Sugarcoated

by Catherine Forde

  ‘Better watch where you flash the cash, Clod.’ His nod at the note in my hand was curt. ‘In fact,’ he whispered, looking me square in the eye as he cocked his head round the caff, ‘I’d put it away, eh?’

  There was either pity or disapproval or both in the glance he shot me as he slipped past and outside.

  I was having none of that either.

  ‘Hey, sorry. Stefan just handed me a wad of notes –’

  ‘How the other half live. As I said, you take care.’

  Out in the street, Dave Griffen started walking fast. He was passing Strut, heading for the subway. I’d to jog to keep up with him.

  ‘You know you can go back to work now.’

  ‘Grateful,’ Dave Griffen snapped. Ungratefully. He was picking up his pace. I did the same.

  ‘Didn’t mean you to lose your job in the first place. Didn’t know what was going on.’

  ‘Your fella did. Ask him about it.’

  A sleek Merc crawled along the road at the same pace I was walking. It was travelling so slowly Dave Griffen dodged in front of it to cross the street. To get away from me.

  ‘Hang on. Stefan’s not my fella. I hardly know him. I don’t have a fella.’ I’d as much of a clue about what made me blurt these words to Dave Griffen as I’d a clue about why I told him my name was Clod. These things just came out. Loud. That’s probably why the passengers in the crawling Merc rolled up their windows and swerved round me to drive off out of earshot.

  It has been said that I shout like a town cryer.

  ‘Met Stefan two days ago. Don’t know anything about him.’

  I caught up with Dave Griffen at the entrance to the subway, although I’d to queue for a ticket while he used his travel pass to beat me through the barrier. He waited on the other side of it, though.

  ‘You really don’t know Stephen Josef?’ he asked as I came through.

  ‘Not even his surname till you used it. Honest.’

  ‘Well take my advice. You don’t want to know him.’ Dave Griffen emphasised his words by squeezing my fingers in his big hand. It was soft. So was his voice now. Friendlier. Kind. Less guarded.

  ‘How d’you mean?’ I pressed, but we became separated in the crush on the escalator down to the subway platforms and Dave Griffen was in front of me and didn’t turn round to answer. Just gave me a promising smile at the bottom, ‘Might see you around, Clod. When you’re not involved with –’

  With a wave, Dave made for the opposite platform to mine. Then he stopped. Turned back.

  ‘Tell you what. You can buy me breakfast sometime. Got a mobile?’ he asked.

  part 2

  19

  a cuppa with starsky and hutch

  So here was me, in a hunger or a burst situation:

  Two guys in two days had my number. One of the two guys in those two days even had two mobiles. Double chance of a call! And not only had he punted me a juicy wad of cash for nothing, but he’d gone down on his knees begging me to be his babes. Mad.

  Yup. A hunger or a burst situation. Or should that be burst then a hunger? Because despite Stefan’s hand-on-heart promise to be in touch and Dave Griffen’s slightly more lukewarm approach to seeing me again:

  ‘Seriously, once you’re shot of Mr Big, give us a call, Clod. I’d like that …’

  Well, I didn’t hear a dicky-bird. From Stefan or Dave.

  Still, I couldn’t exactly say I was pining. Even if I’d wanted to, there was no chance to mope – or, more constructively, to swot – in my bedroom. Far too busy I was, in the company of two older men who seemed desperate to spend time with me. Not only that, whenever they promised to keep in touch they always kept their word.

  I’m talking, of course, about the detective doubleact: Hatch and Stark.

  Starsky and Hutch.

  Not to mention Marjory.

  I was straight home off the subway after leaving Dave Griffen and was literally walking up my path, wishing it wasn’t quite so long and that my stomach wasn’t quite so full, and there they were. On my case. Plod-plod-plodding my still-warm footsteps in their big police-issue shoes.

  ‘Finally –’

  ‘– the elusive Miss Quinn. Feeling –’

  ‘– better enough to be out and about, are you? Because –’

  ‘– your school said you’d been phoned in –’

  ‘– sick. Hope you’re well enough –’

  ‘– to answer –’

  ‘– a few more –’

  ‘– questions.’

