Blood, Salt, Water (6 page)

She asked if Roxanna had ever gone missing before and Walker looked shifty. ‘Not that I’m aware of. We’ve only been together for a year and a bit. She may have. You’d have to ask the kids.’

‘The kids aren’t your kids?’

‘No, their father lives in Ecuador.’

‘Do you know his name?’

‘Miguel Vicente.’ He spelled it for her and watched her write it down. She asked for Vicente’s address and was told that he had two: one in Quito and a beachfront house in Guayaquil. Both in Ecuador.

‘Would Roxanna have contacted him?’

Walker snorted at that. ‘Not bloody likely.’

‘Why “not bloody likely”?’

The story came out in a messy jumble. Her ex, he, well, he was a total bastard, sort of, you see, left without telling her where he was going and married someone else a week later (Morrow knew it was a month) and he wanted the kids now, but only because his wife was infertile (she had two kids) but he’d never bothered about the kids before (he had). Morrow could hear Roxanna’s voice in the bitter rant. She’d heard divorce talk before. Vicente didn’t pay a penny in maintenance, either (true). Rox’d seen a lawyer but it made no difference . . .

‘Of course,’ said Morrow, trying to impress the voice recorder audience with the breadth of her knowledge, ‘Ecuador doesn’t have a reciprocal maintenance agreement. We see this a lot in missing persons. It’s not uncommon for children to be taken abroad by an ex.’

She imagined the DCC Hughes reading that, surprised and impressed by her erudition.

Walker looked puzzled, ‘No. The kids aren’t gone.
She’s
gone.’

He was right. RMAs were irrelevant. Hughes would read that too. Morrow’s smugness curdled to mild embarrassment. She was addressing the wrong audience. ‘Are the kids in touch with their dad?’

They weren’t, as far as he knew. Rox got upset at the mention of her ex, he said, and gave a little cringe. Morrow felt that maybe it was Robin who got upset at the mention of her ex. It was the downside of utterly condemning an ex to a new partner: it left no room for mitigation when the bitterness receded.

She asked him about the business.

‘Injury Claims 4 U,’ he said. The tacky posters were everywhere, on the underground, on bus stops, jarring red on yellow. The I of ‘Injury’ was represented by a silhouette of a ladder with a tiny red man falling off it. ‘Those posters aren’t hers. The owner was retiring, he was building up the goodwill. I don’t really know anything about her business.’

Morrow said casually that they would have a look at the books, to check for debts undisclosed at the time of sale, railroading him by segueing straight into: ‘If you could go and find contact details for the children’s father while we speak to them.’

She stood up and McGrain did too.

Robin got up and block her way. ‘This isn’t about custody.’ He said it very carefully. ‘As I said: the kids are still here.’

‘I didn’t say it was about custody, Mr Walker. She may have tried to contact Mr Vicente—’

‘No, she hasn’t. It’s not that . . .’

They looked at each other, Morrow soft, Walker frightened.

‘Is there something you want to tell me, Mr Walker?’

‘No.’

‘Are you sure? Because I feel like you’re worried about something but not being completely open with me.’

‘No.’

‘OK.’ She nodded McGrain to the door, ‘We’ll speak to the children.’

Through the dark hallway and down the back corridor, they stopped at a printer on a table and Robin handed her a B5-sized print of the Botanics picture. It was still damp. They came to two bedroom doors facing each other.

Martina and Hector were at their respective desks in their respective rooms, both playing dull platform games on their laptops with the sound turned off. They had been listening but now affected surprise that there was anyone there. Martina stood up. ‘May I help you?’

Robin stepped between them. ‘They want you to tell them about Mummy.’

Martina spat viciously at Walker, ‘What
about
her?’

He took a threatening step into the room, pointing at the girl as if he’d like to slap her. ‘
Has she phoned you?
’

Martina pointed back at him and shouted, ‘Would we have called the police if she had phoned us?’

‘
Since
you called the police? Has she phoned you
since
then?’

Evidently it was a high-volume household. Morrow raised her voice. ‘I’ll talk to the kids alone, please, Mr Walker.’

‘Marty! Has she?’

‘ALONE, Mr Walker.’

Malevolent joy rippled across Martina’s face as Walker backed away. Hector was watching from his bedroom door, still as a hunted rabbit.

