by Jane Renshaw
The door was huge. In fact it was a double door, opening in two sections, with a heavy brass ring in place of a doorknob. Around the door were leaded stained-glass windows, and on either side flattened sandstone columns with acanthus-leaf corbels.
Posh.
She was perfectly positioned, as long as ‘Moir Sandison’ turned left, towards her, when he exited the building rather than right. But the chances were that he’d go left, towards the city centre. If he went right she wouldn’t be able to get a good shot. The zoom on her phone wasn’t great.
The other problem, of course, was that she might have missed him. Probably not – it was just half past seven, the early light cold and flat, the bare branches of the trees in the gardens stiff black fingers across a grey sky. But it was possible he started work at some unearthly hour.
It was also possible he worked from home.
Or that he wasn’t here at all. He could have given the salon a false address.
It probably wasn’t even him.
But what if it was? What if Suzanne – Sometimes people were kept prisoner for years. Decades. What if Suzanne was up there right now, looking down at her through a chink in a metal shutter?
She peered up at the windows.
Ridiculous.
She was being ridiculous. Suzanne wasn’t up there. Even if it was Rob, Suzanne wasn’t going to be here.
Two girls, probably Italian students or tourists judging by their colouring and the cut of their jeans, were coming along the pavement towards her with a slow, swaggering swing of the hips. She could use them as a dry run.
She lifted the map she’d spread across the wheel until it concealed most of her face. She was wearing the sunglasses she’d bought last time she was in France, and an ugly yellow sunhat. In March, for God’s sake.
She picked up her phone, holding it half-concealed by the dashboard, and switched it on.
Nothing. The screen stayed black.
But she’d made sure she charged it last night! Or she thought she had. She mustn’t have switched the charger on. Idiot! Well, but she had a camera... Her old camera, which she kept in the car in case of photo opportunities – a habit she’d developed when she and Jeff had been into photography. She flipped open the glove compartment and lifted it out.
But it felt too light in her hand.
The battery compartment was empty.
Right. The newsagent on West Maitland Street would have batteries. She grabbed her bag and, before she could let herself think what she was doing, had opened the car door and stepped out onto the pavement and locked Stan behind her.
She ran all the way to the shop.
Inside, feeling sweaty and a bit weak-kneed suddenly, she bought a pack of batteries, a bottle of water and a flapjack. She seemed to have forgotten to eat or drink anything before leaving the flat. She felt ridiculous in her sunhat and dark glasses, running back along Palmerston Place, but the people she passed didn’t give her a second glance.
She ran across the road and back into Eglinton Crescent. Part of her brain was registering what a nice place to live this must be: Eglinton Crescent and the street opposite formed a long oval, with the gardens an island of green marooned in the tarmac between them. All the rest of her attention was on checking the pavement in front of her – no one there – and behind – just an elderly couple turning the corner into the street.
She was thirsty, her mouth dry. She stopped to pull the bottle of water from her bag. Head down, she was aware of movement between two parked cars, and someone moving in front of her. She stepped to the side to let them past.
But they stepped to the side too, blocking her way.
She looked up.
Moir Sandison smiled at her.
23
She squeezed the bottle of water. She stepped to the other side.
So did he.
The bulk of him filled her vision: a dark, expensive-looking suit; a very white shirt; a striped tie, blue and purple; a glimpse of gold cuff-link.
‘Sorry,’ he said, and cleared his throat: cough-cough cough.
She couldn’t move and she couldn’t speak.
He laughed, and stepped back; sketched a bow, and walked on past her.
She ran.
She ran to Stan, fumbled the key into the lock; dived inside and locked the door. She was going to be sick. Her hands on the wheel and her feet on the pedals were shaking, but she managed to make the car move out into the road and away, revving the engine like a learner.
24
There were two of them, sitting hip to hip on her sofa, making it look like a miniature version of itself. And she thought of the policeman in her hospital room long ago, dwarfing the chair he sat on.
The younger man was the one asking the questions, and writing down her answers in a notebook. She’d expected something higher tech. But no, she had to keep pausing while he laboriously wrote down what she said, while the older officer seemed bored, looking out of the window and about the room; at the painting of horses above the fireplace that used to hang in the dining room at the Parks.
They’d said ‘No thanks’ to Helen’s offer of tea, so she hadn’t felt able to have one herself. She sat on the pouffe by the window, facing them, feeling like a child whose lies had caught her out. She’d been so sure of her story before they’d arrived. She’d just say she’d seen him coming down the steps of Number 31 Eglinton Crescent and recognised him immediately.
She had two reasons for lying.
One, she didn’t want to get Karim into trouble for giving out the address of a customer to another customer.
Two, the truth didn’t make sense. Not to someone who didn’t know Rob Beattie. Why would a man living under a false name, on the run for murder, not cross the street, or turn away, or at least hurry on past when he saw someone he knew in his previous life on the pavement in front of him? Not just someone he knew, but the girl whose cousin he’d murdered; the girl he’d attacked?
