Garnethill by Denise Mina (36 page)

Maureen picked at a sticky mark on the back of the driver's seat. "I asked her about herself," she said sullenly.

"You were asking about George I."

"She didn't tell me anything, anyway."

McEwan looked at her for a moment. "And Daniel House? What about that?"

"Daniel House?"

"You were there asking about Douglas, weren't you? We saw you go in and come out. One of the nurses saw the picture of him on television last night. She phoned and told us about his visit, just in case it mattered, and she told us someone had been there asking after him, a young woman with blue eyes."

She didn't want to look at him. His voice was so soft she was sure he was building up to shouting at her.

"Maureen," he said quietly, "off the record, this guy's a vicious bastard. I haven't seen anything like this in a long time. You have to stop it. It's madness, you don't know what you're doing."

She looked at him. McEwan wasn't angry, he was worried.

"We know about the Northern now and we're tracing all the male patients and staff with access to the wards. We're keeping our eye on a very promising suspect for the murders right now, so it's all in hand."

"Is it Benny?"

McEwan rolled his eyes. "Stop it. Will you promise me you'll stop it?"

He was asking her, he was asking nicely. "Okay," she said, feigning reluctance. "Okay, I'll stop. Just tell me if it's Benny or I won't know whether to press the buzzer if he comes to see me."

McEwan nodded slowly, giving himself time to think through the implications of telling her. He wouldn't have taken that long if it wasn't Benny.

"Okay, you don't have to say it," she said. "I can tell."

"Good," he said. "Now, until we make an arrest you're in danger. I want you to stay near your house. Stay in it if possible, okay?"

"Okay."

"And lock it."

"Okay, Joe."

He leaned across her to open the car door but she put her hand out and stopped him. "I'm sorry I was so rude to you that time, when I called you . . . what I called you before, but it's hard to just stop having anything to do with your own life and hand it over to someone else to sort out, you know? I don't suppose it's something that comes naturally to most people."

He sat back and looked at her. "You're wrong about that. It comes very naturally to most people," he said, displaying a level of reflection she would never have suspected of him. "You still got the beeper?"

"Yeah." She patted her pocket. "I've got it."

"Use it, for even the slightest reason. Okay?"

"Okay."

He took the fag from Maureen's hand and drew on it.

"Joe, do you or don't you smoke?"

"Gave up." He handed the fag back and leaned across, opening the car door.

"I know you were at it this morning," she said, "I know ye were pretending to be friendly. I'd have given you the list anyway, ye didn't need to do that."

He looked startled but said nothing.

"You smiled when ye were putting my coat on," she explained. "Gave you away. This is much better, the way you're doing it now."

McEwan coughed. "I'm not doing anything now," he said, and looked out of the window. They sat in a rocky silence.

"Right," she said awkwardly. "Well, it comes over better, anyway."

She got out of the car, took four steps and dropped her scarf. McAskill stepped forward and picked it up for her. "Hall cupboard," he whispered. "His balls. Cut off and put there." He got back into the driver's seat and McMummb climbed into the back next to McEwan. The car pulled away from the curb, followed the line of the cul-de-sac and drove out to the main road. Maureen watched them as they turned. McEwan was saying something serious to McMummb.

"And tell them," said McEwan, "not to let her out of their sight. Not for a minute."

"Yes, sir," said McMummb, and wrote the order in longhand in his notebook.

"YOU WERE RIGHT," muttered Maureen to Leslie, "it is a man."

"How do you know?" asked Leslie.

"Douglas's bollocks were cut off. That's what was in the cupboard."

"And that makes it a man?"

"A woman would've cut his dick off. Bollocks aren't exactly loaded with symbolic meaning for us, are they?"

"Dunno," said Leslie. "I'm not all women. Reckon it's the same guy as the Northern rapes?"

"Yeah."

"Did you tell them?"

"No."

"What are you going to do, then?"

"I'm going to get the fucker," said Maureen, putting on her helmet and fastening it tight.

Maureen sat on the back of the bike and shut her eyes as Leslie drove her into the town. She held Leslie's waist and felt the hum of the engine beneath her, felt the cold air pushing past her, the stinging on the back of her neck, and heard the distant noise of traffic outside her helmet.

