Garnethill by Denise Mina (46 page)

"Are you here for the meeting, then?" he asked.

"Naw," she said, trying to disguise her delight. "I just came to see ye."

"Come away in and get a cup of tea." He stepped back into the dingy room. The Englishwoman looked disgruntled. "It's all right," he said. "She's one of us, she just doesn't want to come up to the meeting yet, that's all."

Maureen walked in and shut the door behind herself. The floor was angled slightly, tipping toward a drain in the middle of the floor; she could feel her calf muscles compensating for the gradient. Some smoked-glass cups, a plate of expensive chocolate biscuits and a steaming urn were sitting on a wobbly table. Four other middle-aged women were standing around in a group at the end of the room, looking at Maureen with benign curiosity. They stepped forward one at a time and introduced themselves by their first names.

The door opened behind Maureen and a ridiculously tall man in his early twenties came in, dipping his head under the low doorway. "Hello, everyone," he called, looking around the room until he found the plate of biscuits. He made straight for them, picking up three and eating them whole. He looked at Maureen. "Who are you?"

"I'm Maureen O'Donnell."

"Are you an incest survivor?"

"Urn, yeah," she said, frowning and wishing he'd mind his own fucking business. His manner was so insistently cheerful that Maureen suspected she was looking at a profoundly unhappy man.

"There's no need to be embarrassed about that here," he said, grinning through a mouthful of chocolate crumbs. "We've all been fucked by our families." He looked at her, expecting some sort of response, but she couldn't think of anything to say.

"Great," she said.

McAskill pulled her aside, turning her so that her back was to the happy-sad man. "What did you want to see me about?" he said softly.

She lowered her voice, talking into his chest. "I just wondered if Joe McEwan got a phone call of some kind . . . maybe from an exotic holiday destination?"

McAskill tilted his head back and laughed. She could see his fillings. "You don't give up, do you? D'you know Joe McEwan wants to throttle you? We've got a high-profile case and a nutter shouting about fire."

"Angus's prints matched the ones on Martin, then?"

"Yeah, perfect, he even had one of those big knives with him."

"Where?"

"In the leather bag."

She rolled her eyes and breathed, "Fuck."

McAskill sighed along with her. "You're a lucky wee bugger, you," he said.

She nodded. "Not half. What made McEwan think it was me?"

"Well, you slipped surveillance and your prints were all over the note. They were pretty smudged, though. The nurse at the cottage hospital managed to hold the note in about fifty different ways before phoning us."

McAskill smiled at her and she thought she might chance her arm. "Can I ask you something, Hugh? Something about the case?"

He looked uncertain. "Depends."

"Why did you stop looking for someone available in the daytime? Why did you start thinking it happened in the evening?"

He was stunned. "How do you know about that?"

"Auch, I just do."

He looked hurt. "Are you talking to someone else?"

"No, it's just ... I noticed that ye were asking about the daytime and then, about the second time McEwan interviewed Liam, you started asking about the evening."

"Oh," said McAskill, thinking it through. "Right enough." He looked despondent. " 'Member the thing in the hall cupboard?"

"Yeah."

"It was decaying at a different rate from the rest of it. The timing was all messed up."

"Oh," she said, wishing to fuck she hadn't asked. "I see."

"Anyway," he said, "McEwan thinks you did it to wind him up."

"Yeah, everything I do is about Joe McEwan."

McAskill eyed her with earnest admiration. "You did it for her, didn't you, for your pal?"

Maureen didn't want to talk about her motive just yet. She had been doing it for Siobhain and the other women right up to the moment when she ran forward and nutted him. "Yeah. A bit. Anyway," she said, scratching her scalp, digging her nails deep into the skin, "Joe's annoyed but he's not coming after me for anything?"

"No, we couldn't prove anything. The guy's a mess but he's got LSD all over his mouth and in his throat. We can't say he didn't take it himself. All we had was a drunk man in a chip shop who saw three strange women. The prints on the note are useless. There's nothing we could do."

