The Road to Hell Page 23

  Beside him the drum of a washing machine was revolving noisily, but he seemed oblivious to the racket it was making. The back of his head was propped against the wall and in repose his face looked as gaunt as a medieval death mask, eyes closed, his cheeks and temples sunken. His mouth had fallen open, accentuating the line of his jawbone.

  Fast asleep, he was completely unaware of Alice’s scrutiny. For a couple of seconds she was able to gaze at his face, studying it as objectively as she might an inanimate object in a museum. In profile, she thought, he had a certain nobility, and his large aquiline nose only added to that impression.

  The second the washing machine clicked into spin cycle he jerked awake, but he did not look refreshed or restored by his sleep. Seeing Alice standing above him, he said in a slightly thick voice, ‘Oh, for Christ’s sake, what now?’

  Because he looked so tired, and fragile as glass, she found that the anger she had felt earlier had dissipated. Taking a seat next to him she said, ‘Taff, just tell me the truth this time, will you? Have you ever owned a Rolex watch?’

  ‘What do you think?’ he said roguishly, rubbing his eyes. ‘Do I look like the sort of man to own one of them?’

  ‘So you’ve never owned one?’

  ‘That’s what I said, wasn’t it?’ He stretched his arms above his head and yawned, and as he did so an ominous click came from one elbow.

  ‘Sure about that?’

  ‘Yes. I’m sure about that. Is this some kind of game or something, because if it is I don’t want to play. I’ve got better things to do.’

  ‘Fine. About an hour ago I spoke to Dorothy Drummond.’

  ‘Did you now? How do you come to know Dot?’

  ‘Never mind that for now. Dorothy Drummond was in possession of a Rolex watch and she told me that she took it from your room.’

  ‘Oh, right,’ he said, not turning a hair, ‘I wondered what had happened to it. She’ll be the one to have taken Linda’s money too, I bet, even though Moira took the blame. She cleans in Bread Street too. Are you following her up?’

  ‘Not at the moment. I thought you said you’d never owned such a watch.’

  ‘Spot on, love. That’s what I said. See that watch on my wrist, there, that’s a Sekonda. The Rolex was in my room, I admit that, but I didn’t own it. I was keeping it safe for someone else. It wasn’t my watch.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Aye. Really.’

  ‘So who were you keeping it safe for?’

  ‘For Alex.’

  He rose, opened the door of the washing machine and began to unload the clothes. The slight effort involved made him gasp for breath, and halfway through the task he stopped and sat down, resting the pile of damp washing on his knee.

  ‘This won’t bloody do,’ Alice said, looking directly into his tired, heavy-lidded eyes.

  ‘What are you going on about, dear?’ His voice sounded faint.

  ‘Alex was already dead when the watch was taken from your room.’

  ‘Not when he gave it me . . . to look after, not then, though.’

  ‘When you told me about the signet ring you got as a result of a swap with Alex, I asked you if you got anything else from him. You said no. Why didn’t you mention the watch then?’

  ‘I didn’t get anything else from him. I told you, he didn’t give me the watch. I was just its custodian, as you might say. The ring became mine.’

  ‘Have it your way. Apart from getting the watch and the signet ring from Alex, did you get anything else at all? What I mean by that, just to be entirely clear, is did he pass anything else on to you, whether as a gift, an exchange, something for you to look after or anything else?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘So you got nothing else whatsoever from Alex?’

  ‘That’s what I’ve just said, isn’t it?’

  ‘Sure about that?’

  ‘Yes, I’m bloody certain about that.’

  ‘This won’t do,’ Alice repeated, her eyes still fixed on his.

  To her surprise he smiled broadly as if pleased by something, and said, ‘And why not, officer?’

  ‘Because,’ she said, pointing at his lapel, ‘You’re wearing a black jacket with a small badge on it. Do you know what the badge is?’

  ‘No. I never even noticed it. Tell me.’ He was still smiling, but he began to pull up his lapel to get a better look at the badge.’

  ‘It’s the Burning Bush.’

  ‘Well, I never,’ he said. He stood up once more, but once he was on his feet he sat down heavily again, murmuring, ‘I’m a wee bit dizzy.’

