Her name appeared in red ink in a floral bordered box in the center of the diary's title page. He flicked over. The first entry was dated Sunday, 8th September. Seven weeks ago. I'm in Orkney! I can't believe it! Daddy saw me off at the airport. The flight was all taking off and landing and not much flying in between. Adam was waiting for me. He'd broken out in a sweat when he'd realized that this was her diary, that it might be the suicide note she had failed to leave. Instantly he had turned to the end of the book. Fingers shaking, he'd flipped back through several blank pages. And there it was. Monday, October 26th. The day she killed herself. It will soon be over.
She must have visited the office in the early evening. Slipped her diary in his desk. Returned to her room. Swallowed the pills. At that point the sequence of events reached an impasse in his head. He still couldn't believe she'd done it.
He opened the diary once again. He skimmed over several pages dealing with her arrival. The book was full of vivid, poetic descriptions of Orkney scenery. She expressed delight at her room, excitement at discovering new friends. A trip she made to Skara Brae and Yesnaby. Another to Maeshowe. All written in a neat, backwards sloping hand. No mention of home, of missing it, or her parents. Like her bedside table, her diary was absent of all reminders of her past. Adam carried on turning the pages, glancing over the words, pausing only to scrutinize the occasional sentence where he saw his own name. Vanity. Hey, nobody's exempt.
She described him on more than one occasion as being slightly overweight. Well, now. Adam occasionally stole a glance in the full-length mirror in his bedroom and agreed he could lose a few pounds. Five eight. Eleven and a half stone. Hardly obese. Fat or not, though, there was little doubt she liked him. Described him as "paternal" on one occasion, "wise" on another. Mentioned several times that he had a terrific sense of humor. Claimed he had cheered her up more than once. She was getting better, she thought.
Then, just over a week into her stay, she had written this:
I imagined I was getting over it. I was dead wrong. On my way back from the toilets, it crashed into me again. Knocked the wind out of me like a kick in the stomach. It really terrifies me, the way it makes me feel. Writing about it now, safely back in my room, my hand's shaking and my mouth's dry and, Christ, I'm scared. Now I've started crying again. God, I'm so fed up with crying. So fed up with my stupid self.
And a couple of days later:
I'm filthy. I want to pour bleach down my throat. I can't sleep. If I turn out the light I'll see his face. I'll smell the whisky on his breath. I'll hear his words. "Be nice to Daddy, Gem. It won't hurt. Won't hurt at all."
Adam stopped reading. No matter how many times he read it, it was equally incomprehensible. No wonder she'd left home in such a hurry.
Maybe Ruth had found out. Maybe that's why Joe had killed her.
Adam ought to go to the police. If it wasn't for the note, that's exactly what he'd do. But Gemma had trusted him. For reasons best known to herself, she wanted the diary delivered to her scumbag father.
If only there was someone he could confide in. He considered the possibilities. A sad reflection of the loneliness of his life was that he could only think of two candidates.
Dorothy Kelly was twenty-four, divorced, childless. She was his receptionist, cleaner, cook and accountant. To boost her otherwise paltry salary, Adam provided free accommodation. Since her marriage ended painfully a couple of years ago, she'd lived in the Orwell room. She liked her job. She loved talking to writers. You see, she wanted to write as well. So far, she'd written the opening chapter of a romance novel which she refused to show Adam no matter how much he begged. She was a little shy. She still got depressed from time to time.
Had he asked her, Adam was sure she'd be happy to talk about Gemma. And he was sure, if he mentioned it, she'd keep the diary's existence a secret. This was the problem: Adam suspected Dotty was a little bit in love with him. He had witnessed the way she smiled at him, the look in her eye a couple of times when he caught her watching him, her embarrassment when she realized her furtive glances had been observed.
No, that wasn't the problem. If he was truthful — and this was the problem - the feeling was mutual. When he talked to her, invisible fingers clawed under his skin and massaged his bones. Sometimes it felt as if a giant ladle had plunged down his throat and was stirring the contents of his stomach. She, well, she turned him on. It was impossible to deny it.
