The Big Chill

by Doug Johnstone

  ‘Where did you get this picture?’ he said.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Just wondering.’

  ‘It was in his possessions when he died.’

  That made him pause. ‘I’m sorry to hear that.’

  ‘We’re trying to find living relatives,’ Dorothy said.

  He looked up. ‘Is there money involved?’

  ‘Why would you ask that?’

  Grisham shrugged. ‘Why else would you be trying to find relatives?’

  ‘To inform them of his death.’

  ‘Who’s paying you?’

  ‘That’s none of your concern.’

  Grisham tapped a finger to the photo. ‘Who’s the young lady?’

  That phrase sounded creepy in his mouth.

  ‘I’m not at liberty to say.’

  Grisham looked put out by that.

  ‘I’ve been here twelve years,’ he said, placing the picture on his desk. ‘And I’ve never seen this young man before.’

  Dorothy stared at him and he looked down at his hands. Maybe he was lying, maybe it was the truth, maybe he didn’t like assertive women, there were plenty who didn’t.

  She slid the picture closer to him. ‘Can you please look again?’

  He glanced down, perfunctory. ‘I’m sure.’

  ‘There must’ve been thousands of boys through here in your charge,’ Dorothy said. ‘You can’t remember all of them.’

  He stuck his chest out. ‘Here at Craighouse we pride ourselves on the very best. Academic, sporting, pastoral care too. If this boy went here, I would know him.’

  Dorothy tried to keep her voice level. ‘Maybe you could ask the staff, see if anyone recognises him?’

  ‘We’re all very busy as I’m sure you understand.’

  ‘Please take one last look.’

  He tapped the picture. ‘Where did you get the idea he’s a Craighouse boy, from this woman?’

  She took the picture and looked at James and Rachel. Trying to get straight, sort their lives out. Now one of them was dead and the other in hiding. It had started here for James, she was sure of it. But how did he go from here to the streets?

  Dorothy shook her head.

  ‘Deborah will show you out,’ Grisham said, standing and holding his hand out.

  Dorothy stared at his hand but didn’t take it, then left.

  She nodded to Deborah as she passed, too quick to let the secretary get up, then she was outside. She took the PDF map she’d printed of the school grounds from her pocket and checked it, then turned left towards the staffroom at the back of the main building. She’d checked this before coming, made her appointment during lunch break so the staffroom would be busy. Two middle-aged women were smoking outside a fire exit propped open with a plastic chair. She nodded like she knew them and squeezed past into the bustling room packed with teachers.

  She brass-necked it, going around older staff first because they had more chance of being here when James attended. She played the helpless old lady, that always helped with gallant guys, saying she was a friend of Daniel Grisham, he’d said to come and ask. She hoped Grisham wasn’t the kind of headmaster to socialise with minions.

  She was getting nowhere. Surely someone must remember this kid, it wasn’t that long ago. But all she got were shaking heads and a number of odd looks. What was this interloper doing invading their precious downtime?

  The two smoking women came inside, nicotine lingering on their clothes, and Dorothy approached them. One wore a pearl necklace, the other had slouched shoulders under her cardigan. They were in their forties, still attractive but playing down their looks for work. Dealing with hundreds of hormonal boys every day must be wearing.

  ‘Excuse me.’ Dorothy handed over the picture. ‘Do either of you recognise this man? His name is James, he went to Craighouse about seven years ago.’

  Pearls narrowed her eyes at the photo, shook her head. ‘Who are you?’

  ‘Friend of a friend,’ Dorothy said. The less you say, the less chance of getting caught in a lie.

  Pearls handed the picture to Cardigan, who examined it. She looked at Pearls, then Dorothy, then back at the photo. There was something in her eyes.

  ‘Do you know him?’ Dorothy said. She couldn’t keep excitement from her voice.

  ‘James, you say?’ Cardigan’s face lit up at the idea she could be useful.

  ‘That’s right.’ Dorothy thought of mentioning what Rachel said, that James was gay. But it seemed unlikely he came out here, you’d have to be ballsy to do that in a place like this.

