Faith

by Lesley Pearse

  ‘I’m John and I’m just staying here,’ he said. ‘You shouldn’t receive terrible news like this on the phone, from a stranger, but I’ll have to tell you now. Yes, he’s dead, Laura, and I’m so very sorry.’

  She put the phone down and clutching the bedspread round her tighter sank down on to the floor. ‘He’s dead, Howie,’ she gasped. ‘My little boy is dead.’

  ‘Strewth!’ he exclaimed, and when she looked up he was buttoning his shirt, not even looking at her.

  ‘Is that all you can say?’ she asked.

  She could smell a rank odour of sex and sweat, and it was coming from both of them. They had spent all afternoon doing the most intimate things to each other, yet he didn’t even move to hold and comfort her.

  ‘You bastard!’ she exclaimed.

  ‘What?’ he said, and it was at that moment she noticed his eyes were as cold and blank as a dead fish’s. ‘Hell, I didn’t want anything heavy. It was just a bit of fun.’

  ‘Get out of here,’ she yelled at him, and seeing one of his shoes close to her she threw it at him. ‘I just hope one day you get a phone call like that and find out what it feels like.’

  He picked up that shoe, then the other one, and without putting them on, he turned and walked out without another word.

  ‘Vuole qualcosa da bere, signorina?’

  Laura was startled by the young waiter asking her if she wanted a drink – she hadn’t heard him come up behind her. She hoped her sunglasses hid her tears.

  ‘Vino rosso, per favore,’ she said haltingly.

  He came back with the glass of red wine very quickly, put it down on the table and moved off so fast it was like a re-enactment of the speed with which Howie left that day. She wondered now if the maggot even took in what had happened. Perhaps it was best that she believed he was slow-witted, rather than entirely lacking in compassion.

  Yet the reality of her situation that afternoon was like finding a signpost reading, ‘You have finally reached rock bottom.’

  She’d gone out looking for a man. She’d shamelessly thrown herself at him under the influence of drink and coke, and happily let him screw her all afternoon in the name of fun. She had in fact become one of the characters in her own seedy blue films, except she wasn’t a nubile eighteen-year-old any more, she was a thirty-seven-year-old mother. While her only son was dying in a road accident, she was stretched out on her bed, legs in the air, letting a worthless scumbag do what he liked to her.

  She cried for the whole of the drive out to Fife, tortured by the knowledge that it was the way she had allowed her life to go that had taken Barney from her. She had images of him running through her mind. The plump, smiley baby sitting up in his pushchair, his first faltering steps, sitting on his first tricycle and the funny little dance he used to do when she put some music on. She would never wake up in the morning again to see him holding out a cup of tea he’d made for her. She would never again have him run to her when she came home. She could never stroke his back for him, kiss him goodnight, listen to his laughter or dry his tears. She would never see him as a man.

  She had loved him, but not enough to put him first.

  The ten days up to his funeral were hazy now; only the physical pain she felt and the self-loathing remaining clear. She remembered Belle saying she couldn’t stay at Kirkmay House because she was fully booked, and so she stayed in one of the guest rooms out at Brodie Farm. What she did all day was a mystery to her still. She must have had to make the funeral arrangements and go back to her flat in Edinburgh to get clothes, but she remembered none of that. The only crystal-clear image was of how Barney looked on the mortuary slab.

  His face had only minor cuts and scratches. They told her that his death was caused by hitting the back of his head on rock or stone. Apart from being so pale, and his skin so cold, he looked much the way he did when he was asleep. She gently traced around his plump lips with her finger, smoothed back his dark hair from his forehead and sobbed out her heartbreak because his eyes would never open again and she’d never again see his wide smile.

  She only visited Jackie once while she was in hospital, and she couldn’t remember now whether that was her choice, or because Jackie refused to see her. But during that visit she knew they didn’t exchange more than a few words. Jackie was lying in bed, her face as white as the pillowcase, except for a vivid scar on her forehead, and Laura sat beside her and held her hand. In Laura’s mind no words were necessary. She knew Jackie loved Barney as much as she did, and that she would never have taken any risks with him in the car. But she knew now that words were necessary, she should have vocalized her thoughts, and maybe then they could have comforted each other.

