Jack in the box, p.5
Jack in the Box, page 5
‘Farmer with Pitchfork and Wife,’ Tait said, once the spotlight had swung away from them.
Smythe tugged at her collar. ‘What?’
‘That’s what the painting was called. The one he was talking about.’
*
At the intermission, Smythe and Tait followed Kettles as he trooped off the stage to sustained applause. A female bouncer handed him a bouquet of flowers, and he pursed his lips and clenched them tight in his hands like a beauty queen. Then he bit the head off the foremost carnation, spitting out the petals as he descended the steps to the backstage area.
A giant with a hand like a baseball mitt barred Tait’s way. ‘Behave yourself, pal,’ he said. ‘I know he slagged you off, but you can take a joke, eh?’
‘I’m very well behaved.’ Tait showed him the warrant card which he had wisely kept handy as he approached the stage. ‘And hopefully you will be too. We need to talk to your man for a couple of minutes.’
The bouncer stared from one face to the next, then made great play of scratching his head.
‘Right now,’ Tait insisted, shifting his stance. For one absurd moment, Smythe thought he was going to get into some sort of scuffle with the big-bellied, bearded man. But the bouncer relented. ‘Make it quick,’ he said to their backs.
‘Shut up,’ Tait said, striding along the corridor. The female bouncer who had presented the flowers was less of a hindrance, knocking the dressing-room door and showing them in.
The room was a tarted-up cupboard, hardly big enough to stretch out in. It had a table and a chair, with a mirror in front – though there were no lightbulbs surrounding the fixture, disappointingly. Kettles seemed to be in a weird half-trance, gazing into his own eyes, the small lips moving as he mumbled to himself. He’d taken off his suit jacket and hung it up on a hook by the door. His white shirt was pink with sweat patches, but he’d thankfully towelled off the worst of the perspiration on his face and neck. He looked oddly shrunken, sitting in his seat, less corpulent. Again, Smythe was struck by how striking his looks were, devoid of stage mannerisms and gurning.
Without looking up at the two detectives, or moving his lips too much more, Kettles said, ‘You’ll have to bear with me. Just doing the old mantra. Mind-clearing exercise. Just a few more seconds . . .’ He blinked. ‘OK. In you come. Bugger me, you actually are two off-duty polis after all, eh? My agent warned me someone might appear tonight.’
‘In fact we’re on-duty,’ Smythe said.
‘We’re here to talk about a very serious matter,’ Tait added, as they both held up their warrant cards. ‘I take it your agent told you what it was about?’
‘Actually, no, she doesn’t want to bother me before a show.’ Away from the stage, Kettles’ voice had lost some of its camp quality. ‘I know it seems chaotic, but I really do have to get into focus beforehand. Lots of preparation, lots of rehearsals. Plus . . . do you know how many death threats I’ve had?’
Smythe frowned. ‘Someone’s threatened you?’
‘Not lately. But I’ve had them all. Jewish people and Muslims, Catholics and Protestants, and they’re your starter for ten . . . Trans and terfs, gays and straights, you name it, they’ve wanted to kill me. So when I hear someone’s looking for me, I lie low. No offence.’
‘This might be something you’ll want to listen to,’ Tait said. ‘Did your agent mention we’re here in connection with a murder inquiry?’
‘No, she didn’t.’ Kettles’ eyes flicked from one to the other.
Smythe caught Tait’s eye. He nodded at her and looked away. She asked Kettles, ‘Are you acquainted with someone called Kath Symes?’
‘Is this a joke?’
‘No. Her maiden name was Bruce. We understand you knew her quite well?’
‘She’s my best friend.’ He stood up. ‘What’s happened?’
‘I’m afraid she was found dead in her house yesterday.’
For the second time that night, Kettles hit the floor. For a moment, gazing at the crumpled figure at her feet, Smythe was sure he was dead.
13
Smythe couldn’t help noticing that the bouncer’s arm, brandishing a bottle of orange juice, was the colour of a Lorne sausage. Benny Kettles gulped from the bottle like – there was no avoiding the comparison – like a newborn on the boob, eyes intent. He had regained some colour. When he had first opened his eyes again, he had gone a sort of pistachio green. Smythe was sure he hadn’t faked it, and a glance at Tait reassured her he was thinking the same.
