Beyond the Rage (6 page)

11

It was the next morning and Alexis still hadn’t answered any of his texts. He woke with the light thrusting in under his eyelids and a mouth as dry as a sandpit. He opened his eyes and squinted. It wasn’t like him to leave the curtains open. He had another look at his phone. Still no answer. Then he assessed his physical condition. Apart from the dry mouth, he felt fine. He was fortunate this was as bad as a hangover ever got for him. He threw his mobile on the bed and turned his mind to a different form of drink – coffee.

He stretched and then lifted his feet off the bed and on to the floor. Looking at the foot of the bed, he could see that his clothes were in a pile. Struggling to remember even taking them off and uncaring that people in the tenement flat opposite might be able to see him, he walked naked into his kitchen.

‘Aww, bless.’ Ray was standing with his back to the window with a glass of water in his hand and looking at Kenny’s morning semi-erection as if it was the saddest thing he
’d
ever seen. ‘I didn’t know you cared.’

Kenny sat on a breakfast stool. ‘It’s big enough for me.’ He flipped Ray the finger. ‘You... you stayed over?’ He looked around himself. ‘Yes, I’m home. This is my place. What time is it?’

‘You’re not much of a boozer, Kenny. You were snoring in the taxi. I almost had to carry you up the stairs. I threw you on your bed and left you to it. To my everlasting regret,’ – he made a face – ‘you managed to take your own clothes off.’ He took a long, slow drink from his glass. ‘I slept in your spare room. And it’s now...’ – he looked at his wristwatch – ‘...eight-fifteen.’

‘Coffee?’

‘Aye.’

‘What does the day hold for Mr Detective Extraordinaire?’

‘Kenny, I can’t hold a conversation with a naked man. Go put something on for fuck’s sake and I’ll make us some breakfast.’

‘Coffee,’ said Kenny. ‘Only want coffee.’ He stood up and walked out of the room, scratching his arse. He returned moments later wearing jogging pants and a T-shirt and holding his phone.

Ray was pouring milk into a couple of steaming mugs. He looked over his shoulder when he heard Kenny walk back in. He shuddered. ‘Burned into my memory, mate.’

‘That’s handy. You can wank off to it every morning.’

‘Tell me why I’m not locking you up right now?

‘You want to see just how low you can go?’

Ray opened a drawer, picked out a spoon and stirred the coffee. ‘What do you take in yours again? Ricin?’

Kenny reached past him and picked up a mug. He took a sip and groaned with pleasure. Then he studied his phone.

‘I should just text her again,’ he said to himself. Then to McBain: ‘How come you don’t have a hangover? And talking about locking people up, do you not have work to go to today?’

Ray nodded. ‘I don’t have a hangover because I didn’t drink that much. You had a good start on me if I remember correctly. And before I go I wanted to talk to you.’

Kenny was back on the stool, slumped over the breakfast bar. He took another sip, swallowed and nodded once. ‘Right.’

‘Your dad’s name was Peter, right?’

‘Right,’ Kenny said, sitting up.

‘While you were’ – Ray waved a hand in the direction of the bedroom – ‘working on your morning stiffy, I was making a few phone calls.’

‘You were? Why?’ Kenny’s face was expressionless.

‘I am a detective, Kenny, it’s what I do.’

‘In this instance, why?’ Kenny asked. He could hear the anger in his voice and it surprised him. He felt the air between them shift and the energy shrink. He didn’t want Ray to know anything about his father. Didn’t want him to know too much about his family for that matter and this realisation shocked him. What was it, shame? He was what he was. Why was it suddenly an issue? Why couldn’t he care less what his friend thought about him and then worry about the impression knowledge of his family might make?

‘Fine.’ Ray gave a shrug that would be the envy of any car salesman in Paris. ‘Just trying to help.’ He drained what was left of his cup and picked his own phone from a pocket. He was fond of telling anyone who would listen that this was a proper phone. All it did was make calls. He managed texts at a push. He scrolled down a few numbers on his contacts.

‘I’ll just get a taxi...’

‘Okay,’ said Kenny, giving himself a shake. ‘Sorry. What do you know?’

‘Kenny, this is obviously new and very raw. You need time to make your own enquiries...’

‘Oh for fuck’s sake, McBain, can it. If you’ve got something to tell me, tell me.’

‘Seeing you asked so nicely…’ Ray moved to the other seat at the breakfast bar and leaned against it. ‘Your dad disappeared in the early-Nineties, right?’

Kenny nodded.

‘Glasgow might be a big place, Kenny, but it’s a small city. The cops know most of the bad guys. So I called a couple of colleagues to see who might remember a case where a woman committed suicide and the husband disappeared.’

