Shadow Man, page 11
Anna turns to follow, but Jamie puts his hand on her arm. ‘Maybe give her a minute? She . . .’ he shakes his head, lets his hand fall to his side. ‘God, listen to me, trying to tell you what to do. It’s just . . . that thing your mam was doing with the papers—’
‘I know.’ Anna retrieves the cuttings and puts them on the dresser. ‘Morven’s agent suggested it. He said Mam might feel more in touch with her that way.’
‘That Hadley guy who was on Reporting Scotland the other week? Jesus.’
She shrugs. Hadley’s overblown, posh-boy persona sets her teeth on edge, but talking to him seems to help her mother. ‘I don’t think she knows what else to do . . . and she’s right, I was trying to get on with some work today. I . . . I need to do something, Jamie. I need to think about something that isn’t about . . .’ she waves her hand at the pile of cuttings, ‘about this. Does that make me heartless?’
‘You’re not heartless. But you do look knackered – why don’t we go and grab a coffee somewhere? You look like you could do with getting out for a while.’
For a moment, she’s tempted. How long has it been since she’s ventured further than the local shop? Even their supermarket shopping gets delivered these days. And time has started running into itself, aimless, walking-on-eggshells days blurring into too-long, sleep-free nights. But her father’s gone out to a ‘Yes’ supporters meeting and she can’t leave her mother alone, not in her current state.
Anna shakes her head. ‘Mam needs someone with her right now. But we can go down to the summerhouse for a bit of fresh air.’
She gets the Chablis from the fridge and a couple of glasses and leads the way past the clematis and the raspberry canes. Her favourite bit of the garden since she was a little girl, this part . . . the scruffy, untamed part hidden beyond the lawn and flower beds with their perfect, manicured edges.
She pulls out a couple of garden chairs for them to sit on. When she looks up from pouring the wine, Jamie’s watching her. ‘What?’
He shakes his head. ‘You can’t carry on like this, Anna. Supporting your parents is fine, but . . . what about the memorial service, who’s organising that? Not Hadley the heavy-breather again?’
‘Preparing “a few ideas for us to think about” as we speak.’ Anna picks up her glass, half drains it and pours herself a generous top-up. ‘Good old Glyn. What would we do without him?’
‘Can’t imagine. What about Ross? He doing any better?’
She shakes her head. Ross Campbell has turned up at her parents’ house a couple of times since Morven’s murder, barely coherent and reeking of alcohol. Both times, he’d looked like a man planning to climb inside a whisky bottle and stay there. How he’s going to cope with the memorial service is anyone’s guess.
‘Not so you’d notice, no. But he and Mam get on really well, so I guess they’re helping each other through this.’
‘Yeah, looks like that’s working.’ Jamie glances at her. ‘Look, I’ve got a completely selfish suggestion to put to you. It’s more work, but I think the distraction might be good for you.’
He’s in the early stages of negotiations with BBC Scotland, he tells her, for a historical documentary on the Highlands. ‘Not the Bonnie Prince and that tired old Jacobite guff, though. I want to concentrate on the Clearances and their aftermath, and I could do with some help putting it all together. How do you feel about it?’
She needs a moment to work out what he’s asking her. ‘You want me to get involved? Jamie, I can’t. I need to be here for Mam and Dad right now.’
‘You need a bit of breathing space as well. You can’t carry on like this, Anna. Look, it wouldn’t take long, I promise – and it would give you something else to focus on, wouldn’t it?’
He has a point, she supposes. ‘But the nineteenth century isn’t exactly my period, Jamie. I’m not sure how much use I’d be.’
‘Are you kidding? You’ve got the serious academic skills, you’ve got the background – and to be honest, I’m a wee bit up against it, time-wise.’
‘What’s a wee bit, exactly?’
‘Enough to tell me I need to get a move on. Anyway, with you on board there’s less chance of me getting completely up myself – hard to believe, I know, but it happens sometimes.’ He shakes his head. ‘Though compared to the giant ego I spoke to at the cop shop . . . God, what was his name? Sneery git in a suit three levels above his pay grade, looked like he’d a stick rammed up his—’
‘Mahler talked to you? What did he want?’