Why would he block her way until she looked up at him, and stare into her face, and smile at her?
It didn’t make sense.
Not unless you knew him.
So she’d kept it simple. She’d told them she’d been walking along the pavement and there he was – Rob Beattie, coming down the steps.
But then the questions had started.
What time was this? Where was she going? Why was she on Eglinton Crescent?
She’d blanked. Why would she have been there, on a residential West End street, that early in the morning?
She’d said she often went for an early morning walk before work, round the quiet streets of the New Town and the West End. It was virtually the only exercise she got. From there, she’d walk to the museum.
So, she often walked that route?
Yes, quite often.
But she’d never seen this man before?
No, she never had, but when she said she often walked that route, she didn’t mean that exact route. Usually she’d go right round by Douglas Crescent.
The younger man had stopped writing after he’d put this answer down in the notebook, and now he was looking at her. Like he knew she was lying.
‘Approximately how far away from you was the man?’
‘Um – I was walking past on the pavement, and he was coming down the steps. So a few metres?’
‘And how old would you say he was?’
‘Well – mid to late thirties.’
‘Height?’
‘About average.’
The older man stood up. ‘Compared with my height – taller or shorter?’
‘Probably about the same.’
‘I’m five-nine. Would that be about right?’
Helen nodded.
‘What about his build?’
‘On the muscular side. His shoulders and neck were very muscly. And his chest – and his legs. Almost like a body-builder.’ She could feel herself flushing.
‘Hair and skin colour? Hair length?’
‘Bro
wn hair, touching the collar at the back. Skin colour – well, white.’ Obviously. ‘Why do you need all this? You know where he lives. Can’t you just go and – talk to him?’
The older policeman nodded. ‘But first we need to finish taking your statement. Just so we have everything straight.’
The younger man consulted the notebook on his lap. ‘What was he wearing?’
‘A suit. Dark grey, I think. And a shirt and tie.’
‘What colour was the tie?’
‘It was striped. Blue and purple.’
‘When you saw him coming away from Number 31 – did you see him actually exiting the building?’
‘Yes.’
‘Was there an interaction?’
‘What?’
‘Did you speak to him, or did he speak to you?’
‘No. I – I think he might have recognised me though. He stared at me.’ At least that was true.
‘And how sure are you? That it was Robin Beattie?’
‘It’s not a face I’m likely to forget. It was him. His nose is a bit different, but – he must have had plastic surgery.’
‘So there were some facial differences?’
‘Yes. But his cough was the same too. Not a cough exactly, more of a nervous tic. Like – cuh-cuh cuh. In the back of his throat.’
‘Right. Okay. I think we have all we need for now. I’ll just get you to read this over and sign it...’
‘And then what? You’ll go and talk to him?’
‘We’ll visit the building and ascertain whether he’s a resident. If we can locate him he’ll be interviewed.’
‘Rob Beattie – he and my cousin, Suzanne, they both just disappeared. We don’t know for certain that he did murder her. He might not have. He might be... keeping her captive or something. In there. In the flat.’
The two men exchanged a quick glance.
Helen stood. ‘Will you be able to search the flat? Would you have to get a warrant or something? You need to talk to Grampian Police – DI Murray was in charge of the case, but DS Stewart seemed to be the one doing most of the work. I don’t know if he’s still –’
‘We’ll have a chat with the force up there.’ The younger man placed the notebook on the counter. ‘If you could just read that through.’
She knew she must sound mad. She knew Suzanne wasn’t in that flat.
‘You’ve had quite a shock. Maybe you could call a family member or friend and have them come over?’
When they’d gone she switched on the computer, navigated through to the ‘Contact’ section of the Pitfourie Estate website and clicked on Hector’s email address. When the blank email came up on the screen she typed ‘Rob Beattie’ in the subject field.
Then she closed the email and clicked ‘No’ when the box came up asking if she wanted to save it.
She really was mad. What sane person encounters a murderer, the murderer of her own cousin, and thinks: Aha! An excuse to contact Hector!
But she needed to tell someone.
She stared at the horses painting. It was of two shaggy horses on a hill, in the twilight, looking down into the glen far below; and if you peered closely you could see there was a tiny steam train there, its fire glowing red.
Mum, and worry her sick? Lorna, or Fiona, or Norrie?
Not Norrie, obviously.
She brought up the Favourites menu and clicked on Lorna’s website name, Damask and Delft. On the homepage was a photo of the shop frontage, painted a tasteful dark blue, with displays of baskets and antique stone pots and a quirky cut-out cat on the pavement outside, and cushions and cards and pretty lamps in the windows.
It was where the butcher’s used to be, next to the shoppie.
There was an email address on the contacts page.
But what would she say?
Hi Lorna, hope you remember me, your so-called friend who hasn’t been in touch for sixteen years – just wondering if you could ID this man who I think could be your murdering psycho brother?
