Hartsend (27 page)

‘‘No, I'll go,'' he said. ‘‘You should stay here. Go and sit with the boy. I will make some calls first though. I know one or two people whose word might influence the situation. If he wakes up, talk to him. I've a feeling he doesn't like me very much.''

He showed her into the study. The boy was asleep in the reclining armchair, his feet on a stool, a cushion beneath his shaven head and a brown and white mohair rug wrapped over him. She understood why the boy had run away, but why had he taken refuge in the Crawfurd's garden shed? And what was she meant to say to the lady of the house if she appeared before Duncan came back? Before she could ask, Duncan caught her hand, gave her a quick peck on the cheek and was gone. Actually, it was more than just a quick peck. Lesley had received enough quick pecks to know the difference.

Thanks to calls from the local undertaker, a visit to a bereaved family, and a Presbytery committee meeting, it was late in the afternoon before the Reverend had time to think again about the Flahertys. He worked his way up to a senior member of the local police, only to be told that the Chief Inspector would call him back. While he waited it occurred to him that he might get the latest news from Dr Gordon, but a voice at the Surgery told him that Dr Gordon was taking the day off. He tried the man's mobile. No reply. He texted Harriet to say where he was going, and went out.

He could hear music playing in the flat, and knocked hard on the door when his first tentative push at the bell brought no response. Then, bending to the letterbox, he shouted, ‘‘Gordon, it's me. Open the door.''

‘‘I'm not here.''

He knocked harder.

Gordon looked terrible. He was wearing a navy dressing-gown minus its belt and brown pyjama bottoms. His hair had not been combed: it rose at each side of his head, as if straining to meet in the middle.

‘‘Are you all right?''

‘‘Absolutely tip top.''

‘‘Tell the truth.''

Gordon gestured towards his ribs: on his left side there was a large discoloured area of skin. ‘‘Two cracked ribs. Not a problem. I have a smallish private store of painkillers. Very naughty of me but that's the way it is.''

‘‘I was worried about you.''

Gordon didn't react. He was still hanging on to the door. Smith sensed it was about to be closed in his face.

‘‘Any chance of some coffee? The traffic from the city was terrible.'' This was probably true, though he hadn't been in it.

The flat had so obviously been inhabited by a series of temporary tenants that Smith felt instantly sorry for his friend. The armchairs, high backed with dark wooden arms, took him right back to his grandparents' house in Elgin. Married during the Second World War, they had lived in a house full of Utility furniture and being canny Free Church folk had never replaced it with anything more beautiful.

Gordon had gone to the bathroom and was taking his time, so he made himself coffee. He glanced round the kitchen: stained vinyl walls, net curtains, a lethal looking gas cooker. He had never invited the man round for a meal. Once Jean came home, he would.

‘‘I made myself a cup,'' he said, when Gordon came back. He had put on black jogging bottoms, and there was a white sweatshirt in his hand.

‘‘Shall I make you one?'' he went on.

‘‘No, no. Help me on with this.''

They did the sleeves first. At one point Gordon let out some small grunts, undermining his claim to be pain-free. It was like putting clothes on a child. He'd learned how to stretch the neck of T-shirts when he dressed Kerr. Gordon hadn't showered, he thought, just sprayed on deodorant. It put him in mind of how Kerr used to rub soap on the back of each hand before meals, and splash a little water on the palms. You had to admire the cleverness, but he could never understand what the point was. It was so much effort, and fooled nobody.

He sipped his coffee. They watched the steady red glow of the electric fire.

‘‘I think I really came to apologize. For not following you in,'' he said at last. ‘‘I feel very bad about it.''

‘‘Forget it. This way I get all the glory. I'm hoping for a brass plaque above the bar at the Dirty Duck.''

‘‘I'm not sure the regulars would approve.''

‘‘You're right. I spoiled their fun. Next time make me count to ten. Or twenty, whatever it takes.''

The man seemed determined to avoid being serious.

‘‘You are going to have to cope with a lot of gossip. Some will love thee, some will hate thee, that kind of stuff.''

