by Les Cowan
Mikhail snorted with disgust.
“You can’t be serious, Max,” he said. “That’s going too far. One dead body was necessary. That’s too many. I think there’s even a problem among the girls. Tati knows something. I’m sure of it.”
“Well, Mikhail. ‘Choose you this day whom you will serve.’ And once you’ve chosen, we may all need to make sacrifices – even the lovely Tati.”
The younger man fingered the scar down his cheek nervously.
“I’ll have to think about it,” was all he said as he got up and opened the door.
“You do that,” Max said. “And while you’re thinking send Dimitri in. Ah, Dimitri. Come in. I’ve a little job for you.”
Chapter 19
SHORELINES
Dr James Dalrymple sometimes felt he was living in limbo – not quite working and not quite retired. Although he wasn’t in theatre any more and he’d given up teaching, his research still wasn’t complete, and he felt the need to arrive at some definite conclusions to pass on to the next generation of anaesthetists before finally calling it a day. So far it was clear that not all pounds of body mass are equal. A fifty-five-kilogram slim, fit woman was a different proposition from a fifty-five-kilogram grossly overweight ten-year-old. Different doses and safety margins applied. His research aimed to arrive at the optimal sliding scales to guide practitioners in what was only going to become an increasingly common problem. But when that was done – what then? No doubt the normal life of the fit, retired professional: a mixture of useful voluntary work, pursuing his private hobbies, and a good dose of winter sun. He’d already been brushing up his first aid to do some talks to local Scouts. Sarah was still fit and active and due to retire in the summer; there was no reason why they couldn’t have a long, fulfilling retirement for many years doing things they liked. But now it was late October, the weather was closing in, and he was restless. No more sailing now, at least not in a twenty-six-foot Westerly with a dodgy engine. The squalls that came rushing up over the Pentlands or down from Fife were just too unpredictable. In the meantime, his only option was taking Maxi, their rather elderly golden retriever, for a morning walk down by the Firth of Forth, then getting on with inputting his data and crunching the numbers. Eventually a result would pop out; he was sure.
It wasn’t particularly cold this morning and very still, but a chilly bank of fog lay flat over the Forth so you could barely see fifty yards in any direction. Not to worry, though; he knew their morning route well and so did Maxi. It was amazing how much fun a slightly over-the-hill dog could have with a simple stick thrown and retrieved. Still, this was what they were bred for, wasn’t it – retrieving things? James picked up the slimy branch and tossed it again, towards the waterline, and Maxi dutifully bounded off into the fog to return any minute, slimy stick in mouth, for another round – apparently pointless for both of them but it gave some kind of pattern to their morning stroll other than just the walk.
“Maxi!” he shouted into the mist when she seemed to be a bit overdue. “Maxi! Where are you? Confounded dog!” Nothing. No doubt she had found something even more slimy and disgusting and was worrying away at it.
“Maxi!!”
Nothing for it; he’d have to go after her. He made a mental note to reduce her morning chocolate treats for non-compliance. As Dr Dalrymple advanced into the mist the honey-coloured shape of Maxi gradually appeared up to her chest in sea water, sniffing around some bulky object half-floating, half-beached, just on the waterline.
“What have you got there, old girl?” Dalrymple muttered, picking his way over the slippery rocks and trying not to fall his length in the mud. He was never sure, looking back, at what point he realized what he was seeing. One minute he was trying to get his dog to disconnect from some bag of rubbish washed up on the beach; the next he was up to his knees in icy water dragging a body above the waterline. Also, just as imperceptibly, he clicked into A&E mode – like riding a bike, they say. He got his hands under her armpits – for it was a she – and half-lifted, half-dragged, the body above the waterline to where he could find a level spot. He took off his waterproof Barbour, laid it down, and pulled the body onto it. Then he ripped away the rubbish bag half-enclosing her body. It was then he first noticed the black cable ties around the wrists and ankles. He found himself using language his wife would not have approved of. Female, between twenty-five and thirty maybe, blonde, Caucasian. Her skin was freezing cold to the touch. Breathing? Hard to say. Brief and shallow, if at all. Feel for a pulse. Nothing at the wrist, so go to the neck. Maybe something. Also hard to say, so five immediate rescue breaths, mouth to mouth. Then CPR. Thirty compressions, then two more breaths. He remembered the routine was supposed to be “till help arrives” but he had left his damn phone behind, very few people were about at this time in the morning, and in the fog, and who was going to see him anyway? So, thirty more, then two, then another thirty, then two. At the third cycle she suddenly gave a cough and spewed up a mouthful of water. Then a gasp, followed by being sick in earnest. Dalrymple got her over into the recovery position and took off his thick woolly sweater to wrap around her. Now she started moaning and convulsing – not good, but better than no response.
