Singing to the Dead

by Caro Ramsay

  ‘Why? You’re always late with deadlines as it is; you’ll be even worse if you take on more work. You have obligations now, Eve. You have to stop messing people about.’ Lynne could hear the panic in her own voice.

  ‘I’ll leave that type of thing to the anoraks of the world. Like yourself. I have bigger ideas.’

  Lynne didn’t answer; she looked past her sister, out to the garden, her garden. The trees were bare, and the grass was gently spiked in white. Her bird table looked dirty and deserted. She remembered buying it the week Eve had gone to art school. It had also been the week Eve had discovered men. For the next few years she hadn’t spent a single night in the family home until she was wheeled in after the accident and a lengthy stay in hospital; she had hardly gone out since. Yet during the years Eve had been away, while Lynne had nursed their mother through unimaginable pain, the garden had been her salvation, her respite – from the ever-permeating smell of disinfectant, from the debt collectors looking for Eve, from the world. Many an hour she had spent out here, sitting on the steps in the middle of winter – she loved the cold – in her big coat, sipping her Earl Grey. When had she stopped doing that? When their mother died? When Eve moved back? Or when she found out her mother had left the house to Eve? She shuddered as she recalled the shock of betrayal, of being dispossessed. Well, it wasn’t going to happen twice.

  Lynne picked up the proof of a single cover Eve had designed years ago for Rogan O’Neill. It would be worth a fortune now to a collector of Rogue memorabilia. It was a fine line-and-wash ink drawing of Rogan leaning against a tree, dressed in something long and black, his posture brooding. The tree-lined lane swept backwards, and each tree had a Rogan leaning against it, slowly losing his form, evolving himself into the musical notes that lay entwined against the final tree – all beautifully executed.

  So talented, her sister, but so discontented.

  She was the one who had the right to be discontented, Lynne thought; she was the one who’d had to abandon her own adult education halfway through, with no chance of going back to it, to nurse their mother. But all the excitement had been about Eve and her talent, never about Lynne and her eternal patience and sacrifice. It was always all about Eve. Lynne bit her lip, repressing the feeling of dread that churned in her stomach. Her life had been set on a single-track road to nowhere. And she didn’t know how to get off.

  Lynne noticed that her chessboard had been moved; the queen had fallen to the floor, undignified, face down. It had been her mother’s chess set, and her mother’s before her, made of pure ivory, dulled with age. Lynne sat down on a dining-room chair and tried to reach the queen, but she couldn’t. Even pulling the chair right over to the sideboard, she couldn’t reach it. She turned round to see if Eve had been watching, but her sister was engrossed in a drawing, head down, eyes screwed up. She knelt down and picked up the chess piece, caressing its familiar shape with her fingertips.

  ‘Have you had any visitors today, Eve?’ asked Lynne.

  ‘No, who would visit me?’ Eve sat up, wincing at a pain in her back. ‘Oh, you know you’re going out to Mother India tonight? You’ll have to make your own way there, he says. Oh, try not to look so bloody miserable. You’d think somebody’d run over your favourite teddy bear.’

  ‘Did he phone then?’

  ‘Yes, didn’t I say?’

  Lynne said nothing but knocked the king over with the foot of the queen, and returned her to her rightful place.

  Everything was just as it had always been; the plush white settee, the cream carpet, the Persian rug hanging on the wall. At the window an opulent swathe of white muslin coiled round its brass pole, the material cascading down and piling elegantly on the floor. The Japanese plant stand was still here with its four little bonsai trees. Anderson fingered the delicate branches, feeling them tough but supple. He remembered being here on a cold and rainy night, just like this, the last time he had seen his boss alive. If he closed his eyes he could imagine turning and seeing the ghost of Alan on the settee, in a suit he had slept in.

  He moved over to the fire and stood with his back to it, letting its gentle heat caress the back of his legs. He felt his feet sink into the thick wool pile of the carpet. The bare lino floors of Partickhill Station were less than five minutes away but he could have been on another planet.

