by James Oswald
‘There’s someone I need to talk to, if she’ll talk to me, that is.’ I tell her about Daniel Jones running away from home, about how his mother wouldn’t talk to the local police but might speak to me. To give her credit, she doesn’t tell me I’m being a fool.
‘You may well be right. I have some small knowledge of the boys in blue.’ Rose smiles at some joke only she knows. ‘Well, it’s the detectives mostly, but you know what I mean. They’re not the worst, far from it, but they’re overworked and understaffed like so many. It’s hardly surprising they’re not going to put their best man on a task like that.’
I can’t help noticing that she said ‘best man’, not ‘best men’ or even ‘best officers’, and it occurs to me that she’s thinking of someone in particular. Before I can ask who, Rose speaks again.
‘But you’ll not be heading out to see Mrs Jones this evening, will you.’ It’s more of a statement than a question.
‘No. She lives in Broxburn somewhere. I’ve got the address. Thought I’d be better off looking for it in daylight.’
‘Very wise.’ Rose smooths the front of her tweed skirt with hands that could lay bricks all day, then rises effortlessly to her feet. I find myself doing the same.
‘I’m afraid something came up this afternoon that I’ll have to attend to this evening. Nothing to concern yourself with, but it’s a nuisance all the same. I had so wanted to greet you properly, La— Con. And treat you to a welcome supper. Alas, you’ll have to fend for yourself tonight, and the feast will have to wait until tomorrow.’
I know that she is being sincere, even as her words sound like someone of advanced age trying to politely tell a youngster that they’re a bit of an imposition and had better not expect too much. I’m also secretly relieved, as the thought of spending an entire evening with Rose is a daunting prospect. Nevertheless, they taught us manners at St Humbert’s School for Young Ladies, or at least beat a semblance of them into us, so I do my best to hide my lack of disappointment.
‘That’s such a shame. I do hope it’s nothing too serious, but please, you don’t need to do anything for me.’
‘Are you sure, my dear? That’s very gracious.’
‘It’s nothing, really. I’ll be fine. A bed to sleep in is more than I could hope for. And it’s not as if I don’t know Edinburgh. I lived her for four years, after all.’
‘Well, that’s settled then. Let me show you your room, and where everything is.’
And with that she sweeps from the room, leaving me to follow in her wake like a lost, little child.
20
It would be very easy to get used to this kind of lifestyle, even if I know I’m just staying here for a short while. Rose’s house in Leith is vast. The guest room she showed me to when I first arrived is sumptuously appointed, like I imagine a suite at the Ritz might have looked in the 1920s. Its large bay window opens out over the tiny courtyard, the street where my elderly Volvo is parked, and then north across the rooftops of Trinity and Newhaven towards the Firth of Forth and Fife. I’ve set up my laptop on a desk that looks suspiciously like it might once have graced a private room at Versailles, with a surprisingly comfortable chair to match, although as yet I’ve not done much more than turn it on and surf the net. Despite the entire house looking like a film set from a period drama, there is electricity and even Wi-Fi. And a wonderful absence of any journalists or paparazzi photographers camped outside.
For all her strangeness, Rose is an easy person to get on with. It doesn’t take long at all to stop thinking of her as anything other than ‘she’, despite her appearance. She asks nothing of me, although I can tell she desperately wants to ask what it is I’m up to. Instead, she gives me the space I didn’t know I needed and the time to gather my frayed nerves back together.
The first evening, after my long drive north from Harston Magna, I went to bed much earlier than I would even consider in London. I slept so well that night it was gone ten in the morning before I woke, but if Rose thought me lazy she said nothing. When I walked into the kitchen, she was standing at the stove with a pinafore around her ample waist, stirring away at a pot of perfect porridge. Coffee and breakfast and more chat, before she announced she needed to go and meet with some clients of hers, and that I should treat the house as my own while she was out. It was only when she appeared again much later that I realised I’d spent the whole day just lazing around, browsing through her fascinating and extensive library and making endless cups of tea. I hadn’t even been outside, and yet when I retired to bed that evening I once more slept like the dead.
