The Death Of Ronnie Sweets Part 6

Sandy gave me a lift round to the train station. Ros was waiting in the arrivals lounge, which was cold and bare at eleven P.M. She looked pleased to see me when I slid into the plastic seat beside her. We kissed briefly, and she stood up, ready to leave. We took the long route back, walking back on the footpath beside the River Tay. We didn't pa.s.s anyone on our walk. We took our time. talking about what we'd been up to the last few days.

When we arrived back at my place, Ros commented on what a mess it was. She said it with a smile, and I knew she was joking I'd missed her voice, the sly way she'd poke fun at me, that cute Alabama accent obscuring the sarcasm she'd inherited from too many years living in Scotland. She went to the bedroom to dump her bags, then she took a shower.

I prepared a quick dinner zapping some ready-made meals in the microwave. Hardly cordon bleu, as they say, but I felt too tired and drained to do anything else. The death of Coughing John was weighing on my thoughts. I kept asking myself who would want to kill him. He was a drunk and a b.u.m and a pathetic old man. but he'd never done any harm to anyone. And I knew even then that the city was going to feel a little more empty without him and his sad, strangled voice asking pa.s.sers-by if they could spare anything for a wee guy who just happened to be down on his luck.

When Ros came out after her shower, I pulled out the fold-down table I kept in a corner of the living room and threw a cloth over it. She watched me do this, still in her thick white robe. She smiled as I brought out some candles and then fumbled around. getting them set up in the center of the table.

"All this for me," she said, smiling gently. I loved the way her eyes sparkled. Sometimes, when I start thinking about the h.e.l.l that we've made of this world, I just have to make Ros smile and things don't really seem all that bad. It's a h.e.l.lish, romantic cliche that's undeniable. I've never been able to articulate any of this to her, but I think she knows.

I lit the candles. She moved away from the door and sat down at the table. I brought out the microwaved meals and laid her plate before her. She laughed, and I laughed too.

"Romance," she said, looking at the store-bought lasagna. "Scots style."

I woke up early the next morning, about half six. It was a sudden awakening, like I'd had a bad dream, but as usual I couldn't remember any of it. I looked at Ros who slept peacefully beside me.

I got up and had a shower, then made myself a cup of tea in the kitchen. I sat on the stool at the breakfast bar and tried to figure out what I'd been dreaming.

I called Sandy at about half past seven. He was wide awake, and he knew what I was calling about even before I asked. He told me to meet him at the Howff. He fancied some fresh air.

The Howff graveyard is a ten minute walk from my flat. It dates back to the fifteenth century if my local history serves me well, and was built atop the ruins of a monastery. These days, it lies smack dab in the center of the city. When you're actually walking through the Howff though, it's easy to forget that you're in the midst of a city. There's a restful silence that hangs in the air. I've noticed a lot of office workers tend to have a quiet sandwich among the dead at lunchtime. In the summer it is almost beautiful.

This particular Sunday morning, there was a gentle mist in the air. The gates were half shut, but you could still squeeze through.

Sandy had beaten me there. He was sitting on a bench, looking at gravestones so old the names had been worn away I sat beside him.

"His name was John Woodrow" Sandy said. "No living relatives. Only way we could determine his ID was that he kept his wallet on him. Nothing in it except an old Social Security card and a picture of a young woman we a.s.sume was his wife."

"What do you know about her?"

"We did a quick background check and found she died twelve years ago. Coughing John, as you called him, was sixty-six and a very unwell man. Last known address was a high-rise up by Charleston. He couldn't keep up the rent. Poor b.a.s.t.a.r.d."

I nodded. Coughing John had always been Coughing John. To learn that he was John Woodrow somehow made him less landscape and more of a real person.

"Who killed him?"

"To h.e.l.l if I know" said Sandy. "Best guess is still bored kids. There's a lot of them hang around the underpa.s.s. They probably started beating him for kicks and things got a little out of control."

"What are you going to do about it?"

"What I can. Which is pretty much sod all, Sam. Homeless people die all the time in little spats like this. There isn't a whole lot I can do." He looked apologetic, genuinely so. "What was he to you, anyway?"

