Blood Tears (29 page)

‘Calum?’ I shout as I place my ear to the toilet door. No response. He can’t hear me for the rush of water from the shower. He’s probably having a fly chug. I shouldn’t disturb the boy. I’ll just leave quietly. Kenny will give him a pasting for leaving me alone, but tough titty. I’ve a killer to catch. 

Devlin opens the door to Allessandra’s knock.

‘You’re McBain’s bint.’

‘Colleague is a more popular term in the force.’ Allessandra lets the insult slide. ‘Can I come in?’

‘Got a warrant?’

‘No.’

‘Then fuck off.’

‘You and McBain must have been friends all those years ago.’

‘Aye. We did everything together. Went for long walks, had picnics and read poetry. Now will you fuck off?’

‘So why did you act like you’d never met him before when I was here last?’

‘He hasn’t changed a bit, as well. Looked just like the wee boy I remember. Except with longer legs. And whole load more of fat.’

‘So why did you…’

‘I’m telling you nothing,’ Devlin said with a smile that Allessandra wanted to wipe off with a spiked knuckle-duster.

‘The truth will come out, Carole. Eventually. You may as well tell me now and save us all a lot of bother.’

‘Listen, hen. I know why you’re here. He’s your boss. You think he’s innocent and you’re trying to clear his name. All very commendable. All very Hollywood.’ Her expression is wild, triumphant even. She’s getting a real kick out of this, and Allessandra wishes she had ignored her impulse to pay the woman another visit. ‘Except, wee pal, this is real life. And your mate DI McBain is a murderer. I know, ’cos I was there.’ Her face is in Allessandra’s, scraping her skin with her breath. Beer and cigarettes.

‘Are you saying you’re an accessory?’

‘I’m saying nothing, darling. Now either come back with a summons or one of them warrant things, or fuck off and die.’ With the suddenness of a thunderclap, the door is slammed shut.

Back at her flat, Allessandra is sitting on the edge of her brown leather chair, and leaning forward, all but hugging her knees, wishing that she smoked.

This is not good. The more she looks into this to try and help Ray, the worse it all looks. So what does she know? Not only does Ray have the motive and the time to do the killings, but he also has a background that should come with the heading
How to Breed a Psycho
.

What should I do? she asks herself. What would you do, Dad? In the absence of an answer she picks her mobile up from the coffee table and presses in a few numbers.

‘DD. We need to talk.’

He is banging on her door within the hour.

‘Make me a coffee and tell me what’s up.’ Daryl says and follows her through to the kitchen.

While the kettle works its way up to steam, Allessandra outlines her thoughts. Daryl is impassive.

‘Ray McBain is not a killer, Allessandra.’

‘But even Devlin says he is.’

‘That would be Carole Devlin, the surrogate mother for our number one suspect?’

‘Aye. I know. But you weren’t there. You didn’t see her face. She was telling the truth. She saw something.’

‘She was confirming your biggest fear. There is a difference.’

‘Oh, Daryl. I don’t know anymore. This detective stuff is so fucking hard.’ Allessandra leans against the worktop and presses her head against a cupboard.

‘Think about the Ray McBain you know,’ Daryl says. ‘Think about the man you work with; the man who led our team to catch some really bad guys.’ He moves over and stands directly in front of her. He grabs both her wrists. ‘Think about the short time you have spent with him. Has he in anyway, in those moments given you any reason to doubt him?’

‘No.’

‘Well don’t.’ Daryl looks deep into her eyes. ‘Ray McBain is one of the good guys. Be sure of that.’

Allessandra reads Daryl’s certainty and relaxes into it. He’s right, the boss is a good guy. A good cop in a bad mess. Isn’t he?

‘I’m sorry. It’s just…’ She rubs her forehead in an attempt to disguise the tears that sting her eyes.

‘Aye. No worries,’ Daryl says with his hand on her shoulder. ‘Can you make me that coffee now? I’m fucking parched.’ 

In the dark and from the pavement, Devlin’s house looks just like Connelly’s. The same lacklustre architecture, small windows and chipping on the walls. At least there, the gardens were looked after. In this street just further up the road, in lieu of a garden gnome, the remains of a car’s engine decorate a small patch of grass.  Everywhere else the chosen look is austere.

