Witness the Dead

by Craig Robertson

  He was abruptly distracted, though, by movement near the door. Three girls had added more than their share of body heat to the human pool already inside. It was her. The redhead. She and two friends, one of whom he recognised as the mouthy brunette she’d been with on her previous visit, were making their way through the crush towards the bar, alternately asking and pushing and nudging until they cleared a path for themselves.

  She saw him and he knew immediately that she’d remembered. Her eyes smiled without the rest of her face betraying a flicker, and he liked that. She was still looking his way as they forced the last body to move aside and allow them into the tiny oasis of space before the bar. She had on hot pants again — very hot pants in this weather, he couldn’t help but think — and a white calico blouse that emphasised the lustrous red hair that tumbled onto her shoulders. Her slim legs were bare and ended in strappy platforms that added three or four inches to her height.

  He heard the voice almost before he’d realised it was his.

  ‘Martini and lemonade, isn’t it?’

  She smiled and her friends laughed. ‘Well remembered, Danny Neilson. But there’s three of us.’

  ‘Oh, aye, sure. What do your pals want?’

  The friends laughed again and ordered up a Babycham and a rum and blackcurrant with ice. He wedged himself into a damp space between two other blokes at the bar and waved a pound note in the direction of the short bald-headed barman. He got a curt nod in return that signalled he’d been noted. Minutes later, three glasses were in front of him. He briefly wondered what the hell he was doing but another voice in his head told him to shut up and just do it.

  He passed over the drinks to the two friends first and finally gave the martini and lemonade to her, standing square on as he did so, forcing her to face him and hopefully talk.

  ‘Thanks, Danny. Just what I need.’

  He instinctively moved his pint glass towards her smaller one, and she gave a little laugh as they clinked together, making her ice cubes giggle and a flurry of bubbles rise in his beer. Over her shoulder, he saw Geordie Taylor looking at them, eyebrows furrowed in curiosity. Stuff him, nothing to do with him. He was fitting in, that was all. Just fitting in.

  ‘I’m Jenny.’

  ‘Danny.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Yeah, sorry. Forgot.’

  She laughed at him, her eyes lighting up. ‘That’s a bad memory you’ve got there. You also forget that your mammy warned you to stay away from red-headed women?’

  ‘Nah, I’m just living dangerously.’

  ‘We’re all living dangerously these days, Danny.’

  ‘You mean the killings?’

  The words were out of his mouth before he could stop them, a step down a slippery path that he knew would be better avoided.

  ‘Yeah. Of course. It’s not you, is it?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The man that murdered those poor women. It wasn’t you, was it? Are you Red Silk?’

  He faltered, tongue-tied. He knew she was joking. She had to be joking. He’d hesitated for far too long. She was probably taking that as some sign of guilt and was going to run out screaming. Then she laughed, her eyes shining and creasing at the sides.

  ‘Your face! I’m just kidding you on. You’re not, are you?’

  ‘No, of course I’m not.’

  ‘Yes, but you would say that, wouldn’t you? That’s what that Christine Keeler said. You wouldn’t exactly admit it if you were Red Silk.’

  ‘I’m not.’

  ‘I know. I wouldn’t be standing here if I thought you were him.’

  ‘Don’t suppose you would. You not worried about being in here after what’s happened?’

  ‘Well, yes, but it’s not going to happen again, is it? Not here. Surely he wouldn’t come back here. Anyway, I’ve got my pals with me. As long as we stick together, nothing’s going to happen to us.’

  ‘I hope not.’

  She laughed again. ‘Thanks. You’re sweet.’

  Sweet. That’s what she called him. His wife.

  ‘And also’ — she leaned in close and whispered into the hot air between them — ‘I’ve heard that there’s police in here. Plain-clothes. Trying to catch the Red Silk guy.’

  ‘Where d’you hear that?’

  ‘My pal Carol. She said she was talking to a polisman and he told her. Said that they were in here dancing. Poliswomen too.’ She looked him over. ‘I don’t think you’re a cop, though. Not in that shirt. Hardly plain-clothes, that, is it?’

