‘Sort of. His place is between here and Harthill.’
‘How old is he now?’
‘Dad? He’s … what? Seventy-two?’
‘Seventy-three,’ Mrs Bradley corrected.
‘Do you think he’d mind if we pay him a visit?’ said Alyson.
‘I, I suppose, but is it necessary?’ said Mr Bradley.
‘Callum’s Papa is not doing well. As hard as it’s been on everyone, he took it incredibly badly. He lived for his grandson,’ said Mrs Bradley.
‘I understand. I certainly don’t want to make things any worse, but it would be good just to get a brief chat with him. You should probably warn him in case any reporters come sniffing around anyway. I promise I’ll keep it as brief as possible.’
Callum’s parents looked at one another. It was clear they wanted to refuse, but didn’t really see any way that they could.
‘Could I be there?’ said Mr Bradley.
‘Of course, I’d prefer if you were,’ said Alyson.
It was decided that Alyson and Kate would follow Mr Bradley. They pulled in behind his car and tailed him west through the centre of the town. The rain had stopped, though it remained grey overhead.
‘You don’t mind that we have a quick word with the grandfather, do you?’
Kate was checking her phone and it wasn’t clear if she’d heard the question. Mr Bradley turned left out of town.
‘The grandfather?’ She said, then looked up at Alyson. ‘Is there a particular angle here?’ Kate said, her tone carried a note of frustration.
‘Nothing in particular. I just figure we’re here and, well, he’s around the same age as our priest. Figured it couldn’t hurt.’
‘Same age. Couldn’t hurt,’ Kate parroted back at her before pushing her phone into her pocket. ‘Where the fuck are we?’
‘Pretty much nowhere,’ said Alyson. While this was, strictly speaking, their beat, nobody but a curious uniform cop would be up here on a professional capacity. They’d passed the bings where Callum’s body had been discovered and were heading south along a backroad with little but scrub stretching off in both directions. A copse of wind turbines came into view on the left on a rise and still they followed Mr Bradley’s blue Ford Focus. He signalled right, though there didn’t seem to be anything to turn onto. And then she saw it, nothing more than a dirt track, not signposted and in terrible condition. If she’d been driving her own car, she’d have been cursing, but she let this pool car ... what was it, a Peugeot? Something-or-other, bounce over and occasionally crunch into the muddy potholes.
‘Fucking hell,’ said Kate, bracing herself against the door. A hundred yards of this and the road opened out where a single row of cottages sat to the right and a parking area to the left in which sat a flat-bed pickup alongside a caravan that had the appearance of a rotten tooth. They pulled in next to Mr Bradley. Alyson had to watch where she was placing her feet; the puddles could easily be shin deep if you weren’t careful.
‘What is this place?’ Alyson asked Mr Bradley.
‘Foremen’s cottages, from back in the old shale-mining days. You’d have three foremen living here, a cottage each, and they’d work a rota. Sort of a perk of the job. My dad picked this place up for pennies in the late eighties when the industry was on its knees. His is at the end.’
The sound of barking dogs came from behind the cottages, unclear as to which home they belonged.
The houses were small, humble, but well built. Probably destined to outlast the industry by a full century. There was the smell of a coal fire, combined with something like creosote, though again, it was hard to say exactly where it was coming from. They stayed behind Mr Bradley, single file, to keep their feet dry as he walked beyond the front door of the last cottage and down the side through a metal gate. To the rear was a sizeable garden, the back half of it was overgrown, and the front half of it contained a shed and a small patio area with a single chair. Beside the chair was an overflowing ashtray and a whirligig with a few pieces of sodden clothing hanging. Mr Bradley tutted as he squeezed the sleeve of a jumper, sending a trickle of water to splash to the ground.
