‘Jeremy Faro! What on earth are you doing here?’
Taking those warm hands in his own, his power of speech returned.
‘I might ask the same.’
Her laugh as she tilted her head back was so familiar – he had heard its echoes throughout his long-lost Orkney years.
She nodded towards the restaurant and took his arm. ‘Come and I’ll tell you about it.’
Shown to a table by the window overlooking George Square, sitting primly opposite one another, wasn’t enough for Faro. Still wondering if this was a dream that he might prolong before waking up to reality, he longed to be at her side, touching her, holding her hand, breathing in the perfume she always wore.
Her eyes, blue as violets, smiled at him. ‘I expect you are here on police business.’
When he nodded and asked: ‘What about you?’ she sighed.
‘I have a job of work. A gentleman and his family were on holiday in Kirkwall. There was a sudden illness and they needed help bringing the family over to Glasgow,’ she said briefly.
‘How long are you to be here?’
She began a long explanation, enlarging on the circumstances of the family crisis of this gentleman who was very important, a member of parliament.
He was no longer listening, his mind racing ahead composing excuses to send Gosse to extend his stay in Glasgow for several days, longer – indefinitely. A week, perhaps. A week spent here with Inga. He closed his eyes briefly, the answer to a dream.
She was shaking her head. ‘I am not sure, it depends on Sir Hamish and how long his wife has to stay in Galloway.’
Her frown became a faraway sad smile. A sigh. ‘Then it’s back home again to Orkney.’ She shrugged and her face clouded as if the prospect did not appeal to her and he said sharply and rather accusingly:
‘You said once nothing would ever make you leave the island.’
She shrugged. ‘I know, Jeremy, but that was a long time ago.’ Was she reminding him of when he had asked her, begged her to be his wife, to return with him to Edinburgh, and her firm heartbreaking refusal?
Now she was saying: ‘Circumstances change, you know.’
‘You’ve obviously changed your mind,’ he said, trying to keep the bitterness out of his voice.
Her eyebrows raised. ‘I had it changed for me. A person in need, who needed my help. And it isn’t for ever,’ she said softly, giving him a teasing glance. ‘Just a short while until proper arrangements for looking after the children can be arranged. Their nanny took ill, as I told you.’ Had she indeed said that? He felt irritated, betrayed, confused.
‘What with that, Jeremy, as if the poor souls hadn’t enough …’ She shook her head. ‘Troubles never come singly, always in three, as we say back home.’
He nodded, not having heard a word she had been saying about that sick nanny, presumably why she had been recruited at short notice. She didn’t like babies particularly, so how was she coping with this situation?
Silent now, she was staring out of the window, biting her lip, a habit he remembered she had when she was thoughtful. The sun had retreated leaving the tall buildings casting their long dark shadows across the square; the day would soon be drawing to its close, the romantic twilight hour.
The waitress came for the order. Inga shook her head. ‘I’ll be eating later, but tea and cake would be nice.’
‘Same for me,’ said Faro enthusiastically, although he would have preferred something much stronger than tea to steady his nerves. At that moment all appetite for food had been destroyed. It was something much more than food or drink for which his body hungered – to push aside the table and take her in his arms.
She had asked him how long he was staying and was waiting for an answer. ‘Till tomorrow – at least,’ he added hopefully. ‘Will you be free this evening?’
She frowned. ‘Maybe for a while. Are you staying here too?’
He smiled, said yes and at that moment he thanked destiny that he had to bring Gosse’s report to Glasgow. He even added a silent thanks for Inspector Wade with his broken leg, all the threads that had destined him to book a room in the same hotel where Inga was staying.
‘What would you like to do?’ he asked eagerly. ‘I don’t know Glasgow but it would be pleasant to explore with you.’
She shook her head. ‘I need to stay in the hotel – in case I’m needed by the children.’
He looked around the restaurant; people were arriving, looking for vacant tables. Soon it would be crowded. ‘Difficult to stay here talking.’