‘Well, that’s the thing. He was asking about the night Morven was killed, and I . . . I may have dropped you in it a bit.’
‘What do you mean?’ Ice in the pit of her stomach. ‘What did you tell him, Jamie?’
‘Just that you were annoyed with her for setting you up for that stupid photoshoot. Well, you were, weren’t you? And he gave me a funny look when I said I dropped you at the hotel by ten.’
‘No, it must have been later than that, surely? I heard the clock in the hall—’
‘Look, don’t worry about it – you were probably still in shock when the guy spoke to you, and when he pushed me, I said I might have got it wrong. It’s not like you lied to him, is it?’ He glances at his watch, frowns. ‘I better go. Listen, let me know if this memorial service thing is going ahead, and I’ll do my best to be there. And have a think about the Clearances project, will you? It’ll take a day or two at most, and I’d really appreciate it.’
‘I will. And . . . thanks, Jamie. Thanks for everything.’
He shakes his head. ‘No thanks needed. What’s happened . . . you don’t deserve any of this stuff, Anna. None of you do.’
She watches him set off down the path, knowing she doesn’t need to think about it. She’s going to work with him, of course she is. Not because of what he’d said, but what he hadn’t. Since the news of Morven’s murder broke, Jamie’s phoned or called round nearly every day . . . not intrusively, not pushing in, just doing what he could to show he was on their side. And neglecting his new project as a result, she suspects. The least she can do is help him out for a day or two.
Her mobile buzzes in her pocket. Nothing urgent, just a discreet enquiry from faculty admin about what’s happening – not pushing her for a return date, which she’s grateful for, though she’s going to have to think about it at some point. She’s already missed her final teaching week, and there’s no way she’ll be back in time for the round of meetings scheduled for July. Or the leaving bash for Chrissy, the departmental secretary, or Hannah’s baby shower, come to that.
The thought is suddenly, stupidly, upsetting. Anna closes her eyes, and for a moment the smells and sounds of downtown San Diego are so intense it’s as though she’s back there, strolling through Balboa Park in the sunshine or taking in an exhibition at the Museum of Art. Driving up to La Jolla at weekends for brunch with friends, maybe, or walking along the beach. Enjoying the life she’s made there, living it to the full . . . homesick, she thinks. She’s come home to be homesick. In which alternative universe does that make any kind of sense? And what good is she doing here, anyway?
Supporting her parents, allegedly. Being there for them . . . only Dad’s out of the house and into the garden as soon as he’s up and dressed, incinerating weeds or pushing the lawnmower over the grass with a sleepwalker’s unblinking gaze. And Mam is breaking apart, piece by brittle piece, and there’s nothing she can do to stop it. Great job you’re doing of supporting them, Anna. Really well done . . . and that’s not even the worst of it, is it?
It’s not like you lied to him. She pours herself the last of the wine and angles her chair round so she’s facing away from the house. And wonders what Jamie would think of her if he knew the truth.
He’s only been absent for a few days, but the house feels cold, uninhabited again, as though his presence is an anomaly, a temporary irritation it’s trying to shrug off. He resets the thermostat and sorts through the mail – junk, most of it, but it never hurts to be thorough – and Morven’s face appears, grinning up at him from the local free paper.
His stomach revolts, filling his mouth with bile. Another touching tribute to the sad media tart, no doubt. Christ, is she going to plague him for the rest of his life? Why can’t the stupid bitch stay dead? Unless . . .
He speed-reads the article, feels his face relax into a disbelieving smile. The memorial service for poor murdered Morven is to be held at Bunchrew House. Unbelievable. Out of all the possible venues in the city, they’ve chosen the actual crime scene for their maudlin grief-fest. How twisted would you have to be to dream that one up?
He crosses to the dresser, takes out the ten-year-old Tomatin and pours himself a finger, irritated to see the faint but noticeable tremor in his hand. He can’t afford to lose control, not now that things are finally going so well.
