The long knives, p.25
The Long Knives, page 25
Drummond does not react in any way to this.
Lennox wants to pull her aside, tell her he needs to talk to her. Or hold her. But he doesn’t know what to say, and it would be ridiculous. So he rises and heads back to his own desk. Then, unable to settle, is up by the board, looking at the pictures, notes, connections. Wants to place Fraser Ross, his own nephew, right at the centre of this.
Then loyal Scott McCorkel, at his shoulder, asks him if he’s okay. Lennox nods, winks and heads off in departure. Leaves the young man energised by the acknowledgement of the intimacy, yet a little troubled and short-changed. Lennox needs to see Toal, to tell him that he has to find his nephew. Now he knows that Fraser is alive but scared and in hiding, it seems even more crucial to find him before whoever is looking for him does. Lennox suspects that someone to be Gayle. It’s pathetic in a grown man, but he’s also aware of how wary he is of incurring his sister’s disapproval. How Jackie evokes the childhood passivity he’s constantly railed against all his life.
Swings by Toal’s office, but he isn’t around. Calls him but he’s not answering his phone. His boss seems to communicate mainly by text these days. Lennox wonders if he’s still at the Gyle Park, or down at the morgue.
Boss, I really need to talk. Where are you?
Meet in Inverleith Park. At the pond.
Robert Toal’s transition is more mysterious to Lennox than any gender reassignment. The Serious Crimes boss is usually never far from his desk. The windswept park is a short walk from police headquarters. Arriving there, he finds Toal with a boy of around five. They’re sailing a boat in the pond. Toal looks up as Lennox approaches. — Ray. How goes?
— Good, boss, Lennox lies. — Yourself?
— Not bad. Just taking a bit of time out to look after my grandson, Bertie here. He nods at the kid, who contemplates the yacht slowing sailing over the still pond. — My daughter is at the dentist, emergency root canal.
Toal … babysitting on duty … the world is going fucking nuts …
As Bertie continues his intense supervision, walking round the edge of the pond, Toal confides: — Fannying about, Ray, like most of us on the force do for years. Spent all morning talking to McCaig and the coastguard, trying to find that fucking tent. What a joke.
— I never thought you’d be so cynical about the job.
Rolling his eyes, Toal produces a pantomime shrug Erskine would have been proud of. — At first I wanted to go out like the old cop cliché, on a high, closing a big case, he grins in cheerful defeat, looking around at the browning trees surrounding the pond. — But now that I know I’m done, I really couldn’t give a fuck. So I’m sorry for Norrie Erskine, but I’ve tapped out. I’m finished with murderers, rapists, paedos, sadists and weirdos. And, no offence here, Ray, or to poor Norrie, God rest his soul, but I’m also done with the fuck-ups who lock them up.
Lennox feels violated. Forces a shrug as if to say, none taken.
— Thank God they exist, Toal slaps his back, — but fuck them, and grinding his teeth, he rewarms to his theme, — and fuck the department and its bureaucracy. Fuck the opportunist media, politicians and the elites they play office boy and girl for. Most of all, fuck the dumb citizens of these islands who are too sheepish and dim to deserve to be anything other than patronised prey for those bastards.
— Fair enough, boss. Lennox blows compressed air out of his tight chest.
Fuck sake … has that cunt Hollis taken demonic possession of Toal’s body? When you start getting affirmation from fuckers who used to keep their heads down, then you know it’s game over …
— That’s not to say I don’t want you to get the job, Ray. Toal looks at him in baw-faced serenity. — Have you prepared for tomorrow morning?
— I have, Lennox says.
You haven’t given it a fucking second’s thought!
Toal nods in slow approval as they watch the boat skim the pond. When it gets into the middle, the wind cuts out as if a fan has been clicked off at a switch. It loiters in its own doldrums. Lennox thinks of Billy Lake, on his vessel, literally rolling out a barrel, full of holes, replete with the screams of a rival or former associate, as the roid-munching villain and one of his brick shithouse henchmen gleefully trundle it overboard into the North Sea. Perhaps accompanied by Sid James cackling, as celebratory beers are popped open on deck.
