AHMM, September 2008

by Dell Magazine Authors

  So, yeah, in part my offer of mates’ rates was charity. But mostly it was because I liked the man.

  And I knew how much he loved his daughter.

  First time I met Kirsty, she had been twelve years old. Small and innocent. Mischievous too. Always grinning like there was some joke going on only she could understand.

  I knew she was growing up. The past couple of years, much as Davey still talked about his daughter in loving tones, he also sounded exasperated and afraid. She was becoming a woman, and Davey had no idea to handle that. How to handle her friends, her boyfriends. How to handle her.

  Sweet sixteen. You soon realise how much of a joke that is.

  * * * *

  She was going with a lad from round Douglas way called Mick. To give him his most common name: Mick the Mick. Irish, and not about to deny the Blarney Stone as long as it gave him the freedom to make girls swoon.

  I made Mick my first priority. Davey said that Mick and Kirsty had been fighting of late. Sounded like another girl, but Davey's daughter didn't tell him anything these days, no matter how much he told her he loved her.

  Knowing Mick the Mick, it wouldn't be a surprise.

  I'd run Mick in more than a few times while I was still a copper. He was twenty-nine years old now and as much a part of Dundee as the Overgate or the Howff cemetery. Known as a jack-the-lad. A rascal.

  A pain in the arse.

  I rapped hard on his door and waited. The hall in the tenement smelled faintly of something acidic. Difficult to ignore.

  I rapped again.

  Kicked the door.

  A voice inside said, “Jaysus, gimme a minute!"

  Mick the Mick.

  When he opened the door, he was wearing a thick dressing gown, and his hair was messed up like birds had been trying to make a nest on his head. “What the hell, d'y—"

  I pulled him out into the hall. He yelped.

  "Remember me?"

  "I owe you money?"

  "I arrested you."

  He tried to focus. “Aye, police?"

  "I was."

  "Right."

  I gave him a shake. “Where's Kirsty?"

  "Who?"

  "Your girlfriend."

  "No, there's no girl tying me down like—"

  "Wrong answer.” I pushed him into the flat. He didn't resist. His body was loose, and resisting would be too much effort. Probably the thought didn't even cross his mind. He was too fried.

  We danced through to the living room on thick carpets. The posters on the wall were mostly classic ‘70s stuff. Serpico. The Godfather. Like a student pad that was trying too hard. That was how Mick had come to Dundee, and even if the university had chucked him out, it seemed that was how he intended to stay.

  I threw Mick on the sofa. He was skin and bones. All the same, the fabric sagged.

  "Kirsty,” I said.

  "I'm telling you—"

  I kicked the telly that sat on a low display unit. The screen cracked.

  Mick looked ready to piss himself. “Aw, Jaysus Christ, man!"

  "She's sixteen years old. Dark hair. The kind of smile could melt you if you're not careful. Apple of her daddy's eye.” I made eye contact, hammered the point home. “Her daddy, who could take your head off."

  "The old man's a washed up—"

  "The old man could still kick your arse."

  Mick considered this. Really considered. Cocked his head, rolled his eyes. No sarcasm. Genuine effort.

  Then he said, “She's not with me. Not anymore."

  "You got bored?"

  "She was ... she was seeing some other fella."

  "Who?"

  "She wouldn't say. Just told me to sling my hook."

  "And you had no idea?” I crouched down, getting to his level. Making sure he knew there was a kind of conspiracy between us. An understanding.

  He fell for it.

  "Could be that bollix, Fosty."

  "Fosty?"

  "Aye, Fosty. Christ ... what's his name? Tom Foster. Yeah, that's it."

  "But his mates call him Fosty?"

  "Don't know he has mates, exactly."

  "Tell me where I can find Fosty."

  He told me. And when I was leaving, he asked, “That prick's not coming round, is he? Like, Kirsty's da?"

  I didn't answer. Left him shaking on the sofa. Drugs or fear, I didn't give a shite.

  * * * *

  Ros, my girlfriend, said it: “Sam, you've become a hardass, you know that?"

