She walked round the sink and table, inhaling the turps and paint fumes which reminded her of DIY, doing up the flat in Porty with Craig before Hannah was born, sheets covering the floorboards, the pair of them full of optimism.
She returned to the pictures in the middle of the room. They were very good. She looked around. There was nothing in here but painting equipment, no desk or drawers, no laptop, nothing perverse. So this was it, his dirty secret was that he was a talented artist? It didn’t make sense. She looked at the damaged door, sucked in the paint smell one last time, then turned and left.
25
HANNAH
She stared at the name on his door. ‘Longhorn’ made her think of someone boasting about his big dick, and she tried to shake an image of a naked Peter Longhorn, massive penis hanging down to his knees.
She knocked on the door, no answer. She knocked again just in case, cleared her throat. She tried the handle and the door opened. She breathed then went inside and closed the door behind her.
The trusting nature of academia. She imagined burglars walking into the building and going through the offices like locusts, stripping the place of everything electrical, phones, laptops, Kindles, iPads, all into a giant van.
Peter Longhorn’s office was small and tidy, a narrow window with a view west of grey brick and white-framed windowpanes. Posters for symposiums and conferences on the walls, a framed picture on the desk of a woman in her early thirties smiling and holding a baby who was fumbling with a melting ice-cream cone, bib around her neck and sunhat on. The woman in the picture was pretty, blonde hair in a mess, flowery blouse askew with one hand tight on the baby’s rump.
Hannah scanned the room – piles of papers, textbooks, journals, scientific dictionaries. She went to his desk, cheap chipboard and plastic moulded corners. There were locks on each drawer but they all opened.
The top drawers were full of pens and Post-its, other people’s business cards. She went through them, doctors and professors from other institutions, nothing obviously weird. She flipped through notebooks full of equations and diagrams. Next drawer down was more paperwork, brown folders full of essays and exam scripts, all marked. She lifted them out and felt around at the back of the drawer space, nothing. Put them back. The final drawer had conference and laboratory brochures, ranging from pamphlets to thick, glossy prospectuses. She pulled them out and riffled the pages, seeing if anything fell out. Nothing. She shoved her hand into the empty drawer, her fingers shifting dust as she felt around. And touched something.
She pulled them out. Three photographs with wide white borders, like from those retro instant cameras. She flipped them over in a trembling hand and stared. The first was a picture of Melanie lying on a hotel bed wearing black lingerie that Hannah hadn’t seen before. It wasn’t in her drawer back at the flat. Mel was smiling at the camera, propped on an elbow, her other hand on her smooth thigh. Hannah stared, tried to make sense of it, then she looked at the next one. Mel naked in a shower, hands running through her hair, eyes wide and grinning, eyebrows raised as if asking the photographer what they thought they were playing at. The shower was standard hotel décor, grey tiles and white surrounds. Hannah stared at the mole under Mel’s left breast then back at her face. She turned to the third picture. A selfie. Mel and Peter Longhorn, cheeks pushed together, faces filling the frame, relaxed and happy, a slight pout on Mel’s lips, a look of contentment in both their eyes. All Hannah could see in the background was a sliver of white tablecloth and the glare of a candle. A restaurant somewhere.
Hannah sat down in Peter’s chair and stared at the pictures, thinking. Then she shook her head, pocketed them, put the brochures back and left.
‘Holy crap,’ Indy said.
‘I know, right?’
They stood in the kitchenette of the flat, the smell of veggie lasagne coming from the oven. Indy held the photos in her hand, switching between them.
‘This is crazy,’ she said.
‘Yep.’
‘How did we not know?’
Hannah shook her head.
‘I mean, she was either here or with Xander or studying, right?’ Indy said.
‘Apparently not.’ Hannah took the photos from her.
‘He’s her lecturer.’
‘And mine.’
Indy touched Hannah’s arm. ‘So where do you think she is?’
‘I don’t know.’ Hannah felt bad that the naked picture was at the top, so she switched it for the selfie.
