ELVIS COSTELLO WAS ON THE radio, ‘Accidents Will Happen’. Didn’t seem like an appropriate track. Not in the slightest. I walked into the doocot and took off my jacket, hung it on the back of the door. The dustcoat was flung over the chair, inky stains on the sleeves and around the pockets adding a hint of authenticity. Stevo and I hadn’t spoken since the bust-up. Well, if you could call it that; I’d be going with outburst. On his behalf.
I filled the kettle, took out a packet of Jammie Dodgers I’d bought, said, ‘Fancy a brew, Stevo?’ I was trying to break the ice; was glad I had. When he turned I saw he had a large Elastoplast above his left eye; his lip had been split too. ‘Jesus… what happened to you?’
He mumbled a bit, cleared his throat, ‘I walked into a door… It was on the nightshift, all the lights were out. I couldn’t get the flashlight to work.’
It was borderline believable. I’d broken the flashlight when I dropped it the night I found Calder swinging from a rope in the Grand Hall. The memory of his white face, his toes pointing to the floor, made me flinch. The fact that nobody seemed overly concerned about his hanging made me furious.
‘Aye, well… sorry about that. I dropped it the night I found Calder.’
He didn’t press me. I got the impression he was a bit more approachable than the last time we had spoken. He came over to where I was standing at the sink, gave me his cup.
‘I wanted to say… y’know, about that exchange of words we had,’ said Stevo.
‘Exchange of words’ – it was such a poor euphemism. I knew what he meant, but tried to look innocent. ‘What’s that, Stevo?’ Wasn’t that the way to handle these things?
‘You remember… you were asking about the hanging.’
I poured out the tea, motioned him to sit down. He was a good bloke, I could tell that. But he was stressed about something. I had a fair idea what. Sooner or later I’d have to apply some stress in Paul’s direction, see which way the little shit squirmed.
‘Which one?’
Stevo’s lips drained of blood. ‘Calder… Mr Calder.’
‘We could have been talking about Ben of course.’
His eyes blinked a spasm. ‘I suppose.’
‘Or,’ I amped it up, ‘I could have been talking about the kid that was hanged here in the 1970s.’
Stevo took up his mug of tea. He looked as though he wanted to hide behind it. I walked over to him, offered a biscuit. ‘You knew about that, didn’t you?’
He nodded, started to twiddle with the handle of the cup; stirred in more sugar. ‘H-how did you find out?’
There didn’t seem any point in keeping my hand from him: figured he either knew already or had guessed. ‘Stevo, Ben Laird’s mother hired me to look into his death… I’m a private investigator.’
‘I know that.’
I’d half guessed he did but the abrupt assertion blindsided me. ‘How did you find out?’
He coughed into his fist, ‘Paul… Paul told me.’
I put down my cup, stood up again, loomed over Stevo. ‘Was that the day I saw you arguing with him?’
His voice was barely a whisper. He couldn’t look me in the eye. ‘I didn’t know you’d seen that.’
‘Well, now you do.’
Stevo stood up to face me. His breathing had stalled, his face ashen as he faltered on his words. ‘Gus… I’m…’
‘You’re what?’
He looked away, trying to find something to distract him outside the window, ‘These people, Gus…’
‘Stevo, have they put a scare on you?’
He didn’t move, stood still. Nodded. His head dropped onto his chest; he looked exhausted by it all.
‘What did they say?’
‘They wanted me to… warn you off.’
I let out a low laugh. ‘Do you think that’s likely?’ I wasn’t expecting an answer.
Stevo started to grow twitchy, like a rabbit in headlights that didn’t know which way to run. He slumped back in the chair, started to skin up. I noticed his knuckles were scraped as he brought out his Rizlas.
‘You’ve been in a stramash, Stevo.’ I pointed to his hands. ‘Think you should give me the low-down on this crew that’s putting the shits up you.’
Stevo crumbled in some Moroccan rock. His top lip glistened with sweat as he spoke. ‘They’re part of an… order.’
‘A what?’
His voice dipped, began to quiver. ‘Ben was part of it too… It goes back years, decades and decades.’
I was having some trouble getting my head around this. ‘Like some kind of secret club?’
‘Have you heard of Skull and Bones?’
‘The fucking pirate flag?’
Stevo managed a staccato laugh. He wiped his lip. ‘It’s an old fraternity in America… George W. and so on were members. It’s like an on-campus old-boys’ network. They have their rituals and… their secrets.’
It sounded far-fetched; I’d never encountered anything like it. Then it struck: of course I hadn’t – I was never likely to, coming from my side of the tracks. ‘And it goes on here too… in Scotland?’
‘It started here.’ Stevo fiddled nervously with a flap of skin under his chin, his voice trembled some more. ‘They call themselves the Seriatim.’
‘It means one after the other… What’s that about?’
A shrug of heavy shoulders. ‘I think they like to think of themselves as links in a chain.’
‘How do you know about this, Stevo?’
‘I don’t really… but, well, I see things… hear things.’
‘What do you mean, you see things?’
He sparked up the joint, inhaled deep. It seemed to calm him slightly. ‘In this job… you see things, see the meetings at night and…’
I didn’t know if I wanted to hear what he was saying. If Stevo had the kind of information I thought he had, then he was in some danger. Two people had died already, three if you included the kid in the seventies. I didn’t like what I was hearing. I didn’t want to see any more names added to the death list.
‘Are you telling me you know something about these hangings?’
He picked a piece of stray tobacco from the end of the roach. He looked reluctant to speak. I prompted him again: ‘Stevo… do you know something?’
He pressed the roach to his mouth, inhaled. He took some time to speak again, gasped, ‘The Seriatim – Ben was a member and so was Joe Calder. I’d hazard a guess that the one who died years ago was too.’
‘It goes that far back?’
‘Shit, yeah… years and years, hundreds even, I don’t know how many. They pick out half a dozen overprivileged idiots on each intake and, y’know, look after them…’
I pressed, ‘No, I don’t know… what do you mean, “look after them”?’
Stevo’s fingers tapped at the joint. ‘They induct them, I suppose. I’ve seen some old boys who must have been past members from time to time. It’s all a fucking game to them, think they’re it. It’s about connections and looking out for each other… that kind of bullshit.’
That might explain the Craft’s involvement; it wasn’t too much of a stretch to imagine some of the Seriatim’s past members joining the force. If they knew about the first death or had some involvement with it – it made sense they’d want any more killings hushed up. It stank. I pressed: ‘And Paul… is he part of the group?’
Stevo nodded slowly, his eyes sunk in his head. ‘I think he’s got some wee fiefdom. Seen him chatting to the top dogs, taking directions and that…’ He seized up, said, ‘I shouldn’t be talking like this. If they knew, I’d be…’
‘You’d be what, Stevo… killed?’
He held schtum.
‘If you know anything about who killed Ben… or anyone else, you need to tell me. People have died – do you want there to be more?’
He shot out of the chair, growing frantic. There was terror in his eyes as he tugged at his hair. I’d put too much pressure on him. ‘Leave me alone, Gus,’ he snapped.
I saw I’d gone as far as I could for now, but I had to give him a warning. ‘Stevo, if you won’t talk to me, you should go to the police. I know a man.’ I took out one of the cards Hod had printed up for me, wrote down Fitz’s name and number. ‘Seriously… talk to Fitz… if you won’t talk to me. He’ll help you… help you sort it all out, Stevo. Trust me on that.’
He took the card, tucked it into the pocket of his dustcoat. I didn’t hold out much hope that he’d use it.