Shadow Man, page 13
It’s still raining as he sets off – solid, slanting stuff, bouncing off the pavement like the middle of bloody winter – but it doesn’t bother him, not today. More rain means fewer folk around to notice him when they should be minding their own business. And the cops are all hiding in their wee cop cars eating burgers and pretending they’re on a stake-out somewhere sunny. Still, he keeps his head down as he passes McCallum’s, just in case.
The jakey begging outside the shop sees him coming and starts mumbling something, his hand held out for change, but Donnie pushes past him and goes inside, unzipping his jacket. The guy in the shop is sitting by the till, a can of Red Bull resting on a stained copy of the Highland News. He takes the iPad from Donnie, taps the screen a couple of times. And names a figure that’s about a quarter of what Donnie’s expecting.
‘You’re joking, man! Latest model, this.’
A shrug. ‘What I’m offering, pal. Take it or leave it. And I’ll need to see your ID.’
‘What for?’
The guy looks at him as though he’s just crawled out of a bog. ‘Records, pal. We all need records these days, don’t we? Just a bill or something with your address on it will do. Or your driving licence?’
Driving licence. Aye, right. Donnie shakes his head. ‘Not got anything with me. I’ll come back later, aye?’
He makes a grab for the iPad – and knocks over the can of Red Bull. Sticky red liquid shoots out, covering the counter, and the guy goes mental. Wheechs the paper out of the way, calling him everything under the sun, and drapes it over the till while he mops up the mess with a couple of tissues.
‘Fucking numpty!’
Donnie isn’t listening, He’s staring at the face looking out at him from the paper’s front page. And the red-stained strapline underneath it. While the guy’s searching for more tissues, Donnie grabs the paper. He stuffs the iPad down his hoodie and runs out of the shop, nearly tripping over the guy begging in the doorway. Running down the street, trying to ignore the cramping in his gut. Morven Murray’s blood on the knife that night. Morven fucking Murray – and the guy’s trying to buy him off with a handful of tenners?
People are looking at him. He makes himself slow to a walk, and ducks down Bank Street towards the river. He needs to think this through, needs to work out what happens next. But one thing’s for sure, it won’t go the way the knife guy’s expecting. He’ll think it all through, then he’ll ring the knife guy, the man from the shadows. And the guy will listen to what he’s got to say. Or else.
Donnie glances at the photo again and a slow smile spreads over his face.
Or fucking else.
23
FRIDAY, 20 JUNE
HMP Inverness (Porterfield)
Built in 1902 to house 103 prisoners, Porterfield is the country’s smallest prison – and, Mahler’s convinced, its most discreet. Tucked away between the genteel streets of Crown and the Castle’s selfie-friendly views, it’s so easy to overlook that he’s willing to bet a surprisingly high percentage of the city’s inhabitants would struggle to pinpoint its location.
Out of sight, out of mind, apparently – which, apart from some residual paperwork, was how he’d regarded the Black Isle Slasher, as the local weekly paper insisted on calling Liam Gerrity, the man Mahler had recently lifted for attempted murder. Until Gerrity’s lawyer had got in touch, that is. And told him Gerrity was in the mood for a chat.
‘We’re wasting our time, Lukas.’ Karen presses the intercom and waits for them to be buzzed in. ‘Gerrity doesn’t know a bloody thing about Kevin Ramsay’s murder. He’s winding us up, that’s all. And we’ve fallen for it.’
Mahler shrugs. She’s probably right, and this is nothing more than an elaborate ‘make the cops look stupid’ wheeze cooked up by Gerrity. But five weeks after Kevin’s murder, the only leads they have are minimal forensics from a burnt-out 4×4 and a few fuzzy CCTV images of a pub car-park. And Mahler’s only too aware that he’s had to concentrate more and more on the Morven Murray killing as the weeks have passed. If Gerrity has anything to tell them that might redress the balance, Mahler’s more than willing to listen.
He passes through the metal detector in reception, waits for Karen to do the same, and follows the prison officer through to the Links Centre, a temporary-looking suite of offices housing support services from counselling to benefits advice. They’re shown into the conference room, where Gerrity’s waiting.
