Ten minutes later, Cat was still crying. Her nose was blocked, her eyes were swollen and her chest was aching as if her heart, indeed, had broken. And there was no one to go to for comfort. Will had been her only friend in Glasgow, and now she had no one at all. She had never felt so lonely, so utterly wretched. She wanted her mother.
Mum had always been great when bad things happened – when Jenny had said she didn’t want to be best friends any more, when the boy she really, really fancied in Year Ten told her he didn’t fancy her because she had spots. Mum could make you see it wasn’t the end of the world, and then she’d say something acidly funny about them that made you laugh. She badly needed a laugh at the moment. Cat reached for her mobile again.
But what was the point? Mum was in the middle of a murder inquiry and that took precedence over everything – like Cammie almost crippling himself that time or her daughter feeling suicidal now.
She didn’t, quite, of course. Cat wasn’t about to give Will Irvine the satisfaction of knowing how he’d hurt her. And it did hurt – how it hurt! She flung herself down on the bed and buried her face in the pillow.
When the door opened, Cat sat up, blinking and sniffing. The girl in the doorway was very skinny, all in black with her face so pale that her eyes, dramatic with jet-black eyeliner and mascara and iridescent eyeshadow, looked like dark holes above her purple mouth. There was a stud in her nose and half a dozen metal rings down one ear, and another through her brow. She was trailing a huge black canvas bag on wheels, which she parked beside the other bed, and looked in some surprise at her room-mate.
‘Got a problem?’
Licking her dry lips, Cat said, ‘I’ve just been dumped.’ Forming the words for the first time made her feel worse and the tears started again.
‘Bummer,’ her Goth companion said, not unkindly. ‘Boy next door?’
‘Sort of.’
‘Better without him.’ She was looking round the room. ‘Jeez, what a hellhole. Still, don’t plan on hanging out here much.’
There was something bracing about such breezy indifference. Cat found a tissue and blew her nose hard. ‘I’m Catriona Fleming – Cat,’ she said.
‘Lily.’ She sketched a salute with one finger. She kicked at her bag. ‘This can wait. Fancy checking out the scene?’
Cat put a hand to her blubbered face. ‘Not sure I’m up to it.’
Lily gave her a long look then went to the wash-hand basin in one corner of the room and ran it full of cold water. ‘Stick your head in that. And then I’ve got something that’ll make you feel better.’
Cat did as she was told, but said hesitantly, ‘I-I don’t do drugs.’ Will had been really against them, and as for Mum …!
‘This isn’t “drugs”.’ Lily sketched quotation marks. ‘Strictly legal. Bubbles, it’s called. Or miaow-miaow. Give you a bit of a lift.’
Cat, lifting a dripping face and groping in a drawer for a towel, was under no illusions. But what did she care now what Will thought? Or Mum, for that matter. Doing something Mum would disapprove of was a sort of revenge.
Cat drew a deep breath. ‘OK, Lily, I’m cool with that.’
It was six o’clock by the time DI Fleming had detailed uniforms to start on house-to-house enquiries and liaised with teams arriving. The pathologist, muttering about work conditions, had performed the official bit and the photographer, also muttering, had done what he could from a bobbing boat. The scene-of-crime officers were out there now doing what was possible at the cave before it got dark, trying to get the remains removed by tonight if the tide allowed. She could only hope they’d better sea legs than Tam.
She’d given a statement to the media, warning them that little would emerge over the next few days, but she knew they’d be hopefully trailing her officers round the houses – if they could tear themselves away from the Smugglers Inn, now doing a roaring trade.
There wasn’t anything else for Fleming to do here, but there would be plenty back at the headquarters in Kirkluce, and the sooner she got there the sooner it would be done. She headed back to the car.
She’d thought about Cat on and off all day, and before Fleming drove off she took out her mobile to give her a call – luckily there was a signal here. There was no answer so she left an affectionate message on voicemail. Out on the town, doubtless. She smiled as she thought, with just a touch of envy, of Cat and Will, celebrating the first night of Cat’s student career.
