The Damselfly Read online

  ‘Ah – the famous scratch card ritual. What on earth are we going to do with the two quid this time, eh?’ He pulled himself up to sit beside her, then leant over to the carrier bag and pulled out a flask. ‘We can toast our win with a nice wee cup of steaming milky-coffee!’

  ‘It’s not even two quid this time.’ She laughed and kissed him on the cheek. He leaned in against her as she carefully scraped off the third and final row. Another ‘special symbol’. Another five-thousand. She swallowed, turned to face Neil. ‘It’s gonnae be a dud by the looks of it.’ Her finger hovered over the final box and as she scraped it Neil said, ‘Tenner!’ But then they both fell silent when they realised it wasn’t a tenner at all.

  It was five-thousand.

  Her hand shook as she gripped the card; he leant in closer and ran a finger over its surface, as if checking it was real. She could hear his breath, coming fast, mixed in with her own.

  ‘You can’t tell anyone about this. Not anyone. Promise?’

  Neil squeezed her hand but didn’t look her in the eye. ‘I promise,’ he said.

  MONDAY

  1

  Polly

  She’d forgotten about the gossip.

  The way the slightest small thing was embellished and magnified until what started off as an annoying, buzzing midge turned into a multi-headed monster. Back in the town less than a week and already it feels like she’s never been away. It’d seemed like a good idea, popping out to the post office during the first break, knowing that she wasn’t on playground monitoring duties – not on her first day. What else was she going to do? She’s no sessions lined up. They only passed her the pupil list at 9 a.m. and suggested she’d need at least a couple of days to go through it. Work out who it was she needed to see. Which kids needed her help first. The school had gone a term and a half without a guidance counsellor – a few more days wasn’t going to make any difference. As far as she remembers, Banktoun High is a decent school, and the attached Primary is full of well-behaved kids. She’s already wondering if she’s going to have anything to do at all in this backwater town. Not compared to the Edinburgh estate she’s just come from. Challenging is the only way she could describe that place.

  Banktoun will be a breeze.

  She shuffles forward a few steps as the queue drops by one. She can hear the woman at the front, loud booming voice asking for First Class, please, the signed-for one, enunciating her words as if she was talking to a child, not the elderly Asian man who Polly recognises as Mr Kahn, the man who used to own the sweet shop on the corner near the school, before the Andrews took it on and started making their infamous home-made chocolate traybakes.

  Memories ping at every turn, not all of them good.

  She’s tried and failed to tune out the whispering women huddled at the narrow counter at the side of the shop, filling in forms before joining the queue. They’re taking longer than necessary, Polly assumes, using the time to skive off from the supermarket where they’re meant to be now, their crisp blue uniforms giving them away. Polly glances over at them. Various leaflets are scattered across the counter. Broken chains dangle off the edge, the pens they once held nicked long ago.

  ‘It has to be something bad if the flashers were on, doesn’t it? Those bairns are in trouble so often, they’ve practically got their own policeman.’

  Laughter.

  ‘I heard it was something to do with the oldest one.’

  ‘Katie? Nah. She’s the only undamaged fruit in that bowl. What’d the police be wanting with her?’

  ‘I don’t know, Sheila. But mark my words, there’s something going on up at that hoose, and it dusnae sound good.’

  Cashier Number Three, Please.

  Polly blinks and walks forwards. She’s no idea who they’re talking about, but some family are clearly the focus of the town’s idle chatter today. She wonders about the police car, though. Wonders if that nice policeman is still working here. She’d seen him a few months ago, at her cousin’s funeral. She’d ended up having a terrible argument with Simon at the graveside, just to add to things.

  Awful, awful day.

  But that didn’t mean he was still around, did it? Some people manage to escape this place. ‘Remind me why it is you’ve come back here?’ she mutters to herself.

  ‘What can I help you with, please?’

  Polly pushes a pile of papers into the tray, and Mr Kahn opens the slot at the other side and pulls them out. He grins at her through the glass.

  ‘Haven’t seen you for a long time,’ he says.

