The Red Road by Denise Mina

they were Strathclyde Police, could they come in for a moment? The other cop looked at the house, mild puzzlement on his face. She knew what he meant. The house didn’t work.
    She pressed the button for the gate and opened the front door for the officers.
    The security gate was low and leapable. The drive was shallow. Realistically, the householder could look out of the window and get better definition and a clearer idea of who was out there. But the gate and camera were cheap copies of actual security. The developers knew that anyone paying a million pounds for a house would look for certain features, like security gates, sauna, double garage, so they had crammed them in. Sometimes, if she got up in the night or approached the house from the wrong angle in the street, she saw it all afresh, a chaotic jumble of pointless totems.
    The cops looked over the building, their eyes confused by the small, ill-matched windows on different levels, some cutting across the floors to create minstrels’ galleries. A grey, overhanging roof dominated the white façade, the entrance portico had too many columns.
    The house looked outside how the family felt from the inside: disjointed, over-embellished, nervous and busy.
    ‘Hello,’ she said, as the two men approached the front step. The bald cop smiled at her.
    ‘Strathclyde Police,’ he said, smiling again, showing her his ID. ‘We’re here about Mr McMillan?’
    ‘Please come in.’ She opened the door.
    They stepped into the hallway, looking around awkwardly, trying hard not to gawp.
    It was a big hall, wide but low. A pine staircase lurched up the wall and veered away awkwardly. The ceiling was too low for the eighteen halogen downlighters punched into it. They hit the eye like consecutive searchlights. She offered to take their coats. They demurred politely but Rose’s attention was drawn by the whispers of children on the upper landing.
    They weren’t supposed to be playing up there. Angus had a bad tumble down the stairs once and she’d told them not to play there.
    She shut the front door and stood tall. ‘Hamish! Angus! Not there.’
    Two small faces peeked around the head of the stairs, Angus smirking behind his brother who was too interested in the police to mind being in trouble.
    ‘I said not there, Hamish.’
    Hamish raised a finger. ‘Who are they?’
    ‘Don’t point at people,’ she said.
    The bald policeman smiled up at the children and said ‘hello’.
    ‘Who are they?’ smiled Angus, still shielding himself behind Hamish.
    ‘Hamish, what do you say?’
    The boys paused for a moment and ran through all the things she nagged them to say. Hamish hit the jackpot with an obligation ‘hello’ but Angus said ‘thank you’.
    ‘These men are policemen.’
    ‘Are they here about Daddy?’ asked Angus.
    She didn’t want to look at them. ‘Yes,’ she said, hearing the hiss in her voice reverberate around the cold hall. ‘You two go upstairs to the playroom. You can play on the Wii for twenty minutes.’
    They bolted off upstairs as Rose held out a hand towards the kitchen door. ‘Would you like to come through?’
    The cops walked through to the back of the house and she followed them.
    The kitchen was narrow with tottery stools around a breakfast bar. The dining room had a big table and chairs but she didn’t want them to be comfortable, to linger. She offered the cops a seat, watching as they climbed up, gracelessly yanking their jackets out from under their bottoms. They settled and looked at her, as if expecting praise for getting up there.
    ‘Can I get you tea or coffee?’
    ‘No,’ said the bald one, ‘no thanks.’ He put a nasty plastic briefcase on the clean worktop. A greasy sheen on the handle caught the light. Rose thought she could see crumbs, possibly from biscuits, caught in the zip. It looked disgusting. She imagined licking it, felt sick at the thought of it and forced herself to look away.
    ‘I’ll get Mrs McMillan for you.