by David Mark
Roe looks across at Kimmy, who gives a begrudging nod. ‘It’s a start.’
18
I keep a benign expression on my face: something that suggests I’m a little taken aback, but happy to help. Of course, Officer, not a problem, Officer – this sort of thing doesn’t happen to nice middle-class ladies like me, Officer. I catch a glimpse of my reflection and realise I look more like a blow-up doll. I force myself to relax.
The cop is making herself comfortable, sitting down at the table and waiting for me to finish banging about with cups and saucers and the fancy milk frother in the kitchen. Coffee for her, tea for him. He takes sugar, she doesn’t. I listen out for the sounds of conversation coming through from the next room but the only thing I can hear is the background static of the children: Poppy and Lilly arguing over who is the bigger idiot and who’s the more amazing, interspersed with the occasional instruction from their big brother to shut up and move over.
Theresa is asleep in the room that used to serve as a study, and which is more of a junk room now. She’s slumbering away beneath a couple of quilted blankets, her feet elevated with a mound of cushions and enough painkillers in her system to numb the agonies until morning. She was already slumbering when the police knocked at the door, leaving Atticus to go completely against my instructions and let them in. If they know she’s here, they’re not saying.
‘That one’s yours,’ I say, brightly, placing a poor attempt at a latte down in front of the senior officer and shoving a hand-painted mug towards the local. I sit down, pushing my damp hair from my face. Force myself to stay calm. I’m home. I’ve done nothing wrong. I’ve nothing to feel guilty about and I don’t have to tell anybody anything if I don’t want to.
‘I saw a lot of police cars zooming past earlier on,’ I say, brightly, talking to the PC. ‘Wondered if it was an exercise or if there had been an accident or something. Weather took a turn, didn’t it? And that bend at Kilchoan can be awful at this time of year…’
PC Stewart looks uncomfortable again. Shoots a look at the other officer, who’s staring at me the way a botanist might consider a particularly interesting growth of leaf mould. I can meet most people’s eyes, but the detective is both hard-faced and chillingly beautiful: a pearlescent blue iceberg in glacial water, entrancing and lethal. She has intensely green eyes and in the moment before I turn away I drink in enough of her appearance to be able to draw her from memory. She’s cinematically attractive, and her eyebrows and teeth have clearly benefited from some serious treatment. She looks like she’s just walked out of a salon, and her dark suit, pinstriped and slightly flared around designer kitten heels, has clearly been tailored. Her fingers are unadorned with any jewellery but her nails are perfect, and painted a deep shade of plum. She’s tanned, and where her elegant neck disappears into the creamy collar of her blouse, a single gold rose hangs from the end of a fine chain. I wouldn’t let Callum sit within five yards of her, and never downwind. She smells wonderful.
‘Veronica Ashcroft,’ she says, her hands folded in her lap. ‘Ronni, yes?’
‘Yeah, Veronica sounds a bit too formal…’
‘Three kids, am I right?’
‘Yes, Atticus, Poppy, Lilly…’
‘You run your home as a guest house, yes? Three little lodges for holidaymakers out the back. Your husband, Callum – he did most of the work, so I’m told.’
‘Well, I like to think I helped,’ I say, determined to keep things friendly until I can work out what on earth to say.
‘I understand your husband is working away at the moment,’ she says, tilting her head and keeping her eyes fixed on mine. I fight the urge to look away.
‘Don’t be coy about it,’ I say. ‘You know this much, you’ll know we’re separated. I’m sure our local constable filled you in on all that. Can I ask why you’re here?’
PC Stewart shifts in his seat. Slurps his tea and yelps, pained, as he scalds his lip and chin. ‘The DCI here is with a different force, Mrs Ashcroft,’ he says, wiping a big hand across his face. ‘We have a responsibility to share information…’
‘So you’ll know he’s had a fling and I’ve kicked him out and that I burned his clothes in the front garden, yes? You’ll know I’m considered a bit of a nutcase by one or two locals?’
A little smile creeps across the DCI’s face. ‘Yes, I heard. None of our business, really, and I can’t condone criminal damage. But well done.’
