In his more lucid moments he’d begun to take stock. His life played out before him, not so much in a montage as they said it did before you died, more like a very deliberate purge of hard drives. Every misdemeanour, from the seemingly insignificant, like the time he broke his mum’s favourite vase, to the gut wrenching, like the time he slept with Davie’s ex and hadn’t had to blame anyone as it still lay buried in the back of his conscience, unattended, along with everything else. It wasn’t so much a closet full of skeletons as a bone collection, like that church in Prague he’d read about at school while he should have been studying for his higher history exam. That was what he enjoyed above all else, apart from the sex and the alcohol and the cheap thrills that were part of the human condition. If they were to tell him he never had to work again, that he’d won the lottery that was what he’d do, not for money but just the sheer pleasure of it. He’d research the things he was interested in; history, politics, world wars, the industrial revolution, communism, fascism, capitalism and socialism, the rise and fall of empires and everything else in between.
That was what they said, wasn’t it? Work out what you would do to while away the hours if money was no object. That was it. In between girls and beer he would most like to find out about stuff.
But money would never be no object, that was the point, and anyway it looked as though he was going to end his days here. He’d have thought someone might have missed him, but then the parents were still away and his sister was at Vet school during the week. He wondered where Davie and Colin thought he’d got to though. He’d have thought he could have counted on those two, feckless arseholes that they were. In the darkness and encroaching cold of the now nearly empty prison, he had made himself a promise. If he ever did make it out of here he would go and study history and politics. Not agriculture, as he was sure would have made more sense, not business, which might have given him a broader outlook career wise, but history and politics, for the love of it and for the fact he had another shot and would not waste it. Not in between beer and girls.
That had been hours ago, maybe days ago for all he knew and it had kept him going since. Planning, considering each possibility in depth. What if he became a lecturer or a professor or something? Then he could nothing but study the things that interested him for the rest of his days. Was that even doable for a country bumpkin? Surely he had to have a good knowledge of tweed jackets or speak in a certain way to get on in that world. Did it pay well? Did it matter? They would probably have to sell the farm anyway. His sister wasn’t planning on taking it on and there wasn’t the income for both of them. The possibilities though, they were something that he clung to.
The commotion got louder outside it sounded like the goon squad were trying to move something. It almost sounded like livestock, like a struggling sheep who didn’t fancy the idea of getting sheared or a cow that didn’t want to go down the race to get its injections. A boom echoed round the lifeless room as the ancient steel door came to life on its rusty wheels. The winter sun had long since departed and the room was flooded with white halogen light. Three silhouettes emerged from the blazing artificial glow and he knew in his heart his time had come.
He hunkered down as best he could with his hands tied, keeping his eyes closed. He would not give the bastards the satisfaction watching his terrified expression as he waited.
But with the intensity of the light he could still make out shapes and couldn’t resist looking again at the three awkward forms. The one in the middle, smaller than the other two seemed disjointed somehow, struggling almost. They came only so far before one of outer pair struck the middle one, knocking him to the ground. They then began their advance once more, dragging the dizzied reluctant member of their group to somewhere behind Andy. It was then he heard the familiar sound of tightening cable ties and realised, with a guilty sense of relief that he now had company.
********************
The squad car arrived ten minutes after the slicing of Burke’s hand and the subsequent admirably professional restraint of his assailant by Jones, who hadn’t used nearly as much unnecessary force as he would have liked. But then she hadn’t been stabbed in the hand, a factor that would have made all the difference.
There had been no blood for what seemed like a few seconds, though in reality it was unlikely to have been that long. He’d stared at the gaping white wound before being roused from his state of confusion by the distinctly red blood that began to flow rapidly, trickling down the palm of his hand and up the sleeve of his shirt as he held it aloft trying to unbutton the cuff. Multitasking had never been his forte.
Jones couldn’t help him, so he staggered through to the kitchen and began rummaging through drawers for a tea towel of some sort. A more sensible man might have gone looking for the kitchen roll but that was not his strong point either. More sensible still, a woman might have gone for the bathroom but he’d lost the energy, almost feeling it drain out of him. He hadn’t lost that much blood but realised there was maybe an element of shock in play. Eventually he found a bunch of clean towels in an airing cupboard and slumped against the worktop as he wrapped one around his hand and watched it change colour. This wasn’t his favourite jacket. That was something. In fact he was pretty sure Rachel would be glad to see the back of it though he was fairly certain she wouldn’t be happy about the stitches he was going to have to get.
He stood up and made his way through to the hallway and its collection of stuffed animals. A stag looked down on him, seemingly innocuous, giving away nothing of its true purpose in the two cameras it concealed, one infrared and one bog standard colour, allowing a view of both the surface of a person and what lay underneath. No secrets in this house, other than the ones kept by its owner.
They arrested the intruder. Assault on a police officer was enough, never mind whatever he might be doing in the house of a murder victim. He had no ID and when asked his name, replied “your mother.” They sent him on his way back to the station for arrangement of a duty solicitor and all the other boxes that had to be ticked before they could begin the grilling process.
