The Child Garden (8 page)

Thirteen

Wednesday

Duggie Morrison was more
than easy to find. He was hard to avoid. Morrison's Carpets and Flooring, Morrison's for Beds, and Morrison's Kitchen and Bathroom spread out along the top end of Castle Douglas High Street as they had for sixty years, ever since Duggie's grandfather and great-uncle came back from the Ideal Home exhibition with pounding hangovers and a vision of the future. In other towns, less staid and settled, Morrison's would have been long gone, but in Castle Douglas with its butcher's shops and greengrocers, its bakers and cobblers and gentlemen's outfitters, IKEA was defied and the townspeople, along with the farmers from all around, got their laminate and granite islands from the same dependable family business where their fathers had bought their wine racks and black ash, and their grandfathers had bought their breakfast bars and knotty pine.

That's why the likes of the Tarrants can't waltz in and take over,
my mother had said, when the station-yard development plan had fallen through.
Castle Douglas has its own way of doing things.

I parked outside the carpet shop and tried to prepare myself. I couldn't help my pulse starting to race, and I knew my cheeks were starting to colour too. I'd never stopped hoping that every time could be
the
time. It could easily be today.

But it wasn't Duggie behind the reception desk in his shirtsleeves and tie for once, with one phone to his ear and another in his hand rubbing its surface with his thumb, like a child with a blankie. It was a woman. She was somewhere in her forties, with sleek tawny hair and a suit of caramel-coloured moleskin. Her fingernails were bubblegum pink with rims so white they were almost blue, and when she stood up and walked around the desk to greet me I could see that her toenails were done the same way and she wore a gold ring on her middle toe. Smiling, she tugged the jacket straight before she stretched out a hand to shake mine. The jacket was too short for her figure, cutting her off just above the swell of her bottom so that her thighs looked like hams. And the caramel-coloured trousers were too short too, half-mast above her chocolate brown mules, shortening her legs and turning her dumpy.

She had probably paid a fortune for the outfit and it did nothing
for her. I—clever with my needle—once I found a pattern that
suited me, made it up in every colour in my palate, perfect fit, perfect length, like the button-through dress I had on under my Mackintosh today.
You look like you're in costume,
Lynne at work had said once, and I thought I knew what she meant: that it was unusual to see someone in clothes specially tailored for their shape. One other time a girl on a bus had called me a Texas polygamist, which had puzzled me until I Googled it at work and saw them, with their beautiful hair and their handmade dresses. Only those frocks were hanging off their shoulders like sacks and mine fit me like gloves. Like
my
gloves, which I also make to fit.

“Can I help you?” said the moleskin-suit woman.

“Is Duggie in?” I said.

Her smile didn't falter, but something behind her eyes clicked from warm to cold and her voice was different when she spoke again. “Who should I say is asking?”

“Gloria,” I told her. “His wife. His son's mother.”

I could tell two things from the flash in her eyes: she was more than just an employee, and she hadn't heard a peep about Nicky and me. She gave me an incredulous look up and down and then disappeared into the back office.

Duggie appeared like a jack-in-the-box ten seconds later. He always dealt with me quicker in person than on the phone.

“
Ex
-wife, Gloria,” he said. It was true and he was right to point it out, but I could never bring myself to say it. We got married in a church, in the sight of God, and those papers he sent me to sign didn't have any power to change that.

“Nicky's fine,” I told him, “in case you were wondering.” Then I bit my lip. I don't know why, but dealing with Duggie always turns me into a nag.

“Nicky's your son?” said the woman. She was leaning in the office doorway, exploring the side of her mouth with her tongue.

“Nicky's our son,” I confirmed. “I've got a picture of him if you'd—”

“Zöe, why don't you take a quick coffee break?” Duggie said. He put his hand out and actually touched my arm to stop me rummaging in my bag for my purse and flipping it open to the picture of Nicky. “It looks as if I've got a bit of family business to take care of.”

