He sobbed and leaning forward, hid his face in his hands.
Kenny didn’t know what to do. He shifted forwards in his seat as if to offer comfort. He wondered about offering the man a glass of water. He settled for doing nothing.
‘Sorry,’ Harry whispered. ‘It’s not that long since.’
‘What happened?’ asked Kenny after he swallowed back his own reaction. He was wishing he was anywhere but in that chair and surprised by how moved he was by the older man’s grief.
‘Heart attack.’ He wiped at his cheek with the back of his hand. ‘I thought that was just a man’s disease. What do I know?’
Feeling awkward and ill-equipped to deal with this situation and regretting his impulse to visit, Kenny stood up. ‘I really should...’
‘Nonsense, son.’ Harry drained his glass before continuing. ‘She’s been in her grave for ten months. Most of the time I’m fine and then...’ – a smile – ‘...it all comes back. You were just the poor sap who happened to be here.’ He laughed and this time his laugh had real humour in it and Kenny caught a glimpse of the cop. The man who dealt with all kinds of people and all kinds of events; wielding his humour like it was a baton against the dark thoughts that visit in the chill of a weak morning.
‘Do you remember the case I was asking about on the phone?’ Kenny dived in.
‘Like it was yesterday, son,’ Harry answered and stared out of the window and down through the years. ‘The woman died from an overdose. Can’t remember the pills but they were washed down with booze. This is Glasgow, after all.’ Harry’s voice strengthened. He was on safer, more familiar ground here.
‘I remember thinking there was something funny about it all.’
‘You do? How?’ Kenny’s stomach churned.
‘You get a feel for people, you know?’
Kenny nodded.
‘Her sister pestered us with phone calls and letters. She refused to believe her wee sister had topped herself. A nice house, a man that loved her and a beautiful wee boy. That’s what she kept saying. Her sister had everything to live for so why kill herself?’ Harry shrugged as if sloughing off the worst the world could offer, knowing that his respite was only temporary. ‘The Fiscal ruled that it was suicide. What could you say to that?’ Harry leaned back in his chair. ‘But then the husband vanished... and the rumours started.’
‘Rumours?’ Kenny’s heart surged at his ribs.
‘Aye. The allegations were that the father was abusing the boy... the mother found out and unable to deal with it, swallowed–’
‘No fucking way.’ Kenny jumped to his feet. ‘No way Peter O’Neill was abusing his boy.’
Harry stood up and took a step nearer Kenny. His eyebrows were raised. His eyes focused, sharp and peering into his.
‘You’re a wee bit too emotionally involved in this story, son. Exactly who was Peter O’Neill to you?’
‘Who started these allegations? Who made up horrible fucking lies like that?’ Kenny sprayed saliva with the words, such was his anger.
‘Again, son. Who exactly was Peter O’Neill to you?’ Harry narrowed his eyes.
Kenny turned away from him and forced calm into his centre. He sought the same place his mind went when he was in danger, when he knew he had to be at his best. This man might be a drunk, he might be retired and suffering from the passing of his wife, but he was still a cop. And his eyes were boring into him, demanding his story.
Without knowing what was going to leave his mouth Kenny began to speak, trusting that his brain would find an answer to appease Harry Fyfe.
‘Sorry.’ He turned back to face him. To distract the older man from his reaction he needed to come up with something good. ‘I know Peter’s son. Very well.’ His expression was an apology while his mind searched for a plausible excuse.
‘Oh,’ said Harry and offered a smile of understanding. ‘You see so much in my job you realise it doesn’t matter if someone’s light in their loafers. Live and let live, that’s what I say.’
Fuck, thought Kenny. The eejit still talks like he’s in the job and he thinks he’s telling him that they, he and McBain, were a gay couple.
‘Don’t worry.’ Harry patted him on the shoulder. ‘Cops are the worst gossips imaginable, but you’re secret’s safe with me.’ He paused. ‘Unless of course you are out and proud?’
Kenny forced a grin thinking, what the fuck do you say? McBain was going to kill him. Then the funnier side of the situation bubbled up into laughter. Just how far could he take this?
