Exile

by Denise Mina

  ‘Mum, if it wasn’t for you Billy might have killed the wean as well.’

  The doorbell rang three times in rapid succession. Isa sighed and stood up, straightening her pinny and narrowing her lips. ‘I bet that’s that bloody Sheila McGregor,’ she said.

  ‘Oof,’ said Maureen to Leslie. ‘I hope she doesn’t use language like that all the time.’

  Isa teeheed and disappeared into the hall. They heard two oscillating lady voices greeting each other with offers of tea and cake.

  ‘You were brilliant,’ said Leslie. ‘She’d have been gutted if I’d told her.’

  ‘No bother.’ Maureen gestured out to the hall. ‘Who’s this?’

  ‘Hungry neighbour. Catches the smell when the lid comes off the biscuits.’

  Mrs McGregor’s shopping bags filled the doorway. She humphed them on to the kitchen floor and stood up, blinded by the condensation on her glasses. She was dressed in a thick green tweed coat and stood less than five foot tall on bandy cowboy legs. Isa came back into the kitchen and put the kettle on again.

  ‘Oh, my,’ said Mrs McGregor, pulling out a chair and sitting herself down, ‘but it’s wild out there the day. Is that you, Leslie, pet?’

  Leslie looked as sullen as she ever had. ‘Aye, hello, Mrs McGregor. How ye keeping, all right?’

  Mrs McGregor helped herself to a shortbread biscuit and looked at Maureen. ‘And who’s this?’ she said, looking her up and down. ‘Is this your life-partner, Leslie?’

  ‘Stop trying to be modern, Mrs McGregor. She’s my pal.’

  ‘Very good,’ said Mrs McGregor, taking a half-cup of weak tea from Isa and filling it to the brim with milk. ‘Your mother says I can’t stay long because you’ve had a death in the family.’

  ‘That’s right,’ said Leslie.

  ‘Aw, well,’ said Mrs McGregor, opening her mouth, letting shortbread crumbs fall willy-nilly on to her coat. ‘And just after Christmas as well.’ She wrinkled her nose at Maureen. ‘No time for turmoil.’

  They had to wait until Mrs McGregor left because Leslie wouldn’t leave Isa alone with her. ‘McGregor bullies her,’ said Leslie, unchaining the bike from a lamp-post. ‘She’d be staying for her tea if we hadn’t seen her out.’

  ‘You’re very abrupt with her,’ said Maureen. ‘Who is she?’

  ‘She’s a misery magnet, that woman,’ said Leslie. ‘Every time there’s a tragedy on this scheme that woman turns up for the purvey.’

  Maureen put her helmet on and did up her coat, watching while Leslie jump-started the bike.

  ‘Why did she think I was your girlfriend?’

  ‘She’s been saying I’m gay since I was wee. And then the bike, ye know.’

  ‘Oh, yeah, sure sign. Ye should tell her that a bipolar conception of gender is widely discredited now.’

  Leslie threw back her head and laughed a wide-mouthed dirty laugh, baring black fillings and coffee stains. And Maureen wanted her to keep laughing so she could watch.

  16

  Baps

  ‘So far nothing, then?’

  ‘Yes, sir. So far fuck all,’ said Williams.

  Dakar shook his head and stood up. He remembered himself, remembered what he would look like to Bunyan, and held in his belly until he got to the window and had his back to her. ‘It’s a mattress, for Pete’s sake. Thames Division say an object that big doesn’t move far so it had to go in near the Chelsea Wharf. They’re not even sure it could have made it across the river so it had to go in at that side of the river. Someone must have seen something.’

  ‘I’m sure someone did,’ said Williams, between bites of chicken bap, ‘but they’re either keeping quiet about it or they didn’t realize it was suspicious.’

  Bunyan sat forward, pressing her waist against the edge of the desk, pulling her blouse tight. Williams saw Dakar being careful not to look. ‘If,’ she said, ‘they dumped the mattress at four in the morning, that road could have been completely empty. Maybe no-one saw anything.’

  ‘Possible,’ agreed Dakar. ‘Quite, quite possible. The husband’s the only thing we’ve got to go on, isn’t he?’

  Bunyan nodded. ‘Can’t place him in London until we talk to him, though.’

