A Window Breaks

by C. M. Ewan

  Weird.

  I slowed the Volvo next to a compact video camera and an intercom fitted to a short metal pole. The forest silence had that hear-a-pin-drop clarity to it as I buzzed down my window and leaned out to talk, but before I could speak I heard a low electric buzzing, followed by a metallic clunk as the gates trembled and separated and began to swing outwards on two tight arcs.

  I tried to quell a small judder of surprise. Before we’d left London the previous morning, Lionel had asked me to text him our number plate. I guess now I knew why.

  Rachel frowned at me, Holly looked up from her smartphone and Buster scrambled to his feet to take a peek at where we were. I switched off the wiper blades. The drizzle was light now. Barely even a mist.

  ‘So . . .’ Holly said. ‘You think Lionel needs therapy, much?’

  ‘Holly!’

  ‘What, Dad? I’m just saying, after what happened to his wife . . .’

  She left the rest unsaid but we were all thinking it. The gate and the fence were clearly excessive for such a remote location but, now that my own family had come under threat, I could easily understand why Lionel would prioritize his security.

  I eased off on the brake and the Volvo started forwards, then gathered momentum as the drive fell away sharply. Behind us, the gate mechanism started up again, whirring and grinding, and Rachel glanced back over her shoulder to watch as the gates shuffled closed.

  ‘OK?’ I asked her.

  Was that a shiver? ‘I guess.’

  Funny thing. Rachel was the one who’d pushed for us to come here but now I sensed some disquiet. Perhaps she was only now beginning to realize what had already occurred to me. Out here we would truly be on our own. There could be no more hiding from whatever we had to say to each other – or the awkward truths we might reveal.

  The woodland trees pressed in on us, high limbs stretching out across the driveway and intertwining to partially blot out the sky. We splashed through muddy potholes and drainage gunnels. Then the slope flattened out and the track opened up into a wide gravel circle carved out between a towering ring of spruce, larch and pines.

  ‘Dad? Is this really it?’

  Lionel had called his place a lodge and in my mind I’d pictured something rustic and modest but nicely appointed. A kind of logger’s cabin with rough-hewn planking and an open porch out front, or maybe a whitewashed croft with a thatched roof.

  I couldn’t have been more wrong.

  On a spit of rocky land jutting out from the coast, in a tight clearing between the pines, was one of the most stunning properties I’d ever set eyes on.

  It was tall and thin with an asymmetrical pitched roof, a fieldstone base and an elaborate timber and glass structure between. The timber was arched and vaulted, curved and bent, forming a complex latticework for the tinted glazing to fill. High up at the rear, a balcony ran across most of the upper floor. I could see patio furniture up there. A gas heater under a nylon cover.

  The place had the appearance of a luxury ski lodge and if it had been situated on the slopes of Val d’Isère or Gstaad it would have been seriously impressive. Out here, hidden from view and alone in the Scottish wilderness, it was jaw-dropping.

  ‘Holly, what do you think?’

  ‘Pretty cool, Dad.’

  ‘Rachel?’

  ‘Breathtaking.’

  We opened our doors and stepped out onto a carpet of crushed gravel and fallen pine needles. Fragments of rain scattered on the air. The wet woodland smell was intense.

  I turned a full circle, drinking it in. The trees that surrounded us were densely packed, their trunks spearing upwards like telephone poles. Beneath the lush green canopy, a carpet of mulch and lichen undulated in humps and ridges, dissolving into impenetrable black. Somewhere close by I could hear the rustle of waves striking the shore.

  ‘Buster!’ Holly called. ‘Come on!’

  My heart contracted as I watched Buster bound out of the car and follow Holly towards the treeline. Take it from me, if anyone ever tells you dogs don’t grieve, that person is lying. Buster continued to sleep on the bottom of Michael’s bed for three months straight following his death. Rachel tells me she sometimes still finds him noodling around in there late at night, nudging the duvet as if searching for our son.

  It’s no exaggeration to say that having Buster around is the main reason Holly’s been able to cope with Michael’s death. She hugs him all the time. I’ve overheard her confiding in him. And Buster, in turn, has grown ever more protective of Holly. He follows her from room to room at home. He pines for her when she’s at school. A psychologist would probably tell you that Holly leans on Buster in the way she does because she can no longer lean on Michael. I don’t know if that’s true but I do know the two of them share an unbreakable bond.

