The Red Road

by Denise Mina

  ‘It was a big night, Diana dying and both the murders.’

  Morrow grimaced. ‘You really think she was murdered?’

  Yvonne laughed at the misunderstanding. ‘No, I mean the two murders. There were two murders in Glasgow that night: one outside Turnberry group home, and Pinkie. I didn’t mean Diana. I don’t give a stuff about that.’

  ‘Who else was murdered?’

  ‘Auch, a wee lassie at Turnberry killed her abuser outside the home there. That was a knife as well. Very sad. It wasn’t even in the papers. Because of Diana, I suppose.’

  An hour and a half later Morrow got up from her desk.

  The girl charged with the murder outside Turnberry Children’s Home on the same night that Pinkie Brown was killed was called Rose Wilson. Morrow had got McCarthy to download and print the court report on the case. Rose Wilson had been represented by Julius McMillan and no evidence was brought in the case, fingerprint or otherwise, because Rose Wilson pleaded guilty.

  Her current home address was in Milngavie, a high prestige hamlet to the north of the city, and she shared the address with Robert McMillan, LLB.

  30

  It was a strange-looking house. The only consistent thing about the façade was the white paint. Morrow and McCarthy stood outside the low gate, looking at the backs of two large matching cars. Only twenty feet away, no one had bothered to put them into the double garage with a roof that matched the attached main house. They sat outside like prize bulls abandoned in a pen.

  The house itself was low, with so many features, columns here, stair window there, eaves, ornamental chimneys ... the eye couldn’t read where the floors were. The entrance door wasn’t especially big but was heralded with twin rows of two columns and a path that snaked violently towards it.

  ‘I hate these new builds,’ said McCarthy, as if they were all like that.

  ‘Nice area though,’ said Morrow, looking around the street of equally ugly mansions. Three of the five were for sale. ‘Posh.’

  ‘Broke,’ said McCarthy, his eye on a garish For Sale sign next door.

  The buzzer was answered by a woman’s voice. And a red light blinked on the camera lens.

  They introduced themselves and the woman asked them to show their ID to the lens. The gate fell silently off its latch and dropped open.

  Swinging it like a field gate, they stepped inside the low wall, onto the grey herringbone path that led to the front door. Doubtless the garden designers had drawn the snaking path to give an illusion of distance from the gate but the grass was bald in strips where the path led off in the wrong direction and Morrow saw a small print in the mud. Children, more than one, judging from the muddy footprints, taking short cuts.

  A young woman was standing at the door. Her hair was pulled back in a high ponytail and she had great skin, a good figure swamped by a saggy mustard jumper and Uggs. Her earrings were small gold hoops, and she had on a small gold chain that sat on her collarbone, all very tasteful and upper middle, but Morrow recognised Rose Wilson from her mugshot. She still had the broad round cheekbones and thin lips she’d had as a child. Her forehead was short under her thick black hair.

  ‘Can I help you?’

  ‘Yes.’ Morrow held out her hand. ‘I wonder if you can. We’re looking for Rose Wilson.’

  Just a moment’s hesitation and then she said, ‘I’m Rose. Won’t you come in.’ Not a question, a pleasantry, an automatic response. She stepped back and disappeared into the hall. They had no option but to follow her.

  It was a big hall, like a small hotel might have. Rose Wilson took their coats and scarves and hung them on hooks in a cupboard. Morrow heard a voice from one of the rooms, a Disney voice, an adult doing a child and asking for something and then an FX rumble.

  ‘Have you got kids?’ She was trying to sound light.

  ‘No, I’m ... I’m the nanny here. We’ve got three: seven, eight and half and ten.’

  ‘Nice ages,’ said Morrow, looking up the stairs, wondering where the children’s mother was.

  ‘Got kids yourself?’

  ‘Twins. One year old.’

  ‘Wow,’ she said languidly, ‘that must be hard work.’

  ‘We’re getting there.’

  Rose waved them across the hall, through a door to a kitchen with a dining room attached. The back wall of the house was made of timber-framed glass panels looking out onto a bland garden. A lawn. A far wall. No features, no toys, no bikes abandoned on their side in the rain. The kitchen was very tidy.

