Garnethill by Denise Mina (25 page)

"No, I mean, they all think I'm a mental bitch, why don't you?"

He held the door open for her and she stepped outside. "Ever thought about an incest survivors' group?" he said softly.

"Eh?"

"Tuesdays. Eight p.m. St. Francis, Thurso Street. Round the back." He let the glass door swing shut behind her.

She looked back into the station lobby. He was walking away.

She could have gone home but Douglas's key was still missing and calling out a locksmith on a Friday night would cost a fortune. She found a phone box by the main road and rang Liam's house. When he picked up the phone he sounded drunk and pissed off.

"Can I stay at yours tonight, Liam?"

"What about the filth?"

He only ever used stupid colloquialisms like that when he was pissed.

"I've just seen them, they won't come to the house, honest."

"
I haven't got anything anyway
" he said accusingly.

She checked her pockets to see how she was fixed and hailed a cab.

The blue Ford followed Maureen's cab up the Great Western Road, passing it slowly when it stopped at Liam's house. It turned the corner and parked in a side street. One police officer wrote down Liam's address while the other turned off the engine and settled back.

Liam lived on the grubby side of the West End. The four-story townhouse had been partitioned into gloomy bedsits when he bought it. He'd been doing it up gradually, working from the attic down. He had finished the first floor now but was reluctant to start renovating the ground-floor rooms. He'd kept the partition door at the foot of the stairs to make upstairs look like a separate flat and left the lower rooms scabby so that shady visitors wouldn't think there was anything worth stealing. He rarely sat downstairs. He tended to spend his free time upstairs in the enormous room at the front of the house, painted white with a stained wood floor and nothing in it but a Corbusier lounger and the eight-foot-long utility desk with his Mac on it.

Maureen pressed the doorbell. She could hear Liam brushing heavily against the walls as he staggered to the front door. He opened it without looking out and sloped back into the front room. She followed him in. The coffee table was strewn with empty cans of imported lager.

It had been a scabby room before the police searched it but Maureen wasn't prepared for the state it was in now. The dirty beige carpet had been pulled back and floorboards had been lifted and placed back down unevenly. The black leatherette settee had been cut open along the back; yellow foam spewed out like an action shot of a bursting spot. The old television was on in the corner; the molded plastic back had been reattached badly and was open at the side.
Match of the Day
was showing: a panel of three ugly men in bad ties were laughing at a joke.

Liam walked unsteadily over to the coffee table and picked a lit cigarette out of the full ashtray. He slid more than fell sideways onto the settee, pulling at the ripped back to work his way into a sitting position. He looked her up and down as if he were sickened by the sight of her and blinked slowly. "Maureen," he stated. He lifted his fag to his mouth slowly and sucked it, dragging his cheeks inward.

"You're pissed," she said, unable to hide her disappointment, and went to use the phone on the hall table.

She found the insurance company's twenty-four-hour help-line number in the Yellow Pages. She gave her details to a woman with a plummy accent and explained the situation as simply as she could. The telephonist paused for a moment, probably wondering whether it was a hoax call, and asked her for her policy number. "No, I don't actually have it with me."

"We need it to find the policy."

"Can't you just use my name and address?"

The woman paused again and sighed. "Just putting you on hold," she said. A high-pitched reworking of "Frere Jacques" squealed across the line. Maureen held the receiver away from her ear. The tune played twice through. The woman came back on the line to tell her that she was still on hold, and was gone again.

Liam was standing in the doorway in a drunken foul temper. He was having trouble keeping upright and mumbling curse words.

"Hello?" asked the woman at the insurance company. Liam's knees buckled and he slipped sideways in the door frame.

"Yes, yes, I'm here," said Maureen, standing up and helping him back onto his feet. He spun round and fell face-first into the living room.

