Potter's Field

by Dolan, Chris;

  Alan Coulter had left, sometime over the weekend, a voicemail. “Our jogger wasn’t alone. Work partner with him. Unfortunately, said gentleman is presently out of town on business.”

  Also a wifie up by Kelvindale with a view over the canal had seen several men walking along the cycle path at six o’clock the morning of the murders. They weren’t winos and they didn’t have fishing rods. “Can you believe that?” Coulter cackled on the answer phone, betraying a smoking habit from some time before Maddy knew him. “She sees dads regularly taking their kids angling at the crack of dawn. What for? Wild tellies? Freshwater condoms?”

  One person was walking alone and the old dear thought he might have been a youngster. He had a stick he was trailing along the ground. Then there were two more people who she thought were older. She supposed they were all on their way to work, or coming back from work, or maybe a party. She wasn’t clear about any peaked caps and track suits.

  Coulter had been made Detective Inspector on one of Maddy’s first cases. They’d taken to each other. The gaps in gender, age, background and outlook working to their mutual advantage. He was a married father of four; she a singleton increasingly unlikely to have kids whether or not she wanted them.

  “That canal path’s hoaching with arse bandits.” Alan, she knew, only spoke like this outside the house. She’d been invited there a couple of years back for his daughter Lauren’s eighteenth. The entire Coulter clan – even the black sheep, Ben, were pleasant-natured, bright-eyed and clean-living. Almost too polite.

  He suggested lunch and signed off as Maddy was opening an attachment on her email. Doc Holloway’s initial report.

  The beatings the boys had received around the head, neck and torso, were not random – their wounds were remarkably similar. In particular, they each had deep incisions made around the area of the mouth. Under the bruising and blood lay carefully inflicted wounds. A slash across the cheeks so deep the under half of the face had fallen away the moment the bodies were moved. A second slash extended from the septum to under the chin. The attack was vicious or manic enough to have crushed the front teeth of one of the boys. Holloway couldn’t be sure yet, but thought the knifing might have been inflicted before death.

  No signs of struggle? Those lads wouldn’t have stood, or lain, there and let someone do that to them. They’d have kicked out in pain, terror, if not in fury. There was no sign of drugs or alcohol. But the cadavers gave little indication of struggle. The whole drama had taken place in a few square yards – Holloway had appended notes from his colleagues at Forensics. The victims, more than likely, had fallen to the ground under the beating, and the gun was fired from the assassin’s standing position. Whether one or more men had applied the beatings and the bullets, it was too early to say. A single long, black hair had been found on one of the corpses. DNA testing would go ahead first thing next week. Maddy hoped to God it wasn’t hers.

  Why hadn’t they fought back? Because they knew it was hopeless? Or, they took their punishment like men, presuming that was an end to it. The gun was produced as a surprise addition – a magician’s trick. Were they already unconscious when their executioner(s) stepped forward?

  Maddy caught her reflection in the glass. Better than last week. But her clothes still looked like they’d been taken from another woman’s wardrobe. She’d never intended to look like this. She thought: I dress myself like a stranger.

  She managed, mid-morning, to get a hold of Dan over at the High Court. As dogged as ever, not allowing some posh advocate to muck up a case he had prepared without at least sitting in court and giving him the evil eye. “Here we go again,” he said. “A vicious bastard’s about to get away with murder. Literally.” A taxi driver had backed over a client he’d just a minute earlier overcharged by several pounds. “One of these wee fly-by-night companies, carting folk around in vehicles fit for the knackers yard. Driver’s famous for his racist rantings, and the hire just happened to be Asian. Despite a near-perfect precognition – though I say it myself – they can’t make a murder charge stick.”

  “Maybe it wasn’t murder, Dan. Maybe he just meant to break the legs. Culpable and reckless conduct? Who’s defending?”

  “Deena Gajendra.”

  Maddy smiled. “You’ve had it boy. One flash of those legs and any judge is a goner. Even if she’s female.”

  Dan sat down and closed his eyes. “All that work, and my man’ll get a ticking off, a fine and a spot of community service.”

  She prodded Dan on the shoulder to get his eyes open. “Tell me, Schemie Boy. Le Coq Sportif – and save the jokes – give me a profile of the average wearer.”

