by Penny Grubb
‘I want it like Mummy makes it’ – sob – ‘like Mummy makes it.’
But Mummy was cold in the room down the corridor and Aunt Marian didn’t know how to make it like Mummy made it.
McMahon hadn’t held her hand at all; he’d dragged her off the coffin. At eight years old, she hadn’t a chance against his long years on the Glasgow streets. Even so, it was pandemonium she remembered. Arms flailing, feet kicking, desperation to get to her mother. Desperation for something. Memory had fragmented over the years. The picture jumped from crowded mayhem to quiet sobs and Aunt Marian.
Why could she never see her mother’s face, even in her dreams where the faces of the straw dolls took centre stage, trapping her in a dark maze? There were no photographs to remind her. None in her father’s office, and none anywhere else in the house. She remembered something of the fury in which she’d taken advantage of an hour on her own a few weeks after her mother’s death. She’d gone systematically from room to room gathering all the pictures, smashing the frames, ripping open the packets in the photo drawer, even taking the negatives. She’d burnt them all. Her father came home to a daughter sobbing over a heap of ash.
The click of the latch cut through her thoughts. She shook the memory out of her head and moved the pan of milk on to the stove as her father came in. ‘I’ve done some sandwiches and I’ll have a hot drink for you in a mo.’
‘Thanks, Annie.’ His voice held both surprise and pleasure. ‘You didn’t have to wait up.’
She felt a warm glow that reflected off his pleasure. Whatever had happened in the past, they were here for each other now. ‘What’s the story, Dad? Have you found out …?’ She left the question hanging, not knowing how to ask what she really wanted. How much of you is this thing going to take? Will I have you back in time to come to Aunt Marian’s?
‘They’ve taken it off to the morgue. We’ll know more when they’ve had a proper look.’
‘But could it have been an accident? Whoever it … uh … belongs to, could they be all right?’
He toyed with the sandwiches she’d made. ‘It’s early days to know anything.’
She wondered if he was trying to convince himself or her. She saw no point in pretending. ‘It’s not all right, is it? I could tell by the way you reacted. What did you see? One leg severed below the knee doesn’t automatically mean someone died, or that it wasn’t an accidental death. You’re acting like someone was murdered.’
‘Forensics’ll tell us, but it didn’t look to me like a leg cut from a living body.’
She waited for him to go on, but instead he took a bite from his sandwich and stared into the middle distance.
‘When I saw it … close up I mean …’ Annie spoke carefully. ‘I thought it might be off a shop dummy. The skin looked like plastic. Was that because it had been in the water a long time?’
He shook his head. ‘A few days. A week at the most. I’m sure of it. Forensics’ll prove me right.’
‘Who’s saying you’re wrong?’
‘Oh, C-I-bloody-D are poncing in as usual, thinking they know it all. I know this coast, Annie, and I know what a body looks like when it’s been in a fire. They’re saying what you are. Shipping accident, leg been in the water for weeks. As if. I know these tides. I’ve an idea there was a complaint from down your aunt’s way. I’ll look it out later. Someone seen dumping trash in the loch. I’m betting that was the killer dumping the legs.’
‘Legs plural?’
‘Yes, I’m pretty sure both legs will have been dumped. There’s probably little left of the other. It’s been luck this one survived. But weeks!’ He tossed his head in contempt. ‘As if meat of any sort is likely to survive that long. It was still tangled in a bin bag. The other one’ll have fallen out and been eaten days ago. I doubt we’ll find it.’
Annie, about to speak, suddenly realized what he’d said. She felt shock prickle her skin, and spun round as though to see to something at the sink. He mustn’t see her face. I know what a body looks like when it’s been in a fire. Her mother. Twenty years ago a killer tried to burn her mother’s body to hide the crime. Tried and failed. Fire scorched her legs but left the rest of her untouched. The memory of what he’d seen must have stayed with him as clearly as the day it happened. Freddie Pearson’s catch had raked up the worst time in his life.
She thought of her own agenda, what she’d come here to say, how she’d relied on him to help her break the news to Aunt Marian. No doubts on that score now. She’d head off alone to her aunt’s tomorrow, and try to find her own route through the mess.
