by James Oswald
‘Place down on Leith Walk. Big old house. It’s—’
‘You know Madame Rose?’ Harrison’s entire posture changes in an instant. ‘How on earth?’
‘Madame’ has me a bit perplexed, but I’ll take common ground wherever I can find it.
‘I was going to say the same thing. She’s an old friend of the family, apparently. I only met her briefly, last year. My aunt’s known her all her life though.’
It’s almost as if I’ve passed a test I didn’t know I was taking. Harrison’s stiff shoulders relax, but Manda looks puzzled.
‘Madame Rose?’ she asks. ‘The strange old wifey who does the fortune telling?’
That’s a new one on me. ‘I thought she dealt in old books and weird antiques.’
‘She does both,’ Harrison says. ‘And has a habit of getting involved in things she shouldn’t have anything to do with. The boss seems to like her though, so I guess she’s OK. Once you get past the whole transgender thing.’
‘It took me by surprise first time I met her, I’ll agree. But we’re all calling her “she”, so that’s something. What’s all this “Madame”, though? I just know her as Rose.’ And it hits me as I say so that it’s true. I don’t even know her surname, and for some unaccountable reason I’ve never thought to ask.
‘That’s what she calls herself. Least, that’s what the boss told me.’ Harrison’s puzzled frown suggests she’s having much the same thoughts as I am. ‘Never really questioned it before.’
‘Well, you two can puzzle it out, since you’re both detectives.’ Manda shuffles to the end of her seat and stands. ‘I’m off to the bar. Want another, Con?’
I was only going to spend a half hour or so in the pub. Just long enough for a pint, see the old place, and then probably walk half the way home before opting for a taxi instead. It’s much later when I step out into the cold night air, Harrison and her flatmate Manda close behind. I’m glad I worked out they were just flatmates before putting my foot in it by assuming more to their relationship. That could have been embarrassing.
‘You want to come up for a coffee?’ Manda asks as we all start walking in the same direction. Then she gets the giggles. I suspect she’s had more to drink than I have.
‘Thanks, but I’d best be getting back. Don’t want to find out you’re living in my old flat or something either. There’s way too much coincidence going on in my life right now.’
‘Number thirty. Top floor left.’ Harrison points at the side street we’re approaching.
‘Thirty-two. Top floor right. Thank Christ for a party wall, eh?’
I leave the two of them pondering that, and set off down the hill towards the Meadows. It seems better than drawn-out goodbyes. The night has deepened, cooler air condensing into a fog. What was that word for it? Haar, that’s right. Rolling in off the Forth and blanketing the city for days on end. Not something I’d missed, to be honest, although the Northamptonshire fogs could be thick enough to bounce off sometimes.
Many thoughts batter around my beer-fuzzed head as I walk back towards Rose’s house. Not least the woman herself. I know Edinburgh’s a lot smaller than London, but it seems oddly suspicious that the pub I visit just happens to be frequented by someone else who knows her, even though that pub is on the opposite side of the city. Part of me feels like I’ve been set up for that meeting, but I can’t make the logic work. Even I didn’t know I was going to go back to my old local, so how could ‘Madame’ Rose? She’s a fortune teller and reader of tarots, apparently, so maybe she consulted the cards. That makes as much sense as anything.
By the time I reach Leith Walk and turn down the side street that will take me to the house, all fuzziness has gone, and I’m starving. There’s a good fish and chip shop not far from here, but I don’t think my host would be too pleased at me trailing the smell of brown sauce into her elegant home. Much less a pickled egg and haggis supper. Instead, I take my haul back to my car, and sit with the engine running and the heaters turned up to full while I eat. I know I’ll regret the can of Irn-Bru, this late in the evening. It’s a tradition though.
Rose is waiting for me in the hallway as I enter, and I can’t help but wonder if she’s not been standing there for hours, perfectly positioned in the shadows to scare the living crap out of me.
