Read Online Blood, Salt, Water by Denise Mina - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Denise Mina
Tags: Scotland
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mantel. ‘I’ll get you another one.’
He left the room. They heard him walk down the hall and then return, hesitating behind the living room door. He came in holding an original iPad, round-edged and lumpy. He sat down next to Morrow, turning it on and opening the iPhoto file.
McGrain craned to see it: a checkerboard of pictures, most of Roxanna alone but some with her children, all from the past year. It must have been Walker’s iPad because they were nearly all of her: Roxanna on a white beach, Roxanna in a dark London street and, in all of them, Roxanna craning into Walker’s gaze, radiating love. In the manner of digital photography the same view had been captured several times, less an attempt at bettering the image than an articulation of the photographer’s enthusiasm for the moment.
One or two were of the couple together. Robin and Roxanna standing together in a park, stiff-smiling for whichever kindly stranger took the snap. Some were of Robin and Roxanna with either Martina or Hector, the other child presumably behind the lens. In the group photos where Martina was the photographer Robin’s head was invariably cut off by the top of the frame. She had some of her mother’s pugnaciousness.
Morrow scrolled down to the more recent ones, taken since they had arrived in Glasgow. Roxanna in the orchid house at the Botanical Gardens. She was standing in the foreground, the light dusky and yellow. Behind her, at opposite ends of a long bench, were Martina and a man Morrow knew as Mr Y.
Mr Y was an unidentified but recurrent character in the CCTV of the Glasgow PINAD investigation. He was one of the first people Roxanna made contact with when she arrived. He’d been seen going into the office, the house, sitting in cars, always with Roxanna. He was slim, around sixty, dressed carefully and had a neatly trimmed moustache. They’d been trying to put a name to him for weeks.
In the photo Martina sat as far away from everyone as she could, hard up against the arm of the bench.
Morrow asked Robin to print that picture. He took the iPad from her, tapped the screen a couple of times and a printer snapped awake out in the hall.
Morrow referred back to her list of missing persons questions: friends and relatives?
He told her, only being somewhat cagey: Roxanna’s parents were from Madrid but had died some time ago. She had a sister who lived in Boston. They called each other once a week. They were close. Morrow had listened to the Met’s recordings of the stilted calls. The sister was a snide bitch and Roxanna was warm. ‘Close’ was overplaying it but that didn’t make it a lie: most families were held together with myths. He said Roxanna hadn’t made any friends in Glasgow yet but she hadn’t been in touch with friends in London since she disappeared, he’d called everyone the night before.
Morrow asked the next question on the form: Did Roxanna have any medical conditions they should know about?
No, she was healthy. She had a heart murmur but it was being monitored and she exercised around it. It was a stable underlying condition, he said, using an insurance-form phrase.
She was thinking about the recorder in her pocket, really, imagining herself heard by her bosses, so she read out the next question without thinking: Could they have a DNA sample for Roxanna?
Walker froze.
If Morrow had been a real missing persons cop she would have been aware of the emotional impact of the question. She would have tiptoed into it, dropped the tone of her voice or something. She back-pedalled: Only so that they could rule out anyone who happened to be found, not because they had any reason to think anything, you know . . .
Walker’s voice was husky: Where would he even get a DNA sample? McGrain suggested a hairbrush. Walker stood up slowly and left the room. He came back, his eyes smarting, holding a heated hairbrush reverently in two hands. Morrow took it and thanked him. It was completely useless, heat killed
He left the room. They heard him walk down the hall and then return, hesitating behind the living room door. He came in holding an original iPad, round-edged and lumpy. He sat down next to Morrow, turning it on and opening the iPhoto file.
McGrain craned to see it: a checkerboard of pictures, most of Roxanna alone but some with her children, all from the past year. It must have been Walker’s iPad because they were nearly all of her: Roxanna on a white beach, Roxanna in a dark London street and, in all of them, Roxanna craning into Walker’s gaze, radiating love. In the manner of digital photography the same view had been captured several times, less an attempt at bettering the image than an articulation of the photographer’s enthusiasm for the moment.
One or two were of the couple together. Robin and Roxanna standing together in a park, stiff-smiling for whichever kindly stranger took the snap. Some were of Robin and Roxanna with either Martina or Hector, the other child presumably behind the lens. In the group photos where Martina was the photographer Robin’s head was invariably cut off by the top of the frame. She had some of her mother’s pugnaciousness.
Morrow scrolled down to the more recent ones, taken since they had arrived in Glasgow. Roxanna in the orchid house at the Botanical Gardens. She was standing in the foreground, the light dusky and yellow. Behind her, at opposite ends of a long bench, were Martina and a man Morrow knew as Mr Y.
Mr Y was an unidentified but recurrent character in the CCTV of the Glasgow PINAD investigation. He was one of the first people Roxanna made contact with when she arrived. He’d been seen going into the office, the house, sitting in cars, always with Roxanna. He was slim, around sixty, dressed carefully and had a neatly trimmed moustache. They’d been trying to put a name to him for weeks.
In the photo Martina sat as far away from everyone as she could, hard up against the arm of the bench.
Morrow asked Robin to print that picture. He took the iPad from her, tapped the screen a couple of times and a printer snapped awake out in the hall.
Morrow referred back to her list of missing persons questions: friends and relatives?
He told her, only being somewhat cagey: Roxanna’s parents were from Madrid but had died some time ago. She had a sister who lived in Boston. They called each other once a week. They were close. Morrow had listened to the Met’s recordings of the stilted calls. The sister was a snide bitch and Roxanna was warm. ‘Close’ was overplaying it but that didn’t make it a lie: most families were held together with myths. He said Roxanna hadn’t made any friends in Glasgow yet but she hadn’t been in touch with friends in London since she disappeared, he’d called everyone the night before.
Morrow asked the next question on the form: Did Roxanna have any medical conditions they should know about?
No, she was healthy. She had a heart murmur but it was being monitored and she exercised around it. It was a stable underlying condition, he said, using an insurance-form phrase.
She was thinking about the recorder in her pocket, really, imagining herself heard by her bosses, so she read out the next question without thinking: Could they have a DNA sample for Roxanna?
Walker froze.
If Morrow had been a real missing persons cop she would have been aware of the emotional impact of the question. She would have tiptoed into it, dropped the tone of her voice or something. She back-pedalled: Only so that they could rule out anyone who happened to be found, not because they had any reason to think anything, you know . . .
Walker’s voice was husky: Where would he even get a DNA sample? McGrain suggested a hairbrush. Walker stood up slowly and left the room. He came back, his eyes smarting, holding a heated hairbrush reverently in two hands. Morrow took it and thanked him. It was completely useless, heat killed
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