by Reah, Danuta
He would be eighty in three days’ time. Dariusz’ younger sister Beata was planning a party, when he and his four siblings would cram into the apartment where they had grown up, and celebrate in the traditional Polish way with good food and vodka. He could remember the celebrations from his own birthdays as he grew up, the voices singing: Sto lat, sto lat, niech zyje zyje nam… Then last night, Beata had called to tell him the old man was ill. ‘The doctor wants him in hospital but he refuses to go. I’m worried he isn’t even taking his medication.’
Dariusz was busy, but he took four days’ leave and drove the 200 miles to the shores of the Baltic sea. He’d trained as an engineer in the heady days after the first Solidarity government. He thought – they all thought – that Poland was going to become a true workers’ state, but with their eyes fixed on the future, they didn’t see the corruption that was endemic in the old Soviet system as its tentacles ate into the roots of the new democracy.
He was his father’s son and became involved at once in trades union activism which gradually took over his working life. After several years of fighting for the rights of his co-workers and finding himself mown down by people who had somehow emerged into the new democracy with their power intact and their wealth increased, he went back to college and took a degree in law. He still worked for the trades union, but he was disillusioned now. Too often he found himself defending workers against their own union rather than their employers.
The call came as he was loading his stuff into his car. It was one of the many bureaucrats he had to negotiate his working life around, Leslaw Mielek. ‘What’s this about leave? You can’t go. I’ve got no one to cover for you.’
That was horse-shit. Dariusz had reorganised his case load so that all he had to deal with for the next few days was paperwork. He mentally subjected Mielek to an improbable sexual indignity and waited until the voice on the other end of the phone had stopped speaking. ‘That’s got to be your problem, Mielek. I can keep up with the paperwork from Gdynia. I’ll be back on Saturday.’
‘See that you are.’
Dariusz added a goat to the orgy and hung up. He put the matter out of his mind. He could deal with Mielek when he got back. His father was more important. Beata’s call had worried him.
At first, his father had seemed fine and he thought Beata had been alarmist, but now he could see the unhealthy flush that minor exertion had brought to the old man’s cheeks. ‘What’s all this about the hospital?’
‘I’m not going. Once they’ve got you in there – my age – you’re dead. I’m going to die in my own bed.’
‘You’re not dying anywhere, not yet. What about the pills they gave you?’
His father looked shifty. Dariusz stood up and went through to the kitchen. He rummaged in the cupboard where the old man kept all his medications until he found a packet of antibiotics with the pharmacy seal intact. He read the instructions, filled a glass with water and took it through. ‘Here. You’ll take these, and you’ll keep on taking them, or I’m driving you to the hospital right now.’ He looked into his father’s stubborn eyes. ‘If I have to, I’ll carry you there. Now take them!’
There was a clash of wills, then his father capitulated. ‘Lot of damn fuss,’ he said as he accepted one of the capsules that Dariusz held out to him, and washed it down with a swig of water. Dariusz waited out the fit of coughing that he was pretty sure was simulated, then said, ‘Right. Now you need something to eat.’
It looked like he was stuck here until the day of the party. He persuaded his father to go and lie down while he prepared some soup. He was in the middle of chopping the miscellany of tired vegetables he’d found in the fridge when his phone rang. He was expecting calls from work and he answered it without checking the number. ‘Dariusz Erland.’
To his surprise, it was Ania. She usually called him in the evenings. ‘I was just wondering where you are.’
‘I’m at my father’s. Where are you?’ He dumped the vegetables into a pan as he spoke and put it on the cooker.
‘In Łódź . I’ve come a few days early. I just called the flat.’
He cursed Beata for her untimely call, and his father for being a stubborn old mule. ‘Shit. I wasn’t expecting you until the weekend. My father’s ill.’
‘Is it serious?’
‘It wouldn’t be if he’d look after himself. Listen I can’t get away until Friday now. Are you OK? Why did you come early?’
‘To see you, of course.’
