Dead in the Water (21 page)

Marcus looked down at the whisky in his glass and swirled it gently. ‘You could forgive him anything, and I expect my mother did. Sylvia, in a curious way, almost had more to forgive. She undoubtedly had his heart, but divorce was out of the question. Once I’d met Sylvia, I was sure that would happen, even asked him once, wondering if he’d been putting it off until I’d grown up.

‘He laughed – I think he thought that was genuinely funny. “Dear boy,” he said, “we have a home, a most beautiful home. Why would I spoil that for us? Your mother is my wife, darling Sylvia is my mistress.” It was as simple as that.’

Jaki just didn’t know what to say. Affairs, one-night stands, even – OK. A wife and an official mistress – that stank of a sort of decadence she had never experienced.

Marcus saw her face and laughed. ‘Oh, he was a selfish sod! I’m not trying to defend him.’

He said that, but he sounded loving, almost amused. For Marcus, his father could do no wrong. Jaki said, aware of sound-ing disapproving, ‘Can’t have been terrific for either of them.’

‘You’re right, of course. Sylvia probably suffered more. She had to accept that he wouldn’t sacrifice all for love, but I would guess my mother could choose to be in denial, as long as he didn’t actually leave her.’

‘Maybe Sylvia was into that too,’ Jaki suggested. ‘The way she talks, it always sounds like compared to them Antony and Cleopatra just fancied each other a bit.’

Marcus laughed. ‘That’s Hollywood! But I can only say she gave me, as a gawky, uncertain teenager, more warmth than I ever had from Ma, and I owe her for that. Though whether swinging this part for her was my smartest move—’ He grimaced.

‘She’s got real problems,’ Jaki agreed. ‘But she’s having a ball being here with you and part of the scene, a big star again. Trotting out all the old stories.’

‘You’re probably right. Oh, I know she can be a bit of a bore, but it’s all she has left.’

Feeling ashamed of herself, Jaki said hastily, ‘No, it’s been cool, honestly, hearing her talking about all the legends she knew – the ones you never quite believed were real people.

‘Changing the subject, Marcus, unless we’re filming at the weekend, I’ll head back to Glasgow for that, OK? If – if you don’t mind.’

‘Of course you must do what you like.’

She refused to notice he was looking slightly bleak at the thought of having only Sylvia for company. ‘Right – what shall we do with the rest of the evening?’ she said brightly. ‘Poker for penny points, maybe? And you can freshen my drink. I’m seriously getting into that stuff.’

Jaki cuddled down in bed, electric blanket full on, and picked up the Katie Fforde she was reading, a cheerful antidote to the general gloom. She hadn’t had so many consecutive early nights since she was six years old; it was only just after ten o’clock. Poker had passed a couple of hours quite pleasantly, but it had its limitations. What were they going to do all the other nights until the local scenes for this wretched episode could be declared a wrap? Maybe Marcus would invite some of the guys up for supper tomorrow night, and then it would be the weekend, thank God. She might even pop home to her folks in Wishaw; after all this, she quite fancied a bit of noisy, chaotic, normal home life.

It was quarter past ten when she heard the doorbell ring. It was an actual bell, swinging on a spring in the hall, and she always thought it sounded as if it belonged in a horror movie.

That would be Barrie, no doubt, or Tony, or both, to discuss the revised schedule. She almost thought of getting up and dressing again, to go down for a chat. But she’d just got properly warm for the first time today, and Katie Fforde was very beguiling . . . Jaki snuggled down and went back to her book.

From outside the window, she heard a voice calling something. Listening, she frowned. She couldn’t make it out, then a moment later there was a sort of strangled cry, a groan – something, she couldn’t quite be sure what. She sat bolt upright and threw back the covers just as she heard the spine-chilling sound of a woman screaming and screaming.

10

Just the four of them, talking round the table at kitchen supper, with Meg contentedly asleep by the Aga – when she was old, Marjory Fleming thought, these family meals would be treasured memories. The kids were growing up so fast: in a couple of years Cat would go off to uni, then it would be Cammie . . . She’d stopped taking these occasions for granted, lately.

