She took the massive hit, hardly moving a muscle till she died, and the last sounds she heard were the stirring words of ‘Sunshine on Leith’. It had been one of her favourite songs.
At 5.30 a.m. the patrol car sat quietly, the two occupants getting themselves ready to head back to the station and sign off for the night. Then bed. Nothing like slipping between the sheets after a night shift – two seconds and you were out. It had been one of the quietest turns of the year, and the two policemen had yawned half the night away. Apart from bumping into Maggie Smith earlier in the evening, there had been nothing to lift the boredom.
Charlie, the older of the two men, had only a few years to go till retirement and dreamed about never having to do another night shift. He’d worked in Leith most of his days and had just about seen and done it all as he’d watched the place transform itself from a down-at-heel but proud corner of the city with its own identity to a trendy village by the docks. The truth was that he missed the old Leith but guessed it was because he was getting past it all.
‘I’m too old for this shite,’ he said needlessly to the younger man, Tony, who’d heard it a hundred times already in his short career but wasn’t big enough, brave enough or daft enough to tell Charlie so.
Tony was still in his probation, after training as a teacher then deciding he’d rather face the street than the nutters in class every day. He loved being a cop, as most do in the early years – didn’t even want to take days off or complain about night shifts – and despite Charlie’s moaning, he looked up to the older man, who was a bit of a legend in his own way.
‘You’ll soon be retired. Then no more nights.’ He couldn’t think of anything else to say.
‘I used to be like you, but you’ll change,’ Charlie said needlessly again.
The young man had started the engine and put her in gear to head back to the old station at Leith when the call came across.
‘Woman lying unconscious in Timber Bush on The Shore – can you attend?’
Tony was happy that they had something to do, but Charlie was pissed off. ‘Fuck it!’ he muttered before telling his partner to, ‘Get a fuckin’ move on, Stirling.’
Tony had no idea who Stirling was but was sure it was yet another sign of the age gap between them.
It was still dark, the December night air was cold and a light drizzle made the cobbled streets around the Water of Leith shine like black glass. The patrol car pulled up near to Timber Bush then crawled along the lane to the corner at Tower Place. In the small car park they could see the figure of a woman, sitting, back against the fence with her knees bent. He hoped silently that she was just a pisshead sleeping it off, but Charlie had been doing it for so long he knew otherwise. The wiring in his head had already made the connection between the woman in the close and their short encounter with Maggie Smith. The old man who’d found her stood with his dog at the entrance, eager to tell the beat men what had happened.
Charlie wasn’t really listening and gave Tony his orders. ‘Get a brief statement and personal details from this gentleman and I’ll check what we have here.’
He walked softly towards Maggie as if it was possible to disturb her. He knelt down beside her, shone his pocket torch at her face then noticed the needle and works lying next to her legs. Her sleeve was still rolled up.
‘You’ve done it this time, Maggie. I should have known something was up,’ he said quietly. Nevertheless, Tony and the old man heard him, and they looked towards the two figures in the car park and wondered what exactly he’d said to the woman.
Charlie was annoyed at himself – he’d always had sharp instincts, he’d known Maggie was out too late and he’d seen the state of her face. They’d had a fuck-all-happening night and he’d missed it completely – or maybe he just couldn’t be bothered any more.
Tony had let the old man and his dog go on their way and came up to stand behind his partner.
‘I’m too old for this shite,’ he said again, and Tony knew he meant it this time.
‘Guess that’ll be the end of her career then,’ Tony said, trying a bit of the black humour hard-nosed cops in films used all the time. He realised he’d got it wrong when Charlie stood up and gave him a look that told him just how badly he’d fucked up.
‘Why don’t you shut the fuck up till you have something useful to say? Get onto the station and call this in,’ he snapped.
‘Sorry.’ He was hurt by the older man’s words and would have done anything to take the joke back.
