The Inglorious Dead (A Doug Michie Novel)

by Tony Black

Andy’s banter verged on forced, the kind of formal chatter reserved for car journeys and enclosed spaces. We had things to discuss, but the tight confines of our enforced union didn’t seem the place. I flicked on West FM and let the DJ regale us both with a round-up of the region’s holiday highlights. Craig Tara, out on the coastal road at the foot of the Carrick hills, was still doing a turn – the name change from Butlin’s fooling no one. I couldn’t see myself putting down hard-earned cash on a trip to the place: water slides and the like were for families; the thought prompted a return to images of my sister and her kids. I knew I couldn’t afford to lose the last connection I had to family and the real world, but the pull to escape Ayr was still strong.

  As I turned into Davie Grant’s driveway, the house looked quiet, almost empty.

  ‘Think he’s out?’ I said.

  Andy shrugged. ‘That Cassie one will be – bit of rain won’t stop her, she’s a shop till you drop if ever I saw one.’

  I parked up on the gravel drive beyond the front door and stilled the engine. As I got out I glanced over to Andy – caught him nervously smoothing the sides of his mouth with his long fingers.

  ‘Everything okay?’ I said.

  He didn’t answer. I prompted again, ‘Andy … you alright?’

  He squared his shoulders. ‘Aye, come on, let’s get this over with.’

  We approached the door, set the bell chiming and waited. I watched Andy’s Adam’s apple rise and fall as he prepared himself for Grantie’s appearance.

  ‘You know, you can wait in the car if you’d sooner not come in,’ I told him.

  ‘It’s fine.’ He glanced at me, thinned eyes glowering, ‘I said I’d come and here I am.’ I cut Andy some slack in the situation – we were about to hit his friend with an uncomfortable accusation – I didn’t envy Andy’s position.

  A rattle of locks and chains began behind the door in the small smoked-glass window we could see the familiar bulk of Grantie moving. When the door opened he stood before us like a nightclub bouncer waiting to tell us ‘not tonight, lads’.

  ‘Hello again,’ I said.

  Grantie didn’t answer, turned to Andy as if he was looking for an explanation for this downright impertinence.

  Andy spoke. ‘Got a bit of an update for you … on the case.’

  ‘Oh, aye.’ He didn’t seem interested, his mouth tightening into a tiny knot, then: ‘… I suppose you better come in.’

  Grantie’s gaff had less of an impact on me the second time round, though I found myself clocking Andy’s shambling movements as he manoeuvred himself, hunched and tense, around the palatial setting. He looked like an uninvited guest at a funeral, someone that had blagged his way in for a free sandwich.

  Grantie directed us to the same seating area as the last time. He was curt, perfunctory in his hospitality. I waited to be offered a drink but none came this time.

  ‘So, what’s all this about?’ he said.

  Andy glanced out the window so I stepped up to the plate.

  ‘There’s been some developments, Mr Grant.’

  He shrugged in his seat, leaned back as if to project disinterest. ‘I don’t need a running commentary, unless you’ve found Stevie’s killer, then a phone call would have done.’

  I shook my head, made sure my gaze was steel. ‘No, I don’t think so, not this time; you see I’ve managed to get hold of some very interesting information in the form of the official police report.’

  Grantie looked at Andy, then back to me. ‘Oh, yes. Interesting reading was it?’

  ‘Very …’ I watched Grantie for any poker tells, but none came. ‘Why didn’t you inform me you were a suspect?’

  ‘I don’t like to spoon feed people I’m paying to do a job.’

  ‘You must have known I’d find out, though.’

  ‘And what relevance would it have to the outcome, Mr Michie?’

  Answering my questions with more questions of his own wasn’t going to get us anywhere. I upped the ante with a direct shot across his bows; ‘Did you just hire me to get you off the hook?’

  He stood up, ‘Now hold on, son …’ Grantie tapped his chest with a heavy finger, ‘I am in the clear.’

  I watched our host walk towards the sideboard on the back wall and start to pour himself a drink. He didn’t offer to share.

