Big Boy Did It and Ran Away (31 page)

The split was amicable, if a little heart‐
breaking. It wasn’t exactly a case of coming this close to glory and having it dashed away, but they’d had a taste of the stuff of schoolboy dreams, enough to know how much they would miss it. They were aware also that they’d only got their fifteen minutes courtesy of sheer luck and someone else’s talent, so the chances of a repeat were slim to none.

There wasn’t too much time to feel sorry for themselves, as the end of Christmas term was fast approaching and the end of The Arguments had unfortunately come just in time to give them an outside chance of salvaging their degrees. Carl, for his part, didn’t even salvage his first year. Within weeks of the split, he had started collaborating with Kenny Redford, with whom he went on to form The Gliders and later the highly acclaimed Famous Blue Raincoats.

Ray remained proud of his own small place in The Gliders’ and the FBRs’ rock family histories, and looked forward to the day he could elicit a totally blank response by telling Martin all about it. Despite the occasional twinge of regret or jealousy, he had always been very happy for Carl, with the sole reservation that he still sounded far too upbeat all the time. Just once Ray would have liked to hear him sing something about messy break‐
ups, suicide and death. Even The Beach Boys did Pet Sounds, for Christ’s sake.

The sun was peeping over the horizon by the time Ray reached a roadsign bearing place names of anything larger than a farm. He knew he hadn’t been driving anything like as long as it felt, probably less than an hour, but it had mostly been on some obscure B road, all of whose junctions had been little more than dirt tracks. His old and reliably borked Polo had never reappeared in his mirror after he first lost sight of it, but the fact that he didn’t know where he was had kept him aware that he might be intercepted further along the road. Every set of oncoming headlights had him ready to swerve as he anticipated the approaching vehicle suddenly slewing into his path.

Dawn and the sight of an A road allowed him to relax a little, sufficient to stop worrying about pursuit and turn his thoughts to the fact that Kate would be climbing the walls. Jesus, the poor woman. The roadsigns said he was nearing Crieff, which meant he could be home in about an hour, but that was an extra hour more than he’d want to be waiting if the roles were reversed. He reached instinctively for his pocket, then remembered that his mobile had been pilfered and the only change he’d been carrying was in his jacket, back in that pantry. His wallet, however, was still in his trousers. He’d stop at a twenty‐
four‐
hour garage and get change, or a phonecard if they were selling them.

Patting his grubby shirt reminded him of the state he was in, and now that there was some daylight, a glance in the sunshade mirror showed his face to be looking like that of a miner coming off shift. His clothes were caked, his face was black and he was still damp with piss. He looked and smelled like a jakey. A lobby dosser, even.

When he reached a twenty‐
four‐
hour garage, it happily turned out to be attached to a twenty‐
four‐
hour supermarket. There was one not far from his house in Newlands, which he had found himself taking full advantage of in recent months. As well as other sleep‐
deprived parents, shift workers and hungry hash‐
heads, it attracted all manner of nocturnal creatures through its revolving doors, and was therefore probably the only kind of place he could confidently show up in his present state without turning too many heads.

He thought about going to the Gents first, to give his face a wipe, but remembered he’d be back there to change anyway, so went straight to the clothing section. He picked up a T-shirt, cheap jeans, Ys, socks, a Mars bar and a can of Lucozade then made for the check‐
out, keeping a considerate distance from the customer in front. There was a news rack alongside, with the morning editions displayed above the food mags (glutton porn, Kate called them). Ray looked at the headlines, marvelling at how little the world had moved on in the time it had taken for his to turn upside down. Fallout from yesterday’s political stories on the broadsheets and a soap star’s divorce on the English‐
based tabloids, all of them seeming to Ray like chip‐
wrappers, so long did it feel since the stories broke. The Daily Recorder, however, had something fresh down the left‐
most column.

Pervert Teacher Sought In Hunt For Boys.

Ray was about to snort at the familiar sensationalism, wondering what tangential detail was being employed to justify the ‘pervert’ epithet. Then he realised he recognised the two half‐
column, school‐
photo headshots above the headline, confirmed by the caption: ‘VANISHED: Jason Murphy and Alexander Sinclair’.

Oh fuck.

He scanned the text frantically, unable to read quickly enough. Phrases leapt out like assassins.

