Blood Salt Water

by Denise Mina

  He left the room. They heard him walk down the hall and then return, hesitating behind the living room door. He came in holding an original iPad, round-edged and lumpy. He sat down next to Morrow, turning it on and opening the iPhoto file.

  McGrain craned to see it: a checkerboard of pictures, most of Roxanna alone but some with her children, all from the past year. It must have been Walker’s iPad because they were nearly all of her: Roxanna on a white beach, Roxanna in a dark London street and, in all of them, Roxanna craning into Walker’s gaze, radiating love. In the manner of digital photography the same view had been captured several times, less an attempt at bettering the image than an articulation of the photographer’s enthusiasm for the moment.

  One or two were of the couple together. Robin and Roxanna standing together in a park, stiff-smiling for whichever kindly stranger took the snap. Some were of Robin and Roxanna with either Martina or Hector, the other child presumably behind the lens. In the group photos where Martina was the photographer Robin’s head was invariably cut off by the top of the frame. She had some of her mother’s pugnaciousness.

  Morrow scrolled down to the more recent ones, taken since they had arrived in Glasgow. Roxanna in the orchid house at the Botanical Gardens. She was standing in the foreground, the light dusky and yellow. Behind her, at opposite ends of a long bench, were Martina and a man Morrow knew as Mr Y.

  Mr Y was an unidentified but recurrent character in the CCTV of the Glasgow PINAD investigation. He was one of the first people Roxanna made contact with when she arrived. He’d been seen going into the office, the house, sitting in cars, always with Roxanna. He was slim, around sixty, dressed carefully and had a neatly trimmed moustache. They’d been trying to put a name to him for weeks.

  In the photo Martina sat as far away from everyone as she could, hard up against the arm of the bench.

  Morrow asked Robin to print that picture. He took the iPad from her, tapped the screen a couple of times and a printer snapped awake out in the hall.

  Morrow referred back to her list of missing persons questions: friends and relatives?

  He told her, only being somewhat cagey: Roxanna’s parents were from Madrid but had died some time ago. She had a sister who lived in Boston. They called each other once a week. They were close. Morrow had listened to the Met’s recordings of the stilted calls. The sister was a snide bitch and Roxanna was warm. ‘Close’ was overplaying it but that didn’t make it a lie: most families were held together with myths. He said Roxanna hadn’t made any friends in Glasgow yet but she hadn’t been in touch with friends in London since she disappeared, he’d called everyone the night before.

  Morrow asked the next question on the form: Did Roxanna have any medical conditions they should know about?

  No, she was healthy. She had a heart murmur but it was being monitored and she exercised around it. It was a stable underlying condition, he said, using an insurance-form phrase.

  She was thinking about the recorder in her pocket, really, imagining herself heard by her bosses, so she read out the next question without thinking: Could they have a DNA sample for Roxanna?

  Walker froze.

  If Morrow had been a real missing persons cop she would have been aware of the emotional impact of the question. She would have tiptoed into it, dropped the tone of her voice or something. She back-pedalled: Only so that they could rule out anyone who happened to be found, not because they had any reason to think anything, you know…

  Walker’s voice was husky: Where would he even get a DNA sample? McGrain suggested a hairbrush. Walker stood up slowly and left the room. He came back, his eyes smarting, holding a heated hairbrush reverently in two hands. Morrow took it and thanked him. It was completely useless, heat killed DNA, but she hadn’t the heart to say that to him. If necessary she could ask for something else later.

  She bagged the pointless item and slipped it into her briefcase, asking as she did so for Roxanna’s bank account details and her mobile number, his mobile number and the kids’ numbers too, if they had mobiles.

  He baulked. ‘What do you need her bank account number for?’

  ‘To see if she’s taken any money out. That’ll tell us where she is and if she’s safe. We need her mobile number too.’

  He chewed his lip, thinking, and then flashed a cagey smile. ‘Honestly, Rox hasn’t called me.’

  McGrain explained that it wouldn’t just help them check her calls. If the phone was turned on they could track her movements from it. It would really help.

