Bad Samaritan

by Michael J Malone

  I shake my head. ‘I have no control. There’s no rhyme or reason. Everything feels fine. Until it isn’t.’

  We sit in silence. The shout of pulse in my ear has receded, and my breathing is slow and measured. I follow the in breath with my mind, acknowledge the rise of my chest. Being mindful is the new treatment they say. But how to be mindful when the black dog charges, full of teeth and wrath.

  I manage a smile. ‘The irony isn’t lost on me,’ I say.

  He cocks his head to the side by way of a request for an explanation.

  ‘The church has been the cause of most of my problems, and yet I seek refuge in a church.’

  ‘Why do you think that is?’

  ‘Fucked if I know.’

  ‘That’s a cop-out, Ray,’ he says kindly.

  ‘You know, I watch the odd thing on the TV on a Sunday morning. Listen to people say how Jesus helped them get over their addiction or other problems, and I shout at the telly. Tell them to fuck off. Jesus had nothing to do with it. It was you. You did it. Take responsibility for your problems and acknowledge the resilience you found to overcome them.’

  ‘Why is that important to you?’

  ‘I can understand the temptation to hand it all over to someone else. Something else. But ultimately we’re on our own.’

  He pauses for a beat. ‘Interesting word that. Resilience.’

  I nod and look him in the eye properly for the first time. ‘Yeah, and right now it feels like it’s completely beyond me.’

  32

  From the hush of the church to the confessional space of a car. I’m sitting in the passenger seat. Alessandra Rossi has just pulled on the handbrake.

  ‘You awright, Ray?’

  ‘Aye.’

  She says nothing.

  ‘I’ve been better,’ I fill in the silence she leaves.

  ‘You look like shit. Did you sleep last night?’

  I hold my hand up. Thumb and index finger almost touching. ‘Today is another day, DC Rossi.’ I muster the energy from somewhere. Consider the word, resilience. Let the sense of it work through my muscles. Pray that something takes hold.

  I look at the house we’re sitting outside of. ‘Let’s do this.’

  We walk up the path, and the door opens before we can reach to knock.

  ‘The boys aren’t in,’ says Helen Davis. The way she’s holding the door open reminds me of Jennie Banks, though Helen looks less haunted by events. She’s wearing a pair of grey trousers and a long, grey cardigan. A cream blouse and a warm pink patterned scarf finishes off the look. Very Marks & Spencer. I’m getting the impression she doesn’t do joggers and t-shirts.

  ‘Can we come in?’ asks Ale.

  Helen pushes the door fully open and walks through the hallway and into her living room without a word. We follow.

  ‘Any more threats being posted?’ Ale asks, the concern in her tone real.

  ‘Not through the letter box,’ Helen answers as she takes her seat. She crosses her legs. Places both hands on her lap. Keeping everything contained.

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Simon doesn’t go online much these days.’ Worry for her son is etched into every line. ‘Some of the stuff people leave on there is utterly vile.’

  ‘Have you reported it?’ I ask.

  She answers with a shrug. ‘What’s the point? Most of these people are hiding behind fake accounts. Silence one and another two would spring up in its place.’ She smiles. ‘Even I opened a fake account. Don’t worry, I’m not about to go trolling. I just wanted to keep tabs on what Simon was having to put up with.’

  She fidgets with a strand of hair at her neck, twisting it between her index and middle fingers. ‘At first he refused to let these eejits stop him going into these sites. Why should he allow a bunch of cowards to dictate how he spends his time, is his view. Used to spend half his life doing all that online social stuff. Still does all his online counselling stuff. It’s something about twins these days.’ She shakes her head, her eyes leaking love and concern.

  ‘Anyway.’ She crosses her arms and focuses on Ale. ‘What’s going on? Why do you want to speak to me?’

  ‘It’s about Kevin Banks,’ answers Ale.

  ‘Terrible thing that. I heard it on the news. Whatever possessed him? Grief makes us act in strange ways, eh?’ She switches position. Left leg over right, as if bracing herself for wherever this conversation is going next.

