‘Where would he go?’
‘I don’t know . . .’ She was distraught.
‘Think. Diana’s life may depend upon it.’
‘This is ridiculous! He’d never kill her!’
‘Mrs Stimms,’ Alice said, looking steadily at the woman, ‘is this a gamble you want to take? He would. I don’t seem to be able to get this across to you. I’m quite sure he was responsible for Miranda’s death. We know, from you, that he was with her that night. We know that she was involved in an argument in the stair. I had thought it was with her boyfriend, Hamish. But thinking about it this minute, afresh, it will have been with him. There was no lesbian lover, no flatmate – there was just Miranda and Diana. Your husband comes to the flat to get Diana back, they fight over her and Miranda is found dead the next morning. I’m pretty sure, now, that he was involved in Hamish’s death too.’
‘This is pure fantasy!’
‘If only. Tell me this, on your return from staying with your mother on the Monday night did you notice anything different about the house – was it in a mess, for example?’
‘No, it wasn’t different at all, not in a mess. In fact, Jimmy, God bless him, had cleaned up everywhere in the kitchen for me. Specially, as a welcome home for me. He’d cleaned it top to bottom. I had to re-do it, of course, he’s a man, can’t clean to save himself. I had to wipe down all the surfaces again and mop the floor. But it’s the thought that counts . . . I was touched, particularly as he’s always so busy at work. You’ve nothing against Jimmy – no evidence that he killed this Hamish you keep bringing up.’
‘You judge. We know that Miranda’s last phone call was to Hamish. Suppose she phoned him about her father, about his visit. Perhaps, she saw him coming from a window or something – told him, let Hamish know that her father was coming. She would know why he was coming, would not give Diana up without a fight. After all, I’m pretty sure that your Jimmy abused her from puberty onwards. Diana was thirteen, you’ve told us. Hamish, on his return from London, goes to see her. She’s not there, Diana’s not there, where would he go next?’
‘To her father’s house,’ DC Cairns said, as if the question was aimed at her.
‘Exactly. We know he caught his flight to Edinburgh. Suppose that finding no one in Miranda’s flat, he goes to see Jimmy. He’s never seen again. Then, like your daughter, Miranda, he ends up face down in the Forth. He died, not of drowning, but of knife wounds. And what you’ve just told us is that on the Monday night, Jimmy cleaned up the house.’
‘The colour of the water was . . .’ she began, then looking stricken, she added, ‘he’s got a knife. He must have used a knife. One’s gone missing, it’s missing still from the block. I never said anything to him about it, never thought he’d have anything to do with it – but he’s got a knife!’
‘Where is he?’
‘I don’t know! I don’t know! How would I know? He’s always on his travels, he sees people all the time, selling the cards, speaking to the Brothers, holding services, he’s never off the road. There are thousands of places he could be – thousands of places he could go!’
‘Is there anywhere on the coast, quite near here, anywhere that he knows well nearby on the coast of Fife or the Lothians?’
‘On the coast?’
‘Yes, somewhere very close to the sea.’
‘There is a spot, West Lothian way. It’s right on the Forth, near Hopetoun House. When the kids were little we’d all go there all the time, have a picnic. Jimmy loved it, used to go there himself sometimes, walk about, relax . . . He knows that little bit of countryside like the back of his hand. We haven’t been there for years, but . . . it’s the only place that I can think of like that, on the coast.’
‘Will you come with us? Show us exactly where it is?’
16
‘Dddaa . . . ddaa . . . ddaa . . .’
‘Dddaa . . . ddaa . . . ddaa . . .’
