2007 - A tale etched in blood and hard black pencel (43 page)

Johnny Turner gets out of the car slowly, again underlining a lack of haste, like he’s out for a stroll in the woods. He’s got a briefcase with him. Cunt probably bought it for the occasion, acting the businessman. Can’t imagine him having much call for it the rest of the time, or the suit. He’s a fucking site labourer turned crook inside whatever he’s wearing. The threads just make him look like he’s due in court.

Colin is standing in the doorway of Lodge Two. Turner holds up the case and points enquiringly towards the shed.

“In your wee office?” he asks, smiling, like he’s a fucking rep here to do a sub on some linen supplies.

“Naw, just come on through here,” Colin tells him. He’s just locked the hut, having shut down the PC so it doesn’t record anything.

Turner follows him into the lodge, where Colin gestures towards the low coffee table and sofa in the sitting area.

“Let’s make this brief, I’ve things to get on with,” Turner says, the smug bastard acting like this is all routine, in order to more subtly rub it in. He places the briefcase down on the coffee table with near ceremonial delicacy, bending over to open the catches.

Colin has never been sure he’d be able to go through with this, hasn’t slept since he decided it was his only way out. The moment is almost upon him. This was when he feared, even expected, that he’d falter, but he feels different when he sees the paperwork being laid out in front of him, and with such self-satisfied relish.

Two million quid. That’s what he’d be signing away.

“Do you need a pen, son?” Turner asks, holding up a bookie’s biro, which, like the briefcase, he must also have chosen and brought specifically for the occasion.

“It’s all right, I’ve got my own,” Colin says, then pulls out the gun from inside his jacket and shoots Turner through the centre of his forehead.

§

“So the unidentified mobile that phoned Robbie must have been Colin’s,” Martin suggests. “He needed somebody to blame for Turner’s death, somebody he could then also kill and make it look like suicide. Who better than Robbie, who is known to hate Johnny anyway?”

“Who better indeed?” muses Jojo, a concerned, concentrated look on her face as she speaks.

“A few days later, Charlie Fenwick’s body would be uncovered and the story would come out: Johnny murdered Charlie in 1969 after he had an affair with his wife. Colin can tell the polls he told Robbie about Johnny’s interest in stopping the demolition and Robbie drew his own conclusions. It would then look like Robbie killed Johnny in revenge for his real dad’s murder, but then couldn’t face what he’d done and killed himself.”

Jojo nods sincerely to convey that she’s buying his theory, but there’s still a furrow of doubt along her brow; caused, he knows, by the one remaining question neither of them can answer.

“So how come it’s Colin who ends up dead?”

“H
e’s able to talk, but not for long,” Dr Lanimer says. “He’s agreed to speak to you, against my advice, I should state, so if I think he’s getting distressed, I’m warning you now, I’ll be asking—and expecting—you to leave.”

“That’s understood, Doctor,” Karen assures her. She can see Robbie through the window. He’s still wired up to various machines, but the ventilator is no longer one of them. He looks very pale and very small.

“I’ll take you through, then,” Dr Lanimer says.

“Thanks.”

Dr Lanimer leads them to Robbie’s station, stepping aside to let them through, but remaining at the foot of the bed. Robbie is lying flat on his back, but turns his head slightly to face Karen when she takes a seat next to him.

“Hello, Robert,” she says. “I’m—”

“Karen Gillespie,” he says, his voice a hoarse croak. “Jesus.”

“Well remembered.”

“Nothing wrang with this eye,” he says. “Or my memory.”

“Glad to hear it. Though it’s Detective Superintendent Gillespie now.”

“Congratulations.”

“How you doing?”

“Been better. Could be worse. How’s Noodsy? He awright, or did Boma get him as well?”

“Boma did this to you?”

“Aye. He heard me and Noodsy got lifted tryin tae steal that ololeum stuff. He knew his auld man was missin, so when he heard aboot the bodies, he went mental. Have you got him?”

“It’s in hand,” Karen says.

“Good. What aboot Noodsy?”

“He’s in custody. You want to tell us what happened?”

“What did he say happened?”

“Let’s hear your story first, and we’ll play spot-the-difference later.”

“Am I under arrest?” Robbie looks at Karen and then to Dr Lanimer.

Karen shakes her head. “All in good time. You’re not going anywhere, are you?”

“Do I need a lawyer?”

“We’re just having a wee chat the now.”

“I think I should have a lawyer.”

