by Jane Renshaw
‘Oh, well, they’re all lovely, but...’ Claire sank down onto a kitchen chair. This was a good opportunity for a quick chat about her ‘lovely’ employers. ‘They’re certainly keeping me on my toes.’
Helen took a seat next to her. ‘I can imagine.’
‘But Hector’s been really good. He bought me a whole lot of warm clothing today – insisted on paying for it. And he’s got me winter tyres and is going to give me lessons on driving in snow, which by the look of it I’m going to need. I’m a bit nervous about that too, to be honest. Especially after Mr Weber’s story. Do you think someone really might have tried to force him off the road?’
‘I very much doubt it. But if they did, could you blame them?’
‘Possibly not.’
‘Don’t worry about your driving-in-snow lesson with Hector. He’s an excellent driver.’
‘His father was killed in a car accident – is that right?’
Helen nodded.
‘Did it happen in snow? Is that why he’s being so insistent about this lesson?’
‘No. It happened in the summer, I think. Hector’s just good at looking out for people. It’s kind of his thing.’ Helen was tracing a knot in the old table with her finger.
Hmm. Maybe DCI Stewart hadn’t been so far off the mark after all. Maybe Helen Clack did have feelings for Hector.
‘It must have been awful for him, his father being killed so suddenly like that. And Damian injured so badly. Was he around at the time?’ She did her best to make the question casual.
But Helen was studying her more closely than Claire would have liked. ‘No,’ she said. ‘He was in Venezuela.’
Oh thank God, thank God! That meant, surely, that he could have had nothing to do with it, unless he’d paid a hitman, which was surely unlikely? Forcing a car containing your father and seven-year-old brother off the road and into a wall, to their probable death – that would have been the action of a psychopath, and everything in her was telling her that Hector Forbes was no such thing, whatever else he might or might not have done.
◆◆◆
When they’d all gone, Claire was clearing up in the kitchen when she heard the lift doors open through in the big larder storeroom and then they appeared, the two brothers, Hector propelling Damian forward, hands on his shoulders, as if he were Exhibit A. ‘Damian’s still hungry and wonders if he could sample the Icelandic pheasant.’
They both looked – not tired, but not exactly bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, as Grannie would have said. Claire hoped this meant they would sleep like the dead tonight while she did her snooping.
‘Oh God,’ she said. ‘Surely not? It’s in the bin. But I could do you some toasted cheese?’ Her true speciality.
And so she made them all cheese on toast and they sat at the kitchen table eating it while Damian launched into an amusing account of his evening. At least, it was amusing until he started telling them about Karen and her secret boyfriend at the hippy commune place, and Damian’s ‘outing’ of their relationship to her parents.
‘I’ll be in the doghouse for this,’ he concluded, reaching for another piece of toast.
‘Christ,’ Hector objected. ‘What else could you have done? In fact, you should have told them about this chap as soon as you knew about him.’
Claire nodded. ‘A forty-year-old guy and a teenager? That’s definitely cause for concern.’ Although a quite different concern, one that had been nagging at the back of her mind ever since she’d first met Karen, was lessening the more she found out about her. Karen wasn’t another Dawn. Dawn had been so desperate to fit in – she’d never in a million years have gone off and joined a hippy commune and shacked up with a forty-year-old.
Damian grimaced. ‘He won’t even let her have her own phone or email account. She has to use his. Although she’s spinning it as a cute couple-y thing that’s saving the planet.’
‘Hmm,’ said Claire. ‘Couples do sometimes do things that look weird to outsiders. But if you think it’s controlling behaviour, you need to talk to her about it.’
‘You think I haven’t tried?’ He looked at his brother. ‘You know what she’s like – if you try to give her advice, she’ll do the opposite on principle. But she’s probably going to stop talking to me now, anyway.’ It was the first time she’d seen a chink in his armour; a reminder that he was, after all, just a teenager who probably had all a normal teenager’s insecurities.