More silence.

‘‘How is he?'' he asked.

‘‘Flaherty? I've no idea.''

It sounded as if Gordon didn't care. Fair enough. He'd possibly prevented a murder, which was a good thing, but Flaherty's future, his innocence or guilt, was none of his concern. If only he himself could be so … dispassionate? Was that the word he wanted?

‘‘Well, if it's any consolation, I've just ruined Harriet's life. Again.''

He went on, though knew Gordon wasn't listening.

‘‘Not deliberately. She thinks I told her not to see this particular boy.'' He shied away from naming Ryan. ‘‘Not that she was particularly serious about him, until I banned him from the premises. According to her. You know, there must be some technical term for what happens to words when they leave your mouth meaning one thing, and enter a teenager's head meaning something totally different.''

‘‘What would you do to someone who hurt her?''

‘‘Hurt her?''

Gordon nodded.

Smith thought of the Flaherty boy, (the smell of strong mints failing to mask the drink on his breath), who didn't need to lift a single finger to draw Harriet after him into the night. He'd thought he'd handled it pretty well, wise as a serpent, gentle as a dove. Harriet had somehow turned it into a battle. And let him win. What was the name for a battle that cost you more when you won? It would come to him. He'd prayed and prayed for her, far more than he'd ever prayed for Kerr. Sometimes he wondered if praying made things worse.

‘‘Well, if someone hurt her, they would be held accountable,'' he said slowly, ‘‘but as a Christian, I would have to forgive.''

‘‘No, you wouldn't.''

Gordon's certainty cut like a whip.

‘‘We've talked about this before.'' He tried to stop thinking of Harriet, and focus on what he was trying to say. ‘‘I'm not saying it's easy, but there is a logic to it. If Christ commands it, it must be possible. I have to forgive if I want to be forgiven. You have to take into account the …''

‘‘And that makes sense to you? You have to forgive, but God doesn't? He separates the sheep from the goats and the poor goats don't even know they're goats. They're in the same field, eating the same grass. What choice did they have? They didn't ask to be goats.''

‘‘That's a parable. You can't read it in that …''

‘‘No. Speaking as one of the bloody goats, I think I have the right to read it anyway I like.''

Smith couldn't think quickly or clearly enough to refute him. Later he thought it was just as well. Any reply would have been wrong. Later still, he wondered if he should ever have gone. If it was his own sense of failure that had taken him, not concern for his friend.

‘‘Maybe I should let you go back to bed,'' he said, getting to his feet. He tried to sound amicable and generous and untroubled.

‘‘Maybe you should.''

Marjory McKinnon adjusted the velvet cushion behind her head. The head rest in this car was too hard for her.

‘‘I hate to mention it, dear,'' she began, ‘‘but people have been asking me why after all this time there's no word about a funeral for poor Dr Gordon.''

‘‘You'll know when I know,'' he lied. Of necessity he'd been lying to more and more people with each passing day. All would soon become public knowledge. Then he corrected himself. There had been no suicide note, no last minute phone call, no diary revelations. ‘‘All'', therefore, would never be known.

‘‘Warm enough?'' he asked, keeping his eyes on the busy motorway.

‘‘Yes, thank you, dear.''

 

And really, he reflected, there was a great deal that the public would never know, that even Marjory would never know unless he decided to tell her. The Factor had gone to Gordon's flat in response to a complaint about damp, lodged at least a month earlier. Finding the body, he'd phoned for an ambulance and the police. The police summoned the police casualty surgeon, a GP from a city practice, who attended the scene and confirmed life extinct. A syringe and ampoules were bagged, to be sent in due course to the forensic laboratory. The casualty surgeon came to McKinnon at home because they were old friends, having stood round the same dissecting table as students, and because she trusted McKinnon would have done exactly the same if their positions had been reversed.

She told him all the sad, unsavoury details – how one of the officers had touched the sleeping computer, and come back through to the living room saying, ‘Don't bloody move anything. We need the CID.''

