by Denise Mina
The Sailors’ Rest was spewing smoke and flames out into the night. Firemen in beige jumpsuits unravelled hoses, adopting long-rehearsed formations around the engines. A warning call, lost in the howl of the fire, heralded the water and they fired it over the roof, controlling it.
Fresh water. It was useless.
Iain was wet. He didn’t know if it was sea or spray from the hose. He leaned against the side of the building, facing the fire, his eyes smarting, his feet numb.
He watched, oblivious to the firemen shouting at him to get out of the street.
He ignored the police who arrived after the fire had been put out, when the smoke was thin and miserly and the street awash with blackened water.
He stayed as the ambulances arrived, two of them, and he watched them load the black body bags, one big, one small, and he watched them leave.
And by then it was three a.m. and he didn’t know if he could stand any more. His feet were numb. His knees buckled. He slid onto his side on the cold wet pavement. She began to gnaw through his chest.
22
Morrow liked to get into the office ten minutes early to clear her head of shopping lists and resentments, politics and bullshit; to read reports and think. Reading and thinking were unquantifiable in budgetary terms so she had to do them in her own time. It was rare nowadays, with the boys up so early, but she’d managed it today. She tapped her computer out of sleep mode and opened her email. A Met report of yesterday’s interview with Maria Arias.
Maria admitted meeting with Roxanna Fuentecilla the evening before. Roxanna came to her house, here, in Chesterfield Gardens, Mayfair. Roxanna was upset because she had argued with her partner, Robin. She missed her London friends and needed a chat with a girlfriend, You know how girls are? Morrow despised Arias’s faux girlishness. She was kicking fifty up the arse, for Christ’s sake. Ms Arias was at pains to point out to the officers that Mr Walker was much younger than her friend and probably just after her money. Arias knew that Roxanna Fuentecilla had no money of her own but the Met officers didn’t know. They hadn’t been briefed about Arias putting up the money for the business in Glasgow so they hadn’t questioned her any further about it. They hadn’t asked anything useful. They just listened to her excuses and left.
An addendum to the Met report was marked ‘controlled access’ and warned ‘DI Alec Morrow’ not to divulge the information in it to her crew or anyone not specifically notified by the investigation team. She had to type in her warrant card number and personal password to get it open. It informed her that the Fraud Office were on the brink of seizing the Ariases’ bank accounts, business and private. This department did know that Arias had put up the money for the Glasgow business and they wanted it all back. As soon as Fuentecilla was located, dead or alive, they were to be notified immediately.
Morrow read the addendum again. Police Scotland wouldn’t be getting any of the proceeds. The money was being ring-fenced for either Fraud or the Met, she couldn’t work out which.
On the last page of the same secret report there was a one-word response to Morrow’s speculation about Fuentecilla’s disappearance, the deliberate use of the seven-year sleeping period and the transfer of property back after the Declaration of Death under Scots law: unlikely. They hadn’t even bothered to capitalise it.
She googled the book from Delahunt’s desk the day before–Property Trusts and Succession–and followed a link to the Presumption of Death (Scotland) Act 1977. A summary of the legislation said that the person had to be missing for seven years with no sightings. The declaration could be raised earlier, but there had to be good reason to assume they had died. The action could only be raised by someone who had been resident in Scotland for a year. She couldn’t see Robin Walker staying on if Roxanna was missing long-term. Morrow’s guess was that they’d be counting on Delahunt, which meant he was in it up to his ears.
They had set it up perfectly. Roxanna had to disappear under suspicious circumstances so they could argue later that she had died, but not suspicious enough to prompt an investigation. Serious crime wouldn’t normally be investigating an abandoned car. They were only involved because of the proceeds trail. She felt she had stumbled on an as-yet uncharted scam, but the Met had deemed it unlikely. She shut the file, as requested, and watched as the system locked it.
She had three minutes of thinking time left before the start of her shift. She sat with her face in her hands and tried to imagine a timeline for Roxanna’s disappearance. Roxanna got up and got the kids ready Danny. Shit. Roxanna got up and Danny. Shit. Danny got up and got the kids ready and. Morrow looked up. Do it now.
