‘No,’ she said. ‘It’s not for everyone.’
10
HANNAH
Southpour was a typical hipster bar, exposed brickwork, light fittings with designer rust, throbbing old filament bulbs that threw out no light. The menu was sourdough bread, craft beers and a long list of boutique gins with bespoke garnishes and twenty-first-century mixers, whatever they were.
In the five years since Hannah first tasted alcohol, most of the remaining old-man pubs had vanished from the Southside. Hannah was ambivalent about it. At least young women could now drink something that tasted nice without getting felt up, although of course the hassle never stopped. On the other hand, you paid a tenner for a drink and a bag of handcrafted artisan crisps.
Xander was behind the end of the bar, chin resting on the heel of his hand, as if the blonde he was staring at was saying the most interesting thing in the world.
He spotted Hannah and his eyes changed, followed by his body language. He edged away from the woman and turned to Hannah.
‘Have you seen her?’ he said.
‘I was about to ask you the same thing.’
‘She didn’t come home last night?’
Hannah shook her head. She looked at the gantry lined with spirit bottles, fairy lights draped along wooden beams. The bar was almost empty at lunchtime and she imagined grabbing Xander by his shirt and pulling him over the bar and onto the floor.
‘I need you to tell me everything you know,’ she said.
On hearing Hannah’s tone the blonde lifted a cherry-coloured drink full of mint and moved away from the bar. Xander watched her go.
Hannah nodded at the girl’s bum. ‘Moving on quickly.’
‘She’s just a punter.’
‘OK.’
‘Have you spoken with Mel’s folks?’
Hannah examined him. He was over six feet and gangly, more like an arrangement of soft noodles than a human skeleton covered in flesh and skin. She’d always presumed he was harmless, but Mel’s disappearing act had hardened something in her, and now she looked at everything with suspicion.
Hannah nodded. ‘She didn’t meet them for lunch yesterday. They came down from Dundee.’
Xander looked worried. ‘That’s not like her.’
Hannah dug into her pocket and pulled out Mel’s phone. ‘And she doesn’t have this.’
‘Shit.’
Hannah moved her thumb over the phone screen and the picture of Mel and Xander popped up. The phone wasn’t even locked, what a naïve wee soul. ‘So when was the last time you saw her?’
Xander wiped at the bar with a towel even though it was clean. ‘Are you a detective now?’
Hannah thought about that. ‘I just want to find my friend. And we prefer investigator to detective.’
‘Seriously?’
Hannah shrugged. ‘You don’t seem that bothered Mel is missing.’
‘Of course I am. You’re the only one who’s allowed to care, is that it?’
Hannah hadn’t had much interaction with Xander in the past. She remembered when he and Mel hooked up after a Physics Society mixer at King’s Buildings House. It was lame, as all these things are, and the lights were too bright in the bar, but she watched as the two of them sat talking in a corner, eye contact and obvious body language. Mel was beautiful in a prim kind of way, severe fringe, her black hair always glossy, no make-up but impeccable nails. The way she carried herself was contained, organised. She hadn’t really talked about boys before, so Hannah was surprised she and Xander hit it off so quickly. Compared to Mel, buttoned-down and precise, Xander was like a drunken giraffe, flopping around in a daze. Or maybe, as she watched him now, he was more together than that, more aware.
‘You’re allowed to care,’ Hannah said, planting herself on a barstool. ‘Can I get a drink?’
Xander shook his head as if to say he didn’t understand women, which he undoubtedly didn’t. ‘What can I get you?’
Hannah scanned the gantry and saw a bottle she recognised. ‘Highland Park, straight.’
Xander’s eyebrows raised as he reached for the bottle. His T-shirt rode up and she saw the Superdry logo on his underwear.
‘I didn’t have you pegged as a single-malt girl.’
‘You don’t have me pegged at all.’
It wasn’t him necessarily, but something about this situation had her hackles up. Maybe the way he was talking to the blonde when Hannah walked in, or just his unearned confidence. Or the fact that the most sensible girl Hannah knew had disappeared off the planet.
