Murderers Anonymous (43 page)

Dillinger appeared beside them, coat buttoned, face heavy. About to walk out on the herd. Desert the sinking ship. Get a transfer to Rangers just before your team gets relegated.

'We ready?' she said.

Mulholland was still staring at Barney, thinking about what he'd said. Because what had he just created for himself but a life such as the one that Barney had turned his back on? They were different people, certainly, but perhaps the results would be the same. He imagined he could just walk away from life, and that his days would somehow be filled, but what if every life needed structure? What if his life needed structure? Would he find himself turning up at Maryhill police station in ten months' time asking for his job back? And would they look at him and ask who he was?

'Just waiting for Proudfoot,' he said.

He was getting married. That would give him some purpose. And the doubts set in, and he wondered.

He stared at the floor, the rich tapestry of a 60's brown-and-orange carpet. A hideous carpet. The 60's and 70's had a lot to answer for, he thought, as he let his mind wander off in positive distraction.

Footsteps.
Les trois misérables
raised their heads and stared at Socrates McCartney. Shaggy and smiling.

'Did I hear youse say there's going be a wedding?' he said.

Mulholland nodded. 'Aye.'

'Right,' said Socrates. 'Stoatir. Don't mind if I join youse? I love weddings. Think it's got something to do with the fact that I made such a bollocks of my own.'

Mulholland looked at him and did the shoulder thing.

'Sure,' he said. 'Don't suppose it can get any weirder than it already is.'

***

Proudfoot washed her hands and stared into the mirror. She could see the tiredness in her face, the beginnings of lines and wrinkles which she would never lose. Used to be beautiful, that's what she told herself these days, although she'd never thought it at the time. The first sign of grey in her fringe, and the now common signs of defeat and depression in her eyes.

She had lived her life not knowing what she wanted, and it had never seemed a problem before. This last year had brought it out into the open, however. Here she was, drifting aimlessly. The odd pointless affair, the continuing pointless job. And now, to be married.

She swallowed, splashed more water on her cheeks, then looked at her dripping face in the mirror. Where did you go, Erin Proudfoot?

And although it was within the line of sight of the mirror, she was so suddenly gripped by a peculiar sorrow that she did not notice the tiny panel in the bathroom wall pushed back into place.

Her husband-to-be awaited. And so she reached for the towel, dried her face, then spent another few seconds looking into the eyes that once she'd known. It was time to start the rest of her life. And all she had to do was shake off the burden of melancholy and she could be happy...

And the figure who had watched her these last couple of minutes in the bathroom, who had gazed eagerly upon the soft white skin of her legs, who had licked his lips in anticipation and hunger, who had recognized her for the police officer that she was, made his way slowly down the secret passageway that ran throughout the house. And he smiled, and his tongue twitched, and he tightly gripped the knife in his right hand, and already thought he could taste the blood.

For he was about to make his move.

'I tell ya, honey, if there's one thing gets up my ass, it's milk floats.'

Hertha Berlin walked in on the handyman, up to his eyes in food and drink. Shovelling away the remains of the day's repasts. A small dollop of mayonnaise at the corner of his mouth and a milk moustache. He took another large bite from his sausage burger and pointed the glass of milk at Berlin.

'You're looking way too serious, honey. Come and sit yourself down and I'll talk to you about milk floats.'

'There's something going on,' she said 'Something serious.'

He took another large bite, even though his mouth was still full.

'Sure there is, honey, and it's me eating my supper. Come and join me. Put your feet up.'

She shook her head and started to fuss around the room. Something to tell him with which he was not going to be too pleased. Should have discussed it with him before she'd done it, but she knew he would have talked her out of it. Had to be done though. Just had to be.

'Something serious with that lot up by,' she said. 'There's something funny going on.'

'Thing is,' he said, spraying a couple of small pieces of tomato onto the table, 'they obviously just don't spend money on milk float technology in this country. Here we are, the beginning of the third goddam millennium, and we've done all sorts of different shit. There's been men on the moon, there's digital TV, there's electric toothbrushes – hell, they're even cloning goddam pigs, for Chrissake – but we still can't get a milk float to safely convey five hundred pints of the stuff quicker than fifty goddam yards every three days. Those damned things just clog up the roads. Pain in the ass.'

'I really ought to tell you something.'

'Course, it's not really the technological aspects of it that's the problem. In the States they've got milk floats can do nought to sixty in under three seconds, without breaking a bottle. The problem is, you people are too damned interested in saving money. That's all you're about.'

Hertha Berlin had started pacing; biting her bottom lip, rubbing her thumb into the palm of her hand. The handyman bit massively into another burger, even though he hadn't finished the one he still had bits of in his mouth.

'You're no' listening to me,' she said, no longer looking at him. On the other side of the kitchen, staring at the cold stone floor.

'Sure I'm listening, honey. I'm just not interested. Those folks upstairs can just keep themselves to themselves far as I'm concerned. I'm talking about milk floats, baby. You see, you can tell a lot about a country from their milk floats ...'