Hector laughed. ‘And that’s a problem? But seriously, Karen’s incapable of not talking to anyone for more than a day, maximum. And she’ll soon realise you were right when she comes to her senses and kicks this bastard into touch.’
Damian looked unconvinced. ‘I told Christine and Bill that I’d ask you... I don’t know what kind of tenancy agreement they’ve got at Kinty, but maybe you could sound out Balfour Jarvie about it? Tell him what’s going on and see if they’ve broken any of the terms? If they were evicted, maybe Karen would see sense and go home.’
‘Worth a try.’
‘Although it’s probably a vain hope, given that Karen told her parents she’d rather be sexually abused by a cult leader than go back home.’
Hector snorted, and offered first Claire and then Damian the remaining piece of toast before taking it himself. ‘There’s no point stressing about it. She’s not going to take a telling.’
‘Still. I could try,’ Claire offered.
‘Would you? That would be wonderful.’ Hector gave her a huge smile, and as she met his gaze and smiled inanely back, the moment seemed to stretch on, and on...
Oh God.
‘Thanks, Claire,’ said Damian.
‘She’ll bite your head off, of course,’ added Hector, as if nothing had happened. ‘I knew that girl was trouble the first time I set eyes on her.’ He ate a piece of toast. ‘Picture the scene... I’m returning home in an airport taxi. Been travelling for twenty-four hours and feeling a bit spaced out, so at first I’m not entirely certain of what I’m seeing: five small, very dirty children walking along the drive in front of the taxi struggling to carry a large metal gate – they’ve got it horizontal, not vertical, and in the middle is a little girl with her head sticking up through it – face beetroot and yowling. The driver stops and we both get out. I’m immediately set upon by one of the kids, who, under the grime, seems to be my own brother. The story is garbled, but from what I can make out, Karen put her head through the bars of the gate and couldn’t get it back out again.’
She should probably make some sort of comment here. ‘Impressive that they managed to get the gate off its hinges.’
‘I don’t remember how we managed that,’ said Damian. ‘Maybe it was just tied to the post. I do remember saying to Karen, “I bet you can’t get your head through there.”’
Claire attempted a laugh. ‘Hardly Karen’s fault, then.’
‘The fault was shared,’ Hector agreed. ‘It was more her reaction to what happened next... The driver and I conferred, and agreed that it would be easier to get her out of the gate, without decapitating her in the process, if her head was wet. So I carried water up from the river in some sort of receptacle, I forget what.’
‘The driver’s thermos,’ contributed Damian.
‘And poured it over Karen’s head. Of course she screamed blue murder. We then managed to force the bars apart slightly and lift the gate while the kids held her ears flat. Once freed, she turned on us and yelled –’
‘I wasn’t stuck!’ Damian provided on cue.
‘Marched off in high dudgeon. Then marched back, got into the taxi and instructed the driver – whom it seemed she knew – to take her home. Yelled at us that we were horrible and she was never coming back. I had to get my luggage out of the boot and pay the driver enough to cover the extra trip to Karen’s house.’ He picked up the toast. ‘That was my introduction to Karen DeCicco. I can still picture her glaring through the rear windscreen, hair flattened to her head, as the taxi drove off. A wet little bundle of fury.’ He gri
nned at his brother. ‘She hasn’t deviated too much from that pattern ever since. I wouldn’t worry about it. She’ll no doubt get herself out of this mess eventually the same way she always does, at maximum inconvenience to all those around her.’
20
Crossing the cold, airy expanse of the hall, Claire didn’t need to use her torch – there was enough moonlight filtering down from the half-landing windows to light her way. As she stepped across the pattern of the Persian rug, the grandfather clocked ticked in time, like a living presence, as if it were berating her: ‘Tch, tch, tch, tch.’
She would start in Hector’s study. If he was stupid enough to keep anything incriminating in the house, that was the most likely place for it. If Hector or Damian or Mrs Mac suddenly appeared, she had her story ready – she thought she’d forgotten to lock the door to the terrace and then thought she heard a noise in the study. But it was nearly two o’clock. Surely no one would still be awake.