‘Did you enjoy your evening?’ She phrases it as a question, and yet somehow I know it’s not meant to be answered. And when she follows up with ‘Have you had anything to eat? I can rustle up an omelette if you’re hungry,’ I know she can smell the vinegar on my breath. I’ve cleaned my hands with a couple of wet wipes from the car, but even so I wipe them on my front in a manner my mother would describe as most unladylike.
‘I’m fine, thanks. Met a friend of yours, actually. Detective Constable Harrison?’
I’m studying her face for any tell that she knew this would happen, but I’d be as well looking at a mannequin. The make-up conceals all, and even her smile is inscrutable.
‘Janie? How wonderful. She’s a fine officer.’ Rose clasps her hands together over her ample bosom. ‘But it’s late, is it not? We should both try to get some rest, I think. Tomorrow will be a busy day.’
‘It will?’ I have things planned, but there’s no way my hostess can know about them, surely. And I get the feeling they are not what she’s talking about.
‘Indeed it will, my dear. I’ve had word from your aunt, and a short letter from your mother. Lady Angela and I don’t often communicate, which makes me think the situation is far more grave than even I had imagined.’
Maybe it’s the beer, maybe it’s the hastily consumed haggis supper. It could even be the Irn-Bru, but whatever it is, I feel as if I’ve strayed into some amateur dramatic society melodrama. I am feeling tired though, so the caffeine hasn’t kicked in yet, or the sugar.
‘Grave?’ I ask. ‘I’m not sure I understand.’
‘The press, my dear. How they are hounding you, making it impossible for you to carry out your duties as an officer of the law. But no matter. I will help you where I can. Here. Your mother sent this.’ Rose puts a large hand into the pocket of her tweed jacket and pulls out a battered old spectacle case. I’d quite forgotten about it, must have left it behind when I met Masters. How unlike my mother to be so thoughtful as to send them on. I open up the case, not sure whether to expect a note or not. There isn’t one, just those same old spectacles with their clear lenses and timeless lack of fashionability. Sliding them on feels like pulling on a disguise. From Superman to Clark Kent.
‘Very fetching.’ Rose takes a step back and tilts her head the better to see me. ‘Now go get some rest and I’ll see you for breakfast tomorrow. Eight o’clock sharp. Then we can both go into town and do some shopping. I know just the place.’
I do as I’m told. I can’t not. It’s like I’m a little child again, only without the tantrums. Upstairs, my room is tidy, the bed turned down as if this was a posh hotel and even more inviting. Washed and pyjamaed, it’s only as I’m reaching over to switch off the light that I realise I never asked Rose about her name.
22
Going to town with Rose reminds me horribly of being taken to London by my mother when I was a little girl. Then it was to buy my uniform and everything else I’d need for my first term at St Humbert’s, and we visited a succession of tiny little shops run by elderly ladies who moved very slowly and fetched everything from the back, unpacking boxes, showing their contents, and then meticulously folding them and putting them away again. I remember the early excitement at going to the big city slowly ebbing away until I was simply bored, and embarrassed by the attention. And horrified by the dowdiness of the clothes I was expected to wear, too.
Rose takes me to remarkably similar shops, and the clothes she selects for me would make my teenage self scream and rebel. At least now I can remind myself that this is a disguise. Its entire purpose is to not be me, and the
se unfashionable clothes are relatively cheap, although nothing seems to have a price tag on it. Rose’s presence brings out the philanthropist in each of the shopkeepers we encounter. Either that or we’ve fallen through a time warp into the early eighties. That might explain some of the fashions, too.
And finally we enter the last place on the list, the wig maker. It’s brighter than the other shops, but still feels like something from a bygone era. The lady behind the counter greets Rose like an old friend, and they chat for what feels like an age before finally turning to the matter at hand – me.
‘I had in mind something a bit past the shoulders, full and flowing.’
Rose sits me in a chair almost like one in an old-fashioned hairdresser’s. There’s a mirror directly in front of me, and I watch her reflection and that of the sales assistant as they discuss my short-cropped locks. I’ve not quite gone the full shaven head yet, although I will if it means I’ll not be recognised.
