slightly grizzled at the temples. Ruddy complexion. Small, broad and powerfully built, like he was from farming stock, though he’d probably never seen a farm in his life.
Notman was with you now. The man gazed from one cop to the other. — Had a decent run, he half shrugged, half smiled, as if he’d been done for shoplifting.
That offhand arrogance. The abhorrent, horrendous world he inhabited, how he’d normalised it for himself. By extension, nurtured a contempt and loathing for broader human society that you would feel the unremitting brunt of. It scared you. Made you feel weak and small even though you had a righteous outrage and the whole British state and its citizens behind you. And now Mr Confectioner had a name. — I’m Gareth Horsburgh, he’d smiled cheerfully. — Call me Horsey.
You went to your father’s office in Haymarket; you hadn’t seen the old man in a while. You’d take him out for a pint. This would ensure that you’d just have one: you always screwed the nut in his company. You smiled at Jasmine, the admin assistant who worked with him, and who took you through to his small office, where your dad had just set down the phone. You could hear his ragged breathing. You couldn’t see, through your own shit, just how messed up your father was. Emotionally, he gave little away. But there were physical signs. For a while, you’d been noticing a tightening and reddening of the skin on his face. Age was overcooking and reducing him; the scarlet marks where the cheekbones pressed from underneath had spread and flared.
But when your father spoke, your mind was on ‘Horsey’, the divorced civil servant who lived near Aylesbury with his invalid mother. A consensus through associates and work colleagues soon emerged: Gareth Horsburgh was depressingly ordinary. A pleasant enough man to say hello to, if a little pompous and pedantic in company. He could have been any suburban golf-club bore, the sort you felt comfortable about having one drink with before making your excuses.
You felt you were in the throes of some powerful auditory hallucination, a hangover from the grisly interviews with Horsburgh and the horror of the lugubrious beast’s disclosures, as the gravelly voice of your father informed you, — At least ten years it’s been going on, Ray, he’d said in stunned outrage as he dumped a box file on to his desk, — her and Jock Allardyce. Fucking behind my back for ten years. My Avril – your mother – and Jock Allardyce.
It was the ‘fucking’ that got you. Not even because your dad never swore in front of any of his family, save for an injured ‘bastard’ you’d heard him gasp in grim disbelief when Albert Kidd’s first strike hit the net for Dundee up at Dens Park back in ’86. It was the image of your mother, sweaty and lusty, being humped by family friend and neighbour, old divorcee Jock Allardyce; the man you’d grown up calling ‘Uncle Jocky’. Your skin prickled with the prudishness of offspring confronted with paternal sexuality. Staring into the goat-like eyes of your father, belligerent yet bemused, you had to fight down the desire to laugh out loud. — What will you do? You felt your finger rising nervously to the side of your nose. The cramped office had just got smaller.
— What can I dae? We’d stopped having sex, he said, matter-of-factly, — when I had the heart thing. It was the medication. It thins the blood. Ah cannae… He faltered and shrugged. — I tried Viagra, but they said it was dangerous for me. I even started looking at porn, to see if anything came back, but no use, just twinges. Your mother still wants sex, what right dae I have tae stand in her way?
— She’s your wife, you said, now angry for the first time, both with the old man’s lack of self-respect and your mother’s betrayal.
— What sort of husband am I?
You cleared your throat. This was too much for you to take in. Horsburgh, violently stealing sex from children. Your father, unable to partake in it with his wife. Your mother, banging away with their friend and neighbour. You had no wish to be spoon-fed details. — Have you spoken to Stuart about this?
The old man looked surprised. — Why would I do that?
Try, cause I’ve heard a lot fucking more than I want to, you’d thought. — Stuart’s good on that kind of thing. An actor. Understands people. Their motivations.
— I thought that as a cop—
— We lock people up, Dad.
Your father had nodded in disappointment as you took your leave, telling him you were too busy with this case for a pint, you’d just swung by to say hello as you happened to be passing. And that was to be the last time you’d see him. A few days later he dropped dead, discovered by Stuart on that same office floor. He’d been trying to tell you about a terrible secret that had haunted his life, and all you could think about was a despicable child killer.
DAY FOUR
14 Sea Legs
THE AUCTION ROOMS are stuffy, crammed full of bodies. Lennox looks up at the sad, dropsical face of Bob Toal, who stands behind the lectern, hammer poised in his hand. The lot for sale is a life-sized female figure. It stands upright in a coffin, stiff and dead. It has the same blonde hair as Trudi, but the face of Jackie’s doll.
— From the Victorian era, Toal says gravely, — and such a sad tale. A beautiful young girl kidnapped and murdered in foul circumstances. The corpse has been preserved in formaldehyde and the bones connected by lightweight aluminium rods… He moves over to the doll, taking its hand and shaking it. The wrist remains in the extended position. — As you can see, our tragic young miss has been rendered perfectly pliable. Will make an ideal companion for the sick and lonely, or anyone who values the time-old feminine qualities of passivity and obedience…
Lennox turns a stiff and heavy neck to catch Amanda Drummond in the crowd, brushing a tear from her eye. —… I would like to start the bidding at one thousand pounds, Toal continues, then looks to a raised hand at the back of the room. It belongs to Ronnie Hamil. — One thousand pounds. Do I hear fifteen hundred…?
Another raised hand. It’s Mr Confectioner.
— Stop this auction, Lennox shouts. — Ye cannae sell her tae them! Ye ken what they want her for!
Nobody seems to hear him. One more hand goes up. Lance Dearing, wearing a Stetson and cowboy suit, flanked by a grinning Johnnie. — Two thousand, Toal smiles, — and I’ll take this opportunity to remind our friend Mr Dearing from the USA, that remuneration is in pounds sterling rather than US dollars, he jokes to polite laughter from the floor.
Lennox tries to move towards the stage but his shins suddenly have the density of metal bars.
— It’s my fiancee… it’s my…
Something sticks in his windpipe, rendering his cry a soft, frustrating gasp.
All he can do is look at the profile of Dearing, bathed in a green light, giving him a gator-like cast. — I am aware of the currency of transaction, Mr Toal, and he turns and winks at Lennox, — but I’m sure if I find myself somewhat short then my ol buddy Ray here will be pleased to help out for such a purty lil’ prize.
— Let’s up the stakes, a voice shouts in a thick Midlands accent from the back of the hall. — Two million quid.
Lennox looks round, but the man seems to be moving to correspond, always just out of his line of vision. There are others, but they remain in shadow. Exasperation and fear eat at him.
Toal is about to close the bidding when Lennox sees his old mate Les Brodie as a young boy, looking at him, tugging his sleeve, urging him to bid. — Say something, Raymie!
But his throat has seized up and Lennox can’t speak. Toal’s hammer comes down with a strong bang. It pulls Lennox into another, better place. Again.
For a few brief seconds Ray Lennox thinks he can see flamingos, shrouded in soft white mist, dancing in the mangrove bushes. Blinking, it becomes evident that he’s merely woken up into a gorgeous pink sunrise, the room bathed in a coral flush almost neon in its intensity.
