She drove the van through rush hour, took ages to get across to Leith, managed to find a parking space on Constitution Street and walked along Bernard Street. She checked The King’s Wark first, no sign, then doubled back. The streets were full of office workers walking home, another day nearer the grave for every one of them. But they were smiling in the sunshine, wearing shades like it was Paris or Milan, the terror of a Scottish winter banished from their minds.
She walked up Maritime Street and into the vennel, didn’t stop, just pushed at the door to the studios. Security for this place was woeful. She crept to Liam’s studio and stood outside breathing. The door had been patched together at the lock where she’d booted it in. She cocked her head and listened. A shuffle of feet inside, then a few moments later she heard him clear his throat.
She retreated to the café on the street, got a black coffee, poured in three sugars and waited. She thought about Melanie. Was it Longhorn? Or this Bradley tutor guy, or the boyfriend? Dick pics, naked pictures and God knows what else. So she had a boyfriend and was seeing her lecturer, if either of them found out about the other that might mean something. The tutor was less likely, but maybe he was jealous of others getting a piece of her.
An hour later Liam came out of the vennel and walked along the road. Déjà vu. Jenny gulped down her third coffee and followed at a distance, her trainers scuffing the gutter. She followed him to The King’s Wark. This time she walked round to the other entrance on The Shore and went in. And there he was at the bar, smiling, chatting to the same barmaid, sipping his pint, looking at the crossword. Maybe Jenny would follow him forever, paid by Orla, end up having a symbiotic relationship with them, going wherever Liam went, taking money from Orla, reliant on their affluence and secrets for her livelihood.
A woman from a corner table got up and went to the bar next to Liam. She was dressed in a short skirt and skimpy top, like she was out on the pull along Lothian Road on a Friday night. Nobody went out on the pull in The King’s Wark on a Wednesday. Maybe she was meeting friends and heading to town later, but still. She was tall and slim, black hair in silky waves, a perfect arse in that black skirt, damn it, tanned legs that ended on big heels as she placed her tiny handbag on the bar and ordered from the cocktail menu.
She turned and smiled at Liam, and he smiled back. Jenny shrank into her dark corner and widened her eyes. The bombshell started a conversation and Liam joined in, Christ, what man in the world wouldn’t. She was mid-twenties, not a baby but far too young for him. The body language said they didn’t know each other, but Jenny was no expert and maybe that was part of what was going on.
The woman touched her hair then tucked it behind her ear, and Liam straightened his posture in response, paying attention. She wore a lot of lip gloss, eyelash extensions fluttering. Jenny couldn’t work out whether she was genuinely interested in him or just liked attention.
Liam leaned forwards when the woman’s mojito arrived and offered to pay for it. She accepted. That meant a longer conversation, and the barmaid poured Liam another pint with raised eyebrows that Jenny understood. The woman was making a play for him. It wasn’t completely unbelievable, Liam was handsome and well put together, but he was at least ten years older than her, and hadn’t been on the lookout, was just sitting nursing his lager. This never happened, except it was happening in front of Jenny’s eyes.
Jenny got her phone out and pretended to check social media as she zoomed in and took a few pictures of them chatting. The woman sat on the barstool next to him and faced him. The way her skirt rode up her thighs when she leaned towards him drew the eye.
She was mirroring his body movements, touching her ear, lifting her drink, chin resting on the heel of her hand. This was what pick-up artists did, why was she pulling this stuff on a guy in a Leith pub?
They kept talking, drinking, mirroring, occasionally a laugh, but something was off. Liam wasn’t responding the way she wanted, she had to reignite the conversation while he glanced down at his crossword. The barmaid went to serve someone and Liam’s attention was grabbed for a moment before the dolly brought him back to her with a swish of hair and a waft of perfume. He responded, but his smile was more polite than predatory.
She finished her mojito with a flourish and put the empty glass down like a challenge. He finished his pint, smiled warmly and stood up to leave. She put a hand on his arm and he stood and listened while she leaned forwards and talked in his ear, then he calmly replied, removed her hand from his arm and walked away, out of the pub and into the evening sunshine.
