by Denise Mina
The line rippled, disconcerted. A man at the far end shuffled his feet; someone coughed. A delicate girl in the middle of the lineup sobbed suddenly, covering her face. Her neighbor put his arm around her shoulder and pulled her into his chest, holding the back of her head as she convulsed into the cables of his white Aran knit. He looked accusingly at her.
“Mark was our friend.”
“I’m so sorry,” said Paddy. “Please, I don’t want to upset anyone.”
The girl sobbed afresh, noisily gulping air. Paddy noted the gray-haired woman roll her eyes, so she turned and spoke to her instead. “I do know that Mark was a good man.”
The woman took Paddy by the elbow, pulling her aside. “Mark was a good man, you’re right. He was very committed.” She nodded back to the sobbing girl. “Natasha hardly knew him but she enjoys any drama to the hilt.”
“I’m sorry he died.”
The woman checked she was out of earshot of the others and dropped her voice confidentially. “His suicide was a shock.”
Paddy matched her tone. “Why?”
The woman shook her head. “He was here last week. Seemed fine. Upbeat. Something must have happened between then and Wednesday night.”
Paddy looked down to the cenotaph, scratching around for one more question. “He was a lawyer, wasn’t he? Where did he work?”
“The Easterhouse Law Center.”
Paddy nodded at her shoes. “Right.”
The woman was looking at her curiously. “You knew that already.”
It was so cold that the woman’s nose blushed red, her eyes narrowed against the wind, the skin comfortable in that position, and Paddy noticed that she looked rugged, as though she spent a lot of time outside. She imagined her briskly walking around the grounds of a grand estate, small dogs yapping at her heels.
“Could it be anything to do with Vhari Burnett’s murder?”
The woman nodded sadly. “Yes, poor Vhari. She was a member as well. Mark brought her to our first meeting. They were an item back then.”
“An item back when?”
“Years ago.” She thought about it. “Five years ago? About that. That’s when we started this.” She turned and looked back at the group, taking in the crappy poster and Natasha crying, dry-eyed. She raised an appalled eyebrow and hummed to herself.
“And Mark was married then?”
“Oh, no, he went out with Vhari years ago. They knew each other at law school. Before he married Diana. I think their families lived near each other.”
Paddy nodded. “Why did they split up? Did she chuck him?”
She smiled at Paddy’s nerve. “Other way ’round, actually. He went off with the woman who became his wife. Vhari stopped coming to meetings but she was still committed. Wrote letters from home, made a financial contribution, that sort of thing.”
“Was Mark ever violent?”
“Mark?”
“Yeah, was he ever violent?”
“The police think he killed her, don’t they?”
“So I’ve heard. “
The woman thought about it for a moment. “Honestly, I don’t think he was even fit enough to be violent. He got breathless walking up hills. He smoked like mad and was a bit—” Her eyes flickered down to Paddy’s body but she stopped herself from looking. “Chubby.”
Paddy nodded at her notebook, trying not to blush.
“He was sad when he split up with Vhari.” The woman spoke quickly, trying to brush over the implied slight. “He talked to me about it, seemed to be confiding but I think, really, he was trying to get me on his side. Mark was a natural politician. Everything was an opportunity to lobby. He was very measured.”
“It wasn’t a very nice thing to do, go off with someone else.”
“Well, his wife, Diana, she’s the insistent sort. Vhari was much more like Mark, very even-tempered. Diana has a bit more fire.” She wouldn’t look at Paddy.
“You don’t like her.”
The woman smiled wide. “No. Diana gave up work after she married. I can’t abide women who won’t work if they’re able. I’m like Vhari: came from money but refused to take it and worked. I’ve never married. I’ve always supported myself.”
“You’ve made your own way.”
“I have.”
They smiled at each other, these two working women, both keeping jobs from needy men, betraying nature by escaping the kitchen sink, these two women who were out in the world, active not passive, subjects not objects.
