Flesh Wounds (39 page)

Abercorn stared at the printouts on her desk: they were upside down from his perspective but he didn’t need to see the fine details. He had a look on his face like he’d just given his first blowjob and nobody had warned him what happened at the end.

‘You’ll be wondering how I found out. Allow me to enlighten you. Yesterday evening I had a very unsatisfactory conversation with a thoroughly unlovely specimen who seemed to be under the impression that he had been eliminated from my investigations, despite his only coming to the attention
of
my investigation a matter of hours before. This individual also made a point of stressing to me that these matters had been decided so far above my rank that I’d be giving hand shandies to probationers by the end of the month if I didn’t drop it.’

Abercorn stood up straight, like he was on parade awaiting inspection.

‘I can only apologise,’ he said. ‘I appreciate that from your perspective this is inexcusable, and I don’t expect you to be anything less than outraged. The nature of my remit means that there are unavoidable compromises, and occasions when the purview of an investigation overlaps other ongoing inquiries. Sometimes we get away with it, sometimes nobody notices. But every now and then we’re going to get our dicks caught in the zipper. This is one of those times.’

It was a disarmingly open and unequivocal
mea culpa
, the kind she never thought she’d live to hear from Abercorn. But that in itself told her something wasn’t right. As she had mused just the other day, Abercorn was thick-skinned about LOCUST’s unpopularity: sometimes infuriatingly so. He never apologised, because he didn’t believe he had anything to apologise for. In a way, this was almost a backhanded compliment to counterparts’ professionalism that he expected them to understand – even though they didn’t like it – why he had to go about his business the way he did.

Then it occurred to her that he had been unexpectedly conciliatory when she first challenged him about the USB stick. He had even asked around on her behalf to garner some more information on the symbol.

Abercorn never did favours, not without subtly guaranteeing that he would get something bigger in return. He had behaved, she realised, like someone who had making up to do: like a man with a guilty conscience. Except, as she had just considered, Abercorn never had a guilty conscience about anything he did professionally. It was all in the game, nothing personal. Why would he suddenly be feeling conflicted over this?

Then she worked it out.

‘Whose phone number is this?’ she demanded, pointing to one of the pink streaks.

‘Let’s not play games, Catherine. We both know whose number it is, but I am not in a position to discuss the matter any further.’

‘You’re not in a position to discuss it because
you
don’t know. You’re covering for somebody.’

He remained standing to attention, but seemed to shrink away from her. She could tell he was thinking about how best to stage his retreat, so she got up and closed the door, putting herself between it and him.

‘Who gave you the stick, Dougie?’

He stiffened again, composing that famous poker face of his. But she had already seen his hand.

‘I know you won’t give up your superior, and I respect you for that, but something’s rotten in the state of Govan and your loyalty is helping the wrong people. Somebody’s fucking with my murder investigation and you’re going to tell me who. You don’t need to name names: just look into my eyes and tell me it wasn’t Drummond who gave you the flash drive.’

His mouth said nothing but his eyes blabbed like a supergrass. He couldn’t tolerate her gaze.

Abercorn reached past her to grab the door handle. She didn’t get in his way but did follow him out into the corridor. She observed his retreat but to her surprise did not relish the sight of him defeated. Whatever was going on, he wasn’t part of it: he had merely covered for his boss because he thought that was his duty.

As she watched him walk away she became aware of somebody waving to her from a nearby desk. It was Beano, sitting next to Adrienne. The sight surprised her. The two of them had seemed all pally-pally for a long time and then suddenly they were never to be found together, like matter and antimatter. Catherine had seen it before, two people like those battling tops you used to get: they spun around in each other’s orbits, closer and closer, then when they finally touched it threw them violently apart.

Something was uniting them at the moment, though. They both looked like they were about to wet the seat.

‘Boss, you really have to see this.’

Catherine was looking at Brenda Sheehan sitting in an armchair in her living room, gazing back from the screen as though gazing over Adrienne’s shoulder and out through the blinds. She was dressed in a baggy green sweater beneath a blue housecoat, a garment that always piqued Catherine’s curiosity as to where such unflattering and anachronistic items were still on sale. Watt Brothers, probably.

