by Denise Mina
Five blocks down he arrived at Tommy’s mum’s tenement. The window frames were peeling. Someone had emptied an ashtray from their car into the gutter just outside. The entry door was propped open with a broken brick. He walked into the concrete close and the familiar smell of damp and sea and air.
Tommy lived with his mum, Elaine Farmer, in a disabled-access flat on the ground floor. Lainey had bad knees. Iain had known her for a long time. He flicked the letter box a couple of times, the metallic clack ricocheting back from the stone walls of the close.
He listened. A footfall. A door creak. He could imagine Elaine standing still inside, wondering.
Finally, she called out, ‘Who’s it?’
Iain leaned into the joist where the door would open. ‘Me, Lainey.’
Pause.
‘Iain Fraser,’ he said.
She shuffled across the hall and opened the door a crack, peering out with one eye. ‘Keep hearing you’re back.’ She opened the door to let him in.
God, she was old. And heavy. One good thing about prison food: it was hard to get fat. She had a purple T-shirt on, too small. It was gathered around her middle. Her thin blonde hair was tangled at one side.
Lainey had not grown into her looks. If anything she’d grown out of them and she wasn’t looking after herself. Her grey skirt was ripped at the hem where it had caught on something. Her legs were bare and her calves bulged with black veins, as if she was already full of worms. She wore slippers shaped like black and white footballs. Iain stared at them to spare himself the sight of her.
‘Footballs. Like ’em? Tommy got me these for Christmas. Comfortable.’ She dropped her voice to a sensual murmur. ‘What you doing here, Iain?’
Iain and Lainey had a night a long time ago; a high point for her, a low point for him. Iain wouldn’t let her know he felt that way though. She’d never been very attractive but she was nice.
‘Kind of looking for Tommy, Lainey, looking to buy.’
She tutted reprovingly. ‘Not for yourself?’ Iain was known for his abstemiousness. It made him stand out.
‘No,’ he gave a sheepish smile, ‘just for a friend.’
‘Oh.’ She looked down the close. ‘Tommy’s out just now. But seeing as it’s you. Much you after?’
‘Three gram?’ He held up the money. It was more than a pinch but Susan had given him the price plus half again to get it.
‘Come on in, well.’
Iain didn’t want to be alone with Lainey in an empty house. He wanted to keep on walking, actually. Stay moving, stay outside, but he couldn’t think of a good excuse so he slipped sideways into the hall, flattening himself against the wall by the door as she shut it.
‘Well, my God, Iain Fraser.’ She stepped back to look him over. ‘You get better-looking every time I see ye.’
She reached forward to touch his chest and Iain flinched away. He couldn’t be touched today, not by her and not there. She was hurt. He mumbled an apology.
‘Nuh nuh.’ She dropped her hand. ‘You’re entitled.’ She glanced down at her slippers, lifted a hand to touch her messy hair. He could see that she was blaming herself, finding the fault in her appearance.
‘Lainey, I’m… it’s been a hell of a day… ’
‘Fair enough, Iain. Just saying.’ She tried to smile warmly but dropped it and turned away, casting a saucy look behind her. ‘Just… wouldn’t kick ye out, if you know what I mean.’
Iain stayed where he was and watched her shuffle down the hall. The ridiculous slippers made her look as if she was dribbling two footballs. He pressed his hands to the wall behind him and waited. He could hear her rifling through a drawer.
He remembered the hallway being bigger than it was. He slid across it in his socks before dawn, trying not to make a noise as he left. Tommy was at his dad’s, the house was empty, but Iain had started at the sound of a pipe clanging as it came to life. He hurried across to the door, saw Tommy’s school bag and trainers in a pile by the cupboard, thought they were his own for some reason, and stopped. Lainey was at the bedroom door before he got moving again and she took him back to bed. They tried again, and again he couldn’t. She was too raw. Even when he shut his eyes all he could see was her face, her broken veins, her drunken smile. The second time he came out of the room into the hall Lainey called after him that she wouldn’t tell anyone, it was their private business, he shouldn’t be ashamed. Iain wasn’t ashamed. He’d have been more ashamed if he had been able to. It would have meant he was blind to the smog of need and lies around her. She didn’t want it either. They called it sex because they didn’t have the words for what they needed. They were both looking for a hand to hold in the dark, a friend, a makeshift mooring.
In the back room now Elaine slammed the drawer shut. She came back out, cellophane wraps in her hand. ‘Tommy’s already bagged them into grams.’
Iain gave her two thirds of the money. ‘Very efficient.’
‘Aye, small businessman of the year, all that shite.’
Iain opened the door. She knew he wanted to get away. He’d hurt her and wished he hadn’t but he couldn’t think how to make it OK so he just walked away.
‘Iain,’ she called after him down the close. Iain turned back. ‘Not want to stay for your tea? I’m making Tommy’s anyway.’
He didn’t want to see Tommy.
‘Shepherd’s pie?’ she said, as if that was what was worrying him.
‘Nah, you’re all right, Lainey, but thanks, love.’ He stepped away.
‘Iain?’
He turned back once more to look at her, keeping his body to the door.
‘Iain, I can see… ’ Lainey drew a line down her cheek. She knew he’d been crying. She blinked slow. Sympathy. The vain hope of connection. That’s why he went with her before.
Iain shook his head. ‘Please, don’t tell Tommy.’
She shrugged a shoulder. ‘I won’t say.’
Grateful, Iain lifted a hand to wave. Puzzled, Lainey squinted at his fingers.
‘What?’ Iain looked at his own hand.
‘What’s that?’ She looked at his hand and touched her own fingertips.
Stained brown with blood. He hid his hands behind his back. She shouldn’t be looking at that. She was nice, Elaine, she was a nice person. ‘Nothing.’ He backed out of the close.
‘Iain,’ she called, ‘anything. Just phone me, OK?’
‘Will do, Lainey. You’re a star.’
Iain didn’t have a phone. He was ashamed of that. Not that he couldn’t afford one but every time he got out of prison the technology had moved on so much he couldn’t catch up.
He hurried away from her, into the west, slowing to a panting walk because of the weight of the smoking on his lungs. It was a deceptively steep climb to the posh bit. He stopped to catch his breath.
Too much had happened to fit into one day. The day before had been so calm. She sat where they put her, in Iain’s room, calm on the low-down stool. They bought in a curry. She chose butter chicken and ate it with a plastic spoon. Sometimes, when Tommy spoke, Iain saw her looking at them, smiling as if she was part of the conversation. She saw no threat in them. Right up to when they were walking through the yellow sand when he saw the apple of her cheek, tight and round, smiling as they led her to the dock. As if she didn’t mind. She was like a holy martyr.
He leaned over his knees, breathing deep. Maybe she didn’t mind. He stood up, hands on hips; he looked out over the sea. If someone was going to kill him right now he didn’t think he’d mind. Maybe that was how she’d felt. The thought cheered him until he remembered her screaming and fighting and almost making it to the trees. He headed back up to Susan’s dirty house.
Stepping through the overgrown hedge around the front garden he saw her watching for him through an arrow-slit window at the side of the front door. Iain dropped his head as he walked up to the opening door, wondering what the fuck it was with Susan and realising that he didn’t care. These women weren’t his prob
lem. He should get away and be alone.
She let him in, not even looking at his face. ‘Put it down there,’ she said to the dresser. Iain put the wraps on the sideboard. Susan stayed at the door, waiting for him to leave.
The coke was what she wanted and it was all she wanted. She nodded the way out. ‘Sorry you’re upset today. Was it because I mentioned Sheila?’
Iain looked at his feet. ‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘Sheila.’
She reached out and squeezed his upper arm like a witch testing him for the pot.
‘So brave,’ she said, cold now that she had what she wanted.
Iain looked at her. She didn’t care about anything but getting him out of there. ‘Why’s this house so dirty?’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘You weren’t here, were ye? She died on her own.’
