by Lucy Lawrie
‘It’s called McKeith’s, but . . .’
‘Well maybe we’ll get in touch through McKeith’s. We’d want to go through the proper channels.’
I smiled, ashamed to mention my astronomical hourly charge-out rate. We rarely acted for individuals, and when we did they were invariably loaded. These two didn’t look as though they’d fall into that category.
‘Well, you have my email address, if you change your mind. If you just . . . you know . . . want to have a chat about it. Or a coffee . . .’
‘Okay, Cass?’ said Jonathan, his arm outstretched now to usher me away.
‘Goodbye, then,’ I said, still not moving.
‘Goodbye, dear,’ said Jean. ‘And goodbye, little Sophie.’
I hesitated as we turned out of the café area, wishing for a moment that I could go back, sit down again, and let Jean pour me another cup of tea. For some reason I felt that these two elderly people belonged in my life; that I needed them in ways I couldn’t yet understand.
*
‘Should we phone the police?’ I asked Jonathan later, as we sat at the kitchen table. Sophie was in bed and Dita, back from her visit, was heating up shepherd’s pie for dinner.
Jonathan had been round knocking on all the neighbours’ doors. Nobody had seen anything, no strange man nipping through the gate into the back garden, no mysterious cars parked up.
‘What have we got to report, though, Cassie? A note through the door and a few stones moved around? I mean, it’s hardly Crimewatch material, is it.’
Dita turned round to face us, shrugging with oven-gloved hands. ‘You know, I had a similar problem many years ago . . . somebody bothering me with notes and phone calls. Oh, nothing that you’d have known about, Jonathan. You were only young. But the police said they couldn’t do anything. We just ignored it, and eventually it stopped.’
‘That was a while ago, though, Mum, it might be different now. I think I’ve heard that the police advise people to write everything down . . . build up a dossier of evidence. So I suppose we should get a notebook and record these two incidents, and the dates. And then . . .’
We can go to the police the next time something happens. Those were the words that he didn’t say. Because things would keep happening, I felt sure of that now. Why wouldn’t they?
‘We could also make a note of the neighbours we talked to,’ I added. ‘And we can clip in the original note, and a photograph of the stones.’ I said it almost as a kindness to him, so that he’d have something to do – a plan of action with steps to be taken and crossed off.
He seized on the suggestion – and the idea that we could do anything to control this thing – and rushed off to the study to get his camera, even though it was now pitch dark outside.
‘I wouldn’t worry about it, you know,’ said Dita after he’d gone. ‘I don’t think these people are out to harm us. Why don’t you go through and watch some television – let’s have a TV supper on trays!’ She spoke as though I was about five years old. But the idea of being mothered, just then, was appealing. So I called Jonathan down, saying the dossier could wait till later, and we settled down in front of an episode of Rebus.
He seemed to sleep easily that night, snoring away as usual, star-fishing across the bed so that I was squeezed onto the edge. I stayed awake for hours, staring into the fuzzy grey of darkness and listening out for every creak in the old house as it settled for the night.
15
For the first time in ages, Jonathan and I were getting ready to go out for dinner. Dita was going to babysit, and was taking charge of Sophie’s bedtime routine so we could have some time to get ready. I had put on new matching underwear (purchased in accordance with Helen’s advice: ‘Maybe try and pep things up a bit?’) and I was trying on a new dress, which Jonathan had bought for me earlier that day. He’d actually presented it to me in a gift box with a big bow. I never usually wore red, on account of my hair being a sort of reddish brown, but I was pleased at this romantic gesture from Jonathan.
Or was it romantic, I wondered. Perhaps Jonathan and Helen were both trying to tell me something – that I normally looked a fright. I sighed, scrutinising myself in the mirror. Against the deep red of the dress, my arms looked white and flabby. I went to the wardrobe and started rummaging around for a black shrug I knew I had somewhere. This was to be a Babycraft dinner party, and rather perversely, this made me want to shed any trace of mumsiness.
Jonathan came out of the en suite, fastening one of his cufflinks.
