The Storm Without (8 page)

I knew where he meant. I
'
d taken my sister
'
s kids to see the animals they kept there: small animals — rabbits and birds. But as I passed the derelict summerhouse with its crumbling structure and dirt-blackened windows, I doubted my chances of seeing anything resembling life that wasn
'
t a weed.

Mason was drawing on a cigarette, his collar raised around his beefy neck. He eyed me momentarily then walked towards the wooded path.

I caught him up.
'
I see why you brought me here.
'

He turned, bit the tip of his fag.
'
Like the grave.
'

'
You
'
d see more folk in a graveyard.
'

He knitted his brow, brushed some stray cigarette ash from his sleeve and flicked his dowp towards the gutter.
'
Let
'
s walk.
'

I nodded, opened a palm.
'
After you.
'

As we went I felt my own cravings ignite, reached into my pocket and removed my Regal Kingsize. It was the same pack I had turned to earlier. The tobacco strayed from the tip of the paper. I shook my head.
'
Oh, man
…'

Mason tilted his face, raised an eyebrow as he took in the pack.
'
Hmnn.
'

I lifted the cigarettes.
'
They
'
re fakes, you know.
'

'
Oh, I know. You obviously didn
'
t.
'
He allowed himself a smile. Two rows of teeth stained with coffee and nicotine on display.

'
Local problem is it?
'
I held up the pack as I spoke. I couldn
'
t believe things had got so bad here that there was a black market in knock-off ciggies. What was next? Razor blades? Pretty Pollys? It was like 1944 all over again.
'
Are you not doing anything about it?
'

Mason lunged for the pack, scrunched it in his great mitt, said,
'
Excise isn
'
t my department, Doug!
'

I bit.
'
Flogging them in your manor is?
'

He shook his head. The extra collars round his neck quivered as he moved.
'
I
'
ll give you one of mine
…
if it
'
ll shut you up.
'

I accepted. Lit up. Could see it was time to change subject.
'
Okay, so why am I here?
'

Mason retrieved the lighter he
'
d given me, put his hands back in his pockets and turned to face the path. A pile of damp leaves blocked our way as we progressed. He raised himself on his toes, momentarily, then kicked the obstruction away like a rugby ball. His cheeks flushed slightly with the exertion.
'
Well, not because you asked me, for sure.
'

'
Oh, really.
'

He turned, his nostrils flared.
'
Yes, really, Doug.
'
He lifted a finger, wagged it at me as he spoke through those stained teeth. He looked fierce.
'
I
'
ve been doing some digging, on you
…
mate.
'

'
Oh yeah, better watch that. I hear it gives you dirty hands.
'

Mason recoiled. Forced a laugh.
'
From what I hear, you
'
re the one with dirty hands, boy.
'

'
That right?
'

'
Yes that
'
s right!
'
The finger was back, wagging, pointing.
'
Not exactly flavour of the month in Ulster are you?
'

I felt my chest inflate. He
'
d done more digging than he had call to. We
'
d been friends, once.
'
You
'
ve been busy.
'

'
Yes, I have
…
and it
'
s a good job.
'

I drew the tip of the cigarette to my lips, inhaled. I held the smoke for a moment, then slowly blew it out, white against the still air.
'
You should take all you hear with a pinch of salt, Mason. You know as well as me that you make precious few friends in this racket.
'

'
By the sounds of things you made quite a round number
…
zero.
'
I wondered who he
'
d been talking to, but found I didn
'
t really care. Ulster and the RUC was behind me. I
'
d moved on. There was nothing there that could harm me here, unless I let it.

'
Okay, Mason, you
'
ve made your point. But we
'
re not in Ulster.
'

The corners of his eyes creased; his lids slanted as he looked at me through narrow slits.
'
No. You
'
ve missed the point. I
'
m warning you, I don
'
t want you repeating your old mistakes on my patch.
'

I played it cool, tried to laugh him off.
'
And what makes you think I
'
d do that?
'

He grabbed me by the shoulders, pressed me hard into a tree. I wasn
'
t expecting it and as my hands fell, the cigarette floated to the ground. I was pinned there, stuck.

Mason spoke,
'
Ulster wasn
'
t the only place I did some digging. I did plenty close to home too.
'

'
Will you get off me?
'
I kept my voice low. But my heart was pounding. A rage building in me.

