8

Cara Connolly took a deep breath. Paused, as if she was about to change her mind, and then climbed the last step up to the Glasgow townhouse. The door was impressive. A centre panel of smoked glass inserted into an oak frame. If the door was representative of what was behind it, this was going to be some house. She was more used to shabby tenements or the ambitiously entitled ‘maisonettes’ in the concrete towers of the city’s sink estates.

Even knocking on the thick wood, she could feel the quality.

Bet she’s a cold-hearted bint, Cara thought as she took a step back and pushed her hands into the pockets of her denims to hide the shaking.

Nothing. No answer.

Maybe she’d lost her shot at speaking to her?

She took another step back and looked around the door’s blonde sandstone lintel. Spotted a white ceramic button inside a brass ring. She pushed it and heard nothing and wondered if it was ringing somewhere far inside.

Again, no response.

She craned her head to the side and tried to look inside the giant window. The morning sunshine was hitting the glass at an angle that made it difficult to see into the room. All she could make out was the back of a cream, leather sofa and on the far wall, a giant mirror in an ornate frame. Made her think of the stately homes she’d seen in historical TV dramas.

Cold-hearted lucky bint, she amended her earlier thought and tried the door again, this time with the side of her hand against the door.

As she waited for a response she thought about the conversation she’d had with her mother, a conversation that had played over and over in her mind since they’d last spoken.

‘I wish you’d leave that, doll,’ her mother said, leaning forwards, her hands clasped on her bony knees. ‘It’s done. Sean’s no’ coming back.’

‘But, Mum…’

Helen shook her head with slow care, her brown eyes leaking love. ‘To bury a child is my burden. I’m no’ having you on some sort of crusade that could end up with you killed as well.’

‘What makes you think I could end up being killed?’

‘Did they find the man who did it?’ Helen demanded, suddenly losing her cool. The force of her worry made the ligaments that stretched from under her chin to her collarbone stand out starkly. ‘Naw. So there’s a murderer out there and if you go kicking at hornet’s nests you might get stung. And that…’ She bit her lip as she tailed off. ‘Just leave it, honey, please?’

Leave it. A simple request. A sensible request. But Cara couldn’t.

The door opened, throwing Cara from her thoughts. And she took a little cheer from the fact that the woman facing her was a mess. Her hair was all over the place, and her eyes were puffy and red. Cara took a step closer, but couldn’t smell any booze, just mouthwash.

‘You don’t look like the girl from the funeral,’ Mrs Gadd said, her eyes narrow with suspicion.

‘I was wearin’ a large pair of sunglasses, and a big hat.’ Cara paused, gathering her determination to get to the truth. ‘Can I come in?’

Without a word, Gadd turned and walked away. Cara stepped inside, closed the door behind her and followed. They walked along a long, light-flooded corridor, past the foot of a wide staircase and into a kitchen straight out of a movie set. A series of white units, a pair of Belfast sinks under the window, an island cooker and lots of shiny devices.

This was beautiful. Everything was so classy. And you could almost fit Cara’s entire flat into this room.

‘We can talk here,’ the woman said. ‘That’s where the coffee is.’ She reached a coffee machine, pressed a button and then turned and asked, ‘What’s your name?’

‘Cara.’

‘Cara what?’

‘Let’s settle for just Cara at the moment, please.’

‘Well, Cara…’ she paused as if this was costing her a lot of effort ‘… you should call me Paula.’

‘Paula,’ Cara repeated somewhat unnecessarily. The woman might be a mess and in the midst of grief, but she could detect a core of steel there and Cara suddenly felt unsure of herself.

This was something she hated about herself; that flare of feeling she got when she first met someone that people would deem her social better – that somehow she wasn’t quite as worthy. It was something she fought on an almost daily basis. She looked out of the window, away from Paula Gadd, in an effort to marshal her strength and to remind herself why she was here. What she could see of the garden was pretty. A trim lawn, plants of various sizes along the borders, plant pots bursting with reds, yellows and blues, and some rattan furniture under a large umbrella.

