Whole passages like this were intertwined with gossip and the everyday: I’m helping Elaine at Riddrie tomorrow. Perhaps ring our Bill, lift Elaine’s morale?
These snippets appealed to Dennis every bit as much as the more personal stuff, giving him a feel for Selina’s life. In one of her early letters, she’d even included a Polaroid of herself, posed in short skirt and halter top, head tilted, hands on hips. More photos had followed. Dennis had tried copying them, but they wouldn’t fit into his fax machine, so he’d gone to a newsagent’s instead and used the machine there. The copies were grainy, far from perfect. Still, they went into his collection.
I tried satisfying myself in bed last night, but it wasn’t the same. How could it be? I had a photo of you on the pillow beside me, a far cry from the real thing. Hope the pics I’m sending are cheering you up. Not much else to report. Fred’s off up north. (Denise isn’t talking to him-and not keeping sober!)
At other times, she spoke of how difficult it was, making ends meet. She hadn’t found a job yet, but was looking. Dennis had done a bit of digging, finding newspaper reports that suggested that police had “failed to find missing Blaine millions.” Millions? Then what was Selina complaining about?
Last time she’d visited, Dennis had asked a warder to let him know. He’d been a bit nervous-no idea why-as he’d walked into the hall. And there she was, seated with her back to him, one leg crossed over the other, skirt high up on her thighs, showing a tanned, muscular calf. Tight white T-shirt with a pink cashmere jersey buttoned over it. Blonde hair, lots of it, cascading down one shoulder.
“Isn’t she something?” the warder had grinned.
Even better than her photos, Dennis felt like saying. Then he’d noticed Blaine ’s eyes on him, and averted his gaze just as Selina was turning in her seat to check what had distracted her husband’s attention from her.
Dennis had hurried back to his office. But a few days later, while passing through one of the halls, he’d found Blaine and Chalmers walking in his direction.
“Lovely, isn’t she?” Blaine had said.
“What’s that?”
“You know what I mean.” Blaine stopped directly in front of him, looking him up and down. “I suppose I should say thanks.”
“For what?”
A shrug. “I know how screws can be. Some of them would keep the photos to themselves…” Now a pause. “I’m told you’re the quiet type, Mr. Henshall. That’s good. I respect that. The letters… nobody else sees them but you?”
Dennis had managed to shake his head, holding Blaine ’s gaze.
“That’s good,” the gangster had repeated.
And he’d walked off, Chalmers half a step behind him, casting a baleful look back in Dennis’s direction.
More digging: Blaine in and out of trouble since he was at school. Gang leader at sixteen, terrorizing Glasgow ’s concrete suburbs. Jail time for the stabbing of a rival, then narrowly escaping the same fate for his role in the murder of another gangster’s son. Growing wise by now, starting to assemble that force field. A whole regiment of “soldiers” who’d do the time on his behalf. His reputation solidifying, so that he no longer needed to maim or threaten: Others were there to do it for him, leaving him to wear a respectable suit, working each day in an actual office, fronting a taxi firm, a security firm and a dozen other enterprises.
Selina had arrived on the scene as his receptionist, then secretary, elevated to P.A. before marrying him in front of a congregation like something out of The Godfather. But she was no dumb blonde: came from a good family, had studied at college. The more Dennis considered her, the harder he found it to conceive of her as “totally, absolutely lovestruck.” This, too, had to be a front. She wanted Blaine kept docile, feeding him fantasies. Why? One tabloid hack had suggested an answer: With her winning combination of brains and beauty-and the past guidance of a master manipulator-might this be one moll capable of running the whole shooting match, without getting caught in the cross fire?
Seated at his dining table, Dennis pondered this. Then he pored over her photographs and wondered some more. His food grew cold on its plate, the TV stayed off, and he reread her letters, in sequence… saw her in his mind’s eye, tanned legs, hair swept over one ear. Clear, innocent-looking eyes, a face that drew to it every stare available.
Brains and beauty. Put her together with her husband and you had Beauty and the Beast. Dennis forced himself to eat some of the congealing fry-up, and started counting down to the weekend.
Saturday morning, he parked his car curbside, across the road from her house. He’d been expecting something better. The papers had called it a “mansion,” but in reality it was a plain two-story detached house, maybe dating back to the 1960s. The front garden had been paved over to create a couple of parking spaces. A sporty-looking silver Merc sat on display. Beside it, a larger car had had a tarpaulin thrown over it. Dennis guessed this was Blaine ’s, kept under wraps until his return. There were net curtains covering every window, no sign of life behind them. Dennis checked his watch: not quite ten. He’d assumed she would sleep late at the weekend; most people he knew seemed to. For himself, he was always awake before dawn, never could get back to sleep again. This morning, he’d gone to a cafe near his home, reading the paper at a table as he sipped his tea, washing down the toast and jam. Now that he was here, he felt thirsty again, and realized he should have brought a flask with him, maybe some sandwiches and something to read. His wasn’t the only car on the street, but he knew people would start wondering about him if he sat for a whole morning. Then again, they were probably used to it: reporters and such like.
For want of anything else to do, he switched on the radio, tried eight or nine stations-Medium Wave and VHF-before settling on one that had a lot of classical music and not much talk between the tunes. It was another hour before anything happened. A car drew to a stop outside the house, horn blaring three times. It was an old Volvo, its color fading. The man who got out was medium height and medium build, hair slicked back from his forehead. He wore a black polo-neck, black denims, three-quarter-length black leather coat. And sunglasses, despite the slate-gray sky. Tanned, too, probably courtesy of one of the city’s tanning parlors. He pushed open the gate and walked up to the house, thumped on the door with his fist. There was something protruding from his mouth. Dennis thought it might be a cocktail stick.
Selina already had her coat on: a denim jacket with silver studs. Her white trousers were skin-tight. She pecked her visitor on the cheek, wriggled when he tried sliding his arms around her waist. She looked stunning, and Dennis realized he’d stopped breathing for a moment. He tried not to grip the steering wheel too tightly, wound his window down to try to catch what they were saying as they came down the path toward the waiting car.
The man leaned in toward Selina and whispered something. She thumped him on the shoulder.
“Fred!” she squealed. The man called Fred chuckled and smiled to himself. But now Selina was looking at his car and shaking her head.
“We’ll take the Merc.”
“What’s wrong with mine?”
“It looks like shit, Fred, that’s what. You want to take a girl shopping, you need a classier set of wheels.”
She went back into the house for her keys, while Fred opened the gates. Then the pair of them got into Selina’s car. Dennis didn’t bother trying to hide. Maybe part of him wanted her to see him, to know she had an admirer. But it was as if he was invisible, she was talking to Fred.
Fred? -
Fred’s off up north. Denise isn’t talking to him…