by Denise Mina
The lobby is busy. Rows of seats are bolted to the floor under a big window, half full of people watching the comings and goings or staring up at TV screens that hang from the ceiling like information boards in an airport. Nikki isn’t there. Margo has no idea what to do now. She’s facing a reception desk of fine blond sandstone and a white-shirted usher waves her over but she doesn’t really know what to ask him.
‘I’m looking for a murder case,’ she says. ‘Um… a man… very old case, happened in the early nineties? The man has a Russian name? Something-ov? I’m looking for someone who has come to watch the case?’
The usher’s eyebrows rise as his lids lower slowly. ‘I need a name.’
‘Nikki Brodie?’
‘We have no case with that name.’
‘No, she’s come to watch it. She’ll be in the public gallery.’
‘Will she?’
Margo’s suddenly aware of having no idea what she’s doing. ‘Sorry, I don’t know how it works, she said she’d be here.’
‘I see,’ he says. ‘Well, we don’t keep a register. I have no idea who’s in where.’
‘Oh.’
‘We have one case being heard against a man with a Russian name. North Court.’ He shows her the listing on the overhead screens and looks up to the top of a staircase snaking up to the balcony. ‘That case is winding up now. The public will be coming this way. You can wait over there and they’ll come past you.’
‘I’m not here for the case, I’m not terribly interested in that sort of thing,’ she says, trying to impress a disapproving stranger she didn’t know existed until two minutes ago.
It doesn’t work.
‘Aren’t you?’ He thought she was stupid a minute ago and now he thinks she’s an idiot. ‘Well, you can wait over there.’ Wryly adding, ‘With all the other people who aren’t terribly interested.’
He points to the front row of chairs and a couple of baffled-looking pensioners in matching purple cagoules, one of whom is asleep. Margo doesn’t think the usher’s being rude, he’s just entertaining himself.
She backs away, feeling foolish and a bit giggly. She sits where he pointed but finds herself facing the usher from twenty feet away. It’s quite awkward so she turns and stares up to the balcony, anticipating Nikki’s arrival.
She’s nervous to be here, she knows it’s not the best idea, but the alternative is going to Janette’s and failing to clear the house. She’s not sure what she should say to Nikki if she does find her. Should she threaten her with the police? She can’t quite remember why she was so certain the threatening letter was from Nikki now.
Lawyers in suits and gowns sweep along the balcony walkway, going through doors, followed by clerks with trolleys of files and boxes. Behind them, a man comes out of a door wiping his hands dry on his trousers. It seems to be a toilet but it’s too high up to see the signage. A door tucked deep into the high corner opens and a woman with a distinctive walk emerges onto the balcony. She’s swaying from the shoulders, wearing a dark overcoat and thick glasses that distort her eyes. Margo stands up. Is that Tracey? But the figure disappears into the toilets. That looked a lot like Tracey.
Her eyes are still on the balcony when the door the Tracey-type came out of bangs loudly against the wall. The sound clatters around the foyer, drawing the attention of all the people waiting.
A trio of weeping women stand still, aware that they have done something wrong. They see all eyes are on them and freeze for a moment before linking arms defensively and helping each other along to the stairs.
They’re all dressed a bit like Nikki was yesterday. Her clothes suddenly make sense to Margo. These women are poor and they’ve dressed up and come here for a bad day. They don’t belong here, aren’t comfortable, but they’ve dressed the way they imagine people who do belong might: tidy clothes that don’t fit or flatter them, boring clothes in tidy, boring colours. Their hair is pulled back tight to be neat and out of the way. They very much want to get out of here.
‘Wait!’ A well-dressed woman hurries to get from the door to catch them at the top of the stairs. This woman does belong here. She wears a black skirt and top under a leather biker’s jacket. She’s tall and handsome and has thick white hair that suits her well. Margo can hear fragments of conversation.
‘DCI…?’ she says.
‘Course we remember you,’ says one of the women, her voice breathy and grateful.
‘Very pleased…’ says the woman. ‘Very brave… be proud.’ Her voice is formal and crisp.
