Lies of the Land

by Chris Dolan

  They followed her into a sitting room, the kind of room that Coulter couldn’t believe people actually lived in. Like one of those rooms you might see in a tour of a National Trust property. It wasn’t so much the dimensions as the perfect orderliness of it. And so much stuff. His own living room was a quarter the size and had the compulsory telly, chairs, couch, coffee table. People must spend not only a lot more money than he had, but a lot more time, finding and placing … stuff. Dresser, ottoman, bookshelves, lampstands, piano, pictures, ornaments. Stuff he didn’t have names for. And yet the place felt empty.

  Marion Miller sat herself neatly down, perched on the edge of a massive armchair, crossed her legs and placed her hands, palms down, on her knees, still smiling sweetly. “I phoned his office this morning. Yes, before you ask, I did wonder what had happened to him.”

  “You don’t seem too upset, Mrs Miller.”

  She’d be around the same age as her husband – fifty-two when he had died, they had already established – tall, aware of her own attractiveness. She hardly looked at all at DS Dalgarno.

  “You were expecting a weeping widow.”

  “That tends to be the normal reaction.”

  “I’ve been a widow for years. To Jules’s work, golf, and making his life look like he was living the dream. I suppose he was. Just it was his dream, not mine.”

  “I’d have thought, given the manner of his death…” Coulter was bewildered.

  “Live by the sword, die by the sword.” The very thought that had occurred to him. But he was a near-stranger to the deceased and he had dismissed the line as shallow.

  “What do you mean, Mrs Miller?” Dalgarno asked, innocently. Mrs Miller glanced at her then settled her gaze back on Coulter.

  “Well, look at this place. I know, you must be thinking: he works, she spends. Not so. Everything inside and outside the house was carefully chosen by Julian. All to create the right impression. Even the house itself, in the middle of bloody nowhere. Albeit an expensive bloody nowhere. You don’t get to afford all this without rubbing a few people up the wrong way.”

  “Including yourself, Mrs Miller?” DS Dalgarno, it seemed, hadn’t taken to the woman.

  “Let’s just say Jules and I had worked out a … modus operandi.”

  “You sound as if you almost expected it,” Coulter said.

  “No, I did not. I won’t pretend to have been saddened by the news. But surprised, yes.”

  “I take it you can’t account for your husband’s movements last night?”

  “He wasn’t in the habit of asking my permission to stay out late, no.”

  “I’m afraid you’ll have to identify your husband’s body, Mrs Miller.” Dalgarno added, “It won’t be pleasant, ma’am. He was shot through the head.”

  Marion Miller paused for a moment then, for the first time looking Amy in the eye, almost whispered, “I’ll manage.”

  Taking their leave, Coulter wondered if it was all an act. He had seen many strange reactions to death. He wasn’t the only one who didn’t understand it or know what to do in its presence. Shrink from it, deny it, laugh at it. Create a shell around yourself so that Death can’t get to you.

  Nick’s was one of the places Maddy avoided in the West End. She feared she might run into someone she had prosecuted. There were always four-by-fours outside and every time she passed it seemed that middle-aged men in camel coats, Costa del Crime tans and polished bald patches were going in or out. She knew it was inverted snobbery but Nick’s was new West End, stick-thin peroxide blondes in spray-on denims, heels, Fendi and Vuitton bags, big watches on both her and her beau. What really made her laugh was, alongside the SUVs, were Ferraris and Porsches that were obviously hired. Obvious because the men hung around beside them, leaning on them or making calls with the tops down, desperate to be seen before they had to hand them back next week, or maybe even tomorrow.

  She’d tried to persuade Alan to meet somewhere else, but he’d insisted, for some reason, on Nick’s. Annoyingly, she arrived before he did. She considered leaving and walking round the block – she’d taken the pack with a few cigarettes left in it from Friday night – but it was getting snell outside. Anyway it was fascinating inside. Perhaps she’d been hard on the place. Certainly full of aspirationals but they all seemed jovial enough. She had to admit it, she was a bit jealous of these women. Maddy could never be bothered with putting on much make-up. Wasn’t organised enough to have the time for it. But if she could click her fingers and have her hair as coiffured and shiny, her eyes as sparkly, skin as sun-kissed, she probably would. Though she’d never admit it to anyone.