Unfortunately, a relationship with Dotty was something he was unable to foster. Nurturing a sexual relationship with his only member of staff was against the rules. His own rules, admittedly, but he wasn't about to change them just because it suited him. Adam held a position of trust. He had to rise above his baser desires. Difficult though it was when you lived in the same building, the only way he knew of achieving this was to keep contact with Dotty to a minimum. Which was hard when all he wanted to do was strip her naked every time he saw her.
Then, in the Stevenson room, there was Willie Lang. Adam's only current client. No such sexual designs on him, fortunately. Van driver, mobile phone salesman, interior decorator, museum caretaker, baker and, latterly, screenwriter. There wasn't much Willie hadn't turned his hand to. He claimed he'd held down two jobs most of his life (he was a security guard in the evenings and weekends) and after a protracted divorce, he'd given up both his current jobs and left home. He gave Adam most of his savings, which wasn't much. Enough to pay for his stay at Wrighters' Retreat for seven months. Long enough, Willie hoped, to produce a top quality screenplay. At the tail end of his forties, Willie's midlife crisis came a little late. Willie was friendly, intelligent, open, witty, knowledgeable and a superbly bad writer. Couldn't get beyond seeing dialogue as a series of questions and answers. As for confiding in him? On several occasions they'd spoken long into the night on various heartfelt topics. But for the conversation Adam had in mind, secrecy was vital, and Willie probably wasn't the right person. It wasn't that Adam didn't trust him. He just didn't trust him completely. Big difference.
Bottom line, Adam concluded, he'd have to face this alone. He wasn't going to get any help.
He turned his attention back to the diary. Monday 19th October. The week before she died. He read:
Feeling numb. Just a rape, I tell myself. Once again. I'm going to be okay. No more tears. I'm fine. I'm doing okay. I'm calm. Just a rape. Just a four-letter word.
Somebody knocked on the door and I jumped out of my skin. I told whoever it was to go away. I was shaking and cold. He'd tell me to deal with it. I'm trying, God help me. Nobody will ever know how hard I'm trying. But I can't deal with it. I don't see how I can ever deal with it. Sometimes I think I deserved it. Something I did must have triggered it. I must be sick. In my head. Another knock. Dotty's voice asking me if I'm all right. I told her to go away.
Sometimes I wake up and forget where I am. Sometimes I wake up and don't know I've been asleep. My dreams are as real as everything else in my life. Maybe I don't sleep. I only dream. Maybe none of it really happened.
Dotty said to focus on the good things.
When I was thirteen we stayed up late one night to see a meteor shower. Just me and Daddy. The sky was clear. Daddy drove. We left the car at the foot of Calton Hill. By the time we'd climbed to the top, we were out of breath and freezing cold. A few small groups of people were there already, huddled over bottles of whisky. I told Daddy I should have worn my mittens. He just looked at me like I was daft. He took off his coat and wrapped it round my shoulders.
About twenty feet away, a group of half a dozen kids, much younger than me, were crammed into a two-seater settee, necks craned towards the sky. Another couple of kids balanced on the arms of the settee. "How did that get here?"
Daddy shook his head. "Beyond me why anybody would carry a settee to the top of a hill. Handy, though."
I dragged my gaze away from the settee. Edinburgh lay spread out beneath us. Even at this late hour, buses and cars scuttled about the gridlike streets of the
New Town like desperate insects. Across the Forth a fringe of lights sparkled along the coastline. I pointed. "Where's that?"
"Fife."
"I know." I kicked him. He pretended it hurt. "The town, I meant. Which town?"
"Way in the distance," he said, "is Kirkcaldy. Towards us," he indicated a closer cluster of shimmering lights, "that's Burntisland."
Focus on the good things.
I was seven, maybe eight. Market Day. Sometime in July, August maybe. I don't know. I remember it was warm. I wasn't wearing a coat. The Ferris wheel was scarily big. I closed my eyes and pictured the hill, the Binn, the backdrop to the town. And the island of scorched rocks in the harbor. Blackened. Burned. Burntisland. I didn't want to go on any of the rides. I was too scared. Daddy said there was nothing to be scared of. He would protect me. Did I trust him? Of course I did. Before long, I was at the top of the wheel screaming with delight.