The white-haired woman is a police officer. Probably retired. Possibly the investigating officer on the original case. They all shake hands at the top of the stairs but one of the women is crying so hard her companions make their excuses and help her down the steps. She can’t stop crying but is trying hard, convulsing her face and chin as her eyes drip and burn.
Margo looks up and sees the policewoman looking straight at her, head tipped, lips parted, looking at her and wondering.
Nikki suddenly appears behind the woman, scuttling along the walkway with her head down. The cop startles, reaches out and touches her sleeve to get her attention.
For a fleeting moment Margo thinks Nikki’s being arrested. She drops her bag to the floor, ready to run to Nikki’s defence, but that’s not what’s going on at all. Nikki turns to the tall woman and falls face-first into her chest. The policewoman hugs her, rocking slightly, cupping the back of Nikki’s head, sobs racking her body like a cat bringing up a hairball.
This is what Margo should have done for Nikki last night. This is what she didn’t do. It must have been a hard, hard day for her yesterday. Guilt and empathy trump her scepticism, wiping it out completely. Nikki had been waiting all day yesterday for a proxy win in a cold, unfriendly court and then came two hours late to meet cold, unfriendly Margo. Small wonder she was fraught. Small wonder she seemed strange. The guilt Margo feels about her aunt is so much more comfortable than hostility that she welcomes it and drops her defences entirely. Bad Margo. Poor Nikki.
The three weeping women pass in front of Margo, blocking her view until she looks back up to see Nikki wiping her face on her sleeve and the policewoman pointing at Margo and asking a question.
Nikki slumps when she sees her. She cringes and shuts her eyes, scratching her scalp hard with both hands, covering her face. She drops her hands and gives Margo a tired, reluctant wave. She doesn’t want to see her.
The policewoman links arms with Nikki, guiding her down the stairs to meet Margo.
‘Hi,’ says the woman.
‘Hello,’ says Margo, addressing Nikki.
Nikki nods but can’t look at her. She rubs her nose, finger to tip, covering her tiny face with her hand as she swipes up.
‘I’m Diane Gallagher.’ The woman holds her hand out to shake Margo’s.
‘Margo Dunlop. I’m–Nikki’s niece, I think?’
Nikki nods and rubs her forehead with her palm. She doesn’t want to be here. ‘Upsetting,’ she says, pointing back to the stairs. ‘Awful –’ Her face crumples and she covers it with her hands to hide her upset.
Margo finds Diane Gallagher frowning at her, nodding her a prompt to comfort Nikki. She’s so authoritative that Margo obeys instantly, wrapping her arms around her and rocking her gently the way she saw Gallagher doing it on the balcony. She hugs her until Nikki catches her breath.
Finally Nikki steps back, drying her face with a shredded bit of ruined tissue from her pocket.
‘I have to go.’ She looks shyly at Margo. ‘Why’re you here?’
‘Looking for you. About last night.’
Nikki nods. She thinks Margo is here to apologise and a half-smile flits across her face. It’s suddenly very obvious that Nikki doesn’t know anything about the threatening letter.
‘Maybe we could try again?’ says Margo. ‘Maybe meet for a drink?’
‘Oh no, not today, I’m not fit today.’ Nikki scratches her head again.
‘How about tom
orrow? In the pub we nearly went to?’
‘OK.’ She nearly smiles. ‘At six?’
‘I’ll be there. I’m sorry for –’ She gestures upstairs, to whatever happened.
Nikki nods and hurries away, pressing the scrap of tissue to her eyes. Margo and Gallagher watch her leave through the doors, the wind blowing her overcoat into wide wings as she makes her way down the street.
‘Brave woman,’ says Gallagher.
‘Nikki?’
‘Yeah. He pled guilty but they had to go into details about what he did to her. It was harrowing.’
‘Nikki says it might have been someone called Martin McPhail.’
Gallagher rolls her eyes. ‘I don’t know if you know how much Nikki’s been through. She said Susan was your mum?’
‘Birth mother. Nikki and I just met last night.’
‘Well, those girls, Nikki and Susan, all those girls, they went through hell and that was a reminder. They’re all traumatised and certain people have, I don’t know, exploited that. Sold them a story. But the man’s DNA was on her, he pled guilty, so…’ She’s smiling at Margo, looking hard at her face. ‘I had pictures of all the women above my desk for six years, you know.’ Her eyes roam to Margo’s hair, to the shape of her eyes, to her neck and Margo knows that she’s seeing her mother.
