The Big Chill Read online

  Jenny looked confused. ‘What about him?’

  ‘I want to find out who he is.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because no one seems to know.’

  ‘It’s not your problem,’ Jenny said.

  ‘I’m making it my problem,’ Dorothy said.

  Jenny went over to the board. ‘You called him “Jimmy X”?’

  Dorothy nodded.

  ‘You named him after Dad.’

  ‘It’s just a name.’

  ‘It’s just the name of your recently dead husband.’

  ‘It doesn’t mean anything.’

  Jenny stared at the board. ‘Like fuck it doesn’t.’

  Einstein followed Schrödinger around the room. The cat climbed onto the back of an armchair at the window, the dog sniffed at the cushions.

  Hannah stood up. ‘I’d like to help.’

  Jenny watched the cat and dog show across the room, then turned back. ‘OK, what can we do?’

  Dorothy smiled. ‘I have the address of the car owner, that’s a start.’

  ‘I can speak to him,’ Jenny said.

  Dorothy went to the kitchen worktop and lifted an old notebook. ‘This was in his belongings. Maybe you’d like to take a look, Hannah?’

  Hannah took it and felt the dirt on the cover, smelled the damp pages, riffled through them.

  ‘I’ll talk to Thomas about Craig,’ Dorothy said. Then a look came over her. ‘And there’s something else I need to look into.’

  ‘Another case?’ Hannah said.

  ‘I’m not sure yet.’

  Schrödinger slashed out a paw at Einstein, catching his snout, making him yelp and cower. Hannah watched and thought about her mum hitting her dad in a prison visiting room.

  12

  DOROTHY

  James Gillespie’s was only five minutes from the house along Warrender Park Road. Jenny went to the same school, long before this new building went up. Dorothy wondered how much physical environment affected learning. Back in Pismo Beach as a kid Dorothy went to a cinder-block public high, seats in rows, strict teachers who remembered the war, sixties rebellion in the air.

  That all seemed like a different planet. The reception at Gillespie’s was in the new Malala building, kids in black joggers or skirts throwing bags around outside as she approached at break time.

  The woman behind the desk was middle-aged, short hair, stern. Maybe the same age as Jenny, but she seemed older. Dorothy wondered if she’d been hardened by this place over the years.

  Dorothy put on her old-lady face, angled her head, demure posture.

  ‘Hello, I’m supposed to be meeting Abi Livingstone, she’s in S3.’

  ‘And you are?’

  ‘Her grandmother.’

  The woman had deep furrows on her brow. ‘What’s it concerning?’

  ‘She forgot her lunch.’ Dorothy lifted the lunchbox to show the woman.

  ‘I can get it to her.’

  ‘I have a message for her too,’ Dorothy said.

  ‘Have you tried calling her?’

  Dorothy tried to look stupid. ‘Her ringer must be off. I suppose they have to do that in class.’

  The woman waved at the chaos outside the front door. ‘It’s break time.’

  Dorothy smiled. ‘Can you please check what class she has after break? I’ll try to catch her on the way in.’

  The bell rang, not an old-school ding but an electronic beep like a truck reversing. Herds of kids drove through the doors and into the belly of the school.

  ‘What was your name again?’ the woman said.

  ‘Dorothy … Livingstone.’

  The woman looked at the lunchbox in Dorothy’s hands. A few teenage girls were hanging around behind Dorothy, waiting to speak to the receptionist. They had crumpled forms in their hands and were arguing about the colour of someone’s nails. Two boys flopped in behind them, waiting to give the receptionist grief. That was good, she would want rid of Dorothy. The receptionist turned to her computer, typed briefly, then her frown deepened.

  ‘Abi is absent today,’ she said, narrowing her eyes. ‘She wasn’t in yesterday either. Who are you?’

  Dorothy looked around as if she just realised where she was.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she stuttered, a trembling hand raised to her forehead. ‘I think I got confused.’

  She looked around again for good measure, then turned and walked through the gaggle of girls, the smell of their perfume in her nose.

  ‘Wait,’ the receptionist said.

  Dorothy reached the door and pressed the release then she was outside in the fresh air, walking in the opposite direction from the kids streaming the other way.

