by Denise Mina
The waiter shrugged at the menu. ‘We do have proper food, like chicken and that.’
I looked at Fin. He was frowning intently at the menu. I ordered two chicken things and water to drink.
The waiter stared at Fin. ‘You’re him, aren’t you?’
It took Fin a minute to look up. ‘What?’
‘Oh, I just saw you trending on Twitter there, so I knew it was you.’ He nodded at the rest of the staff sitting in a huddle around the bar. ‘Can I get a selfie?’ Fin obliged, smiling warmly, but his smile dropped as soon as the flash was done. ‘We’ll leave you alone,’ said the waiter. ‘Don’t worry.’
He took the menus and walked away.
Fin had left his phone in the car and asked to borrow mine. I gave it to him. He googled himself. His expression, uplit in the dark restaurant, shifted swiftly from furious to calm. He scrolled down and a confused smile warmed his face. His eyebrows rose slowly. He was sucked into the face of the phone and lost to me.
I looked around for a bit but there wasn’t much to look at. Tourist tat and teenagers whispering about Fin at the side of the bar. I picked up some brochures from the menu stand and read one about boat trips and another about an aquarium.
Fin was still scrolling, his face very animated, having more of an interaction with the comments about himself than he had with me in nearly an hour of driving. He looked worried.
‘What is it?’ I asked finally.
‘Your neighbour tweeted a picture of me on the steps outside your house and the pro-anas are saying I look great, which is worrying. I should eat something.’
‘What’s pro-anas?’
‘Pro-anorexia.’ He looked ashamed. ‘It’s–I have anorexia. I struggle. Hm. The pro mob encourage it. They’re kind of poisonous. I feel I’m endorsing them if I don’t stay well. It’s too much pressure. I’ve been on hiatus from social media recently.’
He seemed pleased though, revived, as if the world talking about him had breathed new life into him.
The food arrived. The ‘chicken thing’ was unexpectedly fantastic. It was slow-roasted and served with a creamy smoked garlic sauce on buttery celeriac mash. I hadn’t eaten all day and got lost in the interplay of flavours, sharp and soft, pleasing textures and a lingering tang of smoke on the back of my tongue. I considered the tragedy of a chef this talented stuck microwaving haggis out here in the middle of rainy nowhere. I looked up.
Cohen was not eating. He sat, hands on his lap, looking at the plate of lovely food as if it had offended him.
‘Eat it, it’s delicious.’
‘I can’t eat that,’ he said to the plate, ‘I’m vegan.’
‘Eat around it then,’ I said. ‘Or eat something else. I don’t care what it is. Have some bread and butter.’ I knew it was stupid as soon as I said it. ‘For fucksake, you’re an adult. You can find food in a restaurant.’
Fin critically examined the side salad, lifting leaves with his fork and looking underneath for sides of beef secreted under the lettuce. He found the salad acceptable, actually giving it a little nod. Then he pushed the exquisite chicken dish away across the table, infuriatingly slowly. He pulled the tiny salad plate in front of him and began scooping mini morsels up on his fork, grimacing as he put them in his mouth. It was painful to watch.
‘Fin, did you pass out in the car?’
‘It’s just low blood sugar. When I haven’t eaten for a while I get a bit dizzy.’
‘You passed out. What if that happens in the street? How would anyone know what to do for you?’
‘I carry my passport, my doctor’s number and a note about my blood sugar.’
He had a strategy for passing out and didn’t seem to realise how bizarre that was. I pointed at his figure. ‘No margin of error on you, is there?’
He glared at me. I didn’t understand why everything I said about food was wrong.
‘OK,’ I said. ‘Eat that and a pudding and I won’t leave you here.’
He put his fork down and glared at me. ‘That is what you don’t say.’
‘What?’
‘Talk about my body shape, try to blackmail me to eat. If someone has an eating problem you’re supposed to encourage–’
‘Son: eat if you want to get back in my fucking car.’
He froze. I could see from his face that he had been told bad things about me, doubted them, but now believed them to be true. ‘Why did you drag me here?’
