Absolution (44 page)

‘The daughter of a woman he once loved,’ she corrected.

Anderson didn’t know what to say.

‘Once
loved?’ Helena went on. ‘He never stopped loving her. She’s buried in a grave with white tulips.’

‘Then you know she died very young, very tragically. She left her mark on a vulnerable young man. That’s all, Helena.’

‘He didn’t trust me with that secret. Did you know about her?’

Anderson opened his mouth.

‘Too slow to answer, DI Anderson. You knew.’

‘Only a few days ago and not all of it. I had to figure out the connection between Anna and Robbie myself. If he had told me, I could have done something official about this,
and Leask would not have found her. The outcome might have been different, but he had his reasons for playing it his way; it was a part of his life that we weren’t entitled to, Helena. Alan was a good man. He had his reasons.’

Helena nodded. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘Nothing to be sorry about.’

‘Colin, even my engagement ring was hers.’ She sat down wearily. ‘I’ve just seen him in the morgue. I looked at his face and hardly recognized him. He looked so content. I think he spent his whole life feeling guilty about her, and now he has repaid his debt. Well, that’s what Costello says.’

‘Costello is a born romantic. Alan was killed protecting somebody defenceless.’

‘His demons have gone now.’ She sighed. ‘She will pull through – the girl?’

‘She’s getting the best attention.’

‘Once a policeman, always a policeman. When I get him back, could you come with me to do the – ’

‘Of course I will.’ He opened his arms, laid her head on his shoulder and began to cry.

The Connel Bridge spans Loch Etive like a wrought-iron big cat leaping from shore to shore. In the late-autumn mist, kissed by the lightest of frosts, there is a fragility in its strength, as if the slightest breath of wind from Ben Cruachan would break sinew of steel and bone of iron.

It is a skeleton of a bridge, its superstructure lightly sparkling in the weak sun. Through the mist, the surface of the bridge is illumined, as if with a peppering of fairy dust.

There are a few dull footprints on the road. They stop at the edge of the bridge. An empty bottle of Glenmorangie, a tribute to the Glen of Tranquillity, lies where it rolled to rest against a neatly folded brown waxed jacket. In the neck
of the bottle is a rolled piece of paper containing a few lines written in a precise italic hand and a signature framed with inverted commas: ‘
Christopher Robin
’. The handrail of the bridge shows the imprint of a human hand, where the warm caress of a palm has melted the frost beside a frayed knot of rope, tightly tied. The rope disappears towards the water.

At the end of the rope swings a body, a gentle sway, just moving and no more with the touch of the breeze. The feet are swinging north by north-west. The face is masked by a polythene bag, the features obscured by condensation. The rope is tight around the neck, cutting an inch into purple flesh already tinged with a black fringe of necrosis. Just below is a crescent moon of brilliant white, a sliver of pristine dog collar.

He looks as if he is smiling.

The spokes of the wheels cast shadows over the floor, the white-grey-black-white-grey-black of old cine film. Sean’s hands moved on the circular rail, faster and faster, muscles pumping, fingers grasping, then opening, slipping the rail through, then tightening and driving onward, leaving skid marks on the wooden floor, an accompanying scream of exhilaration echoing round the cottage.

Gelert trotted along behind, panting, totally unimpressed.

The wheelchair rolled out on to the balcony and came to an abrupt halt. Gelert stopped too, sniffing the air. Man and dog turned to look at Trude, lying snuggled like a child in the hammock, dead to the world.

Sean looked at his watch. Medication time. He picked up the four brown bottles on his lap and stood up, kicking down the brake on the chair. The sun was strong on the veranda, the sea sparkled dark blue and diamond, a slight breeze tinged the air with salt. Ailsa Craig was in soufflé mode, rising from the sea fully baked. He had nailed a blanket over the balcony rail to keep the strong glare of the sun from Trude, but now he twisted it back on itself, letting some of the light and the warmth flood in. Prison had made him a great believer in the vitality of sea air, sunshine, sea breeze.

Although still asleep, she instinctively turned her face away from the wind as it caressed her face, lifting the fair hair in gentle wisps… that face, that beautiful face that still haunted him in his sleep. Her lips and eyelids were tinged
with blue, the twisting path of the veins of her temple clearly visible through the transparent skin.

He stood all the bottles in a line on the wooden rail of the balcony, arranging them in order of size. Gelert with his big mouth open, tongue hanging out, put his ears back and watched with meticulous intent.

Sean hated this bit, waking her up. She slept deeply these days, the sleep of the dead. The doctors said it was good: her mind was at rest and not remembering, her body taking time out to heal. But he was always afraid that she would not come round when he tried to wake her, afraid of finding that life had slipped away unnoticed and that she was lying, still and cold.

Now, if he looked at her for one minute more, she would be alive for a little longer. He would never come so close to losing her again.

His hand was shaking as he leaned forward and kissed her on the forehead, then again, deeper and stronger. She did not stir.

He rubbed her forearm delicately, the way the hospital had shown him –
don’t nudge, a steady pressure, wake her up gradually –
reeling her back in from no man’s land.

‘Truli,’ he said quietly. Her eyes flickered open, closed, then opened again, squinting into focus. Confusion, pain and then realization crossed her face, her eyes smiling slowly and waiting for the rest of her face to join them.

‘How are you feeling, Truli?’

Her eyes looked past his, out to the sea and the sky above, helpless and searching, probing the dark recesses of her mind with questions she was not ready to answer.

‘Tablet time.’

She smiled at him, a little secret smile, and the dimple on her cheek creased and deepened. She pulled her arms from
under the blanket and stretched, pulling the sleeves with slender fingers, retracting her head into the neck of the jumper. It was Sean’s jumper; her head went the whole way in. She began to giggle.

