Denise Mina - Deception aka Sanctum

12. A woman from Lanarkshire asked whether her dad was involved in the first few murders. She gives a detailed account of her father’s movements around that time, where he was and what he did for a living. “Photos encl.” The file doesn’t say whether the photos were of her or her father.

I don’t know how to discriminate among these. It’s four-thirty in the morning and I’m on my third cup of coffee. I shouldn’t be drinking coffee, it’ll just keep me awake, but I need something to keep me warm, and decaf doesn’t seem determined enough for sorting through this file.

NOT EXCLUDED BY SECURITY CHECKS:

1. His wee sister.

2. The American priest.

3. Manager woman; I think he would have seen her.

4. Sexy lady 1.

5. The brethren woman didn’t ask for a visit.

6. Neither did the web designer.

7. Nor the psychic.

EXCLUDED BY SECURITY CHECKS:

1, 2. Both women who thought they knew his accomplice. Gow refused to see them because he was maintaining his innocence.

3. Sexy lady 2: Doreen would have thought that the promise of sex would get her an invite to visit. She would have been rejected by Susie and Tucker because of their antihubristophiliac stance.

4. Mrs. Tate rejected by Gow. No one would want to see an accusing old teacher.

5. Brenda was rejected, presumably by Gow, for having a boring connection.

That’s it, down to five, but not one of them had a return address in Leicester.

The perfect fit of Donna McGovern and the profile of a prison romancer seems very sinister now. It feels as if Donna II went hunting for a front. She knew that by using Donna’s background and history she could easily pass the interview with Susie and Tucker. But what’s behind it all? Why bother to come up here at all?

I feel completely detached from Susie now. I can’t even conjure up good feelings toward her when I think of her as Margie’s mother. Even that. It leaves me cold.

I SPENT AN HOUR ALONE THIS MORNING SITTING IN THE KITCHEN, looking out the window. Yeni took Margie to nursery. I sat still, staring out the window and thinking vaguely about everything. I came up here to get a note of the phone numbers of the women who might have been refused access.

Before I started calling the numbers, I phoned the bank and the investment firms and asked them to send detailed statements for all of our accounts going back over the full five years of our marriage. Then I made some phone calls. My interview with Alistair Garvie is tomorrow. I’m flying down to London in the morning and coming back the same night. I’m not going to say anything interesting; I’ll keep it all as bland as possible.

I phoned each of the women’s numbers in turn. I had worked my story out: I would claim to be a friend from Leicester, say that I had a silver necklace belonging to Doreen/Mrs. Tate/Brenda/etc. that I dearly wanted to return. It was early afternoon.

Doreen had a baby crying in the background and two small children shouting at each other in the foreground. She sounded exhausted. Mrs. Tate was about 110 years old. Neither of the women who suspected members of their family was in. And then I came to Brenda Rumney.

Brenda’s phone was answered by an old woman. She warbled like a deaf canary, and occasionally, during the course of the conversation, I could hear her dentures clack together.

“Hello?” she said.

“Hello, Brenda?”

“Brenda? No, dear, I’m not Brenda. She’s not here. I’m Mrs. Rumney.”

We paused momentarily while I took this in. “Will she be coming back soon?”

“No. She doesn’t live here anymore. She lives in London now. She’s gone back to live in London.”

I was well practiced now, having given the story to a few people, and I started in on my spiel. “Ah, I see, well, the thing is, I’m trying to get hold of her because I have a necklace. It’s silver and she-”

“Oh God…” The woman stifled a sob.

“I’m sorry?” I said, mentally racing back through everything I had just said. Was it the necklace that upset her? Had she been necklaced? “Are you all right?”

“It’s a shock, I’m sorry. You…” Her voice dropped, and she whispered as if broaching a terrible truth. “You’re from Glasgow, aren’t you? I can hear it in your voice. You are, aren’t you?”

I hesitated. “Yes?”

“Oh. Are you a relative of Brenda’s? Does she have a family there?”

I thought the woman was Brenda’s mother, and the question made no sense. I didn’t know what to say, so I stumbled on with the story I’d rehearsed. “I, um, I have a necklace for her. It belongs to her. She lost it when she was in Leicester and I want to give it back. We are talking about Brenda who was in Leicester, aren’t we?”

“She was there for a short while last year. She was transferred with her job, but then left. How did you get this number?”

“Well, Brenda gave it to me.”

The old lady’s voice lightened. “She gave you this number?”

“Yes, she gave this number.” It wasn’t a lie really, it was the number on the letter.

“Oh!” The woman was crying. “I can’t tell you what that means to me… We haven’t seen her for over a year.”

She wept openly now. I apologized, but she sobbed that there was no need to be sorry. It wasn’t my fault. It was no one’s fault. She should have told Brenda sooner. I didn’t want to pry, so I asked if she was Brenda’s mother. She gave a little squeaky yes and shuddered as she inhaled.

“We got Brenda when she was just five weeks old. We hoped she would settle. We put off telling her she was adopted, but she was always a strange little girl, always cold and withdrawn. It sent her off the rails when we eventually did tell her. She was twenty. She left university and just disappeared.”

I thought about Margie and what I’d probably want to hear if she turned against me and couldn’t be found. “She loves you very much-” I said off the top of my head.

“I know.” I heard a hankie being dragged across the receiver and a slight nose-blowing episode.

“She loves you very much indeed.”

“I know. She’s just got a funny way of showing it. We should have told her.”

“But she does love you…”

“You’re kind. What’s your name?”

I didn’t want to give my own name. “Um…,” I said. “Morris.”

“Morris Roberts, then, is it?”

I hmmed again noncommittally. “Mrs. Rumney, did you receive a call about a year and a half ago from either Susie Harriot or Harvey Tucker at Sunnyfields State Mental Hospital?”

Confused by the change of topic, she hesitated. “Yes. I didn’t know where she was calling from, but a Dr. Harriot did call.”

“And what did she ask you?”

“About Brenda contacting her mother. I thought she was from the adoption people. Brenda was upset about the whole thing. We should have told her earlier. She just disappeared.”

“Mrs. Rumney, you don’t have an address for her in London, do you?”

“No, she wouldn’t give me one.” She blew her nose. “She doesn’t want me going after her, you see. She’ll only”- she paused to blow again-“only have contact on her own terms. She does phone here sometimes, but there’s a lot she won’t talk about. I’m surprised she’s not in touch with you. I didn’t know she had a relative up there.”

“Well, you know. I’d love to see her again.”

She tutted. “Our Sean met her old boss at the football, and he said he’d been asked for a reference for her. She’s working in the sweets department of Selfridges in Oxford Street. Is Mary-Ann still alive, then? Brenda won’t tell us a thing about how it went.”