“Are you ready for this?” Burke asked her when they were alone together in the hallway.
“Of course,” she answered, shrugging her shoulders. “I’m not sure what you are getting so excited about.”
“That’s because you don’t watch enough Bond films.”
“I don’t watch any Bond films.”
“Exactly.” He reached out to the bear’s head that now resided on a wall plaque and turned it forcefully so that it now leaned to the left at a jaunty angle. From inside the wood panelled wall there was a clunk and as he reached across part of the wall gave way with the slightest push, opening onto a dimly lit staircase.
“Really?” He asked, raising both eyebrows, “Secret passageways don’t in the least bit interest you?”
“It interests me from the point of view that it may or may not lead to this case being solved of course, but no, otherwise, in the outside world it’s just a door that opens slightly differently.”
“Then you have no soul,” Burke replied, as he began cautiously down the steps.
The light was faint, like security lighting almost and he had to be careful not to trip on what looked like very old steps. They weren’t old in the way the steps in his tenement close were, those were more of a normal shape and it was the faded mid-section that gave them away, countless footsteps having eroded them over time. These hidden stairs were older but relatively unused. The depth of them and the type of stone seemed to suggest they predated the house. In a town this old anything was possible.
“Careful. There might be more stabby teenagers down there,” Jones told him with more than a vague hint of wishful thinking.
“I’ll send them your way if there are,” he replied, “As you were kind enough to do last time.”
“I tried to stop him,” she protested. “Made an attempt at a rugby tackle.”
“I noticed that. Where did you learn
to play rugby? At a netball lesson?”
“Queen Margaret Uni actually. Had quite a good women’s rugby team. I was quite a handy wing forward.”
“You don’t look big enough to be a flanker.”
“Not anymore,” she replied with a sense of triumph.
“Did you forget that for a second when you tried to take down your mother, or was it my mother?”
“I may have done,” she admitted.
The stair ran along the wall before turning sharply to the right. Brick merged with stone in a mish-mash that displayed a good couple of centuries of architectural reorganisation. The corner didn’t go far and the emerged at a heavy wooden door that looked like it belonged to a church rather than one of Bruntsfields Victorian Villas.
He keyed a code into the pad in front of him, 9-10-49, Karpov’s birthday. As the lock clicked releasing the door he kicked it open, standing back ready for any possible onslaught. A vast room emerged before them. There was a swimming pool, Jacuzzi, massive couches and what looked like a home cinema at the other end.
They walked through the room taking in the scene. The place was still lit up like a cathedral. Champagne flutes lay discarded with traces of white powder on a large glass coffee table, a bar was littered with snacks and at one end a home cinema still seemed to be showing the main feature.
“We’ll get DNA swabs from those glasses and maybe something off the food.” Burke said, as he turned to see the biggest plasma screen he’d ever seen, still on and still showing the image of the hallway, just as Douglas had said. “Most important thing is finding out what that thing connects to. Otherwise, glove up and make sure that you don’t touch too much. I’m thinking the SOC team need to see this pretty quick.”
********************
30
Davie had begun a solid campaign of phoning after the second day. Nothing was happening. Andy could be huffy, sure, everyone knew that. He liked to hold the odd grudge, like over the time they’d hidden that old shed of a car he ran around in behind the silage pit and he hadn’t looked there because it was impossible to actually drive into the concrete hole. He hadn’t thought of what they’d actually done, which was to lift it over on the end of the loader. Ok, so they might have damaged it slightly, running it through with the forks, but it hadn’t lifted the first time when they’d tried to slip them under. A few holes gave it character anyway.
Andy didn’t get that though, something to do with taking Emma out for the first time that night, so even when they fessed up he hadn’t spoken to him or Colin for three days. Come to think of it, the Micra had smelt of silage for a while after that.
It didn’t look like he was in a cream puff this time though. Davie called in to see him three times in the course of the day but not a sign. He’d eventually run into old Jimmy, the part time worker that lived at the end of the farm road. Jimmy was a pretty laid back character, like the types his father liked to describe when he was three sheets to the wind and got all emotional about the fact there weren’t any characters around anymore. All the old crocs got like that, thinking the world was going to hell in a hand basket in the way the generation before and the generation before that probably had too.
Jimmy shook his head regarding the inside of his flat cap as though it were the font of all knowledge, which it maybe was. “I’ve no seen hide nor hair of him son. There’s no been any sign of the lights anyway. The sister’s back at vet school and faither’s away his holidays.”
“Aye, ah ken that,” Davie replied, feeling a pang of what he was worried might be guilt, an emotion he found inconvenient at the best of times.
“Well, he’ll no be happy if he gets back and the young yin hasnae pulled his weight.”
Davie nodded his agreement as he placed a foot up on the gate and lit a fag. The pair of them stared off into the frozen stock yard.
“What you been up to?” Jimmy asked, knowing full well that all was not as it seemed.
