The Sweetest Poison

by Jane Renshaw

  A big, tiled space, with slatted shelves under high windows along one wall, and, opposite, three tiled shower cubicles, their curtains all pulled neatly to the same side.

  She followed Fiona through a doorway, past a row of changing cubicles, to a final door which she pushed open to reveal a pristine toilet and sink.

  ‘Well phew,’ Fiona said, starting to laugh. ‘No one hiding behind the curtains?’

  The curtains of the cubicles were all pulled to one side like the shower curtains had been, and you’d have to be stick-thin to hide behind them, but Fiona batted each one with her hands, like a kid playing a game of hide and seek, and Helen felt a prickling of irritation.

  Now nice it must be to be Fiona, to have the courage of someone to whom bad things just didn’t happen; to live such a charmed existence that searching for a psychopath in a deserted building was just a bit of a lark, an after-dinner game, a Famous Five adventure to tell the kids about later.

  In one of the cubicles a pair of crutches was propped in a corner.

  Did that mean Damian couldn’t even walk without crutches, when he wasn’t wearing the artificial foot? She had imagined that he’d be able to use the stump of his ankle to balance on, if he bent the other leg a little bit. But maybe not.

  And as they returned to the showers and Fiona repeated her curtain-batting exercise, Helen saw that the middle cubicle had bright yellow grab rails, two on each side, and the floor of the shower was different from the others: creamier, and textured. There was a large white plastic rectangle set into the tiles of one wall.

  ‘Clear!’ Fiona announced like an American cop, giving the end curtain a final pat.

  Helen smiled perfunctorily.

  Fiona must have seen where she was looking because she reached out a hand to the plastic rectangle and said, ‘Now this is really nifty.’ It was a seat. She showed Helen how it could be adjusted, pulled out from the wall and turned round and moved up and down. ‘Sorry. I’m a bit of a gadget freak.’

  A seat for Damian, because he couldn’t stand properly.

  Helen said, ‘Damian likes swimming, then.’

  ‘I think so, although he moans about Hector getting him out of bed to do it on winter mornings. It’s good non-load-bearing exercise. Not that he doesn’t get enough exercise otherwise – more than enough, in fact. He – well.’ She smiled. ‘Straying into doctor/patient confidentiality territory here.’

  ‘You’re his GP?’

  ‘No, thank goodness. Steve is. Not that Damian’s a difficult patient, really – it’s Hector that’s the problem, with his shelves of medical textbooks and online subscriptions to every relevant journal there is. And his tendency to check every little thing Steve says with his tame private consultant at the Royal London. And – well. You can imagine.’

  ‘Yes.’ Helen smiled.

  ‘The pool was finished two months after Damian came home from hospital that first time – right on schedule for his first hydrotherapy session. His whole rehabilitation was run like a military campaign.’

  ‘But – where did Hector get the money? For the pool, for everything – all the improvements on the Estate… Where has it come from?’

  ‘He’s really turned things round. With the holiday lets, and building up the sporting side –’

  ‘So the money comes from the Estate?’

  She lifted her shoulders.

  ‘Fiona?’

  ‘You know Hector. He plays his cards close to his chest.’

  ‘DCI Stewart said an odd thing. When I asked what he had against Hector, he said, “Not quite enough.” And that man Chris who works for him... It all just seems... He’s not involved in anything actually criminal, is he?’

  Fiona laughed. ‘I did wonder why he bought up the entire stock of balaclavas at the last WRI sale of work.’

  ‘No, but seriously... Hector’s always been... a bit of a law unto himself, hasn’t he?’

  Fiona’s eyes were suddenly bright with – what? Not anger? – as she turned away. ‘Actually, I think Hector’s probably the most moral person I know.’ She was moving to the door. ‘They should have finished in the kitchen by now, so hopefully that’s us neatly avoided the wimmin’s work. Where’s Norrie got to?’

  He was in the passage, looking at the old photographs.

  ‘Raining again,’ he said, and removed his jacket to act as an improvised umbrella for the three of them.

  In the drawing room, there was a cafetière, a thermos and three remaining mugs on a tray on the ottoman. Coffee this late always kept her awake. But she didn’t want to make a fuss and ask for something else.

