A Taste for Malice (29 page)

The bed is bare. It’s simply a mattress on top of a wooden frame. The far side of it is lined by a blue, velour three-seater sofa. A dark brown table has been pushed against the window and four chairs sit round it. None of them match the other.

Another, smaller table is pushed against a different wall. There are three chairs around it. The next wall has two wardrobes pushed against it. Both have double doors. Both are different colours of wood. This is more like a storeroom than a bedroom.

I assess what I’ve seen of the flat so far. There are another four doors leading off the hall. One must be the kitchen and one the toilet. The other two might be for tenants. Which means this is where Mr Connor lives.

It takes me a second to realise what’s missing. Apart from a TV, of course. It’s the clutter. There are no ornaments, no plants, no pictures or paintings.

He’s still standing in front of me. His expression suggests he is having an internal debate. While he does so I give him the once over, trying to make sense of him and his space. He’s wearing a blue, padded overcoat, brown trousers and a pair of black, leather moccasin slippers. If I was to analyse the stains on the coat it might tell me everything he’s had to eat over the last six months, as I doubt that he ever takes it off. Perhaps that’s why there are no covers on the bed? He wears it.

‘Could you tell me what you know about Lucy Hepburn, Mr Connor?’

‘She’s deid,’ he says as his mouth takes on a line of distaste. ‘Before that?’

‘I had to chuck her oot. Didnae pay her rent.’

‘Then how do you know she died?’

‘S’pose you’d better have a wee seat, son,’ he says and points to the table at the window. He walks over and sits. I chose a seat across from him and sit as he does. Knees tight together, hands clasped in his lap. From here I can see his trousers are as stained as his coat.

‘Have ye been in the polis long, son?’

‘Too long,’ I answer.

‘You’re lucky, but. There’s no many people has a job that can make a difference.’

‘True.’ I sense he wants to chat. It might help to get more information if I comply. ‘You retired?’ I fully expect the answer to be yes, but it won’t do any harm to flatter. He looks as if he might be in his early seventies.

‘A long time ago, but.’ He fumbles in the front pocket of his coat and brings out a red pocket book. He opens it in the middle and puts it on the table. The pages are well thumbed and from here I can see there are lines of dates and amounts that might appear on a ledger. Or an order book.

‘I was a salesman, son.’

‘Right.’ I can’t imagine him selling anything. Unless it’s uppers. One look at his face and you’d be in the need of false cheer. I look over and see that the numbers stop half way down the second page. The last date is 12th March 1967.

‘Aye, I sold flies and bait and stuff to huntin’ and fishin’ shops.’ He stretches into another pocket and brings out a wad of paper. He unfolds it and pushes it flat on the table. It’s a map of Scotland. ‘Used to go all over the country. You name it and I’ve been there.’

‘Excellent,’ I say and do some quick sums. His tone suggests this was his last job, which means he “retired” forty years ago.

‘The world’s gone to the dogs, son. The dogs.’ He picks up the map and carefully folds it. ‘What with the drugs and the homersexuals.’

Here we go. It’s time to call a halt to our wee chat.

‘I had a wee part-time job last year when I lost some tenants. A public toilet in one o’ the parks.’ He purses his lips, which has the effect of making his face look like it has collapsed in on itself. ‘Druggies and homos.’ He gives a big shrug. ‘I’m telling you, son, it was a breath of fresh air when somebody came in for a shite.’

I’m getting the feeling that if I don’t steer the conversation away from him I could be here all day.

‘About Miss Hepburn, did she take drugs?’

‘No that I know of, son. Mind you,’ he raises his left eyebrow, ‘she could have been up to anything behind that door. Especially given what I seen later.’

‘When was the last time you saw her?’

‘I cannae mind when, son. But it was the same day I changed the lock on her door. She hadn’t paid her rent for four weeks and nobody takes a loan of Ian Connor.’ He nods once and clasps his hands on his lap. His expression changes and grows thoughtful. ‘That was the strange thing, but. Her stuff. I told her she could have it all back if she paid me my money. She just stood there and grinned like I was doing her a favour. I never saw her again.’

‘Did she leave much stuff?’

‘A few clothes, toiletries…’ he crossed his arms and his legs. His eyes move to the side and examine the pile of the carpet.

‘Anything else?’ I ask.