  ‘He’s a lot older here,’ Cardigan said, tapping the photo. ‘But I think it’s the Dundas boy.’

  Pearls blanched and took another look.

  ‘Dundas?’ Dorothy said.

  Cardigan nodded and looked around, as if including them in a conspiracy. ‘It was just after I started here, he left under a cloud. Had a thing with his housemaster who discreetly resigned. All hush-hush.’

  Dorothy pointed at the photo. ‘You’re sure it’s him?’

  Cardigan shrugged. ‘Not a hundred percent but I think so.’

  Dorothy smiled and took the photograph back, staring at James Dundas as if she’d known him for years.

  45

  JENNY

  Jenny reached down and stroked Einstein’s fur, smiled as his tail thumped against her leg. She stared out of the window across Bruntsfield Links. Such an incredible view of the castle, a crazily beautiful city, teeming with tourists all year round. She saw a family in matching rain macs, the dad checking his phone then looking around, the rest in his slipstream. The pavements were slick with rain, welcome to Scotland.

  Einstein nudged her with his nose and she jumped. She hadn’t relaxed since Craig escaped, knowing he was out there. She felt sick all the time, a rock of anxiety lodged in her stomach. She thought about Fiona at home, her window boarded up, Sophia oblivious to what a shit her dad was. She wondered if there was still a police officer out front. Maybe Fiona had moved back in with her mum already.

  Her phone rang on the table and she jumped again. Maybe she needed to visit the doctor, get something for her nerves. But then she would have to explain everything and she wasn’t that kind of person, couldn’t stand the idea of talking about her life like that.

  She went over and picked up her phone, saw it was Thomas.

  ‘Hi,’ she said.

  ‘We got a ping,’ Thomas said.

  ‘A ping?’

  ‘From Craig’s phone. The number he texted you with. We got a ping from it.’

  ‘Where?’

  Jenny stood on The Shore looking around, waiting for Craig to pounce from the shadows. Daft but she couldn’t help it. This part of Leith waterfront was busy, buses chundering across the Commercial Street bridge, the Water of Leith shimmering below, barges and boats clanking alongside. A patrol car crawled across the cobbles heading for the police van outside the Malmaison Hotel. Officers traipsed in and out of bars and cafes along the shore, starting at the hotel and working south. The ping from Craig’s burner phone only gave a rough location, he wasn’t on for long enough to get better triangulation. He’d called Fiona’s number and Jenny wondered what the fuck she said to him. She’d kept him on the line as long as possible, had been told to by the cops if he got in touch.

  Thomas walked towards her from the car parked up the way. She didn’t want to be too close to the police, felt like she had her own thing with Craig, didn’t want him scared off. If she had her way she would be here alone, one-on-one, a fistfight to the death. She pictured them brawling, pulling each other’s hair, tripping over the low, metal-chain fence and into the water, splashing amongst the ducks and junk, pushing each other’s heads below the surface, her hands forcing him down, holding on until his lungs filled with water and he sank to the mud at the bottom.

  ‘You don’t need to be here,’ Thomas said.

  ‘You knew I would come.’

  Thomas smiled. ‘I did.’

  ‘S
o?’ Jenny waved at two cops entering Fishers.

  She had a meal there with Craig years ago, before they were married, they joked about the aphrodisiac properties of the oysters they were downing, sharp with lemon and Tabasco, a shiver of cold down the throat. Maybe he was sending her a message, making the call from somewhere that meant something to her. He must have known his phone was monitored since he texted Jenny, he wasn’t stupid, he knew they could get a location.

  She knew he wouldn’t be here anymore, he sent this message then headed elsewhere. But there must be sightings, waitresses, passers-by, taxi drivers at the rank across the water, someone must’ve seen something. And CCTV of course. She realised suddenly that Malmaison was where he took Melanie for their liaisons, where Hannah had found out about him. Maybe that was the message. But what did it mean?

  Thomas followed her gaze. ‘No sign in Malmaison.’

  The cops coming out of Fishers shook their heads and headed into The Shore gastropub next door.