I took a moment to reply. "Part of the landscape."

Business was slow. I wasn't really worried. I had enough money in the account to tide me over, and besides, I figured I needed a holiday. Babs, my secretary had my pager at the office in case anything came through, but it was a quiet time for Bryson Investigations. Philandering husbands and runaway daughters, it seemed, were behaving themselves.

I rationalized that working for Coughing John was an exercise, a professional stretch to keep me in shape during this quiet period. I wasn't being paid and no one had hired me. Still, I felt that justice-no matter how meagre-had to be served somehow.

I suppose part of me was affronted at what had happened to Coughing John. I would not have called him a friend, but now that he was John Woodrow, I needed closure on the situation, as Ros liked to say. He was undeserving of such an undignified death. Even just to find out something about what had happened to him on the Sat.u.r.day evening would make everything seem just that little bit easier.

On Monday I walked to the overpa.s.s at nine thirty P.M.

The skate-kids were out in force. There were ten of them, seven boys and three girls. The girls weren't skating, but stood on the side-lines, dressed in black and watching with veiled interest as the guys tried to do stunts that were well beyond their capabilities. Every one of them wore Slipknot jumpers. Two of the guys had as much makeup on as the girls. Not a one of them was above eighteen. I guess they weren't that different from way I used to be. Punks, skate-kids, it's all the same in the end: the perpetuating faux-revolution every generation tries to achieve.

I walked to a guy who'd just finished a trick. We were in the overpa.s.s itself, over the dual carriageway. The traffic below us was light. The harsh lights in the overpa.s.s made the kids' skin seem pale, almost translucent.

"Hey, man," I said to the trickster. "Could I have a word with you."

He looked at me with deadeyed suspicion.

"I'm just asking around," I said. "Need to know if you knew a homeless guy who hung around here most nights."

"Whit is it to you?"

"He died on Sat.u.r.day."

A girl, her dyed-black hair done in pigtails, said, "The auld git wi' the cough"

"Aye," I said. "That's the one."

Another girl, who had a stud through her lower lip, said, "b.l.o.o.d.y shame"

"Aye," the first girl said. I noticed that the first girl looked particularly nervous for some reason. She knew more than she was saying.

The guy I'd initially approached-the trickster-said, "What has that got tae do wi' us?"

"You guys are around here a lot," I said. "I thought you might have seen something."

A second guy, taller than the first, came over and made impressive stop on his board. He kicked it up under his arm. "Who are you?" Probably he thought he smelled bacon. Anyone asking as many questions as me was probably a copper.

All of them had cl.u.s.tered in a threatening little circle around me. I wasn't really nervous, but I still stood straight and made sure they knew I wasn't going to be clicked around.

"Samuel Bryson," I said. I pulled out a card. I flashed it around. The girl with the stud in her lip took it from me.

"Cool," she said, and showed it to her friend.

The friend said, "He's a private investigator." I wasn't sure if she was just trying to hide the awe in her voice or if I was really boring her as much as it sounded.

"There's no such thing," said one of the boys. "It's all just a load of c.r.a.p in the movies."

"I'm serious," I said. "Do any of you know anything?"

No one said a word. They were too quiet, in fact. The rabble that had been in full force just a moment ago was suddenly gone, snuffed out of existence like a flame on a dying candle.

"If you think of anything," I said, "call the number on the card." I figured on the odds being at least one of them would bite.

I broke through the circle and walked down the steps onto Union Street. I thought, as I pa.s.sed the karaoke bar, that maybe my little fis.h.i.+ng expedition had been in vain. Maybe none of them would call.

I was halfway up the street, pa.s.sing a club called The Rendezvous, when I heard footsteps behind me. I turned to see the girl with the ring through her lip.

She said, "Can I talk to you?"

We moved onto the Nethergate and sat outside the city centre cathedral on a park bench. We were still in sight of the main street, able to see each other by streetlight.

She said her name was Anna, but refused to give me a second name. I didn't care. I just wanted to hear what she had to say.

