‘I will never, ever, ever, go back to the Highlands.’
CHAPTER 111
The doorbell rang and Monica glanced over to where Lucy was lying on the rug by the TV. She was staring resolutely at the book open in front of her, face set in a stern pout, attempting to contain her excitement. Monica could see the way her little hands were clenched tight in anticipation and tilted her head to watch her for a moment longer. Her daughter seemed fine, although Monica still couldn’t shake the memory of her crouched by Long John’s cupboard.
In the two months since that night she hadn’t sleepwalked or reported any more strange dreams. One rainy afternoon at her mum’s house Monica had found Lucy poring over a stack of old books. Small Ladybird hardbacks from the 1970s that had been Monica’s as a child. Beauty and the Beast, Rumpelstiltskin, Journey to the Centre of the Earth, Sleeping Beauty. She had crouched beside Lucy, felt the dry paper between her fingers as she turned the pages, remembered the distantly familiar stories – as if from another life. And taken in the frightening illustrations: hard-faced witches, monsters, talking animals. It was a clue. Perhaps this was where Lucy’s dream had come from.
‘Have you looked at these before, honey?’
‘I think so. I think I like Puss in Boots the best. He’s a cat who walks on two legs and wears boots like a person.’
It was a good enough explanation for Monica, and an online search had reassured her that sleepwalking was particularly common among children around Lucy’s age. Changes in routine, such as Monica’s return to irregular working hours, could also trigger episodes, apparently. When Lucy had finished looking at the books Monica had quietly put them away in a box and put the box up into the attic. So a reasonable explanation for the dreams and the sleepwalking, but where Lucy had found the key to her dad’s long-locked cupboard or heard his nickname remained a mystery. Although since the day out in the glen Lucy hadn’t mentioned Long John. It was as if finding the address book had somehow put the name out of her mind. Even as it had forced it harder into Monica’s. Long John Kennedy, the ghost hanging over the family.
She had shown the address book to her mum the week after they’d found Annabelle. They were in her mum’s kitchen while Lucy was safely at Munyasa’s. Just the two of them. They’d had a conversation they should have had twenty, thirty years before.
Monica laid the address book down on the counter. ‘Lucy found this in Dad’s cupboard.’
‘Oh!’ Her mum tilted her head towards the book, avoiding eye contact. ‘I hadn’t seen that …’ Her voice faded away.
‘Dad took it from you? Didn’t he? He used to control who you could see – he stopped you from contacting friends and family, didn’t he?’ Monica still couldn’t quite believe what had been there in front of her for her whole life. Her sociable mum who never did anything with friends or family without her husband. Her competent and outgoing mum who never answered the phone, who didn’t have access to the family bank account. ‘That’s coercive control. Mum,’ she said more softly, ‘did he hit you? Did he hurt you?’
Angela Kennedy kept her eyes fixed on that address book for a long time. ‘Your dad wasn’t perfect,’ she said finally, her voice barely a whisper. ‘Who is? But he tried his best. I know you didn’t think much of him –’ Monica heard the catch in her mum’s voice, could sense that her upset was tilting towards anger ‘– but I can’t believe you would even ask if he hurt me. Of course he didn’t … You left like that then never wanted to speak to him. How do you think that made him feel? You never even explained—’
Unexpectedly Monica felt her own anger begin to rise: a pressure in her temples, a tightening of her jaw. ‘You really want to know? After all this time?’ Her emotions were still running high after the horror of the case, and for a moment those years of hurt took control of her mouth. ‘I was twenty-six years old when I went!’ She was almost shouting. ‘You never thought to ask then? You never thought I might need you?’
‘Well, you used to get on with him so well when you were wee, then as a teenager you were always so secretive! You never told us anything.’
