Dorothy looked out of the window. They were on the second floor of the house, in the studio, small windows and soundproofing but better views than downstairs in the kitchen. The jagged teeth of the castle sloped into the mess of the Old Town, the glass spread of Quartermile in front, glinting in the sun, Viewforth Church close by, puncturing the tree line of the park.
Abi overreached again, making Dorothy turn. The girl looked sheepish, realised what she’d done, which was half the battle. A boy her age would’ve blundered through, expecting the song to catch up with him. Abi realised that less was more, she just hadn’t quite got it in practice yet, but that would come. You don’t have to fill all the space in a song, nine times out of ten it’s better with room to breathe. But that’s a hard lesson to take on board at any age, let alone as a hormonal teenager.
Dorothy thought of herself as a hormonal teen, her second-hand Pearl drum kit set up in the den, bashing away, drumming along to The Kinks and MC5. Her parents had been open-minded about all that stuff, although they never pretended to understand her obsession. It was a crazy time for music, The Beatles and The Stones, of course, but she’d always liked the more underground stuff, and that continued over the years.
She remembered Jim’s face when she said she wanted to get a drum kit set up in the top floor of the house. She’d been in Scotland for two years at that point and was missing Pismo Beach like crazy, and she needed some way to connect to her sun-soaked adolescence. Jim understood that. And once the kit was there, it wasn’t much of a stretch to think about teaching. She was good enough, there was hardly anyone else doing it, and it was decent extra income. It was the early seventies by then, so loads of kids were getting into their own rock bands, and Dorothy loved helping them, keeping up to date with music trends at the same time. It was healthy, the physical exercise of it, making her as strong as the yoga kept her supple. And it was a mirror of that meditation too, losing yourself to something bigger.
And new students kept turning up, despite drum machines and rave music and all the rest. The money was useful, of course, but the sense of identity was more important, giving her something outside of the death business that was hers alone.
The song finished and Abi sat back, the tip of her tongue between her teeth. She was tall for her age, long legs in denim shorts and wearing a baggy white T-shirt that read ‘Feminist as Fuck’ with roses tangled in the lettering. Her face was greasy with sweat and she looked at Dorothy for approval.
‘You know, don’t you?’ Dorothy said.
Abi nodded. She was growing confident, Dorothy loved that.
‘Lost it in the middle,’ Abi said. ‘Too much.’
‘It sounded great, though. You’re really nailing the floor tom in the verses.’
Abi grinned. It was so easy to make a kid feel good.
Dorothy looked at the clock on the wall. ‘OK, that’s us for this week.’
Abi put the sticks down and untangled herself from behind the kit. It was a beautiful sunburst vintage Ludwig, shallow toms and snare but still packing a punch. Dorothy was a little embarrassed at how much she loved the kit. It was a material thing, after all, but the craft that went into it and the purpose it served made it something more.
‘Thanks, Mrs S,’ Abi said. ‘And, you know, sorry about Mr S.’
Dorothy paused for a moment. ‘See you next week, Abi, and remember to listen to some of Janet Weiss’s other band, Quasi, she really lets herself off the leash with them.’
Abi pointed both her fingers at Dorothy like guns then left, and Dorothy stood in silence. She got behind the kit, picked up the sticks and started a country shuffle, throwing in offbeats and trills. She swung it onto the ride, opened her body, splashed around the cymbals and toms every few bars. She was trying to feel what Abi felt a few minutes ago, but all she could think about was Jim lying in ashes two floors beneath her, Rebecca Lawrence and her missing husband and ten-year-old daughter, all the money Jim paid her over the years, the secrets that money represented. Her drum fills now were too much, trying too hard, exactly what she told Abi not to do. But she did it anyway, trying to lose control, trying to lose any sense of herself and feel part of something bigger than her own stupid worries.
It didn’t work.
