The Big Chill Page 13
‘We might have a lead,’ she said.
Graham tapped one of the fridge doors. ‘Well, let me know what you find out.’
Dorothy realised that Jimmy X was inside that fridge. Of course, no next of kin, no one had claimed him. So unless she discovered who he was, he would be stuck here until the council gave him a perfunctory funeral.
‘Can I see him?’ Dorothy said.
Graham slid the tray out and lifted the sheet. She looked at the cut on his head, the only outward sign that anything was wrong. She went to touch it but Graham stopped her.
‘Not without gloves,’ he said. ‘You know the rules.’
She shook her head and stepped back. Graham gave her a look then pushed Jimmy X back in.
Hugh Fowler was still lying there waiting to go.
‘OK,’ Hannah said. ‘Let’s get the professor out of here.’
She dragged a gurney from the corner and placed it alongside the tray. Pulled a body bag from a holdall and spread it open on the gurney. Graham passed a box of blue latex gloves around and they snapped them on. Dorothy went to Hugh’s feet, Hannah at his head, Graham taking the weight in the middle.
‘On three,’ Hannah said.
Dorothy felt the cold ankles through her gloves and wondered about the acid in Hugh’s veins, if it was any different from what was coursing through her own body.
28
JENNY
Jenny had never been to Cheyne Street before, and Liam missed the turn-off from Raeburn Place the first time. It was a downmarket lane for Stockbridge, grey tenements on one side, an angular spread of functional pebble-dashed concrete buildings on the other. They found a space next to the bins and parked, a street cleaner munching from a Gregg’s wrapper and watching them.
Jenny checked the map on her phone. Edinburgh Women’s Aid was in the concrete block somewhere, alongside an old person’s charity, a swing dance society, a fencing club and some weird church with a long name.
She looked at the photo printout in her hand. Now she was looking for the girl. Twitcher at the Sally Army said he’d met her but was vague on details. The two things he could remember were that she was called Rachel and she’d got a place in a Women’s Aid refuge. Jenny didn’t know where the refuges were, but this was the only Women’s Aid office in town, so here she was.
‘Want me to come with?’ Liam said, cutting the engine.
‘I think it’s best if you and your penis stay here,’ Jenny said. ‘The whole point of Women’s Aid is to get away from the likes of you.’
‘I’ll keep my penis here.’
She leaned across and kissed him, left the car and went inside. She was surprised there wasn’t a buzzer system, wondered about security.
She thought about what Craig had done to her and Hannah, if she could’ve claimed refuge for that. Abusive, check. Violent, for sure. Dangerous, you bet.
She walked past a bright café full of old people and found the Women’s Aid office. She took in the cheap furniture in primary colours that had faded and frayed, info and warning posters bluetacked to the textured walls, a blonde wood desk with piles of papers.
Behind the desk was a beautiful young woman in a bright-green hijab that matched her eyes. The nametag on her blouse said Elif. She scoped Jenny up and down, assessing if this was a woman in need of help. Jenny wondered what it was like working here all day, dealing with the stuff men dealt out, the women at the end of their ropes. But this was a charity office, maybe there was good stuff too, people offering money, time, assistance.
‘Hi Elif, my name’s Jenny Skelf, I hope you can help me.’
Elif clocked the use of her first name, was wise to that bullshit.
‘If I can,’ she said.
Jenny pulled the photo from her pocket, flattened it on the desk, slid it over.
‘I’m trying to find this woman.’
‘OK.’ Very guarded.
‘Her name’s Rachel.’
Elif nodded in a way that suggested the opposite of a nod.
‘I think she’s in one of your refuges,’ Jenny said.
‘Why do you think that?’
‘A friend of hers told me.’
Elif touched the edge of the photograph but didn’t pick it up. She looked at it, then up at Jenny, held her eye.
‘So can’t this friend tell you where she is?’
‘He didn’t know.’
‘He.’
