Bad Samaritan (9 page)

But then there's the loneliness. The weight of it surprised her. It was a physical thing. Straining her thighs, her back, pulling at her eyelids until all she could do was close the curtains, crawl under the covers and sleep. People give you a year and then expect you to recover. The first birthday, the first Christmas, the next wedding anniversary, get them over and you'll be OK, they told her.

Ha. Idiots and liars, the lot of them.

The boys acted out, got bullied, bullied back – all spit, fists and fury for a time – then friends, school, routine helped them adjust to the father-shaped hole in their lives.

But she had moments every day when she was elsewhere, listening for his voice in a crowd, looking for his face in a photo, searching for his underwear among the laundry. Just that morning, when she woke up, her first question, even before she was fully awake, was why wasn't there an impression of his head on the pillow beside her. Then the gut-punch of realisation and the soft moan into her quilt before she pulled herself together. Her boys needed her.

She heard footsteps, and the two police officers were walking down the corridor towards her. She pulled her capacious handbag to her midriff as if it was giving her heat and sustenance.

‘We have everything we need for now, Mrs Davis, but we may need to get back in touch,' the male detective said.

Mrs Davis nodded slowly as if a weight was being balanced on her head. Several thoughts passed through her mind, each reflected by her expression, before being moved on for something else. And each one of them brought her pain. Except for the last.

Then she stood up and brought her phone out of her coat pocket. Quickly thumbed through some pages and held it up for them to see.

‘You people need to do something about this,' she said.

‘What are we looking for?' Ale took the phone from her.

‘Bloody Facebook. Some wee bastard is mouthing off about my Simon. Saying he's guilty. Saying Aileen's dad gave him a doing and that the police had arrested him.' She looked from Ale to Ray and then back again. ‘And it looks like there's a lynch mob going on in Twitter. Somebody has cooked up a hashtag: #Simonisguilty. And everybody is sharing it and…' She sat back down on the chair. To Ale it looked like she sat down before she fell down.

Helen knuckled a tear away from her cheek. ‘My boy did not kill that girl. I know my son.'

That girl.

Helen recognised what she was doing as soon as the words left her mouth. She was distancing herself from Aileen Banks in her mental war to help her son. The kids had been together for a few years. Most of their “winching” had been carried in and out of each other's houses. Plenty of time for Helen and Aileen to eat together, play together. Plenty of time to form a strong bond. They
'd
even gone shopping a couple of times after her and Simon split up.

The power of Helen's desire to protect her son surprised her, and it was all caught up in those two words. “That girl”.

Helen closed her eyes, felt a pang of missing for Aileen. Opened them, looked at Ale. ‘I was really fond of her. She was like the daughter I never had. She made my son happy, but I can't grieve for her until I know my son is safe.'

‘It would also be good to have a word with Matt. Is he still here?' asked Ray.

The switch in topic, from one son to the other, threw Helen momentarily. She looked around herself. ‘He … he said he forgot he had a class today. Had to go back to uni. Forget his head that boy.'

* * *

Ray and Ale travelled the lift in silence. Walked past another group of smokers at the hospital entrance, each holding their own counsel. Ale noticed a young man hanging about at the foyer. There was something in the way that he looked at her. And something about his face, across the eyes, but before she could snag the thought Ray held open the door for her and they were out into the late autumn chill.

In the car, Ray was the first to speak.

‘Well?'

‘That boy is either innocent, or he's an actor in a class of his own.' Pause. ‘You?'

‘Mmmm. Not sure.' Ray inserted the key and fired the engine. ‘The best lies are the ones that stick closest to the truth.'

15

It's breakfast time. I've made Maggie an omelette and, bless her, she's tucking in like it actually tastes nice. While she eats I look round the kitchen at some of the stuff she's chosen to surround herself with. There's a shelf of cookbooks that even from the state of the spine I can see have been well used. In among them there are books on poetry and mysticism. The clock on the wall wears the face of the moon and the aluminium fridge door is wearing pictured magnets of cats and dogs. And the odd feel-good slogan.