She looked at him, smiled and understood. ‘Agreed. We could go to my room and wait. They will know where to find me when they get back.’
Faro paid the bill and followed her upstairs, his heart racing. Not a single room in a corridor, however. She opened the door into a suite of rooms overlooking the square, the sky now wreathed in sunset. He followed her across a large handsome room, set with comfortable sofas and small tables.
Smiling, she opened the door into a smaller room, and Faro saw only a handsome bed, white pillows piled high – the perfect setting for love.
No sooner had she closed the door, than he took her in his arms. She did not resist, but she did not melt into them either as he hoped. Returning that first tender kiss, a little restrained, she moved away from him and said: ‘So good to see you, Jeremy. Take a seat, will you.’
He saw the other contents of the room as she pointed to the window, with its two armchairs either side of a small table.
He remembered her well enough to recognise that this was all for the moment as she said: ‘How’s Lizzie?’
Lizzie was the last topic he wanted to discuss with Inga. He shrugged, and as she laughed lightly, his heart sank as miserably he realised there were to be no more passionate embraces. This romantic setting overlooking George Square was to be wasted for him, as sitting opposite him, Inga’s talk suddenly became general, about Kirkwall and South Ronaldsay and the weather and not a thing he wanted to know about – not even about his mother, who was back in her own home in Kirkwall after a summer as housekeeper at Scarthbreck.
Mary Faro didn’t like Inga and the feeling was mutual.
‘Next time I see her, I’ll tell her we met and that you were looking well,’ Inga said, reminding him guiltily that his mother was overdue an only son’s dutiful letter.
A halt in the conversation and she asked idly, ‘Not getting married yet, Jeremy?’
‘It’s not Lizzie I want to marry, as you well know, Inga St Ola,’ he said sharply. Suddenly her nearness was unbearable. He left his armchair and went over and kneeling put his arms around her.
‘No, Jeremy, no!’
‘Why not?’ he said.
Moving away from him she sighed. ‘You know why not. We’ve been through all this a thousand times. I can’t marry you.’
‘You mean you won’t marry me.’
She shrugged. ‘Put it that way, if you wish.’
Seeing his expression touched her heart; she stroked his cheek gently and whispered, ‘It was never meant to be, Jeremy.’
‘Why not?’
The same question but she shook her head, sighed. ‘I can’t explain, just that it isn’t written … it isn’t our destiny—’
‘What nonsense you talk, my dearest love.’
‘I’m not your “dearest love”, Jeremy,’ she replied indignantly. ‘I’m a free spirit – remember?’ She looked up at him and for a moment it was as if he saw clearly through her eyes and he knew again that among many other inexplicable things Inga St Ola, from his land of selkies and magic, had the ability to see into the future.
The sound of a man’s voice, a door opening, footsteps in the other room. A tap on the door. They both stood up as a man came in. A tall man, middle-aged but with good looks and presence outstanding.
And Faro, looking at Inga’s face, saw something else.
The look of love, of absolute adoration. And in that moment, he knew that free spirit or no, Inga St Ola
who had never been his, was lost to him for ever.
He hardly waited to be introduced. He was consumed with misery by this revelation, the confirmation he had never been willing to accept, that Inga had tried to din into him over the years. He had ignored the warning signs at his peril, that she would never marry him, that the wild attraction, the magnetism she had for him, was completely one-sided. She did not return it, had never done so and had never loved him in more than a friendly, companionable way, regarding him tenderly through the years as the boy she had initiated into manhood that long-lost night on a moonlit Orkney beach.
That and nothing more.
Now he had to face the truth, and that face of love he had glimpsed would remain indelible on his tortured mind. Clearer than any words, he had witnessed her adoration for another man and on both faces he had read all he needed to know: that they belonged to each other.
It was there for all the world to see. Marriage, a wife and children presented an ignored impediment to their relationship for they were consumed by an irresistible force, terrible in its intensity, the kind of love that could also destroy. The kind of love Jeremy Faro had never known and now would never know.
