Gilchrist walked up the hill toward Kirkhill, the Cathedral ruins on his left, on his right the black craggy cliffs that separated the West Sands from the East. By the time he stood outside Garvie’s front door it was after eight.
He pressed the bell.
Lex Garvie seemed not in the least surprised to see him.
‘Up bright and early, I see. I take it this is a personal call.’
‘Been expecting me?’
‘Rumour has it you’re suspended.’ She stepped to the side. ‘So in that case, you can come in.’
‘Word travels fast,’ he said.
‘It’s a small town. And small-town people love small-town gossip.’
‘Got any for me?’
‘Gossip?’ she said. ‘Or tea?’
‘A bit of both,’ he said. ‘If you’ve got it.’
‘I can give you tea. But no gossip.’
Lex Garvie was showing another side to him, a side unlikely to belong to someone who had filed a complaint against him. He followed her through to the kitchen, pleased to find Pitter seated on her spot by the sink. He stroked her chin and felt the press of her neck as she searched for maximum pleasure. He looked out of the window, relieved to see his trail through the back garden was not noticeable. He stepped to the side as Garvie put on the kettle and popped two teabags into a silver teapot.
As Garvie pottered about in silence, it struck Gilchrist that she seemed strangely unfazed by his presence. Her light-tanned skin and short blond hair shone with a healthy glow and gave off a fragrance that reminded him of his father’s hair oil. She was barefoot, in black Lycra shorts and a white t-shirt with the sleeves cut off, so he could see her firm muscle tone and smooth skin almost all the way to her bra-free nipples.
‘Do you mind if I ask a few questions?’ he said. ‘Off the record, of course.’
‘If you must.’
‘Force of habit, I suppose.’
‘I’ve already told that Inspector Whatsisname—’
‘DeFiore?’
‘That’s him. I’ve already told him all I know.’
‘It won’t take long.’
‘That’s what DeFiore said.’
‘Did he stay for a cuppa, too?’
She laughed and lifted her hand to run it through her spiked hair. Her upper arms flexed with sinewed ease. ‘Care for a biscuit?’ she asked, and removed a plastic container from the cupboard above the kettle. ‘KitKat. Toffeepops. Happy Faces. Got them in for my sister’s kids. Or just plain old suggestive digestive?’
‘Whatever you’re having.’
‘I don’t take chocolate.’
‘Plain old suggestive digestive sounds fine, then.’
She giggled, which seemed out of character. But the ring of her laugh triggered something in his brain. He had heard a giggle like that somewhere before, but could not place it.
Garvie collected a couple of mugs and a side plate from the dishwasher, then opened the fridge and removed a crockery ramekin from the second shelf. ‘Homemade pâté?’ she asked. ‘It’s vegetarian.’
‘No thanks.’
‘Well, seeing as how you’re here, let’s have it.’
Gilchrist waited until she spread two knife loads of pâté onto her side plate and returned the ramekin to the fridge before he said, ‘Your complaint.’
‘Complaint?’
‘Your complaint against me.’
She hesitated, then said, ‘No idea what you’re talking about.’
Undecided if she was telling the truth, Gilchrist chose not to press. ‘Must have picked it up wrong,’ he said.
‘Must have.’
He waited while she dabbed a damp cloth over the work surface by the sink, then hung it over the stainless-steel taps. It was only then that he noticed a small ashtray in the corner of the work surface by the side of the fridge. ‘How did you sleep last night?’ he asked her.
She lifted the teapot, and Gilchrist suspected he was about to hear the beginnings of a lie. ‘Never heard a thing,’ she said.
‘Sleeping pills?’
‘Where would I be without my pills? Sugar? Milk?’
‘Milk only.’
‘I sometimes worry about taking too many pills. But for the life of me I can’t seem to sleep any more without them.’
‘Guilty conscience?’
‘Never miss a trick, do you?’ She poured milk from an opened carton. ‘Skimmed. It’s all I’ve got.’
‘Perfect.’
She split the wrapper off a packet of digestive biscuits and spilled half a dozen onto a plate. ‘With or without butter?’ she said, breaking one into several pieces and placing them on Pitter’s tea towel.
‘Without is fine,’ said Gilchrist, and added, ‘I’ve never seen a cat eat biscuits before.’
‘She’d eat the food from your plate, given half a chance.’
He watched Pitter crunch one of the broken pieces then shake her head with a quick movement that spread crumbs across the sink. He could not resist stroking her, and smiled when she started purring. ‘She has lovely colours,’ he said. ‘The whitest white. The blackest black. Nothing in between. Such a distinctive coat.’
‘You like cats?’
‘Never had one. But yes, I suppose I do.’ He stopped scratching Pitter, then reached for the soap on a dish by the window. He washed his hands and removed a paper towel from a roll by the oven. ‘You never gave me an answer,’ he said.
‘To what?’
‘About the guilty conscience.’
She held out the biscuits. He took one. She shook the plate and he obliged her by taking another.
‘I don’t sleep because I spend a lot of time on the computer in the late afternoon and early evening. My work is demanding. But it’s creative and stimulating. Once my brain is fired up, it keeps me awake.’