  Dan perked up. “There are a number of different models. The serious sportsman, all square-jawed and sweating manfully. That’s the ones Le Coq pay to wear their gear. The ones who fork out the moolah, as ever, are skinny little squirts who get pregnant at fourteen or end up splattered in corners of parks.”

  Dan was sleek as a seal. Tall, fleshy, broad shouldered, thick black locks carefully sculpted around his neck. The kind of man who carries weight well. Bien dans sa peau as the French say. Suits – a different one for each day of the year it seemed – hung well on him. His surplus fat shouted health and wealth, not hamburgers and crisps. Maddy wondered if, de-suited, the effect might not be quite as acceptable. Were there 32C moobs flapping under his silk shirt? Still, he managed to look professional and affluent on a restricted salary, as only a particular breed of gay men can.

  “Any particular gang?”

  “Crew. Please. Can’t say, but I have noticed a preponderance of Coq Sportif in the Drumchapel area. South tends more towards Nike. Easterhouse teams, Reebok. But underclass streetwear is a notoriously capricious niche.” Despite the suits, the confidence, his rich voice, Dan McKillop was a child of the Schemes. He grew up in the less classy streets of Clydebank, among a likeable but deeply dysfunctional family. Three kids, three fathers, mum McKillop a monster of irresponsibility, talkativeness and fun. His dad all but killed him when – via local gossip – he found out that his boy was a shirtlifter. When Dan spoke flippantly about pregnant fourteen-year-olds, he wasn’t being condescending. His sister had been one and was probably the dearest human being to him in his life. Wee brother Pat ran with boy racers south of the river (therefore wore, presumably, Reebok). How Dan had survived all that to become a respected and efficient Depute Fiscal, an assured and settled gay man and dependable friend, was a wonderful mystery to Maddy. Astonishing, too, that he still lived in Drumchapel – albeit in a big stone townhouse in the old village.

  “Couldn’t ask around, could you? Anybody gone AWOL recently? Any reason why anyone should? Who’s playing with .38s?”

  Dan took the print-out of Holloway’s report Maddy had on her lap.

  “Slashed,” Maddy said. “Across the mouth. Vertically and horizontally.” She made a little “X” an inch away from Dan’s lips. “That mean anything? Omerta?”

  “You’ve got to do something about that Sopranos fixation.”

  “Both of them. In exactly the same way. Deep enough to cut through gum, teeth, and, in one case, tongue. That’s not a random act. Had they spoken out of turn? Were they about to? The cuts might have been made just before or just after death – either way, there’s a message in it.”

  Dan got up to go, his hearing about to resume.

  “That canal path leads to Drumchapel, Dan. There must be something you can find out.”

  “Are you suggesting that I have links with the criminal underworld, Mz Shannon, just cause I live in Drumchapel?”

  “You might know a man who does.”

  Dan sighed, handed her back the report and promised to ask around. “After I’ve watched Ms Gajendra release a homicidal racist back out onto the streets.”

  “You have to admit – she’s got her good points. As it were.”

  “Not my type.”

  “True, I’d go for her quicker, if I buttoned up different.” She tried to smile but the muscles
in her face were too taut. Two boys dead. Crosses scrawled over mouths like Stop signs.

  A meeting with Adams wasn’t giving him much to work on. Coulter listened to Adams making a meal out of very little. At this rate, he was going to miss his lunch with Maddy Shannon.

  No weapons had been found. A killer who executed with such precision and dedication would hardly be daft enough to throw precious guns away in the immediate vicinity.

  “There are traces of footsteps leading up to the patch behind the rhododendrons. One of the boy’s trainers matches perfectly.” Adams deduced, from the fingertip search and early forensics, that the boy approached the murder scene in the company of three others – the second victim and two unknowns. Probably males. That didn’t quite match with the account the woman hanging out her window had given.

  Nothing Coulter learned led anywhere – literally. The boys seemed to have been walked around a bit before ending up behind the rhodos. Perhaps with the intent purpose to hinder detection. Similar footprints had been identified on the canal path. But nothing precise – the surface of the path, dry as dust after a rainless week, was too disturbed by late evening runners, walkers, prams and bikes, to track the fatal journey far. The prints found furthest from the scene were to the west of the park itself.