I’m not sure how to respond. Is she on my side? When will she mention Bishop? What do they know? It’s taking all my energy not to start jiggling my legs up and down on the spot.
‘I understand you’ve made a new friend recently,’ says DCI Cressey. ‘Jim Bishop. Newcomer to the area. Is that correct?’
I look from her to PC Stewart and back again, my mouth dry. ‘Jim, is it? He’s never said. Just Bishop. Yes, we’ve had a couple of drinks together. Why? Is he okay?’
‘Could you tell us about the nature of your relationship please, Mrs Ashcroft?’ asks PC Stewart, while Cressey continues to stare. She’s so still, so poised, it’s like there’s a Greek statue at the kitchen table.
‘Well, it’s not a relationship. We got talking at the beach a few weeks back. Had a couple of drinks, like I said. Nothing serious.’
‘Is it a romantic relationship?’ asks Cressey, and she rolls the word “romantic” around in a way that some people would be willing to call a premium phone line to hear.
I stop myself from replying. Take a moment to compose myself. Give her a look that is all apology. ‘Can I ask you what’s going on please? I don’t want to be awkward but the kids are upstairs and they’ll be needing bath and bed and whatever may have been happening between Bishop and me has pretty much fizzled out, so I really would appreciate you telling me what’s going on.’
Cressey purses her lips. Sucks on her thoughts. ‘We’re concerned for Bishop’s welfare,’ she says, at last.
‘You are? Why?’
‘Well,’ she says, stretching out her hands and inspecting her cuticles. ‘Somebody’s cut his head off.’
Beside her, PC Stewart sprays a mouthful of tea. He starts dabbing at his nose with the back of his hand. Cressey hasn’t moved. She’s staring at me in a way that is all challenge. She wants to see how I’ll react. What I’ll say when rattled.
I start laughing, nervously, grinning a silly grin and unable to work out how to hold my hands. I look from one to the other. Outside, the storm is raging. The rain is hitting the front windows like fistfuls of grit. I have a sudden image of Mr Roe: picture him face-down by the dustbins. I wonder how things will play out if the coppers run over him as they leave.
‘You are joking, yes?’ I ask, at last. ‘Cut his head off? Tell me you’re joking. Of course you are. Even if it were true you wouldn’t tell me that. It’s a joke, yes? Some sort of English humour that’s lost on me. Where is he? Really? Are you actually looking for him or has he done something bad?’
‘Why do you ask that?’
‘Because you’re the police, and you’re here asking me questions, so it has to be one or the other.’
‘Does Mr Bishop have any enemies, Mrs Ashcroft?’
‘I don’t know,’ I say, a note of panic in my voice. ‘I don’t really know him. He works in cyber security and has a place near the ferry terminal. We’ve chatted, but he was more of a listener than a talker. And it sort of petered out.’
‘You made several calls to his mobile phone number on Tuesday,’ says Cressey, smoothly. ‘Quite a lot of texts too. Texts sent from what appears to be a position within Glenborrodale Woods. Which, coincidentally, is very close to where Mr Bishop’s telephone received them.’
‘No,’ I say, shaking my head. ‘No, you’re getting it wrong – I was supposed to meet him and he didn’t turn up and that was the end of it. I knew it wasn’t going to last, and I’m okay with it.’
‘Mr Bishop hasn’t been seen in several days, Mrs Ashcroft. And today, as-yet-unidentified human remains w
ere discovered at Ardtoe.’
I put my hand to my mouth. Everything seems to be buzzing. There are spots dancing in my vision. I need to be alone – need time and space to process everything. ‘That’s horrible,’ I say, looking at PC Stewart. He’s a little green around the gills as he remembers what he has dealt with today.
‘Yes, just a bit. And the reason I’m here is because I have reason to believe that your Mr Bishop was connected to organised crime. Mr Bishop was a mid-level player with at least two known cartels and has connections to a crime syndicate that my unit has been investigating for some time.’
‘Bishop? No – he works in security. I told you…’
‘What do you know about the man staying in your guest house?’ she asks, rubbing her wrists together as if spreading perfume.
