Lies to Tell

by Marion Todd

  ‘They’re not keen to label him while he’s still so young,’ Jude said. ‘But they seem fairly confident the diagnosis will be autism.’

  Clare looked at her sister’s face, lined with worry, and wished she could do more to help. ‘What does that mean, Jude? For his future?’

  Jude spread her hands. ‘We simply don’t know, Clare. It’s such a variable condition. His limitations will only become apparent as he gets older.’

  Clare hesitated, then said, ‘And there’s nothing they can do to help him speak? Speech therapy or something like that?’

  They both shook their heads. ‘Nothing at the moment,’ Frank said. ‘We just have to hope he finds his voice, in his own time.’

  * * *

  Clare and Frank washed up while Jude put James to bed. When she was sure her sister was out of earshot, Clare said, ‘Is Jude okay, Frank? She’s very thin.’

  Frank sighed. ‘She is thin. She’s not eating enough and she doesn’t really sleep. Always one ear open for James.’

  ‘I noticed she rather picked over her dinner. And she didn’t have much to start with.’

  ‘I’m keeping an eye on her, Clare. Hopefully having a night away tomorrow will give her a bit of a break. I can’t tell you how grateful we both are to you for keeping James. There’s no one we’d trust more with him.’

  Clare put a rubber-gloved hand on Frank’s arm. ‘It’s my pleasure, Frank. I should do more…’

  He shook his head. ‘Your work, Clare – we know how it is. But we’re so happy to see you settled here. You like it?’

  ‘I do. It’s a lovely station and the town is so beautiful. You must come and stay longer next time.’

  * * *

  When they had all gone to bed, Clare lay awake, running over the day’s events: from learning that Phil Quinn had been convicted to the discovery that Tamsin, far from being afraid of Paddy Grant, was planning to start a new life with him; and then there was Marek – Marek who had been working for Tamsin Quinn and was close to being killed by Paddy Grant’s sister Rose. Perhaps it was Rose who had killed Johannes. They’d have to check her DNA too. Then she remembered that mistake with the golf event invoice. She knew it had been eighty thousand. So why had she charged them eight thousand? Perhaps she was losing the plot. Missing Geoffrey and losing focus.

  And then there was her car. Her beautiful sleek Mercedes.

  It felt like the events of a month, packed into a single day. No wonder she was tired. In spite of this, sleep eluded her and she lay awake until past two in the morning. She heard her sister pad through a few times to the little room where James was sleeping, and she was glad that Jude and Frank would be in a lovely hotel tomorrow night. Clare didn’t care if she sat up all night with James as long as it put a bit of colour back in her sister’s cheeks.

  The moon was bright outside her bedroom window and, through the unlined curtains, it cast an eerie glow about the room. The air was thick too with a heady perfume. Was it the honeysuckle growing below her bedroom window? She thought she should get out of bed and close the window but she was too tired. Funny she hadn’t noticed the smell before…

  As her eyes roved round the moonlit room, Clare noticed that a dark grey shift dress was hanging on the outside of her wardrobe door. Or was she imagining it? She reached across and switched on her bedside lamp and there it was. How long was it since she’d worn that dress? It had been at the back of her wardrobe since she moved into Daisy Cottage. Deliberately put at the back because she didn’t want to recall the last time she had worn it: the final day of the Fatal Accident Inquiry into the death of the young lad Clare had shot and killed when she was a firearms officer. The lad had been toting a replica weapon identical to the real thing and it had been accepted by everyone that the threat to life had been real and imminent. Everyone except the lad’s family, of course. Clare had been exonerated and she had put the dress to the back of her wardrobe, never to be worn again. She probably should have thrown it out, or given it to a charity shop, but somehow she never did. And now she wondered, lying in bed looking at it, if there was something in her subconscious stopping her from getting rid of it? As though keeping it reminded her that, even with the best of intentions, she could sometimes get it wrong.

