A Taste for Malice (15 page)

‘The Super was in Peters’ office not long before you came in. Looking for results. Not getting any. It’s the skull they found in that city centre building site. Turns out it was Tony Kay.’

‘Right. And the high heid yins are worried we’ll have a gang war on our hands,’ I fill in the blanks. The former bearer of said skull was the favoured son of a prominent gangster in the city. Prostitution, drugs and money laundering were said to be his thing. He was yet to lose a day’s freedom for it. But it may have cost him his son.

‘Not a happy chappy.’ Alessandra takes another sip of coffee while her eyes skim over the top of her cup in to Peters’ office.

‘Moral of the story; be careful what you wish for. You might not like it when you get it.’ All the while I was Peters’ superior officer, he made it very clear that he resented my promotion over him. All the years he spent on the force and he only had a sergeant’s ticket to show for it. Look at him now; all smoke and mirrors. Take away the bluster and you are left with an adequate professional who is so far out of his depth he should have been handed a snorkel and flippers with the promotion.

For a moment I consider walking into his room and acting like a sounding board for him. Maybe all he needs is someone to help him make a decision. He’s not the kind to ask for help. He would see that as some form of failure. Na, fuck him. If he wants help, he’ll ask for it.

‘We should gossip, Ale,’ I say.

She just looks at me.

‘Seriously. Small talk is good. An affirmative method of bonding in the workplace.’

‘And what about the poor sap who’s the object of the goss?’

‘He, or indeed she, will see it as character forming in his or her quieter moments.’

‘You’re on a diet again aren’t you?’ she asks.

I screw my eyes up. ‘Any chocolate in your desk?’

‘If I give you some, will you stop talking crap?’

‘Indubitably.’

‘Jesus. That word itself deserves a Mars bar.’ The noise of our laughter is enough to force Peters from his thoughts. He looks in our direction and aims an expression of non-interest at us.

Alessandra walks over to her desk, rummages in her drawer and comes back bearing the familiar shape in the outstretched palm of her right hand.

‘The diet starts for real tomorrow,’ I pluck it from her hand and tear it open. I have an instant mouth orgasm.

‘Mmmmm.’ I can feel a thread of soft caramel on my chin.

Don’t care. ‘Anyway,’ I mumble. ‘Get anywhere this morning?’

‘Zip, zilch, zero. Daryl’s been on to the private hospitals as well. Nada, nil, nothing.’

‘What’s with the alliteration?’

‘You’re not the only one that can talk crap.’

I look over at Daryl. He waves with one hand while the other holds the phone at his ear.

'He’s gone back to talking to the people at the Victoria,’ says Alessandra. ‘He’s hoping he gets somebody different this time and that they know more than the last person.’

‘Worth a go.’ I’m still chewing.

‘What were you up to this morning when we talked on the phone?’ asks Alessandra.

‘Trying to buy a woman’s lunch from her in Blythswood Square.’

‘Did somebody start off a new slang word for procuring prostitutes and not tell me?’ She crosses her arms in fake displeasure.

‘I was actually…’ I stop talking. However I describe it, it doesn’t sound too good. I shrug. ‘Just needed to get out of the office.’ I debate whether I should tell her about Jasmine. And decide not to. I’ve not quite squared that off in my conscience yet. If I talk about it to another cop I’ll just feel even worse.

My mobile rings. I aim an ‘Excuse me’ at Alessandra and turn into my office.

‘Okay, big man. I’ve something for you.’ It’s Jasmine.

‘That didn’t take you too long.’ I say.

‘It took me way too long, Mr. If anyone hears about this I am out of a job.’ She reads me the names and addresses of five Lucys. Then she reads me their job titles. Except for Lucy number five. Then I hear some clicks from a computer keyboard. ‘Scratch that last one, mate,’ she says with as much emotion as she might inject into a comment about the colour of the walls. ‘She’s deid.’

I send Daryl and Alessandra an email.

<<>>

<<>>replies Daryl.