‘Cassie, sweetheart,’ he began. ‘Is there any particular reason why there’s a can of wasp spray in my underwear drawer?’
‘Hmmm? Oh here it is.’ I pulled the shrug from where it was lying balled up at the bottom of the wardrobe. I straightened it out, only to find there was a small hole under the left arm.
‘In addition to the can that I found in the hall bookcase yesterday, hidden behind my copy of Animal Farm?’
Jonathan’s fiction collection was very discriminating, comprising only three titles – Animal Farm, Moby Dick and The Moonstone.
‘Oh, don’t start quoting Animal Farm again,’ I said. ‘Or The Moonstone.’
‘But why the wasp spray? Do we have a wasp problem? In November?’
‘Self-defence,’ I said, applying lipstick to tightened lips.
‘Why?’ he asked, bemused. ‘Do you suspect it was wasps that rearranged the rockery?’
I whirled round. ‘Oh yes – it’s so funny, isn’t it. So funny that some nutter’s been watching the house.’
‘It was three weeks ago now, Cassie. Nothing else has happened. No sign of anyone watching us. I think we can relax a little bit now, don’t you?’
‘No.’
‘I’m sorry. Of course we won’t relax on our night off. What was I thinking? But . . . hmm . . . you look nice.’ He grabbed me around the waist with a playful growl.
A taxi came to pick us up. We waved goodbye to Dita, who was standing at the front door holding a curious and distinctly unsleepy-looking Sophie wrapped in a fluffy white towel, her damp hair mussed up into wispy tufts.
It was nice to sit quietly in the taxi as it rumbled over the cobblestones into the heart of the New Town. I breathed in Jonathan’s familiar woody aftershave, and I nudged up against his arm, trying to remember the last time we’d been out together as a couple. He wasn’t exactly getting into the spirit though. He was highly suspicious of what our hosts, the hypno-birthers, might give us to eat, and kept muttering about going to McDonald’s afterwards.
‘Hello,’ I whispered as Molly opened the door of their tiny little mews house. ‘Did you manage to get Cameron off to sleep?’
‘Oh no, don’t worry. He never goes to sleep until we do. He’s helping with the cooking.’ She led us into the kitchen where Dave was preparing a salad in a bowl that was about two feet wide. Cameron hung suspended from his chest in a baby sling, a wooden salad fork flailing dangerously in his fat little fist.
‘Actually,’ went on Molly as she poured me a drink, ‘we’ve got other friends here tonight – Sebastian and Poppet. They’re having their kitchen done, so they’re joining us for dinner. I know they’re not Babycraft, but they are lawyers so I’m sure you and Shona will have lots in common with them. They’re in the other room. I’ll introduce you in a moment. Dave! Watch Cameron with that salad dressing . . .’
Clutching my glass, I went over to Paul, who was chatting with Jody and looking strained and pale, as though he might need to be rescued.
‘How are you getting on?’ I asked. ‘Any luck with the acting at all? Or is it still all on hold just now?’
‘Yeah, it’s pretty hopeless just now,’ he admitted. ‘We thought of putting Elgin into nursery for a couple of mornings. That was Shona’s suggestion, anyway. But obviously, that’s not going to free me up for acting work. Even when he’s at school, it wouldn’t work unless we got a nanny or something . . . and I don’t think we can justify that.’
‘Oh, do
n’t worry,’ said Jody with a cheerful smile. ‘Before you know it he’ll be at university and out of your hair.’
Paul’s face fell even further.
‘I’m sure you could do something before then,’ I said, although I didn’t really believe it.
‘Well anyway,’ said Paul, ‘I’ve started a blog about being a stay-at-home dad. It’s called Dads Aloud. It’s a bit of an outlet. As well as trying to keep the old creative brain ticking over. It’s actually building up quite a following. I’ve been asked to guest blog on some other sites, too.’
‘That’s great!’ I said.
‘Blogs. Ughhh,’ said Jody, and went over to get herself another drink.