‘… became worried when they didn’t return from school at lunchtime but staff and classmates confirmed that they never got there …’

‘… walked out after losing control of his class. Ash had only been in the job three weeks …’

‘… is understood by police to have been suffering extreme stress. Classmates said he had been taunted by Murphy recently and …’

‘… led his class in a depraved discussion that even involved bestiality …’

‘… forced children to draw pornographic pictures of male sexual organs …’

The story was continued inside, where it was accompanied by another photo, a copy of the deer‐
in‐
the‐
headlights pic the school had used for his staff ID.

‘… still no word at press time …’

‘… police are stressing it is too early to draw conclusions, but …’

But but but but but …

The photograph wasn’t a good likeness, and certainly not of Al Jolson at checkout twelve, but Ray felt suddenly very vulnerable. After what he’d just been through, the comparative threat should have seemed small, but the difference now was that he couldn’t go home. The police would be even less likely to believe his story if they were trying to nail him for abducting two kids, while around Burnbrae, the nailing would likely involve a gibbet.

In that psycho‐
ridden farmhouse, his fear had been of what he had to escape from. Now he had nowhere to escape to.

‘Oh good, a riot.’ said McIntosh chirpily.

‘Christ, that’s just what I need right now, Tosh: you in Pollyanna mode.’

‘Ach, come on Angelique, it adds a wee bit of colour to the morning to see the local populace in high spirits.’

‘Knock it off or I’ll kill you, all right?’

‘Heard that,’ he acknowledged.

They pulled up short of Ash’s house on Kintore Road; or rather, short of the placard‐
wielding crowd spilling on to the road from the pavement on Ash’s side of the street. Being held back by a couple of uniformed PCs. Angelique could see Mellis from CID standing outside the semicircle of headcases, talking to another uniform she didn’t recognise.

‘Look at these fuckers. I see Mellis; hope he’s brought a stack of outstanding warrants. This kinna gathering’s usually four‐
deep with crims.’

‘Idiosyncratic spelling of paedophile,’ McIntosh observed, looking at the placards protesting variously against Peedafile’s, Pedafile’s and Pedofil’s. Another demanded ‘Hang child mullester’s’, while still another proposed ‘Castrait all pervert’s’.

‘It’s not even nine o’ clock yet, either. Amazing what can motivate some people to get out of their scratchers when they don’t have jobs to go to.’

They walked over to Mellis, who welcomed them to the madhouse with a subtle twitch of his brow.

‘Sergeant McIntosh, Special Agent X,’ Mellis said loudly, over the hubbub of angry shouting five yards behind. ‘What brings you two to this morning’s carnival?’

‘We’re here to talk to a witness who lives in one of these houses, a Raymond Ash.’

‘Are you DI de Xavia?’ asked the uniform, a sergeant, she could now see. There was surprise in his tone. As per.

‘In the flesh,’ Mellis said, before Angelique could answer for herself. ‘I take it her reputation precedes her.’

‘Save it for the Lodge, Inspector,’ she warned Mellis, then turned to the sergeant. ‘And don’t tell me – you thought I’d be taller.’

‘I … eh … I’m Sergeant Glenn. We spoke yesterday, about—’

‘Oh right. The exploding budgie, aye.’

‘Eh?’ asked Mellis.

‘So what the hell’s this about? Has a paediatrician moved into the neighbourhood?’

‘You need to stop reading those big papers, Angel,’ Mellis said, handing her a copy of the Daily Recorder and pointing out the second story on the front page.

Angelique speed‐
read the text. ‘Oh, balls.’

‘And big dicks too, according to the weans. Hence this show of enthusiastic public‐
mindedness.’

‘How did they all get here? Are they running buses or something?’

‘Looks like it, doesn’t it? I’d say it’s about half from Burnbrae and half from round here. They’re still arrivin’ as well.’

‘I came by here yesterday,’ said Angelique, incredulous.

‘Ash’s missus said if I didn’t want to hang about, first thing in the morning was good because they’re up early with the wean.’

‘I thought you were going to the school yesterday.’ said Glenn.

‘No. I phoned there to warn him I was coming, but they said he’d walked out. That’s why I tried him here. I figured he’d said “fuck it” and gone home, or at least to the pub. Not sure I’d have lasted the day at work myself if somebody had taken a shot at me the night before.’

‘That’s if somebody took a shot at him,’ Glenn added scornfully.

‘You’re the one who said—’

‘About the budgie, aye, but—’

‘What’s with this bloody budgie?’ demanded Mellis.

