The Stone Gallows (9 page)

‘My name's Cameron Stone. I work for Mr Banks. Can I help you?'

There was a long pause. ‘I'd really prefer to talk to Mr Banks.'

‘May I ask what it's regarding?'

‘I might have some work for him.'

‘What's your name, please?'

‘Sophie Sloan.'

‘Hold on, please.' I put her on hold and dialled zero. ‘Joe, there's a potential client on the other line. Name's Sophie Sloan.'

I put her through and headed back to the kitchen. Once it sensed it was being watched, the kettle took another thousand years to finally boil. When it finished, I poured, mixed milk and sugar and took both mugs into the office, catching Joe just as he placed his phone back on the cradle. He took the coffee with both hands and a grateful look on his face. ‘You might need to make another one.'

‘Uh huh?'

‘Miss Sloan was calling from her mobile. She's on her way up.'

‘What did she want?'

‘Wouldn't say.'

I took the seat opposite him and sipped my coffee. Joe was still poking away at the Blackberry. At any minute, I expected it to spontaneously combust in his hand. He chewed on his lower lip, stabbing away at the screen like he was trying to kebab it. I gave it until the end of the week. If it was lucky.

Eventually he looked up. ‘Good weekend?'

‘Alright.'

‘Wendy had a football game on.' He shook his head. ‘Girls playing football. It's fundamentally wrong.'

Wendy was nine, and the apple of her dad's eye. He didn't say it aloud, but he was less than thrilled that she preferred contact sports to My Little Pony.

‘What about you?' He asked. ‘You do anything with Mark?'

‘I was meant to take him out. Showed up at Audrey's on Saturday, but she'd taken him out already.' I tried not to let the frustration seep into my voice, but it was there. I'd waited outside the empty house for nearly an hour, hoping that she had just forgotten about it, knowing in my heart that she was once again using our son as an excuse to hurt me.

‘She's a bit of a cow, your ex, isn't she?'

I was spared from having to agree with him by the sound of the door buzzer. Our potential client had arrived. I stood up. ‘You want me to let her in and then leave you to it?'

‘No. I don't think so. We'll see what she wants.'

3.3.

Sophie Sloan turned out to be stunning. The silly little Marilyn Monroe voice I had heard on the phone had suggested a fluffy blonde in a frilly pink blouse and pleated skirt. Instead, we were treated to a fashion model in a Metallica T-shirt and skin-tight jeans. She carried a small blue handbag whose simplicity was probably inversely related to its retail value, and her hair was very shiny and black, falling down her back in an elaborate French pleat. Her face was strong, with pale skin and a mouth edged in red lipstick. As I showed her into Joe's office, he stood up. I could tell that he liked the look of her.

Hell, so did I.

There was a ring on her third finger. Small, discreet, but with something that caught the light. Married and rich; right up Joe's alley.

He held out his hand. ‘Mrs Sloan.'

They shook, and Joe waved in my general direction. ‘This is my associate, Cameron Stone. You don't mind if he joins us?'

She hesitated, then shrugged as if she didn't care. I held out my hand. Her fingers were slender, but there was surprising strength in them. ‘It's a pleasure to meet you, Mrs Sloan. Can I offer you some tea or coffee?'

‘No, thank you.' She looked around. ‘This isn't what I imagined it would be.'

Joe made the vague but universal gesture that meant “have a seat”.

‘What did you expect?'

‘Oh, I don't know. A bottle of whisky on the window sill. Filing cabinets. You with a week's worth of stubble and a gun tucked in your belt.'

Joe's tastes were less stereotypical. A Partick Thistle calendar on the desk, a picture of him shaking hands with former labour leader John Smith on the wall. Also, framed pictures of the wife and kids. ‘It's not like it is in the movies.'

‘I guess not.' She sat down opposite the desk. Taking that as our cue, I took the seat next to her.

Joe sat down on the padded leather monstrosity behind the desk and crossed his legs. ‘Now, how can we help you, Mrs Sloan?'

‘Call me Sophie, please.' She looked at the handbag on her lap, her long fingernails toying absently with the strap. ‘I'm. . . I'm not sure you can. I think I made a mistake coming here.'

