by Lesley Kelly
‘No, I’m not,’ I said. I wasn’t falling for that one.
‘Well, I’ve got a letter here says different. That night on the beach you never used a condom, blah, blah, blah… got pregnant, blah… opposed to abortion on religious grounds, blah…’
I dropped the phone and set off to kick the shit out of Pete from the Bursar’s Office.
It was a church wedding. Not what I would have wanted, but I wasn’t really in a position to make too many demands. My job was just to turn up, say ‘I do,’ and keep well out of the way of Paula’s dad. It wasn’t exactly the wedding Mr Peterson had been dreaming of for his wee lassie: a nineteen-year-old bride who was obviously six months gone, a father of the groom in a suit that last saw an airing in 1979 and a best man that was wearing his school uniform ‘cause he didn’t own any formalwear. And as for the groom himself…
I met Mr Peterson for the first time at the rehearsal. Paula’d already told me that I was being introduced to him as late as possible in the proceedings in order to minimise the chance of him killing me before the big day. The Staineses had managed to arrive late at the rehearsal so Mr P had a face like fizz before I even opened my mouth. Mrs Peterson, a lovely woman, dragged him over to be introduced to us. He managed to shake my hand without incident, but it all went wrong when he decided to make polite conversation.
‘Is your mother not with you, Joseph?’
The Staineses really should have seen this one coming and agreed a strategy but instead my father said, ‘She’s unfortunately unable to make it;’ I said, ‘She’s out of the country at the minute;’ and Col said, ‘She’s dead;’ all at the same time.
Mr Peterson looked at us like we were insane and walked off. It was the second longest conversation I had with him throughout my married life.
Saturday
‘It’ll never work.’
‘Aye, it will.’
‘It’s immoral, and probably illegal, and, more to the point, I look a right prick.’ I look at my reflection in the mirror. ‘Nobody is going to believe that I’m a priest.’
Wheezy tucks in my dog collar. ‘You look more like a priest than Father Paul ever does.’
He’s got a point there – Father Paul is more often to be seen in jeans and jumper than a black suit and dog collar.
‘Well, Wheeze if I’m really going to do this I better get going.’ I’ve never been more keen to get out of the Priest’s House. I made Wheeze search the premises for about fifteen minutes before I would set foot in the place. I wouldn’t put it past Father Paul to be hiding behind a doorway waiting to get me in a half-nelson and tell me about his exploits in the SAS.
‘I’ll come with you.’
‘Really?’ I’m surprised. Wheezy has not shown much interest in hands-on investigation up until now.
‘Never let it be said I’m not pulling my weight around here.’
I snort. ‘Perish the thought.’
The Marrot Muir Nursing Home is only a couple of streets away from Isa’s development. The home is a converted manor house, with a nice set of grounds. The management have installed some kind of summerhouse, and there are a couple of old dears and their relatives sitting in it, enjoying the weak sunshine. All in all, you could see your days out in worse places than this.
We buzz the intercom, and a woman in her forties opens the door to us. I get a nostril full of institutional smells: vegetables cooking, pine disinfectant, drying washing. For a moment it seems unbearably sad but I recover myself. I flash her my dog collar and my best smile. ‘We’re here to visit Agnes O’Neill.’
She frowns, screwing up her eyes behind her dark-rimmed glasses. A lock of hair falls loose from her hairband, and she pushes it back irritably. ‘I thought Father Paul usually visited Agnes.’
‘Yes, yes he does, but unfortunately there’s been a bereavement in his family, so I’m replacing him. Just for today. Not long term. Or anything like that.’
‘And this is?’ She gestures to Wheezy.
‘This is my… assistant celebrant.’
She scowls for a futher minute then gives in. ‘Very well. I’ll show you to her room.’
On the way there she asks us how much we know about Agnes’ condition.
‘Not much, to be honest. Father Paul was called away quite suddenly.’
She sighs. ‘You’ll see for yourself that Agnes is quite confused. She can’t walk unaided and she suffers from dementia.
‘Does that mean she’s lost her memory?’ Wheezy pipes up.
‘Not entirely.’ She shakes her head, and pushes open a set of double doors. She gestures for us to go through. ‘Her recent memory is impaired, but she does have good recall of her younger years.’
