Bad Samaritan by Michael J. Malone Page B

man’s name in the system we realised what was going on. Poor guy, eh? His daughter murdered.’
    â€˜Aye. Still. You cannae go around beating people up.’
    â€˜Cos that’s oor job, eh?’ His large acne-scarred cheeks bunch in a grin. ‘Well, it is down south. Did you hear about those English numpties?’ Ron was always fiercely proud of the police service in Scotland, and any chance to laugh at his southern colleagues was quickly jumped on. ‘Tasered a blind man when they thought his walking stick was a samurai sword. A fucking samurai sword. How stupid would you have to be?’ He slams a meaty hand on the desk top. ‘Anyways, the young man Mr Banks attacked has suffered nothing worse than a few cuts and bruises. Possible concussion. The docs wanted to take him in to the hospital just to make sure there wasn’t anything more serious.’
    â€˜Right. Good to know. Awright if we come in and speak to him?’
    â€˜Sure.’ He opens the security door and beckons us through. ‘He’s in Cell 4 the now. Go into the interview room, Ed, and I’ll bring him through.’
    * * *
    Ale and I take a seat, and moments later Ron enters the room with Kevin Banks. He looks about ten years older than when we saw him yesterday. He sits in a chair as if his bones are aching.
    â€˜Mr Banks, my name is…’
    â€˜Aye. We met yesterday. Forgive me if I don’t shake your hand.’
    Looks like Mr Banks is firmly in the “anger” stage of grief.
    â€˜You attacked a young man today, Mr Banks. Care to tell us why?’
    He sags in his chair.
    â€˜I just thought … I wanted to…’ He leans forward, places both elbows on the table and rubs at his scalp with the palm of his right hand. ‘I don’t know what the hell I was doing.’ He then puts a hand over his mouth as he fights to control himself. A tear slides down his cheek. He sniffs. ‘Is Simon OK?’
    â€˜He’s currently being assessed by a medical team at the Western,’ I answer. I don’t want to let him off the hook too quickly. He needs to learn the consequences of this particular action. Grieving parent or not.
    He mumbles into the desk top, ‘Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.’ He shakes his head. ‘Simon was only guilty of betrayal. He wouldn’t…’ He stumbles over the word “kill”. ‘The boy doesn’t have a vicious bone in his body.’
    â€˜So why go after him?’
    â€˜You’re awake all night. You go through all the possibilities, and you remember all these cop programmes where the boyfriend did it. I couldn’t shake that thought from my head. I just wanted to speak to the boy. Speak to him, you know. He loved her too. At one point. But when I saw him walking along the road … He was on his phone, smiling. Actually smiling. How dare he fucking smile when my daughter had been murdered.’ He exhales. A long, juddering breath. ‘I lost it.’ He turns sharply to the side as if he doesn’t want us to see the pain he’s in.
    â€˜Aye.’ I’m wearing my disapproving face. Catch Ale’s face. She doesn’t speak, but her face says exactly what she is thinking. How can you ever get used to this level of grief?
    Kevin turns back to face us. Closes his eyes and fights with his emotions. He coughs. Opens his eyes and looks from me to Ale and then back again. ‘So what happens now? Is Simon going to press charges?’
    â€˜That’s not how it happens in Scotland, Mr Banks. The evidence goes to the procurator fiscal, and he decides whether or not there is a case to be brought against you.’
    â€˜Christ. The missus is going to go nuts.’
    Exhale.
    â€˜Jeezuz. You hear about this happening to other families and you wonder, don’t you? If something happened to your daughter, what would you do?’ His face blanches. ‘I always thought I was a reasonable