by Anne Randall
Mason drained the last of his pint. ‘Maybe we’ll wait and see about that.’
Chapter Fifteen
The Kill Kestrels
Josh
He’d instructed the driver to bring the car around to the side entrance of the hotel. The Range Rover had darkened windows so it was the easiest way to get around the city without being recognised. While he waited, Josh replayed the argument with the guys. He hadn’t been bullshitting Lexi, he had vividly remembered the day Dougie had brought a copy of the Glasgow Chronicle to rehearsals. The manager had been delighted with the two-page spread and that they’d used the promotional photographs taken by Paulo Di Stefano. They’d even made reference to ‘Super-manager Dougie Scott’. Dougie had loved it, but that’s not why Josh remembered that day by a long shot. And that’s when he’d contacted Cutter Wysor.
During a break in rehearsals Josh had flicked through the newspaper, glanced at the ‘What’s On’ section, some artist was curating an exhibition to raise money for the local hospice. He’d stared at the photograph that accompanied the article. Susan Moody was sitting on a chair, her smile weak. She was emaciated, her face heavily lined and her hair was almost gone, but it was definitely her. He’d scanned the article twice then googled the name of the hospice. He had the phone number in seconds and that’s when the chase had gathered pace. He’d called the hospice and was told that the patient had deteriorated and had been moved to the Royal Infirmary. Two short phone calls later and he had Susan Moody’s room number.
He heard the text come through. The Range Rover was waiting.
Twenty minutes later, the Royal Infirmary came into view. The original building dated from the late eighteenth century, but over the years a series of architectural hybrids had been added. The hospital sprawled across acres of the city and could accommodate a thousand beds and numerous outpatients. To Josh it looked like a small, architecturally malformed hamlet. Which was exactly the kind of a place to house the bitch. He was dropped at the main entrance, took the stairs to the second floor and turned into a long corridor. A solitary nurse sat behind the desk, she was on the phone, sounded harassed. ‘I’m sorry Mr Simpson wasn’t changed quickly enough yesterday. We had an emergency in the ward and . . .’ She paused. ‘Yes, of course, I do understand that he was soiled but—’ She saw Josh and put her hand over the receiver. ‘Can I help?’
‘I’m looking for Susan Moody? I called earlier, room eight if I remember correctly?’
‘The end of the corridor, last room on the right. If you wait for a moment, I’ll tell her you’re here?’
‘It’s fine, thanks,’ he lied, ‘she’s expecting me.’
The nurse went back to her call. ‘No, of course I’m listening to you, Ms Simpson. Yes, but we are short staffed and . . .’
Josh made his way down the corridor, reached for the door handle.
Inside, despite the open window, the room was muggy, the air thick and heavy with sickness. Susan Moody was slumped in a chair, her eyes closed. One wrinkled hand cradled the electric call bell. Josh moved quickly, snatched the bell and placed it on top of the cabinet, out of her grasp. He dragged a plastic chair across the room, sat facing the woman. The noise woke her. If the nurse had witnessed it, Susan’s gasp could have been interpreted as surprise or delight. Josh knew it was neither.
The old woman fumbled frantically for the bell.
‘I’ve put it over here for safe keeping.’
‘No. Want it.’ Her eyes wild with panic. ‘Give it to me.’
He ignored her. ‘Susan, good to see you after all these years and I’m delighted that you still recognise me, so we can have a nice chat undisturbed. It’s such a shame we lost touch so soon after the fire, wasn’t it?’
‘I want the nurse.’
His voice hard. ‘Wasn’t it, Susan?’
‘Don’t want . . . to see you.’ Her voice a thin rasp of air.
‘I’m sure that’s not true, Susan. And do you know why I’m sure? Because I read in the papers that you were distraught. If I remember correctly, the reporter from the Chronicle wrote, “The distraught foster carer Susan Moody was inconsolable and was taken to the Royal Infirmary where she was sedated.” And now all these years later you’re back here in the Royal. Full circle, eh?’ Josh watched the woman. ‘Distraught and inconsolable, Susan,’ he repeated. ‘You were sedated. They made it easy for you, didn’t they? The doctors made it all go away.’
