‘No, but his SOPO says he can’t make contact with other people on the Sex Offenders’ Register. And if he’s got a mobile, we can’t tell if he is or not.’
They watched Knox pray for a moment.
Mandy nodded. ‘Be a shame if he violated his order and had to be banged up again for a couple of years, wouldn’t it?’
‘Terrible shame.’
‘Could be planning anything…’
The smile slipped from Logan’s face. Given Danby’s story about Mental Mikey Maitland that wasn’t exactly good news. ‘Excuse me a minute.’ He marched over to where Knox was kneeling.
The silly sod had to be frozen – sleet crusted across his shoulders and back, hair dripping wet, one hand clutching that carrier bag to his chest, the other on the lichen-speckled gravestone. ‘HERE LIE THE MORTAL REMAINS OF JOSEPH ALBERT MURRAY, BELOVED HUSBAND AND DEVOTED GRANDFATHER. ALSO EUPHEMIA ABERCROMBIE-MURRAY, DUTIFUL WIFE.’
‘Richard, I’m going to need to see what’s in the bag.’
Knox looked up, nose dripping, lips a pale shade of purple, eyes rimmed with red. ‘It’s private.’
‘I have to make sure you’re not violating your prevention order.’
He closed his eyes, worrying the plastic bag round and round. ‘Don’t want it to get wet.’
Logan stuck out his hand.
Knox bit his lip. Clutched the bag tighter. ‘Promise you’ll be careful?’
‘Just give me the bloody bag.’
The little man did what he was told.
Logan pulled the handles apart and peered into the grubby, creased plastic. It was a book – a tatty bible, the blue fabric jacket scuffed and fraying.
‘Was Granny Murray’s: left it me in her will. Thought she was taking the piss at the time.’ Knox smiled, a lopsided thing made of sharp, squint teeth. ‘Had a lot of opportunity to read it in me cell though, know what I mean?’
Logan reached into the bag and opened the book, flicking through the pages. Some were held in with ancient amber Sellotape, others were smudged, passages highlighted in fading yellow, underlined in biro, tiny notes scribbled in the margins.
He closed the bible again. Stupid idea – why would Knox carry an illicit phone about with him? But it was too late to back down now. ‘I’m going to have to ask you to empty your pockets.’
‘At me granny’s graveside?’ The little man hung his head, then stood and held his arms out. ‘Go on then.’
Logan kept it quick: a once through Knox’s pockets then a pat down of arms, legs and torso. He passed the carrier bag back. ‘Sorry. Thought you had a phone…’
Knox shrugged, clutching his plastic-wrapped bible to his chest again. ‘Just doing your job, like.’
‘Right, well…Let us know when you’re ready to head home.’
The cold feels good, you know? Like being a kid again, on his holidays, sitting on the living room floor, listening to Granny Murray telling stories about the old days. Grandad Joe asleep in the other chair, a copy of the
They took all his teeth away when he was doing his national service in Cyprus, like. Went out with a full head of hair and all his own teeth, came back a slaphead with a set of falsies. He takes them out after dinner and leaves them on the table by the ashtray. Smokes rollies that smell of herbs and spices.
His mam’s gone out for the evening, same as she does nearly every night since Richard’s da ran out on them. Trading wife and kid for some girl works down the chipper in North Shields. Can’t trust Geordie harlots – that’s what Granny Murray says – God turn His face against their sinful hearts. Then she spits in the fire, that little spatter of yellowy-white hissing against the glowing electric bars. Never up high enough to warm the room, like: just enough to let Grandad Joe sleep with that cavernous mouth of his hanging open.
Pink and glistening.
Richard sneaks a glance at his keepers – the man and woman from Sacro, huddled together under a broken brolly, the nosey sergeant shivering beside a big carved angel.
It’s a much fancier memorial than the simple granite slab Granny Murray picked out for her and Grandad Joe; she never was one for flash. The only decoration’s a bunch of porcelain roses, sealed away in a glass dome. Only the glass has cracked and the whole thing’s full of dirty water, the faded pink blossoms tainted with grey mould and trapped dirt.
Appropriate really.
He reaches around the back of the fake floral tribute, fingers drifting carefully through the matted yellow grass – don’t want to find some junkie’s needle the hard way, know what I mean? And then he finds it. A little rectangular box, about half the size of a toothpaste tube, hidden away in a little plastic bag.
Doesn’t take much to palm it while he tidies the grave. Richard pulls a few weeds, then fakes a sneeze, slipping the box into his pocket while he drags out a handkerchief.
Blows.
He levers himself upright, and crosses himself – testicles, spectacles, wallet, and watch – then bends and kisses the headstone. It tastes of pepper and gritty ice. But it smells of freedom.
