Out the other window of Rita’s corner office was George Square and the dome of McEwan Hall, where Hannah would graduate in a year’s time, maybe. Recent grades were not good. She could’ve taken a year out, given everything that happened, but she would’ve gone mad with nothing to keep her occupied.
‘What are you thinking about?’ Rita said.
Hannah turned. The counsellor was about the same age as her mum, purple hair chopped short, black frilly top, leggings, Doc boots, biker jacket on the back of her chair. Hannah wondered how she came to work for Edinburgh Uni, talking students through their crises. Most of them would be stressing over exams, depressed about breaking up with a boyfriend or girlfriend, confused about their sexuality. Hannah could trump that.
‘You mean apart from the fact my dad killed my friend, who was carrying his baby, then tried to kill my mum and gran?’ she said.
Rita gave her a look like a kicked puppy.
‘I’m sorry,’ Hannah said.
Rita held out her hands. ‘It’s what I’m here for. You’ve been through a lot. Anger is reasonable.’
Hannah shook her head. ‘I’m not angry, that’s the thing, I’m just tired. So fucking tired.’
Rita nodded and crossed her legs. ‘Again, totally reasonable. I’d be tired. Anyone would be tired in your situation.’
Hannah’s girlfriend, Indy, had floated the idea of therapy or counselling a month after everything happened with Craig, when it was clear Hannah was struggling. Dorothy suggested a private shrink but Hannah refused. They cost a ton of money, and Hannah believed that talking to one person about your shit was the same as talking to anyone about it. Would a psychiatrist wave a magic wand and make it all go away? So here she was talking to an ageing rock chick who no doubt had a bunch of her own unresolved shit to deal with.
Hannah had never told Rita they had a view of the crime scene from her office window. Normally Hannah liked talking, she’d grown up connected to the world in a way Rita’s generation could never grasp. But she didn’t want to talk about this. What difference did it make? Mel was still dead, her dad was in prison, and everyone still carried the scars.
‘Have you heard of the many-worlds interpretation?’ she said.
Rita tilted her head. ‘No.’
‘But you know about Schrödinger’s cat?’
Rita frowned. ‘Something about a cat in a box that’s alive and dead at the same time.’
Hannah smiled. ‘Kind of. It’s quantum mechanics. On a subatomic level, a particle is in an indeterminate state until it’s observed. So what if you scale that up? Put a cat in a box with a flask of poison and a radioactive source. If the source decays, a quantum event, the flask breaks and the cat is poisoned. But until you open the box you don’t know whether the source has decayed, so the cat is both dead and alive.’
‘OK.’ Rita dragged the word out.
‘It’s a paradox, but there’s a way out of it.’
Rita waved a hand.
‘The many-worlds interpretation says that whenever you open the box, the universe splits, so in one universe the cat is dead, and in a parallel universe somewhere, the cat is still alive. That happens with every observation.’
‘Right.’
Hannah looked out of the window at her gran’s funeral home in the distance. Indy was working at reception there, waiting for Hannah to finish, waiting for her to move on with her life. Waiting for a snog.
Hannah turned to Rita who was fingering a big hoop earring. ‘So do you think, in a parallel dimension, Mel is still alive, about to have a baby, my half-sister?’
‘That’s an interesting way to look at it.’
Hannah sighed. ‘There’s a problem. Say you were inside the box instead of the cat. Then you would observe if the source decayed and the waveform collapses. You’d be dead. That’s quantum suicide. But the many-worlds interpretation goes the other way. Since you can only observe outcomes where you’re alive, by definition, then you stay in the universe where you keep surviving. Quantum immortality.’
Rita was frowning, lines across her forehead. ‘You’ve lost me.’
‘If you always end up in the universe where you survive, doesn’t that mean you can do anything you want?’
‘I don’t think that’s helpful.’
‘Maybe that’s what my dad thought,’ Hannah said. ‘Maybe he thought he could just do anything he liked and get away with it.’
Rita sighed. ‘It doesn’t take quantum physics for men to think they can get away with stuff.’
