Dangerous Women

SOFT SPOT by IAN RANKIN

Most evenings, Dennis Henshall took his work home with him.

Not that anyone knew. He reckoned most of his fellow prison warders wouldn’t care one way or the other. As far as they were concerned, Dennis was a bit on the odd side anyway, sitting most of the day in his office, poring over correspondence, ruler and razor blade at the ready. He had to be careful with those blades: one of the rules of the job. Kept them under lock and key, away from deft fingers. Each morning, he would unlock his desk drawer and count them, then remove one, only ever the one. When that got blunt, he’d take it home with him, dump it in the kitchen bin. The desk drawer back in his office stayed locked the rest of the day, and mostly his door was kept locked, too, except when he was inside. A two-minute break to go pee, still he locked the door behind him, the blade back in its drawer, that drawer locked, too. You could never be too careful.

His filing cabinet was secured with a vertical metal bar connecting all four drawer handles. The first time the Governor had visited, he’d made no comment about this added precaution, but hadn’t been able to stop himself glancing over at the tall green cabinet throughout his conversation with Dennis.

The other warders, they reckoned Dennis was hiding stuff; porn mags and whiskey. Hid himself in his office, one hand around the bottle neck, the other busy in his trousers. He did little to dispel the myth, quite liked the fact that this other life was being invented for him. In point of fact, the cabinet contained nothing but alphabetized correspondence: letters connecting inmates to their friends and loved ones on the outside. These were the letters that had been deemed UTF: Unable to Forward. A letter could be deemed UTF if it gave away too much information about prison routine, or if it seemed threatening. Swearing and sexual content were fine, but most letters remained coy, once it was realized that Dennis, as prison censor, would be reading any correspondence first.

This was his job, and he carried out the work diligently. His ruler would underline a contentious sentence, and he would get to work with the razor blade. Excised sections were kept in the filing cabinet, glued to a sheet of stationery with typed comments including date, the inmate’s identity, and reason for excision. Each morning a fresh delivery of mail awaited him; every afternoon, he checked the outgoing post. These envelopes were prestamped and addressed, but not stuck down until Dennis had authorized their contents.

He opened incoming mail with a wooden letter opener he’d bought from a curio shop on Cockburn Street. It was African, the handle carved to resemble an elongated head. This, too, he kept locked away whenever he vacated his office. His room hadn’t always been an office. He guessed it had started life as some sort of store. Maybe eight feet square, with two small, barred windows high up on one wall. There were metal pipes in the corner opposite the filing cabinet, and sounds from outside seemed to travel through them: distorted voices, barked orders, clanging and rattling. Dennis had taped a couple of posters to his walls. One showed the somber emptiness of Glencoe – a place he’d never been, despite regular promises to himself – while the other was a photograph of one of the East Neuk ’s fishing villages, taken from the harbor wall. Dennis liked them both equally. Staring at one or the other, he could transport himself to Highland wilderness or coastal haven, providing the briefest of respites from the sounds and smells of HMP Edinburgh.

The smells were worst in the morning: unaired cells thrown open, the great unwashed scratching and belching as they slouched toward breakfast. He seldom had contact-actual contact-with these men, yet he felt he knew them. Knew them through their letters, filled with clumsy sentences and spelling mistakes, yet eloquent for all that, and sometimes even poignant. Give the kids a big hug from me… I try to think about the good times only… Every day I don’t see you, a bit more of me crumbles away… When I get out, well start over…

Getting out: A lot of the letters spoke of this magical time, when past mistakes would be erased and fresh beginnings made possible. Even old lags, the ones who’d contrived to spend more of their life in prison than out, promised that they’d never stray again, that they’d make everything all right. I’ll be missing our anniversary again, Jean, but you’re never far from my thoughts… Small comfort for the wives like Jean, whose own letters ran to ten or twelve sides, crammed with the daily agonies of life without a breadwinner. Johnny’s running wild, Tam. The doctor says it’s what’s contributing to my condition. He needs a dad, but all I get are more of the tablets.

Jean and Tam: Their life apart had become a sort of soap opera to Dennis. Every week they exchanged letters, even though Jean visited her husband almost as regularly. Sometimes Dennis watched the visitors as they arrived, trying to identify letter writers. Then he’d study them as they made their way to this table or that, helping him match inmate and correspondent. Tam and Jean always squeezed hands, never hugged or kissed, seeming almost embarrassed at the less restrained behavior of couples around them.

Dennis seldom censored their letters, even on the odd occasions when something contentious cropped up. His own wife had left him a decade ago. He still kept some framed photos of her on the mantelpiece. In one of them, she was holding his hand, smiling for the camera. He might be watching TV, seated with a can of beer in his hand, and suddenly his eyes would start drifting toward that picture. Like Glencoe and the harbor, it took him to a different place. Then he would get up and cross to the dining table, where he’d have laid out the letters.

