by Jane Renshaw
‘No.’
‘You never heard him mention Ewan Mathers?’
‘No. But Moir worked in Manchester before he moved to Edinburgh. Not Dunfermline.’
‘Apparently Mr Barnes at Dunedin Properties called the number and spoke to this Mathers, who was glowing in his praise of Moir Sandison. But the number is now disconnected, and when our Fife colleagues went to the address they found it wasn’t even an office. It was just an empty house.’
‘So do you think – could Ewan Mathers be involved? Could he be blackmailing Moir?’
‘We’re keeping an open mind at this stage.’
She had to think. She had to think what she could tell them that would be useful. But the pulsing in her head kept pounding and pounding on her brain, breaking up her thoughts and stopping the threads of them coming together.
‘Anything you can tell us about Moir’s friends and associates would be helpful.’
‘Okay. Well. He moved to Edinburgh six months ago. Most of his friends live in Manchester.’
‘Have you ever met any of them?’
‘No.’
‘Or spoken to them on the phone?’
‘No – they all call him on his iPhone. He’s practically welded to it.’
DC Powell nodded. ‘And his family?’
‘His parents are dead. He’s got a sister who lives in France – Rebecca – we – we were going to stay with her this autumn. I’ve spoken to her on the phone, once or twice. Just small talk, before passing her over to Moir.’
And Moir would take the phone into the bedroom. But she did that too when Mum phoned. There wasn’t anything sinister about it.
‘You’ve never actually met her?’
‘No.’
‘Do you have an address in France for her?’
‘She lives in Brittany, near the coast.’
‘Do you have an address?’
She sighed. ‘No.’
‘Anyone else in the habit of phoning?’
‘Not on the landline.’
‘And what about his work colleagues? Did you ever meet any of them?’
‘They don’t really socialise.’
Cochran and Lyle wasn’t like the museum. People didn’t go out drinking together. Both the partners were in their sixties and their idea of a wild night out, Moir said, was Stravinsky at the Usher Hall. And the other architects and admin people were all married with young families.
‘Right. Well, you’ve been a big help, Helen – I think we’ll leave it there for now. If I could get you to read over this statement and sign it – and if you could leave us your phone. You said you had some photos of Moir on it?’
‘Not very good ones.’
‘Nevertheless. And we may be able to trace where he was when he sent you those last text messages.’
She took her phone from her bag and held it in her hand. Her last link to him.
‘Do you have a number where we can contact you?’
‘Not yet. I’ll let you know.’
33
The receptionist blinked up at her. ‘No Moir Sandison has ever worked here – at least not in my time, and I’ve been here twenty-five years. That’s what I told the policewomen who were here before. Are you from the police?’ Her eyes swept Helen doubtfully.
Moir had said that all the admin people had young families, but this woman looked like she was close to retirement age.
Helen pulled a photo of Moir from her purse. ‘This is him.’
The woman lifted her glasses to her face without putting them on. ‘No, I don’t recognise him. Are you a private investigator?’
‘Something like that.’
‘What’s he done? All they’d tell us was that he’d been making out he worked here.’
‘Maybe he works in a different office?’
‘We only have this office.’
And even if they’d had a dozen offices – it was this one Moir had told her he worked in. Sometimes she’d given him a lift in the morning, if she was taking Stan to the museum, and she’d always dropped him off here.
Outside on the landing she put her hand on the smooth wood of the banisters and looked down the stairwell to where a big Georgian window gave a view of Bernard Street, the main road through Leith, lined with elegant old buildings that had once probably been des reses for sea captains and harbour officials but were now full of dentists and architects and telecommunications people.
She headed down the sweep of the stairs and out of the main door.
It wasn’t locked.
Anyone could walk in off the street.
Anyone could get out of their girlfriend’s car and cross the pavement and push this door open and turn and wave, and wait until she’d pulled away into the traffic, and walk straight back out again.
◆◆◆
In a newsagent on Constitution Street she selected a packet of crisps, a flapjack and a bottle of Sprite. Just the thought of putting anything into her stomach made her feel sick, but she had to eat. This feeling in her legs, in her arms, this weightless, weak feeling, like there was no substance to her – some food inside her would sort that out. She needed glucose and carbs.
The man behind the counter smiled at her and gave her her change as if she was just another customer, buying a snack the way people did every day of the week. And Helen smiled back and thanked him, playing along, pretending nothing was wrong, that this was just another normal part of a normal day.
She’d left Stan in a narrow lane off Mitchell Street. They were like ravines, the streets around here, the tall cliff-faces of the tenements looming overhead, pressing close, no space between them and the pavement.
She had to stop at one point, and put her hand against a wall, and take some deep breaths and stand straight so that her legs stopped wobbling. She opened the bottle of Sprite and swallowed some of the fizzy sweetness, and waited until the sugar hitting her bloodstream gave her a little spike of energy.
As she turned into the lane, her first thought was that Stan was gone. That he’d been stolen. She couldn’t see him.
But no, there he was, his little red Mini rear coming into sight as she walked around the four-by-four that had been blocking him from view.
