Bad Samaritan (18 page)

33

Helen stares at me. Her face pales and her neck sparks with deep, pink Rorschach blots. I wonder if she could read them what she might see.

She stands with one hand reaching for the door handle. The other strays to the heat on her neck, and her thumb rubs there as if trying to erase them. The mouth might obey our brain, but the body often betrays.

‘I'm not a bad person,' she says. ‘And Kevin would be an easy man to fall in love with.' Tears brighten the dull ache of regret in her eyes.

Would be
. She's not quite there yet then.

‘We're not here to judge you, Helen,' I say. ‘We want to find out as much as we can about the night Aileen died.' I think about her situation. Devotes her life to her two boys after her husband dies in service overseas. Can't have been easy.

‘How long have you been having an affair with him?'

‘We didn't start until Aileen and Simon fell out,' she asserts, as if in her mind this mitigates having an affair with a married man.

‘As DI McBain says, we're not here to judge you,' Ale says. ‘The why and how don't matter. We just want the facts.'

‘We met in a supermarket would you believe…' Helen carries on speaking as if keen to unburden her conscience. ‘The one that Aileen works … worked in. Hadn't seen him for ages. I
'd
forgotten what a charming man he was. Always made me smile. Made me feel better about myself, you know? And I always wondered what he saw in that stuffy cow.' She looks down at the carpet. ‘God. Poor woman. What must she be going through…'

I see again the images from the CCTV feed. The way he held out his hand. The way she accepted. A small skip in her step while she reached up with her other hand to fix her hair. There was a freshness about their body language. Initial attraction evolving towards something deeper.

‘I've been thinking about him running in front of that bus. Must be guilt. Can't deal with the fact that while his daughter was dying, he was out with me.' She bites the inside of her cheek. ‘The good ones are all taken, eh?' It's like she's finally accepted that whatever she had with Kevin Banks, it can never survive this. She lifts up her chin, crosses her arms.

‘Yes, we were having an affair. Yes, we were out that night. Anything else?'

With these words I get a glimpse of something else. A hardness. A shell she has grown to protect herself. To hide herself.

‘The CCTV camera we saw you from was sited just round the corner from where Aileen's body was found. Did you see her at all that night?'

‘No.'

‘One thing I've learned in this job is that there's no such thing as coincidence. Especially when it comes to murder. I'll ask you again, did either of you see Aileen Banks that night.'

‘No.'

‘What kind of relationship did you have with Aileen?' asks Ale.

‘She was my son's girlfriend. What kind of relationship do you think we had? She was in and out of my house. She made my son happy. That was enough for me.'

‘Until she didn't make your son happy any longer…'

‘Don't want to speak ill of the dead and all that, but she had the best of her father and the worst of her mother. Charm and humour to spare. Then a complete lack of self-awareness, flighty and spoiled. Used to drive me nuts. But it was up to Simon. He had to deal with it all himself. You learn quickly as a parent that often the opposite of what you advise is what happens. Once they get to a certain age, it's best to keep your opinions to yourself. Especially when it comes to girls.'

‘Did you ever fight with Aileen?' I ask, and as the words fall from my mouth I'm questioning the instinct that has me pose the question. But a flash of memory has her slapping Matt just feet from where we are standing. Is she only that quick to strike with her sons?

There's something more at play here.

‘What kind of…' Helen looks from me to Ale. ‘You don't think I've got something to do with her death.' As she speaks she places a hand over her heart. I look up from there to her neck and can see that the blotches are back.

Ale fires me a look as if I've just taken a dump on the carpet.

‘I've never heard anything so ridiculous,' she replies, all but spitting at me. ‘Time you were leaving.'

Ale reaches for the door and pulls it open.

* * *

In the car she gives me that same look.

‘Really, Ray?'

‘What? Cos she's a woman she's not going to be violent?'

‘You know that's not what I mean. Do you really think she's a suspect?'

‘Stranger things have happened. CCTV puts her in the vicinity. She's known to the deceased. She's fiercely protective of her boys. Motive and opportunity, Ale.'

‘What about the semen on the girl's top?'

‘That was Bill Clinton.'

‘Piss off,' she laughs.

‘She goes outside with some poor sap. My money's on Simon. Gives him a knee-trembler. Meets Mommie Dearest on the way back into the pub, arm in arm with her old man. They have a fight. Bang.'

