Lonie59

Lonie picked up a newspaper from the kiosk at Partick train station. It was a bit stupid, he knew, when he could get 100 copies of the Glasownian for nothing, vanity more than anything else, but for a few measly coppers it was worth it to see his story on a front page lead. The picture of Father Campbell was an old one, which made him look rather young and saintly looking. The pictures of Carol Peters and Larry Murray made them look impossibly young too. Only Cardinal Robbins –with his no comment at this time- looked vaguely old enough to be selling papers. He flicked through the paper as he passed the ticket booth, careful to avoid the gaze of the man selling train tickets. On the platform, waiting for the Drumchapel train, he sneaked a look at what the other passengers sitting on the wooden benches were reading. An older man in a shirt and tie and worsted suit was scowling at the Glasownian and a young pretty girl with red hair was reading his report too. Lonie felt his chest swell with pride as if he could beat the world.

The Balloch train bent round the curve of the track as it came into the station. The blessing of a spark of winter sunshine and driving sleet made for an uncomfortable partnership. Lonie had his hands deep in his coat pockets and his neck shortened and head turtled as it tucked into the raised lapels of his coat. The train doors slid open and the passengers getting off stepped into a blizzard. Lonie stomped his feet on the steps of the train to dislodge the snow. The heat of the train made his journey seem like a pleasure. He took one of the heated window seats and watched the scenery change from backcourts to railway sidings. He didn’t want to get too comfortable. It was only a few train stops and he was going to visit one of the families from which the adolescent boys had disappeared. He didn’t have any great plan, other than not to pay his fare, but if he showed them the front page and told him this was his report that might get him a few memorable quotes. He could then get back to work and it would take him about ten minutes to write up. Afterwards there would be the luxury of a few halfs of whisky. He had it all planned out in his head.

What Lonie didn’t plan for was the trudge up hill on powdery snow past Drumchapel shopping centre and being unable to find the house he was looking for in Blackcraig Road. All of the musty smelling tenements looked cut from the same template: pre-fab pebbledash tan coloured makeovers, untended front gardens and venetian blinds that shuttered the windows and locked everybody inside. Going up the stairs the chilled wind blew and ran ahead of him rattling the dulled aluminium letterboxes. The paint on the house doors dulled the eyes, but number 47 it peeled off in clumps like lettuce leaves leaving the hardwood sheet grey and splintered around the Yale lock. Two thin bag bags were parked outside the door, shaking in the wind, one atop the other, cans and nappies poking through and stinking up the close. Lonie chapped like the police did, heavy bangs on the letterbox, which usually worked for him, but a rabid dog flung itself at the inside panel. He leaned his notepad against the close wall leaving a short message and his phone number. His pen poked the note through the letterbox. A scrambling and clawing on the floor inside and slobbering noises suggested the contents of the note had been digested. He spotted the outline of a letter poking out of the plastic bag and bent down to work it loose, not thinking it such a great crime in a place where people didn’t have nameplates in case they were stolen. It was a red ink repossession order, which read Boyle and not Ramsay. He wasn’t sure if in his haste to get out of the office he’d written down the wrong name, the wrong number, or the wrong address. He thought the dog had probably done him a favour.

‘Whit you doin’ there?’ A black haired wifey, thin as a pencil drawing on a permed mop head, and wearing a black and white striped one-piece dress, that would have stopped traffic, stood glowering at him from the doorway of the house opposite. ‘All that racket. You’re no’ givin’ me time to think.’

Lonie hopped from foot to foot. ‘Ah’m sorry. Ah’m a reporter.’ He slid the purloined letter into his coat pocket.

‘Well, goin’ report somewhere else and leave decent people some peace.’

‘Ah wonder if Ah could ask you a few questions.’

‘Whit about?’ Her voice seemed amused now rather than hostile.

‘Ah was looking for a Mrs Ramsay.’

‘Well, you’re lookin’ in the wrang place.’ She shook her head at his stupidity. ‘You better look in the crematorium.’

‘You mean she’s dead?’ He bit at his lip and searched his pockets for his fags. He could have saved himself a long journey if he’d just take the time to look at the electoral records or phoned his contact in Births and Deaths. It was so amateurish he felt like sticking his arm through the Boyle’s door and letting the dog bite him.