  Walker agreed to give them all of the information but seemed to change his mind when Morrow handed him the form. There was a deal of fumbling with the pen, an overly elaborate writing-out of names. He was reluctant, but in the end he gave them everyone’s numbers: his, Roxanna’s, the kids’. It made Morrow think he was concerned enough about her to give them information he thought potentially damning.

  She asked if Roxanna had ever gone missing before and Walker looked shifty. ‘Not that I’m aware of. We’ve only been together for a year and a bit. She may have. You’d have to ask the kids.’

  ‘The kids aren’t your kids?’

  ‘No, their father lives in Ecuador.’

  ‘Do you know his name?’

  ‘Miguel Vicente.’ He spelled it for her and watched her write it down. She asked for Vicente’s address and was told that he had two: one in Quito and a beachfront house in Guayaquil. Both in Ecuador.

  ‘Would Roxanna have contacted him?’

  Walker snorted at that. ‘Not bloody likely.’

  ‘Why “not bloody likely”?’

  The story came out in a messy jumble. Her ex, he, well, he was a total bastard, sort of, you see, left without telling her where he was going and married someone else a week later (Morrow knew it was a month) and he wanted the kids now, but only because his wife was infertile (she had two kids) but he’d never bothered about the kids before (he had). Morrow could hear Roxanna’s voice in the bitter rant. She’d heard divorce talk before. Vicente didn’t pay a penny in maintenance, either (true). Rox’d seen a lawyer but it made no difference…

  ‘Of course,’ said Morrow, trying to impress the voice recorder audience with the breadth of her knowledge, ‘Ecuador doesn’t have a reciprocal maintenance agreement. We see this a lot in missing persons. It’s not uncommon for children to be taken abroad by an ex.’

  She imagined the DCC Hughes reading that, surprised and impressed by her erudition.

  Walker looked puzzled, ‘No. The kids aren’t gone. She’s gone.’

  He was right. RMAs were irrelevant. Hughes would read that too. Morrow’s smugness curdled to mild embarrassment. She was addressing the wrong audience. ‘Are the kids in touch with their dad?’

  They weren’t, as far as he knew. Rox got upset at the mention of her ex, he said, and gave a little cringe. Morrow felt that maybe it was Robin who got upset at the mention of her ex. It was the downside of utterly condemning an ex to a new partner: it left no room for mitigation when the bitterness receded.

  She asked him about the business.

  ‘Injury Claims 4 U,’ he said. The tacky posters were everywhere, on the underground, on bus stops, jarring red on yellow. The I of ‘Injury’ was represented by a silhouette of a ladder with a tiny red man falling off it. ‘Those posters aren’t hers. The owner was retiring, he was building up the goodwill. I don’t really know anything about her business.’

  Morrow said casually that they would have a look at the books, to check for debts undisclosed at the time of sale, railroading him by segueing straight into: ‘If you could go and find contact details for the children’s father while we speak to them.’

  She stood up and McGrain did too.

  Robin got up and block her way. ‘This isn’t about custody.’ He said it very carefully. ‘As I said: the kids are still here.’

  ‘I didn’t say it was about custody, Mr Walker. She may have tried to contact Mr Vicente—’

  ‘No, she hasn’t. It�
�s not that… ’

  They looked at each other, Morrow soft, Walker frightened.

  ‘Is there something you want to tell me, Mr Walker?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Are you sure? Because I feel like you’re worried about something but not being completely open with me.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘OK.’ She nodded McGrain to the door, ‘We’ll speak to the children.’

  Through the dark hallway and down the back corridor, they stopped at a printer on a table and Robin handed her a B5-sized print of the Botanics picture. It was still damp. They came to two bedroom doors facing each other.

  Martina and Hector were at their respective desks in their respective rooms, both playing dull platform games on their laptops with the sound turned off. They had been listening but now affected surprise that there was anyone there. Martina stood up. ‘May I help you?’

  Robin stepped between them. ‘They want you to tell them about Mummy.’

  Martina spat viciously at Walker, ‘What about her?’

  He took a threatening step into the room, pointing at the girl as if he’d like to slap her. ‘Has she phoned you?’

  Martina pointed back at him and shouted, ‘Would we have called the police if she had phoned us?’

  ‘Since you called the police? Has she phoned you since then?’

  Evidently it was a high-volume household. Morrow raised her voice. ‘I’ll talk to the kids alone, please, Mr Walker.’

  ‘Marty! Has she?’

  ‘ALONE, Mr Walker.’

  Malevolent joy rippled across Martina’s face as Walker backed away. Hector was watching from his bedroom door, still as a hunted rabbit.

  Morrow decided to start with Hector. Gesturing for McGrain to follow, she walked into the boy’s room. Martina followed them.

  ‘Go back to your own room.’

  Martina tried to catch her brother’s eye. Morrow stepped in and blocked her view. ‘We’ll come and see you in a minute.’ She pulled the door over, not closing it, knowing Martina would listen. They heard the girl step away and shut her own door but felt her vigilance radiating across the corridor.

  Hector sat down on the side of his bed, holding his stomach as if it ached, rocking softly back and forth.

  ‘OK, son, we’re just going to ask a few questions—’

  ‘In the car!’ he hissed in a whisper, watching the door. ‘They had a big fight. Going to school. Yesterday.’

  ‘Yesterday morning?’

  He kept his eyes on the door. ‘Yesterday. Mummy went crazy because Daddy phoned Martina.’

  ‘Doesn’t he phone, normally?’

  ‘Sometimes. She was furious, though.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Something he said about Auntie Maria. It made Mummy really furious.’

  ‘Who is Auntie Maria?’

  ‘Maria Arias. Mummy’s friend in London.’

  ‘What was it?’

  ‘I don’t know. I thought, maybe… Daddy had a lot of affairs. Mummy and Daddy don’t get on.’ Hector shrugged. ‘I don’t know. Marty said it was bullshit.’

  ‘Hector,’ Morrow whispered, ‘did you report her missing this morning? Did you call us?’

  He nodded. ‘Marty waited in the taxi. She said there would be cameras and two of us was… you know. Obvious.’

  ‘Why didn’t you just call from here?’

  He looked at the door.

  ‘Is it because of Robin?’

  He frowned at his bed.

  ‘Do you think Robin would hurt your mum?’

  He shrugged again. ‘I don’t really know him. What’s he doing here?’

  ‘Isn’t he your mum’s boyfriend?’

  Hector nodded. Morrow thought he meant that he didn’t want Robin to be there, rather than his presence was confusingly pointless.

  ‘On the phone this morning you said, “We don’t know where they’ve taken her.” What did you mean?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Why do you think someone’s taken her? Why not that she’s just run off?’

  He found it hard to articulate but eventually held his hands up at the room. ‘Why are we here, in Glasgow? What are we doing here?’

  It was an astute question. Long-serving police officers were wondering the same thing. He was rocking back and forth, nearly crying. He couldn’t talk any more, could hardly catch his breath. Morrow patted his hand, felt a strong urge to lie and tell him everything would be all right. ‘I’m going to ask your sister about the argument in the car, OK?’

  He hummed warily at the door, steeling himself.

  Morrow got up and went across the hall, knocking and opening the door simultaneously. She found Martina standing by her bed, waiting. Her manner was imperial.

  ‘Martina. Can you tell me what your dad said on the phone that made your mum so angry?’

  ‘Nothing.’ Martina’s voice was flat. ‘He didn’t say anything.’

  They looked at each other for a while. Finally, Morrow broke the silence. ‘Why did you call us if you don’t want help?’

  ‘Get us away from Walker… ’ Martina was crying a little now, not like Hector though. It was controlled, as if she was squeezing it out.

  ‘Are you afraid of Robin?’

  ‘No!’

  ‘Do you think he had anything to do with your mum—’

  ‘No!’

  ‘You don’t think he hurt your mum?’

  She couldn’t bring herself to say that. She slumped down on the bed, defeated. ‘No.’

  ‘What do you think has happened?’

  ‘She calls at four fifteen, when we get in from school, normally. We were worried when she didn’t call, but maybe she was driving?’

  ‘Why would she be driving?’

  ‘I think she drove to London to see Auntie Maria. I think she gave her a fucking ear-bleed.’