  ‘That black jacket you are wearing belonged to the Reverend Duncan McPhee. The badge is the one that ministers of the Church of Scotland often wear. The watch and the signet ring both belonged to him too. Odd that.’

  ‘Well done,’ he answered, his eyes closed and his breathing laboured. ‘At last. You’ve finally got there. I thought you might, I thought you might be the one to get there. So you deserve the bloody prize.’

  18

  ‘The prize?’

  ‘Aye. You deserve it and I’d like someone to know the truth. To bear witness, as they say in church circles. This time the story matters, you see, to me at least. Moira Fyfe was my best friend, my only real friend . . . nowadays.’

  ‘I’d heard that. I know that,’ Alice said, ‘but could we talk about Duncan McPhee for the minute? He’s the one I need to know about. That’s who I’m interested in. The file on Moira’s been closed.’

  ‘Patience, woman!’ replied Taff, breathing in deeply. ‘You’ll get everything you’re after – everything, you’ve my word on it. But you need to understand. Moira’s file is not closed, not by me, anyway. Like I said, she was my friend. She was my mentor, showed me the ropes in the early days. How to keep myself warm, the golden rules of begging, where you’d get a free breakfast . . . where to buy the cheapest drink. All the things, good and bad, that you need to know if you’re going to survive on the street.’

  ‘Yes, but Duncan McPhee’s the . . .’

  ‘I said, patience!’ he spluttered, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

  At that moment an unshaven man with a yellowish complexion came into the washhouse and, glancing at the two of them, began to unpack the contents of a thin carrier bag onto the top of the washing machine. Once all his clothes were out, he carefully separated them into whites and non-whites.

  ‘Get out, Terry,’ Taff said gruffly to the stranger, his voice sounding heavy as if he needed to clear his throat.

  ‘I’ve my washing to do. You’re no’ using the machine,’ Terry replied, a placatory look on his face.

  ‘I said, “Out”.’

  ‘Why? You’re only chatting to her, you could go to the drop-in room to chat.’

  ‘Terry, I said, “Out”.’

  Taff sounded resolute and as he spoke, he stared fixedly at the other man, his eyes burning into his, until Terry dropped his gaze.

  Now looking put out, Terry stuffed his clothes back into their carrier bag and left, mumbling, ‘I’m seeing the manager.’

  Waiting until the sound of footsteps had died away, Taff spoke again.

  ‘She was my pal,’ he reiterated, ‘and for a couple of months she’d managed to get right off the drink. The doctors had told her to lay off it and she’d been getting help. It seemed to be working too. She was a good woman. Clever as well. She’d been a nurse for years, one of those kiddies’ nurses. A paediatric specialist.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Aye, I bet you do.’ He started to cough, his face reddening and his eyes watering as he fought for breath between each racking bout. After about three minutes, the coughing stopped and he closed his eyes, taking in great gulps of air. He pressed his hand against his chest, massaging it as if the earlier paroxysms had been painful.

  ‘A couple of days before she died, she’d been begging, on her own, up close to Jericho House. She approached a man and asked him for any spare change. She looked at him and
she recognised him. Guess who it was?’

  ‘No idea.’

  ‘Go on. Try. I’ll give you a clue if you need one.’

  ‘I need one.’

  ‘It was a man of the cloth.’

  ‘Duncan McPhee.’

  ‘Top marks. It was Duncan McPhee. Know who he is?’ He stopped again, giving her the chance to answer and himself time to draw more breath.

  ‘Of course. He’s . . . a minister, a husband, a “committee man”.’ She shrugged her shoulders, letting him know that she had not an inkling of what he was driving at.

  ‘Aye, he’s all of those things, but he’s more too. He’s a brother! He was Moira’s half-brother, her only brother. Bet you didn’t know that, did you?’ He exulted in his superior knowledge.

  ‘No.’

  ‘No, you did not. Chalk and cheese, eh? Moira recognised him and she was overjoyed. She’d lost touch with him ages ago, years ago, long before she lost her house and everything, and there he was, standing right in front of her. Large as life. So, naturally, she goes up to him and embraces him – puts her arms right round him, hugs him tight, but he doesn’t like it a bit and he stiffens, pulls away. She can feel him freezing up. He doesn’t put his arms about her.’

