A Fine House in Trinity

by Lesley Kelly

  I point at it. ‘What’s that?’

  He pushes the envelope toward me. ‘£200. I know you’re probably after more but it’s all I’ve got.’

  I stand up and try to look outraged. ‘I’m not after more money!’

  There’s a long silence while he tries to work out if I’m serious. The thought of that money lying there is killing me; £200 would set me up nicely. I wander over to the window so I don’t have to look at it.

  ‘Take the money, Staines. You’ve no business here. Not anymore.’

  I keep staring out the window. I hear the scrape of his chair and he appears next to me and puts the envelope into my hand.

  ‘For the last time, take this and go.’

  I shuffle from foot to foot. ‘I can’t.’

  He looks bemused. ‘Why?’

  And I’m about to give him chapter and verse about Marianne, Bruce, and the real story of what happened to his kitchen table when a thought occurs to me. If I tell him the truth there’s no way him and Wheezy are going to let me leave town. If I don’t confess, I can do my best to save both Marianne’s and my skins but if I’m not looking too successful I can still scarper when it suits me.

  I hand him the envelope back. ‘I don’t want your money. I just need somewhere to stay for a couple of days.’

  He doesn’t look happy but he puts the money back in his pocket and nods. ‘Just keep your head down, OK?’

  Father Paul sets off to a 10 am funeral. I’m still feeling bad about the table so I decide to do a bit of tidying to try to make up for it. You can tell that there’s been a man living here on his own. It’s not like the place smells bad or nothing, but there’s just a something in the air that I recognise from places that I’ve lived before. In fact, it’s not a something at all, it’s an absence. It’s all the things that the house doesn’t smell of: perfume, washing over radiators, dirty nappies, all the everyday smells that a proper home has. You could put me in here blindfold and I’d know that a family never lived here.

  I have another look round the upper storeys of the house. On the first floor, in addition to my room and the sitting room I found last night, there are another couple of empty bedrooms and a toilet. I make a mental note to have a wee check of the coat pockets in the wardrobes on this floor as well.

  I wander up and down the corridor on the second floor but I don’t go into any of the rooms, ‘cause one of them’s got to be Father Paul’s, and I wouldn’t feel quite right about looking. I don’t envy him his life, living all alone in this place.

  Deciding I’ve had enough prying, I head back down to ground level and root around in a couple of cupboards until I find an ancient Hoover. Judging by the spiders’ webs round the handle, housework hasn’t been high on Father Paul’s agenda. I run the vaccum over the downstairs carpets, and wipe a cloth over most of the surfaces in the kitchen until my conscience is clear.

  Then I settle down with a cup of tea and yesterday’s paper, which Father Paul’s left lying. There’s a tiny article referring to the body in the York Road development. It doesn’t say much:

  A BODY has been discovered by builders working on a housing development in the Trinity area of Edinburgh.

  The remains were found at around 10 am on Monday, and it is not yet known if it is the body of a man or a woman.

  It is believed they had been there for some time. Police are working to establish the cause of death.

  The papers haven’t linked this to the Stoddarts yet, but when they do they’ll have a field day. The Stoddarts have barely been off the front page, between Isa’s murder, and Lachie’s suicide.

  I drink my tea and leaf through the sport pages. I’m not quite sure of the terms of my curfew, and whether I am actually allowed to leave the house without Father P’s express permission. He’s not left me a key so I’m snookered for getting back in. I’m on the point of exploring the house for a spare key when the doorbell goes. Surely I’m allowed to answer the door. When I open it I wish I hadn’t bothered – Danny Jamieson’s standing there with a face like fizz.

  ‘You’ve not been quite straight with me, Staines, have you?’

  I give a shrug. I’m not going to open my mouth and admit anything, until I work out which particular thing that I’ve not told him he’s mumping about.

  ‘Are you coming in?’ I don’t open the door any further but Danny pushes past me and strides into the kitchen. I follow him in.

  ‘How did you know I was here, by the way?’

  Without turning round he says, ‘I’ve got my sources.’

  ‘Pretty good ones, seeing as I’ve only been here about, oh, 24 hours.’

  Danny laughs and sits himself at the table. ‘All I can say is that Father Paul is very open-minded, even for a priest.’

