Blood Tears (22 page)

People who had spoken two words to me got their three minutes of fame as they concocted stories to add to the media glamour that was DI Ray McBain, Christ Killer, aged 36 — they always get my age wrong. What is it with journalists and people’s ages — and alliteration? I was fiendishly fucking famous and apparently free to strike at will, while the police had a finger up their collective fat arse.

So far, Theresa had managed to stay out of it. And away from me. I hadn’t heard from her since my admission of love. Maybe once she’d had a little more time we could talk. Besides, a wanted killer was hardly a selling point for a life-long romance.

‘Tell me about the two new bodies. And have they managed to connect them with me?’

‘The first one found was the woman. Same M.O. Her name was Elizabeth Templeton. She married late in life. Husband died shortly after the wedding. Nae luck. No kids either. Maiden name was Duthie. Chicken wing short of a picnic, apparently.

The guy was 33. Name Jim Leonard. Shared a flat with a guy called Mark Hutchison. Nothing intimate going on there, just flatmates according to the neighbours. In any case Hutchison, according to his girlfriend, is working overseas for six months.’

Jim Leonard. One of the twins from the convent. His brother, John, was my comrade in pissy blankets.

‘I don’t know if this is significant, Ray. But although Connelly was the first body to be found. Leonard was actually the first one to die. There was no flatmate around to sound the alert, so his body lay undiscovered for about a month, before complaints about the smell made the council investigate.’

What an epitaph for the poor bastard. Your body is left to rot for a month before the council’s grime squad are called in. 21st centuryitis. He died a stranger, inches away from hundreds of other people.

Jim Leonard, fuck me.

‘MO same as Connelly?’

‘Aye. But that’s the only connection we can make.’

‘They can’t be random killings.’ We’ve both been working in serious crimes long enough to know that where murder is concerned there are no such things as coincidences.

I’m not sure what to do. Do I tell Daryl that I know what the connection is? Can I trust him?

Of course I can. A sliver of guilt interrupts my thoughts, but I don’t want them to be looking at Bethlehem House again. There’s a danger it will just strengthen the case against me.

‘Looks like they might be.’ Daryl shrugs. We both knew that killers without a discernible pattern are more difficult to find. ‘The theory down at the incident room is that you’ve completely lost it. We got in a profiler and she reckons the first taste of blood has unhinged you and you’re now making the world suffer for whatever happened to you as a child.’ He digs under his thumbnail for some dirt and looks up at me as he prepares to deliver bad news.

‘Peters can be pretty persuasive once he starts. Some of the guys are starting to come round to his point of view. They also…’ Some dirt on his shoe suddenly fascinates him.

‘They also what?’

‘They’re saying some terrible things about you, Ray. That you’re really going doolally… mad.’ He looks over at me and then back to the ground, clearly uncomfortable with the fact that maybe I am actually insane.

‘Peters is an arse. What about Hackett? What’s he saying?’

‘Hackett appears to agree with Peters. But Ray, don’t dismiss Peters. He may be unimaginative and slow, but he’s like a bulldog once he gets his teeth into something. And you, he hates.’

‘That’s a cross I’ll have to bear,’ I try to grin at my weak joke. ‘He’s still an arse.’ My teeth are knocking together and my hands are rubbing my arms. I’m starting to cool down now after my athletic efforts and I pull on a sweatshirt I had tied around my waist.

‘The nights are fair drawing in,’ Daryl smiles.

‘Aye. Where has the summer gone? Enough chitchat. Have you got that address?’

‘Aye.’ He fumbles in a pocket and produces a slip of paper. I decipher his scrawl.

‘Any questions asked?’

‘None. We’re quite safe. What other leads should we follow?’

‘That guy Crichton. Put the frighteners on him a wee bit and see what comes up.’

‘What about the guy in Aberdeen? Irving.’

‘Leave him to me.’ I say.  Irving has been a busy boy all right, but I don’t think he’s a murderer. An anonymous phone call to his local cop-shop will hopefully put him out of action for a while.

‘What about the team? Should we trust anyone else?’ Daryl asks.

‘The fewer people who know, the better. Just stick with you and Allessandra for now.’ I pause. Perhaps this is a lot to ask of a less experienced officer. ‘Is Allessandra coping okay?’

