‘None of your business, that.’
Knight held his hand up like a shield. ‘Easy, son, I’m no judging you. We’ve all got our recreational preferences. Whatever floats your boat.’
Donovan sighed. Knight made him feel even more tired. ‘What do you want, Jimmy?’
‘A tip, about your boy last night.’
‘What sort of tip?’
‘A good one. A weapon.’
‘Why you coming to me, Jimmy? You usually want the glory all to yourself.’
Knight’s face took on a wounded look. ‘Frankie boy, you cut me to the quick. I thought, for old times’ sake, I’d give you a helping hand. We made a good team in the old days.’
‘Aye,’ said Donovan, the single syllable heavy with sarcasm. ‘So you got nothing better to do than spend time on a nightclub stabbing? Not enough work down there in Serious Crime?’
Knight smiled. ‘Day off. So, you in or what?’
Donovan thought about it. Knight had more angles than a geometry lesson and he was trying to work out what it was this time. Then he thought, what the hell. He didn’t want to go home anyway…
Once there had been a factory unit on the site, but no more. Now the patch of wasteground in Ruchill near the hospital was home to rats, broken glass and the casualties of modern consumerism dumped there by flytippers. Donovan saw an old cooker, a sink and a pile of worn tyres. The thick layer of snow gave the site a more pristine appearance than it deserved. An old settee lay in the centre of a ragged circle of bare, white ground and until a few minutes before, it had been surrounded by young men drinking cheap cider, smoking and, Donovan suspected, punting drugs. They had fled as soon as he and Knight had appeared at the edge of the wasteground, the neds’ uncanny nose for cops certainly not failing them. They scattered across the old site and vanished from view in the way that can only be achieved by those intimately acquainted with their surroundings. One minute they were haring across the ground, leaping over scrubby little bushes and skirting piles of concrete and rubbish, the next Knight and Donovan were alone, save for the impressions of feet in the snow. It was a trick that would make Paul Daniels proud.
‘So, what did this tout of yours say, exactly?’ Donovan said as they strode across the snow-covered ground, paying little or no attention to the bodies flitting in all directions.
‘That a blade used in the Club Corvus incident had been dumped here,’ said Knight.
Donovan stopped and looked around. ‘That all? This is a lot of ground for two guys to cover, Jimmy.’
Knight simply grinned and wiggled his eyebrows like Groucho Marx. Donovan sighed, Jimmy Knight being enigmatic was a pain in the arse. Jimmy Knight being funny was a pain in the arse. Jimmy Knight being helpful was a pain in the arse. There was a pattern forming here and Donovan was beginning to wish he had never agreed to come along on this field trip. Let the Black Knight have all the glory, he was tired and wanted his bed. Knight walked on, but Donovan stood where he was, unwilling to move further until the other man came clean.
‘Jimmy, what are you no telling me?’
Knight’s pace didn’t falter as he shouted over his shoulder, ‘One helluva lot, Frankie boy. All you need to know is that I know what I’m doing. And all you need to do is watch me while I’m doing it.’
Donovan realised at that moment what this was all about. Corroboration was essential in Scots Law and Knight needed another officer with him when he made the find. Knight strode off towards a mound of concrete blocks and twisted metal, remnants of the factory building, but Donovan stood still and seethed. This was typical of Knight, to follow his own agenda and use whoever he liked to achieve it, but eventually Donovan decided he was better in than out, so he began to move again. Knight was walking around the pile of masonry by the time he caught up with him. The big cop’s eyes crawled over the dirty bricks and scabby cinder blocks like a lizard searching for a cranny in which to hide. He stopped and took a step backwards, his upper body tilting to the side for a better look. Then he nodded and motioned Donovan to come closer. Donovan sighed and stepped round the mound as Knight pointed at a cleft between two large concrete slabs.
‘My tout said the blade’s in there,’ said Knight.
‘Pretty precise tip. You sure your guy didn’t plant it here, too?’
Knight gave him a smile that told Donovan not to probe too far into the source of the tip, then he gestured at the hole. ‘On you go, then,’ said Knight.
Donovan frowned. ‘On you go what?’