  This was a house of consummate taste, luxurious but homely. The baby grand piano still stood in the corner, and there seemed to be more photographs on it than there used to be, more photographs of Alan and Helena together. He was touched to see, in a montage of colour, the faces of his own two children peering back at him, Peter wearing a policeman’s helmet, his broad grin showing a loose front tooth at a precarious angle, and Claire posing like a twenties flapper, her chin on the point of her finger. It looked like the station Halloween party last year, but he could not remember the pictures being taken. This room, with the big settees and piles of foreign art books, would never see kids growing up. Not for the first time he wondered how Helena actually felt about being childless. How much more might she be feeling it now, with her husband gone, and her own life in limbo?

  He turned to face the fire, and the Pre-Raphaelite-style self-portrait that hung over the fireplace. It had been Alan’s favourite; he joked that he liked it because it didn’t talk back. Helena was wearing a dress of deep-green pleated velvet, a sumptuous colour next to a sumptuous cleavage, and always that long tumbling auburn hair. The day after Alan was buried, she had cut it off.

  Helena came in carrying a tray, kicking the door closed behind her. ‘I’ve got no cream,’ she said apologetically. ‘Just milk, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Fine,’ he said. ‘At home I’m lucky to get milk that’s still in liquid form these days.’ Anderson’s mobile phone beeped.

  ‘Are you in a hurry?’ she paused, cafetière in mid-pour.

  ‘No, no, I’m just getting text messages from people I don’t know. A PC Smythe.’ He read the message, raising an eyebrow before snapping the phone shut, then moved across to the settee and sat down, feeling it an imposition to stand in front of a fire that wasn’t his. ‘Still no word from the garage. You OK on the spare for now?’

  She didn’t ask: So, why did you not just phone then? Brenda would have, and more than once. She said, ‘Yeah, I’ll be fine. I’m not doing anything much, just going to the hospital, and I wasn’t taking the car there anyway.’ Helena handed him his coffee and for an instant Colin’s fingers closed over hers.

  Helena smiled tightly and pulled away. ‘Did Peter like his outfit?’

  ‘I’ve not been home yet, but I wanted to say thank you. I hope he gets a chance to wear it.’

  ‘They’re not thinking of cancelling the fair, are they?’

  ‘No, nothing like that. I just can’t see how to get him there. He’ll be at his granny’s cos Brenda is busy…’

  ‘Doing what?’

  ‘Stuff?’ Colin shrugged. ‘That type of Christmas running around that blokes don’t see the point of. And I can’t commit to go out and get him as the case we’re working on is opening up and…’

  ‘If you want him picked up, I’ll get him in a taxi. We’ll enjoy ourselves, maybe go for a Monkey Meal and more Cheeky Chips.’ She smiled mischievously. ‘Seriously, it would be fun, fill up my day a bit. I must say, I’m intrigued as to what Puff the Magic Dragon has to do with the Nativity.’

  Colin sank back into the settee, warming his fingers round the coffee mug. ‘They were all told to come up with an idea – and that was his.’

  ‘You have to admire him, really,’ said Helena. ‘Improving on the greatest story ever told takes some doing. Puff has to beat Tiny Tears wrapped up in swaddling clothes and Matron’s whippet dressed as a donkey.’

  She crossed her legs, dangling a black moccasin from her toe, and asked, far too casually, ‘How’s the new DCI – Rebecca Quinn, isn’t it? – settling in?’

  ‘As any praying mantis settles in.’

  Helena smiled, and sipped her cof
fee.

  It would have been far too easy just to stay there, Anderson felt, talking about Alan with somebody who knew him, relaxing in a warm sea of shared memories. He would never have moved again. He stood up, before temptation got the better of him. ‘Helena, if you want anything, just phone me,’ he said. ‘You have my mobile number.’

  ‘Thanks, Colin.’ She stood up, and walked to the door, then stopped. Placing her hand on his jacket she said, ‘Really, let me know if you want me to look after Peter tomorrow. You looked after my husband often enough.’ She did not move her hand; she stared at it, and her eyes filled with tears. She was looking at her wedding ring.

