Bad Samaritan

by Michael J Malone

  There was a photograph with a girl. Pretty. Virginal. Could she be the girl who died?

  Underneath it there were a number of messages calling Davis a murderer and demanding he removed this picture from his feed. A few young men were threatening to hurt him if he ever showed his face in their part of the city.

  Why hadn’t he closed this down, Jim wondered? You’d think a possible murder suspect would be asking to get this kind of thing removed. Either he wasn’t that savvy, or the Facebook authorities weren’t too quick to respond.

  He clicked on another photo. Simon with an older woman and another young man. There was a clear family resemblance between them. The caption read ‘Mum and twin bruv.’ It was followed by a few sycophantic comments on how good everyone was looking. He scrolled down past a ream of inane posts so boring they almost lulled him to sleep. Something jarred. Knocked him out of his stupor. He scrolled back up the page, unsure what it was that caused him to stop.

  Found ‘Just confirmed as counsellor on Time4Twin. V excited’ followed by a list of comments where people pretended to be pleased for the poor sap. So that’s where he was.

  At last, thought Leonard. Gold.

  21

  Back in the office and Ale is throwing Ray meaningful looks. Was it just a couple of days ago that Ray had that spring in his step? Whatever had given him a lift hadn’t lasted long. And now he is back to his overwrought, over-sensitive self.

  She wishes he would go and speak to Chief Superintendent Harrison. She feels he won’t be able to recover properly from his mental and physical wounds until he gets it all off his chest. Even she can see that it’s weighing him down.

  Daryl Drain enters the office along with Harkness. They’ve been speaking to people over at the student union. Daryl looks over to Ray with a disappointed look on his face.

  ‘Nothing interesting, boss,’ he says.

  ‘Put it in your report and we’ll go over it later,’ Ray says.

  Alessandra catches Daryl’s eye. ‘Coffee, DD?’

  Daryl picks up that there is more to this request than a need for a hot beverage. ‘Aye,’ he says. ‘Just what I need before I get on with this.’

  Rather than head to the cupboard with the kettle and the dried stuff, Ale heads towards the office door, signalling she wants to go to the cafeteria.

  ‘What’s up?’ Daryl asks when the door closes behind him.

  ‘Not here,’ Ale whispers.

  They walk round a corner and down a stairwell.

  ‘Right, can you tell me now?’ Daryl asks.

  ‘It’s Ray. I’m worried about him. Really worried.’

  ‘Aye?’

  ‘I think he came back to work too soon. He’s been even more irritable than normal. He’s clearly not been getting much sleep. Then,’ she steps closer to Daryl as if proximity will ensure no one else will overhear, ‘he told me that Joe McCall was not the real Stigmata, and he knew about it all along and kept quiet.’

  Daryl takes a step back.

  ‘Wow.’ He turns away, hand to his forehead. Turns back.

  ‘What made him tell you?’

  ‘Dunno. But I wish he hadn’t.’ Ale chews on the inside of her cheek. A thought stills the movement. ‘I’m not going to Harrison with this. I went to the bosses during the Stigmata thing and look what happened.’

  ‘Yeah, well. Ray got charged with the murders, but that wasn’t your fault. He put you in an untenable position.’

  ‘Oooh, get you.’ Ale manages a grin. ‘Untenable.’

  Daryl welcomes a break in the tension. ‘Yeah, I’ve got one of those loo rolls with a word of the day on it.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘No, piss off. I do have an education, DC Rossi. I just prefer to stay down at your level. Don’t want you to feel inferior.’

  Ale laughs. ‘Oh look. You lost this.’ She shoots him the finger. Then grows serious. ‘It has to come from him this time. I’m not getting involved.’

  Daryl nods in agreement.

  ‘And there’s this case,’ Ale says.

  ‘What about it?’

  ‘If we had the Ray McBain I started working with, we would have the truth of Aileen Banks’s death tied up in a neat wee bow.’

  ‘Maybe we need to take up the slack?’

  ‘Aye. There’s something about Aileen’s pal Karen and Simon Davis’s brother, Matt, that bothers me.’

