The Storm Without Read online

  I placed a hand on her trembling frame, 'What's the matter?'

  She turned round; her eyes were lined with red, her cheeks now streamed with rivers of black mascara. I watched her mouth twist into a rictus as she struggled for a jumble of words. 'It's Glenn … they've taken him.'

  Something stirred in me, an old instinct. A bit of police training perhaps. I turned in my seat to face her. 'Who's Glenn?'

  She spluttered, 'My boy … my son.'

  She buried her face in her hands once more and rocked to and fro. Her tears were choking her as she tried to grasp for breath.

  I took her hands in mine, motioned her to straighten herself and take some air. She was hysterical, stripped of all dignity.

  'Lyn, look at me.'

  She turned.

  I lowered my tone. 'Now tell me, who has taken your son?'

  Her lips started to quiver as she tried to speak.

  Chapter 3

  The coffee couldn't come quickly enough. I sat with my back to the counter, turning every few moments to check the waiter's progress at the machine. I was glad to be out of the rain, indoors. When I had last been in Ayr, coffee came in a mug, was instant, and strong. The taste made you wince, near stripped the enamel off your teeth. Now even the Auld Toun had become part of the coffee revolution; it was a welcome change, but right now, the process was taking too long.

  In front of me, my former school friend sat meddling with the corner of a cardboard menu. I smiled at her, tried to insinuate some sense of normality into the proceedings but I knew what she was about to reveal would be a heartscald. Likely, to both of us. I wondered if I was really the person for her to be unburdening herself to; I had enough troubles of my own to contend with. Something told me she needed help though, and I'd always been a sucker for a friend in need.

  I leaned back in my chair, eyed the soft furnishings and chi-chi décor. 'Nice place.'

  Lyn's eyes brightened; she looked around her. 'Yeah, good coffee too.'

  I smiled. 'It's a step up on the old greasy spoons I remember about the town.'

  'Oh, they're still there … you just have to know where to look for them.'

  Lyn dropped the menu. I drummed a finger on the surface. 'No roll 'n' slice?'

  Almost a laugh. 'No there is not! … I bet you're still a pie and beans man.'

  'You cannae beat a good cow-brain pie, Lyn.'

  We were laughing now, both thawed.

  Our coffees arrived.

  'You not want a caramel log with that?' said Lyn.

  'I was always a wafers man.'

  The smiling continued and Lyn's face lost its tense angularity, became familiar once more. She seemed to shed the years; a look in her eyes took me back years anyway. I recalled her as she was when we were at Ayr Academy: she had always been headstrong, sure of herself. If I had to pick anyone from our circle to have made something of themselves, move onward and upward, it would have been her. It didn't seem right to see her sitting before me, bruised by a lifetime of domestic defeats. Another victim of the long and winding road we all have to travel towards that certain end. Someone once said: the world breaks us all, and makes some of us strong where the breaks are. Lyn was not one of them. She wore her breaks like battle scars.

  'So, you were going to tell me something …' I let the words hang between us like dead air.

  She sipped her latte, lowered the cup towards the saucer. A twitch played on her eyelid and she wiped it away with her fingertips. 'The empire biscuits look nice.'

  I touched her sleeve. 'Lyn, that's not what we came here to talk about.'

  'I know. I know.'

  'If you've changed your mind, that's fine too …' She was not the type of person used to unburdening herself on others; she was shouldering too much on her own. I felt pushed to help but wondered if I wasn't interfering, if it would be better for both of us if I backed off; but that wasn't my style. 'I think you want to talk, though, and I'll listen.'

  She nodded.

  For a moment there was a hush in the coffee shop, then the door whooshed open and a red-faced man in a beanie hat walked in. He made a joke with the waiter about selling flippers for the road out, but few in the place registered more than a forced smile in response.

  I turned my gaze back to Lyn.

  She spoke, 'When I saw you, out at the Old Racecourse, I'd been walking from the town.'

  'In this weather …'

  She sucked in her lower lip. 'I'd been at the court.'

  'That's a fair trek, from Wellington Square.'