He’s leaning back in his chair as they enter. His eyes are half-closed and there’s a bored, hard man smirk on his face. But Gerrity’s leg is twitching, beating an edgy tattoo against the table, and deprived of his usual sunbed tan, his complexion’s nearly back to its natural, indeterminate porridge. Which, Mahler supposes, is pretty appropriate in the circumstances.
‘Aye, aye.’ Gerrity watches Karen sit down and treats her to what he probably imagines is an inviting grin. ‘Thinks are looking up. You an upgrade from this guy, doll?’
Karen gives him her permafrost glare, and opens her pocketbook to make a note.
Mahler shakes his head.
‘Not a good start, Liam. Let’s try again, shall we? DS Gilchrist and I are running late and we’re severely caffeine-deprived – trust me, this is not a good combination. So let’s hear it. What do you know about the night Kevin Ramsay was killed?’
The hard man smirk makes a reappearance. Gerrity sits back, shrugs. ‘Maybe something, maybe nothing. Depends on what you can do for me, know what I mean?’
‘You’re joking.’ Karen glances at Mahler and puts down her pen. ‘Been watching too much CSI, hasn’t he, sir?’
Mahler nods. ‘Certainly sounds like it. You’re in no position to make demands, Liam, believe me. If you’re hoping to have a year or two knocked off your sentence when it goes to court—’
‘Fuck’s sake, man, I’m not daft.’ Gerrity scrubs the sleeve of his prison-issue sweatshirt across his shiny forehead. ‘Not got a date yet though, have I? And in the meantime, I’m stuck up here in teuchter town.’
‘You’re on remand,’ Karen reminds him. ‘What’s the problem?’
‘Aye, in fucking community prison. Know what that means? It means folk know who you are. And if they know who you are . . .’ he wipes his forehead again. ‘I want a transfer. Perth, maybe, or Saughton. Somewhere big.’
Mahler stares at Gerrity. Porterfield is an overcrowded Edwardian fortress, entirely unsuited to a modern prison population. Its facilities are stretched almost to breaking point, but relations between staff and inmates are good and incidents of any kind are remarkably rare. What would make Gerrity so keen to get away?
‘Finally run out of friends up here, Liam? Shame. But being banged up isn’t like booking a holiday, I’m afraid – you don’t get to choose from a list of preferred locations.’
Gerrity shrugs. ‘Maybe I do. The hit-and-run on wee Kevin Ramsay? No names, mind, but maybe I can point you in the right direction. You know “Working Girls”, don’t you? That place down the Longman?’
Working Girls. Tacky as its name suggests, Cazza MacKay’s most recent business venture is a bargain basement answer to a marginally more salubrious establishment at the other end of town. Mahler glances at Karen, nods. ‘Go on.’
Gerrity tells them his ex had worked there until a couple of months ago. At first, she’d enjoyed it – decent money, punters mainly stag parties high on booze-fuelled bravado – but then things had gone downhill. The clientele had changed, and new staff had appeared, mainly of the shaven-headed, slab-faced variety. One in particular had put the wind up Lisa sufficiently that she’d started looking for a new job.
‘He was a big English guy – Manchester, Liverpool, somewhere like that. Said he was a barman, but Lisa never saw him pulling a pint. Saw him doing plenty of other stuff, though – good with his hands, know what I mean? Then the day after Kevin’s murder, he was gone. Pal of his, too, just like that.’ Gerrity leans back, grinning. ‘Interesting, yeah? So, we talking transfer now or what?’
Interesting, yes. But not enough. Mahler leans forward. ‘Need to do better than that, Liam. There’s nothing there for us, not without names.’
‘You’re joking me.’ Gerrity’s smile disappears. ‘I’m telling you, Kevin was a problem, and these guys sorted it out. Is that the kind of sorting out you want going on in your shitey wee teuchter town?’
‘A problem to Cazza? Why?’
Gerrity shakes his head. ‘Think I’m doing your fucking job for you? I told you what I want – that’s all you’re getting until you make it happen.’ He nods at the prison officer stationed by the door. ‘We’re done here, pal. See the polis out, will you?’
