Sarah was strangely touched by this and noticed once again that, although Abigail was no conventional beauty, with her short spiky red hair and her stumpy figure, her eyes radiated a magnetism that was difficult to avoid. Abigail and Lottie embraced and then Nick patted the seat next to him on the sofa. ‘Sit down, Mum. We’re just talking about the memorial service.’
Sarah smiled. ‘We can talk about that in a minute, but first Lottie has some lovely news.’ Everyone looked at Lottie, standing with her hands resting over the front of her tweed coat.
Olly was the first to catch on. ‘Lottie?’ Lottie smiled and nodded. Olly raised his hands in the air and jumped up. ‘I’m going to be an uncle!’ All three of them gathered round Lottie, hugging and kissing her. Lottie was laughing and crying at the same time.
‘This will be the first of the next generation. What a pity Dad will not see this,’ Abigail said. Sarah realised with a jolt that this thought had never occurred to her; Rory had never seemed very interested in his own babies. She pushed that thought aside and allowed herself to get caught up in the excitement of the moment.
Abigail was still thinking along the same lines. ‘Can we announce it at the memorial service? It would be a nice addition to the part about his legacy and what he leaves behind. I know they’re going to mention the great contribution he made to the development of Scottish television.’
Lottie blushed and nodded. ‘Of course. But I don’t want to say anything myself.’
Nick looked at his sister. ‘I’ll speak for both of us.’ He looked at his mother. ‘Are you still sure that you don’t want to say anything?’
‘Absolutely sure.’
‘We’ve been talking about it and we think that it’s best if we come clean about the whole family thing. Then there’ll be no secrecy, no scoop for the papers. Abigail’s going to do that bit, as the oldest of the children.’ Nick smiled across at his half-sister.
Abigail leant forward. ‘There was one of the French presidents, Mitterand I think, whose wife and long-term mistress stood side by side at his funeral, together with his illegitimate daughter. It was a great photo and I believe that everyone had the greatest respect for his wife because of it.’
Nick joined in. ‘We’ve talked about it with Archie and he too thinks that this is the best way to kill any revelations from what he calls wee scrubber opportunists. I’m going to talk about some of my memories of him as a dad, but none of the other children are going to speak.
‘There are going to be readings by Scotsman and BBC colleagues and Archie’s going to do a personal reminiscence – I’ve heard some of it and it’s really funny and affectionate, too. There’s also going to be an address from the Head of BBC Scotland,’ added Abigail. She gave a wicked smile. ‘Miranda thought she’d like to read a poem, but we squashed that one immediately. Trust her to want to make the occasion all about her.’
‘But that old teacher, HJ Kidd, is going to read a poem he’s written specially for Dad,’ Nick added.
‘No.’ Sarah was shocked by the sharpness of her own voice. The other four looked at her in surprise. ‘I don’t want him there.’
Nick looked at her gently. ‘Mum, he’s written a poem especially for Dad. You know how important this last project was to him…’
‘Kidd was there when he died,’ Sarah felt a steely determination. She was going to win this one.
Abigail spoke softly, concern in her voice. ‘That’s one reason why he should read the poem. He’s been in touch with my mum – they were old colleagues at Brunstane – and he’s so upset about what happened. I think he needs to do this to reach some kind of closure himself.’
Sarah felt rage welling up inside her. ‘What do you know about it?’ She glared at Abigail. ‘He hasn’t been a friend of our family. I think he knows more about the death of Shona than he’s letting on, and…’ She felt hot, angry tears in her eyes. ‘And he has the arrogance, the insensitivity, to suggest that your father might have been involved in Shona’s death.’
‘What?’ There were sharp intakes of breath from everyone in the room.
‘It’s nonsense, rubbish, of course, but he’s told the police that Rory was telling him about his guilt for something terrible he’d done in the past just before he fell.’ Sarah saw the shock on the children’s faces. ‘That’s another reason why I don’t trust him. He’s got something to hide about what happened between him and Rory on the day he died, and about what happened to Shona.’ She gulped. ‘He is not reading at the memorial service.’