‘That’s why you’re here, isn’t it?’

‘Sorry?’

‘You hear aboot it all the time, but. Famous people, n’at, getting done for strange pictures. That woman tried to get it all off me, but I said to her to prove she was legally entitled. Once she did that and once she paid the outstanding rent, she would get it.’

‘Mr Connor,’ I lean towards him. ‘Excuse my slow wee brain, but you’ve lost me. Could you start at the beginning and tell me about the woman and the pictures.’

He examines me as if seeing me for the first time. ‘I thought you polis guys were smart,’ he mumbles. ‘The woman who told me that the lassie was deid. She came for the wee lassy’s things.’ He stands up.

‘Did you see her death certificate?’

‘No yet. Although that wummin promised to send me it.’

‘The woman that came for her things?’ I ask. As far as I’m aware she has no next of kin. Could it have been another nurse at the hospital?

‘That’s how I know she’s deid. Nobody’s that good an actress. The poor woman was distraught. Grief’s an awfa thing, son.’

‘Could you describe this woman?’

‘Needed a good feed. Medium height. Dark hair. Well dressed. Like a toff. She was wearing sunglasses, which was strange given that we were in the middle of winter. I expect it was to hide her eyes. You know how women get when they’ve been greetin’. She came back twice more. Each time she was more and more upset. Said she was the lassie’s adopted mother. Explains why she was greetin’.’

He turns and walks to one of the wardrobes. He picks the keys from his trouser pocket, takes one and inserts it in the lock. Once opened, he allows the door to fall wide. Despite myself I have a look at what it contains. Mr Connor still has his back to me as he bends forward to pick something up. Beyond him I can see that the floor of the wardrobe is covered in three waist high piles of paper. It looks like envelopes, paper folders and formal pieces of paper. I can see the logo of a well-known bank on one and the name of an investment house on another. Well, well. Mr Connor has himself a wee treasure trove.

If he ever spends any of it, the first thing he should buy himself is a new coat. Or maybe a jumper, then he can save his coat for when he actually goes outside.

He turns holding a black bag to his chest. Like the kind of bag people keep laptop computers in.

‘How do you guys track these things, satellite?’ he asks.

‘Yes. We have some very sophisticated technology these days,’ I say. I have no idea what he is getting at but I get the feeling it will help my cause if I agree.

He slowly puts the bag on the table. ‘I was going to bring it in, you understand. But I was holding it until I got my money.’ He sighs. ‘Looks like that’s no going to happen any day soon.’

While he’s pulling a black laptop computer from the bag I ask about the mystery woman.

‘What exactly did this woman say?’

‘Just that the lassie had passed away and ’cos she was her next of kin she should get all of her stuff.’

‘And when you said no?’

‘Then she started shouting at me. Said it was all of a great emotional value. Then the tears started. A big fat wan rolled down her cheek from behind her specs,’ he says with a great deal of feeling. ‘The poor wummin was in a state. Felt right sorry for her, so I did.’ He opens the lid. ‘There you go.’

Not sorry enough to give her all of Hepburn’s belongings, I think.

‘I let her have the clothes and stuff. Then she came back the next day saying that she didnae get everything and that I was a thieving old bastard.’ He’s wearing a face to suggest he was mortally offended. ‘But I did my research. This machine would score a couple of hundred second hand and the wee deid nurse owed me about that. So I told her that I wiznae playing. Nae cash. Nae computer.’ He patted the keyboard for emphasis.

It’s your run of the mill laptop. IBM issue. There’s a small blue “nipple” in the middle of the keyboard that I’m guessing is in place of a mouse. Blue-brown would be a closer description as it’s dirty. This machine has been about a bit. A couple of stickers advertising technological parts are only half complete suggesting heavy use. Perhaps the dead Hepburn got it second hand.

He presses a button and the machine whirrs into action.

‘How did this woman sound? Was she local?’

‘Aye. From a posher part of the city, but. She spoke properly. Nae slang.’ The familiar music of Microsoft Windows sounds from the machine and a blue page fills the screen.

‘When I first tried it I was terrified. I’d never seen anything like this in my puff. Had a few classes down at the library…’ as he speaks he’s wearing a proud smile displaying a set of teeth any self-respecting dentist would run a mile from. ‘…and now I’m getting quite good. When I first worked out what I was doing I had a wee nosey.’ He studies me. ‘I hope you don’t blush easy?’