‘Good-o.’
‘She’ll be glad to see you; she’s not had many visitors since her niece died.’ She knocks gently on one of the doors. ‘Here we are. Agnes – there’s a priest here to see you.’
The room is small and overheated. In the middle of the room an old lady is sitting in front of a TV.
‘Jesus – how old is she?’ whispered Wheezy.
‘Agnes.’ The nurse bends down and speaks to her loudly, ‘This is Father...’ she breaks off and turns to me, ‘Sorry, Father, I didn’t ask your name.’
‘Joseph’ I say, ‘Father Joseph’, then kick myself for using my real name.
‘Father Joseph is here to see you, Agnes.’
She stands back up and nods to us. ‘Good luck.’
Now we are here I don’t know what to say to Agnes. I look at Wheezy for help but he grimaces at me and whispers through gritted teeth, ‘Say something then.’
‘So, Agnes, how are you today?’
She half nods but doesn’t take her eyes off the television.
‘Shall I just turn the TV off for a minute, Agnes, while you and I have a chat?’
I press the off button and the TV screen turns black. Suddenly it seems very quiet. Agnes turns to look at me.
‘How are you today, son?’
I take her hand. It’s like parchment. ‘Not bad, Agnes. How are you?’
She smiles and I can see she hasn’t got her teeth in. ‘Not bad, son.’
‘Do you like living here, Agnes?’
She nods. ‘Aye, son, but I’m just here for a few weeks.’
‘Is that right?’ From the state of her that seems unlikely.
‘Aye, son, just until Isa’s got my house sorted out.’
‘Isa?’ Both Wheezy and I speak together. I remember what the nurse had said on the way in. ‘Is Isa your niece, Agnes?’
‘Aye, son.’ Agnes sounds surprised. ‘Isa’s a good lassie.’
‘See this.’ Wheezy sidles over to me with one of Agnes’ photos in his hand. ‘Don’t you think that woman could be Isa thirty years ago?’
It certainly looks like the Mrs Stoddart I remember from my youth. I take the picture. ‘Agnes – is this Isa in the picture?’
She stares fondly at the picture, then starts to scowl and pushes it away.
‘Isa’s a good girl, whatever you lot say. She had that one bit of bother, and her just a young lassie, and you know what men are like. Men are pigs.’ She looks up at me.
‘Aye, they are that, Agnes.’ She doesn’t need to tell me that. I’m practically wearing a snout.
‘Ask her about Mavisview,’ Wheezy whispers helpfully over my shoulder.
‘Agnes, did Isa ever come and visit you in your house?’
She looks at me as if I’m stupid. ‘Of course she did, son, her and Guthrie and wee Lachie.’
‘Did Isa ever bring other people with her when she came to visit?’
She stares at me and I’m not sure if she understands. ‘Isa’s a good lassie.’
‘Well, that was a waste of time,’ I say. We’re walking back to Leith. ‘Apart from finding out someone got Isabella up the duff way back when.’
‘I always suspected the young Isa was a wee hoor. Anyhow, it wasn’t a waste of time. While you were chatting up old Senga th
ere I took the opportunity to have a shufty at her papers and see what I found?’ He takes a sheaf of papers out of his pocket.
‘Wheezy – you can’t go stealing things from an old wife! I’m supposed to be a priest for Chrissakes!’
He smiles. ‘So, you don’t want to know what it says then?’
‘I’m confused.’
‘What about, Stainsie?’
‘Well, to be honest, all of it.’
The papers Wheezy lifted are spread over a table in the back room of Shugs. Wheezy sighs.
‘OK, Brains, let’s start again at the beginning. This,’ he says, waving a bit of paper at me, ‘is a Power of Attorney allowing a James Meikle to run Guthrie Stoddart’s affairs. Are you with me so far?’
‘Eh… not really.’
Wheezy looks at me, despairingly. ‘Guthrie must have gone gaga or be in a coma or something, and is letting this Meikle fellow run the show. This,’ he waves the paper again, ‘says he can legally do that.’
