Murderers Anonymous (18 page)

It was hot in the kitchen, the result of the heating up full, coupled with the still mild temperatures for the time of year. She could feel her eyes getting heavy. Here she was, having wanted to be put on a real crime for the last few months, and now she couldn't even be bothered looking at the suspect. Or whatever he was. Couldn't stop herself from looking at the investigating officer, however.

'His mum?' said Mulholland. 'We've just been talking to his mum. You slept with her?'

Spaceman barked out an apologetic laugh; did a short bit of hand movement. But his movements were languid; it was hot and soporific, and he was even more tired than Proudfoot. Had had a late night at the Montrose. Office Christmas revelry; all sorts of women in front of whom to make an idiot of himself.

'Aye, aye, I know what youse are thinking. She's a right bogmonster, I know that. But you see, it was years ago, and it was different then. She was all right, you know. Tits still in about the right place, not so many wrinkles. It was one of they rites of passage things, you know. Like you get in the films.'

'Rite of passage?' said Mulholland. You can go away for six months, it can seem like years, but nothing changes. People still talk the biggest load of utter bollocks.

'Aye, you know. Rite of passage. It was one of they hot summer days. I comes round to see wee Jason, forgetting that he'd gone off fishing with his dad. I was about sixteen, I think. Agnes asks us in, and you know how it is. I was rampant, you'll know that yourself, mate. We all are at that age.' Proudfoot squinted out of the corner of her eye at Mulholland; he ignored her. 'Agnes was wearing just about nothing, seeing as it was so hot, you know. She bent over, I got a swatch of her boobs, she sees me looking, the next thing you know we're doing the bare bum boogie on the kitchen floor. Magic, by the way.'

Mulholland rested his face against his hand, so that his cheek squidged up and his left eye almost closed. My God! He'd forgotten what it was like to interview people.

'She taught me everything there is to know. It was brilliant, so it was. What to put in where. What holes are for what, all that stuff. 'Cause, you know, women have got about seven or eight holes down there. There's all sorts of stuff going on that men just don't know about.'

Mulholland gave in to it. Why not? It wasn't as if he was going to tell them anything that would be of any use. He turned to Proudfoot, who had allowed herself to smile.

'Seven or eight? That right?' he asked.

'Double that,' she said.

'See!' said Spaceman. 'See! No matter how many times you get stuck in down there, there's always something else hidden behind some big floppy pink flap that you—'

'All right, Spaceman. I think maybe we should get back to the subject in hand.'

Proudfoot looked at Mulholland. Saw the vague embarrassment and allowed herself to laugh. First time in months. Light relief. No thought for the nature of the crime they were investigating, for it seemed as if that was taking place in some parallel universe.

Spaceman held up his hands. Despite the fact that he hadn't even been trying, Mulholland had got him talking, and now he was prepared to discuss anything. Tongue loosened, he'd got the woman to lighten up, and now that she was smiling Spaceman could see that she was all right. Nice-looking bit of stuff. If he could nail her, he thought, it'd be a good one to tell his mates. Not that he could tell Jason.

'All right,' he said. 'He was a poof.'

The smile died on Proudfoot's face. Not at the information, but at the return to formality; the return to the other universe where people got murdered.

Mulholland straightened up. Eyes open. Mind almost kicked into gear.

'Ballater was gay?'

'Aye,' said Spaceman. 'He was on the game.'

'You serious? He was married. He was thirty-three, he wasn't some spotty youth with no money. He was on the game?'

Christ, he thought. Does no one lead a normal life any more?

'That was wee Jason, I'm afraid. Confused, you know. Decent upbringing on the one hand, had a good set of values and all that stuff. Then on the other hand, he was a raging bum artist. He did it for a bit of extra cash when he was a lad, and never really lost the habit. Didn't do it that often these days, you know. Knew it was wrong, 'n' all that, but he couldn't kick it.'

'And his wife?'

'Doesn't know a thing. I knew he was doing it, 'cause he'd give us a call and ask us to cover for him. You know. I didn't really approve, but seeing as I felt a bit guilty 'cause I used tae shag his missus on a Saturday when he was at the fitba', I used to do it for him.'

'And Tuesday night?'

Spaceman shrugged. 'Same as usual. Gave us a call at work. Said he was going down the Pink Flamingo. That was his wee code word for when he was hitting the streets. Anyway, there you are.'

Mulholland settled back in his chair. Sometimes, just when you weren't looking for it, a breakthrough hit you smack in the face. Something that had seemed dead-end and random suddenly had meaning to it, and various different avenues opened up in front of you.

'You know anyone else from that side of his life?'

Spaceman reeled. 'Arse bandits? You kidding me? I didn't want to know any of that mob, mate. No chance.'

Mulholland rubbed his forehead. Stakes had been raised. There was some serious work to be done, and none of it would have anything to do with Barney Thomson. As long as he could get McMenemy to see that.

He looked at Proudfoot, but she had swum back into her reserve, and her eyes were once more rooted to the table, her fingers tapping out the beat. Perhaps she was even less likely to be of use than he himself, he thought.

McMenemy had made a mistake ordering him to do it, and he had made a mistake asking Proudfoot.

'I also shagged his aunt, by the way. D'you want to know all about that?'

The tall man coughed. It was a gentle, high-pitched cough. Sounded like a girl. He looked around the room, smiling at the others as best he could. The scar between his nose and his top lip hindered him in this. As ever.

