Beneath the Abbey Wall (37 page)

“Poor soul,” Betsy said, “you've got it as bad as me.”

Climbing the staircase that she had climbed so many times before, Joanne felt dread instead of her usual anticipation. The sound of a typewriter punctuated the claustrophobia of the stone steps and walls. The dim light from a window high above, which she always fancied had never been cleaned since the building was erected in the eighteenth century, cast shadows on the worn stairs.

“Hello.”

He was intent on meeting the deadline; it took him a moment to register her presence in the high narrow room, where the reporters' table left little space between friends—or enemies.

“Oh, hello.” He barely paused in his typing.

“You're leaving.” When the words came out they sounded like a squawk to her inner ear.

He did not notice, or chose not to notice.

“Yep. Two days from now I'll be on the train. Then it's the transatlantic flight from Prestwick.”

He looked down the length of the table. He registered her face. He saw how faded she looked, collapsing, punctured. But he could not, would not do anything; he was on deadline.

“It's been fun, but as you know I came here to finish my research and I'm finished.”

I know,
she thought,
I've always known. But fun?

“Sorry, I have to get through all this.” He gestured to the pile of copy paper next to the Underwood. “We can say good-bye properly when the edition has gone to press.” And he grinned that grin that she had risked her reputation, her family, her job, her reason for.

“Did you ever love me?” The words were out before she knew it, and she hated herself for asking.

“Love you? Of course. You're an amazing woman. We've had a great time.”

His words were unworthy of him, and her. His eyes flicked between the typewriter and the clock on the wall ticking off the minutes to deadline and the hours to his departure.

She knew she must leave. But she couldn't move. Watching him as he continued tapping the keys, torn between fleeing and begging, unaware of two fat drops of tears making tracks down her cheeks, falling and marking the high-buttoned white blouse she had bought to make her seem more professional.

“Hey. Joanne.” He took a look at his watch, checking it was in time with the clock, then got up and walked to the end of the table. “Hey. Please don't cry.”

“I'm not.”

He laid his hand on the naked flesh of her wrist, touching her lightly with that oh-so-beloved hand with its short broad fingers and the soft down of red gold that matched his hair.

She flinched.

He stepped back. “We'll go back to your place when I've finished here. We can talk then. Please.”

“No,” was all she could manage to say before turning her back on him, grabbing her coat and her hat and her handbag, but forgetting her gloves, and fleeing down the stairs, running out into the early evening cold, and the stars, and the emptiness.

That night, alone in her bed, but with no tears, only a sick heaviness in her stomach and limbs and hands and feet, her throat tight, she felt a grittiness in her eyes. She remembered how once, at the seaside in Nairn, a blast of wind had sent the sand scurrying through the dunes, depositing what felt like a fair amount of the beach in her eyes.

She got up. She went to the kitchen. She rinsed her eyes. Now wide awake, she filled the kettle and made tea. Every movement, every action seemed to be in slow motion; her heart and throat hurt, she ached in her lower back, and she had a headache.

Bringing the tea with her, she went back to bed. She stretched out to reach for the aspirins in the bedside table drawer when a stab of pain made her double up, clutching her stomach. It was as though a knife, a dagger, was twisting inside her, the pain horrible, excruciating, welcome. After the first wave, the pain began to recede, but her back hurt terribly. She pulled back the eiderdown and saw the stain. Deep dark red. She started to cry, but silently in case her daughters awoke.

She went to the bathroom. She dared not examine herself. She bundled up her nightie and put it into a bag, with no idea what to do other than wash. She dared not think about what had just happened. She knew it would always be there, part of her lies, part of her, part of her and Neil. She knew the overwhelming relief of this moment would haunt her. And she knew well enough to know she would have to deal with the loss one day, just not today.

After she had stripped the bed and was back under the eiderdown, the tea was cold. She drank it anyway. And as she was lying in her fresh bed, in the dark, sensing her daughters in the next room, hearing the familiar not-quite-sounds of her little home, knowing the lane and the streets and the town were asleep all around her, she once more knew that this was her life, a life she had made for herself, by herself. It gave her comfort.

She slept until Annie woke her saying, “Mum, get up. You'll be late for work.”

F
irst thing Thursday morning, another edition of the
Gazette
safely out in the town and county, McAllister telephoned DI Dunne.

“Could you come to my office?” he asked. He had delayed calling the Inspector.
Don has gone to prison to protect his wife's past,
he thought, and discussing Joyce's secrets made him uneasy. But Mr. Brodie had been adamant that Don, although cleared, was still vulnerable.
Who knows what Smart might come up with to defend himself?

“Tell DI Dunne all you know. Leave him to decide if it's relevant.”

Next, he telephoned Angus McLean, asking him to set up a visit with Don.

“Probably not before tomorrow,” Angus told him.

McAllister accepted that and put down the telephone. As he was waiting for the inspector, McAllister considered another question that had been bothering him:
If Neil was his and Joyce's son, had Don known this? And if so, was he protecting Neil? Was that what he was hiding?

DI Dunne arrived. McAllister told him about Neil, but said nothing of his suspicions that Don might already know all this.

The inspector listened. He was interested. He said nothing until McAllister finished, then, thinking it over, said, “So, Neil Stewart is the son of Joyce Mackenzie and Don McLeod.” He showed no surprise; it was a policeman's lot to uncover surprising information. “That's it? That's what makes you suspicious of the man?”

