Read Online Where the Dead Men Go by Liam McIlvanney - Free Book Online
Authors: Liam McIlvanney
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Let’s not get carried away.’
Back in my chair, I added Gunn’s card to the pile on my desk.
*
At dinner that evening I cut Angus’s gammon into tiny cubes and quartered his potatoes, quartered them again, pretended to salt his food when I salted my own, trailed a bootlace of ketchup over the lot. He set to work cheerily with his blue plastic spoon. Mari talked about work, how busy she was, how challenged, how she loved being back. Six months ago she’d started back part-time at an architects’ firm on St Vincent St. The firm had been great. When she took the job she got pregnant three months later. That was three years ago but they kept her job open, they were glad she was back. The Commie Games was in the offing and the bids had begun – they were working flat out on plans and costings and could use all the help they could get. Mari’s main client was a firm bidding for the velodrome contract, parts of the athletes’ village.
I tried to stay focused, nodding and grunting, chewing my food, but I kept thinking back to Niven’s talk. Wait till we know the facts. That used to be our job, didn’t it – finding the facts? What facts would the cops find out? What facts did we miss, what facts might have shown us that Moir was in trouble, edging towards that hole in the ground? And how come his friend and closest colleague, his daughter’s godfather, failed to spot them?
After dinner I scraped the plates, ran them under the hot tap, stacked the dishwasher. I sprayed the worktops and wiped then down. I ran a bath for Angus, washed his hair without getting water in his eyes, let the mirror steam up while he dunked and emptied his plastic cups, puddling the bathroom floor. I dried him in front of the living-room fire, read his little stack of picture books, put him to bed. I dug the Blue Mountain out of the freezer, made a pot of coffee, took a cup to Mari. Eventually, you run out of things to do, ways to put it off. You tip some Islay into your coffee and sit down at the table, punch the numbers.
A woman answered. Posh voice, Scottish, touch of English: the sister up from Manchester. Clare was sleeping. She’d been sedated, she couldn’t come to the phone. I wasn’t sorry. How do you talk to a woman whose husband has done what Moir had done? I’d done enough death knocks to know how it worked: grief, bereavement, the hunger for blame. Blame themselves, blame the victim, blame you. I asked the sister to pass on my condolences, tell Clare I’ll call in a couple of days.
Chapter Five
Sunday evening. A back-to-school feeling pervaded the flat. The boys had been with us all day. It was time to take them back, to drive Rod and James down to Conwick. James was playing on the carpet with Angus, building little towers of coloured bricks that Angus would joyfully smack to pieces. Some kids were riding a motorbike on the wasteground across the street, the engine’s whine rising and receding.
‘There’s your phone, Dad.’
Rod was slumped on the couch, the black hyphen of his Nintendo DS barring his eyes.
‘What?’
‘Over there.’ He pointed with his stockinged foot, the game still fixed before his face. ‘I left it on the bookcase. It’s needing charged.’
‘You had my phone?’
‘Yeah.’ He sat up a little from his horizontal slouch, worked himself up with his shoulders. He glanced up blankly. ‘I must have put it in my pocket when I used it last weekend. Remember I was out of credit and I phoned Mum?’
‘Jesus, Rod.’ I turned the phone over in my hands, as if inspecting it for damage. ‘I’ve just spent four hundred quid on a new one. You couldn’t have let me know?’
‘Sorry, Dad.’
I shook my head. There was more to say but I bit it back. We’d be leaving for Conwick in half an hour, there was no point in picking a fight.
I drove them down to Ayrshire after tea. When I got back to the flat, Angus was down and Mari was making inroads on a bottle of Merlot.
‘There’s a glass on
Back in my chair, I added Gunn’s card to the pile on my desk.
*
At dinner that evening I cut Angus’s gammon into tiny cubes and quartered his potatoes, quartered them again, pretended to salt his food when I salted my own, trailed a bootlace of ketchup over the lot. He set to work cheerily with his blue plastic spoon. Mari talked about work, how busy she was, how challenged, how she loved being back. Six months ago she’d started back part-time at an architects’ firm on St Vincent St. The firm had been great. When she took the job she got pregnant three months later. That was three years ago but they kept her job open, they were glad she was back. The Commie Games was in the offing and the bids had begun – they were working flat out on plans and costings and could use all the help they could get. Mari’s main client was a firm bidding for the velodrome contract, parts of the athletes’ village.
I tried to stay focused, nodding and grunting, chewing my food, but I kept thinking back to Niven’s talk. Wait till we know the facts. That used to be our job, didn’t it – finding the facts? What facts would the cops find out? What facts did we miss, what facts might have shown us that Moir was in trouble, edging towards that hole in the ground? And how come his friend and closest colleague, his daughter’s godfather, failed to spot them?
After dinner I scraped the plates, ran them under the hot tap, stacked the dishwasher. I sprayed the worktops and wiped then down. I ran a bath for Angus, washed his hair without getting water in his eyes, let the mirror steam up while he dunked and emptied his plastic cups, puddling the bathroom floor. I dried him in front of the living-room fire, read his little stack of picture books, put him to bed. I dug the Blue Mountain out of the freezer, made a pot of coffee, took a cup to Mari. Eventually, you run out of things to do, ways to put it off. You tip some Islay into your coffee and sit down at the table, punch the numbers.
A woman answered. Posh voice, Scottish, touch of English: the sister up from Manchester. Clare was sleeping. She’d been sedated, she couldn’t come to the phone. I wasn’t sorry. How do you talk to a woman whose husband has done what Moir had done? I’d done enough death knocks to know how it worked: grief, bereavement, the hunger for blame. Blame themselves, blame the victim, blame you. I asked the sister to pass on my condolences, tell Clare I’ll call in a couple of days.
Chapter Five
Sunday evening. A back-to-school feeling pervaded the flat. The boys had been with us all day. It was time to take them back, to drive Rod and James down to Conwick. James was playing on the carpet with Angus, building little towers of coloured bricks that Angus would joyfully smack to pieces. Some kids were riding a motorbike on the wasteground across the street, the engine’s whine rising and receding.
‘There’s your phone, Dad.’
Rod was slumped on the couch, the black hyphen of his Nintendo DS barring his eyes.
‘What?’
‘Over there.’ He pointed with his stockinged foot, the game still fixed before his face. ‘I left it on the bookcase. It’s needing charged.’
‘You had my phone?’
‘Yeah.’ He sat up a little from his horizontal slouch, worked himself up with his shoulders. He glanced up blankly. ‘I must have put it in my pocket when I used it last weekend. Remember I was out of credit and I phoned Mum?’
‘Jesus, Rod.’ I turned the phone over in my hands, as if inspecting it for damage. ‘I’ve just spent four hundred quid on a new one. You couldn’t have let me know?’
‘Sorry, Dad.’
I shook my head. There was more to say but I bit it back. We’d be leaving for Conwick in half an hour, there was no point in picking a fight.
I drove them down to Ayrshire after tea. When I got back to the flat, Angus was down and Mari was making inroads on a bottle of Merlot.
‘There’s a glass on
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