Morrow decided to start with Hector. Gesturing for McGrain to follow, she walked into the boy’s room. Martina followed them.

‘Go back to your own room.’

Martina tried to catch her brother’s eye. Morrow stepped in and blocked her view. ‘We’ll come and see you in a minute
.
’ She pulled the door over, not closing it, knowing Martina would listen. They heard the girl step away and shut her own door but felt her vigilance radiating across the corridor.

Hector sat down on the side of his bed, holding his stomach as if it ached, rocking softly back and forth.

‘OK, son, we’re just going to ask a few questions—’

‘In the car!’ he hissed in a whisper, watching the door. ‘They had a big fight. Going to school. Yesterday.’

‘Yesterday morning?’

He kept his eyes on the door. ‘
Yesterday.
Mummy went crazy because Daddy phoned Martina.’

‘Doesn’t he phone, normally?’

‘Sometimes. She was furious, though.’

‘Why?’

‘Something he said about Auntie Maria. It made Mummy really furious.’

‘Who is Auntie Maria?’

‘Maria Arias. Mummy’s friend in London.’

‘What was it?’

‘I don’t know. I thought, maybe . . . Daddy had a lot of affairs. Mummy and Daddy don’t get on.’ Hector shrugged. ‘I don’t know. Marty said it was bullshit.’

‘Hector,’ Morrow whispered, ‘did you report her missing this morning? Did you call us?’

He nodded. ‘Marty waited in the taxi. She said there would be cameras and two of us was . . . you know. Obvious.’

‘Why didn’t you just call from here?’

He looked at the door.

‘Is it because of Robin?’

He frowned at his bed.

‘Do you think Robin would hurt your mum?’

He shrugged again. ‘I don’t really know him. What’s he doing here?’

‘Isn’t he your mum’s boyfriend?’

Hector nodded. Morrow thought he meant that he didn’t want Robin to be there, rather than his presence was confusingly pointless.

‘On the phone this morning you said, “We don’t know where they’ve taken her.” What did you mean?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Why do you think someone’s taken her? Why not that she’s just run off?’

He found it hard to articulate but eventually held his hands up at the room. ‘Why are we here, in Glasgow? What are we
doing
here?’

It was an astute question. Long-serving police officers were wondering the same thing. He was rocking back and forth, nearly crying. He couldn’t talk any more, could hardly catch his breath. Morrow patted his hand, felt a strong urge to lie and tell him everything would be all right. ‘I’m going to ask your sister about the argument in the car, OK?’

He hummed warily at the door, steeling himself.

Morrow got up and went across the hall, knocking and opening the door simultaneously. She found Martina standing by her bed, waiting. Her manner was imperial.

‘Martina. Can you tell me what your dad said on the phone that made your mum so angry?’

‘Nothing.’ Martina’s voice was flat. ‘He didn’t say anything.’

They looked at each other for a while. Finally, Morrow broke the silence. ‘Why did you call us if you don’t want help?’

‘Get us away from Walker . . .’ Martina was crying a little now, not like Hector though. It was controlled, as if she was squeezing it out.

‘Are you afraid of Robin?’

‘No!’

‘Do you think he had anything to do with your mum—’

‘No!’

‘You don’t think he hurt your mum?’

She couldn’t bring herself to say that. She slumped down on the bed, defeated. ‘No.’

‘What do you think has happened?’

‘She calls at four fifteen, when we get in from school, normally. We were worried when she didn’t call, but maybe she was driving?’

‘Why would she be driving?’

‘I think she drove to London to see Auntie Maria. I think she gave her a fucking ear-bleed.’

Morrow took a moment to navigate her way through the teen-speak. ‘Was she angry with her?’

Martina shook her head. ‘She was angry about nothing. Literally
nothing
. She went crazy: “What did he say? What
exactly.
” But he hadn’t said anything. “Auntie Maria said you’re doing geometry.” Literally that boring.’

She was a child whose mother was missing and she’d been dumped on an unloved stepfather but still, Martina didn’t evoke sympathy, not like Hector. She was beautiful, privileged, but bitter and angry, as if she had everything but couldn’t fucking believe she wasn’t getting more.

‘You got your brother to call us, why not call yourself?’

She shrugged carelessly, as if she just couldn’t be bothered, but Hector had been listening and called out from his room, ‘She was crying so much she couldn’t speak.’

Martina glowered at the door.