Jenny shook her head. ‘It isn’t like that.’
Elif smiled an empty smile. ‘We can’t give out information about women in our refuges, for obvious reasons.’
‘I appreciate that,’ Jenny said. ‘Let me explain.’
She pulled a business card out of her pocket, handed it over. Elif held it like it stank.
‘This doesn’t fill me with confidence,’ she said.
‘Please just listen.’ She stabbed at the picture. ‘I’m actually trying to find out who the guy is.’ She pointed at Jimmy X. ‘Or was. He’s dead.’
Elif softened a little. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘He died in a car accident.’
Elif looked at the picture again, taking in both Jimmy X and Rachel.
Jenny felt like she knew this couple now, they had names, they were living on the streets of a city she thought she knew. They’d been up Arthur’s Seat together and taken this picture in happier times. They had a future. Now he was dead and she was hiding.
Elif frowned. ‘Did someone hire you?’
‘Not exactly.’
‘Then who’s looking for him?’
Jenny scratched at her neck, touched her ear. ‘My mum.’
Puzzle on Elif’s face. ‘I don’t understand.’
Jenny sighed. ‘Nor do I, really. He almost hit her with his car. When he died. And she feels, I don’t know, some connection to him. Like she’s responsible, maybe.’
‘That’s crazy.’
‘Welcome to my life.’
Elif stood for a moment. ‘I’m sorry, I can’t help you.’
She slid the picture and card back across the desk.
Jenny looked around the office, at the door through to the back. ‘No offence, but maybe I could speak to someone else, like your boss?’
Elif smiled. ‘When people say “no offence”, it’s immediately followed by something offensive.’
‘It’s just…’ Jenny touched the photo, remembered being up Arthur’s Seat with Craig at the same age, before Hannah was born, their futures ahead of them. ‘Anything you can tell me would be great.’
Elif pressed her lips together. ‘I’m sorry.’
Jenny tapped at the picture. ‘At least tell me if you recognise her.’
She held it up. Elif looked and Jenny thought she saw something, a giveaway. She’d seen Rachel, she was in a Women’s Aid refuge right enough. Or maybe it was just wishful thinking.
‘No,’ Elif said.
Jenny held out the photo for a few seconds then put it away.
Elif picked up the business card and tried to hand it back.
Jenny refused. ‘No, keep it. Give it to Rachel.’
‘I don’t know this woman.’
Jenny touched her wrist. ‘Please, just give it to her. Then it’s up to her if she contacts me or not.’
‘I told you.’
‘Tell her that he’s dead. We’re planning the funeral, she might want to come. Tell her to call. We want to know who he is before we bury him.’
Elif flicked the card between her fingers then put it in her pocket.
29
DOROTHY
Abi was silent as they walked down Sylvan Place. Dorothy walked next to her feeling sorry and awkward, picking up on the girl’s tension, which radiated like a beacon. A few doors away from number seven Dorothy touched Abi’s arm.
‘Wait.’
Abi stopped, nonplussed. Her shoulders were slumped but Dorothy couldn’t tell if it was a sign or just teenage ennui.
‘Is there something you’re not telling me?’
‘Like what?’
‘About home.’
Abi looked at the pavement. Chewing gum hardened in places, weeds between the cracks.
‘It’s fine.’
Dorothy sighed. ‘I know I said you had to go home, but there are other ways. I want you to be safe.’
Abi nodded.
‘Are you safe at home?’
Abi nodded again.
At the top of the road a young couple were standing outside the entrance to Sick Kids’ A&E, smoking and pacing. Their body language was pure stress. How much easier it was to worry about physical harm, if your kid has broken her arm or caught a bad bug or fainted. It was so much harder with mental health. Dorothy wondered about Abi’s mental state.
‘I need to know we’re doing the right thing,’ she said.
‘It’s fine.’
‘Sure?’
‘Sure.’
Neither of them started walking again.
