Bad Samaritan (10 page)

18

‘Where are you, Ray?' asks Alessandra.

‘Mmmm?'

‘Jesus, man. What is up with you today?'

‘Sorry. What were you saying?' I mentally give myself a shake. The resolution that formed in my mind has not worked its way into action yet. I know what I need to do, but I don't know how to do it yet.

Well, that's not true. I do. I just have to gird myself to face the consequences.

‘I was saying that we should keep an eye on Simon Davis. Guilty or not, there's a social networking lynch mob piling it on him, and we need to keep an eye on it,' Ale says and pushes her laptop into my line of sight.

‘Don't you mean, unsocial networking?' I ask while making a face. I look at the screen. Read out loud. Trying to focus. ‘
Never liked him. Always thought there was something dodgy about him. Got to watch out for the quiet ones.'

Ale nods. ‘People are quick to judge, eh?'

‘Aye, who needs a judicial system. Let's hand it all over to Facebook and Twitter.'

Ale scrolls down the page. Reads. Says, ‘Look at these twats.'

I read a conversation with three young guys trying to outdo the others with their solidarity with their sisters and their unbridled testosterone.
‘What would you do if it was your sister, man?' ‘Yeah, wee prick needs to suffer.' ‘Bring back the death penalty.' ‘I
'd
swing for him.' ‘Cops are crap, we should do him.' ‘DM me. We need to sort this.'

‘DM?' I ask.

‘Direct message.'

‘And we can't read it when they go direct?'

‘Nope.' Ale's face is grave when she says this.

‘Something to worry about, do you think?' I ask.

She looks away from me and out of the office window. Glasgow is wearing a clear blue sky, and judging by Ale's face she would rather be out under it than in this boxy office with me.

She chews on the inside of her lip before answering. ‘Could be bravado. Could be playing to the gallery … See how many likes they have here? But if they're taking it off the public viewing, it could mean they are serious.'

I read the names. Ian Cook. Jack Foreman. John Snow. Study their images.

‘There was a Ian and a Jack who were seen going out with Aileen.'

Ale nods and clicks on Ian Cook. Two posts down has him at The Horseshoe Bar.

‘This says he was there half an hour ago,' says Ale.

‘Why do they make it so easy for us?' I ask while grabbing my car keys. ‘You coming?'

* * *

The Horseshoe Bar is an institution in Glasgow. Largely unchanged since Victorian times, it's reasonably priced despite being in the city centre. And the first floor is the place to go if you've a hankering to sing your lungs out to the karaoke machine. Apparently. You wouldn't catch me up there without a knife at my throat and a bomb on the doorway of everyone I love.

Thankfully, the lads we're after are on the ground floor, lining up alongside the, wait for it, horseshoe-shaped bar. They're both tall, skinny and tanned, with trim beards and what I'm guessing will be trendy hairstyles. They both look like their photos on Facebook. I'm beginning to love that site.

‘Ian Cook? Jack Foreman?' I say as I reach them.

They both turn. Look us up and down, surprise evident in their expressions. ‘Aye. Who's asking?' Ian says.

I do the introductions.

‘How can we help you guys?' asks Jack, leaning against the bar, completely at home in his surroundings and with who he is. I find myself wishing I was that confident when I was his age. His mate tries to affect the same indifference but lets himself down with a quick chew on the inside of his right cheek and a scratch at his perfect head of hair before he meets both of us with a strained smile.

‘We're just looking for some background info on Aileen Banks.' I say.

‘Aye, that was a total shame, like,' Jack says with what feels like genuine concern and a twist of pain. ‘She was a lovely lassie.'

‘Aye,' says Ian. ‘You guys any closer to finding out what happened?' He looks at both of us with an eager expression. Eager to help. Makes me wonder what his motivation might be. Real or fake concern? Or does he have something he wants to make sure stays hidden?

‘We understand you guys both had a wee thing for her,' says Ale.

‘Just a wee snog up the student union,' answers Jack. ‘She had too much class to be interested in the likes of me.'

‘Must have been a disappointment to you, Jack,' I say. ‘A man of your reputation and all you manage to get is a snog.'

‘Don't know what you are on about, mate,' says Jack. ‘And why are you bothering me when you should be interviewing that ex-boyfriend of hers?'

Touchy. I clearly hit a nerve.

I ignore him and face Ian. ‘What about you son? You get any more than a wee kiss from the lassie?' I hear the irritation in my tone and realise that I see their version of cool kids, read into it a sense of entitlement and want to slap them down on behalf of every geeky child on the planet.

