Gone Again (13 page)

They waited. He had another hour on his ticket, they’d eaten, and Nathan had his DS, so why not? Only problems could be if the boy needed a piss or the DS’s battery ran out. After ten minutes Mark decided they were too close to the office, too obvious, so he drove round the square and came back. Found a space further away, but still with a sightline to the front door.

Mark stared at the Caledonia Dreaming office. He zoned out, his mind going over unspeakable things in his head. He pictured Taylor screwing Lauren from behind, her laughing, the two of them sniggering at their deceit afterwards, sharing a joint like Mark and Lauren used to back in the days before Nathan, the days before the routine of family life, the days before one of them would wash up cold and blue and clammy on the beach.

It was easier to be angry than sad. Wallowing in grief was what teenagers did. If he could blame Lauren for everything, make it her fault that she was dead, then he would be lifted up from the bottom of the pit by his own righteous fury.

No, he mustn’t think like that. It was already poisoning his memory of her, which would in turn destroy Nathan’s relationship with her. He had to keep it together, for the boy’s sake. Ruth was right about that.

‘Daddy?’

His mind was hauled back into the car. The cantina song from
Star Wars
was playing. Didn’t someone get his arm cut off in that scene? And Harrison Ford shot a guy as well. Some bounty hunter.

‘What is it?’

‘Do you know what I can do as a clone?’

‘What?’

‘Press X and aim at a battle droid’s head, and it plants a bomb in there.’

‘Very good.’

Nathan was giggling. ‘They run around mad for a bit then lie on the ground and their heads explode.’

‘Really?’

Clones and battle droids, that was the newer films. Yet the cantina music was playing. That was all mixed up, surely? Mark wondered if he should say something about the violence. But Nathan got it, didn’t he?

‘It’s OK, Daddy, they’re not real.’

As if the boy could read his mind. That happened so much these days, both ways. Nathan would start a question with ‘I know the answer’s no, Daddy, but can I . . .’ When they played rock-paper-scissors, Mark knew what Nathan was going to do with his hand every single time. How could two people be so close? How could they have so much knowledge of each other? Infinitely more than he could ever have imagined possible.

The birth of Nathan had made him feel physically sick at the thought of how much he’d taken his own dad for granted, even worse because his dad wasn’t around any more. Mark’s typical teenage strops and moody shit must’ve been so insulting to his dad, he realised, an affront to everything the man had done for him. Mark had never had the chance to acknowledge that before he died.

At least Lauren would be spared the indignity of having her son insult her that way. But that was a horrible thing to think, because that was all part of it, all part of the bullshit of parenthood.

At five o’clock Taylor came out the office and bustled down the steps. The rain was off and the wind had died a little but it was still bothering the tops of trees into a skirmish of leaves. Taylor was surprisingly fast for a big man as he slipped into his Lexus.

Mark started the engine and followed from as far back as he could. He didn’t know why but he had to do something. Anything was better than going home and just sitting there.

Taylor took the same route up Lothian Road and through Tollcross then round the Meadows, Mark hanging back but keeping him in sight. The Lexus took an unexpected right in Marchmont, then another right along a cobbled street into Bruntsfield.

Mark knew the area well, round the corner was where he and Lauren had owned their first flat together, a one-bedroom, third-floor box with rattling windows and no central heating. When Lauren got pregnant with Nathan, they had to look further afield to find a place they could afford with a second bedroom, and had ended up in Porty along with hundreds of other displaced young parents.

Mark followed the Lexus round Bruntsfield Links, the criss-crossing paths across the park full of girls in leggings and loose tops, boys in skinny jeans, students traipsing and skipping home from university classes.

Taylor pulled in to the kerb and stopped. Mark’s heart thudded. Why was Taylor stopping here? This wasn’t his home. Mark drove on past the car, angling his face away in case he got noticed, then turned round the next corner. He kept driving, left and left again round the block, until he emerged a hundred yards behind the parked Lexus.

He pulled in, switched the engine off and waited. Tried to breathe steadily.

‘Daddy, you know how Anakin turns into Darth Vader?’

