49

Paula looked out of the window, across the wide bow and curve of the beach to the Ettrick Bay Tearoom, to see if her expected arrivals might be early. She didn’t really have a good vantage point from there to see who was coming along the road, but she looked anyway.

After about four months on her own in the cottage she was about to have some visitors. And although she’d spoken to them both on the phone and by text, numerous times, she was feeling a little nervous.

The small clock on the oven told her she had half an hour before the ferry got in, once she made allowances for the one-hour error. She still didn’t know how to change the thing to account for the clocks going back.

Did she have time to shower and change? She looked down at the t-shirt, cardigan and loose sweatpants she was wearing. They could take her as they found her, she thought.

In bare feet, she made her way through to her bathroom and examined her hair in the mirror above the sink. How could a woman live in a house with so few mirrors? What had Thomas been thinking?

She placed fingers on both cheeks, eased the skin back and down, temporarily removing the bags. Had she aged? Or was her skin dried and windblown after all those long walks? She turned her attention to her hair. She could at least tug some of the knots out. Noticing the grey hair coming in at her temples and threading through her middle parting she wondered at the woman she’d become. Big pants and grey hair. What would Thomas make of her?

After she’d yanked at her head and patted her hair down into something resembling a style, she went back to the bedroom and checked the time on the small clock on her bedside cabinet. They’d be here in forty-five minutes. She spotted the novel at the side of the clock. There was enough time to finish another chapter.

The wee bookshop and the library in Rothesay had become her refuges. Access to other lives through books helped her make sense of her own. As the winter storms battered the bay beyond her window, these volumes had become her friends and respite.

But now the real world was about to come knocking – in the shape of the only two people left in the world who cared whether or not she was still a part of it. Father Joe and, somewhat surprisingly, Cara Connolly. Who’d have thought that after that inauspicious meeting they’d have gone on to become friends.

Amazing what facing down a pair of pathological murderers could do for a friendship.

Of course the papers had been full of the death of Bill Gadd. Daphne and her Polish lover had been painted as the demon couple, which wasn’t that far from the truth, but you’d think there had been no other crime committed throughout the history of Glasgow given the glee with which the media reported it.

The similarities to the Moldovan financial scandal gave the newspapers licence to attack the Scottish Government for allowing another such crime to happen. With the addition of sex and murder, the press had a field day.

Rusnak had disappeared, a feat that Cara said she found impressive, given the damage she’d done to his knee. It turned out his name wasn’t Anton Rusnak at all. His car registration as recorded by Cara’s phone led to an address in the Gorbals where a passport in the name of one Jan Kowalski was found. The photo inside matched the man Paula had seen murder Bill Gadd.

It was a moment that visited her regularly as she slept.

The police detective, Rossi, assured her that without a passport he couldn’t leave the country and the people he would have normally turned to for help in getting over to the continent were the people he’d been fleecing. Rossi was convinced he was currently feeding whatever creatures inhabited the bed of the River Clyde.

Paula wasn’t so sure. The thought that he might be alive and kicking had almost kept her away from the cottage, but then she considered that if he was still intent on doing her damage, it wouldn’t much matter where she was living, he’d find a way to do just that.

Thankfully, Daphne had pleaded guilty to all charges – complicity to murder, drug dealing and money laundering. So there had been no trial, and her jail sentence was pleasingly hefty. Suffice to say, by the time she got out, should she outlive it, she’d be heading for an old folks’ home. An image of Daphne, blue rinse, zimmer at the ready, surrounded by other very old people, their collective milky-white stare focussed on a giant TV screen showing nothing but an endless run of Pointless Celebrities, cheered Paula no end.

Bang on time, she heard a knock at the front door. Without waiting for her to answer, Father Joe walked in, followed by a smiling Cara Connolly and a waft of cold, sharp air.

‘Quick, come in,’ Paula said, and pointed to the sofa. ‘Have a seat.’ Now that they were here, she was feeling weirdly nervous. But that was soon washed away with the good cheer and hugs both of her visitors shared with her.

‘You look well,’ said Joe as he sat down.

