And with a trembling finger, she pointed.
WILMA SAT AT THE doorway, the warm living room behind her; the hall had taken on the chill of the November air. She had called for Alastair but he hadn’t heard. She opened the door.
There were three of them, all dressed alike. One nodded to her and invited himself in.
He said one word. ‘Tonka?’
Another stood back watching the street, one hand holding a large torch, the other deep in his parka pocket. The man in the doorway pressed closer, his hands crossed in front of him, peering over her shoulders up the stairs, then followed his colleague up, giving her a nod in passing.
Twenty years of peace and quiet, away from the madness, and here they were knocking on her door at midnight. She’d had her mouth open ready to protest, to ask them who they were, exactly. But she had known, known from the minute she saw them. No point in asking these men for I.D., that was the last thing they would have given.
She tried to tell them there was nobody living here of that name, no Tonka. It was a forlorn feeble attempt, her words spoken to their backs as they went up her stairs, silent muddy boots on her lovely new stair carpet. She could have wept.
They knew who they wanted, and they knew he was here. The final man came inside and closed the door, dwarfing her and the cottage. All of them wore bulky dark blue and black jackets. Small men, in their thirties she guessed, young enough to be her boys. Hard faces, wide shoulders, alert and light on their heavy feet.
‘Evening missus. Sit quiet and we’ll be out of here double quick.’
Glaswegian accent. They usually were, these people; Glaswegians were violent, any excuse. The guitar fell silent on a protesting chord. She waited, staring up the stairs.
Wilma had known that this day would come, shattering life’s illusion like glass. It was a relief. There was nothing like waiting for that knock that never came. She kept to one side, her chair against the living-room door, but never taking her eyes off the top of the stairs where she could see a sliver of the man’s body through the spindles of the bannister as he spoke softly, a quiet monologue. She heard Hamish whimper on the other side of the living-room door as if he also knew. She was still watching as the men came back down the stairs, moving at speed. They both nodded to Wilma as they passed, avoiding her eyes, and they went straight out the door, leaving Wilma, in her chair, impotent in the possession of her own house. She watched them disappear into the black night, the dark wind swallowing them. She didn’t hear the doors of the Land Rover open or close. Just the gentle pit pat of her husband coming down the stairs, carrying what he called his ready pack from the top of the wardrobe. He took his boots from under the stair, his jacket and his scarf from the hall stand. He didn’t say a word to her or look in her direction in case he read it in her eyes.
Don’t.
She looked into the ebony night, her eyes catching the twitch of the curtains across the lane as the neighbours had a quick look. She sat there alone and stunned as the Land Rover tail lights retreated and then vanished from her view as the vehicle turned the corner, hearing the engine accelerate hard, then there was nothing but the rattle of the rain and the howl of the wind.
THE WOMAN HAD SAID nothing on her way to the hospital, sitting in the back of the police car with ease and a degree of comfort, as if the journey did not faze her or she had absolutely no understanding of what was going on. The two cops who had picked her up, Turner and Whitely, had tried a few opening gambits about the weather and how it was far too cold to be sitting on a stone step at this time of year.
Silence.
Trying for a bit of chit chat, Turner asked her if she was hungry because they were passing ASDA and they could pop in for steak bake. Much to their disappointment she remained quiet, so they drove on.
She looked out the window, watching the nightlife of Glasgow float past; through the Clyde Tunnel, her eyes became wild and frightened. The blood was still steadily dripping from her head. Every so often she would fist it away, then rub the blood onto her anorak. Then look at the anorak as if she had never seen it before in her life.
At the desk in Accident and Emergency, Turner gave the details of where they had found her, and that they had no identification. He pointed to the blood on the side and the back of her head and to the overpowering stink of alcohol, both he felt being relevant to her story. He confirmed, in response to the receptionist’s questioning eyebrow, that as yet there had been no reports of any missing person in the system who resembled this woman, and repeated that she had no ID on her, but they had only checked her outer pockets.
‘I’ll leave it to you lot to get her undressed and have a more thorough look. She’s still bleeding.’
‘No phone? No credit cards?’ asked the receptionist, battering at the keyboard while her eyes flicked between Turner and the blonde woman. ‘She OK?’
‘Head wound,’ Turner confirmed needlessly, then added that the patient was perfectly compliant, and seemed fully conscious. But wasn’t talking.
‘Can she walk OK?’ The receptionist nodded towards the doors to the treatment area. ‘Or do you want a chair?’
‘She’s a bit unsteady but she’ll get through there. We’ll stay until she gets sorted out. Is your coffee machine still on the blink?’
The receptionist pulled a sheet of A4 out the printer. ‘Take that through with you and if you smile very, very sweetly, some nice nurse might stick the kettle on for you.’ She gave them a huge grin that took sarcasm to an Olympic level. ‘Make sure you’ve signed all your paperwork before you go. All of it, mind. And can you take that through with you,’ and she opened the glass partition to shove a huge file into his hand. ‘Dr Russell is wanting it. Well, somebody is.’ The glass partition fell shut.
The two cops waited for the receptionist to press the green button and the door to the treatment area clicked open.
‘Oh, hello you two. Three.’ The nurse, her uniform straining to contain her ample figure, turned to the woman who was standing between the two cops like a young child, slightly nervous and waiting to be told what to do. The nurse looked at the slow trickle of blood meandering down the woman’s forehead. ‘Come on, sweetheart, I’m Hannah, let’s get you through and find out what’s been going on.’ She placed a cupped hand under the elbow of the woman, easing her through the second set of double doors to the receiving and assessment unit. The woman paused for a moment and turned, as if reluctant to leave the two policemen behind.
‘It’s OK,’ said Turner, ‘go with Hannah, she will look after you. And while you are in there, we’ll get a wee cup of tea.’ Turner thought he saw a flicker of a smile in the woman’s face.
‘You know, pet,’ said the nurse, ‘they’ll be lucky, getting a cuppa in here. Now you come with me, you’ll be fine.’ And they both were consumed by the blue curtains of an empty cubicle.
‘What do you think?’ Whitely asked. ‘Domestic?’
‘Could be. She stinks of booze. She could have fallen and hit her head and got concussion. She’s developing that panda-eyed thing, so she’s bleeding somewhere. Might be nothing in it for us but it’s bloody freezing out there and nice and cosy in here so don’t be so quick to get going.’
Whitely sat down beside him. ‘Do you think we should see it through to the bitter end?’
‘Oh