Hannah smiled. She imagined being a cat in a box, waiting to die. ‘And I’m half him, that’s the way genetics works.’
‘That’s not how life works.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘I’m nothing like my parents.’ Rita smiled as something occurred to her. ‘Let me tell you about my mother.’
‘What?’
‘It’s a line from Bladerunner. Ever seen the original Bladerunner?’
Hannah shook her head. ‘Just the recent one.’
‘They catch a replicant and interview him, ask about his mother. He says “let me tell you about my mother” then shoots his interviewer under the desk.’
Hannah smiled and lifted her hands. ‘No gun.’
‘You’re not a replicant,’ Rita said.
‘But I don’t know that, they had implanted memories, right? If that’s true, can you erase some of mine?’
‘If you erase your memories, don’t you erase yourself?’
‘I don’t know.’
Rita smiled. ‘This is more like an ethics class than a counselling session. We’ve kind of gone off topic.’
‘Did the replicants have morals?’ Hannah said.
‘I think they were programmed into them.’
‘So they couldn’t do whatever they wanted.’
‘No more than any of us.’
Hannah shook her head as her phone rang.
‘Sorry,’ she said, pulling it from her pocket. ‘I’d better take this.’
She pressed reply. ‘Hey, Mum.’
‘Something’s happened,’ Jenny said down the line.
4
JENNY
Jenny handed cash to the taxi driver and stepped out. The sight of the house gave her a trill in her stomach, like always, throwing up childhood memories. A three-storey Victorian block with low additions to the side that housed the embalming room, body fridges, coffin workshop and garage for the hearse. The funeral business she’d escaped from decades ago, only to be sucked back in six months ago when her dad died. So she was living here again, haunted by memories, haunted by the thousands of dead who’d passed through the place.
She went in the side door and through to reception, where Indy was at the desk. Hannah’s beautiful girlfriend, just one of the strays Dorothy had accumulated at the funeral home over the years. She’d turned up four years ago to arrange her parents’ funeral, wound up helping out around the place, a natural at dealing with people, Hannah included. She’d dyed her hair again since Jenny last saw her, a green that set off her dark skin.
‘Archie told me what happened,’ Jenny said.
Indy shook her head. ‘Crazy.’
‘Where’s Mum?’
Indy nodded upstairs. ‘In the ops room. She’s fine.’
Jenny headed up. The ops room was where they ran the funeral and PI businesses, but it was also their kitchen and dining room, where she’d had countless family meals. She reached the doorway and saw Dorothy at the sink, spooning cat food into a bowl.
‘Mum, Archie called me, are you OK?’
Dorothy turned and smiled, placed the bowl at her feet with one hand touching her back.
Jenny went in and stopped when she spotted the dog.
‘Who’s this?’
The collie snuffled at the food, then a couple of licks and it began eating. It looked up between bites as if the food might be taken away.
Dorothy crouched and tickled his ear. ‘I don’t know his name, no coll
ar.’
‘Where did you find him?’
‘In the car.’
‘What?’
‘The accident this morning, you said Archie told you.’ Dorothy stood up and reached for a cupboard, took out two glasses and a half-empty bottle of Highland Park. ‘I need a drink.’
She poured two measures, handed one to Jenny, then sat at the table.
Jenny watched her movements, slow and careful. She hadn’t been the same since everything with Craig. He’d stabbed Jenny in this room, then beaten and choked Dorothy, who’d stabbed him in self-defence.
Jenny was left with a large scar on her belly and night terrors. Dorothy’s bruises took a long time to heal. Before, despite being seventy, she had energy, moved with grace. Now she was tentative, as if the world could really harm her, aware she wasn’t going to last forever. It broke Jenny’s heart to see her mum like this.
She sipped her whisky, pulled out a chair and sat, placed a hand on her mum’s. ‘What happened?’
‘Archie saved me,’ Dorothy said, looking out of the window.
Bruntsfield Links was putting its spring show on, the trees filling out and dancing in the breeze, a few souls sitting on the grass, happy to be through another winter. The ancient dead buried below were pushing up new grass, her dad’s ashes down there too amongst the plants and flowers, worms and bugs.
