Gone to Ground (38 page)

"Oh, right. Must be me, then."

"She thinks she could recognize him if she saw him again."

"Yeah? Bring her in here, then. Bring her in here now. Let's see what she says then."

"How about an identity parade?" Will said. "You up for that?"

Cockily, Maitland threw back his head. "Yeah, why not?"

"What do you think?" Parsons said.

They were in his office on the third floor, posters about Hate Grime on the walls, a view out over the car park, the sky milky blue, hazed here and there with thinnish cloud.

Will was leaning on a filing cabinet by the side wall, Parsons sitting on a corner of his desk.

"I don't know." Will said.

"He's sure of himself, that's one thing," Parsons said. "Him and his brother, chalk and cheese."

"Could be it's all front."

"Could be."

"Got away with it before—the arson—reckons he's going to get away with it again. Yesterday—if he is doing stuff for Prince on the side—maybe he got in touch with him and Prince told him to brazen it out, said if it came to it he'd get him a good brief, see he was all right."

"As long as he kept his mouth shut."

"As long as that."

"It's a long stretch," Parsons said. "The one you're making. Prince and Bryan. Prince and this lad, Maitland." He walked to the window and looked out. "This bloody weather. I keep wanting to take my kids camping. You know, Derbyshire. Miller's Dale. Monsal, somewhere round there. Keep thinking, okay, it's going to change, get better. Next weekend, maybe. Then just when it should be getting warmer, the temperature drops another five degrees or you get one of those days you're driving round with sidelights on all the time like you're in mist."

"It's England, Chris."

"You mean it's always like this?"

"Pretty much."

"Then why is it always a surprise?"

Will stood away from the cabinet. "Because we're optimists? Always hoping for the best."

"This identity parade, what d'you think?"

"What've we got to lose?"

"The woman, the journalist, you can get in touch with her?"

Will nodded.

Parsons reached for his phone. "I'll get someone to set it up."

The left side of Lesley's face was still bruised and her hip was sore when she walked. The identification officer explained the procedure clearly but in such a way Lesley felt this was a test she was being set and the pressure was on her to pass and not fail. The screen, he assured her, would allow her to see the eight men clearly without them seeing her. Eight young men of similar height, wearing a mixture of track suits and jeans.

Before Lesley had entered, Lee Maitland had glanced cursorily at a written notice of the Code of Practice before scribbling his signature. If the solicitor with him—a bored thirty-year-old in a shabby suit that hung off him like washing off a line—had been arranged by Howard Prince, then he hadn't dipped far into his pocket.

Maitland objected to the presence of one of the others in the line and a young PC was quickly told to put on appropriate clothes and substituted. Maitland chose his place in the line, then changed his mind, and chose again.

Only then was Lesley brought into the room, the nerves of her stomach tense and taut. She walked slowly, looking at each face; stopped, turned, and walked back. That one standing fourth in line, was that the beginnings of a smile in his eyes? She struggled to match his face to that of the young man who had appeared in front of her suddenly in the square. His face in front of her before he swung his hand, his fist.

She moved on. Back at the beginning she turned and walked along beside the screen again.

"Take as much time as you need," the identification officer said.

"Can you have them say something?" Lesley asked.

"You can, certainly. But I have to point out those taking part in the parade were chosen on the basis of their physical appearance only, not their voice."

Lesley told him she understood.

"What you like them to say?"

"I'd like them to say, 'Leggo, you fucking bitch!' And I'd like them to shout it out loud."

It took several minutes to set up, and then shout it they did, some with relish, some more diffidently, afraid of letting themselves go.

Those eyes, did they smile this time?

Not really, no. There was nothing else she could do.

"Is the person who attacked you in Commerce Square and tried to steal your bag present in the parade?" the officer asked.

"I'm not sure," Lesley said. "I'm sorry, but I'm not sure."

On his way out of the police station, Lee Maitland passed Will on the stairs, and, as the two men brushed shoulders, Maitland swung his head toward him and winked broadly.

