Exile (10 page)

Chapter 12

NOT BEST PLEASED

Arthur Williams liked her. he didn’t like her like her — he knew she was married, knew she had a kid. He just thought she was a nice person. Even-tempered. Didn’t make jokes about him being Scottish all the time, which was a miracle for a Met copper, and he was glad they were working together on the mattress thing.

“This is a great opportunity for you, Bunyan. You’ll be working with one of the greats. Best interview technique I’ve ever seen.” Detective Superintendent Dakar couldn’t just compliment his work, he had to work in a codicil. “Even if he is of the Scottish persuasion.”

Williams smiled like a good guy would, and sipped his tea. He looked at Dakar, watched him wittering on about caseloads and the home-office report about the clear-up rates. Dakar was uncomfortable with Bunyan because she was a woman. Couldn’t look her in the eye. Kept thinking about her tits, Williams could tell. Just shut up now, Dakar, shut up and go. Go away. Go, go, go, Williams sang inside his head, until Dakar stood up.

“Well, I’ll leave you to it. Should be straightforward; we’ve got an ID, a sister in Streatham and a family up north. We’ve put a request for background information in to the Serious Crime Squad in Scotland and the local police are looking into it as well. You’ll want to chase that up.” He walked away, holding his belly in until he got behind Bunyan.

Bunyan looked at Williams and raised her eyebrows. “Brixton first, then?” she said.

“Yeah, we should phone her sister and check she’s in.”

“Already done it, sir,” she said. “Mrs. Akitza’s in and she’ll be staying in for the next two hours. She’s expecting us.”

Williams tipped his head appreciatively and nodded at her. “Very good,” he said, picking up his jacket. “You keep doing that sort of thing and I’m going to enjoy this.”

It took them half an hour to drive the eight miles to Brixton, and Bunyan directed him down several shortcuts. Her family had lived here, she said, until they moved out to Kent when she was ten. He noticed how small she actually was when he saw her sitting in the passenger seat. He was used to seeing Hellian sitting there, his big legs smashed up against the dash. She could have fitted in three times she was so wee. Tiny, she was.

“How tall are you?” he asked, as he drew into the circle of Dumbarton Court.

“Tall enough,” she said, sounding pissed off and throwing her fag butt out of the car window.

Williams laughed. “Get a lot of stick for being wee, do ye?”

“Yeah, I get stick for ‘bein’ wee.’” She mimicked his accent as badly as a London girl could. “And for the rest.”

Williams parked. “Can’t be easy,” he said, cranking the hand brake on without depressing the button. He saw her out of the corner of his eye, cringing at the ratchet noise.

“You’ll ruin the car doing that, you know. Wear down the sprocket and lose grip on it.” She saw him looking at her. “I come from a family of mechanics.”

Williams leaned into the backseat for his jacket. “That’s handy,” he said, “because my hand brake keeps going.”

Bunyan smiled and he was pleased. He wanted her to do well, wanted to get on well with her.

Moe Akitza opened the door and looked out at them. Her eyes were very swollen and her blond hair was very dirty. The house behind her was dark, and as she let them in they noticed that she hobbled when she walked and was badly short of breath. Bunyan lent her an arm and helped her into a chair in the living room. She sat down opposite Moe, leaning across the arm, looking sympathetic and concerned. “Are you ill, Mrs. Akitza?”

“Yes.” Moe Akitza looked up at them and clutched her chest, opening her eyes wide, choking slightly.

Bunyan was on her feet. “Can I get you something?” she said. “Is there some medicine somewhere?”

Moe shook her head and caught her breath, patting at her chest and sitting back in the chair. Bunyan looked at him and Williams nodded to her to sit again. He waited by the door, taking in the house and watching her. “We won’t be long.” Bunyan spoke slow and loud, as if Mrs. Akitza were deaf. “I know this must be distressing for you but we wanted to ask you a few short questions about your sister. Okay?”

Moe was panting and shutting her eyes.

Bunyan took out her notebook and unsheathed her pencil. “Now, first of all, before we ask our questions, is there anything you’d like to ask us?”

Moe sat forward, wincing at her chest. “Bracelet,” she murmured, “was my mother’s.” And she fell back into the chair.

“Once the case is cleared up.” Bunyan nodded at her to see if she understood. Moe nodded back. “You’ll get it back then.”

