Read Online Lawless by Alexander McGregor - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Alexander McGregor
Ads: Link
weather, the freedom of the open road and me on my bike,’ he said, with all the sensitivity of a charging rhino.
But the tactlessness of his remark was lost on Gilzean, whose thoughts were elsewhere. ‘I didn’t do it, Mr McBride,’ he said, polite conversation gone and emotion suddenly filling his face. ‘Honest to God, it wasn’t me. I’m rotting away and nobody believes me except my dad. You do believe me, don’t you?’ His eyes begged for reassurance.
McBride was uncertain how to respond. ‘It doesn’t really work that way, Bryan,’ he said, doing his best to sound reassuring. ‘I’m just interested. The only thing I’m sure about is that your dad believes you. He’s the one who got me here. Maybe you’re kidding him. Are you going to kid me?’
This brought an unexpected but encouraging flash of something approaching anger from the haunted man opposite. ‘Christ! Are you another one of them? I’ve spent more than three years listening to that bilge. I haven’t kidded anybody. They’re the ones you should be interrogating.’ He slapped the palm of a hand on the surface between them and his voice rose loudly above the quiet hum of conversation filling the visiting hall.
One of the half-dozen officers who strolled the room, apparently watching nothing but seeing everything, moved swiftly to the side of the table. ‘Take it easy, Bryan,’ he said. ‘You don’t want this cut short, do you?’
The rebuke was unnecessary. The grey-faced man in the blue sweatshirt had recovered his composure as rapidly as he had lost it. He pulled slowly on his nose with heavily stained nicotine fingers. ‘Sorry, boss, just got a wee bit excited – no problem.’
McBride nodded in affirmation and the officer retreated, speaking softly into the microphone on his left shoulder. McBride knew that, for the rest of the visit, the person monitoring the bank of screens in the concealed room adjoining the visiting room would fix one of the six ceiling cameras on their table.
He smiled reassuringly across at Gilzean. ‘Look, if I didn’t think there was at least a chance you’re telling the truth, I wouldn’t be here. For that matter, I wouldn’t even be in Scotland. Keep calm. All I’m saying is that I’ve been getting vibes about this since your dad buttonholed me in Waterstone’s bookstore. I don’t even know why I feel this way. Convince me this isn’t a waste of everybody’s time.’
McBride was aware of the absurdity of the remark. If Gilzean couldn’t convince a jury, he could hardly be expected to completely win over a hard-nosed journalist inside an hour. Besides, how do you prove a negative? McBride appreciated he wasn’t going to get anything to take to a court of appeal – all he wanted was something to keep his gut feeling happy.
‘Why don’t you start at the beginning?’ He rested back in his seat and glanced up at the black-eyed cameras in their cages, wondering which of them was trained on the table and curious if it would home in for a close-up on Gilzean as he started to recount his version of the night that had brought the meaningful part of his life to an end.
It was an uncomplicated story. He had not been there. In fact, he had not seen Alison for three days previously. On the day which had been her last, they had spoken on the phone and he had told her he would not see her that night either because he needed to visit his father. She had not been particularly happy but had indicated she would pass the evening at the gym they usually attended together.
When Gilzean had finished, McBride asked him the obvious questions. How was it possible that his semen had been found inside her? How did his fingerprints find their way on to a wine glass? And how could one of his hairs be on the tie used to murder her?
The man with the pale, strained face sitting opposite seemed helpless. He looked desperately at McBride. ‘I ask myself that every night,’ he said. ‘We’d had sex three days
But the tactlessness of his remark was lost on Gilzean, whose thoughts were elsewhere. ‘I didn’t do it, Mr McBride,’ he said, polite conversation gone and emotion suddenly filling his face. ‘Honest to God, it wasn’t me. I’m rotting away and nobody believes me except my dad. You do believe me, don’t you?’ His eyes begged for reassurance.
McBride was uncertain how to respond. ‘It doesn’t really work that way, Bryan,’ he said, doing his best to sound reassuring. ‘I’m just interested. The only thing I’m sure about is that your dad believes you. He’s the one who got me here. Maybe you’re kidding him. Are you going to kid me?’
This brought an unexpected but encouraging flash of something approaching anger from the haunted man opposite. ‘Christ! Are you another one of them? I’ve spent more than three years listening to that bilge. I haven’t kidded anybody. They’re the ones you should be interrogating.’ He slapped the palm of a hand on the surface between them and his voice rose loudly above the quiet hum of conversation filling the visiting hall.
One of the half-dozen officers who strolled the room, apparently watching nothing but seeing everything, moved swiftly to the side of the table. ‘Take it easy, Bryan,’ he said. ‘You don’t want this cut short, do you?’
The rebuke was unnecessary. The grey-faced man in the blue sweatshirt had recovered his composure as rapidly as he had lost it. He pulled slowly on his nose with heavily stained nicotine fingers. ‘Sorry, boss, just got a wee bit excited – no problem.’
McBride nodded in affirmation and the officer retreated, speaking softly into the microphone on his left shoulder. McBride knew that, for the rest of the visit, the person monitoring the bank of screens in the concealed room adjoining the visiting room would fix one of the six ceiling cameras on their table.
He smiled reassuringly across at Gilzean. ‘Look, if I didn’t think there was at least a chance you’re telling the truth, I wouldn’t be here. For that matter, I wouldn’t even be in Scotland. Keep calm. All I’m saying is that I’ve been getting vibes about this since your dad buttonholed me in Waterstone’s bookstore. I don’t even know why I feel this way. Convince me this isn’t a waste of everybody’s time.’
McBride was aware of the absurdity of the remark. If Gilzean couldn’t convince a jury, he could hardly be expected to completely win over a hard-nosed journalist inside an hour. Besides, how do you prove a negative? McBride appreciated he wasn’t going to get anything to take to a court of appeal – all he wanted was something to keep his gut feeling happy.
‘Why don’t you start at the beginning?’ He rested back in his seat and glanced up at the black-eyed cameras in their cages, wondering which of them was trained on the table and curious if it would home in for a close-up on Gilzean as he started to recount his version of the night that had brought the meaningful part of his life to an end.
It was an uncomplicated story. He had not been there. In fact, he had not seen Alison for three days previously. On the day which had been her last, they had spoken on the phone and he had told her he would not see her that night either because he needed to visit his father. She had not been particularly happy but had indicated she would pass the evening at the gym they usually attended together.
When Gilzean had finished, McBride asked him the obvious questions. How was it possible that his semen had been found inside her? How did his fingerprints find their way on to a wine glass? And how could one of his hairs be on the tie used to murder her?
The man with the pale, strained face sitting opposite seemed helpless. He looked desperately at McBride. ‘I ask myself that every night,’ he said. ‘We’d had sex three days
Similar Books
