CHAPTER ELEVEN

ISABEL LEFT THE DELICATESSEN shortly after lunch. The afternoon was usually considerably less busy than the morning, and Eddie and Peg would be able to manage perfectly well by themselves. The atmosphere, though, was prickly; Eddie was taciturn and from time to time gave Isabel a reproachful look; Peg was clearly aware of the tension, but avoided addressing either Isabel or Eddie directly, at one point retreating into Cat’s office to attend to a task that neither Isabel nor Eddie could divine. Eddie broke his silence to whisper to Isabel, “What right has she got to go into her office?” Isabel did not answer; for her part, she had decided that there was nothing she could do to ameliorate the situation, which was Cat’s problem rather than hers.

She did, however, apologise to Eddie for threatening to speak to Cat. “I over-reacted,” she said, “and I’m sorry that I upset you.”

At first, Eddie said nothing. Then, in a somewhat grudging tone, he said, “All right.”

“Friends?” said Isabel.

“Sort of,” said Eddie, and then returned to slicing a large Milanese salami with more than usual vigour. Isabel felt like warning him that one should never use cutting equipment of any sort while in an emotional state. Never approach a salami in anger, she thought, and smiled. Salamis…she wondered how the salami conference was going in Glasgow. Did people move from stand to stand tasting salamis and noting down their qualities, as at a wine tasting? Of course, at a wine tasting you spat out the wine into a conveniently placed spittoon, avoiding the swallowing of too much alcohol—would one do that at a salami tasting to avoid excessive calories? It was an unattractive thought—even more unappealing, perhaps, than an olive-oil tasting where you might try to spit it out but would inevitably succeed only in leaving a slick of oil across one’s chin and one’s front. She smiled again.

“What’s so funny?” muttered Eddie. “I don’t see the joke.”

“Just thinking,” said Isabel. “Not about you, Eddie; something else altogether.”

Eddie turned away. “You do that all the time, you know. You think about things that have nothing to do with what you’ve been saying—or what other people have been talking about—and then you start smiling.” He turned back to look at her accusingly. “It’s rude. It’s really rude to other people.”

She was taken aback by the sudden onslaught. Eddie was usually mild—inoffensive to a fault—but his tone now was heavy with grievance. And it occurred to her that he had a good point: it really was rude to allow oneself to daydream while somebody was talking to you. In a way, it was every bit as discourteous as taking a telephone call while engaged in conversation with another; or closing one’s eyes and drifting off to sleep in a concert in full view of a performer. And yet how did you prevent thoughts coming into your mind? And once they were there, how did you stop yourself from entertaining them? The answer was that you had to make an effort; you had to concentrate—and she would try.

“Eddie, I didn’t mean—”

“Yes, Isabel, you don’t realise, do you, that other people know you’re thinking about them—judging them, laughing at them. But they do.”

“I don’t laugh at other people…”

“You do. You laugh at them all the time.”

She felt herself becoming angry. His comment on her smiling was reasonable enough, but she did not mock people in the way he was suggesting.

She defended herself. “This is ridiculous. And anyway, you’re one to talk, Eddie. Who called Peg ‘Pig’? Who’s sniggering over Cat’s private life? You, Eddie.”

“I didn’t snigger.”

“You did.”

“I didn’t.”

Isabel sighed. “I think we should both leave it right there. There’s no point trading insults. You did, I didn’t, and so on.” She took a deep breath. “I said: friends. Remember? I’m going to say it again. Friends?”

Eddie hesitated. “Will you stop laughing at me?”

“I never laughed at you, but if it makes you feel better, I’ll promise not to laugh at you.”

“Promise?”

“Of course—I’ve just said it.”

“All right then.”

She tried to recall the last time she had had such a juvenile exchange. There had been a girl at school who’d accused her of trying to steal her boyfriend. It had been a completely unjustifiable accusation but had resulted in a screaming match that had escalated until both of them had suddenly seen how ridiculous the argument was and had both lapsed into giggles. The memory made her smile…

“There you go.”

She tried to sound firm. “I’m not going there, Eddie. I’m not going to have to justify my every facial expression. I’m sorry, but I’m not.”

And they had left it there. Peg had slipped out to the chemist, and they could see her crossing the street on her return.

