The Less Dead

by Denise Mina

  ‘What was he doing there?’ Margo picks up the envelope his letter was in. ‘Was he delivering this?’

  ‘No, that came in the mail this morning. It came with the bank statement while I was waiting for the door man to measure up. What was he doing there?’

  Margo explains that Jack stands to lose a fortune in the defamation case whether he wins or loses. He was annoyed she hadn’t phoned the police about the letter and probably ransacked the flat so she would call them.

  ‘Maybe he wrote the nasty letter in the first place?’

  But when Margo compares Jack’s writing with the writing on the threatening one, the script is completely different.

  ‘Couldn’t he just have used his other hand or something?’

  ‘I don’t know. Could he?’

  ‘Look it up.’

  Lilah looks up ‘forensic’ and ‘handwriting’ on her phone and finds a ten-minute TV interview from the eighties on YouTube. They sit close, heads touching, and watch.

  The expert document examiner has huge blonde helmety hair and a yellow kitten-bow blouse, like a sexy version of Margaret Thatcher with a thick New Jersey accent. She did the analysis of the Zodiac letters, which could be a recommendation or a damning indictment, depending on your view.

  She explains that the Zodiac letters were printed, meaning the letters were not joined together, as opposed to cursive which means all joined up. The handwriting was also ‘fluent’, meaning that it was written quickly. They can tell this because of the ‘flying finishes’ in individual letters, where the pen lifts from the page at the end of a letter. This shows a speeding hand and that the writer was using their everyday writing. It’s very difficult to disguise handwriting, she says. If it was disguised there wouldn’t be any flying finishes and the size of individual letters would be inconsistent throughout the document. When handwriting is disguised it looks more like a drawing, takes a lot of effort, and the pen moves differently on the page.

  Margo checks both abusive letters and Robertson’s and they both have flying finishes, are both written fluently in the authors’ natural hand.

  Margo concludes, ‘Wasn’t him but he’s still a massive piece of shit.’

  Lilah holds up Robertson’s letter. ‘His address is on this. Let’s go and tell him he’s a wanker.’

  This seems like a good idea, mostly because Margo is desperate to get out of here, they’re both angry and Margo knows she can change her mind at the last minute. They grab their coats and bags and lock up the house, heading out to the car.

  They get in, Lilah puts the address into her phone GPS and Margo pulls out.

  ‘Oh fuck.’ Lilah slides down in her seat. ‘Fucking Richard.’

  Richard is standing four garden gates down from Janette’s, frowning at his phone as Margo’s Mini glides past him. His jaw is very swollen and he has a black eye.

  Clammy but very calm, Margo takes the turn into heavy traffic and stops at the lights. ‘How the hell did he find us?’

  Lilah is clutching her phone.

  ‘Is that your old work phone? Are you still using the phone he gave you?’

  ‘Well, why not?’

  Margo pulls over and makes Lilah show her the phone settings. The tracker is on.

  ‘That’s how he keeps finding you.’

  ‘Ooh, shit. He knows where I’m staying, doesn’t he?’

  ‘He’ll know everywhere you go. Lilah, Richard is not well.’

  ‘I agree, I know, I do know that, yes.’

  ‘You need to keep that tracker off. You need to stay away from him. You can’t go back to Deborah’s house either.’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘He wants to hurt you.’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘He will hurt you. I can’t believe you didn’t tell me how bad this was, how ill he was.’

  ‘Well, I knew what you’d say.’

  Margo tuts. ‘No, you didn’t.’

  ‘I did. You’d tell me to stay away from him and I wasn’t going to.’

  ‘I’m a baddie because I don’t want you to stay in an abusive relationship?’

  ‘No, but it means I can’t talk to you unless I’m ready to leave. And I wasn’t.’

  Margo doesn’t know what to say about that because she’s got a point.

  29

  JACK ROBERTSON’S HOUSE IS in the leafy suburb of Newton Mearns. The houses are big here, set in large gardens with driveways and massive extensions.

  The GPS directs them to a whitewashed two-storey square art deco house with big horizontally leaded windows. Mature trees screen it from the street but they can see through the driveway to a big front garden. It’s overgrown now, run to seed, and the lawns are long and windswept. A huge white rhododendron bush flourishes in the middle of a white gravel drive.

