Queen of grime, p.1
Queen of Grime, page 1
Praise for Helen Forbes
‘In the Shadow of the Hill is a thoroughly excellent thriller which explodes into a finale which I dare any reader to predict. Her style is smooth and sweet.’
Roger Hutchison, Author
‘Helen Forbes has hit the ground running. The page-turning climax has more twists and turns than the Road to the Isles, making it impossible to put down.’
Press and Journal
‘Madness Lies is a murky tale, Forbes twisting her noose ever tighter around some sympathetic characters. Gritty and ominous, Forbes’s brand of ‘Highland Noir’ is shaping up to be a good series.’
Sunday Herald
‘From the minute I opened Unravelling, I felt that I was in the hands of a gifted writer. Funny, sad and wise, this is a great read. I would heartily recommend it.’
Ruth Leigh, Author and Blogger
‘I devoured Unravelling in one sitting. It is tense, intense, well plotted, beautifully written and constructed with cleverly drawn characters who are vivid and alive.’
Margot McCuaig, Author
‘Unravelling is beautifully written and cleverly plotted, by a writer who knows exactly what she’s doing, but it’s much more than that. Meticulously researched, the exploration of mental illness is nuanced and compassionate, the setting and characters captured with an authenticity that will instantly speak to anyone with a knowledge of the area.’
Margaret Kirk, Author
‘Deception is exactly what it says: there is deception lurking in every character’s story, and at times the story is quite dark, but there is a sense of resilience and hope at the end of the book which makes the journey worthwhile and ultimately uplifting.’
Caron Allan, Author and Blogger
Also by Helen Forbes
In the Shadow of the Hill
Madness Lies
Unravelling
Deception
Spoils of the Dead – A Queen of Grime Novella
Queen of Grime
Helen Forbes
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and a product of the author’s creativity.
Copyright © 2022 by Scolpaig Press
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or used in any manner without written permission of the copyright owner except for the use of quotations in a book review.
Printed and bound in Great Britain by Clays Ltd, Elcograf S.p.A
First paperback edition 2022
ISBN (paperback): 978-1-9168883-4-0
ISBN (e-book): 978-1-9168883-5-7
www.helenforbes.co.uk
Book design by 100 Covers
For Grace and Carol
The truest of friends
Prologue
The fine hairs on the back of her neck are damp with droplets of sweat that glitter in the light of the lamp. He wants to taste them. The thought shivers through him, and he clamps his lips to stop himself from groaning. He can feel the ache across her tensed shoulders, the cramping of the muscles in her upper arms, the deep weariness in her bones as she bends and scrapes, scrubs and wipes. He’s watched long enough to know every inch of her body, as if she’s wearing sheer lace instead of a white hazmat suit.
She sits back on her heels, her eyes scanning the room. Job done. She stands and begins to peel off the protective suit, and his breath catches in his throat. She rubs at the base of her spine and his fingertips itch to slip beneath her clothing, feel the soft, moist skin, trickle down towards sweet oblivion.
No. He banishes the temptation. She’s not worthy of him, with her faded blonde hair, the roots neglected and dark. Her cellulite, her scruffy vest and cheap leggings, and the lazy shadow of hair in her armpits. She’s worth nothing. And she’s missed a bit.
As if alerted by his stifled laughter, she looks up at the wall in front of her.
‘Left,’ he whispers, his breath steaming against the window. ‘Up a little.’
And she finds it. A quick spray, a wipe, and the last smear of blood is gone.
The moon is bright, the grass frosted under his feet as he skirts the gravel path. At the gate, a fragment of blue and white police tape shimmers and shifts in the breeze.
