by Jane Renshaw
Phil had burst out laughing, and pointed out that that just went to show that she did have the qualities required – ‘Fake it till you make it,’ he’d chuckled. ‘I love it. If you can fool those bastards in selection, you can fool anyone.’
The problem was that, in the field, it sometimes took all she had not to give in to panic. It was as if there was this great big ocean of panic waiting for her, just out of sight, and she was constantly trying to fling herself into it; constantly having to pull herself back.
Breathe. Breathe.
Well, she’d wanted the fear back, hadn’t she?
Bingo.
She gave it a couple more minutes before returning to the cupboard and fishing out the album, pleased to find that her hands were now steady. Photographs of people and animals, mainly. A model-beautiful woman featured a lot, blonde and groomed, but often mugging at the camera, not taking herself too seriously. In one, she was standing on a lawn – one of the lawns here? – with a small child apparently held between finger and thumb. It was a trick of perspective, of course – the little boy was standing in the distance, and whoever had taken the photo must have guided her as to where to position her hand so it looked like she was holding a miniature child. The boy was laughing, delighted by the whole thing. This was presumably Damian, and his mother, Hector’s stepmother? Who wasn’t around any more, the DCI had said, although he hadn’t elaborated on what had happened to her.
On the next page was a much younger Hector, sitting outside at a table, a small blond child on his knee. It was the same boy as in the other photograph, but younger, maybe two or three years old. Hector wasn’t looking at the child, he was reaching for something on the table, but the boy was looking up at him in the unselfconscious way of very small children, adoration plain on his face for all to see, and Hector had a protective arm around him to hold him securely as he reached over –
She snapped shut the album and replaced it in the box.
There was just one framed photograph on display in the bedroom, on the mantelpiece. Hector was holding a sign handwritten in marker pen saying ‘0 days since I ate all the carrot cake and tried to blame Mrs Mac. I know it’s wrong but I just don’t care.’ – in imitation, she assumed, of those dog-shaming photos on the internet.
She stood staring at it for a long moment.
He wasn’t smiling. He was looking at the camera blankly but slightly wide-eyed, like the dogs did in all those photos. Entering into the spirit of the joke.
She turned and walked to the door.
She really didn’t want to be thinking what she was thinking.
As she was passing the library she heard laughter. Canned laughter. A TV. She knocked lightly on the door and poked her head into the room, expecting to see him, Hector, but the only person in the room was a girl in a big jumper and leggings, lounging on the saggy purple velvet sofa in front of the crackling stove.
The girl zapped off the TV.
And Claire realised she’d seen her before. It was the girl who’d run out in front of her on the day of the interview. The girl she’d almost knocked over. Claire was good with faces, but she only just recognised her. She looked completely different. Her hair was tied back into a little stump of a ponytail, and the black dye was growing out. Around her face, the natural brunette colour was being allowed to return and she was wearing no make-up, her face paler and gaunter than Claire remembered. She looked ill, in fact, with dark circles under her eyes and a crop of spots around her mouth.
‘Hello,’ Claire Colley said.
‘Hi. Are you Claire? I’m Karen – Karen DeCicco. I’m like your dogsbody.’ She gave Claire a little hesitant smile, her fingers picking at the hem of her jumper.
So this was the girl who’d found John’s body.
Why was Claire suddenly thinking Dawn?
She was nothing like Dawn Reynolds. Dawn had had thin, fluffy blonde hair and that chirpiness, that volubility that had been so irritating, that loud, whooping laugh... And she’d been so pushy, always wanting to be part of the group, always calling out to you when she saw you in the corridor and you pretended not to see her.
Claire shook off the memory and smiled at the girl. ‘Just what I’ve always wanted! Good to meet you.’
‘I’m allowed to come in here and get warm.’
Claire could see the appeal. It was warm in here, and all nice and Christmassy. In one corner there was a real pine tree, covered in delicate Victorian glass ornaments, filling the room with its scent. There were Christmas cards on the mantelpiece and most of the other surfaces, and neatly arranged in holders hanging from the carved friezes that ran along the tops of the glass-fronted bookcases
‘Quite right,’ she said heartily. ‘It’s probably contravening all sorts of employment regulations to make people work at that low a temperature. But maybe when you’re in here thawing out you could do a bit of... dusting or something instead of watching TV?’
