The Day She Died (19 page)

And I dropped my eyes. That was true. It was my fault.

“Well, there's one good thing then,” I said. “Surely if they think Ros leaving is why Becky … they'll be willing to try to find her. I asked that Gail—outside—but it has to be someone who knows her. It would have to be you.”

His hair in the fire was still fizzing. I had to breathe through my mouth to stop smelling it and feeling sick.

“You asked the cops to look for Ros,” he said. And it was like he'd been taking lessons from Gail, because it wasn't a question at all.

“Maybe I should go home for a bit.” I hadn't planned to say it. It just formed in my mouth and was out before I knew.

“But they told you it would have to be me.” Like he hadn't heard me.

“Or her sister, I suppose,” I said. Maybe he
hadn't
heard me. “If she phones again, we could tell her. Or we could phone her back and tell her.”

“Please don't go.” He
had
heard me, then. He leaned forward and picked up the poker, shoved the ball of hair deep into the heart of the fire. The crackling stopped and the smell faded away. “Please stay, Jessie. I'm sorry it's so tough for you, but please stay.”

I nodded, relieved. I didn't know what I'd done wrong, but I wanted to make up for it. Even though that felt like ten steps back. It felt like I was sixteen again, like a shitload of grunt work on Caroline's couch had been blown completely away.

“They wouldn't give me the hill walker's address,” he was saying. “Can you believe that? They said I could write to him, and if he wanted to he could write back to me. A letter! Not even an e-mail.”

“Will you?” I said.

He nodded. “I really want to pay him back. Try to anyway. And one day,” he reached out towards me, “one day soon, I'll find a way to pay you back for everything you've done too. Everything you're doing. I'll find a way.”

Seventeen

Monday, 10 October

I really needed space to think it through. To try to sort out Ros and the money and Kazek and Gus and the pregnancy and post-mortem and inquest and what anything meant. A long walk along the beach on Sunday would have done it, but Sunday was worse than Saturday for kids and caravans, so I held out for Monday and the prospect of shutting the office door. Dot, though, was in a talkative mood, like a budgie on my shoulder all morning.

“Father Tommy said there was something wrong right from the start,” she opened with. She had set up her ironing board across the doorway, trapping me in the office so she could talk it all out to me. The corruption poisoning the fairies at the bottom of the magic garden had got into the
Scotsman
.

“Monsig just didn't want to spend our money where it wasn't needed,” I said. “He's not psychic. What's happened anyway?”

“What hasn't?” she said. “Embezzlement, backhanders, bribes, gangsters.” She was ironing, and as she pressed down hard on a coat collar, a cloud of steam billowed up and hid her face. If she'd cackled, she could have got cast in
Macbeth
.

“In other words, you've no idea,” I said. “Gangsters? In Dumfries?”

“
Master
gangsters, it said in the paper,” Dot insisted. “I'll cut it out and bring it in to show you. Investors are leaving like rats from a sinking ship. Of course, Father will never go back on his word. We'll lose out in the end, just you see. It's like the end of days in Dumfries this last while.”

I was trying to compose an e-mail.

“The end of days,” I repeated. My mother was a big one for the end of days.

“Two suicides,” said Dot. “Two deaths anyway. Disappearances … ” she trailed off.

“Who's disappeared?” I said, wondering if the world was small enough for Dot to know Ros. But she was staring out of the front window. “The end of days,” she said again softly as the door opened and a pair of police in uniform walked in. I girded my loins, squeezed past the ironing board, and went to face them.

“We are a confidential service, officers,” I said, smiling but speaking very firmly. “You'll need to speak to Father Tommy Whelan over at St. Vince's and just between you and me, he'll make you get a warrant. But since you're here, what am I saying no to, today?”

Because it wasn't the first time—or the tenth either—that the cops would be looking for someone right down hard on their luck and think we'd love to help them. I suppose, to give them their due, one of the reasons to suddenly need new clothes and shoes in a hurry is if you've got blood or whatever all over your old ones, but it would take a brass neck to walk into some drop-in clinic dripping with murder blood and ask for a clothing project voucher.

They took their hats off—trying to signal that they were staying?—and that's when I recognised the sergeant who'd been in Gus's house last night. He'd already recognised me. Cops are quick that way.

“Miss … Constable, isn't it?” he said. “Long time, no see.”

The other one—just a youngster, the look of a farmer's boy round him, red cheeks and gold hair—gave him a sharp look. He hadn't missed the twist in the voice any more than I had.