‘Has your mum ever left you before?’

‘
Never!
’ She spat the word. ‘She has never, ever left us before. Mummy is
fierce
about us, so I know there’s something wrong, otherwise she would have phoned.’

‘Well, she has left and she hasn’t phoned. What do you think could cause that to happen?’

Martina, chewed her cheek, looked tired. ‘I think she’s in trouble,’ she whispered.

‘What sort of trouble?’

But Martina’s chin trembled and she dropped her face to hide it. Morrow saw then that she wasn’t mean or haughty, she was just a child who didn’t know where her mum was and she was scared. Fear with its make-up on.

‘Money trouble?’

She gave her lap a tiny nod and then glanced up at McGrain, pleading with them not to press it.

Morrow didn’t want to ask. Incriminating evidence from children looked bad, especially if they had been questioned without an adult present. They could ask her to elaborate eventually, if they needed to.

Morrow held up the photograph from the Botanics and pointed out the mysterious Mr Y. ‘Who’s this man?’

‘Frank Delahunt. He’s the lawyer for Mummy’s business up here. He’s a creepy wanker.’

Back in the car with McGrain, Morrow puzzled the dynamics in the family.

‘What do you think? Martina seems desperate to get away from Walker. Is it a child protection issue?’

‘Nah,’ said McGrain, knowing exactly what she was talking about. ‘Bosses wouldn’t let you anyway. They’ve spent too much on it.’

He was right. Abusing stepfathers with an eye on a child often picked chaotic families, but usually with a mother they could control. Roxanna wasn’t that. Both the Met and Police Scotland had spent too much money on the case already to let Morrow blow it with a speculative social-work intervention. A request for a home visit wouldn’t make it off her desk.

‘She hates him,’ said McGrain. ‘He’s her stepdad. The problem is that he’s a child himself and he hates her back.’ He started the engine. ‘I’m a stepdad to three.’

‘Do they hate you?’

He pulled up at the lights on the busy Great Western Road. ‘They did. At first. Their mum thought it would never pass. Your job is just not to react. It was easy for me. Mine are diamonds.’

Morrow looked out of the window as the lights changed and they drove on.

She didn’t think Roxanna Fuentecilla would walk away from her kids. But Morrow had to face the possibility: maybe she didn’t know her at all. Maybe all the good stuff was just projected hope.

10

Iain tripped downhill along streets of high hedges around big houses. He felt conspicuous, imagined householders spotting him through their windows and stopping to neighbourhood-watch him. He knew a lot of the town, but nobody from up here. The big-house people were often incomers. They kept themselves separate, above, geographically, socially, even in the elevated seating positions of their high-up cars. Iain’s only contact with them was through their cleaners, or childminders, or if he met their gardeners in the pub. Or if they approached him for a deal. Susan Grierson made sense now. She’d probably ask him to recommend a cleaner when he got back.

He turned eastward, heading for Tommy’s mum’s. It was helping his mood, having a thing to do. Even walking was helping him keep focus, the slap of his feet on the pavement drowning out the physical sensations of the morning. He stopped at a kerb, heard a seagull in the distance and remembered the rough dock pressing hard on his knee, the warm wet of her breath on his lips. He hurried across the empty road without really looking, eager to get moving again.

Five blocks down he arrived at Tommy’s mum’s tenement. The window frames were peeling. Someone had emptied an ashtray from their car into the gutter just outside. The entry door was propped open with a broken brick. He walked into the concrete close and the familiar smell of damp and sea and air.

Tommy lived with his mum, Elaine Farmer, in a disabled-access flat on the ground floor. Lainey had bad knees. Iain had known her for a long time. He flicked the letter box a couple of times, the metallic clack ricocheting back from the stone walls of the close.

He listened. A footfall. A door creak. He could imagine Elaine standing still inside, wondering.

Finally, she called out, ‘Who’s it?’

Iain leaned into the joist where the door would open. ‘Me, Lainey.’

Pause.

‘Iain Fraser,’ he said.

She shuffled across the hall and opened the door a crack, peering out with one eye. ‘Keep hearing you’re back.’ She opened the door to let him in.

God, she was old. And heavy. One good thing about prison food: it was hard to get fat. She had a purple T-shirt on, too small. It was gathered around her middle. Her thin blonde hair was tangled at one side.