‘Feel the fear, eh?' I say.

‘Mmmm, Mr McBain, you make a good omelette,' Maggie says mid-chew.

‘Liar.'

‘No. Really. It's very tasty.'

‘It's perfect bachelor food, is what it is.' I hear the coffee pot reaching the boil. ‘More coffee?'

Smile. ‘Yes, please.' Bigger smile. ‘I could get used to this.'

‘Ah. Therein lies the problem. After the third date and the clock strikes twelve, the pumpkin disappears and I revert to grunts and scratching my balls.' And I wonder when Maggie is going to set the programme for the continuation of our relationship. Last time, she felt that I was still in love with someone else and didn't want to be second choice.

‘That's a change? In what way?'

‘Cheeky.'

She reaches over and holds my hand. ‘It is what it is, Ray.'

‘I hate that expression.'

‘I'll take what you're prepared to give me.'

‘Eh?'

‘Loving you is easy in some ways, Ray. In others,' she offers a conciliatory smile, ‘…not so much. It's less like you come with baggage, more like an airport luggage carousel.'

‘Well, thanks for that appraisal.' I move my hand away from hers.

‘Don't get defensive, Ray. It's true and you know it.' She takes my hand back. ‘What I'm trying to say…' and it's like she's reading my mind ‘…let's just enjoy the moment and let the future take care of itself.'

I feel my chest heat and throat tighten with affection. I stand up and move closer. Pull her into an embrace. Feel my body respond. She laughs, pushes me away.

‘Don't be getting any ideas, buddy.' She grows sombre. ‘I was thinking about that young girl who was murdered. Aileen Banks.' She reads my expression of surprise. ‘Your name was in the papers. And you were on the telly, Ray.'

‘Right.' There's no way I want to bring my work into this relationship and rather we didn't talk about it all.

‘Life's too short. I'll take what you can give me, Ray, knowing you are a good and caring man. And if it doesn't last, it doesn't last. But I'll enjoy it while I can.'

‘Jeezuz, that's a fatalistic point of view.' I put a hand on both of her shoulders, and the realisation comes as fresh as my words. Along with the realisation that the feeling had been there from the first time we met. ‘I'm in love with you, woman. Can't you see that?'

A small tear forms on a lower lash and hangs their like a crystal. ‘It's just … I have a sense…'

‘What?'

‘Nothing. It's nothing, Ray. It's just a lack of sleep.' She reaches out and strokes my cheek.

‘It's something, Maggie. Enough to get you upset.'

She shakes her head.

‘C'mon. Spill.'

Maggie goes to say something and from the shift in her expression, thinks better of it. Then she says, ‘You not sleeping well?'

‘You're changing the subject.'

‘You were crying in your sleep.' The expression of empathy on her face was enough to trigger a tightening in my throat. I coughed, hoping that would loosen the emotion. ‘Then I heard you get up in the middle of the night. You were in the living room for ages.' There was a question in that comment that I didn't want to acknowledge.

‘I'm fine.' I brush it off. ‘But there's something else on your mind. Something else you were going to say.'

‘It's alright,' she says and reaches over to grip my hand. ‘Not urgent.'

‘Maggie, please. What's on your mind? I'm not going to stop nagging until you tell me.'

Her expression softens. ‘It's … just I have this sense that we don't have long together. So,' she turns up the wattage on her smile, ‘I want to enjoy you, us, while I can.'

‘Maggie…' I say. My phone rings. ‘Hold that … no, change that thought.' The number is withheld.
Probably the office
, I think and press accept.

‘DI McBain,' I say.

‘Sorry to disturb you, boss.' I recognise the voice of Daryl Drain. ‘That's somebody at Barlinnie on the phone. Not sure why they're phoning you, Ray.'

I do.

‘Joseph McCall had you down on his notes in place of next of kin, seemingly.'

‘Aye?' I don't know why I'm asking, because I know.

‘He's topped himself.'

16

There's a song on the radio. Love is all around, apparently. And it's Marti Pellow's voice warbling along to the swell of the violins. I reach across and pick at the car's controls. Change channels. I like cheese as much as the next man, but not today.