He pointed in the direction of Edinburgh. "Wave to Mummy."
I waved. Mummy was sick. In hospital. Something wrong with her head. I didn't understand. I do now.
Back on Calton Hill, I stamped my cold feet. "Yeah," I said, grabbing Daddy's arm, leaning my head against his shoulder. "Burntisland. I knew that."
Falling stars arced through the night sky. We watched in silence. I hugged him. I couldn't hug him hard enough.
"I'm still cold," I said.
After about ten minutes, he said, "We better go before you turn into a pillar of ice."
"You mean you're bored."
He looked down at me and kissed me on the forehead.
Okay, so she was grasping for memories of happier times. Understandable. Nonetheless, Adam wondered how she was able to write so fondly of her father. It seemed inappropriate, incompatible. No, it was worse than that. It was wrong. Unless Adam had missed something.
Adam read on. The entry for the next day was blank. Wednesday simply stated:
I can't do this any more.
Thursday was more philosophical.
The hardest thing of all is living with this secret. No, that's not true. The hardest thing is knowing that I'll have to live with it for the rest of my life. I can never let anybody find out. I can't slip up. Not once. I have to live a lie. From now on my life has to be based around one big falsehood. Once or twice, I've come close to spilling it all out to Dotty. I can't let myself do that. It has to remain a secret. As long as I live. Oh, God.
I can't stay here forever. One day I'll have to go back home, speak to Daddy and Mummy. I can't do it. I know there are other people I can talk to. Professionals. I'm not stupid. I talked to one of them already. She was very nice and caring, but she was doing a job and at five o'clock she was going to go home to her family. She'd forget about me. I couldn't help but think that. All the time she was listening, I was thinking that she didn't give a shit. She told me there were cognitive methods of coping. I said thank you and never turned up for the next session.
Coping. Do I want to spend my life coping?
I thought again about killing him. I thought how easy it would be. I just had to say the word. All I had to do was tell the truth. For the first time in ages I felt happy. So happy I cried. And then I felt sad.
I know I can never tell the truth. I couldn't cope with sending Daddy to prison. What would I have left? Cognitive therapy and Mummy?
Well, Adam thought, that was conclusive. If Gemma told the truth, she'd send her father to prison. That's what she'd said. He read the last couple of paragraphs again. There was something that didn't quite fit. To kill him, she need only say the word. Which made her happy. But sending him to prison was something she couldn't cope with. It didn't follow. Didn't make sense. Perhaps it was the illogic of emotion. Perhaps it was mere confusion. Throughout the diary she had repeatedly described her feelings as "numb." In other words, she didn't know how she felt. No doubt, she didn't trust her feelings. They had already betrayed her. It was safer to shut down, retreat insider herself, feel nothing.
Adam wished he could do the same. Reading Gem's last words was as hard as anything he'd ever done. Passing the diary on to her father — the man who'd raped her, for God's sake — was going to be even harder. Gem mentioned Dotty a few times. They'd grown close in the short time they'd had together. Maybe he should ask her advice. Could he risk talking to her? This was a vast responsibility. He just hoped that Ruth hadn't left him a little note as well.
SEVENTEEN
"If they can't place you anywhere outside of Tina's flat, and they can't persuade her to change her story, they'll have no alternative but to let you go." A smile flickered over Ronald Brewer's lips.
Joe said, "Thank Cooper for me."
The young lawyer tried to hold Joe's gaze. After a while he looked away and said, "Anything else you want me to do for you?"
"I was thinking." Joe gulped down some coffee. God, it was awful. "About Gemma's funeral."
"What are the arrangements?" the lawyer asked. "Is the body being flown here, or is she being buried in Orkney?"
Joe stared at the plastic cup. "Ruth might have organized something. Maybe she had time. Before she…I don't know, she didn't tell me."
Brewer waited a moment. Then he said, "I'll find out."