  ‘What is Craig doing?’ Thomas said.

  ‘You’re asking me?’

  ‘You know him.’

  Jenny nodded. ‘This isn’t a random location, right?’

  ‘Right.’

  Jenny looked around, seeing Craig’s face everywhere in the rush-hour workers heading along Commercial Street. ‘What did he say to Fiona?’

  ‘I haven’t heard the recording yet,’ Thomas said. He pushed his glasses up his nose. ‘But I gather he apologised for breaking into their home. Said he had to do it.’

  ‘He’s lost his mind.’

  She looked up the road at The King’s Wark pub, remembered being there with Liam. Not just the recent time but earlier, when she followed him as a PI. Liam, why didn’t she realise before, maybe that was the message.

  ‘Shit.’

  She ran across the cobbles, darted between cars on the road and into the pub. She recognised the barmaid from the other week, young and tall, tight T-shirt and leggings.

  ‘Excuse me, have you seen this guy recently?’

  If the barmaid recognised Jenny she didn’t show it.

  Jenny found a picture of Craig from Facebook and held her phone up.

  The barmaid nodded. She had a piercing through the bridge of her nose that wasn’t doing her face any favours. ‘He was in a while ago.’

  ‘What did he do?’

  The barmaid’s shoulders went up and down. ‘Bought a lager, drank it, left.’

  Jenny heard the door open behind her, Thomas and a uniformed officer in the doorway. ‘When?’

  ‘Dunno, not long ago.’

  ‘Can you check the till receipt?’

  She looked at the police now standing behind Jenny. ‘Really?’

  Thomas smiled, placid. ‘It would help.’

  She went to the till and scanned through. ‘He paid cash, pint of Stella.’ Ran her finger along the screen. ‘Here it is, ninety minutes ago.’

  ‘You don’t remember anything else?’ Jenny said.

  The barmaid turned. ‘Middle-aged bloke, ten a penny.’

  The most anonymous disguise, ordinary guy.

  ‘Anything at all?’

  The barmaid touched a finger to the bolt in her nose, something came to her.

  ‘He had a bag with him, a small rucksack. Looked heavy, clanked when he put it down, like it might have tools in it.’

  Jenny couldn’t work out what it meant.

  Thomas spoke up. ‘Anything else?’

  The barmaid’s eyes widened as she remembered something. ‘He smelled of paint.’

  Thomas looked confused. ‘Paint?’

  Jenny was already heading for the door. She pelted along Bernard Street into Maritime Street, cobbles underfoot and old bond warehouses either side. She knew what this meant, but didn’t want to believe it. She pulled out her phone as she ran, found Liam’s number and called, listened as the ring bounced in her brain, praying he would answer, tricking herself into thinking she didn’t know exactly what was going on. Liam’s voice came on and for a microsecond her heart relaxed, but it was just his voicemail, chilled, happy Liam, leave a message and he’ll try to get back to you as soon as possible.

  She hung up as she reached the vennel, went through. This tiny cul-de-sac was so familiar from when she was hired to follow him by his ex. She bolted to the artist studios on the left, turned inside to Liam’s studio and stopped dead when she saw the open door. She had a flashback to kicking that door in herself, faking a break-in to find out what he was doing inside, discovering his weird paintings, pictures she loved straight away.

  She stared along the corridor, heard noises from one of the other studios, drilling or welding, something industrial. She turned back to Liam’s studio, pushed the door and went in.

  ‘Liam?’

  The place was turned over. Liam kept it organised, paints put away at the end of each visit, canvases neatly stacked. But it looked like an elephant had been through it now. Canvases were scattered all over, torn and ripped. The tray of paints was upturned, brushes strewn across the floor, paint tins opened and emptied over everything. The easel was smashed, legs in the air like a rigor-mortised corpse. The place stank of paint and turps so Jenny pulled her T-shirt over her nose. She picked her way through the debris, avoiding the paint splatters and broken canvases.

  Thomas and the cop appeared at the doorway taking it in.