  She's American, which means she's allowed to use words like “hardass.” Anyone else does it in Dundee, they're poseurs and deserve what they get.

  After leaving Mick's apartment, I had to wonder if she was on to something. I was feeling on edge, and not just about Davey's daughter. For several months I had been finding my temper more and more difficult to control. I'd been through some crap, culminating in my best friend almost getting locked up on murder charges, but all the same, a year ago, I'd never have burst in on Mick all balls and bravado. Never have threatened him without taking another tack first. But I was going at this investigation like the proverbial bull in a china shop.

  When did I become careless?

  And when was I going to pull back?

  * * * *

  Fosty's place was only a ten minute drive from Mick the Mick's. A halfway house. Purpose-built. Barely over ten years old and already looking like over one hundred years of winds had battered it from the outside.

  Through the main doors, a front desk. Behind that, a gaunt man who looked like he'd rather be waist deep in cow manure than sit there.

  "I'm here to talk to one of your, ah, residents."

  The man regarded me coolly. “Police?"

  "No.” I produced a card, placed it on the desk when he didn't reach for it.

  "Didn't know we had private investigators in Dundee."

  "Well now you do."

  "Even in Scotland? What do you really do?"

  I didn't have time to argue with him. Said, “Thomas Foster."

  The gaunt man didn't bother checking the register. He just rolled the name around once and then said, “He's leaving us soon."

  "Aye?"

  "A real success story.” Heavy on the sarcasm. “Turned himself around. Found the Lord and aw that shite.” He gave up. “Jesus, suckered some poor wee bint into taking him in."

  "Who's the ... bint?"

  "Like I pry? Look, I sit here, I hear things, and I don't really care."

  And he seemed so socially conscious, as well.

  "So is he here tonight?"

  "Like I said, pal, you're not the police."

  "This is important."

  He looked at the card again. “Christ, you can print these at service stations. They put a machine in the Overgate where you pay a quid, get fifty of these tae pass around tae anyone who cares."

  I pulled out my ABI licence.

  He wasn't convinced. “Association of British Investigators? Never heard of it."

  The average bloke on the street thinks that investigators exist only in the pages of cheap crime novels. They're mythical creatures, products of an overactive imagination. Sometimes that perception works to our advantage, gives us as professionals the element of surprise. Most of the time, like with the gaunt prick behind the desk, it means that our work is railroaded, knocked right offtrack.

  He wasn't about to let me in to see Fosty. He wasn't even going to call the eejit downstairs. He offered to “take a message."

  It wouldn't work. Fosty wasn't the kind of man to get back in touch with someone he didn't know. And if I said what I wanted to talk to him about, he'd probably do a runner and I'd have to start over. By which point Kirsty would be even farther out of reach.

  Maybe even...

  No, don't think like that.

  I turned to leave.

  I was at the door when the gaunt man said, “Why do you want to talk to him?"

  "It's a personal matter between my client and—"


  "I can get you to him."

  I hesitated. He wanted something, surely. Money?

  I turned round “How much?"

  He raised his arms, mock-affronted. “Aye, you think that little of me?"

  "I only just met you."

  "And already here you are, thinking you know me."

  "So tell me what you want."

  "Is it to do with the girl?"

  "You mean the bint you mentioned earlier?"

  He hesitated, maybe regretting his choice of words. Figuring me for her brother, perhaps. Or her father. “Aye, her."

  "Maybe."

  "She's young, y'see. Folks who pass through—You get all kinds. People who've fallen on hard times, they're the worst to see. ‘Cause, see, they're people. Real people. But then there's guys like Tom Foster. And this girl—she's, what, seventeen, eighteen?"

  "Sixteen."

  "Jesus. And you think, whatever he's got coming..."

  "Aye, he deserves it.” Making out like I was on his side, but I didn't commit to anything.

  "Like I say, you see these people, talk to them, make nice because it's your job. But every so often you wish that someone would..."