A flicker of a spark animated the thin face. ‘Are you asserting your authority?’
Claire laughed. Karen was definitely nothing like Dawn. Despite all her chatter, Dawn had been dull as dishwater – she could talk for an hour and never say a single interesting or amusing thing.
‘I’m attempting to,’ said Claire.
‘I’m multitasking. Threading needles.’ There was a sewing box, full of cotton reels and trimmings and buttons, open on the sofa next to her. ‘For Mrs Mac. She can’t like see to thread them? And she always has to have two of each colour ready threaded, so...’
‘Okay.’ This sounded dubious.
‘But will you be doing the darning and stuff now?’
God. ‘Well, we’ll see. I wouldn’t want to step on Mrs MacIver’s toes.’
‘Nope, you definitely wouldn’t want to do that.’
It wouldn’t do to let the dogsbody walk all over her. Claire gave her a repressive look. ‘I’ve an appointment to see Mrs MacIver this morning, actually. Her flat is upstairs?’
‘Up the stairs opposite this room, turn right, carry on to the end of the corridor.’
The top floor of the house was very plainly decorated, with off-white paint on both walls and woodwork, the corridor illuminated at intervals by hexagonal cupola-type rooflights set into the ceiling. There was a different atmosphere up here, a smell of dry dusty wood and something faintly aromatic – lavender? The disused nursery, she knew, was to her left, dust covers over all the furniture. Walking along the corridor in the other direction, she passed old servants’ bedrooms, apparently mostly now used for storage, full of furniture and boxes and old lampshades and paint pots. Their little dormer windows gave a series of glimpses of the hills and the sky, but there was a claustrophobic feeling up here, not helped by the low ceilings and the long stretch of corridor.
It was almost as if she wasn’t in the same house any more, or as if she’d wandered through a portal to a future in which the place would be abandoned.
Following the owner’s conviction for murder, perhaps.
If he really was involved in drug dealing, surely this would be the place to keep his stash rather than the boathouse? She could do a search at some point.
At the door at the end of the corridor, she knocked and called out: ‘Mrs MacIver? It’s Claire Colley.’
‘Well then, come in,’ came the muffled response.
Letting herself in, Claire was hit by a welcome wall of heat. She glimpsed a small kitchen on the left and two bedrooms on the right, before the corridor opened out into a large rectangular space with windows on three sides. The walls were crammed with pictures – mainly photographs and needlework – and the room was stuffed with furniture, lots of chairs and little tables arranged like in a hotel lounge. Mrs Mac sat in a big armchair beside a glowing coal fire, knitting, a ball of pale yellow wool on her lap. There was a massive TV on a table on the other side of the fireplace, blaring out the theme tune for Escape to the Country.
‘Is this a good time...?’ Claire Colley gave the older woman
a submissive little smile.
‘As good as any. Sit ye doon.’
She took the chair next to the TV on the other side of the fireplace. Maybe she should have brought a notepad and pen? Mrs Mac muted the TV and looked her up and down.
‘You have a lovely flat,’ Claire tried.
In a cabinet by the fireplace were dozens of ceramic hedgehogs – Mrs Tiggywinkle featured prominently, but there were also lots of more naturalistic depictions. Several were salt and pepper pots. This explained ‘hedgehog’ in Hector’s Christmas list.
‘Hmmph,’ said Mrs Mac.
‘You must have worked here for... many years?’ Was that rude?
‘A fair filie.’ She set aside her knitting. ‘I’ve plenty tae tell ye about runnin the hoose, and the wye we dee things here micht nae be fit ye’re eased tell. There’s six hunner ears o history here and at needs tae be respekkit. Ye canna jist tak the hoover tae fabric at’s two hunner ears al. If ye’re vacuuming al curtains, ye need tae tak em doon and lie em flat and use a bit o muslin nettin. Taks a bit o getting eased tell, a place like ess, but yer biggest problem wi’oot a doot is gaan tae be the quine. Karen. That quine hisna the wet she wis born wi. She hisna lifted a haan since she got here bit she’s managed tae brak a Chinese vase, a hoover and three glaises.’ She shook her head and sucked in her breath. ‘She jist seems tae fooner aboot aa the time. But ye’ll hae dealt wi her kin afore?’ She looked at Claire suspiciously.