In another time her hot face lay on Douglas's damp thigh and he stroked her hair with a gentle hand, his still-wet dick lolling to the side and twitching, his balls contracted into the shape of a love heart.

Chapter 29

BOY

The football banged hard off the wall. Ten eleven eight seven ten eleven eight three four, ages. The man had dear shoes on. He went past and up the stairs. In a minute the tea would be ready a0nd the telly would be on and the house would be warm. The bang, bang on the stairs was just someone knocking.

He thought about the pound. Was it another pound if the man tried to give her a doing or even if he didn't? He couldn't remember but the chapping was coming from the second floor.

He put down his ball carefully, making sure it wouldn't roll away out of the close. He wasn't allowed out of the close and if the ball rolled away he would have to wait for Mammy to get it back. He crept up the stairs on his hands and knees, peeking around the bend just enough to see feet. The man was at her door anyway, he could hear a scratching noise and the man's legs were shaking. He moved up the stair a wee bit and saw the man's hands moving something in the lock, pushing it in and out, very fast. He wasn't kicking the door in like for a doing, though. The boy went back downstairs, looking out of the close mouth, keeping his feet inside and holding on to the wall, hanging out and looking for his mammy. People were coming past all the time but his mammy wasn't there, just other people coming back from work and messages.

It wasn't loud but he heard it. It was a woman saying a scared thing. He knew the sound very well. It was coming from up the stairs.

He hung out of the close and opened his mouth and shouted, bending over with the effort, screaming as hard and as loud and as angry as he could, until his face went red. He wasn't shouting any words.

Some women in the street came running over, holding his face in their hands, stroking and trying to quiet him but he wouldn't be consoled. He didn't stop until the man with the dear shoes walked behind the back of the women and out the close, until he went away. All of a sudden he stopped. Mrs. Hatih gave him a sweetie. His papa said not to take things from Pakis but he needed it because he was sore from shouting.

Leslie dropped Maureen in the town and drove back to Siobhain's. The eastbound traffic was at a standstill all the way up Duke Street. She stayed in the outside lane, weaving between the stagnant traffic, enjoying the sway and verve of the bike.

A wee boy was messing about with a football just inside Siobhain's close. He stopped as Leslie walked past, holding his football under his skinny arm, and watched her. "Son," she said to him, "did a lady give you a pound earlier on?"

"Aye." The boy smiled. "And I shouted dead loud."

"Did the man come?"

"Aye." He grinned. "He was poking at the door."

Leslie left him and ran up the stairs two at a time.

She hammered on Siobhain's door and shouted in at her. The boy followed her up to the landing. He watched the door, holding Leslie's leather trousers in a tight fist at the back of her knee. The lock's metal face had fresh scratches on it, as though someone had been trying to fit something sharp into the keyhole.

"Siobhain," shouted Leslie, "it's Leslie, Maureen's pal from last night. Let me in! Open the door."

They heard a nervous scratching as Siobhain took the snib off the lock. The door opened a fraction and Siobhain looked out, slumping backward when she saw it was Leslie, leaving the door to swing open. Her eyes were glazed. Leslie stepped into the hall, put her arms around Siobhain and patted her back. The boy looked Siobhain over. "No doin' then, na?" He shook his head at Leslie.

"Eh?"

"D'she no' get a doin', then?"

Leslie was disturbed by the question. "No, son, she didn't." She pushed the door shut in his face.

Leslie took a plastic bag from the kitchen and packed it with knickers, a toothbrush and a spare jumper. She held the bag open at the dresser and swept the pill jars into it. She made sure Siobhain had her house key and put a heavy coat on her. "You ever been on a bike before, Siobhain?"

Siobhain didn't answer. Leslie buttoned up the front of her coat. "Just relax and you'll be fine, okay?" Leslie put her hands on Siobhain's hips and moved them from side to side. "Just relax and we'll be fine, okay? Let them follow the movement of the bike." She led Siobhain down the stairs.

The boy was watching them. "Son, come 'ere. The lady asked me to give you this." She handed him a pound.

"I made him stop," he said, looking guilty.

Leslie kissed the top of his head. "I know you did, wee man," she said. "I know you did."

