The Red Road

by Denise Mina

  The girl looked her over. ‘What for?’

  ‘I need to talk to him.’

  She nodded. ‘Selling something?’

  ‘No, I’m an old pal from the police.’

  ‘Oh.’ She brightened at that. ‘Hang on.’ She shuffled out from behind the counter and took two steps to a door at the back of the shop. She opened it into a narrow cupboard, crammed with crates of pop and boxes of crisps, shelves reaching right up to the ceiling. The nearest wall was taken up with a narrow wooden staircase, steep as a ladder, that led up to a hole in the ceiling.

  The girl kept her eyes on the shop and shouted up into the hole, ‘Hey, Granda! GRANDA!’

  A thump upstairs made her smile at Morrow. ‘He’s annoyed now. Watch this: GRANDA!’

  Another thump was followed by a series of muttered curses and the girl laughed softly to herself. ‘He’ll be spitting now.’ She went back to the counter, leaving Morrow at the bottom of the steps.

  A foot dropped through the hole, then another, feeling gingerly for the step. George Gamerro looked enormous as he climbed down from the small hole. When he finally stood in front of her Morrow could see that he was enormous. Tall as the door and muscled, still, despite his age. His face looked old, a craggy map of wrinkles and skin tags but his body was still spritely. He stood like an old school polis, shoulders back, hands comfortably by his side, feet planted firmly on at-ease legs.

  ‘Hello?’ he said, looming like a giant in the tiny cupboard.

  Morrow put her hand out. ‘George Gamerro? I’m DI Alex Morrow.’

  George looked wary. He looked at her hand but didn’t take it. ‘From Strathclyde?’

  She smiled. ‘How did you know that?’

  He didn’t return her smile. ‘What are you doing here, on your own?’

  Morrow had meant it to be friendly and informal, her being here without a colleague. ‘I, um, my neighbour’s in the car outside. Can we talk to you?’

  George put his hands in his pockets. ‘Why’s he in the car?’ he whispered, looking over her head to the door. A twitch on his chin expressed the panic he was feeling. ‘Who is it?’

  ‘Who do you think it is?’ She wanted him to say a name, tell her who it was that he was so afraid of, but he heard it as a threat.

  He looked her in the eye and snarled, ‘What if I don’t come?’

  She shook her head, trying to backtrack. ‘That would be fine. I came in on my own because I thought it would be more friendly, you being an ex-DS, but clearly it’s not come over like that at all ...’

  George kept the snarl on his mouth but his eyes told her he doubted himself, that he was afraid of who, or what, was in the street, that he was too old for this now.

  Unbidden, she put her hand on his forearm. ‘Gamerro, come and have a fish tea with me and my DS. And don’t worry: I’m buying.’

  The middle-aged café owner was plump, plain and clearly very fond of Gamerro. She saw him from behind the counter and came out to greet him warmly, wiping her hands on her pinny as she pushed through the queue to get to him. She led him to a table for four, explaining to the usurped customers in the queue that Gamerro, Morrow and McCarthy had a reservation.

  She asked after his wife, after the shop, good business? How’s Holly? Gamerro said she was in the shop now and the café owner rolled her eyes. Her grandchildren wouldn’t work in the café, she said, too busy at university. It was an underhand dig at George and Morrow found herself smarting for him.

  They ordered three fish teas and drinks: a pot of tea for Morrow and McCarthy, a drink of milk for George. The woman left, a smirk at the side of her mouth.

  George saw the annoyance on Morrow’s face and smiled at it. She could see then that he was a handsome big man and a warm man. He said that Mrs Fratini was very proud that her grandweans were at university. She brought it up with everyone. The drinks were brought over by a hassled waitress, along with three sets of knives and forks swaddled in paper napkins left at the end of the table.

  ‘So,’ George dropped his eyes to the table, ‘what station are you from?’

  ‘London Road, CID,’ said McCarthy.

  ‘Ah,’ said George.

  ‘George, we’ve got a guy called Michael Brown in court right now. His first arrest, the one you were involved in—’

  ‘Don’t remember that.’

