The long knives, p.31
The Long Knives, page 31
Harkness hesitates only for a few seconds, looks at the murderous Lake, then Hollis, almost equally deranged, who flashes a Metropolitan Police ID, and says, — Like he says, we got this one, son. Good work.
Lennox forces as benign a smile as he can muster at Brian Harkness, who nods curtly at a grateful-looking Fraser, escorting the boy out the tunnel.
— What’s happening then, chaps? Lennox asks Hollis and Lake, a weird composure asserting itself in him.
Lake points a thick finger at the broken biographer on the ground. — This cahnt took the piss. He’s gonna pay for that. I ain’t having no nonce of a judge pulling favours to keep him out of jail!
As Lennox considers this, Hollis sidles up to him and says urgently, — This is fucked, Ray, but Billy’s right; we turn him in and it’ll never go to trial. The cahnt can spill the lot on them posh nonces.
— They should have the lot spilled on them.
— Yes, they should. Vikram Rawat looks up in defiance from the cold, dusty gravel.
— SHUT IT, YOU CAHNT, and Lake silences him with a boot to the face.
Lennox thinks of Sally’s laptop. Your life is in Sally’s files. Rawat is one of two fuckers who manipulated you and wanted you dead. But can you leave him with those two other mentalists? — What happens if I let you two take him?
Lake’s face contorts. — Just so we’re clear, ain’t no farking ‘let’ involved here, sahn.
— But to enlighten you, Hollis cuts in, — I beat every bit of information outta him, then carry on my war against them cahnts; by fair means or foul, he nods to Vikram Rawat, — makes no odds to me. Then I give him to Bill and he’s fish food … except for that brass hand.
— We can do this together, Rawat says desperately, rubbernecking to Lennox. — Everything you need is on Sally’s files – he has her laptop! He has this information. Tell them!
Hollis and Lake look at him, tumescent stares of incredulity.
— I wish, Lennox says softly. — But I think this one here, he looks at Vikram, — knows where it is. I’m walking out of here and leaving you guys to do what you do, and Ray Lennox turns and exits the tunnel, alone, heading towards the light, leaving one terrified predator in there at the mercy of two others. The screams do not last long, only briefly echoing in the curved structure. They will be taking this dance elsewhere.
As he slips back through the barricade, easier this time, texts, blanked by the tunnel, pop into his phone.
One from Jackie:
When is he coming home, Ray?
It’s a relief to text back:
He’s on his way with my colleague, Brian. Should be walking through the door any minute now. I’ll be there in twenty minutes. Mine is a large Macallan.
A cold wind blows mucky sleet into his face, but Lennox whistles as he heads down the street. Thrusts his hands into his pockets. He needs a drink, hopes Jackie has the fire going in that front room. Only briefly does he think of the biographer, and the last chapter that Hollis and Lake, cop and villain undifferentiated are writing on his behalf. It astonishes him how it holds little interest. Perhaps Toal was right; maybe you get to the point where you’re just done thinking about all that shit.
49
Ray Lennox watches his sister gratefully Venus fly-trapping her son on the couch, until Fraser protests he needs to go upstairs and change his clothing. The gratitude of Jackie, and that of his normally stoical brother-in-law, Angus, is both galling and humbling. Even Condor the Labrador seems to appreciate him, crashing out in front of Lennox before rolling back over his feet, to make contact with his shins. But it’s also overwhelming, leaving him no place to go emotionally. Besides, he has something to do. Just one large Macallan and Ray Lennox is compelled to disturb the lazy dog and head off into the night.
He drives back to the cottage through the darkness, to retrieve the laptop. En route, a text from Fraser:
HHGH1902
The device is in the kennel, under the fur-covered dog blanket. He laughs loudly as he slides it out. Once again reflects on how Lennox, the detective, and Rawat, the investigative journalist, are both prisoners of the digital age: therefore incapable of detecting or investigating the physical item in front of them.
We are losing ourselves.
