Clémence wasn’t entirely sure what the crack was. ‘Yeah. Er... yeah,’ she said.
‘How’s it going with Alastair?’
‘Good, I think,’ said Clémence. ‘I’ve been reading that book to him. Death At Wyvis.’
‘Is it working?’
‘I think so,’ said Clémence. ‘He’s definitely remembering stuff. But it’s a bit difficult for both of us.’
‘I’m glad I’ve caught you alone,’ said Sheila, conspiratorially. ‘I went to see Pauline Ferguson yesterday afternoon. You mind I tellt you about her — she was the old stalker’s wife? I explained about Dr Cunningham’s head injury and his amnesia, and how the doctor at the hospital said we should try and jog his memory. She said Dr Cunningham had been to see her a few months ago, asking about that murder in that book you’re reading. She had quite a lot to tell him — something about her son getting a job in America — I didn’t understand it. But she said she’d be happy to talk to him if he wants, if you see what I mean.’
‘Perhaps we should go and see her,’ said Clémence. ‘Maybe tomorrow. My Aunt Madeleine is coming this afternoon. I’m sure she will be able to tell us a lot.’
‘All right, then. Pauline is at Ashwood House nursing home. It’s in Dingwall, just on this side of town. Now, I’m just away up to Culzie and tidy up a bit for you.’
‘Oh, don’t worry about that,’ said Clémence. ‘I can do it.’
‘Och, it’s no trouble, pet. Enjoy your walk.’ With that Sheila drove off up the track through the woods to the cottage.
Clémence rounded the curve in the loch and Corravachie came into view. Jerry Ranger’s blue car was parked outside, and there was smoke coming out of the chimney. Jerry himself seemed to be examining the loch with his binoculars — bird watching, presumably, although he seemed to be ignoring the exotically plumaged ducks that were dabbling right in front of him. Clémence considered turning round, but then she thought it would be nice to chat to someone. Americans were usually friendly, and his song-writing intrigued her.
Jerry must have felt the same way, because he spotted her walking along the track and came out to meet her. ‘Would you like a cup of coffee? I still have some of my stock of Peet’s left.’
‘Peat?’ Clémence was confused. Was peat coffee some new Scottish delicacy? They said fried Mars bars were a myth, but Clémence believed in them. ‘How do you use peat in coffee?’
‘Not peat, Peet’s,’ said Jerry with a grin. ‘Best coffee in California. At least I think so. There are folks who would argue with me.’ He smiled to himself. ‘There’s always folks who want to argue with me.’
‘OK,’ said Clémence. ‘I’ll try some.’
Jerry’s kitchen was well equipped with food and coffee. He put on the kettle to boil and set about grinding beans. ‘Have you ever had Oreos? I got a stash of those as well. For special occasions.’
‘I don’t think so,’ said Clémence. ‘I’ve never been to America.’
‘You should go. Go out west. See the national parks. Yosemite. Zion — that’s in Utah. I think that’s my favourite. Too many people just go to the cities in the States: New York or Washington. I wouldn’t live in LA myself unless I had to to get work. I much prefer it out here.’
‘Don’t you get lonely?’ Clémence said. ‘I’ve only been here two days and it’s getting to me already.’
‘Loneliness. Solitude. All depends how you look at it. Alastair knows. He likes it up here.’
‘Does he?’ said Clémence. ‘I suppose he does remember Loch Glass and Wyvis. And he likes to walk around.’
‘You got to admit it’s beautiful.’
‘I admit it.’
‘How’s his memory coming along?’
‘Very well,’ Clémence said. ‘I mean, he still has a long way to go, but it’s coming back fast. We have been reading that book I showed you together, and he’s remembering stuff in that. And just now he remembered visiting us when I was a little girl in Morocco. That came out of the blue.’
‘That’s good,’ said Jerry.
‘My aunt is coming to see us this afternoon. She knew him throughout his life. I expect that will help a lot.’
‘Good. Why don’t you go through to the living room?’ said Jerry. ‘Sorry it’s a bit of a mess in there. I’ll bring the coffee through in a moment. Here, take these.’
He handed Clémence a plate of round dark sandwich biscuits, and a small jug of milk, and she went through to the sitting room.
There was an old sofa, an armchair and all kinds of electronic music-making equipment, including an acoustic guitar and a keyboard. A computer nestling in pages of notes rested on the desk by the window overlooking the loch. A landscape of a Scottish castle hung from one wall, and a bookcase stood against the other. It was sparsely populated: a guide to Scottish birds, a John Grisham thriller, a rhyming dictionary, a French novel by Pascale Roze, and then a very familiar cover. Death At Wyvis. What the hell was that doing there? Maybe it came with the cottage.
But Jerry had acted as if he hadn’t recognized her copy the day before.
She took the book down off the shelf; it had been read. She flipped open the pages. Passages were underlined with little notes scribbled in the margin. Had Jerry written those? Or had they been inscribed by a previous occupant of the cottage?
Just then Jerry bustled in with two mugs of coffee. He raised his eyebrows when he saw the book in Clémence’s hand. She could feel herself blush. She tried to stop herself, but you can’t do that — her face just felt hotter.
She tried to brazen it out. ‘This is the book I’ve been reading to Alastair,’ she said.
‘Oh. I should take a look. Here’s the coffee.’
‘Mmm. Smells delicious.’ She took a sip. ‘Tastes good too.’ Was that Jerry’s handwriting? Clémence had an idea. She drifted over to his desk and picked up one of the sheets. ‘Is this a new song?’ she asked.
It was his handwriting!
‘Yeah, it’s coming on nicely. I think I’m going to come up with some really cool material while I’m here.’
‘The Wyvis Album?’ said Clémence, replacing the sheet.
Jerry smiled. ‘Hey! That’s not a bad title.’
‘Shit!’
Jerry watched Clémence walking back to Culzie, his earlier complacency shattered.
Alastair Cunningham was remembering fast. And there was a lot he knew that Jerry could not afford to come to light.
He poured himself the rest of the coffee and took it outside to the rock by the shore of the loch. It was cold, but he didn’t care. He needed to make a decision. Fast.
All right. There was a chance that Alastair would remember Jerry visiting him the week before. Remember being pushed down the stairs. But then again, there was a chance that would never come back. Jerry couldn’t be sure what the old guy would remember and what was gone for ever. And even if he did remember, it would be difficult to prove murder in court. The forensic evidence would be messed up by now. Jerry could claim he had visited Alastair the day before he fell, and that Alastair was confused. It would be Jerry’s word against Alastair’s, a befuddled old man with a head injury.
But then Jerry’s own criminal record would come to light. Would that matter? Because Jerry had already spent time in jail, for manslaughter. It had happened in 1973 in the dive in Echo Park he shared with his girlfriend. He and Wendy were fighting, as usual. Then they had patched it up in the usual way, with heroin. Except she had somehow taken it twice. Or, rather, Jerry had given it to her twice. Or maybe three times. That was what he thought, and that was what he had stupidly told the police. The DA had offered manslaughter and Jerry’s dumb lawyer had persuaded him to plead guilty. But sentencing hadn’t gone as planned: the judge didn’t like long-haired song-writing drug addicts and thought Los Angeles would be better off without Jerry for a while. A long while. He hadn’t gotten out of the state penitentiary until 1984.