by Jane Renshaw
Anna parked the pram by a stand of cards.
Helen couldn’t look at Damian. She said to no one in particular: ‘Are you sure it’s not out of your way? I’ll be fine going back on my own.’
‘Don’t worry,’ said Anna. ‘It’s on our way.’
From the corner of her vision, she was aware of Damian propping the hinged boards up against the far wall. ‘It’s no problem,’ he said.
She made herself smile at him as he came back to where she and Anna were standing. And she saw that there was a catch in his walk, a transferring of his weight too soon from his right leg – and he seemed to swing the leg under him more than push off with it. But even so there was a smoothness, an ease to the sequence of movements, as if God had intended Homo sapiens to walk with exactly this kind of loping limp.
Maybe that was why she hadn’t noticed it.
But that couldn’t even be a real foot, inside the beautifully polished shoe; it must be an artificial one, and –
She was staring.
She risked a glance at his face, but he wasn’t looking at her, he was looking out through the plate glass window. The light falling across the perfect lines of nose and cheek brought back Irina so strongly that she couldn’t stop her breath juddering in her throat.
As they left the shop: ‘You’re being stalked by the maniac brother?’ said Karen. ‘Her maniac brother?’
‘Subtle,’ said Anna.
Helen blinked. ‘Yes. I think I am.’
‘You could sue the police, if – you know. If he attacks you, and they’ve not done anything to protect you even though you’ve told them –’
‘Ever feel like you’re trapped in an episode of Little Britain?’ said Damian.
The car beeped at them as they reached it. Damian didn’t get in, he limped quickly round to the far side and opened the passenger door, and smiled at her, as the two girls plomped themselves in the back seat.
‘Thank you.’ She smiled back at him as he held the door while she settled herself in the soft leather seat, and then shut it with an expensive-sounding clunk.
Before he turned the key in the ignition he glanced round into the back seat and Karen said, ‘Check, and check,’ and then, presumably for Helen’s benefit: ‘Seatbelt OCD.’
Didn’t she know it was a car crash that killed his father, and crippled him, and lost him his mother?
Maybe Irina really had had a breakdown? Her husband had just been killed. Her child horrendously hurt. Maybe she just couldn’t cope?
‘I’ve never been in a convertible before,’ she said.
‘It does for your hair,’ from the back seat.
‘I think mine’s “done for” already.’
Neither of the girls contradicted her, but Damian said, ‘I like your hair,’ and pulled out into the road.
She had been doing calculations in her head. ‘You’re... not seventeen until December, is that right?’
‘I know!’ Karen wailed from the back. ‘It’s like, why should you be safe to drive at sixteen if you’ve got a disability but not if you haven’t? It should be the other way round.’
Damian was smiling. ‘It’s political correctness gone mad.’
‘It is,’ said Karen. ‘It so is.’
There was a gear stick. Surely he couldn’t be using the artificial foot on the pedals? That wouldn’t be safe, would it? Or even possible?
She must have been staring again because he said, ‘Don’t worry, it’s a semiautomatic clutch,’ and pointed to the pommel of the gear stick. ‘That little button thing’s an infrared detector. When you touch the gear stick, it activates a computer system that operates the clutch pedal. The computer monitors your speed, revs per minute, acceleration. Don’t ask me how. The great thing is, though, it’s impossible to stall.’
‘I could do with one of those.’
The air swirled round her neck. As they passed the kirkyard, she could almost have reached out and touched the railings. It was a disorientating sort of feeling, not to be separated from the landscape you were moving through.
As Damian indicated left at the Worm Hill turn-off, he said, his voice pitched low so that it was covered by the chatter from the back seat: ‘Why don’t you want to see Hector?’
She shook her head, and turned to watch the verge blur in the film of her tears. He didn’t say anything more after that.
As he slowed for the turn-off to the track: ‘Stop here,’ she said. ‘I’ll get out here.’
He didn’t stop. ‘I’ll take you to the door.’
The girls in the back were shrieking now about something.