  ‘Tea? Coffee?’

  ‘No thanks,’ said McCarthy.

  Morrow was looking at the cooker. It was strange that everything in the house was immaculately clean but the cooker was smeared with red sauce, wiped up very badly into ridges and swirls. It reminded her of the bloody girl in the mugshots and she wondered if Rose had thought about that when she abandoned the chequered cloth in the sink. She hadn’t been cleaning up when the door buzzer went. The spill was dry in parts, on the swiped ridges. She had just stopped cleaning it and dropped the cloth. Maybe they had a cleaning woman and it was her job.

  ‘So, what can I help you with?’

  ‘OK.’ Morrow turned back to her. ‘Can we sit down, please, Rose?’

  ‘Sure.’ They sat around the nose of the dining table and Rose watched their hands, expecting perhaps a form or something. Morrow took a notebook and a pencil out.

  ‘Do you know why we’re here?’

  ‘Robert?’ She bit her lip hard.

  ‘Robert?’

  ‘Have you found him?’ Rose’s eyes rimmed then and she started to weep, feeling in her jeans pockets for tissues, finding one, drying her eyes. ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Robert McMillan?’

  ‘Have you?’ She looked at them and realised suddenly that they had no idea what she was talking about.

  ‘We’re not here about that. Is Robert missing? Since when?’

  ‘Oh.’ Her composure was a little compromised by that. ‘Robert? He went missing, I thought you were here about that ...’

  ‘No, no.’

  ‘Just, when police officers come to the door ...’

  ‘I know,’ said Morrow. ‘We’re not there to say you’ve won the lottery, usually, are we?’

  Rose laughed, tears still dropping from her eyes. ‘Sorry.’

  ‘When did he go missing?’

  ‘After his dad died.’ She realised that they might not know. ‘Sorry, his dad died and then he went missing. Upset.’

  ‘Rose, it’s Julius I wanted to talk to you about. He was your lawyer a long time ago, wasn’t he?’ She had never seen shutters come down so fast. Rose sat tall, straight, and her face dropped into neutral. But it was her turn to speak and she did.

  ‘Julius?’

  ‘Yes. When you killed Samuel McCaig?’

  ‘Yes, Julius represented me then, yes.’

  ‘And afterwards you stayed in touch?’

  ‘Yes. He visited me in prison. We became very close. Robert was just that bit older than me and his father used to bring him to visit. I came to work for them shortly after I came out.’

  ‘You must have liked each other?’

  ‘Very much.’

  ‘Like a father?’

  ‘A grandfather.’ But she seemed to think of something uncomfortable and corrected herself. ‘A benefactor. Like in an old film or something.’

  Morrow nodded agreeably. ‘Do you remember the night Diana died?’

  Rose blinked. ‘Of course.’

  ‘That was the night you killed Samuel McCaig.’

  She blinked again, keeping her eyes on the table top. ‘Of course.’

  ‘You pleaded guilty. He attacked you. He had a history of attacking girls.’

  ‘So I found out. Afterwards.’

  ‘Anything else happen that night?’

  There wasn’t an obvious answer to the question. She looked up. ‘Diana died?’

  ‘Pinkie Brown died.’

  As if she had drop
ped from the sky Rose was back in that alley and her hands were wet and her lips were pressed tight together so nothing could get in there, and her young bones were sore and her backside was aching and she was frozen with terror. But she managed, through tight lips, to mutter, ‘Who’s that?’

  ‘Pinkie Brown. A fourteen-year-old boy in local authority care. He wasn’t in your home, he was just up the road in Cleveden. I remember those homes. They used to pal-about together, Cleveden and Turnberry, didn’t they? When they weren’t attacking each other.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Hung about in wee gangs, didn’t they?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Because they were close by.’

  ‘Yeah, yeah, we did. I didn’t know Pinkie though.’

  ‘Did you ever meet his wee brother, Michael?’

  She remembered him, Morrow could see the flash of recognition and then a slump as if she was shrinking down into her hips. ‘No, I don’t ... don’t remember a wee brother.’

  Morrow sat back and took a deep breath as if she was telling a story. McCarthy tipped his head, listening. Rose glared at the table.

