Kiss Her Goodbye (17 page)

"There's no evidence to suggest it happened in your flat," Ronald said. "In fact, the police are pretty sure she was murdered elsewhere. That much blood, it would be pretty obvious, no matter how much the killer tried to cover it up."

"Good," Joe said. "I feel better already."

As he was about to go, Ronald leaned across and said, "They searched your stuff while you were inside. They're supposed to make an effort to tidy it up again, but you might find the place a bit of a mess."

Joe nodded, not caring. A shower, a change of clothes, brush his teeth. He'd feel like a new man. "Hang on," he said, opening the back door of the car and retrieving the bag he'd taken to Orkney. It was nice to have it back. It had his toothbrush inside and he never did get to use it.

*

He climbed the stairs slowly. As he passed the Harveys' flat he thought how, in an ideal world, he would stop for a minute to tell the old couple they were right. Yes, it was him they'd heard arguing with Ruth that night. But, honestly, it wasn't him who'd killed her. They had to believe him. He was telling the truth. And they'd look into his eyes and shake his hand and say, yes, they believed him and if he ran out of milk or sugar not to hesitate to pop downstairs and borrow theirs.

Of course, Joe didn't live in an ideal world. In an ideal world his mother would be more than a solitary black and white photograph he kept in a shoebox in the cupboard. Fuck her. She'd pissed off when he was three. Left him to be brought up by his dad. That was hardly a success. Before long Joe was living with his grandmother. Thinking about it, Joe let out an angry yell. The sound echoed in the stairwell. He could spend his life resenting his mother — and his father, come to that — but, the truth was, he was glad his grandmother had brought him up. She encouraged him to read. Took him to the theatre. Dad had done his best. Visited, when he could. Once a fortnight, then once a month, then, after he remarried, only on Joe's birthday and maybe Christmas if his new family let him. Joe only saw his mum once after she left. She took him to Musselburgh for the day and stuffed him with ice cream. When she brought him home, she pecked him on the forehead and told him she'd see him next week. She didn't. He hated her for it for a long time. She'd promised.

Dad told him she'd gone to Canada to live and she'd write soon. She never wrote. He kept asking when the letter would arrive.

Years later, when he was ten, his grandmother told him the truth. His mother had suffered from aplastic anaemia, a rare blood condition. A couple of days after he last saw her, she'd gone into hospital, knowing she wasn't coming back out. She'd made the family promise not to tell Joe the truth.

See, the women in his life started dying a long time ago.

Shame Dad wasn't still alive. Joe could phone him. Tell him Gem had gone to Canada.

As Joe put his key in the lock, the door opened of its own accord and Joe found himself staring at the familiar face of his uninvited guest. "The fuck are you doing in my house?"

Detective Sergeant Monkman of the Orkney CID took a step forward. "Full of the joys of freedom, huh?"

"I asked you a question."

"Enjoy it while you can."

"Well?"

"I was tidying up." Monkman raised his hand, palm towards Joe. "No, no. I don't expect any gratitude."

"Go home."

"I'm going to find something that'll put you away for life. Mark my words."

"Get out of my house."

"I'm going to keep looking. You can't kill somebody without leaving traces. Somewhere along the line, you fucked up. I may not know where or how, but you can bet your baseball bat I'm going to find out."

"Piss off," Joe told him. "Now."

"Think I'll take another quick look round first."

Joe shoved the policeman. He reeled backwards. Joe followed him through the doorway and, without turning, pushed the door shut with the sole of his shoe. He dropped his bag on the floor. "Looking for traces of blood?" he said. "I'm sure I can help you with that." He smacked his knuckles against his palm.

Monkman said, "You wouldn't dare."

"Just you and me."

"I'm a policeman."

"I'm a prime murder suspect," Joe said. "Pleased to meet you. What's the matter? Don't fancy the odds?"

Monkman tried to smile, lips quivering. "You won't get away with it."

"Why not? You did."

Fists balled, Joe rushed forward. Monkman dropped to his knees, arms thrust protectively in front of him. Joe grabbed the policeman's wrists and yanked his arms to the side. "If I wanted to," Joe said, "I could kick your head into touch."