I smiled. ‘Findlay, d’you think I’m stupid? I’ve got two kids.’
He was very offended. ‘I’ve heard you were aggressive.’
‘My girls are better at this than you.’
‘At what?’
‘Starting fights so they don’t have to eat their dinner. I’m not looking after you. Eat or stay. Your choice. I don’t give a fuck either way.’
We sat and ate furiously at each other, silently formulating insults and reproaches in time to the jig music swirling overhead.
I knew there was a train station in Crianlarich, not ten miles up the road. I could drop him there and he’d be back in Glasgow in an hour. I’d be free of him. But he wasn’t dressed for standing on a concrete train platform in November. I was sure he’d fainted in the car and if he did that again, alone on an exposed train platform, he wouldn’t be found until the next day. He could easily die of hypothermia.
My phone buzzed on his side of the table and he handed it to me. A text from Jess’s phone.
‘Arrived safe and sound. Hotel nice and clean. Had a sensible dinner, love from Jess and Lizzie.’
I texted back, ‘I’d actually rather hear it from Jess herself thanks Estelle can you give her the phone back please.’ Didn’t even use punctuation. Fuck her.
‘Hi mUM, its nice hotel. Were fine. JJxxx’
My heart leapt and fell. Definitely from her.
I texted back, ‘That’s super! All ok here. Do try to have a nice time and take photos. Sleep well, darlings. I’m only a few hours away if you need me, Mum xxxxxxxx’
‘Ok.’ Then an emoji of a swimmer.
I desperately wanted to hear more but didn’t text a prompt. They should be in bed by now. I scrolled up through the old texts from her. She wasn’t allowed to take the phone out of the house, it was just for play. I was looking for one that was more satisfying, longer and about anything. There really weren’t any.
The waiter came up to the table with an oval dish and spoke to Fin. The chef had made a vegan stir fry, he hoped Fin didn’t mind, they weren’t going to charge us and the chef said it was his pleasure, he wasn’t busy, he was trying out new dishes. They chatted about veganism.
For an anorexic being presented with a second dinner, Cohen was very gracious. He tasted it and said it was delicious, really amazing and asked to meet the chef. The waiter brought him out. He was pasty and young, with a shaved head and tumbling dice tattooed on his neck. Sweating with excitement, he chatted to Fin and said he was vegan too, or wanted to be vegan, I didn’t listen. I don’t understand why people monologue about what they don’t want to eat as if it’s interesting. They were chit-chatting, the chef asked for a selfie too and it didn’t include me.
I busied myself on the phone, looking at the pictures on the Death and the Dana page.
Photo for Ep3
Harold J. Webb stood alone in a New York street. He was short, had a walrus moustache and was dressed in a grey morning suit, matching bowler hat, holding a silver-topped cane. He glared into the lens, his irascibility still crisp ninety years on.
Photo for Ep5
A black-and-white dotted image from a newspaper article.
A woman had been surprised by a photographer.
Two uniformed policemen held her arms tight and her hair swung out to the side. She had been yanked round to face the camera and was slack-jawed, wide-eyed with a slight double chin. Her hair was a cut into a rough mullet. The photographer was standing too close and the flash had bleached out her eyebrows, emphasising her heavy brow, making her look N
eanderthal.
Was that Amila? No. The picture looked too old, was black and white. We hadn’t got to that bit yet.
Photo for Ep6
Gretchen Teigler. This was a paparazzi snap from a while ago. She was walking along a sunny street, looking bland and unremarkable, in the beige uniform of American money: white sweater, slacks, clothes that flatter no one but denote membership as clearly as a gang tattoo. Her square face was framed by helmety blonde hair, sunglasses worn as a hairband. A chubby personal assistant walked behind her, carrying shopping bags. In the manner of dedicated PAs, she was dressed in an off-echo of her boss: same hair, cheaper sweater. She was looking at the back of Gretchen’s head as if trying to anticipate her next thought. Dauphine Loire.
