by Jane Renshaw
The old Laird had had the desk positioned facing in to the room, but Hector had it facing a window. There was a PC on it, and on a table in the corner a printer. And in front of the fireplace was a coffee table with a comfy sofa and chairs round it. There were more maps on the walls, and above the filing cabinets a group of framed photographs – mainly of estate workers, but the one she wanted to go over and peer at was of the old Laird, in this room, leaning back against the desk and smiling at the camera in that way he’d had, as if he found life and everything about it faintly ludicrous. Behind him, in the process of clambering from the desk chair onto the desk itself, was a blurred blond toddler, one fat little hand clutching something that might have been a soft elephant. He was looking up at whoever was taking the picture with a wide conspiratorial smile. Was he about to launch himself at his father?
Who’d been behind the camera? Irina? Hector?
Hector. It’d hardly be here on the wall if Irina had taken it.
Lorna had been right: it was as if she’d never existed. The only evidence to the contrary was Damian himself. It had been pure Irina, the way he’d said, as they’d left, ‘Have fun,’ lightly, but with such a black look at Hector... Irina’s death ray, Suzanne used to call it. And: ‘We will,’ had been Hector’s breezy response.
‘Take a seat,’ he invited DCI Stewart now.
Stewart chose one of the chairs, took a folded piece of paper from his pocket, opened it out and set it on the coffee table. It was one of the fliers. Moir’s smiling face looked up at them.
Hector waited until Helen had taken the other chair before sitting down himself on the sofa.
‘I’ve just come from talking to James Findlay,’ said DCI Stewart.
‘Yes, I was about to call you about that, in fact, when you phoned this morning.’ Hector leant back. ‘So what do you think? Could it be your man?’
‘This stops. Now.’
‘Of course.’ Hector smiled. ‘I’m sorry for any embarrassment caused. It certainly wasn’t my intention to suggest that the local police force was in any way... apathetic. I can personally attest to that not being the case.’
DCI Stewart suddenly leant forward. ‘Hector, if this man in Findlay’s yesterday turns out to be some perfectly innocent person – and chances are, he will – and you’ve been going round suggesting he’s a stalker, you may be laying yourself open to legal action.’
‘Uh huh. You know, the great thing about being a private individual is that you’re not obliged to follow the cover-your-arse guidelines you “public servants” invariably work to.’
DCI Stewart’s face was going red. ‘It’s not a question of “covering your arse”! It’s a question of not slandering an innocent man!’
Helen might as well not have been there, for all the attention either of them was paying her. She said, ‘He bought a knife.’
DCI Stewart blinked at her.
‘The man in Findlay’s. He bought a knife.’
‘It’s a hardware shop.’ He sighed.
‘And last night someone scratched “Liar” on my rear windscreen. Rob – he obviously wants me to say I was lying about him killing Suzanne. First the email Mr Beattie supposedly received, and now this.’
‘Helen. You have no evidence whatsoever, first of all that Moir Sandison is Rob Beattie, and second that he’s within a hundred miles of here. Anyone could have vandalised your car. Anyone could have sent that email.’
He turned to Hector, like a headmaster, having dealt with one miscreant, tackling the next. ‘Even professionally planned and executed appeals of this kind throw up far more false sightings than genuine ones. In fact, it very often turns out that none of the supposed sightings are genuine.’ He set a hand on the flier, fingers splayed over Moir’s face. ‘This kind of amateur nonsense only serves to muddy the waters. I don’t want to see any more of these in circulation. Although if anyone does contact you with information, obviously, you tell them to call us.’
‘Obviously. In fact...’ He told DCI Stewart about the car parked near Milton the night before, and the motor home at Habbie’s Wood a couple of days ago, and DCI Stewart took down the estate worker’s name and address, and Shona’s, and the farmer’s.
Then he set down his pen. ‘Now.’ He looked at Helen, almost warily. ‘Peter Laing has had a bit of a story to tell about Sandison. Whether it’s true or not, of course, is another matter.’
‘He’s Rob Beattie.’ Helen’s mouth was suddenly dry. ‘I know that.’