She sang it again and again, as if it was a lullaby and she must send herself to sleep. Familiar with the ins and outs of Bruntsfield Place, he took another quick look at her reflection in the rearview mirror, watching her mouthing it, repeating that single word obsessively, polishing it like a jewel on her tongue. It was only seven days since she had gone, but to him it felt like several lifetimes. To his tired eyes, her beauty had blossomed whilst they were apart. She must have lost weight, a good stone, and now she had an unearthly fragility, appearing more doll-like, closer to an angel than any flesh and blood girl. How had she survived in that horrid world of theirs, remained pure and innocent, untouched by the filth of the place? In a Hell on earth, somehow, she had walked through that fire and remained unscorched, unscathed, with her virtue as her only armour.
The traffic was bumper-to-bumper on Lothian Road. In the offside wing-mirror as they crawled along, he caught a glimpse of a marked police car in the nearby lane, only a couple of cars back from his own. Its blue light was flashing. He held his breath. The instant the traffic lights changed, it accelerated past him and turned right into Morrison Street. He relaxed his grip on the wheel, began to breathe normally again.
Hardly conscious where he was going, he crossed the west end of Princes Street into Charlotte Street and started heading out of the city northwards, as if pulled magnetically in that direction. The phone in his pocket rang, his nerves jangling in time with each of its piercing trills, but he ignored it; he would not speak to anyone about work, and could not bear to talk to Lambie again. Cutting through Ainslie Place, he followed the curve of the gardens into the corridor of Great Stuart Place as if tied to the car in front of him, then continued, equally blindly, onto Queensferry Road, as oblivious to the traffic whizzing past him as he was to the rest of his surroundings. In the bubble of his own consciousness, with his eyes fixed on the road ahead, the only noises which penetrated his brain were the occasional words uttered by his daughter as she practised her new skill.
‘Yes.’
‘No.’
‘Yes.’
He could make them out alright. As each one emerged, she giggled in surprise and delight, thrilled with the sounds she was forming, impressing herself with her own virtuosity. Listening to her, he realised that despite her sojourn away in an entirely unfamiliar world she had retained that strange, characteristic self-absorption, that fascination with her own internal landscape, that lack of curiosity about his and everyone else’s world. She was still like a budgie in a cage, in love with its own reflection. He had waited long enough. Now sweating profusely, desperate to see how she would react, if she would react, he said in a loud, booming voice, ‘Diana – where’s Miranda?’
In the mirror he caught it. A wide-eyed glance thrown back at him, one of undisguised fear. Time had washed nothing from her memory. Oh, if only things had been other! Because, silent, at home with him and Lambie, everything about that night might have faded, slowly erased itself and, with his help, turned itself into a dream. It would have melted like snow on a summer’s day. And if, by chance, any busybodies from the police came before then, who would have listened to anything she had to say? Say! She did not speak like a human being. The noises she produced were still more like grunts. Most of what came from her mouth was strings of meaningless sound more likely to be found in a farmyard or a zoo than a civilised Christian home or school. At least, that had been true up until now. None of these newly recognisable syllables, newly recognisable words, had ever passed those dry lips before. So, all credit to the therapists in the special school in Bruntsfield. They had worked a miracle, and in doing so, he thought ruefully, brought about his downfall. And hers with it. When Anna Campbell proved untraceable, as she surely would, the police would scurry back to Star-bank. Once there, they would want to speak to him; and far more dangerously, to Diana. Now that she could talk, in some fashion at least, how would she respond to them, what exactly would she say? She could answer questions. Darling Lambie would have had no reason to question her, she would have been content just to put her arms tight
around her, never let her go. And, dutiful wife that she was, she would have let all the sleeping dogs lie. Like she always had, like she always did.
Overcome with anxiety, he could not resist trying again.
‘Diana, where’s Miranda?’
There it was again. His answer. That look, that look of blind fear, terror even. And it was aimed at him, at the back of his head. It was far more eloquent than any of the broken words that might spill from that pert little rosebud mouth of hers. Simply at the mention of that name, all that had happened in that cold tenement flooded back into his mind’s eye. And, plainly, the same happened to her.
Miranda standing at the top of the stairs, on the landing, shouting at him like a fishwife, threatening him with the jail. Calling him foul names, the foulest names, and all in public to boot. And there was Diana, too, cowering behind her sister, clutching her around the waist, tears streaming down her beautiful face.