Of the many files, Lennox is primarily interested in his own. Then he looks at the file names of Sally’s other clients. These include a few local worthies in business and politics, and a couple of police colleagues, most notably Amanda Drummond. But the set that intrigue him most are the video files of Sally Hart talking to Vikram Rawat about the attacks on Piggot-Wilkins, Gulliver and Erskine, and their plans for people as diverse as Gillman, Lake, Confectioner, MPs, Cabinet ministers and three former PMs.
Lennox doesn’t stall at the cottage. On the drive home he pulls into a lay-by and keys in the password: HHGH1902 … and starts downloading Sally’s files onto a USB stick.
This proves fortuitous, as he has barely gotten settled into his flat when the inevitable compacted knock on the door comes. Slipping the USB into his pocket, he lets in Thickset and Thin Boy, the Internal Investigations men. Offers them coffee.
The chunky internal investigator shakes his bull head in the negative, and in the precise, clipped tones Lennox is already thinking of as generic polis arsehole declares, — We need you to hand over the laptop.
On cue Ray Lennox’s phone rings, the caller ID indicating Toal.
Thickset nods for him to pick up.
Lennox pushes it hard to his ear. — Cooperate, Ray, Toal warns. — This is as heavy as it gets. Do exactly as they say, then come and see me at my place.
Lennox hangs up, looks at the investigators. — What do I get in return?
— To stay out of prison, Thin Boy says.
— You’ll need to do better than that.
The cops remain silent. But they don’t reach for the cuffs, which Lennox interprets as a sign that there is still some leeway, albeit limited, for negotiation.
— You can tear this place apart, but you won’t find it here. He slowly shakes his head. — As a client of Sally Hart’s, I want to erase my own personal files prior to handover. Also, those of Chief Super Designate Amanda Drummond.
— That’s acceptable, Thickset says after a long pause. — We’re not interested in those, and you are covered by the data protection act –
— Bollocks. Unless I’m a multimillionaire, or went to Eton, I’m covered by jack-fucking-shit, so don’t waste my time. And you’re internal investigators. You’re interested in everything. Just leave now, and come back in twenty minutes.
The internal investigating cops hesitate, looking to each other. Then Thickset dispenses a surly nod and they depart. Lennox takes a holdall, waiting for several minutes before he leaves, heading to his local pub, knowing they’ll be tailing him.
The place is empty, save a few seasoned career drinkers. Lennox orders a Guinness.
— Guinness is off, Jake Spiers, the smashed-toothed proprietor, gleefully informs him.
— Murphy’s then, Lennox points at the font.
— No got any. Spiers pulls a phantom pint to illustrate. His teeth are like a row of condemned tenements.
— Stella then, Lennox wonders how long he can play this game.
Spiers looks put out, and gauchely pours a pint.
Taking his drink in a leisurely manner, Lennox enjoys the beer slowly sluicing the previous alcohol back through his system. Raises a playful glass at Spiers, who briefly glowers back at him in studied malevolence. Returning home, Lennox removes the device from its original hiding place: back in the toilet wall by the pipes. Placing the laptop on the table, he erases both his own and Amanda Drummond’s files.
The two Internal Investigations men return and Lennox hands over the holdall, in which he’s placed the computer.
That cunt Jake Spiers will soon be getting investigated in his rat-trap pub. Good.
They take the computer from the bag, putting it in a plastic evidence zipper. Then, with a straight-mouthed but laughing-eyed smile, Thickset says, — I hope you haven’t copied any of those files.
— As if, Lennox says, feeling the USB burn in his jeans watch pocket. — I may be all shades of daft, but a copper in prison? Not what I aspire to, thank you.
That response seems to satisfy them. As soon as they take their leave, he is in a taxi to Bob Toal’s house in Barnton. His boss welcomes him inside. They settle down in the quiet opulence of the lounge. Lennox is astonished at the postmodernist art gallery decor; white walls showing off high-concept abstract prints, mounted pieces of brass sculpture, tasteful floor-spotted lighting, a large open fire, and floor-to-ceiling windows looking out onto a patio and garden. Lennox would never have placed Toal in such a setting in a thousand years. Oddly congruent with the surroundings, his boss seems much younger, sporting a button-down shirt and straight-legged jeans. His wife Margaret, her greying blonde collar-length hair rendered tasteful platinum by strategic dye, is also a more youthful version than the formal, frumpy-dressed variety present at official functions. Not for the first time, Lennox realises he’s miscast in the detective game. Sips at the malt Toal has provided. Not Macallan, but acceptable. — So, they get off scot-free, the establishment nonces, as per usual? Sally’s type of vengeance is the only kind that challenges them?