  ‘The night Diana died was a strange night, for everybody. But here’s a really weird thing: within half a mile of each other there are two murders and two children charged with them. Everybody involved – the people charged, the people killed – are all associated with Turnberry and Cleveden. Both of them were killed with knives. Both of them with pretty much the same type of knife. One knife is found,’ she touched Rose’s arm, ‘the one you used – the other one is never found. But – and here’s the really weird thing for me – no one ever puts the two murders together.’

  Rose looked at her dumbly. ‘Is this about Julius?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Did he leave letters or something?’

  ‘I don’t know what you mean.’

  ‘Why are you here?’ Rose was pleading with her and Morrow didn’t understand why.

  ‘Michael Brown got life. He’s just been done for something else. He’ll spend the rest of his life in prison. I need to know if it’s right.’

  Rose scratched her chin. ‘What’s he like?’

  ‘Michael grew up in prison. He got out three years ago and he’s back in now. What do you think he’s like?’

  Rose turned suddenly, to look out of the door. She was worrying about the kids.

  ‘Rose, did they fingerprint you when you were arrested?’

  ‘Course.’

  ‘Your prints aren’t on file.’

  She frowned at that. ‘They should be. They took them.’

  ‘Who took them?’

  ‘I don’t know, but they took them. I had ink on my fingers for days after, it wouldn’t come off ...’ She rubbed at her fingertips.

  ‘They’re not on file. I looked at the set of prints on your record. They’re Michael Brown’s prints. They match his prints now. The old prints, the ones he was charged with his brother’s murder with, those aren’t his.’

  Rose curled her fingers into her palms and tried a smile. ‘How could you tell they’re not mine?’

  ‘Because I ran them through the database.’

  Rose looked her straight in the eye. ‘Why are you doing this?’

  ‘I’m a police officer.’

  ‘It’s history,’ Rose whispered. ‘What difference does it make?’

  A soft buzzing in the hallway startled Rose. She stood up, excusing herself, walking dreamlike to the door.

  She stopped there and turned back, opened her mouth to say something but didn’t. She went out to the hall. Morrow was on her feet and signalled to McCarthy not to let Rose out of his sight.

  Together they went out to the hall and watched Rose answer the buzzer, check the video screen carefully and open the door.

  Two tall men filled the doorway. Morrow saw for the first time what death looked like from the inside of a house. The concerned but calm faces, the request to speak to the family. Rose fell back on her heels and turned, jogging up the stairs with her head tucked into her chest. The cops at the door saw Morrow and McCarthy and recognised them.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ one of them said, his frown a presage of bad news.

  Morrow was explaining that they were just doing a bit of follow up on an old case when Francine McMillan came to the head of the stairs.

  She was beautiful. Slender and willowy with blond hair that verged on silver, pale skin and thin limbed. She was wearing grey silk pyjamas and Rose was holding her arm to help her down the stairs. Francine held the banister with the other hand.

  Though moving was a struggle for her, she looked up at the assembled cops and gave a little smile and said hello.

  She arrived at the foot and looked a little puzzled. ‘Who’s ...?’

  ‘Oh,’ said the visitors, ‘that’s us. Would you like to sit down?’

  Francine began the shuffle to the kitchen. ‘Yes, I think I’d better.’

  At the doorway she faltered, tried to move on but couldn’t. Rose held her elbow and Francine looked at her and they smiled at each other.

  Rose looked back to the hall. ‘Francine has—’

  ‘Parkinson’s,’ said Francine.

  Rose smiled at her. ‘Doorways—’

  ‘I stall,’ said Francine, managing to lift her right knee high and drop it into the kitchen.

  Morrow and McCarthy watched them disappear into the back of the house. They saw Rose sitting Francine carefully down at the table, her eyes never leaving her face, and take a seat next to her. The shadow of the police officers blocked the exit from the kitchen as they took their places on the other side of the table.

  They couldn’t hear more than a low rumble of a voice delivering the news, an irreversible act of destruction. Francine keeled slowly over the table, her vertebrae a perfect mountain range through the silk. Rose’s hand came slowly towards her, landed with gentle mercy on her back and the stripped frame of Francine swayed and collapsed into Rose’s arms.

