The Dead Beat (12 page)

‘Don’t you get it?’ Martha said.

V ran a finger around her black eye and shrugged.

‘So your family has secrets, whose doesn’t?’

Martha dumped her bag on the desk and shook her head.

‘Not like this. Not that get left out of official obituaries.’

V looked puzzled. ‘Sure, that happens all the time.’

‘What?’

‘You think we check everything?’ She rubbed her hand over her bicep. ‘If the family want something hidden it stays hidden. You wouldn’t believe the number of euphemisms we use in this business. Obits are a total whitewash sometimes, trust me. I know you’ve only worked here two days, but even you must’ve noticed that.’

Martha had, but this was different. She logged onto the computer.

‘What are you doing here, anyway?’ V said. ‘I told you to take the day off.’

‘I’m fine.’

‘Did you get the old . . .’ V made a lightning fizzle noise and put her hands out like holding electrodes.

Martha rolled her eyes. ‘Very subtle.’

‘Well?’

‘It went fine.’

‘You seem a little hyper.’

‘That’s nothing to do with it.’ Martha fixed her gaze on V. ‘I’m not bipolar, I don’t get crazy highs, just lows, so that’s not what this is. I’m just thinking clearly for the first time in ages. I know this is important.’

V held her hands up. ‘It’s your life.’

Martha took a deep breath. On the bus on the way in she’d called Elaine four more times, no answer. She’d flicked through Ian’s notebook, but hadn’t found another mention of his brother.

She logged onto the copy system and searched for ‘Ian Lamb’. There were hundreds of hits with his byline. He had written something most days in the years he’d worked here. She scanned down them, but apart from stuff by him, there was just Gordon’s obit. Shit, Gordon. He would need his own obit now.

She went onto the local hard drive of Gordon’s computer. Hundreds of different folders. She searched again. Three hits, different versions of the obit. She opened all three. Clicked the last two to the back and started reading the first. The text was almost the same, just a little sloppier. But then she read the last line.

 ‘Ian is survived by his daughter Martha and son Calvin, and his twin brother Johnny.’

Her heart was a jackhammer.

A twin. Just like her and Cal. It ran in the family.

She checked the second draft. It had been changed to cut him out.

‘I told you,’ she said to V.

‘What?’

‘First draft of Gordon’s obit for Ian. Mentions a twin brother called Johnny.’

V peered over. ‘Really? What does it say?’

‘Nothing.’ She thought for a moment. ‘Except that he’s still alive. A survivor.’

V nodded. ‘Uncle Johnny, eh? Wonder why he got scrubbed from the rewrite.’

Martha checked the date on the file.

‘Both versions were written two months ago, a day apart. Six weeks before Ian jumped off North Bridge.’

V sucked her teeth. ‘Yeah, that’s pretty common.’

‘What?’

‘A lot of us have our obits done already.’

‘Really?’

‘You want to make sure it’s good. Do you want to read mine?’

Martha frowned. ‘So you’re saying Ian might’ve written this?’

V shook her head. ‘Not his speciality. More likely Gordon spoke to him, wrote it, then showed him a draft.’

‘So maybe Ian vetoed the mention of his brother?’

‘Could be,’ V said. ‘Although that begs the question, why did Ian mention him in the first place?’

‘Unless he didn’t,’ Martha said. ‘Unless Gordon already knew about him. They both worked here from around the same time, didn’t they?’

‘No idea.’

‘Isn’t it a little suspicious that Gordon just happened to write Ian’s obit for him a few weeks before he jumped off North Bridge?’

‘Not if Ian was already thinking of killing himself. Sorry to be blunt, but that’s the obvious answer. He was already thinking of doing it, so he wanted to make sure Gordon wrote something decent.’

‘This doesn’t add up. Where’s Gordon’s obit? Did he write one for himself?’

V pointed at Martha’s screen. ‘Have a look.’

Martha searched the system, then the local hard drive. Nothing.

