Still Midnight

38

They had the Lexus and seventeen other stolen cars, or bits of them, and they couldn’t tie a thing to Danny McGrath. His prints were on nothing, his name was on nothing but he had come in voluntarily to help them with their questioning, as a courtesy to the police.

Danny had never been a threat to her before; they’d left each other alone always. That he was here now meant he believed that Morrow had broken the ceasefire. And she knew that even if she got him alone and explained what had happened, it would never be all right again.

She couldn’t let anyone else question him in case he gave her up but to do it herself would mean people seeing them together, seeing the similarities; they’d know where she came from. She didn’t want to leave the disabled toilet ever again. She almost wished there was a window she could crawl out of, that she had a lighter and could set off the fire alarm. A gentle rap on the door was followed by Harris’s voice: ‘Are ye stuck in there?’

She made a sound like a laugh at the door, straightened her clothes, managed a light, ‘Just coming,’ opened the door quite suddenly and found Harris standing a little too close to the door. ‘Fuck’s sake,’ she said. ‘Behave yourself.’

‘You’ve been in there for twenty minutes, boss. He’s about to go home. He’s in voluntary, you know? He can leave.’

She nodded back at CID. ‘Where’s himself?’

‘MacKechnie’s gone home.’

She looked at her watch, ‘It’s only half four.’

‘Had a meeting and then went home. Be back in for the pick-up, he said. Going out in the Obs van with you.’

‘Fuck.’ It was a relief. At least he wouldn’t see her and Danny together. ‘Fuck.’

‘You feeling sick?’

‘Wee bit. Do I look sick?’

‘Wee bit.’

She was talking very fast, she realised, dead giveaway. She stared helplessly at the wall until Harris prompted her. ‘Clock’s ticking, he’s within his rights-’

‘What room’s he in?’

‘Four.’

‘Get Gobby up to the corridor outside Three. I want a word with him before we go in. If he’s not there in two minutes I’ll kick his bollocks in.’

Danny was sitting across from her next to his lawyer. The lawyer didn’t look like a criminal lawyer at all, Morrow had never met him or even heard his name. He dealt mostly with corporate, he said, when she remarked on it, and he smiled charmingly.

Danny looked cheap and angry. He slumped in the chair, one arm flung over the back as if he was the most relaxed guy in the world. Their father used to sit like that. She’d seen him swing a punch at a man from that stance. And he was wearing his duck-down puffa jacket, more expensive than most suits, but it placed him as a poor man who’d done well.

His lawyer in contrast wore a genuinely expensive suit, wool, and carried a briefcase of exquisite leather. He pulled from it a notepad and a tortoiseshell pen, a small glasses case containing gold-rimmed half-moon glasses and a packet of chewing gun, which he offered to Danny. Morrow sat as still as she could.

The door opened flat against the wall and Gobby sauntered in with a strange expression on his face, half haughty, half indigestion. Morrow stood up respectfully and the lawyer followed her lead, holding his hand out. ‘DSI MacKechnie?’

Gobby took the hand and shook it, looked at Morrow a little unkindly, she thought, and took his jacket off, shaking it out the way Bannerman had done with Omar. He sat down, clenched his hands in front of himself on the table and cleared his throat. Everyone waited for him to speak. Gobby cleared his throat again and glanced reproachfully at Morrow.

‘Right,’ she said. ‘Sorry, OK, I’m DS Morrow, this is D- well, you’ve met. I don’t know if you know why you’re here, do you?’

Danny clenched his jaw at her and his eyes promised her that he would never forget this.

‘Basically,’ she continued, ‘a hostage has been taken by gunmen and we’re trying to find them. A car used in that crime was followed to the garage you were, um, apprehended in. Can you tell me how you came to be in there?’

‘Buying parts,’ said Danny.

‘Car parts?’

He blinked yes.

‘Who were you buying them from?’

‘Guys that was there.’

‘The two other men we apprehended in the garage itself?’

He shrugged.

‘What parts were you buying?’

‘Spark plugs.’ He sounded contemptuous.

‘Spark plugs?’

He sucked a hiss between his teeth. ‘Just says that, didn’t I?’

‘Why were you buying them there?’

He gave a careless one shoulder shrug. ‘Good as anywhere.’

‘They’re not an expensive item are they?’

He snorted and sat back.

‘Why buy them there if you can buy them just as cheaply elsewhere?’

He muttered something at the table.

‘Pardon?’

‘You’ve got some fucking cheek,’ he said quietly.

‘Have I?’

‘Making me fucking sit here and listen tae this shit.’ He was looking at Gobby but talking to her. He nodded towards her. ‘See her?’

Gobby looked at Morrow.

Danny grinned. His dimples were already sagging into slashes, she realised, his charm already going south, bitterness already setting in. ‘But, d’ye see her?’

The lawyer was looking at them, back and forth. Seeing the similarities. The dimpled cheeks, the high brow.