  Luca Scott opened his eyes. He was lying in a warm bed, comfortable and content, but slightly confused. He was still here, in the happy place. Above him he could see, not the blue cracked ceiling of his own bedroom; this one was mottled grey and black. He could see patterns in it, of horses and Power Rangers, palm trees and dinosaurs. If he looked away, they moved. But he wasn’t scared. He felt safer than he had ever felt in his life… without his mum. He hoped she was OK. He had known what to do when his mum had a funny turn – leave her alone until she stopped wriggling then make her comfy. But back in the arcade she hadn’t stopped and then she’d hit her head and blood came out and somebody started screaming at her. He’d found himself being pushed away, lost in a maze of legs. Then he was out in the street. He’d got very cold, standing in the gutter, getting his feet wet, not able to see anything and trying not to cry. And his nose started running and he couldn’t find his hanky. His mum went mad when he wiped his nose on his sleeve.

  But he was warm now, snug as a bug in a rug. He rumpled his duvet tight up round his neck and wondered what would happen today. Maybe another shot on the Game Boy, another go at running across the floor and bouncing off the mattresses that leaned against the walls, or maybe they could even make another slide. He was never allowed to do anything like that at home. Here he was even allowed to eat chips and drink Coke out the can, and yesterday he’d rubbed his salty, chippy fingers into the arms of the settee and nobody’d said a word. He’d been told to go to sleep when he liked as he was a big boy now. So, he’d stayed up really late and watched Garfield and eaten chocolate. He’d sat on the settee, wrapped in the special blanket that was his, and only his. Troy had been on the other side of the settee and they’d played Kerplunk and eaten Empire biscuits. Troy was a good laugh; he said words that Luca’s mother would never allow him to say, but it was funny when Troy said them. And Troy was a tough boy. He refused the hugs so Luca thought it was best if he did as well so he could be tough too. But he’d beaten Troy on the computer game, squishing twice as many frogs as Troy had squished. That had made the day perfect.

  He thought about getting up, but he was too snug and warm, though his nose was getting cold. He stuck hands and feet out from under the duvet in different combinations, to see how long he could keep them out before they froze off and then pulled them in to get warm and toasty again.

  He thought about his mum. He’d been told she was better and being looked after in the hospital and that she wouldn’t want him to worry. The duvet smelled like her, kind of soft and lemony. He pulled it over his head, wondering if they were putting enough milk in her tea in the hospital. She hated it too hot.

  Maybe he could ask to go and visit her; she would like that. He thought about asking Santa for the game where he could play footie with the telly. He drifted off to sleep again, not hearing the gentle squeak as the door opened.

  Anderson left Kirklee Terrace, crossed Great Western Road and turned immediately up Hyndland Road, slowly meandering the Astra through twists and turns up to Crown Avenue. At the far end, underneath the trees at number 3, he saw a dark-coloured Corsa, its interior light on, the sole occupant sipping from a steaming cup of takeaway coffee, head down, reading something.

  Anderson cut his engine, killing the lights of the Astra. The occupant of the Corsa got out. PC Robert Smythe, Anderson presumed. His uniform was neat, hat on, ID visible, and he carried a weatherproof clipboard, not standard issue. This was somebody who cared. As he approached, Smythe stopped directly under the glare of the old-fashioned neon lamp. He looked about twelve.

  ‘DI Anderson?’

  Colin nodded.

  ‘Can we have a chat, off the record? I want to show you something.’ Smythe pulled his torch from his pocket, flicking it on and off, checking the batteries.

  ‘It’s getting late.’

  ‘It’s ten past eight; you’ll be on your way by twenty past.’

  ‘Fair enough. Do we have a problem?’ asked Anderson.

  ‘We have a huge problem,’ said Smythe. ‘Follow me.’ He shone the beam under the sandstone archway, illuminating the lane.

  Anderson followed, listening to Smythe relate the story of the search, his own experience and difficulties, hinting at the lack of commitment from some of his colleagues. He was careful not to accuse, but his meaning was clear: too much was being left to chance. Anderson followed the beam of the torch as it panned the whole row of back gates, then as it shone on the search report sheet. Less than thirty per cent completed. Smythe swept the torch up and down the line of derelict garages, then back to the clipboard – they weren’t even on the list.

  ‘I wouldn’t be happy with that if my son was missing on a night like this.’

  ‘Me neither,’ Anderson agreed. ‘I’ll get on to it asap. You were right to bring it to my attention.’

  Smythe turned the torch off, and they fell into an easy stride along the lane going back to the cars. ‘I noticed the name Cotter was up on the board,’ Smythe said. ‘Is that the old dear who lives in the same building as Troy McEwen?’