  Footsteps on gravel.

  A burly man was striding towards us from the front of the lodge. Buster turned and growled, then barked twice in rapid warning as Holly looked quickly down at the ground, hiding her face.

  ‘Hello there, Sullivans.’ His Scottish accent was as warm and smoky as good whisky. ‘I’m Brodie.’

  He was big and tall with wide shoulders and large hands. His brown hair was tightly curled, his face dominated by a bushy hipster beard. The plaid shirt he had on over beat-up jeans and hiking boots was pulled tight across his overdeveloped pecs and biceps. It wasn’t the first time I’d set eyes on him, though we’d never spoken before.

  ‘Hey, dog, how are you?’ Brodie patted his thighs and beckoned to Buster, but it was only when Holly gave Buster a nudge with her foot and told him it was OK that he jogged over to sniff Brodie and be patted and fussed. ‘Did you find the place easily enough?’

  I told him we had and he straightened to lean forwards over Buster and shake my hand. His grip was fierce, his palms rough and abrasive, and I had to fight not to wince as he nearly crushed my fingers. His tough-guy act softened when he shook hands with Rachel. I noticed him give her a quick, appraising look and then glance down, as if shy. It was hardly the first time I’d seen Rachel have that kind of impact on a man, though lately it had been bothering me more than I wanted it to.

  ‘Hello, missy.’

  Brodie waved to Holly over by the trees. She was twisted at the waist, her shoulders rounded, like she was trying to blend in with the woods. Brodie made no comment about her injuries. He didn’t stare. My guess was Lionel must have briefed him ahead of time and I was glad of it.

  ‘That’s Holly,’ I explained. ‘I’m Tom. My wife is Rachel.’

  ‘Aye, it’s good to meet you all. Holly, welcome to the most beautiful spot in all of Scotland. Help you with your bags there, Tom?’

  ‘That’s OK. We can manage.’

  ‘It’s not a problem. What I’m here for. And trust me, Lionel will check up with you on that. He hates it when I slack off.’

  I knew the feeling.

  Brodie snuck another quick look at Rachel, then strolled past me to open the Volvo’s boot. He tucked Holly’s holdall beneath his massive upper arm and reached in for Rachel’s suitcase, lifting it out of the car like it was filled with nothing but air.

  ‘You ready to see the place, Holly?’

  My daughter – normally so talkative – shrugged without speaking. I felt a hollow sensation open up in my chest.

  ‘You’re going to love it. I promise. Want to walk with me?’

  At first Holly didn’t respond. I was pretty sure she was going to shake her head no. But then she glimpsed Buster, his jaws parted in a blissed-out smile, his tail beating enthusiastically against Brodie’s leg.

  ‘OK,’ she said quietly.

  ‘Excellent. Tom, you’ll want to move your car over there.’ Brodie used the hand holding Rachel’s suitcase to point out a timber carport with a vaulted ceiling. ‘That’ll keep the pine needles and sap off it.’

  The carport had spaces for two vehicles. A mud-splattered Toyota Land Cruiser was occupying the left-hand berth.

  ‘That’s my ri
de,’ Brodie explained. ‘But don’t worry, I’ll be out of here before you know it. I’m based near Lochinver.’ He turned to Rachel. ‘Ready?’

  She nodded, smiling in warm encouragement, and I watched Brodie stride off with my wife, daughter and dog for company, then lunged into the boot for my own suitcase, still struggling to wrap my head around the idea of being here with my family, so far away from London. There were plenty of reasons for that, of course, but also . . . Lionel’s lodge. Until four days ago, I hadn’t known this place even existed.

  The first I’d heard of it was at a glitzy charity function in a Mayfair hotel. The fundraiser was being held in aid of Justice For All, a foundation that seeks to educate and rehabilitate repeat offenders. Lionel hadn’t just hosted and bankrolled the gala; he’s also the founder and chairman of JFA. There are those who think Lionel only started JFA to burnish his political ambitions. As the CEO and owner of Webster Ventures – the UK’s leading investor in tech start-ups and specialist engineering firms – he’s a fabulously wealthy and influential man, and there’s long been talk of him one day running for mayor. I know for a fact he has several Cabinet members on speed dial. But, call me naive, I happen to believe Lionel when he tells me he started the charity because of what happened to his wife.