  Polly smiles. ‘I’ve been away for a bit, Mr Kahn,’ she says. ‘But then this new job came up and I wondered if maybe it was time for me to come back. I just need to get these documents witnessed. I wasn’t sure who to ask. I wondered . . .’

  Mr Kahn winks. ‘No problem, love. I’ll vouch for you.’ He scans through the documents, flipping them over. ‘Ah, taking over your parents’ house, are you?’

  Polly nods. ‘It’s been rented out for years, but, well – there didn’t seem much point in me moving in anywhere else. It’s been empty since the summer. Last tenant left it in a hurry. Needs a bit of work . . .’

  She lets her sentence trail off, looks away from Mr Kahn’s sympathetic eyes. ‘If you need any help, you know where I am,’ he says. He signs the forms, then slips the pile into the envelope that Polly has already addressed. ‘Special Delivery?’

  Polly feels her hand go to her stomach. She presses gently into the still soft flesh. Blinks away tears.

  ‘Yes. Thank you.’ She touches her bank card against the contactless reader to pay. Mr Kahn slides the receipt through the drawer and she takes it and walks quickly from the counter before the tears can make an unwelcome appearance.

  Not for the first time, she wishes she had someone waiting for her at home, someone to cook her dinner and ask her about her first day. But she burned that bridge when she told Simon she was leaving. She’d felt a bit sorry for him in the end; he clearly thought things could continue as they were forever. But Polly couldn’t stay in that rut any more. Especially not now.

  She stands on the steps, fumbling in her pockets for her gloves. Puffs of air hang like clouds in front of her face. Out on the street, the sounds of sirens disappear into the distance. Ambulance, maybe? Not that unusual. But something about the sound makes her feel uneasy. The gossiping old biddies mentioned police too. A lot for this small town on a quiet Monday morning. A prickle of fear runs down her back, like ice sliding down a car windscreen. Something has happened. Something has definitely happened.

  Something bad.

  Remnants of dirty slush are banked up against the kerb. She glances across at the Rowan Tree, but the place is in darkness. Too early. He wouldn’t be in there now, would he? She keeps her head down against the biting wind. Her feet crunch on the salty pavements as she hurries back along the street to the school, hoping that her instincts are being magnified by a sudden rush of hormones. Hoping that her paranoia is unfounded. It’s her first day in her new job. A fresh start. Away from Simon and his measured apathy. But the churning in her stomach refuses to go away.

  She sees the police car just as she turns the corner. Parked right outside the school gates, on a double yellow line. Melting ice drips slowly from the back of the car, leaving a small puddle on the ground.

  Bad. I knew it was bad.

  She walks faster. Faster. Starts to run.

  2

  Louise

  She feels sharp stones under her feet, poking up through the worn rubber soles of her trainers.

  Need. New. Trainers.

  She coughs, and pain burns down through her lungs. She knows she’s going too fast, that she can’t possibly keep up this pace, but she’s enjoying the feeling of the cold sea breeze whipping across her face. She breathes in deep through her nose, inhaling the briny air.

  The sun is a bright orange ball, low in the sky, illuminating the hills across the other side of the Firth of Forth.

  Keep
going. Keep going.

  She can see the outline of her building up ahead, just past the hulking form of the Royal Yacht Britannia, permanently moored on the edge of the shopping centre, in the quay.

  Finally, she reaches the end of the stony track, moves back onto the paved walkway that runs along the edge of the flats. The high-rise luxury apartments that had been built on the water’s edge, in an area of the city that was undergoing major redevelopment. It’s supposed to be on the tramline now, with a fast, neat route all the way up Leith Walk, along Princes Street, out to the airport. But the money ran out and Leith is still served only by buses and not quite as regenerated as they’d promised.

  But Louise doesn’t care. She loves the old buildings around the docks, the grungy little pubs hidden away from the tourist throng that only ever make it as far as Britannia before disappearing back up to the city and the more picturesque sites of the castle and the gardens. Even if the main shopping street seems to sell more tourist tat than decent stuff nowadays, you still couldn’t fault that view when you sat in a café at the West End and gazed out on to the castle rock, imagining everything that had gone before in thousands of years’ worth of history.