THE CALL FROM NATALIE CAME FROM OUT OF THE BLUE. Lesley was still low after the identity parade, feeling that in some way she'd let both Will Grayson and herself down, and it was good to hear Natalie's voice, full on and lively.

"So, how's it going? How you feeling?"

"I've been better."

"How come?"

"I was mugged, wasn't I?"

"You're kidding!"

"I wish."

"Where was this?"

"Right outside where I live."

"Oh, Jesus!"

"Yes, well, it's okay. It could have been worse."

"You're all right, though? You're not badly hurt or anything?"

"I'll survive."

"Good. Cause I thought you might like to take a little trip."

"What kind of a trip?"

"My great-aunt Stella? All that stuff your brother was into. You're still interested in that, right?"

"Yes. Yes, I am. Why?"

"Stella's sister, Irene. My gran. The painter, you know?"

"The recluse."

"Yeah. Well it seems she's not such a recluse anymore. She's going to have an exhibition. In London. Not as though she'd think to tell me or anything. Had to read about it in some magazine. Eighty-year-old artist's first show in thirty years." Natalie laughed. "Far as I know, she's seventy-nine, but who's counting?"

"So you're going to go? To the show?"

"No. I mean, yes, yes, I will, but that's not for ages. A couple of months at least. No, I'm going up to see her. And I want you to come with me."

Lesley breathed out slowly. "And up is where, exactly?"

"Orkney."

"Orkney? She couldn't live anywhere nearer?"

"Not a problem. You can fly up from Glasgow. Edinburgh, even. It's a piece of piss."

Lesley hesitated. Prince had warned her off meddling in his affairs clearly enough; and the attack outside her flat, though it need not necessarily have been connected, gave her further cause for thought.

"Come on," Natalie said. "You want to do this or not?"

"You think she might talk to me about her sister?"

Natalie's turn to hesitate. "She might."

"Then, yes," Lesley said. "Yes, I'll come."

What kind of a reporter was she, if she'd said anything else?

Irene Bast—she had taken her husband's name when she married and retained it after his death—had trained, Lesley learned, after Googling her name on the Internet, at the Byam Shaw School of Art and then at the Slade. She lived and worked for several years as one of a group of artists based at Lamorna in southwest Cornwall, and then, briefly, at Staithes in north Yorkshire, before moving to Scotland. Her favoured subjects were gardens and domestic interiors and comparisons, which meant little or nothing to Lesley and were made with Angela Burfoot and Winifred Nicholson.

The only reproduction of her work that Lesley could find, and which she printed out, was of a quite delicate painting of pink and blue flowers—carnations?—in a slim-necked glass vase, with an empty water glass close by. Vase and glass stood on a pale yellow cloth, which hung, with an even fold, over the table edge at the front of the picture. In the background, a length of dark, patterned material—predominantly green and red—was draped with apparent casualness over the back of a chair, and, behind that, the wall was a wash of muted orange-brown and gray.

Somehow, even with all those colours, none of them clashed; everything was in its place. Lesley thought she could live with that painting for a long time and find it calming, even beautiful.

They met at Glasgow Airport, Natalie having flown up from Heathrow, Lesley from Nottingham East Midlands. Lesley was traveling sensibly in a lightweight crease-resistant suit, carrying a change of clothes and a few extras in an overnight bag; Natalie had opted for a kingfisher blue dress over black tights that cut off at mid-calf, with silver shoes on her feet. A chunky gold chain, bracelets that jingled when she walked. A red canvas bag with broad green straps. She gave a little shriek of delight when she saw Lesley and hugged her close, kissing the air beside her cheeks.

"You all set?"

"I think so."

"An adventure, right?"

"Right."

"I can't wait to see my gran's face."

"She does know we're coming?"

For a moment, Natalie hesitated. "Sort of."

"And you saw her last when?"

Natalie grinned. "When I was twelve. Thirteen."

"And now you're just going to drop in?"

"I sent a postcard."

"Terrific."

Natalie laughed. "Relax. It'll be fine."

"How about your father?"

"What about him?"

"Does he know you're going up to there? More to the point, that I'm going with you?"

