Untitled - work in progress

I don’t often think about the night that I killed my father.  Not because it’s overly painful for me you understand; just because it doesn’t feature too largely in my world or my sense of self.

When a big, blue-eyed policeman strolled into my office, the subject of my father’s death wasn’t immediately what sprung to mind.  Ha, I said “my office” as though I have a gorgeous, tastefully decorated room with a huge desk; not a crappy little cubicle with barely enough room to swing a cat.  Not that I would swing a cat, I mean I might be bitchy sometimes but cruelty to animals is just wrong…. But that’s besides the point.

“Alicia?” A crisp voice sounded behind me, “The, ah, police are here to see you.”

I rolled my eyes at my computer screen, well aware that Lucy, Supervisor from the Nether Reaches of Hell (show name) could see my reflection and finding it more amusing than just about anything else in the world.

“Miss McKellan?” 

I figured I’d better not do the satisfying yet admittedly juvenile eye-rolling trick for the benefit of Mr Tall, Dark and Sideburned; undoubtedly the police officer that Lucy had taken great delight in telling me about.  I clocked his English accent before anything else; crisp and upper-class – not something that I heard that often living in Aberdeen.  I turned my shabby swivel chair around, an act that took much longer than it should have to accomplish due to the fact that the swively bit had rusted a long time ago.  I stood up, brushing the creases out of my pinstriped skirt, attempting to buy myself some time to think.  Why in the name of God would a plainclothed police officer want to talk to me?  Not that I hadn’t done anything to warrant the police’s attention, but more because I couldn’t figure out which one of my many nefarious schemes they could have traced back to me.

“Miss McKellan?”  Mr Sideburns repeated, sounding slightly irked.  Maybe I’d overdone the thinking time.

“Yes, I’m Alicia McKellan,” I replied, “what can I do for you?”

Sideburns turned to Lucy, who was unashamedly listening in, “Is there a private room where I can talk to Miss McKellan?”

Lucy nodded eagerly, well aware that she’d have a first-class story to gossip about over lunch.  Right at that moment I’m betting she’d wished she’d invested in that water tower thingy just so she could head right there and begin the open season on my already shoddy reputation.

“You can use my office,” she offered, looking for all the world as though we should swoon at her feet with gratitude and possibly shower her with roses.  I glared at her and without a second thought I weaselled my way into her brain and sent a sharp little sting into her nerve receptors.  Lucy clutched her head and stumbled slightly, face taking on a chalky cast.  Heh.

“You okay, Luce?”  I asked innocently, not knowing what would piss her off more; me calling her Luce or her stumbling in front of Sidies.

“Just a headache… Alicia will you take Detective, erm….”

“Watt,” he supplied helpfully.

“Watt to my office?” she continued with barely a pause, “I think I’ll go and find some paracetamol.”  She smiled wanly at Detective Watt and scurried off down the corridor, one hand still pressed against her forehead.  I’d only given her the equivalent of an ice-cream headache at best, and that bitch was milking it for all it was worth.

“Shall we?”  Watt asked, gesturing for me to lead the way.  I shrugged and marched off to Lucy’s office, a route I could have walked blindfolded.  The detective, naturally, seated himself in the large leather chair behind the desk.  I had my suspicions about that chair; Lucy had said that the departmental budget wouldn’t stretch to new chairs for all of us and barely a week later she’d taken delivery of a brand new set of office furniture for herself.  She’d left early with a migraine that day.

“Miss Mckellan, I’m Detective Watt.  I’m investigating a series of suspicious deaths going back about fifteen years.”  He looked at me thoughtfully and I looked right back, trying to keep my expression interested but not worried.

“What’s that got to do with me?” I asked, honestly curious.

“Miss McKellan, your father died thirteen years ago…”

“From a heart attack,” I interrupted, “which is hardly a suspicious death.”

“You were eight years old at the time?  The original police report stated that he collapsed in front of you.”

I nodded, wondering what point the detective was trying to make.  Everything he’d said so far had been true; my father had dropped dead in front of me from a heart attack on the night of my eighth birthday.  Of course, what the police report failed to state was the most pertinent fact; I had willed it to happen.  I had wormed my way into his brain and crushed all that I could get my figurative hands on.  One of the things I’d crushed had controlled his heart.  Go figure.

