The Storm Without (5 page)

The lab
'
s coat was illuminated in the brightness of the morning sun: grey and white flecks showing down his spine and around his ears. I still remembered him as a pup, a small black bundle — a surrogate child that never fully met the need. He
'
d let my mother down because he
'
d failed to live up to her expectations, but hadn
'
t we all? She had never worked, had a career, she was a mother and when we grew up, left her, that was it. Life stopped. I don
'
t think I had fully understood this until recently; leaving the force had left me empty too. All those years, all that commitment, it defined me. But now it was gone. Over.

The dog was bumping into walls, left and right. I tightened the lead. In the daylight, his milky-blue cataracts were more visible. The sight of him wounded me, made me want to hit out at the injustice. But it was only nature. I knew you couldn
'
t fight it.

'
Come on, Ben
…'

He wagged his old tail.

'
Good lad.
'

The neighbourhood was quiet; this part of town — the edge of Alloway — always was now. It hadn
'
t always been that way. I knew it when there were families, young children in the neatly appointed homes. Not even two salaries could afford them now; not even the economic crash helped. The place was becoming an extension of God
'
s waiting room, old widows and widowers pottering about and eyeing the street through twitching curtains. Few ventured outside; they no longer had the energy to maintain gardens. The council seemed to have abandoned the roads; grassy areas were left unattended. All life seemed to have been sucked out of the place.

I came off the Maybole Road and down Lauchlanglen, crossed into Rozelle. Ben was struggling now, his arthritic hips dragging behind him. I slowed the pace as we left the pavement and took the wooded path. I had a circuit route in mind that would get us back to my mother
'
s house; I just hoped I wasn
'
t going to have to carry the dog the last part of the way. Neither of us would like that.

I felt the phone in my pocket and knew I needed to return the call.

Dialled.

Ringing.

'
Hello
…'
It was Lyn.

'
I got your call.
'

A pause; she seemed to be processing my response.
'
Oh yeah, I just wanted to ask if you had, y
'
know
…'

She was reaching. Desperate for any news.
'
Lyn, it
'
s too soon.
'

Her tone softened, lowered.
'
I thought so.
'

'
Look, I
'
ve made some
…
enquiries.
'

'
I see.
'
I could sense the disappointment in her tone.

I tried to enliven my own voice.
'
But, there
'
s still plenty we can be getting on with.
'

I waited for a reply. None came.

I said,
'
I need you to make a list of Glenn
'
s friends for me, people he knew, worked with and so on
…'

'
Why?
'

That was the question.
'
So I can speak to them.
'
I needed to get a picture of who her son was, what kind of person he was. But there was more besides.
'
And Kirsty
…
can you put me in touch with her people?
'

Lyn stalled,
'
I—I don
'
t know.
'

I was a cop, once. I knew most murder victims knew their killer.
'
It
'
s important.
'

'
Do you mean her parents?
'
said Lyn.

'
Yes
…
among others.
'

'
Well, it
'
s just that
…'
the line fizzed, then stilled to silence.

'
Lyn
…
is there something you have to tell me?
'

The line crackled some more, then:
'
Before you go speaking to Kirsty
'
s parents, Doug.
'
A sigh; her voice quivered.
'
I think there
'
s something I should tell you.
'

I returned home to find my mother asleep on the couch. Near comatose would be a more accurate description. The television blared in the background — Jeremy Kyle lording it over his latter-day bear-pit. I picked up the doofer, flicked it to off. My mother barely stirred, her mouth agape as her head rested on the arm of the couch. I leant over to straighten the upturned bottle of port that lay on the floor. It was empty. Not a drop had escaped her lips.

I shook my head.

This was my mother, and she was out of it.

I could hardly judge; I
'
d had my fair share of days on the sauce. But they were behind me. I realised long ago that the road of excess never led to the palace of wisdom. The road of excess led to the road of excess.

I heard the dog clatter into the door behind me, moved to lay a hand on his ear, reassure him.

'
There, boy
…'
I turned him around, led him from the sitting room towards the kitchen and closed the door behind us.

I knew I wasn
'
t going to be able to stay with my mother. I had known that before I left Ulster, but somehow thought I might manage a few days whilst I got myself set up in Ayr. She had always liked a drink, my mam. Had always liked a rant, getting it all off her chest. They were the worst kind of drinkers, the morose. They used inebriation as an excuse to vent their anger at life
'
s misfortunes. My mother seemed to have gone passed that stage now; reached the point where burning energy on anger wasn
'
t an option when her reserves were so low. She drank for the release of oblivion.

I took the phone from the kitchen wall, dialled my sister
'
s number. Claire had left the Auld Toun too, was holed up in the wilds in Inverness with a husband and a clutch of kids. I never envied her, perhaps because she never seemed in the remotest neighbourhood of happy.

I dialled.

Ringing.