‘Why would he phone his in on the day, when he was premeditating enough to have bought a gun from somewhere? If he was ready to die, why not write his own obit?’

V got out her seat and rested her arse on the edge of Martha’s desk. ‘You’re thinking too much about this,’ she said. ‘You need to go home.’

‘No.’

‘You’re applying logical thinking to suicide,’ V said. ‘It doesn’t work that way.’

Martha waved at V to get off the desk.

‘We’re getting off the point,’ she said. ‘My dad has a brother. I need to find him.’

Straight onto Google with ‘Johnny Lamb’. Nothing obvious. Tried ‘John Lamb’. Lots of sportsmen, musicians, a few American politicians. She checked the first version of the name in the
Standard
’s database. Again, nothing to shout about. Then the second version. Some junior footballer had loads of mentions in match reports. She switched the timeline from newest to oldest.

Top of the list was an
Evening Standard
court report dated September 1992. She clicked. Just a short paragraph, about the same length as the piece reporting Ian’s death two weeks ago.

‘Holy shit.’

V raised her eyebrows. ‘What now?’

Martha turned her screen for V to read the article.

V squinted at it and frowned. ‘Might not be the same Johnny Lamb.’

‘Oh come on,’ Martha said. ‘We both know what “an incident on North Bridge” means. Suicide bid. Same place Ian did it twenty years later. It can’t be a coincidence.’

V rubbed her elbow and shrugged. ‘So chase it up.’

‘What?’

‘You’re the one wants to be the hotshot reporter, go investigate.’

‘What do you know about Carstairs?’ Martha said.

‘Not much. It’s a loony bin.’

Martha spotted Billy returning to his desk.

‘Billy, what do you know about Carstairs psychiatric hospital?’

Billy came over and Martha got him up to speed.

‘You think Johnny is still there?’ Billy said.

‘It’s somewhere to start,’ Martha said.

Billy pointed at the phone. ‘So ask them.’

Martha Googled Carstairs. The website was all NHS branding and corporate speak. It was just called the State Hospital now, no mention of mental illness. Martha scanned the site for a few minutes, but whoever had written it had taken a course in flannel, everything was couched in vague language, impossible to glean anything. She eventually found a contact number and picked up the phone. Had a faint shudder at the touch of the handset to her ear, remembering Gordon’s voice.

She dialled.

A Glasgow accent, middle-aged, female. ‘Hello, the State Hospital, how can I help you?’

‘I’m trying to find out if someone is still a patient there.’

‘I’m afraid we can’t give out that information over the phone.’

‘He was admitted twenty years ago, but I’ve only just found out about it.’

‘Like I said, we have patient confidentiality to consider.’

Martha rubbed her forehead and squeezed her eyes shut. ‘I’m a relative. He’s my uncle.’

‘If you have the name and number of someone on the patient’s clinical team, and if the patient has approved it, I can let you speak to them.’

The woman sounded like she got this all day. She was a rock.

‘Well, obviously I don’t have that information,’ Martha said, ‘or I wouldn’t be wasting my time talking to you.’

‘I’m very sorry, but I can’t help you.’

She didn’t sound sorry.

‘His name’s John or Johnny Lamb. Can you just look him up?’

‘Maybe I didn’t make myself clear,’ the woman said. ‘It is illegal for me to divulge that information over the phone.’

‘OK, can you suggest how I might find out if someone is a patient there?’

‘Under the Freedom of Information Act, anyone who requests non-personal information held by the State Hospital, subject to certain conditions and exemptions, is entitled to receive it.’

‘Well I’m requesting it now,’ Martha said. ‘So fucking tell me.’

‘All requests must be made in writing. By law, we must respond to requests within twenty working days, but we can ask for more details in order to identify the information requested.’

She was obviously reciting from memory.

‘Twenty days? In writing?’ Martha clawed at her face. Her blood felt overheated.

‘I’m sorry, that’s the best we can do,’ the woman said.

‘OK, thanks for nothing.’ Martha hung up.