  The single strand of hair represented a glimmer of hope, but might just as easily belong to a victim’s sister or girlfriend or someone next to him on the bus earlier that day.

  It was 12.50 when the meeting finally broke up. Ten minutes to get to the west end for lunch. Just as he got to the door, Russell called after him. “Something’s come in.”

  Alan wasn’t quite through the doorway enough to pretend he hadn’t heard.

  “Nice to be held in such esteem.” She was sitting at an outside table, sun specs, reading files, her hair a charcoal blur.

  “Sorry. Got held up.”

  “Of course. You’ve an important big boy’s job. I’ve got all the time in the world.”

  Coulter knew from experience not to keep fencing with her. He sat down across from her, his back to Byres Road. He hated eating outside. Cars blowing exhaust fumes all over your salad; the noise, the flies, the sun in your eyes, burning up one half of your face. He wanted a table and tablecloth, walls with wallpaper, peace. He’d never been in the Lochan before – but looking in the window, its interior was cool and inviting.

  Maddy put away her file. “Anything new?”

  “Let’s order our organic pomegranate on bran oatcake first, eh?”

  “Piss off. The grub’s good.”

  She shouted on a waiter. A little too brusquely for Coulter who smiled twice as hard at the young man. He ordered black pudding and poached pear. Maddy didn’t even look at the menu. “Steak and chips. Rare. No blue.” She grimaced at Coulter. “That way you might just get medium in this city.”

  Coulter ordered the same and sparkling water, Maddy a large Semillon. He settled back in his chair, the table rocking on the cobbles with the slightest movement. Maddy took her shades off. “Okay, let’s be civilised, then. How’s the family?”

  She meant it ironically, but he wanted a bit of space before she got worked up about the case. “Helping Lauren rid her house of Artex. Jennifer’s studying day and night for her finals. Bethany’s got a boyfriend and we’re all hiding the fact from her mum.”

  “And Ben?”

  “We don’t talk about him. How’s your family?”

  “Do I have a family? Let’s see – mum’s trying to out-lonely and out-passion Judith Hearne. Granddad will be 92 next month, and he’s still younger than I am. He’s turning into a veritable study of beautiful old age, Nonno.”

  “And your dad? Still living it up in Tuscany?”

  “We don’t talk about him.”

  The waiter brought them their food and drink – lunchtimes move fast these days.

  “So? Can we get on now?”

  “This case is really pulling your chain.”

  “Pulling my chain? That one of Beth’s? Not sure you’ve got the usage right.”

  “Stop avoiding the question. Two hoods clobbered in a park. Your nephews and nieces and all the nephews and nieces in all the world are all a little bit safer for it.” Coulter took an envelope out of his pocket, slid it clandestinely over the table to her. She knew it’d be pictures, and if she wanted to look at them she’d have to peek inside. Peering at images of a double murder while sipping wine in a pavement café seemed inappropriate. The boys, cleaned up in the mortuary, blood scraped from their faces, lower jaws stitched back on, and with the help of professional photography, looked more like real individuals. One of them, she could see, was a shade gaunter than the other.

  “Micky and Eddie. Micky’s on the right, with the snicked eyebrow.”

  “Micky and Eddie?”

  “Blood Brothers. That musical. Russell’s idea. Never seen it.”

  “Me neither.”

  Micky was darker-haired, judging by the shadow over the skull and the eyebrows. Smaller-eyed than Eddie who, somehow, even pictured in this state, looked the more innocent of the two. Shorter, a hint of baby fat in what cheeks were left him. Their clothes were still blood-stained but, dug up from the mud, you could tell they were smart – according to their own code – when they ventured out yesterday morning. Mum would have had their tops and trackies all nicely washed. In one long-view shot, Eddie’s trousers looked like they had an ironing crease down them. Both boys’ shoes looked brand new.

  The boys looked even younger than she had originally thought. If they walked up to their table now, sat down beside them, it would be difficult to know their age. These kids carry thirteen-ness right into their twenties – in their frail frames, suspicious eyes, hunched shoulders. At the same time, they had a depth of experience, a weariness that gave young teens the quality of ready-made men. Pre-chiselled, hardened for anything.