Nick put his arm round his mother. ‘OK, Mum. You’ve been so great about everything,’ he shot a glance at his half-sister, ‘and if you don’t want him to read, he isn’t reading.’
‘You do believe me, don’t you? You’re not just humouring me?’
A look passed between Nick and Abigail. ‘You’ve been through a terrible time. It’s natural for all sorts of thoughts and suspicions to go through your mind. HJ Kidd seems like a good guy, as far as I can see, and the police are not stupid. They’ll be checking up on everything, and with the wonders of DNA they can find out anything, just as I hope they will with those bastards that kicked my face in.’ He gave a gentle laugh, trying to lighten the mood.
Sarah realised that she was coming across as slightly unbalanced so she followed his lead, looking at her son’s bruises. ‘I hope your face will have healed by the time of the memorial service.’
Nick gave a relieved smile. ‘Whatever I look like, I’m going to stand up and be proud!’
Olly gave him a look full of affection. ‘Actually I think it suits you. Gives a bit of character to your face.’ Nick returned the look and threw a cushion in his direction, grinning as Lottie and Abigail laughed.
‘Shows you’re not just a pretty face,’ Abigail said and Sarah found herself sitting back, envious of the easy familiarity they shared.
The laughter was interrupted by the door bell. ‘That’ll be the police,’ said Nick.
Sarah looked up, surprised.
‘They phoned up to say that they’d got some DNA matches from the blood on my jacket, but they need to take more samples from me and Olly just to double-check. They asked us to come to the station, but when they heard we were both here they said they’d send someone round because they want to speak to you, too.’
Sarah opened the door and was surprised to see that DI Chisholm was one of the two plain-clothes detectives that stood there. She’d thought he was on Shona’s case review, but maybe police worked on several cases simultaneously. She held out her hand and Chisholm introduced his younger colleague.
‘Mrs Dunbar. There has been a development in our investigation. We have found a match, a partial match, to the DNA traces on Shona McIver’s cardigan.’
Sarah felt a huge wave of relief. The case was going to be solved at last. She was just about to say, ‘Is it Kidd?’ but then she remembered what she’d read about DNA. ‘A partial match? So that means that one of the thugs who attacked my son is related to Shona’s murderer?’
Chisholm looked serious. ‘Mrs Dunbar, the match appears to come from the sample taken from your son.’
The smile on Sarah’s face froze. She heard the policeman’s voice as if it was far away at the end of a tunnel.
‘We would like to take a further swab from your son for confirmation purposes and, as his father’s name has already come up in our investigation, we would like to ask you to provide a sample of your husband’s DNA. A toothbrush, razor or hairbrush would be ideal.’
Sarah sank down into the armchair, her legs so shaky that she couldn’t stand upright. Rory? Was Chisholm really trying to say that Rory was in the frame for Shona’s murder? She couldn’t believe it; Rory couldn’t have been capable of murder. She’d discovered so many things about him since his death, but that couldn’t be true.
PART 12
I’m caught in a tunnel. I can see my twins, babies in front of me. I reach out but my legs won’t move. It’s like running through mud, it’s suck
ing me down. I look down – I’m only wearing a vest. I pull it down, but it’s too short.
There’s something behind me. I hear it and smell it but I don’t know what it is. I’m filled with dread. The walls are closing in. I can’t reach my babies and there’s no escape. Looming in front of me I see HJ Kidd’s mocking face. He’s laughing; then the face metamorphoses into Rory. He comes nearer and places his hands between my legs. I feel the sensation and want to let go. The face changes to my father’s, contorted with rage. Shame washes over me and the tunnel collapses. I can’t breathe.
Chapter 28
Sarah woke up, shaking and gasping for breath. A feeling of panic filled her. Something was wrong: were Nick and Lottie all right? She wanted to get up and stand over their beds and watch them sleeping peacefully, like she had when they were babies. Nick was in his old room with Olly and she certainly didn’t want to intrude on their privacy. What about Lottie, and the baby? She looked at her watch. Just after 3.00 – she couldn’t phone now. She tried to breathe slowly, calming her thumping heart.
