Bad Samaritan

by Michael J Malone

  ‘Used to get bullied?’ asks Ale. ‘Why did it stop?’

  ‘Got some friends? Became anonymous in the crowd? Grew up?’ He coughs. ‘I think I lost the look of the victim.’ For the first time he meets my gaze, as if saying the words out loud had reminded him that self-preservation requires a certain conduct.

  I recall my own youth and the almost constant threat of violence that many young males experience. Facing down that violence with a fuck-you grin while trying to ignore the shake in my knees. Knowing that any sign of weakness would be pounced on by any other boys looking to boost their own personal sense of power. The law of our concrete jungle being, look like a victim and you will get victimised. Sounds like Simon eventually learned that lesson for himself.

  ‘The fact is, a boy who spat in your face and who trolled you online has been murdered just across the road from your house. It’s not looking good, Simon,’ I say.

  I hear loud footsteps outside in the corridor leading to this room. Someone is walking with purpose, and I know it’s not with any favours for me in mind.

  Simon crosses his arms. Folds into himself. ‘Perhaps I shouldn’t say any more until I have a lawyer?’

  There’s a knock at the door. It opens. DI Peters steps in.

  ‘DI McBain. DC Rossi. Talk to you outside, please?’

  Ale gives me a look. We stand up and follow Peters out. He takes a few steps away from the door and turns. His lips are a tight line of irritation. He manages to open them to speak.

  ‘He has an alibi for the night of Aileen’s murder. He has an alibi for last night’s murder.’ His ire increases as each word escapes his mouth. ‘I’m the chief investigating officer on this one, Ray, whether you fucking like it or not.’ He faces Ale. His expression telling her of his huge disappointment in her. ‘DC Rossi. Escort Simon Davis to the public reception area. His mother is there for him.’

  ‘But we’re waiting…’

  ‘You might be waiting on Christmas, Ale, but frankly I don’t give a shit. Take the boy to his mother. Now.’

  40

  The moment the knife slid through skin and ligament.

  The look in the boy’s eyes just before his light dimmed.

  The arc and spray of blood.

  The gasp and shudder of his own pleasure.

  Poetry.

  Leonard has set up station in his hotel room. He chose one of those anonymous hotel chains that provide a corporate view of what a dormitory might look like, and it amuses him to think that the length and breadth of the country, men and women, after a day’s work away from the comforts of home, accept such a homogenised view of rest and respite.

  He imagines legions of these servants of capitalism approaching a receptionist to book into their rooms. Faces the colour of whey, they open their mouth to speak and the only sound to come out is the bleating of sheep.

  He looks around himself at his room. Large bed with a dark blue covering. Fat, white pillows. A two-seater sofa offering as much cushion as cardboard and a covering harsh enough to scour skin should anyone be foolish enough to sit while naked. The walls are magnolia, and the wardrobe is fabricated from a factory version of pine.

  There’s a dresser in front of a large mirror. He takes a seat and stares at his image. Wonders if that is really him. Stares down the wormhole of his own pupils.

  Relives the moment of the boy’s death again. Feels the rush and heat of pleasure. Draws back from full immersion. He has a job to do.

  The killing was a bonus, but he couldn’t allow it to become a distraction.

  He opens the lid of his laptop. Fires it up, and as he waits for the screen to build he thinks about the various people in his web and how they might help his plans.

  The Davis twins and the dead girl. Simon was her boyfriend, so he’s going to be the main suspect. Clearly the police have no evidence or he’d be in custody. If that boy’s a killer, I’m a bar of butter, thinks Leonard. Could the girl have had something going on with the brother?

  He has already befriended Simon on Facebook (as his fake persona), so he checks through his friend list. Finds the dead boy’s timeline. And with a few well-chosen words, plants a seed. Let’s see what the court of public opinion makes of that. Feels a thrill at the possible repercussions.

  Next, he goes to the Time4Twin website. Types an apology for Simon’s attention and then settles in to wait.

  Surprisingly quickly, Simon replies.