  The brutal axles over their mouths were perfectly obvious now. Neat, considering how much force was needed to score through skin and flesh and bone. Micky’s tailed off at one end, like slapstick on a miserable clown. Eddie’s crisscrossed evenly up and down, splitting the septum and extending down under the chin, the vertical cut almost ear to ear. The waiter put Maddy and Alan’s plates down on the table.

  “We have a missing person report. Woman saying her son went out Wednesday evening and hasn’t returned. Out of character.”

  “Where?”

  “Govan.”

  “Who?”

  “Don’t know yet, Maddy. Just got the briefest of details from Russell as I was coming here.”

  She knew he knew and he wasn’t telling her. She could insist. But not here, not yet. A social lunch on a Saturday, Coulter with Police Department pics that should never have left his office.

  They both ate in silence for a moment. Then Maddy spoke without looking at him. “There was a guy at my school. Stevie. Stevie Chalmers. Wired to a Mars Bar. In trouble with everyone, about everything, all the time. Ran with the bullies, but wasn’t one. Got slapped about by his own mates when some mad sense of injustice grabbed him and he stuck up for the spotty diddies.”

  “One of each in every class.”

  “I was a chubby girl, you’ll be surprised to hear.”

  He wasn’t. Maddy was still unfashionably, and temptingly, hearty.

  “Stevie comes up to me one day and goes “All you need to do, Maddo, is run around the block a few times. Gie it a month and you’ll be pure skinny.”‘

  “Such wisdom.”

  “Next Saturday morning, I came out and wheezed my way round the park. Guess what? Out of nowhere comes Stevie Chalmers, all shorts and legs like knotty string. Kept me running for nigh on twenty minutes with his daft patter and stupid jokes. Did that every Saturday for weeks.”

  “And did you get skinny?”

  “Does it look like it? I made a friend, but. A lanky hiss of piss whose future was mapped out in his brothers in Borstal, his Da in jail, on the crushed expression on his fac
e when he wasn’t making other folks laugh. A Micky. An Eddie.”

  Alan forked up the last bite of his black pudding – which, irritatingly, was also his second – then put it back down again. “Our jogger who discovered the Blood Brothers? Yesterday was the first day he’d ever jogged in his puff.”

  When she and Packy Shannon separated, Rosa di Rio bought a flat in the southside. Maddy managed to persuade her that she couldn’t afford the west end – having your mum next door was hardly conducive to living a riotous life. Payback came on Sunday mornings when Maddy had to go cross the river and chauffeur her mother around. Sundays, feast days, holidays of obligation – plus regular coffees at Fazzi’s, lunches at Sarti’s, groceries at Peckham’s West End, and a daylight robbery of a dress shop on Hyndland Road. Maddy went, picked Rosa up, saw to her spiritual and earthier needs, took her back home and, if she spent an hour with her there, could get away with only one phone call between trips.

  Rosa was a lesson in how to be 65. Slim, elegant, as pained as a teenager, naturally silver hair you’d pay a fortune for at the stylist’s. She hung on Maddy’s arm going up the steps of the church. Not because she needed the support but because that’s the way you entered church in the old country. The old country! Apart from childhood holidays – the scene of her One Great Tale, starring Marco and Irish Packy – Rosa hadn’t lived a single day in Italy.

  She hadn’t always been so classy and slim either. The transformation happened when she finally ditched Maddy’s dad. All those years working in the chip shop – Maddy’s training ground for the world of commerce, petty theft, malnourishment, Eddies and Mickies – Rosa was an apron-wrapped, grease-stained, strongwoman. Biceps to shame a weightlifter from humping sacks of tatties and fat-filled chip vats around. She developed a voice powerful enough to defeat the explosion of batter being thrown into boiling fat, after-pub sing-songs and school dinner rabbles. She still had the voice.

  “Not up the side aisle, Maddalena! In the middle.”

  At every visit to church Maddy tried to hide, as she had done since a kid, in the pews at the side-altars. Rosa liked to be where she could be seen. She would take out her rosary beads, sing out loud, and respond enthusiastically. Maddy was sure her mother was no more religious than she herself was. Matters of personal morality, the communion of saints, metaphysical concerns, never intruded on Rosa’s life at any other time. Church was only part of the continuing war between Rosa di Rio and Packy Shannon, now waged across oceans and frontiers.