Disorder (Sam Keddie thriller series Book 1)

by Paddy Magrane

  ‘Perfect for a Minister keen to avoid prying eyes,’ Eleanor suggested.

  Sam nodded. ‘And the date feels right, if what you’re saying about your dad’s lurch in mood is correct. Something around this time changed him.’

  Sam glanced at Eleanor, but he could see she’d already made up her mind.

  Chapter 29

  The Lake District

  It was after 4am and Sam reckoned they were now a couple of miles from their destination. Eleanor was sleeping in the seat beside him, her head slumped against the window.

  For the past hour Sam had been having serious doubts about the sanity of this journey. What did they expect to find at the hotel? A body buried in the grounds?

  He looked across at Eleanor. In sharp contrast to how she’d appeared hours before, her face looked calm. He knew it was a temporary state. Having had his world turned upside down, Sam had done the same to Eleanor, just as she was reeling from her father’s suicide. They were now both in a parallel universe, a place where old certainties and securities had evaporated.

  A car passed them on the road, filling the Peugeot’s interior with dazzling light. Shadows shot briefly across Eleanor’s brightly illuminated face. Her head flopped forward then instinctively pulled back.

  How odd, thought Sam, to be thrown together in such an intense experience and yet still barely know each other. He wasn’t sure he knew himself any more. He could feel the presence of the notes in his pocket, the glimpses of a father he’d deliberately held back from Eleanor. He was hardening, becoming more calculating.

  After about five minutes down a quiet road that straddled a lake, a slither of moon reflected on its inky black surface, Sam saw a sign for the hotel. He turned off down a narrow lane bordered on both sides by thick conifer woods, branches overhanging the track so that it felt like they were descending a dark tunnel, not arriving at a luxury hideaway. Eleanor woke, tensing at the sight of the dense wooded shadows on either side.

  But then the hotel appeared, white walls illuminated by carefully positioned ground lights. Eleanor relaxed a fraction. As the font on the bill had suggested, the Burn Banks was an Art Deco building, a two-storey curved construction.

  The entrance sat under a cantilivered porch, the lights inside sending a glow into the dark night.

  They tried the front door. It was locked.

  ‘Guess we should have thought this through,’ muttered Sam.

  But then they saw a man cross the hotel’s lobby and head in their direction. He wore grey trousers, a crumpled white shirt open at the neck. He unlocked the door.

  ‘Hi,’ he said, rubbing his eyes. ‘Come in.’

  He re-locked the door behind them, then moved behind a reception desk.

  The interior was dimly lit but Sam could see that the Art Deco theme continued inside, with a staircase of polished chrome that curved in a loop upwards. On the walls were black and white photographs: two women in evening wear, their shoulders draped in fur; a man dressed in plus fours, a bow tie and large flat cap, a cigarette dangling from the side of his mouth.

  ‘What room, please?’

  Sam and Eleanor exchanged glances.

  ‘We’re not guests,’ said Sam.

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘We need to talk to the manager,’ Eleanor said.

  The man gave them a slightly puzzled look. ‘It’s 4.30 in the morning. The manager went home hours ago. She’ll be back at around 8. Can it wait till then?’

  Sam nodded. In truth he was exhausted and pretty sure that he wouldn’t have made any sense if he had been able to speak to her.

  ‘I don’t know about you, but I need to sleep.’

  Eleanor nodded.

  Sam turned back to the man. ‘Have you got any rooms?’

  The man frowned. ‘We don’t normally take guests in the middle of the night.’

  ‘Please,’ said Eleanor.

  The man looked from Sam to Eleanor, assessing them. His eyes dropped to a ledger on the desk. He turned a page. ‘There’s the Keswick Suite and,’ he said, running a finger downwards, ‘the Windermere, which is a double.’

  ‘The Windermere will do fine,’ said Eleanor. Clearly, thought Sam, the prospect of staying in the same room as her father and his lover was not appealing.

  ‘I can’t register you now,’ said the man. ‘Our system is shut down. I’ll need to take a credit card for security.

  ‘Can I pay in cash?’ Sam asked.

  The man paused.

  ‘I can do it now, if it’s easy.’