  ‘I understand,’ his message reads.

  ‘When it came down to it, I just couldn’t have that conversation.’ Leonard explains.

  ‘No problem.’

  ‘You seem distracted,’ Leonard types, allowing a smile to heat his face and knowing what the source of that distraction would be. ‘What’s up?’

  There was a long wait before the screen filled with an answer.

  ‘Just got back from the police station. A guy I know was killed last night. Just across the road from my house. Shit, that was scary, mate. Sorry. I shouldn’t be telling you this. That’s unprofessional.’

  Leonard knew the boy would be conflicted in telling him and yet anxious to be talking to someone unconnected. A conflict that he could manipulate. ‘No problem. It’s understandable. You must have got a fright. Any reason why the police wanted to speak to you?’

  ‘Well, I did know him. And it happened just outside my house.’

  ‘Do they think you were involved?’

  ‘Don’t think so.’ Pause. ‘Surely not? They were just fishing. Has to be just a coincidence that they had to check out.’ Another, longer pause. ‘And we got some hate mail that night. If it was the dead guy who sent it, that could throw suspicion on me again.’

  ‘Hope not, mate,’ Leonard replies. ‘But as far as the police are concerned, when it comes to crime, there’s no such thing as coincidence.’ Then he stops typing, thinking, let the boy stew on that a while.

  ‘Shit. You’re right. But they let me go. And my mum told them I was in the house all night.’

  ‘What about your brother?’

  ‘What about him?’

  ‘Was he in the house all night? Could he be involved?’

  ‘Jesus. No. Matt’s no murderer.’

  ‘Who knows what we’re capable of when we’re trying to protect our families? Could he know that this guy was leaving the hate mail?’

  ‘It came in not long after Matt left the house.’ Pause. ‘Surely not. No. Not going there. Matt will defend himself, but he wouldn’t take a knife to someone. No way.’

  ‘OK,’ replies Leonard. Another seed sown.

  He finishes up the session with an offer to provide a listening ear and a renewed promise to meet up to finally address his issues.

  Then he clicks through a number of websites. Takes in the information. Searches the girl’s name. Finds the news item about the father’s apparent suicide attempt and his subsequent coma. What’s going on there? Daddy is consumed by guilt? Why? Did he do it? Does he know who did it and did nothing to stop it?

  Another news site and McBain’s worn and grey face fills the screen. The sound is on mute, but Leonard fills in McBain’s silent mouthings with his own thoughts. Police cliché playing the part of public information service while obfuscating the truth.

  McBain’s female colleague stands just behind his left shoulder, and Leonard wonders again at this relationship. She was the underling, yet McBain draws something from the relationship. More than friends? Or is it just a strong bond forged in the fire of a trying occupation?

  Leonard thinks of his long dead brother. Feels the twist and ache of his loss. It has never diminished despite the passing of the decades.

  He remembers that very first killing. All of those children standing round the old man’s bed. The old man they thought was responsible for their violation. His feeble attempts at self-defence. The metallic tang
in the air as blood was spilled. A cloud of white feathers when the blade missed and hit a pillow.

  In his mind’s eye, Leonard goes round that bed. Lays to rest each of those white faces. All of them are dead, save him and one other.

  McBain.

  But there’s more suffering to be had before that last one can take his final exhalation.

  41

  Jack Foreman was in his bedsit. Sitting up in bed. Fully dressed. Mind a swirl of emotions. Unable to pin a name on any of them.

  Ian was dead?

  They’d only known each other for a couple of years, but what the actual fuck?

  Dead?

  He crossed his legs, leaned forward, his head in his hands. Felt a tear slide from his eye. ‘This can’t be happening,’ he said out loud, hearing the quiver in his voice. ‘Can’t be true.’ And Jesus, he couldn’t remember the last time he cried. At Parkhead, when Celtic beat Barcelona?

  What the hell happened, Ian? All you had to do was deliver a piece of paper. Did one of the Davis boys stop you? Did a fight break out? If that was the case it would be Matt, not Simon. Simon couldn’t fight his way out of a wet paper bag. Killing women was more his thing, the wee cunt. But Matt looked quite handy.

