11
The clock never stops. It is inexorable. One moment moves to the next with an inevitable but inaudible tick. People go about their daily lives: what gadget to buy next, what processed crap to shovel down their neck for dinner, what wine goes with what meat, who said what to whom? And the pettiness of it drives me fucking nuts.
That’s probably why I’m still single. I can’t switch off. I can’t leave the horrors of the day in the car before I enter my front door with a genuine smile on my face. I unlock my front door and think of Kevin Banks. How will that man ever find normality again?
But the clock keeps on moving. One tick before another tock. Unceasing and soon the unbelievable becomes the normal. Mankind’s greatest trick. The ability to adjust. We have to or the species would never have survived the millennia.
One of the first cops I worked with, Harry Fyfe, was always going on about how mankind was doomed. A pathetic pile of shit, was how he succinctly put it. We do some God-awful things to each other, he would say. We’re ruined. Hopeless cases. I used to laugh at him. After a day like today, I’m on his side.
Jeez, I’m full of it tonight. Need to switch off. But I slump before the telly and switch it on. Some magazine show on the Beeb blares into the gloom of my living room, and they’re talking about the nation’s greatest fucking casserole.
‘Oh for f … Turn that shite off,’ I shout and aim the remote at the telly. ‘Dinner,’ I say out loud. ‘What will I have for dinner?’
You do that, don’t you, when you live on your own? Talk to yourself.
There’s feck all in the fridge. And nothing apart from a tin of tuna in the cupboard. That’ll do. Hardly filling for a growing man. I pat my expanding belly. It’ll do.
Aileen Banks’s laptop is still on my sofa. Oops. How did that happen? I need to get it into the office and recorded into evidence. Tomorrow.
I push open the lid. Bring up Facebook and before I even articulate the thought I’m looking for the two girls as described by Karen. They were the “it” girls, so surely Aileen would want to follow them? I find her friend list. I’m looking for a Claire and an Emma.
As I scroll through Aileen’s list of friends I have to fight down the old curmudgeon in me. How can people be arsed? There’s nearly three hundred “friends”, and an alert is telling me she’s had over fifty friend requests … since she died.
As the online peeps say: WTF? Even I have heard of internet trolls. Are these internet ghouls? Befriending a dead person?
There’s a Claire. Skinny with black, straight hair was how Karen described her, and that’s how the picture looks. Claire Baird, it says. Tells me she works at Starbucks. Goes to Glasgow University. Lives in Glasgow.
Feeling ridiculously pleased with myself, I click on ‘’.
Her birthday, email address and mobile number are noted. Her favourite quote is “I am the one who knocks.” She’s lost me there. Some horror movie quote maybe?
Is nothing sacred in this online world? All kinds of creepsters could get their hands on this information and do all kinds of weird with it.
Her timeline – that’s what they call it, right? – is banal taken to the edge of boring and beyond. With an added pinch of dull and a twist of trivial. She shops, like, a lot. Goes to clubs, like, a lot. And uses ‘’ a lot. And comes up fairly often. Lots of love? Lots of lollies? Look out lippy?
A picture of red shoes with the words, . And then a few rants about a TV show with too many initials to work out what it actually is.
I look for posts on the day of Aileen’s murder.
‘.’
‘’
And the last one for the day, at 7:17pm:
This has eleven comments. One from Aileen. To my unpractised eye it looks out of place with the other comments. Like she’s desperate to join in. Claire replies to Aileen’s comment with
I recoil, and it’s not aimed at me.
One of the comments in this thread is from an Emma. Emma Smith. Her details are much more scant than Claire’s, and her profile picture is a photo of a male pretty-boy – not Emma, then. Her date of birth just has a month and a day. No year. And her mobile number is missing.
I scan her photos. Nothing much until I see two girls. One is tagged as Claire Baird, the other, a girl of similar age and height with blond, spiky hair, as Emma.
Emma Smith, hello there.
Her timeline for tonight says,
Don’t mind if I do.