He didn’t take every last piece of correspondence home, just those concerning relationships that interested him. He’d bought a fax machine that doubled as a copier-cheaper, the shop assistant had informed him, than buying an actual photocopier. He would take the letters from his leather satchel and feed them into the machine. Next morning, the originals went back into the office with him. He knew he was doing something he shouldn’t, knew the Governor would be angry with him, or at the very least dismayed. But Dennis couldn’t see what harm he was doing. No one else was going to read them. They were for him alone.

One recent inmate was proving an intriguing specimen. He wrote a couple of times a day – obviously had plenty of money for stamps. His girlfriend was called Jemma, and she’d been pregnant but had lost the baby. Tommy was worried that he was to blame, that the shock of his conviction had caused her to abort. Dennis had yet to lay eyes on Tommy, knew he could say a few reassuring words to the kid.

But he wouldn’t. Wouldn’t get involved.

Another inmate, first name of Morris, had interested Dennis a few months previously. Morris had written one or two letters a week – steamy love letters. Always, it seemed to Dennis, to a different woman. Morris had been pointed out to him in the breakfast queue. The man looked nothing special: a scrawny specimen with a lopsided grin.

“He ever get visitors?” Dennis had asked the warder.

“You’re joking, aren’t you?”

And Dennis had just shrugged, puzzled. The women Morris wrote to, they lived in the city. No reason for them not to visit. His address and prisoner number were printed at the top of each letter.

And then the Governor had asked Dennis to “nip along” to his office, informing him that Morris was banned forthwith from sending letters. Turned out, the sod was picking names out of the phone book, writing to complete strangers, sending detailed accounts of his fantasies.

The warders had laughed about it afterward: “Reckoned if he sent out enough of them, he’d get lucky eventually,” one had explained. “Maybe he would have, too. Some women on the outside go for the hardened con…”

Ah, yes, the hardened con. Plenty of those in HMP Edinburgh. But Dennis knew who really ran the show: Paul Blaine. Blaine was a cut above the muggers and junkies whose orbit around him he managed to ignore. When he walked through the prison halls, it was as if he’d surrounded himself with some invisible force field, so that no one came within several feet of him, unless he wanted them there. He had a “lieutenant” called Chippy Chalmers, whose lurking presence acted as a reminder of the force field. Not that anyone reckoned Blaine needed a minder. He was six three, thick-shouldered, and kept his hands half-clenched. Everything he did, he did slowly, with deliberation. He wasn’t here to make enemies or rub the warders up the wrong way. He just wanted to serve his time and head on out to where his empire still awaited.

Nevertheless, from the moment he’d walked in, he’d been the jail’s natural leader. The gangs and factions tiptoed around him, showing respect. Six years he was serving, having finally been nabbed on tax evasion, deception and fraud-probably out in a little over three, a couple of months already under his belt. He’d lost some weight since arriving, but looked the better for it, despite the gray tinge to his cheeks-same chalky look all cons ended up with, “prison tan,” they called it. When Blaine ’s wife came visiting, more warders than normal crowded into the hall, not because anything was going to happen, but because Blaine had married well.

“Achingly well,” one warder had whispered to Dennis with a wink.

Her name was Selina. At twenty-nine, she was ten years Blaine ’s junior. When the warders discussed her over break-time tea and sandwiches, Dennis had to lock his mouth shut. Thing was, he knew more about her than they did.

He knew just about everything.

She lived at an address in Bearsden, on the posh outskirts of Glasgow, visited her husband every fortnight rather than weekly, even though she was only forty-odd miles away. But she did write. She wrote four or five letters to every one of his. And the things she said…

I miss your hard-ons! See, Paul, I’m totally, absolutely lovestruck. If you were here, I’d straddle you till morning…

Whole passages like this were intertwined with gossip and the everyday: I’m helping Elaine at Riddrie tomorrow. Perhaps ring our Bill, lift Elaine’s morale?

These snippets appealed to Dennis every bit as much as the more personal stuff, giving him a feel for Selina’s life. In one of her early letters, she’d even included a Polaroid of herself, posed in short skirt and halter top, head tilted, hands on hips. More photos had followed. Dennis had tried copying them, but they wouldn’t fit into his fax machine, so he’d gone to a newsagent’s instead and used the machine there. The copies were grainy, far from perfect. Still, they went into his collection.

I tried satisfying myself in bed last night, but it wasn’t the same. How could it be? I had a photo of you on the pillow beside me, a far cry from the real thing. Hope the pics I’m sending are cheering you up. Not much else to report. Fred’s off up north. (Denise isn’t talking to him-and not keeping sober!)

At other times, she spoke of how difficult it was, making ends meet. She hadn’t found a job yet, but was looking. Dennis had done a bit of digging, finding newspaper reports that suggested that police had “failed to find missing Blaine millions.” Millions? Then what was Selina complaining about?