‘We could get a good match to this red. Is it natural?’ The sales assistant very gingerly takes some strands between her fingers and rubs them together. Of course there’s no dye in my hair, but her surprise is amusing to see. ‘Oh my. What an unusual shade.’
‘I was thinking maybe something to make me look a bit older?’ I recall my conversation with my mother. ‘Perhaps a mix of brown and grey.’
‘Yes, yes. I think we can do something.’ The assistant gives my hair a last fondle, which I suspect is quite unconscious, then hurries off to the back of the shop. I listen to the sound of drawers being pulled out and pushed back in again, cupboard doors being opened and closed, and then she’s back. Draped over one arm are what look like several dead animals, but with a deftness borne of many years practice, she whips one up into a shape more like what I’m expecting, then brings it down over my head with a flourish.
‘Of course, this’ll look better with a wig cap on first, but it should give you the idea.’ She smooths the locks over my head with firm but gentle fingers, then fluffs up the hair so it spreads over my shoulders. It feels strange, warm on my scalp as if I’m wearing a woolly hat indoors. The weight is reassuring rather than irksome, and the effect in the mirror is amazing. It’s like another person staring back at me.
‘I’ll have to do something with my eyebrows.’ I lean forward, focusing on the thin, dark-red strips. ‘Shouldn’t be too obvious though.’
‘Once Jeanette here’s done with you, even I won’t recognise you, dear.’ Madame Rose stands behind me and studies my reflection too, then reaches out and tweaks the long tumbles of hair a little more. ‘But then that is the point, isn’t it.’
‘Well, I think that’s all gone rather well, don’t you?’
When I left the house with Rose this morning, I expected to return weighed down with bags. Or at the very least carrying something to show for the hammering my credit card was inevitably going to take. As it turns out, the trip has been less expensive than I expected, and I have nothing to show for it. I’m once more reminded of my mother’s shopping trip when outfitting me for boarding school. I came away from that with very little to show for the hours of boredom, but over the course of the next few days a number of parcels arrived at Harston Magna Hall with my name on them. I wasn’t allowed to open them; instead my mother would spirit them away to the room where she had laid out all the things I would need for my new life. My final humiliation was being made to fold and pack everything into my trunk repeatedly until it was done to a standard befitting someone of my stature. I can still remember the agony of folding blouses, pleating skirts, making everything perfect, when all I wanted to do was run away into the woods.
To this day, I hate packing. Even if I am very good at it.
‘You’re daydreaming, my dear.’ Rose taps me gently on the knee with a black leather gloved hand, breaking into my trip down memory lane. We’re on a bus, even though the distance from the wig maker back to the house is not far. I could walk it in ten minutes.
‘Just remembering old times.’
‘Happy memories, I hope.’ Rose doesn’t make it a question, so I don’t feel any great need to answer.
‘Do you have a plan, then?’ This time it is a question.
‘It’s a tricky one. I’m not on active duty, so technically I shouldn’t be poking my nose into anything.’
Rose gives me a look that I’ve seen all too many times before. It’s fair enough, even I don’t believe myself. I have to say it out loud though, kid myself that I’ve at least considered my actions and where they might lead.
‘I really should go and visit Mrs Jones. The young lad’s mother. You know, the one I found round the back of my apartment block in London?’
Rose nods, but says nothing more. Like a rookie, I fall for her silence.
‘I figure since I was the one who found him, it’s only right I let her know how he’s getting on. And if I can find anything out about him, why he ran away, who he hung out with before that? Well, so much the better. The local police haven’t had much luck.’
Rose smiles this time, nods, but again says nothing. I’m about to fill the noisy silence once more, but she reaches up and presses the call stop button before I can say anything.
‘I think we can walk from here.’
The bus stop is perhaps twenty metres from a line of modern, single-storey shops, behind which much older buildings climb several storeys. It’s only when Rose leads me to a door sandwiched between two empty shop fronts that I realise this is the back of her house, a covered stair leading up to the first floor. Faded writing above the doorway reads ‘Madame Rose. Fortunes Told, Tarots Read’, and I remember Harrison’s words from the night before.