‘Aye, you were a bit of a skinny bitch before,’ agreed Cara. ‘A wee bit of podge suits you.’

‘A wee bit of podge,’ Paula repeated, arranging herself on the armchair, pretending to be outraged, while thinking that her face might split in two, her smile was so big at seeing these two.

‘Aye, and if that means you need to get rid of some of your designer gear, I’m your woman.’

Paula snorted. ‘Those clothes are going nowhere, darling. Soon as I’m back in the city, I’m on the quinoa and lettuce.’

‘Right,’ said Joe. ‘When did you ever have a diet that included lettuce?’

Paula reached across from her seat and patted Joe on the knee in lieu of another long hug. ‘It’s so good to see you both.’ She stood up. ‘Coffee?’

They both smiled at the offer.

‘And some scones?’

‘You made scones?’ Joe asked, mouth long. He turned to Cara. ‘She made scones.’

‘Quick, send for the Women’s Institute. We need to make sure these scones measure up,’ said Cara.

‘Oy, shut up, the pair of you,’ Paula got to her feet and made her way towards the kitchen. ‘Or I’ll spit in your clotted cream.’

Joe laughed, and Paula revelled in the sound of it. They’d had lots of late-night phone conversations since Bill’s death. One brother dying was bad enough, but two? There was a week or so when Paula was really worried that he might not recover. And he’d apologised endlessly for being posted missing in her hour of need.

‘Not sure what you would have been able to do,’ Paula had replied during one midnight call, trying to stave off his guilt. ‘You would have probably ended up dead as well.’

‘But still. I disappeared and…’

‘Why go so suddenly? I was sure something had happened to you.’

‘Everything just became so suffocating. Everyone felt suffocating…’

‘Sorry for caring.’ Paula tried to joke, but even to her ears it felt huffy.

‘I don’t know how to accept help, Paula. I can’t deal with people’s sympathy.’

‘Would you rather nobody cared?’

‘Course not. Anyway, don’t remember how it happened. I was in my car, just driving. Hours later, I was in Inverness and I found a wee bed and breakfast. Bought some clean pants from M&S, and did nothing but walk and sleep for a few days.’ She then heard another note of apology in his voice, ‘While you were…’

Cara got to her feet, thrusting Paula back into the present. ‘I’ll give you a hand. And make sure that the scones are spit free,’ she threw back at Joe as she walked towards the kitchen.

He laughed a hearty response.

In the kitchen in front of the kettle, Cara gave Paula another hug, holding her for a long moment.

‘What was that for?’ Paula asked when they separated.

‘Just because,’ Cara answered. A kind stranger had offered to pay for a headstone for Danny’s grave when they heard his mother couldn’t afford one. This was obviously Cara letting Paula know that she realised it was her.

‘So, how are you? Really?’ Cara asked.

‘Och, you know…’ Paula looked out of the window. ‘I still find myself looking down that beach, expecting to see Thomas walk along it.’ She gave a small laugh. Shook her head. ‘I even have this wee fantasy that he faked his death, you know? That he’ll turn up with a huge bouquet of roses. Beg my forgiveness and kiss my feet, carry me through to the bed and give me a good seeing-to.’

‘Nutter,’ laughed Cara.

‘You don’t know the half of it. I’ve got this whole scenario worked out. He faked his death because he couldn’t think of any other way of getting away from the big Pole.’

‘Right. So whose body did you cremate in this wee scenario?’ Cara leaned against the work surface and crossed her arms.

‘He paid somebody at the morgue for the body of some poor homeless guy.’

Cara made a face.

‘Hey, at least in my scenario the wee homeless guy got a good send-off.’

Cara laughed. ‘I repeat my earlier assertion. Crazy.’

Paula looked at the younger woman and felt her eyes tear up. ‘I don’t know what I would have done without you these last few months.’ The two women had spoken often, as the ramifications of that evening hit home.

‘The island life suits you, Paula,’ Cara said eyeing her up and down, batting off Paula’s thanks by ignoring it.

‘Is that a nice way of saying I need to lose weight?’