Dauphine Loire had once taken out a contract on me. I’d never seen a photo of her before. She didn’t look murderous. She looked a bit nervous and very focused on Gretchen Teigler.
I saw PAs like that at Skibo. They were often codependents who found a calling that matched their condition, pandering to the unappeasable, working for little, defending with their lives. I found them a bit pathetic but Adam Ross pointed out that they often seemed happier than the wives or the children.
I knew that it would have been Gretchen who decided that the investigation should focus on Amila. I didn’t believe Leon would kill his kids but was sure that Gretchen had decided who the official killer would be. This had her stamp all over it.
Gretchen’s motive always bothered me. She couldn’t be a villain because they don’t exist. No one got up in the morning, rubbing their hands as they looked forward to a day of doing evil. She must have had some justification for the terrible, terrible things she had done. Everyone was too afraid to stop her or speak out. The press colluded, the cops went along with her, and if that didn’t get her the outcome she wanted she sent the heavies in.
I went back to the podcast home page and looked at the picture of Leon and his kids again. He was happy then, just before, you could see it in his eyes. At least he had that. Looking at his picture made me want a cigarette and a warm night and a good friend to laugh and tell stories with.
I made myself close it and go to Twitter, open on the comments below the picture of Fin. Pretcha would be thrilled. Her pic had twelve thousandish likes and a lot of retweets.
People were pleased to see that the rumours of his death were untrue. Where had he been? Too thin, Fin! Looking sleek!
I scrolled back up to Pretcha’s photo.
It wasn’t a picture of Fin Cohen outside my house. It was a picture of me and Fin Cohen outside my house, a clear, sharp picture of my face with my scar visible. It cuts across my eyebrow. It is thin and white. It’s distinctive.
The modern mania for photographs is hard on those in hiding. If you have a friend with a thin backstory who always wants to take the picture or slides behind the heads of others in group snaps, be kind to them. Camera phones are a bloody menace.
A little nervous, I scrolled down. There were exclamations of love for Fin, emojis, anorexia talk and then, quite far down, I hit a comment saying things I hadn’t heard for a long time. My real name and a link to my story. Ten Fin comments further down a GIF of a dead cat nailed to my old front door.
Oh God.
My girls.
That was my first thought. Not that I was in danger but that my lovely unspoiled girls would find out about me.
I followed the link to an article about the case. It was eight years old, from a year after I had run. I’d read it before: it was about the other girl being found dead in a suspicious house fire while living under an assumed name. They mentioned my court case. I’d read it on the front page of a newspaper at the time, too afraid to even buy the paper. That was why I’d stayed away.
Fuck. I felt sick. I felt ashamed. I was shaking.
I leaned over the table, vinegar tears dripping into the creamy smears of sauce on my plate. The smell of garlic hit my nose and made me gag.
My girls would hear what they did to me.
Jig music jangled above my head, chit-chat jabbed at my ears. On Twitter, an emoji avatar told someone else to ring the police. They were trying to work out which city Fin Cohen lived in. Pretcha hadn’t geotagged the photo, but it wouldn’t take them long to find out.
A stranger told another stranger what should be done to me to teach me not to lie. Eighty likes. Fin better watch himself with a lying bitch like me. Someone with an avatar of the football club’s logo said they could find me. Someone else said they would help. They decided to DM each other and dropped off the thread.
The next comment was ‘Wow! Fin so thin!’ thumbs up, from Japan.
‘I need to go.’
Fin looked away from his adoring vegan chef and spoke very slowly. ‘I haven’t finished eating yet.’
‘Box it up or stay,’ I said and got up, dropped money on the table and hurried back out to the car.
18
I DROVE.
‘What is going on?’ asked Fin.
I couldn’t talk. I couldn’t look at him. I just drove. Thinking about the other girl. I knew they’d killed her. Gretchen Teigler killed her. I didn’t feel sad about it at the time. I’d assumed she had everything I didn’t have: support, family, resources, courage. I lived, she died, end of story. I honestly hadn’t given her a second thought.
‘Anna? Will you please tell me what’s going on?’
I couldn’t. I put the podcast back on.
