Bad Samaritan (13 page)

25

‘It's
déjà vu
all over again,' says Ale as she buckles up.

Smile. ‘Aye.' Seems like weeks since I last parked the car and walked into the office, rather than just a matter of hours ago. So much has happened. At least, in my head it has. ‘Where are we headed?'

Alessandra pulls her notebook out of her bag. Flips it open and reads an address on the south side of the city. I scan my mental map and work out the direction I need to be driving in. If police work ever gets too much for me, I can always get a job driving one of the city's taxis.

I fire the engine. Put the gear into reverse but stop as I hear a knock on the car window. I turn and spot an eager face.

‘What the…'

I roll the window down.

‘Gordon Murphy from the Glasgow Telegraph,' the man says. My vision is filled with his lean face, white teeth and short-cropped hair. He's wearing a waterproof jacket over a blue shirt and tie, with a proper knot and everything. His voice is followed into the car by a strong whiff of garlic.

‘Well, Gordie, if you don't move the fuck out of my way, I'm going to do you for possession of a dangerous weapon,' I say.

‘What? My Dictaphone?'

‘Naw, your breath, mate. Chicken with forty cloves of garlic for your tea last night?'

He has the decency to step back. ‘Sorry, DI McBain. My missus gets a wee bit heavy-handed with the garlic.'

‘Jeez, what's happening to the journos in this city?' I ask. ‘And what's wrong with pie and chips?'

‘Mind if we have a quick word?'

‘Sprint,' I say.

‘Just wanted to ask you about the arrest of grieving father, Kevin Banks?' He's already talking in tomorrow's headlines.

‘No comment.'

‘Care to comment on the heartlessness of a country where a parent gets arrested after justifiably acting out after hearing about his daughter's murder?'

‘No comment,' I say. ‘Now kindly move the fuck out of the way while I go and do my job.'

‘Social media is alive this afternoon. People are furious with the police about this poor man's arrest. The hashtag #fuckthepolis is actually trending. Care to comment on that?'

‘No comment.' I slam the car into reverse, lift my foot off the clutch, none too carefully, narrowly avoid hitting the journalist with my wing mirror as I move out of my spot. Brilliant. Just brilliant. The powers that be make the decisions and we, their servants, are blamed for everything. As usual.

Ale has her phone out and her thumbs are a blur. Sharp intake of breath. ‘Right enough. People are going mental on Twitter.'

‘Bunch of fannies.'

‘The word “fanny” is on the same word embargo as “cunt”.' Ale looks at me out of the corner of her eyes.

‘Am I allowed to use male genitalia?'

‘Whatever floats your boat, Nancy.'

‘What's the plural for penis?'

‘Pee-nye? Penises?' Ale says. We share a grin. She grows sombre.

‘We're good?' she asks.

‘As good as it gets, Alessandra Rossi.' I answer one question and ignore the subtext. ‘That was a clever wee gambit you played there,' I say.

‘What do you mean?'

‘Getting me quickly out of the way of Peters.'

‘Well, you two have history. He won't waste time in trying to piss you off, so I'm thinking, let's get McBain the hell out of Dodge.' She looks at me. ‘It's best for you to fly under the radar for a few days.'

‘I always said you
'd
go places, DC Rossi.'

‘Yeah.' Sigh. ‘South side of Glasgow here we come.'

* * *

Helen Davis is sitting in a large cushioned chair staring out of her window when she sees a car pull up and two formally dressed people, a man and a woman, get out.
Hope they're not trying to sell me something
, she thinks when they walk towards her path. She discounts that when she notices that neither are carrying anything that might be promotional material. And the studied expression on each of their faces.

Then she recognises them and feels a twist in her stomach. These were the cops who visited Simon in the hospital. She pushes herself up from the chair, and with hand over her heart waits for them to reach the door and knock.

‘Will somebody get that?' she aims a shout at the room above her head, not expecting an answer. Simon will be on his laptop, trying to save the world one person at a time, and Matt will have his headset on and be playing some daft game. A pause. Neither boy responds, so with heavy, grudging footsteps and a weary, ‘For God's sake,' she walks to the door.

