by JANICE FROST
“A nightmare,” Elspeth says, handing me the tea. “I wonder what she’s doing now?”
It’s not the first time one or the other of us has asked that question over the years. Lucy left St Andrews not long after Moira’s murder. Always a little fragile, she’d seemed to unravel more and more that term, until, at the Easter break, she went home and never returned.
Later, the rest of us felt guilty for not appreciating the extent to which the tragedy had affected Lucy. No one foresaw that she would not return for her final year.
We tried to keep in touch. I wrote to her several times when I was in my final year. She seldom replied. Shona wrote to her too, with the same level of success. We learned that after six months at home, she had gone to Australia, to stay with a cousin of her mother’s. There were one or two postcards after that, then nothing.
More recently I’ve searched for her online, on Facebook, not really expecting to find her. If Lucy is still as paranoid as she used to be, she’d be unlikely to have an online presence. I hope that wherever she is, whatever she is doing with her life, she is happy.
I sip my tea. Elspeth picks Sebastian up off the floor and places him on Izzy’s pillow. She pulls the cover up, then sits down and we chat, just like we did years ago in our house on North Street.
“Duncan’s great,” I tell her.
“I think I just might marry him.” She gives me a thoughtful look. “What about you, Ros? Is there anyone special in your life at the moment?”
“No.” I don’t even try to pretend. Elspeth wouldn’t be fooled. Her brain is logical and incisive, but she’s good at reading people too. “I don’t know. I meet men and go out with them, but it’s just going through the motions. I don’t feel anything. It’s like I’m dead inside. It’s not grief, either. Now I go whole days without thinking of Doug. Do you know, soon he’ll have been dead more years than we were together? And I’m getting to be so old.”
It’s not often that I indulge in self-pity, and I feel a twinge of embarrassment. I’m not expecting sympathy from Elspeth. When I said she’s good at reading people, I didn’t mean she’s the touchy-feely type. She’s good at offering practical advice. This morning, though, she surprises me by taking my hand and giving it a squeeze.
“You’ve concentrated all your love and energy on being Izzy’s mother — and father. She’s a credit to you. It’s your time now.” She pokes me in the ribs. “And less of this old woman talk. I’m the same age as you and I’ve never felt more alive, or been happier. And it’s not all down to Duncan.”
It’s not original advice. My colleagues at work and my friends at home have been saying much the same thing for weeks. Book a holiday. Take up new challenges. Get out there. I know they’re right. Maybe I’ll heed their advice once Izzy’s settled at university and I have more time on my hands than I’ve had for years. There’s nothing like boredom to make you give your life a shake-up. But it’s not boredom I’m afraid of. It’s loneliness, all that time to dwell on my empty life.
Before I can say anything, Izzy bounds back into the room, wrapped in a white fluffy bath towel, wet hair twisted in a knot atop her head.
“Great shower, Elspeth,” she says. “It’s time we got a proper shower at home, Mum.”
That’s what I’ll do, I think. Throw myself into some home improvement projects. Izzy won’t recognise the house when she comes home at Christmas.
“I’ll go fix us some breakfast,” Elspeth says. “Full Scottish, everyone?”
I take a quick shower. The aroma of fresh coffee and sizzling bacon wafts up the stairs. Izzy and I follow it to the kitchen. Elspeth is standing over the cooker, dressed in a stripy butcher’s apron, looking uncharacteristically domestic.
Duncan pours coffee and orange juice. Despite declaring herself ‘too excited to eat,’ Izzy devours bacon, eggs, sausages, black pudding, potato scones, and toast and marmalade as though she hasn’t eaten for days.
After breakfast, Duncan insists on helping Izzy carry her bags down to the car.
“Who was Moira?” Izzy asks, as we pull away from the kerb.
I’m so taken aback that I almost stall the car.
“Who?” I ask.
