the DI’s name caught me off guard. ‘I know him a little …’

  ‘Perhaps you should get to know him a little more, Mr Michie.’ He touched the rim of his hat as he left through the door.

  Chapter 11

  It could have been the passing of my mid-life crisis or it could have been the desire to move on, but the sporty Audi’s appeal was now wearing thin. I took my thoughts back to the day I’d bought the car, fresh from Ulster and looking for a familiar place to lick my wounds; it was only a year or so ago but it seemed like forever. So much had happened, I could tot up the events in order of impact: the death of my mother, the death of the family dog, the death of my marriage, my career and the very early death of any relationship I’d had with Lyn. I knew there was one more death I could have, perhaps even should have, added to that list: my own. The person I had to thank for that not being the case was an old friend from my days on the force, Mason. He wouldn’t hear tell of thanks though; truth told, he wanted as little to do with me as possible.

  I pulled over at the Tesco Express on the Maybole Road, I still had the car park fixed as the old Anfield Hotel in my mind, couldn’t quite come to terms with another self-service outlet adding to the sprawling Tesco empire. When I was a kid, you’d be embarrassed beyond the life of you to be seen with a blue and white Tesco bag; heaven forefend you would be forced to wear Tesco trainers, if you’d suggested then the shop would take over the country, there’d have been gut-laughs all round.

  I stilled the engine and
took out my mobile phone. Mason’s number was still on speed-dial from the last case he’d assisted me with, but hadn’t been used for some time.

  Ringing.

  ‘Hello …’

  It was a gruff reply, he’d have me on caller ID so I shouldn’t have been surprised.

  ‘Is that the best you can manage?’

  A tut.

  ‘Is there a purpose to this call, Doug?’

  Straight for the jugular, as ever.

  I toned down my enthusiasm to re-establish the friendship. ‘You know, I think it’s the native Americans who have the philosophy that when you save someone’s life, you become responsible for them.’

  ‘I’m a native of Cumnock.’

  ‘I’ve heard the town called Dodge City. Isn’t that the wild west?’

  He huffed down the line. ‘I think it’s more to do with the number of benefits claimants.’

  The way this Tory government were going I could see the town becoming a tent city soon. ‘If call me Dave gets his way they might have to break out the bivouac … have you still got your tepee?’

  He shuffled the phone to his other hand, I heard an office door creak. ‘Right. Enough banter, is there something you want?’

  ‘I’m on my way out to the Maclaurin Galleries …’

  ‘Rozelle?’

  The last time we worked together we’d met in the similarly private setting of Belleisle; I presumed the locality would spark his interest, or at least make him a little curious.

  ‘I’ve not been out that way for a while. Maybe I’ll join you.’

  ‘I’m on my way now.’

  He clicked off.

  I’d grown up around this way, all the streets were depressingly familiar and haunted by ghosts of childhood memories. Times plunking school, fagging it on ten Regal bought with the money in my father’s coin bottle. Football matches against the Belmont Academy team, their coach with the hair sprayed into a crash helmet, who would never head the ball. On my way back to the Auld Toun, these reminiscences had been a comfort, a familiar old coat I threw on and pretended to be the younger man I once was. Now they were just distractions, odd jarring flashbacks that served only to make me feel like an anachronism. I was out of place, out of time; I needed to move on and I needed Mason to help me with that.

  As I pulled into the car park a dog walker jerked the lead tight and scolded an energetic spaniel. The sight burned me, reminded me when Ben was like that. I stilled the engine and raised eyes to the sky.

  ‘Get a grip, Michie,’ I told myself. My mind was wandering and that was no state to be in on a murder investigation; when you get sloppy, things go wrong.

  I locked the car and headed through to the gallery. There was a permanent exhibition, the late Alexander Goudie’s paintings of the epic Tam O’Shanter poem. I didn’t need an excuse to come and wallow in Burns’ genius, but every time I did I was transported to the work, the dark night when ‘… chapman billies leave the street, And drouthy neibors, neibors, meet …’

  I was admiring Goudie’s work, his fine detailing of the infamous grey mare, Meg, when I became dimly aware of another presence in the room.

  ‘A better never lifted leg …’

  As I turned around I spied Mason, he put his hand out. ‘Hello, Doug.’

  ‘How’s things?’ I said.

  ‘In general or in the force?’

  I tilted my head, ‘Are you still allowed to call it that, thought you were the Police Service now?’

  ‘Aye well, don’t get me started.’

  The ice-breaking had went better than I hoped, as we padded about the gallery we shared conversation in hushed tones, right up until ‘Kirk-Alloway was drawing nigh’ and Mason lost his patience with all the small chat.

  ‘So, what’s this about, Doug?’

  ‘This?’

  He raised a hand, placed the flat of his palm on my chest. ‘Don’t even attempt to disguise the fact you have another agenda.’

  ‘That sounds even worse than an ulterior motive.’

  He removed the hand and covered his eyes in disbelief.

  ‘Look … I’m leaving town.’

  He seemed unfazed. ‘I don’t remember a big goodbye when you went to Ulster.’

  I let out a defeated sigh; it was histrionics and Mason knew it but the elaborate pas de deux felt like custom now. ‘Okay, and I’m on a case.’