Every cliché is bound in truth, and I witness the truth of net curtains twitching with curiosity.  I doubt they see many cars like mine here. The nets at the Devlin household, however, remain undisturbed.

When I first started in the police, as I approached each house I would always remind myself of the purpose of my visit and what the aim of it was. This made sure I wasn’t distracted, nor was I complacent. A habit I need to get back into. The door opens before I can formulate a plan of attack.

Carole leaves the door open enough for me to see her head and one side of her body. Black T-shirt and grey leggings are obviously her dossing around clothes.

‘What a busy place this is today. What you wantin’?’

‘Can I come in for a wee chat, Carole?’

‘Piss off. You’re no’ the polis any more.’

‘News travels fast.’

‘Aye, how clever was that? The very man who visits here and tries to put the blame on our Joe, is arrested himself,’ she crows. ‘If you don’t piss off pronto, I’m going to phone the police and do my duty as a public-minded citizen.’

‘Right. You do that, Carole. And they’ll start to wonder why I was here. ‘’Cos it’ll not be long before they realise I didn’t kill Connelly after all and then they’ll be looking for other suspects.’

I can see her mind working out all of the possibilities.

‘The phone is just to the right here,’ she warns.

‘Give me five minutes. Help remove Joseph from my lists of suspects.’

‘Why should I?’

‘When the police find out that Joseph is Connelly’s son, they’ll be fighting over themselves to question him.’

‘How do you…’ She is so caught out by this that she forgets to lie. Her mouth hangs open in shock. Before she can regain her balance, I push past her and walk into the living room.

She follows me.

‘Have a seat, why don’t you?’

‘Sorry about that, Carole. We don’t want the neighbours talking.’

‘Fuck them. Who gives a toss what they think.’

‘Is that the kettle going on?’

‘Is this a social visit?’ she bristles.

‘Let‘s call it a walk down memory lane.’

‘Fuck off with the memory lane crap and while you’re at it, fuck off with the kettle shite. Ask your questions and piss off back to your midden.’ Charm was clearly not one of her christening gifts.

‘Do you remember me from the convent?’

‘Of course I remember you. I remember everything about you, Ray. I remember…’

‘I remember you.’ I interrupt her. For some reason I’m not sure of, I don’t want to know anything she remembers. ‘Used to think you were really bright.’

‘Bright? Me?’

‘Truth be told I used to have a wee fancy for you.’

‘You were just a scrawny wee thing.’ She dismisses my comments, but tidies her hair up a little.

‘Aye. The nuns used to get me into trouble for spending time with you.’

‘Sister Mary?’ she asks. A smile curves her lips as she considers an old notoriety.

‘She used to think you were leading me astray.’

‘God, I hated that place. Remember that was our mantra? “I hate this place.” That was like our mad wee chant.’

‘Why did you not let on you recognised me that time I came with another copper?’ I ask.

She shrugs. ‘Seemed like the right thing to do. You weren’t letting on either. Thought I’d give you a break.’

‘Thanks.’ I look at the photographs. ‘Aye. It was terrible what happened to your mate.’

As close to a companionable silence as we can manage settles in the space between us as we both consider the past.

‘Did he… were you?’ Shit. Too soon for that question. The shutters that were easing up have slammed back down, judging by the look in her eyes.

‘You wanted to talk about Joseph?’ Back to business.

‘It must have been terrible, bringing him up knowing that kind of secret?’

‘Aye, how the fuck did you find out?’

‘Joseph told me.’

‘He what?’ Her eyes are almost out of her head. ‘How does he know?’ Her voice is a whisper, it’s the conversation she has dreaded all her life, and the boy already knows.

‘I thought you might have told him.’

A noise sounds in the room above. My head shoots up.

‘Don’t worry. It’s only the cat.’ Carole then changes the subject back to the purpose of my visit. But something has changed in her voice. It is quieter. More respectful?

‘Frances asked me not to tell him. I promised her just before she died that I wouldn’t tell. Who else would know to tell him?’

‘Must have been someone from the convent.’

‘No way. Hardly anyone knew.’ Her eyes look to the ceiling as she considers the suspects.  ‘Sister Mary knew. It was that wee simple woman who told her. You remember Betty. She used to help the nuns out. She wasn’t as daft as she looked. She worked out that poor wee Frances had missed her period when she hadn’t asked for any sanitary towels.’

