The Matrix (19 page)

I listened, not knowing in my heart of hearts what I listened to. They were just words, I thought. I could ignore them if I pleased. I felt my skin grow cold, then hot, as though I had developed a fever. All round me the noise of the bus station continued unabated, the clamour untouched by what my mother was saying far away on Lewis.

‘He was better yesterday, and he’s been well again today, but Friday took it out of him. He’ll not be able to get to Edinburgh as he promised. Dr Boyd is talking of sending him to the mainland for tests, to Inverness possibly.’

‘Wouldn’t Edinburgh be a more suitable place? It has some of the best hospitals in the country.’

‘Well, it might be. I would have to speak to the doctor about it. He doesn’t want your father to travel too far, if it can be helped.’

‘Yes, I understand that. It’s just that . . .’ I realized it would be a mistake to tell my mother anything of the matters that were troubling me. She would not be able to offer help, and she had enough on her mind at the moment with my father’s illness. I certainly could not tell her what his symptoms boded to me. ‘It’s just that I had been looking forward to seeing him.’

‘Can’t you come to Stornoway? You’re not working now, and you could be a great help to me here.’

I wanted more than anything to go there in order to be with my father. But as I was about to answer, I realized that travelling to Stornoway was out of the question. If Duncan had brought about my father’s illness, just as he had done Iain’s, it could only have been for one purpose: to prevent his coming to Edinburgh to see me. My arrival in Stornoway might very well prove my father’s death warrant.

‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘There’s been bother here over this business with Catriona’s grave. The police are carrying out an investigation, they want me to be available.’

‘That’s shocking, Andrew. Was the grave badly damaged?’

‘Just the headstone. I’m having it replaced.’

‘Where will you find the money? We’ll be happy to send you some.’

‘Thanks, but there’s no need. The insurance will take care of it. Give Father my love,’ I said. ‘Tell him I’m sorry he’s not coming. Perhaps you can both come as soon as he’s better. He’ll need a holiday.’

‘Is there no way of getting in touch with you, Andrew? I’m worried. In case . . . anything happens.’

‘He’ll be fine, you shouldn’t worry. Look, I’ll ring every night. And I’ll look into getting a phone installed. I’ll speak to you tomorrow.’

I walked home, shaken and afraid. Questions buzzed through my brain like flies. How had Mylne known that my father planned to visit me? If he had used something belonging to my father in order to set his spell, how had he come by it? Had the fresh desecration of Catriona’s grave been connected in any way to the attack on my father?

More than anything, I kept asking myself why it was that Mylne had left Harriet untouched until now. Was he unaware that we had been seeing one another? How could that be, if he knew about my father? And why was he so intent on acting against anyone who threatened in some way to come between him and myself?

I ate another badly cooked Chinese meal and played the television loudly, watching programmes in which I had not the slightest interest merely to make company for myself, and to put off the moment when I would be too tired to stay awake.

But not even the constant action on the television screen could interrupt the thoughts singing through my head. One in particular would not leave me alone. It returned to me again and again, and in the end I could stand it no longer. I got up and went to the filing cabinet in the corner. A drawer at the bottom contained two large photograph albums. I lifted them out and returned to my chair.

I knew what I was looking for, and I was not disappointed. The first album held all the photographs I had of my parents, including some taken the previous Christmas. In every photograph, my father’s face was that of a man newly stricken by sudden, inexplicable pain. He did not yet show the symptoms that had been so visible on Iain’s face in the photograph Harriet had shown me. But the beginnings were there, and I knew that, if I continued to look at them, they would soon betray his decline and eventual death.

The second album contained my photographs of Catriona. I only looked at one: it was enough, enough to haunt me for the rest of my life. I had expected to see her in the final stages of her illness, just as Harriet’s photograph had shown Iain shortly before his death. But that was not how Catriona looked at all.

It was the first photograph taken of us together. My friend Jamie had posed us outside the Burrell, solemn for once, my arm round Catriona’s shoulder. A steep northern light fell on us from behind.

The album slipped from my hands and fell to the floor with a crash. I closed my eyes, but the image would not leave them. What I had seen was simple but chilling: in the photograph Catriona was dressed in a long white garment. A hood covered her head and face. And my arm still lay where it had always lain, round her shoulder, pressing her to me.

The sounds returned again that night. Sometimes they came as far as my door, and I sat listening to them move about on the landing. After they grew silent, I retrieved my books from the cupboard and studied what I should do to protect myself. I prepared circles of defence against them, and filled them with spells carefully recited and drawn, but I had no confidence in them.

Still shaken by what I had found in the photograph album, I went to a nearby café for breakfast. On the way I stopped in a newsagent’s to buy a copy of the
Times Higher Education Supplement
, and while there I picked up a copy of
The Scotsman
to read over breakfast.

The story was on the second page. Inspector Cameron had left out any reference to Catriona or myself, and he had said nothing about the talismans and other items found in the grave, but the rest of the details were there. The baby had been identified as Charles Gilmore, eleven months old, taken from his pram outside a shop in Airdrie on Friday afternoon. There was a photograph of the bairn in his mother’s arms. Catriona’s grave was not shown, and nothing was said about Satanists or grave-robbers. The text merely stated that the ground had been ‘disturbed’.

On the way back to my rooms, I bought the morning tabloids, but they gave few more details and a great deal more speculation, none of it remotely accurate. I rang Cameron and asked if he had come up with anything since receiving confirmation of the baby’s identity, but he said there was nothing yet.

‘Say nothing to anyone,’ he told me. ‘If word gets out that a bunch of Satanists are prowling Glasgow killing babies, there’ll be an almighty panic.’