Last time she’d visited, Dennis had asked a warder to let him know. He’d been a bit nervous-no idea why-as he’d walked into the hall. And there she was, seated with her back to him, one leg crossed over the other, skirt high up on her thighs, showing a tanned, muscular calf. Tight white T-shirt with a pink cashmere jersey buttoned over it. Blonde hair, lots of it, cascading down one shoulder.

“Isn’t she something?” the warder had grinned.

Even better than her photos, Dennis felt like saying. Then he’d noticed Blaine ’s eyes on him, and averted his gaze just as Selina was turning in her seat to check what had distracted her husband’s attention from her.

Dennis had hurried back to his office. But a few days later, while passing through one of the halls, he’d found Blaine and Chalmers walking in his direction.

“Lovely, isn’t she?” Blaine had said.

“What’s that?”

“You know what I mean.” Blaine stopped directly in front of him, looking him up and down. “I suppose I should say thanks.”

“For what?”

A shrug. “I know how screws can be. Some of them would keep the photos to themselves…” Now a pause. “I’m told you’re the quiet type, Mr. Henshall. That’s good. I respect that. The letters… nobody else sees them but you?”

Dennis had managed to shake his head, holding Blaine ’s gaze.

“That’s good,” the gangster had repeated.

And he’d walked off, Chalmers half a step behind him, casting a baleful look back in Dennis’s direction.

More digging: Blaine in and out of trouble since he was at school. Gang leader at sixteen, terrorizing Glasgow ’s concrete suburbs. Jail time for the stabbing of a rival, then narrowly escaping the same fate for his role in the murder of another gangster’s son. Growing wise by now, starting to assemble that force field. A whole regiment of “soldiers” who’d do the time on his behalf. His reputation solidifying, so that he no longer needed to maim or threaten: Others were there to do it for him, leaving him to wear a respectable suit, working each day in an actual office, fronting a taxi firm, a security firm and a dozen other enterprises.

Selina had arrived on the scene as his receptionist, then secretary, elevated to P.A. before marrying him in front of a congregation like something out of The Godfather. But she was no dumb blonde: came from a good family, had studied at college. The more Dennis considered her, the harder he found it to conceive of her as “totally, absolutely lovestruck.” This, too, had to be a front. She wanted Blaine kept docile, feeding him fantasies. Why? One tabloid hack had suggested an answer: With her winning combination of brains and beauty-and the past guidance of a master manipulator-might this be one moll capable of running the whole shooting match, without getting caught in the cross fire?

Seated at his dining table, Dennis pondered this. Then he pored over her photographs and wondered some more. His food grew cold on its plate, the TV stayed off, and he reread her letters, in sequence… saw her in his mind’s eye, tanned legs, hair swept over one ear. Clear, innocent-looking eyes, a face that drew to it every stare available.

Brains and beauty. Put her together with her husband and you had Beauty and the Beast. Dennis forced himself to eat some of the congealing fry-up, and started counting down to the weekend.

Saturday morning, he parked his car curbside, across the road from her house. He’d been expecting something better. The papers had called it a “mansion,” but in reality it was a plain two-story detached house, maybe dating back to the 1960s. The front garden had been paved over to create a couple of parking spaces. A sporty-looking silver Merc sat on display. Beside it, a larger car had had a tarpaulin thrown over it. Dennis guessed this was Blaine ’s, kept under wraps until his return. There were net curtains covering every window, no sign of life behind them. Dennis checked his watch: not quite ten. He’d assumed she would sleep late at the weekend; most people he knew seemed to. For himself, he was always awake before dawn, never could get back to sleep again. This morning, he’d gone to a cafe near his home, reading the paper at a table as he sipped his tea, washing down the toast and jam. Now that he was here, he felt thirsty again, and realized he should have brought a flask with him, maybe some sandwiches and something to read. His wasn’t the only car on the street, but he knew people would start wondering about him if he sat for a whole morning. Then again, they were probably used to it: reporters and such like.

For want of anything else to do, he switched on the radio, tried eight or nine stations-Medium Wave and VHF-before settling on one that had a lot of classical music and not much talk between the tunes. It was another hour before anything happened. A car drew to a stop outside the house, horn blaring three times. It was an old Volvo, its color fading. The man who got out was medium height and medium build, hair slicked back from his forehead. He wore a black polo-neck, black denims, three-quarter-length black leather coat. And sunglasses, despite the slate-gray sky. Tanned, too, probably courtesy of one of the city’s tanning parlors. He pushed open the gate and walked up to the house, thumped on the door with his fist. There was something protruding from his mouth. Dennis thought it might be a cocktail stick.

Selina already had her coat on: a denim jacket with silver studs. Her white trousers were skin-tight. She pecked her visitor on the cheek, wriggled when he tried sliding his arms around her waist. She looked stunning, and Dennis realized he’d stopped breathing for a moment. He tried not to grip the steering wheel too tightly, wound his window down to try to catch what they were saying as they came down the path toward the waiting car.