Sanity won over and he said, ‘You’re the only person who knows, Harry. I’ll trust your judgement on this.’ He sat back down again. Harry took the opportunity while he was on his feet to top up his glass. He sipped and, bending his knees with effort, he also sat down.
‘I often wondered about Peter O’Neill’s son over the years. Kids are the innocent victims in the crap that adults throw into the world.’ He paused and peered into Kenny’s face. ‘How’s he keeping?’
‘He’s good.’ Kenny felt odd talking about himself in the third person.
‘Boys need their dad.’ Harry sipped and stared out of the window. ‘Sometimes they build their father into some kind of hero when he’s not there to add a dose of reality. I’ve heard rumours over the years.’ His face assumed a doleful expression. ‘From what I hear, you are on the straight and narrow. You’ve a good reputation, Ray, why are you...? Must make things awkward for you being a cop?’
Oh my God, thought Kenny. This is going from bad to worse. Harry was making some dangerous connections. Answer a question with a question.
‘I don’t know too much about Peter,’ said Kenny. ‘His son doesn’t say too much about his father. What can you tell me about him?’
Harry made a small face of surprise. ‘Peter was, I guess you could call it, an “enforcer”. He worked with one of the Glasgow crimelords. Met him a few times. A personable guy. Popular with the ladies.’ He looked at Kenny, who began to feel very warm. Harry had clearly lost none of the skills that made him a good cop. His gaze penetrated. ‘Same build as you. Shorter. Different colouring. But that was the thing with some of these bad guys... as you know... they might work on the different side of the law but some of them could be good company over a pint. Not that you’d like to bump into Peter O’Neill in a dark alley.
‘Anyway,’ he sighed, ‘Peter disappeared and the rumours started.’ He made a face of apology. ‘Someone kills themselves and people search for a reason. And the reason has to be almost as bad as the suicide, doesn’t it?’
‘Did you ever get to the source of the rumours?’
‘Nah. Although I remember the sister’s husband was a bit vocal.’
‘Colin?’ asked Kenny.
‘Was that his name? I remember him vaguely. He was an accountant. A proper accountant. There were suspicions about his connections with the crime factions in the city but nothing was ever uncovered. In the end we discounted him. We put any suspicions down to the fact Peter was his brother-in-law, kept an eye on him from time to time and let it go at that.’
Kenny’s phone buzzed as a message came through. He ignored it.
‘Ach, it’s good to talk about the old times. Sometimes I think it’s all I’ve got.’ He looked in the direction of Kenny’s pocket. ‘You want to get that?’
‘Nah,’ said Kenny, feeling his heart charge at the thought it might be Alexis. ‘But I do have to move on.’ He got to his feet and Harry walked with him to the door. As they shook hands Harry said, ‘Next time you need to share a wee bottle of whisky, feel free to stop by.’
‘I will, Harry, I will.’ To his surprise, Kenny felt that he meant it. He’d enjoyed the man’s company. ‘Oh, before I go...’ It had suddenly occurred to him that McBain might visit the man at the end of his shift. And then he’d be in the shit. ‘...Kenny O’Neill is an impatient guy. He might turn u
p here pretending to be me before the end of the day. If you could just humour him?’
Harry’s eyebrows dipped. ‘Impersonating a policeman is a serious offence.’ Then he grinned and winked. ‘But in this instance, Kenny, I’ll let it pass.’
Kenny turned and took a couple of steps up the path. He stopped. Harry just called him Kenny. He turned to see Harry still standing at the door.
‘You knew all along?’
Harry was so pleased with himself he was rocking on his heels. He nodded.
‘How?’
‘I haven’t lost it after all these years, eh?’
‘What gave me away?’
‘I knew. Just let’s leave it at that, son.’
‘And when Ray McBain comes visiting?’
‘You were never here.’
‘And the gay couple thing?’
Harry laughed and rocked back on his heels. ‘You should have seen your face. I was just yanking your chain, son.’
