The Big Chill Read online

  Haunted by their past, the Skelf women are hoping for a quieter life. But running both a funeral director’s and a private investigation business means trouble is never far away, and when a car crashes into the open grave at a funeral that matriarch Dorothy is conducting, she can’t help looking into the dead driver’s shadowy life.

  While Dorothy uncovers a dark truth at the heart of Edinburgh society, her daughter Jenny and granddaughter Hannah have their own struggles. Jenny’s ex-husband Craig is making plans that could shatter the Skelf women’s lives, and the increasingly obsessive Hannah has formed a friendship with an elderly professor that is fast turning deadly.

  But something even more sinister emerges when a drumming student of Dorothy’s disappears and suspicion falls on her parents. The Skelf women find themselves sucked into an unbearable darkness – but could the real threat be to themselves?

  Following three women as they deal with the dead, help the living and find out who they are in the process, The Big Chill follows A Dark Matter, book one in the Skelfs series, which reboots the classic PI novel while asking the big existential questions, all with a big dose of pitch-black humour.

  THE BIG CHILL

  DOUG JOHNSTONE

  This one is for Val, Mark, Chris, Stuart and Luca.

  CONTENTS

  TITLE PAGE

  DEDICATION

  1 DOROTHY

  2 JENNY

  3 HANNAH

  4 JENNY

  5 DOROTHY

  6 HANNAH

  7 DOROTHY

  8 HANNAH

  9 JENNY

  10 DOROTHY

  11 HANNAH

  12 DOROTHY

  13 JENNY

  14 HANNAH

  15 DOROTHY

  16 JENNY

  17 HANNAH

  18 DOROTHY

  19 JENNY

  20 DOROTHY

  21 HANNAH

  22 JENNY

  23 HANNAH

  24 JENNY

  25 DOROTHY

  26 HANNAH

  27 DOROTHY

  28 JENNY

  29 DOROTHY

  30 HANNAH

  31 DOROTHY

  32 JENNY

  33 HANNAH

  34 DOROTHY

  35 JENNY

  36 HANNAH

  37 DOROTHY

  38 JENNY

  39 HANNAH

  40 DOROTHY

  41 JENNY

  42 DOROTHY

  43 HANNAH

  44 DOROTHY

  45 JENNY

  46 DOROTHY

  47 HANNAH

  48 DOROTHY

  49 JENNY

  50 HANNAH

  51 DOROTHY

  52 JENNY

  53 HANNAH

  54 DOROTHY

  55 HANNAH

  56 JENNY

  57 DOROTHY

  58 JENNY

  59 HANNAH

  60 JENNY

  61 HANNAH

  62 DOROTHY

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  COPYRIGHT

  1

  DOROTHY

  Dorothy felt at home surrounded by dead people.

  She breathed deeply as Archie drove the hearse through the cemetery gates and along the rutted path that ran round the edge of the small graveyard. Like most cemeteries in the city, Edinburgh Eastern was hidden from public view as much as possible, an anonymous entrance on Drum Terrace, high stone walls enclosing the space. One side was flanked by terraced flats, another by the back of the Aldi on Easter Road. Behind the opposite wall she could see the corrugated-iron roof of a trade wholesalers. Looming over the graves on the south side was Hibs’ stadium, more dirty corrugated iron, a grid of green support beams around the top like a crown.

  They crawled round the cemetery, past a graffitied shed, then a skip full of rotten flower bouquets, cellophane shimmering with dew, ribbons flapping in the breeze. She wished the guys who ran this place were more considerate, mourners didn’t need to see the business side of death.

  Dorothy had been in the funeral business for forty-five years, it was all she knew. She glanced round at Susan Blackie’s coffin in the back of the hearse, the family car following behind. She looked at Archie, deadpan face, shaved head, neat grey beard. She’d known him for a decade, considered him a friend as well as a colleague, but that had been tested by what happened six months ago. She had uncovered horrifying secrets in her family and the business, and they were still dealing with that. The one thing that gave her peace was this, looking after the dead.