‘Did you know Susan?’
‘Yes.’
‘Did you know her well?’
‘No. I only met her when she was pregnant with you.’
‘Ah, well, that was brief.’
‘I respected her though,’ says Gallagher. ‘Do you know what she did for you? She gave up heroin for the duration of her pregnancy. She did that for you. I can count on the fingers of one hand the number of girls who got clean. Quite a lot tried, believe me, but if you ever doubted that Susan cared –’
Margo thinks she’s reflexively coughing, that a speck of dust is lodged in her throat but she’s shocked to find tears leaking from her eyes. ‘Oh.’
‘Yeah,’ says Gallagher, ‘she was quite something. No one could believe it. They didn’t think it was possible, a lot of them. She was something of a touchstone.’
Margo swallows the emotion immediately. ‘Nikki seemed to think Susan wasn’t clean when she had me.’
‘Oh, but she was. Everyone knew she was.’ She looks away, hiding some private thought.
‘I wonder, would there be any chance I could meet you for a cup of tea at some point? I’d very much like to ask you about her, even if you didn’t know her very well at all, there’s so little…’
Gallagher gives her a business card. ‘Contact me and we’ll make an arrangement. What’s your name?’
‘Dr Margo Dunlop.’ She watches her write it down in a small address book.
‘A doctor?’
‘Yes, a GP.’
Gallagher is very pleased about that. ‘Well, just shows you. Contact me and we’ll make a time.’
‘That’s tremendously kind of you.’ Margo’s trying to sound posh and unthreatening but she looks up and sees that Gallagher doesn’t care about that at all. She’s not even looking at her any more.
‘Jason!’ Gallagher is talking over her shoulder, calling to a man a bit younger than Margo who is walking across the lobby alone, hands deep in his pockets.
Jason turns back and she tells him who she is and why she’s here.
She wows at him, look at you, she says, so tall! (He’s not very tall.) So grown up! (He has the old-man skin of a kid who grew up hard.) This must have been very difficult for you, hearing the details about what happened to your mum and seeing him there? Jason nods at the floor, grinding his jaw as Gallagher says nice things: she would be so proud, son, she was a brave and determined young woman, just as the judge said, and nothing can take that away, not the manner of her passing, not anything.
These are pleasantries, it’s obvious Gallagher is just trying to be kind, but Jason seems like a man who doesn’t hear many pleasantries and they matter to him very much. He nods his way through them, smiling at the ground, never meeting Gallagher’s eye. Only when she finishes does he look up and smile and then he is suddenly very young.
‘Your mother was dealt a hard hand and played it with great dignity. You should be very proud.’
Margo thinks she’s really talking about Jason. He mumbles a thank you and walks taller as he heads towards the door.
‘I’m sorry for your loss,’ Margo says quietly as he passes, regal in his grief.
‘Disaster,’ says Gallagher, when he’s gone. ‘That girl’s death was a disaster for her family. You were adopted?’
‘Yes.’
‘How was that for you? Were they nice people?’
Margo’s gripes about her childhood seem frivolous now. She’s about to answer and say it was nice but Gallagher stiffens and mutters shit.
A tall, slim man with thick grey hair takes the last step down to the foyer. He and Gallagher lock eyes. Margo instantly recognises Jack Robertson. He is stately and wears steel-grey leather trousers and a grey sweater under a faded black denim jacket. He sashays over to them.
‘Diane? Hello.’
‘Jack,’ says Gallagher. ‘Didn’t see you there.’
‘I saw you. I was at the back. What do you make of all that?’
‘I’ve got to go.’ Gallagher turns to leave.
‘It’s ridiculous,’ Robertson says to the back of her head, ‘isn’t it?’
Gallagher makes for the exit and Robertson follows her. She manages to shrug him off at the metal detector and Robertson stands and watches her through the window.
‘Excuse me?’ Margo touches his elbow. ‘Are you Jack Robertson?’
‘Yeah?’
