“Don’t worry about Colon Cancer......it will get you in the end.”
Susan especially laughed at barbs aimed at certain women. I briefly wondered why, then realised all women seemed to think the same.
“Most of us have a skeleton in the cupboard; but that David Beckham takes his out in public.”
“Grandchildren can be fucking annoying. How many times can you go and the cow goes moo and the pig goes oink? It’s like talking to a supermodel.”
It was obvious from the outset that we liked each other; but we both saw a problem, given the situation with the Turner investigation. We agreed, however, that as long as we didn’t discuss the case then there shouldn’t really be an issue. We also agreed to keep the relationship quiet for now. At least till the Turner case was resolved one way or the other.
***
Peter Harris sat in his Uddingston home wondering about the meaning of besotted.
Was that what had driven him, a man who had never even had a parking ticket, to do the things he had done. Besotted? Was Kate Turner his Lolita?
He had no idea where his wife Sally was, or the kids. He couldn’t deny that he loved his children but somehow, strangely, they didn’t exert the hold over him that his first family did. He wished he could turn back the clock but when Ann died he couldn’t cope with two babies on his own. Over the years he had tried to seek out his son and daughter but when, out of the blue, his daughter had gotten in touch, it was more to punish him than any notion of reconciliation. He was upset when she told him that although she and her brother were close, he didn’t want anything to do with his father. Indirectly Kate Turner had cost him two families, but it made no difference to his feelings; she was his one true love, and that night on the river bank was love, no matter what that bitch Dornan said. He also knew that no matter what happened over the following weeks, his life was over.
***
As the only married member of the murder squad DC Rab Brown took plenty of stick.
‘Hey, Rab, do you know scientists have discovered a food that diminishes a woman’s sex drive by 90%?’
‘Yeah, it’s called wedding cake.’
‘Why do men die before their wives?’
‘They want to.’
The squad’s bonding night in the Bay Horse around the corner from their offices was in full swing. Dornan wasn’t against these nights, but she did have her concerns for the younger members of the squad. If they couldn’t handle the slating, endemic in these gatherings, they may become defensive, insular; and not contribute fully to the squad for fear of ridicule. She soon realised that she needn’t have worried about Jill French. DC Jack T’Baht had pointed out to her that;
‘Women will never be equal to men.’
Jill had agreed.
‘Until they walk down the street with bald heads and beer guts and still think they’re sexy, that is.’
Dornan smiled, her fears dissipated.
‘You were married once weren’t you, John?’ Dornan asked John Frame
‘Sure was. Thought she was Miss Right. Didn’t realise her first name was “Always”.
Everyone was aware that they still had plenty to sort out with the two murders so the night didn’t last as long as it otherwise might have, much to Matt Healy’s pleasure. He had hoped that he and Susan Dornan might end up on their own.
‘You didn’t say too much on the man woman thing, Matt. Surprisingly! What are your hopes in that department then?’
Susan Dornan wasn’t quite sure why she had asked Healy what she just had. Maybe the few glasses of wine had clouded her judgement. On the other hand, she was curious. She wanted to know.
‘Not sure really, never given it much thought,’ he replied.
‘Come on, then. That girl up at the bar, the one in the red dress, how would you rate her?’
‘Out of two……. I’d give her one!’
They both laughed out loud.
‘What about you? You ever had a boyfriend or are you too hard work?’ Healy asked.
‘No I’m bloody well not, you cheeky bastard. I’ll let you know that some of my many boyfriends took to drink after we split up and haven’t been sober since.’
‘Really? Celebrating that long?’
Dornan gave Matt Healy a playful punch.
‘One for the road?’
‘Why not?’
Two hours later Susan Dornan and Matt Healy walked arm in arm through the city’s St Enoch Square in their search for a cab. A pigeon shat on Healy’s jacket.
‘Typical, shat on from a great height, story of my life.’
‘Just pretend it was a bird of peace.’
‘What? Mother Teresa?’
Their laughter embraced them and they embraced each other. The Ingram Hotel was the closest. In room 212 Matt Healy was loving and attentive even though passion was their shared motivation. Susan Dornan lay in his arms. The effect of the alcohol was wearing off, replaced by doubt and bewilderment. She looked over at Healy.
‘Matt, why do you come over so rough so, well, uncouth? It’s not you. I know that now.’
She could hardly make out his reply. Whispered, guarded perhaps, even pleading.
‘I don’t know. I can’t help it. The force may be changing Susan, Culture Change, Paradigm Shift or whatever the “In” term is this week, but the sewer dwellers aren’t changing; you have to live in their world, Susan, if you want to catch them. They won’t live in ours; operate in our “new, customer friendly” world. I know I don’t really fit in anymore but I’m good at what I do. I want to contribute but I can only do it my way, on my terms.’
Susan Dornan was more confused than ever. Her feelings for Matt were strong, very strong, but Ray Ford was something different altogether, something special even. Something Healy could never be. She was sure of that.
Jesus. In 24 hours I might be in his arms, his bed. What the hell am I doing?
Chapter 9
The next morning Susan Dornan sat in her office uncertain whether to laugh or cry.
