Blood, Salt, Water (19 page)

27

Boyd peeled his sleep-sodden eyes apart just long enough to glance at the bedside clock. Ten past eight, but that was OK: Helen and Katie were coming in at nine to do the washing up, they would let the cleaner in and sign for deliveries. It was OK.

He dozed, savouring the luxury of an empty bed, of not having to get into work, of his throbbing head and aching muscles.

Physically, he felt like shit but a blowout was exactly what he’d needed. He reran the night backwards: tumbling into bed with Lucy cursing him in her sleep. Drinking malt in Miss Grierson’s, to shave the edge off. Quite bad sex, really. Not actually worth it, now it was over. On a dirt floor. With a woman who wasn’t half as nice as Lucy. She didn’t feel old, but she was quite old.

Nausea propelled him upright, his brain sloshing hard against the inside of his skull. He shut his eyes and waited for the pain in them to subside.

The boys were screaming along to a high-pitched kids’ TV show in the kitchen. He remembered, as he always did at this point, an article in the
Observer
about hangovers and how someone had proved that regret was a chemical reaction to alcohol ingestion. His calves were tingling, about to cramp. He made himself get out of bed and staggered into the bathroom to run a shower.

Standing under the water, soaping Susan’s dried saliva off his thighs, he remembered the dental dam in her mouth and the odd, sneaky way she took it out. Had someone complained about it, about her using it, and she’d learned to hide it? No, that didn’t seem right. Maybe she had HIV? Or thought that he did? No, because afterwards, at her house, she wasn’t careful then. It was odd. The whole night was odd. He listened to the breakfast clatter of Lucy and the kids in the kitchen. They sounded very far away.

Boyd was distant from his family, in the same way that his father had been distant. He hadn’t liked that about his father. When he was young he thought his father didn’t like him; later he blamed the church for stealing his father’s attention; later still he blamed his mother, somehow. He saw that coldness now in himself and wondered if Fraser fathers were destined to be glimpsed only, distant and God-like. He thought of all the family photographs. They went back decades. Presently they were in a cardboard suitcase in the attic. Generations of kids and aunties smiling, fathers reading newspapers in backgrounds, fathers smoking in the distance, fathers behind. He was like those Fraser fathers. Distracted. Disgruntled. Distant.

He remembered now why he liked to get arseholed sometimes: this was just the sort of epiphanic self-honesty a blowout prompted in Boyd.

He dried himself, holding hard to the realisation, feeling it slip from his mental grasp like the memory of a dream. He was distant, like his father. He didn’t want to be. Trying to think of a way of phrasing it, a sentence that would capture the sense of it, he padded into the kitchen.

Lucy and the boys, even Jimbo, froze as he came through the door. They were wary of his mood. He smiled.

‘Morning, all,’ he said, sitting down at the table.

Lucy muttered ‘Morning’ nervously, and went back to pouring out cereal for the boys, shifting her weight so that Boyd couldn’t quite see the orange and green box. Boyd didn’t approve of that cereal: it was full of colourants and sugar and salt. It was a big box and it was half full. They’d already eaten a lot of it, on other days. She must be stashing the box.

They were hiding their lives from him, the way he had hidden his from his father, the way he and his mother conspired to keep the worst from the Reverend Robert. Tickets for rock concerts. Reeboks: ‘Too much for sandshoes’ his father had said.

A pang of chemical regret shot through Boyd. He didn’t want this for himself and his boys. He stood up suddenly, making Lucy flinch. Reaching into the cupboard, he took down a bowl and held it out for Lucy to pour him a helping too. The boys were watching him, wary. Jimbo skulked out of the room. Boyd tried to catch Lucy’s eye. She half smirked as she poured the cereal for him, pouring too much, spilling it over the side and onto the worktop and floor. Boyd picked up the extras from the worktop and held her eye as he put them in his mouth. She smiled, still uncertain, and watched him sit down with the boys.

‘What happened to you last night?’

‘I got ruined.’ He poured the milk in and reached over to the drawer for a spoon.

