Murderers Anonymous (27 page)

Old Leyman Blizzard said nothing, and waited for them to go.

Mulholland had refused to sit. Knew what was coming, already aware of what was in his head to do. McMenemy was on the prowl, stalking the few yards between his desk and the window, head bent to the ground, looking at the pattern of the carpet. Trying to control his burgeoning rage. Eyebrows knotted together, teeth set hard. A man on the verge of a verbal explosion.

Mulholland was not far off the same.

'Will you sit down, Chief Inspector?' McMenemy barked one more time. 'Sit down!'

'I'm not staying,' said Mulholland dryly.

McMenemy stopped his endless backwards and forwards charge and engaged his eye. The Klingon warbird de-cloaked and about to unleash photon torpedoes. Of course, those Klingon warbirds were rubbish.

'Damned right you're not staying! Damned right. You let the man go from right under your nose. My God! He's a monster and he roams our streets free, because of you! You had him in his shop and you let him go!'

Mulholland moved forward and pressed his hand against the desktop.

'He was gone by the time I got there. It was the bloody local plods who let him go. And you know why? They were so shit scared of him because of the press and the likes of you, making the guy out to be so much more than he actually is. Watch my lips, sir. He's not the killer.'

McMenemy pointed a finger, arm outstretched, from no more than three yards across the desk.

'Don't you
watch my lips
at me, my boy. This is it for you, Sergeant Mulholland. You can report for front desk duty on Monday morning, and consider yourself lucky you're not busted all the way down. You should be plodding the damned streets for your incompetence.'

'I'm incompetent? You're the arsehole chasing after a big, mild-mannered bloody jessie!'

McMenemy's pointing finger wilted a little. His nostrils flared. Eyes widened, then slowly narrowed as he lowered his arm. From the side of the room came the low hum of the fish tank. Cars outside cruised at forty-five in a thirty zone. There was a distant tantrum of a Salvation Army brass band breaking heartily into
Good Christian Men, Rejoice
, and the tune started playing in Mulholland's head. Aware of his own breathing; could hear McMenemy's breath, thick and clogged through his nose, lips clenched shut.

Now
ye hear of endless bliss, Jesus Christ was born for this
...

'What did you just call me?'

The words snapped out into the room. Cold, short, violent.

McMenemy pulled his shoulders back and stared at Mulholland, waiting for the answer. Or an apology. But Mulholland did not quail. He had had enough, and it was time to go. And if you're going to go, you might as well do an Al Pacino,
And Justice for All
...

He took another step towards him, and placed both hands on the desktop. Leaned closer.

'I called you an arsehole. And you know what, Chief Superintendent? You know what? I was right. You are an arsehole.'

Straightened up, waiting to see the reaction. Had rolled the word
arsehole
around his tongue, as if it were a Cuban cigar. If you're going to burn your bridges, you might as well do it properly.

McMenemy rose to his full, intimidating height. A good six three in his socks, and no mistake. Looked down on him, face beginning to snarl. An easy-going man, really, turned to madness.

'Get out of my office, Mr Mulholland, and get out of my station. You're finished, boy. Absolutely finished. I should have listened to Geraldine Cunningham. You're a useless waste of space. A has-been. You might as well have died in the monastery last year, 'cause you're good for nothing. Get out, get out! Do not darken the door of this station again. Do you hear me?'

Mulholland started to turn, but suddenly felt like he had been given free reign.

'You know what you can do?' he said.

'Get out, right now, before you make this even worse,' said McMenemy.

'You know what you can do?' Mulholland repeated. 'You can fuck your job.'

He was starting to warm to his subject. A few steps away from the desk, pointing at his boss. His ex-boss. Getting serious, annoyed, flustered, excited. A great weight of frustration and anger to burn off before he walked out for the last time.

'Get out!'

'What are you going to do?' he said, starting to laugh. 'Call the police? You stupid, ignorant bastard. Well, you can fuck your job. And you know what else? You can fuck you, and fuck the station. And you can fuck your post of chief inspector. You can fuck Glasgow, fuck Barney fucking Thomson, fuck the real fucking killer, and you can stick your fucking job up your fucking fuckhole, you stupid fucking fuckbag!'

Final words uttered in triumph, a small piece of spit sent flying through the air in front of him. And McMenemy stood and stared. Strangely now the anger was gone, and slowly he sank down into his seat. And when he spoke again his voice was low and cold, and filled more fully with malice than at any time in the previous twenty years.

'Leave, please. Now. And be assured, Chief Inspector, that this matter is not over.'

Mulholland breathed heavily. Face flushed. Had loved every second of it. Knew from past experience that his voice would have travelled out from within these walls. He would be a hero! Word would spread, and they would all know him as the brave visionary he most certainly was. Either that, or the stupid, burned-out idiot.

'Yes it is,' he said in a low voice, and turned to the door. Quick snatch at the handle, door open, and he was gone out into the wide world of the station, where business went on as usual for a Saturday afternoon, and a few looked at him as he went by, and cared not whether they ever saw him again.

