The Undertones Stole My Title

…a brown-complected volume called Teenage Rage, How A Golden Boy Became A Child Killer, written by one Bruce P Mackenzie. I guess he would have called it Teenage Kicks, but the Undertones got there first.

It wasn’t a bulky volume, 160 pages of fonts on steroids with generous line-spacing, but who needed Dostoyevsky for the tragedy of Nicole Clancy? Not that she was the major player in the tale, rather she was a by-the-way in the tabloid breathlessness – and Bruce P Mackenzie was red-top to the bone, no less than the chief crime reporter for the Daily Banner, according to the author’s bio. Christ, the Daily Banner…

Nicole Clancy was just the same as any other six-year-old girl that sunny December morning, skipping on her way to school, chatting with her chums about all the presents that Santa would be bringing her in a couple of weeks. She loved Christmas and her mum Linda was planning to make it an occasion to remember for the whole family. Linda and Nicole had moved a few months before to a flat in Barlanark, along with Nicole’s big sister Gemma…

Hold on there, Bruce – Barlanark? That scheme was the best part of ten miles from Levenhall. What was thirteen-year-old Lachlan doing over there? Or six-year-old Nicole doing in Levenhall? What happened to you, Gemma? You’d be around thirty now, at a guess.

…although Nicole was still getting to know her new school friends, she was already a popular pupil at St Aidan’s Primary and her teacher remembers her as a cheerful and bright girl. “Nicole always had a wee smile for me in the morning” said tall brunette Mrs Wendy O’Hara…

Well, call me and all my descendants shallow, but I for one was starkly gripped by the apparent hair colour of Nicole Clancy’s former teacher, twenty-odd years ago. What if “Mrs” O’Hara had been ginger? Oh, the drama…

The background narrative waltzed on, in regulation brazen blandness.

Times were tough for single parent Linda and her two girls, but the single mum was getting used to life without her children’s dad since he had been sent to Barlinnie prison six months before. That was a blessing in disguise, since hard-man Anthony Clancy had never been slow to leave bruises on the tall blonde.

Christ, more hair colour – did no editor notice you used “single” twice in the same sentence, Bruce? And, reluctant as I was to treat Linda’s many-years-later vague recollections as “true”, I think the man’s name was Charlie, not Anthony, and I doubt he was Gemma’s father, since Linda said he gave her the child. Then again, she also said his name wasn’t Clancy, either.

Now, talking to Linda, there are lines of sadness etched in her face as she wonders if there was anything she could have done differently that would have prevented what happened to Nicole. But, back in that cold December, no-one could have imagined the horror that was to befall the chatty six-year-old.

I touched my ear to check if any brain was dribbling out, melted by Mackenzie’s weapons-grade prose; everything seemed in order, so I skimmed through irrelevant detail and verbal upholstery to the start of the next chapter, a sketch of Lachlan Doune. Or, if you prefer, The Child Who Became A Monster.

Nobody knows when Lachlan Doune turned into the murderous killer who took the life of six-year-old Nicole Clancy. Nobody knows what went through his head that fateful night. We can only guess and shake our heads at the horror that came out of nowhere.

Lachlan was the youngest of a wealthy family, the Dounes of Airdlaggan – family motto Stand Up And Fight What The World Throws – and always seemed to be the favourite of his elderly father, Abercrombie Doune, a fierce businessman with dark moods and (to his older children) a distant and unloving father. Did this attention spoil the growing boy as he wandered on his own around the former mining country that had been turned into grouse and pheasant shooting land for the Dounes’ rich friends?

Well, Bruce P Mackenzie, you are as bad a psychologist as you are a journalist, so you are at least consistent. Nice, though, to paraphrase that verbose family motto for your readers, even if you made such a bad job of it. But…‘dark moods’?

…Abercrombie had several business interests in his life, but it was the sale of his mines at the time of nationalisation that made his biggest fortune. Later, when the mining industry declined and the mines were closed, he bought the land back for next to nothing and used the rolling acres for farming, shooting and Glenbarrie Safari Park…

And on he babbled. This was old-school tabloid boilerplate, simplistic and mock-serious, bloating pages until Mackenzie could deliver the money shot. Conversations and interviews with “friends” and “local people” added no information that any random passer-by could not have provided, or invented; either would suffice. I flicked through observations that Lachlan was “a bit of an outsider” and “kind of funny, not that anybody was laughing” and made few notes. Lachlan’s siblings were dismissed as a “playboy” and a “mysterious recluse”, which seemed to be a highly impressionistic (but lawyer-approved) way to say “unmarried alcoholic woman”. There was nothing more about the Doune parents, nor anybody else. Well, what was I expecting, research?

