In Place of Death (28 page)

They pushed open the scruffy door to Number 2 and walked inside, finding the air thick with the smell of neglect and the stairs as steep as the climb out of poverty. The landing outside 2f was
different though. It was swept clean and a neat little green mat sat outside a door that, unlike the others, had been painted while the present Queen was on the throne.

Narey knocked and they waited. Finally, a shadow appeared and they watched a head duck to the spy hole. The person on the other side of the door must have been wondering whether they liked what
they saw as the door catch still didn't budge. Finally, the door swung open about six inches.

‘Can I help you?'

The man was probably in his mid-sixties but his skin was about ten years older, with the dull mustard glow of a lifelong smoker's. His brown eyes were bright but tired and his hair curled
back grey on his forehead. He was looking at them as if he feared they were there bearing bad tidings by the stretcherload. This was a man used to hearing bad news.

‘Mr Feeks?'

He huffed and the door moved an inch or two nearer to them and the lock. ‘I said I wasn't going to talk to you people any more. I told them you'd be wasting your time coming to
my door.'

Narey held up her warrant card. ‘I don't think it was our people that you talked to, Mr Feeks. Police. I'm Detective Inspector Narey and this is DC Toshney. May we come
in?'

His face turned to confusion and then the habitual worry turned even deeper. The door edged back towards him. ‘What's wrong? Is it Remy? Has something happened?'

Well, that answered one question: they'd come to the right place.

‘It would be easier if we could speak inside, Mr Feeks.'

That didn't do much for his optimism but it did get them in. The man pulled the door back and grimly waved them inside. Once he'd shut the door behind them, he led them to a busy but
well-ordered sitting room where he turned off the television and showed them both into a chair.

‘So
has
something happened?'

‘Not as far as we know, Mr Feeks. I take it Remy is your son? We'd like to speak to him. Do you know where he is?'

‘Is he in some kind of trouble? Sorry, but I think there's been a mistake. Remy's never been in trouble in his puff. What's this all about?'

‘We just need to speak to him, Mr Feeks. There's nothing to worry about but we think there's something he may be able to help us with. Do you know where he is?'

The man leaned forward, eyes narrowed. ‘He doesn't live here.
Something he may be able to help you with?
What does that mean exactly? If that's like helping the police
with their inquiries then I don't much like the sound of it. I'm sorry but I'm not saying anything until I know what's going on.'

Feeks was getting louder as he got more worried by the situation and he finished his statement by exploding into a coughing fit that didn't sound like it was being fuelled by much in the
way of breath. He was reaching deep into his lungs and only producing a rasp.

‘Are you okay, Mr Feeks? Can I get you some thing?'

The man shook his head and barely managed to say, ‘What's this about?'

‘We think Remy might be a witness, Mr Feeks. That's all it is. He isn't in any trouble but we'd like to speak to him. He isn't in the phone book or on the electoral
register. You are so that's why we came to you.'

The man started to speak but she could see he hadn't the strength for it. ‘I think Remy might be worried about talking to us. He doesn't have to be. It might help if you can
tell him that. I'll leave you my number but I'd like his address too if that's okay. Has Remy been okay recently? Maybe worried or acting differently?'

He shook his head, the cough continuing.

‘I'm also interested in what Remy does at night.' She saw the man's eyes widen in surprise. ‘Do you know if he has hobbies that take him out late?' She could
hear how bizarre it sounded but she couldn't take it back. ‘Mr Feeks, do you know if Remy ever goes exploring?'

‘Exploring?
He barely squeezed the word out. ‘Who the fuck do you think he is? David Livingstone? Remy works in a supermarket, for God's sake.
Exploring?

‘Calm down, Mr Feeks. Please. There's nothing to get upset about.'

‘What are you talking about, hen?'

‘We think Remy may have seen something and might be able to help us. He's not involved. And if he's interested in visiting old buildings, that would fit with what we're
looking for.'