  So why was it there now, hanging on the outside of her wardrobe? Had she taken it out, meaning to give it to a charity shop and, in the mayhem of this past week, forgotten she’d done it? Perhaps she was sleepwalking. It was not something she was ever aware of having done but she had a vague recollection of Jude doing it a few times when she was younger. But how on earth would she know if she was sleepwalking? With the exception of that ill-judged night with the DCI, there was generally no one there to tell her she was doing it. If it was the case then she really needed to do something about her stress levels.

  ‘Oh, what the hell,’ she said to herself. ‘It’s only a dress.’ She switched out the light again and pulled the duvet over her head.

  Saturday, 23 May

  Chapter 36

  Jude and Frank chatted happily over breakfast about their planned overnight treat.

  ‘We’re going to have afternoon tea then head to the spa for a swim and sauna,’ Jude told Clare.

  ‘Then dinner and a few whiskies, to round off the night,’ Frank added.

  Clare was glad to see them looking so happy. In spite of her sister’s disturbed night, Clare thought she seemed brighter today. Hopefully the break away from home and worries about James would put some colour back in her cheeks. From his highchair, James looked on, stony-faced, munching on a slice of toast and marmalade. She glanced down at her phone which had buzzed. A message from Diane.

  Hi Clare.

  I know you said you couldn’t make the parkrun.

  Fancy a cup of tea instead? This afternoon, maybe.

  I could come up your way.

  I’ve a favour to ask.

  D x

  Clare looked at the message for a few minutes, trying to decide how to reply. Gayle had gone now, her work done. But Clare knew her report on the leak probably hadn’t been read yet. If that was the case, there was no way she could say anything to Diane about it. If she could just keep out of Diane’s way for a few more days…

  She tapped back a quick message.

  Got my nephew here all weekend.

  Sister and husband going to hotel.

  Sorry x

  Clare sent the message then saw immediately that Diane was typing a reply. It arrived a minute later.

  Ok, yeah, you said. Sorry!

  Clare’s conscience pricked at her. She had known Diane for years and she would trust Diane with her life. Yet all week she’d been avoiding her, on the say so of Gayle Crichton. Gayle who, despite her promises to keep in touch, would probably be here today, gone tomorrow. She tapped back another message.

  What’s the favour?

  I’ll help if I can.

  She saw that Diane was typing a reply. Then the typing stopped for a minute before resuming. And then the message flashed up.

  Need to look at nursing homes for mum.

  One near me looks promising – Cadham Rest

  Would you have time to come down this way?

  Help me look it over?

  Cadham Rest. It rang a bell. And then Clare remembered seeing the flyer with her mail when she had come in the previous night. But it had rung a bell with her last night too. Had Diane already mentioned it? Or was she starting to imagine things? Overthink them? Had that eighty thousand pounds mistake shaken her confidence? Was she starting to question everything? Clare, you need a holiday, she told herself. Maybe a trip to Boston would be a good idea. See if she could sort out her relationship with Geoffrey. If they still had one…

  ‘Is that okay?’ Jude was saying. ‘Clare?’

  She realised her sister had been speaking and she hadn’t heard. ‘Sorry, Jude – I missed that.’

  ‘I said, would it be okay if we went about twelve? We can check in from two but it’s such a lo
vely day. We could dump our bags and go for a walk.’

  Clare laughed. ‘Go now, for goodness sake! James and I will be fine.’ She turned to her nephew. ‘Won’t we?’

  James stared back at Clare and held out his piece of toast to her. She took it solemnly, pretended to nibble then handed it back.

  * * *

  It took Frank several attempts to get Jude into the car. ‘Honestly, Jude,’ he said, rolling his eyes at Clare. ‘Will you stop nipping Clare’s head? She already knows everything to do with James.’

  Jude pulled her seat belt on. ‘I know. It’s just—’

  Her words were lost as Frank drove off quickly, before she could think of another reason to run back into Daisy Cottage.

  Clare stood waving them off, James in her arms and, when they had gone, she set him down. ‘So, young man – what about a country walk?’

