The Stone Gallows (19 page)

My exorbitantly-priced chocolate muffin tasted like it had been left to mature down the back of an abandoned settee. I gave up halfway through, heaving it out of the car window and into the muddy ditch that ran alongside the track, where it sank like a stone. I sighed in frustration, beating a tattoo on the steering wheel with my fingertips.

The whole bloody trip had been pointless.

I wasn't quite sure what I had expected, but I felt like I had learned nothing. Eaglesham was a small village, and a place like Inch Meadows would occupy a fairly prominent role in the local community. As well as calling at the petrol station, I'd also bought stamps at the local post office and asked for directions at the local grocery, surreptitiously bringing the conversation round to include Maureen Black and Ian Sloan. If the two of them were the subject of local gossip, then by all rights I should have turned up something of value, but each time I had been met with polite indifference. That left two options: either Ian and Maureen were very discreet, or there was simply nothing going on.

I hoped for the latter. Maureen had struck me as being hard-working and likeable, and even though I barely knew her, I didn't want to think of her being the ‘other' woman. Joe's comments of the previous evening – about how infidelity investigations almost always had an unhappy ending – had depressed me. It would be nice to prove him wrong.

There was one final trick up my sleeve. On a small table just inside the front door of the nursing home had been a pile of business cards, and force of habit had led me to slip one into my pocket. I took it out and used my mobile to dial the number, asking to be put through to the person in charge. Within seconds, a familiar voice came on the line. ‘Hello?'

‘Maureen, I'm sorry to trouble you. This is Jack Hill. You showed me round about an hour ago?'

‘Hello, Mr Hill. How can I help you?'

I gave a laugh that sounded every bit as false as I wanted it to.

‘Well, the thing is, I was hoping to. . . I was wondering if maybe I could. . .'

Her voice was cool. ‘Could what, Mr Hill?'

‘It's just that you seemed like a nice person and I wondered if you would perhaps let me buy you dinner some time?'

There was silence on the other end of the line. I counted under my breath, making it all the way up to seven before she said, ‘Oh.'

‘I'm sorry. I shouldn't have asked.'

‘No, no. I'm very flattered. It's just. . . unexpected.'

I gave another false laugh. ‘I know. Believe me, I didn't come out with the intention of asking anyone out, but you seemed like a nice person and I just thought. . . my divorce has just been finalised and Pam – that's my sister – keeps telling me I should get out more. I hope you're not offended or anything.' I was speaking quickly now, hoping to create the impression of a shy man who had started babbling to fill an ever-increasing void of silence. To be honest, it wasn't a stone's throw away from the truth. ‘Of course, I quite understand that you might not want to go out with a potential client, so I assure you that we'll find another care home for my father if that's the case. . . '

‘Mr Hill. . . '

‘Jack.'

‘Mr Hill, I'm afraid that you've put me in quite an awkward situation. Even if I wasn't already seeing somebody, it would be in-appropriate for me to go out with you. I hope you understand.'

I sighed. ‘Of course. I can only apologise.'

‘I think it's probably best if we forget all about it.'

I assured her that I would, allowing her to disengage from the conversation with the minimum of embarrassment. When I eventually flipped my phone closed, it was with mixed feelings. Yet another inconclusive conversation. She had claimed to be seeing somebody, but she might just have been trying to let me down gently. Even if she had been interested, it still didn't exclude the possibility that she was bumping uglies with the boss. I tucked my phone into my pocket and started the engine, secure in the knowledge that time hadn't dulled my ability to make stupid decisions.

7.7

Glasgow's a big place, but if you avoid the town centre and the motorways, it's easy enough to get around. It's got the schizophrenic nature of all large cities, with multi-million pound housing estates being built across the road from council slums. Tapas Bars were side by side with bookies and sectarian pubs. Men in tracksuits and baseball caps rubbed shoulders with fur-coated women in the most expensive stores the city had to offer.

By three twenty, I was in Jordanhill. It was one of the more expensive districts: trendy restaurants and wine bars, huge flats with bay windows. Designer boutiques instead of cut-price off-licences.

