The Storm Without (9 page)

'
She minded the show home
…
I
'
m a builder. I put some flats up by the harbour.
'
He brushed at the stubble on his neck with the back of his fingers.
'
She loved that job, couldn
'
t get her away from the place.
'

'
Is that where she met
…
Glenn?
'

Frank looked at his wife; she raised a hand to his. He nodded slowly, words too much of a trial for him.

I pressed.
'
I take it you didn
'
t get along with Glenn?
'

Sheila seemed to be the one with strength now.
'
Mr Michie, he
'
s in custody for the murder of our daughter.
'

I unlaced my fingers, leaned back in the chair and allowed myself a few seconds to compose my thoughts.
'
I have to tell you both that in my experience an early arrest, like Glenn
'
s, very rarely leads to a secure conviction.
'

Frank dropped his wife
'
s hand.
'
What are you saying?
'

I gulped down my words, let the pair adjust to the new atmosphere in the room. For a second, I thought I
'
d gone too far, then I saw Sheila
'
s intelligence shining in her eyes. She spoke first.
'
No. Let him finish, Frank.
'

'
Well, what are you trying to say?
'
he said.

It took all my courage to look Kirsty Donald
'
s father in the eye as I spoke.
'
I
'
ve seen cases like this in the past. I know how police forces work, and
don
'
t
work. And I know a cover-up when I see one.
'

Frank looked down at his wife. Her face was firm, hard. All the colour that sat in her cheeks earlier had left. I tried to draw my gaze away, to take in Frank
'
s expression, but I knew he wasn
'
t the one making the decisions here. Sheila reached out to her husband and grabbed him towards her; she laid her face on his hand for a moment and placed a delicate kiss on his fingertips. When she spoke this time she was looking at me, but speaking for every mother that had lost a child.
'
We need to know the truth.
'

We
'
d had a week of on-off storms. The Scottish media had likened them to hurricanes, but then we
'
d always been good at bigging up our misfortunes. The pavements outside were criss-crossed with bits of broken tiles and slates blown from the roofs. A bus had been toppled. A fallen tree demolished a garage. YouTube was full of runaway trampolines and airborne wheelie bins. I couldn
'
t see what all the fuss was about; we
'
d had bad weather before but there was something in the collective psyche now that demanded a short-term beat-up of anything vaguely new. I shook my head as I took my pint from the bar, tried to ignore the storm without: I had enough troubles of my own to worry about.

Smugglers was, for the main, empty. A few dole moles. A couple of bluenoses playing dominoes — making a racket every time they rattled the tray for a new game. The TV was playing; a bloke in beer-bottle glasses checked his luck at the ponies; the weather hadn
'
t halted much then. It would truly be a national crisis if the footie was called off at the weekend. Somerset Boab would be doing a song about it.

I blew the froth off my pint of heavy and picked up the Ayrshire Post. The paper had changed a fair bit since my last stint in my old home town — it seemed to have grown up and turned into a real newspaper. I remembered wading through page after page of random punters holding onto big cheques. Of scouring the photos for a squint at an old face you once knew. Not now. There was proper news. I wondered if it was a sign of the times: had the Auld Toun developed into a place worthy of detailed press scrutiny? I found myself nodding sagely to myself. I knew the place I called home once again had changed. But, it wasn
'
t only the papers doing the digging.

As the door to the main bar opened, a shower of rain splashed on the floor. The young girl in the parka stamped her feet and started to shiver. When she took her hood down her lips showed blue against her pale white face. She looked around, exchanged a nod with the barman and then registered the Post in my hands.

She took two steps towards me.
'
Doug is it?
'

I stood up, held out my hand,
'
You must be Rachel Maciver.
'

'
You can just call me Rachel
…'

I smiled, almost laughed at myself.
'
Sorry, I
'
ve been reading your stories in the paper
…
the ones with the big by-line.
'

She seemed to be thawing, pulled out a chair and ordered herself a half of Guinness. Rachel looked too young to be doing her job; nothing like the hacks they sent out to crime scenes I
'
d attended in Ulster.

'
So, you
'
re a friend of Glenn
'
s mum,
'
she said.

I nodded.
'
Old friend.
'

She smiled. Some colour was returning to her lips.
'
I didn
'
t know him that well, only through Kirsty
…
she was my wee sister
'
s friend. You know that though.
'

I
'
d found Rachel on the list Lyn had given me; she seemed like a contact I could make some use of.
'
Tell me a little bit about Kirsty.
'

'
Not Glenn? I thought it was Glenn you were trying to get off.
'
I watched her pick up her half-Guinness and take a sip, wipe away a creamy layer from her top lip.