Pleased by this news Moe smiled a little to herself. “Hah,” she said. “Her husband. Battered her.”

“That’s right,” said Bunyan. “We know that. You told us that in the missing-person report. She was hiding from him in a shelter, wasn’t she?”

“Leslie,” said Moe, with great effort, “hah, Fin-hah?”

“Leslie Findlay at the Place of Safety Shelters in Glasgow.” Bunyan nodded. “That’s right, we’ve been in touch with them.”

“Hah, photographs, hah, of Ann?”

Bunyan didn’t understand. “Do you have photographs you’d like to show us?”

Moe Akitza raised her hand off the armrest to point into her lap.

“Shelter?” she said finally.

“Oh, yes,” said Bunyan, looking at her notes. “The shelter photographs?” Moe nodded. “Unfortunately, they seem to have been misplaced. You must be quite anxious for a case to be brought against your brother-in-law for that assault?”

Moe shut her eyes and nodded again.

“Well,” Bunyan continued, “I’m afraid that’s not our jurisdiction. The assault case happened in Scotland and would be dealt with by the legal authorities up there.”

Moe Akitza stopped dying and opened her eyes wide with annoyance. Williams stepped forward. “It’s a separate legal system up there, Mrs. Akitza,” he said. “I’m very sorry. Because Ann has passed on, the assault case will probably be dropped. Unless there were other witnesses?”

Moe Akitza shook her head. “No case?” she said. “He’s … not charged? At all?”

“Well,” said Williams, “if the assault is relevant to the murder case it may be mentioned tangentially, but I’m afraid it won’t be dealt with by an English court.”

Moe Akitza was not best pleased. She was not pleased at all.

Chapter 13

TEN-GALLON HAT

Liam hadn’t seen her this drunk since the experimental drinking days of teenage parties. She was sitting on the floor, slumped against the settee with her eyes half shut, ash all down her front and what appeared to be cheese on her sleeve. Despite being well supported by the settee she was still managing to sway. She had sounded progressively more and more tipsy on his answering machine but he hadn’t been ready for this.

Maureen had everything she needed here — fags, whiskey, water, ashtray — but she felt so sick. She had half the bottle of whiskey inside her and it was a big bottle. At some point she’d realized that she’d be sick if she didn’t eat, so she had something she found in the fridge, cheese probably, but it wasn’t sitting well at all. And there was Liam in front of her, dear Liam, who’d come an entire mile from Hillhead to see her. He was so kind. She started to cry.

“Fuckin’ hell,” said Liam, taking his jacket off. “What brought this on?”

She nodded — at least, she meant to nod. She threw her head around in uneven circles and Liam watched her for a while, mesmerized and enchanted by her lack of coordination. “Mauri,” he said, in awe, “you’re utterly fucking bloothered.”

She wiped her face on her sleeve, rubbing ready-grated cheddar into her hair. “I’m unhappy,” she said indignantly.

“Well,” said Liam, serenely, “that makes you very special.” He sat back in the horsehair armchair and watched her trying to pick up a cigarette from the floor with rubber fingers. “Why are you so drunk?”

Maureen gave up on the fags and shrugged at him for an age. “Life’s shite,” she havered, drunk and guileless. “Leslie’s … spit on my eyes.”

Liam stood up. “Oh, God, Mauri, I’m sorry, I can’t stand this.”

He left the room and Maureen waited, forgetting that he was in the house and then remembering and then forgetting. When he came back into the living room it was a delightful surprise and she started crying again. Liam made her drink the coffee and the coffee made her very sick.

He stroked warm water through her hair, holding the showerhead too far back on her neck, letting the water run over her jaw and up her nose. She was bent over the bath, trying to stay up, but her legs weren’t working very well and she kept tottering forward.

“Oh. Fuck. I’m sick.” Her bleary voice echoed around the white ceramic valley.

“You’ve spewed up everywhere.”

“That’s enough.” She tried to stand up but Liam was holding her shoulder down and she staggered back and forth.

“Mauri, there’s vomited cheese in your hair. Stay still for fuck’s sake.”

He rubbed the shampoo into the nape of her neck and washed it out slowly, wrapped a fresh towel around her neck and gathered her hair into it. Maureen stood up and staggered into the wall, leaning on it, testing her head. Through the curious alchemy of alcohol, her wet hair made her feel close to sober. “Oh, fucking hell,” she said.