  I don’t understand what he means by that so I ignore him and stick the kettle on. ‘So, what are you nipping my head about today, Danny?’

  He gives me a humourless smile. ‘I had a very interesting chat with Charlotte Spencely, whom I believe is known to you?’

  I nod. ‘Nice lassie. Great legs.’

  ‘Aye, anyway, you omitted to mention in our recent discussion that you are the executor of Lachlan Stoddart’s will, and I’m led to believe, the sole beneficiary?’

  I get a couple of mugs out of the kitchen cupboard. ‘I did try to tell your officers when I was experiencing Polis harassment at their hands, that I was in fact the soon-to-be owner of the premises that they were evicting me from, but for some reason they didn’t believe me.’

  ‘Strange that. You have the look of a man with money.’ Danny smirks. ‘And if that kettle’s for me, don’t bother. I’m in the mood for something stronger.’

  ‘Give me two minutes.’ I nip upstairs for the Macallan I unearthed last night. I’m sure Father Paul wouldn’t mind, under the circumstances. I’m surprised though; Danny’s not the type to have a drink while he’s on duty.

  I can’t find any whisky glasses so I use the mugs and pour us a healthy measure each. Danny isn’t saying much so I try a conversational opener.

  ‘So, has Lachie’s body turned up then?’

  Danny grimaces. ‘Aye. Only not where we expected to find it.’

  ‘Where did the poor bastard wash up?’

  He gurns again. ‘I suppose it’ll be in the papers soon enough.’ He sighs. ‘An old guy out walking his dog round John Muir Country Park discovered some human remains.’

  My chin hits my chest. ‘Lachie?’

  He nods.

  ‘But you found…’

  ‘Yes, we found his clothes on Gullane beach.’

  ‘Jeez-o.’ I’m shocked. ‘Although when you think about it, isn’t that the oldest fake suicide trick in the book?’

  He looks furious. ‘There was more to it than that, you cheeky bastard! What do you think we are – incompetent?’

  ‘Perish the thought.’

  Danny glares at me as he reaches into his pocket for his fags and lights up. He doesn’t offer me one but he doesn’t object when I help myself.

  He’s looking a wee bit stressed. He empties his mug and gestures at the bottle. ‘Going to fill this up then?’

  ‘No bother.’ I give him another generous helping.

  ‘The thing is, Stainsie, I know Lachie was a daft bastard and all that, but, right, we knew him since he was five years old.’ He takes another long swig. ‘You should have seen the state of him.’

  We both contemplate our whiskies in silence. ‘So, he’d never been in the water at all?’

  ‘Looks like it. But somebody wanted us to think that he’d done himself in.’

  We both take a long drag on our fags as we think about this.

  I can’t resist having a pop at him. ‘So you did fall for the old clothes on the beach trick then?’

  Danny looks embarrassed. ‘Well, there was a suicide note as well. At least…’ He gives me that look again, as if he’s trying to decide whether to trust me. He rolls the mug around between his palms and carrie
s on. ‘The thing is, I’m not sure now that it was a suicide note. Here…’ he digs into a pocket and pulls out a bit of paper. ‘Tell me what you think.’

  It’s a photocopy of a letter, and I can see right away it’s in Lachie’s handwriting, and it’s got his creative spelling.

  To make matters worse, it’s addressed to me.

  ‘Stainsie,

  I know you didn’t do ma mammy in. Don’t ask me how but I just do.

  I’m not coping here. Its to dificult.

  Go and get in touch with us cos I want to say goodby.

  Lachie’

  ‘It could be a suicide note,’ I say.

  Danny nods. ‘Or it could be Lachie deciding it’s getting too hot for comfort and him thinking he’s going to head out of town for a while.’

  ‘Aye.’

  He points to the photocopy. ‘So, you didn’t actually receive any correspondence from Lachie since you left?’

  ‘Me? No, he wouldn’t have knew where to send it.’

  ‘See, Staines, that is what I don’t understand.’ He leans forward. ‘You and him pal about since the age of five, but his mammy dies and you leave town? Shouldn’t you have been there at his side offering him comfort in his time of need?’

