The Day She Died (8 page)

“Is Monsignature here?” I asked.

Monsignature
was one of Dot's best near-misses, and a better name for a priest with a chequebook I couldn't imagine.

“Steve's doing the bags,” said Dot and fluttered a hand at her neck. “We got a wee bit muddled.” In other words, Dot turned up for Steve's shift. “I'm meeting my friend Irene for lunch, so there was no point me traipsing home and back. I'll just stay. How d'you mean, unusual?”

“Did you hear on the radio that a car went off the road at Wanlockhead?” I asked her, deleting all the junk mail from the inbox.

“I did,” said Dot. “That's a terrible road. Makes me as carsick as anything.”

“Well, it was a friend of mine,” I said. “Or the wife of a friend of mine anyway. I was with him.”

“You were in the car?” said Dot on a rising shriek. “Oh dear. Oh Jessie pet. Steve! Jessie's been in a car crash.”

“Dot, no!” I said. “You've picked up the wrong—”

“What's up?” said Steve, coming through from the back with the water cup for our iron in his hand.

“Did they keep you in? You shouldn't be at work straight out of the hospital, Jessie.”

“I was with my friend Gus when he heard that his wife had been killed,” I said, very slowly and loudly, the way you need to when Dot's really birling.

“Is that who the police were fishing out the Nith at the Whitesands?” she said, clutching me.

“Why were you in the hospital?” said Steve.

“I wasn't. I had to babysit their kids while he went to identify the body, and then I stayed the night in case … ”

“Oh dear goodness me,” said Dot, which was quite strong language for her. “A local lass was this? What was the name?”

“King,” I said. “Local, I think. Gus King. Don't know her own name.” Although Gus had said it, hadn't he? She'd wanted to give it to Dillon. I tried to remember, and Dot started clacking through her mental rolodex for Kings, but it was Steve who came through.

“Gus King?” he said. “Our age?” I nodded. “Big guy with red hair? Artist.”

“That's him,” I said.

“I didn't know you knew him,” said Steve.

Until that moment, I hadn't realised I'd lied. I'd said “a friend” because … because over the course of the night and morning it had started to seem that way.

Many times since, I've thought back to that moment. That fork in the road. If I had put that lie back in my mouth right then, if I'd said:
Hang on. Rewind. I didn't actually know him this time yesterday
. If I'd tried to explain it to Dot and Steve, I'd have failed. And failing to get them to understand, I'd have started to question it myself. And then I'd have climbed back up the cliff I was falling down, stepped away from the edge, and got clear. And what would have happened then? Who would have lived, and who'd have died? I've wondered many times and I'll never know.

“So you know him too?” was what I said.

“I know his brother,” said Steve.

“Is he another artist?” said Dot. “Talented family.”

“No, the other one's a headcase,” Steve said. “Or he was when he was wee.” That explained the language, then. It was a throwback to Steve's childhood, when people were
headcases
instead of
Mental Health Service users.

“Were you at school with him?” I said. “Gus doesn't say much—makes you wonder.”

“Cubs,” said Steve. “And the less said, the better.”

“Whae's this?” We hadn't noticed a client coming in. It was one of our repeat customers—Buckfast Eric. He was a harmless alcoholic who could always rely on Father Tommy when his overcoat got the usual “organic stains.”

“Honest to God, Eric,” I said. “If you'd have a bag of chips and a pint of milk before you started, you'd keep it down.”

“It's not that this time, ye cheeky besom,” Eric said. “I fell over in the park and sat in dog's dirt.”

Dot shuddered.

“Nice,” I said. “Just gets us in the mood for our coffee.”

“You're very kind,” said Eric, settling himself down on the shoe-
trying-on chair. “And who are we bitching up today, pardon my
French, ladies.”

“Gavin King,” said Steve. “Jessie knows his brother. Stayed out Heathall way. His dad worked at Hunter's.”

