Slings & Arrows, page 3
Steve shook his head. ‘I wouldn’t know. I was too busy arguing with his friends when they came out.’
Tricia cut in, her voice wistful. ‘Andy was a lovely guy, but he didn’t get any visitors. That’s why we went outside when we saw those boys go into his garden.’
‘We were probably the only friends he had, to be honest,’ said Steve. ‘Andy had his problems. He was a drinker and, well, you’ve seen the state of his house…’ he tailed off, inflating his cheeks and exhaling slowly.
‘How often did you see your neighbour?’ said Gillespie.
‘Only every couple of weeks,’ said Tricia. ‘If he was coming back from the shops or whatever, we’d stop and have a quick chat.’ Her voice began to crack. ‘He really was a lovely guy. I can’t believe what’s happened.’ Steve gave her knee a squeeze as she reached for a tissue.
‘We tried to help him,’ said Steve.
‘In what way?’ said Gillespie.
‘We phoned up social services. Just to see if there was anything they could do.’
‘And was there?’ said Harris.
‘I had a long chat with a woman there,’ said Tricia. ‘She said they’d look into it, pay him a visit, but I don’t think they ever did.’
‘Do you remember who you spoke to?’ asked Gillespie.
Tricia thought for a moment. ‘It was a few months ago now,’ she said. ‘Somebody Campbell? Could it be, Maureen Campbell? That might have been it.’
Harris jotted down the name.
‘Can you think of any reason why anyone might want to hurt Mr Cruickshank?’ said Gillespie.
Steve and Tricia both shook their heads. ‘He was a lovely guy,’ said Tricia. ‘A bit strange, maybe, but really lovely, in his own little way, if you know what I mean.’
‘Well,’ said Gillespie, looking at his watch and wondering how much longer he could take hearing the same platitudes recycled, ‘it’s getting late. We’ll let you get back to your evening. Thanks very much for your time.’
Tricia started to get up but Gillespie stopped her, ‘Oh, don’t you worry, Mrs Durham, we’ll see ourselves out.’
‘Please get whoever did this,’ said Tricia. ‘Andy really was a lovely guy.’
Gillespie smiled and nodded. ‘So I gather.’
Chapter 4
Gillespie was overwhelmed by a wave of fatigue as he leaned on his car and yawned, the gape of his mouth stretching his jaws to near-breaking point. From somewhere deep inside him, an old instinct forced a hand to shoot up in apology, ‘Sorry, I’m just about done in,’ he said.
Harris grinned. ‘Does someone need their bed?’
The detective was just about to repeat his favourite line about Harris making a detective one day, but another incoming yawn meant he could manage only a nod. He opened the car door and slumped into the driver’s seat.
‘See you at the station at eight?’ said Harris.
‘Don’t even think about adding bright eyed and bushy tailed.’ Gillespie took a deep breath and closed the door, started the engine and was quickly out of sight. Despite his body’s insistence that he was tired, Gillespie’s mind was racing in sync with the car’s speeding wheels.
He’d known plenty cops over the years who could switch off at the end of a shift and never give a second’s thought to the horrors they might’ve seen, but Gillespie wasn’t one of them. The lulling effect of brain-numbing television didn’t work for him and he’d seen too many develop a fondness for viewing life through the bottom of a whisky bottle to go down that route. His coping mechanisms were far more complex, if no less common.
The image of Andy Cruickshank’s frail, helpless body was a hard one to shake. Gillespie hadn’t known the man. He’d only seen the mess he’d left behind. Now Andy, like the trash that filled his house, was being bagged up as evidence. He wondered what might’ve gone through the tragic hermit’s head when he realised he was about to take his last breath. If he’d known his days were numbered, would he have left his house to enjoy a last day in the sunshine, or at least the Edinburgh equivalent? Then he thought about the kind of kids that were currently running amok in Andy’s neighbourhood, and he figured someone like him was probably best off indoors. The detective’s thoughts were rambling, but it was a familiar territory they took him to. This was the finder in him, the hunter seeking his prey; he needed to know what that bloody corpse had seen in order to serve justice on the killer.