Monkman struggled to free his hands. "Fuck you," he said, shaking his exposed head, eyes darting from side to side through narrowed lids. His mouth twitched in a series of grotesque grins.

"Scared?" Joe asked him. Fear sends massive quantities of adrenalin surging through your body. A primitive biological response to confrontation. To which even Joe wasn't immune. "A big bad cop like you?" Joe felt it now. He felt it every time he visited one of Cooper's clients. The trick was to hide it. As Cooper knew only too well. He'd mastered the art and built his reputation on it. The trick was to know that your body, realizing you only had two choices, was preparing itself. Run, or fight. Come on, it was saying. Choose. Work with me.

Monkman lowered his head. Hunched his shoulders. He started to shake. Joe observed the tiny nods of the policeman's head. Nowhere to run, and he couldn't fight. Joe dug his fingers deeper into the poor sod's trembling wrists.

"Nothing but a coward." Joe released his grip and loomed over Monkman for a moment, before stamping his foot on the floor next to the policeman's fingers. Monkman's hand darted to his side. "Different story when it's a fair fight," Joe said.

Monkman wrapped his arms around himself. "I won't fight you."

Joe laughed. Monkman glared at the floor, still shaking. Joe said, "I asked you nicely. I'll ask you one more time. Will you get out of my house?"

In a small voice, Monkman said, "You'll pay for this, you little wanker." He started to get to his feet. Lunged forward, fist shooting out.

Joe blocked the punch with his left hand. The knuckles of his right slammed into the point of Monkman's chin. The policeman's head snapped back, striking the wall with a crack that sounded like a small bone snapping. Monkman sagged. His head rolled to the side.

What have I done? Joe thought. What have I fucking done? Joe stayed where he was, expecting to see blood trickling out of the back of Monkman's head if he took a closer look. He didn't want to know. Didn't want to see the evidence. What with everything else that had happened, murdering a policeman wasn't going to look too fucking good. He stared at Monkman, willing him to wake up. There. He saw the stupid fucker's chest rise. He was breathing. Or was he? Joe kept looking. Nothing. Maybe he had imagined it. Oh, shit. He cupped his hands over his nose. He wanted to hide his eyes, but he carried on watching, hoping he'd see the bastard breathe. Look at the situation rationally, he told himself. Monkman had taken a blow to the back of the head. Nothing to worry about. Happens to dozens of people every day and they don't die.

That's right. Fine.

But some do, don't they?

If he was dead, what was Joe going to do? Get in touch with Cooper. He'd know what to do. And if he didn't, he'd ask Park. Hitmen knew how to handle corpses. Knew how to dispose of dead bodies.

Images bubbled and burst in Joe's head. Cooper. A baseball bat. Park. A baseball bat. Ruth's face. Tear-streaked. Hair wild. A baseball bat. Cooper standing perfectly still. Cooper slamming the bat into Ruth's face. Park saying, "Won't be long." Politely saying, "If you could try not to struggle it would be easier." Cooper and Park lifting her body into the boot of a car. Joe's car. Cooper's voice, explaining how easy it was to sneak out of his flat without waking anyone up. Especially someone as drunk as Joe. Cooper saying he'd walked right past the snoring cunt.

Joe collapsed on the floor beside Monkman. Fuck. Oh, fuck. Cooper went to Tina's with Park. Why involve Park? That had been bothering Joe since the minute Tina mentioned the hitman's name. Moral support? Hardly. Cooper had sufficient confidence in his own ability. He didn't need to drag a mate along. No, the reason he involved Park was that Park was already involved. Had to be. It was the only thing that made sense.

No, none of it made sense. How could it? Cooper was his best mate. He wouldn't kill Ruth. He wouldn't frame Joe. He wouldn't. Would he?

Joe forgot about Monkman and ran into the sitting room. For a moment he thought he'd been burgled. The furniture was all in the wrong place. The settee was a foot out from the wall, chairs at the wrong angle. A couple of cushions lay on the floor. The top of the ugly chest of drawers Ruth was fond of had been swept clean of photographs and ornaments. The mantelpiece was likewise bare.

