The Inglorious Dead (A Doug Michie Novel) Read online

  Mason eased his elbow onto the roof of the BMW and looked out to the copse of trees on the edge of the car park. ‘You have me there, it doesn’t make any sense … unless there’s some kind of internal wrangle.’

  I laughed at his use of management speak. ‘Is that what you’d call it these days? What about a split, a turf war, a schism …?’

  He eased his glare back to me. ‘We’re getting way ahead of ourselves.’

  I nodded; my cig had burned down to the filter, I dowped it on the tarmac. ‘Of course we are. We’d be complete and utter idiots to even suggest the like … unless we had something to go on.’

  Mason was shaking his head, easing himself back into the car. ‘Don’t even think about asking me to go over John Scott’s work, I’ve got no grounds for that.’

  As he closed the door the car’s engine ignited, the window was starting to roll down when he turned back to me. He may have had more to say but I got my words out first. ‘Electric windows, too, eh? Man, they spared no expense on this motor!’

  Chapter 13

  I waded my way through a gang of deadbeats in baseball caps that had set up camp at the foot of Asda bridge, thinking it was a bit of an early morning start for them. Two were arguing over a joint the size of a rolled-up bus ticket, collecting applause from the rest of the group who staggered into each other in dazed attempts to extricate the communal bottle of White Lightning. There was a time when people came here to feed the swans with their children – an old woman, Sylvia, I think her name was, used to stand sentry with a plain loaf in her hand. I wondered where she was now, where that Auld Ayr was. We seemed to have restocked the town with a new underclass of junkies and alcoholics, all content to while away their time on the streets collecting half Chelsea smiles and cabbage ears in the casual conflict that followed them like the sickly scent of their fortified wines.

  ‘Unbelievable,’ I muttered and shook my head as I made for the town centre. A chorus of onlookers seemed to reciprocate in mute sympathy.

  One stepped up, announced: ‘What Ayr needs is a bad batch of smack!’ His face was scarlet, the sight of rowdy wasters in the street an offence to every one of his sixty-plus years. ‘Aye, bad dose of smack to put the lot of them in the ground!’

  It seemed a bit harsh to me, but the old fella grabbed some appreciative looks and even some soft applause from the concourse. I felt a smile creep up my face; one thing we weren’t short of on the west-coast was passion.

  By Fish Cross I thought I’d entered the set of some dystopian disaster movie. Both sides of the street, all the way to the Sandgate, looked shuttered up. Only the butcher seemed to be holding his own, his apron-clad manikin putting on a defiantly jolly expression in the face of the grim apocalypse that had gripped the town. The answer seemed to be to copy everyone else and walk with my head down towards the shifting centre of our dwindling commerce.

  I picked out a café in the Lorne Arcade, we’d met there once before and I knew Lyn liked the coffee. It seemed strange to me that whilst half the town had slid into despair the other half had become coffee snobs with Doonfoot tractors and private Ayr plates.

  Lyn looked up as I entered the shop, she managed a low-voltage smile that I felt compelled to acknowledge with an even dimmer one myself. Still, I felt glad to see her so cheery after I’d cancelled on her the day before.

  ‘Hello, Lyn.’

  ‘Thanks for coming.’

  ‘Well, I nearly didn’t.’ I pulled out a chair and sat down.

  ‘Oh …’

  I realised at once how my last statement had been taken the wrong way. ‘What I mean is, I’m very busy at the moment.’

  ‘I’d heard you’d made a bit of a name for yourself since …’ She briskly changed subject. ‘Are you working a case?’

  Lyn had been the last person to hire me – I might not have been the most professional investigator in the world but it didn’t seem right to discuss my work with an ex-client. And that was how I wanted to see Lyn now.

  I tried moving the conversation along. ‘There was a bit of a hooley in progress outside the old Asda.’

  Eyes rolled, a tut. ‘When is there never in this town?’

  ‘I don’t suppose they confine their activities to a Saturday night in the Magic Circle anymore …’

  ‘No, they do not. Every day is out-your-face day when you’re on a methadone programme. You see them sitting on the bench outside Boots like they’re waiting for someone to hand them a menu!’