  Alan came in looking even more out of place than she did. Crumpled coat, trousers gathered at the ankles, and wet too, so it must have started raining. He looked like a door-to-door salesman who’d just had a particularly unsuccessful winter’s day. Yet he still looked classier than anyone else in the joint. Greying elegantly, hair a week past needing a cut, posture of a mature, professional man – and eyes bright as a boy’s. She watched him as he got them both drinks at the bar. Maddy had given up waiting to be served but a young barman took Alan’s order immediately. She couldn’t hear what he’d said, but the young man smiled broadly at him. Five kids, an ailing wife, and thirty years chasing lowlifes, Alan Coulter still had charisma. Something trustworthy and unexpectedly optimistic about him.

  “Why here of all places?” she asked when he brought over his half of lager and her spritzer.

  “Work.”

  “This is where Miller and Crichton were last night with their clients?”

  “Correct. You hungry? Food smells good.”

  “I’ve heard it’s pretty decent. On me.”

  “We’ll see.”

  “How did it go with Mrs Miller?”

  “Very well indeed, as a matter of fact. She was actually pleased to see us.”

  “What?”

  “I don’t think she and Julian were getting on terrifically well. It’s like she’s just got a get-out-of-jail-free card. She’s delighted.”

  Maddy tipped her head back and laughed out loud.

  “You have the strangest sense of humour, Ms Shannon.”

  “Sorry. I like the woman already. Sounds like a one-off.”

  “I’m not sure she is. I wonder how often, after we leave a family home, having just broken the bad news, widows and widowers dry their tears and feel a sense of relief.”

  “Well I know my traditional Catholic mamma was over the moon with joy when mad Packie left her. She might even have been happier if he’d fallen under a bus, rather than just fucked off out of her life.”

  “What age were you?”

  “When Dad left? Fifteen.”

  “And how did you take it?”

  “Not as well as Mamma.”

  They had the early evening meal deal. Mussels for Maddy and beef stew with dumplings for Coulter, followed by risotto and rib-eye steak. Maddy had hoped to find fault but actually the food was good and the service pleasant. Coulter decided he’d leave his car so they could share a bottle of house Merlot. At the table next to them was a well-behaved, smiley family. Perhaps Maddy had misjudged the place.

  Coulter called over the young barman he’d ordered the drinks from earlier, and asked if he’d been on the night before.

  “No, sorry. Why, is there a problem?”

  “Not with the service. Any of the staff here now on last night?”

  “Some of the kitchen staff maybe. Unlikely any of the baristas or waiters. We’re all students, none of us like working both weekend nights. I’ll check.”

  The restaurant section was on a balcony overlooking the bar. A good place for people-watching. “What d’you reckon,” Maddy asked. “It’s got the name locally for being a hang-out for wannabes and dodgy businessmen.”

  “Then it’s the same as everywhere else in the country these days. Welcome to Tory UK – just a touch more grasping and frightened than the rest of Blair’s Britain.”

  “T
old you. We should have voted Yes.”

  “Don’t start. You really think Scotland would be any less precarious than the UK? There’s not a country in Europe where people aren’t desperately playing a game that’s loaded against them.”

  It was an old argument between them. Six months after the referendum they were repeating the same mantras.

  “It might have been. Might yet be.”

  “It’s not even that you’re so optimistic, Maddy. It’s all that flag-waving. For a country that, if we ordered another bottle of plonk, you’d be saying you don’t even really belong in.”

  “Nobody belongs anywhere any more.”

  “Exactly.”

  “That’s a good thing, Alan.”

  A young waitress approached them, putting an end to the discussion to their mutual relief. “Hi. Matt said you were asking about last night? I was on until seven.” She’d be in her mid twenties, overweight and uncomfortable in her uniform of white shirt and black skirt that fitted the other bar girls neatly. Maddy was pleased that she wasn’t at all self-conscious or insecure. She spoke with a certain silky assuredness. A student no doubt. Studying what, Maddy wondered. Law? In a couple of years’ time she might be up against her in court.

  “Did you see a group of men – older men – having dinner before you left?”