‘I told the polis the truth that night.’ She shifted in her chair.
‘Liar. They didn’t tally, did they, your version of events and mine?’
‘The polis knew that I told them the truth.’
‘They had no reason to doubt you, had they?’
‘I want my bell.’
‘I want the facts.’ Josh perched on the hospital bed, watched her try to pull herself out of the chair. Saw that she was too frail, saw her fall back, pain etched on her face. He felt all the old animosity resurface, understood that he despised the woman in front of him, knew that he always had.
‘I want the truth, Susan,’ he said.
‘The truth is she—’
He spoke quickly. ‘Her name was Amber.’
‘I told them, Amber must have snuck into the living room and knocked over a candle.’
‘And set the curtains alight?’
‘It was an accident. She must have run back to her room.’
‘She was fast asleep in her room all of the time and you weren’t even in the house.’
‘I only stepped out into the garden for a minute, for a quick smoke.’
‘Liar. That’s what you told the police.’ Josh kept his voice steady. ‘You went out that night.’ More of a statement than a question.
Silence.
‘Who else was in the house?’
‘No one.’
‘I heard raised voices.’
‘You were asleep. I told you at the time, you must have been dreaming.’ The old woman stared at the floor. ‘You can’t remember all those years ago, your memory’s flawed.’
‘See, that’s where you’re mistaken, Susan. Recently, the memories have been flooding back.’
The woman gave a small, stubborn shake of her head.
He carried on talking. ‘I called the hospice when I saw your picture and, from what they told me, you haven’t got long.’ He let the silence stretch.
She attempted a shrug.
‘So I’m giving you the opportunity to clear your conscience and tell me what really happened that night.’
She tried to talk but instead of words a gurgle of saliva escaped from her lips.
He leaned closer to her, smelled the stench of sickness. Death and decay were almost upon her.
‘Whoever you were protecting can’t get at you now. Just give it up, Susan, give it up.’
Again, the woman tried and failed to speak. Tiny flecks of spit fell from her mouth. She struggled to sit up. Failed again.
He leaned in closer.
Finally, he heard her, although it was only a whisper on her breath. ‘Piss off.’
Josh stared at her for a second before whispering, ‘You’ll rot in hell, you fucking bitch.’ He closed the door quietly behind him and made his way back along the corridor.
The nurse was still behind the desk. ‘Doctor Rashid will be round in a few minutes, if you wanted to hang on and speak with her?’
‘No, that’s fine, thanks. I’ll get on. Has anyone else been in to visit Susan?’
‘Not that I know of.’
‘Cheers.’ He walked down the corridor and turned left, took the stairs. He was alone on the stairwell and spoke aloud. ‘Another dead end but that’s OK, bitch, I’ll just keep digging.’ He made his way to the car park, to the air-conditioned Range Rover and the anonymity of its blacked-out windows. He had one more visit to make before heading to the photo op.
Chapter Sixteen
The Winners
‘Come on, Ellie. I’m going to be late. I need to get to work
after I drop you two off.’ In her semi-detached house in Dennistoun, in the East End of the city, Marisa Adamson stood at the bottom of the stairs and tried to keep the impatience out of her voice. She could hear the water running in the bathroom, knew her daughter probably couldn’t even hear her. Marisa sprinted up the stairs and rattled the door handle. ‘Ellie, we need to get going. I’ve got to get to work.’ Heard a muffled, ‘In a minute, Mum.’ She listened at the door, knew if Ellie caught her, another row would ensue. She hoped that her daughter was putting on her make-up and not, as she suspected, quietly disposing of the contents of her stomach. She couldn’t be certain that her daughter was bulimic, but since winning tickets to meet the Kill Kestrels, Ellie had dramatically trimmed down. She’d never been big but at just under nine stones on her five eight frame, she’d complained that she could lose a bit. Marisa had vehemently disagreed but Ellie had point blank refused to get on the scales in front of her. She knew Ellie weighed herself before breakfast every day, so one morning Marisa had listened outside the door for the robotic announcement, but the door had flown open and a furious Ellie had confronted her.