‘That’s usually where dead people are.’

‘Whit about Mr…?’

She cut him off. ‘He died years ago.’

Lonie lit a fag. ‘You seem remarkably well informed.’ He waved his Woodbine at her in mock salute.

The wifey’s hands clasped each other as her mouth worked its way into a smile as she acknowledged that might well be the case and went to shut her front door. ‘Well, Ah’ve got work to be doin’.’

‘Hing on. You didn’t know the boy?’ The dog started barking and flinging itself against the door again.

‘Archie?’ The wifey answered for him. ‘Aye, he was a lovely child and such a lovely boy. Wouldn’t say boo to a goose…Ah couldn’t believe it. Such a shame.’

Lonie’s eyes narrowed. It was hard to think with the racket of that dog barking. ‘You think we could discuss it inside?’

The wifey shook her head. ‘No, Ah’ve no’ done my hooverin’ yet.’ But she did take a step out into the close, which seemed to calm the dog and shut it up.

‘Does Mrs Ramsay have any relatives that live close by?’

‘Aye, far too many of them. They breed like rabbits. Never worked a day in their lives. There’s about six tenements full of them in Kinfauns alone.’ The wifey shook her head and her lip turned up.

Lonie took a deep drag on his Woodbine. ‘Whit about Archie, did he have a little girlfriend?’

‘Oh no!’ She gave him a hard look. ‘He didn’t do that kind of thing.’

‘Didn’t have girlfriends?’

‘No.’ The wifey glanced up the stairs and down the close at Lonie’s back. ‘You better come in.’ Tight lipped, her words were clipped. She waited for him in the hallway, making sure he wiped his feet on the bristles of the indoor mat, before she allowed him to follow her through to the living room.

Above the mock brick fireplace the centrepiece of the living room wall was a picture of Queen Elizabeth II formally dressed and wearing her crown. Her siblings and their regalia were also on display. The wifey’s own family’s snaps were relegated to a glass table, with a full to overflowing ashtray and a packet of 20 Kensitas Club. She lit one before she sat down in an easy chair beside the fire. Lonie took the seat across from her and lit another fag from the one he was putting out. She put her hand out to take the dout off him and put it in the ashtray.

‘So…’ Lonie let her settle into her seat. ‘Whit were you sayin’ then?’

‘Me?’ She took a puff and smiled indulgently at him. ‘Ah wasn’t sayin’ anythin’.’

Lonie tried a different tack. ‘You were sayin’ Archie never had any girlfriends. Why was that?’

The wifey snapped one of the bars on the electric fire off. ‘Oh, he was shy, awful shy, but it’s no’ nice to speak ill of the dead, but let’s just say when other wee boys were out kickin’ a ball about he was cuttin’ up paper doilies to make dresses for his dolls.’ She looked up at Lonie to see if he understood.

‘You mean he was…’ Lonie caught her reluctance to say homosexual, especially with the queen looking down at them, so he flapped his wrist and hand a few times and watched her nod a grim faced affirmation.

‘How did he become involved with Carol Peters then?’

‘You want a cuppa tea?’ The wifey got up from her chair, not waiting for his answer. ‘You can put that other bar on if you’re cold.’ She bustled out into the hall.

Lonie had a quick look at the family photos. He knew better than to put the other bar on the electric fire on. That was just for show. By the looks of it the wifey had two sons and two daughters. Ugly children, but it didn’t seem to be there fault. They’d taken after their dad.

Her thin arms were having a hard time supporting a tray with a teapot biscuits and two cups and saucers. She put it down on the carpet between the two chairs. ‘Help yourself to the biscuits. ’ She poured him a cup, leaving the silver spoon on the saucer.

Lonie helped himself to four sugars and stirred his tea. ‘Can Ah ask you something?’

The wifey sipped at her tea. ‘Whit?’

‘How do you stay so young lookin’?’