‘Um...’ She’d understood about ten per cent of that. ‘Sorry, I didn’t quite catch that...?’
‘Are ye deif?’
‘Sorry?’
‘Are you deaf?’ the old woman shouted.
‘No, sorry, I – what’s the language you’re speaking?’
The old woman’s mouth dropped open. ‘It’s good Scots.’
‘Right, yes, um, I’m afraid I can’t quite make out what you’re saying? Would it be possible to... um...’
‘If I canna speak my mother tongue two miles from where I was born and bred, where can I speak it?’
‘I’m sorry. I’m sure I’ll soon pick it up, but –’
A sniff. ‘There’s nothing worse than an English person trying to speak Scots. They start with “aye” and “wee”, then they “ken” this and “ken” that – and putting on a daft voice the while.’
‘I wouldn’t dare attempt that.’ Claire smiled. And God, why would she want to? It sounded ridiculous. ‘I meant I’ll maybe start to understand more, the more I hear it.’
Mrs Mac shook her head. ‘A specialist team – of conservators – comes in once a month – to see to the more fragile antiques.’ She spoke slowly, as if to an idiot. ‘But if you’re needing to vacuum the curtains or any other old fabric, you’ll need to lay it flat and use a muslin screen.’
‘Yes, of course.’ What the hell was a muslin screen?
‘But Karen is going to be your main problem.’
‘Oh.’ Somehow Claire doubted that.
‘She’s a lazy bizzum and clumsy with it. Any of the fragile china you need to deal wi’ yourself.’ Mrs Mac shook her head. ‘You’re to get two days off a week, but nae necessarily at the weekend, because Mr Forbes is sociable and likes to entertain. You’ll need to be here affa late – very late – tomorrow because he’s having a dinner party.’
Oh God.
‘But you can have Sunday and Monday off. Then it’s the Christmas holidays and everything will be to pot. On the twentieth to twenty-second of December there’s to be a big country house party at Aucharblet, the estate that neighbours Pitfourie. Mr Jarvie’s estate. He’s our MP. A great friend of the Al’ – the Old Laird. They’re having a party to celebrate the engagement of his daughter Perdita. You’ll need to go along and help out, as will Karen.’
Like something from Downton Abbey.
‘So Karen works here full-time? What exactly is her job description?’
‘She’s to do the cleaning and anything else she’s asked to. There’s three other quines – girls – come in aboot – come in on a part-time basis, and there’s Jill Brown from Kirkton does most of the laundry. It’s nae your job to do the cleaning or the laundry, except for some of the delicates and some of the more fragile thingies.’ Thank God. ‘And dinna you listen to that Karen if she tries to tell you different. But you’ll need to supervise it all. Damian has a system for the cleaning – I’ll leave that to him to explain to you. Different coloured cloths for different jobs... Oh aye, he’s a rare system.’ She nodded. ‘Tesco deliver food once a week but Damian deals with all that. I’m nae a computer person. But you’ll need to do a lot of local shopping in Kirkton and in Aboyne and Ballater, because they like to support the local shoppies. The chiel – Damian – is all for this healthy eating and flexitarian nonsense, eating vegan food a few times a week. And aye, I’m sure he’s right and it’s healthier and better for the environment, but Mr Forbes likes a gran’ bit o’ mait – a nice bit of meat. There’s a good butcher in Ballater. But Damian will take you through aa – all that’s needed and where to get it.’
‘Okay...’
‘You dinna touch Mr Forbes’s room or the chiel’s. Damian deals with those. And dinna go touching any of the musical instruments in the Terrace Room. Damian –’
‘– deals with those,’ Claire finished.
Mrs Mac beetled her brows.