Every second car vehicle seemed to be a massive Land Rover driven by a tiny blonde.

I spotted Jason Campbell fairly quickly. He was parked directly outside the school gates in a tasty little Mercedes soft-top that had probably belonged to his rich mother. The top was down, despite the September coolness, and he had one arm slung casually over the door, drumming his fingers on the paintwork. From behind a pair of sun-glasses, his eyes were fixed on the school.

Waiting for the show.

There are plenty of characters in this world with reprehensible traits, but Jason was one of the few people that managed to combine multiple nasty habits – drug-dealing and paedophilia – into something altogether more unpleasant. Back in ninety-nine, he was caught having sex with a twelve year old girl that he had lured back to his flat not with the promise of sweeties or puppies, but with hash and ecstasy. Investigation showed that she wasn't the first of his victims.

The fact that he was here, now, suggested that she wouldn't be his last.

The prosecution hadn't gone as well as we had hoped. The girl was one of these kids that dress and act six years older than they actually are, and on the witness stand Jason managed to portray himself as a cross between a choir boy and the school swot. His lawyer managed to get a tame psychiatrist to say that Jason's behaviour was the result of childhood trauma and painkiller addiction, and instead of getting sent to Barlinnie prison, where guys like him were punished by not the system, but their peers, he went to a secure psychiatric unit.

I parked directly behind him, wondering how exactly he had managed to convince a psychiatrist that he was no longer a danger to the public. From what I remembered, he was smart, and didn't show the crawling servility that a lot of paedophiles do. It didn't do any harm that he looked a little like a young Keanu Reeves. The people responsible for his care – psyches and social workers – were pre-dominantly female, and were possibly more easily charmed.

I checked my watch. Three-twenty-five. I wondered if he was waiting for a specific pupil, if he had somebody already dangling from his hook, or if he was just window shopping. Good looking guy in his own car? He wouldn't need to say a thing. They would come to him.

It was easy to visualise. I could almost picture it. One of the more precocious kids, wearing a miniskirt that was more like a belt, would approach. Call her Little Miss Sweet Thing, or LMST for short.

–Nice car, mister.

–You like it?

–Yeah, it's cool.

–Thanks.

At this point, Jason would take a drag on the dooby he was keeping on the low-down, out of sight below the sill of the car window.

Little Miss Sweet Thing's eyes would grow wide.

–Is that a joint?

–Why, yes, I believe it is.

LMST would look around, to make sure that nobody was looking.

Jason would take another hit before offering it to her.

–You want some?

–I'll get caught.

–Not if you get in the car. They'll think I'm just your big brother giving you a lift.

LMST hesitates. She's had all the warnings about getting in cars with strangers, but she's a big girl. She can take care of herself. And besides, nobody that cute could be dangerous.

–Okay then.

. . . And so on.

I got out of my car and walked the few yards to his, opening the passenger door and sliding in beside him before he had the chance to say yea or nae. ‘Hello, Jason.'

His face twisted, emotions coming and going like images on a television screen. First anger, then fear. Finally, dull recognition. At least he remembered my face, if not my name. ‘What do you want?'

‘Just a chat.'

‘I haven't done anything!'

I took a second to organise my thoughts. Close up, Jason had changed a little since the last time I saw him. There was still the puppy-dog eyes, the floppy hair, but now there was a hardness to the face, an edge to his glittering smile. Mind you, I'd wager that Keanu would look the same, had he had ever spent a few months playing Dodge-the-Soap-Dropper in the showers of a secure psyche ward.

He was starting to get cocky. ‘My life is no longer any of your business. I'd like you to get out of my car.'

‘No.'

‘I'll report you.'

I looked over at the school. ‘Be sure to tell them exactly where the incident occurred. I suspect they might have a few questions as to why you would be parked here.'

‘I'm waiting for my girlfriend, who just happens to be a teacher here.'

‘I don't believe you.'

‘Then you can wait and meet her.'

