The Woman on the Cliff

by JANICE FROST

  I leave out the part about Menzies’s dementia. I also fail to mention the fact that Menzies never disclosed who bribed him for his secrecy. Even so, my announcement clearly resonates with Andrew. His self-assurance seems to waver, just a little.

  “So,” I continue, “what you and your ex-wife interpret as harassment, I call investigating the truth about who really killed Moira. Your alibi was always dependent on your wife’s word. It wouldn’t have stood up if a rigorous investigation had been conducted. You weren’t home the weekend Moira was killed.”

  “Annie told me you had some crazy theory about my alibi. But you’re wrong.”

  “Your son had croup the weekend Piers stayed at your house. Two weeks before Moira’s murder. You weren’t at home that weekend either.”

  “Is that all you’re pinning your hopes on here? A sick child? You have a daughter. You must know that kids can be sick for more than one weekend in a row. Karl was forever coming down with some bug or other in his first couple of years. It would be more surprising if Thornton remembered him being hale and hearty.”

  He makes me doubt myself but I’m not giving up. “Where were you, really, that weekend? You must realise that the truth is going to come out. This case has preyed on Innes Nevin’s mind for more than twenty years. He’s not going to let it go now. Right this minute, he’s talking to a former colleague in Glasgow about your cousin, Hans. Is that who you were with the weekend Moira died?”

  At the mention of Hans’s name, a little more of Andrew’s composure leaks into the air around him and I know I’m right.

  “It doesn’t matter where I was the weekend Moira Mackie died. It doesn’t change anything.”

  “Change isn’t the issue. Surely you can see that?”

  In a sudden gesture of defeat, he covers his face with his hands. “My reputation.”

  Whatever gravitas and accolades he’s accrued from his academic success can’t mask the fact that he’s essentially a weak, vain individual. Disgust wells up inside me.

  “You say you cared for Moira. I suspect you cared for yourself and your precious career more.”

  I look at Andrew Kelso. He’s in a world of his own, hardly aware of my presence. Just like that time before, when he questioned me about Moira.

  “I didn’t kill Moira Mackie,” he says at last.

  I believe him. He’s a despicable coward, possibly a traitor, and his faults are too many to enumerate, but a killer? I just don’t see it. “Then who did? Was it Piers Thornton? Your cousin, Hans?” He looks at me sharply. “Hans wasn’t really your cousin, was he?”

  “No.” Kelso gives a nervous laugh. “I don’t even know if Hans was his real name.”

  “So, he got you involved, did he?”

  “Yes, for my sins,” Andrew says in a quiet voice.

  “And, Moira? Did she find out what you were all up to? Is that why Hans killed her?”

  “Hans didn’t kill Moira.” He looks slightly surprised. I wonder if I’ve made a wrong assumption, if my theory is pure fantasy after all.

  “Then it was Piers.” Last man standing.

  “Yes. Piers killed her.”

  “And you knew? At the time, I mean?”

  Andrew looks stricken. He stares at his hands. “I . . . I loved her . . . Moira,” he says. “I didn’t want Piers to get away with what he did but there was nothing I could do.”

  “You could have told the police.”

  Andrew shakes his head. “My academic career would have been over. The scandal, if it had all come out . . . what I had been involved in. I thought I’d go to prison for the rest of my life.”

  “So, you let Piers get away with murder for the sake of your pathetic career?” I’m so angry I don’t care how much I provoke him. “Did you know that Moira was beaten? Raped?” Andrew flinches. “You must be so proud of yourself, letting a man who’d done something so monstrous walk away scot-free.”

  “He said he didn’t mean to do it. He was contrite . . . said he’d make amends. I . . . I believed him. Piers was valuable to . . . to them. He was a brilliant student. He was destined for a career in government, or the military. Whatever he chose. He would have been an invaluable resource.” After a slight pause, he adds, “That’s another reason why I said nothing. I . . . we . . . we had beliefs. There was a cause, a greater good. But . . .” He falters. “It was all for nothing because then—”

  “Then the Wall came down?”

  “Yes,” he says bitterly. “Because then the Wall came down, and everything changed.”