He turns on the TV, scrolls through the news channels. Alex Salmond and Alistair Darling are snarling at each other on a current affairs programme, two surly, long-toothed pit-bulls, desperate to bring each other down as the Referendum campaign heats up. A gift to him, this graceless cycle of never-ending posturing. Another week of Yes/No tedium, eating up the column inches, filling the TV soundbites. Another week that carries Morven’s story further and further out of the headlines – almost a month, now, since that night at Bunchrew. A month of virtual silence from the police, which means they’re floundering. As usual.
Oh, he’s not out of the woods yet, he knows that. There are loose ends still to be dealt with – the kitchen porter, for one. If there had been a moment when all his plans could have fallen apart, that was it. The fool had come from nowhere, looming out of the half-dark at him, shocked mouth opening and closing like a gaffed salmon. If it hadn’t been for the skull mask . . .
The mask had been a last-minute addition, a macabre fancy he’d indulged in against his better judgement, or so he’d thought. But he’d been wrong. The mask had calmed him, kept him resolute. Kept him focused. And shown him the kitchen porter for what he was – a skinny, trembling runt with red-rimmed drinker’s eyes, the kind of man you’d walk past a hundred times and never see. A nothing man, easy to threaten. Easy to buy. Easy, as it turns out, to make use of.
For now.
20
MONDAY, 16 JUNE
After a week of grey, unsettled skies, the sun decides to make an appearance on the morning of the memorial service. It’s still only June, and not even the ever-optimistic Fergie would suggest that summer has finally arrived. But as Mahler pulls up at Bunchrew House the clouds are starting to clear and the firth is a still, dark blue.
‘Jesus, Lukas, you’re cutting it fine!’ June Wallace is standing in the doorway, mobile clamped under her jaw while she fiddles with an e-cigarette. ‘The Chief’s hopping about like a hen on a hot girdle and the hotel manager’s getting twitchy about a bunch of journos cluttering up his nice clean hotel.’
‘Out in force, I take it?’
‘Them and half the bloody town, thanks to that open invitation in the Courier.’ June gestures towards the roped-off area serving as a temporary car park. It’s already half-full, and Mahler can see a steady stream of vehicles making their way down the drive. ‘Going to be a nightmare, son, you wait and see. Ach, sod it!’ She gives up on the e-cigarette and stuffs it in her pocket. ‘Come on, family’s in here.’
Mahler follows her to the oak-panelled room that serves as a bar and informal lounge for hotel guests. Chief Superintendent Chae Hunt, immaculate in full dress uniform, is at the far end of the room, issuing instructions to an aide. He looks up as they enter and beckons them over.
‘Found our lost sheep I see, June.’ He nods a dismissal at the aide and turns to Mahler. ‘Detective Inspector, good of you to join us.’ A pause. A glance at his watch. And in case Mahler’s somehow missed the point, the flash of a razor-wire smile. ‘Eventually.’
‘Sir, I was delayed—’
‘You’re here now. Let’s move on, shall we?’ The smile reappears for the space of a millisecond. ‘The family’s trusting us to get results, Inspector, and we’re going to deliver for them. Aren’t we?’
Mahler contemplates a response involving rabbits and hats. And possibly a magic wand. ‘Sir.’
He scans the room. A young, dog-collared man with a hipster beard and a nervous expression is making last-minute amendments to a page of handwritten notes. Robert and Yvonne Murray are seated by the fire, deep in conversation with Maxine. Robert Murray has lost weight and there’s a disturbing greyness to his features, but his wife looks infinitely worse. So why is there no sign of the one person he’d expected to be there, offering them support?
He looks round again, sees the French windows standing open and, beyond them, two figures by the drystone wall. ‘Sir, ma’am, if you’ll excuse me? Someone I need to see.’
Anna Murray, pale skin and graphite dress light-and-shade sombre, is talking to the half-slumped man beside her on the wall. He’s shaking his head and grunting annoyance, but not making any kind of intelligible reply. As Mahler comes closer, he realises why.
Ross Campbell’s dark suit, too heavy for the warmth of the day, is a crumpled mess and his shirt has come untucked, pink hairy belly exposed between gaping buttons. His eyes, half-closed in his sweat-sheened face, are rimmed with red, and the smell of alcohol on his breath is overwhelming.