  They reached the open grave and pulled over. Dorothy eased out of the passenger seat, her seventy-year-old muscles letting her know that yoga wasn’t enough anymore. She stretched her back, angled her hips, small movements so as not to draw attention. A funeral director should be anonymous, if people noticed you, you weren’t doing your job properly.

  Archie got out and opened the back of the hearse, removed the wreath from the coffin and placed it to the side. There was comfort in all of this, the correct way of doing things, deference in the way they moved. It was hard for young people, but the older you got the more natural it felt, creating the smallest ripples possible. Dorothy had had her share of ripples recently and she was happy to be back in still waters, helping others pay last respects.

  The Blackie family emerged from their car as more family and friends coalesced around the grave. Very little was said, it was almost telepathic, a hand on a shoulder, a tilt of the head, the body language of grief.

  Archie and the young driver from the other car rolled the coffin across the rollers and out of the hearse, enlisting the Blackie men to carry it to the grave. They laid it on the plastic grass next to the hole, a large mound of damp dirt to the side. It was rare these days to bury people rather than cremate them, even rarer for the whole ceremony to take place by the graveside. But Dorothy liked it, it was more honest, more connected than seeing a shrouded coffin sink inside a plinth in a cold chapel.

  She stood with her hands clasped as the funeral party stood around the grave. She looked at some nearby gravestones, recent additions, engraving still sharp, lots of flowers and photographs. The Skelfs had buried some of these people and she wondered how the bereaved were coping. Were they dealing with it better than she was with Jim’s death? It was half a year now, and it was true what she’d told others for decades, the sharp pain did reduce, replaced by an aching throb. Background emotional noise that gave life a bittersweet edge.

  The young Church of Scotland minister said a few quiet words to Gordon Blackie and his sons. They were working-class men, buttoned-up and stoic, there would be no wailing and gnashing of teeth today. Plus, Susan Blackie had suffered dementia for years so it felt like she’d left them a long time ago. Death was often a relief, though it was hard to admit that.

  The minister began the familiar intonations of the ceremony. Susan’s life was remembered, our fragile nature in the face of the almighty was given a nod. The minister was in his twenties, floppy black fringe that he kept touching. Dorothy wondered how someone went into that profession fresh from school or college. But then she had entered the funeral business at the same age.

  She looked around. The oak and beech trees were coming into leaf, the rejuvenation of spring. But there would be no rejuvenation for Susan Blackie. Nevertheless, Dorothy couldn’t help feeling something, a sense of rebirth, a chance to make the world new again.

  The highest branches swayed in the breeze, pigeons and crows perched and watching. Dorothy heard the shush of Easter Road traffic mixed with the minister’s words. His voice didn’t have the gravitas for funerals yet, not enough experience. The Blackie men stared stony-faced at Susan’s coffin, as if they could lower it into the ground with sheer willpower.

  Doroth
y heard a police siren, faint but getting louder. She listened for the change in pitch, the Doppler effect Hannah had explained to her, when the source of the sound travelled away instead of towards you. But it didn’t change, the wailing just got louder, making the minister pause his eulogy.

  There was an almighty metallic crash and Dorothy spun round to see the iron cemetery gates buckle and spring from their hinges, clatter into the stone pillars either side and collapse as an old white Nissan careened into the graveyard and pummelled along the gravel path on the south side, rising into the air over bumps and swerving between graves. It was moving at maybe fifty miles per hour, engine a high whine, as the siren got louder and a police car thundered through the cemetery gates in pursuit.

  The Nissan braked and swerved at the bend in the path, fishtailed into a headstone, which fell like a domino. The car straightened and sped up, the police car copying its trajectory round the bend, running onto the grass. The Nissan glanced off two more gravestones and ricocheted across the path, the gravestones tearing chunks from the front bumper, denting the driver’s door.

  It was a hundred yards away from the hearse, the family car and Susan’s coffin. The Blackie party stood with eyes wide, Dorothy the same, the minister with his mouth open.

  The hearse was blocking the path but the Nissan kept racing towards them, bouncing along, clattering against headstones and thumping over grassy mounds. The police car was behind, lights flashing, siren screaming.

