Denise Mina - Resolution

The phone rang and through force of habit she let the answering machine get it. Kilty asked her to pick up.

"Did ye see it?" asked Kilty.

"Aye," said Maureen. "Good old Aggie, eh?"

"My dad's apoplectic," said Kilty.

"Ye can tick off all the goals in your wee book now."

"I know," grinned Kilty. "Not much is going to happen to them, though, is it?"

"Well, ye can't have everything. Were you out with Josh?"

"Aye, well, we went to the pictures. He likes Michael Douglas. I've gone off him. I've got a date with someone else, though."

"You're a quick worker – who's that?"

Kilty giggled with excitement. "Your pal Shan Ryan."

"Noo," cooed Maureen. "How did that happen?"

"After the trial." She could hardly speak she was smiling so widely. "I asked him out."

"Oh, Kilty, what will your parents think of you going out with a black guy?"

Kilty laughed and arranged to pick her up at the house the next morning.

When she hung up, Maureen dialed Isa's number and found Leslie delighted with the article. "I love Aggie Grey," she said. "How's Winnie?"

"She's okay now. She was unconscious when we got there. She had alcohol poisoning from drinking a bottle of vodi in three minutes."

"Dear Roy, is this a record?" said Leslie, and tittered nervously.

Maureen giggled back. "We're bad, aren't we?"

"Oh, God, aye," said Leslie. "We're fucking terrible."

She had an hour to kill before leaving for the hospital and the half bottle of Glenfiddich Leslie had given her was sitting on the table, winking at her, the color changing from gold to amber to a pale, mesmerizing yellow. She put it in a cupboard in the kitchen, on a high shelf, as if that would make it harder to get. She sat in the living room, her mind in the kitchen, looking at the cupboard door. She couldn't stop thinking about it. When the noise in her head got too loud she got up and left the house.

She walked bareheaded across town, getting her face and legs wet with smirr. Her boots kept the rain out and, as she walked, she reflected on how great it was to be wet and have dry, comfortable feet, how good it was to be healthy. Somehow she came to think of six-stone Pauline with her poor ragged arsehole and she looked up at the sky and smiled. Behind the clouds, in deep yellow sunshine, Giant Pauline Doyle sat cross-legged, wearing a pretty dress and holding a golden string on one finger, a glass box suspended from it, twisting slowly. She was laughing, a light, uncomplicated laugh, and watching Mark Doyle trapped inside, covering his face against a snowstorm of shattered glass, his own knife at his neck, his death always imminent. Maureen stopped in a cafe halfway over and bought an ice cream.

Si McGee opened the door and slid into the hall, pushing it shut after his sister. The police had smashed it open and he'd had it replaced with a heavy, plain wooden plank. The joiner hadn't fitted the lock properly and he had to lift it up by the handle to get the door to shut properly. Si and Margaret turned and looked around the ruined hallway. It was quiet and dark: the only light came from the window above the front door. Cindy's desk had been put against a wall and the phone was smashed on the floor. Si turned on the overhead light and led the way down the shallow stairs to the basement.

"Why?" whined Margaret.

Si stopped and looked up at her. "Because," he said, shutting his eyes with barely veiled impatience, "if we find out which files they've taken we can work out what evidence they've got, can't we?"

"But why have I tae be here?"

"Because I'm here. I shouldn't have to do every fucking thing."

Si turned and walked down the last few steps, Margaret following him. She was driving him mad. He was glad it had happened in a way, glad that he had reason to get out. The lawyer was sure they'd only get a fine and Si had saved a good stake for a new business, stashed safely in Jersey where neither the Inland Revenue nor the police would be able to get at it. He was getting out, away from mad, bad Charlie Adams, away from all the smells and horror of the present job, away from whiny Margaret and her Swiss army knife. The basement smelled of stale pee and sweat. The police had left the doors open to the basement rooms, and the cumulative stench was disgusting. Si pushed open the office door. It was chaotic. Files and papers were scattered over the desk, the box files of managerial newsletters he had subscribed to since university were crumpled on the floor.

"I don't know anything about this," said Margaret, picking up an overturned chair and sitting down.

"What did you do with your money?" He said it calmly, as if he were just asking an idle question.

"Fuck off," said Margaret casually, lifting a copy of Managers' Monthly off the desk and pretending to read it. Her left hand fell to her shoulder bag, the index finger sliding open the zip. He knew she had a knife in there.

"Don't be stupid," said Si. "I was just asking. Mine's in the Bank of Pakistan. They can't get it there."

Margaret's hand moved smoothly, doing up the zip again. "I don't know why I had to come." She looked around the small gray room. "I hate it here."

"Look," said Si, handing her a sheet of paper, "they've left this."

The door to the office opened slowly and Margaret stood up, her hand in her bag in a flash. Si could see the knife, the blade bared, and he was relieved that she was nearer to the door than he was.

"Hiya. What's happening?" It was Kevin, still wearing his surgical collar and grinning as if he were welcoming them back from holiday.

Margaret tutted and dropped the knife. "Fuck's sake," she said, and fell back into the seat. "What are you doing here?"

Kevin took a step towards her and shot Margaret Frampton through the back of the head.

Si watched his sister's face explode, her nose, her eyes, her forehead splash outward, red and black, like a carnivorous tropical plant bursting suddenly into flower. The force of the blast shoved her slim body forward slightly, making her nod before coming true and settling back into the chair. Si blinked and looked. It was nonsensical. There had been no noise. He blinked and looked again, forgetting to breathe. Useless, dim-witted Kevin raised his hand again and shot Si three times in the chest. Si McGee slid to his knees, leaving a red trail on the wall behind him, tipping over a box file of Managerial News .

Moving stiffly so as not to jerk his sore neck, Kevin stepped across the office, feeling in Si's pocket. He found his mobile and lifted it out, flipping it open and pressing in a long number. At the other end the phone rang only once before being answered.

"Done," said Kevin, watching Margaret's body slide down off the chair and land under the desk. He nodded. "Yeah, everyone'll know it was for Doyle, no one'll fuck yees about up here." He nodded again. "Okay. Tell Charlie I'll be there."

Kevin hung up, wiped the mobile and slid it back into Si McGee's pocket. He stepped across McGee's legs to the fire exit and opened the door, slipping out to the lane, leaving the door open just enough for some nosy bastard to find them.

Winnie was in an open ward with the blinds drawn on the window behind her and the curtains pulled around her bed. She had the covers over her head. Maureen peeked under the blankets. Winnie's eyes were bloody and her face waxy white. She looked through tiny slit eyes and mouthed, "Hello." Maureen mouthed it back and withdrew.

A peculiarly gnarled-looking man and woman were standing nearby, chatting to each other. George explained that they were Winnie's friends from AA and had come to visit her at his request. Winnie was being sent to a drying-out clinic in Peebles as soon as she could stand, and her friends had offered to escort her there in their car. Maureen threw her arms around George and hugged him without his consent. He stood stiffly, bashful at showing emotion in front of strangers. He raised a hand to her head and patted it a couple of times. "You're a good girl," he said, but she heard him ask her to let him go, for God's sake, there were people watching.