Random (31 page)

She looked doubtful.

‘Well, the papers say it. That’s true enough.’

‘Strathclyde Polis too. The rest of your lot have no doubt. Seemed quite pleased with themselves. No doubt whatsoever.’

‘Between you and me?’ She had lowered her voice in mock conspiracy. ‘Some of my colleagues are fucking idiots. Believe what suits them.’

That hung between us. So did the voices that said yes and no to me. To give her what she wanted, to run, to finish it. She knew nothing. She couldn’t know.

‘We have been through this, DS Narey. Nothing to do with me. You have followed me. You have interrogated my wife. You have searched my house. You have taken my computer away. Nothing to do with me.’

‘Oh aye. Your computer. Funny thing that. Nothing had been installed or downloaded onto your PC any longer than six months ago yet it was four years old. Never use it much till recently?’

Pause. Just a heartbeat.

‘I had a couple of viruses. Had to wipe the computer to get rid of them.’

‘That must have been very inconvenient.’

‘It happens. Didn’t lose anything important.’

‘Ah you never know what you’ve got till it’s gone. Never know what’s important.’

This bitch was starting to annoy me.

She never took her eyes off mine. Never was going to take her eyes off me.

‘This is fucking harassment.’ I was shouting now. Anger was justified in an innocent man.

‘I’ve told you till I am sick of it. I am not a fucking serial killer. The man who was responsible is dead. Everyone accepts that except you.’

‘Yes, convenient that, wasn’t it? That Imrie wasn’t able to deny being the random killer of six innocent people. Well, five innocent people and Wallace Ogilvie.’

Yes, very convenient, DS Narey. Fuck you. Fuck you. Silent screaming at full blast. Fuck you.

‘Fuck you!’ I was shouting again. ‘It has nothing to do with me if it was convenient for anyone else or inconvenient for you. Leave me alone and go and catch some criminals. That’s what you are paid for.’

She smiled. I so wanted to wipe that smile off her pretty face.

‘You’re right. That is what I’m paid for. Although some of them I’d happily catch for nothing.’

She let that hang there. Challenging me. She knew nothing. She couldn’t know.

‘Go do it then. Come talk to me again when you have something to say.’

‘I’ll do that.’

‘Fine. Now fuck off.’

She looked at me. Those hard brown eyes burrowing into me. She knew something that she couldn’t know.

Then with one last smile, she gave a slight nod, spun on her heels and left me standing there.

As I watched her back disappear into the Merchant City shadows, I knew what had to be done. There was no choice.

Sweet Rachel was too close, too smart, too persistent.

There had to be one more death.

There was a note on the kitchen table saying she would be home by five. Dinner in the fridge if I couldn’t wait. Have it together if I could hang on.

I could wait. I wanted to wait.

All those times that I did anything and everything to avoid sitting here sharing a meal or, worse, a conversation. Now I wanted nothing more than to be here when she came in and to sit with her.

Still didn’t want to talk about Sarah. Still didn’t want to talk about drunk drivers. Still didn’t want to talk about Wallace Ogilvie. Still didn’t want to talk about the so-called Cutter. Didn’t want to reopen ugly old wounds. Wanted to heal some.

All those times I couldn’t talk. About those things or any other. Just couldn’t bear sitting there, being alive. So guilty to be breathing when I failed to protect the one person I was supposed to. That was my job, my duty and I failed.

Had always wanted to suffer that guilt alone. Much easier that way.

My own pain was hard enough to bear without having to endure hers too. Didn’t want her pain adding to or detracting from mine. Enough was enough.

Tonight was different. Needed to speak with her. Needed the time together.

The front door opened at five to five and my heart jumped at the sound of it. Eight strides and she would be in the kitchen. The squeak of the door handle. Turning so slowly. In.

She seemed surprised to see me there. More surprised to see me get out of my chair and head for the fridge.

‘Not eaten yet?’ she asked.

‘Thought I’d wait.’

‘Oh. Right. Well, I’ll put it on then.’

‘It’s OK. I’m getting it. Sit down. You’ve had a long day.’

She slipped her coat off without taking her eyes off me. Wary almost. Hung it on the back of the door with barely a glance at the hook.

I could feel her looking at me as I put the casserole dish in the oven, ready-heated. Knew she was watching me and wondering.

I collected two plates from the cupboard on the wall and fetched cutlery from the drawer. All the time she said nothing. Just watched.

I sat the plates in front of her and took my seat. I didn’t know what I was going to say but I knew I was going to speak first. She deserved that to happen at least once in seven years. Wasn’t easy for me, old habits. This was an effort. Had to hurry or she would talk. Wanted this done right. I spoke.

‘How did your day go?’

She smiled slowly.

‘My day?’

‘Yeah, your meeting with the traffic police. How was it?’

‘It . . . it went really well.’

‘How er, how many of your group went along?’

‘There was about eight of us.’

I was thinking that maybe meant four but didn’t say so. Calling her a liar wasn’t where I wanted to go.

‘Right. Good turnout.’

It wasn’t much but it was enough. She was encouraged to tell me about her whole day and the day before. I listened and asked a couple of questions.

We were still talking about her campaign when the dinner was ready. Maybe it was the break while I served up but she shifted the subject. I guess the campaign had put her halfway there.

‘We were talking about him today. The superintendent knew who I was. Knew all about him and what happened . . .’

I interrupted.

‘So did you get the answer you wanted from the cops?’

‘What?’

‘About the random tests near schools.’

‘They, well, they said they would have to get back to us. Again. Said they’d need to talk to the schools. But the superintendent who knew about him said . . .’