  Jackie came out of hospital two days before the funeral, her broken arm in plaster and dressings on both her legs. Belle collected her and took her home with her. She phoned Laura and said she thought it best if she didn’t call round.

  The day of the funeral was sunny with a stiff little breeze that made the crops in the fields around Brodie Farm dance and sway. Laura had stood watching this early in the morning, wondering how she could still appreciate the beauty of her surroundings while feeling as if her heart had been torn out. She knew Frank and Lena had arrived the night before, and wished they were staying here, and Jackie too. The fact that she was alone at Brodie Farm, except for some holidaymakers in the other guest rooms, made her feel even more alone and tainted.

  During the funeral service Lena was on one side of her, Jackie on the other, both holding her hands. Looking at the coffin, that was neither mansized nor small enough for a child, was another sharp reminder that she hadn’t been paying Barney enough attention to notice how tall he’d become, or even to marvel that if he had lived he would have been going to a senior school in September. She did remember during the service that when she was Barney’s age it was the start of her realizing that as a Wilmslow she had no chance in life. She wondered whether if Barney hadn’t been snatched from her so young, he might have looked at her later, realized what she was, and hated her for it.

  She was aware of the dozens of people in the pews behind her. Some she recognized as shopkeepers in Crail and Jackie’s closest neighbours and friends, but mostly they were strangers who had met Barney without her being around. She guessed they all knew she was a neglectful mother.

  Tears coursed down her cheeks as they sang ‘All Things Bright and Beautiful’. It had been Barney’s favourite hymn, just as it had been hers as a child. He used to sing it to her in the car sometimes, and she could hear his clear, high voice inside her head.

  Then finally the agony of the interment, with the birds singing, leaves fluttering in the breeze, and the grass so lush and soft around the graveyard. Even the mound of earth by the freshly dug grave was hidden from view with artificial grass and the dozens of wreaths and bunches of flowers. It was all so serene and perfect, but that made it even more obscene that a child should be buried on such a day.

  Laura had made a daisy chain that morning to drop on to the coffin. Barney had loved making them and it seemed the perfect thing, far more relevant than shop-bought flowers. But although she’d wrapped it in damp tissue, it looked wilted and sad. Once again she hadn’t got it right and she silently apologized to Barney as she kissed it and tossed it into the grave.

  If it hadn’t been for Jackie, she would have walked from the graveside and gone back to Edinburgh straight away. But suddenly Jackie’s arms were round her and they stood awkwardly with her plastered arm between them, crying on each other’s shoulders.

  ‘I couldn’t avoid him,’ Jackie sobbed. ‘He came right at me and the car rolled over and Barney was thrown out.’

  Laura knew she must have cried solidly for two hours or more that afternoon in Sorrento as she examined every aspect of that terrible period, but even as she cried she knew this was the only way to exorcize her demons.

  She would never forget Barney, and never forgive herself for not being a better mother, but as she walked back to
the hotel she felt lighter and more hopeful. And she knew she’d taken the first step towards recovery.

  Laura half smiled as she remembered the rest of her stay in Sorrento. As each day passed she got a little stronger mentally, and before long she found she could chat to guests, to Janet and Carlo, and have an occasional flirt with a waiter or barman.

  She even tested herself by going to the beach and sunbathing near children, and found it didn’t hurt. There were countless small boys with dark hair and eyes, and as she watch them diving off the pontoons, lithe brown bodies glistening with droplets of water, it made her heart feel warm, not sad.

  On each of her days off she made a point of going somewhere. A stomach-lurching bus ride along a road hewn out of the rock face, with hairpin bends offering sheer drops to the rocks below, just inches from the bus wheels, took her to amazing Positano where the houses clung to the side of a cliff. She caught the ferry to pretty Capri where she wandered narrow alleyways and peered into tiny exotic gardens set behind rusting gates. There were the wonders of Pompeii, a bustling market in Amalfi, and twice she went into Naples, wrinkling her nose at the squalor of the slums, yet captivated by the gaiety of the place.