“Oh,
I
know who you mean
now
,” said Dot. “But they moved years ago. I think it was”—she lowered her voice—“divorce. Very sad. And he got a transfer, and she wasn't far at his back and went to Lancashire. Somewhere on the coast. And so this is her daughter-in-law, is it? And children too?” She went clucking off to make the coffee.

“But Gus isn't like the rest of them,” I said. “He's a sculptor.”

“A sculptor,” said Eric. “A right sculptor—marble and a chisel—or does he put stale bread in a old toilet and sell it for millions?”

“You're a Philistine, Eric,” I said. Going by what had been said about seaside scenes, though, I reckoned he'd got Gus's number.

“I might well be, but I'd rather be a Philistine with no shite on me. So if you can show me what you have in a 40/32 trouser, I'd be very grateful.”

Steve and I both recoiled.

“Are you telling me you've got kak on those breeks you're wearing now?” I said. “Get up off our chair then, you manky old toe rag. God almighty!”

“Jessie!” said Steve. “Your tone is completely inappropriate and unprofessional.”

“Our Lord himself washed the feet of the poor,” said Dot, coming back with the coffee tray.

“He wouldn't have touched Eric's,” I said.

Steve glared, but Eric only said, “You're not wrong, Jessie hen. I've an infected toenail that would turn the milk.”

In other words, it was a pretty typical morning. Dot with her shift wrong, Steve bugging me, Eric being Eric. And the comfort of it all stopped me thinking. I nicked some undies from stock and changed in the toilets, and only for a little sliver of a second did I look at myself in the mirror and ask the questions that were rumbling away deep down inside. How did I get so far into something that was nothing to do with me? Why did I lie to Dot and Steve? How would I phrase it when I went back tonight, my kind but firm good-bye? Then the phone rang and I went to answer it, expecting Father Tommy or a donor or the usual. But it was Miss Colquhoun from Townhead Primary telling me to come right away.

Ruby had lasted through the morning song and chosen a jigsaw for her quiet time, but then she'd had a pretty nuclear meltdown, going by Miss Colquhoun's account, when one of the other kids said her mummy was dead like a ghost and the worms would eat her.

“I never dreamed any of them would know!” Miss Colquhoun said to me when I got there. “Think I'd have wised up by now, eh? They're four, for f—”

“—uck's sake,” I filled in, since she was a primary school teacher and she was at work and couldn't.

“What the hell are the parents thinking?”

“Who'll win
Strictly
this go-round?” I said. “It never occurred to me either, and my bar's set pretty low.”

“Oh God no!” said Miss Colquhoun. “Look, here's the secretary coming with Ruby now. She's wet her pants and she's quite upset about it, just so's you know. But it was one of our Guardian Angels that said it—all muesli and first names, ken the type? Mummy treats them like they're forty-five.”

“Oh, them!” I said. Ruby was plodding along beside the secretary, still in her velvet dress and shrug, but with bare legs now. “Hello, Rubylicious,” I called out to her. “I missed you. I'm glad I didn't need to wait till four to see you again. And I bet Daddy's missing you too.”

“Bye-bye, special sweetheart!” said Miss Colquhoun, giving Ruby a huge hug that would get her sacked if you believed the
Daily Mail
. “I'll see you very soon. I'll maybe come and see you at home at the weekend, eh? Bring you a present.” I caught her eye, pretty sure this wasn't in the guidelines. “Couldn't care less,” she said quietly to me. “Couldn't give a stuff.”

“What are you talking about?” said Ruby, grizzling.

“Boring grown-up stuff,” I said. “No need for you to worry, hunny-bunny. Let's go and get some nice treats to take home for Dillon.”

“And me,” Ruby said. “Can I get a comic?”

“Only if you let me buy you some sweeties too.”

I pretended not to hear as I walked away, but I knew the secretary and the teacher were asking each other who I was and saying Gus was lucky I was around. I took Ruby's sticky little hand in mine and tried to think what I could get Gus in Tesco that would feel as good as a comic and sweeties but wasn't drink and that I could afford and wouldn't seem weird when I'd only known him a day.

