Denise Mina - Resolution

"That's nice," said Maureen. "I heard a lot of cars there – I think you might be missing trade."

Candy II made a sad clown face. "I really love them," she whispered, and followed Maureen out of the lane.

"Thanks for talking to us, Candy, that was nice of ye," said Maureen, when they were back in the bright street.

"Why did ye want to know about Si McGee?" asked Candy, no longer sad at all.

"Uch, his mum died and I was just wondering about her."

Candy II had stopped walking. "Ella the Flash is dead?"

"Aye, she died on Saturday. I went up to the hospital to visit her and she was dead."

"Aw, that's a sin." Candy Us whole body had changed. She stood upright, and crossed her arms, head dipped to the side like a woman passing on local news in a supermarket. "She was a gamey old dame. She was a pro an' all."

"Aye, I know," said Maureen. "She'd retired. She'd been working at Paddy's selling tapes, that's how I knew her. I saw her laid out in the hospital and she hadn't her eyebrows on -"

Candy smiled. "They big mad eyebrows she used to draw on her head?"

"Aye. Anyway, I drew them for her and brushed her hair up a bit."

"Aw, that's nice. That was from the flicks, the eyebrows. From Greta Garbo or someone." Candy started walking again. "She never took no shit from no one, Ella. Always dressed nice. Got him an education. He lives in Bearsden now. Good on her, eh?"

"Aye, good on her," said Maureen, suddenly choked. Her eyes began to prickle. Maureen wouldn't have credited her with the wherewithal but Candy II saw she was upset and rubbed her back briskly.

" 'S about all ye can ask, innit?" said Candy II.

The smallest woman was back at the corner, tugging her skirt down and looking pissed off. Maureen was slightly annoyed to see her there. No one knew anything about Si McGee and she didn't want to lose another twenty quid.

"Go wi' her," said Candy II to the woman. "She'll give ye money for talking. And she'll not ask why ye do it either."

Candy II stepped away and over to the curb, watching the occasional cars pass, looking in at the drivers. The small woman followed Maureen round the corner. "Is your name Candy?" asked Maureen.

"Naw, Alison."

She was younger than the other women and clearly hoping to cash in on it. Her bunches looked grotesque and she had drawn rosy cheeks on her face.

"I'm Maureen." She held out her hand and Alison pulled a face.

"You don't want to touch my hand," she said apologetically, wiping her palm hard on her skirt.

Alison was terrifyingly young, hardly sixteen, and her body had the unformed look of someone still developing. Her wee breasts were smashed into a tight orange bra, pushing them up to make them look like something. Maureen pointed back to the corner. "How many kids has she got?"

Alison looked back at Candy II and frowned. "She hasn't got kids."

They walked on.

"Alison," said Maureen carefully, "I know ye probably get asked this all the time, but how old are you?"

"Is that what you're paying to ask me?" said Alison curtly, turning the corner into the alley.

"No."

"Well, fuck off, then."

They settled on the wall. Alison took a cigarette from Leslie and a tenner from Kilty.

"We want to know if you've ever heard of a guy called Si McGee," said Maureen.

Alison thought about it, repeating the name under her breath. "Naw. Don't think so."

"What about the Park Circus Health Club?"

"Oh, aye, I know that, yeah. Up by the park?"

Maureen nodded.

"I knew a lassie worked up there," said Alison, "but she's chucked it now. Don't know where she is."

"Why did she leave?"

"She got Jesus," said Alison, waving her hand dismissively, as if she herself had something altogether better. "Heard she was doing voluntary work up at the Wayfarers' Club."

"Is that the soup kitchen by the river?"

"Aye," she said, making fists and grimacing. 'Breed and jam, breed and jam.' ' She saw that they didn't understand and added quietly, "That's what they say in the queue."

"Your pal who worked there," said Maureen. "What's her name?"

Alison took a draw on her fag. "Candy."

The man pressed the buzzer and waited on the dark stairs. He saw a glint of light from the spy hole and smiled at it automatically, as if for a photograph. The door opened and Kevin welcomed him in. The man had been here many times, so often that now he almost got hard at the sight of green wallpaper or a blue carpet. He smiled to Cindy behind the desk but she looked away, knowing what he was here for. Kevin was standing at the top of the stairs to the basement, wearing the same cheap evening suit he always wore.

"All right, Kev?" said the man, handing over his three hundred quid in fresh twenties.

"No bad," said Kevin, holding the banister, bulky and ungainly on the shallow steps. "How are ye yoursef?"

"No bad, no bad."

The decor stopped at the bottom of the steps. The basement walls were a glossy gray, the floor bare concrete, adding a frisson of solemnity. Kevin led the man along the long corridor to a room at the end. "Oh," said the man nervously, "I've not been in this room before."

Kevin smiled as he took out his keys and looked through them. A lot of the punters liked to make small talk before they went in, to chat and make it all seem normal.

"Aye," he said. "It's a nice room. Soundproof."

The man was tense but attempted a tight smile. "Good," he said, and wiped his damp lips. "Good."

Kevin swung open the door. She was skinny as fuck, dressed in cheap knickers and a bra with a see-through dress pulled over it, sitting on a double bed with a nylon flowery cover. She looked surly. The man looked in at her. "Hello. Speak English?"

She didn't answer. The man walked into the center of the room, nodding and pulling off his belt. He called out as Kevin shut the door, "It's okay, isn't it?"

Kevin glanced back at the sulking Polish bitch on the bed. "Anything," he said, knowing she couldn't understand. "Anything at all."

In the six months since they had started the business, Si McGee had never seen his sister so worried. She was flicking the ash from a pink cocktail fag with a gold tip over and over into the bin, kept going over the same details and wouldn't go home even though she had nothing to do here. For Margaret emotional behavior of any kind constituted a full-blown panic attack.

"I'm telling ye," she said. "I'm telling ye, she was there and she was noising up the sheriff. We don't need this. We don't need this now. Charlie'll go fucking spastic. He'll make his move if there's a squeak of trouble."

"There won't be trouble," said Si. "Calm down. There won't be trouble."

Margaret squashed out the cigarette against the side of the metal waste bin and took out her handbag, clipping it open and lifting out the black and gold fag packet.

"Why did you put it out if you're going to light another one?" he said, trying to get her off the subject.

Margaret flicked back the gold paper and selected a green cigarette this time. "The bit near the filters gives ye cancer." She lit up and began flicking it into the bin interminably. "You don't know the Adams family like I do. You've never met them. Nothing stops business. A bit of trouble and they'll wipe us."

"They'll move on us soon anyway," Si pointed out. "You said so yourself. As soon as we're up and running, they'll wait for us to move on them, and if we don't they'll move on us."

"It's the worst time for this shit to fucking happen, I'm telling ye." She was frightened, and Si knew from his management course at university that now was the time to take charge, show leadership. "Look." He lifted her bag off his desk and handed it to her. "Put that on the floor." On the desk between them was a copy of a newspaper, open at a picture of Maureen. "We've got her picture," he said. "We both know what she looks like. We took care of Ella and we can sort her out too. It's a problem, I grant you, but it's a fixable problem. Tell me it's a fixable problem."