  ‘I hired you to put that family’s mind at rest, because we look after our own here and …’ he returned to the sofa and lowered himself down, ‘and nothing else.’

  I knew he was lying, after a lifetime on the force I didn’t need to hear the words. I toyed with the idea of asking him – if the Order was so keen on looking after its own – then why would Bert Nichols tip me off to DI Scott’s investigation? But I didn’t rate my chances of a straight answer, and anyway, his reaction had told me all I needed to know.

  ‘Are you sure it was Bert’s mind you wanted to put at rest and not his mouth?’

  ‘What? Just what’s that supposed to mean?’

  I allowed myself half a grin at his reaction. ‘It means that maybe Bert had some cards of his own to play and he could create trouble for you and your organisation.’

  Grantie quaffed a fair share of his drink, it seemed to still his temper. ‘I run a very tight ship and I certainly don’t allow anyone, even Bert Nichols, to undermine me.’

  ‘Is that what he did – try to undermine you?’

  ‘No. You’re putting words in my mouth, Michie, and I won’t have that. Don’t forget who’s paying your way here.’

  I knew to quit when I was ahead. And there was nothing to gain from getting him riled, yet. I rose from my seat and headed for the door, motioning Andy to follow.

  ‘I’ll be in touch, Mr Grant,’ I said.

  I heard Andy scuffling behind me, he sounded like a half-scared rat deserting a sinking ship.

  Chapter 29

  The rain ceased its heavy percussion on the car roof by the time we hit the A77. Andy eschewed all speech, rested his head on the high-backed seat like the still corpse of a man lain in state. We settled into the drive in silence, accompanied only by the dull thrum of the Audi’s engine and the occasional impatient drumming of my fingers on the steering wheel.

  As we approached the slip road from the roundabout I moved through the gears and broke ranks, ‘Look, will you stop that …’

  He bit, ‘Stop what?’

  ‘Lying there like Lenin on his catafalque, frozen in gloom.’

  He huffed loudly. ‘You’ve no idea, have you?’

  I turned to catch a glimpse of him with his gaping mouth animating his look only slightly. ‘No idea of what?’

  ‘What you’ve done … going in there and noising up Grantie. He’s not a man to be messed with.’

  I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. This, from the man who had just about twisted my arm from its socket to get me to help Grantie. And the same man who had done his level best to allay my fears about working with a group that gave me the dry boak.

  ‘Andy, am I hearing you right?’ I flicked on the blinkers, pulled into a bus stop.

  ‘You’ll have no trouble hearing Grantie if he gets going, that’s for sure.’

  I stopped the car. ‘He doesn’t scare me, mate … I’ve met uglier than Davie Grant.’

  ‘You haven’t seen him angry, yet …’

  I remembered something my father told me, it must have been when I was in Primary 7, no later: If you lose your temper, you lose the argument. Grown men didn’t gain advantage throwing their weight around; it was the opposite. The adult world was all about keeping it in and flattering to deceive. Very few got to operate outside of those boundaries though, I conceded, perhaps Davie Grant was one of them.

  ‘And you’re telling me this now, Andy?’ My inference was clear.

  ‘Look, you’re getting a good drink out of this, why can’t you just play the game?’

  I held my breath for a moment, made sure my heart settled, said, ‘Is that what this lad’s death is to him – a game? Is
that what you think it is, Andy? Because it’s not that for me. Not by a long stretch. Death by murder is not something I can make light of; it’s not in my make-up.’

  Andy turned away, shook his head. An old man with a bunnet and hospital-issue walking stick made for the bus shelter. Andy let him pass the car before he replied.

  ‘I’m not trying to trivialise Stevie’s death, just the opposite. This is a serious business to Grantie, I can tell that, I know that! If I’d known you were going to jump in and have a go at him, I’d never have suggested you get involved.’ Andy’s mouth tightened like a snare. All at once his posture changed, it was as if he’d caught himself out.

  ‘What do you mean suggested … you suggested me to Grantie?’

  Andy touched his mouth, pressed the underside of his palm into the gape then jerked his hand onto the dash with a slap. ‘Look, Doug, it’s complicated, all right?’