  ‘When did you last see him?’ I ask.

  ‘Why do you want to know that?’ she asks, and I recognise the delay tactic. Everything that has come out of her mouth since we walked in the door has been part of that strategy. Interesting. Feels to me that at some level she’s worried we know something. She leans forward and looks from me to focus on Ale as if seeking an ally.

  ‘As you say, he’s acting in grief,’ I reply. ‘But we want to get a clearer idea what’s going on in his head, and his wife’s not in a fit state to answer our questions.’

  ‘I had a boyfriend when I was a teenager,’ says Ale, aiming for solidarity. A shared experience. ‘My parents and his parents used to meet all the time. Started off as a safety thing, you know? Make sure the boy that their daughter’s in love with isn’t from a family of nutters. Turned into a good friendship,’ says Ale. She shakes her head fondly. ‘They still go away for weekends together … and I dumped him years ago.’

  ‘That’s nice,’ says Helen with a smile as false as a plaster Madonna’s tears. She’s worried, and it’s not just about her boys. There’s a personal factor here. Ale and I then sit still and say nothing. First one to speak loses.

  ‘I’m trying to remember the last time I saw Kevin. Must have been some university thing. An open day or something.’ She’s slowly moving her head from side to side as if trying to access the memory. ‘Can’t believe he would do that. The papers are saying he aimed for the bus rather than, you know, to pass it?’

  We stay silent. Out of the side of my eyes I can see Ale nod in answer to the question. She’s struggling to stifle her instinct to communicate.

  ‘Terrible. Just terrible. The whole thing,’ says Helen as she loosens her scarf and places it on the arm of her chair.

  ‘You haven’t spoken to him since Aileen died?’ I ask.

  ‘No. Don’t think my family is at the top of his favourites right now.’

  ‘And you haven’t spoken to him since the last university … thing?’ Ale asks. ‘Which was when, do you think?’

  ‘Jeez, must’ve been…’ Her expression falters and alters. She allows irritation to take over. Attack being the best form of defence. ‘What is this? What the hell are you people doing here, and why are you asking me these questions?’ She stands up. ‘I want you to leave now.’

  ‘Fine,’ I say, and both Ale and I stand.

  We follow her out of the room and down the hall. Just before she opens the front door, I do the Columbo thing.

  ‘Just one last question…’

  ‘What?’

  As I turn to look at her, I see her features are beginning to relax with relief. They tighten again, like a boxer might hold up his gloves to fend off a blow.

  ‘The night Aileen died…?’

  ‘I was here. Early bed, cos I had work the next day. Working on a Saturday, eh?’ She aims for a lightness in tone and fails. ‘Should be illegal.’

  ‘Then why are you on CCTV walking up Renfrew Street, hand in hand with Kevin Banks?’

  33

  Helen stares at me. Her face pales and her neck sparks with deep, pink Rorschach blots. I wonder if she could read them what she might see.

  She stands with one hand reaching for the door handle. The other strays to the heat on her neck, and her thumb rubs there as if trying to erase them. The mouth might obey our brain, but the body often betrays.

  ‘I’m not a bad person,’
she says. ‘And Kevin would be an easy man to fall in love with.’ Tears brighten the dull ache of regret in her eyes.

  Would be. She’s not quite there yet then.

  ‘We’re not here to judge you, Helen,’ I say. ‘We want to find out as much as we can about the night Aileen died.’ I think about her situation. Devotes her life to her two boys after her husband dies in service overseas. Can’t have been easy.

  ‘How long have you been having an affair with him?’

  ‘We didn’t start until Aileen and Simon fell out,’ she asserts, as if in her mind this mitigates having an affair with a married man.

  ‘As DI McBain says, we’re not here to judge you,’ Ale says. ‘The why and how don’t matter. We just want the facts.’