* * *
Cafe Gandolfi was pure jumping, as the young ones say, when I arrived. Not been in here for ages. A bit expensive for my tastes. Haggis, neeps and tatties for £13. What’s that all about? I could rustle that up on my own for a couple of quid. But then I wouldn’t get to experience the L-shaped room, high ceiling, dark wood panelling and the tables and chairs that look like they were made from materials washed up on a beach.
Looking around the people in the room I feel like I’ve landed in an alternative Glasgow. When I do go out, I’m more used to the cheap and cheerful “whit’s your fuckin’ poison, mate” kinda pub. This is where you hang out if you’re on trend, wear the latest clothes and carry the newest iPad.
‘Ray McBain, what the hell are you doing here?’ a voice chimes in my ear. I recognise it and feel a huge smile form on my face.
‘Maggie.’ I turn to face her, lean down and draw her into a hug. ‘I could ask you the same question.’
She beams up at me. ‘The girls…’ she sweeps her right arm dramatically towards a table. Four inquisitive, shiny faces stare back. ‘…invited me out. Seeing as it’s my birthday.’
Shit. ‘It’s your birthday? Why didn’t you tell me?’ She’s looking great. All clean and primped and pink with a touch too much booze.
‘Cos then I get to crow at how rubbish you are as a mate.’ Four faces are still staring at me. ‘Anyway, what the hell are you doing here?’
‘Would you believe it, work?’
‘Coming from you, aye, I would. Has there been a murrrdurrr?’ A drunken squeal of laughter follows this question.
Taggart, you have a lot to answer for.
‘There has, actually.’
‘Oh shit,’ she makes an apologetic face. ‘You know me, I don’t watch the news.’
I pat my pocket, check I have my wallet on me. ‘Anyway, it looks like the birthday girl isn’t nearly drunk enough yet. Can I buy you a drink?’
‘No thanks, Ray,’ she says with a smile. Flicks her hair away from her face. ‘It’s getting to the point of no return. Fast. If I have much more they’ll be pumping my stomach down at the Western.’
‘Would you no rather get something else pumped?’ one of her friends shouts. Laughter erupts from everyone else at the table. High pitched enough to pierce an eardrum.
‘Did you just turn down a drink?’ another friend asks. ‘You mental?’
‘We’re drinking champagne, Ray,’ says another one.
‘Are you one of the boys in blue, Ray?’
‘Why don’t you join us?’
‘Sorry, ladies. I’m working.’
A chorus of “awwwww” rings round the table.
Then.
‘Disnae mean you can’t buy us a drink.’ It’s the one with the brown bob. Mediterranean tan. Cleavage reaching all the way down to the table top. She catches me looking and winks.
‘So what it is then? What are you all drinking?’ I ask, caught up in the good mood flowing from the table.
‘It’s alright, Ray,’ says Maggie, patting the top of my arm. ‘We’ve more than enough, thanks.’
‘A bottle of their finest Taittinger,’ says one.
‘Naw, that’s cheap crap,’ says another. ‘They’ve a cheeky wee Dom Perignon on the menu.’
‘But you can only buy it if you join us,’ says another.
‘Seriously, Ray,’ says Maggie. ‘I apologise that my friends are badgering you…’
‘She’s thirty-one today,’ someone shouts.
‘Gawd, that makes me feel ancient,’ another responds.
‘Shut it, cheeky,’ says Maggie. Back to me. ‘There’s no need, Ray.’ She looks embarrassed.
I’ve got to milk this.
‘Now what kind of friend would I be, Maggie…’
‘From what we’ve heard you guys have been way more than friends.’ More high squeals. Maggie looks like she wants to run away. I just grin. She throws me a “see you” look.
‘I’m going to have you, Littlejohn. And you, Weir.’
This is rewarded by a snort from one and a giggle from the other.
‘Excuse me a moment, ladies. I’ll just go to the bar,’ I say to a chorus of cheers.
Maggie follows me. ‘You don’t have to get me anything, Ray. My birthday isn’t really until tomorrow. But this was the best night to get everyone together.’ We reach the bar. ‘But if you insist.’ Cheeky grin. ‘You can get me this one.’ She pulls a menu out from a stand, and her finger-nail, painted deep red and crested with a diamante, rests on the description: “The granddad of all prestige cuvee champagnes, truly iconic. Moët ensure pristine quality, regardless of the volume produced. The 2000 vintage is full of life, with vibrant fruit and a piercing intensity of dried fruits, cocoa and vanilla.” It is indeed a Dom Perignon and comes in at a wallet busting £140.