‘Could you tell him I’m sorry?’ She rummaged in the bag on her lap.
As they powered up the incline to the yard at the Mains, gravity pushed her back into the softness of the seat. She found a tissue, finally, and wiped at her face. The garage people must have been – Stan, parked over by the steading, now had a full complement of wheels.
They’d stopped at the door. And before she could start to thank him he was out of the car, holding Helen’s door for her and picking something up from the ground – Fly’s horrible slimy tennis ball – and throwing it right over the roof of the byre.
Fly, tongue lolling, bounded after it.
The handkerchief was already out of his pocket as he made for the open door, calling out, ‘Hello, Mr Clack?’ and disappearing into the house.
‘We’ll stay here,’ said Karen.
Uncle Jim wasn’t in the kitchen. Only Damian, shaking his head, and laughing, and saying, ‘Oh my God. Did you do this? Well of course you did. Oh my God, you deserve a medal.’
And she realised he meant the cleaning. ‘I do, rather, don’t I?’
She hadn’t done the cupboards yet, or taken up the vinyl or even washed the floor, so there was still an unpleasant odour underlying the fresh scent of the Ecover cleaning stuff. But the worktops were clean, and the cooker and the Aga and the dresser; the piles of mail had gone, apart from the one awaiting Uncle Jim’s attention, Jiffy bag on top; and she’d washed all the shelves above the sink, and everything on them. She’d taken the chairs outside and washed them down. And scrubbed the table. It had once been varnished, but most of that had peeled off. It would have to be stripped and redone.
‘Maybe I’ll be able to revise my nil-by-mouth policy,’ said Damian. ‘This is actually quite a nice dresser, isn’t it?’ He ran a hand down the smooth curved edge of the shaped side-panel joining the base and the top. Helen had been doing that a lot – there was something very tactile about that particular piece of wood. Strange, and oddly unsettling, that he should go straight for the same bit.
‘It’s very shoogly,’ she said. ‘Watch that you don’t bring it over on top of you.’
He stood back, grinning. ‘How undignified a way to go would that be? Like something from a cartoon.’ Now he was looking at the worktop. ‘I had no idea this was white.’
‘It probably won’t be for much longer.’
‘So you’re not staying?’
‘I’m going back to Edinburgh tomorrow. Please tell Hector I’m sorry. But he doesn’t need to worry about me. Fish has very kindly offered to handle the legal side of things, with the bank... And the police are dealing with the rest.’
He was moving about, absently touching surfaces. ‘Are you going to tell the police about what happened in the toilets?’
‘There’s someone coming over later – a DCI, to update me on progress and – he wants me to look at a photograph – they think they’ve identified Moir’s accomplice. They’ve probably arrested him by now, in fact.’ Why was she telling him this? ‘I can make a statement to the DCI, presumably, about what happened.’
‘They won’t bother their arses. They’ve already dismissed what happened last night as petty theft.’
‘How –’
‘One of the PC Plods who came out used to work on the Estate.’
‘But it’s surely meant to be confidential?’
‘Mark Howden doesn�
��t know the meaning of the word. Literally. I think, you know, it might be a good idea to speak to Hector about all this.’
Click-click-click through the door. Fly’s nails on the floor. He went straight to Damian and dropped the ball at his feet.
‘Thank you.’
Fly’s tail moved. Damian tapped the ball with his right foot – the foot that wasn’t a foot – sending it bouncing under the table, and Fly after it.
And she wanted to cross the room and take him in her arms, this beautiful boy who wasn’t what she’d wanted him to be, and tell him she was sorry; to hug him like she used to when he was a baby.
What would he do, if she did?
As hysteria rose, she blurted: ‘I don’t want to see Hector.’
The words were out before she could moderate them.
‘You don’t want anything to do with him, because of what happened to your cousin? Because it was his fault you were all out of your skulls?’
