Absolution (3 page)

Under the sink he found bleach, cloths, pan scourers, washing-up liquid and a rolled-up pair of rubber gloves. He sniffed around the drain, poked his finger down the plughole and withdrew it covered in black paper ash. In two minutes the ring holding the U-bend was off, and he watched as the plastic basin filled with thick inky water. Nearly a fortnight had passed, but he could still smell the evidence of burning. He swirled the basin as if panning for gold and fished out tiny flakes of unburned white paper. Thick paper, non-absorbent, glossy on one side, the remains of a photograph, maybe more than one. He stood up, staring at his blackened fingertips. Why – if she was thinking of coming back?

There was more here, more for him to learn. He took a closer look at the little drawings, each held by a single drawing pin: sketches of hands, feet, noses, arms, legs, ankles. Some were of faces, perfect tiny portraits, all of the same man.

He smiled to himself. ‘Steve McQueen?’

A quick search of the small drawer by the bed revealed nothing; it had already been searched, he could tell by the casual disruption of the contents. She had folded over
page 72
Jane Eyre,
a battered old copy bought from a charity shop for 10p, the only book in the room.

Behind the door was a coffin of a wardrobe showing signs of woodworm rampage. A quick look revealed a few clothes, carefully placed on individual padded hangers. He pushed them apart with his palms, knowing good silk and cashmere when he felt them, examining the names on the labels – MaxMara, Gianfranco Ferre. That was more like her.

A white dressing gown, thick heavy towelling, hung on a peg on the door. He read the label and smiled, sniffed the collar. It smelled of flowers, bluebells?

He glanced at the single pair of shoes lying in the bottom of the wardrobe, black, kitten-heeled, leather, with a perfect velvet bow. He flicked them over to glance at the size, knowing what he would see. Size 35. European.

Sitting among the detritus of evidence – the cardboard boxes of knives and assorted blunt instruments, bag upon bag of jumble – was a quiet little black handbag, its velvet bow clearly visible through the plastic.

‘That one there, the black one,’ McAlpine said, pointing. ‘Middle shelf, third one from the end.’

The production officer bit a mouthful from his bacon roll before lifting the bag from the shelf and pushing it across the desk.

‘What contents were listed?’ asked McAlpine.

‘See for yourself.’ The production officer fixed the A4 sheet on to a graffitied clipboard and turned his attention back to his breakfast.

McAlpine read from the list. ‘Perfume, Scent of Bluebells; three pencils, HB, 2B and 2H – somebody with an artistic touch… a comb, blonde hair on it, a tube of mascara, a book of first-class stamps.’ He flicked the page
over, then back again. ‘So – no bits of paper, no credit cards, no receipts. A normal woman’s purse is full of crap.’

The production officer shrugged and wiped a smear of butter from the corner of his mouth.

McAlpine opened the plastic sleeve, lifting the bag clear. It was curiously heavy, lined in silk, hand-stitched, its clasp made of pleated goatskin. He tipped it, spilling the contents. And checked them against the list. Perfect match. He put the contents back in the bag, his sense of unease growing. Every answer he found led to another question. His fingers felt something hard trapped between the silk lining and the leather shell. He worked his fingers round the top, found it and passed it through a cut, not a tear. He pulled out a gold-faced man’s watch and a fold of cardboard cut from a Kellogg’s Cornflakes packet.

‘You checked this?’

The officer backhanded some crumbs from his mouth. ‘I wasn’t on duty when it came in. No ID in it, so it’s of no interest.’

McAlpine’s fingers caressed the watch, the lizard-skin strap and the hinged fastening, which clipped down flat. She had petite wrists; this was a man’s watch, far too big for her. Had she brought it with her because it was part of him? A way of bringing something of him with her? McAlpine turned his back slightly on the productions desk, making a point of looking closely at the bag, while prising the fold of cardboard open. Wrapped in a web of Sellotape was a ring, plain silver with a single diamond. A lover’s ring. Another thing too precious to leave behind.

