Fragile Cord by Emma Salisbury Page A

gesturing to him. He moved his head reluctantly to
indicate a ‘no,’ peeved at being the afterthought, carried on
bouncing on the balls of his feet, albeit more slowly now.
    ‘I was born in Scotland.’
    Both Coupland and Alex snapped their
attention back onto Angus, who seemed to have emerged from his
trance-like state.
    ‘My parents and sister are still up
there.’ He said. ‘I left the fold when I came to study at Salford
uni, met Tracey, never went back.’
    He was well spoken,
Coupland thought, recognising the universal plummy public school
tone in his voice. There wasn’t much of a Scottish accent, though,
more an inflection, a genteel hint of a brogue. There was a Scot at
the station, IT support or some such title which basically meant he
came round unplugging the terminals and plugging them back in
whenever anything went wrong. Rebooting them or whatever. Everyone
called him Scotch Jim. He hailed from Glasgow and his accent was
thick and guttural and when he was pissed he chanted Flower of Scotland and
showed everyone his arse. When he was angry his words all rolled
into one and no one could really understand what he said but went
along with him anyway so as not to cause offence.
    Angus’s accent was softer, more upper
middle class.
    ‘Whereabouts in Scotland?’ Alex asked
him.
    ‘Edinburgh.’
    Ah ….
    ‘Beautiful city.’ Coupland commented.
He’d never been, but had seen enough Hogmanay shows over the years
to think it warranted a visit one day.
    Angus nodded, distracted; the hall
stairs creaked as body bags containing Tracey, then Kyle were
carried outside to the waiting mortuary van. The PC moved
soundlessly towards the door ready to be on hand if needed. Angus
moved his head as he followed the sound, pushed himself to his feet
and shuffled unsteadily to the large bay window in time to see the
van doors open and swallow up his family.
    ‘When can I see them?’
    His voice rasped as
though it hurt when he spoke and his breathing became ragged.
Coupland could see the horror of reality start to set in, that
apart from the mortuary and the funeral home, Angus would never see
Tracey or Kyle again. Certainly not in the way he was used to –
laughing and joking and very much alive .
    ‘Later. I’ll take you later, Angus.’
Coupland replied, ‘In the meantime I need you to help me put
together a list of Tracey’s movements today, where she’d been, who
she might have spoken to. A list of her friends, relatives,
anything that can…..’ he could tell he was losing him, his eyes had
become dull again, his skin took on a waxy pallor as though he was
going to be sick.
    ‘Where d’you keep your address book
Angus?’
    Alex was back on her feet again,
walking out into the hallway opening all the adjoining doors until
she found what she was looking for. A small room, used as an
office, containing a large oak computer desk and leather chair at
one end, a small settee and coffee table at the other. A computer
screen sat on top of the desk, beneath it the computer’s hard
drive, a printer perching precariously at one end, beneath a
wall-mounted phone. A small shelf displayed a dozen CD ROMs and
several paper clips. A pile of taxi receipts and expense forms were
weighed down by a leather-bound Filofax. Alex picked it up and
hurried back to Angus.
    ‘Is this it?’ she asked him, holding it
aloft. This time she sat beside him while she waited for him to
respond. When he moved his head in the tiniest of nods she flicked
open the fastener with her thumb.
    ‘Here, let me go through it with
you…’
    While Alex worked
though the names and addresses of friends and family with Angus,
Coupland wandered back out into the hall, keen to get a better feel
for the place. He glanced inside each room for signs of something
amiss, or even signs of anything for that matter. The presence of something – or
the absence of it – that would help him on his mission to find a
reason. Filicide, where a parent murders their