Indy pointed at the pictures. ‘This guy must know.’
‘I tried to find him but he wasn’t anywhere. He was supposed to have a first-year lecture this afternoon, never showed.’
‘You think he’s done a runner?’
‘He’s got a wife and baby.’
‘All the more reason to hide, if he has something to do with Mel going missing.’
‘He has to be behind it.’
‘So you need to go to the police.’
Hannah sighed. ‘I didn’t exactly get these legitimately.’
Indy rubbed her arm. ‘That doesn’t matter, it’s evidence.’
‘Not evidence they can use in court.’
‘They can use it to squeeze him.’
Hannah pursed her lips. ‘It’s only proof that he was seeing her, nothing more.’
‘Come on,’ Indy said.
‘That’s what he’ll say, what the police will say.’
Indy leaned over and switched the oven off, reached for the oven gloves. She lifted the lasagne onto the worktop then dropped the gloves. It smelled beautiful but Hannah felt sick at the thought of eating.
Indy nodded at the pictures again.
‘So go to a friendly cop,’ she said. ‘Speak to Dorothy’s friend.’
26
JENNY
It was only four days ago they sat at this table drinking whisky for her dead dad, but it felt like weeks, months. A totally different life now, this was home. She’d had several angry phone messages from her ex-landlord in Portobello. She was living back at her childhood home, working as a funeral director and private investigator, how the hell had that happened? But she knew why, the reasons were in the room with her.
Hannah stood at the PI whiteboard, now covered in scribbles, lines, queries and pictures. She’d printed out pictures of Mel, Vic and Xander that she got from Mel’s phone, then mugshots of Bradley and Peter from the physics department website. The lines between Melanie’s photo at the top and the others below were marked with phrases like ‘dick pics’, ‘quantum club’, ‘second phone’. Hannah held the three Polaroid pictures in her fist, fanned out like playing cards.
‘It’s enough for the police to get involved.’ She looked at Dorothy.
Dorothy eased out of her chair and walked to the board, whisky glass held lazily in her hand like it was too heavy. Amber liquid sloshed to the rim then settled as she lifted it and sipped. Jenny had never seen her mum drink like this, it wasn’t a good sign.
Dorothy squinted at the whiteboard then took the pictures from Hannah. She flicked through them, stopping at the shower one the longest, then handed them back.
‘I’ll speak to Thomas,’ she said.
Hannah raised her eyebrows. ‘I want to talk to him, it’s my case.’
Her case, thought Jenny, this is who they were now.
Dorothy nodded like it was the most normal thing in the world. ‘I’ll set it up.’
Jenny felt the burn as she sipped her whisky. ‘You think this lecturer knows where Mel is?’
Hannah waved the pictures. ‘He knows more than he’s telling, that’s for sure, it’s too big of a coincidence.’
Jenny blinked, felt the heaviness of her eyelids. ‘And she never said anything to you about seeing him?’
‘Nothing,’ Hannah said, shaking her head.
‘What about the others?’
Hannah turned to the board, pointed at Bradley. ‘We know this guy’s a perv.’ She tapped Xander. ‘And this guy’s kind of s
leazy.’ Then she waved the Polaroids again. ‘But this is something else.’
Jenny looked out of the window. It was dark, just the trail of footpath lights stretching across the park. A couple were walking close, hugging each other, two lads coming the other way passing a beer can back and forth. An old man shuffled along with a Labrador beside him.
‘Mel has some lovely men around her,’ she said.
Dorothy turned and wavered. She seemed drunk. ‘Don’t we all.’
Jenny stared at her.
‘What does that mean?’ Hannah said.
Dorothy waved her drink around. ‘Your grandpa was lying to me for years.’
Jenny stared at the table as Dorothy explained to Hannah about the money, Rebecca and her daughter, Simon missing for years.
Silence as Jenny dug her fingernail into the grain of the wood.
‘So Grandpa was sleeping with her?’