“Moira. I wandered into the spare room next to ours by mistake, and I couldn’t help looking at some of the books in there. I picked one off the shelf and a photograph slipped out. It was of a girl leaning against some old rocks on the beach. It had the name ‘Moira, St Andrews, 1988,’ written on the back. Was she someone you knew?”
I feign disinterest. “Probably just someone Elspeth knew at uni.”
Izzy seems satisfied with that. It seems curious that Elspeth has kept that picture. I’d assumed she’d have been happy to erase all memory of Moira from her mind. She must have taken it from Moira’s room before her parents came to collect her things.
We approach St Andrews from the east, along the coast road. As we descend the long curve of Kinkell Braes, the town begins to unfold before us. St Rules Tower rising from the ruins of the medieval cathedral, the cobbled stone pier jutting out into the North Sea, and the long stretch of the East Sands all tug on my heartstrings. This view of the town, more than any other, always brings a lump to my throat. Nostalgia for long distant family holidays and my time as a student.
The morning passes in a blur of unloading the car and settling Izzy into her room. When the dreaded moment arrives and I must say goodbye to my daughter, I know I shouldn’t linger. Izzy is trying not to show it, but I know that she’s impatient for me to go. She’s keen to start striking up conversations with all these potential new friends in her hall of residence. I know she’s going to be fine.
“One last hug,” I say. We hold each other tightly for a moment, and although it almost kills me to do so, I force myself to pull away first.
“Love you, sweetheart. Goodbye.”
“Love you too, Mum. Bye.”
I’d promised myself I wouldn’t cry, and I manage to honour the promise until I reach the car, where I snort into my handkerchief.
I don’t feel like driving back to Edinburgh straightaway, so instead I park the car and walk into town. I’ve only been back to St Andrews once or twice since I graduated, and each time I’ve been struck by how little has changed. Many of the buildings’ façades have altered and there seem to be far more shops than in my day, but everything else is instantly recognisable.
I walk along Market Street as far as the Whyte-Melville memorial fountain, where I pause for a moment, remembering the giddy excitement of going to the Lammas Fair as a child. Then I cut through to North Street, inevitably coming upon our old house. At my first sight of it, all I can think of is Moira. Her death overshadows everything good about the time I spent there. Elspeth, Shona and I have repeatedly turned down invitations to reunions and get-togethers. With Izzy studying here for the next four years, I’m going to find it hard to avoid the house, but for now, I hurry on past, eyes focused on the way ahead, not on the past.
Before I know I’m doing it, I am walking down to the harbour and across the footbridge to the sea front, where I pick up the path alongside the beach. The tide is out, leaving behind a wide expanse of rippled damp sand. There are lots of men and women my age, walking with young people Izzy’s age. Parents and children spending time together before the inevitable parting later in the day.
When I reach the hill at the end of the beach, I climb the steep slope to the cliff path. It doesn’t take long to reach the point where Moira’s body was discovered. I stand for five minutes or so, looking down at the rock and spindle, and the other rock formations that make this part of the beach so characterful. But there’s a cold wind blowing off the grey North Sea and I don’t linger too long.
I can barely remember what Moira looked like. All that remains in my memory is an impression. As you grow older, memories either astonish you with their vividness, or dissolve when you most want to hold onto them.
I make my way back, choosing to walk along the beach. Now my me
mories are once more of childhood holidays — running down the slope from the caravan site with my bucket and spade, eager to start digging in the sand. Or of playing on the swings in the park overlooking the beach or putting on the green by the harbour.
I am so absorbed in my memories that I don’t notice the dog, a giant, wet German Shepherd, until it bowls into me and shakes out its fur, showering me with cold sea water.
“Bronn!” A man’s voice booms out. I swing around to see the owner of dog and voice, striding towards me across the damp sand. I have an impression of bulk, hirsuteness, a long raincoat and stout walking boots.
“I’m sorry. I let him off the leash and this is how he repays me.”
“It’s okay,” I reassure the man. And it is. My jacket is waterproof. I’m not one to make a fuss over things that don’t matter. “I’m a dog lover.”