  ‘– questions.’

  The detectives finished their introduction in perfect synchronicity. That kind of threw them, I think, because they started giving each other polite ‘after you’ hand signals instead of saying anything else to me.

  ‘Oh for goodness sake. Zit all right if we come in, Claudia?’

  Marjory bustled round her superiors with a cut-the-crap-before-I-knock-your-heads-together sigh. Leaving them to follow, she took my arm. Police training must involve locating the kitchen in strange houses, because she steered me straight through to ours.

  Police training must also involve sniffing out the teabag jar, and where people hide their fancy biccies, because Marjory had the right cupboard in one.

  (Note to self: I could do that too, so definitely consider the police as a career option. Speak to Uncle Mike asap.)

  ‘Quick cuppa,’ Marjory prescribed rather than asked me, already filling the kettle, finding a plate and fanning it with shortbread I hadn’t spotted last time I searched for goodies. ‘Then we’ll pop you down to the station. OK?’

  Marjory put her hands on my shoulders to sit me down. Looking over my head at Starksy and Hutch, she froze. It was like she was waiting for the detectives to give her the nod to proceed.

  So for a few seconds, the only sound in the kitchen was the increasing roar of the kettle. Have you ever noticed how it sounds like an ominously approaching tidal wave when nobody’s talking over it? Anyway, that’s what I was just thinking about until Starsky-Stark or Hutch-Hatch gave a phlegmy throat clear, and Marjory hunkered down to my eye level. She plopped her big hand on my leg. Gripped my knee and shoogled it till I was looking at her.

  ‘Right. Now we’re needing you to look at some pictures, Claudia. And have another chat. Remember I said we might have to do that if the man you saw the other day –’

  ‘I didn’t see. Was hiding. Told you before,’ I snapped into Marjory’s words. Too fast, I realised. Too defensive.

  So I slid my eyes away from Marjory’s steady gaze. Casually – or as casually as I could – I made myself incredibly interested in the scrap of paper Dad had left for me on the kitchen table.

  Hey Cloddy. Still no sign of my licence or

  VISA. Now I’ve lost my passport too! Maybe

  you’ll have a scout after school? Study hard.

  See you tonight about 7. Cheers.

  I read the note three times. By then Marjory had four mugs lined up.

  ‘Milk? Sugar?’ She was asking Starsky and Hutch. They were taking seats on either side of me at the kitchen table. Closing in.

  ‘Some of the pictures we’ll show you –’

  ‘– might jog your memory –’

  ‘– and help us put –’

  ‘– some dangerous men –’

  ‘– men who kill, in fact –’

  ‘– away.’

  They relayed between noisy slurps.

  ‘Men who kill?’ I didn’t even know I’d spoken aloud but Starsky-Stark, Hutch-Hatch and Marjory were all nodding at me as if they were keeping time with an official police metronome. My voice was strangely thin and small. Little girl lost-ish.

  The look on my face must have matched it because Marjory patted my hand.

  ‘Now you can bring somebody with you,’ she suggested, helping herself to a third shortbread finger. ‘What about Mum?’

  By the time I’d explained about Australia and the baby taking forever to be born, and Mum’s open ticket meanin
g she could be away for weeks…Oh, and Neil’s low sperm count (that just gabbled out) Starsky and Hutch were looking pretty bored. Not to mention squirmy.

  ‘Your dad around then?’ Starsky-Stark crossed his legs and asked his watch.

  ‘See time’s of the essence.’ Hatch-Hutch’s tone hinted that I’d be wise not to outline the current staffing shortages of Quinn’s Family Eyecare to explain why Dad wasn’t home.

  ‘He’s working late tonight. Won’t be able to get away.’ I left it at that.

  ‘No one else close? Granny? Uncle?’

  While I was shaking my head at the detectives, I scrolled my brain for anyone who could be called on at short notice to keep me company in a crisis. Pathetic this was. Embarrassing. My list of I’d-Drop-Anything-For-Clod-Quinn contacts running to an unimpressive three. All unavailable: Georgina in Africa. Mum in Australia. Uncle Super Mike a long motorway drive away in Aberdeen.