“Try to be nice to her,” said Isabel. “It won’t cost you anything, Eddie. Be kind.”

Eddie said nothing, and Isabel decided to try a parting shot. “You might remember, Eddie, that people were kind to you when you first came here. Cat was, and I think I did my best to help you too. Think about that.”

The point struck home. He stared at her open-mouthed, and Isabel left him in that state as she untied her apron and prepared to leave the delicatessen.

—

THE ADDRESS that Rob had given Isabel was in Colinton. This had originally been a village on the south-western outskirts of Edinburgh, now partly overtaken by the outward march of the city but still retaining much of its village feel. It was, in fact, next door to Isabel’s own suburb, described, whenever it was mentioned in the press, as “leafy Merchiston.” There were trees, Isabel accepted, but other places had trees too and were not always called leafy.

She decided to walk and to make the journey back by bus. It was a fine afternoon, and after being cooped up in the delicatessen all morning, she wanted the fresh air. The quickest route was also the one with the most traffic; a slower route would take her along the canal towpath, across the aqueduct over the Water of Leith and then along the river banks to Colinton itself. It would take her a good forty minutes, but she had no need to be back home until late in the afternoon, as both Grace and Jamie were there to look after Charlie and Magnus.

She felt, though, a slight pang of guilt at being away from Magnus for so long. But then she reminded herself that there were plenty of working mothers who spent the whole day at work while their children—some even younger than Magnus—were looked after in a crèche or nursery. She was a working mother too, although her job did not require her presence in some distant office or factory; she did her editing in her study, within earshot of Magnus, and could intersperse working sessions with childcare. Her spells in the delicatessen, of course, were different—she could be recalled if there were an emergency—but there she was out at work in a proper sense. And that led to another thought: in the last week or so she had put in three sessions at the delicatessen; that day, in fact, she had been there for a full morning. It seemed to her that the centre of gravity of her working life was subtly shifting in favour of the delicatessen—to the point that she should perhaps describe that as being her principal occupation. Shop assistant…she liked the sound of that because it was suggestive of a simpler life. A shop assistant would not have to worry about printers’ deadlines, nor demanding authors, nor people who seemed intimidated when she revealed that she was a philosopher. There was something appealing about merging into the anonymity that came with very ordinary occupations. Had Lawrence of Arabia not signed up as an ordinary aircraftman at the height of his fame? There was more to that, she thought, than a simple desire to escape attention, but there were other examples of people who had left challenging or distinguished positions for a simpler existence—Horace, she thought, had done that when he retired to his Sabine farm, to raise cattle and make wine and do the other things that Roman farmers did—or, rather, ordered their slaves to do. Of course all of this involved the romanticising of simplicity: assistants in shops worked long hours, had to endure the rudeness of customers and had to accept the diktats of management; farmers lived with crop failure, with drought, with poor prices at market. She imagined they would love to edit philosophical reviews and spend the occasional morning in their niece’s delicatessen.

Some might sneer at the way in which she exchanged her study for her place behind the counter at the delicatessen. Everyone, she thought, should bear in mind Marie Antoinette playing at being a milkmaid in the grounds of Versailles…She blushed at the thought that there might be those who looked at her delicatessen work in the same way; but let them think what they liked—the judgement of others was often more about them than the one they were judging.

—

THE CANAL TOWPATH was busy. People were walking dogs, runners were working up a sweat, and here and there young mothers crouched with their children as over-indulged ducks gobbled up pieces of dry bread flung in their direction. There were a few cyclists too, mostly well behaved, although Isabel was almost forced into a clump of nettles by an aggressive young man who shot past with scant attention to other users of the pathway. Her displeasure was quickly replaced by reflection on what actually went through the mind of somebody like that. She wondered how they thought of their act: Did they see their actions for what they were—selfish, thoughtless, hurtful—but did that understanding have no impact on them? You could harm another, knowing that you were harming somebody, but just not care. That was a failure of something very deep and essential in the psyche—sympathy. It was what psychopaths lacked—they simply did not feel regret or shame—and yet it was unlikely that the young man on the bicycle was a psychopath. So what was he? Thoughtless, perhaps; inattentive to her existence rather than hostile—inattentive because he was too consumed by himself or by his own projects, as eighteen-year-olds can be. At that age you were immortal, you were at the centre of the universe, you were…

There was a sudden cry, and then a splash. She spun round; a few hundred yards behind her the cyclist had veered off the path and had ended up in the canal, the top of his bicycle showing above the surface, a twisted wheel, a set of handlebars. The canal was not deep, and he was standing, soaked and muddy, chest deep in the water, holding on to his bicycle with one hand.

