by Denise Mina
Praise for Denise Mina
‘One of the most exciting writers to have emerged in Britain for years’
Ian Rankin
‘Like all the best crime writers, Mina can make melodramatic events seem credible because her characterisations and settings are so authentic: if she described Alex sprouting wings and flying to Pluto she would make it plausible. There are probably now as many crime writers in Scotland as criminals, but Mina may be the pick of the bunch’
Daily Telegraph
‘Confirms Mina’s place in the premier division . . . atmospheric, intense and full of the disturbing flavour of inner-city lowlife’
Guardian
‘Denise Mina is set to carve a niche for herself as the Crown Princess of Crime’ Val McDermid,
Daily Express
‘This book has passages so powerful that you have to pause in reading it. I’m not ashamed to admit I cried . . . Writers like Mina are breaking the mould’
Scotland on Sunday
‘Funny, raw, compassionate, often brutal . . . romps its way to a satisfying conclusion’
Independent
‘Suffused with telling social commentary and wry humour, while exposing the hypocrisy and passive racism at the heart of modern, intercultural Scotland’
Times Literary Supplement
‘The plot is unrolled artfully. The writing is lucid, and the minor characters breathe with an almost Dickensian life’
Sunday Times
About the Author
Denise Mina is the author of nine critically acclaimed novels including Garnethill, which won the John Creasey Memorial Prize for best first crime novel. Passionate about all aspects of the genre, she also writes short stories, graphic novels, and is a regular contributor to both TV and radio. Denise lives in Glasgow with her husband and two children. Find out more at www.denisemina.co.uk.
By Denise Mina
Garnethill
Exile
Resolution
Sanctum
The Field of Blood
The Dead Hour
The Last Breath
Still Midnight
The End of the Wasp Season
EXILE
Denise Mina
McArthur & Company
Toronto
This e-book edition published in 2011 by
McArthur & Company
322 King Street West, Suite 402
Toronto, Ontario
M5V 1J2
www.mcarthur-co.com
First published in Great Britain in 2000
by Bantam Press
Copyright © 2000 Denise Mina
All rights reserved. The use of any part of this publication reproduced, transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise stored in a retrieval system, without the express written consent of the publisher, is an infringement of the copyright law.
All the characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is purely coincidental.
Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication
Mina, Denise
Exile / Denise Mina.
ISBN 978-1-55278-953-7
I. Title.
PR6063.I473E95 2011 — 823’.914 — C2011-901321-5
eISBN 978-1-77087-019-2
Typeset by Input Data Services Ltd
eBook development by Wild Element www.wildelement.ca
For Stevie, Caro Mio
Acknowledgements
This is my opportunity to express my gratitude to everyone at the Strathclyde Police Media and Information Service Department, and to Superintendent Iain Gordon especially, for their help in researching this book; to Philip Considine for technical advice and support; and to Gerry Considine who’ll push us both over if he doesn’t get a mention. Also, many fervent thanks to Rachel Calder, Katrina Whone, and, of course, to my mum for holding my coat while I did all this. Ursula, so long, baby. Finally, special thanks are due to Stephen Evans for matters which are no concern of yours.
The End
‘Kick it and see,’ he said.
She felt the foot going into her side, a dull thud ripple through the crippling pain. ‘She’s dead,’ said the woman.
But she wasn’t, she was still alive and she heard them. The ground was warm and wet beneath her. Her dry eyes were stuck open and she could see across the floor to a dirty glass by the skirting board. The woman crouched down by her. She was pulling at her wrist, tugging at the bracelet.
‘Leave it,’ he said, but she ignored him, tugging again. ‘I said leave it.’
The woman dropped her arm and backed off. The man shuffled into her line of vision, worn trainers, grey trousers. They were talking about her, about how to get rid of her, about getting Andy’s van. The pain surged and she spasmed at the shrieking trill on her spine, the scalding whiteness behind her eyes. The searing light grew brighter and brighter until there was nothing.
1
Postie
It was minus five outside the bedroom window and Maureen’s face prickled against the cold. She wanted to get out of bed, wanted a cigarette and a coffee and to be alone, but his leg was pressed tightly against hers and his hand was under her thigh. The cumulative heat was itchy and damp. She peeled their skins apart, trying hard not to wake him, but he felt her stir. He peered around at her through sleep-puffed eyes.
‘’Kay?’ he murmured.
‘Yeah,’ breathed Maureen.
She waited, watching her milky breath hover above her, listening to the wind hissing outside. Vik’s breathing deepened to a soft, nasal whistle and Maureen slid into the bitter morning.
She flicked on the kettle, lit a cigarette and looked out of the kitchen window. January is the despairing heart of the Scottish winter and black clouds brooded low over the city, pregnant with spiteful rain. It came to her every morning now; it was the first thought in her head when she opened her eyes. After a wordless fourteen-year absence, Michael, her father, was back in Glasgow.
