Dead Girl Walking

by Christopher Brookmyre

  Parlabane knew a reason, and it wasn’t reassuring.

  ‘I think Monica Halcrow is in a lot of trouble. Bodo leaks this blog and the whole world has a poignant and compelling portrait of Heike Gunn’s potentially suicidal state of mind, including her stated intention to pull a vanishing act and never be seen again. It would be the perfect cover for them having killed her and disappeared the body.’

  ‘But as soon as it appeared on the web,’ Mairi reasoned, ‘Monica would be able to tell everyone the whole story.’

  ‘That’s why she’s in a lot of trouble.’

  Mairi stared at Parlabane with an expression he had seen too often down the years: that look of distress at having discovered precisely how deep the rabbit-hole goes, and what darkness lay at its end. It hadn’t been him who had brought her to this place, although he had been her guide on the descent. He felt guilty, but knew that wasn’t right. Responsible, then. Responsible for what she was going through now, and responsible for getting her through whatever happened thereafter.

  By her own admission, Mairi had come out to Berlin expecting a peaceful and satisfactory resolution: they would track down her missing singer, clear up whatever mess had been left and move on towards the album launch and the US tour. Instead it now looked like one of Mairi’s young charges was dead and the other in imminent danger of following her.

  At this point her response was still in the denial phase.

  ‘Damien said Monica was always tapping away on her laptop, on the bus and in the dressing room. Everyone must have been aware of that. So this document must have been copied by Jan or another of Bodo’s Bad Candy crew while she was on stage, presumably post-Rostock. But if these people suddenly made Monica disappear, surely the police or her family would check her computer and find the original? Then the discrepancies between the full account and the edited one would only draw attention to Bodo.’

  ‘I don’t think they copied it from her laptop,’ Parlabane replied. ‘She calls it a blog. That implies web-based.’

  ‘That could just be a modern term. She mentions how “diary” sounds too old-fashioned.’

  ‘This wasn’t written on Word. There’s weird line-breaks all over the place. It was copy-pasted from another source, like WordPress or Movable Type. I think somebody – on the bus or in the dressing room – surreptitiously watched her log in and clocked her password.’

  ‘What difference does that make?’

  ‘It means it’s stored online and they can access it at any time, from anywhere. Bodo can erase the original from his office desk in Berlin, replacing it with this version as the definitive. Then suddenly you don’t only have an explanation for Heike vanishing, you’ve got a guilt-racked suicide note from Monica as well.’

  Mairi closed the document on her iPad and opened up her browser.

  ‘I’m booking us on the first flight home. We need to reach Monica and find out what’s missing from that blog. I doubt she’ll spill anything over the phone because she did a very good butter-wouldn’t-melt act the last time I spoke to her, but we can prove that it’s in her best interests to tell the truth.’

  ‘Plus we can threaten to leak scuddy photos of her if she doesn’t play ball,’ Parlabane suggested. ‘Just saying.’

  Mairi glared at him in momentary incredulity, then laughed with exasperated relief. It had taken her a while to decide he was joking, but to be fair, Parlabane couldn’t have said for certain that he was.

  ‘Oh, Jack.’

  She rested her head on his shoulder as the tension of the last few minutes gave way to a moment of welcome levity. This in turn precipitated a few gentle tears, but she was more determined than upset.

  She selected flights for the next morning, leaving Tegel early and changing at Heathrow for Glasgow. He watched her book them on her iPad, saying nothing to remind her that there was a good chance he’d be arrested once he was back in the UK. He’d known there was no avoiding that: it wasn’t like he was planning to flee to a non-extradition country. If it was going to happen, it was going to happen. He just hoped it didn’t happen before they found Monica, and saw no need to further worry Mairi.

  ‘Bit of a red-eye,’ Parlabane noted. ‘We’d better get some sleep. It’s been a long day, and tomorrow could be longer.’

  ‘Yeah,’ Mairi agreed, standing up and stretching with a yawn.