‘Why not work earlier in the day?’
‘I’m not a morning person when it comes to brainpower. I prefer to exercise in the morning.’
‘Had any work done on your home recently?’
She frowned, puzzled by the non sequitur. ‘Like what?’ She dabbed a biscuit into the pâté then took a bite.
‘Roof tiles,’ he said. ‘New doors. That sort of thing.’
She shook her head, sipped her tea.
He tried a bit closer to the bone. ‘Replacement windows? Underfloor ventilation?’
‘All that was done by the previous owners. That’s why I bought the place.’ She eyed the rear garden. ‘Although that mess out there needs fixing. But I’m getting it landscaped in the spring. Grass out. Slabs and gravel and shrubs in. All mulched. No grass to cut. No weeds to pull. Efficient.’
‘Just like you.’
She looked at him, as if not sure how to take his remark, then smiled. ‘You should hear some of my clients complain about how long I take to construct their websites.’ She shook her head. ‘Efficient is not in their vocabulary. Another?’ She shoved the plate at him.
‘No, thank you.’ He watched Pitter slip through the gap in the kitchen window. ‘Last time we spoke, you said you were gay.’
‘That’s right. Nothing’s changed.’
He did not fail to catch the bite in her reply, nor the steely haze that settled behind her eyes. ‘Do you have friends stay over from time to time?’ he asked.
‘That’s an odd question to ask.’
‘Why do you say that?’
She tutted. ‘One question after another. You really must break that habit of yours.’
He took a sip of tea. It tasted a tad on the weak side. But it was hot.
‘Like a refill?’
‘I’m fine, thank you.’ He waited while she returned the biscuits to the cupboard and wiped the work surface with a damp cloth, then said, ‘About those friends of yours.’
‘Which ones?’
‘The ones that might or might not stay over.’
‘What about them?’
He kept his voice level and repeated, ‘Do any of them stay over from time to time?’
‘As in do I have sex with any of my girlfriends?’
‘Not quite what I had in mind,’ he said, surprised by the ease with which anger lit her eyes.
‘What did you have in mind?’
‘Anyone stay over last night?’
‘None of your damned business.’
‘Any of your friends have a house key?’
‘Why?’
‘Just asking.’
‘I know you’re just asking. But why?’
‘I’m curious.’
‘You can say that again. You’re becoming curiouser and curiouser.’
‘I take it that’s a yes.’
‘That’s a mind your own bloody business, is what it is.’
He placed his mug of tea on the work surface. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I seem to have upset you.’
‘I wouldn’t go as far as that.’
‘How far would you go, then?’
‘My private life is just that. Private.’ She replaced the cloth over the tap and turned to face him. ‘Look, I’ve got some work to get on with.’
‘Thought you weren’t a morning person.’
‘Exercise, then. Is that better?’
Gilchrist poured out what was left of his tea, rinsed his mug and placed it on the drip-tray. Then he picked up the last of the digestive biscuits and took a bite, but dropped a piece onto the floor.
‘Sorry,’ he said, and picked it up. He flipped open the metallic bin, dropped the crumbs into it, and closed the lid. But not before he noticed an empty packet of Camel lying in the rubbish.
‘Thank you,’ he said to Garvie, and patted his stomach. ‘Just what the doctor ordered.’
At the front door, he paused. ‘You could make my job a lot easier by just telling me which of your friends stayed over last night.’
‘It’s none of your business.’
‘It could be.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘That I could have you come down to the Office.’
‘Don’t you have to be un-suspended to do that?’
‘You knew I was suspended,’ he said. ‘Who told you?’
Sunlight toyed with the blue specks in her eyes.
‘It’s not common knowledge,’ he added.
She pressed a hand to his back. ‘As I said, my private life is private. Please don’t come back. Suspended or otherwise.’ And with that, she closed the door.
He thought it odd how hard some people fight to keep certain parts of their lives to themselves. Which was the wrong thing to do where he was concerned.
He cut along South Castle Street onto Market Street, avoiding the Police Station. Beth often had breakfast in the Victoria Café. If he was quick, he might just catch her.
He reached the café as a cloudburst raked the street with liquid bullets. By the time he took a seat by the window, the worst of the storm had passed. He ordered coffee and a bacon sandwich. No garnish, bacon not too crisp, and bring the pepper.
The room was empty and he wondered if he had missed Beth, or if she had forgone breakfast and headed straight to her shop. Before his own breakfast was served, he decided to call Maureen and stared out the window while he waited for her to pick up.
‘Hello?’
‘Maureen?’
‘Who’s this?’
‘How about Hello Dad.’
‘Dad? Is that you?’
‘The one and only,’ he said, his gaze drawn to a scruffy man shambling along the pavement on the other side of the road. New trainers, and filthy jeans tattered at the heel, looked out of place.
‘This is a surprise, Dad.’
‘Pleasant one, I hope.’
‘Of course.’
‘It’s been a while.’ The young man stepped into the traffic, forcing cars to swerve out of his way. He looked pale, almost drugged. But something seemed oddly familiar about him. ‘How are things?’ Gilchrist asked.
