Garnethill

Chapter 21

Next morning Maureen adopted an English accent and phoned the Northern from Leslie's house. She asked reception to put her through to Frank in the office.

As soon as he lifted the receiver she realized that she should have thought it through beforehand. She didn't know who she was going to pretend to be, she didn't even know what story she was going to tell. She asked him whether he had seen the article about the superannuation mix-up, it was in the newsletter, he had probably read it. Well, Frank said, he remembered something about that, yes. Stunned that the story was hanging together, she staggered on: obviously it wasn't her fault, she had been called in to sort out her predecessor's mistakes, wasn't that always the way? Frank agreed vehemently. Maureen couldn't imagine Frank being called in to sort piss from shit but she didn't say so.

He agreed to get her a printout of the names and national insurance numbers of the full-time medical staff spanning ten years, from 1985 to 1995, excluding agency, and Maureen would send a courier to pick it up at two that day.

She looked at the phone before she put it down. Martin was right: Frank was really stupid.

Frank finished his sticky blueberry muffin and played another three games of Tetris. This was a bit lucky. If he did them this favor they might remember if he applied for a job at the regional office. A job in a real office. An office where you wouldn't be surrounded by bloody loonies.

At ten past two she walked into the office wearing a crash helmet and Leslie's leathers. Frank handed her a brown envelope. Curious as to how far she could push it, she made him sign a receipt for a novel she had bought a couple of weeks before. She walked down the back stairs and out of the hospital with her visor down, feeling untouchable, like a movie hero. Leslie had kept the engine running and the stand up on the bike. Maureen swung her leg over the seat and Leslie turned, spraying gray gravel. The lights farther down the road changed, causing a break in the traffic, and they pulled out into the road.

Back in the Drum they broke open a quarter bottle of whisky, took a slug each and opened the envelope. Frank had printed out a single sheet from his files, all medical personnel employed at the Northern covering the years 1985 to 1995, excluding agency. It was a list of national insurance numbers. No names. Frank really was a stupid bastard.

As they finished the whisky Leslie showed her how to sharpen the end of the stabbing comb into a point. She drew the long handle of the comb across a black wedge of silicon carbide, backward and forward, turning it over at the end to sharpen both sides, dragging it on the diagonal to give it an edge. She wrapped a J-cloth over the teeth and gave it to Maureen to have a go. She scratched the handle over the block, turning it over and drawing it through. She kept going until she brought it to a neat point with an inch-long sharpened ledge on either side of the tip. Leslie rubbed margarine into it to disguise the scratches.

Maureen thought about the stabbing comb as Leslie drove her back to Maryhill and Benny's house, she thought about it and it warmed her, as the remembrance of a great love would.

Leslie dropped her at the bollards in the Maryhill Road.

Benny was in the hall, on his way out to the library. "Maureen, where were you yesterday?" he said, and hugged her. "How're ye keeping?"

She stood stiff in his arms, trying to remember how she used to react to him when he touched her. She pressed herself into his chest and guessed. "I'm fine, Benny," she said, drawing back and looking him straight in the eye, holding his cheek with the flat of her hand. She looked at him, willing her suspicions about him away, but they refused to subside.

He squeezed her shoulders. "Good, wee hen." He grinned. "That's good. You've changed your hair. It's really nice."

"Yeah, I got it cut."

"God, is that whisky on your breath?"

"Urn, yeah."

"Maureen, watch yourself, it's only three in the afternoon."

"I'm watching myself," she said resentfully, and pulled away from him. "I'm just… I just wanted some today, that's all."

"Naw" – he pulled her back by the arm – "don't be like that." He hugged her again and she found herself more uncomfortable than the first time.

"Just see ye don't end up like me, that's all I mean," he said, and let her go. "Spending your days and nights in smoky rooms with a bunch of old alkies."

The police had phoned for her and she was to phone the Stewart Street station. He said he'd made dinner for her and left it in the oven. She shouted a cheerful cheerio after him as he shut the front door behind himself.

She slipped on the oven gloves and took out the casserole dish, feeling the warmth seeping through the cheap gloves. She lifted the lid. It was a mouthwatering cheesy pasta thing. A large portion had been sliced out of it: the fresh cliff of cheese and pasta was collapsing slowly, sliding down and filling the base of the dish. She cut herself a portion and dirtied a plate and some cutlery with it before dropping it into a plastic bag ready for the bin. She arranged the plate and fork on the draining board to look like the disregarded crockery of a happy eater. She ducked into the bedroom and checked the bottom drawer. The CD was still there, unmoved since she put it back.

Her T-shirt was covered in itchy shards of hair from the night before. She went into Benny's cupboard and found the mustard crew-neck jumper she had brought from the house. She took the jaggy T-shirt off and pulled the jumper over her head, opened her leather rucksack and lifted most of her clothes from the shelf, shoving them into the bag. Her hand hovered over the Anti Dynamos T-shirt. She took it for spite and left a pair of knickers and a T-shirt on the shelf in case Benny noticed everything was gone and got suspicious.

