He had spent as long as he decently could in a coffee shop, and then wandered the streets again. As he passed the public library, he ducked inside. It didn’t seem the natural place for the police to look for a suspect on the run.
He was thinking through an escape plan. He needed a new vehicle; he would have to assume that his Peugeot had been identified. There were two difficulties: he didn’t know how to hot-wire a stolen car, so he would need keys, and he had to be sure that the theft wouldn’t be discovered for a few hours. Maybe break into an unoccupied house, steal the keys and then the vehicle? That way he should have an hour or two before the theft was reported. But he would need to find the right house.
The phone he had bought from the supermarket buzzed in his pocket. He answered it, ignoring the filthy glance of a prim woman reading the racing pages a couple of tables away.
The murmured conversation only took a minute.
Jerry stuffed the phone into his pocket, left the library and strode rapidly to the residential street just outside the centre of town where he had parked his car. He opened the trunk, and checked that the rifle was where it should be.
He switched on the engine, and headed out of town and north towards Wyvis, grinning to himself. The job would soon be done. Now he knew the police were not on his trail, he should have enough time to get away, maybe even as far as Glasgow, before they discovered the crime, let alone figured out which car he was driving.
Once he got to Glasgow, he should be able to disappear. It would be impossible to leave the country on his passport. But he had help and access to funds. Between them, they would figure something out.
Things were looking good.
Madeleine hung up the phone in the booth and surveyed the small departure lounge of Inverness Airport. The porter stood a short distance away with her two bags, looking discreetly in the other direction as she made her call.
She didn’t like what she had just done, but she had had little choice. This was just like Alden’s murder, just like Sophie’s. Their deaths set in motion treacherous eddies and undercurrents which dragged down everyone near them for years afterwards.
She wished she hadn’t gotten Clémence involved. At the time it had seemed necessary — Clémence was the only person Madeleine could think of to look after Alastair and get him out of the hospital until Madeleine could get to Scotland herself. She had wanted to make sure that Alastair was out of the clutches of any physical therapists or psychiatrists if he did start remembering things; much better if he was in a lonely cottage with only Madeleine there to listen to him, once she had sent Clémence back to university. If the old man really had forgotten everything permanently, Jerry could have let him live.
She had still thought of Clémence as a pliable schoolgirl. She should have anticipated that Clémence would ask questions about the old man’s life and get answers, especially since it was quite likely that Death At Wyvis would be lying around his house. A couple of years ago, Madeleine would have foreseen all that. Age was slowing her down, blunting her mind which had been so sharp. She hated that.
She would do what she could for Jerry, as he now called himself. Although Bill Paxton, the family lawyer, would never involve himself with false identities and safe hiding places, she was hopeful that he would put her in touch with someone else who would, for the right amount of money. Bill would know not to ask questions. Like his father before him, from whom he had inherited his practice, he knew never to underestimate Madeleine.
23
Clémence, the old man and Callum rode to Wyvis in silence. The taxi driver tried to make cheery conversation, but soon gave up. The old man sat in the front passenger seat, staring out at the snow-streaked Glen Glass. Clémence sat in the back with Callum, her fingers curled around his. She had interpreted his glance correctly at lunch with Madeleine; he had thought that they should go to Wyvis with the old man before calling the police. She felt bad that she had dragged him into such a dangerous situation, but so relieved that he was there. He was a year younger than her, yet he exuded a calm competence that she and the old man lacked.
But he was no match for a man armed with a rifle who was willing to use it. None of them was.
Callum leaped out of the taxi to open the gate at the entrance to the estate. As the taxi drove through, Sheila MacInnes rushed out, arms folded against the cold.
Clémence wound down her window.
‘Clémence, pet, are you OK? Did you really spend the night on the mountain?’
‘We did,’ said Clémence. ‘And it wasn’t much fun.’
‘You radge! You could have killed yourselves. Are you all right, Alastair?’
‘I’m fine, now, Mrs MacInnes,’ said the old man. ‘I had a hot bath in Dingwall. I can’t wait to get home.’
‘Shouldn’t you be in hospital?’ said Sheila.
‘Alastair’s much too tough for that,’ said Clémence.
‘Someone vandalized your car yesterday,’ Sheila said. ‘Callum probably told you. Broke a window and let down the tyres. Terry has pumped them up again. Did you leave anything valuable in there? Terry said they didn’t take the radio.’
‘No, nothing,’ said Clémence.
‘It’s worrying,’ said Sheila. ‘We haven’t seen any strangers about, apart from this young man, of course. You gave him a scare. And us.’
‘I’m sorry, Sheila,’ said Clémence. ‘Did Jerry see anyone?’
‘Jerry’s off somewhere. His car is gone.’
That was good to know.
‘You will report it to the police, won’t you?’
‘I will,’ said Clémence. ‘See you later, Sheila.’
The taxi drove on through the woods towards the loch.
‘Callum? Can I ask you something?’ the old man said.
‘Sure.’
‘Do you know what atelier means?’
‘It’s French, isn’t it? I should know, but I don’t.’
‘Hah! Hear that, Clémence? He says it’s French. Smart lad, your boyfriend.’
‘No he’s not, he’s ignorant,’ said Clémence, jabbing Callum in the shoulder. ‘We’ve got to find that dictionary!’
It was a sunny day and the snow was melting, at least down by the loch. They passed Corravachie, and Clémence was pleased to see that Jerry’s car had indeed gone. The cottage looked shut up: no smoke from the chimney.
Culzie appeared to be empty too. Clémence glanced at the Clio and noted the smashed window on the driver’s side. She paid the taxi driver and opened the front door.
‘Let me, Clemmie,’ said Callum.
Although Jerry was in theory away from the estate, Clémence was happy to let Callum go first.
‘Hello?’ he shouted. No reply. The house creaked as Callum stepped on ancient floorboards, but there was no sound in response. It felt empty. He put his head into the kitchen and the sitting room, before climbing the stairs. Clémence followed him, and paused halfway up as he checked the bedrooms.
‘There’s no one here,’ he said.
Clémence hurried up the steps and into the study. The desk stood waiting for her in front of the view of the loch. She remembered exactly where she had seen the black exercise book with the red binding.
She ripped open the drawer and there it was!
Carefully, she lifted it out on to the desk, noticing as she did so that underneath it was a second exercise book, identical to the first.