by Jane Renshaw
‘Horrid. And do you feel shivery?’
‘A bit.’
‘Achy?’
‘Achy arms and legs.’ Helen took another sip of water. ‘And my nose won’t stop running, and my throat’s like sandpaper. Other than that I’m just fine.’
‘And to add to your woes, do you have a rash?’
‘No.’
‘Okay. It sounds like you have a bit of flu. I’m just going to have a quick listen to your chest. Have you been having any problems with your breathing?’ Fiona ducked down and reappeared with a stethoscope, hooking it into her ears and rubbing the other end between her hands. ‘A mucousy crackling in your lungs?’
‘No.’
‘If I can just slip this under your T-shirt...’
Helen felt the smooth metal press into her skin.
‘Take a deep breath in and out.’ Fiona’s face was intent as she listened, then moved the stethoscope to the other side of Helen’s chest. ‘And again... Good.’ She smiled, and pulled out the earpieces. ‘Your lungs sound fine. You don’t have diabetes?’
‘No.’
‘Problems with any of your organs? Kidneys or heart? Liver?’
‘No.’
‘And have you been in hospital recently for any reason? Seeing your doctor for anything?’
‘No.’
‘Good. That’s fine, then. It’s just a case, I’m afraid, of waiting it out. Making sure you drink plenty fluids. Now, there’s a Lemsip in the mug.’ She indicated the tray. ‘I’ve left the other sachets in the kitchen.’
‘Oh – thank you.’
‘But if you prefer straight Paracetamol, there’s some here too.’ There was a packet on the tray, Helen saw. ‘Obviously, though, if you have the drink and then decide to take Paracetamol, adjust the dose accordingly. There’s the equivalent of one Paracetamol in that mug.’
‘Thanks. That’s really good of you.’
‘I know from experience that your uncle doesn’t keep a well-stocked medicine cupboard.’
‘Not exactly the ideal patient?’
‘Not exactly, no... You know he had a little heart attack last year?’
A heart attack?
Just like Dad?
Fiona’s hand was on her arm. ‘Just a tiny one. A warning sign, really. I thought he might not have told you.’
‘But – what do you mean, a warning sign?’
‘He’s meant to be following a new regime, healthy eating etc., but Hector says his diet still seems to consist of sandwiches, biscuits and alcohol.’
Hector.
Oh God.
‘Maybe you can reform him while you’re here.’
‘Oh but I’m not staying. After I’ve had a rest, I need to see Lorna. And then I’ll be going back to Edinburgh.’
‘You’re in no fit state to drive, Helen.’
‘After I’ve had a sleep...’
Fiona folded up the stethoscope and bent down again. Presumably she had her doctor’s bag down there, out of Helen’s view on the high bed. ‘You have to “Listen to your body”, as they say. At least stay a couple of days. We’ve a lot to catch up on, haven’t we, apart from anything else? I want to hear all about your work – I always think it must be so fascinating, like being a detective – and about your mum’s new man and what she’s been doing in Yorkshire.’
Her surprise must have shown, because Fiona laughed. ‘Getting information out of your uncle is like getting water from a stone, but you know what Hector’s like – you start off talking about the weather, and before you know it you’re blurting out your deepest darkest secret. Or in your uncle’s case, news about you and your mum, which he seems to regard as classified information. The rest of us have had to be content with getting it all third-hand through Hector.’
So Hector – Hector knew things about her. And felt they were interesting enough to tell other people. Like what? She tried to think what kind of things Mum might have told Uncle Jim, on the rare occasions they spoke on the phone. Boring stuff about her job. Boring stuff about her flat. Not so boring stuff about Moir?
There was a tentative knock at the door, and Fiona called, ‘Come in.’
Uncle Jim edged himself into the room. Despite the heat he wore a thick, shapeless tweed jacket.
‘Helen’s got a dose of the flu, Mr Clack. I’ve just been telling her she’s not well enough to drive back to Edinburgh. She can stay here a few days, can’t she?’