If she’d been more sensible herself when she was young, she’d have gone to university too, and it was a permanent regret that she hadn’t. Lucky, lucky Cat!
She hadn’t realised how tough it would be, how difficult even on a physical level. In her hired Peugeot, on the roughly gravelled parking area outside the hired chalet, Elena Tindall sat wondering if her body would obey her when she tried to get out of the car. She was taking shallow breaths, her chest hurt and her legs felt weak and useless.
She didn’t have to do this. There was nothing to stop her turning the car and heading off to a decent hotel, then going back to an ecstatic welcome from Eddie tomorrow. She must be mad, not just to accept his generous love and the life he offered her and be grateful.
But Elena was going mad anyway, silently but steadily, more and more trapped in the prison of her past, spiralling slowly down until one day she would take the little silver penknife and slit her wrists in earnest. So what was a risk fraught with danger – more, even, than she had thought there would be – when set against a certainty?
She was panicking, hyperventilating. Elena put her face in her cupped hands, breathing steadily until her heartbeat slowed. When she opened the car door the air was unexpectedly still and warm, almost oppressive; it felt somehow unhealthy, like a lusciously ripe fruit on the point of rotting. She told herself not to be fanciful as she steadied herself against the car until she was sure her legs wouldn’t buckle.
The chalet was one of perhaps twenty or thirty, set in the hillside up behind Innellan and straggling along the curve of the bay. Wooden structures weathered to silver-grey, they had picture windows looking out over Fleet Bay and the islands, and on this golden evening, as light slowly drained from the sky, the view was incomparable. Elena did not turn to admire it.
She brought in her bags from the car and looked disparagingly around her. This was IKEA-chic, she supposed – family-friendly accommodation, clean and well maintained, but hardly what she was used to. But then, once upon a time having a place like this all to herself would have seemed like paradise.
She had driven from Salford without a meal stop and she was hungry and tired and grubby. What she needed first was a hot shower, letting the force of the water wash away the stresses of the day. Without unpacking, she went through to the spartan bathroom.
The shower was hot, admittedly, but a feeble apology compared with the power showers she took for granted now, and the towels provided had synthetics in with the cotton which made them slippery and too soft instead of absorbent.
How quickly luxury became essential! Damp and irritable, Elena dressed again and went through to the kitchen.
It was fairly basic, but she wasn’t planning on cooking much; for tonight at least she had food she’d bought in Waitrose before she left. It was soothing to have prosciutto crudo, manzanilla olives and good bread with Normandy butter to set on the clumsy white plates.
She’d brought a case of wine too, and the Barolo tasted good even from a thick cheap glass. Elena drank the first one fast, the second a little slower. It was a long time since she had done more than sip a little well-chilled white wine and already she could feel the first effects: a loosening of tension, the faintest lift of light-headedness. She must phone Eddie before she got drunk, as she fully intended to.
There were three messages on her mobile when she switched it on. No need to check to see who they were from: he answered before the end of the first ring.
‘I’ve been waiting to hear from you, doll. You all right? Your phone was off.’
<
br /> ‘Eddie, I’m fine. Just starting to chill out. I’ve been feeling very stressed lately and this is the perfect place, a sort of retreat. I can feel it doing me good already.
‘You’ll be patient, won’t you, darling? Don’t know how long it will take, but I’ll come back so relaxed you won’t know me.’ That wasn’t exactly a lie; she hoped it would be true.
‘Of course, of course.’ He sounded deflated, and she could sense his struggle not to break the rules and quiz her. ‘If it’s what you need, it’s all that’s important to me. You know that.’
‘You are a love,’ Elena said, and this time she meant it.
‘Oh …’ Eddie gave a little, awkward laugh. ‘Just so you come back to me at the end of it. Promise? And keep in touch.’