What had she been thinking? She hadn’t had that much to drink, had she, that she could blame that? Had she just made a serious career mistake, did she even care about that aspect of it? How could she face Matt Healy this morning, what would she say? How could she face Ray tonight? He had been the perfect gentleman up to this point but at their intimite meal the other evening “knowing” glances and smiles had definitely passed between them; all that was missing was Rod Stewart’s throaty tones in the background musing that “Tonight’s the Night.’
All the squad were assembled as Dornan had ordered a case review for 10.00am. Matt Healy was on time, and seemed especially jovial and animated.
‘Good morning, everyone. Feeling good, I am’ he had declared rather too loudly, to no-one in particular.
Susan had seen him coming in and going over to the coffee stand that was, mercifully, situated well away from her part of the room. She could detect the skip in his step even from her quick glances in his direction. She prayed he wouldn’t make any sort of comment about last night’s goings on. The morning’s activities would have allowed Dornan to avoid Healy and the inevitable awkwardness that was bound to be there; if her phone hadn’t rung. She now had to get it over with, and get on with the job at the same time.
‘DS Healy better get your jacket; an area car has reported movement in Harris’ house.’
Dornan decided to drive. It would keep her occupied.
‘Susan, about last night.’
‘Yes, I know.’
‘Know what?’
‘It was a bit crazy, a bit stupid.’
‘Oh.’
‘Don’t you agree?’
‘Maybe, to a certain extent, but I want you to know I care for you. I want there to be something between us. Something worthwhile. I think it’s possible. I’ll move squad if I have to.’
‘The thing is, and this will make me sound like a right cow in more ways than one, but I have someone in my life at the moment.
Someone I think I might be able to make a go of things with.’
‘Oh.’
‘Don’t get me wrong, Matt, I like you, really like you actually, or I wouldn’t have done what I did. It’s just that, well, I like someone else as well. Shit, Matt, I’m sorry.’
‘No sweat it’s…I’m fine. Just friends and colleagues it is.’
‘Deal. Great.’
They arrived at Peter Harris’ house and immediately concentrated on the job in hand but Susan could detect that things wouldn’t be the same between her and Healy from now on. Healy and Dornan could see Harris sitting on his couch watching the T.V. Despite ringing the doorbell three times, Harris didn’t respond. Healy rapped the window. Harris turned and stared at him with a blank expression, eventually rising slowly to his feet and going to the door.
‘Peter Harris, you are under arrest for the murder of…......’ the rest tapering away from Peter Harris’ consciousness.
‘Where are Sally and the kids, Peter?’
‘She’s left me, took the kids, “for the best”.’
Back at the station Peter Harris refused both a doctor and a lawyer.
‘What for?’ being all he said in reply to being asked.
‘Did you kill Kate, Peter?’ asked Dornan.
‘I have a tendency to be judgemental, Inspector, and, as a result, I get angry but I swear I did not kill Kate Turner.’
‘Were you angry with her, though?’
‘Yes. How could she just sit there and tell me she was in love with someone else?’
‘In love with who, Peter?’
‘I don’t know. She never said. She just left when she saw my reaction.’
‘But it wasn’t her husband, it wasn’t Joe?’
‘Christ, no.’
‘Did she say if this guy was in Glasgow with her, Peter?’
‘No, but I don’t think he was. He’s in Spain, I think. Probably a diego bastard.’
‘So you resented this guy in her life?’
‘Of course, but what is it they say? “Resentment is like taking poison and hoping the other guy dies”. I prefer anger.’
Dornan and Healy exchanged glances.
‘Does the name Tunstall mean anything to you, Peter?’
‘No. Should it?’
‘Explain how your semen got on Kate, Peter.’
‘We made love by the riverbank.’
‘Really? Before or after the row?’
‘After. Anyway it wasn’t a row, more a tiff.’
‘So you followed her out, made up and had sex. Is that what you’re telling us, Peter?’
‘She wanted to. It’s not our first time together. We slept together when we were dating.’
‘That was an eternity ago, Peter, when Kate was in her teens. A teenage infatuation on her part. Not sure how to describe your role. We know now that Kate was raped.’
Peter Harris looked around the room. He appeared to be going to another place.
‘Not by me. Her blouse ripped open by mistake when I caught up to try to apologise. Black bra. Beautiful breasts. Her panties didn’t match her bra. I was surprised at that, really. We made love, beautiful love. She was crying. I don’t know why.’
‘What happened after “you made love”, Peter?’ the words almost chocking Susan Dornan.
‘I had to get home.’
‘So you left her there? No lift back to Glasgow, the train station even? You just left her.’
‘I felt she wanted to be on her own. She didn’t say anything. I left’
‘Couldn’t say anything more like’ said Healy.
Peter Harris looked straight at Susan Dornan.
‘I didn’t kill her, though. I didn’t.’
***
That evening two men sat on their beds. Both men had in their lives, had sex with the same woman, both had in their lives, loved the same woman, both men had, in their lives, assaulted the same woman; and both men were now suspects in the murder of the same woman.