‘Haul it out.’
‘Why me? It’s your tip.’
‘Cos I’m wearing fuckin cashmere and you’re in your BHS best anorak.’
Donovan looked down at his jacket. It was not an anorak, it was a thick, padded jacket, and he was offended at Knight’s dig at his sartorial elegance. ‘That’s another reason you’ve not got on in life, Frankie boy,’ Knight said. ‘You’ve got to look the part. Christ, did you not learn anything from Gentleman Jack?’
Jack Bannatyne was the snappiest dresser this side of Beau Brummel and Knight, who always had his lips plastered so close to their old boss’s backside that he could tell what the man had eaten the night before, liked his style. Donovan, though, always looked like he had been let loose at a jumble sale clothes counter with a handful of coins and a time limit. He could not help it, he never looked tidy.
Donovan sighed and stooped to peer into the hole. He didn’t fancy sticking his hand in there one bit.
‘What you waiting for?’ Knight asked.
‘Gimme a minute, will you!’ Donovan snapped. ‘I’m just checking it out.’
‘It’s a hole, what is there to check out? You frightened something will bite you?’
‘No, I’m not frightened something will bite me,’ Donovan said, irritably, even though he had, in fact, been frightened something would bite him.
‘Don’t worry, Frankie boy,’ Knight said reassuringly. ‘I’ve not seen a crocodile in Ruchill for many a year. Go on, ya big jessie, stick in your thumb and pull out a plum.’
Knight edged closer, wiped some snow from the hole to make it a bit wider and then slowly inserted his hand into the hole.
Knight said, ‘Mind you, there could be a rat in there…’
Donovan jerked his hand back instinctively, but immediately regretted it when he heard Knight laughing behind him. ‘Man up, for God’s sake. I’m ashamed to be seen with you.’
Donovan took a deep breath and, wondering how fast rabies can take hold, thrust his hand back inside. There was quite a deep cavern there and he felt around for a good few seconds before Knight’s impatience got the better of him and he said, ‘Fuck me, Frankie, you pretending you’ve got your hand up some tart’s fanny? What’s keeping you?’
‘Gimme a second, Jimmy, I don’t know how far back this hole goes.’
‘As the Bishop said to the actress.’
Donovan shot Knight a dirty look over his shoulder, but the big detective simply gave him a sweet smile in return. Or as sweet as Knight could make it. Donovan was delving in the fissure up to his shoulder, but all he could feel was bricks, metal and something soft and oozy, which he hoped to God was mud. Then, just as he was about to pull free, his fingers brushed against fabric.
‘Hang on,’ he said, ‘got something…’
Knight craned closer as Donovan flexed his arm as straight as it could to allow his fingers to hook the cloth and drag it closer to the opening. He grasped it firmly and carefully withdrew it from its hiding place. It was a tea towel bearing scenes from across Scotland, the sort of thing Donovan’s granny used to have in her kitchen. It was old and threadbare and it was wrapped round something solid.
‘Let’s see it, then,’ said Knight, and Donovan handed the bundle over to him. Knight carefully unfolded the ends of the towel to reveal a bloodstained flick knife.
‘Nasty bit of kit, that,’ said Knight.
‘Aye, but it’s not the blade that stuck that boy Himes. Wrong shape.’
> Knight gave him a grim little smile. ‘You’re a betting man, Frankie, how much would you bet that, when we check that blade, we’ll find Dickie Himes’ prints all over it.’
Donovan knew from Knight’s grin that he was staring at that most elusive of punter’s dreams, the sure thing. ‘So the blood’s not Dickie’s?’
‘No. I’ll give you double or nothing that Dickie cut someone last night, one of his attackers. And that means we’ll get a blood type and DN-fuckin-A. This is your case, Frankie boy, right here. All we need to do is find a boy who got cut last night and we’ve got our killer. And find that homeless guy, hope he’s compos mentis enough to make an ID and Bob’s your proverbial.’
Donovan could feel the excitement building in his chest, but something Knight had said gave him pause. ‘All “we” need to do, Jimmy? Thought you were just giving a helping hand here?’