‘Me?! Dad isolates you from your family and friends, doesn’t let you answer the phone, and I’m secretive? You really want to know what happened?’ Monica let the awful silence fill the room, felt the hot blood pumping in her head as she thought back to the case all those years before. Driving across the bridge into Carselang to investigate the death of a prisoner. The horrifying discovery that her father had turned a blind eye to bullying and even violence in the prison. Had covered it up, chosen to safeguard his own position, his reputation, even if it meant lying to the police, to his own daughter, tainting her in the process. She thought of Lucy, of what had happened to her in the case six months before, how she would do anything to change the past, anything to protect her daughter. Yet when her father had the same choice, the chance to protect Monica, he had left her exposed in order to stay in control himself. Even though it meant Monica could never look at him with admiration again.
Mercifully there had been a knock at the front door. The distraction was enough for her to regain control. To remind herself why she’d never told her mum. Did she really need to know her husband had been corrupt? Had permitted violence in the prison he was so bloody proud of? That he had put his daughter in an impossible situation as a junior detective on one of her first investigations? Dragged her into a web of lies and violence, until she was almost complicit in the corruption? That she had felt it as a stain on her conscience and regretted it every day since? The lies that had undermined any love, any sense of respect for her father or his role as a husband to her mum. His choices had removed any chance of them being happy together as a family in a simple, ordinary way. Monica felt the heat flare in her chest at the thought of how things might have been different. But would it really do her mum or Lucy any good to talk about it now, after all these years?
The knock came again, louder this time. Through the kitchen window Monica saw Lydia’s red Citroën parked outside. Dropping Lucy off early. She glanced back at her mum. Soon Lucy would be starting school. Wasn’t it better she and her mum enjoyed watching her grow up, made the best of life, than dig up the unchangeable past?
Crawford looked up from where he was leaning on the breakfast bar in Monica’s flat. He was standing beside Angela. Monica realised that she had been staring at him, forced a smile and pushed the memories back down. He’d arrived five minutes earlier wearing a pristine new tan leather jacket. A replacement for the one shredded at Francis MacGregor’s house.
‘It must be him; he said he’d be here any time,’ Crawford whispered, sounding almost as excited as Lucy.
Monica went to open the door. Michael Bach was outside in the hall, crouched over a cat basket. He stood up when he heard the door opening. He was almost as tall as Monica and seemed somehow larger than the last time they’d met, months before. Michael was a social worker Monica and Crawford had previously collaborated with on a case. More important on this occasion was the fact that a number of semi-feral cats had moved in with him at his remote croft house. A young tom had recently attempted to join the others but was being bullied by the three older cats.
‘I think he’s a bit stressed. Colonel Mustard tried to attack him earlier.’
Monica nodded, trying again to dislodge the lingering memory of the conversation with her mum. Then crouched down to the basket and peered through the grille in the door. The cat stared back at her with wide green eyes. He was large and had creamy-coloured fur.
‘I was looking into getting a kitten, but Lucy had it in her head about giving a home to a stray,’ Monica said as Michael stooped to pick up the basket and carry it inside.
Lucy was standing now, almost dancing with excitement. Hands pressed together in front of her.
‘Is he really going to stay with us?’ she finally blurted, unable to contain herself.
‘If you’ll have him?’ Michael opened the front of the basket. The cat resisted leaving
the safety of the container until Michael tilted it a little, then he crept out, belly close to the floor, glanced cautiously around and settled on the rug. ‘Try stroking him.’
Lucy moved closer. Face set in grave concentration, she held her hand out. Monica, Michael, Crawford and Angela all watched on as the cat raised his head a little and nuzzled Lucy’s hand. ‘What’s his name?’ she asked.
Michael cleared his throat. ‘Well … I’ve been calling him Doughball. You can change it to something nicer.’ He watched Lucy stroking the cat a moment longer then bent to pick up the basket. ‘I should go. I’ve got a lot on.’
‘How’s Lily?’ Monica couldn’t resist asking. She knew that Michael’s department was handling Lily Slate’s case.