As she reaches out to twist open the lock, she notices a piece of paper on the floor. She bends down to pick it up, opens it and with a souring in her mouth recognises the print and the shape of the word on the page. It's a page of A4 and has one large word in bold black ink in the middle.

Murderer
.

‘Bastards,' she says, and opens the door.

When she reads the expressions of surprise on the faces of the man and woman in front of her, she offers a weak smile of apology. ‘Not you,' she says, and waves the paper at them. ‘You're the cops who came to the hospital to speak to Simon, eh?'

‘Yes, we are, Mrs Davis,' the heavy guy says, and reintroduces himself and his female colleague.

‘So, why…?' she asks. She crosses her arms, and despite a stab of worry, can't help the stray thought that questions why someone as attractive as this girl would want to work in the police force.

‘Can we come in for a moment, please?' the man asks. She can't work out if he said McBean or McBain. ‘Best not to give the neighbours anything to talk about.' Settles on McBain.

‘Sure. Right enough,' she says, and hands him the piece of paper she's holding. ‘It's not like they don't already have enough to go on.' She turns and without another word enters her living room. She can hear the paper unfold as the cop opens it and senses them follow her into the living room.

She reaches her chair, turns to face them and bends into her seat, the cushion accepting the shape of her body like an old friend. Crossing her arms and her legs she gives a nod at the paper in the male cop's hand.

‘We get that at least once a day.' She rubs her eyes and then pulls her hair back behind her ear. ‘Arseholes. What happened to innocent until proven guilty?' She looks from one to the other. ‘My boy did not kill Aileen. He couldn't harm a fly.' She feels the emotion swooping in on her. Doesn't have the time to fight it, and her face crumples and her chest heaves. She wipes away a tear while gathering her resolve.

‘Simon's up in his room. Him and his brother are on the Xbox,' she says, not sure why it was suddenly important that she presents her boys as a united front. Simon hates the Xbox. Thinks it's juvenile.

‘It's actually Matt we want to speak to, Mrs Davis.'

‘Oh.' She leans forward on her chair. Hands clasped as if in prayer, elbows resting on her knees. ‘What … I mean … why…'

‘Just for routine questions, Mrs Davis. We
'd
like him to come down to the station with us.' McBain says.

She stands up, and it's as if her whole body is quivering. ‘But…'

‘As we said, Mrs Davis,' says DC Rossi while taking to her feet and holding a hand out as if she's afraid Mrs Davis is going to fall. ‘We just want to clarify a few things. If you could…'

Just then the drum of footsteps and two young men appear at the door. Helen notices the look of recognition on Simon's face and reads his apprehension. Her heart gives a lurch. She wants to rush over to him, swoop him up in her arms and hold him tight. The way she did when he fell as a toddler. It's a mother's job, isn't it? To keep her children from harm? She takes a step back. Reminds herself that he's a grown man now. Old enough to vote. Old enough to have sex and get married. Old enough to bear arms for his country. Old enough to kill, then? She sloughs off that thought like it's a shit-stained coat. Not going there. Her Simon is innocent. And why do they want to speak to Matt?

She looks at her other son. Her other twin. Matt is a taller, stockier version of his brother. With darker hair and a less welcoming countenance. If he hadn't popped out of her vagina, she herself would have doubted the fact that these boys were brothers. Let alone twins. He refused her breast and had resolutely been his own person ever since. A difficult boy to love, she admitted, and remembered the boys' seventh birthday party and how Matt had walked up to another boy and slapped him in the face in front of all the other parents. She couldn't even recall the reason, but would never forget the horrified look on the other parents' faces. Or the look of satisfaction on Matt's. Simon couldn't hurt a soul, she asserted inwardly, but she had always worried about quite what Matt was capable of. She quashed the thought with a guilty blush.

Realising that she
'd
been lost in her own thoughts for the last few moments, she checked the two cops and both her sons to see if anyone noticed. Nope. Everyone was studying Matt.

‘Matt, we haven't met,' McBain says, and introduces himself and Ale. ‘We
'd
like you to come down to the station to help us with our enquiries.'