  I get a mental picture of Lachie alone in his mother’s house, the poor daft bastard trying to cope with life on his own, with Bruce and God knows who else hovering in the background, and my stomach turns over. It’s not something I want to dwell on.

  ‘Stop guilt-tripping me, Danny.’

  He’s not going to let this go. ‘I just think it’s odd. You have business that’s so urgent you have to leave town at the very time your mate needs you most, and then I start getting people telling me that you were responsible for Isa Stoddart’s death, even Lachie mentions it,’ he points to the letter, ‘when we both know very well it wasn’t you.’ He downs the last of his whisky. ‘Staines – what’s going on?’

  There’s a part of me that would like to tell him the truth, just to see how he would react. Danny is staring at me, waiting for an answer to his question.

  I shrug. ‘I don’t know, my timing’s never been good.’ I pick up the Macallan, which is now only half full. ‘You want another one?’

  He grabs my hand to stop me pouring any more and asks again, ‘What’s going on?’

  I shrug again and he sits back in his chair glaring at me.

  ‘I could haul you in, you know, just on the basis of what people have been saying about you.’

  He’s right, and I suddenly wonder why he hasn’t arrested me. And if I’m a suspect, he’s just shared an awful lot of information about the case with me.

  He’s not glaring at me any longer, and he says softly, ‘Mrs Stoddart’s death, Stainsie. Just give me a name.’

  A certain blonde pops into my head again, but the funny thing is, I’m starting to have a rethink on that one.

  Danny looks knackered, and something not that far off desperation passes over his face.

  ‘Are you asking for my help?’

  He leans back and stares up at the ceiling. ‘Staines, do you know the last time I had a good night’s sleep?’

  I shrug. I don’t think it’s the kind of question he really expects me to answer.

  ‘Seven years ago. I’ve had seven years of bairns waking me up two, three, four times a night. I’m so damn tired I can’t think straight. I haven’t solved a case in years. I need a fucking break before they move me onto permanent traffic duty.’

  I pour us both another whisky and he doesn’t protest this time.

  He stares at me. ‘Don’t you think you owe me, Staines?’

  I choose to believe that he’s talking about the times he’s turned a blind eye to me being drunk and disorderly. I’m about to move the conversation on to Lachie’s death and give him Bruce’s name when it occurs to me that I could milk this situation a bit further. Be nice to have him owing me a favour for a change.

  I take a slow drink of my whisky. ‘God’s honest truth, Danny, I don’t know who killed either of the Stoddarts. But I’m going to do a bit of asking round the scheme and I swear I’ll get back to you.’

  Before he leaves, Danny insists on putting his number into my phone. I’ll give it a day or so then drop Bruce’s name in his shell-like. I’ll maybe even have some evidence by then.

  An hour after I get rid of Danny the doorbell rings again, and I open the door to see Wheezy standing on the step. He’s not looking much friendlier than the last time I saw him, but he’s still an improvement on my last couple of visitors.

  ‘Wheeze.’ I keep my voice as non-committal as possible. I’m pleased that he’s come round but I’m not going to kiss his arse after the way he spoke to me yesterday.

  He scuffs his boots around in the dirt on Father Paul’s doorstep before answering. ‘Staines.’

  I open the door a fraction in a gesture of reconciliation. ‘Are you coming in then?’

  He makes a big show of thinking about it. ‘Well, I really just came round to make sure you were still here… but - OK, just for five minutes.’ He plonks himself in the chair recently vacated by Danny.

  I stick the kettle on and we sit in silence for a few minutes.

  ‘Marianne’s beside herself with worry.’

  I run my finger round the crater left by Bruce’s knife. ‘She’s nothing to fear from me, you know that.’

  He bangs the table. ‘Do I, Stainsie? I don’t know what to think.’

  We glare at each other for a minute. Wheeze weakens first. ‘So, are you planning to stay in Leith?’

  It’s a good question. The kettle boils and I stand up to get it. ‘Maybe. I’ve been made to feel so welcome.’

  ‘Aye, well. Have you been to sign on yet?’

