The dog appeared at the kitchen door and sat back on its haunches, wagging its tail, mouth open, tongue out, as if it was smiling.
He’d been here before, she thought. He knew the way to the kitchen. She judged the expectant look was for water.
And if he had been here before? And all of this work was done by Thomas? And the man on the other side of the door knew Thomas…
‘Paula,’ the man spoke through the letterbox again. ‘Please. My name is Anton Rusnak. Forgive my poor eyesight. I wasn’t sure that was you on the ferry or I would have said hello.’
This gave her a little relief. If he was to be believed, he hadn’t been giving her the evil eye, he was just trying to see her properly.
Silence. As if he was waiting for a response.
‘I know this must be strange,’ he said gently. ‘Let me explain you.’
She said nothing. Tried to work all of this out. Her mind wouldn’t let her.
‘Could you give dog some water, please? He will expect water.’ Pause. And with a smile in his voice. ‘His name is Bob. He is friendly.’
Not knowing what else to do, she obeyed his request: she walked through to the kitchen, found a breakfast bowl in a cupboard, held it under the sink tap and filled it, noting the shake of her hands as the water splashed over the brim onto her fingers, as she placed it on the floor.
She caught herself and thought: What the hell are you doing? She should be diving out the back door and running across the bay to the car to get the hell out of here.
The dog slurped noisily at the bowl. Paused to look up at her as if to say thanks and then went back to drinking.
She heard the squeak of the letterbox opening again.
‘Please. You can trust me, Paula. I was friend of Tommy’s. Can I explain?’
Pause.
The dog appeared from the kitchen and stared at her. And she realised she was going to have to open the door to let it out. And this man Anton would be there.
Should she find some weapon to defend herself? Should she run out the back door? If she did would she make it back to the café before he pounced?
But then she wouldn’t find out what he had to say … and she acknowledged now that she needed to hear exactly what it was that was happening here.
She turned and unlocked the door, her body tensed, ready to escape.
‘No funny business,’ she said. ‘I know karate and I know exactly where to aim to make you hurt.’
The man called Anton held his hands up, an expression of apology on his face. ‘Do you mind if I come in?’
‘No, absolutely not. Come in and tell me what the hell is going on.’ She fought to disguise the trepidation in her voice, finishing with a high note of false laughter.
He entered. The dog appeared and stood by his side.
‘I am builder. I helped Tommy…’ the large man scanned the room ‘…with all of this.’ Shrug. ‘Then we became friends. Spent a few evenings chewing fat, as you say. Having drinks.’ He laughed. ‘I couldn’t persuade him on Polish Vodka, but I was happy to try whisky.’
So, while she thought Thomas was away on business, he was here getting pissed with a Polish builder? Was that who this man really was? Paula studied him, remembering the look he gave her on the ferry.
Anton reached into his inside pocket and pulled out a pair of black-rimmed spectacles. He put them on and then looked at her as if seeing her for the first time. ‘There,’ he beamed. ‘Now I can see pretty lady.’ And Paula struggled to see any trace of the man she’d noticed staring at her.
He was a large-framed man, with the beginnings of a belly. He wore a weathered face, topped with a head of hair that wouldn’t look out of place on an industrial brush. And his eyes, now behind frames, appeared completely benign.
‘Yes, I did much of work. He did much of talking. My wife and I…’ his face grew sombre ‘…also lost a son. Gregor. He committed suicide three years ago. My first-born. I light candle for him still, every Sunday. Tommy and me, we had much in common with such tragedy. It is nice to finally meet you, Paula. I hear so much it feels like I know you.’ He pointed to the sofa as if suggesting that they should sit. Feeling her neck stiff with tension Paula nodded her agreement, but stayed standing herself, her hand on the open door, ready to flee.
Was she being silly? Overcautious? She breathed, forced herself to relax a little, then examined him for a long moment and finally closed the door and took a seat. Thomas, I’m trusting you here, she thought. If you get me killed…
‘I’m alone in a house I didn’t know my husband had, with a friend I never knew he had,’ she said, trying to hide the slight tremble in her voice. ‘Perhaps you could tell me more?’ She wanted to exude confidence but knew she was failing.
‘Okay,’ he said as he crossed his right leg over his left, suggesting he was completely at home. Just how much time had he spent here? ‘You have a wedding anniversary in a few weeks. Thirty years, yes? This…’ he held his arms out in an expansive gesture ‘…was your present.’
Paula’s hand moved to hover over her heart. Thomas was giving her their dream cottage. She bit her lip.
Anton’s face grew sombre. ‘He said he had not been great husband recently and that making up meant … would take something big. Grand.’ As he said this, Anton made a gesture with his right hand the way a head waiter might indicate a dish of which he was particularly proud. ‘He was going to retire early and make you happy lady.’
‘Oh my God,’ said Paula, thinking that she had been right after all. ‘He was?’ She closed her eyes tightly. Then a thought. ‘How did you know I would be on that ferry?’
‘That was luck. I have business in Glasgow and I was coming home.’ He made a face as if to say there was nothing more to it than that. ‘The plan, if it was ever necessary, was to find you in car park of tearoom. Tommy knew you would come over to throw ash in the bay. I walk dog there every day, so is easy. He knew you would use his car.’ He formed an expression of appreciation. ‘Everything he say come true. He was clever man, your Tommy.’
‘Yes, but that only works if he knew he was going to die. He had a heart attack, Anton, how could he know he was going to have a heart attack?’ Did Thomas have some sort of premonition of his own death? Why didn’t he share his fears with her? She trembled at the thought and cursed herself for being so self-obsessed. What a terrible wife she had been. How could she not know any of this?
Anton scratched his cheek. ‘Yes, that is strange. He say…’ He looked away and to the right as if searching for the memory and the exact wording. ‘He say he had bad feeling.’ At that Anton rubbed at the centre of his chest. ‘He had pain, yes?’ he asked as if she was sure to know. ‘His parent die of heart attack, but he wouldn’t go to doctor. Said they were quackers.’ He made a face of apology as if the word sounded very wrong to him, but it was the best he could do. ‘And he say one day, wouldn’t it be strange if he died and all this was left untouched. A present you never saw.’ Anton laughed. ‘He was man of dreams. He wanted bow. Big red bow around the cottage and he bring you over with blind…’
‘Blindfold,’ Paula added helpfully.
‘Yes.’ Anton closed his eyes and held a big hand over them.
That was so like Thomas, she thought: few words, big gestures.
‘So, he tell me one night, this is plan. Just in case.’ Once again Anton held a hand over his chest and made a rubbing motion. ‘In case the pain mean something and he die, there was a way for you to have your present.’
Paula sat with that. Ran Anton’s words through her mind. Judged them for weight and truth. She looked at him there on the seat, belonging, happy to help, bearer of Thomas’s secret will, but she had a feeling he was holding something back.
A favourite phrase of Thomas’s occurred to her. If something felt too good to be true, it usually was. There was something off about this whole thing. All of this was Thomas, there was no doubt about that, but what was she missing? And the thing about the chest pa
in? If he was suffering from chest pains, why wouldn’t he tell her? But if it was true…? It felt like another betrayal.
‘So, what do you think?’ asked Anton. ‘Tommy do good job?’
‘He certainly did,’ replied Paula. ‘This is … just … amazing. But why didn’t the crazy bastard let me know?’
‘Have you had good look around? He was proud of bedroom. He said you would love. You love?’
‘I love it very much,’ answered Paula and felt a little squirm of discomfort that this man was asking about her bedroom.
‘Find any nice little surprises?’ asked Anton.
Something tightened in her stomach. There was an intent to that question. Not prurience: something else. What was he looking for? Did he know about the notebook?
‘Surprises?’ asked Paula, feigning confusion. Which wasn’t difficult at this moment.
‘Obsession. Perfume for Mr and Mrs.’ Anton thumped down on his knee. ‘Tommy have good smile about that.’
‘Yeah. That was clever.’ Relief made her shoulders drop.
‘He said cottage was his obsession, like the perfume.’ He softened his tone. ‘Like you. He love very much.’
The sincerity in his voice caught Paula off guard and her throat tightened in response. ‘Thank you,’ she managed to say. ‘Thank you. And thank you for all your hard work. The place is … very special.’
‘No need to thank. I get paid,’ Anton said while he nodded his huge head. ‘Is work for many weeks. Now I need to find more.’ He laughed. ‘But there is always work for good workers, no?’
‘No,’ answered Paula. ‘I mean yes. Good workers are always in demand.’ She looked at her watch. Got to her feet. ‘Listen…’ she made a face of apology, ‘…I need to be getting back to Glasgow. If I don’t go soon I’ll miss the last ferry.’
‘Of course.’ Anton stood up, but kept his head bowed so he wouldn’t hit it on the ceiling. At his movement, the dog trotted over to the front door. Paula paused to allow Anton to get their first.
He pulled open the door and stepped outside.
‘Is real pleasure to meet lady who inspire all this,’ Anton said.
‘Thank you,’ said Paula. Then a thought. ‘You’ve been here before with the dog? On your own?’ She paused wondering how to ask him. Decided just to go for it. This was her house after all. ‘May I have your key, please?’
Now that they were standing in close proximity she was fully aware of his size and physicality. A light shone in Anton’s eyes at her question. As if he’d just realised there was more to her than a pretty face and a dead husband’s obsession. He rifled in his trouser pocket, pulled something out and handed it to her.
‘Spare key.’ He smiled. ‘And now…’ He looked down at the dog, who looked up at him and wagged. ‘I must take Bob for rest of his walk.’ He gave her a small bow, bending from the waist. ‘One day soon we meet again. Talk old memories of Tommy.’ There was an invitation in his voice, and something else. A promise? Was he flirting with her?
He held a hand out.
She accepted it and as they shook she had the thought that he could crush the bones of her hand as easily as he might snap a twig.
But then it occurred to her: for a builder the skin on his hand was very soft and smooth.
17
Cara Connelly was at the Sufferin’ – the Southern General, a new super-hospital in the south of the city. Given that the locals knew their way around a nickname, it was also called the Death Star, on account of its shape. The authorities preferred that people gave it its proper name: Queen Elizabeth University Hospital. Whatever you called it, the place was huge.
She was fifteen minutes late for a hospital discharge meeting with Mr and Mrs Skelton, as was usual for any hospital visit in this city. It didn’t matter how much time you allocated to get there and find a parking spot, there was some immutable law of the universe that meant you’d only find a space once you’d searched beyond the time set for your appointment.
And then you’d arrive all flustered, knowing the ‘professionals’ would be looking down at you – social workers, consultants and medical staff – all of whom worked on site and couldn’t understand how ‘you people’ were always late.
Mr Skelton had suffered a massive stroke. His mind was intact, mostly, but the sideways sag of his mouth and constant dribble was the first sign that he needed ongoing care. It was Cara’s job to ensure that he and his wife understood the process and to ask questions of the authorities that they didn’t know they needed to ask, or were too afraid to.
When Cara first met Mr Skelton, despite having come across plenty of people in this situation, she could barely look at him, such was the devastation caused by the illness. But now, seeing him in his hospital bedroom, sat upright in the high-backed chair, clutching his bag of toiletries, and wearing his grey jogging trouser and a pair of blue slippers, her heart went out to him and his wife. She sat to the side, holding his hand, eyes full of love and fear. Could she cope with what was about to happen? Medical opinion was that he needed twenty-four-hour care. Mrs Skelton, although a few years younger than her husband, looked like a stiff breeze could blow her over. Her fine-boned face was pinched with worry. How on earth would she deal on her own with this lump of a man who couldn’t feed or clean himself?
After the meeting, feeling drained, but hopeful, Cara had a quick look at the diary on her phone. This was a reflex action – she knew where she was going next – but it was her way of mentally setting one file in her head to the side, and dealing with the next issue in her case load. Next up was an evening of prep work for a visit to the Welfare Court: a reformed addict, Annmarie Pitt, wanted access to her infant son now that she was clean. Cara had spent hours on the phone yesterday to Annmarie, who was really only a child herself, reminding her over and over again not to talk about what she wanted. The system was a child-centred one. Foremost in the minds of those present would be what was best for the child. If her client talked me, me, me, as she had a tendency to, the authorities would be less inclined to hear her.
So lost was she in thought that she made it back to her car completely on automatic and it was only when she sat down inside that she came back to herself. She felt an itch in the back of her mind. Had an image of throwing someone over her shoulder onto an exercise mat. That’s what was required. A satisfying training session down at the dojo. Get rid of some of her work frustrations by pounding someone into the ground.
Pulling her phone from her jacket pocket, she thumbed out a text to her training partner, Dave Roberts. She judged how much work she needed to do on Annmarie’s case and worked out what time she’d be free:
Up for it?
In the time it took to fire up the engine and put on her seatbelt a reply came through:
Sure. Toni has the girls tonight. Sounds like someone needs to vent?
She laughed. He knew her too well.
Cara smiled as she considered the man. A part-time single father to two preteen girls, he often came to Cara for advice, convinced these little creatures were another species.
Last Christmas she almost got a t-shirt made for him that said ‘Confounds Expectations’. At first glance he was an intimidating individual. Approaching six feet tall, shaved head, a beard visible from space and a frame that warned of efficient muscle – you held your handbag tight to your body as he walked past. But the minute he spoke – and you heard his soft Highland accent – noticed the intelligent spark to his eyes, you realised there was more to this guy.
Having spent a lot of time with families who punched the dysonto functional, she considered Dave and his ex-wife, Toni, to be the poster parents for divorce. Theirs clearly was a child-centred approach and it made her warm to Dave even more.
There was no chance of romance there, even if she was tempted; it was clear that Dave was still in love with Toni and that one day he hoped for a re-match with her. Cara didn’t have the heart to tell him that ship had not only sailed, it was so far over the horizo
n it was in a different time zone.
None of that was why she chose him for a training partner. It was his skills on that mat and the challenge he presented that attracted her. If she could learn to handle Dave, she was confident that most of the idiots she came into contact with on the city streets would be relatively easy.
She sent him a time. He confirmed, and with a satisfied feeling she slid her phone back into her pocket.
Right. She had two hours before she met Dave. What could she do in the meantime?
Perhaps she could go over to Paula Gadd’s house. See what she was up to? That woman knew more than she was letting on. She mentally recounted the journey it would take to get there from here, and realised it meant going past the offices of Gadd Enterprises. Two birds with one stone? She could drive by and see what Kevin Farrell was up to. The death of his long-time business colleague was undoubtedly going to cause him problems. Maybe in his moment of stress she could face up to him and prompt him to divulge more information.
Twenty minutes later she was parked outside the white three-storey building that housed the business of Thomas Gadd (deceased), burgher of this proud city. She’d sat here a number of times over the last couple of years, staring up at what she judged would be Gadd’s window, wishing looks could indeed kill.
At that moment a man walked past her car. Something about him caught her attention. The way he was cradling his arm. It was in plaster. His female companion was walking ahead as if she was trying to keep upwind of him. Cara looked back to the man and realised it was Kevin Farrell himself. She noticed his grey pallor and wondered what the hell had happened to him.
Cara turned her focus back onto the woman as she watched them both approach the office door. She was wearing a black trouser suit, with a white blouse. Her dark hair was cut in a short, manageable style. Her movement, her demeanour – everything about her screamed ‘competent’. She held the door open for him and stepped aside to let him in first. There was nothing in her face or body language to suggest what their relationship might be. Neither of them appeared to speak. Secretary?
After He Died Page 12