  She called Liam again, phone pressed to her ear. Voicemail. She tried to keep her voice steady.

  ‘Hey babes, give me a call when you get this.’

  Thomas and the cop looked confused as they stepped into the room.

  ‘What is this?’ Thomas said, lifting the corner of a canvas and staring at the hole in it.

  Jenny thought back to what Shona said outside her flat.

  ‘Unfinished business,’ she said.

  46

  DOROTHY

  The hearse was parked next to the bins on Guthrie Street, and the stench of stale booze and kebab leftovers was strong. The road was backed up, a delivery van bumped up on the pavement with hazards on, queues of cars both ways. Guthrie Street was technically two-way, but like a lot of Edinburgh’s Old Town it was cramped and crowded. Eventually the DHL guys left and traffic began to ease.

  She didn’t want to bring the hearse but Archie was on a pick-up with the body van, so she had no choice. She glanced across the road at the Creative Talent office, then at her watch. It was six in the evening and she wondered how long they worked into the night. She’d wait as long as it took.

  She picked up her tablet and checked through the online phone directory for Edinburgh. Might as well deal with one case while working on another. She had a list of Dundases in Edinburgh and had started going through, narrowing it down. She recognised a lot of street names but checked on Google Maps just in case, she was prone to the odd senior moment.

  She discarded addresses in poor areas, no one in Dumbiedykes or Wester Hailes would be sending their kid to Craighouse. There were some medium-priced houses that she put in a ‘possibles’ list. That left a handful of Dundases in rich areas, Morningside, Trinity, Comely Bank. She ranked these in order of location, the west of the city at the top. Not that it always worked like that with private schools. So she had eight Dundases arranged in order, this private-investigator malarkey was easy, really, just be organised and persistent.

  She pictured James Dundas lying in the mortuary fridge. She remembered him in that Nissan, blood oozing from his ear, Einstein whimpering in the back, her own body beginning to tremble with shock. The chirp of birds in the trees, the car’s wheels spinning, the look on the Blackie family’s faces.

  She thought about why she needed closure on this. Everyone has a story but so many go untold, ordinary people surviving another day. James was no different from anyone else, that was the point, his story needed telling the same as Dorothy’s or Abi’s or Hugh’s. What the Skelfs did with funerals and cases was precisely that, try to tell people’s stories, join the dots in their li
ves, make some sense of the mayhem.

  She saw movement across the road. It was Jason from CTL shutting the office door and locking up. He crossed the road and walked downhill towards where the hearse was parked. Dorothy threw her iPad on the passenger seat and breathed deeply. She tried to be mindful, imagined herself ready as she opened the door and stood on the pavement in front of him. He clocked her getting out, gave the hearse a second glance, then began to walk round her. Old people weren’t on his radar, he didn’t remember her.

  ‘Jason.’

  He stopped and took her in. Arrogance and irony in his body movements, as if the world was a joke only he got, and everyone else was a sucker.

  ‘Sorry, do I know you?’

  ‘Dorothy Skelf, I interviewed you recently about CTL.’

  A light of recognition, a nod.

  ‘Sweet ride,’ he said, looking at the hearse.

  Dorothy got her phone out and found the picture Abi had sent her.

  ‘I need to find Neil Williams,’ she said.

  ‘I’m sorry, what’s this about?’

  ‘I’m a private investigator.’

  He laughed. After a moment, her manner made him shut up. ‘Seriously?’

  She nodded.

  He looked her up and down. ‘An old dear private eye driving a hearse. Honey, someone should write your story.’

  The rank smell of the bins was overpowering as Dorothy breathed, tried to stay calm. She handed her phone over, the picture of Abi’s dad.

  ‘Neil Williams, I need to find him.’

  He held the phone but didn’t look at it, just stared at her. ‘I don’t know any Neil Williams, love, you’ve made a mistake.’

  Dorothy nodded at her phone. ‘Just look.’

  He stared at her for a few more seconds then turned to the picture. He couldn’t hide it, he recognised him. His demeanour went from cocky bullshit to nervous kid in a moment, as if he’d had the air let out of him.