The man leaned in toward Selina and whispered something. She thumped him on the shoulder.

“Fred!” she squealed. The man called Fred chuckled and smiled to himself. But now Selina was looking at his car and shaking her head.

“We’ll take the Merc.”

“What’s wrong with mine?”

“It looks like shit, Fred, that’s what. You want to take a girl shopping, you need a classier set of wheels.”

She went back into the house for her keys, while Fred opened the gates. Then the pair of them got into Selina’s car. Dennis didn’t bother trying to hide. Maybe part of him wanted her to see him, to know she had an admirer. But it was as if he was invisible, she was talking to Fred.

Fred? -

Fred’s off up north. Denise isn’t talking to him…

But Fred wasn’t up north; he was right here. Why had she lied? Maybe so her husband wouldn’t suspect.

“Naughty girl,” Dennis muttered to himself as he followed the small silver car.

Selina drove like a demon, but the traffic heading into the city was sluggish: all those Saturday shoppers. Dennis had little trouble keeping the Merc in view, and followed it into one of the multistories behind Sauchiehall Street. Selina waited on level three, while a woman backed out of the last empty bay. Dennis took a chance and headed up to the next level, where there were plenty of spaces. He locked his car and walked back down the ramp, just as Selina and Fred were heading into the shopping center.

They were like boyfriend and girlfriend: Selina trying on various permutations of clothes while Fred gave a nod or a shrug, growing fidgety and fed up after an hour. They’d moved from the center to an array of designer shops the other side of George Square. By now, Selina was carrying three bags, Fred a further four. She’d tried cajoling him into a brown suede jacket, but he’d bought nothing. So far, all the purchases were hers, and, Dennis noticed, paid for with her own cash. Several hundred pounds, by his estimate: peeled from rolls of notes in her jacket pockets.

So much for her complaints to Blaine about not having any money.

They settled on an Italian restaurant for lunch. Dennis decided he had time for a break. Ran into a pub to use the toilet, then into a shop for a sandwich and bottle of water, plus the early edition of the evening paper.

“What the hell am I doing?” he asked himself as he unwrapped the sandwich. But then he smiled, because he was enjoying himself. In fact, enjoying this Saturday more than any in recent memory. When they emerged from the restaurant, it looked as if Fred had been refreshed by more than an odd glass of wine. He had his free arm around Selina’s shoulders until he dropped some of the shopping. After that, he concentrated on carrying the bags. They headed back to the multistory. Dennis followed the Merc, realizing soon enough that it was headed for Bearsden and expedition’s end. The Merc was in the driveway as he drove past. Glancing to his left he was startled to find Selina staring at him as she closed her driver’s-side door. Her eyes narrowed, as if trying to place him. Then she turned and helped the still-groggy Fred into the house.

The Governor’s secretary, Mrs. Beeton, was good as gold when Dennis explained why he wanted the file.

“Recent letters have been mentioning someone called Fred. I want to check if he’s someone we should know about.”

This was good enough reason for Mrs. Beeton to seek out and hand over the file on Paul Blaine. Dennis thanked her and retreated to his office, locking his door behind him. The file was bulky; too much for him to think about photocopying. Instead, he sat down to read. He found Fred soon enough: Frederick Hart, nominally in charge of a taxi firm that was actually owned by Blaine. Hart had been in trouble for intimidating the competition, fighting over pitches and routes. Prosecuted but not convicted. There was nothing about a wife called Denise, but Dennis found what he was looking for in one of the newspaper cuttings. Fred was married with four teenage kids. Lived in an ex-council house with an eight-foot wall around it. There was even a grainy photo of the man, looking considerably younger, scowling as he left a court building

“Hello, Fred,” Dennis whispered.

When Selina’s next letter arrived, Dennis felt his heart pounding, as if it were meant for him rather than her husband. He sniffed the envelope, studied the handwritten address, took his time opening it. Unfolded the paper-just a single sheet, written on both sides.

Started to read.

It gets a bit lonely here with you not around. Denise drops in sometimes to go shopping.

Liar.

I go whole days on end and never set foot out of the house, so I know what it’s like to be banged up!

And Dennis reckoned he knew who was doing the banging.