“I'll bring you back a latte,” she said. She hooked a bag—a soft one with lots of buckles just like April's—off the back of the reception desk chair and stalked out. She looked less polished in the cold daylight as she got to the front of the shop and plate-glass windows. Her make-up was thick and her hair coarsened with dye. I've got the skin you get from never smoking or tanning and the hair you get from not washing it every day and never blow-drying it at all. Not that it was a competition, but if it was, I was winning.

“What do you want, Gloria?” said Duggie once she was gone.

“Have you heard the news?” I said. He cocked his head. “A death in Glasgow.”

“And?” he said.

“There was a prowler up in the grounds of the house,” I said. “Did you hear about it? He didn't go inside—he was stalking this woman and she took the back roads to shake him off and he got lost or something. But now a woman's dead and I think it's the same one.”

“And this matters to me why?” said Duggie. He had taken out his phone and was caressing it with his thumb. I bit my lip again.
Everyone does that now
, I reminded myself.
He's not any ruder than anyone else
.

“Your son lives close by,” I said. “Ask me why I think it's the same woman.”

“Go on then,” said Duggie. “Amaze me.”

“Her name was April Cowan. She went to Eden.”

He didn't look up, but he hesitated in his scrolling. “I'm still not with you,” he said. He put his pursed fingers against the screen and opened them, enlarging something, then he gave a huff of laughter.

“Why did you never tell me you went there?”

“It didn't come up,” said Duggie.

“How?” I said. After twenty years, this man still mystified me. “When I found the perfect place for our son to live and you railed at me and forbade it and told me you would never set foot in the place to visit him, how could it not ‘come up' that you'd been at school there?”

“Great summary, Gloria,” said Duggie. “That pretty much covers it.”

“Stop looking at that ridiculous device and talk to me with some respect,” I said, grabbing at his wrist. He held the phone up out of my reach. “Treat me with some civility, for heaven's sake,” I said. “You're forty, not fourteen.” He had done it to me again—turned me into a harpy.

“You're the one snatching at my stuff like we're in the playground,” he said, and I knew from his voice that I had needled him. We were always like this: a disaster. We'd been a train wreck from the time of Nicky's diagnosis, since I—as my mother put it—
turned away from my husband and let the inevitable happen
. Only it hadn't felt like that to me.

“I'm sorry,” I said.

“It was nothing to do with Eden that made me against the idea,” said Duggie, putting his phone away. “For one thing, it was expensive.”

“He's your son!” I wailed.

“As long as he's warm and dry and got a drip and a catheter, he might as well as be in a kennel,” said Duggie. He had said things just as ugly before, but it never stopped hurting. I could feel the tears bulging up and trembling on my lashes. “And there'd have been even more expense if the place folded again and we have to shift him.”

“But ten years later it's going strong.”

“As it turns out,” said Duggie. “But who was to know that? That stupid school the Tarrants tried to start was over before it began.”

“Exactly!” I said, blinking my tears away. “The school did come up. It should have come—What?” I had only just got what he said. “The Tarrants that had the station-yard thing? They
owned
Eden?”

“It's your pal Helen Keller that owns the site,” said Duggie. “But they owned the business, yes.”

“Miss Drumm isn't deaf,” I said. “Duggie, why do you say such things?”

The door opened and Zöe, balancing two coffees in a cardboard tray, walked back in. “Bad moment?” she said.

“
What
was it you wanted, Gloria?” Duggie said, taking one of the cups out of the tray and giving Zöe that smile of his. I remembered that smile.

“You were at Eden,” I said to Duggie. “You were there when that boy died.”

“What's this?” said Zöe. She was hovering at his elbow.

“Was April Cowan close to him?” I said. “Was she his girlfriend? Do you think it's connected?”

“Gloria, love, what are you on about?” said Duggie. “An accident decades ago and another one yesterday? Why would it be connected?” He turned to Zöe and rolled his eyes, but she just frowned at him and then held out her coffee cup to me.

