Alex Gray - Glasgow Kiss

‘Strathclyde Police. We’re investigating the death of Julie Donaldson,’ the taller one said, flipping open his warrant card for him to see.

‘Terrible business,’ he replied, making his brow as furrowed with concern as he possibly could. ‘What must her parents be going through?’ he murmured, letting his voice mimic the words he’d heard over and over since the day the girl had been declared a murder victim.

‘Did you know the family, sir?’ This from the other one, who now nodded in the direction of the street where the tenement flats stopped and the row of terraced cottages began.

‘No, afraid not, but one can only imagine . . ’ He gave a sigh and shook his head.

‘We’re trying to find anyone among her friends and neighbours who might help,’ the tall one explained, turning to leave.

‘If only there was something I could do.’ He smiled bleakly and sketched a small wave as he went to shut the door.

Once inside, he leaned against the door as if to keep them out. He listened as their footsteps faded away, taking them towards the close mouth; he must have been the last one in the tenement close to be door-stepped.

Julie Donaldson. He’d seen her photograph staring out at him from the front pages of every newspaper, from the TV evening news, from the homepage on his laptop. Julie Donaldson, a fifteen-year-old girl he’d met in Royal Exchange Square, not Juliet Carr, a student who’d leapt at the chance to take a film test.

His heart thudded within his chest. What were her parents going through? He’d asked but in truth he had never wondered about them, these anonymous people who lived just along his street. Had he ever met them? Somehow he couldn’t make himself care about these faceless parents.

‘See thon religious fella,’ Arthur Pollock began. Then, as he caught the look his wife shot at him, Arthur’s sense of self-preservation seemed to kick in and he ended his statement in a mutter before slugging the last drops of beer from the can.

‘We were hoping you might tell us a bit about your niece,’ Detective Sergeant Cameron said, trying to keep the disapproval out of his tone. What a man did in the comfort of his own home was none of his business; if Arthur Pollock wanted to drink himself stupid during daylight hours then that was his affair. Still, it was something to bear in mind, that and the reference to Eric Chalmers. Cameron hadn’t missed the man’s words. They were still looking for whichever vigilante had attacked the Chalmers’ home and the small man sitting opposite him fitted one of the descriptions Ruth Chalmers had given the police. But that could come later. What Cameron wanted now was something that might give a lead in this case.

‘What do you want to know, Sergeant?’ Mrs Pollock asked.

‘Information about Julie: who her friends had been, what her hobbies were, that sort of thing.’

‘Oh, we wouldn’t know things like that,’ the woman told him, shaking her head. ‘I mean, we’re a close family, but teenagers. . well, you kind of get out of the habit of seeing them at that age, don’t you?’

‘What was she like?’ Cameron tried again.

‘Oh, lovely girl, wasn’t she, Arthur?’

‘Aye, lovely girl,’ her husband echoed, nodding solemnly.

‘Just like her mother, God rest her soul,’ Mrs Pollock continued. ‘Always a wee smile for you, know what I mean?’

Cameron nodded. This was going nowhere fast. He’d seen it all before: the way death seemed to magically transform the personality of the deceased. No one wanted to speak ill of the dead, particularly someone young like Julie.

‘Well, thanks for your time.’ Cameron rose to go but as he was being shown out of the living room, he turned. ‘By the way, you don’t happen to know anything about whoever attacked the Chalmers’ house, do you?’ The Detective Sergeant stared right into Arthur Pollock’s face and the way the man’s eyes slid away told him he’d got it in one. He’d be coming back here again if there was any sort of evidence to bring a charge.

Mary Donaldson folded the towels neatly and laid them to one side. Hands trembling, she sorted through the other washing: Frank’s working trousers, her own overalls and the garment that had brought these sudden tears to her eyes, a pair of Julie’s skintight jeans. They’d cost her the best part of a week’s wages, Mary remembered. She and Julie had not quite come to a quarrel over them on the first floor of Fraser’s, the girl wheedling and complaining that everyone else had jeans like that; did Mary want her to be the odd one out? Mary had bitten her lip and given in as usual. Seeing Julie’s glee, however temporary, had been a relief compared to the huffiness that seemed to permeate the entire household whenever her stepdaughter had been thwarted. Now, sliding her hands over the dark blue denim, Mary would have paid a king’s ransom for the bloody things if it would have brought Julie back to them.

A wave of helplessness engulfed her; Frank would never be the same man again and she was more than ever an outsider in this marriage, Julie’s ghost haunting them from now till eternity.

What did happen after death? Was it all bright lights and a feeling of never-ending peace? They’d talked about it once, over dinner, just after Julie had come back from that Scripture Union camp. The girl had returned home full of a sort of joy in her spirit, Mary recalled, singing round the house, talking about all the things they’d done at camp. Being with that young man, Mr Chalmers, had brought the best out in the girl, Mary told herself. Then it had all changed again after Mr Wetherby had walked out on his family. Sam didn’t believe in God, Julie had admitted to them, and Frank had told his daughter not to shove her own beliefs down their throats. The poor folk had enough to upset them as it was. And, to give her stepdaughter her due, Mary thought, she had tried to be a good pal to the Wetherby lassie and her big brother.

So where was she now? Somewhere floating out there, invisible and in a different place from them all? Or lying cold and still in Glasgow City Mortuary, no more than the leftovers of a human being?

S4 was Maggie’s last class before lunch and, as the bell rang, she stepped quickly towards her door, ready to lay a hand on the girl’s shoulder before the mad dash to the school canteen took them all away.

‘Can I have a wee word with you, Samantha?’

The girl looking up at her English teacher was a shadow of her former self, Maggie thought with a sudden shaft of pity. Always slim and neat, Sam Wetherby looked as if she’d lost pounds in weight. Her thin face, accentuated by the curtain of long dark hair, had the sort of appearance one associated with heroin addicts: the bone structure a mere skeleton covered in bluish skin. For a moment Maggie’s resolve almost left her.

‘Can you spare a few minutes, pet? I wanted to talk to you about Julie.’

The hanging head and heaving shoulders were enough for Maggie to close her classroom door and to lead the girl gently over to her desk. Out came the box of Kleenex and then Sam was noisily blowing her nose and gulping for breath between tears that were streaming down her cheeks.

Maggie wanted to take the child in her arms, comfort her somehow and tell her in soothing words that everything was going to be all right. But it wasn’t. It never could be and the only comfort Maggie would be able to offer was the possible closure on her best friend’s death once her killer had been caught. So she would do her bit in this investigation if she could, starting with Samantha.

‘Take your time, love,’ she began. ‘I only want to help.’