Garnethill by Denise Mina (42 page)

"Course," said Leslie. "I've had it for ages. Can't bring myself to throw it away because it's so pretty but I can't find a use for it either."

"Good," said Maureen, and went back indoors.

She put the bag of Colombian coffee into the box with the sachets of sugar she had lifted in the airport cafe the night before. She took three coffee filter papers from Leslie's cupboard and found a pocket alarm clock and a bottle of Tipp-Ex in the odds and ends drawer. Leslie came into the kitchen, put down her empty mug and flicked the kettle on. "Want a coffee?" she said.

"Yeah, please."

"What ye doing?"

"Just packing some things."

Leslie took a fresh mug out of the cupboard, watching as Maureen folded the coffee filters and polyethylene bag and slipped them into the Boothy box.

"Does this alarm work, Leslie?"

"Yeah. It's got new batteries in it."

Leslie made the coffee and picked hers up. "I'll leave you to it, then?"

"Yeah, how's Siobhain?"

"Same," said Leslie, looking into the Boothy box. "What are you doing, Maureen?"

"Do ye want to know?"

Leslie thought about it. "No," she said finally.

"I'll need your handcuffs," said Maureen, "if that's all right."

Leslie looked disconcerted. "Sure."

"And your leather gloves."

"Okay," she said, and went to get them from the bedroom.

"And cream," Maureen muttered to herself. "I'll need cream."

The rain was coming down in sheets. The children had left the waste ground and Siobhain and Leslie had pushed the deck chairs back against the wall to keep themselves dry. The were sitting quietly, holding hands, watching the rain erode the little dirt hills.

"Can I take these with me as well?" asked Maureen.

Leslie looked at the stained Marigold washing-up gloves and the plastic coffee filter cone in her hand. "Take them and keep them if you want." She seemed confused and more than a little frightened.

"Yeah, I'll need to," said Maureen, and went back into the kitchen.

Leslie didn't have any traveling bags so their knickers, the Boothy box and their for-in-case jumpers were shoved into ill-chosen poly bags with precariously stretching handles. Maureen took the bags and caught the bus to the town, taking the red Ford and its two policemen with her. She got off the bus outside the Buchanan Street bus station and waited on the curb before crossing, making sure that the Ford was still with her. The car pulled up down the road a little and she crossed. The passenger policeman got out of the car and followed her on foot. She passed the narrow entrance to the bus station, ducking into the doorway of the multistory car park. The policeman jogged past her, no more than four feet away, and went into the bus station. Maureen ran round the corner, jumping down the steep stairs to the taxi rank, and leaped into the back of a cab, telling the driver to take her to Central Station.

As they drove down the road she glanced out of the side window and saw the blue Ford parked at the side of the road. The driver was examining the passing pedestrians carefully.

The taxi dropped her at the entrance. She stopped at the ticket office and, as an act of faith, bought three returns. Next door, in the station newsagent's, she picked up a Basildon Bond letter-writing pad and a Bic Biro and sidled up to a spotty clerk stacking shelves with chocolate bars. "Can I ask you something?" She smiled. He looked up. "I wondered whether you sell many of these notepads?"

"Aye," he said. "We've got them in our shops all over Britain. We sell hundreds of them."

"Great," she said. "Thanks."

She paid for them at the till and leaned on the lottery-ticket table to write the note, using her left hand so that the script would be unrecognizable. At the top of the page she put the Stewart Street station number with the full regional code and McEwan's office extension under it. "Please phone this number in case of emergency. Ask for DCI Joe McEwan and tell him that I am responsible for Martin Donegan and Douglas Brady." She folded it to the size of a credit card and put it in the back pocket of her jeans.

Leslie and Siobhain hadn't made it into the station yet. The overhead speakers were playing an easy-listening version of "American Pie." Maureen stood in the center of the vast marble-floored concourse and tried to think straight, working out the times: the train connected with the last ferry to Cumbrae. Even if someone drove and broke the speed limit all the way to Largs they still wouldn't get there for the last ferry, at eight-twenty. It would be safe to send the word.

