staring at the ceiling for hours before the nightmare took over. She fetched the duvet and draped it over her, then reached for the remote.
The late news had already begun. As far as she knew, Bill still had a blackout on Emma Watson’s role in the discovery of the skull, so she was surprised to hear the newsreader reveal that it had been discovered after a car had gone off the road in the recent storm. A description then followed of a man believed to have been in the vicinity at the time, who the police urged to come forward. There was still no direct mention of Emma or Claire. It looked as though Bill was taking Claire’s story about a man on the road seriously, unless something else had come to light that Rhona didn’t know about.
She lowered the sound on the television to a background murmur and nestled down, leaving the table lamp on. Tom had come to join her, and the steady rhythm of his purring began to lull her towards sleep.
She was wakened by the alarm. Her initial reaction was confusion as she heard the murmur of early morning television. Then she was absurdly grateful that she had slept through the night, something that hadn’t happened for some time. She rose, her limbs stiff from the confinement of the couch.
Claire Watson phoned while she was eating breakfast.
‘I’m afraid you won’t be able to see Emma today. My mother died last Sunday and I have to go to the nursing home and finalise arrangements for her funeral tomorrow.’
McNab had never mentioned that the child’s granny had just died, in fact had died the night of the crash. Rhona wondered whether he knew.
‘What if we meet with you after the funeral?’ Rhona suggested. ‘I could check out the wood with Emma on her way home.’
The silence that followed was long enough to convince her that Claire had changed her mind about allowing the excursion at all.
Finally she answered. ‘If Emma is distressed . . .’
‘Then of course we won’t go.’
Claire, sounding mollified, gave Rhona a time and a place.
‘We’ll be there,’ Rhona promised.
The old and the new High Courts of Glasgow sat side by side at the foot of the Saltmarket, both pillared entrances, the new version reflecting the grandeur of the old.
Behind the court Shipbank Lane housed Paddy’s Market, Glasgow’s legendary flea market. Started by Irish immigrants in the nineteenth century, it still sold second-hand clothing to the poor of Glasgow. Recent reports suggested the end of the two-hundred-year-old market was nigh, as the City Council had announced plans to lease the site and turn it into a showcase for aspiring artists. Rhona felt a stab of sadness about this. The gentrification of the city was intent on wiping out its past.
McNab was waiting for her in the lobby.
‘I’ve done my bit. Apparently forensic testimony is next up.’
‘Good.’
‘So we can head south after that.’
Rhona told him about her early morning conversation.
‘Shit. I had no idea the granny had died.’
‘Claire never said?’
He shook his head. ‘No wonder the kid’s screwed up. OK, so when do we go?’
‘I got her mother to agree to tomorrow after the funeral.’
The clerk emerged from the court and beckoned Rhona over.
‘Will you be here when I come out?’
‘I’ll get a coffee and wait for you.’
‘So?’ McNab said when she re-emerged.
‘I think he’s fucked.’
‘That’s what I like to hear.’
McNab had gone to Mary Healey’s funeral. Him and most of the residents of Alison Street. He was a Govanhill boy himself. ‘Brought up in Govanhill Street in a top-floor tenement,’ he told Rhona. Hence his desire to see the old woman’s killer go down.
‘Fancy a real coffee?’ McNab made a face at the polystyrene cup in his hand.
‘Definitely.’
An early morning frost had combined with freezing fog to blanket the city in white and grey. It was still an improvement on a howling wind and snow. Rhona wound her scarf tightly round her neck and stuck
The late news had already begun. As far as she knew, Bill still had a blackout on Emma Watson’s role in the discovery of the skull, so she was surprised to hear the newsreader reveal that it had been discovered after a car had gone off the road in the recent storm. A description then followed of a man believed to have been in the vicinity at the time, who the police urged to come forward. There was still no direct mention of Emma or Claire. It looked as though Bill was taking Claire’s story about a man on the road seriously, unless something else had come to light that Rhona didn’t know about.
She lowered the sound on the television to a background murmur and nestled down, leaving the table lamp on. Tom had come to join her, and the steady rhythm of his purring began to lull her towards sleep.
She was wakened by the alarm. Her initial reaction was confusion as she heard the murmur of early morning television. Then she was absurdly grateful that she had slept through the night, something that hadn’t happened for some time. She rose, her limbs stiff from the confinement of the couch.
Claire Watson phoned while she was eating breakfast.
‘I’m afraid you won’t be able to see Emma today. My mother died last Sunday and I have to go to the nursing home and finalise arrangements for her funeral tomorrow.’
McNab had never mentioned that the child’s granny had just died, in fact had died the night of the crash. Rhona wondered whether he knew.
‘What if we meet with you after the funeral?’ Rhona suggested. ‘I could check out the wood with Emma on her way home.’
The silence that followed was long enough to convince her that Claire had changed her mind about allowing the excursion at all.
Finally she answered. ‘If Emma is distressed . . .’
‘Then of course we won’t go.’
Claire, sounding mollified, gave Rhona a time and a place.
‘We’ll be there,’ Rhona promised.
The old and the new High Courts of Glasgow sat side by side at the foot of the Saltmarket, both pillared entrances, the new version reflecting the grandeur of the old.
Behind the court Shipbank Lane housed Paddy’s Market, Glasgow’s legendary flea market. Started by Irish immigrants in the nineteenth century, it still sold second-hand clothing to the poor of Glasgow. Recent reports suggested the end of the two-hundred-year-old market was nigh, as the City Council had announced plans to lease the site and turn it into a showcase for aspiring artists. Rhona felt a stab of sadness about this. The gentrification of the city was intent on wiping out its past.
McNab was waiting for her in the lobby.
‘I’ve done my bit. Apparently forensic testimony is next up.’
‘Good.’
‘So we can head south after that.’
Rhona told him about her early morning conversation.
‘Shit. I had no idea the granny had died.’
‘Claire never said?’
He shook his head. ‘No wonder the kid’s screwed up. OK, so when do we go?’
‘I got her mother to agree to tomorrow after the funeral.’
The clerk emerged from the court and beckoned Rhona over.
‘Will you be here when I come out?’
‘I’ll get a coffee and wait for you.’
‘So?’ McNab said when she re-emerged.
‘I think he’s fucked.’
‘That’s what I like to hear.’
McNab had gone to Mary Healey’s funeral. Him and most of the residents of Alison Street. He was a Govanhill boy himself. ‘Brought up in Govanhill Street in a top-floor tenement,’ he told Rhona. Hence his desire to see the old woman’s killer go down.
‘Fancy a real coffee?’ McNab made a face at the polystyrene cup in his hand.
‘Definitely.’
An early morning frost had combined with freezing fog to blanket the city in white and grey. It was still an improvement on a howling wind and snow. Rhona wound her scarf tightly round her neck and stuck
Similar Books
