The Death Of Ronnie Sweets Part 19

I turned on the lad, snarled at him. "Shut your b.l.o.o.d.y mouth, or Davey's the least of your worries!"

Mick whimpered.

Davey laughed.

I stepped forward again. Taking it slow. "But, Davey, this isn't how the world works."

"Aye, what, I call the police?"

"Sure, you call the police."

"And they slap him on the wrist?"

"I give you my word, they'll feed him to the b.l.o.o.d.y lions."

Davey looked at Mick. His body was shaking, his muscles bunching. "Jesus, Sam, if only it were true."

"Kirtsy's alive, Davey. She'll talk, in her own time, and the police are going to lock this b.a.s.t.a.r.d up."

"Room and board and three square b.l.o.o.d.y meals a day?" Davey sounded like he couldn't quite believe it. "What kindae punishment is that?"

"Aye, that's it," I said. "Tell yourself how cushy it is in prison. That he's going to be treated like royalty. Because it's all c.r.a.p, Davey. He's going to be screwed over in there. Even if I have to use my own connections to make sure of it." I was right in front of him now. I caught his eyes with mine and hoped he wouldn't see any weakness. "And what good does it do Kirsty if you end up inside instead of this worthless bag of s.h.i.+te?"

Davey tried to look past me. I stayed in the way.

He got to his feet. His muscles kept bunching. I thought of springs uncoiling, wondered if I'd have time to get out the way.

And he moved.

I'd seen him knock young lads on their a.r.s.es. Not even trying. In this state, I wondered if he'd prove how serious he was about knocking my block off.

But the punch never landed.

Instead he pushed himself against me, his head against my chest. I thought of boxers in the ring, getting close to the other guy so he couldn't get in a punch. How sometimes they could look like they were embracing each other.

Davey roared.

The sound was m.u.f.fled.

It hurt worse than any punch.

Three days later: Davey was on bail. Pending trial. Facing, as he'd said, a slapped wrist. I told him time and again he was a lucky b.a.s.t.a.r.d.

Every time he gave me this look that was somewhere between accepting and p.i.s.sed off.

Mick the Mick on the other hand, he was facing a number of charges. If they couldn't get one to stick, they'd get another. Sandy told me he wouldn't give up on this one till Mick got what was coming.

Maybe he hadn't lifted a finger against Kirsty.

But he was responsible for her.

The la.s.s herself was still in hospital. Her face was pale and puffy and every so often she would s.h.i.+ver uncontrollably beneath the tightly tucked sheets like someone had turned the heating down past freezing.

I would watch her from the end of the ward, but never approach her. The nurses would watch me in turn, perhaps wondering what I was doing, but always enough doubt in their minds to leave me alone.

Davey was allowed to visit her.

At first, he kept his distance from her bed, watching her, his body screaming impotence a need to act and no ability to do so.

And then she said something. I couldn't hear the words from where I stood, but I saw her lips move and her father stagger like he'd received the worst sucker punch of his life.

But he pressed on towards her. Reached out and took her hand.

The touch seemed to steady him.

And for a moment just a moment I felt a strange elation. Like maybe things could work out after all. And in a world like this, any chance of redemption or resolution or even the smallest of happy endings is a minor miracle. Cause enough for celebration.

I watched them for a moment more, before I turned on my heels and left the hospital.

FLESH AND BLOOD.

(Collateral Damage Anthology, 2011) Dundee, Scotland Sat.u.r.day 17 June, 2006 2254.

Ros was watching TV when I got in.

We'd been living together for six months. After spending years in separate apartments, it reached point where we were just switching between two places like we no longer had any need for privacy.

Coming home to Ros made me feel...

Complete.

"Samuel James Bryson, You smell like a brewery," she said, her Alabama accent softening out the harsh Scots syllables of my name..

"Sandy had some news."

Sandy. My oldest friend. A DI on the local force, and now heading for greener pastures, joining the SDEA, Scotland's very own Serious and Organised. I'd met Sandy for drinks at the Phoenix, a place that had, for many years, been our regular watering hole. Guess it was the ideal place for him to break the news.

Ros gestured for me to come over. She didn't mind the drink. Not tonight, anyway. I didn't feel too bad, really. Despite the apparent smell, I could have been drinking water all night. I moved onto the couch. She s.h.i.+fted position, laid her head on my legs, looking up at me. I absentmindedly brushed at her hair with one hand.

We didn't say anything.

We didn't need to.

Here, alone with Ros, I felt contented. Safe.

"How much did you have?" It wasn't an accusation.

"Whatever you want to talk about," I said, "I can handle it."

"You've had a day of big news," she said.

I closed my eyes. She was right, of course. Sandy leaving was going to take an adjustment. But at the same time, I'd accepted that the world changes and people move on. I'd known Sandy since High School. We'd joined the force together. When I set up in the private sector, he'd thrown jobs my way every once in a while. Nothing dodgy, but he knew as well as anyone there are times when the police can't help you.

