‘I’ll remember that,’ said Jerry, reaching for the switch to close the window.
‘Afore you go, there’s been some vandals on the estate.’
‘Oh?’ said Jerry, halting the window.
‘Aye. They broke in to the lassie’s car and let down her tyres. They didn’t take anything. But you should check no one has broken into Corravachie. I’m a wee thing worried about the rifle in the gun cupboard there. And if you see any strangers about, let me know, will you?’
‘I will,’ said Jerry, forcing a grin.
Finally he could pull away. He had no intention of checking the gun cupboard at Corravachie. He knew the rifle was safe in the trunk together with some garden loppers he had bought in Dingwall on the way from Inverness. They should do the trick.
25
‘Yes, but how do you know Jerry won’t come after us if we leave?’ the old man asked.
Clémence was wondering the same thing.
‘Look.’ Stephen’s voice was rising. ‘I came hundreds of miles up here to give you what you want. The truth. I’ve done that. You know who killed Sophie. It wasn’t me and it wasn’t you; it was Nathan. So it’s over. Let’s go back to our miserable lives.’
‘I need to call the police,’ said Clémence. She was beginning to wish she had done it earlier. Much earlier.
‘No!’ said Stephen.
‘But, Grandpa, I must. We were shot at last night! There is a nutcase running around somewhere out there with a rifle!’
‘I forbid it.’
Clémence glanced at Alastair for support, but didn’t find any. Of course he didn’t want to call the police.
‘I’m afraid we have to, Mr Trickett-Smith,’ said Callum. And before Stephen could stop him, he was in the hallway picking up the phone.
Clémence saw him frown and stare at the receiver. He pressed the cradle rapidly. ‘Does this phone work, Clemmie?’
‘It should do,’ said Clémence. ‘Here, let me try.’ She took the receiver from him. ‘You’re right, it’s dead.’
‘Jerry has cut the line,’ said the old man.
Fear clutched at Clémence’s chest. ‘That means he’s out there,’ she said. ‘Maybe right outside now.’
‘He could have cut the telephone wire further down the loch,’ said Callum.
‘I don’t care what you two say, we need help,’ said Clémence.
‘I’ll go,’ said Callum. ‘It’s about three miles to the Stalker’s Lodge. I can run that.’
‘But what about Jerry?’
‘I’ll keep my eyes peeled. You had better hide out the back somewhere. In the woods.’
‘OK,’ said Clémence. ‘But go out the back door yourself. He might be here already.’
Callum slipped out the back. A moment later, he knocked on the front door. ‘It’s me!’ he called.
Clémence opened up.
‘He’s definitely not here,’ Callum said. ‘Which means he must have cut the wires back at the bottom of the loch.’
‘Be careful, Callum,’ said Clémence, biting her lip.
‘And you,’ said Callum.
Callum was fit. But he needed to pace himself just right. He had done 5K in nineteen minutes back in November, but that was in running kit. The surface wasn’t too bad — the previous night’s snow had melted off the track — but it was getting dark.
He was having second thoughts about abandoning Clémence. Someone had to get help, and he was clearly the best person to do it, but he had left her in a much more dangerous situation than his own. Too late now, he was committed and they were relying on him.
He had gone barely five minutes when he heard a car approaching. He darted off the road and threw himself in the bracken behind a scruffy tree, ready to jump out and wave if it turned out to be Terry MacInnes’s Land Rover.
It wasn’t. Even in the evening gloom, Callum could tell from the headlights that it was a smaller car. As it passed him, he could see there was one driver.
That must be Jerry.
For a moment he hesitated. Jerry was armed. If Callum returned to the house he might get killed. He could quite legitimately press on to the Stalker’s Lodge to get help.
Only for a moment. He couldn’t leave Clemmie to be shot dead, he just couldn’t.
He scrambled to his feet and hit the track running. Back to Culzie.
Clémence put on her coat and grabbed the two old men’s. They were showing no sign of moving.
Alastair was looking at Stephen steadily. Clémence knew him well enough by now to see that he was thinking, thinking hard.
‘I know who Jerry Ranger is,’ he said.
‘You do?’ said Clémence.
‘He’s Fabrice, isn’t he, Stephen? Your son, Fabrice?’
Stephen raised his bushy eyebrows. ‘That’s absurd. Didn’t you say this man is an American? Fabrice is English! Half-French maybe. But not American.’
‘Where is Fabrice now, Stephen?’ the old man asked.
‘I’ve got no idea,’ said Stephen. ‘I haven’t seen him for years.’
‘Where did he go, last time you heard?’
Stephen spluttered. ‘How should I know? That’s ridiculous!’
‘You must know where he went. You must have some inkling.’
‘Well... Morocco. Yes, that’s right, he went to Morocco.’
‘My father went to Morocco,’ said Clémence. ‘Not Fabrice. I thought Fabrice went to America somewhere?’
‘No. I’m sure that’s not right.’
‘It seems to me most likely that Nathan was run down on purpose in Arizona,’ said the old man. ‘It’s just too much of a coincidence that he should have died that soon after I discovered it was him who killed Sophie.’
‘Didn’t the American police say it was an accident?’ Stephen said.
Alastair ignored him. ‘At first I thought I might have killed him, in some kind of revenge. But then it seemed at least possible that Jerry Ranger had killed Nathan and was trying to kill me. Who would want to do that?’
‘I don’t bloody know,’ said Stephen. ‘And I doubt you do either.’
‘Someone who wanted to avenge Sophie’s death. And someone who didn’t like me either. You are a possibility, but that doesn’t seem likely.’
‘Of course it’s not likely, you stupid bugger.’
‘So then there’s your children, Sophie’s children. Clémence’s father, Rupert perhaps? But Clémence would have known if Jerry was her father, obviously. There was a daughter, Beatrix, was it? And then there was the eldest son, Fabrice, if I remember the book correctly. He would have been born in the early forties, which would make him mid-fifties. Jerry’s age now.’
‘You’re guessing,’ Stephen said, but Clémence could see the doubt in his eyes.
‘I’ve never met Uncle Fabrice,’ said Clémence. ‘But I’m sure Maman told me once he lived in America.’
‘No one told me that,’ said Stephen.
‘You see, the thing is, Stephen, I remember.’
‘You remember?’
‘I remember figuring this out before.’
The old men stared at each other. Stephen was visibly trying to maintain his angry denial, but Clémence could see it crumble. Finally, he lowered his eyes.
‘You’re right,’ he said. ‘When I was sent to prison, Fabrice was seventeen. He was at boarding school and being shuttled between my parents and Sophie’s. Then, at the beginning of term, he got on the train to school at Euston Station and was never seen again. Madeleine tracked him down years later and discovered he had changed his name to Jerry Ranger and become a hippie. Wrote songs. Apparently, he went to jail himself.’ Stephen smiled ruefully. ‘Killed his own wife, just like his dad.’