The Deep Dark Sleep

And now Isa and Violet sat earnestly, and a little primly, opposite me.

I had, once before in my career, professionally encountered twins; but that had been an altogether different business. The last matching pair I’d come across had been Tam and Frankie McGahern. It had been an encounter that I had barely survived, so I had developed something of a superstitious aversion to matching siblings. But as Isa and Violet had come in and taken their seats, I had stolen a look at their identically peachy rears and had decided to become more pragmatic in my approach.

They introduced themselves, simultaneously, as Isa and Violet but had different surnames and I guessed there were wedding rings beneath the grey gloves. The twins shared the same pale, heart-shaped faces, small noses, bright blue eyes and full mouths, both of which had been encrimsoned in exactly the same shade of lipstick. They had their dark hair short and demiwaved, coming halfway down delicate ears that supported large domes of faux pearl. They even wore identical expensive grey suits, with tight-waisted jackets and pencil skirts that squeezed where I would have liked to do a bit of squeezing myself.

And, when they spoke, they finished each other’s sentences without breaking the rhythm of what they were saying and without looking at each other.

‘We heard you was …’ began Isa. Or maybe it was Violet.

‘… a private detective,’ concluded Violet, or Isa, seamlessly.

‘We need your help …’

‘… about our father.’

‘I suppose you’ve read all about him …’

‘… in the papers …’

I smiled, a little confused. The truth was I had been a little discomfited by their arrival. They were both very pretty. Well, exactly as pretty as each other. And they were twins. The usual lustful scenario that would lurch unbidden into my imaginings when faced with a set of curves was subject to multiplication and I had to snap out of my speculation about what other tasks they might be disposed to take in turns.

‘Your father?’ I asked with a professional frown.

‘Yes. Daddy.’

‘Our maiden name you see …’

‘… is Strachan,’ they concluded in unison.

Even then it took me a moment to catch on; for significance to attach.

‘The remains found in the Clyde?’ I asked.

‘Yes.’ Another chorus.

‘Gentleman Joe Strachan?’

‘Joseph Strachan was our father.’ The two pretty heart-shaped faces took on an identically harder look.

‘But you must hardly have known him,’ I said. ‘From what I’ve read, Joe Strachan has been missing for nearly eighteen years.’

‘We were eight,’ said Isa. Or Violet.

‘When Daddy had to go away.’

‘We’ve never forgotten him.’

‘I’m sure.’ I nodded sagely.

When people pay you to find out things, sagacity is an attribute you should project at every opportunity. Much in the same way that when you visit a doctor you want him to exude an absolute mastery of his craft, despite the fact that the workings of the human body leave him almost as confused as everyone else. I wanted to impress the twins by saying, as they do in all the best movies, ‘So you want me to find out …’ and then anticipate their request.

It wasn’t working for me: I hadn’t a clue what they could want from me, other than to find out who dumped Daddy in the drink. And that couldn’t be it, because the police were all over that like a rash. There was, after all, the matter of a dead patrolling copper who happened to be at the right place at the wrong time eighteen years before. Whoever nudged Gentleman Joe over the side would know who tapped the beat bobby. The City of Glasgow Police were a less than cerebral bunch and if the case had been beyond them two decades before, I couldn’t see them making anything of it now. And I would make even less.

‘So what can I do for you?’ I switched off the bulb of my omniscient sagacity for a moment.

They simultaneously lifted their handbags and placed them on their laps, snapped them open and took out identical wrapped wads of cash, placing them on the desk. The wads had made their handbags bulge and were now having the same effect on my eyes. The big Bank of England notes were crisp and new. And twenties: a denomination you would not exactly hand over the counter in a fish and chip shop. For a moment I thought this was an advance payment and from the size of the bundles, I saw myself working exclusively for the twins for the next three years.

‘We get this every year …’

‘On the twenty-third of July …’

‘One thousand pounds exactly, each.’

I couldn’t resist picking up a bundle in each hand, just for the feel of them, responding to an instinct similar to the one I’d had when the twins had first walked in.

‘For how long?’ I asked, bouncing the wads in my hands as if weighing them.

‘Since Daddy left. Our mother got the money for us each year and then, when we were eighteen, it came directly to us.’

‘Does your mother get any money for herself?’

‘Mam passed on a couple of years ago …’

‘… but before that, she got the same.’

‘… a thousand pounds each year.’

‘I’m sorry for your loss …’ I said.