by JANICE FROST
“A couple of weeks ago, I received a letter from John Menzies’s widow. You remember Menzies?”
“Your boss?”
“Yes. Apparently, in the last months of his life he was very confused. He was suffering from dementia. There was a story that he kept returning to again and again. About a murder investigation he once worked on, in Scotland. His widow was confused too. Her husband had told her he won a lot of money on the lottery and moved to Canada, where they met. She had no idea he’d once been a policeman. She was even more confused when he grabbed her arm one evening and asked her why she kept calling him Bob, when his name was John. John Menzies. Until then, she’d believed the man she’d been married to for twenty odd years was called Bob MacDonald.”
Nevin pauses, sips his beer, continues. “Menzies also told his wife that in his former life as Detective John Menzies of the Fife police, he’d helped frame a suspect for a murder he didn’t commit. The suspect’s name was Stuart Brogan. Menzies also mentioned me by name. That’s why Barbara MacDonald tracked me down.”
There’s a prolonged silence as I absorb what Nevin has told me. An obvious question arises. “You said Menzies was confused. Was he suffering from some form of dementia? If so, what he said could simply be the demented ramblings of a dying man.”
Nevin looks at me, frowning. “Do you remember what happened to Menzies?” he asks. It’s my turn to frown. He continues. “About a month after Moira’s case was closed, Menzies was alleged to have drowned in a boating accident.”
A far distant memory stirs in my mind. Of Shona, telling me that something had happened to the detective who’d come to North Street to tell us about Moira. The details are long forgotten. “Alleged?”
“His body was never recovered. It’s entirely possible Menzies didn’t die in that accident. He could have deliberately faked his own death and gone off to begin a new life in Canada under a different name. After his death, his wife found his birth certificate along with some other papers, proving his real identity.”
I sit back in my chair, feeling light headed. I think of Lucy and her ludicrous conspiracy theories. They don’t seem so silly now. “This is all . . .”
“Hard to believe. Tell me about it,” Nevin says. “A couple of weeks ago, believe me, I was thinking the same as you’re thinking now. It’s a lot to get your head around.”
“No offence, given that you’re a retired policeman, but have you been to the police?”
“No.”
“But you intend to?” Nevin’s silence is disconcerting. He fiddles with his beer mat, then takes another long drink.
“I don’t know yet. There’s scant evidence to merit reopening an old murder investigation. A solved one at that. Particularly since, as you say, Menzies wasn’t in his right mind when he told that story to his wife. Maybe that’s all it was. A story.”
“But she found Menzies’s ID. If what this woman says is true, then Moira’s real killer might still be out there.” I give an involuntary shudder.
“Yes,” Nevin says quietly. “And there’s another concern. Menzies wasn’t a wealthy man, and I’m pretty sure it costs to start a new life with a fake identity.”
I can see where this is going. “You think he had help? But that would mean . . .” Nevin nods. There are plenty of possibilities, most so unlikely, I’m reluctant to speculate aloud for fear of sounding fanciful. I leave the talking to Nevin.
“Some kind of cover-up is the obvious assumption. Menzies was paid not to ask too many questions, and to keep his mouth shut. He accepted the money out of greed — or fear. Whoever was willing to pay him to frame Brogan must have had a very good reason for wanting the identity of the true killer to go undiscovered. That person may be the killer, or it may be someone connected with the killer, or even someone who wished to protect the killer. Either way, they aren’t going to look favourably on anyone who starts asking questions, even after all this time.”
Something tells me that Nevin isn’t the kind of man to be deterred easily. I’m not sure what to make of his taking me into his confidence. On the one hand, I’m grateful that he’s shared the information, but on the other, I wonder at his motive. We barely know each other. We have a connection, of course. Moira is here in this bar, squeezed between us, her restless ghost waiting for the truth to be uncovered. I have a sudden premonition that she will continue to haunt us until we know what really happened to her. Still, I ask Nevin, “Why are you telling me all this?”
