A Suitable Lie (31 page)

‘T
ell me about Ken Hunter,’ Karen said when we got in the car.

‘I’ve known him for years,’ I replied. ‘If we’d had a yearbook at school on those days, he would have been the one voted most likely to turn serial killer. He was the kid who’d pull the wings off wasps, drown kittens or…’

‘I’m getting that you don’t like the man, Andy, but if you want to direct the police away from Jim and you, you need to give us something more concrete.’

‘But Jim confessed…’

‘Something’s fishy,’ she said. ‘Doesn’t quite make sense. If they have his confession, why are they trying to bait you?’

I shrugged.

The rain that threatened while we were in the garden, stepped up its efforts. It drummed on the roof and washed against the car windows, turning the world outside our metal shell into a rinse of colour.

‘You should drive off,’ Karen said as she looked out of her window towards the two detectives, who had been studying us in the car.

‘Let’s wait a moment. See if they stay there and get soaked.’

She laughed. And the note her amusement sounded was a reminder that beyond this painful drama there was living, and life.

I started the engine and pulled away from the kerb. As I drove I filled Karen in on Ken and Sheila’s marriage. Ken’s attempt to woo Anna when she arrived in town and, with reluctance, I told her about the night I attacked him in Billy Bridges.

‘Was Hunter charged for his attacks on Sheila?’

‘Why would that matter?’

‘He’d be in the system. Easier to compare his DNA. And there would be evidence of a habit of violence.’

I searched my memory. I could remember Sheila taking time off and coming back to work, but couldn’t think of her talking about any repercussions.

‘I saw the mess she was in afterwards. Surely he wouldn’t have got away with it?’

Karen crossed her arms. ‘You’d be surprised. We are getting better, but domestic violence cases are difficult to process. And at times it’s because the victim withdraws their support for the case…’

‘As I said, I saw the mess Sheila was in and how determined she was to turn her life around. I find it hard to believe that she wouldn’t want to see him get his just desserts.’

‘But you don’t remember if he went jail or anything like that?’

‘No.’

She made a face.

I fell silent as I considered the implications of this. I remembered sitting in Sheila’s living room and seeing the look of determination on her face. She would not let this man ruin her life. So wouldn’t that mean she would ensure he feel the full effect of the law?

Did he still have some sort of hold on her?

When I was in her garden earlier and we spotted the cigarette ends, I didn’t get the impression she was scared of him. She was calm and relaxed when his name came up. Perhaps not completely relaxed: she did get defensive, protective even.

What the hell was going on with those two?

Or was I just overthinking things?

B
ack at my mother’s house, I parked behind Karen’s large, black Vauxhall. Handbrake applied, I turned to her.

‘Thanks,’ I said. ‘I couldn’t have done that without you.’

‘Just doing my job, Andy.’ She smiled her support.

‘Could I have just another five minutes of your time, please?’ I asked. ‘Mum is out of her skin with worry.’

Karen looked at her watch. Looked over at the house.

‘I’ve…’ she began, but stopped as if she’d seen something.

I followed her gaze to see Mum walking with purpose, down the path towards the car. Her arms were crossed tight against her midriff as if they might help hold everything together. Her face was pale, her brow sliced with furrows. She looked as if she had aged ten years in the last ten hours and guilt scored a line across my heart.

We got out of the car and I walked round to the boot for the suitcase and pulling it out, rested it on the pavement.

‘Mrs MacPherson,’ I heard Mum say. ‘Do you have a minute before you head off?’

‘How can I help?’ Karen replied.

‘I need to speak to my son.’

‘You should be able to get access through the police,’ Karen said, her head cocked to the side with a question.

‘He refuses to talk to me.’ Mum reached Karen’s side and stood there, twisting her fingers the way she might wring out a damp washcloth.

‘In that case there’s not a lot I can do, Mrs Boyd.’

‘He won’t see you?’ I asked.

Mum looked at me, her face full of anguish. ‘Why wouldn’t he want to speak to me?’

I could only shrug.

I turned to Karen. ‘Any chance you could find out what’s going on in his head?’

‘I’ll see what I can do.’ With that, she walked to her car, stepped inside and drove off.

