Bad Samaritan (19 page)

‘Any ideas where he might have gone?'

‘We find a Catholic organisation that has recently taken on a handyman.'

‘Easy as that?' Kenny gives me his sceptical look.

I think of how at my recent moment of crisis, my automatic movement has been back to the familiar and nod.

‘It's what he knows.'

‘I've got a guy,' Kenny says. ‘Does “research” for me. I'll get him on the case.' Pause. ‘How can I narrow it down for him, Mr Detective?'

‘He vanished that night. The only sight of him has been via a couple of postcards. Nice Scottish scenes. All that was missing was a tin of shortbread.'

‘So, he's stayed in the country.'

‘Aye, and he thinks I'm public enemy number one, so he won't have gone that far. Not Glasgow, but only an hour or two away.' I think of the postcard. ‘Somewhere to the north.'

He was on a handyman's wage. Can't have much cash, surely. He
'd
need a job quickly, and a job like that at a local church could well come with a bedsit type of arrangement. Leonard would know exactly how to worm himself into that kind of situation.

‘Tell your man to check job adverts in local newspapers being published north of Glasgow. Might as well go as far as Inverness. Jack of all trades kind of thing.'

‘What will you do when we find him?'

Not if. When. Kenny is confident in his guy, and this confidence causes a vibration deep in my mind. I think of the blade, cold on my skin. The desire in Leonard's face. And despite myself I shiver. This man will not control me any longer. I cross my arms, as if trying to preserve heat, to steel myself against a small boy's fear.

‘Have you ever killed anyone, Kenny?'

35

They arranged to meet in a public place. Leonard suggested a bookstore with a cafe. Waterstones – Argyle Street branch. He arrived a good thirty minutes early. Slowly walked through each of the three floors. Pretended to look at the stacks of brightly coloured books.

He
'd
only ever bought one book: the Bible. White leather cover with gold embossed lettering.

He heard a member of staff in conversation with a punter.

‘It has a red cover,' the would-be customer began. ‘It's called
The Girl with
something or other. My book club were reading it. They all said it was great. Sorry, I can't remember the full title.'

The bookseller went through a list of titles all beginning with
The Girl
. The customer shook her head at each of them. Shaking his head, Leonard walked away. He thought people using these kind of places would be smarter.

On the first floor, he turned left at the top of the stairs and walked through the coffee shop. Took in the glass-fronted cooler and the selection of cakes.

‘Help you?' asked the barista, as if he did actually want to help.

Leonard shook his head and walked past the counter. He scanned the other customers. Not one of them was reading a book. Why come into a bookstore coffee shop and not cop a free read of some of their books?

He walked in a large circle, past cookery, poetry, kids and fantasy, before arriving back at the top of the stairs. There was a chair by the window. From there he could see everyone coming and going. He could study the boy as he arrived.

Seated, he plucked his phone from his pocket and checked the internet connection. It was strong. He connected and opened his emails. Nothing. They
'd
agreed the boy would email if he was held up.

He looked at the time. Five minutes to go.

He picked a book from the table to his right. Opened it to the first page and pretended to read. Someone walked past. A girl. Then an old couple. Then a couple of booksellers.

Then, right on time, Simon arrived.

He could tell it was him from the way he scanned the people around him. Searching for a look of connection, possible recognition. Leonard kept his expression neutral and allowed the boy's eyes to skim past.

Simon was taller than he expected. Broad across the shoulders with long lean legs. There was a softness in his gut and in the line of his chin, suggesting little exercise and long hours at the keyboard. An untucked red and blue check shirt, jeans and a three-day growth completed the look.

The boy approached the counter, which took him out of Leonard's line of sight, so he moved, took a few steps forward and pretended to study the books piled high by the side of the chiller cabinet.

Simon ordered a can of Irn Bru. Collected his drink and took a seat.

Leonard approached the counter. Ordered a black coffee and sat one over and watched as the boy studied every person that entered the space.

His own drink arrived, and he gave a nod of thanks to the server. He hated coffee, but it was part of his disguise. He lifted the cup and pressed the lid to his lower lip and pretended to sip.

After ten minutes of watching the boy eagerly looking at everyone who comes in, he pulled out his phone and thumbed out an email.