He started taking evening drives to Bearsden. Sometimes he would park a few streets away and pretend he was a local out for a walk, managing to pass her house a couple of times, maybe pausing to check his watch, tie a shoelace, or answer an imaginary call on his cell phone. If the weather wasn’t great, he would sit in the car, or simply drive around. He got to know her estate, could even recognize one or two of the neighbors. And they, in turn, got to know him; or at least they knew his face. No longer a stranger, and therefore not suspicious. Maybe they reckoned he’d just moved into the area. He got nods and smiles and the occasional bit of chat. And then one evening, as he was driving into her street, he saw the For Sale sign. His first thought was: I could buy it! Buy it and be near her! But then he saw that the sign was firmly planted in Selina’s own driveway. Did Blaine know about this? Dennis didn’t think so; nothing had been mentioned in the correspondence. Of course, it might have been discussed during one of her visits, but he got the feeling this was yet another secret she was keeping from her husband. But why sell the house? Did it mean she really did have money worries? If so, what was she doing with pocketfuls of cash? Dennis stopped curbside and jotted down the phone number on the sign, tried calling on his cell phone, but was advised by a message that the solicitor’s office opened at nine in the morning.

He called again at nine the following morning, explaining that he was interested in the house. “Is the seller after a quick sale, do you think?” he asked.

“How do you mean, sir?”

“I just wondered if the price might be negotiable, say if someone came along with a solid offer.”

“It’s fixed price, sir.”

“That usually means they’re in a hurry to sell.”

“Oh, it’ll sell all right. I’d suggest that you arrange a viewing for this week, if you’re interested.”

“A viewing?” Dennis gnawed his bottom lip. “Maybe that’s an idea, yes.”

“I’ve got a cancellation this evening, if that suits.”

“This evening?”

“Eight o’clock.”

Dennis hesitated. “Eight o’clock,” he repeated.

“Excellent. And it’s Mr…”

He swallowed hard. “Denny. My name’s Frank Denny.”

“And do you have a contact number, Mr. Denny?”

Dennis was sweating. He offered his cell phone number.

“Terrific,” the woman said. “You’ll be shown round by a Mr. Appleby.”

“Appleby?” Dennis frowned.

“He works for us,” the woman explained.

“The owner won’t be there, then?” Dennis asked, starting to relax a little.

“Some owners prefer it that way.”

“All right… that’s fine. Eight o’clock, then.”

“Good-bye, Mr. Denny.”

“Thanks for all your help…”

He spent the rest of the day in a daze. In a final effort to clear his head, he went for a walk around the prison-the yard first, and then the halls. Some of the men knew him-he hadn’t always been a censor. Time was, he’d been a lockup, same as the others: working shifts and weekends, having to live with the smells of slopping-out and the kitchens. Some of his colleagues said he was daft for taking the vacant post of censor-it meant no chance of overtime.

“It suits me,” he’d explained at the time. The Governor had agreed. But now Dennis was beginning to wonder. His head was still swimming as he climbed the metal stairs to the upper level… he knew where he was headed, couldn’t seem to stop himself. Chalmers was resting his considerable weight against a whitewashed brick wall, guarding the open doorway next to him. Inside, Blaine was stretched out on a bed, head lying on his clasped hands.

“How are you today, Mr. Henshall?” he called, and Dennis realized he had come to a stop in the doorway. He folded his arms, as if there might be some reason for his visit.

“I’m all right. How about you?”

“Not feeling too great actually.” Blaine removed one hand slowly and patted his chest with it. “The old ticker isn’t what it used to be. Mind you, whose is?” Blaine smiled, and Dennis tried not to. “Must be nice for you, finishing your shift, getting to walk out of here. Down the pub for a pint… or is it straight home to a nice, warm missus?” Blaine paused. “Sorry, I forgot. Your wife left you, didn’t she? Was it another man?”

Dennis didn’t answer. Instead, he asked a question of his own: “What about your own wife?”

“Selina? Good as gold, she is. You know that… you read everything she gets up to.”

“She doesn’t visit as often as she could.”

“What’s the point? I’d rather she stayed away. This place clings to you-ever noticed when you go home at night, the way the smell’s still in your nostrils? Would you want a woman you love coming to a place like this?” He rested his head back down, staring at the ceiling of his cell. “Selina likes nothing better than sitting at home with her puzzles. Magazines full of them. Crosswords… that’s what she likes.”

“Really?” Dennis tried not to smile at this image of Selina.

“What-d’you-call-thems… acrobatics?”

“She likes acrobatics?” Dennis was betting she did.

Blaine shook his head. “A word like that. Good as gold, she is, you mark my words.”

“I’ll do that.”

“What about you, Mr. Henshall? Been a while since your wife scarpered-any women in your life?”

“That’s none of your business.”

Blaine chuckled. “I’ve never met a man yet who hasn’t had a soft spot for her,” he called out, as Dennis turned to go.

Dennis thinking: I’ll bet you haven’t. Maybe it wasn’t just Fred. Maybe there were others, fueling her shopping trips. Or she was spending her husband’s loot without his knowledge. And now was about to do a runner, taking it with her. Dennis realized something: He had power over her now, knew things about her she wouldn’t want Blaine to find out. Power over Fred, too, if it came to it. The thought warmed him during the rest of his walk.

“Mr. Denny?”

“That’s right,” Dennis said. “And you must be Mr. Appleby?”

