"She was on her way to work out in Lanarkshire when they got her. I knew it was the husband, we all fucking knew. He used to rape her, he'd dragged her off the street and everything – he'd even got his pals to rape her before. So we phoned the police and told them we thought it was him. Anyway, Charlotte died and the police said they couldn't do anything about it, no evidence or witnesses to any of it.
"The husband knew we'd told them and he started coming by the shelter and d'you know what we did? We hid. He was out there every day for fucking weeks. We phoned the police and they picked him up and gave him a doing but he came straight back, standing across the road at a bus stop with a black eye and his arm in plaster, staring in the window, looking at everyone who came out of the house. Three women left the shelter because they couldn't take it anymore. We hid and I'm never fucking doing that again."
"But that was the responsible thing to do," said Maureen. "There was nothing you could do without harming the shelter."
Leslie wasn't buying it. "Yeah. Right."
"What happened then?"
Leslie slumped. "It gets worse. One of the women used to wait at the bus stop across the road and he started talking to her. We warned her about him, we fucking told her. Then she left. The last time I saw her she had scars on her face." She motioned to her cheek again. "Same mark, like he was branding his cows or something. Her eyes were empty, way past scared. I tried to talk to her but she ran away from me."
Leslie stared into the dark room for a few moments. "You can't just stop now because he's getting closer and scarier, Mauri. This Martin bloke, he was a good man, wasn't he? He'd want you to get the guy."
"Yeah, he was a good man but he didn't want any trouble and I brought it to him."
"I'll be there, Mauri, I promise."
Maureen lay down next to Leslie, her hand resting on the beeper, and tried to sleep.
Leslie was right, she couldn't walk away. Whoever it was knew she'd been to see Martin, they'd been following or watching or something. Any one of them could be killed at any time and Maureen couldn't be ready for it always. If she could flush out the killer, make him come to her when she was expecting it, when she was ready.
She couldn't have blood on her hands, not a rapist's, not anyone's. And yet when she thought of Yvonne's snakeskin anklet, she knew that she didn't just want to stop the man who'd put it there, she wanted to hurt him, to make him feel a little of what the women had felt. It wasn't enough to stop it happening again. She fell asleep with the image of Martin's hand resting on his stomach, pointing at nothing.
She woke up at nine and went in to see how Siobhain was doing. She was lying on her back with her hands and chubby arms resting on top of the bedspread. Her head was sunk deep into the pillow, her mouth and eyes were open but she wasn't moving.
Maureen sat down softly on the side of the bed. "Siobhain?" she said.
Siobhain didn't move. Maureen reached up and brushed a hair off her face. "Did you sleep?"
Still Siobhain didn't move. Maureen had a sudden surge of adrenaline and grabbed Siobhain's shoulders, shaking her and shouting into her face, "Wake up! Siobhain, wake up!"
Siobhain raised her hand slowly. "Stop doing that," she said, lowering her eyes and looking at Maureen. "Help me out of the bed."
Maureen pulled the blankets back and lifted Siobhain's feet onto the floor.
Siobhain got out of bed and took off her clothes slowly, stripping down to her pants and vest. She took a gray V-neck jumper out of the chest of drawers and put it on. It was washed-out and flared at the bottom. She put on a pair of purple nylon trousers and a blue windcheater. The sleeves were elasticized at the ends and dug into the fat on her wrists.
"Where are you going?" asked Maureen.
"The center," replied Siobhain. "It's where I want to be."
"I'll come with you," said Maureen. It was said out of a sense of duty: she had no real desire to spend a day sitting on a plastic chair in a smoky room.
"No." Siobhain was very firm. "I can't get on with my business if you're there." She shambled down the hall, as purposeful as a golem, and went into the kitchen. She opened the fridge door, took out a carton of milk and filled a pint glass, spread margarine on five slices of bread, stacked them on top of one another and carried the lot through to her bedroom. She sat down at the dressing table and began opening jars of pills, taking out her medication and laying it in front of her.
Leslie was stirring in the living room. She rolled onto her back and saw Maureen standing in the dark hall. "All right, Mauri?" she said, rubbing her face and stretching. Her eyes were red and puffy.
"Maybe you should get up, hen," said Maureen. "Siobhain's on the move. She's going out."
"Oh," said Leslie, sitting up. "She's okay, then?"
"Seems to be."
Siobhain had finished taking her pills. She had replaced the lids on the jars and was working her way through the slices of bread and margarine. Maureen went into the living room and helped Leslie put the cushions back on the settee. Siobhain appeared in the doorway and Maureen looked up. "Are you off, wee hen?"
Siobhain nodded and walked down the hall. They could hear the front door opening. Maureen picked up the beeper and they grabbed their coats, scanning the living room to make sure they hadn't left anything. They followed Siobhain out of the house, down the stairs and onto the street, catching up with her at the corner. Leslie touched Siobhain's arm. "Where are we going?" she asked.
Siobhain didn't seem to register the touch.
"Siobhain's going to the day center," said Maureen, adding, "we'll just walk round with ye," to Siobhain, in case she thought she was talking over her.
They got to the main door and Siobhain walked in without looking back at them.
"Is she all right, Mauri?"
"I don't know," said Maureen. "She seems better but I don't know what she's like normally."
She waited for a minute and slipped into the day center after her. The sullen receptionist was behind the desk again. Her face lit up a flicker when Maureen walked in. "Heya," said Maureen. "See that lassie that just came in?"
"Fat lassie?" said the girl disparagingly.
"Aye. She's had a bad shock and I was just wondering if you could keep an eye on her. Just see she doesn't get ill or something."
The girl sighed. "Well, okay," she said reluctantly.
"I'll phone later and check up on her," said Maureen when she got outside.
"Listen," said Leslie, "I've got a few days owing. I could skive off and drive you about a bit if you like."
"Naw, I've got to go to the police station. I might be a while."
The blue Ford followed Maureen to the bus stop and cruised around the block, waiting for her bus to arrive.
Chapter 27
McEwan stood at the top of the stairs and gestured for her to come up. He was wearing a white T-shirt under an expensive blue silk suit.
"Miami Vice" said Maureen, pointing at his outfit, knowing before it was out of her mouth that the comment was a mistake.
She followed him upstairs to their interview room. Face-to-face McEwan seemed just as domineering and confident as ever but as they walked along Maureen caught him watching her a couple of times, seeing how she was, as if trying to gauge how she was going to be with him. It was disconcerting. The McEwan she had known to date didn't yield to other people's moods: he decided where he wanted to go and just crashed on through like Godzilla in a suit, certain always that he was center stage and the world was full of extras.
He opened the door to the interview room and stepped back, letting her go in without being told to.
Hugh McAskill was standing unassumingly by the radiator. He nodded a hello. McEwan sat down in his usual chair and turned on the tape recorder. "Right, Maureen," he said quietly. "I want you to tell me everything you know about George I ward."