Lies of the Land

by Chris Dolan

  The smooching couple were equally middle-aged – there’s no hiding the shape and posture of fifty-somethings. And a guilty posture at that, heads hung low, their backs turned suddenly towards each other.

  It took Maddy a minute to put names to them. She knew she recognised them and, just as she realised, Marion Miller looked sharply away. Bill Crichton glanced up. It took him a minute to make the connection too, but when he did he shrank back. Too late. Shannon, Depute Procurator Fiscal, had clocked them, and he knew it.

  John Russell had given Alan Coulter a lift home. He and Martha had downsized a year ago and he still wasn’t quite used to being a Southsider yet. He liked it, preferred it to the affectations of Kelvindale. He went once to a play at Òran Mór (by mistake – it was a “live” soap opera in the bar, ambushing innocent drinkers) and remembered a line from it: “The Southside – just like the West End but without the wankers.” There was indeed something more homely, less effortful, about his new home in Cathcart.

  “It reminds me of France,” he told Russell.

  “France?” the sergeant looked at him as if he were mad.

  “When we were over visiting Kiera – that’s my second oldest—”

  “I know who your family are. You never stop talking about them.”

  “She was in this village. In the Midi. The French don’t care about anybody else. They live the way they want to and let you do the same. It feels a bit cold at first, but I got to like it. It’s the same here, nobody gives a shit who you are or what you do, so long as you put your rubbish in the right bins.”

  Coulter often found himself over-talking when he was with DS Russell. John wasn’t an easy man to be with. It was like a career-long interview, with Russell as the canny cop saying little and waiting for Coulter to make a mistake. But he didn’t dislike the man. They were too alike.

  Talking about Kiera he became aware he was going back to a house without kids. So much of his and Martha’s lives had been about the kids. Now, he wasn’t sure what he was for any more. He’d been a dad, the breadwinner, there hadn’t been room for existential angst. When Martha had been unwell he had reasons, duties – look after her, keep the family informed, sometimes just keep out her way. Now she was doing fine, thank God, going out, getting involved, finding a sense of purpose, just as he was losing his.

  He and Russell talked over the Miller case, thinking through scenarios rather than hard facts. Dodgy dealings in the workplace? Clients with a grudge? Matrimonial disharmony? Crazed killer on the loose? And why leave your murder weapon behind? Apart from anything else, they’re pricey things guns. Maybe the culprit wants to be caught, or maybe he’s playing some game. Maybe he’s just an idiot. Or she, as Maddy had said.

  No further forward, Coulter opened the door to bid his final goodnight, when Russell’s phone rang. Someone from the HOLMES room. Russell spoke in his sergeant’s voice – which for some reason was louder and lower-pitched. “Oh aye?” And “When?” “How much for?” He angled his body slightly away from his boss as if it was none of Coulter’s business. Even when he finally hung up he waited a beat before letting him in on it.

  “The Millers are insured.”

  “Aren’t we all?”

  “For six million quid. Each.”

  Coulter whistled. But maybe that was normal for rich lawyers. “Who took out the policy?”

  “Joint. They both did. Mrs Miller’s going to be a very rich lady.”

  As he walked up the path to his door, Coulter wondered if people actually still murdered for an insurance payout? There must be couples, maybe in this street, who sit watching MasterChef together secretly plotting ingenious ways to eradicate each other. But would they ever do it? They’d get caught. It was too obvious. Wasn’t it?

  She really must try and keep away from Kelvingrove and the Botanics. Shit keeps happening to her there. She sat with both her mobile and her landline on her lap. Just phone Coulter, tell him what she’d seen. But she knew there would be a call, any moment now, and she’d like to hear what he had to say first.

  She was wrong, it wasn’t a call. It was a knock on her door.

  Bill Crichton shuffled into her living room like a wean who’d been caught stealing an apple.

  “You know what I’m going to ask?”

  “Don’t tell the polis? Sorry, Bill, no can do. You know that. How did you get my address by the way?”

  “I called Sam Anderson.”