She strapped the helmet onto Siobhain's head and helped her get her leg over the seat. Her big body was rigid with fright. It would be like riding the bike with a fridge on the back.

Chapter 30

PAULSA

Maureen phoned Leslie's house in case she had moved Siobhain there. Leslie answered the phone almost as soon as it rang out. She said that Siobhain's lock had been fiddled with, that he didn't get in and the wee boy said he'd scared the man away.

"Christ," said Maureen, "I thought she was having a flashback."

"Naw, he was there, all right, unless that wee boy's a clever con man."

"Did the lock look fiddled with?"

"Yeah," said Leslie. "Judging from the state Siobhain's in he'd definitely been there. She can't talk and I don't know if she can see. I'd come and get you, but I'm afraid to leave her alone."

"Don't worry. I'll be there in a couple of hours."

"Yeah, and bring drink."

"What kind?"

"The cheap, strong kind."

On the way to Paulsa's house Maureen stopped at a cash machine and fed in her card. She requested two hundred quid of Douglas's money and put it in her back pocket, keeping it separate. It didn't feel like her money at all. She still didn't know why he had given it to her.

Paulsa lived in the Saltmarket. The close was next door to a Unionist pub with a Union Jack flag painted on one of the windows. Maureen had never been to Paulsa's before, she'd never been to any dealer's house before apart from Liam's and she didn't know what to expect. But people come in and out of these houses all the time, she told herself, and they don't all get killed or raped on the doorstep. And, anyway, she was Liam's wee sister and Paulsa was looking for allies.

The close had a buzzer entrance system. She guessed the dirtiest button would be Paulsa's and pressed it. The speaker crackled and a distant voice muttered a quizzing "Yeah?"

"Is Paulsa there?" said Maureen, lowering her voice and trying to sound a bit hard anyway.

"Paulsa? Who's Paulsa?"

"I'm Liam O'Donnell's wee sister," she said.

The lock on the door buzzed excitedly. Maureen pushed it open and walked up to the second floor. As she stood on the landing one of the doors opened slowly. Paulsa looked her over. His skin was a shallow yellow color — even the whites of his eyes had a yellow tinge to them. He was wearing navy blue jeans and the newest Nike trainers. A dribble of brown food had dried on the front of his orange Adidas T-shirt. He looked like the last man on earth with a need for sportswear: he didn't look as if he was going to be here for very long. A slow smile hovered across his face, his jaw hanging open so she could see all of his teeth, which were very bad indeed: specks of black rot dotted them at regular intervals. Maureen felt like a well-meaning woman of the parish come to minister to the poor.

"You're Liam's wee sister," drawled Paulsa.

"Aye," she said.

"I saw you in the paper. Smart T-shirt ye had on."

Paulsa smiled in slow motion again, his head rolling in a tiny circle. He probably meant to nod. At this rate they might stand in the close all night. She walked toward him and he moved back slowly, letting her into the flat.

The living room was nicely painted in pale green, a terra-cotta three-piece suite looked new, apart from the clusters of cigarette burns on the armrests. A glass coffee table was covered with packets of Rizlas, bits of tinfoil and matches, and ripped, empty fag packets. An incongruously twee onyx table lighter sat in the middle of the mess like a centerpiece. A couple of pizza boxes were lying on the floor next to a very large, very full ashtray.

Paulsa walked in, stepping cautiously on his tiptoes like a Parkinson's victim. He dropped onto the settee and grinned up at Maureen. "I saw you in the paper," he said again. "Your brother's a good guy."

"Yeah," said Maureen, "he is. You stuck your neck out for him, Paulsa. Cheers, man."

"No bother, man."

She didn't know whether to say it but she thought maybe no one else would. "Are you well, Paulsa? You don't look it. You're awful yellow."

Paulsa screwed up his face and giggled infectiously. '"I'm turning Japanese,'" he sang. " 'I think I'm turning Japanese, I really think so . . .'" He held up his hands and waggled his fingers, singing the old Vapors tune and looking angelically at the ceiling. He got confused and slipped into "Echo Beach" by Martha and the Muffins. He sang for too long, way past where it would have been funny, through where it was sad, and stopped abruptly just before it got funny again. He giggled again, covering his mouth with his hand. "Anyway," he said, "what can I do for ye?"