Through Every Human Heart (16 page)

Dina pulled herself up in the bed, until she was half sitting. Her grandparents' bed, albeit with a new mattress and new white linen. The room was exactly as she'd abandoned it months before. The wallpaper was partly stripped off – pale yellow roses and curling leaves in a green that no natural plant could ever achieve. The old Axminster was gone, leaving bare the floorboards which she fully intended to strip and reseal. On the left of the door frame, several patches of paint showed where she'd tried possible colours. She'd decided on warm shades, since the room faced north. Fowler Pink, and Book Room Red. Then she'd turned against these, worrying that they'd make the room smaller. Pinks became more intense. So on the other side she'd tried Babouche and Citron. Irene was fond of Babouche. But making decisions was hard, and in any case, to know what was right she'd have to strip the floorboards first, so the tester pots still sat there, beside strips of old wallpaper in large white bin bags, a mood board with hardly anything on it, and a little row of Diet Coke cans that had never made it to the bin. Dust sheets covered the old-fashioned bureau and chair. They weren't valuable. Should they be stripped or painted or thrown out?

‘Well, Donaldina, what next?' she said aloud.

The evening before, they'd completely ignored the possibility that there would be a ‘next'. Her head hurt a little now. Not surprising, considering they'd finished the bottle between them. He'd explained that he wasn't actually a priest, but that priests weren't forbidden alcohol anyway. They'd eaten lasagne and garlic bread, which he'd said he liked. They'd talked about many things; her attempts to find a career, their very different childhoods, and the house, which she'd inherited from her grandfather. He'd been taken aback by the fact that there was a house key in a tin beneath the log pile.

‘If it is so safe here, why do you live in the city?'

‘There's no jobs.'

‘You could make money from this, I think. People would pay to come here.'

‘I can't,' she told him. ‘It's in the terms of the will. I can't sell the house or let it out until I'm thirty-five. The land's different. That's let to a crofter for grazing, so I get some money from that, which helps.'

‘Why did your grandfather do this?'

‘He wanted to keep it in the family. My Dad was the younger son, his brother died when he was just a baby, and though there's cousins, they're in England. I was the only grandchild. I think Grampa imagined I'd have children by the time I was thirty-five, and I'd want them to have the house.'

He'd nodded, as if he agreed with the old man.

She wondered what they would have made of each other. She was awfully glad he wasn't a priest. He was a good listener, so he probably would have done that well as a priest, but she was awfully glad he wasn't.

‘My mother's still alive, but they never warmed to her. She lives in Spain,' she added. As if he'd want to know. She and Dad had never divorced, so she'd expected to inherit something from Grampa too. How furious she'd been. The sale of the family home after Dad's death hadn't been enough for them.

She herself had been annoyed at first at the terms of Grampa's will, because holiday lets were so lucrative. Even with the price of fuel rising there were plenty of people keen to travel from the south to get fresh air and unspoiled countryside. But she'd forgiven the old man once she worked it out. She'd loved him so much, and Gran even more, what she could remember of her: pure white hair, and painting together on the kitchen table, with never ever a word about the mess, and perfectly shaped pancakes with raspberry jam from the garden. She'd been a greedy little child, she thought, always impatient for more.

She'd not spoken about her father, that was too deep, but told him how she'd tried nursing and waitressing and how she'd finally got the job with Arbanisi Design. He hadn't said anything about Irene, and she hadn't either. They talked about his country, about the forests and beavers, bank voles, and bears, about how you could forage for food when it was rationed or hard to get from the city. He'd been very hungry as a student, and very proud, he said, refusing help from his father because by then he'd decided he hated his politics.

‘Were you an anarchist?' she had asked, feeling rather knowledgeable.

‘That would depend on your definition.'

‘My friend Ronni used to be one. She said it was because her father worked for the CIA.'

‘Impressive. Did she tell you what she did?'

‘Not in any detail. But she never goes home.'

‘We never thought of ourselves as anarchists,' he said. ‘We thought we were pursuing democracy. I've always thought that anarchists had some good ideas, like respecting the individual, and wanting each man to find his own cultural identity. But most people like being governed. There are too many vested interests. People who have the tiniest amount of power,' he squeezed his thumb and forefinger together, ‘naturally they want things to stay as they are.'