  Marjory sussed I was floundering.

  ‘You could always phone a friend.’ She tried to throw me a line. Her voice was hopeful.

  ‘Or a classmate?’ She threw me another one. Watched me scraping the barrel.

  ‘Never mind, I’ll be with you.’

  When I failed to come up with a name she leaned over and knuckled my arm with so much kindness that, instead of bursting into tears, I heard myself blurting, ‘Can I bring a guy I know?’

  I was meaning Stefan, of course. He counted as a ‘friend’, didn’t he? We’d dated. Snogaroo-ed. I’d seen more of him than Dad in the last forty-eight hours. Even better, his voice was in my head, replaying something I’m sure I hadn’t just imagined he’d said: ‘I’m only a phone call away when you need me, babes.’

  ‘Well, so long as he meets us at the station –’

  ‘– and we move it now –’

  ‘and your pal’s not squeamish –’

  Starky and Hutch’s dialogue ping-ponged over my head as we left the house. I scrolled my mobile for Stefan’s number.

  Found it.

  Dialled.

  ‘Who’s the lucky lad, then?’ Marjory joined me in the back seat of the detective’s car. Her big elbow was kidding me so hard my phone nearly flew out my hand.

  ‘I’m still in the market myself, by the way. Ask your guy if he’s got a mate who likes curling and hot curries,’ she was asking but I couldn’t oblige her.

  I was frowning at my phone. Checking to see if I’d battery. Switching off and on again. Retrying Stefan’s number. Three, four, five times.

  But it didn’t ring out.

  ‘I’m sorry. The number you have dialled has not been recognised …’ the operator’s calm voice advised me each time.

  And when I texted instead, my message just bounced back to me.

  20

  the nicotine room

  ‘Right, Claudia. To recap. A serious assault took place outside your dad’s shop. You’re inside, but you insist you saw nothing. Correct?’ While DCI Starsky-Stark was asking me this question, and I was answering in my flattest you’re-wasting-my time-when-I’ve-better-things-to-do voice: ‘Yeah. Nothin’,’ he showed me into a room.

  And bringing me down to the cop shop doesn’t change anything: I saw what those hammer guys did. I’m keeping my witness statement zipped up inside me. This is what I was reminding myself as I plonked in the chair Starksy-Stark scraped back for me and checked out the inside of the first interview room I’d been in. Weird thing here is that it was just like one you’d see in all the telly cop programmes. It was small, drab and windowless, unless you count the grubby slatted excuse for ventilation set high in one of the nicotine-coloured walls. Despite several tatty NO SMOKING notices, the room stank of nicotine too. And sweat. Both smells stale and overpowering, leeching from the paintwork, the floor, the air …

  The smell was the only detail about the room that made it different from all the ones I’d seen on telly. There was a scruffed table in the centre, like you’d have on Prime Suspect. Though instead of that weary old actress who won an Oscar putting on a grey wig and frowning like the Queen, I was at one side, with Marjory, Starsky and Hutch facing me. There was even a tape recorder so I half expected someone to start the interrogation intro routine you get on Morse, The Bill, Inspector Frost …

  Persons present for interview: DCI Starsky-Stark and DI Hutch-Hatch, nice-but-butch Sargy-Marjory and big daft Clod Quinn.

  Except this wasn’t an interrogation.

  ‘This isn’t an interrogation.’

  ‘We’re just –’

  ‘– keen to clear things up with you more –’

  ‘– formally,’ the detectives told me. While they did so, DI Hutch-Hatch even unplugged the tape recorder and put it on the floor. This allowed more room on the table for the sheets of paper his superior was taking from a folder and, as carefully and deliberately as if he was playing patience, spread out. Before each sheet went down, the detective paused. Checked what was on it. Whatever it is, I thought to myself, must be grim, because the lines round DCI Starsky-Stark’s down-turned mouth visibly deepened with each sheet he studied. Made him age before my eyes.

  ‘Right, Claudia.’

