As they walked into the main part of the church, Jimmy explained the different aspects of the job, and reassured him about the hours and responsibilities. The lights flickered over the huge arched vaults, throwing long shadows and reflecting from the simple stained-glass windows. Tom felt comfortable in the stark empty space and had the renewed feeling that this was the place for him, if they’d have him.
‘I’ll be thinking you’re no the nervous type,’ Jimmy added. ‘Some people dinnae want to live alone here. We’re near the Grassmarket and the hostels and that, but it’s no like it was in the old days. We dinnae have trouble with the boys, if you just tell them this is no the place for them. We dinnae have alcohol here so they’re no interested really.’
The front door creaked open and an overweight young man shuffled into the church, avoiding eye contact and sat down on one of the chairs. HJ greeted him and sat down next to him. ‘Hi Neil, how are you today? Have you written anything this week?’ Neil mumbled and pulled some papers out of his bag.
Kidd looked over at Tom. ‘As you can see the group is beginning to assemble. You’re very welcome to stay…’ He broke off as a pretty girl with long blonde hair and a shaggy Afghan coat came in and gave Kidd an enthusiastic hug. HJ shrugged with a what can I do? look and Tom looked at his watch.
‘Actually, I said I’d go round and see Sarah.’
‘Of course, the dear girl. I think she needs all the support we can give her at the moment. Please do give her my love.’ He came over to Tom and shook his hand. ‘I hope you will consider the job. Think about it and come round to see me when you’ve got your CV and references. We’ll go through the application process together.’ He smiled hopefully. ‘I don’t think I’m giving too much away when I tell you that the job is yours if you’ll take it. You’re just the sort of person the centre needs.’
Tom smiled and said he’d contact him very soon. The small sum of money his mother had left him was nearly gone. Living and working at the centre would solve those problems and he’d be doing something useful at last.
The thought buoyed him up as he went out into the damp evening air, the mist swirling round the silent dark corners of the Cowgate. As he walked towards the brighter lights of the Grassmarket, he slowed down. It was perhaps a bit too soon to go Sarah’s. He saw the friendly glow of the lights shining through the leaded windows of The Last Drop and popped in for a quiet pint.
*
The bell rang and Sarah opened the door, hearing brisk steps clacking up the stairs. Babs was shorter than she seemed on television and had put on some weight round her middle since her hey-day as Sergeant Mone, but she held herself well, emphasising her huge jutting bosom. She was well into her fifties, with a strong-featured face, thick black brows and startling spiky magenta hair.
As Sarah muttered a few welcoming platitudes, Babs interrupted. She evidently didn’t want to waste any time on social niceties. ‘I haven’t got long, but there are a few things I think we should discuss before the funeral is arranged.’
Sarah nodded and indicated the drawing room where she had arranged the wine glasses and some olives on the table. Babs sat down but brushed aside the offered wine with an impatient gesture. Sarah helped herself to another glass.
‘I don’t suppose Rory kept you informed, but he used to see me regularly. In fact, he came round just last week.’
Sarah tried to remain impassive, but she was sure surprise registered on her face.
Babs gave a smug smile. ‘He needed someone to talk to, someone who really understood him.’
Sarah didn’t trust herself to say anything.
‘I didn’t let him see Abigail at all when she was young, didn’t want her corrupted, but more recently they’ve been seeing more of each other and got on really well. She’s a lawyer now, deals with women’s rights. So now that Rory’s gone, she’s fighting the case for the children.’
Sarah frowned. ‘Children? I thought you only had the one.’
‘I only have Abigail, but there are the others.’
‘Others?’ Sarah gasped. The enormity of the word reverberated round her brain.
‘So he never told you about them. He really did keep you in a glass cage of ignorance.’
Sarah took another gulp of wine. ‘What others?’
‘Four, as far as I know, all boys. There is Daniel and the twins, Simon and Sean, and then little Jamie; he’s only about ten. These boys all know that Rory’s their father, although he’s never publicly acknowledged them. It’s important that they can be included in the funeral, to give them closure, and also to make sure that they get their legacy.’
Sarah hadn’t even thought of Rory’s will and her mind was still trying to catch up. ‘Four children? Who’s the mother?’
‘There are three. Daniel’s mother is Judy Johnstone, the journalist who used to work with Rory at the Scotsman. She’s married now and lives up north, but Dan’s always kept contact with Rory. The twins’ mother is Mental Miranda. I don’t know what surname she’s using at the moment. She had a rich husband and passed the twins off as his until the relationship broke down. There was a messy divorce, he got suspicious about the twins, and had a DNA test. That’s when the truth came out. Those twins have just started uni now. Then there’s Jamie. His mother is Rosie, one of the researchers on Chats with Rory.’
Sarah, whose mind had been flailing as she tried to follow the list, gasped again. She knew Rosie. She remembered when her baby was born. She’d even asked Rory who the father was, as Rosie seemed determined to bring her son up on her own. Rory had said it was a married man. At least he’d told the truth about that.
‘Anyway, the children should all have their rightful place at the funeral. Abigail has contacted them all and as soon as the funeral details are known she’ll let them know. And she’ll make sure they all get their rightful settlement from the will. Rory has always supported his children, and assured them and their mothers that they would be provided for in the future. Have you seen the will yet?’
Sarah’s brain felt numb. ‘I think it’s at the lawyer’s. Nick’s dealing with that side of things.’
A new worry hit her. She’d always left the finances to Rory. They’d never seemed to have much money, and now she understood why. But they’d had enough and she loved their flat. Surely she’d be able to stay there? She couldn’t bear it if she had to leave.
Babs stood up, thrusting her imposing chest out. ‘There’s no point staying any longer. I’ve said all I have to say. I just wanted you to be aware of the situation.’ She handed Sarah a card. ‘Contact me as soon as you have a date.’
As she was strutting into the hall, the doorbell rang. Sarah pressed the button to open the main door and heard footsteps coming quickly up the stairs. It must be Tom. She hoped Babs would make a move before he reached the top, but she was still at the doorway when Tom appeared round the corner, his long legs taking the steps two by two.
Babs looked at him, and turned to Sarah with a knowing smirk, ‘You’ll be hearing from me.’ With that she gave Tom a nod and set off down the stairs, clacking in her high-heeled boots.
Tom raised his eyebrows questioningly. Sarah pulled him into the hall and closed the door before putting her head on his chest, ‘Oh Tom.’ He put his arms round her and rested his head on the top of her tousled hair, holding her very close.
Part 9
Lying in the darkness. Stale damp air. A weight on my chest, bearing down, crushing me. I struggle to get up, I must escape. In the distance there’s a thin sliver of light. I want to run but my feet won’t move. They are being sucked down. I know I must run, must escape. Behind me there’s something unthinkable, so terrible I can’t put a form to it. I just know I must escape. My limbs won’t move, the walls are closing in on me. Suffocation. Claustrophobia.
Chapter 20
Tom felt Sarah moving beside him, her arms and body thrashing wildly. He put his arm round her, trying to calm her. He stroked her cheek as she threw her head from sid
e to side, her face contorted with fear. ‘Sarah, it’s all right. Don’t worry. Everything’s all right.’
He thought back to the evening before. As he’d walked down from the Grassmarket, dodging the taxis on the Mound, across the silent emptiness of Princes Street still in the throes of the great tram-line fiasco, he’d wondered how Sarah would react to seeing him.
He was sorry that Rory was dead on an intellectual level, he was his oldest mate, but Sarah was his main concern. How would it affect them, their relationship? Would she be so caught up in the death that she pushed him away? Or – he hardly dared to express the hope – would it make it easier for them to get closer?
He’d planned what he was going to say. Condolences, of course, and then he’d tell her about the job and HJ Kidd. He hadn’t had the chance. As he came in the door, passing a short forceful woman just leaving, Sarah threw herself into his arms. She clung to him as she told him what had happened since they were last together. Tom was confused by her story – death and transplants, unfaithfulness and children, the funeral and journalists. She’d been drinking, he could tell, as the words tumbled out, but he managed to calm her, holding her close.