  ‘How do you know all of this?’

  ‘Never mind that now,’ he said sharply, ‘I’ll tell you in good time. Like I said, he’s not pleased to see her. He recognises her all right but, oh no, he’s not glad to have found her. Not one little bit. Not Moira the beggar, Moira the homeless person. The drunk. He’s disgusted by her, and he doesn’t think to hide it, either. But, does he invite his wee sister home with him – put the fatted calf on the table for her, as he should?’

  She saw no need to answer his rhetorical question, but when she said nothing he became agitated.

  ‘Well, does he?’

  ‘No?’

  ‘Dead right! He does not. He told her he was in a tearing hurry on his way to a meeting, couldn’t stay, emptied out his wallet and gave her all the notes from it. Then he buggers off. No address, no telephone number, nothing. He leaves no traces. So Moira knows the score. It’s goodbye for ever. He doesn’t want to know her or anything about her. When he was going, she said he looked terrified – terrified of her.’

  Hearing the sound of approaching footsteps in the corridor outside, he rose quickly and flicked a switch on a nearby socket and then returned to his seat. He still held his bundle of damp washing intact on his knee, staining his jeans.

  ‘Taff!’ the project manager exclaimed. She stood before him, her fleshy bulk hiding Terry’s small frame from view, until he peered out from behind her shoulder as if playing peek-a-boo.

  ‘Aye,’ Taff replied, not moving and fixing her in the eye.

  ‘Terry needs to use the machine. You’ve finished your washing.’

  ‘That’s true, I have. But I’m trying to talk to someone here, Mrs Farrell. In private.’

  ‘Fine. You talk to the lady. No one’s stopping you, but let Terry get on with his washing. You could go upstairs to the drop-in room, couldn’t you? It’s not very full. Let Terry get on with doing his laundry. Right?’

  Taff did not answer, turning his head to one side as if the manager no longer existed. But she was not letting him get away with that.

  ‘You’ll let Terry get on?’

  ‘Fine,’ he replied, his head still to one side.

  Hearing his agreement, Terry immediately began to unpack his clothes again, and Mrs Farrell, having got her way, left the scene with a spring in her step. Putting his first load into the machine together with a cup full of washing powder, Terry turned the knob and waited for the sound of water flooding into it. Silence followed. After a further thirty seconds of tranquillity, he kicked the glass in the front panel. But the machine did not churn into life. Infuriated, he aimed another vigorous kick at it.

  ‘That fucker disnae work!’ he said crossly, now hopping around the room on one foot.

  ‘Right enough,’ Taff said, watching him as he danced about the floor.

  ‘How did you do yours, then?’ Terry said, looking at the clothes on Taff’s knee.

  ‘By hand,’ Taff replied, quick as a flash, pointing at the sink and adding, ‘in there, and it took bloody ages.’

  ‘Ah’m no’ doin’ that,’ Terry said, thrusting the washing back into his crumpled bag and storming out of the room.

  Once he was certain that Terry was out of earshot, Taff continued speaking. ‘I saw Moira that evening. She’d taken the money he gave her and gone out and bought her usual stuff, Tennent’s Super Lager, White Strike and a couple of bottles of vodka. She was crying, and pretty far gone, but she’d told me what had happened. It broke her heart, you see. Seeing him, her own brother, then seeing herself in his eyes, seeing his reaction to her . . . she suddenly saw herself. She told me she couldn’t take any more, didn’t want to live any more. I’d never heard that from her in all the five years we were pals. You know what happened after that, don’t you? You were at the hearing too. She fell and hit her head when Linda was having a go at her. The next day she told me she was going to put some flowers on her mum’s grave. Seeing that bastard had stirred memories up for her, more’s the pity. But somehow she ended up in the Hermitage, and in that lonely, lonely place she died of cold. She froze to death. But no one is to blame, apparently. Well, I don’t agree, you see. Someone bloody was!’

  ‘I don’t think that’s what the FAI will conclude. She had a haemorrhage. The hospital doctor did everything he could . . .’