She put a hand on his roof. Stan. Her little bubble. And oh, the relief of sitting down behind the wheel. Sinking back against the seat. Closing her eyes. But she couldn’t sleep. Not yet. She leant over to put the crisps, juice and flapjack on the back seat, next to the tiny carrier bag containing the new phone.
She took her purse from her bag and spread the notes from it on the passenger seat. Fifteen pounds in notes. Three pound coins, one two-pound coin, and small change. And she had the contents of her suitcase – some clothes, toiletries, her Kindle.
Plus £120, ish, in her own account and an overdraft facility of £100. So – in total, that made about £240. And then there was the ring – not that that was going to be a real diamond. She took it from her finger and added it to the pile.
Even if the diamond wasn’t real, it must be worth what – £30? In her suitcase in the boot were the cufflinks she’d bought Moir in a jeweller’s in York. They’d been £86, but she wouldn’t get that for them if she sold them. Maybe £40?
Say £310 in total – enough for a few nights in a B&B, plus food, petrol –
And then what?
Her credit card had been declined when she’d tried to use it to buy the new phone. When she’d called the credit card company they’d told her it was maxed out to the tune of £6500. Most of the purchases had been online – mainly jewellery. Small, portable items.
Moir must have copied down the number, the expiry date, the security code.
The woman on the help line had said that if Helen could prove she hadn’t made the purchases herself, the debt would be written off as fraudulent activity and the card reactivated. But that would take time. And even when it was sorted out, all she’d be doing would be running up a debt.
She’d have to phone Mum and ask her t
o transfer money to her account.
Oh God.
What on earth would she say? Lionel would probably get Mum to put Helen on speakerphone, and Helen would have to tell them that Moir –
Oh God.
Maybe she could just say there was a problem with the money from her flat sale, and she needed something to tide her over? And tell them the truth later?
She’d need to sign on, she supposed, for benefits.
But she’d resigned, so she couldn’t do that. She’d have to get a job in a shop or something for now, and use her contacts in other institutions, see what curatorship vacancies there were, or were likely to come up.
No way was she crawling back to Stuart.
Oh God.
Moir.
There was no mysterious gang making him do all this. No kidnapper. No blackmailer.
He was just some conman.
All the time he’d been smiling and joking and reaching for her, and holding her, and touching her face, and telling her he loved this place here, this soft place between her mouth and her chin – all the time, he’d been coldly calculating how much she was good for.
The man she’d loved had never existed. He was just a character invented to con her.
Like Hector and the letters.
Her ‘Hector’ had turned out to be a monster.
And so had Moir.
How could that be a coincidence?
She lowered her head to the steering wheel and shut her eyes. No. The police had checked him out, and he’d proved that he was Moir Sandison. And she knew he wasn’t Rob. She didn’t need anyone to tell her that.
So it was all just a coincidence?
Two men who happened to look alike, two men who got a kick out of making her think they were someone else, someone who loved her –
Two men who knew a mug when they saw one.
She wished she could pick up her new phone and press in some magic number that would connect her to Suzanne.
‘Aw, Helen’ she would say, and let her cry, but then she’d say something like, ‘Although I think you’ll find getting conned out of all your worldly goods and being left with a broken heart doesn’t even get you to the starting blocks in the bad boyfriend stakes. I was murdered by mine?’ And then: ‘You mug, Helen. What did you ever see in him anyway?’ and the two of them would go over all the things Helen had overlooked, or justified, or denied. The way he used to speak to her like a child when she didn’t understand some boring technical thing on TV; the flashes of temper, when he’d throw things about and make her flinch; the obsession he used to have with really distressing human interest stories in the tabloid press and on TV, in an ‘ironic’ way, like he was laughing at the sicko journalists, but he would always read the article or watch the programme to the end. And in bed –
It had been just another fantasy world, hadn’t it, that she’d constructed for herself? Fenced around with denial and wishful thinking.
He’d have taken Stan too, presumably, if she hadn’t forgotten to leave the keys as they’d arranged. He’d said it might be best for her to leave the keys in the flat, in case he needed to move Stan for any reason, like for roadworks or removal lorries. And she’d agreed that that was a good idea. But then she’d forgotten.
And so he hadn’t been able to take Stan. But she’d have to sell him. You didn’t need a car in Edinburgh, when you could go everywhere so easily by bus.
How much would she get for him?
It had been a mistake to give him a name.
For God’s sake, it was just a car. Get a grip.
She turned the key in the ignition.
◆◆◆
Kelly Reid was waiting for her on the landing. Behind her, just inside the flat, was a man with a stubbly beard and glasses. Kelly’s eyes were bright above the sympathetic grimace. When Helen had gone, she’d probably be straight on the phone to her mum or sister or best friend: ‘She’s been back. Just now. That poor woman. Apparently he took all her money and sold all her furniture and everything!’
‘I’m sorry,’ Helen said. ‘For what I said before. It was just – I didn’t know what to think.’
‘You were in shock. Of course you were. Come in. This my husband Andy.’