  They were speaking just last night. Before Ian went over to the Davis’s house to deliver that latest note. He slumped back into his pillows. Shit. A singular emotion swirled up from the morass. He recognised the sourness of its shape and gave it a name. Guilt.

  If it hadn’t been for him, Ian wouldn’t have even been there.

  It all started as Ian’s idea. They could see that the police were getting nowhere and decided to do what they could to put pressure on Simon Davis. No way was that wee geek innocent. He’d bet that Davis was having a nightly wankfest at the memory of killing that poor wee lassie.

  A mate of a mate of a mate said the polis weren’t charging Davis because of a lack of evidence. Sure he was the ex-boyfriend, but he had an alibi for the night of Aileen’s death. So they couldn’t do him.

  Well maybe they can’t, Ian said to Jack, but we fucking could.

  Face-to-face was usually more Jack’s style. Up front and in person, like. But Jack was there to be persuaded. His wee sister, Emma, had been date-raped by this sick bastard. Who’d fucked off back to Spain or Italy or wherever the fuck he came from. Leaving him and his ma to hold her hand.

  That was a wake-up moment for him. Seeing the impact of that kind of thing on someone he cared about. Sure, he’d taken things a wee bit too far a couple of times. Got the horn so hard he could barely ignore it. But he always pulled back before anybody got hurt. A final no was a no, right?

  Wee Emma had been in a right state. Crying all day and all night for weeks. She was getting her act together now right enough. Decided she ain’t going to be any sick bastard’s victim.

  Our Emma’s got balls, said his ma.

  A fucking huge pair of balls.

  And guys need to know that this isn’t on.

  Jack Foreman is going to be the one to educate them. Starting with Simon Fucking Davis, Jack told Ian and every cunt he could reach on social networking.

  They started with poisonous wee messages on Facebook, but it turned out that Davis found them easy to ignore and closed his account on the site. Next idea was to send them some messages. He got the idea from an old TV show, where one of the characters cut some letters out of a newspaper and glued them into a message.

  Ian had really impressed him with his attitude on this. Usually he was the quietest guy in the room, as shy as a kid on their first day at school. But he’d really gone for this. Jack was unsure it would be worth all the effort, but Ian delivered the first couple, and then they decided to take turns about.

  ‘Why don’t we just stick them in the post and let Mr Postman do the delivery thing?’ Jack asked at the start.

  ‘First of all, the envelope would have a postmark. And second, it will really mess with their heads. They’ll think it’s a neighbour, and they’ll end up falling out with them all. It will create an atmosphere around them. Piles on the pressure, mate.’

  Jack nodded his assent. Punched Ian on the arm. ‘You’re a sick fucker,’ he grinned. ‘And what have you done with my mate, Ian Cook? Let’s do this.’

  And last night was supposed to be his turn to deliver, but this sweet wee thing called Rachel had sent him a naked text from her shower and an invite to come over. Tits, fanny and everything. Couldn’t pass that up, could he?

  Ian made a show of complaining. Mumped and moaned, said no fucking way. But it was clear this display was just a matter of form. Didn’t want to be seen as a walkover.

  Jack whipped out his phone and showed him Rachel’s photo.

  ‘Nice,’ Ian said, a slow grin forming on his face. ‘Fuck me, she’s gorgeous.’

  ‘You see what kind of position I’m in?’ Jack pleaded.

  ‘Aye. Fair enough,’ said Ian before taking another look. A very slow, very appreciative look before Jack pulled the phone back.

  ‘Fuck off, ya prick. Don’t you be having a wank over my bird.’

  ‘As if,’ said Ian, with an expression that promised as soon as he had the space to himself he’d be rubbing one out. ‘But I want a full and frank account of your evening. Got to get my jollies somehow.’

  Jack pocketed his phone and rubbed his hands together. ‘Not a chance, mate. I’m a total gentleman.’