As the traffic lights on the junction between Liberton Brae and Mayfield Road turned red, Gillespie took the opportunity to roll down his window and light a cigarette. The bitter nicotine brought the welcome taste of formality, something to distract his thoughts, but he had enough self-awareness to know that the fingers he was drumming on the steering wheel told another story.
In search of a stronger distraction, Gillespie switched on the radio, and grimaced as the unmistakable brogue of Ally Murdo—the city’s self-styled ‘Jock Shock Jock’—burst into life.
‘…absolutely disgusting scenes outside Fairview today. What I’d like to know is, how many of these women’s libbers have actually ever watched golf, let alone played it?’ the DCI’s grip tightened on the wheel as Murdo’s voice cut through him.
‘Can you imagine one of these protestors teeing off against Tiger Woods? He’d be too distracted by their pink hair and their tattoos to get his hole—so to speak. I know old Tiger has a bit of a reputation for playing the field, but even he wouldn’t touch one of these munters.’
Murdo’s rant continued as the lights changed to green and Gillespie turned left on to Mayfield Road. He appreciated the irony of driving past the University of Edinburgh’s King’s Buildings while listening to the kind of misogynistic ravings that would’ve made Bernard Manning blush. That was Scotland’s capital all over: schizophrenic splits at every turn.
‘The point is,’ continued Murdo, ‘the gentlemen at Fairview have been playing golf quite happily for more than two hundred years without female members. If they vote in favour of maintaining the status quo, then who is this bunch of sports bra-burning femmies to say they’re in the wrong? These men pay good money to be members of Fairview, and the last thing they need is to be put off their stroke by Emmeline Pankhurst and the cast of Rent waving placards outside their clubhouse.’
The DJ was still in full flow by the time Gillespie reached Causewayside. He flicked on the blinkers and made to turn left through the Meadows. Under the streetlights he watched the late-night pub traffic being serenaded by a wobbly drunk with one hand on a drainpipe and the other directing the significant outflow of a full bladder.
A young couple, disgusted and amused in equal measure, laughed as they let go of each other’s hands for a moment and sidestepped the yellow stream now gushing down the pavement. As he watched their hands reconnect, Gillespie’s mind flashed back to an ancient date with Pauline—dinner at an Indian restaurant that had long since shut down. The thought was quickly replaced with the more recent recollection of the crappy microwave curry from a few hours earlier. It had left a bitter aftertaste, although how much was down to the meal and how much to the subsequent shouting match with his wife, he wasn’t sure.
His mind wandering, Gillespie realised that, by the time he’d reached Lothian Road, Murdo was no longer shouting. He instead spoke in a threatening hiss. ‘These so-called “women” are dangerous,’ he said. ‘Their Commie views aren’t just a threat to the good men of Fairview Golf Club, they’re a threat to our Western way of life. They’re against tradition, all Western tradition, and they oppose it with conflict because that’s what’s in the little red Commie book! Mark my words, if we don’t stand up to these looney leftists who want to bring us down then we’ll wake up one day and find we’re living in a totalitarian state. And if that’s not the whole truth of the matter then you can kiss my arse and call me Comrade!’
Gillespie had heard enough. He jabbed at the button and the radio went silent. The detective had nearly reached Corstorphine but, despite his tiredness, he had no real desire to go home. He didn’t know whether it was the argument with Pauline, the sight of Andy Cruickshank’s body or the ranting of Ally Murdo, but the DCI was suddenly in desperate need of a pint.
In almost any other part of town, Gillespie would be able to slip into a pub unnoticed and enjoy a drink in peace. His dark suit might be mistaken for that of a banker’s, or maybe someone in insurance. But in the Logie Baird he was such a ‘well-kent’ face that he might as well have had ‘copper’ chalked over his shoulders. As soon as he walked in the door, he could feel a dozen pairs of eyes turn in his direction. If this was a Western it would be the moment when the old timer at the piano would stop playing, which in turn would lead to some patrons supping up and heading for the door.
