The Polka Dot Girl

by Darragh McManus

  “Anyone else I should know about?”

  “Divers got here fast, marked down the girl’s location and pulled her out. What else, what else? …Just two security guards. They have a shack back towards the main gates but off a ways. Stupid place to put the security office. They say they didn’t see or hear a thing. Probably didn’t. Probably asleep the whole time.

  But I’ve got their names if you need to question them.”

  The officer stood there, silent, all talked out for now. I did a quick situation breakdown in my mind: forensics and Farrington would soon have all they needed or could get from the scene. Poison Rose was no use to me drunk and nowhere near sober. And I had to break the news to Misery before someone else did. In a place like Hera City, that was likely to happen sooner than I wanted.

  I said, “Okay, Browne, this is what we’ll do. Take Poison Rose to Silberling Street lock-up. Put her in a cell for the night, on her own. We’re not booking her, we just want to sober her up. She’s away with the fairies right now. Give her a cot and a hot meal, some coffee. Let her sleep for a few hours. Tell the night desk you’re acting under the orders of Detective Auf der Maur, Homicide. I’ll come by myself in the morning, early. And be gentle with her, with Rose. Alright? Any questions?”

  Browne said, “No, Detective”, then paused and smiled shyly. “Well, one. If you don’t mind me asking. Are you, uh, Eugenie Auf der Maur?”

  “That’s right. Why?”

  “I think you knew my cousin in the Academy. Marcella Donat? Big, cropped hair, sort of, uh…” Soft laughter. “Like a bull in a china shop. And that was her description.”

  I smiled as well. “I remember Marcella. Big Cella, yeah. Great girl. How’s she doing? Haven’t heard much of her since we worked Fraud together, and that was a while ago. She still a cop? Hasn’t had a nervous breakdown yet, I hope.”

  I laughed. Browne said, “No, no nervous breakdown but she’s not in the force anymore, either. Quit, uh, two years ago I think it was. Bad back, this recurring disk thing. They were scraping off each other or something. Basically couldn’t handle the physical stuff anymore, and the life of a desk cop, well…”

  “Not Marcella’s thing, right?”

  “No, Ma’am. Although she still, I mean, she’s gone private, so she’s still a detective kind of. Does research for people, traces, runs down debt welchers, all that.”

  “Right. Good for her. Tell her Genie said hi the next time you’re talking to her.”

  “Certainly will, Ma’am.”

  “And I’ll talk to you in the morning probably. Good night, Officer Browne.”

  I moved off, tipping my finger to Farrington who was packing equipment into a large leather satchel that looked too small for everything being shoved into it. I glanced back at Poison Rose, now wrapped in a rough hemp blanket and being gently led by Browne and Mulqueen, away from that pitch-dark, deathly-still water and towards their patrol cruiser which I could see parked across the street outside. Rose looked baffled and dead beat. I sure felt the second part.

  I was almost at the gates, and still looking behind me, when my right heel got caught in a crack in the concrete. I stumbled, my leg going one way and the rest of me going the other. The heel broke off, four inches of hard molded plastic just snapping like that, and I fell, my knee cracking off the ground. Shit. Clever girl to wear heels to a crime scene at these disintegrating docks. I righted myself, pushed myself up off the ground, dusted myself off, metaphorically and literally. I took off both shoes, dangling them by the strap, and looked back at all the other women: the techs, the divers, the cops in uniform, Farrington, even Poison Rose, all of whom were struggling to keep a smile off their faces. I was embarrassed as hell, mortified, red-faced.

  I mentally shrugged and then made a deep bow to my audience, saying, “Thank you, thank you, thank you.” When Farrington started to applaud, I knew it was time to leave. I smiled at her and got out of there as quick as bare feet would get me.

  Chapter 2

  Misericordiae

  MISERICORDIAE Greenhill lived in the biggest, grandest building atop the tallest hill with the finest view in the whole city. You could call the place “magnificent”, except even that four-syllable whopper of a word didn’t quite match up to the profound, doomed splendor of Caritas Heights. Architecturally it had a Gothic feel, almost ecclesiastical, which I guess was appropriate enough. The place had been built 80 years previ- ously by Frances Ivy Greenhill, Misericordiae’s grandmother, on the instructions of God. Well, that’s how she’d always told the story. Direct orders from on high, charging her to erect a charitable institute for the fallen and indigent, the mentally damaged, the drug-addled and booze-raddled.

