Twenty Twelve (11 page)

The head of Glasgow Social Services sounded very weary. Clem knew how she felt.

‘Good afternoon,’ said Clem. ‘Christian Clement here. I emailed earlier.’

‘Uh huh.’ Her voice was heavy. ‘Is this about Stephen Miggs?’

Clem sat up straight. He hadn’t mentioned any names in his email. ‘That’s right.’

‘I can only tell you what I told your colleague.’

‘My colleague?’

‘Yes, I gave her a copy of the file,’ she said.

Clem couldn’t believe what he was hearing. ‘Could you confirm the name of my colleague, madam?’

‘Jo Connolly,’ she said.

Unbelievable.

My taxi pulls up outside a three-storey house with most of the windows boarded over with metal plates.

‘Arnsdale Place?’ I ask.

‘Aye,’ says the driver.

This is exactly how I imagined Glasgow. As far as the eye can see are houses and tower blocks, each one as grey as the last, punctuated only by small patches of nettles.

My hand wavers over the door handle as I squint out at the graffiti spray-painted across the pavement.

Robo is a cunt
.

Succinct.

A group of boys saunter into view. They wear matching uniforms of nylon tracksuits and scarred cheeks. One is nearly pulled off his feet by a Rottweiler tugging at his chain-link lead.

‘Doesn’t look like anyone lives in there,’ I say.

‘Not necessarily,’ says the cabbie. ‘Windows in Easterhoose get smashed all the time. Council donnae replace them sharpish.’

I don’t get out.

The old man would laugh at my reticence. He grew up on an estate in Toxteth. He shared shoes with his brothers, and his uncles settled their scores on a Friday night after a skinful in the working men’s club.

‘Do you want me to wait?’ asks the cabbie.

‘If it’s no trouble.’ I cough away my embarrassment.

He taps the meter ticking away happily. ‘Nae bother at all.’

I get out, avoid making eye contact with the local welcoming committee and approach the door. This is the last known address Social Services had for Paul Ronald.

I check the numbers at the door. 22c is on the third floor. I press the buzzer. No answer.

I try again, though I’m pretty sure it’s pointless. No one will be living anywhere so derelict.

‘Yeah?’ A voice comes through the intercom.

I’m so shocked, I’m not sure what to say.

‘Is that you, Robo?’ a woman’s voice asks. ‘’Cos if you think you can piss me around again, you’ve got it all wrong, pal.’

I glance down at the graffiti and wonder if this Robo is one and the same.

‘Sorry,’ I say. ‘My name’s Jo and I’m looking for Paul Ronald.’

‘He hasnae lived here since December.’

‘Have you any idea where he moved to?’ I ask.

She doesn’t answer. Instead, an upstairs window opens and a young woman with her hair scraped back in a high ponytail leans out.

I step back and wave up at her. ‘Hi there.’

She looks me up and down. ‘You’re not from round here.’

‘No. I’ve come from London.’

She looks at me again, then at the waiting cab. ‘Hold on,’ she says and slams the window shut.

A second later she appears at the door with a toddler on her hip. He peers at me over a bottle of purple juice clamped to his mouth.

‘It’s kind of you to come down,’ I say.

She scratches a scab at the corner of her lip until a pinprick of blood flowers.

‘What’s it worth?’ she says.

‘Pardon?’

‘What’s it worth to know where Paul is?’

It takes me a second to realise she means money.

‘Twenty quid,’ she says.

‘I’m not sure I can—’

‘Twenty quid or piss off,’ she says. ‘Your choice.’

I don’t have a choice, do I? I take out my purse and peel off two tens, which she snatches out of my hand.

‘Tollcross Cemetery,’ she says and begins to close the door.

‘What?’

‘He OD’d on Christmas Day.’

With that, she bangs the door shut and I hear her muffled footsteps as she tramps back upstairs to her flat.

Rory’s intercom flashes.

When he moved into this flat, it had a buzzer. Rory hated the sound. It made his ears hurt. He replaced the buzzer with an electric light. At first he could only find a red bulb, but Rory hates red. It made him ill so he replaced it with a green one.

He leaves his bank of computer screens and checks the video feed. He likes to see who is at the door. He hates visitors. They make a noise and smell of other things he hates. Like onions. And toothpaste.

He checks the video again. Mistakes can be made. The red bulb was a mistake.