— Who knows, Ray. Toal looks steadily at him. — How many sleepless nights do men who’ve perpetrated such deeds endure? Sins haunt us as we get older. The blitheness of youth goes as we slow down with nothing to do but dwell on our transgressions. Maybe for such men, that’s purgatory. Might even be divine retribution, Toal muses, looking at Lennox, then saying in playful, snidey tones, — And who knows how many other copies of those files are out there?
Lennox smiles, knows it no longer matters. The reality is that opposition has been rendered futile in our power-revering post-democratic paradigm. A Tory prime minister can be caught on camera bollock-deep in a screaming orphan, and the defeated masses would probably cheer him on. Power and privilege are untouchable. We either cow before it, or, worse, defend those who wield it with a truculent snarl. The children of the citizens are, for the one per cent and their underlings, merely the spoils of class war victory. Since winning that battle at Orgreave, they’ve strengthened their grip, consolidating power. No newspaper or TV channel will cover the content of such files, and when they appear on some quirky radical website they will be ignored or blithely dismissed as a hoax.
So Lennox spends most of the wee small hours drinking malt whisky with Bob Toal, two men who have barely sipped a coffee together, in all the years of working closely.
— The world is changing, Ray, Toal contends. — Spinning away from us all. It’s not our time any more. The likes of you, me and Dougie Gillman, for different reasons, can’t adapt. Whether it’s on the streets or backstage with the power brokers, the politics and the rules have changed and we just don’t get it. And you know what, Toal looks at him in sudden smugness, — I think I’m fine with that. It’s ultimately not about my career or personal legacy. We’re in this game to find the missing bairns that have been snatched by monsters. Then we lock up those beasts. End of. We’re police officers, Ray.
— No, boss, I beg to differ, Lennox says passionately, as Toal leans to refill his cut-crystal glass. — The fuckers that mess around with dodgy tail lights and shoplifters are police officers. They are servants of the state. We monkeys in Serious Crimes serve the people. We serve the common good. We serve vengeance, and sees a brief flicker in his boss’s eye. The kind of arousal indicating Toal was once like him, a doomed avenging spirit, before he salvaged himself in organisational realpolitik. — We do one of the very few jobs worth doing. Only I can’t do it any more, cause the biggest nonces are in the corridors of power, and we can’t touch the fuckers. We get the truck drivers from Hull.
— Always crusading, Ray. Toal grins. — I don’t know what you’ll do without the force!
A wee bit of travelling. Some festivals. Maybe a rave or two. And aye: a bit of shagging.
— What about you? What are you going to do?
— My garden, Ray. Toal’s bushy brows, themselves in need of serious pruning, fly north. — God, I used to laugh at the old men who retired to tend them. Now I wish I’d been able to get to that place of tranquillity where I could enjoy it much earlier. But I can’t explain that to you, he laughs, — you’re still too young to get that sort of thing.
Regarding the youthful Toal, shorn of his working clothes, Lennox looks doubtful.
— One important thing. Toal gazes at a mantelpiece picture of Margaret, long retired to bed. — Find a woman. I know you’ll be raw for a while after Trudi, but don’t let up on that task. Find a life partner. Somebody who can help you become the best possible version of yourself.
This is the last recalled comment of profundity in a night that dissolves into a much more convivial alcoholic oblivion than Lennox has gotten used to lately. After drunkenly hugging his old boss on the doorstep and quipping, — Better inside the tent pissing out … I think, Lennox takes a cab home. Reflects that Toal isn’t so bad: a different man away from the job. If his life partner has made him the best version of himself, it’s evident that his employment has contrived to do the very reverse. Now, like him, Toal still has some repairs to undertake.