He thought he had bowed, shook hands, murmured goodbyes. He didn’t know if either of them even noticed his absence, or whether they saw him leave. Their love wrapped them up and transported them to another dimension of time, inaccessible to ordinary mortals, and Jeremy Faro was as unimportant as a piece of furniture in the hotel’s grand suite.
In George Square again he felt oddly naked and vulnerable, deprived of the dream of Inga St Ola which had been his for a decade, since he was seventeen years old. Tonight it felt like a death, but in spite of the terrible revelations of the last hour, his alter ego remained intact. The detective constable had not died in the assault to his emotions, and walking towards Sauchiehall Street he found a smaller, more modest hotel where he booked a room for the night.
Ahead next morning lay the appointment at the City Chambers and the statement he was to read out on Gosse’s behalf, and then, with all desire for further exploration quelled in case he should meet Inga and her love again, he would return to Edinburgh by the first available train.
Meanwhile he discovered that he was hungry – it was some time since he had eaten – and he was given directions to a restaurant where, as some sort of consolation and healing to his bruised spirit, he ordered the most expensive course on the menu, helped down by a couple of large whiskies. Feeling better but realising he would sleep little in that tiny rather dark bedroom overlooking the hotel backyard, he decided to make notes regarding the success of his visit to Glasgow.
He had made one important discovery: he was almost certain that he knew the identity of the dead woman in Fleshers Close, an actress called Doris Page who had a wee girl and had not made the trip to Glasgow with Beau and Jane.
This was a triumph of sorts, being able to prove his theory was right, and he would enjoy proving Gosse was wrong. Having the name of the first murdered woman should put them a step further to finding the man who had killed them both.
He slept surprisingly well and, his appetite undeterred, he consumed a hearty breakfast and made his way to the City Chambers where Gosse’s statement was first on the agenda and the hearing mercifully short. An hour later and he was seated in the Edinburgh train, the warm sun shining benignly through the carriage window, lighting up a landscape of undulating hills that would have inspired an artist had that been the role for which destiny had intended him.
As Edinburgh approached he thought fleetingly of the journey to Glasgow, how he had been unaware what lay in store. The final closure of a ten-year dream of a future, in which, despite all the odds, Inga St Ola would one day marry him.
He relived that moment before setting it aside for ever. The magic of seeing her walking towards him in the hotel, how his mind had raced ahead to conjure up the night before him in a wonder of fulfilment. That had passed away and he sighed, mentally saluting a youthful daydream, realising he did not even know the name of her lover, except that he was some sort of a politician.
But that no longer concerned him. He was unlikely to meet either of them ever again.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Leaving the train and heading up the Mound towards the Central Office, Faro prepared to put his new-found facts before DS Gosse and this gave him a twinge of self-satisfaction.
Gosse watched Faro as he outlined the proceedings at the City Chambers and how their report had been well received. He explained about the necessity for spending a night in Glasgow; Gosse was always ready to make a great fuss over claims for expenses, however the sergeant was less upset or querulous about this than Faro had anticipated.
‘These things happen. At least this has finally closed the Rickels case. No more tedious visits to Glasgow,’ he added when Faro told him that they were to expect an official statement that the case was now closed.
Gosse had listened, frowning and nodding absently, but seemed to have lost all interest and his word of praise at the end of it was an unexpected bonus.
‘Excellent, Faro. You did well, saved me a tiresome journey when there were much more important matters to deal with in my new capacity as acting chief inspector,’ he reminded Faro again.
Gosse indeed had his own reasons for personal feelings of jubilation and Faro would have been surprised to know that these concerned Lizzie Laurie.
‘There was something else, sir.’ It was Faro’s turn to drop a reminder, as Gosse looked at him and asked:
‘Oh, indeed? And what was that?’
‘I believe we now have the identity of the woman in Fleshers Close, sir.’