Nevin shifts in his seat, as if making more room for Moira. “I’m sorry. It’s just, meeting you on the beach so soon after the call from Menzies’s wife, when my head was full of thoughts about the original investigation . . . Well, I don’t believe in fate, but you must admit it’s an extraordinary coincidence.”
“Not so much in the grand scheme of things,” I say. “You live here, my daughter’s going to be studying here for four years. This is a small town. We’d probably have bumped into each other sooner or later. It just so happens that it was sooner.”
“Aye. You’re right.” He gives a sigh. “I shouldn’t have burdened you with all this.”
I shrug. “What are you going to do?”
“What I should have done twenty-eight years ago.” Nevin turns to look me in the eye. “Investigate Moira’s murder properly, and bring her killer to justice.”
I realise it’s what I’d been hoping he was going to say. “I’d like to help.”
Nevin is fingering his beer mat again, flipping it between his fingers like a giant cardboard coin. He sets it aside and looks at me. I hold his gaze. The years spool back, and I see the same quiet intelligence in his eyes that I noted years ago when he stood in the living room of our house on North Street — a young, inexperienced officer, embarking on the first big investigation of his career.
There’s a silence, during which I fear he is trying to think of reasons to discourage me. So, I’m taken aback when he says only, “Thank you.”
“What will you do next?” I ask. Nevin sighs, stretches his long legs out under the table, momentarily forgetting about Bronn, who yelps in protest and stirs. Nevin pets him until he calms down. The dog stands, places his muzzle on Nevin’s knee, whines forgivingly.
“Well, this one’s getting restless, so another walk, I suppose,” he says, seeming to evade my question. But then he adds, “I’ve asked Mrs MacDonald to make copies of the documents she found relating to John Menzies and send them to me. She’s agreed not to talk to anyone about this affair yet. Didn’t need much persuading. I think she’s still in two minds whether any of it’s true. I’ve also been going over the investigation in my head — and in an old notebook that I dug out. The memories are surprisingly accessible, probably because it was my first experience of investigating a murder. To be perfectly honest, I haven’t planned beyond that.”
“I’d like to do whatever I can to help. Moira was my friend. I want justice for her too. And there’s Stuart Brogan’s family. They’ve had to endure the torment of everyone believing their son was a murderer. He might have been wrongly accused and driven to suicide out of desperation. They deserve to know the truth.”
Bronn yawns and places his paws on Nevin’s knees. The table rises, toppling our empty glasses. They land on the carpet with a thud, miraculously unbroken. Nevin reaches down and picks them up, while Bronn laps at the spilt dregs. I glance at my watch. “Look, I’ve got to go back to Edinburgh this evening. I’m staying with my friend Elspeth tonight. I don’t know if you remember her and Shona? From North Street?”
“I remember. There was another girl. Lucy, wasn’t it?” Either he has a good memory, or he’s come across us all in his notes.
“Yes. Lucy Parry. I’m seeing Elspeth and Shona tomorrow. Is it okay if I tell them what you’ve told me this afternoon?”
“Actually, I’d appreciate it if you could keep all this to yourself for the time being,” Nevin replies. “I can’t swear you to secrecy, of course. But I am asking you to please consider not s
aying anything. Then again, perhaps one or two well-placed questions that won’t arouse suspicion?” I give a nod to show that I understand, and he thanks me.
Outside, we exchange contact details. I’ve almost forgotten where I am, and am taken by surprise, momentarily, by the sight of the sea, stretching grey and unsettled into the distance. Bronn gives another whine and gazes longingly at the beach. Neither Nevin nor I make any move to go. It doesn’t seem right, parting like this after the conversation that we’ve just had. We are strangers, yet not strangers.
“I’ll call you,” Nevin says, hesitantly.
“Yes,” I say. I want to add, I’ll look forward to hearing from you, but in the circumstances, it doesn’t seem appropriate.
Chapter Six
Elspeth and I met in my second year at St Andrews. I’d arrived late for a lecture, and she spotted me casting my eyes around the theatre for a seat. From the middle of a row near the back, she called out, “There’s one here,” and gratefully I scrabbled over the little clique of disgruntled students on the end of the row to join her.