"God, I was lucky," she said, almost to herself.

"Aye, you're that, all right," he said. "He fell over by the way, smashed his nose."

A hot blush rose up the back of her neck. "I'm sorry to hear that," she said perfunctorily.

"Do ye want a biscuit?" He leaned over, snatched the plate away from the young man and held them out to her. The chocolate was bitter and dark and so thick that when her teeth sank into it they caused a tiny vacuum. "God in heaven," she said. "They're lovely."

"Aye," said McAskill, looking lovingly at his biscuit. "We get these every week."

"Where is he now?"

"Who, Joe?"

"No, the guy from the exotic holiday destination."

"In Sunny field."

"The mental hospital?"

He shook his head solemnly. "It's not a mental hospital, it's a state mental hospital."

"What's the difference?"

"The public gives a damn about people in mental hospitals."

"Didn't think it would last that long. It's been five days."

"Yeah," said McAskill, "ye can't tell how long LSD'll take. Anyway, he's been charged, so he's going nowhere."

The Englishwoman in the black suit opened a little door in the wall. It led to a wooden spiral staircase. "That's us, everyone," she said. "That's eight o'clock."

The waiting crowd picked up their cups of tea and made their way, single file, up the stairs. "Sure you won't come?"

"Naw, Hugh, another time."

"You might enjoy it."

"Yeah, there's some stuff going on in my family ... If I come upstairs I'll just have to think about it and my head might burst."

McAskill looked at her respectfully. "I doubt that somehow. Come back though, eh? If only for the biscuits."

She poked him softly in the ribs. "I'll come back to see you."

He grinned. "You do that."

He watched her as she walked out into the brightly lit alley and pulled the door closed behind her.

Chapter 38

ANGUS

Siobhain had been shopping with her roll of Douglas's money and bought a television with a thirty-two-inch screen. It had a video machine built into the body, detachable stereo speakers and its own matching matte black stand. It dwarfed everything else in her living room. Even the gas fire on the wall looked like a toy next to the monster telly. Leslie uncoiled the flex and plugged it in. Maureen stepped forward to turn it on. "No," said Siobhain. "Watch."

She took the remote control out of the plastic bag, fitted the batteries into it and pressed a button. The magnificent television came to life. They stood back and looked at it.

"Wow," said Leslie. "I'm not mad keen on TV but that is a thing of fucking beauty."

"Don't swear," said Siobhain, reading the instructions for her remote control.

"Eh?"

"I said don't swear, not in my house. There's no need for bad language."

She played with the remote, skipping backward and forward between channels, increasing and decreasing the volume and color at each stop, oblivious to Leslie, who was flicking the vickies at her behind her back.

"And it goes like a five-bob rocket, as well," said Maureen, trying to keep the peace. She looked at Siobhain, not knowing if it was the right time. She reached into her bag and pulled out the corner of the videotape, showing it to Leslie. Leslie nodded softly. "I'll just go for a quick hit-and-miss," she said jauntily, and disappeared into the bathroom.

"Siobhain," said Maureen, "I want to show you a videotape. It's something I got off the telly last night. D'you want to see it?"

"Okay."

Maureen took out the tape and put it into the machine. "It's got a picture of Angus on it," she said.

"Angus who?" said Siobhain, still absorbed by the remote.

"Angus Farrell."

"Oh."

Maureen was expecting a bigger response, tears or a fit of muteness, but not this casual disinterest. She put the tape in anyway.

"Is it rewound?" asked Siobhain.

"Yeah, just turn it on."

Siobhain changed to the video channel and pressed Play. The woman newsreader looked nineteen eighty-fourish on the enormous screen. The footage showed slow-motion detail of Angus being led from a big stone doorway into a waiting police van. He was handcuffed to a police escort. His nose was flattened to the side like a boxer's and he didn't have his glasses on. His mouth was hanging open. The voice-over said he had been charged with murdering Douglas Brady and another man. He was to be held at Sunnyfield state mental hospital on a temporary basis for further treatment. Carol Brady came on and said tearfully that she was grateful to the police for all their sterling work and she just wanted to be left alone with her family now. The report ended and a black line rose swiftly up the screen, wiping the picture away.