Episode 5: Amila Fabricase, her Famous Mother and the French Obsession with Bread
This episode is about how the French police investigating the sinking became obsessed with Amila Fabricase to the point of charging her with three murders she couldn’t possibly have committed.
There are a number of ways of looking at this. The kindest is that Amila’s story was so beguiling and unfolded so pleasingly that the French police couldn’t resist it. A more sinister one is that it was to deflect attention from Gretchen Teigler, who could be neither questioned nor crossed because she is so powerful.
I couldn’t believe Trina Keany was saying these things. They were true but everyone else knew better than calling out the Emperor. Was Keany powerful too? Was she working for someone powerful? Was she stupid? If she was she was in terrible danger. I wondered if she knew that.
Perhaps at Gretchen’s direction, the Dana’s captain drew the focus to Amila again and again. He made public statements about Amila leaving, he gave interviews about her erratic behaviour on board, he hassled the police until they went to talk to her. But the captain had lost his ship while drinking in a bar with his crew and he let Leon pay the crew cash in advance of the voyage. This made him seem feckless and unprofessional, especially to other sailors. Maybe that was why he was so keen to have it resolved.
All of the police investigation centred on Amila and her story. But what a story! It’s easy to see how they got sucked into the glamour, the death, the startling reveals. Amila’s story was so compelling that a suicidal businessman must have seemed dreary by comparison. That’s a benign explanation of how they overlooked all the other evidence of what happened on the Dana that night.
So, who was Amila?
Amila Fabricase grew up in Lyon, a city obsessed with food. It is a city of restaurants and gastronomic theologians. It’s where chefs go on holiday. The Lyonnais have loyalties to certain bakers and bouchons the way other cities have football supporters. Chefs and bakers and cheesemakers are celebrities there, admired and recognised in the street, and she was an integral part of that scene.
Amila was a baker. She left school young and trained hard. She was known and admired for her traditional breads. She and her partner, Sabine, were planning to set up their own bakery but neither of them came from money. They were still years away from raising their stake. This was used against her later, they said she was envious of the rich people she worked for, but aren’t we all envious of rich people? Even rich people wish they were richer.
To raise the sta
rt-up money Amila worked as a chef on private yachts and Sabine was a chef for a Swiss banker. Three seasons later they had saved a third of their stake. It was slow but they were getting there. Amila was twenty-four, on the brink of a great career, when her headaches started.
They came and went suddenly, in flurries. Her right eye would swell and tears would course down her cheeks. She developed a weak shoulder from tensing in her sleep, a disaster for a baker. Time was running out.
Amila saw her family doctor about the headaches before she set off on the Dana. He referred her to a specialist. She was tested for brain lesions and tumours. They found nothing. There was no known cause and therefore no treatment available apart from painkillers so strong they were disabling. Amila had to work an eighteen-hour day on board. She couldn’t take them.
She texted Sabine the day before they docked in Saint-Martin and said the headaches were getting worse. She hadn’t slept for days. Sabine texted back two words: ‘Come home.’
As we know, Amila got off at Saint-Martin. She took a taxi straight to La Rochelle airport and waited for the next flight to Lyon.
The Dana was heading out to sea as her plane lifted off from the runway. The Dutch containership was watching it. By the time Amila landed in Lyon the Dana was under the water.
She didn’t go straight to the flat she shared with Sabine. She went to her grandmother’s house, out in the countryside, because the doctor who was treating her was there. He gave her enough codeine to let her sleep for a full eight hours. She was very weak. She hardly got out of bed for days. On the third morning she was a little better, still groggy, but her grandmother was reassured enough to leave her alone in the house while she went shopping. Amila would be in custody by the time she got back.
The police came to the door and asked to interview her about the Dana. Amila didn’t know it had sunk. She welcomed them in, thinking that Violetta’s diamond necklace had been stolen. She said Leon was nice, but shouldn’t have brought something that valuable on to a boat. She sympathised with the cops about having their time wasted. The police knew they were not there about the necklace but they didn’t tell her that.