“Come in, come in.”

Mr. Appleby was a short, overweight man in his late sixties, smartly attired and businesslike. He made Dennis add his name to a list on the table in the narrow hallway, then asked him if he needed a schedule. Dennis replied that he did, and a printed brochure was handed over: four pages of color photos of the house, along with details of the accommodation and grounds.

“Would you like the tour, or are you happy to look around by yourself?”

“I’ll be fine,” Dennis replied.

“Any questions, I’ll be right here.” And Mr. Appleby sat himself down on a chair, while Dennis pretended to be studying the schedule. He made his way into the living room, checked he wasn’t visible from the hall. Then he looked. The furniture was new-looking but gaudy: vivid orange sofa, a large TV and even larger cocktail cabinet. Magazines and newspapers had been crammed into a rack. Dennis noted that some of them were puzzle magazines, so maybe Blaine hadn’t been too wrong about Selina after all. There were no photos on display, no mementoes of foreign holidays. A mixture of ornaments, looking like a job lot from one of the bigger, trendier stores: narrow vases, paperweights, candlesticks. Heading back into the hall, he smiled at Mr. Appleby before making for the kitchen. A wall had been knocked through so that glass doors now led to a dining room with French doors leading out into the back garden. “Fitted kitchen units by Nijinsky,” the brochure said, adding that all appliances, curtains and floor coverings were included in the sale. Wherever Selina was headed, she was taking none of this with her.

The two final downstairs rooms were a cramped cloak-room/w.c. and what was described as “Bedroom 4” but was currently being used for storage: cardboard boxes, racks of women’s clothes. Dennis ran a hand down one of the dresses, rubbing the hem between finger and thumb. Then he pressed his nose to it, picking up the faintest trace of her perfume.

Upstairs, there were three bedrooms off the landing, the “master” featuring an “en suite by Ballard.” The master was the largest room by far, and the only one being used as a bedroom. Dennis slid the drawers open, touching her clothes. Pulled open the wardrobe, drank in the sight of her various dresses, skirts and blouses. There were more of Blaine ’s clothes, too, of course: a few expensive-looking suits, striped shirts with the cufflinks already attached. Would she dump them before leaving, Dennis wondered?

The other bedrooms seemed to comprise “his” and “hers” studies. In his: shelves of books-mostly crime and war novels, plus sports biographies-a desk covered in paperwork, and a music center with albums by Glen Campbell, Tony Bennett and others.

Selina’s study was something else again: more puzzle magazines, but everything kept neat. There was an unused knitting machine in one corner, a rocking chair in another. Dennis pulled a photograph album out from a shelf and flicked through it, stopping at a beach holiday, Selina in a pink bikini, a coy smile for the camera. Dennis glanced out into the hall, heard Mr. Appleby stifle a sneeze downstairs and then removed one of the photos, slipping it into his pocket. As he descended the staircase, he was reading the brochure again.

“A delightful family home,” Mr. Appleby told him.

“Absolutely.”

“And fixed price. You’ll need to be quick. I’d bet a pound to a penny, this’ll be gone by four o’clock tomorrow.”

“You think so?”

“Pound to a penny.”

“Well, I’ll sleep on it,” Dennis said, realizing that his hand was resting against his jacket pocket.

“You do that, Mr. Denny,” his guide said, opening the door for him.

When Dennis woke up next morning, he was surrounded by her.

He’d stopped at a late-opening shop and used their color copier. Decided not to stint: printed twenty slow copies. He could see that the shopkeeper wanted to ask him about the photo and the quantity, but the man knew better than to pry.

Pictures of her on his bed, on the sofa, laid out on his dining table. Even one on the floor of the hallway, left there when he’d dropped it. The original, he took to work with him, locking it in his desk. At visiting time that afternoon, there was a knock at his door. He unlocked it. One of the warders stood there, arms folded.

“You coming for a butcher’s?”

“I take it Mrs. Blaine is in the building,” Dennis commented, managing to sound calm while his heart pounded.

The warder spread his hands in front of him. “Showtime,” he said with a grin.

But, to Dennis’s surprise, Selina was not alone. She’d brought Fred with her. The pair of them sat opposite Blaine, Selina doing most of the talking. Dennis was appalled and impressed in equal measure. You’re about to leave your husband, and the last time you see him, you bring along the man who’s been keeping you warm at nights. But it was a dangerous game she was playing. Blaine would be furious when he found out, and he had plenty of friends on the outside. Dennis doubted he’d want Selina hurt: Blaine obviously loved her to bits. But Fred… Fred was another matter entirely. Killing would be too good for him. Yet there he sat, one arm slung over the back of the chair, casual as anything. Just visiting his old employer, his mate, nodding whenever Blaine deigned to speak to him, managing to keep just enough distance between Selina and him, so Blaine couldn’t read anything into the body language. Maybe he’d been explaining his fictitious jaunt “up north,” his return to Denise.

