Mungo put one hand on the traffic barrier and prepared to vault it. He turned to say goodbye to Jodie. As he did so, a navy car emerged from the bank holiday traffic. It bumped up on to the waste ground and kicked up some gravel as it settled. Two polis got out of it. They wore no uniforms, but by the arrogant way they carried themselves, Mungo could tell that they stank of pork. He looked around for his brother to confirm it. Hamish was already sliding towards the shadowed side of the snack bar.
“Don’t worry!” Mo-Maw squealed, as though she had planned a grand party. “It’s for me. It’s for me.”
She wiped her hands on her pinny and rushed to greet them. She pushed at her frizzy hair and rebuttoned the top shank on her denims over the soft fat of her belly. Jodie tutted at her vanity. They were not good-looking fellas, but they were ages with her, and they had better-paying jobs than Jocky. “Not to worry officers, ma boy, ma wee darlin’ boy is back.”
After Mungo had telephoned her, she had taken a good soaking. She had called the polis and reported him missing. Back in their police car, the responding officers had looked at each other in bewilderment. Who gives their wee boy away to strange men? Now they were here for the third time this weekend. The first time they had been curious. The second time they had let their disgust show through. Now they looked sick at the sight of her.
“Everything’s fine,” she said again. Her arms were flung wide like she was going to hug them, then show them the door and marshal them off her dirt island.
“Aye? Glad to hear it, Mrs Hamilton.”
“It’s Buchanan,” she said. “Ah never marriet their father, ah never got the chance. So it’s Ms. Ms Buchanan, thank-ye-very-much.” Mo-Maw usually went by the name Hamilton, it took less explaining, and it gave everyone a sense of belonging. The only time Mungo heard his mother issue this correction was when she was talking to men.
The officers were unsmiling. They looked down on this small woman and would not be corralled. The stockiest of the two had a ratty mullet, better suited to a radio disc jockey.
The polis were scowling at the three young Hamiltons, a pack of strays who were now spread far across the waste ground. They discounted Jodie almost immediately and focused instead on Hamish and Mungo. They had a stony-faced way of staring, but Mungo knew they were observing him closely and cataloguing every little detail. He could feel their eyes travel across his scuffed knees and up across his sore face. He worried that they could see all the things he didn’t want them to.
The polis had a deliberate way of holding their silence for too long, well past the point of it becoming uncomfortable. It made Mungo want to rush in and fill the void. Hamish had taught him how to wait it out; how to start at the letter A and list all the animals he knew in his head, and when he was done with animals, to begin again and this time list all the fruit. Hamish said that to think of vegetables and dogs’ names and countries was the best way to keep your expression inscrutable.
Mungo was thinking of koala bears when one of the polis finally spoke. The mulleted officer shook his head grimly. “There’s been some bother, see. The body of a man was found today in a loch. Somebody had stabbed him and then tried to sink him. Based on what you telt us, Mrs Hamil –, sorry, Ms Buchanan, we wanted to see what …” The polis looked at his pad. “Mun-go?” He shook his head in pity at a name destined to get belted in any playground. “… what young Mungo might know about it?”
“Bodies don’t sink, not for long,” said the other policeman. He was losing his hair, but he had been brave and cropped it close. He was gruffer than the first.
“Decomposition,” said Jodie dryly. “Rotting fat turns to gas. Everybody knows that.” Mungo didn’t. He was irritated by the fact that even in this moment, Jodie couldn’t help but show off.
The detective nodded in admiration. He pouted in open surprise that Mo-Maw could have a child this bright. “Aye, right enough. Smart wee lassie ye’ve got there, Ms Buchanan.”
“Aye. She’s a real pleasure. A talking bicyclopedia. Do ye want to borrow her?”
The gruff man frowned. “Ye keep givin’ yer weans away. Are ye planning on opening a lending library?”
Jodie shifted in embarrassment. The sarcasm of it was lost on Mo-Maw.
The detective explained how Strathclyde Police had phoned Balmaha, Balquhidder, Loch Lomond, and Inveraray to ask if there were any sightings of Mo-Maw’s missing boy. The Inveraray police had said no, however, they had just found a drowned body which was not suspicious in itself, but the body had been stabbed and was wearing a designer outfit of Italian denim, which was very unusual. The fishing warden had been patrolling for licence violations and had found the body partially submerged, its pockets filled with dozens of small stones. The body should not have risen so quickly; Gallowgate was not a fat man and the water was cold. He would have stayed submerged for weeks if he had been weighted properly.
When the police had hauled the body to the small village and called the mortician to come collect it, it had caused the stir of the century. The postmistress had instantly recognized Gallowgate and said he had a quiet boy with him. She said they both had thick, uncultured Glaswegian accents, that the boy was surrounded by a sadness, and that they had stolen chocolate bars and owed her a pound fifty.
“Ah’m glad Mungo came home. Yer lucky that everything worked out. But we do need to talk to the boy.” The mulleted detective turned his head from one brother to the other. “So, which one of youse is the bold Mungo Hamilton?”