Lie of the Land (25 page)

Standing in the lobby, Carl heard voices in the street, and footsteps running past the front door. A guy shouting, sounding none too pleased about something. Then silence. Some drunken rumpus. Ordinary aggression. He fumbled his way to steal more of George's booze.

•

Tongue: the wrong size and dust-dry. Throat: painful proof that
he had, in fact, vomited until there was nothing else inside him to come out. Sitting up caused a bowling ball to shift position inside his head. At least there was no sign of puke anywhere near the bed, or on the bed, or on him.

Let's hear it for the committee, and their morale-boosting largesse. The wagon he'd been steering more or less on the straight and narrow was well and truly off the road now. Mixing different types of booze will do it every time, except there wouldn't be a next time, for a long time.

Alec John was expecting him today, though there was flexibility as far as clocking-in was concerned. Clouds were dark over the bay and it looked like it might rain. Maybe a hurricane would arrive and give him reason to lie, inert and suffering, for several more hours. He was going to call it a day with Alec John anyway. Enough with blood.

Tongue and throat demanded moisture. Carl sat up, groaning as the room spun and his head pulsed. Maybe he could ask at the community centre for some paracetamol. This time, the committee might take a kinder view of self-inflicted pain, given that its own generosity had been the cause. They might break out the painkillers. Maybe Terry would do him a fried egg. Eggs were good for hangovers – in the absence of any synthetic remedy.

With sledgehammer intensity, there was a sharp knocking at the room door.

He jerked himself upright, wished he hadn't, and quickly checked to see he was decently clothed, rubbing his face and smoothing his hair.

‘Come in.'

It was Alec John.

‘I didn't expect a personal wake-up call,' said Carl, swinging his feet onto the floor. He steeled himself for what he had to say.

Closing the door, Alec John stood, grim-faced. ‘Something horrible happened last night,' he said. ‘To Terry.'

Carl's hangover loosened its hooks. ‘What do you mean – horrible? Is he okay?'

‘Well, I heard different versions of what happened, but . . . it looks as if he's lost an eye.'

Carl mouth fell open. ‘What?'

Alec John nodded. ‘He's at Dr Morgan's now.'

‘An eye?' Carl searched for his shoes. ‘For fuck's sake. I saw him, I think, after the reception. What happened?'

‘No one's sure. There was some kind of scuffle. It was pitch black and they ended up in the pine trees near the old bus stop. Casper says it was a branch.'

‘Casper? You mean it wasn't an accident?'

Alec John shook his head, without any real conviction. ‘I don't know the details.'

Carl pulled on his shoes, all trace of hangover purged by adrenaline. ‘A fucking branch? Come on. Did Casper attack him?'

Alec John shrugged. He looked at Carl. ‘Casper's cousin, this girl, Gemma, said that Terry raped her.'

Carl stopped tying his laces. He looked at his left shoe. The sole was starting to come loose near the ball of his foot. Maybe someone would have the right kind of glue to fix it, or any kind. Maybe there was some kind of plant resin . . .

‘Who says it was rape?'

‘The girl.'

‘Any witnesses?'

Alec John squinted at him. ‘Not as far as I know, no.'

‘Right,' said Carl. ‘So this girl says she was raped by Terry. There are no witnesses – but Casper attacks Terry anyway.'

‘She's not known as a liar, Carl.'

‘No one is. But everyone lies.'

Alec John got to his feet. ‘I'm only going by what I hear. Terry's a nice guy but . . .' He shrugged. ‘I don't know. These are . . . different times.'

Carl finished tying his shoes and grabbed his jacket. ‘Yeah,' he muttered, opening the room door. ‘But maybe not that different after all.'

•

Treating injured drunks wasn't that unusual for Dr Morgan, and she'd seen a lot worse than this during various stints in A&E. But it had been a long time since the last bad one in Inverlair, maybe three years or so. There was always booze involved and nearly always a fight between young men, though girls could be just as bad. And here it was again: the same ingredients in the same bloody mess, even after all that had happened. The disease had erupted again.

Dr Morgan gave Terry another shot of diamorphine. Not much left now. The orbital muscle in his right eye had been all but severed; sclera and cornea were in shreds. She pulled off her bloodied latex gloves and opened the pedal bin to drop them in.