I’m trying not to feel too superior. After all he has only been on the phone for the last couple of days.

<<>>

<<thinking
the middle digit of both hands>>>

<<>> I type the names and addresses of two of the women.

<<>>

<<>> types Daryl.

<<>>

<<>> sends Alessandra.

<<>>

<<>>

<<>> writes Daryl. <<>>

I don’t bother with email; I walk to my office door, hands at chest level with the required fingers aimed at the ceiling.

So I’m waiting again. I search the news agencies online for details of the Kay case. Nothing there that I don’t know already. I’d come across Tony once at a charity dinner in the days when I gave a fuck about playing the game. He was at my table with his wife/girlfriend and another couple. All of the women around us were suddenly more alert and more attentive whenever he spoke. And more prone than usual throughout the meal to rushing off to the ladies room to touch up their lipstick. He was your stereotypical Italian, tall dark and yes, handsome and when he did open up his mouth to speak what came out was reasoned and articulate. It was said that he wasn’t in the same life as his father. He was an accountant for a large public company through in Edinburgh. It seemed that some apples do fall far from the tree. Unfortunately for him the life found a way to reel him back in. Permanently.

This made me think of the young girl I met earlier. Any contact with the underworld can be enough to make you lose your head, literally or metaphorically. It still bothers me that I attempted to use her. I phone Kenny.

‘Silver Investigations,’ he answers. Silver is not his surname, but a name he said he might choose if he ever became a porn star. Obviously he had decided it was an appellation with franchise possibilities.

‘Tell me about Jasmine.’ Small talk is way over-rated.

‘Somebody’s ticked off. Somebody should be more grateful.’

‘I didn’t enjoy being part of her problem, Kenny.’

‘Get the plank of wood out your arse, big man. Keep your eyes on the prize.’ Then he hung up.

I rub at my eyes, suddenly more tired than I deserve to be.

Eventually my colleagues return, looking all flushed with purpose. I realise I am grinding my teeth while Daryl is talking to me about the two women he has just photographed. He is full of wild conjecture about one of them. She is in her early thirties and a midwife. An excellent opportunity to gain the trust of desperate families.

‘It’s too early for all that, Daryl. Let’s wait until we show all the photos to the families and get an ID.’

At my tone Alessandra looks at me sharply. ‘Every - thing alright, Ray?’

‘Fucking peachy.’

Just then DI Peters comes out of his office and walks towards us. ‘Can I see you in your office, Ray?’

‘Talk to me here.’ I turn and face him.

He swallows and after some internal dialogue he moves closer. His voice is low and aimed at my ears only, although everyone in the room can read the tension between us.

‘You’ve been warned, Ray. Your duties are to be administrative only. Until further notice.’ The last three words are pronounced with care.

I want to sink my teeth into the fleshy lump at the end of his nose. Instead I fish in my pocket, find a coin and throw it to him. ‘Here’s twenty pence. Phone somebody that gives a fuck.’

I brush past him. Lift the camera off Daryl’s desk and walk out of the room.

I’m not sure where I’m going I only know that I need to get away from Peters before I split his skull. I go and sit in my car and will the blood in my veins to recede from boiling point. I take several deep breaths and go through the meditation exercise that Theresa taught me.

I need to repeat it several times before my muscles relax.

I try to focus on a prism of crystal in my mind’s eye. I try to watch the colours split. Instead, an image of the Craig boy being hung on the blind cord fills my head. This is followed by an image of me around ten. I’m in the convent orphanage, at the back of the gardens hiding under a bush. I’m shaking. It’s a warm summer’s evening and I’m shaking. It will soon be bedtime and I don’t want to go to bed. Because then the bad man might come for me. Again. I see a cloud of feathers. Then an arch of blood. I shake my head the way a dog might do to try and shed water from its coat.

Then I see the man walking out of McDonalds.

Nah. It couldn’t be.

Leonard?

‘So you stuck by me?’ Angela asked.

Jim could only nod and stare at the floor, feeling completely unworthy of the look of appreciation she was wearing.