She shook her head at Billy and V. ‘Freedom of information, we can apply in writing, find out in a month.’

‘Or we could go there and see what we can find out,’ Billy said.

Half a dozen horses flicked their tails at a trough or chewed on the long grass. Behind them was a twenty-foot fence topped with tight spools of razor wire. Behind the razor wire, the prison hospital.

Martha was driving Cal’s Mini, Billy in the passenger seat. They’d left the office and hoofed it down to The Basement. Cal was reluctant when she told him why they wanted his car, but he gave in, she would only get a taxi for two hundred quid otherwise. He told Billy to watch out for her. Gave him a look.

Halfway to Carstairs she got a call from Cal. She switched her phone off without answering, knew he would just be nagging her.

Billy spent the journey down the A702 on his phone, reading out bits of blurb from the Carstairs website, surfing around trying to find out anything about Johnny Lamb. He called someone he knew at the sheriff court, but the records of the John Lamb case were archived, so the guy couldn’t get them easily without a written application.

What was it about the old days, when everything had to be done in writing? Martha couldn’t remember the last time she’d had to put pen to paper to write an actual letter. Stone Age stuff.

She pulled over to the side of the road to get a better view of the place. Anonymous low buildings, yellow and grey, built from the sixties onwards, with some new building work off in a corner of the grounds, cranes and diggers shifting earth.

The plan was that they didn’t really have a plan. According to the website, you were supposed to fill out an online form to apply for a visit. That would be passed on to the clinical team, who would consider it, discuss it with the patient if appropriate, then get back to you in writing. In writing, Jesus, this place was keeping the pen and paper business going single-handed. Then you were meant to get an authorised pass with your picture on it.

But there were ways round, that’s what Billy said, there were ways round anything.

 Martha pulled the Mini away from the verge and headed towards the visitors’ car park. The horses didn’t raise their heads.

No problems getting a parking space, no sign of security yet either. Large NHS-branded signs:
ALL VISITORS PLEASE GO TO RECEPTION
.

They got out and looked at each other over the roof of the Mini, the sun glinting off the surface between them. Martha laid her hand on the car roof. The spring sunshine wasn’t enough to warm the metal under her fingers.

‘You think he’ll still be here?’ she said. ‘After all this time?’

‘I have no idea,’ Billy said. ‘Maybe he died.’

‘Gordon’s obit said he was a survivor.’

‘A survivor?’

‘As in “Ian Lamb is survived by”.’

Martha thought for a moment then pointed at reception. ‘You’d better do the talking. It could be the same woman from the phone, she might recognise my voice.’

Billy shrugged. ‘OK.’

They went in. Another bland waiting room, beige furniture, cheap wooden reception desk. Martha knew from looking that it was the same woman she’d spoken to. Hard face, weathered beyond her years, spiky brown hair, clumpy body under blouse and skirt. Name tag said ‘Brenda’.

Billy started talking to her. Martha hung back, pretending to examine a leaflet on ‘Living with Schizophrenia’, listening in to the pair of them. Billy was getting nowhere. She wanted to run over and grab the woman by her blouse and scream in her face. Billy was never going to get in this way, all the sweet-talking in the world wasn’t going to win Brenda over.

Martha took a deep breath and put the leaflet down, then walked out the front door without looking back.

She walked to the nearest fence. Gazed up at the razor wire. Imagined what it must feel like to be on the other side of that.

A guy in a hoodie with a Rangers tattoo on his neck stood outside the front door, smoking a roll-up.

She walked away from his gaze and round the corner. Tried a fire exit. Locked. Walked on further, just a thin strip of grass and a worn, muddy path. The path meant that people came this way, so she followed it.

Round a second corner the path ended at another exit, this time with an electronic keypad and lock fitted. Three women in tabards were standing outside, sucking on cigarettes. They were all middle-aged with bad dye jobs, blonde, henna and some crazy purple. Heavy lines on their faces, years of hard graft and nicotine. She kept walking towards them and they glanced up at her.

‘Excuse me,’ Martha said.