After the lecture, Elspeth asked if I’d like to come to the students’ union for a coffee, and I accepted readily. It was a month into the term and already I was feeling overwhelmed. I’d hoped it was going to be different this year. Better. But so far, I hadn’t made any real friends yet. Just like in my first year, when I’d seemed to drift around the outside of various friendship circles, never quite able to move beyond the circumference.
I almost hadn’t returned after that first, unhappy year. My parents had no idea just how bad things had been. I’d made up stories to convince them that I was having a good time and making lots of friends. I knew they worried about me, and I wanted to put their minds at rest. They’d had enough worry in their lives, after losing my older sister when I was sixteen. If ever I contemplated harming myself in those dark, early days, I only had to remind myself that I’d be leaving them childless, and somehow I would rally the inner resources to enable me to carry on.
Elspeth’s offer of coffee was a lifeline. As we queued up and ordered milky coffees and bacon butties, she told me that she was in her second year, and that she came from Edinburgh. Since Edinburgh was the nearest city to my village, I knew it well, and we spent a pleasant hour talking about our favourite shops and haunts.
“We probably saw each other walking around town loads of times,” Elspeth declared. “I could have sat next to you at a concert, maybe even have spoken to you, never realising that one day we’d be friends.”
Friends. I savoured the word. It was like primary school all over again, finding that special person across a scary, hostile playground, with a mixture of relief and pity for the ones still searching.
It was flattering to hear that Elspeth already counted me as a friend. She had a strong personality, something that I admired. I had been shy and unconfident since losing my Leah. She’d been my best friend as well as my sister, and I missed her terribly.
As the weeks passed and I spent more and more time in Elspeth’s company, I realised that she wasn’t perfect. She could be a bit possessive, critical of other people, unfeeling even. I put it down to her strong character. Elspeth seemed like just the sort of person I needed in my life at that time. Someone to shore me up, relieve me of the burden of being sociable. I’d had a difficult few years since Leah’s death. After meeting Elspeth, my mood began to improve. My whole attitude to life at university — and hence life in general — began to change for the better.
Elspeth and I met Shona towards the end of our second year. Shona overheard us talking about moving into a house in town for our third year, and introduced herself. All three of us met Lucy at the information board in the students’ union. She was poring over some postcards advertising accommodation.
“Are you looking for somewhere too?” she asked us somewhat unnecessarily. She was dressed in workman’s dungarees dyed a shade of mauve, over which she wore a black donkey jacket a couple of sizes too big. The lapels of her jacket and the strap of the canvas army bag slung crosswise across her body were covered in badges declaring her political and musical affiliations. Her hair was long on one side and cropped on the other, revealing ears with multiple studs. She had an English accent.
“Er . . .” Elspeth said, uncertainly.
“Yes,” Shona said. I don’t remember saying anything.
“Great. What about this one?” The girl stuck a finger on a card advertising a house on North Street that was available from the beginning of October.
“It’s for five people,” Elspeth pointed out.
“No problem,” Shona said at once. “There’s a girl in my yoga class I could ask.”
“Great. By the way, I’m Lucy,” the strange girl said. “Hope none of you mind sharing with a Sassenach.” Lucy, it turned out, was from Yorkshire.
“Is it just me, or is there something a bit odd about Lucy?” I said to Elspeth later.
“It’s just you,” Elspeth replied. She was joking. “It’s not just you. She’s a bit weird, but not in a bad way.”
“You didn’t think it odd that she just sort of assumed we wouldn’t mind sharing with her?”
“A bit,” Elspeth mused. “Did you see all those badges? The way she was dressed? Complete dog’s dinner. Doesn’t have a clue who she is, or what she stands for.”
Despite her forthrightness, I got the impression Lucy wasn’t a particularly confident person. It made me warm to her. She was, of course, just the sort of person Elspeth would approve of as a housemate. Slightly vulnerable. A bit lost. Easy to dominate. Though Shona didn’t seem to be any of those things, Elspeth seemed to take it for granted that she would be another housemate. That left only the fifth member of our household to consider.