  I never met Jennifer. She was killed nine years ago, before I knew Lionel, in a horrific attack in their main residence, close to Regent’s Park. Lionel was in Hong Kong on business at the time and the police theory was that Jennifer had disturbed a burglar. That theory was given credence when an original Degas – a bronze statue of a young ballerina – was discovered to be missing from Lionel’s study on his return from Hong Kong. The police also had a suspect. A man called Tony Bryant had served time previously for aggravated burglary. He’d been released from prison just months before the crime and his fingerprints had been discovered at the scene.

  But despite this credible lead, the case against Bryant had gone nowhere fast because the police had failed to locate him or recover the missing Degas. There were rumours Bryant had escaped to Spain. Lionel’s belief – and, yes, maybe he’s a little naive too – was that if Bryant had received the right kind of support and guidance after his first conviction, then Jennifer – the great love of Lionel’s life – would still be alive today. Lionel had once told me that if Justice For All could help save just one person the heartache he himself had experienced, then it would all be worth it.

  The truth? Much as I like and respect Lionel, I hadn’t wanted to be at the gala. Not because JFA isn’t a noble cause – it is – but because after what Michael had done . . . Well, let’s just say that being there made me uncomfortable. The only reason I did go was to support Rachel. Lionel had asked her to help organize the event. She was giving a speech and I was pretty sure she’d be nervous about it.

  But still, when I’d got there, Rachel had barely looked at me. I’d spent the first five minutes lurking by the buffet table, watching from across the room as a handsome young guy in a tux flirted with my wife, touching her arm, making her smile. Rachel, of course, looked extra crush-my-heart stunning in an elegant black dinner dress. Her chestnut-brown hair was up. I always loved it when she wore it that way. I watched her throw back her head and laugh at something the man said, and it wounded me to think that I couldn’t remember the last time I’d made her laugh that way.

  ‘Just a small point,’ Lionel whispered as he sidled up to me, ‘but I hear scientists now believe it’s almost impossible to make a man’s head explode simply by glaring at him.’

  As well as being my boss, Lionel’s also my friend and, it’s fair to say, my mentor. I’ve been his head of legal affairs for six years now.

  ‘Look at that guy,’ I said. ‘Do you think he even cares that she’s married?’

  ‘Do you?’

  Lionel arched an eyebrow. Like the rest of him, it was immaculately groomed. His steel-grey hair was gelled into a severe side-parting, his dinner jacket expensively tailored. The banquet hall was filled with the great and good of London society, but in this crowd Lionel drew more spotlight than a movie star, and I was aware of several partygoers circling closer, trying to grab a few precious minutes with him.

  ‘Hey. Low blow, Lionel.’ I folded my arms and went back to glaring. ‘Who is he?’

  ‘You don’t want to know.’

  ‘Rich?’

  ‘Now that you really don’t want to know.’

  I stared some more at Rachel and Mr Probably-A-Dot-Com-Millionaire. Uniformed waiting staff flitted to and fro with silver platters bearing champagne. A string quartet played in one corner. Another time, I might have been impressed by it all, but tonight I had other concerns.

  ‘Look, Tom, why don’t you ask Rachel to go away with you for the weekend, just the two of you together? I have a lodge, in Scotland. You could use it.’

  I reared back and frowned. A Scottish lodge. It didn’t sound very Lionel. A chic apartment in Paris, maybe. A brownstone in New York . . .

  He smiled, as if he could read my mind. ‘Only very few people know about it. It’s where I go to recharge. Get off the grid. It’s . . . well, remote isn’t really the word. See that guy over there?’

  Lionel pointed across the room to where a big man with a bushy beard and an ill-fitting tuxedo was standing awkward and alone, clutching too many canapés in one hand and tugging his shirt collar away from his throat with the other.

  ‘His name’s Brodie,’ Lionel explained. ‘He looks after the lodge for me. Until tonight, I’m not sure I’ve ever seen him without an axe in his hand. Why don’t you do me a favour and go and ask him about the place? He could use someone to talk with and I really think it could be good for you and Rachel to spend some time there together.’

  ‘It’s kind of you, Lionel. But . . .’ I shrugged. Nodded at my wife. ‘I think we both know it’s not going to happen. Besides, it’s still too soon to leave Holly.’