‘That girl’s a trooper, Ray. She’s certain that you’re not the killer. Besides, there’s a hefty slice of guilt there that she grassed you up in the first place.’

‘Well, you tell her she was right to do it. I should never have put her in that position… and I can’t thank her enough… I can’t thank you both enough…’ Shit. I’m getting all emotional again.

‘You’re going to want to hug me next, aren’t you?’ Daryl takes a step back.

‘Fuck off, ya prick.’ I punch his arm and run back down the path.

Back at the flat, Kenny is unpacking some shopping bags, with the ever-present Calum standing by his side in silence. Kenny shouts over to me as I walk in the door.

‘Calum and me have been busy, Ray. C’mon over and see what we’ve bought for you.’

Plastic bags are emptied and the contents displayed across the back of the settee.  He’s bought me a couple of pairs of jeans, five T-shirts, three checked shirts, two jumpers, a pair of shoes. Oh, and a black leather jacket. Judging by the names on the labels this lot has set him back a fair sum.

‘Not too shabby,’ I admit as I review my new wardrobe. The trousers have a 34-inch waist. Not too shabby indeed.

‘Here,’ Kenny is grinning like Santa retired and he got the job. He throws me a set of keys. The famous symbol of BMW is on the fob. ‘And this.’ He throws me an envelope. I open it. It’s full of tenners. I sit down on the settee. This is all too much. I’ve taken enough from Kenny. I can’t take any more. There’s only so much a man can fill his hands with before his dignity starts to fray at the edges.

‘The car is only on loan and if you damage it you’ll be found in the Clyde wearing a pair of concrete slippers.’ His voice is firm and deep. ‘The cash is also a loan as you can hardly access your own bank account at the moment. We’ll charge you a modest rate of interest.’ The clever bastard knew how I would react and is phrasing the gifts in such a way he’ll know I won’t refuse.

I’m on my way down to Manchester to meet a certain young man called Joseph McCall and this big fucker of a car is actually purring. As soon as all this shit is over I am going to sell my flat, buy myself one of these beauties and move in. I’ll eat in the local chippie, bathe at the swimming baths and sleep in the backseat. A perfect existence. The money I would have spent on things like Council Tax and electricity I can spend on petrol and just cruise the motorways in my spare time, enjoying the BMW purr.

The miles have slid past like a movie backdrop and I’m almost there. I just have to find the house where Joseph is renting a room. I key the address into the satnav.

So what do I know about him? Not much except for the fact that his mother is dead and the woman who looked after him has some serious issues. Other than that all I have is an address.

The clock on the dashboard tells me it’s just gone 5pm and the ache in my belly tells me it’s time to eat. Before I left Glasgow, Calum told me to try and find the Curry Mile in the Rushholme area of the city. The food there is fantastic apparently, although not in keeping with my new super-slim self. Fuck it. If I can’t have a curry when I’m away from home, when can I indulge myself? There is something about being away from my home turf and spoiling myself with food. It must have been all those trips to the seaside as a wee boy. The only time I remember enjoying my food as a child was when we got a break from the grease-laden stodge that passed for nourishment at the convent.

First things first. I have a young man to talk to.

‘You have arrived at your destination.’ A delightful voice issues from the satnav. The house number I’m looking for is just in front of me. The house itself is pretty nondescript. Three storeys tall. A postage stamp front garden is the parking space for a couple of large motorbikes. The front door is dark blue and the front room window has a charming net curtain draped over it. As I approach the door I see that the net has a couple of big holes in it. The larger one has a life-size cardboard head of Che Guevara popping through it. That man gets about, eh? Still the totem for the disaffected student.

Reading down the list of names with a buzzer I press the one that I want. Nothing. I wait for a minute and press again. Still nothing. Then I hear a heavy tread. The door opens and a long-haired boy/man who needs a good feed and an introduction to the pleasures of being free of facial hair pushes past me. But not before he lets the door slam shut behind him.

‘Hi. I’m trying to find Joseph McCall.’ Maybe I speak a different language from this fella. Maybe he’s deaf, because he completely ignores me. On reflection, “ignore” doesn’t come close, I don’t even register in his awareness. Students and drugs. Students and Che Guevara and drugs. Dearie me. Perhaps a touch of Glasgow
brio
is needed here.

‘Ho, Big Man. You deaf?’ I pull on his sleeve. He turns and faces me.