  Williams swung back in his chair and thought about home. They’d have to go to Glasgow and interview the husband. He hadn’t been back for years, not since his dad’s funeral.

  ‘. . . Glasgow,’ finished Dakar and looked expectantly at Williams.

  Bunyan was looking at him too. ‘We have to go to Glasgow,’ she said.

  ‘Oh, right,’ said Williams. ‘Obviously.’

  Dakar pointed at him. ‘I’ll approach Liaison about a spot on Crimewatch. She’s a mother of four, for Godsake. Someone must have seen something.’

  17

  The Big Picture

  Maureen had never seen CCB photographs before. The glossy pictures were spread over the floor, a patchwork of angles and body parts lit by a harsh white light. ‘Are they always like this?’ she whispered reverently.

  ‘No.’ Leslie sat down next to Maureen and looked out over the sea of photographs. ‘They’re not usually this bad. These are the worst I’ve seen.’

  Ann was standing against a white wall wearing nothing but her tired underwear. She looked into the camera, vacant and resigned, her mouth hanging open with Hindleyesque apathy. Full-length shots of her front, side and back established the scale and then the pictures homed in on her injuries, slicing her body into digestible pieces. She was seriously underweight; her arms were pencil thin and her pelvic bone jutted out of her back. There was a two-inch chasm between her bony thighs. A whispering silver road map sprawled across her withered belly and spent breasts. Someone had kicked the shit out of her.

  A punch to her jaw had split her lip and left it grotesquely swollen. Black and yellow bruises were clustered on her back, creeping around her torso to her chest, slipping under her grey bra. One series of shots concentrated on the injury to her groin. The pictures centred on the modest bridge of her pants, a patch of white cotton in a sea of blackened skin that extended all the way down to her knees.

  ‘See there?’ Leslie leaned forward and pointed to an oval bruise on the back of Ann’s neck, gesturing with her pinkie as if reluctant to touch it. ‘That’s a stamp mark, from a shoe.’

  ‘Jesus,’ whispered Maureen, ‘she must have fought like a bastard.’

  ‘No,’ said Leslie, picking up a full-length shot and pointing to the back of Ann’s hands. ‘Look at that. There’s not a mark on the back of her hands or her arms.’ Maureen didn’t get it. ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘This is what ye do when you’re being hit,’ Leslie crossed her hands over her head and rounded her back, ‘but Ann didn’t. See that big bruise?’ She traced a big diagonal one on her chest. ‘She wasn’t defending herself at all. She was probably unconscious.’

  ‘She might have been steaming,’ said Maureen, pointing to Ann’s legs in the full-length shot. Cuts and bruises of various ages were slashed across the knife-edge bone on her skinny shin. Ann had a habit of falling down. She’d been falling for a long time. Maureen looked at Ann’s tired eyes. ‘She looks dead already.’

  They sat for a moment looking at the pictures, frowning and sick and sad. Maureen tried to imagine how angry someone would have to be to do that to a limp body. The clouds parted outside the window, and for a brief moment Leslie’s living room was full of brilliant yellow sunshine.

  It was a small flat in a good, low-level block in Drumchapel. Leslie was lucky with her neighbours. They were elderly and watchful of one another, and they kept the close clean and tidy. The houses were small and neat with low ceilings, little square rooms and a veranda through the door at the back of the kitchen. Leslie’s favourite thing was to eat hot food outside, she said it made her feel privileged, and on milder nights they used to sit on t
he veranda, watching the wasteground around the back, and eat dinner together. Maureen supposed that Cammy sat with her now–his presence was evident everywhere else in the house. His jacket was hanging up in the hall, his shaving foam was in the bathroom and, judging by the Celtic mugs in the kitchen and the bad oil painting of Jock Stein, he had brought his most treasured possessions over to the house so that he could be near them. Maureen berated herself. She should wish Leslie well, she was her friend, after all, and they seemed happy together, the house felt comfortable. She looked down at Ann again and sat back on the settee to distance herself from the pictures.

  ‘Did Ann know you were Jimmy’s cousin?’ she asked.

  ‘No,’ said Leslie. ‘I didn’t recognize the name but I knew her when I saw her face. Mum’s got photos of a cousin’s wedding a few years ago and Ann and Jimmy were there. I kept my distance.’