  ‘What about them?’

  Ale explained about the sighting at the pub.

  ‘What do you suggest, boss?’ Daryl asks with a grin.

  Ale feels a small thrill that Drain is taking her seriously, despite the smile.

  ‘I suggest you go and count your toes in front of a moving train. But not before we speak to Matt Davis,’ Ale answers. Then she pauses for a moment in thought. Turns as if going back to the office.

  ‘What?’ asks Daryl.

  ‘Och, it’s probably nothing.’

  ‘Just spit it out, Ale.’

  ‘I think Ray’s got PTSD.’

  Daryl nods slowly, as if digesting this latest comment and finding he agrees with it.

  ‘You don’t think I’m nuts?’ asks Ale.

  ‘Well … yes … but I also think you might have a point. Ray has been in hospital twice in the last, what, twelve months after being seriously wounded. He could have died at that convent. And he has been more of a crabbit bastard than normal.’

  ‘And this guy Leonard has some sort of hold over him. It’s like he mentions his name and Ray reverts to a ten-year-old being kicked by the school bully.’

  ‘What are you going to do?’

  ‘Why is it down to me, DD? You’ve known the guy for years. Why don’t you do something?’

  ‘You know what the police are like with this kinda thing. One of my mates was at Lockerbie…’ He stares off into space as if recalling some of the horror stories. ‘Before the guys went back to normal duties they were lined up. Asked, if they were suffering from PTSD, to take a step forward.’ Shakes his head. ‘Of course, no one did. You don’t want to be that guy.’

  Ale nods her understanding. The weak link in the chain.

  ‘But that was what, nearly thirty years ago? Things have changed.’

  Drain snorts. ‘Sure, the processes are in place. The help is available, but guys are still reluctant to ask for it.’

  They stand in silence. Each lost in thought.

  ‘You’re his confidante, Ale. He told you this stuff. Not me. Besides, he has a soft spot for you. I come at him with this shit and he slaps me down. He’ll listen to you.’

  Ale leans her back against the wall, crosses her arms.

  ‘Yay, good for me. Woop.’ She shakes her head. Makes a decision. She crosses her arms as if protecting herself against what she sees as her own betrayal. ‘Why does he always put me in this position?’ Wipes a tear from her cheek. ‘I went to Harrison the other day about the PTSD thing. The prick didn’t want to hear. Said I was over-thinking. And now there’s this thing about McCall. Jeez.’

  ‘Right,’ says Daryl while he processes this. ‘If you already went to the boss, why are you talking to me about this now?’

  ‘Thought if I heard myself saying the words out loud I wouldn’t feel so bad, you know? I’d hear the words and I’d hear the sense of it all and I’d feel like I’d done the right thing.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘It still feels like I’m a number one arsehole.’

  ‘You had valid concerns, Alessandra. Ray is not himself, and as you said, this case has lost its focus – Ray doesn’t have any. Meanwhile a family is mourning a daughter and wondering what the hell happened and what the hell the police are doing about it.’

  22

  My suspicions are founded when Daryl and Alessandra walk back in the office without any coffee.

  �
��Was the brew that good you drank it all on the way back?’ I ask. They both have the decency to look shame-faced. I give them the stare and go back to doing the same thing at my computer screen. Staring. It’s what I’ve been doing since they left the room to talk about me.

  I just can’t focus.

  My mind is a litany of wrongs.

  Bethlehem House.

  Joe McCall.

  Jim Leonard, aka Stigmata.

  The old man, of mistaken identity, whose only sin was to be resident in that convent. An old man that Jim and I murdered with the help of three other children. With a stab of shame I realised that I’d never ever discovered his name. I’d been complicit in his death and I didn’t even know his name.

  Patrick Connolly. Leonard’s first victim. Found out his name eventually. And I can barely form the syllables of his name in my mind and I’m in his shed, up the back of the convent garden, while he forces himself into me. My tender parts a sheath for Connolly’s need to slake his lust.

  It’s strange that I can barely recall the actual attacks, but the smell of cut grass and creosote immediately has me choked with emotion.