Once the bouncer – who had flown in at the sound of a commotion, shouldering Smythe and Tait aside as they prepared to give first aid – had established Kettles was all right, she left them to it. ‘Any problems, we get an ambulance in,’ she said.
‘Yeah, we’re actually in charge here,’ Tait said, rising to it. ‘Don’t disturb us, please.’
As she took her leave, she scowled like a teenager – probably because she was a teenager, Smythe thought.
‘Ach, Pauline’s a good ’un,’ Kettles said, rubbing his eyes. ‘Don’t be mean. Not the first time she’s had to look after me when I take a wee turn. And she’d tie you in knots for your cheek, so, you know . . .’
‘She’ll keep her distance and not get wide,’ Tait said. Smythe wanted to elbow him, but Kettles didn’t seem to have heard.
‘Last time she woke me up on the dressing-room floor, I’d peed myself. Christ, I haven’t peed myself, have I?’ Kettles gazed at his crotch in horror. ‘Some nights it’s hard to tell.’
‘You’ll have to be the judge of that,’ Smythe said. She leaned against the table, back to the mirror, the better to avoid her own face. ‘These “wee turns”, you call them . . . you had them checked out?’
‘It’s a mystery. It could be one for Police Scotland’s finest, in fact.’ He tapped his head. ‘Not a tumour – they did all the scans. They established I have a brain, though, so there’s that. One in the eye for Mr McYule, modern studies, who said I didn’t have one.’
‘That isn’t what happened on stage, was it?’
‘Nah, that was a good old pratfall. I’m not bad at them. Practise and everything. Regular Charlie Chaplin, me. Stan Laurel. But this was the real thing.’
‘Does it just happen at random? When you’re driving, say? That’s scary,’ Smythe said gently.
‘I don’t drive because of it. I can’t. Nobody knows what it is. If I went private, I might get it sorted, but they might be just as stumped. It might be that thing when it’s something in your mind rather than your body that causes it. What is it, again?’ He clicked his fingers rapidly. ‘Psycho . . . psychical . . .’
‘Psychosomatic?’ Tait offered.
‘No. Gay, that’s it.’ He giggled at his own joke.
‘That’s not very funny, Benny,’ Tait said.
‘Ach, it was a bit. But, no, I’m not diabetic . . . it’s not a blood-sugar thing. All normal. Pancreas and kidneys working away like happy wee soldiers.’ His voice broke on the last two words and he covered his face with his hands. His shoulders shook. Tait squared his and stayed back, remaining silent. Instinctively Smythe touched Kettles’ back.
‘It’s my pal, you know?’ Tears like a kid’s marbles spilled down his cheeks. ‘My best pal. You’ve got to be fuckin’ joking.’
‘I’m so sorry,’ Smythe said. When he took a breath, she felt it rattle through his chest, transmitted to her fingers. ‘It’s a shock. You take your time.’
‘Murdered? Please, God, not a pervert.’
‘We can’t share any details at the moment, because we don’t know,’ Tait said. ‘I’m sure you understand . . .’
‘A pervert, then. She was beautiful.’ He shook his head, then beat his temple with a fist, an alarmingly powerful blow. ‘Scum. Absolute scum.’
‘Take it easy.’ Smythe increased the pressure on his back, just a little.
‘I can’t.’
‘How long did you know her for?’ she ventured gently.
‘From uni. We were sat beside each other, first year, Glasgow Uni. One of those where the guy at the introductory talk says, “Turn around and talk to the person next to you.” So this gorgeous thing turns round and is confronted with . . . Kate.’ He snorted, a sound like a sob tripping over itself to leave. ‘I was thinner then, shy with it, but I’m one of these people, when I start gibbering, I can’t stop . . .’
‘You don’t say.’ Tait raised his eyebrows.
‘She wasn’t from Glasgow. I was. Well, Rutherglen. Near as damn it. She was from Pittenweem, originally, East Neuk, or her dad was. I think the family moved to Glasgow when she was five or something. We spent the lunch break together. It sounds weird, but she was one of the first people I made laugh.’ He stabbed a finger at Tait. ‘Your next line is “She’s the only one”.’