She gulped back her cocoa. It was supposed to soothe, but it bloated her. I want it like Mummy makes it.
Chapter 3
Annie came down the next morning to find her father already at breakfast. ‘Annie.’ He greeted her with a smile, but his eyes focused elsewhere.
‘Are you OK, Dad?’
‘Yes, fine …’ His voice tailed away as he looked beyond her through the window that faced the slope down to the loch. ‘Fine … Yes, it’ll be fine again today.’ Annie watched his attention wander as he turned to her. ‘And how’s business?’
She too looked out over the garden and down the glen. The air was still. Nothing but the tide moved the water in the loch. Any other time there would have been no more than a scorching day ahead in the haze that hung over the hills. Everything looked too still, too calm, the shining perfection of the water’s surface just a veneer.
He’d asked the question she needed. The opening to allow her to say, ‘Business is terrible, Dad. We can’t hold out much longer. If Pieternel doesn’t work one of her miracles, which she won’t, by the way, because it’s too late for that, I’ll be out of a job and homeless, not to mention up to my ears in debt before the year’s out. And worse than that, Aunt Marian’s coming with me, because …’ It was what she’d come to tell him.
‘D’you know, they’ve barely said a word to me,’ he burst out suddenly. ‘New bloods in from the city. Don’t know the area at all.’
It was a well-worn theme. CID muscling in, not knowing what they were doing. She supposed relations were especially fraught if a tenth of Aunt Marian’s drugs tale was true.
‘They’ll have to come to you for local knowledge on this one, Dad.’ She tried to bolster him. ‘Where else will they go?’
‘Try telling them that, Annie. They’re still sore about that business the other month.’
‘That’d be the drugs thing. Aunt Marian mentioned it. What happened?’
He gave a mirthless laugh. ‘They didn’t even bother to get in touch until they’d made a mess of it.’ As she brewed coffee he told her about a van being tracked from the city. ‘They expected it to head for Fort William but they lost it for a couple of hours. It was found burnt out. Sheer incompetence.’
‘Surely no one’s trying to blame you.’
‘Och, you know what they’re like, Annie. It turned up down your aunt’s way.’ He gave her a wry smile. ‘I’m sure she’s told you all about it. Anyway, it’s good to know you’re doing well. Your aunt’ll be pleased to see you.’
She held on to her smile. His mind had told him she’d given the reply he needed to hear. Annie’s fine. For once, his wayward daughter wasn’t the one bringing in the trouble.
‘How are you, Aunt Marian? I’m phoning from Dad’s. We’ve had a bit of an incident.’
‘Aye, we know all about it, dear. Fancy that reporter trying to get young Freddie to pose with his fishing rod. And quite right of Mr Pearson to knock him down …’
This was news to Annie, but no surprise that her aunt’s matchless grapevine had kept her up to speed. Aunt Marian loved a drama, and would want her niece on the spot to show off as an authentic link to the mystery.
‘I’ll be with you later today, Aunt Marian. How have things been this summer?’
Summer was a mixed blessing for Aunt Marian. She liked the warmer weather and the bustle of summer tourists that gave extra life to the place. The d
ownside was a sitting-room full of strangers and her favourite armchair taken if she wasn’t quick. But even the downside had an upside, because strangers provided a fresh audience every year.
‘There’s a very nice young lass staying,’ Aunt Marian began. ‘Her name’s Charlotte Grainger.’
Uh-oh, thought Annie, on guard at once at her aunt’s tone. There’d been an incident a couple of years ago involving one of the summer guests. It had brought home to Annie that her capable aunt had turned into a vulnerable old lady. She and her father had seen off the vulture, but the worry remained. As Aunt Marian grew older, would she become a target for scammers? Because no one lived comfortably in a guesthouse in a prime position without a good sum tucked away.
‘She’s not been very forthcoming,’ Aunt Marian went on. ‘But I’m drawing her out. She came and asked if I could help her. Well, she half asked, but I got it out of her. She wasn’t trusting me fully, but she does now.’