“I could ask the girl in my yoga class to meet us all for a drink, and give you all a chance to vet her,” Shona said.
“Yes, we need to make sure she’s suitable,” Elspeth remarked.
“I expect she’ll be fine,” Lucy said.
“What’s her name?” I asked.
“Moira,” Shona said when she could get a word in. “Her name’s Moira Mackie.”
* * *
Moira Mackie was already seated and drinking coffee when the three of us turned up at the appointed meeting place, a café in the centre of town. It gave her a tactical advantage. I’d been expecting to watch her as she walked in the door, but instead, Moira was the one appraising us.
Shona did some brief introductions. Moira’s eyes fixed on each of us in turn as our names were mentioned. It made me feel slightly nervous. Even Elspeth seemed uncomfortable under that scrutinising gaze.
Shona had been anxious that we all take to Moira as a prospective housemate. On the way to the café, she’d fed us morsels about Moira’s appearance and personality, such as, “Moira’s really beautiful,” and, “Moira’s very clever. Bound to get a First.” I think it grated on Elspeth a bit, though she didn’t say anything.
Shona also dropped a snippet of gossip. Moira Mackie was having an affair with a lecturer in the history department called Andrew Kelso. Doubtless, this piece of information was intended to impress us. She was unaware that Elspeth had had a crush on Dr Andrew Kelso since taking his modern history module the previous year. Knowing Elspeth as I did by then, I couldn’t help feeling this didn’t bode well for Moira’s chances.
By the time we turned up at the café, Elspeth and Lucy had formed quite different opinions of Moira.
“She sounds perfect.” Lucy.
“I’m not so sure. Sounds like a bit of a stuck-up bitch, if you ask me.” Elspeth. She looked to me for support. I told her I’d make my mind up after meeting Moira, which I could tell irritated her. Elspeth always expected me to take her side, which, more often than not, I did.
After half an hour in Moira’s company, I was completely won over. Lucy, too, seemed utterly charmed by her seemingly easy-going and open personality. Only Elspeth remained unimpressed.
When Moira
excused herself to go to the toilet, she immediately voiced her opposition. “So, what does everyone think?” she asked in a hushed tone. “I for one am not in favour. I don’t think she’d fit in with the rest of us at all.”
“What’s wrong with her?” Shona asked.
“I thought she seemed quite nice,” I ventured.
“Me too,” agreed Lucy.
Elspeth crossed her arms. “She’s completely false. I can’t believe you lot can’t see it. So full of herself, blowing her own trumpet . . .”
Shona leapt to Moira’s defence. “When? All she said was that she’d make a good housemate because she’s considerate and tidy.” Lucy nodded. To me, Elspeth’s accusations seemed unjustified. At the risk of sounding disloyal, I said, “I thought she came across as pretty genuine.” Elspeth’s withering look made me feel like a traitor.
“Show of hands,” Shona said. “Before she gets back. All in favour.” Her own hand shot up in the air. Lucy’s quickly followed. With an apologetic glance at Elspeth, I stuck mine up too. There was a pause, and after clattering her coffee cup down on its saucer, Elspeth raised a reluctant hand. “Fine,” she said, sourly. “But don’t blame me if she turns out to be the housemate from hell.”
“Great. That’s agreed then. Moira is our fifth housemate,” Shona said.
Right on cue, Moira returned from the toilets. Was it my imagination, or did a look pass between her and Shona? I couldn’t help suspecting that Moira’s withdrawal had been premeditated.
“It’s unanimous. You’re our new housemate.” Shona’s announcement was met with beams of pleasure from Moira and welcoming smiles from Lucy and me. Elspeth sat, arms still folded across her chest, jaw hard set, a forced smile on her unforgiving face.
“So, what’s everyone doing over the summer?” I asked. “Elspeth and I are working in Jenners in Edinburgh until September, then we’re going travelling for a few weeks before term starts.”
“Butlins for me,” Shona said, with a distinct lack of enthusiasm.