‘Incestuous paedophile!’
‘Child-molester!’
‘Monster!’
He would never have touched Diana, not in that way, whatever that slut might have thought. And how dare she! He was the head of the household, and he had never done a bad thing to her either – certainly nothing that she had not wanted. Right to the end. It was all very well now to run away, pretend that she had not desired him, pretend that she had been scared, revolted, disgusted . . . but he knew better. He had always known better, from the very first. He had seen it in her eyes, read it as if it was print. But what could he do? This was a girl intent upon rewriting history, distorting things, and turning him into a villain in the process. She should remember; know her scripture, as he did. It was Eve who had tempted Adam, not the other way round. And on that Monday night, if she had not fought him, tussled with him, had simply allowed him to take his own daughter away, then he would not have had to push her, she would not have fallen. ‘Fallen’! She had fallen long ago, long ago, years ago, and now was intent on taking him with her. Her aim was to pull him down. And that boy, her follower – insulting him, accusing him, threatening him with the police and all in his own home. In crossing his threshold he had brought the filth of the world with him, the arrogant little bastard. But now it was clean again, washed away in the blood of the Lamb.
The prolonged blast of a horn made him jink back suddenly onto his own side of the road, abruptly aware of the excessive narrowness of the Dean Bridge. Shaken by the near miss, he determined to concentrate on his driving, slowing down and deliberately watching the cars around him, expelling everything from his mind bar the traffic and the road ahead.
Vigilant once more, he passed through the Barnton roundabout, the derelict hotel on his right with its pagoda tower and boarded-up windows. A string of green lights greeted him as if fate was favouring him, sending him a fair wind for his journey. No, it was not fate. As ever, the Good Lord was looking after his own, levelling the very roads for him. And now he, too, understood where he was going, had at some deep level known from the start where he was headed but had not cared, or been able, to acknowledge it. He had a mission to carry out, and had come prepared for it. To reassure himself, he glanced down at the side-pocket of the car door, at the butcher’s knife tucked away in it, its ebony handle poking out. On the straight road once more, he allowed his eyes to wander back to the rear-view mirror. Unaware of his scrutiny, his daughter was looking out of the window, her face vacant as they travelled through the bleak winter landscape. In those long days away from home, what horrors had she seen, what had she been feeling, thinking about? While her mother suffered, wore herself to the very bone, cried a lake of tears, what went through that strange, unreachable mind? Had she missed them at all?
The corridor of drab, grey-harled houses at the west end of South Queensferry seemed to go on interminably, the wheels of his Mazda rattling into the potholes of extensively patched tarmac time after time, making him wonder for a moment if he had taken a wrong turning. Then, just as he had begun to doubt himself, they emerged onto the coastal road, the water bright beside them with the tide in, the mouth of the river merging with the open sea. The long wall of Hopetoun House estate, a forest of black, leafless tree-trunks rising high above it, comforted him, cradled him, told him that there was not much further to go. And no one, no one was about, not even the ubiquitous walkers in their red socks who used to patrol the roads like pilgrims of old. Just before the sign for Society House, he turned right onto the dusty track leading to the knoll of trees, their picnic place, and slowly brought the car to a halt. He would try one last time.
‘Diana, do you know where your sister Miranda is?’
There it was. Unmistakeable, that look of sheer terror, directed at him, telling him all he needed to know. She had forgotten nothing. Her eyes still on him, she started picking her lips, distracting herself, soothing herself in the only way she knew how. In the silence he looked at her sorrowfully, unable to get over her radiance. She was as beautiful, no, more beautiful, than her mother had ever been, but they had the same delicate features. And that same ethereal quality, more spirit than flesh, more fairy than woman. Miranda had had it too when she was little, not as she got older and more lumpish, teenage and difficult.
