‘Has the cleaner been recently?’
‘This morning.’
‘Tell me about her, where did you find her?’
Jacob frowned as he turned. ‘It’s not Monika.’
Dorothy stared at him. ‘You don’t know that.’
‘We’ve had women from the same company for years,’ Jacob said, hands trembling in his lap. ‘Very reliable. Kristina organised it originally, that’s how long ago it was. They’re Ukrainian, that’s why she went to them, she wanted to help others from her homeland.’
‘What’s the company name?’
‘Home Angels. But it’s not Monika, I’m telling you.’
Dorothy walked back to the table and stood. ‘We have to explore every possibility, that’s all. I wouldn’t be doing my job otherwise.’
‘Fine.’
‘Do you know Monika’s surname?’
Jacob shook his head.
‘I can find out,’ Dorothy said. ‘When exactly was she here?’
‘Ten o’clock this morning.’
‘Until?’
‘Half past twelve.’
Dorothy scooped up the SD cards. ‘But nothing else has gone missing?’
‘Not that I’ve noticed.’
‘OK, I’d better go.’
Jacob started the slow process of standing up.
‘There’s no need to see me out,’ Dorothy said, touching his arm.
‘I’m not quite dead yet,’ he said, shuffling forwards on his walker.
As they went along the hall, Dorothy looked into the living room and spotted something. ‘Is that an iPad?’
Jacob stopped. ‘Yes.’
‘The one that went missing?’
‘It turned up in my bedroom.’
She gave him a look.
‘I’m not senile,’ Jacob said. ‘It wasn’t there before, I would’ve noticed. And I never use it upstairs, so I can’t have misplaced it up there.’
He was almost on the verge of tears. Dorothy touched his arm again, it was meant to be reassuring, but she didn’t get the feeling it was.
‘I’ll check the footage,’ Dorothy said. ‘And let you know.’
She left the house and walked away, thinking about families and loyalty, and about being so old that you were disappointed when you woke up every morning.
The kitchen table was covered in paperwork, boxes of files, receipts piled high, invoices spilling over balance sheets. Schrödinger sat on one of the piles licking a paw and making a soft sound in his throat. Outside, long shadows splayed over the links, dappling people heading home or to bars in town, a handful of souls knocking golf balls around the pitch and putt.
Dorothy sipped her whisky and sighed. On the one hand, she was glad the company never went digital, she barely knew how to switch a computer on. On the other hand there was this mess of files going back decades, connected by some Byzantine system only Jim understood. Maybe that was deliberate, she thought, then hated herself for thinking it.
There was a knock on the open door and Archie stood there looking worried.
‘Hi,’ she said.
‘Hey.’ He gazed at the chaos in front of her. ‘What’s this?’
‘Join me for a drink,’ Dorothy said, lifting her glass.
Archie looked uncomfortable. ‘I shouldn’t, my medication.’
‘Just one,’ Dorothy said. ‘I need the company.’
Archie hesitated then sat down, as Dorothy got him a glass and poured a couple of fingers of Highland Park.
Archie sipped and sat, staring into his glass, the amber swirl of it.
‘So, what are you up to?’ he said eventually.
Dorothy waited until he looked up, tried to gauge something from his eyes or the way he spoke. Imagine having the superpower of knowing what someone else was thinking, what a terrifying prospect. And yet don’t we all try to feel what it’s like to be someone else, otherwise we turn into sociopaths?
‘How’s everything going,’ Dorothy said. ‘With the Cotard’s, I mean.’
Archie shrugged. ‘OK.’
‘Anything you want to talk about?’
He shook his head and gripped his glass.
Dorothy put a hand on his arm. ‘You would tell me if you were struggling?’
He looked up and held her gaze, like a challenge. ‘Yes.’
‘I often wonder what it’s like.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘The syndrome. Do you mind talking about it?’
Archie scratched his beard. ‘No.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Dorothy, you saved me. You can talk about anything you like.’
‘I don’t want you to be uncomfortable.’
Archie waved that away. ‘It’s fine.’