  The sun was out, casting a warm glow on fields of grass, wheat and brilliant yellow oilseed rape. With James strapped securely into his pushchair, Clare set off along the road, heading away from St Andrews. There were no pavements on this section so she walked quickly, soon approaching the sign for Craigtoun Park where Johannes’s body had been found. As the red sandstone gatehouse and pillared entrance came into view, she deliberately averted her eyes, trying not to think about Paddy Grant in that blue Transit van, looking for somewhere to dump the young student’s body – if it was Paddy who had killed him. She wondered if the DNA results were through yet. She couldn’t remember if she’d asked Raymond to hurry them up. Maybe she could send him a quick email…

  It was warm now. She steered the pushchair into the verge and stopped to unzip her hoodie. As she took it off she felt the spring sun on her arms and she wondered how warm it would be in Boston at this time of year. The idea of visiting Geoffrey was appealing more and more. She tied the hoodie round her waist while James sat, kicking his red Hunter wellies against the footplate, his favourite Thomas the Tank Engine clutched in his hands. Maybe when James was having a nap she could look online for flights. He twisted his head round to see why they had stopped and she saw that his nose was running. His tongue was poised to explore this and she quickly fished a tissue out of her pocket and gently wiped his nose. She tucked the tissue back in her pocket and began walking again, her head filled with plans for Boston. A couple of cars flew past, a bit too close for Clare’s liking, and she picked up the pace, keen to find a quieter road.

  A little further on she came to a single-track road which climbed up towards the villages of Peat Inn and New Gilston, and she stopped to unstrap James who was kicking his feet more insistently now. She lifted him out and he steadied himself before setting off up the slope, still clutching his toy train. It was a quiet road and they walked on, Clare wheeling the empty pushchair, until James’s little legs began to tire. There was a gap in a stone dyke and Clare took his hand, leading him through the gap into a field, recently ploughed. She stood looking at the view, down across the land that gave onto the Eden Estuary. It was the same land she had viewed yesterday but now she was looking north instead of east from Balmullo. She remembered that the estuary was a nature reserve. Perhaps she could take James there on Sunday.

  A car was coming up the hill, its window down, music blaring from the radio. Clare listened as it came closer. It was a Scottish country dance band playing a reel – one she recognised from her schooldays, those agonising lessons where the boys were made to dance with the girls. Clare loved a ceilidh now but, as a ten-year-old, having to dance with the boys was mortifying. And then she remembered the tune – it was Cadham Wood. One of a medley the teacher would put on when she attempted the near impossible task of teaching the class the Eightsome Reel. Clare listened as the car passed, enjoying the memory, and then for some reason she suddenly felt uneasy. Cadham. That name again.

  She recalled her teacher telling the class that Cadham Wood was near Kirriemuir, a small town north of Dundee. But the flyer delivered with yesterday’s mail was for a different Cadham: Cadham Rest, the nursing home near Glenrothes. Was that the same one Diane had said she was considering for her mum?

  With one eye on James, she took out her phone to check Diane’s message and she saw that she was right. Cadham Rest.

  But something still was nagging away at Clare. She had seen the name Cadham Rest somewhere else.

  And then she remembered – and it was like a hammer blow to the chest.

  It had been on Gayle Crichton’s laptop that day they had shared a cafetière of coffee with Gayle’s stash of Jaffa Cakes.

  James was stomping about contentedly, kicking earth from the furrows. Clare sank down on the edge of the stone dyke to think. Diane was interested in Cadham Rest for her mother and Gayle had been looking at the nursing home website. Could it really be a coincidence? Gayle hadn’t mentioned having any elderly relatives herself. So why was she looking at Cadham Rest on her laptop?

  And then Clare thought about that invoice. As much as she’d had to concede that her copy showed eight thousand, she knew she had made it out for eighty thousand pounds. So who had changed it and how had they managed to change Clare’s own copy? Was it really possible that someone could bill the golf events company for eighty thousand pounds and replace the invoice on the system with one for eight thousand, pocketing the difference? It would take considerable skill to do that – and to get away with it. Someone with a high level of IT skills. The kind of skills found in the staff at IT Services.

