The Inglorious Dead (A Doug Michie Novel)

by Tony Black

  She was sleeping, her long dark hair sweeping her bare shoulders. It felt wrong to stare; I turned away and took in the carnage of the room. The abandoned clothes, the upturned bottle of Absolut and the messy remnants of the Royal Blossom’s take-away containers.

  My eyes drew me back to Lyn; she seemed to be smiling in her sleep, content. There was a response queuing on my lips, something like, ‘Oh, sweet Lord …’ but I held schtum and backed out of the bed.

  I scooped up my clothes from the floor; I seemed to be missing a shoe but presumed it couldn’t be too far away. As I closed the door and dressed in the hallway, my gut turned, acid bile making its way up my windpipe. It could have been the food, I told myself, but a siren wail inside my head begged to differ.

  ‘Vodka …’ I was at the age where social drinking meant a bottle of wine, maybe a tot of Tia Maria under the tinsel at Christmas time. What was I playing at?

  The missing shoe showed itself on the top step of the staircase. I carried the pair all the way to the kitchen, presuming my stockinged feet would be best not to wake my guest. I scrunched my eyes at the thought of Lyn lying in my bed, but the image wouldn’t dissolve. I tried to ask myself what I was doing, why had this happened? I was moving on and Lyn was looking for something I couldn’t offer, or didn’t want. Well, that had been my last rational assumption.

  In the kitchen I opened the window and hoped my frayed nerves would negotiate for peace with the first cigarette of the day. The hangover I could just about live with, but the guilt trip was the killer. I’d fallen for Lyn before and had the idea blow up in my face. I’d been on the rebound from my failed marriage and Lyn looked like the answer to my misery. At least, that’s what I thought at the time; looking back now I think it was more a case of like attracting like. She was at a low ebb then, too, and saying our goodbyes had been the right thing to do. It was a period in my life I’d tried to bury, move on from, move away from … at best, I’d allow myself to resort to the wisdom of Burns.

  Had we never lov’d sae kindly,

  Had we never lov’d sae blindly,

  Never met — or never parted –

  We had ne’er been broken-hearted.

  The kettle was boiling when I heard the door creak behind me. Lyn appeared in the doorframe with bed head and bare legs, smiling. The sight of her awake, and clearly cognisant, kicked something inside me.

  ‘Good morning …’ I said.

  As she walked towards me the bare soles of her feet slapped the cold floor. She put her arms round my neck and tucked her head into my shoulder. It seemed the most natural thing in the world to do the same, so I did, but something told me it wasn’t an act without consequence.

  We drank tea and discussed the possibility of breakfast, we even managed to look at a loaf of bread and contemplate toast, but declined. The awkward feeling between us faded but didn’t subside. It was as if there was a great question hanging in the air around us. Of course, neither of us were naive enough to say the words ‘what now?’ That was for teenagers or commitment addicts; both of us had been around the block far too many times to countenance such a gauche move. We talked about the weather, Ayr United’s parlous financial affairs and just about anything that filled the silent gaps.

  ‘Are you going to put your shoes on?’ said Lyn.

  ‘I suppose I should.’ I collected the worn brogues from the barstool beside me. ‘They’ve seen better days, I’ll have to take them to Blaney Quinn.’

  Lyn’s dark eyes lit, ‘Eh, I don’t think so …’

  The Auld Toun’s oldest cobbler had been rumoured to be on the verge of retirement for twenty years now. ‘Don’t tell me he’s shut up shop.’

  Lyn grimaced, showed an inverted smile. ‘You didn’t hear?’

  ‘Hear what?’

  ‘I’m afraid he did retire … and then passed away really quickly after.’

  The news didn’t seem real; I’d have believed Markies had slipped into the River Ayr first. ‘That’s too sad for words.’

  ‘I loved that wee place.’

  ‘Everybody did.’

  The conversation seemed suddenly gravid with our own mortality. I wanted to change tack; my instinct was to talk of my desire to leave Ayr, get away from all the memories – good and bad – and start afresh. But that wasn’t an option.

  Lyn took the lead. ‘Have you sent me those pictures yet?’