Maybe that’s our lot. You’re welcome, Amanda.
Epilogue
The next day Ray Lennox finds himself outside Saughton Prison, fragile in the weak sun on a cold, squally morning. Jayne Melville took a lot of persuading to get him one more last visit. He told her he was off the force officially next month. This would be the very last chance to get more names of missing girls from Confectioner. He didn’t need to say including Rebecca; that was always implicit. All she says to him in the car park is, — No Gillman-style violence, Ray.
— Of course not, Lennox tells her, — I’m made of different stuff.
Looks at the austere building, wonders when he’ll visit this place again. Hopefully never, possibly as an inmate if things go wrong.
When he gets to the cell, Confectioner is reading a copy of National Geographic. He lays it down. — Lennox …
— I’m going to miss our chats, Ray Lennox says, drinking in Confectioner’s puzzled stare, — and I have to say, I do feel rather upset to be usurped by your biographer. Still, it’s not really my problem now.
— How so?
— I’m on leave, working my notice, Lennox says cheerfully. — This polis game isn’t for me any more. And you might find you need a new biographer. I didn’t take kindly to being usurped.
Confectioner looks concerned: something in his old sparring partner’s voice and stare. The prisoner is about to speak when Ray Lennox’s head crashes into his face. It misses Confectioner’s nose; Lennox feels the front teeth buckle inwards as they scrape his brow and the blood of the two men mingles. Then Lennox is on him, smashing his head off the floor, silent and economical in his brutal assault.
He only stops when he realises that through his panicky, breathless wheezes, Confectioner is naming the names and locations that he knows are essential to save his life. Jolting to his senses, Lennox ceases his battery. Stands up, frigid, pulseless, watching Confectioner slither across the cold floor of the cell, like an eel in a fishmonger’s aluminium tray. Pulling out his iPhone, he sets it onto record mode, in order to capture the child murderer’s miserable mantra.
When convinced he has everything he needs, Lennox regards the pummelled Confectioner, who has the audacity to look up at him with violation shining through his fear. — Don’t lament the loss of your biographer, he tells the short-eyed civil servant. — He ripped the fuckin pish oot ay ye, ya daft cunt. Stick tae picking on bairns, you’re just no cut out for the grown-up world, and his boot cracks Confectioner’s face with such force that two teeth fly out from another explosion of blood.
Then he leaves the cell, rubbing his skinned hands, nodding at Ronnie McArthur who looks inside and observes, — Looks like the cunt fell.
— Guilt and shame, Ronnie, Lennox says. — They really overwhelm some people. Makes them unsteady on their feet.
He leaves the prison, gets to the car park. Jayne Melville is waiting there. Ronnie has gleefully texted her what occurred in the cell. But she has not received this news with the relish of the retiring prison officer. — You really think you’re better than the likes of Gillman?
— Yes, Lennox says emphatically, despite his guilt about the deceit.
Jayne is far from convinced, — Please tell me how you come to that fucking conclusion.
— Because I constantly entertain the notion that I might not be. That’s all I have left. Don’t take it from me, Lennox begs. Then he sweeps his hand across his skull. — I got more names … I’m sorry, Rebecca wasn’t one.
Jayne looks at him for a beat. Nods. Then she turns and walks away.
He gets in the Alfa Romeo and drives to the two separate locations to find Confectioner’s notebooks. The first is at the cliffs near Coldingham, close to where they found the body of Britney Hamil. He has to paddle up to his shins to the back of a deserted cove, where he finds a yellow book stuffed into a ziplock bag, secreted behind a big rock. The second is in an old cemetery accessed by the disused railway network of north Edinburgh. In a Confectioner touch, the notebook is concealed under a fallen headstone that bears the name:
GREGOR ANDREW LENNOX
1922–1978
As far as Lennox knows, it is no relation. It takes him an age to move the stone and get his hand in the space to yank the bag free.
With his grim bounty, constituting fifteen years of work, Ray Lennox heads to the post office at Canonmills.
