Final Cut Page 10

  Emma followed her in, still clutching the album, heading upstairs to the small room she’d called her own when they’d stayed over. Claire made for the kitchen. Past midday in midwinter, the room was already darkened by shadow. Claire switched on the light and busied herself filling the kettle and spooning loose tea into the pot. Her mother had always insisted on real tea, as she called it. None of those floor sweepings in a paper bag. The fridge stood open and unplugged. On her earlier visits Claire had brought milk with her, but today she would have to drink the tea black.

  Seated at the table, she sorted through the mail. There were three condolence cards which she set to one side, a couple of circulars and an invitation to join the postcode lottery.

  She turned her attention to the large brown envelope Susan had given her. It contained an order of service, which included the Twenty-third Psalm, a favourite of her mum’s, and her chosen eulogy:

  Death is nothing at all.

  I have only slipped away into the next room.

  I am I, and you are you.

  Whatever we were to each other, that we still are …

  Claire slipped the poem back in the envelope, unable to read any farther. She took a deep breath and picked up the list. There were only three names she recognised on it, including Susan. Her mother had been a keen member of the lunchtime club in the local community hall, so she assumed the extra names had been her erstwhile companions there.

  The last item was a smaller envelope addressed to her. Claire studied the old-fashioned handwriting, the swirling ‘C’, the intricate ‘r’. It was from her mother. She put it in her handbag, unable to read its contents.

  She had no idea how long she sat there, listening to the silence, noticing the film of dust that lay over everything, knowing that it was now too late to tell her mother the truth.

  When she felt the familiar darkness begin to press down on her, Claire rose and walked to the window. Dusk was claiming the day, the horizon bruised in red and blue. A trick of the light on the dirt-smeared window split her reflection. There were two faces now, hers and the other Claire’s. The one that told lies, the one that could do what she had done.

  She felt a sob rise in her throat. She swallowed it back, desperate to hold on to what fragments of sanity she had left. She shifted her position and watched as her two selves began to merge, gradually becoming one again, reminding her that she had once been whole.

  A cry from Emma broke the spell. Claire took the stairs two at a time. The door to the child’s room lay open.

  ‘What is it? What’s wrong?’

  ‘Someone’s been in my room,’ Emma said crossly.

  Claire looked round quickly. The room appeared exactly the same as it always did.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  Emma gestured to the window. Claire went over to check. The window was firmly shut.

  ‘There’s nothing here.’

  ‘Look!’ The girl pointed.

  Immediately above the radiator, the lower pane had steamed up, leaving a zigzag pattern on the glass.

  ‘I wrote my name on the window in real writing, the way Gran showed me.’

  Her daughter’s face was indignant.

  ‘It’s not there any more. Someone’s rubbed it out.’

  Claire felt her fear turn to irritation. She did not have the time or inclination for another one of Emma’s games. ‘You must have touched the window. You’ve just forgotten you did.’

  ‘I did not,’ said Emma stubbornly. ‘I always rewrite my name every time I come, for Gran. Someone’s rubbed it out.’

  ‘Don’t be silly.’

  ‘I’m not being silly. Look.’

  Emma breathed on the glass and the shape took a clearer form. Claire could make out part of a capital ‘E’ written in the old-fashioned way, but the rest of Emma’s name had been obliterated.

  ‘See, Mummy.’

  She didn’t know what to say. ‘I’ll check the rest of the house.’

  It was an excuse to get away. She left Emma staring at the window and went on to the landing. Part of her wanted to ignore what the child had suggested, but another part felt uneasy.

  She checked the spare room first, the one she used when staying over. It looked exactly the same. No open drawers, no scattered possessions, no suggestion that anyone had been there.

  She made her way to her mother’s room.