"Talk to Adam Wright at Wrighters' Retreat in Kirkwall. I want her home, Ronald."
"I'll do what I can."
Joe thanked the lawyer and meant it. His gaze shifted from his hands to the lawyer's baby face. "Supposing I've not been released by then, will they let me go to the funeral?"
"No question. But it would smooth things along if the funeral was in Edinburgh."
"That'll take time. I'll be out of here by then."
"Let's hope so. Anything else?"
"You think I'd be allowed to brush my teeth?"
"I can arrange that. Anything else?"
"They likely to keep me in this shithole or send me to prison?"
Brewer looked at his watch. "Even if they wanted to, they couldn't move you. Not today, anyway. Saughton Prison only accepts new arrivals in the morning. So, unless they release you, you'll be here overnight. There's a petitionary hearing scheduled for this afternoon."
"Meaning?"
"You'll be remanded in custody until the trial."
"What about bail?"
"Impossible."
"I can get the money," Joe said. "Cooper'll help."
"You've seen too many movies, Mr. Hope. Money bail is so rare in Scotland as to be practically non-existent. There's talk that the law may change, but at the moment, basically, it doesn't happen."
"Yeah? You sure?" The lawyer didn't reply. Joe said, "I didn't know that."
"Now you do. I'm not altogether useless, Mr. Hope."
"Isn't it worth trying anyway?"
Brewer sat back in his chair. After a moment he leaned forward and said, "If you're arrested for murder you won't be released on bail. Period. Anything else?"
Joe shook his head.
"Okay, about your impending interview." Brewer waited until Joe prompted him with a grunt. "Stick to one-word answers." He shook his index finger at Joe. "Yes and no, where appropriate. Don't give them any more information than they need. If you think a question is inappropriate I'd advise you not to answer it. But, it's up to you."
"You think I shouldn't say anything?"
"I think you shouldn't say anything that might incriminate you."
"And what's that?"
"Hard to tell, which is why it's better not to say anything at all."
"That's not a lot of help." Joe sighed. "You think, if they believe Tina, that they'll release me?"
"They'll hold you for as long as they can. If they think there's insufficient evidence to prosecute, or if there's contradictory evidence, like Tina's, they'll eventually let you go. Just stick to your story and you'll be fine." Brewer picked up his notepad and slapped it against his open palm. "Assuming it's the truth."
"What do you know about the truth?"
"In general, or are you talkin
g about the specifics of your case?"
"In broad terms."
"Is this some kind of test, Mr. Hope?"
"I'm interested."
"Well, in my opinion, lies make the innocent guilty."
Joe fiddled with his cup, turning it round and round. He picked it up and took a long swallow. The coffee didn't taste so bad now he'd grown used to it. "In my world," he said, "everybody's guilty."
"I'm in your world now, Mr. Hope. And, I can assure you, I'm not guilty of anything."
Joe nodded. "Hate to disillusion you." He drank the rest of the coffee. "But you're just as guilty as the rest of us."
"Oh, yeah?" Brewer said. "What's my crime?"
Joe crushed the plastic cup and tossed it onto the floor. "How should I know? You haven't been caught yet."
EIGHTEEN
Tina left the police station, swinging her handbag angrily by her side. The bastards could have spoken to her at home, but, no, they wanted her to accompany them to the station and give her statement there. Jesus. She hoped Joe (she still thought of him as Bob and had to be corrected a couple of times during the interview when she referred to him by the wrong name) appreciated what she was doing for him. Okay, there was ten grand in it for her. But, still. There was a limit to what she was prepared to do for money. And, of course, she still didn't have it yet.
She stopped abruptly on the pavement. A tall woman wearing too much eye shadow bumped into her and apologized. Tina let her, even though it wasn't the daft cow's fault. Tina rummaged in her handbag for her cigarettes. Normally she didn't smoke until she started work. But after that stuff in the police station she needed a smoke and she doubted she'd be in the mood for going to work. If you could call it work. For that matter, when was she ever in the mood? The best you could hope for was numb acceptance. The rest was just acting.
Kiss Her Goodbye Page 9