He stands in the queue watching old people, pre-digitals, as McCorkel calls them, picking up their pensions. The two yellow-page notebooks in his hands. He is letting them go. He mails one to Amanda Drummond and one to Dougie Gillman. Then, on his phone, he sends an email to both parties:
Lennox forces as benign a smile as he can muster at Brian Harkness, who nods curtly at a grateful-looking Fraser, escorting the boy out the tunnel.
— What’s happening then, chaps? Lennox asks Hollis and Lake, a weird composure asserting itself in him.
Lake points a thick finger at the broken biographer on the ground. — This cahnt took the piss. He’s gonna pay for that. I ain’t having no nonce of a judge pulling favours to keep him out of jail!
As Lennox considers this, Hollis sidles up to him and says urgently, — This is fucked, Ray, but Billy’s right; we turn him in and it’ll never go to trial. The cahnt can spill the lot on them posh nonces.
— They should have the lot spilled on them.
— Yes, they should. Vikram Rawat looks up in defiance from the cold, dusty gravel.
— SHUT IT, YOU CAHNT, and Lake silences him with a boot to the face.
Lennox thinks of Sally’s laptop. Your life is in Sally’s files. Rawat is one of two fuckers who manipulated you and wanted you dead. But can you leave him with those two other mentalists? — What happens if I let you two take him?
Lake’s face contorts. — Just so we’re clear, ain’t no farking ‘let’ involved here, sahn.
— But to enlighten you, Hollis cuts in, — I beat every bit of information outta him, then carry on my war against them cahnts; by fair means or foul, he nods to Vikram Rawat, — makes no odds to me. Then I give him to Bill and he’s fish food … except for that brass hand.
— We can do this together, Rawat says desperately, rubbernecking to Lennox. — Everything you need is on Sally’s files – he has her laptop! He has this information. Tell them!
Hollis and Lake look at him, tumescent stares of incredulity.
— I wish, Lennox says softly. — But I think this one here, he looks at Vikram, — knows where it is. I’m walking out of here and leaving you guys to do what you do, and Ray Lennox turns and exits the tunnel, alone, heading towards the light, leaving one terrified predator in there at the mercy of two others. The screams do not last long, only briefly echoing in the curved structure. They will be taking this dance elsewhere.
As he slips back through the barricade, easier this time, texts, blanked by the tunnel, pop into his phone.
One from Jackie:
When is he coming home, Ray?
It’s a relief to text back:
He’s on his way with my colleague, Brian. Should be walking through the door any minute now. I’ll be there in twenty minutes. Mine is a large Macallan.
A cold wind blows mucky sleet into his face, but Lennox whistles as he heads down the street. Thrusts his hands into his pockets. He needs a drink, hopes Jackie has the fire going in that front room. Only briefly does he think of the biographer, and the last chapter that Hollis and Lake, cop and villain undifferentiated are writing on his behalf. It astonishes him how it holds little interest. Perhaps Toal was right; maybe you get to the point where you’re just done thinking about all that shit.
49
Ray Lennox watches his sister gratefully Venus fly-trapping her son on the couch, until Fraser protests he needs to go upstairs and change his clothing. The gratitude of Jackie, and that of his normally stoical brother-in-law, Angus, is both galling and humbling. Even Condor the Labrador seems to appreciate him, crashing out in front of Lennox before rolling back over his feet, to make contact with his shins. But it’s also overwhelming, leaving him no place to go emotionally. Besides, he has something to do. Just one large Macallan and Ray Lennox is compelled to disturb the lazy dog and head off into the night.
He drives back to the cottage through the darkness, to retrieve the laptop. En route, a text from Fraser:
HHGH1902
The device is in the kennel, under the fur-covered dog blanket. He laughs loudly as he slides it out. Once again reflects on how Lennox, the detective, and Rawat, the investigative journalist, are both prisoners of the digital age: therefore incapable of detecting or investigating the physical item in front of them.
We are losing ourselves.
Of the many files, Lennox is primarily interested in his own. Then he looks at the file names of Sally’s other clients. These include a few local worthies in business and politics, and a couple of police colleagues, most notably Amanda Drummond. But the set that intrigue him most are the video files of Sally Hart talking to Vikram Rawat about the attacks on Piggot-Wilkins, Gulliver and Erskine, and their plans for people as diverse as Gillman, Lake, Confectioner, MPs, Cabinet ministers and three former PMs.