  * * *

  My head reels. I reach for the edge of Andrew’s desk and stand, swaying. He is out of his chair in an instant, diving around his desk in time to catch me as I pitch forward. For a moment or two I’m disoriented.

  “I think you should sit down,” he says. He helps me to a chair, pours me some water.

  As I recover, I’m aware of the irony of Andrew’s apparent concern. I look up at him. “You attacked Izzy. Your ex-wife contacted you after Innes Nevin questioned her about your alibi. You saw Innes with me, and you panicked. You were worried I’d help Innes find out about Piers and . . . and Hans. You thought you could scare Izzy into leaving St Andrews and that would get rid of me too.”

  Andrew hangs his head. “I told that idiot I hired not to hurt her, just to give her a good scare. I just wanted to give you a warning, before you started asking questions of the wrong people.”

  “You mean Piers? Elspeth?” I know I’m right about Elspeth, but my heart sinks when he nods.

  “Where would he have taken my daughter?” Andrew looks conflicted. My patience is at an end. “For fuck’s sake. You already have two deaths on your conscience, do you really want a third?”

  He flinches. “I . . . I don’t know. I’m sorry. Unless . . .” He furrows his brow. “There’s a place on the outskirts of town, a house that’s sometimes used by visiting academics. It belongs to a retired professor who lives in one of the fishing villages. Piers might have gone there.”

  “On the outskirts of town? You mean here, in St Andrews?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you know this professor? Can you contact him and find out if Piers is using his house?”

  Andrew nods. He pulls out his mobile, taps the screen. “Hello? Gordon? Andrew Kelso here. I was just wondering if your flat is free tonight? A colleague from Edinburgh needs somewhere . . . Oh, you’ve got someone there this evening already, have you? Never mind. It’s not Piers Thornton, is it? I know he was planning to come over this week. It is? Well, no doubt I’ll be seeing him soon . . . Yes, yes, it has been a while. We must get together . . . I’m . . . rather pressed at the moment. I’ll call you. Give my love to Sarah, won’t you?”

  I wait impatiently for Andrew to finish. “He’s there?”

  “Yes. He collected the keys from Gordon this morning.”

  I stand up. “We’ll take your car,” I say.

  Andrew stares at me in disbelief. “If you don’t mind my asking,” he says, “what exactly do you intend to do when we get there?”

  “I do mind you asking.” I spit out the words and he backs off, raising his hands. He retreats behind his desk and sits down, looking dejected. He must know that the truth is going to come out now.

  But he’s right. There’s nothing to be gained from acting recklessly. Arriving at the flat without a plan isn’t going to help Izzy. I think of PC Nadia Fraser and how kind she was at the hospital after the attack on Izzy, and I have half a mind to call her now. It’s what Innes wants me to do, and now I have information on Izzy’s possible whereabouts, which must be an advantage.

  No police, Piers cautioned. He asked me to wait for further instructions. I look at my watch. That was two hours ago now, and he still hasn’t been in touch.

  I look at Andrew. “You know him better than me. What do you think he plans to do next?”

  Andrew says nothing. My mobile rings. Innes.

  “Ros. I’ve spoken with Mapleton. He’s identified �
��Hans.’ His real name was Kurt Berger. He was an active member of the Stasi in the seventies and eighties. It’s likely he acted as Kelso’s handler. It’s looking like our spy theory isn’t the stuff of fantasy after all.”

  “Andrew, Piers — they were both involved,” I say quietly. “And Elspeth.” Let’s not forget Elspeth.

  “I’m sorry, Ros.”

  “Don’t be. Innes, I think Piers Thornton killed Moira. His motive isn’t clear yet but I think Hans covered up the murder because of Piers’s potential usefulness. Piers killed Moira, and now he has my daughter.”

  “I’m already on my way back,” Innes says. “Any word from him?”

  “No.”

  “Where are you, Ros? You’re not with Lucy, are you?”

  “I’m with Andrew Kelso. He’s worked out where Thornton is holding Izzy. There’s a house on the outskirts of town owned by a retired professor. Kelso just spoke with him, and he confirmed that Thornton’s there.”