I’ve heard the name Meikle before, but it takes me a minute to realise where. ‘Remember that women in Paisley I went to see, Wheeze? The one who thinks it’s her sister’s lassie that ended up under the floorboards in Mavisview?’
He nods. ‘Aye.’
‘Well she mentioned a man named Meikle.’ I try to remember what she’d said. ‘I think she said he was a nasty bastard.’
‘That figures. So Meikle and Guthrie Stoddart have been working together for years then.’ He folds his arms and stares up at the ceiling. ‘Interesting.’
‘Wheeze?’
‘What?’
I point to the paperwork. ‘You were going through these papers?’
‘OK, OK. Exhibit B ‘Companies House Form 288a – Appointment of director or secretary’. Form is filled in with the name of the company – ST Enterprises Ltd – and with the details of one James Anthony Meikle. All that remains to be added is a signature from a remaining Director to authorise the appointment – and look! There’s a little cross made in pencil to let Agnes know that’s where she needs to sign. Are you following?’
I shake my head. ‘Not entirely, no.’
‘Right, you need at least two people to set up a limited company, OK?’ He picks up two pens to illustrate his point. ‘So, say those two people are Isa,’ he waves a red pen at me, ‘and Agnes.’ Agnes is blue.
I point at the blue pen. ‘Not just a daft old wife Mrs Stoddart’s taking advantage of then?’
‘Maybe not. So, now Isa’s dead, Meikle thinks he can get old Senga to sign the form, probably not understanding what she’s doing, and he can take control of Isa’s company.’
I take the blue pen off him and start doodling on the back of an envelope. ‘But she hasn’t signed it?’
He smiles. ‘And now I’ve accidentally walked off with it, she’s not going to sign it either.’
Meikle isn’t going to be chuffed if he ever works out where all his paperwork went to.
I think of something. ‘I’ve got another idea, Wheeze. What if Isa and Guthrie have remained business partners all these years, and what if Isa, Guthrie, and Agnes were the directors?’ I put the blue pen back next to the red one, and add a teaspoon. ‘If Meikle’s got Guthrie’s vote, and he gets Agnes to appoint him as a director, wouldn’t that give him overall control of the company?’ I put the teaspoon and blue pen into an empty cup.
Wheezy takes them both back out. ‘But Guthrie’s already got a vote, and I’m sure Agnes would do whatever he told her. He doesn’t need Meikle as a director to get his own way.’
I start doodling again, with the red pen this time. ‘Aye, but what if he isn’t really doing this on Guthrie’s behalf – what if he wants Isa’s company for himself?’
Wheeze sits back and contemplates this. ‘He’s after the money?’
I have another theory. ‘The money, but maybe also revenge.’
‘Revenge?’
I lean forward. ‘It’s a long shot, Wheeze, but what if Meikle is Isa’s illegitimate son? She leaves him in Ireland when she comes over here to live with Auntie Agnes, then, when he’s all grown up, Guthrie finds him a place in the family firm. But Isa’s got another son by then, hasn’t she, the apple of her eye, and Meikle harbours a grudge for the rest of his life at how he’s been treated.’ I’m making it up as I go along now. Eat your heart out, Daily Record. ‘He probably has a good life with Guthrie but he’s jealous of missing out on his mother’s love. So, he sees a chance with Guthrie’s decline to get his hands on Isa’s money, and comes over here, bumps her off, and does her idiot son in for good measure.’
Wheezy’s looking unconvinced. ‘But if Meikle’s her son he would inherit all her money anyway.’
‘Only if he’s been recognised as her offspring. I wouldn’t put it past Isa to have farmed him off on some cousin or somebody back in the old country.’
‘That’s speculation.’
I nod. ‘Aye.’
‘And conjecture.’
‘Aye,’ I say again, though I’m not quite sure what Wheezy means.
‘And none of this helps us prove that it was Meikle that killed Isa and not my Marianne.’
He’s right. ‘It gives us a motive for Meikle to have killed her.’
‘What – that she’s got money and he fancies a bit of it?’ He goes to take a mouthful of lager then realises his glass is empty and puts it down in disgust. ‘Half the scheme would have that motive.’
I’m running out of ideas. ‘Well, you think of something then.’