Can't make it. Can't do this. Sorry.
And he pressed send.

He heard the boy's phone sound a warning. Watched as he pulled the phone out of his pocket and read. Saw the look of disappointment on his face and allowed a smile to tug at the corners of his mouth.

The boy stood. Pocketed his phone. Took a last, long pull at his can and walked away.

Leonard followed close behind, thinking,
at last, the hunt is on
.

36

Kenny's certainty in his guy is justified, and a couple of hours later we're headed up to Perth in Kenny's Range Rover.

‘What happened to the BMW?' I ask.

‘All the best crims are in four-wheel drives these days.'

‘Crims and yummy mummies. How can we tell you all apart?'

‘The tattoos and the cauliflower ears,' Kenny says with a grin.

‘I'm guessing a few not-so-yummy mummies could challenge that assertion.'

My phone pings. It's a text from Alessandra.

‘Hey bossman. You up for kickin some arse today?'
She's checking up on me. Doesn't normally text at this time in the morning. I must have looked particularly shitty yesterday.

‘Sorry Ale. Got a lead on Leonard'

‘Where you going? Want me to tag along?'

‘Best you don't know.'
The boss wants me to forget all about Leonard and McCall, and he'll be furious when he finds out I've got my own investigation going on. I need to protect Alessandra from that.

‘Just so our stories are straight. What will I say to Peters?'

‘Tell him no amount of playing the big man will make up for having a micro penis'

‘Ray!!!'

‘I'm owed some time off. Tell him I'm using it to get some root canal treatment. The prick will enjoy the thought of me in pain so much he won't ask any more questions'

‘True dat'
A pause. Then, ‘
Don't do anything completely stupid'

‘Not sure I can promise anything'

I pocket my phone and look out of the window. We're now well out of the city and almost at Stirling. The castle comes into view on my right. And beyond it, the gothic tower in commemoration of William Wallace stands out in bas relief against the Ochil Hills. I have a vague memory of an outing here organised by the nuns. I must have been about nine or ten. After a severe march up the hill, all the boys were gap-mouthed at the size of Wallace's sword housed inside. But now I can't see it without thinking of the shit movie Mel Gibson made about the man himself.

‘FreeDOM!' I shout.

‘Fuck!' says Kenny. ‘Nearly gave me a heart attack there, you prick.'

‘Serves you right for driving so fast. There's a speed limit, you know.'

‘That's alright. I've got a pig in my car.'

‘Won't save you, mate. Traffic cops love doing other cops.'

* * *

Before long, Kenny is pulling up outside the church. The gable end of the grand building backs up right onto the street. A wide stretch of sandstone and a tall stained-glass window. Just to offset the apostolic grandeur, Perth and Kinross council have thoughtfully placed a large black bin and a small green electric box just underneath the window.

There's a house to the side that shares a drive. It has a low wall with tall railings in front. A patch of freshly turned earth fills the space up to the front door. This area is home to a bed of severely pruned rose bushes. Dozens of them. Must be quite a sight in the height of the season.

I turn to Kenny. Say, ‘Stay.' And exit the car.

I crunch up the gravel pathway, but before I can knock, the door opens.

‘Yes?' a small woman asks. She barely hits five feet tall and is as thin as a church candle. Her long, white hair is pulled back to perch on the top of her head in a bun. Adds a couple of inches to her height.

‘DI Ray McBain,' I say while pulling my warrant card out of my wallet. ‘I wonder if I might speak to Father…' I leave a gap in the hope she might complete the name.

‘Father Stephen is at his breakfast.' She pulls herself up to her full height. ‘He can't be disturbed.'

I hear footsteps and a man in black appears at her elbow. He's chewing.

‘It's alright, Martha,' he says. He wipes his mouth with one hand and puts the other on her shoulder. ‘I have time for the officer.'

‘But you need to eat properly, Father,' she stretches her neck back to look up at him. Her expression softens, becomes motherly, which strikes me as a little odd when it occurs to me that they are fairly equal in the wrinkle department.

Then I revise my opinion when I remember the reverence with which the nuns treated visiting priests in the convent. Not odd at all.

Father Stephen smiles benignly at Martha and guides me into a sitting room that looks like it was furnished in the eighties. Floral print sofas with wooden arms and feet and a thick shag-pile carpet. I half expect a framed Duran Duran album cover to be on the wall above the mantelpiece. But of course, that prideful place is taken with a crucifix.

