Sewing the Shadows Together (23 page)

She hit her forehead. She couldn’t do it because she’d promised to collect Olly and had to wait for the call. She heard another laugh from the TV room and smiled, pleased that Nick could still be hugely amused by
the
Simpsons
.

And her mother? She hadn’t called her either. Because she felt such a failure on the ‘good mother’ stakes, Sarah picked up the phone, trying to build up some ‘good daughter’ credit.

Her mother took a long time to answer and when she did she sounded distracted and obviously couldn’t wait to get off the phone. Sarah could tell she’d been drinking and wondered how much. She put the phone down and shrugged her shoulders. If her mother wanted to drink, she could.

Sarah looked into the wine rack. There were still a couple of bottles of red. While the sauce bubbled and the water boiled for the pasta, she sat down at the table and poured herself a large glass, gulping it back. Was
she
becoming dependent on alcohol? Enough things had happened recently to drive anyone to drink. She gave herself permission to have another glass.

She heard Nick laughing with the television again. She knew it was an escape from the events of the present, back to the simplicity of childhood and she was glad he could find comfort there. She thought about offering him a glass of wine but it wouldn’t go well with the painkillers and – she grinned to herself – Nick, being a bit of a wine snob, would certainly not approve of red with the chicken.

She looked at her mobile phone again. Nothing from Tom today. She’d told him about Nick and Olly and he’d sent supportive texts, but since then there’d been nothing. She missed him. She typed in
Crap day. Need a cuddle x x x
and sent it off quickly before she changed her mind.

*

Tom woke up in the back room of the bar with his head throbbing.
Betty, dead.
He was amazed how empty he felt. She was the last one, the last connection to his family in South Africa. While his father was in an alcoholic haze and his mother in religious denial, he’d run wild and Aunty Betty had been the one who pulled him up, questioned him, challenged him. She and Uncle Gus were a perfect match; she was bossy and dominant and he was happy to be organised. They adored each other and Aunty Betty had missed him every day since he died.

He tried to raise his head and blinked against the brightness of the sunshine. He thought about how Betty would react to his current state. She’d be very practical, feed him protein and then ask him why he’d been so stupid. You couldn’t fob her off with excuses, she would keep at him like a terrier until she found out what was wrong and then she always had sound advice. Thinking of her, he fried a couple of eggs and then forced himself out onto the beach. His head still throbbed and he had to squint his eyes against the brightness.

Aunty Betty’s death had been peaceful but then her nephew… Tom’s anger welled thinking of Carl’s smug fatness. He hoped the funeral would be arranged quickly. He’d stay for that and then leave South Africa and Carl’s greed behind him.

He must send a text to Sarah.

He felt in his pockets and had a feeling of panic. His phone was not there. He looked around the room and under the sofa, which caused a wave of nausea to wash over him, but it was nowhere to be seen. He asked Jason if anyone had found a phone and handed it in. Nobody had, so they both looked around the bar, but found nothing.

Tom began to feel panicky. When had he last had his phone? He knew he’d sent a short text to Sarah just after Betty died, to say he’d have to stay for the funeral… but after that? He must find his phone – it was his only contact with Sarah.

He thought back to those last moments with Betty, and he knew she’d said something important. It was there, hanging in his mind, just out of reach, but he couldn’t remember what it was; not with the pain and haze of alcohol still misting his head. He took a deep breath and set off along the beach, determined to pound the unpleasant memories of the day before out of his system, before he went to the hospital again to find his phone.

Sarah walked through Stockbridge towards the Botanic Gardens, glancing into the windows of the charity shops. It was one of those crisp November days with low bright sunshine and sharp clean air. Sarah felt happy and relieved; when she’d phoned Lottie to see how she’d got on at the doctor’s, Lottie had sounded so much better and suggested meeting for lunch at the café in the Botanics. Sarah left Nick and Olly happily cooking together in the kitchen and looked forward to some proper time with her daughter.

As she approached the café, she saw Lottie sitting at a table near the window, her long curtain of hair swinging as she bent over her phone. She saw her mother and stood up; Sarah thought how sweet she looked with her blue tweed coat, her long legs in woolly tights and a tammy perched on the back of her head. She hurried towards her daughter and gave her a hug. Lottie looked pale, her face seemed thinner but her eyes were sparkling.

‘How are you? What did the doctor say?’

Lottie smiled and held up her phone. There was a blurred picture on the screen. Sarah wondered what it was; it looked like a Google Earth view.

Suddenly it clicked. ‘Is that what I think it is?’ she asked.

Lottie smiled. ‘Yes, congratulations, Granny. This is the first picture of your grandchild.’ Sarah put her arms round her daughter and held her tightly, feeling tears welling up in her eyes; after all the terrible things that had happened finally there was some good news.