She thought of ward sisters and consultants she'd encountered.

‘I think I'd be good with some power. I just don't know how to go about getting it,' she said.

He'd smiled at that. She wasn't sure if he was laughing at her or agreeing.

‘Does she paint, your friend Ronni?'

‘No, she takes photographs. Why?'

‘I wondered if these were her work.'

‘These were Granny's.'

‘They are very good, I think.'

She thought so too. Whatever else she changed in the house, the paintings would stay.

She'd gone to bed, leaving him downstairs, but she hadn't been able to get to sleep, thinking thoughts that were not exactly the kind of thoughts one ought to think in a Free Presbyterian bed. She remembered his scars and the strong muscles of his shoulders. The kiss was kind of impossible to forget. Why had he kissed her? That was the important thing. Had he been kissing
her
, or would anyone have done? Some women would have asked right out, ‘what was that for?'

She'd heard the sound of music on the radio. It played for some time, then went off. After a long time, she heard the front door being opened, so she got up to see where he was going.

The water had been far colder, the pull of the current more vicious, the shelving of the beach more immediate than she ever remembered them being in childhood, She'd panicked, realising too late that instead of rescuing him she was in trouble herself. But afterwards, so little had been said. A few words each. As if nothing momentous had happened. As if he hadn't been trying to drown himself at all . . .

‘What happens to me?' she had wanted to scream at him. ‘If you die, what happens to me?'

She had been furious. She was still furious. And now here it was, absurdly, the morning after the night before. There would have to be breakfast, she supposed. She hadn't shopped for breakfast, hadn't thought as far ahead as breakfast. There would be porridge, if the dried milk was all right, or tinned custard, and baked beans. Or desiccated coconut. With tomato sauce if she ran hot water over the disgusting glued-on bits and got the top off.

She lifted a corner of the curtain and looked out. The water was shimmering in the dawn light, serene and innocent. Damn him. Damn him and his stupid walk into the loch. Her sheepskin slippers were at the bottom of it, or possibly floating towards Greenland. If they had a boat they could sail away. A modern day Flora and Charlie. She tried to visualise herself rowing vigorously in a tartan shawl. She pictured herself pushing him overboard.

From his perch on the hill Feliks saw lights go on in the house. If she looked out of the small kitchen window she would see him. He wanted her to see him and wave, lift the teapot, call him down to breakfast. They could grow raspberries as her grandmother had. Not plums. She had said it was too cold for plums. A bread roll with jam. Or a banana. One could buy bananas very easily. There was no need to have an actual tree.

Are you insane? Nothing has been solved. Nothing has changed. Who do you think you are?

Just myself. Just who I have always been. More wrong than right. More sinning than sinned against. A three-legged chicken dog.

He took one final look at the long curve of the bay, the low hills, and out to the faint horizon, then stood, brushing damp grass from his trousers. Several metres to his left, there was an elderly man watching him from the road. Feliks raised a hand. The man lifted his stick to acknowledge him and walked on in the direction of the house. There was a dog too, black with white. It barked, and was reprimanded.

Dina was in the kitchen. He didn't think she'd showered. Her hair was unbrushed, and there were faint lines on her face where she'd been lying on creases in the bedding, but she looked as if she'd slept well.

‘I'm just boiling the kettle. I thought you were still asleep,' she said. She sounded as if she was annoyed at something

‘The sun called to me. The room has no curtains. But it is all right . . .'

The doorbell interrupted him.

‘I think it is a man with a stick,' he said. He followed her to the hall but stayed out of sight. He understood nothing of the conversation, except that it seemed amicable. The man spoke more slowly than Dina, in the way of the old. There were, he thought, questions and answers, and possibly she was talking to the dog as well, because her voice became the kind of voice people use when talking to animals. The whole thing seemed to him to go on for a very long time.

At last the door was closed.

‘My neighbour,' she explained. ‘He saw our lights last night, but he didn't recognise the car. So he came to see who it was, and he brought bread, milk and eggs,' she held up a bag, ‘in case it really was me and I didn't have breakfast.'

‘You have good neighbours.'

‘Nosey neighbours, you mean. No, that's not fair. He's a good soul. He knew Grampa. I'm not sure he approves of me altogether.'

