Kiss Her Goodbye (12 page)

Behind the lawyer, the door opened. The policeman who'd vanished what seemed like hours ago to fetch coffee reappeared with a single white plastic cup. Obviously, he'd delivered Monkman's first. Bastard.

Joe said, "What took you?"

The policeman didn't reply. He set the cup down next to Joe's right hand, acknowledged Ronald Brewer with the tiniest elevation of his eyebrows, turned and left the room.

Joe picked up the cup. Instant crap. From a machine. Freckles of undissolved granules floated on the surface. Despite Groves' assurances to the contrary, he wondered if Monkman had spat in it. "Don't suppose you have a spoon on you?" he asked the lawyer.

"Are you going to talk to me or am I wasting my time?"

Joe took a sip. Scalding. He smacked his burned lips together. They tasted of chicory. Like his grandmother's
Mellow Birds.
"I don't know what you mean." Joe had to make a decision. It wasn't hard. He asked himself who he trusted and immediately put himself in Cooper's hands. "I was at Tina's all night. That's all there is to it."

"What about the neighbors who heard you having a row?"

"They're mistaken." Maybe that's what Cooper was trying to cover up. "If it wasn't the TV they overheard, then maybe Ruth was arguing with her killer. How should I know? I wasn't there."

"Why did Mr. Cooper insist I pass on the message?"

"About Tina? I suppose he just wanted me to know she had agreed to cooperate. It was likely she may not have wanted to get involved." He took another sip. "You're young, Ronald. It may surprise you to learn that some prostitutes are shy of our friendly police force."

"Mr. Hope," Ronald Brewer said. "If anybody saw you that night and can place you at a location other than Tina's residence, a guilty verdict is likely to be a formality."

"And if not?" Joe asked.

SIXTEEN

Adam Wright stared out of his bedroom window. In the distance, sea tangled with sky in threads of grey. Rain fell like dust shaken from a sheet of dark cloud. To the west, an island (Shapinsay, maybe, the one with the castle — there were sixty-odd islands, none of which Adam had visited yet) poked through the stormy water like the head of a drowning giant. Inland, new houses — in various states of completion — lined the suburban end of Berstane Road. From there, a series of fields — a couple used for grazing, one recently ploughed — rolled towards Wrighters' Retreat, this monstrous but cheap edifice he'd bought after his parents' fatal accident five years ago. Below, at the edge of the nearest field, was an ever-expanding pile of rubbish the council wouldn't pick up for reasons almost entirely beyond Adam's comprehension. For once, he observed the disgusting mess without a flicker of anger.

He'd had the opportunity to tell Monkman everything. But he'd chosen not to. Far from certain he'd made the right decision, he pressed his forehead against the rain-spattered windowpane, wishing Gem was still here to ask. What did she expect from him? It was a big effing secret. The glass was cool against his brow. His breath was shallow, hardly misting the glass. He stepped back from the window and stumbled towards his unmade bed. He unlaced his shoes and kicked them off. Snatching Gemma's diary from the bedside table, he lay down. Why the hell had she left it with him? He didn't want it. The damn thing dug into his chest like a sharp stone.

The
last days of her life were recorded in the book he held in his hand. He had found it stuffed in the top drawer of his desk, resting on top of a pile of unpaid bills. Curious, he had opened the book. Stuck inside the front cover was a handwritten note. It read:
Please make sure Daddy gets this. Thank you for everything, Adam. I'm sorry. I don't know what else to say.

Her name appeared in red ink in a floral bordered box in the center of the diary's title page. He flicked over. The first entry was dated Sunday, 8
^th
September. Seven weeks ago.
I'm in Orkney! I can't believe it! Daddy saw me off at the airport. The flight was all taking off and landing and not much flying in between. Adam was waiting for me.
He'd broken out in a sweat when he'd realized that this was her diary, that it might be the suicide note she had failed to leave. Instantly he had turned to the end of the book. Fingers shaking, he'd flipped back through several blank pages. And there it was. Monday, October 26
^th
. The day she killed herself.
It will soon be over.