They only found out afterwards that their elder sister Marie hadn’t bumped into Michael in London. She’d gone looking for him, contacting the National Union of Journalists and putting adverts in the Evening Standard. She found him living in the Surrey Docks in a high-rise council flat carpeted with empty lager cans. He was troubled with his health and hadn’t worked for a long time so Una paid his fare home. Maureen told them she wouldn’t see him but her insistence was needless. Liam said Michael never mentioned her, had never once spoken her name and ignored it when anyone else did. Even their mother, Winnie, was starting to wonder about that. Maureen couldn’t get over the injustice of it. Michael was back in the bosom of the family and she was outcast.
The moment she heard he was home everything changed for her. It wasn’t like the breakdown: she wasn’t flashing back all the time and she knew it wasn’t depression. It was a limitless, aching sadness that marred everything she cast her eye over. She couldn’t contain it: her eyes had become incontinent, dripping stupid tears into washing-up, down her coat, into shopping trolleys. She even cried while she slept. When she stood at the window in Garnethill and looked down over Glasgow she felt her face might open and flood the city with tears. Grief distracted her entirely; it was as if her life continued in an adjacent room– she could hear the noises and see the people but she couldn’t participate or care about any of it.
Vik snored loudly once and stopped. He was the only thing in her life that wasn’t about the past but it was the wrong time for a fresh chapter and coy new discoveries. Maureen was seeing her father everywhere, grieving f
or Douglas and missing Leslie desperately. Vik knew almost nothing about her, nothing about Douglas being murdered in her living room six months ago, or Michael’s late-night visits to her bedroom when she was a child, nothing about the schism in her family. Telling about Michael was the worst moment with new boyfriends: she saw them change towards her, saw them feel confused and implicated.
Douglas had been different because he was a therapist. She’d never had to explain away the nightmares or the irrational phobias. Douglas was as soiled and melancholy as herself and Vik was a big, jolly boy.
She looked out of the window, took a deep draw on her fag and heard the swish of paper scraping through metal, followed by a light thud on the hall carpet. She recognized the blue hospital envelope at once– Angus was keeping busy. She picked it up and went back into the kitchen, sat down and lit a fresh cigarette from the dying tip of the old one. The envelope was made of cheap porous paper, her name and address written in a careful hand. She leaned across to the bills drawer and pulled out the pile of blue envelopes, laying all fifteen in chronological rows on the table. The writing was changing, becoming more controlled. He was getting better. Some of his letters were threatening, mostly they were gibberish, but the threats and the gibberish were evenly interspersed, regular and anticipatable. She knew the voice of random insanity from her own time in mental hospital and this wasn’t it. He was a rapist and a murderer, but she wasn’t afraid of him and she didn’t give a shit. He was locked away in the state mental hospital. It was like being challenged to a dancing competition by a brick. Wearily, she gathered the unopened letter together with the old ones and shoved them into a drawer. She could read it later.
‘Maureen?’ Vik called sleepily from the bedroom. ‘Maureen?’
She stubbed out her fag and tried to find her voice. ‘Yeah?’ She sounded tense. ‘Maureen, come here.’
She stood up. ‘What for?’ she called. ‘I’ve got something for you.’ Vik was grinning.
She brushed the hair off her face. ‘What sort of thing?’ she said, forcing the playfulness. If she could act normal she might feel normal.
2
Daniel
London is a savage city and she didn’t belong there. She might never have been found but for Daniel. She would have disappeared completely, a missing splinter from a shattered family, a half-remembered feature in a pub landscape. Daniel was having a good morning. It was a sunny January day and he was on his way to his first shift as barman in a private Chelsea club favoured by footballers and professional celebrities. The traffic was sparse, the lights were going his way and he couldn’t wait to get to work. He slowed at the junction, signalling right to the broad road bordering the river. He took the corner comfortably, using his weight to sway the bike, sliding across the path of traffic held static at the lights. He was about to straighten up when he saw the silver Mini careering towards him on his side of the road, the wheel-trim spitting red sparks as it scraped along the high lip of the pavement. He held his breath, yanked the handle-bars left and shot straight across the road, up over the kerb, slamming his front wheel into the low river wall at thirty miles an hour. The back wheel flew off the ground, catapulting Daniel into the air just as the Mini passed behind him. He back-flipped the long twenty foot drop to the river, landing on a small muddy island of riverbank. The tide was out, and of all the urban rubble in the Thames he might have landed on, Daniel found himself on a sludge-soaked mattress.
He did a quick stock-take of his limbs and faculties and found everything in order. He thanked God, remembered that he didn’t believe in God and took the credit back for himself. Staggered at his skill and reflexive dexterity, he pushed himself upright on the mattress, his left hand sliding a viscous layer off the filthy surface. Gathering the mulch into his cupped hand, he squeezed hard with adrenal vigour. A crowd of concerned passers-by were leaning over the sheer wall, shouting frantically down to him. Daniel waved.
‘Okay,’ he shouted. ‘Don’t worry. Other bloke all right?’
The pedestrians looked to their left and shouted in the affirmative. Daniel grinned and looked down at his feet. He was sitting on a corpse, the heel of his foot sinking into her thigh.