  “Could be Mr Hughes’s party. They were arriving just as I was leaving. He’s a regular. Stays late and can be a bit … overfamiliar? But he tips big.”

  “How many were here when you left, Miss…?”

  “Hollie. There was only one other guy with Hughes when I left. But I checked the book for you. The booking was for three.” Organised and thinking ahead, if Maddy did encounter her in a courtroom Hollie would be no pushover. She showed Coulter a till receipt. The inspector raised his eyebrows. “Big bill for such a small party.”

  “Mr Hughes is the last of the big spenders. Best wines, whiskies. Often goes outside with a fat cigar. He loves showing off.”

  “You didn’t hear, Hollie, if there was any … aggro, an argument or anything last night?”

  “No. Why?”

  Maddy looked up at her. “One of Mr Hughes’s party had one hell of a head on him this morning.”

  Saturday night and Maddy was home, more or less sober, and with no surprises to wake up to tomorrow morning. She wasn’t entirely sure if this was a good thing or not. In control and living responsibly, or her social life drying up ever more quickly?

  She’d watched La Dolce Vita again recently – a compunction that hit her every few months. Comparing her own life with Mastroianni and Ekberg dancing hopelessly, beautifully, in the Trevi Fountain. Who needs hope when you have youth, and Rome?

  Who would want to kill a solicitor? Plenty of people, probably. And just as many might be sharpening their blades for fiscals. Dan McKillop, her colleague, successfully prosecuted a small Southside businessman for defrauding his own company a couple of years back. The guy’s son, private-school educated, was an addict and the money had gone to paying off truly nasty loan sharks and dealers. When the businessman got out of prison he tied a chain to a lamp post then around his neck, got in his car and floored the accelerator. His head was ripped off and smashed through the windscreen. But he had told a friend the evening before that he was going to rip off Dan McKillop’s head, not his own. Crazed, embittered, it could have gone either way. Dan never mentioned it but Maddy knew it had terrified the wits out him.

  Men and their cars. More recently Maddy had been in Waitrose when someone she had prosecuted made a point of following her up and down every aisle. She got out the shop and he followed her, never saying a word, but keeping his gaze fixed on her. She’d been parked in Huntly Gardens. When she got in her car he was still watching. Whether or not he’d been parked nearby and had followed her home she couldn’t be sure. How many people who have a grudge against her know where she lives? This quiet little street she so loves, its elegantly shabby gardens and crumbling stone. The copse of trees outside her living room window full of finches and tits – one day, she’ll find out what species they all are. Is it as safe as it looks, as it feels? Or is she a sitting duck?

  These troublesome thoughts were extinguished by Louis calling her on Skype after all. Folks who see their partners on a daily basis don’t notice the changes. They see an old photograph and are amazed at how different mister or missus was not so long back. But hooking up face-to-face on Skype, which could be pretty blurry and jumpy, and in the flesh only once or twice a year, Maddy was only too aware of the changes. Louis’ hair a tiny bit thinner, putting on or losing a bit of weight, lines around the eyes. Tonight he looked tired and a little pale. She wondered what he made of her.

  “I was supposed to be going round to Sergio’s tonight, but little Ana’s got some kind of virus.” Sergio, Louis’ youngest brother; Ana his cute four-year-old niece. She’d met the family a couple of times over there.

  “It’s a welcome surprise.”

  “Saturday night? I thought you’d be out.”

  “No. Going to put on a CD and read an improving book.”

  “Kama Sutra?”

  “Beginner’s stuff. You okay? You look done in.”

  “Thanks. You look wonderful.”

  “No really, I’m concerned.”

  “Been a busy week. Quite pleased to have a night in too.”

  They both relaxed into it, Maddy sitting back, tablet on her knee, Louis crouching over his PC, pouring himself a Scotch. It was the way they managed to pick up seamlessly from where they’d left off, the immediacy of their connection, that reassured Maddy everything was okay. They were okay. So long as she didn’t think what would come of it. Their work and families thousands of miles apart, little chance of either of them packing up and moving across the Atlantic. They talked again about Maddy enrolling for the Bar exams in New York, fantasising about her practising over there one day, but she knew it wouldn’t happen. Not while her mamma was still alone. And anyway the US Bar exams were notoriously difficult. Maybe fifteen or even ten years ago she’d have had the energy for it. She’d seen enough episodes of The Good Wife to know that starting a career in American law was a younger woman’s game.