He looked from Fiona to Helen, as if it had just been suggested he fly them to Mars. ‘I’m not just sure... Hel’nie... I’ve not much in the way of provisions. And the house... I’m a muckit aald mannie, Doctor, and the place isna fit for folk.’
‘Well maybe it’s time that changed. And here’s the perfect motivation. As for provisions, you can manage some invalid food, can’t you? Some toast, maybe? A boiled egg? Some tinned soup? Jelly? Custard?’
Helen’s stomach turned over. ‘I really don’t want anything.’
‘It’s not rocket science, Mr Clack.’
There was something ridiculous about Fiona lecturing Uncle Jim, but still calling him ‘Mr Clack’, as if doing that let her say anything she liked and still be respectful. Helen caught Uncle Jim’s eye, and thought she saw a glint there.
‘Do you have bread?’
‘Aye. But nae a toaster.’ This said with some satisfaction.
‘You’ll just have to use the grill on the cooker, then. How about a slice of toast with a bittie butter on it?’
‘I’m really not hungry,’ said Helen.
As Uncle Jim shuffled obediently off, Fiona said briskly, ‘It’s good to get something inside you, if you can.’ And then, ‘I really hope you’ll be able to stay a while, Helen. Everyone will want to see you.’
Everyone?
‘So how are you all?’ Helen tried to make her voice normal. ‘You and Steve –’
‘Old married couple with three kids. Can you believe it? Lizzie – the youngest – is just three and a half. So I’m only working part-time at the moment.’
‘You have three children? Wow... And what’s Steve doing?’
‘He’s a GP too – in the same practice, actually. Talk about taking your work home with you... Our older two girls have had to impose a ban on “doctor talk” at the dinner table. How sad is that?’
Helen smiled. ‘And Fish? Sorry, I mean...’ What was his real name?
‘Malcolm.’ Fiona’s eyes sparkled. ‘Everyone still calls him Fish. Apart from Mum and Dad, and assorted aunts and uncles. And presumably people at his work. He’s District Procurator Fiscal now. With a posh Georgian house in Old Aberdeen. Still looks like a startled haddock though.’
Helen laughed. ‘And Lorna? I know she’s got a shop – I’ve seen it online.’
‘Yes, she’s had that for – it must be two years now. Not the best time to set up a business, but she seems to be doing okay.’
‘I bet she has it running like clockwork.’
‘Gosh yes.’ Fiona went to look out of the window, pushing a stray strand of hair behind her ear. Sunlight fell harsh on her face, and Helen saw that there was the faintest trace of a vertical crease in her forehead above her nose. The discovery was shamefully satisfying. ‘And Norrie – he still works on the Estate – on the native forest regeneration thingy. His wife’s just had a baby.’ She flicked a look back at Helen. ‘A little girl.’
This really was news. ‘I didn’t even know he was married.’
‘He’s been married a while now.’ She spoke carefully, as if measuring her words against Helen’s possible reaction. ‘A girl he met on a chainsaw course, of all things. She’s a lot younger than him. Mid-twenties.’
‘Is she nice?’
‘She’s nice enough.’ Fiona took the sunglasses from her head, pushed her hair back, and replaced them.
‘And Hector?’ She made her voice light. ‘How’s Hector?’
Fiona came back to the bed, bent down and straightened, holding what looked like a deep, stiff briefcase but which was presumab
ly the latest in doctors’ bags.
‘Is he all right?’ So much for keeping it casual. In her own ears the words sounded desperate.
‘Why shouldn’t he be?’
The temperature in the room had just plummeted.
Then Fiona grinned at her, and the sun was back. ‘I can safely say that Hector enjoys what they used to call “rude good health”. Doesn’t even smoke now. He never darkens the surgery door – except when he has a suspect tick bite and needs a course of antibiotics. As a preventive measure for Lyme’s disease. You know? Some ticks carry it now, so if you’ve been walking in long grass or heather you need to check yourself for them.’
‘I don’t think that’s going to be an issue. When I’m well enough to go for a walk in tick-infested heather, I’ll be well enough to drive back to Edinburgh.’
‘Yes. Of course you will.’