She must have visited the office in the early evening. Slipped her diary in his desk. Returned to her room. Swallowed the pills. At that point the sequence of events reached an impasse in his head. He still couldn't believe she'd done it.

He opened the diary once again. He skimmed over several pages dealing with her arrival. The book was full of vivid, poetic descriptions of Orkney scenery. She expressed delight at her room, excitement at discovering new friends. A trip she made to Skara Brae and Yesnaby. Another to Maeshowe. All written in a neat, backwards sloping hand. No mention of home, of missing it, or her parents. Like her bedside table, her diary was absent of all reminders of her past. Adam carried on turning the pages, glancing over the words, pausing only to scrutinize the occasional sentence where he saw his own name. Vanity. Hey, nobody's exempt.

She described him on more than one occasion as being slightly overweight. Well, now. Adam occasionally stole a glance in the full-length mirror in his bedroom and agreed he could lose a few pounds. Five eight. Eleven and a half stone. Hardly obese. Fat or not, though, there was little doubt she liked him. Described him as "paternal" on one occasion, "wise" on another. Mentioned several times that he had a terrific sense of humor. Claimed he had cheered her up more than once. She was getting better, she thought.

Then, just over a week into her stay, she had written this:

I imagined I was getting over it. I was dead wrong. On my way back from the toilets, it crashed into me again. Knocked the wind out of me like a kick in the stomach. It really terrifies me, the way it makes me feel. Writing about it now, safely back in my room, my hand's shaking and my mouth's dry and, Christ, I'm scared. Now I've started crying again. God, I'm so fed up with crying. So fed up with my stupid self.

And a couple of days later:

I'm filthy. I want to pour bleach down my throat. I can't sleep. If I turn out the light I'll see his face. I'll smell the whisky on his breath. I'll hear his words. "Be nice to Daddy, Gem. It won't hurt. Won't hurt at all."

Adam stopped reading. No matter how many times he read it, it was equally incomprehensible. No wonder she'd left home in such a hurry.

Maybe Ruth had found out. Maybe that's why Joe had killed her.

Adam ought to go to the police. If it wasn't for the note, that's exactly what he'd do. But Gemma had trusted him. For reasons best known to herself, she wanted the diary delivered to her scumbag father.

If only there was someone he could confide in. He considered the possibilities. A sad reflection of the loneliness of his life was that he could only think of two candidates.

Dorothy Kelly was twenty-four, divorced, childless. She was his receptionist, cleaner, cook and accountant. To boost her otherwise paltry salary, Adam provided free accommodation. Since her marriage ended painfully a couple of years ago, she'd lived in the Orwell room. She liked her job. She loved talking to writers. You see, she wanted to write as well. So far, she'd written the opening chapter of a romance novel which she refused to show Adam no matter how much he begged. She was a little shy. She still got depressed from time to time.

Had he asked her, Adam was sure she'd be happy to talk about Gemma. And he was sure, if he mentioned it, she'd keep the diary's existence a secret. This was the problem: Adam suspected Dotty was a little bit in love with him. He had witnessed the way she smiled at him, the look in her eye a couple of times when he caught her watching him, her embarrassment when she realized her furtive glances had been observed.

No, that wasn't the problem. If he was truthful — and
this
was the problem - the feeling was mutual. When he talked to her, invisible fingers clawed under his skin and massaged his bones. Sometimes it felt as if a giant ladle had plunged down his throat and was stirring the contents of his stomach. She, well, she turned him on. It was impossible to deny it.

Unfortunately, a relationship with Dotty was something he was unable to foster. Nurturing a sexual relationship with his only member of staff was against the rules. His own rules, admittedly, but he wasn't about to change them just because it suited him. Adam held a position of trust. He had to rise above his baser desires. Difficult though it was when you lived in the same building, the only way he knew of achieving this was to keep contact with Dotty to a minimum. Which was hard when all he wanted to do was strip her naked every time he saw her.