“Here,” she said. “You need this more than I do.” I was so surprised, I took it. “What's happened, Dougall?”

“Nothing,” Duggie said.

“It's connected because she was down here before she died,” I said. “Two of them were.” I was looking at Duggie but then switched my gaze to Zöe, taking a sip from the cup. “Thank you. That's really kind of you. Did
you
hear the news this morning?”

“I had it on,” she said, screwing her face up as if trying to remember.

“April Cowan was at Eden and the guy that was following her down here on the back roads was Stephen Tarrant. They were there together when that kid Moped died.”

Duggie laughed. “
Moped!
” he said. “God, I'd forgotten we called him that. Moped—haven't heard that for years.” He turned to Zöe again to share the joke, but she was looking at him with a kind of look that I recognised, only from the inside. I knew the feeling that made that look. But she wasn't me. I always started in on him; she just shook her head and then looked away and took a step towards me.

“It must be worrying for you,” she said. “Is that right? You live up there where that Tarrant guy's been hanging around?”

“I—Thank you,” I said. “I'm just—So I thought I should tell Duggie to keep his eyes peeled.”

“You think I'm next, eh?” said Duggie. “Wishful thinking, Gloria.” He was joking.

“In case he's still around and you see him,” I said. “The police would want to know.”

“You set the cops onto me?” said Duggie, joking again. His jokes started out making me laugh, but over the years they began to exhaust me. I didn't notice whether Zöe smiled at this one.

“No, of course not,” I said, in that way of mine that made Duggie think I had no sense of humour. “But if they come round.”

“Why would they come round?”

I hadn't even realised I was dropping a bomb until the silence that followed it.

“To see where you were on Monday night and then again on Tuesday,” I said. “Since you knew both of them.”

“He was with me on Tuesday,” said Zöe. “What's Monday?”

I couldn't answer, couldn't tell anymore what I would know from the cops at the door and the radio news and what I only knew because I had seen it or Stig had told me. The sooner I shut up and got away, the better. I held the cup out to Zöe.

“Thanks,” I said again. “You can have the rest. I haven't got cold sores or anything.” Duggie snorted, but Zöe smiled as if I'd said something really funny.

“Let's share it,” she said. “I'll get my mug and nick some and then you take that away with you.” She disappeared through the back again to the little kitchen.

“Thanks a fucking bunch, Gloria,” whispered Duggie, looking over his shoulder to make sure she was gone. “Cheers for showing me up in front of her.”

“I have no idea what you're talking about,” I said, which was true.

“You're losing it, love,” he said “You're seriously losing your marbles with this latest crap.”

“Duggie, I'm not being funny, I don't know what you mean.”

“Barging in here, banging on about shit from years ago. Yes, I was at Eden. Yes, Mope died. Yes, Golden Boy Tarrant was nowhere to be seen and no one ever asked why. If he's finally gone too far and he gets done for it—great. But it was a long time ago and it's nothing to do with me or you, so leave it, okay?”

“Nice mug,” I said to Zöe, who'd just pushed the door open again.

“Spode,” she said. Duggie was standing as rigid as a totem pole, glaring at me, but Zöe came up beside him and put an arm round his waist and leaned her head against his shoulder.

“I'm divorced myself,” she said to me. “You wouldn't believe the way me and my ex talk to each other sometimes. Even after ten years.” She turned and smiled up at Duggie. “Don't look so worried, you numpty. I've heard worse. I've
said
worse. And not when there's dead bodies and prowlers involved either.”

He didn't snarl at
her
for showing him up. He just shook her off without a word and threw himself down into his desk chair as I turned to go.

I watched them through the window while I was putting my seat belt on and fitting the coffee cup into the holder under the dashboard. I don't usually get takeaway coffee and I didn't think I'd ever had a cup in there before today.

Duggie was still at the desk and she was sitting on it, like a secretary from a
New Yorker
cartoon. One of his hands rested on the desktop, gently holding the curve of her round, trousered bottom. He was laughing.