Being a moderately fit 63-year-old walking the dog is one thing; carrying a 120-pound dead weight half a mile to the car was quite another. With just barely enough strength, he managed to get her up in a fireman’s lift and set off. Three or four times he slipped and narrowly missed twisting an ankle. He also began to notice how wet his feet were and how cold he was feeling with his coat and jumper wrapped around the body over his shoulders. Maxi, seeming to realize something was amiss, trotted along beside him, tongue hanging out, constantly looking up to check.
“Don’t look at me, old girl,” Dalrymple managed to wheeze once they were off the rocks, over the grassy bank, and onto the road. “I’ve no idea either.”
He laid her as gently as he could on the back seat of his Range Rover – thank goodness he hadn’t brought the Midget – started the engine, and put the heater on full blast. Normally it took a good twenty minutes to get from the shore back up to the house. This morning he did it in sixteen.
“Sarah – phone for an ambulance! And get a kettle on!”
Something either in his tone or what he was saying suddenly provoked a reaction. The girl started struggling wildly, even as he was carrying her into the living room.
“No!” she shouted. “No ambulance. No police. No police.”
“Ok!” Dalrymple responded, trying to keep things calm. “No ambulance. No police. Sarah! Cancel that. But hot, sweet tea as soon as you can! And some dry clothes.”
Given the trembling and shaking, Dalrymple judged it more important to get the girl’s wet clothes off, even if it did cause her more distress, than leave her shivering. He went for scissors and cut the cable ties as he explained to Sarah what had happened down on the shore. Half-drowned and certainly hypothermic was certain. Looks like a blow to the head as well, so maybe concussion. Her blonde hair was gathered in dark red lumps of clotted blood, but apparently no broken bones. Pupils dilated and pulse weak but breathing more regular now. A livid red scar was around her neck. Sarah Dalrymple had done enough Friday nights herself in A&E not to be phased. Together, they got the wet things off, a warm, dry, jogging suit on, two Solpadiene into her – there wasn’t anything stronger in the house and it has caffeine as well as paracetamol – and some hot sweet tea. Sarah put an extra heater in the spare bedroom, turned the electric blanket on, and went to fill a bottle.
Once in bed, her body temperature began to come up as she slept. The only sign of further distress was when the dog got into the bedroom and Sarah tried to call her out. This set the girl off screaming again, so James grabbed the dog while Sarah sat with her till she calmed down. Then he phoned and cancelled all appointments for the day. The obvious – indeed only sensible – course was to call an ambulance and get her to hospital and a drip in but something made him hesitate. At the ve
ry word “ambulance” she had been near hysterical despite the little strength she had, so he decided that keeping her calm and rested was the better course. Surely thirty-five years in theatre and thirty years in A&E between them should give them enough experience to know if things were getting critical. Sarah cut the matted hair away and cleaned the wound. It seemed basically superficial, a blunt instrument blow rather than a deep cut needing stitches. They took her temperature every half hour. At 28.5°C Dalrymple and his wife exchanged worried glances; however, half an hour later it was 30, which was going in the right direction. By lunchtime she was 35.5 and no longer officially hypothermic. Every hour they managed to get another hot drink into her before she sank back into a troubled sleep. Sarah sat with her, while Dalrymple rang their son Paul, who was halfway through his Masters in sports medicine, which he knew would certainly include hypothermia treatment for skiers. He was somewhat gratified when Paul arrived and confirmed everything that had already been done.