  ‘Not too complicated, I hope, Andy. Because my backside’s on the line here.’

  ‘Yours and mine, mate!’

  A bus pulled up behind us, its sign said it was heading for the top of the town. The old fella with the stick started to hirple his way towards the doors.

  Andy made to get out. ‘I’m going to grab the bus, I’ll give you a bell later.’

  ‘Andy … I’ll drop you off.’

  ‘No thanks,’ he put a black look on me, ‘you’ve done quite enough for me today.’ He slammed the door and jogged for the bus. I watched the driver admonishing me for parking in front of the stop sign, hands waving over the giant wheel, and started to pull out.

  I drove for the Loaning and headed home, I knew Lyn would be there. We had things to say, about the house and whether or not I could actually bring myself to sell. About the future and making something of the rapidly diminishing time we had left. The situation stung me: I was messing with her dreams now, too.

  Lyn was sitting in the kitchen with a mug of coffee and a copy of the Radio Times when I got home. She looked so settled, domesticated, that it hit me between the eyes.

  ‘You’re back early,’ she put down the magazine, rose to place a peck on my cheek.

  ‘Yeah, well, it wasn’t the most productive of days.’

  ‘Really. Well, I probably shouldn’t ask.’ She returned to the kettle and flicked the switch, was spooning coffee into another cup when she spoke again. ‘I don’t think the day’s a total write-off, mind you.’

  ‘And why’s that?’

  The kettle started to make a noise like a puncture in a tyre. ‘Do you remember that picture you took on your phone, the one I got you to send to me?’

  ‘To show to Glenn … yeah, of course I remember.’

  ‘Well, he finally got back to me and he told me something I think you’ll find very interesting.’

  ‘Go on …’

  ‘That boy’s a well-known drug dealer, in fact he’s the town’s go-to guy for disco biscuits.’

  I stored the information away for processing at a later date. ‘He’s sure about this?’

  ‘Oh aye … and even more interestingly, that Jan Milne lassie he was with has a bit of a rep herself, she’s one of the crowd’s groupies.’

  ‘Did Glenn say anything about Steven Nichols?’

  Lyn started to pour the water over the coffee granules. ‘No, sorry … Stevie’s a bit of a mystery to him.’

  I took the cup off the counter, my hopes of a break evaporating. ‘Me too, more’s the pity.’

  Chapter 30

  I spent a restless night, steeped in dreams that looked like the director’s cut of Dark City. A little guy in a black-leather trench coat, with a bald head and a set of features he’d taken from my friend Andy, was following me around. There was no Shell Beach, not even an Ayr Beach, but I knew the landscape only too well. The black haunts of my imagination, the hollows of my subconscious, where my waking fears chased shadows into the unknown tomb of my soul.

  I sat on the edge of the bed rubbing the stubble on my chin, it felt like an industrial belt-grinder. My head hurt too, seemed to hurt inside and out, as though even the faculty of thought created pain. I touched my temples, tried to inveigh some sense of soothing, but nothing seemed to halt the onslaught. I sensed it was there for the day.

  I twisted my neck, turned to see Lyn in heavy sleep, her arms spread above the duvet, her fingers clawing at an imaginary keyboard. I wondered what went on with her, in her mind. And then a scowl crossed her face, she seemed to be dreaming, or maybe it was me – still in a hypnopompic state that was looking more like my real world every day.

  I took my clothes and shoes into the bathroom and dressed quietly; I didn’t want to wake Lyn because, truth told, I was in no mood for chat.

  Even in the height of a Scottish summer the water in the pipes of the old home was cold as I splashed my face and neck: it felt good, calming, reassuring somehow. A good dunking in cold water seemed to me like just what my head ordered. I was out of blades, and my growth too long for the electric razor, so the stubbled look would have to be in again, at least for today. I nearly laughed at the thought of myself as a trend setter. As I pulled on my T-shirt and black, greying cords and clocked my image in the mirror I looked like the ‘before’ picture from a GQ magazine make-over.

  ‘Rough isn’t in it, Doug …’

  The kitchen was cold and desolate; the lack of a greeting from Ben, tail wagging and tongue lolling, still cut deep. I had no notion to eat, or take coffee even. I wanted out. Away.