Joe McEwan couldn't come to the phone but the officer knew who she was and told her they wanted to see her at the station as soon as possible. He offered to send a car for her but she said it was okay, she'd make her own way down. He didn't object and she took it as a good sign. She collected the bag of food from the kitchen sink and dumped it in a street bin.

She was halfway down the road to the police station when she remembered Jim Maliano's Celtic shirt and jogging trousers sitting on the floor of the cupboard among the dirty socks. She would have to go back to Benny's at some point.

HUGH MCASKILL CAME TO collect her from the reception desk with Inness at his back. Inness had shaved off his gay-biker mustache. It may have been because she was used to seeing him with it or because the freshly shaved skin was a lighter color than the rest of his face but his top lip seemed odd and prominent. Her eyes kept straying to it of their own accord. Inness saw her looking at it and turned his head away to shake off her gaze.

They took her to an interview room on the ground floor. McAskill seemed to be in charge. He gave her a cheeky encouraging look, took a big chocolate bar out of his pocket, ripped the packaging down the middle with his thumbnail and broke the chocolate into squares. He put it down in the middle of the table, setting it on top of the wrapper like a serving suggestion. "Wire in," he said, sucking on a square.

Inness took two and Maureen took one. "Thanks," she said, and wondered why he was always so nice to her.

Inness turned on the tape recorder, told it who was present and what the time was.

"Now, Miss O'Donnell," said McAskill, swallowing his chocolate and addressing her in a formal telephone voice, "the first thing I need to ask you is whether or not you've ever seen this before."

He produced a knife from a crumpled paper bag and put it on the table. It was a new Sabatier kitchen knife with an eight-inch stainless-steel blade and a black wooden handle. She had seen them in shops. They were expensive. A paper tag was attached to it with a piece of string, a long number scrawled on it in Biro. It had been cleaned and polished, the blade flawlessly reflecting the fluorescent bulb above their heads, a pitiless slit of light sitting on the table.

Maureen wished she hadn't taken the chocolate. Her mouth was dry and the sticky paste was stuck under her tongue and up between her gums and cheeks. Her mouth began to water at the sight of the knife in a way she found disturbing.

"Is that it?" she asked, staring at it.

"Is it what?" said McAskill.

"Is that what was used on Douglas?"

"Yes, I'm afraid so. Have you seen it before?"

"No," said Maureen.

"You sure?"

"Yeah."

"Okay," he said, and handed it to Inness. Inness put it back in the bag. She thought it was a stupid way to keep a sharp knife, blade down in a paper bag.

"Where did you find it?" she asked.

"How do you mean?" said McAskill uncomfortably.

"Where was the knife? Was it out the back of the flat?"

"We found it in the house. Why?"

"I just thought you'd have asked me about it before, that's all."

"We only just found it," said Inness.

"A week and a bit afterward?" said Maureen.

"It was quite well hidden," muttered Inness, lifting another square of chocolate and putting it in his mouth.

Maureen wondered how well hidden anything could be in a flat the size of a fifty-quid note with ten men raking through it.

"Can I ask you something else?" she said, addressing McAskill this time.

"Depends what it is," he said carefully.

"Have you any idea who did this?"

"We're following a number of leads," he said, shuffling his papers.

"One more question?"

He smiled kindly. "Go on, then, try me."

"Did you talk to Carol Brady?"

"Aye," he said. "She's not your greatest fan."

"Yeah, I know that."

"She's convinced you blackmailed him for that money."

"I didn't even know it was there, honestly."

"We've seen the security video at the bank," said McAskill. "Douglas paid in the money himself."

"When?"

"First thing in the morning on the day he was killed."

Maureen could almost see the time-lag security video, blurred and gray, Douglas jolting across the floor to the teller like a bad animation.

"Can you think of a reason for him to pay that much money into your account?" asked McAskill.

"Sorry?"

"Why would he do that? It was pretty obvious the other day that you had no idea it was in there. What would he give you money for?"

"I don't know." She looked at the table and wondered, "Maybe he wanted me to pass the money on to someone else and he didn't get the chance to tell me about it."

McAskill nodded but didn't seem convinced. "Okay," he said. "We'll look into that."

"Did you find out who'd told Carol Brady where I was staying?"

"I'm afraid I can't tell you that," said McAskill stiffly, rolling his eyes and nodding at the tape recorder. Maureen didn't understand the signal. He nodded at it again. Maureen leaned across the table and pressed the Stop button on the tape recorder.

"No!" said McAskill, lurching over the table and pulling her hand away. "You have to tell us you want the tape off and we need to say we're going to, right?" He switched it on again.

Inness said, "The tape was turned off at five-thirteen by the interviewee, Miss Maureen O'Donnell. Miss O'Donnell, did you just turn the tape off?"

"Yes, I did just turn the tape off."

"Do you want me to turn the tape off before we continue the interview?"

