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Authors: Liam McIlvanney
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the breakfast bar.’
We watched Newsnight and Newsnight Scotland . Mari went to bed and I found Season 5 of The Wire , put it on while I tanned a couple of beers. It was one o’clock when I drained the last Sol. As I turned off the kitchen light I saw the phone, the bright square of its display window, on the breakfast bar. I had plugged it in before taking Rod and James back to Conwick. It would be charged by now. I flipped it open and turned it on and stood there in the dark. I would do the voicemails later; for now I scrolled down the messages.
To call it a premonition would be wrong. But as I thumbed down through Maguire and Mari and the others, I knew it was coming. Moir almost never texted me, he preferred to phone. And yet here it was: ‘MM’. I checked the date: 9 October, 7.56 p.m. Fifteen hours before the climber found him.
Ger I had 2 do it tell C Im sorry 4 it all MM
I laid the phone down on the breakfast bar. I could hear the clock, the hollow knocks of the second-hand jerking round, and then the fridge thrummed loudly as the cycle changed. I stood in the dark for a few minutes longer. Then I turned off the phone.
*
In the morning I called DS Gunn and by nine o’clock she was thumbing the buzzer.
Mari had just left for work and the nursery run. I was clearing away the breakfast dishes and half-listening to Sky News on the telly. I opened the door and heard them climbing the stairs, Gunn and the lumbering Lumsden.
They trooped through to the living room. Nobody spoke. The cold came in on their outdoor clothes.
I found the message and passed her the phone. She looked at me when she read it, no expression, passed the phone to Lumsden. Lumsden nodded and passed it back; he was sweating from the climb. Gunn held the phone in her palm as if weighing it. They looked at me.
‘He forgot,’ I said. ‘He’s a ten-year-old kid. I thought I had lost it.’
Gunn looked away at the television and then back at me.
‘It could have been a murder enquiry,’ she said. ‘We hadn’t ruled it out. And you’re sitting on the crucial piece of evidence. A week goes by and now you produce it?’
‘Yeah, it’s not ideal. I understand that. I’m sorry.’
She was shaking her head.
‘We’ll need this.’ She dropped the phone into a plastic wallet, slipped the wallet into a document case, got me to sign the production label. ‘And you weren’t close. He sends you his suicide note but you weren’t close.’ She shook her head. Orkney , I thought: the accent was Orkney. I pictured a garden-sized island, treeless turf, a whitewashed cottage in a raging gale.
They turned to go. I followed them down the hall. Gunn paused on the threshold.
‘That’s everything is it?’
Lumsden was already on the stairs but he stopped to hear my answer.
‘Everything what?’
‘No more surprises, no last-minute revelations?’
‘I’ve said I’m sorry, Sergeant. You think I did it on purpose?’
She shook her head again, the ponytail twitching.
‘He’s a ten-year-old boy,’ I said to her back. ‘They forget things. It happens.’
‘We’ll be in touch.’
They scliffed off down the stairs.
And that was it. Moir had killed himself. His death no longer mattered. His death was now an annoyance, a waste of time. They had squandered a week on Moir, a week they could have spent on deaths that counted.
I made a coffee and phoned Maguire.
‘There’s a note,’ I told her. ‘He left a message on my phone, the night he died. It was suicide, Fiona.’
I told her the message. I could read the silence as if she was speaking. The big story was gone; Moir wasn’t murdered, that dramatic splash wouldn’t happen. But the message, that was a story in itself – tragic journo’s last words.
‘You want to write it?’ she said.
‘No.’
‘No, you’re right. I’ll get the Desk on to it.’
*
I stood at the window to finish my coffee. The wind was whipping through the wasteground across the street, lashing the
We watched Newsnight and Newsnight Scotland . Mari went to bed and I found Season 5 of The Wire , put it on while I tanned a couple of beers. It was one o’clock when I drained the last Sol. As I turned off the kitchen light I saw the phone, the bright square of its display window, on the breakfast bar. I had plugged it in before taking Rod and James back to Conwick. It would be charged by now. I flipped it open and turned it on and stood there in the dark. I would do the voicemails later; for now I scrolled down the messages.
To call it a premonition would be wrong. But as I thumbed down through Maguire and Mari and the others, I knew it was coming. Moir almost never texted me, he preferred to phone. And yet here it was: ‘MM’. I checked the date: 9 October, 7.56 p.m. Fifteen hours before the climber found him.
Ger I had 2 do it tell C Im sorry 4 it all MM
I laid the phone down on the breakfast bar. I could hear the clock, the hollow knocks of the second-hand jerking round, and then the fridge thrummed loudly as the cycle changed. I stood in the dark for a few minutes longer. Then I turned off the phone.
*
In the morning I called DS Gunn and by nine o’clock she was thumbing the buzzer.
Mari had just left for work and the nursery run. I was clearing away the breakfast dishes and half-listening to Sky News on the telly. I opened the door and heard them climbing the stairs, Gunn and the lumbering Lumsden.
They trooped through to the living room. Nobody spoke. The cold came in on their outdoor clothes.
I found the message and passed her the phone. She looked at me when she read it, no expression, passed the phone to Lumsden. Lumsden nodded and passed it back; he was sweating from the climb. Gunn held the phone in her palm as if weighing it. They looked at me.
‘He forgot,’ I said. ‘He’s a ten-year-old kid. I thought I had lost it.’
Gunn looked away at the television and then back at me.
‘It could have been a murder enquiry,’ she said. ‘We hadn’t ruled it out. And you’re sitting on the crucial piece of evidence. A week goes by and now you produce it?’
‘Yeah, it’s not ideal. I understand that. I’m sorry.’
She was shaking her head.
‘We’ll need this.’ She dropped the phone into a plastic wallet, slipped the wallet into a document case, got me to sign the production label. ‘And you weren’t close. He sends you his suicide note but you weren’t close.’ She shook her head. Orkney , I thought: the accent was Orkney. I pictured a garden-sized island, treeless turf, a whitewashed cottage in a raging gale.
They turned to go. I followed them down the hall. Gunn paused on the threshold.
‘That’s everything is it?’
Lumsden was already on the stairs but he stopped to hear my answer.
‘Everything what?’
‘No more surprises, no last-minute revelations?’
‘I’ve said I’m sorry, Sergeant. You think I did it on purpose?’
She shook her head again, the ponytail twitching.
‘He’s a ten-year-old boy,’ I said to her back. ‘They forget things. It happens.’
‘We’ll be in touch.’
They scliffed off down the stairs.
And that was it. Moir had killed himself. His death no longer mattered. His death was now an annoyance, a waste of time. They had squandered a week on Moir, a week they could have spent on deaths that counted.
I made a coffee and phoned Maguire.
‘There’s a note,’ I told her. ‘He left a message on my phone, the night he died. It was suicide, Fiona.’
I told her the message. I could read the silence as if she was speaking. The big story was gone; Moir wasn’t murdered, that dramatic splash wouldn’t happen. But the message, that was a story in itself – tragic journo’s last words.
‘You want to write it?’ she said.
‘No.’
‘No, you’re right. I’ll get the Desk on to it.’
*
I stood at the window to finish my coffee. The wind was whipping through the wasteground across the street, lashing the
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