Jenny looked from the window to the two large whiteboards on the other wall. One for funerals, the other for PI cases. The funeral one was busy, half a dozen jobs on the slate, bodies in the fridges downstairs or waiting to be collected, or already embalmed and waiting for the final send-off. The PI work had been steady recently too, mostly marital stuff, which Jenny found she had a knack for since Liam.
Jenny turned to Dorothy. ‘He said there was a police car chase?’
Dorothy exhaled. ‘That’s right.’
‘In the graveyard?’
‘Yes.’
‘What the hell?’
‘That’s what I said.’
‘Are you OK?’
‘I’m fine, Archie pulled me out of the way. No one in the Blackie party was injured, including the deceased. But we’ve had to postpone the funeral, the grave is a crime scene.’
‘What were they thinking, chasing him into a cemetery?’
Dorothy took a drink. She never used to touch whisky before Jim died, it was always his drink, but she’d claimed it as her own since he was gone, maybe the taste was a memory.
‘The man in the car died,’ Dorothy said.
Jenny shook her head. ‘Why were they after him?’
‘Car was stolen, that’s all.’ She drank. ‘I think he was homeless. The car had a sleeping bag and an old backpack in it.’ Dorothy nodded at the collie. ‘And this guy.’
‘Why is he here?’
‘Where else could he go?’
‘The police should deal with him.’
Dorothy smiled. ‘The police officer was just a baby, poor thing. He was in shock. I had to make him do breathing exercises. Then I got the dog out of the car, put him in the hearse. The police don’t want to deal with a dog.’
‘But the dog might belong to someone.’
Dorothy nodded. ‘I’ve spoken to Thomas about it.’
This was her friend, a police inspector over at St Leonards. She’d helped him bury his wife a few years back, he’d helped her with PI cases since.
Dorothy drank again. ‘I’ll look after him until we find his home, if he has one.’
There was a hiss from the doorway and Jenny saw Schrödinger there, back arched, staring at the collie. The ginger cat was another of Dorothy’s strays, she attracted those who didn’t have anywhere else.
Hannah appeared in the doorway and scooped the cat into her arms. Schrödinger stayed alert, eyes on the intruder.
‘Gran, are you OK?’
Dorothy sighed. ‘I don’t need any fuss.’
Schrödinger squirmed from Hannah’s arms and landed on the rug. Jenny saw where they’d tried to clean up the blood from that night. The rug was red and patterned so the blood was easy to hide.
‘Who’s this guy?’ Hannah said, pointing at the collie.
Jenny looked at her daughter. Her black hair needed a wash and she looked tired. This had been hard on everyone, Hannah most of all.
Jenny took a sip of whisky. ‘He belonged to the guy driving the car.’
‘Belonged?’
Jenny glanced at Dorothy, who was staring out of the window again.
‘The driver died,’ Jenny said.
‘Holy shit.’ Hannah stroked the dog, Schrödinger hissing in the doorway.
‘Take it easy,’ Hannah said to the cat. She looked up. ‘So we’ve got this guy until we find his family?’
‘If he has one,’ Dorothy said.
Hannah checked for a collar, tickled under his chin.
‘He got a name?’
Jenny shook her head.
Hannah stood and thought, looked from the dog to the cat.
‘He can be Einstein,’ she said. ‘Einstein and Schrödinger never got on.’
Indy appeared at the doorway with a look. ‘Someone’s downstairs.’
‘A funeral?’ Dorothy said.
‘No.’
‘A case?’ Jenny said.
Indy shook her head and threw a look of apology around the room, landing on Hannah. ‘It’s your stepmum, Han, she wants to speak to all of you.’
For years Jenny had built up Fiona as a nemesis, the perky little blonde who lured her husband away. That was insane, of course, Craig was the one having an affair back then, and anyway, Jenny was lucky the way things turned out. She’d thought about Fiona in the last six months, how it would be for her, her husband in prison, a murderer, a cheat. Worse still, he and Jenny had been fooling around before all the craziness. They were all tricked by the same man, so Fiona wasn’t the enemy. But that still hung in Jenny’s mind, anxiety creeping up her spine at the thought of the woman downstairs.