  ‘What in the … do you forget how the last one ended?’

  ‘Mason. This isn’t like that, I’m doing a favour …’

  ‘Yeah, let me guess, for a friend.’

  ‘That’s right, but I assure you this is my last hurrah and then I’m moving on, I’ve had it with Ayr.’

  Now he smiled. ‘And, boy, Doug Michie, has Ayr had it with you.’

  ‘What are you on about?’

  The smile subsided as he started to fasten the buttons of his coat. ‘Sorry, I believe that was a straw man projection … what I meant to say is, I’ve had it with you, Doug. So, don’t think of asking me to sneak out case files or snoop on fellow officers, or what’s that other favourite of yours? Oh yeah, save your sorry backside from oblivion!’

  Mason’s strides to the door were heavy with the satisfaction of a man who had spoken his mind. He got as far as the doorway before I called out to him.

  ‘It suits you, Mason … the Detective Inspector title, that is.’

  He stopped dead in his tracks, spun. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

  I walked slowly towards him, dropped my voice to a less confrontational volume and said: ‘It means, you did alright out of your last involvement with one of my cases.’

  My last point hung in the air between us like a noxious gas that threatened dire consequences.

  Chapter 12

  Mason waited until I drew level with him and then he uttered one word: ‘Outside.’

  I trailed him down the heavy-stone steps, we remained unspeaking but the sound of shoe leather on bare stone resounded with us. I thought about a placatory comment, something to claw back the barbs in the last one, but nothing came to me. I’d known Mason for so long that he would likely see through it anyway, brush it aside with a put-down riding point.

  Mason was first through the front door, pushing so hard the hinges screamed out. In the street he pointed me to the car park and started to move in long, loping strides.

  ‘Look this is ridiculous,’ I called out.

  He turned and put the serious eye on me. ‘We’ll talk in the car.’

  I held up my palms and followed behind him once again; what was the point in arguing? He was either going to help out or not, even the old pals act wore thin eventually.

  Mason had parked next to me, a silver BMW. I watched the blinkers flash as he opened up, and clocked the badge on the rear.

  ‘Man, they sprung for the five series …’ the words were out before I realised their import.

  ‘I’m warning you, Doug, don’t start trying to cash-in favours.’ He had the cheek to point his finger at me, as if to ram home the message. ‘Now get in.’

  I closed the door gently, ran a reassuring hand over the leather dash. I knew I was making a ‘big spender’ face when he turned to front me and spoke again, through his lower teeth this time.

  ‘If one of us owes the other something, then I’m the one that should be collecting, Doug.’

  ‘Look, I don’t want to argue the toss with you …’

  He cut in. ‘Because you know I’m right. What am I?’

  ‘I nodded. Yes, Mason, you’re right.’

  ‘Grand, then we’re sorted.’ He removed the car key from his pocket and put it in the ignition. He glanced my way again. ‘Are you still here?’

  ‘Now that you’re a DI, and moving in some rarefied circles no doubt, what’s your impression been of John Scott?’

  Mason pushed himself further back in the driver’s seat, it was as if he was trying to ease himself out of discomfort. ‘John’s one of the boys, you know that.’

 
‘He’s Craft, you mean?’

  ‘Along with a fair portion of the others in King Street. I’ve no reason to believe it compromises him, he’s a top operator as far as I know.’

  I thought his answer was a little too diplomatic, like his new rank had altered his thinking.

  ‘That was a very quick response.’

  ‘I’m a quick lad … now what’s this about?’

  I told him what I knew about the street stabbing of Stevie Nichols. About his connections to the Orange boys, about his father’s standing in the Order and about my invitation from Davie Grant to look into the case further. All the while Mason sat silently, taking it all in. If there was an ounce of interest flickering in those eyes of his, I missed it.

  He stalled before responding, drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. ‘Now, if I didn’t know John Scott was the investigating officer on that case, this would be my chance to ask why you dropped his name …’

  I shook my head. ‘If only it was so simple; the victim’s father suggested Scott might be a good first step on my investigation.’

  Mason gripped the wheel, looked front. ‘Now, why would he do that?’

  ‘That’s what I wondered, and then you confirmed for me that he’s a player in the Craft.’

  ‘Now wait a minute, that lot have had their fingers well and truly burnt lately. I don’t see there being any connection there at all.’

  The windows in the car were starting to steam up and I could feel my lungs calling out for nicotine. I eased the door open and motioned Mason outside. As I lit us up I sensed a marked change in his demeanour.

  ‘Well, now I have your interest let me run a theory by you …’

  He inhaled deep. ‘Go on.’

  ‘Let’s suppose we don’t buy the verdict of a street stabbing by some un-named rowdy.’

  ‘Oh, Doug, come on … you’re dumping your rubbish on my doorstep again.’

  I flagged him down, held my cigarette like a dart to emphasise my points. ‘Well, it was in leafy Prestwick, and just about on the lad’s doorstep, so not exactly by the book. But, that aside, why is the Order’s top boy hiring me to go over it again when he knows the very friendly DI Scott will surely have done a thorough job?’