‘I’m Jenny Skelf, I help run this business. And we don’t owe you anything, not a penny.’
Rebecca was shaking, her head angled to the side. ‘It was your father who made me sign the paperwork, who set up the payments.’
‘Do you have any of that paperwork?’
Rebecca smiled and reached into her handbag, pulled out some crumpled pages. ‘Too right I do.’
Dorothy took a step towards her. ‘Can I see that?’
Rebecca snatched the papers away. ‘My lawyer will be in touch. I’m going to sue, I’m going to put this place out of business. You won’t even stick to an agreement your dad made. That’s how you honour him.’
‘Don’t you dare speak about honour,’ Jenny said.
‘He promised me.’
‘He lied to you,’ Dorothy said, finding her voice. She looked at Jenny, Indy still hovering in the hallway behind. She avoided looking at the Baxter party, the minister’s face. ‘He lied to all of us.’
Rebecca looked from Jenny to Dorothy and back again. She swallowed hard and spoke to Dorothy. ‘Why did you come back round?’
Dorothy frowned. ‘What?’
‘You came to our house yesterday morning, spoke to my daughter then left. Natalie is traumatised by all this, people talking about her dad.’
‘I’m sorry,’ Dorothy said. She thought about Natalie’s hair fibres in the police lab. ‘I wanted to explain to you in person, but I lost my nerve.’
Jenny narrowed her eyes at Dorothy.
Rebecca lowered her head. ‘Do you know what it’s like?’ She seemed to be talking to herself. ‘To have someone just disappear? Your husband, gone forever.’
Dorothy didn’t know what to say.
Rebecca’s shoulders slumped, all fight gone.
‘A girl needs a father,’ she said.
Dorothy shared a look with Jenny, then reached out and touched Rebecca’s elbow. This time she let herself be led away. Dorothy closed her eyes as she passed Jenny and thought about husbands and wives, fathers and daughters.
28
JENNY
Sunshine and traffic noise, the chatter of Spanish students at the next table. They were sitting outside a Brazilian restaurant on Lothian Street, green-and-yellow flags everywhere, boards advertising cheap tapas and pints of Brahma from Sunday to Wednesday. Orla Hook had a large glass of Shiraz in front of her as she fiddled with her wedding ring. It was lunchtime and the place was busy. Jenny would always know this place as Negotiants, a late-night café in her student days, and an even later club downstairs. It had been one of the few places in town open till 3 a.m. where you didn’t have to pay entry. All the pubs and clubs had changed since she was a teenager, the turnover of styles and décor rolling onward all the time. Across the road was Bristo Square, which had also been transformed and gentrified, surrounded by Edinburgh Uni buildings and full of students soaking up the last sunshine of late summer.
‘Students,’ Orla said, rolling her eyes.
Jenny examined her. Orla was too young to remember the comedy character who used to rage against students. So maybe there was no irony, maybe she just really hated students. Which was interesting, given that she worked in the payroll department of the university on Chambers Street.
‘Don’t you have to work with them all day?’
Orla shook her head. ‘I deal with staff.’ She was hunched forwards, supping her wine like it was bedtime cocoa. ‘You should see what some of these professors get paid for working five hours a week. And the pensions and perks, it’s unbelievable.’
She took another hit of wine as a row of maroon buses went past on the road, blocking their light for a moment. Obviously Edinburgh Uni payroll didn’t mind you working the afternoon half-pissed.
‘So where’s the brown envelope?’ Orla said.
‘What?’
Orla nodded at Jenny’s bag. ‘You’re supposed to give me evidence in a brown envelope, isn’t that how these things work?’
Jenny suddenly realised how nervous Orla must’ve been. Jenny had phoned her at work earlier and Orla arranged this lunchtime meeting. Maybe she was expecting the worst, wanted to get some Dutch courage, as well as time to compose herself.
‘That’s just old movies,’ Jenny said.
Orla’s leg was twitching. ‘Give me the bad news.’
Jenny sipped her gin and tonic. ‘It’s not what you think.’
‘Then what is it?’
‘I followed him. You’re right that he’s not working late.’
Orla glugged wine. ‘Come on.’
‘He left the office on time and went to a studio off Maritime Street.’
‘A studio?’
‘An artists’ studio.’
Orla made a face. ‘I don’t think so.’
‘He stayed there for two hours then went for a drink in The King’s Wark.’
‘Alone?’
Jenny nodded. ‘He spoke to the barmaid for a while.’
‘Like, chatted up?’
Jenny pressed her lips together. ‘No. I went back the next day and spoke to her, she doesn’t know him.’
‘Was he waiting for someone maybe, someone who didn’t show?’
‘It didn’t look like it. He had a drink then left, I followed him to your place around nine o’clock.’
A group of male students strutted past, shoving each other and laughing, one of them swinging a backpack over his head. Kids in sunshine. Orla watched them until they passed.
‘So what is this about a studio?’
Jenny leaned forwards. ‘I went back there yesterday and asked around. Someone knew him.’
‘A woman?’
‘Yes, but I don’t think that’s it.’
‘How do you know?’
‘He has his own room in the place.’
‘I don’t understand.’
Jenny reached into her bag and pulled out the printouts. She’d printed off a few snaps of the paintings. She slid them across the metal table and Orla stared at them.
‘What am I looking at?’
‘Liam’s a painter.’
Orla looked up, eyebrows raised, then down at the printouts. She shuffled between them and Jenny saw some of the shapes, a distorted spine, red and yellow blossoms spindling from either side.
‘You’ve made a mistake.’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘Liam does not have a creative bone in his body.’
Jenny pointed at the pieces of paper. ‘There’s the evidence.’
‘I have never seen him paint in my life.’
‘Nevertheless.’ Jenny sipped her drink.
‘Are you sure he did these?’
Jenny nodded. ‘Pretty sure.’
Orla looked at each of the printouts in turn, gripping them too tight, creasing the paper in the corners. Eventually she put them down and lifted her drink, took a large swig. ‘You’re wrong.’
Jenny reached out and touched the corner of the nearest printout. ‘Why is it so hard for you to believe your husband painted these?’
Orla’s eyes hardened, her body stiff. ‘Have you ever spoken to him?’
‘No.’
‘If you had, you’d know he’s not that kind of man.’
Jenny held her hands out. ‘I don’t know what else to tell you.’
Orla looked at the flow of people along the pavement. The vans and cars, trucks and buses, streaming in and out of town.
‘I want you to keep following him,’ she said eventually.
‘I don’t think there’s much point.’
‘It’s only been two days,’ Orla said. ‘Talk to the barmaid again. Or the other people in this studio, maybe he’s fucking one of them.’
Jenny collected up the printouts as Orla downed the remains of her wine. Her teeth and lips were stained red as she stroked her fringe away from her eyes.
‘I know there’s something else going on,’ she said. ‘This isn’t it.’
Jenny wondered if all her clients would be
like this. Then she wondered at herself for thinking she would have future clients. Then she pictured herself in a mac and hat, passing unmarked envelopes to clients in dark alleyways and dingy bars.
‘OK,’ she said finally. ‘It’s your money.’
‘That’s right,’ Orla said. ‘It’s my money.’
29
HANNAH
East Fettes Avenue was a nice part of town, north of Stockbridge and New Town, wide road, a couple of big churches nearby, Broughton High School across the road and Inverleith Park round the corner. The terraced houses that Hannah parked the hearse outside were expensive for a lecturer’s salary, so his wife had to do something that earned proper money.
She and Dorothy had taken the pictures of Mel to Thomas, who said he would send someone to speak to Peter Longhorn. Hannah asked to tag along but Thomas said that was ridiculous. So she’d dropped Dorothy off, phoned uni payroll pretending to be from HMRC, and got Peter’s address from a nervous lackey.
And here she was. The hearse was noticeable but she didn’t care. About half an hour after she arrived, a police car turned up. Two men got out, one plainclothes the other in uniform, and were invited inside by the pretty wife with the baby cradled in her arm.
That was forty minutes ago. She wondered about the wife and baby. Sleepless nights, loss of sex drive, breast feeding, nappy changes, tantrums and the sudden lack of freedom. Enough to turn a guy away from his exhausted wife to a twenty-year-old student. It didn’t take much for men to fuck around. Hannah thought about all the times some married guy had chatted her up in a bar, even when she was there with Indy, obviously a couple. Oh, to have the confidence of a middle-aged white man, honestly, these guys acted like the world belonged to them.
It was afternoon and the high school was coming out, streams of teenagers in black and white, just the red flashes of their ties marking them out from any other kids in the city. Boys were mucking about and jumping into the road, girls pulling on short skirts and covering their mouths at something outrageous one of their mates said. They all gave the hearse a wide berth, some peeking in wide-eyed and turning away when Hannah held their gaze.
She thought of her own school days, the safety in finding your own small group of friends, bolstering yourselves against the hard world. Hannah’s coming-out was relatively painless and she was grateful for that. Her three best friends were all straight and fine with it, but there was a slight distance afterwards, like they couldn’t talk about boys in front of her, or maybe they worried she was about to jump their bones. On the surface all was fine, she socialised, hung out, went to prom, but she was glad when uni came around and she could start from scratch. Maybe life needed that, the chance every few years to start somewhere new, where no one knows you and you can redefine yourself, untied to the past.
The school kids had thinned out, but still no one came out of the Longhorn house. The front garden was tiny, a lot of them in the row were converted to parking spaces. Somewhere to park your car was prime real estate in this city, Hannah had already pumped umpteen coins into the meter for the privilege of sitting here.
The door of Peter’s house opened and the two cops stepped out. They turned on the doorstep, Peter in the doorway holding the frame, and the three of them smiled, sharing a joke. They talked for a few moments, the body language of new friends, then Peter reached out and shook both their hands.
Hannah got out of the hearse and strode to the house.
‘Hey.’
All of them turned. She could see now that Peter’s wife was in the doorway too, behind him and to the side, supporting him all the way. When Peter saw Hannah he tried to usher his wife inside, but she stood her ground. She was still carrying that bloody baby on her hip.
Hannah turned her attention to the cops. ‘Are you not arresting him?’
The plainclothes guy adjusted his stance. He was about the same age as Longhorn, shorter, broader, his hair already receded from his forehead.
‘Can I help you, Miss?’
‘Why aren’t you arresting him?’ Hannah said, reaching the garden.
‘This is none of your business,’ the cop said.
‘My friend is missing and he had naked pictures of her in his desk.’ She pulled the photographs out of her pocket and waved them as she walked up the path.
The uniformed officer took a step towards her, puffing out his chest. He was in a stab vest, and she imagined picking up a rock from the side of the path and hurling it at his head. Instead she sidestepped him and darted up the steps to the front door.
‘You,’ she said, in Peter’s face now. ‘What do you have to say?’
‘You’ve got a nerve.’ This was his wife, stepping forwards. ‘You broke into his office.’
Peter turned. ‘Emilia, please.’
Hannah thrust the pictures in front of Emilia, the naked one on top. ‘Look.’
Emilia shook her head. The baby in her arms looked like it was about to start crying.
‘He’s explained it to the police,’ Emilia said. ‘She was obsessed with him, stalking him.’
‘And you believe that?’
The woman held her gaze as if testing herself. ‘He wouldn’t lie.’
Peter shifted his weight and put his hands out to take the heat out of everything.
‘What about this?’ Hannah flipped through the pictures, came to the selfie of Peter and Mel.
Peter shook his head. ‘She surprised me with a camera one day in the cafeteria. I couldn’t exactly say no.’
‘You’re on a date,’ Hannah said, pointing.
‘No.’
Hannah waved the pictures. ‘Why did you have these?’
Peter looked embarrassed. ‘She sent them to me, I didn’t know what to do with them.’
Emilia leaned out of the house.
‘Get away from my family,’ she said under her breath.
‘I think we’ve had quite enough.’ This was the plainclothes guy.
Hannah turned to him. ‘I can’t fucking believe this.’
The cop nodded at the pictures in her hand. ‘Those don’t prove anything and they were obtained illegally.’
‘But they’re suspicious as hell.’
Emilia spoke to the cops. ‘Get this bitch away from our house, she’s dangerous.’
‘Emilia, please,’ Peter said.
‘She’s probably obsessed with Peter too.’
Hannah took a step towards her. ‘I beg your pardon.’
She felt the uniform cop holding her arm, pulling at her.
‘Get the fuck off me,’ she hissed behind her. She tried to shake him off but he held firm.
Emilia was in her face now. ‘Just another silly student with a crush.’
Hannah raised her hand and brought it down on Emilia’s cheek so hard that the woman almost lost balance, bumping into the doorframe with the baby, who screamed, tears in her eyes and snot from her nose.
Hannah stood there breathing heavily, her body shaking with adrenaline.
Emilia slowly righted herself, put her hand to her reddened cheek, then smiled at Hannah.
‘I want her arrested for assault,’ she said.
Hannah felt her other arm being grabbed by the uniformed cop and pulled behind her. She looked at the faces in front of her and tried to think of a time before all this, as the cop shoved her down the steps towards the police car.
30
JENNY
‘Cheers.’
She smiled at Craig across the table. She was mad at herself for being here but it also felt comfortable. She looked round the beer garden of The Pear Tree, full of students, leftover tourists and what she would’ve called crusties back in the day, not homeless exactly, but happy living on the edge of things. There were a lot fewer crusties than there used to be, the subculture either moving on or disappearing altogether as the world became more uniform.
She turned back to Craig.
‘What are we doing, Mr McNamara?’ she said.
‘Just having
a drink, Ms Skelf.’ He sipped his pint.
She drank from her double gin. ‘Really?’
He bowed his head in mock reverence. ‘And I’m saying sorry by buying the drinks.’
She shook her head.
After meeting Orla she’d wandered around Teviot and Southside wired from the lunchtime booze, soaking up the sun, watching the students. In her head she was still Hannah’s age, but that delusion was busted every time she caught her reflection in a shop window. Walking amongst the energy of these kids, Hannah’s contemporaries, made her feel young again.
She’d sat in the Meadows, the grass still a little damp despite the sunshine, and watched young parents with toddlers in the play park. So now she was the creepy middle-aged woman hanging around the play park. She missed that time with Hannah, being needed. Larkin got it wrong, it wasn’t your parents who fucked you up, it was your kids. They need you for everything, make themselves the focus of your entire world, then the years slip away and they don’t need you anymore, and you have a gaping hole in your heart where your life used to be. And she didn’t even have a husband to share that emptiness with.
She’d walked back to the house and there was Craig standing at the front door, about to knock, with a beautiful orange orchid in his hand.
So here they were, drinking in the late afternoon as a wasp sniffed around the sticky rings their drinks made on the table.
‘Shouldn’t you be at work?’ Jenny said.
‘I left early.’
‘What about Fiona?’
‘What about her?’
‘The two of you work together, where did you say you were going?’
He frowned as if the question was stupid. ‘I told her I was coming to see you.’
‘Really?’
‘We don’t keep secrets from each other.’
As soon as he said it he looked sheepish. He and Fiona sure as hell kept their affair secret when he was still married to Jenny. He lifted his Stella to his lips to cover his embarrassment.
She couldn’t help it. ‘That must be nice for the two of you.’
A Dark Matter Page 14