The whisky clunked on the bar and Hannah paid. She lifted it to her nose and breathed, felt the molecules of vapour burn her nostrils. She thought of Grandpa. How would he find Melanie?
‘Tell me when you last had contact with her,’ Hannah said, taking a sip.
‘Had contact?’
‘You know what I mean – saw, spoke to, WhatsApped, sexted.’
‘We never sexted.’
Hannah knew that already from checking Mel’s texts.
Xander scratched at an imaginary mark on the bar. ‘I never saw her yesterday. She was supposed to be in afternoon classes, so I messaged her but didn’t hear back. She was round at mine the night before, but she didn’t stay over because she wanted to be in her own bed in the morning, get ready to meet her folks.’
That tied in with Mel’s phone, but Xander knew Hannah had it, so it would be stupid to say anything different.
‘How did she seem?’
‘The usual.’
‘What did you do?’
‘We ate pasta. Mel made it.’
‘She cooks at your place?’
‘She likes to cook, you know that.’
‘So you let her.’
‘Why not?’
‘Was anyone else there?’
Xander shifted his weight and shook his head. ‘The guys were in the pub watching the Champions League.’
Hannah wondered if she should be taking notes on her phone or recording the conversation. Maybe get one of those notepads that TV cops use, lick the end of the pencil before taking down particulars.
‘The guys?’ she said.
‘My flatmates.’
Mel had mentioned Xander’s flatmates, and reading between the lines they didn’t much like her for taking away their buddy.
‘Names?’ Hannah said, getting her phone out of her pocket.
‘Really?’
‘Don’t you want to find her?’
‘This has nothing to do with them.’
‘How do you know?’ Hannah sipped her whisky, felt the spirit of Jim give her strength. ‘How do you know what’s important and what isn’t? Anything could be crucial, you don’t know.’
Xander looked around the bar for a customer to come and save him. ‘Darren and Faisal.’
She thumbed the names into her phone. ‘Surnames?’
‘Is this really necessary?’
She looked at him, expectant.
He sighed. ‘Grant and McNish.’
‘Do they get on with Mel?’
‘Sure, she’s great.’
‘Did they see her at your place at all?’
Xander shoved his hands in his pockets. He had a Fitbit knock-off on his wrist and Hannah wondered if it was trackable. Not that she knew how to do that. He shook his head. ‘They stayed out after lectures and went straight to the pub.’
‘And after pasta?’
He looked sheepish. ‘You know.’
‘You had sex.’
His cheeks flushed. ‘Christ.’
‘Then what?’
‘Watched a movie on my laptop.’
‘What movie?’
‘Does it matter?’
‘It all matters.’
‘Annihilation. Sci-fi on Netflix.’
‘So what time did she leave?’
‘About midnight, I walked her home.’
That tallied with what Hannah remembered, Mel coming in about quarter past. She finished her drink and p
laced the glass on the bar.
‘Can I see your phone?’
‘What for?’
Hannah shrugged. ‘Just to check a few things.’
Xander picked up her glass and passed it between his hands.
‘No,’ he said. ‘It’s an invasion of privacy.’
‘Only if you’ve got something to hide.’
She wanted to provoke him, make him say something that gave him away.
‘Fuck you, Hannah,’ he said, placing the glass in the washer. ‘I hope you find Mel, but fuck you.’
11
DOROTHY
Craigentinny didn’t look like anyone’s idea of Edinburgh. It wasn’t the castle and spires of the tourist centre or the jumble of tenements in the Old Town. It wasn’t the Georgian townhouses of the New Town or the scrappy schemes of Trainspotting. These were wide, bland roads full of 1930s bungalows, small gardens and garages attached, the occasional caravan in a driveway. This was suburbia close to the sea flanked by a council golf course and a recycling centre. Dorothy looked at the backside of Arthur’s Seat, gentle gorse-laden slopes compared to the steep cliffs of the front, like seeing under the skirts of Edinburgh’s grand old lady.