The boys began to bicker silently about who had the most dried strawberries.

Lucy dropped her voice. ‘You were late.’

He saw her left eye on the brink of a wince. This was the point where he would normally shout, though he couldn’t remember why. Lucy was lovely. She deserved better.

‘Bonding exercise with the staff.’ He glanced at the kids. ‘Tell you later.’ And then he whispered. ‘
I got a deal.
’

Lucy laughed in disbelief but took in his sorry red eyes. It was obvious that he was telling the truth.

William was trying to steal a tiny red fleck from his brother’s bowl but little Larry wasn’t having it and pinched his wrist. William howled. Lucy reached into the box of cereal and picked out some withered red bits. She dropped them into the kids’ bowls.

‘Now eat what you’ve got or I’m taking it away and giving you cornflakes. With
no
sugar.’

They spooned it into their mouths, cautious of their mother and suspicious of each other.

She whispered to Boyd, ‘Get me some next time.’

‘I will,’ said Boyd, relishing the impropriety of saying it in front of the boys. ‘I’ll try today.’

‘Blinking flip!’ Lucy’s voice cracked with excitement and she went back to her work.

Boyd ate the disgusting cereal, making faces at the boys, pretending it was lovely.

Behind him Lucy moved around with unearthly grace, tidying away, wiping down, her movements balletic. Boyd, raw as he was, felt keenly how strange it was to everyone that he was eating with them, making eye contact, not being angry or mean. He felt like a divorced dad who had been forced to stay overnight because his car had broken down or something. He was trying too hard.

He stopped and let the boys get on with staring at the TV as they ate. Lucy looked at him and smiled. It was a long time since she had smiled at him like that. He thought about how it must be for her here in Helensburgh. She came from Devon. She had a big gang of friends there, all top girls, all sweet and pretty and fun and lovely. She must feel trapped in this house, his house, his town.

She carried on serving them, pouring, wiping, putting tiny vests on radiators so they were nice and warm to slip on. Caring. She came past and Boyd pushed his chair out from the table, wrapped an arm around her waist and pulled her onto his knee. Lucy melted into him and he held her, nuzzling into her neck as she kissed his hair.

He gave her waist a gentle, appreciative squeeze and she kissed him again, moving to get up but he held her there, playful, trying to eat his cereal across her lap, dripping milk onto her pyjama trousers and making her laugh her throaty laugh. Grinning, she got up and poured him a coffee from the pot.

Boyd and his boys ate and then he dressed them in their little warm vests and jumpers and dungarees. Then he put their socks and wellies on and opened the door to let them bomb around the garden with Jimbo. It was a clear day. From the front porch he could see straight down to the glittering water.

Lucy came out to join him, sitting in one of the faded blue wicker chairs they had found in the attic. Boyd pulled up the matching chair and sat next to her. He took her hand and they watched their lovely boys in their lovely garden on a lovely morning.

‘Did you hear about the fire?’ Her voice was low, her lips hardly moving. She kept her eyes on the boys, making sure they couldn’t hear.

‘What fire?’

‘The Sailors’ Rest. Burnt down. Two inside.’

‘Oh God,’ he said, but he was thinking about Lucy and how she was, he was thinking about the boys and how everything was going to be better now. He didn’t take it in until she said, ‘The man who owned it and his daughter were inside. They died. Smoke inhalation.’

‘Fucking hell.’ He remembered then Murray and Lea-Anne. He remembered the odd conversation, everyone at odds and Tommy Farmer radiating threats.

Lucy looked tearfully across the lawn. ‘I think they say “smoke inhalation” because they don’t want to say “burnt to death”, you know, because that sounds so brutal.’

‘I
met
them yesterday.’

‘Who?’

‘The owner and his daughter. I met them. They
died
?’

‘Yeah.’

‘There was a bloke, a kind of scary bloke, Tommy Farmer. He was sort of menacing them.’ Boyd was glad he hadn’t bought anything off him. If Farmer was involved in a fire setting then he didn’t want anything to do with him.