‘I don’t know what you mean,’ I say, and my throat sounds dry as scorched paper. This is it, I think. This is when she tells me they know all about the castle, the new owners, the service they’ll be offering. This is when they ask me to provide a statement that pitches me into the middle of something I can’t imagine a way out of.
DCI Cressey leans forward. Her perfume is dry and fruity, like a good white wine. She looks at me the way I’ve seen fighters stare at one another from across the ring.
‘It’s a school night, Mrs Ashcroft. It’s dark, and cold and you’ve no doubt had a difficult day. I’m going to give you a little time to think about things, and then we’ll revisit this conversation. We’ll need a formal statement, and once that is done, it will be very difficult for you to come up with a new narrative somewhere else down the line. So you’ll be wanting to tell a story that sits right. That you can live with. Because I had to spend several hours on a pissing helicopter to get here, Mrs Ashcroft, and I’m staying in a hotel that offers milk in little plastic containers. So my patience is a little thin. I would use this evening to make good decisions, Mrs Ashcroft. Perhaps take a really good long look in the mirror and ask yourself what sort of person you want to be. We’ll pick this up again another time.’
She stands up so quickly that it feels like we’re about to have a brawl in a saloon. Then she smiles at me. Extends a hand. I take it in mine, and don’t let my eyes betray me as I feel the piece of paper she has pressed against my palm.
‘We’ll be out of your hair, then, Ronni,’ says PC Stewart, looking hugely relieved to be leaving. ‘Theresa Gunn does some cleaning for you, doesn’t she? If you happen to see her, let her know we could be doing with a wee chat when she has a moment.’
I glance up at DCI Cressey. She’s smiling as if she knows.
I stay seated until they’ve closed the kitchen door and I hear the roar of their car disappearing down the driveway. There are no sounds to suggest they’ve squashed any slumbering drunks.
In my palm, a doubled-over piece of paper. I unfold it as if it might explode.
Eight digits, and six more separated by dashes. An account number and sort code. My account number. My sort code.
Underneath, a single question mark. I’m no fan of puzzle games, but I think I know how to solve this one. I’m being made an offer. But by whom? To do what?
Then I fold my arms and lay my head down on the table.
Drift into a dream full of severed heads, and stolen hearts.
19
Seven weeks ago
Alexander Street, Clydebank
The pub is next to the railway bridge just off the centre of Clydebank. It’s a big sandstone affair, with red paintwork and dark windows and as Nicholas Roe mooches through the diagonal rain towards its uninviting façade, he experiences the overwhelming sensation of coming home. He has spent his life in such pubs. Has made friends and enemies and drunk himself blind with both in equal measure. He understands the men, and occasionally women, who find their sanctuary within. He does not believe himself to be an alcoholic as he never truly craves alcohol, but he yearns for such warm dark spaces the way a rodent might hunger for the familiar dankness of its burrow.
He checks his watch as he nears the door: 3pm. The streetlights haven’t been switched off at any point today. Sunrise has been dismissed as a nasty rumour. It’s dark and damp and thoroughly miserable and absolutely perfect for his needs.
He pauses at the entrance. Two plant pots are filled to overflowing with cigarette butts. He grinds out his cigar on the doorframe and pockets it. If the men he is pursuing are as well connected as he has been led to believe, they would have the capacity to DNA test any forensics left behind. Such precautions are not paranoia. He knows, to his cost, that in these halcyon days of budget cuts and operational streamlining, the people he pursues are better resourced, better informed and better advised than the police officers who chase them.
Inside, no surprises. A threadbare red carpet, beneath a half dozen round wooden tables and hard chairs. Ripped beer mats on sticky tabletops, woodchip on the walls. Black-and-white pictures in cheap frames and fruit machines flashing neon. Two and a half customers today. An old boy sits at a table offering the best view of the door, halfway down a pint of heavy and with a faraway look in his yellowy eyes that suggests he has been searching for answers at the bottom of pint glasses since he was a boy. At the other end of the room, a scrawny man with a prominent Adam’s apple pushes a stroller back and forth with his foot while fiddling with his mobile phone and eating crisps from an open packet on the table.