She went back to the Favourites list and selected the Aboyne Medical Centre.
Steve and Fiona McAllister both worked there as GPs, although Fiona was only part-time. When the website came up she navigated through to the ‘Medical Centre Staff’ section. There was a photo of Fiona looking ‘trust me I’m a doctor’-ish in a lilac blouse, her hair falling in soft waves to her shoulders. Steve had put on the beef a bit. His hair was cut close to his head and he was grinning at the camera.
There was nothing about their personal lives – only stuff about where they qualified and their professional interests and specialties: Fiona’s ‘special interest’ was ‘initiatives to improve the quality of life of elderly people’. The website didn’t even refer to Fiona and Steve being married.
She’d sent them a belated ‘congratulations’ card, after finding out from Hector that they were married. Fiona had written back to thank her, and said they must meet up some time soon.
That had been eleven years ago.
She shut down the computer.
There was no one she could tell.
25
‘But – no.’ She sat down on the sofa and brought the phone back up to her mouth. ‘He’s lying.’
‘He’s supplied us with satisfactory evidence that he’s Moir Sandison.’
‘Like what?’
‘A birth certificate. A current passport. An old passport, which was obtained when he was nineteen and carries a photograph of himself at that age. A newspaper clipping showing him at eighteen in the school football team. Other documentary evidence of that nature. He also provided contact details for a gentleman who knew him in his youth – we’ve followed that up, and have had his identity confirmed to our satisfaction.’
‘What about DNA? Could you make him give a DNA sample, or is that an infringement of his human rights or something?’
‘He’s said he’s willing to supply a sample for DNA testing if need be, but the evidence he’s already supplied is, we feel, overwhelming.’
‘Right. So that’s it? You’re just taking him at his word?’
‘Not at his word, no. We have documentation and corroboration from an individual who –’
‘He could have had those forged. He could have got someone to pretend to have known him.’
‘The individual in question is his former headmaster, who’s been interviewed by officers from the Fife force and identified Sandison from a photograph. Apparently he was quite a football player.’
Helen got up and walked to the window, and placed the hot palm of her left hand against the glass. ‘So – you’re sure. He’s not Rob Beattie.’
‘No.’
‘But then –’ But then how did they explain him blocking her way just like Rob used to; smiling at her like he used to; mocking her?
They couldn’t explain it because she hadn’t told them about it.
‘I know it is him,’ was all she could say.
‘It’s entirely understandable, in the circumstances, that you should believe that to be the case. But comparing this guy with photographs of Robin Beattie... I think most people would have to say the resemblance is superficial at best.’
‘Superficial?’
‘Miss Clack.’ The voice was firm now. ‘Our investigation has been thorough – I can assure you that we are one hundred per cent sure that this man is not Robin Beattie.’
When he’d rung off she set the phone back in the holder, picked up her bag and left the flat. She had to do this now, or not at all.
26
She walked quickly along Eglinton Crescent, her shoes slapping the stone of the pavement. Slap-slap, slap-slap. One of the doors she passed was open, and by the kerb a woman was strapping a child into the back seat of a car and telling him they would be having their supper very very soon but he could have some raisins if he liked.
Raisins. Oh yes, it would be raisins in Eglinton Crescent, not Jelly Tots or Smarties or fizzy juice.
The child, unsmiling, watched Helen pass b
y.
Slap-slap, slap-slap. She concentrated on the sound of her feet; watched them moving in front of her.
At Number 31 she went up the steps, crossed the flagstones to the door and pressed the buzzer that said ‘Sandison’.
Eventually: ‘Hello?’ came a deep voice.
She’d thought that she’d know his voice. But people’s voices changed over the years, didn’t they? And the necessity of living under a false identity would be quite an incentive to change the way you spoke.
‘This is Helen Clack.’
Silence. Then: ‘I think maybe you’ve got the wrong buzzer? This is flat 1F1?’
She pushed her tongue around her teeth. Her mouth felt sticky and dry and when she said, ‘I know it’s you, Rob,’ it came out much too loud.
‘Oh God.’ Then: ‘You’d better come up.’
The door buzzed.
It would be stupid to go in. To go up there alone, when no one knew where she was. Like a stupid woman in a horror film.
She pushed the door open and stepped inside.
There wasn’t just a passage like in her building. There was a proper big lobby, smelling of waxed wood and polished Victorian tiles, with an antique sideboard. And the stairs weren’t cold stone like in a tenement; there was a thick wool carpet, cushiony under her feet.
He was standing at an open door on the first floor, wearing a light blue shirt tucked into suit trousers.
‘So you’re the mad bitch who’s been telling the police I’m a murderer.’
‘I know who you are.’ She folded her shaking arms under her chest.
‘Yeah, and do you know the name of the prime minister? Do you know what year it is?’
‘I want to see inside your flat.’