Lawless (6 page)

‘That wasn’t the way the court saw it, Mr Gilzean.’ McBride was trying hard to reconcile sympathy with realism. ‘Looked at from their point of view, one and one makes two and two makes guilty.’

Gilzean slowly shook his head. ‘I’m not stupid. I can put myself in their place but they were wrong. If you don’t believe Bryan is innocent, what are you doing here?

It was the best question of them all. McBride did not respond and the silence was broken only by the soft whirring of the recorder. Eventually, he switched it off, smiled and said, ‘Fair point. But I have been known to be wrong.’ He rose from his seat. ‘I’d best head back before I get snowed in.’

Gilzean seemed reluctant to break off the conversation. He pushed himself slowly to his feet, starting to speak but hesitatingly. ‘Of course – I’ll get your coat.’ He took a step towards the door into the hall but turned to face McBride again. He spoke haltingly. ‘Will you go to see Bryan? I can easily arrange it. Maybe he’ll convince you. He’d be extremely happy to see you – extremely.’

He looked eagerly at his visitor. ‘It would mean a lot to him – me too.’

McBride reached out and put a soft hand on Adam Gilzean’s arm. ‘I’d be delighted,’ he said quietly. ‘In fact, I was going to suggest it. Just fix it up and give me a ring with the details.’ He wrote in his notebook and tore a page out, handing it to the pleased man by his side. ‘That’s my mobile. It’s never switched off.’

They shook hands as they parted and Gilzean held his grip. ‘I’m very glad you came, Mr McBride. You’re making me feel hopeful for the first time in more than three years.’

The snow had gone off, the heavy sky giving way to a sharpness of light that world-traveller McBride only ever experienced in Scotland – and the further north he went, the brighter it seemed to become. He stood by the car door and sucked in the panorama extending before him. At the bottom of the hill, beyond the white roofs of Monifieth, the River Tay sparkled as it joined the North Sea. Behind their seamless junction, the sands of Kinshaldy Beach, where he used to run, lay untouched by snow.

He took in the scene for several minutes and, for the first time since arriving back from London, asked himself why he had left the area. His fingers curled round the tape recorder in his pocket, the way a child clutches a security blanket. It didn’t really matter that he knew the reasons. It wasn’t an occasion for logic.

He at last got into his car and thought that, like his arrival, Adam Gilzean had probably watched his departure performance with curiosity. He thought about that too for a few moments and came to the conclusion that the man whose son was languishing in Perth Prison had undoubtedly also gazed out over the vista in contemplation many times.

It was only when he arrived back into the centre of Dundee that McBride remembered what he had been trying to forget, that it was Christmas Eve.

In City Square, the town’s official tree blazed with light in the falling darkness, doing its best, but not quite succeeding, to overcome the handicap of being positioned behind a pavilion of fairground dodgem cars that no one was using. Last-minute shoppers scurried between stores, their hands full of panic-purchase presents and their feet sodden by the slush banked up on the pavements.

He looked at their tight, impatient faces and smiled to himself, knowing it would be the same in every city in the country at that moment – it was the part of the one day of the year when the last thing on anyone’s mind was peace on earth and goodwill to men. That altruism only started to kick in later the same night when the shopping was finally over and the living-room curtains had been pulled shut to wrap families together in a warm glow of seasonal togetherness.

McBride once adored the time and the promise it held. Now all he hoped for was its swift passing and, with it, the memories of the last day on earth of Simon, the most magical little boy who had ever been born.

After the accident, neither he nor Caroline could find the courage to open or dispose of the early Christmas presents they had bought for their son. They lay unopened under the tree at home for six weeks before they took the tree down. The presents, still in their shiny Santa Claus wrappings, were put away in the attic, to be dealt with at some future time that never came. As far he knew, they were still in the same state in Caroline’s new attic.

When McBride made his way to the Apex Hotel, the office Christmas lunch parties were in full swing though it was now closer to teatime. He watched the procession of inebriated women weaving back and forth through reception and, not for the first time, he wondered why the opposite sex appeared to think they could really only dress up if they removed as many clothes as possible. He decided the same principle probably applied at The Fort on Christmas Eve and resolved to go there that evening. With luck, he would find distracting company.