She switched on the light and sat up. It was just a dream. After the police had bagged up Rory’s razor and toothbrush, taken samples from Nick and Olly and left, they’d all sat around, stunned. Lottie had been so white Abigail had driven her home to Liam. Nick and Olly were uncharacteristically quiet while they cooked the meal. They’d all eaten very little.
Olly kept saying, ‘It must be a mistake. Crime scenes become contaminated, samples are mixed up.’ Sarah appreciated his trying to raise their spirits, to find a chink of hope, but she was filled with dread. Could this be true?
She thought back to Shona. She was so pretty, and much more mature than her; she’d always liked flirting with the boys. Sarah could picture her so clearly; her long blonde hair, the beginning of breasts under her T-shirt, her slender brown legs. Could she have been with Rory that night? All the girls fancied him. Was that her secret? Was that where she was going that night?
She felt so confused, so desperate. She sat in the darkness of her bedroom, and picked up her phone. The screen was blank. Oh Tom, please send a message…
She’d never felt like this with Rory. They’d lived their lives in parallel, rather than together. Perhaps Rory had been unable to have a real relationship with anyone because he was always carrying the guilt, the burden of what he’d done as a teenager? Did he have a string of superficial relationships because he was afraid of letting anyone get too close?
Or maybe every marriage was equally hollow once you scratched the surface. She thought back to her own parents: she couldn’t remember ever seeing them laughing together, or even really talking. It was always quiet in their house; her father was not to be disturbed and his food was to be on the table punctually. In return, her mother was allowed her treats, but there was never any sign of affection between them.
Sarah had never been able to talk to either of them. When Shona died they’d been annoyed if she’d ever tried to mention her. She could never have discussed her pregnancy or the abortion with her mother, and she realised that she kept up the pretence of the perfect marriage with Rory partly for her mother’s sake. Marrying Rory was the one thing she’d done in her whole life that seemed to get any approval from her mother.
What did she even feel about Rory? She’d been thankful that he hadn’t abandoned her when she was pregnant, grateful that there was no pressure to abort their twins. She’d done everything she could to keep him happy because she was secretly afraid she was too boring for him – and she was always relieved when he came home to her.
Now she realised how shallow their relationship was; when she saw the love between Olly and Nick, and thought of the easy, unquestioning support that Lottie and Liam gave each other, she realised how much she’d missed. She was glad that her children could experience love, although she’d never really known it herself.
Until now. Now, with Tom, she knew what a real relationship was; a relationship where you could say anything and didn’t have to dance round on eggshells for fear of provoking a sulk; where you didn’t have to play a role and keep up a façade; where you could be yourself and feel valued. Oh Tom, why don’t you contact me?
She looked at her watch again and tried to get back to sleep but every time she closed her eyes her mind raced. Could Rory really have killed Shona? HJ Kidd’s words echoed through her mind. When the teacher had said he had a personality disorder and called him a narcissist, Sarah had been beside herself with rage; but now, when she thought about it calmly, perhaps there was some truth in it. His superficial charm, the total lack of concern for the consequences of his actions, the easy lying, the need for admiration, the fires he’d set as a boy – it all added up.
*
Tom walked out of the clinic shaking his head. No mobile phone, but he’d found out some useful information – the funeral was taking place on Friday that week. Carl must have pulled a few strings to get it organised so quickly. Of course, he was now the biggest property owner in Plettenberg Bay, so he could probably do whatever he liked.
The funeral was to be held at the One World Church, in a lovely position looking out over the mouth of the Keurbooms River. Aunty Betty had a plot in the graveyard next to the church, where Uncle Gus was buried. She’d always said she was looking forward to lying down beside him again.
Tom just wanted the funeral over with so he could get back to Scotland as quickly as possible. He knew Sarah would be worrying because he hadn’t contacted her and was kicking himself for not writing down her number anywhere, or at least bringing her email address with him. He’d done everything he could to find her landline number, pestering international directory enquiries, but she was ex-directory. In desperation he’d emailed HJ Kidd, partly to tell him he’d be back a few days later than originally planned, but also to ask for Sarah’s phone number or email address. He hadn’t received any reply.
