Alex Gray - Pitch Black

‘Aye, that’s what ah said. A ghost.’

‘And who’s it meant to be — Norrie Cartwright?’

Bert looked sourly at the journalist. ‘That’s not very funny,’ he replied with a sniff of contempt.

Greer laughed, then, looking over his shoulder to check that they were out of earshot, he leaned forward. ‘What about my other story, though? I thought we had a deal.’

Bert looked intently at his glass, his mouth a straight line of disapproval. He’d hardly touched the whisky, somehow it seemed better to down it once this business was done. After all, the man was paying for it.

‘Ah’ll tell you what ah know but only on condition that ye never let on who told you, right?’ As his eyes met Greer’s, he saw the grin fade from the journalist’s face. Then a nod of agreement told him that they had a deal, but one that was on Bert’s terms.

‘Listen.’

‘I’m all ears.’

‘Look, Greer, less of the cheek, right? This is serious stuff we’re talking aboot.’

‘Okay, okay, keep yer hair on.’ Greer raised his hands in a conciliatory gesture. ‘I’m listening. Sure I am.’

Bert leaned closer. ‘There’s a lot goin on at this club. Mair than you or onybody else knows aboot.’ He paused then sat back, as if unsure of what to say next.

‘If it’s the money…?’

‘Well, it’s got tae be worth my while. This could cost me ma joab, know whit ah mean?’ Bert’s voice took on an aggrieved tone.

‘I’ll see you all right, pal,’ Greer replied. ‘Double what I gave you today and the same at the end of the month. For three months. Okay?’

Bert seemed to consider this. ‘Aye, ah suppose so,’ he said at last.

Greer took another long draught of his pint and set down the glass with a thud. ‘Right, let’s be having you, then.’

‘Big Pat Kennedy had a real humdinger of a row wi Jason White jist afore he died,’ Bert said.

Greer’s eyebrows rose. ‘Go on.’

‘Well, ah wis in the next room but you couldnae help but hear him. He wis yelling at the lad as if he wis gonnae knock his block aff. Then,’ Bert paused for effect, ‘then he says if White ever pulled a stunt like that again he’d have him. Says nobody wis expendable,’ he added, nodding solemnly.

Greer made a face. ‘You really expect me to think that Big Pat Kennedy had something to do with White’s murder?’

‘Well,’ Bert said, still nodding, ‘he’s got one hell of a temper.’

Greer frowned. ‘What’re you trying to say? Do you actually know something about all this? I can’t write something that’s mere speculation, you know.’

Bert looked hard at the journalist then picked up his whisky and downed it in a shot. Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he gave another sniff. ‘Mibbe ah do, and mibbe ah don’t.’ He stood up, ready to leave the pub.

Pushing aside his chair he fixed Greer with a different look, his head to one side, a thoughtful expression on his weather-beaten face. ‘Oh, and there really is a ghost. More than one person’s seen it over the years. Ask Jim Christie if you don’t believe me.’ And with that Albert Little walked away, leaving the Gazette reporter staring after him.

Jimmy Greer gave a slow smile as he watched the groundsman leave. He was an arrogant little shit, right enough, but he could be useful. Greer knocked back the last of his pint then put down his empty glass. Aye, he could be useful but, though he might think it, Albert Little sure as hell wasn’t his only source of information at the club.

Maggie stretched slowly, her toes pointing towards the end of the bed. If she didn’t disturb him maybe he’d stay a little longer, warming her body. It felt so good to have him in bed beside her, his breathing deep and regular, his head tucked against her breast. It was after eight o’clock and she really should have been up and about. Her husband would be at work by now, this case was making extra demands on his time. She smiled ruefully. Their holiday in Mull had done them both the world of good but how long would he feel its benefit? Already his eyes had taken on that all-too-familiar look of intensity, heightened by darker circles that spoke of sleepless nights spent puzzling things out.

It was funny how life turned out. They’d met as students at the University of Glasgow, she was studying English Lit, Bill immersed in History of Art. Maggie had kept to her vision of teaching English but her husband had dropped out and become a policeman, though his passion for art had never diminished. Maggie remembered the nights they’d spent in bed when they’d first been married, whispering plans about their futures: they’d have two kids, a rambling house in the country with dogs and cats, maybe hens at the foot of a long back garden. She’d had an image of herself as the earth-mother type, tending her young, her husband coming home after a hard day’s work to a pot of something wholesome bubbling on the stove. Well, she’d certainly become a damned good cook, even if she said it herself, but other elements of that faraway dream had melted to nothing over the years.

She turned slightly but it was enough to disturb the slumbering cat and he slithered away from her side and landed on the carpet with a gentle thump, leaving a warm spot where he had been curled beside her. Maggie sighed. The soft fur against her bare skin had been such a sensuous pleasure. Now she may as well get up and be about her day, there was plenty to be done. Still she lay there, relishing the sense of freedom and considering the day ahead. Summer holidays were for catching up with things that were neglected during term-time and she had made good inroads into the garden, but there was also the forthcoming term to prepare for. A load of paperwork was waiting for her downstairs. Maggie had ignored it during this fine weather, telling herself it couldn’t last: the rains would come eventually and she’d tackle it then. Yet this spell of heat had gone on and on for weeks now and there was no sign of it breaking. Maybe she’d potter in the garden and then have a look at the Edinburgh Festival guide. There was plenty she wanted to see at the book festival, for instance, and she’d miss her favourite authors if she didn’t book up soon.

Chancer jumped back on to the bed with a meow that Maggie had come to recognise as feed me . She was out of bed and on her feet before she had time to think about it.

‘You’ve fairly got me trained, haven’t you, wee fellow?’ Maggie laughed, wrapping her cotton dressing gown around her.

Downstairs in the kitchen, Maggie watched the ginger cat scoffing his breakfast. ‘Wonder if anyone’ll phone today,’ she thought aloud. It was a while now since she had put up all those posters of Chancer with the message that he was a stray and asking if anyone wanted to claim him. She’d left her number but she’d also left a postscript saying she was happy to give him a home if he remained unclaimed. Her eyes rested on their back door. A good joiner could cut a cat flap out of the bottom panel. She’d seen different ones in the pet shop where she had left one of the flyers. Chancer would have to have a collar, she thought, and she would need to have him chipped. Stop it, woman, Maggie scolded herself. This was daft. She was simply setting herself up for a disappointment if Chancer’s owner suddenly materialised.

Life had brought her too many disappointments already, she thought sadly. She could just imagine somebody like Solly Brightman telling her that this wee cat was simply a substitute for the baby she couldn’t have. Or would he? The psychologist was a gentle man and somewhat other-worldly. Maggie smiled. He and Rosie Fergusson made a good pair: the pathologist’s brisk common sense a foil to her fiancé’s dreamy manner.