Blood Salt Water

by Denise Mina

  36

  Robin Walker had phoned Morrow: the kids were missing.

  They set off for school after Morrow and McGrain left the house this morning. Robin had been waiting for them to come home at the usual time, ready to tell them the terrible news about their mother. But they didn’t come home. He called their phones but they were switched off. He called one of Martina’s friends and she said Martina hadn’t been at school today. He called the school and was told by the secretary that a phone call in the morning notified them that the kids wouldn’t be in today. As far as she could recall, the secretary said, it was a woman’s voice.

  Morrow had barely lifted her hand to knock when Robin opened his front door wide. He glared at her with blood-shot eyes and staggered off into the living room. They followed him in.

  She found him slumped on the couch, in front of what looked like a half pint of vodka with a tinge of orange mixer and a brown-edged quarter of lime. He was drunk.

  ‘Mr Walker?’

  ‘Fucking fucks, those fucks.’

  She sat down next to him. ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Well, now we know, don’t we?’ He slurred and lifted the drink to take a gulp. He looked at Morrow. ‘We know where they’ve gone, anyway.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Fucking kids.’ His breath reeked sour. He smelled as if he was sweating venom.

  ‘When did this happen?’

  ‘They set off for school. I went out for a run. Then one of you came, told me about… ’ He couldn’t say it. He rolled a hand, easing himself over the bump. When he spoke again he sounded broken. ‘Waited for them, from school. I didn’t go in, too upset, I just thought–Those kids, God, those poor kids. And all the time I’m not thinking my Roxanna, you know, I’m thinking their mum. Their mum. You know?’ He’d become a stepfather just too late. He took another drink, cringing as he swallowed, not enjoying it. ‘They hadn’t been in. I checked their rooms–everything gone. Their stuff gone and their passports. Every fucking thing. Gone. Set up to look as if - fucking arseholes.’

  ‘They could have been kidnapped?’

  ‘Bollocks.’ He stood up unsteadily, staggered sideways two steps, corrected himself and fell forwards through the door to the hall. ‘COME!’ He roared, bouncing off a wall.

  By the time they got down to Martina’s room, a matter of seconds, Robin’s mood had changed entirely and he was sitting on her bed, sobbing. All of the cupboards were open, all of the cupboards were empty. Martina had done a good job of not attracting attention though. Her sparse ornaments were untouched. Her bed was made as if she was coming back. She had even left her laptop on the desk.

  Morrow looked at it. ‘Robin, what do you think happened?’

  He looked at her. She could feel him trying, through sheer force of will, to sober up. He couldn’t though, because he didn’t drink often, she thought. So now he was very drunk and very shocked. ‘Vicente set her up. Murdered her. Now he’s taken the kids.’

  He rubbed his nose with the back of his hand.

  ‘Would he do that to their mother?’

  He snorted. ‘You don’t know him.’

  Morrow sat next to him on the bed. ‘Neither do you.’

  He thought about that. He wept and scratched his arm. He looked around the empty cupboards and the room. ‘I had a life… ’

  Thankless held up his phone. He had a call coming through on silent. Morrow nodded that he could take it and he went out to the corridor.

  Walker sniffed, ‘I haven’t got the rent for this month. I’m going back to London with nothing. Gave up my job and everything to come here. Except that bookcase.’

  ‘A design icon,’ said Morrow.

  He smiled pathetically. ‘Maria Arias set her up, didn’t she?’

  Morrow half nodded. ‘But something went wrong, I think.’

  ‘She knew Vicente from before… ’ He looked around the room once more and stood up. ‘I’m going to get fucking hammered.’

  She stood up too. ‘Good idea.’

  In the hall Thankless nodded her away from Walker. They watched him stagger off into the living room.

  Thankless muttered, ‘A woman fitting Grierson’s picture was at Glasgow airport this morning. Private plane. Had two kids with her. She was travelling in the name of Abigail Gomez.