‘Is that the same language?' He pointed to a framed text beside the window. ‘What does it say?'

She read out the lines.

‘Bheir am peacadh sinn sios do uisgeachan dobhain
.

Ach bheir gras sinn sabhailte gur tir.'

 

He wanted to know what the words meant, but she didn't translate it. ‘Let's eat,' she said, going towards the kitchen. ‘It looks like it's going to be a fine day. That's Scotland for you.'

He followed. She looked very sweet in her denim trousers and long bedraggled sweater. Her ankles were endearing. So small. His hand would go completely around them.

‘They say we can get all four seasons in one day, that's why climbers get into trouble so often, the ones that don't know the country. Boiled or fried?'

She meant the eggs. He said he would be happy with either.

‘They go up into the mountains dressed for summer, just shorts and t-shirts, and the weather changes . . .'

In his imagination he went forward, turned her round and kissed her. The good neighbour's bag seemed to read his mind and disapprove. It fell off the edge of the table, landing with a dull thud on the stone floor.

Frank dismounted from the bike, stretched his arms and his back, and tried a few tentative steps. Not great. Ignoring previous advice he swallowed a couple of the smaller pills. Doctors were always over-cautious. From up here he could see his own car, parked in front of the small cottage, but he resisted temptation. There weren't any lights on in the house yet. Some of the curtains were closed. He was pretty sure Berisovic and the girl were inside. Where else could they reasonably be? Not that reasonableness had played much of a part in what had been going on so far. This reunion was going to be tricky, especially in the opening minutes.

How would they feel about seeing him again? Hostile? Repentant? The problem was still the same. He didn't know exactly what had prompted Berisovic to shoot him in the first place, so he had no sure way of knowing what approach to take now. He was hungry. He'd been foolish not to have eaten.

Movement on the slope behind the house caught his eye. Berisovic? The shape and height were right. What was he doing out in plain sight? Inviting disaster. Had something major happened, something that had changed the whole game? Was the Countess with them? And the man de Bono or Bedlay, had something bad happened to him? He did hope so.

He watched Berisovic do nothing for a long time. A man in a cloth cap with a black and white collie dog exited one of the nearer houses, and walked slowly down his gravel track. Berisovic stood up, as if he'd seen the old man too. At any rate he began to make his way back to the garden and into the house.

Frank waited until the elderly gent came back along the road and began climbing his own track, then he free-wheeled slowly down. He wasn't, he realised, feeling his usual chirpy self. Shock, pain and blood loss and the side effects of good painkillers – it was always the same. Well, too bad, he told himself. If you want it over and done with, you have to do it. If you want extra money, you have to take risks. If you want to be back in your own armchair with the door locked and Brenda and the kids upstairs asleep, curtains drawn against the big bad world, you have to fight for it. At least this time he would be prepared to dodge the bullet.

Dina salvaged enough eggs to scramble, and had just put a plate of toast on the table when the front door bell rang again. She sighed.

‘That might be Mrs McKinnon, she's the next up the hill.'

This time Feliks went into the sitting room and drew two inches of the curtain aside. His heart sank. He considered the man standing on the path. He went through to the tiny hallway, unbolted the door, and opened it a fraction.

‘Where's Miss MacLeod? Is she here?' the man said.

‘How did you find us?'

‘I'll tell you, but not on the doorstep.'

Feliks began to shut the door, but Frank lodged his foot in the space. ‘Please. I need your help.'

‘It is her house. She will decide.'

‘All right.'

At once Frank withdrew his foot, to Feliks's surprise. He'd only said that about the house because he didn't know what else to say.

‘Let him in.' Dina was right there in the hall behind him. ‘Let him come in. We may as well hear what he has to say. We don't need to believe it.'

‘Don't say anything about Miss Arbanisi,' Feliks said.

‘Why not?'

Why not indeed? It was only a gut feeling, and hadn't he decided not to trust his guts again? ‘Just listen carefully, and think about what he says.' He wanted to tell her not to talk about anything, but stopped himself. He had no right to order her about.