For a moment, I felt tested. Was she after a reaction? I held firm.
'
I
'
m simply looking into the circumstances of her death.
'
I felt like I was watching my words; she was a journalist after all.

'
Look, I
'
m not trying to be funny with you, Doug
…
I don
'
t think Glenn was capable of murder either.
'

She seemed to have my mind made up for me.
'
Either?
'

She put her drink back on the table, ran the back of her hand over her mouth.
'
Nobody does
…
not anyone that knew him. Or Kirsty.
'

'
What do you mean?
'

She lit up, leaned on the table and tapped a tattoo with a beer mat.
'
I mean, they had their moments, their rows
…
but murder! Get real.
'

I wasn
'
t sure where she was going with this, but she clearly had some kind of theory. I sat back in my chair, crossed my leg over. As I did so, I noticed an umbrella fly past the window; the sight distracted me, took my train of thought with it. Rachel traced the arc of my gaze with her own eyes.

'
What are you saying? You don
'
t believe the official version of events?
' I said.

'
Which is what? Kirsty had her first fit in years, brought on by a beating from Glenn
…
No. I don
'
t go for that.
'

'
Well, why haven
'
t you said?
'

She huffed.
'
Eh,
hello
…
I think I just did.
'

'
I meant to the police.
'

Rachel shook her head, made a moue of her mouth.
'
Do I look mental?
'

'
You don
'
t think they
'
d believe you?
'

Her voice pitched.
'
And like I
'
d be believed, Doug.
'
She scraped a fingernail along the table top as her voice continued to climb.
'
You know, I might not have been a reporter all that long but I
'
ve seen enough of what goes on in this town to know that there
'
s certain people you don
'
t take on
…'
She stopped herself, started to scan the room to see who had been listening.

'
Like who?
'

'
Uh-uh
…'
She clamped her mouth tight. She was practicing Rabbie
'
s advice:
learn taciturnity and let that be your motto.
I couldn
'
t fault her but neither did it help me.

'
Rachel, if you have something I can use, you owe it to Kirsty and to Glenn to let me know.
'

She took a long draft of her Guinness, wiped her mouth again and reached under the table for her bag.
'
I
'
m not getting involved.
'

'
Rachel
…'

Her eyes flared.
'
I can
'
t do anything. I
'
m a cub reporter on a local rag
…
not John Pilger.
'

'
I
'
m not asking you to take on the establishment, Rachel.
'

That huff again.
'
Oh, aren
'
t you?
'

She was talking in riddles. She was also rattled, that much I could see. I watched her zip up her parka, wrap her scarf round her neck and wrestle the strap of her bag over her shoulder. With each movement she made I knew I was edging dangerously close to losing the chance to get her to reveal what she knew.
'
You can trust me, you know.
'

My words seemed to trigger her sarcasm nerve; she tilted her head to the side.
'
Weren
'
t you
filth
?
'

I felt my neck tighten.
'
I was police.
'

'
Yeah, well
…
you all stick together don
'
t you?
'

I stifled a laugh, but I couldn
'
t hold back the sly smile.
'
You
'
re kidding, aren
'
t you? They kicked me out.
'

'
And why was that?
'

My eyes lolled in the back of my head. The reasons for my departure were already droll to me.
'
I guess they didn
'
t like me very much.
'

Rachel sat still, staring into my soul for a few seconds. Something was going on with her, not thinking exactly, or even allowing thoughts to form; she seemed to be intuiting. In an instant she opened her bag, thrust in her hand, and removed a blue folder. She held it in the air for a moment, her gaze fixed on mine.
'
This isn
'
t anything you couldn
'
t find in the public domain — by spending a day Googling or getting inky fingers in the library. But that
'
s not to say I don
'
t think it
'
s valuable.
'

I stared at the file.
'
What is it?
'

She rose, slapped the file on the table as she turned for the door.
'
It
'
s interesting reading, that
'
s what it is.
'

I reached a hand out for the file.
'
Hang on, I might have some questions.
'

She put her hood up.
'
I
'
m quite sure you will, Doug.
'

I didn
'
t know why, but it seemed like the time for Tom Waites
'
Rain Dogs
. I played the surreal
Cemetery Polka
as I pulled into my mother
'
s driveway on the edge of Alloway. The sensory battering of recent days had started to take its toll. There was plenty I needed to process, think about, but somehow my priorities seemed to be drifting elsewhere. I removed my mobile phone from my pocket as the car
'
s engine stilled. I wanted to check with my sister after my earlier call.

Ringing.

'C'mon, Claire … pick up.'

More ringing.

Then the answer phone picked up my call.

'Hello, Claire … it's Doug again, just checking you got my last message. I really think we need to have a chat about the old girl.' I toyed with the idea of hanging up, the moment passed. 'So, look, give me a call when you have a chance, eh?'