She phoned the Southern General and asked for his ward. A nurse told her that Danny was stable. He’d had ‘a good night’. She carried on describing the nature of his ‘good night’: good respiration, no complications from surgery, but Morrow was lost in the familiar phrase. Her oldest son had died when he was two and a half. A ‘good night’ was her fondest hope at one time. Just for one nurse or a doctor to smile at her when she came in to take over from Brian, for someone to say Gerald had a good night instead of ‘unfortunately’ and ‘I’m afraid’. Danny McGrath didn’t deserve good nights, but Morrow reminded herself that health was nothing to do with justice. The nurse said she could visit her brother but would need security clearance and would have to ‘stand outside a physical barrier’.
Morrow thanked him and asked what had happened. Danny had been stabbed with a chair leg. His spleen had been removed. No, it wasn’t an essential organ.
Morrow hung up, feeling slightly less guilty than before.
Three days ago Roxanna got up and got the kids ready and drove them to school. She fought with the kids in the car: was their father having an affair? Maria was attractive. Roxanna dropped the kids and drove to London to confront Maria. She came back late, overnight, but didn’t go home to see her kids or phone to reassure them. She went to an empty field in Helensburgh and evaporated.
Morrow moved on to the file on the body in the loch yesterday. She ran and reran the footage from the golf course security camera for the morning. It told an interesting story. The forensics on Mr Cole’s boat had found clumps of the dead woman’s hair trapped in a cleat on the deck. They were testing for blood residue but the boat had been hosed down.
Gruesome photographs of the body in situ, on the dock, then lying on a slab. She was mumsy, Glaswegian. She looked like every dumpy woman in every queue in every supermarket in the city. The night shift had checked: her fingerprints were not on file and no one fitting her description had been reported missing.
Morrow pulled up the effects photographs. She looked again at a thumbnail of the Injury Claims 4 U lanyard. Another scaled photograph was a close-up of a necklace she had been wearing. It was a gold chain, nothing special, with a crucifix and a Star of David threaded together. Mixed marriage or hedging her bets on the afterlife, maybe.
The report on Fuentecilla’s car was more interesting. The food bag from the glovebox had nearly two grams of what, superficially, was cocaine. It was enough for a fairly extravagant night, or a long drive back from London, but it was a personal-use amount. It wasn’t enough for a dealer. There were a couple of good prints on the outside of the bag and they had been lifted and were being run this morning. Morrow was right about one thing: the car had been cleaned with alcohol wipes.
Morrow sat back and closed her eyes: wipes were professional, but only quite professional. It would have been less clumsy to leave no trace, no alcohol residue. The clumsiness could be deliberate, so that Delahunt had ‘suspicious circumstance’ to support an early Declaration of Death. But maybe she was giving them too much credit. Maybe it was unlikely.
She dialled Simmons’ office number, realising after the first ring that it was seven a.m. and Simmons probably wouldn’t be in. But Simmons did answer, helloing with a resigned sigh.
‘Simmons? I was going to leave a message. I didn’t think you’d be in yet.’
‘I’m not “
in yet”. I haven’t been home yet. We had a fire in the town. Two dead, father and young daughter.’
‘Oh, God, I’m sorry.’
‘Yeah,’ said Simmons.
‘Domestic?’
‘Commercial property.’
‘Insurance claim?’ Morrow asked hopefully.
‘Unlikely. The owner had remortgaged his house to pay for building work, they were nearly finished. He was inside with his daughter and they died in the fire.’
‘Accelerant?’
‘Lots. Fire service say there were petrol fumes everywhere but we’ll have to wait for chemical analysis to be sure. Anyway, what did you call for? Is it urgent because I’d like to get back.’
‘Sure.’ Morrow sat back. ‘The golf course body traces back to our case. We’ll be taking it.’
Simmons was so relieved that she sounded almost pleasant, but not quite. When Morrow told her she was about to interview Andrew Cole, Simmons grunted OK and hung up.
Morrow walked briskly through the front lobby, down past the locker rooms to the back bar and the holding cells.