Dorothy lifted a piece of paper from the table, an invoice for renovation work done to the embalming room back in 2009. An expansion plus an improved air-conditioning unit after the unusually warm summer.
‘I think recently,’ she said, ‘I’ve had an idea what it must’ve been like for you.’
‘How do you mean?’
Dorothy ran her thumb along her fingernails. ‘I don’t mean to sound flippant about your condition, but I’ve felt pretty dead, since Jim.’
Archie considered his whisky but didn’t drink. ‘It’s not about feeling dead.’
‘I know.’
‘It’s about being dead,’ Archie said. ‘In your mind. Before I stabilised, it wasn’t like I wanted to climb into coffins and act like a corpse, I was really dead, had no connection to the living, couldn’t understand how to communicate with them.’
‘But none of us communicate with each other,’ Dorothy said. ‘Not really.’
Archie shook his head. ‘I used to hang around in cemeteries because I couldn’t think of anything else to do. I thought I had a connection to the dead, something I didn’t have with the living.’
Dorothy stroked Schrödinger, who purred in response.
‘But that brought you to us,’ Dorothy said.
Archie sipped his drink and looked out of the window. ‘I can’t ever thank you enough, Dorothy. I can’t repay you for your kindness when I needed it most.’
Dorothy swallowed more whisky, felt it burn her throat. She put a hand to the paperwork spread over the table. ‘What about this?’
He looked at the table. ‘What about it?’
Dorothy stared at him. ‘I need to find out what happened to Simon Lawrence.’
Archie held his whisky glass like a grenade. ‘OK.’
‘You know something.’
He stared at his lap. ‘I really don’t.’
‘Look me in the eye and say that, Archie.’
He did as he was told. ‘I don’t.’
Dorothy pressed her lips together. ‘I did a DNA test.’
Archie looked confused. ‘On who?’
‘To see if Jim was the father of Rebecca Lawrence’s daughter. Or maybe her grandfather.’
‘Jesus,’ Archie said. ‘And?’
Dorothy shook her head.
Archie held his hands out. ‘Well, then.’
Dorothy nodded at the messy table again. ‘I need you to help me.’
‘How?’
‘I’m checking back through the business around the time Simon disappeared.’
Archie shifted in his seat. ‘Why?’
‘Why do you think?’
Archie sipped his whisky and touched his ear. ‘I have no idea.’
Dorothy leaned forwards, elbows mussing up some of the papers. Schrödinger flicked his ears upwards, as if something interesting might happen. Outside, young women were laughing in the park.
‘Yes, you do,’ Dorothy said. ‘You’re a smart guy, don’t play dumb.’
Archie looked out of the window, as if he wanted to be with those laughing voices. There was a smell of barbecue and Dorothy pictured flipping burgers with Jim. Then she pictured him shrivelling to dust on the funeral pyre.
Archie spoke. ‘You think Simon
Lawrence didn’t just walk away from his life.’
‘Correct.’
‘Maybe Jim had something to do with it.’
‘More than that.’ Dorothy felt like a big cat stalking her prey through the long grass, eyes never wavering.
‘You think Jim might’ve killed Simon.’
Dorothy motioned to the paperwork in front of her. ‘And?’
‘And got rid of the body through the business somehow.’
She’d made him say it rather than have the words pass her own lips. Now the idea was out in the open she couldn’t decide whether it sounded ridiculous or not. She was accusing her husband of murder. That’s why he paid Rebecca Lawrence, out of guilt.
‘It’s crazy,’ Archie said.
‘Is it?’
Schrödinger stretched a paw and a notebook slipped to the floor with a thud, making Dorothy jump.
‘Christ,’ she said, leaning down to pick it up. She imagined a confession note slipping from between the pages, a neat explanation for everything that didn’t make sense. But the notebook had no loose pages, just lists of supplies and costs, incomings and outgoings, the stuff of every business.
She focused on Archie, who was finishing his drink.
‘If anyone knows how to get rid of a body, it’s an undertaker.’