‘They must have had debts.’ Said Lucy, ‘Maybe they tried to burn it down themselves and got stuck, you know? For the insurance?’

‘Maybe.’

Lucy carried on talking but Boyd was back at the dinner with the two grannies. One of them was supposed to be babysitting Lea-Anne but Murray had dropped out and given her his ticket.

‘At the dinner,’ he said, ‘she was supposed to be babysitting, the granny, one with the sore leg, but she was there at the dinner dance, both grannies were there . . .’

‘What?’ Lucy was looking out over the lawn, watching the boys didn’t go too far down to the end of the grass and the steep escarpment between the lawn and the garden wall.

He explained about the granny, about how she was supposed to be at home with a bad leg or a bladder, but how he met them both there. Fuck! How awful. And God, imagine!

They looked down the grass to their boys, squatting in front of a fuchsia bush, watching something in the grass.

‘Awful,’ said Lucy.

‘God, this town,’ said Boyd, standing up too quickly, his calves tingling as he tried to straighten his legs. He’d meant to go down to the kids but he could hardly walk.

Lucy laughed as he hobbled down the steps to the lawn. ‘You had a faceful last night, didn’t you?’

‘Christ on a bike,’ he said, trying to make light of it. ‘I need more coffee.’

The boys were running back in anyway, a fight breaking out between them. They clambered onto the porch and plopped down on their bottoms to pull their wellies off. Boyd watched Lucy help them out of their outdoor clothes. Sternly, she promised them ten minutes of cartoons in the kitchen if they both went to the toilet on their own.

Back in the kitchen, Boyd poured himself another cup, drank it in four gulps and slid his arm around Lucy’s waist.

‘Fucking love you.’

‘You talking to me or the coffee?’

‘The coffee.’

She laughed as he held her and he felt vibrations from her rumble through him into his belly. ‘Who did you get the deal off, that fat waitress?’

‘No.’ He let go and hid his face in his coffee. ‘It was Susan Grierson. She came into the café and asked for work.’

‘Grierson? From that big house on Sutherland Crescent?’

‘Yeah. Very old Helensburgh family.’

‘She’s back?’

‘Her mother just died,’ said Boyd and sipped again, keen to move the conversation on.

‘Not recently, she didn’t,’ said Lucy. ‘Sara Haughton inquired about that house a year and a half ago, wanted to buy it for the garden. The owner was already dead but the estate wasn’t settled or something.’

It was a slightly too detailed statement for Boyd to take in. He didn’t like Sara Haughton. She was snobby about him being a ‘cook’. Lucy could tell he wasn’t listening.

‘Boyd, old Mrs Grierson died two years ago.’

‘Well, she’s just getting around to it now.’

‘Settling the estate? I’ll tell Sara then, if she’s selling. She loves that garden.’

He held his wife and kissed her softly. ‘Lucy,’ he whispered, ‘I’ve been a moody cow recently and I’m sorry. I don’t want to be like that.’

‘You’re not
always
like that.’ She patted his back and tried to pull away but he held onto her.

‘I don’t want you to flinch when I come home.’

She changed then, gave him a warning look and shrugged his arm off. ‘Well, don’t come home in a flipping mood every day, then.’

‘You’re right,’ he said, as she walked past him. ‘I’m sorry.’

It was a real change of tone for him, they both knew it. She stopped and looked at him.

‘You should get wasted more often, Boyd. Regret suits you.’

Because Lucy read the
Observer
too.

28

They were sitting in the warm car outside Fuentecilla’s house until Morrow finished her calls. It was still early and it felt like a good day, a day when things would get done.

Kerrigan answered the phone. She was in the car with Thankless, driving to Helensburgh. Mr Halliday was reluctant at first but he’d finally admitted to selling the field next to his farm a few weeks ago. He needed to, for his retirement, he said. It had planning permission that he’d been working on for years. Increased the value by a factor of ten, he said. The company he’d sold it to were called Claims4U. Delahunt handled the purchase, Mr Halliday had recognised his name.

