by Tony Black
‘Were you praying?’ she said.
He smiled – not a wide smile, a thin crease. ‘No, not really.’
‘Will we pray together?’
He nodded, closed his eyes. They touched heads and prayed in silence. As he began to relay the familiar words to himself, and God, the minister felt his mind wandering. He couldn’t remember this ever having happened before. Even as a very young child he had always been able to concentrate. What was happening to him?
His wife was first to break off, remove her head. ‘There, that’s done.’
He opened his eyes. ‘Thank you.’
‘Do you feel better?’
‘Yes . . .’ It was a lie. ‘Much better.’
The journey through the city was slow – traffic clogged up the old streets and stopped the car every fifty to sixty yards. The minister didn’t remember it ever being this bad. There had been bottlenecks on his previous journeys but there seemed to be double the number of cars now. It was apocalyptic, he thought.
‘So many cars,’ he said.
The young policeman agreed, ‘It’s been like this since they decided to bring back the trams.’
He’d seen something about that on the television; trams seemed a step back to him. ‘Why are they bringing them back?’ he said.
‘Search me.’
The reply struck him as strange. After all, if a policeman in the city didn’t know why the entire place was being dug up, who did? ‘Maybe you should investigate it.’
The young man laughed. ‘And I wonder what we’d find! . . . The trouble with this city is the people at the top do what they like. The rest of us are treated like mushrooms: kept in the dark and covered in muck!’
The minister and his wife smiled. He was grateful for the release. ‘Yes, that sounds familiar.’ He looked out of the window. The lights had changed and a mass of people were bustling from one side of the road to the other. All so busy, he thought. All rushing, going somewhere. He envied them their uninterrupted routine. He pulled his gaze back, returned to the DC: ‘Not sure about this trams plan, y’know. They couldn’t have been so great if they got rid of them the last time round.’
The officer nodded to the rear-view mirror. ‘Good point.’ He seemed to catch sight of something that forced the look on his face to change – the minister followed the line of his vision and knew it was his wife. She had grown pale and wan. ‘First trip to the city for a while?’ She turned to her husband, didn’t seem to have the vocabulary to answer.
‘No, no . . . I get down regularly. We have Assembly meetings here.’ He held firmly to his wife’s hand. ‘Frieda’s here less regularly, isn’t that right, my dear?’
She turned away. Her lip started to tremble. She ferreted for something in her sleeve, removed a handkerchief. She was too slow – the tears had begun before she could get the small white handkerchief to dab at them.
‘Come on now,’ said the minister. ‘We’ll be fine. Everything will be fine; put faith in God.’ He reached an arm around her, gripped. It didn’t seem to be enough. Her head lolled back and her mouth widened. He watched the gape open silently and expected to hear sobs, wails, but nothing came. The hurt was trapped inside her. He turned back to the DC – he was looking away, his expression said he felt to blame.
‘I’m sorry, officer,’ said the minister, ‘it’s all a bit fresh . . . the wound.’
The young man nodded. ‘I understand.’
The minister patted his wife’s back, smiled at her. ‘Come on, now . . . Let’s not get carried away. Sure, we don’t even know who the poor girl is – it mightn’t be Carly.’ He turned to the policeman. ‘Isn’t that so?’
The officer was engaging the gears, the traffic clearing. ‘That’s right. We have no positive identification yet.’
Chapter 17
THE MINISTER KNEW THE GIRL was some poor mother and father’s child but he hoped, more than ever now, it wasn’t theirs. Frieda couldn’t cope; she wasn’t a strong woman. The minister had seen weak people collapse under far lesser tragedies and he knew his wife wasn’t able to carry such a burden with her. They would all suffer, had suffered already, but if that child was Carly, he knew, then there would be more than one death in the family this day. His wife’s demise would be slower, over years maybe, but no less painful.
‘John . . . do you ever think about things?’
‘What do you mean?’ He wiped a tear from her cheek with his fingertip.