“This isn’t a formal statement we’re taking. We just want to hear your version of what happened. Who killed your father, Robbie?”

“Johnny Turner.”

“Yes. Who killed him?”

“Naw, you’re no gettin it. Johnny Turner killed my father.”

Karen and Tom look at each other. “
What?
” they both ask.

Robbie nods, as much as the wires, tubes, bandages and his obvious discomfort will allow. “Johnny Turner killed my father,” he repeats calmly. “
Colin Temple
killed Johnny Turner.”

Karen almost trips over her words, so many questions threatening to spill out that she only just manages to prioritise the most important one. “And who killed Colin Temple?”

Colin doesn’t know how long he’s been standing there when he hears the second car pull up outside. He hasn’t moved since he pulled the trigger and Johnny fell, other than to lower his outstretched arm. Even that stayed in place for a long time, until sheer fatigue from the weight of the gun tugged it down. He hasn’t looked at anything else either, hasn’t taken his eyes from the mess on the floor: three spheres gaping unblinkingly back at him. Two of them are Johnny’s astonished open eyes. The third comprises two concentric circles, powder burn framing the entry wound like a ring around a planet.

His own planet, his own world, no longer exists. It was swallowed by the black hole in Johnny’s head, from which he knows it can never return.

He hears soft footsteps, the sound of a voice.

“Colin?”

Oh, God. Oh, no. Oh, no. Please, no.

He can’t do this.

He must do this.

“In here,” he responds, though his own voice sounds miles away, sounds like someone else’s. It’s not his any more. He’s not him any more.

§

“He’s staunin there wi a gun,” Robbie says. “I never saw it was in his hand until I was practically in the door. That’s when I saw Johnny. I cannae mind what I says. My held was, ye know, just…naewhere. That’s when he tellt me Johnny killed my real da, an that’s how he’d disappeared in 1969. He was in some state, could hardly talk for greetin. Said Johnny was tryin tae stop him demolishin the hotel because that’s where the body was buried. So we’re baith just staunin there for…Christ, felt like ages…And eventually I says, ye know, “Fuck’s sake, whit ye gaunny dae noo?” That’s when he pointed the gun at me, tellt me tae get doon on ma knees. I worked oot the script pretty fuckin sharpish at that point, believe me.”

Robbie sighs, closes his eyes for a second, opens them again. “I’d like tae be able tae say I made a grab for the gun or whatever, but the truth is I was helpless. Couldnae move, couldnae think, couldnae even speak. I was doon on the floor, an he was right next tae me, the gun at my heid. I wanted tae look at him, but I couldnae even dae that. I just closed my eyes. We were like that for ages, or that’s what it felt like. Then all of a sudden he just says: “I’m sorry.””

§

Colin has the gun inches from the head of this trembling, terrified figure cowering on the floor. He’s done it once, he tells himself. He can do it again. He
has
to do it again. That was different, though. That was Johnny. That was the man who was going to take everything away from him. This is somebody he’s known since he was not even five years old; somebody he saw every day of his childhood.

Johnny has taken everything away from him anyway. There is no way back. There is no escaping this.

He can see the arrest, the cameras, the papers, the trial, the van, the cell.

There is no way back.

He puts the gun to his own head.

“I’m sorry,” he says.

T
here’s half a dozen Dibbles round Boma’s house in case it has leaked that Robbie is awake and the bastard’s planning to make a run for it. From the sight of the car in the drive and the sound of a telly inside, Karen can safely conclude that this won’t be the case. She walks up to the front door and rings the bell.

“What are you grinning about?” Tom asks.

“It’s moments like this that keep me doing this job,” she replies.

Boma comes to the door in his stocking soles, Y-fronts and a Celtic top. “The fuck yous want noo?” he snarls.

“To arrest you,” Karen says. “For the attempted murder of Robert Turner. He’s feeling better, by the way.”

“Whit?” Boma splutters, his eyes flashing briefly with shock before he pulls it together and restores his game face. “This is harassment. I was in Sutherland. I tellt ye. I’ve got somebody up there can corroborate.”

“Can he corroborate this?” Tom asks, and holds up a sheaf of computer printouts. “These are still images from CCTV footage taken at Celtic Park on Wednesday night. That’s you there in your usual seat, in roughly the same spot you used to stand in the old Jungle, as I believe you put it.”

If it is at all possible, Boma looks even more pallid and cadaverous than usual as this sinks in.