‘No, it’s a nice way of saying you’re looking well.’ She grinned and looked at her hair. ‘Mind you, I don’t recall seeing a hedge in the garden.’

‘It’s out the back, darling. I drag myself through it every morning before elevenses.’

‘You have elevenses?’

‘Hence the scones.’

They laughed, then had a moment’s silence while Paula lifted scones from the oven and put them on a tray. Cara made herself busy arranging mugs and instant coffee.

‘It’s like we’re a wee team,’ Cara said.

Paula eyed her with what she hoped was a mysterious look.

‘What?’ asked Cara.

‘All in good time,’ Paula answered with a smile.

The kettle came to the boil and in the moment’s silence after, Paula heard an intake of breath from Cara as if she was going to say something. But nothing came. She looked over at her.

‘What?’

Cara walked over to the sink, looked out of the window, turned and leaned her back against it, crossing her feet at the ankles.

‘I don’t get it,’ she said. ‘How do you reconcile the man who stole all that money, and the man who left you this?’ She held her hands out and let them fall to slap against the side of her legs.

‘I don’t get it either, Cara. And, believe me, that’s been on my mind these last few weeks. The cottage? Guilty conscience, or did he really want to heal our relationship?’

‘It is a grand gesture right enough. Would you have fallen for it?’

‘Dunno. The money thing, I get.’ Paula shrugged. ‘He’d do anything for his brother. And I bet he didn’t trust that the Rusnak and his people would wipe out Joe’s debt. Bill said that Thomas taking ten per cent and hiding it was his commission. I’m certain it was his attempt at getting some sort of insurance. He would have returned it when he had confirmation that Joe’s debt was indeed written off.’

‘Makes sense,’ Cara offered. ‘Clever in fact.’

‘He was a clever man. Even in a situation like that, he found a way.’

There was a pause.

‘I don’t believe for a second he had any involvement in Bill and Daphne’s wee drug empire.’ Paula challenged Cara’s view on this with a look. She said nothing, but gave a little nod to show her agreement.

‘Do you think he ever found out the truth about Christopher’s death?’ Cara asked.

Paula shook her head. ‘That, he wouldn’t have been able to hide from me.’ She felt a fresh stab of pain at the thought of Christopher being hit by the car. ‘He’d have told me if he knew.’

A shout from the front room.

‘Where’s my scone?’ asked Joe. ‘If you heard that rumble it wasn’t a passing truck, it was my stomach.’

In the living room, having eaten their scones and drank their coffee, Joe sat back with a satisfied look on his face.

‘I shall be expecting this on a regular basis,’ he said.

‘That might well happen,’ replied Paula looking at them both. ‘If you agree with my plan.’

They both sat forwards with questions in their eyes.

‘Now, it all depends whether or not the money is available to us. Or whether you guys think we should give it back.’

Joe and Cara looked at each other. Then back at Paula.

‘Oh,’ said Cara, where Paula was going with this clearly dawning on her.

‘What are you talking about?’ asked Joe.

‘The missing million,’ answered Paula. ‘I found out where it is.’

Joe’s mouth fell open.

The figure of nine million was what the media reported and it had been recovered. No one was talking about the missing one million. Those who knew, outside of the three in Paula’s living room, were conveniently unavailable for comment.

On the morning after that fateful night before, Paula came home after what felt like days talking to a variety of policemen, slept for twenty-two hours and then, needing to distract herself, had decided to tackle the mini mountain of mail behind her front door.

Most of it, happily, she could bin. Some was for her charities, others were bills, but one piqued her curiosity. The envelope was handwritten – so rare these days – and was stamped and franked by a firm called Bloxwich, Paterson and Wright, based in Dumfries.

She had recalled the leaflet in Thomas’s suit pocket at the cottage. The clues were all there. And at that she felt a pang of guilt. If she had opened the lawyer’s letter just a day earlier, she would have known what Anton demanded from her. Would Bill still be alive today?

Then she remembered the comments between Daphne and Rusnak. Bill’s days were numbered regardless of what happened to the money. As were hers, so any guilt she might feel was a waste of energy.

