A Taste for Malice (23 page)

‘Surely there’s something you can do? Some kind of help you can get from the legal system?’

Moira didn’t respond. She simply stared at her mug of milk.

Jim thought of Angela. She should know this, but could she take it in? This was all quite a story and Moira was probably right, there was no way of knowing how Angela would react. This would certainly be a case of too much information.

‘Look, I won’t say anything to Angela, but if it ever looks like this information is going to compromise my relationship with her then I’ll have to.’

‘Thank you, Jim.’

‘And don’t worry about where you’re going to stay. You can stay with us for as long you it takes to get yourself back on your feet.’

‘Thank you, Jim. I appreciate it. Really.’ Her bottom lip quivered and it looked like fresh tears were about to fall.

‘Hey, that’s enough,’ he squeezed her hand. ‘No more crying. We’ll get you sorted.’

After Moira had gone to bed, Jim found that he was still unable to sleep. So he made himself a coffee and moved through to the sitting room, where he turned on the TV.

An Arab man was stumbling across the screen, carrying a body while a newsreader explained the scene of destruction behind him. Another suicide bomber had struck. The death toll was not yet clear. What was clear was the man’s anguish.

His eyes were staring ahead, his mouth shaped in a silent, endless scream, his face streaked with blood, sweat, soot and tears. Jim crossed his arms, trying to heat himself against the depth and chill of the man’s despair. The body in his arms was covered with a blanket; age and gender both indeterminate, but Jim could see that the body was long and slight. The body he is carrying must be his child, thought Jim. Only the death of a child could draw that amount of anguish on to the screen of your face.

Back in the car, I roll down the windows to let out the heat and let in some cooler air. I switch on my mobile phone. Force of habit. I don’t expect anyone to be looking for me. Oh, lucky me. I have voicemail. I connect and the voice of Elaine Gibson fills my ear.

‘DI McBain, this is Elaine Gibson. Wondered if we could meet up soon? You missed our last session and I wondered if this Friday at ten suited. Give my office a call will you? Thanks.’

I look at the clock on the dashboard. Six forty-five. She will have gone home for the day. Just as well really. Attractive females turn my brain to mush these days. Five minutes in her company and I’ll be down on one knee and promising her my pension.

At home I fix myself a salad of lettuce leaves, avocado and smoked salmon. I grate some fresh ginger over it and squeeze out half of a lime. It tastes lovely. And it’s healthy. Yay me.

There’s nothing on the TV. Over one hundred channels of nothing worth watching. How does that happen? I switch it off and move over to my stereo. I bought myself one classical music CD over ten years ago in an attempt at education. It’s been on the player twice, maximum. Let’s give it another go.

The sound of violins swirl in the air around me. Very nice. It occurs to me that I have been very urbane today. First a visit at the museum, then I admire flowers and now I have Mozart for company. Maybe I should put my hands down my trousers, give my balls a good scratch and reassert the caveman in me.

The big purple flowers, Mrs Conroy had told me after we had finished speaking about Hepburn, were clematis.

‘The hybrid is called Comtesse du Bouchard, I believe.’ She raised her eyebrows. ‘I must have been feeling grandiose the day I bought them.’ Then she bunched her features into the middle of her face. ‘I’m now going to worry about what I said about Violet Hogg for the rest of the evening.’

‘You were a great help, Mrs Conroy. There’s no need to feel guilty about telling the truth.’

‘The truth can sometimes be over-rated, McBain.’ She took a long, deep breath. Her eyes dimmed with pain. ‘She does a lot of good, McBain. It’s her motivation I question. I do what I can because I want to help. But with her it’s like she’s keeping some sort of moral scorecard. She’s going to hand it to Saint Peter at the gates and say — see, I raised thousands for MS that day, let a lost young girl sleep over at my house that day, made postcards for ….’

‘Can we rewind a little bit? A girl slept over at her house? Was that Hepburn?’

‘Yes. I can remember thinking, how odd. She always struck me as wishing to be one step removed from her good deeds.’

‘Do you think anything untoward might have happened?’

‘Not that I’m aware of. Apparently Audrey had rent problems. Violet has a spare room,’ she shrugged as if to say it made perfect sense to somebody.