III
Paddy was walking calmly away, feeling smug and superior when she thought of JT just ahead of her in the street. She bolted after him, hoping she had correctly guessed his route back to the office, and caught sight of him a hundred yards ahead, about to turn the corner into Albion Street and the office. She jogged on, losing her breath, and caught his sleeve.
“Wait, wait, JT, I need to trade for a favor.”
He turned to look at her face-on, skeptical that she had anything to offer him.
“I’ll do all your library searches for Mandela on Monday in exchange for a couple of taxi chitties. You’ll get your Ramage story done twice as fast. He might even kiss you with his big red face.”
His head recoiled on his neck. “What do you need a chitty for?”
“To take a cab journey at the paper’s expense,” she said, acting stupid.
“Going to see a boyfriend, no doubt.” He started a smile, trying to engage in a bit of sexual banter, but she left her face flaccid and he gave up. “Mandela and one other search.”
“No, just Mandela,” she said flatly. It was no skin off his nose to give her chitties. They were presigned forms to give to the paper’s taxi firm and, as chief reporter, JT had an infinite supply, never questioned by management. They were supposed to be for office business only but she saw him climb in a firm’s cab on his way home most evenings.
He watched her, grinding his teeth and looking for a chink he could exploit. “Full-time search,” she said. “And one on his wife, Winnie, as well.”
He pulled a small pad out of his inner pocket and tore off two yellow slips, handing them over.
Paddy took them greedily, checking to make sure they were signed.
“What’s it for, then? You doing a story?”
She smiled up at him, pleased by the small wondering throb in his voice. “I’m doing an exposé of the illegal taxi chitty trade. And now I’m making my excuses and leaving.”
Pleased with the line, she turned and walked away.
III
Kate found herself driving the battered Mini through streets so familiar they made her feel quite sentimental. Every street corner and hedge held a memory of an event or a person or a rumor or a game. Mount Florida. As she neared her parents’ house she could name the family who lived in every second house back then, recall summer afternoons spent in most of the front gardens. There was the school bus stop and the wall where she first met Paul Neilson.
She hadn’t meant to come here really, but was drawn by a memory. She had her snuffbox with her, had taken a good dose and knew she could do anything.
She looked at the house. Daddy’s lawn was as neat as a sheet of glass, leading up to the small thirties detached house, perfectly tidy and completely unobjectionable. They could have had a bigger home. They could have had a big home in Bearsden like the one her grandfather had, with a bedroom each and a field at the back. Their parents made sure the children knew that they could have afforded a lot of things, but were being actively denied. Money was available, but the children weren’t worthy of it. Their school fees were expensive. They all knew, in itemized detail, how much food cost, how much their uniforms set the family budget back, how dear each holiday was. Their parents’ ever-changing wills dangled over everything like a Damoclean sword, casting a threatening shadow, spoiling every banquet. It affected them each differently: Vhari stopped caring about money and Bernie refused to take a penny off them. Kate liked money, though. As soon as she got some, fro
m Paul admittedly, she splurged on jewelry and trips and clothes, lovely lovely things.
She stayed in the car, watching her parents’ house to get a measure of it as she rifled blind in her handbag and felt the cold surface of the silver snuffbox. She couldn’t see any movement inside the house and a suffocating sense of dread came over her. She hadn’t seen her parents for three years. If she went in now she’d have to tolerate their shock at her appearance. They’d be crying about Vhari now she was dead when they had been so nasty about her when she was alive.
A fat girl in an old green leather coat sloped past her. Kate watched her in the rearview mirror. She looked cheap; a loose thread was hanging from the hem of the coat. She had a small rucksack slung between her shoulder blades and spiky hair, as if she’d cut it herself. More interestingly, she stopped across the road, at the gate to the Thillingly house.
Kate looked back at her parents’ house and wished herself back at the start of all of this. She’d play it differently if she had another chance. Moderate her intake, scurry money aside into a secret account. Now she had nothing but the pillow. And Knox. She still had Knox. And she knew where he lived.