"Well," said the woman, "I've had a look at your policy and you'll have to do it yourself. You can be reimbursed for the cost of any items provided you keep them—"

"Cheers," said Maureen, and hung up. Liam was crawling on all fours toward the settee. "Ya fuckin' drunken horse's arse," she said tenderly, working her hands under his damp armpits and dragging him onto the settee. He pulled his T-shirt straight and sat, almost prim, crossing his legs carefully, looking eerily like Very Drunk Winnie. He coughed, thought about something and glowered at Maureen. "See the state?" he said, gesturing around the room. "See it?"

Maureen sighed. "If we're going to have a fight, can we have it tomorrow?"

Liam blinked for a month. "Who's fightin'? I never said we were gonnae have a fight."

Maureen sat down next to him. "You strongly implied it," she said.

For a moment Liam's expression quivered between furious and distraught. He started to cry. "I'm fed up," he said, covering his face with his hands. Maureen put her arm around his shoulder. "Oh, Christ, Mauri, everything's turning to shite. My business . . . Douglas. I had to let Pete down on the deal and he's pissed off at me. I lost thirty grand 'cause I crapped it."

"But, Liam," she said, "you don't need more money, you've got loads of money."

He tried to shake off her arm by jerking his shoulders up and down. It didn't work and she left it there. "My bottle's gone," he said, looking at her as if she had taken it. "And Mum's going mental, she says you're a wee shite and Maggie won't even speak to me." He sat forward, wriggling out of Maureen's grasp, and wiped his face on his T-shirt.

"When did you see Mum?"

"She said that you're a wee shite and you went back and took all your photos away."

"I did."

"And she said you're a wee shite."

"Yeah, you don't have to keep going on about that bit."

"Did ye?"

"They're my photos, Liam."

"Ye could have asked her."

Maureen was indignant. "She was selling them to the newspapers."

"Yeah, but they were in her house," he said, aware of the weakness of his argument.

"Look, Liam, I'm not having a great time right now either. Why are you picking on me? Do you want a fight?"

"I don't want a fight."

"Well, shut up, then."

They sat in an uncomfortable silence and watched
Prisoner: Cell Block H
until Maureen got up to go to the toilet. He muttered after her, "Prick."

"Hey," said Maureen, shouting back into the room, "don't you be fucking cheeky to me, son."

The toilet on the first floor had been ripped apart: the U-bends had been taken off the sink and the toilet and all the jars and bottles of toiletries were sitting in the sink with their lids off. The linoleum had been pulled up, folded over and left in the bath. She went upstairs to the other bathroom. Liam kept it fairly sparse anyway and it was more or less intact. Only the towel cupboard had been riffled through: all of the fresh towels had been opened up and thrown back on the shelves.

When she came downstairs Liam was asleep in the armchair. She put out his fag, turned the telly off and went upstairs to the spare bedroom, leaving him there, his neck bent into his chest in a way that was certain to hurt like a bastard in the morning.

Chapter 22

COLUMBO

It was a sunny autumn day. Red sandstone buildings clashed with a powder blue sky, and out of the front windows of the bus, in the clear, far distance, Maureen could see the rugged Campsie hills capped in snow. She got off the bus and walked round the side to the staff canteen. She knew she was taking a chance and shouldn't ask for him; she would just have a quick look. She thought about going to his secret place to wait for him but he might not come there. She was buying a cup of tea at the canteen counter when she remembered that he only worked every second Saturday — he might not even be in today.

She sat at a table on her own and drank her tea, checking the tables and watching the door. She couldn't see him. She was wearing her gray overcoat and tartan scarf. The staff were all there in their white uniforms. She saw them looking at her and knew she should take off the coat to blend into the crowd but if she took it off she'd have to take the scarf off too and then the marks on the back of her neck would be visible and they would definitely think she was a patient. Dr. Paton might come in and spot her. She should never have come. A male nurse with the same eyes as Michael caught her eye and smiled, quizzically concerned. She changed her mind and hurried to leave. Martin almost banged into her in the doorway. "What in God's name are you doing here?" he said angrily.

He took her elbow and guided her firmly down the corridor, into a theater lift. He punched the button for lower ground with the side of his fist, not speaking until the doors were shut in front of them. "Why have you come back here? I told you everything."

