The Initial Blow Read online

  ‘Look, just ’cause you went to Uni to avoid working for four years and know what a fucking noun is, don’t come in here and give us any of your shit.’

  ‘I’m just saying....,’ said French.

  ‘Well, don’t. How many murder cases you been on Detective?’

  ‘None.’

  ‘Exactly. Twenty three I’ve done and every one committed by someone the fucking victim knew. What you got to say about that, then?’

  ‘Fuck?’

  ‘Good.’

  At least she’s got a sense of humour. She’ll need it in this job, this city, thought Dornan.

  ‘DS Healy, perhaps we can have a chat in my office. Now would be a good time’. Susan Dornan turned and headed for her office. Healy followed just behind. Both had faint smiles on their faces. Susan Dornan was pleased that her office was located in a completely different part of the Police Headquarters from Healy’s old one. Sitting on the other side of your old desk would have been a bit much for anyone to take, never mind Healy. The paperless office was a concept with no future in police work as far as Dornan was concerned, and both sides of her desk were covered in files and memos, first day or not. Healy had been demoted despite his success after his last two ‘stick on’ cases had been thrown out by the Procurator Fiscal due to, in one case, an illegal search and, in the other, a “dubious” witness statement, both failures attributed to Healy’s management style.

  ‘Nice theory about serial killers, Matt. Not sure about the delivery, though’ said Susan Dornan.

  ‘They’ve got to live in the real world, ma’am, especially these fast trackers’ Healy replied.

  ‘Maybe so, Matt, but there are ways and means and that example out there isn’t one of them. I agree that a lot of this PC crap is over the top but only idiots, or people wanting a quick passport out, flaunt their disapproval. I know you’re not an idiot, so do you want out?’

  ‘No ma’am.’

  ‘Good. Then let’s get on with catching the bad guys, and it’s Susan when we’re alone.’

  Healy had studied people closely during his career and prided himself in knowing genuine when he saw it. He looked at Dornan. He had been pleasantly surprised at the “it’s Susan” remark and inwardly he knew that it wasn’t her fault she had been put in this position.

  ‘I want you on board Matt, but only if you want to be here, only if you are willing to work hand in hand with me, willing to be part of the team. Help me make a success of this squad and your contribution will not go unnoticed, I promise you that.’

  Whilst not exactly wishing for another murder to happen soon, he knew that in Glasgow the next one would not be long in coming and he would wrap it up in jig time, his way, and show certain people what good police work really was. Besides, he felt there was something about Susan Dornan; he somehow wanted to make it work. He didn’t give a toss about his contribution being acknowledged.

  ***

  ‘We’ve got to-night: who needs tomorrow?’ someone softly crooned over the Cathedral House Hotel’s in-house radio.

  ‘Think that’s for us?’ Kate Turner’s boyfriend mused.

  ‘Serendipity?’ replied Kate.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You know, fate, meant to be...that sort of thing. Do you think we are meant for each other?’

  ‘I think we are together for a reason, if that’s what you mean,’ he replied.

  Their earlier tour of the city courtesy of an open top bus, that two Inuit would have done well to survive, was over. The Chicken Korma they had shared later had brought them back to life, and they were now ensconced in “Tunstall’s” ideal hotel, in a room with a four poster king size bed, chilled wine & soft music, and a man she cared for very much.

  Her boyfriend cared too, he cared a lot. But not for her. He had a higher calling.

  She was in the bathroom.

  Last minute patchwork? Similar concerns as him? Horny or hesitant?

  He could see her beauty reflected a thousand times on the mirrored walls of the bathroom through the crack in the bathroom door. It’s not too late for you. Just say you can’t; you have a husband; you had a moment of weakness.

  ‘Why aren’t you in that bed with a glass poured for me?’ she called through.

  ‘Aren’t you even a little bit bothered by this?’

  ‘No, why should I be?’

  ‘Well, for a start, maybe because it’s not right? You can walk away from this, it’s not too late.’

  ‘I don’t believe in that kind of outlook. This part of my life is separate from any other part. I want you, maybe even more than that and, although things aren’t perfect, I’m making the most of what makes me happy.’