And maybe that explains why I got sucked back in again and totally forgot my plan to say take care, all the best, and good-bye.

Maybe.

Nine

The farmyard wasn't deserted
this time. Two quad bikes sat there with their motors going, a collie on the back of each, plunging about and barking their heads off but so well-trained they wouldn't shift off the bikes until somebody told them. There was a car, a big muddy 4x4, pulled off the track with its back doors open. In the yard itself, three men were strong-arming pallets into place to funnel sheep from one shed to another. One of them, in a waxed jacket, ignored me, but the two in Gore-Tex trousers and padded tartan shirts stopped what they were doing and turned to stare. A vet and two workers, I thought. None too friendly. One of them strolled over and stood in front of my car, making me stop whether I liked it or not.

I rolled down the window, working the handle round.

He frowned at me. “Is this the car fae the cattleman's hoose?” he said. “Who're you?”

“I'm a friend of the family,” I said. “Have you heard?”

“Heard whit?” he said. “Was that you yesterday an' all? This is no' the way.”

“Mrs. King has been”—I checked Ruby out of the corner of my eye; she wasn't listening—“killed in a car accident.”

He was the type of guy that would rather die himself than show surprise, a real hard man (and to think he helped lambs into the world), but he started back a bit at that. “Aye, well,” he said, not exactly overflowing with sympathy. “If there's gonny be loads of folk comin' you'll have tae get them tellt. Girthon turn.” He jerked his head. “Through the site.”

I had no idea what that meant, but I'd ask Gus. No point trying to get this one's knuckles off the ground to give proper directions. I just wound the window back up again and went on my way.

At the cottage, Gus was sitting on a bench under the front bedroom window with Dillon on his knee, both of them staring at the sea. The baby was wrapped in a blanket—one of those old army-issue things, scratchy as hell, but he looked happy enough, sucking on some toy. Gus was wearing a suit that could have given the army blanket a good run. It was green with a kind of orange fuzz about it, brown leather buttons. I know clothes, and this suit was prewar. He had on a shirt with no collar, but when I took a close look at what Dillon was sucking, there was the collar there. Gus shuffled along the bench, gouging out pits in the gravel with his work boots.

“I'm going to have to buy a suit,” he said. “This was Dave's.”

“It's … ” I said.

“It fits okay,” he said, “but it's like fancy dress. Hi Ruby-two-shoes,” he went on. “Miss Colquhoun phoned and told me you were coming.”

Ruby said nothing. She sidled up to him, wriggled between his knees, and put her head down on Dillon's blanket. He patted her hair with the collar and then went back to sucking it again.

“Okay, then … ” I said.

Gus looked up at me. “Can you just sit here beside us for a wee bit?” he said.

“Of course.” I dropped down beside him and looked out at the sea, looking for whatever he was finding there. It was hard to stay quiet. I wanted to ask about Becky, about the police, the Girthon turn and the site. I wanted to get dry knickers for Ruby, thinking she must be cold. I wanted to help. Instead, I counted the rocks between us and the tide. Tried to name the flowers in the two beds along the fence. Red-hot pokers. Daisies. Although they might just as easily be chrysanthemums or dahlias or even asters. And an edging of those red, white, and blue things. Lobelia, salvia, and … the white ones.

“What are those white flowers called?” I said.

Gus shook his head.

So maybe Becky did the garden. Depressed and miserable and planting flowers? It didn't go together. Unless having her garden looking good was part of pretending she was happy. But there was a vegetable patch with rows of cabbages—or they might be sprouts or kale or even cauliflowers—and who plants cabbages if they're down already? Or cooks them, or eats them, or makes their kids eat them? I'd say if life was getting away from you, everything to do with cabbages would be near the first thing to go.

“Alice,” said Ruby.

She was right. Alyssum, lobelia, and salvia. They were like the father, son, and holy ghost of my granny's garden.

“So the cops have been back,” Gus said after another silence. I flicked a glance at the kids. “The Fiscal's going to review the case tomorrow. Decide whether he wants a full post-mortem. If not, should be free to have a cremation by early next week.”