EIGHTEEN
A HUNDRED SHADES OF GRAY
I
Paddy hesitated by the wooden gate, looking down the long lawn toward the house. She had never been sent out on a death knock. The news editors always seemed to overlook her for the task and for once she was sure it was out of kindness. Dub had been asked to leave the paper after a death knock. He was supposed to ask a decapitated man’s wife how she felt about it but was seen sitting in a café reading a poetry book instead.
It was a critical moment in most people’s professional development. Even seasoned journalists hated it. Whenever people expressed bewilderment over JT’s complete lack of compassion someone would bring up the rumor that he had cried in the toilet after his first death knock, as if it mitigated his lack of humanity to know that there had once been some to beat out of him. More worryingly, some people took to the work: one guy who made the move to a London tabloid had a habit of getting death knock exclusives by turning on the family on his way out of the house and insulting the dead person. It was her own fault, he’d say, bitch shouldn’t have been driving a shit car. The family would be so hurt they’d refuse to speak to another journalist.
It was two in the afternoon and the curtains were still drawn in the living room. Tingling with trepidation, Paddy walked the gray gravel path across the tidy lawn and remembered the horrified cry she had heard through the hedge two nights ago. She was going to hurt the woman again, she knew it. And yet her feet kept moving, one in front of the other, falling onto the gravel, crunching it beneath her weight, displacing it to the side as she passed. She wished she had Dub’s integrity.
She reached the end of the path before she was ready.
The Thillinglys’ front door was sheltered from the elements by a shallow trestle tunnel hung with vines, leafless at the moment, hanging like excised veins around the door. The brass doorbell rang out a soft two-tone.
Paddy stepped back, straightened her coat and scarf, and fluffed her hair up at the sides, hoping she looked like a credible journalist or at least an adult.
She heard shuffled steps approach across carpet and the door opened. A pretty but disheveled woman stood in the narrow crack, head bowed as if expecting a blow. Her dirty blond hair stood up on top and lay flat at one side where she had been sleeping on it.
“Are you the insurance company?” Her voice was as high and breathless as a child’s.
“No, I’m sorry to bother you at this difficult time—” Paddy stared at the small, heartbroken woman and wondered what the hell she was doing here and how frightened of Ramage could she pos-sibly be.
The woman leaned against the door frame, attempting to focus on Paddy’s face. “Who are you?”
“I’m from the Scottish Daily News. I wondered if I could talk to you about Mark?”
A slow tear rolled down the woman’s face and she stuck her tongue out to catch it. “They said you’d come.”
“They?”
“The police. They said you’d come. From the newspapers.”
No one else from the press had been yet. “Oh.” Paddy nodded, trying to jolt the words to the front of her mouth. “I wanted to ask about Mark’s relationship with Vhari Burnett.”
Suddenly awake, Mrs. Thillingly looked up, swayed, then slammed the door shut.
Paddy stood staring at the red paint. If she wasn’t so tired and had her wits about her she could have sidestepped this basic mistake. Of course it was a big deal; Thillingly was accused of killing Burnett. The woman behind the door hadn’t only been widowed, her husband had been slandered as well.
The rain pattered on her shoulders, dripping cold onto her scalp. What a wasted fucking afternoon, and she’d have to stay in the office on Monday morning to return the chitties favor to JT.
Paddy looked down the wet garden, wondering where she could find a phone box to call for the taxi home. Mount Florida was a long way from George Square and farther yet from Eastfield. She could have spent the afternoon at home, in the garage, with the fire on, reading a book or something, warm and alone. She was imagining herself in the big armchair drinking tea when she heard a gasp followed by another loud breath. Mrs. Thillingly was still on the other side of the door, her sobs escalating.
“Look, I’m sorry,” Paddy told the door. “I’m sorry about Mark. Everyone I’ve spoken to about Mark says he couldn’t have hurt her. Mrs. Thillingly?”
After a pause Paddy heard a soft voice. “Diana. Call me Diana. Who did you speak to?”
