We followed Vicky into her office and she closed the door behind us. There were three desks, all pretty disorganised. A large calendar dominated the main wall and featured a staff rota, as well as various fluorescent reminders. A breeze from the open carpark-facing window was fluttering the bloom of post-it notes.
Vicky stood with her arms folded, waiting for whatever had prompted our visit. Alyson got right to it. She produced her phone from her pocket.
‘Vicky, I’m going to play you an excerpt from a telephone conversation. It’s a call to the treble-nine system. Our records show that the call came from this building.’
‘From here? When?’ her eyebrows furrowed, incredulous.
‘It was a while back and has only recently been brought to my attention. All I want to know is if you can identify who the voice belongs to. Well, that and which phone it came from.’ Alyson tapped at the screen on her phone and clicked at the volume button. The now-familiar conversation grew into the room. Alyson played a section from the beginning, before anything important was said. Then she tapped the screen again and left Vicky to think in silence.
‘Could you play that one more time?’ she said.
Alyson did, but it only played for a few seconds before Vicky began talking over it.
‘That’s Martin. Yeah, definitely that’s Martin talking.’
‘One of your residents?’ I said.
‘Yes. He’s been with us about eighteen months. I know because he was one of the first new residents after I joined.’
Alyson began taking notes. ‘What’s Martin’s second name?’ she asked.
I expected Vicky to go searching for a file, but there was no need. ‘Simmons,’ she said without a second’s thought.
‘He’s still here? And he’s here right now?’ said Alyson.
‘Aye, yeah. He’s on the first floor. I think …’ Vicky leaned over to look at the wall calendar. ‘Yeah, he’ll be with Jackie at the minute. Can I ask what this is about?’
‘It’s … uh … Well, it’s probably nothing, but we do need to have a wee word with him. Figure out how he’s been making these calls and why,’ said Alyson.
‘I think I can solve that mystery for you. Do you want to come up, then?’
We followed Vicky out of the room and to a flight of stairs.
‘Does he have any family?’ I asked as we climbed.
‘A son. Though I’ve never met him. Lives in America some place. Not exactly involved, if you know what I mean.’
‘That’s sad. Is it common?’ asked Alyson.
‘Not uncommon. It sounds cruel, but I guess that’s just how it goes sometimes.’ Vicky opened a door to another corridor and we were met with a strong smell of ammonia. We followed her through. ‘We all like to think we’ll be there for our folks when the time comes, but the reality is people have their own lives, jobs and kids of their own. So while some residents get a daily visit, most get a once-a-week drop in, you know? And then there’s folk like Martin who just don’t have anyone. Here’s where your call came from.’
Halfway along the corridor a payphone hung on the wall, complete with domed plastic privacy guard. Alyson lifted the receiver to reveal the phone’s number underneath. She checked it against her notebook, then looked at me and nodded.
‘I’m sorry if this is about nuisance calls. If we could remove the function to dial nine-nine-nine we would, but there’s regulations and all that.’
‘I understand,’ said Alyson.
‘Martin should be in here, but I should warn you, it’s likely you’ll not get any sense out of him. Or anything at all, really.’ Vicky cautioned as she led us along. We reached another common room. The chairs had all been pushed to one side and a plastic sheet had been laid on the floor. In the centre was a chair and a man sat upon it, getting his hair cut, I assumed by Jackie.
‘Hiya Martin. Listen, you’ve got a few visitors today. Are you up to saying hello?’ Vicky brushed a strand of cut hair from his nose.
The old man didn’t look up or react to Vicky in any way. He stared straight ahead, his mouth open a little.
‘We’re pretty much done here, I can give you some peace,’ Jackie said, her name badge glinting in the light as she removed the towel from Martin’s neck and used it to brush fallen hair from his shoulders, before gathering her bottles and scissors. She seemed a little taken aback by the uniforms.
‘There’s a staff room on this floor. I’ll wait there until you’re done,’ said Vicky as she and Jackie made their way out, leaving us with Martin.