He kept feeling for the pocket where his phone should be. It was awful not being able to contact Sarah, but he hoped she’d be able to feel his love for her, anyway. He felt so close to her, she must feel it.
He shook his head again. Thank goodness the effects of his hangover were wearing off at last – he hadn’t felt right for days.
*
The day of Aunty Betty’s funeral was as bright and sunny as every other day. Tom looked out the most sombre clothes he could find and went along to the church. He’d had no contact from Carl. He didn’t know whether this was down to not having a mobile, or whether it was a deliberate snub on the lawyer’s part, but Tom didn’t care. He hadn’t wanted to play a significant role in the service, anyway.
He knew Betty had written down her ideal funeral after Gus died. She wanted it simple; a celebration of her life and her love for her family and Plettenburg Bay. As she said to Tom then, it was not to be a sad occasion because she was going to be reunited with her beloved Gus.
The church was crowded with people Tom didn’t recognise. Being over ninety, Betty had outlived most of her old friends from Plett, but as Tom looked around the church he wondered for a moment if he’d wandered into the wrong funeral. Then he saw Carl, looking smug and shiny, surrounded by a group of his clones: his circle from Pretoria.
The service was awful, nothing like Tom remembered Betty describing as her ideal. It was overblown and pretentious and all in Afrikaans. The music was pompous, with a singer wailing in a self-satisfied manner. Betty would have hated it.
As Tom followed the coffin covered with lilies – flowers that Betty disliked intensely – he didn’t feel her presence at all. Only when he looked out to sea and saw the water sparkling over the Keurbooms beach did he feel her spirit.
Fly free, dear Aunty Betty. You were the best.
For the first time Tom felt tears pricking his eyes. He blinked twice and started to walk towards the centre of town. He shrugged off the dark jacket and knew that it was time to leave Plett.
He heard footsteps behind him and then a voice, ‘Mr McIver?’ He turned r
ound to see a tall, sandy-haired figure with a long aquiline nose. He didn’t recognise him, but he stopped to see what he wanted. The other man extended his hand, ‘Peter Roberts.’
Peter Roberts. In a dull spot of alcohol-destroyed brain cells it touched a chord. That was the name Betty had whispered just before she died, the name that Tom had been trying to remember for the last couple of days.
‘I’ve been trying to contact you, but I didn’t know if you were in the country or not. Somebody said you’d gone to Scotland.’
‘I was there but I came back to say goodbye to Aunty Betty.’
Peter Roberts looked solemn. ‘I’m sorry for your loss but I’ve got information that will be of interest to you. I’m a partner in Roberts and Cohn, Attorneys at Law, and we have a copy of your aunt’s will.’
Tom shook his head. ‘Her nephew, Carl van Wyk, has the will.’
Roberts smiled. ‘He has a will, but you will find that the one in my possession is more recent.’
‘Are you sure it’s legal?’ Tom raised his eyebrows. ‘Van Wyk’s a lawyer and you can be absolutely certain he will ‘prove’ that the one he has is the only valid one.’
‘That’s exactly why your aunt came to me. She’d been trying to amend her will, but Van Wyk wouldn’t allow it, put all sorts of obstacles in her way. She came to me and we drew up a will that was identical to the previous one, but with one important difference.’ He shot Tom a significant look. ‘A very important difference for you.’
Tom wondered what was coming next. The lawyer continued. ‘Your aunt has left you the property you and your family inhabited for so many years.’
Tom looked astonished. ‘I can’t believe it. Aunty Betty never said anything about it.’
Roberts smiled. ‘That was deliberate. She didn’t want anyone to know because she was afraid that Van Wyk would find some way to change or contest the will. But I can tell you she was a very sharp lady and this will is absolutely watertight; we have witnesses, we have a doctor’s report confirming she was of sound mind – and you now own the property on the dunes.’
Sewing the Shadows Together Page 24