McKinnon's mind had made the terrible leap almost at once, but he'd taken his time before replying.

‘‘I'm thinking of another recent death,'' he told her. Meaning the death of the child. Meaning that Gordon might have been involved somehow.

His colleague understood perfectly. ‘‘Such thoughts would certainly occur,'' she said, ‘‘though one would hope to be proved wrong. I gather they're calling it ‘‘Accidental Drowning'' at the moment. Who knows? We'll all have to wait for the pathologist.''

Should he have known? The government had spent a very large amount of money training him to observe and recognise symptoms and years of practice had taught him more. The young man's looks and charm had blinded them all. Hindsight, that old retrospectoscope, was such a wonderful thing. With the benefit of hindsight, there were certainly some indicators. Shortish spells in different jobs, a failed marriage, few close friends …

‘‘He saved that man's life. I think it'll be a big funeral, even though he wasn't here long,'' Marjory said.

McKinnon thought not. Not when the facts came out. The Fiscal was still waiting for a Pathology report on the death of the travellers' child. Depending on that, Gordon's funeral might be weeks or even months away.

It would be conducted by someone from the Humanist Association, he'd been told. None of the local ministers would have to participate. Who would be there, besides himself and the practice manager? He thought it unlikely that the ex-wife would make an appearance. The executor was some kind of cousin.

‘‘I thought we might stop at that garden centre,'' he said, glancing at the dashboard clock. ‘‘I told Lillian she needn't make lunch.''

Soup and bacon sandwiches at the Garden Centre was a far better deal than one of his daughter's lunches, which featured low fat ingredients; something called humus, which looked like farmyard slurry, bits of leaves and raw carrot and crispbread. No wonder she didn't have a husband yet. No sensible man could live on rabbit food.

He would need to let Marjory wander; she had a passion for looking at nicknacks they didn't need, but he would read one of the newspapers provided for husbands over a second cup of coffee. They would then drive on to Lillian's house, where they would, as usual, have a pleasant enough time. He would wash her car, give it a polish, then doze on the couch while mother and daughter walked to the local retail park where they would spend many happy hours buying a pair of pillowslips or something of that ilk.

When he'd come home that day with the news of Gordon's death, he'd found Marjory in the kitchen. The pulley was down and half-covered with sheets, with her barely visible behind it at the ironing board. She was folding one of his shirts. The iron, vertical on the end of the board, was giving out little snorts of steam. She'd refused to believe him. ‘‘Are you sure?'' she'd said, several times.

Johnny Flaherty, minus his spleen, was still in the High Dependency Unit. There was no evidence whatsoever that he had been involved with the dead child or indeed any child anywhere. The ringleaders of the mob were being rounded up. Inquiries were proceeding. Meantime, Hartsend abhorring a vacuum, opinion was beginning to harden against the child's parents.

He'd spared Marjory all but the barest details. Her only comment that evening, as she helped herself to more peas, was, ‘‘He had such lovely hair.'' He'd looked up from his roast lamb and mint sauce, aghast. Granted she had only met the man on a few social occasions, but a death was a death. It seemed to him the most fatuous statement he had ever heard.

He'd lain awake long after she fell asleep. This was the woman he loved. He expected more from her. Ridiculous tears formed in his eyes. For her, for himself, or for Gordon? Perhaps. For the whole human race? No. Not any more. The planet was far too big for him now, it had long since slipped beyond his grasp. He wasn't alone in this, most of his contemporaries felt much the same. They had believed at the beginning, knowing their cleverness, eager to get into medical school. Once in, they'd quickly become cynical. He'd read someone's comment in a recent BMJ, warning of the danger of being like crabs or oysters in a pot, gradually losing strength as the heat, paperwork and targets, and political meddling increased. In like manner, he had given up on the wider world, given up on the nation, given up rationally if not emotionally on the NHS. Protecting the people of his village was something he would fight to the death for. But here in his own small corner, in his own bed, he wanted help. He wanted some deeper, more profound verdict on all that had happened, something more than the fact that the man had lovely hair.