She saw the expression on the face of one of the members of the group as he heard this. She saw him lean forward, shaking his head in disbelief. But such loyalty did exist, and not just amongst dogs. People stuck by others for years and years, in the face of all the odds, and it should be relief, not disbelief, that one felt on witnessing it. Jamie was loyal, she thought. There he was remaining devoted to Cat, even when there was no hope. It was touching, in a way—rather like the story of Greyfriars Bobby. Perhaps there should be a statue of Jamie somewhere in Bruntsfield. This young man stood outside his former girlfriend’s delicatessen for fourteen years, the inscription might state. Isabel smiled at the ridiculous idea. One should not smile about such things, she thought, but what was the alternative? To be miserable?
C H A P T E R T H I R T E E N
E
SHE HAD NOT INTENDED to visit the house in Nile Grove until a few days later, but after an evening of thinking about it, she decided that she would go the next morning. It would be difficult to explain over the phone what she had in mind. That would be difficult enough to do face-to-face, but still easier, she thought.
Nile Grove was a Victorian terrace, built in honey-coloured stone that had turned light grey with the passage of time. It was an attractive street, a number of the houses having ornamenta-tion on their façades. Small, well-kept gardens separated the fronts of the houses from the street, and on many of the houses creepers, ivy or clematis, climbed up beside the high sash windows. It was an expensive street; a quiet place to live; a street untroubled by commerce or passers-by. It was not, thought Isabel, a street through which one would imagine a reckless motor-ist careering; nor one which would host the tragedy of Rory Macleod’s death.
Isabel found the house and opened the small painted ironwork gate that led to the front path. A few moments later she was standing outside the front door. There was a bell pull—one 1 2 6
A l e x a n d e r M c C a l l S m i t h of the old-fashioned ones—connected to a wire that caused a tinkling sound somewhere deep inside the house, just audible from without. Isabel pulled this and then waited. She had no idea if anybody was in, and after a minute or so she felt inclined to walk back up the path and give up—with some relief—the idea of seeing the Macleod family. But then the door was suddenly opened and a woman stood before her.
Isabel looked at the woman. This was the Rose Macleod who had been mentioned in the Evening News. She was a bit older than Isabel—perhaps very late forties—and was wearing a rather shapeless shift in light blue. The face was an alert, intelligent one, a face that was immediately striking and which once would have been described as beautiful. While much of the beauty, in the conventional sense, might have been lost, there remained a quality of peacefulness and calm. This was the face of a musician, perhaps; a violinist, Isabel guessed.
“Yes? What can I do for you?” Rose Macleod’s voice was very much as Isabel had imagined it would be: quiet, with the slight burr of south Edinburgh.
“Mrs. Macleod?” Isabel asked.
Rose Macleod nodded, and smiled uncertainly at her visitor.
“My name is Isabel Dalhousie,” said Isabel. “I live round the corner—or farther down, actually. In Merchiston.” She paused.
“I suppose I’m a sort of neighbour.”
Rose Macleod smiled. “I see.” She hesitated for a moment.
Then, “Would you care to come in?”
Isabel followed her into the hall and through a door that led into a downstairs living room. It was a comfortable room, on the street side of the house, with bookshelves up one wall. It was typical, Isabel thought, of the rooms one would find in any of the houses along Nile Grove: a room which spoke to the solid, edu-F R I E N D S, L OV E R S, C H O C O L AT E
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cated taste of the neighbourhood. Above the ornate Edwardian fireplace, with its fin de siècle painted tiles, was a painting of a young man’s face in the style of Stephen Mangan—flat, almost one-dimensional, slightly haunting. A pair of Chinese bowls, famille rose, stood on the mantelpiece.
Isabel was pleased that Rose Macleod had invited her in. It seemed trusting, these days, to ask a stranger in, but it was still done in Edinburgh, or parts of Edinburgh at least. She took a seat on a small tub chair near the fireplace.
“I’m sorry to descend on you like this,” Isabel began. “We haven’t met, of course, but I know about . . . about your son. I’m so sorry.”
Rose inclined her head slightly. “Thank you. That was some months ago, as you know, but . . . but it still seems very recent.”
“Do you have other children?” asked Isabel.
Rose nodded. “We had three sons. Rory was the oldest. The other two are away at university. One in Glasgow. One in Aberdeen. Both studying engineering.” She paused, appraising Isabel with piercing blue eyes. “I lost my husband some years ago. He was an engineer too.”
There was silence. Isabel had clasped her hands together and felt the bony outline of her knuckles. Rose looked at her expectantly.
“The reason why I came to see you,” Isabel began, “is to do with the accident. I was wondering whether the police had made any progress. I saw something in the Evening News—
something in which they called for witnesses. Did anybody turn up?”
Rose looked away. “No,” she said. “Not a squeak. Nothing.
The police have said now that although the case remains technically open, it’s very unlikely that they will get anything further 1 2 8
A l e x a n d e r M c C a l l S m i t h to go on.” She reached out and took a coaster from a table beside her chair and fiddled with it. “What they’re effectively saying is that we shouldn’t expect them ever to come up with an answer as to what happened. That’s more or less it.”
“That must be difficult for you,” said Isabel. “Not knowing.”
Rose put the coaster down on the table. “Of course it is. It leaves things up in the air—unresolved.” She paused and looked at Isabel again. “But, may I ask, why have you come to see me about this? Do you know something, Mrs. . . . Mrs. Dalhousie?”
“Miss,” said Isabel. “No, I don’t know anything definite, I’m afraid, but I might have some information which could have a bearing on the incident. It’s just possible.”
The effect of this on Rose was immediate. Suddenly she was tense, and she leant forward in her chair. “Please tell me what it is,” she said quietly. “Even if you think that it’s unimportant. Please tell me.”
Isabel was about to begin. She had worked out what she was going to say, which would effectively be the story of her meeting with Ian and the story that he had told her. She was not going to say much about the other case—the case which Ian had told her about—but would be prepared to say something about that if Rose appeared unduly sceptical.
She started to speak. “I met a man completely by chance . . .”
Outside the room there was the sound of a door opening.
Rose raised a hand to stop Isabel.
“Graeme,” she said. “My partner. Could you hold on a moment? I’d like him to hear what you have to say.”
She rose from the chair and opened the living-room door, which she had closed behind her when they had entered the room. Isabel heard her say something to somebody outside, and F R I E N D S, L OV E R S, C H O C O L AT E