Archie was wide-eyed at that. ‘You know that’s not true. There are strict rules, traceability, it’s not like a horror movie or something.’
Dorothy pursed her lips and picked up a page at random from the table. An invoice from nine years ago for a simple cremation at Warriston. Mari Gibson. Paid within the month, nothing untoward. The smell of the barbecue outside was stronger now and there were more voices, guys full of bluster, women gossiping and laughing, the clink of beer bottles and wine glasses, the energy and carelessness of youth. Dorothy felt the wood of her seat biting into her back, a dull ache that all the yoga in the world couldn’t shift now that she was on the way to the grave herself.
She looked at Archie. ‘Will you help me?’
Schrödinger leaned into her and she stroked his back, feeling his purr in her fingers. Archie watched her with the cat then spoke.
‘OK,’ he said. ‘But it’s a waste of time.’
Dorothy smiled and finished her drink. ‘We’ll see.’
39
JENNY
She still hadn’t worked out what to do by the time she put the key in the lock. Darcy was obviously a honeytrap set by Orla, so what the hell? Hire a private investigator to follow your husband, pay someone to pick him up, providing evidence of adultery to get everything in the divorce? Poor Liam. She thought about kissing Craig yesterday. Craig had cheated on Fiona in that moment, but it was more complex than that, given Jenny’s history with him. But that was a bullshit excuse, she snogged a married man, end of story. It didn’t matter that he was her ex-husband. In fact it was worse.
She compared Liam to Craig. While Craig was kissing his ex-wife, Liam was painting behind his wife’s back because he couldn’t share his passion, and she was setting him up for a fall. Jenny wondered whether to tell Liam. Or tell Orla that she knew. Neither option was appealing. Then she thought about kissing Craig again, so stupid. And yet.
She was in the downstairs hall in darkness now. She heard voices upstairs and headed up. Archie and Dorothy were in the kitchen, a nearly empty whisky bottle between them, paperwork scattered over the table and piled on the floor. Schrödinger was moping in a window chair.
‘What’s this?’ she said.
They both looked up. Dorothy took a second to focus.
‘Simon Lawrence.’
Jenny stepped towards the table. ‘The guy who walked out on his family.’
All these bad husbands and fathers, and Liam in his studio painting skulls and alien plants.
Dorothy pulled a chair out for her to sit. ‘That’s the thing, I’m not sure he did walk out.’
Jenny sat. ‘But he disappeared.’
Dorothy nodded but didn’t speak.
‘So?’ Jenny said.
Dorothy swallowed. She was definitely drunk.
Archie spoke. ‘Your mum thinks your dad was involved.’
Jenny felt her brow crease. ‘But the DNA came back negative.’
‘Not involved with Rebecca,’ Archie said. ‘Involved in Simon’s disappearance.’
He swept an arm at the papers across the table.
Jenny took a minute to put it together then turned to Dorothy. ‘No way.’
Dorothy shrugged and swayed a little. She had an edge Jenny hadn’t seen before, like she was on the brink of falling apart.
‘Maybe,’ Dorothy said.
Archie went back to examining the papers in front of him, keeping his head down to avoid getting into this.
‘You know what you’re implying,’ Jenny said.
Dorothy shook her head.
‘You just don’t want to say it,’ Jenny said.
‘Please.’
‘You think Dad was a murderer.’
Archie froze, and Dorothy stared at Jenny then lowered her head into her hands. She began to weep into her palms, tears dripping onto an accounting ledger in front of her.
‘I don’t know why you’re crying,’ Jenny said. ‘It’s your idea, I just said it out loud.’
Dorothy took heaving breaths, shoulders shaking.
Jenny shook her head. ‘If anything, I should be crying. You’re calling my dad a killer.’
Dorothy lifted her face and pulled a tissue from her sleeve, dabbed at her eyes and nose. ‘This is hard for all of us.’
‘You think?’
Out the corner of her eye, Jenny saw Archie slide a single sheet of paper off a pile and place it carefully on the floor, his head down the whole time.