Dorothy gave an exaggerated shrug. ‘It certainly puts one’s grief into perspective.’
Jenny stretched her neck. ‘We don’t know anything for sure.’
‘We know he lied.’ Dorothy fixed her eyes on Jenny. ‘It’s hard for you, he’s your dad, and he was my husband. But we can’t be blind to these things.’
‘Don’t you think you’ve had enough to drink?’ Jenny said.
Dorothy swallowed hard. ‘I’m your mother.’
‘I’m just saying.’
‘The number of times I had to pick you up off the floor as a teenager, off your head.’
‘That’s a long time ago, Mum.’
‘I never understood your constant need to fuck yourself up,’ Dorothy said.
‘Gran,’ Hannah said.
Silence in the room.
Eventually Jenny spoke. ‘Anyway, like I said, we don’t know anything about Dad for sure.’
‘We will,’ Dorothy said.
Hannah frowned. ‘How do you mean?’
Dorothy looked from one to the other of them. ‘I gave Thomas DNA samples to compare.’
Jenny sat up. ‘Samples from who?’
‘Your dad and the Lawrence girl.’
Hannah sucked her teeth. ‘How did you get a DNA sample from a girl you’ve only met once?’
Dorothy finished her drink. ‘I went back and got it.’
‘How?’ Jenny said.
Dorothy turned, her gaze steely this time. ‘I just did.’
Jenny drank. ‘Christ.’
Silence for a moment broken by Schrödinger purring as he came in the room. He approached Dorothy then went to play with the bottom of the curtains.
Hannah spoke to Jenny. ‘Speaking of lovely men, how’s your adultery case?’
Jenny stared at her drink then smiled. ‘He’s an artist.’
‘What?’
She pulled her phone out of her pocket and went to the camera roll. She got up and handed it to Hannah, who flicked through them.
‘He goes to a studio after work,’ Jenny said. ‘And paints these.’
‘How did you get into his studio?’ Dorothy said.
Jenny pictured kicking the door in and felt a twinge of shame, heat rushing to her face. Was this who she was now? Angry and violent, barrelling her way through life.
‘A sculptor let me in to look around. I said I was interested in renting a space.’
‘They’re cool,’ Hannah said, tapping Jenny’s phone screen.
‘I know.’
Hannah passed the phone to Dorothy. ‘And that’s it?’
‘So far. He goes for a drink afterwards at the shore in Leith. Chats to the barmaid, but not chatting her up as far as I can tell.’
‘And his wife doesn’t know?’ Dorothy said.
‘This is his dirty little secret, apparently.’
‘Why would he not tell his wife?’ Dorothy said.
Jenny took the phone back and looked through the paintings. A tree made of spinal vertebrae, fingers for fronds, merging into alien floral structures.
‘Maybe he’s shy,’ she said. ‘Or scared of ridicule.’
‘Are you going to tell her?’ Dorothy said.
‘I haven’t decided yet,’ Jenny said. ‘I want to stay on him a bit more, see if there’s anything else.’
It was only as she said it that she realised it was true. There was something about Liam that interested her, apart from the paintings. She thought about all the men in Mel’s life, her own ex-husband cheating on her. Liam was just another guy, of course. But maybe he wasn’t. If you think every guy is the same, doesn’t that condemn them to being so in your eyes? She was going round in circles. And if you dug deep enough couldn’t you find some dirt, something you didn’t like about anyone, including yourself?
She thought about her dad, the lies Dorothy thought he’d told. She remembered once when she was ten, she was playing aimlessly in the storeroom out back when she knocked over one of the boxes of unclaimed cremation remains. She stood and stared at the ashes spread across the floor, then walked out to the garden and kept playing, cartwheels on the grass, a skipping game. Later her dad wandered out and confronted her about the mess and she lied, felt the rush of blood to her cheeks, such a giveaway. Instead of shouting at her, he lowered his voice, always a bad sign, and gave her a pep talk about the importance of honesty and taking responsibility for your mistakes. She felt her cheeks flush again now as she remembered it, and thought about Jim’s honesty, whether he had taken responsibility for his actions.
