Chapter 34
It was the visit to the cemetery that solved it in the end.
Harry McDonald and his wife, specifically.
On the walk back, from deep in my subconscious came to me the fact that Henrys can be Harrys, too – because, somehow, Harry is a nickname of Henry.
And while it is strange to shift to using a different version of your name later in life, that is what Harry Hamilton did.
Around seven years ago he wound up his company and took the fortune he’d made buying and letting property to start a cat and dog rescue as Harry Hamilton.
His episode of Fixer Uppers was years and years ago, but he is not that old of a man, in his mid-fifties, and the pictures from the rescue centre’s website show he’s still hot.
Where the real Ewan McGregor has had access to the best skincare, stylists and dentists Hollywood has to offer, Harry has had to make do with whatever the Central Belt has knocking about.
His hair is sparser, in a deep V at the front; his forehead is deeply wrinkled and his teeth could do with a bleach. Still, very handsome. I would.
Since I located him, Harry is all I have thought about.
With Paula awake and talking I’ve got to accept I will likely be caught soon.
At some point her memory will return, and a small detail like the PPS-branded air freshener hanging from the car’s rearview mirror or a bit of the numberplate will come to her and that’s all it’ll take for me to be tracked down.
Harry may be my final opportunity to carry out real justice, and this time it will involve no accidental death but an intentional one.
At every turn when I’ve planned the equivalent of a slap on the wrist for landlords, the universe has upped the sentence to death.
This is the way it has to be. If my flat were infested with rats, I wouldn’t accept them being told off, I’d want them annihilated.
It’s been very handy that Gavin’s helped me collate all the information for Nicol because otherwise nothing would have been sorted.
My working days have not been used for espionage but finding evidence for and against Harry being put to death.
Yes, on his episode he took the greedy route and his company continued to buy and lease out properties for years afterwards.
Currently, though, he is not actively profiteering from the housing crisis.
Plus, he seems to have always done things to a high quality.
On the Fixer Uppers Go Under the Hammer Reddit forum, someone asked the question:
Big fan of the show and wondered if anyone had ever lived in a property that had been on it? The renovations usually don’t look the best and I’m wondering if everything was alright there and if the landlords were decent (or not!)
Only twenty-odd people responded to it and astoundingly two of them had rented from Harry.
The bungalow in Larkhall me and my missus lived in for a while was on. The guy who rented it out did a fantastic job. If there was ever any problem it was sorted quickly, would have stayed on if we’d needed to but managed to save up enough to buy our own place.
The second says:
My old landlord (Henry Hamilton) was on it but not our actual place.
We were on housing benefit at the time which meant it was a nightmare getting a landlord to take us but he was cool with it.
There was some damp that nothing seemed to be able to fix, he did try and help us as best he could.
Builders needed to come in for a week to put down a damp course and he put us up in a decent hotel with reasonable expenses covered.
Damp still came back though so we moved out before our lease was up which he was fine with.
Maybe, just maybe, Harry is not that bad a man.
He is, however, still a former landlord, the money for his dog rescue centre only possible from not showing the same love and affection to humans.
On Brian’s phone I open the tab for the centre’s website and admire the pictures of the grounds which appear to also be where Harry lives.
There’s a large modern home with a matching kennel outhouse set in among lush grounds of fields and trees in the countryside outside of Bellshill.
A check of the land registry shows he owns the woods around him, which he will have been asked to sell at some point – every patch of green space on the outskirts of towns in this part of Scotland has been overtaken by new builds.
He must have refused their offers. Happy to, yet again, withhold affordable housing from the market.
Nah, his hands aren’t clean just because he no longer actively landlords. Harry is for it.
The plan is simple: appear with a dog and then hit him on the head with the hammer I defended myself against Pete with.
I admit, the hammer is a bit on the nose given the source of my victims, but I know how effective it is as a weapon and, unlike with Pete, who was in a confined space, Harry will have copious room to flee.
If I don’t immediately thwart him, he could overpower me and then it’s all fucked.
The day of the union meeting is the best day for Harry’s murder to take place.
I’ve already booked the afternoon off because I have a dentist’s appointment for a filling.
My plan looks like this: get the filling, go home, wait for Mrs Neilan’s yappy wee shitty dog to make its appearance in the hallway during Mrs Neilan’s Countdown doze and then nab him.
Both of us take a scenic bus ride to Bellshill, get Harry sorted, then bus home in time to deposit the dog back where it belongs before Mrs Neilan has woken up.
Change into something more attractive than jogging bottoms and then make my way to the union meeting for bang on 6:00 pm at Amara and Nicol’s.
No one will suspect I’ve just been murdering.
I will be so cool and collected as I turn up with my new lover at my old lover’s house to share the results of our corporate espionage that my alibi will be rock solid.
After sending a very vital email to a couple who are selling their grey velvet-clad new build in Ferniegair to say that Brian will be along tomorrow with someone who wants to live in a soulless home in the middle of nowhere, I collect my things.
Brian is doing an impression of a businessman from a film, tossing a little ball from hand to hand, his feet resting on the corner of the desk as he leans back in his office chair.
He speaks into a tiny microphone in front of his face from his handsfree headset, giving me a wave as I make my way out for my appointment.
Brian paying attention to my movements is why I don’t give Gavin a kiss but say, ‘Get you outside Amara’s at six, yeah? ’
‘Sure.’ They kiss their fingertips then waggle their fingers at me as goodbye. I am not sure I am into it, but I have more pressing matters to attend to than whether this is an ick or not.
The dentist is running behind, which is not ideal, but not so late that my plan can’t still run smoothly if I hurry.
Back at the flat I put on the outfit I laid out last night in preparation, what has inadvertently become my standard uniform on days like today: black training leggings, black vest covered with a black hoodie and a pair of black Nike trainers.
To complete the look of someone about to legitimately go to the gym, I have my holdall.
The items inside it include a pair of rubber gloves, two towels, two bin bags, some dog treats and the hammer.
Preparation done, I turn on the telly and change the channel to see what’s happening on Countdown.
From my weeks of unemployed misery, I know Mrs Neilan is usually awake for the first two word rounds and occasionally the first numbers one, too, because she shouts her answers at the television.
Today is no different. C L O E N M W A T is on the board as the clock counts down.
‘Lone!’ I think she’s shouting, ‘Lone!’ The speccy male contestant in the lead trumps this effort with ‘Cowmen’, getting six points.
After a segment of polite chitchat between the host and a posh woman who used to present a food and drink programme in the 90s, Mrs Neilan is quieter.
Then the telltale yapping of her dog, Angus, starts.
After years of living with her he has not figured out that every time she closes her eyes she is not, in fact, dead.
His yaps move through the flat, from Mrs Neilan’s living room to the front door of her flat, and that is my cue.
The reason Angus is able to escape is that Mrs Neilan doesn’t lock her Yale until evening.
During the day it is off and so Angus’s repeated jumping and pawing at the handle eventually eases it into opening.
I don’t have time for this process to happen organically so I open the door and grab him.
He’s only little; I would have thought he liked being held like a baby in my embrace, but no.
Angus protests, growling and barking more than usual, at a volume which could easily rouse a dozing elderly woman.
Ideally, I would go unnoticed from this point until I return home.
That is, after all, why I’m dressed entirely in unobtrusive black clothing.
I had not factored in how cradling a cute little dog at a bus stop would make me an attraction, with all kinds of people admiring Angus and telling him what a good boy he is, how gorgeous he is, and asking me his name.
I have to pretend to be very proud of him and to enjoy this attention until our bus pulls up and I am subjected to similar behaviour by the passengers around us until we disembark.