"It's broken," said Siobhain, and banged the remote with the flat of her hand, changing the channel to a documentary about skiing.

"No, Siobhain," said Maureen. "That's it. I stopped taping at that point."

It took a minute for the information to register. "Oh," said Siobhain. "Is it all there is on that tape?"

"Yes, that's the end of the story."

"But if I put on a different tape it will be all right?"

"Yeah."

"All right, then."

She took the full instruction booklet out of the big box and started reading it. Maureen coughed. Siobhain glanced over at her feet and went back to her reading. For a long shaky moment Maureen thought she'd got the wrong guy.

"So," said Maureen. "How do you feel about Angus now?"

Siobhain shrugged. "He can't hurt me now."

Maureen breathed a sigh of relief. "That's right." She smiled encouragingly. "He can't hurt you because he's in a prison hospital and he'll be staying there for a long time."

"No," said Siobhain disagreeably, looking at Maureen as if she were stupid. "He can't hurt me because I have friends now, because I have you and Leslie to look after me."

"Well, yes," nodded Maureen, "yes. There's that too."

Siobhain went back to her reading.

"Hoi, Mauri," called Leslie from the hall. "Let's get tae fuck out of here or we'll miss the police changing shifts."

"Yeah." Maureen stood up. "We're away, then."

Siobhain said good-bye without looking up.

Out on the street Leslie handed Maureen a helmet. "Did you get water?" she said.

"Yeah, it's in the tub," said Maureen, tapping the plastic pot of paste in the open luggage box. Next to it were the posters.

"That's shit paper," said Leslie. "It'll melt like toilet paper if it rains."

"Yeah, but it cost next to nothing and it doesn't need to last forever."

"Far be it from me to say this," said Leslie, slipping on her helmet, "but Siobhain's a prick."

Maureen scratched her head miserably. "Leslie," she said, "you're right." She did up the helmet strap under her chin.

"To be honest," said Leslie, "I liked her better when she was scared shitless and couldn't talk."

"She thinks we're her big mates now. She said she knew she'd be safe because she's got us to look after her."

"Oh, fuck," said Leslie, and bit her lip.

Maureen sighed. "I wanted to make a single heroic gesture. I didn't want to be her mum."

Leslie laughed and swung her leg over the seat, knocked the stand away with her heel and kick-started the bike, revving the engine. "Annie taught me an effective technique for dealing with needy people like that."

"Yeah?" said Maureen, pleasantly surprised by Leslie's tolerant attitude. "What's that?" She slipped onto the back of the bike and wrapped her arms around Leslie's waist.

"Tell them to fuck off," said Leslie, and pulled into the stream of traffic in Duke Street.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

With thanks to the Media and Information Service of the Strathclyde Police Department, Glasgow Women's Aid Collective and Ian Mitchell and Jon Redshaw of the Durham Constabulary for their invaluable help in researching this book. Further thanks are due to Rachel Calder, Marina Cianfanelli and Katrina Whone for their encouragement and guidance, without which I would have given up. Most of all to Stephen Evans for his grace, patience and good humor during months of early-morning typing feet away from the bed in which he was trying to sleep.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Denise Mina is the author of the Garnethill trilogy—Garnethill, Exile, and Resolution—as well as the acclaimed novels Deception, Field of Blood, The Dead Hour, and Slip of the Knife. She lives in Glasgow with her family.

Also by the author

Garnethill
1. Garnethill (1998)
2. Exile (2000)
3. Resolution (2001)
Paddy Meehan
1. The Field of Blood (2005)
2. The Dead Hour (2006)
3. Slip of the Knife (2007)
aka The Last Breath
Novels
Sanctum (2002)
aka Deception