I meandered through more empty recollections of Nicole as a “happy wee soul” who “always had a smile for everybody”. None, though, were directly attributed to mother Linda who, Mackenzie recorded had had “her life torn apart by the tragedy” and was “shattered” by the experience. Okay, Bruce P, take me to what would surely be described, again, as ‘that fateful day’…

…which he did - although it turned out, specifically, to be “that fateful Wednesday”, for which I gave myself a silver medal.

Nobody knows how Lachlan Doune came to meet Nicole that fateful Wednesday…

Whoa, hold it right there! How can nobody know? Explain that remark, Bruce…but he didn’t. There followed – slowly and awkwardly – a wander through the various paths that Nicole might have taken towards Levenhall or Airdlaggan, or the reasons that the thirteen-year-old Lachlan (“perhaps playing truant from his expensive private school, although records show that he was present that day”) might have had to find himself in Barlanark, but nothing was clear and no questions were answered.

Whatever the mystery, one thing remains horribly, undeniably clear – after darkness fell on that cold December day, residents of the Levenhall scheme heard a commotion in the street. When concerned neighbours went to see what was causing the noise, they found Lachlan Doune dancing around a fire on a piece of waste ground, strewn with empty bottles and garbage. While they remonstrated with the agitated youth, barmaid Patricia McLean noticed there was what seemed to be a small human body in the fire. She was right – it was the remains of Nicole Clancy. When scaffolder Archie Bannerman asked Doune what was going on, the youth – seemingly in a trance, or a deranged state – mysteriously said “I can’t explain me to myself”.

At last, Bruce, you managed an accurate quote.  Idly, I checked Amazon on my phone – this book was out of print and unavailable, not even as a “used” version, however much this particular copy had interested somebody. I flicked to the book’s frontispiece – no old-fashioned sheet there with dates of issue, just a barcode. I went to the issue desk and waved the book at the neckbeard tickling his keyboard there, as if I’d discovered it...

Calling Jesus

There was no name on the door, but there were on the others, and none of them was Clancy. I chapped the splintery surface and waited.

No answer. Inside, I could hear the television, canned laughter and whooping. I knocked again, the door juddering under the rap….the TV was still the only sound. I bent down and shouted through the letterbox. “Taxi for Clancy!” Inside, vague bumps and clicks. The door was opened in slow-motion by a woman with no outline, a shape you couldn’t pour custard into. She spoke in the same halting freeze-frame style.

“I never phoned a taxi. Must be a mistake.”

“You answered to Clancy, but.”

“I’m no’ goin’ anywhere.”

“Aye, I know. My name’s Stephen McCabe, by the way. Here’s a letter from a lawyer, says why I’m really here. Can I come in?”

“Eh? I canny…whit is it ye want?”

“Somebody left you money in their will, except the money seems to have taken a walk. I want to talk to you about that.”

“Canny be arsed.”

“Are you listening to me? I said, there could be money in this for you – a lot of money, actually.”

“Whit do I have to do?”

“Let me come in and talk to you – deal?”

Linda Clancy’s living room was definitely well on the upside of average for a single woman presumably living on welfare benefits, absent the junkie hallmarks of no carpet, two weeks’ worth of takeaway containers piled askew, drug paraphernalia, grim odours and unfathomable dirt. It was, in fact, clean, tidy and decorated sometime this century, furnished with Sweden’s finest flatpacks and Scotland’s tartan-est fabrics. The one startling item was a 54-inch Samsung plasma, but that was hardly uncommon and it didn’t constitute evidence that Linda was wallowing in the delights of a Cayman bank account.

Sad to say, she didn’t offer tea, a dismal reflection on her manners, although I would have declined if she had, a dismal reflection on mine.

“I’m readin’ this letter, but you’ll have to tell me whit it means.”

“It says…in a sentence, that Lachlan Doune left you his money. Pretty much all of it.”

“Who’s Lachlan Doune?”

“Lachlan Doune. He…you don’t recognise the name?”

“Who is he? Funny kinna name. Sounds stuck-up. Or some kinna teuchter.”

“Sorry to bring this up…I think. He’s the man that killed your daughter.”

“Whit? My daughter’s fine. She was up here yesterday. She’s up here aw the time. Ye’re talkin’ mince.”

“No, this was years ago – Nicole.”