On the towpath a dog barked, unattended by any owner, and Isabel realised that this must have been the cause of the accident: the dog must have run out of the bushes, dashed across the path and caused the cyclist to swerve. Once on the slippery verge, he must have lost control and plummeted over the edge into the canal.

She ran back towards him. The cyclist was already clambering up onto the bank, dragging his damaged cycle behind him. Isabel reached out to offer him a hand.

“Are you all right?”

He looked up at her. “Yes. I’m all right.”

He took her hand. The rise from the water to the bank was only a couple of feet, but she was able to help him negotiate it.

“What happened?” she asked.

He looked shaken and did not answer immediately, but as he rose to his feet, the water dripping off him, he shook his head. “That dog.”

She looked round; the dog had disappeared back into the undergrowth.

There was a small frond of weed on his shoulder; Isabel took this off. He moved away as he felt her hand brush against him. “I’m all right,” he muttered.

She stood for a moment, uncertain what to do. His bicycle was still in the water, although he had moved it to the side. She noticed that he was staring at its buckled front wheel, and that his expression was one of pain and regret. She thought: This bicycle was his pride and joy; now it’s wrecked, and he may not be able to afford a new one.

“That’ll be expensive,” she said.

He turned to her and spoke in a tone that was close to a snarl. “Of course it’s expensive; what do you think? And I don’t know where I’ll get the money.” He swore, coarsely, and without inhibition.

Isabel spoke on impulse. “From me.”

He frowned. “What?”

“I said you can get the money from me. I’ll pay for your bike to be fixed.” She paused, noticing his expression of astonishment. “You said that you would find it hard to find the money—well, I can pay for it. I can easily do this for you.”

He opened his mouth to say something, but no words came.

“I really do mean it,” said Isabel.

“But it wasn’t your fault,” he stuttered.

“No, I know that. But I happen to be able to afford it.”

The young man scratched his head. “But why?”

“Because I want to,” she said, smiling. “I just want to.” She did not explain the theory behind her offer—it was far too complicated, and he might not understand if she started to talk about moral proximity. But that was what lay behind it: Isabel’s private theory of moral proximity, the basis of those obligations that came into existence when we found ourselves close enough to others to be able to witness or feel their needs, or when we were in some other way linked to their plight. We could not deal with all the suffering or need in the world, but we could—and should—deal with that sliver of suffering that was reasonably close to us. We could not ignore the needs of our immediate neighbour, with whom we would obviously be in moral proximity; when it came to the needs of people whose identity we did not know, with whom we had no dealings and whom we did not actually see, then any moral obligation to them would be harder to justify—other, of course, than a general duty not to harm them.

Jamie had been intrigued by the notion of moral proximity when she had explained it to him one afternoon on the lawn.

“All right,” he said. “There are those beggars who sit on George IV Bridge or on the pavement in Bruntsfield. You know the ones—they have a few blankets, and they sit on these and mutter, ‘Any loose change?’ to passers-by.”

Isabel saw them whenever she went into town. Many of them came from Eastern Europe—from Romania, in particular. She nodded. “Yes, I know which ones you’re talking about.”

“Am I in a relationship of…what do you call it? Am I in a relationship of moral proximity with them?”

It was not a simple question to answer. She had walked past a beggar earlier that day and had been troubled by it. “Not necessarily,” she said.

“So what does that mean? That I can ignore them?”

Isabel sighed. “These things are never simple.”

“No, but we still have to know what to do. Can I ignore them, or does the fact that I can see them make a difference?”

“It might.”

Jamie was not going to let it go. “But if I switch on the television and see a picture of a person in need in, say, an obscure corner of China, do I have a duty to help? Is there moral proximity there? Remember, I can see the person, even if it’s only a picture.”

She was sure that there was no duty to help a person that far away. And anyway, China was rich; they had money in abundance, and first and foremost it was the duty of wealthy Chinese people—rather than outsiders—to do something.

