Denise Mina - Still Midnight

Still, he felt relief as he stepped through the cordon of smokers gathered around the door and his fingers fell on the familiar grit of the dirty swing door. He stepped into Brian’s, the metal sole protectors on his cowboy boots tip-tapping on the stone floor, and made his way to the bar. A free seat.

Senga was serving, her hands as soft as her eyes. She always dressed in T-shirts she got free, whether with cash and carry purchases or from the brewery. Today she was wearing one with a circle on it, advertising cancer. It clung to her hips, hung loose around her shoulders. She was eating cheese and onion crisps and slowly pulled her hand out of the crinkling bag, yawning her mouth open to get them in whole, her heavy eyes watching the bar for clients, for trouble, but never judging.

Without wasting the effort of walking down to greet Shugie she tipped her chin, asking if he wanted what she thought he wanted. Shugie blinked back a yes. She slopped over to the taps and drew a half of heavy, poured a cheap whisky, and sauntered over, used a sour cloth to moisten the stickiness on the bar in front of him and set the drinks up.

The twenty pound note impressed her and she didn’t try to hide the fact. She gave the note a respectful nod and held it up to the light to make sure it was for real. She touched his hand when she gave him back the change. Senga didn’t always do that.

Shugie looked at his drinks glittering in the glasses in front of him, like old times, glory days. He had change in one pocket, fags in the other. Sunshine filtered in through the dirty windows and Senga settled back into her packet of crisps. The whisky fired first his mouth and then his throat. Shugie Nirvana.

As he raised the beer chaser to his mouth, tipping his head back to receive his communion, his eyes fell on the silent television in the corner. Sky News. A red tickertape along the bottom of the screen. Glasgow businessman taken hostage. Police appeal for information. Shugie knew about that. He was still working scams, pulling strokes, keeping moody. He was still who he thought he was. Smiling to himself he put the glass on the bar, he caught Senga’s eye, gave her a wink.

She couldn’t have done it if she tried: in exactly the same moment, with perfect precision and without rehearsal, Senga simultaneously tutted flirtatiously and farted at him.

Billal had known that the police were coming. He opened the door solemnly, inviting them into the quiet house.

Bannerman muttered some pleasantries but Billal didn’t respond. He shut the door behind them and they noticed how quiet the house was now, how comfy and warm. The hall carpet seemed softer than yesterday, thicker. The door to the bedroom was slightly ajar and they could hear Meeshra snoring softly, napping with her baby.

The only reminder of the night before was the bloody wall and clock. Someone had tried to wash the blood off but they had used hot water, Morrow could tell from the rusty brown smears. A man. Women knew how to wash blood. Never wash blood with hot water, she remembered her mother telling her over her underpants, because it cooks it into the material. It was the only useful bit of information she’d ever given her other than you won’t meet your husband at a football match.

Billal gestured them into the front room. The Anwars’ living room was a symphony in peach and white, everything ordered, white and silver ornaments carefully spaced along the mantelpiece and a big white framed mirror above it. Morrow had the impression that no one came in here much. The kitchen was for standing in, the table too small for the whole family. They were not a family who ate together.

Billal waited until they were in and orderly before he spoke: ‘The kidnappers actually spoke to my brother, so I’m not really sure what they said really.’ He lowered his big square frame gingerly onto the edge of a flouncy settee, the arms and back curved outwards like lips. ‘But I have the tape for you.’ He held out a black mini cassette. Bannerman took it and dropped it into an evidence bag, fitting it into his pocket. He took out an evidence label and got Billal to sign it.

‘What’s this for?’ he said, writing his name on the line. ‘Not signing my life away, am I?’

‘No, no,’ Bannerman smiled affably, ‘it’s just so that if we use it in evidence we can say who’s had access to the item.’

‘I see.’ He handed back the tag and looked uncertain. ‘I don’t know if my brother handled that. He was there…’

‘Did he take it out of the machine or anything?’

‘Um, no, I don’t think… Uh, no.’ Billal was in charge last night, ordering his brother into the car, telling Meeshra off for breast feeding badly, but now he seemed quite passive.

‘Is your brother here?’

‘No. He’s…’ Nervous, he brushed a non-existent speck from the cushion next to him. ‘Omar’s gone out.’

‘What did the kidnappers ask for?’ asked Bannerman, sitting back down carefully on the armchair, trying not to disturb anything.

‘Two million by tonight.’ Billal searched the glass coffee table in front of him for clues. ‘I mean, where the hell do they think we’re getting that from?’

‘Why do you think they’d ask you for that much?’

He blew his lips out and shrugged hard. ‘They must…’ He stopped to think. ‘They must have the wrong house. I mean, they’re looking for someone called ‘Rob’ and two million quid, it must be the wrong house…’

‘ Bob,’ said Morrow.

Billal looked at her. ‘Sorry?’

‘Bob,’ she said flatly. ‘They were looking for Bob.’

He flinched, frowned at the tape in the bag, looked out of the window.

‘Billal, why did you change it and say Rob?’

He struggled with his thoughts for a moment and when he finally spoke his voice was strained and raw. ‘Bob’s… It’s my brother’s… sometimes called Bob by some people. We thought it would be better if you… we thought you’d concentrate on finding my dad.’

‘If we weren’t suspicious about the family?’

‘Well, it’s right though, isn’t it?’ He looked from one to another. ‘You’d look harder for my dad if you thought it was a mistake and they’d taken the wrong guy, wouldn’t you? We thought… actually I thought, it was my idea to say Rob.’ He laughed miserably. ‘My idea. Am I in trouble?’

‘See,’ Bannerman leaned forward sympathetically, ‘the probjylem now is that we are suspicious. Because you lied.’

Billal tried hard to smile but couldn’t get his lips to work. ‘Sorry,’ he whispered. ‘My brother’s a good kid.’

‘I’m sure he is.’

‘No, he is ,’ he insisted, arguing with himself. ‘He is a good wee guy…’

‘Do you know of anyone who’d target him?’

‘No. No, no, no.’

Way too adamant, thought Morrow. ‘What does your brother do for a living?’ she asked.

Billal had paled slightly and rubbed his face with an open palm as if he wanted to wipe something off. ‘Ah, um, well, he’s just started a business. Just recently, past couple of months.’

‘Doing what?’

‘Import/export.’

Import. Export. The words clanged into the room, stunning Morrow. She looked at Bannerman. His mouth had fallen open, his face greying as the blood drained from him. Import/Export. Impossible prosecution.

Bannerman cleared his throat. ‘He’s importing and exporting what sort of goods?’

‘I don’t really understand the business myself,’ said Billal, ‘but it seems to be something to do with computer chips or something?’ He looked at them as if they’d know. ‘Silicone chips?’

Bannerman nodded at his shoes. ‘I see.’ He swallowed hard. ‘Yes, yes, I see.’