  She was talking about the shots I’d taken of Jan Milne and her boyfriend. Lyn’s son was about the same age as them – she thought he might recognise the lad.

  ‘Er no, I’ll do that now …’ I took my iPhone from the pocket of my Levi’s; Lyn snatched it out my hand and scrolled to the pictures.

  ‘He looks familiar.’

  ‘I thought that too.’

  ‘What are you saying, all boys that age look alike?’

  I nodded. ‘Well, look at the get-up … skinny jeans and a Rollers’ haircut.’

  Lyn frowned and handed me back the phone. ‘Send me the pictures, I’ll get Glenn to have a look at them. This is a small town, you know what it’s like, the young ones all know each other.’

  It struck me she was right, it also struck me that her son might have had some knowledge of the victim, too. ‘Did Glenn know Steven Nichols?’

  ‘He knew of him, I remember him commenting that he was a flashy sort when the news came out.’

  ‘Aren’t they all flashy at that age? The lad in the pic has a Clio that must cost an arm and a leg to insure, let alone keep on the road.’

  She rose, collected a towel from a pile on the worktop, and walked towards the kitchen door. ‘Doug Michie, I think your opinions are hardening faster than your arteries … loosen up.’

  She had a point, neither of us were remotely flashy at that age; the thought was a further realisation of just how far back we really went.

  I waved her off. ‘The shower’s at the top of the stairs … make yourself at home, why don’t you.’

  Chapter 23

  The house had never looked so tidy. I couldn’t ever recall my mother using Glade plug-ins, but then, towards the end she was lucky to rise out of bed and attach herself to a bottle. I’d grown used to the grey dusting of fluff that covered the living room carpet and almost registered the shape of my footfalls on my rare forays in there, but the new brightness of the pile almost assaulted my eyes.

  ‘I had to empty the bag twice … when did you last run a hoover over this room?’ said Lyn.

  A shrug was my best answer. ‘I’m not the world’s greatest housekeeper.’

  ‘You’ve got that right.’ She sallied off towards the kitchen, and likely some more chores.

  I rolled my eyes to the ceiling as she went; it wasn’t that I didn’t appreciate her help – especially now the house was on the market – but there was something that felt wrong. I trailed Lyn through to the kitchen.

  ‘You know, just because I’m handless in here doesn’t mean you have to pick up the slack …’ I said.

  She turned and stuck out her hip, ‘Don’t I know it, sunshine!’ She placed a hand on her jutting hip, as if for dramatic effect. ‘I’m not doing it for you, it’s because I don’t like living in a pig-sty.’

  She turned and went back to the sink, flicked the taps on nearly to full. There was one word in her speech that was stuck in my head like a bad tune – living. I tried to tell myself it was no more than a turn of phrase, a grasp for words, but there was no denying that there was a heavier connotation. If I’d been a bit surer of myself, or a bit less aware of Lyn’s feelings, I’d have jumped on the statement and tried to make something of it, had it out with her. The fact of the matter was I’d reached a point in my life where my main purpose had become getting through each day without upsetting anyone – even if it meant storing up trouble for myself.

  ‘Are you still here?’ said Lyn. She turned around, started to push her fingers into a pair of yellow Marigold gloves; the rubber snapped tight.

  ‘I’m just leaving.’

>   She went back to the taps. ‘Do you want me to get something in for tea?’

  My heart froze. Had we become so settled already? She’d been here no more than a couple of days and already we sounded domesticated.

  ‘Well, I suppose.’ I tried to deflect the suggestion, move the arrangement back onto a more temporary affair. ‘Or I can bring back a pizza.’

  ‘Forget it! That wheelie bin out there’s stuffed with pizza boxes, is that what you’ve been living on?’

  I gripped my rapidly inflating spare tyre, ‘I suppose I’ve got used to not cooking.’

  ‘Well, it’s changed days, Doug Michie … soon as I’ve cleaned that oven I’m heading to the shops – steak pie do you? Pollock Williamson at the bottom of the town do a great steak pie.’