Kerrigan said DI Simmons had called about the fingerprints on the bag from the Alfa Romeo. Iain Joseph Fraser was known in Helensburgh. He had a long record and was now a known associate of Mark Barratt. He’d done a series of sentences for crimes of violence against the person. He always came back to the town after prison. Simmons had given them a list of known addresses to check for him.

Morrow hung up and looked at her phone. Halliday didn’t give a shit about property prices because he’d already sold up. She was disappointed in him. She hoped they didn’t meet again. She didn’t want to listen to his excuses.

It was clear to her that Delahunt was the author of the scam. It was his style, but the money came from the Arias couple. There had to be a connection between them. Bob Ashe, the retired owner who had unexpectedly gone to Miami, was from Helensburgh. He might well know Delahunt. It was beginning to make sense until Roxanna’s disappearance. Then it all got messy, looked improvised, as if something had gone unexpectedly wrong. The catalyst was the phone call from Vicente and the mention of Maria Arias and Roxanna’s desperate drive to London.

‘Ready?’ asked McGrain.

Morrow pocketed her phone. ‘Yeah. Let’s go.’

They got out of the car and walked up to the entrance of Walker and Fuentecilla’s building. A female neighbour, struggling to get two toddlers and a double buggy out of the door, let them in.

The bright morning light did the place no favours. Yellow sunshine filtered in. Lazy flecks of yesterday floated in the warm stairwell, rising on the current, settling on the banister.

Morrow knocked and Robin Walker opened the door.

‘Have you found
anything
?’ His anger was tinged with reproach today. Morrow blanked his mood.

‘Can we come in, Mr Walker?’

‘I’m getting the kids off to school. They’re late already.’

‘I understand. Can we come in?’

Mistaking her unwillingness to fight as a foreboding of terrible news, Walker paled.

‘No,’ she reached out to him, ‘nothing like that. We just want to ask you about some details that have come up, that’s all.’

He’d thought Roxanna was dead. Relieved, he rubbed his face with an open hand and then got angry again. It was pretty intense for a stairwell conversation. His moods were swinging wildly. Morrow wondered if he was medicated or drunk.

‘Can we talk inside?’

‘I’m sorry, come in. I thought, she’d . . .’ He looked at McGrain. ‘You know what I thought.’

‘We’re just here to ask some questions, that’s all.’

They went into the living room and Robin waved them onto the settee. ‘Please . . .’

He sat down himself, suddenly keen to help. Now they were in the bright living room she realised that Walker wasn’t on anything but he didn’t look as if he had slept.

‘Robin, we’ve found a woman who used to work for your wife murdered and left in Loch Lomond. Her name was Hester Kirk. Do you know her?’

He seemed to have stopped breathing.

‘Mr Walker:
Hester Kirk
. Have you heard that name or do you know her personally?’

‘I know
of
her. I think.’

‘What do you “know of her”?’

‘We let her go, I think. Did we?’

‘“We”?’

‘Roxanna did. Let her go.’

Morrow held his eye and nodded. ‘She got her books?’

‘Yes,’ he affirmed.

‘Why did Roxanna make her redundant?’

‘Hmm, well
. . .’ He was too tired to think of a fast lie so Morrow interrupted.

‘Look, Mr Walker, please be straight with us. You need to understand what’s going on here: a woman has been murdered and your partner is missing. We’ve found Roxanna’s car abandoned out in Helensburgh. We’re very much afraid for her safety.’

Martina suddenly strolled diagonally across the room as if she had walked out of a wall. She was holding a plate of toast and ignoring them. Dressed in her school uniform, she must have been making breakfast when they came in and got trapped in the kitchen. She didn’t want to talk to them and veiled her face with her loose blond hair. Aware that every eye was on her, she hurried to the door, anxious to get away.

‘Martina?’ said Morrow, half expecting to see a black eye when she looked up.

Martina stopped, acting surprised, as if she had just found them hiding under a piano.

‘I’d like to talk to you,’ said Morrow.

Martina fingered her toast while she considered the request. ‘All right. I’ll be in my bedroom.’ She started across the room again.