There was a pain in his chest where he imagined his heart must be. Was this what love felt like? It had never been difficult for him to find sex – there were always lots of fun girls in Plett. He had the reputation of being a loner, which attracted some women, especially the bored housewives and the ever-younger girls who tried to convert him. The relationships never lasted long; after the thrill of the chase he’d felt claustrophobic as soon as they were bedded. He’d thought he was incapable of love.
With Sarah it was different. Their lovemaking was wonderful but the difference was afterwards. He wanted to stay with her; he wanted to walk with her, cook with her, sit in silence with her.
Sarah stirred. Tom stroked her hair, feeling emotion swelling inside.
‘Tom…’ Sarah opened her eyes. ‘Oh, my head, I feel so bad.’
‘It’s all right, Sarah, it’s all right.’
‘Oh Tom. I’m sorry.’
Tom held her close. ‘Sarah, you don’t have to apologise. There’s nothing to worry about. You’ve just gone through the most traumatic few days – you’re entitled to a few drinks.’ He kissed the top of her head. ‘Whatever happens, I’ll always be here to help you.’
Sarah looked up at him. ‘Everything seems better when you’re here.’
‘What about the funeral? Do you want me there?’
Sarah lowered her eyes. ‘You know there’s nothing I’d love more, but it’s going to be as private as possible – strictly family only.’ She held him closer. ‘But I’ll need you afterwards. I think it’s going to be hell.’ She straightened up and shook her head. ‘Sorry, this has all been about me. How are things going with you? Have you been to the police?’
Tom hesitated. He was going – and he’d tell the police everything. But first of all he had to tell Sarah about his suspicions, about the chest and his father’s pictures. He hated keeping things from her.
He told the whole story, ending up by saying, ‘So I’m really afraid that my father might have been the killer.’ He hoped that Sarah wouldn’t hate him.
She put her arms round him. ‘You’ve been carrying this suspicion round with you ever since you were in Lewis?’
Tom nodded.
‘I’m glad you’ve told me now, but I wish you’d told me sooner. Because I think you’re worrying needlessly; your suspicions are based on very little really. I think those kind of drawings are not unusual in adolescent boys.’
Tom shook his head. ‘But he impregnated a fourteen-year-old girl and ran away, leaving her to face the consequences alone. He had a child he never saw. He was a monster.’
‘He was a frightened teenager.’ Sarah spoke calmly.
‘But the way he was with Shona, and the way he turned to drink after she died. This is the only explanation.’
Sarah stroked his hair. ‘He loved Shona, and isn’t it understandable that he would be upset after her death? He was her father. I’m sure he must have felt guilty afterwards, feeling he should have been able to look after her, save her from what happened.’
Tom stared at Sarah. Everything he found out about her made him love her more. She was so empathetic, so positive, always seeing the best in everybody. But, he wasn’t comforted by what she said. In fact, having put his suspicions into words he became more convinced that he was right. He didn’t want to think about it.
Changing the subject, he told Sarah about the Canongate job. When he’d finished telling her, she held him tight, her eyes sparkling. ‘Are you really going to stay in Scotland?’ Her face lit up. ‘I was afraid you’d go back to South Africa. I wanted you to stay but I didn’t dare to hope too much. I couldn’t bear the thought of you going away again.’ She seemed to be about to say more but she just took his face in her hands and kissed him tenderly.
*
Seafield Crematorium stood on the coast road between Leith and Portobello. The day of Rory Dunbar’s private family funeral was one of those crisp autumn mornings, when the sky glowed uniform blue and the leaves on the trees shone red, orange and gold. Sarah arrived by taxi with Nick, Lottie and Liam, and Flora. As they were dropped outside the grey-harled chapel, Sarah looked around and breathed a sigh of relief; the courtyard was deserted.