  Morrow took a moment to navigate her way through the teen-speak. ‘Was she angry with her?’

  Martina shook her head. ‘She was angry about nothing. Literally nothing. She went crazy: “What did he say? What exactly.” But he hadn’t said anything. “Auntie Maria said you’re doing geometry.” Literally that boring.’

  She was a child whose mother was missing and she’d been dumped on an unloved stepfather but still, Martina didn’t evoke sympathy, not like Hector. She was beautiful, privileged, but bitter and angry, as if she had everything but couldn’t fucking believe she wasn’t getting more.

  ‘You got your brother to call us, why not call yourself?’

  She shrugged carelessly, as if she just couldn’t be bothered, but Hector had been listening and called out from his room, ‘She was crying so much she couldn’t speak.’

  Martina glowered at the door.

  ‘Has your mum ever left you before?’

  ‘Never!’ She spat the word. ‘She has never, ever left us before. Mummy is fierce about us, so I know there’s something wrong, otherwise she would have phoned.’

  ‘Well, she has left and she hasn’t phoned. What do you think could cause that to happen?’

  Martina, chewed her cheek, looked tired. ‘I think she’s in trouble,’ she whispered.

  ‘What sort of trouble?’

  But Martina’s chin trembled and she dropped her face to hide it. Morrow saw then that she wasn’t mean or haughty, she was just a child who didn’t know where her mum was and she was scared. Fear with its make-up on.

  ‘Money trouble?’

  She gave her lap a tiny nod and then glanced up at McGrain, pleading with them not to press it.

  Morrow didn’t want to ask. Incriminating evidence from children looked bad, especially if they had been questioned without an adult present. They could ask her to elaborate eventually, if they needed to.

  Morrow held up the photograph from the Botanics and pointed out the mysterious Mr Y. ‘Who’s this man?’

  ‘Frank Delahunt. He’s the lawyer for Mummy’s business up here. He’s a creepy wanker.’

  Bac
k in the car with McGrain, Morrow puzzled the dynamics in the family.

  ‘What do you think? Martina seems desperate to get away from Walker. Is it a child protection issue?’

  ‘Nah,’ said McGrain, knowing exactly what she was talking about. ‘Bosses wouldn’t let you anyway. They’ve spent too much on it.’

  He was right. Abusing stepfathers with an eye on a child often picked chaotic families, but usually with a mother they could control. Roxanna wasn’t that. Both the Met and Police Scotland had spent too much money on the case already to let Morrow blow it with a speculative social-work intervention. A request for a home visit wouldn’t make it off her desk.

  ‘She hates him,’ said McGrain. ‘He’s her stepdad. The problem is that he’s a child himself and he hates her back.’ He started the engine. ‘I’m a stepdad to three.’

  ‘Do they hate you?’

  He pulled up at the lights on the busy Great Western Road. ‘They did. At first. Their mum thought it would never pass. Your job is just not to react. It was easy for me. Mine are diamonds.’

  Morrow looked out of the window as the lights changed and they drove on.

  She didn’t think Roxanna Fuentecilla would walk away from her kids. But Morrow had to face the possibility: maybe she didn’t know her at all. Maybe all the good stuff was just projected hope.

  10

  Iain tripped downhill along streets of high hedges around big houses. He felt conspicuous, imagined householders spotting him through their windows and stopping to neighbourhood-watch him. He knew a lot of the town, but nobody from up here. The big-house people were often incomers. They kept themselves separate, above, geographically, socially, even in the elevated seating positions of their high-up cars. Iain’s only contact with them was through their cleaners, or childminders, or if he met their gardeners in the pub. Or if they approached him for a deal. Susan Grierson made sense now. She’d probably ask him to recommend a cleaner when he got back.

  He turned eastward, heading for Tommy’s mum’s. It was helping his mood, having a thing to do. Even walking was helping him keep focus, the slap of his feet on the pavement drowning out the physical sensations of the morning. He stopped at a kerb, heard a seagull in the distance and remembered the rough dock pressing hard on his knee, the warm wet of her breath on his lips. He hurried across the empty road without really looking, eager to get moving again.