  “Was that wise? What did you tell her?”

  “That I was organising thank-you cards to be sent round all those who’ve been kind since Julian’s murder. I hid your name in amongst a few others.”

  “I wouldn’t buy that for a minute.”

  “Don’t think she did either.”

  Without taking his coat off, Crichton sank into, rather than sat on, a chair. She noticed there were grass stains on the hem. He looked pretty soggy all together.

  “I’m not so worried about Coulter. It’s that whatsisname, the sergeant, Rumford.”

  “Russell.”

  “You know what the police are like. They want a result. They’ll jump on anything. They’ll make a big deal of Marion and me. Nothing will come of it in the end but they’ll lose weeks barking up the wrong tree.”

  “Ah, so you’re concerned about public finances.”

  “To a point, yes. But also the hell it’ll cause me and Marion, and all for nothing.”

  She sat across from him. “This isn’t the way I’d handle this situation.”

  “No? What would you do?”

  “‘It was nightfall, the persons Ms Shannon saw were yards away. A clear case of mistaken identity. Me and Marion Miller? Don’t be silly.’”

  “Maybe you’re a better liar than I am.”

  “Am I?”

  “I’m not stupid, Maddy.” Calling her by her first name, it sounded wrong, given the circumstances. But what else would he call her, Ms Shannon? Maddalena? Either felt just as bad. “I may still take that course of action – always deny – if you don’t hear me out.”

  “Too late for that methinks. After phoning Sam? And what precautions did you take coming here? I’ve got pretty nosy neighbours.”

  “Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.”

  “Want my advice? As my Nonno used to say, the truth will oot.”

  “Maddy, you know Clare.”

  “Mrs Crichton? No I don’t. I’ve seen her with you once or twice. You struck me as a very happy couple.”

  “Thanks for that. And by the way, we were. Maybe still could be. What you saw tonight is less than it seems. I’m not going to lie to you—”

  “—But you want me to lie for you?”

  “I want you to employ a little judgement. Yes, Marion and I have had the odd clandestine meeting. Maybe once or twice there was some contact. Julian was a hard man to work for, harder to be married to. That’s not to say I didn’t like him. He was my friend and good to me.”

  “Great to have pals, eh?”

  “And despite her cavalier attitude Marion, though it’s fair to say she was no longer in love with him, wished him no harm. We had already agreed to stop meeting up when … this happened.”

  “Isn’t it always the way.”

  “If you could just cut it with the sarky remarks.”

  “Begging your pardon.” If Crichton was out to get her sympathy he was failing, big time.

  “Julian’s murder has thrown us both completely. We only met tonight to, I don’t know, sort out our heads. Then you of all people walk past.”

  “Eh, run past if you don’t mind.”

  “Another reason why you’d make a rotten witness.” He leaned forward. “Please, Maddy. No one’s going to gain from this. Not the investigation, not me or Marion. Maybe the killer will. Give him time. But the person it’s really going to hurt is Clare.”

  “You’re all heart.”

  “Clare isn’t a strong person. She really suffers from her nerves. She’s being going through a particularly
tough time these last few years. And now all of this.”

  “Every reason you give me not to tell, Crichton, is doing precisely the opposite.”

  “Why? It was a daft, almost innocent, liaison. We were both finding it tough at home. We took a little refuge in each other. It wasn’t even a fling. And it was almost over. Jesus! This would kill my wife.”

  His eyes were wet and he was gripping the arms of his chair, knuckles turning white. She wanted to have sympathy for him. If it was all true what he said, it did seem unfortunate. Bad timing, bad decisions. Maddy had always thought of Bill Crichton as a nice man. Everyone agreed he was a nice man. But quite possibly based on no evidence whatsoever. Though the man was a bag o’ washing before her very eyes, desperate and remorseful, she couldn’t bring herself to like him. Still, she softened her voice:

  “Bill. You’re asking me – a procurator fiscal for heaven’s sake – to withhold evidence. Evidence that any court would hold as material. You’re asking me to perjure myself. Even if I was personally inclined so to do, professionally I couldn’t possibly. You’re going to have to resort to the deny-at-all-costs position. Your word against mine. Defender against procurator. Given the success of JCG Miller in recent years, I’d have thought you’d fancy your chances.”