I look out of the car window, across the rooftops before me and up to a granite-grey sky. A world of monochrome to suit my mood. Poor bastard. Joseph McCall, deceased. You go through all kinds of unmentionable stuff, take on the crimes of a serial murderer and then commit suicide with a short rope and a long drop. Then you have a funeral where your only mourners are a prison guard, a chaplain and a slightly podgy police detective.

A feeling rolls towards me. Sours my mouth. Sits in my gut like a weight. Mood, thy name is guilt. I could have, should have, done more to help the boy. Insisted for longer and louder that he was not the Stigmata Killer. I should have pressed for an investigation into the crimes. Proved that McCall couldn't have been the guilty one.

Instead I hid. Took an easy life. Ignored the nightmares and the night sweats. Tried to push to the back of my mind that a man called Leonard had tried to kill me after murdering a number of people from my past.

I hold my hands in fists. Look down at my knuckles, turn my hands over and check the scars that pucker the pale flesh of my wrists. Close my eyes to the fear that surges from my bowels to my heart and imagine it as the white heat of rage. I will not be bowed by that man. I will not.

I need to make things right.

McCall's belongings are in a small box in the passenger seat beside me. As I was named as his next of kin – I shit you not – I was given his belongings, and what a pathetic assortment it is.

I need to sort this. While poor Joe's flesh is beginning the long slow act of decomposition, the Stigmata Killer is out there, doing whatever the fuck he is doing. And given his previous activities, I very much doubt he's crocheting blankets for the poor.

That can't be right. And I'm to blame.

One gold signet ring. One gold chain with crucifix. Six novels. A gun-metal cigarette lighter and two postcards.

The sum of a life.

Nope. Not having it. I've got to do something. Take responsibility at least.

At last.

I look out of the window and into the distance, seeing nothing of the Glasgow vista before me, feeling resolve work its way through layers in my mind. Gaining acceptance in all those places that shrank from action in the past.

Or, as our American cousins might put it, growing a pair.

I recognise one postcard. Joseph showed me it the last time I visited. The image on the front was a Highland scene. Could have been taken almost anywhere north of the Scottish central belt. The words on the back read “
Gone hunting
”.

The other is a Glasgow scene. And my gut twists when I recognise it as being near the place I stayed when I was on the run from my colleagues as the main suspect in the Stigmata murder enquiry: St Andrews Square. What the hell is going on here?

I turn it over. Three words. The hand-writing on the address side is different from the three words on the message side.

I compare the writing with that on the earlier card. The address and message match the address on the Glasgow card. So whoever wrote on the first one addressed the second one but left the message side blank.

Before I've articulated the thought, I pick up one of the novels. It's Craig Robertson, whoever the fuck he is. A book called
Random
. I open the cover. McCall has signed and dated it. And given it a rating. Five out of five. Looks like we are all critics nowadays.

The writing matches the message on the card.

I examine the postcard. It's dated three days before McCall killed himself. I read his message from the grave and fight to still the chill that slowly rises the length of my spine.

McBain, you're next.

17

One of the benefits of not having killed for a while is that there's less chance of being caught. But then you have to constantly fight down that beautiful hunger. The desire that demands expression in the shedding of another's blood or in the delivery of pain.

Oh, you can imagine the act. Spend seductive hours in speculation. Pick a position, send your limbs to sleep and your mind on a journey of tragic imaginings. Of course, if you have memories to call on, you can insert just the right detail into your mind's weavings.

Remember that last breath. The last agonised sigh. Or the moments at the beginning of the attack, when fear first surges in their gut, before the brain can articulate what is about to happen. A recognition of danger that is linked to the pre-socialised animal. Atavistic. Certain. Bowel-loosening.

Hanging on the edge of the surviving twin's grief worked.

Then it didn't.

So he had to act. End him. End it. All of life before that moment was a sham. Scrubbing in the shallows. Waiting to die. Being nothing but breath and hunger. And that moment of release was all there was.

All there needed to be.