They sat down for lunch, but neither of them ate much. They were both too excited. Sarah looked out of the window over the mature trees of the Botanics as they talked about the practicalities for the birth, the date, the hospital, how Liam and Lottie’s small flat could accommodate a nursery, and Sarah felt so happy.

Afterwards they walked through the narrow paths of the maze at the rock garden and Sarah was overcome with memories. She used to bring the twins in their double buggy round the gardens, watching their eyes follow the light flickering through the leaves on the trees overhead. It was the one and only thing guaranteed to stop them crying.

Despite the pale winter sunshine it was unmistakeably November in the gardens. Leaves crackled underfoot and Sarah could smell the peppery smoke of a bonfire in the nursery garden.

They walked over the Japanese Bridge. Everything in the Botanic Gardens was more commercialised these days, with a wedding venue at the gatehouse and bridal photo opportunities at this bridge. You even had to pay to go into the elegant Victorian glasshouses now, so different from the days when she remembered escaping showers with the twins there, breathing in the humid peaty air of the palm house and looking at the cacti in the dry cool air of the desert house.

She told Lottie how she and Nick used to stand with their noses pressed to the glass viewing panels under the tropical house, watching the fish swim in the pond above. She wondered if they were still there. It was so long since she’d been to that part of the garden. Waves of nostalgia for an earlier, simpler time washed over her, and she was already imagining pushing her grandchild’s pushchair through the gardens, recapturing the happiness she’d felt when her children were young.

Sarah was so excited she wanted to share her news with the world; Nick would be such a great uncle. And, to be truthful, she couldn’t wait to tell Tom, to share her delight with him. She looked at her phone again, but there was still no message from him, nothing since the brief text saying he had to stay longer for the funeral. There had been no new flight details, nothing.

She looked at the giant monkey puzzle tree silhouetted against the gathering dusk in front of her and had a sudden feeling of panic. What if he never came back?

No, she mustn’t worry. It was less than a day since he’d been in touch. It was just that before that they’d been texting every hour. She tried to comfort herself; he’d be busy with the funeral arrangements. But she did miss the ping of her phone and the comforting exchange of mundane messages.

Sarah and Lottie walked back to the flat along the cracked pavements of Stockbridge and Sarah looked again at the windows of the charity shops. She’d loved going to them when the twins were young, picking up Liberty print dresses and Osh-Kosh dungarees at bargain prices. Now she would be able to do that again for her grandchild. Her grandchild. How wonderful that sounded.

As they opened the door of the flat there was the sound of laughter and a female voice. Abigail was sitting in the front room with Nick and Olly; they looked up as Sarah and Lottie walked in.

Abigail stood up and Sarah hesitated. She was wondering about the most appropriate way to greet her when Abigail took the lead by reaching up and giving her a hug. ‘Hi, Sarah. How are you? You look great.’

Sarah was strangely touched by this and noticed once again that, although Abigail was no conventional beauty, with her short spiky red hair and her stumpy figure, her eyes radiated a magnetism that was difficult to avoid. Abigail and Lottie embraced and then Nick patted the seat next to him on the sofa. ‘Sit down, Mum. We’re just talking about the memorial service.’

Sarah smiled. ‘We can talk about that in a minute, but first Lottie has some lovely news.’ Everyone looked at Lottie, standing with her hands resting over the front of her tweed coat.

Olly was the first to catch on. ‘Lottie?’ Lottie smiled and nodded. Olly raised his hands in the air and jumped up. ‘I’m going to be an uncle!’ All three of them gathered round Lottie, hugging and kissing her. Lottie was laughing and crying at the same time.

‘This will be the first of the next generation. What a pity Dad will not see this,’ Abigail said. Sarah realised with a jolt that this thought had never occurred to her; Rory had never seemed very interested in his own babies. She pushed that thought aside and allowed herself to get caught up in the excitement of the moment.

Abigail was still thinking along the same lines. ‘Can we announce it at the memorial service? It would be a nice addition to the part about his legacy and what he leaves behind. I know they’re going to mention the great contribution he made to the development of Scottish television.’

Lottie blushed and nodded. ‘Of course. But I don’t want to say anything myself.’

Nick looked at his sister. ‘I’ll speak for both of us.’ He looked at his mother. ‘Are you still sure that you don’t want to say anything?’

‘Absolutely sure.’

‘We’ve been talking about it and we think that it’s best if we come clean about the whole family thing. Then there’ll be no secrecy, no scoop for the papers. Abigail’s going to do that bit, as the oldest of the children.’ Nick smiled across at his half-sister.

Abigail leant forward. ‘There was one of the French presidents, Mitterand I think, whose wife and long-term mistress stood side by side at his funeral, together with his illegitimate daughter. It was a great photo and I believe that everyone had the greatest respect for his wife because of it.’

Nick joined in. ‘We’ve talked about it with Archie and he too thinks that this is the best way to kill any revelations from what he calls wee scrubber opportunists. I’m going to talk about some of my memories of him as a dad, but none of the other children are going to speak.