  She opened the door and breathed in the familiar scent of lavender. A pile of clothes sat folded on the bed. Claire had laid them out the last time she was here, in case her mother might ask for them. Too late now, she thought. The room was as undisturbed as hers had been. Yet the sense of unease was growing. Why? Claire went to the dressing table and opened the drawer. It was filled with small items, bits of jewellery, Christmas cards, birthday cards. Claire picked up a school jotter, loose at the seam. She opened it and saw a drawing of a teapot with a flower on the spine. Beneath were the words ‘My mum’s teapot’ written in a childish hand. She realised with a start that it was one of her early jotters from primary school. She began going through the other contents of the drawer, finding her swimming certificate, a poem she’d written, even a note left behind when she’d gone out as a teenager against her mother’s wishes. Claire sank down on the bed and stared at the store of memories, the reason she’d begun looking far from her thoughts.

  The radiator clanked as a rush of hot water expanded the metal. The wooden tallboy, a relic of her grandparents’ house, creaked as the wood absorbed the change in temperature. Claire remembered her mother telling her that wood lived on even after it was cut down and made into things, provided it was cared for. After her grandfather had died, they’d planted his walking stick in the garden and it had sprouted, just as her mother had said it would.

  A rising breeze hit the window, rattling the glass and reminding Claire why she was there. She closed the drawer and went to check. The window was firmly shut, the lock in place.

  She examined the downstairs rooms, knowing it was pointless but not wanting to tell Emma all was well without making sure. In the kitchen she lifted the junk mail, planning to put it in the bin. She unlocked the back door and went outside. It was on her return that she noticed that the porch window to the right of the door was clean.

  She stopped in her tracks.

  The rays of the sinking sun showed up the accumulated dirt on every window on the back of the house, except that one. Claire went for a closer look, the sense of unease flooding back. The window was about three foot square and made of plain glass. The putty worked round its edges looked fresh and much cleaner than its neighbour on the other side. This pane of glass had been replaced, and recently.

  Her mother had been in the hospice for a month. This glass couldn’t have been here for that length of time. Claire stepped forward, hearing a faint crunch beneath her feet. She crouched down for a better look. Something glistened among the gravel. She licked her finger and pressed down on what looked like a splinter of glass. She went into the kitchen and examined it in the brighter light. There was no doubt about it, someone had cut out the old window and replaced the glass.

  She shut and double-locked the back door, her hands trembling, and looked wildly round the kitchen. Her mother had moved into the hospice well before Claire left Glasgow. There was nothing here that could possibly lead Nick to the cottage. Only the hospice had her contact details, and they would never give out that information without her permission.

  Claire suddenly didn’t want to be there any more. What if Nick were watching the house, waiting for her to come back? Unease had become panic. She shouted for Emma.

  ‘We have to go now, or we’ll hit the teatime traffic,’ she added, trying to keep the tremor out of her voice.

  The child appeared at the top of the stairs.

  ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘Nothing,’ Claire lied.

  ‘You checked everywhere?’

  Claire forced a confident smile. ‘I remembered I asked Mrs Craig next doo
r to take a quick look in last week, when we couldn’t make it. I expect she rubbed out your name when she was checking the window locks.’

  Emma was examining her expression. Not for the first time Claire realised how astute her daughter was at reading mood and thought.

  Emma came downstairs, carrying her album.

  ‘I’m going to read more when I get home.’

  ‘Good. I’d like to look at it too, if that’s OK?’

  ‘Some bits are just for me.’

  ‘Well, you can show me the other bits.’

  Claire took a swift look about as she exited the drive, but saw nothing unusual. Still, she drove round the small estate three times. If someone was following her it might be easier to lose them here, in a maze of streets with similar names, than on the main road. Emma said nothing about their strange route, just sat hugging her album.

  The more she thought about it, the more convinced Claire became that Nick had broken into her mother’s house. Nothing had been stolen, nothing wrecked. The intruder had made it look as though he had never been there. If Emma hadn’t got cross about her name on the window, Claire would never have discovered the changed pane of glass at the back door.