  ‘Hey.’

  She didn’t look back, sensed kids staring at her. She kept walking at the same pace, clutching the empty lunchbox to her chest, then she went out the front gate and turned right, kept going until the sound of the school had disappeared.

  She walked to Abi’s house on Sylvan Place. As she passed Sick Kids a woman came out with a young boy, his arm in a cast.

  She felt stupid holding the empty lunchbox. Felt her cheeks burn from the receptionist’s shouts, wondered about CCTV in the playground.

  She reached number seven and rang the doorbell. Didn’t know what to do with the lunchbox. The door opened and there was the stepdad.

  ‘I want to see Abi,’ Dorothy said.

  It took him a moment to place her, then his face fell. He looked behind her as if searching for a rescue party, then stared at his hands.

  ‘She’s at school,’ he said.

  Dorothy examined him. Thinning brown hair swept back, a slight paunch, hunched shoulders. He was tall, big hands, looked powerful despite the hangdog demeanour. She wondered how long he’d been with Sandra, how that transition was for Abi. Hard at the best of times, getting a new dad, never mind muddling it up with puberty and hormones.

  ‘She’s not at school,’ Dorothy said, her voice firm. ‘I just came from Gillespie’s, she hasn’t been in for days.’

  He locked eyes with her. ‘Who are you again?’

  ‘Her drum teacher.’

  ‘Why are you checking up on her?’

  ‘I’m worried.’

  He hesitated. He was wearing a zip-up fleece, saggy old jeans. He looked like nothing special, but everyone has secrets.

  ‘You’ve lied to me twice now,’ Dorothy said. ‘Why don’t you just tell me where she is?’

  He looked back into the house as if a monster might leap from the hallway. Dorothy wondered about his relationship with his wife. With his stepdaughter.

  ‘She’s not here,’ he said, pulling on his earlobe.

  ‘Where is she?’

  He looked around again, his eyes couldn’t settle on her.

  ‘Tell me,’ Dorothy said.

  ‘You’d better come in.’ He walked towards the kitchen.

  She followed, taking in the IKEA artworks, the photo of Abi with her mum in a forest somewhere, the pair of them smiling. Mike wasn’t in the picture. He sat at the breakfast bar in front of an old MacBook.

  ‘Where’s Sandra?’ Dorothy said.

  ‘At work.’ He nodded at his laptop. ‘I work from home.’

  ‘Doing what?’

  He stared at the screen. ‘Software.’

  Dorothy took the stool opposite him. ‘So tell me.’

  He looked up. ‘She’s missing, we don’t know where she is.’

  ‘Since when?’

  ‘She left for school two days ago but never arrived. We got the automated call saying she was absent.’

  ‘You’ve told the police?’

  ‘Sandra spoke to them, they said they’d look into it but don’t have the resources.’

  ‘She’s fourteen, for God’s sake.’

  ‘I know,’ Mike said.

  ‘You don’t sound too bothered.’

  He ran his fingers along the edges of the laptop. ‘I’m worried sick.’

  Dorothy ran her hand along the
worktop, collected a few crumbs and dropped them. ‘Maybe I can find her.’

  Mike frowned. ‘You’re her drum teacher.’

  ‘I’m also a private detective.’

  ‘Sandra said you were something to do with funerals.’

  ‘That too.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  The fridge made a clicking noise and Mike jumped.

  ‘Do you want to find her or not?’ Dorothy said.

  ‘Sandra says she’ll come back. She’s done it before.’

  ‘When?’

  He shook his head. ‘Before I was in the picture. Eighteen months ago.’

  Dorothy thought about husbands and wives. She’d had a happy marriage for forty-five years, and when Jim died she discovered he’d been lying to her. Jenny and Craig divorced when he had an affair. Hannah was just starting out with Indy, but who knows?

  ‘What’s your relationship like with Abi?’

  Mike held out his hands. ‘Great. I know I’m the stepdad, there’s supposed to be conflict, but we’re good. I mean, we’re not best friends but we get on fine.’

  ‘What’s she like with her mum?’