‘I don’t speak to pigs.’ His voice is monotone, the accent difficult to place.

‘Ex-pig, if you don’t mind.’ Shit, am I that obvious. Even with the hair and the beard and the new leather jacket?

A grin that would have been honed on despairing parents forms on his lips. The top lip is as thin as the business end of a whip but the top one is hanging out in a plump huff. They seem out of place on a face that is so bony. His nose sports what could have been a knuckle on its bridge and cheekbones jut out under a pair of confident, ageless eyes. These are offset by facial hair that has ambitions of joining up together one day and forming a beard.

‘Kick you out, did they?’

‘Bent ex-pig is probably the correct terminology,’ I step closer to him. See how confident he feels now. His smile wilts but he gamely cocks his head to the side and stands his ground.

‘Yeah, good for you,’ he says. Judging by what is going on his eyes I can read that the greater part of his mind tells him I’m not to be trusted, but a small section demands to know “What if?”

‘Sorry. We seem to have got off on the wrong foot. I tend to get irritated when people ignore me. But I am an ex-copper and I do want to find Joseph McCall.’ Polite words issued with an air of menace can often do the trick, but this young man is pretty composed.

‘What do you want with Joseph?’ The accent is all over the place. There’s something not quite right about it. Especially when he said “Joseph.” That was almost Scottish.

‘How long have you known him then?’

‘That depends on why you’re asking.’ Good Queen’s/Mancunian English this time.

‘I have news about his family.’

Judging by the lack of response to this, he isn’t much of a friend.

‘Stick it on a postcard and shove it through his door.’

There’s no help to be received here. With a display of teeth intended to approximate a smile I walk away from him and go back to the door. It opens just as I get there and a young girl exits. This I know because she has no beard. The build, clothes and hair are a matching set to those worn by the guy I’d just spoken to. Androgyny never goes out of fashion.

‘Do you know if Joseph McCall is in, sweetheart?’

‘No he’s not.’ Is it just me, or does she
bristle
when I say the word “sweetheart”.

‘Sorry.’ I rub my eyes and let some of the tiredness show. ‘I’ve had a long journey and I need to find Joseph to give him some news from home.’

‘I’m sorry,’ her gaze softens. ‘I tend to go into attack mode when I hear that prick’s name. Joseph. Yes. He’s just left. In fact I’m amazed you missed him.’ She looks over my shoulder. And points. ‘There he is.’ Just as beardy turns a corner.

‘Wee bugger.’ I try to allay the suspicion that is sliding into her eyes. ‘He’s changed so much since I last saw him.’

I catch him easily. He doesn’t turn round when I shout his name. He doesn’t even alter his pace when he hears the drum of my feet.
Prick
, she called him. A lover’s tiff perhaps?

‘Right, ya arsehole, what was that all about?’ I pull on his arm. Thankfully I am breathing easily. Trying to get information from someone while you are struggling to fill your lungs is fairly difficult.

‘I’ve a phobia about men with bleached hair.’ A Glasgow accent this time.

‘You a Celtic fan then?’ I refer to the aforementioned Paul Gascoigne who terrorised the Celtic team while sporting said hairstyle.

His answering grin is genuine. ‘Partick Thistle, actually.’

‘Eh? Me too.’ Cool. We’ve bonded. ‘Listen, I need to talk to you. Can I buy you a coffee?’

‘I also have a phobia about bleached blond men in coffee shops.’

Witty fucker.

‘Will a pint do?’

‘I’m not going to get rid of you am I?’

‘Nope.’

‘There a nice wee boozer just round the corner.’ He walks off and expects me to follow. In the pub, we get our drinks and find the only free seats, which are just beside the entrance to the women’s toilet. I’m surprised they need one judging by the complete lack of anything that might be remotely attractive to women. Unless beer bellies and builder’s cleavage have suddenly become desirable.

‘A former policeman who doesn’t take a drink?’ Joseph looks pointedly at my glass of tonic water.

‘I’m aff it.’

‘Right.’ He takes a sip from his pint of Guinness. ‘Say no more.’ He sits his pint back down on the table, leans back on his chair, crosses his arms and looks at me. Waits for me to start. I put the rim of my glass to my lips and allow my mouth to fill. I swallow. Where do I begin? A downright lie has to be preferable in this situation.

‘I think Carole Devlin is in danger.’