  She lifted the cafetière. ‘Fiona? Norrie?’

  Fiona shook her head. ‘Not for me, thanks.’

  ‘Your peculiar tastes have been catered for.’ Hector took the thermos from the tray.

  Helen was about to ask for some of whatever was in the thermos too, but as Hector poured the contents into one of the mugs she saw it was only hot water, and he was stirring it into something that was already in the mug – some sort of malted drink.

  ‘I feel I should be offering you Fairy Liquid with this,’ said Hector, handing Fiona the mug.

  ‘I know – Cat says it tastes like dishwater too.’

  Helen poured coffee for herself and Norrie, added milk, and sat down in her place on the chintz sofa. Fiona passed her a box of chocolates.

  Fish said, ‘Surely the most compelling argument against this guy being Rob, Helen, is that he’d never jeopardise his liberty by getting so close to you. I mean, why would he?’

  Helen sighed. ‘Rob always got a kick out of tormenting me. The night before Suzanne... Before she disappeared... before he attacked me... he even hinted what he was going to do. He came up Craig Dearg to find me and he told me this riddle. This stupid riddle.’

  Fish raised his eyebrows encouragingly.

  ‘I am a garden of delights. I am a desert – no, that’s wrong – I am a wasteland frozen. I am the dagger in the night. I am the sweetest poison. What am I? And the answer was obviously Rob Beattie. He was talking about himself.’

  ‘Really? Would anyone, even someone as narcissistic as Rob, describe themselves as a garden of delights?’

  She was still holding the open box of chocolates in one hand, and the little menu card in the other. Bile rose in her throat at the thought of putting a chocolate in her mouth.

  ‘Could the answer be cruelty?’ suggested Norrie. ‘Or maybe sadism? A garden of delights as far as he’s concerned.’

  Helen set the box and its card down on the little table next to her. ‘Or hatred. I think he really must hate me.’

  Damian said, ‘Mm,’ with an odd sort of grimace. He was sitting on the sofa opposite, an elbow resting on its arm, the light from a lamp highlighting the contours of his face.

  Hector, straightening from throwing another log on the fire, looked round at him. ‘Out with it, then.’

  ‘Well.’ The grimace became apologetic. She was beginning to know that look of his, but even so she wasn’t prepared for: ‘I was wondering if it could be the opposite. Could it be love?’

  For a beat, two beats, no one said anything.

  Then:

  ‘But Rob didn’t love me,’ she got out. ‘You mean – he was using love against me, as a sort of weapon...’

  Everyone except Hector was looking blank.

  And before she could get her mind properly in gear, she’d already blurted: ‘So that fits too.’

  Hector had gone to stand at one of the windows behind her, and she was glad she didn’t have to see his face as she told them about the letters. ‘I thought they were from Hector. But it was Rob. He made Suzanne write them, pretending to be Hector. And then that night on the Knock – they left me a note, from “Hector”, asking me to meet him down at the vehicles. That’s why I was on the stalkers’ path. And Rob was lying in wait. To – rape me, I suppose. Suzanne must have tried to stop him, and – he killed her.’

  ‘Jesus Christ,’ said
Norrie.

  ‘Oh Helen,’ said Fiona.

  And Hector’s voice: ‘We don’t know that Rob forced Suzanne to write the letters.’

  ‘But he must have done. He must have been the one behind it all.’ She didn’t turn to look at him. ‘That day at the party here, before we went up to the Knock, he was always there, butting in, making sure we didn’t have the opportunity to talk too much.’ She met Damian’s gaze.

  He said, ‘And you think Moir Sandison, whoever he is, must have known about the letters, and have set out to repeat the process of –’

  ‘Humiliation,’ she said. ‘Yes. It all fits.’ She looked away from him, from them all, to the flames of the fire. ‘With the riddle, he was telling me what he’d done, I think – telling me about the letters.’ And that he knew what she’d done? ‘Or not telling me, exactly – amusing himself at my expense. That’s another reason why Moir has to be Rob. Otherwise, it’s too much of a coincidence, isn’t it? Two different sadists decide to pretend to be someone else, and make me fall in love with them, and then humiliate me, and – do things to hurt me.’

