1974

Back at the bar, Kathryn down the other end talking to the barman and Steph the typist.

Barry Cannon, straight out of nowhere, “What’s your plan then?”

“Hadden’s fixed me up an interview with George Oldman for tomorrow morning.”

“So why aren’t you smiling?”

“He doesn’t want me to push the unsolveds with Oldman, just get some background shit together, try and interview the families, if they’ll see me.”

“Merry Christmas Mr and Mrs Parents of the Missing, Pre sumed Dead. Santa Eddie, bringing it all back home.”

Down pat: “They’ll be following Clare Kemplay. Be right back there anyway.”

“In fact you’ll be helping them. Catharsis.” Barry smiled for a second, looking round the room.

“They’re linked, I know it.”

“But to what? Three pints and a…”

Not following, catching up late, “A Scotch and water.”

“And a Scotch and water.” Barry Cannon was looking down the bar at Kathryn. “You’re a lucky man, Dunford.”

Me, guilt and nerves jangling, too much Scotch, too little Scotch, the conversation strange. “What do you mean? What do you think?”

“How long you got?”

Fuck you, too tired to play the game. “Yeah. I know what you mean.”

But Barry had turned his back to talk to some kid at the bar, pencil thin in a fat maroon suit with an orange feather cut; nervous black eyes darted my way over Barry’s left shoulder.

Bad fucking Bowie.

I tried to listen in but the Feather Dress upon the small stage lurched into Don’t Forget to Remember.

I looked to the ceiling, I looked to the floor, and back to the bar.

“Having a nice time?” Kathryn’s eyes were tired.

Me thinking, here it comes. “You know Barry. Gets a bit obtuse,” I whispered.

“Obtuse? There’s a big word for you.”

Ignoring one piece of bait, falling for another, “How about you?”

“How about me what?”

“Having a good time?”

“Oh I love standing alone at a bar twelve days before Christmas.”

“You’re not alone.”

“Was until Steph came.”

“You could’ve come over.”

“I wasn’t invited.”

“That’s pathetic.” I smiled.

“Go on then, since you’re asking. I’ll have a vodka.”

“Think I’ll join you.”

The cold air didn’t help much.

“I love you,” I was saying, unable to stay upright.

“Come on love, taxi’s here.” A woman’s voice, Kathryn’s.

The pine-scented air-freshener didn’t help much either.

“I love you,” I was saying.

“He better not puke,” shouted the Paki driver over his shoulder.

I could smell his sweat amongst the pine.

“I love you,” I was saying.

Her mother was sleeping, her father was snoring, and I was on my knees on their toilet floor.

Kathryn opened the door and switched on the light and bought another piece of me.

It hurt and it burned as it all came up, but I didn’t want it to ever stop. And, when it finally did, I stared a long time at the whisky and the ham, at the bits in the bog and the bits on the floor.

Kathryn put her hands on my shoulders.

I tried to place the voice in my head saying, you’ve actu ally got people feeling sorry for him, I never thought that was possible.

Kathryn moved her hands into my armpits.

I didn’t want to ever stand again. And, when I finally did, I started to cry.

“Come on love,” she whispered.

I awoke three times in the night from the same dream.

Each time thinking, I’m safe now, I’m safe now, go back to sleep.

Each time the same dream: a woman on a terraced street, clutching a red cardigan tight around her, screaming ten years of noise into my face.

Each time a crow, or some such big black bird, came out of a sky a thousand shades of grey and clawed through her pretty blonde hair.

Each time chasing her down the street, after her eyes.

Each time frozen, waking cold, tears on the pillow.

Each time, Clare Kemplay smiling down from the dark ceiling.

Chapter 2

· 55 a.m., Saturday 14 December 1974.

I was sitting in the Millgarth office of Detective Chief Super intendent George Oldman, feeling like dogshit. It was a bare room. No photographs, no certificates, no trophies.

The door opened. The black hair, the white face, the hand outstretched, the grip tight.

“Pleased to meet you, Mr Dunford. How’s Jack Whitehead and that boss of yours?”

“Fine, thank you,” I said, sitting back down.

No smile. “Sit down, son. Cup of tea?”

I swallowed and said, “Please. Thank you.”

Detective Chief Superintendent George Oldman sat down, flipped a switch on his desk and breathed into the intercom: “Julie, love. Two cups of tea when you’re ready.”

That face and that hair, up close and near, a melted black plastic bag dripped over a bowl of flour and lard.

I ground my back teeth down tight together.

Behind him, through the grey windows of Millgarth Police Station, a weak sun caught on the oil in his hair.

I felt sick.

“Sir,” I swallowed again. “Chief Superintendent…”

His tiny shark eyes were all over me. “Go on, son,” he winked.

“I was wondering if, well if there was any news?”

“Nothing,” he boomed. “Thirty-six hours and fuck all. Hundred bloody uniforms, relatives and locals. Nothing.”

“What’s your personal…”

“Dead, Mr Dunford. That poor little lass is dead.”

“I was wondering what you…”

“These are violent bloody times, son.”

“Yes,” I said weakly, thinking, so how come you only ever arrest gyppos, nutters, and Paddies.

“Best result now is to find the body quick.”