Marisa quickly went back downstairs to wait by the open door. She glanced out and saw Ellie’s pal, Isla, chatting animatedly to Morag next door. Isla’s hands were moving as fast as her mouth, both running away with excitement. She’d be telling Morag how much she LOVED the Kill Kestrels and how Skye Cooper and Josh Alden wrote songs that made her feel that they were written just for HER. Marisa had listened to their incessant chatter since they’d won the prize, had heard them squabbling childishly about who was the best-looking band member. Marisa grabbed her handbag and rummaged for her hairbrush, crossed to the mirror and tried to calm the mass of frizz that her hair had recently become. She studied the lines on her face. She’d just turned fifty, but in the past few years everything had changed. Fine lines had grown deeper and more entrenched and her hair had gone coarse and wiry and refused to be controlled. The colour had faded and fighting the grey had recently become more of a battle. And now the hot flushes had arrived. ‘Whoop. Whoop,’ she said to her reflection before asking, ‘So how come I still feel nineteen inside?’ She wished Jay were alive to see his daughter become a beautiful young woman. That he was here to see Marisa and her unruly hair. She heard the bathroom door open and Ellie step down the stairs in her new, ridiculously high heels. Their daughter had Jay’s colouring and his large grey eyes. Marisa’s heart flipped. How did Ellie get to be so gorgeous? Marisa knew that it wasn’t just a mother’s bias; Ellie was an ethereal beauty. Tall and blonde, she made it look effortless. The heels, the make-up and the hair, which she’d taken an hour to blow dry, after having had it expensively highlighted, all for some boy in a band who would never see her again. We all have our heroes, Marisa reminded herself; it was human nature to need them.
Ellie stood in front of her. ‘Do I look OK, Mum?’
She heard the tremor in her daughter’s voice. ‘You look fabulous, love. Just fabulous.’
‘You’d say that anyway.’
Marisa smiled. She couldn’t win.
‘Where’s Isla?’
‘She’s outside, no doubt boasting to Morag about you two meeting the Kill Kestrels.’ That brought a smile to her face.
‘Yeah, she’s quite right too, Mum. It is cool. This is the coolest thing I’ll ever get to do.’
She gently propelled her daughter out of the front door and locked it behind her. ‘I very much doubt that, Ellie, you’re only nineteen.’
‘But I’m not smart like Lachlan.’
Lachlan Grieves again. Ellie was constantly comparing herself to her cousin who was studying medicine at Edinburgh University and had just won an award for sportsman of his year at the rugby club. Handsome, intelligent and athletic, Lachlan too was without a father, but for a very different reason.
‘You’ve a whole life ahead of you to do cool and smart stuff.’
‘You didn’t, Mum. You hate your job.’
‘Yes, and it pays the bills, but your father did a lot of cool things and you’re his daughter. You’ll be fine.’
In the car, she listened to them rehearse their questions. They were each allowed to ask the band up to four each. The girls and their friends had gone over which ones would be best. They were to be with the band for thirty-five minutes, including time for photographs. The letter had described the Kill Kestrels as being on a very tight schedule.
‘I’ve got to ask Josh about “Death of an Angel”.’
‘I think it’s about an ex-girlfriend.’
‘I know, but it might upset him.’
‘And we need to ask Skye about “My Desire For You”. “And it was the best that ever was . . . the best that’s ever been . . .” It must be about someone he loved and lost.’
‘I can’t wait.’
‘I’m so nervous.’
Ten minutes later, Marisa pulled up at a red light. They were still debating. ‘What if she’s not an ex and what if she’s there?’ she asked.
‘OMG, no, do not say that, Mum. None of them are dating. It said so on the website. They’re all too committed to their music.’
‘And to their fans, they said so, Mrs Adamson.’ Isla was adamant. ‘They would say if they had girlfriends or wives.’
‘Skye would never lie to his fans.’
‘No, Josh said the same, said his fans were the most important thing in his life.’
‘Yeah. Mum, don’t ruin it.’