Father Stephen motions that I should sit and folds himself into a chair. He picks at his teeth. ‘Martha and her bran cereal will be the death of me,' he smiles. ‘There's not enough time in the day to chew that stuff.'

‘I prefer a bacon roll myself, father.'

‘Now you're talking, young man. But Martha is worried my arteries will clog and I'll be kicking up the roses before you can ask if I want red sauce or brown.'

‘Has to be brown sauce for me.'

‘Me too,' he laughs. A sound that is hearty and without nuance. This is a man who strikes me as having no sides. One face fits all. What you see is all there is and ever will be. Amen.

‘It's actually your new handyman that I wanted to speak to, Father. Is he about?'

‘Dave?' He cocks his head to the side. ‘Actually, haven't seen hide nor head of him since yesterday morning.

Dave
. So that's what he's calling himself.

‘Is there something wrong?' he asks, his face shaped in concern. A concern that appears to be wholly about Dave's safety rather than any suspicion he might be involved in any wrongdoing.

‘We just need some help with our enquiries, Father. Other than that I can't say too much.'

‘Hang on.' He stands up. ‘He has a room at the back of the house. I'll just go check…' He turns and walks out of the room. I follow. Don't want
Dave
, if he's there, to do a runner.

We come to a wooden door. Father Stephen knocks.

‘Dave? Are you there?'

My heart is beating like a bass drum. At the other side of this door could be the man who has haunted my dreams for far too long. I wipe my hands down the sides of my trousers. Breathe, Ray. Breathe.

No reply.

‘That's strange,' says the priest. Looks at his watch. ‘He's usually up and about by now.'

He knocks again. ‘Dave?'

Nothing.

‘He'll forgive me if I intrude,' he offers, and opens the door. I step in before him to find an empty room. If the priests thinks I'm being rude, he says nothing. My pulse slows to normal as I realise my sought-after confrontation is not going to happen. Not today at least. And I can't help acknowledge a feeling of relief.

The room is small. It has a single bed, a pine wardrobe and dresser. The walls are empty apart from a small mirror and a painting of Jesus Christ displaying his heart. A small grass cross, like the ones given out on Palm Sunday, is tucked into the wooden frame of the mirror.

‘That's strange.' Father Stephen stands beside me. Now that he's this close I can hear a rasp in his breath. Perhaps all is not well with the local priest, and that's why Martha is so solicitous.

Standing in the centre of the room, I make a slow turn and take everything in. The space feels empty. As if it hasn't been lived in for years. I open the cupboard door. There's nothing inside. The same with the dresser. All of the drawers are bare.

‘But…' Father Stephen is clearly at a loss. He looks at me. ‘He didn't say a thing.'

‘Any idea where he might have gone, Father?'

‘He wasn't a man who would share much, son. A bit of a closed book.'

‘What do you know about him?'

‘Well,' he says slowly and sighs in the manner of a man who continually expects the best in people and can't understand it when they let him down. ‘Nothing really. He answered the advert for a handyman. Clearly knew his way about a church. I recognised a kindred soul and gave him the job.'

Kindred soul. The words sour in my mind. Leonard couldn't be further in spirit from this man.

‘Did he offer you a CV or any form of references?' I ask.

‘No. I took him on trust as I do everyone. I find people tend to match my expectation.'

I look at the grass cross on the mirror. Shiver. The priest misreads my reaction. ‘Let's go through to the sitting room, and I'll get Martha to warm us up with some coffee.'

The difference in atmosphere between the two rooms is startling. This room is just like the man sat in front of me. Warm and welcoming. It gives off the sense that many people have been soothed in this space.

‘Can't you tell me why you need to speak to him?' he asks.

‘Sorry, Father. I can only say that we need his help with an enquiry.'

Just then Martha bustles in with a tray laden with coffee and biscuits. We break off our conversation to allow her to set out the cups and saucers and pour.

‘Just milk,' I say.

She hands me a cup and then offers a plate of chocolate topped biscuits. ‘You look like a man who likes his biscuits,' she says with a smile. I feel fat-shamed, and my fingers hover over a digestive before I withdraw and say, ‘No. Thank you.'

