A Song of Isolation

by Michael Malone

  And if that did happen it would all be her fault. She shouldn’t have gone to play with Dave. Shouldn’t have pestered him for some attention. If she hadn’t done any of that everything would still be fine. Her life would be normal.

  At least they had Cammy. He was the one pleasant figure in her life. Her uncle was always up for a laugh, always interested in what she had to say, always listened to her with that soppy smile on his face. Always brought her some kind of gift when he visited. Choc­olates, movies, or even clothes and designer trainers. And when he was away for a few days he usually brought her something extra nice.

  ‘I know you’re dealing with your own stuff, Cammy. But will you please stop spoiling her?’ Mum said to him each time.

  His own stuff?

  Damaris asked what she was talking about after Cammy left. Her mother looked at her, making that face, as if she was trying to judge if Damaris was old enough to be told something.

  ‘Godssakes, Mum. I’m not a baby.’

  Her mother reached for her hand. Damaris read the movement and thought, oh no, this is serious.

  ‘You know that Uncle Cammy was in America.’

  ‘Uh-huh.’

  ‘And you know he came back after his wife and daughter died in a car crash?’

  Damaris nodded. That was so sad. Now and again she’d catch Cammy in a moment when he thought no one was looking; he looked so lost.

  ‘Well, what I didn’t tell you was that Cammy was driving. And he was over the limit. He hasn’t told me all the details. Only that it wasn’t just alcohol.’

  ‘What?’ Damaris sat bolt upright.

  ‘I don’t know what kind of shit … sorry, stuff he was into over there. And it’s horrible and everything, it really is, but I don’t want him spoiling you and treating you like some kind of proxy for Mindy.’

  Damaris didn’t want to look stupid, so didn’t ask what proxy meant, but she could make a good guess. ‘What age was Mindy?’

  ‘A year or two older than you, babes.’ As Claire spoke she reached out and stroked Damaris’s cheek, as if she was contem­plating that loss for a moment. She shivered. ‘Anyway, the point is your uncle is going through a hard time and I don’t want you taking advantage.’

  ‘I don’t do anything,’ Damaris protested. ‘He just gives me stuff now and again.’

  Of course, Cammy ignored his sister, told her to shut up and insisted he only had one niece and he was going to spoil her like crazy, which was fine with Damaris really. But she would be happier if they didn’t argue about it.

  All she wanted was for everyone to get on and stop fighting.

  All she wanted was everything to go back to normal.

  All she wanted was for everything not to be her fault.

  Chapter 48

  Amelie was initially nervous about taking guests on a tour of the vineyard, but Valérie was patient in her coaching and persuaded her she was a natural. It helped that her knowledge of the process of wine-making was growing, and her everyday use of the language was improving her conversational skills. She could now under­stand what people were saying when they responded to her.

  Because the bus services from the city didn’t always suit her working hours she used some of the money Peter had given her and bought herself an old Renault Clio. And each day, driving into work, when the stretch of vineyards appeared before her she felt a huge thrill of appreciation that she got to visit here every day.

  On her lunch breaks, after a hastily eaten meal, which was an idea that her colleagues abhorred – lunch was to be savoured in France, she was reminded – she loved nothing more than to borrow one of the estate’s bikes and cycle the lanes between the vines, visiting each of the monumental sculptures that were de­posited here and there, like blessings from an art-loving god. Her favourite was The Hare. The bronze was set on a plinth so that it was visible above the vines – a giant animal stretched out at the gallop, over four metres in length from the tips of its eager front paws to the ones at the back, its ears trailing high and happy in the breeze.

  Thankfully, she’d not come across the strange man who had fol­lowed her in the city, and she felt confident that now she was spending more and more time out in the country it was less likely their paths would cross. She was, however, on high alert every time she left her apartment building and stepped out onto the street. Looking either way, searching for that short dark hair and black leather jacket in every male figure around her.

