Free Bad Samaritan by Michael J. Malone Page A

of creepsters could get their hands on this information and do all kinds of weird with it.
    Her timeline – that’s what they call it, right? – is banal taken to the edge of boring and beyond. With an added pinch of dull and a twist of trivial. She shops, like, a lot. Goes to clubs, like, a lot. And uses ‘ like ’ a lot. And LOL comes up fairly often. Lots of love? Lots of lollies? Look out lippy?
    A picture of red shoes with the words, come to momma . And then a few rants about a TV show with too many initials to work out what it actually is.
    I look for posts on the day of Aileen’s murder.
    â€˜ SO want that top out of Cruise .’
    â€˜ Never thought I ’d say it but yuks to more coffee. ’
    And the last one for the day, at 7:17pm: ‘It’s a school night, but fuckit, who’s up for a pub crawl?’
    This has eleven comments. One from Aileen. To my unpractised eye it looks out of place with the other comments. Like she’s desperate to join in. Claire replies to Aileen’s comment with ‘yeah, whatever, don’t wait up sweetie.’
    I recoil, and it’s not aimed at me.
    One of the comments in this thread is from an Emma. Emma Smith. Her details are much more scant than Claire’s, and her profile picture is a photo of a male pretty-boy – not Emma, then. Her date of birth just has a month and a day. No year. And her mobile number is missing.
    I scan her photos. Nothing much until I see two girls. One is tagged as Claire Baird, the other, a girl of similar age and height with blond, spiky hair, as Emma.
    Emma Smith, hello there.
    Her timeline for tonight says, ‘A quiet night out at Cafe Gandolfi. Who’s coming?’
    Don’t mind if I do.
    * * *
    Cafe Gandolfi was pure jumping, as the young ones say, when I arrived. Not been in here for ages. A bit expensive for my tastes. Haggis, neeps and tatties for £13. What’s that all about? I could rustle that up on my own for a couple of quid. But then I wouldn’t get to experience the L-shaped room, high ceiling, dark wood panelling and the tables and chairs that look like they were made from materials washed up on a beach.
    Looking around the people in the room I feel like I’ve landed in an alternative Glasgow. When I do go out, I’m more used to the cheap and cheerful “whit’s your fuckin’ poison, mate” kinda pub. This is where you hang out if you’re on trend, wear the latest clothes and carry the newest iPad.
    â€˜Ray McBain, what the hell are you doing here?’ a voice chimes in my ear. I recognise it and feel a huge smile form on my face.
    â€˜Maggie.’ I turn to face her, lean down and draw her into a hug. ‘I could ask you the same question.’
    She beams up at me. ‘The girls…’ she sweeps her right arm dramatically towards a table. Four inquisitive, shiny faces stare back. ‘…invited me out. Seeing as it’s my birthday.’
    Shit. ‘It’s your birthday? Why didn’t you tell me?’ She’s looking great. All clean and primped and pink with a touch too much booze.
    â€˜Cos then I get to crow at how rubbish you are as a mate.’ Four faces are still staring at me. ‘Anyway, what the hell are you doing here?’
    â€˜Would you believe it, work?’
    â€˜Coming from you, aye, I would. Has there been a murrrdurrr?’ A drunken squeal of laughter follows this question.
    Taggart, you have a lot to answer for.
    â€˜There has, actually.’
    â€˜Oh shit,’ she makes an apologetic face. ‘You know me, I don’t watch the news.’
    I pat my pocket, check I have my wallet on me. ‘Anyway, it looks like the birthday girl isn’t nearly drunk enough yet. Can I buy you a drink?’
    â€˜No thanks, Ray,’ she says with a smile. Flicks her hair away from her face. ‘It’s getting to the point of no return. Fast. If I have much more