Kenny shrugged it off with a smile. He’d earned it. ‘What about the rest of your story?’
‘Don’t worry, Kenny. You don’t joke about with stuff like that.’
13
Kenny steered the car off the A84 at the Kingshouse Hotel and passed an old signpost that looked like it might have guided Queen Victoria herself down this road. In one direction it arrowed the miles for Crianlarich and Oban, in the other it pointed towards ‘Rob Roy’s Grave’.
Alexis squealed from the passenger seat.
‘It’s soooo romantic, Kenny.’ Her head swivelled from side to side as she processed the scenery. ‘It’s gorgeous.’ She squeezed out the word gorgeous as if it hurt her to say it.
It was now three weeks after Alexis had suffered at the hands of her assailant. For the first few of those she had ignored Kenny’s calls. He had persisted and eventually she agreed to meet him. She refused to talk about the incident, however. She insisted she had put it behind her and told Kenny he must too. She also declined to explain why she hadn’t taken any of his calls and he put this down to the fact that he had been with her shortly after. He reasoned that this must have built an association with the rape and that she couldn’t bear to be reminded of it. This logic collapsed when eventually she answered when he rang. Two visits later and he told her they were going away for the weekend and that she would be paid for her time.
‘Isn’t it just beautiful?’ She was leaning forward in her seat. Her eyes were wide, her mouth open. ‘I’ve been in Scotland for six years now and haven’t been out of the city.’ She playfully punched Kenny’s arm. ‘How could you not tell me there was so much beauty out here?’
‘We’re kind of famous for it.’ Kenny gave the shrug of the inured. Which he wasn’t. He always felt a soothing, a loosening of dark energy whenever he was in sight of the Scottish hills.
‘Famous for what?’ Alexis grinned. ‘Not talking?’
‘The beauty of our countryside, of course. As for talking, you’ve been in Glasgow for six years – how can you accuse us of not talking? We’re like the most verbose citizens in the country.’
Kenny looked in the mirror. The small, blue Toyota was still there. He was just being paranoid. No one would be after them. And if they were, they would surely choose something more exciting than a Toyota Yaris.
‘It’s the hills, the colours, the light...’ She stopped as if running out of words. ‘Man, you guys are so lucky.’
The road took them through the village of Balquhidder and past the MacGregor Murray Mausoleum. They caught a glimpse of its dark stone, crow-stepped gables and buttresses as the car passed the road-end. Alexis demanded to know what it was. ‘It’s too small for a church. Not enough windows for a house. What could it be?’
Kenny worked through his memory of his last visit here. He was eleven. His dad was keen to give him lessons about the folk heroes of Scotland and it was never enough to read from a book, he had to bring him to the actual place. First, there had been the Wallace Monument in Stirling and then they came here.
He remembered being curious about this building and his father being anxious to get to the church where Rob Roy himself was buried.
‘The local landowners built this in the early 1820s,’ Kenny said.
‘The wealthy build a tomb like this to honour their dead,’ said Alexis, ‘while the poor peasants probably lived ten to a room in a tiny hovel.’
‘Couldn’t have put it better myself.’
‘They had a good sense of the dramatic,’ Alexis said as she took in the narrow tree-lined avenue and the impressive doors.
The road curved into the village proper and set back from the road on the left was the kirkyard and the ruins of the old church where Rob Roy MacGregor lay with his wife and two of his sons. Standing there with his father was a poignant moment for him now. Then, it was mostly boring, with Kenny suffering through his father’s enthusiasm. His dad explained it in terms of a cowboy and Indian movie. The costumes were different, swap the bow and arrow for a claymore, the locals were the poor, set-upon wild natives and the Duke of Montrose was the baddy.
In the teenage parlance of modern times he might have said, Yeah, right, whatever. But nobody talked to Peter O’Neill like that. Not even his son.
The road carried them through the village and then to the three-storey baronial style building that would be their home for the next two nights.
‘They put a hotel way out here?’ asked Alexis, clapping her hands as the gravel crunched under the car tyres.