The letter explained that a certain Thomas Gadd had opened an account with the sum of one million pounds and in the event of his death his wife, Mrs Paula Gadd, should be made aware of the account and the funds therein.

Paula was certain Thomas had used the same method that the crooks had asked him to use to launder their money. And she felt a quiet sense of satisfaction as that idea struck her. Using their own plan against them had a certain kind of Thomas Gadd cleverness to it.

Theretofore – the letter was filled with all kinds of strange words – Mr Gadd’s instructions were that a charitable organisation would be set up, to be called The Ettrick Enterprise Initiative, and the money should be used to encourage disadvantaged young Scots to get into business for themselves.

Now, with a mounting sense of excitement Paula explained all of this to Joe and Cara. And said how she had to drive down to Dumfries to speak to the partners and ask them to prepare the necessary papers.

Paula searched their faces as she spoke. She had a slight wiggle of worry that one of them would want the money to go to the authorities, given how it was obtained and how many people died because of it. When rehearsing what she was going to say to them she’d decided she would go with the consensus, but now the moment had come she wanted more than ever for this to happen. It would be the perfect way to honour Thomas’s memory.

As she told them all of this, they listened open-mouthed. She finished by saying, ‘And I would like each of you to be trustees in the charity with me. But…’ she held her hands out ‘…if you think the money should go to the authorities, I’ll get in touch with the police straight away.’

‘None of us can benefit from any of this money,’ said Cara.

‘I like using Ettrick in the name of the charity. Our family has a long connection with this place.’ Joe piped in.

‘So, you’re saying yes?’ asked Paula.

‘I’m saying yes,’ answered Joe.

‘It’s too late for the likes of Danny, but I’ve already thought of people we could spend it on,’ answered Cara with a giant grin.

The sea was sliding into Ettrick Bay as if on slow rollers. The breeze was a cold salty nip on her nose, cheeks and chin. The sun wintered low, as sharp in her eyes as a torch beam when she faced it, the sky a galactic arch of blue with only the occasional butter-knife smear of cloud. In the distance, the mountains of Arran looked close enough to touch. Paula would never tire of this view, no matter how often she walked the bay.

Her mind strayed to her visitors, to their immediate assent to her plan, and their excitement at something good coming from all that evil.

She had made her way to the far end of the bay, and stopped to begin her walk back. She paused at the water’s edge, allowing the slow creep of the sea to lick at her boots. Looking out towards the distant horizon, she felt a churn of hunger. She could reheat one of the scones in the oven, and imagined the butter on top melting into a golden smudge. At this thought she patted her stomach, she must have put on at least a stone in the last two months.

Thomas would barely recognise the woman she’d become. She smiled at the thought of him watching her baking, asking what had happened to the anti-sugar brigade. They’d been replaced with the ‘everything in moderation’ mob, she’d say.

She did that a lot still. Held a conversation in her head with him.

Further along, she noticed a woman walking a centre line from the tearoom to the water’s edge. She was wearing a tan-coloured puffer jacket, a red scarf and her long black hair was streaming back from her like ribbons in the stiff breeze. There was a stateliness about her movement, as if she was performing to a ceremony of her own devising.

Paula judged that at this pace, their paths would cross, and she wondered whether or not she should alter her course. But she did nothing, curious as to how this might, or might not develop. Since Thomas had died, talking to strangers was always easier than talking to friends. No expectations. No fumbled apologies. No awkward silences.

The woman was holding a large bag. A colour match for her coat. She reached into it, and, as if feeling Paula’s presence, she paused. Looking over, their eyes met and the woman lifted her empty hand from the bag and stuffed it into her pocket.

Paula would have been willing to bet that the bag held an urn. She read the loss in the woman’s eyes, in the waxen slump of her expression, and increased her pace so she could get past her and give the woman the time and space she needed.

But as she drew near, she couldn’t help but reach out, to offer the small easing that comes with a shared human experience. With a light touch on the woman’s arm, she opened her mouth as if to speak, then realised communication in this moment couldn’t be carried in vowels and consonants. Instead her offering was a smile and in that smile a promise; it may not ever ease, but it will get easier.