‘Yeah.’ Mark reached for the
Star Wars
binoculars still lying on the passenger seat.

Nathan kept his head down, concentrating on the game. ‘Well, it’s a bit strange.’

‘What’s strange?’ Mark focused the binoculars. Taylor was crossing the road towards the park, his back to Mark. Where the hell was he going, a walk in the park on his way home? Didn’t make sense.

‘He starts off as a goodie,’ Nathan said, ‘but then he turns into a baddie.’

‘That’s right.’ Mark watched as Taylor approached a park bench where a man was sitting. The man was about the same age as Taylor, with a hard, lived-in face and an expensive leather jacket. He was playing with a dog lead, and a Jack Russell was sniffing nearby trees. The dog was incongruous – the man was bigger than Taylor and looked tough, pockmarked cheeks and thick fists. The kind of man you would expect to have a Staffy or a Rotty, one of those hardman mutts.

‘But then even as a baddie, he saves Luke and kills the Emperor at the end.’

‘Yeah.’

Taylor sat down next to the man, who didn’t turn round, just kept staring straight ahead. The binoculars drifted a little out of focus, and Mark rolled them back into sharpness.

‘So which is he, a goodie or a baddie?’

Taylor began talking, not looking round. But this was clearly a meeting, not an accident, and the fact they weren’t looking at each other meant it was supposed to be a secret.

This was something.

Mark felt his neck flush with blood. This was really something.

‘He’s kind of both, Big Guy. It’s a bit complicated. Sometimes people can be goodies and baddies.’

Taylor was still talking, getting more animated. He turned to look at the hardman a couple of times, got a curt word from him for his trouble. Dribs and drabs of students were drifting by, mucking about like they owned the future.

‘That’s just confusing,’ Nathan said.

Taylor didn’t stop. He was waving his hands around now, running fingers across his stubbled scalp, agitated.

‘Yeah, life can be confusing sometimes,’ Mark said.

Eventually the hardman had heard enough, and threw out a gloved hand to Taylor’s neck. Taylor froze. The hardman turned and spoke calmly through clenched teeth. Mark thought of that scene with Darth Vader in
Star Wars
, where he chokes one of the other guys round the table. ‘I find your lack of faith disturbing,’ or whatever. Although of course Vader never needed to touch the guy. Christ, Mark was watching too much
Star Wars
.

The hardman let go of Taylor, who looked like he was about to piss himself. Did this have anything to do with Lauren? How could he find out?

Taylor got up and said something to the other guy, putting a brave face on his submission, then he turned and walked back to his car. Mark lowered the binoculars. A student couple walked past the Peugeot and clocked him with the toy binoculars in his hands, giving him funny looks and whispering. He wanted to tell them they had no idea what life had in store for them, it would grind them into dust.

Up ahead, the Lexus pulled out, trundling over the cobbles.

The hardman clicked his fingers once and the Jack Russell trotted over and got its lead on. The man stood up and walked west towards the top of Bruntsfield and Morningside. He had a calm, methodical gait. Now the man was standing, Mark could see he was wearing a tailored shirt, chinos and leather shoes. He was well over six feet and several stone heavier than Mark. A lot of muscle.

Mark turned to Nathan.

‘Come on.’

‘Where are we going?’ Nathan was already shutting his DS and undoing his seatbelt.

Mark looked. The man was a hundred yards away now, heading for Bruntsfield Place. ‘A sweetie shop.’

‘Why?’

A sweetie shop was shorthand between them for any corner shop, really. Anywhere that had lollipops or cola bottles or something sour. Nathan was going through a phase of sour sweets, he liked to feel the sharpness of them on his tongue.

‘To get you a sweetie for being so good and waiting patiently in the car.’

Nathan bounded out and they walked through the park, following the man and his dog. Nathan kept leaping about, running on ahead. Mark tried to calm him, worried he would draw attention.

They got to the road. They were catching up on the man because he was walking slowly. Speed up, you dick. They approached a corner shop.

‘Is this the sweetie shop?’

‘No.’

