Denise Mina - Exile

"He's done it up nicely, hasn't he?"

Leslie was looking out of the window with her hands behind her back. "Are you ready to go back to your job yet?"

Maureen wanted to tell her she wasn't going back, but they had spent such a nice couple of days together and she couldn't cope with another fight just now. "But we haven't even started finding out about Ann yet," she said. "We've got to go to London."

Leslie wasn't sure. She said she couldn't leave work with the funding review coming up again and it wouldn't be safe for Maureen to go on her own. But Maureen wanted to go, she wanted to get out of Glasgow, get away from Ruchill and the bedroom window, away from Vik and the PSS and Winnie's calls. She made a good case for it: she could check out the pub Mark Doyle had mentioned and visit the sister in Streatham. Maxine had said the man in the Polaroid lived down there and she could ask Ann's sister if she knew him. It would be fine, she said, she'd be safe, she could stay with an old friend from her art history class and, anyway, Ann had been running away from Glasgow so this must be where the threat was. She sounded quite plausible.

Leslie chewed her cheek and thought about it. "But Ann was murdered in London," she said. "That's exactly where it isn't safe."

"I want to do it, Leslie."

"For me?"

"For you," she lied. "And for Jimmy."

"Why for him?"

"He's so poor, Leslie, no one's going to give a fuck but us."

Lynn and Liam came back upstairs, giggling and touching hands as they came into the room.

"I'm going to London," said Maureen.

"If this has anything to do with Hutton I'd leave it," said Liam.

"It doesn't," she said, less sure than she sounded. "I'm just going to see the woman's sister. She's related to Leslie."

"You could stay with Marie," said Liam tartly. Their eldest sister, Marie, wouldn't have Liam or Maureen in her house. Marie found herself in greatly reduced circumstances. She had gone to London straight from school to get away from Winnie and live the Thatcherite dream. She and her husband, Robert, had made fortunes as merchant bankers and they had almost made it to a fully detached Holborn town house when the collapse of their Lloyd's syndicate forced them into bankruptcy, a rented studio flat and all of the indignities they had been foisting on the rest of the country for a decade. She thought they would gloat if they saw the flat and, to be fair, she was right. "I know some other people," said Liam, "but she wouldn't want to stay with them either."

"Druggie pals," chided Lynn.

"I'll phone Sarah Simmons," said Maureen. "I'll stay with her. I could go down tonight and come back on Sunday. It'll be a wee holiday."

Maureen thought of Sarah, and the name and the cold took her back years, to a long-ago winter when she felt much younger and was never without Vasari, when Otto Dix was her hero and the night terrors and sweating flashbacks were still a shameful secret that she just couldn't seem to shake. Sarah and Maureen used to study together. They were interested in the same areas and swapped notes and did complementary study tasks: one studying one part of a subject, the other studying the rest, then pooling the information. They didn't have much in common but it was a long and prosperous bond, and Maureen felt sure she could stay with her for a few days. Everything had been so much clearer then, hopeful and resonant, when she didn't know about the blood or the cupboard and Michael was still a distant memory.

"I hate London," Lynn was saying. "It's so dirty."

"The people are pig ignorant," said Liam, because Lynn didn't like London. "And they hate us, they hate the Scots. Glaswegians, especially."

"How dare they," said Leslie, smiling at Maureen. "Those racist pricks."

Leslie parked in front of Maureen's house and they ran upstairs to look for Sarah Simmons's phone number. They were in the bedroom, searching for her address book, when Maureen turned and saw Leslie looking at the used condoms on the floor. Maureen didn't explain, she didn't want to talk about Vik or her bad behavior, but she noticed a delicious, spiteful thrill tickle her belly because she was holding back information too.

They found the address book and sat on the settee in the living room, working their way through the bits of loose paper that Maureen kept tucked into the fold in the cover. The bundle of scraps was so thick that the cover of the fake Filofax sat open at forty-five degrees. There were work numbers, changes of address, short-term friends she'd promised never, ever to lose touch with, and some mysterious bald numbers without title or provenance, written in her own hand a long time ago. They had found one Sara but it was a Glasgow number and Sarah had always been particular about the spelling. Finally, Maureen found the number under S, written as the second entry.

Sarah said it would be super to see Maureen again but she was very busy at work and had a lot of other commitments in the evening so she might not be free to spend a lot of time with her. Maureen assured her that she just wanted a place to crash and said she was surprised that Sarah was still at the same number. Sarah said she'd probably be at the number until she died. It was a family house, she said, assuming Maureen would understand what that meant, but she didn't. Sarah gave Maureen directions from King's Cross and said she'd see her in the morning.

Maureen was shoving the mysterious bits of paper back into the sleeve of the Filofax when a glint of sharp sunlight caught her eye from under the settee. It was Vik's precious band lighter. She was sure he wouldn't have left it by mistake. She picked up the chrome oval and Leslie watched her stroke the dust off it. "That's a nice thing," she said.

Maureen stood up and slipped it into her pocket. "Yeah," she said. "It is."

It was rush hour as Arthur Williams drove through the outskirts of Glasgow. The four-lane motorway slid downhill into the city, past a blackened Gothic Albert hospital. They had been on the road for seven hours, seven hours of listening to Phil Collins's greatest hits because Bunyan liked it. Bunyan was delighted by the trip up north, and she was pleased that Williams had insisted they drive because it would take longer in the car than it would on a plane. Bunyan would be getting overtime for the tour and Williams was looking at one day in lieu, day and a half tops. It had been Williams's idea to bring the car. They would need it if they arrested Harris. They couldn't interview him in a Scottish police station because of the Police and Criminal Evidence Act and would need to get him to Carlisle. But Harris didn't look like a very likely suspect. The husband of murdered woman number 14/2000 had no record, no connections and lived on a safe estate.

They had been told to come off the M8 at junction sixteen and take a couple of rights for Stewart Street. They didn't want to go there first, they had all the local intelligence they needed, but it was a courtesy and Williams knew from experience that they might find themselves looking for follow-up information later on.

"Yeah," said Bunyan. "And another right. Should be here."

Stewart Street police station was at the tail of a dead end. It was a large, glass-fronted building, two minutes' walk from the city center. Behind the building the heavy traffic lumbered past on the motorway flyover. The cars outside were coppers' cars, all good nick and thick tread, all taxed, some with flash extras. Williams pulled the car to the curb and cranked up the hand brake.

"God," sighed Bunyan. "Do you have to?"

Williams smiled at her. "Picky, picky, picky," he said, and she smiled back at him.

"That's not how you drive a car," she said.