He could tell by her voice that something was wrong. ‘Come on, kiciu. What is it?’
‘Oh, it’s just… A case. A case has gone wrong on me. I… Look, it can wait. You take care of your dad. I’ll see you on Saturday.’
‘Friday. I’ll be back Friday night.’ It would be a long drive, a good three hours. He’d have to fake the vodka toasts at the party.
‘Will you?’ She sounded better. ‘I really want to see you.’
‘And I really want to see you.’ The soup was simmering now. He turned down the heat then went to sit in the living room. The smell of cooking followed him. ‘We can still talk. What’s the problem?’
‘It’s complicated. I…’
His father called from the other room, and started coughing in earnest.
‘You’ve got things to do. I’ll try later. When we’re both in bed.’
He laughed. ‘You do that.’
He was frustrated that she was here, in Poland, but she was still 200 miles away from him.
Chapter 5
The sea was calmer than Will had expected. He took the boat up the coast, keeping close to the inaccessible cliffs. In a few weeks, the kittiwakes would be nesting and the sky would be full of the sounds of raucous discontent as they fought for space on the narrow ledges.
The sky cleared, and the thin sun of winter warmed his face. Keeper nosed his hand then stood with her front paws on the gunwale, her tongue lolling as she surveyed the sea. It should have been a perfect day, except...
He’d had misgivings about the Haynes case ever since it landed on Ania’s desk. Haynes, an ex-prison officer, had worked at the detention centre outside Manchester where the dead child, Sagal Akindès, had been held. Her father, François had sought asylum with his family, claiming government soldiers were looking for them. Instead, he’d turned out to be a jihadist who had hooked up with a local group suspected of terrorist links at the first opportunity. He had been summarily deported. His family had not gone with him because Sagal had been ill and deemed unfit to travel. When she disappeared, police had at first believed that the girl’s mother, Nadifa had arranged for her daughter to be smuggled out and hidden by a well-wisher.
Then a farmer, trying to clear a blocked drainage channel into the River Irwell found the body of a child in an advanced state of decay. The investigation into Sagal’s disappearance became a murder hunt. Derek Haynes, who had befriended the family, came under suspicion immediately. When police examined the computer in his office, they found photographs of the child, and a video. The video had been made in the basement of the detention centre, and it showed Sagal imprisoned. It had also recorded the voice of her abuser.
Ania was suddenly involved in the most high profile case of her career and her evidence had been pivotal in securing Haynes’ conviction. She had found working with the video distressing, and the furore of publicity surrounding the case had put further pressure on her. Ania presented a lively and vivacious front to the world and he was probably one of the very few people who knew about the black depressions that sometimes gripped her and threatened to drag her under.
Despite his attempts to put them to the back of his mind, his thoughts made a dark contrast to the brightness of the day.
The sun had set by the time he brought the boat back into the harbour. He followed the lights in to the calm of the sheltered water, applying a quick burst of reverse gear, a manoeuvre that was almost instinctive after all these years, to bring the boat alongside the quay. The small harbour was s
ilent, apart from the gentle creak and suck as the moored boats rocked on the water. He jumped ashore and secured the lines then, calling Keeper away from some discarded food wrappings she’d found among the tangle of ropes and nets on the harbour wall, he headed towards the car park.
It was empty apart from his car and one other, a BMW X3. The policeman in him – the policeman he had been until a few short weeks ago – came alert. Strange cars were unusual at this time of year, and strange, expensive cars rarer still. It must have been left after Jack had gone – there was no ticket.
Whoever it was, it wasn’t his business. He drove back up the hill through the village to his cottage. He checked the post with a sense of expectation, but the promised letter hadn’t arrived. Then he saw the message light on the phone flashing, and felt the knot inside him release.
But it wasn’t Ania. There were just a few seconds of hissing silence, and the caller cut the connection. It was probably a wrong number. He deleted it, then wandered round the kitchen, preparing food for Keeper, trying to stop himself from unpicking Ania’s last call once again. Just watch out for the letter, OK. What letter? Why would she say that?
