‘I thought he was classical.’
‘He is, but any bugger can turn up in Eurovision these days; he was supposed to play a piano break in the Swedish entry.’
‘Maybe ABBA will be on in the interval tonight,’ Aileen said. ‘But I won’t count on it. See you later.’
She left me wondering whether I had time to take a taxi up to Harvey Nicks and look for something classy, roomy, and in any colour other than red. I might have done that too, if the phone hadn’t rung again.
It was Sarah Grace: my morning for Skinner spouses. Sarah’s much more of a pal than Aileen though. We see each other regularly, and talk about anything but husbands.
‘You busy?’ she asked me. ‘Or are you just too pregnant to come out and play?’
When I thought about it, I realised that I was. Chauffeur or not, the evening might be taxing, so I reckoned I’d better rest up for it. I told her as much, and we agreed that she’d come to me for coffee. As soon as I’d heard her I realised that I was listening to a different Sarah. She sounded excited, a little hyper even, and happy, as if something good had happened in her life. With her, that could mean only one thing. I asked her as much. Her denial didn’t convince me and I looked forward to quizzing her some more when she arrived.
Only she didn’t. A couple of hours had gone by before she called to say she couldn’t make it, but by that time I knew it, and why. If Mario and I were charged for calls received as well as made, the bill would be horrendous. I was looking through my choicest coffee beans from our deli range. . the best in Scotland. . trying to pick one for Sarah’s visit, when the phone rang again.
‘Yes?’ I said as I picked it up.
‘Ms Viareggio?’ The voice was familiar, but I couldn’t place it. As I’ve said, even though it’s ex-directory, our number has some of the heaviest traffic in town. There was background noise but oddly I wasn’t certain whether it was on the line or coming through the window.
‘This is Paula,’ I admitted. ‘Your turn now.’
‘Sorry, it’s DI Pye; Leith. Is the boss in?’
Of course I knew him. ‘No, Sammy, he’s not. He’s working, as I take it you are too. He’ll be in the office, or if not, on his mobile. . if it’s urgent.’
‘If it wasn’t, I’d know better than to call him today. If I can’t raise him and he comes in soon, could you tell him that I’m at a major incident on the vacant development site off Newhaven Place.’
‘How major?’
‘A burned-out van and it’s not empty.’
‘Oh my God,’ I exclaimed.
Sammy panicked, just a little. I think he had visions of me being shocked into labour. ‘I’m sorry,’ he exclaimed. ‘I shouldn’t have told you that.’
‘No reason why you shouldn’t,’ I told him. ‘I’m not squeamish. I reacted that way because I may have seen it.’
That squared him up. ‘What do you mean?’
‘I’m not sleeping too well just now. I got up for a glass of water, early hours; half past one, maybe two a.m., I can’t be certain. We have a window that faces west. I looked out and I could see a fire, in the area you’re talking about. I just assumed it was kids, lighting a bonfire and having a few drinks. I went back to bed and thought no more about it, until now.’ I paused. ‘Not kids, though?’
‘No, not kids. Although to tell you the truth, I’m not sure what’s inside the thing. We’ll need to wait for the pathologist to tell us that. She’s on her way here now.’
I put the coffee beans back in the cupboard.
Bob Skinner
I was in something of a daze all the way back to Gullane. As my granny used to say when I was very young, my head was full of bumblebees. Physically I knew where I was and where I was going; spiritually and morally, I hadn’t a clue. When I married Aileen and put my name to the paperwork, I imagined that I was signing up for a stable life as a faithful husband, putting my wife above everything else, as I expected she would put me.
Within a forty-eight-hour period that ideal was dust; my certainties were doubts, my vows broken. So was my marriage.
I’ve been there before, so I knew it. Sarah had told me some home truths, and I’d confessed some stuff to her that I’d never articulated to anyone before, not even to myself. The things she’d said about my emotional instability, they were undeniable, and she’d painted a Dickensian picture of my Christmases yet to come, that actually was one I’d seen in my darker dreams.
As I drove home to our kids, I thought of what she’d said.
‘Myra is dead, and you can no longer use her as a template for a living partner.’
True on the first count, and I suspected I was guilty as charged on the second. Shame on you, Bob Skinner.
‘You are far bigger than any police force, not the other way around.’
Well now, I’d never made that comparison, but force me to the truth and I’ll have to admit that for almost thirty years I’ve seen the force and myself as indivisible. Maybe that’s why Aileen thought she could force me to toe her line.
Had she manipulated me into marriage, as Sarah thought but hadn’t quite said? Was ours more a political alliance than anything else? I still can’t answer that, but what I will recognise and admit to now is that it was one of convenience on my part. I’d been tired, I was beaten up by endless crises and confrontations, I saw life with Aileen as a place to hide and I crept into it for shelter. I’d been strong, but I’d become weak. Was that before or after she’d cut my hair?
And something else Sarah had said, with real anger.
‘None of our children have ever mentioned the woman to me, not once.’
I hadn’t dwelt on that at the time, but when I considered it, away from Sarah’s vehemence, I saw what she meant. I tried to recall a single time I’d seen Aileen hug one of the kids, or kiss them, or even ruffle their hair as parents do, but I couldn’t. Not even Seonaid, who is a mistress of cute.
‘Love me, love my kids.’ It isn’t a clause in the contract when a parent remarries, but it’s implied.
Yes, Aileen and I had some truths to face, that I recognised. Would one of them be the fact that I spent the night with my ex-wife? Should I tell her that? Hell, no. How cruel would that be?
‘Coward,’ I whispered, as I turned into our street.
The kitchen clock read ten past eight when I stepped through the door. Trish was there, supervising Seonaid’s breakfast. ‘Daddeee!!!’ the wee one shouted, then she jumped down from her seat and bounced towards me, all eyes and blond wavy hair. I swept her up in my arms and hugged her.
‘How’s my doll?’ I whispered in her ear.
‘I’m not a doll, I’m a girl,’ she scolded. ‘Like Lex.’ When she was starting to talk, that was as close as she could come to her half-sister’s name, and it had stuck.
I sat her back on her chair. ‘That you are, Seonaid,’ I said. ‘That you are.’ I glanced at Trish. ‘Where are the boys?’
She smiled. ‘Still asleep; there was a sandcastle contest on the beach yesterday evening. I gave them both a late pass, after I brought Seonaid home. Their team won; Mark designed, James Andrew and two other boys built.’ She paused. ‘Would you like some breakfast, Bob? I could whip you something up.’
I almost told her that I’d eaten already, but veered away from that. I was sure she’d be wondering where I’d slept, and I didn’t want to feed her speculation. Not that she’d have asked. She’s been with us for years, through thick and very thin; she’s both loyal and discreet.
‘Thanks, but I’m not hungry,’ I replied. The truth, if not unbridled.
‘Coffee then?’
I nodded, then remembered Sarah’s medical advice. ‘No thanks.’ I stopped myself in the act of reaching for my mug, and went to the fridge instead. I took out a carton of milk and poured myself a glass. I drank some, then smiled at my daughter. ‘If it’s good enough for Seonaid, it’s good enough for me.’