‘Of course I will.’ But when he said, ‘Love you, angel,’ she said only, ‘Night, darling. Sleep well.’
After the third glass of Barolo, Elena got up and went at last to the window. She closed her eyes, drew a deep breath and then opened them. Her grip on the glass unconsciously tightened.
The light had all but gone now and a huge harvest moon was rising, a curious deep red-orange in colour. The lights of Innellan shone below, as well as the lights from a house further out along the shore – and there were the islands, dark shadows on a pewter sea.
Suddenly, the silence was shattered by a sound which made the hairs stand up on the back of her neck – a long, spine-chilling howl. A dog, Elena told herself, just a dog, baying at the blood-red moon.
But when at last, a little unsteadily, Elena went to bed, she dreamt of wolves she could not see apart from the eyes that glowed in the darkness of the forest where she was being hunted, and she woke with a dry mouth and a thumping head just as a grey shape leapt from the shadows towards her throat.
I’ve taken Valium. I think it’s the only way. I need to finish this now.
That night, I woke up suddenly. I don’t know what broke my sleep, because the house was quiet as it hadn’t been since it all happened. There was no noise of people moving about downstairs having those frightening, hushed conversations, no sound of my mother sobbing or screaming at my father. Perhaps it was the unnatural silence that woke me.
I got up and walked out of the room. The house seemed to be holding its breath as I went downstairs, noiseless on my bare feet. I crossed the hall and went into the dining room – somehow I knew that was where I had to go. The door seemed heavy as I opened it.
On the big table where we ate Sunday lunch there was an open coffin, white shiny wood, catching flickering reflections from the thick candles burning in white candlesticks at head and foot.
And there she was: her face expressionless like wax, but her eyes were wide open – eyes so exactly like my own. Her hair was spread out on a sort of pillow – dark, wavy hair, just like mine. Her hands, with the same long fingers as I had, were crossed on her chest and I saw the thumbnail she had bruised when we were moving stones to build a dam in the stream in our garden that ran down to the sea.
My sister, my twin, my other self. The popular one, the clever one, the one who lived in the sunshine – not the quieter, stupider, awkward one, her shadow. It should have been me.
I remember the flood of sick horror that came over me. I don’t remember going back to my room. Did I sleep? Did I lie all night, grinding the scene into my consciousness so that now it plays like a film when the ‘recall’ button is pressed?
I remember, sometime later, my mother echoing my own thought, my mother who had become a dishevelled, swollen-faced, hysterical stranger as she screamed at me, ‘It should have been you!’
After that, I think I was sent away to stay with an aunt, but that time is a blur. And afterwards – that’s not part of the story. This is just my confession, my attempt to make peace with her troubled spirit and my own.
I have read it through – ‘my confession’. I reached the end, and I burst out laughing.
Oh, I could see how much it had cost me, the pain I had felt, the agonised attempts at truth. But in my state of chemical calm I could also see what wasn’t there.
Because there is still a lie, a lie by omission. I couldn’t make myself write the last, most terrible secret. I must still be able to tell myself I made it up, or dreamt it, and committing it to paper would give it some sort of objective reality.
So perhaps this has all been pointless pain. It hasn’t brought dramatic relief – how could I believe it would? All I can do now is pay back what I can, by way of restitution. But how can you hope for absolution from a ghost?
CHAPTER SIX
The concrete floor was stained with dark oil patches. Fergie Crawford could smell it as he lay, his head pillowed on the plastic bag which now held only a spare pair of trainers. He was wearing every other stitch of clothing, but still he was shivering as dawn light seeped under the swing door.
At least it was light enough to see his surroundings. Since nightfall, he’d been in pitch darkness with no idea of the passage of time. He hadn’t slept much, constantly jerking awake with the pain of stiffness and cold, usually in rising panic until he figured out where he was.
That had been the pattern since he started sleeping rough. He’d slept on hard ground often enough in the army too, but then he’d been well fed and physically exhausted enough to crash out and he’d always had a warm softie jacket and a roll mat. The thin rug the sarge had chucked at him hadn’t looked at the problem.