People never thought about how hard it was to dress a corpse. The pants were relatively easy, but even then, getting one leg in then the other was a pain. The bra was a fiddle, rolling Gina’s body onto her side so Dorothy could fasten it up the back. The tights were the hardest part, lifting and turning, squeezing and massaging. It was a two-person job, and while she and Archie had it sussed, it was still a hassle. Gina was to wear a red dress, but the material was sheer and Dorothy worried it might catch on one of the staples that pinned the lining to the coffin when they tried to get her in. They did the arms of the dress first with her lying down, then sat her up and pulled the dress over her head and down her back. They laid her down, then Archie lifted the small of her back as Dorothy pulled the dress over her bum, straightening out the hem at her knees, adjusting the straps at the shoulders and bust, making everything symmetrical.
Archie had already done her make-up and hair before Dorothy arrived and he’d done a good job as always, she looked close to the pictures they had propped by the embalming table. Dorothy wriggled Gina’s feet into the red heels, thinking about how she would never take them off again, never feel the relief of freeing herself from the straps after a night out. She put in the small hoop earrings, feeling the cold of Gina’s earlobes, brushing a stray thread from the dress away from her lips.
Archie wheeled the coffin over on the gurney and ran his hand around the inside, checking for splinters or staples, rough bits on the lining. He lowered the gurney until the opening was at the same level as the embalming table. They stood at either end of Gina’s body and put their hands under her armpits and knees.
‘One, two, three,’ Dorothy said, and they lifted her sideways into the box on three, lowering her slowly. Dorothy sorted the dress, which had ridden up on one side, straightened Gina’s feet, placed her hands together in her lap and ran a finger up her arm to her collarbone. Archie had successfully covered the marks on her neck, you could only see them if you looked very close.
‘She looks peaceful,’ Dorothy said. ‘You did a good job.’
‘Thanks.’ He put away the bag her clothes came in, began wiping down the table.
Dorothy placed the lid on the coffin and wheeled the gurney from the embalming room to the main house, through the connecting corridor and past Indy on the front desk, then into the viewing room.
Indy followed her and helped get the coffin off the gurney and onto the table in the middle of the room. Simple white cloth, tall vases of lilies either side, blinds throwing subdued sunlight across it all. Two armchairs and a small dresser with a box of tissues on it, a painting of a sunset on the wall.
‘Ms O’Donnell, right?’ Indy said.
‘Gina, yes.’
Dorothy looked at Indy. They both knew how Gina had died and shared an unspoken sadness. But it doesn’t matter how you die, Dorothy thought, it matters how you live.
‘Are you conducting the funeral?’ Indy asked.
Dorothy nodded.
‘Need any help?’
‘Archie and I have this one covered.’ Dorothy touched Indy on the arm. ‘Don’t worry, I still want you to step up.’
‘I wasn’t worried.’
Dorothy lifted off the coffin lid and checked Gina hadn’t moved in transit. She still looked the same, pale skin against a red dress.
‘She looks good,’ Indy said.
‘Archie knows what he’s doing.’
Indy straightened the hem of Gina’s dress, fluffed up some of the coffin lining around the edges. She had a good eye for detail. She’d been very precise about her own parents’ funeral, something that could’ve been taken for coldness, but Dorothy knew otherwise. It was a way of keeping control when chaos has taken over your life.
‘
I remember when we first met,’ Dorothy said. ‘I was very impressed with you.’
Indy looked up. ‘How so?’
‘It was obviously a very difficult time.’
Indy angled her head in acknowledgement.
‘But you had a stillness about you,’ Dorothy said. ‘You’ve always been very centred.’
‘I didn’t feel like that at all,’ Indy said. ‘I felt lost. But you found me.’
Dorothy smiled. ‘You found yourself. You just needed a point in the right direction.’
Indy shook her head and looked down at Gina in the coffin. She reached out and put a finger to her neck, where Archie had covered the belt mark.
