him, becoming more and more remote from his father, and drinking
herself inexorably to an early death.
"I'm sorry, Alex," he said when he had finished. "These are all things
you've had a right to know; I shouldn't have kept them from you."
"Yes you should, if that's the way you saw it," she retorted. "It
hasn't exactly made my morning now you have told me. I know that every
family has a closet with skeletons in it, and I also know that
sometimes the best thing to do is to leave the door closed."
She sipped her latte. "So what's made you open it? Was it your
near-death experience in America?"
"Hell no! When I came to in that ambulance all I thought about was
Sarah, you and the kids. No, it's because of Michael's real-death
experience in Perthshire; that's the reason. It's going to be all over
the news bulletins in an hour or so."
He told her of the discovery in Miss Bonney's basement, and of the
photograph in her uncle's pocket. When he was finished she shivered,
for all the warmth of the morning. "The poor man," she whispered. "For
all he did, that he should die like that. Or did he have it coming to
him?" she asked. "Maybe he never changed. Maybe he never stopped
behaving like an animal, until finally.. ."
"No," Bob said. "I may have respected my father's wish that I never
see Michael again, but that didn't stop me from keeping an eye on him
from a distance. For the last few years, until he moved to Edinburgh,
Willie Haggerty's been giving me reports about him. More recently,
someone else I trust on the Strathclyde force has been keeping a
discreet eye on him for me. He's never been in any trouble all the
time he's been living through there.
"Then there's the Jesuit."
"Who?"
"Brother Aidan, the superintendent of Oak Lodge, the hostel where your
uncle lived. Once a year, he makes a report to the trustee who looks
after Michael's money, letting the family know about his general health
and his lifestyle. Originally, the trustee was your grandpa; since he
died, it's been me. The reports have come through the solicitors who
set up the trust.
"Andy's detectives will start their investigation with him, but they've
agreed to let me talk to him first, to explain what's happened. He's
an old man, and he might need advance warning so he can think about the
last time he saw Michael, and what he was doing around then. So what I
plan to do is put you in a taxi and send you home to Gullane, then,
after I've paid a call on Neil Mcllhenney, get through to Gourock."
"Hmmph!" Alex snorted. "You can forget that for a start. If you
think you can drop this bombshell on me then leave me behind as you go
off to open a can of God knows how many worms ... well, you can think
again, Pops. If you're going to Gourock, then so am I."
He looked at her and grinned. "Would it work if I ordered you to get
in a taxi?"
"It never has before. Why should it now?"
"True."
"Besides, if this story is going to hit the press soon, I'd rather not
be in Gullane when the phone starts ringing."
"That shouldn't happen. I've told Andy to say to the press that I've
been estranged from Michael for the last thirty years, and that any
enquiries about him should be addressed to my family solicitors. But I
don't suppose it'll hold them all at bay. You're right; there are
bound to be a few calls. So you can come with me, if for no other
reason than that."
"Very graciously conceded," said Alex. "By the way, why do you want to
see Neil?"
"To give him advance warning of what's going to hit the press."
"Couldn't you phone him?"
Alex's father gave her a look full of intrigue. "Ah, but that's not
It's time I got rid of it."
Twenty.
Sarah struggled towards wakefulness, wondering where the sound was
coming from. When it dawned on her that it was the phone, ringing
beside her bed, she mumbled and threw out an arm, hoping to prod
someone into answering it. She was caught in the confused tail of a
departing dream; she might have been reaching out to Bob, or possibly
to Ron, but she could not be sure which it was she imagined was lying
beside her.
But the tone trilled on, until she came fully to her senses and
realised that she was alone. She glanced at the time; it was
eight-fifteen. Since Trish was not answering, she guessed that she was
either in the shower, or busy changing Seonaid. Grumbling silently,
she threw herself across the bed and grabbed the handset.
"Hi there," came a silvery morning voice. "Don't tell me your
household was still asleep. With three kids, how do you do that?"
Sarah often thought that when Babs Walker was called to the Master her
husband served, it would be because of a terminal case of
cheerfulness.
