Denise Mina - The Dead Hour

“I’m sorry he died.”

The woman checked she was out of earshot of the others and dropped her voice confidentially. “His suicide was a shock.”

Paddy matched her tone. “Why?”

The woman shook her head. “He was here last week. Seemed fine. Upbeat. Something must have happened between then and Wednesday night.”

Paddy looked down to the cenotaph, scratching around for one more question. “He was a lawyer, wasn’t he? Where did he work?”

“The Easterhouse Law Center.”

Paddy nodded at her shoes. “Right.”

The woman was looking at her curiously. “You knew that already.”

It was so cold that the woman’s nose blushed red, her eyes narrowed against the wind, the skin comfortable in that position, and Paddy noticed that she looked rugged, as though she spent a lot of time outside. She imagined her briskly walking around the grounds of a grand estate, small dogs yapping at her heels.

“Could it be anything to do with Vhari Burnett’s murder?”

The woman nodded sadly. “Yes, poor Vhari. She was a member as well. Mark brought her to our first meeting. They were an item back then.”

“An item back when?”

“Years ago.” She thought about it. “Five years ago? About that. That’s when we started this.” She turned and looked back at the group, taking in the crappy poster and Natasha crying, dry-eyed. She raised an appalled eyebrow and hummed to herself.

“And Mark was married then?”

“Oh, no, he went out with Vhari years ago. They knew each other at law school. Before he married Diana. I think their families lived near each other.”

Paddy nodded. “Why did they split up? Did she chuck him?”

She smiled at Paddy’s nerve. “Other way ’round, actually. He went off with the woman who became his wife. Vhari stopped coming to meetings but she was still committed. Wrote letters from home, made a financial contribution, that sort of thing.”

“Was Mark ever violent?”

“Mark?”

“Yeah, was he ever violent?”

“The police think he killed her, don’t they?”

“So I’ve heard. “

The woman thought about it for a moment. “Honestly, I don’t think he was even fit enough to be violent. He got breathless walking up hills. He smoked like mad and was a bit-” Her eyes flickered down to Paddy’s body but she stopped herself from looking. “Chubby.”

Paddy nodded at her notebook, trying not to blush.

“He was sad when he split up with Vhari.” The woman spoke quickly, trying to brush over the implied slight. “He talked to me about it, seemed to be confiding but I think, really, he was trying to get me on his side. Mark was a natural politician. Everything was an opportunity to lobby. He was very measured.”

“It wasn’t a very nice thing to do, go off with someone else.”

“Well, his wife, Diana, she’s the insistent sort. Vhari was much more like Mark, very even-tempered. Diana has a bit more fire.” She wouldn’t look at Paddy.

“You don’t like her.”

The woman smiled wide. “No. Diana gave up work after she married. I can’t abide women who won’t work if they’re able. I’m like Vhari: came from money but refused to take it and worked. I’ve never married. I’ve always supported myself.”

“You’ve made your own way.”

“I have.”

They smiled at each other, these two working women, both keeping jobs from needy men, betraying nature by escaping the kitchen sink, these two women who were out in the world, active not passive, subjects not objects.

Paddy was walking calmly away, feeling smug and superior when she thought of JT just ahead of her in the street. She bolted after him, hoping she had correctly guessed his route back to the office, and caught sight of him a hundred yards ahead, about to turn the corner into Albion Street and the office. She jogged on, losing her breath, and caught his sleeve.

“Wait, wait, JT, I need to trade for a favor.”

He turned to look at her face-on, skeptical that she had anything to offer him.

“I’ll do all your library searches for Mandela on Monday in exchange for a couple of taxi chitties. You’ll get your Ramage story done twice as fast. He might even kiss you with his big red face.”

His head recoiled on his neck. “What do you need a chitty for?”

“To take a cab journey at the paper’s expense,” she said, acting stupid.

“Going to see a boyfriend, no doubt.” He started a smile, trying to engage in a bit of sexual banter, but she left her face flaccid and he gave up. “Mandela and one other search.”

“No, just Mandela,” she said flatly. It was no skin off his nose to give her chitties. They were presigned forms to give to the paper’s taxi firm and, as chief reporter, JT had an infinite supply, never questioned by management. They were supposed to be for office business only but she saw him climb in a firm’s cab on his way home most evenings.

He watched her, grinding his teeth and looking for a chink he could exploit. “Full-time search,” she said. “And one on his wife, Winnie, as well.”

He pulled a small pad out of his inner pocket and tore off two yellow slips, handing them over.

Paddy took them greedily, checking to make sure they were signed.

“What’s it for, then? You doing a story?”

She smiled up at him, pleased by the small wondering throb in his voice. “I’m doing an exposé of the illegal taxi chitty trade. And now I’m making my excuses and leaving.”

Pleased with the line, she turned and walked away.

Kate found herself driving the battered Mini through streets so familiar they made her feel quite sentimental. Every street corner and hedge held a memory of an event or a person or a rumor or a game. Mount Florida. As she neared her parents’ house she could name the family who lived in every second house back then, recall summer afternoons spent in most of the front gardens. There was the school bus stop and the wall where she first met Paul Neilson.

She hadn’t meant to come here really, but was drawn by a memory. She had her snuffbox with her, had taken a good dose and knew she could do anything.

She looked at the house. Daddy’s lawn was as neat as a sheet of glass, leading up to the small thirties detached house, perfectly tidy and completely unobjectionable. They could have had a bigger home. They could have had a big home in Bearsden like the one her grandfather had, with a bedroom each and a field at the back. Their parents made sure the children knew that they could have afforded a lot of things, but were being actively denied. Money was available, but the children weren’t worthy of it. Their school fees were expensive. They all knew, in itemized detail, how much food cost, how much their uniforms set the family budget back, how dear each holiday was. Their parents’ ever-changing wills dangled over everything like a Damoclean sword, casting a threatening shadow, spoiling every banquet. It affected them each differently: Vhari stopped caring about money and Bernie refused to take a penny off them. Kate liked money, though. As soon as she got some, from Paul admittedly, she splurged on jewelry and trips and clothes, lovely lovely things.

She stayed in the car, watching her parents’ house to get a measure of it as she rifled blind in her handbag and felt the cold surface of the silver snuffbox. She couldn’t see any movement inside the house and a suffocating sense of dread came over her. She hadn’t seen her parents for three years. If she went in now she’d have to tolerate their shock at her appearance. They’d be crying about Vhari now she was dead when they had been so nasty about her when she was alive.

A fat girl in an old green leather coat sloped past her. Kate watched her in the rearview mirror. She looked cheap; a loose thread was hanging from the hem of the coat. She had a small rucksack slung between her shoulder blades and spiky hair, as if she’d cut it herself. More interestingly, she stopped across the road, at the gate to the Thillingly house.