by Denise Mina
The Moustache Man was waiting for them at the car-park entrance to the station. They took her into a small reception area and asked her to sign a book saying that she had come to the station voluntarily. They asked her permission before taking her fingerprints.
She still felt light-headed, her stomach ached with tense after-vomit contractions and she was having trouble with her eyes: her depth perception kept changing suddenly, shifting objects closer and further away. She blinked hard, pressing the rims of her eyelids tight to stop it. She knew she must look pretty crazy but they weren’t watching her, they were anxious to get her upstairs.
The policewoman and the Moustache escorted her up two flights, through a set of fire doors and into a windowless beige corridor illuminated with imperceptibly flickering strip lights. The pattern on the linoleum was too big for the small space. It would have been a disorientating place at the best of times and this wasn’t the best of times.
‘Is this corridor a bit narrow?’ Maureen asked the Moustache.
‘A bit,’ he said, worried by the question. ‘Are you going to be sick again?’
She shook her head. He stopped at one of the doors and opened it, waving her through in front of him. It was a bleak room. The walls were painted with mushroom gloss, the kind that is easy to wipe clean, and a grey metal table was bolted to the floor. A large clumsy black tape-recorder was resting on the table next to the wall. A tiny window, high up on the wall, was barred with wrought iron. Everything about the room whispered distrust.
A tall man with ruffled blond hair was sitting at the near side of the table with his back to the door. He stood up when they came in, introduced himself as Detective Chief Inspector Joe McEwan, and asked her to sit down, motioning to the far side of the table, the side furthest away from the door. She had noticed him back at her house: while she was standing in the close she had seen him in the living room, talking to a man wearing a white paper suit. He had looked out at her, his glance lingering too long to be casual.
His skin showed a fading long-term tan, the result of regular foreign holidays. He was in his forties and dressed so carefully in black flannels and an expensive blue cotton shirt that he was either gay or a bachelor. A quick look at the fading milky strip on the third finger of his left hand told her that he had shed a wedding ring one or two sunny holidays ago. He had the look of an ambitious man on his way to some bright future. Maureen’s Celtic shirt glowed a strange shade of cheap green under the fluorescent light.
She sat down and Joe McEwan introduced the Moustache Man as Detective Inspector Steven Inness. The policewoman was not introduced. She took the hint and left, shutting the door carefully behind her.
McEwan pressed a button and turned on the tape recorder, telling it the time and who was present. He turned to Maureen and asked her very formally whether or not she had been cautioned prior to the interview. She said she had been. Without looking at him McEwan nudged Inness, telling him to take over.
Inness asked her all the same questions he had asked her at the house, again nodding and yessing her answers. She told them who Douglas was, about Elsbeth and that his mother was an MEP. The two policemen glanced at each other nervously. Inness asked her what her shoe size was, and why she hadn’t reported the murder last night. She hadn’t looked into the living room, it was to the right of the front door and the bedroom was to the left so there was no reason for her to pass it unless she had been to the toilet. She went straight to bed because she was pissed.
Inness left long pauses after Maureen imparted each bit of information, expecting her to panic at the silence and fill in the spaces with important clues. Maureen had seen a lot of psychiatrists in her time and knew what he was doing. She found it familiar and calming, as if, among all the confusion, she had stumbled across a set of rules she understood. She did what she had always done with the long-pause technique: she sat and looked at the person interviewing her, her face blank, waiting for them to notice that it wouldn’t work. The professional thing to do was stare back at her, take it on the chin and then try something else, but Inness couldn’t. He looked at everything in the room, his eyes rolling around, swerving past Maureen to the back wall and over her head to the tape-recorder. He gave up and flicked back and forth through the pages of his notebook, looking increasingly confused.
McEwan took over. ‘Who has a key to your house apart from yourself, Miss O’Donnell?’
‘Um, my brother Liam, Douglas and that’s it. Oh, I suppose the factor would have one.’ ‘What’s the factor’s name?’
She told him and guessed at the phone number. McEwan wrote it down in a notebook. ‘I’m not sure that’s the right number,’ she said.
‘It’s okay,’ he said, pleased at her willingness to co-operate.
‘We can look it up. Where can we find your brother?’
She couldn’t let them turn up at Liam’s house unannounced – she knew he left stuff lying around all the time. It would frighten the shit out of him if nothing else. He’d never had a scrape with the law. ‘Um,’ she said, ‘he’s staying with some friends at the moment, I’ll bring him down if you want to talk to him.’
McEwan wasn’t pleased. ‘Can’t we contact him?’ ‘Well, the people he’s staying with aren’t on the phone. They’re difficult to get a hold of. I’ll get him for you.’ ‘Well, okay,’ said McEwan, raising his eyebrows insistently, creasing his forehead into three deep parallel ridges. She thought he must make that face a lot. ‘But we need to see him today.’
‘I’ll bring him down, I promise. Why was it so hot in the house?’
He looked at her. ‘What do you mean?’ ‘It’s not usually that hot in the house.’
He nudged Inness to make a note of it and turned back to Maureen. ‘So Douglas had his own key?’ he asked diffidently. ‘Yes.’