  ‘Coincidences do happen more often than people think,’ said Fish.

  ‘Or Moir could have found out about the letters,’ said Damian.

  ‘How? No one knew about them. Apart from Mum, and Uncle Jim and Auntie Ina. And Hector.’

  ‘And the police,’ said Hector.

  ‘They kept it all confidential.’

  ‘Supposedly.’

  ‘You never told anyone else?’ Fish was speaking to Hector, who came round from the window, at last, to sit down in the wingchair next to Fiona.

  ‘No. But who’s to say who Rob and Suzanne might not have told?’

  ‘Have you ever all compared notes?’ said Damian. ‘On exactly what happened that night?’

  Hector shook his head. ‘What would be the point?’

  ‘If Moir Sandison is Rob, maybe the reason he’s been out to get Helen is that the accepted version of events isn’t right. That email to Mr Beattie, accusing her of lying about Rob attacking her… “Liar” scratched on Stan...’

  How did he know about the email?

  But of course they must all know about it. She’d forgotten how efficient the bush telegraph was around here.

  Fish’s mouth was hanging open. ‘Stan?’

  ‘Helen’s car.’

  She dug her nails into her palms. ‘You think I did lie? You think it must all be my fault?’

  ‘Blame the victim, eh?’ Norrie’s eyes, fixed on Damian, were cold. ‘Two sides to everything? What a load of crap! How can any of this be Helen’s fault?’

  ‘That’s not what he’s saying,’ said Hector, his eyes meeting Helen’s.

  Was it her fault? Had she started it all? Rob must have known what she’d done, all those years ago in the playground. He must have seen the laburnum seeds in his vomit – or more likely his mother or father had, and given him a row for eating them. Told him how dangerous they were. He could hardly tell them what he realised must have happened – that Helen had put poison in her own sandwich because she knew he’d take it from her.

  It would have been quite a shock, the realisation that she could fight back. And that was why he’d pretended to be her friend.

  Of course it was.

  56

  Norrie was on his feet. ‘He attacked her and killed her cousin. It’s like – blaming the Jews for the Holocaust! But you lot, you can’t faddom it, can you, how folk can be victims and not able to do anything about it? That’s not the way the world works for you. You get your leg smashed to buggery and the end of it cut off –’

  ‘Norrie,’ said Fiona.

  ‘ – and four months later you’re back in the playground using your crutches as offensive weapons. Two bloody nebs and a summons to Mrs Mackay’s room later, and you’re back at the top of the Infant Class pecking order. That’s just the way things work for you, but not for the rest of us. That’s not normal.’

  Three mouths had stiffened in objection; two had lifted in identical grins.

  ‘Mrs Mackay would certainly agree with you,’ said Hector.

  Damian prompted: ‘What was it she said?’

  ‘ “He seems to have anger issues.” I think she’d been on a course.’

  Norrie sat back down with a bump. ‘Aye, and that’s my point made for me. What do they put in your milk?’

  Damian said, ‘Helen – I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to suggest that you were in any way to blame.’

  She smiled at him. ‘I know.’

  That hellish playground; a traumatised little boy, swinging a mutilated limb between crutches; and instead of helping him, being kind to him, the other children closing in for the kill.

  But Norrie was right: Damian Forbes wasn’t Helen Clack.

  ‘Maybe I am to blame.’

  Hector leant back in his chair. ‘How could you be?’

  I lied about remembering being attacked. And when I was eight, I tried to poison him. She shrugged. ‘Maybe if I’d done something to get Suzanne away from him –’

  Fiona puffed. ‘Like what? She was infatuated.’

  ‘I think she was scared. Deep down. She was scared of him.’

  ‘No,’ said Norrie. ‘She should have been, but she wasn’t. Or if she was – she got a buzz from it. Because that was the kind of quine she was. She got a buzz from things that were – twisted. Not that you could ever see it.’ He turned to face her. ‘A week or so before that night, we were all of us in the Forbes Arms, Rob and Suzanne and me and my brother, and some other folk – and Rob pulls me aside and says Suzanne will have sex with me for fifty pounds.’

  Helen’s stomach clenched.

  ‘I didn’t really want to. But I paid up, and she took me to the old laundry. Put a bittie tarpaulin over the pigeon shite, and a blanket...’

