He had gotten to know a lot of other manslaughterers inside. And murderers. Some of them were evil, many of them weren’t. It was surprising how many men you met who had shot their wives with the gun kept in the bedside drawer and then regretted it for ever afterwards. Those were the kind of guys Jerry liked to hang out with inside. That was the kind of guy he was.
He really didn’t want to go through all that again.
OK. So there was a chance that he might avoid a murder rap for the fall on the stairs. But then there was all the other stuff that Alastair knew. That he might want to tell the police about. There was a lot a diligent Scottish detective could discover if he put his mind to it. And Jerry hadn’t liked the look on the girl’s face when she had been leafing through that book. She would soon start putting two and two together herself.
The previous fall, Jerry had decided to take action. He couldn’t back out now. There was a job to finish. And to finish quickly before it was too late, preferably before the aunt arrived.
There was the rifle locked in the gun cupboard at Culzie. Since Jerry didn’t have a British firearms certificate, in theory he was only supposed to use it under the supervision of Terry, the stalker. And if he did use it to kill Alastair, it wouldn’t take a Sherlock MacHolmes very long to figure out who was responsible.
That was a last resort. There was still his other idea that might work if he was lucky. But he would have to be quick.
He checked his watch. It was about twenty minutes since Clémence had left — she should be almost back to Culzie now, so he wouldn’t pass her. He made a quick phone call, then grabbed his binoculars, jumped in his car and drove to the spot he had occupied earlier that morning.
The clouds were building ominously above Ben Wyvis. Alastair liked to walk — he usually ventured outside at least twice a day — but snow would stop him. Jerry just had to hope that the old man decided to get a walk in before it started to snow.
11
Stephen rewound the video and pressed ‘Play’ for the third time. On the screen Sophie smiled at him, and little Rupert waved at Daddy. Then he ran across the lawn kicking a blue football, Sophie walking along after him. Then came the moment that hurt most. She turned and smiled at him. Just at him, the man holding the camera.
God, she was beautiful. And she loved him. How could he ever have lost her?
Of course, it wasn’t directly his fault, which was something he had always known even if no one else had. But there were things he could have done. He should have treated her better. He should have dealt with Alastair. He should never have suggested that they all went to Wyvis. So many things he should have done differently.
The tears ran down his cheeks. These phone calls the last couple of days from Clémence and from Rupert had opened up old wounds.
But if Madeleine and Clémence and Alastair were all reading that damned book together, there would be trouble. Perhaps he should face it. Perhaps he should go up to Scotland and face it — face them.
No, damn them! They didn’t need him, and he didn’t need them. Sophie was just a set of images on a VHS tape transferred from old eight-millimetre film. She was gone. In a few years, maybe only a couple of years, he would be gone too.
In the meantime there was a crossword to be done.
Half an hour later, he was sipping his Guinness in the Sherry Bar at the Windsor Castle.
‘Will you bloody concentrate, Stephen?’ Maitland said. ‘Three across. “Bachelor girl in Spanish-speaking country”. Seven letters. I thought “senorita” but that’s eight. Is it an anagram of somewhere in South America?’
‘Sorry, Maitland,’ said Stephen. ‘My mind was wandering. I think I’m going to get on a train to Scotland.’
‘What the hell do you want to do that for?’ said Maitland. ‘It’s March. The weather is abominable in Scotland in March.’
‘Bloody children,’ said Stephen. ‘And grandchildren. And interfering sisters-in-law.’
‘Sod the lot of them,’ said Maitland. ‘In the meantime, what about this senorita?’
Sheila had been and gone by the time Clémence got back to Culzie. In that time she had cleaned the kitchen and bathroom and put some soup on the hob. Clémence felt grateful, embarrassed and irritated in equal measure — she had fancied a ham-and-cheese toastie for lunch.
‘What’s it like out?’ the old man asked.
‘Cold,’ said Clémence. ‘I think it might rain. Or maybe snow.’
‘Did you see anything?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I don’t know. Deer? An eagle, perhaps?’
‘I saw your neighbour, Jerry Ranger.’
‘How is he?’
‘Fine.’
Clémence wasn’t sure what to think about Jerry, but she didn’t want to discuss him with the old man. There was something not right about the American. Who was he? And why was he interested in Death At Wyvis? And, most importantly, why hadn’t he admitted his interest when Clémence had shown him the book the day before?
A lot of what he said did add up. Although Jerry Ranger sounded like a fake name, it sounded like the kind of fake name someone would pick if they wanted to become a singer. Kind of like Johnny Cash, although maybe that was a real name? Anyway, Jerry clearly was a real song writer — she had seen his scribblings and heard him sing — and he had got to know the old man over the couple of weeks before his fall. But now Clémence came to think of it, Jerry’s questions about how much the old man had forgotten seemed to be driven by a little more than just curiosity or concern.
She thought about asking the old man about him, but there was no point. He wouldn’t have a clue, and she wasn’t in the mood for an awkward conversation. Next time she saw Sheila, she would ask her. She’d know something, and she was always happy to talk.
‘By the way,’ she said, ‘did Sheila say anything to you about Pauline Ferguson, the woman who used to work on the estate?’
‘Yes, she did,’ said the old man. ‘Apparently I spoke to her quite recently.’
‘Do you want to see her? We could go to Dingwall tomorrow morning.’ It would be good to see civilization again, Clémence thought.
‘Yes, thank you,’ said the old man. ‘I would like to do that.’ His gratitude was endearing but also irritating.
Clémence went back to her soup. The old man cleared his throat. ‘I’ve been thinking about what you said about your mother and that man Patrick.’
‘Oh, yes?’ Part of Clémence wished that she hadn’t mentioned it to the old man. But part of her was glad she had, glad that someone was interested.
‘Yes. It’s appalling. Completely unfair. I suppose I can see why your mother might believe the toad, but I don’t understand your father.’
Clémence was just about to spoon some soup into her mouth as he said this. Suddenly she couldn’t swallow, and she felt a tear leak down her cheek. It took her by surprise. Clémence hardly ever cried; one of the things you learned at boarding school was how not to cry.
‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ said the old man. ‘I didn’t mean to upset you, I really didn’t.’
‘I know you didn’t,’ said Clémence.
‘I’d say don’t cry,’ said the old man, in a soft voice. ‘But, actually, maybe you should.’