  Women didn’t leave Nick. That was what he’d told her. ‘It’s a big bad world out there, especially for a woman alone with a kid. You never know what’s going to happen.’

  His words still rung in her head. Why had she imagined for a moment that he would give up on her?

  Nick didn’t give up on anything.

  22

  He’d lost her in the maze of bungalow-lined streets.

  His car now sat in a cul-de-sac, engine running, while he regained his composure. Already a curtain was twitching at a nearby window. He swallowed his anger, feeling it fall like a hot stone to the pit of his stomach.

  As he turned the car an elderly man appeared at a nearby door to watch. He swore under his breath and crunched the gears in annoyance. Keeping his face out of view, he finally drew out.

  On the journey home, he kept his rage in check and focused his attention on what he knew. The woman who’d seen him on the road didn’t live in that bungalow. There was a child’s room but it was not occupied all the time. Of the other two rooms, one was obviously that of an older woman. The other bedroom he suspected had been used by the woman he sought. He glanced at the three evidence bags on the seat beside him. He’d been selective about what he took. Two items belonging to the woman, one to the child, whose name he now knew.

  Emma, Emma, Emma.

  He savoured the name, attached a face to it. A face framed by long white-blonde hair. It helped calm him down.

  When he arrived home he headed for the kitchen, boiled the kettle and made a mug of tea, before pulling on a fresh pair of latex gloves and opening the evidence bags.

  The woman’s room had held little belonging to her. A change of clothes and some underwear, a few items of make-up, some perfume and a selection of earrings. He’d removed a single earring, three small black pearls on a fine gold chain. Very nice. Dressy but not showy. He’d already formed a picture of the woman but the earring and her underwear now added to this. He knew her bra size was 36C, her taste in undergarments feminine but not provocative.

  He turned his attention to Emma’s bag. He’d been careful in his selection from the child’s room. There had been a number of items on the windowsill he’d liked but had decided they were probably treasured, so he took something from the drawer instead. It was a pencil with an eraser on the end.

  He lifted the last bag, his mouth moving in a smile. Now he understood why he’d been mistaken with the Christmas card envelope. Both women had first names beginning with a ‘C’. The woman he sought was called Claire Watson, her mother Carol.

  The card had been behind the front door. It was one of several items of mail, consisting of a bundle of circulars addressed to Mrs C. Watson, plus four white envelopes, all addressed to Claire Watson. He’d decided to open one. Inside was a sympathy card on the death of her mother and a message from someone called Una saying she would be at the crematorium to say goodbye to her friend Carol.

  He smiled.

  It wouldn’t be difficult to find out which crematorium was disposing of Mrs Carol Watson within the next few days. If that failed then he would return to the house to wait. Claire would have to deal with her mother’s effects sooner or later.

  The heat of anger had dissipated. He had lost Claire for now, but he knew where he could find her.

  23

  McNab added a nip of whisky to his coffee, then waved the half-bottle at the old man at the next table, who’d been watching him intently. When he nodded, McNab tipped a fair measure into the old guy’s mug.

  ‘Thanks, pal.’

  ‘No problem.’

  They each took a swallow, registering the improved quality of their beverages, before McNab went back to wondering what to do about his DI’s designs on self-destruction. In twenty-four hours he suspected it would be a fait accompli. His boss would be charged with assault, his career in ruins.

  McNab pulled out his mobile and punched in Henderson’s lawyer’s number. Henderson had a woman representing him, which seemed rather rich considering the nature of his crimes. His brief’s name was Sandra Morris. She was in her early thirties with naturally auburn hair. It was the only thing she and McNab had in common, apart from height. As well as being tall and something of a looker, Ms Morris was also known as a ball-breaker to some of Strathclyde’s finest. The men who called her this were of course the ones who stood least chance of getting anywhere with her. McNab didn’t like Ms Morris, but that didn’t mean he didn’t fancy her. He was only human.