'
Kirsty Donald
…
favour for a friend, an old friend, is it?
'

I struggled to free myself, bit the inside of my cheek. I tasted blood in my mouth.
'
Get your hands off me Mason, I
'
m warning you.
'

He tightened his grip on me, pressed his chest closer to mine. His full weight held me back. I was close enough to feel the spray of his words on my face.
'
That girl
'
s file has alarm bells on it! The type that go off in the station when mugs like me start asking questions
…
What
'
s going on, Doug? I want to know what
'
s going on with Kirsty Donald
'
s murder because some heavy people are taking an interest. And I don
'
t like that
…
not one bit.
'

I was rattled. Being roughed up by an old friend will have that affect on you. I didn
'
t know where Mason was coming from but his revelations had put a scare on me. Someone, other than me, was taking an interest in the murder of Kirsty Donald. One thing that my meeting with Mason had yielded in my favour, though, was that I
'
d succeeded in re-igniting his sense of justice. At least, that
'
s what I told myself. Closer to the truth, I
'
d merely lit his passion not to be outdone. If someone in the station was stamping on toes, he was going to find out who, and why. I turned down the radio in the car; I needed a clear head to think. This ran deeper than I had imagined.

The road was wet out to the Dunure Road, and the Donalds
'
family home. I
'
d done my fair share of death knocks in my time on the force, but there was something about lobbing up at the home of a recently bereaved family that still smacked at me. It was never pleasant, never welcome. I wanted to help Lyn find the truth of her son
'
s involvement in Kirsty
'
s murder, but the further I went with the case, the more doubts I had.

As I pulled into Dunure Road the rain was subsiding. I located the house number quickly, parked up and got out the TT. There was a light spray on the breeze — a susurration from the sea. Compared to the battering of rain and gales of late it felt almost a comfort. I flicked the central-locking and turned away from the vehicle towards the house. The garden was strewn with leaves, a bird-table had been upended. Some more leaves had accumulated under the fallen eaves of the bird-table
'
s roof. They
'
d been there for some time.

I shunned the doorbell and knocked, gently.

A dark figure appeared beyond the frosted glass, seemed to stall for a moment or two, then proceeded towards the door. I heard a key turning in a Yale lock, a slim chain removed. As the door edged open a few inches a whey-faced man in his fifties thinned eyes at me.

'
Yes
…'

'
Mr Donald?
'

The door widened some more.
'
Yes, that
'
s me.
'
He strode forward, stepped out onto the top step.
'
Are you from the police?
'

I kept my eyes fixed on him, allowed a momentary silence to sit between us while I avoided a direct answer to his question.
'
I think it might be best if we went inside.
'

My practiced manner of officialdom seemed to have worked. He turned back towards the door, beckoned me inside. I noticed Mr Donald had bulked up with several layers of clothing, a scarf above his cardigan. He spoke,
'
You
'
ll have to excuse the temperature
…
boiler packed in.
'

I nodded.
'
I can handle a bit of cold.
'

'
Well, we
'
re used to it, happens every year
…
hellish getting someone out, mind you.
'
He led me through to the kitchen, motioned me sit at a large pine table.
'
Tea?
'

I was tempted, but declined. Something stronger would have been closer to the mark.

As I lowered myself at a seat by the wall, the door to the kitchen opened once more. A small, frail woman in a long Arran jumper appeared. I could tell from the pictures I
'
d seen of Kirsty that this was her mother; the resemblance was striking.

I started to rise.

'
No, don
'
t get up,
'
she said.

'
This is my wife, Sheila, and this is
…'
Mr Donald looked at me.
'
Sorry, I don
'
t think I caught your name.
'

'
My name
'
s Doug Michie
…
I
'
m an investigator, and I
'
m looking into your recent loss.
'

Sheila raised a hand to her shoulder, then another traced the line of her arm. The mention of her daughter
'
s name seemed to be enough to unleash a torrent of grief.

I went on,
'
I should say, I
'
m not police. I was once, but this is a private affair.
'

Sheila looked towards her husband.
'
Frank
…
I don
'
t understand.
'

'
Neither do I,
'
he said.
'
I think you should explain yourself.
'

I laced my fingers before me on the table, lowered my tone and tried to explain the reasons why I was looking into the murder of their daughter. My reasons didn
'
t seem to matter, though; they had lost Kirsty and nothing I could say or do would alter that fact.

'
I don
'
t know about this,
'
said Frank. He folded his arms across his chest, a defensive posture.

Sheila moved towards the table, removed a chair. She turned back to face her husband but her words seemed to be directed towards me.
'
I think we should hear him out, dear. What harm can it do?
'

Frank bridled, unfolded his arms and raised his palms towards the ceiling. He turned away from us and leaned on the sink, staring out the window into the back garden.

I went for broke.
'
Maybe you can tell me a little bit about your daughter?
'

Sheila
'
s eyes glassed over as she spoke about her daughter: about her school days, her dance classes, her love for her job, all the promise she showed and all her parents
'
hopes.

I let her speak herself out; if nothing else, it seemed to calm Frank.

'
You mentioned her job
…
'

'
She worked for me,
'
said Frank.

I turned to face him.
'
What did she do?
'