  I fling a couple of teabags into mugs with more violence than is really necessary. ‘No. I haven’t really thought what to say to the lassie at the counter. “Have you been looking for work Mr Staines?” “No, hen, I’ve been a bit busy, what with leaving town with a stolen tallybook.”’

  He takes his tea from me and I sit back down at the table. ‘Where did you go anyway?’

  ‘Newcastle.’

  ‘Jesus!’ He slaps his tea back down and half of it splashes over the side of the mug. ‘You really know how to lay low – an hour and a half down the East Coast line? Why didn’t you just pop down to Dunbar till it all blew over?’

  I ignore his outburst and pass yesterday’s paper to him. ‘Have you seen this?’

  He reads in silence then speaks. ‘Another body?’

  ‘It’s Danny Jamieson that’s leading the investigation.’

  Wheezy laughs. ‘Did he ever find out about…?’

  ‘Christ, no. I’d not be here talking to you if he had. So…’

  He looks suspicious. ‘What?’

  ‘So, Danny’s sitting there thinking that he’s maybe got three related murders on his hands.’

  Wheezy folds his arms. ‘Well, we’re not going to tell him different.’

  ‘Wheeze?’

  ‘Aye?’ He’s irritated with me.

  ‘Know what I’ve got my doubts about?’

  ‘What?’ His irritation is growing.

  ‘Well, your Marianne, right, wee slip of a lassie, has a disagreement with Mrs Stoddart about her debts and manages to knock her out and…’

  ‘For Chrissakes.’ Wheezy looks round nervously as if the Priest’s House is bugged.

  I lower my voice. ‘Manages to knock out Isa Stoddart, five foot nothing but built like a tiny brick shithouse, with such force that she kills her. Does that sound likely to you?’

  Wheezy sits forward in his chair, and whispers back forcefully. ‘Are you suggesting that she knocks her out, and some other bastard comes along and finishes off the job? Because that doesn’t sound likely to me. Anyhow, Marianne’s stronger than she looks.’

  I remember my reception at her door. He’s got a point.

  ‘What I don’t understand, Wheeze, is that Jamieson�
�s had me in for questioning. There’s a bunch of gabby bastards on the scheme mouthing off about me doing Mrs Stoddart in. Would you know anything about that?’

  ‘Naw,’ he says, unconvincingly.

  I give him a look.

  He doesn’t hold my eye and shifts about in his chair. ‘OK, OK, I’d heard that as well.’

  ‘Thanks for warning me.’ A thought occurs to me. ‘Did you start the rumours to protect Marianne?’

  ‘Naw!’ He sounds more convincing this time. ‘Though I have to admit I wasn’t unhappy that you were getting the blame.’

  ‘Thanks, pal,’ I say, with as much emphasis on the ‘pal’ as I can muster.

  He’s still wriggling about on his seat. ‘You weren’t supposed to be coming back! What difference did it make to you?’

  Now I slam my mug down. The table’s swimming in tea. ‘What if they’d set Interpol or someone onto me?’

  He ignores my question. ‘Why did Jamieson not bang you up?’

  ‘He’s no proof that I’ve done anything.’

  ‘Jeez-o. Do you think he suspects you’re up to something?’

  Damn right he does. ‘Maybe. I don’t know. But I’m only telling you this because of something he said while I was there. He said that Mrs Stoddart was killed in the early hours of February 4th.’

  He shakes his head. ‘Naw – she was found in the early hours.’

  ‘Naw – he definitely said she was killed in the early hours – he had the whaddyamacallit report. Which would make Isa’s time of death about eight hours later than when your Marianne clocked her after Mass.’

  Wheezy’s concentrating so hard he looks like he’s going to burst.

  ‘So, your Marianne hits her, she then staggers along Constitution Street for eight hours, without anybody spotting her, before collapsing and dying at the Foot o’ the Walk in the early hours. That doesn’t sound likely to me.’

  Wheeze leans across the table and grabs my wrist, soaking his arm in tea. ‘And you’re sure – Jamieson’s had a pathologist’s report on this?’

  ‘That’s what I’m telling you.’

  He sits back and folds his arms, ensuring that his clean sleeve is now covered in tea as well. He nods his head, and a slow smile spreads across his coupon. ‘Right, Stainsie – that’s you and me got some investigating to do.’