‘Why does everyone just assume that? Hector knows that’s not the reason.’ But it seemed he hadn’t even told his brother the truth about why Helen couldn’t face him. ‘I was in love with him. I thought – Rob got Suzanne to write me letters, supposedly from Hector, while he was away in the Army. I thought they really were from Hector, and I thought he was in love with me too. They weren’t, and he wasn’t. Then five years later we met up in London, and – I was in a right state, crying all over him – and he felt sorry for me... And I made an idiot of myself all over again. Got it all wrong as usual. That’s why I don’t want to see him. Okay? Satisfied?’
He was laughing. He was actually laughing.
‘But I suppose it’s a common enough occurrence for both of you, stupid little no-hopers and their unrequited love? The two of you have some good laughs about it, do you?’
‘No. I’m sorry. It’s just – Hector’s so useless about that kind of thing. There’s no need to be embarrassed. He’s probably feeling much worse about it than you are.’
That kind of thing. ‘And that’s supposed to make me feel better?’
‘It does happen fairly regularly. Women falling for Hector. Norrie’s wife propositioned him in the shrubbery. Like something out of P. G. Wodehouse. I mean – the shrubbery.’
‘But if you just said “the garden” it wouldn’t be nearly as funny, would it?’
His eyes widened a little, but not, she thought, in embarrassment. ‘Not nearly.’
‘I thought Norrie and his wife had just had a baby?’
‘That was her excuse. Hormones all over the place.’
‘Does Norrie know?’
‘Let’s hope not.’
Fly nudged Helen’s leg with the ball. She took it, with the tips of her fingers, and rolled it out of the door into the hall.
‘So you’ll see Hector, yes?’
‘What? No... No.’
He followed Fly into the hall. She heard him speaking to the dog, then silence. Then he was back. He was holding the cordless phone to his ear.
‘What are you doing?’ Fly pressed the slimy ball against the back of her hand. She pushed it away. ‘Damian?’
He smiled at her, as he said into the phone: ‘No, not yet. I’m at Mains of Clova. With Helen.’ A pause. ‘Well, I’ve been working on persuading her to speak to you. Here she is.’
And he was holding the phone out to her with a question in his face. A question that had only one possible answer, if you knew Hector – if you knew him as she’d just revealed she did. If you knew what he must be to this boy who was giving into her hands the power to hurt him.
It was the worst kind of emotional blackmail.
‘Hello?’ From the phone, the voice that she’d never thought to hear again. ‘Helen?’
47
She put the cool smooth plastic to her ear. ‘Hello.’
‘God, I’m sorry. It seems to be a family failing – sticking our noses in where they’re not wanted. Give him a wallop from me.’
It was hard to speak. ‘I would, but he seems to have made himself scarce.’
The scullery door was open, and Fly and Damian were no longer in the room.
‘Look, Helen – I get that you don’t want to see me, of course you don’t, but – this chap Moir Sandison. It seems he may have been in Aboyne. I’ve just been speaking to Mr Findlay, who says someone strongly resembling him bought some gear from the shop two days ago. Including a camping stove and canisters.’
She stared at the calendar, ten years out of date, that was hanging on the opposite wall.
‘Helen?’
‘Yes.’
‘Can you hear me?’
‘Yes. What do you mean, “strongly resembling him”?’
‘Hmm?’
‘Resembling him, going on what?’
‘The photographs. The ones you gave the police.’
‘Oh. So Rob – Moir – he really is here. It really has been him –’
‘Well, Mr Findlay could be wrong. But I think we need to talk.’
She took a breath. ‘Isn’t that what we’re doing?’
‘Properly.’
She took another breath. ‘The police didn’t tell me they were showing people those photographs. I thought – I got the impression they didn’t believe me. About him being up here. But they’ve been going round asking about him?’
‘No. Not exactly... Some copies of the photographs you gave the police came my way, and we’ve been circulating them. Locally, I mean, and on the internet.’
‘Came your way?’
‘Can’t reveal my sources.’ There was a smile in his voice.
‘Do the police know? That he’s been seen?’
‘Not as yet.’
