Page 30

CHAPTER THIRTY

R obert flapped the bin bag until its mouth opened wide enough. Then, with a sweep of his hand, he emptied the heap of empty beer cans and crisp packets into it.

The clattering felt like cold water after a strenuous circuit at the gym.

It had taken Robert two days after Joshua left to snap out of it. He’d indulged in a few more beers, replaying events from his marriage, and then the events from the night he’d spent with Nina. This morning he’d finally reached a conclusion: he’d let both women bulldoze his personality. The worse thing was he was the one to blame. He’d played the role of a chameleon, changing colours to suit whichever woman he was with. He’d turned down job opportunities to keep Anne happy. He’d turned his back on the law to ensure Nina was safe. And he hadn’t even remained true to himself when trying to solve Anne’s murder.

The result: his head was as jumbled as a bunch of cables left unattended. And the first thing he had to do so he could unravel it all was clean up. And do what Joshua had asked him to do: be himself.

In his fifteen years on the force, Robert had favoured his heart over his head. The head made you run around in circles searching for logic; the heart led you straight to the centre of things.

Robert crouched on the floor to pick up a few stray wrappers that had found a home underneath the coffee table. Then he stuck the lime-green packets into the bin bag and turned to check if there were more under the sofa. He thrust his hand beneath it, but instead of a crinkly wrapper he found cloth. Frowning, Robert groped around, hoping to find purchase on the cloth so he could tug it out.

One pull, then another and finally the thing emerged.

‘Shite!’ Robert pushed off the floor and stared at the black canvas backpack. Nina’s.

Somewhere after he and Joshua’s heart-to-heart, Robert had kicked the backpack away and forgotten about it. It was a way to forget the lengths Joshua had gone to help Robert out. Stealing evidence could get you in prison, your warrant card a distant memory.

‘Shit! Shit! Shit!’ Robert ran a hand through his hair. He had to get this back to Nina – or to Dickheadson.

Robert found his phone and dialled Joshua.

The call rang but the little shite didn’t answer.

Muttering more profanities, Robert dropped the backpack on his sofa. If Dickheadson realised the backpack had been with Robert, the man wouldn’t waste a second before shoving Robert into custody, alongside Joshua… and maybe Cheryl.

What the hell had Joshua been thinking?

That he wanted to help you, you prick!

Robert ran a hand through his hair again, the bin bag now discarded on the floor. A few beer cans had spilled out of the bag, undoing his work.

Should he call Dickheadson?

Robert grabbed the handle and lifted the bag so he could study it. Nina had held on to it like it was a source of life. Any other person would have lost it or ditched it by this point. And now she probably assumed the police had her backpack, thanks to the search warrant.

A piece of paper had been tucked into one of the side pockets. Robert stuck his hand in and retrieved it.

Inside someone had scrawled: Give this back to her – make amends.

Damn Joshua!

Robert plopped down on the sofa and placed the backpack on the floor. Unzipping it felt like a gross invasion of Nina’s privacy. After what he’d said to her the morning after their night together, and now this, she would loathe him for real.

Robert pulled out a set of travel packs: a slim case for toiletries, another with a change of clothes, one for her undergarments and one that held her stationery.

Nina had packed a scarf, an envelope with cash – the woman looked to be running out of money – and a camera set. The same camera that had alerted the police to her.

Why the hell had she been lugging that camera around? Didn’t it belong to the dead man?

Robert frowned at the meagre pile of possessions. She hadn’t lied when she’d mentioned leaving everything behind.

He lifted his gaze to the books on the shelf underneath the TV. All of them pertained to babies, pregnancy and parenting. On the armchair beside the TV lay a stack of cushions. A diffuser gathered dust in the other corner, alongside a weird-looking orange stone. More stones and crystals dotted the other surfaces in the living room, and candles… so many fucking scented candles.

Anne had loved dust catchers and any sort of small ‘self-care’ knick-knacks. Those baby books had been all her. He’d donated a bunch of Ian Rankin books to the charity shop to make space for them.

Robert looked down at the backpack again.

A chameleon in love, Joshua had said. Wasting his life away, Nina had said.

He picked the bag up and set it on the sofa.

If he was going to return this backpack and apologise, it was time to clean up his old life. He’d dallied long enough.

Robert headed into the bedroom, gripped the handles of Anne’s wardrobe and pulled it open with a sigh. He hadn’t opened it up since the police had gone through it. Anne loved to keep her things organised. Sometimes she’d spent Sunday afternoons cleaning out her wardrobe. She rotated clothes for each season, had shirts, skirts and trousers all lined up based on colour and texture. And in the mornings, when she got dressed, she knew exactly what matched with what.