‘How long?’

‘Not entirely sure. A couple of months or so, I think.’ She studied my expression. ‘You don’t think there would have been more? Some romance between them?’

‘She said it herself, she’s had a long and lonely life. Who’s to blame her if she takes a little comfort here and there?’

‘You men,’ she laughed. ‘See sex everywhere.’ Another laugh. ‘If Violet Hogg is …more than familiar with this young woman good luck to her, but I’d happily eat everything on this trellis, petal by petal if that were true.’

So, we men see sex everywhere? I look down at my lap. There ain’t nothing goin’ on down there. Thinking about the nuns at Bethlehem House and their mantra “The Devil makes work for idle hands” I decide to go for a walk.

The feeling that Leonard is around refuses to leave me, no matter how much logic I try to apply. However, I’m fucked if I’m letting him keep me indoors.

The early summer sunshine beats down on me. It’s still warm even at this time of night. Love it. Mediterranean weather in Glasgow. A marriage made in my own personal heaven. I look at the walls of the buildings around me. At one time Glasgow was the British Empire’s second city and when you’re not dodging the raindrops it’s easy to see why.

Soon, I find myself in Argyll Street among Glasgow’s newest claim to fame, her shops. I now live, as is argued by some, in Britain’s second best shopping destination. At its peak Napoleon derided the British as nothing but merchants. Now we’re content to hand over the work of the merchant to a giant corporation and become a bunch of shoppers.

‘Hello rerr, officer.’ A voice interrupts my mental diarrhoea. A bald man in his mid to late fifties scowls at me from a doorway. He’s standing behind a newspaper stand. There are very few people around me or there is no way he would have given me that title.

‘Daniel James Donovan. How the hell are you?’ I reply and then walk over to his stand. When I arrest someone and write their names on countless reports, I often find it difficult to use anything other than their full title when I speak to them.

‘Any better, officer and I would be twins.’ He grins. If teeth were houses his would have been torn down a long time ago. The acne-scarred skin, bulbous red nose and a belly pregnant with the passing of decades of beer make up the rest of the assault on the eyes that is Dan Donovan.

‘What are you selling today then?’ I ask. To the passer-by this might seem a ridiculous question when the only thing in front of him is a large pile of newspapers with the title
Evening Times
. However, our Dan has another string to his bow.

‘Just the paper these days, son,’ he says and then nods as if this adds weight to his statement.

I pick one up. The lead story is about a shooting in the east of the city. Two men walk up to a car and shoot the single occupant in the head. The police are appealing for witnesses. The reporter speculates that the killing has something to do with the gangster’s dead son.

‘How much?’ I ask. He names a price and I hand him a twenty pound note. He hands me a paper and pockets the note.

‘What do you think?’ I fold the newspaper so that I can easily hold it in the grip of one hand and point it at his chest. We haven’t done this for a number of years so I wonder if Dan is getting rusty. I feel the loss in my pocket where the change from my twenty should be resting around now. The man in front of me had a career in crime that stalled at the edges of the underworld for a number of years. Petty theft, petty violence, and reset gave him a number of stays at Her Majesty’s leisure. Then he discovered the power of information. Perhaps I should introduce him to Kenny. Strike that. They undoubtedly know each other.

‘Pile of pish,’ he says and stabs the headline in front of him with a thick digit. ‘Gang war my arse.’

He turns the top newspaper over on to its face and aims a look at the sports pages. Which as usual is talking about Celtic and Rangers. ‘That new player. The Italian fella. He’s at it. Thinks he’s got them all tricked.’ He is speaking louder now. He taps the side of his nose with a finger three times. I expect if he did it once more it would burst like an over-ripe strawberry. ‘Young man’s got them Tally good looks the women go for. Mair fool them, he should be playing for the other side.’

He closes his mouth. I know that look. It means he will need me to buy another newspaper and the price has rocketed.

‘Not my game,’ I answer. ‘All that Old Firm stuff leaves me cold.’ I raise an eyebrow and turn to walk away.

‘Come back and get your news anytime, young man. I’m sure we’ll have other stories to tempt ye.’