I checked my watch. Three twenty-seven. On the radio, Steve Wright was just reading out a bunch of factoids. Black and Decker handheld electric saws were the serial killer's choice for dismember-ment. There was a pack of Silk Cut on the dashboard. I picked it up and slipped a cigarette between my lips, pushing the button for the car's built-in cigarette lighter. ‘When did you get out?'

‘Six weeks ago.'

‘And you already have a girlfriend? I'm impressed. Does she know about your past?'

He didn't reply. The little fucker was lying. I was sure of it. He was back to his old tricks, using grass and coke to troll for underage pussy.

The cigarette lighter clicked to let me know it was ready. At the same time as I used my left elbow to push the button that locked the door, I grabbed his left wrist with my right hand. Then I reached across and took the metal filament out of its socket with my left hand. Jason saw what I had in mind and scrabbled at the door handle, forgetting that his car had central locking. When I had pushed the snib with my elbow, all the other locks in the Merc had followed suit. Holding him as tightly as I could, I pressed the metal filament against the back of his hand. There was a sizzle and the smell of burning. A tiny wisp of black smoke. Jason squealed like a piglet in a microwave.

I took it away. Lit my cigarette. The tobacco hit me like an express train and I felt the sudden light-headedness that comes after a period of abstinence. It was good. Better than good. Great. That's what I love and hate about smoking; all the cancer studies in the world can't alter the fact that it tastes. . . fucking. . . marvellous.

I slipped the filament back into its socket. Jason had his hand pressed to his chest, like a lion guarding an injured paw. No doubt he would like to find a tiny innocent lamb to help draw out that troublesome thorn.

‘Let me see.' I moved to take his hand, and he cringed away from me. ‘I'm not going to hurt you, you prick.'

He let me take his hand. On the back of it was a small, circular burn, the flesh seared a dark, blackish red. ‘You'll live. More's the pity.'

‘You bastard.'

I felt totally comfortable with the label. That was the upshot of Harper's little jobs: they were always spiritually rewarding. Just because Campbell had conned some doe-eyed little junior doctor into believing he was a changed man didn't mean that he'd crawled any higher up the food chain.

The school bell rang. Within seconds, the kids were swarming out of the main gates. Blazers flapping, ties askew, shouting, challenging each other. And of course, the girls. Short skirts, kinky boots, shirts tied at the middle to expose tiny flat tummies. I watched Jason watching them. He was like a deer in headlights.

‘Time to move on, Jason. Go home and don't come back.'

He turned to face me. ‘I really am waiting for somebody.'

‘Who?'

Before he could answer, she arrived. Mid-thirties, wearing the standard sensible combo of white blouse and dark skirt. She had a jacket slung over one shoulder and carried a cheap leather briefcase.

As she made her way over to the car, I saw that she had one of these bland rabbit faces that only really express negative emotions – fear, worry, unhappiness.

She saw me first, then Jason. ‘Hello, dear.' Her eyes turned back to me, filled with curiosity. Worried curiosity.

Jason said, ‘Gwen, this is. . . a friend of mine. . .'

The asshole couldn't remember my name. Maybe that was just as well. I got out of the car, walked round the back to her side, extending my hand as I went. ‘Andy.'

Curiosity had been replaced by doubt. Then she stepped forward, good manners overcoming her initial hesitation. ‘Nice to meet you.'

Her palm was slightly moist, the nails clipped extremely short.

‘I was just driving past when I saw Jason. I thought I would stop and say hello.'

‘How do you two know each other?'

I decided to let Jason field that one. He did it with his usual style.

‘We were in prison together.'

‘Oh. I see. Well, it's nice to see that you're out.'

I could tell she was dying to ask. ‘It's nice to be out.'

‘Were you. . . in for a long time?'

‘Twelve years.'

Her eyes crossed in worry, and she unconsciously rubbed her hand against her skirt.

‘It was meant to be seventeen, but I've been a good little boy.'

‘My goodness. What did. . .'

‘Shoplifting.'

‘I see.' She looked over at Jason, and a touch of schoolmarm crept into her voice. ‘Jason, we'll be late if we don't get going.'