McAllister had been consumed by the “why” of it all—Don's
silence, Joyce's secrets, Neil's identity—and was still unsure of the truth. He spoke carefully as though dictating to a shorthand typist. “You'd think a man like Neil Stewart would search for his real father and mother. It's what he does, research. Then the timing—he admitted he met Joyce McLeod a day or so before she was killed. Maybe he knew she was his mother and confronted her. Motive . . . I don't know . . . anger, resentment—his childhood wasn't easy, maybe he lashed out at her . . . ”

“It was a carefully planned, cold-blooded murder,” DI Dunne reminded him.

“And Neil Stewart was in a Canadian regiment known for their efficiency in battle.”

“All right, I'll talk to him, but I'd need some hard evidence to question him officially.”

McAllister knew this, but with the trial looming, he was desperate. He was aware he was perhaps betraying Don McLeod's son. He knew Don would never forgive him if he found out. But none of that mattered to McAllister. All he wanted was to find the killer and for Don to be set free to return to the
Gazette
and return to as near as normal as possible.

Rob knew nothing of McAllister's visitor, only that when he knocked on the door the editor yelled, “Go away!”

For once Rob did as he was told. “McAllister is like a bear with a sore head,” he said to Joanne. “Let's go for coffee and leave him to rage in his den.”

“I can't, I lost my keys. I'm off to the ironmonger to get my spare set copied.”

Rob knew Neil was leaving. He knew she was losing more than her keys, and he was scared for her. She looked terrible. “I'll give you a lift.”

“It's only down the street. Besides, I'd like the walk.” She was not able to face company, not even Rob. Not yet.

Only when she was gone did Rob remember he had to return Eilidh's spare keys. He took them out. Laid them on the table. A brass Yale key for the front door, a large iron key for the gate, another heavy key that looked ancient.
No wonder women need big handbags,
he thought.

Handbag. What had Mr. Brodie, QC, said? Find out what happened to Mrs. Smart's handbag. Keys. The advocate kept harping on about keys. Rob picked up the set. Two on one ring, the other big one tied to them with string. He stared. He laid them down, treating them as carefully as a hand grenade.

No,
he told himself,
it can't be.
He snapped out of the daze, decision made. He zipped the keys into the inside pocket of his motorbike jacket and walked out, down Church Street, to the steps beneath the abbey wall.

He was holding his breath as he put the key into the back door of the church where Mrs. Smart had been found. It went in easily. He stopped. He was trembling. He turned the key. The lock clicked. He pushed on the handle. The door opened. He quickly pulled it shut. The noise echoed into the empty hallway. He locked the door again, put the keys back into his pocket. He ran up the stairs, almost tripping on the top step. He ran across the street. He put the other key into the courtyard gate. It worked. He shuddered. He zipped the keys back into his pocket; he had to stop himself from running up the street back to the
Gazette
.

“McAllister.” He knocked on the office door. No reply.

“McAllister!” he shouted and walked in.

McAllister put down the phone. “Neil is not at his boardinghouse. He left early this morning. He's gone.” He was surprised there was no comment from Rob. “Neil left, he . . . ” McAllister saw the normally wind-brown face was a pale shade of ill. “What's wrong?”

Rob arranged the keys on the desk, the one attached with string pointing towards the editor like a finger of fate.

McAllister looked at the keys, looked at Rob.

“I tried this one.” He pointed. He couldn't bear to touch it. It had been in the hand of the murderer. “It opens the back door of the church.”

“And the others?”

“This one is for Don's courtyard gate . . . The other . . . ” Then he remembered. “I tried to lock Eilidh's door. It didn't work. I didn't think about it. But maybe it's the key to Don's house.”

It took McAllister a moment to remember who Eilidh was.
Rob's girlfriend, Don's neighbor.
He fingered the keys. “Let's try them.”

After nearly a week of horrible weather, the sky had run out of rain. And wind. McAllister and Rob strode down Church Street, men on a mission. If passersby had been asked to describe their faces they would have said they were grim.

McAllister opened the courtyard gate. They went in. He put the key in the lock of Don's house. It worked. He locked it again.

They walked across to the steps and down to the church porch. McAllister took the key tied with string. He put it into the substantial iron keyhole of the substantial wooden door. It turned with ease. He locked the door again, put the keys into his pocket, and asked, “Where did you get them?”

Rob could not answer; his words would not come, not here. He wanted to be gone from this spot, the steps where Joyce McLeod, as he now thought of her, had been murdered. By whom he was not certain, but possibly by his new girlfriend.

Eilidh is a nurse, she would know exactly where to put a knife to kill quickly, efficiently. She knew where the knife was kept. She knew of the Sunday-night get-togethers. And she had said she didn't like Mrs. Smart, but was that enough reason to kill her?

“Rob?”

“Let's get away from here.”

McAllister nodded and started down the steps towards the river. They turned right. Halfway along the riverbank they had to step onto the street to avoid a crocodile of pupils from Central School. One of the girls gave a wee wave, but neither Rob nor McAllister noticed Jean Ross amongst the children smelling of chlorine after their lessons at the municipal swimming baths.

When they reached the harbor, Rob made for the Harborside Café, where the tea was strong enough to revive Lazarus. Here they had peace to talk amid the noise of customers and the clatter of dishes on tin trays. It took two mugs of tea, and three cigarettes for McAllister, before Rob finished.

“I can't figure out how Eilidh had them,” he said. “There could be a simple explanation for her having the keys to Don's house, neighbors keep each other's keys, but the key to the church door?”

“It's not our job to figure it out,” McAllister said. “We'll have to hand these keys in to DI Dunne, but, before we do, I'm going to call Brodie.”