Dorothy got in the passenger seat of the hearse beside Archie and heaved a sigh.
‘You OK?’ Archie said.
Dorothy took a long time to answer. ‘Not really.’
Archie didn’t start the engine, just sat watching the last few mourners walk to their cars or out of the gate to catch a bus.
‘There was something on the news this morning,’ Archie said.
Dorothy stared at her hands. She could feel the dirt still under her nails despite scrubbing and using a nail file.
‘Apparently someone disturbed a grave in Portobello Cemetery.’
Dorothy felt tears in her eyes as she looked out of the window away from Archie’s gaze.
‘The groundskeeper alerted police,’ Archie said. ‘But they think it was just a prank. A sick joke. They think the grave wasn’t dug up, just the surface layer messed with.’
‘Right,’ Dorothy said, her throat dry.
‘Dorothy.’
The tone of his voice made her turn. He was almost crying and that made her tears come. She wiped at her cheeks with her hands.
‘Don’t speak,’ she said, swallowing hard.
They sat for a long time, no sound except their breathing, the windows steaming up.
Eventually Dorothy reached into her pocket and pulled out the piece of paper. She unfolded it carefully and offered it to him. He stared at it but didn’t take it.
‘What’s that?’ he said.
‘Jenny found this,’ she said. ‘It’s another burial from the same time.’
‘Where did she find it?’
Dorothy hesitated, pressed her lips together. ‘Sealed under the lining of a coffin in the workshop.’
‘How the hell did it get there?’
‘You really don’t know?’
Archie shook his head.
‘Come on, Archie.’
‘Honestly, Dorothy.’
He took the piece of paper, which trembled in his hand as he squinted at it.
Dorothy took the paper back and stared at it. Thought about Ailsa Montgomery. ‘I’m going to dig her up tonight.’
‘Good luck.’
‘You’re coming too.’
‘No I’m not.’
‘You owe me, Archie, you said so yourself. You owe me your life.’
‘That’s not fair.’
‘Life’s not fair.’
‘I won’t do it.’
‘Then consider yourself out of a job,’ Dorothy said. ‘As of now.’
Archie looked across and held her gaze. ‘This is a bad idea.’
She stared at him then folded the piece of paper and put it away in her pocket.
Her phone rang. Hannah.
‘Gran, there’s something on the camera footage,’ Hannah said. ‘The Glassman case. You’re not going to believe it.’
52
JENNY
The King’s Wark was quiet, which made this harder. The sun had set outside, the dim light in here making it more intimate. Liam was in his usual spot at the bar, two-thirds through his lager, crossword in front of him. Jenny thought about what she had to say.
She’d sat in the café across from the studio vennel for two hours until Liam left, then waited another twenty minutes. When she finally got up she hoped he wouldn’t be here, that he’d skip his drink and head home to his loving wife. Ha. Her heart sank when she pulled open the door and saw him on his stool. The fates had decided, she would go through with it.
She walked to the bar and stood next to him. He didn’t notice her, intent on his paper. Jenny waited to be served, it was a barman she hadn’t seen before, a guy in his late twenties, hipster beard waxed at the corners, gelled quiff, arms sleeved with tattoos of birds and boats.
‘Double gin and tonic, thanks,’ she said.
Liam looked up at her voice. He smiled and her heart sank.
‘It’s the artistic funeral director.’
‘Hi.’
She put out her hand and regretted it, it was too formal, a stupid gesture, but he smiled and shook it.
‘Can I get you a drink?’ she said, nodding at his pint glass.
‘I’m fine.’
‘Sure?’
He thought about it for a second, smiled. ‘OK, pint of Amstel.’
She got the drinks and passed his over. ‘Cheers.’
They clinked and drank, Jenny taking a big gulp, feeling the edge of it.
‘So did you take the studio?’ Liam said.
‘What?’
‘I presume as you’re here, that you’ve taken the studio round the corner.’
‘No, I didn’t rent it in the end.’
‘Shame,’ Liam said, and he seemed to mean it. ‘We could’ve been artistic buddies.’
Jenny put on a thin smile. She pictured a different universe where she worked on paintings or sculptures, the graft of creating, then sat here afterwards putting the world to rights with Liam, the glow of the fire on winter nights.
‘Why didn’t you, out of interest?’ Liam said.
She drank more gin, swallowed it down like juice.
‘I’m not really an artist,’ she said.
Liam shook his head and sucked his teeth, almost tutted. ‘I know what you mean, but that’s not the attitude. It’s not like you apply to the council to get an artist’s licence. Everyone’s creative in some way, it’s about giving yourself permission, finding a way to express yourself.’
‘That’s not what I mean.’ Jenny pulled at her ear and swallowed.
Liam waved this away. ‘I think you should take the studio. Everyone needs a place where they can get some headspace. That’s what the studio is for me, a place where I can be myself away from the noise of the world. You don’t know what you’re capable of until you really give yourself the chance.’
You don’t know what you’re capable of. Jenny thought about digging up the grave last night. She drank more gin and tonic, her glass almost empty. She raised her hand in case Liam was going to say anything else, she couldn’t stand to hear him speak.
‘I have to tell you something.’
He took a drink and put his pint glass down. Staff glided behind the bar like ghosts, conversations behind Jenny murmured on like incantations of the dead. She imagined everyone stopping talking to stare at her, a spotlight shining on her as she spoke.
‘I lied,’ she said, scratching her cheek. ‘When I came to the studio, I wasn’t looking to hire a place.’
‘Then what were you doing?’
Jenny looked away then back at him. ‘I needed to speak to you. I was working.’
‘The funeral thing?’
‘No. As well as the funeral business, we run a private investigator’s. I was investigating you.’
‘Me?’ He thought it was a wind-up.
She nodded and drank the last of her gin.
‘Why?’ he said.
She breathed in and out, shifted her weight. ‘Your wife hired me. She thought you were having an affair.’
Liam laughed. ‘This is a joke, someone put you up to this.’
‘She hired me at her sister’s funeral to look into you. I’ve been following you for the last week.’
‘I don’t believe you.’
‘I sat outside your house, followed you to work, then to the studio. I’ve been in here twice before when you were in.’
‘Orla wouldn’t do this.’
‘That’s not all.’
His hand was tight on his pint glass, veins showing across his knuckles. ‘What do you mean?’
‘The other night,’ Jenny said. ‘The woman in the skirt chatting you up.’
Liam took a moment to twig, then remembered. ‘What about her?’
‘She was an escort. Orla hired her to sleep with you.’
‘Fuck off, you’ve lost the plot.’
‘I spoke to the woman after you left,’ Jenny said, wishing she hadn’t finished her drink so quickly. ‘She confirmed it. Orla was trying to set you up as an adulterer, to take everything i
n a divorce.’
‘You’ve made a mistake.’
Jenny shook her head. ‘There’s one other thing.’
‘I don’t want to hear it.’
Jenny was worried Liam’s grip would smash the pint glass, beer and blood everywhere. ‘I saw Orla with someone.’
Liam didn’t speak.
‘A guy called Karl Zukas.’
Recognition in his face. ‘He does some gardening work for us.’
‘Orla is sleeping with him.’
‘Bullshit,’ Liam said. ‘You’re some mad stalker. Is this because your dad died, a weird grief thing?’
Jenny went into her bag and brought out an envelope. She’d laughed when Orla mentioned brown envelopes, but she hadn’t been able to think of any other way to do this. So here she was sliding an envelope across the bar towards him.
Liam stared at the envelope. ‘This is a sick joke.’
Jenny looked at him, her face flushed. ‘I wish it was.’
He stood up, releasing his grip on the glass.
‘Goodbye,’ he said.
Jenny held out the envelope. ‘I’m so sorry, Liam. But I had to tell you.’
He went to walk away and she pressed the envelope to his chest. He paused, hands at his side. He held her gaze for a long time, then eventually grabbed the envelope and strode out of the pub clutching it in his fist like a death sentence.
53
DOROTHY
‘Are you sure about this?’ Thomas said.
Dorothy looked at him. They were sitting in his car outside 11 Hermitage Drive. Dorothy turned and looked at the house, up at the roof. Quite a bit of space up there, by the look of it. An old lady walking a terrier in a coat gave Thomas a stare as she passed. A black man in a rich area, really? Dorothy turned back to him and nodded.
‘I’ve seen the footage.’
‘I mean, are you sure you want to come in with me?’
‘Of course, Jacob doesn’t know you.’
They got out and went up the path, rang the bell and waited. It was a long time before Jacob answered.
‘We need to talk,’ Dorothy said.
‘Who’s your friend?’
‘Thomas Olsson, he’s a police officer.’
‘So you found something?’
‘Can we come in?’
Dorothy looked up the stairs as they went to the kitchen. Wondered if she was up there now. Wondered if she would make a run for it. But why would she if she didn’t know they were on to her?
Jacob turned at the kitchen table. ‘So?’
Thomas smiled at him. ‘I think you should sit down.’
Jacob frowned but sat.
‘When was the last time you were in your attic?’ Thomas said.
Jacob laughed, pointed at his walking frame. ‘Look at me. When do you think?’
Dorothy took a seat at the table too. ‘Has anyone been up there recently?’
‘No,’ Jacob said, confused. ‘What is this?’
Dorothy gave Thomas a look.
‘We think someone is living up there,’ Thomas said.
‘What?’
Dorothy nodded. ‘We have footage. She comes down at night when you’re asleep.’
‘Susan?’
Dorothy shook her head. ‘It’s not Susan Raymond. We think it might be Monika.’
Jacob coughed, swallowed hard. ‘I don’t understand. How can someone be living up there?’
Thomas glanced at the ceiling. ‘Can we take a look?’
‘You think she’s up there now?’
Dorothy shrugged.
Jacob made a vague hand gesture towards the ceiling, giving permission.
‘Wait here,’ Thomas said to Dorothy.
She shook her head. ‘No, I need to see.’
Thomas knew better than to argue.
‘We’ll be back in a moment,’ Dorothy said to Jacob, who just sat there shaking his head.
She followed Thomas up the stairs and they stood under the hatch in the ceiling. On his tiptoes, Thomas could just reach the hatch, lowered it quietly, the ladder unfolding automatically.
They stood and listened. No sound.
‘Don’t bother telling me to stay here,’ Dorothy said quietly.
‘OK, but I’ll go first.’
Thomas placed careful feet on the ladder and up he went, Dorothy behind. Thomas paused before peering over the top, then glanced back and shrugged, continued up the ladder and into the attic. Dorothy got her head through the hatch and looked around. She half expected someone to come running at her with a baseball bat, or to grab her hair and shove her down the ladder.
She kept up the ladder, taking in the room. It was a large space, the slope of the eaves not too steep. It was floored, cheap chipboard, with piles of cardboard boxes here and there, a set of golf clubs and some old dumbbells in a corner. There were two small skylights that had sheets pinned over them, spreading diffuse light into the space. And over against the far wall was a mattress with a pile of bedding on it, including a sleeping bag, a duvet and a blanket. Next to the mattress was an open sports bag full of women’s clothes, a bag of toiletries, a pair of trainers, a bottle of water and a torch. There was also a small basin, which smelled of urine as Dorothy got closer. Thomas was ahead of her, soft steps towards the bed too, and as they got closer Dorothy saw the bed covers move, then she heard a snuffle and saw the top of a woman’s head sticking out from the sleeping bag.
She exchanged a look with Thomas, who crouched down next to the woman then gently shook her.
‘Hey,’ he said. ‘Wake up.’
The woman jumped and shrank away from his touch, scuttling against the wall and pulling the sleeping bag against her chest.
‘I’m a police officer,’ Thomas said.
The woman looked from Thomas to Dorothy then back again, trying to shake the sleep away.
‘Who are you?’ Dorothy said, because the woman definitely wasn’t Monika Belenko.
The woman shook her head, looked past them at the hatch.
‘I wouldn’t recommend it,’ Thomas said.
‘Why don’t we go downstairs and have a chat?’ Dorothy said.
‘No, thanks,’ the woman said. Scottish accent.
Thomas stood up. ‘It’s that or come to the police station.’
The woman seemed to deflate, shrugged.
‘I’ll put the kettle on,’ Dorothy said.
The woman thought for a long time then stood up.
Thomas led the way down the ladder, then the woman, then Dorothy last. The woman let herself be taken downstairs and along the hall, into the kitchen. Jacob was still sitting where they’d left him. He frowned when he saw the woman, then his eyes widened.
‘Amy?’ he said.
‘Hi, Jacob.’
‘You know each other?’ Thomas said.
‘She delivered my post,’ Jacob said. ‘She was my postie until a few months ago. What is this?’
Amy lowered her chin to her chest. She seemed vulnerable in her T-shirt and pyjama bottoms when the rest of them were fully dressed. Dorothy pulled a chair out for her at the table and put the kettle on, began making tea. Amy rubbed at her forehead then eventually sat down across the table from Jacob. Thomas stood near the doorway, in case she made a break for it.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said eventually, her head still down.
Dorothy put tea in front of her and Jacob, stepped back.
‘You’ve been living in my home?’ Jacob said. ‘I don’t understand.’
Amy finally looked up, held her hands out as if to say she didn’t understand it either. She scratched at the table, rubbed her hair, looked around for help.
‘Come on,’ Thomas said, not unkindly.
Amy shook her head. ‘I got made redundant by the Post Office. Cutbacks, the usual shite. Pretty soon I couldn’t pay the rent. I had flatmates, but they weren’t friends. I had nothing, just a bag of clothes. No family. It’s amazing how quickly you can just slip through the cracks.’
&nb
sp; She touched her mug but didn’t drink. She looked around again, gave a sad smile. ‘This place looks different in daylight.’
‘How did you end up here?’ Dorothy said.
Amy turned to her and frowned. ‘Who are you?’
‘I’m a private investigator. Jacob hired me when he thought stuff was going missing.’
Amy turned to Jacob. ‘I’m so sorry.’
Jacob narrowed his eyes. ‘You didn’t answer her question, how did you get here?’
Amy shrugged. ‘Any of you ever slept on the street? It’s fucking awful, you can’t imagine how bad. I only did it for a few days and I wanted to kill myself. Then I got thinking. All those big posh houses I delivered post to. Some of them were probably empty. So I started retracing my routes, checking out the houses. But most have good security, full of families. Then I remembered you, Jacob.’
She swallowed and pulled on her earlobe.
‘I knew you lived here alone, you told me. We always chatted at the door if I had a parcel that was too big for the letterbox. And you weren’t very mobile, probably didn’t use half of the house. Plus you were, you know, nice. Harmless. So I just thought, why not?’
‘But how did you get in?’
‘I knew you didn’t lock the front door during the day. And I remembered you moaning that you kept falling asleep in front of the television. I just came by a few times, sneaked a look in the window. Waited till you were asleep, walked right in and up the stairs.’
Thomas folded his arms. ‘When was this?’
Amy ran her tongue around the inside of her cheek, thinking. ‘Three months ago.’
Jacob’s eyes were wide. ‘You’ve been living in my attic for three months?’
She shrugged. ‘Sorry.’
‘I have a question,’ Dorothy said, watching her closely. ‘How did you think this was going to end?’
Amy shook her head. ‘I didn’t think that far ahead. I was just staying off the street.’ She finally took a sip of her tea and looked around at the three of them.
‘So, how does it end?’ she said.
54
HANNAH
Hannah stared at the mess of Mel’s room. Mel was never coming home, why bother making things neat? The drawers were still piled on the floor, their contents strewn all over the place. Forensics had taken away a few items in plastic bags, but they had refused to tell her what the items were, or why they were taking them.
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