Annie could see her aunt as clearly as if she was in her line of sight and not miles away. She would be hunched over the phone in the hallway, her free hand choreographing her tale. She felt a ripple of unease as she pictured the scene where this Charlotte Grainger, whoever she was, reeled in Aunt Marian with the promise of mystery and intrigue. She pushed away the thought that she was in no position to judge, whatever the woman planned.
‘I’ll be away up to Aunt Marian’s this afternoon,’ she said at lunch, looking at the window as the sharp rat-a-tat of a sudden downpour cut across her voice. Her father just nodded, but she saw Mrs Latimer’s face light up.
‘I’d have thought–’ Mrs Latimer began and then stopped.
Annie smiled. Mrs Latimer wanted to condemn her for deserting her father at a time like this, but couldn’t for fear of making Annie change her mind and stay.
‘Thought what?’ Annie teased.
She sensed a movement beside her. Her father had tensed. Christ, she thought suddenly, he must be fed up with this constant sniping whenever I’m home. As Mrs Latimer flounced off into the hallway and up the stairs, Annie took in a deep breath and said, ‘Don’t take us seriously, Dad. We’ll never be best pals, but it’s only sport these days. If she’d admit it to herself, she enjoys it as much as I do.’ As she spoke, she wondered if it was true.
‘She’s a good housekeeper, Annie. I’d struggle to manage without her.’
‘I know.’ She smiled at him and wanted to tell him it was OK with her now. In fact, she had to tell him. Real conversation had to start somewhere. ‘It’s OK, Dad. I wouldn’t want you to let her go. It’s … it’s still hard for me. We used to row a lot when you weren’t here. After Mother died. She said things I can’t forgive her for …’ Don’t ask me what things. Don’t ever ask me … ‘I’m sorry. Really I am. But it’s in the past. I know you need her. It doesn’t bother me, not the way it used to. It’s … it’s different now.’
Your turn. Say something. Don’t let it drop. It was horribly uncomfortable, but she needed it to carry on, needed them to communicate. She might be living here soon.
Maybe he too felt the need to hold the connection between them. He cleared his throat. ‘Do you remember Inspector McMahon?’
She nodded, yes. She’d been thinking of him only last night.
‘They both tried to help you after … afterwards. You never took against the inspector the way you did Mrs Latimer.’
He didn’t say things about my mother. ‘I was thinking about him yesterday. Trying to remember. Dad, Inspector McMahon was there in the office. But I can’t remember Mother’s funeral.’ The words came easily. Annie wondered why she hadn’t asked before. For twenty years she’d searched for the memory, but this was the first time she’d said the words aloud.
He looked at her, surprised. ‘You didn’t go, Annie.’
‘Didn’t …? But I remember … Inspector McMahon …’
He gave her half a smile. ‘You blacked his eye.’
‘No!’ Her first reaction was indignation. It was another of Mrs Latimer’s lies. Then the memory crept back in. His arms struggling to hold her. Yes, it had been a struggle though she was only eight and he as big as he was. ‘My God, yes. Why on earth …? What did I do?’
‘It was our fault, Annie. You asked to see your mother. I just need to see Mummy, you said. You were so calm about it, and so firm, we thought we should let you.’
‘I can sort of remember. Did I see her?’
‘Yes, but it overwhelmed you. I think … we thought … you might just kiss her goodbye, but … We had to get the doctor in to sedate you.’
That explained the fragmented memory. ‘Dad? What did I do? I remember Inspector McMahon pulling me back, but what did I do?’
‘You tried to pull your mother out of the coffin, Annie. It was understandable. You were only eight. We shouldn’t have let you see her.’
‘I tried to …?’ She struggled with the fog that lay over her memory. My God, did I really try to …? No. No, I didn’t. I wasn’t trying to drag her out. I know I wasn’t, but what was I doing?
‘It was Mrs Latimer who calmed you that day, Annie.’
Her head shot up, all other thoughts stifled. ‘It was Aunt Marian. I remember that bit. Here in the kitchen.’
He shook his head. ‘Marian had gone ahead to the kirk. She didn’t … she doesn’t know what happened that day. We told her you were too upset to come.’