"I don't know whit I'm doing," she said. "But you look like you're serious."

"I am," I said.

"I wasn't there on Sat.u.r.day. But Marty was. There was three of just p.i.s.sing about, ken? Daein tricks and all that. Usual rubbish"

I nodded. I took out a pack of cigarettes. She looked at them with wide eyes. I lit one for myself "I hope you've got enough for everyone," she said. She tried to smile. "Ma teacher used to say that, like, when we had sweets and stuff in cla.s.s."

"It's a disgusting habit," I said.

"What's that say about you?"

I looked at her jumper recognizing the name emblazoned across the front as one of the nu-metal bands I saw sometimes on MIV I didn't think much of them, probably the same way my dad felt when I listened to heavy metal and punk back in the day. Like I said, the kids' revolution has never really changed. Each generation just paints it that subtle extra shade of black.

Anna resigned herself to the fact I wasn't going to give her any ciggies, and took a deep breath. "The tramp used tae shout at us, ken, when we were doing tricks. Most of the time we just told him tae get lost. But, I think it was the Sunday before the Monday, like, he went psycho, totally chicken Oriental, like."

I had to smile at that. Chicken Oriental was a phrase my mum used to employ when dad was acting up.

Anna kept going, caught now on the momentum of her confession. "He started shouting at us as we went past. I'm the only one who doesn't do the boards, like. I can't stay on the thing for more than two minutes. But he wasnae just shouting about the boards; he was telling us that we were the ruination of this country and all that c.r.a.p. We just ignored him, like, and went on up the over- pa.s.s. He came running after us, and he caught Marty by the hood, pulling him off his board."

"Giving Marty a pretty good reason to be angry at him," I said.

"He was going tae kill the old man," said Anna. "But Jimmy just said it wasn't worth it, and we just walked off, like. I don't want any ha.s.sle, I just want to hang, like, wi' ma mates."

'And you weren't there on Sat.u.r.day?"

"I didn't have tae be. Jimmy was there."

"Jimmy's your boyfriend?"

She didn't answer. She didn't exactly look coy, but she wasn't meeting my gaze, either.

"I'm curious, more than anything," I said. "Just knowing the group dynamic here is going to help me understand."

"What is there to understand?"

"A whole d.a.m.n lot," I said, sounding more angry with her than I meant to be. "A man is dead!"

She looked me straight in the eyes and said, "I was going out wi' Jimmy for a wee while. He's a good mate."

"That's all I wanted to know. So, he was there on the Sat.u.r.day night?"

"Aye."

'And that's how you know what happened then?"

She nodded again.

'And this Jimmy's pretty reliable, you'd say?"

"He's a good mate.

"I asked if you could trust him, Anna."

"Aye. You can trust him. I can trust him."

"What did he say happened on Sat.u.r.day night?"

"They were just going tae head out tae the wasteland, ken, next tae the railway," said Anna. "It's no great for skating, but you can hang there, smoke some dope, ken? Jimmy wanted to go another way, but Marty made sure they came down here."

"Right past Coughing John."

"Was that his name? The auld git?"

"That was what I called him. He had a real name but that was a long time ago."

She nodded and said, "Marty'd been drinking vodka, like, since mebbe twelve or something. He was drunk and he was stoned as well. He's no nice when he gets like that, ken? Anything can just set him off"

"And it didn't help that, to his mind, Coughing John had a.s.saulted him the night before."

"He was a drunken old fart and we didn't ever pay him any attention. We never gave him any grief. Marty had a right tae be annoyed."

The taxi rank in front of us was empty now. Across the road, at Castaways Bar, someone had set up karaoke, and a Robbie Williams number was being murdered by a Dundee accent.

I took a deep drag on my cigarette. I pulled out the packet again, this time offering her one. She took it quickly, without bothering to thank me. She didn't wait for the offer of a light either, producing a cheap plastic one from her deep pockets and sparking up before I had a chance to change my mind.

"What's Marty to you?" I asked her.

"Get stuffed! I dinnae sleep wi' every boy I know."

"I never said that. I merely asked what he was to you."