He is now sure it is Ronnie at the door.

Rory likes Ronnie. Ronnie doesn’t say Rory is weird. Ronnie doesn’t say Rory should ‘get out more’. Ronnie doesn’t say very much at all. And both their names begin with R. Which is good.

Rory releases the door and listens to Ronnie climbing the stairs. Seven steps. Ronnie has taken them two at a time.

‘Hey.’ Ronnie nods.

Rory nods back.

Then Ronnie holds out an opened family-size bag of peanut M&Ms. Rory likes peanut M&Ms but he doesn’t take them.

‘No red ones,’ promises Ronnie.

‘Sure?’ says Rory. Mistakes can be made.

Ronnie heads into the kitchen, takes the tray from behind the bread bin and pours out the sweets. Rory checks them carefully. There are approximately seventy-two. No red. He takes the tray, bends from the waist and sucks up an M&M with his lips.

‘So what do you know?’ Ronnie asks.

Rory knows a lot of things. He knows the rate at which bacteria multiply in an open wound. He knows who invented the laser disc. He knows the square root of 676. But that is not what Ronnie means.

He reaches for his logs. There are five laid out, each detailing different information which he notes in strict rotation every twenty-six minutes. He takes the second, which is Ronnie’s log. There are hundreds of entries written in pencil. The time and date is logged next to each of them.

‘Busy,’ says Ronnie.

Rory nods. Of all the thousands of websites, blogs and databases he watches around the world for Ronnie, five have had increased traffic recently.

‘So who’s watching us?’ asks Ronnie.

When Rory was fifteen he would have looked around the room, expecting to find a person watching Ronnie. But he has had a lot of help since then. He has learned about socialisation and interpretation and empathy.

‘Social Services,’ he says, pointing to the relevant records.

Ronnie reads them silently, running a finger under the most recent entries. ‘What about these?’

‘Government,’ says Rory.

It is a
golden rule
that he must never tell anyone that he hacks into the systems of the World Bank, all the major credit card companies, the police, secret services and the government. A golden rule has nothing to do with colour and it is not made of precious metal. It is a rule that can never be broken. If Rory tells anyone what he does, he will be sent to a very bad place. Worse than The Orchard.

‘Who exactly?’ Ronnie asks.

Rory writes down the name of Christian Clement. ‘MI5.’

‘Who else?’

Rory writes down the name Joanna Connolly, Department of Culture, Media and Sport.

Rory is not good with facial expressions. So many different ones. Some of them impossible to decipher. But he recognises Ronnie’s at this moment: surprise.

‘Do you know where she lives, Rory?’

Rory writes down the address and Ronnie scans it.

‘Thanks.’ Ronnie turns to go and Rory panics. He hasn’t been asked a question yet he knows there’s something he needs to tell Ronnie. He bangs the sides of his head with his fists.

‘Hey now,’ says Ronnie. ‘Enough of that.’

Rory bites his lip.

‘Do you have something you want to tell me?’ asks Ronnie.

Rory nods.

‘Is it about MI5?’

Rory shakes his head.

‘Jo Connolly?’

‘Yes.’ Relief floods over Rory. ‘She’s in Glasgow.’

It’s biting cold in the station and I shiver as I watch the departure boards flicker. The next train back to London isn’t for another two hours and there’s no way I can stand here dithering and hopping from foot to foot until it arrives. I toy with buying myself a coffee to warm myself up but my feet are already leading me to the bar of the Station Hotel.

‘What’ll it be?’The barman looks up at me, his face flushed and pockmarked.

I check out the bottles of single malt lining the back shelf. Ordinarily I avoid spirits, but this has been no ordinary day.

‘Glenmorangie,’ I say.

‘Double?’

I nod. When in Rome. Amber liquid slips down in a soothing stream.

‘Fill her up?’ The barman glances at my empty glass.

I look in my purse and discover I’m down to my last twenty. Shelling out for taxis and paying off the girl in Easterhouse has used up all my cash. I’m not going to be able to claim any of this lot back, either.

I put the note on the bar. ‘Why not?’

Refilled glass in hand, I pull out my mobile. The battery’s low and I don’t have my charger. Still, a girl can’t be on call twenty-four-seven, can she? I feel the sting of guilt as I think of the old man not being able to get hold of me. He’s had so many health problems in the last few years. But I tell myself I couldn’t get home any quicker whatever might happen.