  I can hear Innes’s displeasure in the silence before he says, “It’s time to involve the police, Ros.” I don’t answer. “Ros?”

  “Yes, yes. I know. Can you call them? They’ll listen to you.” Innes says he will. I get the address from Andrew and give it to Innes, who wants me to promise I won’t go anywhere near the house before the police arrive. “I think we need to wait — until Thornton contacts you again. Find out what he wants from you. From us. He doesn’t know about Menzies’s confession, or what else we’ve discovered.”

  “He’s desperate,” I say. “Why else would he kidnap Izzy? He’s hoping he can bargain with us. Izzy’s safety in return for us dropping the whole thing. He’s hoping we haven’t involved anyone else yet. What will he do to Izzy when he finds out it’s all over for him?”

  Innes tries to reassure me. “It wouldn’t be in his interest to add hurting Izzy to his other crimes.”

  By ‘hurting,’ I assume he means killing.

  * * *

  Andrew’s car, a red Audi, is parked in the staff parking area a short walk from his office. I opt to drive. I’m nervous and I stall the car before I even get it going properly. The weather is atrocious now. Though it’s only mid-afternoon, it’s already almost dark.

  The rain picks up force, pounding against the windscreen. Even at full speed, the wipers can’t cope. The noise they make slashing to and fro sets my nerves on edge.

  On the way, Andrew blubbers out his story. “Piers met Moira on the F . . . Friday evening. I was with Hans. Hans was my handler.” Andrew glances at me and I nod to show that I know what he means. “He took her to a caravan and . . . and they had sex.”

  I’m so angry I can barely control the car. “Stop saying that! He raped her, and you know it.”

  “No. They had rough sex,” he insists.

  “Seriously? Was Moira ever into that with you? Did she ask you to beat her? Because he did beat her, Andrew. Amongst other things. Innes Nevin could have shown you the photos if they hadn’t conveniently gone up in flames.”

  He’s crying openly now, but I can’t summon up any sympathy. I wait for him to continue. “Piers contacted Hans and told him he’d k . . . killed Moira by accident. He asked him for help.” He stutters between sobs. “Hans agreed. He had big plans for Piers.”

  It’s sickening to hear him relate all this, knowing that he’s kept quiet about it for all these years. “And what happened to Stuart Brogan? Was Hans responsible for his death?”

  “I . . . I don’t know. I didn’t ask.” He pauses. “I assume so. Oh God. It’s all my fault. If only I’d never introduced Elspeth to Piers . . .”

  “Shut up! Which house is it?” I ask.

  The rain and the dark are making it difficult for Andrew to see where we are. He leans forward and squints through the windscreen. “Slow down. It’s on the left, just up here.” I brake too hard, jerking us both forwards in our seats, then sideways as I veer into the kerb. Now that we are here, I feel a renewed sense of urgency. I glance at Andrew. He points to a window on the second floor.

  I turn to Andrew. “If Piers is up there, he’ll let you in. He knows you.”

  “No! He’ll be suspicious of me turning up here of all places. And out of the blue. He’ll know you’re behind it.”

  I know what he says is true but I can’t stand the thought of just waiting and doing nothing.

  I remember the question I asked him earlier, before we were interrupted by Innes’s phone call.

  “What do you think Piers’s next move is likely to be? Do you think he’s buying time? But why take Izzy? If he thought everything was about to collapse around him, why didn’t he just take flight instead of coming all the way to St Andrews? He’s evaded being brought to justice for more than twenty years. Why would he make a stupid mistake now?”

  It’s partly my nerves, making me think aloud. Andrew’s gloomy silence is oppressive. I wonder if he feels a shred of sympathy for Izzy or me, or whether he’s brooding on the imminent demise of his reputation.

  “I’m sorry,” he says eventually. “I can’t second-guess him. Never could. It was a shock to me to learn what he’d done to Moira. Piers Thornton killed the only woman I truly loved. I despise him.”