I watched her car for as long as I could. I didn’t want to look in my mother’s face and see her hurt and fear. Not only that, as Karen left I felt myself unravelling. I needed her calm presence to keep me centred. I was supposed to be the mainstay that grounded everyone around him. I was worried that I was instead becoming the rock on which everything floundered.

I felt Mum’s hand land light on my forearm, as if she was frightened she might scare me off.

‘Andy…’

I stepped back from her and from the realisation I had nothing in that moment to give

‘Andy, I think I know why Jim did it.’

‘What?’ I looked at her as if seeing her for the first time. Her face was almost unrecognisable in her anguish.

‘Can’t you see? He’s trying to protect you and the boys.’

‘What on earth do you mean, mother? Protect us? From what?’

‘Can’t we do this inside? People are watching.’ Her eyes darted from house to house, checking to see if this was indeed the case.

‘Mum, tell me what you’re on about.’

‘If you … If you did it…’

‘What?’ I shouted.

‘Then you’d be put away for years and the boys would lose their mother and their father. He doesn’t want that to happen. He’d do anything for those kids.’

‘You think I actually killed Anna? Jim thinks I killed Anna?’ I was incredulous.

‘You were under terrible stress, son. People do terrible, terrible things under those circumstances…’

I could see she was lost. Nothing made sense, even the words that were coming out of her own mouth. As she was saying them, I could see the thought in her mind.
I’m trying to explain murder?

‘Mum, let be me clear…’ I bent over so that I was at eye level with her. ‘I did not kill Anna. Okay? It wasn’t me.’ I straightened up. Looked around me as if something, anything, in the air around me would make sense.

Mum actually thought I was guilty?

‘This is…’ I ran my hand through my hair. There wasn’t a word to describe how messed up this was. ‘Can you give me some time, Mum? I can’t…’ I looked down at her. ‘… I can’t.’ With a look that I prayed might impart how lost I was and how much I needed some space on my own, I got in my car and drove off.

One by one I ticked off in my head all the places that normally offered the stillness that eased my spirit. In the days and weeks after
Patricia died I had made for the wind and sand on Ayr beach as if the energy there would scour the wounds from my heart. Other places helped, like the River Doon and Craigie Woods.

Now, I parked at each of those places in turn, sat in the car and studied the people around me as if they held some key. As if they had what I ached for. Peace. Stillness. An answer. They wore it like certainty, whereas the only thing I was sure of was that my life was an unholy mess.

At the River Ayr, on the cobblestone paving at the foot of the Auld Brig I saw a familiar figure. She was barely five feet tall, dressed in a grey sweatpants and a red-and-white striped sweater. Her long grey hair was gathered at the nape of her neck and looked to have the texture of a brillo pad. She was bent at the waist as if there was a broken hinge there.

Pat called her the Swan Lady. She was an often-seen figure down here. She would borrow a shopping cart from one of the supermarkets and ask them to fill it with stale bread. Once she judged she had enough, she would push the cart through the town, taking the bread to feed the swans that lived under the bridge. Her progress through the streets was as stately as a mad queen: no doubt hampered by the fact that she couldn’t straighten her back.. There was an eccentricity about her that warmed me. What I would give to be able to switch off from everything and be guided by the notion that all I needed to do was to gather the loaves and feed the birds.

But my respite was fleeting.

Worries clustered around my head the way a scrum of gulls hovered over the feeding swans, waiting to dive with sharp beaks, bullies in their greed for crumbs.

Anna. Jim. Mum. Pat. Ryan.

All of them needed me and I’d let down every each of them in turn.

Jim had confessed because he thought I did it?

Just a couple of hundred yards away, up the hill and past the back door to the Carnegie Library, was the local police headquarters,
where my brother sat in a cell, waiting for Monday morning and an appearance in front of the local Sheriff.

From there he would be taken to Barlinnie Prison, or the Bar-L as it was known, until the trial began.

I had to see him. I had to find out what the hell was going on in his head.

T
he duty officer at the police station was stiff in a starched white shirt. Sleeves rolled up to display ropy muscular forearms. Her smile was perfunctory. It said, I’ve seen my share of arseholes today; don’t you be another one.

I explained what I wanted.

