CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

January 2004; Scotland

He’d been right. There was a pattern. It had been disrupted by the festive season, and that had made him fretful. But now the New Year was past, the old routine had reasserted itself. The wife went out every Thursday evening. He watched her framed against the light as the front door of the Bearsden villa opened. Moments later, her car headlights came on. He didn’t know where she was going and he didn’t care. All that mattered was that she had behaved predictably, leaving her man alone in the house.

He reckoned he had a good four hours to carry out his plan. But he forced himself to be patient. Senseless to take risks now. Best to wait till people had settled down for the evening, slumped in front of the TV. But not for too long. He didn’t want someone taking their designer dog for a last pee bumping into him as he made his getaway. Suburbia, predictable as the speaking clock. He hugged the reassurance to himself, trying to stifle the ticking of anxiety.

He turned up the collar of his jacket against the cold and prepared to wait, his heart fluttering in his chest with anticipation. There was no pleasure in what lay ahead, just necessity. He wasn’t some sick thrill killer, after all. Just a man doing what he had to do.

David Kerr swapped DVDs and returned to his armchair. Thursday nights were when he indulged his semisecret vice. When Hélène was out with the girls, he was slumped in a chair glued to the U.S. series that she dismissed as “trash TV.” So far that evening, he’d watched two episodes of Six Feet Under and now he was thumbing the remote to cue up one of his favorite episodes from the first series of The West Wing. He’d just stopped humming along with the grandiose swell of the theme tune when he thought he heard the sound of breaking glass from downstairs. Without conscious thought, his brain calibrated its coordinates and signaled that it came from the back of the house. Probably the kitchen.

He jerked upright and hit the mute button on the remote. More glass tinkled and he jumped to his feet. What the hell was that? Had the cat knocked something over in the kitchen? Or was there a more sinister explanation?

David rose cautiously, looking around him for a potential weapon. There wasn’t much to choose from, Hélène being something of a minimalist when it came to interior design. He snatched up a heavy crystal vase, slender enough at the neck to fit neatly into his hand. He crossed the room on tiptoe, ears straining for a sound, heart racing. He thought he heard a crunching noise, as if glass were being crushed underfoot. Anger rose alongside fear. Some jakie or junkie was invading his home looking for the price of a bottle of Buckie or a wrap of smack. His natural instinct was to call the police then sit tight. But he was afraid they’d take too long to get there. No self-respecting burglar would settle for what they could find in the kitchen; they’d be bound to look for better pickings and he’d be forced to confront whoever had invaded his home. Besides, he knew from experience that if he picked up the phone in here, the extension in the kitchen would click, revealing what he was up to. And that might really piss off whoever was raiding his house. Better to try a direct approach. He’d read somewhere that most burglars are cowards. Well, maybe one coward could scare off another one.

Taking a deep breath to still his alarm, David inched open the living room door. He peered down the hall, but the kitchen door was closed and offered no indication of what might be going on on the other side of it. But now he could hear the unmistakable sounds of someone moving around. The rattle of cutlery as a drawer was pulled open. The slap of a cupboard door closing.

To hell with it. He wasn’t going to stand idle while someone trashed the place. He walked boldly down the hall and threw the kitchen door open. “What the hell’s going on here?” he shouted into the darkness. He reached for the light switch, but when he flicked it on, nothing happened. In the faint light from outside, he could see glass sparkling on the floor by the open back door. But there was nobody in sight. Had they gone already? Fear made the hair on his neck and naked arms stand on end. Uncertainly, he took a step forward into the gloom.

From behind the door, a blur of movement. David swung round as his assailant cannoned into him. He had an impression of medium height, medium build, features obscured by a ski mask. He felt a blow to the stomach; not enough to make him double over, more like a jab than a punch. The burglar took a step backward, breathing heavily. At the same moment David realized the man was holding a long-bladed knife, he felt a hot line of pain inside his guts. He put a hand to his stomach and wondered stupidly why it felt warm and wet. He looked down and saw a dark spreading stain swallowing the white of his T-shirt. “You stabbed me,” he said, incredulity his first reaction.

