In Servitude

by Heleen Kist

  It was still shrouded in darkness and I flipped the switch. A quick flash of light came from the next level up and a man’s voice gave me a fright.

  ‘Hey! Don’t do that.’

  ‘Hello?’ I inched forward, my throat constricted.

  ‘Up here. Turn the light off.’

  I did as instructed, and felt along the cold wall as I ascended the stairs. Around the bend, I could just make out the legs of a ladder first, then the man’s legs, his body, and his raised arms.

  ‘Mr Gibson? Is that you?’ I’d recognised the helmet-like shape of his hair.

  ‘Hi Grace. Just changing the light bulb.’

  ‘Yes, sorry. I noticed that this morning, but I was in a rush to go to work. It must have blown.’

  ‘Actually, it was odd. It was completely shattered. As if someone had smashed it. With a stick or something. The downstairs one too. The woman in 2/2 said she heard some commotion in the night and the front door slamming. Who knows what that was about.’

  ‘Oh. That is odd. Thanks for taking care of it.’

  I hurried up the next flight—insofar as the lighting allowed it. I couldn’t shake the feeling that maybe this was another warning—intended for me.

  Safe within the confines of my apartment, I scoured the fridge for protein and wolfed down some leftover grilled chicken. I was running low on groceries and settled on the sofa to make a list. With the car still at Andy’s, I would need to have it delivered or ask Dave to pick it up.

  Right at that moment, the key turned in the door and Dave appeared as though summoned. He wore his work clothes—which was rare for a weekend—and took off his boots before leaning over me with a kiss.

  ‘Hi.’ I pulled on his hand for him to join me. ‘Emergency?’

  ‘No, merely a job I couldn’t refuse.’ He appeared distant, his usual cocky smile replaced by a droop, topped off by a furrowed brow.

  ‘Have you had lunch? There’s not much here, I’m afraid.’

  ‘It’s fine. I had a bacon roll.’

  Attempting to lighten the mood, I put both hands on my hips and spoke in a tone of mock outrage, ‘Mr David Baker, shame on you.’ It did not have the desired effect. He managed only a weary smile then turned to me with a serious expression.

  ‘Where is your car?’

  The question confused me. How did he know I didn’t have it? It’s not like I always parked in the same place. Why was he looking for it?

  ‘It’s being fixed. The windshield got hit by a rock.’

  He placed both hands on my cheeks and stroked them. Then he pulled my face towards his and stared into my eyes. A flush of nerves prickled at the nape of my neck. Something was up.

  ‘Don’t lie to me Grace, I know you were at the Prince William.’

  ‘How?’

  He let go and stood like a barrister presenting his evidence, a dark cloud hovering over where the wig would be. ‘I was working there this morning. They’ve got a problem with their drains that keeps acting up. And there were these guys chatting and laughing about the woman who came in yesterday and how she’d tried to jump the boss and needed to be dragged away. How she’d have to be taught a lesson.’ He paused, eyed me up and down and pointed. ‘You. It was obvious they were talking about you: the hair, the clothes, the Panda. A fine piece of ass, they called you. And then they mentioned how you found your car vandalised and went nuts—which they thought was hilarious, by the way.’

  I nodded and pulled him down to sit. ‘Okay, it was me.’

  ‘What the hell were you doing there? Are you insane?’

  ‘Babe, you don’t understand. It’s the café. That Brian Scott man is the café’s landlord. He’s the reason Glory was laundering money. I needed to find out the truth and now I know.’

  ‘And of course you thought this was a better idea than going to the police,’ he said, his stinging sarcasm branding me an idiot. ‘Why did you attack him?’

  ‘I didn’t attack him. He made me mad and I reached over to…I don’t know…shout at him. Maybe a slap. But they grabbed me before I could do anything. I was angry…he said all this stuff about me, about Glory. He is a vile man.’

  ‘Well what the fuck do you expect from one of the city’s leading gangsters? Grace, you need to stop this. It’s dangerous. Go to the police.’