“That’s a blessing. There are some people who’d sue me over an incident like that.”
“That’s not me.” There is an awkward moment as we look at each other. Something seems familiar about this man. I sense he’s thinking the same about me.
“I know you,” he says at last.
“I know you, too,” I say. “But I don’t have a clue where from.”
“That makes two of us.” He smiles. “Another life, perhaps?” We regard each other with a mixture of puzzlement and curiosity.
“Let’s try names,” I suggest, and before I can introduce myself, he gets in first.
“I’m Innes Nevin.”
My own name dies on my lips as I register the shock. I look at him more closely, taking in the thick, greying hair and beard, the lines around his eyes, and the eyes themselves, which are what finally persuade me he’s telling the truth.
“Well, clearly my name means something to you.” There’s amusement in his eyes now, but also bafflement. “I used to be a policeman. I hope this meeting in our past lives wasn’t on the wrong side of the law?”
I know my appearance has changed over the years. My hair was mousy brown back then, and permed eighties-style. Now, four times a year my hairdresser wraps it up in different coloured foils, creating strands of blonde and copper amidst the grey-brown. I wore glasses back then, too, huge, as was the style. Oh, and I’m a couple of stones lighter. I work out these days.
“I remember you, but you’d have to be a pretty great detective to recognise me. Roslyn Maitland, née Anderson. I lived in the house on North Street with Moira Mackie. You were one of the police officers who came to tell us that Moira had been murdered.”
Nevin contemplates me for a moment or two. “How strange. I know you and yet you look . . .”
I help him out. “Completely different. Everyone says so. Everyone who knew me in the eighties, I mean. My own daughter doesn’t recognise me in photographs from that time. I’ve just brought her here. She’s starting her first term at St Andrews.”
Normally in a situation like this, there’s an exchange of pleasantries, and a quick parting of the ways. But neither of us makes a move to go. It’s as though there’s a mutual understanding that we have a lot more to say to each other before we part.
Bronn, who’s been circling around, sits down, clearly convinced that he’s going to be here a while. Nevin and I seem to be caught up in the moment, neither of us having a clue what to say next. I’m on the point of giving him a polite smile and continuing my walk when he says, “I’m sorry. About what happened back then.”
“About Moira?”
“About all of it. The investigation. The death of that young man.”
“He killed Moira. There’s nothing for you to be sorry about.”
His face is hard to read. Moira’s must have been his first murder case.
“I’ve thought about that case a lot over the years.”
I nod. It’s been the same for me. From a completely different angle to him, of course. He is looking out to sea. It must be strange for him, still living where it happened, walking along this beach, with the memories all around him.
“Look,” he says uncertainly. “Are you in a hurry? Do you have someone waiting? A husband or partner?”
“I’m a widow.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Nine years, now. Nearly as long as we were married.”
He nods, continues to look at a point on the horizon, where a tanker sits, grey and leaden as the sea. A gull screeches overhead and quick as a flash, Bronn is on his feet, poised for action. He jumps into the air comically, as if he believes that flight is possible, even for a dog.
“I, er, wonder if you’d like to have a drink?” Nevin says.
“I’m driving to Edinburgh later, but a coffee would be nice.”
Nevin calls Bronn to him and we continue along the beach. As we near the harbour, he puts the dog back on his lead.
“Are you still a police officer?” I have a vague notion that police officers can retire with a good pension after so many years’ service. Nevin looks to be in his mid- to late forties. Same as me.
“No,” he says. “I left the force last year, after thirty years’ service, mostly as a detective. How about you? What did you do after you graduated from here?”
“I moved to London, worked as a civil servant for about a year, jacked it in, went to art school and became an art teacher. I taught for about twenty years, then I went a bit mad and gave up teaching to do freelance work. Mostly, I do portraits of people’s pets.”
“You’re still in London?”
“At the moment. I’ve been thinking of moving.” I don’t mention that the house Doug and I bought in the early nineties is now worth a fortune. I could stick a pin in the map and move almost anywhere. Edinburgh would be my first choice, but I’m still not sure. It’s not that I’m attached to London, more that I’m afraid of change.