“If
not
?” I said.

“What's them things you said?” said Ruby, screwing round to look at him.

“Nothing,” said Gus. “Just Daddy's work.”

I supposed you got good at hiding stuff in plain sight, with children around. Talking over their heads, making sure they missed what you didn't want them to catch, but it still seemed wrong to me.

“Can I get a ice-pop?” said Ruby.

Dillon stirred himself inside the blanket. “Ice-pop,” he said, breaking out of its folds.

“For ten pink shells,” said Gus. Ruby marched down towards the beach, toes turned out, tummy pushed out, a right wee swagger about her. Dillon pattered along at her back.

“That'll take them a good while,” Gus said, and we sat in silence again until I couldn't take it anymore.

“How could there not be a post-mortem?” I said.

“Depends whether the Fiscal thinks it's needed,” said Gus.

“Really?”

“Everybody's seen too much
CSI
,” Gus said. “Nobody knows how it works in Scotland.”

“But you know?”

“I'm going to push for the full PM, obviously,” said Gus. “If they'll listen to me.”

“Did the cops tell you anything?”

“The engine was off,” he said. “She had her seatbelt on. She died of head trauma. I told them it was an accident. Again. If it was deliberate, the engine would have been on, and she'd have taken her seatbelt off, eh? That's what I told them.”

“And what did they say?”

“Said suicides nearly always leave their belts on. That woman one—Gail—said she'd heard of someone before, driving off a cliff and switching off the engine. Scared of burning to death if they survived the fall.”

I didn't know what to say to that, just shook my head.

“But I don't want suicide on the books. On the record. I want them to keep investigating until they find someone that saw something, or find someone she spoke to, or … I'd rather have anything on the record other than that.”

I nodded again. Pretty useless even if he was looking at me, which he wasn't. But what was there to say? Then a thought struck me.

“Hey Gus, did you ask the farm guys?”

He shook his head. “We never see much of them unless they're moving sheep in this field right here.”

“Only I was just coming through the yard there and one of them told me I should go a different way. He asked if it was me driving through yesterday. Maybe it was Becky.”

“She doesn't go that way,” he said. Then he leapt to his feet, making me jump. “But she might if she didn't want anyone else to see her! To stop her!” He turned to look at the children, squatting at the high-tide line, poking through the shells with their fingers. “Will you mind the kids? I need to go and ask at the farm if they saw her. What time she left. Maybe someone even spoke to her.”

I could see why it had got to him. Any bit of something to explain anything was going to seem important, state he was in, but he wasn't thinking clearly.

“Yeah, sure but, Gus?” I said. “They might have meant us last night, eh?
We
came that way.”

He stared at me, then rubbed his face. “Yeah, we did. Yeah, I remember. You missed the turn. But … ” he shook his head. “No. If the guy said
yesterday
, not
last night …
”

“Worth checking,” I agreed, because he was like a catapult ready to go. “And while you're there, ask them if there are any foreigners working on the farm. Shearers or pickers or that.”

Because who he really did need to speak to was Mr. Panic from last night, the one that might be Becky's boyfriend.

“Foreigners?” he said. “The only foreigner here was Ros. If there'd been a few more, she might have stayed.” Then he strode off round the side of the cottage and I heard the car engine start. The children looked up; I waved to them.

“I've got six, Jessie,” Ruby called.

“One, two, three, ten!”

“Cool,” I called back. “Keep looking.” I could see Ruby's little pink bottom sticking down under the hem of her dress from the way she was crouched down, and I wanted to ask if she was warm enough, or go and get her some pants to put on, but I didn't want to remind her of why she was bare-arsed in the first place, upset her again.

I missed the turn
, I thought to myself. He hadn't said that. He'd sat there like a stone and then said “next left.” I stood up and walked to the far fence, saw what I hadn't seen before—a double track coming through the gorse. Another way to the cottage. I glanced at the kids, stepped over the fence, and followed it.