  Even here when she greeted each new group of wine tourists she would scan them for threat, only relaxing when she was con­fident he was not among them. There was also a worry of recognition when the guests were English-speaking, but she kept her hair short and dark, and had taken to wearing large-framed spectacles as part of her disguise. Also, when none of her col­leagues were about, she adopted a more French pronunciation to her English. Try as she might she couldn’t completely excise the hard, sharp consonants and snappy vowels of her Scottish heritage, but she hoped the addition of some Gallic flavour might put the more curious off the scent.

  Despite a twinge of guilt, like a daily stitch in her side, that she got to enjoy this wonderful lifestyle while Dave was locked up in prison, she savoured the fact that Solange Meric was a world apart from the movie star Amelie Hart, and she prayed fervently it would stay that way.

  It was late March. Having just guided some visitors to the en­trance to La Foret des Sens – an enchanting woodland walk on the estate – she was perched on her bike, face to the sun, enjoying the first real heat of the year, when the phone in her pocket sounded an alert.

  ‘Bonjour,’ she said.

  ‘You sound well,’ Peter replied.

  ‘Sorry.’ Her response was automatic. She’d found a level of hap­piness here she didn’t quite feel she deserved and consequently wasn’t sure how to speak to people who were elbows deep in their own troubles. ‘I’m just … enjoying a moment of sunshine.’

  ‘Please don’t apologise for enjoying a nice moment, Amelie – sorry, Solange. I’ll have to get used to calling you that.’ He paused as if reflecting for a moment. ‘It would be nice to feel some sun­shine on these old bones of mine.’

  ‘How’s Dave?’

  ‘Yeah, he’s keeping his head down. Getting a lot of reading done, apparently.’

  She could tell from his tone he was keeping something back.

  ‘What are you not telling me, Peter?’ she asked.

  ‘Nothing,’ he replied. ‘Things have settled down since that last … escapade.’

  ‘And?’ After some persuasion, and against his better judgement he’d told her about Dave being attacked by Angus in his cell.

  ‘He’s still on his own, but eventually they’ll have to put someone else in with him.’

  ‘Hopefully it will be someone less murderous.’

  ‘Angus isn’t a bad lad, not really. He was put in an impossible situation.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Someone threatened to rape and kidnap his girlfriend and turn her into an addicted whore if he didn’t kill Dave.’

  ‘What the hell…?’ It was like something out of a movie. ‘How did you…?’

  ‘Angus told me himself. He … He’s working for me now.’

  Amelie was aware of Peter’s kindness, having been a recipient of it, but this seemed above and beyond even for him. ‘Really? What were you thinking?’

  ‘Dave,’ he answered, as if his son’s name was the only explana­tion possible.

  ‘I’m sure he had a good reason.’ Amelie was shaking her head. The last thing she’d do if someone tried to kill her would be to help them into a job.

  ‘It’s all very complicated and I can’t begin to understand it myself, but Dave promised the guy, vouched for him despite everything, and I have to say he’s grabbed the opportunity with both hands.’

  ‘Isn’t there still a risk to his girlfrien
d? After all, he didn’t succeed.’

  ‘He did make a good stab at it,’ Peter said. Then as if realising what he’d just said, he croaked out a tension-minimising laugh. ‘Angus has been hyper-vigilant, and so has the young lady in ques­tion, but there’s been nothing. Not so far.’

  ‘I know that sex offenders get a difficult time in prison, but this seems driven by something…’ she struggled to find the right word; ‘…more.’

  ‘What are you suggesting?’

  ‘Is Angus able to tell you who set it up?’

  ‘He said it was another prisoner who passed on the threat, and the weapon, acting on someone else’s behalf.’

  ‘Another prisoner?’

  ‘He can’t say for sure.’

  ‘Are you being too trusting here, Peter?’ Amelie was suddenly fearful for him. ‘What if there is no other actor in this? What if Angus is playing you?’

  ‘I believe him, Amelie. I really do. Besides, who in their right mind is going to try and kill someone who offered them a chance at a job on the outside and then actually go for that job? It just doesn’t make sense.’