  He glanced down at the yellow shirt with its flowery swirls and felt a bit hurt. He really liked that shirt.

  ‘Your face,’ she giggled. ‘Do you take everything to heart?’

  ‘No. Well, sometimes maybe. Anyway, I like this shirt.’

  ‘So do I. I was kidding. Again. Where did you buy it?’

  ‘Arthur Black’s.’

  ‘The place on St Enoch Square? It’ll be handmade, then. And cost a week’s wages. Nice. Not so sure about the tie, though.’

  ‘It was a present.’

  ‘From your mum?’

  ‘Um, yes.’

  ‘Really?’ she laughed again. ‘That is sweet. Terrible tie, though.’

  Maybe it was the guilt that made him look past her again and see Geordie Taylor staring at him and then throwing a look towards his left. He followed the copper’s gaze and saw Billy Moffat looking at him too. Sods. It wasn’t good, though. If they were looking at each other and him, then someone else would twig the three of them were linked. He put his pint down and took her drink from her hand, putting it on the table next to his.

  ‘Let’s dance.’ He took her hand as he asked, leaving her little choice but to move with him.

  ‘Okay, Red Silk,’ she giggled. ‘If I refuse you might kill me.’

  They writhed through the bodies at the edge of the dance floor and emerged onto the heaving, broiling space, he leading the way and she quickly following. He’d barely thought to listen to the music but could now hear that it was ‘Son of My Father’ by Chicory Tip. Not that it would have mattered.

  Even in the crowded room and above the beat of the record, he could hear her platforms clicking on the wooden floor as her feet marked out the rhythm, immediately falling into time with the sounds thudding from the DJ’s turntable. The white calico blouse floated as she moved, offering fleeting glimpses of the soft, glistening flesh beneath. He tried not to look but his eyes won out over his mind. They did the same with the hot pants that gyrated, swung, swayed and teased.

  Bodies moved all around them, steam virtually rising to the roof, but he couldn’t see anything but her. Her hair flowing, her eyes alive, her hips twisting, her legs swaying, skipping, captivating. He knew it was wrong. He knew it spelled trouble.

  When the DJ segued into Free’s ‘A Little Bit of Love’, they shared a look and stayed on the floor, simply changing their steps as the music dictated. Part of him wanted to look to see if Taylor and Moffat were watching, but a larger part wanted to remain and look at her. Part of him wanted to scan the room and see if there was anyone there who might have been the man he’d come to look for, but a larger part of him wanted to dance with her.

  So they danced. And then they danced again.

  Chapter 22

  Early Tuesday afternoon

  ‘Thanks for meeting me.’

  The girl looked up at him, pushing her fringe out of her eyes and smiling as if he’d said the strangest thing.

  ‘You’re my granddad. Why on earth wouldn’t I meet you?’

  It was a perfectly reasonable question, or at least it would be if you didn’t know any better. And she didn’t. Danny Neilson knew, though. He knew everything, and that was why he was as nervous as he ever remembered being in his adult life. Thirty years as a cop and never as bad as this. It was also why he didn’t answer the question, at least not directly.

  ‘How’s your mum?’

  Chloe rolled her eyes theatrically. ‘Doing my head in. A
s always.’ A guilty look then crossed her face and she seemed to have thought better of it. ‘She’s all right really. I’m nineteen and she isn’t. I guess it’s always going to be a bit of a war.’

  ‘Well, I don’t want to make things worse,’ he offered. ‘The last thing you need is her getting mad at you because you’re meeting me.’

  Chloe nodded quietly. The same thought had obviously occurred to her already. ‘That’s why I’m not going to tell her.’

  Oh, great, he sighed inside, he’d got the girl lying to her mother. That was almost guaranteed to improve the situation.

  ‘Are you ready to order?’

