Denise Mina - Exile

"You didn't act pleased."

"I wanted it to be true," said Leslie. "It felt like a cop-out."

"Jimmy's awful spent. Ann looks like a weight lifter next to him."

"Yeah." Leslie rubbed her face with an open hand and looked at the pictures. "But how fit do ye need to be to stamp on the back of someone's neck, Mauri?" She started picking up the photographs from the floor, shuffling them together into a tidy pile.

Maureen thought of the tiny hard men coming home to a dinner of bread and marg. "Leslie? Do we need to take these back?"

Leslie thought about it, her fingers trailing on the edges of the pictures. "Do you want to take the chance, Mauri? What if he did do it?"

"Come and meet him," said Maureen.

"I don't want to."

"You'll have to sometime. Can we keep the pictures until after you've met him?"

"I don't want to meet him." Leslie gathered the pictures together, tapping the edges on the coffee table and looking perplexed. "Why have you got these, anyway?"

Maureen drew hard on her cigarette. "I just… I dunno, wanted to see them."

"Yeah." Leslie sounded as if she understood. "Ann was a poor soul, wasn't she?"

Maureen was eager to move the conversation on. "If she was popping out to the shops and coming back drunk she must have been drinking nearby. We can photocopy her face from the big picture and ask about her in the pubs near the shelter. We could do it tonight if you're not busy."

"No." Leslie smiled. "No, I'm not busy."

Maureen felt inside her jeans pocket and found the bit of paper with Ann's sister's name on it. She was going to tell Leslie what Jimmy had said about Mr. Akitza being a big darkie but Leslie hated him enough as it was already and she hadn't even met him. She gave the name to Leslie, told her it was in Streatham somewhere, and Leslie dialed for directory inquiries, waited for a long while and then asked the operator, "Why not?" a couple of times. She got pissed off and hung up. The operator wouldn't give her the number unless she had the postcode. Leslie said she didn't know her own fucking postcode but they could probably get the number at the Mitchell library.

They drank their coffee in the living room and Leslie added a little drop of whiskey to ease Maureen's hangover and give herself a treat. They sipped and smoked and tried to work out how they could find out what was in the letter Ann got before she left.

Ann had a friend at the shelter called Senga. She had stayed in over Christmas and there was just the slightest possibility that Ann would have shown her the contents of the envelope. Leslie said that she could get Senga's new address from the office and they could go and talk to her. The more plans they made together the more excited they became and it began to feel like old times, but Maureen knew it wasn't the same. The tension between them remained unexplained and would probably never be sorted out. She watched Leslie stub out her fag, rubbing the doubt into the blue glass ashtray. It couldn't be patched up. They'd never have that crystal confidence between them again. Her mutinous eyes welled up again and she stood up, excusing herself, saying she needed a piss. She sat on the side of the bath and pulled herself together with deep breaths and scathing self-reproach.

"Mauri," Leslie called up to her as she came down the hall, and Maureen thought for a moment that Leslie had seen her tears, "what can we do if we find anything out?"

"Tell the police?"

"You can't go to the police, they're still hassling you for what you did to Angus in Millport."

" Some of the police are hassling me for that," said Maureen.

"What are the rest of the police hassling ye for?"

Maureen sat down and sipped her whiskey coffee and wondered. She picked up the phone book and found the listing for the Stewart Street police station, dialed the main switchboard and asked for Hugh McAskill.

Hugh picked up the phone before it rang out. "Hello?"

"Oh, Hugh?"

"Yes, this is Hugh McAskill. Can I help you?"

"Hugh, it's Maureen O'Donnell."

"Maureen"-she could hear him smiling-"are ye all right?"

"I'm fine. I got a bit upset." She felt angry with him but knew she had no right.

"Maureen, about the other day, I'm sorry-"

"It's okay."

"-but it's my job. Going to see people and asking about unsolved crimes is my job. I can't refuse to do it because I like you."

"I know," she said. "I was having a bad day."

"Aye," he said. He seemed to be looking around the room and then huddled into the receiver. "Fine, fine. Ye never came back to see me."

Maureen imagined herself standing in front of a trestle table of angry policemen in elaborate uniforms. Leslie was watching her expectantly from the sofa. "I was going to," she said uncertainly.

"I thought I'd've seen you at the meeting."

Hugh attended an incest survivors' meeting on Thursdays and he had outed himself to Maureen so that he could invite her. She had been once, only staying long enough to have a cup of tea and see Hugh, but an annoying man had come in and she couldn't face the whole meeting. She thought she might have to give them a talk about herself and her family and she couldn't face it.

"I kept meaning to come… Hugh, I was phoning because… if I had some information about a crime, would you be able to take it?"

"We're always looking for information," said Hugh, without hesitation. "Is it something that happened in Glasgow?"

"No, it was in London."

"It's not our jurisdiction but we can pass it on. Listen, don't go getting involved in anything."

"I'm not going to do that, Hugh."

"Maureen, this assault in Millport, Joe isn't going to let it go. He's convinced Farrell's at it to get a lighter sentence."

"I think he's right."

"He's determined to get you for it. The worst thing you can do is get involved in something else."

"I'm not getting involved."

"Listen"-Hugh lowered his voice even further-"I'm going to ask you again: is Farrell writing to you?"

Maureen looked at Leslie. "No." It was a cheap lie and Hugh was a nice man who had gone out of his way to help her. He deserved better and she felt low for lying to him.

"The hospital said he was," insisted Hugh.

"Maybe he's writing to the wrong address."

"They've checked, he's writing to your address."

"Well, I'm not getting any letters so I don't know what's happening there."

Leslie was watching her from the settee, making questioning faces at the mention of letters.

"Okay, pal," said Maureen briskly. "Listen, I'll be in touch, then."

"Will I hear from ye soon?"

"Ye will. Cheerio." She hung up. Leslie was staring at her intently.

"Was he asking about the letters from Angus Farrell?" asked Leslie.

"Yeah, the nurses told them he was writing to me." She sat down next to Leslie on the settee. "They want to see them but I can't – God, they mention Millport and everything. If they ever do me for the assault they could get the whole story from them."

"You don't think he could be writing to Siobhain, do you? He definitely knows where she lives."

"I don't know," said Maureen. "I haven't seen her since before Christmas."

"We should go and see her."

Like most of the women on her ward, Siobhain had been viciously raped by Angus. She was the only surviving witness to what he had done, or at least the only one who could still speak in full sentences, and if he was coming for anyone he would be coming for her.

"His writing's getting smaller," said Maureen quietly. "I think he's getting better."

"He's still mental, though, isn't he?" said Leslie.

"The letters sound mental but it's put on. I know it's put on."

"How do you know that?"

Maureen shook her head. "It's too set," she said. "It's not random enough. I don't know. It's difficult to explain. Joe McEwan thinks he's at it. He says that Angus'll get a short sentence and get out. You don't think he'll come after me, do you?"