  Amelie felt a gust of wind brush past her face, bringing with it notes of pine and damp earth. Then a cold spark of rain on her cheek. She looked to the sky and saw how the cloud cover had increased since she’d been talking. She got off the bike, kicked out the small metal leg from the frame and set it to stand, then she stepped under the little white stucco shelter at the side of the entrance to the forest. She took a seat on the wooden bench inside and pulled her rain jacket around her, now aware of a slight chill.

  ‘Anyway,’ Peter said. ‘That wasn’t the reason for my call. Your missing money…’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘My forensic accountant has been beavering away in the back­ground, liaising with the bank and the police.’ He lifted the phone away from his mouth and spoke to someone else as if they’d just appeared in his office. She heard a muffled ‘Please. Have a seat.’ Then his attention was back to her. ‘Tell me, when you moved abroad did you redirect your mail?’

  ‘Of course,’ Amelie replied. ‘Or I should say, I got Bernard to do it.’

  There was a pause on the line at the mention of Bernard’s name. She waited to see if Peter would repeat his concerns about her friend. Instead he simply asked, ‘Do you know when?’

  ‘I’ll ask him to give me dates. Why?’

  ‘We haven’t traced the bulk of your cash, but there were a series of withdrawals from your account. A couple of hundred pounds at a time. All of them in Glasgow city centre. And a few of them on the same day you were withdrawing cash, albeit from a differ­ent bank account, from a machine in Bordeaux.’

  ‘Sorry?’ Amelie struggled to compute Peter’s meaning. ‘Someone was using my card in Glasgow while I was in Bordeaux?’

  ‘As you haven’t mastered the art of being in two places at the same time we are able to prove to the bank that one set of with­drawals is fraudulent.’ At this she felt a tremor of concern that there were people in the UK who knew exactly where she was. She hadn’t considered that it was right there on her bank state­ments. The exact time, date and place noted every time she withdrew some cash.

  ‘But…’ Then Peter’s question about redirecting her mail hit her. ‘The bank sent something out – a new card, a statement, or some­thing?’

  ‘Yes, exactly,’ Peter said. ‘It wasn’t redirected and the wrong person somehow got their hands on it.’

  ‘What do we know about my lodger?’

  ‘We know it wasn’t them,’ Peter answered. ‘But we have a working theory who it might have been. These small regular with­drawals amounted to only a couple of thousand pounds, but, as I said, we’re still looking for the bulk of your money. The person who got their hands on that is much less amateurish.’

  Amelie thought about her accounts, yet again cursed her ten­dency to bury her head in the sand when it came to financial matters, and thought about the set-up Bernard had suggested to her years ago: one main account for the big sums, with regular movement from there to another account for everyday cash, then a third emergency-style account. She heard his voice in her ear, a replay of their last conversation, when they’d eventually caught up with each other; his assertion that he’d been in hospital. She wondered if that was all part of an elaborate swindle.

  Enough, she told herself. Bernard was her friend. One of the few remaining. He wouldn’t do that to her.

  ‘You heard me speaking to someone else a little earlier on?’ Peter said.

  ‘Yes…’

  ‘I’m with Detective Sergeant Campbell. I’m going to put her on the phone.’ Amelie could hear a tremor of excitement in Peter’s voice.

  A pause, and a woman came onto the line: ‘This is Amelie Hart, yes?’

  ‘Yes,’ Amelie replied.

  ‘DS Campbell here. We have a CCTV image of someone with­drawing cash from your account from a machine in the city centre. We’re wondering if you know this person.’

  ‘Okay.’ They were that far advanced in the investigation? Amelie didn’t pick that up from what Peter said.

  ‘Be prepared to come back to the UK, Miss Hart. You’ll pro­bably be needed to testify if, or when, this comes to court.’

  ‘What have you found?’

  ‘I’m going to have Mr Robbins send a CCTV image to your phone.’

  A moment later she heard an alert as an email landed in her inbox. She removed the phone from the side of her head, went in to her email app, saw the mail from Peter and thumbed the at­tachment. An image bloomed onto the screen. A woman’s face in grainy black and white, taken from above, one hand frozen in the moment she put out a hand to pull the cash from the machine.