‘Bring her up,’ Dorothy said, touching her forehead.
Hannah held the kitchen worktop, breathing deep, eyes closed.
Jenny heard footsteps, and there she was. Fiona was beautiful, same age as Jenny. She was small but expertly put together, both her figure and her smart suit, like a successful solicitor with an edge of sex appeal.
‘Come in,’ Dorothy said, waving a hand.
Fiona hesitated, looked at Hannah.
Hannah lived with Jenny after the divorce, but she’d spent weekends with Craig, Fiona and Sophia, her cute wee half-sister.
‘Hi, Han,’ she said.
‘Hey.’
Fiona looked around. ‘So this is where it happened?’
She meant Craig’s face-off with the Skelf women.
‘The crime scene, one of them at least,’ Jenny said, then regretted it. Mel had died, fuck’s sake, this wasn’t a joke.
‘It can’t have been easy to come here,’ Dorothy said. ‘Would you like a drink?’
She waved the Highland Park in the air. Jenny wished her mum wasn’t so calm. It was irrational, but Jenny wanted to hold a grudge against someone, and Craig was in Saughton Prison, so Fiona would do.
Fiona nodded and entered like a deer into a clearing. Jenny imagined her in rifle crosshairs.
‘How’s Sophia?’ Hannah said.
Fiona scratched at her neck. ‘OK. She doesn’t understand, misses her dad.’
That made Jenny think, the ripples in all their lives.
Dorothy handed Fiona a whisky and she took a gulp. Jenny saw bags under her eyes, a nervous twitch in the corner of her mouth. She was thinner than Jenny had seen her looking on social media.
Fiona looked at the whiteboards, scribbles and scrawls, deaths to be negotiated, mysteries to be solved. She took another drink, stalling.
‘How are you all?’
‘The wounds have healed,’ Jenny said. Her hand went to her scarred stomach, touched the skin underneath her T-shirt.
‘I di
dn’t mean that,’ Fiona said.
‘Why are you here?’ Jenny said.
‘Jenny,’ Dorothy said.
It took Jenny back to being a kid, the reprimand in her mum’s voice, a shiver of shame up her neck.
‘This isn’t easy for anyone,’ Fiona said. ‘He refuses to sign the divorce papers, he’s still my fucking husband, think about that.’
Jenny thought about it. They both had daughters by the same bastard, they should be sisters-in-arms. But it wasn’t that easy.
Fiona took a drink. ‘I wanted to tell you in person. He’s changed his plea. From guilty to not guilty on the grounds of diminished responsibility.’
Hannah’s grip on the worktop tightened, she rocked back and forth. ‘Are you serious?’
‘He’s claiming he was crazy?’ Jenny said.
Fiona shook her head. ‘I couldn’t believe it when the solicitor told me.’
Hannah pushed herself away from the worktop and balled her hands.
‘But he admitted it,’ she said. ‘He admitted it all to the police.’
Fiona shrugged. ‘Says he wasn’t in his right mind. He’s pushing for a quick trial now too.’
Jenny couldn’t get her head around it. ‘After all this time? What’s he playing at?’
Dorothy had been silent through all this. ‘He can’t think he has a case.’
Fiona swallowed hard. ‘It’s not about that.’
‘Then what?’ Hannah said.
Fiona looked around the women. ‘He wants to see us in court. The solicitor thinks he’ll call us all as witnesses.’
‘But we’ll testify against him,’ Jenny said. ‘He must know that.’
Fiona downed the remains of her whisky, shivered from the hit.
‘He doesn’t care,’ she said. ‘He wants to punish us.’
5
DOROTHY
St Leonards police station was a bland modern brick block sitting amongst student flats in the Southside. Dorothy saw Salisbury Crags to the right, the cliffs leering over the southern part of the city. She went inside the station and waited at reception, but she’d barely sat down when Thomas appeared.
The Big Chill Page 2