  ‘What about your husband?’

  ‘What he doesn’t know can’t harm him and no-one else matters. I only stay for the sake of the kids anyway, you know that.’

  ‘The Lord Matters.’

  She loved that about him, his off the wall humour.

  ‘Why are you here then, Mr Holier than Thou?’

  ‘To witness......and to judge.’

  Kate thought she detected a hint of a smile on his handsome face. His eyes searched Kate Turner’s face for any sign of doubt, regret or remorse. He saw none. She moved towards him, allowing her negligee to slip to the floor.

  ‘That’s a strange way of putting it, but what’s your verdict, your Honour?’

  The sex wasn’t what she expected; such an intense, true passion. Nothing had prepared her for this. Not even 25 years of marriage. Especially not 25 years of marriage. It was a long time ago that she came to realise that, in her marriage, bedroom was an anagram for boredom.

  ‘How are you feeling?’ he asked.

  ‘Lost,’ sighed Kate from another place.

  ‘Yes, I think you are, Tunstall, I think you are.’

  ‘What are we going to do?’

  They both lay and contemplated. Although they were splayed across the bed, not even touching, Kate had never felt closer to anyone. Her fingers caressed her new necklace, his token of love.

  ‘I know your plans don’t include me’ the voice sang quietly in the shadows of their contentment.

  Chapter 2

  Puff of smoke and a hip flask.

  Man outside the station is clutching it to his chest.

  What did he do; where did he go wrong?

  Questions he asks himself but he is getting no answers.

  Man in rags.

  Boom Boom Banks liked his name. He was christened Colin but that wasn’t a name for the likes of him.

  Boom Boom….now that was a name.

  He wasn’t sure who first called him it. He only knew that that’s what everyone called him now.

  ‘What’s happening tomorrow big yin?’ the kids would shout.

  ‘Boom! Boom!’ his arms flowering into the ubiquitous mushroom cloud.

  The kids thought he was the business, even gave him fags and the odd can.

  ‘On yir sel Boom Boom, on yir sel.’

  Boom Boom lived most places. Old warehouses. Old cars. Cardboard boxes. Shop doorways. He didn’t have a mortgage on any of his places and that’s the way he liked it. Mortgages, credit cards, H.P., it only ends one way...boom, boom. If he could have ever gotten his eyes to focus and his addled brain to function long enough to read a paper during these times, he would have seen just how right he was.

  His favourite residence didn’t have a roof but it had everything else; a comfortable bed, food and running water. Some people called it the Clyde Valley. Give him his carrier bags, his string, his knife, his coat and his matches and, with good luck or global warming as, unknown to Boom Boom, the papers called it these days, he could stay in his favourite spot till October. The combination of weathering on his skin, dirt and life’s travails made him of indeterminate age and, in truth, he couldn’t remember himself what age he was. He sometimes had clouded thoughts and vague images of a rather grand terraced house, a train set, a doll and an austere woman, her hair tied
back in a bun and a black blouse buttoned to the neck, but he wasn’t at all sure if he longed for those memories or was happy for them to remain somewhere in his subconscious. He knew he wasn’t stupid; conversations with hostel wardens defined stupid for him, and he knew that he liked to read when his eyes’ focus, and opportunity, coincided: but that was a rare occurrence in these days of wine; and not so many roses. He also knew he was one of God’s children, blessed by being born into Holy Mother Church; the Jesuit teachers at his school had told him so, belted him with a leather belt to demonstrate His love, although on winter nights in and around Glasgow he didn’t feel very blessed; even when he said six Hail Marys.

  Mother church, hail Mary, mother, women, whores.