Tonight, with Cammie setting off tomorrow for a two-week school rugby tour in France, they were having a farewell supper of roast beef – his choice. Marjory’s roasts tended to be hit-and-miss affairs, but tonight it was definitely a hit, with the beef just pink inside and even the roast potatoes, for once, crispy without being charred.

‘Better make the most of this, lad,’ Bill advised as he carved the sirloin. ‘Frog’s legs and snails tomorrow night, I shouldn’t wonder.’

His children ignored this facetiousness. Cammie took his plateful and began piling on potatoes; Cat, who had spent three weeks with a French family the previous year, said, ‘Oh, he’ll like the food all right. The big problem is that I’m not sure he knows the French for “That’s not enough. I’m still hungry.” ’

Cammie looked up, alarmed. ‘They’ll speak English, won’t they? Some, at least.’

‘Don’t you believe it,’ Cat said darkly. ‘Even if they do, they won’t.’

At the last parents’ evening, Cammie’s French teacher had pointed out that oral competence could only be achieved by actually saying something. Marjory looked at her boy, wondering how he would cope. He was looking forward to the trip, but he was clearly nervous too; he’d never before been away for so long, and he’d be moving around the different homes of his French counterparts – quite a challenge for her quiet, home-loving son. He’d been such an undemanding teenager and she’d never had the run-ins with him that she’d had with Cat; Cammie was still close, still affectionate, and she’d miss him. She could only hope he’d be too busy and happy to think of missing her – as long as they won their matches!

‘The important thing,’ Bill was saying now, ‘is to understand what the ref is telling you, or you’ll get yourself sent off.’

‘The coach has taken care of that.’ With a certain triumph, Cammie turned to his sister. ‘Bet you don’t know the French for offside, anyway. Or handling the ball in the scrum—’

The ringing of Marjory’s work phone cut into what he was saying. He stopped, she said, ‘Damn!’ and went to pick it up, conscious of accusing looks on all three faces. They knew it wasn’t her fault when a family evening was spoiled, but they still blamed her.

‘Fleming. Yes?’ She knew she sounded terse. But listening, she began to smile. ‘That’s great news, Ewan! Mairi’s all right? And have you decided on a name?’

She listened for some time, said once, ‘Yes, of course. That’s fine,’ and eventually rang off.

‘That’s Ewan Campbell’s baby arrived. A little girl, to be called Eilidh Shona, after her two grannies. And Ewan said more in the last five minutes than he’s said in all the time he’s been with us. Just as well he’s taking paternity leave – his mind certainly wouldn’t be on the job.’

Marjory sat down and everyone relaxed. It was only after she had gone to bed, and was in that first, profound sleep, that the phone rang again.

Jaki flew to the bedroom window and peered out. Lights from the house flooded the terrace outside, and she went cold as she saw Marcus below lying motionless and crumpled on his side, his head against the step up to the French windows of the drawing room. He had been wearing a pale grey cashmere sweater and even from here she could see a great dark patch on his back. Blood! She gave a stifled scream.

She could hear Sylvia’s tremulous voice from the room below, calling, ‘Jaki! Jaki! Help! It’s Marcus! Jaki, are you there?’

‘On my way,’ she shouted back. But even as she turned, her eyes went with sudden recollection to where the shape had been that she had convinced herself was a bush. The space was empty.

Jaki gulped, then pulled the chunky sweater she had been wearing over her pyjamas, shoved her feet into shoes and grabbed her mobile. She ran across the landing and down the stairs, hands shaking so much that it took her three goes to dial 999. She was gasping out the details as she crossed the hall.

The front door stood open. For a fraction of a second she hesitated – was Kevin lurking just outside, waiting for her to appear? A terrifying thought, but she didn’t lack courage. Marcus could still be alive and she might be able to do something for him – but he had been so utterly still . . . inert – not dead! Oh please, not dead!