Chapter 1
ERIN
Erin Flett, the Queen of Grime, had always expected her work to be tough and messy. It was. And more. Back-breaking, heart-breaking, pungent, minging. She loved it. Though the deceased always departed the scene before she arrived, Erin sometimes named them, usually by reference to their location or a particular quirk of their passing or their discovery. A little black humour helped, though she watched what she said to others, and especially her daughter, Jess. She hadn’t told Jess about Musselburgh Man. That was down to her pal and casual helper, Gladys. A mouth like the Grand Canyon, Gladys had spewed the story out to one of her sisters on the phone, not realising wee Jess was sitting reading behind the couch. She was only nine. Though there had been far too many questions from Jess, Erin hoped her daughter had forgotten all about it.
Almost seven years and several decomposed bodies later, on a freezing December day in a cold house in Edinburgh’s Murrayfield, Erin lifted one end of the couch, and waited for Jess to lift the other end. It wasn’t happening. ‘Jess?’
The respirator mask muffled Jess’s tired voice. ‘Remember Musselburgh Man?’
‘Like I’d ever forget.’ Erin shoogled the couch. ‘Nothing. It’s too bloody cold in here for that kind of nonsense.’
‘Wish you’d stop looking at it as if you wanted to take it home.’
Erin let the couch sink to the floor. ‘I might if I thought I could get new seat cushions. It’s a cracking couch.’
It was the only decent thing in the room. Dusty rose velvet, and hardly used, it looked like it came from Habitat. It matched nothing else in colour or style. The place was seventies-central. There was a hideous orange and brown carpet with swirling patterns that could lead a person to insanity. A sunburst wall clock ticked so loudly it was giving Erin a headache. A chunky brick fire-surround stretched across one wall, with built-in shelves for figurines, faded artificial flowers and ashtrays. There were marks in the dust on the shelves, probably where photo frames had sat. It was always easier when there were no photographs. And unless Murrayfield Maud had lived a very pristine life, her family had tidied up, removing the signs of her last moments. That didn’t always happen. It wasn’t unusual to find a half-drunk mug of mouldy coffee, a semi-solved crossword, a tooth-pick, or fingernail trimmings on the coffee table.
‘Okay, love, you ready to lift it?’
Jess didn’t move. The clock kept ticking.
‘What is it?’
‘Gonna turn the cushions over?’
Erin sighed and turned over the three seat cushions. ‘Not exactly spotless, but will that do?’
Jess nodded.
The couch caught on every obstacle on the way out. Even took a chunk out of the skirting board in the hall. Erin knelt to check the damage. Maybe she should get some of that tinted filler. Bugger it. The relatives would never know it wasn’t like that before.
Outside, they set the couch down on the frosted grass. There was a picnic bench at the side of the house. Erin sat and stripped off her gloves and mask. Jess did the same. Guilt taunted Erin when she saw the deep red mark around her daughter’s mouth and nose.
‘Love, your mask is too tight. Loosen it a bit.’
Jess shook her head. ‘No way. It doesn’t keep the stench out as it is. It’ll be in my nose for days.’ She frowned. ‘Do you know what my pals are doing this weekend?’
‘No, but I’m sure you’re going to tell me.’
‘Jodie’s off to London with her parents. They’re going Christmas shopping, then to see the Lion King.’
Erin smiled. ‘Aw, that’s nice. Maybe we could do that. Not the parents bit. Enough bloodshed on the streets of London without me and your dad getting together, but we could see the Lion King. We could maybe go after Christmas.’
‘No thanks. I’m fifteen, not five. Mel’s going to a rave in Bathgate. Ashley’s hoping to lose her virginity to a guy from kickboxing, and Elise is getting a tattoo.’
Erin shook her head. ‘And they’re ’fessing up to that?’
‘Which?’
‘Bathgate. Who goes for a night out in Bathgate?’
‘Hilarious.’
Erin reached for Jess’s hand. ‘Seriously, love. Sex, tattoos, raves? At fifteen?’
‘The rave is for under-18s, and Ashley and Elise are sixteen. Still too young for a tattoo, but Elise knows someone who knows someone who’ll do it. Don’t worry, Ma. I’ve no plans to tattoo anything. I know you’d kill me. And I’m saving myself for Tyler Posey.’
‘Is he in your school?’