  Why now?

  Why is this all coming back to me now? I was over this. Right?

  I stand up. Aware of Alessandra’s eyes following me, I leave the room.

  Knock on the door down the hall.

  ‘Come in,’ orders my boss.

  I push open the door, and aware of the tremble in my hands stuff them in my pockets.

  ‘Ah, Ray, just the man,’ Harrison says with that almost smile of his, and I want to lean over the desk and untidy the perfect knot in his tie. ‘Kevin Banks.’

  ‘What of him?’ I ask and ignore the faint relief that I may get off telling him. I steel myself. After he’s done talking, I start. No excuses.

  ‘Just had a communication from the fiscal. He’s decided that Kevin Banks has a case to answer.’

  ‘OK,’ is my non-committal response, but I’m thinking, shit, this is going to be a mess.

  ‘We can’t have people going vigilante. We have to remind them that there is a rule of law. So, be a good boy and have him arrested.’

  My mind returns to the reason I walked in this office. I need to do this. Can’t hide behind silence any longer.

  ‘Still here?’ Harrison asks.

  I close my eyes. Take a breath. Focus on the rise and fall of my chest. That’s where they say the calm lies, don’t they? It doesn’t work. My heart is a heavy metronome thumping out a loud rhythm of self-loathing. I look at Harrison, wondering why he can’t hear the knock in my chest.

  ‘Ray…’ he moves his eyes from his computer screen. ‘Is there something else?’

  ‘Joe McCall was never Stigmata. He was so scared of the real murderer, he took on the crimes. Felt he would be safe as a lifer in Barlinnie. The real killer is a man called Jim Leonard.’

  ‘Are you still seeing that shrink of yours?’ He looks at me as if seeing me for the first time since I sat down. Then he mentally dismisses me. ‘Get out of my office, DI McBain, and carry out this order from the Fiscal.’

  ‘I watched … I was drugged right enough … couldn’t move … while Leonard slashed the wrists of …’

  ‘Ray!’ Harrison shouts. ‘Get a grip, man. That case is closed. McCall is on record admitting the crimes. Let’s leave it at that. And take a couple of days off. Make another appointment to see your counsellor.’

  It occurs to me that Harrison is all about ego. His rise in the force came from his ability to play the game. He has a real knack of saying the right thing to the right people at the very best time. All the while wearing his best fucking shirt and tie. A number of his high profile cases were solved by yours truly, which reflected well on him as my commanding officer. Doubtless, if I maintain this assertion, he can see it all collapsing like a tower of Jenga bricks.

  Now that the words are out I feel exhausted. Like all of my emotional coin has been spent. I sag in the chair.

  Harrison watches me. Calculating. I don’t care. He can do what he wants. The truth is out now, and if he doesn’t want to hear it, I’ll find someone who does.

  He reaches into a drawer and pulls out a brown file. He places it on top of the desk between us in the manner of someone moving a piece on a chessboard. When he opens it I can see a small pile of paper. On the front it reads: Health and Safety Executive. Managing Post Incident Reactions in the Police Service.

  ‘PTSD is a terrible thing, Ray. We have processes in place in the force to help people like you.’

  ‘What the hell are you on about?’

  His gaze is resolute. It says, “I will protect my career at the cost of yours, if that’s what it takes”.

  ‘You’ve had two terrible incidents in a very short space of time, DI McBain. When that happens, there is a very real danger that it may lead to the development of chronic psychological distress, the use of poor coping strategies and alienation from family and colleagues.

  ‘I’ve already had one of your colleagues in here, concerned about your behaviour. You need to take care of yourself psychologically and emotionally, Ray.’ His tone manages to be patronising while wearing a note of warning.

  ‘Wait. What do you mean, one of my colleagues has already been in here?’

  ‘The person concerned came to me in confidence, and my officers need to know that my confidence is sacrosanct.’ Look up the definition of smug in the dictionary and it will show an image of this man’s expression. I want to wipe it from his face with a half-brick. But I’m too numb to act. I fall back into my chair. He takes this as a good sign and continues with his game of chess.