  ‘Maybe we should go,’ said McCarthy.

  Morrow didn’t want to but there was nothing they could do. If they had more evidence they would be able to justify arresting Rose Wilson and taking her fingerprints but right now they had nothing. The family had just lost a father. It would look like harassment if they stayed.

  ‘Get the coats,’ said Morrow.

  They were pulling them on, finding their scarves, when Morrow realised that her bag was in the kitchen. Steeling herself, she went back to get it.

  Francine was still sobbing into Rose as Morrow picked up her bag, keeping low, as if that would make anything better for anyone. She was on her way out when Rose suddenly pushed Francine off and stood up.

  ‘Dawood killed Robert.’ Rose was talking to Morrow, not the cops at the table. ‘It was Dawood.’

  Francine was pulling Rose by the arm, trying to make her sit down, crying and frightened.

  ‘Dawood McMann?’ said Morrow.

  ‘Yes,’ said Rose. ‘He had Robert killed because he submitted a report to SOCA.’

  ‘SOCA?’ said Morrow, wondering how she knew the acronym. ‘SOCA report? How do you know that?’

  Rose looked down into Francine’s panicked face. ‘It’s on Robert’s laptop. I’ve got it upstairs. It’ll be all right, Francine.’ Rose gently peeled her arms free from her friend. ‘It’s the only way to get them. They killed Robert. Our Robert.’

  Francine let her go.

  Rose hurried for the stairs and Morrow went after her, keeping after her, trying not to look as if she was chasing.

  A SOCA report would confirm where the money was coming from, where it was going to, who the agent was. With a SOCA report they’d be able to find the next level up from Michael Brown and trace the weapons. She followed Rose to the top of the stairs and down a corridor to the right, through a double set of doors into Francine’s dark bedroom. Rose slid the double doors on a wardrobe back, dragged an ottoman that stood at the end of the bed over and stood o
n it, tiptoe-reaching into a high shelf in the wardrobe.

  She pulled out a laptop that looked paper thin. She looked at it. Then she turned and handed it down to Morrow.

  ‘In there,’ she said. ‘That’s his.’

  Morrow took it, hugging it to her.

  Rose stepped down with one foot and then, as if she was spent, dropped to sit on the stool. All the fight had gone from her. She sat still, hands limp by her sides, staring at the carpet.

  Morrow sat on the bed. They stayed there for a long time. Eventually, Morrow spoke.

  ‘Rose, I need to fingerprint you.’

  ‘I know. For Aziz. I know.’

  ‘And Atholl.’

  Rose nodded. ‘And Atholl.’

  ‘What happened with Aziz?’

  ‘He punched Julius in the chest. Julius called me, that’s how the ambulance found him. His lungs collapsed.’ She began to sob. ‘He was on the floor, his eyes were—’ She covered her face and fought for breath. ‘They tried. But it didn’t ... Next day I called Aziz, said meet me at his office. He ran when he saw me. I can’t tell you what was in my mind.’

  ‘You had a knife. It’s pretty obvious what was in your mind.’

  She shifted her legs. ‘I suppose. He ran up the stairs, he thought it was too scary, that I wouldn’t follow him. He didn’t know me ...’

  ‘You were sick afterwards?’

  ‘I was!’ She laughed, surprised and still crying. ‘I was, I was sick! Ridiculous! As if, you know, as if I’d never ... before. Stupid.’

  Morrow watched her crying and laughing at herself. ‘You ask a lot of yourself.’

  ‘It’s stupid, being sick for God’s sake, I’ve been in worse ...’

  Morrow nodded. ‘We found the photo at Atholl’s. The face was scratched out.’

  Rose flashed her a warning.

  ‘You knew Sammy McCaig, didn’t you? That night wasn’t the first time you’d met him.’

  Rose wouldn’t look at her.

  ‘I’m saying that because if you tell them that in court they’ll take it into consideration.’

  When Rose spoke her voice was very small. ‘No. I’m not telling ’em.’

  ‘Don’t you trust them?’

  Rose smiled and looked up through her eyebrows. ‘I know them. I know them all. And they know me.’