Feeks looked old and confused. ‘He's into history. Of old Glasgow and stuff like that. The boy's proud of his heritage but I don't understand what else you're
talking about. You'll need to speak to him. He's got his own place. 619 London Road. He doesn't have a phone. Not a proper one anyway. He just uses his mobile. Listen, I
don't know what he does at night but I know it won't be anything crooked or anything weird. He's not like that.'

Narey nodded at Toshney, their cue to leave. Both stood and Feeks also got to his feet.

‘That's it? You scare me half to death and now you're going?'

‘I'm sorry, Mr Feeks, but that's all I can tell you for now. As you say, I'll need to speak to your son. But you don't have to worry.'

He stood frowning but finally gave in with a shrug. ‘Okay, but whatever it is, go easy on the boy, will you? He's a good lad.'

‘We'll take it very easy. Mr Feeks, when we arrived, you said you'd told our people we'd be wasting our time coming to your door. Who did you think we were? Are you
getting hassled?'

‘Ach. It's nothing. Nothing I can't handle anyway.'

Narey heard more behind the dismissive words. ‘It doesn't quite sound like nothing. You looked worried when you saw us. Who did you think we were?'

‘Och it's just some crowd who want to move me out. But I'm going nowhere and I've told them that. Told them there was no point coming round trying to change my mind.
I'm a stubborn old sod.'

‘Who are they?'

‘Developers, I suppose you'd call them. Got all these big plans. Going to make the East End the new West End or some bollocks like that. It's a lot of nonsense.'

Narey asked the question just in case. ‘They're not called Saturn Property, are they?'

‘Eh? No. Never heard of them. This lot are called Orient Development. Bunch of chancers, if you ask me.'

‘How many of you are left here, Mr Feeks?'

‘Two houses. The McCanns left last week so that leaves the Meiklejohns at 4c and me. Tam Meiklejohn says he's chucking it and taking the family away. So it will just be
me.'

‘It's not going to be much fun for you if that happens.'

‘I'll not be the first. A pal of mine knew a guy called Jamal. He was the last resident of the Red Road flats. He was an asylum seeker, poor bugger. They were knocking the flats down
but he was going to get deported if he left his house so he refused to go. For four months. He was the only person in his entire block and they were demolishing the other towers round about him.
The guy was terrified. Living alone on the fourteenth floor all that time. Well if he could do it then so can I. I'm only on the second floor. Should be a doddle.'

‘But they knocked the Red Road flats down.'

‘Eventually. I'm going nowhere though. This was the first house my wife and I had together, bless her soul. My laddie was brought up here. I still think it's his home even if
he doesn't. There's too many memories for me to leave it. I'm staying.'

‘Stick to your guns, Mr Feeks. But watch yourself, okay? And if the hassling goes over the top then you call us.'

He gave a throaty laugh. ‘Hen, I used to be a welder. Made cups of tea with a blowtorch and worked with guys who knocked rivets in with their foreheads. I'm not going to get bothered
by some guys in pinstripe suits. You just do me a favour and look after that boy of mine. Okay?'

‘I will, Mr Feeks. Promise.'

Giannandrea answered immediately.

‘Rico, I've got something I want you to look into. A company called Orient Development. They're working on a project in the East End around Adelaide Street. Jacko might know
about them.' ‘Sure. What am I looking for?' ‘Find out if they're full of Eastern promise.'

Her phone rang when she and Toshney were driving back to the station. It was Winter.

‘Hi. Listen, I know you're busy but could you find some time this afternoon?'

She glanced at Toshney but he had his eyes dutifully glued to the road. He'd been warned more than once for listening to her conversations and maybe he'd finally learned a
lesson.

‘Busy's an understatement. Some time for what?'

‘Well not the same thing as last night, if that's what you were thinking. Although if you can find time for that too then I'm more than willing.'

She kept her voice level and didn't indulge in the flirting by her tone. ‘Well that would be good and we should schedule that as soon as possible but it won't be this
afternoon. What was it you wanted time for though?'

‘Your dad. Could you get over to the care home for about three o'clock?'

‘
My dad?
' She forgot Toshney instantly. ‘What's wrong?'