I said, "It's an adjustment. But no one's life stays the same forever."

She s.h.i.+fted, then. Uncomfortably. Said, "You know what day tomorrow is, babe?

"The eighteenth."

She smiled. "Father's day," and then she took my hand in hers, gently guided my palm down to her stomach.

It took me a moment to realise what she was saying.

Sunday 18 June 0845.

I leave Ros sleeping in the flat, slipping my way out as quietly as possible.

After all, it may be Father's Day. But it's also the day of rest. I figure she deserves that.

In the car, I can't stop thinking about the night before. About what her pregnancy means for us. We've talked about starting a family so many times, and I guess I've always been the one who was most resistant. Because I worry about the reality of bringing life into the world.

Work long enough as an investigator and a kind of cynical rot seeps into your thought. You see the worst people are capable of committing and you ask yourself how anyone could even hope to bring up a child in a world where people can do terrible things to those they profess to love with even a second's hesitation.

Ros gives me hope, of course. She reminds me of the good in people, of the best intentions. She's no angel I don't think she'd be with me if she was but there is something in the way she sees the world that reminds me there is more to life than the shades of grey I encounter every day.

I look at myself in the rear view mirror.

I'm smiling.

The sight surprises me.

And in an odd way acts as a rea.s.surance ***

I drive out to the west of the city, park on a suburban road just behind a small, blue Fiat. It's a few years old, rust beginning to set in the wheel arches. In short, the car's lived-in, but not yet ready to become a wreck.

I get out of my own car and walk to the driver's side window. It winds down, and Jamie looks out at me. There are dark circles round his bright-blue eyes. "Hope you got a good night's sleep," he says.

I nod.

Jamie says, "There's something up, boss."

Boss. He still calls me that, even though we're more like partners these days. Last year he took up an equal stake in the firm, after years of being the junior a.s.sociate. Or, as he said, the dogsbody.

"With the subject?"

"Nah. With you."

I can feel the grin this time. I say, "We'll talk about it later."

He pa.s.ses the carbon copies of the log through the window to me. I'll look at it later, but I already know the story. Jamie was here all night and saw nothing.

I look across at the small bungalow with the red-brick walls and the low-walled garden. The curtains are drawn. Maybe Cullum's still asleep.

We've been watching him for 24 hours, now. The prep work had taken three days. But this was the worst part. A lot of investigative work involves mind and a.r.s.e numbing periods watching people and making note of their day-to-day activities all in the hope of seeing something that correlates your client's suspicion.

In this case, our client was a local firm of solicitors who suspected one of their junior partners was in serious trouble. Neil Cullum. Twenty-six years old, no previous. A young lad who was predicted to go far. Except in the last few months, he'd gone off the rails. His work had deteriorated, his personality becoming erratic. He'd been seen in strange places, leaving his office and home at all hours, abandoning cases and clients. Any attempt to talk to him had resulted in offensive, even aggressive behaviour.

Our client had begun to put two and two together, not liking the numbers they were coming up with.

Cullum hadn't had a tough upbringing, although his father Craig Kinney was a sc.u.mbag who left before Jamie was two years old, never even pretending he wanted to marry Cullum's mother, who would go on to marry a man who was unapologetically upper-middle cla.s.s. The new husband treated Neil like his own. Gave the lad every opportunity he could. Genetics aside, he was as real a dad as anyone could have asked for.

I'd talked to the parents a day earlier. They'd been as concerned as Cullum's employers, claiming that in the last few months their son become distant from them, reacting to occasional concerned phone calls with a naked aggression that they both termed uncharacteristic.

Neil's apparent personality change along with his professional decline had begun, as far as anyone could tell, right around the time Kinney a violent recidivist who'd been serving time for drug and a.s.sault charges had been released from prison. Neil's real father had spent over half his life behind bars and this latest Solicitors, like investigators, tend not to believe in coincidence.

Jamie and I had been watching Cullum's movements for twenty-four hours, taking it in s.h.i.+fts. It was the part of the job Jamie hated. He was a man of action, so he kept saying. Sitting in a car, drinking Red Bulls and coffee, p.i.s.sing into a bottle wasn't Jamie's idea of a good time.

I told him it wasn't anyone's idea of a good time, but it was part of the job.

Jamie had spent most of the last day at home, with his girlfriend. Jamie's notes said he'd heard raised voices earlier in the morning, but didn't know what the argument had been about. The night itself had been uneventful.

So now it's my turn.

I'm ready for a long wait, keeping the music on low in the car to keep me interested. Random CDs I'd pulled from the flat, not really caring, just relying on the noise to keep me from zoning out.

Besides, I'm not listening to the music.

I'm thinking about Ros.

Sat.u.r.day 2345.

Impending fatherhood had a sobering effect on me, it seemed. It felt like days since I'd been drinking with Sandy. And now I was lying in the dark, next to Ros, feeling her breath on my skin, her fingers tracing patterns on my skin.

She traced old scars on my upper body.

I said, "Do you want me to quit?"