LITMIR.BIZ

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a young man. He had left those days far behind him.

      Or so he thought.

      He shut his eyes and waited for it all to stop.

      The Landie side shifted with the strength of the wind. They must be high up now, nearing the peak. This vehicle weighed tons yet it was being blown about like a toy car, buffeted by the wind as if the hills were pushing them away. They were not welcome here. Only a mad man would be up here at midnight driving around at altitude, in the dark, in fifty-mile-an-hour winds and driving rain.

      He concentrated on the back of the heads of the two silent men in front, as they bobbled and lolled as the vehicle bumped and bounced. He was in the company of mad men.

      It took one to know one.

      *

      IT WAS PAST ONE in the morning when Colin Anderson let himself into his own house, the big house up on the terrace. He had left his own car in town, too drunk to drive back, so he immediately noticed the white Volvo parked in his space at the kerb. George Haggerty’s car. Here to see his grandson.

      Anderson closed the front door quietly behind him and let out a long slow breath. This was a difficult situation, and one that Anderson, while sympathetic, was getting more than a little fed up with. He slipped off his jacket and hung it up on the stand. Nesbit came running from the direction of the kitchen, looking innocent of any charges of fraternising with the enemy. Anderson bent down and patted the velveteen fur of the dog’s head as Nesbit leaned against his leg and twirled round and round, looking hungry. Anderson ignored him. It was an old ploy.

      Anderson was sorely tempted to creep upstairs and go straight to bed, but that might be construed by his family as weak, or rude. And there was plenty of chatter coming from the kitchen, so somebody was up. He followed the noise and the dog’s wagging tail, gritting his teeth slightly. The dimmer lights were on, the room was illuminated by a gentle amber glow more suggestive of a high-end café. His daughter Claire, and her friend Paige, were sitting round the table with George Haggerty, in between them was Moses, fast asleep in his basket on the kitchen table, snoring gently.

      The first thing Anderson saw as he entered the room was George’s little finger clutched in the baby’s tiny, chubby hand. It was difficult to pull his eyes away from his grandson. If he had been slightly drunk when out with Archie, gently floating on a little sea of beer, he was grounded now.

      ‘Hello. Do you three know what time it is?’ Anderson said, consciously keeping his voice friendly.

      ‘George popped in to see Moses, and to collect his drawing.’ Claire waved a wine glass that seemed half empty of a full-bodied red, towards the parcel. Colin looked at it, then her. She was too relaxed to notice the dangerous glint in his eye, the one she called his ‘look’, the one that said wait until we get home young lady. He noticed the remains of Doritos, olives, bits and bobs of dips on saucers. Paige had a glass full of wine, the empty bottle beside her. Her peroxide hair was buzz cut, emphasising the narrow snaky eyes that normally glowered at Anderson with suspicion and something that bordered on loathing. Now she was almost smouldering at him through her false eyelashes. Anderson ignored her, as he was trying to ignore that uncomfortable feeling he had about Haggerty sitting in his kitchen, pouring alcohol down the throats of two seventeen year olds. And then he felt guilty, as Haggerty stretched out an arm and shook him warmly by the hand. The man had lost Mary Jane, a young woman he had brought up as his daughter from the age of seven to twenty-four, so maybe this round-the-table girlie chat was usual for him. Although, should the girls not be in their bed, or studying? Anything but drinking.

      Maybe he was old fashioned.

      ‘Sorry, Colin. Once again I have interrupted.’ George Haggerty, contrition glowing from his deep brown eyes, shrugged. ‘I was about to go back up north to see Dad but I haven’t heard anything and wondered if you knew of any developments. Anything at all, about Abigail . . .’

      A huge tug on his heartstrings, then Claire joined in. ‘Yeah Dad,’ said Claire, her words slurring slightly. ‘About Abigail? Surely they must have some news.’

      ‘They are telling me nothing. And they will tell me nothing. I have a personal link to the case. Him.’ He pointed to Moses.

      ‘The case. The murder of my wife and child. The case?’ George Haggerty ran his fingers down Moses’ chubby cheek.

      Anderson wanted to tell him to leave the baby alone. ‘And that’s why it’s not allowed. If I don’t think of it as “a case” and a job to be done, it would become personal and that can lead to mistakes.’ Like Costello, he nearly added, then remembered who he was taking to, a man Costello believed responsible for the murders. He wished she was here now, smashing a wine glass across the table and stabbing him in the throat with it. At least then it would be over with. She would have the courage of her belief, not constrained by legality, decency and a lack of self-courage the way he was.

      Anderson was aware that he smelled of drink so he walked round the table and switched on the kettle, feeling absurdly guilty. The man was innocent. He himself had been out socialising when George’s wife and child had been killed and they had no idea who had done it, Police Scotland seemed to be doing nothing. He was aware of Claire’s eyes watching him, wanting him to come up with something to comfort the man.

      ‘Claire, have you not got uni tomorrow?’

      ‘That’s a polite way of telling me that I have to get up in the morning. Bloody hell, Dad!’ She stood up, swaying slightly. ‘And Paige’s staying the night, if that’s OK.’

      Yeah, turn the house into a hotel why don’t you? ‘Why would it not be OK? There’s plenty of room. And it’s very late.’

      Paige stood up as well, taking the last Dorito from a plate and slowly placing it on her tongue, seductively.

      ‘You’ll both want paracetamol and black coffee in the morning,’ said Anderson, holding the kitchen door open, ushering them through.

      George gave them both a smile, as they retreated to the hall. ‘That Paige is worth the watching.’

      ‘Indeed. She didn’t have the best start in life so she’s here getting some stability, if you can call this madhouse stable. You do what you can.’ He watched as George closed his eyes, biting his lip a little.

      ‘Nice thought, nice to try and make a difference.’

      Anderson needed to be careful here. He kept reminding himself that this man had lost his wife and his child, and tried to wish him well. But somehow, he just couldn’t empathise without immediately feeling a churning anger that it might have been him who killed them.

      ‘Do you want a coffee? I’m having one,’ said Anderson.

      George shook his head, his arms out. ‘No, no, I didn’t want to interfere with your night. I popped in to see Moses and the girls invited me in. I had brought you a nice Rioja. They have drunk it. And I had a game of Zombie Gunship with Peter. He beat me, he absolutely wasted me.’

      Anderson made an empathetic noise as if he knew what Haggerty was talking about, trying to hide the increasing unease that Mr George Haggerty was becoming so familiar with his own children. And a rage of jealousy that Peter had never, ever, asked his dad to play Zombie Gunship with him.

      ‘Yet again I have abused your hospitality, but I did want to know if you had heard anything.’ He sat back down, waiting and cautious, keen for any details. ‘In case you didn’t want to say in front of the girls.’

      ‘I’m sorry, George, but honestly, you probably know more than me. DCI Mathieson is good. She will be working away but keeping it from public attention. The exact time of death is causing problems. The pathologist thinks very early in the morning, you know, around 6 a.m., so why were they both dressed. They should have been in their night clothes.’

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