I watch in relief as the bedroom door slams shut behind Marie-Claire.
‘Julia,’ I say softly, and blatantly contradicting my earlier statement about not wanting to get either of them into trouble add, ‘I really, really need your help.’
I wait until I see the smoke rising from Marie-Claire’s cigarette in the courtyard below before telling Julia the full story.
‘I found another of Desra’s students,’ I begin, ‘from when she was a coach in Canada.’ Julia’s eyes widen, but she says nothing. ‘It just so happens that he won a scholarship,’ I show her the Lakeview College post, ‘and he’s studying here, at St Andrews.’
Julia face is unreadable. ‘So this isn’t just about her stealing your niece’s poetry, is it?’
‘I wondered about her being in her teacher’s flat as well.’ This is getting dangerously close to the truth, but I must carry on. I point to the image of the handsome, smiling Alistair on the Lakeview College alumni page. ‘He’s a lot like Turner, don’t you think?’
‘Shit,’ whispers Julia. ‘You think she might have …’ she stumbles for the words, ‘you know, with this Alistair person, when she was a teacher in Canada?’
‘That’s what I want to find out.’
Julia stands up and walks out of the room. Is this all too much for her? I glance out the window to see if Marie-Claire has finished her cigarette, and I am relieved to see her chatting animatedly to Dave. Just when I’m certain she won’t be coming back, the door opens, and Julia enters clutching a bottle of vodka. ‘For courage,’ she mutters.
It takes a few minutes for Julia to settle; first a sip or two of vodka, and then a return to the Lakeview website to re-read the entry about Alistair’s scholarship at St Andrews. Finally, she speaks.
‘What exactly do you want from me, Kate?’
‘If you could just help me to find out if he’s arrived in Scotland—’
‘No way,’ says Julia, shaking her head.
‘The new university term starts in a few weeks. He may be here already.’
‘And if he is?’
‘I can do something about it.’ I know I’m giving away far too much, but it’s Wednesday, and there’s only two more days left of summer school. I’ve got to push. ‘If Desra did try something on with Alistair, like she may have with Lisa, like you think she is with Turner, then we need to do something about it.’
Julia lets out a long, deep sigh. ‘You really are obsessed, aren’t you?’
I hold her gaze and know exactly what to say next. ‘All I want is justice.’
‘What did you say his surname was?’
Julia is sitting at my desk, her eyes focused on my computer keyboard.
‘March,’ I reply. ‘Alistair March. He’s a first year International Relations student.’
Julia leans back from the keyboard and turns to look at me. ‘You must never ever tell anyone I did this,’ she whispers, ‘especially Marie-Claire.’ I nod. ‘Not only is it illegal; if I’m found out it could cost me my job and incur a huge fine for the university.’
‘Of course not,’ I say softly. ‘It’s our secret.’
I watch as she enters her password to access the student database, then enters March, A. A photograph appears. It’s him. Then a list of subheadings, including enrolment, assessments and personal information.
‘Here we are.’ Julia squints to read the small text. ‘Alistair March. Agnes Blackadder, eh?’ she mutters softly to herself. ‘He must have a bit of dosh.’ I make a mental note to remember that name and look it up later. She turns to me. ‘It looks like he’s requested an early check in.’
I give her a quizzical look.
‘He’s here,’ she replies. ‘Alistair March is in Scotland.’
I force myself to exhale, slow and steady. ‘Where?’
‘What?’
‘Where is he staying?’
‘No, no, no,’ says Julia, holding her hands up in protest. ‘Confirming he’s in Scotland is one thing, but giving you his personal details, that’s another.’
‘But how am I going to speak to him?’
‘You won’t,’ says Julia sharply. ‘If you really believe Desra has been having inappropriate relations with her students then this is not just about your niece and this boy, but a wider safeguarding issue. You have to go to the authorities.’
It feels like my carefully constructed facade is crumbling.
‘It’s just supposition Julia. I have no concrete proof. How can I go to the authorities without proof?’ I remember trying to convince a reluctant Lisa to come to the police station with me – I won’t go back there – and I add, ‘That’s why I need to speak to him.’
