The Big Chill

by Doug Johnstone

  ‘You know him,’ Dorothy said.

  ‘No.’ He handed the phone back.

  ‘Don’t lie.’

  ‘Look lady, I don’t know why you’re hassling me but you’re wrong.’

  ‘He’s been staying in a flat you sublet, and I saw him earlier today driving a car registered to CTL.’

  ‘He’s nothing to do with us.’

  He went to walk around but Dorothy blocked him.

  A bin lorry drove down the street, straight past the bins, the waft of rubbish trailing behind.

  ‘Just tell me,’ she said.

  ‘Fuck you.’

  He tried to walk away but she held his arm. She lowered her voice and spoke in his ear.

  ‘I just want to find this guy, nothing else. It’s obvious CTL are up to dodgy shit but I don’t care about that.’

  ‘We’re not.’ His confidence was ebbing away.

  ‘I have a very close friend, Detective Inspector Thomas Olsson, based at the Pleasance. I’m sure he’d be very interested in what CTL are up to.’

  She was betting he had crooked secrets, most people have stuff they want to hide.

  ‘You’re bluffing.’

  Dorothy shrugged. ‘I’m actually a terrible bluffer, no poker face at all. What you see is what you get.’

  Jason looked at Dorothy’s hand on his arm, and she removed it, brushed the material of his lurid jacket. He thought it over then nodded at her phone. ‘What he’s doing is not illegal.’

  The implication being something else at CTL was illegal.

  ‘So tell me.’

  She could smell his breath, a day’s worth of coffee, fear too.

  ‘The police don’t need to get involved,’ he said.

  Dorothy smiled. ‘Not if he’s not doing anything wrong.’

  Jason stepped back and got his phone out, scrolled down. He showed Dorothy the screen:

  Stephen Marks, 42 East Crosscauseway.

  He had a hangdog face. ‘Remember, he’s not doing anything wrong.’

  ‘Who’s this?’ she said.

  ‘This is Neil Williams.’

  47

  HANNAH

  Hannah leaned back in her chair and pinched the bridge of her nose. She rubbed at her eyes, gritty and sore, she’d been staring at her laptop for too long. She scrunched her eyes then opened them, took in the grainy picture on screen.

  It was the guy who’d been pestering Hugh’s widow. Who had ditched the tracker, knowingly or by accident. Hannah had returned to Wendy’s house and removed the SD card from the camera, and here was the guy. He was about Hannah’s age, tall and skinny, dark bags under his eyes, nondescript hoodie and black jeans, white trainers. Could be any of thousands of young men kicking around Edinburgh right now.

  She didn’t recognise him. She’d foolishly thought she would take one look and realise he was a classmate, or recognise him from campus. But that was stupid, wishful thinking.

  She was sitting at the breakfast bar in her kitchen, and turned to stare out of the window. A young mum was down in her garden helping her toddler up the steps of a tiny plastic slide. In the adjacent garden, an elderly man was hanging out washing. She imagined being either of those people, having kids with Indy, being the best two mums in the world, then fifty years later Indy dying, the kids living abroad, Hannah alone in a small flat, trying to find a routine that filled the lonely day between waking and sleeping, stalling death as long as possible.

  She had to square things with Indy, stop acting so self-obsessed. But there was too much to sort in her head first. The counselling was something but all the therapy in the world couldn’t fix this. Her dad on the run, people dying around her, missing, homeless, lost identities, broken lives. How were you supposed to settle down and live happily ever after with all that?

  She picked up the tracking bug she’d found in Bristo Square. That was the heart of the humanities schools, miles away from the science campus at King’s Buildings. So what did that mean? If he was a student, which discipline? If he wasn’t, how did Hugh know him? Why didn’t he just speak to Wendy?

  She pressed ‘print’ and her printer squeaked into life, the image emerging in the tray. She grabbed it and headed out the door. Twenty minutes later she was hassling passers-by outside Teviot House, thrusting the piece of paper in their faces, ignoring the looks she got.

  Two hours later she was flagging, approaching fewer people, slumped against a low wall watching the skateboarders rattle and hum across the concrete. She’d already asked them, met with shrugs and headshakes. She’d been into Potterrow and Teviot, round the offices and cafes, bars and shops. Nothing.