Gillespie always smirked at the recurring thought. He didn’t care. He wasn’t the man who shot Liberty Valance, but he’d spent too much of his life putting the bad and the ugly behind bars to be intimidated by a few old blokes with thousand-yard stares ranged on him over the dingy air of an Edinburgh boozer.
The glow of a small, bracket-mounted television in one corner of the pub caught his attention. Gillespie took a few steps closer, ignoring one man who promptly got up and left when he clocked him. A male reporter on the screen was interviewing one of the protestors who were camped outside a golf club. The sound was turned down, but the caption read ‘Fury at Fairview’.
‘I really don’t know why they’re making such a fuss,’ said a voice nearby.
Gillespie kept his eyes on the screen and shook his head. ‘Maybe they’re annoyed because a bunch of sexist old farts has barred them just because they’re women,’ he said. He turned round to face the man who was paying for a drink at the bar.
The man looked hurt. ‘Oh, I understand that,’ he said, taking a sip of his fresh pint and then using his sleeve to wipe the froth from his moustache. ‘I meant I don’t understand why the guys at Fairview don’t just let them join. I’ve got no issue with it. It’s all a wee bit last century if you ask me.’
Gillespie exchanged amused glances with the woman behind the bar, who looked like she was ready to take his order. ‘Sorry about that, John,’ said Gillespie, patting the old man on the shoulder. ‘For a moment, I must’ve mistaken you for an old fart.’
John smiled. ‘Wouldn’t be the first time, Kenny,’ he said, taking another drink. ‘Would it be wrong to say if any of those birds want to improve their grip I can give them a good shaft to practise with!’
The old man chuckled to himself as he meandered back to his table. Gillespie shook his head and sighed as he settled into a barstool.
‘Long day?’ said the woman behind the bar.
Gillespie nodded.
‘Want to talk about it?’
He shook his head. ‘God, no.’
‘What can I get you?’
‘A pint…please.’
‘Anything in particular?’
The detective raised his eyebrows as if the suggestion was a tactical nuke. The woman didn’t need to ask twice. She reached for a glass and placed it under the pump as Gillespie slid a crumpled fiver over the bar.
‘You’re full of chat this evening,’ she said.
Gillespie remained silent as he quaffed the cold beer.
The woman tried again, ‘Well, how’s life in the detective world treating you?’
He put down the pint glass and patted his lips. ‘Can’t complain, Louise. Right now, crime’s probably the only expanding business in Edinburgh. It’s the other stuff I find tiring.’
‘I can tell by the bags under your eyes,’ she said, handing him his change. ‘You look like one of those pandas over at the zoo.’
Gillespie paused, the mention of the pandas altering the direction of his thoughts. ‘How’s my little Eilidh doing?’
Louise rolled her eyes. ‘Driving me up the wall. Just when I think she’s grown out of having tantrums, she goes and has another meltdown. Did it in Asda the other day, a proper sparky because they were out of Coco Pops.’
The DCI grinned. ‘You can’t live without Coco Pops…’
‘Tastes so chocolatey they turn the milk brown, don’t you know!’
Gillespie wasn’t sure where to take the conversation after the foray into children’s cereal so opted for another sip of beer. Louise was about to move to the other end of the bar to serve someone else when Gillespie promptly found his voice again. ‘I need to see you again.’
Louise stared at him for a moment. ‘You’re seeing me now, aren’t you?’
‘You know that’s not what I mean.’ He shook his head, lowered his voice. ‘I want to see you again. Soon.’
Louise gave a faint smile and then walked away. Gillespie felt a hot flush of anger and embarrassment rise in him. He felt compelled to look around him, to check no one had overheard what he had just said. Looking over his shoulder wasn’t a comfortable experience for the DCI. He finished his pint in one and thumped his empty glass on the bar.
Gillespie was collecting his jacket and preparing to leave when Louise returned to pull another pint. ‘Eilidh has her dance class on Tuesday night,’ she said, not taking her eyes from the pump. ‘One of the other mums drops her back at the house about eight-thirty. That gives us a couple of hours.’
The detective nodded and left without looking back.