It was McAlpine’s first Saturday night on duty, his third night shift in a row. He had come to prefer these nights to the day shift. Outside, Glasgow was sweating. The hospital
was quieter, cooler, the nurses friendlier, and the sleeping beauty alone as often as not.

It had become a habit with him to slip into her room, to have one-sided chats about anything and everything. Sometimes he got the feeling she was listening, that there was an awareness behind that mask. Sometimes he wasn’t so sure.

As far as the hospital was concerned, McAlpine was invisible. The nurses had dropped their guard around him completely, and he could harvest little snippets of information from their indiscreet conversations, or from the papers on the aluminium clipboard at the end of her bed.
Slight improvement, reflexes plus plus.
A list of drugs, mostly unpronounceable. He ran his finger down the column, some dosages the same, others getting less – even he could understand that. She was getting better.

He thought about the fine muslin that covered her face. He had got into the habit of screwing his eyes up when he looked at things, seeing the world her way. It was like looking up through thin ice, the ice getting thinner every day. When she broke through and took her first breath, he would be there. When she said, ‘My name is…’ he
would
be there. He could see her perfect features, hair wet and smoothed back like a marble sculpture, could see himself cradling her beautiful face in his hands, lifting her clear and carrying her away.
With this kiss I shall wake you.

As he walked back, he heard a nurse on the phone, her little gurgling laugh like a teenager’s. He’d bet she wasn’t talking to her husband.

Their eyes met.

She looked away quickly and cut the call short.

He strolled back to his seat, thinking about women. How deceitful they could be. Or how wonderful.

He heard a cough, indistinct at first, then again. And again.

He looked up and down the corridor, opened the door and slipped inside. She was lying as usual, arms at her side, her body jerking with the spasm of each cough. The gauze was slipping from her face, revealing a line of fresh blood. He lifted her head a little, cradling the weight of it. She coughed again, louder, the force of it racking her body, but then the blockage cleared and her head lolled back slightly. He placed her head gently down on the pillow, and, as she slowly exhaled, he could feel her body deflate. Not like any corpse he had touched but not like a living person either; she was suspended in between.

He leaned over, looking at her closely, two faces separated by a wall of muslin and silence. He adjusted the gauze over the curve of her cheek; he twirled the wisp of blonde round his finger. She didn’t pull away. He thought the veining of blood underneath was fainter, the scars beginning to heal. He stood back, regarding her, thinking how she would have been. She was young, slim and fit; her calves had been firm, her ankles still slender despite her pregnancy, her toenails perfectly cut. Even the scar round the base of her toe was smiling.

‘Do you mind?’ he said. ‘I need to see.’ He lifted up her left hand, rolling back the cotton wool padding on her palm, where the burning was deepest, where she had lifted her hands to her face. The nails were long and shaped, the back of her hand was covered in smooth tanned skin. He traced a thin band of white at the base of the third finger. He felt – imagined – that she pulled her finger away from his touch.

‘I’m sorry, but I had to know. It’s fine,’ he said. ‘It’s fine.’ He put the hand down carefully, reluctant to let her go and leave her. He held his hands over hers, warming them as he
studied the monitor, a single fluorescent line firing across it, hiccuping every now and again, left to right, left to right.

There was a movement… a something…

He turned and looked at her. ‘You OK?’ he asked.
Bloody stupid question.

Nothing, just the wheeze of the respirator.

He moved towards the door, opening it and closing it without leaving the room. She sighed, and he watched her relax, her head dropping slightly in heartfelt relief.

He smiled and took one last look. He walked back slowly to his seat in the corridor, deep in thought, and sat down, his arms folded, his eyes never leaving her door.

‘I’m official this time. Official.’ His voice was still deep, polite, conversational, sexy, but there was something else. This time it wasn’t going to be a monologue. ‘Look, sweetheart, I think – I
know
–you can hear me. And that leaves you with two options. Either I can sit here and talk to myself and feel like a right prick, or you could talk back.’

She so desperately wanted to talk to somebody; it had been months since she had said more than good morning to another human being. And she wanted to hold her baby in her arms; the pain of not having that was worse than anything. She considered her options, who she could trust, who she couldn’t. She didn’t have much choice.