  The Nissan was almost at the hearse now as Dorothy felt someone pulling her, Archie was yanking her arm. She stumbled towards a large memorial stone just as the Nissan rushed past her, swerved away from the rear of the hearse, scattering mourners, the Blackie men jumping out of the way. The car clattered into the gravestone next to Susan’s coffin, bounced into the air, then its front end dipped and it landed with a sickening thud halfway in the empty grave, its rear end hanging in the air, wheels spinning.

  The police car skidded to a halt a foot from the hearse and its siren stopped. The sudden quiet was disorienting, as Dorothy straightened and ran to the Nissan. She went past Susan’s coffin, which seemed unscathed, to the driver’s side of the car. She hauled at the crumpled door three, four times. Eventually it opened and she leaned in.

  Behind the wheel was a dishevelled young man in dirty clothes, with longish hair and an untidy beard. He wasn’t wearing a seatbelt and there was no airbag. He had a long gash across his forehead, which was leaning against a crack in the windscreen. Blood poured from his ear. He was dead, Dorothy knew that look better than anyone.

  She held the door open, staring at him, as a young police officer arrived behind her. He looked at the Nissan’s driver, eyes wide. He’d obviously not seen as many dead bodies as Dorothy. His face went pale.

  Dorothy heard a noise from the back seat. She leaned in, heard the noise again, a whimper. She spotted him, a small border collie with one eye. The dog climbed forward from the back and licked the driver’s head wound, tasting its owner’s blood. It whined and shrank away.

  Dorothy turned to the young cop, who was shaking.

  ‘What the hell?’ she said.

  2

  JENNY

  ‘Cheers.’

  Jenny smiled at Liam as they both hit their drinks, a double Hendricks for her, a pint of Moretti for him. Maybe they should’ve been on champagne, given they were celebrating his divorce, but who pays pub champagne prices? Anyway, divorce is always melancholic, Jenny knew that well. Mingled with the relief was the admission of defeat. You weren’t good enough to make the marriage work, even if the other person was a piece of shit and you were well rid of them.

  She looked around The King’s Wark. Ancient, rough stonework, large fireplace, mismatched wooden tables and chairs. Just a handful of drinkers this time of day, suits from Pacific Quay on early lunch.

  ‘So you’re young, free and single again,’ Jenny said, deadpan.

  Liam pulled at the skin under his eyes. ‘I haven’t been young for years.’

  ‘You’re younger than me.’

  He did look tired, the divorce had taken its toll over the last six months. But he was still handsome, those green eyes, the flecks of grey through his black hair. He still looked after himself.

  He smiled. ‘That’s not hard.’

  ‘Hey.’ She faked outrage, punched his shoulder, felt the solid muscle.

  She looked around the pub. ‘Nice touch, coming here.’

  ‘This is our place.’

  It hadn’t been a conventional way to meet. Jenny was hired by Liam’s now ex-wife, Orla, to find evidence he was cheating. Jenny had just started working for her mum, helping out at both the Skelf’s funeral director’s and private investigator’s. She had no idea what she was doing, but she followed Liam to his artist’s studio round the corner, then sat in this pub watching him. Which is where she saw Orla’s failed sting attempt – she’d hired an escort to seduce him, to entrap him so that Orla could file for divorce. Jenny sprung a trap of her own, got evidence that Orla was fucking her gardener, which she presented to Liam. Again, right here in The King’s Wark.

  It wasn’t the most auspicious start, but Jenny’s own marriage to Craig began with true love and wound up with her husband lying and cheating, so maybe this was better.

  ‘Thanks for everything,’ Liam said.

  Jenny shook her head. ‘It was just a few pictures.’

  ‘I’m not talking about the evidence,’ he said. ‘I’m talking about us.’

  Jenny looked away. It was embarrassing how open Liam was. Maybe because of his creative side he was in touch with stuff that Jenny and most of her generation kept hidden. She was raised to shrug and say ‘whatever’, hated direct emotional engagement. That’s what made her bad at the funeral business. She should be helping Mum right now, but she found it difficult to handle the emotions that spilled over at funerals. And anyway, Dorothy and Archie would have everything under control.