‘And Father Stephen won't be bothering with the biscuits either. Sure he
'd
only be wanting one to keep you company.'

Father Stephen shoots the plate a look of longing. I change my mind and stretch my hand out to spite Martha.

‘Actually, I think I'll have one after all. Didn't have a chance to eat breakfast.'

With a beaming smile, the priest picks up a biscuit before Martha can march out of the room with the plate. He takes a large mouthful and, while chewing, winks at me.

‘The woman's a treasure,' he says. ‘But if the good Lord saw fit to give us delicious food to eat, surely we shouldn't just focus on the bland?'

‘My thoughts exactly, Father. We can worry about the heart attack another time.' I pat my belly in solidarity. ‘So, back to Dave. We know him as Jim Leonard.' This man is too trusting, and he needs to know not to let Leonard back in his home. ‘He has been involved in some … very unsavoury activities. Other than that I can't say. But if he ever comes back, you have to let us know.'

‘Good Lord,' the priest says, his hand before his mouth. ‘He gave me a false name?'

‘Yes, and I'm worried about what other lies he might've told you.'

‘He didn't tell us much at all. Only that he was brought up in Bethlehem House in Ayrshire, and from there he went to a seminary…'

‘He was in the home. Not in the seminary.'

‘He said he was in seminary for a matter of weeks when his parents both died, can't remember how. But that meant he had to go back home to look after his twin brother who was severely handicapped.' He shook his head. ‘Another lie, I suppose. Said he devoted his life to his twin brother.'

I think of Leonard's killing spree and the twisted truth in this simple statement. Leonard had woven a tale knowing the mix of fact and fiction would be sufficient to elicit sympathy.

Father Stephen slumped back in his chair, his disappointment tangible. He shook his head slowly. Looked at his watch. ‘Shame it's so early. This would be a good time for a whisky.'

‘Martha would have a fit,' I say.

‘Just what she needs.' Then. ‘Why would he lie to me, Ray?'

‘It's just what he does, Father. He's probably told so many lies about himself over the years that he no longer knows what the truth looks like.'

‘I don't really mind him leaving without a word. It's all transient, this existence.' He waves a hand back and forward. ‘I gave willingly, with no expectation.' He brightens. ‘And that rose garden last summer was spectacular.'

‘Other than the rose garden, what else did Leonard, sorry, Dave do while he was here?'

‘Oh, he was really useful. Changed bulbs, painted rooms, hung pictures, carried stuff. For a slight man he had amazing strength. And he did odd-jobs for lots of the elderly parishioners.'

‘Did he make any friends?'

‘Friends? No, not really.' He pauses and thinks some more. ‘Sweet Lord, how could I forget? The Fords. Robert and Ken. They were twin brothers. Identical. He went over there now and again to watch the football.'

Football? My memory of Leonard at Bethlehem House was of a boy completely uninterested in sport. Unless it meant sniping at the other kids with his brother. Why would he spend time with people? He hates other people. And football?

And twins? That makes me sit up. Was Leonard trying to re-create something?

‘Could you let me know where Bob and Ken live? Might be worth asking them if they know anything about where Dave might have gone.'

‘Sorry. They both died fairly recently. It was awful. Tragic. They were a good age right enough. But fit.'

‘What happened?' Leonard had something to do with this. I'm sure of it. My skin is prickling, my hearing on full alert.

He notices the rise in my interest. ‘Nothing dodgy, Ray,' he replies. ‘Ken had a faulty boiler. Bob was at him to get it fixed just a few days before he died. Sadly, he never got round to it. Died of carbon monoxide poisoning.'

‘And Handyman Dave didn't offer to fix it for him?'

‘I don't know. Possibly. But he clearly didn't get round to it.'

Or maybe he did. For someone who knows what they're doing, it can't be too difficult to prime an old boiler to pump the wrong fumes into a house.

‘Dave, sorry, Jim was a great help to Bob in the days after Ken died. He was round there almost every day. But sadly Bob succumbed to his grief.' He crosses his legs and clasps his hands before him as if bracing himself to use the necessary words. As if he blames himself for what happened. ‘He killed himself. In the bath. It was awful.' The last word comes out in a strangled whisper. ‘
Awful
.'