  37

  Glasgow International was a hard place to stroll into. After a failed terrorist attack, bollards and traffic-calming measures had been introduced on all the roads. Traffic was streamed within touching distance of the terminal but then drawn suddenly away again to the back of a high-rise car park. The boarding area for private planes seemed to be exempt from the general air of caution. A mess of bad signage and pot-holed roundabouts was deemed sufficiently stringent security. It was very hard to find.

  Morrow and Thankless had shown their ID to the camera at the car park barrier and then were made to show it again outside the door to the small smoked-glass building sitting on the edge of the runway.

  The doors slid open to a shallow lobby with plastic plants, double doors and a two-way mirror on the back wall. A young man with a long hipster beard and grey suit slid out from a side door, smiling and pulling his suit jacket straight. He was panting.

  ‘DI Morrow? Come in here, please.’ He held the door behind him open to them and followed Morrow and Thankless into the narrow corridor, excuse me-ing until he was ahead of them. Bit of a squeeze, he said, so sorry. He led them to an office at the far end of the building. A small window faced onto the runway. A desk below it held a bank of security monitors. On their left, a smoked-glass wall faced into the departure lounge.

  Once inside the office he shut the door behind them, stepped over until he was between them and the monitors, straightened his jacket again and smiled as if they were just meeting now. There didn’t seem to be anyone else in the building.

  He introduced himself as the manager and asked for the flight number. As Morrow handed it over for scrutiny she realised that the small room was cold and the computer wasn’t switched on. The manager was the only person here and he’d just arrived. In all probability, A7432 was the only private airplane to have left in the past few days.

  He turned on the computer and they all watched the monitor as it booted up. It seemed to take a long time to churn on. The manager kept catching their eyes, giving a service smile and looking back at the screen, willing it faster. Morrow left Thankless to catch the smiles and eye contact and looked through the smoked-glass window into the departure area.

  Square chairs in black leatherette sat neatly side by side, facing floor-length windows onto the runway. Attempts had been made to dress the lounge as something more than a waiting room, but they had failed. A coffee machine sat on a side table next to a platter of individually wrapped biscuits. A small fridge with individual bottles of wine was locked.

  ‘Here we go,’ said the manager, bending down to use the mouse. He called up the latest file and double-clicked.

  They watched expectantly. A split screen view: the empty departure lounge next to a small hand luggage X-ray machine elsewhere in the building. They watched for a full minute. Nothing happened. The manager smiled an apology.

  ‘Let me put that on fast forward for you,’ he said and did. They watched again. On screen, in fast forward, the bearded manager and another man in a customs uniform scurried into view and turned on the X-ray machine. They chatted manically, then ignored each other as they form-filled and checked their watches. The customs man gave a speedy yawn.

  The manager pressed play and there, languorous by contrast, Martina Fuentecilla and Hector sauntered in to the X-ray shot. Both were dressed in school uniforms. They waited by a high desk. The time was ten a.m. Morrow had just arrived at Hettie’s house in Clydebank.

  Seen from a high angle on the wall, as a god might see them, the children stood close to each other in the empty room. The manager looked at them and smiled warmly. In the small, cold room Morrow saw him watch himself on the monitor. She
saw a small echoing smile flit across his face. On the footage neither child reciprocated his warmth. The manager on screen was embarrassed by that and turned his smile to the clipboard in his hand. He checked their passports, wrote something down and smiled more formally as he handed them back.

  ‘What is that you’re writing there?’ asked Morrow.

  ‘Passport numbers.’

  They watched on. Martina and Hector put their backpacks on the conveyor, separating out their phones into plastic trays and sending them through the X-ray machine.

  A third person in their party arrived on screen. She handed over her passport. She was wearing a long grey skirt, a blue cardigan that reached the back of her knees and a black beret. Seen from the back she could have been anyone. The screen manager smiled and pointed at the hat, asking her to remove it. He held up the passport, checked her face against her photo and handed it back. The woman put her bag on the conveyor belt and twisted towards the camera as she moved on. They could see her face.

  He paused it. ‘There?’ he said. ‘Is that the photo lady?’