The burglar said nothing. He drew his arm back and thrust again with the knife. This time, David felt it slice deep into his flesh. His legs gave way beneath him and he coughed, slumping forward. The last thing he saw was a pair of well-worn walking boots. From a distance, he could hear a voice. But the sounds it was making refused to cohere in his head. A jumble of syllables that made no sense. As he drifted away from consciousness, he couldn’t help thinking it was a pity.

 

When the phone rang at twenty to midnight, Lynn expected Alex’s voice, apologizing for the lateness of the hour, telling her he was just leaving the restaurant where he’d been entertaining a potential client from Gothenburg. She wasn’t prepared for the banshee wail that assaulted her as soon as she lifted the bedside receiver. A woman’s voice, incoherent, but clearly anguished. That was all she could make out to begin with.

At the first gulp for breath, Lynn jumped in. “Who is this?” she demanded, anxious and afraid.

More panicked sobs. Then, finally, something that sounded familiar. “It’s me—Hélène. God help me, Lynn, this is terrible, terrible.” Her voice caught and Lynn heard an incoherent gabble of French.

“Hélène? What’s the matter? What’s happened?” Lynn was shouting now, trying to cut through the scrambled syllables. She heard a deep intake of breath.

“It’s David. I think he’s dead.”

Lynn understood the words, but she couldn’t grasp the sense. “What are you talking about? What’s happened?”

“I came home, he’s on the kitchen floor, there’s blood everywhere and he’s not breathing. Lynn, what am I to do? I think he’s dead.”

“Have you phoned an ambulance? The police?” Surreal. This was surreal. That she was capable of such a thought at a moment like this bemused Lynn.

“I called them. They are on their way. But I had to talk to somebody. I’m afraid, Lynn, I am so afraid. I don’t understand. This is terrible, I think I’m going mad. He is dead, my David is dead.”

This time, the words penetrated. Lynn felt as if a cold hand was pressing in on her chest, constricting her breathing. This wasn’t how things were supposed to happen. You weren’t supposed to pick up the phone, expecting your husband, only to hear your brother was dead. “You don’t know that,” she said helplessly.

“He’s not breathing, I can’t feel a pulse. And there is so much blood. He’s dead, Lynn. I know it. What am I going to do without him?”

“All this blood—has somebody attacked him?”

“What else could have happened?”

Fear hit Lynn like a cold shower. “Get out of the house, Hélène. Wait outside for the police. He could still be in the house.”

Hélène screamed. “Oh my God. You think this is possible?”

“Just get out. Call me later, when the police are there.” The line went dead. Lynn lay frozen, unable to process what she’d just gone through. Alex. She needed Alex. But Hélène needed him more. In a daze, she speed-dialed his mobile. When he answered, the sounds of a boisterous restaurant in the background seemed incongruous and bizarre to Lynn. “Alex,” she said. For a moment nothing else would come.

“Lynn? Is that you? Is everything OK? You’re all right?” His anxiety was palpable.

“I’m fine. But I’ve just had the most awful conversation with Hélène. Alex, she said Mondo’s dead.”

“Hang on a minute, I can’t hear you.”

She heard the sound of a chair being pushed back, then a few seconds later the noise subsided. “That’s better,” Alex said. “I couldn’t make out what you were saying. What’s the problem?”

Lynn could feel her self-control slip. “Alex, you need to go to Mondo’s right away. Hélène’s just phoned. Something terrible’s happened. She says Mondo’s dead.”

“What?”

“I know, it’s incredible. She says he’s lying on the kitchen floor, blood everywhere. Please, I need you to go there, find out what’s going on.” Tears were on her cheeks now.

“Hélène’s there? At the house? And she says Mondo’s dead? Jesus Christ.”

Lynn choked on a sob. “I can’t take it in either. Please, Alex, just go and see what’s happened.”

“OK, OK. I’m on my way. Look, maybe he’s just hurt. Maybe she got it wrong.”

