Blood Tears (9 page)

Peters is trying to pull me off. If he doesn’t stop, he’ll be next.

The dream. But it’s not a dream. It’s much more: the sense of danger, the fear that had me gagging on the words I was trying to speak. My hands are shaking, their grip tightening. What the fuck is going on? All I know is that I need to get out of this room. Pronto.

Somebody is tugging at my sleeve, Crichton’s face is purple as he struggles for air. I can see the pink of the roof of his mouth and a row of black fillings. This strikes me as a strange observation to make when I’m so deep into my fury.

But then, why am I so angry?

‘Ray.’ A voice penetrates into my brain.

‘Wha…’ Hands pull mine away from Crichton’s neck. I slump to my seat. What the hell is happening to me?

Crichton’s shoulders are moving up and down as he works air back into his lungs. ‘You… are… a psycho… mate. You should be locked up.’ His face is turning a healthier colour. ‘I’m going to sue your arse for every last penny, you sick fuck.’

‘Shut up, Crichton, before I really hurt you.’ I smile. ‘Besides, nothing happened, did it?’ I face Peters. He’s wearing an expression of outrage. In fact he’s so angry, he can barely talk. Sanctimonious prick. He meets my gaze. Looks to the floor. I can almost see the thoughts tick across his head. If he grasses me up, he knows I can make life miserable for him. Besides, no matter how right they are, whistleblowers are never really trusted again by their fellow officers. But I must have looked really fucked up there for a minute. What was that all about?

‘Nothing happened. Did it, DS Peters?’ I ask with a calm I don’t feel and don a mask of normality. I’m aware of the picture I now present to Peters; the professional, competent, and superior policeman is back in situ. I changed so quickly, the raving lunatic has been consigned to some false memory.

‘Aye.’ He looks at the tape recorder, which missed all of this. ‘Aye.’ He is trying to convince himself. ‘Nothing happened.’

Peters calls a halt to the interview and I leave the room like my shirt’s on fire. On the way to the toilet I ignore a couple of greetings. Once inside I feel a huge surge of gratitude that it is empty and lock myself in a cubicle. I sit on the seat with my elbows on my thighs and look at my shaking hands.

I sit up, straighten my back and try to force my shoulders to relax. A few slow deep breaths and I don’t feel any better. With the cold porcelain of the toilet’s water tank against my back I try to force some semblance of calm into my mind.

It’s at times like these that my meditation practice should come in useful, but the fear is visceral and it feels like my life is in danger. The bogeyman of my childhood has come to life and he is stalking me.

It’s just a dream, I tell myself. A dream. Nothing more. You’ve had dreams before, Ray. Feathers have featured. But I can’t remember much in the way of blood, or dead bodies. Christ. The look on that man’s face. He was staring right at me with a word imprinted on his stare: murderer.

‘It’s only a dream, you daftie. Get back to work.’

Once back at my desk I lose myself in the minutiae of a detective’s day. I really should speak to Peters about Crichton. Ask for his thoughts on the guy’s culpability, but I think he needs some space before I talk to him again. Perhaps he can tell himself it was only a dream as well.

As soon as I have done a decent amount of hours I clear my desk and go home. It is only as I open my car door that I realise that no-one approached me all day for any guidance or with any information. Word must’ve gotten round that I had lost it.

Peters wouldn’t waste much time in spreading the muck around.

Just as I park in front of my house, my mobile rings. I really must change the ringtone. Farmyard sounds seemed amusing six months ago.

‘I’m bored, big guy.’ It’s Theresa.

‘What do you want me to do about that?’ I mean to be flirtatious but my tone sounds wrong even to my ears. More mad guy with pickaxe than smooth guy with hard-on.

‘You crabbit?’ She sounds hurt.

‘Sorry, sweetheart. This case I’m working on…’

‘No wonder you’re still single, McBain. Who would put up with your shit? Between the job and your winning personality…’

‘Who fuckin’ phoned who?’

Silence. Then the phone dies. I wonder if I should call her back. Nah, can’t be arsed. I mentally review the contents of my fridge and my cupboards. Nothing there that’s making me salivate. The lights from the chip shop are winking at me. Deep-fried pizza. Now you’re talking. Should really eat a light snack before going to the gym. But I’d rather pierce my scrotum with a fishhook. I mentally flip a double-headed coin. Heads it is. Chip shop here I come.