Then a snappy gust of wind manifests and Bertie’s boat starts to wobble. It blows over, capsizing and sinking to the bottom of the pond. The kid cries out, — Grandad!
Bob Toal punches Lennox lightly on the arm. — I exempt the bairns from this. They don’t deserve this shit.
— I know, that’s why I needed to talk to you – my nephew, he –
— I heard, Toal cuts in, saving Lennox from the burden of deciding whether or not to tell him Fraser phoned. — Find him, Ray. Fuck Erskine and the rest of the shit for now. Find the kid, and he moves across to his upset grandchild. — It happens, pal, he says soberly. — C’mon, we’ll go and get a new one and pick up your mum. He ruffles the boy’s hair and turns back to Lennox. — Later, Ray.
Lennox watches his gaffer depart, holding the hand of the unhappy boy. Recalls taking Fraser to Tynecastle, when he wouldn’t have been much older than Bertie. How he had to ask the drunk sitting in front of them to stop his loud cursing. The man turned round with an angry leer, as if ready for aggro, till he saw the sad kid. He instantly apologised, offering Fraser two fingers from his KitKat bar. They then struck up an easy conversation. It was a nice moment.
You need to find him.
But now Lennox has another appointment.
35
Opting to walk to Sally Hart’s office to try and clear his head, Lennox cuts along Stockbridge to Canonmills. Heading through King George V Park he traverses up Scotland Street and Dublin Street.
Calls Confectioner on the mobile he issued. Nothing; the line seems dead. Whoever the serial child rapist and murderer needed or wanted to get in touch with, it wasn’t him, and the phone has probably been confiscated by now.
Makes a call to Melville. — Jayne, it’s Ray. I need to see him. Confectioner. Is everything okay?
You’re checking on the welfare of that cunt! What a mess! But if he dies, the books die with him. The peace for the families dies with him.
— Yes, as far as know. I’ll speak to him, see if he’s amenable. But, Ray …
— Yes?
— There’s a new governor starting at the prison. He’s reorganising staffing and Ronnie McArthur is retiring. The new man will tighten things up. This is the last time I’ll be able to help you out here.
— I understand. I appreciate everything you’ve done. Then he clears his throat before saying, — I’m sorry I wasn’t able to find Rebecca, but I guarantee I’ll never stop trying.
— Thank you, Ray, Jayne says softly.
On his arrival at Sally’s, as he settles down in the chair, the first thing she contends is that he seems under stress again.
You can’t mention Trudi … or Drummond – Amanda, for fuck sake … Fraser …
— Yes … he acknowledges. — This case I’m on … some person or people … they’re castrating men. These are powerful men who are possibly, in fact, probably, highly abusive individuals. Sex offenders, but protected by the establishment. I’m investigating this but I’m …
As he hesitates, Sally finishes the sentence for him. — … Conflicted?
— No, Lennox says, fused with a sudden certainty. — Not at all.
Sally Hart looks at him, her eyes expanding in a penetrating revelation. — You’re on the side of the assail— whoever is doing this.
Lennox feels his head nod slowing in recognition. It’s good to be with someone who gets him. — It’s never been like cops and robbers to me, all that cut-and-dried good-versus-evil bollocks we con ourselves into believing. He hears the scorn infiltrate his tone. — A lot of coppers depress me, he states, and he suddenly spits out, — I hate Dougie Gillman, and wish death upon the cunt … Thailand, I told you before about … when I saw him with a lassie who was obviously underage and I reminded him of what we did for living … and the cunt nutted me. Are the likes of him any better than some of the people we lock up?
A thin smile plays across Sally Hart’s lips. Then she blows it out with a steely gaze. — Obviously, it’s not my place to pass judgement. But you have told me in these sessions that you yourself have been compelled to do things that you would normally find morally reprehensible, for the greater good.
— Yes … he says, — the job has it’s ugly diktats. But … and there’s a sincerity and pomposity in his tone that shocks him, — you can’t take it into your own life. I’ve no time for people who do that.