“She didn’t sound like there was any doubt in her mind.”

Aye, well, Hélène’s not a doctor, is she? Look, hang in there. I’ll call you as soon as I get there.”

“I can’t believe this.” Now the tears were choking her, turning her words into gulps.

“Lynn, you’ve got to try and stay calm. Please.”

“Calm? How can I be calm? My brother’s dead.”

“We don’t know that. Lynn, the baby. You’ve got to take care of yourself. Getting into a state can’t help Mondo, whatever’s happened.”

“Just get there, Alex,” Lynn shouted.

“I’m on my way.” She heard Alex’s footsteps as the call ended. She’d never wanted him more. And she wanted to be in Glasgow, to be by her brother’s side. No matter what had passed between them, he was still bound to her by blood. She hadn’t needed Alex’s reminder that she was nearly eight months pregnant. She wasn’t about to do anything that would put her baby at risk. Groaning softly as she wiped her tears, Lynn tried to make herself physically comfortable. Please God, let Hélène be wrong.

 

Alex couldn’t remember ever having driven faster. It was a miracle that he reached Bearsden without once seeing flashing blue lights in his rear-view mirror. All the way there, he kept telling himself there must be a mistake. The possibility of Mondo’s death was one he couldn’t entertain. Not so close on the heels of Ziggy’s. Sure, terrible coincidences happened. They were the stuff of tabloid ghoulishness and daytime TV shows. But they happened to other people. At least, they always had until now.

His fervent hopes began to disintegrate as soon as he turned into the quiet road where Mondo and Hélène lived. Outside the house, three police cars straggled along the pavement. An ambulance sat in the drive. Not a good sign. If Mondo was alive, he’d be long gone, the ambulance hurtling blues and twos to the nearest hospital.

Alex abandoned his car behind the first police car and ran toward the house. A burly uniformed constable in a fluorescent yellow jacket stepped into his path at the end of the drive. “Can I help you, sir?” he said.

“It’s my brother-in-law,” Alex said, trying to push past him. The constable grabbed his arms, firmly preventing his passage. “Please, let me through. David Kerr—I’m married to his sister.”

“I’m sorry, sir. Nobody can go in just now. This is a crime scene.”

“What about Hélène? His wife? Where’s she? She called my wife.”

“Mrs. Kerr is inside. She’s perfectly safe, sir.”

Alex let himself go limp. The constable loosened his grip. “Look, I don’t really know what’s gone on here, but I do know that Hélène needs support. Can’t you radio your boss, get me in?”

The constable looked doubtful. “Like I said, sir, this is a crime scene.”

Frustration fizzed in Alex’s head. “And this is how you treat the victims of crime? Keep them isolated from their families?”

The policeman put his radio to his mouth with a resigned air. He half turned away, making sure he still blocked access to the house, and muttered something into the radio. It crackled in response. After a brief, muffled exchange, he swung back to face Alex. “Can I see some ID, sir?” he asked.

Impatient, Alex pulled out his wallet and withdrew his driver’s license. Thankful that he’d gone for one of the new ones with a photograph, he handed it over. The policeman looked it over and handed it back with a polite nod. “If you’d like to go up to the house, sir, one of my colleagues from CID will meet you at the door.”

Alex brushed past him. His legs felt strange, as if his knees belonged to someone else who didn’t know how to work them properly. As he reached the door, it swung open and a woman in her thirties swept tired, cynical eyes over him, as if committing his details to memory. “Mr. Gilbey?” she said, stepping back to allow him to enter the vestibule.

“That’s right. What’s happened? Hélène phoned my wife, she seemed to think Mondo was dead?”

“Mondo?”

Alex sighed, impatient with his own obtuseness. “Nickname. We’ve been friends since school. David. David Kerr. His wife said he was dead.”

The woman nodded. “I’m sorry to have to tell you that Mr. Kerr has been pronounced dead.”

Christ, he thought. What a way to lay it out. “I don’t understand. What happened?”