‘Sorry.’ Marisa kept her own counsel. She knew that everything released about the band had probably gone through their manager or most likely a PR person, but she wasn’t going to spoil it. This was Ellie and Isla’s big day. She waited for the light to change, saw a poster of the group on the bus in front of her. She studied the photograph. Josh Alden looked like he had anger issues; there was darkness in his smile, but the lead singer Skye Cooper’s eyes were the coldest. Handsome as he was, Marisa couldn’t help but be uneasy about his expression; there was something beyond the pretty-boy look. Something sinister. She shook herself, she was fantasising. They were just four boys in a band. Good luck to them. She’d drop the girls off, they’d have their time with the band and no doubt both girls would dine out on the experience for years. The light turned amber, then green, and Marisa drove on. She was looking forward to hooking up with her sister, Maggie, later for a drink. Knew that Maggie was beside herself with pride because of her son’s award.
Chapter Seventeen
The Unknown Son
Across town, in her flat in Hillhead, Maggie Grieves pulled out her ironing board and hauled the plastic wash basket full of clean laundry out from the cupboard. She toyed with the idea of texting her sister Marisa who was ferrying her daughter Ellie and a pal to meet the Kill Kestrels, but she resisted. Marisa would have enough on her plate. Besides, they were meeting up later, she’d hear all about it then. She switched on the television and made a start on the ironing. The news report cut to a breaking scandal. Hugo Ponsensby-Edward, MP, the son of Mark Ponsensby-Edward, QC, had called for the resignation of Nathan Whatley, MP, who had been caught with a rent boy. At the sight of Hugo, her stomach soured. Her mobile rang, and the screen saver illuminated Lachlan’s photograph, which was apt, seeing as the call was from her son.
‘Lach, how are things?’
‘Just giving you the heads-up to keep the fifth of September free. It’s the rugby club do.’
‘You getting the award then?’
‘Yeah.’
‘I am so proud of you. We all are. Auntie Marisa was just saying that—’
‘Gotta go, Mum.’
‘Love you.’
‘Yeah. Keep the day free?’
‘Will do.’
‘And Auntie Marisa and Ellie too, there are extra tickets.’
‘Will do,’ she repeated. ‘Love you.’ Two little words. Love. You.
The line went dead before she could say, Well done, love, congratulations on winning.
She watche
d Hugo Ponsensby-Edward on screen. Hugo had been at Glasgow University when her son had been conceived. The man shared Lachlan’s DNA but she would never refer to him as his father. Since then, she had studiously kept them apart. Lachlan’s teachers at school had pressed him to apply to Glasgow University but she had persuaded him to go to Edinburgh. She thought of the night he was conceived. She’d been drinking with friends at a student bar close to the university. Hugo Ponsensby-Edward and his friends were at the next table. Even then she had known that his lines were well rehearsed, that he was high on drugs. Also where her flirting would lead. She hadn’t fooled herself, she heard the public school accent, knew the encounter for what it was. For her, a casual hook-up, for him downmarket sex. Back at her bedsit, things had escalated quickly. He’d assured her that he’d stop if she felt uncomfortable, but then his hand was tight around her throat. She’d passed out. When she came around it was over. ‘I feared that you wanted it to stop but too little, too late, eh? What did you expect when you give a man the come-on?’ And then the practised smile, the hand that swept through his hair, the boyish glance. All bravado. ‘You’re not going to tell anyone about this. Understand?’
She watched Hugo on the television, his wife and children flanking him. ‘I stand firmly for family values, which is why, given the emerging scandal, I call on Nathan Whatley to resign after his despicable behaviour . . . I stand for what is right and moral and good . . . I am proud of my family values and of my faith. They underpin my every ethos and always have done. They bring an inner strength with which to lead . . . Nathan Whatley must stand down. It is a difficult decision but sometimes we have to be strong and make difficult decisions . . . I believe that as a strong upholder of family values, I am uniquely qualified to demand that Nathan Whatley resign with immediate effect.’
She’d been told that she could never have children. Had no idea that she was even pregnant.
Lachlan had been 8 lb 5 oz when he was born.
Hugo smiled into the camera, swept his hair back with his hand. A boyish gesture.