Liam looked up at Maureen and Leslie, sitting close together, smoking the last of Leslie's fags. "I didn't tell her the verdict was due today," said Liam. "I didn't want to upset her. Is he dead?"
"I don't really know," said Siobhain.
"I think he is, actually," said Maureen, and Leslie agreed, wrapping her arms around her tummy and rocking gently.
"Are you okay?" Maureen asked Leslie.
Leslie nodded over and over.
It took the police twenty minutes to get there because Kilty didn't know where Siobhain lived and couldn't remember her second name. Hugh had to call the police station and get someone to find the address in the files on Farrell's investigation. When they arrived the police made them all get out of the close and cautioned Siobhain.
Leslie waited until they were in the back of the police car and on their way to the station to give statements before she spoke. "Is Siobhain gonnae be charged with murder?" she said.
Hugh turned to look at her. "I doubt that," he said gently.
Leslie sighed. "I'm never gonnae be cheeky to Siobhain again," she said, and looked out of the window. "Never, ever, ever."
Chapter 52
There were four figures sitting on the ground, listening to the pipe player. They had no faces, but the angle of a head, the drop of an arm, showed they were immersed in the creamy moment, following the spiral of the music. In the foreground two figures, one lying, one sitting, were watching goldfish turn in a bowl. It was completely flat, the foreground and the background differentiated only by the size of the figures. Her eyes were drawn into the picture by the fish but then swayed through each of the characters, resting on a man with his head tipped back, enjoying.
She had been there for nearly an hour and a camp security guard with slicked-down hair and shiny buttons on his blazer was getting pissed off. She had tried to sit down cross-legged on the parquet floor in front of the painting but he stood over her, looking disdainful, and flicked her upright with an angry forefinger. She had to sit on the banquette by one of the three large windows. Matisse's huge canvas, The Dance, was distracting her from the Coffeehouse. The windows in the Winter Palace had net curtains on them. Every time they rustled behind her she smiled at the inappropriateness of it.
She turned sideways and looked out through the milky curtain across to the checkered Palace Square and saw the sun glinting off the gilded onion domes of the cathedral called The Resurrection on Spilt Blood.
She'd have to watch her time. There was only one English-speaking AA meeting per week in St. Petersburg and it began in an hour. She hadn't been sober long enough to go a week without one.
He sat down next to her on the bench and took her hand lightly in his.
"All right?" she whispered, still looking out of the window. "Are ye having a good time?"
"Aye," said Vik. "Oh, aye."
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Many, many thanks to Gerry Considine for hours of help in explaining the Scottish legal system and for handing me plot twists on a plate. Also to Tommy Smith and a nameless officer of the Crown for explaining the ins and outs of the High Court. The Media and Information Service of the Strathclyde Police Department also helped. Thanks again to Selina Walker, Rachel Calder and Katrina Whone, all of whom love attention and will be thrilled at a mention. Particular thanks are due to Stephen Evans for Kilty's joke about the shark documentary, among many, many other things.
I'd like to thank all the kind souls who, over the course of this series, have, uncomplainingly, let me steal their jokes. Those who did complain will be dealt with forthwith, future jokes notwithstanding. You know who you are. Start running.
Denise Mina