  ‘You don’t remember? Young guy, arrested for stabbing his brother, killing him in a lane off Sauchiehall Street?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘It was the night Diana died.’

  He knew then that the lie was ridiculous. Everyone remembered where they were the night Diana died. They even remembered if there was nothing to remember. George struggled for a moment.

  ‘I wasn’t involved in the arrest,’ he said definitely.

  She looked up. ‘What?’

  George had his hands up at her. ‘Not the arrest. I wasn’t involved in the arrest.’

  ‘You were the superior officer.’

  George chopped carefully at the table with the side of his hand, head tilted as if walking into a headwind. ‘I supervised the questioning of Michael Brown but I did not participate in the processing of Michael Brown upon his arrest. That would be the responsibility of the officers who brought him in and processed him at the bar.’

  He was talking to them as if they were defence counsel. No one wanted the mess to land in their lap and the mess centred around the arrest.

  ‘You weren’t there when he was brought into the booking bar?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Did you check out the paperwork afterwards?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Did you witness the fingerprints being taken—’

  ‘No!’ George flinched.

  She could see why McMahon had asked them not to mention his name.

  Three plates of fish and chips arrived, served by the hassled waitress without a word. She put her hand in her pocket and took out several sachets of ketchup, dropping them on the table and winking at George who smiled back.

  When she was gone he explained, ‘They used to leave them on the tables but the students would come in and lift them. Now you have to pay for them. She’s being nice, given us them for free.’

  They all three looked over at the waitress and smiled their thank yous, as if she had sent them over a bottle of champagne. They took their cutlery and ate. All the surfaces in the café were hard: steel and marble and stone floors made the room noisy enough for the silence between them not to hang too heavily. The room was an odd shape, the takeaway ice cream counter at an angle to the door, the fish and chips counter at yet another angle.

  Morrow ate the fish and chips and reflected that if the sign in the window was true, a tea of fish and chips was finished in Scotland.

  Of a sudden the noise abated, the lunchtime rush began to thin and the waitresses began to clear and wipe tables, scraping the remains of the plates into a bin, stacking the crockery on a trolley.

  George and McCarthy cleaned their plates and saw that Morrow had given in halfway through.

  ‘Not like it, ma’am?’

  ‘Nah,’ said Morrow. ‘I always think I’ll like a fish tea but it’s bit greasy for me.’ She looked at her plate. ‘You wanting it?’

  ‘Oh, aye.’ He swapped his clean plate for hers.

  She saw George smiling at that and grinned back. ‘Skinny as a stick,’ she said of McCarthy.

  ‘Not for want of trying,’ said McCarthy, through a mouthful.

  Morrow poured them a second cup of tea each as George drained his glass of milk.

  ‘I don’t want to ask you anything that puts you on the spot, George.’

  He nodded solemnly and chewed his bottom lip. ‘What’s the problem, then?’

  She thought about how to frame it: whoever killed Pinkie Brown has done it again, Michael Brown’s hands got out of prison; all of it was too much information. For all she knew Gamerro was acting shifty because he was part of something. He certainly knew something
, maybe not everything, and whatever it was he was scared about it.

  ‘Where can I find out what happened when Michael Brown was arrested?’

  ‘Have you looked on the arrest sheet?’

  McCarthy chewed the last mouthful of battered fish. Morrow looked around and spoke quietly. ‘I’ve assumed the paperwork will all be in order.’

  ‘You’re probably right.’

  ‘Won’t tell me much.’

  ‘True.’

  ‘Even if it does have pertinent information in there it would be hard to prise out. If there was an irregularity, in my experience, the person responsible will have been careful to make sure their name isn’t found on it.’

  ‘I suppose.’

  McCarthy was looking at the counter. ‘Do I have time for an ice cream?’

  On the counter there sat a plaster statue of an outsized silver cup with a giant scoop covered in raspberry sauce, a wafer at the back like a Spanish dancer’s hair-comb.

  ‘Aye,’ said Morrow, ‘go on up and order one.’

  He got up, was three steps away across the room when Morrow heard George mutter a name she had heard before.

  She glared at him. ‘Say it again.’