And now another day has passed without the worry of being targeted by the media. Another day of wandering the halls, looking at the endless strange objects that fill every available space. Another day of being watched by the legion of cats who come and go as if this house is as much theirs as it is Rose’s. I came to Edinburgh intending to seek out Dan Jones’s mother, to try to find out what kind of person he was and what life he lived before running away to seek his fate in London. And yet for two days now I’ve not even felt like stepping outside.
‘You look much better than when you arrived, my dear.’ Rose is sitting at a kitchen table not so different to the one in Aunt Felicity’s house four hundred miles south of here. The pot of tea she insists on pouring herself sits between us, jug of milk and bowl of unnecessary sugar beside it. When we have known each other seven years, I’m told, only then will I be allowed to pour the tea myself in her house. It’s a quaint little superstition I find easy to accept, since Aunt Flick is exactly the same.
‘I hadn’t realised quite how on edge I was. This house has a very calming effect. Sometimes I feel like I could sleep for a week.’
Rose tilts her head slightly, a warm smile on her perfectly made-up face. ‘You youngsters are all the same. Burning the candle at both ends, bright as you like, and never a thought for what it’s doing to you.’
‘Youngster? Nobody’s called me that since I turned thirty.’
‘Nevertheless, you are. And you do. You take the weight of the world on your shoulders. That’s admirable, but not always wise. This house likes you. I thought it would. You will always find peace here, sanctuary even. Please, use it whenever you need.’
It’s such an odd thing to say, I find myself staring at the old lady for a while. Then I realise my mouth is hanging slightly open, possibly in anticipation of the teacup I’m holding halfway between it and the tabletop, possibly in surprise. I try not to make too much of a clicking sound as I close it.
‘I’m teasing. My apologies.’ Rose’s eyes glint mischievously, much like I remember Aunt Flick’s eyes glinting when she urged me and Ben to do things our parents most certainly disapproved of.
‘But I mean it when I say you look well. Rested even. Perhaps it’s time for you to renew your quest.’
The way she says it makes me think I’m in some kind of Arthurian legend. It wouldn’t surprise me to find a spare suit of armour in one of the many cluttered rooms in the house. Possibly an enchanted sword too.
‘There were one or two things I was going to look into while I was here,’ I concede. ‘Might have to wait until tomorrow now.’ I glance up at the window and the encroaching darkness outside, unsurprised to find a cat as black as the night staring at me from the windowsill with luminous yellow eyes.
Rose tops up both our teacups even though mine is still mostly full. ‘Why don’t you get out a bit before then? Stretch your legs a little and remind yourself what the city looks like. Take the air, you know?’
Despite her words, it doesn’t sound as if she’s trying to get rid of me so much as giving me permission to leave the house unattended. Until then, I’d not even considered stepping outside, and it’s only at that moment I realise that the house had trapped me in a strange spell. If Rose hadn’t mentioned it, I might happily have stayed inside for weeks. Longer, even. It’s unsettling, and yet at
the same time I feel very safe here.
‘That’s not a bad idea. Think I’ll do that. Revisit some of my old uni haunts.’
Rose lays her large hands flat on the table, either side of her cup, then levers herself upright as if getting her bulk standing requires more effort than her legs can manage right now. It’s almost impossible to tell how old she is, except that she knew my aunt as a little child, was friends with my grandfather and so must be nearer seventy than sixty at the very least. In that moment she seems all of those years and more, but it passes as swiftly as a frown turned into a smile.
‘Splendid,’ she says. ‘And don’t worry about coming home late. The door is always open to those who belong here.’