‘I guess they have to make sure the schools are onside or else it isn’t going to work. Don’t you think?’

She either took the hint or else was just happy to launch into a discussion about safety outside schools. She was off and running and it was fully fifteen minutes before she mentioned the killer. Or rather, before she talked about Keith Imrie.

‘I always hated that man for the story he wrote,’ she said out of nowhere. ‘But oh my God, I never thought . . .’ her voice trailed off.

Couldn’t have this conversation. Not tonight. Had to keep those voices out. Had to switch it.

‘Newspapers. Can’t trust anyone in them. Did that guy from the
Herald
ever get back to you about the zero alcohol campaign?’

I knew she couldn’t resist that. A particular bee in her bonnet.

‘No, he hasn’t. I need to phone him again because he . . .’

It was enough. Cheap tactic but necessary. Couldn’t have her going down that road. The gnawing was back in my stomach and I couldn’t feed it further. Needed it to be calm. Needed it to be different.

I listened and manoeuvred. Kept her away from anything that would inflame either of us. All the time resisting the urge that ate away at me. Telling myself I was in control. It was done. It was all but over. One more move. Couldn’t think about that. Control it.

She kept talking as I cleared the plates and filled the dishwasher. Had to change the subject again. Her campaign was the lesser of the possible evils but it was bound to bring talk of Ogilvie and Imrie round again. Wanted more peace than that could possibly offer.

I leapt at an unlikely tangent and brought up our first holiday in Corfu when she was pregnant but didn’t yet know. We’d stayed in a tiny studio halfway up a dirt track but thought it was the height of luxury. She remembered us hiring a moped and me crashing it with her on the back. If we’d known she was carrying Sarah then we’d never have been on it. No harm done though.

We had sat in the town square and watched them playing cricket in blistering heat, sipping a beer and holding hands. We did the Zorba dance in the middle of a restaurant and I was terrible at it.

She laughed at the memory of my dancing and I saw something different in her. Something from a long time ago. The girl that I met in college and took to the Barrowlands to see Teenage Fanclub. The girl that was pregnant less than a year after we met. The best mum, a good-looking, funny, warm person. I’d almost forgotten her. It wasn’t just that I’d stopped looking for that girl, it was also that she’d gone away. She left on the same day Sarah did.

We eased onto the couch as we spoke but not parked on it like bookends as we usually were. Together. I’d moved nearer the middle and she took the hint and slipped in next to me. We must have looked like normal people.

She cuddled into me, a warmth that neither of us had felt for a long time. Mainly my fault. No, mainly Wallace Ogilvie’s fault. Hate flared in me again. Revenge served up but still I raged. She felt it, lifting her head off me to see what was up. I eased her back down, a squeeze of her shoulder to say it was OK.

Needed to keep a lid on it. Had to bury it back inside me. My screaming had to stop for now.

I squeezed her again, more to comfort me than her but she didn’t need to know that. Her soap opera was on the television and she was enjoying the fact I was actually watching it with her. That we were together.

I realized how long it had been since I even touched someone. Something about it didn’t feel right because my hands had been other places, done other things. My dirty hands were liars. Holding her as if they had done nothing wrong, as if they had the right to soothe and comfort.

I’d stopped touching her because I was dead inside. Continued not to do it because I was unworthy of it. Hands that could never be washed clean.

Stop thinking. Leave it.

Just hold her.

She was enjoying it, burying her head into my shoulder as if she had missed it. She seemed at some kind of peace. The voice jumped into my head telling me that she had peace because she was glad I had killed Wallace Ogilvie.

Let it go. Shut it out.

I stared beyond her head, above the TV, into the past and the dark. Pulled her closer and felt that she liked it.

We sat like that, her in my arms until she dropped off to a sleep fuelled by contentment as much as pills. When I knew she had drifted off, I kissed her forehead and ran my fingers through her hair, whispering apologies and explanations to her as she slept. Murmuring my regrets. And things I didn’t regret.

I told her I loved her.

I should really have carried her upstairs and put her to bed. Undressed her and tucked her in, left her safe there, snug in thoughts of Sarah. Instead I eased out from under her, careful not to wake her.

I liked seeing her there, something approaching happy. She cosied into the arm of the couch as if it was me, suddenly looking years younger. Not younger than she was but younger than she had become.

I stood at the open door and looked at her for a while, not thinking anything in particular, just looking. I released the door handle and stepped back into the room long enough to kiss her on the lips. She stirred briefly, somewhere deep inside her, a trace of a smile appearing on her face.

That was more reward than I was due.

It was time to go out. Time for that one final death.

Cineworld in Renfrew Street is the tallest cinema in the world. In 2004 it was voted the least favourite building in Glasgow. Twenty-two escalators. Two hundred and three feet high. Sixty-one point nine metres down.

The view from the ledge at the top was quite spectacular if you took the time to look. Due east and yards below was the Royal Concert Hall, so close you could almost jump to it if you had a mind. A crazy mind.

North and east across the interchange was the Park Inn, red-bricked, modern and ugly.

Further east was the expanse of Buchanan bus station, people flooding in and out from across the city and across Scotland. Tiny scurrying, hurrying people.

Further north. Past the
Herald
where STV used to be, past the passport office and
The Sunday Post
. On and up where Tennent’s brewery sat up on the hill, firing out smoke and beer. And smells that could keep a jaikie drunk for a week.

Behind and to the west snaked Sauchiehall Street. Its end was below me now where it marched into the pedestrianized semicircle in front of the concert hall. The other end was a mile away. Halfway down was where Thomas Tierney cut across my path and became nothing more than a number.