  When the DCI had five sheets laid out he folded his hands on his belly and gave me his attention. ‘I just want you to look carefully at some pictures,’ he said in a soft, weary voice.

  21

  shock tactics

  Don’t know how long I sat in that room with the detectives. An hour? A month? Two minutes? No idea. All I remembered was seeing what I saw, wishing I hadn’t, wishing even more I could silence the non-stop descriptions of what I was looking at. Because the voiceover from Starsky and Hutch made it way too much. Too horrible. While the men described terrible things to me in their unflappable, grey voices I wanted to put my hands over my ears and shut out their commentary with some of my special humming. But I think I must have been holding my breath for too long because the moment I lifted my arms everything went swimmy in my head.

  So as I said, I don’t know how long I spent in that nicotine room. There was a blank between me sitting beside Marjory and her lugging me along a corridor to a sink, splashing cold water on my face.

  ‘Take it you’ve never seen a dead person before then, Claudia?’

  Only in Westerns, thrillers, slashers, horrors: Silence of the Lambs, Texas Chainsaw Massacre, Straw Dogs.

  Only on the box. Where I can switch off.

  Forget.

  Enjoy.

  I tried to answer Marjory but my words just came out as bubbly gasps. I was too traumatised by the images I’d seen on the flip-side of those sheets of paper to manage anything as ordinary as talking. I mean, I could hardly breathe. Or see normally, because open or closed, my eyes kept flicking through the pictures from the nicotine room like they were flash-cards I’d committed to memory:

  First, in separate photographs, the detectives made me study two naked girls. They were lying on the same piece of torn lino with their arms and legs splayed into positions no female would ever choose to pose herself. Both their torsos were –

  ‘extensively bruised –’

  ‘– following a violent assault.’

  ‘– Estonian, these young women, we think –’

  ‘– on false passports, though –’

  ‘– so we don’t know their real names.’

  ‘Anyway, as you can see, Claudia –’

  ‘– the faces of these girls have been –’

  ‘– well, you call what’s been done excoriation –’

  ‘Not a pretty sight –’

  ‘– is it?’

  ‘These girls were mules –’

  ‘– for a crime ring we’ve been after –’

  ‘– for months and –’

  ‘– we actually had surveillance on this pair –’

  ‘– one of our undercovers getting close to these girls –’

  ‘– sweet girls despite their habit, apparently –’

  ‘– anyway we’re preparing to mov
e in –’

  ‘– find out who’s pulling these lassies’ strings –’

  ‘Then they disappear.’

  ‘And from one of the high-rises across from your dad’s place at Greenwood reports come in of a bad smell –’

  ‘And we find these young women in one of the flats –’

  ‘’Bout your age they’ll be, Claudia –’

  ‘Coroner reckons they were alive throughout their torture.’

  The next photograph the detectives showed me bore no resemblance to what they described.

  ‘Now here’s the remains of a man in his fifties –’

  ‘Pick the photo up, Claudia, to get a better look.’

  ‘Now we know more about him than the first two bodies –’

  ‘– because he was a security guard –’

  ‘– and one of ours.’

  ‘Ex-cop.’

  ‘Retired –’

  ‘keeping himself out of mischief with a few night shifts –’

  ‘“And out from under my feet.” That’s what his wife said about –’

  ‘– Andy. His name’s Andy Muir.’

  ‘His wife’s Jess.’

  ‘Two sons.’

  ‘One of them about to be a dad –’

  ‘– same as your brother is, Claudia. Coincidence, eh?’

  ‘Anyway, Andy was a night-watchman down the freight warehouses –’

  ‘– on the Clyde. Working for a shipping company –’

  ‘– you’ll have seen these giant containers down there –’

  ‘– they store everything and anything –’

  ‘– not always legal cargo.’

  ‘Drugs, guns, people come in through these containers now and again –’

  ‘– so one night our boys get a shout from Andy –’

  ‘– suspicious delivery in the next yard –’

  ‘– but the call cuts off before Andy’s done talking.’

  ‘No sign of Andy after that.’

  ‘Jess is frantic –’

  ‘– as you would be –’

  ‘– if your husband disappears into the ether.’