  So many ancient churches. She visited them all, lit a candle and offered up a prayer to be forgiven and for Jackie to come to see she wasn’t to blame.

  Once again she reinvented herself too. Not with lies this time, but by making a conscious effort to be a nicer person. She took the trouble to talk to the older guests, ran errands for them, admired the snapshots of their grandchildren, and made them feel welcome. One evening she even babysat a fractious two-year-old so her parents could go out to dinner on their own, and she volunteered to do many jobs for Janet and Carlo to make their lives less arduous.

  It felt good to be genuinely liked. She could see then that the people she’d mixed with while making her films hadn’t been friends at all, they just sucked up to her because she was calling the shots. Finally she had her hair cut and bleached honey-blonde in a salon, and losing the long dark hair she’d had for so long softened her face and made her eyes brighter. She also abandoned the strong colours she’d worn most of her adult life, and bought cream, white and pastel clothes. Janet hugged her one night and said she was beautiful. Laura just hoped all her efforts had made her beautiful on the inside too.

  ‘I suppose I hadn’t completely paid back my debt,’ Laura murmured to herself as the last rays of daylight vanished over the hills. ‘I can’t have done or I wouldn’t have ended up here.’

  ∗

  ‘Surely someone must have thought of finding out who Jackie’s solicitor was?’ Stuart said irritably to Patrick Goldsmith. ‘Any legal work he did for her just before her death might have been relevant to the case.’

  He and David had arrived at Goldsmith’s office at nine and demanded to see him the moment he came in, knowing that he’d probably be in court with one of his clients later. But Goldsmith seemed to have no sense of urgency, and showed precious little excitement at the new developments they had told him about.

  ‘We would expect another solicitor to volunteer any information he had in a case like this, but some firms have thousands of clients, they can’t be expected to remember every single one, and connect them with a murder they may or may not have even heard about,’ he replied tersely. ‘As I understand it, Mrs Howell produced her sister’s will, and the solicitor who drew that up agreed that to his knowledge there wasn’t a more recent one.’

  ‘She made that years ago when she was in London,’ Stuart said heatedly. ‘Her husband, quite incidentally, claims he has a more recent one too, but that doesn’t appear to have been checked out either. Now come on, Patrick! Surely she would have got a local solicitor once she moved up here? Who handled the purchase of Brodie Farm?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Goldsmith admitted ruefully.

  Stuart opened his mouth to shout, ‘Find out then’ at him, but a warning glance from David stopped him.

  ‘We really do need to find him,’ David said calmly. ‘It might transpire that Jackie changed her mind and destroyed the document. But in my experience people usually explain why that is. So this solicitor’s evidence could be important to our appeal.’

  ‘I shall look into it.’ Goldsmith began shuffling papers on his desk as if their time was up. ‘I’ll also consult counsel about the question of the second white Golf, and Mr Baxter coming forward as a witness. I will be in touch as soon as possible.’

  Stuart looked at David and rolled his eyes with impatience.

  ‘Thank you for your time, Patrick,’ David said, holding out his hand. ‘But could I just remind you that for every day Laura spends in prison for a crime she didn’t commit, she dies a little. Time is running out for myself and Stuart too. We must have justice, and soon.’

  ‘Well said, David,’ Stuart said as they left the solicitors and walked down Great King Street. ‘I can only hope Goldsmith took it on board.’

  ‘It isn’t just down to him, it’s the whole legal system.’ David sighed. ‘It grinds very slowly.’

  ‘Maybe I’ll try to speed things up a bit then,’ Stuart retorted.

  David looked sideways at his friend and saw his grim expression. ‘I hope you aren’t thinking of doing something harebrained,’ he said.

  ‘Not today,’ Stuart said. ‘I’m meeting an old mate who’s in the police force. I’ve got him to take a look and see if Charles Howell has any convictions. You can come with me if you like.’

  ‘No, I’ll leave that to you,’ David replied. ‘I’ve got some phone calls to make. One of them will be to the prison. I’m going to try and twist the governor’s arm to let us go in tomorrow to see Laura. Time really is running out for me. Julia and the kids will be here on Saturday.’