She checked the address Thomas had given her, 72 Craigentinny Avenue. Grey brick, dormer window at the front, white Ford Ka parked outside. Someone’s perfect little home. Dorothy never got used to the lack of space in Scottish houses. People seemed to be happy with a tiny sliver of land, living on top of each other. Back in Pismo Beach they weren’t exactly rich, but she grew up in a house as big as the Skelf place, sprawling, low-level with new additions jutting out in different directions. In comparison, Scottish houses seemed dour, repressed. Like the people in them, maybe.
She linked her fingers over her heart for a moment, breathed in through her nose and out through her mouth, tried to find her centre. She reminded herself that this woman wasn’t expecting her, it would be a shock. And what the woman had to say might also shock Dorothy.
She opened the black gate, walked up the path and rang the doorbell.
Waited.
Saw movement through the dimpled glass of the door then it was opened by a girl, maybe ten years old, in school uniform, white polo shirt with a maroon cardy. The gold crest on her cardy read ‘Craigentinny’ across the top and ‘I Byde it’ underneath. In between was a hunting horn, what looked like candy canes and an artist’s palette. Dorothy knew enough Scots to know ‘byde’ meant ‘live’, but that didn’t make sense. ‘I live it’, what kind of school motto was that?
She smiled. ‘Hi, what’s your name?’
‘Natalie.’
‘Is your mum or dad in?’
She nodded and turned. ‘Mum.’ This was a holler up the stairs. ‘She’s just coming.’ Natalie stayed at the door staring at the pattern on Dorothy’s blue dress.
Dorothy heard footsteps then the door widened.
Rebecca Lawrence was Jenny’s age, young enough to be Jim’s daughter. Dorothy watched Natalie skip to the living room and tried to keep dark thoughts away. Rebecca was curvy in a way the Skelf women never were. Wide hips, full breasts, round face. If a Skelf woman put on weight she became dumpy, but Rebecca was more sexy than dumpy. Her hair was several shades between blonde and brunette and she was wearing a grey skirt suit, office material. Black tights but no shoes, which felt oddly intimate.
‘Can I help?’ she said. Her accent was at the smarter end of Edinburgh, polite, approachable.
‘Sorry to bother you, my name is Dorothy – Skelf.’
Rebecca’s face tightened at the surname. ‘What do you want?’
‘I want to talk about your husband, Simon.’
‘Simon is dead.’
It sounded like she was still trying to convince herself.
‘So is my husband, a week ago.’ Dorothy touched the wall by the door and a fleck of dust came away. ‘Can I come in?’
Rebecca sighed then stood back, showing Dorothy to the kitchen.
The cabinets and hob were tired, hadn’t been replaced in a long time. A couple of cracks in the floor tiles by the fridge. Natalie’s drawings were stuck on the fridge door with magnets, along with bits of paper about school gymnastics and cheerleading.
Rebecca leaned against the worktop with her arms folded. ‘Well?’
‘This is awkward.’
‘Yes, it is.’
‘We never met when Simon worked for us.’
‘No,’ Rebecca said. ‘He liked to keep work separate. Didn’t want to bring death home with him.’
Dorothy’s home was full of death. ‘I can understand that.’
‘What do you want, Mrs Skelf?’
‘Dorothy, please.’
Rebecca twitched her nose at that as Natalie came in and tugged on her mum’s sleeve. ‘Can I get a snack, please?’
Rebecca glanced down, her body instantly more open and welcoming. ‘In a minute.’
Natalie wandered off again. Dorothy could hear cartoons in the other room.
‘She’s lovely,’ Dorothy said.
‘She’s a handful, like all kids.’
‘And you’ve brought her up yourself.’
‘What is this about?’
Dorothy looked around. Utensils hanging up, a half-full wine rack, Jamie and Nigella cookbooks. ‘Jim died last week, like I said.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that.’
Dorothy waved that away. ‘I’ve been going through some paperwork, Jim’s personal stuff, the business accounts and so on.’
‘Uh-huh.’
The air was suddenly cooler, Dorothy felt her skin prickle with goosebumps.
