It must have been for some treat, surely. Why else had she been taken to Pettigrew’s? A sudden memory came back to her. She could see a little green boat with the Owl and the Pussycat painted near the bow. The Owl and the Pussycat went to sea in a beautiful pea-green boat. Had she been inside it? She thought so, remembering the sensation of motion, rocking back and forward, back and forward. Had there been other children? That was something she couldn’t visualise. But Mother had been there and Alice could see her now, wearing her brown full-skirted coat with the fur collar that made her look so glamorous. And the hat: a small felt hat with feathers on the side, blue and bronze feathers from some exotic bird that Alice had never seen. She rocked in the little wooden boat, feeling her soft ringlets brush against her cheeks.
Alice froze. Her hair! She’d gone there to have her lovely hair cut off! Suddenly a feeling of panic arose in the old woman’s chest as the memory became more vivid. The play toys in that small ante room had been no more than a ruse to lull her into a false sense of security and once she had known what lay beyond the frosted glass doors, Alice had felt the same stomach churning sensation that had seized her whenever she’d been taken to the dentist’s.
One hand crept up to her head and Alice Finlay felt the wisps of hair and the skull beneath. She was an old woman now, sick in this hospital bed. Her four-year-old self vanished into the distant past, gone forever.
‘Mrs Finlay?’ A voice made Alice open her eyes. A young woman in a white tunic stood by her bedside, a kindly smile on her face. ‘It’s Hazel, your physiotherapist,’ the girl told her, smoothing her pillow gently. ‘I’m going to see if you can get out of bed this morning. Make a wee bit of progress, eh?’ The smile reached the girl’s eyes and Alice felt her own face respond. The girl seemed a friendly sort, not intimidating like the doctors could be. She was dressed quite casually as well, a short-sleeved tunic over navy slacks and big trainers. Hazel had a soft voice, not a Glasgow accent, more as if she were from one of the Gaelic-speaking islands, like that nice young man who worked in the police with her son-in-law.
‘Do-do-do…’ Alice wanted to ask her if she came from Stornoway, but the words stuck at the front of her mouth and she closed her lips in a thin line, terrified at the sound. It was like hearing some imbecile. Oh, God! What if she was like that other old woman? The one with the weak, staring eyes.
‘Shush, now. No trying to talk. The speech therapist will give me what for if I let you make even a peep!’ The girl gave a conspiratorial grin and Alice felt her body relax. It was all right not to speak, then.
Her voice sometimes let her down completely without any warning. Why did that happen? Alice had the sensation of her mind clearing as she considered this. Was it the rush of emotion that stifled her voice’s ability to make coherent sounds? Perhaps. She swallowed hard, hoping that the errant vocal chords would appreciate some fresh saliva and begin to work properly again.
‘Now, let’s see what you can do.’ The young girl was reaching under her pillow, easing her up into a sitting position.
Alice Finlay let herself be manoeuvred by the firm hands, aware that she was as helpless to resist now as she had been as a little child all those years ago in that department store.
It was better to go on foot for the first few days. That way much more could be observed. Cycling meant that things zipped past too quickly, and facts had to be absorbed if I were to make sense of the place and the person. So I walked across the muddy path, hood over my face against the February cold, hunched up under layers of clothing that were as much for disguise as for keeping out the chill. The corner house had been my first choice and when the woman closed her gate and headed off towards the flyover that crossed the main road to the shops, I slowed my step, following her at a distance. She was small and walked with a jerky step as if she had a pain of some sort. A recent hip replacement, maybe? It was pension day and some of the old people still trotted down to the post office every week rather than have their money paid directly into their bank accounts. Old habits died hard, I told myself. And perhaps this indicated that the old dear was a good age. I narrowed my eyes against a sudden gust of easterly wind, watching the woman stagger as it caught her. The older they were the weaker they became, I told myself; and all the more reason why they should be dispatched.
Freda hobbled down to the end of the slope. There was a huge, dirty puddle right at the bottom where the ground needed filling in by the council, but it had been there for so long now that she doubted whether it would ever be mended. She’d just have to take an extra big step across it; that was all. Her fingers trembled as she shifted the shopping bag from one arm to the other, reaching out for the metal railing. It might only be a few steps from the flyover to the entrance to the post office, but there was a broken bit of pavement to negotiate as well as these horrible self-opening doors that swung outwards at her.
Freda was aware of every potential hazard since her last fall. It had been such a simple thing, just missing her footing at the edge of the pavement then down she’d gone, breaking her leg as she’d crashed on to the hard concrete. There had been so many accidents lately involving older people. Like that one along from Jess Innes. No, Freda stopped in the middle of the street, pondering for a moment. Two had died. That was right. Two elderly ladies had fallen down their back steps not all that long ago. Terrible thing to have happened. Tommy next door had been on to the council to have rails put in at the back and front doors, but so far nothing had happened. You had to be on the social to get anything these days, Freda remembered him saying in that puffed-out exasperated way that he had, like a wee fighting cock. And it was true enough, she thought, stepping back to let the doors open fully before she entered the brightness and warmth of the grocery-shop-cum-post-office.
There was the usual queue of folk waiting for their turn at the counter and Freda turned to see if there was anyone she knew; having a wee blether with one of her friends would pass the time. But there was nobody, just a tall man stooping over the newspapers as if he couldn’t decide which one he wanted, and a couple of other folk by the display of greeting cards. Freda sighed. She’d go across to the Spar and buy a few things, just enough to tide her over the weekend. And maybe a quarter pound of mince from the butcher’s. A shepherd’s pie would last her at least two meals, wouldn’t it?
As Freda Gilmour left the post office she had no sensation of being followed. No extra sensory element within alerted her to the eyes that watched her every faltering step, nor did she feel the weight of malice that had begun to bear down upon her small, slight person.
CHAPTER 20
Lorimer had not forgotten Colin Ray’s words, nor was he particularly afraid of pushing this investigation into the delicate area of internal police matters. But other aspects of the case had taken up his time and it was only today, at the start of this new week, that his thoughts turned to the Chief Constable of Strathclyde. Sir Robert Caldwell, the previous Chief Constable who Lorimer had respected and liked, had retired to his holiday home in Bute and the present head of their force was someone he knew less well. David Isherwood was a man in his late forties who had come to them from the Grampian Region. Whether he missed the cold easterly winds or not, Lorimer couldn’t say, but Isherwood’s choice of home had been the village of Kilmacolm, a place that seemed to have its own particular climate. Every wintry spell appeared to be more biting up there than in other villages; even the annual rainfall was greater, according to the officers who knew the area.
Oddly enough, the fact that Isherwood lived in Kilmacolm was one thing about the Chief Constable that Ray had forgotten to tell Lorimer, and Lorimer felt curious about the omission. Had Ray still been reticent about his anxiety to follow the Chief Constable’s advice? Or was there more to it? Perhaps, Lorimer told himself, putting pressure on Ray had been no more than a desire on the part of the recently-promoted Isherwood to keep his own name out of the newspapers. Being a resident of the same village where a major crime had taken place could have unpleasant repercussions. But Lorimer wondered if it was more than that. Colin Ray had given him the impression that he had been warned off investigating any of Sir Ian Jackson’s known associates. Now, what had made Isherwood issue such a directive? Perhaps, thought Lorimer, looking at the grey skies over Greenock Harbour, today was a day to find that out. His appointment with Isherwood was at eleven o’clock. A wee trip back up the M8 to Glasgow would suit him just fine.