I get a picture of a head of black hair with streaks of grey at the sides and thick, black glasses. She was the woman who used to wake up the “Wet the Beds” as we were known, just after midnight. She would drag us to the toilet, in the hope that an emptied bladder would result in a dry bed. It didn’t work.

I’d forgotten all about her.  She was a harmless wee soul, put upon by the nuns almost as much as we were. How did she manage to get herself into that position in the convent? Taking  small boys to the toilet in the middle of the night and doling out sanitary towels is hardly what you would call a vocation. As a child I never even thought for a second that Betty had her own story.

‘Whatever happened to Betty?’

Carole shrugs a couldn’t-care-less response.

‘Anyway. I can’t help wondering why all these years later you’re looking after Connelly’s bastard.’ I look over the photographs. Carole and Frances with Joseph in between. Flattened smiles to indicate they really were having a great time. As if in that second when the camera flashes you can shrug off all your worries. And then let them fall back on your shoulders when the film has run out.  A moment of time captured forever they say. Who in this situation would want to? So in years to come you can pull the box out of a drawer and look back at the “good” old times?

Frances has a pair of shoulders almost half the width of Carole’s. She might have been pretty, but she never got the chance. Her hair was lifeless, her eyes flat and the smile could do nothing to hide the look of a victim. It’s difficult to pin it down, to define that look.

Perhaps it’s the expectation that bleeds from the eyes, the anticipation that it’s going to happen again. Or is it the tilt of the head, the run of the shoulders that questions the happiness in any moment? Like it’s only seconds before misery will strike again: you have a curse and all the bad people know it.

So they seek you out.

But why would Devlin take on Frances’ son? Why would she feel so beholden?

‘Carole.’ My voice is soft. ‘You shouldn’t blame yourself.’ I allow the words to come unsure of their direction.

‘What?’ She studies me and is taken aback by the change in my demeanour.

‘You think it was you who should have been raped… instead Connelly got Frances?’

‘How do you…’ She stands up. ‘Right, get out of this house. I’m calling the cops.’ Her voice is without purpose. She’s saying what she thinks she should say, but I can tell she desperately wants to know what I know. Tears gather at the rim of her lower eyelids. She sits back down. ‘How do you…’

‘Don’t blame yourself. You were only a wee girl, for chrissake.’ Connelly, I hope you are roasting on a spit as we speak. ‘You’ve spent your life trying to make amends.’

‘I should have stayed. I was just in the next bed. Together we might have fought him off. Instead I ran and hid in a cupboard, like a coward.’

‘You were, what, fourteen? What could you have done?’

‘We could have kicked him in the balls. Stabbed him… something. Instead I ran.’ She sobbed. ‘Can you imagine the guilt? Can you?’ Her fingers pull at her leggings, her bottom lip is arched. She can barely speak. But she had held this in for over twenty years.

‘But we got him, Ray. Didn’t we? Well… after a trial run and twenty years.’ Her eyes take on a zealous light and she moves towards me.

Trial run
?

I screw my eyes shut against a dream of small hands and a huge struggle. A pillow. A feather in flight.

‘But what about Frances and her son, Joseph? Connelly’s son?’ I can’t, I won’t let her take me there.

Devlin takes a step back. Her heels hit a chair and she falls into it. ‘She was my best friend. She saved me. I left her to rot. That bastard…’ rarely has a word been imbued with such hate. ‘… made her pregnant. Can you imagine the guilt?’ Her question is barely audible.

‘You tried to bring up the child, as a penance. To try and make things right.

‘Except every time you look at him he reminds you of him. You love the idea of the child, but the boy disgusts you.’ The words are out of my mouth before the thought reaches my brain.

What child wouldn’t pick up on this? They wouldn’t know why, but they would know. So, not only does Joseph grow up knowing what his mother is and in the absence of anything remotely like love, but he grows up under the burden of a memory fuelled by hate. Another ingredient in the mix that spells out murderer.

‘You were there. Is that how you know all this? You must have told Joseph.’ Her finger stabs at the air. ‘Who else knows?’

Just then the living room door opens.

‘Yeah, who else knows, Carole?’ Joseph’s features are twisted with something beyond rage.