I catch a look from Ale. She recognises my tone and wants to talk me down off the ledge of my indignation. I force a wink in reply.

‘No,' says Ian. ‘As the man says, she was way too nice to be interested in us.'

‘I do hear you guys have a bit of a reputation with the ladies,' says Ale with the suggestion of a smile. ‘Towie comes to Glasgow, kinda thing.'

Both lads smile, their egos suitably buffed up from Ale's comments. It doesn't harm that she's very pleasing on the eye.

While I wonder what the hell Towie is, Ale asks, ‘What can you tell us about Aileen?'

‘Didn't really know her that well, to be honest,' says Jack.

‘Yeah, we used to see her about the union and the pubs and stuff,' says Ian. ‘She was kinda hot,' he admits and then fights a blush as he realises this might be disrespectful of the dead. ‘You know what I mean.' He picks up his drink and tries to hide his social gaffe behind it.

Ale catches my attention. Nods to the side. I follow her movement and see a young couple at a table. As I look over the female looks up, meets my eye and then goes back to studying her phone. Or whatever she was doing.

I look back at Ale with a silent question, then I realise that both lads are watching us, wondering what the hell we are doing. Hiding my irritation at Ale, I get back to the case in hand.

‘Do you remember much about the night she died?' I ask, now officially off my high horse and still feeling the heat from Ian's face. They really are just kids, and the ability to blush, to my world weary eyes, suggests honesty and sensitivity. Not qualities I crash into much in my day-to-day.

They both shake their heads.

‘Was it a Friday night?' asks Jack. ‘We were wasted, bud.'

‘What about the boyfriend?' Ale asks. ‘Do you know him?'

The smiles slide off both boys faces. ‘Not really,' says Ian. ‘He's a bit of a college boy, Mr Try Hard. We wondered what Aileen saw in him.'

‘Aye,' Jack agrees. ‘Do you think he did it?' He looks eager to know, and I read more into his asking the question than curiosity.

‘Nothing's been ascertained yet,' I say. ‘He, along with a group of people, are helping us with our enquiries.'

‘That's polis talk for, “he's guilty as sin, man.”' Jack has lost his comfortable slouch against the bar. His shoulders are squared off, and he looks braced for a couple of rounds in an MMA gym.

‘Calm down, Jack,' I say. ‘It's polis talk for “we don't know enough to be charging anyone with this death yet.”'

‘Fuckin' waste of space, man. He fuckin' did it.' He pushes past us and walks out of the bar as if his jacket's on fire and he's hoping it's raining outside. As he does so, he all but knocks over a couple who are just ahead of him. Strangely for Glasgow, the male of the couple doesn't challenge him to a stare off at five paces and carries on his way.

‘What the…?' I ask, looking at Ale and Ian. The change was so abrupt it took us all by surprise.

‘I'm sorry,' says Ian. ‘I'll go and talk to him and calm him down.'

‘What's the problem?' Ale asks.

‘His sister was raped a couple of years ago. He takes this thing kinda serious. Has a zero tolerance you might say.'

As he tries to walk past us, Ale puts her hand up. He stops with her palm on his upper chest. She looks him in the eye and says, ‘Tell him to calm down. We've been watching your activity online. If anything happens to Simon Davis, we know where to go.'

Once the boy leaves, Ale looks at me as if she's annoyed.

‘What?'

‘Nothing.'

‘That's not a face with nothing going on behind it.'

She says no more. Her mouth firmly closed. She distracts herself by buttoning up her jacket and then walking over to the table where the couple she looked at were sitting.

I join her. ‘Aye, what was that about?'

‘The girl sitting here. It was Karen Gardner.' Aileen Banks's friend. ‘The guy. I swear I recognised his face.' She examines their discarded drinks as if seeking inspiration. ‘That's it. He was at the hospital when we were up seeing Simon Davis. Even looks like him.' She waves a hand across the middle of her face. ‘Has the same eyes. I'll bet you anything that's the brother.'

‘And?'

‘Ray, you need to wake the fuck up. What's wrong with you today?'

It stings. I know she's right. Don't want to admit I'm not on my game.

‘Rein your neck in, Rossi. What are you on about?'

‘Karen Gardner was here. At this table with a boy who is very probably Matt Davis.' She pauses and looks into my eyes, waiting for the proverbial penny to drop and catch. ‘The best friend of the deceased and the brother of the deceased's boyfriend getting all nice and cosy. Doesn't strike you as odd? Or worthy of comment?'

‘What of it?' I say. ‘There's any number of reasons why they might want to offer each other support.'

