They drank their coffee in the living room and Leslie added a little drop of whiskey to ease Maureen's hangover and give herself a treat. They sipped and smoked and tried to work out how they could find out what was in the letter Ann got before she left.
Ann had a friend at the shelter called Senga. She had stayed in over Christmas and there was just the slightest possibility that Ann would have shown her the contents of the envelope. Leslie said that she could get Senga's new address from the office and they could go and talk to her. The more plans they made together the more excited they became and it began to feel like old times, but Maureen knew it wasn't the same. The tension between them remained unexplained and would probably never be sorted out. She watched Leslie stub out her fag, rubbing the doubt into the blue glass ashtray. It couldn't be patched up. They'd never have that crystal confidence between them again. Her mutinous eyes welled up again and she stood up, excusing herself, saying she needed a piss. She sat on the side of the bath and pulled herself together with deep breaths and scathing self-reproach.
"Mauri," Leslie called up to her as she came down the hall, and Maureen thought for a moment that Leslie had seen her tears, "what can we do if we find anything out?"
"Tell the police?"
"You can't go to the police, they're still hassling you for what you did to Angus in Millport."
"Some of the police are hassling me for that," said Maureen.
"What are the rest of the police hassling ye for?"
Maureen sat down and sipped her whiskey coffee and wondered. She picked up the phone book and found the listing for the Stewart Street police station, dialed the main switchboard and asked for Hugh McAskill.
Hugh picked up the phone before it rang out. "Hello?"
"Oh, Hugh?"
"Yes, this is Hugh McAskill. Can I help you?"
"Hugh, it's Maureen O'Donnell."
"Maureen"-she could hear him smiling-"are ye all right?"
"I'm fine. I got a bit upset." She felt angry with him but knew she had no right.
"Maureen, about the other day, I'm sorry-"
"It's okay."
"-but it's my job. Going to see people and asking about unsolved crimes is my job. I can't refuse to do it because I like you."
"I know," she said. "I was having a bad day."
"Aye," he said. He seemed to be looking around the room and then huddled into the receiver. "Fine, fine. Ye never came back to see me."
Maureen imagined herself standing in front of a trestle table of angry policemen in elaborate uniforms. Leslie was watching her expectantly from the sofa. "I was going to," she said uncertainly.
"I thought I'd've seen you at the meeting."
Hugh attended an incest survivors' meeting on Thursdays and he had outed himself to Maureen so that he could invite her. She had been once, only staying long enough to have a cup of tea and see Hugh, but an annoying man had come in and she couldn't face the whole meeting. She thought she might have to give them a talk about herself and her family and she couldn't face it.
"I kept meaning to come… Hugh, I was phoning because… if I had some information about a crime, would you be able to take it?"
"We're always looking for information," said Hugh, without hesitation. "Is it something that happened in Glasgow?"
"No, it was in London."
"It's not our jurisdiction but we can pass it on. Listen, don't go getting involved in anything."
"I'm not going to do that, Hugh."
"Maureen, this assault in Millport, Joe isn't going to let it go. He's convinced Farrell's at it to get a lighter sentence."
"I think he's right."
"He's determined to get you for it. The worst thing you can do is get involved in something else."
"I'm not getting involved."
"Listen"-Hugh lowered his voice even further-"I'm going to ask you again: is Farrell writing to you?"
Maureen looked at Leslie. "No." It was a cheap lie and Hugh was a nice man who had gone out of his way to help her. He deserved better and she felt low for lying to him.
"The hospital said he was," insisted Hugh.
"Maybe he's writing to the wrong address."
"They've checked, he's writing to your address."
"Well, I'm not getting any letters so I don't know what's happening there."
Leslie was watching her from the settee, making questioning faces at the mention of letters.
"Okay, pal," said Maureen briskly. "Listen, I'll be in touch, then."
"Will I hear from ye soon?"
"Ye will. Cheerio." She hung up. Leslie was staring at her intently.
"Was he asking about the letters from Angus Farrell?" asked Leslie.
"Yeah, the nurses told them he was writing to me." She sat down next to Leslie on the settee. "They want to see them but I can't – God, they mention Millport and everything. If they ever do me for the assault they could get the whole story from them."
"You don't think he could be writing to Siobhain, do you? He definitely knows where she lives."
"I don't know," said Maureen. "I haven't seen her since before Christmas."
"We should go and see her."
Like most of the women on her ward, Siobhain had been viciously raped by Angus. She was the only surviving witness to what he had done, or at least the only one who could still speak in full sentences, and if he was coming for anyone he would be coming for her.
"His writing's getting smaller," said Maureen quietly. "I think he's getting better."
"He's still mental, though, isn't he?" said Leslie.
"The letters sound mental but it's put on. I know it's put on."
"How do you know that?"
Maureen shook her head. "It's too set," she said. "It's not random enough. I don't know. It's difficult to explain. Joe McEwan thinks he's at it. He says that Angus'll get a short sentence and get out. You don't think he'll come after me, do you?"
"I don't know."
Maureen desperately wanted some bluster and comfort. "You don't think I'm in danger, do you?" she said, trying to prompt a response.
"Bollocks," said Leslie, sniggering uncertainly. "Think about it rationally. If he was coming to get you why would he write and warn you? That's evidence against him if he does."
Maureen wanted her to be right, but Angus was bright, probably brighter than both of them, and everything he did had a purpose.
They drove through the town to the Mitchell library, an imposing Victorian building sitting precariously on the verge of an opencast motorway underpass. The building was deceptively big, housing a large library, a cafe and a theater. An obese porter was sitting at the reception desk, panting at the effort of keeping still. He directed them to the fourth floor.
The Business Information Center was a quiet room with three scruffy clients sitting equidistant from one another at a long table. The lights were soft and relaxing and the guy behind the desk smiled cheerfully as they walked over to him. "Yes, ladies, can I help you today?" he said, his eager eyes wet with the desire to serve.
"We need to use a photocopier, color if you've got it." Maureen tried not to smile. "And a set of phone books for London."
"Our color photocopier is over there"-he flicked a finger at the far wall-"and costs fifty pence per copy. Now, London, north or south?"
They didn't really know.
"I have a map here," said the nice man, pulling out a small diagram of the London postal regions and holding it up over his face. "Please, take your time."
Bewildered by the man's courtesy, Leslie walked off to the color copier. After a while Maureen spotted Streatham on the map, south of the river, right next to Brixton. His arms must be getting sore by now. "South," she said, lowering the map to look at him. "I think it's in the south."