Wheezy winks at me. ‘Already have, my son.’ He holds up the third bit of paper. ‘Exhibit C – covering letter from J Meikle, explaining that he is the bona fide representative of Guthrie Stoddart, enclosing some paperwork, blah blah blah, and most importantly, giving his local contact details if she wants to get in touch.’
I don’t like where this is heading. ‘Meaning?’
‘Meaning somebody needs to get over to his office and have a quiet look around.’
‘Meaning me?’ I sit back on my chair and fold my arms.
‘Aye.’
I pick up our empty glasses and put them on another table. ‘Naw. No way. Naw.’
‘Why not?’
‘I’ve got a bad arm for one thing.’ I make a show of waving my right hand. ‘What if he comes back while I’m there and I can’t defend myself?’
Wheezy laughs loudly. ‘Even with two good arms you couldn’t defend yourself! You’ve just been beaten up by a priest for Chrissakes!’
‘A priest that used to be in the Marines!’
He picks up my packet of crisps and helps himself. Through a mouthful of cheese and oninon he says, ‘Whatever. Anyhow, are you going to look at this place, or have you got a better idea?’
And I have to admit that I haven’t.
Wheezy insists we go back to the Priest’s House so that he can advocate on my behalf to Father Paul. I haven’t given Wheeze the whole story, obviously, skipping over the part about wanting the money to leave town. I painted it more as a misunderstanding between the two of us, which Wheeze thinks will be sorted out by him explaining about our investigations.
I use the walk back to the Priest’s House to try to get Wheezy to see sense about the Meikle plan.
‘It isn’t safe, poking round the property of a man like that.’
He gives a dismissive hand gesture. ‘You’ll be fine! In and out under the cover of darkness.’
‘We aren’t even sure what I’m looking for.’
He sighs. ‘We’re looking for anything that proves he had it in for Isa.’
‘Like what?’
Wheeze thinks for a minute. ‘You’ll know it when you see it.’
When we get back to the Priest’s House, I’m surprised to find Marianne waiting on the doorstep.
‘All right, hen?’ says Wheeze and gives her a hug, while I let us in. ‘Were you looking for me or for Father Paul?’
She extracts herself from his embrace. ‘Actually I was after a quiet wor
d with Stainsie.’
‘Don’t mind me, hen,’ says Wheezy, picking up a newspaper and heading for the living room. Two minutes later I hear the TV being turned on.
‘That’s your uncle making himself at home.’
She laughs, then looks miserable again. I pull out a chair for her, and stick the kettle on.
‘Where’s Liam?’ I ask. I wonder what he’s said to her.
‘At his grandma’s.’ She’s looking pretty uncomfortable, and sits twisting her hair round in her hand. She’s creating a little row of ringlets. It’s like looking at Shirley Temple. ‘He’s the reason I’m here. I know he took your money.’
So the little bastard ‘fessed up. ‘He told you then?’
‘He had to – I went into the Housing to pay my rent and they told me it had been paid off in full.’ She looks down. ‘You should have said something.’
‘What would have been the point? It’s not like you could pay it back.’ Believe me, hen, if you had anything worth stealing I’d have been round for it in payment.
The ringlet-twisting is getting more and more frantic. ‘I will pay you back. I could take out a loan.’
‘For Chrissakes, no more loans!’ I slam a mug down next to the kettle and spoon some coffee into it. ‘That’s what got us into all this trouble in the first place.’
She stares at me with those lovely blue eyes of hers. ‘I will pay you back, Stainsie, I promise.’
I try for some humour. ‘Aye, I’ve first claim on your next Lottery or Pools win.’
She looks down again and I’m hoping that she isn’t about to cry, but fortunately Wheeze appears at this point, intent on me making him a cup of tea.
‘And after that you better get going Stainsie, son, ’cause it’ll be getting dark soon.’
‘Where are you going?’ asks Marianne dabbing at her eyes, and Wheezy fills her in on our visit to Agnes O’Neill.
She looks at both of us. ‘Isn’t that a bit dangerous to do on your own?’
‘I won’t be doing it on my own,’ I say and hold my hand up to silence Wheezy, ‘and don’t give me any of that ‘it’s not a two-person job’ nonsense, because it definitely, absolutely, is.’