Lennox is shaken by his own hypocrisy. Trudi, for fuck sake! Was that not a salutary lesson? It was a matter of degree …
Sally looks as if she’s going to challenge him, but lets him ramble about various cases he has a feeling he’s dumped on her before. He also hears himself go on about transgender people, how he empathises with the plight of someone who feels constrained by the designation given to them by the world, but finds it too complex an issue to reduce to basic premises, and cites Lauren and Gayle as examples. But she lets him go on until she glances at her wrist and informs him that their time is up.
He emerges from the session with his head mangled by his own verbal torrent.
Find Fraser …
Talk to Trudi …
Talk to Amanda …
Find the cunt that killed Norrie … Confectioner has to fucking know …
Then he checks his texts. One is from a nameless number:
I hear you need to see me. It’s feeding time at the reptile house! Do come! I think we’ve loads to talk about!
It seems Confectioner has held on to Moobo the dealer’s Nokia. Sure enough, within a few minutes, Jayne Melville calls. Gives Lennox a time for his last visit.
Toal’s voice resonating in his head, Lennox opts to go via the Southside, in search of his own missing person. At Leonora’s flat there’s nobody home, though he can hear the cat mewing. Peeks through the letter box, to see two slitty eyes look up at him in judgement. Wants to kick the door in. Instead knocks on the neighbour’s across the way.
A hatchet-faced woman, cigarette stuck to her bottom lip, answers. — She’s been in, saw her yesterday.
— Does she have regular visitors, like these two? and he shows her pictures on his phone of both Fraser and Gayle.
— She has aw sorts roond there … The woman holds the phone implausibly close to her face. — I recognise those two awright, and she hands the phone back to Lennox. — A bit weird, but live and let live, ay.
— A decent philosophy, Lennox concedes, thanking her and leaving. In the stair, an email pops into his phone:
To: RLennox@policescot.co.uk
From: ADrummond@policescot.co.uk
Subject: Erskine Homicide
I spoke to Andrea Covington about the sexual harassment case with Norrie Erskine. It was the usual stuff, they had a fling, she broke it off after finding out he was married. He kept harassing her, and she filed a case against him. The department took his side. No charges were brought. Andrea left the force, and Erskine did shortly after that, to pursue a career in theatre. While she’s obviously aggrieved at her treatment, the focus of Andrea’s anger is the department, or the force in general, rather than Erskine. She claims to have no knowledge of either Piggot-Wilkins or Gulliver, has never met them. I don’t think she’s lying.
Best,
Amanda
He types back:
To: ADrummond@policescot.co.uk
From: RLennox@policescot.co.uk
Subject: Erskine Homicide
Great. Thanks.
When he gets to the prison, Lennox finds Confectioner in a buoyant mood, despite Moobo’s Nokia having been confiscated. — The phone proved incredibly useful, Lennox. Not for texting you, but for having conversations with the journalist who is writing my biography!
— Delighted for you, Lennox says, experiencing a sinking sensation. It was inevitable this would happen.
— I’m sure he’ll want to talk to you in due course, Lennox. This is our big chance to shine!
He bites his tongue, thinking of the two bodies in the well. What the fuck have you done, colluding with this cunt?
— You look somewhat beleaguered, Confectioner smiles. — How was the well?
Lennox remains silent.
— You went down yourself, didn’t you? Sooner you than me these days, Lennox. Confectioner pats his paunch. — Did you find my presents?
— What do you want, Gareth?
— I hear your fellow officer Erskine met a sticky end! Toal will not be happy, and how will this sit with our friend Gillman?
Both of youse two creepy cunts that stalk women … and Erskine … what the fuck? — How do you think? What’s the story with Erskine? How do you know him? Your biographer … who are they?
— I’m a transactional sort by nature, Lennox. I don’t see another phone here. Or anything else that might pique my interest.
— You and I, he advances, it’s important to make Confectioner feel that they are in the same game, invested, albeit for different reasons, in the slaughter and torture of innocents, — Erskine was never involved in our case!
— My lips are sealed, and he pulls an imaginary zip across his mouth.
— Do you know who killed him? What was he involved in …? Lennox’s mind, violated by the bodies of the girls in the well, by his hand going through that powdery skull … he grabs Confectioner by the throat. — TELL ME ABOUT ERSKINE! WHO THE FUCK IS THIS BIOGRAPHER?!