Jess laughed. ‘He’s an actor, Mum. Teen Wolf.’
Erin rolled her eyes. ‘I’ll no’ buy my hat for the wedding just yet, but I don’t mind taking you to Bathgate, if it is for under-18s. We’re nearly done here.’
Jess shook her head. ‘I’m knackered, and no amount of showering is going to get rid of the smell.’
The smell was nothing compared to most death scenes, but Erin kept quiet.
‘And I don’t want to
‘The carpet up there will give you a better trip than anything you’d get at a rave.’ She put on her mask and gloves. ‘Just going up to check there’s nothing else contaminated, then we’ll get the couch wrapped and we’re done. Gladys will help me clear the place next week. Won’t be a minute.’
Jess eyed the couch as if it was a flesh-eating zombie in disguise. ‘You’re not leaving me here alone with that thing. I’m coming.’
There was nothing else inside that was hazardous. Not in a biological sense, anyway. Erin couldn’t resist lifting an ashtray. It was a round container with a lid and a push-down lever. She pressed the lever, and the metal lid rotated to let ash drop to the bottom.
‘We had one of these at home,’ she said. ‘I couldn’t leave it alone, as if it was a toy.’
This one was clean. Probably hadn’t been used in years, and yet she knew it would still smell disgusting. She lifted her mask and sniffed. The tang of long-ago fags brought an unwanted memory of her father. Nicotine-stained fingers wrapped around a fag packet, tapping it off the arm of the chair, the sound echoing around the hushed room. The holding of breath, the waiting, hoping…
‘Mum?’
Erin exhaled and let the memory go. She put the ashtray back on the shelf. ‘Come on. Let’s get home.’
Outside, there was an icy wind whistling through the bushes.
‘I’ll get the sheeting and tape for the couch,’ Erin said.
But there was no couch. Just a big white van pulling away from the gate at speed.
They laughed all the way home. Murrayfield Maud might not have melted into the innards of the couch like Musselburgh Man, but she’d soaked through the cushions, leaving scummy marks on the undersides. To the untrained eye, all that was needed was a sponge, some fresh air to dry the cushions, then turn them over. That was the bit that made them laugh, for the corpse had left its ghostly outline in a shadow of decayed cells on the dusty rose velvet, as clear as day.
Chapter 2
ERIN
A mug of hot chocolate, a pen and some paper, and Erin settled on the couch. She'd been meaning to advertise for a new member of staff for ages, and she couldn't leave it any longer.
Crime and Trauma Scene Cleaner
Essential requirements: Strong stomach. Poor sense of smell. Sick sense of humour.
Tasks: Scraping brains off walls and out of electric sockets. Unblocking baths and drains after unattended deaths. Cleaning pools of blood and splatter. Exterminating maggots.
No. That wouldn't do it. If she was too explicit, she'd attract a bunch of weirdos. But if she tried to disguise the truth, she'd get some daftie who'd freak out at the first job.
Trauma Scene Cleaner
Essential requirements: Stamina. Commitment. Excellent communication skills. Compassion.
Tasks: Hoarding clean-ups. Accidental and unattended death clean-ups. Crime scene clean-ups. Dealing with contamination.
Maybe it sounded a little too formal. Perhaps... The ping of an incoming text was a relief.
Pub? Glax
Erin knocked on Jess’s bedroom door. There was no answer, so she eased the door across. Jess was lying on her bed, eyes closed. Her face was pale, and her hair damp. The window was open, and the room was cold. Erin tiptoed across the floor and pulled the window closed.
‘Leave it, Mum.’
‘But your hair’s wet. You’ll get a chill.’ Erin sat on the edge of the bed. She wanted to lie down, hold her daughter and forget the pub. Just fall asleep here. But that would not be welcome. Something had changed recently. It was slight, a creeping distance between them that scared Erin. She tried to remember her relationship with her mother at fifteen. There had been distance and resentment in bucket loads, but there was no comparison between Jess’s childhood and hers. She’d made sure of that. She put her hand on Jess’s forearm. ‘You all right, darling?’
