Madness Lies Page 3

  *

  Carla scrambled up the sand dunes, shouting for her father. At the top, she scanned the view. Across the machair, there were tiny houses in a ragged row. The white one was her aunt and uncle’s, between the tallest and the smallest. Maybe her dad had gone back. But why would he leave her here all alone?

  There were voices. Insistent annoying voices. Making her head sore. Carla, they said; Carla, wake up.

  No way. She couldn’t leave the beach without her dad. What if she never found him again? And suddenly, he was there, standing on the track, smiling. ‘Go. They’re waiting for you.’

  ‘But I want to stay with you.’

  ‘I’ll be here. Come and find me.’

  ‘But, Daddy; I can’t go on my own. I’m too wee.’

  He was shaking his head. Blowing a kiss. Fading.

  ‘Carla.’ A harsh voice. The smell of cheap body spray and antiseptic. Two uneven rows of yellow teeth.

  ‘Daddy…’

  The nurse’s words made little sense to Carla. She couldn’t grasp them. Something about her blood cell count. She just wanted to sleep. But that wasn’t going to happen. Clanging metal. Shrieking nurses. Gossiping patients. It was torture. Exhaustion was pouring over her in waves, but every time she dropped off, some bugger would start again. She opened her eyes and the curtains round the bed were closed. Maybe they thought that was enough to keep the noise out.

  Her eyes were open when the curtains shook and shifted. And he was there. Not her dad, but someone just as solid and sure. And just as loved. Joe’s face was as grey as the face she’d glimpsed earlier in the mirror, his blue eyes worried and his forehead frowning.

  Her hand in his felt so good, until the dizziness came. He pushed her hair back from her damp forehead and wiped her face with a soft towel. He smiled and kissed her hand. ‘You gave me a fright.’

  ‘Now you know how it feels.’ Her voice was weak and croaky. ‘Same hospital too.’

  Joe smiled and moved his hand towards his scar. She’d sat by his bed in Raigmore last year, waiting for him to come round. It was the first time she’d met his parents, as they dotted back and fore between him and his sister, Lucy, who was recovering from pneumonia after jumping into the sea to escape Stephen MacLaren.

  ‘Will I phone your mum?’

  Carla shook her head. ‘I’ll do it later. Listen, there’s someone else you could call for me. I don’t have his number in my mobile phone. It’s in my address book at home, in the drawer in the hall table. It’s my cousin in North Uist: Ronald MacKenzie.’

  ‘No problem. I might be quite late home though. Do they know what it is yet?’

  Carla shook her head. She saw him glance at his watch. ‘Go.’

  ‘I don’t have to.’

  ‘You do. I understand.’

  ***

  Chapter 5

  Roz Sutherland put the phone down and waited. She got about five seconds silence before it rang again. When would it stop? Would she ever get a chance to mourn her husband in peace? ‘Councillor Davis. Thank you for calling; I appreciate it. No, I don’t know what happened; I’ve been told very little. I don’t think the police know much. It’s very early days. Yes. A shooting. Yes. Kenneth Street. No, I don’t know who was with him.’

  The same questions. The same answers. The same comments. Over and over. She left the phone off the hook after the call. The kids knew to call her mobile. They’d both be home tomorrow with their partners. She was glad they were in relationships. It was much easier for her to cope with their grief.

  But how and when was she going to cope with her own grief? She made a pot of tea and reached for two mugs. As she put one back, she realised she’d never pour him another cup of tea. Never. It was so hard to take in. How could he be here this morning, drinking his tea, irritating her by dropping crumbs of toast on the floor, and then just be gone? He’d looked so peaceful when she’d identified him. No sign on his face of the violence that had taken him.

  As her lips had brushed his waxen cheek, she’d tried to remember if she’d kissed him goodbye that morning. Thirty years of marriage. Had they kissed every morning? She really didn’t know. And she bet he wouldn’t have known either.

  She sat in the conservatory and watched the sky darken. As she gazed into the gloom, she wondered if she might just sleep here, on the sagging sofa. She couldn’t imagine going up to bed alone. How often had she wished for the bed to herself, for a night’s sleep uninterrupted by his snoring and restlessness? It hadn’t happened often during their marriage.