  “For fuck’s sake, get over yourself,” I say. “You’ve had more than twenty years to do something about it, to ensure that he was brought to justice. All you cared about was the damage it could’ve done to your career if the truth came out — the truth of what you were all up to.”

  He has the decency to hang his head in apparent shame. I glance at his face. I’m slightly disgusted to see that he’s weeping.

  “I don’t know what Moira ever saw in you.”

  Andrew runs his hand through his hair. “I . . . I honestly don’t know what Piers will do next, but I do know enough about him to know that he believes what they believed. That everyone is corruptible.”

  I look at him. “Like John Menzies?”

  “Yes. Piers believes everyone can be bought for the right price. For some, it’s money. For others kudos. Or power. Or position.”

  “And Izzy is my price?”

  He is too cowardly to say it aloud, but he nods.

  My thoughts start racing again. If I can persuade Innes to remain silent about John Menzies’s confession, give up his quest for justice, and let discovering the truth about Moira’s murder be enough, then Izzy will be saved. Everything would return to how it was before Barbara MacDonald contacted him and no one would be any the wiser.

  It’s tempting. I think of Stuart Brogan, wrongly accused but long dead. What good can the truth do him now? There’s his sister, Isla, who would never see justice for her dead brother, but she’d never allowed herself to hope for that until Innes and I came knocking on her door. I think of her plea to us, to let her know what we found out. We are her last, her only hope.

  Then I think of Moira. She, too, is long dead. Her parents. I know she had siblings, but they are nameless and faceless to me. Moira hardly spoke about them. As far as they know, justice for their sister’s death was served the day Stuart Brogan took his own life.

  Lastly, I think of Doug. His killers will never be brought to justice, but his is a wholly different story.

  Andrew fumbles in his pocket and produces a handkerchief, which he offers to me. I didn’t even realise I was crying. The handkerchief is white linen and smells freshly laundered. I bury my face in its folds, hiding my thoughts from the man beside me.

  I hand the handkerchief back to him and open the car door.

  “What are you going to do?” he asks.

  “Isn’t it obvious?” I say. “I’m going to speak with Piers.”

  * * *

  The professor’s flat is on the second floor. I press the button on the intercom, grin for the camera. The door releases with a click. I climb the two flights of stairs and stand outside on the landing, staring at the big brass number five on the door. It’s hanging slightly askew.

  I’d expected him to be waiting for me, but Piers mak
es me knock. Takes his time to answer.

  “You were supposed to wait until I called. I take it you tracked me down through Andrew Kelso.”

  “I want to see my daughter.”

  “Then you’d better come in.” Piers steps out from behind the door and I see he’s holding a gun. I gasp.

  “Breathe,” he says. “Where’s Nevin?”

  “At home, waiting for me to call. I thought it would be better if I came alone. He disagreed, but I insisted. We haven’t spoken to the police. All we care about is Izzy. If you hand her over safely, we’ll stop asking questions about the past.”

  We’re in a small, square hallway. Piers points to one of three doors.

  “Open it. Your daughter’s inside. But you won’t find her very responsive. I’ve given her something to make her sleep.”

  It’s as he says. Izzy is slumbering peacefully on a double divan. He’s even covered her with a plaid blanket.

  “Can we talk?” I ask. Piers nods towards one of the other doors. It leads into a compact, open-plan kitchen and living area.

  “Take a seat,” he says. He moves to the window, pulls back the vertical blind slightly and looks down at the street, where Andrew’s car is parked.

  “I see you’ve brought company.”

  “Only Andrew Kelso. He helped me find you.”

  “I expect he’s hoping I can persuade you to keep quiet.” When I say nothing, he adds, “Can I?”

  “All I want is to keep Izzy safe.”

  “Tell me what you know,” he says.

  I tell him most of it, including how I believe Hans bribed Menzies to help frame Stuart Brogan for Moira’s murder. But I don’t mention Menzies’s deathbed confession. To my surprise, Piers seems to relax slightly.

  “You have no proof,” he says when I’ve finished. “Kelso will never talk about his activities back then. And there’s absolutely no evidence of our hypothetical involvement in what you allege. You have nothing.”