The Storm Without (18 page)

On Heathfield Road I rolled down the window and the illusion was broken. Reality flooded in on the breeze. I became dimply aware of Bowie's
Lodger
on the CD player: the track was
Look Back in Anger
. I listened to the Thin White Duke. He was going on about waiting so long; I knew the territory.

I dropped the revs at the KFC and slowed into the second roundabout. The rest of the road, the glut of garages and semi-Ds served to bring me round to the idea that I was indeed back in Ayr. I hadn't imagined it, dreamt it up. I had come a long way from Ulster to this point and I wondered why I'd put myself through it. For what? For whom? I knew the answer I'd been trying to avoid: for Lyn.

On Prestwick Road I tried to re-wire my brain. I had taken the documents from Jennifer and I knew what to do with them. I scanned the side of the road for a post box; they were becoming increasingly scarce to find. I'd made copies of the complaints, shoved them into an A4 envelope and scribbled Mason's home address on it; if anything happened to me, the rest would be down to him.

Finally I spotted a post box, flicked on the blinkers, and pulled up.

I looked at the envelope in my hand, white against the stookie that was greying now, dirty. My handwriting was a messy scrawl. Nerves? I didn't doubt it. I applied the six or so first-class stamps I had bought and placed the envelope in the slot.

My heart was still pumping as I returned to the car.

I dialled Mason's number.

Ringing.

He answered in his usual manner. 'Yeah.'

'It's me.'

'Yeah … and?'

I squeezed the phone. 'There's been some … developments.'

He drew breath. 'Go on.'

I didn't know where to start, so skipped straight to the meat of the issue. 'Kirsty Donald made repeated complaints to the Port Authority, stuff about late-night unloading; strange characters coming and going; boat-loads of suspected illegals walking off the dock; contraband—'

'Hang about. How do you know this?'

I manoeuvred myself into the driving position, locked on my seatbelt. 'I have the official files. They were removed, supposedly deleted, but I got them.'

His voice rose. I heard the springs of his chair wheeze. 'How?'

'Never mind that for now.' I opened the glove box, took out the Webley revolver. Placed it on the passenger seat. 'Mason, I'm taking care of this … tonight.'

His already loud voice reached a new pitch. 'Now hang on a minute, Doug!'

I picked up the shooter, tucked it inside my coat pocket. 'You'll have the documents — Kirsty Donald's complaints — in the next post. I doubt they'll secure a conviction on their own but they might, you know, set the cat amongst the pigeons.'

'And you're all about that malarkey, aren't you?'

I smiled into the phone. 'Thanks for everything, pal.'

'Doug, don't do anything stupid. Will you promise me that?'

'I don't do promises, Mason.'

I hung up.

I cranked the engine and set the wheels in motion. Bowie was on
Red Money
now. I turned the volume down. I didn't want to draw any attention to myself as I set out along Prestwick Road. I knew exactly where I needed to go. Jonny Gilmour had shown me the way in his silver Lexus the night he'd dropped Councillor Crawford off. I didn't imagine for a second I'd be a welcome house guest, but then I had the Webley to persuade him otherwise.

On the force, in Ulster, they had a saying:
you get further with a gun and kind words than just kind words.

They had underestimated me, underestimated how far I would go to see the job done.

As I drove I thought of Lyn, of her son, Glenn. I thought of that day when I drove into Ayr and saw her standing in the rain at the Old Racecourse. She was wrecked, a broken woman. Life had taken something precious from her. It was a look I'd seen a thousand times before but it was the last thing I expected to see on my return home. I had wanted to escape all that: the hurts, the miseries. But fate didn't have that role in mind for me.

Christ, it wasn't out there for me. I banged on the brow of the steering wheel. They had my number from the off.

I knew in my heart that Lyn felt she'd found a kindred spirit — birds of a feather flock together and all that nonsense. But so had Mason. He'd tuned into my wavelength the second I told him about Riley and the girls, those eight, nine, ten-year-old girls. I saw Riley's face before me again; the beast made my stomach lurch.

I should have pulled that trigger.

I felt sickened by the world; by what I'd seen of it. I knew I'd let too much go, too much pass without the proper action being taken. I was tired of people being preyed upon, by the strong ruling the weak. Someone had set Glenn up to take a fall; it was all about preserving profits, about keeping their nice little earner going. They were worse than Rabbie's
parcel of rogues
.

Crawford's sandstone villa eased into view and I slowed the Audi, brought the car into the side of the road and dimmed the lights.

My hand was trembling as I killed the ignition.

I looked towards the villa; a light was burning downstairs.

I pressed the shooter to my ribs as I moved off.

At the end of Councillor Crawford
’
s drive was a pair of stone lions. They made me smile. At this point, a smile on my face was the last thing I was expecting. There had been a farcical case a few years ago where a similar set of stone lions had been swiped from the front of a hotel in the Auld Toun. The press had gone overboard on the theft but a few residents saw the funny side. The lions were given names and postcards from all over the world started coming into the papers signed Francie and Josie. One minute they were in Rio, the next Nantucket. I wondered now if the hotel ever got the lions back.