There were a hundred things she’d like to ask, but she chose just one. As if as an afterthought: ‘Is he married?’
‘Hector? No.’
‘But he’s got a partner?’
‘No.’
Silence.
Then: ‘Hector’s relationships seem to follow what we call in the medical profession a “self-limiting course”. Average duration approximately three to four months. I don’t think he’s ever had what you could call a partner – although the women in question have no doubt felt differently. Poor things.’
Poor things.
Well, this was what she’d wanted to hear, wasn’t it? That Hector was still single? That he didn’t have anyone?
But how could she be glad that he hadn’t found someone to love?
Fiona was swinging the case gently, back and forward, back and forward. ‘Okay then, I’ll leave you to –’
‘I passed the gates to the House on my way here. They look very smart. And the East Lodge. Looks like it’s had quite a make-over.’
‘Oh, the whole Estate’s had a make-over – although we’re talking sash-and-case window renovation at £400 a time, and lime repointing, and flagstones, and native species, rather than uPVC, decking and water features.’
‘So the Estate’s doing well?’
‘Seems to be.’ Fiona took a step away from the bed. ‘Now. You get plenty of rest, and I’ll come back and see you tomorrow.’
‘Thanks Fiona. But you really don’t need to –’
‘And you can tell me all about what you’ve been doing.’ She opened the door. Oh-oh. I smell burning.’
38
The vinyl on the bathroom floor was sticky under the soles of her shoes. Glancing into the loo was a mistake – the sides of the bowl were encrusted with brown and yellow keech. There was no toilet brush or any sign – unsurprisingly – of toilet cleaner. It stank.
She tore off a piece of toilet paper and wet it at the sink, and wiped the toilet seat. The paper turned yellow. She chucked it into the toilet and lifted the seat, electing to hover as if it was some grotty loo in a nightclub.
What would Ina say? Probably: Get me the Vim.
Did Uncle Jim ever hear from her? Had they ever got divorced?
As she washed her hands at the sink, running the tips of her fingers along the sides of the bar of soap, where it wasn’t quite so clarty, she noticed on the top of the cabinet next to the door, covering a spare roll of toilet paper, the knitted form of Frank.
The white poodle Grannie had made, Grannie who had died before she and Suzanne were born. There was dust lying thick on his nose. Ina had always been scathing about Frank, but she and Suzanne had loved him. They used to add him to their gang of soft toys and dollies. Helen had felt sorry for him because he didn’t have a proper body, just a big floppy space where the toilet roll went, so Suzanne used to roll up a scarf and stick it up his bottom.
Or a blouse, if they wanted to make him a little fat-arse.
She crossed the landing not to her own room but to the one next to it.
She opened the door and went in.
Suzanne’s room, but not Suzanne’s room. All the posters and photos and gonks and the huge cut-out vampire were gone. The walls had been repainted a bilious shade of green. Everything was neat, and covered with dust.
The bedspread was the same, though. Camberwick, like in Helen’s room, but green instead of pink. The walls had been painted to match, presumably. The sun slanting through the window highlighted the names scratched on one of the lower panes of glass: Helen and Suzanne, hopelessly crooked. She smiled, and walked to the window on weak legs, and traced the letters with a fingertip.
They’d done them with a belt buckle, on a winter day with snow thick on the ground outside, cold through the thin glass. Uncle Jim had not been impressed. He’d told them the window wasn’t theirs to deface, it was the Laird’s, and did they want to go and explain to him how this had got there?
Suzanne’s response had been a classic:
‘It wasn’t us.’
Instead of going back to bed, she made for the stairs. She needed a drink of water, and the idea of supping from the bathroom tap wasn’t appealing.
She hung onto the banister as she made her way down. The front door was standing wide open, and a dog was clicking across the flagstones of the hall, ignoring her, intent on its progress along the passage towards the kitchen.
She was reaching for the door to close and lock it when Uncle Jim appeared, stooping to put a hand on the dog’s head in passing. ‘Now, Hel’nie. Back to bed with you.’
‘You shouldn’t leave the door open like this. Anyone could just walk in.’