"Easy," she answered, stifling a half yawn. "I don't waken the poor
little things at seven o'clock on a Sunday morning. It might be a
working day for you, but it's rest time for most of us."
"The Devil finds work, Sarah," Babs chirped. "Got to keep those hands
busy. Speaking of which, where were you when I called you yesterday?
Your nanny was rather vague on the subject. Wherever it was, you were
behaving yourself, I hope."
"You hope no such thing, and you damn well know it."
"Hey, come on, of course I do; I'm a minister's wife, after all. It
just so happens that Alice Bierhoff saw you and a certain large and
rugged pro foot baller getting out of a car in his mom's driveway
yesterday afternoon,
and standing, shall we say, rather close together. I just hope we
didn't break any commandments, that all."
She felt her lips purse. Babs, in spite of herself, was her closest
girlfriend, and they had been sharing most of their secrets since they
were twelve. But not this one, Sarah thought, or it might go straight
to Bob at the first opportunity.
"Alice Bierhoff is cross-eyed and can't see much further than the hood
of her Cadillac," she retorted. "It was probably Ron's mother that she
saw."
"Alice wears contacts now. And what was Ron's mother doing putting on
her bra in Ron's bedroom, with the shades up, when she drove past again
a couple of hours later?"
If her friend had been with her, she would have seen Sarah's face
redden. "Barbara," she said, 'it's too late to tell you to mind your
Goddamned business, but please, just for once, will you go against your
nature and keep your mouth shut about this. And tell dear Alice that
if she doesn't want to have an emergency appendectomy, without
anaesthetic, she'd better do the same."
Babs laughed. "I can deliver on the first of those, and I will, but
I'm not so sure about the second."
"Make yourself sure. Now what can I do for you? Surely you didn't
call me at this hour just to quiz me about my sex life? For all you
know you might have been interrupting it."
Her friend chuckled. "That w
ould have been fun, but no, I didn't. I
was wondering whether we'll be seeing you in church today?"
"Why, are the Lutherans starting a confessional?"
A peal of laughter rang down the line. "Maybe we should, maybe we
should. No, I was wondering whether you and the children might like to
join us for lunch afterwards. It would give your girl Irish some time
"She's having today off anyway; I was planning to take the kids to the
lake this afternoon."
"Were you now? Does Ron still have his boat there?"
"I have no idea. He wasn't included on the trip."
"Well, whatever; what do you say?"
"Have you invited anyone else?" Sarah asked.
"I could do, if you'd like."
"I wouldn't like, and with that understood, yes thanks, we'll be there.
We'll be at Ian's service too; Seonaid's old enough to behave herself
now, and James Andrew needs a little discipline in his life. Besides,
I might see Alice Bierhoff. If I do, don't be surprised if I punch her
contacts right out of her head."
Twenty-One.
"I'd have come to you, you know," Christina McGuire assured her
daughter-in-law, as she opened the door of the Northumberland Street
flat which she was soon to leave behind her, along with the rest of her
Edinburgh life.
"Not at all," said Maggie, 'you've got enough on your plate, packing up
for the move to Italy. No second thoughts about giving up the
recruitment business?"
Christina laughed. She was a tall, imposing woman; she looked to be in
her early fifties, although she was in truth a few years older. "My
son wouldn't allow it, even if I did show any signs of changing my
mind. I shocked him at first when I told him what I was planning, but
now he's really taken to the idea of me living in Tuscany.
"He came to see me earlier on," she said, leading the way into a big
rectangular drawing room. "He just happened to drop in around
lunch-time, with Rufus, and with a damn great pizza. I don't know why
he's so keen on the things. They were never on my table when he was a
child."
She frowned for a second. "He told me what's happened about the wee
boy. I'm really sorry, Maggie."
"Thanks, but it's for the best. He'll be very well looked after, and
he'll be among other children too. I'm reconciled to it; in fact,
Mario's taking it worse than I am."
"Is it for the best, though? What about you two? Will you be all
right?"
"We'll be fine. When you leave everything else aside, Mario and I are
the best of friends. There's no one I'd rather live with, and I know
he feels the same way." She was not sure that her mother-in-law
understood completely what she meant; if she did, Christina gave no
sign.