Brenda looked a little timorous and unsure, but not uncomfortable, not afraid. Her eyes were slightly bloodshot from crying some time recently, a scrunched-up hanky in her right hand further evidence of this, but otherwise she seemed in good health. She was certainly keen to talk, tripping over herself as she spilled out her recollections.

Her living room was looking better than the last time Catherine saw it too. It was a tight shot, framing Brenda fairly closely, but she could see enough to be struck by the order and cleanliness of the coffee table. There was no hint of the alcoholic dereliction they had witnessed; no hint of alcohol, in fact. There was a mug of tea and a presentation tin of chocolate biscuits in front of her, perhaps brought by her visitor.

‘Take your time, Brenda,’ said a male voice, its tone patient and sympathetic. ‘Just tell me again what we talked about before. Forget about the phone: just look at me.’

‘We’re guessing that’s Fullerton,’ Beano said, pausing the playback. ‘He doesn’t appear in the shot, but…’

‘It is,’ confirmed Catherine. ‘I’ve spoken to him. You found this on the laptop?’ she asked, amazed.

‘No, it was remote storage,’ Adrienne answered. ‘Fullerton uploaded it to a site called E-Vault and we found his login details.’

‘Did you find anything else?’

‘Just this. According to the user settings, he set up the account the same day this file was uploaded. We’re guessing this wasn’t put here to keep it hidden: it was a back-up, in case the original file got lost or deleted. This video might well be why the gunman took Fullerton’s phone.’

‘But if he uploaded a back-up from the laptop, why wasn’t there a copy
on
the laptop?’

‘We have a theory,’ Beano said, ‘but it contains spoilers.’

He clicked to resume play.

Brenda looked concerned.

‘I’m no’ sure where to begin,’ she admitted.

‘Doesn’t matter,’ said Fullerton. ‘Just say what you were saying before. Say what you remember.’

She nodded, taking a moment.

‘First thing was, I suppose, hearing about the lassie. You know, hearing that they’d found a body up near the footpath next to the railway. You just wouldn’t expect anything like that here, in the hamlet, especially not back in those days. You always felt safe here. It was that quiet. When I first heard, I thought it must have been somebody hit by a train.

‘When I saw the polis car pulling up in front of the house, to the door, I thought they were coming to ask if we’d seen anything. I thought they’d be chapping every door in the street. But they were there to take Teddy away.’

‘Who was “they”?’ asked Fullerton.

‘Cairns was the one in charge: Bob Cairns. I knew him because I’d had a wee bit of bother before. And there was a younger one, a big lanky boy. He wouldn’t have farted without Cairns telling him to. Cannae mind his name, though. It’s gone right out my head.’

‘Was it Drummond?’

‘Aye. That was it: Drummond.’

Catherine was aware of both Beano and Adrienne looking towards her when this name was confirmed. This was why Beano had suggested they take the laptop into her office rather than watch it at his desk. They were all acutely aware that the stakes just went up.

‘When they lifted Teddy I assumed it was a mistake. I thought maybe they’d got a description of somebody that looked like him, or there was a mix-up over the name. Teddy’s full name was James Edward Sheehan, so I was thinking there must be somebody called James or Jimmy Sheehan that they’re after, and it would all get cleared up. But no, it was oor Teddy they wanted right enough. They had him away for days. Teddy wouldn’t have known what was happening to him. He didn’t know his rights, so he wouldn’t have known to ask for a lawyer. He’d have been putty in their hands.’

‘But you gave a statement, didn’t you,’ Fullerton prompted. ‘You gave him an alibi.’

‘That’s right, son,’ she answered, her lips wavering, her expression threatening tears.

She took a sip of tea and swallowed, finding her voice again.

‘I told the police that Teddy couldn’t have done this, because he was here with me that night. I can’t remember who I gave my statement to. It wasn’t the ones who arrested Teddy. I told them Teddy was seldom out of the house in the evenings. Now and again he’d go for a walk in the summer if it was a nice evening, but usually after he’d had his tea he’d be in front of the telly or doing a jigsaw. He loved jigsaws.’

These last few words came out as a strangled whisper, a fond memory turning to pain.

‘I had been drinking that night,’ she admitted. ‘I drank every night, back then. But he was here, Teddy was here.’