  Stuart sat on a bench in Princes Street Gardens reading a newspaper until it was time to met Gregor Finlay at twelve. Princes Street was busy with shoppers and tourists and even though it was another week until the Edinburgh Festival began, he noticed there were already a great many street entertainers about, hoping to get in on the action.

  The elation he’d felt yesterday had been dampened by Goldsmith. All he had now was a ball of anger lying in the pit of his stomach. He was certain that Charles had killed Jackie, and his instinct was to drive over to Fife and beat the living daylights out of him until he admitted it.

  But there was something else niggling at him too: David’s remark last night about whether Laura would be part of his future.

  He might have had nothing on his mind but her ever since he was told she was in prison. But he hadn’t really considered what would happen if and when she was released. Of course he’d imagined celebrating with her, but nothing really beyond that. Yet now he was thinking about it, he realized she would have no home to go to, no friends, and as far as he knew, no money.

  That was a bit daunting. He couldn’t just say, ‘Well, you’re free now’, and walk away, but it would put him under some pressure to take care of her.

  She had been damaged emotionally when he first met her, though he hadn’t realized that until recently. How much more damaged would she be now after all she’d been through? She might become a terrible liability.

  Yet there was a kind of odd little yearning for her inside him. Was that just sympathy, or were the old feelings still there?

  He got up from the bench and began walking briskly up to the Old Town to meet Gregor. It wouldn’t do to start dwelling on what-if’s.

  Gregor was already in the Ensign Ewart up by the Castle. It was one of Stuart’s favourite pubs, despite the fact that it was always full of tourists exclaiming on its great age, the ‘cute’ beams and the ‘characters’ who drank in it.

  Gregor was probably one of the characters – his round, red shiny face, bald head and bellowing laugh weren’t easily forgotten. Yet Stuart remembered him at school as being quiet, bookish and having thick fair hair.

  ‘Am I late or were you early?’ Stuart asked.

  Gre
gor gave one of his hearty laughs. ‘I’m always early when I’m meeting someone in a pub. What’ll you have?’

  ‘Just a half, I might need to drive later,’ Stuart said.

  They moved into the back of the bar where it was quieter, and Stuart wasted no time in asking Gregor what he’d found out about Charles.

  ‘He’s got no real record,’ Gregor said, his voice lowered. ‘Not for motoring offences or anything. He’s been pulled a few times over the years for various things – receiving, assault, and threatening behaviour – but never charged with any of them.’

  ‘And did you look at the hit-and-run in ’81?’

  ‘He doesn’t appear to have been questioned. His wife told the local police he was in London. That was proved because he flew back the following day.’

  ‘And left his car in London!’ Stuart said pointedly. ‘But did they find out what make of car caused the accident?’

  ‘The tests were inconclusive. But it was silver, and they’d guess at it being a Mercedes. I ran a check through the DVLA and found Charles did have a silver Mercedes at that time. It went to a new owner a couple of months later.’

  Stuart felt a surge of elation. ‘Pretty suspicious, I’d say! So why wasn’t he pulled?’ he asked.

  ‘Have you got any idea how many silver Mercedes there are?’ Gregor retorted. ‘It’s the most popular colour. He wasn’t in Fife that day anyway.’

  ‘So he’d like us to believe!’ Stuart retorted. ‘Well, I think he was. He hit Jackie when he was on his way home, then beetled off out of the way.’

  ‘Maybe,’ Gregor said. ‘But it couldn’t be proved now anyway.’

  ‘If it was the son of a senior police officer who was killed, you’d still be searching high and low for the panel beater that patched his car up,’ Stuart snapped.

  ‘Aye, you’re right there,’ Gregor admitted.

  ‘It seems to me the police in Fife are sadly lacking,’ Stuart said, and told Gregor about the Langdons and their car on the day of Jackie’s murder. ‘I don’t think the police even bothered to consider who else might have a motive to kill her. Laura was conveniently there, the knife in her hand, and on the say-so of a nosy neighbour who said he saw her arrive half an hour earlier, they banged her up and threw away the key.’