‘You can fuck right off,’ is my succinct reply.
A waiter approaches. Male. If he’s a day over twenty-one, I’ve got fifteen toes. Shaved head, skin so fresh it looks like he applies it each morning and sporting a beard so thick and bushy it could have come right out of a photo of the troops in the American Civil War.
Surreal.
‘Am I drunk already?’ I ask Maggie.
‘What can I get you, sir?’ he asks.
I drag Maggie’s finger up the page. Find a price that suits. £47.
‘That one.’ I fish my credit card out of my wallet.
‘What? No moths?’ grins Maggie.
‘It is a special day.’ Caught up in the moment, I lean forward and kiss her. On the lips. Maggie steps back. Flushed. I hear a comment from the table.
‘Oh, Maggie could be getting a birthday shag after all.’ Cue more giggles.
‘Ignore them,’ Maggie says.
‘They seem a good bunch,’ I say.
‘Could do a lot worse,’ she replies with a fond smile. She touches her lips with the tips of her fingers. Lightly. Then scratches her cheek, deflecting my vision.
‘So,’ she says.
‘So.’
‘Haven’t heard from you…’
‘Been busy. Lots of bad people out there,’ I say, thinking, when did we get this awkward? Is it because her pals are here? I lean forward with a grin. ‘I suppose a birthday shag is out of the question?’
She laughs. Head back. Sounds like the scatter of gold coins on a cobbled street. God, she looks gorgeous.
‘Takes more than a fifty quid bottle of champagne,’ she replies.
‘We could do a lot worse than each other, you know.’
‘Yeah. Well. Not going there, Ray. Not tonight.’ She opens her mouth as if she’s going to say more. Then changes her mind. ‘Did you really come in here tonight on a case?’
‘Aye.’ Shit. I’d momentarily forgot. ‘Looking for a couple of young women.’
‘Oh, aye?’
‘Aye. Friends, sorry, acquaintances, of a girl that was murdered.’
Maggie shivers. ‘Right.’ She coughs. ‘Let’s not go there either. It’s my birthday.’ She turns to the bar. ‘And where’s that handsome young barman with my champagne?’
Just then Beardy appears. In his hand the foiled neck of a bottle jutting out from a silver bucket full of ice.
‘How many glasses, sir?’
‘Don’t worry about glasses, son,’ says Maggie. ‘We’ve got a sufficiency. Unless, of course, you want to join us, Ray?’
‘I’ll just have a glass of fresh orange.’ I say to the barman. I scan the room. No sign of the girls I’m looking for.
‘Not here?’ asks Maggie.
‘No.’
‘Come and sit with us then.’
‘Ach, I’ll just be cramping your style.’
‘Ach nothing. Get over yourself, McBain.’
The women at the table cheer when they see us returning with the gold-foil-topped bottle. And give each other knowing looks. I carry a chair over from another table, take a seat and the next half hour flows past in a flurry of laughs and chatter. I almost hold my own, but the women are too quick even for me. Taking the chance when the conversation moves to the far end of the table, the woman beside me, Gillian, moves in close. She puts a hand on my thigh and says, ‘You could do a lot worse than our Maggie, you know.’
‘I know.’
‘You men. I’ll never understand you.’
Maggie looks at us, a quizzical expression light on her face. ‘What are you cooking up, Littlejohn?’
‘Me? Nothing.’ She leans back in her chair and takes a sip of her champagne. ‘Just telling Ray here that you’re not getting any younger.’
‘Ha,’ Maggie laughs. Then she shakes her head. ‘See what I’ve to put up with?’
The rest of the conversation goes past me as I noticed a group of young people enter. Three boys, two girls. I recognise the girls from their photos – thank you, Facebook. I consider how I’m going to get a chance to talk to the girls on their own, when I see the group split by gender. Good. I wait until the girls are settled at a table with their drinks before I go and talk to them about a murder.