  A huge Ford Ranger truck, bright orange and gleaming, is parked in front of the house. It’s too big and clean to be useful.

  A garage that looks like a miniature of the house is tucked around the side and they can see directly down an alley between it and the house into a large garden at the back. It seems to go on for miles. A rusted swing set faces the house and the grass is knee-deep.

  ‘Not bad at all,’ mutters Lilah.

  On closer inspection the house is very rundown. Paint peels from the wooden window frames. The white gravel has spread thin in parts, the muddy brown earth peeks out.

  Lilah explains that gravel like that needs to be raked regularly. ‘He’s got rid of his gardener. Only a few months ago, by the looks of it.’

  They hesitate in Margo’s car for a few minutes because they can’t quite agree what to do.

  Lilah wants to go up and knock on the door and tell him they know he broke in and messed the house up and to fuck off or they will smash his face in and then tell the cops.

  Margo doesn’t know if that’s a good idea. She thinks they should just tell him Lilah saw him last night and tell him to fuck off. She hasn’t told Lilah about meeting McPhail but it has made her wary. They don’t know anything about Robertson. They don’t know what they’re walking into and the garden seems quite enclosed. They could be walking into a trap.

  ‘He won’t be violent or anything,’ says Lilah. ‘He’s a writer.’

  ‘Writers can be violent. Norman Mailer stabbed his wife. William Burroughs shot his wife. That Dutch writer killed his wife, denied it and then wrote a book about it.’

  ‘Well, let’s not get married to him then.’

  They get out of the car. As they approach the house Margo wishes she had her walking stick with her. It had a good cudgelly weight to it. She hasn’t got anything with her if this goes wrong.

  The street has the creepy dead feeling of suburbia in the middle of the day. Margo looks at all the dark windows peering out across lawns and tarmacked driveways and feels watched, as if she’s being filmed on CCTV.

  They crunch up to the front door, feet slipping on unexpected puddles of gravel as they cut around the Ranger. Margo is still considering backing out but Lilah rings the bell immediately.

  ‘I wasn’t ready.’

  ‘Well fuck it,’ she says and straightens her hair.

  Silence. There’s no one in.

  Lilah whispers, ‘Why don’t we break in and smash his house up?’

  Just then they hear movement inside, a door opening, footsteps coming down the hall towards the door. It swings wide and the sound of ‘What Up Gangsta’ by 50 Cent filters up from the basement.

  Jack Robertson is red-faced and panting, covered in a sheen of sweat, his T-shirt and jogging trousers are dark and wet and heavy.

  ‘Oh!’ he says. ‘Hello? Margo, is it? Hello again.’ He looks at Lilah.

  Lilah sucks her cheeks in.

  ‘Well, OK.’ He turns back to Margo, smothering a smile. ‘You’re here? I’m sorry, I did post the letter back to you. It should come tomorrow if you haven’t already –’

  ‘It came this morning,’ says Margo, ‘but I wasn’t there. My flat got broken into l
ast night. I had to stay somewhere else.’

  ‘Oh God. How awful. That’s very upsetting. God!’

  ‘You’d think it would be, wouldn’t you?’

  ‘God, yeah. Was it him, do you think?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘McPhail? After that letter I had a feeling he’d try something else.’

  ‘Have you seen McPhail recently?’

  ‘Me? No.’

  ‘I met him this morning.’

  ‘Did they arrest him? Did you have to identify him?’

  ‘No, I went to his house. In High Blantyre.’

  ‘To identify him?’

  ‘He’s in a wheelchair.’

  ‘Oh.’ Robertson didn’t know. ‘Full-time?’

  ‘Yeah. He really is. He was waiting for the mobility bus.’

  ‘Oh?’

  He turns his attention to Lilah. ‘Who’s this?’

  Lilah smooths her hair. ‘Don’t you remember me?’

  Robertson very clearly does remember her. He raises his eyebrows slowly, waiting for her to call him out.

  ‘We spoke last night in Holly Road.’

  ‘Sorry–where?’