‘What I said before is true,’ Dorothy said. ‘I’ll find Neil Williams, I promise.’
She went into her handbag and pulled out the keys for the flat on Albion Gardens. ‘I have these. I’ll watch his place from there. And I’ll do some detective work.’
‘Like what?’
‘I have a contact at the police. I’ve already put feelers out.’
Abi laughed. ‘My God.’
It was good to see her smile. ‘What?’
‘“Feelers out”, you sound ancient.’
Dorothy laughed. ‘I am ancient.’
Abi chewed that over. ‘You always seem young to me, Mrs S. For a granny.’
Dorothy laughed again. ‘Well this granny is a private investigator, so I’m gonna private investigate.’
Abi sucked her teeth.
‘So we’re good?’ Dorothy said.
‘Sure.’
They walked to the house and Abi let herself in. At the sound of the door Sandra and Mike came running, him from his laptop in the kitchen, her from upstairs.
Dorothy studied their reactions, looking for anything off. But it seemed like genuine joy and relief from both of them. Sandra had tears in her eyes as she hugged her daughter, Mike hanging back slightly but still looking overjoyed. Sandra pulled back from the cuddle, pushed Abi’s hair from her face, kissed her cheek. Abi flinched but it was a standard teenage reaction, nothing more.
‘My God, where were you?’ Sandra said.
Abi put her head down.
Sandra turned to Dorothy. ‘Thank you so much. Where did you find her?’
Dorothy looked at the girl. They’d concocted a story that Abi had been hiding at the empty house of a friend on holiday, that way no one was blamed and the police didn’t need to get involved. Abi didn’t want them to know she was looking for Neil, so she would say she just needed space to herself, some random teenage crap like that. She would just button down, that was the plan.
‘I’ll let Abi explain,’ Dorothy said.
She took Sandra to the front door, out of earshot, as Abi accepted a hug from Mike.
‘Go easy on her,’ Dorothy said. ‘She’s a good kid. And she’s back, that’s what matters, right?’
Sandra narrowed her eyes. ‘She’s OK, though? Nothing happened to her.’
‘She’s fine.’
Sandra nodded then came in for an unexpected embrace, and Dorothy put her arms around her.
‘I better go,’ she said, pulling back.
She shared a look with Abi across the hallway. ‘Take it easy.’
Abi nodded and turned away.
Dorothy put on The Avalanches’ first album, placed headphones on her ears and picked up the drumsticks. She needed something with a groove, not too technically taxing. The opening bars of ‘Since I Left You’ jostled into life and she joined in on the kit, a tom fill leading to a simple shuffle on hi-hat, snare and kick. The music was all samples, the Aussie band spending years unearthing cool beats from the furthest reaches of their vinyl collections. People her age were usually purists for ‘real music’ played on ‘real instruments’, whatever that meant, but she loved the sampling culture of dance and hip-hop, easily as creative as guitar, bass and drums.
She leaned into the beat, felt her head sway with the syncopation. Tried to let her mind run loose but it was hard to think of nothing. She’d always used drumming as a kind of mindfulness before that word existed, it made her feel part of something bigger, giving herself over to the music, allowing herself to be insignificant.
She broke round the kit to the crash cymbals and glanced about the studio. She was lucky to have this space. She’d fought hard to keep a corner of her life for herself in the early years of marriage to Jim. With the funeral business downstairs then Jenny coming along and demanding so much energy and attention, it was easy to get lost in the needs of others.
But drumming was just for her, a simple physical and emotional pleasure. And as time went on she began to love teaching too, passing on her skills to young people, especially girls. Which led her mind to Abi, back at home with her mum and stepdad, uncertain about her place in the world, no corner of the planet where she could feel at home. Dorothy wondered about Sandra and Mike, if they felt lost trying to communicate with her, trying to give her what all parents try to give their kids. Then she thought about Neil Williams, if he cared for his daughter, what kind of dad he was.