  She put the mug of tea on the floor and wrapped her arms around herself. She didn’t want to cry. If she started now, she might never stop, and that wouldn’t do. She could keep the tears at bay, but not the questions. A shooting? The irony wasn’t lost on her. He’d been the most vocal of the local councillors when the story broke about armed police attending routine calls. In Inverness? It had really shaken him.

  And who had he been with today? And what was he doing? She tried to remember what he’d said in the morning about his day ahead. Was she going senile or had she just stopped listening? He’d taken early retirement from his job as an English teacher ten years ago. His father had died shortly before that, his mother years earlier. No one had been more surprised than Gordon to find out just how wealthy his elderly parents had been. They didn’t give away much in their lifetime, but they left enough to pay off the mortgage and see the kids through university. And quite a bit more. Roz had been worried about him giving up work, and becoming a councillor. They’d manage, he’d always said, and she’d taken his word for it. Was that wise? She had friends that wouldn’t trust a man to put the bin out, far less take control of everything. And it was everything. Well, everything that mattered. She’d had her say on holidays and children and where they would live, but she’d taken nothing to do with their finances. She’d earned a little over the years as an art therapist, and spent it all.

  There was no support in the old sofa, and Roz’s back started to protest. She didn’t expect to sleep, but she might as well lie in a comfortable bed. She checked her phone. Nothing from the kids. How would they cope with this violent intrusion into their steady lives? They’d always been so sheltered. Inverness might be the capital of the Highlands, but it wasn’t exactly crime central. They’d lived in Glasgow for a while when the kids were young, but Gordon had hated it. He’d said he never felt safe there, not like he did in Inverness. Safe?

  She reached for the cup of tea, and felt her hand brush against something soft. His slippers. How often had she told him not to leave them under a chair or the table, in the bathroom or the garden shed? If he was out, they should be in the porch waiting for his return. Simple.

  She left his slippers, and took the cup through to the kitchen. As she passed the front door, she saw a long white envelope on the mat. The first written condolences, no doubt.

  There were no condolences in the envelope. Just a photograph. One that would keep Roz awake all night.

  *

  Joe wanted to stay in Carla’s flat and lie in her king-size bed, enfolded in the softness of her tasteful Egyptian cotton bedding, breathing in her fragrance. Pervert.

  Back in his own cottage in Nairn’s Fishertown, he wondered if it was too late to phone the cousin that Carla had never mentioned before. He knew her grandparents had come from North Uist, but he’d never known her to be in touch with anyone there. Maybe he’d leave it until tomorrow. Fit it in somewhere during the day. Aye, right. He’d forget all about it, until he visited Carla and saw the disappointment in her eyes.

  Joe wanted to tell this Ronald MacKenzie that he and Carla were more than just colleagues; they were a couple, and had been for ages. So why did he feel like a dry characterless cop breaking bad news?

  ‘Tell her…tell her I’m here,’ Ronald said.

  I think she knows where you are, Joe thought.

  ‘I’m here, whenever she needs me.’

  Joe felt like an arse.

  As
soon as he put the phone down, it rang. It was his sister, Lucy. She was studying law and doing a placement at a law centre in Inverness. Joe had meant to call in to see her at their parents’ home after work, but that was before the shooting. Lucy sounded tired. She wasn’t sure if social welfare law was for her. She’d had a hard day and the only positive thing was that their parents were in Lanzarote and she had the house to herself.

  She asked him how his day was. Not good, he told her. A fatal shooting and a girlfriend in hospital. That really cheered her up.

  *

  On North Uist, Ronald MacKenzie pulled the barn door over and turned to the sea. The sun had almost set. It would be another good day tomorrow. Overhead, a crow was harassing a falcon. It always made him smile to watch the brave clumsy crow attack the sleek bird that could kill it with so little effort. The falcon gave in, as if it really couldn’t be bothered with the hassle. Ronald watched it fly towards the west. Maybe over on the Committee Road it would find its prey, with no interference from the crows.

