The large piece of white volcanic quartz Tom had used as a paperweight was sitting out of place

By the third ring Surtsey was back at Brendan’s desk, looking around. But it wasn’t there, the sound was further on. She walked. Fourth ring. Tom’s office was up ahead, the door ajar. She kept walking. By the fifth ring she’d run out of open-plan space. The ring was louder but she wasn’t at it yet. She could see into Tom’s office through the window, but didn’t see anyone.

“Brendan?”

Another ring. She still had the phone to her ear for some reason, the tone like a ghost, echoed in the real world by the phone at the other end.

She imagined a thin thread connecting the two, rocketing into the atmosphere then back down, tunnelling through the roof of the building to get back in.

She put a hand on the door. Another ring. “Brendan.”

She blinked then pushed.

Eighth ring, clear now.

How was this real?

It was coming from Brendan’s body lying on the floor. His head was caved in on the left-hand side, the scalp coming away from the bone underneath, blood streaked down his face and thicker in a pool under his neck.

Surtsey lowered the phone from her ear but she could still hear both rings, the signal and the reply.

She took a step forward. Brendan’s eyes were open. His face wasn’t filled with shock or contorted in pain, just blank, like he was daydreaming.

Surtsey could see brain. S***, that was his brain where his skull should’ve been. Blood had already coagulated around his hair on the side of his head.

His ear was untouched and Surtsey focused on that. How could someone’s head be destroyed, but their ear still intact? How was any of this real?

The phone finally stopped ringing in Brendan’s pocket. Surtsey looked at her own phone.

She could hear that it had gone to voicemail. Brendan’s voice. Leave a message after the tone. She ended the call.

Blood rushed to her face. Her eyelids felt heavy and she lost focus for a second.

She looked around the office. Everything seemed normal. Then she spotted it. The large piece of white volcanic quartz Tom had used as a paperweight was sitting out of place, in the middle of the desk.

And its nearest edge was dark red.

Surtsey stared at it for a long time in silence.

Then she looked at Brendan. Then she dialled.

Interview

Yates’ lips were moving but she couldn’t make out what he was saying. Just muffled vowels like the sound was turned down on the world. She looked around. The station interview room was a low-quality office space, stained ceiling tiles, laminate floor, plastic and metal furniture.

A long strip light made everything too sharp. It felt like a job interview. She could see the police station car park out of the window, where a male and female officer were leaning against a squad car, their body language flirty. Beyond that was Beach Lane Social Club, sclaffy and beaten up, then the small, litterstrewn alleyway that led to Towerbank Primary and the beach.

This was the scruffier end of the prom, away from the gentrified terraces of Joppa, the amusements at the bottom of the road attracting wayward teenagers.

She thought about Brendan’s stare. She closed her eyes but that made it worse, made the image pull into focus. So she opened them again and looked at Yates and Flannery across the desk.

Flannery was faffing with the recording machine on the desk. Amazing they still used cassettes in this day and age. Such a weird concept, recording sounds onto magnetic tape.

Through the fog she realised someone was saying her name. She touched her hair, flicked it behind her ear, just to make sure her hands were real, that she could feel something. She imagined Brendan touching her in bed, a stroke of the upper arm, his fingers walking down to her thigh. Like he was tracing a path across an unpopulated place.

She saw the mess of hair and skin. Blood, bone and brains. The bloodied piece of quartz on the desk. His phone ringing in his pocket, never answered. His voicemail message all that was left of him.

She suddenly had the urge to call him now, hear that voice again. How long would it be available? Could she call him and hear his voice for the next few weeks, months, years? Keep him alive forever?

Then she thought of Tom, and her mum. Their phones and voicemails. She could keep all of them alive with a few simple calls – leave long messages about her day, ask how they were doing, make plans to meet up over coffee or wine.

The long, loud beep from the cassette machine broke through the fog. Yates said some official stuff as a red light flashed on the tape player.

He placed his hands on the table. “Tell us how you came to find Brendan’s body.”

This was easy, just tell them everything, the truth. This time.

“I said already,” Surtsey said.

“Tell us again.”

Same tactic as before, trying to trip her up. But there was nothing to trip up. She gritted her teeth.

A mistake

She would be let go. This was all a mistake, the whole thing from day one. Why couldn’t Tom have just been alive when she got to the Inch? Then maybe her mum would still be here, and Brendan, and Halima and Iona.

Where the hell was Halima? Surely she should’ve been in the office, she should’ve been the one to find Brendan, she should’ve been sitting here getting bull**** from two police officers who didn’t have a clue about anything.

“He called me,” Surtsey said. “Wanted to meet up.” “At the Grant Institute in King’s Buildings?”

“At the office, yes.”

“Did that seem normal?”

Surtsey touched her eyebrow with her fingertips. Shivered at the feel of it.

“He wanted to talk about us.”

“Your relationship?” Yates was doing all the talking. Flannery just sat there like a sack of tatties, staring. “Yes.”

“How was your relationship with Mr Curtis?” “We split up.”

“When?”

“When he found out about Tom.”

“Mr Lawrie?”

“Of course,” Surtsey said. “You think I was sleeping with a bunch of Toms?”

Yates narrowed his eyes. “I don’t know about your relationships with men.”

“You think I’m a slut, is that what you’re saying?” Yates glanced at the cassette recorder. Waited. ‘So, you and Brendan split up,’ he said. Surtsey pulled her earlobe. “Yes.”

“Who ended it?”

“He did.”

“When he found out you’d been having relations with Mr Lawrie.”

“Having relations?” Surtsey said.

“Well, how would you describe your relationship, Miss Mackenzie?”

“It’s Ms Mackenzie, thank you. We were sleeping together.”

More tomorrow.