  They say Frances heard voices in her head for years, which suggests that maybe she should have checked herself in as the joint’s first patient, but the Greenhills operate on a different level to the rest of us: when they get the command from invisible deities, they act on it, without pause or doubt, and you’d better stand the hell out of the way while they’re doing it. Hence the construction of this creepy, overpowering, staggeringly beautiful building and surrounds. Hence the name: Caritas Heights, meaning the Latin for “charity.” And hence the name bestowed upon Misericordiae’s mother and, in turn, herself: the Latin for “mercy.” Oh, irony. What’s the Latin for “tough old broad you don’t wanna fuck with”?

  I pulled my rust-bucket of a car to a halt at the electric gates which stood a full 200 yards from the main house, rolled the window down halfway and pressed the intercom. There was silence for about ten seconds—my watch read 2.15, but I figured a place like this had round-the-clock staffing—then an electric crackle announced engagement at the other end. A voice, thin and frosty: “Yes, good evening?”

  I tried to keep my tone deferential but authoritative. “Good evening to you. This is Detective Eugenie Auf der Maur, Hera City PD. I need to speak to Madam Greenhill urgently.”

  “One moment please.”

  Silence again. I debated whether or not to have a quick smoke before I reached the house—sure, why not? I lit a Dark Nine medium-strength and flicked the match out the window, running through the spiel I was about to give to Misericordiae. It was stupid but I was nervous. I was the law, here on official business, wholly without fault in this affair, and yet I was nervous. I mean, really: how exactly do you tell the most fearsome woman you’re ever likely to meet that her only child and heir has been beaten to death, her body left to molder in the harbor, to be discovered by a drink-sodden prostitute who’s somehow convinced of the impossibility that she knew the young victim? I decided to leave that part out. Misery would suffer enough pain and humiliation before this hour was done without me adding to it.

  The electronic locks snapped open just as the disembodied voice returned and said, “Please pull up in front of the house, Detective.” I rumbled the car over clanging steel tubes, crunched across gravel, then eased onto a long asphalt driveway. Jesus, what a place. Breathtaking, majestic, scarcely conceivable until you experienced it up close. I, like everyone else, had seen Caritas Heights many times at a remove, in the media. News reports of sparkling charity balls and political fundraisers. Rare interviews with La Greenhill in the society pages, those almost obsequious tributes to her good taste and better character. All those grainy old documentaries about the history of the institution, how Frances Ivy had passed on the house and gardens and social responsibility to Misericordiae versions I and II, how the current inhabitant had eventually moved the charitable facility to a purpose-built complex on the outskirts of Hera City—her gift to the people—and reclaimed the mansion for herself, as home and hearth.

  But not just herself, of course: for her daughter Madeleine also, borne at the age of 45. A late blessing in a blessed life, now taken before her time. The house was all Misericordiae’s once more.

  I knew the history but hadn’t quite appreciated the magnitude of Caritas, how simply awe-inspiring it was, until I was cruising towards it, under
the overhanging branches of enormous trees, surrounded by verdant lawns, mazes, stable houses, huge Art Nouveau-styled greenhouses. And then the house itself, rising before me like an ornate monster from the ocean depths as I turned the last corner and slid to a stop in the front courtyard. It looked like a mixture of a late-Middle Ages cathedral, a Tsar ’s palace and the fever-dream of a precocious child. A crazy confection, over-the-top but weirdly diffident at the same time, and somehow it all worked together. There were even gargoyles, frightening-looking things, their blind stone eyes giving me the hard stare.

  Two large spotlights flashed on, triggered by motion detectors. I stubbed out my smoke and took a deep breath, still unsure of what path to take here. Talk around it, be diplomatic, soften the truth, lead up to it gently? Or straight in there, straight to the heart of the thing? Which would anger Misery less? Which would hurt her less? The gigantic front door, heavy and dark like the entrance to a mausoleum, creaked open. A shaft of light blinded me momentarily, then I saw a tall, very thin woman all in black—trousers, bow-tie, penguin tails and slicked-back, cropped hair—step outside. She stood there, presumably waiting for me to do something. So I did something, exiting the car and walking towards her. I held up my ID badge, which hung on a chain around my neck.