The woman had a face like fizz as she waved her empty mojito glass at the barmaid, who went to make another.
Jenny went to the bar, sat in the seat Liam had just been in. She made a show of checking the woman up and down, and she eventually turned.
‘Can I help you?’ she said. Soft English accent, home counties.
‘What was that about?’ Jenny said.
‘What?’
‘With that guy.’
‘What guy?’
Jenny bit her lip. ‘The guy you were just trying to pull.’
The woman frowned as the barmaid brought the fresh drink.
‘I’ll get that,’ Jenny said, handing over her bankcard to the barmaid. ‘And a double gin and tonic.’
That got the woman’s attention.
‘What’s it to you?’ the woman said.
Jenny stuck out her hand. ‘I’m Jenny.’
The woman stared at her, then at the mojito, then at the barmaid who was fixing the gin and handing the card reader over.
‘Darcy,’ she said eventually.
‘Nice to meet you.’
Darcy took a sip of her cocktail and smacked her lips. ‘You never answered my question. And why were you watching us?’
Jenny wondered how much to say. ‘I’m interested in him.’
Darcy scoffed. ‘Good luck.’
‘Not like that.’
‘Me neither.’
‘Then why were you all over him?’
The woman shook her head. ‘I wasn’t.’
‘Come on,’ Jenny said, sipping her drink.
Darcy stroked at her skirt and Jenny mirrored her. Darcy looked at the gesture and shook her head.
‘I know all about that,’ she said, putting her hand on Jenny’s hand and leaning in. Her perfume was sharp and classy, her make-up perfect smoky tones that matched her eyes and hair. ‘So unless you really want to get it on with me, cut it out.’
She leaned back and picked up her drink. Sipped from the glass.
Jenny watched for a moment, putting it together.
‘You’re an escort,’ she said.
The woman raised her eyebrows in a conspiracy. ‘No I’m not, that’s outrageous.’ Her deadpan tone didn’t match her words.
‘You were trying to pick him up for work?’
‘No.’
‘But why here? You won’t get any work around here.’
‘You’ve got me all wrong, lady.’
Jenny drank her gin and opened her bag, got out her purse. ‘I don’t think so.’ She made a show of peeling off three twenty-pound notes and placing them on the bar.
Darcy waited a moment and looked at the money. Then shook her head.
‘I want to know what this is about,’ Jenny said.
‘Me too,’ Darcy said.
‘How do you mean?’
Darcy raised her eyebrows at the money and Jenny added another two twenties. Darcy picked the money up, rolled it and tucked it into her bra.
‘I was given this job.’ She went into her handbag and brought out a card. It said ‘Superior Edinburgh Escorts’, her name underneath, a mobile number and email.
‘What do you mean?’
‘He was described to me over the phone,’ Darcy said. ‘I was told where and when I would find him.’
‘And you were supposed to sleep with him?’
Darcy shrugged.
‘Who gave you the job?’
�
�I didn’t get a name.’
Jenny finished her drink. ‘How were you going to get paid?’
‘I got the deposit already, gave my account details over the phone. The rest was after I did the job.’
‘What did the person sound like on the phone?’
‘Angry,’ Darcy said, finishing her own drink and taking her business card back from Jenny. ‘And Irish.’
37
HANNAH
Carphone Warehouse was a scruffy blue place sandwiched between shinier Three and EE shops. Why did phone places always herd together? Across the road the castle loomed over Princes Street Gardens, tourists stopping on the pavement to take pictures as Hannah strode inside and pulled the receipt from her pocket. Mel obviously didn’t have the phone on her when she was found, so where was it? Probably smashed and in a skip somewhere. The receipt said Mel, or whoever bought it, was served by Kyle.
She approached the counter and asked for him. The guy behind the counter was short and stocky, Eastern European accent, a spread of gothic tattoos up his arms and poking out from the neck of his T-shirt. He nodded at one of the other employees dealing with a middle-aged woman.
