Chapter 33

Maureen woke up with more aches and pains than she'd had the morning before. Her hip bone had been digging into the hard floor and was numb. She got up quickly, glad to be off the stern floor. Outside the picture window Leslie was sitting in a deck chair on the veranda, drinking coffee and eating toast. Siobhain was standing next to her, leaning on the railing, looking down at the ground.

It was half-twelve. Maureen phoned Lynn at the surgery. "Hello," she said. "It's the Secret Squirrel here. Any word?"

"Yes," said Lynn. "For Friday? That seems to be fine."

"Can't you talk now? Shall I phone later?"

"If I could just take your name," said Lynn, and paused. "Can you spell that for me?" And then she spelled out a familiar name as though she were repeating what she was hearing over the phone. Fine. "Do you understand the arrangement, then?"

"That's the name of Benny's doctor, is it?"

"Yes, certainly."

"Lynn, I owe you a big one."

"Yes, that's right," said Lynn. "I'll see you, then. Bye-bye now."

"Bye, Lynn."

Maureen hung up and pulled on her clothes. The mustard jumper was beginning to get smelly and the crispness in her jeans was a distant memory, but she told herself that she'd be home soon and would be able to do a washing, and if she didn't get home in the next two days it wouldn't really matter whether her clothes were clean or not. "Leslie," she said, calling to her on the veranda, "have you got a wee bag or a box I could put some things in?"

Leslie looked into the living room. "What did you say?"

"I've some things I want to keep separate from the luggage. Have you a wee bag or something?"

"Have a look under the sink."

Maureen rummaged through the bags, looking for a thick one. On the floor at the back she found a navy blue hexagonal cardboard presentation box with "Boothy and Co." written on it. She pulled off the lid. Jagged bits of dusty toffee had gathered in one corner. She picked out a small, thick plastic bag, shoved the rest back into the cupboard and wandered out onto the veranda. "Can I have this box?"

"Course," said Leslie. "I've had it for ages. Can't bring myself to throw it away because it's so pretty but I can't find a use for it either."

"Good," said Maureen, and went back indoors.

She put the bag of Colombian coffee into the box with the sachets of sugar she had lifted in the airport cafe the night before. She took three coffee filter papers from Leslie's cupboard and found a pocket alarm clock and a bottle of Tipp-Ex in the odds and ends drawer. Leslie came into the kitchen, put down her empty mug and flicked the kettle on. "Want a coffee?" she said.

"Yeah, please."

"What ye doing?"

"Just packing some things."

Leslie took a fresh mug out of the cupboard, watching as Maureen folded the coffee filters and polyethylene bag and slipped them into the Boothy box.

"Does this alarm work, Leslie?"

"Yeah. It's got new batteries in it."

Leslie made the coffee and picked hers up. "I'll leave you to it, then?"

"Yeah, how's Siobhain?"

"Same," said Leslie, looking into the Boothy box. "What are you doing, Maureen?"

"Do ye want to know?"

Leslie thought about it. "No," she said finally.

"I'll need your handcuffs," said Maureen, "if that's all right."

Leslie looked disconcerted. "Sure."

"And your leather gloves."

"Okay," she said, and went to get them from the bedroom.

"And cream," Maureen muttered to herself. "I'll need cream."

The rain was coming down in sheets. The children had left the waste ground and Siobhain and Leslie had pushed the deck chairs back against the wall to keep themselves dry. The were sitting quietly, holding hands, watching the rain erode the little dirt hills.

"Can I take these with me as well?" asked Maureen.

Leslie looked at the stained Marigold washing-up gloves and the plastic coffee filter cone in her hand. "Take them and keep them if you want." She seemed confused and more than a little frightened.

"Yeah, I'll need to," said Maureen, and went back into the kitchen.

Leslie didn't have any traveling bags so their knickers, the Boothy box and their for-in-case jumpers were shoved into ill-chosen poly bags with precariously stretching handles. Maureen took the bags and caught the bus to the town, taking the red Ford and its two policemen with her. She got off the bus outside the Buchanan Street bus station and waited on the curb before crossing, making sure that the Ford was still with her. The car pulled up down the road a little and she crossed. The passenger policeman got out of the car and followed her on foot. She passed the narrow entrance to the bus station, ducking into the doorway of the multistory car park. The policeman jogged past her, no more than four feet away, and went into the bus station. Maureen ran round the corner, jumping down the steep stairs to the taxi rank, and leaped into the back of a cab, telling the driver to take her to Central Station.

As they drove down the road she glanced out of the side window and saw the blue Ford parked at the side of the road. The driver was examining the passing pedestrians carefully.

The taxi dropped her at the entrance. She stopped at the ticket office and, as an act of faith, bought three returns. Next door, in the station newsagent's, she picked up a Basildon Bond letter-writing pad and a Bic Biro and sidled up to a spotty clerk stacking shelves with chocolate bars. "Can I ask you something?" She smiled. He looked up. "I wondered whether you sell many of these notepads?"

"Aye," he said. "We've got them in our shops all over Britain. We sell hundreds of them."

"Great," she said. "Thanks."

She paid for them at the till and leaned on the lottery-ticket table to write the note, using her left hand so that the script would be unrecognizable. At the top of the page she put the Stewart Street station number with the full regional code and McEwan's office extension under it. "Please phone this number in case of emergency. Ask for DCI Joe McEwan and tell him that I am responsible for Martin Donegan and Douglas Brady." She folded it to the size of a credit card and put it in the back pocket of her jeans.

Leslie and Siobhain hadn't made it into the station yet. The overhead speakers were playing an easy-listening version of "American Pie." Maureen stood in the center of the vast marble-floored concourse and tried to think straight, working out the times: the train connected with the last ferry to Cumbrae. Even if someone drove and broke the speed limit all the way to Largs they still wouldn't get there for the last ferry, at eight-twenty. It would be safe to send the word.

She walked to the phone boxes by the side exit and phoned Scaramouch Street. "Listen," she said when Benny answered, "I can't get hold of Liam. Would you phone him and tell him I've gone to Millport with Siobhain for a couple of days?"

"Okay," said Benny. "When'll you be back?"

"Couple of days, tops. Tell him it's the same close we stayed in last time, only it's the top flat. I heard the police questioned ye?"

"Yeah," he said, sounding suddenly breathless. "They wanted my fingerprints. They must have found them in your house, eh?"

"Yeah, I expect so."

"I'll see you when ye get back. My last exam's tomorrow."

"Yeah, I'll be in touch."

"Okay, have a lovely time."

"See ya, Benny," she said, and hung up.

She picked up the bags and walked slowly over to the Bullet, a memorial of the Great War made from an upright brass shell casing. Still no sign of Leslie and Siobhain. They only had seven minutes before their train left.