In life, he mused, his eyes never leaving her face, choices had to be made. But they were not free choices. He had not chosen that Miranda should die, that the boy should come looking for her, hounding him, threatening him. If she had not snatched Diana, none of this would ever have happened and life could have gone on as before. But no, she could not keep quiet, had to ‘rescue’ her sister from her own parents, her own father, and involve a stranger in all their affairs. As if he, a Worldly, would, could possibly, understand anything of their lives.
Anger at the thought of all he had endured now coursing through his veins, he rose, left the car and walked through a glade of bare trees towards the sea, feasting his eyes on its immensity, calmed, momentarily, by its peacefulness, the perfection of the straight lines made by the horizon and the two bridges superimposed across it. This was a tranquil, a blessed place. How many times had they brought the girls here, watched them paddle on the warm sands, searching for empty razor-clam shells, cockles, cowries and other treasures.
Seeing for a moment in his mind’s eye Diana in her first, red-and-white striped swimsuit, bucket and spade in hand, toddling towards the water, tears came to his eyes. But she must go. Otherwise, he would have nothing. Lambie would understand about Miranda. A fall is a fall. No one is to blame for that. But the boy? No. That would be too much for her, even though he had had no alternative. It had not been a free choice. The boy would have told her, everyone, about . . . it, the so-called sexual abuse. As if she had not asked for it. As if any of it was any of his business.
With Diana gone, it could all be an accident and nothing else need ever trouble Lambie. Or, by any means, could Diana disappear again somewhere into their closed world, never to surface again? No. Not with this new gift of hers: words. Today there were only three or so, but how many tomorrow? ‘Nothing must trouble Lambie,’ he repeated to himself, walking back towards his car, his resolve renewed. As Abraham had been prepared to slay Isaac, he would be doing what was required of him. Doing it not for himself but out of love for her, and for the Lord.
Inside the car he could see the silhouette of his daughter, now in the front passenger seat, her head slightly bowed. He pulled on the door handle. Nothing happened. The door did not move. He pulled again. Again, nothing happened. Inside, he saw Diana’s face staring back at him, her eyes only inches from his own. Peering into the interior, he noticed her leaning over, her hand tickling the key fob dangling from the ignition. The stupid little vixen must have pressed it, locking herself inside, him outside.
‘Diana, dear,’ he said, watching as she looked up at him, ‘unlock the car door, please.’ She was not deaf, and would understand his words perfectly.
In response, she shook her head mulishly.
‘Diana,’ he repeated, louder thi
s time, ‘I said unlock the car door, please. Now. And I mean now!’
Again she shook her head. This time he squatted on his haunches down beside her so that their eyes would be exactly on the same level, ensuring that she would look into his. But like a dog, she hung her head, choosing to stare instead at the dashboard, studiously avoiding his gaze.
‘Diana, missy, open the door now. I said now!’
Looking straight ahead, she raised her head and, for the third time, shook it, her lips compressed in her resolve. It was as if she wanted him to appreciate that she was defying him and his orders. He watched her, unable to believe that she would treat him in this way. This was not his child of old. Surely, in a matter of seconds, she would weaken, relent, press the key fob and allow him to yank the door open. But, no, her hands remained on her lap, her profile presented to him.
Maybe, he mused, this was her fear at work. Maybe she was too frightened to open the door. Deliberately moving away, he strolled to the front of the car and leaned over the bonnet. From his new vantage point he forced his mouth into a warm smile, and waved both his hands simultaneously at her. That got her attention. Despite the rain beginning to fall, and determined to keep her attention, he blew her a kiss and then waited, playfully, as if she might reciprocate. She did not do so and in a comical manner, as if to tease her, he thumbed his nose. Then, still smiling, blinking away the raindrops running into his eyes, he said in what he believed was a jovial tone, ‘Diana, lovey, open the door would you? It’s pouring! Your old dad’s getting soaked out here.’
Impassive as a log, she kept her gaze on him but made no movement to obey.
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