"That's good," she murmured. "As you know I've never been an
interferer, but I'll leave happier for hearing you say that."
Suddenly her expression became businesslike. "Now," she exclaimed.
"What, or who, do you have for me?"
Maggie sat down on a big soft couch in the middle of the room, took a
file from her document case, which she dropped on the floor at her
feet. Her mother-in-law sat beside her as she opened the brown
folder.
"Not too much," she said. "There are only five faces on the video
we're stuck with. I've had them transferred to photo-files and printed
out."
Christina reached out and drew a heavy coffee table across the carpet
towards them. "Spread them out there and I'll have a look."
Maggie did as she was told. The faces of three women and two men
looked up from the table. One was smiling, but the others looked as if
they had been taken off guard ... as indeed they had, for none had been
aware that they were being filmed. One of the men looked particularly
fierce. Christina picked up the A4 likeness, peered at it, and then
laughed. "That is undoubtedly the worst photograph I have ever seen,"
she said, 'but maybe he looks like that on the Bench. That's Henry
Corrigan QC; Lord Corrigan, the Court of Session judge."
"Is it?" Maggie exclaimed, taking the sheet and peering at it. "God,
you're right. I've given evidence in his court, too, but I'd never
have known him from that. Mind you," she added, 'he was in his robes
in the mug-shot the Scotsman gave us. I've never seen him without his
wig. He's an ugly bugger, isn't he?"
"In every way. Not a nice man." Christina picked up another
photograph, one of the three women. "This is his unfortunate wife,
Madeline, or Maidie, Lady Corrigan."
She laid it aside and picked up the other man's likeness. "Now this is
.. ." She stopped, thinking. "James Woodstein," she exclaimed with
satisfaction. "He's a marketing consultant, with a smallish client
list. As I remember it includes David Candela's firm. We did a
headhunting job for him once. We found him two excellent candidates,
but he turned them both down, saying they were too expensive, and then
he refused to pay us. Twerp."
She picked up the photo on the left of the five. "Sadie Grierson," she
announced. "She's a relatively rare bird, a female corporate
accountant. She was with one of the big players in London, until she
was moved to Edinburgh to head up their Scottish office. She's so new
in town that she's obviously not in the Scotsman photo library yet, but
she's a client of my firm. I met her at a reception they had to
announce her appointment."
Maggie picked up the last of the five head shots. It showed a woman,
not old, of indeterminate age, with a severe hair arrangement, sharp
eyes and an even sharper frown. "What about her?" she asked.
"One doesn't like to be unkind, but what about her, indeed. Who stole
her scone, do you think?"
"I don't know," Maggie muttered. "But I wouldn't like to be him when
she finds him. Do you know her?"
"Would her own mother know her from that likeness? No, I don't think I
can help you with her." She laid the photograph back on the table, and
looked at it again. "And yet..." She took a pen from the pocket of
her cardigan and laid it across the woman's eyes. "There's a girl
about the town, an odd lass. They say she's very bright; to my
knowledge she has a first in chemistry. She did a teacher training
course, but that ended when she assaulted a girl who was rude to her.
After that, she worked for a while for one of the children's charities,
as a clerk, until they got rid of her for sending an offensive letter
to one of the patrons. Then she went to work in the office of a New
Town hotel, but she was moved on from that; a resident swore in her
hearing and she emptied a vase of flowers over his head. After that
her father brought her to me, in the vain hope that I could find her a
job. That could be her, only.. ."
She picked up the photograph again, took the pen and drew a pair of
spectacles, roughly over the eyes. "Only when I met her she was
wearing big thick glasses. That's the girl; I'm sure of it. Her
name's Andrea Strachan, and her father's a lecturer in religious
studies at Napier."
"Where can we find her?"
"If I hadn't seen that photograph, I'd have said you could have found
her in the Royal Edinburgh Hospital. Last I heard, she was sectioned
after she tried to set fire to a church."
Twenty-two.
Pops said he was old, Alex thought, as she looked across the coffee
table in the sparsely furnished room, but that was an understatement.
Brother Aidan, the superintendent of Oak Lodge, was an ancient,