‘We still don’t know who he is. Laing claims not to know himself.’
The Gillian woman bustled in with a tray, which she set down on the coffee table with a smile for Hector. There was a pot of tea, and cups and saucers, milk and sugar, and a plate of little rock cakes that looked homemade.
When she’d gone, Helen asked: ‘What has he said?’
‘He claims they encountered one another in Glasgow a year ago, when he helped Sandison out with another scam. All he’s admitting to as regards their latest venture is that he agreed to supply references and pose as Sandison’s old headmaster if need be. He claims neither knew the other’s real identity. That he was only peripherally involved, and knew none of the details of the actual scam.’ He pushed a hand into his suit jacket pocket.
Hector was pouring the tea.
‘Do you think that’s true?’ Helen said.
‘Who knows?’ DCI Stewart produced a photograph, then two more, which he placed on the table between the tray and the flier. ‘He’s been charged with conspiracy to commit fraud; these are the mug shots that were taken when he was being processed. He looks a bit different now from the photos in the database.’
He looked older: doddery and benign.
‘Goodbye Mr Chips,’ murmured Hector, handing Helen a cup and saucer.
Helen quickly repressed a smile – but not quite quickly enough, judging by the way DCI Stewart was looking at her.
‘You still don’t recognise him?’
‘No.’
Hector lifted the plate of rock cakes. ‘What else has he to say about Sandison?’
‘He claims that, for the duration of the scam in Glasgow, Sandison was going by the name James Johnstone.’ DCI Stewart shook his head impatiently at the plate. ‘The target on that occasion was a woman called Lisa Greig. Name ring a bell?’
Helen set her cup and saucer down. ‘No.’
‘I think only the Glasgow papers carried the story. Last year, after the Fatal Accident Inquiry into her death.’
‘Oh God – he killed her?’
‘No. No no. The Sheriff in charge of the Inquiry found there was insufficient evidence to indicate whether the death was accident or suicide, but there was never any suggestion of foul play. Her body was found in the Clyde. Tangled up in river detritus under the Tradeston Bridge. Whether she’d fallen into the river while under the influence or jumped, the Procurator Fiscal was unable to determine, but the death wasn’t suspicious. There were no pre-mortem injuries or defensive marks on the body. She simply drowned. What came out in the Inquiry was that she was in a very fragile state of mind – had been for some time. Very high levels of alcohol were found in her bloodstream.’ He paused. ‘Witnesses said that she’d moved in with a boyfriend – “James Johnstone” – and then split up with him at around the same time that the investments she’d made with the proceeds of her flat sale went bad, leaving her with no money to buy another place. She’d moved back in with her parents shortly before her death. The police never did locate Mr Johnstone. Her friends thought he may have gone abroad.’
‘It’s the same,’ said Helen. ‘The same as he did to me.’
‘Laing’s version of events suggests that may have been the case.’
Another photograph appeared on the coffee table. And this time she did recognise the face in it: a woman in trendy glasses, a mane of dark hair falling to either side of her face.
‘It’s Bec. Rebecca. That’s what he told me. He told me she was his sister. Oh God. This is her? This is
Lisa Greig?’
‘He said she was his sister?’
‘He showed me a photo of her, the two of them together – and there was one of them as children, at least that’s what he said it was – with their parents... Did Lisa Greig have a younger brother?’
‘I don’t know –’
‘He did the same to her. He took everything. Her photos, everything... He got her to sell her flat and took the money... There were no investments that went bad, were there? That was just what she told her family. She couldn’t bear to tell them what had really happened. What an idiot she’d been.’ Just like Helen still hadn’t told Mum and Lionel. ‘Can you tell me about her?’
‘She was a solicitor. Lived in the West End of Glasgow – beautiful penthouse flat, roof terrace, the whole shebang. But James Johnstone persuaded her to sell up and move in with him. Laing claims he became involved through a mutual acquaintance. “Johnstone” needed someone to play the role of his father – Lisa had been pressuring him, wanting to meet his family –’
‘She killed herself because of what he did to her.’