Confectioner, even as his face reddens and his eyes water, settles back, not raising an arm in resistance; it’s almost like he is playing an auto-asphyxiation game as he wheezes out, — If you want to see any more of those books … you should let go.
Lennox complies, looks at Confectioner, then his own hands, as his tormentor hauls in breath, then rubs his throat. Puts his fists together, placing them under his chin, as if in preparation for prayer. When he speaks, his tones are soft and eerie, as if he’s trying to lure a child into the woods with a bag of sweets. — The Gillmans of this world will always defeat the likes of you, Raymond Lennox, because he understands darkness. He’ll go to places that you can’t, because, fundamentally, you’re a coward. You do not have the will to power that he and I possess.
The cunt uses that voice when he wants to infantilise you, wants you the wee laddie back in that tunnel.
A sneer moulds Ray Lennox’s face, as he disdains the paedophile murderer with a hearty laugh. — You want me to be an arrogant, soul-dead abuser like you, and possibly even him. I’m no apologising for no wanting tae go there. For being human, and Lennox’s sudden ignition into a smile perplexes Confectioner.
— How is this virtue rewarded in your life? How’s the engagement working out … or perhaps it isn’t? No! I don’t think so, he grins, savouring the burn on his adversary’s face. — She’ll already be in the bed of another man. He’ll be running his hands over her naked body, fucking her, and she’ll be groaning with pleasure, in the way you obviously couldn’t make her. How does that feel, Lennox?
But Lennox only emits another cruel laugh in response. — If only I had encountered a murdering child rapist for sex advice earlier, I may have enjoyed a more successful romantic life. He shrugs. — I suppose it’s all about timing.
— Something is different about you, Lennox. Confectioner’s eyes narrow. — You seem rather carefree, unburdened … An expansive glare follows. — You’re leaving the force!
— No. Lennox maintains his grin. — I could never do that. I would miss our little talks. Anything else for me?
— I thought you’d be enthralled by the news I had a biographer. This, as you said, is both our legacy.
— Just tell me who they are.
— Or is it you who really is now feeling usurped?
— Give me another notebook, he urges with a collusive smile. — Another case to open.
— As I said, I have someone else to tell my story now.
All he can do is repeat, — Who are they?
— That would be telling. You’ll learn soon enough.
Lennox knows that in negotiations, the control of the other party’s level of uncertainty is crucial. — Ever thought that this biographer might just be playing you? Think about it. If you ever feel like giving me a name, I’ll check them out. See it as all part of the service. Something to think about, he winks and departs, without looking at Confectioner’s reaction.
As he’s heading outside, a text pops in:
A bunch of us are down the Repair Shop. A piss up for Norrie.
Dougie Gillman. The rarity of a Gillman text, particularly a social one, makes him laugh manically and loudly.
Maybe you were a bit harsh in therapy, wishing death on the cunt. You didn’t mean that … ish. Actually, Douglas, I was just with a fellow stalker friend of yours. He spoke highly of you, as always.
36
We prepare for another one of our sessions. Nowadays everything must be recorded in order that everyone other than the person doing the recording can subsequently ignore it. But our deeds create the relevance. We make them care.
Sally Hart, my partner, is keen to tell the story of DS Norman Erskine, but first I need her to talk of somebody else. Our unstable ally whom we hired for these adventures. Once serving some kind of a purpose: now an increasing liability. — Tell me about Gayle.
Taking a sip of her water, she sits back in the chair and begins. — Gayle was a troubled young man named Gary Nicolson. When he first came to me, like most people who do, Gary was a little lost, confused and struggling to find his place in this world. He wanted acceptance. Sally smiles. — That’s pretty much all of us, I know. Most people who come to me self-describing as trans are genuine. Others, like Gayle, or Gary, are just forlorn, damaged souls looking for a hook to hang their neuroses on. To find something, one thing, that explains it all; something that they can designate the source of all their problems. Of course, he was as toxic as any of the abusers I regularly met, but he was malleable. Like so many people today, he basically just needed to be told what to do.