An answer phone. The classic,
'
Please leave a message after the tone.
'

I took a shallow breath.
'
Claire, it
'
s Doug
…
I just got back home, to Ayr. I think we need to talk about Mam
…'

I left my mobile number and hung up.

I watched Ben lap at his bowl of water. He was tired, nosing the edge of the bowl with his drooping face. When he was sated, the old dog staggered towards his basket in the corner of the room and threw himself down. I decided he needed rest, or perhaps knew the routine now. Either way, I let them sleep it off, headed back for the front door.

On the Maybole Road I walked with a vague intention of paying a visit to an old contact from my days in uniform. I didn
'
t know if Veitch would be at home, or even in the same house. It didn
'
t matter. I felt like walking; it let me think. What I
'
d mostly been thinking of lately was Mason
'
s reaction to my mention of Jonny Gilmour. Something unsettled me about my sighting of Gilmour at the police station and Mason
'
s warning to steer clear only confirmed my suspicions. It might have nothing to do with the case but instinct told me Gilmour was up to no good, and that I was onto something.

There were leaves blowing on the road, filling up gardens and clogging gutters. This time of year always felt like a point of stasis to me: like something was waiting to happen. I hadn
'
t come home to Ayr hoping to fill my days with the same kind of duty I had left in the north of Ireland, but it had found me. I steeled myself for what was ahead; I knew Lyn needed me, needed my help, though something told me she wasn
'
t about to reveal the full picture just yet. I knew it would be up to me to pull it into focus.

I passed what had once been a nursing home; it had been replaced with a block of flats. In front of the flats sat a Tesco Express where the old Anfield Hotel once stood. I don
'
t know if the Anfield ever took paying guests. I only knew the lounge bar. The country and western singer Sidney Divine had once owned it, put pictures of himself on the walls. I smiled to myself remembering the pints he poured me, and how I
'
d laughed at his appearances on Scotch & Wry alongside Rikki Fulton. The Tesco Express couldn
'
t obliterate those memories.

The rain started as I rounded the corner, passed under the railway arch and made my way across the playing fields to Kincaidston. When I was in uniform, they called the place Zulu. I never thought it deserved the reputation. There were good people living there alongside the scrotes. Veitch, when I knew him, fell into the latter category. Mason and myself had pulled him for a badger baiting escapade up the Carrick Hills. We were both wild in those days, knew a prosecution was a long-shot, so we gave him a hiding he would never forget. As I stood outside his front door, I hoped his memory was intact.

'
Hello, Veitchy.
'

'
What the
…'
He eyed me up and down, seemed to be coming out of a stoner
'
s stupor.

I pushed passed him into the hallway.

'
Hey, hey
…
what
'
s this all about?
'

I surveyed the premises, found the place empty. In the living room an ashtray overflowed with cigarette dowps, and Rizzla papers. A fat block of Moroccan sat by a packet of Regal Kingsize. I picked it up.

'
What
'
s this?
'

He girned,
'
A wee bit of puff
…
you still polis, eh?
'

'
I
'
ll ask the questions, Veitchy.
'

He shook his head; his craggy jaw turned a chin of white bristles towards me. He had aged since we
'
d last met. I couldn
'
t believe how he
'
d aged.
'
Well this isnae a social call,
' he bleated.

'
Got that right.
'

His eyes followed the block of cannabis resin in my hand. I played with it, toss and catch.
'
Although
…
I did see a glimpse of a friend of yours the other day, got me thinking.
'

'
A friend ay mine? Who?
'

I pocketed the resin.
'
Jonny Gilmour.
'

Veitch
'
s face creased; deep furrowed lines appeared round the corners of his mouth. His cheeks looked more hollowed now, his brow more furrowed. It was a look of stupefaction, at least that
'
s what he wanted me to believe; I went with a wiser assessment of Rabbie
'
s:
suspicion is a heavy armour and with its weight it impedes more than it protects.

'
Haven
'
t seen him in a month ay Sundays,
' Veitch protested.

I smiled,
'
That right?
'

'
Sure ay it. Couldn
'
t tell you the last time I saw him, must have been when Adam was a boy
…'

I didn
'
t rate his reaction, didn
'
t seem genuine to me. I said,
'
You haven
'
t changed house in twenty years, Veitchy. Am I supposed to believe you
'
ve changed your muckers?
'

'
Look, I don
'
t hang about with Jonny Gilmour. I
'
m telling you that straight.
'
His tone was hard, certain. I didn
'
t believe a word of it.

'
I think you protest too much, Veitchy.
'

'
Eh? What
'
s that supposed to mean? Some kind ay riddle or that?
'

I turned towards him, closed down the two paces between us and planted a firm index finger in his bony chest.
'
There must be something up with your memory, son
…
Don
'
t you remember my aversion to lying scrotes?
'

He withdrew his head.
'
Well, I might have seen him in the passing, now and again like, at the snooker and that.
'