‘The answer, my dear ex-DI, is “illicit reasons”.’ Huntly picked his way across to the base of one of the pillars, running the toe of his polished black brogues through the grass around the base. ‘Which means the three “D”s: Drink, Drugs, and-slash-or Depravity.’
A thin metallic pinging rang through the air above, getting louder, like a metal rod drawn down a piano wire. Then rattling. And the shadow of a train growled overhead, adding a small shower of dust and grit to the rain.
I checked my watch: 08:32, so that would be the ten past eight to Aberdeen. Late again.
Huntly pulled his shoulders in, squatting beneath his brolly as if trying to make himself as small a target as possible. Only standing up again once the train had passed. ‘Call me old-fashioned, but I’m never keen to be spattered with human sewage. And once the train has left the station...’ He scuffed his shoe through the grass again. ‘And while we’re on the subject, who ever heard of Saint Damon? No such beast exists, and I speak as someone who’s studied the Catholic faith fairly intensively.’
‘You’re a Catholic?’
‘Well, not any more, obviously — their views on homosexuality being somewhat Levitican — but I was quite the altar boy when I was younger. Had a singing voice that would put joy in the bleakest of hearts. Even yours.’ He shrugged. Curled his top lip. ‘That’s the trouble with Oldcastle, you lot have no respect for proper church procedures. You can’t just go about making up your own saints without formal permission. Saint Jasper, Saint Damon, Saint Ailsa of the Immaculate Death, Saint Whatever-That-Church-In-The-Wynd is called.’
‘Saint Fraser of Ochenbrook.’
‘It’s sacrilegious. No wonder Pope Innocent the Twelfth excommunicated the lot of you... Aha!’ He stared at the grass where his toecap was, then pinned his brolly between his cheek and shoulder — freeing up both hands to snap on a pair of purple nitrile gloves. Bent and retrieved a used syringe, holding it aloft like a prize salmon. ‘Voila.’
‘That supposed to prove something?’
A condescending smile. ‘That this place is being used for the consumption of drugs, my dear ex-Detective Inspector.’
‘Wow!’ I slapped a hand to my cheek. ‘You — don’t — say? A patch of waste ground in Kingsmeath being used by druggies? Shock, and indeed, horror! Who would ever have guessed?’
Huntly’s eyes narrowed. ‘A chap could go off you, you know that, don’t you?’
‘Every bloody park, kids’ playground, and bus shelter from here to Kings Drive is awash with people shooting up. Be more of a surprise if you found somewhere that wasn’t.’
He dropped the syringe, rubbed his squeaky purple fingertips together. ‘Fine. Then you tell me what Gòrach was doing here.’
‘Found it!’ Alice’s voice wafted back to us, through the rain. ‘This is where Andrew died.’
‘Maybe Gòrach followed him in. Maybe he snatched Andrew off the street and brought him here. Or maybe he knew kids played here so he turns up, hoping some kid will happen past.’
‘Or maybe he’s already here, shooting up, and then he sees Andrew Brennan and decides to make his high that bit more dangerous?’
‘ARE YOU TWO COMING, OR WHAT?’
I shrugged, followed the sound of her voice, damp grass clutching at my trouser legs. ‘If you can afford a car, or vehicle, why the hell would you come here to cook up? Why not go somewhere safe, secluded, warm?’
Huntly lumbered along beside me. ‘Well, perhaps the good doctor is right and Gòrach lives locally? Or he comes back here to connect to his past...’ A frown. ‘To be honest, all this behavioural analysis stuff is somewhat beneath my skill level. I make deductions based on facts and realities, I don’t do speculative nonsense. What we know is that Gòrach was here and Andrew Brennan was here, and they can only have come through the gate we did, or the one by the improperly named church.’
Alice stood in a small trampled circle of grass, frowning at the grubby remnants of a large teddy bear someone had cable-tied to a wooden fencepost. One of its arms was missing, the stuffing poking out of multiple holes in its legs. Its stomach spilling out into its lap. A handful of floral tributes lay scattered around it, as if tossed about in a fit of rage, the grimy cellophane wrappers of long-dead bouquets marking where people had paid their respects and not come back to clean them up afterwards.
Henry let loose a whimper and Alice rubbed the fur between his ears. ‘Which house was Andrew Brennan’s?’
Huntly consulted his phone. ‘That one, there.’ Pointing down the hill, to the back of William Terrace. ‘Mother, younger brother, Andrew, and a succession of the mother’s boyfriends. Three of whom are currently taking their ease at Her Majesty’s pleasure for extortion, aggravated assault, and domestic violence, respectively. The local numpties interviewed all of her beaux, but to no avail.’
I tilted my head back, let the rain patter against my cheeks and chin. ‘Let’s say he knows Andrew. Let’s say he’s watched him play here in the past, what’s different about this time?’
‘Hmph. I’ll let the good doctor take that one.’
Alice cleared her throat. ‘Well, I mean, you could look on it as a crime of opportunity, like I said this morning, because he’s always fantasised about it and the question then has to be why would no one know about the murder, because all it would take is someone looking out of their back window and they’d see you there, strangling a wee boy, wouldn’t it?’
Huntly went back to his phone. ‘According to the report, the mother called the police when Andrew didn’t come in for his dinner. That was a little after five o’clock.’
Back under my umbrella again, I nodded towards the skeletal trees and spiny bushes. ‘I checked the weather reports: eighteenth of June, the city was thick with haar. Down here, in the gloom? You’d be lucky to see your hand in front of your face.’
Alice nodded. ‘Do you think I could talk to the mother, Ash? Would that be OK?’
‘Don’t see why not.’
Huntly leaned on the bell, setting its high-pitched trill ringing on and on and on and on.
The building must have been impressive in its day: a grand mid-terrace home with its garden out front, tiled entrance hall, and mahogany staircase, but carving the thing up into six small flats had turned its sweeping grandeur into a claustrophobic warren. The lighting wasn’t on in the communal stairwell, hiding things in the darkness.
And still the bell trilled.
Alice’s boxy wee Suzuki sat at the kerb outside, Henry’s nose pressed against the passenger window as the car slowly steamed up, marinating the interior in the stink of wet Scottie dog.
Finally, a man’s voice grumbled through the door to Flat 1L, getting louder. ‘God’s sake, buncha bastards...’ Then the door burst open, revealing a tousle-haired bloke in his mid-forties with tattoos visible on his arms and neck where they poked out of a pink towelling dressing gown two sizes too small for him. Puffy eyes. Chin blue with stubble. A droopy moustache. Squint teeth on show as he bellowed at us. ‘STOP RINGING THAT BELL!’ Jabbing a hand back inside the flat. ‘YES, I WAS ASLEEP: I’M ON BLOODY NIGHTS!’
Huntly took his thumb off the bell. ‘So sorry to wake you.’ Not sounding in the least bit genuine. ‘Is Mrs Brennan home?’
‘Why?’ The man tucked his chin in, creating a roll of fat around his neck as he looked the pinstriped tit up and down. Clenched his fists. ‘You some sort of lawyer?’ Making that last word sound as if it was code for intestinal parasite.
Alice got herself between the two of them, and gave him a wave. ‘Hello, I’m Dr McDonald, but you can call me Alice, if you like, and we’re looking to speak to Mrs Brennan, because we’re trying to help the police find out what happened to Andrew and why it happened, and who made it happen, of course — that’s the really important thing, isn’t it — so if you can help us to help them, that’ll really help, OK?’