She walked to the phone boxes by the side exit and phoned Scaramouch Street. "Listen," she said when Benny answered, "I can't get hold of Liam. Would you phone him and tell him I've gone to Millport with Siobhain for a couple of days?"

"Okay," said Benny. "When'll you be back?"

"Couple of days, tops. Tell him it's the same close we stayed in last time, only it's the top flat. I heard the police questioned ye?"

"Yeah," he said, sounding suddenly breathless. "They wanted my fingerprints. They must have found them in your house, eh?"

"Yeah, I expect so."

"I'll see you when ye get back. My last exam's tomorrow."

"Yeah, I'll be in touch."

"Okay, have a lovely time."

"See ya, Benny," she said, and hung up.

She picked up the bags and walked slowly over to the Bullet, a memorial of the Great War made from an upright brass shell casing. Still no sign of Leslie and Siobhain. They only had seven minutes before their train left.

"Cream!" she said suddenly, and ran over to the delicatessen. When she came out she saw Leslie guiding the slow-moving Siobhain into the station through the main entrance. They had four minutes to go before the train pulled out. Maureen walked over and took Siobhain's arm, leading her along the platform and up the step onto the train, sitting her in a window seat near the door. Leslie followed them on with the bags. The train's engine hummed and revved, the doors beeped and slid shut, and the train pulled slowly out of Central Station.

The conductor came looking for the tickets as the train slipped away from the city. Maureen handed them over. He clipped all three at once and eyed their bags. "Is that you on your holidays?"

"Aye," said Maureen.

"You haven't got the weather, I'm afraid."

"Auch, well."

The dark night was behind the window, and within minutes they were in the unlit countryside. The double glazing reflected the inside of the carriage like a drunk's mirror, showing two shaky shadows of everything.

Within an hour they were at the coast, where the high hills collapse into a charcoal sea kept ever still by the proximity of the islands. The train slowed as it approached Largs, chuffing casually into the single-platform station. Leslie helped Siobhain up and off while Maureen carried the bags. They walked down the dark, deserted high street to the quay. Across the bay they could see the lights of the little ferry docked at the tiny Isle of Cumbrae.

The island consists of a jagged sandstone hill in the center with a flat skirt of land around it. It's an untouched 1950s holiday destination where the major tourist attractions are the crazy-golf course in Millport town, the freak rock formations painted to look like animals and a ring road that leads all the way around the island and can be cycled in under an hour.

Maureen left Leslie with Siobhain and the bags and went to the ticket office to buy three tickets and find out the times of the morning ferry. When she got back to the dock the clump of pedestrian passengers had shifted five feet down the concrete ramp and the queue of cars was edging forward impatiently.

Slowly, the yellow and red ferryboat made its way across the water and into the dock. The back of the hull wound gently to the floor and the disembarking passengers walked down it, past the waiting crowd. The cars and cyclists came off last.

A ticket collector wearing a fluorescent yellow anorak and big green wellies followed the cars, stood on the hull and waved the pedestrians forward. They lifted their bags and walked down to the boat. Maureen gave up their tickets. He checked them and pocketed them. "Hey, they're returns," said Leslie.

"You'll not need them," he said briskly, and held out his hand to the backpacking couple behind her.

Maureen tugged Leslie's sleeve." 'Member the last time we came?" she said. "They only sell returns. The ferry's the only way to get on or off the island."

The ferry had two high decks on either side of the car-deck valley. The view over the bay was best from there but Siobhain couldn't climb the steep metal ladder so they had to make do with the cabin. They stepped into the narrow corridor and sat down on the red leatherette bench below the windows. The ferry churned the water noisily and they moved out into the bay. The lights of the navy vessels in Dunoon slipped slowly past the window.

Maureen was confident of her timing but wanted to make sure they hadn't been followed. She left Leslie and Siobhain sitting downstairs and made a quick tour of the deck, checking all the faces and peering into cars. She didn't recognize anyone.

The ferry turned round and docked at Cumbrae. They waited until everyone else had left the cabin before standing Siobhain up again and pointing her to the door. Eventually they joined the clump of pedestrians at the top of the steep concrete incline leading from the ferry, gathered around the bus stop at the side of the road. The lights from the disembarking cars soon died away as they drove off to the left, following the road to Millport. The ferry wound up its hull and slipped away to park in the mainland dock for the night. In front of them stood a steep grassy hill. It was very dark.