After Babs Barrowfield’s visit she’d dreaded the thought of the funeral, but Nick had calmed her down. He hadn’t been surprised when Sarah had told him about Babs’ revelations because the lawyer had told him that the will contained bequests to other children too. He said Abigail had contacted him and they’d had a good chat. Sarah couldn’t get over his coolness and maturity. He’d been unfazed by everything that had happened, dealing with the police, hospital, lawyers and funeral directors.
As soon as the body was released for burial they began to organise this private family event. Sarah had told Archie about Babs’ visit and the other children, but he too seemed totally unsurprised. Sarah wondered if everyone had known apart from her; it still hurt her to think that Babs had known about everything and Rory had always kept her in the dark.
Archie had recommended Seafield for the cremation, quieter and less fashionable than Warriston or Mortonhall, and fortunately the earliest morning slot was available just a few days later. The funeral directors were sworn to secrecy and any enquiries were directed to the memorial service that was being organised in St Giles Cathedral at the beginning of December.
She hoped that this occasion would satisfy Babs and Abigail and the ‘family’ and that they would not insist on too much prominence at the memorial service, which was being organised by BBC Scotland, and which would concentrate on Rory’s professional achievements.
Sarah was just reflecting on the bizarre quality of the day when her mother’s voice interrupted her thoughts. ‘You really should have worn a hat, you know. And your hair… it looks far too informal hanging down like that. I made a special appointment with Ricki yesterday.’
Sarah looked at her mother. She’d tried to tactfully broach the subject of the other children, but she knew her mother hadn’t really been listening, just fretting about what she should wear. She usually favoured pastels, but for this occasion was wearing a voluminous black coat with an astrakhan collar and a matching hat, which totally dwarfed her tiny frame and rendered any visit to the hairdresser’s totally superfluous.
‘The twins look appropriate, but that boy…’ Mrs Campbell glared at the young ones who were standing on the other side of the courtyard. Nick and Lottie were smart in dark suits and white shirts, but Liam had obviously incurred Flora’s disapproval with his black shirt.
There had been some discussion about whether Liam should come, as it was strictly family only, but Lottie had put her foot down, claiming that he was more family to her than the rest of them. Sarah had quietly asked Nick if he wanted to bring Olly, but was relieved when Nick said he didn’t really think this was the o
ccasion for a public outing.
A shiny grey saloon slid into the courtyard and stopped in front of the door. Babs Barrowfield stepped out of the front seat wearing a fitted black costume carefully emphasising her most famous asset and a black pill-box hat with a veil over her face.
From the back seat a squat younger version of Babs stepped out. This must be Abigail. Sarah looked to see any sign of Rory in her, but she was almost a clone of her mother. She had short cropped hair and was wearing a shapeless black tunic but, despite her lack of height, she exuded confident determination. She was followed by a very tall, dark-haired youth with a long narrow face and close-set eyes. This must be Daniel, looking like an elongated version of a young Rory.
Babs strode towards Sarah, her high-heeled boots clacking on the cobbles. ‘Good morning, Sarah. What an ungodly hour to organise a funeral.’ She turned towards Abigail and Daniel and introduced them. Abigail looked up at Sarah through fierce eyes and greeted her briefly in a deep voice. Daniel stood in the background, looking self-conscious and mumbling a few unintelligeable words.
Sarah introduced her mother and indicated the group of young ones, who were on the other side of the courtyard under a weather-beaten statue of an angel with wide-spread mossy wings. Abigail led Daniel across the courtyard, while Babs stayed with Sarah and her mother.
Moments later, a black Daimler swept in through the gates and purred to a halt. Like something out of an old Hollywood film, a striking figure in a long black fur coat, a broad-brimmed black hat and dark glasses swept out of the car, followed by two very handsome boys in dark suits, who oozed self-confidence.
‘Oh God, Mental Miranda,’ whispered Babs. ‘I told her not to come. Family only.’
Miranda approached Sarah, holding out her slim black-leather gloved hand. ‘My condolences, Sarah. We have suffered a very sad loss. Rory was a very special man.’
Sewing the Shadows Together Page 17