  ‘In Holly Road. I was sitting on a wall, waiting for her, and you came out and asked me if I was lost.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘And I said, “Why, do I look lost?” and you said, “No, you look perfect.” Remember that?’

  They’re smiling at each other, flirting. This is not the fuck-you confrontation Margo is hyped for.

  ‘I think I would remember meeting you.’

  ‘I think you would too. Most people do remember meeting me.’

  Robertson lifts the hem of his T-shirt to wipe the sweat from his face. Margo can see he’s smiling and trying to hide it. She glances at Lilah but she’s reading his abs. ‘Look, things seem to have gotten out of hand. Would you ladies like to come in?’

  ‘Listen, you old fucker,’ says Lilah, sounding aggressive but drawling sexily, ‘we know it was you who broke in.’

  ‘I have no idea what you’re talking about.’ He’s awful at lying. His face toggles between genuine glee and cardboard shock. ‘Why would you think that?’

  Lilah tuts. ‘We’re going to call the police right now.’

  ‘I can call the police if you like,’ he says. ‘I have a lot of friends in the police.’

  But they can’t call the police because Lilah has been involved in two Richard incidents this week and may have stolen a lot of money and Margo still feels stupid about last night.

  They all stand there for a minute until Lilah says, ‘Why are you all sweaty?’

  Sheepish at being called out, Robertson points back into the house. ‘I’ve got a treadmill…’

  Lilah looks down the hall. ‘You’ve got a gym?’

  ‘… in the basement.’

  ‘Oh.’ Lilah and Robertson lock eyes.

  ‘Is it big?’

  ‘Lilah, for fucksake!’

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘Look –’ Margo points at Robertson’s damp nose–‘Leave me alone, you sharky prick. I’m not a prop in your stupid defamation case. I hope he wins, I hope you lose your house.’

  He’s smirking now and so is Lilah.

  ‘You broke my fucking door.’

  ‘I didn’t. And I didn’t pour perfume on your bed.’

  Lilah snorts. ‘We haven’t even mentioned that yet!’

  They start to laugh conspiratorially and Lilah slaps Robertson’s arm. He’s enchanted by her and a little bit embarrassed. ‘God,’ he smiles, ‘look, I’m just desperate–he’s going to ruin me. He’s a rapist, he deserves to–I’m so sorry. I didn’t break anything, I didn’t take anything, I just thought if I made a mess you’d call the police and file a complaint against him and it would help us prove he’s a shit. It didn’t seem that bad while I was doing it. I’m so sorry if I frightened you.’

  But he doesn’t sound sorry.

  ‘It did frighten me.’

  ‘You’re a fucking idiot.’ Lilah says it as if it’s a compliment.

  ‘Come in and I’ll make us all coffee or something? I’ll replace the perfume, I can make it up to you.’ Jack’s not even talking to Margo now, just to Lilah.

  ‘No!’ Margo grabs Lilah’s arm and drags her away. ‘No. Not another fucking nutter, Lilah, no.’

  She keeps hold of her arm as they slide and crunch gracelessly through the gravel and get back into the car.

  ‘Fat lot of fucking use you were,’ she says.

  Lilah giggles. ‘I’m so sorry.’

  ‘You’re no more sorry than he is.’

  She pulls her seat belt on and sees that Robertson is standing at his open door, leaning on the door frame. He and Lilah are watching each other.

  ‘Christ, Lilah, you’re unsalvageable. That man is about to go bankrupt, he vandalised my flat to support a legal claim against a man whose life he ruined. Read the fucking signs. I’m not watching you jump from one burning bucket of shit straight into another.’

  Lilah is quiet for a moment as they draw away, looks out of the side window and mumbles to herself:

  ‘Fit though.’

  30

  NO ALARM SYSTEM ON the house.

  Watching a house is nice. It’s calm, making plans and watching. This is a good bit.

  This house will be easy. There’s a loose window at the back. The whole house is big so that sounds downstairs might not be heard everywhere. You could get in and walk around before anyone knew it.

  The window, the one that’s loose, is next to a door that has been broken and fixed up with tape but it’s easy enough to push it in.

  Anyone could get in during the night, sneak upstairs to the bedrooms. Her light goes on in the corner room.

  Anyone could see that light and know where she was sleeping. Anyone could get in.