“The Amnesty people in George Square. Diana, are you all alone in there?”
There was a loud sniff. “Yeah.”
“Should you be alone?”
Diana sniffed again. “Dunno.”
“Please . . . can I come in and talk to you?”
The lock slid back and the door opened wide into a neat hall. A muggy warmth floated out to caress her face, contrasting with the cold of the day.
Diana turned and walked off down the hall, padding along the carpet in her bare feet. She had the build of a child, slim-hipped and thin-ankled, wearing capri pants and a man’s gray V-neck sweater that swamped her and hung over her fingertips. She flapped her hands behind her as she walked, hurrying away from the woman she had just let into her house.
Paddy pushed the door open with her fingertips and stepped inside, shutting the door behind her. The house was overheated, the air thick with fiber and dust motes from new carpets. The long hallway was papered in pink and gray, with two matching paper borders at hip and head level that made it seem even more narrow. At the far end a doorway led into a kitchen awash with gray outdoor light.
Paddy walked toward it, listening for sniffs and clues that Diana was in there. She heard the fizz of a match striking and her throat tightened with yearning for a harsh, scratchy cigarette.
The kitchen was a later addition to the little thirties house. It was a big room plonked on the back so that the kitchen cupboards ran underneath what was once the outside wall. At the end of the extension was a glass box with a sloping roof, overlooking a large back garden and concrete patio.
Diana was sitting at a dining table in the middle of the glass shed, puffing on a cigarette without inhaling. The tabletop debris suggested she had been sitting there for hours. A blue glass ashtray on the table had been emptied but not washed, and a recently crumpled cigarette, only half smoked and smoldering, lay facedown. A navy-and-gold packet of Rothmans sat next to a very dirty white coffee mug which Diana was clutching, the rim marred with dried brown drips.
Shedding her good coat and leaving it on the empty worktop, Paddy took a seat on the other side of the table. Diana exhaled and, even through the scent of cigarette smoke, Paddy could smell the sharp edge of the brandy in the coffee. Diana was as pissed as a tramp at a whisky tasting.
“I’ve kind of been here all day.” She
took a fresh cigarette from the packet and lit it with a match. “Watching the garden. Mark’s parents owned this house. His mother left it to him a few years ago. That’s why the garden’s so well established. He didn’t want to change a thing.”
Paddy looked out at the small lawn bordered by bushes heavy with globe flowers in purple and red. She hardly knew enough about nature to differentiate an oak tree from a spider plant. “Those flowers are nice. The round ones on the bushes—they look like Christmas decorations.”
Diana looked back at her, incredulous. “The hydrangeas?”
“Is that what they are? They must take some looking after.”
“No.” She sounded belligerent. “They pretty much take care of themselves.”
Sensing she had the upper hand, and being a bit drunk, Diana was going to make her work for every snippet. She wasn’t, Paddy guessed, a woman you’d want to have any power over you at all.
Stopping herself from gibbering, Paddy took out her packet of ten Embassy Regals and flicked them open. Regals were a poor person’s cigarette, a brand women smoked at bingo nights and parish dances; cigarettes for women who didn’t know the names of flowers. She looked at the pretty, slight woman opposite her and a spark of sharp, unwarranted resentment flared in her throat. She took in Diana’s delicate features and good teeth and thought that she could go and fuck herself. Fuck herself and her fancy fucking house and her lawyer husband.
Holding the stubby cigarette between her teeth, Paddy took out her notebook and flicked to a clean page, drawing the tiny pencil out of the leatherette sheath on one side and writing “bollocking fuck” at the top of the page in indecipherable shorthand, underlining it twice to draw Diana’s attention to her world, a world of women making their own way, a world of jobs and special skills where only Paddy knew the language.
“So,” she said, pencil poised, “d’you have any kids?”
It was the perfect mark. Diana shook her head sadly. Her hand trembled as she lifted her cigarette to her mouth.
“And Mark worked at Easterhouse Law Center?”
“Yeah. We’re all right for money. He could choose to do that.”