  That was last night. And today, Ian was dead. Murdered just across the road from the Davis’s house.

  Too much of a coincidence. Innit? The scenario repeats in his mind. One of the Davis boys catches him in the act. Bound to happen eventually, like. It all kicks off. A knife gets pulled, and Ian ends up with his throat cut.

  Fuck me. That’s brutal.

  Jack pulls his phone off the charger. Checks an online news site for any more information. Nothing. The police are keeping this one close to their chest.

  From habit, he scrolls through his Facebook page.

  Nothing much happening here.

  Nope.

  Scrolls down some more.

  Nobody’s doing nothing today.

  Finally, a message about Ian. People are going up the site to leave flowers. Maybe he should do that as well? People will be wondering where he was. Best mates with the dead boy and all that.

  A sob escapes. A harsh note of pain that is stuck in his throat before escaping on a breath.

  Davie boy. What the fuck happened?

  He goes back to Facebook. Leaves a quick post.

  ‘Cannae believe the news. RIP Ian, mate.’

  Within seconds people are piling in to show support. Fucking rubbernecking bastards, thinks Jack. ‘Sorry for your loss’, one knobhead types. Fuck off and grow an original thought, ya prick. Don’t need your sympathy. He throws his phone on the bed.

  Got to do something. He jumps to his feet. Retrieves his phone. Back to Facebook and scrolling through his contacts. An alert from some guy called Dave Smith snags his attention.

  ‘Jack mate. Heard from a mate the polis think it was Matt Davis wot done Ian Cook lets get the cunt he was spotted down the town in the student union like he owned the fucking place needs to learn a lesson.’

  First of all, mate, punctuation, he thinks.

  Second of all, you are fucking on.

  42

  Ale is sitting in front of her computer having just sent off an email asking when the DNA results might be in. Who would have thought that austerity cuts would have led to murder suspects being let off?

  She drums her fingernails on the desk, wondering if she should phone instead. She phoned yesterday, and phoning again today was just going to piss people off. Yes, but emails are so much easier to ignore, she thinks.

  ‘Will you stop that,’ says Daryl Drain, a look of indignation on his face.

  �
��What?’ asks Ale.

  ‘Drumming your fingers on the desk. It’s annoying.’

  ‘Excuse me,’ says Ale. Grins. Drums with added zeal.

  Daryl raises his eyebrows at her. ‘Really mature.’

  ‘This DNA thing is doing my head in,’ she offers by way of explanation. She sits back in her chair and crosses her arms. ‘What the hell is going on over there?’

  Daryl slides his chair over a few inches so he has a better view of her face past her computer screen. ‘What else can you be getting on with?’

  ‘The boy, Cook,’ she exhales. ‘I’m not buying either of the Davis boys for that. Far too…’ she searches for a word, ‘clinical.’

  ‘What makes you say that?’ asks Drain.

  ‘One wound. Appears to be aimed with precision. And who goes for the throat like that for Christ’s sake?’

  Drain nods in agreement.

  Even in her few short years on the force, Ale has seen the outcome of plenty of knife attacks. Sure, they’re reducing in numbers thanks to a number of clever initiatives from the suits, but it still happens with alarming regularity.

  ‘With Cook there’s no defensive wounds, so my guess is that it was over quickly. Most knife attacks I’ve seen are aimed at the chest, and when it is the neck, if they’re attacking from the front, it tends to be a kind of slashing movement. This was a single movement. He was quite literally going for the jugular.’

  ‘Aye. Spot on, Ale,’ Drain says. ‘This has the feel of an execution. Not a rammy, which it would be if Cook was posting the hate mail and was caught by one of the Davis lads. And besides, none of the neighbours reported hearing any disturbances.’

  ‘It’s just not adding up. Who would execute a geeky student?’

  ‘Unless he was more than a geeky student.’

  Ale recalls the time she met Cook in The Horseshoe. Sees a body language that suggests, if the Bible is correct, the young man concerned was about to inherit a large chunk of the earth.