“Nothing too bad.”
“Yir an awfa boy tae be yin boy,” the old man said, shaking his head as though he had seen it all before and doubtless would again.
They stood for a while longer, contemplating nothing very much before Davie made his excuses, got back in the Peugeot and headed back to the ranch.
He could only think of one other possibility and that was one he didn’t want to acknowledge just yet. He had to clear out his head in the time honoured fashion before he could do that.
After a couple of Stellas and half a packet of Benson and Hedges he got the bit between his teeth and dialled the number. She seemed brighter than the last time they’d spoken, but that was only until she heard his name. The cloud had quickly spread over the conversation at that point. Her hackles were well and truly up after those two syllables.
He’d never totally gotten on with Andy’s girlfriend, and that was before they’d split up. Now he was most definitely persona non grata, the devil incarnate. No, she hadn’t seen him and wouldn’t, if she happened to have the misfortune to lay eyes on the philandering bastard, approach him for fear of what she might actually do. He didn’t like to ask what she might do but imagined it probably involved sharp objects and his friend’s eyes or worse. He didn’t want to picture worse, so he thanked her for her time, which going on the snorting sound she made, was likely taken as sarcasm, and said goodbye. He wasn’t sure why but she seemed to blame him somehow. He’d been blamed by a few ex-girlfriends in his time, but then that was what guys did, blamed any kind of wild irrational or inexcusable behaviour they could on a best mate. Better to be innocent and led astray than an actual bastard.
This all seemed to be leading down one road. If it was even possible.
********************
Burke called by the flat on the way back to the station. He had a fair idea Rachel might have something to stem the flow of the bleeding, which stubbornly refused to let up.
“Oh I have,” she said with a knowing look. “Some advice. Go to A and E.”
“I haven’t got time,” he pleaded.
“No,” was all she said, before digging out a collection of cotton wool, sticking plasters and a bottle of Dettol.
He gritted his teeth as she applied an antiseptic soaked pad to the gaping wound on his hand and the pain shot up to his elbow. By rights, he felt it ought to have cauterised the wound, given the searing nature of the sting. No matter. It would offer some kind of protection for the time being.
He turned to thank her and noticed the bags piled high in the bedroom door.
“It’s what you wanted isn’t it?” she asked.
“Yes," he replied, knowing that it was the only answer. “It’s not…”
“No, I know,” she said. It never is. “You’ve got to do what needs to be done.”
“But…”
“I’ve seen the letters James.”
“Letters?”
“Did you think they’d only sent one? Oh no. There have been a few now,” she said, smiling coldly.
“Oh.”
“Yes.”
“Do you need a lift to the station?” he asked, searching for something, anything to say.
“There’s a taxi on the way,” she said, folding her arms tight across the top of her substantial bump, as though bracing against a cold wind. “We’ll talk later.”
He made his way back to the car where Jones was waiting, arguing with someone on the phone by the looks of it. Was this a common theme in their line?
“Other half?” he asked, reading her pensive expression.
“For now,” came the response.
He dumped a bag at her feet. “There’s food in there if you’re desperate,” he said feeling guilty that he should allow anyone else to eat the pasta his wife had made for him only a couple of days before, when everything had seemed so much more normal.
Jones must have got the hint as she seemed to steer around his dinner, settling instead on another package in the bag. “What’s this?” she asked, pulling out a rolled up news
paper. It was bound in brown paper and hand addressed with the requisite amount of stamps on the other side.
“Local rag from back home. My gran sends it to me once a week, thinks it keeps me grounded up here in the big smoke.”
“It’s good to stay grounded I suppose.”
On arrival at the station it turned out “Your Mother” had secured legal representation in the jelly like form of Dougie Jamieson, the duty solicitor who was on call to the criminals of the parish at the most inconvenient of hours. Burke often wondered what Jamieson had done to deserve such a fate, something sinister? Or perhaps some kind of faux pas at a law society dinner that now saw him reduced to the rank of social leper for the rest of his days. Or maybe it was just the fact that he was a fat tub of lard with chronic BO, a suit that was so cheap it crackled with static when he walked and all the social skills of a sewer rat.
His attacker was technically called Stuart McColm, according to his birth certificate and ID. Although there being no law of deed poll in Scotland he could be addressed as whatever he liked.
Interview room two was cold and Burke thought it was best to leave the lardy lawyer and the teenage cat burglar to relax and acclimatise to the conditions for a while. The cold would doubtless make them both that bit more jumpy, though Jamieson was considerably better insulated than the sylph like McColm. Having checked his record, the kid had form; a caution for possession of cannabis and a fine for breach of the peace a year before. Nothing serious on the surface but reading a bit further he discovered the breach of the peace was related to his occupation of the time, that of rent boy and suspected drug pusher.
Burke cut straight to the chase. “Who was with you?” he demanded, only to be rebuffed with an uncooperative response. No one liked a grass, especially those of a more professional criminal persuasion. “I suppose they had the laptop,” he continued.
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