‘Just tired.’
‘I got a text from Gladys asking me to go for a drink. Won’t go if you don’t want me to.’
Jess smiled and opened her eyes. ‘Stay off the spirits. And the bar.’
‘Okay. Just a glass of wine. I won’t be long.’
‘See if you got me that dog I’ve always wanted, you could stay out all night.’
Erin laughed. ‘Nice try.’ She kissed Jess’s cheek. ‘Love you.’
Jess didn’t answer. Something twisted deep inside Erin, another wound opening up as her daughter moved further away. Soon there would be no touching allowed. No kissing, no declaring her love.
‘Mum?’
‘Yeah?’
‘Do I smell?’
*
The night smelled. Breweries and burning rubber. Dog shit and chips. There was the distant squealing of youths and tyres, and a fading police siren. Erin zipped her jacket up to her neck and wished she’d worn a scarf. That guilt was still taunting her as she walked. She shouldn’t have taken Jess to the house in Murrayfield. They’d spent most of the day doing an intensive clean of a suite of offices before a new firm took over. Erin rarely did regular cleaning work, but the job was well paid and it had to be done at the weekend. Jess was keen to earn some money, and Erin needed the help. When they finished, Erin had taken a spur-of-the-moment decision to go to the house in Murrayfield and move the couch while there were two of them. She’d remembered the place smelled a bit when she’d been in a couple of days earlier, and she’d given Jess a mask, but she’d forgotten about the outline of the woman on the cushions. Jess had taken one look and gasped. Jeez. If she saw some of the scenes Erin worked on. Anyway, it was definitely time to find a more permanent employee. She’d get that advert out on Monday and take her chances.
‘Erin.’
The gruff voice startled her. She hadn’t seen the old man approaching. Too caught up in her guilt. ‘Bob. What’s doing?’
He slowed, but he didn’t stop. ‘You want to get your big mate under control.’ His breath steamed out into the frosty night. ‘Daft bitch.’
‘What now?’
He was gone, metal and glass clinking in his carrier bag, a hint of crabbiness left in the air. Whatever had happened, it must be bad if it was sending him home before midnight to the moaning Mrs Bob and the cat he hated. It wasn’t just that his missus fed the wee bastard better than she fed him. It was all the stroking and fussing and devotion. Horrible smelly hairy thing. That was no way to talk about the wife’s pussy, the other drinkers would say, sniggering into their pints. He never got the joke. Too wound up with indignation.
There was condensation running down the glass on the pub door, and music blaring out. Erin pushed the door open, and she was hit by a wall of sweat and laughter, and a sight that scarred her eyeballs. The Michelin Man’s missus was dancing on the bar. It must have taken a couple of tyre levers and a gallon of lubricant to get her into the purple tube dress. The moves were shocking. Thank God Gladys was wearing leggings, the way she was bending and shaking her arse. No wonder Bob preferred the company of Mrs Bob and her pussy.
Joe Emslie, the manager, stood with his back to the till, arms folded, wearing a scowl that could turn milk. If it wasn’t that Gladys did the odd shift for him, and probably gave him free chips in the chippy next door, she’d have been dragged down and thrown out. As Erin let the door swing closed, Gladys spun round. She threw her arms wide. ‘Your Majesty, the Queen of Grime!’
Erin wanted to leave. It wasn’t the announcement that bothered her. Almost everyone there knew who she was and what she did for a living. It led some to sidle up to her looking for gruesome details, while others avoided her as if she might contaminate them. She was just too tired for the drama. Perhaps she would have left if Gladys hadn’t curtseyed and tumbled forwards. Vince and Mosher caught her before she hit the floor. Otherwise, she’d have been out cold. Might have been a blessing. Given them all a bit of peace. The guys got no thanks from Gladys. A pair of groping perverts, she yelled as she hoicked up her boobs, then her leggings. Gladys was a big girl. It would have been hard not to grope her somewhere as she fell.