One of the men, Peter Harris, was now charged with the murder of that woman. They both sat alone, a few miles separating them, each man oblivious to the thoughts of the other. Joe Turner had been informed of Peter Harris’ arrest. He had always been a bit jealous of Kate and Harris’ relationship but believed Kate when she said it was platonic and for old time’s sake; although he had never understood how she had become involved with someone older than her. He was going to go back to Spain. He’d been told that the trial and release of Kate’s body was still some way off and:
God knows what those pricks back at the bars would have been up to while he was away.
He had decided to phone me.
‘Ray?’
‘Who’s that?’ I didn’t recognise his voice at first.
‘Fuck’s sake, Ray, it’s me, Joe.’
‘Oh hi, Joe. Yeah. Sorry. Lots on, my head is all over the place. Plus the reception on this mobile isn’t great at times.’
‘They got the bastard.’
‘Who?’
‘That killed Kate. It was that cunt Peter Harris.’
‘Who?’
‘An ex she used to meet up with when she was back in Glasgow.’
‘Shit.’
‘Yeah, shit.’
‘So the story about an affair was bullshit? I told you, Joe, I told you.’ I think I was more relieved than him.
‘I know, I know. Thanks for everything, Ray.’
‘Sure, Joe. What are you going to do now?’
‘Don’t know really. I want to go back to Spain. God knows what’s been happening over there. Any way you could appeal the release of my passport?’
‘I’ll try, Joe, but it will take a while and, to be honest, I don’t think there’s much chance.’
‘Right. Well, try anyway. I’ll call you and maybe we can meet up for a couple of beers.’
‘Yeah, do that.’
I sat down on a bench in the park I was walking through at the time, green slats covered in a variety of gangland names. I was glad that Kate’s murderer had been caught so quickly, but deep in my mind there was a nagging doubt.
Why would someone who Kate had been friends with for years suddenly kill her? Why had Joe initially lied about being in Spain the night Kate died? Was this guy Harris the only guy Kate was in touch with? What about the “smoking gun” train ticket, only I knew of?
When I learnt that my friend, the one I was about to betray, had been charged with Julie Connor’s murder, a murder I was sure he had committed, I had no over-riding feelings or thoughts on the matter. Not because I was ambivalent to the situation, more because I was completely numbed by the whole sequence of events and my role in them. I was still convinced that Joe had killed his wife; the arrest of Harris hadn’t changed that, and he had actually told me he was going to kill Julie. Was his temper that out of control? And, if it was, what more was he capable of? Should I cut him off completely? Tell Susan Dornan my thoughts? Was I being selfish? Despite everything, Joe had been a friend, a good friend. Should I support him no matter what? He would never need to know that it was me who had supplied such damming evidence to the police; I could just “be there” for him as the day-time telly gurus are constantly telling us. On the other hand, I am a principled person; I don’t want to be seen as somehow approving what Joe had done.
I wandered home. The dilemmas in my personal life seeming to drain me more than my case load at work. I lay on the bed. Sleep didn’t come. I lay and, for some reason, thought over my life and why I had become the man I had.
I’m not sure what age I was exactly when my Mum left my father for another man. I hadn’t been aware of any tension or particularly bad arguments even. She was just there one day and not there the next. My father had just gently sat me down and explained that my mother had gone away; ‘No, not to heaven, son’ but that everything would be OK; and it was him and me against the world from now on. I can’t say I missed my mother that much. I was aware occasionally of ripples of disapproval in the Catholic “c
ommunity” but my father continued to take me to mass on Sundays; and every other day possible. His way of coping, I suppose. She sent me a birthday card once, my dad recognised the writing on the envelope, but I never opened it. It lay on the worktop beside the fridge for a few days and then was gone. I never asked my dad where it went. My dad was a teacher and so could drop me at school in the mornings and was home by the time I got back in. He took me to see Celtic every other Saturday and to Ayr for our summer holidays. We were happy. Occasionally he had a lady friend around for tea but they were never around for too long. He never mentioned my mother and there were no pictures of her in the house. He brought me up to be compassionate and caring but not to allow myself to be used, and to be careful who I cared for. It also came back to me that there was practically always music playing in the house; either from the radio or one of those record players where you piled the 45’s up on a spindle in the middle and they fell down on top of each other to be played. Perry Como, Andy Williams, Deano, Dad loved them all. I think that is why I now love the quiet. Dad died when I was 30. He was diagnosed with cancer and, thankfully, didn’t suffer a protracted death. He knew he was dying but didn’t seem too bothered.
‘You’ve turned out to be a fine young man, son. No father can ask for more than that.’
‘Do you want me to contact Mum?’ I said. I realised then that I had no idea where she was or if my father had ever spoken to her since the day she left.
‘No.’
Several months after my dad died I got a phone call from his sister, Ann, my Auntie Annie, to tell me ‘just so’s you know’ that she had known all the time where my mother was, and would have told me if I’d ever asked, but that she hadn’t been going to instigate the conversation. She added that it was now all irrelevant anyway as my mother had been killed, apparently in a domestic dispute with husband number three or four a few months previously, although the husband, a chronic alcoholic, was vehemently denying any involvement. I remember feeling nothing at the news other than that I was now truly alone.
The Initial Blow Page 12