‘Listen.’ Charlie said it tight-mouthed. ‘This still-young woman didn’t get a break her whole life. I knew the family – the mother and father were just shite, and she was out on the streets from no age. Shite life, only knew shite people and ended up selling what she had to shite punters. Have a hard look at her, son.’
Charlie switched on the torch again and shone it on the woman at their feet. ‘She’d have been lucky if she had one really happy moment in all her life. Just remember that, and show her some respect.’
They called it in, and a couple of bored CID officers came and took over the paperwork side because she’d been found in the open and there’d have to be a post-mortem. Once the scene had been examined and photographs taken, the two beat men took the body to the mortuary and then processed the eternally despised paperwork.
Their next job was always the hard one – at least that’s how Charlie felt – and he’d just done it too many times. Telling the nearest and dearest. He remembered the first one: a seventeen-year-old boy who’d been the pillion passenger on a motorbike doing eighty when they’d hit the back of a parked car. By some miracle the rider had survived, but the boy had come off and skidded along the road face down. One of the old cynics described it as something out of a Tom and Jerry fight scene. Charlie had the job of telling his parents that they’d lost their only son. It had been a Friday night, so the old man had been out for a few beers and was more pissed than sober. They’d had to get him out of bed, and while it had hit his wife like a shockwave, the old man hadn’t been able to get it through his drink-addled brain. Charlie had never forgotten the expression on the man’s face as it had gradually sunk in that his namesake was lying in a mortuary fridge.
Banjo was up and about, still wondering what had happened to his gear, when he heard Tony knock on the door. He was seriously pissed at Maggie for taking off in the middle of the night without letting him know, but he couldn’t get too angry, as he knew she was in a bad place after what Nelson’s team had done to her. Banjo was still struggling with his own sense of futility, and he couldn’t stand the way Maggie had looked at him since she’d been beaten in front of his eyes.
He opened the door, and the sight of two uniforms told him things had just reached an even lower point than he’d thought possible.
He recognised Charlie as a Leith cop from the times he’d been down there when Maggie was working the street. Maggie always said he was alright and didn’t hassle the girls unless he had to.
‘It’s Maggie, isn’t it?’ he said.
‘Can we come in?’
They told him as much as they could and what he’d have to do. Banjo sat quietly with his face in his hands, occasionally taking a drag on his cigarette and shaking his head. He asked a couple of questions, and Tony wrote down the details needed for the form filling when they got back to base.
‘Fuckin’ bastards. Fuckin’ Irish bastards,’ he muttered.
Charlie heard Banjo say it twice. ‘What was that, Banjo?’ he asked.
Banjo just shook his head and said almost nothing more, but Charlie knew it could mean something so he’d pass it on to the suits.
When he’d seen them out, Banjo ran a hand over his face and sat down heavily in his chair. Maggie was gone, and there was nothing he could do to bring her back – he couldn’t rewind the clock to before those bastards had knocked on the door, or even to when they’d phoned up telling him to send her over like she was something off a room-service menu. He tried to think if there was anyone h
e needed to tell and realised that no one gave a fuck except him. There was Pauline Johansson, but she’d been the only one, probably because her life had been just about as shite as Maggie’s.
It was after 11 a.m. and both policemen felt the aching weariness in their joints as they changed in the locker room. Charlie had hardly spoken to Tony since his words in the close. The young man was down and hurt like a dog. He’d thought himself a man when he joined the force and had felt like a kid ever since. He just wanted to get back to his flat and hide under the sheets.
He was pulling on his jacket when he felt his partner’s hand on his shoulder.
‘Come on, son. We’re going for a beer and then I’ll tell you a story,’ Charlie said quietly, a tired smile on his face. He liked Tony, liked him a lot, and knew that in a few years he’d be the business while Charlie was off tending his tomatoes or whatever the fuck.
‘A beer at this time of the morning?’ Tony realised again that he should have just kept his mouth zipped. He tried to pull it back. ‘Only if I’m paying.’