‘The way we treated Carly when we . . .’
He knew what she referred to, but they had never spoken about this. They had never questioned the way they had dealt with it. The minister had followed what was in his heart, a good Christian heart; he had never questioned his faith.
‘Frieda, please don’t punish yourself.’
She straightened before him, turned to face the window. She seemed to be about to speak, but held herself in check.
The minister began, ‘Frieda, we did all we could for her . . . We have nothing to reproach ourselves for. Don’t do this, Frieda, please.’
She kept her neck straight and firm and her eyes level with the crowds passing the car window. ‘But I do.’
The remainder of the journey passed in silence. As they reached the Old Town the occupants of the car were jolted on the cobbled streets. The minister knew they were nearing Holyrood Road, where the morgue was situated. On the Royal Mile he glanced at Knox’s home, and a pub called the World’s End. He knew the name but it took him some time to register why. When it returned to him, he recalled the pub featuring in a lengthy murder investigation that had been in the news for some years. The thought chilled him.
‘Not long now,’ said the policeman.
He was trying to be helpful, but the words only added to the minister’s tension. He gripped his wife’s hand again, patted her wrist. The car turned the corner at the box junction on St Mary’s Street; the road ahead was clear. It seemed like they had hardly travelled any distance at all when the vehicle pulled alongside the kerb. The policeman turned off the engine and swivelled on his seat to face them. ‘I’ll go inside, see if they’re ready. You can take a few moments, maybe stretch your legs.’
‘You’re very kind,’ said the minister.
The young man nodded to them, opened his door and headed for the pavement. He looked back when he reached the gate, then pressed the buzzer. He seemed to be very comfortable in his surroundings and the minister wondered about what he had to block out when he went home at night. No one should have to take home things like death and murder. Of course, in the midst of life, there was death. But there was also evil, and that was what occupied his thoughts as he got out of the car and walked round to open the door for his wife.
This city smelled of evil. Could a city smell of evil? He knew it couldn’t but the familiar smell had come to be associated with the concept in his mind now. Would he ever be able to rid himself of that notion? Would this place forever be the home of all that was unwholesome, unholy?
The minister opened the car door. ‘Come on, my dear, let’s get you out of there.’ Frieda swung her legs over the car’s sill. Her shoes had been polished – they shone. She held on to her husband’s hand as she eased herself towards the pavement. As she tried to stand she made a slight stagger. ‘Everything all right?’
She nodded.
‘Just take it easy. I know it’s been one shock after another these last months . . .’
Her hand went up to her mouth, seemed to hold in words she didn’t want to say. She kept it there for some moments, then dropped it to her side and clutched at her handbag. ‘It’s not Carly, is it, John?’
‘No, of course not.’ He smiled at her.
‘Do you mean it?’
It was like talking to a child. She was more fragile than he had ever seen her. ‘Yes. Yes. It’s all formality.’ He started to walk. She stayed still, her feet fixed to the pavement. ‘Come on, it’ll be fine.’
She wasn’t convinced. ‘Are you sure? . . . It�
��s not her, is it?’
He eased her into a first step. ‘Come on, my love.’
DC Stephen McGuire had appeared at the gate once more. He pointed up to the entrance. ‘Let me know when you’re ready. There’s no rush.’
The minister nodded. ‘We’re on our way.’ At first he had to drag his wife a little. It was like when Carly was a child and she didn’t want to go to the dentist. The thought wounded him.
On the stairs to the morgue the couple held on to each other; they must have looked like some four-legged beast, he thought. Moving slowly, taking the steps one at a time. At the doorway stood a young woman, an Asian with a pretty smile. She seemed very welcoming and he was glad to see her comforting presence. The young policeman had been very good, but there was something perfunctory about his demeanour in comparison with the woman.
‘Hello, Minister,’ she said. ‘I’m Misa, the pathologist.’
