A Dark Matter

by Doug Johnstone

  She went to the desk, pulled out the drawers and dumped them on the floor, sifted her hands through the stationery, not even thinking what she might find, just hoping the universe would guide her fingers, though she knew that was ridiculous. She was frantic, throwing junk behind her, getting her fingers into the corners of the drawers, tipping them over to check underneath because she’d seen a TV show once where someone had a secret key taped under their desk drawer. But there was nothing, just a crude drawing of a cock and balls that some moron must’ve done years ago.

  She went to the wardrobe, flicked through dresses and blouses, taking each off the hanger and frisking it down like an airport security guard, throwing it onto the pile in the middle of the room. Skirts and trousers next, then shoes, checking nothing was hidden inside. She imagined using the Force like in Star Wars, closing her eyes and having a crucial clue drift across the room from a secret hiding place and into her hand. She closed her eyes for a moment and put her arms out, then felt immensely stupid when she opened them and looked at her empty hands.

  She looked around the chaos of the room. Just the chest of drawers left. She pulled all three drawers out and threw them on the floor. Tights and bras, T-shirts and pyjamas, hoodies, leggings and jumpers, nothing unusual or out of place. All of it dumped behind her in the mound with bedding and other clothes, trainers and heels, everything Mel owned in a pile of pointless nothing. Hannah sat on the edge of the pile and imagined turning it into a funeral pyre, placing a lit match against the flimsiest blouse, lighting up all of Mel’s life and burning down the flat in the process.

  She stared around her for a long time, thinking. Then she spotted something, a small piece of paper poking from underneath the empty suitcase that had been under the bed. She closed her eyes, breathed, opened them and reached for the paper. She unfolded it carefully. It was a receipt for a pay-as-you-go phone, purchased from Carphone Warehouse on Princes Street two months ago.

  Hannah looked at the paper then around at the mess.

  The Force is strong in this one, she thought.

  35

  DOROTHY

  Jim always told her that sun-drenched funerals didn’t feel right, especially in Scotland, but any chance to have warmth on her skin was bliss for Dorothy. Craigmillar Castle Park Cemetery was the newest in the city, a languorous spread of gentle slopes hiding between the Inch Park football pitches and the fourteenth-century castle at the top of the hill. It was neatly mown with some fenced-off tree nurseries, the sapling beech trees already bent over from the wind that ripped over the hill most days.

  Today was breezy and warm, bees sniffing at the flowers on the graves, a pair of rabbits with their tails bobbing in the long grass of the adjacent field. At the bottom of the slope was the area set aside for children’s graves, including those who were stillborn or died soon after birth. Dorothy had done a few of those funerals, heartbreaking for everyone, and she never felt she managed to help the bereaved parents. One grave down there had a scan photo pinned to the gravestone next to a cuddly duck that the kid never got to cuddle.

  But they were up the hill today, halfway along a new row of plots, for Ursula Bonetti’s send off. Her brother arranged the funeral, and by his account she was a terrific lady, full of vitality, from the deli she ran in the West End to the amateur opera and musical theatre, a long line of lovers into her elderly years, but never settled down. So what? Dorothy had the opposite life and where had it got her?

  The open grave was surrounded by more than a hundred people, mostly Italian Scots but others too, and many of the women wore brightly coloured dresses. Ursula had requested it, refusing to make this a downbeat affair, and she left money for a huge party later at The Balmoral, pricey at the best of times. She’d lived with cancer without treatment for just two months before giving up in her sleep. It was a brave way to live and die, and Dorothy had a pang of envy.

  Archie organised the Bonetti brother and the rest of the pallbearers. He was keeping an eye on Dorothy after the incident at Seafield, but she was fine. She felt a kind of detachment, this wasn’t her grief, it was Gianluca Bonetti’s and the rest of Ursula’s family and friends.

  The priest intoned over the hole in the ground, the ornate white coffin sitting alongside on the carpet of fake grass the council provided. People rarely did open burials with everyone invited these days, but Dorothy liked it. It was more real, the smell of the earth, the gulls flapping overhead, gusts of wind making a couple of older ladies hold on to their hats. People had been honouring their dead this way for thousands of years, and that thread connected all of humanity.

  Dorothy was the driver today so she let Archie orchestrate the service. Not that anything really needed taking care of, if they did their preparation a funeral almost ran itself on the day. She turned her face towards the sun, thin wisps of cotton clouds straggling across the sky.

  She thought about Melanie. She wondered if the Chengs would bring the funeral to her. She would be honoured to handle it even though it would be difficult. Dorothy thought about the secrets Melanie’s body might hold for forensics and the pathologist at the Cowgate mortuary. If she would give anything up or if she would be buried with those secrets. Because sometimes we don’t get answers, sometimes we never see the connections that lie under the surface. She looked at Ursula’s coffin surrounded by people. What secrets did Ursula die with? Everyone has an interior life that’s winked out when they die, where does that knowledge go?

  What secrets went up in smoke with Jim’s body? She thought about DNA, just molecules bound together, yet they hold so much information, so much that connects us. Or doesn’t, in the case of Jim, Rebecca and Natalie. But just because Natalie wasn’t related to Jim, didn’t mean Jim and Rebecca weren’t lovers.

  And she thought about Jacob Glassman alone in his big house, if there were secrets hidden in the camera footage, if he would ever have an answer.

  The priest stopped talking and Ursula was lowered into the ground. Gianluca Bonetti threw a handful of damp dirt onto the white wood, followed by others, each standing for a moment then moving on. Archie watched them reverently, hands together in front of him. He had secrets, secrets that weren’t buried forever or burned. More earth went on top of Ursula’s body as Archie looked at Dorothy then turned back to the grave.

  Staring at the grave, something occurred to Dorothy and the obvious nature of it made her cheeks flush. She’d always assumed Simon Lawrence walked away from his family responsibilities. But what if he didn’t have a choice, what if someone got rid of him? It was hard to get rid of a person, to get rid of their body. Unless.

  She stared at Archie by the open grave for a long time, then realised what she had to do next.

  36

  JENNY

  The hangover was lifting but the sense of shame lingered. Jenny had spent the last hour wandering around the funeral home like a ghost. Hannah had gone home, and Mum and Archie were on a funeral, there was just Indy on reception as Jenny pitched up there like a shipwreck victim on shore.

  ‘How are you holding up?’ Jenny said.

  Indy smiled. ‘I could ask you the same thing.’

  Jenny nodded. ‘Mine is self-inflicted. No sympathy.’

  The silence was awkward before Jenny spoke again. ‘I still can’t really believe it, about Mel.’

  Indy swallowed hard, then her head went down and she started crying.

  ‘Oh, hey,’ Jenny said. She went round behind the desk and put her hand on Indy’s arm. Indy stood up and moved into a hug, wrapping her arms around her and holding tight. Jenny rubbed at her back, feeling the shudders of Indy’s breath against her chest.

  ‘It’s OK,’ she said. She knew it wasn’t OK, but what else could you say? She had a flash of memory, holding Hannah as a toddler with a scraped knee, inconsolable at the pain and indignant at the way the world had conspired to hurt her. Then again, years later, when she had to break the news that Craig was leaving them, that mix of hurt and anger, so easy to understa
nd.

  ‘Shhh,’ Jenny said. She thought about Indy’s life, so hard compared to her own, her parents already dead, an orphan and barely even an adult. And yet she was always the more mature one in her relationship with Hannah, always the sensible one, the strong one.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Indy said.

  ‘Don’t be silly.’

  Indy pulled away and took a huge breath, wiped at her face. ‘I don’t know what’s wrong with me.’

  ‘You have every right to be upset,’ Jenny said.

  Mel was Indy’s friend as much as Hannah’s. Hannah’s obsession had railroaded everyone else out of the way, but the quiet ones like Indy still grieved, they just didn’t kick up a stink about it.

  ‘It’s just,’ Indy said, sniffing, ‘this is bringing up a lot of stuff. About my mum and dad.’