‘But…' Simon takes a step forward. ‘Why would you…'

‘Matt. If you would just come with us?' McBain holds a hand out as if to guide Matt to the door.

‘Oh, Jesus,' says Helen Davis. ‘As if the neighbours haven't got enough to talk about.'

Matt snorts. ‘I'm going fucking nowhere.'

Without realising what she's doing, Helen takes a few steps forward and slaps Matt across the face. Then she hides the offending palm, tucking it under her left oxter. ‘You're going,' she says. ‘No bloody arguments.'

‘Mum!' says Simon. ‘What the hell are you doing?' He turns to Matt and puts his hand on his brother's shoulder. Matt shrugs it off, as easily as he had shrugged off the slap. Or was that the way she wanted to see it, thought Helen?

She turns to face the cops who are both trying to hide their surprise.

‘Got to keep them under control. Been difficult without a father,' she mumbles and then holds her lips tight, afraid what else might spill out, utterly ashamed of her reaction. Then she stifles that thought with a compensating one that demands to know why Matt is always showing her up.

‘If you could try and get some proof as to who is leaving those notes, Mrs Davis, we'll arrest them for harassment,' says DC Rossi, and Helen is grateful that she is trying to erase some of the tension.

‘What notes is she talking about, mum?' asks Simon, his face bright with concern.

‘It's nothing, sweetheart.' She shakes her head. ‘Absolutely nothing.'

* * *

It's only when we pull in at the station that I realise since the moment we first met Matt Davis, and for the forty-five minutes or so it has taken to negotiate Glasgow traffic, he hasn't said a word.

We get the nod that Harkness and Drain have just collected Karen Gardner and, traffic allowing, they should be back in just over an hour. We make ourselves nice and comfortable in room three.

Matt sits where we direct him, hands clasped on his lap and legs stretched out before him. He's a cool customer. Let's see how we can unsettle him a little.

I go through the usual protocols and then say, ‘State your full name please?'

‘Matthew Stephen Davis.' His voice is a deep bass. I'm thinking that whenever he goes into pubs, he must get asked for proof of age, and then that voice will swing it for him.

‘Really?' I ask. ‘Was your dad a snooker fan?'

‘No idea, mate. He didn't live long enough for me to ask him.' He's stating a fact, not looking for sympathy.

‘Date of birth?'

He tells us.

‘I didn't realise you and Simon were twins,' says Ale.

‘There you go. Every day's a school day.'

‘Who's the oldest?' she asks.

‘He is. By fifteen minutes.'

I give Matt another look over. The resemblance is not as strong as I've noticed with other identical twins. As Ale had said, it was across the eyes and the forehead. But where Simon's features are fine, Matt's are heavier, more masculine. He crosses his arms and his biceps swell, stretching the fabric of his shirt. He catches me noticing and smirks.

‘Rugby?' I ask.

He nods.

‘Wrong shaped ball, if you ask me,' I say.

He makes a face as if to say, whatever, your opinion doesn't even register, mate. He clearly wants to project an attitude of someone who isn't that bothered about being here. His languid pose is an attempt to show us that he has nothing to worry about, but that's all it is, a pose. Even the most basic knowledge of body language tells you that crossed arms is a defensive position. His outstretched legs and crossed ankles also tell me he is apprehensive. The mind may have an agenda, but the body will often betray. Despite what he wants to tell us, he's worried. We just have to find out the why and the what.

‘Tell me about Aileen Banks,' I say.

‘What do you want to know?'

‘What was she like? Your memories of her? Stuff like that,' I answer. I want to get him talking about her in a personal sense, not in the abstract. The first thing we do to distance ourselves from guilt and grief or blame even, is to de-personalise. After all,
they
weren't really human. If he had any form of relationship with her, I need to see that being played out on his face.

‘She was my brother's burd. Came round the house loads.'

‘Did you like her?' asks Ale.

‘She was nice enough,' he shrugs. Going for non-committal.

‘They split up before she was killed,' I say. ‘What do you know about that?'

‘Shit happens, mate. Who really knows what goes on in a relationship apart from the couple themselves?'