‘Hi, I’m Margo Dunlop.’
They shake hands and he looks her over. ‘You were talking to Diane Gallagher just now?’
‘Yeah, you wrote the book –’
‘Yeah, yeah. Who are you? You a cop?’
Margo feels a bit insulted–her clothes aren’t that dowdy, although they are quite dowdy. ‘No, I know the families. Can I ask you if you heard anything about nasty letters being sent to relatives of the murdered women?’
Robertson snorts. ‘What–recently?’
‘Recently and historically. Specifically related to the Susan Brodie murder. Letters from someone calling themselves “the Ram”?’
Robertson looks away and purses his lips, looks back, appraises Margo. ‘The Ram? What do you know about that?’
‘Some of the family have been receiving correspondence. I wondered if you –’
He steps a fraction closer to her. ‘You read my book?’ He sounds a bit accusing.
‘I meant to. I was going to buy it today actually.’
‘Well, you can’t buy it in the shops just now.’
‘Is it out of print?’
‘No, it’s more complicated… Are you a lawyer?’
‘No, I know Susan Brodie’s family and they’re still getting abusive letters. I thought you might know something about the Ram.’
‘Still?’
‘Yes.’
‘From “the Ram”?’
Margo nods, ‘That’s what they said. Got one this morning.’
Robertson takes that in, snorts to himself and nods at the stairs. He looks Margo over. ‘Can you get hold of that letter? Is that possible?’
Margo shrugs.
He nods at her. ‘What are you doing tonight?’
Sitting in a flat I hate, wishing everything in my life was different, thinks Margo.
‘Dinner,’ he says, ‘eight o’clock in Andolfo’s on Bath Street. I’ll bring you a copy of my book as a gift.’
‘Thank you so much.’
‘Don’t thank me, you’re buying,’ says Robertson and he swaggers away.
Margo watches him waving at the security staff. She picks up her handbag from the floor and makes her way towards the door.
‘Goodbye.’
It’s the usher standing behind the reception de
sk. His face is soft and he nods respectfully. He saw her with the women, all the women, and he wants to be kind.
‘Thank you,’ says Margo. ‘Thank you very much.’
10
IT WAS WAITING THERE at the end. Susan. Sitting in the lobby. Alone. Waiting. Then talking to Gallagher, listening for the juicy details. She knows Gallagher and Robertson and Nikki and all of them. Has she been around for ages? Hanging around, picking up titbits, tricks, meeting the rest of them, from back then?
Watching them all. Were her lips wet? She was looking around, watching, seeing them crying. She was into it.
She was sitting on the edge of the seat as if she was about to bolt. A runner, like Susan, leave you on your uppers.
Who’d want to be there? It’s a choice. She’s making a choice to be in it. You’d have to be vermin to take an interest in that, to sit there with your whore mouth hanging open, listening to that.
Susan did. She chose that for herself. Having the baby was too long off her back, gave her time to think.
This new Susan, this new one, she’s got pregnant tits. Can tell. Swole, like Susan was then, same way.
Add a five-quid baggie and she’d spread them for anyone, take it from anyone that paid for it. Just holes.
The smell of her had soaked into the chair. She smelled of sweet puss, like meat turning bad.
Odds are that she’s going down to the Drag right now. Might as well just follow and have a see.
11
MARGO CAN’T FACE GOING back to Holly Road. She feels even less comfortable there now, so she goes to squander a couple of hours in the Mitchell Library. It’s near Andolfo’s and one of Margo’s favourite places on earth. She’d happily be locked in for a month.
The Mitchell is a huge, rambling reference library in the centre of Glasgow. Built over the course of almost a century, it incorporated other buildings and extensions so that the interior swings wildly through time frames. Brushed-steel lifts arrive in tiled Victorian corridors, Edwardian wood-panelled rooms lead into stairwells with smoked-glass bannisters. Margo squandered her teenage years here along with other swotty kids. Medicine tends to attract kids with control issues, kids who can ignore distractions or hormones or the need for sleep in order to study hard. Margo spent days here, weathering the storm of adolescence by ignoring it. She knows the warmest corners and hiding places, which toilets are always clean, what the cafe sells and what it used to sell.