  “Detective Auf der Maur. I think we’ve already spoken.”

  The woman bowed slightly, no expression on her face. “Yes, Detective. Good evening. Please, come inside. Madam Greenhill will be with you shortly.”

  “Yeah, look, sorry about the lateness of the hour. Obviously I wouldn’t call at two in the morning unless it was absolutely…” She didn’t appear to be listening to my ingratiating chatter, and I thought, Why the hell are you ingratiating yourself with this butler you don’t even know, anyway? I shut up and followed her into the house, which was almost as breathtaking inside. I felt like I was stepping through a cinema screen and into a fictional world, and stopped just short of pinching myself to wake up. A main hallway large enough to hold a baseball field, with two stone staircases arching away and up on either side. Exquisitely tiled floors, oak-paneled walls, intricately embroidered drapes as big as ship’s sails, priceless artwork from around the world on pedestals, in frames, a million-crystal chandelier hanging from the ceiling ten miles above our heads… I could go on but I’d better stop there or I’ll tear up my next paycheck out of pure envy.

  I spotted a coat of arms—brass on mahogany or teak, I was guessing—fixed to the wall on the mezzanine landing. A griffin or phoenix, some kind of mythical creature anyway, raised up on its back legs, grimacing like a tomcat hissing away a rival. The medieval-style scroll underneath read:

  THE FAMILY GREENHILL

  “…AND DEATH SHALL HAVE NO DOMINION”

  Surprised it wasn’t in Latin, what with the names and all. The butler led me to the right, through double doors into a reception room roughly three times the size of my entire apartment block. The décor here followed the overall motif: lush, imposing, sophis- ticated, timeless, with just the right undertone of decadence, there in the deep colors, the rich fabrics. She gestured to a fireplace, unlit, where stood two gorgeous burgundy leather armchairs.

  “Please, if you could wait here for one moment,” she said. “Would you like me to light the fire?”

  I shook my head. “No, no. I’m fine, I’m not cold.” “May I get you something to drink?”

  “A coffee might be nice. Help me stay awake.”

  I gave a lame smile and immediately wished I hadn’t. The butler bowed again and exited as soundlessly as I’d imagine it’s possible to be without learning how to hover. I flopped into one of the armchairs, totally bushed, my arms hanging down almost to the floor, then thought, No: project a professional air. I took up position standing by the wall, ostensibly examining the adorn- ments. A fabulous collection of artwork, varied but each comple- menting the other just right: here was a Frida Kahlo self-portrait; there was a very rare preparatory sketch by Sofonisba Anguissola for Madonna Nursing Her Child; and either that was a remarkably good copy of Tamara de Lempicka’s Irene and Her Sisters, or else…

  “It’s the middle of the night, my daughter is not home and the police are at my house. Would you care to confirm that my worst fear has come to pass, Detective?”

  I started, surprised, and whirled around. Misericordiae Greenhill stood just inside the door, wrapped in a brown velvet nightgown, her arms folded across her chest, looking at me straight on. She was taller than I imagined, taller than she looked on TV, as if the force of her personality, diminished by the glowing screen, expanded into the boundless spaces of real life. She was also nicer looking than I would have expected; though her face had never been pretty, it had a certain handsome robustness, a sort of pleasing solemnity. She didn’t look angry or sad or worried or carefree or ferocious like I’d thought she would, or anything at all, really—she just looked at me, blank- faced, waiting for my reply.

  I took two steps forward and reached out my hand. “Detective Auf der Maur. You’re correct. I have some…bad news.”

  She took my hand and shook it firmly, still holding me in those fierce, crow-gray eyes. “Pleased to meet you, Detective. I think I met your mother once…a long time ago. Well. Let us get to it. Please.”