‘I’m in the police, remember? We get to see all kinds of things.’

‘No like this you won’t. I’ve never seen the like in my life.’

If he doesn’t get to the point double quick I’m going to yell at the old fucker.

‘Ah. Right.’ His hand moves with careful deliberation. ‘Nearly there. Right.’ He clicks and a picture fills the screen. It takes me a couple of seconds to make sense of the image. The central space is filled with a three-quarter view of a woman’s head. Her eyes are half shut and her mouth is half-open. Her expression is filled with what I can only describe as lust. There’s some white, almost pearly stuff strung over her nose and one eye is almost completely obscured. Some of it is coming out of her mouth.

‘Ah’d never have thought it. But she looks like she’s having a great time,’ says Mr Connor. The way he says it suggests he didn’t believe that a woman could enjoy a sexual practice like the one we see before us. Because sexual it quite clearly is. The big clue is coming in from the corner of the screen. The angry, thick head of a penis that is just shooting a fresh load of semen on to the woman’s face.

‘There’s no way all of that semen has come from the one man,’ I realise that I’ve just spoken out loud.

‘Aye,’ Mr Connor nods in agreement. ‘Doesn’t she look like she’s havin’ a great time, but?’

‘Aye, she does,’ I agree with him. Then we are both silent as we study the picture some more. Takes all kinds, I guess, but the more I look at the picture the more it turns my stomach.

Questions assert themselves in my mind. Why would someone keep this picture? Who is the woman who was so keen to retrieve it?

I look closer at the picture. Beneath the semen you can see that the woman is at least middle aged. Her clear eye is thick with mascara, some of which is running onto her cheek. Her hair is pulled back out of the way and is long and blond. It doesn’t match the face …too young, which suggests it is a wig. Her bare neck has that stringy look. I look at the face again. There is something about it.

‘You married?’ Mr Connor asks.

‘Nope. Never had that good fortune.’ Whatever was on my mind has vanished, slipped from my grasp like the smoke of a dream.

‘Me neither,’ his eyes haven’t left the picture. He looks like he’s just learned the most valuable lesson of his life and it’s too late to use it. ‘It’s changed days right enough, son. In my time it was lights out, knickers off, before her parents caught you. Now you young yins have got all …’ he ran out of words. ‘…this.’

‘Can I get you anything, son?’ Jim’s mother leaned into his room, the lines of her face deepened with concern. He had brought a few things over from his house and taken up residence in his old bedroom. This had become his refuge when he and Angela first split up. It felt like he had never left, that all the work and effort of the last few weeks and months had been completely in vain.

‘Do you think she’ll let you see Ben today?’

Jim shrugged. Then shook his head. He didn’t know. Every day for the last week he had turned up at the house hoping to see Ben and every day the door remained shut to him.

Yesterday, a little white face appeared at the upstairs window. Jim shouted, ‘Ben,’ and the face disappeared. It was all he could do not to kick in the door. Every instinct he owned urged him to run at the door, shoulder his way in and pull Ben out.

If he did so he knew that the police would be quick on his heels. Then he would be put under a restraining order or an ASBO or something and he would never see Ben again.

‘Jim, you can’t just lie there all the time, son.’ His mum remained by the door as if her son’s despondency restricted her movement. ‘Eat something. You have to eat.’

Jim lay back on the bed and pulled a pillow over his face. Into its softness he roared his frustration and anger. He heard his mother’s footsteps as she moved away. He wanted to go after her. Apologise. He was rooted to the spot. He’d never felt so hopeless.

Or so angry.

He’d gone over every second he had spent with Moira since she elbowed her way into their lives and each time he did so be became increasingly alarmed at her actions and his inability to do anything about it.

At first there were suspicions. Why the hell didn’t he pay them more attention? Then there was the concern she showed for Angela, the attention she lavished on her. Then she had turned her charm on Jim, and wasn’t he a prize dickhead for not seeing through it.

She engaged his sympathy with the story of Erskine, a tale she wove with the skill of a novelist. She left in just enough of her own
regrets
for him to see that she was a real, three-dimensional woman in a difficult situation. Sure, she acted to snatch her own child back, who wouldn’t?