'Would you listen!' she suddenly snapped. Tongue like a snake, zipping out. Eyes blazing, with fear and worry as well as annoyance. He did go on sometimes, her handyman. Her glorious, wonderful handyman.

The glorious, wonderful handyman giggled. Showed the pieces of burger bun stuck to his teeth.

'Sounds like you must be menstruating, honey. Thought you were too old for all that shit. Obviously everything's still in fine working fettle, eh? What d'ya say, honey?'

'I've called the police,' she said quickly, just to get it out. Let the words out into the open and braced herself for the reaction. Should have discussed it before I did it, she thought, and repeated the phrase over and over in her head.

He paused, ninety per cent eaten burger in one hand, twenty-three per cent eaten burger in the other. A soggy cornflake – Berlin knew that the handyman liked all kinds of things in his burgers – dropped from his mouth and onto the table. Some strange liquid concoction that he was intending for his late supper came to the boil on the huge old Aga which steamed away in the corner.

'What? You're kidding me. You called the Feds? Why the damned screaming children of Moses did you call the Feds? You know what you've done? We can't have the damn Feds all over the joint.' He stood up, pushing his chair back from the table. Stretched his hands out in appeal to her, a burger in each.

'I had to. There's something not right, you know?' she said, voice pleading.

'What? What's not right? What are you saying, honey? You called the Feds and said “Excuse me, there's something not quite right, can you send a SWAT team?” You said that? What?'

'Surely you can see it. They're a funny bunch and no mistake. Three of them have gone missing, you know that? I mean, why come all the way down here from the Big Smoke, and then not eat your dinner?'

The handyman waved a burger.

'You called the police and said that some of our guests didn't eat dinner? That's an offence in this country?'

'It's not just that,' she said. Rattled. Confused. Wondering whether she was going to look stupid when the police arrived.

'What, then? Someone look at you funny? Did you not like somebody's aftershave? What? I said you must be menstruating.'

'There's those two strangers just arrived. I didn't like the look of them. And now there's three from our lot left with them to go down to the kirk.'

The handyman spread his arms, shrugged, seemed to relax. 'At last, I can see your point. Going to church on a Sunday. That is criminal.'

The calm before the storm.

'What is the matter with you! Who cares if they go to the damned church? I don't care. I don't care if they go to the damned church. Jesus, I'm just a bigga bigga bigga hunka nerves right now, honey. A big hunka nerves.'

'The phone lines are down!' she said, ever more exasperated. 'I had to use Mr Thornton's mobile.'

'Jeez Louise, baby, there's a storm a-blowing out there. These damned lines are always down.'

'There's more.'

He dropped his shoulders, let his expressive burgers fall to his side. He breathed deeply and let the air slowly out through his nose. Finally gave her the time of day. He did, after all, have a soft spot for Hertha Berlin.

'Go on, honey, I'm listening to ya.'

'One of the strangers,' she said. 'I was listening at the door, and he said that the minister down at the kirk was a lovely man. A lovely man, I tell you, that's what he said.'

'And?'

'Well, everyone knows the Reverend Rolanoytez is a total bastard.'

The handyman was not sure what to do. So he took a large but unfulfilling bite from one of his burgers. Technically an illegal immigrant, unknown to the taxman and with more people to hide from than just the authorities, the handyman could have done without the unwanted attentions of the police. Not if they were going to start snooping around his business. He crammed the last of both burgers into his mouth, so that his fat cheeks were huge and bloated and misshapen, then pushed his seat away and walked around the table.

'Ighths tgmhhym tghg ghhgh, hchughny,' he said.

Hertha Berlin stared at him, much in the same way as she'd once stared at Dr Jorg Franks in the heart of the Brazilian jungle.

The handyman chewed quickly, swallowing large chunks of something which could almost pass as meat. Soon finished, he wiped the back of his hand across his mouth.

'It's time to go, honey,' he said. 'I can't wait for these guys. And when the Feds arrive, I'd appreciate it if you didn't mention my name.'

My God, what have I done? Hertha Berlin looked stone-faced across the kitchen at the man she had loved these past twenty years or so. A silent adoration, and now one pointless, stupid act and he was about to leave. Did not even think of rushing to the phone and calling them off, for he had nailed his colours firmly to the mast. Giving her instructions on what to do when the police arrived. Not a thought of asking her to go with him. But then, why should he? She was an unattractive old woman in her seventies. Older even than her years, after all the things she'd seen. Wrinkled and pale, ugly grey hair and the definite substance of a moustache. Humourless and severe in equal measure, which no lightness of thought or heart would ever be able to penetrate. Why should this man who had been with so many women show even the slightest interest in her?

For years she had contented herself with what she had. She saw him every day, she cooked for him, they talked. What more could she ask for? There were millions out there who would die for the same privilege. And now, with one thoughtless act, she had tossed it all to the wind.