As I was smiling at the memory, I felt myself being watched. I tipped my head back and met Crawford
’
s gaze. He was standing in the centre of his front room, speaking into a mobile phone. He recognised me immediately and walked to the window. I nodded towards him and made my way to the front door. He seemed, if not happy, at least content to see me on his property. His reaction baffled me because soon after our last meeting I had landed a broken hand.

I stood at the front door, listening to the chain being withdrawn, the key turning in the lock; it was a heavy mortice lock. As the door eased open I caught sight of Crawford: he was wearing a cardigan and house slippers. He seemed relaxed; I didn
’
t rate his chances of staying in that mood.

‘
Hello, Councillor.
’

He positioned his glasses on his nose.
‘
Is this a business call?
’

I suppressed a laugh.
‘
Well, let
’
s just say, it isn
’
t pleasure.
’

He looked at me, seemed perplexed. A few stray hairs escaped from his smoothed-back fringe.
‘
I suppose I better invite you in, Mr Michie.
’

‘
Oh, I suppose you better had, Councillor.
’

We moved into a broad hallway. A sweeping balustrade curved upwards on one wall; a small table with an umbrella stand rested on the opposite wall. I walked over to the table and laid down the envelope containing the copies of Kirsty Donald
’
s complaints to the Port Authority.

‘
That could be your bedtime reading. Only I wouldn
’
t want to leave it that late to get stuck in, if I were you.
’

Crawford
’
s footsteps were silent as he crossed the black and white tiled floor towards the envelope. As he stretched out a hand, I noticed the heels of his socks were wearing thin. He removed his glasses and placed them in his shirt pocket; another, smaller set of half-moons was resting on strings round his neck. He perched them on his nose as he read.

‘
How did you come by this?
’
His tone was firm, cocky.

‘
What the hell does that matter?
…
It won
’
t change the outcome.
’

He folded over the photocopies, re-inserted them in the envelope. He seemed to be slowing down, entering a different state of consciousness. I watched him choose his words carefully.
‘
Oh, I wasn
’
t thinking it would. Not for a second.
’
He released a slow grimace.
‘
It was your outcome I was thinking about.
’

I felt a fuse light behind my eyes.
‘
That
’
s it!
’

I removed the Webley and pointed it at Crawford. He lifted his hands, palms pointed at me.
‘By God y
ou
’
re making a big mistake.
’

‘
Oh, really?
’

‘
Put the gun away. Please be sensible.
’

I felt a line of sweat break on my brow. Another traced the length of my spine.
‘
You really are a piece of work, aren
’
t you? Not content with knocking off Kirsty Donald for clocking your dodgy little operation, you think you can preach to me.
’

He lowered his hands.
‘
You don
’
t know what you
’
re talking about.
’

‘
Don
’
t I?
…
Then perhaps you should do some explaining
…’
I took a step towards him, pointed the shooter at his ear.
‘
Fast!
’

‘
Okay. Okay.
’
He backed off.
‘
Just put the gun down, please.
’

I cocked the weapon.
‘
Be in no doubt, I
’
m not messing here, Councillor.
’

His pallor dropped several shades; a grey tongue flashed over his dry lips.
‘
Th-the girl was nothing to do with me
…
nothing!
’

‘
I don
’
t believe you.
’

‘
It
’
s the truth! I never wanted her hurt. Never.
’

I felt my teeth grinding, spoke through my bottom row.
‘
Then who did? Gilmour? Was it him?
’

Crawford backed onto the wall. I could see his heart beating hard beneath his shirt.
‘
It was her fault
…
hers! She should have chosen her boyfriends more carefully.
’

I raised the gun, smacked the butt of the handle into the wall. Some plaster chips fell to the floor in a shower of dust.
‘
Don
’
t give me that. You and I both know Glenn had nothing to do with Kirsty
’
s death.
’
I smacked the gun barrel off his cheek; a thin welt appeared, a trickle of dark blood beneath it.

Crawford raised his hands to his head and slid towards the floor. A broad line of sweat followed down the wall behind him.
‘
You don
’
t know anything!
’

I leaned over him, roared.
‘
Then enlighten me. Now! Because your time
’
s running out.
’

He looked up at me, his eyes bulging.
‘
You have the wrong man.
’

I didn
’
t want to hear any more. Sweat clogged my eyelids as I pressed the gun stalk to his head.
‘
Wrong answer!
’

‘
No. Wait.
’
He showed palms again, trembled in pity for himself.
‘
I told him
…’

‘
Who?
’

‘
Gilmour
…
Jonny Gilmour. I told him not to go there. That she would know him, recognise him. Because of Glenn!
’

I stepped back.
‘
What
?
’

Crawford looked up. His intent eyes followed me as I retreated.
‘
You don
’
t know, do you?
’
He raised himself on his haunches, then stood before me.
‘
Glenn is Gilmour
’
s son.
’

My thoughts swam. My head burned. I tried to steady myself on the banister, the gun heavy in my hand.

Crawford spoke,
‘
You didn
’
t know. She never told you.
’
He started to grow in confidence.
‘
No. Of course she would keep something like that to herself.
’
He shook his head, laughed.
‘
She kept it from the boy for long enough, but he must
’
ve found out because the girl recognised Gilmour when he went round.
’