Lennox doesn’t stall at the cottage. On the drive home he pulls into a lay-by and keys in the password: HHGH1902 … and starts downloading Sally’s files onto a USB stick.
This proves fortuitous, as he has barely gotten settled into his flat when the inevitable compacted knock on the door comes. Slipping the USB into his pocket, he lets in Thickset and Thin Boy, the Internal Investigations men. Offers them coffee.
The chunky internal investigator shakes his bull head in the negative, and in the precise, clipped tones Lennox is already thinking of as generic polis arsehole declares, — We need you to hand over the laptop.
On cue Ray Lennox’s phone rings, the caller ID indicating Toal.
Thickset nods for him to pick up.
Lennox pushes it hard to his ear. — Cooperate, Ray, Toal warns. — This is as heavy as it gets. Do exactly as they say, then come and see me at my place.
Lennox hangs up, looks at the investigators. — What do I get in return?
— To stay out of prison, Thin Boy says.
— You’ll need to do better than that.
The cops remain silent. But they don’t reach for the cuffs, which Lennox interprets as a sign that there is still some leeway, albeit limited, for negotiation.
— You can tear this place apart, but you won’t find it here. He slowly shakes his head. — As a client of Sally Hart’s, I want to erase my own personal files prior to handover. Also, those of Chief Super Designate Amanda Drummond.
— That’s acceptable, Thickset says after a long pause. — We’re not interested in those, and you are covered by the data protection act –
— Bollocks. Unless I’m a multimillionaire, or went to Eton, I’m covered by jack-fucking-shit, so don’t waste my time. And you’re internal investigators. You’re interested in everything. Just leave now, and come back in twenty minutes.
The internal investigating cops hesitate, looking to each other. Then Thickset dispenses a surly nod and they depart. Lennox takes a holdall, waiting for several minutes before he leaves, heading to his local pub, knowing they’ll be tailing him.
The place is empty, save a few seasoned career drinkers. Lennox orders a Guinness.
— Guinness is off, Jake Spiers, the smashed-toothed proprietor, gleefully informs him.
— Murphy’s then, Lennox points at the font.
— No got any. Spiers pulls a phantom pint to illustrate. His teeth are like a row of condemned tenements.
— Stella then, Lennox wonders how long he can play this game.
Spiers looks put out, and gauchely pours a pint.
Taking his drink in a leisurely manner, Lennox enjoys the beer slowly sluicing the previous alcohol back through his system. Raises a playful glass at Spiers, who briefly glowers back at him in studied malevolence. Returning home, Lennox removes the device from its original hiding place: back in the toilet wall by the pipes. Placing the laptop on the table, he erases both his own and Amanda Drummond’s files.
The two Internal Investigations men return and Lennox hands over the holdall, in which he’s placed the computer.
That cunt Jake Spiers will soon be getting investigated in his rat-trap pub. Good.
They take the computer from the bag, putting it in a plastic evidence zipper. Then, with a straight-mouthed but laughing-eyed smile, Thickset says, — I hope you haven’t copied any of those files.
— As if, Lennox says, feeling the USB burn in his jeans watch pocket. — I may be all shades of daft, but a copper in prison? Not what I aspire to, thank you.
That response seems to satisfy them. As soon as they take their leave, he is in a taxi to Bob Toal’s house in Barnton. His boss welcomes him inside. They settle down in the quiet opulence of the lounge. Lennox is astonished at the postmodernist art gallery decor; white walls showing off high-concept abstract prints, mounted pieces of brass sculpture, tasteful floor-spotted lighting, a large open fire, and floor-to-ceiling windows looking out onto a patio and garden. Lennox would never have placed Toal in such a setting in a thousand years. Oddly congruent with the surroundings, his boss seems much younger, sporting a button-down shirt and straight-legged jeans. His wife Margaret, her greying blonde collar-length hair rendered tasteful platinum by strategic dye, is also a more youthful version than the formal, frumpy-dressed variety present at official functions. Not for the first time, Lennox realises he’s miscast in the detective game. Sips at the malt Toal has provided. Not Macallan, but acceptable. — So, they get off scot-free, the establishment nonces, as per usual? Sally’s type of vengeance is the only kind that challenges them?