DCI Stewart sighed. ‘We don’t know that for sure. This is only Laing’s story.’
‘But it all fits.’
He picked up the pen. ‘I’d like to take yet another statement, if I could, about these photographs of his “sister”. And the vandalism to your car.’
When they’d finished, and he was getting to his feet, she said: ‘Have they asked Peter Laing about Rob Beattie? Whether he ever came across the name in connection with Moir? Whether he knows if Moir might be dyslexic?’
‘I don’t know, but I’ll ask them to do so, if they haven’t already.’
‘Have you told the graphology expert about the dyslexia?’
‘I will,’ he said. ‘First thing on Monday morning.’
Of course – it was Saturday.
When he’d gone, Hector spooned sugar into her tea and made her drink it. She drew the line at a rock cake.
‘She didn’t want to live. Lisa Greig. After what he did to her.’ After her whole world fell apart. And then she was telling him, of all people: ‘Sometimes he used to hurt me.’ She set down her cup and stood. ‘And he used to enjoy watching human interest documentaries, you know, about people who’d been burned and had to have skin grafts, that kind of thing – People suffering.’
His eyes were the softest of dark browns. Soft with pity, or sympathy, or –
She couldn’t stop her mouth wobbling, but presumably he’d ascribe that to Moir. She closed her eyes, and felt his arms around her.
‘It’s all right.’
She pulled away; lifted her face to look at him. He smiled down at her. She moved her hands on his shoulders –
And under her right hand, she felt a muscle contract.
The pit of her stomach responded.
And then he stepped back, putting her gently away from him, holding her by the arms and saying, ‘He’s not going to hurt you again.’
‘I know. Thank you – thank you, for helping me.’
What had just happened? Had he been shrinking from her touch, or responding to it? Or just moving his shoulder? She didn’t want him to let go her arms, but he did. He started to turn away to the window. To keep him where he was she said, ‘It’s Rob. I know it’s Rob. It has to be. There are too many things that are the same. The – the cruelty –’
‘Rob Beattie never had a monopoly on that.’
She shook her head. ‘But things like the cough... Smellie Nellie –’ And most of all the email to his father and the word LIAR scratched on Stan last night, revealing that he knew she’d lied about the attack – that she didn’t actually remember it. But she couldn’t tell Hector that.
‘Conmen always research their victims’ backgrounds. After you saw him in the salon, you confronted him because you thought he was Rob – of course he’d then have gone off and found out all about Rob, you, Suzanne... There’s a lot of information, presumably, out there in the public domain. Even trivial things like the way Rob used to cough – all that’s probably out there.’
‘But it was the cough that drew my attention in the first place, in the salon – and that was before he’d even met me. He couldn’t have been researching my background before he’d even met me. So he has to be Rob.’
‘There are other possibilities.’ He took two paces back, and perched on the desk.
He was putting space between them. Was he? Did that mean he felt something, but didn’t think it was a good idea to pursue it given all the trauma she was going through at the moment? Or had he been removing himself from her touch, and was withdrawing himself now from her reach, because he didn’t want to give the poor little nymphomaniac bunny-boiler the wrong idea?
‘Damian may be right about the whole thing having been engineered,’ he was saying. ‘But that doesn’t necessarily mean that he’s Rob.’
Her bare arms were cold. She rubbed them. ‘A conman who just happens to look like Rob Beattie decides to target me in a scam – and to freak me out by planting little hints that he is Rob – Is that what you’re saying? That’s ridiculous! If he did manipulate me into spotting him in the salon, and finding out his address, and going after him – that only makes sense if he really is Rob.’
‘His fascination with TV programmes about people suffering – I imagine that probably extended to a fascination with true crime. Let’s assume for the sake of argument that Moir Sandison isn’t Rob – don’t you think he’d have known about Rob, and his own resemblance to him? There’ve been two books written about Suzanne and Rob’s disappearance, and doubtless plenty of articles; plenty of stuff on the internet. Maybe he became obsessed with Rob. It wouldn’t have been hard to track down the Helen Clack involved – half an hour on Google would have done it. Your name was on the museum website, presumably? All he’d need to do would be follow you home from work.’