  George looked across the room, frightened, and said it more clearly. ‘Monkton.’

  ‘Thank you.’ She squeezed his forearm, just a little too hard, and got up, pulling her purse out of her bag.

  She was paying across the counter when McCarthy saw her and said, ‘Can I still get an ice cream?’

  ‘If you can drive at seventy while eating a double nugget.’

  21

  Rose let herself in this time. It wasn’t late at night, it was teatime and the cushioned hush she was used to in Lonely Mansions was replaced by dulled thumps and muffled shouts, the suggestions of washing machine hums and televisions. She kept her head down, walking up the stairs to Atholl’s flat on the third floor.

  The block of flats looked out over the River Clyde. No river views were wasted on the communal stairs. The developers could charge extra for them, so the river views were saved for the flats. The stair windows looked out over the street.

  Rose was halfway up the third flight of steps when she heard a door opening on the floor below. She flattened herself to the wall and stayed still and listened as the door closed, the lock slipped shut. She heard a faint tss tss from headphones as the person padded downstairs and opened the door to the street. She waited until she was sure they were gone. Then she slipped up the remaining steps to Atholl’s door.

  She had a key because they were renting the flat for him. Part of McMillan’s deal with Atholl. He called it a retainer, for future legal work. Rose couldn’t remember the last time Atholl had done any official work for them. If it was a reciprocal arrangement she couldn’t see what they were getting back.

  She let herself into the empty hall and shut the door behind her. The flat was still and dark. She stood in the hallway and listened, heard the river slither past through an open window, heard a kid shout in the street.

  She didn’t think about what she was doing. She didn’t think about what she had done. She just stood in the hall, hands in her pockets, and waited for Atholl to come home.

  It only took an hour.

  Atholl arrived home with a lot of fanfare. The front door opened, a bag was dropped, Atholl was grunting, short of breath from climbing the stairs.

  He dropped a briefcase in the hall and carefully hugged an off-sales bag to his chest as he shut the door behind him, enveloping himself in the darkness. He turned into the dim hall and then he saw her.

  He started, the bag slipped. He grabbed the bottom of it, catching the glass vodka bottle but not the carton of orange juice, which slid out of the plastic bag and bounced on the floor, corner first. It didn’t burst. He looked from her to the bashed carton, attempted a smile.

  Rose didn’t smile back.

  ‘Hello, Rose.’

  He reached for the hall light but stayed his hand when she whispered, ‘I was in the safe.’

  He changed his mind when she said that, preferring the dark. He dropped eyes to the floor, the bottle slid down his torso and landed with a thud on the carpet. She could see his tongue moving in his mouth, rehearsing excuses. His chin quivered.

  She hissed, ‘I will beat you to fucking death, right here in your hall, if you dare cry, Atholl.’

  ‘Ah, yes, I called you ...’ He was crying, his eyes were crying, but he tried to change the subject. ‘Because I know where Robert is. He turned his phone on.’

  Everything he said was a trap. That wasn’t what he had wanted to tell her. He must have known she was checking iCloud and would find out anyway. He’d called her about something else. He was talking as if he had summoned her here, giving out teasers, prompts for her to ask him things. She didn’t rise to it.

  ‘Want to know where he is?’ he said brightly.

  His eyes though, just the eyes, were dying of sorrow. He dropped his chin to his chest and looked at the vodka bottle lying on the hall floor. It lay on its side like a dead chick. The light was behind her, coming from over the river, catching the sequins dropping from his eyes, tumbling through the air and being swallowed by the carpet.

  Atholl bent down slowly and picked up the bottle by the neck, holding it in front of himself, muttering, ‘A light refreshment, perhaps, before we go in for dinner ...’

  He stumbled towards her, veering left into the front room. Rose stepped back to let him pass.

  He dropped into the armchair as she came in through the doorway. Tears rolled down his face as he unscrewed the bottle lid with a sharp metallic scratch.

  ‘Actually,’ he told the bottle, ‘that would be lovely, thank you. So much.’

  He put it to his lips, tipped it back and the light from the window caught the swirl of vodka, lighting it blue like liquid tears.

