The Stone Gallows (16 page)

‘How out of date?'

‘Five days.'

‘Throw it away.'

‘These things are loaded with preservatives. Did you see that thing about the French fries? Some documentary I saw. They put them in a box and they were fine almost two months later. Just a bit fusty.'

She dumped the pie on a plate and started to eat it. I watched, appalled. The meat was the colour of bubblegum. ‘Jesus, Liz, you'll catch food poisoning. You're supposed to be a nurse.'

‘I never said I was a good one. For God's sake, listen to yourself.

And you're coming to the cinema with me whether you like it or not.

It'll do you good to spend time with another human being. There's a seven o'clock showing. Alright?'

I bowed my head. ‘Yes, dear.'

7.2

He must have been waiting for me to leave the flat.

I saw the car first, parked in a disabled space, a dusty brown Rover that was even more anonymous than my Golf. As I went to move past, the occupant leaned across and opened the passenger door directly in my path. A voice I recognised said, ‘Get in.'

Harper.

My mood nose-dived. ‘What do you want?'

‘I thought I might buy you breakfast.'

‘I've already eaten.'

‘Then you can watch me eat.'

I thought about just walking by. God knows, I wanted to. Harper only ever looked me up when there was dirty work that he didn't have the sack to do himself. But we both knew that I wouldn't. I got in the car. He smiled as he started the engine and pulled away from the kerb.

Although he was wearing a newish suit and a nice shirt, it didn't alter the fact that Kenny Harper was one ugly prick. He had a face like a bulldog licking piss off a thistle. His skull was all planes and angles, the features a rudimentary afterthought, slapped on like a child's Mr Potato Head. One ear was slightly higher than the other, one eye squinted to the left and down towards a nose that looked like a lump of putty. Instead of a suit, he should have been draped in animal skins and living in a muddy pit. Every once in a while, the villagers could toss him a nice juicy virgin to appease his rage.

There had to be
some
in the Glasgow area.

We hadn't liked each other when I'd been an active member of the force, and we didn't like each other now. But that didn't alter the fact that I was always broke and he always wasn't. I'd done a few jobs for him over the past few months – mainly small stuff, the kind of work that cops wish they could get away with but can't in these politically correct times. Teenage yobs causing a disturbance outside your local?

Nasty drug dealer hanging around outside the amusement arcade that your thirteen year old son thinks is the centre of the universe? Wish you could just give them a good hard kick in the balls and tell them to piss off? Speak to Detective Harper. A quiet word in his ear and your problem could disappear as if by magic.

Except it wasn't magic. It was me.

The first few times, I'd enjoyed it. It was like being a cop again, but free from the shackles imposed by today's criminal-friendly society. I even glamorised it in my mind, thinking of myself as some kind of vigilante dispensing street justice. I knew it was wrong, though, and told Harper I wanted out. Every time I did something for him, I felt myself stepping further over the line. He was OK about it, but continued to offer me the occasional bit of work. And the sad thing is, I was usually tempted by it. Usually because he seemed to know just when I was running low on cash. That's how he was – a stone cold bastard who knew the value of everything and the price of nothing.

He steered with one hand as he lit a cigarette. ‘You keeping busy, Stone?'

‘I'm getting by.'

‘How's Joe?'

‘Fine.' I didn't say anything else. Harper and I might not have been the best of mates, but we were bosom buddies compared to how he and Joe felt about each other. They'd been partners and friends, and then one day, they were neither. Nobody knew the reason. It was weird, because they both had similar backgrounds and investigative methods.

Harper said, ‘I got one of his wife's books out of the library.'

A few years ago, Becky Banks had discovered a talent for writing.

Her speciality was historical sagas; the unconventional but feisty lass who stands up to the corrupt land owner and marries the boss's son, but only after losing her real love in a mill accident/ fall from a horse/burning orphanage. They sold well, and Becky had become something of a minor celebrity.

‘I never had you down as the romantic type,' I said.