‘Must have been difficult for you …what were you, twenty-two?

He shrugged.

‘What about your parents …’ she continued. ‘How did they feel about it all?’

‘Dad was giving it all this crap about the piper having to be paid for his tune. Mum was happy as long as I was happy.’

‘And were you happy, Jim?’ Angela bent forward, her gaze searching his.

‘Yes.’ He forced a smile.

‘You could be a little bit more convincing.’ She said, her eyebrows all but meeting in the middle.

‘Well,’ he exhaled a heavy sigh. ‘We were happy for a time…’

‘Of course.’ Angela sat back in her chair, stunned by what had just occurred to her. Jim’s chest felt too tight. She’d worked it out. She realised that he was not really in love with her at the time. His face felt hot. Think, Hilton. Think.

‘I’ve just worked this out …this was what, over ten, twelve years ago? We don’t have a twelve year old.’ Her face whitened, she clutched at her throat. Jim tried to disguise his sigh of relief at her being wrong, and summon the effort to tell the next part of their story.

‘What happened to my baby, Jim?’

The memories stormed back. The rushed wedding minus the bride’s parents, but with Kirsty as chief bridesmaid. Her thinly disguised hostility and her departure as soon as the band played their last note.

The long night in the hospital. The fear that Angela might not survive the miscarriage. The doctor said the grief and the pregnancy were too much and she lost the child at twelve weeks.

Angela had been writing furiously in her purple notebook since Jim started speaking, only pausing here and there to ask for clarification. Again, the facts of his relationship with Kirsty were excluded, along with the troubling events afterwards, but otherwise the story was a piece of non-fiction. In his new career as a liar Jim had come to realise that the best form of lying is to stick as closely as is comfortable to the truth.

‘It would have been another four or five years until Ben was born …did we not try again?’ Angela tapped her pen on her chin.

‘Yes,’ Jim grinned. ‘We tried plenty.’ Then he considered the current state of his sex life and looked at the floor. ‘But nothing happened till Ben.’ He paused. ‘I was offered the post of shop manager over here. It gave us a new start, away from all the bad memories. And the extra money from the promotion allowed you to give up your work.’

At this statement Angela nodded. After all the agony she had gone through to get him she could understand why she would have wanted to provide full time care for Ben herself.

‘And then we lived happily ever after?’ Angela asked.

‘Yes,’ Jim smiled. ‘Just like in a fairytale.’ By now he didn’t even have to think of the lie. It had become as solid as truth.

Later, while Angela slept, other memories, sinister memories joined those of the baby. Kirsty all but disappeared from their lives only keeping in touch with Angela with the odd phone call.

Strange things began to happen. A nail was driven through all four of his tyres. Once they were replaced a key was dragged along the bodywork of his car.

Jim suspected it might have been Kirsty, but kept the thoughts to himself. The next event he was sure wouldn’t have been her, after all she loved Lucky, but one morning he left the house to find his mother’s cat on the doorstep unconscious through loss of blood and pain. His tail had been sliced off with a very sharp knife.

Then there was the time he’d come home from a night at the local club and taken off his new leather jacket to find a knife had been slashed across his back. If the jacket hadn’t been so thick, he was sure it would have drawn blood.

When he discovered the damage to his car he instantly thought of Kirsty as the culprit. The cat and his jacket couldn’t have been her. They were both put down to vicious youths. It was surely a coincidence that both of those events happened so soon after he broke up with Kirsty. Wasn’t it?

Alessandra catches up with me in the car park. Her eyes are full of concern.

‘What’s up, Ray? What’s really bothering you?’

I pace before her. Words zip in and out of reach. I try to pluck out a few and use them, but I can no more speak than I can find a reason for my behaviour. It’s like I’ve been taken over by evil me. I went from just-filled kettle to boiling over in jig time.

It’s all fucked.

I rub at my arms. My scars suddenly itch.

Leonard is out there.

‘Ray,’ she says and puts a hand on my arm. I stop. ‘Ray, what’s going on? Are you…’