Her rhythm around the kit had stiffened, her shoulders knotted, her grip on the sticks too tight. The song finished and she shook her head as if trying to shake her mind empty.
Being a private investigator was boring. Dorothy had been sitting in the empty flat for five hours looking out of the window. She had her laptop with her, had tried lots of random Googling about Neil Williams, the address and so on, but she hadn’t come up with anything. Spent a long time trawling through Neil Williamses on social media but came up blank. She had a picture Abi had sent on her phone and she turned to it now. It was maybe two years old judging by the change in Abi’s appearance. She hadn’t yet had her growth spurt, still looked more like a girl than a young woman, a slight chubbiness to her face, something that had disappeared, leaving sleek cheekbones.
Dorothy squinted and tried to see a resemblance between Abi and Neil. Of course it didn’t always work like that, Jenny didn’t look much like Dorothy or Jim, but Hannah had a definite likeness to Dorothy, something which grew as she matured. There was something melancholic about that, seeing your younger self in your granddaughter, making the same mistakes. But that was nonsense, Hannah was her own person making her own mistakes. Still, it gave Dorothy a gentle ache to be reminded of her youth.
Neil Williams was tall and thin, so maybe that was Abi’s genetic inheritance. He was handsome, strong jaw, brown eyes, hint of grey in his swept-back dark hair. He wore a subtle stripy shirt, and he and Abi were in a Mexican restaurant, plates of tortillas, rice and beans on the table, a coke for her, Dos Equis for him. Abi was taking the selfie, pouting a little, and there was a sparkle in Neil’s eyes, spending time with his daughter, simple joy.
There was little action across the road. An old couple left with shopping bags towards Sainsbury’s walking slow along the pavement, returning an hour later with bulging bags. A young mother with a toddler left at one point, the kid refusing to go in his buggy, having a tantrum, pulling his shoe off and throwing it into the gutter. The mum kneeled down and spoke sternly, pointed at the shoe, but the boy just sat on the pavement and cried. Eventually the mum picked up the shoe and the boy and struggled down the road.
Just when Dorothy thought she was going to die from tedium a young man arrived at the tenement door. It wasn’t Neil, years younger and stockier, but he was dressed smart, shirt but no tie, beige trousers, shiny brown shoes. He pulled his keys out, opened the door and went inside. Dorothy waited. She’d worked out which flat was Neil’s and could see two of the windows from here, the living room and one of the bedrooms. Both were bland, cheap art on the walls, not much spice in the décor, muted colours.
A young woman was at the door of the block, waiting for the buzzer to be answered. She had long chestnut hair, wearing a maroon blouse and black skirt, heels. Smart but not formal. She tucked hair behind her ear, looked nervous. She was buzzed in then two minutes later she appeared at the living-room window with the man. They were chatting. He pointed to something on the page he was holding, she nodded.
Dorothy looked at the whole tenement again and checked she had the correct flat. Definitely Neil’s place. Maybe he’d sub-let it or loaned the keys to a friend.
The man left and returned with a glass of water for her, handed it over. She drank. He touched her arm and she smiled at the reassurance.
They both turned away from the window, another sound.
Dorothy looked and an older couple were waiting downstairs. They were middle-aged, the woman fussing with the man’s tie, straightening her skirt. They were a couple, the way they were with each other. They were buzzed in.
Dorothy waited, then saw them in the living room of the flat, with the young pair. The guy showed them the view from the window and Dorothy removed the binoculars for a moment, moved away from her window but kept watching at an angle. The young woman explained something to the couple, pointed at the view, the young guy nodding and smiling. This went on for a few minutes then they all left, came downstairs and got into the young guy’s car. It was a new saloon, a black Hyundai.
Dorothy grabbed the binoculars and got the number plate, wrote it down as the car drove off. She watched them disappear round the corner and wondered what she’d just seen. She touched the number she’d written down then picked up her phone.