Blood Tears (32 page)

I’m aware of Calum’s gaze.

‘What?’ Is he actually going to say something?

‘You seen that movie,
Stakeout
?’

‘Emilio Estevez and Richard Dreyfuss?’

A nod. ‘Who’s going to go for the pizza? And who gets to shag the glamorous neighbour?’

‘A sense of humour, good Christ.’ I laugh. ‘One, pizza is bad for you and two, the neighbouring building is an old folk’s home. You first.’

‘Ah. But old folk have nurses to look after them.’

‘You needing your nuts emptied, Calum?’

‘Does the Pope wear a funny hat?’

Fuck me. Calum and I had a conversation. In fact, those few phrases could constitute an outburst.

Silence reasserts itself in the car. Calum returns to Calumland and I continue with my conjecture. What next? I can’t keep coming down to sit in front of this building every other day.

It’s not getting me anywhere. Lots of memories are re-surfacing, but nothing that is going to help me find a killer.

I wonder how Allessandra got on when she let the team know that both Leonard and Templeton had links with the convent. Would they be even more convinced of my guilt?

Ex-convent boy takes revenge for shit childhood shocker. We agreed that this information should not be withheld, as not only would it strengthen Daryl and Allessandra’s case if and when they got caught helping me, but it would also mean there was a body of evidence ready for when the real killer was caught.

The “revenge for child abuse” theory is looking a bit old now. So is the “revenge killer goes nuts and kills at random” theory. All of the deceased have links to Bethlehem House. Leonard, Templeton, Connelly and now Devlin. Leonard and Devlin were kids while they stayed there, the other two were a paedophile and what might kindly be termed a nun’s assistant.  A fairly eclectic bunch you might say.

And who’s next, you might ask?

Why would McCall kill Leonard and Templeton? I can understand how the roles that the other two played in his life might attract his attention, but those two? Something doesn’t quite add up here. Think, Ray. Think.

Theresa. There’s a thought. I wonder how she’s doing. If this situation weren’t so tense I would be cracking up because she’s not been in touch. Or do I want her so much because of the situation I’m in, a shoulder to cry on and all that? Maggie would be better. At least she wants to listen.

We’re down the West End of Glasgow now, parked in front of a row of tenement flats. No. 2165 is where Leonard and Hutchison stayed. The two men worked together in a PC shop, so how did Hutchison get to be the owner of the flat and Leonard the tenant?

By happy coincidence I know of someone who might know the answer. Hutchison’s girlfriend stays at No. 2161. They could have met going to that wee newspaper shop at the corner. Must be quite nice to find love along with your well-fired breakfast rolls and
Daily Record
of a morning. I look at my watch. It’s nearly six o’clock. If she works, she’ll surely be home by now.

Leaving Calum in the car I go along and press the buzzer at No. 2161. A female voice answers.

‘This is the police. We’d like a word with Ruth Dillon please.’

‘Again…’ Irritation hums down the wire. ‘S’pose you better come up. Flat D.’

She’s standing in the doorway to her flat. The tip of her cigarette brightens as she inhales.

‘You’d better come in.’ Her words escape along with a mouthful of smoke.

‘That stuff'll kill you,’ I say as I follow her inside.

‘A myth put about by the ruling classes to spoil the poor wee proletariat’s fun.’

‘I thought the ruling classes were also partial to a wee puff now and again.’

‘Another myth,’ she grins, all teeth and nose. ‘Anything stronger than menthol and they’ll be hacking their lungs up all the way to their Harley Street specialist.’ She takes another puff. ‘Take a seat,’ and points to a settee that looks as if it’s had the stuffing squashed out of it by a bevvy of students jumping all over it on a nightly basis. A tartan throw just about hides the duller colouring on its shoulder. “Functional” would be a good word to describe this room.

‘It’s hardly IKEA,’ Ruth offers, ‘but it’s home.’ She’s in her stocking feet and wearing a white office-type blouse and a black skirt. ‘Can I get you a coffee? Officer…?’

‘Drain. But you can call me Daryl.’

‘What do you take in your coffee?’ she asks over her shoulder. Then she stops at the door and nods her head in the direction of the hallway.

‘C’mon through. You can thrill me with your repartee while we wait for the kettle to boil.’

The kitchen comes as a surprise. It’s all shiny surfaces and shiny implements and looks like it has been cleaned with surgical precision. Ruth flicks a switch on the kettle and busies herself with mugs, coffee, milk and sugar. As she does so the conversation never falters.

