Free Naming the Bones by Louise Welsh Page B

outside. Murray watched the small ripples disturbing the surface of his drink.
    Had there been a moment, a flash of mental clarity in the midst of the storm, when Archie had known he was going to die? He would have been wet already, soaked through by the rain and toppling waves, but the shock of water when the boat upturned must have taken the breath from him. How many times had he gone under before the final descent? How long had it taken? The sea sucking him down then spewing him back to the surface, the frantic struggle to stay afloat, the desperate grab for some purchase met by froth and foam. Or had he been knocked unconscious before he even hit the water? It was possible. The night had been wild, Archie sailing solo. Maybe he had fallen and hit his head against the side or been attacked by the boom. Archie had been careless with his life, sailing into the storm. Perhaps he’d been a careless sailor too. His body had never been found. It left no clues for the coroner. There was no convenient sheaf of newly forged poems slid safe in a waterproof envelope in his jeans pocket, no clues for the biographer either.
    Murray wandered through to the kitchen and looked down onto the backcourt. An old man in carpet slippers was scavenging through the bins. He watched him for a while then went into the hallway, picked up the phone and dialled the police. The phone rang for a long time, and then a deep voice said, ‘Sandyford police station.’
    ‘Hello, there’s an old man out the back of my building going through the rubbish. He’s in his slippers and I’m worried he’s got dementia or something.’
    ‘Have you spoken to him?’
    ‘I’m not dressed yet.’
    The voice at the other end of the phone was weary.
    ‘Do you think he’s looking for receipts or anything?’
    ‘Receipts?’
    It was like a foreign word. Murray couldn’t think what it had to do with the conversation.
    ‘Identity fraud.’
    It was in his mind to say that the old man would be welcome to his identity, but he answered, ‘No, I don’t think he’s doing any harm. I just thought he might be confused.’
    ‘Okay,’ the policeman sighed again. ‘Give me your name and address and we’ll send someone round when we can.’
    ‘When will that be?’
    The voice contained the full quota of contempt that an early-rising man in uniform could hold for a civilian who had only now crawled out of bed.
    ‘I couldn’t say, sir.’
    Murray gave his details, hung up and went back to the window. The old man was gone. He stood there for a moment debating whether to call the police again or get dressed and hunt for him amongst the backcourts. In the end he did neither, simply clicked the kettle on and lifted his mail from the table.
    A bill from the factors, a leaflet from the local supermarket outlining their offers in colours bright enough to sicken the famished, a bank statement that would show he earned more than his needs, a plain white envelope and a letter stamped with the logo of Christie’s agents. He hesitated between the final two, and then tore at the seal of the agent’s letter.
    Dear Dr Watson
    Ms Graves has asked me to advise you that she has given your request serious consideration, but has regretfully decided to decline. Ms Graves has strong views on the privacy of artists, and while she wishes you every success in your critical analysis of Archie Lunan’s poetry, she does not see what a discussion of their time together would achieve. She now considers this correspondence closed and has asked me to bring to your attention the government’s recent anti-stalking legislation.
    Yours sincerely
    Foster James
    Niles, James and Worthing
    Murray swore and crumpled the letter into a ball.
    The airwaves were full of people talking. Child-murderers and drugs casualties, people who had once sat next to someone famous on the bus, even the dead were in on the act, revealing scandals from beyond the grave. Everywhere people were blogging, Twittering and