‘Did you let him into your house yesterday?’
‘No, the last time I saw him was on Monday. He stayed the night and left in the morning before I got up.’
‘Did he mention anything to you about being threatened by anyone, arguing with anyone, being followed, anything like that?’
Maureen thought back over the night’s conversation. He was tired when he came in, he didn’t even kiss her as he came through the door. He took his shoes off and sat on the settee telling her the usual gossip, the usual moaning appraisal of the people he worked with. Nothing different. They didn’t have sex. Douglas fell asleep a minute after getting into bed and Maureen lay wide awake next to him and watched him dribble saliva onto the pillow. They hadn’t had sex for five weeks. Douglas had begun to recoil when she touched him, he rarely even kissed her now.
‘Not that I remember,’ she said.
McEwan scribbled something in a notepad. ‘And that was the last time you saw him?’ he said, without looking up.
‘Yeah.’
‘Except for this morning,’ observed Inness unnecessarily.
‘Yeah,’ said Maureen, puzzled by his crassness. ‘Except for this morning.’
‘Now,’ said McEwan, ‘when you found the body this morning did you touch anything?’ Maureen thought about it. ‘No,’ she said.
‘Did you go into the living room before you phoned us?’
‘No.’
‘Did you go into the hall cupboard?’
‘The shoe cupboard?’
‘Yes,’ said McEwan. ‘The small cupboard in the hall, the one with the shoe box in it.’
‘No, I didn’t go in there. I saw the body and phoned you immediately.’
‘“Immediately”? At the scene you told Detective Inspector Inness that you sat in the hall for a while.’
‘Well, yeah, I saw the body and sat down in shock and as soon as I was able to stand up I got to the phone and called you.’
‘How long were you sitting in the hall?’
‘I don't know, I was in shock.’
; ‘One hour? Two hours?’
‘Ten minutes, maybe. Twenty minutes at the longest.’
‘And where were you sitting in the hall?’
‘What difference does it make where I sat?’ she said impatiently.
‘Just answer the question, Miss O’Donnell.’
‘I was sitting directly across from the hall cupboard.’
‘And the door to the cupboard was . . .?’
Joe McEwan seemed to be trying to prompt her towards some meaningful statement about the state of the cupboard but she wasn’t sure what it was. She shrugged. ‘I dunno, what? Broken?’
‘Was it open?’ asked McEwan. ‘Was it shut?’
‘Oh, right, no, it was shut.’
‘Could you see into the living room from where you were sitting?’
‘I could see some footsteps.’
‘How many footsteps could you see from there?’ She thought about it for a moment. ‘Two,’ she said. ‘I could see two but there were seven altogether.’
McEwan looked at her suspiciously. ‘You seem very sure about that.’
‘I remember them because they looked odd. They weren’t shuffled, there were no scuffs of blood at the heel, but they were too close together. It looked odd. Like someone had been walking funny.’
‘As if they were planked,’ said Inness quietly, looking at his notes.
His comment annoyed McEwan for some reason: he turned and looked at Inness. Inness realized his mistake and eyed McEwan a subordinate’s apology.
‘Why are you so interested in the hall cupboard?’ asked Maureen. Was there something in there?’
McEwan was evasive. ‘Never you mind what was in there.’
Maureen ran her fingers through her greasy hair. ‘Would either of you have a cigarette I could blag?’ she said.
She had come out of shock minutes before and was desperate for a fag. Her packet was in her handbag, on the bedroom floor.
Inness sighed and looked at McEwan as if to say Maureen was a chancer. McEwan didn’t respond. With pronounced reluctance Inness took a packet of Silk Cut from his pocket and handed one to Maureen. He lit a match, holding it across the table. Maureen leaned over, sitting the cigarette in the flame. It crackled softly. She inhaled and felt the smoke curled warmly in her lungs, her fingers began to tingle. McEwan reached out suddenly, took a cigarette out of Inness’s packet and leaned forward, lighting it from the ready flame. Inness seemed surprised. McEwan inhaled and grimaced. ‘Now,’ he said, looking at his cigarette accusingly, ‘I’m afraid we can't allow you to stay at your own house for a while. Is there anyone else you can stay with?’
‘Oh, aye,’ said Maureen, ‘loads of places.’
‘I mean, we’ll need the address you’ll be staying at so we can find you if we need to.’
‘I might be able to stay with a pal in Maryhill but I’d have to check with him first.’
‘That would be handy,’ nodded Inness. ‘It’s just up the road.’
‘Yeah,’ said Maureen, wanting desperately to see Liam or Benny or Leslie, or anyone familiar and alive. ‘Can I nip up the road to ask him?’
McEwan gave her a hard, determined look. ‘No,’ he said. ‘I’d prefer it if you stayed here.’
‘I really want to leave for a while and come back.’
‘I want you to stay. We’ll be receiving information all the time and it may be important for me to check things out with you.’
‘I want to go,’ she said firmly. ‘I want to get some fags and something to eat and have a think.’ ‘We can bring you food and cigarettes.’