  ‘You know damn well I can’t go to the police. Even if you don’t give a shit about what that would do to Stephen—and God forbid you’d ever tell me the story of what went on between you—everything points to me being an accomplice. Me. I’m the one that could go to prison. It’s fourteen bloody years for money laundering! I looked it up. Don’t you see? I have to find a way out. And that is what I am doing. Now, are you going to sit here and judge me or are you going to be my boyfriend and help?’

  ‘I’m not here to judge you, babe, but you’re playing with fire.’

  ‘Playing with fire.’ I repeated it, as it stirred a memory. ‘That’s what Brian Scott said to Glory when she threatened to tell the cops about Mike.’

  ‘What? Who is Mike? What are you talking about?’

  ‘I think Mike is the man who got Glory killed.’

  Silence.

  Dave shook his head slowly.

  ‘I know it sounds crazy, babe, please bear with me.’

  I led him to the breakfast bar, where I found a pen and the back of a letter to write on, hoping a full explanation would pull him in to help me. ‘This is the café.’ I drew a box. ‘Mike runs the wholesaler that supplies the café. Here.’ Another box, with an arrow to the first. ‘Mike’s guy delivers goods to Glory. This includes a box of cash and an invoice that is for more than the goods they have received.’ A second arrow, with a pound sign. ‘Glory pays the padded invoice through the bank. This means that Mike gets clean money in exchange for his box of dirty cash.’

  Dave interrupted as I started to draw a circular arrow within the café. ‘Yes, okay, I get it. And Glory puts the box of money through the register as though they were clients paying for their coffee with cash, so that all looks legit, too. And she got to keep a share of the cash for the service. I understand the concept of money laundering. If you remember, I’m the one who told you about it. What I don’t understand is where Brian Scott comes in. Or why in God’s name you think Glory’s accident was murder.’

  I tapped my pen on the paper to direct his attention and scribbled some more: a stick figure, a pound sign, two more arrows, a police hat. A VW Beetle car with a cross through it. ‘Glory owed Brian rent because the café wasn’t going well.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘Yes. That was news to me too. So sad. If only she hadn’t been too proud to admit she was failing.’ The pen returned to the stick figure. ‘So Brian says to Glory she can sleep with him instead of paying rent. That pig.’ I glanced at my boyfriend who looked as if he was chewing on a worm. ‘She refuses and he says he’s got a solution for her.’ I retrace one of the arrows. ‘Brian owes Mike something—we don’t know what. And they’re not on good terms. But he agrees with Mike that if Glory launders money for him, then Brian’s debt has been repaid. And this is where Glory really screws up: she agrees to it. I guess she thought it was a temporary problem and nobody would know. It would buy her time to improve the café’s fortunes, if nothing else with her dirty cut.’

  The pound signs multiplied on the page and I continued. ‘It turns out Mike is a shark who charges giant interest so when Glory understands she’ll never be able to stop, she confronts Brian, furious that he landed her in this trouble. He doesn’t give a shit. It’s no longer his problem. But when she says she’ll got to the police…’ I circled the police cap. ‘He warns her she’s in over her head. Playing with fire.’

  I moved my pen to the crossed-out car. Dave stopped my hand and nodded.

  He saw.

  ‘And you think Mike killed Glory in a fake accident because he thought she was going to the police.’

  ‘Yes,’ I said tri
umphantly, as though we’d been playing Pictionary and we beat the other team to the prize. With this story building in my mind over the last few days, taking different shapes, adopting different outcomes, investigating different motives, it had taken an almost fictional dimension. As though I’d been outlining a novel. As though this wasn’t about me or my sister. But looking at Dave’s crestfallen face, I fell back to Earth with a savage blow.

  It was about me.

  And my sister was dead.

  He reached over to hug me when reality struck and I started to cry. We sat for what seemed like an hour, neither of us speaking, until his phone rang. His exchange was short, but it was clear he had to go.

  ‘Babe, I’m sorry. This conversation isn’t over. Please don’t do anything. I still think you need to report it. But I’ll listen to your plan.’

  My plan, he’d said, so confident I had one.

