by Denise Mina
He got up and turned the light off. As he climbed up into the kitchen the phone rang again.
“Hello?”
Theresa, still crisp and unfriendly. “Look,” she said, “I’ve been having a think. We’ve got to get this sorted out.”
“No one threatened Mary.”
“You’re a child, Thomas.”
“I’m fifteen years old.”
“You’re still just a child.”
“Yeah.” He thought of her today, putting the baseball bat down, linking arms and brushing her nipples across him as they walked along the road. “Didn’t stop you shaking your tits at me this morning, did it?”
She paused at that, kind of acknowledged it, and spoke confidentially. “It makes your mother sound very bad indeed, all that Mary stuff. So far she’s come off as the victim, but if people knew…”
“And, plus, you were going to hit me with a baseball bat before you realized you knew me, how does that fit with me being a poor little kid?”
She heard the steel in his voice and shouted, “Phils and Betsy are not going to be pulled out of their schools, you can bet on that.”
“I never said they should—”
“And I want a share of the proceeds of the house.”
“Which house?”
“The one you’re standing in.”
Thomas had told her they were going to sell. He saw suddenly that she’d been pumping him for information all morning. She’d been saying how funny it was that everything had changed, where would they holiday now? Where were the children going to school now? Would he study abroad, when he went to uni? She’d even sympathized when he said they only had the Piper left. She probably knew Nanny Mary before, knew all that stuff, was working him from the beginning.
“Tell your mother that she’ll be hearing from my solicitor in due course.”
“Tell her your fucking self, Thereesa,” he said, and hung up.
He dropped the receiver on the worktop and stepped away, staring at it. Bitch. A fucking bitch. Sarah Erroll had died in her place and it was her fucking fault, all of it.
What else had he told her? He didn’t know what he was doing, he couldn’t look after Ella or worry about Squeak, he didn’t have a clue what he was doing. Looking up at the high ceiling he felt defeat creeping through him like a chill. He was just a kid. He didn’t know what he was doing. His loss was private now but soon, when she went to a lawyer and the papers heard, it would all be made public. Stander.
Panicked, he went upstairs to his mother. Her television was still on but he tiptoed past Ella’s door and knocked gently. Abruptly, the television fell silent and the light snapped off under the door.
Thomas tried the handle and found it open. He didn’t look in, afraid she might be naked or something.
“Moira?” he whispered.
After a long while she answered, faking a sleeping voice, “Hmm?”
“Ella’s…asleep now.”
Moira was determined to see the pretend-sleep through. “Wha…? What are you saying, darling?”
Theresa had spent the morning smiling and sharking around him for information. He honestly believed she liked him. Moira couldn’t even tell a convincing lie about being asleep.
Angry, he reached in and turned on the light.
Moira was fully clothed, sitting on top of the bed with an ashtray on her lap and a curl of smoke snaking out of it. He was surprised. He didn’t know she smoked. He forgot what he meant to say for a moment.
She smiled weakly. “I must have nodded off…”
“Ella’s asleep.”
She tried to smile but it looked really bitter. “As should you be.” She said it like a mother in a story book.
“What’s Ella got?”
She seemed surprised, as if she hadn’t noticed really.
“She’s nuts,” he said carefully. “What is it she’s got?”
“Ella’s…nervous.”
“She’s really not well.”
Moira grinned, her eyes slipped his and then came back, her smile sadder than before. She was trying hard. He could see that she was trying and she’d been on a high dose for a long time.
Thomas wanted to tell her everything. A woman died in Scotland. Ella is floridly nuts. Theresa is Dad’s other wife. She is a shark. She is not stupid. She has round tits and handsome children. She will eat you alive while we watch and I cannot save you because I am a child.
But he didn’t say those things. Instead he said what Moira wanted and needed to hear: “Good night, Mum.”
A warm grateful smile broke over her face and she slid down a little in the bed. “Good night, darling.”
Carefully, Thomas shut the door and stood alone in the dark hall.
FORTY
It bothered her. As Morrow stepped out of the front door into the brisk morning, walked down to the car and unlocked it, slowly and gracelessly fitted her odd shape into the driving seat and tucked her coat in before shutting the door, something nameless weighed on her. She started the engine, using only the mirror to reverse into the street, already uncomfortable when she turned from the waist.
She stopped at the bottom of the hill. Took a breath, shook her head and wondered what was wrong. A sense of discomfort but not the usual, this had a different quality. She started off again, pulling down the road, slower than usual. The radio buzzed with news of traffic jams and children’s birthdays, rumors of an accident on the M8. She punched the switch, turning it off, and drove into town, the roads quiet because it was so early.
She felt, she realized, as if she was driving with someone she’d had an argument with. But she was alone. Stupid.
She let it go, losing herself in the commands of the road, the red lights, the give ways, performing textbook brakes when pedestrians crossed the road thoughtlessly or other drivers made silly turns.
By the time she got to the station she knew she was angry with herself, but not why. It wasn’t that Danny had been in her house or met Brian, she wasn’t feeling soiled by that. It was Perth, something to do with Perth.
She parked up in the yard, walked up the ramp, through the booking bar, calling hellos to all the night shift, trying not to let the thread of the thought drop from her mind.