  ‘Did ye tell the committee you knew her?’

  ‘No, well, I wasn’t sure it was her. I can’t tell ye how pleased I was when you said ye didn’t think it was him.’

  ‘You didn’t act pleased.’

  ‘I wanted it to be true,’ said Leslie. ‘It felt like a cop-out.’

  ‘Jimmy’s awful spent. Ann looks like a weight-lifter next to him.’

  ‘Yeah.’ Leslie rubbed her face with an open hand and looked at the pictures. ‘But how fit do ye need to be to stamp on the back of someone’s neck, Mauri?’ She started picking up the photographs from the floor, shuffling them together into a tidy pile.

  Maureen thought of the tiny hard men coming home to a dinner of bread and marg. ‘Leslie? Do we need to take these back?’

  Leslie thought about it, her fingers trailing on the edges of the pictures. ‘Do you want to take the chance, Mauri? What if he did do it?’

  ‘Come and meet him,’ said Maureen.

  ‘I don’t want to.’

  ‘You’ll have to sometime. Can we keep the pictures until after you’ve met him?’

  ‘I don’t want to meet him.’ Leslie gathered the pictures together, tapping the edges on the coffee table and looking perplexed. ‘Why have you got these, anyway?’

  Maureen drew hard on her cigarette. ‘I just . . . I dunno, wanted to see them.’

  ‘Yeah.’ Leslie sounded as if she understood. ‘Ann was a poor soul, wasn’t she?’

  Maureen was eager to move the conversation on. ‘If she was popping out to the shops and coming back drunk she must have been drinking nearby. We can photocopy her face from the big picture and ask about her in the pubs near the shelter. We could do it tonight if you’re not busy.’

  ‘No,’ smiled Leslie. ‘No, I’m not busy.’

  Maureen felt inside her jeans pocket and found the bit of paper with Ann’s sister’s name on it. She was going to tell Leslie what Jimmy had said about Mr Akitza being a big darkie but Leslie hated him enough as it was already and she hadn’t even met him. She gave the name to Leslie, told her it was in Streatham somewhere, and Leslie dialled for directory inquiries, waited for a long while and then asked the operator, ‘Why not?’ a couple of times. She got pissed off and hung up. The operator wouldn’t give her the number unless she had the postcode. Leslie said she didn’t know her own fucking postcode but they could probably get the number at the Mitchell library.

  They drank their coffee in the living room and Leslie added a little drop of whisky to ease Maureen’s hangover and give herself a treat. They sipped and smoked and tried to work out how they could find out what was in the letter Ann got before she left.

  Ann had a friend at the shelter called Senga. She had stayed in over Christmas and there was just the slightest possibility that Ann would have shown her the contents of the envelope. Leslie said that she could get Senga’s new address from the office and they could go and talk to her. The more plans they made together the more excited they became and it began to feel like old times, but Maureen knew it wasn’t the same. The tension between them remained unexplained and would probably never be sorted out. She watched Leslie stub out her fag, rubbing the doubt into the blue glass ashtray. It couldn’t be patched up. They’d never have that crystal confidence between them again. Her mutinous eyes welled up again and she stood up, excusing herself, saying she needed a piss. She sat on the side of the bath and pulled herself together with deep breaths and scathing self-reproach.

  ‘Mauri,’ Leslie called up to her as she came down the hall, and Maureen thought for a moment that Leslie had seen her tears, ‘what can we do if we find anything out?’

  ‘Tell the police?’

  ‘You can’t go to the police, they’re still hassling you for what you did to Angus in Millport.’

  ‘Some of the police are hassling me for that,’ said Maureen.

  ‘What are the rest of the police hassling ye for?’ Maureen sat down and sipped her whisky coffee and wondered. She picked up the phone book and found the listing for the Stewart Street police station, dialled the main switchboard and asked for Hugh McAskill.

  Hugh picked up the phone before it rang out. ‘Hello?’

  ‘Oh, Hugh?’

  ‘Yes, this is Hugh McAskill. Can I help you?’

  ‘Hugh, it’s Maureen O’Donnell.’

  ‘Maureen,’ she could hear him smiling, ‘are ye all right?’