While he could still see to do it, Fergie had arranged the unmarked cardboard boxes stored in the lock-up garage to form a shelter against the draught that whistled under the door, but that hadn’t helped much. He got up slowly, rubbing at his arms and stamping to get feeling back into his numbed feet. His cramped muscles screamed as he stretched.
He perched himself on a pile of the boxes, keeping his feet up out of the draught and draping the rug round him. There was nothing to say what was inside them, but he’d a pretty good idea that if he broke into one and helped himself he wouldn’t even notice his miseries any more.
He didn’t, of course. OK, he might not be the sharpest knife in the drawer, but he wasn’t mental. When Brodie had told him he’d better shut his eyes so he couldn’t tell anyone where the lock-up was, he not only shut them but covered them tight with his hands, so there was no mistake.
Knowing stuff was dangerous. Taking cash for flogging what Brodie and his pals gave him was fine, but after Brodie took a hit and got his discharge, the trouble started. The boss who took over got greedy and clumsy and the redcap monkeys who lifted him were looking for Fergie now too.
He’d gone on the run in a panic, never thinking where he could go. He’d never had a father – he doubted if even his mother knew who it was. She was an alkie and her current boyfriend was too – violent with it. He’d nowhere to call home, so seeing Brodie on the telly had been like a miracle, when he’d been sleeping rough and begging in the street, all but starving.
He felt like he was starving now. Brodie had left him some scoff but he’d eaten it last night in one go – not that it had been that much anyway, for someone who hadn’t had a square meal in three weeks.
What time was it now? It seemed to have been daylight for hours, but he couldn’t remember when it got light at this time of year. Brodie’d said he’d be back sometime in the morning, when he could get away.
Fergie bent his knees and hunched himself over them, draping the rug round and tucking his hands into his armpits to warm them up. It wasn’t quite so cold now the sun was up; maybe he could doze off again, to help the time to pass …
When he woke up, the light was stronger. He’d no idea how long he’d slept. What time was it now? When would Brodie come?
And what if he didn’t come at all? He’d spelt it out that Fergie was a problem and Brodie wasn’t the sort to put himself out for you. He could just have gone off, leaving him here till Fergie got tired of waiting and left of his own accord.
Feeling panic rise again, he fought it down. Cour
se Brodie wouldn’t do that. Fergie just had to trust him – what else could he do? On the other side of that door, in the scary outside world, there was the same old stuff: nowhere to sleep, no food, always being terrified the monkeys would find him.
He could give himself up. But then they’d ask all the questions he knew it was dangerous to answer, and somehow they’d make him answer them anyway and then …
Brodie had said he’d a plan to sort it out. Fergie had to hold on to that. It was just the waiting that was getting to him.
If he maybe took a peek outside, he’d get some idea what time it was from the sun. True enough, it was safer if he’d nothing he could tell, but if he just opened the door for a minute it wouldn’t tell him much. Before he was told to shut his eyes, he’d glimpsed the row of lock-ups in a back lane where weeds were growing up round most of the other garages.
Just a quick look, that was all. He’d feel better once he’d been out in the sunlight instead of this greyish half-light – warmer, too.
Fergie went to the door. It was hard to see against the light coming in round the edges and he felt down for the handle – in the middle, he seemed to remember, having seen Brodie close it as he left.
It wasn’t in the middle. He must have been wrong. He patted along the back, along left, along right, up, down, top to bottom.
There was no handle. Why would there be? He was trapped inside.
And the question he had asked returned with devastating force – what if Brodie didn’t come back at all?
Fleming glanced round the officers assembled for the morning briefing. It was Sunday and the room wasn’t crowded – she hadn’t put out an expensive overtime call to off-duty officers, as would normally be the case in a murder inquiry. Superintendent Bailey, pursing his fleshy lips, had been very definite about that.
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