  His thoughts were with Carla as he sank into the old chair in the kitchen, a muddy trail of footsteps leading from the back door to the chair. When had he last forgotten to leave his boots at the door? Taking them off had become as natural to him as taking his clothes off before bed. But when had he last had to worry about anyone else? Carla was the last of the line, ten years younger than him, and he hadn’t seen her since her father’s funeral.

  Who was Joe Galbraith? Was he a colleague or something more? Sounded like something more. Carla hadn’t mentioned him, but then her calls were short. Regular enough, but never very detailed. All she wanted to hear about was the croft or the weather or the beach. She should come and see for herself, he’d told her often enough. One day, she kept saying; one day she’d come home.

  As he rinsed his mug, he saw Will’s shambling figure down at the shore. The tide was out. He must be searching for cockles or winkles. Both, probably. And seaweed. Was that what he lived on? Sometimes Ronald left food near Will’s caravan. A few carrots and potatoes, and a piece of meat occasionally. Nothing much. He’d get a wave as thanks, and that was enough.

  His tea made, Ronald buttered himself a scone and sat by the stove. On cue, a wet black nose poked out from under the chair. He ate the scone slowly, and the nose waited. He laughed as her head appeared, mouth open. The last bit of scone was always Bessie’s.

  ***

  Chapter 6

  Christopher lay awake until he was certain Sharon was sleeping. He eased himself away from her and out of the bed, careful to ensure that his left leg took his weight. He reached to the chair for his stick. Ah, he’d left the passion killer downstairs. Seemed the best place for it at the time. Maybe he should rethink the layout of his home, change the downstairs study to a bedroom. He probably shouldn’t have bought a house on two levels, but he was reluctant to give in to his injured leg. These were things you expected to consider when you reached seventy or eighty, not before you turned forty.

  As he tackled the stairs in the dark, he remembered Dr Griffiths’ warnings. There were things he should never do, and going downstairs without his stick was one of them. Doing it in the dark was another. He made it in one piece.

  As he waited for his laptop to start, he considered getting a new one. This was taking longer every day. He could have used his phone, but he found it easier to type on the laptop. There was an email waiting for him, as he knew there would be. It had been sent at 10:30pm, as usual. Did Todd sit and wait for 10:30 before he pressed ‘send’?

  Mate, how’s the leg now? Hope it’s better. I did that bit of business for you, so no need to worry about it. Strange day. Good to get things sorted out.

  Can you believe it’ll soon be ten years? It’s mental. Don’t know where the time has gone. We have to do something special.

  Sleep well. Yours always. T

  Christopher’s shoulders felt heavy as he typed his reply.

  Cheers for that, mate. Leg much better now. Nothing new. Heading off to bed. Will be in touch. C

  It was half twelve. Todd wouldn’t like that. Two hours was a long time to wait for a reply. And the reply was too short. Too impersonal. There was a time when Christopher would have sat for ages trying to think of something suitable to say. Anything to appease Todd. Now it felt like a burden he could do without.

  *

  Unbelievable. Two hours waiting for a reply, and that was all Chris could manage. Who did he think he was? He was really taking the piss now. Heading off to bed? He’d been in bed for two and a half hours with that fucking tart. Their nonsense on the couch before they went upstairs had nearly turned Todd’s stomach. All that fuss about a new bra. And those kind of contortions were not good for Chris’s leg. Then, when they stood up, still wrapped around each other like a couple of mating stick insects, the clumsy tart knocked against the DAB radio, turning it the wrong way round. All he could see then was the wall. He could still hear them, though. Made him shudder.

  Bastard. After all he’d done for him today, not to mention over the last ten years. And Chris hadn’t even bothered to acknowledge that. It was the tart. Wasn’t like that before she came along. He could count on a response to his email within minutes then. What was going on? As far as he knew, and he was certain he knew everything that went on in Chris’s house, she’d never been there before today, far less stayed over.

  He wasn’t having this. No fucking way. He slammed down the lid of the laptop. Someone was going to pay.