Walking quickly to get away from it all, and within half a minute Joel Mulholland was outside in the mild but bleak midwinter. A hint of rain in the air and he pulled his jacket close to him.

Stopped and took a moment. Turned and looked back up at the old building and immediately started to think of Erin Proudfoot. And so, as he began to wander the streets aimlessly, contemplating his new life, he could do little but think of her and what she would be doing as he slid rapidly into the oblivion that awaited him.

The minibus travelled the slow roads of the Borders bereft of first, second and fourth gears, all of which had departed in a robust judder somewhere south of Peebles; so that every time they came to a tight bend, the driver could go no lower than third, and the bus shuddered round the corner in a series of vibrations and jerks, spilling drinks and causing general mayhem with elaborate hairstyles; while providing those women bedecked in tight underwear a little more pleasure than they'd otherwise anticipated.

The rain came down in great crashing torrents, and Bobby Ramsey leant forward and peered into the dead of night. Only seven thirty, as he headed towards the final short stretch of labyrinthine turns and convolutions, but it was black all around them. Occasionally a dark grey hill was evident against the night; a light in a farmhouse window set back from the road; and occasionally another vehicle passing them in the opposite direction, for no one was going where they were going.

Barney had sat in silence on the way south, staring dolefully at the sight of Arnie Medlock, making moves – he assumed he was making moves – on Katie Dillinger. He'd hoped to get the seat next to her, but he hadn't had the confidence to barge in and take control of the situation. And so he had dithered, Arnie had won the prime seat, and Barney had ended up next to Bobby Dear, the wealthy accountant type, from whom Barney had not heard a word.

So he had stewed in his own jealousy, attempting to hear above the roar of the diesel engine and the conversation of the others what was being said. Felt ridiculously like a spurned lover, even though he had no claim on this woman. Could imagine himself doing a variety of vicious things to Medlock, even though he had, until an hour ago, thought him to be a perfectly pleasant bloke. (As pleasant as a member of Murderer's Anonymous was likely to be.)

Barney did not see himself as one of the others; did not even consider the possibility that some of them might be as feckless as he himself.

He looked out at the rain and the passing hedges and walls and trees, beyond which the darkness held its secrets. He had been contemplating engaging Dear in conversation, but for all the mild-mannered-accountant demeanour to the man, he could recognise the killer's guise that lurked behind that kind face. Still, he had joined the group to talk to this kind of person, not to become embroiled in romance. That had been an entirely unexpected subsidiary element.

As the minibus lurched around another corner he could see and hear Dillinger laughing, then leaning towards Medlock and whispering something in his ear. Barney seethed. Felt that strange anger and discomfort that comes with envy and suspicion, and which had replaced his nervousness over the weekend's potential, and the foreboding brought on by the premonition of his own wake.

Barney bit the bullet.

'Nightmare weather,' he said, nodding. Looked at Bobby Dear to see if it had registered. Dear, only slowly, became aware that he was being addressed.

'Talking to me?' he said at last. A Piccadilly Scot by the sounds of it, thought Barney. Had heard tell of such creatures, but you didn't get many of them in Partick.

'Aye,' said Barney. 'Nightmare weather.'

Bobby Dear stared at him. Had something of the comfortable, cardiganed Richard Briers about him. Except, of course, that these days Richard Briers is as likely to play a bad guy. So behind Dear's placid exterior lurked a heart of pure evil, thought Barney.

'You think this is bad?' said Dear. 'You should have seen it in the Falklands in '82. Makes this look like the desert. And we had the Argies shooting at us.'

'Soldier, eh?' said Barney. Sharp as a button.

'Commissioned, if you don't mind,' said Dear. 'Was a lieutenant-colonel in the Highland Fusiliers. Bloody murder that campaign, bloody murder.'

Said
lieutenant
like an American. Barney didn't notice. Already wishing he hadn't opened his mouth. Wondering at the Pandora's box he might just have opened up for himself. What if he got stuck with the bloke all weekend? Two complete days of old soldier's stories. Oh ... my ... God.

'What happened?' asked Barney. Knew from experience that you had to attempt to keep control of the conversation. Ask questions, try to take the talker in the direction in which you want him to go.
What happened
, he thought, mapping out the questions in his head, followed by
How did you get here
, and then
What can you tell me about Katie
, because he could talk about her all night.

'What do you mean, what happened? We won, you idiot. Kicked some Argie arse, boy. Didn't you watch the news?'

Barney felt stupid. 'So how did you get here, then?' he asked quickly, attempting to regain the control he'd lost by the previous question.

Bobby Dear breathed in deeply and Barney waited for another verbal assault. Out of the corner of his eye he could see Dillinger's mouth no more than an inch from Medlock's ear, lips moist, and he wished he could cut that ear off, violently and painfully.

The bus swerved around an unexpectedly tight corner; Billy Hamilton accidentally swayed into Annie Webster's lap, his hand brushed her thigh, and both received a quick pulse of excitement.