I looked up and found Detective Watt looking at me with a particularly intent look on his face.

“Miss McKellan, I’m sorry to open up old wounds…”

I shrugged, keeping my face blank.

“I barely remember my father” (truth) “I’m just trying to figure out what the police’s interest is in his death” (true, that and shitting bricks wondering if you’ve found out what really happened.)

“It has come to light that your father wasn’t the only apparently healthy man who died unexpectedly from a heart attack at around that time.  Ten other men, all with no history of heart problems, died in the same way.  More recently, three men were murdered, the murders made to appear as heart attacks.”  The detective paused and glanced at me, allowing me a chance to speak.

“Murdered?”  I asked.  Damn, never could keep my mouth shut.

“Yes, all three were poisoned.  It wasn’t part of the routine autopsy procedure to check for this particular poison at the time of your father’s death, and because the cases are so similar….”

“You want to exhume my father’s body and find out if he died in the same way.”  I finished for him with an internal sigh of relief.  My father hadn’t been poisoned, after all.  I had nothing to worry about.

“I’m sorry to have to ask you this, I know it must be very difficult to have it all brought up again.”

I almost laughed at the concerned look on his face.  Oh yeah, the thought of someone digging up the stinking corpse of the man who called himself my “daddy” really brought tears to my eyes. He was such a fantastic father.  So loving and giving.  I had a sudden brain-spark:  shit, I probably should look concerned.  After all, wouldn’t a normal daughter be distraught at the thought of someone merrily hauling up her father’s corpse?  I didn’t really have too much experience with normality so it was hard for me to imagine.

“As I’ve said before,” I began carefully, “I don’t really remember my father or have much recollection of the night he died.  My mother thought that I’d blocked it out.”  My ass she did.  She’d went to her grave adamant that I’d killed her perfect husband.  I hadn’t hastened her to that grave; the cancer had done it for me.

“Your mother died five years ago, yes?”  he sounded very concerned again and I felt absurdly flattered.  I peeked at him from below my eyelashes (clogged to the brim with the finest mascara money could buy) and clocked for the first time that he wasn’t actually that bad looking.  Blue eyes with black hair was a rare enough combination to give me pause, and the fact that he was much taller than my own measly five three and didn’t look like he carried a spare pound… Yum.  Call me shallow if you want.

“Miss McKellan?” he said, softly, concern etched around those amazing eyes, turning that gorgeous mouth into a sort of pouty frown… Damn, I had to stop staring.  And speak, for God’s sake.  I raised my gaze to meet his own, allowing a single tear to track down my cheek, no doubt gathering a motherlode of mascara as it did so.  Man, I was good!

“I’m sorry,” I said, letting my breath catch a little, “sometimes it all gets a bit too much.”  I sniffed and then told myself off sternly for being overdramatic.  I turned a watery smile at the detective.  “My mother died of ovarian cancer when I was sixteen.”  She probably wished it on herself, too.  She’d always figured that there was something far wrong with me, and since I sprang from her womb surely it must be diseased.  Never discount the power of the mind.

Detective McYummy leant back in his chair and looked at me thoughtfully.  I looked down at my fingernails, lost in admiration for my Chanel rouge noir nail varnish; it went well with everything.

“You were orphaned at sixteen?”  Watt’s voice made me glance up guiltily from my
thoughts on the chip factor of Chanel nail varnish.  Think grieving orphan, you idiot!

“That’s correct,” I replied, wondering if another tear wouldn’t go amiss.

“I truly am sorry for your losses.”

I nodded, trying my best to look grateful.  Good God, for such an Adonis, he sure was a complete twat.

“Miss McKellan, would you give your permission for your father’s body to be exhumed and for further post-mortem examination?  As you are the only living relative, we must gain your consent.”

“Of course, Detective Watt, you have my complete consent to do whatever you have to do.  I’m sure it’s what my mother would have wanted.”  Damn right she would have.  The chance to prove that I was the murdering witch she had always suspected?  Christ, it would have been like Christmas, her birthday and my untimely demise all packed into one super-present.

“I have the forms her for you to sign,” Watt continued, “and we will of course keep you fully appraised of anything we may discover.”