Edinburgh has that sense of crawling slowly out of a long winter about it. The nights are still dark, but it’s not too cold as I stroll up Leith Walk towards Princes Street. Cranes tower over the building site that once used to be the St James Centre and New St Andrews House, like mother birds feeding the brood that will grow into whatever new retail experience is planned for the area. I skirt around it swiftly, heading for the Guildford Arms and a proper pint of Scottish ale, but the crowd spilling out of the doorway deters me. Popularity was ever its own worst enemy. A quick glance at my watch confirms the after-work crowd have just arrived, so maybe I’d be better off drinking elsewhere.
Crossing over North Bridge, I take out my phone and flick through the contacts. Ten years since I graduated from the university, there’s not many people I know still living here. Certainly none I feel a great urge to share a drink with. On the other hand, there’s nothing wrong with drinking alone, as long as you don’t make a habit of it.
I find it good to walk these old streets again. My legs are full of energy, as if I’d rested weeks, not the couple of days spent cooped up in Rose’s strange mansion. Even though the city is choked with cars, the air is somehow cleaner than London. The cold clears my head and makes it easier to think. The breeze blowing in off the Forth is strong enough to disperse the pollution, but not so brisk I’d risk losing my hat. If I was wearing one, that is.
I’m almost all the way there before I realise where it is my feet are taking me. My final year at the university, I lived in a tenement in Bruntsfield, sharing with a couple of postgrad students I hardly ever saw. The nearest pub was a bit of a shithole, but it had the twin benefits of being close by and selling half-decent beer. As I get closer, I begin to recognise little things that haven’t changed even in the decade since I left. The long-dead houseplant on a windowsill, dry and brown; the frame of a bicycle chained to the railings outside a front door, its wheels and saddle long gone; the broken neon sign in the window of a guest house that reads ‘vac ies’ at the moment, but sometimes ‘o vac ies’ if it’s feeling festive. The communal bins still take up too much of the pavement, overflowing with rubbish and piled high with seagull-ripped binbags, but there is one difference I can’t help but notice. There are cafés and shops where I remember empty windows painted out white. People cluster in groups around the entrances, chatting. There’s a vibrancy to the place I don’t remember from when I left. The city feels alive.
Even the Rothesay Arms has had a lick of paint, which surprises me. The usual band of die-hard smokers huddle at the front door, wreathed in smoke and silence as they pay their respects to the Gods of tobacco. I dart through quickly, not wanting to breathe their air, and enter a room that’s at once familiar and utterly alien.
It was always a bit of a dive, the sort of place where students came to buy weed. I liked its dark corners and the fact that the locals didn’t bat an eye at a woman drinking pints. Or indeed a woman drinking at all. The corners are still dark, but the place has been done up. Where once there were old wooden stools and wheelback chairs, now there are more comfortable padded seats in what I think is dark-green velour of some kind. It’s hard to tell as the place is rammed. Not quite as bad as the Guildford, but busy for a midweek evening. Still very much a student part of town, judging by the clientele. And this lot clearly didn’t get the memo about millennials giving up booze.
‘Pint of Deuchars, please,’ I shout at the woman behind the bar once I’ve elbowed my way to the front. She doesn’t look old enough to be serving alcohol, but then students started looking young five years ago too. I’ve taken my drink, handed over a fiver and got a lot more back from it in change than I would in London when the first unwanted attention arrives.
‘You looking to score, pet?’
At least, I think that’s what he says. It’s not easy to hear over the din, and my brain’s more attuned to the London accent these days, even if I’ve spent a few months hidden away in darkest, wettest Perthshire recently. I focus on the young man in front of me, not quite sure what to make of him. He’s dressed the same as the rest of the crowd in here, but that doesn’t mean much. There’s something of the weasel about the way his eyes dart around the room, never settling on me for more than a second at a time. Furtive, suspicious. My well-honed detective instincts don’t need much poking to know he’s bad news.
‘You what?’
‘I can hook you up, ken?’ He nods in the direction of my pint. ‘Beer’s fine, but you need something else to take the edge off, no?’