  “I thought I could appeal to your heart. Common human decency.”

  “We’re not in court now, Mr Crichton.”

  “I thought maybe as a woman…”

  Maddy laughed outright. “That I’d understand you cheating on your wife? Your sick wife. Fuck’s sake, Crichton, get a grip.”

  “Okay. One last plea. From the bottom of my heart.”

  “No.”

  “Give me a day.”

  “No.”

  “Let me tell Clare first. It’s too late tonight. She’ll have taken her sleeping pills. She’s particularly vulnerable first thing in the morning. I’ll have told her everything by tomorrow afternoon. You presumably wouldn’t be in touch with the police until tomorrow. Just give me till close of play. I beg you, Maddy. I love Clare. This will damage her enormously. But if the police turn up at the door tomorrow, before I’ve had a chance to… There’s no saying what she’ll do.”

  Maddy got up and walked towards the door. “I’ll sleep on it.”

  He didn’t budge from his chair. “Thank you.”

  “No thank yous. I said I’d think about it. Chances are I’ll be on the phone to Police Scotland HQ at 9 a.m. tomorrow morning.” Crichton didn’t know it, but she’d already cut him some slack – she had intended to call Alan tonight. “Now. Fuck off.”

  The following morning didn’t work out as she’d planned. She didn’t have to sleep on it. Her judgement had been called into question before – wrongly in Maddy’s view. She couldn’t afford for it to be doubted again. And anyway, every way she looked at Bill Crichton’s predicament, her obligation, and her moral imperative, were clear. She did, however, decide to wait until she got into the office, and she would speak to whoever at Police HQ came to the phone. She was acting as a responsible citizen, not as a PF.

  But sipping her coffee and eyeing the pack of fags with three left in it, ten minutes before going out the door, Mamma phoned.

  “Maddalena.” That was a bad start. Rosa only used her Sunday name when it was serious, or she needed a favour, the two being indistinguishable to her mother. “I’m just down the road from you. In the Atrium. I need you to meet us for coffee. It won’t take long.”

  “Mum, I’m on my way to work. Us? Who are you with?”

  “Dante!” as if Maddy was standing in front of them and hadn’t recognised him.

  She groaned, inwardly. “Dante the repossession man? Mamma, I told you, I really cannot give him advice.”

  “But I promised him, cara! And I’ve dragged him all the way from Wishaw to meet you!”

  Well at least it wasn’t her patch. “On a Tuesday morning? At 8 a.m.? Why?” Then it dawned on her. Tuesday was Rosa’s water aerobics class at the Western Baths. An early riser since her chip shop days in Girvan, she was always looking to fill in that empty hour between the cafés opening and the class starting. Dante hadn’t been given an option.

  “I have no advice to give him. And I’ll be late for work. Tell him I’ll search out someone who can help him. Give him a contact.”

  “You’re a professional lady, Maddalena. You can turn up at work whenever you like. But you must talk to him now. They’re coming today, or perhaps tomorrow, to throw him out into the street.” This was a barefaced lie, and Maddy knew it. “And also, it turns out his lawyer, the one Dante blames for the whole sorry mess, is that man Milton. The one who was killed.”

  Maddy, having first warned that she could be of no use and that anything she might say should not be cited or even repeated, listened to Dante Marzullo’s story.

  Just before the banking crash Dante’s violin-making business was doing well. As a guest of Julian Miller, his solicitor, at a concert – “Some group of four young men. Il Divo? Total rubbish.” – Miller introduced him to a man called Ewan Church. This fellow happened to be a financial adviser. They became quite good friends and Dante ending up buying some of Church’s financial products.

  “The whole bloody lot has gone bust. And that stronzo Church, disappeared into thin air. Now they’re going to take my house from me!”