  She lifted her iPad and Parlabane stepped to one side to allow her to pass on her way to the door. He got it wrong, both of them stepping the same way in the narrow channel between the bed and the dressing table.

  Mairi stopped and looked into his eyes, their faces only inches apart once again.

  ‘Maybe … I don’t need to go to my room to sleep,’ she said quietly.

  There was nothing coy or playful in her voice; her tone sincere, vulnerable.

  ‘And maybe we could just … sleep,’ she added. ‘Together.’

  Parlabane closed his eyes, hating this, hating himself.

  She read it in his face before he had to say anything.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he told her. ‘And I have absolutely no doubt that “just sleeping” would feel good. I’m just not sure it feels right.’

  ‘Is it because I’m employing you?’

  ‘No, it’s not that. It’s a lot of things. I feel responsible for you.’

  ‘I’m big enough to look after myself. I’ve survived in this business long enough.’

  ‘I know. But we aren’t in your business any more. We’re somewhere more dangerous, and I can’t shake the image of you as Donald’s wee sister back in your parents’ house. I can’t let anything happen to you.’

  ‘Because you couldn’t save him?’

  ‘Partly, maybe. But mainly, dating back to those teenage years, there was a barrier erected in my mind to put you off limits: my pal’s wee sister. It was to stop me doing anything I’d regret. And to stop me torturing myself with possibilities.’

  ‘You fancied me back then?’ she asked, with genuine surprise.

  ‘Jesus, are you kidding? Was I that good at hiding it?’

  ‘Maybe you didn’t have to be that good because I assumed you’d only see me as Donald’s daft wee sister. Back when I was torturing myself that you might notice me.’

  Christ. Half a decade suddenly revised itself in his head: things he’d missed, things that could have happened differently.

  Nah. He’d still have fucked it up.

  ‘Maybe that’s still the problem. Even now you see me as trivial and immature.’

  ‘That’s absolutely not—’

  ‘I’ve seen the look on your face when I pitch up with a Starbucks, or when I was picking out clothes for you yesterday. It doesn’t mean I’m shallow. I’m not engaged in politics and causes, but I’m no stranger to fighting battles. And, unlike you, I’m mature enough to know I can’t fight everyone else’s.’

  ‘Mairi, honestly, I…’

  ‘Good night, Jack.’

  As soon as the door closed he felt an urge to go after her: catch her in the corridor, make the grand gesture. He’d never know whether he’d have acted upon it, because his mobile rang at that moment.

  As he read the name on the screen he felt everything pause for a microsecond – his breath, his heart, even time.

  It was Sarah.

  An image flashed through his mind: he could have been kissing Mairi as this call came through, breaking away to see who was trying to get in touch in case it was urgent. Christ, how would that have felt? He didn’t believe in fate, but he couldn’t help interpret this as an indication that he’d made the right choice. He’d turned Mairi down and finally Sarah was getting in touch.

  He hit answer.

  ‘Sarah,’ he said, trying to sound pleased but not overexcited. He just couldn’t wait to hear her voice.

  There was a long pause. Long enough for him to worry. Then eventually she spoke.

  ‘Jack.’

  Her voice was flat and emotionless, hollow and distant.

  ‘T
he police were here,’ she said. ‘They just left.’

  She sounded wrung-out: nerve-frayed and simmeringly angry.

  ‘They were asking where you were. Asking when I last saw you. They were from London.’

  ‘It’s the Westercruik Inquiry,’ he said, his tone low and apologetic.

  ‘I know who they were, Jack. They came here, to the hospital.’

  ‘Oh, God, Sarah, I’m—’

  ‘They weren’t discreet. Bustled in flashing badges and making a big show of demanding to see me. They did it in front of everybody. They were here for ages. Question after question regarding stuff I knew nothing about. I think they were asking things just for the sake of asking things.’

  ‘Did they put you under caution?’

