Free Blood Tears by Michael J. Malone

it as brooding.
    ‘You drive.’
    We circle the statue of Jesus and, at the gates, as we prepare to join the stream of traffic on the main road, I look over my shoulder. Christ is standing on his plinth, wearing a smile, his arms spread wide to embrace the world, his terrible wounds on display.

    We’re having a briefing in the incident room the same day. My mind has its ball bearings back in its runners. Just as well, or Rossi would be reporting me to the boss and I would be withdrawn from the case. I look around the room. Just about every face is sporting a five o’clock shadow, wearing it like an announcement of a hard day out of the office. Ties and top buttons are loose. Uniform posture of the hour is The Slouch.
    ‘Right, people. What’ve we got?’
    ‘We got something interesting, Ray,’ Peters sits up. Keen to speak. ‘Let’s just say, the Papes don’t have a monopoly on being fucked up.’
    A few catcalls from the Catholics around the room at Peters’ use of the derogatory term.
    ‘Of the kids who were there at that time… we have two or three who’ve been done for burglary… stealing to feed their habit… another two or three been up for Serious Assault…’
    ‘Is it two or three, Peters?’
    ‘Eh…’ he looks at his notes. I see his neck stain red. ‘… two, Ray.’
    ‘So stop fucking exaggerating.’ To hide my abrupt manner, I add, ‘… I’ve told you nine hundred and ninety-nine times.’
    Under my smiling response to the laughter, I question my irritation. What was that all about?
    ‘There’s more.’ The flush on Peters’ face reduces. He thinks he’s got something here. ‘An old worker at the place was there at the same time as Connelly, remembers the cases against him. Says there was a younger brother of a rape victim. Threatened to kill Connelly when he grew up.’ There’s a career ambition, I thought. What do you want to be when you grow up, son? I want to kill the fucker who raped my sister. And so it feeds on itself. Revenge spoils the innocent. Makes them no better than the person responsible. The victim becomes a perpetrator.
    ‘Have we located the victim or her brother?’
    ‘Yes.’ Peters can barely contain his excitement. ‘The brother’s been in and out of jail for violent crimes. His sister killed herself just after the trial.’ The last comment a tragic footnote that’s tacked on at the end without a thought. Mind you it’s best not to think. Too much.
    ‘What kind of violent crimes?’
    ‘Mostly slashings. One with a pickaxe. Gang stuff.’
    ‘Was he in or out of the nick at the time of the murder?’
    ‘Out.’
    ‘Have you located this paragon of aggression then?’
    ‘Yeah. Lives here in Glasgow. We’ll bring him in, in the morning.’
    ‘Good.’ That’s as much as I can offer by way of apology for my terse manner. ‘Anything else?’ I address the room.
    ‘Just a list of names as yet, Ray.’ answers Gary Wilson. His eyes are just about aligned with his nostrils, he’s that tired. He was up at Aberdeen first thing this morning. No wonder he’s knackered, driving all that way and back in the one day.
    ‘What about you and Allessandra, Ray?’ asks Harkness. ‘How did you guys get on?’ I look at Allessandra and nod for her to speak. We’d gone for a bite to eat before we got here. Had a little talk.

    From the road, the little restaurant looks okay. The Trattoria , the legend reads over the window. The closest it comes to Italy, however, is the plastic grapes going to dust on every available shelf and posters of Florence on every wall. Facing you as you come in is a framed print of The Last Supper. Only three tables are in use. Allessandra says later that we should have taken note of all that and ran out screaming, but I was a little distracted.
    A quick look at the menu on the wall and we order our meal at the till. As we sit down, I take the opportunity to speak.
    ‘So what did we learn today, Allessandra?’
    She is facing me,