Again Kenny nodded. He
’d
always wondered about that. The police would have been suspicious about his father. A woman dies, seemingly by her own hand, and her husband vanishes shortly after. There must have been some sort of investigation. ‘And...?’

‘I’ve been given the name of a retired cop, lives out in Shawlands. Name of Harry Fyfe. Seems he was heavily involved in organised crime in those days. And if anyone heard any rumours of what might have happened it would be him. A bottle of Glenlivet is all that’s required to dislodge a few memories apparently.’

‘So we’re going to see him right now?’ Kenny stood up.

Ray pushed him back down. ‘You’re going nowhere, pal.’ His eyebrows were close to his hairline. ‘You any idea what damage you could cause me if you went there?’

They had an agreement that their professional lives would never cross. This had never been articulated, but understood from the start. Suddenly, Kenny didn’t care.

‘I need to speak to the guy, McBain. I need to...’

‘You need to take a breath and think about this.’ Ray took a breath himself as if struggling to contain his irritation. ‘Cops are gossips, Kenny. None more so than retired cops. He’ll be on the phone two minutes after we’re out that door. When he finds out that no one knows who the fuck you are...’

‘On this occasion, I have to...’

‘Kenny, you need to think about this. He’ll know as soon as you walk in that door that you are not a policeman.’

‘That’s shite. A cheap brown suit, a blue tie and...’

‘Let me put this another way. You’re not fucking going. You want the information; you have to trust me to get it for you.’ Ray was loud, on his feet and thrusting his index finger in Kenny’s face.

12

The house number was 32 and advertised by the burnished brass numbers on the door. The porch provided welcome shelter from the rain as he waited to be welcomed in to the house. He shook the raindrops from his umbrella; each drop formed like its own perfect universe on the waterproof surface before being thrust back into the air.

The door opened and a middle-aged man stood before him. He was tall, with a bristle of thick white hair that was sticking out as if he had a Van de Graaff generator in his pocket. He was wearing a pair of brown trousers and Kenny could see his legs were so thin they could have doubled as pipe-cleaners. As a contrast to the width of his legs, he looked like he was hiding a medicine ball under the front of his cardigan.

The man’s eyes were bright with curiosity and the skin of his face was tight over his bones as if it had been shrink-wrapped. He was clean-shaven and pock-marked.

‘You’ll be Ray McBain?’

‘You’ll be Harry Fyfe,’ Kenny said and held up the bottle of whisky by the neck.

‘Ach, you didn’t need to,’ Harry said, his face a tragic comedy of thirst and denial. ‘But it would be rude not to.’ His face broke into a grin. ‘Come in, son, come in.’

Harry guided him in to the front room, pointed him in the direction of a seat and said he
’d
be back in a minute.

While the older man was out of the room, Kenny had a good look around. Every surface was so shiny he felt he could eat off it. The thick pile of the carpet had track marks from the hoover. There was one photograph on the mantelpiece. It was in a glass frame and showed a smiling couple on holiday. The man was a slightly younger Harry and Kenny guessed this was his wife.

‘Right.’ Harry walked back in with a pair of crystal whisky glasses and the now open bottle. ‘Somewhere in the world it’s 7pm.’ He poured, his eyes gleaming to the promise of the liquid falling into the glass.

He handed Kenny a glass and sat down. ‘How long have you been in the polis?’

‘Oh, about...’ – Kenny recalled what he knew about Ray’s career – ‘...twelve years.’ He took a sip and hoped this was the right answer.

‘What division you in?’

‘Serious crime unit...’

‘Do you know Gavin Wilson? He was a rookie when I retired. Seems he’s headed for big things.’

Kenny nodded and hmm
’d
and oh
’d
for a few minutes more as Harry talked about people he knew who were still in the force. Kenny tried to be as non-committal as he could. He didn’t want to be caught up in a conversation about who knew who or who worked where, and the more Harry talked the more he was convinced he was going to trip himself up. He loosened his collar. He was beginning to regret his impulse about ignoring Ray’s demand that he leave this interview to him.

The name and the fact that Harry lived in Shawlands had been enough information for Kenny to track him down. Kenny O’Neill knew people with a wide set of skills. Once the address was found and a number obtained, a phone call to Harry and an over-the-phone introduction was enough to be given the green light to come knocking.

‘Listen, Harry, I’m sorry to be rude but can I ask you–’

‘You in a hurry, son?’ Harry asked.

‘No it’s just...’ Kenny sighed. He
’d
miscalculated. The old fella was going to realise he was not who he said he was. ‘I have an attachment to this case.’ In Kenny’s experience the best lies were the ones that stuck more closely to the truth so he took a small gamble. ‘This is a kind of favour I’m doing for my best mate. His mum and dad are both dead...’

