Kiss Her Goodbye (9 page)

"I didn't fucking do it." Joe banged the edge of the table with his thighs as he stood up. By the time he remembered his sore ribs it was too late. A burning sensation spread across his side. Painful, but not incapacitating. Relieved, he breathed out. If he could jump to his feet like that, it proved that even in the last hour or so there was already a measurable improvement in the state of his health. Maybe his ribs had escaped with severe bruising. No cracks or breakages. Could be, though, that he was just so angry that his body was numb. "You're wrong."

"You're going to Edinburgh and I'll enjoy being there to watch you go down."

"Bet you fucking will." Then, realizing the significance of what Monkman had just said, Joe said, "What?"

"You didn't think we were going to let you travel back home on your own."

"But why you? Doesn't require the perfectly honed skills of Orkney's finest detective sergeant to escort an unarmed, handcuffed prisoner. Anybody with half a brain could do it. You ought to be spoiled for choice."

"Actually, the law requires that you be escorted by two officers," Monkman said. "DC McGivern has agreed to accompany us. He'll be flying back tomorrow. I, on the other hand, will be staying."

"You still haven't told me why. If they want me for questioning in Edinburgh I'd have thought it was their responsibility to come and fetch me."

"Ordinarily, yes," Monkman said. "But I offered my services to my colleagues down south and they said they'd be honored for me to help with the enquiry."

"Anything to avoid paying the airfare," McGivern said. "Tight bastards."

"Not too happy with the assignment?" Joe asked him. "Or is it the fact that the sergeant here is sending you straight back home while he seizes his opportunity to make an impression in the big city that pisses you off?" Joe didn't wait for an answer. He looked at Monkman. "Tell me something, Orkney boy. Am I nothing more than a small town detective's big chance?"

"I'm not from around here," Detective Sergeant Monkman said. "Although my dad was born in Stromness."

"Where you from?" Joe asked.

"Brora," Monkman said.

"I rest my case."

*

An airline official met them at the airport's terminal building and, scolding them for being late, shepherded them to the aircraft. Apart from Joe and the two policemen, there were maybe a dozen passengers, all warm and cozy. They fell silent as Joe, sandwiched between Monkman and McGivern, was led to the front. Joe could see into the cockpit. Crammed into a tiny space, the pilot turned, nodded to Monkman, nodded to McGivern, ignored Joe. Just another uniformed twat. No sign of a stewardess.

"Hey," Joe said to the pilot, "am I entitled to a free drink?"

PART TWO

THIRTEEN

Leaving the chain on the hook, she opened the door and peered through the crack. A short, heavily muscled stranger with an intense look in his eyes. Behind him stood a taller, bored-looking punter. Both were in their late thirties or early forties. Both wore dark suits.

"We have a couple of questions," the short one said. "Could you spare a minute?"

"Police?" she said.

The short one grinned like a pug. "Jehovah's Witnesses," he said.

Not the police. Not punters. Jehovah's Witnesses? Was he joking?

She didn't believe him. She pushed the door shut. Didn't take long to realize they weren't leaving, though. A minute later, she could still hear their muffled voices. Persistent buggers. Persistent enough to be genuine. Yeah, that was it. The short one looked serious enough to believe he was in direct contact with God. Tina had a problem with religion. Her childhood had been full of it. When the letterbox rattled she took a step away from the door.

Stubby fingers held the letterbox open and the short man's voice boomed through the opening. "A minute, Tina. One minute of your time."

Shit. They knew her name. Her working name. Well, good for them. None of her clients would have any qualms about giving her name to a couple of frigging holier-than-thou, Bible-bashing arseholes looking for sinners to convert. As long as a few quid changed hands, obviously. And once they had her name, it wouldn't be difficult to find out where she lived. Ask around. Hand over a few more quid to one of her fellow sex workers. Damn those whores. She should learn to keep her mouth shut.

"Not interested." Her voice cracked. Jesus help her. "Go away." Better. More confident.

"We just want to talk to you," the short man said. "It won't take long. Couple of minutes. Then we'll go."

"I'm not buying." Not today. Not ever. Oh, Christ. "Fuck off or I'll call the police." Assertive. That ought to do it.

"Tina," the short man said. "I don't believe your relationship with the boys in blue is altogether friendly. You wouldn't want to piss them off unnecessarily, would you?"

"Get to fuck," Tina said. The letterbox snapped shut and she heard muttering again. After a short while the letterbox creaked open once more and a piece of white card poked through the hole.

"Take it," the short man said.

If accepting some of their literature was going to get rid of them, so be it. Reading a leaflet certainly paled in comparison with crucifixion.

The card tilted in the grip of her fingers and she realized she was holding a photograph. She turned it over and looked at the familiar face of the man pictured in close-up. He seemed uncomfortable having his picture taken. Raising his whisky to the camera seemed like a feeble attempt to hide behind the glass. Which didn't surprise her. For all his posturing, Bob was shy. She gazed at his forced smile, remembered him leaving in a hurry, saying he'd be away for a while. Giving her a grand.

So the pair outside the door weren't missionaries. Praise the Lord.

The short man's voice boomed through the letterbox again. "You know the guy in the picture?"

"You were joking?" Tina said.

After a moment: "Huh?"

"About being Jehovah's Witnesses?"

The short man laughed. The sound rumbled in his chest. After a few seconds he stopped and coughed. He said, "Me and God, we don't really see eye to eye."

Knowing they weren't religious freaks made a big difference. "What do you want?"

"You recognize him? In the photo?"

"What's it to you?"

"We're his friends. Joe's in trouble. He needs your help."