Knight looked hurt. ‘Frankie, you want to cut me out now? After me leading you to this? That’s cold.’
Donovan looked from Knight’s feigned hurt feelings to the knife. He could not shake off the feeling that this was all far too easy and that Jimmy Knight was leading him by the nose for reasons best known to himself. On the other hand, a quick result would not do him any harm. He could do with a win.
‘Okay, so we take it back to Stewart Street.’ Donovan said. ‘Get it dusted to confirm it’s Dickie’s, get the blood tested, check the hospitals and clinics for reports of knife wounds.’ And while all that is happening, Donovan told himself, I’ll find a nice cosy cell in the custody suite and get my head down for a few hours. He had a clean shirt in a drawer at the station, he’d be fine. It would also mean he didn’t need to go home and face Marie.
‘We could do that, Frankie boy,’ said Knight, nodding sagely. ‘We could do all of that, and we will, believe me. Take a coupla days, right enough. But see just to save a wee bit of time,’ he held his free hand up, finger and thumb barely apart to show just how much time they would save, ‘just a wee bit, we could go see this boy I heard got his face opened last night. You know, just to eliminate him from inquiries.’
Donovan’s eyes narrowed. ‘You’ve got a name?’
‘I’ve got two names. But no the now, son – you look done in. He’ll keep till tonight, after you come on shift. You can tell old by-the-book Bolton, if you like, earn some brownie points.’
Knight gave Donovan a broad smile. Donovan nodded. ‘And when were you going to tell me about this boy?’
Knight’s face would have been an open book if Donovan did not know him so well. ‘Frankie, I kinda thought I just did.’
Davie was happy in his own company, but as he sat in the gathering gloom of the living room, alone, listening to the muted rumble of the traffic drifting down from Duke Street, he couldn’t help but feel a sense of loss. The dog lay on the floor in front of the gas fire. Abe used to lie there, Davie recalled, and in the same way, head on his front paws, watching Davie carefully, waiting for him to either feed him or take him for a walk. Or just to move. For wherever Davie went, so did Abe. Dave flashed back to one night, years before, when he and Audrey had been together in this room, on the couch, hands exploring bodies, touching, caressing, stroking. And Abe had watched them, eyebrows beetling. That was the night Joe had died. That was the night everything changed.
You can never love me, Vari had said.
You can’t let go…
He knew what she meant. He was unsure what love actually was. He’d loved his mother, sure, he’d loved Abe. He even loved this dog, even though he’d only had it for a day and the animal didn’t yet trust him fully. But the kind of love Vari wanted? He was fairly certain he’d experienced that only once. And that had been taken away from him on a windy afternoon down the coast. That seemed to be the way it was for him – anything he loved was taken away. His mother, his dog and Audrey. Two of them murdered by a madman while Davie watched and did nothing. The madman who was his father.
He closed his eyes to block the memories and took a deep, cleansing breath, but nothing worked. He did not make a habit of looking back, for he knew the memories were there, over his shoulder. The recriminations. The pain. The accusing look in Audrey’s eyes as she died. But he couldn’t block out the voices, echoes, whispers.
You could have done something.
You could have saved me.
He had been unable to move. Years of fear, of dread, regarding his father had rooted him to the spot until it was too late.
You could have saved me.
The green eyes being bled of life, staring at him, a single tear trickling down her cheek.
You could have done something…
His eyes snapped open again when he heard the rapping at the door. The dog’s head raised. Davie thought about ignoring whoever it was, but then realised it would be a means of banishing the ghosts that haunted him, if only briefly. Vari had done that, more often than she realised.
Bobby Newman was leaning against the doorjamb when Davie opened it. His face was unusually serious. ‘You okay?’
‘Why wouldn’t I be?’
Bobby rolled his eyes and stepped past Davie without an invitation, because he knew he didn’t need one. Along with Rab, he was Davie’s oldest friend. He stopped when he saw the dog standing in the hallway, his tail wagging, but only slightly. Bobby turned and jerked his head in the animal’s direction. ‘New arrival?’
‘Yeah.’
Bobby knelt to give the dog a two-handed rub around his head. ‘What’s his name?’