  Misericordiae pointed to the two armchairs by the fire. I moved over and gingerly sat into the nearest. She sat opposite me, stiff-backed, her hands folded on her knees. I noticed she wore brown velvet slippers, a match for the nightgown. Misericordiae stared into the cold fireplace, breathing steadily, as though she were waiting for the right moment for someone to speak. I breathed rapidly, trying to work out if I was meant to be the speaker. Then the butler reappeared, carrying a small table which bore a tiny china cup of delicious-smelling coffee, cream and crystallized sugar in silver containers, and a small measure of brandy in a large glass. She placed the table next to me and the brandy into Misericordiae’s hand.

  The old dame smiled vaguely and said, “Thank you, Ileana.” She turned to me: “My one occasional vice. Ragnaud-Sabourin brandy, served just above room temperature. Not a well-known brand, I think, and I’m sure I couldn’t tell you if it’s of high quality or not. But it suits my palate. I find it…warming. And particularly helpful in times of stress.”

  I nodded dumbly and made a show of mixing some sugar and cream into my coffee. This whole situation felt even more awkward than I had feared. I tried to formulate my opening sentence, put the words in the proper order. How to make the bitter truth sound palatably sweet? It can’t be done, Genie, so just get it said.

  I put down my coffee cup and turned to Misericordiae. “Madam Greenhill, your daughter Madeleine is dead. I’m sorry to have to tell you this. Her body was found at Whinlatter Docks this evening. Police arrived on the scene shortly after half-past 12. We’re treating Madeleine’s death as murder. That’s all I can tell you for now. And I truly am sorry for your loss.”

  She nodded, twice, three times, taking in the confirmation of something she already knew, deep down in the bones, in the womb, in the physical and metaphysical blood-link between every woman and her child. She probably knew it as soon as it had happened.

  “My expression may not suggest it, Detective,” she eventually said, “but this is the worst moment of my life. I was taught as a child to keep one’s emotions to oneself, to suffer in private while at the same time fulfilling one’s social obligations. That is a part of my nature, I cannot alter it now. This is why my face hasn’t changed, why there are no tears rolling down these dry old cheeks. But I assure you, my heart is breaking.” She nodded again. “My heart is breaking.”

  I hadn’t expected this. Quiet acceptance? Talk of tears? A gentle kind of sadness? I’d expected—to be honest, a part of me had even hoped for—an explosion of that infamous temper, the volcano eruption of pride and wrath. This was a woman, for instance, who had once solved a labor relations dispute by firing the union organizer from her job, then purchasing the apartment rented by the woman and her
young daughters, evicting them and sealing the place up as a vacant, permanent reminder to everyone else: don’t cross me. And that was only the start of it, of her, the legend of Old Misery.

  Yet here we sat, silent, with Misericordiae Greenhill sighing and taking neat sips from her brandy. I downed the coffee in one slug and, feeling strangely emboldened, pulled a pack of cigarettes from my inside jacket pocket and said, “May I smoke in here?”

  She nodded permission. I lit a cigarette and sucked the smoke down deep into my fluttering tummy. Aah—never fails to soothe. She stood and moved to the mantelpiece, handing me back a dull-gold ashtray in the shape of a turtle. The thing looked like it was worth more than the department building, equipment included, and I was hesitant to use it until I saw the gritty residue of past cigarettes and cigars, ground into the reptile’s patterned belly.

  Then Misericordiae spoke again, her voice sounding ancient, resolute, unbreakable, like a statue of antiquity in the middle of a desert. “Tell me everything you know about this matter. Please, do not excise any of the details, even those you may feel you should spare me because they are…unsavory. I presume you know enough about me to know that I would eventually find out what I needed. But I would prefer to hear it from you, Detective.” I swallowed heavily and said, “Alright. Madeleine was killed by person or persons unknown, and her body put in the water. She was wearing a white polka dot dress and strapped sandals. We’re not sure yet how she resurfaced, but we should know soon enough. Early coroner examinations strongly suggest that the cause of death was blunt force trauma—a blow to the head. We’re certain she didn’t drown. Again, we’re not yet sure about time of death, but a call was made to emergency services around 12.30 by the woman who discovered the body. A full technical sweep of the area has been carried out, photographic record, et cetera. Madeleine’s body has been removed to the morgue at police headquarters for a full autopsy. And that’s all I know right now.”