Ariadne's Thread

by Marie Treanor

  Well, she had little choice but to go along with this to facilitate her escape. And if it lit up the eyes of this rich and intriguing bastard, well that was a bonus for her ego—and more fodder for those shrinks.

  Holding his challenging gaze, she took hold of the bottom edges of the sweater and pulled it over her head in one movement. She shook out her untidy, uneven chestnut hair and glared defiantly back up into his dark eyes.

  They didn’t light up. They darkened alarmingly, save for tiny flecks of gold that seemed to dance at the edges. His hands, still on the banister, moved inward. He took a step nearer so that his kilt brushed against her denim-clad legs, his sporran against her abdomen.

  “There you are, Johnny!” exclaimed a woman’s voice from the foot of the stairs. “The ceilidh band are drunk and trying to confiscate your mother’s record collection.”

  “Good luck to them,” murmured her host. Over his shoulder Addie glimpsed a beautiful young woman in a dark blue dress with a stylish tartan sash. His wife? Girlfriend? Please not his sister Tammy!

  Whoever she was, he seemed in no hurry. He didn’t even glance at the newcomer. He said, “What did you say you’d drink?”

  Really, you could drown in those eyes. And those lips must taste like…

  “Whisky,” she said shakily. “Please.”

  The corners of his mouth tugged upward. “Good choice, as it happens. Don’t go away. I want to know more about you.”

  “Like what?” she demanded. Like where she went to school? Or what she was doing in his house?

  He straightened, removing his enclosing arms, and stepped back. “Like where you learned to play the piano.”

  His hand twitched the sweater from her lifeless fingers and slung it over the banister. A moment longer, he held her bemused gaze, then his lips quirked upwards. He took the final few stairs in one bound, allowing a tantalizing glimpse of his lower thigh. “Have you met Liz, by the way? She’s a journalist, so watch what you say. Liz—Kate.”

  Feeling more than slightly dazed—and ridiculously happy because he’d almost implied a compliment about her piano playing—Addie blinked after his disappearing back. Reluctantly, she walked down the steps towards the journalist, who appeared to be waiting for her.

  “Charming, isn’t he?” the other woman said mildly. “The trouble is, he knows it. I’m Liz Conway, by the way, and I’m a music journalist, not a scandal sheet reporter. Just so you know I’m not looking for gossip here.”

  “’Course not,” said Addie. Though if you asked her, the woman looked far too…interested.

  “So which side of the fence are you on? You don’t believe he killed his wife, or you don’t care if he did?”

  Addie blinked. “Which scandal sheet are you not working for again?”

  The woman’s mouth twitched with surprise. Then, recovering quickly, she laughed, a bright, tinkly sound that grated on Addie’s nerves. “Sorry, I’m more of a family friend than a mere journalist. I’m afraid I was testing you. Poor Johnny has had a lot to put up with recently. How do you know him?”

  “I don’t,” said Addie. “Excuse me, where’s the nearest toilet?”

  Liz waved her elegant hand across the hall. Damn—not upstairs as Addie had hoped. Never mind, she could still hide in the downstairs cludgie until the coast was clear enough to find Jimmy and get out of here.

  Chapter Two

  Tammy Newton glanced at her watch again. One fifteen. The bastard should have phoned by now. He always phoned when he was working high days and holidays—birthdays, anniversaries, Christmas, New Year… She’d been so sure he wouldn’t let a little thing like impending divorce get in the way of tradition.

  Oh, well, stuff him. It wasn’t as if she wasn’t having a good time. It was wonderful to be home, great to see old friends again, talk and dance and drink to New Year and new life.

  Johnny, looking rumpled and rather devilishly handsome as well as purposeful, swung his way through the dancers, carrying two glasses of whisky. Not that she grudged him a bit of fun, but she hoped the second glass wasn’t for Liz. She wanted him to meet someone exotic and different. Someone who could enchant him and put up with him at the same time. Well, there were plenty of women here, and some she’d never laid eyes on before, so there was hope.