Dennis realized that he hated Fred, even without really knowing him. He hated who and what he was, hated the fact that he obviously made money yet drove a clapped-out car. Hated the way he’d put his arm around Selina that time in Glasgow. Hated that he had more money and probably more women than Dennis ever would have.

What the hell was Selina doing, wasting herself on him? It didn’t make sense. Except… except, she would need someone to take the blame when she fled, someone Blaine could take his anger out on. Dennis allowed himself a smile. Could she be so calculating, so clever? He didn’t doubt it, not for one second. Yes, she was playing with Fred, same as she was with her own, duped husband. It was perfect.

Apart from the one detail: Dennis himself, who felt he knew everything now. He realized that he had allowed his eyes to drift out of focus. When he blinked them clear, he saw that Selina had turned her head to look at him. Her eyes narrowed as she gave the briefest of smiles.

“Which one of us was that for?” the warder next to Dennis asked. Dennis himself had no doubt. She’d recognized him, maybe placed him as the man she’d seen driving past her house. She turned to say something to her husband, and Fred snapped round, glaring at the warders.

“Ooh, I’m scared,” the warder beside Dennis muttered, before starting to chuckle. But it wasn’t him Fred was looking at: It was Dennis.

Blaine himself just stared at the tabletop, nodding slowly, then said a few words to his wife, who nodded back. When it came time to leave, she gave Blaine a more effusive embrace than usual. It’s called the kiss-off, Dennis thought. She even waved at her husband as she walked away on her noisy two-inch heels. Blew him another kiss, while Fred allowed himself a glance around the room, sizing up the other women on display and rolling his shoulders, as if content that he was leaving with the classiest of the bunch.

Dennis walked back to his office and made a phone call.

“I’m afraid you’re too late,” he was told. “That property was sold this morning.”

He replaced the receiver. She was on her way… he might never see her again. And there was nothing he could do about it, was there?

Maybe not.

Half an hour later, he left his room, locking it behind him as usual. His walk through the prison took him right past Blaine ’s open cell door. Chalmers was on guard duty as usual.

“Visitor, boss,” he growled. Blaine had been seated on his bed, but rose to his feet, facing Dennis.

“What’s this I hear about you, Mr. Henshall? Seems you’ve taken a right shine to Selina. She saw you driving past the house.” Blaine took a step closer, his tone jocular but face set like stone. “Now why would you do a thing like that? Can’t think your employers would be too thrilled…”

“She must’ve made a mistake.”

“That right? She got the make of car and the color: green Vauxhall Cavalier. Ring any bells?”

“She’s made a mistake.”

“So you keep saying. I know I told you plenty of men come to fancy her, but they don’t all go to your extremes, Mr. Henshall. You been following her? Watching the house? That’s my house, too, you know. How many times you done it? Cruising past… peeking through the curtains…” Blood had risen to Blaine ’s cheeks, a tremble entering his voice. Dennis realized that he was sandwiched between these two men, Blaine and Chalmers. No other warders around.

“You a bit of a perv, Mr. Henshall? Locked in that room of yours, reading all those love letters… give you a hard-on, does it? No wife to go home to, so you start sniffing around other men’s. What’s the Governor going to think about that, eh?”

Dennis’s face creased. “You thick bastard! Can’t even see what’s under your nose! She’s out there spending all your loot, shacking up with your pal Fred. I’ve seen them. Now she’s sold the house and she’s clearing off. You just had your last conjugal visit, Blaine, only you’re too stupid to see it!”

“You’re lying.” Beads of sweat had appeared on Blaine ’s forehead. His face was almost puce, and his breathing sounded ragged.

“She’s been conning you from the minute you walked in here,” Dennis rushed on. “Telling you she’s hard up when she spends rolls of cash in every clothes shop in town. Goes shopping with Fred, in case you didn’t know. He carries her bags, carries them all the way into the house. He’s in there for hours.”

“Liar!”

“We’ll soon find out, won’t we? You can call home, see if the line’s been disconnected yet. Or wait for her next visit. Trust me, it’ll be a while coming…”

Blaine ’s hands went out, and Dennis flinched. But the man was hanging on to him, not attacking him. All the same, Dennis cried out, just as Blaine slumped to his knees, hands still gripping Dennis’s uniform. Chalmers was yelling for help, running feet approaching. Blaine choking, clutching at his chest now as he fell onto his back, legs writhing. Then Dennis remembered: old ticker isn’t what it used to be...

“I think it’s a coronary,” he said, as the first of the warders rushed in.

The Governor had asked for Dennis’s version, which he’d had time to think about. Just passing… stopped to chat… next thing, Blaine ’s collapsing.

“Seems to tie in with Chalmers’s version,” the Governor had said, to Dennis’s relief. Of course, Blaine might have other ideas, always supposing he made it.