She was making her way along the corridor when the study door opened, casting a soft triangle of light across the floor.
Heart thumping, she clicked off the torch and froze.
Hector was leaning on the door jamb, the dim glow from the room behind him highlighting the line of his jaw, his shirt collar. He was looking right at her. ‘What man art thou?’ he said. ‘Or rather, what woman?’
‘It – it’s me,’ she said, stupidly.
There was an unreal feel to the moment – the dark, still house, and the two of them, standing looking at each other in the gloom. His words. Like they were actors in some old play. And she’d forgotten her lines.
His jaw widened in a smile. ‘And what are you doing, exactly?’
‘I couldn’t sleep. I –’
‘Ah! Then we have that in common.’ He lifted his hand, and the dim light shone amber through the bottle he was holding. Whisky. ‘How about a nightcap?’
‘No, thank you, I just...’
In two steps he had swallowed up the space between them. He was standing so close she could feel the warmth of him in the cold air. She could smell the whisky on his breath.
He bent his head, his hand on her upper arm, and it was impossible to do anything but lift her lips to his and then the shock of contact was shooting through her, the sensation of his lips on hers seeming to jangle through her entire body while at the same time flooding it with warmth, like standing at a fire in a cold room –
She managed, finally and too late, to pull back, to summon something resembling outrage.
‘You’re drunk!’
He didn’t show it, much, but there was a looseness in his stance, a slight dishevelment of his hair –
‘I’m drunk,’ he agreed. ‘What’s your excuse?’
She could only stand there, in the dark, breathing fast.
He laughed.
She turned and fled.
21
Karen was generally up before it was light, so it was weird to lie in bed and see the weak winter dawn filtering through the curtains. They were horrible curtains, cheap purple polyester with big white flowers. She turned her head to look at Ade. His eyes were open, but he was lying staring at the ceiling as if she wasn’t there.
Chimp had definitely sent that text. But she hadn’t had time to think about it properly last night because Ade had told her he wasn’t sure he wanted to be with her any more.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I’m really sorry. Can you forgive me?’
‘So it’s still all about you,’ he said at last.
‘What do you mean?’
‘You lied to me. You snuck off to your folks’ place while I wasn’t here, hoping I’d never find out... You know how I feel about your family and the way they treat you. You know how I feel about your so-called friends, Damian Forbes in particular. But it’s all about you being forgiven, is it?’
‘No! I didn’t mean it that way!’ She took a shuddering breath. She wished he’d look at her.
‘Is there anything else you’re keeping from me?’
Oh God. In a small voice, she said: ‘Damian’s going to get Hector to ask Mr Jarvie to terminate your tenancy.’
He turned his head, and his leopard eyes looked into hers like they could see right into her brain, into the part of it that was going haywire about the rescue phone, about Chimp. She should tell him about all that too.
‘That’s not going to happen,’ he said.
‘Balfour Jarvie was Hector’s dad’s best friend. If Hector asks him to chuck you out, he probably will.’
‘We’ve got a limited duration tenancy with a lease term of fifteen years. Jarvie can’t touch us. Not as long as we continue to pay our rent on time and don’t break the conditions of the tenancy. Which we won’t.’
‘Oh. Oh, thank God for that!’
‘Rather thank Baz and his grasp of the legalities of land tenure. He’s coming back today, so you can do it in person.’
At breakfast, she really didn’t want to talk about last night and have it thrown in Ade’s face all over again, but Gwennie kept patting her arm and saying she shouldn’t worry, her parents would come round, she mustn’t let Damian (‘that little fooker’) get to her.
She’d never been happier to see Baz.
His cheerful grizzled face popped round the door and Karen and her problems were immediately forgotten as Gwennie ran into his arms, and he was lifting her off her feet and kissing her, and everyone was getting up to hug him.
