Everything She Forgot (13 page)

“The sister's a killer?”

“She's . . . how can I put it . . . the angel of death. When she calls, it won't be far away.”

“How on earth do they get away with it?”

“Well, they have their legitimate businesses. They run a garage on the Shettleston Road: Fix It, I believe it's called.”

“What about George?” said Angus bitterly. “What do you know about him?”

“Big George?” said Don, looking at Angus for the first time. “He's the baby McLaughlin. He's in it up to his neck but only by association. I never heard of George laying a finger on anyone. Some people say he's not all there. He dropped out of school when he was twelve or thirteen or something . . . even before it was allowed.”

“What else do you know about him?”

“George? Not much. I know where he drinks. I know he likes to do a turn—fancies himself as a singer. But he's just one of those laddies that like a drink and an easy life.”

“There's no news on him of late?”

“None? Why do you ask?”

“Well, it's just we had a girl kidnapped up in Thurso.”

“I saw . . . Molly Henderson? They say it could be linked to those other girls, Begg, Martin, and Hardy?”

“Well . . .” Angus licked his lips, ensuring he did not give anything away. “That's the current school of thought.”

“You think the McLaughlins are linked somehow? Believe me, abducting kids is not their business. They're far too busy with extortion and murder to be bothered with something as risky and niche as child abduction.”

“Of course I don't think they're involved,” said Angus. “It was just I was at the Mitchell while I was waiting for you . . .
You know, looking through the Glasgow news, and I saw that family featured quite a lot. It was just out of interest.”

“Aye,” said Don, shaking his head and downing his coffee. “The McLaughlins have had their fair share of infamy.”

“Indeed. I'm always on the lookout for something big, you know?”

“You getting bored at the
Journal
then?”

“Not at all,” said Angus, sitting back with an expansive smile. “We're just always on the hunt for news. You never know where the next scoop is coming from.”

“They're laying off folks at the
Herald
,” said Don, staring into his empty coffee cup and stroking the edges of his mustache.

“Really?”

“Be a laugh if I was applying for a job at the
Journal
soon!” They both laughed nervously and shook their heads and then made movements to go—Don reaching for his umbrella, Angus folding up the sugar sachets he had used and placing them carefully on his saucer.

“Nice to see you again,” said Don, taking Angus's hand and squeezing it.

Angus walked in the fine, soaking rain to his car, feeling a well of excitement burgeoning inside him. He wanted to go back to Thurso immediately, so that he could view again the artist's sketch of the abductor. He wanted to cross-check it with the picture he had copied of George McLaughlin, Glasgow gangster and, Angus now knew, ex-boyfriend of Kathleen Henderson. He had known there was something wanton about Kathleen from the moment she opened the door in her low-cut sweater and pearls. He saw now that Kathleen had invited the devil into her life, some time ago, and now the
devil had taken her child.
Hell mend ye,
as Angus's mother might have said.

Angus got to his car just before his parking tag expired. Everything he had heard reinforced his private thought, that
this
was his scoop. The abduction of Molly Henderson was a story meant for Angus Campbell.

Angus checked his map. It was a straight road from Queen Street station, right along George Street and on to Duke Street. Just ten or fifteen minutes and Angus could be at the McLaughlin garage.

He checked his watch: just before three. He needed to leave Glasgow by five o'clock, six at the latest, if he was to arrive home before the Sabbath.

His stomach tightened with what in a lesser man might have been fear, but Angus knew that true investigative journalists had sometimes to put themselves in danger.

It was his calling. Angus put the car into gear and headed east. On the Shettleston Road, after a supermarket and a dark, bleak stretch of tenement housing, Angus saw what looked like a garage on the left-hand side. It was set far back from the road and fenced in with wire mesh rimmed with barbed wire. He pulled over and strained through the windshield to read the sign: F
IX
I
T
.

Angus got out of his car and squatted on the curb, unscrewing the cap on his back right tire, then pinching the nozzle to let the air escape. He let the tire sink onto the pavement a little, then replaced the cap. He got back in the car and pulled into the garage.