  I watched her retrieve the stainless-steel shelves from the oven and start to wrestle them into the sink. She seemed content, happier than I’d seen her in weeks. I knew it wasn’t the idea of cleaning up after me, so that only left one option; I dared not think about how I was messing with her head, or if my own bonce could cope either.

  I set off for the front door, collected my old black leather from the coat-stand; it was a waist-length job that I’d had for years but had hardly worn because my ex-wife had called it my ‘bouncer’s coat’. She thought I looked like a doorman in the jacket but the days of her thoughts having the slightest influence on me were well and truly over.

  I collected the car keys and headed out.

  The Audi started on the first turn of the ignition, by the Loaning the engine was purring sweetly. I was on my way back out to Prestwick, to pay an unannounced visit to Bert Nichols and try to divine some information about his son’s former fiancée. Something Jan Milne had said about the Nichols being God-botherers made me wonder just who I was dealing with. Turning the other cheek and tolerance didn’t seem to be regular hits on the Order’s radar so Bert’s enthusiastic involvement was puzzling. Still, he wouldn’t be the first religious hypocrite I’d come across – in Ulster they were ten a penny.

  I’d reached Wallacetown, was taking the roundabout at Waggon Road, when I spotted a Mondeo speeding up behind me. I ventured as far as the Prestwick Road when I noticed the blue lights flashing in the Mondeo’s grille.

  ‘What in the …?’

  I tried to check out the driver, to see if it was a face I knew, but the sun visor was down. A finger at the end of a flailing arm started pointing me into the side of the road.

  ‘Okay … okay.’

  I pulled in, stilled the engine. As I waited for the flashing blue lights to subside I eyed the Mondeo driver. I still couldn’t see a face, but the broad shoulders and the collar and tie told me it was a bloke.

  ‘Come on, show yourself …’

  The lights died and a door opened. For a moment a thought occurred to me that it might be an old colleague on the wind up, but the short stocky frame didn’t ring any bells. As the face hove into view I saw there was a beard attached, a thin straight nose and dark eyes above which kept watch on my movements at the wheel. The figure moved swiftly, decisive footing on the busy road, unmoved by the speeding traffic and the soundings of horns by those inconvenienced by him parking across the junction.

  As the police officer reached my car window he cracked a heavy knuckle on the glass, rapping impatiently.

  I opened up.

  I knew at once the face staring back at me. It belonged to the inscrutable DI John Scott.

  Chapter 24

  I have to be honest and say that the sight of DI Scott at the window of my motor wasn’t a pleasant one. He was slightly out of breath but hadn’t been running so I put that down to either poor cardio fitness or a simmering anger – the fleshy folds above his beard seemed flushed too, white radial lines breaking at the corners of his eyes.

  ‘Doug Michie,’ he said, more like a question than a statement.

  ‘I take it you don’t want to see my drivers’ licence if you know who I am.’

  He leaned over, drummed fingers on the roof of my car. ‘I was thinking it was time you and me had a chat … what do you say?’

  I looked ahead, shrugged. ‘What about?’

  He palmed the roof, but didn’t answer my question. ‘Turn the car around, follow me up, eh?’

  ‘Okay … lead the way.’

  I turned the key in the ignition.

  DI Scott took the road back into Ayr; he seemed to be heading for the centre of town, but at the King Street roundabout took the road ahead and swung round past the college.

  ‘Where are you taking me, Detective Inspector?’ I mouthed the words under my breath; if he thought he was driving me out to the wilds for a meeting with his nightstick, he could think again.

  At the next roundabout he did a U-turn, swung under the railway bridge and made for the underground car park at Debenhams. He either wanted to chat in the subterranean seclusion or he was perfectly content to keep our meeting in the open.

  As Scott’s Mondeo parked up, I pulled alongside and lowered my window.

  He yelled to me across the cold expanse of concrete, ‘I’ll buy you a coffee, you know the Costa?’

  I nodded, but couldn’t quite believe what I was hearing. Scott seemed to want to recreate the Pacino and De Niro scene from Heat; I could almost see him telling me if I got in his way he was taking me down. The thought forced a smirk onto my face.