She stopped. Maybe it wouldn't do to be so fussy about hygiene any more; there was probably no infection in Terry's eye, so the latex gloves could be saved, cleaned, for another time. She threw them in the sink instead.

The doorbell rang.

‘What's happened to Terry?' asked Carl, as soon as Dr Morgan opened the door.

‘He's resting,' she said. ‘He's in shock, so it's for the best if he gets some sleep.'

‘Is it true? Has he lost an eye?'

Dr Morgan hesitated. She considered inviting them inside, decided against it. Before she could answer, Carl said, ‘Was it a knife?'

‘I'm not sure,' said Dr Morgan, folding her thin arms. ‘It could have been anything. Whatever it was, I had to take the eye out. I couldn't see any wood fibres, but that doesn't rule out . . .'
She smoothed her greying hair. ‘It was something sharp, that's all I can say.'

Carl sighed. He glanced at Alec John. ‘Can we see him?'

‘You can,' said Dr Morgan. ‘But please don't wake him up. He also cracked a couple of ribs, and dislocated his right shoulder.' She stiffened. ‘I've also examined the girl, Gemma. P.C. Gibbs will interview her soon.'

‘How is she?'

Everything was overlapping. Due process had no chance in this situation . . . Carl and Terry were friends, and Dr Morgan's examination would, ordinarily, have formed the case for the prosecution. Yet here was the prime suspect's associate asking how the victim was.

Dr Morgan shook her head and closed the door.

28

From within the broch's low walls, Carl watched the village. A roiling bank of cloud was swelling out over the Atlantic, threatening. It was bitterly cold, and he'd not put on a jumper under his Gore-Tex. Just his luck if he fell ill again. His lungs had been clear for weeks now. He wouldn't want to clog them up again with a cold, or worse.

With his binoculars, he saw Gibbs walk round to Gemma's parents', then to Dr Morgan's, and then round to Casper's house.

Different rules. That's what Gibbs had told him, making all the right noises about procedure and a thorough investigation. And then what?

Maybe the girl wasn't entirely blameless. He remembered the glint in her eye when she came round for Terry's dope . . . maybe it had just got out of hand. It felt plausible. But he felt uneasy with the thought. If Terry had raped her, he must be punished. That's what should happen.

Simone. How much interest would she expect him to take? What did she want? Carl couldn't conceive any answer that would make sense to him. There's nothing, physically, to be done about any of it, he figured. The other day she had asked him if he wondered if it would be born healthy or not, or if it would be a boy or a girl. He was finding it difficult to care about any of it.

She was having his kid, he wasn't about to run away anywhere, and there was zero chance of a relationship. All the salient facts covered, and there was no need to keep going over them.

‘Different times, different rules,' Carl said out loud, blinking as the Atlantic air surged over him. No white boat was going to come. Howard's friends – what a fantasy that had been. No matter when SCOPE packed in, he would remain adrift and unrescued, and there was no point in believing anything else. He was a refugee.

Down in the village: a figure near the boatyard, just a glimpse of form. Carl lifted the binoculars again, but the person was now inside the boatyard. He cursed his wandering attention.

Maybe the figure had been a paunchy fifty-year-old copper on his way for a friendly chat. Maybe it was justice, hot-footing it to apprehend a lynch mob.

This is life, Carl thought. This is what's true now.

•

‘Are you going to charge any of us, Mr Gibbs?'

Work came to a halt in the boatyard. Gibbs managed, just about, to project a gruff professionalism from inside his uniform. Cutler's greeting had made a civilian of him, but Gibbs ignored the provocation.

‘Terry Noble lost an eye last night, Adam.'

‘That's careless of him. We'll help him look for it.'

One of the work crew suppressed a snort.

‘I would like to ask a few questions,' said Gibbs, who leant against a workbench with his arms and feet crossed. ‘Just to clear up a few loose ends. Surely that can't do any harm.'

Adam nodded to himself, scuffed the ground with his work boots. Casper and the other guys exchanged glances, said nothing. Apparently deep in thought, Adam studied the concrete floor, considered the rafters and the tin roof.

Gibbs waited.

‘Suppose,' began Adam at last, ‘just suppose, that none of us want to answer any of your questions, then what?'