“It’s too early to be sure,” she said. “It appears he was stabbed. There are signs of a break-in at the back of the house. But you’ll appreciate, we can’t say much at this stage.”

Alex rubbed his hands over his face. “This is terrible. Christ, poor Mondo. What a thing to happen.” He shook his head, numb and bewildered. “It feels completely unreal. Jesus.” He took a deep breath. He’d have time to deal with his reactions later. This wasn’t why Lynn had asked him to come. “Where’s Hélène?”

The woman opened the inside door. “She’s in the living room. If you’d like to come through?” She stood aside and watched as Alex passed her and made straight for the room that overlooked the front garden. Hélène had always referred to it as the drawing room, and he felt a pang of guilt for the times he and Lynn had ridiculed her for that pretentiousness. He pushed the door open and stepped inside.

Hélène was sitting on the edge of one of the vast cream sofas, hunched into herself like an old woman. As he entered, she looked up, her eyes swollen pools of misery. Her long dark hair was tangled around her face, stray strands caught in the corner of her mouth. Her clothes were rumpled, a mocking parody of her normal Parisian chic. She held her hands out to him, beseeching. “Alex,” she said, her voice cracked and strained.

He crossed to her side, sitting down and putting his arms around her. He couldn’t remember ever holding Hélène this close. Normally, their greetings consisted of a hand lightly placed on an arm, air kisses to either cheek. He was surprised by how muscular her body felt, and even more surprised that he noticed. Shock turned him into a stranger to himself, he was slowly beginning to realize. “I’m so sorry,” he said, knowing how pointless words were but unable to avoid them.

Hélène leaned into him, exhausted by grief. Alex was suddenly aware that a uniformed woman constable was sitting discreetly in the corner. She must have brought a chair through from the dining room, he thought irrelevantly. So, no privacy for Hélène in spite of her appalling loss. It didn’t take much to work out that she was going to face the same suspicious eyes that had fixed on Paul after Ziggy’s death, even though this sounded like a burglary gone horribly wrong.

“I feel as if I’m in some terrible dream. And I just want to wake up,” Hélène said wearily.

“You’re still in shock.”

“I don’t know what I am. Or where I am. Nothing feels real.”

“I can’t believe it either.”

“He was just lying there,” Hélène said softly. “Blood all over him. I touched his neck, to see if there was a pulse. But you know, I was so careful not to get his blood on me. Isn’t that terrible? He was lying there dead and all I could think about was how they turned you four into suspects just because you tried to help a dying girl. So I didn’t want to get my David’s blood on me.” Her fingers convulsively shredded a tissue. “That’s terrible. I couldn’t bring myself to hold him because I was thinking about myself.”

Alex squeezed her shoulder. “It’s understandable. Knowing what we know. But nobody could think this had anything to do with you.”

Hélène made a harsh sound in the back of her throat and glanced up at the policewoman. “On parle français, oui?”

What the hell was this? “Ça va,” Alex replied, wondering if his holiday French was up to whatever Hélène wanted to tell him. “Mais lentement.”

“I’ll keep it simple,” she said in French. “I need your advice. You understand?”

Alex nodded. “Yes, I understand.”

Hélène shivered. “I can’t believe I’m even thinking this now. But I don’t want to be blamed for this.” She clutched his hand. “I’m scared, Alex. I am the foreign wife, I am the suspect.”

“I don’t think so.” He tried to sound reassuring, but his words seemed to flow over Hélène without leaving a trace.

She nodded. “Alex, there is something that will make me look bad. Very bad. Once a week, I went out alone. David thought I met some French friends.” Hélène squeezed the tissue into a tight ball. “I lied to him, Alex. I have a lover.”

“Ah,” Alex said. It felt too much, on top of the news the night had already brought. He didn’t want to be Hélène’s confidant. He’d never liked her, and he didn’t think he was necessarily to be trusted with her secrets.

“David had no idea. God help me, I wish now I had never done this. I loved him, you know? But he was very needy. And it was hard. So, a while back, I met this woman, completely different from David in every way. I didn’t mean for it to turn out the way it did, but we became lovers.”