Danny and Morrow looked at each other for a moment, and for a moment she could see herself in him utterly, deep rooted fear making him angry, wanting to control the desperate, craven desire to belong.

‘I’d like to speak to you alone,’ he said smugly.

Morrow hesitated. ‘To me?’

‘To him.’ He reached into his pocket and took out a chewing gum packet, flipped two small white rectangles into his palm and threw them into his mouth like headache pills. He bit down on them, the crunch of the coating audible in the quiet room.

Gobby sat forward. ‘To me? Why?’

‘Got something to tell ye.’

He wouldn’t, she was sure he wouldn’t, but he was threatening her, letting her know it was possible, that he could.

‘Mr McGrath,’ Gobby leaned back, copying Danny’s posture, ‘we only ever talk to criminals when there is another police officer present. For the purposes of corroborating evidence.’

The lawyer butted in, ‘I’m afraid-’

Danny silenced him with a hand. ‘I’ve got information that would interest you.’

‘Oh.’ Gobby sounded surprised. ‘You want to be an informant?’

‘No.’

‘DCI MacKechnie,’ the lawyer sounded ridiculously well spoken, ‘I’m very much afraid that I don’t really know what my client is suggesting, could we have a moment alone?’

Gobby took charge. ‘No. Why did you come here? Are you willing to tell us about the cars?’

Danny seemed a lot less certain now. ‘Or what?’

‘Or nothing,’ said Morrow.

‘Or you’ll arrest me for buying a spark plug?’

‘Mr McGrath,’ she said, ‘why did you come in here voluntarily? Why are you paying to have your lawyer with you to be here?’

Danny sat back, threw both arms behind his chair back, baring his chest at her, his chin out. ‘How come, Alex, how come I know where you live? How come I know,’ he hesitated at the next threat, ‘where your wean goes to nursery?’

Morrow sat back and looked at him. He thought he knew her, had picked up details about her life from gossip but he didn’t know the big stuff. He didn’t know anything about Gerald and that was all that mattered. Danny was not her family. She looked at him for a long time and when she finally spoke she was calm. ‘Mr McGrath, you know nothing about me.’

Gobby stood up. ‘Come in here again,’ he said sternly to the lawyer, ‘and it’ll be wasting police time.’

The lawyer nodded at his briefcase and packed up. It was only then that Danny took the trouble to look up at the video camera and saw the wire and the jack dangling loose.

Morrow hurried downstairs ahead of all of them and met Routher in reception. ‘Ma’am, your husband’s outside in the yard. Wants to see you.’

Aleesha was on medication, that was true. Paracetamol. The operation had gone well, it was two days ago and they’d taken her off the morphine fourteen hours ago. But she pretended to be slightly out of it, walking as if she was a little unsteady, stepping slow, picking things up and putting them down again as if she’d forgotten they already had a tray on the rails at the self-service canteen, they already had a spoon, sugar portions. She was doing it for a reason. She was doing it as a test.

Roy seemed protective, stepped to the side when a trolley hurried past, shielding her. He gently put the second tray back, the sugar back, spoke softly to her. As he paid for the bottle of water for her and mug of tea for himself she watched his face. He was grieving, the sorrow so deep behind his eyes that it wasn’t shaken by superficial expressions like smiles to tea ladies and remembering the spoon.

When he took the change of his fiver she saw him glance at the charity box for the hospital, look at his change, knowing he should put some of it in and then decide not to. She saw the micro-expression on his face as he felt bad about it. She liked that.

He led her carefully over to a corner seat, away from the bustle near the corridor, sat her in the chair least likely to be jostled and took the opposite for himself. He sat down, put the bottle of water on the table in front of her, set the tea by his elbow and put the tray on the floor resting on the table leg. He looked up at her, his eyes starting at her chin, weaving up past her lips, the bridge of her nose, luxuriating over her eyebrows and finally meeting her eyes. She saw all the grief evaporate, the hurt lift from him and was aware that she was doing that.

‘Roy?’

‘Yeah, I’m Roy.’

‘Um, Roy, why are you sad?’

He shrugged, eyes slid to the side, sinking again into grief. ‘I’ve lost…’ He seemed to forget what he was saying.

Aleesha peeled the label off the water bottle with her good hand, struggling to keep the bottle upright. He was looking at her.

‘What’s your story?’

She smiled.

‘Seriously,’ he insisted. ‘What’s the deal with you?’

‘The deal?’

‘Why are you pretending to be off your tits?’

She squared up to him, picked up the water bottle, pointed the nozzle at him in a warning. But he was smiling. ‘I know what medicated looks like.’

She smiled back. ‘You really like me, don’t you?’

‘Yeah.’ He meant it so much he could hardly say it.

‘Why do you like me?’

She was expecting a compliment, a cheesy list of good points: nice eyes, good hair, fit figure. Roy leaned back in his chair, pinched the handle to the mug and dropped his hand to the table and said the only thing in the world that would make her trust him: ‘I’ve no idea. But I really, really do.’