‘But was it in those books that he used to call me Smellie Nellie? The way he used to cough?’
‘Possibly not. But he could have done his own digging – rung people up pretending to be a journalist, wanting details about Rob’s childhood.’
‘Have you read them? The books?’
‘Oh, years ago.’ He stood. ‘One of them concentrated on the Beattie family, as I recall – its thesis seemed to be that Rob was the way he was because of his upbringing. Son of the manse kicking against the traces. Weak father, overindulgent mother. The other – well, the other painted Suzanne as the ultimate wild child.’
‘What, you mean, as if it was Suzanne’s fault?’
‘No. The authors took the view that it was her wildness that made her vulnerable.’ He went past her to the coffee table and started putting things onto the tray. ‘The police may well get more out of Laing yet. They’ve already got a whole new line of inquiry in the Lisa Greig thing – that could bear fruit.’
‘Yes.’
‘Who knows, he may have left a trail as “James Johnstone” that’ll lead them to his real identity.’
‘So you don’t think he’s Rob.’
‘No,’ he said. ‘I don’t.’
54
There was rain coming, in a grey bank of cloud darkening the sky from the west. Watching the car approaching down the drive, Helen buttoned her cardigan and agreed with Damian that yes, maybe lighting the fire would be a good idea.
So here she was: standing on the doorstep at the House, with Hector so close that the wool of her cardigan sometimes brushed the sleeve of his shirt. Ready to welcome their guests.
‘I take it yesterday’s little escapade didn’t happen?’ said Damian. He was lounging back against the dressed stone of the doorway, casually gorgeous in dark khaki chinos and a thin navy jersey that had to be cashmere, pale shirt collar just visible at the neck.
Hector altered his stance, putting cold air between his arm and Helen’s. Deliberately? ‘I don’t want to get into this again now.’
‘Neither do I.’
‘There’s no po
int telling any of them about it.’
‘Well, no. It would only upset them, wouldn’t it?’
Hector glanced across Helen at Damian, and away again.
A little silence developed, and then Damian said, the edge gone from his voice: ‘Steve would go mental.’
Hector smiled.
Almost before the car had stopped Fiona was out of it, tottering across the gravel in elegant strappy sandals and a floaty dress with a wrap over it, wailing that she was frozen and wasn’t it Arctic all of a sudden, and she hoped they’d lit a fire.
‘There’s no such thing as bad weather,’ Hector said as she reached up a hand to his shoulder and he bent to kiss her cheek.
‘Only inappropriate clothing. I know.’ Fiona broke away from him, almost before their kisses had connected, to squeeze Helen, and give her a bright smile, before turning to Damian and saying, ‘Is the fire lit?’, and grabbing him for a hug and a kiss.
‘Very nearly.’
Then Fish and Steve were there, and Steve had his arms round Helen, a big bear of a man in a rugby shirt, telling her he was sorry to have missed her the other day, and he was sorry about all her troubles; and everyone was talking at once and then Norrie appeared from somewhere, and Helen was being kissed again, awkwardly, and asked if she was all right.
She’d forgotten how small Norrie was. Small and a bit ferrety about the face. He was fingering his tie and not looking at her; shooting looks at Steve, as if worried he’d overdressed for the occasion.
‘I’m sorry I –’ She felt herself flushing. She could hardly say she was sorry for not keeping in touch. The last thing he’d want was to be reminded of her rejection of him, all those years ago in Edinburgh. Oh God. Was this how Hector felt about her? ‘I hear congratulations are in order. You have a little girl?’
‘Aye.’ And he started talking about the baby – her name was Annabel but they called her Beryl the Peril – and the awkwardness fell away. Norrie. How strange it was, to be talking to Norrie, to be moving at his side through the hall after the others, as if all the years of her absence had never been. As if, if she turned quickly enough, she might see Suzanne, scooting off down the passage; hear Irina calling after her: ‘Suzanne!’