Blood Tears (10 page)

‘You sure you want to go in here?’ I ask Gary Wilson. I have a recent bad track record when picking places to eat. The early signs are not good.

‘Aye. I’m starving. I could eat a bullock between two bread vans. I could eat a scabby-headed two-year-old. I could eat…’

‘Shut the fuck up, will you? If you mention anything else you could eat, I’ll no’ be able to eat anything.’

The sign inside the door reads
Self Service
. There’s a chrome guardrail defending the food counter from the hungry hordes, who have obviously decided to eat elsewhere. Wilson and I follow the path dictated by the rail and peruse the choice, which is not too bad. Lentil soup heads the menu. I love lentil soup. The Soup Diet flashes through my brain. This could be a start, I think.

‘Yes?’ A young girl leans against the till, prepared to take my order. She has black hair that looks as if it’s been dyed blacker. Her eyelids have been shaded by what I could guess at as being coal. The only colour on her face is a spot on the left of her chin that could fill custard pies in its spare time. From the expression on her face she would rather dip her no doubt black-varnished toes into a pool of toxic waste than serve us. I stretch my face into as wide a smile as I can.

‘Hello, gorgeous,’ I say.

‘Can I help you?’ She raises one eyebrow. ‘Sir.’ This she adds as an afterthought. In case the boss is listening.

‘Having a busy day?’

‘Aye,’ she looks over my shoulder pointedly at the empty room, opens her mouth as if to say something else. Then closes it as if I’m not worthy of her witty riposte.  She stares at her pad, pen poised.

‘A plate of your finest lentil soup.’

‘'Zat all?’

I see a basket of homemade muffins. Toffee and banana or apple and cinnamon. They look huge. And gorgeous.

‘A muffin, please. Toffee.’ I hand over the required amount and I’m served with my soup straight away.

Gary joins me at the table. ‘Nice tits on the waitress.’

‘Hadn’t noticed. I was waiting for the zit to explode and fill my soup plate.’ The soup is delicious. The spoon catches a sliver of ham. Just the way I like it.

‘So what else do we know about this guy?’

‘Just what I told you, so far. He appears to have everything that we would all want. The family, the house, the business. But as my old ma used to say, if it looks too good to be true, it probably is.’

Briefly, I considered that curiously British trait of bringing down the successful. He’s done well for himself, so we’ll be pleased at first. And then we’ll think he must be a rank, rotten bastard to have gotten that far. And then we’ll look for evidence to prove it.

‘Let’s just wait and see what he’s like when we meet him.’ I look at my muffin, feeling strangely full. ‘You want this?’

‘Aye, magic.’ He grabs it from my hand.

We are shown into his office. Everything looks and smells brand new. It is all red cedar lined with chrome. There is no clutter, everything is designed to give the illusion of space. It makes me think of the mask we wear to hide our true selves from each other. This man even extends his mask to his surroundings. There is nothing here to indicate the type of individual seated behind the desk.

He doesn’t look away from his seventeen-inch flat computer screen. With a hand that wields a silver pen, he simply motions for us to sit down. I take the opportunity to get a better look around the office. No, nothing of the man himself in here. Except… I notice a photograph by the door. A woman in her late twenties and a girl of nine or ten, I would guess. The staging of the subjects is bland. They are both wearing shirts of exactly the same colour of purple. I wonder what arse thought of that. I wonder what happened to the son.  According to Gary he’s a little older. Perhaps he doesn’t like the new man of the house. Perhaps the new man of the house doesn’t want him around his new women-folk.

It is clearly not the best place to view the photograph, if you were looking at it from the desk. The potted plant obscures it. But as people left the room they would get a good view, and be reminded that the office’s occupant was a good guy: a family man.

‘Eileen. Where’s that report?’ he shouts over the screen. The door behind us opens enough to see a head of brown, permed hair.

‘It’s just about ready, Mr Irving.’ She sounds as if she is about to burst into tears.

‘I want it five minutes ago. Please?’ He glares at the door. Only then does he move his eyes to address us. He smiles, as if he’d learned it from a book. Placing his pen on the desk, he smooths down his fringe between his index finger and his middle finger.

‘You can’t get the staff,’ he laughs. And then has the decency to look discomfited when we don’t join in. Women would be attracted to this man, I thought. Despite themselves. He is a cliché of good looks; blond hair and blue eyes. Except the blond hair is receding and the eyes warn of remoteness.

