‘Jesus. . .’ Geddes pulled at the top Norman had picked up from the big Marks and Spencer on Dundas Road, ‘Is your bloody husband blind? What the hell’s this supposed to be?’
‘You look fine.’
‘I look like a bloody frump.’
Val stripped down to her underwear then clambered into a pair of tan chinos and a pink sweatshirt, and pulled a baby sling on over the top. It still had the price tag from John Lewis dangling from one of the straps. She stuffed their discarded clothes and a few supplies into a large grey holdall. Nappies, cotton buds, surgical gloves, baby wipes, that kind of thing.
She handed Geddes a green ‘Oldcastle Tigers’ baseball cap. ‘Are you ready?’
‘You’ll have to carry the little bastard – my arse is giving me gyp.’ Geddes peered out through the blinds at the corridor. ‘You sure we’ll no’ be seen?’
‘Come on darling, come to your aunty Val. . .’ She lifted him out of his cot, wrapped him up in a snugly new blanket, then slipped him into the baby sling. Warmth spread through her like sunshine as she looked down at Donald’s little pink face. He was perfect. Utterly, utterly perfect.
‘You finished sodding about? Cos I’d like to get the hell out of here!’
Val pulled on a long overcoat, fastening it over Donald in his sling: hiding him from sight. Another baseball cap topped off her disguise. Not even her own mother would recognize her.
There was no one in the corridor, just the low gurgle and hum of the hospital’s heating system to keep them company as they walked past the antenatal rooms, examination suite, and birthing pool.
The nurses’ station was empty – ten-past ten, right on schedule. The duty nurse would be away getting things organized for tomorrow’s rounds. No witnesses.
They pushed out through the ward’s outer doors, keeping their heads down to avoid the cameras.
Five minutes later they were outside in the crisp December air. Sunday night, one week before Christmas, and everything was going perfectly. . . Val stared out at the car park, then the road beyond the iron railings. The whole pace was deserted, no sign of Norman or the car.
Val checked her watch: ten twenty-one. ‘We’re four minutes early. Don’t worry, he’ll be here.’
‘He better be. I’m not going back to that bloody prison!’
‘Shhh! What if someone hears you?’
‘I’m not going back: if I go back I’m telling them all about you!’
‘He’s. . . He’s. . .’ Come on, Norman. He wouldn’t let her down like that, he wouldn’t. He was just having trouble parking, or-
A pair of headlights flashed on the other side of the railings. ‘There!’ She grabbed Geddes by the elbow and hurried her down the wheelchair ramp and out onto the road. Helped her into the back of the Volvo estate. Val sat up front with Norman and little Donald.
Geddes kicked the back of Norman’s seat. ‘About bloody time you showed up! And what the hell do you call these clothes then?’
Norman stole a glance at Val. ‘There’s a suitcase in the back: lots of different things. I didn’t know what you’d like so-’
‘Not more of that frumpy shite!’
‘They’re perfectly good clothes.’
‘Yeah, if you’re bloody sixty.’
Val fastened her seatbelt, making sure it didn’t squash little Donald inside her coat. Really he should be in a car seat, but that would give the game away. Besides, it would mean letting go of him, and Norman was a very careful driver. ‘Can we just go please?’
The last train to Aberdeen didn’t leave until ten past eleven, so they sat in the North Station car park on Blackwall Hill, eating fish and chips.
Geddes kicked the back of Norman’s chair again. ‘What time is it?’ The words mumbled through a mouth full of chips.
‘Ten fifty.’
‘For fuck’s sake. Where’s my ticket?’
Norman sighed and handed it over. ‘I’ve booked you into a little B amp;B for tonight, and a taxi in the morning to take you to the ferry, so-’
‘And my money?’
Another sigh, only this time it came with an envelope.
Geddes ripped it open and counted the contents. ‘Where’s the rest of it?’
Val twisted as far round in her seat as she could without disturbing little Donald. ‘That’s all of it. That’s what we agreed.’
‘Aye, but I’ve been thinking. Wee Rolf’s my flesh and blood isn’t he? I love the little bastard. Don’t think I can give him up for a measly three grand. You know what I mean? Could get more than that sticking him on bloody eBay.’ She smiled. ‘I want seven.’