Jamie returned to the case of the Romanian beggars. “You know how they’re always sticking their legs out? They lean against the wall of the building and stretch their legs out in front of them.”

Isabel nodded. “Some of them are intrusive.”

“Well,” continued Jamie, “what if I stumble over a beggar in the street. What then?”

“I would say that you could be morally engaged,” said Isabel. “Moral proximity might exist in such a case.”

“But why?”

“Because of physical closeness.”

Jamie looked doubtful. “But why? What difference does physical closeness make?”

“It’s just one way of restricting the number of situations in which we have to act. It may be arbitrary, but it acts as a sort of filter. You can’t do everything—but you still want to do something. So you say, ‘I only need act in cases that arise close to me.’ That cuts it down to manageable proportions.”

And now she had been present when the young man fell into the canal. She had spoken to him, and he had revealed his need. She had responded because of moral proximity.

He was staring at her. “What makes you think I need your money?” he asked. There was an edge to his voice, an edge of resentment.

“You said…,” she began, but did not finish.

“You’re all the same,” he muttered. “You can keep your money.”

He turned his back on her, leaving Isabel standing, shocked by the rejection and the unasked-for hostility. You’re all the same…She wondered what that meant—liberal do-gooders, busybodies, the middle class, women, pedestrians who got in the way of cyclists? It was impossible to tell.

She drew back. There was something in the young man’s demeanour that worried her—the dangerousness that one senses in those on a short fuse. Such people could lose their self-control very easily and explode in anger. They were the ones who escalated the minor disagreement into a fracas, who suddenly produced knives—and used them.

She began to retrace her steps but had not gone more than a few yards before she heard him call out after her, “Where do you think you’re going?”

She did not turn around at first, but continued to walk.

“I said: Where do you think you’re going?”

She stopped and assessed her situation. She was beyond the busy part of the towpath and was now on a relatively deserted section, not far from the bridge that would take her over the canal into Colinton Dell. The bank to the right sloped down sharply, through a tangle of brambles, nettles and dock leaves, until it reached the fence that marked the rear of a suburban garden. There were several houses, in fact, but they were all a few hundred yards away, and she was not sure whether any cry for help would be heard. In one of them she noticed a tall aerial structure rising at the back of the garden, a rickety, wire-rigged tower. She recognised it as a ham-radio enthusiast’s aerial, and she thought, inconsequentially, that its owner could send his signals thousands of miles, but she could not send a plea for help a few yards.

She was surprised at her own calm. She would turn around and try to take the heat out of the situation; an apologetic tone might achieve that—provided, of course, his anger abated. He was humiliated by his undignified accident; he was looking for somebody other than himself to blame; this was like being a metal pole in a lightning storm.

And then, from around the corner, she heard a voice shouting something unintelligible. Cutting sleekly through the water, a rowing scull appeared, its crew of six moving backwards and forwards in their sliding seats, their oars dipping in and out of the water in perfect unison. On the towpath, wobbling as he held his megaphone in one hand and steered his bicycle with the other, was the coach.

Isabel did not wait, but swiftly resumed her journey. The young man would not follow her, she thought, and she would, anyway, soon be off the towpath altogether. Behind her, conveniently, the scull slowed as the crew took a rest. That was perfect from her point of view. Under the eyes of six muscular young men—all students at the university, judging from the crest on the boat—the disgruntled cyclist would not try anything.

Her heart was still beating faster than usual. It had been a shocking incident, and she felt curiously dirtied by witnessing this display of threatening behaviour. This was not the Edinburgh she normally inhabited; this was a city that concealed crude violence under the surface; a city she barely recognised, but that she knew existed.

She tried to put it out of her mind. That was the only way to deal with things that would derail her from her ordered life. If she pondered them, then such things could consume her, dragging her down, ending the equanimity that prevailed at the centre of her world. She had a firewall, and she would keep it in good repair. This young man and his threatening talk had not penetrated it; it was still intact.

—

BY THE TIME she reached Colinton Village she had largely recovered from the incident. Her walk along the Water of Leith had been calming, and there had only been one moment of anxiety when, in the disused railway tunnel through which the path led, she had imagined footsteps behind her. That had been illusory, although there was somebody coming towards her in the tunnel—a woman with a small, snuffling dog. The woman had greeted her and made a comment about the wild garlic that was growing in profusion in the woodlands at either end of the tunnel.