Then he remembered the police had been here. Fucking thieves.

He picked up the phone and dialed Cooper's flat. He pressed the wrong key. Swore. Hung up. Dialed again. He kept swearing until Sally answered.

"Hang on a minute," she said. Joe could hear the baby screaming in the background. While she was settling him down, Joe wondered if he should ask her straight out if she remembered Cooper leaving his flat in the middle of the night. The night Ruth died. When Sally came back on, he decided against it. He didn't see how he could phrase the question without arousing her suspicion and then she'd tell Cooper and Joe didn't want Cooper forewarned.

"The man in?" Joe asked, knowing he was out.

"Left soon after you phoned. Thought you were coming round, Joe. I was looking forward to seeing you. How're things?"

"I need a phone number."

"Can't you give Cooper a ring on his mobile?"

"No good. Doesn't have the number on him."

"So what can I do?"

"Check his address book for me."

"He doesn't have an address book. Just a desk drawer full of scribbled bits of paper."

"Can you have a look?"

"Drawer's locked."

"Shit."

"Is it really important?"

"Might make the difference between me going to jail or not."

"Can you keep a secret?" she said. Before he could reply, she said, "Of course you can. Well, I know where the key is."

Joe's ears filled with a buzzing sound. "Can you have a look?"

"What name?"

"Park."

"First name?"

"Don't know. Just Park."

"You at home? I'll phone you back in five or ten minutes."

Back in the hallway, Monkman hadn't moved. Joe lifted the policeman's head. No sign of a wound. Joe let Monkman's head roll to the side. His mouth had started to bleed. Bright blood slipped through his slightly parted lips. Not enough to suggest he'd bitten his tongue in half. Still. If he was bleeding, he wasn't dead. Wasn't that right? Shit, Joe wasn't sure.

Jesus, he thought, exploring Monkman's neck for a pulse. Why would Cooper want to kill Ruth? Why? He had no idea. There. He felt it. A gentle throbbing beneath his fingers. He breathed a tiny sigh of relief. The policeman was alive. Maybe Joe could slap him awake and ask his opinion. Maybe not. What he could do, though, was fetch a bucket of water from the kitchen.

All the knives were gone. Not much else had been taken, though. At least, not that he could see. He turned the tap on full. Water battered the stainless steel sink, splashing over the side. Made a hell of a racket. He dug a plastic bucket out from under the sink. As the bucket slowly filled, he tried hard to block out the images of Ruth that kept flashing into his head. He last spoke to her in this room. He saw her face, grey and hard, telling him there was a lot he didn't know. Her face, tight with rage as she launched her mug of tea at him. The cooker was marked still, scuffed white where the mug had hit it. Her face changed to Gemma's. He thumped his fist against the tap. Gemma's face. He hammered the tap again. His dead daughter's face. His hand reached towards his scalp. He grabbed a fistful of hair and pulled, his mouth open wide in a silent scream. After a while, only after his eyes had started to water, he stopped. Scalp burning, he turned off the tap. He walked back to the hallway, his knees balls of string that were slowly unwinding.

He was about to throw the bucket of water over Monkman when the telephone rang. He left the bucket on the floor and returned to the sitting room.

It was Sally. She had the number.

"Hang on," Joe said. The penholder normally sat next to the phone. He had a look in the chest of drawers. Each drawer was empty. The bastards had completely cleaned him out.

In the hallway, Monkman groaned. His eyes were open. He looked like a baby that had just woken up. With a bemused expression, he watched as Joe stuck a hand in the inside pocket of his jacket and withdrew a ballpoint pen. "Back in a minute," Joe said.

Sally read out the number. Joe ransacked his wallet for a scrap of paper. All he had was a couple of photos. One of Ruth, the other of Gemma. He removed the picture of Ruth and wrote the number on the reverse. He read it back. Sally confirmed he'd taken it down correctly and made him promise not to tell Cooper how he'd got it.