Stella sipped her vodka. Breathed deeply.
‘You okay?’ Doyle looked at her. ‘Good night?’
Stella smiled, raised her glass. ‘Fabulous.’
DREAMER
George Grey turns in his sleep, fingers worrying at unfamiliar sheets. Unfamiliar smells. He sighs, eyelids flickering, lashes damp with tears. Remembering. It had been his sixth birthday when MacIntyre had first taken him to Gilmore’s house and left him there. That’s when it had all started. George whimpers in his sleep. Eventually he awakens. There is a low light on in the room, the kind of night light a child may have in their bedroom.
There is a knock on the door. A voice asks him, ‘Are you okay, George?’
‘I’m okay.’ George feels calmer and soon he closes his eyes again and falls asleep. Now he dreams of the future. He is standing in a field. He can hear birds singing; he feels the grass beneath him. The sun is shining and the tears dry on his face. George smiles.
Outside the wind rages through skeletal trees and rain lashes at the brass sign. The Keenan Institute.
Chapter 64
Saturday, 14 December
Doyle sipped his coffee and didn’t bother to rearrange his face into any kind of civil. That kind of shite could wait. He heard footsteps walk towards his office, then pause. The knock on the door was slight, tentative, respectful. Aye, well it had better be fucking respectful.
Smithy inched his way into the room. Tried to say, ‘Okay, Mr Doyle?’ but his voice had deserted him. Stood, hands clasped together, shaking. Blubber glistening, pools of sweat cooling.
Looked like his bowels might let him down.
Doyle shook his head sadly. ‘You like robins, Smithy?’
Smithy shifted uncomfortably. Said nothing. Eyes darting.
‘What about sparrows?’
Smithy stared at the thick carpet, clenched his buttocks. Concentrated.
‘You deaf, Smithy?’
‘Is it like a trick question, Mr Doyle? If you want me to like them, aye, fair enough. But if no, well that’s fine as well. Jist, you know, jist tell me.’ He licked his lips. ‘Whit’s the right answer?’
‘You tell me, Smithy.’
Smithy bit his lip. Hard. Drew blood. Sucked it back into his mouth quickly.
‘I find wee birds handy, you know?’
‘How’s that then Mr Doyle, you one of them . . . things . . . no sure of the name . . .?’ Smithy tried hard, like he was fighting for his life, ‘A tweeter . . . a twitcher?’
Doyle smiled. ‘An ornithologist, is that what you mean Smithy?’
‘Aye Mr Doyle, that’s whit I mean.’ He sounded unsure.
‘Well, see a wee bird told me that you’ve been, now, what’s the right word here?’
Silence.
‘Fraternising, yeah that’ll do. See the wee bird whispered in my ear that you and that bollocks Stevie Tenant have been seen having a wee get-together.’
Smithy turned white, started to shake. ‘I jist bumped into him in a pub, couple of times, Mr Doyle, honest.’
‘Is that right?’
‘Honest Mr Doyle. I jist nodded tae him. Couldnae ignore him could I?’
Doyle sat back in his chair, rested his hands on his boat of a desk. Watched Smithy try for a smile, his face a tangle of spasm. Waited some more. Saw the attempt to smile die on his face. Watched the face grow pale. Kept his voice low, reasonable. ‘See there’s something I don’t like. Any ideas?’
Smithy didn’t trust an answer, shook his head.
‘I don’t like it when folk are lying to me.’
Silence.
‘But worse than that, way fucking worse is something I hate.’ Doyle paused. ‘Care to hazard a guess Smithy?’
More silence.
‘I’ll take that as a no then. The thing I hate most in this fucking world is disloyalty.’ Doyle dropped his voice, held his palm out towards Smithy. ‘Can’t make it any clearer can I?’
‘But Mr D . . .’
Doyle held a finger to his lips. ‘Shhh, Smithy, it’s too late for excuses. Thinking back on it, there was the night that you chased the two wee boys. Seems to me like it wasn’t just a mistake, looks awfully like you were laying a trail for the polis. A trail which started at Gilmore and led to the wee boys, then to you and finally it ended at me. And now there’s a wee lassie lying dead. Now I’m no angel but a dead student isn’t good for business. Can you at least stretch your pea brain around that point?’
Smithy nodded. Look genuinely contrite. Relaxed a little.
A bit too premature.
‘So, what I’m saying is, if her drugs didn’t come from me via Weirdo, then they came from Tenant, McGregor or an independent. But, see, here’s my problem. That wee lassie was at Glasgow Uni, in the West End. Am I correct?’
Smithy nodded. Looked at the floor. Waited.
‘And who supplies the West End?’
‘You do Mr Doyle.’
‘But it wasn’t my gear – see my problem? Which brings us back to the wee bird that told me they’d seen you with Stevie Tenant.’
The penny dropped. Smithy knew that this wasn’t just a slap on the wrist.
‘You know your options?’
Smithy nodded, his Adam’s apple bobbing erratically.
‘Relocation’s always the safest bet. Edinburgh’s mibbe too close, Aberdeen’s nice at this time of the year, or further up? Otherwise . . .’
‘No!’ Smithy held up his hands. ‘No. Please Mr Doyle, I’m out of here. Honest. I’ve a mate in Aberdeen I can stay with. First thing tomorrow morning . . .’ He stared at Doyle, saw his expression. ‘Just wanted to say cheerio to ma girlfriend?’
Saw that Doyle disagreed with that plan of action.
‘Aye, okay, I’m on my way to Buchanan Street bus station. Last bus . . .’
Doyle shook his head.
Smithy waited. Eventually asked, ‘I’ve no to go to Aberdeen?’
‘Aberdeen’s fine but you’ll be going by train. Faster. I want you gone. Understand?’
‘Next train leaving. Honest, Mr Doyle.’
‘You see be on it. Otherwise . . .’
But Smithy was already out of the door. His bowels had moved.
Chapter 65
Later on, when she’d thought about it, when she had traced the events of that morning back to the beginning, Marjory Watkins decided that it was all the fault of her husband, Rory, like so many of the other things that had gone wrong in her life. It had been Rory’s idea to get the dog in the first place, a small border collie. A very handsome dog with a gentle face, a long nose, soft brown eyes and neat paws. Answered to the name of Prince. There wasn’t much wrong with Prince, Marjory thought, but he was a dog and dogs needed to be walked. Daily. That morning Rory had complained of flu again and that was why at 7.15 a.m. Marjory had been trailing after Prince in the cold morning drizzle.
Marjory had crossed the bridge and had been walking along the Clydeside when she’d spotted it. She’d stared at it for a few seconds but her eyesight was impeccable and she knew what she saw. The shape bobbing head-down in the freezing water was a human being, a man. Marjory gave a short cry and pointed, but other than the dog there was no one else to see the floating body. Marjory had not taken her phone with her that morning and so had to run into the road and flag down an early-morning bus. The driver called it in and had the kindness to pour her a cup of sweet tea from his flask as they waited for the police to arrive. Marjory had never cursed in her life, but that morning she called her husband a lazy bastard in front of the policeman. The policeman had nodded.
Chapter 66
Weirdo stood in the train station sipping a takeaway coffee from a cardboard cup. The station was open-plan, which meant every chill from the weather outside travelled through, keeping the place about the same temperature as a freezer. He blew on his coffee and watched the steam rise through the cold air. He checked the timetable again; the train to Aberdeen was due to leave in ten minutes. So far no Smithy. His mobile rang. ‘Mr Doyle.’