Then, in the Stevenson room, there was Willie Lang. Adam's only current client. No such sexual designs on him, fortunately. Van driver, mobile phone salesman, interior decorator, museum caretaker, baker and, latterly, screenwriter. There wasn't much Willie hadn't turned his hand to. He claimed he'd held down two jobs most of his life (he was a security guard in the evenings and weekends) and after a protracted divorce, he'd given up both his current jobs and left home. He gave Adam most of his savings, which wasn't much. Enough to pay for his stay at Wrighters' Retreat for seven months. Long enough, Willie hoped, to produce a top quality screenplay. At the tail end of his forties, Willie's midlife crisis came a little late. Willie was friendly, intelligent, open, witty, knowledgeable and a superbly bad writer. Couldn't get beyond seeing dialogue as a series of questions and answers. As for confiding in him? On several occasions they'd spoken long into the night on various heartfelt topics. But for the conversation Adam had in mind, secrecy was vital, and Willie probably wasn't the right person. It wasn't that Adam didn't trust him. He just didn't trust him completely. Big difference.

Bottom line, Adam concluded, he'd have to face this alone. He wasn't going to get any help.

He turned his attention back to the diary.
Monday 19
^th
October.
The week before she died. He read:

Feeling numb. Just a rape, I tell myself. Once again. I'm going to be okay. No more tears. I'm fine. I'm doing okay. I'm calm. Just a rape. Just a four-letter word.

Somebody knocked on the door and I jumped out of my skin. I told whoever it was to go away. I was shaking and cold. He'd tell me to deal with it. I'm trying, God help me. Nobody will ever know how hard I'm trying. But I can't deal with it. I don't see how I can ever deal with it. Sometimes I think I deserved it. Something I did must have triggered it. I must be sick. In my head. Another knock. Dotty's voice asking me if I'm all right. I told her to go away.

Sometimes I wake up and forget where I am. Sometimes I wake up and don't know I've been asleep. My dreams are as real as everything else in my life. Maybe I don't sleep. I only dream. Maybe none of it really happened.

Dotty said to focus on the good things.

When I was thirteen we stayed up late one night to see a meteor shower. Just me and Daddy. The sky was clear. Daddy drove. We left the car at the foot of Calton Hill. By the time we'd climbed to the top, we were out of breath and freezing cold. A few small groups of people were there already, huddled over bottles of whisky. I told Daddy I should have worn my mittens. He just looked at me like I was daft. He took off his coat and wrapped it round my shoulders.

About twenty feet away, a group of half a dozen kids, much younger than me, were crammed into a two-seater settee, necks craned towards the sky. Another couple of kids balanced on the arms of the settee. "How did that get here?"

Daddy shook his head. "Beyond me why anybody would carry a settee to the top of a hill. Handy, though."

I dragged my gaze away from the settee. Edinburgh lay spread out beneath us. Even at this late hour, buses and cars scuttled about the gridlike streets of the New Town like desperate insects. Across the Forth a fringe of lights sparkled along the coastline. I pointed. "Where's that?"

"Fife."

"I know." I kicked him. He pretended it hurt. "The town, I meant. Which town?"

"Way in the distance," he said, "is Kirkcaldy. Towards us," he indicated a closer cluster of shimmering lights, "that's Burntisland."

Focus on the good things.

I was seven, maybe eight. Market Day. Sometime in July, August maybe. I don't know. I remember it was warm. I wasn't wearing a coat. The Ferris wheel was scarily big. I closed my eyes and pictured the hill, the Binn, the backdrop to the town. And the island of scorched rocks in the harbor. Blackened. Burned. Burntisland. I didn't want to go on any of the rides. I was too scared. Daddy said there was nothing to be scared of. He would protect me. Did I trust him? Of course I did. Before long, I was at the top of the wheel screaming with delight.