‘No need to explain yourself, son,’ said Harry. ‘I understand.’ He smiled and his eyes shone a whisky glow. He toasted Kenny. ‘You’re only an alcoholic when you want to stop and realise you can’t.’ He made a face of certainty. A challenge to Kenny to refute him. ‘I could stop tomorrow. If I wanted.’

Kenny looked over at the photograph. As soon as the words were out of his mouth he regretted them. ‘That your wife?’

Harry nodded. He stretched his mouth into the slip of a smile. He could only hold it for a moment. His eyes filled. ‘She hated my job. The long hours. How obsessed I became. She made endless plans about how we would fill our time when I retired. She even went to computer classes so she could get a computer and research holiday hotspots.’ He coughed, swallowed, but despite his best efforts to choke back his emotions a tear strayed and slid down his face. ‘She called it the interweb.’ His laugh was a short, sharp bark, like a warning of barely suppressed pain. ‘All those years together and me moaning about queues at the airport.’ With long fingers he twisted his wedding ring round and round. ‘Stupid bastard. Why didn’t I go on just one of those fucking planes?’

He sobbed and leaning forward, hid his face in his hands.

Kenny didn’t know what to do. He shifted forwards in his seat as if to offer comfort. He wondered about offering the man a glass of water. He settled for doing nothing.

‘Sorry,’ Harry whispered. ‘It’s not that long since.’

‘What happened?’ asked Kenny after he swallowed back his own reaction. He was wishing he was anywhere but in that chair and surprised by how moved he was by the older man’s grief.

‘Heart attack.’ He wiped at his cheek with the back of his hand. ‘I thought that was just a man’s disease. What do I know?’

Feeling awkward and ill-equipped to deal with this situation and regretting his impulse to visit, Kenny stood up. ‘I really should...’

‘Nonsense, son.’ Harry drained his glass before continuing. ‘She’s been in her grave for ten months. Most of the time I’m fine and then...’ – a smile – ‘...it all comes back. You were just the poor sap who happened to be here.’ He laughed and this time his laugh had real humour in it and Kenny caught a glimpse of the cop. The man who dealt with all kinds of people and all kinds of events; wielding his humour like it was a baton against the dark thoughts that visit in the chill of a weak morning.

‘Do you remember the case I was asking about on the phone?’ Kenny dived in.

‘Like it was yesterday, son,’ Harry answered and stared out of the window and down through the years. ‘The woman died from an overdose. Can’t remember the pills but they were washed down with booze. This is Glasgow, after all.’ Harry’s voice strengthened. He was on safer, more familiar ground here.

‘I remember thinking there was something funny about it all.’

‘You do? How?’ Kenny’s stomach churned.

‘You get a feel for people, you know?’

Kenny nodded.

‘Her sister pestered us with phone calls and letters. She refused to believe her wee sister had topped herself. A nice house, a man that loved her and a beautiful wee boy. That’s what she kept saying. Her sister had everything to live for so why kill herself?’ Harry shrugged as if sloughing off the worst the world could offer, knowing that his respite was only temporary. ‘The Fiscal ruled that it was suicide. What could you say to that?’ Harry leaned back in his chair. ‘But then the husband vanished... and the rumours started.’

‘Rumours?’ Kenny’s heart surged at his ribs.

‘Aye. The allegations were that the father was abusing the boy... the mother found out and unable to deal with it, swallowed–’

‘No fucking way.’ Kenny jumped to his feet. ‘No way Peter O’Neill was abusing his boy.’

Harry stood up and took a step nearer Kenny. His eyebrows were raised. His eyes focused, sharp and peering into his.

‘You’re a wee bit too emotionally involved in this story, son. Exactly who was Peter O’Neill to you?’

‘Who started these allegations? Who made up horrible fucking lies like that?’ Kenny sprayed saliva with the words, such was his anger.

‘Again, son. Who exactly was Peter O’Neill to you?’ Harry narrowed his eyes.

Kenny turned away from him and forced calm into his centre. He sought the same place his mind went when he was in danger, when he knew he had to be at his best. This man might be a drunk, he might be retired and suffering from the passing of his wife, but he was still a cop. And his eyes were boring into him, demanding his story.

Without knowing what was going to leave his mouth Kenny began to speak, trusting that his brain would find an answer to appease Harry Fyfe.

‘Sorry.’ He turned back to face him. To distract the older man from his reaction he needed to come up with something good. ‘I know Peter’s son. Very well.’ His expression was an apology while his mind searched for a plausible excuse.

‘Oh,’ said Harry and offered a smile of understanding. ‘You see so much in my job you realise it doesn’t matter if someone’s light in their loafers. Live and let live, that’s what I say.’