  I’d seen this myself, it was almost comical how commonplace it had become. The town was awash with drugs, legal and illegal. ‘Shall I order our own low-grade high?’

  She smiled. ‘A latte for me, please.’

  The atmosphere in the coffee house was surprisingly easy-going; I’d expected an inquisition, perhaps some kind of judgement passed on my way of life, but I was soon reminded that wasn’t Lyn. She was a good sort and we went too far back for any water that had passed under the bridge recently to splash us now. She spoke about her son, Glenn, and his new life at college in Edinburgh. She had a stint living with her sister on Arran and a job in the Co-op there, but she felt too isolated. She didn’t sound drawn back to Ayr so much as the island bored her.

  ‘And what about you, Doug?’

  How did I answer that? ‘You know, I’m getting by.’

  ‘It must be hard for you in that big old house of your mother’s. I mean, it was the family home, there must be the memories to contend with.’

  She knew I had a sentimental side, that I could brood on the past. ‘None of that’s healthy, I know … it’s why I’m selling up.’

  Her pallor lightened, eyes widened. ‘Selling up?’

  ‘It’s time for a change.’

  ‘But where will you live?’ Her voice was high, plaintive.

  ‘I hadn’t thought about that.’

  ‘Will you stay in Ayr?’

  That I had an answer for. ‘Oh, God, no. I’m pretty certain the Auld Toun and me have both seen better days … it’s time to go our own ways.’

  Lyn put down her coffee and stared through me, she seemed to be processing my words. ‘I just thought …’

  ‘What? That I was back for good? Never happen. It feels like a mistake just sitting here in this coffee shop talking to you – I should have left my past where it was.’

  Lyn turned her face away. For a second I thought I sensed a tremble on her lips but no words came. She collected her bag from the floor and pushed out her chair. Her wide eyes seemed clogged with red vessels as she took me in.

  ‘Lyn …’

  ‘I have to go.’ Her voice was trembling now. ‘I shouldn’t have contacted you, Doug. I’m very sorry.’

  Her movements were hurried as she made for the door. I thought she might turn and wave, make her sudden exit official, but she took the street at a clip and was soon out of view. I stared down at her coffee, it was still swirling in the cup. She hadn’t touched a drop.

  Chapter 14

  I couldn’t let a good cup of coffee go to waste, and it was very good coffee. Lyn’s actions had shocked me a little, I knew she had been doing it hard these last few years but couldn’t see the next few offering any let up. She’d went from having the weight of the world on her shoulders – all the worry a mother has about her son, and then some – to packing him off to college on the other side of the country. She was sensing the gap in her life now and with no job to occupy her she had too much time to think. If there was one thing I did know, it was that worry like that only led to more worry.

  I checked my iPhone, tried to compose a placatory text, something close to a sorry, without actually using the word. I mean, I still didn’t know what I was to apologise for. I felt an even keener need to get out of town quickly now – because I could see Lyn’s problems becoming mine if I didn’t.

  As I keyed in the text, another one came through. It was from Andy.

  How’s things going there, Sherlock?

  There was more to come,
the three dots at the bottom indicating he was still typing.

  Bert Nichols has given me a list of contacts, says you’ll need it.

  I felt my eyes start to roll upwards; Andy still seemed a little too keen to make himself an invaluable part of this investigation. For me that meant carrying dead weight at the very best, at the worst he could get himself into some bother. Until I knew exactly what we were dealing with here, Andy was going to have to be put in his place.

  I texted back:

  Meet me in Billy Bridge’s in an hour.

  I shoved the phone in my pocket, caught the ping of a reply, but was too busy grinding my teeth to read it. I paid the waiter for our coffees and turned back into the street, I had such a head of steam on me that I nearly knocked over a Big Issue seller at the foot of the arcade. He gave me a mouthful of what sounded like Turkish.

  ‘Sorry, no offence, mate.’