  Tammy felt glad all over again that they’d decided to hold their usual New Year party. Last year, with Julia’s murder and the trial hanging over them, it hadn’t been feasible. She’d wondered if people would actually come—but they had, and not just from curiosity, but from solidarity and support, as well as determination to enjoy the best piss-up for miles.

  Across the room, her mother destroyed the blessed silence by putting on another old Jimmy Shand record. A few of the guests gamely set out on a lively Gay Gordon full of twirls and “Hooch!”s. And the pissed ceilidh band that had entertained them so royally before the bells of midnight retreated under the table with their bottles, waiting, no doubt, for Tammy to turn her back so they could change the record.

  “That would drive you to drink!” Gran snapped from her winged armchair, waggling her glass significantly under Tammy’s nose. Obediently, Tammy sploshed some whisky into it and clinked with her great-grandmother. “Can’t you put on one of those loud CDs and drown out the racket?”

  “Well, I could, but she’s having such fun. She loves New Year. Reminds her of Dad.”

  Gran snorted. “Well if she thinks your father would have tolerated this rubbish in his house, she’s madder than we all thought!”

  “Shut up, Gran, she isn’t mad. She’s just a little—lost.”

  She had of course been lost for many years now, deep in her own world. Tammy had long ago learned to shut her heart to the ache of that, but she could no more spoil her mother’s fun than she could shoot herself.

  “Ha!” Gran had considerably less sympathy with those frailer than herself.

  “You really are an ill-natured old bat, aren’t you, Gran?” said Tammy amiably, peering inside the bag resting on the arm of the old lady’s chair, just to make sure no message was registering on her phone.

  “Just take it out,” Gran advised. “It’s not as if we don’t all know what you’re doing.”

  Tammy cast her a glance of dislike and yanked out the phone. It was not only blank, but stone dead.

  “Damn! The stupid thing’s run out of charge.” Which could well explain his silence—why hadn’t she noticed this before?

  “Better run upstairs and use the office phone, then,” Gran mocked. “If you go quickly, you won’t have to explain to your new boyfriend why you’re so desperate to speak to your ex.”

  “Has anyone ever told you you’re a nasty old woman?”

  “Frequently,” Gran boasted, and this time it was Tammy who snorted before she left her grandmother without a backward glance, slipping between the merry dancers and across the hall to the stairs. With the speed of someone who had lived with them most of her life, she took two steps at a time, uncaring that her sleek little black dress rode too far up her thighs for modesty.

  Vaguely, she noticed a dim light under the study door as she passed. She supposed Johnny must have got fed up with the party after all and escaped to do some work instead. Boring old fart.

  With more hope than she knew was healthy, she pushed open the office door and dived inside.

  The first thing she noticed was that the light was on here, too. The second thing she saw was a thin-faced, villainous-looking man in a black leather jacket with a scar down one cheek. He was staring at her, his mouth open with almost as much surprise as hers.

  “Grab her, Jim,” he said grimly and pulled a handgun from his inside pocket.

  ef

  Addie emerged from the cloakroom toilet warily, peering round the door until she could see that Liz the journalist had vanished. Nor, fortunately, was there any sign of her host among the throngs. His guests, some in tartan, some in evening dress, others in jeans and most stages in between, seemed an odd mixture of the
wealthy and ordinary local people. So at least she didn’t stand out as much as she’d feared when she first met Liz Conway.

  Pausing nervously by a tall Victorian grandfather clock, Addie glanced at the time. It was no help. The hands pointed straight up at midnight. She suspected they always did. Taking a deep breath, she moved among the crowd of people—both new arrivals and people leaving—in the hall, making her way inexorably toward the staircase.

  Snatches of conversation in many accents reached her. “…terrible lot of snow—it’ll be a long walk home!”

  “Oh, yes, the Maxwells always have a fantastic party at New Year.”

  “Nice that they’re still doing it, after all their—trouble.”

  “Christi! Happy New Year! How’s your gorgeous husband?”

  “So good to see Johnny back on his feet. He’s had a terrible time with the media, even after the trial.”

  Trial? What trial? Despite herself, Addie paused to listen in to that one. She heard the serious reply: “Well, a not proven verdict isn’t really regarded as a statement of innocence, is it? There will always be people who think he did it. And probably he’ll never prove he didn’t. But the really sad thing is he hasn’t played in two years, not since Julia died, and I very much doubt he will again.”

  “But that’s terrible! What will happen to this place if he doesn’t earn?”

  “Well, look about you,” came the dry response. “What do you think?”

  Addie found herself looking, too, and finally recognized the decayed appearance of the place beneath the lights and the glittering company. There was the broken grandfather clock, of course. But also, the Victorian bowl shades and chandeliers were dusty, far beyond what her mother would tolerate. The carpet under her feet may have once been good, but now it was so worn that the colour had disappeared. In fact, there were holes and patches all over it. The long, velvet curtains looked as if they’d been put up with the house and never removed or cleaned since. Houses like this were meant to be shiny and well maintained by a small army of servants and tradesmen. Weren’t they?

  Shit, she had to get out of here…

  Grabbing her black sweater off the banister, she ran back upstairs before “Johnny” came looking for her. She wondered what he’d been on trial for, what it was he would never prove he hadn’t done. The murder of his wife that Liz had brought up? Well, he looked like he had a nasty temper, and he now appeared to be on the same shady side of the law as herself. Which was disturbingly disappointing.

  Well, there was no honour among thieves in the real world: he was still getting robbed.

  Again, the upper hall was empty. The door of the piano room remained closed. Ignoring it, she ran for the one diagonally opposite and went quickly inside.

  Her harassed looking brother was on his knees beside a metal cabinet. He gazed up at her with the frightened despair of a rabbit caught in headlights, before his shoulders slumped in relief as he recognized her.

  Shug stood to one side of him, pointing a handgun at a girl cowering in the corner.

  “What the fuck are you doing with that?”

  The words erupted from Addie’s throat even while the blood drained from her head, leaving her dizzy.

  “Saving your ass, hen,” Shug growled.

  “You haven’t shot her, have you?”

  “Of course he hasn’t shot her,” Jim said with what he must have imagined was reassurance. “She came into the room—nothing else to do.”

  “Nothing else but wave a gun at her?”

  Shug said furiously, “Listen, smart-arse, if you’d been doing your job, we’d have been warned and she’d have seen nothing. And if you’d stayed out of the way and let Malky come like he was meant to, he could have thumped her.”

  Hysterical laughter rumbled in her chest. Oh, Jesus Christ, what am I doing here? Kate, Kate, if I ever get out of this, I will never ever do anything like this again, I promise…

  “Give the gun to me,” Addie said, holding out a hand that shook. “I’ll watch her now…”

  “No you will not,” said Shug, jerking the weapon out of her reach. The girl on the floor whimpered. “You go and get Malky. Jim, have you not got that bloody thing opened yet?”

  Jim shook his head miserably. Clearly, his term at borstal, combined with long association with Uncle Eddie, safe-cracker extraordinaire and long-time guest of Her Majesty, was not enough for this task.

  “Fuck it,” said Shug. “We’ll take the whole bloody safe, shoot it open when we’re clear of here.”

  Addie said, “Wait…” Her heart quailed at the thought of trying to manhandle the safe out of the window and down to the ground. Looking at the trembling captive—a young girl with dark, spiky hair, wearing a short black dress and smudged make-up—she ruthlessly squashed the inevitable pity and said, “What’s your name? Who are you?”

  “Aw for fuck’s sake…” Shug breathed.

  “Thomasina Maxwell,” the girl whispered.

  “Tammy? Johnny’s sister?” There was a horrible inevitability about all this.

  The girl nodded. Ignoring Shug’s snarl, Addie knelt down between him and his captive. “Tammy, can you open the safe? It’ll get rid of us much faster, I promise you.”

  Her terror-filled eyes widened. She nodded dementedly.

  “Good girl,” Addie breathed, turning away from her. Her insides wrenched. She rose and walked past Shug, pausing only to hiss on the way past, “You hurt her, Shug, and I swear I’ll crash the car into the nearest tree.”

  “Where are you going?” Jim demanded.

  “To get Malky!”

  She couldn’t bear to watch the girl “betraying” her family by giving away their safe combination. In fact, there was very little about this night she could bear now. A gun, for God’s sake! Where did that total arsehole get off?

  Crossing the still empty hall, she pushed open the door of the piano room.

  The icy air struck her naked shoulders like a blow. With a shiver, she hurried across to the window where she paused, staring stupidly at the firmly closed sash. She had shut it. It was still shut.

  So how come it’s so bloody cold in here?

  She stared out into the darkness. It was still snowing steadily. Addie didn’t see how they could possibly drive back to Glasgow tonight—even tomorrow it seemed likely that the roads would be closed. Who was going to work New Year’s Day to clear them? There was no sign of Malky or anyone else, save for the shouts of departing—or perhaps arriving—guests declaiming, “Happy New Year!”

  Significantly, she heard no cars, only the faint trudge of feet on thick new snow. Because the locals were too smart to drive in this weather? Or just because it was New Year and they were all pissed as farts?

  Addie reached for the rope, to throw it back down—and couldn’t find it. Frowning, she knelt down to look, felt her way along to the heavy desk leg it was supposed to be tied to. Nothing. It wasn’t there.

  “Why is nothing simple?” she murmured. Again, she went to the window. She pushed it up and peered hard through the snow to the white ground below. If the rope was there, it was well covered by now.

  Sliding the sash back down, Addie crouched under the window, faced into the room and dragged out her phone. She scrolled down to Malky’s name and pressed call. From nowhere, an icy breeze ruffled through her hair and down her spine, making her shiver again and start scanning the room for the source of the draught.

  Though she tapped her feet waiting for Malky to answer, it didn’t bring him any quicker. In fact, it didn’t bring him at all. She was switched over to the answer phone service.

  “Oh, shite!”

  That was when she saw him.

  It wasn’t startling. It wasn’t as if he suddenly appeared. It was as if he’d always been there. A handsome man in a suit—old fashioned, faintly reminiscent of what her dad had called a monkey suit. A dark tail coat, bow tie, Edwardian beard. Watching her.

  Through the substance of his body, she could still
make out the piano and the lamp.

  Her throat closed up. The figure moved, slowly shaking his semi-transparent head. His mouth formed the universal tutting position. Bad girl, Addie…

  For some reason, she wasn’t afraid. Instead, she wanted to cry.

  “I know,” she whispered. “I know…”

  She swallowed. Dragging her eyes free of the apparition, she launched herself to her feet and sped out of the room. Trembling, she barely remembered to check for company in the hall as she crossed back to the “office”.

  Shug was now crouched down beside Jim and Tammy, one hand still holding on to the wretched gun, the other rifling impatiently through the safe.

  “We’re deid,” he said flatly, sitting back on his heels.

  All for nothing then, Addie thought, brushing past them to the window. Another year in that bloody hole…but at least the ghost would be pleased. And at least they didn’t have to steal from this wretched girl or her strange, compelling brother… Or the woman she’d never met with the Jimmy Shand record collection. Come to think of it, she couldn’t hear Jimmy Shand anymore. There was a slightly woozy fiddle—the drunken ceilidh band had taken over again…

  “Where’s the money?” Shug demanded, and Addie spun round to see him loom over the captive girl.

  “There isn’t any money,” the girl retorted with the sort of courage born of desperation and total truth. “Look around you! The whole house leaks like a sieve, it’s freezing cold and there’s been nothing new bought for twenty years. Or at least two…” she corrected, presumably in the interests of accuracy.

  “Then why send us up here?” Jim demanded. He blanched. “Shug, we have got the right house?”

  “Shut it, of course we have.” It wasn’t a convincing denial. And seeing the eyes of the others on him, he swore and shouted at the girl, “Your name’s Maxwell, isn’t it?”

  “Yes,” she whispered, scooting away from him. When Shug started after her, brandishing the gun, Addie sprang forward to catch his attention. “Actually, we have another problem—the rope’s gone and I can’t raise Malky.”