Dorothy remembered the young woman Indy was when she arrived at the Skelf house to arrange her parents’ funeral. Her hair was bright red back then, and while her face was flushed and puffy from crying, there was something meticulous and centred about her, even amongst the pain. She was studying psychology at Napier Uni but said she saw no point in continuing. She wanted to know how people worked, but the car accident that took her parents on a wet road at night made it clear that everything was just random, from the cradle to the grave and beyond, if you believed in that. Indy had never believed, she told Dorothy, despite her Hindu heritage, but her parents didn’t mind, and allowed her to choose her own path without friction. Once they were gone, she was even more free to choose her own path, but there seemed no point, no purpose anymore. Dorothy was worried and stayed in touch, as she often did with the younger bereaved, and when she realised Indy was serious about quitting her studies, she stepped in with a job offer.
‘It was more than that and you know it,’ Indy said. ‘I was a wreck. You changed my life, Dorothy. I mean, obviously it still hurts, thinking about Mum and Dad, having to live on without them. But I have a purpose here now. I have Hannah. I wouldn’t have had any of that if it wasn’t for you.’
‘You’re a natural here,’ Dorothy said. ‘You’re brilliant with the clients. They all adore you.’
‘I like to help people.’
Dorothy nodded. ‘That’s what I mean. And you’re great for Hannah, too.’
‘She’s great for me.’
It was said matter-of-fact, but true all the same.
Something occurred to Dorothy. ‘Has Melanie turned up yet?’
Indy frowned and shook her head. ‘Han was talking to her brother earlier, and Jenny was down at uni speaking to a tutor.’
‘She’ll turn up,’ Dorothy said.
‘I’m not so sure,’ Indy said.
‘What makes you say that?’
‘Just a feeling,’ Indy said. ‘I know Han laughs at things like intuition, for her it’s all black and white, logical and factual. But I have a bad feeling about Mel.’
‘We shouldn’t ignore intuition,’ Dorothy said. ‘It’s just a kind of knowledge we don’t fully understand yet.’
The phone rang out at reception and Indy left to deal with it.
Dorothy straightened one of Gina’s feet, which was pointing out a little, turned her leg slightly, then rested her hand on Gina’s hands. She stared at her for a long time then eventually turned away and pulled her phone out of her pocket. She pressed call and waited. She’d looked up ‘byde’ in her Scots dictionary when she came home from Craigentinny, as well as ‘live’ it meant ‘endure’. So Natalie’s school motto was ‘I endure it’. That seemed about right.
‘Hello, Royal Bank of Scotland, Hardeep speaking, how can I help?’
‘I want to cancel a direct debit from my business account,’ Dorothy said.
It was done in less than a minute and Dorothy hung up. So easy to sever a link to the past.
Indy popped her head round the door. ‘There’s a Jacob Glassman on the phone, insisting on speaking to Jim about a case.’
Dorothy went to reception and picked up the phone.
‘Hello?’
‘To whom am I speaking?’
‘This is Dorothy Skelf.’
‘I want to speak to Mr Skelf.’
Dorothy swallowed. ‘Mr Skelf is no longer with us.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘He’s dead.’
‘Oh.’ His voice was posh Edinburgh with a tiny hint of Eastern Europe, and he sounded old.
‘Can I help?’ Dorothy said.
‘Mr Skelf had an appointment to visit me yesterday.’
Dorothy remembered something, Jacob Glassman’s name on the PI whiteboard upstairs, alongside another name she couldn’t remember.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I’m taking over all Jim’s cases, how can I help?’
‘It’s rather delicate,’ Jacob said, lowering his voice. ‘I can’t talk about it just now, she’s here.’
‘Who is?’
‘Susan, of course.’ This was a whisper.
The other name on the board, Susan Somebody.
She heard him clear his throat down the line. ‘Perhaps you could visit me later today?’
‘I’m not sure,’ Dorothy said.
‘Mr Skelf already cashed my first cheque as down payment.’
She hoped there was a file upstairs in the office with a few details written down.
He coughed again. ‘She’ll be out at 2 p.m., is that convenient?’
