"My brother didn't do it, Joe."
"We'll see," he said, meanly.
"Come on, he's got an alibi for the whole day."
He ignored her comment. "Was there anything else?" he asked.
"No, nothing else." fine.
McEwan swanned off back through the double doors, leaving them swinging, saloon-style, in his wake.
Inness was still chatting to the officer on the reception desk. McAskill sidled up to her, looking at the floor. "No pro," he said, his lips moving hardly at all, his voice a breathy whisper. "Inverness, nineteen ninety-three. Committed a breach outside a warehouse. Demanding money from a man. Six months afterward the same guy was arrested for running a stolen credit card operation covering the whole northeast. Your friend was very, very lucky he was done for breach. His case was decided before they found out what it really meant. He must have been working with the big boss."
"Could the psychiatrist who saw him have known this?"
"If your pal didn't tell him at the time he'd know afterward. It was all over the papers."
Maureen loved nonsensical stories and when Benny first got sober he used to keep her up nights telling her about his drinking. If it was an innocent incident he would have told her about it. "Thanks for telling me that, Hugh," she said. "It makes sense of some things."
He was showing her out of the door when she turned to him. "Hugh," she said, "why are you so nice to me?"
"I'm not that nice."
"But telling me about Benny, and the chocolate and stuff."
"You could have found out about your pal, it would just have taken a long time, but it's all a matter of public record."
"No, I mean, they all think I'm a mental bitch, why don't you?"
He held the door open for her and she stepped outside. "Ever thought about an incest survivors' group?" he said softly.
"Eh?"
"Tuesdays. Eight p.m. St. Francis, Thurso Street. Round the back." He let the glass door swing shut behind her.
She looked back into the station lobby. He was walking away.
She could have gone home but Douglas's key was still missing and calling out a locksmith on a Friday night would cost a fortune. She found a phone box by the main road and rang Liam's house. When he picked up the phone he sounded drunk and pissed off.
"Can I stay at yours tonight, Liam?"
"What about the filth?"
He only ever used stupid colloquialisms like that when he was pissed.
"I've just seen them, they won't come to the house, honest."
"I haven't got anything anyway" he said accusingly.
She checked her pockets to see how she was fixed and hailed a cab.
The blue Ford followed Maureen's cab up the Great Western Road, passing it slowly when it stopped at Liam's house. It turned the corner and parked in a side street. One police officer wrote down Liam's address while the other turned off the engine and settled back.
Liam lived on the grubby side of the West End. The four-story townhouse had been partitioned into gloomy bedsits when he bought it. He'd been doing it up gradually, working from the attic down. He had finished the first floor now but was reluctant to start renovating the ground-floor rooms. He'd kept the partition door at the foot of the stairs to make upstairs look like a separate flat and left the lower rooms scabby so that shady visitors wouldn't think there was anything worth stealing. He rarely sat downstairs. He tended to spend his free time upstairs in the enormous room at the front of the house, painted white with a stained wood floor and nothing in it but a Corbusier lounger and the eight-foot-long utility desk with his Mac on it.
Maureen pressed the doorbell. She could hear Liam brushing heavily against the walls as he staggered to the front door. He opened it without looking out and sloped back into the front room. She followed him in. The coffee table was strewn with empty cans of imported lager.
It had been a scabby room before the police searched it but Maureen wasn't prepared for the state it was in now. The dirty beige carpet had been pulled back and floorboards had been lifted and placed back down unevenly. The black leatherette settee had been cut open along the back; yellow foam spewed out like an action shot of a bursting spot. The old television was on in the corner; the molded plastic back had been reattached badly and was open at the side. Match of the Day was showing: a panel of three ugly men in bad ties were laughing at a joke.
Liam walked unsteadily over to the coffee table and picked a lit cigarette out of the full ashtray. He slid more than fell sideways onto the settee, pulling at the ripped back to work his way into a sitting position. He looked her up and down as if he were sickened by the sight of her and blinked slowly. "Maureen," he stated. He lifted his fag to his mouth slowly and sucked it, dragging his cheeks inward.
"You're pissed," she said, unable to hide her disappointment, and went to use the phone on the hall table.
She found the insurance company's twenty-four-hour help-line number in the Yellow Pages. She gave her details to a woman with a plummy accent and explained the situation as simply as she could. The telephonist paused for a moment, probably wondering whether it was a hoax call, and asked her for her policy number. "No, I don't actually have it with me."
"We need it to find the policy."
"Can't you just use my name and address?"
The woman paused again and sighed. "Just putting you on hold," she said. A high-pitched reworking of "Frere Jacques" squealed across the line. Maureen held the receiver away from her ear. The tune played twice through. The woman came back on the line to tell her that she was still on hold, and was gone again.
Liam was standing in the doorway in a drunken foul temper. He was having trouble keeping upright and mumbling curse words.
"Hello?" asked the woman at the insurance company. Liam's knees buckled and he slipped sideways in the door frame.
"Yes, yes, I'm here," said Maureen, standing up and helping him back onto his feet. He spun round and fell face-first into the living room.
"Well," said the woman, "I've had a look at your policy and you'll have to do it yourself. You can be reimbursed for the cost of any items provided you keep them-"
"Cheers," said Maureen, and hung up. Liam was crawling on all fours toward the settee. "Ya fuckin' drunken horse's arse," she said tenderly, working her hands under his damp armpits and dragging him onto the settee. He pulled his T-shirt straight and sat, almost prim, crossing his legs carefully, looking eerily like Very Drunk Winnie. He coughed, thought about something and glowered at Maureen. "See the state?" he said, gesturing around the room. "See it?"
Maureen sighed. "If we're going to have a fight, can we have it tomorrow?"
Liam blinked for a month. "Who's fightin'? I never said we were gonnae have a fight."
Maureen sat down next to him. "You strongly implied it," she said.
For a moment Liam's expression quivered between furious and distraught. He started to cry. "I'm fed up," he said, covering his face with his hands. Maureen put her arm around his shoulder. "Oh, Christ, Mauri, everything's turning to shite. My business… Douglas. I had to let Pete down on the deal and he's pissed off at me. I lost thirty grand 'cause I crapped it."
"But, Liam," she said, "you don't need more money, you've got loads of money."
He tried to shake off her arm by jerking his shoulders up and down. It didn't work and she left it there. "My bottle's gone," he said, looking at her as if she had taken it. "And Mum's going mental, she says you're a wee shite and Maggie won't even speak to me." He sat forward, wriggling out of Maureen's grasp, and wiped his face on his T-shirt.
"When did you see Mum?"
"She said that you're a wee shite and you went back and took all your photos away."
"I did."
"And she said you're a wee shite."
"Yeah, you don't have to keep going on about that bit."
"Did ye?"
"They're my photos, Liam."