The word seemed to have a physical presence as they stood on the steps, in the cold. Pathologist – he had never met a pathologist before. There was a reason why he had to meet one now and it hung over the step with him like a pall. The minister removed his right hand from his wife’s arm and extended it towards the woman. ‘Hello, Misa.’ He couldn’t say he was pleased to meet her; that would be wrong. It wasn’t that it would be a lie, though it would. It was because the statement was out of sorts with the situation. Meeting someone who had the potential to deliver news like Misa had was no cause for joy. He thought of the woman standing before him, and what must have been on her mind when she was presented with the remains of the girl. Had she felt any grief for her? Did she place herself in the minds of the girl’s family? Or had she been doing the job so long that it had become no more than a perverse sort of butchery?
Misa edged backwards towards the door. She went inside the squat building and ushered the way in for the minister and his wife. The police officer followed behind them. ‘Just right the way to the end of the hall there. Follow the carpet down to where the tiles start.’
They walked slowly. Gripping each other. The place seemed dark and gloomy. A smell like bleach lingered in the air. It seemed to have been masked with something, a patchouli oil, perhaps. Whatever it was, it hadn’t been strong enough. The odour reminded him of decay and of his days as a schoolboy in the science labs. He followed the line of the wall, where it met the carpet. It was an industrial colour of grey – like they painted battleships. Why didn’t they brighten the place up, he thought? Would it be too much trouble to have some brighter colours about the place? Flowers, perhaps? That’s what they did at funeral services. It reminded everyone that even in death there was still much to be thankful for on God’s earth.
‘And round to the right here, Reverend.’ The girl had a sweet voice, like a nurse; he could hear the compassion in her tones.
As they turned the corner he saw the large double doors. They had heavy plastic skirts along the bottom and two circular windows. As the neared the doors the minister felt his mind suffused with a weary fog. The closer they came he saw the scuff-marks and scratches on the doors where he assumed they had been pushed open by heavy trolleys. It suddenly occurred to him that they were similar to the doors of an operating theatre, though this was no place where life was extended, or saved.
The DC spoke: ‘Now, if I could just have your attention for a moment, please.’
Misa slid past him. ‘I’ll go through now.’ She edged into the door like before, creasing her lips as she went.
The minister felt his wife gripping tighter to him.
‘The pathologist has prepared the . . .’ the police officer stalled, ‘young girl for your visit, but . . .’ He paused again. ‘I should warn you, her appearance might be a shock to you, whether you can identify her or not.’ He hurried the last words.
The minister nodded. ‘We understand.’ He did not turn to his wife again as they were led through the doors. He could hear her sobbing already, tried hard to steady her gait, but by now his own steps were faltering.
The room was large and well lit. Misa stood in the centre by what at first glance looked like a bed, but on closer inspection appeared to be more like a kitchen counter with shiny steel coverings on the sides. There was a heavy wooden board at the end and a tap that could be raised like a shower head. On top was a small, green bundle. At once the minister knew what must be under the covering but it seemed too small. His mind stilled – it couldn’t be her.
As they reached the centre of the room, and the side of the mortuary slab, they all stopped and stared at each other. It was as if no one wanted to be the first to speak.
DC McGuire broke the silence. ‘If you’d like to let me know when you’re ready, Misa will remove the sheet.’
The minister and his wife held firm to each other; nothing in this world seemed real any more. A flurry of emotions he didn’t recognise swept over him. His mind returned to bright days in the summer months when his daughter played in the garden, in a paddling pool or with a badminton sets. She was such a lovely child. She had always been so content, so playful as a young girl. And as a young woman, even when she was tested by circumstance, she had been brave. If there was one thing the minister wished from God it was to return to those sunny days of the past when they were all so happy, when there was nothing but peace in their home, but they were gone. He braced himself for God’s will and nodded towards the young woman. Her hand moved slowly towards the green cloth. As she removed the covering there was a flash of blonde hair – thin wispy hair scraped back in an unfamiliar style. The minister stared but did not recognise the face before him. The skin was pale, blue almost, and the eyes were blackened. A dark line of stitching ran the length of her brow. The eyes were closed – if they had been open, it might have made a difference.