His instincts didn’t let him down. The bar had been jammed since lunchtime and, whenever a group departed, the same number were admitted from the queue outside. Most of the women, indoors and out, were semi-naked and most of the little they did wear was black. That was another thing about celebrating ladies – they always wanted to dress up in the same colour they used for funerals. The species created a lot of discrepancies in logic but that was what made them interesting – that and their other differences.

John Black was too busy making money to chat so McBride searched for a face that might be even remotely familiar. One spotted him first. ‘Campbell, Campbell …’ a voice called out from a column of bodies blocking his way to the bar. A hand lifted up at the second shout of his name and McBride detected who was trying to attract his attention.

It was not someone he recognised at first. He squinted through the mob at the smiling man beckoning at him and tried to imagine more hair of a different colour on the balding head and fewer double chins on the purple face. Even then, it took him several moments to identify Daniel Ford, a court reporter on the
Evening Telegraph
and the undisputed bore of the journalistic community twenty years earlier. At that time, Ford was universally shunned by every reporter in town, except those in search of a cure for insomnia. He was teetotal but had an overwhelming addiction – to himself. He hung around bars for no other reason than to discuss Daniel Ford and to offer his views on the topics on which he was an expert, which was every subject in the universe. The passage of time had not changed matters.

He squeezed through the rows of revellers to arrive at McBride’s side. ‘On your own?’ he said by way of welcome, adding, unsurprisingly, ‘Me too.’

McBride resisted the temptation to pretend he was someone else. ‘Didn’t recognise you at first, Dan,’ he said. ‘How’s business?’

The figure moved closer, his halitosis forcing McBride to edge backwards. ‘Good, good,’ he replied. ‘What about you? Just written a book, I see. Selling well?’

Before McBride could offer a reply, the man, who did not understand humility, launched into an instant follow-up. ‘Funny you should have done a book. I’ve been contemplating one for years. Folk keep telling me that with all my experience of life in the courts – and in general, of course – that I’m capable of a best-seller. What do you think? They’re probably right, actually. As a journo yourself, you know we get around a bit – maybe me and you more than most others. Do you think I should give it a go? The more I think about it, the more I’m beginning to realise it’s the thing to do.’

McBride had glazed over. Even the forest of hair sprouting from both of Ford’s nostrils had ceased to transfix him. He knew all that was required was an occasional appreciative nod. His mind turned to the time he’d been in The Fort with Richard Richardson and he interrupted Ford’s incessant flow. ‘Do you see anything of Double Dick these days? I met up with him the other night but he seemed a bit subdued. Are things OK with him?’

Ford shrugged a shoulder. ‘Women problems. Fell out badly with one, I believe. God knows why. But it seems to have set him back. That’s one of the reasons I don’t get involved with them – in the end they just give you grief. Me? I prefer male company – not that I’m queer or anything, you understand. It’s just that you get more conversation out of a guy. We have more to say to each other.’

He droned on, impervious to McBride’s total disinterest in his self-obsessed monologue. After half an hour and at the point where McBride was about to remember a pressing appointment elsewhere, the
Evening Telegraph
reporter spotted another target across the bar. He interrupted himself in mid flow to call out the newcomer’s name. ‘Andy,’ he shouted over the heads of the two rows of drinkers between them. Andy was too late in trying to make himself look invisible. Before he could vanish into the throng, Ford had begun pushing his way towards him.

‘Sorry, Campbell,’ he said as he departed, ‘must go – haven’t seen Andy in ages. Been great getting all your news. We’ll need to meet up again and I’ll give you an update on what’s been happening in my world. Give me a ring at the office sometime soon and we can fix up to eat together.’

McBride barely nodded, knowing his lack of enthusiasm would not register with Daniel Ford and that he could never be hungry enough to want to share a table with the hairy-nosed journo.