Outside, it was a clear, cold, moonless night, with a touch of ground frost. To the left, light from the drawing-room windows spilled out over the scruffy gravel in front of the house. No one was visible, but the trees and bushes of the shrubbery made great pools of shadow and it was not only the cold that made Jaki shiver. The police and ambulance were on their way – but who knew better than she did how long it took to reach this place? She mustn’t cry. It would only weaken her. Plunging into the darkness, she rounded the corner of the house.

It was treacherous underfoot, with an icy slick on the green slime on the paving stones. She slid and had to steady herself against the wall, and looking down she saw marks which showed Marcus, too, had slipped – clearly, that was how he had hit his head.

He lay in the oblong of light from the drawing room. The lights from Jaki’s room upstairs revealed an expanse of overgrown lawn beyond the terrace, and from Sylvia’s bedroom immediately below an agitated shadow was cast on to the paving stones further along. Jaki saw Sylvia was vainly trying to lift the heavy sash. She was mouthing something but Jaki didn’t wait to see what it was.

She knelt down by Marcus’s side. His eyes were horribly half-open, showing the whites, and in the dim light his face looked almost grey. The bloody patch on his sweater was spreading, spreading . . .

Dead bodies don’t bleed. She had been working long enough on a crime series to know that. So he was alive – but for how much longer? And what could she do? She wished she’d had her fictional counterpart’s training as she groped for the scraps of information she retained from first-aid lectures at school.

You put pressure on a wound to stop it bleeding, didn’t you? But what if that was the wrong thing to do – what if it made things worse? What if – oh why, for God’s sake, did anyone live more than ten minutes from an A&E department?

She could hear his breathing now, shallow, but steady enough. With both hands, she found the site – a neat slit, just below his shoulder blade at the left-hand side – and pressed heavily. After a few interminable minutes, it seemed as if the blood flow was at least slowing. She raised her head.

Sylvia, her expression anguished, had her face pressed to the window pane. ‘He’s alive!’ Jaki yelled, wondering if she would be able to hear through the glass, and saw her put a hand to her throat in relief. ‘Blankets! Can you hear me? Blankets!’ Sylvia nodded, and turned away.

Jaki was beginning to realize that the cold could be as deadly as any wound. The knife must have missed his heart, or he would surely be in a worse state, but she didn’t know what internal bleeding there might be, and with the head injury too she dared not move him. Her own teeth were beginning to chatter and her hands were growing numb, making it hard to keep up the pressure.

It seemed an age before Sylvia in her wheelchair appeared at the French windows, opened them with difficulty and threw two blankets and a quilt down the step to where Jaki could reach them.

‘How is he? How is he?’ Sylvia seemed almost hysterical. ‘I can’t help, I can’t do anything! Have you called the police – an ambulance?’

Jaki didn’t need this. As she cautiously removed her hand to spread the quilt under Marcus as best she could, then pulled the blankets over both of them and restored the pressure, she was thinking desperately of something else useful the woman could do, before she lost it entirely.

‘They’re coming, Sylvia. But we need hot-water bottles. Boil up the kettle and see if you can find any. Do you think you could manage that?’

‘Yes! Yes, of course I can!’ Given a task, Sylvia visibly took a grip on her emotions, and the wheelchair hummed into action as she disappeared back into the room.

It was very, very silent after she left. The stars in the night sky were so numerous and so close, they almost seemed to be bearing down on Jaki as she lay pressed to Marcus’s back to share her body heat, looking about her fearfully. The thought that Kevin Docherty, out of sight but close by, perhaps admiring his handiwork and its success as bait to lure her out, took possession of her mind, and every rustle of leaves in the light wind, every snap of a twig as some night creature went about its business, made her gasp and stiffen with terror.

The bleeding, she thought as she removed her hand and flexed it to get the feeling back, seemed to have stopped, which for a moment made her panic – was she trying fruitlessly to warm a corpse? When she put her hand to his throat, she could feel a pulse – but he was cold, so cold!

Hot-water bottles would help, but Jaki didn’t have much confidence in Sylvia. She’d been away a long time now – was she just going to come back in an even worse state, saying she couldn’t find them? The frustration, that Jaki couldn’t go and search on her own swift feet, was mounting by the time the wheelchair came into view again.