Denise Mina - Resolution

RESOLUTION

The Third Book in the Garnethill Trilogy

By

DENISE MINA

Copyright 2001 by Denise Mina

Synopsis:

Maureen ODonnell is facing the darkest episode in her life. She owes more than she makes in a year in back taxes; Angus Farrell, the psychologist who murdered her boyfriend, is up for trial, with Maureen as the reluctant star witness; and her abuser has arrived back in Glasgow in time for the birth of her sisters baby. On top of it all, Maureen who identifies all too readily with the underdogs of this world has become embroiled in someone elses family feud.

When an elderly stallholder at the flea market where Maureen and Leslie are selling illegally imported cigarettes dies in hospital after a brutal beating, Maureen questions why anyone might want to kill the woman popularly known as Home Gran. She suspects Ellas son, but Si McGee is an upstanding member of the Scottish business community, runs a chain of estate agents and has a health club in Glasgows West End. But she soon discovers that the health club fronts a much less respectable establishment. As Anguss trial approaches, once again Maureen is under threat, and this time she has very few protectors.

For Amy and Sam.

Three cheers for the purples!

It was quiet in the gray corridor. high summer shone through the consecutive windows, lighting the lazy dust; window bars cast chilly shadows onto cracked plaster. They were waiting in the corridor-in-between for the door to be opened to the visitors block. The police were out there. Angus didnt know what they were going to charge him with yet. He guessed the murders and not the rapes. They didnt have any good witnesses for the rapes. A guard at the far end watched them lethargically, standing on one leg.

The sour smell of disinfectant was making Anguss battered sinuses ache again; he was sure he had a fragment of bone stuck in there. He sat forward suddenly, hanging his head between his knees. Henry, the burly nurse sitting next to him, shifted his legs out of splatter range.

Are you gonnae be sick? he asked.

No, said Angus, bending lower. My head hurts.

Henry grunted. Tell them at meds.

Medication was four hours away. Thanks, Henry, said Angus, I will.

He looked between his legs. The wooden bench was bolted to the wall, the mysterious point of attachment plastered over so that no one could wrench it off and use it as a weapon. Angus had understood the rationale of institutional vigilance during his career as a psychologist. It wasnt until he became a patient that he began to appreciate the psychic impact of static furniture, of lukewarm food and blunt knives. The minor amendments caught his attention every time, making him speculate about the behavior being deterred.

Henry shifted his weight forward, straining the bench from the wall. He had deodorant on, an acrid, hollow smell. Angus shut his eyes and remembered. It had been so dark outside the window that night. His most searing sensual memory was a light lemony aftershave billowing out towards him as Douglas opened the front door of Maureen ODonnells flat. Hed whispered angrily to Angus, asking him what he wanted, what was he doing there. Angus had stepped into the hallway, clicked the door shut behind him and, in a single fluid movement, grabbed Douglas by the hair and pulled him down, kneeing him sharply on the chin, knocking him off his feet. He held on to him by the hair, letting him down slowly to the floor, dropping him quietly. There was so much blood at the end, running off the rim of the chair. Angus had stood at the bedroom door, looking in at her through the crack in the door. Maureen was snoring lightly and it made him smile. Her clothes were on the floor by the bed, a stepped-out-of dress, kicked-off shoes. So much blood. Angus couldnt remember the first cut properly, just the buildup and the outcome. Disappointed, he sighed.

Dont worry, said Henry. Youll be fine.

Angus sat upright, making a brave face and nodding.

Theyre just going to charge ye, said Henry. Theyre not even going to question ye today.

Angus had been here for almost a year. For the first eight months he had been deluded and terrified, hadnt known where he was, what was real or imagined. Reality came in snippets at first and he began quickly to yearn for the alien confusion. The noise and the smell of the hospital were unbearable. Two men on his block were nocturnal, a moaner and an idiot who tapped on the pipes all night. Angus listened for two months, using his experience of crosswords, trying to decipher the message. There was no message, just a rhythm, over and over, as if the man was trying to tell a careful listener that he was still alive and almost sentient.

Henry was picking his nose. It was a straightforward, unceremonious flick, an index finger rammed up his nostril, searching for congealed mucus. The doctors here picked at their arses, nurses swore, domestic staff stared with openmouthed amusement at the patients and stopped working when supervisors left the room. It didnt matter how many social conventions they breached, they still felt better than their charges because state mental patients were credited with no opinions, no judgment. They were empty vessels. Angus knew that being in here superseded everything else he had ever been.

No one had thought that he might be familiar with the criminal-justice process, not his lawyer, not Dr. Heikle, his psychiatrist, not even the police. It astonished him. He had worked in the health service for seventeen years but hed also done court reports and diversions. They had forgotten his career because he was a patient now, a nothing.

He looked up and down the bleak corridor. Maureen ODonnell had brought him to this and she was going to get him out.

Hugh McAskill and Joe McEwan sat side by side on Maureen ODonnells settee. They were tall men. Joe would have been attractive if he hadnt been such a prick. He had blond hair, turning white in the recent wave of sunshine, a deep tan, and he was always smartly dressed, in chinos and well-fitting shirts and jumpers. When Maureen first met Joe, his tan looked as if hed just come back from a nice holiday somewhere Mediterranean. In the past year the tan had become more orange and sunbed-ish but it might have been her jaundiced view of him: they had an unhappy history. Hugh looked far more Scottish. His hair was a russet red, flecked with silver at the temples. His eyes were blue and his skin flushed red or white depending on the season. The living-room window was pushed right up and the evening was cooler than the day but men were still sweating into their collars.

Usually, Glasgows weather vacillates between freezing rain and not-so-freezing rain but sometimes, on a five-to-ten-year cycle, the weather turns and the city doesnt know itself. This was such a time. Unconditional sunshine had arrived one week ago. Virulent, fecund plant life had sprung up everywhere: trees and bushes were heavy with deep green leaves, growth appeared on buildings, between cracks in the pavement, on bins. The city burst into life and everyone began to farm their skin. Water-white cheeks and necks withered and puckered with relentless exposure. Casualty departments heaved under the strain of sunburn and heat stroke. Everyone in the unaccustomed city was dressing as if theyd woken up naked in a bush and had to borrow clothes to get home: old women wore young womens summer dresses, vest tops were stretched over belly rolls, short sleeves showed off straps from industrial bras. Every night felt like Friday night and parties went on too long. Fantastic blood-alcohol levels were attained by conscientious individuals. Everyone was dangerously out of character.

Hugh sipped the coffee and Joe lit a super-low-tar cigarette.