Ale looks out of the window, back at the house. Chases my theory through her mind. ‘Nah. Not buying it. Kevin Banks isn't going to stand by and let her hurt his daughter. And Simon's denying he was there.'

She fires up the engine and drives off. A few minutes of silence as we each ruminate. Two families. Two mothers. One father. Two brothers. One friend.

One dead girl.

I'm certain that someone among her living connections knows the truth.

Without warning, I feel my breath shorten and my chest grow tight. I wipe my palms dry with a slow movement up and down my trouser leg, hoping that Ale doesn't notice. I lick my lips, the moisture welcome, and looking out of the car window at my side, I study a building in the distance. Realise it's the water tower at Cranhill and focus on it like a seasick traveller might hang on the thought of reaching dry land.

I silently send a prayer to the god of panic attacks. Not now, you bastard. Not while I'm at work. To distract myself I ask Ale a question.

‘What about your story about your ex-boyfriend's parents going on holiday with your mum and dad?' I ask.

She shoots me a grin. ‘Complete and utter pish.'

We both laugh, and for a few moments at least, the sound of it chases away the rising breath of the black dog.

34

Back at the office, and Ale and I are walking along the corridor on our way to DI Peters' office in order to update him on our activities.

‘Do we have to?' I ask.

‘Get over yourself, McBain,' answers Ale. ‘He's the chief investigating officer now. Deal with it.' She softens her comment with a smile and a weak punch to my shoulder.

‘Is that your version of tough love?'

‘Aye.'

‘If he wasn't such a prick.'

‘Ray…'

‘Or a dick…'

‘Ray…'

‘I mean, his version of living dangerously is going in to Tesco with a Sainsbury-branded plastic bag, for fuck's sake.'

‘True. But is any part of that you learning to deal with it?'

We're walking along the corridor towards the office. A door opens. Peters walks out of it and almost collides with us.

‘Talk of the devil,' I say. ‘We're just coming to report in.'
And it's costing me about ten years of my life
, I want to say.

‘Right,' he says and looks from me to Ale.

Ale fills him in, and he stands there with his arms crossed as if trying to look more imposing. Might work too if his arms weren't as thin as the flex feeding a laptop.

‘Right. Right,' he says. ‘Any word back from the hospital yet?'

‘Far as we're aware, Banks is still in a coma.'

‘And the DNA sample?'

‘Still waiting,' Ale answers.

‘Bloody hell. How long does it take these people?

‘That'll be the cutbacks,' I say.

‘Convenient excuse,' he answers. ‘Chase them up, Ale.' He looks at me. His eyes meeting mine for little more than a second. ‘Ray,' he says by way of acknowledgement. Then his eyes stray down my neck and chest. ‘Have you got a nicer tie than that?'

‘Whit?'

‘Press briefing in twenty minutes. The boss wants you to front it.'

‘I hate doing those fucking things.'

‘We've all got our cross to bear, Ray,' he says, his eyes saying that I am his. Without another word he turns and walks away.

‘Missing you already,' I say.

‘Ray,' Ale scolds while choking on a laugh.

‘What a fud.'

‘Love that word,' says Ale.

‘It's not on the same word embargo as…'

‘Nope. Brings up warm memories of wet Saturday mornings and Bugs Bunny cartoons.'

‘Some consistency would be nice, DC Rossi.'

‘Where's the fun in that? Got to keep you old men on your toes.'

‘I'll “old man” you.'

Ale picks her phone out of her pocket. Checks the time.

‘Didn't realise it was that late.'

‘Jeez, do you young people not use watches anymore? And what's for dinner tonight? Pot noodle and EastEnders?'

‘Something like that,' she smiles. ‘Care to join me?' And I read a note of loneliness. But I decline. I'm not even good company for myself these days.

‘Nah. As much as that combination appeals, Maggie will be expecting me.'

‘Oh,' Ale nods. Crosses her arms, leans against the wall. She's expecting a story from me then. ‘Things still going strong then?'

I see the light dance in her eyes and feel a surge of affection. She's happy for me, and I can't remember the last time I observed that reaction in anyone. Want to give her a hug, but that might not be appropriate. I settle for reaching out and touching her arm.

‘Pot noodle,' I say. ‘Yum.'

* * *

After the press briefing, in which I manage to use many words without saying anything of real value, I make my way to my car. My tie is unknotted and in my pocket before I leave the building.

I'll give you “nicer tie”, you prick.

My phone pings. It's Maggie. If I'm coming over, she's asking me to bring some bread, cold ham and salad stuff. Tomatoes and the like. If not, she'll make do.