‘Presents, children, presents from Santa,’ said Baz, fingering his grey stubble. He swung a bag up onto the table and tipped it out. Vegan chocolate reindeer and bags of Christmas tree-shaped pretzels and a whole load of other lovely unhealthy treats tumbled between the coffee pot and the breakfast plates and the salt and pepper. Prim grabbed one of the reindeer, staring at it like a little kid.
Gwennie made Baz some fresh coffee and brought him muffins with jam and then, because for some reason it seemed she just couldn’t let it go, she was telling him all about last night. ‘We had to go and rescue the poor love from a snowdrift!’
No no no, stop talking about it!
After the row with Mum and Bill, she’d pulled on her boots and grabbed her coat and run out into the snow and along the road, and she’d heard them behind her shouting, and then the car starting up, so she’d run into a field to hide in the dark. And then she’d gone right across that field and into the next one, and eventually back onto the road. She’d had to use the rescue phone to call Ade to come and get her. She’d told him she’d borrowed Mollie’s phone.
He and Gwennie had picked her up, and on the way back to Moss of Kinty in the van, crawling along the snowy road, she’d tried to tell Ade that she was sorry, that she never wanted to see any of them again – she was going to pack in her job at the House and not accept any more hand-outs from Mum and Bill. But Gwennie had said she shouldn’t make any rash decisions when she was this stressed, and when Karen said she’d lost Mollie’s phone in a snowdrift, Gwennie had given her her phone to text Mum to say she was okay.
‘It’s the PTSD,’ she told Baz now. ‘That’s one of the recognised symptoms.’
‘What – being pissed off with your parents?’
Karen gave him a weak smile. ‘Doing stupid things in general.’ She flicked a glance at Ade. ‘When you’ve got PTSD, sometimes it’s hard to control your emotions.’
She still couldn’t believe that Damian had betrayed her like that. When she’d been tossing and turning last night, she’d remembered all the crap things he’d ever done, starting when they were five and he had somehow convinced her that Mrs Smart in the shoppie was an alien, and, to stop her taking over the world and killing all the humans, Karen had to go into the shoppie and point at Mrs Smart and jump up and down three times and say all the bad words she knew, which when she was five had been things like ‘bum’ and ‘bloody hell’. It was funny now – a lot of the things Damian did were funny in retrospect – but at the time she’d been scared out of her wits of Mrs Smart t
he alien and what she might do to her if the bad words she knew weren’t bad enough.
Ade was smiling at her for the first time that morning. ‘I guess I should be flattered that you lost it on my behalf.’
She smiled back at him, feeling suddenly so much better about it all.
He did forgive her!
Didn’t he? He wouldn’t have smiled at her like that if he didn’t?
When they’d picked her up, Karen had blurted out what Damian had said about Ade modelling himself on David Koresh. Gwennie had told her that David Koresh was this mad cult leader in America who’d had sex with underage girls and had about twenty children. When the FBI went after him, he held cult members hostage and there was a shoot-out and a fire and he died along with a lot of other people. He was basically a maniac, and she kind of wished she hadn’t told Ade that Damian had said that, because it was pretty hurtful.
Damian owed her, big time. There was no way he could refuse to do what she needed him to. After breakfast, she shut herself in the loo and fired off a text to him on the rescue phone:
I need to see you. I’ll come to yours this afternoon. You’d better be there.
After they’d been shopping, she would ask Ade to take her to the House so she could have a go at Damian, which of course she would do. But she’d also tell him the plan.
◆◆◆
Claire stood in the kitchen at Pond Cottage with her bum on the Aga rail. She had a busy day ahead of her. First she had to call DCI Stewart and make her report. Then she’d head to the House and make a start on photographing likely items to check against the databases of stolen art and antiques. There was no need to snoop around in the dark for that. After what happened last night...
But before she did anything, there was one person’s voice she needed to hear. She took out her phone. The contacts in Claire Colley’s phone were mostly bogus, going straight to the team at Inverurie CID, but not all of them. Claire Colley also had a grandmother in London.