— Who knows, Ray. Toal looks steadily at him. — How many sleepless nights do men who’ve perpetrated such deeds endure? Sins haunt us as we get older. The blitheness of youth goes as we slow down with nothing to do but dwell on our transgressions. Maybe for such men, that’s purgatory. Might even be divine retribution, Toal muses, looking at Lennox, then saying in playful, snidey tones, — And who knows how many other copies of those files are out there?
Lennox smiles, knows it no longer matters. The reality is that opposition has been rendered futile in our power-revering post-democratic paradigm. A Tory prime minister can be caught on camera bollock-deep in a screaming orphan, and the defeated masses would probably cheer him on. Power and privilege are untouchable. We either cow before it, or, worse, defend those who wield it with a truculent snarl. The children of the citizens are, for the one per cent and their underlings, merely the spoils of class war victory. Since winning that battle at Orgreave, they’ve strengthened their grip, consolidating power. No newspaper or TV channel will cover the content of such files, and when they appear on some quirky radical website they will be ignored or blithely dismissed as a hoax.
So Lennox spends most of the wee small hours drinking malt whisky with Bob Toal, two men who have barely sipped a coffee together, in all the years of working closely.
— The world is changing, Ray, Toal contends. — Spinning away from us all. It’s not our time any more. The likes of you, me and Dougie Gillman, for different reasons, can’t adapt. Whether it’s on the streets or backstage with the power brokers, the politics and the rules have changed and we just don’t get it. And you know what, Toal looks at him in sudden smugness, — I think I’m fine with that. It’s ultimately not about my career or personal legacy. We’re in this game to find the missing bairns that have been snatched by monsters. Then we lock up those beasts. End of. We’re police officers, Ray.
— No, boss, I beg to differ, Lennox says passionately, as Toal leans to refill his cut-crystal glass. — The fuckers that mess around with dodgy tail lights and shoplifters are police officers. They are servants of the state. We monkeys in Serious Crimes serve the people. We serve the common good. We serve vengeance, and sees a brief flicker in his boss’s eye. The kind of arousal indicating Toal was once like him, a doomed avenging spirit, before he salvaged himself in organisational realpolitik. — We do one of the very few jobs worth doing. Only I can’t do it any more, cause the biggest nonces are in the corridors of power, and we can’t touch the fuckers. We get the truck drivers from Hull.
— Always crusading, Ray. Toal grins. — I don’t know what you’ll do without the force!
A wee bit of travelling. Some festivals. Maybe a rave or two. And aye: a bit of shagging.
— What about you? What are you going to do?
— My garden, Ray. Toal’s bushy brows, themselves in need of serious pruning, fly north. — God, I used to laugh at the old men who retired to tend them. Now I wish I’d been able to get to that place of tranquillity where I could enjoy it much earlier. But I can’t explain that to you, he laughs, — you’re still too young to get that sort of thing.
Regarding the youthful Toal, shorn of his working clothes, Lennox looks doubtful.
— One important thing. Toal gazes at a mantelpiece picture of Margaret, long retired to bed. — Find a woman. I know you’ll be raw for a while after Trudi, but don’t let up on that task. Find a life partner. Somebody who can help you become the best possible version of yourself.
This is the last recalled comment of profundity in a night that dissolves into a much more convivial alcoholic oblivion than Lennox has gotten used to lately. After drunkenly hugging his old boss on the doorstep and quipping, — Better inside the tent pissing out … I think, Lennox takes a cab home. Reflects that Toal isn’t so bad: a different man away from the job. If his life partner has made him the best version of himself, it’s evident that his employment has contrived to do the very reverse. Now, like him, Toal still has some repairs to undertake.
Maybe that’s our lot. You’re welcome, Amanda.