‘That was always going to be the way. You must have heard from the other guys that I never buy. I just tell stories and entertain. Everyone else pays for the pleasure of my company – except that torn-faced wife I’ve got indoors.’
His smile widened, and Tony felt relief wash through him.
The local watering hole had been the station haunt forever and at least longer than Charlie had been in the job. It had gone from extra basic in the old Leith days to candles on the table and ridiculous prices for the privilege of the warm glow. Charlie cursed the fact that he couldn’t get a decent pie to go with his beer now, but it was just another reminder that the clock only went forward. Pies were not fashionable pub grub any more.
Tony got them in and sat down opposite the older man, who was looking all his years – the bags under his eyes seemed to be even heavier than normal. The term hangdog came to mind, although Charlie tended to describe his looks as etched by the pain of public service and always finished off by saying ‘the ungrateful bastards’. He gulped half the beer in one go and smacked his lips; Charlie loved his beer.
‘When I was your age I was just like you. Trying to play a part, trying to be what I thought I was supposed to be or copying some TV detective who’d never seen a real angry man in his puff.’ He took another sip, and it was clear that Tony was just to listen, not speak.
‘I want to tell you a story. I was on nights, only had a couple of years in the job and thought I was God’s gift to the service. I watched the experienced guys and tried to learn from them. What I didn’t realise was that sometimes what looks like a good line or action just covers the fact that the man’s an arse. The sharp talkers, the cynics, the ones that hate everyone in the job usually turn out to be about as much good as the smoking ban, which I regard as an affront as it’s ruined my pub time.’
He nodded, holding up the empty glass. Tony hadn’t taken his first sip yet but took the prompt and had Charlie refilled.
‘Anyway, one night I had this call to a sudden death, and it was routine – guy with a bad ticker had died in his chair. The guy I worked with at the time hated dealing with bodies – said he’d go back to the station and do the paperwork if I took the man to the mortuary. That was a good deal for me so I got a driver and the van and off we went. The mortuary wasn’t manned at night, and we always lodged the bodies ourselves. That place used to spook some people out, down in the darkest corner of the old Cowgate. I sometimes wonder if they were having a laugh when they built it there. Anyway, it wasn’t unusual to find other policemen there with bodies, and on that night, when I arrived at the door, there was a light on. I went in and found one of the fridges was open, and there was a priest giving the last rites, or whatever the fuck they do to one of the guests. I had a blether with him. He was the old Irish priest from St Patrick’s just up the road. Turns out the body he was with was an old wino who’d been found dead in the street by a couple of beat men – there were a lot of winos round that area at the time. It struck me that no one would have known if that priest had just stayed in his bed. He got the call in the middle of the night and went down to the mortuary on his own to carry out his religious obligations. This was for a wino – not a friend in the world, absolutely filthy – and yet that old priest believed that he should get the same respect as anyone else. He did his duty and thought nothing of it. The man who died wasn’t a wino to him; he was a human being and deserved respect. I never forgot him. I’m not a religious man, but I used to call in and see him from time to time. He thought he was a simple man and deserved nothing apart from doing what he did. He believed it made a difference and you know what? It did.’
Charlie sat back and looked at his young friend. ‘Just remember that story. Now it’s time for bed, son, so off you go – we’re back out there tonight.’
11
Macallan opened her eyes and looked at the clock – 9.30 a.m. She couldn’t believe how well she’d slept again. The night came back to her and she smiled, despite the desert that was the inside of her mouth. It had been more fun than she’d had in a long time but innocent enough. Lots of music in the hotel bar, singing songs she didn’t know the words to and laughing at some very politically incorrect stories.
She ran a hand over her face. She needed breakfast, and the hotel owner had promised her a full, artery-clogging plate when she was ready.
The shower brought her back to life, and she promised herself a return when she had the time. The fact that she’d not checked in with the office for days chewed at her guilt centres, even though McGovern had told her that he’d call her if necessary. She had a feeling he might not be making that call because he was trying to be kind to her.