“Unless you're donating,” I said. I had spied the black plastic bag in the farmboy's hand. “Not uniforms, I hope. Ho-ho. That could cause some mix-ups.”

“I wonder if you would cast your eyes over these gents' clothes,” said the sergeant.

“What's your name?” I asked him. “I don't think I ever caught it.” I didn't really care, but asking questions and getting people to answer them was something my therapist Eilish had taught me for if I was feeling flustered, and I'd got into the habit.

“Sergeant McDowall, and this is Constable Anderson.”

He had put the bin bag up on the table where the belts and bags were laid out and he pulled out, first, a big sheet of thick polythene and then an armload of dark fabric, smelling of mould and damp and something worse than either. He started spreading them out.

“What's this in connection with?” Dot said.

“A gentleman met with an unfortunate situation,” said McDowall, “and we're trying to identify him. We wondered if maybe he was one of yours. He looked your sort.”

I turned over the trousers. Jeans. Fancy stitching on the pockets but no logo. Impossible to say. Same with the jersey—hand-knitted, no labels. The t-shirt was from Primark, so it could be. The underpants were brown and cream nylon y-fronts, definitely nothing to do with me. The young copper was hauling another item out of the bag and this did look familiar. Thick and sturdy, the fake leather shoulder patches flaking. My mind flashed on the memory of Kazek flapping his arms to say how warm his coat was, and I didn't hide it quick enough, felt my face turning pale.

“What?” said Anderson. “You recognise this, do you?”

“Oh Jessie,” said Dot. “Do you?”

“No,” I said. “Not really.” But his words were echoing in me—
an unfortunate situation
. If ever anyone looked like meeting with one of them, it was Kazek. I had to know. “How long have you had these then?”

All three of them were staring at me.

“Why do you ask?” said McDowall.

“Just … ” I scrabbled for an answer. “They don't smell too good.” It was true; they didn't.

“Nearly a week,” said Constable Anderson, getting a dirty look from the sergeant for his trouble. “River water, you know.”

A week. Not Kazek then. I let my breath go and felt the colour come back to my face. McDowall was glaring at the constable, but Dot was still watching me.

“River water?” she said. “A week? Is this the poor soul that came out of the Nith at the Whitesands?”

“Poor sod,” I said. “Maybe if he hadn't been wearing such a big thick coat he wouldn't have sunk.”

“That's an odd word to use,” said McDowall. “Why not say drowned? If you know something about this, Miss Constable … ”

“I really don't,” I said. I was watching Anderson's hands. He was rootling about in a plastic bag he'd had in his pocket. He took out a crucifix and half a dozen of those rubber charity bangles and laid them down.

“We don't do accessories,” I told him. I lifted one of the bangles, a pink one.

“It's not in English,” said McDowall.

“Polish.” I didn't mean to say it out loud, but when I looked up again all three were staring at me.

“Are you sure you've nothing you want to tell us, Miss Constable?” said McDowall.

“There's this,” I said, praying it was the right thing. If only Dot had left me alone to think, I might know. “I tried to tell what's her name, Gail, last night. There's a Polish person missing. Her name is Jaroslawa Czerwinska; she was Becky King's best friend and she disappeared a week past Saturday. She hasn't gone home and no one knows where she is.”

“Saturday,” he repeated, frowning at me. “
This
incident took place on Tuesday.”

“It
was
the drowning!” said Dot. “Oh, the poor man.”

“So it's hard to see how they're connected,” McDowall went on.

“I never said they were,” I told him.

“Except we have connected them, haven't we?” said McDowall. “Mrs. King went in the Nith on Tuesday and this man came out, and you know both of them, it seems to me.”

“I didn't know this guy,” I said. “First I knew was watching the frogmen like everyone else.”

“You're sure of that?” said McDowall. Anderson was putting the clothes away again.

There's a crucifix on the wall. I went over and put my hand on it. “I didn't know the man who died in these clothes,” I said. “Never met him, don't know anything about him.”

“Well, there you are,” said Dot. It seemed to be good enough for young Anderson too. Only McDowall looked unimpressed, like he knew how many times I'd lied on Bibles to save my neck when I was wee.

“Again, I can't help noticing that you said
died
, Miss Constable, while your colleague here said
drowned
.”

“And it's a small town,” I said. “I bet loads of people know Becky King as well as this guy.”

“If anyone knows him, they're keeping quiet about it,” said McDowall. “Thank you for your time, ladies.” He followed Anderson back to the front door then turned. “Czerwinska, eh?”