"Yes."

"Miss O'Donnell has requested that the tape recorder be turned off at this point in time," said Inness. "I am turning it off at five-fourteen and the interview will continue." He flicked the switch and turned excitedly to McAskill.

"I don't particularly want a tape of me telling you this," said Hugh, "but a young officer's facing disciplinary action over it. We went to see Brady and she gave us his name."

"Without blinking an eye," said Inness, taking another square of chocolate. "She just said his name and shut the door." He popped it in his mouth.

"Nice lady," said Maureen.

McAskill smiled. "Lovely."

"Where did the money in my account come from?"

Inness jumped in. "Mr. Brady emptied his own account. Took out thirty-odd thousand in big notes."

"God," said Maureen. "How does anyone get that much money in their account in the first place?"

"That's none of your business," said Inness defensively, his incisors smeared brown. Maureen looked at his bald top lip. He lifted his arm stiffly, rested his elbow on the table and cupped his hand over his mouth.

"He'd saved it over a number of years," said McAskill. "His wife didn't even know he had the account until he died."

Maureen took out her cigarettes and lit one. The smoke mingled with the sweet chocolate in her mouth, turning both tastes bad.

"Where do you think the rest of the money went?"

She shrugged, mulling over the lump of money in Siobhain McCloud's handbag. The other fifteen thousand couldn't be in there: it would take seven hundred and fifty twenties to make it up and the roll couldn't possibly have had that in it. "I dunno where it went. I suppose I'll have to give the money back?"

"No," said McAskill. "He gave it to you. It's yours."

She didn't know why Douglas had given it to her but she had a bad feeling about it. She didn't really want the money. "Does Mrs. Brady still think I did it?"

"Yeah," McAskill said. "She's not interested in any evidence, she's just certain it was you."

"Certain," echoed Inness, picking up another piece of chocolate.

McAskill nudged Inness and jerked his head toward the tape recorder. "Okay," he said, "I'm going to put the tape back on now, Maureen, if that's all right with you. I need a record of me telling you this next thing."

"Sure," said Maureen.

He turned on the tape. "Anyway, Miss O'Donnell, we have finished our examination of the house and you are welcome to return at your convenience."

"Right," said Maureen tentatively. "What happens about the mess? Do you clean it up or do I?"

"It's down to you, really. It should be covered on your home insurance. We only clean the place if the person living there can't clean it on their own, like a disabled or an old person."

"Right," she said, her heart sinking at the thought of her minimal house insurance. "I see. Is that it, then?"

McAskill looked at his notebook. "Yes," he said. "That seems to be all for now."

On the way down to the lobby she asked them if she could see Joe McEwan. Inness smirked. "I don't think he'll be too happy to see you," he said. "You weren't very ladylike the last time."

"I know. I wanted to apologize about that."

"We can tell him you're sorry," said Inness.

"Well, I'd really like to see him about something else as well."

McAskill disappeared through the double doors under the stairs. Inness gave her a dirty look, for no reason, and wandered off to chat to the policeman on reception. When McAskill came back he was smiling. "You've got two minutes," he said to Maureen.

McEwan followed him out of the door. "What can I do for you?" he said sharply.

Maureen led him away from the other two. "Listen, I wanted to ask you about something. Remember you said something about Benny's no pro case? Could you tell me what he was arrested for?"

"I certainly could not," he said, looking at her as if she'd just suggested he fuck a pig while she stabbed it. "I can't tell you what was on someone else's police record."

She should never have called him an arsehole. "Just asking," she mumbled.

"Was there anything else? I'm busy finding out about your brother."

"My brother didn't do it, Joe."

"We'll see," he said, meanly.

"Come on, he's got an alibi for the whole day."

He ignored her comment. "Was there anything else?" he asked.

"No, nothing else." fine.

McEwan swanned off back through the double doors, leaving them swinging, saloon-style, in his wake.

Inness was still chatting to the officer on the reception desk. McAskill sidled up to her, looking at the floor. "No pro," he said, his lips moving hardly at all, his voice a breathy whisper. "Inverness, nineteen ninety-three. Committed a breach outside a warehouse. Demanding money from a man. Six months afterward the same guy was arrested for running a stolen credit card operation covering the whole northeast. Your friend was very, very lucky he was done for breach. His case was decided before they found out what it really meant. He must have been working with the big boss."

"Could the psychiatrist who saw him have known this?"

"If your pal didn't tell him at the time he'd know afterward. It was all over the papers."

Maureen loved nonsensical stories and when Benny first got sober he used to keep her up nights telling her about his drinking. If it was an innocent incident he would have told her about it. "Thanks for telling me that, Hugh," she said. "It makes sense of some things."

He was showing her out of the door when she turned to him. "Hugh," she said, "why are you so nice to me?"

"I'm not that nice."

"But telling me about Benny, and the chocolate and stuff."

"You could have found out about your pal, it would just have taken a long time, but it's all a matter of public record."

"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.