‘Kyle is busy, can I help?’
‘I need to speak to Kyle.’
The guy shrugged. ‘Then you wait.’
Hannah hung around nearby. Kyle was about the same age as her, soul patch tuft of beard on his chin, pallid skin and bags under his eyes.
He seemed to take an age with the woman, who was all handsy with him, touching his arm and laughing at something he said. Get on with it, for God’s sake, buy the phone or get lost. Eventually the woman chose something then they went to the desk. It then took another age to get a box from the back, then go over the contract, then persuade her to sign for insurance and buy a pink diamante case.
Finally, with much waving and smiling, she was gone and the Polish guy nodded Kyle towards Hannah.
‘Can I help you, Madam?’
Madam. They were the same age. Hannah showed him the receipt.
‘Do you remember selling this phone to my friend Melanie?’
Kyle frowned at her then the receipt. ‘We sell a lot of phones in here, miss.’
Now it was ‘miss’.
‘Please take a look at it.’
Kyle peered at the piece of paper. ‘This was almost two months ago.’
‘Well?’
He laughed. ‘I don’t remember.’
Hannah got her phone out, flicked through the camera roll, thumbed up one of Indy and Mel dressed up for something, she couldn’t even remember what now. She showed it to Kyle.
‘The Scots-Chinese girl. She had a light Dundee accent.’
Kyle looked at the screen then at Hannah. ‘“Had”?’
‘What?’
‘You said “had” not “has”.’
Hannah felt a weight on her shoulders.
Kyle narrowed his eyes. ‘What’s this about?’
Hannah looked around the shop, glossy adverts selling hi-tech shit that would be obsolete in a year or two. ‘She’s dead.’
‘Shit,’ Kyle said. ‘Sorry.’
‘She was strangled.’
‘Jesus.’ Kyle looked at the Polish guy for help, but he kept his head behind a computer screen.
‘I need to find out what happened,’ Hannah said.
Kyle looked at the receipt again. ‘And you think this phone has something to do with it?’
‘It wasn’t her main phone,’ Hannah said. ‘She was using it for something else.’
‘A burner.’
‘What?’
‘It’s what drug dealers call it,’ Kyle said, looking uncomfortable. ‘Like on Breaking Bad. A pay-as-you-go phone you change or ditch regularly to avoid getting traced.’
‘That’s not what Mel was doing.’
Kyle’s eyes widened. ‘I didn’t mean that.’
‘She was my friend and she’s dead.’
Kyle shuffled his feet. ‘Let me see her picture again?’
Hannah held out her phone and Kyle examined it, running his fingers along his tiny beard.
‘She’s pretty,’ he said eventually. ‘I remember her.’
‘Really?’
‘Sure. She wasn’t dressed like this.’ His finger smudged the screen on Mel’s tight red dress.
‘Of course not,’ Hannah said. ‘Was she alone?’
Kyle sighed. ‘It was a long time ago.’
‘With a guy?’
Kyle screwed up his face. ‘I don’t know. Maybe.’
Hannah took her phone back and Googled. ‘This guy?’
She held up a picture of Peter Longhorn from his Edinburgh Uni page, sensible smile, blue shirt.
Kyle shook his head. ‘I couldn’t honestly say.’
‘What about CCTV?’
Kyle nodded at a camera in a corner of the shop. ‘It only gets kept for two weeks then we write over it.’
‘Can you check?’
‘There’s no point.’
Hannah let out a loud sigh. ‘What about your database, the sale must be in your system.’
‘Sure, but it’ll just be the same information as on the receipt.’
‘If she was with someone else, maybe they paid.’
Kyle looked around the shop. It was busy, people waiting to get served, to walk away with shiny new handheld dreams. ‘OK.’
He went to one of the screens behind the desk and typed in the transaction number from the receipt. He typed some more info, whatever the system needed, then flattened his lips together as he turned the screen to show her. ‘It was paid for by Melanie Cheng, was that your friend?’