‘Nothing. Sorry, didn't mean to alarm you. Nothing's wrong, honestly, but it's still important. Can you make it?'

‘Why can't you tell me what it is? I'm not in the mood for guessing.'

‘I'm not asking you to guess. There's nothing wrong and I think you'll want to see this. Please.'

‘Okay, okay. I'll be there.'

When she pulled into the car park of the nursing home, having deposited Toshney at the station, she saw that Winter's car was already there. She looked to the front door
and instead of the usual depressing sight of it staring back at her, he was standing there waving and with a smile on his face.

She had no idea what was going on and that wasn't the way she liked it. Surprises didn't impress her as a rule and even less so when it involved her dad. She preferred to know what
was coming despite or perhaps because of his condition meaning that wasn't often possible.

‘Right, what's going on? You know what I'm in the middle of. This better be good.'

He slid an arm round her waist, kissed her and pulled her close.

‘I think it will be. Just come and see. But be quiet, okay? It will be better if your dad doesn't know you're here just yet.'

They walked down the corridor together, his arm round her and easing some of her misgivings. As they neared the door to her dad's room, he slowed and made her do the same. The door was
open and she could hear voices coming from inside, one of them unmistakably her dad's.

Winter put a finger to his lips and an arm round her shoulder to guide her into the open doorway. Her eyes widened to see her dad sitting upright in the chair by his bed, quite animated and deep
in conversation with a man in his sixties she didn't recognize. Behind the stranger sat Tony's uncle Danny.

‘I was
there
,' her dad was saying as if proving a point. ‘Me and my brother and our pal Bill. You scored and you would have had another couple but that big goalkeeper of
theirs made some cracking saves. Big baldy fella.'

‘Gordy Gillespie. He was a good goalie. Nice bloke as well. We played together at Morton for a season.'

‘Did you? I don't remember that.'

The stranger laughed. ‘Typical supporter. You only remember us when we played for your team.'

‘Aye, right enough,' her dad laughed. ‘I always had those blue-tinted glasses on. Always the Rangers for me.'

‘Who
is
that?' Narey whispered to Winter. She had a smile spread across her face though. ‘What's going on?'

He nudged her back from the doorway and whispered a reply. ‘The guy is Bobby McDonald. He used to play centre-forward for Rangers and your dad and your uncle Brian used to watch him from
the terraces at Ibrox. He was your dad's favourite player.'

‘Right . . . So what the hell is he . . . what is he
doing
here?'

Winter grinned. ‘He's been to see your dad a couple of times now. There's a scheme called Football Memories run by Alzheimer's Scotland. The idea is to stimulate memories
by talking about football. I read about it online and thought it might work for your dad. I didn't want to say anything and get your hopes up but it seems to be helping.'

‘He's like a different person. But how did you get the player to come in? Wait, don't tell me, Uncle Danny knows him.'

‘Of course. Come on, let's go in.'

They walked into the room and her dad looked up at the sound of their footsteps.

‘Rachel! Come in, come in. I need to introduce you. This . . . is Bobby McDonald. The prince of poachers. He played for the Rangers. Bobby, this is my wee girl Rachel.'

They all sat, Narey with one hand holding her dad's and the other squeezing tight on Winter's, chatting like it was yesterday - which it was.

She leaned in on her dad while he was in full footballing flow and kissed him on the cheek then turned her head to do the same to Winter.

‘This is amazing. Thank you for doing this.'

‘Shush. You don't have to thank me. Seeing that silly smile on your face is thanks enough.'

She kissed him again and turned back to listen to talk of a Cup Final when her dad had managed to get the afternoon off work and got home drunk as a lord. For an hour, it was the late 1970s and
she was a girl and her dad was her hero and all was well. Murders and bogeymen were kept at bay and the real world could wait till tomorrow.

Remy had sat with the laptop in front of him for a full hour without hitting a single key other than to wake the computer when it began to snooze. He'd thought a lot in
that time but hadn't actually done anything. It struck him that the same could be said of his entire life.