Julia downs the last of the vodka from her plastic cup, crumples it and throws it in the bin. ‘I’m sorry, Kate, but I can’t help you with this.’
I attend dinner with a pasted-on smile and a plan in mind. I let Julia and Marie-Claire get far too close. Now I need to step back and make sure they do too.
During the starter we talk about the weather, and throughout the main course I persuade the couple to tell me all about their wedding plans.
‘Bali,’ says Marie-Claire with a sigh. ‘Sun, sea and no family.’
‘Are they a problem?’ I ask, after a bite of cod wrapped in prosciutto.
‘No,’ responds Julia brightly, ‘just annoying.’
She seems to have put our earlier conversation aside, satisfied with my promise that I will go to the police on Friday with what evidence I have.
By the pudding course, we are on to our pieces for Friday’s masterclass.
‘It’s about love, fidelity and honesty,’ says Marie-Claire, describing a sestina she has been working on.
‘Sunsets,’ mutters Julia, when asked about hers.
Claiming a headache, I beg out of the literature quiz in the boathouse, and retreat to my room to prepare. I have put together as much evidence as possible, including the diary; the photograph of Michael, Lisa and Desra; the photograph of Alistair; and a screenshot of the poem ‘Carnation’. I’ve also written up everything Lisa told me.
‘It’s not enough, though, is it?’ I throw the documents on the bed in frustration. I know now more than ever that what I need is an eyewitness; or even better, a victim.
I get through the next morning’s session like an automaton; smiling and nodding when necessary, when really all I can think about is this afternoon’s free time. The minutes seem to tick by with intolerable lethargy. Desra manages the session, based on how to read poetry aloud, with her usual minimal attention combined with an infantile self-centredness. ‘Watch how I do it.’ By twelve o’clock I am ready to scream.
‘Okay, everyone,’ she says, finally. ‘I’m impressed with the work you’ve done today and I’m confident none of you will embarrass yourselves tomorrow.’
‘Cheers,’ mutters Julia.
‘What’s he like?’ asks Sally. ‘Professor Cardew. I’ve heard so much about him.’
‘All will be revealed tomorrow,’ Desra replies, clasping her hands together. I wish I had the courage to step up onto the stage and punch her right in her self-satisfied face. ‘I’ve still got a lot to do to prepare for tomorrow’s reading, so as a surprise I’ve brought in a guest who will be leading a session after lunch on editing – the most important skill of all,’ she adds glibly. ‘That will finish at two, and afterwards you can spend the time writing, practising, or using some of the sports facilities on site.’
Everything seems to be fitting right into place.
35
After the editing workshop I tell the group that I’m planning to go hiking and probably won’t be back until dinner.
‘Don’t forget to let reception know your route,’ says Becky cheerfully. ‘In case you get lost, or break a leg or fall into a bog.’
‘Yeah, thanks.’
I put on my hiking boots, but instead of taking the path that leads to the loch, I double back to my car. Then I make the forty-five-minute drive to St An
drews and Agnes Blackadder Hall, the hall of residence Julia inadvertently let slip earlier.
When I arrive, I’m surprised to see it’s not the damp, crumbling Georgian building I’d expected, with poor security and blocked-open back doors. It’s a modern structure with over three hundred rooms. It looks more like a conference centre than student digs.
I berate myself for my carelessness. I must have clicked on the wrong link when I was looking it up on the website. How on earth am I going to find Alistair in this labyrinth? I wish now that I had paid more attention when Julia was entering her login details to the student database.
I drive to a nearby Starbucks for a coffee and a chance to think. I’m struggling with what to do next when I see a small group of people emerging from the superstore next door. They’re carrying cartons of wine, boxes of beer, and what appears to be the makings of a barbecue. I throw my cup of coffee in the bin and head into Tesco.
I wait outside the key card entrance into Agnes Blackadder Hall with my bottle of Jack Daniels, bag of snacks, and bale of towels.