‘An award-winning hotel,’ said Kenny, examining the view from his wing mirror. No blue Toyota. No more paranoia.
‘Do you bring all your lady friends here?’
‘Only the ones that deserve it,’ said Kenny, who’d never passed through its doors before. He’d researched the area while wondering how to investigate the truth behind his mother’s death. Running through the reels of his history, most of the events that came to him involved his father. He’d remembered the time at Rob Roy’s grave, looked it up in the web and spotted an advert for the Moniack Mhor Hotel, which was perched next to a beautiful loch.
He needed time out. So did Alexis. A phone call later and the weekend was booked.
Their room was sumptuous. Designed for a lover’s retreat with silks and deep velour, the bed was a giant centrepiece to the room. Alexis touched everything in the room, giving off a series of oohs and aahs and wows.
She stood before Kenny, stretched up and kissed him.
‘I hope you have plenty of energy.’
‘We’ll just need to wait and see,’ said Kenny with a grin.
‘Sit.’ Alexis put a hand on his shoulder and prompted him to sit on the bed. She kneeled before him and, working at his belt and zip, freed him from his trousers.
‘Somebody’s ready,’ Alexis giggled while taking a grip of his shaft. Kenny moaned in anticipation and then lost himself to the throb and pulse of his pleasure.
• • •
Later, Alexis looked down at Kenny stretched out naked on the bed. She ran her hand from his left nipple, past his navel and a feather touch on his thigh. ‘Now that we’ve got that out of the way, I fancy a bath. Care to join me?’
‘Love to.’
She leaped from the bed and skipped over to the en-suite bathroom. She opened the door and squealed. ‘Oh my god, we have twin baths. How cool is that?’ She did the quick clapping thing again and Kenny groaned. When did that action become so popular?
Feeling zoned out, post-orgasmic relaxed, Kenny took the four steps to the bathroom to examine the baths. They sat in the middle of the large, white walled room on their pedestals, side by side. Alexis already had the water running and was pouring scented bath oils into the water.
‘Excellent,’ said Kenny. He turned back into the bedroom, rummaged in his luggage and produced a bottle of red wine. ‘This should add the fini
shing touch.’ He brandished the bottle at Alexis.
She ran towards him and gave him a hug. ‘What did I do to deserve you?’
‘You cleared my cheques.’
‘Oh, shove off,’ she smiled and swiped at his shoulder. Alexis rarely swore. ‘You know what I mean. Why are you so nice to me?’
‘There is no why, there is only do.’
‘You stole that from Yoda.’
‘And how much better it sounds with the alteration.’
‘Any other Star Wars wisdom you’d like to impart?’ Alexis asked and sat on the side of the bath, completely unmindful of her nudity. Kenny appreciated her with a smile.
‘Size matters not.’ He opened his arms. ‘Judge me by my size, do you? For the Force is my ally.’
‘Oh and the force stirs within you,’ Alexis laughed as Kenny began to stiffen again. ‘Quick, in the bath. A woman needs a rest.’
Kenny stepped into the bath, turned off the tap and sank in to the perfumed water with a long sigh. He slipped completely under and surfaced. Alexis leaned forward and planted a kiss on his forehead.
‘What was that for?’
‘There is no what, there is only do.’
Kenny made a face. ‘That doesn’t quite work.’
‘Sue me.’ Alexis kissed him again, poured them both a glass of wine and stepped into her own bath after handing Kenny a glass.
They each lay in silence, wary of speech in case it spoiled the moment. Closing his eyes, Kenny gave in to the heat and the caress of the water. His breath slowed, his mind sank and rose and dipped again. He drifted over the last few weeks, Alexis’ assault, the two young men with road-rage, McBain and Harry Fyfe.
The information he received from Harry was replicated when Ray went to visit and Harry was true to his word; nothing was mentioned of Kenny’s visit. Since then Kenny had done nothing more. He knew his next step was to question Uncle Colin and so far the man had been avoiding him. Whenever Kenny called the house he wasn’t in and when he visited he was out.
Beyond the Rage Page 7