He stepped up to the back door, knocked twice and entered into the kitchen. Alyson was just following him over the threshold when he turned and said, ‘Uh, can you just give me a second,’ before moving to the hall saying, ‘Dad, go put something on. There’s people to see you,’ followed by some sleepy-sounding muttering. They stood awkwardly in the kitchen, waiting. There was a rotten smell rising from the open dustbin in the corner. A large pot of soup sat on the stove and a small loaf of bread lay uncovered on a board. Mr Bradley was half explaining and half arguing with his father in an adjacent room. He returned after a few minutes looking embarrassed and harassed.
‘He’s in the living room. Can I get you something to drink?’
Alyson didn’t want anything, but even if she’d been dying of thirst she’d still have politely refused.
They were shown into a tiny living room with one armchair pointing at a space between a wood burner, smoking away, and a television, perched precariously on a far-too-small table. Various other tables and shelving, all busy with paperwork and knick-knacks, made up the rest of the furniture. In the armchair sat Mr Bradley Senior, who eyed them as they entered. The man was enveloped by the oversized chair. He was still pulling a vest over arms and chest covered in grey hair. He looked thin to the point of fragility.
‘Dad, leave that for now,’ said Mr Bradley, but he was shooed away as his father lit a hand-rolled cigarette.
‘That’s OK, it doesn’t bother us,’ said Alyson.
‘Let me go find you a chair,’ Mr Bradley Junior offered, but Kate told him it wasn’t necessary and that standing would be fine.
Alyson stepped closer to the old man who drew from the cigarette and blew smoke out of the side of his mouth before picking at a stray strand of tobacco on his lip.
‘Sir, my name is Alyson Kane. I’m a detective working on the case of your grandson. Can I first say how sorry I am for your—’
‘Sorry isn’t justice,’ he said.
‘Dad …’
‘It’s all right,’ Alyson reassured him. ‘You’re right. Sympathy and apologies aren’t what you want to hear from us. You want to hear how we caught the person who did this. You want to hear when the court case is so you can look this person in the eye and tell this person—’
‘Tell? I’ll no tell them anything. Cut his bastard throat so I will. You let me get to within ten feet of him and I’ll end the bastard. Forget court, forget police.’
‘I’d feel exactly the same if it were my family, Mr Bradley,’ Kate said. She stepped into the centre of the little room. ‘We’re not going to take up much of your time. We simply have a few questions, after which we will go straight back to finding the fucker.’
Kate’s language had the old man looking at them properly for the first time. He took a long draw on his cigarette and stubbed out the remainder. ‘What is it you want to know?’
‘I want to ask you about a connection to the case. I understand you’ve been asked a few questions already, but I’d just like to go over them if I may,’ said Alyson.
‘Fine,’ the old man said, and starting coughing. A rasping rattle sounded from his chest. He waved a hand at his son who handed him a towel that sat crumpled next to the television. He continued to hack for a few moments, then spat into the towel before throwing it back to its previous spot. His son looked disgusted.
‘You’re not a religious man, I understand,’ said Alyson.
‘No, I’m not. If I had been before, what happened to Callum would have had me giving it up. What kind of God …’ he stopped to cough again, but it was short.
‘To your knowledge have you ever come into contact with a Father Brian McCauley?’
‘No.’
‘How can you be sure?’
‘They stick out a bit, they priests. It’s the clothes and that daft white thing at their necks. I’d remembe
r.’
‘Fair enough. What about Edinburgh?’
‘What about it?’
‘The detective who called you states you’ve never been to the city. Is that right?’
‘Aye, that’s right. Too busy and it’s just full of foreigners. I’ve been to Glasgow, but only because I worked there for a while.’
‘And you’re retired now.’
‘Aye. Retired.’
‘What is it you used to do?’
He began hacking once more and the hand was again waving, but Bradley Junior didn’t move and instead let the old man reach for the manky towel himself.
‘He was a welder in the shipyards originally, but when that all ended, he did odd jobs here and there. Some janitorial work,’ Bradley Junior explained.
When the coughing ended, Alyson continued. ‘Did priests come to the shipyard, Mr Bradley, or were any of the men you worked with particularly religious?’