  Edinburgh. Her city. There’s nowhere else she wants to be.

  Outside her block, she stops, bends forwards and drops her hands to her knees. Her breath is coming out in jagged gasps as she checks her watch. Forty-three minutes. Brilliant. She’s shaved seven minutes off her six-mile route, and she feels good. Her face glows hot in the cold morning air. Her legs feel wobbly, like she’s properly used them for once. She’s looking forward to her weigh-in at ten. She has a feeling this has been a good week. She’d even forgone her usual Friday night curry with the girls for an evening at the cinema with her cousin, and she’d managed to avoid having a hot dog or an ice cream, settling for just a small bag of salted popcorn, a Diet Coke and an oversized Tom Hardy on the screen to keep her satisfied. Could this be another three pounds lost? She hopes so. If so, then she’s going to make her two-stone target even quicker than she’d hoped. And then, godammit . . . then she’s going to make him notice her.

  It’s all very well to say it’s what’s inside that counts, but it’s harder when you’re older. You can’t just walk into the pub and pick someone up; she’d look more like a desperate slapper than the ‘empowered woman’ she is perpetually aiming for. The only bonus is that she often gets told she looks ten years younger than she is, which might be another reason why the object of her desire hasn’t noticed she exists, other than as a work colleague who is easy to get on with and doesn’t smell of B.O. or fried egg sandwiches, a scent that quite a few of her colleagues seem to favour.

  What was it with men and fried egg sandwiches? She couldn’t understand why anyone would want that runny yolk dribbling out of the bread and down the edge of your hand. The thought makes her feel sick.

  She pulls her keys out of the little pouch she has clipped through the laces on her left trainer, and as she starts to stand back up she is suddenly aware of someone standing behind her. She glances across the car park from her still bent position. She hadn’t even noticed the car. Too busy thinking about ‘Operation FitChick’ and wondering if she had any blueberries left for her porridge. She stands up slowly. Turns. Plastering on a smile that says she is not at all inconvenienced by this development, when clearly she is.

  ‘Morning. Good timing, eh? Just time for you to have yourself a shower and I’ll make myself a wee tea while you’re getting ready.’

  This is so bloody typical, she thinks. Here I am working like a demon trying to get myself in the best shape of my life for a man, and here he is when I’m bright red, sweaty, make-up-less and wearing leggings that most definitely don’t flatter my arse.

  ‘Detective Sergeant Gray,’ she says, ‘Fresh from his training and bringing yet another scandal to darken our doors! To what do I owe this pleasure?’

  He grins. ‘I nearly didn’t come back from that place, you know. Tulliallan is a nice wee spot. I’d forgotten how enjoyable it was being back at the Police College, getting three cooked meals, playing pool every night. Getting a decent night’s sleep. It’s nice to only be working on theory for a change. You forget what it’s like in the real world. I was only there a week, but it feels like a lifetime. Trust me to come back and walk straight into this . . . Jesus, only me, eh? I’m starting to think I took the wrong job for a quiet life. Are we going in or not? It’s freezing out here. Plus, these are getting cold and I like it when the butter melts . . .’

  He holds up a brown paper bag and Louise smells the unmistakeable scent of fresh morning rolls.

  As they stand waiting for the lift, she glances across at him. He’s reading the fire regulations that are hanging on the wall. His fair hair is shorter than usual, neatly trimmed over his ears, his familiar side-burns now shorter, narrower and barely noticeable. The doors open and she catches her reflection in the mirror at the back of the lift and quickly walks in and faces the opposite way. He is humming quietly, and she’s pleased to see that he’s happy. He’s had some pretty awful shit thrown at him these past few months. She senses this is the calm before the storm, though. What’s he doing coming here to pick her up?

  ‘What’s happening, Davie? I was meant to be going in at twelve today.’