  I knew what he was saying. He was backwards coming forwards, right enough, but it didn't stop him from making the point. I wanted to talk to Tom Foster, I'd be doing it with my fist. That was the guarantee this gaunt bastard wanted.

  I tried to weasel my way out. “If he deserves it..."

  "He deserves it."

  "I used to be a copper. Learned about interrogation. I need something from Foster. Sometimes you can get more out of a man if you're not trying to knock his head from his shoulders."

  The gaunt man said, “Pish."

  * * * *

  I didn't know how I was going to play it, but I figured something would work out. Maybe Foster wouldn't play ball. Give me an excuse, at least, to look like I was playing ball.

  The gaunt man knocked on the door to Foster's room.

  No reply.

  Again.

  Nothing.

  The gaunt man sighed, pulled out a swipe card. “Master key."

  "What about privacy?"

  "For emergencies. The people who stop here, we hope they're clean, like not using, but sometimes..."

  I nodded. “All the same."

  "Like he'll be crying about invasion of privacy when you're done with him, eh?"

  He swiped the key. Opened the door.

  Recoiled.

  I pushed past, saw the blood on the bed sheets first and then saw what had once been Tom Foster crumpled in the corner. Head bowed down, chin balanced on his chest. His skin was pale where it wasn't stained near black by blood. His arms hung uselessly by his sides and his pale chicken-legs were splayed out in front of him. It would have been funny if it weren't so horrific.

  The gaunt man risked entering the room again just behind me. I said, “Looks like someone beat us to it."

  "Oh Jesus,” he said. Sounding ready to puke. His spiel earlier had been all talk, and I'd known that. There's a line between fantasy and reality that most people can't cross.

  I said, “Call the police."

  "But—"

  "Call them."

  The gaunt man left the room. I went to Fosty's corpse, knelt down, and gave him the once-over. Just a look. I still retained my copper's training, knew enough not to disturb him.

  "So tell me what happened to Kirsty,” I said.

  Fosty, not surprisingly, said nothing.

  * * * *

  D.I. Sandy Griggs glanced at the corpse as he came into the room. “Tell me you didn't do this."

  "You know I didn't."

  He nodded. “The way Ros looks at you sometimes, I'm not so sure."

  Like a kick in the gut, that. Sandy and me have known each other since high school. If there's really such a thing as a best friend, I guess he comes close.

  "I wanted to talk to him."

  "Aye? Guess he wasn't up to it."

  "So you're Tayside's brightest and best?"

  He tried for a smile, but it died when his eyes flicked back to Fosty. He said, “We really need to talk."

  "There's not much I can tell you."

  "Procedure."

  We left the room. Out in the corridor, Sandy stopped a uniform, said, “McNee, did the SOCO team give an ETA?"

  The young lad said, “Ten minutes, sir."

  Sandy nodded. “Nobody goes in or out, got it?"

  "Aye, sir.” He stood point outside the door.

  Already a few curious neighbours had crept out of their beds to see what all the fuss was about. They were all the same, greasy hair, deep-lined features, soulless eyes. Haunted, but perhaps momentarily relieved to realise that it wasn't them in that bloodstained room.

  Sandy and I went outside. He sparked up.

  "Thought you quit."

  He offered me a cigarette. I took it.

  Sandy smiled. “Now we both have a secret."

  "Katie still getting you on that health kick?"

  "And failing. Lately, though, she's not been so bad.” Meaning after he got cleared on trumped-up charges of assault and corruption. An investigation that nearly screwed his career.

  "I haven't smoked in six months."

  "Aye?” He took a deep drag.

  I joined him. He knew I was lying. I hadn't given up. Just learned self-control, enough that Ros would believe I'd quit. We all keep secrets, even from those we love.

  "Tom Foster,” said Sandy. He cracked his knuckles, rolled his head like he was stretching out a kink in his neck. “From what I know, a real prick."

  "You don't end up in a place like this if your life's on track."

  "Tell me about it,” he said. “But Foster ... record long as your arm. B and E, ABH, GBH, one collar for rape. Dropped, sadly."