  It wasn’t a direct number, so he had to get past her secretary. She listened to his name, rank and request to speak to she-who-must-be-obeyed and advised him to wait. McNab suspected Ms Morris would refuse and was therefore surprised when he heard her husky tones on the other end. Her voice was one of her greatest assets in court, its pitch, its power and its melody almost hypnotic qualities. McNab was sure that even the most hardened of jurors, if subjected to Sandra Morris reciting nonsense, would be inclined to accept it as the gospel truth. Even judges had been spotted looking mesmerised by her magic tones.

  They were a bit harsher today. ‘What d’you want?’

  ‘He’s telling porkies. I kicked him in the balls, not the DI.’

  There was a significant pause.

  ‘I’m not at liberty to discuss my client’s case with you.’

  McNab bulldozed on. ‘We were seated across the table from Henderson. Me on the left, the DI on the right. For the DI to connect with Henderson’s balls he would have had to kick with his left foot. Possible, but improbable. The DI has a metal plate in his left knee. Broke it badly playing football for the police team years ago. It works, but not much strength in it. Now my right leg was beautifully lined up for Henderson’s balls. And one of my hobbies is kick-boxing.’

  Ms Morris had listened in silence to his story. McNab awaited her response.

  She spoke slowly and carefully, as though he might be going deaf. ‘DI Wilson says he did it. Henderson says it was him.’

  He spat out his rejoinder. ‘Henderson’s a bastard and he’s out to get the DI.’

  She considered this for a moment.

  ‘I understand your concern.’ Her voice had softened. ‘But I think it would be better if …’

  McNab ended the call without letting her finish. He couldn’t listen to another platitude about letting the investigative officer do his job. Seething with barely controlled anger, he tipped another shot into the remaining coffee. When his neighbour looked over hopefully, McNab handed him the bottle.

  ‘Help yourself to the rest.’

  The old guy’s face split in a grin that showed a set of false teeth that sat loose from the gums. ‘Aye, you’re all right, son.’

  McNab threw back the coffee and stood up to go. Outside, the wind had strengthened and was rattling signs an
d blowing plastic bags and empty polystyrene boxes along the gutter. Coming towards him was a motorised street sweeper, a guy perched on the back. It manoeuvred its way along the gutter.

  McNab joined the other pedestrians walking head down into the wind, hailstones biting at his face. His phone rang as he reached the Trongate heading west towards the Russian Restaurant, and he took refuge in a doorway to answer.

  ‘McNab?’ a voice said.

  He tried to put a name to the refined west coast accent. It wasn’t difficult.

  ‘Paddy Brogan.’

  ‘The same.’ Paddy lowered his voice a little. ‘I heard there was a wee fire at Polmadie?’

  ‘You know something about that?’

  ‘Maybe. How about you come along to the club and check out our gambling licence?’

  McNab snapped the phone shut and changed direction, heading back towards the river. If Brogan had asked him to come calling, he had something to say.

  Paddy Brogan’s father, Billy Brogan, otherwise known as Poker Billy, had left school at sixteen. He’d gained no formal qualifications but had a brain like a calculator, only faster. If he’d been in at the computer revolution they would have used his brain as a model.

  He could also play any card game and win. He could read players’ faces like crib sheets, work out odds in nanoseconds. He’d used this ability in a number of ways, all of which made him vast sums of money and most of which were illegal. Billy had married Paddy’s mother, Ida, when they were both eighteen, and he stayed married to her until the day he died. He lived all his married life two streets away from where he was born, drove a Jaguar Mark II and spent his holidays on the Costa del Sol. His son Patrick had been enrolled in the best fee-paying school in Glasgow and from there went to Glasgow University, where he gained first-class honours in Business Studies. McNab remembered him well. They’d played five-a-side football together. Paddy was good at that, too. He had gone on to the London Business School to study for an MBA, after which he headed for the South of France, only reappearing when his old man kicked the bucket. Now he looked like the well-educated gentleman he was, and was expanding his father’s empire in new and interesting ways.