It’s only later, when my dinner is nothing more than a straining belly and a faint scent of vinegar wafting from the kitchen bucket that I regret my tone with Theresa. The feeling I’ve had all day hasn’t faded and I really could do with some company to take me out of myself. I suddenly seem to be surrounded with too much space. The telly is on, beaming utter crap into my living room. Some celebrity tosser is trying to be something he hasn’t the training or the talent for and the camera is following his every move. But if I switch it off, there’ll be just me… and the dream. And the pictures. And the thoughts.

A body lying in a pool of blood and feathers.  I remember more. His wrists were slashed. But it’s not Connelly. This guy’s older. If I think harder I can hear voices. Screams. And the laughter of children.

Whoa. Enough. There’s only one likely outcome to stepping further into that movie. Being driven mental.

I screw my eyes tight against the images. ‘Go away. I’m not mad. I’m perfectly sane.’ Perhaps a spot of meditation could clear my head.

Making myself comfortable, I prepare my body. I tell each part to sleep and within seconds my limbs are heavy as though encased in concrete. In the spot where my third eye resides I hang a crystal and enjoy the rays of light it sheds. And so I try to lose myself…

A memory squeezes past the spinning crystal.

Sister Mary towers over me. ‘What are you doing, boy?’

Instantly, I recoil. I must be about five. Although I’ve only been in the orphanage a matter of weeks I am already sensitive to the anger that emanates from the lady in the strange clothes in front of me. I liken it to the statue of Our Lady with the beams of light exploding out from around her head, except with Sister Mary the colour is black.

‘Nothing,’ I whisper. Everything that had been going on in my life in the previous ten minutes has been wiped from my memory with the force of her anger. All I could think of was that my hands had been in my pockets. What was so wrong with that?

Sister stares at me, her eyes as black as her habit. Each word is clipped and edged in fury.

‘What you have just done is evil of the purest kind. Just look at you. You’re covered in sin, boy. ’ I don’t see her fist move. Next thing I know the side of my head is exploding with pain and I’m on all fours. ‘If I ever see anything like that again, you will be sent before Mother Superior.’

The other side of my head attracted her fist.

‘May God have mercy on your immortal soul.’

What have I done that is so evil? If the lady says I’m covered in sin, then there’s no hope for me. The pain this induces is worse than that pulsing on each side of my head. That is already beginning to fade and I know it will show no scars.

I’m lying on my side on the bed. Nerves on the sides of my head throb with the memory. My cheeks are wet with tears. I’m pulling my knees up to my chest. Loud sobs fill the room. It’s like I’m two people: the man in pain on the bed, each spasm causing him to raise his legs in towards his chest, and the other man, watching and wondering with detached calm. Was that really me all those years ago? Why did that memory surface now?

After this morning’s shower, I catch myself avoiding my naked reflection in the full-length mirror. What’s that all about? I make myself go back and stand in front of it. Time for honesty. Look at that belly. And the tits. I cup one in each hand. If they weren’t so hairy, this could be quite pleasing. I grin. Nah. Maybe not.

Still. Theresa likes it. I mentally shrug. That’s got to be worth something.

I move my hands down to my belly and pinch about six inches either side. You’re a heart attack in waiting, McBain. Time to get your act together. Somebody at work mentioned a soup diet the other day. I’ll ask around and see if I can get a copy. Seems you can lose half a stone in a week.

I’m in a good mood, if I had any more dreams last night they have stayed in the dreamzone. I feel good. Rested and optimistic. I grab my belly and give it another forceful wobble. You are gone, fatboy. The diet is back on and under here is a six-pack in waiting.

‘Whose fucking birthday is it now?’ I’m at this morning’s briefing and there’s another box of cakes on the table, strawberry tarts. The jelly on them quivers with the promise of tongue-coating, tooth-decaying sweetness.

‘The boss handed them in, sir. He didn’t say anything, just flung them on the table,’ answers Drain. ‘Probably doesn’t want us to know his age.’

‘What do you reckon?’ asks Gary Wilson. His right hand is pulling at his left ear, his arm almost hidden behind his head. Looks like a contortionist. ‘Late fifties?’

‘Is that sore?’ asks Peters.

‘What? This?’ He lifts his arm up and waves his hand about. ‘I dislocated my arm at school. Can nearly pull it out the socket. Want to see?’

‘For fuck’s sake, Wilson. Are you going to get your dick out next?’ I wonder if some men ever grow up. ‘Right, listen up people. We need to talk about our suspects so far. What have we got?’