  The man blinked rapidly, as if courtesy was fighting with a desire to fling these two strangers out. ‘Sure.’

  The Windermere, despite being the cheaper of the two options they’d been offered, was still a large room, decked out in restrained greys, with streamlined Modernist furniture arranged by the window which, the man had assured them, had a partial lake view.

  ‘And you think we weren’t followed?’ said Eleanor, once they’d been left alone.

  ‘I haven’t seen another car for hours,’ said Sam. ‘We’ve told no-one where we are. The car we’ve been driving doesn’t belong to either of us. I paid cash. And that man downstairs was so sleepy he didn’t even take our names.’

  This seemed enough for Eleanor, who flopped down on the bed.

  When Sam re-emerged from the bathroom, Eleanor was already asleep. Sam folded the bedspread over her. He pulled some cushions from a sofa and laid them on the floor. Soon he was in a deep sleep.

  Chapter 30

  The Lake District

  Sam was dreaming.

  He was in a familiar place, the images and events to come as predictable as a repeatedly viewed movie. He would have loved to run. But he knew he was powerless to escape.

  He was standing by a large steel door, the kind that might open into a storage unit, or cold room. He turned the handle, and stepped inside.

  He was now in a laboratory, a place that might have been conceived by Hollywood for a film about a deranged scientist. On either side of the room were long workstations cluttered with activity. Numerous lit burners sat under tripods, a rainbow selection of liquids bubbling away in test tubes or beakers, flames and puffs of gas erupting from them. As Sam walked down the middle of the room he began to feel anxious, as if any minute now, there’d be an explosion from this chaotic display.

  The room was filling with smoke, the air becoming thick with the cloying smell of bad eggs.

  Sam heard a cry. His name, from an all-too-familiar voice. His mother’s. She was in distress. The cry was coming from the end of the room but, because of the smoke, he couldn’t see her. Suddenly she emerged out of the sulphurous fog. She was wearing a lab coat and was sitting on a stool. She didn’t appear to be tied up or injured, but merely paralysed, as if only he could free her from this prison. He moved through the smoke towards her.

  ‘I’m coming, Mum,’ he said.

  Just then there was another noise, a terrifying clatter he knew all too well. It was the sound of hooves pounding the floor’s hard surface. Suddenly out of the gloom emerged a huge black horse, sweat on its coat, nostrils flaring, white foam around its mouth and eyes bulging with fear. It was heading directly for Sam. He stepped back, petrified by the sight of this out-of-control wild animal. The horse was closer now and began rearing up on its hind, flailing at Sam with its front legs. Any minute now it would bring those hooves down on him and he’d be knocked to the ground and trampled to death.

  But even above the din the frenzied animal was making, Sam could still hear the cry of his mother.

  ‘Sam,’ she feebly called out. ‘Don’t leave me.’

  Sam decided to move forward towards his mother, who was beckoning with open arms. But soon he was again directly before the animal. It reared up once more, towering above him, a crazed beast about to strike him down. Sam screamed out.

  He was awake and sitting bolt upright. His body was covered in sweat, his system still firing on adrenaline. Eleanor was sitting up in bed lookin
g down at him.

  ‘You OK?’

  ‘I had a nightmare,’ he said.

  ‘A nasty one by the look of things. You’re drenched in sweat.’

  ‘It’s a recurring dream,’ said Sam, keen to keep the revelations to a minimum. He’d never told anyone the content of this nightmare, and he had no intention of doing it now.

  ‘So nothing to do with the image of that man pressing a pillow against Jane Vyner’s face, which has kept me from falling asleep?’

  ‘I didn’t wake you?’

  ‘No, I was already awake. I’ve been watching you for the last few minutes. You were thrashing around. I wanted to wake you but I seem to remember you shouldn’t disturb someone having a nightmare.’

  ‘That’s sleepwalking,’ said Sam. ‘For future reference, feel free.’

  Eleanor turned on her side, resting her head against a hand propped up on an elbow. ‘Want to talk about it?’

  ‘That’s meant to be my line,’ said Sam, managing a smile. ‘It’s OK, thanks. It’s just my mind emptying. Meaningless stuff.’