He took a few needed breaths before replying. ‘Religion was a tricky thing in the shipyard. Personally I didn’t give a shit, had no interest, but if you did go in for that sort of thing, you kept the side of the line you lived on to yourself.’
‘How do you mean?’ asked Kate.
‘Well, you’re either blue or you’re green in Glasgow. Except when you’re at your work. Everyone wears the same grey overalls and that’s how you keep the peace. Even the day after a Celtic–Rangers match, you didn’t hear anyone bleating on about who won. So, no. If I did work with someone religious, I wouldn’t have known.’
‘The janitorial work, then. Was that in Glasgow too?’
‘Some. Some in Lanarkshire.’
‘What kind of places?’
‘I worked at Burroughs in Cumbernauld for a good while then got work at various schools.’
‘What schools? No Catholic schools, I take it? I’ll need a list Mr Bradley.’
He was lighting another cigarette, taking his time about it. Again, he pulled tobacco from his lip and flicked it to the floor.
‘I was at a couple, but not for long.’
Alyson found that her flow had just come to an abrupt end. She looked at Kate, whose palms were upturned, the thought in her head surely, What the fuck?
‘You worked at Catholic schools?’ Alyson continued.
‘Well, aye, I mean amongst others.’
‘Dad, I didn’t know you worked at a Catholic school? I would have said if I’d known.’ Bradley Junior was looking as confused as Kate.
‘What schools, precisely, Mr Bradley?’ said Alyson.
‘Schools are schools, what does it matter?’ I was just the janny.’
‘Well …’ Alyson began, she clutched at the question. ‘Presumably if you’d worked at Catholic schools, there would have been some interaction with Church members? Nuns? Priests? Whatever?’
‘I suppose. But I never met a Brian McCauley, I know that. Didn’t think it was worth mentioning.’
‘Fucking hell,’ Kate muttered under her breath. She was dialling her phone as she left the room.
Alyson reached into her coat pocket for her notebook. ‘Mr Bradley, I’d like to take a full statement. I need to know every place you’ve worked and how long for. I’d also like access to your tax information to we can accurately get a picture of your work history. Would that be OK?’ she said and then to Bradley Junior, ‘If you could find a chair, I’d be grateful.’
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Something for You
Either she was late, or I was in the wrong place, though I couldn’t see how that was possible. The ‘bottom’ of Cockburn Street must surely be at the lower end of the hill? Who in their right mind would refer to the higher end as such? And yet I was beginning to doubt myself. I checked for a message and there was none. I was busy composing one when I got a tug on the elbow.
‘Hey, stranger. Sorry, have you been waiting long?’
I’d been convincing myself that she wouldn’t be as attractive as I’d remembered; that in the cold light of day she’d be nothing compared to the woman I’d met at that boozy night out. I was wrong. If anything, the sunlight brought out features I hadn’t noticed in the darkness of the bar. Marcella’s eyes were green when I’d thought them brown, with a little grey in there too. She was smiling; I’d been caught staring, taking too long to answer.
‘No, just a few minutes,’ I lied.
‘The buses are completely unpredictable in August. They get you there when they get you there. Still, small price to pay for all this.’ She waved a hand towards Waverley Bridge, where tourists swarmed and congregated, trying to find a way onto the rows of open-top buses. ‘Shall we walk? How much time do you have?’ she said.
‘Plenty, don’t worry. I’m not due to start until three and if I’m late it doesn’t matter.’
I’d asked Mandy to pass my number on to Marcella as Alyson had suggested and had then waited four days without hearing anything. I was beginning to wish I hadn’t bothered and that I’d only managed to make a bit of a fool of myself, but then late one night, there was the message from an unknown number, breezy and pleasant. I’d resisted asking her out straight away, leaving it to the following day and a dozen or so exchanged messages before suggesting meeting. We began our ascent of the steep and twisting Cockburn Street.
‘I was surprised to hear from you,’ she said.
‘Likewise. I wasn’t confident you’d call, message, or whatever.’