  Mike shrugged. ‘You know mothers and daughters. They rub each other the wrong way.’

  ‘You think that’s why she ran away?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘What does Sandra think?’

  ‘She says it’s nothing to worry about.’

  Dorothy sized him up. ‘But you’re worried.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘What have you done to find her?’

  Mike waved a hand as if conjuring up a magic answer. ‘Called and messaged, tried tracking her phone, nothing. Spoke to her friends, none of them know anything.’

  ‘What exactly did the police say they would do?’

  ‘Sandra dealt with that.’

  Dorothy smiled. ‘I have a friend in the force, maybe I can help.’

  ‘That would be great, but we can’t pay a private detective.’

  ‘Don’t worry about it,’ Dorothy said. ‘Give me her bank details if she’s got an account, that’s a start.’

  He lifted his phone, took Dorothy’s number and texted the info. He seemed genuinely concerned. She’d always thought of herself as a good judge of character but the business with Jim made her worry she didn’t know people at all.

  ‘What about her biological dad?’

  Mike nodded. ‘Sandra spoke to him, he hasn’t heard from her.’

  ‘What’s his name?’

  ‘Neil. Neil Williams.’

  ‘Where does he live?’

  ‘He travels a lot,’ Mike said. ‘Internationally. Sales.’

  ‘What kind of sales?’

  Mike shook his head. ‘I’m not his best mate, obviously.’

  ‘But he’s based in Edinburgh?’

  Mike seemed to wake up as if this had just occurred to him, which maybe it had. ‘He has a flat in Leith.’

  ‘Do you know the address?’

  Mike shrugged. ‘He’s in Canada at the moment.’

  ‘Do you have it?’

  Mike thought again. Dorothy couldn’t work out if it was an act. His eyes widened a little. ‘Wait a minute.’

  Checked his phone, a few button presses. Then Dorothy’s phone pinged.

  ‘I’ve dropped Abi off there a couple of times,’ Mike said.

  ‘Have you ever met him?’

  ‘Just when he’s picked her up from here. Like I say, we’re not friends.’

  ‘OK.’ She had Abi’s phone and bank, a name and address for the dad, that was enough for now. ‘I’ll see what I can do.’

  ‘What will I tell Sandra?’

  ‘Tell her I’m trying to find her daughter.’

  13

  JENNY

  Jenny didn’t know why she was supposed to care about Jimmy X. Even the name got her back up, what the fuck was her mum thinking, naming this homeless guy after Dad? Your past was always there, tugging at your sleeve. Your past was smiling across the prison table at you, dragging you and your family into court to testify.

  Jenny followed the sat nav on the body van to Sighthill, which took her the back way through Longstone. When she crossed the A71 she realised she wasn’t far from the prison. Craig would be in there now, charming some gullible guard into giving him extra privileges. Or maybe his shit didn’t work in there.

  She reached the address and got out. Broomhouse Road wasn’t the worst street in the world, brown pebble-dashed semis, but it was flanked by the rough schemes of Sighthill and Saughton, so no wonder your car got nicked if you lived here.

  She rang the doorbell and looked around. Sighthill Park across the way, kids on a scrambler bike, revving it and churning up grass. Next to that, more new-build homes, everywhere you looked in the city, constant regeneration whether folk wanted it or not.

  The door opened. Noor Sarwar had a fried chicken drumstick in his hand, a grease stain on the T-shirt stretched over his hard belly. Head shaved, big hands, bouncer material. Jenny felt small.

  ‘What do you want?’ he said.

  ‘My name is Jenny Skelf…’

  ‘I’m not buying anything, I’m having my tea.’

  He waved the drumstick in her face. She smelled barbecue sauce.

  ‘It’s about your car.’

  That got his attention. ‘What about it?’

  ‘We believe it was involved in an incident.’

  Noor’s eyes narrowed. ‘Who are you?’

  ‘Jenny Skelf, I’m a private investigator.’

  It felt crazy saying that, even though she’d been doing it for months. And this wasn’t even a case, no one was paying. But in the last six months they’d all got up to speed with the ins and outs of PI work. Mostly it was just being nosy as fuck and using Dorothy’s contact at the police. Much of it was boring, spying on people. They got a lot of matrimonial, husbands and wives cheating on each other, how she got to know Liam. She wondered about him now. It was going slow, both of them damaged, but at least it was going. What a life.