‘Mum said you visited her.’
Gilchrist turned from the window. Maureen had this annoying habit of evading questions. ‘I said, how are things?’
A pause, as if she was trying to calculate the depth of his annoyance. Then, ‘Sorry, Dad. I’ve been busy. You know how it is. Exams and stuff. And then with Mum not keeping well. I’ve got a lot on my mind. Sorry.’
And an equally annoying habit of making him feel a fool after he’d made his point. The waiter came with his order, and Gilchrist nodded for him to place it on the side.
‘How’s she keeping?’ he asked.
‘Same as yesterday. Terrible pain. Just waiting to die.’
He shifted the phone to his other ear. Of his two children, Maureen was closer to their mother and possessed an uncanny ability to rile him with nothing more than a flick of her tongue. The way Gail used to.
‘Jack told me she was on medication.’
‘Yeah, well, you know what Mum’s like.’
No, he wanted to say. No, I don’t know what Mum’s like any more. She’s changed. She won’t let me near her. And you won’t tell me what’s going on. He took a deep breath, let the moment pass, then his need to know overpowered him. He hated himself for asking, but Maureen was closer to Gail than anyone. Even Harry.
‘What did she say?’ he asked.
‘About what?’
‘About my visit.’
‘You don’t want to know.’
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I think I do.’
Maureen took a second to respond, as if deciding whether or not to tell him. When she finally spoke, her voice sounded flat and dead. Gail at her worst.
‘She said you didn’t stay. That you never said a word to Harry. That you couldn’t stand being in the same room as her. That you’d been drinking.’ She hesitated, as if waiting for feedback. But Gilchrist was damned if he was going to play along. ‘Would you like to hear more?’
‘Sure.’
‘She said you never even asked how she was keeping, Dad.’
Gilchrist caught the rise in her voice, and felt his teeth grit. ‘That’s not true—’
‘If it’s not, then why would Mum say it?’
‘Because she hates me—’
‘No she doesn’t.’
‘She wants to hurt me, Mo.’
‘She wants you to feel some of the pain she felt, Dad.’
Gilchrist felt his fingers tighten around his mobile.
‘Did you know Mum cried every day for two months after you split up?’
‘I wasn’t exactly doing backward somersaults with joy myself, you know.’
‘It still didn’t stop you from splitting up.’
‘In case it’s slipped your mind, your mother left me. Not the other way around.’
‘It takes two to tango, Dad. Have you ever asked yourself why she found someone else?’
‘I know why she found someone else.’
‘Do you?’
‘Yes.’
‘Let’s hear it.’
Gilchrist hated that Maureen had finagled the argument around to this topic. He felt there were certain things in life that children should not know about their parents. Or maybe he was just being old fashioned.
‘I’m waiting.’
‘Your mother fell out of love with me, Mo.’
‘Oh, no, Dad. You’re not getting away as easy as that. Mum loved you. Mum’s always loved you. She still loves you. Don’t you see that?’
‘Are we talking about the same person, here? The same woman who told me she was glad to have found Harry because at long last she had someone who cared for her? And sexually satisfied her?’ He regretted his last comment the instant the words left his mouth.
‘How can you say that?’
‘It’s the truth.’
‘No it’s not. It’s bullshit. It’s fucking bullshit.’
‘Watch your language, young woman.’
‘Oh, piss off, Dad.’
Gilchrist rubbed his forehead, waiting for the burring on the line to announce they had been disconnected. He could never win an argument with Maureen. Ever since the age of twelve, when she had shouted at him on the beach and accused him of favouring Jack over her, she had known how to skip her way around him. Rationally or otherwise.
‘You still there?’ he asked.
‘Barely.’
He heard her sniff. ‘Listen, Mo. I’m sorry.’ He took a deep breath, then let it out. ‘Your mum and me, we loved each other once. Some parts of us still do. I believe that. But after a while, it just ... we just drifted apart.’ He held on to the phone, praying for some response. But it was Maureen’s turn to say nothing. ‘These things happen, Mo. People change. Families split up.’
‘But why did it have to happen to our family, Dad? Why did we all have to split up? Can you tell me that?’
He pressed the phone to his mouth, wished it was his lips to her hair, the way he used to when he came home from work and crept upstairs to her bedroom and kissed her sleeping face. He had no answer for her. He had no answer for himself.
‘I have to go, Dad.’ She gave another sniff.
‘Listen, Mo, I—’
The line disconnected.
Silent, Gilchrist lowered his mobile. He felt abandoned. He felt as if he had just taken Maureen to the station and was watching her train depart, listening to the sound of its wheels on the tracks fade from his senses, knowing that when it did, when he could no longer hear their metallic rattle, then that would be the last sound he would ever hear of her.
He powered down his mobile.
But Maureen’s voice echoed in his mind. Why did it have to happen to our family, Dad? Why did we all have to split up? Can you tell me that?
It happened because, because ...
Because I had a job. Because I put that job before my family. Because I made no effort to spend time with my wife, or watch my children grow up.
Because, because ...
‘Because I failed you,’ he whispered. ‘Because I failed all of you.’