  And Clare knew that no one would question the IT Services team accessing staff accounts online. Monitoring online traffic was part of their job, after all. What was it Gayle had said? She hoped the culprit would be treated with some understanding. What had she meant by that? Or, rather, who had she meant? Clare felt sick just thinking about it.

  They resumed their walk up the hill but, as they reached the tiny Hamlet of Denhead, James was starting to drag his feet.

  ‘Home for lunch,’ Clare said, strapping him back into his pushchair. He put a thumb in his mouth and lay back, his eyes becoming heavy.

  By the time they reached Daisy Cottage he was fast asleep. As she trundled the pushchair across the gravel Clare noticed something on the doorstep. Drawing nearer she saw that it was a magpie. It lay there stiff, its eyes long gone, courtesy of crows, no doubt. But how had it got there? She squinted up at her front windows to see if there was any sign of it having struck the glass but she couldn’t tell.

  ‘Poor thing,’ she said, picking it up. It was as light as air and she went quickly to the bin to put it in before James wakened. There was no sign that a cat (or, thank goodness, Benjy) had attacked it. She looked at the upstairs windows again. Surely if it had struck one of them it would have fallen onto the gravel – not under the front door porch. She felt faintly uneasy about this. Had someone left it there? Was this some quaint country custom she didn’t know about? Maybe Moira would know. But wasn’t there something unlucky about a single magpie?

  James began to stir and she went to unstrap him. She removed his wellies, knocking them together to dislodge the earth from the ploughed field, and led him indoors.

  She chatted to him while making his lunch and he appeared to be listening attentively. After they had eaten she read him a story and, gradually, his eyes began to close and he was soon snoozing. Clare settled him on the sofa, tucking a blanket round him, and began clearing up lunch. She mulled over what they might do in the afternoon. Another walk perhaps or maybe he would be happy playing with his trains. She wondered what Jude and Frank were doing now. Hopefully Jude was relaxing, perhaps finding her appetite over a tempting afternoon tea. Looking forward to a few hours in the hotel spa. Maybe she could set aside one weekend a month to take James and let them have a break. If this weekend went well she would suggest it.

  The doorbell rang, sudden and shrill, cutting across Clare’s daydreams. She glanced at James to see if it had disturbed his sleep but he snoozed gently on, his long lashes resting on pink cheeks. She went to the door, wondering
who it might be. Living in the country meant few callers. She pulled it open and saw Gayle standing on the doorstep, bearing a bottle of Prosecco.

  ‘Clare,’ she said, her smile warm. ‘I’m sorry. This is really bad of me. I know you have your nephew to stay this weekend. But I don’t check out of my hotel till tomorrow morning and I thought you might like another pair of hands with the wee one. I mean, tell me to go away if you like but I do love children. Lots of nieces and nephews and I’d love to help.’

  Clare regarded her visitor with a mix of emotions. On the one hand, she felt hugely relieved that Gayle seemed to have forgotten her indiscretion over the leak. And, if she was being honest, she was flattered that someone like Gayle wanted to spend time with her, especially now their working relationship was at an end. But this was to have been her time with James. A chance to get to know her nephew a bit better so she could lift some of the load from her sister’s shoulders.

  Gayle must have sensed that Clare was conflicted. ‘Oh, Clare – I’m sorry. It was rude of me, turning up unannounced. I’ll leave you in peace. Forgive me?’

  Her smile was so appealing that Clare relented. What else could she do? She stepped back to admit Gayle, closing the front door behind her. In the sitting room James snoozed on. Clare looked at the Prosecco doubtfully.

  Gayle followed her gaze. ‘Oh, don’t worry,’ she said. ‘I didn’t think you’d want to drink when you’re babysitting. But this is for you. Have it when everyone has gone. Drink it all yourself.’

  Clare laughed. It was a tempting thought. ‘Cup of tea then?’ she said.

  ‘Yes please.’

  She turned for the kitchen, Gayle following her, bottle in hand. And then something blinding and sharp shot through Clare’s head and blackness overtook her.

  Chapter 37