  It was Claire Brown.

  Chapter 49

  There was a knock at the door. Loud and firm.

  Damaris was in the kitchen with Cammy. He’d brought a massive birthday cake with him. Tiny, pink icing roses covered the sides and it had twelve candles and a large capital D on the surface. Her mum had asked Cammy to light all the candles while she went to the toilet.

  ‘And don’t blow them out till I come back, birthday girl,’ Claire said as she tweaked Damaris’s nose.

  The door sounded again.

  ‘Will you get that, Cammy?’ Claire shouted from behind the toilet door. ‘Kinda busy here.’

  ‘’Sake,’ Cammy grumbled. ‘Who could that be? Is your dad coming over, Damaris?’

  ‘No,’ she said, trying to hide her disappointment. Her father told her that he and her mum were unable to share a civil word and it would only spoil her birthday if he turned up. His plan was to have a separate celebration for her: ‘Just you and me, doll. It will be magic. And we can go to the pictures, or the ten-pin bowling, or a concert. Is there a concert on? There’s bound to be, eh? Kylie or Madonna or somebody. Just think, it will be like you have two birthdays. How lucky are you?’

  Damaris was glad this conversation happened over the phone, because then her dad wouldn’t have seen the disappointment on her face. She’d had it all planned. Dad would come over. They’d have cake, drink lots of fizzy stuff, remember the good times and Mum and Dad would fall back in love again. She was to blame for them splitting up, so maybe she could bring them back together?

  In that moment, watching each candle puff into light, while her mother was in the toilet and someone was banging on the door, she realised her hope was silly. It would take way more than a slice of cake for her parents’ attitude towards each other to soften.

  ‘Coming,’ Cammy shouted in the direction of the door. He looked down at the cake. ‘Just one wee candle to go, babe. I’ll get that in a second.’

  He charged along the long corridor to the front door, yelling, ‘Hold your horses, will you?’

  Damaris was wondering if she should light the last remaining candle when her mother eventually came out of the toilet, wiping h
er nose with the back of her hand. ‘Who was it?’ she asked Damaris.

  The girl shrugged. They heard a grumble of voices from the door. Claire cocked her head when she recognised her name.

  ‘Who is it, Cammy?’ she shouted through.

  ‘You can’t do this, guys. Not on the wean’s birthday,’ Cammy shouted.

  Then there were footsteps, and a man and a woman appeared at the kitchen door. They were both in dark suits and there was something very official about them.

  ‘Claire Brown?’ the woman said. ‘I’m Detective Sergeant Mar­jorie Campbell. We have some questions we need to ask you. Would you mind coming with us to the station?’

  ‘It’s no’ exactly a request though, is it?’ Cammy accused.

  ‘Zip it, Cammy,’ Claire said.

  ‘On the wean’s birthday? How sick are you guys?’ Cammy said.

  ‘What’s happening, Mum?’ Damaris felt small and afraid. ‘Mum?’ She did her best to hold back her tears, but she was very, very scared.

  ‘Cammy, leave it,’ her mum said. Then she looked at Damaris, and the cake. ‘You two have a wee slice, but don’t eat it all, mind. I want a massive chunk when I get back.’ She bent down so that her face was level with Damaris. It was one large smile, a smile that Damaris could tell was fake.

  ‘Let me get my coat,’ her mum then said to the man and woman.

  ‘Want me to give Roger a call?’ Cammy asked.

  ‘How long can you stay for?’ Claire asked.

  ‘As long as you need me.’

  ‘Great.’ She approached Cammy, leaned in to him, whispered something short, and then putting on what even Damaris could see was a brave face she turned to the police officers. ‘The sooner we get on with this, the sooner I get back. I’ve got a wee girl’s birthday to celebrate.’

  Damaris ran to the window in the front room and waited for them to appear on the street below, then watched as they walked out of the communal doorway, up the path and along the road to a car. There her mother was directed into the back seat. Before Claire ducked inside, she looked up at the window and gave a bright wave as if she was just off to the supermarket.