‘There are going to be readings by
Scotsman
and BBC colleagues and Archie’s going to do a personal reminiscence – I’ve heard some of it and it’s really funny and affectionate, too. There’s also going to be an address from the Head of BBC Scotland,’ added Abigail. She gave a wicked smile. ‘Miranda thought she’d like to read a poem, but we squashed that one immediately. Trust her to want to make the occasion all about her.’

‘But that old teacher, HJ Kidd, is going to read a poem he’s written specially for Dad,’ Nick added.

‘No.’ Sarah was shocked by the sharpness of her own voice. The other four looked at her in surprise. ‘I don’t want him there.’

Nick looked at her gently. ‘Mum, he’s written a poem especially for Dad. You know how important this last project was to him…’

‘Kidd was there when he died,’ Sarah felt a steely determination. She was going to win this one.

Abigail spoke softly, concern in her voice. ‘That’s one reason why he should read the poem. He’s been in touch with my mum – they were old colleagues at Brunstane – and he’s so upset about what happened. I think he needs to do this to reach some kind of closure himself.’

Sarah felt rage welling up inside her. ‘What do you know about it?’ She glared at Abigail. ‘He hasn’t been a friend of our family. I think he knows more about the death of Shona than he’s letting on, and…’ She felt hot, angry tears in her eyes. ‘And he has the arrogance, the insensitivity, to suggest that your father might have been involved in Shona’s death.’

‘What?’ There were sharp intakes of breath from everyone in the room.

‘It’s nonsense, rubbish, of course, but he’s told the police that Rory was telling him about his guilt for something terrible he’d done in the past just before he fell.’ Sarah saw the shock on the children’s faces. ‘That’s another reason why I don’t trust him. He’s got something to hide about what happened between him and Rory on the day he died, and about what happened to Shona.’ She gulped. ‘He is not reading at the memorial service.’

Nick put his arm round his mother. ‘OK, Mum. You’ve been so great about everything,’ he shot a glance at his half-sister, ‘and if you don’t want him to read, he isn’t reading.’

‘You do believe me, don’t you? You’re not just humouring me?’

A look passed between Nick and Abigail. ‘You’ve been through a terrible time. It’s natural for all sorts of thoughts and suspicions to go through your mind. HJ Kidd seems like a good guy, as far as I can see, and the police are not stupid. They’ll be checking up on everything, and with the wonders of DNA they can find out anything, just as I hope they will with those bastards that kicked my face in.’ He gave a gentle laugh, trying to lighten the mood.

Sarah realised that she was coming across as slightly unbalanced so she followed his lead, looking at her son’s bruises. ‘I hope your face will have healed by the time of the memorial service.’

Nick gave a relieved smile. ‘Whatever I look like, I’m going to stand up and be proud!’

Olly gave him a look full of affection. ‘Actually I think it suits you. Gives a bit of character to your face.’ Nick returned the look and threw a cushion in his direction, grinning as Lottie and Abigail laughed.

‘Shows you’re not just a pretty face,’ Abigail said and Sarah found herself sitting back, envious of the easy familiarity they shared.

The laughter was interrupted by the door bell. ‘That’ll be the police,’ said Nick.

Sarah looked up, surprised.

‘They phoned up to say that they’d got some DNA matches from the blood on my jacket, but they need to take more samples from me and Olly just to double-check. They asked us to come to the station, but when they heard we were both here they said they’d send someone round because they want to speak to you, too.’

Sarah opened the door and was surprised to see that DI Chisholm was one of the two plain-clothes detectives that stood there. She’d thought he was on Shona’s case review, but maybe police worked on several cases simultaneously. She held out her hand and Chisholm introduced his younger colleague.

‘Mrs Dunbar. There has been a development in our investigation. We have found a match, a partial match, to the DNA traces on Shona McIver’s cardigan.’

Sarah felt a huge wave of relief. The case was going to be solved at last. She was just about to say, ‘Is it Kidd?’ but then she remembered what she’d read about DNA. ‘A partial match? So that means that one of the thugs who attacked my son is related to Shona’s murderer?’

Chisholm looked serious. ‘Mrs Dunbar, the match appears to come from the sample taken from your son.’

The smile on Sarah’s face froze. She heard the policeman’s voice as if it was far away at the end of a tunnel.

‘We would like to take a further swab from your son for confirmation purposes and, as his father’s name has already come up in our investigation, we would like to ask you to provide a sample of your husband’s DNA. A toothbrush, razor or hairbrush would be ideal.’

Sarah sank down into the armchair, her legs so shaky that she couldn’t stand upright.
Rory
? Was Chisholm really trying to say that Rory was in the frame for Shona’s murder? She couldn’t believe it; Rory couldn’t have been capable of murder. She’d discovered so many things about him since his death, but that couldn’t be true.