She nods miserably, pinched features just visible through strands of hair.
— Did he hurt you?
Tianna tersely shakes her head, obviously in shock, he reckons.
She lets her hair fall in front of her face, watches him from behind its shield. He has those crazy eyes that they all have. It might be the liquor and drugs. But he looks strong: maybe even as strong as the likes of Johnnie or Tiger.
They wait for a while. He is almost convinced that everyone has gone, but he suddenly hears a cupboard door slam, then a solitary set of steps followed by the front door closing.
Lennox cagily opens the bathroom door. As he goes out he hears it snib shut behind him. He looks around the apartment. — Nobody’s here. They’ve all gone, he tells her. After a couple of minutes, she warily emerges from the bathroom. — Your mum’ll be back soon, go to bed. Go on, he urges, — I won’t let anybody else back in the house. Only your mum.
— You promise? Only Momma?
— Yes, Lennox insists. — Please, go to bed.
As she heads tentatively for her bedroom, Lennox goes through to the front room and tries to tidy up the broken glass.
Lennox goes to the hall, bolting the front door shut. Anybody who wants in, they’ll have to get past him first. Back in the lounge, he sees the couch and, drained, gratefully slumps on to it.
7 Edinburgh (2)
DESPITE YOUR EXHAUSTION, you tiptoed out of your Leith flat that Friday morning like a novice burglar, guilt-laden at having expropriated a few hours’ sleep. Outside it was taut and crisp with the October leaves turning brown, and you stopped off for a double espresso at the Stockbridge Deli, knocking it back before crossing the road and heading for Police HQ. The police personnel called it Fettes, but for the general populace, it never really wrested that mantle from the old private school across the road. As birds chirped in the growing light that spread thinly across the grey pavements, you thought how that little section of Edinburgh defined not just the city, but the UK in general. The grand educational institution for the wealthy, standing over Police HQ, as if supervising its own elevated observation of Broughton, the state comprehensive for the masses.
Britney Hamil had been missing for two days, but it took the staff at Forbidden Planet bookstore on the South Bridge just five minutes to shatter Gary Forbes’s Britain’s Most Evil Man fantasies. They testified to Amanda Drummond that he was browsing in there, as he did almost every day, when Britney vanished. He was, as you predicted, charged with wasting police time after dragging two uniformed officers around some woods in Perthshire for half the evening.
Ronnie Hamil was a different matter. Still nothing was reported from the observation of his Dalry flat. Locals testified to his erratic wanderings, and a consensus emerged that he was a gruff, dirty-looking character who lived a marginal life and habitually stank of baccy and booze. You knew he’d surface soon, was probably holed up drunk somewhere, and you hoped beyond your expectation that it would be with his granddaughter: alive and well.
Britney’s disappearance hit the national media. In the small, claustrophobic room the investigation team shared, a siege mentality was kicking in as tight faces gaped at Angela Hamil on Sky News, making a tranquillised but emotional plea for her daughter’s safe return. Gary Forbes was always a non-starter but your team’s disappointment was still evident. With the possible exception of Amanda Drummond, they looked at you like a bunch of heavy drinkers are wont to when one of their posse orders an orange juice. They had blood around their mouths. They weren’t going to stop feeding. You couldn’t tell a pride of hungry lions that they had just brought down the wrong zebra. You’d never been in such close proximity to Gillman since the Thailand holiday. Found your fingers tapping your nose nervously on a few occasions.
But the man everyone wanted remained undetected. Accompanied by Amanda Drummond, you’d gone to visit Angela Hamil. Desperation, and your guilt at being less than enthusiastic about the obvious candidate, compelled you to play hardball. You sat on Angela’s worn couch, a cracked mug of milky tea in your hand. — Your dad’s unemployed and you work all day. But he never helps you out with the kids?
In response to your promptings, Angela had lowered her tired, shadowed eyes. — He’s no good with kids, she mumbled, taking another comforting pull on her cigarette, then stubbing it out.
Her passive resignation irritated you, and you really had to fight not to show it. — Why don’t you trust your father to help out with the girls?
Angela’s breaths were short and tight as she lit up another cigarette; it was as if she feared that taking air into her lungs unaccompanied by tobacco smoke might just prove fatal. You could see her one day forgetting to have cigarettes on her and dropping dead through a seizure in the street, on her way to the corner shop. — He’s nae good at that sort of thing, she croaked.
— You’d think he’d be able to take them for a few hours, you’d pushed, briefly glancing at Drummond, her eyes saucer-like. — To help you out.
— Ma sister Cathy helps… he sometimes comes round… Angela Hamil fretted. She was not a good liar. Amanda Drummond looked sympathetically at her.
Your demands grew harsher. — Aye? When was the last time?
— I don’t know. I cannae remember!
You sucked down hard, trying to find some oxygen amid the fumes around you. — I’m going to be blunt with you, Angela. I’m doing this because your daughter is missing, and your father hasn’t been seen for a few days. Do you understand me?
The woman cooked in the silence that hung in the air. The hand holding her slow-burning cigarette went into a spasm.
— Do you understand me?
Angela Hamil nodded slowly at you, then Drummond.
— Has your father ever given you cause to believe that he’d behave inappropriately towards the girls? A brief pause. — Did he behave like that towards you when you were growing up, you’d added evenly, scrutinising the terrible stillness of the woman. Felt her crumbling slowly inside. — Please answer me, you pursued in a low voice, like a dog almost ready to break into a growl, — your daughter’s life could be at stake.
— Aye… she gasped breathlessly. — Aye, aye, aye, he did. I’ve never telt anybody before… Her cheeks buckled inwards under a massive inhalation of the cigarette. You could scarcely believe the speed at which it had burned down. She crushed the butt into a blue pub ashtray and lit another. Panic fastened to the surface of her sallow skin. You watched her wilt under its onslaught. — You dinnae think – and she broke down, — him and Britney… no Britney… no… and Drummond slid across on to the couch and put her arm round the woman’s thin shoulders. — If he’s touched her, her creased face threatened, — when ah git ma hands on him…
Those empty, impotent threats, you’d scornfully thought. — I know this is distressing. Amanda, will you stay with Angela? You nodded, but your sly wink at Drummond added: find out what you can.
You had no inclination whatsoever for the details. You headed outside, calling Bob Toal. The boss was right, you were wrong. Ronnie Hamil was a nonce, and your hunt was now solely for him, forsaking all others. You dug out as much CCTV footage as you could find covering the Dalry area for the last few days, working forwards and backwards from the time of Britney’s disappearance. This time the difficulty lay in the abundance of material; Ronnie’s home was close to Tynecastle Stadium and there were cameras galore in the vicinity. Trying to identify an image of the grandfather from the crowds of football supporters, shoppers and drinkers was like looking for a polystyrene bead on a glacier.
What about the rest of your life? There was Trudi. Back in the office, you opened a locked drawer and pulled out the sparkly engagement ring that had lain there for around four months. There had never seemed to be