‘Like I told you, Inspector.’ Glenn got in ahead of Angelique. ‘Ash claimed somebody tried to shoot him. I gave him short shrift, but it turned out there was some evidence that a shot was fired. To wit: some broken windaes an’ a deid budgie.’

‘Some evidence?’ countered Angelique. ‘I spoke to Forensics yesterday. They found a nine‐
mill bullet in the wall behind the budgie’s cage, and they’re still pickin’ up feathers.’

‘Aye, but in the light of subsequent developments, I’ve a mind to think the bugger could have fired the thing himself, to get attention. That was my impression when he first came in, and the facts are startin’ to back me up. New job, new wean. He’s under stress and he wants somebody to notice.’

‘A cry for help?’ Mellis mused. ‘It’s possible. From what I’ve been told, Ash certainly fits the picture of a person on the edge of some kind of breakdown.’

‘Who knows what could have been goin’ through his mind?’ Glenn continued. ‘Sick bastard, if you ask me. Did you hear what he did before he left the class yesterday? Had them all drawin’ cocks.’

‘Jesus,’ said Angelique. ‘Imagine that. Weans drawin’ willies. Whoever heard of such a thing?’

‘Aye, but no’ at the teacher’s askin’,’ Glenn retorted. ‘I think this guy could have flipped out bigtime.’

‘And what do you think?’ she asked Mellis.

‘I think I know too little to comment. There’s two kids missing, that’s my priority at this stage. I’m ruling nothing out and nothing in. They could be walking through their mothers’ front doors right now. Same as Ash could turn up here with a lovebite and a hangover.’

‘Christ help him if he does,’ said Angelique. ‘And is there anything to link Ash with these kids, other than timing?’

‘No. Not a thing. Which is what we’ve all been at pains to explain to our wee assembly here.’

‘Ya big spoilsport.’

‘Oh don’t worry, they’re not letting the facts get in the way of a good rammy. So what is it you want with Ash?’

‘You don’t want to know,’ interjected McIntosh, for which Angelique was grateful. Whether or not Mellis wanted to know, she seriously didn’t want to explain.

‘You say you didn’t go to Ash’s school.’ Mellis stated enquiringly.

‘No. Why?’

‘I spoke to some of the staff last night. The auxiliary or secretary or whatever, she said the police had come looking for him but found he was already gone. I’d been wondering who it was – if he was already in trouble for something, it would explain the disappearance and I could concentrate my efforts elsewhere. Then Sergeant Glenn here told me about his discussions with you, and we both assumed it must have been Special Branch.’

‘Not guilty.’

‘Here, whit yous bastarts gaunny dae aboot this?’

Angelique turned around to see an imposingly corpulent mass of flesh and nicotine prodding insistently at McIntosh’s shoulder, a ‘Peedafil’s out’ placard in her other hand. Its otherwise indeterminate sex was identified by the ‘Number One Mum’ pendant that hung ponderously across a neck as wide as the Kingston Bridge, the trinket looking like it had been reforged from a battleship’s anchor with the chain merely resprayed.

‘About what?’ Mellis asked politely.

‘This fuckin’ pervert. Yous are aw staunin’ aboot like spare pricks, an’ this Ash bastart’s away wi’ two weans. You want tae have heard the language he came oot wi’ in ma niece’s class yesterday. Filthy cunt, that’s whit he is. Whit yous daein’ aboot him?’

Those at the rear of the crowd noticed this growing altercation, and began turning to face it instead of the house.

‘We’re following a number of lines of enquiry,’ Mellis told her. ‘There’s nothing to link Mr Ash to the two boys at this stage.’

‘Aye, neither there’s no. That’s how yous are aw staunin’ here, ootside his hoose? Cause he’s got fuck‐
all tae dae wi’ it? D’ye ’hink we aw came up the Clyde in a fuckin’ banana boat?’

Most of the crowd was facing their way now, the semicircle changing from convex to concave, smile in front of the house to frown. ‘Number One Dad’ then emerged from the mob to take his place at his paramour’s side, just as large in mass, but more of it intimidatingly solid. Angelique could tell he took family matters seriously, as borne out not only by his pendant, but also by the semmit he wore to reveal, among his many tattoos, a homemade inscription: ‘In memory of my deer Father’.

‘Is there a problem, doll?’ he asked Number One Mum, though he was looking straight at the cops.