  ‘We met in a supermarket would you believe…’ Helen carries on speaking as if keen to unburden her conscience. ‘The one that Aileen works … worked in. Hadn’t seen him for ages. I’d forgotten what a charming man he was. Always made me smile. Made me feel better about myself, you know? And I always wondered what he saw in that stuffy cow.’ She looks down at the carpet. ‘God. Poor woman. What must she be going through…’

  I see again the images from the CCTV feed. The way he held out his hand. The way she accepted. A small skip in her step while she reached up with her other hand to fix her hair. There was a freshness about their body language. Initial attraction evolving towards something deeper.

  ‘I’ve been thinking about him running in front of that bus. Must be guilt. Can’t deal with the fact that while his daughter was dying, he was out with me.’ She bites the inside of her cheek. ‘The good ones are all taken, eh?’ It’s like she’s finally accepted that whatever she had with Kevin Banks, it can never survive this. She lifts up her chin, crosses her arms.

  ‘Yes, we were having an affair. Yes, we were out that night. Anything else?’

  With these words I get a glimpse of something else. A hardness. A shell she has grown to protect herself. To hide herself.

  ‘The CCTV camera we saw you from was sited just round the corner from where Aileen’s body was found. Did you see her at all that night?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘One thing I’ve learned in this job is that there’s no such thing as coincidence. Especially when it comes to murder. I’ll ask you again, did either of you see Aileen Banks that night.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘What kind of relationship did you have with Aileen?’ asks Ale.

  ‘She was my son’s girlfriend. What kind of relationship do you think we had? She was in and out of my house. She made my son happy. That was enough for me.’

  ‘Until she didn’t make your son happy any longer…’

  ‘Don’t want to speak ill of the dead and all that, but she had the best of her father and the worst of her mother. Charm and humour to spare. Then a complete lack of self-awareness, flighty and spoiled. Used to drive me nuts. But it was up to Simon. He had to deal with it all himself. You learn quickly as a parent that often the opposite of what you advise is what happens. Once they get to a certain age, it’s best to keep your opinions to yourself. Especially when it comes to girls.’

  ‘Did you ever fight with Aileen?’ I ask, and as the words fall from my mouth I’m questioning the instinct that has me pose the question. But a flash of memory has her slapping Matt just feet from where we are standing. Is she only that quick to strike with her sons?

  There’s something more at play here.

  ‘What kind of…’ Helen looks from me to Ale. ‘You don’t think I’ve got something to do with her death.’ As she speaks she places a hand over her heart. I look up from there to her neck and can see that the blotches are back.

  Ale fires me a look as if I’ve just taken a dump on the carpet.

  ‘I’ve never heard anything so ridiculous,’ she replies, all but spitting at me. ‘Time you were leaving.’

  Ale reaches for the door and pulls it open.

  * * *

  In the car she gives me that same look.

  ‘Really, Ray?’

  ‘What? Cos she’s a woman she’s not going to be violent?’

  ‘You know that’s not what I mean. Do you really think she’s a suspect?’

  ‘Stranger things have happened. CCTV puts her in the vicinity. She’s known to the deceased. She’s fiercely protective of her boys. Motive and opportunity, Ale.’

  ‘What about the semen on the girl’s top?’

  ‘That was Bill Clinton.’

  ‘Piss off,’ she laughs.

  ‘She goes outside with some poor sap. My money’s on Simon. Gives him a knee-trembler. Meets Mommie Dearest on the way back into the pub, arm in arm with her old man. They have a fight. Bang.’

  Ale looks out of the window, back at the house. Chases my theory through her mind. ‘Nah. Not buying it. Kevin Banks isn’t going to stand by and let her hurt his daughter. And Simon’s denying he was there.’

  She fires up the engine and drives off. A few minutes of silence as we each ruminate. Two families. Two mothers. One father. Two brothers. One friend.

  One dead girl.

  I’m certain that someone among her living connections knows the truth.

  Without warning, I feel my breath shorten and my chest grow tight. I wipe my palms dry with a slow movement up and down my trouser leg, hoping that Ale doesn’t notice. I lick my lips, the moisture welcome, and looking out of the car window at my side, I study a building in the distance. Realise it’s the water tower at Cranhill and focus on it like a seasick traveller might hang on the thought of reaching dry land.