‘I want to have a think.’
‘What have you got to think about?’
‘I just want to get the fuck out of this building for a while,’ she said, becoming agitated. ‘The lighting in here is making my eyes hurt and I’m tired, all right?’
‘I want you to stay,’ he said, leaning on the table and exhaling smoke slowly through his nose. ‘We can keep you here for up to six hours if we have some reason to suspect you’ve broken the law.’
Maureen leaned forward. They sat head to head, each reluctant to sit back and relinquish the space to the other.
‘Are you arresting me?’ she asked.
‘I don't need to arrest you to keep you here.’
‘I haven’t done anything.’
‘It’s not that simple,’ said Inness.
Joe McEwan was getting very annoyed, his eyes narrowed and his forehead creased indignantly. He must be very unused to being defied. Maureen thought about his ex-wife and wished her well. He stood up, shoving the chair away noisily with the backs of his knees. He leaned over and opened the door. The policewoman was standing outside: he ushered her into the interview room and left, slamming the door behind him.
‘Have we got to wait for him to come back?’ asked Maureen.
‘Uh-huh,’ said Inness, fiddling with the biro, tapping it softly on the table.
‘How come there’s always two of you?’ said Maureen. Inness looked up. ‘Corroboration.’ ‘What’s corroboration?’
‘We can’t use any evidence that’s witnessed by one person. There have to be two officers present at all times in case we hear something important.’ ‘Oh.’
After an infinity McEwan came back in. ‘You can go,’ he said, looking disgusted and angry. ‘But I want you back here in two hours, is that clear?’
‘Yes,’ said Maureen, pleased to be getting her way. He leaned over the table and told the tape that it was eleven thirty-three, that the interview was being suspended and that he was turning it off. He flicked the switch and turned back to Maureen. ‘You know,’ he said, his voice louder than it need have been, ‘I really think if you wanted us to find the person who murdered your boyfriend you’d co-operate more fully.’
‘I appreciate that,’ she said, gracious in victory. ‘I’ll do everything I can to help you but right now I need a break.’ He looked at her disbelievingly and motioned for her to follow him as he walked out of the room.
Coming down the stairs to the main entrance she could see Liam sitting on a plastic chair in the lobby. He looked up and grinned when he saw her, wrinkling his nose. She shook her head softly and looked away, warning him not to speak to her. If McEwan saw Liam he’d recognize him as her brother and would insist on interviewing him right away. Maureen would have to wait for him.
‘I’ll be back by half-one,’ she said, distracting McEwan’s attention. ‘I promise.’
McEwan walked straight past Liam. He paused by the reception desk and patted it with the flat of his hand, telling her firmly that this was where she should report to when she came for their appointment. Maureen gave him an insolent look and left.
McEwan watched her walk through the glass doors, and saw a young man with the same build and hair colour follow Maureen O’Donnell towards the main road.
Liam caught up with her in the street. ‘He must be used to dealing with half-wits,’ he said.
‘Naw, I think he was trying to patronize me. He’s pissed off because I insisted on leaving for a while.’
Liam’s Triumph Herald was parked at the far end of the street. Maureen could see the rust patches from two hundred yards away. It was a rotten car, it broke down at least once a month but Liam said it was good for business: the police tended to stop young guys in Mercs not mugs in shitey motors.
Maureen slipped her arm through his, something she hadn’t done in years. ‘Did Mum tell you about Douglas, then?’ she asked.
‘Yeah,’ said Liam, keeping his eyes on the road and squeezing her arm hard.
‘How long were you waiting for?’ she said.
‘Just about three-quarters of an hour. Not long anyway.’
‘Liam, they’re going to have to speak to you. I didn’t think and I told them you had a key to the house.’ He flinched. ‘Oh,
bollocks.’
I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘Would they know about your business?’
‘Dunno, maybe,’ he said. ‘Auch, actually they probably don’t. Where are we going, anyway?’
‘Well, I want to ask Benny if I can stay there for a while. I’m not allowed to go home until they’ve finished looking through everything and I can’t stay at yours obviously. How’s Mum?’
Liam looked shifty. ‘Mm, well, Una’s with her.’ ‘You mean she’s pissed?’
‘Umm, she might be,’ he said quietly. ‘She’s very upset. Una’s comforting her.’
‘For fucksake, this is going to turn into something that happened to her, isn’t it?’
‘You know Mum, she could scene-steal from an eclipse.’ He opened the passenger door for her and saw that she was winding herself up. ‘Getting pissed off won’t make a sod of difference. You should know that by now.’
Maureen got into the car. The windows were opaque with cold condensation. Maggie was sitting in the back seat. ‘Oh, Maggie,’ said Maureen. ‘Have you been here all that time?’
Maggie smiled politely and nodded.
‘Why didn’t you come inside? You must have been freezing.’
‘I didn’t like to,’ she said vaguely.
Liam revved the engine. ‘Let’s go and see Benito,’ he said, and pulled out into the Maryhill Road. ‘Benito Finito.’ An unmarked police car followed the Herald at a discreet distance.