  ‘No, but what difference does that make? My colleagues saw me being escorted to a private room by detectives, then I spent the next hour being treated like a criminal.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, but there was no apologising for this.

  She wasn’t calling to warn him or to ask for help. She was calling to let him know what he’d brought to her door.

  He felt completely empty inside. He’d been trying to protect a guttering flame for months, and this was the moment he had to accept it was dowsed.

  ‘So, apart from the police harassment, how are you?’ he asked, some last ember inside wondering if the gallows humour could still spark a moment of connection.

  ‘I’m tired, Jack. Tired of treading through your wreckage. And tired of you pretending that this isn’t over.’

  Intervention

  Heike poured herself another worryingly big measure of malt and swigged back about a third of it in one go. It must have burned, but there were harder things to swallow.

  ‘We’re already booked to play Letterman, did you know that?’

  I didn’t. And now that she’d told me, I couldn’t wait. America had been on the horizon as another big block of tour dates: more buses, more hotels, more soundchecks, more hangovers. Suddenly I saw it for what it really was: a unique and privileged opportunity. I’d never even been there, and on my first trip I’d get to play on national TV. This was huge, scary in a good way. And Heike had lost sight of that because she felt the burden was all on her.

  More than ever, she needed a friend. More than ever, she needed someone who would cut through her bullshit and take her just a bit less seriously.

  ‘I’m on the verge of this massive exposure, this major breakthrough, and I just feel adrift. I’m not sure I can face what’s in front of me, but I do know that once I’ve had it, losing it again would be unbearable.’

  I knew what I ought to say, which would be kill or cure for our relationship. I was scared to say it because I wasn’t sure I had the right, after all that had happened since Zurich. I was afraid she’d kick off or even storm out. But I knew I had to risk her anger because I cared enough to do so.

  ‘Catch on to yourself, Heike,’ I said.

  Her eyes bulged a bit, a look of disbelief forming. For just a split-second it was identical to the surprise it provoked that night in Berlin, except that then it had turned into laughter. This time it turned into growing outrage.

  But I stayed the course. I had no other option.

  ‘You’re living the dream,’ I added, repeating my words from Frauen Frei. ‘And if the dream falls apart again, then you’ll want to be able to tell yourself you rode the hell out of it while you could. You don’t need to hold anything together. This band would run through walls for you.’

  She stared at me almost helplessly, having gone from defensiveness to drinking in my words.

  ‘We’re not just your musicians, Heike, we’re your friends.’

  She continued to look at me in silence, her lower lip quivering. Then she managed a hint of a smile and a gentle nod.

  ‘I know that,’ she eventually said. ‘It’s just … Everybody assumes I’m thick-skinned and have this haughty conceit of myself, but I’m really a shambles. I’m so afraid that people only like me for who I’m pretending to be or for what I can give them, and you can multiply that insecurity ten times over when it comes to the band. I think, They’re only putting up with my bullshit because they want to be rock stars and I’m their best bet.’

  ‘That’s not true, Heike. Nobody would put up with your bullshit just to be in a band.’

  She gave a small, grateful laugh.

  ‘I become this nightmare control freak because you guys are all I have. I get obsessed with anticipating anything that could damage us, individually or collectively. I never had any brothers or sisters, I never had a mum, and now my dad’s gone. This band is as close as I’ve got to a family.’

  The tears came now, from both of us. We fell into a tight hug, clinging on to something we valued.

  ‘I’m sorry about the photos,’ she said, sniffing. ‘But I swear, I had nothing to do with it.’

  ‘I know. I’m so sorry I accused you. I wasn’t equipped to deal with that kind of thing, I was totally reeling and I got confused because you were so short with me that day.’

  ‘I was reeling too, and I felt terrible for you because you were new to it all. But to get you through it I had to be your band leader rather than your BFF. Plus, I felt so awkward in front of the guys, like they were a microcosm of the whole world that was suddenly staring at us.’