“It scents the whole glen,” the woman said. “And it makes my mouth water.”

“I know what you mean,” said Isabel, grateful for this comfortable exchange after the encounter with the cyclist. “I must pick some.”

“So must I,” said the woman. “I must pick some before it goes.”

“Things go so quickly,” said Isabel.

She had not intended to prolong the conversation, but this last remark seemed to interest the woman. She opened her mouth to say something more—perhaps about the transience of life—but the snuffling dog was tugging hard on his chain, and she had to continue her walk.

Ten minutes later, Isabel was at the end of Andrea Murray’s street. It was a quiet road that followed the contours of the hill overlooking the river’s course. The houses that lined it on both sides were substantial, mostly Edwardian but with here and there a more modern example of twentieth-century domestic architecture. One of them, she thought, looked as if it was the work of Robert Lorimer, whose influence was felt extensively in that part of Edinburgh as well as in numerous country houses in the Highlands.

She checked that she had the right road—Ardkinglass Road—and then confirmed the number: 23. From the numbering of the first two houses, she could tell that this would lie on the north side of the street, the side overlooking the river, some fifty yards below. She located number 23; it was set back from the road, and had an impressive set of wooden gates for vehicle entrance along with a small pedestrian gate to the side. This gate opened readily, and she found herself on a short path leading up to the house. The surface of the path was covered with fragmented tree bark that gave a pleasant, soft feel underfoot.

The house itself was a two-storey building of the sort favoured by the well-heeled edges of Scottish cities—spacious and well set, with an oak front door and oak window casings. The garden surrounding it was tidy, but perhaps rather too orderly for Isabel’s taste. There were none of the rhododendrons that Isabel liked but, rather, lines of lavender and juniper flanking well-tended herbaceous beds. Isabel assumed that there was a professional gardener—certainly it had that feel to it.

She rang the bell and heard it sounding somewhere within the house. She waited; there was no response. Then she rang again, and from inside there came the slamming of a door. A few seconds later, the front door opened.

Andrea Murray was younger than Isabel had imagined she would be—there were ten years between her and Rob, Isabel thought. Rob was in his early forties; Andrea must have been in her early thirties.

She was an attractive woman, with high cheekbones and bright, almond-shaped eyes. Her skin was clear, and there was an air of health and vigour to her—not something that Isabel had expected. Having heard the reports of Andrea’s attempted suicide, she had imagined somebody who looked more drawn. Not this bright-eyed woman standing before her.

Andrea waited for Isabel to introduce herself.

“My name is Isabel Dalhousie. I know Rob McLaren. He suggested I should come to see you.”

“Rob McLaren? Well…” There were a few moments’ hesitation before she invited Isabel in. “I’m in the kitchen,” she said. “I’m pickling things, so there’s a rather vinegary smell. I hope you don’t mind.”

Isabel mentioned the dill pickles she had put into the jar two weeks ago. “The jury is still out,” she said. “We have yet to try them. My husband has a weakness for them.”

Andrea led the way into the kitchen. This was on the other side of the house, overlooking the weir that halted the Water of Leith on its journey to the sea. Isabel remarked on the view.

“I look out on rhododendrons from my kitchen,” she said. “Rhododendrons, and occasionally a fox.”

Andrea laughed. “I can watch the river for hours—especially when I’m meant to be doing something else.” She switched on the kettle and then turned to Isabel. “Distractions…Do you mind my asking…”

“Why I’ve come to see you? No, not at all.”

“You said you were a friend of Rob McLaren’s?”

Isabel nodded. “Well, I know him. Not very well, but I’ve met him recently.”

There was something in Andrea’s look—something Isabel was not quite able to interpret. It could have been a look of amusement, she thought—or was it something else?

“But I haven’t come to talk about Rob.”

Andrea was impassive.

Isabel had decided to be direct. “There’s a man called Tony MacUspaig.” She paused, waiting to gauge the effect of her mentioning the name. She was half expecting a dramatic reaction, or at least a shadow to pass across Andrea’s face, but this did not happen.

“Tony?” said Andrea. “You know him too?” The tone was bright, and there was nothing to suggest anything other than mild surprise.