He smiled, as if at the daftness of the idea. ‘Will I get your gear in from your car?’
‘Oh – well. Yes. Thank you.’
‘Up to bed with you.’
‘I’m sorry to be such a nuisance, but could I have a drink of water too?’ And as she had a mental picture of the probable state of the kitchen: ‘Or actually there are some bottles of drinks in the car. Could you bring them in? Thanks, Uncle Jim. I feel awful, landing on you like this. Making you fetch and carry for me.’
‘Na na.’
‘Fiona was saying you’ve had some heart problems.’ Actually, she probably shouldn’t have done, but Uncle Jim was hardly going to sue her for a breach of confidentiality. ‘You should have told me – I could have come and looked after you after you got out of hospital.’ Could she? She was only here now out of necessity, and as soon as she could sit behind the wheel she’d be off again.
Uncle Jim was moving out of the door. He turned back with a smile, and waved a hand as if to say It was nothing.
The dog followed him.
‘Not the great big suitcase,’ she called, on second thoughts, having visions of him struggling, red-faced, up the stairs. ‘Just my handbag, if you can find it. Thank you!’
She needed to phone Mum at some point. She’d just say she and Moir had split up and she was visiting Jim. And she’d also have to call DC Powell in Edinburgh to tell him where she was.
But right at this moment she needed to lie down.
When Uncle Jim appeared with her handbag and two bottles of Sprite, she was half-dozing, half-wondering if she needed to be sick again.
‘Oh, thank you. Just dump them anywhere.’
He set her handbag on the bedside cabinet, carefully, as if it was the latest must-have designer bag rather than the scuffed, bauchled old thing she’d had for years. She reached for it and opened its flap. She’d put the photos of Moir in the centre pocket, ready to show Lorna.
‘Uncle Jim – could you sit down a minute? I need to tell you something.’
All through her story he sat frowning, shaking his head and sucking in a breath occasionally, but not saying anything until she’d finished. ‘So you think this mannie was Rob Beattie.’
‘I don’t know. That’s why I’m here. I wanted to show these photos to Lorna.’
He brought a pair of filmy reading specs from the top pocket of his jacket and perched them on his bulbous nose. As he examined each photograph in turn, hi
s face gave nothing away.
He handed the photos back and shook his head. ‘I dinna think it.’
‘But he’s a grown man, remember, now. And he could have had cosmetic surgery... As long as it’s even a possibility, you see why we have to be careful? Keep the doors locked? Be on the look-out for him?’
He sighed. ‘You’ve had a sair time of it, Hel’nie.’
She gulped air. ‘When the police catch him they’ll be able to do a DNA test, and that’ll tell us one way or the other – but they have to catch him first. And meanwhile he could be anywhere. He could be out there right now.’ She gestured at the window.
‘That DNA’s a great invention, eh?’
She blinked.
She’d just told him the psychopath who’d killed his daughter could be prowling round the house, and he wanted to talk about DNA?
A bubble of hysteria rose up her throat. ‘Oh Uncle Jim. It’s good to be back.’
‘Well, well.’ He stood. ‘If you’d like a gander round the Parks, when you’re feeling better, it’s empty just now. I’ve the keys.’
As if she was going to want to go wandering about a deserted house. ‘No one’s living there?’
‘It’s a holiday let. Empty just now – the Laird’s to have the place rewired.’
For a second Helen thought he’d lost it – that he’d forgotten the Laird was dead. And then she realised he meant Hector.
Uncle Jim didn’t know about what had happened in London – she hadn’t even told Mum. But he knew about the letters: about Suzanne and Rob writing them, about Helen thinking they were from Hector. So she couldn’t bring herself to ask him any of the questions she wanted to. Instead: ‘Fiona was saying the Estate’s doing well.’
‘Aye.’
‘I’ve had a quick look at the website. There seems to be a lot going on, with holiday lets and shooting parties and everything.’
‘Aye.’
‘There must be money in that sort of thing, then. Although I was under the impression that most rural estates find it hard to make ends meet these days.’
He didn’t say anything.
She sank back against the pillows.
‘You get some shut-eye, lass.’
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