Ale examines the abandoned drinks. Picks one up. Looks like the drinker had about two sips from it before leaving.

‘Why did they leg it as soon as they spotted us?'

19

We're in the car, shaking drops of rain from our heads.

‘Jeez,' I say. ‘It was glorious sunshine when we went in to that place.'

‘Aye,' agrees Ale. ‘Typical west of Scotland. Give it five minutes and it will be snowing.'

Ale and I rarely indulge in such mundane chatter. It's a clear sign that there's something we need to air, but the thing is, I'm not in the mood to get talking. I fire up the engine, check the traffic in my mirrors, indicate and then enter the flow just before a double-decker bus.

Silence.

And I'm stewing in it. If you were to ask me what I'm annoyed about, I wouldn't be able to tell you. I'm just fucking angry. Aware that my hands are trembling, I hold the steering wheel tighter.

Ale is first to break the quiet.

‘Karen Gardner and Matt Davis. Wonder what's going on with them.'

‘You sure it was Matt Davis?'

‘We don't have a firm ID on him, but there is a strong resemblance to that boy we talked to in the hospital.'

I take a moment to think about which lane I need to be driving in. Realise I need to change, do so and earn a loud note of warning from the horn of the car I narrowly miss. Looking in the car mirror I can see a red face mouthing a few obscenities. I shout a few of my own.

Ale shifts in her seat. Looks out of her window.

‘What?' I ask. And flinch at the aggression in my tone. Ignore it. I'm not the one in the wrong here.

‘Nothing.'

‘Nothing?'

Ale ignores me. Crosses her arms. Looks straight ahead.

‘What?'

‘Nothing, Ray. Just drive.'

‘Jeez, it's like being fucking married.' I have a moment where I recognise I need to take a deep breath. The traffic feels too busy, the buildings are crowding in on either side and Ale is doing that judging thing.

‘Christ, who
'd
want to marry a crabbit git like you.'

‘Now we're getting personal. You on the rag or something?' As soon as the words are out of my mouth I regret them.

Ale looks at me. I risk a glance. Her lips are a tight, narrow line. Her jaw clenched. She looks away as if considering her response.

‘You know, a certain amount of sexist shit comes with this job. All that banter with the boys crap. Fine. I can take it. I've got broad shoulders. But that … rag comment, I don't expect from you, Ray. You're better than that.'

I exhale. Screw my eyes shut for a moment. Force my shoulders down.

‘Sorry.' It's a mumble.

‘Can't hear you. Did you say something?'

She's not for letting me off.

‘Sorry.' Louder.

‘For what?'

‘For being a sexist prick.' I actually manage a half-smile.

Ale grins back. ‘Knob.'

I relax a little. Throw her a grin of relief. We're good. I owe Alessandra a lot. She was one of the few people who stood by me when I was on the run, suspected of being the so-called Stigmata Killer. It almost cost her career. She deserves more from me.

‘Did you just call me a knob? A gendered insult could be construed as sexism, Detective Constable Rossi.'

‘I could have called you a cunt, but that is a powerful, beautiful thing. And from me could be construed as a compliment.'

‘Really?'

‘Yes.' Ale thrusts her chin out. ‘I'm reclaiming the word “cunt” as a thing of beauty and declaiming the insult it has become through a male-dominated Christian religion that is terrified of the power of the female.'

‘Good for you,' I say.

Ale smiles, pulls out her mobile. Gets thumb-busy. I feel relieved that there is no bad feeling and recognise that my earlier irritation has receded somewhat. I know I should delve, try and get to the source of my earlier mind-set, but my courage is lacking.

‘Excellent,' says Ale, studying her phone.

‘What?'

‘I sent a friend request on Facebook to the two guys we met in The Horseshoe, and they've both accepted.'

‘Really? Won't they recognise you?'

‘I set up a fake account a while ago for this kind of thing. My name is Sandra Ross, and I used a photo from a young, American actress. So, I'm all pretty and everything.'

‘Ah. Alessandra Rossi becomes Sandra Ross. I see what you did there.'

‘And our friends are already busy.' She reads. ‘Jack is saying that he better not meet Davis when he's out at the weekend. Can't trust that his actions will be entirely sane.' She looks at me. ‘I'm paraphrasing. He says he'll slice his balls off.'

‘Do you think he's just blowing off steam? Trying to look tough to his home boys?'

Ale giggles. ‘Did you really just say home boys?'

‘What, is that not how these guys talk?'

‘Yeah. If they're in the ‘hood. And I'm not sure that the Merchant City comes into that category.' She laughs again. ‘Home boys.'