  How could you find someone in a city of half a million people with just a blurry printout? And what did it matter, Hugh was dead, this wasn’t bringing him back. But there had been too many deaths recently. It was stupid to think that when your family ran a funeral home and your girlfriend was training to be a funeral director. But it was the manner of it, finding Hugh at his desk, poison for God’s sake. She couldn’t stand it.

  She stared at the picture, it wasn’t the best quality but you would recognise him if you knew him. She needed to find someone who knew him. She looked around, willing him to appear in a puff of smoke, brought into existence by sheer willpower.

  It started to rain and she turned towards home.

  48

  DOROTHY

  East Crosscauseway was a nothing street, a back alley off the main drag. In an area of sparkly new student accommodation and luxury apartments, this was old-school tenement living, rough brickwork, unfashionable shops on the ground floor, rundown flats above. Dorothy walked past a second-hand record shop, the owner sitting outside on a rickety chair examining a Bob Dylan gatefold. There was a joinery shop, and Dorothy remembered Jim saying that’s how the Skelfs got started in the funeral game. It was very common, most early funeral directors were joiners first, building the coffins then eventually stepping in and organising the business side of death when no one else would. Jim’s great-great-grandfather, Old John Skelf, was knocking together a casket one day and thought why not?

  And now here she was, forty-five years since marrying into the death business, head of the company and family. No more Skelf men left. She wondered what Old John would make of that, a woman in charge of his legacy and a Californian to boot.

  Dorothy pictured herself as a skinny teen on Pismo Beach, clueless and hormonal. What would that naïve girl make of her now? Walking down a cold Edinburgh street searching for a father who didn’t want to be found, on behalf of a girl who reminded Dorothy of herself, lost in the mayhem of teenage years, trying to find a way through.

  Dorothy was a matriarch now, what a crazy idea. She imagined her dead mother raising a sardonic eyebrow at that, but maybe she was doing Mom a disservice. Dorothy moved to a foreign country as a young woman, had limited contact with her family since, something she felt a pang about. And being an immigrant was a dangerous thing these days, even a widow who’d lived here most of her life. You heard stories about the Home Office messing with people like her. Admittedly, it was brown-skinned people getting the brunt of it but she was still an outsider. She thought about Thomas, another outsider in this weird country. It was a thread that connected them across this weird city.

  She found number forty-two, a main-door flat, doorbell and nameplate, Marks.

  Neil Williams. Stephen Marks.

  A convoy of bin lorries chugged past and turned left. What was it with the stink of garbage following her today?

  She pressed the doorbell and waited.

  The wind whipped along the street towards Salisbury Crags. Two young Asian women walked past. The sound of a siren somewhere in the distance.

  The door opened and there he was. Dorothy pictured him closing the car door on her, the look on his face then.

  ‘Hi,’ she said. ‘Remember me?’

  This time he was resigned. ‘How?’

  ‘I threatened Jason. He folded pretty easy.’


  ‘He’s an arsehole.’ He sighed, mouth turned down. ‘You’d better come in.’

  He led her to a living room like an OCD bachelor pad, everything neat and tidy, large TV on the wall above the fireplace, gaming consoles, old turntable with racks of vinyl lined up alongside.

  She sat on the tasteful brown leather sofa and he sat opposite in a matching armchair. A coffee table between them had Men’s Health and GQ magazines on it.

  ‘It was never meant to go like this,’ he said.

  ‘Start at the beginning.’

  He shook his head.

  ‘Come on,’ Dorothy said.

  He rubbed his palms against his knees, rocked back and forth. ‘I’m an actor.’

  ‘OK.’

  He stared at her for a long time, waiting for her to put something together.

  Dorothy began to realise what he was getting at. ‘Wait. What?’

  He nodded. ‘Sandra Livingstone hires me to pretend to be Abi’s dad.’

  Dorothy felt something creep up her spine, a weight in her stomach. Stephen looked around the room for a way to escape the truth.

  ‘Since when?’ Dorothy said.

  He looked at the ceiling, counting up. ‘Christ, eight years.’

  ‘This is…’

  ‘It’s not illegal.’

  Dorothy rubbed at the palm of her hand as if trying to get rid of a dirty mark. ‘What the hell?’