The desk sergeant was at his post, bright and perky despite being at the end of a long night shift.
‘Ma’am.’
‘Is Andrew Cole awake yet?’
He glanced at a computer screen below the lip of the desk. ‘There he is, having a wee cup of tea.’
Morrow slipped around the back of the desk and looked at the screen. Andrew Cole was sitting on a bare plastic mattress, sipping from a large tin mug.
‘What happened to his bed sheets?’
‘Had to take them out.’ George looked at the night log on another screen, running his finger down to the right entry:‘At… five oh eight a.m., when “Mr Cole became very disturbed and there was some concern for his safety”.’ He smiled and looked up.
Morrow was surprised. ‘Suicide watch?’
George gave a dismissive wave. ‘Very briefly. Probably the wrong call but better safe than sorry.’
Back on the screen Cole sipped from his mug. He seemed calm now. ‘What was he doing to make you think that?’
George read again: ‘A lot of “shouting” and “swearing”, “banging on the cell door”. Said he “couldn’t stand it”, “wanted his mum to die”, mad stuff like that.’ He shook his head. ‘Wee bit of concern. It passed quickly. He’s never slept since then.’
On the screen in a fog of grainy grey, Andrew Cole took another sip and looked into his mug of tea. If he was on suicide watch the tea would be lukewarm at best. Still he cupped it between two hands, trying to warm himself.
23
Iain hadn’t slept. He didn’t have an appointment. He had just turned up at Dr Neiman’s early morning surgery. Dr Neiman. The name had rolled around and around his head all the way back to town. It became an anchor, a thing to think. Dr Neiman. He couldn’t think those other names, her and him, the black bags. He couldn’t.
He had spent the night walking, taking the Gareloch Road, following the water. He walked blindly for hours, through woods and towns, past marinas, inland to hillsides, always following the same road. His feet were numb. It rained. He was wet and then he was dry again. He didn’t remember turning around but he was heading back towards the town as the sun came up.
He sat down in the surgery waiting room. For a moment it felt wonderful, as if his hips and thigh bones were melting into the seat, but then a spurt of adrenalin forced him to his feet again and made him pace. It wasn’t easy to move around. There were a lot of people waiting, workers and navy staff, kids in school uniform, feet to step over. He did a couple of circuits of the central island of chairs until the receptionist called his name, waving him over to the doctor’s office door.
He passed the receptionist and saw that he was scaring her. Was he moving too fast? No, he thought, no. Dr Neiman. Dr Neiman. She waved him down the corridor to the doctor’s office. Iain was moving normally, but maybe he was a bit alarming. His manner was alarming because he was coming apart.
Dr Neiman stood up at his desk when Iain slid into the room. The doctor was scared too.
‘Mr Fraser!’ said Dr Neiman, his German accent lending a clipped, ordered tone to the name. ‘Have you been burned?’
Iain stared at him, his mind blank, feeling behind himself for the wall. Conscious suddenly of the blackness of his hands smearing the woodchip behind him, he let go. Adrift, he reached for the chair, the patient’s chair, at an angle to Dr Neiman’s desk. Iain held the back of it and used it as a guide rope to pull himself in. He dropped onto the chair, feeling his hip bones melt again.
‘Were you in the fire, Mr Fraser?’
‘No. Near.’
‘I can see that very clearly. You are covered in blackness, Mr Fraser.’
‘Blackness?’
‘Soot.’ Dr Neiman stayed on his feet, talking over Iain. He was very tall and thin. Iain found it was easier to talk to his stomach. His eyes were hard to look into.
‘Please. May I examine you?’
Iain sat limp while the doctor checked his forearms for burns, listened to this heart, took his blood pressure. He was used to this, allowing himself to be examined, sitting while prison doctors took bloods and checked his balls for lumps. Handing over responsibility for the chaotic tangle of threads to someone else was a relief, if only for a moment.
The doctor asked him to lift his polo shirt and he breathed on the metal disc of his stethoscope before placing it on Iain’s chest. He said something about cold.
‘Haven’t got a cold,’ said Iain.