‘Is he okay?’
Whirling round to face him, anger flushing her cheeks. ‘Of course he’s not okay! I’ve been trying to get some water into him, but—’
‘How much has he had to drink?’
‘Enough.’ She shakes her head. ‘Look at him! There’s no way he can do this.’
Mahler has to agree. How could Maxine have allowed Campbell to get into this state? ‘Help me get him inside and we’ll find someone to look after him’
Mahler bends to take Campbell’s arm, but the man’s eyes snap open and he pulls away.
‘Get off me.’ He struggles to his feet, glaring at them. ‘I’ve a right to be here, haven’t I? And your boss man says it’s important, so I . . . I’m staying.’
He finger-combs his hair, gives them a last defiant look and lurches towards the French windows.
‘Mr Campbell, wait. Where’s—’
June Wallace appears at the French windows. She ushers Campbell inside, looks back at Mahler and holds up her wrist, pointing at her watch. At his nod, Anna gives him an incredulous look.
‘You’re not letting him go through with it? Ross isn’t fit—’
‘His choice.’ Harsher than he’d intended, because she’s right. If Campbell gets through the morning without throwing up over his shoes, it’ll be a miracle. ‘Look, if things become difficult, I promise I’ll intervene. But we do need to go in now.’
‘It’s already difficult, Inspector.’ She straightens her shoulders, her jawline rigid with tension. ‘But thank you for that. Right, I’m ready.’
She isn’t ready, of course, he knows that. None of them are. Maxine’s done her best, but how could she have prepared anyone for this? Even Chae Hunt looks taken aback at the size of the crowd shoehorned into the makeshift enclosure by the side of the firth. In front of it, a horseshoe of chairs sits facing the lectern for the main part of the service, and the tributes which will follow.
Mahler catches June’s grim expression as they walk across the lawns. She’s scared up extra uniforms from somewhere to provide a decent level of presence throughout the grounds but she’s clearly not happy, and he doesn’t blame her.
Faces turning towards them as they take their seats. The buzz of chatter from the waiting journos cutting off, and cameras bursting into clicking, flashing life. Mahler hopes the minister isn’t as nervous as his deer-in-headlights look suggests.
He steers Campbell to a chair next to Anna and positions himself on his other side. Campbell’s face is shiny with sweat and he probably shouldn’t stand too close to a naked flame, but the sight of all those pointing cameras seems to have sobered him up temporarily.
At least the Chief doesn’t seem fazed by the numbers. He looks round the enclosure, nods at a few favoured faces, and starts his intro speech. Chae Hunt’s camera-savvy style isn’t universally popular at Burnett Road – rumour has it his youthful looks aren’t solely down to good genes and clean living – but there’s no denying he knows how to work a crowd.
By the time Robert Murray starts his tribute to his murdered daughter, everyone is hushed, receptive. But Ross Campbell’s contribution is what really gets them straining on the edge of their seats – tearful, shambolic, his drink-trembling fingers clutching what Mahler hopes is a glass of water, Campbell is car-crash TV made flesh. Mahler’s leaning forward, ready to make good his promise to intervene, when the man erupts in a coughing fit. Red-faced and sweating, he’s un-telegenic enough for the cameras to lose interest and move on to Anna Murray’s pale, exhausted features. Mahler passes her a glass of water, leaning past Campbell to obscure the cameras’ view, and is rewarded with a nod of thanks.
As the minister delivers his homily, Mahler scans the crowd. So many people, the hotel’s had to set up an additional parking area to the rear of the hotel to accommodate everyone. Had Morven really been that popular? Or have most of them just come for a good gawk and the chance to get their faces on the telly?
He follows the cameras’ progress. A couple of passes over the mass of heads and back to home in on the family, lingering over Yvonne Murray’s tear-stained face before they cut to the Chief for his closing remarks.
‘None of us here today feels untouched by the loss of Morven Murray. It has devastated her family and, indeed, our entire community.’ A pause and sideways glare at a still-spluttering Ross Campbell. ‘I would like to offer my sincere sympathies to Mr and Mrs Murray . . .’