  I silently send a prayer to the god of panic attacks. Not now, you bastard. Not while I’m at work. To distract myself I ask Ale a question.

  ‘What about your story about your ex-boyfriend’s parents going on holiday with your mum and dad?’ I ask.

  She shoots me a grin. ‘Complete and utter pish.’

  We both laugh, and for a few moments at least, the sound of it chases away the rising breath of the black dog.

  34

  Back at the office, and Ale and I are walking along the corridor on our way to DI Peters’ office in order to update him on our activities.

  ‘Do we have to?’ I ask.

  ‘Get over yourself, McBain,’ answers Ale. ‘He’s the chief investigating officer now. Deal with it.’ She softens her comment with a smile and a weak punch to my shoulder.

  ‘Is that your version of tough love?’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘If he wasn’t such a prick.’

  ‘Ray…’

  ‘Or a dick…’

  ‘Ray…’

  ‘I mean, his version of living dangerously is going in to Tesco with a Sainsbury-branded plastic bag, for fuck’s sake.’

  ‘True. But is any part of that you learning to deal with it?’

  We’re walking along the corridor towards the office. A door opens. Peters walks out of it and almost collides with us.

  ‘Talk of the devil,’ I say. ‘We’re just coming to report in.’ And it’s costing me about ten years of my life, I want to say.

  ‘Right,’ he says and looks from me to Ale.

  Ale fills him in, and he stands there with his arms crossed as if trying to look more imposing. Might work too if his arms weren’t as thin as the flex feeding a laptop.

  ‘Right. Right,’ he says. ‘Any word back from the hospital yet?’

  ‘Far as we’re aware, Banks is still in a coma.’

  ‘And the DNA sample?’

  ‘Still waiting,’ Ale answers.

  ‘Bloody hell. How long does it take these people?

  ‘That’ll be the cutbacks,’ I say.

  ‘Convenient excuse,’ he answers. ‘Chase them up, Ale.’ He looks at me. His eyes meeting mine for little more than a second. ‘Ray,’ he says by way of acknowledg
ement. Then his eyes stray down my neck and chest. ‘Have you got a nicer tie than that?’

  ‘Whit?’

  ‘Press briefing in twenty minutes. The boss wants you to front it.’

  ‘I hate doing those fucking things.’

  ‘We’ve all got our cross to bear, Ray,’ he says, his eyes saying that I am his. Without another word he turns and walks away.

  ‘Missing you already,’ I say.

  ‘Ray,’ Ale scolds while choking on a laugh.

  ‘What a fud.’

  ‘Love that word,’ says Ale.

  ‘It’s not on the same word embargo as…’

  ‘Nope. Brings up warm memories of wet Saturday mornings and Bugs Bunny cartoons.’

  ‘Some consistency would be nice, DC Rossi.’

  ‘Where’s the fun in that? Got to keep you old men on your toes.’

  ‘I’ll “old man” you.’

  Ale picks her phone out of her pocket. Checks the time.

  ‘Didn’t realise it was that late.’

  ‘Jeez, do you young people not use watches anymore? And what’s for dinner tonight? Pot noodle and EastEnders?’

  ‘Something like that,’ she smiles. ‘Care to join me?’ And I read a note of loneliness. But I decline. I’m not even good company for myself these days.

  ‘Nah. As much as that combination appeals, Maggie will be expecting me.’

  ‘Oh,’ Ale nods. Crosses her arms, leans against the wall. She’s expecting a story from me then. ‘Things still going strong then?’

  I see the light dance in her eyes and feel a surge of affection. She’s happy for me, and I can’t remember the last time I observed that reaction in anyone. Want to give her a hug, but that might not be appropriate. I settle for reaching out and touching her arm.

  ‘Pot noodle,’ I say. ‘Yum.’

  * * *

  After the press briefing, in which I manage to use many words without saying anything of real value, I make my way to my car. My tie is unknotted and in my pocket before I leave the building.