  'I just came out of the court and walked along the front for a bit, along the Low Green, and before I knew it …'

  I picked up my coffee cup, raised the brim to my lips. It was still warm; it was very good coffee. 'Can I ask, why were you at court?'

  Lyn scrunched up her eyes; tight radial lines speared into her features. Her nose turned up a little as she tried to speak. 'Glenn … he was …' She stopped herself, reached into her bag and removed a small packet of paper tissues.

  'Take your time,' I said.

  She struggled to get the packet open, ripped into it with her long fingernails, then patted at the edge of her eye with a white tissue. I watched her for a moment as she regained her composure, spoke again. 'A few days ago, Glenn appeared at my door.'

  'He doesn't live with you?'

  'No. He has a flat down at the harbour … it was one my ex gave me, when he left.'

  'Go on …'

  She scrunched the tissue in her hand. 'He'd had a row with Kirsty.'

  'Kirsty?'

  'His girlfriend. They both lived in the flat. I wasn't sure about it at first. They were only eighteen but it was what they wanted and …'

  'I understand.'

  Lyn looked out the window, drew a deep breath. 'When Glenn showed up he said it was over between them, they'd had some spat, but they'd had them before so I never thought anything of it, until …'

  I took another belt on the coffee, gave her time to focus her thoughts.

  She continued, 'Until the police showed up the next day and told me that they wanted to take Glenn in for questioning.'

  'Why did they want to question your son?'

  She dropped her gaze, removed the tissue again. 'Kirsty … they found her in the flat, she'd had some kind of fit. She was epileptic, but hadn't had a fit for years and years …'

  'Was?'

  Tears came again, slow at first and then more steady. Lyn tried to avoid staring at me; it was as if she couldn't bring herself to utter the words. 'Kirsty's dead …' She bit her lip for a moment. 'Doug, they think my son killed her.'

  I took Lyn's hand in mine. 'Look, they won't have made an allegation like that without some kind of evidence. What did they tell you?'

  I could feel Lyn's hand, cold and trembling within mine. Her words trickled out, 'There was bruising on her neck. They think there was a fight and that she fell into a fit and choked on her tongue … God, Doug, they blame him. They blame my boy.'

  I removed my hand, rubbed at her arm. 'Okay. Okay. Let's try and keep it together, Lyn. You'll be no use to Glenn if you fall apart. Do you hear me?'

  'Yes.'

  'Good. That's good. Now tell me, what happened at the court?'

  She flustered, her eyelashes batting quickly as she spoke. 'Erm, they took him.'

  'So he's been remanded in custody.'

  'Yes, they set a trial date … one month or so away.'

  I felt my head shaking involuntarily. 'And what was the charge, can you tell me?'

  'Of course … they charged him with murder.'

  Chapter 4

  The boy was on a murder charge. Did it get any more serious?

  I knew the answer to that question, but shoved it to the back of my mind. If there was one thing I didn't need right now, after all I'd been through, it was getting involved in another murder. There was a bolt twisting in my stomach that told me Lyn had every reason to be doubtful that her son was involved, but the facts remained.
>
  Someone had been murdered.

  Police don't mess about with charges like that. Even the worst kind of plod — the sodden-earth country brigade — knew better.

  I rolled the thought over in my mind. Glenn was in the mincer, no doubt about it. A pretty young girl had been killed. No matter who the real culprit was, that was a story that stuck. The boy would carry those allegations for the rest of his days.

  I knew Ayr. I knew small Scottish towns. There was a brutal crowd in these places, a sub-section of society that liked to see people hung out to dry. The Ochiltree author George Douglas Brown knew it as well — but I didn't need to re-read The House with the Green Shutters to have that confirmed.

  I turned the key in the ignition; the TT purred to life. I pulled out, headed for the shore. As I reached Wellington Square, a drunk in a Rangers top swayed in front of the car, raised a can of Cally Special towards me in a violent Nazi salute. I watched him for a moment, let the bead of my eye meet his. He stared back. I was close enough to count the lines of the spider's web tattooed on his neck. He took a swig on his tin. I knew what was coming next: a fountain of sticky bear-cum-gob that I'd be scrubbing off my bonnet for days to come.