  He dropped the bottle, his eyes rolled back in ecstasy and his shoulders loosened.

  Rose watched him, herself expressionless, listening to her own shallow breathing. Atholl fell to staring at the bottle he was clutching on his knee. His sad eyes brimmed again, tears trembling. Then he looked at her and said in a small voice, ‘Rose, I didn’t know you, then.’

  ‘But you know me now.’

  His voice was very small now. ‘Are you here to kill me?’

  ‘Why would you think that?’

  ‘You killed Aziz Balfour, Rose, I know that.’

  She was shocked, her thoughts tumbled over each other: how could he possibly know? There was no one else who knew Aziz had hit Julius and made him fall so heavily his lungs collapsed. No one had seen her with Aziz, no one. No motive, no witnesses. He couldn’t possibly know that.

  Suddenly furious with him, Rose pulled her hands out of her hoodie pockets. In each one she held a plastic bottle of paracetamol. She stepped forward, put both of them on the side table and stepped away.

  Atholl looked at them. Then he looked at her, confused.

  She didn’t know how to say it: I cannot suffer you to live. I cannot breathe air that you have breathed. You are all of them, Sammy and Wuornos and her father and the man with the chickens.

  ‘Why would I?’ he asked.

  ‘If I kill you they’ll want to know why. They’ll dig. They’ll find the photo. If you kill yourself they’ll say you did it because you missed your wife and kids. You choose.’

  Atholl looked at the pill bottles for a long time. She saw him think himself into the future, see his sons remember him one way, then the other. He was trying not to cry but she didn’t think it was because he would be dead soon. She felt he was half relieved about that. He was trying not to cry because he had meant well and his life had been a bit crap; he was crying for himself. He took a deep breath and addressed the pills:

  ‘I did an inquest: these take four days to kill you,’ he said. ‘Often asymptomatic for the first twenty-four hours ... then ... liver failure.’

  He looked at them. He looked at his vodka and she kne
w he was thinking about washing them down. He looked from the bottle of pills to the vodka, rehearsing the back and forth of an overdose.

  He looked at the pills and began to cry again. ‘If I take them will you burn that photograph?’

  She had scratched her own face off in the photograph. When she got here, before he arrived, she had tucked the photo carefully behind the cleaning products in Atholl’s kitchen cupboard. She wanted it found after he died.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Promise me?’ High voice, child-like inflection.

  ‘I promise I’ll burn it.’ She wouldn’t.

  He looked at the bottles again.

  ‘Go on,’ she said, reassuringly.

  ‘Rose,’ he had lost his breath to tears now, ‘I never, I swear, never did anything like that again. It was a one-off.’ But he had spent a lifetime listening to excuses for crimes and he knew there were none that really meant anything.

  She kept her eyes on the pills. ‘It’s done now, Anton. You take ’em.’

  He looked at her, asking if it would hurt, telling her he was afraid.

  She wouldn’t reassure him, said nothing but gave a fraction of a nod at the bottle of pills on his left. Following her eye, Atholl reached over and took the first bottle, holding it strangely, thumb on the bottom, finger on the top, looking at it as if it was an exotic species. He glanced back at her.

  ‘Promise you’ll burn it?’

  ‘I promise.’

  His face twitched a grateful smile. Then he pinched the tag for the plastic seal around the neck, pinkie out, as if he was availing himself of a tiny delicacy. He turned the bottle as he undid the strip. Still holding it strangely, as if he didn’t want to touch the sides, he pressed and turned the clicking lid until it came off.

  He sat with the bottle of pills in his left hand, a finger under the bottle, another over the open top, as if he found her so disgusting he couldn’t bear to touch the bottle where she had touched it.

  She nodded him on and he lifted the pills, holding her eye, and tipped them into his mouth, chewing them like tic tacs. They were bitter. He grued at the taste and undid his bottle lid, again the sharp metallic grind. The sound took her back to the Red Road flats, to the wind and the sensation of a knife grinding through skin. She’d been sick, almost passed out over Aziz’s body. She’d held onto a girder to stop herself falling.