Back in the front room, Dina opened the curtains wide, flooding it with light. He watched Frank lower himself carefully into an armchair. No mention was made of the leg, though he was obviously in pain. Perhaps he liked being the noble hero. He did grunt as he leaned over to the fireplace to pick up the wine bottle they'd shared the night before, examining the label with pursed lips. Wait, Feliks told himself, pushing down the anger that was mounting in his stomach. Wait and see.

‘Is the Countess here with you?'

‘No. It's just us,' Dina said.

‘That's a pity,' Frank said, placing the wine bottle back on the floor.

‘We want to apologise about the car,' she was now telling Frank, ‘but we haven't damaged it at all.'

‘Do you have anything to eat?' Frank interrupted her.

‘Toast? I've made some eggs.'

Don't help him, don't be so nice, Feliks begged her silently.

‘Toast would be excellent,' Frank said.

She was back in moments with a plate. My toast, Feliks thought. And my mug of tea also.

‘Most of our mutual problems,' Frank began, ‘at least in the last forty-eight hours, have been caused by this man who calls himself Charles de Bono. Do you know where he is?'

‘No,' Feliks answered for them both. He felt Frank's eyes on him, and tried to look like someone intent on being helpful.

The tea was gulped down and the toast eaten very rapidly.

‘It's rather early in the morning for harsh reality,' Frank said, ‘but we may as well begin. The facts seem to be these. He and his accomplice broke into Miss Arbanisi's home, intent on her antique collection, and were surprised by you, Dina. Some minutes later, hoping to speak to Miss Arbanisi, you and your colleague Mr Cristescu arrived. I was right behind you, and I parked nearby. I was there, as I told you before, to make sure that that nothing prevented your meeting with the Countess. We all know what happened next.'

‘Do we?' Feliks asked.

‘What matters now,' Frank ignored the question, ‘is that we all work together to make things right. As matters stand, we have several advantages.'

Feliks rose to his feet. ‘Perhaps you will allow us to finish breakfast while you tell us about them. Dina, you could make fresh tea, yes?'

‘Of course,' she said. ‘I left the boiler on. There should be loads of water. We can all have showers.'

Now she was being absurd, he thought.

‘Perhaps later, thank you. I'm fine just now,' Frank said.

‘Would you like some eggs? There isn't any bacon . . .'

‘No, I'm not a great one for bacon anyway,' Frank told her. ‘More toast would be welcome.'

Feliks stared out of the window. There was a black motorbike against the wall. The absurdity of the whole situation was only increasing moment by moment. They were dancing round one another, like ballet dancers on the edge of a precipice. What was the phrase, the elephants in the room?

‘One thing has puzzled me, Frank,' he asked as they followed Dina to the kitchen. ‘How do you keep finding us?'

Frank sat on the one chair with a cushion. ‘Simple technology. Your hired car had a tracker in it. Mine has one too. Most unfortunately, Miss Arbanisi's has stopped functioning.'

‘Then how are you going to find her?'

His question went unanswered.

‘Miss MacLeod, Dina, am I correct about what happened in the flat?'

Dina nodded. ‘You might not want this. It's stone cold.' She pointed to the scrambled egg.

‘I'll finish it. We must not waste good fresh eggs.' Feliks sat down at the table and took up his fork. ‘Is there perhaps salt?'

She brought salt and pepper from a cupboard. ‘Shake hard. It might be damp,' she said.

He watched her inserting more bread into the toaster. A pot of red jam was opened and put down on the table. He looked at the salt pot, then at Frank's temple, measuring the distance.

‘Tell me, how exactly did De Bono's partner get stabbed?' Frank asked.

Kafka would have relished this, Feliks thought. Eggs and toast. Salt, murder and strawberry jam. It was rather like being inside one of his stories. Or making Prince Hamlet chew gum while he talked to the ghost, or hold a hamburger in one hand and the dead man's skull in the other.

‘Lazslo stabbed him in self-defence,' he said. ‘Miss MacLeod was not in the room, so she cannot bear me out. To be honest I do not know if it was Lazslo's knife or his. It was left behind.'

‘Do you still have my gun?'

‘I'm sorry. I gave it to the ocean.'

‘That's a pity. It deserved better.' Frank turned to Dina, ‘The police had several theories initially, including one that had you as an accomplice, or a murderer.'

‘Who was murdered?' Feliks asked.

‘De Bono's partner.' Frank seemed puzzled at having to explain.