‘Aye, doll?’ said the one with henna streaks.

Martha put on her little-girl voice, innocent eyes. ‘I think I’ve got a wee bit lost. I’m supposed to be visiting someone.’

The woman took another drag, then pointed behind Martha. ‘Reception’s round that way, don’t know how you missed it.’

‘Thanks,’ Martha said. ‘Sorry, I don’t normally lose my bearings, I’m a bit all over the place.’

She went to turn, then stopped. ‘I’m visiting my uncle, maybe you’ve met him? Johnny Lamb.’

Henna smiled at the other two, who gave her a knowing look back. ‘Oh aye, we all know Johnny Lamb. Took turns cleaning his ward. Never forget a handsome face like his. You’re Johnny’s niece?’

Martha nodded.

‘Fucking idiots,’ Henna said.

‘What?’ Martha’s heart hammered away at her ribs.

‘Johnny got transferred, did they not tell you?’

Martha shook her head.

‘Didnae look old enough to have a pretty grown-up niece, mind you. Have you visited him before? I huvnae seen you about.’

‘No, I just moved back to Scotland after years away.’

‘Don’t think he ever mentioned a niece.’ Henna was scratching her chest, remembering. ‘Just a brother.’

‘That’ll be my dad, Ian.’

‘Ian, aye, that’s right.’ Henna turned to the others. ‘The brother came to visit a few times recently, didn’t he?’

The blonde one nodded.

Martha’s throat was dry. ‘How recently?’

‘Up until Johnny got transferred,’ Blondie said. ‘Around Christmas time.’

‘Where was he transferred to?’

Blondie narrowed her eyes. ‘Surely your dad would’ve told you?’

Martha put on a sorry face. She was really hamming it up. ‘We don’t get on, me and my dad, haven’t spoken in two years.’

The three women looked as if they understood bad fathers all too well.

‘My old man was a bastard, too,’ Henna said. ‘But take it from me, you’ll want to make it up between yeh afore it’s too late. My da’s deid now.’

‘Do you know where Johnny was transferred to?’

They all shook their heads.

‘His brother signed off on it,’ Blondie said, ‘at least that’s what Johnny said anyway, so it’ll be the nearest psychiatric hospital to where your da lives, probably.’

‘Royal Edinburgh, would that make sense?’

‘Could be,’ Henna said, throwing her fag butt into the grass. ‘Sounds like you’ve had a wasted journey. Idiots in this place dinnae know their arses from their elbows.’

Martha put on a big smile. ‘Well, thanks for all your help anyway.’

Henna shrugged. ‘No worries, doll.’

Martha turned and walked away, trying to keep her stride steady on the muddy grass.

Billy was sitting on the bonnet of the Mini, scrolling on his phone. He looked up when he heard her footsteps.

‘Where did you go?’

Martha unlocked the car. ‘Just for a mooch around. How did you get on at reception?’

Billy shook his head as he got up. ‘Totally stonewalled.’

‘Lucky one of us got somewhere then.’ She couldn’t stop grinning.

Billy looked at her. ‘What?’

Martha waved behind her. ‘Got chatting to some cleaners on a fag break. They used to clean Johnny’s ward.’

‘Used to? So he’s dead?’

‘Still alive, but he’s been moved.’

‘Where?’

‘Royal Edinburgh, most likely. My dad signed the paperwork.’

‘When was this?’

‘A few weeks ago.’

Martha got into the car and Billy followed. Inside, Martha looked at him closely. ‘I know I’m new to this reporting thing, but this is all pretty suspect, yeah?’

‘Yeah.’

Martha turned the engine on and revved. ‘That’s what I thought.’ She took a deep breath. ‘I was just there, as well.’

‘Where?’

‘The Royal. That’s where I got the ECT this morning. It’s the only psychiatric hospital in Edinburgh. Because Ian approved his release Johnny would’ve been sent there, at least that’s what my cleaning woman reckoned.’

‘So, what now?’

‘We go to the Royal.’