  She woman was in her fifties maybe, had grey hair, cut in a bob, and a long, straight nose. Susan Grierson.

  ‘It is,’ said Morrow, aware that he was looking for an acknowledgement. ‘Well spotted.’

  Satiated, he nodded. ‘She’s using a different name.’

  ‘Seems to be. Can we see your passenger records for these people?’

  ‘Of course.’ He minimised the footage file and opened the passenger record. Theirs was the only plane to leave that day and there were three people on board: Martina and Hector Fuentecilla and a woman called Abigail Gomez. Gomez was travelling on a US passport but was resident in Ecuador.

  ‘Can you check for this passport number coming in during the past week or so?’

  He said he would but she didn’t think he would find it. Gomez would have needed a visa to get into the country. She would have come in as someone else.

  The private plane’s flight record showed that the party had already landed in London City Airport. They had a connection booked on a commercial flight to Miami from City. They were travelling first-class and had an onward connection to Guayaquil in Ecuador.

  ‘Did they make that connection?’

  The manager checked a further file. They were presently on their way to Miami.

  ‘What time do they land in Miami?’

  ‘Just under an hour.’

  38

  She emphasised that it was urgent but had been waiting on hold for eight minutes. Now DCC Hughes was asking her for information that was available in the notes he had in front of him. Look, sir, she said, we need the warrant right now or they can’t detain her at Miami.

  Where was Fuentecilla found? In the house of a woman called Susan Grierson. The woman who passed herself off as Susan Grierson is travelling as Abigail Gomez and lands in Miami in twenty minutes. She’s taking a connection to Ecuador with the children and this is our last chance to detain her.

  Is Susan Grierson from Helensburgh?

  Yes, sir, but Abigail Gomez is not Susan Grierson.

  But Susan Grierson is from Helensburgh?

  Morrow hesitated. Yes, Susan Grierson is, but this isn’t Susan Grierson.

  Did she call herself Susan Grierson? Yes.

  Did she live in Susan Grierson’s house? Yes.

  In your notes you’ve said several people identified her as Susan Grierson and she seems to have detailed information about the local area.

  Morrow had put that in to draw Hughes’ attention to how well briefed Grierson/Gomez was, how professional she was. She’d meant him to realise that these were serious professional people, that they should move urgently to detain them.

  So, DCC Hughes continued, voice close to the receiver, his breath buffeting her ear, realistically, she could be local?

  Morrow shut her eyes. She bit her tongue. In desperation she began to tap her knee with her forefinger, because she understood then. If the case was local, Police Scotland would get the Injury Claims 4 U money. But all of the money would go to the Met if a connection was made with the London case through Miami, through Abigail and Vicente and Maria Arias.

  Morrow had thought that the set up was shoddy. The body was dumped in the house, the alcohol wipes left a residue, even the semen sample was badly applied to the body. But it seemed to her now that it was less slapdash than cynical. Whoever she was, Gomez hadn’t just killed Roxanna, got the kids out and implicated some hapless locals. She’d written a script for the police, constructing a pursuable case against the Fraser cousins. Gomez understood that the police needed an excuse not to spend money chasing her halfway across the world. If they let her go and charged the local boys instead they’d get a case cleared up and a slice of the seven million pounds. A wrongful conviction was in their interests.

  ‘Sir, this is urgent. We need you to authorise the warrant within the next twenty minutes.’

  There was a pause on the line and then Hughes spoke:

  ‘Look, the Ariases’ assets have been frozen. The Fraud are clawing back all their accounts and deposits.’ His voice dropped to a shamed murmur. ‘Have you got enough evidence to charge either of the Frasers?’

  Morrow stopped tapping her knee. She was so angry that she felt her heart rate slow down.

  ‘Sir,’ she said very carefully, ‘this is exactly what she wants us to do.’

  He drew a breath but didn’t speak.

  ‘OK,’ she said. ‘Just to clarify my position here, Sir: there is insufficient evidence to charge either of the Frasers with this offence. If a case goes against them I’ll be forced to resign and offer my evidence to the defence.’

