A Dark Matter

Episode 42

Orla rolling her eyes. “Students,” she said. Jenny examined her. Orla was too young to remember the comedy character who used to rage against students. So maybe there was no irony, maybe she just hated students.

Which was interesting, given that she worked in the payroll department of the university on Chambers Street.

“Don’t you have to work with them all day?”

Orla shook her head. “I deal with staff.” She was hunched forwards, supping her wine like it was bedtime cocoa. “You should see what some of these professors get paid for working five hours a week. And the pensions and perks, it’s unbelievable.”

She took another hit of wine as a row of buses went past on the road, blocking their light for a moment. Obviously Edinburgh Uni payroll didn’t mind you working the afternoon half-drunk.

“So where’s the brown envelope?” Orla said.

“What?”

Orla nodded at Jenny’s bag. “You’re supposed to give me evidence in a brown envelope, isn’t that how it works?”

Jenny suddenly realised how nervous Orla must have been. Jenny had phoned her at work earlier and Orla arranged this lunchtime meeting. Maybe she was expecting the worst, wanted to get some Dutch courage, as well as time to compose herself.

“That’s just old movies,” Jenny said. Orla’s leg was twitching. “Give me the bad news.”

Jenny sipped her gin and tonic. “It’s not what you think.”

“Then what is it?”

“I followed him. You’re right that he’s not working late.” Orla glugged wine. “Come on.”

“He left the office on time and went to a studio off Maritime Street.”

“A studio?”

“An artists’ studio.”

Orla made a face. “I don’t think so.” “He stayed there for two hours then went for a drink in The King’s Wark.” “Alone?”

Jenny nodded. “He spoke to the barmaid for a while.”

“Like, chatted up?”

Jenny pressed her lips together. “No. I went back the next day and spoke to her, she doesn’t know him.”

“Was he waiting for someone maybe, someone who didn’t show?”

“It didn’t look like it. He had a drink then left, I followed him to your place around nine o’clock.”

A group of male students strutted past, shoving each other and laughing, one of them swinging a backpack over his head. Orla watched them until they passed. “So what is this about a studio?” Jenny leaned forwards. “I went back there yesterday and asked around. Someone knew him.”

“A woman?”

“Yes, but I don’t think that’s it.” “How do you know?”

“He has his own room in the place.” “I don’t understand.”

Jenny reached into her bag and pulled out the printouts. She’d printed off a few snaps of the paintings. She slid them across the metal table and Orla stared at them. “What am I looking at?”

“Liam’s a painter.”

Orla looked up, eyebrows raised, then down at the printouts. She shuffled between them and Jenny saw some of the shapes, a distorted spine, red and yellow blossoms spindling from either side. “You’ve made a mistake.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Liam does not have a creative bone in his body.” Jenny pointed at the pieces of paper. “There’s the evidence.”

“I have never seen him paint in my life.” “Nevertheless.” Jenny sipped her drink. “Are you sure he did these?”

Jenny nodded. “Pretty sure.”

Orla looked at each of the printouts in turn, gripping them, creasing the paper in the corners. Eventually she put them down and lifted her drink, took a large swig. “You’re wrong.” Jenny reached out and touched the corner of the nearest printout. “Why is it so hard for you to believe your husband painted these?”

Orla’s eyes hardened, her body stiff. “Have you ever spoken to him?”

“No.”

“If you had, you’d know he’s not that kind of man.” Jenny held her hands out. “I don’t know what else to tell you.”

Orla looked at the flow of people along the pavement. The vans and cars, trucks and buses, streaming in and out of town. “I want you to keep following him,” she said eventually.

“I don’t think there’s much point.” “It’s only been two days,” Orla said. “Talk to the barmaid again. Or other people in this studio, maybe he’s sleeping with one of them.”

Jenny collected up the printouts as Orla downed the remains of her wine. Her lips were stained red. “I know there’s something else going on,” she said. “This isn’t it.”

Jenny wondered if all her clients would be like this. Then she wondered at herself for thinking she would have future clients. Then she pictured herself passing unmarked envelopes to clients in dark alleyways and dingy bars.

“OK,” she said finally. “It’s your money.” “That’s right,” Orla said. “It’s my money.”

Hannah

East Fettes Avenue was a nice part of town, north of Stockbridge and New Town, a couple of big churches nearby, Broughton High School across the road and Inverleith Park round the corner. The terraced houses that Hannah parked the hearse outside were expensive for a lecturer’s salary, so his wife had to do something that earned proper money.

She and Dorothy had taken the pictures of Mel to Thomas, who said he would send someone to speak to Peter Longhorn. Hannah asked to tag along but Thomas said that was ridiculous. So she’d dropped Dorothy off, phoned uni payroll pretending to be from HMRC, and got Peter’s address from a nervous lackey.

And here she was. The hearse was noticeable but she didn’t care. About 30 minutes after she arrived, a police car turned up. Two men got out, one plainclothes, the other in uniform, and were invited inside by the pretty wife with the baby cradled in her arm.

That was 40 minutes ago.

Why is it so hard for you to believe your husband painted these?” Orla’s eyes hardened. “Have you ever spoken to him?”

More tomorrow.

A Dark Matter by Doug Johnstone is published by Orenda Books, as is Black Hearts, his latest in the same series. www.orendabooks. co.uk