‘This might sound a wee bit cookie to you, but I love my kitchen. Kind of comes as a surprise doesn’t it? After all the rest of the flat looks barely lived in, by comparison. Have a seat.’ She points at a small round table in the corner, complete with checked tablecloth and small vase of flowers. ‘I mean, I just love kitchens and cooking and talking  in them. Don’t you think the best conversations happen over a coffee in somebody’s kitchen?’

‘Usually the best conversations happen when all parties get a turn to speak,’ I manage to jump in at a pause.

‘Sorry,’ she turns from pouring hot water into our mugs, ‘I’m a little bit stressed at the moment. And when I get stressed my mouth just goes off and I talk for Scotland. I mean it’s not as if…’

I decide not to wait for a pause this time. ‘What are you so stressed about?’

‘Hutch,’ she answers handing me my coffee. ‘Oh. I should have asked to see your badge.’

‘Badge? This is Scotland, Ruth. We have warrant cards.’ I pull my wallet from my back pocket and flip it open and shut it before she gets too close a look at it. ‘Who is Hutch and why are you worried about him?’

‘Not to mention the fact that I’m sitting here with a key to the flat and poor Lenny has been dead for ages. Christ.’ She takes a last draw from her cigarette, stubs it out on a small chrome ashtray and reaches for the packet and her lighter. ‘Hutch is my boyfriend.’
Hutchison
. ‘We only met about three months ago. Quite literally bumped into him downstairs. But he’d already applied to do the voluntary work overseas. I mean he’s a qualified computer engineer and he’s fixing PCs at PC World. I mean c’mon. Give us a break. No wonder he’s off. Just a shame we didn’t meet before and I could have gone with him.’

‘Why are you worried about him?’

‘He’s a man, though. Eh?’ She stops long enough to light and inhale a fresh cigarette. ‘You know what you men are like. Promises, promises. You get your hole and it’s long awkward silence time.’

‘So you are saying…’ This is like speaking with a human version of a cryptic crossword. ‘… that Hutch hasn’t been in touch with you?’

A nod. Her cheeks pinch inwards as she inhales again. ‘What does he owe me? Nothing. Three months is hardly a marriage. But it would be nice to receive a letter. Don’t you think letter writing is a dead art form? An e-mail for chrissake. He’s the computer geek.’ She pauses. ‘He was so committed, you know? He wanted to go out there and make a difference. I think that’s one of the things that drew me to him.’

‘What about Jim Leonard?’

‘So that was his first name? Jim? I just knew him as Lenny.’

‘What can you tell me about Lenny?’ Her cigarette is in the ashtray and its smoke is drawing a straight line into my left nostril. Less than discreetly I wave at the smoke.

‘Sorry.’ Smile. She moves the ashtray closer to her elbow. Now she has a clump of her long black hair in her hand and is stroking it like a pet. From about chin level to tip, hand over hand slides down it as if adding a little more polish.

‘Jim Leonard.’ She tastes the words as if deciding whether they go together, in the manner of a heavily pregnant woman who is trying to decide on a name for her child.

‘Jim was alright. Aye, he was okay. Didn’t know him too well.’ Pause. ‘Actually, he gave me the creeps. Occasionally he would join Hutch and me over a carryout. Hutch likes his curry. He seemed to like Lenny as well. God, that’s terrible. Sounds like I’m comparing a dead guy to a curry. Anyway. We had a private nickname for Lenny: X-Files. He would disappear for hours in his room until we thought he’d been abducted by aliens.’ We’re back to the smoke and a weak laugh issues through its haze. ‘Poor X-Files. Dead for days and nobody notices.’

‘What do you think he got up to in his room?’

‘Who knows?’ She shudders. ‘Dread to think. Probably having a tantric wank, or communing with his little green friends.’ She grimaces. ‘Sorry. Shouldn’t speak ill of the dead.’

‘You didn’t really like him then?’

‘He was… pleasant enough.’ She takes a long, deep draw at her cigarette while her mind is sorting through memories of Leonard. ‘You know, being a woman, and a not too shabby one at that…’ Her smile while she says this indicates that she couldn’t be arsed with false modesty. ‘… You expect men to give you a look, now and again. That undressing thing.’ I smile as if to say who me? ‘But from X-Files there was nothing. I mean I don’t think he was gay or anything. Just not interested in women. How odd is that? I know he was a Catholic 'n' that. And they’re usually the worst. Guilt and repression are a strong aphrodisiac.’