Lainey had not grown into her looks. If anything she’d grown out of them and she wasn’t looking after herself. Her grey skirt was ripped at the hem where it had caught on something. Her legs were bare and her calves bulged with black veins, as if she was already full of worms. She wore slippers shaped like black and white footballs. Iain stared at them to spare himself the sight of her.

‘Footballs. Like ’em? Tommy got me these for Christmas. Comfortable.’ She dropped her voice to a sensual murmur. ‘What you doing here, Iain?’

Iain and Lainey had a night a long time ago; a high point for her, a low point for him. Iain wouldn’t let her know he felt that way though. She’d never been very attractive but she was nice.

‘Kind of looking for Tommy, Lainey, looking to buy.’

She tutted reprovingly. ‘Not for yourself?’ Iain was known for his abstemiousness. It made him stand out.

‘No,’ he gave a sheepish smile, ‘just for a friend.’

‘Oh.’ She looked down the close. ‘Tommy’s out just now. But seeing as it’s you. Much you after?’

‘Three gram?’ He held up the money. It was more than a pinch but Susan had given him the price plus half again to get it.

‘Come on in, well.’

Iain didn’t want to be alone with Lainey in an empty house. He wanted to keep on walking, actually. Stay moving, stay outside, but he couldn’t think of a good excuse so he slipped sideways into the hall, flattening himself against the wall by the door as she shut it.

‘Well, my God, Iain Fraser.’ She stepped back to look him over. ‘You get better-looking every time I see ye.’

She reached forward to touch his chest and Iain flinched away. He couldn’t be touched today, not by her and not there. She was hurt. He mumbled an apology.

‘Nuh nuh.’ She dropped her hand. ‘You’re entitled.’ She glanced down at her slippers, lifted a hand to touch her messy hair. He could see that she was blaming herself, finding the fault in her appearance.

‘Lainey, I’m . . . it’s been a hell of a day . . .’

‘Fair enough, Iain. Just saying.’ She tried to smile warmly but dropped it and turned away, casting a saucy look behind her. ‘Just . . . wouldn’t kick ye out, if you know what I mean.’

Iain stayed where he was and watched her shuffle down the hall. The ridiculous slippers made her look as if she was dribbling two footballs. He pressed his hands to the wall behind him and waited. He could hear her rifling through a drawer.

He remembered the hallway being bigger than it was. He slid across it in his socks before dawn, trying not to make a noise as he left. Tommy was at his dad’s, the house was empty, but Iain had started at the sound of a pipe clanging as it came to life. He hurried across to the door, saw Tommy’s school bag and trainers in a pile by the cupboard, thought they were his own for some reason, and stopped. Lainey was at the bedroom door before he got moving again and she took him back to bed. They tried again, and again he couldn’t. She was too raw. Even when he shut his eyes all he could see was her face, her broken veins, her drunken smile. The second time he came out of the room into the hall Lainey called after him that she wouldn’t tell anyone, it was their private business, he shouldn’t be ashamed. Iain wasn’t ashamed. He’d have been more ashamed if he had been able to. It would have meant he was blind to the smog of need and lies around her. She didn’t want it either. They called it sex because they didn’t have the words for what they needed. They were both looking for a hand to hold in the dark, a friend, a makeshift mooring.

In the back room now Elaine slammed the drawer shut. She came back out, cellophane wraps in her hand. ‘Tommy’s already bagged them into grams.’

Iain gave her two thirds of the money. ‘Very efficient.’

‘Aye, small businessman of the year, all that shite.’

Iain opened the door. She knew he wanted to get away. He’d hurt her and wished he hadn’t but he couldn’t think how to make it OK so he just walked away.

‘Iain,’ she called after him down the close. Iain turned back. ‘Not want to stay for your tea? I’m making Tommy’s anyway.’

He didn’t want to see Tommy.

‘Shepherd’s pie?’ she said, as if that was what was worrying him.

‘Nah, you’re all right, Lainey, but thanks, love.’ He stepped away.

‘Iain?’

He turned back once more to look at her, keeping his body to the door.

‘Iain, I can see . . .’ Lainey drew a line down her cheek. She knew he’d been crying. She blinked slow. Sympathy. The vain hope of connection. That’s why he went with her before.

Iain shook his head. ‘Please, don’t tell Tommy.’

She shrugged a shoulder. ‘I won’t say.’