‘Saying nothing,’ Tait muttered, shaking his head. ‘Absolutely nothing.’
‘We just hit it off. And it went from there, you know. Pals right through uni. You’re going to ask me something kind of leading and borderline offensive, now, to find out if we slept together. So which one of you’s coming out with it?’
Smythe drew back a little and shrugged. ‘Don’t think either of us was gearing up for that one, Benny, but, answer it for us, if you would.’
‘Yeah, we slept together. Absolutely. By that, I mean passed out in the same bed. Lodges out Loch Lomond way, youth hostels, and once, after the grad ball, a beautiful night in a four-poster. But it was a marriage of convenience. Slept together but never shagged. We thought about sleeping together again on the night before her wedding, but that might have been pushing a flirtation too far. She was a mate.’ He took a deep breath, then another. Something faded from his eyes then. ‘And you’re asking me this for a reason. What is it?’
Tait said, without a pause, ‘What was your relationship like with Edward Symes?’
‘Darling Eddie. Did he do it?’ The stage stare was back again, and it ricocheted between Smythe and Tait.
‘Edward Symes was away on a business trip. When he found out about his wife’s death, he was in Amsterdam.’
‘Amsterdam! I wouldn’t trust Eddie in Amsterdam.’ He raised a hand. ‘That was unkind, sorry. There’s no reason for saying that.’
‘A personal reason, maybe?’ Smythe asked.
‘Well, he’s a dickhead. Not good enough for her. She could have done so much better. Now I know what you’re thinking. When someone says, “Hey, you know, she could do so much better than him,” what they’re really saying is . . .’ He jabbed a finger towards his crotch. ‘But, no, I mean it straight up. She could have done better. Something uptight about him, from the very start. He couldn’t handle our relationship. Jealous Ellis was my name for him.’
‘Was that an unreasonable thing for Edward to think?’ Smythe asked. ‘You and Kate were obviously close.’
‘It doesn’t matter what he thinks. We were pals; nothing he says or does gets in the way of that. We came through a lot together, all the way through uni, all the relationships and splits . . . Her mum always wondered why we never got together. Used to say it openly.’
Tait wrote something in his notebook. ‘Edward Symes says you had a falling-out recently.’
‘Does he now?’
Tait nodded. ‘Said you came over and said a lot of nasty things. To him and to Kate.’
‘Well, we had a disagreement. It was nothing to do with Kate, though.’
‘He says it was.’
‘No, it wasn’t.’ The stare returned but only fleetingly. ‘If you must know, it was about property. Investments he was looking into. That’s his line of business. He wants to buy up flats and turn them into property leases. Short-term lets, holiday cottages. He wants to branch out, start a property rental company. Students, young couples. Standard rip-off. He wanted me to invest in it. He actually thinks I’ve got money! We had a free and fair exchange of insults.’
‘What kind of insults?’
‘OK, I said he was a big Tory-voting profiteering bastard, and he said I was a . . . let me think now, it was quite inventive for him . . . a mithering ponce. I dunno how he came up with any of those, or how they apply to me.’
‘He asked you for money?’ Smythe asked.
‘Not exactly. He’s a businessman. But that’s what he wanted. He wants to invest in a place called Gillman Flats. It isn’t actually flats, it’s a piece of land, near the Campsies. He wants to build a holiday village or something. I told him where to go. Which was, to fuck. But it wasn’t really the thing to say to Kate. Well, in front of the kid, anyway.’
‘And what happened then?’
‘I left, standing on my hands.’
Tait frowned. ‘You mean that? We need you to be serious.’
‘I mean it. It’s my party trick. Which you saw on the stage.’
‘And when was this?’
‘Four nights ago.’
Smythe said, ‘And we have to ask you – where were you between nine a.m. and five p.m. yesterday?’
‘In the flat. Shawlands. Tinkering with my material. Lana Tully was with me for the early part of that, until she had to go and start a shift at the baker’s.’
‘Lana Tully is your . . . ?’
‘Lana Tully is not my anything. A friend.’
‘She lives at your flat?’