“I haven’t actually met him,” confessed Isabel.

Andrea waited politely.

“You might be wondering why I wanted to talk about somebody I haven’t met,” said Isabel.

Andrea laughed. “Well, I’ve been wondering about why you’re here at all,” she said. “I’m all for social visits, but it’s not every day somebody comes to see me to talk about men…”

If tension had been building up, then this had the effect of dispelling it. Isabel now began her explanation, telling Andrea about Bea’s concerns over unfortunate matchmaking and her doubts about the suitability of Tony MacUspaig. She did not raise any question, though, of the doctor’s monetary motives.

After she had finished, Isabel looked at Andrea expectantly.

“But what’s this got to do with you?” asked Andrea. “Sorry to sound rude, but what business is this of yours?”

“Bea asked me to help.”

Andrea looked doubtful. “Why can’t she do it herself?”

Isabel shrugged. “Embarrassment, perhaps.”

This did not impress Andrea. “She started the whole thing. Surely she should clear up her own mess—if it’s a mess, which I don’t think it will be.”

This interested Isabel. “Oh? Why not?”

They had been standing during this conversation, and now Andrea gestured to two chairs at the kitchen table, inviting Isabel to sit down. As she did so, Isabel noticed a magazine on the table. The cover was familiar, and she saw that it was one that she herself received from time to time, the magazine of a Scottish child charity. A picture of a young boy on the cover, a bit of an urchin, his face smeared with what looked like jam, gazed out at her. URBAN POVERTY, the inscription below read in large red letters.

“I don’t think it’ll be a mess,” Andrea explained, “because I can’t see why anybody should think Tony unsuitable for”—she made an expansive gesture—“for anyone.”

This was not what Isabel was expecting, and she frowned. “I heard you and he were together.”

“Yes,” said Andrea evenly. “We were. Then we parted.” She looked up at the ceiling. Isabel thought she looked wistful rather than evasive or regretful. Cat, by contrast, closed her eyes whenever the name of a former boyfriend was mentioned—a form of denial, Isabel had decided. There was no denial here.

“I see.”

“Yes,” Andrea continued. “I decided that I was better on my own. You know how it is? You sometimes feel that…well, that your life is less complicated if there’s just you.” She paused. “Do I sound selfish?”

“Not at all,” Isabel said quickly. “A lot of people reach that conclusion.”

“I’m glad you agree,” said Andrea. “If you’re single, you get used to pity, you know. People assume that you want somebody and that you can’t find him. They try not to show their pity, but it’s there—it really is. You feel it.”

Isabel knew what she meant, and told her so.

Andrea looked at her with interest. “Are you by yourself?” she asked.

“No, I’m married. But I wasn’t always. I had quite a few years on my own.”

“So you’ll know what it’s like.”

Isabel nodded. “I’d heard something about you and Tony,” she said. “I’d heard that he’d broken up with you.”

Andrea smiled. “Where did you hear that?”

Isabel gave a vague answer. “You know how this city is. People spend half their time talking about one another.”

“You could say that about anywhere,” said Andrea. She seemed to muse on Isabel’s remark. “They were one hundred and eighty degrees wrong, you know. I was the one who brought it to an end. He was actually quite upset.”

“People!” exclaimed Isabel.

“Yes, people. You’d think that if they were going to talk about others, they would at least get their facts right.”

“Quite,” agreed Isabel. “But there was something else that somebody said. I feel a bit uneasy telling you about it.” Even as she spoke, she knew that this was not something you should ever say. You should never tell people you knew something unless you were prepared to share it. It was a lesson that was usually learned very early—well before the age of ten.

Andrea looked uncomfortable. “I don’t know whether I want to hear it, but…” She trailed off.

Isabel was now committed. “It’s nothing much, and it certainly doesn’t put you in a bad light.”

“That’s a relief.”

Isabel swallowed. “There was some suggestion that Tony took advantage of you financially.”

The effect of this was immediate. Andrea stiffened. “What?” she exclaimed. “Took financial advantage? Of me?”

“That’s what I heard,” said Isabel. “I didn’t immediately assume it was true.” She felt she could say that honestly; she had had her doubts, even if they were not large ones.

“Just as well,” said Andrea. “Because it’s utterly false. Tony would never do something like that.”

“Are you sure?”