Epilogue
The next day Ray Lennox finds himself outside Saughton Prison, fragile in the weak sun on a cold, squally morning. Jayne Melville took a lot of persuading to get him one more last visit. He told her he was off the force officially next month. This would be the very last chance to get more names of missing girls from Confectioner. He didn’t need to say including Rebecca; that was always implicit. All she says to him in the car park is, — No Gillman-style violence, Ray.
— Of course not, Lennox tells her, — I’m made of different stuff.
Looks at the austere building, wonders when he’ll visit this place again. Hopefully never, possibly as an inmate if things go wrong.
When he gets to the cell, Confectioner is reading a copy of National Geographic. He lays it down. — Lennox …
— I’m going to miss our chats, Ray Lennox says, drinking in Confectioner’s puzzled stare, — and I have to say, I do feel rather upset to be usurped by your biographer. Still, it’s not really my problem now.
— How so?
— I’m on leave, working my notice, Lennox says cheerfully. — This polis game isn’t for me any more. And you might find you need a new biographer. I didn’t take kindly to being usurped.
Confectioner looks concerned: something in his old sparring partner’s voice and stare. The prisoner is about to speak when Ray Lennox’s head crashes into his face. It misses Confectioner’s nose; Lennox feels the front teeth buckle inwards as they scrape his brow and the blood of the two men mingles. Then Lennox is on him, smashing his head off the floor, silent and economical in his brutal assault.
He only stops when he realises that through his panicky, breathless wheezes, Confectioner is naming the names and locations that he knows are essential to save his life. Jolting to his senses, Lennox ceases his battery. Stands up, frigid, pulseless, watching Confectioner slither across the cold floor of the cell, like an eel in a fishmonger’s aluminium tray. Pulling out his iPhone, he sets it onto record mode, in order to capture the child murderer’s miserable mantra.
When convinced he has everything he needs, Lennox regards the pummelled Confectioner, who has the audacity to look up at him with violation shining through his fear. — Don’t lament the loss of your biographer, he tells the short-eyed civil servant. — He ripped the fuckin pish oot ay ye, ya daft cunt. Stick tae picking on bairns, you’re just no cut out for the grown-up world, and his boot cracks Confectioner’s face with such force that two teeth fly out from another explosion of blood.
Then he leaves the cell, rubbing his skinned hands, nodding at Ronnie McArthur who looks inside and observes, — Looks like the cunt fell.
— Guilt and shame, Ronnie, Lennox says. — They really overwhelm some people. Makes them unsteady on their feet.
He leaves the prison, gets to the car park. Jayne Melville is waiting there. Ronnie has gleefully texted her what occurred in the cell. But she has not received this news with the relish of the retiring prison officer. — You really think you’re better than the likes of Gillman?
— Yes, Lennox says emphatically, despite his guilt about the deceit.
Jayne is far from convinced, — Please tell me how you come to that fucking conclusion.
— Because I constantly entertain the notion that I might not be. That’s all I have left. Don’t take it from me, Lennox begs. Then he sweeps his hand across his skull. — I got more names … I’m sorry, Rebecca wasn’t one.
Jayne looks at him for a beat. Nods. Then she turns and walks away.
He gets in the Alfa Romeo and drives to the two separate locations to find Confectioner’s notebooks. The first is at the cliffs near Coldingham, close to where they found the body of Britney Hamil. He has to paddle up to his shins to the back of a deserted cove, where he finds a yellow book stuffed into a ziplock bag, secreted behind a big rock. The second is in an old cemetery accessed by the disused railway network of north Edinburgh. In a Confectioner touch, the notebook is concealed under a fallen headstone that bears the name:
GREGOR ANDREW LENNOX
1922–1978
As far as Lennox knows, it is no relation. It takes him an age to move the stone and get his hand in the space to yank the bag free.
With his grim bounty, constituting fifteen years of work, Ray Lennox heads to the post office at Canonmills.
He stands in the queue watching old people, pre-digitals, as McCorkel calls them, picking up their pensions. The two yellow-page notebooks in his hands. He is letting them go. He mails one to Amanda Drummond and one to Dougie Gillman. Then, on his phone, he sends an email to both parties:
