by Denise Mina
Boyd looked at her. About ten or eleven, thick specs, a pink puffa and matching woolly hat that seemed itchy. She kept scratching her head through it.
‘What’s your name?’ he said.
‘Lea-Anne Ray. What’s yours?’
‘Boyd Fraser.’
‘Oh, aye. You one of the Lawnmore Frasers or the Colquin crowd?’
It was a staggeringly astute comment on his family history. Generations back the family had split into those who lived in Lawnmore and the other side who hadn’t done so well and ended up in the council flats at Colquin.
‘Lawnmore,’ he said.
‘Oh, aye. Very good.’ She pursed her lips and looked away. She didn’t seem to entirely approve.
Murray intervened. ‘Our Lea-Anne’s a right wee Granny Grey Hips, aren’t ye, pet? She’s brought up by her grannies.’
The men were just watching him talk to her, not taking the opportunity Boyd was giving them. He realised it was futile and stopped trying.
Tommy gestured to Murray who was near to tears. ‘Boyd and Murray, you don’t know each other, do yees?’
Boyd, still panting a little, shook his head.
‘Well, fellow proprietors,’ Tommy was smiling but he looked a bit mean, ‘this is Murray Ray. He owns the Sailors’ Rest down there.’
Looking down the seafront, past the man and child, Boyd saw the squat little pub. The windows were boarded up. Outside, parked like a fleet of company cars around the back, sat three large skips.
‘Doing it up, aren’t you, Murray? Must be costing ye.’ Tommy wasn’t really asking and Murray didn’t seem to have the breath to answer. He was trembling, his head bobbing on his neck.
‘Arm and a leg,’ said Lea-Anne. ‘Remortgaged the house.’
‘Is that right, wee hen?’ Tommy was talking to her now, not nasty, not threatening the way he was to her father. ‘Boyd here,’ he said, continuing the introduction as if they were old pals, ‘has that Puddle café up there on Sinclair.’
Lea-Anne nodded, politely feigning interest.
Suddenly finding his voice, Murray said loudly, ‘You’re taking a hell of a chance! Starting a business in this economy! You don’t know what’s going to happen! Don’t know who you’ll offend—’
‘Calm yourself down, Murray,’ Tommy warned but he was enjoying this, Boyd could tell. He realised that Tommy had been hiding behind the electricity substation, watching the pub, waiting for Murray Ray.
‘You don’t know WHO you’re going to offend!’ Murray wasn’t even pretending to talk to Boyd now, he was just shouting it to the wind. ‘Or what’ll FUCKING HAPPEN TO YOU.’
Hearing the curse word, Lea-Anne looked at her father, her mouth a tight little ‘o’. He muttered an apology and squeezed her hand. She accepted the apology with a small nod but looked away and muttered ‘Dizzgraceful’ to herself.
‘And when’s Mark back anyway?’ Murray said, wild-eyed and reckless. ‘Is he on his holidays again?’ He barked a desperate half-laugh at Boyd, implicating him.
Tommy leaned in, warning Murray to shut up but the desperate man burbled on, ‘Hey, Boyd Fraser, were you at the bonfire up at the golf course?’ Lea-Anne tried to pull her hand away from her father’s. He was holding it too tight and hurting her. Murray nodded at Boyd, his face a rictus grin. ‘Up it went and everyone’s like that: “Mark Barratt must be on holiday!”’
It didn’t make a lot of sense. Boyd didn’t know who Mark Barratt was. Lea-Anne looked confused too and scratched her head again through her hat. Boyd was only half listening. His mind was on a warm remembered night in London, dancing at five in the morning, feeling tall and alert and on it. Fifty nights conflated in his mind to one moment of total confident certainty.
‘You’re doing the food at the dinner dance tonight, aren’t ye?’ Tommy was talking to Boyd.
‘Yeah,’ he said, ‘we’re catering the hospice dinner.’
‘Great.’ Tommy rubbed his hands together. ‘I’m coming.’
Boyd was more than pleased at that. Relieved. Tommy would be there. Tommy would probably have a little baggie on him, at the dinner, or he’d know someone who did.
Tommy nodded at the father and daughter. ‘You’re coming, aren’t ye, Murray?’
‘Aye,’ Murray said, calmer now, distracted.
‘And who’s babysitting you, Lea-Anne?’
‘Granny Eunice.’
‘Not your Granny Annie?’
‘Nut. Eunice’s leg’s giving her gyp. Knee’s all swole. Annie’s got a ticket.’ She shrugged. ‘Giving the dancing a by, though, with her bladder.’ It was a little freakish, hearing the words of an old person from such a small child. They all looked at her for a moment.
‘Great,’ said Tommy, enunciating the ‘t’ so sharply it sounded like a spiteful finger-flick to the ear.
The sky was darkening. Lights were coming on across the water, throbbing uncertainly. Boyd’s break time was running out and the men were arguing about something he didn’t understand or care about. He should go.
‘So, yeah,’ said Boyd, ‘see you later, anyway.’ He nodded at Tommy as if they had a date.
Murray and Lea-Anne shuffled out of his way and he jogged past, gathering speed on his tired legs, regulating his breathing.
He ran on, past the boarded-up pub. It looked like a bit of a dive but the navy base nearby meant that dives could make enough at the weekends to tide them over an empty week.
Boyd ran on for five or so minutes, as far as the edge of town, and then turned back. He wasn’t sure of the time. He found it hard to put a time on the strange conversation with the old/young girl and the two angry men.
He ran up Sinclair Street towards Lawnmore, a steep incline straight uphill from the water, a final push.
Opening the garden gate, he stepped in and climbed the little steps. He stood for a moment, looked around the garden like a visiting stranger.
The Lawnmore Frasers. It occurred to him that in London he had had anonymity and liked it. Here, in cosy, rosy Helensburgh, he was a young business owner from an old family, part of the fabric of the town. He didn’t like knowing who he was so exactly. He didn’t like other people having the measure of him.
16
‘Alcohol wipes?’
McGrain looked through the closed window at the inside of the car. He sniffed the outside of the car door. His hand, hanging loose at his side, reflexively came forward, stopped and dropped back. He’d been about to touch the handle. He looked at Kerrigan who was watching him and grinned, shocked at himself. She grinned back, showing off her pointy little teeth.
McGrain turned his eyes back to the marks on the dashboard. ‘I can’t catch the smell but it does look like the sort of marks they leave.’
‘OK,’ said Morrow, who had been hoping for something a bit more insightful, ‘let’s get it on the truck anyway. You due at the hospital at two?’
‘Cancelled,’ said McGrain. ‘Emergency case. Sent us a text.’
‘That’s annoying.’
‘Well, probably not for the emergency case. Some poor old dear took a tumble or something.’
‘You come to Helensburgh with me then. I’ve got some evidence that needs taken in. Thankless?’
He came over when he heard his name.
‘I want you to take this into evidence.’ She gave him the evidence bag with the Waitrose freezer bag inside it. ‘Have it tested and logged. OK?’
Procedurally, the fewer officers who handled a production before it was logged the better, but she could see that Thankless felt he was being sent off for a misdemeanour.
‘You were great today,’ she lied. ‘Thanks for that.’
Torn between confused and chuffed, Thankless took the evidence bag and went off to the car.
She told McGrain, ‘Before we set off, find out if Frank Delahunt’s got a silver Ford Fiesta.’
Mr Halliday was hanging about in the yard with the dogs. He was craning to watch them load the car onto the truck but keen to
give them space.
‘Mr Halliday,’ she said, walking over to him. ‘Just to be clear: how many cars do you think were here? Was it two?’
His eyes glazed over and he thought about it. ‘Mibbi three.’
‘Why three?’
He looked at the ground. ‘I didn’t see the tracks to that yesterday morning.’ He pointed to the Alfa Romeo. He waved at a muddy patch where the dirt yard overlapped the tarmac on the road. ‘Three-point turns. Two lots. So I was thinking “There’s two cars come, turned and gone.” But that was wrong. There was three.’
They looked together at the indistinct mud, both ruing the overnight rain.
‘Thanks, Mr Halliday.’ She held out her hand and he shook it warmly. He walked with her back to the car. ‘And where’s this you’re off to, now?’
‘Helensburgh. Know of anywhere we can get lunch?’
‘Chips or soup or what?’
‘Wee roll?’
‘Greggs. Can’t go wrong.’
McGrain was in the car waiting for her. Frank Delahunt didn’t have a silver Ford Fiesta. He had a Jaguar.
She filled him in on Halliday: three cars, good guy. McGrain commented on the ‘Yes’ campaign sign in the window, said he thought it was bad out here and Morrow told him about the furiously contested gazebo.
McGrain grinned. ‘God, everyone’s going mad. And the man’s wrong, there’s going to be ructions after.’
The chief had announced to the press that there was no overtime scheduled for officers. The campaigns had been peaceful and they expected it would continue to be so. No one knew if he was hopeful or stupid.
‘He’s from down south, though, isn’t he?’ observed McGrain.
‘Aye.’
‘Doesn’t know how far some of them’ll go for a fight up here.’
It occurred to her that McGrain was probably against independence, judging from the phrases ‘down south’ and ‘up here’, instead of ‘England’ and ‘Scotland’. Even within the police force the referendum had heightened the atmosphere of paranoia and mistrust, reducing them all to hyper-vigilant readings of their neighbour’s microsignals.
They drove on towards the town, passing through pretty coastal villages with signs for tearooms and conservation areas, past mini delis and newsagents advertising broadsheet newspapers. Looking across the car park to a large Waitrose, Morrow thought of the bag in the glovebox. Waitrose was incongruously posh for a baggie. She wondered if it might be worth tracing freezer bag purchases from the supermarket but realised it would be pointless. They must sell loads of them.
McGrain told her what the forensic accountant had found at the Injury Claims 4 U office. Nothing much. Potentially fraudulent claims were minimal. As soon as Fuentecilla arrived she started laying off staff and winding the office down. Everyone had been laid off. The bills had all been paid and the lights were going out next Friday. It was completely unexpected. ‘Is she changing the business?’
‘There’s no sign of that on the books,’ said McGrain. ‘It looks like she’s just shutting down the office. We can’t find anything else she’s moving into, she’s just leaving it dormant.’
‘Is she asset-stripping?’
‘They didn’t find any assets. The office is rented, the furniture’s worth nothing.’
‘Where’s the seven million gone?’
‘Gone from the bank account but they haven’t found it yet.’
They had no excuse to stay in. She called the office and gave them a message for the accountant: photograph everything and get out quickly, don’t draw attention.
She hung up, paused for a moment with her eyes shut, thinking about alcohol wipes. She rubbed her fingertips along her thumb, remembering stickiness and a fine grain. It was a professional job, done by a fairly competent trained party. They were trying to get away. She opened her eyes and sat up and found she was smiling.
They were coming into Helensburgh on an inauspicious dual carriageway, passing old tenements, new builds and factory-style nursing homes. They passed forecourts to petrol stations, a gas storage tank and then, abruptly, entered the town of Helensburgh.
A long parade of Georgian houses and shops faced the water. Morrow saw then what Mr Halliday was talking about: every street lamp had a purple ‘No thanks’ sign on it. Many of the shops had the sign propped in their windows.
The esplanade along the shoreline was perfectly paved but devoid of people. There were only three buildings on the waterside, all tucked away around the ferry dock: a small council swimming pool, an unattractive concrete box of a pub, boarded up, and a small ticket office for the ferry.
‘Take a right here,’ said Morrow.
McGrain turned uphill into a suddenly busy street. They passed a chemist’s and a newsagent’s, a train station and a big church. A block away they saw a big, wide square with a white tent covered in ‘Better Together’ signs.
McGrain pointed at it and shouted, ‘Gazebo!’ joyfully, as if it was a driving game.
Morrow got him to park outside a café.
It was warm inside and old-fashioned, pale cream walls and a dusky blue counter. They had ordered before Morrow noticed that it wasn’t a nice old café. It was a café that was made to look nice and old. The customers were mostly women of a certain age wearing jumpers of a certain price. Their bacon rolls arrived: six quid each.
Out in the car with the bag of hot rolls, they ate in a stunned silence.
‘Six quid,’ said Morrow. ‘That’s the price of two packets of bacon.’
McGrain looked accusingly at his lunch. ‘We’d just passed a Greggs as well.’
Morrow rolled the bacon around her mouth, waiting for the extra-special flavour to kick in. It didn’t. It was just bacon. Maybe her palate wasn’t sophisticated enough. She put the last bite in her mouth, brushed her hands clean and pointed him onto Delahunt’s.
All of the houses were built looking out to sea, like football fans on a stand, each handsome villa staring at its downhill neighbour’s backside. Uphill, well-kept front lawns ran towards them. Downhill was an ugly composition of garages and wheelie bins and back walls. The streets had no pavements, just grass verges with occasional paths walked through them.
They took a street overhung with heavy trees, chainsawed into geometric voids at lorry clearance height.
‘Christ,’ said McGrain, ‘it’s swanky out here.’
She shared his analysis more than Thankless’s.
They parked on a grass verge and got out. Delahunt’s house was uphill, through a locked metal gate. Morrow pressed the button on an intercom, quite new and sleek, and waited. Stone steps curved up to the lawn beyond the wrought-iron gate.
A pause.
Frank Delahunt was in and wanted to know who was there.
‘Hello, Mr Delahunt, we’re from Police Scotland. Can we come in and have a word, please, sir?’
He hesitated. ‘What is this concerning?’
‘Can we come in, please, sir?’
Another pause and then the gate dropped open. Morrow pushed it and climbed the four steps. A long stretch of immaculately striped grass led up to a yellow sandstone house.
A set of slim French windows looking onto the garden opened and Mr Y, familiar from the photographs, stepped out to greet them.
Delahunt always dressed in red or pink trousers and a dress shirt. Sometimes he wore a yellow tweed jacket, sometimes a mossy green cardigan with brown elbow patches. Today he wore neither but had folded his shirtsleeves up carefully, as if he was working.
Looking up at him Morrow realised that she had always assumed he was gay because he wore so many colours but seeing him now, his legs-apart stance in the doorway, his slightly pissed-off rugby player glare, she wondered if he could have been having an affair with Roxanna. It would make sense of the five a.m. phone call in a moment of crisis.
Delahunt watched them walk towards him, raising his hand in a tentative greeting, dropping it before they got halfway up to him.
‘H
ello, Mr Delahunt. I’m DI Alex—’
‘I’d much rather you had come around the other entrance,’ he said, his accent clipped and rounded. ‘This is not the actual entrance to the property.’
Morrow followed his eyeline back to the lawn and saw their twin sets of footprints through the wet grass. It was for looking at, apparently, not for walking on.
‘Well, I’m sorry about that but this is the address we got for you.’ She pointed back to the street where they had parked, saw the sweeping view of the sea from the house, marred only by the roofs of the houses downhill.
‘Well, the damage is done now,’ he said magnanimously. ‘Do come in, DI Alex, won’t you?’
It didn’t seem like the time to correct him.
He ushered them through the double doors into a study lined with books. In the middle of the room stood a big square desk, dark wood with a green leather top. The desk had workstations on each of its four sides: open books and papers ready for attention. The chair had been pulled back to a neutral position near the door but Morrow followed the furrows through the ornamental rug to a position at the desk that faced straight out onto the lawn. It was where he had been until a minute ago, she could tell, because his mobile phone was sitting on a book, weighting it open.
It was a gorgeous room, high yellow walls and a crisp white cornice but Delahunt didn’t want them to linger in there. He stood by the door, arms out, like a militant guide in a stately home, shepherding them into the hall. His insistence made Morrow suspicious. McGrain followed the path drawn out by Delahunt’s arms but Morrow nipped right and skirted the long way around the desk.
‘Good heavens!’ said McGrain with uncharacteristic enthusiasm. ‘What an amazing house!’ He had stopped, apparently mesmerised by the segmented plasterwork on the ceiling, drawing Delahunt’s attention away from Morrow. He was quite good, McGrain. ‘What date is this house?’
Delahunt kept his hands out to usher but still seemed pleased to have been asked. He followed McGrain’s eye to the ceiling. ‘Eighteen twenty-two. My family have lived her for four generations. This street was laid out as part of a development… ’ He talked on, telling McGrain about the street and the building. McGrain was doing a good job of acting interested, or maybe he really was, Morrow didn’t know him well, but she took the chance to glance at the book under the mobile phone. A heading caught her eye: