by Caro Ramsay
‘What reservoir? Eaglesham? The same one where Sophie parked her car?’
Costello and Avril share a look.
‘Yes, it was,’ surrenders Costello.
‘Was it an accident?’ I ask. It seems a natural question.
‘Doubt it,’ Mulholland says.
‘But there’s no trace of my sister in the car?’
‘There is a six-day gap between him being seen last and your sister being seen last. These could be two separate incidents.’
‘That just happened to occur at the same place! Was there any sign of Sophie?’ I persist.
‘He was on his own when the car went in the water.’ Avril plays pass-the-parcel with the photographs to Mulholland, to Costello then to me.
‘She never talked about Mark to me.’ I take the pictures, place the one of Mark on top of them, and hand them back. ‘That looks like a nasty mark on his head.’
‘There might have been an earlier bump to the head that bled and he died at the wheel then went into the water. Or he might have lost consciousness and ended up in the water. Or he drove in and bumped his head. His seat belt was still fastened, the key was in the ignition. Further tests at the lab will tell us exactly how he died.’ Costello is thinking hard. ‘Either way, him and car in reservoir.’
I lift my head up at that. ‘Do you think he killed Sophie?’
‘He might have been up there looking for her,’ says Costello.
‘There’s no sign that she was there and got out?’ I ask.
‘No sign that she was in that car, full stop.’
I nod slowly, as if I’m trying to digest this.
‘His wife has not seen him since Sophie went missing. She suspected there might have been another woman and thinks that woman was Sophie. Until the full PM results come through we view them as connected but separate incidents. And Sophie might have fallen victim to the Night Hunter, as you’ve said before. That’s the theory that you and Billy Hopkirk have been working on, isn’t it?’
I feel the tears sting my eyes. ‘Sorry. I need to think about this.’ I feel the tingling twitching that I need to release. I am cornered. ‘You know, when I saw Lorna lying there, alive, I really hoped that the Night Hunter had Sophie. Then there’d be a chance that she’s alive. I know she never ran off with that bloke. You lot were thinking it, but that wasn’t Sophie’s way. I know that, because I knew her.’
‘Just look at the way she actually disappeared; it matches the way the Night Hunter takes them. That’s what got me thinking and Gillian Porter’s mum thinking. That’s what got me involved,’ says Billy.
‘OK, two heads are better than one. We need to cover all other lines of enquiry. Elvie, I need to ask you, do you know anything about Mark and Sophie? Anything about their relationship?’ Costello asks, playing the team card.
‘No, I don’t.’ That I can say with complete conviction.
It is a typical semi-detached house in Pollok near where they took down the old psych hospital. It’s the kind of place that looks posher than it is. Everything is a bit too small, everybody has their driveway at the expense of a front garden. And at the end of the driveway, just across the road, is Helmand Province.
Number thirty-nine is a very neat end-of-terrace. There is no car, of course; that’s at the bottom of a reservoir in Eaglesham. The garage floor is so clean it doesn’t look as though it was in there much either. The current occupants are a pink bike with stabilisers lying on its side and a baby stroller with a huge hood on it, white fringes dancing in the swirling wind. Billy follows the direction of my glance.
‘Why not just stick a hat on the kid? Never did me any harm.’
‘You don’t know that,’ I say as we walk along the path, under the living room window. I hear a call as the woman from next door emerges from her own front door. She looks at me, then Billy.
‘Police?’ she asks.
Billy does not answer but swings his head around in a way that could be yes, no, or releasing a crick in his neck. ‘It’s about Mark. Nice wee estate here. I remember the way it was in my youth. I was based in Pollok, back in the day.’
‘Aye, it’s changed a wee bit since then.’ She folds her arms. ‘So I heard you’ve found him then. Stupid bastard.’
Billy has stopped on the path; he’s not going as far as the front door. He isn’t engaging her in conversation but he isn’t moving on either.
‘Could I help you in some way?’ she says, with ill-disguised nosiness.
‘We’re here to speak to Rhona Laidlaw. Is she around?’
We know that she is not around. She and her kid have been taken to her mother’s house by Avril for comfort, or celebration. The opinion of both Rhona and her mother is apparently that Mark was a useless tosser.
The woman shrugs her bony shoulders, her hand up to her eyes to shield them from the sun. ‘I don’t think she’s in. I think she left with some of you lot.’
‘What were they like as neighbours?’
‘Well, you don’t like to say, do you?’ she says, dying to say.
‘Better off without?’ I offer, using one of Sophie’s stock phrases.
‘Well, yes. Don’t mean to speak ill of the dead but we all knew about the …’
‘Violence?’
She snorts, dropping her hand. She is older than I first thought. ‘Oh, she gave as good as she got. She’s no shrinking violet, that one. Big woman. You wouldn’t take her home a short pay packet, ma Bob says. If you look in their hall, you’ll see holes in the plasterboard where he punched it before he punched her. Then round the ceiling there’s the dents where she flung stuff at him and missed. These walls are paper thin, you know. And he was never at work, he was always … well, like I said, I don’t want to speak ill of the dead.’ She sniffed, her tongue probing the side of her mouth. ‘So what happened to him, then?’
‘We are not at liberty to say at the moment,’ I reply quickly before Billy says too much.
‘Well, he was as thick as a Derry dairy farmer.’ She folds her arms and looks smug. ‘Do you think she’ll sell the house now? Oops, talk of the devil.’ She mutters and turns away as a Golf pulls up, unmarked. Avril is driving. A big woman with dyed bright red hair, a tight skirt and purple tights hauls herself out of the passenger seat, letting the suspension of the car sigh in relief. Avril opens the back door and the big woman pulls a child out by its arm. There is a constant stream of words that we can’t hear; her eyes are reddened and bitter.
Avril stares at us and shakes her head slightly at Billy. The message is clear: you should know better.
‘And what do you two want?’ Rhona yells at us as she strops up the path in leather stiletto ankle boots, the silent child dangling over her arm like a puppet. Billy gets thrown the kid, I get the dirty look. Her oversized fake designer handbag slips down her arm as she rummages for her keys. She is surrounded by a cloud of pungent perfume.
‘We were making sure you were OK,’ says Billy, jiggling the kid up and down like a Santa having a fit.
‘I was making sure she was OK,’ says Avril, who has just caught up. Now Billy is getting dirty looks as well.
‘Shit,’ says Rhona, turning the key in the lock, but the door fails to open. She puts her mighty shoulder against it and the door gives way in the face of an irresistible force. She stops to bend down and pick up the mail that has gathered behind it. Her Lycra-clad backside is so wide it fills the width of the doorway, revealing the ladders at the top of her tights. The kid burps quietly and closes her eyes; she has seen all this before. As Rhona spits obscenities, the kid snores gently. Avril and Billy are still arguing in low tones, and all I can hear is I could get you into so much trouble … oh, fill yer boots, why don’t you … Then Rhona says fuck really loudly.
She thrusts a letter in my face. ‘See! See! That’s the kind of wanker I was married to! He runs off with that whore and this … this … I bet it’s their fucking wee love nest. And now he’s dead, they’re after me for the rent … me! Me! No fuck
ing way.’ The letter is in my face again.
‘Rhona, Rhona, calm down. Just get some clothes and we’ll get to your mother’s.’ Avril stares at Billy, taking the still-silent child from his arms. ‘So you can go now.’
‘Yes. We will, thank you, Rhona.’
We walk back up the path, seeing the curtains twitch all down the street as we climb in the car. ‘You know, sweet cheeks,’ says Billy, pulling his mobile out, ‘I’d kiss the Pope’s arse to find out where that flat was.’
‘The agent is Southside Letting, Battlefield Road. The property reference number is PL007321551. They traced her here through the bank. That might be worth a sniff.’
Billy stares at me, finger poised over his mobile. ‘How the hell did you see that?’
‘She did stick the letter in my face twice. I’d have to be bloody blind not to see it.’
‘Battlefield Road? We need to tell Costello, get some brownie points.’ He taps the phone on the top of the steering wheel then decides he would be better having a good scratch at his sore arm. ‘The issue is that Sophie has been somewhere for those two months. If she was planning to stay at that flat with Mark, the missing jeans, those boots, will be there. As soon as Costello clocks that, the minute she thinks you have been withholding evidence, your name will be so shit your postcode will be a septic tank – you ready for that?’
‘She wasn’t with him. But when you’re in a hole sometimes you have to start digging.’
Billy hums and haws a wee bit. ‘Yeah, you’re right.’
We sit in the car as Billy phones Costello. He holds the phone at arm’s-length so that his ears don’t start bleeding from the pressure of the venom at the other end. ‘Never knew ladies knew language like that,’ whispers Billy. ‘Oh calm down, you tart, listen. Yes, we were at Laidlaw’s house but we’ve got the address of his flat for you, his love nest, shagging pad, call it what you will. And one more thing in your fight against crime – I’d do a hair analysis on the Laidlaw kid. She’s drugged up to her wee eyeballs.’
Eric is in the kitchen talking to my mum and Rod, leaning against the worktop, a cup of coffee in his dirty hand. Rod is cleaning his own hands under the tap and the kitchen stinks of Swarfega and curry. Mum is agreeing vehemently with everything Eric is saying as if he is the prophet of all wisdom. He is having a mild-mannered rant about the police who have been asking him about dogs and interrupting his quiet contemplations.
‘A big dog? Oh, hi, Elvie, you know about that? The dog thing? Alan McAndrew’s getting hell up there; they have him interviewing every farm collie including wee Rosie …’
‘McAndrew?’ Grandpa Cop. ‘Oh, they have a lead on a dog.’
‘Best place for it,’ quips Rod, they smile. I join in, nodding a hello at Mum.
She mutters, ‘Lead on a dog, that’s funny.’
Rod smiles at me. There’s something in the oven that resembles a biryani. ‘You staying for a bite to eat? We’ve got a takeaway, we can stretch it,’ he says.
I nod.
Eric takes up the tale. ‘So in the end we drive down to Dunky’s place to show him Rosie, incontinent and toothless. Like she’s going to do anything to anybody. Anyway, you coming up to see the place tomorrow night, Elvie, now that the cops have tidied it all up? We can have a wee bite to eat at the Oyster Bar. Mary is back up at Ardno.’
‘Yes, Elvie, you do that, be nice and go out with Eric for a nice wee dinner.’ Mum holds her thumb and forefinger to show how small the dinner will be.
Rod turns towards the window and mutters an apology to Eric.
I stand at the door, realising that they do not know. ‘They’ve found Mark Laidlaw’s body.’
Rod turns round slowly. Eric takes a sharp intake of breath as Mum collapses slightly, folding up and catching herself on the worktop. Her wine glass tips and the Merlot begins to drip, leaving red splashes on the white tiled floor.
Rod steadies her. ‘Any sign of Soph?’
I shake my head.
‘Thank God for that,’ he says. He sits Mum down on the kitchen chair and takes the wine glass off her. She picks it up again as he turns to switch the kettle on.
‘He was found down at the reservoir.’ I watch Rod for a response.
‘What – here?’ Eric points with his thumb, he is incredulous.
I nod. ‘They also …’
‘Who ish thish bloody Mark, and why …’ mutters my mum.
‘Oh be quiet, Nancy. What, Elvie?’
‘They’ve looked at the flat he was renting. There’s no sign that Sophie has ever been there. I thought I’d better let you know. A bossy cop called Costello will probably be out to see you tomorrow. I don’t know if this is good news or not.’
‘It might be good news, if he is … sorry, we might be better having our tea,’ says Rod. He flashes me a look that tells me not to talk about this in front of Mum.
‘Yip,’ says Eric, joining in the usual chit-chat.
‘Anybody mind if I use the computer upstairs for a couple of minutes?’
‘No, no. Go ahead.’ Rod is all concern. His shoulders have fallen; he seems to have shrunk. Eric pats him on the upper arm.
I stand in Mum’s cosy kitchen looking at this tableau. The cobweb above my head is still dancing in the draught. The weights are still lined up like Russian dolls. My mum is leaning against the back of the chair, head down. She has a hole in her tights. Eric and Rod share a moment of confidence at the sink that I will not be privy to.
‘Where’s Grant?’ I ask.
Rod smiles his bitter smile. ‘Upstairs. I’d just leave him if I was you. He’s aiming for a thousand sit-ups.’
‘What a wuss.’ My turn for the bitter smile.
I have to sit and nibble some burnt pakora before I can get upstairs to look at the computer. Rod and Eric talk about football, the weather, the problems of building new houses in this economy. Rod moans about pensions and house prices. They avoid the subject of Mark. Then they go into the back garden, so they can talk about anything they like. I realize I am looking at Rod differently, observing him. Is he too interested? Not interested enough? Nobody bothers that my mother has wandered off somewhere. I watch Rod get the hedge cutter out from the hut. Eric is holding the door open for him. This is good; it’s a big hedge so they will be busy. I will know when he stops by the noise stopping.
I go upstairs where I hear Grant huffing and puffing, counting then resting, huffing and puffing. Every so often I hear him say, Who’s the daddy?
I am turning the door handle of my room when a cold hand falls on top of mine.
‘Not you as well.’ Mum sounds remarkably sober.
‘Not me as well what?’
‘Can’t you leave Sophie alone?’
I don’t really understand. She seems hurt, her blue eyes flint cold, unreadable. ‘I was just looking to see if anything has changed.’
‘Nothing changes around here. A change would be somebody coming to this house to talk to me, about me.’ She held up one finger. ‘Just once.’
‘I need something off the hard drive.’ I tell her I have crashed my laptop and I need my homework. ‘Rod will be OK using Grant’s laptop for a couple of days.’
She scowls in her pursed lips way.
‘It’s for university. I downloaded it here.’ Mum doesn’t speak computer and accepts my explanation. In my old bedroom I sit at the computer and check the number of photographs on the campaign file on the hard drive. Mum wanders round the room, poking her fingers into places like she’s checking for dust.
‘You know, I don’t think I could cope if anything happened to you.’ She’s standing behind me now; I can feel her breath in my hair. ‘You are all I have left, really, all that is left of the way things were.’ She sits beside me looking at me, not the computer screen. Her eyes don’t focus that well.
‘We’ll get her back,’ I say as I go through the files, looking for something that is big enough to hold all the photographs. Billy’s theory is that Sophie stayed here
as long as she did because Mum played her emotional blackmail card then something bad happened. What was Sophie so scared of? What or who was Mum so upset about? Grant? Or Rod? I am looking for things on this computer that I do not want to find. But I do need to know.
The draught of my mum’s breathing in my ear becomes heavier, and she slumps against me. She has drifted into sleep.
I know the size of the file that Belinda sent to me. If that holds all the photos taken at the birthday party, then it should match the size of the file that Rod passed on to the police. There are many files. Sophie was popular and everybody wanted a photo of her. Then I find – sophparty31mar12. I scroll across to look at the size, then check again that I’m still looking at the right file. It’s only three-quarters the size. I had a hundred and sixty-eight in the file Belinda sent me, so there are about forty odd that Rod thought the police wouldn’t be bothered about. Or that he did not want the police to see?
Mum sighs; she’s wakening up a little.
‘Nearly done.’
‘So – you thinking about going back, dear?’ She sighs the heartfelt sigh of the happily pissed. ‘Don’t throw away your career, all that educashun.’
‘Well, I’ll go back at some point. I just need to keep up.’ I am rewarded with an unfocused version of the smile she gave me when I got good marks for drawing at school or forming my little letters correctly. She is an intellectual snob.
‘You can come back and live here.’
‘I need to be near the hospital,’ I lie. ‘I’m going to take this away and get my stuff off it, OK?’
She goes to look out the window and waves, holding on to the sill for support. ‘I’ll just ask Rod about the computer,’ Mum says in one of her inopportune moments of clarity.
‘Mum, he’s busy,’ I say honestly, then go into lie mode. ‘And Rod can keep up with Facebook on Grant’s.’ All the time I am pulling out flexes and cables as she walks about the bedroom a little unsteadily. The computer is stuck under my arm just as the noise outside stops. I get up and look out. Rod is up a ladder and Eric is pulling his arms into a horizontal line, the way the hedge should be cut. Mum stares out the window at him. Her face becomes unlined, young again; in profile she looks so much like Sophie.