Morrow waited until she was gone. ‘She seems a bit cheerier than she was yesterday.’

Walker watched her leave. He looked confused.

‘How’s Hector taking it?’

‘Badly. He’s in his room. Anyway, Hester Kirk was one of the old guard. She’d been submitting and passing questionable claims, sort of grey-area illegal. That’s why Rox got rid of her.’ He watched their faces to see if they believed him.

‘Hester Kirk broke into the office a few nights ago to go through the files. Did you know that?’

Clearly, he didn’t. He said, ‘What?’ to buy himself some time.

‘We know Roxanna was shutting the office down. Closing up this Friday.’

‘Well, I don’t know anything about her business.’ He had said the line before.

‘See,’ said Morrow, sounding reluctant, ‘that strikes me as a lie, Mr Walker. You’re alone in a city neither of you know. She’s shutting down a business and you don’t talk to each other about it? It’s unlikely, isn’t it? You’re her boyfriend, not the au pair. I look at those photos you took, at how she looks at you in those photos, and she’s clearly in love with you. I can’t believe she’d tell you nothing.’

He tried to smile.

‘Why didn’t you tell us that the office was winding up?’

‘We were never here permanently.’

‘Are you leaving?’

Walker shook his head. ‘Not, um. I don’t know.’ But he did know. He knew the plan and he wasn’t going to tell them.

‘Why was she buying undeveloped land?’

He flashed a nervous smile.

Morrow tutted. ‘Robin, d’you want me to guess what’s going on?’

He tried to smile again.

‘Money laundering?’

‘Sorry? Money?
What
?’ Wherever else Robin Walker’s good looks might take him, they would not take him onto the stage.

‘When we looked through the firm’s papers we didn’t find any debts, but we know you’ve been buying up land. We found that quite odd, for an insurance company.’

‘It’s not an insurance company. It’s a trading partnership. That’s a very flexible trading structure. They don’t have any shareholders to notify if they change their trading practice, you see.’

She could hear another person’s intonation in his voice, Delahunt’s probably.

‘Delahunt told you that?’

His eyes widened. ‘Sorry?’

‘Your lawyer,’ she said calmly. ‘I’m guessing you’re not a Scots law graduate.’

‘No, no, I’m not.’ He didn’t blink.

‘So, you bought the company outright and are funding fairly substantial land purchases. Can you tell me where the money for that comes from?’

‘I don’t know.’

Morrow hummed non-committally and held his eye. ‘Roxanna drove to London the day she disappeared. Then she drove back up, overnight, past here, and on to Helensburgh. The only reason I can think that she would do that is that she felt she was in danger. She didn’t want to put you in danger by coming back to the house.’

He was listening intently. ‘What was she doing in London?’

‘She went to see Maria Arias.’

‘
Maria?
I called her three times. And I called her yesterday. She said Rox hadn’t been in touch, she hadn’t seen her – she said she’d call me if Rox contacted her. Why would Rox go there?’

‘Hasn’t Martina told you this?’

‘Told me what?’

‘They had a fight in the car on the morning Roxanna disappeared. Martina mentioned that Vicente Miguel called. He casually said something about Maria Arias. For some reason it made your wife very angry—’

It made him very angry too: Robin stood up and shouted, ‘That’s . . . interfering little bitch . . . she’s talking SHIT!’

‘Why is it shit?’

‘Maria and Vicente don’t
know
each other. They can’t fucking know each other, for fuck’s sake.’ Winded, he sank back onto the couch.

‘What if they did?’

He looked terrified.

‘
If
they did know each other,’ continued Morrow quietly, ‘If they did, then Roxanna has been set up in a dodgy money-laundering scam by friends of her spiteful ex-partner. What was the exit strategy?’

Walker stared blankly at the carpet.

‘Roxanna was going to put the company to sleep and what?’

She could see that he did want to speak. He wanted to tell her so much that he covered his mouth with his hand, afraid he’d blurt it out.

‘You were all going to disappear? Get flown somewhere in their private plane and start afresh? With a big bag of money for your troubles?’