  "A real character."

  "That's what they say."

  "Someone like that probably has a lot of enemies.” I thought of the gaunt man on door duty. Barely knew Foster, and he practically propositioned a stranger to bounce the poor bastard's head off a wall.

  "Did you get a good look at the corpse?"

  I nodded, tried not to visualise.

  Sandy said, “Vicious."

  "I came here because it looked like Foster was going to provide a lead in an investigation."

  "Care to share?"

  I shook my head. “Client information is—"

  "Privileged,” he finished for me. Shook his head, blew out smoke. It caught in the moonlight. “How many times do I have to hear you say that?"

  I tried a grin.

  Sandy looked away. “This is bad business."

  "It's always bad business."

  "If you were still on the force, you'd have backup."

  "If I was still on the force...” But I wasn't here to get into recriminations or start bad blood between myself and the one man I still considered a true friend. I bit my lip, hard enough I thought I could taste blood.

  Sandy said, “If you say you know nothing, aye, sure, I'll take it at face value. But..."

  I turned away, took another drag on my cigarette. It tasted foul. Maybe it really was time to quit. I let it drop to the pavement, ground it beneath the toe of my boot.

  "Sam, you're not alone."

  I tried to laugh it off. “Nah, mate,” I said. “Don't try it."

  He walked past me, back inside the building. “I did it,” he said. “Gave you a chance, eh?"

  "Aye. What are friends for?"

  * * * *

  I drove a few streets away before parking under the orange glow of a streetlight and taking the phone out of my pocket.

  Rule number one: Never interfere with a crime scene. Maybe I was getting carried away. Maybe I was getting stupid. Maybe I knew that I had made a promise to my client and had to do everything within my power to close this case.

  There was a girl's life at stake.

  And the police could handle that better than...

  I'd start
ed this. Because for no other reason than I wouldn't be able to live with myself, I was going to finish it. Ros called me a stubborn bastard with good reason.

  I scrolled down the list of received calls. A few anonymous numbers, then: KirstMob. Received earlier that evening, just past six.

  I dialled.

  Waited.

  A girl's voice picked up. She sounded nervous, as though she wasn't sure she should really be answering.

  "Kirsty?"

  "Uh..."

  "I know it's you. We need to talk. If you're in trouble—"

  "Who are you?"

  "I work for your father.... He just needs to know that you're all right."

  There was silence. I thought for a second that she might hang up. Instead she broke down in tears on the other end of the line.

  ...to know that you're all right...

  Like, by that point, there was ever a chance.

  * * * *

  Kirsty met me on a street corner, near a group of high-rises due for demolition. With the lights off, the windows boarded up, and their shadows soaking up any light, they were imposing monoliths, reminders of a social failure that we try to deny.

  She sat on the kerb, her knees tucked up against her chest. Her head rose slightly on my approach. She looked so small and fragile.

  I parked the car, got out, and walked round. Even in the half light, I could see her pale skin standing out against the dark patches of bruises on her face.

  Her summery dress was torn and dishevelled, and the backs of her hands were dirty, covered with ... something.

  I didn't want to draw conclusions, as I sat down beside her.

  "Your dad's worried for you."

  "I cannae go home. No after ... Just ... just tell Dad that this is better than...” She raised her hands to her face. Then I saw the backs of her hands clearly and realised it wasn't just mud and dirt.

  "Tell me what happened."

  "I can't..."

  "Tom Foster had a violent history and—"

  "It's no his fault, not really."

  "You can't say it was your—"

  "Like hell I'm saying that!” She got to her feet. She was suddenly filled with a righteous anger that seemed to flow through the ground like an electric charge. Her muscles tensed and her expression was filled with hate. “No Fosty's fault, no my fault—that bastard Mick—"

  "He told me you split up."

  "More like he sold me on. Like his bloody property."

  I felt sick, couldn't bring myself to stand. Looking at Kirsty, seeing that anger and realising it masked a fear and shame that had been coursing through her. Because of what had been done to her.