‘Mmm.’ The doctor listened. Then he took the plugs out of his ears and asked Iain to lift his shirt at the back so he could listen. ‘I said this was cold. I just breathe on it, like this… ’ he gave a little puff, Iain couldn’t see him, he was behind him now, ‘and it warms it a little bit.’
The metal disc was on his back.
Iain could feel her in there, no longer writhing and angry. She was bigger, grown, gnawing joylessly. Iain imagined the grind of her jaws, her face tight and tired.
‘I hear just a very slight crackle, Mr Fraser, not low down. It could be a little smoke inhalation. How’s your back?’
‘Still sore. Here.’ He reached up between his shoulder blades and drew the hand down his back. ‘And now I’ve got pain here.’ He touched his side.
The doctor nodded and frowned. ‘How long for, the pain in the side?’
It sounded innocent but Dr Neiman was a ponderous man.
‘Few days.’
‘Are you coughing?’
‘A bit. But I’ve been smoking again so—’
‘Ah, no. You must stop. Promise me.’
Iain shrugged and muttered that he would.
Dr Neiman nodded, as if that was agreed, and sat down in his chair. He began to write something on the computer. Iain felt a burst of sudden pride, noticing for the first time that he had managed to bring himself here, to the doctor. The thing inside him would hate that. He’d had the presence of mind to do that. Iain realised then that the doctor was looking at him, had spoken to him, and he wasn’t responding.
‘Sorry?’ said Iain.
‘You are dishevelled and smell heavily of smoke,’ said Dr Neiman, precise about his diction. ‘You were at the fire last night?’
The doctor’s eyes narrowed. He knew Iain’s history. He knew he’d been in prison. He suspected him.
‘I was at the dinner dance. I saw the smoke and went down.’ The doctor nodded, encouraging him to say more, but Iain had no more to say. ‘I went down,’ he repeated. ‘My best friend. Niece? In fire. Died.’ He stopped talking, understood the impossibility of being heard, of articulating a loss so deep. And he knew it didn’t matter anyway, explaining. And he sat for a bit, his blackened hands open on his knees like a beggar.
He looked up after a while and found the doctor still nodding and waiting. Everyone complained about doctor’s appointments being short but this felt interminable.
Eventually the doctor sai
d, ‘So, what brought you here to see me today?’
Slug in my lungs. Snakes in lung. Iain didn’t know how to express it: ‘… upset.’
‘Would you say you are depressed, perhaps?’
Iain got stuck on the word perhaps. He meant to draw the doctor’s attention to the word, how odd it sounded, but the doctor took it as confirmation.
‘And you seem a little confused, also.’ He raised his eyebrows in a question. ‘Is that the case, would you say?’
He was right. Iain was confused. Iain nodded. ‘I am.’
‘Did you stay at the fire all night?’
‘I was. I was there all night. I couldn’t… ’ A wave rolled up from the base of his spine, engulfing him in sorrow, throwing him forward over his knees, cranking great dry sobs up from his balls. He waited for tears to come out of his face but none did. It was stuck in his throat. He sat up and found the doctor’s hand on his. It was inappropriate, not the gesture of a doctor to a patient, but a kindness from one person to another and it was a comfort.
‘I don’t know,’ burbled Iain, ‘I don’t know what.’
‘You are overwhelmed.’
‘I am.’
‘I think you have had a very upsetting night.’
‘I have.’
‘You had one psychotic episode before, when you were in prison?’
Gripped with the sudden conviction that the doctor was going to put him in hospital Iain stood up and knocked the chair over. ‘I’m OK.’
But the doctor didn’t get up or try to wrestle him to the ground. He didn’t call prison officers from outside the door to restrain him, or inject antipsychotics that made the world move slower and his feet heavy. The doctor just sat where he was and looked straight at Iain.
‘This could be a recurrence. We have to be prepared for that. But it might not be. Everyone is very upset by this fire. Many patients… You have to know that you are not alone.’ And then Iain saw, or thought he saw, a tear well up in the doctor’s eye. But the doctor looked at his computer screen and blinked a lot and when he looked back it was gone.