  ‘That’s not what Freud and Jung thought.’

  Sam was taken aback by her comment. It was clear she could see through him – and that she wasn’t buying his dismissal of dreams as meaningless. But he couldn’t reveal the content of his nightmare to her, not until he’d resolved it himself.

  ‘I should take a shower,’ he said.

  When he returned from the bathroom, Eleanor had turned on her side to face the other direction. He sensed she was still awake. He settled back on the cushions on the floor but knew that, as always after the nightmare, sleep would not return.

  Chapter 31

  The Lake District

  Sam and Eleanor approached reception just before 9am. Sam’s fatigue felt like a heavy coat. His body was begging to stop, to collapse on to the nearest seat and sleep. Eleanor, by contrast, was chomping at the bit. She asked for the manageress and the man behind the desk made a call. A moment later a woman with curly red hair emerged from a nearby doorway.

  ‘Ah!’ she said, ‘our late-night visitors.’ She extended her hand. ‘I’m Fay, the manageress. How can I help?’

  ‘It’s about my father,’ said Eleanor. ‘I believe he was a guest here recently.’

  ‘OK,’ said the manageress, toning down her enthusiasm. ‘Can I take his name?’

  ‘Charles Scott.’

  The woman looked up at Eleanor and then her eyes darted to Sam.

  Eleanor rooted in her bag and retrieved her driver’s license, which she showed to the manageress.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said the woman, ‘but this doesn’t prove you’re his daughter.’

  ‘Oh for Christ’s sake,’ muttered Eleanor. She fished in her bag again and pulled out her wallet. She opened it and flashed the inside to the manageress. Sam caught a brief glimpse of a photo of Eleanor and her father.

  The woman smiled sympathetically.

  ‘I’m so sorry for your loss, Miss Scott. You can understand the last thing I want to do is discuss your father with someone from the press.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Eleanor tersely.

  ‘So,’ said the manageress, some reserve still evident in her voice. ‘What would you like to talk about?’

  ‘Can we go somewhere more private?’ asked Eleanor.

  The manageress led them out of reception into a snug, panelled bar. She directed them to a table well away from the only other person in the room, a waiter polishing glasses at a curved, chrome-top bar.

  ‘Can I get you anything – some coffee perhaps?’ she asked.

  Sam and Eleanor shook their heads. Sam had the distinct sense that the woman was delaying Eleanor’s questions.

  ‘When my father stayed here recently,’ said Eleanor, ‘he came with a woman he was having a relationship with.’

  The manageress looked uncertain. ‘To be fair, I’m not certain that’s the case.’

  ‘They shared the Keswick Suite,’ said Eleanor, flatly.

  ‘I’d have to check.’

  ‘Please,’ said Eleanor, not bothering to hide her irritation, ‘don’t feel the need to protect me. I know my father was having an affair. I also believe that something happened here that might shed some light on his death.’

  The woman looked at Eleanor and sighed. She then nodded gently. ‘Your father was a guest here earlier in the month – and he brought a woman called Jane Vyner as his guest.’

  ‘Do you always manage to remember your guests’ names so easily?’ asked Sam.

  The manageress looked down at the table, then up at Sam and Eleanor, smiling uncomfortably. ‘Certain guests.’

  Sam and Eleanor exchanged glances.

  The manageress paused, the discomfort written all over her face. ‘Your father and Jane Vyner had rather a public row – in this very room, in fact – that was overheard by pretty much everyone in the bar at the time.’

  ‘Go on,’ said Eleanor.

  ‘It was around seven in the evening and guests were drifting in for a drink before dinner. It’s normally such a relaxed time at the hotel, but that night the atmosphere changed in an instant.’ The manageress’s eyes moved between Sam and Eleanor, as if begging them to ask her to stop.

  ‘I was in the room at the time, ensuring the staff were looking after guests, drinks were refilled, that kind of thing. Your father,’ and here the eyes again dropped to the table for a moment, ‘was sitting in one of the booths with Jane Vyner. I have to say, they didn’t look that happy when they walked in, as if they’d just had a row. Anyhow, whatever was on their minds soon resurfaced.’