Silence settled into the car.
Norman looked away. ‘We haven’t got that much.’
‘Borrow it. I’ve been watching them adverts for three days now: “Want a low-cost personal loan?” Seven thousand or I take the kid with me to Aberdeen.’
‘We. . . It’ll take days to get one sorted-’
‘That’s OK, you can send the money on. I’ll just keep the wee sod till you get it.’ She stuffed the envelope and it’s three thousand pounds down the front of her ‘frumpy’ top.
‘No!’ Val flinched back, her hands covering little Donald’s head. ‘You can’t take him back! I need him!’
‘Come up with the other four grand and he’s all yours.’ She opened the back door. ‘Now give me the kid.’
Val grabbed Norman’s arm, tears making the car blur. ‘You can’t let her take him!’
‘I. . .’ Norman bit his lip. ‘I’ve got my redundancy money at the house.’
‘How much?’
He closed his eyes. ‘Enough.’
Kathy closed the door again. ‘OK, let’s go get it.’
Norman drove them down Shalster Road, sticking to the speed limit, not doing anything to attract attention. Past Montgomery Park, across the River Wynd, up into Castleview, then out through the city limits into the darkness.
‘Where the hell do you two live, in a bloody cave?’
Val shook her head. ‘It’s a small cottage, on the other side of the hill. You know, by Dundas Woods?’
‘You bloody would. Teuchters.’
Ten minutes later, the Volvo’s wheels bumped through potholes as Norman coaxed the car up a rutted track into the forest, headlights casting thick shadows that writhed and squirmed through the undergrowth. The jolts made little baby Donald gurn – working himself up to a fully formed howl.
‘How can you live way out here? You never heard of civilization? Jesus. . . If you want to bring my kid up out here it’s going to cost you eight. Poor bastard. You know I-’
Norman stopped the car. ‘We’re here.’
Geddes looked around, pressing her face up against the glass. ‘Where the hell’s the house?’
‘Over there.’ He pointed at a dark shadow lurking between the trees, then flicked on the interior light. ‘Val, you want to stay here while I get the money?’
And that was when Donald started to howl.
‘He’ll be needing his feed. . .’ Val slipped the baby from the sling and held him out to Geddes.
‘No chance. Told you: my nipples are-’
‘Please!’
She groaned at the car roof. ‘Eight grand. Give me the little sod.’
Val handed him over and Geddes hauled up her top, popped out a pale swollen breast, and jammed it in Donald’s screaming mouth. Two gurgles, then silence, then the sound of sucking. She scowled at Norman. ‘What’s the matter, never seen a tit before? Go get my bloody money.’
Blushing, Norman apologized, then clambered out into the night.
It took nearly half an hour for little Donald to stop and by then Geddes was glowering. ‘Missed my bloody train now. And where’s your shitty husband with my cash?’
She thrust the baby back at Val, then tucked her breast back into the saggy bra. A knock on the window and Geddes flinched. ‘Aaagh. . . Dirty bastard’s been standing out there watching the whole time. Probably having a wank.’
She gripped her breasts and jiggled them at him. ‘Take a picture, pervert!’
The door popped open and Norman leaned in. ‘This is yours. . .’ He smashed his fist into her face. She almost managed to scream before he hit her again, then dragged her out of the car by the ankles.
A rectangle of light spilled from the car’s back door, spotlighting Norman as he dumped Geddes on the ground then walked around to the boot of the car and came back with a tyre-iron.
Geddes tried to scramble away into the bushes, but he grabbed her, held her down, battered her with the tyre-iron. Her body twitched as he beat the life out of it, wet thuds and muffled cracks swallowed by the quiet woods.
Afterwards they sat in the car, Val and her brave Norman, holding hands and gazing down at their new son. He was perfect.
‘See,’ Val beamed, more content than she’d ever been in her whole life, ‘I told you it would work.’
‘Yes. Yes you did.’ Norman leaned over and kissed her, then turned the car around and drove them home.
7: Swans a Swimming
The sky sparkles in the pink glow of dawn: quarter past nine on a cold December morning and the air is crisp. Normally they’d go to the boating lake in Montgomery Park, but today is special. Today they’re going out on the river.