She looked up. ‘What about your old guy in the Hermitage?’
Dorothy shrugged. ‘We’ll see what the cameras throw up but I’m not convinced. My gut tells me he’s imagining it.’
Hannah frowned. ‘He seemed pretty sharp to me.’
‘Maybe.’
Dorothy went to the other whiteboard and looked at the funeral jobs. Gina O’Donnell had been wiped away, cremated and gone. There were still four names up there, one body to pick up, two in the fridges downstairs and a fourth in the viewing room, ready for tomorrow’s ceremony.
Jenny saw William Baxter’s name, the call she’d taken. He was in the fridge. She thought of him, cold and naked. She pictured herself crawling into the adjacent slot in the fridge, lying down in the cool air, slowing her metabolism until there was nothing to measure, no heartbeat or pulse, no brainwaves or thoughts, nothing left of her except dead cells and lifeless matter.
27
DOROTHY
The Church of Scotland minister didn’t seem to know anything about William Baxter. Dorothy knew more from Jenny’s scribbled notes a few days ago. There were two dozen people at the service in the Skelfs’ chapel, William’s widow stoic and quiet at the front, flanked by two sons, their wives and three grandchildren. The rest were elderly, in various states of decay, many walking sticks and a mobility scooter parked at the back. Dorothy felt the age of her bones. She closed her eyes and thought of those Pismo barbecues, school dances, picnics and fairgrounds, car trips and flirtations with boys, then Jim, her big, daft Scottish boy appearing and changing everything. She looked out of the window to where they’d burned his body, not even a week ago.
She stared at the back of Mrs Baxter’s head. They had this in common, left behind by the men they loved, the men they thought loved them. Left behind to find out all the nasty secrets, to float rudderless on a sea of grief, lies and bullshit. Dorothy swallowed and took a deep breath, looked at the leaves shimmering in the breeze outside.
There was a disturbance outside the chapel door, voices raised. The minister hesitated, looked up from his notes. Mrs Baxter turned to her son, who shrugged then gave Dorothy a hard stare. Dorothy moved towards the door. Her hand was almost on the handle when the door flew open and clattered against the wall, denting the plaster.
‘How fucking dare you.’
Rebecca Lawrence was hard-faced and fuming, shaking off an apologetic Indy as she gripped the door handle with red knuckles.
‘I’m so sorry,’ Indy said.
‘It’s OK,’ Dorothy said. She turned
to Rebecca, nodding behind her at the Baxter funeral service. ‘Maybe we could go somewhere private.’
Rebecca let go of the door handle and came into the room, pushing past Dorothy.
‘No,’ she said. ‘I want everyone to know what a nasty piece of work you are.’
‘This isn’t appropriate,’ Dorothy said.
The Baxters and friends were staring, William’s widow confused, the sons with faces like thunder.
‘I’ll tell you what’s not appropriate,’ Rebecca said. ‘Coming to my house and raking over my husband’s death. I grieved for that bastard twice, when he went missing and when I had to declare him dead. And now you come round making accusations, suggesting I’m screwing you out of money.’
‘I never said that.’
‘You said I wasn’t due anything from my husband’s life assurance.’
‘There was no life assurance,’ Dorothy said.
She reached out and tried to touch Rebecca on the elbow but the other woman shook her off.
‘And now my bank tells me you’ve cancelled the payments.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘I’m a single parent with a ten-year-old daughter, what am I supposed to do?’
‘Please leave.’
The voice from the doorway made Dorothy turn. Jenny was in her funeral outfit, her fists balled, strands of hair falling from her ponytail.
Rebecca turned, wide-eyed. ‘What did you say?’
‘You heard me,’ Jenny said, stepping into the room.
‘Who the hell are you?’
A Dark Matter Page 13