Through the lobby, into CID, she found Bannerman’s door open, his light on and the man himself in, reading over papers.
“Sir?”
“Morrow? You’re in early…”
“So are you.”
He waited for her to speak but she didn’t know what to say. “You want something?”
She didn’t know if she did. “Umm. Perth. This Perth thing is bothering me.”
He gave a little sigh and tapped the papers in front of him, eager to get on. “Fine, call it up and check it out.”
“Yeah,” she said, wondering why it felt wrong, “I’ll call, yeah…”
“Could you leave me alone now?”
“Sorry.”
She retreated, shut his door, stood looking at it. He’d say it was to do with her pregnancy. Anything she did that needed explaining was to do with her pregnancy. She wasn’t even annoyed about it anymore.
“Ma’am?” She turned and saw Harris walking into the incident room.
“You’re nice and early.”
“Yeah, my eldest is going to France with the school. Had to drop him early for the bus.”
She watched him disappear into the room, still feeling bothered and detached. She went into her office and opened her computer for the contact details for Perth. A blank email from N. Ketlin nestled among the departmental spam in her in-box. It had an attachment with a numbered title. She opened it, downloaded a fat file and clicked.
It was a twenty-four-second video of Sarah Erroll, alive, sitting at a table in someone’s garden with a fat gray cat lolling on the table in front of her, its tail curled around her wrist.
Sarah’s face was quite hard to make out because the day was so sunny and the shade so deep, but she was smiling and singing
quietly to the cat as it purred and writhed on its back and she rubbed its tummy: you are my sunshine, my only sunshine.
Sarah looked like a child, moved like a child with the awkward grace of someone who had not yet fully flowered. Next to her on the table was a yellow packet of Kettle crisps and the iPhone they had found on the bed.
She finished singing and leaned forward, still not knowing she was being filmed, and kissed the cat’s furry side and then she sat back and saw that she was being filmed and her face looked dismayed and her shoulders fell and she shouted, “Nora! Fuck off with that bloody phone!”
Behind the camera Nora gurgled a laugh and Sarah looked straight into the lens and laughed back. The image froze.
Morrow covered her mouth with her hand, felt the bile rise high in her chest. She was letting it go, trading Sarah for peace with Danny, peace with Bannerman, ticking out her time. She was staring at the ceiling and doing it for the money.
She drew a deep breath, stood up and pulled her door open, screamed for Harris to come here.
He arrived at the door, startled, as if he expected her to be on the floor, delivering her babies.
“Get your fucking coat, Harris. We’re going to Perth.”
FORTY-ONE
The gate buzzer rang as he was standing in the kitchen and Thomas hurried to the video screen by the front door, watching the blond man hang out of his Merc window and shout into the microphone.
“Hello?”
Thomas dropped his voice to make himself sound older. “Who is this?”
“I’m Dr. Hollis.” He looked Scandinavian, big, nice discreet black car. “I have an appointment with Mr. Anderson this morning.”
Thomas pressed the entry button and watched the gates swing open in front of the car.
The doctor slid back into his seat and the car pulled out of shot.
Thomas used the joystick to move the camera around the entrance. There was no one else there. He’d half expected a gang of angry protesters to reassemble there now that Lars’s suicide was off the front page but they must have someone else to hate now. There wasn’t even any new graffiti, so they hadn’t been back.
While he was standing there he heard the car draw up, heard a door open and shut and a leather sole scuff the steps. He opened the door.
“Mr. Anderson?” Dr. Hollis had white hair and eyebrows, though he was young. He had a mustache as well, but a cool mustache, and a little tiny bit of beard under his bottom lip. He was dressed in country casuals, in a gray tweed overcoat with a flash of pink lining and a nice white shirt. He looked clean and friendly.
Thomas opened the door wide. “It’s good of you to come so early.”
“It’s not a problem.” Hollis brushed his feet on the doormat and stepped into the hall. “How are you today?”
“Fine,” said Thomas, wary the psychiatrist would see his past or his future or something.
Dr. Hollis wasn’t trying to see through him. He dropped his satchel and let his overcoat glide off his shoulders.
“Um, my sister’s upstairs.” He led the way, taking the steps two at a time.
Dr. Hollis followed, hurrying at his back. “Have you seen her this morning?”
Thomas nodded. “Yeah.”
“Has she eaten?”
Thomas stopped at the top of the stairs, looking back at the fit mountaineer coming after him. “No.”
Hollis took the last three steps in one. “You said on the phone that you think this is ongoing, why did you say that?”
Thomas didn’t want to say why. Everything he’d hated about Ella was why: the many visits by his parents to her school, her coming home in the middle of term, family holidays he wasn’t invited on. He wasn’t sure he could say those things without sounding like a bitter twat. So instead he said, “Well, she’s got scars,” and he gestured weakly to his wrist.
“Nothing else?”
Thomas shrugged. “She’s weird?”
Hollis nodded, as if he didn’t understand but was trying to. “And your father has recently…”
Thomas slumped against the banister, mumbling, “…isn’t an easy way to say it…”
So Hollis just said it the hard way: “Killed himself?”