  Noor’s eyebrows had gone up at the mention of a private investigator, and hadn’t gone down yet. ‘You got a card or something?’

  Jenny pulled one out and handed it over. The cards were Dorothy’s idea, it was amazing how people took you seriously if you had your name and email printed on a card.

  Noor nodded, held the card in his non-chicken hand.

  ‘What sort of incident?’

  ‘A car crash,’ Jenny said. ‘Fatal.’

  Noor waved his drumstick like a baton. ‘It was stolen.’

  Jenny could hear the television inside the house, something bubbly like The One Show, full of good feeling and showbiz guests.

  Jenny nodded. ‘We think whoever stole your car might be the same person killed driving it.’

  Noor shrugged. ‘Good. Cunt deserved it.’

  Jenny rubbed at her forehead. ‘But here’s what I don’t understand. He had the key.’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘So he didn’t hotwire it, he must’ve stolen the key.’

  ‘Maybe I dropped it.’

  ‘How would he know which car it fitted?’

  ‘Maybe I dropped it next to the car.’

  ‘That doesn’t seem likely.’

  ‘Or maybe I left it in the car by mistake.’

  ‘Is that the sort of thing you do often?’

  He sucked his belly in a little, squared his shoulders. ‘Dunno.’

  Jenny sighed and looked round. There was a shit-heap Ford Ka parked in the street. ‘Is that yours?’

  ‘What if it is?’

  Jenny tried to work out possible angles. ‘Is it locked? Insured?’

  Noor took another bite of chicken and chewed. He stepped forward so that he was standing over Jenny. She could smell his sweat mingling with the chicken fat.

  ‘You don’t need to know how my car got nicked. Things just happen.’

  Jenny moved back to get some space, pulled her phone fr
om her pocket.

  ‘Can you just take a look,’ she said, flicking through her camera roll. ‘Have you seen this guy?’

  The picture was one Dorothy got from her friend at the mortuary, so Jimmy X was grey-skinned apart from the cut on his forehead, a red line of raised flesh, puckered like a kiss.

  Noor glanced at it and paused. Maybe it was the sight of a dead body, or maybe something else. He swallowed the mouthful of chicken he’d been chewing.

  ‘Don’t know him.’

  ‘Are you sure? Maybe a neighbour?’

  ‘Why would a neighbour steal my car?’

  ‘A homeless guy?’

  Noor looked across at the park. The kids were still grinding up and down on the grass, skidding the motorbike in squealing turns.

  ‘There’s no homeless around here.’ He waved the drumstick, mostly just bone now. ‘There’s no money to be made begging out here. Everyone is already poor as fuck. Better tapping up tourists in town.’

  Jenny had never thought about it before but it made sense, although maybe someone down on their luck might expect more empathy out here. But that obviously wasn’t the case with Mr Sarwar.

  ‘Are we done?’ he said.

  Jenny put her phone away. ‘Aren’t you curious how your car came to be involved in a crash in a graveyard?’

  ‘Wait,’ Noor looked confused. ‘What the fuck happened?’

  Jenny stared at him, wondering about his life. Was there someone to share that KFC? ‘He crashed your Nissan into an open grave, there was a funeral happening at the time.’

  Noor laughed. ‘Sorry, but that’s fucked up.’

  Jenny pictured the car careering across the cemetery, almost hitting her mum. She remembered attacking Craig and felt that energy in her fists again.

  She turned to leave.

  ‘Hey,’ Noor said. ‘How do I get my car back?’

  Jenny didn’t turn back. ‘You don’t, it’s a fucking write-off.’

  14

  HANNAH

  Her eyes stung with tiredness. She pinched the bridge of her nose and scrunched her eyes closed and open a few times, stared again at Jimmy X’s notebook. She’d got used to the smell by now, musty paper and a hint of wet dog, possibly urine. Her fingers were claggy from turning the pages, her brain sore from trying to decipher his scrawl.