He was contemplating his next move when a woman’s voice broke in at his elbow. ‘Excuse me,’ it said, ‘are you Campbell McBride? Did you write that book?’

McBride turned to find a small blonde smiling up at him. She held a drink in one hand and a half-eaten sandwich in the other. She was early thirties and over-rounded but attractive if you liked women with too much make-up. Her perfume was unspectacular and revived distant memories of an interesting, if unemotional, encounter with a hotel receptionist in Barcelona but at least she’d made the effort.

‘The very same,’ he replied, fixing her with a worked-at admiring gaze. ‘If we’ve met before it had to be in heaven.’ He was almost ashamed at dredging that one up but it was Christmas, the mood was easy and there wasn’t a female alive who didn’t like a bit of flattery, even when it was from the Stone Age.

She yawned mockingly, giggling at the same time. ‘No. It was in Waterstone’s. I saw you signing books. Actually, I bought one a few days later as a Christmas present for my dad. If I’d known I was going to bump into you, I’d have brought it with me for a signature.’

They spoke for another hour and that was as serious as the conversation got. Her friends in black dresses called her a groupie and she laughed. Then she took McBride back to the flat in Craigiebank where she lived by herself.

He didn’t ask why she was also alone on Christmas Eve or why her tidy, anonymous apartment contained so little evidence that it was the festive season. He didn’t care. The last thing he wanted to do was to open up her particular can of worms when he had demons of his own.

His selfishness extended to his performance in bed. He took what he wanted and, after claiming his moment of satisfaction, his instinct was to go as swiftly as politeness would allow. However, he stayed – not out of consideration but because the soulless room in the Apex was a worse alternative. So he made a weak joke about it not being quite the time of the year for a second coming, embraced her briefly, then turned on to his side, trying to convince both of them that he had fallen asleep.

The next morning the strangers observed the ritual of a breakfast that consisted of coffee without milk or meaningful conversation. McBride, feigning the need to deal with some urgent business back at his hotel, declined the offer of a shower and dressed quickly. At the door on the way out, he held the woman whose name he was struggling to remember in his arms and squeezed her gently.

‘That was a great night,’ he said with as much sincerity as he could muster. ‘Thanks for everything – really. Give me your number and I’ll ring you before I leave town.’

She scribbled quickly on a scrap of paper on the table in the hallway. ‘My pleasure – any time. Hope the book goes well. The name’s Carol, by the way.’

Then they remembered at the same time what day it was. ‘Merry Christmas!’ they said in unison.

McBride was halfway down the garden path before the significance of his bed-mate’s name hit him and he wondered whether she was being serious or had more wit than he gave her credit for – not that it made any difference either way.

It took McBride less than an hour to realise that the only thing worse than spending Christmas Day with the wrong person was to celebrate it alone.

He’d given up trying to find an available cab and, as he made his way on foot back to the Apex, every house he passed seemed to be packed with happy families. The only people out walking were couples in their party clothes, arms linked and carrying bags heavy with parcels, as they made their way to share company with those behind the brightly decorated windows.

McBride turned off the main road and crossed into the dock area where the only pedestrians he would be likely to encounter would be far-from-home seamen, who did not celebrate Christmas, making their way to and from ships. It lengthened his journey but shortened the time he had to kill.

Back in his hotel room, he changed out of the clothing of the night before, conscious of how strongly it smelled of mediocre perfume. Then he showered, dressed again and called reception to ask for his evening meal to be sent to his room in a few hours’ time. There was not the kind of money on earth that would have persuaded him to sit at a solitary table surrounded by laughing hordes in party hats pulling Christmas crackers.

He left the hotel immediately afterwards and drove purposefully away from the empty city centre, taking a route that was familiar but which he hadn’t followed for a handful of years. He journeyed for thirty minutes before pulling up at the gates to a park. McBride sat in contemplation for a moment then walked inside. After a hundred yards, he halted at a deserted children’s play area. He gazed vacantly at the frost-covered roundabout and climbing apparatus. Then he sat on a swing, pushing himself gently back and forward, his eyes still directed at his surroundings but seeing the past.