"Why should he care? I doubt if he and Irene have exchanged a dozen words in more than twenty years."

"He cared enough to warn Stephen off writing anything about the family. Me too, and in no uncertain terms."

"That's because of Lily. The way it might affect her. Irene's a different kettle of fish, believe me. Besides..." Natalie giggled. "...how's he going to know?"

How did he know a lot of things? Lesley decided it was best not to ask any more.

The flight was two-thirds full, a mixture of holiday makers—young climbers or Aran-sweatered couples in their mid-sixties—and men returning to work at the oil terminal on Flotta.

"You went to see Orlando," Natalie said, once the plane had leveled out.

"Yes."

"How long did he take before he tried to talk his way into your pants?"

"Long enough to open another bottle of wine."

Natalie laughed.

"Actually," Lesley said, "I don't think he was interested at all. Not really. It was more of an act than anything. As if, somehow, he thought it was expected of him."

"Maybe you should've taken him up on it. Seen what he'd done. Prob'ly come in his knickers."

They both laughed, Natalie in danger of getting the giggles.

Lesley took out the paper she'd bought at the airport, and Natalie started thumbing through the in-flight magazine.

"So what's happening with the film?" Lesley asked.

"
Shattered Glass?
" Natalie shook her head. "It's not going to happen."

"How come?"

"A million reasons. Most of them down to money. Push came to shove, we just couldn't get the money."

"I thought your father..."

"Orlando was right about my father. If he'd wanted to find a way of stopping us making the movie, he couldn't have done it any better. Once he'd come in and brought all these conditions with him, it was like putting a stranglehold on the whole project. Other people started dropping out, the distributor who was interested had second thoughts. In the end Orlando just couldn't be arsed. He's gone off to make some vampire movie in Spain."

"And you? You must be disappointed."

"You get used to it. And anyway it might be for the best. There's a part in the new Woody Allen that's being shot in London. I'm supposed to go and meet him next week. It'll probably be crap, but, fuck, it's still Woody Allen, right?"

The last Woody Allen film Lesley had seen had been on TV and she'd loved it, but that must have been made almost thirty years before. His most recent stuff had been so slightingly reviewed, she'd steered clear. And he had to be what? Seventy, if he was a day.

That was the thing with people in the arts, though, Lesley thought. Writers, directors, painters, musicians: the ones that didn't die young seemed to live forever. Carried on working till they dropped, most of them, too. Well, Lesley thought, what else were they going to do? And some of them seemed to take on a new lease of life, find new directions, actually get better, while others just kept repeating themselves, unable or unwilling to see they'd lost what they once had.

She wondered which Irene Bast would prove to be.

"Here," Natalie said, taking a folded piece of paper from her bag. "This is what I meant to show you."

It was the announcement of Irene's forthcoming show, tied in to a mention of her fiery film-star granddaughter. Above it was a head and shoulder shot of Natalie, taken, by the look of it, at a premiere somewhere, and below, a reproduction of one of Irene's new paintings.

The image was small and the definition uncertain, but clear enough, nevertheless, to show Irene's ideas of domestic interiors had changed. A girl with long black hair that twisted forward over one shoulder, sat on a white kitchen chair, naked, legs spread. Less a girl than a child. On the table behind her, instead of chrysanthemums, were what could best be described as instruments of torture, and in the background, half-hidden in shadow beside a partly open door, stood a figure that was half-man, half-bear.

Uneasy, a queasy feeling in her stomach, Lesley refolded the sheet of glossy paper and handed it back to Natalie, who took it without comment.

New directions, indeed.

The taxi took them south from Kirkwall along a narrow causeway between the vast sea barriers that Churchill had ordered built to protect the fleet sheltering at Scapa Flow during World War Two. Lesley was surprised at how flat the land was after the Highland peaks they had flown over, and by the brightness of the light, which gave both the blue of the water and the green of the fields an almost unnatural glow.

Irene Bast lived in a pair of old crofters' cottages outside the village of St. Margaret's Hope, rugged single-story buildings with sloping walls and slate roofs.