‘But this one has sweeties.’

There was a big display in the window, of course.

The man was up at the turning for Morningside.

‘There’s a better one further ahead.’

‘Aw.’

The man turned up Colinton Road then eventually down Napier Road. Wide street, big trees, even bigger houses. Made Taylor’s neighbourhood look like Craigmillar. A real millionaires’ row. Mark was sure he’d heard that J. K. Rowling lived round here somewhere. A lot was made of Morningside’s reputation, but that was more about old-school snootiness. The real Edinburgh money lived here in Merchiston.

The man stopped at the driveway of one of the properties, a large closed gate in front of him. He pressed a button and spoke to someone through an intercom system, then the gate slid open with a whir. He sauntered through, the Jack Russell trotting along obediently. The gate closed behind them.

‘Daddy, there’s no sweetie shops in this street.’

Mark looked at the house. ‘No, you’re right, I made a mistake.’

Nathan tugged on his hand. ‘Silly Daddy.’

Mark looked at him. ‘Just a minute.’

He jogged up the road to the driveway entrance. Looked up at the huge spikes along the top of the gate’s railings. Noticed a brass plate on a stone pillar to the side. Number 40.

He turned and walked back to Nathan. He had a street name and a house number. That was something to start with.

‘Can I have a sour snake if they have any?’ Nathan said.

Mark took the boy’s hand. ‘You can have two.’

Back at the car, a quick search on his phone came up with some info. Number 40 Napier Road had been bought by its current owners three months ago. They paid one and a half million for it. Strange thing was, it wasn’t an individual but a company, Fisher Holdings. Some sort of property developer, although that part was vague. Clearly someone was doing well, despite the economic collapse and the recent drop in house prices. He rooted around some more and found out that Fisher Holdings was owned by Innes Fisher. Pulled up a picture and zoomed in. It was him, the hardman with the leather gloves and the yappy dog.

But what did he have to do with Taylor, how did they know each other? Why go and meet him in the park, not in an office or at his home? That was the good part, the part that made Mark think there was something in this.

Did it have anything to do with Lauren, though? He wondered if what he was doing was part of the grieving process. Mental displacement. He’d read about it after Lauren’s dad died. Lauren had become briefly obsessed with self-improvement, going to the gym, buying self-help books. Of course, all that was before she dug up the buried nightmare of what her father had done.

But this wasn’t displacement, there really was something to find out.

Lauren had been murdered.

Strangled.

He thought of Fisher’s gloved hand on Taylor’s throat. He could see the fine stitching, could imagine the creak of the fawn leather as he squeezed, the rasp of Taylor’s breath as he struggled to get oxygen into his blood.

Strangled, Jesus.

New guilt came swarming in around him, suffocating him. The first thing he’d thought of when he saw Fisher grabbing Taylor wasn’t his dead wife but Darth Vader. Darth fucking Vader. What did that say about his priorities, about his mindset?

His eyes filled with tears. Nathan in the back of the car hadn’t noticed. Mark swivelled the heels of his hands in his eye sockets and sniffed.

‘Are you OK, Daddy?’

He took an uneven breath. ‘Just thinking about Mummy, that’s all.’

‘I miss her too.’

‘I know you do, Big Guy.’

A pause, but Mark knew Nathan wasn’t finished. He just knew.

‘But we still have each other, don’t we?’ the boy said.

Fuck. He wanted to hold the boy, but they were both strapped into their seats. He turned, not bothering to hide the tears.

‘Yes, we still have each other.’

Nathan had a resigned smile on his face. He leaned forward and patted Mark’s shoulder. ‘It’s OK, Daddy.’

Mark put a hand on the boy’s fingers and squeezed.

They shared a fish supper on their knees in front of
Horrible Histories
. Salt and vinegar on it, Lauren would’ve frowned at that. Salt on chips at his age. A McDonald’s and a chippy on the same day, Nathan must be wishing his mum died more often.

What a terrible thing to think. Why couldn’t he stop this shit from infecting his brain? Grief wasn’t the towering misery it was always portrayed as, he knew that from the death of his own dad when he was a teenager. He knew it even more now. Only him, Nathan and Ruth left to grieve, the family almost wiped off the planet.