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me all this?’ I asked. ‘Why did you let me go on thinking you’d done what I accused you of?’

  She gave me a regretful look.

  ‘The worst part about the whole debacle was that it made me realise we could never be, for so many reasons. That hurt. It was easier to let you think I had screwed you over, because then you would keep your distance and I wouldn’t be left feeling tantalised by what I couldn’t have.’

  I gave her a sad smile, understanding.

  ‘I missed you, though,’ I told her.

  ‘I missed you too.’

  Wherever the moment was going, it was disrupted by a girl in a white denim jacket similar to Heike’s coming to our table. She wasn’t sporting the cream-blonde crop but she did have the fangirl look about her, even if she was maybe on the old side for that. I’d have put her mid-to-late twenties.

  ‘Heike, I need to speak with you,’ she said. Her English was strongly accented, her tone somewhere between desperate and insistent.

  Heike turned around to face her, with a polite but regretful smile.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘But my friend and I are in the middle of something quite important and we really need some time to ourselves.’

  I spotted the bouncer who was manning the chill-out area casting a glance. He was under orders from the management to make sure we were left alone, but was looking for a nod from Heike instead of acting automatically.

  I normally felt extremely awkward whenever I was being in some way ‘protected’ from the public, but this time the intervention would be welcome. Heike and I were actually putting our difficulties behind us, so the girl’s timing was really bad.

  Then she said the three words that changed everything.

  ‘It’s about Hannah.’

  Lost in Translation

  The brightness of the morning sun through the towering wall of glass was making Terminal 5 seem less gruesomely purgatorial than usual, in almost wilfully drawn contrast to the prevailing mood. Parlabane sat next to Mairi in one of the common waiting areas, opposite a departure monitor, waiting for a gate to be assigned to their flight to Glasgow.

  Mairi hadn’t said anything since they sat down. She had been quiet all morning, but not silent like this. Things had felt slightly awkward between them, but they had made small talk on the way to Tegel and on the flight to Heathrow. Something was different now, though. She had been sitting with her magazine open at the same page for at least twenty minutes. She wasn’t reading, just staring, unfocused.

  Parlabane turned to look at her face, and saw that tears were starting to form in eyes already red and puffy f
rom fitful sleep and an early rise. She became conscious of his scrutiny and turned her head away so that he wouldn’t see her.

  He wondered what it looked like to the people in the nearby seats, what stories they might imagine for the weeping woman and the torn-faced prick sitting beside her.

  ‘Back in a minute,’ he said, getting up and walking away.

  He wanted to give her privacy. It might seem futile in a place as public as this, but he knew the strangers didn’t matter. It wasn’t them she wanted to hide her upset from.

  It felt like it was all he could do, and yet it felt worse than doing nothing. He wanted to give her more than privacy, he wanted to give her comfort. He wandered through the departure area, weaving through the streams of passengers and suddenly hit upon the way he could best demonstrate his solicitude right then.

  He bought her a Starbucks.

  Mairi acknowledged it with a sad and knowing little laugh.

  ‘Thanks, Jack,’ she said warmly, with a sniff.

  ‘I willingly sacrifice my principles on the altar of your comfort.’

  ‘I know you didn’t do it lightly.’

  She took a sip and gave his knee a pat as he sat down.

  ‘You okay?’ he asked.

  ‘Been better. It was looking at the departure board that brought it home: I saw the flight to LA that we’re all booked to be on in a couple of weeks. I’m due to go out for the first part of the tour, and to have some meetings with the US label. Heike and I had fun talking about it, how that was proof that we’d all truly made it: we’d be sitting in business class, heading for Hollywood.’

  Mairi glanced at the board again. Parlabane could see the LA flight listed, three below theirs. She turned to look at him.

  ‘She’s dead, isn’t she, Jack?’

  Parlabane held her gaze, took a breath. He didn’t want to answer and he didn’t want to lie.

  His phone began to ring.

  When he saw who it was from he knew he had no option but to respond.