  It took a little time and patience getting the important information from Dante Marzullo. Luckily the Atrium café was quiet – the man raised his voice, a lot. Years of dealing with witnesses had taught Maddy when it was worth listening and when she could zone out. The special pleading, the irrelevant meanderings, dodgy explanations. Luckily too her coffee was huge. She’d been coming here for years and still forgot to ask for a small cappuccino. A medium-sized one was a soup bowl. The large was a bloody great cauldron with enough caffeine to give you hypertension. But it was good coffee, the staff were affable, and the place light and airy.

  “Dante,” she said, “if as you say the repossession of your house is confirmed and the sheriff officers have been in touch, then it has gone through an extensive procedure, full of checks and balances. You do know that it is an offence to give false information? If at any time you misled the lender – perhaps even inadvertently – then it is not a case of your inability to pay, but repossession on the basis of fraud.”

  “Fraud!” He shouted. “Exactly. That’s what they’re saying. Fucking fraud.” Rosa, having kept quiet throughout the entire conversation, merely nodding her head vigorously at everything Dante said, and furrowing her brow dubiously at everything Maddy said, now spoke up: “Language, Dante, per favore.”

  Dante, it finally transpired, had indeed overestimated “a little” the earnings of his business. “But only because that bastard Church advised me to. Said it was perfectly legal. Now he’s gone bankrupt and skedaddled out the bloody country. Leaving me in the merda.”

  Marzullo’s anger was volcanic. Here was another man clutching, white-knuckled, the arms of his chair. Crichton last night, by comparison, had been in control. Perhaps a little too in control she wondered now. Whereas this cousin three times removed looked and sounded hysterical. At any moment he might clutch his chest and die before their very eyes. Just as likely he’d grab a fork and stab it in the eye of any passing stranger.

  “I’m afraid Dante,” she tried to keep her voice calming but authoritative, “legally you haven’t a case. You lied to the lenders. They’re absolutely within their rights. I’m so sorry.”

  The man, overweight, almost as broad as he was tall, fiery red in the face, looked to the heavens above, praying to a vengeful god. “And you know the only man who could have told them that?”

  “This Ewan Church,” Maddy said.

  “No!” Dante Marzullo screamed. “He fucked off ages ago.” And anyway, Maddy realised, it wasn’t in the financial adviser’s interest to alert the bank or building society. “His old buddy. The man who set me up with him. The only other person who knew. Miller. I ho
pe the fucker died in agony!”

  “You’re a hard man to track down, Mr Harkins.”

  Joe Harkins stood ankle-high in the mud at Belvedere – an over-the-top name if Russell had ever heard one. If this place was Belvedere then his own divorcee’s flat in Anniesland was fucking Malibu. Harkins wore a dirty hi-vis jacket over a fleece, boots and hard hat. In his early thirties Russell guessed.

  “No I’m no’. Mr Hughes has me running frae site tae site, that’s all.”

  “You’d been informed we wanted a word with you. You could have saved us some bother if you’d popped in to see us.”

  “Sorry. Never thought of that. Nothing to tell ye’s anyway.”

  “I’ll be the judge of that.”

  Harkins led the sergeant over to a cabin by the site’s entrance – a basic box that looked like an old container with a door punched in it.

  “I’m not exactly clear what your position is,” Russell said as they entered. “In Fulton Construction. Security guard? Boss’s chauffeur? Handyman?”

  “Aye.”

  “All of them?”

  “Master of all trades, mate, that’s me.”

  “Basically you do whatever Mr Hughes tells you to?”

  “Oh man, I can see you’re a detective right enough.”

  “That must get on yer tits a bit.” Russell couldn’t help himself. Anyone talked to him in a Glasgow accent – especially a male – and he’d find himself talking the same way. He couldn’t, in all honesty, claim it was a throwback to his childhood. John Russell was born and brought up in a nice wee corner of Lenzie, went to a good school, and neither of his parents had strong accents. They’d never have said “get on your tits”. Even Russell could hear that it sounded false. Harkins gave him a little sneery smile.