Denise Mina - Exile

"Desperate." Hugh nodded at his feet and looked at her. "Farrell's been writing to you all this time?"

"Yeah."

He sighed. "Maureen," he said, "I can't believe you didn't tell me."

"It's your job, Hugh – you'd've been honor-bound to tell Joe." They looked at each other and Hugh nodded quietly. "He's only pretending to be mental," said Maureen. "He's having ye on. I didn't understand why he was writing at first but then I realized. It was too easy for you to trace the letters here. He's drip-feeding Joe information about his mental state. He knows that the harder Joe has to work to get it, the more likely he is to believe it."

"I don't know…"

"What will ye do with the letters?"

"We'll have to give them to the fiscal now. We don't have any option – they're material evidence as to his state of mind."

"He'll get out, Hugh," she said. "He's a fucking psychologist. He knows exactly how to act to get off."

"I know. It's a tricky one." He turned to look at her neck. "Let me see you." She stretched her chin up as high as she could. "You should get an X-ray," said Hugh. "I'll take ye up to the Albert if you want."

"Naw," she said, "I'll go after. Would you like a cup of tea?"

Hugh blinked slowly and smiled. "I would love a cup of tea."

He followed her into the cramped kitchen. Bunyan was sitting down at the table and Williams was standing in the corner, smiling as Inness mumbled a story to him. They stopped talking as the door opened, stiffening when they saw it was Maureen.

"Hello, again," said Williams pleasantly.

"Excuse me," said Maureen, "I was just going to make a cup of tea."

Williams shifted on his feet and glanced sideways at Inness. "I understand," he said, "that you were in a psychiatric hospital for a while." He looked at her innocently but the question was never innocent.

"So what?"

Williams shrugged. "It's just, you know, interesting."

Maureen lit another cigarette and her heart heaved at another lungful of harm. Hugh was here and she didn't need the fellowship of this pushy man anymore. "No," she said, flicking the kettle on, "you're wrong. It wasn't interesting."

"While you were in there-"

"I'm not answering questions about myself. I'm answering questions about Ann Harris and London, not about myself."

Williams pointed at Inness. "My colleague here tells me that your brother was a drug dealer. Did he have any connection with Frank Toner?"

"No. None."

"It's interesting, though, isn't it? That Tarn Parlain is found with a houseful of drugs and your brother used to be a dealer? Is that why you went to London?"

If she hadn't been to Ruchill she would have thought it was strange herself. She would have wondered but she was sure of everything now. The kettle reached a pitch, spluttering before switching itself off.

"This is a magnificent view," sighed Bunyan. The men looked at her. She was still sitting down, her hand resting on the table, a vertical cigarette burning between her fingers. She was smiling softly to herself and looking out over the rugged north side of the city and the flaming fever tower. "Magnificent," she breathed.

"We'll be keeping the letters," said Inness, stepping forward, reasserting his authority.

Maureen turned to him. "Look," she said, "see those letters? He wanted me to give them to you. He wants you to think he's mental so he'll get a short sentence in a low-security facility."

"Really?" Inness glanced a snide, silent aside at Williams. "You're a doctor now, are ye?"

She fucking hated him. "Have ye ever heard of the 1971 Rosenhan study?" She waited, making him say it.

"No," he said finally.

"These people went to mental hospitals and said they'd been hearing voices. They behaved normally apart from the retrospective claims. They were lying, there was nothing wrong with them."

"Why did they do it, then?"

"For the study," said Maureen, with forced patience. "They were all diagnosed as schizophrenic and everything they did after that was put down to their illness: taking notes for the study, watching people, asking about their case. Some of them were kept in for days, some for weeks. The only people who knew there was nothing wrong with them were the other patients. Now, I am a certified mental case." She looked at Williams. He was biting his lip and listening. "And there is fuck-all wrong with Angus Farrell."

Williams raised his eyebrows and smiled at Inness. "Smart lady," he said.

Inness didn't smile back.

They were leaving. Inness was making a great play of being grateful for her help but he didn't like her and she didn't like him, and it was getting harder for both of them to hide it.

"Good-bye," said Inness. "I'm sure we'll be seeing each other very soon." He gave her a disgusted look and turned down the stairs, walking away before he said something he regretted.

Williams looked faintly amused. "You're not exactly in his good books, are you?"

"Personality clash," she said.

"You're in my good books," he said. "You're not planning on leaving town again, are you?"

"No." She smiled. "Not for a long time."

"We'll be back tomorrow to take you to Carlisle. About twelve, okay?"

"Yeah."

"Get it X-rayed," said Williams, backing off and pointing at his neck. "Little bones in there."

"Yeah." She touched her throat softly. "It'll be all right."

"Okay," said Hugh. His breath smelled of bitter tea. "I'll be seeing ye."

"Take care, Hugh," she said, trying to look up at him without bending her neck.

"Get an X-ray."

"I will, Hugh, I will."

She watched them pile down the stairs. The little blond English woman trailed behind the men, looking up at her as they disappeared below the landing. She smiled and lifted her hand, slapping the fingers against the palm, as if she were waving to a child.

Maureen used the mobile number.

"Oh, Mauri, fucking hell, fucking hell, I've never been more scared in my life." Leslie paused and Maureen could hear a little "phut" as she took a draw of her fag.

"They've let you go?"

"They've let me go and I'm home and so's Jimmy, thank fuck. They told my work. I'm getting sacked but I don't care. I just fucking don't care." Cammy called impatiently in the background for Leslie to come here and harhalfingfom. Leslie sighed into the receiver and turned to speak to him. "I'm on the fucking phone, Cameron. Can it, will ye?"

"Well," said Maureen, "they've found blood and hair in someone's house so I think they'll be dropping the charges."

"They'd never have made a case. It was ridiculous in the first fucking place," said Leslie, and realized how she sounded. "Surrounded by Injuns I was, but wasnae feart, oh, no. Let's set up a business together now we're both free agents."

Maureen giggled, glad to have Leslie back on form.

"A business? Doing what?"

"Roaming vigilantes," said Leslie. "I'll be your driver."

"That's crazy. I've never even been to Rome."

"Maureen," said Leslie seriously, "punning causes cancer."

The Equal Cafe was serving lunches. Hungry office workers and students from the art school were cramped together at the black and gold fleck Formica tables, eating their rolls and sipping tea from smoked-glass mugs. Maureen and Liam managed to find a small empty table near the back. It was under a sloping ceiling of cheap pine, which hung so low that Maureen's seat was really only suitable for a midget with a hump. Previous patrons of the I had carved their names into the sloping soft wood. The middle-aged waitress who approached them had a very prominent limp, which worsened dramatically when an order was sent back or anyone asked for anything tricky. She seemed to have developed some sort of fungal complaint on one of her feet as well, because she was wearing what appeared to be a slipper with the toe cut out.