  ‘Take some time off, Ray,’ he says. His tone more conciliatory now. ‘I’ll set up another group of sessions with your counsellor, and we’ll get you back on the job in no time. The Ray McBain we all know and love, eh?’

  I look at him. Feel a surge of anger. Grab at the arm of the chair and just manage to damp it down. Fuck’s sake, Ray. One moment it’s as if you’re anaesthetised. The next it’s as if you’re going to explode. My mind is a slew of words, emotion and half-articulated thoughts. I stand up and take a step to the right. Put my hands in my pockets. Look around the room seeing nothing.

  ‘Right,’ I say. Well done, mate, I think. That told him. Then realise I actually don’t care what this prick thinks, and without another word I leave the room.

  * * *

  Next I know, I’m in a church. I can remember walking. And walking. A tiny woman shouting at me when I moved to step in front of a bus. The comment, “Nearly got your suit pressed there, son” when I stepped back onto the pavement. Don’t think I even flinched.

  My response, ‘Aye.’

  See me with the Glasgow banter.

  The church is old. Faces the River Clyde. High, vaulted stone ceiling. Cool and echoing, but the calm inside speaks to me. I move into the far side of a pew at the back, where I will be invisible.

  ‘Bless me Father, for I have sinned.’ The words chime in my head.

  Once a Catholic.

  I push down the knee-rest and fall forward as if in prayer. Placing my forehead on my clasped hands I think of something I might say to whatever God is listening, but there’s nothing. I have nothing to say, and the silence I hear back is ringing.

  I get off my knees, sit and look around me. I can see some artwork in regular spacing along the walls. Carvings in wood all showing the same male, long-haired figure. That will be the Stations of the Cross then. Reminding us sinners of Christ’s suffering. Requiring a blind faith that the nuns did their very best to inculcate in me. Failing for that very same reason.

  Footsteps, a polite cough, the sound of a backside sliding along the wooden seat.

  ‘Haven’t seen you here before?’ A young man wearing a dog-collar. Sounds about fifteen. I focus. He looks about fifteen and i
s all but shining in his need to help. Makes me think I really must look like shit.

  ‘Nah, I don’t tend to frequent these kind of places.’

  ‘And yet, here we are.’ His hair is blonde, and he’s wearing a trim goatee as if it might add some age and weight to his presence. I revise his age upwards. Old enough to grow a beard. He’ll be about seventeen then.

  I say nothing. He takes the hint and stands up. ‘I’ll be over there if you need me.’ He points at the confessional box. I watch as he walks over, his footsteps echoing in the cavernous space. He pulls open a small door and disappears inside.

  I follow him. Pull open the door and kneel in front of the small grilled window that separates the space between the confessing and the confessor.

  ‘Haven’t said those words for years,’ I say.

  ‘Bless me Father,’ he says, and I can hear the smile in his voice. Despite the I-hate-the-world stance I’ve been taking on these days, I find myself drawn to this young priest.

  ‘What age are you, mate?’

  ‘Does it matter?’

  ‘Nah, not really. Maybe. Age brings experience that helps when people come for advice.’

  ‘If people wanted to hear my advice that might be the case,’ he says ruefully. ‘Mainly people just want someone to listen.’

  ‘I used to go every week when I was a kid. To confession. It was a crock of shit. I never did anything wrong. Had to make stuff up.’ I put on a childish voice. ‘I told three lies this week, said the word “fuck” twice and looked up Mary Smith’s skirt.’

  The priest laughs.

  ‘Aye, me too.’

  ‘What, you looked up Mary Smith’s skirt?’

  ‘I was meaning that I made stuff up. But I was probably looking up someone’s skirt. In my case it was a big cousin.’

  ‘Tut, tut, Father,’ I say, and it feels absurd to be calling this young man “Father”.

  ‘Well, what can I say? I’m only human. And it was long before I took my vows.’

  We settle into a moment’s silence. My phone buzzes in my pocket. I ignore it.

  ‘Why do you think you came here?’

  ‘Got into something at work and left in what you could call a bit of a huff. Next thing I know, here I am. And here we are.’