At the dinner table, Molly had seated me next to Sebastian, the male half of the lawyer couple we didn’t know. He spent most of the first course (cauliflower and mung bean soup) with his back turned to me, talking to Shona, who was on the other side of him. I drank two glasses of wine quite quickly and amused myself by making faces at Cameron, who was strapped into his bouncy chair on the floor, looking rather perplexed at the toy ladybirds velcroed around his wrists and ankles.
But when Shona got up to help clear the plates, Sebastian turned to me.
‘So, Cassie, you’re a full-time mum then?’
‘Ha! Is there any other kind?’
He gave a slow blink.
Crikey. ‘But I also work part time at McKeith’s.’
‘Ah! And what do you do there?’
He looked marginally more interested in me, but it was obvious he was trying to find out if I was a secretary or a lawyer.
‘I’m an employment lawyer . . .’
‘Ah right! Poppet’s an employment lawyer! Hey, Poppet!’ He motioned proudly across to his girlfriend, a few places along on the other side of the table, and she turned to face us. She was a perfectly presented woman – sleek, poised and pointy like a Siamese cat. But distinctly ruthless-looking, not at all poppet-like.
‘Have you come across each other at all?’ wondered Sebastian.
I shook my head sadly.
‘Last month, Poppet was featured in Law Today. They described her as Scotland’s go-to lawyer for third-generation cross-border TUPE transfers.’
I raised my eyebrows and smiled appreciatively.
‘She’s hoping to be made up to partner within the next year. What about you, Cassie, what’s your special field, within employment law?’
The table had fallen silent, and all eyes were upon me.
‘I specialise in ghost law.’
Everyone looked at me, confused for a moment.
‘There’s no such thing,’ scoffed Sebastian.
‘There’s no such thing!’ echoed Jody, her voice dripping with condescension. ‘Can you imagine, at university: “I’m just off to my tutorial in ghost law.” ’ She dissolved into laughter at her own joke.
‘I’m Scotland’s go-to lawyer for ghost-related employment dispute resolution.’
‘Ghosts?’ echoed Poppet. She raised her eyebrows and put her hand over her mouth, as if trying to hide her amusement.
I nodded, chewing a piece of bread carefully before replying. Paul caught my eye from the other end of the table and the corner of his mouth twitched in a conspiratorial smile.
‘Or subjective employee experiences, as we prefer to call them at McKeith’s,’ I said, keeping a straight face. ‘Since my first case, a few months ago, I’ve had forty-six new instructions relating to paranormal employment issues. It seems that employers were just too embarrassed to seek professional advice before, and thought there were no lawyers in the marketplace to cater for them. But now the word has got round and the floodgates have opened.’
‘Forty-six new instructions!’ breathed Poppet, not laughing any more, thoughts no doubt turning to new revenue streams which might bolster her bid for partnership. ‘What sort of scenarios are you dealing with, then?’
The wine was undoubtedly going to my head now. I nodded gravely, in the manner of one professional to another, and began.
‘Well, without breaking client confidentiality, most of them are about alleged hauntings in the workplace. Employees going off sick with stress, that sort of thing. Last week I had a construction company where there had been three serious accidents on one particular site, where they were trying to build a house. One of the builders had actually been thrown backwards off some scaffolding. None of the workmen were prepared to go near it after that. But it meant that the construction company was five weeks behind schedule with that particular plot, and were going to be in breach of contract with regards to the completion date.’
The scenario was loosely based on an episode of Scooby Doo that we’d tuned into by accident when Sophie had been playing with the remote control the day before.
‘Oh, gosh,’ said Jody, wide eyed. ‘And what did you advise?’
‘I asked them what they would do if they had encountered another problem with a site, you know, for example if they had discovered archeological remains or something. And I told them to treat it in exactly the same way – get in an expert.’
‘What kind of expert?’ asked Shona with a sceptical frown. She was coming back from the kitchen carrying the enormous bowl of salad.
‘A panel of experts,’ I clarified. ‘An independent risk-assessor, a priest, a sceptic and a fortune teller.’
I was slurring my words slightly by now. But I was enjoying the attention – everybody at the table was lapping up every word I had to say.
‘And what happened, did they resolve it? Are they going to get the houses completed on time?’
‘Yes,’ I announced, beaming.