Mahler and Karen are escorted back through the succession of doors and down to reception. As they walk over to the car, Karen looks back at the prison walls. ‘Mad keen to get out of Sneckie, isn’t he? What do you think?’
‘I think you drag Pete away from his Candy Crush fixation and go and annoy the manager at “Working Girls”. Feel free to be creative. And persistent.’
‘Major annoyance or minor irritation?’
‘Oh, the full works, I think – licence compliance, health and safety, employment status if you can get Immigration on board.’
‘Happy to, if you think I can handle it. Sir.’
Ah, the return of the Attitude. How he’d missed it. ‘Have I ever suggested you couldn’t? You’re a bloody good officer, Karen, and you’ll make a bloody good DI some day.’
She shakes her head. ‘Not if I don’t have the chance to show what I can do. Donna and I could have handled today, Lukas – but every time someone mentions Cazza, you’re there like Pavlov’s sodding dog.’ She looks him up and down, gives him an exasperated look. ‘And you look bloody knackered, by the way. Would it kill you to delegate sometimes?’
A truce? Maybe the beginnings of one. And she’s right, Mahler realises. He’s been trying to run both cases at the same level of intensity, but there’s only so far he can stretch the team’s resources. Or his own, for that matter.
‘I suspect the DCI might agree with you,’ Mahler concedes. ‘Okay, you’re leading on “Working Girls”. And talk to Gerrity’s girlfriend while you’re at it. Maybe she’ll be a little more forthcoming now she’s not connected with the place.’
‘Fine by me.’
He glances at his watch. ‘I’ve got a meeting in half an hour, but I’m clear at three to run over some actions. After that . . .’ he tries to remember the last time he’d gone home, other than to check it was still standing. Or left the office, come to that. He makes a decision. ‘After that, unless the sky falls in or a zombie plague breaks out, I’m going home.’
24
SATURDAY, 21 JUNE
Four fifteen a.m. His mobile lit up and buzzing, zig-zagging across the bedside table. Control room? June? Mahler reaches for the phone, his head already halfway into duty mode, when he reads the number on the display.
‘I’ve seen him!’ His mother’s voice shrilling through the speaker, raw-edged with panic. ‘I couldn’t sleep so I got up to make some tea, and he was out there in the garden, just staring up at me! And you said not to call the police again, but I’m so scared, and—’
‘I know.’ Out of bed. Pulling on his clothes as he searches for his car keys. Rehearsing all the coping strategies they’ve practised with her care manager, though he can tell from her voice they’re not going to work this time. ‘But you’re going to be fine, I promise. I’m on my way over, and—’
‘What if he gets in? I’m calling the police—’
‘No! Look, you don’t need to do that. I’ll be there—’
Silence. The kind that tells him he’s talking to a dead line. He grabs his warrant card and drives at borderline bat-out-of-hell speed, up through Drummond and into Crown. As he’d expected, the genteel streets of Crown are deserted and he slows to something more sedate as he approaches the church. It’s a fairly safe bet most of the local Neighbourhood Watch members are asleep, but he doesn’t fancy dodging the business end of a shinty stick, wielded by one of the group’s elderly insomniacs in full vigilante mode.
Mahler parks by the old academy and walks to the flat. No external signs of anything out of the ordinary, but the door is unlocked and the place is in total darkness, which isn’t part of her usual pattern.
He hits the light switch and makes his way along the hall, opening doors and calling out as he goes. No answer. If something else had spooked her before he’d got here, spooked her badly enough to leave the flat . . . he’s got his finger on the emergency number for the on-call CPN when the bathroom door opens a couple of inches and his mother’s anxious blue eyes peer out at him.
‘Lukas? Is that you?’ A huge flashlight clutched in her hand, big and clunky enough to do some serious damage if she’d mistaken him for the putative prowler.
He slips the phone back into his pocket, nods. ‘I’m going to take a look round. Do you want to stay here, or—’
She peers down the hall, shakes her head. ‘I’m coming with you.’
‘Okay. But I’ll take the torch, shall I?’ He waits until she’s pulled on a dressing-gown, and leads the way. Always the same order, always checking behind the door first, the beam from the massive torch floodlighting each corner of the room. Kitchen next, then the utility room and out into the garden, all the way down the path. Opening the shed door, holding it wide so she can see.