She reads some more. ‘His comment has over a hundred likes and a whole string of comments encouraging him to teach Davis a lesson.' She makes a face. ‘I'm worried, Ray.'

‘Forgive me if I'm wrong, unsocial networking newbie speaking here, but my reading of this malarkey is that people like to sound off, be seen to be strong and active. It's all about having the image of being a certain way rather than actually doing something about the stuff you say you are concerned about.'

‘Yeah, and normally I would agree with you, Ray. But there's a tone here. Just not sure about it. And what if Jack does actually meet Simon Davis when he's on a night out? You saw how he was when we were talking to him in the pub. That was not a normal reaction.'

‘True.' I say. Ale does have good instincts. ‘Keep an eye on it, will you?'

We've reached the office. I spot a free parking space and manoeuvre into it. I apply the handbrake and pull the keys out of the ignition. Instead of stepping out of the car, Ale remains in her seat.

‘I'm going to ask you a question, Ray, and I don't want to hear the words “fine” or “nothing” in the answer.'

I slowly release my seat-belt. ‘Right…'

‘What is going on with you?'

I open my mouth to speak.

‘You're not allowed to say “nothing
”
.'

‘Honestly, I'm fine,' I reply. She gives me a look. ‘OK. I'm OK. Honest.'

‘Pants on fire.'

I feel my face heat and the earlier irritation return.

‘DD…' she means Daryl Drain. ‘…tells me you were at a funeral the other day.'

‘Drain has a big gub.'

‘And shiny blue contact lenses, but let's leave that for another day. The funeral?'

She stares. My eyes move away first. Cursing the confessional of the car, I tell her everything, and as I speak, her chin drops lower and lower.

Ten minutes later and I'm still talking.

‘Fuck,' she says. Giving the syllable good length. ‘So, Joe was never Stigmata. You knew, told no one and allowed that poor guy to go take on several life sentences?'

‘We think he did murder his carer, Carol,' I say and cringe at my weak attempt at mitigation.

Ale stares ahead as if trying to assimilate all this new information.

‘Fuck,' she repeats.

I cross my arms. Hold myself tight, tucking my hands into my underarms until I feel them go numb with the lack of circulation. Ale looks at me and reads my expression.

‘Ray,' she says. ‘Jesus.' And I can read her compassion and lack of judgement and feel my eyes spark with tears. I exhale in an attempt to quell my emotions. Then cough. Now I'm clenching my teeth.

‘And Leonard? He's the bogeyman?'

I can only nod. Her question sums him up perfectly, and I acknowledge this, feeling weak and ridiculous.

‘Why does he have such a strong hold over you, Ray?'

As children, Jim Leonard and I shared the same space in a convent orphanage. He and his twin brother lived in each other's shadow. There was something uncanny in their communication with each other which, combined with their joyless demeanour, freaked out all of us other kids. Then his brother died from pneumonia, and Jim became so distant from reality that he was removed to another form of care. One that the other kids were sure consisted of padded cells.

Just before he was taken away, he had taken to following me. I would often wake up in the morning to find him standing over my bed. Each time he would be chanting, “We're going to kill them all.”

The other kids just laughed at him, but there was a fixed look to his eye as he said this that I couldn't shake from my dreams.

It doesn't take much digging into any man's psyche to reach the tender child, and it's only now that I can see that the boy I was never recovered.

The last time I encountered Leonard, he drugged me, murdered an aged nun before my eyes and then sliced my wrists to the bone. In his twisted mind, he thought he could stage the murder to show that I killed the nun and then, torn with guilt, turned the knife on myself.

If we were standing face to face, I know I could take him no problem. I have height on him and weight. And yet.

‘We? You said we, Ray?' Ale asks when I stopped talking.

‘Sorry?'

‘Why would Leonard chant “We're going to kill them all”? Was he including you in this somehow, Ray?'

‘Ale. Leave it.'

‘I'm just trying to make sense of it all, Ray.'

I silence her with a look. We aren't going there. Enough with the sharing. But Ale is no longer easily cowed.

‘And what about Joseph McCall?'

I'm holding my right arm by the wrist and rubbing the scar with a thumb. Realise what I'm doing and go back to the cross-armed position, hiding my scars in the damp dark of my armpits.

Looking out of the window, I offer nothing but silence to Alessandra's question. In the distance I see a stretch of blue sky, skirted by another weather front rolling in on Glasgow. A mass of cloud stretches across the horizon. Dark and heavy, like a conscience gravid with guilt.