  The manageress looked at Eleanor, her eyes almost pleading. ‘Are you sure you want to hear this?’

  Eleanor’s face was set rigid. ‘Tell me everything.’

  ‘It’s an exchange I can remember almost word for word,’ continued the manageress after a pause. Sam sensed her gathering momentum, keen to get this over with.

  ‘I was close to the table when I heard your father raise his voice for the first time, saying “just drop it, will you?” Jane Vyner snapped back with “Drop what exactly? You haven’t told me anything.” Your father began speaking louder, his tone, if I’m going to be honest, was dripping with sarcasm. He told Jane Vyner to stop being “so bloody clever”. They had the full attention of everyone in the room now and whatever conversation anyone else had been enjoying had halted. In fact, when your father and Jane Vyner weren’t talking, you could have heard a pin drop. I’d had enough at this point and headed over to their booth to ask them to either pipe down or leave the room. But as I was about to intervene, Jane Vyner’s voice became more of a shout. She was ranting about how it was impossible to drop the issue, and that nothing had been the same since he’d got back. Your father then slammed the table with a fist and shouted “Enough”. As you can imagine, that was it. I asked them to leave.’

  There was a sudden scrape of chair legs and Sam turned to see Eleanor walk out of the room. He’d been listening to the manageress so intently, he hadn’t noticed Eleanor’s state. This was clearly much harder than she’d anticipated.

  The manageress sighed heavily. ‘I’m so sorry,’ she said.

  ‘It’s not your fault,’ said Sam. ‘She asked to hear it.’

  ‘I’m sure this isn’t how she wants to remember her father.’

  Sam turned back to the table. ‘To be honest, I doubt she knows him at all any more.’

  Sam found Eleanor sitting on the terrace at the back of the hotel. It was a bleak day, the clouds gun-metal grey and low over the lake below them. The far side was obscured, so the view appeared nothing more than an oppressive bank of fog. He sat down beside her.

  ‘You OK?’

  ‘That was too much for me,’ said Eleanor, her voice cold, ‘the idea of my father ranting in a hotel bar.’ She combed both hands through her thick hair. ‘But at the same time, I want to know everything. I need to understand him.’

  Sam could see now that he had to give Eleanor the c
ase notes – the pieces of paper he’d willfully held back. To protect her from making assumptions about her father’s actions, and his feelings towards her. But also because it hadn’t suited him at the time.

  But before he could reach for the sheets of paper in his pocket, she spoke.

  ‘He took 28 Co-proxamol, you know,’ she said. ‘They found the boxes by his chair, and some barely digested pills he’d vomited. He’d had the tablets for years. He’d been prescribed them for a bad back. They must have been in his bathroom cabinet all that time. Just waiting.’

  Sam said nothing, letting her speak unimpeded.

  ‘He left a suicide note too. The police gave it to us. It just said “So sorry to let you both down”. Pathetic, don’t you agree? How could he leave us this way, with a huge bloody mystery, guessing why in God’s name he decided it made sense to abandon his wife and daughter.’

  She started to cry, her head resting on her knees. Sam placed a hand on her back.

  ‘I should show you these,’ he said.

  Eleanor looked up. ‘What?’

  ‘Your father’s case notes.’

  The tears had stopped flowing and Sam could see the rapid calculations going on in Eleanor’s head. ‘You kept these from me,’ she said. ‘Why?’

  ‘Because,’ Sam replied, searching for words that wouldn’t inflame the situation. ‘I kept them from you because I didn’t want to upset you any more than you were already.’

  The words were true, but Sam was acutely aware that he was still not being entirely honest.

  ‘But these amount to some of my father’s last words.’ She snatched the papers from Sam. Hastily wiping her tears with the back of a hand, she began to read.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Sam.

  Eleanor did not look up. She was no longer with Sam, but intently studying the pieces of paper in her hands.

  Sam slipped away.

  A little later, he was sitting in the hotel foyer, a cup of coffee going cold before him, when Eleanor approached.

  ‘I’m going home,’ she said, barely looking him in the eye. ‘I need to be with my mother. If the Government wants to kill me they can come and get me. I’ll give you a lift to the station. I think it’s best we part ways.’