‘Eat first and then call him, ’cause there’s bound to be a problem,’ she said into the mirror as she tried to waken up her face.
The breakfast lived up to the owner’s description and though she enjoyed it she felt guilty as soon as she’d finished the last scrap of bacon. She sipped her tea, surprised she had almost no trace of a hangover and realised the combination of fresh air, open spaces and no office was doing her good. She wished she had a month. But that would have to come later, and Macallan forced herself to make the call from her room. She got McGovern almost straightaway, and it was good to hear his voice – it was always calm around him.
‘Sorry, Jimmy, the phones are almost useless up here, been in a hotel for the night so I’m on a landline. How’s it going?’
‘Nothing we can’t handle at the moment. There is stuff developing, but it’s in bits at the moment.
‘Joe and Danny Fleming have gone missing, and according to a couple of informants they’re probably dead rather than off to Magaluf for an impromptu weekend on the piss. Divisional CID have it, but the Fleming clan won’t even answer the door to the police. It’s got a bad smell, and if the Flemings really are toast it has to be a heavy team that have taken the chance. More is coming in about the Belfast boys cutting into the drug business and leaving a few casualties about the place. Too early to say that there’s a connection, but we’re working various confidential sources, and no one’s making an official complaint against these boys.
‘Other than that, there’s a lot of routine stuff – might be something, might be nothing. One of Pauline Johansson’s buddies from the street, Maggie Smith, overdosed last night and was found dead at The Shore.’
Macallan knew Maggie’s name but hadn’t met her. ‘I have to go and see Pauline,’ she said. ‘I haven’t been for a few weeks.’
‘The last thing is probably not going to make your day, but they’ve placed a new DCI with us to fill the vacancy and I’m guessing they didn’t tell you before you left?’
Macallan tried not to sound annoyed but not consulting her meant internal politics – it never ended.
‘Who is it? Go on.’
He heard the tension in her voice. ‘Lesley Thompson.’
‘Isn’t she one of O’Connor’s protégée
s?’
‘The very same. I’m talking out of school and she’s senior in rank, but she’s a career shooting star – father was a chief constable south of the border and she’s been carefully prepared for stardom. My concern is she’s never been anywhere near an investigation – we just have her so she can get a tick in the box.’
‘Okay, I’ll see the chief super when I get back but no doubt there’ll be some story that it’s a great idea. I’ll get stuck into him, and it’ll go in one ear then straight out the other. I see the hand of Mr O’Connor in this one.’
‘One of my spies reckons O’Connor went easy on the chief super’s nephew who’s a PC on the south side. Apparently he got into a bit of bother, pissed and ended up rolling about with some punter in a bus shelter. He’s still in his probation and should have been emptied, but O’Connor saw mileage in it and it was all smoothed over off record. One law for some, and I guess you know the rest.’
‘Christ, that’s all we need – a plant from professional standards. I’ll pick up my stuff back at the cottage then I’ll come down the road in the morning and be in the office first thing Monday. Holiday’s over.’
Macallan settled up at the hotel and felt heavy as she dumped her overnight bag in the back of the car. She felt the problems in Edinburgh drawing her back like a magnet. The short break had been a relief, but now she was going back to pressure and dealing with the worst side of humanity. Most of the time it was the nutters committing crime, but now she had to deal with nutters inside the job making her life even more difficult than it was already.
As she drove the lovely coastal route back to Kinlochbervie, she promised that her next break would be a longer one and she’d come with someone. She’d show them Sandwood Bay in all its glory. That’s if it’s not pissing rain, she thought, grinning at her own joke – she knew she’d been incredibly lucky with the weather.
‘If you have to invite Mick Harkins along as a drinking buddy, well that’s how it’ll be, Grace, my girl,’ she said to her reflection in the rear-view mirror. She put on Mumford & Sons just as loud as she could stand it and enjoyed the trip back round the coast to Kinlochbervie.
Evidence of Death Page 9