  It was a threat but Hughes knew she was lying. She heard him suck his teeth and then he lied back: ‘I’ll attend to that warrant as a matter of urgency.’

  He hung up.

  39

  Iain Fraser had fallen into a delicious Largactil sleep in the car on the way to Glasgow. They managed to walk him part of the way to the cells but had to help him beyond the desk when he lost his balance.

  They drove him to Glasgow in a police car, took him to a police station in Bridgeton and then took his pills and money and tobacco off him and put him in the cells. He slept on his back. Iain had been thinking about Andrew Cole, about the fire, about the heat in his fingers as he fell asleep. But he didn’t dream of those things. He dreamed of the high-pitched sound of snapping glass.

  He slept with his hands on his belly and when he woke up they were numb because he hadn’t moved and it had been maybe two hours. He lifted them up, these dumb blackened fleshy things, and looked at them through sleep-puffed eyes. They were swollen. They looked like cartoon fingers.

  He rang for a cup of tea and asked for sugar. He didn’t usually take it but he was hungry now. They didn’t let you smoke in cells any more. It was torture. He should have asked for a patch.

  He waited and waited. He could hear people outside being attended to and processed.

  He could feel her, sitting in his chest, heavy. She was waiting inside him. A solid heavy lump of a thing but they were at peace now. They weren’t fighting each other any more. They were just looking for a way out of this together.

  A door opened. A man gave him a plastic yellow plate, Ikea stamped underneath and a cheese sandwich on it. Iain ate the sandwich and drank tea, not hot tea, but strong. He was used to taking what he was given. Prison made you used to that.

  A man, the same man, came for him and brought him out of the cells into the lobby of the holding cells and two cops he hadn’t seen before took him upstairs. They sat him down and asked him if he was all right. Maybe he wanted to wash his face, he was awful dirty.

  Nah, Iain breathed the word out as if it was his last shee-laah, I’m all right.

  The lady cop and the man, the ones from Susan’s house, sat down. No, thanks. He didn’t want a lawyer. Iain rubbed his face hard. It felt grainy. He said the word, ‘grainy’ and looked at his massive bl
ack hands. They had a packet of baby wipes, would he like one?

  Did he answer? He was holding a baby wipe and rubbing the moist cloth on his face. It smelled of perfume and felt oily on his skin. He rubbed his hands with it, like those flannels they gave out in the curry shops. It was black and ragged now. He put it at the side of the table.

  Tell us about the woman from the loch.

  He picked her up at her house in Clydebank and she went with him. She seemed quite happy to come. Who sent you to get her? No one. Did you know her? No. Where did you get her address? Don’t know. He felt her nuzzle in his chest, listening to him tell her story. She approved and he was pleased because he didn’t want to make her angry again. Above all, not that.

  Where did you get that photograph in the envelope from? Susan Grierson gave it to me. In the envelope? Yes, in the envelope. Who is in the photograph? I don’t know. Why did she give it to you? To get Andrew Cole out. She told me to tell you it came from Tommy Farmer but it didn’t. Who is Tommy Farmer? Works for Mark Barratt. Small time. Never done time. Who is Boyd Fraser? I don’t know. He’s from Helensburgh, isn’t he? I don’t know. Who is Mark Barratt? Mark Barratt gets in tomorrow at seven fifteen. Prestwick.

  Do you know Frank Delahunt? Iain didn’t know anybody by that name but it was an odd name. He mouthed it back to them. Frank Delahunt. Half fancy, half Irish. No. I don’t know anyone by that name.

  Then he looked up.

  She was the absolute double of Danny McGrath. The police woman, staring at him across the table, talking, he saw her mouth moving, grinned that she was Danny McGrath as a woman. Dimples, blond hair, thinner face but the same mannerisms, the same blank face and undertone of fury. She saw him looking at her.

  I know you, Iain said, your face.

  She said, Really?

  And he grinned and said, You look exactly like Danny McGrath.

  Do I? Do I look like Danny McGrath?