  ‘Of course it is.’ Jenny tried to keep her voice calm. ‘You must miss them.’

  Indy nodded. ‘More than I ever say to Han. It’s difficult.’

  ‘I know.’

  Jenny wondered how Indy saw her. Indy and Hannah weren’t married, but Jenny was more or less a mother-in-law. She hoped she didn’t come with the baggage that title suggested.

  ‘You can talk to me anytime,’ she said. ‘About anything.’

  ‘I just get so angry sometimes,’ Indy said, touching the back of the chair. ‘That they left me alone. But that’s selfish.’

  ‘It’s totally understandable.’ Jenny thought for a moment. ‘Did you ever speak to anyone about them? I mean counselling or something?’

  Indy shook her head. ‘Everyone thinks I’m so strong. No one suggested it.’

  ‘Everyone needs someone to talk to,’ Jenny said, wondering who she had to talk to. She was the same when Craig left, OK that wasn’t a bereavement, but she felt a whirlwind of fury and emotion, and never spoke to anyone about it. Who could she have gone to?

  The phone rang, and Indy fanned at her face and breathed again.

  ‘Are you sure you’re OK?’ Jenny said.

  Indy nodded and took the call.

  Jenny watched for a few moments, listening to Indy’s calm reassurances to someone else going through trauma, it was amazing she was strong enough to do that. Hannah was lucky.

  Jenny wandered to the embalming room. She stood staring at the instruments on the tray next to the empty body table. She ran a hand along the metal. This was the coldest place in the house, the air conditioning running high to reduce decomposition, and the blast of cool air seemed to sooth her hangover. She couldn’t handle drinking during the day, not at her age. Christ, while poor Mel was lying in a bush somewhere and Hannah was getting bailed out of the station, she was kissing her ex-husband against the wall like a fucking teenager. She was mortified. But, if she was being honest, also a little thrilled about that.

  It came down to the basic human desire to be wanted. She knew she had some power over Craig, she could still turn him on. She was still an attractive woman. She’d got used to being invisible to younger men, as if they saw right through her, as if she was a ghost. That was partly liberating, no longer getting hassle or abuse, not having to put on a show. But at the same time there was a niggle at the back of her mind. She didn’t want to be done with all that, because that meant giving up on love, which meant giving up on life.

  She walked over to the fridges and looked at the names written there. Each one a life lived, larger or smaller, better or worse, none of it mattered now. Ashes to ashes, and all that. She thought about her own funeral, how she might be summed up. Who would even be there? She was a ghost already. God, no one ever warns you about the existential angst that comes with hangovers in your forties.

  She thought about Mel, down on the slab at the city mortuary. Her devastated parents and brother. She thought about how she would feel if it was Hannah, and felt tears come to her eyes almost immediately. She swallowed hard and rested her head against one of the fridge doors. The cool metal against her forehead was calming, and she was aware of the weight of her own eyelids. Her body sagged, gravity pulling her down into the earth, where she would be one day, sooner or later.

  She had to get out of this fucking funeral home.

  She had an idea, and walked through the workshop to the garage, picking up the key for the body van on the way, then got in and started driving. It was fifteen minutes to Inverleith, but she got snarled in the usual traffic on Lothian Road and Charlotte Square.

  She parked in East Fettes Avenue outside Peter Longhorn’s house. She knew the number from the whiteboard back home. She sat for ten minutes wondering why she came here, what she should do. She had to feel useful, had to do something, but Thomas had made it clear the police were handling the investigation now, since they found Mel.

  She was about to go and ring the doorbell and wing it when a taxi pulled up next to her and Peter got out, handing over money. He went straight up the path to the house. The taxi drove away as he put his key in the door, but it didn’t open. He looked confused for a second, tried again, then removed it and took a step back, looked the house up and down as if it had insulted him. He rang the bell and knocked too. Waited. Tried them both again. Stepped back again.

  ‘Emilia,’ he shouted.

  No response.

  ‘Emilia.’

  Doorbell again, this time constant, ding-dong, ding-dong, ding-dong.