  I searched the cupboard where I’d started to keep the collection of pills, potions and unguents that the over-40s needed on an almost daily basis. My stomach was churning and my head still sore, I felt like I was battling a hangover, but there had been no drink the night before.

  The Andrew’s Salts foamed away as I popped some Anadin from the pack. There had been a time when an early morning heart-starter would have got me going, but those days were long gone. I’d promised myself I wasn’t going to become like the old timers on the force – slamming whisky and Gaviscon because their guts were too tender to take the hard stuff on its own. It made me think of Andy again; more and more he was becoming the bellwether of what I could have become. I hoped this latest run-in with Davie Grant hadn’t sent him scurrying to the bottle.

  I checked on Lyn again, she was still sleeping. It seemed best to leave her, I certainly wasn’t about to wake her to say I was going out. She could suss that for herself and I needed her to figure out that sometimes I just had to be alone.

  And now was one of those times. I took the car up the drive, headed for the Carrick hills. The Audi almost spat out the low-gears, it wanted to feel the engine’s burn, so I opened the throttle. The tyres hadn’t warmed to the road, spun a little, then started to screech. I had barely hit fourth before Doonfoot was a mere pinpoint in my rear-view mirror.

  I headed over the hills, out past Maidens and on through the wind of green fields and tight turns. This was my place to think, to clear my head. I came here when there was something bothering me, but there were so many things bothering me now they competed for my attention.

  I couldn’t get my head around the house sale issue and I certainly couldn’t bring myself to make it a priority when I had the case to solve. Steven Nichols’ death had gone from being a point of interest to a plain sore point. It seemed even discussing the facts with Andy tightened the tension between us.

  ‘What the hell is his problem?’ I blurted out to no one.

  I knew fine well what the answer was – he was keeping something from me – and I knew I’d need to raise it with Andy soon. I had my suspicions about what it might be, but then I’d been wrong before, and hoped I was this time.

  I took the Audi into a tight bend, dropped speed and then tanned it on the straight again. I made the approach into Maybole at the top of the road’s limit then put the anchors on; the by-pass was only a few short streets away.

  ‘Okay, time for answers.’

  I made a mental route through Maybole, down t
he by-pass, and on to Prestwick.

  Davie Grant’s reaction to the news that I’d found out he was once in the frame for the Nichols murder was not unexpected. He was a hot-head, my only surprise that his reaction wasn’t more volcanic. And Andy would come round – he was an old friend. It was the information from Lyn’s son about Jan Milne and her boyfriend that had really troubled my sleep.

  ‘The drugs don’t work …’ I spoke from experience; booze and fast-powders only brought more demons to the party. But what was the link between Jan’s new druggie boyfriend and the death of her last one?

  I knew I was, at best, clutching at straws. Was there even a link to find? I didn’t know the answer to that question, but I knew if it was a ‘no’ then I was facing complete darkness. Sometimes an investigation was about following leads, sometimes it was about following your gut and sometimes it was about attaching the tenuous threads of the two together and making a wish.

  As I pulled onto Prestwick Main Street the traffic suddenly changed from slow to going nowhere.

  ‘Come on, come on …’ The commuter routes clogged up earlier every day, it seemed. I checked the clock on the dash, there was still plenty of time to catch Bert Nichols and hear what he had to say for himself about the most recent turn of events.

  Chapter 31

  I parked round the back of Flannagan’s and took the side-lane that skirted the police station and the taxi rank. The main drag was still gridlocked as I shimmied through the traffic, cars filled with faces dour as ‘get oot!’ on the way to work. Even with their doleful eyes following me, envious of my ability to move freely about town with no desk-shackles calling me, I still felt a twinge of regret that I wasn’t among their number.

  The force had been my life for so long that so many of the old ways were impossible to shake. I didn’t miss the bleary-eyed early mornings, where the first coffee of the day barely cancelled out the taste of toothpaste, or the repetitive grind of the day-in, day-out. But I missed the real reason I was there: to give my life meaning.