Authors: Allan Guthrie
He pointed in the direction of Edinburgh. "Wave to Mummy."
I waved. Mummy was sick. In hospital. Something wrong with her head. I didn't understand. I do now.
Back on Calton Hill, I stamped my cold feet. "Yeah," I said, grabbing Daddy's arm, leaning my head against his shoulder. "Burntisland. I knew that."
Falling stars arced through the night sky. We watched in silence. I hugged him. I couldn't hug him hard enough.
"I'm still cold," I said.
After about ten minutes, he said, "We better go before you turn into a pillar of ice."
"You mean you're bored."
He looked down at me and kissed me on the forehead.
Okay, so she was grasping for memories of happier times. Understandable. Nonetheless, Adam wondered how she was able to write so fondly of her father. It seemed inappropriate, incompatible. No, it was worse than that. It was wrong. Unless Adam had missed something.
Adam read on. The entry for the next day was blank. Wednesday simply stated:
I can't do this any more.
Thursday was more philosophical.
The hardest thing of all is living with this secret. No, that's not true. The hardest thing is knowing that I'll have to live with it for the rest of my life. I can never let anybody find out. I can't slip up. Not once. I have to live a lie. From now on my life has to be based around one big falsehood. Once or twice, I've come close to spilling it all out to Dotty. I can't let myself do that. It has to remain a secret. As long as I live. Oh, God.
I can't stay here forever. One day I'll have to go back home, speak to Daddy and Mummy. I can't do it. I know there are other people I can talk to. Professionals. I'm not stupid. I talked to one of them already. She was very nice and caring, but she was doing a job and at five o'clock she was going to go home to her family. She'd forget about me. I couldn't help but think that. All the time she was listening, I was thinking that she didn't give a shit. She told me there were cognitive methods of coping. I said thank you and never turned up for the next session.
Coping. Do I want to spend my life coping?
I thought again about killing him. I thought how easy it would be. I just had to say the word. All I had to do was tell the truth. For the first time in ages I felt happy. So happy I cried. And then I felt sad.
I know I can never tell the truth. I couldn't cope with sending Daddy to prison. What would I have left? Cognitive therapy and Mummy?
Well, Adam thought, that was conclusive. If Gemma told the truth, she'd send her father to prison. That's what she'd said. He read the last couple of paragraphs again. There was something that didn't quite fit. To kill him, she need only say the word. Which made her happy. But sending him to prison was something she couldn't cope with. It didn't follow. Didn't make sense. Perhaps it was the illogic of emotion. Perhaps it was mere confusion. Throughout the diary she had repeatedly described her feelings as "numb." In other words, she didn't know how she felt. No doubt, she didn't trust her feelings. They had already betrayed her. It was safer to shut down, retreat insider herself, feel nothing.
Adam wished he could do the same. Reading Gem's last words was as hard as anything he'd ever done. Passing the diary on to her father — the man who'd raped her, for God's sake — was going to be even harder. Gem mentioned Dotty a few times. They'd grown close in the short time they'd had together. Maybe he should ask her advice. Could he risk talking to her? This was a vast responsibility. He just hoped that Ruth hadn't left him a little note as well.
SEVENTEEN
"If they can't place you anywhere outside of Tina's flat, and they can't persuade her to change her story, they'll have no alternative but to let you go." A smile flickered over Ronald Brewer's lips.
Joe said, "Thank Cooper for me."
The young lawyer tried to hold Joe's gaze. After a while he looked away and said, "Anything else you want me to do for you?"
"I was thinking." Joe gulped down some coffee. God, it was awful. "About Gemma's funeral."
"What are the arrangements?" the lawyer asked. "Is the body being flown here, or is she being buried in Orkney?"
Joe stared at the plastic cup. "Ruth might have organized something. Maybe she had time. Before she…I don't know, she didn't tell me."
Brewer waited a moment. Then he said, "I'll find out."
"Talk to Adam Wright at Wrighters' Retreat in Kirkwall. I want her home, Ronald."
"I'll do what I can."
Joe thanked the lawyer and meant it. His gaze shifted from his hands to the lawyer's baby face. "Supposing I've not been released by then, will they let me go to the funeral?"
"No question. But it would smooth things along if the funeral was in Edinburgh."
"That'll take time. I'll be out of here by then."
"Let's hope so. Anything else?"
"You think I'd be allowed to brush my teeth?"
"I can arrange that. Anything else?"
"They likely to keep me in this shithole or send me to prison?"
Brewer looked at his watch. "Even if they wanted to, they couldn't move you. Not today, anyway. Saughton Prison only accepts new arrivals in the morning. So, unless they release you, you'll be here overnight. There's a petitionary hearing scheduled for this afternoon."
"Meaning?"
"You'll be remanded in custody until the trial."
"What about bail?"
"Impossible."
"I can get the money," Joe said. "Cooper'll help."
"You've seen too many movies, Mr. Hope. Money bail is so rare in Scotland as to be practically non-existent. There's talk that the law may change, but at the moment, basically, it doesn't happen."
"Yeah? You sure?" The lawyer didn't reply. Joe said, "I didn't know that."
"Now you do. I'm not altogether useless, Mr. Hope."
"Isn't it worth trying anyway?"
Brewer sat back in his chair. After a moment he leaned forward and said, "If you're arrested for murder you won't be released on bail. Period. Anything else?"
Joe shook his head.
"Okay, about your impending interview." Brewer waited until Joe prompted him with a grunt. "Stick to one-word answers." He shook his index finger at Joe. "Yes and no, where appropriate. Don't give them any more information than they need. If you think a question is inappropriate I'd advise you not to answer it. But, it's up to you."
