Did I mention the cat? There’s a thin moggy with half a tail that comes by most days. It creeps up the stairs, pauses at the second top step and checks out the lie of the land. If it sees me at my desk and I don’t make shooing noises it comes up on to the landing and rubs itself against my door. It meows as it rubs.
I’ve taken to leaving a saucer of Carnation milk for it. That seems to work. It doesn’t come near me, doesn’t demand stroking or – god forbid – a lap, just recognition and milk, then it goes on its way, its stumpy tail the last thing I see as it glides off down the stairs.
Wilson scared the cat the day he paid me a visit. Its thin head shot up, its ears twitched, and it was away before I’d even heard the first steps. I heard his big feet clumping up the stairs. They even sounded like copper’s feet, relentless, heavy, full of their own importance. A hat sailed into view, then the shoulders of a big coat. The man wearing them was sucking for air. He held the top rail for a second or two till he got his breath. Then he came in through my open door. No knock. He just stood there wheezing, eyeing me and my place. I waited.
“McRae?” His chest still heaved.
“That’s me. Sorry, the lift’s out.”
He ignored my humour. “You a so-called private dick, then?” He made it sound sinful.
I still didn’t know he was police, but he had that look. In his first five seconds he’d itemised my office, memorised my face, and noticed the door to my bedroom.
“At your service. Can I help? Need a debt collected? Lost a wife?”
I watched his mouth twist. “I’m Inspector Wilson. Detective Inspector, CID.
You’re on my patch. Wanted to see you, what you were up to. I don’t like what you do.”
What the hell was a DI doing making house calls? “I’m honoured, Inspector, and it’s really nice to be made welcome. But I’m a bit puzzled; we haven’t met, and yet already you’re pissed off with me. Isn’t that a wee bit unfair? And before we continue this nice chat, can I see your warrant card, please? Can’t be too careful these days.”
I could see his jaw muscles tighten. We were getting on famously. He hated me and I loathed him. I’d seen too many of his kind; they’d been in the force too long, got too used to throwing their weight around. Wilson let his fell gaze roast me for the obligatory five seconds, then he reached into his great overcoat and pulled out a card. He strode over to my desk and rammed it under my nose. DI Herbert Wilson. I wondered if he’d let me call him Bertie? “Satisfied?”
“Thank you, Inspector. Now, shall we start again? What can I do for you?”
“You can tell me who you are, where you come from, and what you’re doing here.”
“I thought we’d established who I was and what I’m doing? And my accent’s a bit of a clue, is it no? I needed a job after getting demobbed. This – palace – is it.”
“You could have got your old job back. What was it?” He settled his great bulk into my chair. He seemed to take up the whole view from my desk. I sighed. He wasn’t going to let this go until he found out.
“I was in the force. In Glasgow. Thought I’d try the private sector. More money.” Potentially, I thought, potentially. I thought it smart not to tell him I’d been a detective sergeant.
He didn’t look surprised, which was surprising. He chewed on the end of his moustache for a bit, then wiped it dry with a big paw.
“Ok, McRae. Here’s my warning. I don’t like private investigators. Especially don’t like former coppers doing private investigations. Only one who investigates around these parts is me. I can’t stop you. Not until you do something illegal or get in my way.” He leaned over my desk, and his bloodshot eyes held mine. “Just – don’t – get – in – my – fucking – way.” His breath would have stripped paint.
I didn’t blink. I’d been through worse sessions with real bullies. Much worse.
They hadn’t made threats, just carried them out.
“I’m sure there’s room for both of us on these gold-paved streets, Inspector.
And I’m prepared to give you a big discount if you ever need help looking for Mrs Wilson.”
I thought my poor visitor’s chair would explode under the pressure. Wilson wrenched himself clear and lowered over the desk at me, leaning on his knuckles.
He singed my eyebrows with his blast.
“I also don’t like a smart arse, McRae! You’re on my list, boy. I’m looking out for you. You hear me? One foot wrong and you’re visiting my nice nick. The lads will enjoy you. They don’t like smart arses either.”
I decided I’d done enough goading and kept my mouth shut – about five minutes too late – until he’d stomped off down the stairs. A little later the cat’s head appeared round the corner. She meowed angrily. She hadn’t been impressed by Wilson either.
“Just one more question, Mary. Did you know the name of the last girl who was killed? Know where she worked?”
“Name was Jasmine. Round corner. Marsh Street. 43. Only single girls work there.
They all gone now.” Her brows knitted as though she worried what became of that flock of flushed birds.
“Thanks, Mary. And thanks for the tea.” I stood to go.
“You sure, Danny? Wake Colette? She like you.”
Ah, Colette; real name Betty; aspiring actress and Windmill girl, but her curvy legs were too short. It was tempting, so tempting to take some comfort from skin on skin, but I declined. Not while I was working. Even in my dirty line of business I try to have some professional standards. Mary closed the door on me with a last admonishment. “You come round soon, you hear. And keep your head away from Jonny Crane and big fat bastard!”
I should have listened harder to Mama Mary.
FIVE
Marsh Street paraded its usual collection of street artists. A man in a doorway sleeping it off, his empty bottle by his side. A publican with his braces round his knees and a fag stuck to his lip opening up to let out the fetid air. A pair of spivs with darting eyes, oiling each other’s business with cash and information. And a couple of big women tottering along in party frocks and last night’s make-up, clinging to each other for dear life. If one fell, they’d both go, and would probably die there on their backs, limbs flailing uselessly like upturned turtles.
I looked for number 43. It was three stories high and had a block of six bells each with a name on it, except for the top one. There was just a blank where I guess Jasmine’s nom-de-guerre had been. I walked in and began to climb the stairs. I had no idea what I would do at the top. I had no idea what I was doing here in the first place. The stairs had a rough carpet for the first three flights and then bare boards the rest of the way. They creaked and groaned as I made my way.
It had been four days since they’d found her. Jasmine. Probably christened Jean.
Wee Jeanie. Jeanie with the light brown hair. Somebody’s daughter. The door was closed. I knocked and got no answer. I turned the handle and it opened. I stepped inside. There was a short hall. A bathroom to the left and ahead a bedsit area. They’d cleared everything, bedding, carpet – I could see the tidemark of dirt where it had lain – and all the drawers were hanging open, empty. A mattress stood against the wall. There were two huge brown stains on it, one where a head might lie and the other in the middle.
I’d seen a few murders in Glasgow. Though each was different in detail and context, I’d begun to find a dreadful familiarity. Same here. On the surface this was just a sad, empty room with dirty windows and red net curtains.
Jasmine/Jean had left no mark on the world except the headlines in the papers for a few days. But as I stood there, absorbing impressions, picturing where he stood and where she lay, my imagination detected a spoor, an afterimage hanging in the air. An aura of violence and death.