  I killed the engine in an instant, stepped out.

  'Do one!'

  The yob stalled mid-swig. He dropped his 'brows, looked more Neanderthal than ever.

  I let him have a couple of seconds to register his options, took a step closer. 'You testing me, lad?'

  The mouthful of beer made his cheeks bulge. Another half-gone hoodie to his left called out, 'Leave it, Davie.'

  I dipped a nod in the direction of the second yob; Davie saw sense, spat the mouthful of Special Brew in the gutter and made his way to the side of the road. I kept my eye on them as I returned to the car. There was a time when this kind of encounter would have had my pulse racing. Not now. The force had taught me to face down conflict. These morons needed boundaries or they ran amok. When I was in uniform, an old desk sergeant had told me the trick to dealing with them was sending in the WPCs.

  'You ever seen dogs fighting in the street, Doug?' he'd said.

  'Aye, of course.'

  'Well, you'll know then, the one thing that separates the rowdy males is … a female.'

  I laughed. 'I get you.'

  He'd winked, tapped the tip of his nose conspiratorially. 'These rough lads are no wiser than dogs, the sight of a woman in uniform has smoke coming out their ears!'

  I got back in the car. Fired the ignition and pulled out. After all the years I'd been away, I could still spot the West Coast genes a mile off. The tin-pot hard men, the coat-hanger shoulders poking beneath the Old Firm tops, the ever-handy bottle of ginger or compensatory chib. It was pathetic; made me ashamed to be Scottish. I couldn't believe we were perpetrating the lineage at this point in human development.

  I wondered if it would ever change around here.

  There'd be more conflict coming my way if I dug into Lyn's troubles. I could count on it. It didn't faze me. But would I be better opting for the quiet life? Something told me that, were I pushed, this town wouldn't know what had hit it. If another ersatz hard man got in my way, I'd burst him like a balloon. It's what I'd become.

  The road towards the front was pot-holed, heavily scarred and ramped to death. Did those things make any difference? I doubted it. The boy-racers were still out in force, lined up all the way along the shore; a procession of pimped-up Astras and go-faster Golfs with spotty yoofs at the wheel. I allowed myself a snigger and pulled a left for the breakwater.

  The wind was biting, a tang of sea-spray adding to the heady mix as I stepped out. I raised my collar and traced the well-worn steps through the sand hill that had formed on the tarmac surface. Some dog walkers and fishermen were up ahead, but sufficiently far off not to bother me. I didn't feel in the mood for contact.

  I remembered coming down this end of town when I was a boy; it held a fascination for youngsters of my generation, but there were none here today. They'd be inside, attached to games consoles no doubt. As I turned towards the sea I took in the filth-strewn beach, blackened logs, ripped nets and sun-worn plastics the mainstay of the assorted flotsam and jetsam. It must have looked like this when I last visited, I just didn't remember it this way. I looked towards the sky; the sun was hiding too.

  I let the wind whistle round my ears for a few minutes, then turned back towards the car. I don't know what I'd hoped to find down here; inspiration? Reason, maybe? Whatever, I hadn't found it. As I walked towards the four towers of the Pavilion I let my mind trip back to darker, drunken days when the Piv was a dancehall. It seemed like a million years ago now; Lyn had been there though.

  I saw her in a biker's jacket, ripped 501s, and mad spiky hair that came straight from a L'Oreal ad of the time. She was dancing to The Waterboys. At least, that's how I remember her. Were the memories real? At this stage, was anything? Did it matter?

  I had to help her. There was no talking myself out of it. There was no talking sense to myself. There was no reason. Someone said once, 'The heart has its reason that reason knows not of.'

  I removed my mobile from my inside pocket, scrolled through my contacts as I got into the car.

  The number I selected was ringing before I closed the door.

  'Hello.'

  'Mason … it's Doug Michie.'

  A stall on the line. 'Why in the world are you calling me?'

