She picked up the baby’s bottle and handed it to her, then pushed the kid down the driveway and into the street.
43
JENNY
She finished her coffee and decided. Got up and left the café, walked across the cobbles to the vennel and into the courtyard in the evening light. She pushed open the front door, headed to Liam’s studio and knocked. She wasn’t sure what she was going to say to him, but it was time to talk.
She heard a clatter, brushes on a table, and the door opened. Liam was handsome close up, green eyes and a strong jaw. He’d changed out of his work suit, which was hanging up on the curtain rail at the window, and he wore saggy jeans and a blue shirt. She could tell from the way it clung to his chest that he was toned underneath.
‘Can I help you?’ he said. He had a softer accent than Orla, a more open manner. There were flecks of grey through his black hair, and dark splotches of paint across his shirt. His hands were thin, long fingers, mottled with paint too.
‘Hi,’ Jenny said, throwing on a smile. ‘I’m planning to rent one of these studios and I wondered if I could take a quick look around.’
He frowned, unsure.
‘Mohammed said it was OK,’ she said. ‘He couldn’t find the key for my one yet, but said just to pop down and someone would let me take a peek.’
She waved her hand along the corridor.
‘I tried a few others, but no one else is in.’
He looked behind him at the canvas he was working on, propped on the easel.
‘Sure,’ he said, opening the door.
‘Thanks.’
She walked past him into the middle of the room, the smell of paint and sweat coming to her.
‘Good light,’ she said, pointing at the window.
He narrowed his eyes and watched her closely, and she felt a flutter in her chest.
‘Have we met before?’ he said.
She turned, raised a hand to her temple. ‘I don’t think so.’
‘You definitely look familiar.’
She raised her eyebrows. ‘I get that a lot, must have a generic face.’
He bit on his lip, concentrating. ‘I certainly wouldn’t say that.’
She came round the room, glancing at the canvases stacked on the floor, the same ones she’d seen when she broke in.
‘Is this place secure?’
He was at his canvas now but still watching her. ‘If you’d asked a week ago I would’ve said yes but I got broken into the other day.’
‘Did they take anything?’
He laughed and shook his head. ‘I guess they weren’t art fans.’
She smiled.
‘I presume they were after stuff they could sell,’ Liam said. ‘Laptops, anything electrical. A bunch of weird paintings by a nobody wouldn’t get many buyers down at the pub.’
Jenny pointed at a picture on the floor. ‘I think these are great, they’re not weird at all.’
The painting had the vague outline of a deer, but it seemed rooted in the forest, like it was a malformed tree, its antlers were branches with leaves and blooms sprouting from them. Other trees in the background had animal shapes, with a liquid sun pouring through the skeletal outcrops. It was beautiful and eerie.
‘Thanks.’
‘I mean it,’ Jenny said, coming round to the work in progress. It was kind of a seascape, figures below and above the water, something like a whale carcass with ribs poking out, and a rotting ship, beams exposed at the waterline. Alien plants wrapped around them, purple and maroon seaweeds, luminous vines trailing from both structures, the balance and composition off centre and off kilter.
‘Do you ever show these or sell them?’
He laughed in surprise. ‘No, nothing like that.’
‘You should.’
He shook his head.
‘I’m not bullshitting,’ Jenny said.
He leaned into a bow. ‘You’re very kind, but I don’t think I’m ready.’
She smiled at his self-deprecation and held out a hand. ‘I’m Jenny by the way.’
He shook her hand, strong and solid. ‘Liam.’
She went back to looking around the room, brushed hair away from her face.
‘I know where I’ve seen you before,’ he said.
She lowered her hand and turned.
‘My sister-in-law’s funeral, you were working for the undertaker.’
Jenny had hoped different hair and clothes would throw him off, but he was an artist, it was his job to notice things. Or maybe he’d just noticed her. ‘Yes, I work there, was that Gina O’Donnell’s service?’
He nodded, thoughtful. ‘What’s it like in that business?’
‘I’ve only just started, really.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘It’s the family business,’ she said. ‘Skelf Funeral Directors. I’m Jenny Skelf. But I only began helping out when my father died.’
Liam took a step closer. ‘I’m sorry to hear that.’
She could feel the warmth of him standing close, and wondered if he was going to touch her, a sympathetic hand on the arm.
‘It’s OK,’ she said.
‘No, it’s not, your dad died, it’s anything but OK.’
Silence between them for a long beat, the ghosts of all the dead swirling around Jenny’s head.
‘So you’re an artist as well as a funeral director?’ Liam said.
‘I suppose so.’
‘What sort of stuff do you do?’
Jenny looked at Liam’s painting on the easel. ‘It’s hard to describe.’
Liam nodded. ‘I know what you mean. It’s hard to talk about this. That’s why we create stuff, isn’t it, so we don’t have to talk.’
Jenny tried to think if she’d created anything in her life except a mess. She thought of Hannah, her creation, the one thing she and Craig got right.
‘Exactly,’ she said.
She walked round the room trailing a finger along the top of some stacked canvases.
‘Do you think you’ll take it?’ Liam said.
‘What?’
‘The studio, you said you spoke to Mo about it. Which one is it?’
Jenny tried to remember. ‘He said Derek’s was free? Something about hospital.’
‘Yeah, shame.’
‘I think I’ll take it. It’s good to have your own space, a place to lose yourself.’
She touched one of the canvases then raised her eyebrows at Liam for permission. He nodded and she flicked through the stack, more animal-plant hybrids, some vaguely human forms, the colours and contours mesmerising, simultaneously familiar and otherworldly.
‘Don’t you want people to see these?’ she said.
‘Maybe one day. I’m still finding my feet.’
‘They’re so good.’
‘That’s not the point.’
Jenny turned. ‘Then what is the point?’
Liam thought about the question.
‘It’s about finding out who you are,’ he said eventually. He pointed out of the window. ‘Without any distractions. Without anyone else getting in the way. Finding out what kind of person you want to be. It’s about the process of doing the painting, the act of creating, not the end result of the painting itself. Life is about processes, not results.’
So this was his secret, he wanted to find out who he was by painting and spending time alone. Jenny thought about what kind of person she was, what she’d become and what she wanted to be, but her mind was blank. She was just someone whose father was dead, someone who followed people around and spied on them, who helped wives entrap their husbands so they could get a divorce, who snogged her ex-husband even though he was married with a new family, who grabbed a young man by the balls because he was cocky and she didn’t like him, who hoped to hell her daughter turned out better than she did. She felt tears coming to her eyes and hurried past Liam to the door then out into a world where she didn’t know who she was anymore, if she ever had.
44
DOROTHY
‘Hello, Home Angels Cleaning Services.’
Dorothy stared out at Bruntsfield Links, crinkly with sunshine. The woman on the line had a heavy Eastern European accent, Dorothy’s guess was middle-aged.
‘Hi, I’m trying to track down one of your staff, Monika Belenko?’
‘Who are you?’
‘I’m the personal assistant of Jacob Glassman, you clean his house?’
‘Glassman, yes.’
‘I think Monika might’ve lost a piece of jewellery when she was at the Glassman house, I want to return it to her.’
‘Bring it to our office, we’ll make sure she gets it.’
‘No offence, but I’d rather hand it to her directly, just to be sure. Do you have a mobile number for her?’
‘We cannot give out that information.’
‘I see,’ Dorothy said. ‘Well, Mr Glassman was very insistent that I get this back to her today. Directly to her.’
‘We can’t give out private employee information.’
‘Well, if she’s working today, perhaps you could tell me where she is? I could pop in and drop it off.’
‘I’m sorry, we can’t do that either.’
‘That’s a real shame,’ Dorothy said. ‘If that’s the case, Mr Glassman might have to reconsider his cleaning contract with you. I believe it’s a very competitive market at the moment.’
Long pause, some conversation happening with the mouthpiece covered.
‘Please hold on a second,’ the woman said, her voice dripping with disgust.
The house on Greenbank Crescent was a 1920s bungalow with a converted attic and a big modern extension to the side. Dorothy walked up the path and could hear a hoover running inside. She was glad to be out of the house. She’d spent several more hours watching footage from Jacob’s house, nothing. She’d checked the five cameras in the same order as before, first for the times when Susan was on her daily visit, then for when the cleaner had been in. There was footage of her hoovering and dusting, mopping the floor in the kitchen and generally knocking the place into shape. Dorothy had half a mind to enlist her cleaning services herself. Then she’d looked at the footage from other times during the day, just Jacob slowly shuffling around the house, bugger all else. She wasn’t sure why she was here on Greenbank Crescent, but she didn’t know what else to do.
She rang the bell and the hoover went off, but no one came to the door. She rang again, heard footsteps then the door opened.
‘I’m sorry, Mrs Cavanagh is not in.’
Monika had striking features, high cheekbones and a sharp nose, big green eyes. She was wearing a sky-blue Home Angels T-shirt and skin-tight white jeans. Dorothy couldn’t help thinking they must be incredibly uncomfortable for cleaning, and not at all practical. Monika had a gold choker chain around her neck with a crucifix on it, her blonde hair in a bun on the top of her head, and her nails long and dark purple. You could see why even an old man like Jacob would notice her.
‘I’m not here to see Mrs Cavanagh,’ Dorothy said. ‘I’m here to see you.’
Monika looked confused.
‘Can I come in?’ Dorothy said.
Monika glanced behind her, then back. ‘No, this is not my house.’
She had a Ukrainian accent, but smoother than the woman on the phone. Dorothy wondered how long she’d been in Scotland, if life was turning out as she expected. She was working as a cleaner, so probably not.
‘I’m a friend of Mr Glassman,’ Dorothy said. ‘You clean his house?’
Monika nodded. ‘Nice old gentleman. Hermitage. Big house, needs a lot of cleaning.’
‘I’ll bet. Listen, he found this.’
Dorothy pulled out an old bracelet that she’d taken from her dresser at home. It was silver, pretty, but not worth much, she couldn’t remember the last time she’d worn it.
‘After you visited to clean the other day. And he wondered if it was yours?’
Monika glanced at the bracelet but didn’t take it. Shook her head. ‘It’s not mine.’
‘Are you sure?’ Dorothy offered it up. ‘Please take a closer look. He was adamant.’
Monika looked annoyed. ‘I know what is my jewellery. This isn’t mine.’
‘Maybe from a previous visit.’
Monika narrowed her eyes and stared at Dorothy. ‘What did you say your name was?’
‘Dorothy.’
‘I never heard Mr Glassman mention you.’
‘Do you talk to him much when you’re there?’
Monika looked up and down the street. ‘Not really, I don’t have much time. Schedules are very tight.’
‘But you have spoken to him.’
‘Of course, he’s friendly. And a little lonely. He has no family nearby.’
Dorothy realised she was still holding the bracelet, so she stuffed it into her cardigan pocket. ‘Do you think he’s managing OK in that big house?’
Monika shrugged. ‘It’s not my business. You are his friend.’
‘I think he’s been misplacing things. Forgetting things and becoming confused.’
Monika shook her head. ‘He is very sharp for his age. I do not think he is confused. Maybe you are confused.’
‘So what about this bracelet?’ Dorothy said.
‘I don’t have an answer,’ Monika said, looking back into the house. ‘Now please, I have to work.’
The door closed and Dorothy stood there until she heard the hoover start again. She walked away from the house, rubbing the bracelet between her fingers in her pocket and thinking about what it must be like to work in other people’s houses all day. The things you must see, the lives you spy on, the secrets you keep.
45
JENNY
She sat in the body van in Learmonth Gardens, looking at the Hooks’ home. It was a street of grey-brick terraced upstairs-downstairs, nothing fancy but still worth an arm and a leg this close to the city centre. She wondered how Liam and Orla afforded it, but then you never knew people’s circumstances, maybe they’d inherited money or won the lottery, maybe they were drug dealers on the side. A private investigator should really look into that kind of stuff. Across the road from the house was a strip of green space, silver birch and willow trees throwing shade over the grass in the low light. A young family with a kid on a trike, an elderly couple out for their evening constitutional, life carrying on.
Jenny dialled Orla’s number and listened to the ring.
‘Hi,’ Orla said.
Jenny imagined Orla inside the house looking smug.
‘Jenny Skelf here.’
‘You’ve got something.’ There was excitement in her voice that she wasn’t good at hiding. ‘Should we meet up again?’
Jenny looked at the house, one of fifty in the street, and wondered what all the other occupants were doing now. Making tea, kids doing homework, teenagers on phones or the PlayStation, mums changing nappies.
‘I think it’s quicker to do this over the phone.’
‘So you have evidence?’
‘I’m afraid I won’t be able to continue with this case.’
Silence for a moment. ‘What do you mean?’
‘I’ve been carrying out surveillance on your husband for almost a week now and I’ve found no evidence that he’s cheating on you.’
‘Then you haven’t been doing your job properly.’
Orla was angry. Jenny wondered what Darcy told her about the honeytrap. She must’ve lied to get paid, because Orla was clearly expecting Jenny to have some dirt.
‘I can assure you I’ve been doing my job properly,’ Jenny said. ‘Sometimes there’s nothing to find out.’
‘You’re useless.’
‘I’ll bill you for my time,’ Jenny said. ‘And I expect to be paid promptly.’
Orla laughed. ‘I’m not paying for this amateur crap. I should’ve known better than to get a fucking funeral director to look into him. You’re not even really that, are you?’
‘There’s no need to be lik
e that.’
‘I know my husband is fucking some little tart behind my back, and I’m going to get someone who knows what he’s doing to help me.’
Jenny watched a young mum and a little girl do cartwheels on the grass, and tried to remember Hannah at that age, so bendy and fearless.
‘Your husband is a talented painter,’ she said.
Orla laughed. ‘Goodbye.’
The line went dead.
Jenny sucked her teeth then put her phone away and settled in for the wait.
It only took fifteen minutes.
A small white van pulled up outside and Jenny shrank into her seat as a short stocky guy with a shaved head got out and went up the path to Orla’s house. Orla answered in five seconds, ushering him inside. She looked worried, and the way she touched his arm and chest gave everything away. Some people are idiots.
Jenny saw Orla and the guy come into the front room, at first having a disagreement then after a couple of minutes touching and kissing. They headed out of the room, presumably upstairs.
Jenny got out and crossed the road to the guy’s van. She took a photo of the number plate, there had to be a way to trace that. She looked into the front of the van, saw a bunch of flyers for Karl Zukas, Landscape Gardener, with a number and email. She took a picture of that too. Inside the van was a mess, Maccy D wrappers and cups, empty Irn Bru bottles, KFC boxes. She saw through to the back of the van, lots of gardening tools, compost bags, turf rolls.
She went back to her own van, got in and waited. Looked up Karl Zukas online. He had a good rating on Trusted Traders, plenty of satisfied customers, mostly women. Orla was trading Liam in for this?
Another fifteen minutes and the front door opened. Jenny zoomed her phone in, took a ton of pictures then some video as Orla and Karl stood like love-struck kids in the doorway, touching each other, kissing long and hard. Eventually Karl pulled himself away and Orla went back inside, smiling like her world wasn’t about to come crashing down.
46
HANNAH
A Dark Matter Page 21