Denise Mina - Resolution

The ringing phone cut urgently through the still morning. Maureen prized open her puffy eyes and felt her heart quicken. She threw back the duvet, fell onto her feet and staggered out to the hall. "Hello, Liam."

"What?" said Leslie.

"Leslie?"

"Aye, it's me."

"I thought you were Liam."

"No."

Maureen rubbed her eyes open. Liam would phone her himself, she was sure – he wouldn't get Leslie to call her. "Why are you phoning me?"

"I'm going to be late today," said Leslie.

A wave of relief washed over Maureen. "Aw, Leslie," she said fondly, "don't worry about that." She stopped, realizing from the flattened tone of Leslie's voice that she was lying down. "Wait a minute, are you in your bed?"

"Aye," said Leslie. "I'm gonnae be late."

"Have you just phoned me," she said indignantly, "and got me out my bed to tell me you're having a lie-in?"

"I suppose I did." Leslie sounded miserable. "I've had a shit night."

"Fuck's sake." Maureen tutted and was about to hang up when she lifted the receiver to her mouth again. "When are ye coming, then?"

" 'Bout half nine."

"Fuck's sake," said Maureen, and hung up. She knew she wouldn't be able to get back to sleep. "Fuck's sake."

She tramped down the hall to the bathroom, filling the sink with warm water as she sat on the loo, splashing her face and wetting her hair to wake herself up. She was angry until it occurred to her that it was good: the baby wasn't born.

Cammy was refusing to go quietly and Leslie was distraught. He'd been crying all night, telling Leslie that he couldn't go on without her, that he'd get a job, make friends with her friends, do anything to make it all right again. She'd said it was over and he'd said he loved her, as if that were an answer, as if that would change her mind. She put him out. She never wanted to see him again but he'd come back to the house at four in the morning, crying and banging on the door.

They arrived at the market and Leslie pulled the van over to the side, slumping over the wheel, staring at the cobbles ahead and looking desperate. Maureen hugged her, rubbing her back, giving her an emotional winding. Beyond the dirty windscreen a figure approached, a middle-aged man with his hands in his pockets, swinging his shoulders, his gray head down. He looked up and for a searing moment Maureen saw Michael's face. She blinked. The man's features melted, resolving themselves into another face, utterly unfamiliar. He glanced into the cab as he walked past. Leslie peeled herself away and looked at her hands. "Mauri, are you going through the change or something?" She sniffed. "You're covered in sweat."

"Fine, I'm fine."

When Peter opened the door to the tunnel they saw four regular punters already waiting for them. Leslie served them, attracting an even larger crowd of customers who had been hanging about at the doors, getting the sun while they waited. Any one of them might be Michael. Maureen felt herself start to sweat again. She did as Angus had taught her, brushing away the intrusive thoughts by bringing herself back to the present. She took the money, getting into the swing of the day. They had sold a quarter of their stock before they had even set up the stall. Leslie cocked her head. "No tunes," she said.

Maureen looked down to Ella's stall. It was empty and an old cardboard box had been abandoned on it, suggesting that it hadn't been set up at all today.

"Peter?" said Maureen. "Where's the lady that sells the tapes today?"

"She's in hospital," said Peter.

"How come?"

He shrugged. "Dunno. Wee Trish told me."

"I'll not be long," said Maureen, and left before Leslie answered.

Wee Trish had a holy stall selling nylon first-communion dresses, fake mother-of-pearl prayer books, plastic rosaries and twenty sizes and styles of crucifixes. Trish herself looked like a cairn terrier. Her hair was streaked blond and wiry, cut so short that it stood up whatever she put on it. Her sharp features and leathery skin were accentuated by a short chin and a top lip that curled upwards when in repose, showing her teeth, so that she looked as if she was growling.

"Trish, where's Ella?"

Trish looked wary. "D'you even know Ella?" she asked.

"Aye," said Maureen. "Peter said she was in hospital."

"Aye," said Trish, still unsure of her. "She got taken in last night."

"What's wrong with her?"

Trish thought about it. Obviously no one else had bothered to ask for details. "Dunno. The ambulance came and took her from the house. I heard she fell and hurt her face."

"She fell?" said Maureen incredulously.

"She's old," Wee Trish said defensively.

Maureen wanted to say that a woman able to crouch on a crossbar for twenty minutes was unlikely to topple over spontaneously in her living room. "D'ye know what hospital she's in?" she asked.

"I dunno. Somewhere with a casualty ward? The Albert probably."

Leslie was waiting for her when she got back to the stall and Maureen told her what Trish had said. "Poor thing," said Leslie. She was very pale and her lips were turning blue.

"Have you eaten anything since that roll yesterday?"

"No," said Leslie, and looked as if she might cry again.

"Poor wee henny-hen," said Maureen, wrapping a jumper around Leslie's shoulders and sitting her down on her stool. "You stay here and I'll go and get you a roll 'n' sausage and a juice."

Leslie nodded miserably at the floor, wrapping her arms around her stomach.

"Peter," said Maureen, "keep your eye on her."

Peter pointed at Maureen uncertainly. "Seen ye," he said, surprised and respectful. Maureen frowned at him. He thumbed over his shoulder. "In the paper yesterday. Good for you."

She didn't understand why people were so impressed. No one seemed to have read the story or clocked that she'd been having an affair with a married man and was a suspect when he was brutally mutilated in her living room. Everyone seemed pleased for her anyway.

At the back of the tunnel nearest the river, through a rickety green door, was the cafe. It was owned and run by Blond Mary and her daughter Lara, who added a glamorous touch to the market. Both women were tall and slim with honey blond hair and soft voices. They cooked and took the money behind a shallow counter, frying on an open griddle and serving mince and potatoes and peas from a well-stocked steaming bain-marie, universally referred to as the "bamburri." Inside, the tunnel was dripping with damp and would probably be next to be shut down and bricked up. The cafe looked like a well-tended cave: they had disguised the damp ceiling with tastefully draped silver tarpaulin, and faded Formica tables were scattered across the uneven floor.

"Two rolls and sausage and two tins of cola, please," said Maureen.

"Onion on both?" said Lara, sliding two squares of sausage onto the spitting hot griddle.

"Aye, please," said Maureen, counting out her change.

As she stood waiting Maureen gradually became conscious of a looming presence at her shoulder. Mark Doyle was standing behind her, dressed in an incongruous black overcoat, buttoned up to the neck as though he had just come in from the rain. "Fuck, you gave me a scare." She grinned and clasped her hand to her chest. "What are you doing here?"

"I'm on my way home. I wanted a roll."

Maureen caught Lara's eye. "And a roll as well." She turned back to Doyle. "Is that all ye want? D'ye not want sausage on it?"

"Naw, just a roll and butter."

"Not want bacon?"

"Naw, just the roll," said Doyle quietly. His eczema was so extreme that he looked as if he were rotting. Patches of raw and dried skin marred what might have been a handsome face.

"What are you doing up at this time in the morning?"

"Havenae been home. Been out," he said, and looked away.