  Stephen splayed his hands out. ‘I wasn’t getting any work as an actor. It’s impossible. I was on CTL’s books but there was nothing for an anonymous guy like me.’

  This was said matter of fact, not fishing for anything.

  Stephen swallowed hard. ‘I had a mate, another actor. She needed someone to pretend to be her boyfriend for a cousin’s wedding, so I said I would do it. It started as a bit of fun, we created a character together, I enjoyed it. Afterwards, she recommended me to someone else who needed a stand-in boyfriend for a thing. I can’t remember what. Anyway, she paid me.’

  He rolled his tongue around his teeth. ‘I told Jason, he said he could get me some work. He set up a sideline for CTL, basically renting out relatives for things. Mostly one-offs.’

  ‘Why would folk do this?’

  Stephen chewed on his lip. ‘You’d be amazed how much societal pressure is still out there. It makes things easier. I’ve been hired as a boyfriend just to keep guys from hitting on someone.’

  Dorothy shook her head. ‘But this, with Abi, is something else.’

  Stephen got up and went to the mantelpiece. Ran a finger along it, looked at his feet.

  ‘Sandra came to Jason,’ he said. ‘I don’t know how, CTL don’t advertise, it’s word of mouth. Jason is connected to some weird shit. Anyway, she wanted a dad for her little girl.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  Stephen pulled at his earlobe. ‘Abi was acting up at school, all sorts of behaviour issues. Asking about her dad. This was before Mike was on the scene. That’s made things more complicated.’

  ‘And this has just gone on? For years?’

  ‘It was supposed to be short term, just to get her on an even keel.’

  ‘But how did Sandra think this was going to end?’

  ‘She presumed Abi would lose interest.’

  ‘That’s ridiculous.’

  Stephen shook his head. ‘I just do what I’m told, she pays me.’

  ‘So Abi’s life is built on a lie?’

  Dorothy thought about her own life, her husband’s lies, the secrets we all keep from each other. But this was insanity.

  ‘I really like Abi, she’s a great kid. I’ve watched her grow up.’

  ‘You’ve lied to her for years.’

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘Jesus Christ.’

  ‘Don’t.’ Stephen shifted weight from one foot to another. ‘I know.’

  ‘This is so messed up.’ Dorothy stood up, couldn’t bear to be seated anymore.

  ‘Please,’ Stephen said. ‘You can’t tell Abi, it would destroy her.’

  Dorothy felt a surge of anger. ‘Maybe you should’ve thought about that before starting this.’

  ‘I was trying to help,’ Stephen said. ‘Sandra was desperate.’

  Dorothy’s hands were fists at her side. She felt sick, a knot twisting her guts.

  ‘There’s one thing I don’t understand,’ she said. ‘Why not just tell Abi who her real dad was?’

  Stephen stared at her for a long time. For an actor, he wasn’t very good at hiding things. His face told her he knew the answer but he fronted it out, shook his head.

  ‘You’ll need to ask Sandra,’ he said.

  49

  JENNY

  The world was too harsh in the light outside the kitchen window and Jenny couldn’t concentrate on what Mum was saying. The three of them were in the kitchen, their ritual, updating each other on the mess of their lives, cases, emotional states, the pressure pushing down on them. Or maybe that was just Jenny’s hangover.

  She spent last night trying to find Liam. Not answering his phone, not at his flat, nothing on social media. She went to visit Orla, the ex-wife, who slammed the door in her face before she could speak. The police examined his studio, there was no concrete forensics. Obviously someone had trashed the place, maybe during a fight. Had someone attacked him or simply broken in and turned the place over?

  Her instinct said Craig was behind this. She knew in her heart and bones and every screaming nerve. She tried to persuade Thomas but there was no proof yet. Craig being in the pub round the corner was circumstantial. But Jenny knew him and she knew he’d done something to Liam. The fact she couldn’t do a damn thing about it sent her to the wine bottle last night and she hadn’t stopped until the early hours, crawling into bed and passing out, waking early with her bladder bursting and the open curtains flooding the room with sunshine. The same sunshine that was making her cringe now. Cherry blossom was falling from the branches in the park outside, a gentle snowstorm as petals drifted to the ground and turned to mulch underfoot.

  Two teenage boys in school uniform were swiping at each other with rucksacks, an old woman in pink trousers and a Zimmer inching her way towards the main road, a cyclist in slipstreamed Lycra and skeletal helmet zinging past and out of sight.