‘There was a picture of a poppy field on the cover,' he told me. ‘I thought it was a war story.'

‘I believe you. Thousands wouldn't.'

‘It was shite.'

I ignored him, suspecting that any fiction that didn't start with the lines “I always thought that the letters in your magazine were probably made up, but a few weeks ago I was holidaying in Spain when two of the most beautiful girls I have ever seen knocked on the door of my hotel room and asked if they could borrow some suntan lotion” was probably outwith his literary sphere.

We headed north, possibly making for the McDonalds on the edge of the industrial estate. His cigarette smelled good. He kept his eyes on the road, his jaw clamped on the filter like the hero of a seventies cop drama, which in his imagination he probably was. ‘I used to work with Joe, you know. It came as no surprise to me when he went into P.I. work. He was the type.'

He was just trying to bait me. I ignored it, watching the scenery go by. The morning traffic was heavy but flowing well.

‘You know what I mean. A bit of a maverick. Didn't like to follow the rules. Played it fast and loose.'

‘Yeah. It's a shame he quit,' I said. ‘He could have had his own TVshow. You know – the loner cop who's always getting thrown off the case for pissing off “Somebody In Authority”. The kind of guy whose partner gets killed halfway through the season.' I looked sidelong at Harper. ‘That would have been a tragedy.'

‘Now. Be nice. I'm the one that's paying for breakfast.'

‘What a prince.'

I was right: we were heading for the McDonalds. He stopped at the drive-thru window. ‘You sure you don't want anything?'

‘A double sausage muffin meal. White coffee.'

‘Your wish is my command.'

Five minutes later, we pulled over at a quiet little lay-by. The morning traffic droned past while we ate our food. I wiped my greasy fingers on the underside of the car seat. ‘What do you want, Harper?'

‘You remember Jason Campbell? Instead of a custodial sentence the judge let him off easy and sent him to Leverndyke Hospital to make wicker baskets?'

I nodded.

‘He's out now. Managed to convince the trick cyclist that he's not a danger to the public. He's back living at his mum's house.'

‘I thought she was dying. I seem to remember his lawyer whining about terminal cancer.'

‘Not any more.'

It took me a second to figure it out. ‘Poor lad. When did it happen?'

‘Last month. Jason got sprung just in time to hold her withered claw as she stepped into the light. I suspect that Mummy's condition perhaps contributed to the decision to release him. You know, compassion and all that crap.' Harper spat the word compassion like it was a particularly virulent strain of genital warts.

I wanted one of his cigarettes. Like most ex-cops, I'm also an ex-smoker. Those little coffin nails can be so comforting. ‘I take it you want me to go and pay him a visit?'

He nodded. ‘Find out why he's been spending his time parked outside St John's High School instead of at home sniffing through Mummy's knicker drawer like a good little perv.'

‘You have such a nice way of putting things.'

‘It's my gift. And while you're at it, you could perhaps make him see the error of his ways. Perhaps you could even suggest that he sells his mother's house and moves to somewhere where his type are made more welcome. Cambodia, for example.'

‘Welcome the way that Gary Glitter was welcome?'

He turned to look at me. ‘I don't fucking care what he does, as long as he feels an urgent desire to get the fuck out of my patch.'

‘Why can't you do it yourself?'

‘Jason's done some work for me in the past. He used to be one of my snouts. And I, unlike you, still have a career to worry about.'

It was a cheap shot. ‘One day I'll get caught. You can't be coming to me with this kind of work all the time.'

‘What makes you think I do?'

Part of me wanted to say no, but it would have been pointless.

Harper no doubt had half a dozen other people lined up to do the same work. There's plenty of guys willing to do a dirty job for the right price, and it wasn't as if Jason was going to discover a cure for cancer.

I scrunched up the wrapper that had been wrapped around my muffin. ‘How much?'

‘How much do you want?'

There was no point in aiming low. ‘A grand.'

‘What do you think this is? Charity?'

‘Eight hundred.'

‘Two hundred. I could get a couple of crack addicts to do it for one.'