  ‘Something funny?’ he said.

  ‘No, nothing at all … let’s get this coffee.’

  In Costa we took a small table towards the rear of the café; we were parallel to the counter and the serving staff – full view of all the goings on.

  Scott returned with a tray, two large cups on top, and a Glasgow Herald folded beneath his arm. ‘You’re probably wondering why I picked this place?’

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘Well, it’s because it’s busy … and out in the open.’ He put down the tray and the newspaper.

  ‘And that’s how you want it.’

  He nodded. ‘That’s how I want it, Mr Michie … all out in the open, no funny business …’

  I cut him off. ‘And no funny handshakes.’

  He didn’t reply to my prodding, but he registered a change of expression that said I knew he was a member of the Craft. My most recent experience with that section of the police service had taught me that there was no need for subtlety where they were concerned.

  ‘I hear you’ve been … investigating me, Mr Michie.’

  ‘Please, call me Doug … makes me think I owe you money when you put the honorific in there.’

  His smile showed a flash of teeth in the opening of his heavy facial hair. ‘You don’t dispute it, then … Doug?’

  I lowered my coffee cup, ‘Why would I?’

  ‘Well, I’m glad we can talk frankly. You’ll understand why I want to ask a frank question – why?’

  ‘If you know I’m interested in you, I’m sure you’ll know why.’

  A woman started to raise her voice over at the cake counter, yelling at a young boy who was struggling to decide on the empire biscuit or the custard slice. Scott turned towards the outburst, spoke; ‘I’ve done some homework on you myself.’ He turned back to face me. ‘Made quite a name for yourself in Ulster … and in the old home town recently.’

  Did I want to play tit for tat with him? The answer was no. I presumed he had more to lose in this exchange than me, unless he had something different to say. I laid out my cards. ‘Look, John, you know I’m looking into the death of Steven Nichols, so why don’t you just come out and say it?’

  It was his turn to take another sip of coffee, the conversation was becoming punctuated with these pauses. ‘I thought you were calling it a murder?’ He made sure not to have eye-contact with me when he said the word.

  ‘That would be putting the cart before the horse, don’t you think? Making an assumption and then going looking for the evidence to back it up doesn’t sound like good detective work, does it?’

  The
same rictus of a smile appeared in his beard again. ‘And that’s what you think you’re doing …’ The smile evaporated. ‘The case is closed, or do you doubt the work of your former colleagues, Doug?’

  The remark was either concentrated sarcasm or a veiled threat, I couldn’t quite figure which because Scott’s facial expression, hidden behind the beard, didn’t give much away. ‘The official investigation might be closed, but mine isn’t.’

  ‘What makes you think you’ll come to any different conclusions?’

  ‘Oh, come on … it’s all a bit convenient, the lad being stabbed by an unnamed and untraceable assailant, don’t you think?’

  ‘No.’ The answer came flatly. ‘And if you’d reviewed the case, a man of your undoubted experience, I’m sure you’d agree.’

  He started to get up from the table, he loosened the tie around his meaty neck and stretched out his shoulders like he’d just completed a long journey.

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ I said.

  He leaned onto the table, tapped on the cover of the Herald he’d put down earlier. ‘I was going to have a look and see if they did a write up on the Ayr game … good paper for sports, the Herald.’ He moved away from the table’s edge and headed for the door; if there was a goodbye then I missed it, my focus being on the newspaper in front of me.

  As the door closed I turned over the paper, sitting inside was the unmarked plastic casing of a CD.

  ‘Well, well,’ I said. ‘Isn’t life full of surprises.’

  Chapter 25

  I picked up the CD and put it in my pocket, for the millionth time I told myself not to expect the obvious when life had a way of delivering the opposite. I headed out of Costa and back to the car park lift in Debenhams, all the while my thoughts whorling with what could be contained on the shiny little piece of plastic.

  Back underground, the columnar concrete grid seemed to confuse me for a moment; added to the stale air and strange echoing of dim sounds off the walls, I struggled to find my bearings. A dizzy rush filled my head at the thought of what had just happened because none of it felt real; nothing did anymore.