  ‘I’m fine. I got a bit upset.’ She felt angry with him but knew she had no right.

  ‘Maureen, about the other day, I’m sorry—’

  ‘It’s okay.’

  ‘—but it’s my job. Going to see people and asking about unsolved crimes is my job. I can’t refuse to do it because I like you.’

  ‘I know,’ she said. ‘I was having a bad day.’

  ‘Aye,’ he said. He seemed to be looking around the room and then huddled into the receiver. ‘Fine, fine. Ye never came back to see me.’

  Maureen imagined herself standing in front of a trestle table of angry policemen in elaborate uniforms. Leslie was watching her expectantly from the sofa. ‘I was going to,’ she said uncertainly.

  ‘I thought I’d’ve seen you at the meeting.’ Hugh attended an incest survivors’ meeting on Thursdays and he had outed himself to Maureen so that he could invite her. She had been once, only staying long enough to have a cup of tea and see Hugh, but an annoying man had come in and she couldn’t face the whole meeting. She thought she might have to give them a talk about herself and her family and she couldn’t face it.

  ‘I kept meaning to come . . . Hugh, I was phoning because . . . if I had some information about a crime, would you be able to take it?’

  ‘We’re always looking for information,’ said Hugh, without hesitation. ‘Is it something that happened in Glasgow?’

  ‘No, it was in London.’

  ‘It’s not our jurisdiction but we can pass it on. Listen, don’t go getting involved in anything.’

  ‘I’m not going to do that, Hugh.’

  ‘Maureen, this assault in Millport, Joe isn’t going to let it go. He’s convinced Farrell’s at it to get a lighter sentence.’

  ‘I think he’s right.’

  ‘He’s determined to get you for it. The worst thing you can do is get involved in something else.’

  ‘I’m not getting involved.’

  ‘Listen,’ Hugh lowered his voice even further, ‘I’m going to ask you again: is Farrell writing to you?’

  Maureen looked at Leslie. ‘No.’ It was a cheap lie and Hugh was a nice man who had gone out of his way to help her. He deserved better and she felt low for lying to him.

  ‘The hospital said he was,’ insisted Hugh.

  ‘Maybe he’s writing to the wrong address.’

  ‘They’ve checked, he’s writing to your address.’

  ‘Well, I’m not getting any letters so I don’t know what’s happening there.’

  Leslie was watching her from the settee, making
questioning faces at the mention of letters.

  ‘Okay, pal,’ said Maureen briskly. ‘Listen, I’ll be in touch then.’

  ‘Will I hear from ye soon?’

  ‘Ye will. Cherrio.’ She hung up. Leslie was staring at her intently.

  ‘Was he asking about the letters from Angus Farrell?’ asked Leslie.

  ‘Yeah, the nurses told them he was writing to me.’ She sat down next to Leslie on the settee. ‘They want to see them but I can’t– God, they mention Millport and everything. If they ever do me for the assault they could get the whole story from them.’

  ‘You don’t think he could be writing to Siobhain, do you? He definitely knows where she lives.’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Maureen. ‘I haven’t seen her since before Christmas.’

  ‘We should go and see her.’

  Like most of the women on her ward, Siobhain had been viciously raped by Angus. She was the only surviving witness to what he had done, or at least the only one who could still speak in full sentences, and if he was coming for anyone he would be coming for her.

  ‘His writing’s getting smaller,’ said Maureen quietly. ‘I think he’s getting better.’

  ‘He’s still mental, though, isn’t he?’ said Leslie.

  ‘The letters sound mental but it’s put on. I know it’s put on.’

  ‘How do you know that?’

  Maureen shook her head. ‘It’s too set,’ she said. ‘It’s not random enough. I don’t know. It’s difficult to explain. Joe McEwan thinks he’s at it. He says that Angus’ll get a short sentence and get out. You don’t think he’ll come after me, do you?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  Maureen desperately wanted some bluster and comfort. ‘You don’t think I’m in danger, do you?’ she said, trying to prompt a response.

  ‘Bollocks,’ said Leslie, sniggering uncertainly. ‘Think about it rationally. If he was coming to get you why would he write and warn you? That’s evidence against him if he does.’

  Maureen wanted her to be right, but Angus was bright, probably brighter than both of them, and everything he did had a purpose.