‘But I won't fuck it up. They'll either kill him or get caught. And if they get caught, you know they won't hesitate to name their sponsor.'

‘Three.'

I wondered where the money was coming from. There's a lot of slush out there, and it's easy to find if you know where to look. Once I arrested a nineteen year old boy for dealing heroin outside a secondary school. He had a bundle of notes more than half an inch thick hidden inside his training shoe. I asked him how much was there and he couldn't tell me because he didn't know. The final total turned out to be over five grand. Five grand in non-sequential used notes. It would have been so easy to say that it was three, and keep the rest.

I know what you're thinking, and I didn't. I never did. There's a line between getting paid in dirty cash for a job well done, and actually stealing. It's fine, but it's there.

I pretended to think about the amount. ‘Five.'

‘Three fifty. And that's my final answer. If you don't like it, I'll phone a friend.'

‘It'll do.'

We shook on the deal. Harper grinned slyly. ‘I'd have gone to four.'

‘I'd have done it for free.'

That wiped the smile off his face. He started the ignition. ‘Don't wipe your fucking greasy hands on my seats again.'

7.3.

I usually beat Joe to work, but my breakfast meeting with Harper had caused me to run a little late. By the time I arrived, he was already on his first cup of coffee. I walked in to the reception area that doubled as my office to find him sitting at my desk checking his reflection in a tiny hand held mirror that he snapped shut and stuffed into a pocket the second he saw me.

I pretended not to notice. ‘Morning, boss. What's with the suit?'

Joe was very much of the trousers, shirt and leather jacket school of dress, and he wore a suit like a monkey wears a tie – that is to say, infrequently and badly. The suit in question was Italian, expensive, and cut to fit a man twenty years younger and twenty pounds lighter, which, in all fairness, he probably had been when he purchased it. For him to wear one by choice meant only one thing: money.

Corporate money.

‘I'm meeting some people for lunch. Harald and Ginsell International Holdings.' he replied.

‘Who are they and what do they do?'

‘They're something to do with the Internet. I think. They're about to build a new call centre in Westerhouse and they want to discuss internal security.'

Westerhouse was one of the city's rougher areas. A call centre would mean some jobs, but it would also be one more target for the local criminals. ‘Are you going to advise them that the best way to secure the place would be to build somewhere else?'

‘Ha ha. This is why I'm the boss and you're the trusty sidekick.'

‘I've always thought of myself more as being the comedy relief.'

‘Really?' Joe raised an eyebrow. ‘When does that start, then?'

‘Now who's laughing.'

He stood up and allowed me to sit down. ‘There was a message from Sophie Sloan on the answering machine when I got in. Want to hear it?'

I nodded. Joe pressed a button on the machine, naturally managing to select the wrong one. A digitised voice informed us that it was Friday, two fifteen am. One day I would have to get round to programming the right date and time into it.

‘Maybe you should try the one marked “play”,' I said quietly.

He shot me a sour look. ‘Shut up.'

I mimed zipping my lips closed. This time, he managed to hit the right button. Sophie Sloan's voice was so whispery quiet, I had to strain to hear it.

‘Hi. It's me. Mrs Sloan. I forgot to tell you, my husband's going away on business. Today. It's some big conference down in London.

He'll be there until Thursday. I'm sorry, I made a mistake, I thought it was next month. I don't want you thinking I'm wasting your time.'

She concluded with a few inconsequential remarks, telling us that she had phoned the office because she didn't want to wake Joe up, but she had woken up at four in the morning and she just knew that she wouldn't be able to get back to sleep unless she told us.

We looked at each other. ‘What do you think?' Joe said.

‘I think Mrs Sloan is perhaps rather highly strung.'

‘I suspect you're right. I phoned her a couple of minutes ago, and she couldn't apologise enough for calling in the middle of the night.

She says that the conference is an annual thing, but she got confused about the dates.' Joe shook his head. ‘The poor woman is so wrapped up in her problems she doesn't know if it's New York or New Year.'