‘Take your time.'

‘I'm just being silly. At least, I think I'm just being silly.' Her eyes met his. They begged for his agreement.

Joe's voice was gentle. He was about twenty years older than her, old enough to play the kindly uncle. ‘Being silly about what, Sophie?'

She sighed and shook her head, dropping her eyes back to her lap.

‘Sophie, a lot of the people that come to us don't really want to be here. Whatever it is, we won't laugh, or think you're stupid, or accuse you of wasting our time.'

‘I think my husband is having an affair with my sister.'

Joe leaned forward, put his elbows on the desk. ‘But you're not certain.'

‘No. No, I'm not.'

‘But you're thinking that you would like to be?'

She fumbled in the handbag for a pack of tissues. ‘It's been going on for months now. I mean, they work together. . . ' She blew her nose.

‘They're always late, or he needs to go over to her place to do some work at home. And sometimes, in bed, I can smell her perfume on him, as if they've been. . . close.'

Infidelity cases are the P.I.'s bread and butter. It's nasty, gutter-ridden work, but as the song goes, we all got bills to pay. Joe said. ‘We can certainly look into that for you.'

‘It's just that I want to be sure.'

She seemed unable to meet our eyes. Instead, her gaze roamed around the office, taking in all the detail – not that there was much detail to take in. Joe had a few knick-knacks that he liked – his Irn Bru clock, his Newton's Cradle – but apart from that, his office was pretty bare. One of the pictures on the desk attracted her attention. I knew which one she was looking at. It was a family shot – Joe, Becky, the twins, Wendy the footballer. A Jack Russell sat on Joe's lap, grinning at the camera in the witless fashion that only dogs and politicians can achieve.

She picked it up. ‘I used to know your wife. That's why I chose you.'

‘You know Becky?'

She nodded, gave a small smile. ‘She was always Mrs Banks to me.

That was back when I used to be a nurse. It was before she was famous.'

‘She'd be chuffed to hear you describe her as famous.'

‘She was always very nice to me.'

Joe grinned. ‘Are you sure that we're talking about the same woman? She scares the hell out of me.'

She responded with another smile. That was one of Joe's many talents: helping the nervous to relax. ‘She did have a reputation of being. . . forceful.'

‘Christ, you're telling me. Let's just say that if she had been aboard, the
Titanic
would have thought twice about sinking.'

This time, the smile was only a polite one. I suspected that she could only be distracted so far. She moved to put the photograph back down, but misjudged. It tumbled off the side of the desk with a clatter.

‘I'm sorry.'

‘It's alright.'

She bent down to pick it up, and I noticed that her hand was shaking. ‘Oh, God, it's broken. I'm so sorry.' As she turned it over, I could see a jagged crack zigzagging across the face of the picture, a triangular piece of glass by her foot. ‘I'll replace it.'

‘Don't worry about it,' Joe told her.

I could see how embarrassed she was, so I held out a hand and took it from her, quickly removing the back and placing the photograph on the desk, dumping the frame and the broken glass into the waste bucket underneath.

She seemed calmer. ‘I just. . . it took me so long to work up the courage to even come here.'

Joe said, ‘About your husband. Cameron and myself can certainly find out whether or not he is cheating on you, if that's what you want.

But have you considered asking him directly? I'm not trying to talk myself out of business, but the kind of surveillance we're talking about is expensive, and in most cases, unnecessary. In my experience, most cheating partners will admit to it if they are confronted.'

‘I've asked him. I've asked them both. They just laugh at me and tell me I'm being silly. And money isn't an issue. I have some savings.

Ian gives me an extremely generous allowance. I suspect it's a more expensive version of the guilty husband who brings home flowers for his wife in an attempt to ease his own conscience.'

‘What kind of business are they in?'

‘Ian owns a nursing home.
She's
the Clinical Nurse Manager.'

‘The what?'

‘It's a fancy title for Matron.'

‘I see. So obviously they spend a lot of time together.'