Nevin asks if I mind having coffee in a pub, as there aren’t many dog-friendly coffee shops. He chooses a bar on the Scores, which I recognise from my student days, although it’s undergone a name change, like most of my old haunts.
“It must be strange,” Nevin says, returning from the bar with a pint of beer and a mug of coffee, “your daughter being here, at your old university.”
“Yes,” I say. “She’s only ever heard good stories about my time at St Andrews, so I guess it’s my own fault.” I don’t mean to sound negative, but there’s a hint of bitterness in my tone. Nevin doesn’t miss it.
“You weren’t pleased? Because of what happened?”
“Izzy doesn’t know anything about that.”
Nevin sips his pint. If he’s surprised, he doesn’t show it. Then he says, “In nearly thirty years of being a policeman, I never came across a case that haunted me more.”
There’s something quietly shocking about his declaration. In all those years, he must have worked a lot of cases, seen some terrible things.
“It wasn’t just her age,” he continues. “I worked on murder investigations in Glasgow where the victims were much younger.”
Which makes it even more disquieting. You would expect ‘disturbing’ cases in a big city. St Andrews is a quiet seaside town, the gem of the ‘East Neuk’ of Fife, and has been a seat of learning for centuries. I’m being naïve, I know. Evil is at home in any environment.
Bronn is lying on the floor under the table, snout resting on his paws. Every so often he lets out a weary sigh. It’s not boredom. He’s tired himself out playing on the beach and his eyes are drooping. I have a sudden urge to slip under the table and lie beside him, just to feel something warm and living, but Bronn’s fur is still damp and claggy with sand. I haven’t touched my coffee.
“It was your first murder investigation, wasn’t it? And you were so young. It was bound to leave its mark on you.”
He had used the word ‘haunted.’ I think of him, lying awake over the years, plagued by Moira’s ghost, and it makes me warm to him.
Nevin doesn’t answer until his glass is half empty. “A lot of aspects of your friend’s case were frustratin
g. For one thing, we never found out where Moira had been all weekend before her body was discovered on the Sunday morning. And Stuart Brogan’s suicide robbed us of any explanation for why he killed her.”
I wrap my fingers around my mug and try to work out what Nevin wants from me. His tone is regretful, apologetic almost. I’m unsure whether that’s on my behalf, or whether it’s because he’s had to notch this investigation up as one of his failures. My own feelings about the investigation were always ambivalent — relief over Moira’s killer being apprehended so swiftly, tinged with disbelief and sadness over her needless death.
All I can do is repeat my earlier comment. “You shouldn’t blame yourself. You were a very junior officer at the time.” Nevin gulps down the rest of his pint and places his glass on the table with a thump loud enough to draw enquiring looks from other customers. I’ve touched a nerve.
As a conciliatory gesture, I offer to buy him another pint. When I return from the bar, his mood has changed again, and he smiles as he accepts his beer. For a moment we are silent, Bronn’s deep breathing and occasional snorts the only sound in our secluded area of the bar.
Then, “I never believed that Stuart Brogan killed Moira Mackie,” Nevin says quietly. As I take in his words, I gaze at the glass of mineral water I’ve brought back from the bar. Bubbles rise to the surface, dissolve, more rise to take their place. “No one could account for Moira for the best part of two days before her body was discovered.”
I nod. This is not new information. “Yes. Her body wasn’t found until the Sunday morning, but none of us had seen her since the Friday.” I struggled with the hard part. “It was said that Brogan strangled her and dumped her body on the cliff path sometime late on Saturday afternoon or evening. But he took his life before the police could obtain details from him, such as how he managed to abduct Moira, and where he took her.”
Nevin listens, poker-faced. He takes a long drink from his glass and looks around the bar, as though checking there’s no one close enough to hear. I sense he’s about to take me into his confidence. I’m right.