“Aw…awww. Wee Nicole? Aw, no. Aye, I remember her, I…”

“You remember her? She was six and -”

“- aye, with ye now. Some guy kilt her. Aye, right enough. Awful sad. Sad for me, that is, no’ for him – ach, I suppose it was jist sad all round, eh?”

“Linda, I’m not gettin’ the normal signals from you here. You do remember Nicole?”

“Aye. Was an awful long time ago, but. Cuz, see me? I had this drug problem, awful bad, for a lotta years. A load of stuff is…hazy. I canny remember everythin’. See, even now? I canny remember ‘hings. Names? Your name? Did ye tell me it? I dunno. I couldny tell you your own name. My daughter’s awful good to me, right enough. Leanne, that is, no wee Nicole. She’s…”

“Do you have any other family now? Husband?”

“That’s a laugh. I’m Teflon to men, nothin’ sticks. It’s jist me and Leanne, no’ like she lives here, that’s only me. But she comes by regular.”

“And you’re sure the name Lachlan Doune means nothin’ to you?”

“Well, now you’ve told me, aye. He was the fuckin paedo weirdo that killed my Nicole. Mad bastard, huge but he was only twelve or sum’hin. Aye, now you say his name, I remember him. Hated him. For whit he did, know?”

“You ever meet him?”

“Meet? Naw, don’t ‘hink so. Saw him, s’pose.”

“Twenty years ago? Or since?”

“Dunno, don’t ‘hink I ever met him, like I say. Look, I told you, I didny know what day it wis, back then - it wis aw they drugs. My brain’s fucked. If I ever met that guy, I don’t remember.”

“Never got a letter, phone call from him? Or anybody else, talkin’ about him? Nobody mentioned money?”

“Money? That’s a good yin. ‘hink I’d be sittin’ here if I had money? I canny tell ye any’hin, mister. Well, actually, the one ‘hing I can tell ye is ‘jist say no, kids’, that’s right enough, cuz they drugs are bad news. S’obvious, int’it? Look at me, I’m a zombie…here, whit was that ye said about a will?”

“You were named in Lachlan’s will, but there’s no money anyway.”

“Ha! That’s typical, jist ma luck.”

“Why’d he do that, name you in his will, if he never met you?”

“That’ll be the sixty-four million dollar question, eh? Cept it isny, it’s the no-dollar question, accordin’ to you.”

“Am I wastin’ my time to ask you what you remember about the time Nicole went missing?”

“What d’you ‘hink? Fuck all, is the answer. It was an awful long time ago, and I was -”

“I know. Full of the smack and that. Somebody else told me the same thing.”

“I wisny always like that, sometimes I’ve been okay. Like now? Been clean enough for a good long time. But back then? Naw. And your memory jist gets gubbed after a while. So when do I get the money?”

“The what? The nothing, you mean? Never, seems like. Or, put it another way, you can have it right now, since there’s nothing to give you anyway. Mind you, there’s a lawyer that’s payin’ me to chase after that nothing, jist because it’s the right thing to do. How d’you like that?”

“Well, a mad bastard like that – what’s his name, Lachlan? – wouldny have any money anyway, would he?”

“Turns out he should’ve, cuz he got all the Doune cash. Families are strange, they tell me.”

“Very bastard strange, aye. Still, what’s mine’s mine, right? If that will says I should have the money, then somebody has to give me it. Aye? And if that freak doesny have it, get it off Malcolm or one of them.”

“Malcolm? You don’t remember the name of the guy that killed your six-year-old, but you remember his brother?”

“Is that his name? Good guess. I’m like one of those old guys, them that’s got that dementia? Wee ‘hings from a hunnert years ago? Clear as day. Your own address? Not a clue. Don’t mean that exactly – I know my address, but some a’ they guys don’t. Some ‘hings jist jump out, like ‘Malcolm’. If you’d gone and asked me that name, I’d go ‘whit brother?’, but there ye are, it jumped out…seems sum’hin stuck somewhere. Funny how the mind works.”

“When Nicole went missing, when she was six years old, what were you doin’ then? You have a job?”

“I was…a mother. I’ve never worked, since I had my kids…well, Nicole was the only one, back then. Aw, naw, wait a minute - there was Gemma, too, aye…but Nicole’s da was a bad bastard, in and out the jail, only good ‘hing he ever did was give me the wean. And I had my troubles, like I said, but I was a mother, that was my job.”

“The guy in jail – you marry him? Was he Clancy?”

