Driftnet (7 page)

‘Right.’

‘And
Sir...’

‘What?’

‘They were
drinking good whisky, Sir. The Big T, it’s called. Origin, Tomatin
Distillery, Invernesshire.’

The boy, it
seemed, had drunk well before he died on his designer curtain.

Bill looked at
his watch. He’d been told to be home sharp tonight. Margaret had
organised a meal out with her friend Helen Connelly and her
husband. Bill grimaced. How that nice woman had ever ended up with
that man, Bill would never know.

‘I wonder what
crusade he’ll be on tonight,’ he muttered to himself.

Bill scraped
back the chair and stood up, just as the phone went again. This
time it was Janice.

He had been
right, she said. The victim had been a student. James Fenton.
Studying Computer Science at Glasgow University. The people at the
Computing Department recognised him from the photograph.

‘They told the
Constable he hadn’t logged onto the system for the last few days,
Sir. Apparently he was a frequent user before. Spent a lot of his
time there.’

‘Surprise.
Surprise. So, have we contacted the parents?’

‘The mother,
Sir. They’re divorced. The boy lives, lived, with the mother when
he was at home. We’ve contacted the Manchester force. Someone
should be round there by now.’

‘So we didn’t
need the birthmark after all?’

‘Sorry,
Sir?’

‘Nothing,
Janice.’

Janice rang
off, sounding relieved and distressed at the same time. Bill knew
why. Now the boy was real. He had a name, an occupation, a home and
a mother.

We’ll have to
bring the mother up, Bill thought, to identify the body. Some job
that would be. What a world. And he still had a night of Jim
Connelly to face.

When he got
home, Margaret was already dressed for dinner. She glanced at the
kitchen clock, then threw him a look that sent him straight to the
shower. But she must have relented a little, because when he
stepped out of the cubicle there was a glass of whisky deposited by
the sink. He carried it through to the bedroom to find his clothes
already laid out on the bed.

As he dressed,
he could hear Margaret giving last minute orders to whichever of
the kids was going to be around that night. He heard her voice and
what closely resembled a moan following it. Whatever she was
saying, someone didn’t like. She came in, just as he was finishing
knotting his tie.

‘Ready?’

He gave her a
nod.

‘Just as well.
Jim and Helen will be here in a minute to pick us up.’

He pulled a
face but she wasn’t at the jollying stage yet.

‘Just be glad
you’re not driving,’ she said. ‘At least you can take a drink and
relax for a change.’

As he walked
down the garden path, Bill wasn’t surprised to see Helen Connelly
behind the wheel. Jim Connelly wasn’t a man to give up his drink,
even on his wife’s night out.

Helen smiled
out at him, her face slightly concerned. ‘We were worried you might
have to call off at the last minute.’

‘He knows
better,’ Margaret gave his arm a squeeze and Bill suddenly wished
he was going out alone with his wife. It had been too long since
they had sat talking over a meal together. He slid into the back
seat beside her and took her hand and she smiled at him. He would
make an effort for Margaret’s sake.

‘So, Bill.
How’s the murder investigation going?’ Connelly turned round to
look at him.

The man has
been drinking already, Bill decided. His face was flushed, his
voice too loud. Margaret had said Connelly was trying to cut down
on the booze. Helen was getting worried by the quantity of work and
drink her husband seemed addicted to. He doesn’t know how lucky he
is, thought Bill. Helen could have had her pick at university.

Helen smiled in
the rear mirror at him and he felt mean. After all, hadn’t Margaret
said Helen and Jim were happy together? She and Helen had been
friends since their student days. Then they had taught together in
the same Primary School for years, until Margaret left to have the
kids. Helen never had any kids. Maybe that was the problem. Come to
think of it, Connelly treated every newspaper story like his kid.
His baby. The man just didn’t know how to compromise. Much like
himself.

‘You tell me
how it’s going.’ Bill laughed as if he meant it. ‘We both know the
Evening Post is always one step ahead of us.’

‘True,’
Connelly said with a grin. ‘By the way, the guy who owns the flat
you found the boy in? We found some stuff on him a couple of years
back. We had no proof so we didn’t use it.’