He hadn’t moved at all. He sat on the chair in his white vest looking at nothing in particular.
‘Maybe we could get him over to one of the comfy chairs?’ I suggested.
We guided Martin onto his feet and he soon got the idea. He shuffled forward and Aly and I took an arm each to lower him into the chair. Alyson sat in front of him, lowering her head to his eye level.
‘Martin, my name is Alyson Kane, I’m with the police. I was hoping I could ask you a few questions. Would that be all right?’ There was no response. She tried again and still he stared blankly ahead. Then she snapped her fingers in his face.
‘Aly, for chrissake!’ I hissed and looked around, but we weren’t being watched.
‘Ach, this is bloody pointless. I knew this was a waste of time. Give the woman the shitty errand. Let her fanny around in Edinburgh while we do the real work in Glasgow,’ she said and then muttered, ‘Not that there is any real work.’ She folded her arms and sat back in the chair.
‘Investigation’s not going well then?’
‘Well look at the leads we’re following up,’ she gestured at Martin. ‘What do you think? We’ve got nothing, Don. Sod all,’ she said in a whisper.
‘I’d heard you had DNA, fibres?’
‘We do. A fingerprint too, but no suspect to tie it to. These things are all very well if you have someone to check for a match or a profile already on the system. We’ve nothing. Now here I am trying to interrogate a cucumber.’
‘Aly.’
‘Sorry.’ She stood and placed a hand on Martin’s shoulder. ‘I’m sorry, Martin. You’re probably a lovely person, but this is a lot of nonsense.’ She started towards the door. ‘C’mon.’
I hesitated, not sure if it was all right to leave this man on his own, but he wasn’t going anywhere fast.
We found Vicky in the staff room, scribbling at a clipboard.
‘All done? Did he say anything to you at all?’
‘Not a word. I’m guessing he’s in decline? On the recording of the call, he was pretty animated,’ said Alyson.
Vicky put down her clipboard and shook her head slowly. ‘Dementia’s as mysterious as it is devastating. I’m sorry it’s this Martin you met today. When I first met him, days like these were few and far between. Now they’re more common than the good ones. It’s the hardest part of the job seeing that decline and just being completely helpless. Honestly, you should hear him talk when he’s within himself, he’s a fascinating man. D’you know, he’s a professor? Or was.’
This took me by surprise. ‘That man in there?’
‘Mm-hmm. It’s like, Social Sciences. I forget what exactly, but you should hear him talk. Sharp and funny, charming even.’
‘That’s not what I heard on that tape,’ said Alyson.
‘No. Like I said, dementia is such a mystery. That Martin you hear on the tape only comes out now and again, some kind of in-between state. Confused and upset, sometimes angry.’
‘Is he … capable of leaving the building?’
‘Oh God, no. Not anymore.’
‘Even when he’s lucid?’ I said.
‘Well … I suppose, but he’s not really around for long. Lucid Martin’s not going to get very far, and he’s never tried, as far as I’m aware.’
Alyson looked over at me. ‘Is there CCTV here?’ she said.
‘Just a camera at both entrances, but nothing inside the building.’
‘How long is
it backed up?’
‘I think it’s about six months. It’s a pretty new system. One of the few things that actually works in this place,’ Vicky muttered, then looked embarrassed to have done so.
‘Can we take a look through?’ said Alyson.
‘Sure you can. Listen, I’m not allowed to ask what this is all about, am I?’
Alyson chewed on this for a moment. Vicky had been nothing but kind and accommodating after all. ‘I’m sorry, I really can’t say. I will tell you this, though. There’s nothing to worry about. Once we have a look at what those cameras have recorded, I don’t think we’ll need anything else.’
It didn’t take long to find what we were looking for. Or rather, not find. The day before Callum Bradley’s murder to the day after on both cameras. It took a little over an hour to speed through the footage and pause to examine everyone coming in and out of the building. Our Martin was, unsurprisingly, nowhere to be seen.