Mrs Latimer? The thought of Mrs Latimer holding her hand, telling her to be brave, making her cocoa … ‘I thought it was Aunt Marian,’ was all she could think to say.
‘Uh … well, I know you didn’t … don’t … like her, but she tried to do her best for you. Really. So how long will you stay at your aunt’s?’
The sudden change of tack came as a great relief. Annie wished she’d never taken out the old memories. ‘Oh, just a few days.’ She cursed the wobble in her voice as she scrambled from the pit of real conversation and on to the solid ground of banalities.
‘Will you come back by the smokehouse and pick up some salmon?’
She smiled. ‘Of course I will.’
Annie nursed the car round the twists of the coast road, peering through a curtain of water, and hoped it would be fine for the return journey, because the detour to the smokehouse would take her over the mountain. The ferocity of the rain eased as she arrived at the guesthouse. The main street was deserted, but there was an air of busyness in the general debris of the summer season, too many parked cars, litter overflowing the bins. It wasn’t a large community, but grew ten times its size in a good summer.
She’d intended to arrive mid-afternoon, but it was nearly six o’clock when she sneaked in through the kitchens to grab a chance to towel her hair dry before Aunt Marian saw her and insisted she have a complete change of clothes.
A furtive voice from the hallway brought her up short. A woman about her own age huddled over a cell phone. Annie stayed still in the shadows and ran her eye over the drawn features, deep-set tiredness in the worried expression, the straggly lack-lustre blonde hair showing a telltale dark tide at the roots. With nothing but gut instinct to go on, Annie knew this was Charlotte Grainger, Aunt Marian’s very nice young lass.
It took a moment to interpret the anxious stuttering. ‘Look … I … uh … I was really wanting to speak to someone. I was hoping … I don’t know if I should leave a message … only it … it’s important …’
Annie gave her a mental nudge – go on, leave a message – maybe the woman would spell out the scam she planned for Aunt Marian.
‘I wouldn’t want to breach client confidentiality. Uh … I wouldn’t … You’ll know who I mean. I know you have your doubts about them, but it’s worse than that … I realize I shouldn’t have taken any tapes, but I was worried. I followed the path Lorraine took. There was something really odd. I think there may have been– Oh!’
The woman took the phone from her ear, gave it a bemused look, and then listened again before clicking it off and turning towards the sitting
-room. Annie watched her retreat and felt far more benevolent towards her. Aunt Marian may have lost a little of her edge, but she wouldn’t be outwitted by such a ditherer as that.
Annie stayed for a moment in the shadow by the stairs, looking round the familiar hallway of Mrs Watson’s establishment. She hated its genteel restrictions, but it suited Aunt Marian like a hand-made glove. It was a comfortable base in familiar surroundings where she was waited on to whatever degree she wanted. And Annie was about to snatch it all from her, to remove the financial base that made it possible.
When she’d left, her father had been on the phone in the office and, as she put her head round the door to signal goodbye, had heard the words, ‘… week at the most. Yes, I thought so.’ He’d given her a smile and a thumbs-up. So his theories on the leg had been confirmed. It hadn’t been in the water long. She wondered if that also meant it had been thrown into the loch just down the road from Mrs Watson’s, where she now stood looking at the blank sitting-room door.
Chapter 4
Annie knew she had to be paraded before the other guests, and slipped into the sitting-room nursing a hope there wouldn’t be too many of them this year. The room was packed.
‘Annie dear! How are you? Do come and meet…’
She returned her aunt’s grin of welcome, and noted the iron-clad curls of a new perm that framed the small familiar features. A stab of guilt sliced through her at this reminder of the effort her aunt always made for her visits. There was a general stirring as people shuffled obediently forward or half rose from their chairs. Mrs Watson’s guesthouse attracted the sort who were past energetic rambles or hill climbs. Annie wondered at their coming all this way to a renowned beauty spot to sit in a cavernous room watching TV. She smiled her polite smile and said her hellos, looking into faces she wouldn’t recognize again, and listening to names she wouldn’t recall. Except for one. Charlotte Grainger. She’d guessed right. Charlotte was the woman she’d overheard on the phone, and she looked just as nervy now as she had then.