‘Hello.’ She shook the hand Andy held out to her. It was big and damp. ‘I’m Helen.’
‘Helen, come on in. What a day you’ve had, eh?’
Ms Mug, meet Mr State-the-Bloody-Obvious.
‘Would you like a coffee?’ said Kelly.
‘No, thanks, I won’t stay. I just wanted to make sure – when you moved in – there wasn’t anything left behind in the flat, was there?’
‘No, there was nothing I’m afraid – the place was clean as a whistle. But then I guess Dunedin would have cleared out anything that was left. We’ve got their number here somewhere...’
‘Thanks, the police have given me it.’ She’d call Dunedin Properties in the morning.
‘Are you sure you wouldn’t like a coffee, or something stronger?’
‘Thanks, but I’ve got to get on.’
Kelly dropped her voice sympathetically. ‘He’s sold all the stuff you left here?’
‘It looks like it. Although most of it wouldn’t have been worth much.’ In fact he’d probably have had to pay someone to take her sofa to the dump. And he wouldn’t have done that, would he? He’d have left the sofa and anything else of no value in the flat. Dunedin must have taken care of anything he’d left behind.
But, ‘There wasn’t anything in any of the cupboards?’ Helen went past her into the hall.
‘No. There wasn’t anything at all.’
‘I had – a box – a cardboard box, with photo albums in it and – scrapbooks and stuff.’ And she didn’t care how rude it was, she crossed the hall and opened the door of the big walk-in cupboard.
There were cardboard boxes, stacked up one on top of the other. But these ones had the removal firm’s name on them in crisp blue lettering. Helen’s had been scruffy old things, with graphics for tinned tomatoes and Cheesy Wotsits on them, scrounged from supermarkets when she moved into the student flat on St Mary’s Street, and the veterans since of many moves into shared rented flats. Until eventually she’d saved enough for a deposit on her own place, and earned enough to be able to apply for a mortgage.
She’d paid off that mortgage with her legacy from Auntie Anne.
‘There’s nothing of yours here,’ said Kelly. ‘Sorry.’
Andy was looking at her like she had a terminal illness.
She made herself smile brightly at them both. ‘Oh well, it was a long shot. Thanks anyway.’
34
In the B&B dining room, all shiny reproduction furniture and seersucker orange and pink tablecloths, Helen found she was unable to face the breakfast of boiled eggs and toast she’d ordered. She took one bite of toast and chewed it and chewed it but she couldn’t bring herself to swallow. She lifted the paper napkin to her mouth and spat it out, and took a long drink of sugary tea.
She hadn’t been able to face the crisps and flapjack yesterday either, although she’d finished the bottle of Sprite. She’d buy another today. She must have picked up a bug or something on the train; and all the stress had weakened her immune system, probably, so she hadn’t been able to fight it off.
Her headache was worse, and her arms and legs still had that odd weak feeling. They ached with it. Coming down the stairs had been a challenge. Her throat was dry and scratchy, and when she’d first got up she’d had a fit of coughing from so deep in her chest she’d felt she was going to be sick.
And her nose was running.
She took a tissue from her jeans pocket. This was the last one from the pack. She’d need to take a wodge of toilet paper with her, and buy a box of tissues while she was out.
The B&B owner, a large woman in a green sweatshirt and what Helen was sure she’d call slacks, came in carrying a tray with two bowls of porridge on it. Helen’s stomach turned over at the sight of them.
<
br /> ‘Are the eggs not as you like them? I can do you some more.’
‘No, they’re perfect – I’m sorry, I’m just not hungry. I’ve got a bug or something, I think. I haven’t been able to eat anything since yesterday morning.’
‘Oh dear. Well, if there’s anything you fancy, just say. If you’d like to stay in your room today, sleep it off, I’ll put a Do Not Disturb notice on your door.’
The kindness had tears prickling Helen’s nose. ‘Thank you. A long sleep would be great.’
But there was something she had to do first.
Back in her room – a tiny single with a couple of square feet of free carpet between the bed and the wardrobe and the chest with the TV on it – she sat down on the bed and called the number for Mr Barnes at Dunedin Properties.
‘Hello?’ A Lancashire accent.
‘Hello, my name’s Helen Clack. I’m calling about the property at 31 Eglinton Crescent.’
‘Ah. Been let, I’m afraid.’
‘It’s the previous tenant I’m calling about. Moir Sandison. He – well, he was my boyfriend. I just got back from holiday yesterday... to discover that he’s gone, and all my stuff that was in the flat is gone, and – DC Powell gave me your name, he said you made a statement, about Moir taking your furniture, and not paying the rent he owed you...’
‘That’s right, yes. He absconded. Unfortunately that’s not an uncommon occurrence in this business. He’s your boyfriend?’
‘Yes. Well – he was.’
‘Do you know where he is?’
‘No. But – the police are looking for him, obviously.’
A snort from the other end of the line. ‘We’ll never see that money again, even if they do catch up with him. He took your stuff too? Well forget it.’
‘The police said he gave you a bogus reference? For his previous employer?’