– in – my – fucking – way.” His breath would have stripped paint.
I didn’t blink. I’d been through worse sessions with real bullies. Much worse.
They hadn’t made threats, just carried them out.
“I’m sure there’s room for both of us on these gold-paved streets, Inspector.
And I’m prepared to give you a big discount if you ever need help looking for Mrs Wilson.”
I thought my poor visitor’s chair would explode under the pressure. Wilson wrenched himself clear and lowered over the desk at me, leaning on his knuckles.
He singed my eyebrows with his blast.
“I also don’t like a smart arse, McRae! You’re on my list, boy. I’m looking out for you. You hear me? One foot wrong and you’re visiting my nice nick. The lads will enjoy you. They don’t like smart arses either.”
I decided I’d done enough goading and kept my mouth shut – about five minutes too late – until he’d stomped off down the stairs. A little later the cat’s head appeared round the corner. She meowed angrily. She hadn’t been impressed by Wilson either.
“Just one more question, Mary. Did you know the name of the last girl who was killed? Know where she worked?”
“Name was Jasmine. Round corner. Marsh Street. 43. Only single girls work there.
They all gone now.” Her brows knitted as though she worried what became of that flock of flushed birds.
“Thanks, Mary. And thanks for the tea.” I stood to go.
“You sure, Danny? Wake Colette? She like you.”
Ah, Colette; real name Betty; aspiring actress and Windmill girl, but her curvy legs were too short. It was tempting, so tempting to take some comfort from skin on skin, but I declined. Not while I was working. Even in my dirty line of business I try to have some professional standards. Mary closed the door on me with a last admonishment. “You come round soon, you hear. And keep your head away from Jonny Crane and big fat bastard!”
I should have listened harder to Mama Mary.
FIVE
Marsh Street paraded its usual collection of street artists. A man in a doorway sleeping it off, his empty bottle by his side. A publican with his braces round his knees and a fag stuck to his lip opening up to let out the fetid air. A pair of spivs with darting eyes, oiling each other’s business with cash and information. And a couple of big women tottering along in party frocks and last night’s make-up, clinging to each other for dear life. If one fell, they’d both go, and would probably die there on their backs, limbs flailing uselessly like upturned turtles.
I looked for number 43. It was three stories high and had a block of six bells each with a name on it, except for the top one. There was just a blank where I guess Jasmine’s nom-de-guerre had been. I walked in and began to climb the stairs. I had no idea what I would do at the top. I had no idea what I was doing here in the first place. The stairs had a rough carpet for the first three flights and then bare boards the rest of the way. They creaked and groaned as I made my way.
It had been four days since they’d found her. Jasmine. Probably christened Jean.
Wee Jeanie. Jeanie with the light brown hair. Somebody’s daughter. The door was closed. I knocked and got no answer. I turned the handle and it opened. I stepped inside. There was a short hall. A bathroom to the left and ahead a bedsit area. They’d cleared everything, bedding, carpet – I could see the tidemark of dirt where it had lain – and all the drawers were hanging open, empty. A mattress stood against the wall. There were two huge brown stains on it, one where a head might lie and the other in the middle.
I’d seen a few murders in Glasgow. Though each was different in detail and context, I’d begun to find a dreadful familiarity. Same here. On the surface this was just a sad, empty room with dirty windows and red net curtains.
Jasmine/Jean had left no mark on the world except the headlines in the papers for a few days. But as I stood there, absorbing impressions, picturing where he stood and where she lay, my imagination detected a spoor, an afterimage hanging in the air. An aura of violence and death.
They share a cigarette while she tells him how much it costs. He puts the money on the dresser. He takes off his coat and then his jacket. It’s going to be warm work; warmer than she knows. She stubs her fag.
She sheds her floral dressing gown and her pants and bra. She lays herself back on the bed and offers herself. He unzips and tells her to turn over on to her stomach. She smiles and tells him he’s naughty. Maybe he smacks her bum a little, to see the flesh colour and tremble under his stinging hand. She is being paid to be used so there are no screams at first, just the thought that the client is being a bit rough, something he’d have to pay more for.
There’s a pause and she hears him move to his coat. She turns her head and sees the knife and knows this is way beyond naughtiness. He shoves her face into the mattress to stifle her screams. He squats on her back, feeling for the spot on her neck where the skull starts, and drives the weapon up and into her brain. He mounts her as her body spasms. He…
“And just what the hell are you doing here, McRae?”
I whirled round, feeling my guts flip. His bulk filled the door. I hadn’t heard his big feet.
“I’m waiting.”
Wilson was indeed waiting. I was in the flat of a murdered prostitute on New Year ’s Day, and here was an inspector of police asking me what I was doing here. It was a fair question. I didn’t have a fair answer. So I tried the truth.
“I was just curious, Inspector. I was out for a walk and found myself wondering what happened here. The old law enforcer in me, eh?” I tried to smile in camaraderie. He’d understand, policeman to policeman.
“I warned you. I fucking warned you not to get in my way. And here you are. In – my – fucking – way!” His moustache quivered with the violence of his last words.
“I’ll get out of your way. Right now, if you’ll excuse me?” I made to go round his bulk but he blocked out the entire doorway and much of the room. I could smell tobacco and stale drink on him, and old cloth. I didn’t expect the punch.
It caught me full in the mouth and I went backwards on to the floor. My hat rolled away from me and I tasted iron. I wondered if he’d ever had an exchange posting with Glasgow; this was their style. I clambered to my feet, my fists clenched ready to have a go at the evil bastard. He was smiling.
“Come on, Jock. Take a swing. And it’ll be the last thing you do before you hit the floor of my nick. Assaulting a police officer. Disturbing the scene of a murder. Obstructing justice. And anything else I can think of. Come on. Here it is.” He stuck his fat jaw out and pointed at it.
I stood wiping the blood from my mouth, swaying with anger. He knew he had me. I picked up my hat and straightened my clothes.
“My mistake, Inspector.” I could already feel my lip thickening.
His smile dropped. “Your second. The first was setting up on my patch. Now beat it, Jock. Before I really lose my temper. It’s just as well I’m still full of new year spirit, or I might have taken you in as a suspect.”
I looked at him blankly. He continued. “I still don’t have a proper answer to what you’re doing here. That makes me wonder. And when I wonder, I start delving. Do you want me to do some delving on you, sonny Jim?”
It sounded rhetorical; my wants were irrelevant to Wilson. “Can I go now, Inspector?”
He stood aside slowly and I sidled past him, feeling his malodorous breath on me and waiting for a second blow. It didn’t come, and I escaped down the stairs and into the outside air, angry at Wilson and angrier at myself. What a shitty start to the new year. You lose the girl and get beat up by the police. What next?
Next, my head began to hurt, displaying all the early signs of one of my episodes. Wilson’s punch had set something off. It was getting dark by the time I got home, and my neck was rigid with the pain that flowed from behind my eyes, back along my skull and into the top of my spine. I’ve seen iron hoops with screws in them that the Inquisition used to encourage heretics. I wore mine inside my head and wondered what I’d done wrong and who was tightening the screw.