  She told Louis about Julian Miller.

  “There was a lawyer murdered in DC couple of months back,” he told her. “Young rising star apparently, and married with kids, I think. Except he was posting online looking for gay sex. Site over here called Craigslist, a gay hook-up outfit.”

  Maddy didn’t tell him that she knew all about Craigslist, and that it wasn’t any longer exclusively gay. She’d tried it once herself, a year or two before meeting Louis. There was one guy, he looked very attractive in the picture, describing himself as an academic, an American in Scotland for a conference. They’d arranged a place and time to meet up, but Maddy got cold feet and didn’t show. It was dangerous – which of course was both the up and the downside of Craigslist’s thrill. Was she really going to go to a hotel room with someone who could turn out to be an axe murderer? And, professionally, it wasn’t such a good idea. She wasn’t ashamed of trying it out, but had always felt a bit guilty for forsaking the poor man, all horny and rejected. Louis’ story, though, confirmed she had taken the right decision.

  “So he agrees on a hotel room with some guy, except he wasn’t a guy, but a young woman intent, she told the court, to rob him. But a scuffle broke out and she ended up stabbing the legal wunderkind to death.”

  “Jeez. Wrong place, wrong time.”

  “The only other thing I can remember was that he was handcuffed. Whether he put them on himself in anticipation or she cuffed him, I don’t know.”

  “So Miller’s death might be the result of some extramarital jiggery-pokery?”

  “Hey, I don’t know. I’m just telling you a goodnight story.”

  “It’s possible, though. Mrs Miller was apparently delighted at his demise.”

  “Wow. She made that obvious?”

  They talked on a bit
longer. She told him about her golf case which he didn’t find nearly as silly or as irritating as she did. Louis liked golf though he seldom found the time to play. He told her about his workload. A shoot-out in the Bronx, not his patch but two of the kids were from Queens and had form. A road rage case, and a series of muggings. Like Coulter he talked of all these chaotic lives and deaths with a hint of humour and compassion. A miracle that none of them, almost everyone she worked with included, had become cynical or gone mad. She did think, however, that it might have been nice if her boyfriend (are you still boyfriend and girlfriend in your forties?) had a different kind of job. Like maybe a sculptor, or a plumber, or a scientist developing an elixir of youth.

  Louis signed off quite animated, she thought, about the prospect of coming over to Glasgow for Easter or before. She was happy not just for herself, but for him. She felt this responsibility, keeping such a long-distance relationship going. Perhaps it would be kinder on both of them to let it wither. Any loneliness he might feel, unhappiness, she felt was her fault. Maybe she only kept the thing going to make it up to him somehow. While he was on screen, Doug Mason had tried her phone twice. She smiled. “I’m out and about so I’m in with a shout,” she remembered the Paolo Nutini line.

  After kissing their screens goodnight, Maddy checked Facebook and got a shock. Mad Packie, Patrick Shannon, her dad, had opened up a page. So far he only had four friends, all men with Irish names. He’d friend-requested her. She decided to sleep on that and decide in the morning.

  The press had the story on Sunday morning. “Top Lawyer Slain” etc.

  While Maddy took her mum to Sunday Mass, DI Coulter was hard at work, at his desk cursing the press, and whoever had given them details they shouldn’t have. There was mention of “dinner out at an expensive WestEnd restaurant” and a suggestion that the police had found the murder weapon. Somebody somewhere was feeding them information. What’s new? He threw the papers aside and got down to real work.

  A couple of early reports had come through already. The SOCO report confirmed most of what they had surmised yesterday morning. Victim was shot dead at point-blank range with the Glock pistol found near the scene. The sphenoid and temporal bones shattered, cerebral hemisphere obliterated – in other words, Miller’s brains were blown out. The pistol itself was interesting. Brand new, never used before, not a reactivated replica. One shot fired, the shot that took the top of Miller’s head off. No cartilage residue was found and no fingerprints – a clean enough job, were it not for the fact that the gun itself was simply dumped in the nearest available bin.