She nodded towards the seating area behind me. Red bucket chairs flanked by six-foot tall plastic plants. ‘Take a pew. I’ll go and see what the score is.’

I did as she asked and sat beside a lad in a black tracksuit and matching baseball cap. He was as thin as the leg of a standard lamp and sharp in profile. Three points; nose, chin and adam’s apple.

‘Aye,’ he mumbled. ‘She was nice to
you
. Wouldn’t gie me the time of day.’

‘That was her being nice?’ I asked and leaned forward, elbows on knees, hoping that would be the extent of our conversation.

The duty officer returned to her desk.

‘They’ll no be long,’ she said to me across the reception area. Her eyes met mine for less than a second before she went back to working on whatever she was doing before I rudely interrupted her.

‘See what I mean,’ the boy said. ‘It’s like I’m no here.’

‘Maybe, instead of moaning about it you should go up and see what’s what?’ My version of brotherly advice.

He blew out of the side of his mouth and crossed his arms. ‘Aye, right. She’s scarier than my ma’.’

Having exhausted my willingness to interact with the boy I sat upright in my chair, crossed my arms, and my feet at the ankles.
Taking the message, he shifted his buttocks so that he was facing away from me.

Time passed.

A woman came in and approached the desk. The duty officer heard her out, went back to her desk and returned with a piece of paper. The woman took it and left.

Another three people came in and this process was repeated.

With a huff, I got to my feet and approached the desk.

‘Mind if I ask how long it will be?’ I said.

‘It will be as long as it will be,’ she replied.

‘Like the string,’ I said.

‘Exactly.’

‘And how long is the string?’ I asked, feeling a stir of irritation.

‘Sir,’ she stood up, ‘this is a working police station. We don’t work on an appointment system. Nobody asked you to come down here. Take a seat and someone will be with you as soon as they can.’ She cocked her head to the side in an,
am I understood
motion.

I sat down. And just as my buttocks reached the curved plastic of the seat a door opened to the side of the reception area. Out walked Holton and Bairden.

‘Must be our lucky day,’ said Holton. ‘Were you missing us already?’

‘I’d like to speak to my brother.’

‘He’s helping us with our enquiries,’ said Bairden.

‘Nonetheless, it would be good if I could talk to him.’

‘Am I talking in Swahili?’ Bairden looked to the side and his partner. Then back to me. ‘It’s not happening, Mr Boyd. Why don’t you go back home to your mother’s and look after those two wee boys?’ He smiled. ‘While you still can.’

I took a step towards him. Hands in fists hanging low by my sides. Anger was a black-blue surge in my mind. Sharp and urgent like a heated knife. I was storing so much fucking anger and it needed a way out.

Holton stepped in between us, placed his right hand on my chest.
‘Mr Boyd, go home.’ His voice was low, his tone professional. ‘You being arrested for a breach of the peace isn’t going to help anyone, is it?’

‘But my brother…’

‘Mr Boyd, go home. You’re not helping anyone here.’

‘But…’

‘Home,’ he stretched out his right arm and pointed at the door, as if he was on point duty at a road accident.

‘Leave him,’ said Bairden. ‘I’d be delighted to lock him up.’

‘Prick,’ I said, more loudly than I intended to, and felt the hot, white surge of satisfaction.

Holton grabbed my wrist. I pushed him off me, lashing my arm round with more force than was needed.

In less than a blink, I was on the floor, on my stomach, my right arm twisted behind my back and someone’s knee between my shoulder blades. I tried to struggle against being pinned, but could only move my feet. I kicked out. And again.

‘Hey, I saw everything, mate,’ the guy with the baseball cap shouted over. ‘If you want compensation, I’m your man.’

‘Shut up, Leckie,’ said Holton. Then to me. ‘I’m going to let you up now, Mr Boyd, but if you feel this …’ he applied some pressure to the hold he had on my wrist and pain flared ‘… you’ll see that if you don’t calm down I can easily restrain you again.’

The words reached my brain through the fog of anger. I heaved at the air, willing oxygen into my lungs. I could only concede that he was right. I was in no position to fight here. Nor was I helping my cause.

‘Do you understand me, Mr Boyd?’ Holton asked.