A stout, matronly barmaid emerges from an open door behind the bar. Gives him what passes for a smile. He returns it and surveys the signs on the bar taps, then glances at the optics behind.
‘Pint of that,’ he says, nodding at a pump. ‘Double Auchentoshan. Drop of water.’
‘Drop of water? We don’t do cocktails.’
Roe licks his lips. Gives her a once-over. Black top. A couple of gold necklaces disappearing into a crevasse of cleavage. Illegible iodine tattoos on freckly forearms. A tooth missing in her top row. She has a landlady look about her. If there were time, he could be persuaded to propose.
‘That an English accent?’ she asks, flicking the tap on the real ale.
‘Would it be a barrier to our friendship if it was?’
‘Not necessarily. I mean, you’re starting with a disadvantage.’
‘In that case, get one for yourself.’
‘Kind of you. Cheers. Just a half, I won’t take the piss.’
‘You were well raised, I see.’
‘Oh I’m pure angel, I am.’
Roe sips a couple of inches of his pint. Hands over a twenty-quid note. It’s English currency, and she looks at it cynically.
‘That’s legal tender,’ says Roe, smiling. She returns it. Nods, their friendship cemented.
‘Meeting somebody?’ she asks, serving herself and plonking herself down on a stool behind the bar.
‘Aye, soon enough.’
‘Here for anything in particular?’
‘Holidaymaker, love. Here to see the sights.’
‘Fuck off, no you’re not.’
He grins. Takes another three inches off his pint. ‘On my way further north, as it happens. I think they used to call it convalescing.’
‘You’ve not been well?’
He gestures at himself. ‘Do I look well?’
She shrugs. ‘Seen worse. Seen better. None of my business. Where is it you’re off to?’
‘Out Mull way. Highlands and Irelands. Get some proper air in my old lungs.’
‘You’ll like it. Good for the soul. They should prescribe it on the NHS. Cheaper than antidepressants.’
‘Yeah? There’s room in the car. You should pack a bag.’
‘Not sure Suzanne would like that?’
‘Suzanne?’
‘The wife.’
Roe feigns colossal disappointment. In truth, he knows all about Gaynor, the landlady. She’s not yet fifty, has three grown-up children, and though she’s on to her fourth marriage, this is her first to a woman. The woman in question, Suzanne, works at a bridal boutique in Glasgow.
They met when Gaynor was trying on the gown ahead of tying the knot with husband number three.
She seems about to impart some other confidence when her expression changes. Somebody has silently entered the bar. Somebody huge. Where he stands, Roe feels as though a black cloud has just passed in front of the sun. He turns, slowly, and finds himself face-to-chest with a colossal man. Although he wears an unremarkable suit and has combed his wayward red hair into a neat side-parting, he looks to Roe as though he would feel more comfortable in breastplate and sitting astride a shire horse: hooves the size of dinner plates and muscles like its rider.
‘Fucking hell,’ says Roe, by way of greeting.
‘Yeah, I bet that a lot.’ His voice is soft – a low rumble.
‘Can I get you a drink? Or a packet of crisps? I worry about your blood sugar.’
‘Funny.’
‘Drink, big man?’ asks Gaynor.
‘Do you have milk?’
‘Just for my coffee,’ she says, apologetically.
‘I’ll leave it then.’ He looks at Roe. Wrinkles his nose. ‘Drink up. Car’s outside.’
Roe grins, moving one of his wobbly teeth back and forth with his tongue. ‘Cut the roof off, have you?’
‘You and me are going to fall out,’ says the big man. ‘We haven’t even become friends yet and already I can see it going wrong.’
Roe feigns contrition. Leans against the bar and sips his whisky. He needs this man to know that he’s not afraid. That he’s dealt with bigger men than him. That he’s the real deal. He can afford what he’s trying to buy. He’s a friend worth having.
‘Are we going somewhere pretty?’ he asks.
‘Maybe around the block. Maybe out to the woods. We’ll see what you buy yourself with that mouth of yours.’
Roe shakes his head. ‘I’m flattered, but you’re not my type.’
The big man leans down. ‘If I held you up by the ankle and shook you, what would fall out?’
Roe finishes his whisky. ‘Try it. See what happens.’