‘Oh?’ Bill
tried to keep the interest out of his voice. One thing he had to
say about Connelly, the man was hellish good at ferreting out
information. He had been responsible for lifting the lid on a
number of criminal activities in the past. Ever since their
university days together, when Connelly had filled the student
newspaper with tales of corrupt landlords and student grant scams,
he had been able to sniff out a story. His methods were
unconventional and irritating, but Bill had to admit, he had his
uses.

‘I’ll send you
the information over, if you like,’ Connelly was saying, ‘without
the contact name of course.’

‘Of
course.’

Bill was not
going to rise to the bait. He turned and smiled serenely at
Margaret. If things didn’t go well tonight, it wouldn’t be his
fault.

But Connelly
wasn’t finished yet.

‘I’m working on
a piece just now that might interest you.’

‘Really?’ Bill
was almost certain the damned man licked his lips.

‘All about
Freemasons and the police force.’

Bill had
difficulty controlling his voice. That was the last thing he wanted
to hear about, even if the Super was one.

‘No use talking
to me about that, Jim. The Freemasons don’t let Catholics in,
lapsed or otherwise.’

Margaret nudged
him in the ribs.

‘Enough!’ Helen
was shouting in exasperation. ‘Haven’t you two got anything else to
talk to one another about except work?’

No, thought
Bill silently, that was the problem.

By the time
they reached the Italian restaurant, Bill had already had enough of
Jim Connolly. Tonight’s topic was to be the Freemasons and their
infiltration and corruption of the police force, whether he liked
it or not.

But as things
turned out, the food was good and the women, at least, talked
sense. They were at the coffee stage when things began to
deteriorate. Margaret and Helen disappeared to the Ladies and left
Bill alone to defend the force again.

‘So you see,
Bill,’ Connelly was saying seriously.

Bill wondered
if you could get thrown out of an Italian restaurant on Sauchiehall
Street for hysteria.

‘They’re
everywhere,’ Connelly announced, looking about him. ‘Got a finger
in every pie.’ He poked the table with his forefinger, then raised
it and pointed at Bill. ‘Including your little lot.’

Connelly
finished his pronouncement with a wave at the waiter for another
whisky. Bill had lost count of the journalist’s intake. Bill was at
least three behind him. Doubles at that. If Connelly was cutting
down on the drink, it certainly wasn’t tonight, he thought. And, I
hate this air of boys together he’s using. He shook his head at the
suggestion that he might like another whisky but Jim Connelly had
gone past the point of listening to anyone except himself.

When the
glasses arrived this time, there was a bottle with them.

‘Tasted this
one before?’ Jim turned the bottle so Bill could read the label.
‘Tomatin. The Big T. 12-year-old blend. Difficult to get. I
acquired a few bottles from an acquaintance of mine. Maybe you know
him. Judge McKay?’

Bill shook his
head at both the whisky and the name and wondered if Judge McKay
was a Freemason or whether he was just helping Jim Connelly with
his enquiries.

‘I think he was
hoping I would keep my mouth shut about his Freemason connections,’
Connelly said, tapping his nose.

Bill had his
answer.

‘You two ready
to go?’ Helen had appeared behind her husband. ‘It’s getting
late.’

‘Sure?’ Bill
stood up.

‘Our treat. Eh,
Helen?’ Connelly said, his voice slurred.

Bill caught
Helen’s eye. ‘You can settle with Margaret later,’ he said, and she
nodded. When he went over to the cash desk, she came with him.

‘Thanks,’ she
said.

‘What for?’

‘You know. Not
losing the head at him. He can be a pain in the neck when he’s
involved in a story. Investigative journalism, he calls it.’

‘I’m much the
same myself. Ask Margaret.’

She smiled at
him. ‘This murder enquiry, have you found out who the boy was
yet?’

‘As a matter of
fact we have. The mother will know by now, and the Evening Post
too, I expect.’

‘Jim’ll go in
after this, you know.’

Bill smiled
sympathetically at her, wondering how often Margaret had said the
same thing about him.