“Of course I’m sure,” exploded Andrea. “I knew him very well. He’s completely honest. Completely.”

Isabel sighed. “Gossip,” she said. “I should have known.” She held Andrea’s gaze. “So there’s no truth in the allegation that he got you to make money over to him.”

Andrea’s voice rose. “Of course there’s no truth in it.” She hesitated. “None at all. Except…”

Isabel waited.

“Except for the money I gave him for medical purposes.”

Isabel thought quickly. Tony MacUspaig was a plastic surgeon and might well have a practice in cosmetic surgery. Such surgery was not common in Scotland, where the ravages of age were accepted with a certain insouciance, but there were one or two surgeons who would nip and tuck if asked. If he were interested in money—and she had heard that he was—then that is exactly the sort of thing he would do. Burns and grafts may have been the staple of National Health surgeons, but the state system of free medicine did not pay nearly as well as the lucrative tightening of ageing skin. As discreetly as she could, she studied Andrea’s face. There was no sign of the smooth, slightly lustrous skin that followed the elimination of wrinkles. Certainly there was none of the mask-like artificiality that followed a significant face-lift. That could make people look like a masked actor in a Japanese Noh play or one of those leggy plastic dolls with which small girls played.

“I wouldn’t want to pry,” said Isabel.

Andrea laughed. “Oh no, not for me.” She touched her face gingerly. “Did you think I was a candidate for that sort of thing?”

Isabel was quick to reassure her.

“It was for a clinic he runs,” said Andrea. “A medical volunteer place.” Tony MacUspaig, she told her, was a trustee of a clinic in Marrakesh that performed plastic surgery procedures. He usually went out there twice a year—for a few weeks on each occasion—during which he would give his services, unpaid, as a plastic surgeon. He had persuaded other surgeons to volunteer, and they now had a regular roster of Canadian and Australian doctors joining their Scottish and English counterparts there. But these schemes cost money, she said, and he raised quite a large sum himself, as well as volunteering to perform the actual surgery.

“I gave him a fairly large gift for the clinic. He had showed me a picture of a little girl whose hare-lip he had repaired.” Andrea looked incredulous. “Do you think that’s what people have been talking about?”

“Possibly.”

This was greeted with disbelief. “You know, when I saw the photographs of what he had done—a man who had suffered from a terrible growth on his jaw—before and after, it was amazing. That little girl standing there with a perfectly ordinary smile. I was very moved.”

“Who wouldn’t be?” said Isabel. She had made a bad mistake—again; she, a philosopher by training, had believed what she had been told without question. You had to be sure of your premise—you simply had to. After all, even the fundamental truths of physics could be questioned, let alone stories you’d been told second or third hand. Rob McLaren may have believed what he told her, but may have been quite wrong. “I can see that there’s been a misunderstanding.”

“There certainly has,” said Andrea. “Tony is the nicest, kindest, most gentle of men. I still feel very strongly about him even if I thought we should go our separate ways.”

“I’m so sorry,” said Isabel. “I’ve been misled.”

There was now a note of anger in Andrea’s voice. “You should tell that woman, Bea or whoever she is, that she’s got it quite wrong and that anyone who goes out with Tony MacUspaig is really fortunate. Tell her that.”

“I shall,” said Isabel, rising to leave.

“Good,” said Andrea firmly.

She saw Isabel to the door. The atmosphere was now less warm, and Isabel did not want to overstay the little welcome that she had. She shook hands with Andrea at the door, and as she did so, she noticed something that she had missed earlier. On her left wrist, irregular and at an angle, were two railway-line scars.

Isabel averted her eyes. She walked out onto the street without looking back, then made her way up the slope towards the end of Colinton Road. As she passed the boys’ boarding school, she was overtaken on the pavement by two of the students, dressed in the school’s uniform, both fair-haired boys of fifteen or sixteen, walking with their hands deep in their pockets, more or less oblivious of Isabel’s presence.

She overheard a snatch of their conversation.

“I said to him that I didn’t do it,” said one of the boys. “I told him.”

“And he didn’t believe you?” asked his friend.

“No,” said the boy. “I suppose it’s because I’d told so many lies in the past.”

They were almost out of earshot now, but she just managed to hear the final exchange. “Poor you. It must be awful not to be believed…”