Tonight, with only a couple of hours’ notice, she’d just had to take an apple pie out of the freezer and put two steaks into the microwave to defrost. She didn’t like doing that, but at least it was quick, and she’d served it daintily with a sprig of parsley and a cheese sauce for the cauliflower – he’d always enjoyed that. And she enjoyed watching him eat, watching his clever, doctor’s hands slice so neatly across the grain of the meat. She devoured her son with her eyes, her own steak barely touched, as if the sight of him were sustenance enough. He was so beautiful, with his dark waving hair and blue eyes with those long, thick lashes like a girl’s – and such a good boy too, coming back to be near his mother in the teeth of opposition from the harpy who had somehow managed to snare him. Oh, he didn’t say much – Lewis had always been one to keep his own counsel – but his mother could guess what That Woman would have put him through. He was too good, that was the problem, allowing her to walk all over him with her constant demands. Oh, she heard all about the way she behaved in the surgery from Muriel Henderson – and how she behaved outside it too, by all accounts.
Did he know what they were all saying, know how she was making a fool of him? And of her mother-in-law too; no one would say anything to Lewis directly, but there were people bold enough to make broad hints, veiled in mock-sympathy (‘It can’t be easy for poor Dr Lewis, his wife being so taken up with her lifeboat friends’), which had necessitated some cold and steely snubbing.
She hadn’t dared tell him herself. She and Lewis were close, but she had never been invited to discuss his marriage. Though she could see sometimes that things were difficult, he kept his problems to himself, just as he always had even as a little boy, and she had spent years concealing her opinion of Ashley so that the woman could have no excuse for creating a breach. If she’d got it wrong, if Lewis blamed the messenger for the message, it would have undone the careful work of years without any certainty of success in ending this disastrous marriage which was obviously never going to provide Lewis with the son he deserved, the grandchild she so hungered for. Ashley, as she had laughingly told Dorothy, wasn’t the maternal type.
‘It was your day off today, wasn’t it? Did they have to call you in to cover for Ashley?’ Muriel had told her how often that happened.
He shook his head. ‘She did warn me to expect a phone call, but it would have been a bit tricky if they had wanted me. I’d been walking from St Ninian’s Cave over to the Isle of Whithorn – looking down towards Burrow Head it was quite spectacular to watch the landscape disappearing as the fog started rolling in – but by the time I got back from there surgery would probably have been over.’
‘What time will the poor girl get home tonight?’ Dorothy spoke with determined brightness. ‘It’s such a demanding hobby, isn’t it?’
Lewis sighed. ‘I don’t think she sees it quite in those terms. A hobby’s something you can give up if it stops being amusing. She describes it as being almost a vocation – the call of the sea, that sort of thing.’ He gave a wry smile. ‘Frankly, from the symptoms it looks to me more like an addiction.’
‘I suppose it must be like belonging to a very special club, isn’t it? Now, that is very addictive – do you remember how when you were little it was always terribly important to belong to whichever secret club was the thing of the moment, with all the passwords and secret rituals?’
‘Good gracious, Mother, how long ago was that? But yes, I do remember – what fun it was!’ He smiled reminiscently.
She cut a piece off her own steak with apparent concentration, saying casually, ‘And, of course, you do form very close friendships when you’re involved in something like that, don’t you? I’m sure, with that atmosphere of excitement and tension, dealing with life-and-death situations, it creates special bonds with the people you’re working with, very intimate relationships—’
She had gone too far. Lewis looked up sharply, his blue eyes cold. ‘Oh, I think Ashley’s pretty savvy about handling that sort of thing.
‘That was a very good steak, Mother. Was it from the butcher’s in Shore Street? Ashley and I always use lack of time as an excuse for buying ready-meals but actually steak’s the ultimate convenience food.’
‘And it tastes so much nicer, doesn’t it?’ Dorothy rose to collect the plates. ‘And it’s my own apple pie to follow. With proper custard, of course.’
So he had heard something. If there were . . . developments, how would she play it? As she went through to the kitchen, her mind was buzzing.
Ashley Randall sat on the end of the super king-size bed in the sumptuous master bedroom of the Elder’s Executive Homes showhouse, fastening her lacy white bra. In the en suite bathroom, Ritchie Elder was carefully combing his hair in front of the mirror with its star’s dressing room-style lighting.
‘I do apologise that the water isn’t connected for a shower,’ he called over his shoulder. ‘It just might give rise to questions if I insisted. There was a bit of chat as it was because I had the house furnished so early.’
‘Lewis will probably be still at his mother’s anyway. If he’s back I can just say I didn’t stop for a shower at the shed because I was so keen to get back to him.’
‘He’ll believe you?’
‘He always believes what I tell him. It’s the thing I like best about him.’
Elder came out of the bathroom. ‘Are you sure? He’s not a fool.’
‘No, he’s not a fool. He’s just supremely complacent – thinks the world was arranged for his benefit and can’t imagine that anything could possibly happen which would interfere with his image of the way things should be.’
She stood up to put on her cream silk blouse. He came across to her and put his arms round her from behind, undoing the buttons she had been fastening and nuzzling her neck. She smiled, but disengaged herself. ‘No, Ritchie!’ she scolded with mock severity. ‘We’re pushing our luck already.’ She refastened her shirt, stepped neatly into the trousers of her suit and did them up too.
Elder sighed. ‘If you insist. When can I hope to see you again?’
‘Well – can’t rely on another call-out soon, can we?’ She looked about her at the luxurious room, the soft lights, the deep-pile carpet, the faux fur throw on the acreage of the bed. ‘And what are we going to do when the sales start for the estate? It must be very soon now. Going anywhere public’s too risky, with us both being so well-known round here, and I’m definitely past the age of making out in the back of a car. Even if it is a top-of-the-range Mitsubishi!’
‘Mmm. I’ll have to work something out. Actually . . .’
They went to opposite sides of the bed to straighten the covers and the throw and plump up the pillows and cushions. After a second he went on, ‘Look, I wonder if we need to find some time to talk things through? I’ve been thinking, lately – we might not want to go on for ever like this.’
Ashley’s heart gave a thump of excitement. Yes! But she was too clever to sound anything but cool. ‘I don’t know, Ritchie. We’re brilliant together, but there’s an awful lot to consider – Lewis, Joanna . . .’
‘More top-level discussions, then? As soon as possible?’
He came round to take her in his arms again and this time she melted into his embrace.
Rob Anderson slid in behind the bar in the Anchor and with a wink at the man waiting to be served on the other side of the counter, came silently up behind his wife Katy, who was filling a glass from the optic of whisky in the corner, and pinched her charmingly rounded rear.
She jumped and gave a squeal of protest. ‘Rob Anderson, look what you’ve made me do! This was supposed to be a single and now it’s a double, thanks to you, you daft eejit!’ She looked with affectionate exasperation at her grinning husband and took her revenge by reaching up from her diminutive height to pull the full black beard he had sported since his days in the Navy.
‘No loss what a friend gets, eh, Doddie? The extra’s on the house.’ He took the glass from her and slid it across
to the appreciative customer.
‘You weren’t out long,’ she said, pulling the pint of Special to go with it.
‘No – just a wee fella who’d bought himself a boat and didn’t know his anchor from his engine. His wife was giving him laldie when I left and if you ask me he’ll be lucky to get a shottie playing with boats in his bath from now on.
‘Were you busy earlier?’ He looked round; the bar was quiet enough at the moment, with half a dozen people at the tables and three of the regulars watching the television in the corner, expressing their disgust at Ayr United’s defeat.
‘No, very quiet. The weather’s probably kept them at home.’
‘It’s clearing now.’ Rob picked up a dish-towel and began to dry the tumblers upside down on the draining board beside the sink. ‘We’ll maybe get a rush later now the match is over.’
‘Yes.’ Katy sounded distracted and he looked at her sharply. ‘All right, love?’
‘Yes, fine. Well, at least – Rob, have you seen Nat this evening?’
‘Nat?’ Oh God, not problems again! He adored his wife of four years, and the proof of that was taking on Nat, who took after his unpleasant father and was the stepson from hell. But Katy suffered enough without him adding to it by complaining about the little creep. ‘Why, did you want him for something?’
‘No, not really. Oh, he should be in doing his homework, of course, but I’ve stopped crying for the moon. No, he went out around the time the maroons went off and I haven’t seen him since. He’s – he’s taken my car again and he didn’t come in for his tea.’
Rob had already told her what he thought she should do about Nat’s joyriding habits. Trying to hide the keys simply wasn’t enough; Nat always managed to find out where she put them. He needed a short, sharp lesson, but her fear that he’d kill himself – and somebody else as well – wasn’t great enough to persuade her to report him to the police and have him end up with a criminal record. This time, he ducked the issue.
‘Probably got chips instead. And now I think about it, there was a group of lads hanging around the shed when we came back – he could have been with them. He’ll turn up when he’s hungry.’
And he mustn’t even allow himself to wish that Nat had done a runner, because it would break Katy’s heart. Not that Nat wasn’t all set to break it anyway.
As Ritchie Elder parked the Mitsubishi outside Bayview House, he glanced up at the impressive, pseudo-Palladian frontage with its pillared porch. It was, of course, one of his own Executive Homes, only built on a uniquely lavish scale on a site about a mile south of Knockhaven by the main coast road which, as a prospectus would say, boasted spectacular sea views. It was a statement about his status as local lad made good.
One wing was dedicated to a swimming pool, sauna and gym area, a double-height temple to the Gods of Fitness and the Body Beautiful, of which cult Joanna seemed to be becoming a High Priestess. The lights were on there now; no doubt she was exercising. He wondered, sometimes, if she ever did anything else nowadays.
He’d married a girl with the face of a Dresden shepherdess and a delicate physique, ready to be the perfect wife for a man who was Going Places, with no inconvenient ambition except to be hostess for him and mother to his children. Unfortunately, the delicate physique had recently proved not up to the second of these tasks.
He was disappointed, admittedly – what man wouldn’t like a son to carry on the name and the business? – but there were many compensations for being childfree. Joanna, on the other hand, was distraught. It seemed that despite wanting for nothing in terms of luxury and comfort, her life was pointless if the outcome wasn’t small, squally, smelly things to mother. He’d suggested puppies; she’d looked at him as if he was a monster.
The lights were on in the gym area. She’d be pounding away on the treadmill, no doubt, although she had thinned down to little more than bones and whipcord muscle already. Ashley somehow managed to stay seriously fit while retaining those silken rounded curves that could drive a man mad. Hastily, he tried to think of something else. It was getting harder and harder to think about anything except Ashley.
He wasn’t often unsure of himself, but then he’d never had a woman like Ashley, so cool, so self-possessed. She could just be using him, as he had used half a dozen other women, to add a little spice to married life. This was the first time he’d ever seriously considered the hideous and expensive business of divorce; Ashley might turn him down flat, of course, but even so it probably wasn’t too soon to sound out a competent lawyer.
He took the stairs to his bedroom two at a time. A swim last thing at night was a useful habit he’d developed over his unfaithful years, and he changed into swimming trunks, put on a towelling robe and padded downstairs and along to the pool area.
Joanna was, indeed, on the treadmill when he came in. These last few weeks, she’d seemed to live on it. She was wearing turquoise shorts and a white T-shirt, her Nikes thudding away on the moving belt. She was sweating profusely, her neat-featured face contorted in what looked like extreme agony. She raised her hand in greeting as he came in, then flicked a switch to allow her to slow down. ‘Eleven miles,’ she gasped as she stopped, labouring for breath.
Ritchie picked up a towel from a chair and threw it at her. ‘You’re sweating like a pig,’ he said brutally, then walked past her to execute a competent shallow dive into the pool and began ploughing up and down in an elegant, economical crawl.
Watching her husband, Joanna Elder rubbed her face, her neck, her shoulders and under her arms. She had punished her body – her pathetic, treacherous body – for its failures to the point where conceiving would have been beyond it anyway.
Ritchie thought her problem was not having children to mother; he was wrong. She needed children, for security. Without children, she was only Ritchie Elder’s wife – his present wife. Hardly an assured position. Oh, she had always known about his infidelities, but equally she knew that until now none of them had been serious. She could still look in the mirror in the morning and see Mrs Ritchie Elder looking back at her.
Her parents had a newsagent’s shop in Dumfries where she’d helped, not very enthusiastically, and she’d done a bit of local modelling though she wasn’t tall enough for the real stuff. She’d never had a proper job, the sort that gave you status of your own, and she’d never been very good at friendship either, somehow. It all seemed like awfully hard work, listening to the boring problems girlfriends always had. So marrying Ritchie had been the perfect answer: it provided money, position, a social life, everything she’d ever wanted – as long as she was his wife. If Ritchie divorced her, it wasn’t just the money, though of course she’d be doing her best to take care of that; it would be like falling into a vacuum that would suck the breath from her body.
There were rumours which even she had been hearing, for ages now. And she was scared. She was terribly, terribly scared.
It was five o’clock in the morning when the crying started. It began softly, whimpers at first, but soon it was anguished, heart-wrenching.
She’d tried to ignore it when it woke her at first, shut her eyes, tried to sink back into sleep again. She pulled the pillow over her head to try to blot out the sound, reminded herself of what she’d been advised – no, instructed to do.
It was hopeless. Completely impossible. Laura Harvey switched on the light, blinking blearily at the clock. She got up, shoving her feet into the slippers by the side of her bed, and grabbed a dressing gown; there were the first hints of cold weather ahead in the chill of the night air.
The sound of her movement seemed to provoke even more distress. The cries rose in pitch and intensity as she opened the door of the kitchen in her rented cottage and switched on the light.
One corner of the kitchen, the one nearest the radiator, had been barricaded off with a deep wooden plank. Over the top of it, a little black nose and two furry ears appeared, then disappeared, then appeared again as their owner bounced up and down. Laura went ove
r to it. ‘You’re very, very naughty,’ she said reproachfully.
The collie pup on the other side of the barricade began a frantic wagging of its stumpy, pointed tail, while still emitting ‘Yow-yow-yows!’ of distress. The comfortable basket by the radiator was empty, the old duvet which had lined it was lying on the floor oozing feathers, and the hot-water bottle, concealed below it to substitute for the warmth of a mother and four siblings, had deflated in a large pool of water. There was another, more sinister, wet patch too on the newspaper covering the floor.
‘Daisy, this is ridiculous. Marjory told me I just had to ignore you, but how could I when you’re making that sort of noise?’ She bent forward to scoop up the portly little creature, cradling it against her.
The effect was magical. The noise stopped instantly, the warm, furry head butted against her, and a tiny pink tongue tried frantically to lick whatever flesh was available.
Laura was entranced. ‘Oh, poor baby! Are you missing your mum?’ she crooned idiotically as the puppy snuggled into her arms and indicated that in these circumstances she was prepared to go back to sleep. At least Laura retained enough common sense to say, ‘Oh no you don’t! Outside first, if I’m going to take your basket through to my bedroom. And you’d better take on board that you’re going to have to settle there, with no more nonsense.’
Daisy, daughter of Meg of Mains of Craigie, seemed unimpressed by the outdoors at this hour of the morning. Eventually, after a long chilly wait for nature to take its course, Laura deemed that it was prudent to bring her back inside. Puppy in one hand, basket and what was left of the duvet in the other, she went back upstairs to the bedroom, settled the puppy in one corner, and climbed thankfully back into bed.
She was almost dropping off when the crying started again. Too tired to think of discipline, Laura groped her way across the room, grabbed the squirming Daisy and dumped her on the end of the bed.
‘Now, since it’s the first night you can sleep there. Just don’t tell Marjory, that’s all.’
The Darkness and the Deep Page 3