‘My husband loves the garden,’ Paula said as she followed Cara’s gaze. ‘We could have had a gardener, but he was determined to do all that stuff himself.’ The machine made some gurgling noises and Paula lifted a pair of mugs from a cupboard. ‘What do you take in your coffee?’ she asked and for a moment Cara caught a glimpse of how difficult it was for this woman to hold it all together.

She felt a knot of uncertainty. What was she doing here? She resisted the impulse to leave, the muscles of her back suddenly aching as if someone was pushing her out of there.

‘Tea, actually,’ she said. ‘I’m no’ a fan of coffee.’ Then reminded herself of society’s expectation. Regardless that she was here to stick it to this woman, she had to be polite. She added a defiant, ‘Please.’

Paula nodded as if in recognition of her tone.

‘Don’t have tea in this house. Nobody drinks it, so it’s coffee, milk or…’ she looked over her shoulder in the direction of a massive fridge-freezer ‘…I might have some bottled water?’

‘Water’s fine, ta.’ And she added another ‘please’ for good measure.

Paula walked over to the fridge, pulled out a green bottle with a tear-shaped bottom, which to Cara’s estimation probably cost more than a box of teabags. Then she reached into a cupboard, pulled out a tall glass and handed both items to Cara.

Cara accepted the bottle and glass with a nod of thanks. She had to admire the woman. If someone had gone through this with her she’d have probably chucked them at her.

Paula took a seat on a stool at the end of the island and Cara took another, pulling it away from the older woman to give her more space.

‘What age are you, Cara?’ Paula asked and then took a sip of her coffee. She made a face at the taste and Cara thought she saw a look of confusion pass over her face.

‘Twenty-six…’ she answered, allowing her tone to say, why are you asking?

‘A bit young to be leaving cryptic messages in people’s pockets,’ observed Paula. Then she paused as if another, more worrying question had occurred to her. ‘What do you know about hacking into computers?’

‘What?’ asked Cara, mystified.

‘Nothing,’ Paula shook her head, then she gave a pained smile. ‘Okay. Please. Rip off the plaster. What do you want to tell me?’

Now that the moment was here, Cara was again unsure of herself. Besides, where to start?

‘As I said in the note, there’s more to your husband than…’

Paula took another sip of her coffee. Then made a face and stood up. ‘Needs milk. Who forgets to put milk into their coffee? I swear my head is all over the place these days.’ She walked over to the fridge and pulled out a carton of milk.

Cara watched as she poured, seeing this for what it was – a delaying tactic – and again questioned what she hoped to achieve here. The woman looked tiny. Out of it. A blast of air from an electric fan would be enough to push her over.

Cara stood up. ‘This is a mistake, Paula. I should go.’

‘After you’ve gone to all this trouble?’ She turned, visibly steeling herself. ‘Let’s just get this over with, please.’

‘You’re sure?’ Now that the moment had come, Cara wished she was anywhere but here, in this woman’s kitchen, about to pile more bad news on her head. She looked around herself. Used the obvious wealth around her as fuel. How could this woman not know who and what her husband was?

‘Just … tell me,’ answered Paula.

‘You should have a seat.’

With a sigh, Paula moved back to the stool and sat down. ‘There,’ she said. ‘I’m sitting.’

‘Okay. This is a lot to take in, but…’ Cara looked around herself again ‘…it seems to me you’ve been well compensated for having to put up with that man all these years.’

‘Just tell me, will you?’ Then as if realising her tone was a bit too sharp, she added a quiet ‘please’.

‘Your son was killed in a hit-and-run seven years ago, yes?’

Paula sat up and looked over at her as if she was finally seeing Cara.

‘He was hit by a red car. A Ford Focus.’ She paused and steeled herself to force the words out. For this was her shame. ‘My brother, Sean, was drivin’ it. He was seventeen. A doped-up nut job. But I think he was paid to do the hit.’

‘What?’ Paula blinked rapidly, as if that might help her to digest the words.

Cara took a deep breath. ‘I think he was paid to kill your son in some sort of gangland payback for your husband. And in revenge, your husband tortured and killed my brother…’