He looked at her, pleading for compassion. ‘They’ve done it before.’

‘You have to trust them for that to work, though, don’t you?’

He nodded softly and dropped his hand.

‘Because the alternative,’ she continued, ‘if you can’t trust them, is that they get rid of Roxanna some other way. If she’s arrested the company goes dormant too and they save on the pay-out. The property reverts back to the investors in just the same way. Same if she’s killed.’

‘Vicente and Maria don’t know each other,’ he insisted. ‘They don’t
know
each other.’

But they both knew they could. And if they did then Roxanna was in a nastier game then she’d realised.

‘How did you meet Juan and Maria?’

‘At the kids’ school.’

‘Roxanna and Maria became friends?’

‘Good friends.’ He stalled and thought about it. ‘Very good friends.’ He glanced at the Larkin & Sons cabinet. ‘They bought us that.’

‘That wall unit?’

He didn’t like that term. ‘It’s actually a free-standing display cabinet.’

‘Quite an odd present, isn’t it?’

Robin waved a hand. ‘We were at an auction, a charity dinner thing. They invited us, we didn’t really know them. We were looking at the catalogue and saying, you know, how nice it looked and they got a friend at the table to bid in our names.’ He was still impressed. ‘They paid in
cash
.’

Morrow didn’t look impressed enough apparently so he added, ‘Sixty-four grand.’

She did act impressed then and so did McGrain, but she was thinking about the cynical couple. They must have been setting Robin and Roxanna up right from the beginning. They probably knew that they were being watched at the auction because the Met were famously leaky. It was so obvious, so public. It drew the police’s attention completely and exclusively to Roxanna and Robin. The disappearance strategy depended on Roxanna being invisible. They’d been setting her up for an arrest from the start.

‘We have to consider every possibility, Robin.’

‘Rox and Vicente are in dispute about custody of the kids. He’s a total fucking bastard.’

She wanted to warn Robin, hint and give him a chance to mitigate his sentence by opening up. She wasn’t allowed to. The Met report had warned her. She shouldn’t even have mentioned Maria Arias because Walker might phone her and give them advanced warning. Compassion was in no one’s interest, because of the proceeds.

‘Would Vicente conspire to harm her?’

Walker was too distracted to answer.

‘Let’s take it back a bit more: would Vicente collude in setting her up in a criminal enterprise, one that could result in her imprisonment?’

Walker looked straight at her, eyes wide, and gave a terrified little nod.

‘At the moment we’re working on the assumption that Roxanna heard about the connection between them. That she panicked and went to London to confront Maria. We need to find her to keep her safe. Her mobile phone was traced to a field on the outskirts of Helensburgh the morning after she went missing. We went there and found her Alfa Romeo, unlocked, parked by a field.’

He sat forward hopefully. ‘Delahunt, our lawyer, lives in Helensburgh.’

‘We’ve already interviewed Mr Delahunt, he hasn’t seen her. Did she know anyone else out there?’

‘No. No one.’

‘We found a bag of cocaine in the car.’

‘That’s not hers.’

‘Why?’

‘Roxanna doesn’t use cocaine.’

‘Robin, she drove all the way up from London overnight, maybe she was using it a little bit?’

‘No,’ he said, certain. ‘Rox has a heart murmur. She doesn’t even drink coffee. If it was in the car and it’s definitely her car then someone else left it there. They’re trying to get her arrested, aren’t they?’

She nodded, lying to comfort him. The motive seemed a bit more sinister to her now. Iain Joseph Fraser, a known local criminal, had left clean prints on it but that was unprofessional, inconsistent with the wipes and the vacuumed floor. It looked like a misdirect, a magician pointing at a dove while an assistant scrambled out of the back of the box. There had never been any suggestion of drug misuse or dealing in the family. They kept regular hours, both parents exercised regularly, they had very little company. It was a clumsy plant but Morrow couldn’t fathom what she was being directed away from seeing.

She stood up. ‘OK. I want you to think about where she might have gone. In the meantime, I’m going to go and talk to Martina.’