At one in the afternoon he woke up, had a shower and called Alfie to take him to the hospital. The taxi fares were racking up: he would have to organize himself a car. There was still some activity outside the cottage, where the twisted wreckage of his Maserati was being carefully loaded on to a lorry. A policeman was taking down the scene-of-crime tape. He nodded to Calder and jotted something in his notebook.
In the back of the taxi Calder checked the voicemail on his mobile. Messages from William, Kim, Jerry and his father all asking where the hell he was. The only one he called back was Jerry. He quickly explained about his sister and said he wouldn’t be at the airfield for the next couple of days. Jerry’s anger changed to shock and sympathy. Calder took a deep breath as he hung up. If only the same could be said for his father and for William.
The throbbing in Calder’s head ratcheted up a notch as he approached intensive care. He saw the hunched figure of William sitting in the waiting area. His brother-in-law looked up, recognized Calder, and returned his stare to the floor.
‘How is she?’ Calder asked.
‘What do you care?’
‘How is she?’ Calder repeated.
William sighed. ‘She did well overnight. She’s in the operating theatre again this morning. They think she’s going to make it, we’ll know more when they’ve finished in there.’
‘And the other leg?’
William shrugged. ‘They’re going to try to save it. No guarantees.’
‘I’m sorry,’ Calder said.
‘Go away,’ William said quietly and clearly.
‘Where are the children?’
‘With Kim and your father. Somewhere. I don’t know where.’
Calder left William and wandered around the hospital. Eventually he spotted them outside, squatting on the grass beside a rose bed. Kim was reading to Phoebe and Dr Calder was reading to Robbie.
‘Hi,’ Kim said when she saw Calder. She finished her sentence and closed the book. Dr Calder ignored his son and read two more pages to his grandson. Calder sat down beside them and watched the quiet concentration on his father’s craggy face, the shock of thick white hair on his bent head. Robbie was sucking his thumb, transfixed as he listened to the low Scottish rumble of the story.
‘All right now, Robbie. Take your sister and see how many of those wee petals you can collect for me,’ he said, pointing towards the bed of yellow roses. The early blooms were past their prime and the soil was scattered with wilting petals. ‘Put them in a nice big pile and count them. When you get to twenty, let me know.’
Robbie was proud of his counting abilities and dragged his sister off to do as he was bid.
‘You look dreadful, Alex,’ Kim said. ‘What have you done to your head?’
Calder grunted and touched his temple. There was a large bump where the table lamp had made contact with it the night before.
Dr Calder eyed his son up and down. ‘Are you sober?’
‘Yes,’ Calder said. ‘I’m at the hangover stage. It hurts like hell.’
‘Stupid bugger,’ the doctor said.
Calder couldn’t argue. A wave of exhaustion swept over him. He was ready for it. Ready for all the criticism his father wanted to pile on. He had no defence. He would accept it all.
‘I’ll go and play with the children,’ Kim said, and moved off towards the rose bushes.
‘She’s been a great help, that girl,’ Dr Calder said. ‘She’s really been very good with Robbie and Phoebe. I don’t think William could have handled them without her.’
Calder looked at his father. He hadn’t meant to say anything, but he couldn’t help it. ‘I’m sorry, Father. I’m so sorry.’
His father smiled. The eyes twinkled, that sympathetic twinkle that was famous throughout Kelso. He reached out and touched Calder’s arm. It was a light touch, but it was strong and reassuring at the same time. Calder began to talk, talk in a confused torrent about Anne, about the van Zyls, about the bomb, about hitting Cornelius, about his mother, about everything but Kim. That he was still too ashamed to mention.
The doctor listened.
‘I know how much you love Annie, Father,’ Calder said. ‘And you know how much I love her. You know I wouldn’t have done any of this if I thought there was any risk to her.’
There was a squeal as Robbie impaled his finger on a rose thorn. Calder and his father watched as Kim swiftly examined it and kissed it better. Eventually his father spoke. ‘Someone tried to kill my son and ended up nearly killing my daughter. I’m angry about that, very angry about it, but not with you. Getting plastered and hitting an old man in the face doesn’t help very much, although I can understand why you did it.’
‘Men like that are untouchable. He’ll get away with it.’
‘We’ll see,’ said Dr Calder. ‘Kim told me how much you’ve helped her after what happened to her husband. Anne and William and the children will need your help now.’
‘William won’t talk to me,’ Calder said. ‘And I can quite understand why.’
‘Och, that will change. I’ve told William I’m going to take the children home to London tomorrow. Maybe even take them back to school. Kim’s been a great help here, but William’s in no shape to look after them.’
‘What can I do?’
Dr Calder looked at his son carefully. ‘Let’s talk about that later, shall we? In the meantime let me look at that bump on your head.’
It was evening and Calder had been home from the hospital for an hour. There was some straightening up to do: the police had thoroughly searched the outside of the house and had also been over his clothes and shoes. He was beginning to feel a bit better, the headache had subsided, but there was still muzziness around the edges of his brain. He couldn’t help thinking about Anne; the operation had been a success, but he tried not to dwell on the explosion and his part in it.
He heard a car draw up outside. It was his father’s beaten-up red Volvo, with Kim in the passenger seat.
‘We won’t stay long,’ Dr Calder said as he entered the house. ‘But I want a quick word with the both of you before I go down to Highgate with the wee ones tomorrow.’
Calder led them both through to his sitting room. ‘Can I get you something to drink?’
‘Have you got some of that Laphroaig I gave you?’ his father asked.
‘How about a glass of wine?’
The doctor frowned. ‘Finished it last night, did you?’
‘Started it and finished it, I’m afraid,’ Calder admitted.
‘Hmm.’ Dr Calder’s disapproval of the use of expensive single-malt whisky for binge drinking ran very deep. ‘Wine will do fine,’ he said grudgingly.
Calder opened a bottle and poured two glasses, giving himself iced water.
‘Very wise,’ said Calder’s father, noticing.
‘What do you think about Annie?’ Calder asked. ‘The doctors are so uncertain at the hospital.’
‘She’ll pull through,’ Dr Calder said with confidence. ‘She’s a tough girl. With injuries like that, recovery depends on the attitude of the patient. The more stubborn and bloody-minded they are, the better.’
‘I hope you’re right,’ Calder said.
Dr Calder smiled. ‘I’m right.’ He sipped his wine. ‘Now. Someone has severely injured your husband and your sister,’ he said looking at Kim and Calder in turn. ‘My question is, what are we going to do about it?’
‘What do you mean?’ Calder asked.
‘Well, I’ve listened to what you’ve said and what Kim’s told me and I’ve heard about your bloody stupid antics in London, and I’m angry too. There’s obviously some link between what happened to Todd and what happened to Annie, and that link must be your inquiries into the death of Martha van Zyl. Alex is right: the most likely person behind it all is Cornelius van Zyl.’