Struggling to drink the water through a wide grin Aleesha looked at him. He sat watching her, eyes narrowed in appreciation, mapping her arms, her shoulders, loving her. Her heart rate was increasing, her breaths deepening, as she looked at him across the plastic bottle. She swallowed, felt the narrow nozzle suck on her lip as she took the bottle from her mouth.

‘Roy?’

He smiled just hearing her say the name.

‘Roy, do you have a car?’

Morrow didn’t recognise the car. It wasn’t their car but she looked into it because it was the only civilian car in the yard that she didn’t recognise immediately. A lumbering pale blue Honda Accord. The gesture was so unexpected it took the breath from her. She stopped on the ramp, holding the handrail for support.

He was in the driver’s seat, hands resting on his thighs, looking out at her. Brian had bought a car without asking her. A second-hand car. Not a remarkable car, bit of a shit car actually, but an exact replica of the car he’d owned when they met.

He had stopped at the bus stop outside the Battlefield Rest Rotunda at the Vicky and offered her a lift home when they were both at Langside College. They weren’t friends but had sat near each other in history a few times, were aware of each other, had coffee with the same people once or twice.

Now, with a jaundiced policewoman’s knowledge of the world, now, she would never get into a car with a man she didn’t know. Now she would have leaned down, the rain pattering on her hood and her ankles freezing, and said thanks but no, she was fine to get the bus, she’d see him tomorrow, did he know he was parked in a yellow square? Now she’d never get in the car with Brian. But back then she’d felt the warmth billowing out of the passenger window and climbed in from the cold bus stop on the exposed road and pulled her hood down and he drove her to her door. They talked about music and the weather and the history teacher and how Brian liked hill walking and would she like to come sometime.

He had the car for two years and sold it for scrap before they got married. At her insistence they went together and bought a new car, more modest but fresh, new, with a promise of no problems.

At the bottom of the ramp the wind swirled around the floor of the police yard, ushering leaves under cars. The station door slapped shut behind her and some coppers squeezed past down the narrow ramp. She let them by and then hurried down to the pale blue car, standing in front of the bonnet, looking in at him. Brian looked back through the windscreen, reached up, took his glasses off. The bridge of his nose had two red oval indents, his eyes looked raw without glass over them. He looked younger.

Morrow wanted to fly through the windscreen and engulf him then, smother him with her body, swallow him. Instead she dropped her chin to her chest, hiding her face in case anyone saw her on the many cameras that were dotted around the yard, and stomped around to the passenger door. She opened it, the handle mechanism so much like a physical memory that she felt her hand cup her own younger trusting hand, felt the warmth from her smooth skin.

Heat billowed out from the cabin. Brian had the heater up full, just as he had the day at the bus stop. Later he’d told her it was so that she’d feel it when he wound the window down and asked her in, so she’d be tempted to come into the warm.

She dropped into the seat and slammed the door behind her. Raising a hand she flipped the sun shield down so that her wet eyes couldn’t be seen from outside, not by the cameras or passersby coming on shift or going out in cars.

Morrow looked out of the side window, searching for a phrase or a line or a thing to say, but there were no words for this. Her eyes skirted over the bonnets of the cars lined up with theirs, over to the shit-brick wall around the yard, and she began to trace a journey through the mortar to the building. Next to her, far away, she was aware of Brian sighing.

A wrist touching her wrist. For the first time since Gerald died she didn’t draw away from him, didn’t flinch at the touch. It was so warm in the car she’d hardly noticed the movement of his hand as it flattened against the back of her hand.

Hand against hand, his wrist slipped up until it was on top of hers, edge to edge. His pinkie moved a millimetre, stroking her pinkie, and then, quick as a landslide, their fingertips found each other, working through and over in the secret language of lovers, saying things there were no words for.

Morrow’s face was wet, her breath short, her eyes smarting bitterly, but she kept working her way across the wall, through the rough dips and dark valleys as she struggled for breath, remembering her place in the maze even when she shut her eyes to shed the shuddering veil of tears. She kept going until, quite suddenly, she found herself at the far wall with no further to go.

Out of the blue Brian said, ‘I got sacked.’

She looked at the hand wound tightly around hers. A fine hand. Tiny hairs. The fingers loosened on hers, the tips stroking her fingertips. ‘Haven’t been in since…’

She looked out of the window at the wall. People were moving outside, blurred uniforms, getting in cars, pulling out. ‘We in trouble? Financially?’

‘Might need to sell that house.’ His fingers were moving quickly over hers, anxious, nervous, waiting for the warmth to turn.

She turned to look and found him turned away, face to the window, fat tears dripping off his chin. ‘Oh, Brian. I hate that fucking house.’

Fingers through fingers, tight, tight and unmoving, Morrow raised Brian’s hand to her lips and there it stayed.