Fuck, thought Kenny. The eejit still talks like he’s in the job and he thinks he’s telling him that they, he and McBain, were a gay couple.

‘Don’t worry.’ Harry patted him on the shoulder. ‘Cops are the worst gossips imaginable, but you’re secret’s safe with me.’ He paused. ‘Unless of course you are out and proud?’

Kenny forced a grin thinking, what the fuck do you say? McBain was going to kill him. Then the funnier side of the situation bubbled up into laughter. Just how far could he take this?

Sanity won over and he said, ‘You’re the only person who knows, Harry. I’ll trust your judgement on this.’ He sat back down again. Harry took the opportunity while he was on his feet to top up his glass. He sipped and, bending his knees with effort, he also sat down.

‘I often wondered about Peter O’Neill’s son over the years. Kids are the innocent victims in the crap that adults throw into the world.’ He paused and peered into Kenny’s face. ‘How’s he keeping?’

‘He’s good.’ Kenny felt odd talking about himself in the third person.

‘Boys need their dad.’ Harry sipped and stared out of the window. ‘Sometimes they build their father into some kind of hero when he’s not there to add a dose of reality. I’ve heard rumours over the years.’ His face assumed a doleful expression. ‘From what I hear, you are on the straight and narrow. You’ve a good reputation, Ray, why are you...? Must make things awkward for you being a cop?’

Oh my God, thought Kenny. This is going from bad to worse. Harry was making some dangerous connections. Answer a question with a question.

‘I don’t know too much about Peter,’ said Kenny. ‘His son doesn’t say too much about his father. What can you tell me about him?’

Harry made a small face of surprise. ‘Peter was, I guess you could call it, an “enforcer”. He worked with one of the Glasgow crimelords. Met him a few times. A personable guy. Popular with the ladies.’ He looked at Kenny, who began to feel very warm. Harry had clearly lost none of the skills that made him a good cop. His gaze penetrated. ‘Same build as you. Shorter. Different colouring. But that was the thing with some of these bad guys... as you know... they might work on the different side of the law but some of them could be good company over a pint. Not that you
’d
like to bump into Peter O’Neill in a dark alley.

‘Anyway,’ he sighed, ‘Peter disappeared and the rumours started.’ He made a face of apology. ‘Someone kills themselves and people search for a reason. And the reason has to be almost as bad as the suicide, doesn’t it?’

‘Did you ever get to the source of the rumours?’

‘Nah. Although I remember the sister’s husband was a bit vocal.’

‘Colin?’ asked Kenny.

‘Was that his name? I remember him vaguely. He was an accountant. A proper accountant. There were suspicions about his connections with the crime factions in the city but nothing was ever uncovered. In the end we discounted him. We put any suspicions down to the fact Peter was his brother-in-law, kept an eye on him from time to time and let it go at that.’

Kenny’s phone buzzed as a message came through. He ignored it.

‘Ach, it’s good to talk about the old times. Sometimes I think it’s all I’ve got.’ He looked in the direction of Kenny’s pocket. ‘You want to get that?’

‘Nah,’ said Kenny, feeling his heart charge at the thought it might be Alexis. ‘But I do have to move on.’ He got to his feet and Harry walked with him to the door. As they shook hands Harry said, ‘Next time you need to share a wee bottle of whisky, feel free to stop by.’

‘I will, Harry, I will.’ To his surprise, Kenny felt that he meant it. He
’d
enjoyed the man’s company. ‘Oh, before I go...’ It had suddenly occurred to him that McBain might visit the man at the end of his shift. And then he
’d
be in the shit. ‘...Kenny O’Neill is an impatient guy. He might turn up here pretending to be me before the end of the day. If you could just humour him?’

Harry’s eyebrows dipped. ‘Impersonating a policeman is a serious offence.’ Then he grinned and winked. ‘But in this instance, Kenny, I’ll let it pass.’

Kenny turned and took a couple of steps up the path. He stopped. Harry just called him Kenny. He turned to see Harry still standing at the door.

‘You knew all along?’

Harry was so pleased with himself he was rocking on his heels. He nodded.

‘How?’

‘I haven’t lost it after all these years, eh?’

‘What gave me away?’

‘I knew. Just let’s leave it at that, son.’

‘And when Ray McBain comes visiting?’

‘You were never here.’

‘And the gay couple thing?’

Harry laughed and rocked back on his heels. ‘You should have seen your face. I was just yanking your chain, son.’

Kenny shrugged it off with a smile. He
’d
earned it. ‘What about the rest of your story?’

‘Don’t worry, Kenny. You don’t joke about with stuff like that.’