  ***

  Chapter 7

  Sharon reached out and pulled the curtain back. Looked like a good day. It had rained in the night. She’d heard it bouncing off the skylight on the landing, as she’d lain awake worrying about Ryan. He’d never have anything to do with a shooting. No matter how dour and unpleasant he could be, he wasn’t evil. Was he?

  In the column of light streaming through the gap in the curtains, she saw a shimmering spider’s web in the corner of the ceiling. Who did Christopher’s cleaning? Should she offer? Pay him back for all he’d done?

  She couldn’t believe she was here. Instead of finishing with her yesterday, Christopher had asked her to come and stay with him until she was allowed back into her house. Liam too, but she’d already arranged for him to stay with his Auntie Gillian. That offer was only open to Liam. No surprise there.

  Sharon had never been to his house before. It was beautiful, an old cottage in the woods at Ness Castle. No television. Books everywhere. Like a library. Why would anyone need so many books on so many subjects? Was that what he did with himself on the evenings she didn’t see him?

  They’d met in the Phoenix Bar not long after he left London and moved to Inverness. She’d been out with Linda one Friday night. Christopher was on the other side of the bar, drinking on his own. Linda said he kept looking at Sharon. Aye, right, Sharon had said. Probably couldn’t believe she had the nerve to be out in public, looking the way she did.

  Linda shook her head. ‘Stop putting yourself down. You’ve got a beautiful smile and a fantastic figure. I’m telling you; he’s eyeing you up.’

  ‘Look at him. Sexy as fuck. I’m sure he’s into birds with no teeth, and skin like orange peel.’

  ‘You’ve got most of your teeth. More than my mam has. At least your gaps aren’t right at the front. And there’s nothing wrong with your skin. Well, nothing that a bit of slap doesn’t hide. If I wasn’t as straight as your hair, I’d fancy you myself.’

  Sharon pushed her friend. ‘I wouldn’t fancy you, you tight bitch. It’s your round. Get them in.’

  ‘Cool the jets, will you? We’ve a long night ahead of us. I’m going for a pee.’

  ‘I’m going for a fag.’

  When she came back in, he smiled at her. She looked over her shoulder. No one else there; it was definitely meant for her. She smiled back and kept her mouth shut. He was there again the next Friday and the next, though he didn’t stay long. And it seemed Linda was right; he was watching Sharon. By the fourt
h Friday, Linda was off-shore. Sharon thought of asking someone else to go out with her, but the rest of her pals looked worse than she did.

  So she went to the Phoenix by herself, and sat at the bar with a drink, constantly checking her watch as if she was waiting for someone. She was. And if he didn’t come by the time she finished her drink, she’d leave. She was just draining the glass when he came in. Their eyes met and she didn’t look away. Neither did he. He ordered a pint and whatever she was having, then he came over. His accent was posh, like a newsreader, but he was kind and funny, and interested in her. She spent the evening with her elbow on the bar, her hand hiding as much of her mouth as possible. He paid for her taxi home, but not before he had her phone number. She didn’t think she’d hear from him again, but he’d called the next day, and every day since.

  After a shower, she stood in front of the bedroom mirror and pulled the black bathrobe tighter. Looking not too bad, despite everything. As she stretched her arms upwards to let her hair down, the sleeves fell back, exposing an ugly map of scars and marks on her lower arms, the legacy of several years of self-harm and a year or two of heroin. She’d tried to hide her arms from Christopher, but it was impossible. A shiver ran through her as she remembered the night he’d kissed each scar and told her they only made her more beautiful. Maybe he’d pay for plastic surgery, or a tattoo. She turned away from the mirror. Who was she kidding? A solicitor for Ryan was probably the last thing he’d pay for. Why would he bother sticking with her after all this shit? He could have anyone.

  When she was dressed, she went to the kitchen for a drink of water. She forgot to use the wee filter tap, but it tasted fine. A bit of chlorine wasn’t going to kill her. But there was more than chlorine in drinking water, according to Christopher. She wasn’t bothered. If she lived in a house like this, the last thing she’d worry about would be a few chemicals.