  Before she could finish her sentence, Taff shouted, ‘Can’t you see? I’m not talking about him. Someone was to blame all right. But he wasn’t on trial, was he? The Reverend Duncan McPhee was never called by anyone to explain what he’d done to his sister. Ignoring her, giving her money to buy drink. Like she was no one, less than no one. He just wanted rid of her. In the chain, he was the first link. But I found him . . .’ He stopped, his breath now rasping, and bowed his head.

  ‘Go on,’ Alice said gently.

  ‘I will when I can, lass. Give me a minute or two.’

  She looked at him, noting for the first time the bluish tinge around his cracked lips.

  ‘After she died I found him easily enough, through the phone-book,’ he continued. ‘I followed him home a few times, and found out all about the Reverend Duncan James McPhee. On the Sunday night, late, I trailed after him into the Dean Gardens. He’d that dog with him, the spotty dog. The poor brute came out with me. It was cold, well below freezing. I just wanted to talk to the man, really. Let him know what he’d done. Tell him about the Hermitage, about her end. Hear him say sorry. But, you see, he didn’t care. He didn’t care that he’d killed Moira, his own sister. When I broke the news of Moira’s death, a flicker of emotion passed across his face. Just a wee flicker. Know what that emotion was?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Give it a go.’

  ‘Grief? Surprise? Sorrow?’

  ‘Wrong. What flashed across his face, just for a moment, but enough for me to recognise it, was relief. A problem solved. He even dared to lecture me, in his pompous way, explaining in words of one syllable that it had nothing to do with him. “Drink was her downfall,” he said, “not me.” He rabbited on about personal responsibility, moral choices . . . kept repeating, as if I was a fool, that if she’d died of the cold then no one was to blame. She’d been an alcoholic. He’d certainly played no part in that. And then it came to me. The big idea. I’d show him something he’d never forget.’

  He paused again, his throat sounding dry. Seeing a plastic cup by the sink, Alice filled it and brought it over for him to drink. He took a sip and choked, spilling half the water down his white shirt and ineffectually tried to wipe it away.

  ‘I told him to take off his clothes. Of course, he looked at me as if I was mad and refused, and I couldn’t force him. Once I might have been able to . . . not these days, though. Actually, the old bastard laughed at me, at the very suggestion. So
I put my hand in my pocket, moved my comb about in it and told him I had a knife in there. It’s no more than he’d expect.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘He believed me, naturally. No doubt I look the type, to the likes of him at least. Then just to back it up I said if he didn’t strip I’d tell everyone.’ He hesitated again, watching her face keenly to see her reaction.

  ‘Tell everyone what?’ Alice asked, taking his bait and watching as a slow smile spread across his face.

  ‘Tell everyone that the bastard has a mistress! He didn’t believe me, at first. He was all, “I don’t know what you’re talking about”, that kind of thing. So, I said one word . . .’ He stopped speaking once more.

  ‘One word?’

  ‘Her name – Ellie. I told him that I knew where he lived, spelled out his address for him, where she lived, where he worked and his wife’s name. He’d just come from there, see? His mistress’s place. I said I would tell them all. Mrs Juliet McPhee, the good people of St Moluach’s, his congregation, and his smart friends at 121 George Street. I would tell them all. Spill the beans about Eleanor.’

  ‘Eleanor what? Where does she live?’

  ‘Eleanor Mills, residing in Lennox Terrace in a basement flat. Below that doddery old wifey . . . the one with the Zimmer.’

  ‘So, what did he do?’

  ‘He asked me why I was doing this to him. I said, “An eye for an eye”, and that shut him up pretty quick. He got that in one. I explained that maybe he should feel the cold just like Moira did. Try it. See how he liked it, a taste of his own medicine. He looked at me as if I was a madman, but he saw I wasn’t joking. He still thought I had a knife in my pocket. He asked me if I’d give him his clothes back at the end, and, of course, I said I would.’

  ‘But you didn’t, did you?’

  ‘Of course not! But I had to say it, to make him take them off, didn’t I? I waited beside him for forty minutes or so . . . by which time he was bloody freezing, chittering like a frightened dog. Then I walked off with his clothes and everything in them. He managed to speak then, shouting after me that I’d said I’d give them back, but I said to him, “Wish you’d treated your wee sister a little bit more kindly now, do you?”’