Dorothy touched her forehead, caught the scent of the chrysanthemums on the desk. ‘Remind me of your address?’
15
JENNY
St Leonards Police Station was an eighties-built, orange-brick block crouching in the shadow of Salisbury Crags. It formed an L shape along two intersecting roads, large glass frontage, revolving doors and dark-blue trim everywhere. Jenny wondered how many people were in the cells right now, what they’d done, if they felt hard done by. She’d visited the police station once before when she was a Napier student in the mid-nineties. She was groped in the queue for an indie club at Espionage on Victoria Street at two in the morning, a hand up her skirt and into her pants, and when she kicked up a fuss she was punched in the face by one of the guy’s mates. The bouncers made sure they hadn’t seen anything. When she got to the station the officers on duty struggled to hide smug smiles. Dressed like that, you deserve what you get. The disgust was palpable. She hoped things would be different now if Hannah had to report abuse, but she doubted it.
‘Shall we?’ Dorothy said.
Jenny followed her mum through the doors into reception. Dorothy asked for Thomas Olsson at the desk then stood playing with the strap of her leather handbag. It was more of a satchel really, a practical thing with buckles.
‘Are you OK?’ Jenny said.
Dorothy nodded but she looked worried. Jenny felt something powerful, seeing her mum like that. It was never easy, seeing your parents’ power diminish, realising all their frailties and foibles. Realising that they’re just ordinary people struggling to get by like the rest of us.
Jenny had returned to Greenhill Gardens earlier, still shaking with adrenaline from her encounter with Bradley. What the hell was happening to her? If that had been the other way round, she would’ve been shouting about sexual assault. But there was something about his attitude that made the red mist descend. It didn’t take the world’s best shrink to realise Craig had fucked up her attitude to men, but that was so long ago, why was it rearing up again now? She had to keep a lid on it.
When she’d got home from Kings Buildings, she found Mum in the garden staring at the charred site of the funeral pyre. Dorothy explained about the payments, Rebecca in Craigentinny, her daughter. The implication was clear, either Jim was involved with Rebecca, or Rebecca was his daughter, or maybe Natalie was his daughter. Maybe he had something to do with Simon’s disappearance. Either way, he was a liar. He’d lied to his wife, kept secrets from his family, and given away thousands of pounds of their money. Of course, with Dorothy’s unfaithful past, she couldn’t claim too much moral high ground. But at least she hadn’t lied, Jenny supposed. As far as Jenny knew.
Dorothy was playing with a bracele
t on her wrist, three colourful strands intertwined and held together by a small button with an eye on it. Hannah made it for her years ago, and Jenny couldn’t believe Dorothy still had it. She tried to think if she had anything Hannah made at school, the necklaces and keychains, paintings, random collections of stones and sticks, painted and stuck together in the name of art.
Two police officers in bulky stab-proof vests came in through the revolving door carrying coffees and went through to the back. The woman at the front desk smiled at them.
Jenny spoke to Dorothy. ‘Remind me how you met Thomas?’
Dorothy smiled. ‘Same way we meet anyone, we did his wife’s funeral.’
‘But you knew him from yoga before that.’
‘He comes to class on a Tuesday.’
‘A cop doing yoga?’
‘What of it?’
‘Did Dad know you were friends?’
Dorothy paused at that. ‘What are you implying?’
Jenny shook her head. ‘Nothing, I just wondered.’
‘What century is this?’ Dorothy said. ‘A woman can be friends with a man.’
‘Sure.’
Dorothy shook her head. ‘Not that it’s any of your business, but yes, your dad knew I was friends with Thomas. He didn’t have a problem with it.’
The door from the back office opened and a tall black man in a fitted suit appeared.
‘Dorothy, good to see you,’ he said, his accent a mishmash of Scottish and Nordic. ‘Come on through.’
‘This is my daughter, Jenny.’ She turned to Jenny. ‘And this is Thomas.’
A Dark Matter Page 7