“Thank you.” I replied, before signing the proffered papers with Lucy’s brand new gold pen, slipping it into my breast pocked seemingly without thinking once I was done.  I smiled at Watt, he handed me his business card and I showed him out, sneaking an appreciative glance at his backside as he walked away from me.  As soon as the door closed behind him, I was grabbed by my wide-eyed friend, Ellie.

“Well, what did he want?  Lucy Lemon Face couldn’t wait to tell everyone he was a police officer..”  Ellie’s face was flushed with excitement, almond shaped brown eyes fairly fizzing with suppressed glee.

“They want to exhume my father’s body,” I shrugged, “so I told them to go for it.”

Ellie actually took a step back and let out a low whistle.  How could she do that?  Whenever I tried to whistle all the local dogs began howling.

“God, Ally, that’s really rough,”  Ellie began, “I know how much you hate to even think about what happened, let alone talk about it..”

Ah yes, what happened.  All that “I blanked it out” bullshit had been just that:  utter fucking bullshit. To be honest, it was just as clear in my head at that moment as it had been when it had happened.  Just ‘cause I could remember it didn’t mean I had to.

“Tell Lucy I’ve gone home, will ya?  Spin some shit about being too distraught to carry on working.  Whatever.  If she wants to take it from my holidays then she can, uptight bitch.”  I smiled at Ellie and pulled a face, hating the worried look that turned those almond eyes into black pools.  I didn’t give her a chance to reply, I marched over to my cubicle and bundled myself into my warm winter jacket.  Even in the summer, Aberdeen can be Baltic and in November if you went outside without a jacket you’d be lucky to make it on to the bus before your extremities bit the dust.

The bus, as ever, was late.  Not only was it late, but when it did arrive it had a couple of friends along for company.  You know that old saying “you wait around for one and then three show up at once”?  That’s definitely true of the Aberdeen bus service.  I huffed myself on, unashamedly showing my student day ticket.  The driver glanced at it, satisfying himself that it has the correct date on it, completely ignoring the fact that I was clearly dressed up for work and not university.  Ah well, if it saved me a whole fifty pence a day, I was happy.

Back home, I was met by my fickle dog, Barbara.  Yes, I know it’s a completely stupid name for a dog, but she just looks like a Barbara.  She has little doggy eyebrows and a slightly goofy look to her face.  She’s also clinically insane, but I gloss over that when introducing her to new people.

“Well, Barbara, that was an interesting day.”

Barbara looked completely disinterested, responding with a shrill bark that let me know I hadn’t let her out this morning.  I sighed and opened the back door and she happily gambolled out to my postage-stamp sized garden.

“I don’t know why I bother with you!”  I yelled after her, “Aren’t dogs supposed to be woman’s best friend?”  That done, I grumbled back to my kitchen and picked up my phone, intending to call Rob Donnal, my erstwhile “business” colleague and hassle him for money.  Ever since we’d done a job together a fortnight ago, the bastard had been screening my calls and refusing to answer.  It really irritated me; it wasn’t as if my measly ten per cent was going to break the bank.  As luck would have it, this time he actually answered.

“Yeah?” he mumbled, and I deduced from this that I’d caught him half asleep.  His normally divine Irish accent sounded harsh and scratchy.

“Rob you utter shit!  Where’s my money?”

I heard something from the other end that sounded a lot like “oh shit”.

“You’re bloody right to say “oh shit!””  I screamed down the line at him, “we pulled that job off two weeks ago and I haven’t had a sniff of my money!”

“Calm down, Ally, I have your money right here..”  Rob was clearly thinking on his feet, something he was both unaccustomed to and glaringly bad at.

“Uh-huh, sure you do.  Let me ask you, Rob, why is it with you when it should in fact be with me?  I need new shoes!  My telly is shot!  Jesus…..”  I ran out of steam, puffing out a breath and grinding my teeth.  Rob always had this affect on me, one of total and utter exasperation.

“Well, I did have another job I wanted to discuss with you…” he wheedled, and as always that bloody accent weakened my resolve.

“There will be no other jobs until I get paid for the last one.”  I warned him, twisting the cord of the phone around my little finger.

“C’mon, Ally, you know I always give you your cut..”

“Eventually.”

“Well, yeah, eventually.  This is an easy one, though!  All you have to do is a little bit of your mojo and you walk off with three hundred quid.  More than enough for a new pair of shoes!”