I drive to hers. Realise when I'm sitting outside her building that not only do I have no recollection of the twenty-minute journey, I haven't stopped at the shop for the food.

Should I go upstairs?

I don't articulate an answer. Instead I reignite the engine. Driving off, I throw a glance over my shoulder. See a pale face at her third floor window and feel a stab of guilt.

* * *

As I reverse park into a space just feet from my front door, I see a man standing there. He's holding a small, white plastic bag.

He holds it up and waves it in my face when I draw near. I smell spices.

‘You'll have had your tea?' he grins.

‘Kenny.' I give him a look, which judging by his answer, he correctly translates as,
what the fuck are you doing here
.

‘Maggie called. Said you
'd
be needing some food. Said you were fading away to a mountain.' He looks at my gut.

‘Fine,' I reply. Don't have the energy to tell him to piss off.

I unlock the door. We walk inside. Kenny makes for the kitchen and starts to plate up. I go to the toilet. Aim a weak string of piss at the bowl. Didn't really need to go. This is more of a delay tactic.

‘Hope you washed your hands,' Kenny says as I accept a heaped plate of food from him when I walk back into the kitchen.

‘Nah,' I say. ‘Didn't even get my fingers wet.'

‘Clatty bastard,' says Kenny. He's the kind of guy who washes his hands before and after he goes for a pee.

‘Couldn't help but notice, Ray…' Kenny speaks with a mouthful of half-chewed chicken, ‘…there's barely any food in your cupboards.'

‘Yeah, cos if I buy it, I eat it.'

‘Is that not the idea?'

‘Yeah, but I buy the bad stuff. The “go straight to my artery and clog it” variety.'

‘So you starve?'

‘Does it look like I'm starving?' I pat my gut.

‘Instead of bad choices at the supermarket, you're then making bad choices at the carry-out place?'

‘There's a kind of logic in there somewhere,' I grin.

He gives me a look, shakes his head and shovels in another mouthful. ‘Fucking eejit.'

We eat in silence. I eat much more than he does, his body being a temple and all that. I use the last piece of naan bread to wipe up the last streak of sauce. Chew until it's gone. Lean back in my seat and belch. One thing about me, doesn't matter what kind of mental state I'm in, hand me a plate of food and I'll hoover up the lot.

Leaning back, I think about Maggie. Her strained face at the window. She knows me better than I know myself. Knows exactly what is going on in my head, but I wonder if knowing makes it easier to accept without being wounded by my actions. It takes a special kind of person to set aside their own needs in that situation.

Maggie is that kind of special. My chest tightens with equal parts love and guilt. I should be better, I know it, but there are times I only have room in my head for the snarl of my own thoughts

‘Maggie sent you?'

‘Not “sent” so much as suggested I pop over.'

‘Right.'

‘You're not going to self-harm are you, Ray?'

‘Fuck off.'

‘Want me to go?' he asks. There's no side to the question, just a request for honesty. If I want him gone, he'll leave. But the evening stretches ahead of me, and it's too quiet, too long, and my heart beats a leaden pulse at the thought.

‘You're here now,' I concede less than graciously.

‘You're welcome for dinner by the way.'

‘And I was all set for a baguette, cheese and ham. With salad.'

‘Ooo, salad. Get you.' His expression shifts. Softens. ‘Maggie phoned an hour ago. Only takes twenty minutes from hers to yours.'

‘She saw me then?'

‘Aye.'

I sighed. ‘I'm not fit company.' And the words
I don't deserve her
sit heavy on my heart.

‘Don't worry about it. Sometimes I think Maggie knows you better than you know yourself.'

‘Wouldn't be difficult. Self-knowledge isn't exactly my strong point.'

He says nothing in response. Sits back in his chair, waiting for me to speak.

‘I went to church last night.'

‘Did you say a prayer for me?'

‘You're beyond redemption, mate. And not everything is about you, by the way.'

‘It's not?' He grins. ‘I'm the centre of my universe. Thought it was the same for everyone else.' He pauses. Adopts his serious face. ‘So, what's eating your gusset?' Typically Kenny. No hanging about.

‘You should go into counselling. Make a fortune.'

‘Nah,' he replies. ‘I find shouting “pull yourself together” at people isn't really that effective.' He leans forward, elbows resting on his thighs. ‘So. The church?'