Dorothy shoved the tissue back into her sleeve. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘What for?’ Jenny said. ‘Thinking the worst of my dad?’
Dorothy raised her chin in defiance. ‘I can’t help how I feel. None of us can.’
Jenny pointed at the table of paperwork. ‘So what exactly is the plan here?’
Dorothy fanned her face to cool down. ‘I’m looking at funerals we did around the time Simon disappeared. He has to be somewhere. If he died, why not get rid of him that way?’
‘Two bodies in a coffin? That wouldn’t work.’
‘Maybe, if the other person was small.’
‘The pallbearers would notice.’
‘They’d have nothing to compare the weight to. Or maybe…’
Jenny stared at her mother. ‘What?’
Dorothy’s eyes were wet again. ‘I don’t know. Maybe he placed bits of the body in lots of coffins.’
‘Come on,’ Jenny said.
Archie’s eyebrows were raised. ‘Dorothy, that’s crazy.’
‘I know.’
Silence at the table, just a scratching noise from Schrödinger.
Jenny picked up a piece of paper. ‘But what can you do with all this?’
Dorothy shrugged. ‘Trace the funerals we did at the time.’
‘Then what?’
‘I don’t know.’
Archie sipped his drink. ‘I’ve already asked her this.’
‘Some of them would’ve been cremations,’ Jenny said. ‘So there’s no evidence.’
‘The burials then,’ Dorothy said.
Jenny’s eyes were wide. ‘What about them? Are you going to ask the council or police to exhume graves on a hunch? That’s insane.’
Dorothy was close to crying again. ‘I don’t know.’
Jenny stood up and put her hands on her hips. ‘I don’t think any good can come of this.’
‘We might find out the truth,’ Dorothy said, sticking out her chin.
‘But we could also ruin lots of people’s lives,’ Jenny said. ‘Is it worth it?’
Dorothy was crying again, almost a choke, struggling to breathe.
Jenny went to the sink and poured a glass of water, took it to Dorothy at the table, sto
od with her arms folded. She noticed that the piece of paper Archie had placed on the floor was no longer there and she frowned.
‘I have to know the truth,’ Dorothy said, and Jenny wondered if that was ever a good idea.
40
HANNAH
Hannah smelt Indy’s lamb jalfrezi even before she opened the door of the flat. Indy marinated the meat and mixed the spices herself, it was something else. Hannah hadn’t eaten all day and her stomach grumbled.
When she opened the door she was met by a woman dressed in forensic scrubs, face mask, hair net, blue plastic gloves and shoe covers. She was standing in the doorway of Mel’s room, two men dressed the same inside, going through the pile of Mel’s stuff on the floor.
The woman in the doorway turned.
‘You must be Hannah.’ Her voice was muffled through the mask. ‘You’re responsible for this mess.’
Hannah nodded.
‘Thanks,’ the woman said. ‘You’ve just made our job a whole lot harder.’
‘Hey, babes,’ Indy said, coming out of the kitchen with a glass of white wine.
‘Hey.’
Indy kissed her lightly, handed her the wine then nodded at the people in Mel’s room. ‘Look, forensics are here.’
‘So I see.’
They stood and watched the three forensic officers milling around, picking up pieces of paper or clothing from the edges of the giant pile in the middle of the room. Hannah had called Indy earlier to tell her she’d found a clue in Mel’s room, but looking at it now, with the forensic guys in there, she couldn’t believe what a state she’d left the place in.
‘I’m guessing that you haven’t eaten,’ Indy said, rubbing her back.
Hannah nodded.
‘Come through,’ Indy said. ‘Thomas is here.’
Indy went to the kitchen and Hannah watched her as she followed. She was barefoot in baggy yoga trousers and a blouse, hair falling from her short pony, smooth skin on her neck. Hannah sometimes forgot how beautiful her girlfriend was, took her for granted, and she’d been doing that since this business with Mel began. She didn’t deserve a woman as smart and supportive as Indy, here with a kiss and a homemade curry when she needed it.
A Dark Matter Page 19