In the end, he decided he couldn’t face an evening in the cottage staring at a silent phone like a jilted lover. He put his coat on and walked with Keeper along the cliff path to the hotel that looked out over the sea from the headland. It was run down but there would be food of sorts, there would be people and there would be a fire where he could sit with Keeper and enjoy a pint of beer. He tried calling Ania again as he walked but there was still no reply.
He ordered a sandwich and ate it at the bar, talking to the landlord who brought him up to date with the local news. The landlord was having trouble with some of the village youths who had very little to occupy their time during the winter months. ‘It’s no place for kids,’ he said. ‘Not any more.’
‘Mine used to enjoy it,’ Will said absently. Ania and Louisa had loved coming here.
The landlord started to say something, then stopped. ‘Well, it was a change for them, wasn’t it,’ he said after a moment. He focused his attention on the glass he was polishing.
When he’d eaten, Will took his beer into the lounge and found a comfortable chair by the fire. He sank down into it, enjoying the moment of relaxation. Keeper curled up on the floor by his feet.
It had been a hard day’s sailing but it had been a good one. Despite his worries, it had left him exhilarated. The torpor that had held him since he had lost the work he loved was starting to lift. He was too young at fifty-two to be idle. He was still ambitious. One career might be over but there was nothing to stop him taking up another. He started running some plans through his mind, but as the warmth began to seep into his chilled bones, the day caught up with him. His eyes were starting to feel heavy. He knew he should go back to the cottage, but he was just too tired to move.
Almost without knowing, he drifted into sleep.
He came slowly back to awareness and realised that Keeper’s warm bulk was no longer pressing against his legs. He looked round and saw her at the other side of the room, sniffing the proffered hand of a woman who was sitting there. He clicked his fingers and Keeper came back to him. ‘I hope she wasn’t bothering you,’ he said.
The woman smiled across at him. She had an attractive, bony face ‘It was my fault, I’m afraid. I called her over. She’s a beautiful dog. I didn’t want to disturb you. You looked far too comfortable.’
He must have fallen asleep. He hoped his mouth hadn’t been hanging open. ‘I’ve been out on the boat all day. It doesn’t take much to distract her if I’m not giving her enough attention.’ He tugged Keeper’s ears and she waved her fronded tail, panting up at him, her tongue lolling.
‘What kind of dog is she?’ The woman seemed to be on her own, a half-full glass of wine on the coffee table in front of her. A newspaper was untidily spread out on the seat beside her.
‘It’s a good question. She’s her own kind, I suppose.’ Keeper’s ornate tail and rough coat came from her collie mother. Her exuberance and insatiable appetite came from somewhere else altogether. ‘That must have been some night on the tiles,’ Ania used to say when they speculated about Keeper’s ancestry.
‘A one-off. She’s lovely.’
‘She’s hard work. Do you have a boat moored here?’
‘No. I’m in Scotland on business. I thought I’d give this hotel a try.’
He grinned at her rueful expression. He loved the place himself, but he wouldn’t dream of staying here. ‘It’s seen better days.’
‘So far, the shower doesn’t work, but if I change my room, I’ll get a window that rattles so much I won’t sleep. The TV has snowstorms on all channels and there’s nothing to read.’ She was counting the items off on her fingers as she spoke. ‘The restaurant was freezing and I was the only customer so I’m spending the evening in the bar and the wine is lousy. Other than that, it’s OK.’
He was studying her as she talked. She was wearing linen trousers and a chocolate brown jersey, the sleeves pushed up above her elbows. She seemed an unlikely candidate for any of the businesses that existed in the area. She certainly didn’t look like the kind of woman who would normally stay in a run-down hotel in an out-of-the-way place like St Abbs that normally attracted only divers, walkers and bird watchers. He remembered the expensive car in the empty car park by the harbour wall. ‘Can I get you a drink? I’m Will, by the way.’
‘Sarah. Sarah Ludlow. And I’d love a drink.’
‘What can I get you?’
She swirled the red liquid round her glass. ‘I think I’ll give the wine a miss.’ She met his gaze and smiled. ‘You choose.’
It was a challenge but one that Will could rise to. He knew the landlord kept a decent selection of malt whiskies. This was Scotland, after all. He chose a twenty-five-year-old Benromach and took the glasses back to the table with a small jug of water.
She tasted the whisky, her eyebrows lifting in surprise as she caught its quality. ‘Thank you.’ Keeper planted a hopeful chin on her lap, and she stroked the dog’s soft ears as they began to talk. She was a lawyer, she told him, and she was in Scotland to see a client.
‘A lawyer who makes house calls? I need the name of your firm.’
She laughed. ‘I don’t usually. This is an exception. Anyway, I got everything wound up this afternoon. I could have driven back overnight but I’ve never visited this part of the coast, so I thought I’d make a detour and take a look round.’
‘Has it been worth it?’
‘Probably not. It’s beautiful, but it’s a bit of a wilderness. Do you live up here?’
‘I do at the moment.’
‘How about a social life?’ Her gesture encompassed the bleak hotel bar.
‘There isn’t much in winter. There’s here, or there’s a pub in the next bay at Coldingham. Otherwise, you have to drive out. You aren’t seeing it as its best. You should have come in the summer.’
She looked doubtful and he felt an urge to defend his chosen home. ‘When the commercial fishing went, people stayed on. They have deep roots here. It isn’t as isolated as it seems. You can be in Edinburgh in an hour and it gets lively in the summer. People come here for the sailing and the diving.’
‘Is that what keeps you here?’
‘Partly. I’ve got a cottage up on the cliffs.’ It had been the place that he came on holiday with the girls and his wife, Elžbieta. And then it had just been him and Ania. He didn’t want to talk about that.
Before she could ask any more questions, he turned the conversation back to her. She was London born and bred, she told him, but she’d lived in the US for years. ‘I went over there to finish my training and got involved with the work.’ She’d come back to the UK five years ago. She didn’t say what kind of law she practised. He didn’t mention his own professional connection with the legal system. Lawyers and policemen should be on the same side but were frequently in bitter opposition.
; She became animated when she talked. Her hands were small with long fingers and she used them to emphasise what she was saying. Her face wasn’t beautiful, but it was expressive, and her eyes were bright as she laughed. ‘And you?’ she said. ‘What do you do?’
‘These days, I’m a sailor. Don’t ever get a boat. Or a dog. They take your life over.’
‘OK. Man of mystery, lives in the wilderness with his dog. Where next with the boat?’
He was glad she had the nous not to push it. His enforced retirement was recent enough and bitter enough to be a topic he preferred to avoid. ‘I’m going to take her north, up the Norwegian coast in the summer. Have you ever been there?’
‘Norway? No.’
As she was speaking, he glanced at the newspaper she had been reading. It was the Edinburgh Evening News. Derek Haynes’ face looked back at him under the headline: DRAMATIC NEW EVIDENCE IN HAYNES CASE, DEFENCE CLAIMS.
He was suddenly aware of silence and pulled himself back. ‘Sorry. You were saying…?’
‘Scandinavia, I…’ She followed his gaze to the photograph. ‘Are you all right?’
‘I’m fine. I haven’t seen the news today. I just noticed the headline.’
She looked at the paper again, frowning slightly. ‘It’s an odd case. Apparently the expert witness got it wrong.’
Suddenly he wanted to be home. He checked his watch. It was after eleven. They’d been talking for almost two hours. ‘I didn’t realise how late it was. I have to get back.’
‘Of course. I think I need to turn in as well. There’s something about the sea air…’ She looked at the paper. ‘I’d let you take it, but it’s the only thing I’ve got to read.’
He managed to smile. ‘No problem. I’ll say goodnight. Thank you for your company.’