But what on earth? The disabled brother, who’d just turned seventeen a few days ago, was more or less running the household? Talk about exploitation. That poor kid.
10
Karen hated Damian so much. As she emptied the bucket containing the toilet brushes into the ‘Dirty Sink’ and tipped the regulation capful of eco disinfectant in after them, and watched it foam up in the stream of water from the huge old brass taps, she fantasised about shoving one of those brushes where the sun didn’t shine.
The scullery was even more freezing than the rest of the house. She leant over the sink to get the benefit of the hot steam rising off the water. There were four huge old Belfast sinks in the scullery, all in a row, and on the wall above each one was a varnished notice telling you what to wash in it.
DIRTY SINK
Please use this sink to wash anything toilet-related, incl. toilet brushes and their holders, and the old toothbrushes used to clean the above. Also dirty tools; anything oily; bird feeders, dishes and baths; clarty boots, shoes, gaiters and overtrousers; and anything else germy or manky.
Brown and yellow cloths should be left in this sink to steep overnight with disinfectant (one capful to 10 litres) and then washed by hand or ON THEIR OWN in the dirty washing machine.
Please leave the ‘dirty’ sink as clean as you found it. It’s a label, not an instruction.
Thank you ☺
The smiley, she assumed, was ironic.
It’s a label, not an instruction.
Hilarious.
He’d gone apeshit when he’d found all the cloths together steeping in this sink, including – shock, horror! – the blue and pink ones. Well, as apeshit as Damian ever went. He wasn’t a shouter. His weapon of choice was sarcasm.
And then off he swanned to school, leaving her with, literally, all the shit.
And this was the last day of term, so next week she’d have him breathing down her neck the whole time. At least tomorrow was Saturday, the day of Mum’s ‘Christmas soiree’. Karen was secretly really looking forward to seeing Mum and Bill and Mollie. She wouldn’t ever admit it to anyone, but she did sometimes get just a tiny bit homesick, even though it was totally amazing and unbelievable and brilliant that she was living with Ade at Moss of Kinty now.
She looked at her watch. Quarter to eleven. She had to meet Ade in the boathouse at eleven. She’d told him she might not be able to get away because of the new housekeeper, but Ade had said she had to start as she meant to go on and be assertive and insist on proper breaks. But Claire was probably going to be stuck up in Mrs Mac’s flat for at least an hour anyway, so being assertive and making it even m
ore likely she’d be sacked wasn’t going to be necessary. She could just go, spend maybe half an hour with Ade, and be back before anyone knew she was missing.
She had kind of hinted to Ade that she’d rather meet somewhere else instead of the pond because it still had bad memories for her, but he thought it did her good to overlay those with good ones. It was, after all, where they had first met, ‘so it should have some nice associations, Kaz, yes?’
And, of course, he was right.
◆◆◆
She remembered every single detail of that momentous day. She’d been skiving off work, wandering about in the arboretum feeling sorry for herself because it was the tattie holidays and if she’d still been at school she’d have had two weeks of freedom. She’d seen smoke coming from the boathouse chimney and hoped it might be Anna. Anna sometimes wrote her novel in there.
At the boathouse, she’d pushed open the door but instead of Anna there had been a strange man sitting in the blue chair, his feet in grey woolly socks resting on the slate hearth. The door of the stove was open and bits of ash had fallen out. She’d put his age at maybe thirty-five (which just went to show how rubbish she was at people’s ages because he was actually twenty-eight). He had designer stubble and shoulder-length hair and amazing eyes, light green but with a dark ring round the outside of the iris, like a leopard’s. He wasn’t handsome, at least not conventionally, not like Damian or Hector – he had no cheekbones and a wonky broken nose and a crooked front tooth on display when he smiled.
But he had what Susie called sexiosity.
‘Um, excuse me,’ was all she could think of to say.
‘Certainly,’ he said. ‘Don’t mind me.’
‘No, I mean, excuse me, but what are you doing?’
He had the packet of chocolate digestives open and it looked like he’d eaten half of them. There was a steaming mug of tea on the bamboo table next the chair. He was reading one of the old paperbacks from the bookcase.