The sun had gone down and Angus felt a chill in the air. He pulled on his cuffs as he walked into the yard. Broken-down
cars were parked on either side but there were no lights on inside the garage, no signs of life, and Angus wondered if they were closing. A large wooden sign read
T
IRES
, R
EPAIRS
C
ARS
B
OUGHT FOR
C
ASH
.

He heard the rasp of metal against metal and turned to see a small man in a boiler suit pulling down roller shutters covered in swirls of graffiti. The man looked over his shoulder as Angus approached but said nothing.

“Hello there,” said Angus, putting his hands in his pockets. “I was wondering if you could help me out? I have a long drive ahead and think I might have a slow puncture.”

The man padlocked one of the shutters and turned to Angus, saying something that he couldn't catch.

“I beg your pardon?”

“We're closing,” said the man; his skin was translucent, wrinkled on the forehead.

“Well, I need to get up north. I just wondered if you could take a look? I have a six-hour drive ahead. It was just to put my mind at rest, y'know?”

The man hesitated, then motioned for Angus to come inside.

“This is your garage?”

“McLaughlins',” said the man, turning to go back inside the shop. He was thin inside his boiler suit.

“And you are?”

“Tam,” the man said, turning.

“Tam McLaughlin?”

“Driscoll.”

Angus followed Tam Driscoll inside.

The garage was small, but there was a ramp and a cupboard-sized office and a display of oils, antifreeze, and car polish. The
walls were stacked with spare parts and old tires, all blackened with car grease.

“All right, bring the car in,” Tam said, without even looking at Angus.

Angus reversed into the garage, then watched as Tam jacked up the car.

“How long do you think it'll take?”

“Shouldn't take long.”

“It's just I have a long drive up north.”

“You said.”

“I came all the way from Thurso.”

“Where's that?” said Tam.

Angus was shocked at Tam's lack of knowledge, but also encouraged. This was the first part of the conversation that Tam had initiated.

“It's right at the very top of Scotland. Have you heard of John o' Groats?”

“Of course, John o' Groats to Land's End.”

“Well, Thurso's only half an hour along the coast from John o' Groats. So I have a fair drive ahead if I want home this evening, and of course . . . tomorrow's the Sabbath.”

Tam raised an eyebrow, glancing up at Angus.

“It's just I'd noticed the tire going down, and . . . just between you and me . . . my spare's bald,” Angus said, putting his hands in his pockets and shifting his weight from one foot to the other.

Tam blinked but said nothing. Another worker came in and went straight into the office. Angus nodded at him, and he nodded back. The man had very blue eyes that Angus found chilling.

After a moment, he hunkered down beside Tam as he pulled the tire off.

“So . . . this place is the McLaughlins' garage?”

Tam nodded, rolling the tire on the garage floor, not looking at Angus.

“
The
McLaughlins . . . as in Brendan, Peter, Richard, and George?”

Tam's nod was imperceptible. Angus was sure that he had assented, but it was too small a movement to be sure.

Angus asked again, “As in Brendan, Peter, Richard, and George?”

“Keep your voice down. What's your fucking problem?” said Tam, dropping the wrench onto the floor of the garage. The sound of metal against concrete echoed in the corrugated iron space.

Angus noticed that the man in the office looked over at them. He had
smelled
this story since the moment he heard about Molly's abduction on his police radio. Now he sensed how potent it was: how far the spores had been dispersed.

Angus crouched down beside Tam again. He wished that he was a smoker and had a cigarette to offer him. Up close, the man smelled of stale tobacco, and Angus knew that a cigarette would have cemented their new relationship as hack and informant. Instead, he used bravado: “What can you tell me about George?”

“What's George to you?”

“You know him?”

“What if I do?”

“Where is he?”

Tam wiped his hands on his trousers and then lifted the tire up, ready to take it out back for checking. “Where is George?” he said, laughing lightly.