‘Lily was around some horrendous things,’ he whispered, glancing down at Lucy to be sure she didn’t hear. ‘She thinks it’s her fault that the family was broken up …’
Monica nodded. Feeling a spasm of guilt in her stomach as she remembered the scene at the Slates’ house and what she’d said to Lily. Hopefully she would understand some day. And while Monica hated the memory of Lily’s small body going tense in her arms with fright, of the awful things she’d said to her, she knew they had saved Annabelle’s life. She glanced at her own mother, who was fussing over the kettle. At Crawford on a stool, who was watching Lucy stroke the cat, poised to intervene if it scratched her. ‘We’re born to love our families. No matter how bad they are.’
Michael nodded, but his expression wasn’t hopeful. ‘The Slates were beyond …’
‘I spoke to the psychologist who was evaluating Karen Sinclair and Marcus Slate,’ Monica said, ‘about the degree of control Doc and Marjory Slate exerted over them. Hopefully it’ll be reflected in their sentencing. Hopefully Karen will still have a chance to be a mother to Lily and to her son.’
‘The other brother, Hamish, Lily’s been spending some time with him. He’s in supported accommodation.’ Monica nodded this time, Hamish Slate hadn’t been involved in any of the crimes as far as anyone could tell. And Karen and Sebastian’s son was now living with Heather Sinclair.
An awkward silence fell over the room. Michael rubbed a hand over the stubble on his face. Monica thought he was going to turn and leave, instead he said, ‘What about Annabelle Whittaker? Have you heard how she is?’
‘She was trying to contact Marcus,’ Monica replied. ‘Apparently she wanted to meet him … Apart from that I’ve not heard.’ She shrugged then smiled as she remembered. ‘The last time she messaged me she’d just got a new car. An automatic so she can drive with one leg. She says she still loves to drive.’
Acknowledgements
Two books were incredibly useful when I was researching the history of the Scottish hydro-electric projects: Tunnel Tigers by Patrick Campbell, and The Hydro Boys by Emma Wood. I recommend them both.
Neither Little Arklow nor Glen Turrit exist outside this book. I based Glen Turrit on beautiful Glen Strathfarrar, the closest glen to where I live near Inverness in the Scottish Highlands. Like Glen Turrit in the book, the road down Glen Strathfarrar is closed, but during the summer months friendly gatekeepers will let you in on certain days.
Big thanks to my sister Tanya Baron for answering my random text messages about amputations and blood poisoning. Thanks to Gregor Matheson for feedback on an early version of the novel, and for years of chat about cannibals in dark corners of the Scottish Highlands. Thanks to Lulu Woodcock for feedback on an early draft of the novel. And huge thanks to my amazing partner Sarah Woodcock for massive support when I was feeling the pressure of the second novel, for giving me so much expert psychological input on the characters and help with the storyline, and for reading multiple versions of the book and somehow maintaining enthusiasm despite being twice as busy as me.
Huge, huge thanks to Sara Nisha Adams, my editor on this novel, for providing such detailed and creative editorial input that had a massive impact on shaping the feel, storyline and characters of Dark Waters. Also big thanks to my agent Camilla Bolton, Jade Chandler and Liz Foley at Harvill Secker for feedback and editorial input, I really appreciate all your creativity and support. Thanks to the rest of the teams at Darley Anderson agency, Harvill Secker and Vintage. I can’t thank you all enough for everything. I feel incredibly lucky to work with so many talented and creative people.
I probably wouldn’t have written this book if it hadn’t been for all the adventures in the Scottish mountains over the years. Thanks to all my climbing and walking partners. Especially Alisa Hughes, Ben Kylie, Duncan Lang, Ranald Macdonald, Graeme Marsden, Michael Mullender, Andrew Park, Alex Runciman (RIP), Sarah Woodcock, Harry Thompson, and Graeme Young.
Also thanks to Graham Hanks, Rita Farragher-Hanks, Nikki Milne, Paul Mathur and all my other amazing colleagues from over the years at ICA Inverness. Really appreciate all your support.
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Copyright © Highland Noir Ltd 2020
Cover photos by Colin Horn and Georgia de Lotz / Unsplash
G. R. Halliday has asserted his right to be identified as the author of this Work in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988
First published by Harvill Secker in 2020
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A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
ISBN 9781473565340
Dark Waters Page 33