  If only.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  I hoped Alastair’s envelope would produce missing clues to understand the scope of Glory’s deception. With the paperwork spread out on the floor like a fan, I sat cross-legged and reviewed each document in order.

  The most useful part of the pack was a summary note, which held an upbeat description of the café’s finances and explained the share structure and dividends paid out over the last two years. In keeping with the profession’s customary caution—and no doubt because his fingers had been burnt already—the note included his firm’s formal disclaimers pointing out the assessment relied on information provided by the business owner and that no detailed audit had been undertaken.

  Just as well, Uncle Alastair. Just as well.

  The size of the turnover interested me less than the outgoings. Glory paid herself only a small salary, which I judged would be the only thing Stephen would be aware of. As one would expect, a big chunk of expenditure was dedicated to goods, staff and the property. It appeared there were no arrears on the rent during this last period.

  The profits, which turned out to be considerable, had been allocated each year as dividends to the shareholders. The kids’ class of shares had claim to the first ten thousand pounds. Eighty-five percent of the rest went to me, at least officially, which left very little for Glory as the remaining ordinary shareholder.

  So where did ‘my’ money go? Copies of two bank statements from the café showed that dividends of twelve and fourteen thousand pounds, respectively, were transferred electronically to an account in the name of G McBride.

  You made it look like me. How shrewd. Was it an old account from before you were married?

  The bank account details were shown, so it would now be easy to find. But that led to a tricky question: with a mismatch between the official shareholder and actual recipient, who owned this money?

  For a fleeting moment, I imagined it belonged to me. I pictured my hand signing a cheque for the deposit on a new house. I saw a blooming wisteria crowning the entrance of a two-story red sandstone, Dave smiling in the doorway, gesturing for me to come inside. There, we would cross an immaculate lounge to reach a sumptuous bedroom where we’d flop onto a giant bed with crisp white linen, into each other’s arms.

  With a deep sigh, I put the papers down and stretched my arms over my head. I’d been sitting too long, and my knees ached as I unfurled my legs. The basic-but-perfectly-functional kitchen I’d have to make do with beckoned for a cup of tea.

  We can dream, can’t we Gi?

  What were you dreaming of through all this?

  Was it Paris? That was the plan we’d concocted for Gigi as little girls. Gigi would meet a dark Frenchman called Hervé—we’d insisted on an accent on the ‘e’ for authenticity. He would pick her up on his Vespa wearing a blue and white striped shirt and smoking a Gitane. As they sped off to their picnic in the park, she would hang onto him with one arm, while balancing a basket of cheese and wine in the other. And a baguette.

  I smiled at the memory and guessed that was probably not the current plan. I foraged in the cupboard and found a Scottish baguette equivalent: a packet of shortbread. Three fingers down, I wondered if Glory had been hiding a Hervé. It seemed so improbable. Glory’s life bore all the hallmarks of perfection. A beautiful house, stable and loving husband, adorable kids. Everyone healthy.

  When they’d bought the house in Pollokshields, right after Noah’s second birthday, I thought she would explode with joy. A proper, big grown-up house, with a giant garden for the boys and—yes, the thing I envied above all else—even a wisteria. She’d gone on a decorating spree, full of ideas, and only complained once, when Stephen confiscated her credit card to curb her excess. The only reason they’d been able to afford such a nice house on a civil servant’s salary was because his foster parents had left him a surprise nest egg. Matched with Stephen’s insider knowledge of developments in Glasgow’s property market, this had allowed him to climb the ladder faster than most.

  Years passed, and I believed Glory enjoyed her role. But as the documents on the floor proved, my sister’s life was not what she portrayed. Along the way, she’d mastered the art of duplicity. And look where that got her.

  But I owed it to her to find a way out. She was my Glory. My Gi. I owed it to her to protect her boys, and even Stephen, from ever knowing what she’d been forced to do.

  You must have had a good reason to drag me into this. A way for me to help.

  Resuming my investigation, I leafed through the financial statements and left a trail of aborted calculations. My challenge was to estimate her debt to Mike.