‘The fingers on your left hand aren’t too bad. The right hand sustained a bit of damage, I’m afraid. Can you move your thumb?’

She knew she could not move her hands; her fingers were bound together, not tightly but restricted. She moved her thumb, felt her skin crack and a searing pain shoot through her palm.

‘Good.’ His hand rested on hers, his fingers warm.

She moved her thumb again, easier, less pain. She felt tearful, tense, yet she so wanted to say something. He kept talking, his voice steady and reassuring. He tapped the tip of her forefinger gently. ‘What about this finger? Can you move that?’

It was difficult, a small movement, hut he saw it. ‘Good. So we’ll make it a finger for yes, and the thumb for no. That OK with you, sweetheart?’

She thought for a moment, then twitched her finger.

‘You fancy a wee chat? My name’s Alan.’

Yes, I know. She twitched her finger.

‘Look, love, we know what happened to you, and we can find out who did it.’ Strong words, but the voice remained friendly. He sounded very young. ‘But the first problem is, we don’t know who you are…’

She listened hard to his voice, so young, so sympathetic. But so few words – could she judge? She kept still.

‘Do you have any memory of what happened to you, anything at all?’

Conversational? Concerned? She kept still.

‘OK, OK.’ He didn’t speak for a while. She wondered if he was going to trip himself up, imagined him contemplating his next question. ‘Look, I’m not stupid, and I don’t think you are either.’ The voice paused. ‘You made a good attempt at covering your tracks, but a trained eye can always see things.’ She felt fear prickle at the back of her neck. ‘You were in labour, yet the last thing you did before you went out that door was to wash bits of burned photograph down the sink. Must have been important to you.’

She heard him move, shifting closer. ‘Somebody got to you. They’ll come after you again. You know they will. They might come after the baby.’

He wasn’t threatening her; he was stating fact. She was sure he would hear the panic of her heart as it slapped against her chest. She kept her fingers still.

After a moment he said, ‘If there’s anybody we could contact for you, let them know how you are?’

She stayed still.

His voice softened. ‘What about the guy who gave you the ring? Your husband? Fiancé? Was he involved in the attack?’

The thumb jerked. No.

‘He’s a good guy, then?’

Piet, smiling at her, on the yacht, the wind ruffling his hair, his Steve McQueen smile
…
she watching as the flames ate the photograph, the black flakes disappearing down the drain in a torrent of water
…

Eventually her finger twitched.

‘I see.’ She felt his fingers, warm and soft, caress her hand. He had the same gentle touch as Piet.

This was a man used to talking to women.

I want to hold my daughter.

‘But I’ll have to call you something. What do you fancy?’ His hand was still stroking hers. ‘You have long blonde hair. Rapunzel?’ She had no idea what he was talking about, but she could tell he was teasing her. ‘Alice in Wonderland? Oh, I know – Anastasia. They can’t work out who she is either. Anna for short.’

Anastasia and the rest of the Romanovs? They had had their precious stones, their diamonds, all the wealth they could take with them, sewn into their clothes. They didn’t make it.

She could remember holding a pile of uncut pure diamonds, almost warm to the touch, in her hands. They were secure now, wrapped in

black velvet in a safe-deposit box in Edinburgh. They were safe, safe

for their child, but she herself wasn’t. A tear of pain bit into her eyes

to remind her. Her life was precarious.

‘I’ve got a present for you… we took them from your room –your ring, the watch, it’s all there.’

Her finger twitched.

‘
Here’s the ring. I thought it was silver, but Mappin & Webb tell me it’s an imperfect blue diamond set in platinum, a one-off. Why were you in a bedsit with a diamond worth a fortune?’

There was no response.

‘Did the guy who owns the watch give you the ring?’

Again her thumb twitched, twice.

‘OK.’ The voice was conciliatory. ‘Just make sure someone doesn’t take them. Things go missing in hospitals, you know.’

Her finger twitched three –four – times.

Silence hung thick around them for a minute or two.

‘Anna, are you saying you want me to keep them for you?’

A single twitch of her finger.

‘
All right, I’ll keep them safe, I promise.’