  'Because it's serious.'

  Mason took a breath, spoke calmly. 'Well, it would certainly have to be that.'

  Chapter 5

  I sat at the South Harbour Street lights, waiting on the filter. Two slightly-built youths battled the elements to scrape flaking paint from a manky shop front. It was an old shop, one of the weather-scarred ones that sat at the foot of the Sandgate feeling sorry for themselves. I wanted to get out and help, scrub the place down; the street had become an eyesore. Fine, if I was just another rep or white-van man passing through, but this was my old home town. The heart of Burns Country. I still had some respect for the place, if nobody else did. I trembled at the thought of tourists driving up from the yuppie-developed Shore to be greeted with this. It was an embarrassment to rank alongside finding your grandmother had wandered into town in her nightie.

  As the lights changed, and I pulled out, I remembered a pizzeria that used to be down this way when there was still paint on the buildings. Stefano's did a mean thin-crust. I smiled to myself. It didn't last; that was the trouble with coming home, very little was like I remembered it. It used to be easy getting around the Auld Toun. I was old enough to recall the days before the powers-that-be pedestrianised, or should that be paralysed, the High Street. Before a parking voucher scheme no-one could find tickets for. Before Woolies went, and one whole end of the town went with it. I wondered what was next. The new Ayr seemed to be leaving the old Ayr to hang.

  I eased past the Carnegie Library, got a break at the second set of lights and swung round past King Street Police Station. The traffic thickened before the roundabout and I found myself applying the brakes. I was staring across at the station when I suddenly felt the blood in my veins shriek. My heart ramped, as I saw a face I recognised exit the front door and walk towards a silver Lexus.

  'Gilmour.' The word fell flatly from my lips.

  I watched him yank the door of the car open and slam it behind him as he got in, planted the foot. A wail of car horns followed him as he sped onto the roundabout.

  Someone was in a hurry.

  I waited for the traffic to clear and made a mental note of the scene I'd just observed. Jonny Gilmour hadn't changed much in the last few years; he'd grown thicker round the middle, and his hair was shorter than the old mullet he once wore, but he still had the look of a man you didn't want to get in the way of. He seemed to be doing okay for himself, though, driving a Lexus; I remembered when he had holes in his gutties. He was in and out of the station back then as well.

  I let the revs out on John Street, took the r
oundabout at Dampark onto Station Road and followed the clogged arteries of Auld Ayr all the way to Morrisons. I didn't want anything from there; nothing depressed me more than bumping elbows and knees in overly lit supermarkets, but the Market Bar was located in the top end of the store's car park. I pulled up and made for the door.

  The bar had changed little in the years since I'd last got tanked up on Tennent's lager on the way to a night on the town. They kept the place warm, homely. Just how I liked it. I spied Mason straight away, even with his back to me. He was a bear of a man, as broad as he was; the burden of the job looked no more than a chip on his shoulders. I walked over and nodded to the barman to refill his pint, bring me the same.

  'Hello, Mason.'

  A slow creak emitted from his chair as he turned. 'Doug.'

  I moved myself to the other side of the table, sat facing him. There was a gap of a few seconds before I spoke again. 'You look well, haven't changed.'

  'Spare me the small chat, eh?'

  I looked up as our pints arrived. 'Okay.'

  Mason nodded to the barman, almost smiled. 'So, to what do I owe the pleasure?'

  There didn't seem any point dressing it up. Mason knew me, had done for years. We'd been in uniform together. Seen things. Shared experience, they called it. Some of those experiences we'd sooner forget; most, to be honest, but they counted for something. They brought weight to the table and Mason knew that as well as I did.

  'I'm back in town.'

  'I see that.'

  'Aye, well, I'm not here for old time's sake … you needn't worry about that.'

  He raised a hand and planted it on the table. The pints trembled; some golden liquid escaped over the brim of my glass. 'What do you want, Doug?'

  I wiped the table with a beer mat, took a sip of my pint. 'A friend of mine, her son's in trouble.'

  'A friend?'

  'That's right.'

  'What kind of trouble?'