I look out of the window behind him, at an unfathomable sky clothed in a palette of dark grey. Fatigue pulls at my eyelids. Not sure if it's the feeling of satiety from the food or a feeling of safety from Kenny's reassuring, non-judgemental presence.

‘Not in the mood for talking, Kenny. D'you mind?' I allow my head to fall back onto the cushion and stare at the stipple on the ceiling.

‘Fine by me,' says Kenny. ‘There's only so much of your shite I can stomach anyway.' I hear the smile in his voice and feel myself respond. Want to offer a
fuck you
in response, but I don't have the energy.

* * *

It's dark when I'm woken by a pressing need to go to the toilet. I'm in there for a good five minutes, and when I come out I hear Kenny ask, ‘I take it the loo's a no-go zone for the next hour?'

‘Still here?' I go back to my seat and see from the weak light coming in from the street that he's stretched out on the other sofa. Judging by the touch of light in the sky, it's early morning. About five-ish.

‘It's a mirage,' he says, his voice thick with sleep. ‘The real Kenny is actually spooning into the back of his favourite working girl, hoping she's ready for another session.'

I smile into the gloom of the room. And realise that this has been the longest unbroken sleep I've had for a long time. I want to thank him, but he
'd
only tell me to piss off.

Instead. ‘Coffee?' I ask.

‘Have you got any in those barren cupboards?'

‘There's no calories in coffee, so I trust myself with that.'

‘Milk?'

I snort in reply. ‘If there is any it's bound to be halfway to cheese by now.'

‘Black coffee it is then,' he says.

I go to my bedroom, take off my shirt and suit-trousers and put on a t-shirt and a pair of joggers that are lying at the side of the bed. Then I walk to the kitchen and set us both up with a coffee.

The light has grown by the time I get back into the living room, and there's enough to see that Kenny doesn't even have the decency to look like he's slept on a couch. Looks like he's just come out of make-up at the film studio.

‘Prick,' I say as I offer him the coffee.

‘Wanker,' is his reply.

I sit. We sip.

First light is my favourite time of the day. Dreams fostered by the dark no longer have the power to wound, and the damaged and the deranged are still asleep. The day stretches ahead with a hint of possibility unthreatened by reality.

I put my empty cup on the low glass table in front of me and lean forward, my elbows on my knees. The thumb of my left hand finds the inside of my right wrist and caresses the embossed edge of my scar. My permanent reminder of Leonard's hate for me. I survived while his twin brother didn't, and for that sin he wants to rub me out.

After the attack, I used to wipe at it for hours, as if to erase it, but instead it bled. Now I've learned to control that urge.

I can feel Kenny's eyes on me. My scars.

‘I could've died.'

‘I know,' he replies. ‘I love this time of day,' he says, changing the direction of the conversation. We both know I'm grateful, and Kenny has no need to hear it expressed again. ‘If I had my gear with me I
'd
be off for a run.'

‘If I could be arsed, I
'd
join you.'

‘I'm curious,' Kenny says, his head cocked to the side. ‘You mentioned the church last night. What's that all about?'

‘I know. Not sure I understand it myself. It's like that poem about parents fucking you up. ‘Cept with me, they were aided and abetted by organised religion.' It wouldn't need an expert to draw causal link from my childhood, the Catholic Church and my present issues. And yet, the draw of the familiar, the cool echo of the building and the young priest's eagerness to help overcame all of that.

‘What do you think sparked this latest episode off?' Kenny asks.

‘McCall dying.'

‘Yeah?'

‘It was too easy to go with the official verdict, let him take the blame and allow Leonard to escape.' As I mention his name, that final tableau rears up in my mind. Mother Superior lying at the foot of the altar with her throat cut. I'm fighting to move a muscle, any muscle, not knowing that Leonard has injected me with something. His face entering my vision, all leer and hunger as he draws a knife across my wrists. His plan was to kill the nun, avenge his brother and lay the blame on me. In his narrative, I then cut my own wrists.

All of this was ruined by the timely arrival of Kenny O'Neill. He completely missed Leonard and huckled Joseph McCall to the floor while he waited for the police.

‘Would you recognise Leonard if you saw him?' I ask.

He shakes his head. ‘I saw you in a daze, lying in a pool of your own blood. McCall was the only living, breathing person in that wee chapel. Leonard was long gone.'

I shiver.

‘What are you going to do?' Kenny asks.

‘He's the bogeyman. Can't have that. I've dealt with enough disturbed people to know that they're only scary if you invest them with that quality.'