I had a think about this while I allowed him to prattle on.  The funny thing is, most people didn’t want to admit what it was that I could do.  People like Rob, while they accepted that I could do something weird, weren’t too keen on finding out the particulars and quite frankly wouldn’t have believed them if I’d told them.  He knew that I could do something to people, but he presumed that it was some sort of hypnosis.  Me being me, I was glad for him to keep that misconception; friends were thin on the ground, even nefarious ones.

“Fine! Fine!”  I cut through his meandering speech.  “I’ll do it!  Tell me when and where.  Oh, and you have to come and pick me up.  I’m not bussing it.”

“Don’t you think it’s about time you learned how to drive?”  he snarked, safe in the knowledge that once I’d agreed to do something I wouldn’t go back on it.

“Aw, Rob, some people exist to drive and some people exist to be driven.  What can I say, I’m a princess.”

After another couple of minutes of friendly insults and some name calling, he gave me the details and I clicked the phone back onto its holder.  Three hundred pounds; not exactly a fortune but it would go a long way to keeping me unsensibly shod and nattily dressed.  Working as a glorified receptionist at Aberdeen’s one and only publishing house, McBride’s, didn’t exactly enable me to splash out on anything; hence, robbery and coercion.  Now I think you can understand why I had been slightly concerned when the police showed up at my office..

I thought a little bit about that police officer as I soaked in my bath that night.  Why this sudden interest in the case?  Sure, what he’d said had seemed plausible enough at the time but the more I thought about it the more it seemed to make no sense at all.  Some guys died recently and they decide to investigate my father’s death?  I’m a fan of Cold Case and all, but even they don’t go out on a limb for completely spurious reasons like that.  Hmm.  I climbed out the bath and proceeded to weigh myself, a nightly ritual that brings me nothing but grief; usually because it shows I have alarmingly managed to pile on about five pounds in the space of a day.  I prodded my stomach and depressed myself further when my finger sunk in; I seriously had to think about losing some weight.  Okay, size 14 isn’t exactly Mama Cass proportions, but try telling that to the body fascists who run Top Shop.  I threw on a pair of old jogging bottoms and a ratty old t-shirt; quite aware that it’s never been my best look and completely unconcerned.  I delved into the pocket of my suit jacket and retrieved the police officer’s business card.

“Detective Brian Watt” I read out loud.  Ha!  Brian!  He was definitely not a Brian.  Brian to me always suggested someone boring, the kind of man who ironed his underpants.  Underpants which fell into the category of “Y-front”.  Grey Y-fronts.  Possibly bobbly grey Y-fronts.  The business card was plain, just his name and phone numbers listed.  Didn’t look to me to be the kind of business card that a police officer would carry about – hang on, did police officers usually have business cards?  I hadn’t heard about any strange deaths recently, either.  Definitely no poisonings.  Mind you, as I’m more a Marie-Claire kind of girl than a BBC News one, it wasn’t so much of a stretch to believe that there could have been a hundred strange deaths and it wouldn’t have registered on my own personal radar.  Still, surely I would have heard something..  The more I thought about it the more dubious I became.  Surely it would do no harm to phone one of the numbers and just check out that he was indeed a police officer?  Mind made up, I picked up my phone and dialled the number marked “work”.  A very efficient, scary-sounding woman answered.

“How may I connect you?”  That was it, no “good evening, police” or some such.

“I need to talk to Detective Watt.”

“Connecting you now.”  I listened to a tinny rendition of some kind of unidentifiable muzak for about ten seconds before the man himself answered.

“Detective Watt here.  How can I help you?”

Ah, well, I hadn’t thought this far along.

“Detective, this is Alicia McKellan.  You talked to me earlier today?”  So far so good.  He had indeed talked to me earlier today.  The silence on the other end of the line informed me that the detective was waiting for me to add something to my statement.  “Er, well, I had a couple of questions regarding the investigation.”  I was feeling quite pleased with myself now.

“If there’s any way I can help Miss McKellan, you only have to ask.”

Good grief.  My mind was now throwing up very naughty images of the two of us engaged in things that could only be described as “filthy”.  I mentally shook my head and bit my lip.  Where to go from here?  Why was I even phoning?  It was all simple really, they were investigating strange deaths.  Nothing odd about that at all. 

“No, no it’s nothing,” I stammered down the line, feeling very foolish.