  Anderson nodded, careful not to show too much interest.

  ‘Thought it rang a bell. Two weeks ago, maybe a bit more, a Miss Cotter, lives just over there, picked up a child on Byres Road,’ he told Anderson. ‘The kid was lost, and greetin’ in the street, and Miss Cotter was just coming out the hospital. She got a passer-by to phone 999 on his mobile. By the time we got there, some man had tried to take the kid away, said he was his uncle. The old biddy caused a bit of a scene, saying she’d only hand him over to his mother. So, the uncle phoned the mother, who was searching the wrong end of Byres Road. Turned up frantic. She was a real dragon, not prepared to let the kid go. But once it was all sorted, she was just another little old lady with a bad chest. Is it the same one? Not a common name.’

  ‘Certainly isn’t,’ said Anderson non-committally, glancing at the big houses on Crown Avenue. The lane between them lay hidden in darkness and shadows. These were houses used to keeping their secrets.

  ‘She didn’t sign, you know.’ Lynne grabbed Douglas’s hand. ‘She simply left without signing the contract.’

  Douglas discreetly pulled his hand free. ‘Just Eve exerting her wee bit of power.’ He popped another piece of poppadom into his mouth. ‘Nobody round that table was in any doubt – she’ll sign when the mood takes her. Evelynne Calloway has to be a single legal entity and she has to accept that you are the public face of it. One newspaper story about all her drug use and her abortions, and her career as a children’s writer is over – she knows that perfectly well. Look at yesterday – you were so good on the radio; she’d never get through that without using the F-word or the C-word. The thing is with Eve, if you say yes, she’ll say no for the hell of it. The docs say she needs to diet, so she eats more. She’s not allowed to drink alcohol with her tablets, so she downs a whole bottle of red every night. It’s her way of keeping control, her way of coping with being in the chair, I suppose.’

  ‘And she blames you for being in that chair, Douglas. She’s obsessed with it. And you.’

  ‘She has a right to be bitter. She nearly died, Lynne.’ He sipped his Kingfisher. ‘You have to remember that. But at the end of the day, she knows I was only doing my job.’

  ‘But does it not scare you, that she knows? The way she talks about you, calling you a…’
Lynne’s mobile phone sounded. She looked at the caller ID; it was Eve. Typical – thirty minutes and she was already being recalled. I need the toilet. I need a drink. But this time with Douglas was too important.

  His hand reached across the table to snap the phone shut. ‘Leave her, Lynne; she has to learn to get on without you.’ Their eyes met. Lynne nodded and slipped the phone back into her handbag. ‘You know, I’ve been thinking more about your situation. You might be more comfortable being financially independent. You could make a mint out of Squidgy, but if you feel you can’t rely on Eve, then you should utilize your only asset. You should do what Stella did – sell your house to me to divide into two, and buy back one flat for a good price. You’d get a nice flat and money in the bank. Then I’d sell the other one for an obscene profit.’ He grinned.

  Lynne nodded. ‘It’s certainly something to think about. Maybe we could do it as a joint venture. Our first joint venture?’

  ‘Indeed.’

  ‘Our little secret.’ Lynne ran the pad of her finger contemplatively round the rim of her glass. ‘Eve has her little secrets, you know. She has visitors when I’m not there. She denies it, but I know. She’s up to something.’

  Douglas said, in a quiet voice, ‘All the more reason why you should think about selling the house. Take control, Lynne.’ Douglas put his onion-laden poppadom back on his plate. ‘You’ve bailed her out at every stage of her life. I know you gave up your career to look after your mother, when Eve couldn’t be trusted even to stay sober. Then just as you’d got your life back on track you had to give it all up again because Eve got smashed up. You’ve lost as much as she has. You can’t even get out of the house without her wanting this and demanding that. But if you keep doing things for her, she’ll never do them for herself. She’s not a child, Lynne. It’s time for both of you to move on.’

  Lynne heard her mobile sound again. ‘Difficult to move on when she weighs me down like an anchor.’ She ignored its insistent tinny ring. Douglas didn’t know that Eve owned the house. Eve held all the cards. ‘She doesn’t need me. She knows she can just walk away at any time.’ She realized she had spoken out loud, but Douglas just put his forefinger to her lips.