  His phone went in his pocket and he got angry at the name on the screen. Answered it and looked at the upstairs windows. It was obviously his wife, it was clear what was happening.

  His body language was furious as he spoke, the wronged man. His voice was soft as he pointed and gestured, shaking his head, explaining his story. But it was clear he was getting nowhere.

  After a few minutes, an upstairs window opened, and Emilia heaved a holdall out, which thumped on the ground by Peter’s feet.

  ‘Emilia, this is crazy,’ he said, waving his phone at her.

  ‘Don’t ever speak to me again,’ Emilia said. ‘Except through my solicitor.’

  Her voice was calm, stony, her arms folded.

  ‘Just let me in and we can talk,’ Peter said. ‘It’s all a misunderstanding, the police let me go.’

  ‘I don’t care about the police,’ Emilia said. ‘I have to protect our daughter.’

  She closed the window and stepped out of sight.

  ‘Em,’ Peter shouted. ‘Fuck’s sake, Em.’

  He tried calling her, no answer. He went back and banged the front door some more, but ran out of steam.

  Jenny got out of the van and walked to the front gate, up the path.

  ‘How did it go at the police station?’

  Peter turned and frowned. ‘Who the hell are you?’

  ‘Jenny Skelf.’

  He stared at her while he put it together. ‘Hannah’s mum? What do you want?’

  ‘I’m investigating Melanie Cheng’s death.’

  He looked confused by that, but let it slide. ‘Your bitch of a daughter got me into this mess.’

  ‘You got yourself into it.’

  He squared up to her. He was tall but not heavy-set, but any guy could be threatening given enough anger.

  ‘I haven’t done anything wrong,’ Peter said.

  ‘You were sleeping with Mel. You got her pregnant. She was going to tell your wife so you strangled her.’

  ‘How fucking dare you,’ Peter said, gripping his phone like a weapon. ‘The police let me go.’

  Jenny nodded at the holdall on the ground between them. ‘I think your wife needs a little more convincing.’

  Peter pressed his lips together. ‘I am going to sue your daughter once this is all over. She broke into my office.’

  ‘And found valuable evidence.’

  ‘And I’m going to sue the university too.’

  ‘Why?’

  Peter frowned, looked back at the house. ‘Those bastards have suspended me without pay.’

  ‘So you admitted seeing Mel?’

  Peter took a step forwards.
‘I told the police the truth. We had a thing, yes, but I didn’t know she was pregnant, and I certainly didn’t kill her.’

  ‘What kind of thing?’

  Peter didn’t speak.

  ‘I can see why you would go for her,’ Jenny said. ‘But, no offence, what did she see in you?’

  Peter chewed on his lip. ‘She said she liked older men. I didn’t ask too many questions.’

  He stared at the holdall and all the life seemed to go out of him. He looked at the house, no sign of Emilia, then he looked at the phone in his hand.

  ‘I’m going to destroy your family, like you’ve destroyed mine,’ he said eventually, but it sounded weak, a comeback delivered too late.

  Jenny almost felt sorry for him in that moment, but then she remembered Mel’s body down at the city mortuary.

  ‘You’ll get what you deserve,’ she said.

  He shook his head, picked up the holdall and shouldered it. Took a last look at the house then pushed past Jenny and down the street.

  As she watched him go, her phone rang. She pulled it out. Orla.

  ‘He just called me,’ Orla said. She sounded hyped. ‘Says he has to do a training thing, he’ll be home really late. I think this is something.’

  Jenny was still pumped with adrenaline.

  ‘I told you,’ she said. ‘I don’t think—’

  ‘And I told you I don’t believe he’s fucking Picasso or whatever. Just find out what the hell my husband is up to.’

  Jenny hung up. She had a flash of memory, looking at a coffin last night, thinking about climbing in. Standing in the low sunshine with Craig, the smell of him and the fuzz of booze taking her back twenty-five years. Feeling alive again, something that didn’t happen often. And she thought about Liam throwing paint onto a canvas, making something out of nothing, and wondered if that’s how he felt when he did it, if he felt alive.