‘I’ll submit a copy of this anyway. Justifies my existence at least,’ Alyson sighed. She highlighted the appropriate time frame and selected ‘Record’.
Vicky left while we prepared the disc.
‘That’s it then?’ I said.
Alyson shrugged and finished the tea Vicky had brought us. ‘I’d liked to have taken a statement from our boy, just to round it off nicely, but who knows how long that might take to get. It’d be like fishing, just sitting around and waiting for a bite that might never come. Hardly good use of tax-payer money. I’m sure the bosses will be all right with this.’ She ejected the DVD from the machine and I signed a production label, confirming I witnessed the recording.
‘Well, how about I get that statement for you?’ I said. I was a little surprised to hear the words coming out of my mouth.
‘You’d do that? It could take forever. I mean, I know you community lot aren’t exactly rushed off your feet, but this would be a bit … above and beyond.’
‘It would be neither. It would be us square. I feel bad about last year and this pays that debt, right?’
‘Aye, I suppose. Plus a drink some time. But yeah, that would be us square.’
CHAPTER FOUR
New Town
It took fifteen minutes to find a parking space. That’s one infuriating thing about Edinburgh’s New Town. If you return home after 6 p.m. you’re left touring the cobbled roads trying to find a space within your designated permit area. If you get fed up and drop it into a street with the wrong code, there’s bound to be a present tucked under your wiper the next morning, that’ll be sixty quid, thank you very much. I eventually returned to a space I’d already deemed too small, but I was getting tired and frustrated. I left centimetres on each side between a Freelander and an Audi. They’d both be furious trying to get out in the morning without damaging the paintwork.
‘Faither, you in?’ I yelled into the dark hall. It was still light outside and would be until nearly 10 p.m., such is summer as far north as Edinburgh, but this basement flat wasn’t blessed with great through-light. I hung my coat and dropped my keys into the bowl on the hall table with a clatter. No reply. I checked my watch, 6.20 p.m. He was in the pub already. It had been getting earlier and earlier these days, though I suspect he actually adjusted his behaviour when I first moved in, to hide some bad habits. Like his inability to wash a dish. I gathered two bowls, one plate, three glasses and a loaded ashtray from his room. I made his bed and opened a window to try to shift some of the tobacco smell.
I loaded the dishwasher and took a beer out to the garden. This was why he bought the place, I reminded myself. A private garden in central Edinburgh, not bad. The previous owner of the flat hadn’t done much with this little outdoor space, but Dad had been busy. A little patio area at the far side and a series of vegetable planters. He’d made himself a lovely spot and it was the only part of the house, other than the kitchen, that we shared.
He made a pretty good housemate, actually. As much as I worried about him shutting himself away in that one room, it meant I didn’t feel like I was intruding. Plus, it was his idea I move in. I was struggling a bit with my shoulder and had been somewhat rudderless after the events in Stratharder last year. There were a few moments when I’d opened my laptop to start drafting an email – my resignation – but it hadn’t happened. I’d stay at dad’s until I figured out my next step, I thought. Well, the next step had been to come back off a career break and request a posting in Edinburgh.
When I woke the next morning at eight, Dad’s door was closed over. I hadn’t heard him come in. Judging by the debris in the kitchen, it had been a heavy night. The butter was melting away on the countertop, the jam jar open and a buttery knife lying within. I hoped he’d had more than toast for his dinner.
It was a rest day and I had no plans. I headed down into Stockbridge where the market bustled and smells of different fast foods battled for supremacy. I listened to some rock mix in my earbuds while I walked until I felt thirsty. By the time I’d found a supermarket I realised I’d been wandering in the general direction of Muirhouse. Ah, what the hell, I thought. I’ll pop in and see if Martin is in a talkative mood.