And now, too late, I saw that I had really blown it. I had given the coppers Ros's name. Ros, who worked on the caravan site where a guy was hiding who had the same coat as the guy in the river and had the guy's Bible and his rosary too and a ton of dodgy money, and I had hidden him. And if the cops asked me why, I'd have nothing to say.

I had to find Kazek and get rid of him before they came round to interview Gizzy or one of the proper caravan people saw him and freaked. And now I had to tell him that, as well as Ros taking off, his other friend had drowned. Unless he knew? Was that why he had come to Becky's house looking for Ros that Tuesday evening? Was that why he was so scared?

But if I sent Kazek away, I'd never find him again, and he was the link to Ros, and Ros was the link to Becky, and Becky was the thing I couldn't let go. Who she really was, why she really died.

And then I thought of the answer and couldn't believe it had taken so long. Stupid me.

The day couldn't go quick enough after that. Dot listened to the local news at noon and came back to the office with her eyes out on stops.

“He didn't drown,” she said. “I've just heard it on the radio. Oh Jessie, his throat was cut. He was dead before he ever went in.”

I sat back and stared at her.

“They've just released the information,” she said.

She looked down and when she looked up again there were pink spots in the middle of her cheeks. “Jessie,” she said. “Why didn't you say he had drowned?”

“You're kidding?” I said. “You think I
knew
him?”

“You don't know Polish,” she said.

“I said
died
because—you'd know this if you ever listened to Steve—it's more respectful. Death is equal, whether you slip away in your own bed or misjudge your auto-erotic asphyxiation.”

“Jessie!”

“You asked.”

We glared at each other for a bit.

“How would it be with you if I left early?” I said. “The cops were right about one thing, Dot. My friend's wife really did die last week and he really does need me.”

She turned and left again and I just barely heard the words as she was leaving. “The end of days.”

Gus was in the cottage when I got there. Only three o'clock but the fire was lit and there was a beer on the arm of his chair and a
Daily Record
open on the coffee table. Dillon was asleep on the couch and Ruby was colouring in at the table.

He had met me at the door. He'd almost seemed to block my way for a minute, but it was probably my imagination.

“I thought you'd still be at the workshop,” I said. He rubbed a finger along his jaw and then I got it. He was embarrassed at me catching him. “Good to see you taking it easy,” I said and I gave him a quick squeeze. “And what are you making pictures of, sweetie?” I asked Ruby, leaning over her.

“Mummy in heaven,” said Ruby. Becky had wings and a long white dress; only her dark hair—two strips of black crayon down each side of her head—stopped her looking like a standard-issue angel. “Only but how do you draw a white cloud on white paper, Jessie?” Becky in the picture was suspended in the middle of empty space like those daft pictures of the ascension. I turned to Gus.

“Daddy's the artist,” I said. He looked back at me, unsmiling. Was that another insult, thinking he could paint angel pictures? Or was it just thoughtless to imagine him drawing his dead wife? I turned back to Ruby. “Here's how,” I said. “I'll do a cloud shape and you colour outside it with blue to make the sky.”

She frowned at the picture and then at me. So I showed her. Drawing the puffy cushion for Becky to balance on, then filling in round it. I made another cloud in the background.

“Who's that for?” said Ruby.

“Granddad?” I said.

“Mummy doesn't like Granddad,” Ruby told me. “Ros could live there.” It was only a picture. So I said nothing, but I didn't dare catch Gus's eye. I went into the kitchen and called to him from there.

“I need to check in with Gizzy,” I said. “Then I might need to run into town for her. Is it okay if I use the car? Oh!” He was right there beside me.

“I can't face the workshop,” he said. “It feels like it's all gone … it just doesn't feel right anymore.” I nodded, but I couldn't stop the thought:
Good, you thought of a way to account for just lolling about in the middle of the day.
He sat down at the table. He had this way of sitting that was a sort of a collapse but with a real force behind it so the chair legs grated over the lino. I could see from the marks on the floor that he must do it all the time.

“Can I talk to you?” he said. I looked at my watch and out of the window at the failing light. Even if the police decided to follow up on Ros and they got onto to Gizzy tonight, why would they go searching round caravans in the dark? If one of the holiday people was going to see Kazek, it would be in the daytime when they were out and about, not at night once they were huddled round their eight-inch tellies or their Scrabble boards.

“Of course,” I said.

“I can't face working on the piece,” he said. “But I can't face the thought of all the work that's wasted if I don't finish it either.”