  No neighbours through the walls. No one to hear a bitch squeal. Not with a hand on her mouth. Not with a hand on her mouth and a wee combat knife stuck in her tit.

  So undefended, the door might as well be left lying open to the street. Anyone could get in there. Anyone with a mind.

  Why even bother breaking in when you could walk up to the door and blow it open?

  31

  SHE’S CRYING IN THE living room when her phone rings.

  ‘Oh, hi there, I was just giving you a wee ring there to see how you’re feeling today –’

  ‘Tracey?’

  ‘Yeah, hi there, it’s Tracey from the adoption agency, I was just calling up to –’

  ‘Look,’ she says, ‘I’m so sorry, but all this contact, support, this is too much for me.’

  What she actually wants to say is fuck off.

  ‘OK: Margo?’ says Tracey quietly. ‘Listen, I’m outside right now. I know you’re on your own. Can I come and talk to you? It’ll take two minutes.’

  ‘Oh, well, I’m not in Holly Road, I’m afraid, I’m –’

  ‘In Marywood Square, yeah. That’s the address we had in the office, remember?’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘I’m walking up to the door.’

  The phone clicks and the line goes dead.

  Margo hangs up. She gets up and steps out into the hall, trying to breathe, her stomach tightening with dread as she sees a grey Tracey-shape beyond the glass. A tentative knock raps on the glass.

  She keeps her eyes on Tracey’s shadow, seeing her turning to look out into the street, back at the door, fixing her hair, straightening her clothes.

  She half opens it and Tracey slips into the hall and starts talking immediately. Oh, thanks for letting her come in! She has arthritis actually so it’s good to get out of that cold out there, so it is. She looks around the hall, stepping further into the house and says Wow, what a big house, lucky you, very full, isn’t it? That’s a nice wee light up there with the stained glass and all that. Yes, so, thanks for seeing her, that’s kind of her. Grand. Yes.

  They’ve somehow worked their way into the kitchen and Tracey’s eyes a
re on the tea caddy and the kettle.

  Margo crosses her arms. ‘What can I do for you, Tracey? I’m pretty busy.’

  ‘Oh, aye. Yep.’

  They stand in silence. Tracey takes a deep breath and stalls.

  ‘What do you want?’ says Margo.

  ‘Aye.’ Tracey is suddenly coy and wringing her hands. ‘So, you may have noticed that I’ve been kind of hanging around you a wee bit more than was maybe appropriate and I want to apologise for doing that. I know from my own experience as an adoptee that this is a fairly difficult time in your life and so on. Um. My own, um, contact with my birth mother wasn’t a happy…’ She’s looking at the window. ‘Is that dry rot there?’

  Margo turns and looks at a grey shadow above the lintel. It’s coming from upstairs. ‘I don’t think so. That’s always been there.’

  ‘You been here a long time, yeah?’

  ‘In this house?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  She’s looking at the fine cornicing around the ceiling and the range cooker.

  ‘Tracey?’

  ‘Sorry, yeah, so. I live nearby, as I says, lived here for ten years and so on. Up near the petrol station? You know that wee bit up there, yeah, by the park, and, well, what I’m here to ask is: can I buy your house?’

  Margo is so surprised she laughs.

  ‘I know,’ says Tracey, almost crying. ‘It’s inappropriate for me to be here but as soon as I saw your address on the form and that, well, we’ve been around here putting leaflets in people’s doors asking if they want to sell but they’re all done up to top spec and we don’t need that, we just need a family home in this area because our kids are at the primary school just round there and the landlord is trying to put us out of our flat and it’s so expensive. I didn’t come to the court case for this house, I came because I was worried she’d thump ye. She’s kind of a scary person, your auntie, and the minute I saw her I thought to myself “she’s going to eat that woman whole” but it seems to have been OK in the end. Is it OK?’

  ‘It is, so far, yeah.’

  ‘I’m sorry for even asking about the house. Just say no to me, that’s OK, but I’d have kicked myself if I didn’t ask, I’ve been working up to it. That’s the only reason I’m here, so I don’t kick myself later on, when I’m walking the weans to school and this is two luxury duplexes with a craft studio out the back.’