Free Beyond the Rage by Michael J. Malone

not a policeman.’
    ‘That’s shite. A cheap brown suit, a blue tie and...’
    ‘Let me put this another way. You’re not fucking going. You want the information; you have to trust me to get it for you.’ Ray was loud, on his feet and thrusting his index finger in Kenny’s face.

12
    The house number was 32 and advertised by the burnished brass numbers on the door. The porch provided welcome shelter from the rain as he waited to be welcomed in to the house. He shook the raindrops from his umbrella; each drop formed like its own perfect universe on the waterproof surface before being thrust back into the air.
    The door opened and a middle-aged man stood before him. He was tall, with a bristle of thick white hair that was sticking out as if he had a Van de Graaff generator in his pocket. He was wearing a pair of brown trousers and Kenny could see his legs were so thin they could have doubled as pipe-cleaners. As a contrast to the width of his legs, he looked like he was hiding a medicine ball under the front of his cardigan.
    The man’s eyes were bright with curiosity and the skin of his face was tight over his bones as if it had been shrink-wrapped. He was clean-shaven and pock-marked.
    ‘You’ll be Ray McBain?’
    ‘You’ll be Harry Fyfe,’ Kenny said and held up the bottle of whisky by the neck.
    ‘Ach, you didn’t need to,’ Harry said, his face a tragic comedy of thirst and denial. ‘But it would be rude not to.’ His face broke into a grin. ‘Come in, son, come in.’
    Harry guided him in to the front room, pointed him in the direction of a seat and said he ’d be back in a minute.
    While the older man was out of the room, Kenny had a good look around. Every surface was so shiny he felt he could eat off it. The thick pile of the carpet had track marks from the hoover. There was one photograph on the mantelpiece. It was in a glass frame and showed a smiling couple on holiday. The man was a slightly younger Harry and Kenny guessed this was his wife.
    ‘Right.’ Harry walked back in with a pair of crystal whisky glasses and the now open bottle. ‘Somewhere in the world it’s 7pm.’ He poured, his eyes gleaming to the promise of the liquid falling into the glass.
    He handed Kenny a glass and sat down. ‘How long have you been in the polis?’
    ‘Oh, about...’ – Kenny recalled what he knew about Ray’s career – ‘...twelve years.’ He took a sip and hoped this was the right answer.
    ‘What division you in?’
    ‘Serious crime unit...’
    ‘Do you know Gavin Wilson? He was a rookie when I retired. Seems he’s headed for big things.’
    Kenny nodded and hmm ’d and oh ’d for a few minutes more as Harry talked about people he knew who were still in the force. Kenny tried to be as non-committal as he could. He didn’t want to be caught up in a conversation about who knew who or who worked where, and the more Harry talked the more he was convinced he was going to trip himself up. He loosened his collar. He was beginning to regret his impulse about ignoring Ray’s demand that he leave this interview to him.
    The name and the fact that Harry lived in Shawlands had been enough information for Kenny to track him down. Kenny O’Neill knew people with a wide set of skills. Once the address was found and a number obtained, a phone call to Harry and an over-the-phone introduction was enough to be given the green light to come knocking.
    ‘Listen, Harry, I’m sorry to be rude but can I ask you–’
    ‘You in a hurry, son?’ Harry asked.
    ‘No it’s just...’ Kenny sighed. He ’d miscalculated. The old fella was going to realise he was not who he said he was. ‘I have an attachment to this case.’ In Kenny’s experience the best lies were the ones that stuck more closely to the truth so he took a small gamble. ‘This is a kind of favour I’m doing for my best mate. His mum and dad are both dead...’
    ‘No need to explain yourself, son,’ said Harry. ‘I understand.’ He smiled