“Ah,” Alex said again. His French wasn’t up to demanding how the hell she could do that to Mondo, how she could claim to love a man she’d consistently betrayed. Besides, it wasn’t the best move to start a row in front of a cop. You didn’t have to speak a foreign tongue to understand tones of voice and body language. Hélène wasn’t the only one who felt like she was in the middle of a bad dream. One of his oldest friends had been murdered, and his widow was confessing to a lesbian love affair? He couldn’t take it on board right now. Stuff like this didn’t happen to people like him.

“I was with her this evening. If the police find out, they will think, ah, she has a lover, they must be in it together. But that’s wrong. Jackie was no threat to my marriage. I didn’t stop loving David just because I was sleeping with someone else. So should I tell the truth? Or should I keep quiet and hope they don’t find out?” She drew away slightly, so she could direct her anxious gaze into Alex’s eyes. “I don’t know what to do, and I’m really scared.”

Alex felt his grip on reality slipping. What the hell was she playing at? Was she playing some grotesque double bluff and trying to get him on her side? Was she really as innocent as he’d assumed? He struggled to find the French to express what he needed to say. “I don’t know, Hélène. I don’t think I’m the right person to ask.”

“I need your advice. You’ve been here yourself, you know what it can be like.”

Alex took a deep breath, wishing he was anywhere but here. “What about your friend, this Jackie? Will she lie for you?”

“She won’t want to be a suspect anymore than I do. Yes, she will lie.”

“Who knows?”

“About us?” She shrugged. “Nobody, I think.”

“But you can’t be sure?”

“You can never be sure.”

“In that case, I think you have to tell the truth. Because if they find it out later, it will look much worse.” Alex rubbed his face again and looked away. “I can’t believe we’re talking like this, and Mondo hardly dead.”

Hélène pulled away. “I know you probably think I’m cold, Alex. But I’ve got the rest of my life to cry for the man I loved. And I did love him, make no mistake about that. But right now, I want to make sure I don’t take the blame for something that was nothing to do with me. You of all people should understand that.”

“Fine,” Alex said, reverting to English. “Have you told Sheila and Adam yet?”

She shook her head. “The only person I spoke to was Lynn. I didn’t know what to say to his parents.”

“Do you want me to do it for you?” But before Hélène could reply, Alex’s mobile chirped cheerfully in his pocket. “That’ll be Lynn,” he said, taking it out and checking the number on the display. “Hello?”

“Alex?” Lynn sounded terrified.

“I’m here at the house,” he said. “I don’t know how to tell you this. I’m so, so sorry. Hélène was right. Mondo’s dead. It looks like somebody broke in…”

“Alex,” Lynn interrupted him. “I’m in labor. The contractions started just after I spoke to you before. I thought it was a false alarm, but they’re coming every three minutes.”

“Oh Jesus.” He jumped to his feet, looking around in panic.

“Don’t freak out. It’s natural.” Lynn yelped in pain. “There goes another one. I’ve called a taxi, it should be here any minute.”

“What…what…”

“Just get yourself to the Simpson. I’ll meet you in the labor suite.”

“But Lynn, it’s too soon.” Alex finally managed sense.

“It’s the shock, Alex. It happens. I’m fine. Please, don’t be scared. I need you not to be scared. I need you to get in your car and drive very carefully to Edinburgh. Please?”

Alex gulped. “I love you, Lynn. Both of you.”

“I know you do. I’ll see you soon.”

The connection broke off and Alex looked helplessly at Hélène. “She’s in labor,” she said flatly.

“She’s in labor,” Alex echoed.

“So go.”

“You shouldn’t be alone.”

“I have a friend I can call. You need to be with Lynn.”

“Shite timing,” Alex said. He thrust his phone back in his pocket. “I’ll phone. I’ll come back when I can.”

Hélène stood up and patted him on the arm. “Just go, Alex. Let me know what happens. Thank you for coming.”

He ran from the room.