  Liam took her hand and she resisted the urge to pull away. Ever since Craig, she struggled with this. Maybe she should go to therapy like Hannah, to help her cope. But therapy wasn’t in her DNA, the idea of talking to a stranger about the fucked-up things in her head made her teeth itch.

  ‘How’s Hannah?’ Liam said, as if reading her mind. Maybe it was obvious she was constantly worried about her daughter. Fuck, who wouldn’t be? Hannah’s dad had killed one of her best friends, and tried to kill Jenny and Dorothy too. When Larkin said your mum and dad fuck you up, did he have that crazy shit in mind?

  Jenny sighed. ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘She’ll be OK.’

  ‘I wish I had your confidence.’

  ‘I have plenty of confidence in your family, less in myself.’

  ‘God, I’m fed up telling you.’

  ‘It’s fine,’ Liam said, smiling. ‘We have confidence in each other, just not ourselves. That’s Gen X, right?’

  He was so honest it was painful. How had the world not crushed this man already? Six months after finding out his marriage was a sham, he was here in the pub smiling and joking. When Jenny’s divorce came through ten years ago, she curled up in a ball at home for years afterwards. Craig moved on to a new woman, new family, new life. How do you square that shit away?

  Liam took a drink and narrowed his eyes. He knew her already, what her moods were, when she was shrinking into herself.

  ‘Hannah and Dorothy will be fine,’ he said. ‘You’re the strongest women I’ve ever met. If anyone can handle things, it’s the Skelfs.’

  Jenny drank and shook her head, felt the burn of the extra gin in her tonic. She needed that edge to hold on to. Hannah was seeing a counsellor, Dorothy seemed to have found peace in the funeral work. But where did that leave Jenny? A dead dad, a murderous ex-husband, no home of her own, working two jobs she couldn’t do very well. She looked around the pub and out of the window. It was a beautiful spring day and the Water of Leith was shimmering in the sun. She had a handsome, smart man with her, an
d she had her family.

  She turned back to Liam and made a face. ‘So today is the first day of the rest of your life.’

  Liam rolled his eyes. ‘Today is always the first day of the rest of your life. Until you die.’

  ‘Cheery.’

  Liam raised his glass. ‘Cheers.’

  They drank, and Liam put his glass down.

  Jenny leaned in and kissed him, squeezed his hand on the table, tried to feel sexy, wanted. She pulled away and drank.

  He smiled. ‘What was that for?’

  ‘Just a Happy Divorce kiss.’

  He sipped his pint, keeping his eyes on her. ‘I should get divorced more often.’

  ‘I wouldn’t recommend it.’

  They were comfortable with this level of flirting and banter. They’d been seeing each other for the last couple of months, ended up in bed a handful of times, but hadn’t discussed what this was yet. Jenny was scared that if they did it would vanish in a puff of smoke. They were both licking their wounds, for God’s sake. But Jenny wanted to be seen, still wanted to be a sexual being, wanted to turn him on. And he certainly turned her on.

  She thought about what he’d said before, that today was always the first day of the rest of your life. She liked that. At least until you die. But she lived around death every day, bodies in the embalming room, the viewing rooms, the chapel. Deceased and bereaved everywhere you looked in a funeral home.

  Jenny watched Liam drink, delicate movements, considered, unassuming. She suddenly wanted to take him home to bed.

  ‘Let’s get out of here,’ she said.

  ‘And do what?’

  Jenny’s phone rang in her bag as she took a final swig of her gin. She fished it out. ‘Hey Mum, how was the funeral this morning?’

  3

  HANNAH

  The counsellor’s office was annoyingly jaunty, bright yellow seats, a lurid green desk. Outside the window Hannah saw the Meadows, students soaking up sunshine on the grass, mums with little kids in the play park, tennis players thwacking balls across the courts. To the right was Bruntsfield Links and she could just make out the Skelf house beyond that. The irony, while undergoing counselling she could see the place she chased her dad covered in blood.