I approached Muirhouse from a direction I’d never previously taken and was soon a little lost. I stopped when I wasn’t sure whether to turn left or right at the end of a street. I considered checking the maps function on my phone, but I was in no particular rush and so took the left option along a tight avenue. I walked past a block of flats and became increasingly aware of voices somewhere up ahead. I pocketed my phone just as I caught a glimpse of where the noise was coming from. A group of five or six lads were gathered around one of the large concrete supports under the building. A strong smell of cannabis was in the air. My eyes met with theirs briefly and I kept walking. I was hoping there was some exit to the street and I wouldn’t have to undertake an embarrassing double-back now that there was an audience. As the voices went quiet, it happened. My stomach cramped as if it made a fist inside of me. My right hand went to my knee to stop me doubling over. I kept walking, keeping my pace even. ‘Fuck,’ I said to myself as I heard the rattle of bicycle pedals. My stomach pitched again. Yes, I’ve got it, I thought, message received. This thing that happens to me, some extension of intuition, hadn’t happened once since I took my post in Edinburgh and some small part of me wondered if this thing had gone for good, hoped maybe. God knows it wasn’t always useful. A bike passed me on the left. A blue BMX ridden by a thin lad in a maroon hoodie. Then a bike to my right. A yellow mountain bike, the rider pulling a long wheelie as he passed. I knew they’d engage me at some point, so I decided to walk on until it happened. The bikes ahead criss-crossed and then stopped, marking the point the encounter was to happen.
‘Got a fag?’ yellow mountain biker said.
‘No, sorry. I don’t smoke,’ I said. I made to walk around, but BMX boy pushed back on the ground and wheeled in front of me.
‘How about twenty quid then?’ he said.
‘Excuse me?’ I said with an incredulous laugh.
‘You don’t smoke, eh? Smokes ur ’spenive. Mean’s you’re loaded. So, gee-us twenty quid and we’ll make sure you get home safe, eh?’
‘Thanks, but I think I’ll manage just …’ I tailed off as I heard footsteps.
Here we go, I thought. The rest of the group had caught up. If there had been any plan to run, it was too late now. My guts continued to churn like the drum of a washing machine.
Another two passed me from behind and another lingered to my rear. A cloud of reeking weed smoke was sent into my face by the tallest of the new arrivals; he was in his early twenties and the most physically capable of the small crowd of street rats. I was guessing this was the leader.
‘Much ye ask him fur?’ this one asked BMX boy.
‘Twenty.’
‘Twenty? Nah, he’s good fur fifty.’
‘Nobody carries cash anymore. I’ve nothin’ on me. Not that you’d be getting fuck all if I had,’ I said. I tried to look calm and I wasn’t overl
y worried until this leader showed up. Taller than me by three or four inches, his black hair was plastered to his head in some product. A miserable attempt at a moustache on his top lip. He leaned back as he spoke with his eyes pulled into slits as if getting a measure of me, a fat joint held shoulder high between two fingers.
‘That’s awrite. ’Ere’s a cash machine in the Co-op. We’ll come with ye.’
I had a think about how much cash I did have on me. Maybe fifteen and some coins? It didn’t matter, this would only ever stop if they emptied my account. If I hit this guy hard, maybe square in the throat, there might be a chance I could get to a main road before the rest of them swarmed me, but which way was the main road? And what if I missed? Or just didn’t put him down. Too risky. Then what?
I looked behind me for options, then saw something. ‘How you gettin’ on Mikey? Is your mum’s leg better?’
The lad looked like I’d just asked him to solve an algebra equation. Mikey Denholm’s face screwed up in confusion until I physically saw him make the connection. His eyes widened and he took his black baseball cap off to scratch at his head.
‘Fuck’s he talkin’ about?’ the leader asked.
‘He’s fuckin’ polis, eh.’
I’d run into Mikey a few times. Last one was a shoplifting. He’d been cornered by security staff at Morrisons for trying to leave with three bottles of wine. He was only fifteen, so I’d had to charge him in front of a parent. His mother was a nice lady. Mikey was the eldest of four boys and she had her hands full trying to keep them all out of trouble; she was doing her best, especially as she was on crutches after an operation on her ankle. I forgot why, exactly.
Into the Dark Page 3