A glint of light flashed over the shoulder of the steep hill on the left and they could hear the bus coming. It turned the corner, blinding them momentarily, did an expert U-turn in the narrow road and came to a stop in front of the waiting crowd. It was a very old bus, painted green and cream with a rounded roof and chrome speed lines. The door shished open and the passengers gathered around it, climbing on and handing up luggage, locals helloing the driver and being greeted in return. Leslie helped Siobhain up the steps while Maureen got the tickets, and they moved down to the backseat. The backpackers took their time settling their rucksacks on the overhead luggage racks and under the seats. Women coming home from work on the mainland put their groceries in the luggage rest at the front of the bus.

When all the passengers had settled into their seats the driver turned and called, "Are yees all right in there, now?"

An uneven chorus of ayes and yesses came back at him from the crowd.

"All right, then," he said, and started the engine, jolting the bus away from the curb and into the empty road.

"Look," said Leslie, nudging Siobhain. "Lion Rock." A tall outcrop of sandstone on the side of the hill had eroded into the vague shape of a lion. It only looked like a lion if it was seen from a very particular angle and in a good light. It was getting dark and the bus had moved past it by the time she pointed it out. Siobhain looked out of the window. "See it?" said Leslie. Siobhain nodded but seemed slightly puzzled. Maureen thought it might be a good sign: she hadn't seemed slightly anything for days.

The bus stopped in Karnes Bay to let a lady with three Asda bags off. The driver shut the door, pulled out into the road, and they drove on to Millport.

"Hey," said Leslie. "Crocodile Rock!" A long flat rock on the beach had been painted with big happy eyes and a crocodile's mouth. Siobhain saw it and smiled. "Isn't it great?" said Leslie tenderly, turning back to see it again.

"Leslie," said Maureen, "it's an auld fat rock with a mouth painted on it."

"I know. I like it."

The bus drove along the Millport seafront. It was long past the holiday season and two months to Christmas but faded pastel fairy lights were still strung between the lampposts. The tide was out and brightly painted wooden boats lolled drunkenly in the mud, waiting.

The bus dropped them at the George Hotel, a three-story whitewashed building with black-rimmed windows and a sign painted in Nazi script.

"Ah," said Leslie. "This is nice."

They were supposed to pay for the flats and pick up the keys from the man at the chip shop. Maureen went in and paid for one set. She sent Leslie in for the other.

"Give him this money," said Maureen, and handed her an envelope, but Leslie said she would pay for this one. "It's Douglas's money," said Maureen. "Take it. And keep your head down. Don't let them see your face."

No. 6, the Sea Front, was a flatted tenement built over the Laughter Emporium joke shop. The close was openmouthed and the stairs were narrow and steep. Siobhain held on to the wooden handrail and took the stairs one at a time. Maureen picked up the plastic bags. "I'll go on," she said, and ran up the stairs, taking them two at a time until she got to the top landing. She struggled into Leslie's leather gloves before fitting the key into the lock and opening the door.

The flat was small and furnished with the legal minimum of a table, beds, chairs and a settee. The hall and the living room had been decorated with hideous pink flowery wallpaper but it was cozy and the owner had left a plate of Jammie Dodgers out for them. Maureen felt a pang of guilt.

She made sure the TV worked, turned the heating on full to make it seem inhabited, pulled the curtains shut and double-bolted the door on her way out. She took the gloves off as she ran back down two flights. Siobhain and Leslie were resting on the half landing below.

"This is us," said Maureen, slipping the other set of keys into the door and pushing it open.

"It's the flat we stayed in when you got out of the Northern," said Leslie, walking up the stairs quickly, leaving Siobhain to negotiate the last few steps herself.

"The very one," said Maureen.

It had been decorated since they were last there: Maureen remembered white chip wallpaper in the hall and constantly having to resist the urge to pick at it. It had been painted pale blue since then. The living room had a new blue carpet and the walls were papered with a gray and pink swirling pattern. It was a botch job: the corners were curling up and overlapping edges were threatening to spoil.