‘Sorry?’
He looked back into the dirty kitchen. ‘Fucking look at this place. She died in here, didn’t she? And you’ve just got back.’
Susan was surprised, amused even, as if she’d been walking a dog and then it looked up and spoke to her. ‘Oh. But my mother died. I’m sorting through her affairs—’
‘Alone,’ he said, his lips tight with the effort of being so vicious. ‘She died alone in here so don’t think you can talk to me as if I’m some kind of arsehole. At least Sheila knew I wanted to be there.’
Susan’s eyes were narrowed now. ‘But you weren’t there, were you? You were in prison.’
She was goading him, chin out, eyes slits, and Iain wondered out loud, ‘How the fuck would you know that?’
Suddenly embarrassed, she tried to herd him out of the door. ‘Just get out.’
Iain didn’t move. ‘How do you know I was in prison?’
‘Mum told me.’ It was possible. Her mother might have told her that. But she looked caught out. As though she had given something away.
‘Have you been following me or something?’
‘Just go.’
Did she have a crush on him? No, it wasn’t that. But why would she know that then? ‘Are you a cop?’ She didn’t react so it wasn’t that. He looked down to the kitchen. She was definitely hiding something in the house. ‘Is there someone in there?’
She pushed at him. ‘Get out.’
Iain half called out because she didn’t want him to, ‘Who’s in there?’
It was so sudden. Her foot shot out in a judo move, curling around his calf, throwing him off balance and she shoved at the same time. Iain tumbled out of the front door and into the garden. The door slammed shut in his face.
Through the dirty window at the side of the door he saw her shadow hurry down the passageway to the back of the house.
He stood for a minute, waiting for the surprise to subside, and then he asked the peeling front door: ‘Who the fuck are you now?’
11
They were assembled around the same table in the same sterile meeting room.
Morrow gave her report in bullet points: a transcript of the entire Walker interview would be available tomorrow morning.
•The Fuentecilla kids made the missing persons call this a.m.
•The bank had been contacted and were checking RF’s account for withdrawals.
•Traces were being conducted for the mobile phones.
•Mr Y is Frank Delahunt. Family report that he is the company lawyer. They were tracing him right now.
•Walker had consented to allow them access to the office. They were currently looking for officers with forensic accounting diplomas who were available tomorrow morning. They’d get them into the Injury Claims 4 U office and gather as much intel as possible.
She continued:
•Martina Fuentecilla suggested that Roxanna might have driven to London to confront Maria Arias. There had been some suggestion of a possible romantic connection between Maria and their father, Manuel Vicente.
In conclusion:
•Still missing, still no reason to suspect foul play.
She looked up. That was about it.
Somewhat glassy-eyed after listening to her report, CS Saunders pushed a sheet of paper over to her. It had a photo on it. A security shot of Roxanna from inside a cash machine. The bank had sent the jpeg as Morrow was driving here.
Fuentecilla had withdrawn cash from an ATM yesterday at twenty past two in the afternoon. It was in Stone, Staffordshire, four hours south of Glasgow down the M6. She took out fifty quid and there had been no charges to the card since then. Her normal pattern was fifty quid a day.
So, concluded DCC Hughes, Martina is correct: Roxanna was on her way south. The car GPS had been traced, all the way down to the M1. Just after the cash withdrawal, Fuentecilla had pulled into a car park in Luton and the tracker was turned off manually.
Morrow looked at the cash point picture. It was taken from an unflatteringly low angle with a fisheye lens. Her mouth was slack as she punched in her PIN. Her hair was in disarray, her eyes puffy.
Morrow was disappointed in her. Even if Roxanna had only gone to London to shout at a love rival, she hadn’t phoned the kids at four fifteen to reassure them. She could have rung. She hadn’t called last night either. Morrow looked at the picture again. Roxanna looked frightened.
Saunders and Hughes were still talking. CI Nolly Dent was doing his customary obsequious nod. Morrow had to turn the picture of Roxanna on its face to stop her eyes straying to it. She tried hard to listen and pay attention but was aware of her hand resting on the cheap, porous paper, of the moisture from her palm warping it.
