by Owen Mullen
As for Geddes, no doubt he’d throw himself even deeper into his work. If possible, become even more committed to the job. For a policeman, opportunities to make up for his mistake presented themselves on the streets of Glasgow every day. When they weren’t enough, he’d go home to his flat and the whisky she’d smelled on his breath in the car.
Andrew would be all right. In time.
She ran a finger absently round the rim of the sink, reluctant to follow where her thoughts were leading, understanding too well where they were taking her. Opening the refuge had been her way of coping with the past. It had given her purpose and Mackenzie was proud of what she’d done.
But it wasn’t enough anymore.
She was tired, her thinking blurred, although in a sense she’d never seen more clearly. When the system couldn’t protect the innocent, someone had to act. The details were only half-formed but one thing was certain – there would be no more Kirstys.
Mackenzie lay on the bed, staring at the ceiling, beyond tired. Last night had been horrendous. Twice she’d wakened in the middle of a full-blown panic attack, soaked in sweat, gasping for air, her arms and legs numb, and the sour-earth smell of the cellar where she’d been held by the man in the black coat in the bedroom with her.
The dreams were back. Darker and more terrifying than ever. Being forced to relive the past after so long left her subdued, washed out and unwilling to face the world.
When she was sure the others weren’t around, she threw on jeans and an old jumper, kept for working in the garden, without combing her hair or looking in the mirror. No need – she knew only too well she’d see cracked lips, the usually flawless skin dry and flaky, her eyes bloodshot and hooded.
Irene knocked and stuck her head round the door. ‘Not disturbing you, am I?’
She lied. ‘No, you’re fine.’
‘There’s a police car outside. You can see it from my window.’
Mackenzie followed her across the landing, on the surface calm. Inside she was shaking. A uniformed officer stood at the gate, hands cupped, sheltering the flame from his lighter.
‘What on earth are they doing here on a Sunday morning?’
Mackenzie didn’t answer – she knew.
From the front door, Andrew’s gruff voice drifted upstairs. Irene noticed Mackenzie tense and put a hand on her arm. ‘You look pale. Are you okay?’
‘Didn’t sleep much, that’s all.’
Muffled conversation downstairs ended when Doreen shouted, ‘Mackenzie! Andrew Geddes needs to speak to you. He says it’s urgent.’
Paranoia ran rampant: Caitlin must’ve confessed; the movement at the window hadn’t been Mackenzie’s imagination after all; somebody in the house had watched them dig the grave and called the police.
Andrew seemed no better than when she’d last seen him, if anything he was more intense.
‘I have to talk to you.’ He looked at Doreen. ‘Alone.’
It was too early for the fire to be lit and the lounge was cold. Mackenzie stopped in the middle of the floor, determined to say her piece, suffer his contempt and get it over with. ‘Andrew, listen. I want you to know I’m not sorry.’
‘Neither am I.’
The words caught her off balance. ‘You’re not?’
‘Absolutely not. What happened was terrible but we can’t blame ourselves and we mustn’t.’
She was confused. ‘You’re… right.’
‘Kirsty needed help. We acted in good faith. Malkie Boyle’s responsible. He killed her.’
Mackenzie felt the tension wash out of her; her legs gave way and she almost fell.
Geddes caught her. ‘Look at what I’ve done to you. This is why I’m here.’
‘Why?’
‘To apologise for getting you into a situation that was always ending badly. Boyle was determined to find her. Unless she got far away, sooner or later he would’ve.’ Andrew took her hands in his. ‘I shouldn’t have come to you.’
‘Of course you should.’
‘No. No. It was wrong. Kirsty was an excuse to get close to you. Can you forgive me?’
He took hold of her shoulders. ‘Whatever happens, from now on I promise I’ll keep it away from you. We have something good and we both deserve it. The rest of the world can go fuck itself – sorry for swearing – this is too special to risk losing it.’
He put a finger to her lips. ‘Don’t answer now. Take your time. I’ll accept whatever you decide. But please think about it. I believe we’d be fools to let this slip through our fingers. I want to start again. Let’s put the last twenty-four hours behind us and start again.’
She raised her head so he could kiss her and said, ‘I’ve never wanted anything so much in my life.’
20
That morning they’d woken to autumn. Soon the light would fade in the middle of the afternoon, the mercury would fall in the barometer by the front door, the days pick up speed, racing towards a new year. Before they knew it, it would be Christmas.
The mood in the car matched the clouds above them, grey and heavy with rain, scudding across the sky driven by a north wind. It was three weeks since Kirsty’s murder. Geddes drove. Beside him, dressed in black, Mackenzie stared out of the window. From time to time, one of them spoke. Short undirected sentences. Mundane comments in lieu of real conversation. Blame wasn’t mentioned, yet it hung in the air waiting to be claimed.
Mackenzie said, ‘Any idea how many will be here?’
‘None. I asked her about her family. Told me she hadn’t had contact with them in years and didn’t want any. Wherever they are, they probably don’t know she’s gone. Wouldn’t expect them to show up. Could be just us.’
‘God, that would be awful. Bad enough to die the way she did without…’
Geddes wanted to take her hand in his and thought better of it.