  She shook her head and ducked it back down into the menu, giving him the chance to look at her up close without her noticing. Her green eyes were hauntingly similar to her mother’s, and there were also hints of Barbara in the high cheekbones. The fiery red hair and pale skin came from her father, though, the arsehole Mark, who had fled from the scene when she was just a toddler. She was a pretty girl and that wasn’t just him being biased. Actually she wasn’t a girl any more and that was scary. She’d become a young woman and he’d missed so much of it.

  Still, he was finally doing what he’d promised himself to do for so many years. He wasn’t proud that it had taken the ghosts of his past to force him into action but at least he had done it. Archibald Atto and the Klass copycat killings had dug up secrets that he knew had to be confronted.

  They were in Velvet Elvis on Dumbarton Road — Chloe’s suggestion. It was a trendy bar and grill, not really his kind of place but he did like it, even though it was decidedly strange. It was a converted butcher shop and still had meat hooks hanging from the ceiling and a huge wall of Edwardian tiling that had been there since James Burrows and Sons had been pushing out sausages and black puddings. The tall red patio doors to the street opened up in the summer making it into a pavement café and attracting the local arty-farty types.

  ‘I’ll have the Velvet Elvis burger with hand-cut chips,’ she announced. ‘And could I have cheese and bacon on it?’

  ‘Sure. You’re not one of those girls that just eats lettuce leaves, then?’

  Chloe rolled her eyes again, this time at him rather than her mother. ‘As if. Lettuce is for rabbits. I like my burgers. I guess I’m lucky: I just don’t get fat when I eat them.’

  ‘Well, I do get fat but I’m having the beer-battered fish and chips, anyway.’

  ‘You’re not fat, Pap…’ She paused, looking perplexed. ‘What should I call you? I’m not five any more and Papa Danny doesn’t seem right now, somehow.’

  He shrugged, just glad that she was talking to him at all and not caring what she called him. ‘Up to you. Papa? Granddad? Grandpa? Old git?’

  She grinned shyly. ‘Hmm. Yeah maybe old git. I’ll think about it and get back to you.’

  ‘Okay, you do that. Do you want something to drink?’

  ‘Just a Coke, please.’

  ‘You can have… I mean, you don’t have to have juice just because…’

  She laughed a bit. ‘I know. Coke’s fine. I’m going out tonight, anyway, so I’ll have enough then.’

  Danny bit his lip, determined to not actually be an old git and go on about the amount that some girls drank. He’d seen them often enough when he supervised the taxi rank into the early hours. He knew it probably made him sexist but it scared the shit out of him when he saw them barely able to walk. It wasn’t that he thought they shouldn’t get drunk if they felt like it: it was their ability to look after themselves in that state that bothered him. Short skirts, high heels and bloodstreams overflowing with alcohol made them targets for the boozed-up bampots who were also on the streets.

  A tall blonde waitress came and took their order, leaving them with nothing to say. Chloe mustered a smile towards him, albeit a bit awkwardly, and let her eye wander round the bar, settling on the old black jukebox that sat against the wall, a sign above it inviting customers to PLAY THE JOOKIE. 4 PLAYS £1.00. The machine, a Galaxy 200, had actual records in it, vinyl 45s, and Danny wondered if she’d seen such things before.

  ‘Do you want to put some music on?’ he suggested.

  She wrinkled her nose to say no. ‘I probably haven’t heard of any of them. Wouldn’t know what to pick. But thanks.’

  They were both relieved when their drinks arrived, giving them something to do with their mouths rather than talk. Chloe reached quickly for her Coke and took a long sip, keeping the tall glass close to her lips. He took an equally grateful gulp of beer and examined the top of the pint tumbler for inspiration.

  ‘So how is…?’ ‘Are you still…?’ They both started at once and both immediately retreated to let the other one speak. ‘No, no. You go. Please.’

  ‘How is college going?’

  ‘University,’ she corrected gently. ‘Yeah it’s great. I’m really enjoying it.’

  ‘And what is it that you’re actually studying? I know I should know but…’

  ‘English along with journalism and creative writing. It’s a pretty cool course. Hopefully I’ll finish up with a BA joint honours.’