“Yeah.” Thomas was aware that his mouth was hardly moving. “On Monday.” He looked at the carpet and couldn’t think of anything else to say about that. “So…”
Hollis waited for a moment and then nodded once, not making a big thing about it. He grunted and dipped his head up the landing, telling Thomas to get on then.
They went through her sitting room to the open bedroom door. They could see her tiny form in the big bed. Thomas knocked and waited and turned back to explain, “In case, she’s decided to talk…”
But she hadn’t. He pushed the door further open.
Ella was in bed, on her side, facing away; it wasn’t clear if she was awake.
Hollis was looking at the room, at the big window and the furniture. His mouth was open in a little appreciative smile. Lovely place. Thomas had to gesture him to Ella, to remind him why they were there.
Hollis walked around the bed and pulled up a chair.
“Hello, Ella, my name is Jergen. I’m a psychiatrist.” He had changed the tone of his voice, dropped it, and it took on a special quality, a kindness about it that Thomas found unbelievably touching. He had to blink back tears as he listened, move himself from the door to a position near the windows where Hollis wouldn’t see him unless he looked up.
“Now, Ella, we haven’t met before, have we?”
She didn’t speak or move but she must have given some signal because he took it for a no.
“Have you seen a psychiatrist before?”
Again, Thomas could see no response.
“And who was that?”
She mumbled something. Hollis wrote it down and showed it to her. He corrected it and showed it to her again. “If you would like I can arrange for that person to come and see you again.” He left a moment for her to blink or knock or whatever. “Or I could see if I can help. Do you have a preference?”
He watched her for a long time, expressions flickering across his face as if he was having a silent conversation with her. Then he leaned in and said something quietly and stood up, looking over to Thomas, stepping around the bed.
In the hallway Hollis told him that his sister wasn’t well and he would like permission to contact the doctors she had seen before, to get some background.
“What’s wrong with her?”
“I can’t tell yet. Do you know if she’s on any medication?”
“I don’t know. She’s all over the place though, she laughs a lot. I hear her talking to people who aren’t there. Mood shifts…”
“And your mother?”
“Yeah, she’s a bit nuts too.”
“No, I mean where is she?”
“Oh, she took a cab into Sevenoaks.”
Hollis nodded. “I see. I need her consent to access Ella’s medical records. When will she be back?”
“She’s making arrangements for the funeral, so, I don’t know.” Thomas didn’t want Hollis to think he’d been abandoned and he certainly didn’t want his pity. “Dad’s funeral’s in three days…”
But there wasn’t a flicker of pity on Hollis’s face.
“We all have needs,” he said seriously. “It must be a difficult time for you, all.” He said it like that, with the emphasis on all, but Thomas knew that he’d added it on so that Thomas didn’t feel singled out. He sounded a bit like Theresa, saying just the right thing at the right time. It made Thomas uneasy. He suddenly considered the possibility that Hollis might be an undercover journalist, snooping around the house, secretly taking photos. It didn’t seem likely but the possibility made him want to get him out of the house.
He stood tall and looked away. “You leaving…?”
“Come downstairs with me, please.”
Hollis led the way this time, along the long hall, down the stairs, hurrying as i
f he was in a hospital corridor, on his way to somewhere urgent. At the bottom he waited for Thomas, swiveling his head, looking for directions. Thomas held his hand up to the front door but Hollis said, “I want to talk to you.”
Thomas took him into a big blue day room and they sat at a corner of a huge white dining table.
“Thomas,” said Hollis, “your sister is very unwell. Those scars on her wrists. What do you know about them?”
“Nothing.”
“How old are you?”
“Fifteen.”
“I need to speak with your mother right away. Do you have her mobile number?”
“She hasn’t got a mobile.”
“Well, what’s the name of the undertakers?”
“I don’t know. ‘Brothers.’ Something ‘brothers.’”
Dr. Hollis searched “undertakers,” “brothers” and “Sevenoaks” on his mobile, called a number, asked for Moira and found her.
“Mrs. Anderson, this is Dr. Hollis, I am here with your son. I’m afraid you must come home now.”
As she answered, Hollis’s eyebrows crept slowly up his forehead.
“I need consent and a medical history—I see…yes…it is—I see. Can you possibly—I see, yes.” He looked at his watch. “Five? But just now Thomas is alone. Can someone else—” He turned away from Thomas, turning his face to the wall. “He is far too young to do that. No—yes he is. He is far far too young to be left alone with this situation…No.” Suddenly he was very firm. “I can do nothing until I have seen her medical records—I really don’t care, Mrs. Anderson. I don’t care about your husband’s funeral. You must come home to your children at once.”
She hung up on him. Thomas could hear the dead tone. Hollis held the phone to his ear and sort of pretended she was still there for a moment. Then he looked at the phone, tutted and was a bit pink, a bit angry when he spoke to Thomas.
“Thomas, I have said to your mother that you are far too young to be left with this situation. It’s—it’s really not good.” He looked angry. “So she is coming as fast as she can back to the house.”
He looked around, sucked his teeth in frustration, slapped his hands against his thighs. Thomas understood. He said quietly, “Look, you can go.”