‘Where do the police think he is?’
She meant Malkie Boyle.
Geddes sighed. ‘Honestly? They’ve no idea. London always gets the shout. As far as I’ve heard, that’s just a theory.’
‘A theory without proof.’
‘Exactly.’
and not likely to change with that wanker leading the investigation
Jamieson and his team had moved to a room on the first floor. An officer called Innes had been seconded from Glasgow East to work on the double murder. Officially, Andrew Geddes was out of the information loop, but he still had friends who reported the lack of progress to him. Not what he wanted to hear. His differences with Dennis Jamieson were unimportant compared with the success of the case. Far better he catch Boyle and put one on the board than Kirsty’s killer get away. As usual, time was the enemy. Every passing day lessened the chances of nailing the bastard.
Mackenzie said, ‘What religion was she?’
‘Catholic, once upon a time. Really, she didn’t have one. Understandable. God didn’t do much for her, in life or in death, did he?’
‘Who’ll conduct the service?’
‘Won’t be a service, just a blessing and a prayer from a priest who had to have his arm broken before he’d agree to that.’
‘How terrible.’
‘From their point of view, it’s straightforward. If you don’t pay your dues when you’re here, don’t expect the perks when you go.’
‘A perk? To give a girl a proper burial?’
‘Them’s the rules.’
‘No wonder people stay away.’
They fell silent. Geddes headed for London Road and Tollcross cemetery. The detective hadn’t mentioned what to expect with the arrangements, Mackenzie was upset enough. From experience, he knew Glasgow City Council would fulfil its statutory duty: there would be no frills – flowers, viewings, obituaries – or transport laid on for the family.
Not exactly a pauper’s send-off, but close enough.
Kirsty would be laid to rest in an unmarked grave, known as a common grave, which might be shared. She wasn’t the first and she wouldn’t be the last. Long ag
o someone had told Geddes that William Miller, the author of Wee Willie Winkie, was buried in an unmarked family plot against the north wall. Maybe true, maybe not. That interesting little vignette wouldn’t make Mackenzie feel better.
The interment was scheduled for eleven o’clock. Geddes was wrong; they weren’t the only ones there – scores of people spilled on either side of the grave across the cemetery, shoulder to shoulder in the cold daylight. Floral tributes from the community surrounded the grave, his and Mackenzie’s among them.
‘Who are all these people?’
‘Christ! Half of Haghill’s turned out. Pity they hadn’t paid more attention to her when she was here.’
The cynical comment annoyed her. ‘That’s enough, Andrew. They’re showing they care for a girl most of them had never met. They don’t need to be here. They’re doing a good thing. Don’t belittle it.’
He knew she was right and said no more.
At one minute to eleven, the coffin slid from the back of the hearse and was carried to the hole between mounds of dirt piled on either side. Slowly, silently, it was lowered into the grave. A man in a dog collar and a dark overcoat readied himself to read from the Bible he held in his hands. Geddes didn’t doubt the passage would be apt, fitting the occasion as it was meant to, uplifting talk of redemption and how great it was all going to be on the other side.
‘So do not fear, for I am with you. Do not be dismayed, for I am your god. I will strengthen you and…’
The priest’s celestial platitudes were snatched from his lips and blown across the lines of headstones running into the distance. The detective didn’t believe a word of it. This was all there was. As good as it was going to get. The guy in the dog collar would have a soft comforting voice and a message of hope people needed, especially at times like this. In the end, the business he was in boiled down to peddling mumbo-jumbo to the masses. Hell was right here, right now. Not every life was worth celebrating. Kirsty McBride’s had been cut tragically short before it had even got started.
Geddes studied the crowd, searching for a face he’d recognise, knowing this was the last place Malkie Boyle would show himself. When the priest finished he made the sign of the cross and walked away. Some mourners lifted handfuls of earth and threw them in the grave, others shuffled, unsure what to do.
Mackenzie wanted to scream. ‘Is that it? Is that all there is?’
Geddes understood – he felt the same. He put his hand on her arm and gently led her away.
When they got to the car, a voice behind them said, ‘I hope you’re satisfied.’ Paula Reid’s face was twisted in accusation. ‘She trusted you. I warned her not to listen. I told her.’
Kirsty’s friend had been crying – mascara smudged at her eyes. Mackenzie moved towards her. Paula stepped back. ‘Forget it. Just forget it. She told me what happened.’
Geddes tried to calm her down. ‘We’ll get him, Paula. I promise you we’ll get him.’
She snarled, close to breaking down. ‘Keep your promises. Kirsty’s dead because of your promises. Malkie didn’t kill her, you did.’
The building was newer than a lot of the flats in Glasgow. Unfortunately, new wasn’t enough to save it. Inner-city degradation hung in the air, poisoning anyone who breathed it in. The front door had been booted so hard it didn’t close and sat at an angle on the hinges. Inside, the bare concrete walls were unmarked apart from crudely etched initials. Paula Reid’s flat was on the ground floor. The policeman had been to places like this more times than he could remember – hard soulless places that swallowed people whole and spat them out onto the streets of the city, damaged beyond recall.