Grateful, Iain lifted a hand to wave. Puzzled, Lainey squinted at his fingers.

‘What?’ Iain looked at his own hand.

‘What’s that?’ She looked at his hand and touched her own fingertips.

Stained brown with blood. He hid his hands behind his back. She shouldn’t be looking at that. She was nice, Elaine, she was a nice person. ‘Nothing.’ He backed out of the close.

‘Iain,’ she called, ‘anything. Just phone me, OK?’

‘Will do, Lainey. You’re a star.’

Iain didn’t have a phone. He was ashamed of that. Not that he couldn’t afford one but every time he got out of prison the technology had moved on so much he couldn’t catch up.

He hurried away from her, into the west, slowing to a panting walk because of the weight of the smoking on his lungs. It was a deceptively steep climb to the posh bit. He stopped to catch his breath.

Too much had happened to fit into one day. The day before had been so calm. She sat where they put her, in Iain’s room, calm on the low-down stool. They bought in a curry. She chose butter chicken and ate it with a plastic spoon. Sometimes, when Tommy spoke, Iain saw her looking at them, smiling as if she was part of the conversation. She saw no threat in them. Right up to when they were walking through the yellow sand when he saw the apple of her cheek, tight and round, smiling as they led her to the dock. As if she didn’t mind. She was like a holy martyr.

He leaned over his knees, breathing deep. Maybe she didn’t mind. He stood up, hands on hips; he looked out over the sea. If someone was going to kill him right now he didn’t think he’d mind. Maybe that was how she’d felt. The thought cheered him until he remembered her screaming and fighting and almost making it to the trees. He headed back up to Susan’s dirty house.

Stepping through the overgrown hedge around the front garden he saw her watching for him through an arrow-slit window at the side of the front door. Iain dropped his head as he walked up to the opening door, wondering what the fuck it was with Susan and realising that he didn’t care. These women weren’t his problem. He should get away and be alone.

She let him in, not even looking at his face. ‘Put it down there,’ she said to the dresser. Iain put the wraps on the sideboard. Susan stayed at the door, waiting for him to leave.

The coke was what she wanted and it was all she wanted. She nodded the way out. ‘Sorry you’re upset today. Was it because I mentioned Sheila?’

Iain looked at his feet. ‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘Sheila.’

She reached out and squeezed his upper arm like a witch testing him for the pot.

‘So brave,’ she said, cold now that she had what she wanted.

Iain looked at her. She didn’t care about anything but getting him out of there. ‘Why’s this house so dirty?’

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘You weren’t here, were ye? She died on her own.’

‘Sorry?’

He looked back into the dirty kitchen. ‘Fucking look at this place. She died in here, didn’t she? And you’ve just got back.’

Susan was surprised, amused even, as if she’d been walking a dog and then it looked up and spoke to her. ‘Oh. But my mother died. I’m sorting through her affairs—’

‘Alone,’ he said, his lips tight with the effort of being so vicious. ‘She died alone in here so don’t think you can talk to me as if I’m some kind of arsehole. At least Sheila knew I wanted to be there.’

Susan’s eyes were narrowed now. ‘But you weren’t there, were you? You were in prison.’

She was goading him, chin out, eyes slits, and Iain wondered out loud, ‘How the fuck would you know that?’

Suddenly embarrassed, she tried to herd him out of the door. ‘Just get out.’

Iain didn’t move. ‘How do you know I was in prison?’

‘Mum told me.’ It was possible. Her mother might have told her that. But she looked caught out. As though she had given something away.

‘Have you been following me or something?’

‘Just go.’

Did she have a crush on him? No, it wasn’t that. But why would she know that then? ‘Are you a cop?’ She didn’t react so it wasn’t that. He looked down to the kitchen. She was definitely hiding something in the house. ‘Is there someone in there?’

She pushed at him. ‘Get out.’

Iain half called out because she didn’t want him to, ‘Who’s in there?’

It was so sudden. Her foot shot out in a judo move, curling around his calf, throwing him off balance and she shoved at the same time. Iain tumbled out of the front door and into the garden. The door slammed shut in his face.

Through the dirty window at the side of the door he saw her shadow hurry down the passageway to the back of the house.

He stood for a minute, waiting for the surprise to subside, and then he asked the peeling front door: ‘Who the fuck are you now?’