He leans forward on his elbows, ‘How can I help you?’ We introduce ourselves. The smile recedes from his face as if it would never return when he realises that we are not prospective customers.

‘We’re here to investigate the murder of Patrick Connelly,’ I reply. He leans back on his high-backed leather chair and looks up at the ceiling as if flipping through a mental index of acquaintances.

‘Sorry,’ he purses his lips after a pause long enough to indicate he’d given this his full consideration. ‘That’s not a name I’m familiar with. Was he a client of mine?’

‘He was a caretaker cum odd-job man at Bethlehem House, here in Aberdeen, while you were staying there.’

His eyebrows all but meet on the bridge of his nose as he continues the charade of reviewing the name. ‘But that was years ago. How am I supposed to remember that? I was only a bairn.’

‘He abused your twin sister, Mr Irving. Perhaps that will clear the cobwebs from your memory,’ I say.

‘Right,’ he picks up his pen and retracts the nib with a loud click. ‘I… of course I remember that. But I didn’t remember the evil bastard’s name.’ Click. ‘So how can I help you?’ Thoughts fly across his face. Like an actor reviewing his performance, he quickly dons a variety of expressions and then just as quickly throws them off. Puzzlement, denial, anger. And several others I have trouble naming. Click. ‘You don’t think it was me, do you?’

‘We just want to ask you a few questions. So we can eliminate you from our enquiries,’ I say. He obviously then decides to adopt his “I want to, but can’t really help you” expression. I ask him where he was on the night of the murder. He slides his mouse over his desk and examines his computer screen.

‘Just looking at my diary… I saw the Hendersons that morning. Got a great sale. Celebrated with a glass of wine or two at home that evening.’

‘Can anyone corroborate your whereabouts that night?’

‘My wife and the kids, that’s them in the photograph by the door… they were at her mother’s that week. She has a home in Spain. My wife likes her own space.’

He offers us a let’s commiserate together, man-to-man expression. He gets no takers.

‘Would anyone else be able to prove you were where you say you were?’

‘No,’ he shrugs. In my experience, innocent people who’ve had little contact with the police become a little bit uncomfortable around now. I call it The Customs Moment. Like when you’re walking through the Nothing to Declare section. You have nothing illegal about your person, but still you feel the eyes of everyone in the room drilling into your luggage. It’s a behavioural double negative.

He doesn’t have an alibi for the evening in question and it either doesn’t cause him a moment’s concern or he is a consummate actor. Whatever it is, there is something not quite right here. Perhaps I can shake him out of his tree.

‘So. You have no alibi for the evening a man was murdered? A man we know raped your sister. A man we know you threatened to kill.’ The last statement is thrown in for effect. But who wouldn’t make threats in such circumstances.

‘People say things like that when they are distraught. I made that threat when I was only a boy.’

‘Boyhood promises can take on the aura of quests.’

‘Quests?’ he snorts a laugh. ‘You’ve been watching
The Lord of the Rings
?’

‘It’s not looking good for you. No alibi, a threat in front of witnesses and a strong motive.’

‘I believe the burden of proof is yours. Now if you‘ll excuse me, I'm busy.’ He stands up. Gary stands up as well. I remain in my seat. A question leaps from my mouth, without conscious thought.

‘How do you get on with your stepdaughter?’ I stand up now.

‘My stepdaughter? Fine… why do you ask?’ He puts one hand in his trouser pocket, the other reaches across the desk for the pen. I grab it first.

‘Nice pen.’ A Mont Blanc.

‘Thanks. I won it. Top salesman.’

‘Top salesman. Nice. So it really is possible to fool most of the people most of the time.’ I click his pen. Petty, I know, but hey we can’t all be perfect.

As we pass the reception desk, Eileen is busy pretending to be busy. After years of observing people from the point of view of suspicion you can generally tell when someone is distracted.

Eileen has a perm out of the seventies, shoulder pads from the eighties and looks so mousy it’s a wonder there isn’t a gang of cats ready to pounce.

‘Enjoy your job, Eileen?’ I ask.

She nods, meets my gaze for a second and squeaks, ‘Yes.’

‘Is Mr Irving a good boss?’

‘The pay’s no’ too bad.’ Her fingers move over the keyboard and she checks their progress. Not a good sign for a secretary.