So much for poor Becky's isolation and loneliness! Just round the rocks from the cove where the cottage sat, a sandy beach stretched for a mile or so, and the slopes of the field above it were carved into plots, and on the plots were hulking great static caravans, all painted the same sage green, each with its big end window facing the sea. The site, like the guy said.

And it wasn't just a site either; she couldn't have been lonely even in the winter because in the prime spots right along the edge of the beach there was a row of bungalows and cabins, some nearly as rough as Stockman's Cottage, some over-the-top swanky. Not all inhabited, true. Not in October. But at least three of them had cars parked in their drives, and one had a washing hung out—beach towels and wetsuits—and there was a man working on an upturned kayak in the garden.

“Jessie? Jessie, where are you?” Ruby's voice sounded farther away than I thought I'd come.

“Right here,” I said, picking my way back through the gorse as fast as I could.

“Jessieeeeeee!” she squealed. The sound of it gripped at my guts. I got the same squeal as Mummy and Daddy now.

“Jessieeeeeeeee!” Dillon sounded like someone stretching the neck of a balloon. It meant even less from him; he was just copying.

“I'm here, I'm here, I'm right here,” I said, crunching down onto the pebbles beside them. Ruby held up her cupped hands, showing me enough pink shells to call it ten any day. Dillon held out his two fists and I let him drop his haul into my palms.

Two pink shells, three blue shells, a twig with a piece of seaweed wrapped round it, and what I should have known to expect.
Stupid bitch
. What any little boy would pick up on the beach. Right there, right on my hand, touching my skin.
Useless bitch
. Quite a small one, curled and soft, white-ish with just a bit of sandy colour near the tip, right there on my hand, touching my skin.
Stupid, useless, evil bitch
. I dropped my arms to my sides and let it fall, feeling my hand pulsing where it had touched me.

Dillon stared at ground where his treasure had dropped, and his face screwed up and turned dark. I stood still and stared at him, did nothing. But I didn't run. I didn't look for a corner, didn't curl up, didn't squeeze my head. I just stood there trying to get my breathing back to normal, staring at him as his eyes filled with tears and he cranked up for a good loud howl. It had just broken when Gus shouted from the garden.

“What's up?” he said. “Jess?”

“Jessie,” I muttered under my breath.

“Jessie threw Dillon's shells away,” said Ruby in the thrilled bossy voice of every four-year-old girl. “
And
she burnt him.”

Gus jumped over the rocks and landed on the beach beside us. I cringed at the sound of his feet striking the ground.

“Jess?” he said, gently.

“Jessie,” I told him. I was still standing straight, but I needed to wrap my arms round my body and press them in tight. “I gave Dillon his sandwich too hot last night. I had to run his hand under the tap. I'm sorry. I should have told you.” Gus brushed it off with a shake of his head, kept up his close, unpeeling stare. “You're like a ghost,” he said. He looked at the pebbles around my feet and his eyes flared. He kicked loose grit and shells, covering it.

“It was only a wee one,” I said. “I'm sorr—”

“Tsst!” said Gus. He squatted and took one of Dillon's hands in his, one of Ruby's too.

“Listen, kids,” he said. “This is very important. Jessie … ”

“No,” I moaned. “It's not them, it's me.”

“ … is allergic to feathers. Feathers are very bad for Jessie.”

“Like peanuts,” said Ruby. “Like Kieran.”

“Much, much worse than peanuts,” Gus said. “Dilbert? No feathers. Got it?”

Of course he hadn't got it. The poor kid. He was sniffling, still staring at the ground.

“Now say sorry to Jessie,” Gus said.

“No!” Louder this time. “He's wee and I'm big. It's me who should—I should—If I can't—it's crazy anyway. Dillon?” I dropped down beside him. Closer to it. Right down where it was hiding under the scuffed-up sand. But I made myself think
Dillon, Dillon, Dillon. He's two. I have to
. I took his hand, the one that might have held it tight for ages, but I made myself not think that either.

“Dillon,” I said. “I'm sorry, honey. Look, there's one of your blue shells. And there's your stick with the seaweed.”