‘Haven’t thought of one yet,’ said Davie.
Bobby straightened then said, ‘Okay. Needs a name, though.’
‘Yeah.’
Davie followed him into the living room. Bobby took in the darkness and said, ‘Jesus, Davie – you no paid your leccy bill?’ He clicked on a lamp sitting on a table beside the phone close to the door, then moved to an alcove near the window to click on another. When he turned, his face was still serious, and he said again, ‘You okay?’
Davie gave him a thin smile. ‘You’ve heard, then?’
Bobby nodded. ‘Vari phoned Connie.’ Bobby’s wife, schoolteacher, at home on Edinburgh Road with their newborn kid, a girl they’d called Susan. ‘Thought I’d come over, see if you’re okay. So, you okay?’
‘I’m fine, Bobby. Honest.’
‘For the best, right?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Better for her, right?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Bollocks, Davie.’ Bobby took off his coat and settled in the armchair nearest to him. ‘You liked that lassie.’
‘I did,’ Davie conceded.
‘And you’ve been sitting here in the dark convincing yourself that it’s best for her, that you’re happier on your tod, right?’
Davie didn’t answer. Bobby knew him too well.
‘Utter bollocks, Davie,’ said Bobby again. ‘You need her. That lassie kept you human, son.’
Davie perched on the edge of the settee, as if he was ready to take flight. Bobby was his mate. Bobby knew him better than he knew himself, but he was uncomfortable with someone being so prescient.
‘And see, the thing is, Davie,’ Bobby went on, ‘you know that, too. She told Connie she left cos you can’t open up. What’s the phrase they women’s mags use? You’re emotionally unavailable. And that’s true enough, you’re emotionally unavailable. You’ve got a dark side, Davie McCall. Christ, you’ve got a dark side that would have Darth Vader reaching for a torch. I’ve known that for years, since we were boys. But you control it. You use it, too. To keep people away. Vari’s one of them.’
‘I’m no good for her, Bobby.’
Bobby’s face creased as he dismissed Davie’s words with a wave of his hand. ‘You were the best thing that happened to that lassie. She was a wreck when you met her. Okay, she was working and she was existing, but she was getting used by… well, people like me. She was a bike, Davie. Christ, that’s why I had her at your coming out party.’
Fiv
e years before, when Davie got out of jail, that’s when he’d met Vari. Bobby had always been a bit of a lad, until he met Connie, and he knew the girls who were free with their favours, the bikes as he called them. Always there for a ride. He’d invited Vari to the party and the rest was history.
‘She was broken, you know that, but being with you fixed it all. Davie, you healed her.’
Davie sent a short, sharp breath down his nose. ‘Some healing. You remember what happened to her?’
‘Wasn’t your fault.’
‘He was my father. He’d never have gone after her if it wasn’t for me.’
‘Not your fault, Davie. His. Not yours.’
Davie shook his head slowly. He knew Bobby was trying to make things better, but there were some things that would never heal. And once again, he flashed to Audrey sliding to the ground, her throat sliced open, the life leaving her in gouts of blood that stretched in the wind like red ribbons. Her green eyes on Davie.
You could have saved me…
Davie forced the image from his mind and said, ‘It was time, Bobby. I couldn’t give her what she wanted. She wanted what the straight arrows want – a home, a family, a life. I can’t give her those things.’
‘Why not?’
Davie didn’t answer. He wanted to say because I’m Davie McCall.
He wanted to say because those things are not for me, never will be.
He wanted to say because I’ll never see my 40th birthday…
He had long known he would never see old age. After Audrey’s death, he had given the violence, the dark thing that nestled within him, free rein. He had cast off his initial reluctance to become involved in Rab’s drug business and had profited from it. He had beaten and he had battered and he had felt nothing when doing it. Earlier that day, he had broken a boy’s fingers as if it was the most natural thing in the world. For him, it was natural. It was his nature. The dark had almost consumed him and it had cast its shadow over his life with Vari. That’s what she meant when she said that he wasn’t really there. The Davie McCall that Audrey loved had also died on that wind-swept harbour. For a life with Vari to work, that Davie McCall would have to be resurrected.
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