Lachlan Stoddart's Mother

By Lesley Kelly

Lachlan Stoddart was a mammy's boy.

Everybody kent it. Mrs Stoddart was never short of a box of Quality Street, and was never in want of a wee drive down the coast on a Sunday. On her birthday half the contents of the local Interflora would appear on her doorstep. Aye, Lachie was good to his mum. But then if my mother had three shipments of coke coming into Leith docks each month, a cut of the takings from half the prostitutes on Salamander Street, and most of North Edinburgh in hock to her, well, I would have been nice to my mammy too.

Mrs Stoddart generated a lot of respect on the scheme. One time I saw a man come out of the post office, catch sight of Mrs Stoddart and genuflect (which, as a sometime churchgoer, I found offensive). Of course, a lot of the respect was generated by the two well-built laddies with dogs that followed her everywhere, usually with Lachie farting about in the background, thinking he's a hero. No the sharpest tool in the pack, our Lachie.

But respect's a funny thing, isn't it? Respect gets you a cheery hello from everyone that passes you, a seat on the bus and your bills paid on time, but it doesnae get bums on pews at your funeral. Which, in Mrs Stoddart's case, will be taking place in two days time, due to her being found in the early hours of Monday morning, lying at the Foot o the Walk with her head battered in.

And that's why I'm sitting in the late Mrs Stoddart's house with a broken-hearted Lachlan. And by broken-hearted, I mean drunk and high as a kite on his Ma's latest consignment. But I'm trying to be as comforting as possible, cos although Lachie might not be the smartest sea-lion in the circus as far as I'm aware the laddies with dogs are still around and I'd rather keep on everyone's good side. Lachie's in a mood-and-a-half, which I suppose is fair enough what with his Ma being murdered and all.

'She was a handsome woman, Staines.'

'Oh aye, Lachie, a handsome woman.'

He pours himself another glass of Johnnie Walker.

'But people round here didnae like her.'

'Oh well I wouldnae say that.'

He glowers at me.

'You know the difference between you and me?'

I shrug.

'People like you. But they dinnae like me'

And I'm no sure if I'm going to annoy him more by agreeing or disagreeing with him so I shrug again. Lachie leans forward with his best approximation of a hard man snarl.

'But I dinnae like you. I've never liked you. I didnae like you in primary school and I dinnae like you now.'

Lachie stops for another line of coke, and rejuvenated, continues with his theme.

'See you – you've drank away every chance you've ever had. Your wife left you. Your weans dinnae ken you. And I've seen you lying face down on the street in your own vomit.'

He's no wrong but it's no nice to have to listen to.

'You are a first class jakey. But people still like you.'

Lachie stands up, a little shaky on his pins, and disappears out of the room. Two minutes later he's back with a book.

'What do you think this is?' he says, thrusting it at me.

I leaf through it. There is page after page of names and addresses, with amounts of money and ticks and crosses next to them. I take a wild guess.

'It's your ma's tally book.'

'It's a list of suspects. One of they losers murdered my mammy and I want you down that scheme using your charm to find out which one, before she goes into her grave on Friday.' He pauses and leans forward. 'I want a name.'

I keep leafing through the book but I ken it's inevitable. I'm going be chasing round the scheme trying to come up with an answer that'll save me from a kicking from Lachie's lackeys.

'Lachie?'

'Aye?'

'Why is there a dog listed here?'

'Pissed on my mammy's shoes after mass one Sunday. The owner's paying it off at a pound a week.'

'Stainsie!'

I'd left Lachie's house with my napper spinning from the drugs, drink and unhappy responsibilities that had been thrust on me. He'd given me the book away with me, which I wasnae happy about at all. The information in that book could get a man (or woman) killed. Under the circumstances I'd felt the need for a couple of beers so I'd stopped in at the offy on the way home only to be accosted by Wheezy Mick.

'Stainsie, Stainsie, Stainsie, my son – where've you been? I'm drinking on my tod here!'

'No the night Wheeze – I'm off hame for a sleep.'

'C'mon now – a couple of cans with an old pal will no hurt you.'

I'm dreaming that I'm drowning in the Water of Leith, and every time my head comes back above the water, Isa Stoddart is standing there and boots me back under. The dream is so vivid that when I wake up I can still feel the water lapping round my feet. Then I realise that my feet are in fact wet, because I'm sitting at the number 16 bus stop on Commercial Street with a pile of empty beer cans at my feet.

The Book. Sweet Mother o God let the book still be in my bag. It is. And I'm halfway through thanking every saint I can remember when it occurs to me that I might have been less than discreet whilst in my cups last night.

It takes me two hours to track Wheezy down to a café on Leith Walk.