He turned to his wife. She seemed as still as the girl. She seemed to have stopped breathing. The minister grabbed her shoulders. ‘Frieda. Frieda . . .’
There was no reply.
The officer moved into his view. ‘Reverend Donald.’ He placed an arm on his wife’s back; the minister brushed it away.
‘Leave her alone!’ The harshness of his tone surprised him. ‘Frieda. Frieda.’ His wife didn’t reply.
As the officer stepped back, Frieda lost her balance and slumped away from him. She fell into the officer and he grabbed her; in one smooth movement he took up her weight and lowered her to the floor. The minister watched as his wife lay lifeless. The pathologist ran to her side, supported her head. ‘She’s fainted. She’ll be okay. She’ll be just fine . . .’
As the minister looked at his wife on the cold floor of the mortuary, he knew she would never be fine again.
Chapter 18
DI ROB BRENNAN HAD GONE straight home from the morgue the night before. Despite a loose agreement to meet Lorraine, he’d driven directly to his Corstorphine address and spent the night with two tins of Stella Artois and a peaty malt as his wife and daughter kept their distance. He would have liked to be able to switch off his mobile phone but the job didn’t allow that, so he had kept it on vibrate and let the two calls from Lorraine go to voicemail. He knew this was storing up trouble for himself but he was content to let that sit in the back of his mind whilst the rest of it filled up with thoughts about a young girl lying on a mortuary slab, and her killer walking free.
Brennan was woken by Joyce shouting at Sophie about being late for school and looked at the clock. It was nearly 9 a.m. He rubbed his eyes and looked again, tried to make sure he hadn’t made a mistake. No, it was nearly 9 a.m. His mobile phone sat next to the bed, still on vibrate. He had missed another call but this time it was from the office.
‘Shit.’
He would have to call back, but decided on a quick shower before he did so. As he walked to the en suite he could still hear Joyce and Sophie rowing in the kitchen below. His daughter should have been at school by now, there was no way she would be anything but late. He could already hear Joyce telling him in that hard, demanding tone
to ‘speak to your daughter’. He had done too much of that already. She needed something, but it wasn’t speaking to.
In the bathroom Brennan started the shower. He looked at himself in the mirror and contemplated running a razor over his stubbled chin but the thought was enough to discourage him. He stuck out his tongue – a grey-white layer of velvet sat on the surface. As he stared he could smell the malt whisky seeping through his pores. Did it matter? It did if Galloway thought to call him on it. She never had, but after recent run-ins with the Chief Super nothing would surprise him. He replayed yesterday’s words with her, and then the encounter with Lauder in the toilets. It felt like there was a storm coming. He didn’t know which direction it was going to arrive from but it was imminent. He let the thought trail off; he did this on purpose. Brennan knew that his main focus was the job. When he was working a case like this – no matter what else was going on in his life – if he left his thoughts to run their own course they always came back to the case. Even in the bad times, the worst times, when he was low and lost, he had always been sure of that one irrefutable fact. The job was his life and everything else was a distraction.
Brennan showered and dressed. He chose a navy blazer to match the grey chino-style slacks he still wore. He knew they were no longer fashionable, but he didn’t care. He was carrying a little more weight than he had in the past and the wider leg and pleats were comfortable. There had been a time when he had been a keen follower of the latest styles, but the older he got, the less it had meant to him. Fashion was an irrelevance, for trivial minds. Brennan occupied his thoughts with serious issues – the width of a trouser leg was something for other people to worry about.
In the kitchen Sophie ignored her father, as she always did these days. She was eating a piece of toast and watching the moronic presenters on breakfast television dissecting the weekend’s X Factor talent contest. Brennan hugged her. She pulled away, rolling her eyes.