‘Yes.' The hand had gone back to the strap of the bag, twisting, worrying at it. ‘Too much, I think.' She seemed suddenly to be aware of what she was doing and made a point of placing the bag at her feet.

‘It's like they have all these secret jokes between them. They talk about work so much I feel completely excluded.'

‘I think my wife could tell you how that feels. She won't allow me and Cameron to talk shop, if he comes over for dinner.'

Joe and I looked at each other. I knew what he was looking for, and gave an indifferent shrug. He said, ‘Alright, Mrs Sloan. We're happy to look into things, if you are certain that's what you want.'

She seemed to reach a decision. I could almost see her gritting her teeth and squaring her shoulders. ‘It is, Mr Banks. It most certainly is.'

He held out a hand and they shook on the deal. He took a pad of paper out of the drawer. ‘I'll need to take a few details.'

‘Of course. But. . . I wonder if I could have that coffee now?' She said. ‘My mouth's awfully dry. I was so nervous.'

‘Of course.' Joe looked at me. ‘Cam, will you do the honours?'

I smiled as I stood up. The thirty-two-year-old tea boy. I didn't mind. I owed Joe a hell of a lot more than the occasional cuppa.

4.1.

My father died while questioning a suspect. One minute he was screaming in somebody's face, the next he was lying on the floor turning the same colour as his uniform. CPR kept him alive long enough for the paramedics to arrive, but he arrested again in the ambulance and was dead on arrival. I was four at the time, and I reckon I was about six before I got it through my thick skull that Daddy wasn't coming home.

I miss him more now I'm an adult than I ever did as a child.

I think he was a good man. I could be wrong – we tend to idolise the dead until they become caricatures of the person they actually were, and my memories of him are without foundation, mostly based on the stories my mother passed on before she died – but I'm pretty sure about that. He taught me a few things. How to tie my shoelaces.

How to bash in the bottoms of my boiled eggs after eating them so that the witches wouldn't be able to make boats. What I remember most is his love of the police force. He wore the uniform with pride. I know that's a cliché, but there's no other way I can describe it. With pride.

So I guess it was inevitable that I would join up. I didn't do it the second I was old enough because Mum was dying, but after she was gone I applied and was accepted. And from then until the day I left in disgrace, I wore the uniform as my father had before me. Even after that night on Gallowgate, and all the shit that came after, I loved the force.

So did Joe. Of course, to those on the outside, it didn't look that way. They thought he was just another cock in an overcrowded hen house, loving the job not for what it was but for the sense of power it gave him.

We first met over ten years ago. I was twenty, just graduated from the police training college up at Tulliallan, still soaking wet behind the ears, still having the time of my life. My first station was in Glasgow's Pollokshaws, and I was what they called a ‘Woollysuit' – a probationary constable. My job was pretty simple. I was expected to do what I was told, when I was told, and how I was told.

Joe, on the other hand, was forty-five, a C.I.D. detective with something of a reputation. The word was that he was the copper that Ian Rankin based John Rebus on.

Of course, I guessed straight away that was bullshit. The first Rebus story was published in the mid-eighties, and that meant that Joe would have been about twenty at the time. Twenty is too young to be a legend, unless you're a footballer or a singer in a rock and roll band.

The whole thing didn't seem to bother him. As a detective, he was something of a cliché. His hobbies included horses, boozing and womanising, and of course, solving crime. He even looked the part, stamping about the station in a snazzy leather jacket, cracking jokes with people he liked and shouting at people he didn't.

I'm six-foot five, so I already stood out, but it was Joe that gave me the nickname that would follow me the rest of my career. I was eating lunch in the canteen with the other probies when he stopped at the table. We went quiet, anticipating a bawling out. We were normally so far below his radar that he only acknowledged us to point out how we screwed up. But this time it was something else. He looked at all of us and singled me out. ‘You. Gigantor. You got some civvies in your locker?'

I nodded. ‘Sir.'

‘Go and change. I want your help. I've cleared it with your supervisor.'

‘Sir.'

I did as I was told. Before I even left the changing room, the name had stuck to me like a fly on shite. In the space of a month, it had been abbreviated to ‘Gantor'. It didn't bother me. Could have been much, much worse.