'Wheeze – see last night…'

'Not a word my son, your secret's safe with me. Soul of discretion and all that.'

'Thanks pal.'

'In fact, I've been giving your dilemma some thought.'

'My dilemma?'

'Oh aye. Your problem, the way I see it, is that the list of people who would want to do Isa Stoddart in probably runs to hundreds…'

'Thousands probably'

',,, so you need to be a bit clever in your thinking here. Now, the Widow Stoddart is no a woman of many vices, if you don't include the ones she indulged in professionally. She doesnae gamble, doesnae drink, doesnae smoke. In fact she's a pillar of the community and a regular at mass...'

'Which is where she'd be on a Sunday night!'

'Exactly my son.'

'Mrs Stoddart? Oh aye – she's been a good friend to the church over the years. You know it's her funeral mass on Friday?'

'I had heard, yeah. The thing is Father Paul, I'm kind of trying to trace Mrs Stoddart's movements on the night she died as a favour to Lachlan..,'

'Poor soul. You two are old friends I believe?'

'Aye. Well… aye. Do you ken where Mrs Stoddart went after mass?'

'No, Stainsie, I'm afraid not. Sorry I can't be more help to you.'

So that was the end of my first and last lead. I sit on the bench and smoke a fag while contemplating my next move. Father Paul reappears.

'I've thought of someone who might be able to help you. When I left the church I noticed Mrs Stoddart was deep in conversation with Marianne Murphy – do you know her? Lives over in the banana block with her son? Lovely laddie he is too. Anyway, I had to shoo the two ladies out of the church so that I could lock up. Maybe she could shine some light on this?'

I leap to my feet.

'Thanks Father.'

'And will we be seeing you at mass one day soon?'

'Oh yeah, it's just that I've been, you know.'

And laughing at my discomfort Father Paul vanishes in the direct of the Priest's House.

After bribing several local kids with my hard-earned I finally find someone who kens where Marianne's flat is. I chap the door, all the while wondering what I'm going to say to her – 'I'm a friend of Lachlan Stoddart' doesnae open too many doors round here.

'I'm a friend of Father Paul's.'

'Oh right – can I help you?'

Marianne Murphy is a fine looking lassie, and it's a struggle to keep to the matter in hand.

'Father Paul said you saw Mrs Stoddart the night she was killed.'
She's looking a bit wary but she lets me in. 'Aye – I saw her at church.'

'Was there anyone around, anyone at all, that you saw looking a bit shifty?'

Marianne thinks for a minute and shakes her head. 'Sorry. There were lots of people about when I left her but they were the usual church crowd, you know?'

I'm a bit downhearted by this, but then a thought hits me.

'But Father Paul said he had to shoo you out of the church so I assumed everyone else had left?'

'Mummy.' Marianne's laddie appears with a toy in his hand.

'Go in your room the now Jason.'

'Mum..'

'NOW, Jason.' She's shaking. She sits down and rifles around in her bag until she finds her fags.

'I never meant it to happen' she says very quietly. 'I owe her a fortune, and I thought I could maybe negotiate with her. I followed her out the church but… but the things she was saying to me about how I could pay off my debts. I never meant to hurt her but I just snapped and hit her and…'

She's crying now, and half of me is feeling really sorry for her, but the other half is busy thinking that I'm Columbo, Inspector Morse and Bergerac all rolled into one. Jeez I've cracked this case so fast we'd only be at the first advert break.

'Marianne'

Marianne's front door opens and Father Paul and Wheezy walk in, which disconcerts me cos they're no two people I usually see together.

'Uncle Mick' cries Marianne, and throws her arms round him, sobbing. And it's a sign of my state of mind at the moment that I'm wondering if 'uncle' is some kind of code for 'sugar daddy' when I see the family resemblance and suddenly Marianne's no my number one pin-up anymore.

'You've told him then?' says Father Paul, and Marianne nods. Everyone is staring at me, so I feel obliged to say something.

'So I guess we ken who murdered Mrs Stoddart then?'

'Aye Staines, we do' says Father Paul. 'It was you.'

'What?' I wasnae expecting this. 'I never killed her.'

'Aye' says Father Paul gently 'You did' and passes me a shoebox.

'What's this?'

'It's £1700. Ten pounds each from every man, woman and dog listed in that book. And it's yours. All you need to do is phone Stoddart and say that you did it – you've got all the background detail you need now to make it convincing. Then you and that book get out of town and never come back.'

'What?' I say again. I'm no really taking this in. 'I'm no doing that.'

'What else do you plan to do? Go back and send him round to this wee lassie's house?'

And I look at him, and at Marianne, and I ken he's right.

'Lachie'll no buy it.'

'Ach sure he will. He's no the brightest star in the heavens is he?'

And I couldnae argue with that.