I drain the whisky and a wave of fatigue washes over me, seeking out every bone, every joint. Even my teeth feel tired. I’m going to be fit for nothing tomorrow.

The barman eyes me over the craters on his misshapen nose. ‘Looks like you need some shut-eye,’ he says.

My shoulders slump in agreement.

‘I’d bed down for the night, if I were you.’

He’s right. It would be better to stay. Get a good night’s sleep and jump on the milk train in the morning. I’d be at work by ten, ready for anything they throw at me.

My mind made up, I stumble out of the bar to the hotel reception.

‘A single room, please,’ I say.

The receptionist is called Iona. Her brass name badge tells me this as it wobbles on her left breast.

Iona checks the computer and smiles. ‘Will that be cash or credit card?’

Clem threw his wallet and mobile onto the passenger seat, where they bounced off into the footwell. What the hell did Connolly think she was playing at?

Did she think tracking down terrorists was some sort of girl guide adventure? Clem had seen the public school kids in London pretending to be soldiers, doing their drills for the CCF. Did Connolly think this was the same? Just a bit of fun?

He put the key in the ignition and gunned the accelerator. Bang. He’d left the car in reverse and hit the wall behind. Shit. He’d damn well bill Connolly for that when he caught up with her.

He drove out of the car park and was heading to the airport when his phone rang. He glanced down at it, out of his reach, and thanked the lord for Bluetooth.

‘Prime Minister,’ he said.

‘Where are you, Clem?’

The echo told him that the PM had him on the squawk box. He could picture Benning lingering behind him like a bad fart.

‘On my way to Glasgow, sir,’ said Clem. ‘There’s some intel that the outstanding suspect might be up there.’

There was a silence as if the PM did not want to be reminded that an outstanding suspect existed. Sorry, sir, but life doesn’t come neatly gift-wrapped and tagged.

‘Have you spoken to Jo today?’ asked the PM.

There was another little parcel that wasn’t half so tidy as it looked from the outside. ‘I saw her early this morning at the basketball stadium,’ said Clem. ‘I briefed her on Miggs’s death.’

It wasn’t a lie. That was the only time Clem had had contact with her that day.

‘She’s gone off comms,’ said Benning.

Clem grimaced. No wonder Connolly thought she was 007, when everyone around her spoke like they were in a film. ‘Maybe she’s getting her head down,’ he said. ‘She’s had a rough few days.’

‘Absolutely,’ said the PM.

Though of course he had no idea just how rough things had actually been. If the PM ever got wind of what had happened at St Barts, Connolly and Clem would both be for the chop.

‘No doubt you’ll let us know what you discover in Glasgow,’ the PM declared.

‘Of course.’

Clem hung up and pulled into the airport car park. He flashed his ID, skipped security and boarded the plane. The stewardess smiled cautiously as she showed him to his seat in first class. She would have been told he had special clearance, but no more.

He declined a glass of champagne and buckled his seat belt, cursing Jo Connolly.

There were only three other passengers in first class: a couple of businessmen discussing the bond market at full volume, and a young woman, slumped in her seat, her eyes covered by a pair of dark glasses. Clem thought he recognised her. Actress, maybe, or pop star. As the plane lifted into the sky, the businessmen lifted a glass to one another and a deal worth ‘millions’.

Clem growled and snatched up the papers he’d made Mrs McAndrews email to him. Two Social Services files. One for Stephen Miggs; the other for a Paul Ronald. If Clem were in a better mood he would have to give Connolly credit for getting this lot. Particularly the last known address of Ronald. But he wasn’t in a good mood.

When the plane touched down, Clem was allowed off while the other passengers were asked to wait a few more moments. He heard the businessmen tutting behind him and imagined the scowl on the actress-cum-pop star’s face, but he couldn’t give a shit. The stairs had been attached and Clem lumbered down them to the waiting car. Christ, he felt old.

‘Sir.’ The driver stared straight ahead.

It was dusk in Glasgow and rain spat at the windscreen.

‘Easterhouse,’ Clem told him.

The driver nodded and sped away.

When I finally kick off my shoes and flick on the television, a picture of me at the basketball stadium fills the screen. I groan and channel hop, looking for something, anything, that has nothing to do with the Olympics. I settle for a re-run of
Only Fools and Horses
– the episode where Rodney and Del Boy dress up as Batman and Robin.