Shrieks and giggles echo out across the dark, sluggish water as the small flotilla of rowing boats pushes away from Dundas House. The girls are noisy and boisterous: all keyed up because they’ve won the regional finals. Next stop: Edinburgh and the Scottish under fifteens’ swimming championship. This is their day and they’re going to enjoy it.
‘Please, sir.’ It’s Sarah Morrison: breaststroke; tall and gangly with long ginger hair and a complexion like bleached bones; just on the cusp of twelve and changing from a confident wee girl into a shy teenager. ‘Are we going to be on The Bellows long?’
James Kirkhill looks over his shoulder at the snail-shaped island in the middle of the river. A pair of dilapidated buildings cling to the rocks and grass, brooding silently. Mourning their missing inmates. The faded blue and white sign still says ‘MACANDREW’S SANATORIUM’, but no-one’s been treated here since the end of World War II. ‘About four hours, plenty of time to do some sketching, take some photos. . .’ He nudged the hamper sitting at his feet. ‘Have a picnic. Why?’
‘Oh.’ She blushes, looks away. ‘I just wondered is all.’
James throws her a wink, even though he’s old enough to be her grandfather. ‘Got to be back in time for a hot date, is that it? Who’s the lucky boy?’
Sarah’s blush goes nuclear and the other two girls in the boat laugh. She mumbles something, and puts her back into the rowing. Her oar slices through the water. Sitting next to her, Danielle takes this as a challenge and matches her stroke for stroke.
‘Slow down, slow down. . .’ James holds up his hands, grinning. ‘We’ll end up in Norway at this rate. Got to give the rest of the team a chance to catch up.’
Danielle. She’s got gold medal written all over her. Popular, mature beyond her years, friendly, attractive, smart, outgoing, and one hell of a swimmer. Give her another four years and she’ll be unstoppable. Everything is going to happen for Danielle. She’s radiant.
Half an hour later they’re tying up at the old jetty, clambering up the stone steps and running all over the island.
James takes a deep breath and makes a loudhailer out of his hands. ‘Be careful, no swimming, make sure you’ve got someone with you at all times!’ His words echo impotently between the buildings’ empty husks. ‘I mean it!’
James wraps the scarf tightly around his neck and sets out for a brisk walk around the island. Trying to keep warm. Eventually he finds a spot in the lee of the staff wing, where the morning sun has melted the frost from the grass. Leaving it a rich and vibrant-
‘And were you alone at this point?’
James Kirkhill looked up from the table, blinking – as if he was trying to remember where he was.
Interview room number six was in the old part of Force Headquarters: peeling paint, stained carpet tiles, a scratched table, and four creaky plastic seats. A storage radiator clunked away to itself in the corner, the smell of burning dust mingling with the sour armpit stink coming from DI George ‘Stinky’ McClain. Not his fault. It was glandular. But James Arnold Kirkhill didn’t seem to notice, just sat there staring at the tabletop.
He was an English teacher at Kingsmeath Secondary: mid-fifties, slightly overweight, trendy oval glasses, and purple bags under his eyes. Wild grey hair and nine pm stubble.
At least he’d stopped crying. According to the DS who’d interviewed him after the accident, the man could barely speak for blubbering.
‘Was I alone? I think so.’ He wrapped his arms around himself. ‘It was the only warm place on the island and I’m . . . well, I broke my ankle a couple of years back and it aches when it’s cold. I was going to read my book.’
‘But you didn’t?’
A frown. ‘What?’
‘You said you were “going to read your book”. That implies something else came up.’
‘Oh. . . No, just a turn of phrase. I was reading a Ruth Rendell.’ A fleeting smile. ‘My guilty secret.’
‘OK. So it’s just you and Ruth Rendell. No one else was there. Then what happened?’
‘I’ve already been over all of this.’
‘I know, but it’s better if I hear it first-hand. In your own words.’ There was a long pause. George drummed his fingers on the tabletop. ‘You want a cup of tea, or something? I can get DC Richardson here fetch it if you like?’
Kirkhill didn’t say a word, just shook his head and gave a long, shuddering sigh.