Mark’s dad dying seemed like a lifetime ago. Mark was just a kid really, he hadn’t known how to handle it, and hadn’t cared much either. He’d drifted along for a while until he moved to Edinburgh and met Lauren. Started a new life. A new life that was over now as well. Time to move on to life number three, just father and son. But not until he found out who was responsible for all this.

On the television, two Celts were having a boast battle about how many enemies they’d killed. More violence. Mark remembered the first time Nathan had made a gun shape with his hand, pointed it at Lauren and said ‘Bang’. Just past two years old. Something picked up from older boys at nursery. Always the boys.

Mark and Lauren had been shocked, but once that floodgate was opened, that was it – toy guns, swords, an awareness of boxing and wrestling, violence in cartoons and, of course, lightsabers and blasters. But so what? It turned out you didn’t need all that shit to kill someone, all you needed was a pair of strong hands and some serious willpower.

The buzzer went. Mark couldn’t even think who it might be. He went to answer it.

‘Mr Douglas?’

He knew the voice. Ferguson. ‘Have you found out something about Lauren’s murderer?’

‘Can we come up, please?’

He buzzed her in and opened the door.

She was with a different sidekick this time, the uniformed kid from the reception desk at the station. He was about twenty with bumfluff on his face and a line of spots along a crease in his forehead that reminded Mark of Vyvyan from
The Young Ones
. He wondered if the kid was born when that was on television. Worked it out and realised the show was on ten years before this kid was even alive. Fucking Jesus.

He let them in and ushered them to the other end of the hall from the living room.

‘I’m glad you’re here, I have something to tell you. I saw Taylor today, he’s definitely into something dodgy.’

Ferguson pushed a strand of hair behind her ear. ‘You went to see Gavin Taylor again?’

‘Well you didn’t seem to be trying too hard to talk to him.’

‘I strongly advise you to leave the investigating to us, Mr Douglas.’

‘I would if you were actually doing any investigating.’

‘We are progressing as fast as resources allow.’

‘In other words, doing nothing.’

‘Mr Douglas, that’s not helpful.’

‘I followed him, and I saw him meet someone in Bruntsfield Links.’

‘You followed him?’

‘A guy called Innes Fisher, do you know him? He lives in Napier Road, number 40. The place is a mansion. He’s obviously doing well for himself. Maybe he’s into something criminal. Can you run his name through the police computer or something?’

‘Mr Douglas, we’re not here about your wife’s death.’

That pulled Mark up. ‘What?’

‘We’ve had a formal complaint about you.’

‘From who?’

‘Mrs Kelly Robertson.’

Mark shook his head. ‘Never heard of her.’

‘She claims you assaulted her yesterday afternoon in the infant playground of Towerbank Primary School.’

Lee’s mum. Shit. ‘That was nothing.’

‘She says you punched her in the face in full view of pupils, parents and staff.’

‘It was a misunderstanding.’

‘We’ve got plenty of witnesses to confirm her statement, Mr Douglas.’

‘I’m sure you do.’

‘This is extremely serious.’

‘As serious as finding my wife’s killer?’

‘In light of Mrs Robertson’s statement, you’re going to have to come back down to the station and answer some more questions.’

Mark shook his head. ‘You’re fucking joking me.’

‘I’m afraid not,’ Ferguson said.

Mark listened through to the living room.
Horrible Histories
was still on. He could hear the Grim Reaper singing ‘Stupid Deaths’. One of the boy’s favourites.

‘What about Nathan?’

Ferguson shrugged. ‘Same as before. Either get a babysitter or bring him and a social worker will sit with him.’

‘What if I refuse to come?’

‘Then we’ll formally arrest you right now and take you anyway.’

Mark shook his head. He looked at the spotty kid copper. He had no clue about life yet, none whatsoever. Neither did Ferguson. How quickly it could shit on you from a great height and all you could do was smile and say thanks.

‘That doesn’t really give me much choice, does it?’