“Hey, Brian,” Karen says. “Do you remember you chucked mud in my pal Helen’s face back at primary school?”

“Dae I fuck. Whit ye talkin aboot?”

Karen looks him in the eye and smiles broadly. “Because I do,” she says. “Okay boys, cuff this piece of shite.”

§

This time, Noodsy really does hug Martin. They’re on the steps of the police station, a taxi waiting to take Noodsy home. Noodsy is in tears, and just clings on to Martin for a while before he can compose himself enough to speak.

“Thanks man,” he says, sniffing. Martin almost expects to see him wipe his nose with his sleeve like he saw him do a thousand times at St Elizabeth’s. “You’re the fuckin’ man, Marty. I knew you’d come through for me. You were always the smartest guy I knew. I owe ye for ever, mate. I owe ye for ever.”

“It was a team effort, Noodsy,” Martin replies. “Karen played her part, remember, and I should inform you that you owe Scotty quite a few pints as well. But the real brains of the outfit was Jojo.”

Noodsy nods enthusiastically. “I owe yous all.”

“You don’t owe me anythin, except to keep your nose clean from here on in.”

“Aw, nae danger, seriously,” he insists. “This was a big fuckin wake-up call for me, man. Lot ay time tae dae some heavy thinkin these last few days. I’m playin it straight fae noo. I know a second chance when I’m lookin at it.”

“Glad to hear it.”

“Whit aboot Robbie? Is he in the clear, then?”

“Same as yourself, there’s still the conspiracy-to-pervert charge, but they cannae make a case for the murders. Karen said there’s no way the Procurator Fiscal would touch it. Plenty of circumstantial evidence, but no motive. His explanation might be uncorroborated, but it’s the only one that ties everything else together and makes any sense. You’re both still looking at custodial terms.”

“Ach, six months, probably. Jakey sentence. Canter. Specially considerin I thought I was for the big ticket. All-day pass. And dae ye know what scared me most aboot that?”

“What?”

“The feelin that it was always due me: tae get done for some-thin I never did. It’s been happenin tae me since my first day at school. That auld ratbag Lanegan pulled me up for stealin money aff some boy. Wouldnae listen when I tried tae tell her Colin had given us it. That was me branded a thief for life.
Vee-lan
, ” he mimics. “Remember?”

“Aye. How could I forget?”

Noodsy raps him on the head. “Bawd igg.”

“What ever happened to Momo?” Martin asks. “Is
he still living?
”

Noodsy laughs. “I think he ended up in Calderpark Zoo. Or mibbae they returned him to the wild. Fuck knows.”

§

Martin watches the taxi drive off as he walks away, heading in the direction of the railway station, Noodsy giving him a last wave through the rear window. He smiles to himself, all those memories coming back, right to that first day. Poor Colin. He did give Noodsy that money, but Martin had no idea Noodsy had ended, up in trouble for it. Bastard of a coincidence some other kid had money taken off him the same day. Then it hits him: there was no other kid, just Colin. He gave out all those coins like he was paying for their books, a wee wean with no concept of what the money was worth. Went home, probably got asked by his mummy where his cash went. Realises he’s screwed up and tells a big fib: a bad boy took it from me. Mummy tells the infant headmistress and suddenly Noodsy’s a thief for life.

Jesus
.

It set Colin on a certain path too, Martin realises. He became quite the arch manipulator as the years went on. Learnt how to use peer pressure, learnt how to isolate people, learnt how to influence the pack. But the incident with the coins was what first taught him how people would believe a story if you presented it properly; how the blame could be shifted from yourself if you picked the right person to shift it to.

That was how he came up with his plan to make it look like someone else had murdered Johnny before committing suicide. He chose someone with a plausible motive, but that only covered the first part.

Martin has to stop walking as it strikes him that Colin would not have chosen Robbie as the ideal candidate for the second. There was someone else, someone with an identical motive, but someone who might almost be expected to die a suicide. Someone whose own mother had killed herself. Someone who, despite being the lodges’ cleaner, was conveniently ill and thus out of the picture for several days while all the corpse-disposal was going on. Someone whom Robbie felt loyalty towards. Someone who knew she could turn to him in the most acute crisis, such as being stuck at a murder scene with two dead bodies and an apparent motive for killing one of them. Someone who, he is certain, also owned a pay-as-you-go mobile phone. And someone with keys to the hut in order to remove that hard drive.