‘We thought he would live. She had called for help, and Lazslo said the wound . . .'

‘It wasn't me,' protested Dina.

‘He knows that,' Feliks said firmly. ‘Everyone knows that. You were in the other room.'

He was surprised the man had died.

‘Is Lazslo dead too?'

‘Yes, I'm sorry.'

‘Was it an accident?'

Dina put more toast on the table between them.

‘I don't know.'

With Lazslo gone, he was next in line. He would be blamed for the fat man's death. He waited for Frank to point this out, but Frank merely stirred his tea. He didn't look good, and his movements were all careful. Feliks wondered where he had spent the night, and how the wound had been dealt with, then hardened his heart. The man was not to be trusted, no matter how much pain he was in. Lazslo had been barely alive at the roadside. Frank had given them false hope.

‘What are the advantages you spoke of?' he asked.

‘Well, we have my car.'

‘And a motorbike.'

‘Which we mustn't use anymore, since it's not mine. But we have back-up if we need it, and an excellent place to start from.'

‘What does that mean?' Feliks asked.

‘Here, of course. Your telephone, Miss MacLeod. And Miss Arbanisi's mobile number. You have called her, Miss MacLeod, haven't you?'

Dina bit her lip, looked at the floor.

‘Oh, grow up, Feliks, why don't you?' Frank turned on him. ‘You're not going to sit there and let her perjure herself again, are you? Listen, my children, I already have the number. I have her office number, her home number, her email, her shoe size and the same information for every member of the firm. I need you because the main advantage we have is that she and De Bono don't know me. That's why I need you to call her now. You still don't trust me, do you? How can I convince you?' He rubbed his forehead. ‘One easy way would be for me to make a phone call, and sit here eating this very nice toast and jam until Special Branch arrive and arrest you both.'

‘She hasn't done anything.'

‘Of course she has. Obstructing the course of justice, car theft, accomplice in the wounding of an officer of the Crown, the list goes on.'

‘All right,' Feliks said. ‘Miss Arbanisi is on her own. She got away from De Bono. She's going to meet us at twelve o'clock.'

‘Here?'

‘In the town centre.'

‘But we were thinking here would be better. We were going to phone her again anyway,' Dina said. Her voice sank to a whisper.

‘Thank you,' Frank said. He looked at his watch, then rose slowly from the table with a last corner of toast in one hand. ‘Let's keep things as they are. I want back-up on this from now on, and we're far too exposed here. One road, open country, not so good. It's better to meet somewhere public. I take it that's my car key. And I would like a shower now. And possibly somewhere to rest for a couple of hours.'

The key was hanging on a spare hook beside the cups. He picked it up and went out, very obviously limping and in pain. They heard the front door open and close.

‘I don't like him anymore,' she said.

‘I have never liked him,' he reminded her. ‘He's a liar. He lies when there is no point. Remember how he lied about Dimitar. Dimitar can't talk. When my father found him, way back in the seventies, he'd been taken hostage by a rival bandit gang in the mountains, and they'd cut out his tongue.'

She shivered.

Fool, he admonished himself. She didn't need to hear that. Or maybe she did. Maybe she needed reminding that they weren't playing games.

‘I don't understand,' she said. ‘Why can't we just stay here?'

‘I believe he means that extra people can be close by, looking like ordinary people. So when something goes wrong, they can help.' He caught the hand that was intent on removing his empty plate. ‘I don't think it is necessary for you to come anymore. He will drive. Surely you can remain here. Miss Arbanisi knows me, so there is no need at all for you to be present. If she is concerned about you, Frank will assure her that you are safe. Don't worry. He has no reason to bring you. From now on, you can . . .'

‘How dare you?' She pulled her hand away.

‘How dare I what?'

‘Tell me not to worry. Where was that wise bit of advice last night?'

‘I didn't . . .'

‘No you didn't, did you? The only person you thought about was you! What would have happened to me, if you died? That didn't occur to you, did it?'

She was right. He had no answer. She waited and waited, but he had no answer. Without warning she scooped his plate from the table and hurled it at the opposite wall. Then she ran from the room. He heard her feet pounding up the stairs.

He got up and went over to the wall, kneeling to gather the broken bits of china.