“Whit ye gettin’ at? Why’s my name matter? Naw, we never got married, Clancy’s my name. I could tell ye his, but it’d take me a minute to mind it - Charlie was his first name, how’s that?”

“Reason I’m askin’…if he was your legal husband, he’d be entitled to some of your inheritance. Not the biggest disaster in the world, half of fuck-all is still nothin’, but if we get a hold of any of the money, well…”

“Would he? Is that true? Well, that’s…doesny matter anyhow, cuz I never got married.”

“No? Well, hardly matters, like you say. Listen, if you think of anything else, call me? Here’s my card.”

“If I ‘hink of anythin’ else, I’ll be callin’ Jesus, cuz it’ll be a miracle.” 

Dookin In Ribena

“Long way from Govan down to here on a sunny morning, doctor.”

“Jesus, Stevie! What are you...no, forget I said that, stupid question...”

“Talk to PC Wright – he needs to recognise what a stupid question sounds like.”

“Answer it, anyway. Dead body in a tree, why’re you on the spot?”

“I found it...him. Called it in.”

“That’s a funny -”

“- don’t say coincidence. Just don’t. Anyhow, seems a kinna entry-level suicide to call the chief pathologist all this way.”

“We take our turns, keeps us honest.”

“Nothin’ to do with the fact that this is the Doune family residence?”

“Is it? I don’t know. And how do you know? Although, I guess…why you’re out here this morning, that’ll also be because it’s the Doune family residence, one way or another.”

“Aye, man called Lachlan Doune called me here, arranged a 10 o’clock meeting. I’m hopin’ that’s not him in the rowan tree.”

“Well, it’s somebody. Let’s see...actually, since you’re here, might as well ask you now – you touch the body? No? Not at all? Not even to check if he was still alive?”

“Look at the colour of him. Either dead or he went dookin’ in Ribena. And he soiled himself, but it’s long dried-in. He’s been up there a good few hours. Even from down here, looks like there might’ve been magpies or crows havin’ a wee look-see. So, no, I never checked if he was alive.”

“And you didn’t touch anything else?”

“Only the front door of the house. Knocked it, rang the bell, that’s all. Never touched or moved any objects. If you’re thinkin’...that branch is, what, ten, twelve feet up there...and there’s no ladder or anything. Aye, I thought that myself. Mibbe he could loop a rope up and over, but...”

“...but there’s a ladder lying on its side next to the front door of the house. Eighty feet away.”

“I did notice that, aye. Quite interesting, I’d call it. But you must want to get on and do your job now.”

“Aye – I’ll get back to you after. Always keen to see what the reviews say...and everybody’s a critic.”

It was then that the front door of Airdlaggan House creaked open.

*** *** ***

A dishevelled, but fully clothed, woman blinked bleary at the people meandering around in front of the house and pointed, unsteady but determined.  “Who the fuck are all you people here? Are you...is that police? What are you doing here? You need to get off...Lachlan! Lachlaaaaaaaannnnnn!”

Using sophisticated detection techniques, it was around that point I determined my new client, Mr Lachlan Doune, would likely prove unresponsive to invoices.

*** *** ***

“What’s your thoughts?”

“My first thought would be that I’ll be telling DI Simpson what my thoughts are, not you.”

“Just in general, I mean. I’m curious why this guy calls me up yesterday and when I show up, he’s a Christmas ornament.”

“Well, I’d say he wanted you to see this. But I thought you didn’t know him?”

“Never said that, although, no, I didny know him. And my theory about why’d he’d call me and do this’d be better told -”

“- to DI Simpson. Aye, call that one quits. As it happens, first look says this is suicide. No defence wounds, no signs of restraint or a struggle, obvious injuries are just what you’d expect from a strangulation...”

“Slow, then?”

“Not quick. In this light, I can see the petechial haemorrhage already. We’ll need to see what we find in the bloodstream to determine if he was awake and sober when he got up there. And see what’s under his fingernails – looks like there might be some of that nylon rope in there.”

“Suggests he was awake, if he was pulling at the rope while he strangled.”

“Aye. Second thoughts, panic, pain, whatever. Or mibbe he just pulled it really tight.”

“While he fired that ladder thirty yards away?”

“Yes. My report will note the absence of an obvious way for the deceased to have found himself in that position.”

“Hope you use that exact phrase. It’ll amuse some court clerk somewhere.”