  Danny felt a surge of pride that was in danger of breaking into a stupid grin and he covered it with a mouthful of his beer.

  ‘That’s brilliant,’ he gushed, the beer diversion not quenching his pride in the slightest. ‘I knew there would have to be some brains in the family eventually. What do you want to do after you graduate?’

  She reddened briefly. ‘If I graduate. I don’t know. Maybe journalism or something in films would be great. I’ll see.’

  ‘What does your mother want you to do?’

  A heavy sigh. ‘Join a nunnery or become a teacher. Sometimes I’m not sure what she wants. Sorry… I shouldn’t…’

  He shrugged, tempted by the prospect that their shared issues with Barbara might be the thing to bind them, but knowing it was the wrong road to go down.

  ‘She just wants what’s best for you, that’s all. It’s not been easy for her having to bring up a daughter on her own.’

  Danny got a sudden flash of fire from her eyes that nearly burned him in his seat. All she actually said was, ‘Hmm.’ But the look in her eyes spoke volumes. Basically, it said, Back off. You don’t know what you’re talking about because you weren’t there.

  She was a fiery one and that red hair didn’t come without an extra kick.

  Their food arrived and they both tucked in, letting the unspoken spat subside and making only polite noises to enquire about each other’s meal. Two strangers passing the salt and the time of day.

  He considered telling her how much he had actually seen of her in the years since they had last met. The times he’d sat in his car at the end of their road waiting for a glimpse of her on the way to the park or back from swimming. How he’d watched her win the hundred-metres at a school sports day when she was nine, knowing that her mum was working and wouldn’t be there. Or how he’d kept every photograph that had appeared in the local paper. Or how he’d sent a Christmas present every year until she was twelve, finally giving up after each and every one was returned unopened.

  ‘Are you still working nights at the taxi rank?’ she asked eventually. ‘Mum never really says but that was the last I knew.’

  ‘Yes, still there. It keeps me in beer money.’

  ‘Do you not get a bit fed up with all the madness out there at night?’

  ‘Am I not too old for that, you mean?’

  ‘No. Well, yes. Maybe I meant that a bit too. But the town is just full of nutters, especially at taxi o’clock.’

  ‘You okay when you go out? Safe, I mean.’

  He got another little burn of flame from her eyes — not as much as before, though, just a mild singeing. ‘I’m fine. Built-in self-preservation sense. If I get too out of it, the homing signal kicks in and I head back to Mum’s.’

  ‘That’s good. It’s a very handy skill to have. Listen, Chloe, I’m sorry I wasn’t there when you were growing up.’

  H
e half expected her eyes to flash angry again but they didn’t.

  ‘It’s okay. You don’t need to apologise.’

  ‘I’m not. I’m saying that I’m sorry I wasn’t there. I wish I had been.’

  She nodded. ‘Okay. I know it wasn’t your choice. You going to tell me why Mum’s so mad at you?’

  ‘No. Not today. It’s too long a story. Let’s just say she had her reasons and I’m not blaming her for being like that.’

  Chloe looked at him for a while, maybe working out if it would be worth trying to get him to talk about it.

  ‘Okay, not today. Does that mean we’ll meet again?’

  ‘Yes. If you want to.’

  ‘Yeah. Okay.’

  ‘Good.’

  Back out on a damp, springlike Dumbarton Road, they prepared to go their separate ways, a palpable awkwardness between them at how to say goodbye being finally settled by a clumsy hug.

  ‘Thanks for coming,’ he said.

  ‘I told you, you don’t need to thank me. Anyway, I enjoyed it.’

  ‘Did you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Good. Me too. Listen… there’s something else I wanted to say. You know these murders that happened in the city centre? Well… I know I don’t have much right to lecture you after all these years but… it’s dangerous out there. Just be careful, will you?’

  She wrinkled her nose at him, obviously amused, then leaned in and kissed him on the cheek. ‘Okay, Papa. I will.’

  Chapter 23

  Tuesday afternoon