‘No. Stays over. Slept in my bed, in fact . . . You don’t seriously think I have anything to do with what happened to Kate, do you?’
‘We don’t think anything,’ Tait said. ‘We just want to hear what you’ve got to say.’
‘We’ll be back in touch,’ Smythe said. ‘I know it’s a shock. I’ll leave you with a number in case you want to talk it over with someone. If you remember anything at all you think might help us, please call us straight away.’
‘You got someone with you tonight?’ Tait asked.
‘I think Pauline might be staying over,’ Kettles said. He indicated the door, which had opened silently to admit the bouncer. She folded her arms and gazed balefully at the far wall.
‘Take care, Benny,’ Smythe said, passing him a card.
‘Sure,’ he said. And even as Tait and Smythe went out of the door, Smythe fancied she saw him deflate, his head sinking towards the floor.
14
Slater hung the scarf around his neck, made a loop, and pulled it tight, arranging the material until it was just so. ‘Every time I see you with those wellies, gaffer,’ he said, with some bitterness, ‘I open my mouth to give you a slagging. Then I remember: I’ve forgotten mine. Every single time.’
‘You’re a slow learner,’ Lomond said, throwing his shoes into the boot. ‘Once you go for the wellies, I’m telling you, you never go back. But . . . see that feeling you get when your trousers bunch up a bit and you have to poke them down? The way it felt when you were five? You never, ever get used to that.’
‘Walk it off, gaffer,’ Slater suggested. ‘It’ll right itself in a minute.’
They were parked near an electricity substation fence, which bore a sign warning them not to. Lomond noticed that the sign was more prominent, colourful and threatening than the one that promised instant death should anyone attempt to gain access to the humming structure itself.
‘Odds-on we get clamped,’ Slater complained, looking as ill at ease as a newborn foal as they turned down the slushy track. ‘We take your car, flights of angels sing it to its parking space. But whenever it’s mine, tickets, clamps, blowouts, bomb scares, lunatics shooting at us . . . practically guaranteed.’
Behind the substation was a patch of waste ground that stretched for maybe a quarter of a mile towards the rear of the new-build houses, hemmed in by crash barriers and wild, scrubby bushes and trees, winter-bare. It was early evening that same day, after some food and a cup of tea at the canteen and a quick change of clothes, while Smythe and Tait were prettying themselves up for their date with Benny Kettles.
‘Anything we want to see here that forensics haven’t seen yet?’ Slater said.
‘Not exactly. Just looking.’
‘It’s dark, gaffer.’
‘That’s the idea.’ Lomond smiled.
‘That means we won’t see anything.’
‘Yes, we will.’
‘I like the suspense,’ Slater said, peering into the slush and mud of the path. ‘No, seriously. Totally fine with it.’
The lights outside the substation and the other industrial units faded to a faint orange glow through the trees. Lomond fitted a head torch and clicked it on, the blue beam creeping along wet, leafless boughs.
Slater snorted laughter.
Lomond turned towards the DS, dazzling him. ‘After tonight you’ll want one. That’s a promise.’
‘Who says I don’t have one? Maybe when I go out cycling.’
‘You don’t go out cycling, Malcolm. You just look like you do.’
The path was soon hemmed in by the bare branches, a gloomy hollow that was uncomfortably like a phalanx of spider legs, all seeming to move in the thin but piercing blue beam. Lomond moved the light over anything that might conceal a track of some kind.
‘Needle in a haystack stuff,’ Slater grumbled. ‘Waste of time. And, Christ, I wish I had a coffee here.’
‘You don’t like the cold?’ Lomond asked sharply.
‘I don’t mind the cold. I can deal with sleet and drizzle. I can handle a bit of wind, but not all at once.’
‘We won’t be long,’ Lomond said. ‘We just need to get to the end of the path that backs onto the houses.’
‘Want to give me a clue? Or will I guess?’ Slater thrust his hands into his overcoat pockets. ‘OK. I’ll say . . . you’re looking for a vantage point. You think she was stalked.’
‘Spot on.’
‘But surely we’ve had uniforms out looking? They’ve combed over this place the day. Dogs, helicopters, hands, knees and boomps-a-daisy, the lot.’