  Dark eyes burned curses at me, as he tried to gather up his dropped magazines. I bought one to placate him, handed over a couple of quid, ‘Look keep the change, eh.’

  A woman in a pink velour tracksuit had stopped to stare, a hand went on her hip as she scratched a white stiletto along the paving flags to trap a stray magazine. I felt like the star of my own Mr Bean movie as I made for New Market Street, away from the mêlée that was the High Street.

  I sparked up a Marlboro as I went, trying to get my thoughts in order. I knew I needed to start making concrete plans towards moving on. As if pulled by invisible wires I found myself at the estate agent’s window, scanning the property prices. The sums were eye-watering; even with the recent property market crash I wondered just who in this town had the cash to buy a house.

  I crushed the cig under my shoe and went in.

  The place was plush, clearly newly fitted out. I eyed the Eames chairs that had been pushed out front with caution, they sat side by side with a coffee machine in front of them. I was old school, and know you don’t get owt for nowt; the tray of Kit Kats was coming out my fees.

  ‘Can I help you, sir?’ She was St Tropez tanned with teeth white-towards-dazzling. It was the same look as Cassie Grant had went for – Big Brother contestant in waiting.

  ‘I’m here to sell my house.’ I knew it was still my mother’s house in all but name, though there seemed no point explaining. I wanted it off my hands because it had come to feel like a weight I could do without.

  ‘Okey-doke … we’ll need to book in a valuation first of all.’

  I nodded, as she turned towards the desk she’d sprung from like a trapdoor spider. There was a brisk offer of coffee but I declined, my tastes had already shifted towards something stronger. This was a big step, final you could say. It marked the close of a particularly painful chapter in my life.

  ‘Can you tell me how quick they’re selling right now?’

  ‘Well, it depends … we’ve had some sell in a matter of months, others have been a lot slower. It’s still a very difficult market.’

  I thought of the wall-to-wall property porn that was on the television and the eye watering amounts of tax payer’s cash that had been transferred to banks ‘too big to fail’ and wondered just what the attraction with home ownership was. It felt anathema to me – I wanted to be free of ties.

  She took my address and telephone number, promised a prompt visit and valuation. I thanked her, added: ‘The quicker the better.’

  ‘In a hurry are you?’

  ‘You bet.’

  In the Bridge’s bar Andy was stationed in his usual spot, a pint of mild in front of him that didn’t seem to have been touched. An old soak was regaling him with a war story that I knew he’d heard a hundred times at least. In kindness, or simply because he had nowhere else to go, Andy nodded sagely and pretended to be fascinated.

  ‘A pint, please.’ I turned to Andy and his companion, ‘Can I get you anything?’

  They both shook heads; my face seemed to be enough to break up their reverie. The old boy slunk off, a backwards glance caught me like a left hook.

  ‘Jeez, who stole your toffee?’ said Andy.

  ‘What?’

  ‘You have a face on you like a burst couch.’

  ‘Thank you.’ My pint came and I blew the head down the side of the glass, gulped deep. It was on my mind to tell him about Lyn, about the family home I’d just put on the market and how a knock-down price would upset my sister, but I did that guy thing of opting for a different subject altogether.

  ‘Right, where’s this list, Andy mate?’

  He fished in his inside pocket and produced another sealed manila envelope. ‘Here you go … but finish your pint before you open it.’

  ‘What? … I mean, why?’

  ‘Just, y’know, enjoy your pint first, the names aren’t going to change.’

  I weighed the envelope in my hand, it was a fair bundle of pages but then I’d expected a man like Bert Nichols to be thorough.

  ‘You make it sound like there’s names in here I don’t want to see …’

  Andy looked away, picked up his pint and quaffed a good pelt in one clean hit.

  Chapter 15

  I manoeuvred Andy to the back of the pub, to the quietest spot I could find among the old tables that were scratched and scarred by heavy use. This was a serious drinkers’ den, about as far removed from a style bar as you could get, and it suited me fine. There were some parts of Auld Ayr that were resistant to the march of time, to tarting up and the crass push to get in a younger, trendier crowd. A glossy cocktails menu would look as out of place here as those pictures of a Sphinx on the Moon.