The girls are having a great time. It took some organizing – not many people visit The Bellows these days – but James knew they’d love it.
That’s the great thing about coaching the under fifteens’ swimming club: the enthusiasm. Give them a few years and they’ll turn sullen and cynical. But right now they’re still young enough to enjoy themselves without feeling self-conscious.
Well, everyone except Sarah. She sits off on her own, staring out over the Kings River towards the castle. Pining.
Probably thinking about her boyfriend.
James calls them all together at half past twelve. It’s time for the picnic.
They come from all over the island, running, laughing, their breath streaming out behind them.
Danielle takes the role of ‘Mother’, handing out the sandwiches and vegetarian whatnots while he cracks open a couple of thermos flasks, pouring cream-of-tomato soup into polystyrene cups. The steam fogs up his glasses.
After lunch, they pack everything back into the picnic hamper and get in the boats for the trip home.
Sarah’s distracted, her rowing sloppy. She’s been chewing at her fingernails, worrying them down to the quick.
Danielle tries to cheer her up, but it doesn’t work. She rolls her eyes at James and pulls a face. Isn’t Sarah silly. . .
And then there’s a loud thump and the boat lurches sideways. Danielle is half out of her seat, hauling on the oar when it happens. One minute she’s in the boat, the next she’s in the dark, swirling water.
Oh dear Lord. . .
It’s a moment before anyone can react. James scrambles to the side of the boat, reaching for her, but she’s gone.
Three feet from the boat: a flash of blonde hair, a flailing arm, a shriek. He grabs Danielle’s abandoned oar and tries to reach her with it.
Splashing.
Panic.
Sarah screams.
Danielle surfaces again, bright red blood coursing down her face. She splutters, arms and legs thrashing in the cold water, as-
‘Thought you said she was a strong swimmer.’ George sat back in his creaky plastic seat, frowning.
‘She. . . We’d only just eaten. It was bitterly cold. The shock must have been terrible. Unable to breathe. . .’
‘Why wasn’t she wearing a life jacket?�
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‘I. . .’ He shook his head. Shivered. ‘I don’t know, I thought she was, but it’s all so difficult. . .’
‘So you tried to reach her with the oar?’
She’s drifting further and further from the boat, churning the water around her, head slipping beneath the surface. All around him the girls are screaming as he fights with the river for Danielle’s life.
Too far away.
He shoves Sarah to the floor of the boat, grabs both oars and rows for all he’s worth; muscles groaning, wood creaking. Faster: row faster.
This is his only chance. ‘Grab my hand!’
She reaches, but her fingers slip through his. Danielle goes under again. James plunges his arm into the icy water, gritting his teeth against the pain. Grabbing for her. . .
She’s struggling . . . so cold . . . and then she’s gone.
‘Her. . .’ Kirkhill swallowed, the tears starting again. ‘We found her body caught up on Calderwell Bridge. She. . . She was. . . Oh God. . .’ He buried his head in his hands and sobbed.
‘I see.’ George pulled a sheet of paper from the pathologist’s preliminary report. ‘We did a post mortem on Danielle’s body: just routine, we do them following any fatal accident. You’ve been a naughty, naughty boy, haven’t you Mr Kirkhill?’
The teacher stared at him, mouth going up and down, but nothing came out. He cleared his throat. ‘I. . . I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘No? You mean you don’t remember sexually assaulting a girl in your care?’
‘What?’ His eyes widened. ‘No. . . I never!’
‘Come off it, Kirkhill. The pathologist says Danielle was sexually active, and guess what happened when we went through her diary?’ He held up a clear evidence pouch with a hard-backed jotter in it. The pink cover was festooned with blue biro hearts.
‘I never touched her, I swear!’
‘She was pretty – I saw her before they cut her open – very well-developed for a twelve-year-old. Did you tell her you’d make her a woman?’
‘I never touched her!’
‘How about this then?’ George pulled the pink diary out of the evidence bag and flipped it open. A yellow post-it note marked the place. ‘Thirteenth of July. “James came to me after swimming practice today. He looks so handsome in his new glasses. He waited till all the other girls were gone then kissed me in the showers. I was trembling and naked, but he-”’
Twelve Days of Winter: Crime at Christmas Page 5