“She should really be in hospital, Dad, don’t you think?” he ventured.
“Of course, absolutely,” Dalrymple agreed, without hesitation. “But the only words we’ve had out of her was a big ‘no, no’ when I asked your mother to phone for an ambulance. She roused herself enough to shout, ‘No ambulance, no police, no police.’ So now she’s out of the danger zone, until we can find out what this is all about, I’m going to respect my patient’s wishes.”
“There was one other thing,” Sarah said, coming through to the kitchen to refill the hot water bottle. She seemed to react to the dog going in.”
“But, now I think of it,” Dalrymple remarked thoughtfully, “she didn’t actually see the dog, did she?”
“Wasn’t it more when you called ‘Maxi’?”
“Yes, I suppose you’re right. So it was the name, not the dog as such. Oh, and one other thing. She was muttering something just before I came through: ‘David H. Pastor’. What do you think that might mean?”
“What indeed,” Dalrymple echoed and went back through to check her temperature again.
The girl slept fitfully throughout the night. Paul stayed and they took shifts.
“Just like a night passage in Hiawatha,” he commented as his dad came in to take his watch. “But not so rolly and chances of a better breakfast.”
“You cheeky whalp!” Dalrymple smiled. “Remind me to be rude about your boat when you get one.”
At about eleven o’clock the following morning the girl finally opened her eyes and looked about her. Sarah was by the bedside at the time and squeezed her hand before going for her husband.
“Good morning,” he said gently as he came in. “You are a very lucky girl. How do you feel?”
“Tired,” she said. “Better. You find me where?”
“In the river. And it wasn’t me. You’ve got the dog to thank.” He just stopped short of calling her Maxi. Then she put him in an awkward spot.
“Name your dog?” she asked.
Dalrymple and his wife exchanged a glance but he thought he would take a risk and see what would happen.
“Maxi,” he said.
Strangely, there was no reaction at all. The girl smiled and reached a hand out. Maxi came and licked it.
“Hello, Maxi,” she said, smiling. “Thanking you so much.”
“Would you like something to eat?” Sarah asked.
“Pliz. Yes.”
“Some soup?”
“Yes. Soup.”
“Maxi found you and I brought you up here,” Dalrymple explained slowly as Sarah helped the patient sit up, then put a tray with soup, buttered bread, and coffee on her lap. “You’re in my house. I’m a doctor; my name is James. This is my wife, Sarah; she’s a nurse. And this is our son, Paul; he’s a doctor too. We haven’t told anyone you’re here. We have not spoken to the police. You’re safe here and you can stay until you’re better. Do you understand?”
“Yes. Thanking you so much,” the girl repeated.
“We found you in the river. Can you remember how you got there?”
The girl looked down and hungrily took another mouthful of bread.
“Yes, I remember,” she whispered, looking up. “They try to kill me. I am Elvira. They try to kill me.”
The entrance hall to O Retorno was chic in a Belle Époque style, Gillian thought; in fact, almost more Parisian than Spanish. There were white and blue large ceramic tiles up to shoulder height, then pink painted plaster above and small framed impressionist reproductions dotted about. Being in the middle of the block, there was no natural light, but a number of antique table lamps and mirrors helped. The reception counter was in dark wood as were the stairs. There was no sign of space for a lift. A pretty girl with long dark hair, an olive complexion, and almond eyes smiled at them from behind the desk.
“Hola. Buenas tardes, Señor y Señora. ¿Podría ayudarles?”
“Si. Tenemos una reserva,” David replied. “En el nombre de Lockhart.”
“Ah. Si. Lo veo. Bienvenidos a O Retorno.”
Formalities over, David went for their cases, then laboriously lugged them up two floors. Keeping things authentic is all very well, he thought, banging his knees for the third time, but a lift would be nice. The apartment itself was lovely inside, with mustard yellow walls and more dark wood in the dining table and chairs. The little alcove kitchen was compact but had everything they might need. And there were indeed two bedrooms as advertised; Mrs MacInnes needn’t have worried. Gillian immediately went to the window. The town seemed to be built partly on the flat above a steep fall towards the Ria and partly cascading down towards the water. She could just make out the masts of pleasure craft in the marina and beyond that the impressive span of the bridge that carried the autovía across the mouth of the estuary and into Asturias, the neighbouring province. The girl who had checked them in gave them a quick tour of the facilities in a sort of lilting Spanish Gillian had never heard before, with some words and expressions she had difficulty catching.
