What Will Burn James Oswald (booksvooks txt) 📖

MacDonald was seen by her GP a few hours after the alleged assault. She referred her to the hospital for X-rays, which showed fractures to the jaw and skull consistent with repeated punching.’

‘I slapped her once. An’ only ’cause the stupid bitch wouldn’t shut up when I asked her to.’ Gary’s fists are on the tabletop before he realises what he’s doing. The lawyer lets out a small yelp of surprise, rocks back in his seat even though he’s well out of reach.

‘Please, Mr Tomlinson. I’m on your side here. Just laying out the case that’s been presented to us.’ He has his papers in his hands, held close to his chest like a shield. It’s pathetic.

‘There’s no fucking case. Just her lies, aye?’

‘Well, see . . . It’s not quite as clear-cut as that, I’m afraid. Miss MacDonald could very well press charges, and in the current political climate a guilty verdict might see you in jail. You might be lucky, get a sympathetic jury, but cases like these they tend to believe the . . . ah . . . victim.’

For a moment Gary wants to flip the table, maybe give the lawyer a good kicking, then storm out of the building. All this talk of fractures and victims and fucking jail. It’s doing his nut in. He gave her a slap, that was all. She’d been moaning at him that much she deserved it, right enough. And all he wanted her to do was go and quiet the wain down. Poor wee thing needed changing maybe, or a feed. What fucking use was a mother if she couldn’t feed and change her own wain?

‘What can I do then?’ he asks once the urge to break things has lessened. The lawyer’s face brightens a little at this, the tension sagging out of his shoulders as he manages a weak smile.

‘Well, as it happens, I’ve had some communication with Miss MacDonald’s solicitor, and she is prepared to not pursue charges.’

‘Not . . . ? What does that mean?’ Gary’s leg stops its incessant jiggling and he leans forward, arms on the table, paying attention.

‘It means you’d walk away with nothing but a caution. No trial, no jail time. You’d keep your job.’

‘Aye, there has to be a catch, right? She’s wanting somethin’.’

The lawyer puts down his papers again, looks Gary straight in the eye. ‘Indeed she is, Mr Tomlinson. You and Miss MacDonald are not married, but you have a daughter?’

‘Aye, Wee Mary. She’s named after my nan, see?’

Something like a grimace passes over the lawyer’s face. It puts Gary back on edge.

‘Well, as I say, Miss MacDonald is prepared to let the assault go, but only if you agree to cut all ties with her and the child.’

Gary’s leg’s started tapping again, his hands balled into fists. ‘You . . . She wants what?’

‘Think about it, Mr Tomlinson.’ The lawyer’s got his wheedling school kid voice on again. ‘If you’re found guilty of assault you will go to jail. It’s very likely the court will deny you visiting rights even after your sentence is served.’

‘But . . . She cannae do that. Mary’s my wain too. I’ve rights, ken? And that bitch is no’ fit to be a mother either.’

‘I’m truly sorry, Mr Tomlinson. But in these cases the overwhelming majority of times custody is given to the mother. If it went to court you would almost certainly lose, and we would be right back here where we are now. I know it seems very unfair, but believe me when I say you can save yourself a great deal of heartache, pain and money if you take Miss MacDonald up on her offer.’

‘But my wain. My Wee Mary.’ He’s helpless, he knows. Like the lawyer says, the bitch has got him over a barrel. Courts’ll believe her any day, and if the stuff he and Bazza got up to when they were still lads gets out . . . Gary feels the wetness in the corners of his eyes and that brings on the anger even more. ‘She cannae do this to me,’ he says, but now that snivelling tone is in his own voice and he knows that the bitch can. She has done. Shafted him good and proper.

He sniffs, runs the back of his hand across his nose and then sniffs again. This is not over yet. Not even close.

‘Where do I sign, then?’

4

Janie Harrison had never been all that fond of the city mortuary, and especially not first thing in the morning. There was no real reason why she had to attend this examination either, except that in the days since the old lady’s burned remains had been found, she’d grown increasingly uncomfortable with the idea of it being no more than an undiscovered accident. So when the pathologist’s email had appeared, informing her that Cecily Slater would be the morning’s first examination, she had replied letting him know she’d be there.

Angus Cadwallader himself greeted Janie at the door. ‘Come through, my dear. We’re all ready to go.’

He led her down the squeaky clean corridor and into the examination theatre, where the body had been laid out on the central table and covered with a white sheet. As she stepped into the room, Janie caught the whiff of burned meat on the air, despite the extractor fans working harder than normal. It was maybe lucky she’d skipped breakfast. She approached the table with slightly less enthusiasm than the pathologist, and then took a step away as Doctor Sharp pulled back the sheet, her hand going up to her nose instinctively.

‘Yes. Burned bodies are never much fun, and this one has the added bonus of having started to decompose. Thank the lord for the colder weather, eh?’ Cadwallader switched from charming to serious in an instant, setting about his job with all the professionalism and deft speed that had no doubt kept him in the position for so long. Janie watched and listened as he noted various aspects of the body, took another step back when the scalpel came out. It wasn’t really necessary to be here, and yet something compelled her to witness