I retrace my steps back to the flat and try to unpick the information I’ve just been given. Dan is in a highly visible situation and to pass on his knowledge without raising the suspicion of fellow criminals is key — if he wants to carry on breathing unaided that is. He has therefore developed shorthand. Once you get on his wavelength it’s fairly easy. The title of Brain of Britain won’t be going his way any day soon. But what Dan has got is street smarts and loads of it.

The football was clearly a distraction. Celtic and Rangers are such a part of everyday life in this city that to talk about them is almost like verbal wallpaper to any passer-by. We started talking about gang warfare. He dismissed it. Then the Italian having tricked people. The young man would have attracted female attention. Past tense. Would have. He’s talking about the dead son. Why would the women be fools?

Oh. Right. It all suddenly makes sense. Playing for the other side. The son was gay. So the “Italian” would be code for the gangster. The father of the dead man, a certain Mr Kay. Who has he tricked? Is that to do with the gang stuff? What would be in it for him? Crimes are committed for three reasons; money, sex and power. Make that one thing. With the power comes money and sex.

The sex here is of a different flavour. One that the old man wouldn’t be comfortable with. He’s the old school. To him a gay man would be lower than a pickpocket.

The money involved will be colossal. He could be fighting for control of the city under the guise of revenge.

I wonder whether I should give Daryl and Alessandra a call and pass this info on.

So what, I can hear them say. The dead son is gay. The father is using his death as an excuse to start a war to gain more power in the city. Doesn’t help them bring the case to a close, does it?

Back at the flat, I open up a tin of tomatoes; add some breast of chicken and some herbs and garlic. Boil up some pasta and we have a cheap and delicious meal.

There’s nothing on TV. I flick through the channels. Nothing. If I liked watching so-called celebrities I could gorge on that. They’re doing everything from pretending to fall in love, to driving cars, to eating kangaroo testicles. Some people must be really keen to stay in the public eye. I can’t remember TV ever being this bad. Did someone turn up while I was busy catching criminals and decide that the populace didn’t have a brain cell between them?

At ten-thirty, feeling bloated on desperation, but having been entertained by it in some way for the last few hours, I decide enough is enough and I go to bed.

On the way through to the bedroom I see the book that Maggie posted through the door.
Happiness
is lying abandoned in the hallway. I pick it up to take it to bed with me. The movement forces the pages to flutter open and something falls from the pages.

I bend down to pick it up.

A solitary, white, feather.

‘My name is Derek Boyd and my job is to help you guys …’ the man seated at the desk said to Jim and Angela. He paused and searched the ceiling for the right words, ‘I am here to help you guys deal with the situation you find yourself in. Give you the information you need.’ He pursed his lips and exhaled as if the task was monumental. ‘And how are we, Angela?’

She nodded as if keen to please. ‘I’m fine.’ Her legs were crossed, and her ever-present notebook on her lap, its edges frayed with the effort of containing all the information within.

‘And how are we all coping with things?’ It was obviously just a way into a conversation, but it seemed such a fatuous question Jim wanted to slap him. Instead he answered in the same vein as Angela. ‘Fine. We’re fine.’

He looked at Jim, held his gaze for a moment and sucked on his top lip as if finding him somehow wanting.

‘The meeting today will be short. So that we don’t get too tired. Consider this as a starting point on the journey of reclaiming your memory, Angela. But we don’t want to go too far too soon or we will cause more damage than good. Okay?’ He nodded fiercely in anticipation of a positive response. Jim and Angela complied, nodding back.

‘So, questions?’

Questions. Two syllables deep with possibility. Angela and Jim swapped a look of uncertainty; where do we start? Her eyes pleaded with Jim for some sort of direction.

‘We need some help, basically,’ he said. ‘Angela is tired, confused and feeling more than a little helpless …’

‘I know,’ said Derek, ‘It’s not easy. But we will learn to deal with this and although the light at the end of the tunnel seems to be very far away, it is there.’

His use of the collective “we” was starting to get on Jim’s tits. Ignore it, he told himself. He really was trying to help.

Although he had planned for this meeting and complained that it had taken so long to organise, he wished that it hadn’t happened today. He had enough to think about with Moira. And the message on his answer phone saying that Kirsty was on her way.