  Dorothy was still talking, stroking Einstein absent-mindedly. Jenny looked around for Schrödinger. Considering the cat hated that bloody dog, he was always hanging around harassing him. Jenny thought of Craig out there. He could’ve been anywhere else on the planet by now but he’d hung around to mess with her.

  Hannah frowned and shook her head as Dorothy finished speaking.

  ‘Wait,’ Jenny said. Dorothy’s words filtered through her pounding brain. ‘This woman hired someone to pretend to be Abi’s dad. For years.’

  ‘That’s what he told me.’

  ‘And what does she have to say?’

  ‘I’m going there next to find out.’

  Hannah stood up, went to the whiteboards, a mess of names, acronyms, lines, scribbles and clues, links and messages, secrets and lies. ‘How did she think she could get away with it?’

  ‘That’s what I asked,’ Dorothy said.

  ‘Why lie?’ Jenny said. ‘It’s not as if being a single mum is shameful these days.’

  Dorothy sighed and sipped her tea.

  Jenny’s black coffee was tepid but she gulped it anyway. Caffeine might cut through this head, shake her into life.

  Hannah tapped a pen against the whiteboard. ‘So where are we with Jimmy X?’

  Jenny was amazed her daughter was so self-assured, or seemed it on the surface. She had inner steel that Jenny never had at that age. But then her daughter was undergoing therapy and had struggled with anxiety and depression, so what did Jenny know? She felt tightness in her chest at the idea of her daughter in pain. Having kids really fucked you up.

  ‘James Dundas,’ Dorothy said.

  ‘We have a full name?’ Jenny said. She tried to remember when she last h
ad an update on that case. Fuck this hangover.

  Dorothy nodded. ‘From a teacher at Craighouse. I have a list of possible addresses.’

  ‘How did he end up a homeless addict?’ Jenny said.

  ‘That’s what I’d like to find out.’ Dorothy tapped a piece of paper in front of her. ‘Would one of you girls like to follow it up? I’ve got my hands full with Abi.’

  Jenny looked at the paper, then Hannah, who batted her look back deadpan.

  Hannah tapped the marker against the funeral whiteboard. ‘I’m helping with Hugh’s funeral today.’

  ‘I’ll do it,’ Jenny said, taking the paper. It would keep her mind off Liam and Craig. That was a lie but she had to kid herself to keep going.

  ‘Thank you,’ Dorothy said, then turned to Hannah. ‘Any further with Hugh’s mystery caller?’

  ‘Mystery caller?’ Jenny said. ‘Is this Poirot?’

  Hannah ignored her. ‘I tried to track him but he dropped the bug. I have his picture, went around student areas, nothing.’

  ‘You think he’s a student?’ Dorothy said.

  ‘I have no idea.’

  Dorothy nodded. ‘When’s the funeral?’

  ‘Twelve.’

  ‘Indy has everything in hand?’

  ‘I think so.’

  Jenny looked at Hannah. So Indy was arranging this funeral, stepping up in the business, taking on more. Good. Hannah would need her there for support. Something about this old guy had really got under Hannah’s skin.

  Jenny’s heart weighed her down. She didn’t want to alarm the other two, hadn’t told them about the ping and the business in Leith. She’d hoped she would find Liam, Craig would turn up, all this would magically resolve before she had to spill the beans. But here they were.

  ‘I think Craig has taken Liam,’ she said.

  The looks on their faces killed her.

  She explained through her headache about the phone trace, The King’s Wark, the trashed studio. How Thomas wasn’t convinced yet but she knew different. How she was just waiting for Liam’s body to turn up in the Water of Leith with some fucking sick message carved into his forehead, or something equally unimaginable, but she was imagining it anyway because that’s what Craig wanted her to do, he still had control of her, still pulled the strings and she hated him for it, wanted him dead if she was honest because she couldn’t think of any other way to escape. And even then she wouldn’t be free, his ghost would haunt her and Hannah and Dorothy, all of this would still be a part of their lives, their history and future, there would still be counselling and flashbacks and trauma and the wound on her stomach where he stabbed her, angry, pink scar tissue threatening to open up, guts spilling over the kitchen table and the dog wagging his tail beneath.