  Complete silence.

  ‘She said I was to think of it as a private school – a fee-paying school – and her the teacher.’

  ‘My God,’ said Fish.

  Norrie looked at the carpet.

  ‘She was a limmer,’ Helen managed to say. ‘I know that. I know she was – wild. Outrageously so, at times. But she could be so sweet.’ She looked round the circle of dubious faces, and suddenly it was very important that she make them understand.

  Fish said, ‘She could, actually. She once came to school with this big marble her dad had given her – I can see it yet, white china with red swirls in it. But she wouldn’t play it in a game to give us a chance of winning it. She just rolled it around the playground in some stupid girls’ game. I followed like a feelie... And at lunchtime she slipped it into my hand and said I could keep it.’

  This prompted other, less complimentary Suzanne stories: money disappearing from Fiona’s bag at the Youth Fellowship; Suzanne being thrown off the bus for blowing smoke into an old woman’s face; Suzanne sneaking in to the Kirkton Flower Show before the judging to pull petals off the dahlias.

  ‘Of course Ina spoilt her rotten,’ said Fiona. ‘No control at all.’

  Hector said, ‘It seems Ina’s dead.’

  Fiona’s eyes widened, and her mouth opened a little, like her brother’s. She turned to Helen. ‘But... When?’

  ‘A few months ago. I only found out when I was clearing up in the kitchen. There was a letter from her solicitor.’

  ‘Oh, your poor uncle.’ Fiona pulled her wrap closer. And after a little silence: ‘Did he have any contact with her, after she left?’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  Fiona sighed. ‘What happened to Suzanne – it must have put a huge strain on their marriage. Although maybe there were cracks before then – maybe that would explain why Suzanne... Children from troubled marriages are statistically more likely to end up in dysfunctional relationships themselves.’

  ‘ “Dysfunctional” is putting it rather mildly, isn’t it?’ said Hector.

  Fiona pursed her lips, as if she was trying, suddenly, not to smile. ‘I just meant – I can�
�t understand how she could have felt anything for Rob.’

  ‘Love isn’t logical,’ Helen blurted.

  ‘Of course it isn’t,’ Steve, unexpectedly, backed her up. ‘There’s nothing to say that the object of a person’s affection is necessarily deserving of it.’

  Fiona made a face. ‘But Rob Beattie...’

  ‘What I’ve always wondered,’ said Steve, ‘is whether he felt anything for Suzanne in return. Or was it all a sham?’

  ‘Maybe it was,’ said Fiona. ‘Psychopaths can be extremely plausible. He had a lot of people well and truly fooled. Our parents, for a start. They thought he was a lovely boy. Always so polite.’

  ‘Did a lot of good work for charity,’ added her brother. ‘Oh yes, the adults all thought he was wonderful. With the exception of your father.’ He turned to Hector. ‘He never liked him.’

  ‘No, but then he was prejudiced against the Beatties generally. Felt obliged to attend church, for some reason, and spent the whole time inwardly fuming and fantasising about Christians and lions. If he saw either Mr or Mrs Beattie coming towards him in the street he’d always take evasive action – hide in a shop or something.’

  ‘Have you heard about Mrs Beattie’s theory?’ Damian asked Helen. ‘She thinks Hector, in a drug-crazed homicidal frenzy, attacked you, killed Rob and Suzanne and hid their bodies. And he terrorized you into concocting a story about Rob being the attacker. God knows what she’ll have made of that email.’

  ‘Yes, well,’ said Steve. ‘Mrs Beattie has some mental health issues.’

  ‘It’s better than EastEnders once she gets going. She –’

  ‘Do you really think,’ said Hector, ‘that this is a topic Helen, or anyone, come to that, finds remotely amusing?’

  ‘No – sorry.’

  ‘I think it’s time you were in bed.’

  ‘But it’s only ten o’clock!’

  ‘Maybe if you hadn’t drawn attention to yourself with that little piece of puerility, you could’ve stayed up a bit longer with the grown-ups.’

  Damian stood smoothly. ‘Looks like I’ll be saying goodnight, then.’

  Fiona got up to kiss him. ‘Well, darling, sleep tight.’