He heard movement on the other side of the door and braced for the reception he might get, a reception he deserved. It opened slowly. Kirsty McBride’s pal looked at him.
‘You? What do you want? Haven’t you done enough?’
The words were hostile and flat, said without passion, not like her bitter outburst at the funeral the previous day. Whatever fire had burned in this young woman had been extinguished. Geddes left every trace of authority out of his tone – the Kirstys and Paulas of the world had no use for it.
‘Hello, Paula. Can I have a chat with you?’
‘No. I don’t want to.’
‘It’s important.’
‘You mean it’s important to you.’
‘I mean it’s important to both of us. Can I come in?’
‘It isn’t a good time. Tony will be waking up any minute.’
‘It won’t take long. Promise.’
Reluctantly she turned and walked down the hall. At the living room door, she hesitated. ‘This isn’t right. I don’t want you here.’
‘I know and I don’t blame you. Believe me, it’s necessary.’
His ill-chosen phraseology sparked her.
‘Believe you? You mean like Kirsty believed you?’
Geddes kept his eyes on the linoleum floor, accepting the rebuke as rightfully his. When he spoke, he spoke softly, and not because he might wake the baby. ‘You’re angry. I’m angry too. That’s why I’m here. Please, let’s sit down.’
Paula Reid’s round face was expressionless. Nothing showed on it, not even her contempt. The detective followed her into the room where a boy under school age sat on the threadbare carpet surrounded by empty matchboxes, building them up and knocking them down with a gleeful sweep of his small arm. His mother knelt beside him, talking in a voice kept for her children, resetting the boxes for him to smash again.
Without intending to judge, Geddes’ eye for detail kicked in: the furniture was old, obviously second-hand apart from the television in the corner permanently tuned to the cartoon channel. An ashtray and an empty cup were on a coffee table with thin legs, reminding him of one his grandmother had had with a scene of Venice – gondolas and red-and-white mooring poles. Smears on the glass told him the window cleaner had got tired of not getting his money on a Friday night and given up.
Paula broke away from her son, keen to get the policeman out of her house.
Geddes got to the point. ‘I’m going to tell you the truth. I shouldn’t be here talking to you. Kirsty’s murder isn’t my case. I’m not on it.’
‘Why not?’
‘That’s a long story. But I’m not.’
‘Then why’re you here?’
‘Because I care. Because I want the man who killed her to pay for his crime nearly as much as you do. It’s been three weeks. The police don’t have anything. Boyle’s disappeared. You were Kirsty’s best pal. I’m hoping you can help me catch him.’
Paula stared blankly at him.
‘Who did Kirsty tell about Social Services getting her a place?’
She shook her head. ‘She kept it a secret like she was supposed to.’
‘Then how did he know where to find her?’
Silence.
‘You were her best pal.’
More silence.
‘Who did you tell?’
She stiffened. ‘Nobody. I wouldn’t. Kirsty was the best friend I had in the world. No way would I tell anyone, especially that bastard – he’s evil. I always knew he was trouble. I told Kirsty not to trust the Social. She was afraid.’
‘Okay, Paula, I believe you, but somebody told him. Who would know and how did they find out?’
‘There’s no secrets round here, thought you’d understand that.’
Geddes nodded. ‘What about Boyle?’
‘What about him?’
‘If he’s still here, somebody’s hiding him. Did you ever meet any of his friends?’
‘Never.’
‘What about family? Did Kirsty ever mention them?’
‘He didn’t have any. His father left when he was young and his mother died.’
‘Where did Boyle drink?’
‘A pub in Carntyne. He took Kirsty with him a couple of times after they got together. Showing her off.’
‘Which pub?’
‘I can’t remember. The Eagle, The
Hawk… something like that.’
This was hopeless.
Geddes gave her his card. ‘If you remember something or hear anything – anything at all – call me. Don’t care what time it is.’
At the door she softened. ‘I’m sorry for blaming you. I know it wasn’t your fault. You tried to help.’
A nice thing to say. It didn’t make Geddes feel better.
The man polishing glasses hadn’t shaved in days; thick stubble darkened his jaw. When he reached to lift empty pint measures off the chipped Formica counter, snakes inked into his forearm seemed to coil and twist and disappear into the rolled-up sleeves of his grubby shirt. The customers required just one thing from him, that he serve them drink when they asked for it – whisky, Guinness and cheap wine – whether they had money or not. Paying could keep until they had a win on the horses or their giro hit the bank.
He clocked Geddes as soon as he came through the door, bloodshot eyes following him, lingering with undisguised suspicion on the stocky detective, knowing what he was before he’d even opened his mouth. Strangers were rare and not welcomed, especially police. Every unfamiliar face got the same treatment. Geddes walked to the bar and ordered a Bell’s from the uninspired selection suspended from the gantry. The barman brought it. ‘That it?’
‘And some water, though I’m sure it’s watery enough, eh?’
The old joke didn’t go down, too close to the truth to be funny.
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
The DI ignored the question. He had plenty of his own. ‘I’m looking for somebody.’