Free The Red Road by Denise Mina

Margery’s depression.
    Rose lingered by the door, reluctant to enter and be among them. She looked for the children but couldn’t see small scampering bodies tumbling around the wooden floor. She raised her eyes and looked for Francine, saw her standing by the near fireplace, nodding as a man monologued over her head.
    Francine reached out and took Rose’s elbow as the man talked. He was glassy-eyed, reciting a story about fishing or something. It was full of obvious signifiers that Rose didn’t get: Deeside ..., he said, three rods ... beats . And names, as if they would know them, Jonny Blahblah, Gunter Blah Von Blah, as if they all knew the same people and cared about the same things. Lost in his own frame of reference, he was good enough to glance down and notice that Francine’s attention had been lost, that Rose was waiting to talk to her. He broke off and floated away.
    Rose touched Francine’s elbow. ‘Lots of doors. Did you get in OK?’
    ‘Fine. I’m sorry about Margery,’ said Francine, looking to the far end of the room. ‘They’re through that door.’
    Rose stood on tiptoe and kissed her cheek gently. She went off to find them.
    The kids were having a carry-on in the bathroom. She could hear them from outside the locked door. She rapped once, heard Jessica squeal and felt a thump against the wood.
    ‘Open it,’ she ordered. The latch slid back, the door fell open. The floor was wet. Hamish had washed Angus’s hair in the basin and stood, shamed and smirking by the wall. Angus’s shirtsleeve was soaking wet.
    Rose sighed and pulled a towel off the wooden rack, wiping it hard against Angus’s arm to dry it.
    ‘Silly,’ she muttered, not wanting to make a big thing of it, not today.
    She squeezed the towel around his arm, trying to get the worst of it out. Jessica was at the sink, showily washing her hands, to be the good one, because Rose was always nagging them to wash their hands.
    Hamish stood by Rose, his arm pressing against her side. Assuming he wanted reassurance she said, ‘I’m not very happy with you at all.’
    ‘Grandma was rude to you,’ he said, deflecting blame.
    She stood up, folding the towel to find a dry spot. ‘It’s been a bad day, Hamish.’ But she was pleased that he said that.
    She rubbed Angus’s arm again, squeezing his collar with the towel. The shirt was half see-through but if they left his jacket off it would be dry soon enough.
    She stood up and looked at the trio. ‘Right. We’re going out there together. We’re going to behave really well. We’re going to speak when spoken to, tell people how old we are, and in twenty minutes we’re going home to hot chocolate and a DVD. Is this agreed?’
    They all nodded.
    ‘But only for good behaviour,’ warned Rose.
    They went back out. The children saw trays of sandwiches and mini brownies on a far table and galloped off. Margery was sitting on a sofa under the broken clock, sipping white wine, in the middle of a group of men performing for her benefit, talking too loud across her as she listened. One of the men, sitting on her left hand, wasn’t focused on Margery. He was staring at Rose, at her face.
    She knew him, actually: £45k to Quetta, 7.5% fee, quarterly. She could feel his eyes boring into her. She knew the needful look but chose not to look back. Making a mental note to check the book, to see if he was due or owed, she pictured the back safe and it brought to mind the overwhelming store of chores she hadn’t managed yet. Here, she was the nanny and she was shy and she knew no one.
    She strode across to the children. They each had a plate in their hands and a white linen napkin and were behind a stout man, waiting for access to the brownie tray to clear.
    ‘Two each,’ she said, seeing that the cakes were small and dry and probably wouldn’t be very nice anyway.
    Jessica groaned in complaint. The stout man turned to Rose.
    ‘Hello.’
    She nodded a greeting back, not really looking at him, but