‘How do you know he was Catholic?’

‘He had one of those grass cross shapes on his door. You know the ones they give out on Palm Sunday?’ The cigarette is in the ashtray and is spending less time in her mouth. Her fingers have gone back to shining her hair. ‘That and the rant he went in to one night while Hutch and I were watching MTV.’

‘He was offended by MTV?’

‘Big time,’ her eyes widen. ‘He just used to leave the room when it came on. He didn’t bother us that much, like, but if we did want rid of him for a wee while, Hutch would switch over to one of the music channels. But this one night, man did he go off on one, “Whores and whoremasters.” And that was just the mild stuff.’

‘Was it the music he didn’t like?’

‘No. It was the clothes the girls were wearing. First he was all bug-eyed. Staring like he’d never seen a pair of tits before. Then he was screaming at the telly. We were all going to Hell and it was all down to these folk on the TV who couldn’t keep their clothes on and their hands off each other. Then he stormed out. Went to the toilet. Next thing we hear the shower running.’

‘Sounds weird.’

‘Weird is not the word. You want a biscuit?’ She turns back to the rack of cupboards, opens a door and pulls out a jar with the words “Sweet Shit” emblazoned across it.

‘Nice and inviting. I can’t wait to dip my fingers in that.’

‘Yeah. I love it. A friend brought it back from the States for me. Got to keep it in the cupboard though. Doesn’t go with the décor.’

‘So. You were saying?’

‘Aye. X-Files. Anyway, the next day he was like a wee mouse. All embarrassed. I reckon Philip Larkin got it wrong you know. It’s not our parents that fuck us up. It’s organised religion.’

‘You won’t get much argument out of me there.’ I pull a chocolate biscuit from the jar and start munching. I know. I know. I’ll get fat. Old habits and all that.

‘I take it the other cops have been all over Hutch’s flat,’ I ask.

‘Yeah. I couldn’t get in for ages. I had to give them the key,’ she says all proud that she helped the police.

‘I don’t suppose you got your key back?’

‘No.’

‘Shame. It would be nice to have another look.’

‘But I do have a spare.’ She reaches into a drawer and pulls out a single key on a plain key ring. ‘The keys I gave the other police were Hutch’s. This is mine.’

I stand up. ‘No time like the present.’

‘You want to go over there again? Your guys have been all over that place, with a fine tooth… microscope.’

‘One more time won’t hurt,’ I smile winningly. ‘Will it?’ 

Walking towards Hutchison’s flat, Ruth’s chatter goes into overdrive. She tells me how they met, where they met and how they had rarely been out of each other’s pockets since and how she is missing him terribly, you know? But the man wanted to help those less fortunate than himself and what could you do?

We pass my car and I notice that Calum is not in his seat. Strange. I stop walking and take a look around me. Scanning the street I see nothing. Nothing but cars. The door of the corner shop opens and a guy wearing a blue baseball cap with the legend NYC comes out. If Glasgow came up with a hat like that it would have to be blue and green. The initials for Glasgow City Council wouldn’t look quite so cool.

I wonder where he is. Probably spotted a young nubile and has chased her up the street for a wee chat.

The door of Hutchison’s flat has been painted cream, the expanse of wood broken by a small spy-hole and a brass knocker in a Rennie Mackintosh style.

‘Was Hutch going to leave the flat empty while he was gone?’ I ask as Ruth slides the key in the lock.

‘No. The plan was to rent it out. The new lodger hadn’t got round to moving in when the body was discovered. He was even less inclined to move in afterwards.’

‘So who discovered the body?’

Ruth stands to the side of the door, to let me pass her. ‘Don’t you know all this already?’

‘As the main investigative officer, I always like to verify things for myself,’ I answer and see the light of suspicion leave her eyes.

She sighs and looks down at the ground. ‘You don’t want me to go in with you do you?’

‘Not if you really don’t want to,’ I answer.

‘I suppose I should, just to be on the safe side. We don’t want Hutch to come back, notice something is missing and you get the blame. Do we?’

I shrug, ‘You could always check my pockets on the way out.'

‘The body. You asked who discovered it?’ Ruth has followed me in. She is looking around her like a child who has entered a ghost ride for the first time. Her head is forward, eyes wide, arms back as if in preparation for flight. ‘It was the neighbours who complained about the smell and some poor sap from the council was sent out to investigate.’