It was nearly midnight by the time Gillespie pulled into his driveway, but he knew Pauline would still be up. Her night was probably just getting started. He opened the front door quietly, but needn’t have bothered. He could hear the television blaring through the living room door. Every sinew in his body was begging him to skulk upstairs and collapse into bed, but guilt kept him on a tight leash.
‘All right?’ he said, opening the living room door and standing on the threshold. His wife, slouched on the sofa, her head resting in her hand, didn’t look up. Gillespie blinked slowly and shook his head. The empty pizza box, Coke cans and chocolate wrappers made the room look uncomfortably familiar to the one he’d left earlier that night. He did his best to ignore the rubbish and sat down in an armchair.
‘Good programme?’ he asked. Not that he cared either way about whether she was enjoying I’m Strictly an X-Factor Celebrity Made in Essex, or whatever the hell it was called. All the reality shows looked the same to him, each one packed with people famous for just being famous. Infamous, in some cases. His question was greeted with yet more silence. That suited him. He turned his attention back to the television but was only able to last a few minutes before giving out a derisive snort at the rank idiocy on screen.
‘Nobody’s asking you to watch it,’ said Pauline.
‘So you’ve remembered how to talk? I was hoping maybe for a “How did your evening go?” or maybe even a “Fancy a cup of tea?” but it’s better than nothing.’
Another long silence settled between them. ‘Why do you watch this garbage anyway? It’s bloody mind rot.’
Pauline shrugged. ‘Nothing else on, is there? And the internet’s still down. Remember that? I did mention the orange flashing light on the box before you rushed off but you didn’t seem interested, not in the slightest.’ She continued to drone on, something about not being able to place an order, something about the irritating prospect that a product might sell out. He switched off to her voice completely.
Gillespie’s cheeks burned. He wanted to yell at his wife. Her inaction was an assault on his eyes but the return home to more moaning about the internet connection struck at his heart. Had she really no concept of what he had to deal with on the other side of that front door? Was she so self-absorbed that her husband’s waking hours were a mystery to her?
Gillespie had an urge to wrench the television from the wall and hurl it through the window. But he’d been running on empty for hours. His body had nothing else to give. Slowly, he stood up and shuffled over to the sofa. Without warning, he snatched the remote control from Pauline’s hand, hit the off switch, and tossed it aside. She seemed ready to protest but something—perhaps it was the chilling look in her husband’s eyes—told her that, this time, staying quiet would be the best option.
Gillespie began to talk in a voice so measured, so unnaturally calm, that he surprised even himself, and unnerved his wife.
‘Do you know what I saw tonight?’ he said. ‘I saw a man, about the same age as me, lying dead in his own home. He didn’t have a heart attack. He didn’t trip and bang his head, and he sure as hell didn’t die peacefully in his sleep. Another human being had actually gone to the trouble of taking a knife, sticking it in his guts, and watching the poor bastard bleed to death.’
He paused for a moment and let the words sink in. The little colour left in Pauline’s face had drained away. ‘Now, I don’t expect you to want a blow-by-blow account of my day. In a lot of ways, I don’t blame you. I’m even past caring that you’re more interested in a bunch of bloody D-list celebrities than you are your own husband. But, after the day I’ve had, and you can trust me on this, my dear Pauline, I really could have done with that cup of tea.’
Chapter 5
‘Christ, Kenny, what have you been up to? You look like you’ve gone ten rounds with Ken Buchanan.’ Gillespie smiled politely as he waited for Derek McCall to finish laughing at his own joke. As always, the St Leonard’s staff sergeant was squeezed into a shirt several sizes too small, which gave his jiggling belly the appearance of a giant white blancmange.
‘I wouldn’t know, Derek,’ said the DCI. ‘Ken was a wee bit before my time.’
‘A bit less of your cheek, young man.’ The sergeant stood up behind his desk and aimed a couple of playful jabs in the detective’s direction. ‘I used to box at Leith Victoria back in the day. I reckon I could’ve been world champion if I’d stuck at it.’
‘Yeah?’ said Gillespie, grinning. ‘Featherweight, presumably?’
‘Aye, well.’ The staff sergeant stopped his shadow boxing and sat down, adding, ‘I’m the champ when it comes to eating chip butties now.’