Gosse regarded him, smiling slightly, an expression of disbelief, and asked mockingly, ‘Indeed. So you managed a bit of detective work on your own, did you?’
‘Yes, sir,’ was the eager response and producing his notebook Faro read out his account of the visit to the Hippodrome Theatre, his interview with the manager and his meeting with two of the three artistes, the singer Beau and the girl Jane, who had left Edinburgh for better prospects in Glasgow.
‘The third member of the trio remained here. Her name is – or was – Doris Page.’
Gosse held up his hand, grinning. ‘Sorry to destroy your moment of triumph and steal your thunder, Faro, but you are too late. We already have this information—’
‘But how—?’
‘Listen and I’ll tell you. Yesterday afternoon, a man came in, looking for his missing wife, or rather to put it bluntly his common-law wife, for that was what she was, no legal marriage as proof of identity. His name is Len Page, his wife’s name Doris.
‘He had a little lass with him.’ He paused and said, ‘You will remember her, the wee one you were so concerned about at the murder scene. Well, she is their daughter. Apparently you were right about one thing,’ he admitted reluctantly. ‘Doris Page was an actress. I was wrong about that red dress and so forth, but she was also a whore, new to the game or not.
‘Although Page had begged her to marry him on account of the bairn, she had always refused. They were living in Aberdeen at the time and after a big row, according to him, one day she walked out with the wee lass and disappeared. She usually came back but when a month went by he was determined to track her down. He wanted his daughter back whatever. It’s taken a long while, until he got as far as Glasgow and discovered she had been working in the theatre there but some of her chums thought she might have moved on to Edinburgh.’
Gosse paused, shook his head. ‘That was last week. He still couldn’t find her, and as a last resort came in with a missing persons enquiry. As soon as I read the description, I knew it was her lying in the mortuary. Page was very upset, especially when we told him that she hadn’t died naturally or by some unfortunate accident. She’d got herself murdered.’
He stopped, looked at Faro, and said: ‘I can tell you this story raised all my hopes. A deserted husband is always the one we look for first, the p
rime suspect in a murder case. But no, not this time. It seems that she had a good reason for leaving him. He admitted to having a violent temper but when we found her in Fleshers Close he was safely behind bars, locked up in Glasgow police station. Seems he was charged with disorderly conduct, dead drunk and almost incapable of doing anything but knocking down the constable who came to arrest him and break up the fight.’
Gosse sighed deeply. ‘Pity, isn’t it? What a disappointment that we can’t nail the murder on him. Would have been the perfect solution. Case closed. Instead, we still don’t know who killed Doris Page and we still have a killer on the loose.’
‘Even if it had been this man Page, sir,’ Faro observed, ‘it still wouldn’t account for the assault on Jock Webb or the killing of the maid from Lumbleigh Green.’
Gosse looked exceedingly displeased at his detective constable’s perfectly logical observation. Frowning, he said ‘Ah well, not beyond the bounds of possibility,’ and with a profound shaking of his head, he added solemnly, ‘No, Faro, not by any means.’
And Faro smiled to himself. Surely fixing the blame on Doris’s partner would have been beyond even Gosse’s remarkable powers of invention.
He was saying: ‘So we’re not much further forward. You could have stayed here where the solution was waiting, if you’d had patience, instead of gallivanting away to Glasgow to track around theatres. Saved yourself the time, not to mention the expenses incurred by the Edinburgh Police.’
Having revived his usual lamentation on that subject, another head shake. ‘It will not look good in the report to the chief constable when he learns the answer was on your own doorstep, so to speak. These things are remembered, Faro, when matters of promotion are discussed, especially as all you have contributed in the Doris Page murder,’ he added doubtfully and repeated, ‘was wasting time going round in a circle.’
Faro listened patiently to this tirade, and when the sergeant paused for breath, he reminded him gently, ‘There is still the business of the playing card unsolved, sir. We need an explanation for that too. Where does it fit in?’
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