Peters describes the young man he and I spoke to the previous day. ‘There’s something about this guy. He has the motive. And a flimsy alibi.’ He avoids my gaze. Obviously still unsure about what to do. The fact that I am standing in front of him at the moment, I take as a good sign. Means he has kept his own counsel for the moment. And if Crichton had complained, things would also be vastly different.

‘Why flimsy?’ I ask suddenly feeling the need to argue with somebody.

‘Says he was with his wife and weans. His wife’s a junkie. Could easily be discredited in court.’

‘That doesn’t make him a murderer though, does it? Gary, did you pick up anything interesting in Aberdeen?’ I ignore the shadow that falls over Peters’ face.

‘One possible so far. Another avenging relative.’

‘Name?’

‘Ally Irving. But he’s Mr Respectable. Nice wife. 2.2 children in the nice house. Beamer in the drive. But the kids aren’t his. It’s her second marriage. Her first husband died three years ago in a car crash.’

‘From your tone I detect you don’t approve of Mr Irving?’

‘Can’t put my finger on it, sir. Just spoke to him on the phone. Seemed a right smarmy bastard.’

‘What does he do for a living?’

‘He’s in computer sales.’

‘Well that explains the smarm. Doesn’t make him a murderer or you lot would be away for twelve to fifteen.’

‘It’s not that,’ he continues, unruffled by my comments. It takes more than sarcasm from yours truly to wind up Gary Wilson. ‘I can’t put my finger on it.’

‘Right. We’ll go and see him.’

‘What, all the way up to Aberdeen?’

‘You got anything better to do? A booking to get your back waxed at the Rainbow Room perhaps?’

He smiles, ‘People in glass houses…’

‘Shut it.’ I turn. ‘Allessandra…’ I trust her, but there is always room for doubt. And I have to ask her. It would look odd if I didn’t. ‘Have you done any digging on our people from Bethlehem House?’

‘Nothing concrete as yet, sir.’ She can’t quite meet my eyes either. ‘I’ve managed to get current addresses for most of them. Just one missing,’ she flicks the pages of her notebook with an index finger, and reads. ‘A chap called Leonard. Can’t find where he’s got to.’

‘Right. Good work. Keep digging. Aberdeen here I come.’

All heads in the room turn as the door squeaks open.

‘Ray. Can I see you in my room?’

I follow Detective Superintendent Campbell into his office. I can feel sweat lining my palms. Did someone talk? I’d bet my next month’s wage it was Peters.

Campbell sits down behind his desk, motions for me to take a seat and sits with his elbows on the desktop, his hands in a prayer pose before his mouth. He looks about to say something but he examines my face and says something else.

‘You okay, Ray?’

‘Fine, Tom. Thanks for asking.’ What is this about?

‘You’re not… sick or anything?’

‘No. I’m not sick or anything. Why do you ask?’

‘It’s just… you look like shit.’

‘Oh. Right. Thanks.’

‘So. Any good leads yet?’ he asks, his two seconds in the act of caring senior officer obviously over for now. He sits back in his chair and fixes the cuffs on his shirt. Ensures the creases are just so and the cufflinks are square to the end of the sleeves.

‘A couple, Tom. But nothing concrete as yet.’ I force calm into my mind and my pulse to settle. No-one had talked. Yet.

‘Give me a time-frame.’

I lift my hand in the air before us and pretend to pluck something from it. I look down at my hand, ‘Three months.’

A fucking time frame he wants.

‘Don’t be a smart arse, McBain.'

‘Well, with all due…’

‘All due… kiss my arse. We need answers. Now. You know as well as I do that the trail runs cold the longer the killer goes undetected.’ One thing we both know, most killers are known to their victim. Recent stats quote ninety per cent. When there is a connection between the two a conviction usually follows. No quickly discernible connection, no quick conviction. No nasty killer locked up behind bars.

‘We’re doing our best, sir.’ Sometimes it works well to play to his ego. Remind him who’s the boss and then go and do what the fuck I like.

We stop in a wee roadside café a few miles north of Perth on the Aberdeen road. A sign ahead points the way to Kinnaird. The café has a large car park in front, polka-dotted with puddles.

There’s a large wooden wheel at either side of the door, as if someone had the idea of going for a Western theme. Nothing else in the location hints at this, apart from the chequered curtains. Maybe that was the extent of their imagination.