‘You worked here long, Eileen?’

Her curls bob as she nods. This is an easier question to answer. The keyboard goes unchecked. ‘Ten years.’

‘That was a lovely photograph of Mrs Irving I saw as I left the office.’

‘Aye, the bairns are lovely. I’ve known them since they were just wee tots.’ Eileen’s shoulders drop a little and her fingers hover. She smiles wistfully. Probably single, with no kids and no prospect of them either. The mousy secretary in front of me fits the stereotype rather well.

‘Bairns?’ I ask. ‘There’s only one in the photograph.’

Worry creases Eileen’s brow. ‘Kenny didn’t take too well to the new man in the house. You’d have thought he would love to have a father figure around the place. But no. As soon as Mr Irving moved in with his mother that wee boy changed. It’s a sad, sad story.’

The slow relaxation of Eileen freezes as I sense a presence at my back.

‘Eileen, could you hurry up with those invoices?’ Irving retreats back into his office and mumbles, ‘You just can’t get the staff.’ 

I’m in the Gents. Locked in a cubicle at the station. I had the dream last night again. That’s five nights in a row. Five nights when I’ve woken up shaking like an epileptic. Five days when I’ve gone through the motions, dreading the moment when my head falls on to the pillow. It’s always the same dream with the dead guy and the feathers. It stays with me all day like my own personal haunting. I can’t take much more if this.

Drink. I could go and get pissed.

Except I don’t really drink. Fair enough, I’ll have the odd one when I’m out with the team, but I’ve never been one for boozing. Everyone else can make an arse of themselves, I’ll just watch, thanks.

Not long after leaving the seminary I can remember listening to a group of my peers in a toilet. We were in a disco, as we called them in those days.

‘I’m going to get blootered the night,’ one ambitious youth said.

‘Aye. Me too,’ said another.

‘Aye. Ken what? If you get a half o’ cider, half o’ lager, mix it with a vodka and coke, before you know it you’ll be rat-arsed.’ They all laughed and roared, ‘Yes!’ And then charged out of the toilet towards the bar. I felt like I was on a different planet. Why get so drunk you don’t know what you’re doing? Is it that much fun to throw fluid down your throat all night, lose track of your mental faculties and wake up feeling like you’ve got the flu?

Actually, when you put it like that, Ray me lad, it could prove useful. My watch tells me I’ve half an hour before finishing for the day. Half an hour before I can go and carry out a little experiment. Maybe if I get wasted on drink I will get some sleep.

Feeling that I am asserting some control over the situation, I review my day. And what a boring day it’s been. Nobody to speak to other than the team. Nothing to do but go through lists of names, checking them against the system.

Hollywood movies give a false impression of detective work. It’s fewer thrilling car chases and more sanity-threatening drudgery. Mind you, seeing Keanu Reeves mulling over a computer printout for five hours at a stretch is hardly likely to pull in the crowds.

I’m in a bar on St Vincent Street.  I asked one of the young guys where I should go for a drink that I didn’t have to walk too far to. He directed me here. And it’s not bad. Brown leather and wood. Contrasting textures. Very trendy, but the place is so quiet I expect to see tumbleweed roll past. It’s Tuesday, so I expect that’s why it’s not busy. Or perhaps I’ve just come to the least trendy bar in the city. The barman looks like he’s just out of school. He’s all teeth and vitality. His eyes shine like a beacon of health. I order a pint of lager with a whisky chaser. He places them before me on the counter.

‘Get your laughing gear round that, mate.’

‘G’day.’ I offer a reply he’s bound to hear a thousand times a day. Serves him right for being Australian. And for being so fucking healthy.

Looking around me I see a few more people have come in. They’re all wearing suits. Must be in from the office. Smiles are the order of the day. I wonder what they’ve got to be so happy about.

‘Same again, Bruce.’ I risk offending the bar man. Original thought is not my forte tonight. He just smiles in reply. A smile that says I’ve heard it all before and you’re a tosser.

The second round doesn’t taste any better than the first. I loosen my tie and mentally observe my reactions to the alcohol. My face feels warmer and I’m pleasantly dizzy. If my stomach is full, my bladder is dangerously so. I’m not any happier. In fact I feel miserable. The group in the corner is getting on my tits. Judging by the noise they’re making, they must be on laughing gas.