‘It was a strange night,’ she said and stopped to look in a window. I squeezed in next to her to allow the heavy pedestrian traffic to pass us before walking again.
‘I wanted to apologise for that night,’ I said.
‘You already did in your text and there’s no need. To be honest, it’s probably just as well. I was in a sort of strange place that night.’
‘How so?’
‘It’s not really the done thing to talk about past relationships on a date, if this is a date, but I suppose we got off to a weird start anyway. I’d been exchanging a few angry texts with my ex that day … an issue with owed money that I won’t bore you with. Anyway, amidst these texts came one from Mandy, asking if I wanted to go out. I probably wouldn’t have were it not for that idiot and I certainly wouldn’t have had thoughts of going home with anyone. That’s not something I do, but I was just sort of lashing out, I suppose.’
‘How’s that situation now?’
‘You sure you want to talk about this stuff?’
‘I don’t see why not.’
‘All right. Well, you remember I mentioned I had a flatmate?’
‘“The worst flatmate”, I think you said.’
‘Right. I wasn’t lying, but there’s a bit more to it. The flatmate is my ex. Neither one of us could afford to go get another place right away, so we’re forced to live under one roof. Not for long I hope, I’m waiting to hear about a flat in Newington. Is that too weird?’
She wrinkled her nose as we walked.
‘I don’t suppose it’s much stranger than living with your dad at thirty-four?’
She laughed. ‘How’s that going?’
‘Better. He sort of moved out, unofficially. He could return at any moment, but I’ve hardly seen a hair of him since he met this new woman; who you sort of met at the same time I did.’
‘So, you’re pottering around in that fancy flat on your own?’
‘No. My friend Alyson moved in, though just for a while. She unexpectedly found herself working in town and so it made sense.’
‘Oh. Are you two …?’
‘No,’ I chuckled. ‘Everyone seems to ask that. I didn’t realise it would seem so odd to people that members of the opposite sex could live together and not be, you know, sharing a bed.’
‘Seems we’ve more in common than I realised.’ She laughed again and hooked an arm through mine as we neared the top of the street, which bent to the right and joined High Street. A wall of colour and noise met us as it came into view.
The crowd moved almost as one, heading do
wnhill and away from the castle. I felt like we were joining a conveyor belt as we merged with the throng. We passed various street artists all vying for a slice of the crowd and a piece of their generosity. Marcella wore a big smile as she pointed out different acts: a ventriloquist, a group of young teens singing opera and a guy dressed as a wizard statue, appearing to hover a foot above the ground, much to the delight of children. He sheepishly tossed coins into his spare hat as the parents muttered between themselves, probably debating the physics at work to explain the illusion.
‘Do you fancy a drink?’ I said as we left the thick of the action behind us.
‘Actually, I’m starving. Would you mind if we find somewhere for some lunch?’
It took a while to find anywhere that had a spare table, but we eventually found a little burger place; an independent cafe-come-restaurant. They brought us water and we ordered.
Marcella sipped from her glass and something in her face told me she wanted something, some small crease between the eyes maybe. ‘So, I told you about my ex. What skeletons are in your closet? Ever been married?’
I smiled. ‘If I knew I was headed for this line of questioning, I’d have ordered something stronger than water,’ I said. It occurred to me that she hadn’t really told me anything about her ex, just that she had one.
‘You don’t have to tell me anything, I was just curious.’
A waitress was passing and I caught her eye. I ordered a beer and Marcella said she’d have the same.
‘Never been married, though I came close once. High school sweethearts, I suppose you’d call it.’
‘What happened?’
‘Honestly …’ I paused as the beers arrived. I took a long draw from my glass and continued. ‘Honestly, you’d have to ask her.’
‘And if I asked her, what do you think she’d tell me?’
Sneaky, I thought, but I didn’t want to seem evasive, so played along. ‘That we drifted apart I suppose, or some other cliché. She’d tell you that she noticed it a long time before I did.’
‘So, she broke things off and it came as a surprise?’
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