Liam perched on the side of the bath, feeling responsible because he’d given her the coffee. “D’ye feel any better?”

She patted her towel turban. “Aye.”

Liam didn’t look convinced.

“Honest,” she said. “You throw up and I’ll do it to you.”

They went back into the living room and Maureen arranged herself in a small bundle on the settee. The debris of a drunken afternoon was all over the floor. Her packet of cigarettes had spilled everywhere and more than half of the contents of the bottle of whiskey had evaporated. A photograph of Winnie was propped up against the leg of the easy chair, facing her encampment. She looked at the window and thought back to the cold wind wrapped around her and her bare foot swinging over the void. Liam would be so horrified if he knew.

“God,” she said, feeling guilty and trying to change the subject in her head, “that was very good of you.”

“Greater love hath no man,” said Liam, lighting a spliff.

“I’m not even tired.”

“It’s only seven thirty. Why were you so drunk?”

She frowned and sipped a glass of water, trying it to see if she would be sick again. Her extremities felt shaky but her stomach felt fine.

“You always get drunk with Leslie,” said Liam. “Where is she?”

Maureen owned up. “We’ve fallen out. It’s since that Cammy guy. She’s dropped me like a sack of hot shit and I’m sick of being nice about it.”

“But she’s fallen in love for the first time. She’s going to disappear for three months.”

Maureen watched him, puzzled.

“You wouldn’t know about it,” said Liam, “because Douglas was married. When ye first fall in love ye spend all your time together for three months and then you come out the other side wondering what that was all about, looking for your old pals. That’s what’s happening with Leslie. I bet she’s never been in love before, has she?”

“It’s more than that, Liam, she’s changed. You’ve seen the way she dresses now.”

He smiled indulgently. “She’s trying to please him,” he said. “He’ll be doing the same for her too.”

“You mean, she wants him to dress like that?”

Liam frowned as he thought back to the straight-leg jeans and Celtic top Cammy had worn to the Hogmanay party. “We don’t know what he was wearing before he met her,” he said. “Could’ve been a flying suit with zips everywhere.”

“And platforms,” Maureen said weakly.

“With spurs.”

“And a ten-gallon hat.”

“Could have been,” said Liam. “Don’t fall out with her now — you’ll spoil it for her.”

He picked up a book and started arranging Rizlas on the back of it. He had brought a huge lump of black with him. The lamp on the floor shone on the cellophane, turning it into a cube of water. She gestured to it. “Where did you get that, anyway? I thought there was a dry on?”

“Got lucky.” He smiled at his origami. “Is Leslie all that’s bothering ye?”

Maureen slumped. “Winnie came to see me. I miss her. I know I slag her but I miss her, and when I saw her she said George won’t talk to her. They won’t split up, will they? We’ll never see him again if they do.”

“No, wee hen, they won’t split up. He’s just letting her know it’s not on, her having Michael over to the house.”

“I miss George.”

“He misses you as well.” Liam smiled at her. They never discussed it but all four of the children loved their stepfather. George never spoke to them or gave them guidance. He wasn’t even in the house very much. He drank like Winnie, but instead of starting fights or trying to involve them in fictional dramas, George sang a lot and recited sentimental poetry. Winnie fought with him, as she had fought with Michael, vicious and loud and relentless. George listened to her until he couldn’t be bothered anymore and then he went out to visit his pals. He was the closest thing the children had ever had to a benign parent.

“She told me Michael’s staying in Glasgow.” Maureen looked at Liam, but he was licking a cigarette down the seam and pulling the paper away. “Well,” she said, “is he?”

“He doesn’t have anyone to drink with,” he said dismissively “He won’t stay long.”

Maureen sighed heavily into her chest. It had been a long day.

“I walked out on my job. I hate it. Leslie got me that fucking job. She’ll never speak to me again if I don’t go.”

“Ah, she would so.”

Maureen watched Liam busily keeping himself replete with spliffs, rolling as he smoked, acting casual as if it didn’t really matter but working hard. She was like that with drink. It looked casual on the surface but underneath she was frantic about her intake, desperate not to slow down or lose the level.

“Look at you and your wee spliff factory,” she said unkindly.

He looked up at her, resenting the intrusion. “Look at you and your wee vomit factory,” he said, and went back to work.

“I worry about drinking,” said Maureen. “I worry about turning into Winnie.”