The weekly meeting of the crowd, after the extraordinary general meeting called by Socrates McCartney three days earlier. Bloody show-off, Sammy Gilchrist had thought. And here he was now, with his own evil and his own desire to return to ways of old.

'For those of you who don't know me,' he began, as he always began, even though they all knew him well, even those who had yet to hear his tale, 'my name's Sammy. A few years ago I murdered some total bastard, and I have to admit, as I stand before you all, I want to do it again. Not to the same bastard, of course. Another bastard.'

He broke off and noticed the few knowing nods around the group. As far as they knew, of all of them, Billy Hamilton's designs on Mark Eason included, Gilchrist's was the greatest need to repeat his crime. Gilchrist was the one most haunted by the past, and now haunted by the present. The whims and tastes and growing frustrations of Morty Goldman were unknown to them, for when Morty spoke, he never spoke the truth.

'Has she been in touch again?' asked Katie Dillinger.

Sammy Gilchrist scoffed, a noise like a pig's grunt.

'Not her,' he said. 'It's never bloody her, is it? It's always Julian bastarding Cruikshank. That's Julian bastarding Cruikshank of Bastard, Bastard, Bastard, Cruikshank and Bastard, for those of you who don't know. I mean, I hate that guy. No top lip, a moustache that's even more stupid than Wee Billy's here, and those suits that you know cost more than your house. But it's a rational hate, all the same. I can see both sides. The bloke's only doing his job, you know. If it wasn't him it would be some other bastarding lawyer, so that doesn't bother me so much. Really it doesn't, despite the suits and the moustache. It's that bastarding woman that pisses me off.'

'Your ex-wife?' asked Annie Webster. She had never heard Sammy Gilchrist's story, had only heard tell of it from others. She knew there was an ex-wife lurking in the background.

'No, no, not her,' he said. 'She's all right. I mean, I can't blame her for what she did. It was my own fault, you know? But I'm sort of ambivalent towards her now. If I see her again, fine. If I don't, fine. You know? If it wasn't for Priscilla, I'd probably never give her a second's thought.'

'Who's Priscilla?' asked Webster. 'That the woman you want to kill?'

'No, no, that's my daughter, you know. Wee Priscilla. Going to be a golfer, I think. A golfer.'

'I'm confused,' said Webster.

'Tell Annie your story,' said Dillinger.

'Do I have to?'

'It's good to get it out, Sammy,' she said. 'You know that.'

'What's the point?' he said. 'You know whenever I tell it, it just gets my back up and I want to get out there and kill the bastarding bastard all over again.'

'But that's not what it's about, Sammy. We're all here for you, and you're here for us. When you let yourself down, then you let us all down. Tell your story and maybe we can help you. If not ...'

'You all know the bastarding story.'

They locked eyes. She could talk for twenty minutes, thought Dillinger, and she wouldn't get anywhere. Every time she spoke to him, she knew he was getting closer. There were many of those here who she knew she had saved from the act of murder. In fact, since she'd started the group she'd never really lost a member – so she thought, although she had her suspicions – but of all of them, Sammy Gilchrist was the closest. Closer than Billy Hamilton, with his pointless jealousies, closer than Annie Webster, with her intimacy issues, closer, for the moment, than Morty Goldman and his taste for fine meats, and closer than she herself, and she twitched at the thought.

'I don't,' said Annie Webster. 'I'd like to hear it.'

Sammy Gilchrist stared at her, and received a warm stare in reply. Billy Hamilton noticed it too, and wondered if Gilchrist was thinking the same thing that he'd thought when he'd told his story for Annie Webster. And so his mind wandered, and he wondered if maybe he shouldn't just eliminate Gilchrist from the equation, so that when he made his move at the Christmas weekend there would be no unnecessary competition.

'Aye, all right, love,' said Gilchrist.

Love!
thought Billy Hamilton, and his eyes never left Annie Webster for the duration of the story, and not once did her eyes leave Sammy Gilchrist. Just a Murderers Anonymous prostitute, he'd come to think, moving from one hardened killer to the next, glorying in the danger.

'It was about ten year ago. I'd been married for about three year. No big deal, you know. We were getting on all right. The odd fight, and all that, but nothing major, and things were about as good as they're going to get. Had a lovely wee girl, just about a year old; I did have to travel through to Edinburgh every day for the work, which was a bit shitey, but that was about it. Used to go and watch the Thistle every now and again, you know the score. An ordinary life.

'So one night me and Janice, that's the wife, are sitting in a restaurant with the bairn. One of these family places with plenty of weans in, and our wee one, Priscilla, tucking into a plate of macaroni. The name's a bit of a nightmare, but the missus was a big Elvis fan. So I was sort of glad we didn't have a boy. Anyway, there was a wee lassie behind us, about ten or eleven, who caught sight of the bairn, and Priscilla starts up with that goofy smile she had. She's miserable as shite now, of course, but she can hit a three-iron further than I can. So she starts smiling at the lassie, and this wee lassie smiles back. Priscilla was looking as cute as you like; a wee stunner, you know, absolutely magic, and this wee lassie was obviously besotted with her.

'Anyway, we bugger off and they bugger off, not a word is exchanged. And that's that, you know.'

He looked around the room. They all, Webster excepted, knew what was coming; but they were engrossed just the same. The next part never ceased to amaze. Only Billy Hamilton was distracted. Only Billy Hamilton did not stare at Sammy Gilchrist, although his thoughts were all for him.