‘I discovered there have been payments coming from our business into your bank account. Five hundred pounds every month. For years.’
‘That’s right.’
‘I didn’t know anything about it. Would you mind explaining why?’
Rebecca shrugged. ‘It’s Simon’s life assurance.’
Dorothy rubbed at her elbow. ‘We don’t run a life assurance scheme, Rebecca.’
The use of her name seemed to get her back up, like it was too informal, too close.
‘That’s not what your husband said.’
‘When?’
Rebecca closed the kitchen door and the sound of cartoons died. ‘This was years ago, it’s in the past.’
Dorothy touched her temple. ‘With all due respect, it’s not. The money is still coming out of our account.’
‘I told you it’s my life assurance, for Simon.’
‘That doesn’t make sense,’ Dorothy said. ‘Even if we did run a scheme, the money wouldn’t come directly from us, it would come from the insurer.’
‘That’s not what Mr Skelf told me when he came to explain it.’
Dorothy looked around as if Jim’s ghost might jump out of a cupboard. ‘He came here?’
Rebecca nodded. ‘In his suit, with a briefcase. Got me to sign some documents.’
‘What documents?’
Rebecca folded her arms. ‘I don’t remember, legal stuff, it was a decade ago.’
‘Do you have a copy of these documents?’
‘Somewhere, yes.’
‘Can I see them?’
‘No.’
‘I didn’t find any documentation about this amongst our paperwork.’
Rebecca raised her eyebrows. ‘That’s your problem.’
Dorothy rubbed at the bridge of her nose. ‘Maybe you could tell me what happened to your husband.’
‘Maybe you could mind your own business.’
‘I just want to understand,’ Dorothy said. ‘You say he’s dead but that’s not strictly true, is it?’
‘Have you been checking up on me?’
‘Please.’
Rebecca walked to the kettle as if to put it on, but only touched its metal side. ‘He’s dead to me.’
‘He went missing.’
Rebecca leaned against the worktop, this time as if she needed support. ‘I don’t know why you’re digging
this up. He left for work one day and never came back. I phoned Skelf’s in the evening and spoke to your husband, who said Simon never turned up that day. There were no clothes missing, no bags, he didn’t take anything with him. He never accessed our bank account. Just gone.’
‘What did the police say?’
Rebecca laughed, a bitter sound. ‘There’s no law against going missing, thousands do it every year. The implication was that he’d had enough of me.’
‘And your daughter.’
That brought a hard stare. ‘I was pregnant with her when it happened.’
‘Did you try to find him?’
‘How?’
‘Hire a private investigator.’
‘I didn’t have any money.’
‘Did you know Jim was a private investigator as well as a funeral director?’
Rebecca looked at her like she was mad. ‘No.’
Dorothy tried to get it right in her head. It was about that time the investigation business started, so she wasn’t sure whether it was up and running when Simon went missing. Shit, maybe Jim started it because of what happened to Simon, did that make sense? Jim had always told her the PI stuff came about because a bereaved customer from the funeral side wanted to find a long-lost cousin. But Dorothy was starting to doubt everything. Jim definitely lied about Simon, he told Dorothy that Simon just quit, but he told Rebecca that he never showed for work. Why would he lie? Why wouldn’t he offer to look for Simon? Why did he pay Rebecca?
‘Tell me about the life assurance,’ Dorothy said.
‘Jim came here when Simon was declared a missing person. He said Simon had taken out a scheme with the company, that the Skelfs owed me money.’
Dorothy shook her head. ‘You know how weak that sounds.’
Rebecca pushed away from the worktop, arms by her side. ‘You should leave.’
‘I guess you didn’t want to think too much about free money.’
Rebecca opened the kitchen door. ‘Go.’
‘Is that my snack?’ Natalie said from the other room.
‘In a minute,’ Rebecca shouted back.
‘Unless there’s something you’re not telling me.’
Rebecca shook her head. ‘How dare you come here and call me a liar. If you don’t leave right now I’m calling the police.’
A Dark Matter Page 5