“Gallego,” David said once she had gone. “I think what you’re here to study, Dr Lockhart.”
“Yes, I guessed that. I suppose it must be like listening to the Doric for a standard Scots speaker.”
“Except that they make a big thing here that it’s not an accent or a dialect. It’s a language, related to Spanish and Portuguese but separate and unique. Just to give you the heads up.”
“Well, we say the same about Scots as well nowadays, you know,” Gillian replied, wandering around and opening cupboards. “And I imagine most of the delegates will say the same wherever they’re from.”
“So, remind me,” David continued, taking bags through to their respective rooms. “What exactly constitutes the Celtic Fringe these days?”
“Let me see if I can remember them all,” Gillian began. “Scotland, Ireland, Isle of Man, Wales, Cornwall, Galicia, Brittany – I think that’s it. Actually, there are those that would argue that Galicia shouldn’t really be included; however, they themselves are in no doubt and are trying hard to raise the profile, hence the fact that the University of Santiago is paying for all of this.”
“So we can expect a good dose of bagpipes in the cultural evening?”
“I wouldn’t be surprised.”
The light was clear but soft and the temperature balmy as they came out after Gillian had showered and changed. The paseo hour had arrived and groups of old men, young couples with children, and bunches of teenagers had begun to appear almost like flowers that only open at certain times of day, wandering around, meeting and chatting or finding a table in any of the bars around the park. Unlike many Spanish towns there didn’t seem to be any main square in Ribadeo, just the park with clean, tidy gravel paths through it and little formal corners bordered by miniature hedging and one fair-sized fountain in the middle.
“Correct me if I’m wrong,” Gillian remarked as they wandered hand in hand going nowhere in particular, “but there seems to be an even higher density of bars and restaurants her
e than I’m used to in Spain.”
“You’re right enough,” David confirmed. “Ribadeo is a holiday town but mainly for indigenous Spaniards, so although I think it’s a really beautiful spot with the Ria and the port and so on, it’s almost completely unknown outside Spain – except for the pilgrims. One of the Camino routes goes through here so there are international visitors, but they tend not to stop more than one night.”
“Having their sights set on Santiago,” Gillian completed the thought.
“Indeed.”
Before long they found a terraza that wasn’t too crowded, close to a very impressive grand residence complete with a gilded turret, though now in very poor repair and boarded up.
“That seems a bit grand for a small coastal town,” Gillian remarked, gesturing with her caña glass towards the tower.
“The Torre dos Moreno,” David explained. “Galicia has typically been one of the poorest regions of Spain so lots of Gallegos would go off seeking their fortunes in the new world.”
“Another connection with the Scots then.”
“I suppose so. But while the Scots went to Canada and New Zealand, the Gallegos typically ended up in Cuba or somewhere else in the Caribbean or South America. Some of those that did make a fortune came back and, as is the way of these things, wanted to show off a bit. So Ribadeo has a lot of what are called Casas de Indianos dotted through the town, built by those who came back from the Indies. That’s the biggest, but probably also the most dilapidated, right now. There always seems to be some plan to renovate it but it never seems to get any further forward. I believe they’ve even started a Fiesta de los Indianos, where everybody dresses up like returning Cuban plantation owners from 1915, then they sit about smoking Havana cigars and drinking Cuba Libres.”
Gillian took another sip of her caña, let out a long sigh, and gazed around.
“This is just so nice,” she said. “I love this outdoor life – having a drink, watching the world going by. I think I’ve been living on my nerves the last two weeks with everything that’s been happening. I just feel it all slipping away here. And it’s good to get you out of it as well. I don’t suppose many newly engaged couples have their engagement party gatecrashed by the police investigating organized crime.”