  If I checked the profits she’d retained…and maybe made an assumption about how much of a cut she could keep…I could guess at the sums laundered…and then…No. It was too complex for me. I’d never run a real business with actual goods and proper customers. No matter how hard I tried, the hidden clues would remain just that: hidden.

  Deflated, I leaned back and rested my head on the sofa cushion, watching numbers dance across the ceiling in no discernible pattern. I felt an overwhelming desire to call Alastair and disclose everything. He would understand it all. He could help me with the numbers. But would he have a professional duty to report the crime? Or could you tell accountants everything without fear, like solicitors? Unsure, I thought the better of it.

  As the minutes passed, what started out as a little pebble jiggling in the pit of my stomach grew into a large rock pressing on my organs. I had refused to contemplate the obvious answer because of the horrendous implications. But short of alternatives, and running out of time, I relented. The only option was to bring Dad on board.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Sunday morning traffic up to Perth flowed smoothly, as usual. I enjoyed a higher-than-normal vantage point from which to admire the fields, travelling in Dave’s borrowed van. But for the second time in three weeks, I was driving up with bad news.

  The decision had weighed on my mind all night. In the end, I convinced myself that the opportunity to make Glory’s mistakes go away justified the fall-out from the bomb I was about to drop. The trip did nothing to change my mind, and by the time I reached the cul-de-sac, I took confidence from my rehearsed speech.

  Our trusted bell announced my arrival and summoned Dad to the kitchen.

  ‘Grace. I wasn’t expecting you yet. Now is not a good… I need you to stay here. Why are you early?’ He disappeared as quickly as he’d arrived.

  Checking the clock on the wall, I confirmed I was only eight minutes early and felt a mild irritation at the unjustified rebuke.

  On taking a seat at the table, a Which magazine invited me to check out this year’s Best Buy dishwashers and accused me with giant red letters spelling ‘FRAUD’, which I quickly discovered was to do with contact-less cards. I moved onto the Perthshire Advertiser, to check if I recognised any names among the local events, weddings, births and obituaries. Given I hadn’t received condolences from any old friends, I assumed that Glory’s death hadn’t been reported, which seemed
strange given my Mum’s fascination with the paper.

  The fruit bowl stank of decay and a casual scan of the room revealed two used pans on the cooker and a jumble of dirty mugs near the sink, suggesting the local rag wasn’t the only thing being neglected. My ears picked up a clinking noise and a toilet flushing before Dad walked in, drying his hands on a towel.

  ‘Everything okay, Dad?’

  Age had not so much crept up on him as sprinted in assault since I’d last seen him, his energy drained so that even his hug landed weakly. With an increasing sense of alarm, I enquired about Mum.

  ‘Come see for yourself.’ He shuffled to the door.

  In the living room, I saw my mother dozing in her preferred armchair, letting out soft, irregular grunts. It looked as though her small frame was merging into the upholstery: the large image of a snowdrop cupping a drop of dew mirrored in Mum’s curved white bob enveloping her face, a drib of drool escaping from her lips.

  ‘Oh my God,’ I muttered in shock. ‘It’s gotten worse, hasn’t it?’

  He nodded and placed his arm around me. ‘Sorry to keep you waiting, sweetheart. She wasn’t fully dressed. We don’t tend to bother anymore.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Darling,’ he said, in a gentle voice, ‘your mother isn’t all there. We don’t get many periods of lucidity now. Mostly she sits in the chair and looks at the garden, or sleeps.’

  I crashed onto the sofa and made a herculean effort not to weep, for his sake. However difficult my relationship with my mother might have been, it broke my heart to witness her fade away. ‘It’s happening so fast. What do the doctors say?’

  ‘They’ve been caught off-guard by how quickly the dementia has progressed. There’s Glory’s death, of course, which kicked it into gear, and there’s the possibility she’s had another silent stroke that could’ve made it worse. I don’t know. They say the disease is unpredictable and varies from patient to patient.’

  He shrugged, seeming resigned to see his wife of forty years deteriorate, as though in her vanishing she’d taken his spirit along for company.