‘Excuse me?’ I say to the first studenty-looking girl I see approaching. ‘I’m here to see my nephew.’ I hold out my offerings. ‘I’ve brought him a little something to settle in, and, well, I wanted to surprise him.’ The student – young, pretty and trusting – smiles politely. ‘I wonder if you might know him. His name is Alistair. He’s Canadian. He arrived early.’ She shakes her head, mutters an apology, and moves on.
I could buzz reception and try the same approach, but I decide it’s too risky. Instead, I wait patiently for the next student, and the next. Finally, three well-built young men, clearly athletes, approach.
‘Excuse me,’ I say, and begin my deception once again.
‘Alistair!’ says one of the lads, after I finish. ‘Canadian chap. Nice. Arrived last week. Third floor by the fire escape.’ The other two nod in agreement. They smell of fresh air and beer. ‘If you want to surprise him, we’ll have to sneak you past reception,’ he says with a grin.
This is working out better than I had expected.
I make it to the third floor, grateful that my accomplices got off the lift on the second, then make my way to flat 3F, the one next to the fire escape. I take a breath and knock on the door. From inside I hear a deep voice call, ‘What do you dickheads want now?’ and then the door is pulled open and I am staring into the eyes of Alistair March, the one and only person who may be able to prove my suspicions about Desra McKinley.
‘Yes?’ he says. Now that I am closer, I can see that this is definitely the same person in the photograph with Desra. He’s wearing jeans and a t-shirt. The outline of his muscular torso is clearly visible through the thin, white cotton.
‘Alistair?’ My voice sounds small. ‘Alistair March?’
His eyes narrow in distrust. ‘Who wants to know?’
I attempt a smile. ‘My name is Kate Hardy. My son Michael was a swimmer like you.’ I take the photograph of Michael, Lisa and Desra and push it towards him. ‘Six years ago, to be precise.’
I watch as he scans the image, his expression changing from suspicion to shock when he spots Desra. His face goes very pale.
‘May I speak with you, please?’
‘I, ah, don’t—’
‘Please,’ I beg. ‘Something happened to Michael six years ago.’ I tap my finger on the image of Desra McKinley. ‘Something she did. I need to find out what.’
I can see his struggle; his fear. Finally, his expression softens. ‘You’d better come in.’
He steps back, allowing me to pass through the doorway and into the room beyond.
I wait for him to place the cup of coffee on the desk next to me before speaking.
‘Thank you for seeing me.’ I take a small sip from a mug that reads Life is for the Living! ‘I realise it must be a bit odd, my showing up like this.’
Alistair regards me with a mixture of caution and curiosity. ‘What exactly do you want from me, Mrs Hardy?’
‘Just to ask you a few questions.’
He points to the photograph I’ve put on the desk in front of him. ‘About her?’ I nod. He runs his hand across his freckled jawline. ‘You said something about your son?’
‘Michael,’ I reply. I indicate to the photo. ‘That’s him sitting next to her.’
‘Any good?’ he asks.
‘Pardon?’
‘You said he’s a swimmer. Any good?’
‘Decent,’ I smile. ‘But not up to your standard.’ He knows why I’m here, I’m sure of it; but I have to proceed very cautiously. I don’t want to scare him off.
‘The thing is,’ I clear my throat. My mouth is so dry. ‘Michael kept a diary.’ Alistair looks at me in surprise, but I carry on. ‘And in this diary, he indicates that he had a relationship with Desra McKinley. A sexual relationship.’
‘Woah!’ Alistair jumps up as if stung, knocking against the coffee table, and sloshing half the contents of my coffee mug onto the carpet. ‘Shit!’ he cries. ‘I’ll lose my damage deposit.’
‘Get some loo roll,’ I say, cupping my hands at the end of the table to stop more coffee dripping on the carpet, ‘and wet wipes if you’ve got them.’ Alistair escapes to the en suite, returning seconds later with a loo roll and a packet of wipes. ‘Let me,’ I say, kneeling on the floor. ‘The trick is to dab, not rub.’
‘Thank you,’ Alistair mutters after I’ve cleaned up. ‘I’ve only just moved in and I’m already trashing the place.’