The wifey bent forward in her chair as she laughed. ‘Ah never eat anything that’s no’ got sugar in it and Ah make sure Ah’ve a fag first thing in the morning. That keeps me regular.’ She dinged the spoon off the cup. ‘Ah want to show you something.’ She sighed as she stretched sideways and lifted a partially hidden photo in at the back of the others.

Lonie cradled the frame in his hands.

‘That’s me.’ She waited for him to say something, but after a few seconds added. ‘That’s takin’ at the lodge. Ah’m quite high up in The Eastern Star and my man’s in The Masons.’ She spoke with a sense of pride, which made Lonie’s head duck down so she couldn’t see his grin. But she chose not to notice. ‘That’s one of the things that bothered me. Ah had one of your crowd comin’ up to my door. He sat in the very seat you’re sittin’ on. Quite a stout fellow…’

Lonie put his cup carefully down on the tray. ‘Can you remember this reporter’s name?’ She clutched at her cup and looked a bit lost. ‘Was it Mr MacDonald?’

‘No. I don’t think so.’ She sipped at her tea. ‘Ah didn’t trust him. He told me not to say anthin’ about Chief Inspector Bisset visitin’.’ She made a face as if chewing nugget. ‘You know?’

Lonie didn’t know, but he did have some questions. ‘Was this reporter called the fatman?’

‘Ah’m not sure.’ She shifted in her chair and looked up at the picture of the queen for guidance.

Lonie took a deep breath. ‘Was this before or after Archie went missing?’

‘Oh, definitely after.’

‘Was this before the trial?’

‘Oh, yes, that’s what struck me as being funny. It hadn’t even been in the papers and he wanted my reassurance that…you know with Chief Inspector Bisset.’ Beneath the crown of her curls her face became flushed a light pink.

Lonie picked up a Hobnob and dipped it in his tea. He chewed it before it broke in his mouth and poured more tea to top up his cup. The white pallor returned to her cheeks, but she still looked nervous. ‘How do you know Chief Inspector Bisset?’

‘Oh, he’s high up in the Masons.’ She laughed. ‘I shouldn’t really be telling you that?’

Lonie crunched on another Hobnob and gulped down some tea. ‘But Ah might be in the Masons too.’

‘No. You’re not.’ She looked him in the eye.

‘Ah don’t get it. Whit’s the big deal about a Chief Inspector visiting a crime scene?’

The wifey used the armrest to push up from the armchair and she drifted across the carpet and stood by the windows, pulling aside the net curtains. ‘He used to park over there. My boy loves cars. A big black beast of a thing. He’d recognise it anywhere and Ah did too after a while. Used to drop Archie off at all hours.’ She let the net curtain fall back into place. She looked at Lonie. ‘People think Ah’m jist a daft woman. And maybe they’re right. But before Archie went up the stairs that car used to rock back and forwards something terrible. And they werenae playin’ table-tennis.’

Lonie cup clattered onto his saucer spilling tea on his trousers.

‘Ah’ll get you a cloth.’ The wifey seemed glad of something else to concentrate on. ‘You don’t want it stained.’ She rushed from the living room.

Lonie stood up and brushed his trousers down. A damp stain crept towards his groin, but with dark trousers it would have needed a keen eye to spot. The wifey came back with a dish rag, which she handed to him, at arm’s length. ‘This newspaper reporter. This fatman. If Ah showed you a photo of him, would you recognise him?’ Lonie gave his trousers a perfunctory rub and handed her back the cloth.

The rag sat in the wifey’s hand as she considered this. ‘Ah’m no’ sure. All fatmen look the same.’

Lonie laughed.

‘But he left me his card. Said Ah could phone him day or night.’

A complicit looked passed between them. Lonie found himself holding his breath until she came back. One glance was enough.

‘Keep it. Hide it away.’ The fatman was playing him, using him, but he wasn’t meant to find this wifey. He was playing both of them. ‘Are you sure this was before the trial?’

‘Aye.’ Her frown took none of the shine out of her answer. ‘Ah may be daft, but Ah’m no’ stupid. Whit that Inspector did was no’ right. And Mason or no’ Mason he shouldnae have led that investigation into the missin’ boy.’ She shook her head. ‘And that reporter. He’s just a bad yin.’