Angus did not know Tam, yet his laugh was surprising.

“Where is Georgie Boy?” Tam repeated, grinning and showing his straight but yellowed teeth. Smiling, Tam was almost handsome. “
That
is the magic question.”

“You know him then?”

“I went for drink with him now and then . . .”

“He works here?”

“When he sees fit.” Tam spoke under his breath. “I'll be back in a bit,” he said, very loudly, as if wanting the man in the office to hear. He took the tire out back.

Angus stood stooped with hands in pockets. He dared not approach the man in the office. Instead, he stood waiting for Tam in the open garage, shuffling his feet on the oil-stained concrete.

Tam returned with the tire and then dropped down on his knees to replace it. “Your tire's fine. There's no puncture. I'll blow it up for you. It'll last you the drive no problem and then just keep an eye on it . . .”

Angus bit his lip. The time had passed so quickly and he had not yet got what he needed from Tam.

“I wonder . . .” said Angus, clasping his hands as Tam got to his feet. “Now that I'm here I may as well . . . The car hesitates starting. Saying that, it's been fine for the last few days, but with the drive ahead . . . would you check it?”

“What do you mean, hesitates starting?” said Tam, with wrinkled forehead.

“The engine keeps turning but then finally starts . . .”

“Could be the spark plugs.”

Without another word, Tam opened up the bonnet of the car and leaned over it, black hands spread over the engine. Angus ducked under the bonnet to speak to him.

“I detect from your tone that George is not around at the moment. Has he skipped town?”

“You seem to know more than I do,” said Tam, pulling out and inspecting each of the spark plugs.

“You used to work with him but he's no longer here, correct?” Again Tam nodded imperceptibly.

“You say you used to drink with him. Did he say where he was going?”

“How would I know? Why would he tell me?”

“Did he say anything about a child?”

Tam's face was perhaps the most inscrutable that Angus had ever set eyes upon, but—as a parent, and a husband—he had learned to tell when people were lying. He had learned to read the sly lick of light that caught the eye of the liar. He saw that wink of deception in Tam's eyes, just as he said: “No, nothing about a child . . . This spark plug is pretty bad. Do you want it changed?”

“Please.”

Angus felt a dry hunger at the back of his throat: knowing that he was in Glasgow, having his car fixed by someone who might know where Molly Henderson had been taken and by whom.

He was not a tactile person—not a toucher
—
yet as Tam leaned over the bonnet again, Angus reached out and took his arm and squeezed it. “Are you a father?”

As if commanded by Angus, Tam nodded.

“Do you think it possible that George McLaughlin would have taken a young girl?”

“No,” said Tam, avoiding Angus's eye and continuing with his work.

“You seem uncertain?”

“I'm not uncertain, maybe you are?”

“No, I'm just interested in the facts.”

“Is everything OK, Tam?” the man in the office called out. Angus looked over at him. It wasn't Peter, he was sure, but there was something about the man that made him wary: the tilt of his chin, the cut of his suit, the way he forced his hips forward when he put his hands in his pockets.

“All fine,” said Tam, wiping his hands and raising his voice so that it carried over his shoulder to the man in the office.

“If you know anything . . .” Angus pressed again.

“I know that's you sorted to drive up to Thurso,” said Tam, with a one-sided smile, letting the bonnet slam closed.

Angus took a deep breath. “What do I owe you?”

“I won't charge you for the tire . . . give us a fiver for the plug?”

“Very well,” said Angus, opening his wallet and taking out a twenty-pound note.

“Pay over there,” said Tam, walking away.

Angus approached the cash desk and gave his twenty-pound note to the man behind the counter. He found it hard to look the man in the face, but he was sure that this was the other McLaughlin brother—Richard. He recognized him from the photograph taken on the steps of the High Court.

The man placed fifteen pounds change on the counter in front of Angus.

“Can I have a receipt?” said Angus, raising his eyes, swallowing, and then looking straight at the man.