  ‘Something’s come up. They’ve sent down a couple of uniforms, and Malkie’s on his way, but he wants us to go and take a look. Typical that this would happen just as I’d made my new base up here, eh? Funnily enough, I’d only just got into the station when the call came in. I nearly jumped back in the car and went all the way back, but I thought you might want to come with me. Seeing as you’ve been there before and enjoyed it so much.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Banktoun, of course. You might be spending a bit more time back in my neck of the woods.’

  She smiles to herself. Plenty of time on the car journey to ask him how things went at Tulliallan. But more to the point, plenty of time to work her charms on him. She hopes whatever he’s taking her to isn’t too gruesome. But if Malkie’s asked her to go with Davie, it’s hardly going to be an invite for a relaxed brunch and a quick read of the papers. It was times like this she wondered why it was that she was so desperate to join the Serious Investigations Unit. But then she remembers. Life would be so boring otherwise.

  3

  Polly

  The school is buzzing with activity, despite there being fewer pupils there than usual. The bus bringing many of them from the villages in the hills have been held up, no doubt already headed back to where they came from. Those kids might not even know that anything is wrong. Children are chattering as they file down the corridors towards the assembly room. Various calls from teachers of ‘Slow down’, ‘No running’, ‘Keep quiet’ are falling on deaf ears. Her heart is already hammering in her chest. The gossiping women at the post office. The police car outside. As she’s unlocking the door to her office, a voice booms out from behind her.

  ‘Ms McAllister, there you are. Emergency meeting in the assembly hall. Walk with me, I’ll fill you in.’

  Jon Poole, the headmaster and school rector, is wearing his black robes and carrying a pile of paperwork. His normally cheerful face is drained of colour, except for two red dots high on his cheeks. His soft grey hair flops forwards onto his face, and he pushes it away impatiently.

  ‘The police are here. Catherine’s been trying to find you for the last half-hour. Have you heard what’s happened?’

  His secretary, Catherine Leeming, is a striking and formidable woman, with the physique of an Olympic athlete and thick, honey-coloured hair twisted into a perfect topknot. Polly is slightly in awe of her, having spotted her rigorously ordered desk and ramrod straight filing shelves on the way into Jon’s office that morning.

  They march together through the side door into the assembly hall, where half of the seats are already occupied with boisterous children, the rest being slowly filled by the queues of kids making their
way through the main doors. Next to the steps up to the stage, two uniformed police officers stand with their arms crossed over their chests, talking quietly to each other, glancing occasionally into the assembling audience.

  Polly has to walk fast to keep up with Jon, who is striding across the polished floor as if his life depended on it. ‘One of our sixth formers has been found dead. At home. The police are saying it might be suspicious. They want to talk to the children, then they want us to keep them here and give them counselling. Of all the times you could’ve gone walkabout, Polly . . .’

  ‘I . . .’ She pauses, feeling both chastised and riddled with guilt. ‘I’m sorry, Mr Poole. I nipped to the post office. I was going to go through my list today. I didn’t think there was anything urgent. After all, you’ve managed without someone for months . . .’

  She lets her sentence trail off, seeing Jon Poole’s look of bewilderment. Why the hell did she call him Mr Poole? This is a disaster. Suddenly she feels like a pupil here again, not a staff member. She wonders if Jon thinks of her like that, too. She’d always suspected that he didn’t particularly like her as a child and was surprised when he’d offered her the job. Even more surprised that he was still here after all these years. But she supposed he was only in his sixties, not a hundred and eighty like they used to think he was back when she was in her teens and he was probably only in his early forties – not much older than she is now. Get a grip, Polly! She remembers why she’s here . . . remembers that there’s a dead girl, that this is what’s important right now.

  ‘She was one of the good ones, Polly.’ Jon’s voice breaks, and he coughs, covering it up. He might seem like he’s a perfect pillar of professionalism, but Polly knows he has a heart too. He’s been at this school forever. He was deputy head when she was a pupil here, and now he’s been head for so long that no one can really remember what it was like before. Even though she’s been away for years, Polly can still feel the importance of this man. And she can sense his unease. His shock. It’s hardly a regular occurrence, hearing news of a dead child on a Monday morning.