‘Tablets, Truli!’

He turned round, ready with the medication, and her head popped out of the jumper again. The wind caught her hair, blowing it into a halo round her head.

With the last tablet swallowed, he cradled her face in his hands, making sure she was all right. She smiled at him, lazily regarding him through drugged eyes. She looked slightly drunk, suggestive, inviting.

‘OK, Truli, time to get up; four hours’ sitting sleep and four hours’ lying sleep, that’s what the doctor ordered,’ he said, repeating the hospital mantra.
Keep her circulation going,
they had said. He placed her bony arms round his neck, and they held firm now in helplessness as they once had in passion. He lifted her bodily, her feet swinging clear of the floor. Last week her head had swung like a rag doll’s; this time it still lolled a little but she was managing better. Her arms were strong enough to grip him. Another little step along the long road to recovery. She was looking at him straight in the face, a faint curve on those lovely lips, as he lowered her, her feet taking the strain for a fleeting moment before her knees gave way and the rag doll was back.

She hadn’t spoken a word since the stabbing. He preferred it that way. Now he could do all the talking, all the thinking. To get to her, they had to get past him. But nothing would get past him, and they would be safe. And now he had Anderson as back-up, an honourable man.

He sat down and pulled the wood towards him, four bits fashioned to make a frame, and clipped them together. He had already cut the hole in the wood: in that would nestle a
small grey stone, a priceless small grey stone. Together with one of Trude’s watercolours of Culzean Castle, the frame and its tiny cargo would pass through Customs as a pleasing memento of a holiday to Scotland.

Nan would be along soon; she would take it and the rest of the paintings up to the roadside, and sit there till they came. She would have the odd coach stop, and the American tourists would keep her amused, but it was the silver BMW with the quartered wheel-trim and a packet of Swan Vesta matches tucked on the dashboard at the passenger side that got the painting with the expensive frame.

The money was already in a safety-deposit box.

He looked out over the water, the water where the
Fluisteraar
had been caught and Robert McAlpine had died. He knew about all that now, but it didn’t change a thing. It was calm today.

He selected a watercolour of Culzean on a wintry grey day. The castle looked dark and foreboding. They were lucky to live under its protection. They would be happy here, happy away from everyone, here on the beach in their own personal paradise.

Gelert ran on to the sand, a happy dog, plumy tail up, chasing seagulls with the energy of unbounded joy and freedom. Sean dropped the frame and jumped up to join him, running down the beach, arms out, running in circles, their footprints in the sand intertwining, leaving a tideline of ampersands for the waves to wash away.

Writing a novel can be both lonely and uncertain. The whole, often painful process has been made bearable and enjoyable by my supporting network of kith and kin.

Heartfelt thanks to my agent Jane Gregory – she’s the best – and all ‘Gregory Girls’ for showing faith in my talent at the best and worst of times. And to Mary of course – such a font of knowledge and wisdom on so many subjects; she’s a veritable encyclopedia.

Much gratitude goes to all at Penguin, especially Beverley Cousins, an editor of supreme ‘tact’, and all the creative team for making the publishing process a pleasure for a total novice like me.

Not forgetting my own crew: Karen, Catherine, Annette, Vadim, Elizabeth, Liz, Jessie, Irene, Antoinette, Noreen, Linda, Selena, Gillian, Biriani, Lorna, Lorraine, Safaa, Francis… told you I was a creative genius! And Heather ‘the blether’ Graham, the ‘Tweenies’ expert. And her granny for the tablet.

Many thanks to all those whose brains I have tapped: Robert J. P. Kerr and all my friends in Strathclyde Police for their expertise given so freely and with infinite patience – all the inaccuracies are mine. Special mention to Archie McKenzie and Cameron McKichan, two true gentlemen. Without forgetting all the others who chipped in with their tuppence’ worth, Anna McC. and Janet S. Specially to Helen W. and Margaret P. for keeping me supplied with Irn-Bru and latte respectively.

Acknowledgement also to Gavin Bell, a true wordsmith. His passion for the written word is catching, but I hope one day, on some distant tropical shore with the waves lapping at his toes, he will discover the wonder of crime fiction. But what do you expect from a Motherwell fan… the only club that could double the stadium seating capacity by buying a sofa. Regards as always to Patchers Patch.

Which turns me to my dearest and nearest – the four-legged companions that provide sanity in a world of madness – or should that be vice versa – Kimberly Kim, Chloe Big Dog, Katie Wee Dog, Rusty Thin Dog and Emily Pit Bull. Not forgetting Pi Pi for ‘helping’ work the keyboard – if only cats could spell. Properly.

Some gratitude, I suppose, to all at Johnstone Writers Group – right bunch of nutters that you are. I suppose I should mention John Coughlan in particular, nasty piece of work that he is! And to Ian Hunter for keeping the group together no matter what.

And Christopher ‘Skippy’ Koster – Tooting’s own Crocodile Dundee for all your support in moments of true madness and despair – usually when the computer crashed… again. Which brings me to Tracy the Moth, computer genius. I appreciate everything you do for me and my random memory, but I still have no idea what you are going on about. And with credit to Colin the Bruce, fellow creative genius and inhabitant of Abba Land.

This book was produced with aid from a Scottish Arts Council Grant and with help and support from Ajay Close, an underestimated genius. Ajay looked at me once on a Thursday night group and said, ‘Try sending that thing you wrote to Jane Gregory.’ I did and look what happened!

And indeed, to Glasgow itself, my green city. I apologize for messing with your geography but needs must. And yes,
I did go to Hollywood once, but there were no potato scones, so I came back.

Last, but by no means least, to Mater and Pater for all their help, support, dog-walking, vacuuming and helping me with the juggling act that is my life…

Thanks to you all,

Caro