  ***

  Susan Dornan had never married, had no kids and had always found it difficult to keep a boyfriend. Not because she wasn’t attractive. Compared to most Glasgow women in their forties that was; most of whom had allowed life’s pressures, and their remedies to them; cigs, booze, maybe the odd puff of wacky or line of Charlie, to take their toll. Neither was it because she wasn’t good company but mainly because she had thrown herself into her career in the police and now she was a lot of Glasgow men’s biggest nightmare, intelligent and in ‘the polis.’ Not that every guy in Glasgow was a crook, and for some the uniform was a turn on. It was just that not many fancied living with a cop. Why? She wasn’t sure but had gotten used to it. Neither was it a sexual thing but more a slightly suppressed emotional need. She was glad she had joined the police, and was proud of what she achieved; and especially proud of her new rank.

  Susan Dornan was a week into her new role and, although things were rather slow in terms of work load for the squad as a whole, she had been busy getting the operational systems she wanted in place. She sat at her desk looking out through the glass partition which separated her office from the main squad room, weighing up her team. Nothing much was happening but everyone was managing to look busy. Except Matt Healy of course; who was eating a sandwich, drinking tea, reading the Daily Record racing section and calling poor P.C. Allan something that she couldn’t quite make out but was definitely non – complimentary.

  Jill French was reading a statistical report that was circulating the office. She looked over at Matt Healy. ‘Sir, it says here that 60% of 16 year olds in Glasgow housing schemes are regularly incapacitated through alcohol. Terrible isn’t it. What chance do they have?’

  ‘Yeah, terrible. Who’s looking after their kids that’s what I want to know’ smirked Healy.

  Healy turned to DC Brown who, as usual, appeared to be either in deep thought or asleep.

  ‘What you up to then, Rab?’ asked Healy

  ‘Oh, it’s the wife’s birthday next week and I can’t think what to get her for a present. She’s worn out these days and I’d really like to get her something special, something, you know, that would light up her face.’

  ‘How about a torch?’

  Healy was in fine form. Even Jill French laughed. Partly relieved it wasn’t only her that Healy ribbed.

  ‘Bit of a male chauvinist then, sir?’ replied Brown.

  ‘Only one thing worse than that, Rab, and that’s a woman who won’t do what she’s told.’

  Susan Dornan still didn’t know what to make of Healy. Somehow all the effing and blinding and sarcastic comments seemed a put up job to her. She knew that, like her, he had never married and had no kids. He was certainly a bit of a dinosaur when it came to the new, sparkling white, politically correct Police Scotland; but he got the job done and, she thought to herself…..was it really necessary to call rapists, murderers and paedos “Sir”?

  She didn’t think so, and Matt Healy was never going to. She got the impression Healy was scrutinising her, weighing her up, but couldn’t be sure. She also felt there was more to young, PC Allan than met the eye. He was young of course, but she liked him and was sure he wasn’t any of things Healy delighted in calling him. The fact that he might well be gay was bye the bye.

  As well as inheriting Healy, Dornan had also inherited DC John Frame who, some had warned her, had lived up to his name in the past. She had decided that everyone was starting with a clean slate, and, although it was obvious that Frame was ambitious, she didn’t put any store in gossip, especially of the internal police variety, and preferred to think that fit – ups were a thing of the past in policing. Frame was similar to Healy in some ways but Dornan felt that Frame was serious when he joined in the squad banter, a kind of inner anger there, momentarily allowing itself to come out before Frame’s wiser side put a check on it.

  DC Rab Brown was the opposite of Frame. He was always polite, never said anything remotely offensive and still appeared to blush at some of the more outrageous comments made by the other squad members.

  ‘Yeah, and don’t forget to get batteries for that torch Rab. At least batteries have a positive side ...and she can use them for her vibrator while you’re in here,’ suggested Frame.

  ‘Very funny, Frame,’ responded Brown.

  ‘Don’t be offended, mate; only telling you how it is. Take me for instance. I knew my marriage was on the rocks when I asked the wife one night why she never told me when she reached orgasm anymore. She told me that she didn’t like phoning me at work.’

  Rab Brown laughed despite himself, self-deprecating humour always something that is appreciated in the harsh reality of Glasgow life.

  Dornan was sure Brown was actually asleep at his desk sometimes and he did not show much drive or initiative but he was, apparently, a PC genius.