  ‘Is it?’

  ‘You know it is.’

  ‘Well, perhaps we should ask her about that . . .’ He seized me by the arm and dragged me through the crowds in the direction of the bar.

  ‘Holly?’

  ‘Hey, Dad. Mum’s sitter cancelled. And Lionel’s been bugging me for, like, forever to come to this thing.’

  At the mention of Rachel, I had to fight the urge to look round and find her again. Holly was perched on a stool, her bright pink smartphone in her hand. She was dressed in her school uniform – blue blazer, grey skirt, dark tights – and her frizzy brown hair was pulled into a ponytail. Like always, the smile she gave me pretty much melted my heart.

  ‘How’s the party?’

  ‘I guess it’s not totally lame.’

  ‘This is what I love about your kid, Tom.’ Lionel poked Holly in the side. ‘She always brings the sunshine.’

  ‘I suppose that’s why you’ve been hanging around our house so much lately.’ Holly rolled her eyes. ‘Seriously, Dad. Your boss is actually kind of sweet. He’s been making sure Mum and me are OK.’

  ‘Has he now?’

  It was hard to know what to do with that information. I knew Lionel was fond of my family. There were times when I felt like he viewed us as a surrogate for the family he’d never had. And I’d lost count of the number of times he’d told me to get over myself and mend my relationship with Rachel. But still, it irritated me to think that he’d been dropping in on my wife and daughter without telling me. And I didn’t exactly appreciate Holly’s not-so-subtle reminder about how I’d let her and her mum down.

  Lionel – clearly aware of how awkward this had suddenly become – began peering around the room for a distraction.

  ‘How is Mum?’ I asked Holly. ‘Is she stressed about her speech?’

  ‘Dad. Not cool.’

  I held up my hands. Holly was right. One thing Rachel and I had both agreed on after I’d moved out of home was that our trial separation had to be as painless as possible for Holly. And that meant not putting her in the middle of things.


  I was about to ask her about her school day instead when Lionel lunged out to grab someone standing behind me, pulling them forwards. He clapped a hand on my shoulder and spun me to face two police officers in full dress uniform.

  ‘Tom Sullivan,’ Lionel said. ‘Meet Assistant Commissioner Richard Weeks. And you’ll have heard of DCI Kate Ryan.’

  I had. DCI Ryan had been all over the news recently, identified as the off-duty hero cop who’d stepped in when two moped thugs had almost pulled a pregnant woman under a bus as they tried to snatch her handbag. Footage of the incident had gone viral. Ryan had been lauded by celebrities and politicians alike. It was a good news story for the Met and a bunch of profile pieces had followed. Maybe I’m a cynic, but I don’t think it hurt that Ryan was statuesque, fit and toned, with very short brown hair and sharp features. I could remember that her father had been a police officer, that she enjoyed outdoor pursuits, including sailing and climbing, that she’d suffered a bad fall while rock climbing the previous year but had swiftly returned to duty and, oh yeah, that she was currently single.

  Assistant Commissioner Weeks seemed keenly aware of that last factoid. He was a good fifteen years older than Ryan with a severe buzz cut, a chiselled jawline and a no-nonsense demeanour, but from the way his hand had slipped off her lower back as we were introduced I sensed there was something more than strictly professional about their relationship.

  ‘Mr Sullivan.’ Weeks nodded, without a great deal of interest.

  ‘Tom is my primary legal brain,’ Lionel explained.

  ‘For JFA?’

  I glanced away a moment. Rachel must have moved because I couldn’t see her or the man she’d been talking with. I wasn’t sure whether to feel relieved or concerned about that.

  ‘I pitch in where I can,’ I mumbled.

  ‘Well, it’s a fine cause, Tom.’ He pumped my hand. ‘You should know that we at the Met appreciate everything JFA accomplishes.’

  ‘And not simply because it makes our job easier,’ Ryan added, with a wink.

  She waited for the assistant commissioner to say something more, but before he could pick up on his cue the tinkling of a champagne glass cut through the noise in the room. Rachel was up on a dais. Next to her was a large colour portrait of Jennifer. For a fleeting moment our eyes locked, and Rachel gave me a fractured, almost apologetic smile. Then she hooked a strand of hair behind her ear and leaned towards a microphone.