“He going to be all right, sir?”

“The hospital will tell us soon enough.”

Rushed to the Western General, leaving Chalmers in the doorway of the cell, looking stunned. His only words: “I might not be seeing him again…”

Dennis retreated to his office, ignoring knocks at the door: other warders, wanting to hear the story. He took out the photograph of Selina in her pink bikini. Maybe she’d get away with it now, get everything she wanted. And Dennis would have helped.

And she might never know.

It was nearly going-home time when another call summoned him to the Governor’s office. Dennis knew it would be bad news, but when his boss spoke, he got the shock of his life.

“ Blaine ’s escaped.”

“Sorry, sir?”

“He’s fled the hospital. Looks like it was a setup. A man and a woman were waiting for him, one dressed as a nurse, the other an orderly. One of the escort team has a concussion, another’s lost a couple of teeth.” The Governor looked up at Dennis. “He tricked you, tricked all of us. Bastard wasn’t having a heart attack. His wife and another man came visiting today. Probably making final preparations.”

“But I…”

“You entered the picture at the wrong moment, Henshall. Because an officer was there at the time, we took it that bit more seriously.” The Governor returned to some paperwork. “Just a bit of bad timing on your part… but a major bloody headache for the rest of us.”

Dennis staggered back to his office. It couldn’t be… it couldn’t be. What the hell…? He sat dazed until well past going-home time. Drove home as if by remote control. Slumped into his chair. The story was on the evening news: dramatic escape from hospital trolley. So that had been the plan all along… sell the house and make a clean break, either as a couple or with Fred in tow. Fred: accomplice rather than lover. Scheming with Selina to set her husband free. He took out the copies of her correspondence with Blaine, reading each one through, looking to see if there was anything he’d missed.

No, of course there wasn’t. They could have made plans each time they met. Always the chance of being overheard, of lips being read. But that had to be the way it was. Nothing more or less to it… Dennis couldn’t face sitting here a moment longer, surrounded by her letters, her photos, his senses flooded by memories of her: the shopping trip, her house, her clothing…

He walked to his local bar and ordered a whiskey with a lager chaser. Downed the whiskey in one gulp, shaking the remnants into the beer glass.

“Hard day, Dennis?” one of the regulars asked. Dennis knew him; knew his first name anyway. Tommy. He’d been drinking here for as many years as Dennis had. All Dennis really knew about him were his first name and the fact that he worked as a plumber. It was amazing how little you could know about someone. But there was a third thing: Tommy liked quizzes. Quizzes and puzzles. He was captain of the bar’s Pub Quiz team, and there were trophies behind the bar as proof of his prowess. He was busy right now: tabloid open at the “Coffee-Break Page.” He’d completed both crosswords and was working away at something else. Selina and her crossword puzzles.

Crosswords… and what was the other thing Blaine had said: acrobatics?

“Tommy,” Dennis said, “is there a word puzzle called an acrobatic?”

“Not that I know of.” Tommy hadn’t bothered looking up from his paper.

“A word like that then.”

“Acrostic, maybe.”

“And what’s an acrostic?”

“It’s when you’ve got a string of words and you take the first letter from each one. The cryptics use them a lot.”

“The first letter from…?”

Tommy looked ready to explain further, but Dennis was already heading for the door.

I miss your hard-ons. See, Paul, I’m totally, absolutely lovestruck!

And embedded in it, the word “hospital.” Dennis stared at his work, the work of several hours. Many of her letters contained no hidden messages. Those that did hid them within raunchy passages, presumably to stop anyone noticing them because-as Dennis had been-they’d be too busy reading and rereading the saucy bits.

Helping Elaine at Riddrie tomorrow. Perhaps ring our Bill, lift Elaine’s morale?

While Dennis had been wondering about the identities of Elaine and Bill, speculating on their relationship, Selina had been sending another message: “heart problem.” She’d suckered him. He’d never suspected a thing.

Fred’s off up north. (Denise isn’t talking to him-and not keeping sober!)

“Found it. Thanks.”

Found what? The cash, of course: another bundle of Blaine ’s cash. He eked it out to her a bit at a time, his way of ensuring she stuck around, or didn’t blow it all at once. His letters to her contained messages showing where the money was hidden. Little stashes all over the place. Blaine ’s were clumsier than Selina’s. Maybe Dennis would have spotted them, if he hadn’t been more interested in her.

Infatuated with her. Those photos… all the little sexy bits… all there to stop him spotting the code.

And now she was gone. Really was gone. She’d finished the game, stopped playing with him. He’d have to go back to Jean and Tam and all the other letter writers, back to the real world.

Either that or try to follow her trail. The way she’d smiled at him… almost in complicity, as if she’d been enjoying his part in the charade. Would she send another letter, to him this time? And if she did, would he head off in pursuit of her, solving the clues along the way?

All he could do now was wait.