The men looked at Gibbs.

‘That might mean you've got something to hide.'

Adam nodded. ‘Would it now.' He fell silent again, then went over and continued to load ten-gallon biofuel drums onto a trailer. The first drum crashed down heavily on the trailer's metal floor.

‘You sorted the chain on that saw yet, Gav?' said Adam.

Gav was in his mid-twenties, gold-stud earring; blond streaks in a mop of scruffy hair. He smirked at Gibbs. ‘Fully operational, boss.'

Everyone except Casper went back to work. He didn't look too pleased with the situation.

‘Come on, Brian,' said Gibbs quietly, dropping the nickname. ‘Just a few questions.'

Casper pursed his lips. ‘I didn't do it,' he said, frowning. ‘I pushed him, I think. That's all . . . I was pissed.'

‘Don't let him confuse you, Casper,' shouted Adam. ‘That's how these bastards work. None of us want to answer any questions, Gibbs.' He stepped towards the door. ‘If you want to pull us in, why don't you phone the nearest station for back-up?' He grinned, and went on with his work. ‘Looks like it's all down to you, Cuntstable, and if you don't mind, given the circumstances, I don't think any of us are going to come quietly.'

Gibbs moved towards Adam. ‘You're being very stupid, Adam.'

‘Leave him,' growled Casper.

‘There's fuck all you can do about it, Gibbs,' shouted Gav, tensing himself. He picked up a spanner.

Exasperated, Dennis groaned. ‘Oh, for fuck's sake, behave yourselves.'

Everyone ignored him.

Adam smiled at Gibbs. ‘Gav's right. We're busy here, so why don't you go and hassle the Dutchman for his eggs – impound his grass plants while you're at it. Now there's a real criminal for you, Constable, a real menace to the community. I assume you'll be arresting Terry Sullivan for rape, once the doc's finished patching him up?'

Outside, through the open end of the boatshed, only the birds and the sea made their noise. Gibbs would lose what was left of his authority if he backed off; yet there was no way he could handle the three of them. A dignified exit was the only option.

‘This is not the end of the matter,' he said gravely. ‘There will be consequences, guys. And I'll be having a word with your father, Adam.'

‘I'm a bit too old to get my arse slapped, Mr Gibbs.' Cutler turned back to his work. ‘Carry on.'

29

There had to be a chance. His son and the grandkids were in a village in Buckinghamshire. Maybe there, too, was a notspot. There was always a chance. They were in the countryside, maybe far enough away from a mast or a town. Maybe they were all okay and the boy just wasn't able to get in touch. Maybe they were alive. Gibbs tried to believe it.

On the computer screen, the slideshow of photos kept scrolling, though the accompanying soundtrack had been muted. Music could always push those buttons, switch the emotions off and on. Gibbs heard his wife come through the front door. He turned off the computer, picking up his needle and thread again as he wiped his eyes. Ellen appeared in the living-room doorway, watching her husband for a moment. Her hair was greyer, thinner now, and her face was lined; she looked years older in just three months.

‘Have you told anyone yet, about the girl?'

Gibbs carried on sewing. ‘No,' he said. ‘I'm going to fix this first. I noticed the pocket had come loose earlier.'

He glanced up at his wife. ‘Do you think I should still wear it? I mean, do you think there's any point?'

Ellen considered the uniform spread out on the table, knew that the confrontation with Cutler the other day had shaken him. ‘If you feel you have a right to fill it.'

Gibbs put down the needle and thread. ‘Does it make sense any more?'

Ellen touched the uniform. ‘Maybe it makes more sense now than ever.'

‘I've got a gun, of course.' He felt his wife hold a breath, then relax.

‘A gun . . . what an excellent idea,' she said. ‘Casper's got one too, and I'm sure Adam Cutler does as well. Why don't you go and shoot it out with them? I'll come along and cheer you on.'

‘I don't know what to do, Ellen. There's no easy . . .'

There was a loud knocking at the front door.

‘Now that doesn't sound very friendly,' Ellen muttered wearily. ‘I think I know who that might be.'

•

Up at the edge of the redzone, Carl had felt his resolve waver. Could you still cling to the old idea of the law taking its course? But now he felt angry again, and Gibbs's frosted-glass front door took the brunt of it.