‘What, because I’m gay?’
‘... hit Oldcastle at some point this morning. Bob Eason has had a setback in his bid to resurrect the Warriors, as council safety officers refuse him permission to reopen City Stadium for a charity concert. Local rap star Donny “Sick Dawg” McRoberts was rumoured to be headlining...’
I stared at him. ‘No, because you’ve got terrible taste. And it’s not just in men, you like all sorts of stuff that’s either crap or not good for you.’
‘... later this year. Police are appealing for witnesses, following a hit-and-run on Glensheilth Crescent earlier today. The victim, said to be—’ I switched off the radio.
Shifty nodded. ‘Alice is going to be OK, you know that, don’t you? She’ll pull through.’ His hand left the steering wheel to clamp down on my shoulder, voice going for cheery optimism and not exactly making it: ‘Besides, after all that booze, bet she’s pickled enough inside to last for generations.’ A sad smile. ‘You and me will be a thousand years dead, in our graves, and she’ll still be bumbling about, annoying everyone.’
Yeah...
Then why did I have this gaping hollow in the middle of my chest, that kept filling with scalding concrete?
— in the darkness, bleeding... —
44
Shifty took a right, onto a street with loads of tiny roads leading off both sides of it — each one only big enough for a dozen tiny houses and their tiny gardens. He pulled up about two thirds of the way along. ‘Number fifty-four.’
It wasn’t much to look at: a modest semi, the mirror image of the house it was attached to. No garage, just an empty off-road parking bay. Two windows downstairs, three up. Wooden cladding on the upper storey, as if someone had tried to make this part of the street look less depressing. And failed.
We climbed out.
He gave my shoulder another thump. ‘She’ll be OK.’
I pulled out Alice’s phone and checked her calendar again: ‘K DEWAR — TMM’S LAW’ which had to mean ‘Toby Macmillan’s Mother’s lawyer.’ The mother who broke her wee boy’s arm, invited an abusive stepdad into his life, and was currently appealing against her conviction for neglect.
And Ann Tweedale thought we didn’t know what it was like down in the trenches, as if we didn’t wade through them every single day.
Shifty sniffed as we made our way up to the front door of number fifty-four. ‘Any chance we can grab a bite to eat after this one? Haven’t had anything since lunchtime.’
Right on cue, my stomach growled like an angry bear. Had I eaten since breakfast? Don’t think so. And that was a long time ago. ‘Who’s still serving, after midnight?’
He leaned on the bell. ‘That chippy on Shand Street will be open. Or the Kebab shops down Holland Street.’ No sign of life from inside, so Shifty had another go on the bell. ‘Shawarma-Llama-Ding-Dong’s meant to be good and they don’t shut till the clubs turf out at three.’ The bell rang again. ‘Or we could get something from the big Winslow’s and take it back to—’
The door opened and a blurry figure stood there, blinking out at us. Oily coils of whisky oozed out with him, leaving one of his knees locked and the other one wobbly. Wrapped in a towelling dressing gown, brawny arms poking out of the short sleeves. ‘What?’ Voice all slurred. ‘I was... was in the bath...’
Broad shoulders. Thinning hair, swept back from a tanned scalp. Strong jaw and muscular neck. But it was the eyes that gave it away: bright sapphire, with a dark border.
He was the solicitor I’d met at HMP Oldcastle: the one having a weep, round the side, by the bins; the one who said we could probably buy Steven Kirk off with eight to ten grand, so he wouldn’t press charges.
Shifty gave him a goooood long look up and down. A half smile. ‘Kenny.’
Kenneth Dewar’s bottom lip wobbled for a moment, then tears spilled out of those wolf’s eyes. ‘I’m sorry.’
I banged the tip of my cane on the door. ‘Much though I hate to break the sexual tension, you had an appointment with Dr Alice McDonald at noon.’
He nodded. Palmed the tears from his eyes. ‘I heard on the news. I’m so, so sorry.’
Shifty rubbed his hands together. ‘Look, can we come in? It’s Baltic out here.’
Another nod, then he turned and led the way into a living room festooned with old magazines and empty takeaway containers. Many of which harboured things well on the evolutionary route to sentience. The whole place smelled like a bin bag that’d been left in the sun.
So much for ‘completely shaggable’ — Kenneth Dewar was a slob.
He scooped armfuls of yellowed newspapers off a cheap couch and waved us to sit. Wiped away the tears again. ‘How can I help?’ Sounding slightly more sober now.
When he dumped his hoarded newspapers behind the couch there was a Father Jack clatter of empty bottles.
A quick peek over the back revealed that most of them were supermarket own-brand whisky. So not just a slob, a functioning-alcoholic slob.
Given the state of the place, it was probably more hygienic to stay standing. ‘We need to know what you and Alice talked about.’
‘Yes. Of course.’ Dewar gave a deep, shuddering breath, looking at the floor beneath his wet feet — drips of soapy water soaking into newsprint, turning it a darker shade of grey. ‘She was lovely. She really was. Wanted to know all about Oscar and Lewis and Toby and Andrew. And... she was so easy to talk to, you know?’ Dewar folded his thick arms around himself, muscles rippling beneath the hairy skin. ‘I’ve never met anyone so sympathetic to other people’s problems.’
‘And what problems were those, Mr Dewar?’
His shoulders came up. ‘Sheriff, Gerrard, and Butler do mostly corporate work, but the partners think it’s important to have a presence in the courts as well. And I’m always the one who ends up lumbered with the scumbag defendants — the wife beaters and the sex offenders.’
Sounded familiar. ‘Because there are enough fascist states in the world without us being one of them?’
Another nod. ‘You think it’s easy? Walking into those interview rooms, knowing your client is a rancid piece of shit who ruins everything, every life, they touch? Dr McDonald understood.’ Dewar bit his bottom lip, those wolf’s eyes spilling tears down his cheeks. ‘She gave me her card, for... She said I might benefit from therapy. And now...’
That was Alice, always trying to help the broken and the lonely.
Shifty pulled a face, raising his eyebrows as Dewar stood there and sobbed.
Well what the hell was I supposed to do about it?
I cleared my throat. ‘Do you need us to call someone?’
Dewar scrubbed at his face again. ‘Sorry. You don’t need to see this.’
‘It’s OK.’
Another shuddering breath, then what was probably meant to be a smile. ‘Sorry. I’d better get dressed. Standing here like an idiot. Please,’ pointing at the tip he lived in, ‘make yourselves at home. I’ll only be a minute.’
Then he turned and slumped from the room, one hand over his face, shoulders trembling. Then the heavy damp slap-slap-slap of his feet, climbing the stairs.
‘Jesus.’ Shifty puffed out his cheeks. ‘What a mess.’
Difficult to tell if he was talking about the house or the man.
‘Think you dodged a bullet, there.’
‘Yeah, probably.’
Upstairs, a door clunked shut.
I leaned back against the wall — it was the only clean surface in the room. ‘So Alice comes here, she asks Dewar about all the victims, offers him therapy, then heads off to her next appointment: Chris McHale.’