‘So you really are a fortune teller then?’
Rose pauses a moment, her hand making the motion of opening over the old brass door handle. Do I hear a click of the lock? I can’t be sure over the traffic noise. Certainly when she finally grasps the handle and twists it, the door swings open.
‘This is one of many services I perform for the city. Folk need to know what the Fates have in store for them, even if sometimes they wish they didn’t.’
I can’t really say anything to that, and before I can think of a reply, Rose ushers me inside. We enter a narrow hall, leading directly to a wooden staircase, thin strip of threadbare carpet rising up its centre. There’s a stale smell of damp about the place that dissipates the higher we climb. It’s not dirty, but it feels grubbier, seedier somehow, than the house beyond.
At the top of the stairs, we pass through a small reception room with an elderly sofa pushed against one wall and an antique reception desk arranged beside the door that opens onto a large, cluttered study. The feel of this room is much more like the house I know, a calm falling over me as if I’d been anxious at being out in the wide world.
‘I sometimes carry out readings in here. The occasional seance,’ Rose says as we pause for a moment by a low, round table. Two chairs are tucked in under it, opposite each other, and in between them sits a crystal ball fully the size of my head, resting on a dark mahogany stand. Its interior shows only a distorted shape of the far side of the room.
‘Perhaps, my dear, I can see what the future holds for you.’ Rose places one large hand on the back of a chair, and for a moment I worry she’s going to pull it out, sit me down, make me stare into those glassy depths and pretend I can see anything at all. The occultism doesn’t surprise me; it’s written on her business card and all over her house. Clearly she believes in all this mystic stuff, but that doesn’t mean I have to.
‘Not now though. Now we have other things to deal with. Come.’
There is a door opposite the one we entered, and it opens onto the first-floor landing. No sooner have we stepped out of the seance room, as I’m now going to call it, than several of Madame Rose’s cats appear. They are obviously delighted to see her, and her them, but I’m transfixed by the view over
the railing into the hall, over by the inner front door. For there in a neat pile beside the ornate brass gong that is rung before suppertime stands a neat pile of parcels. Some are brown paper, tied with string, but some bear the logos of the shops we have so recently visited. As far as I’m aware, Rose lives here alone. I’ve never seen a cleaner, or a cook in the kitchen.
So who opened the door for the delivery? Who signed for it? And when did shops in Edinburgh start doing next-hour deliveries anyway?
23
The address I have for Daniel Jones’s mother is a grey-harled semi in a forgotten cul-de-sac at the back of a council housing estate in Broxburn that looks ripe for demolition and redevelopment. Given the way the city is expanding outwards at an alarming rate, I can’t imagine it will be long before the property speculators arrive.
A chill wind blows through me as I step out of the car. I look up to see a commercial jet struggle into the air from Edinburgh airport, just a few miles to the east. It rumbles like angry thunder, and above it, the low clouds are as grey as the cracked walls of the houses and the uneven paving slabs beneath my feet. For a moment it feels as if all the colour has been sucked out of the world, a monochrome existence guaranteed to crush the soul. Then I spot a couple of weed flowers poking out through a crack in the pavement. Their yellow petals are ragged and tiny, but cheerful all the same.
The houses to either side of Number Fifteen have modern double-glazed windows and mismatched front doors. One has paved over the tiny strip of front garden and now unidentified machines squat on it under patched and faded blue tarpaulins. The other might once have had a lawn, but it’s brown and dead now. A wooden kennel leans against the front of the house, chain looping out from a ring set into the wall. There is no dog though, just a collar in the mud.
Number Fifteen itself looks like no one has lived here in decades. Cracks in the harling seep brown, as if the house is bleeding from its wounds. In places the render has fallen off completely to reveal red brick behind, suppurating sores in its acne skin. I approach the door down a short path made of the same slabs as the pavement. The rest of the front garden is covered in gravel chips the colour of despair. The front window has a net curtain stretched across it, no light on inside. I didn’t call ahead to say I was coming, and now that I’m here that begins to feel like a rookie error. What if she’s gone to work?