Joe. Now she knew his first name. It was a start. Get his surname off these dicks and financial opportunities beckoned. She'd always assumed Bob, whoops, Joe was rich. Nice car, nice clothes. Most of the time, when he wasn't drunk, he smelled expensive. And he chucked money around like he had his own printing press. She wasn't looking to blackmail the poor bastard, but if the opportunity came up to her and tapped her on the shoulder she wasn't going to pretend it wasn't there. Tina hadn't been sentimental since she was six years old.

She could pinpoint the exact time.

1990. Couple of weeks before Christmas. After a month of solid nagging, her mum finally gave in and took her to a cat and dog rescue home. An assistant led them to a sprawl of kennels. Hand in hand, Tina and her mum strolled along the row of cages. Dozens of puppies scrambled over each other to jump at the wire mesh and bark and squeal and yelp and howl at the young girl and her mother. Dozens in each cage. Seven cages later they came to the end of the row. Another three rows awaited them.

Her mum said, "I didn't know it would be like this. I think we've seen enough."

Tina's excitement was curbed by her knowledge that the pups nobody wanted would be put down, and, although she didn't know precisely what it entailed, she knew that being put down was a very bad thing. She was crying when her mum said she could only take one puppy home and that she had to choose now. She cried harder. Still crying, she retraced her steps. Stopped halfway along. Backtracked to the previous cage. Pointed.

"A terrier," her mum said, close behind her. "Good choice. I like his beard."

The assistant pranced towards them without unfolding her arms. "That one's a bitch."

Tina put her hand over her mouth. She waited for her mum to thump the assistant for her bad word and was glad when nothing happened.

They left the kennels and went to an office where her mum had to fill in some forms before the man in charge of the home would hand over the puppy. By the time she'd finished, Tina had stopped crying and was looking forward to seeing her puppy outside its cage. She was trying to think of a name for it.

"Fraser," she said, and started bobbing up and down.

"It's a girl puppy." Her mum passed the completed form to the assistant. "Fraser's a boy's name."

As the assistant read the form, a frown creased her brow. She said, "I'm afraid we can't give you the dog."

"I don't understand," Tina's mum said. "What's the problem?"

"Your income."

"I don't have one."

"That's the point. It's standard policy." She looked at Tina. Tina looked at her mum. The assistant said, "I'm really sorry."

"What are you saying?" her mum said.

"You live with your boyfriend?"

"Davie," Tina said. "He's in the Salvation Army."

The girl ignored Tina. "And neither of you are in employment?"

"At the moment?" her mum said. "You mean right now?" She shook her head.

"We can't release a dog to a home that doesn't have a stable income."

"Can we not have Fraser, Mum? What's going to happen to her if we can't have her? What if nobody else wants her? Mum?"

"Shut it, Tina." Her mum was wearing her angry face. And she was starting to use bad words that she'd have to wash out of her mouth when she got home. "This bitch would rather let the poor beast die than give it to dogshite like us."

Tina wet the bed that night. When she told her mum, her mum ordered her back to bed. Tina didn't do what she was told. She slept on the settee. In the morning Davie spanked her for being a dirty little girl. Then he made her change her bedclothes and fling the soiled sheets in the washing machine. After that, he made her lie face down on her freshly made bed while he rubbed cream into her burning bottom.

"That's better," he said. "Isn't it?"

Her mum didn't hear him, didn't see what he was doing. She was sleeping off a hangover. Something she did most mornings.

Davie hung around for a couple of years, which presented plenty further opportunities for smacking Tina. And for easing the pain afterwards. Then one day he was gone. Her mother said he'd stolen some money from his church.

Tina was happy. She told her mum she hadn't liked it when Davie rubbed cream on her bum. Her mum cuffed her on the mouth, which made her lip bleed. Told her to wash her filthy mouth out and never mention that again.

Tina hunched over and spoke to the eyes peering through the letterbox. "Who are you?"

"Cooper," the man said.

"You got a first name, Cooper?"

"Just Cooper."

"Who's your friend? He just got one name as well? Sting, is it?"

"That's Mr. Park," he said, eyes glancing to the side. "Joe's lawyer."

"What's Joe done?" Tina asked.

"Can't we discuss this inside?"

"You don't like chatting through a letterbox?" Tina straightened up and unhooked the chain.

"Thank you." Cooper stepped into the hallway, brushing past her.

Mr. Park was more courteous. He held out his hand and said, "Pleased to meet you."

"Likewise," Tina told him, then gestured for him to follow Cooper into the sitting room.

Cooper was sitting on the settee, in the same seat Bob — damn — Joe had sat in last time she'd seen him. Mr. Park hitched up his trousers and eased into the seat next to Cooper. Tina remained standing.

"What's this about?" she said.

"No easy way to say it," Cooper said. "Joe's in a spot of bother. He killed his wife."

Tina gasped. Couldn't help herself. She knew Joe's marriage was far from ideal, but she didn't see Joe as a murderer. "An accident?"

"Hard to accidentally beat someone to death with a baseball bat."

The lawyer spoke. "Equally hard to stuff a body in the boot of your car. Accidentally."

"When was this?"

"The night you invited him here," Cooper said. "In the early hours of the morning."

"How come the police haven't been to see me?"

Cooper smiled. "They don't know about you. Joe hasn't breathed a word."

"So why are you here? What do you want?"

Cooper said, "I'm Joe's friend. I want him to get away with it."

"What's that got to do with me."

"You're his alibi."

"But it wasn't that late when he left."

"He didn't leave," the lawyer said. "He was here all night."

"I'm telling you, he left well before midnight."

"I don't think so," Cooper said. "You understand what I'm saying?"