‘No one here. Not him, not anyone. See?’
‘I . . . yes, I see.’ Embarrassment pinking her cheeks, a small defeated smile. ‘I’m sorry. I woke up, and . . .’ she shakes her head. ‘This isn’t the life you should have, is it? Stuck in Inverness looking after me. Maybe if you’d stayed on at Cambridge, not joined the police . . . you’d have been happy there, wouldn’t you?’
A life spent writing obscure papers on Dante and the Italian renaissance. Would it have been a refuge, or a prison? His day job is only partly to blame for his storehouse of bad dreams, he knows that. And she would have been alone, defenceless. Broken.
He shakes his head. ‘I made my choice. I’m good at what I do, Mum – and my life is fine, I promise. Are you feeling better?’
‘A little. Would you like some tea?’ An attempt at a smile. ‘I’m going to have some.’
It’s five a.m. Five a.m. on his first day off in nearly three weeks. Sleep is what he wants, unthinking, semi-comatose hours of it, unpopulated by Kevin Ramsay and Morven Murray’s bloody, reproachful ghosts. But since that isn’t going to happen . . . ‘Tea would be great. Thanks.’
He watches her potter around the kitchen, rummaging for the lemon shortbread, hunting for the best mugs. Humming to herself. Humming, for Christ’s sake. Is he here so rarely that his visiting in the middle of the night is enough to make her happy?
He glances at the dresser, frowns. Shouldn’t the silver tea caddy be on that middle shelf? He’d thought the room looked neater, that she’d finally got round to tidying up. But a closer look reveals spaces on the shelves, things moved around. And on top of a pile of magazines, a cigarette lighter in neon green plastic.
‘It belongs to Mina. She . . . she’s been staying with me again.’
A slow, dark anger burning through the guilt. Mina, with her skinny avaricious fingers and her calculating eyes. He looks round, taking a mental inventory of the room’s contents. Wishing he could whistle up a spare SOCO to do a bit of light dusting of his mother’s cash tin.
‘I’m not sure Mina’s much of a friend, Mum. She . . .’ nicks anything that’s not nailed down . . . ‘borrows things, and she doesn’t always bring them back.’
She’s still rooting in the cupboard for the bloody shortbread, her back towards him. He sees her shoulders tighten as she closes the cupboard door and turns round, her eyes wide, disbelieving.
‘You . . . you mean she steals?’
‘Look, I’m sorry. I—’
A snort of laughter from her stops him in the middle of the rambling apology he’d been cobbling together. She abandons the shortbread quest and sits beside him, shaking her head as though he’s just told her the best joke she’s heard in ages.
‘Did you really think I didn’t know? Lukas. I’m ill, not stupid. Yes, I keep some money in the tin. But not all of it – and if she needs an extra pound or two from what’s there, so what? I’ve got everything I need. And she’s going through a bad patch right now. She’s drinking more, and I don’t think she’s very happy.’
‘So it’s fine for her to take your things?’
His mother sighs. ‘Lukas, listen to me. Mina . . . she’s not perfect, but she understands what it’s like to . . . to never feel safe. Oh, I know he’s not coming back. In the daytime, when the sun’s out and the TV’s on, of course I know that. But when everything goes quiet, I . . . I hear him, Lukas. I hear him breathing, close to me.’ Her hands are kneading the tea towel, scrunching it between her fingers as though she’s trying to squeeze it into nothingness. ‘And that’s when I’m glad Mina’s here. That’s when I need her here. If not—’
‘It’s okay. I understand.’ He doesn’t. There are very few people he would choose to share living space with, and he can’t conceive of a universe in which Mina Williamson would be one of them. But he has no alternative to give his mother, no assurance of security to fight the fear that’s stalked her for more than twenty years. Except for one.
He eases the towel out of her grasp and takes her hand. ‘Listen to me. What happened . . . I don’t know how to make it easier to live with. But I promise you this – I absolutely promise my father will never get close to you again. Never.’
Five-thirty. Not dark, not at this time of the year, but greyish, the pre-dawn light painting the city in shades of charcoal and graphite.