The car was
silent on the way back. Helen concentrated on the road. Margaret
leaned against him, her eyes half closed. Connelly seemed lost in
thought. When they reached the house, Bill thanked Helen for a good
night, thinking Connelly was asleep. He wasn’t. When they got out,
he rolled down the passenger window and called after them as they
went up the path.

‘Judge MacKay
is a good friend of Sir James Dalrymple, you know. And Sir James
plays golf with your Superintendent... Cosy, isn’t it?’

Bill lifted his
hand in a wave, as the car took off. The trouble was, Connelly was
probably right. Well, good luck to him. If he was brave enough to
lift the lid on the upper echelons of the police force, he was a
braver man than most.

Chapter 8

Chrissy moved
from one foot to the other to kill the cramp. Apart from having
cramp in one leg and wet feet, she was also pissed off. The guy
she’d spoken to had told her to wait here for him, he would only be
five minutes. That had been fifteen minutes ago. Three cars had
slowed down beside her and one had stopped and offered her twenty
quid for a blow job. When she shook her head the man upped his
offer to twenty-five.

So, she
thought, there was another job where you got to examine as much
semen as you liked. And definitely better paid.

Chrissy pulled
her jacket tighter across her chest and stuck her hands in her
pockets. Late May or not, it was cold out here. She decided she
would give the guy five more minutes then she was off. Easy money
or not.

When he
appeared round the side of the building, he nodded at her to walk
beside him and took off down a side street. The street lamps were
coming on, glossy red against the grey night. Chrissy tried to keep
up with him, but he was walking fast and she was always a step
behind. His collar was up, his hands in his pockets too. It seemed
this way of walking was compulsory round here.

It was funny
meeting Neil MacGregor, here of all places. Chrissy hadn’t seen him
since school, or since he last went to school. And that had been a
long time ago. She had been a year ahead of him in Secondary, but
she knew him. Everyone did. He was the bane of his form teacher’s
life, she remembered. Poor Miss Smith had spent a lot of time
trying to get him to come back to school, but she hadn’t succeeded.
Then he disappeared from home too. Chrissy’s mum said his father
had thrown him out of the house.

‘In here,’ Neil
said.

The close door
was off its hinges, slammed back against the wall. There was dog
dirt on the step and he pushed her out of the way of it and nodded
to her to follow him up the stairs. The stair lights weren’t
working and Chrissy had to hold onto the banister and keep looking
up, where faint street light seeped in through the cupola. His
place was on the third floor and when he opened the door they were
both relieved to get inside.

The front door
opened on to a small hall which led into a long room with a window
at the end. Chrissy expected the room to be a mess and was
embarrassed to find she was wrong. There was a double bed at one
end. The wall nearest the door held a couch (sloping slightly), a
chair, a telly and a stereo. It was better than the room she had at
home, she thought.

He locked the
door behind her and Chrissy had a sudden thought that she was
stupid coming in here with him, alone. But when he turned to face
her, he had that same old grin on his face, as full of cheek as
ever.

‘Funny,’ he
said, taking off his jacket and hanging it on a peg at the back of
the door. ‘I always wanted to shag Chrissy McInsh. All the time we
went to school together.’

‘I was the only
one you didn’t shag.’

He laughed. It
was true. Everybody, except Chrissy and Miss Smith. Even Chrissy’s
pal Irene succumbed in the end. Irene thought she could change
Neil, just like Miss Smith. But she was wrong. No one could change
Neil. Chrissy wondered if the teacher had known that all the girls
fancied Neil.

‘Still as
tight-arsed as ever?’ Neil was asking.

‘Aye.’

He laughed and
nodded at her to sit down on the sloping couch. Then he went
through to the kitchen that led off the living room and brought
back two glasses.

‘Vodka?’ he
said.

‘And
orange?’

‘Get
fucked!’

‘Not by you,’
Chrissy said firmly.

Neil laughed
again and unbuttoned his shirt and Chrissy saw the weals on his
neck. His hand followed her eyes and he rubbed at the healing
skin.

‘Fucking old
queer,’ he said sitting down beside her. Somewhere below them the
left leg of the couch slid nearer the floor. ‘Funny eh?’ he said.
‘I used to be the one doing the shagging.’ He threw back the glass
and let the clear liquid slide down his throat.