"You think I shouldn't say anything?"
"I think you shouldn't say anything that might incriminate you."
"And what's that?"
"Hard to tell, which is why it's better not to say anything at all."
"That's not a lot of help." Joe sighed. "You think, if they believe Tina, that they'll release me?"
"They'll hold you for as long as they can. If they think there's insufficient evidence to prosecute, or if there's contradictory evidence, like Tina's, they'll eventually let you go. Just stick to your story and you'll be fine." Brewer picked up his notepad and slapped it against his open palm. "Assuming it's the truth."
"What do you know about the truth?"
"In general, or are you talking about the specifics of your case?"
"In broad terms."
"Is this some kind of test, Mr. Hope?"
"I'm interested."
"Well, in my opinion, lies make the innocent guilty."
Joe fiddled with his cup, turning it round and round. He picked it up and took a long swallow. The coffee didn't taste so bad now he'd grown used to it. "In my world," he said, "everybody's guilty."
"I'm in your world now, Mr. Hope. And, I can assure you, I'm not guilty of anything."
Joe nodded. "Hate to disillusion you." He drank the rest of the coffee. "But you're just as guilty as the rest of us."
"Oh, yeah?" Brewer said. "What's my crime?"
Joe crushed the plastic cup and tossed it onto the floor. "How should I know? You haven't been caught yet."
EIGHTEEN
Tina left the police station, swinging her handbag angrily by her side. The bastards could have spoken to her at home, but, no, they wanted her to accompany them to the station and give her statement there. Jesus. She hoped Joe (she still thought of him as Bob and had to be corrected a couple of times during the interview when she referred to him by the wrong name) appreciated what she was doing for him. Okay, there was ten grand in it for her. But, still. There was a limit to what she was prepared to do for money. And, of course, she still didn't have it yet.
She stopped abruptly on the pavement. A tall woman wearing too much eye shadow bumped into her and apologized. Tina let her, even though it wasn't the daft cow's fault. Tina rummaged in her handbag for her cigarettes. Normally she didn't smoke until she started work. But after that stuff in the police station she needed a smoke and she doubted she'd be in the mood for going to work. If you could call it work. For that matter, when was she ever in the mood? The best you could hope for was numb acceptance. The rest was just acting.
She lit her fag. She was coughing up a pile of crap in the mornings. It was disgusting. She inhaled deeply, comforting herself with the thought that at least she wasn't a junkie.
Jesus. As if she didn't already have enough reasons to hate herself. She'd just given a murder suspect an alibi. For money. What next? She'd be giving freebies to policemen.
Well, maybe not the pair that had interviewed her. They were both young. One was skinny. Looked like he was flapping around inside his uniform. The other was okay. Nice hands. Soft face. Put him in a fireman's outfit and, well, that freebie might just be a possibility. Ah, frigging mother of Christ. She couldn't remember when she last had sex for fun. Had she ever?
Her car was at home. That was nice, that was. Take her to the nick, grill her for an hour, then dump her outside without any transport. Buggers.
She glanced down at her feet. Mules. Pretty damn sexy, even if she did say so herself. But could she walk home in them? More to the point, did she want to? The sky was clear. She could walk a bit and if she spotted a taxi, fine. She didn't take buses. Not without a baseball bat. Some things you never got over.
It had been raining hard that day and her hair was plastered to her forehead. She must have looked a right state, but, then, obviously not, or what happened wouldn't have happened. Sitting upstairs, scuffed schoolbag resting on her dirty grey skirt. She was twelve years old.
A man sat down next to her, smiled. She noticed a mole in the center of his left cheek. He was slim, good-looking, nice hazel eyes. And tanned. Like he'd just returned from a beach holiday.
"Finished school?" he said.
"Looks like a chocolate chip."
"What does, sweetheart?"
She pointed at his face. "That. Like a chocolate chip in a chocolate chip cookie."
His hand went up to his cheek, fingers covering the offending mole.
"It's cute," she said. "Looks good enough to eat."
"My, you're precocious."
She frowned. "I don't like words I don't understand."
"I'm sorry." He lowered his hand. "A little bit cheeky, is what I meant. In a good way. An amusing way."
"Mum says I'm cheeky."
"She does?"
She gazed into the man's dark brown eyes. "Not in a good way." She pulled the strap of her schoolbag. Tightening it.
The man ran the heel of his hand over his short, brown hair. His hair was dry. Hers was still wet. How come? Rain pelted the window on her right, great gobs slithering down the glass. The window was starting to steam up. She was going to ask him how he'd managed to dodge the rain when she spotted the peak of a cap sticking out of his jacket pocket. A baseball cap. Naff. Instantly, she stopped liking him.
When he leaned over to point at something, she caught a whiff of his breath. It smelled like the rubbish bin at home on Thursday night. By the time she took it downstairs for collection on Friday morning, it was really honking. The man's hand was resting on her shoulder. She didn't like it there. She squirmed. Wriggled towards the window. What was he doing? He'd angled his body towards her. The hand that had been pointing out the window dropped onto her knee.
"I've got a knife," he whispered. "You scream, you little bitch, I'll cut your throat. All the way from one pretty ear to the other." His hand slid up her skirt. "Move your schoolbag."
She moved it and his hand slid up her thigh. "Put the bag down again." She put the bag down. He touched her where he definitely shouldn't. Nobody had touched her there. Not even her mum's old boyfriend, Davie.