  It was an open area, but narrow. The walls seemed to be used to keeping secrets, which came as a comfort. Andy looked up and down the length of the bar. I put a disapproving gaze on him, felt tempted to ask what he was playing at, but let it go, for now.

  ‘So, tell me, Andy, how did you happen to come by this list?’ I removed the envelope he’d handed me earlier.

  ‘Bert gave it to me … he said you’d asked him for it.’

  ‘I did.’ My intonation didn’t seem to register with Andy. I turned away and started to rip into the envelope.

  It was the same handwriting I’d seen on the earlier letter Andy had delivered, the meandering semi-literate tone was a man’s but the writing part a woman’s. If the first letter had come from Davie Grant, I’d guess the one taking the dictation was the less than intellectually agile Cassie.

  ‘What is it?’ said Andy.

  ‘You mean you actually don’t know …?’

  He bridled. ‘Of course I don’t … what are you trying to say?’

  Perhaps I was just being a little paranoid, I’d known Andy longer than most, after all – if he was colluding with the Order boys to confuse me I’d know for sure, without any guesswork.

  ‘Who wrote this note?’ I said.

  He shrugged, brushed a hand down the front of his jeans as he went to collect up his pint. ‘I’ve no idea, is there some kind of a problem?’

  My problem, if indeed there was one, was that Andy seemed to be acting as a go-between. He was delivering letters supposedly from Bert Nichols that might just turn out to be from Davie Grant. It could be nothing – they were all looking for the same answer, after all – but something about the set-up caused a knot to form in my stomach.

  ‘Tell me, Andy, doesn’t it strike you as strange the way Davie Grant’s taking care of business?’

  ‘What do you mean?’ He supped his pint, returned it to a table-top carved in initials.

  ‘I mean, it’s Bert’s son that was supposedly murdered, yet Davie Grant seems to be calling all the shots here.’

  ‘Well, he is picking up the bill.’

  There was that, and he was the type of man who could easily be described as a control freak when it came to parting with brass, but Bert Nichols was no slouch either. ‘Doesn’t he trust Bert?’

  Andy still looked nonplussed, creasing his nose as if a repellent odour had hit him. ‘Look, you’re asking the wrong man
. I’m just the messenger, Doug.’

  I smacked the table, ‘And that’s another thing, I’m not happy with all communication being filtered through you … it’s either my case, or it isn’t.’

  ‘Doug, they’re a funny lot, you know that.’

  ‘I’m not on about them dressing up in bowler hats and silly wee bibs … what have they really got to hide?’

  Andy leaned forward, scratched at the stubble on his chin with his thumb and forefinger then let out a long-stilled breath. ‘Okay. Perhaps they’re a wee bit over cautious, but wouldn’t you be in their shoes? They attract haters, y’know.’

  If they attracted haters it was a case of getting back what you dished out. I remembered the daft kids in the pub in Mossblown, all fired up on a bigotry they’d been spoon-fed since they could first walk. It was a west-coast of Scotland tradition that had outlived its time and was relying on recruits from the unevolved.

  ‘That march I went to have a look at was just full of neds in ‘Gers tops chucking back the bevvy. A few of the older ones had got dressed up, splashed the Old Spice, dragged the missus along at their elbow … the women were all drinking mixers with Irn-Bru, it was sad.’

  Andy got the picture. ‘Och that’s just spectators. There’s a hard-core too.’

  ‘What’s the hard-core? Those that know the history, those that think their religion puts them a notch above the minority?’

  Andy showed palms, slunk back in his chair. ‘Hang on, I’m not defending them. I think it’s all nonsense too, but some of them are our neighbours, some of them pay my wages now and again.’

  ‘You’re fond of preaching, aren’t you, Andy?’

  ‘Aye, I suppose so.’

  I shook my head, the irony was lost on him.

  As I picked up the list again and scanned the first few names I felt myself sinking deeper into a case that left a bad taste in my mouth.