‘Campbell Stewart – he’s coming to see me. About Rob. He was the detective sergeant – before. He worked on the case. He’s a DCI now.’
‘Yes. I know him.’
‘Will I tell him to speak to you?’
‘God no.’ The smile was back in his voice. ‘No, I’d rather you didn’t.’
‘Why not?’
Silence. Then: ‘A lower key approach might be more productive – initially at any rate. I was thinking of going into Aboyne later, talking to Mr Findlay. Maybe having a look round some of the campsites.’
‘Hector –’
‘You could come along, if you like.’
A mad yip came out of her mouth. ‘You make it sound like – a trip to the seaside!’
‘Bring your own bucket and spade... At least let’s talk. Can you come over? After Stewart’s been?’
‘I’m not sure exactly when – I’m not sure how long he’ll stay.’
‘Doesn’t matter. Come when you can.’
‘All right.’ She swallowed. ‘Thank you. For... taking the trouble. To help me.’
‘It’s no trouble. It’s the least I can do.’
The reaction set in as soon as she’d finished the call. She dropped into a chair, her hand gripping the phone, her armpits damp and sticky. She felt trembly and sick. But adrenaline was pumping too.
She’d spoken to him. She was going to see him.
And at the back of her head, Suzanne’s voice: You sad cow.
Outside, Damian was standing by the fence with Uncle Jim, looking across the barley. Fly and Ben lay on the grass, bellies pulsing. Uncle Jim was saying, ‘Aye,’ on an indrawn breath. ‘Back-end of the week, gin there’s no rain.’
‘So?’ said Damian. ‘Has Hector worked his magic?’
She looked at him, and he at least had the grace to grimace an apology before the smile broke through, wider than ever.
And she couldn’t help smiling back. ‘You were such a sweet baby, too.’
‘Really? That’s not what Hector says.’
Detective Chief Inspector Campbell Stewart dealt with the problem of Fly and the tennis ball simply by pretending neither existed. He took a seat at the kitchen table, unbuttoning the suit jacket stretched a little too tight across his chest, and as his eyes scanned the room Helen felt su
ddenly conscious of the bits of the kitchen she hadn’t got round to – the splattered walls, the grey marks all round the cupboard handles, the filthy floor – in a way she hadn’t with Damian.
Uncle Jim, sitting at the head of the table, gave a sudden deep sigh.
She tried to concentrate on what DCI Stewart was saying, about Lothian and Borders Police, about how they’d been working with the Fife officers who’d interviewed Moir’s supposed headmaster ‘Mr McKillop’ in Dunfermline as part of the identity checks on him four months ago. But her thoughts kept flying off to Hector. What was she going to say? What was he going to say?
And what on Earth was she going to wear? She only had two clean tops left in her suitcase: the yellow shirt, which would be Crease City, and the blue crossover thing that flattened what little boobs she had.
What did it matter what she wore? Hector wouldn’t care. And it was about time she got over this ridiculous teenage infatuation.
‘One of the Fife lads was able to identify “Mr McKillop” from photographs in the PNC – the Police National Database – as a certain Peter Laing, who was picked up at his home in Glasgow last night.’ DCI Stewart reached into the inside pocket of his suit. ‘This is the gentleman in question.’
He set the photo on the table. It was a head and shoulders shot of a startled-looking elderly man, weak-eyed and trembling-jowled.
‘He doesn’t look like much of a desperado.’
‘Fraudsters seldom do. Not the successful ones, anyway. He’s a nasty piece of work all the same. Have you ever seen him before?’
‘I’ve no idea. He’s not what you’d call memorable.’
‘But he’s not familiar? You never saw him in Moir Sandison’s company?’
‘No.’
‘I imagine they made sure of that. He’s a slippery customer. His last contact with the system was when he was released from Castle Huntly eight years ago. It was assumed he’d “retired”.’
He turned over the photograph, on the back of which were written four names:
Michael Dee
Ewan Mathers
Peter Edwards
Peter Laing
‘Any of these ring a bell?’