  That assessment, however, came from Healy who “didn’t believe in E mailing.” He had just recently become the proud father of twins so that could also account for his zombie like appearance. Susan Dornan often wondered if she would ever experience that kind of feeling herself, wondered if she wanted to. She glanced over at DC Jill French. Could she see herself from 15 years or so ago in her? She was keen, intelligent and willing but would she be able to hack it when the first young girl’s body with an Irn Bru bottle forced into her vagina and twigs rammed up her nostrils was placed in front of her? Her psychological training would possibly be a bonus, or a hindrance, to the squad. The other squad member she could see was a bit of a conundrum for Dornan. Glasgow was now a “multi-cultural” city that “embraced” migrants. DC Jack T’Bhat was, as far as Dornan could make out, of so many cultures that he could be “embraced” to death. Part Iranian, part French, born in Hamilton, half Christian, half Muslim he was so diverse no-one knew what to do with him except have his picture on all the flyers and posters that ‘Policing in the Community’ plastered over places like Sighthill and Govanhill; home to many of Glasgow’s migrants.

  Dornan shut down her PC and tidied up her desk as best she could, do these memos never stop, before heading for an early exit. She had arranged to meet a friend for a meal later that evening and “maybe a wee bop.”

  Healy watched her out of the corner of his eye as she surveyed the squad room and took part in a little banter with one of the police civilian workers.

  ‘Off out tonight, ma’am?’ asked Jim Rodger, a clerical worker who helped out around the station.

  ‘You asking?’ smiled Susan.

  ‘I wish. Wife might have something to say about that!’

  ‘You can’t blame a girl for trying, eh Jim. Yeah, it’s Friday night and that means I’m going down to the Merchant City for a couple of drinks. Maybe end up in Arta.’

  The Merchant City had been a rundown area of Glasgow city centre, housing the old fruit and cheese markets, but like many former commercial sites in cities it had been transformed in recent years to accommodate wine bars, eateries and night clubs for Glasgow’s glitterati. Susan didn’t quite fall into that category but a warrant card works wonders with stroppy door men and, to be fair, the people that went there were quite diverse.

  ‘Glad I’m married, then, I couldn’t afford you! Have a ball.’

  She gave Healy a nod as she left for the n
ight.

  Chapter 3

  Matt Healy lived alone and had never been to the Merchant City. He preferred “traditional” bars, locals, but in truth didn’t consider himself much of a drinker. Not by Glasgow standards at least. He still lived in his mum’s house but she had died a few years before. He didn’t particularly like the furniture, wallpaper or carpets, but couldn’t be bothered changing them. When you’ve seen carpets, wallpaper and furniture with assorted parts of the human body splattered all over them, then colours and designs aren’t high on your priority list. He never had visitors anyway. He was a sociable enough guy, some of his superior officers felt too much so with his old squad, but he kept his private life just that. He liked women, had had his fair share of girl friends over the years but with his job commitments, and his mum, had never seemed to find one that he felt like settling down with. They all seemed to disappoint him in the end. He thought DI Dornan might be an exception, though. She was somehow different; confident but vulnerable. Needed kept in her place, certainly, but definitely food for thought there.

  ***

  Joe Turner was an ordinary guy. He knew that because his wife, Kate, told him often enough. He and Kate had met 20 odd years ago when she had turned up in Spain looking for seasonal work and he was a bar manager. Life had moved on since then. He now owned a couple of bars of his own and they had a couple of grown up kids but although life had moved on; neither Joe nor the resort had. It was still all Full English Breakfasts, chips with everything, Tetley on draught and two euros for a litre of any of the local knock out poison. Kate may not have moved on physically but her mind had. The Costa Brava was now Costa Barasic, and she was trapped with a man she didn’t love. Joe was partially aware that Kate had moved on in her ambitions and desires in life but she would never leave him. They were ‘solid.’ Joe Turner was an ordinary guy but he wasn’t sure if even he believed that, so sometimes he had to “remind” her that they were never going to split. Kate had become distant. She still loved him, she told him she did “in a way”, but things had changed. Bed was for sleeping in, meals were for eating in silence and Kate’s job seemed to call for more overtime than before, but “things were fine.”