He scrambled to his feet, shaking the mattress, making her arm fall out on to the muddy bank. She was wearing a chunky gold identity bracelet with ‘Ann’ inscribed on it. He staggered backwards towards the river, keeping his eyes on her, trying to make sense of the image.
He could see her now, a bloated pink and blue belly and a void of a face framed by stringy grey hair, drained of colour by the rapacious water. A ragged handful of custard skin was missing from her belly. Daniel called out, a strangled animal cry, and flailed his left hand in the air, scattering her disintegrating flesh. He crouched and splashed his hand in the brown water, trying to wash away the sensation. Panting, he turned back and pointed at the rotting thing hanging out of the mattress.
A man shouted to him from the high river wall. ‘Are you injured?’
Daniel looked up. His eyes were brimming over. The man’s head was an indeterminate blob floating above the river wall. Daniel’s eyes flicked back to the corpse, startled afresh by its presence.
The well-meaning man was shouting slowly, enunciating carefully. ‘Can you hear me?’ he yelled. ‘I am a first-aider.’ Daniel tried to look up but each time his eyes flicked back to her. He imagined she had moved and fear took the breath from him. He started to cry and looked up. ‘Are you the police?’ he shouted, in a voice he barely recognized.
‘No,’ shouted the man. ‘I am a first-aider. Do you require medical attention?’
‘Get the fucking police!’ screamed Daniel, his eyes streaming now, his nose running into his mouth. He shook his hand in the air, his skin burning with disgust. ‘Get the fucking police.’
3
Winnie
A stark wind streamed into Glasgow tugging black rain clouds behind it. Litter fluttered frantically outside the strip of glass and the close door breathed gently in and out. The students kept their heads down as they worked they way up to the art school. Maureen cupped her scarf over her ears and turned up her stiff collar before opening the door and venturing out. The bullying wind buffeted her, making her totter slightly as she turned to shut the door. She kept her fists tight inside her silken pockets and made her way down the hill to the town, cosy in her rich-girl overcoat.
She had bought the coat in a pre-Christmas sale. It was pure black wool with a grey silk lining, long and flared at the bottom with a collar so stiff that it stood straight up and kept the wind off her neck. It was the most luxurious thing she had ever owned. Even at half-price it had cost more than three months’ mortgage. She swithered in the shop but persuaded herself that it would last three winters, maybe even four, and anyway, she enjoyed losing the money. On the day Angus murdered him, Douglas had deposited fifteen thousand pounds in her bank account. It was a clumsy act of atonement for their affair and the money compromised her. She knew that the honourable thing to do was give it away but she was dazzled by the string of numbers on her cash point receipts and kept it, justifying her avarice by doing voluntary work for the Place of Safety Shelters. She was haemorrhaging money, leaving the heating on all night, smoking fancy fags, buying endless new cosmetic products, fifty-quid face creams and new-you shampoos, trying to lose it without having the courage to give it away.
The biting wind made her eyes burn and run as she crossed the hilt of the hill. Leslie would be coming into the office today and Maureen was dreading meeting her. ‘Maureen?’
Someone was shouting after her, their voice diluted by the wind. She turned back. A woman in a red head scarf walked quickly over to her, keeping her head down, stepping carefully over the icy ground. She stopped two feet away from Maureen and looked up. ‘Maureen, I love you.’
‘Please,’ said Maureen, fazed and wary, ‘leave me alone.’
‘I need to see you,�
�� said Winnie.
‘Mum, I asked ye to stay away,’ insisted Maureen. ‘I just want ye to leave me alone.’
Winnie grabbed her, squeezing her fingertips tight into the flesh on Maureen’s forearm. She was drunk and had been crying for hours, possibly days. Her eyes were pink, the lids heavy and squared where the tear-ducts had swollen beneath them. A gaggle of pedestrians hurried past, coming up the steep hill from the underground, walking uncertainly on the slippery ground.
‘I love you. And look,’ Winnie held a silver foil parcel towards her and clenched her teeth to avert a sob, ‘I’ve brought you some roast beef.’ Winnie poked the package towards her but Maureen’s hands stayed in her pockets. ‘I don’t want beef, Mum.’
‘Take it,’ said Winnie desperately. ‘Please. I brought it over for you. The juice has run in my handbag. I made too much—’
A passing woman skidded slightly on the frosty ground, let out a startled exclamation and grabbed Winnie’s arm to steady herself. She dragged Winnie over to one side, jerking her hand and knocking the lump of silver on to the pavement. The cheap foil burst, scattering the slices of brown meat, splattering watery blood over the white ice.
‘Oh, my.’ The woman giggled, nervous with fright, patting her chest as she stood up. ‘Sorry about that. It’s so icy this morning.’
Winnie yanked her arm away. ‘You made me drop that,’ she said, and the woman smelt her breath, greasy with drink at nine in the morning.
She glanced over Winnie’s shoulder to Mr Padda’s licensed grocer’s, shot Winnie a disgusted look and stood up tall and straight. ‘Didn’t mean to touch you,’ she said perfunctorily.
‘Go away,’ said Winnie indignantly.
‘I’m sorry,’ the woman addressed Maureen, ‘I slipped—’