‘That’s good,’ said Sebastian. ‘We’ve got friends who have just reserved a house at that new Silvermains development, and they’ve just been told that completion will be delayed for three months! And can anybody guess what they’re paying for it?’
The conversation went safely on to property prices. I sat back in my seat, took a long sip of wine and raised an eyebrow at Poppet, who was staring intently at me across the table.
16
Malkie had offered to drive us both to Braid Hills for the Workplace Phantoms vigil. He came to my office just as I was tidying up my desk.
‘Ready to go?’
‘Just about,’ I said, leaning down to slot files into my filing cabinet. ‘What are you going to wear, by the way?’
He shrugged and cast his eyes down over his narrow body, clad in a black suit with faint grey pinstripes.
‘I thought we probably needed to wear suits,’ I said, nodding. I had given this careful consideration. ‘Since he wants us to be a sort of cautionary, sobering presence.’
Malkie looked me up and down and raised an eyebrow. I was wearing a navy suit with a neat cinched-in jacket and a skirt that clung to my hips but kicked out slightly at the knee. The ensemble was finished off with kitten heels and cherry pink lip gloss.
Not that I was trying to impress him – definitely not. Helen had phoned just yesterday to give me a stern pep talk about how the Malkie thing was all in my head – ‘a post-natal hormonal delusion’ – and she’d told me to take a magnesium supplement.
‘Shall we get going then?’ He touched my upper arm – the lightest of touches – and my insides melted. Magnesium, indeed.
We chatted briefly about our days as we walked to the car, but there was a slightly awkward silence as we drove off and waited in the queue of traffic on the main road. Our previous conversation in the car, outside the doctor’s, seemed to weigh heavily in the air. Suddenly it seemed imperative that I should direct us away from that and back into the safety of small talk.
‘How is Jo Cranston getting on these days? Are you still in touch?’
Jo Cranston, mastermind behind the body odour experiment, had been going out with Malkie’s best friend at university.
‘Kevin’s bird? His ex? Nah. Haven’t heard from her in ages. Last time I heard she was training as an accountant.’
‘Re
ally? Jo? I can’t quite picture that somehow.’
‘Me neither.’ He gave a short laugh. ‘But it’s better than going around causing train wrecks in the name of psychological research.’
It felt exquisitely intimate, this reference to our failed relationship. What should I say? My lips hovered around something I had read in a magazine that lunchtime.
‘It was a painful time for both of us,’ I said softly. ‘But I could never wish that it hadn’t happened.’
‘What?’ said Malkie, looking confused. ‘Oh no, sorry. I was talking about Jo’s sleep deprivation experiment. She used Kevin as one of the subjects. He fell asleep while he was driving home and ploughed through a level crossing barrier. Had a very near miss.’
My insides curdled with embarrassment. ‘So, this vigil. What are the parameters, legally speaking, do you think?’
‘Parameters?’
‘Well you’re the media lawyer. What’s fair game for the programme makers, and what’s not?’
‘Yeees . . . about that. I’m not sure where Radcliffe got the idea that I was a media lawyer.’ He shot me a sideways glance.
‘What, you mean you’re not?’
‘I once defended a case for a radio station.’
‘Well, there you go. Defamation or something, was it?’
‘Not exactly. The cleaner fell down the stairs.’
‘Oh right,’ I sighed. ‘Bloody Radcliffe.’
‘He really seems to be wetting himself over the idea of pitching to Elliot’s wife.’
‘Do you want me to get the basics of defamation off Wikipedia?’ I reached for my phone.
‘Nah, I’m sure I can wing it. How hard can it be?’
‘I’ll just check anyway.’
‘Go for it,’ said Malkie. ‘The traffic’s dreadful; you’ve got at least ten minutes.’ Though it was actually more like fifteen by the time we’d crawled through the busy city centre, through the Meadows, then up through the Grange towards the Braids.
Already parked in the courtyard at Braid Hills Funeral Home were two black vans, with the words Workplace Phantoms emblazoned on the side in edgy white lettering. A stubbly young man with a camera was busy taking shots of the house.