The bosses were telling each other that Fuentecilla didn’t know anyone in Staffordshire or Manchester or Birmingham, the major cities nearby, so they could conclude that she was heading straight for London. Morrow should be ready to fly down in the morning to question Maria Arias, before the Met heard that Roxanna had been there. The Met and the Serious Fraud Office were closing in on Juan Pinzón Arias’s money. A freeze on his accounts was imminent. The chief didn’t want the seven million in the Fuentecilla case being requisitioned into the Met’s proceeds pot. The chief got up as he finished talking and gave them all a stern, warning look: find the money before the Met do.
Outside, Morrow gave McGrain his orders for the morning. Get this ready, trace that, bring your passport because you and I will probably have to fly to London. McGrain listened but was shaking his head, a gesture so small it seemed almost to himself.
‘I’ve got tomorrow late off.’
‘Can’t you change it?’
‘Kid’s hospital appointment. Wonky hip.’
She didn’t like that. ‘We’ll be back on time,’ she said, knowing they probably wouldn’t be.
‘Can’t take the chance, ma’am.’ He held his breath, not at all comfortable about standing up to her. ‘We’ve been waiting for three months for an appointment… ’
She could insist. She wanted to. She saw herself suddenly as one of those old bastard bosses who were in charge when she was coming up, throwing their weight around because they could.
‘Right. Tell Thankless to bring his passport. I’ll take him instead.’
But she was pissed off about it: she didn’t like Thankless.
12
Boyd Fraser was in a terrible mood. He wanted to go for a pint or something, have a minute to himself. That was the problem with living somewhere small; he had no sooner finished work than he was at his own front door. He’d got used to the rhythm of London, having an hour or so commute after work, time to decompress, read or listen to music. Here, his life felt unremittingly dutiful and tedious.
He crossed the steep road home and took the long way, circling the block to his house. The sky was bruised pink, the day drawing to a lazy end and a soft breeze blowing in from the sea. The warmth of the café lifted from him like the odour of fresh bread.
Really, he was under a hell of a lot of pressure, new business, young family. He needed a break but Lucy didn’t see it that way. She wanted him home, always. He circled the neighbour
s’ grounds and arrived at his own garden gate eight minutes after locking up the café.
He climbed the six steps to the lawn. Pretty bungalow, lovely garden. The lights were on in the front rooms.
It was a modest house by the standards of the town, but not spectacularly modest. A bungalow with four reception rooms, four bedrooms, a small kitchen with the original larder and a butler’s pantry. The garden was well established. The roof was in good repair. It was picturesque: the front had a panoramic view of the sea from a covered wooden porch.
The Reverend Robert Fraser kept the house well until he died. Too old to undertake improvements, he had not stapled an ugly conservatory to the front porch or had plastic windows installed. No work needed doing, no ugly dissonant changes needed reversing, which was just as well. Boyd arrived back in the town with nothing but two sons and a wife. They had remortgaged to start the business.
Hameau de la Reine.
Fuck. It pissed Boyd off how often that came to his mind when he looked at the house. It was spreading too. He thought about it in the café the other day, when someone, a middle-aged woman, naturally, bought organic local free-range eggs. It was the look she had on her face when she asked if they were ‘local?’.
Hameau de la fucking Reine. It wasn’t even part of their holiday itinerary. They might have strolled through, none the wiser, but the tour guide happened to be giving a talk in English.
Lucy and Boyd made a trip around Europe the year before William arrived, in a VW van with a brand new engine. They visited the Venice Biennale, stopped in the Alps, ate and drank and fucked and danced all over Europe. The weather was perfect, the reconditioned van admired wherever they stopped. The trip was beautiful. They were beautiful. They were so full of each other that Lucy’s pregnancy felt inevitable, a comma in a long, fluid sentence. But here, in Helensburgh, what lingered in his mind was that ridiculous Hameau.