‘I didn’t mean to shock you,’ I say, suddenly aware of his vulnerability. He’s standing by the window, his broad torso partially blocking out the light, ‘but there’s something I need to show you.’
Overcome by curiosity, he steps forward. I show him the photo of him and Desra at the swimming competition. There is a pause: time stills like a dying helium balloon, suspended between floor and ceiling.
‘Shit!’ Alistair cries. ‘Shit!’
‘I’m so, so sorry,’ I whisper. ‘The last thing I wanted is for anyone else to go through what Michael did.’
‘So why are you?’ he whimpers. ‘Making me go through it!’
‘She’s still around,’ I say, forcing myself to stay calm. ‘Desra McKinley is still around, and still teaching. In fact she’s a teacher at Lennoxton Academy less than fifty miles from here.’
Alistair seems embarrassed, ashamed, and for a moment the six-foot-two athlete looks like the fifteen-year-old schoolboy who was taken advantage of all those years before.
‘You knew,’ I whisper.
Alistair lifts his chin, and his expression hardens. ‘What if I did?’
‘People like her don’t stop, Alistair. They just find fresh prey.’
‘You don’t know anything about her!’ he yells, and stomps his way past me to the en suite, where he splashes cold water on his face, before returning to face me.
I know just about everything about her.
‘Not only did Desra have a sexual relationship with Michael,’ – my voice has a cool assurance that surprises me – ‘which is an illegal act in this country by the way; she was also with him the night that he died.’
‘What?’ Alistair’s face takes on the pale countenance of a death mask. ‘He’s dead?’
‘He drowned, six years ago.’ I bite back the tears. ‘He was only fifteen.’ Alistair shakes his head, seemingly unable to comprehend. I hold up the picture. ‘Look at him!’ I watch his gaze shift to the image, then away.
‘I – I don’t …’ His eyes are shiny, and he hastily swipes a tear from his freckled cheek.
In a moment of unconscious compassion – I’m a mother too after all – I lay my hand on his. ‘I’m so sorry this happened to you, Alistair.’
‘Why are you doing this?’ He pulls his hand away so fiercely that I nearly lose my balance and topple backwards. He grabs my wrist to steady me, and the simple act of kindness, of care, seems to drain him of all anger. He begins to cry. My heart breaks. ‘Why couldn’t you just leave it
all alone?’
‘Leave it all alone?’ I take a few steps to the window. On the bedside table is a tidy arc of framed photographs. I lean forward to study them more closely. ‘I only found out a few months ago myself, about Michael and Desra.’ There is an image of Alistair as a youngster with his parents, and someone who I assume is an older sister; pale like her brother and with the same bright auburn hair.
‘Your sister?’ I ask, pointing to the photograph. He gives a curt nod. ‘They must be proud of you winning a scholarship and coming all this way to study.’
‘My sister thinks it’s cool that I’m studying at the same uni Prince William did, but my parents …’ he trails off and looks as if he’s going to cry again.
‘They didn’t want you to come?’
He doesn’t reply but the look on his face says it all. I wonder if they had any inkling that their son was coming to study in Scotland so he could be near Desra. Once again I am reminded of the enduring damage that woman has left in her wake. I return my attention to the photos, to the flame-haired sister, now grown up, married, and standing with her husband in front of a baptismal font holding a baby dressed in a cream gown with pale blue piping.
‘Your nephew?’ Alistair nods. I place my hand on the bedframe for support. ‘I want you to come with me to the St Andrews police station. To report Desra McKinley for the historic grooming and sexual exploitation of minors.’ The time to play it safe has long since passed. I return my gaze to the image of the sleeping baby at the font, run my fingertips across the ornate frame. ‘Would you want him to have to go through something like that?’
Alistair’s complexion turns crimson.
‘How fucking dare you!’ he roars. I find myself cowering against the wall. ‘You come here, out of nowhere, to emotionally blackmail me!’ He’s in front of me, his large frame looming. ‘I’m doing a work placement next summer with a top firm in Japan. How do you think it would look if I’m involved in some sort of sex scandal? How do you think it would affect my career?’
The Lake Page 24