Robert reached for the clothes hanging up and laid them on the bed. He’d folded up clothes for Anne before, and he knew just the way she liked her garments to be packed.

Robert checked the pockets before folding each pair of trousers up and placing them to one side. Then he went for the T-shirts. The office shirts followed, the silky ones making him curse. The damn things just didn’t fold!

The jumpers were packed up next, followed by the coats. Anne had loved her woollen coats. They’d been a pain to clean, useless against the constant rain. Anne would have to carry a brolly that she’d inevitably lose.

He found gloves tucked into a few of the coats’ pockets – he’d placed them there knowing Anne’s hands often got cold and she forgot to take gloves with her.

Next up, he brought out her summer wear. She always cleaned them up and ironed them before packing them away.

Lastly, Robert opened up the underwear drawer. He all but balled up everything in it and dumped the pile aside. But when the last of the knickers fell out of the drawer, something caught his eye –a lone key, sitting all the way at the back.

He dug it out and stared at it. The keychain said ‘Beck’s Storage’ on it. A storage key? Anne had never mentioned a locker to him.

He stuck it in his pocket and left the bedroom to fetch the bin bags. Storage. Maybe when they’d moved in together, Anne had stuck a few of her old things into storage. It was time he emptied that, too.

By the afternoon, Robert had everything – clothes and knick-knacks alike – packed away in bin bags. He’d also placed the candles in bags and stored them away. No one, as far as he knew, accepted used candles. And he didn’t want to throw them away. The books, on the other hand, were finding themselves a new home – in a charity shop.

Loaded with four puffy bags, he headed out. A few people cast him startled glances, but he carried on.

He walked up Sauchiehall Street, then veered towards a spot of green – Blythswood Square. This particular area in Glasgow almost appeared out of place. The gardens were always neatly pruned, partially because no one had access to them. The houses around the square were reminiscent of the buildings in Bath. The area was so posh, the former houses were now offices for various government charities.

The refugee non-profit sat just beside the square – important but not government owned. The woman at the counter grinned upon seeing the bags he lugged inside. They were so happy with his donation; they offered him a cup of tea and a long chat, i.e. the receptionist made him a cuppa and asked him over and over if he was alright. It turned out the poor woman had lost her spouse recently and told him how difficult it had been for her to let go of his things. Robert held her hand as she dabbed at her tears, and then he told her about the homeless charity that could do with volunteers like her. Finally, with a wave, he headed out, now running an hour late but with a full heart.

Just fifteen minutes before five, Robert finally found himself outside Beck’s Storage. Their website said they shut at six, so he had ample time to catalogue the items in storage.

But when he walked in, the man behind the counter scowled. ‘We’ll be shutting in five minutes,’ the man grumbled.

‘Your website says you shut at six.’

‘Eh!’ The man waved Robert on. ‘Fuck you.’

Frowning at the unnecessary expletive, Robert wondered what sort of shopkeeper wanted their customers gone.

A quick look around told him this wasn’t just a storage-locker business. The front of the shop sold tabloid newspapers, some random food snacks, sandwiches, cigarettes, and vapes. He wondered if some of these items were being sold illegally; if the shopkeeper had smelled cop on Robert and wanted him gone.

Too bad. Robert didn’t care.

At the back of the shop, he ducked through the entranceway beneath a sign that said ‘To the lockers’.

He’d been expecting a corridor leading up to a large storage space. Instead, he halted in the doorway.

There was no corridor. In fact, the space had no large storage lockers at all; he’d just stepped into a tiny room lined with wee lockers – something that would barely fit a file or folder. So much for cataloguing items for sale!

Robert plucked the key from his pocket and read the number embossed on it – 332.

The locker in question sat on the wall opposite the entrance. Robert stalked over to it and inserted the key. What had Anne hidden in there? Personal documents? Could be. He hadn’t found anything in their flat, and she had to have her passport and other documents stored somewhere. Perhaps she’d kept them in here. Not that this was a safe place, given anyone could just rock up and access the units, which appeared a little flimsy. It wouldn’t take much to force their locks.

In all their years of marriage, Anne had never been blasé about her things. So what could she have stored out here? Was it something she hadn’t wanted him to find?

Robert swallowed, trying to steady the small tremors in his hand. Then, with a long exhale, he inserted the key and turned the lock.