‘You don’t have to worry. I’ve no intention of going to the press. And I sincerely hope this is the last killing.’

There was a pause at the other end. The possibility of other murders must, I realized, be the Inspector’s nightmare.

‘I hope so too, Dr Macleod. If you think of anything you may have forgotten to tell us, get in touch.’

As I put down the phone, I reached a snap decision. I would go to St Andrews to look for Harriet. She would know what to do. It is a very small town, and I reckoned that I could call on all the hotels there in a single afternoon.

I went back to my rooms to change and pick up some money for the trip. As I turned to go, I noticed the book I had bought for Harriet lying on the table where I had left it, still in its wrapper. I thought a present might help lighten our meeting. Picking the book up, I slipped it into my coat pocket.

On arriving at the central bus station, I found that the next bus for St Andrews left in half an hour. I bought a ticket and waited. We left on time, heading north over the Forth Bridge, then east to the coast. Two hours later, I was at my destination. A cold wind was brawling in from the sea, and the streets were filled with students scurrying to lectures. The university domin- ated the small town, lending it an unreal air, like a film set inhabited by aliens.

I found the tourist information office and obtained a map and a list of all the town’s hotels. In the end, it did not prove as difficult as I had feared. I remembered that Harriet had once mentioned that her father-in-law was keen on golf, and it occurred to me that he would most probably have chosen a hotel near one of the courses. I found them at Rusack’s, right alongside the eighteenth fairway of the Old Course, in the dining room, having lunch.

Harriet made her apologies and we went together to the lounge.

‘This is a lovely surprise,’ she said. ‘My father-in-law can be rather boring this close to a golf course. It’s a relief to be snatched away. But I think I’ll have some explaining to do. A strange man coming all the way from Edinburgh to see me!’

‘I had to come,’ I said.

Her mood immediately grew serious.

‘Has something happened?’ she asked.

I showed her the piece in
The Scotsman.

‘I read this this morning,’ she said. ‘I don’t see what . . .’ She stopped and looked at me in horror. ‘Don’t tell me it was Catriona’s grave.’

I told her all about my interview with Cameron.

‘Why didn’t you tell him about Mylne?’ she asked.

‘What would have been the point? I have no real evidence, nothing that would stand up in a court of law. Mylne won’t have been anywhere near Glasgow on Friday night, and he wasn’t even in this country when the grave was first opened.’

‘But we know he’s behind this.’

‘I’m certain of it. If we could find evidence to connect him to the child’s murder, I wouldn’t hesitate to pass it on. But I don’t think it will happen. I think we have to go about this in our own way.’

‘What do you want me to do?’

‘I’d like you to come back to Edinburgh. If you have friends there who might be able to help, we should be seeing them now.’

‘Oh, Andrew, I don’t know . . . My parents-in-law will be hurt if I just get up and leave. They’re finding Iain’s death very hard: he was their only child. And I seriously think that leaving with a strange man could upset them badly. I wouldn’t be able to explain, not adequately.’

‘Harriet, I have no one else to turn to.’

‘What about your own parents?’

I told her about my father. I had not intended to, knowing how badly it would disturb her, but I needed to impress on her how things stood with me.

‘You should have told me about this earlier,’ she said. ‘You’re right, we have to do this together. Give me a few minutes with them, I’ll do my best to explain.’

‘You can’t tell them the truth.’

‘Of course not. But I can tell them about Catriona’s grave – what happened originally, and this business with the baby. They’ll keep it to themselves.’

She was with them for over half an hour. I waited in the lounge. Through the window I could see the golf course, green and silent, a carefully tended world utterly remote from the events in which I had become enmeshed. In spite of the wind, small groups of warmly clad golfers were doggedly making their way across the green, driving and putting as though it was the middle of summer.

Harriet returned.

‘My car’s outside,’ she said. ‘I’ve asked for my case to be brought down.’

‘I forgot to give you this,’ I said. I handed her the Hardy.

‘What is it?’

‘Open it and see.’

‘I hope my mother-in-law doesn’t see you giving me presents.’

The string had been tied tightly. Harriet undid it carefully, undoing the knot and rolling up the string as it came free. She pulled off the wrapping and laid it to one side. As she did so, a porter came to the door. I looked round, indicating that we were about to come. When I turned back, I saw Harriet looking at me, her forehead furrowed.

‘What is this?’ she asked, holding the volume towards me.

‘It’s a present,’ I said. ‘I found it for you on Saturday.’

She flung it across the table and stood. She was shaking with anger.

‘I don’t think this is funny, Andrew. Not one bit. Whatever it is you’re playing at, I don’t want to know. But if you want my advice, I think you’re sick. You don’t need me, you need to see a doctor.’

She turned and ran to the door. Stunned, I watched her go, unable to make sense of her behaviour. Then, looking at the book she had thrown onto the table, I realized that it was bound in dark brown leather. The Hardy had been bound in black. I picked it up, and as I did so felt my heart lurch. It was not possible. I had burned it, burned it and scraped away the ashes.

My hand shook as I lifted the front cover and looked at the title page. The room swayed, and I clutched at the table to steady myself. It was there in black and white, the same title that I had seen all that time ago in the library of the Fraternity of the Old Path:

With a hand that still trembled, I turned back the page and looked at the flyleaf. There, unchanged, was the same faded and illegible inscription that had been in the copy I had burned.

I got myself back to Edinburgh on the next bus, scurrying home with my tail between my legs. Harriet’s anger had troubled me. Innocent though I knew myself to be, I could not throw off a sense of culpability. For although Duncan Mylne and his associates carried the heaviest blame for the tragic events of the past months, I knew that my own weakness and pride had themselves played no small part in bringing matters to this point.