"Martin, I need to ask you some more questions. I'm really sorry, I didn't want to phone you, I thought I'd be less conspicuous if I just turned up and found you."

"For pity sake. Sitting in the staff canteen with your coat on waiting for me?"

He walked briskly down the forked corridor. The failing fluorescent bulb was flickering slowly, like a dying man's pulse. She followed him through the door to the L-shaped room and round the corner to his den. He turned on the light and shut the door behind her. "Right, what is it?" he snapped.

"There's no need to be short with me," said Maureen.

"No, Maureen, there's every need. I suppose you thought you were being fly, getting that list off Frank yesterday. He phoned later to see if you got it. When he found out that you didn't exist he phoned the police. He's been suspended from work and it's all over the hospital. The George I man would need to be deaf and blind not to know about it now." He sat down on the metal chair and looked up at her solemnly.

"Oh, God, I'm sorry," she said, lifting the tea things off the mahogany cabinet and sitting down on it.

"You thought you were being fly, didn't you?"

She rubbed her shins with her hands quickly and owned up. "Yes," she said.

"Well, you weren't. It was a stupid thing to do. Now, why have you come back?"

"I want you to tell me who the staff were."

"Isn't that what you got off Frank?"

"No. That's what I asked him for but he gave me the wrong information."

"What did he give you?" he asked.

"A list of national insurance numbers."

Martin thought about it for a moment. His face creased into a reluctant grin and he started laughing. His hilarity escalated until he was doubled over in the chair, emitting high-pitched silly barks and wiping tears away. Maureen smiled despite herself. Martin slapped her knee and she started laughing too.

When he finally managed to calm himself he leaned over and flicked the switch on the big kettle sitting on the floor. "Aw, geeso," he giggled, "that guy, that Frank, he's such an ijit." He tapped her ankle, getting her to move her leg aside, and pulled open one of the little drawers on the mahogany chest. A stack of plastic cups was lying inside. Still chortling to himself, he took out two cups, put tea bags in them and opened another drawer with a Tupperware sandwich box containing powdered milk. Without asking her, he poured some into both cups. Maureen didn't want to correct him in case she interrupted his mood. He put the container back and took an opened half packet of Bourbon biscuits out of another drawer.

"You're all set here, aren't you, Martin?"

"Aye," he said, still grinning. "I know how to look after myself." He saw her looking at the Thistle posters. "We're playing in France tomorrow. Metz."

"You going?"

"Naw," he said. "The bus leaves today, couple of hours before my shift finishes. Shame. All my cronies are going." He poured water from the kettle into the cups and handed her one.

She took it, holding it carefully by the rim until she realized that it was barely warm. The kettle hadn't had time to boil properly, the tea bag floated ineffectually in the greasy white water.

"Do you think you'll win?" she said.

"You don't know anything about football, do you, pet? No, we'll lose."

She tried to sip the tea but couldn't face it. She put the cup down on the uneven floor and took one of the Bourbons from the packet. Her teeth slid easily through the damp biscuit and it crumbled behind her teeth, tasting old and chalky. She shoved it over to the side of her mouth, trying to keep it away from her tongue. "Can't you tell me about the staff, Martin?"

"Why should I?" he said, serious again. "As soon as I do you'll start asking questions about them and go and see them, won't you?" He dunked the lazy tea bag in his cup. It exuded some brownness and then died.

"Well, yes," she said.

"And you'll probably be as clumsy about it as you were with Frank. Everyone'll know I've told you. I could get in a lot of trouble. It might even be dangerous."

"Everyone'll think it was Frank who told me."

Martin sipped his tea and thought about it. "Aye," he said. "Aye, well, that's true enough. But why should I give you more information to draw attention to yourself with?"

She gave up the pretense and put the old biscuit down next to the undrinkable tea. "Martin, have you ever thought that he might still be doing it?"

"No," he said, with certainty. "We would have heard. They'll have caught him out by now."

"Not if his victims are vulnerable enough. Maybe what he learned from George I was just to be more careful and not leave marks on women who are washed by other people or something."