I’m about to tell him to piss off, in the nicest possible way since he doesn’t appear to have recognised me. But before I can say anything, a hand lands squarely on his shoulder and he’s spun around away from me. Following the arm that’s attached to the hand, I see a woman perhaps five years younger and six inches shorter than me. I wouldn’t mess with her despite either of those advantages. For one thing she’s got ‘cop’ written all over her plain-clothes face, and my would-be dealer friend can see it as clearly as I can. It’s hard to tell over the hubbub, but I swear he actually goes ‘meep’, before departing at speed and leaving me face to face with my would-be saviour.
‘Constance Fairchild, isn’t it.’
I can’t help but hear the lack of question mark, so I smile, shrug. ‘It’s a fair cop.’
She frowns at the joke, then half smiles. ‘Detective Constable Harrison. I think we should talk.’
21
It’s not as if I can really refuse, and so far Detective Constable Harrison has been very understanding, so I follow her through the crowd to a small booth where another young woman sits, jealously guarding a couple of half-drunk pints. She stares up at me with curious eyes, then shuffles to make room for her friend. I take the indicated seat opposite, saying nothing.
‘Someone with a suspicious mind might think you were here for less than honest reasons,’ Harrison says once she’s realised I’m not going to be the first to break. ‘How is it you know our old pal Derrick there?’ She flicks her head in the direction of the bar and the spotty youth desperately trying to peddle drugs to anyone who stands still for long enough.
‘Is that his name? I can honestly say I’ve never met him before. I only came in here for a drink.’
It occurs to me that DC Harrison hasn’t actually shown me a warrant card, and neither has she bothered to introduce me to her friend. I only entertain the thought that they’re not police for a couple of seconds though. Harrison might as well be wearing uniform, but I’m less sure about the other one. She’s more casually dressed, for one thing, and her blonde hair is too long, even if it is tied back in a neat braid.
‘Con Fairchild.’ I reach out and offer her my hand. ‘Since Harrison here’s not going to.’
She looks momentarily surprised, glancing sideways at her friend. Then she grins and accepts my hand. ‘Manda. Manda Parsons. Thought I recognised you the moment you stepped in. You running away from the papers?’
‘Sort of. I kind of hoped nobody would know who I was up here. So much for that plan.’
‘Are you staying in the city long?’ Harrison asks. I can hear the unspoken ‘you should really have reported in with us’ in her voice. She’s not overtly host
ile, but I get the feeling I’ve spoiled something here. I’m just not sure what.
‘A week or so, probably. Depends on whether the tabloids track me down or not. Hopefully they’ll find someone else to pester soon enough. I’d quite like to get back to work. Been off too long already.’
‘That’s got to suck big time, having a camera shoved in your face wherever you go. And it’s not as if you’re on Strictly or anything. Just doing your job.’
I’ve decided I like Manda. She’s much more welcoming than Harrison, whose frown has turned into a scowl. At least it’s directed at her drinking companion rather than me. No doubt being friendly wasn’t part of the plan.
‘Usually more than one camera. It can be a bit of a scrum.’ I remember the scene just a couple of days ago on the pavement outside my apartment block. It’s hard to believe the frenzy now, but it was all too real when it happened. ‘So you’re both Police Scotland, then.’
Manda makes a mock horrified face. ‘God no. I work in forensics. Janie’s the upstanding member of the community.’
I look between the two of them, so different physically, and yet obviously comfortable in each other’s company. It’s been a while since I lived here, and she’s not really said all that much yet, but Harrison has a broader accent than her friend. Local working class. Manda speaks with a more rounded, softer brogue. She’s not as defensive, either.
‘So you’re really just up here to keep a low profile?’ Harrison says finally. ‘You’ve nothing else to do? Not planning on poking your nose in anywhere?’
I shrug. ‘Might do a bit of sightseeing. Might just revisit old haunts like this place.’
The look on the detective constable’s face is one of strained credulity. ‘And you’re staying where?’
‘Place down on Leith Walk. Big old house. It’s—’