Hannah nodded as she scanned the screen.
‘What about the number, can you give me that?’
Kyle turned the screen back towards himself. ‘It’s against policy to give out that information.’
Hannah balled her fist around her phone. ‘This is a murder investigation.’
‘You’re not the police.’
Hannah breathed deeply. ‘No, but I was her best friend and I’m a private investigator.’
‘Really?’
‘Really.’
‘Do you have a licence or something?’
Hannah shook her head. ‘It doesn’t work like that.’
‘So how do you get to be a private detective?’
‘Investigator.’ Hannah shrugged. ‘You just become one. Now can I have that number?’
Kyle looked around, unsure.
Hannah moved in and lowered her voice. ‘The alternative is that I get the police to ask you, would you like that?’
‘I don’t know.’
Hannah looked at the Polish guy, the other young men working in the shop. ‘How many burner phones do you sell here every week? What if the police had a look at your CCTV and cross-referenced it with sales for the last fortnight?’
Kyle stared at the screen for a long time then turned it to show Hannah. She plugged the number into her phone and pressed ‘call’. Waited a few seconds then heard a dead tone. She redialled, the same, then a third time. Dead.
Kyle moved the screen back and looked around at the customers. ‘I need to get back to work.’
Hannah tried one more time as she left the shop and emerged into the sunshine, buses rumbling along the street, the chatter of shoppers around her. The dead tone in her ear again. At least now she had a number to give Thomas to trace calls.
She put her phone away and crossed the road, dodging a tram, thinking about who Mel was calling.
38
DOROTHY
She stood with the SD cards in her fist as she stared at the view out of the kitchen window. It always amazed her how much green space there was in Edinburgh, and the Braid Hills sprawled south for miles, woodland and gorse, golf courses hidden in there somewhere, the burn down below.
She heard the toilet flush, then a while later Jacob appeared in the doorway.
‘Sorry about that, when I have to go, I have to go.’ He eased himsel
f onto a kitchen chair.
Dorothy thought about the footage of him going to the toilet over and over again.
‘When the body fails,’ Jacob said, ‘it’s a real bastard.’
‘You do pretty well.’
‘You mean considering I’m ninety-four.’
‘You look younger.’
‘You’re very kind,’ Jacob said. ‘But I feel much older. Every morning when I wake up, it’s with a mixture of relief and disappointment, if I’m honest.’
Dorothy joined him at the kitchen table. ‘You don’t mean that.’
‘I’m serious. I never wanted to end my life, even when I had to leave my parents in Germany, knowing I would probably never see them again. Even when Kristina died.’
Dorothy presumed Kristina was the wife.
‘But I do now,’ Jacob said. ‘I don’t have the balls to end it, but I wish I did. And now this.’
He waved his hand around, presumably indicating having hired a private investigator to catch a thief in his home.
Dorothy placed the SD cards on the table, wondered what info they held.
‘We haven’t found anything so far.’
‘You will.’
‘I’ve checked the last two days for when Susan was here. There was nothing unusual.’
‘Maybe she suspects,’ Jacob said. ‘I left some bank notes on the worktop here yesterday during the day, but they were still there when she left.’
Dorothy shook her head. ‘That’s far too obvious. She probably realises you’re trying to trap her.’
‘Maybe she twigged that you’re not a colleague,’ Jacob said. ‘That was quick thinking, by the way.’
‘Thanks.’
‘You would’ve been a good academic.’
‘I don’t know about that.’
‘You’re obviously very bright.’
‘But not academic.’
Dorothy got up and went over to the paintings on the wall. Strong slashes of thick paint, primary colours. Ovals and ellipses scattered about the canvas. ‘These are great.’
‘I miss her every day,’ Jacob said. ‘She wasn’t academic either, but so much brighter than me. She would’ve known what to do.’
Dorothy looked at the bookshelf. Ran a finger along the top of it. No dust.
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