“Aye, that’s always the audience you have in mind with a post-mortem. Anyhow, I think that’s the end of this conversation, Stevie...you can read the report along with the great Glaswegian public. You can count on this bein’ all over the tabs, one way or the other. Y’might find some of your old buddies on the phone tonight – could be headline news - ‘city private eye’s horror find at mansion of secrets’...‘troubled heir was jist hangin’ there like a saggy bag a’ plums, says rugged local ‘tec McCabe, age undisclosed...’. Unless you’re still on a retainer with the Daily Banner?”

“The Banner’s ancient history and...‘heir’? What’s Lachlan Doune heir to?”

“Whit? C’mon, Stevie – sharpen up! This isn’t some smackhead’s gurned their last up a stairwell in the multis. Do your homework – it’s your first-ever country house mystery. This is pure Poirot here.”

That was when Baws Wilson ruined the atmosphere, corrupting the Golden Age of the Country House Mystery, silencing the string quartet and sending the waiters scuttling back below-stairs.

“The fuck’s aw this? How come aw these cunts is aw ower the shop? Polis, is it? Haw, that’s fuckin Lachie! Is he deid?”

“My name’s McCabe – who’d you be?”

“Eh? Billy Wilson. Baws. Whit’s happened here?”

“You got a reason to be here?”

“’Course I fuckin have. I work here. Whit d’ye ‘hink the shotgun’s fur? I’m the fuckin gamekeeper. Now, whit’s the score? He’s deid, right? Lachie? Stupid bastard that he is...what’s he done? Jesus, canny believe this. Is Deborah in? I’m gonny see whit’s the score.”

“You might find that a wee bit tricky. I think Deborah might actually be in the house, aye, but the polis baggsied first go.”

“Polis? You’re no’ polis? Ye can fuck right off then. This gun’s broke the now, but it’s fuckin loaded and it goes right back the-gether again. Out my road!”

Baws Wilson might score some points for determination and (maybe) loyalty, but the diplomatic service missed nothing when his application got lost in the post and only a very particular circle could ever accommodate his bouquet of fuck-ye’s – which probably played better in Levenhall, the forgotten stalag of Glasgow Corporation post-war social failure whose roofs distantly half-nudged their way over the sheep-pocked fields that surrounded Airdlaggan House. If Baws didn’t live in Levenhall, then the one pub that “served” its mean streets wasn’t called The Fort Apache Bar. And it definitely was. 

If A Body Meet A Body

Airdlaggan House was in Glasgow, just. I discovered that fact to my surprise and discomfort when the bus dropped me off on what looked to me like a Discover Scotland advert, all drystane dykes and bewildered sheep.

The surprise came as I walked back down the winding lane towards the roadside nameplate I’d seen from the bus, the house title scrolled across its width in Copperplate Gothic Bold. Thirty yards before I reached that sign, I came upon another, embedded in the verge, which whispered rather than shouted a quasi-welcome that read “City of Glasgow”. Still? Out here, in damp tartan fields populated by Harry Lauders and scrawny trees whose branches grew bannocks?

Apparently, yes. Airdlaggan House itself nestled in an unlikely crook of the seemingly far-distant city, even if its fields and livestock were located across an invisible border, enjoying the rustic scenery of Inver-aber-bala-strath-sneckie or whatever lay in the great beyond.

The discomfort was more a function of realising that – city address or not – the path from the road wound (uphill, naturally) a long way before it reached Airdlaggan House itself, half-visible on a tree-bound hilltop. The electronic vehicle access was closed and locked but a kissing gate let me onto the property and up the gravel roadway that split a sprawling treeless field. I climbed the hill in an artless slalom, swaying this way, that, and more, to avoid the generous dollops of sheep shit that speckled the gravel, while the perpetrators glared idly at me.

The house, as I gradually began to see, was as faux-grand as I’d hoped. A manor where a farmhouse should be, Queen Anne, neo-classical and mock-Tudor styles collided and disputed, an architectural train wreck from another country that – carpers, take note – would still cost any buyer an even number of millions. Three cars sat outside on the terminal sweep of the drive that led to the porticoed front entrance, all of them late-model with vanity plates. I became so idly preoccupied with attempting to decipher the meaning of HI2 DLD that I almost missed it.

The body.

It was the sound that caught me short, a sharp creak of rope straining in the wind, clutching against a middle branch of the mountain ash by the side of the drive. Twisting in the fatal clutch of a noose hidden now, biting into his purpling flesh, a man dangled, limbs a-droop, bobbing in a marionette dance of indecision, head turning like he was saying no to a question nobody had asked him.