She wiped her eyes with the sleeve of her housecoat, apparently forgetting about the hanky gripped in her hand.

‘Do you need…?’ Fullerton asked, though they couldn’t tell what was being offered. Perhaps another hanky.

‘No, you’re all right, son. I just need a minute.’

‘Take your time, Brenda.’

She gulped at her tea, a tentative sip becoming something more needy, more urgent. In that moment Catherine glimpsed what it might have been like when the vessel in her hand contained vodka.

‘They came back,’ she said, putting down the mug. Her expression was grim but stonier, less weakened by uncertainty.

‘Who did?’

‘Cairns and the other one. Drummond. They got me to change my story. Or to “revise my statement”. That’s the words that’ll follow me to the grave. The words St Peter will read out when I have to answer for what I’ve done.’

‘Did they threaten you?’

‘No. Well, I suppose they did, but it was more subtle than that. Cairns didn’t challenge me or call me a liar or anything. He said he thought I was mistaken. He knew I’d have been drinking that night, so he told me my memory couldn’t be clear. He started off planting wee seeds of doubt. Then he got talking about my drinking, about the troubles I’d had. My arrests. Shoplifting. God forgive me, son, I’m so ashamed of it now, but back then money was always tight, especially with Teddy’s big mouth to feed, and his clothes and his bus fares.’

‘There’s none of us lived perfect lives,’ Fullerton said, prompting a few exchanged glances.

‘Cairns was sympathetic,’ Brenda went on. ‘He got me talking about Teddy, about how I’d been landed with him when other women were meeting husbands and making lives for themselves. Said it was no wonder I drank. But he also said it wasn’t fair on Teddy either, having been left in the care of somebody who couldn’t cope. He said the social would have been liable to take him away if they knew the states I was getting myself into, and that’s when Drummond brought up the charges.’

‘What charges?’

‘The shoplifting. I was due in court in a couple of months, and he said it was likely to be a custodial sentence this time. Teddy would be getting taken into care if I went inside. But Cairns said it didn’t have to be like that. He could make the charges go away, said I deserved a fresh start: a new beginning. He said Teddy had done a terrible thing, and he knew why it was hard for me to believe that, but that Teddy might be dangerous, and how would I feel if I stood by my drunken alibi and Teddy killed somebody else?’

She looked away, down at the table, and closed her eyes for a painful few seconds. Catherine anticipated another breakdown, but when she opened them again there was something darker in her expression, something that would not allow tears. Tears were a sign of self-pity, and in Brenda’s face Catherine saw only shame.

‘It wasn’t the threats, or the pressure. It was me. I was weak. I wanted rid of him. I wanted a life of my own, a new beginning like Cairns was offering. And I didn’t want to go to jail. I couldn’t face the thought of doing without drink for however long I got sentenced.

‘I let myself believe it. Cairns made it easy for me. I knew I had been drinking that night, so I told myself my memory could have been wrong. I knew Teddy had been out for a walk one of the evenings around then, but I couldn’t have said for sure which one, so I told myself that maybe it
was
the Saturday night. Or Teddy could have been out while I thought he was upstairs doing his jigsaw…’

Brenda put a hand to her forehead and leaned into it, as if her head would roll off without the support. She didn’t speak for a long time, maybe twenty or thirty seconds.

Catherine could vividly imagine the scene in that same living room, twenty-five years earlier, and in particular she could picture the view from inside Drummond’s head. Brenda wasn’t the only one allowing herself to be seduced by a lie. The witness was confused. She had been drunk, she was being instinctively loyal to her brother; and besides, her alibi was going to be worthless in court anyway because she was a hopeless alcoholic.

‘The worst lies are the ones you tell yourself,’ Brenda said, ‘because you’ll never find forgiveness for those.’

She gazed down again, then looked back at her confessor, for Fullerton was undoubtedly the one she had been referring to when she spoke to her sponsor.

‘He told me Teddy would get taken care of in prison, that he would be somewhere special, like a hospital.’

Brenda’s face crumbled, the self-reproach giving way to uncontainable sorrow. She broke down, the words ‘God forgive me, God forgive me’ repeated over and over until they were swallowed by her sobs.