Someone Else's Son (5 page)

Something came crashing down – sticks and poles. Something wound round her, getting caught in her hair and nails.

Carrie squealed. ‘Bloody stupid—’

A light came on. The door opened.

‘Who’s there?’ The voice was deep and commanding.

Despite being tangled up, Carrie spun round to see a male figure to accompany the angry words.

‘What?’ She tried to fight the things off. ‘Who are you? What are you doing in my cabin?’

There was laughter – something suddenly warming about it, but laughter from another person that she hadn’t expected. She’d wanted to be alone. Totally alone.

‘
My
cabin?’ he asked, approaching her.

Carrie squinted into the light behind him. She pulled a wire or line from her hair. ‘Ow!’ she cried, sucking her finger when something sharp stuck it.

‘Well now, just look what I caught.’ The man came close. He was about her age and, even though it shouldn’t have been her primary thought, she couldn’t help noticing his good looks.

‘Caught?’ Carrie tasted blood. Did he recognise her?

‘You’re all tangled up in my fishing gear. Helping yourself, were you?’

‘No! Of course I wasn’t.’ She yanked what she now knew to be fishing line from around her arm. ‘You were supposed to have vacated this cabin today. I’m the new occupier.’

The man laughed again. ‘I don’t think so. This is my cabin.’

‘Then you should know that I booked cabin six for five nights.’ Carrie finally rid herself of the tackle.

‘You did, did you?’

‘Yes. I was looking for the key when your stupid stuff got in my way.’

‘And where was that key meant to be?’ The man leant, rather infuriatingly Carrie thought, on the cabin wall. She noticed his very white teeth as he grinned.

‘Under the pot.’

The man casually peered around. ‘I don’t see any pots.’

‘Exactly. I was emailed lousy instructions. Can I see inside? I’m only paying if it’s satisfactory.’ Carrie suddenly had visions of sleeping the night in the Jeep, which, she thought, might not be too bad. Already her plan to escape from people had gone wrong. Was there nowhere in this country to hide?

‘Sure,’ he said, turning, expecting her to follow.

From the light spilling out of the cabin, Carrie could see that the area around the lodge was dense woodland. She loved the way the trees gave way to water. Once she’d got rid of this man, she would slip from the shadows into the depths of the loch for a midnight swim. It would help her forget this false start.

‘Welcome,’ he said, holding open the door.

Carrie stepped inside. It didn’t look quite like the pictures. How could the simple white New England style in the website photos look anything like this eclectic mix of big dark furniture, old woven rugs and sports equipment – everything from wet-suits to sails to walking boots and even a bicycle propped by the door.

‘I think there’s been some mistake,’ Carrie said. Not hers, though. Cabin six, Kinlochburn Hall. The directions to the estate on the north east side of the loch were unmistakable.

‘I think you’re right. Can I get you a drink?’ He reached over the kitchen counter and produced a bottle of single malt.

‘I just want you to go. This is a disaster.’ Carrie was deflated. She looked round the cabin. It was OK but not what she’d paid for. And she wasn’t
alone
. She felt close to tears and hated herself for it. Was she incapable of a normal existence outside the boundaries set by her celebrity lifestyle?

The man shrugged and poured from the bottle. ‘Can’t do that.’

‘Why the hell not? Is this some kind of set-up?’ She half expected a camera crew to appear or the wretched man to produce a tape recorder. Oh, why didn’t she let her secretary take care of the booking?

‘Don’t think so, nope.’ He fell down into a large leather settee that was draped in furs. His arms spread along the back of the chair. He drank his whisky. He stared at her.

‘So what am I to do?’ Carrie’s voice quivered. People usually did as they were told.

The man shrugged. ‘Guess if it were me, I’d apologise, leave without any further fuss, and drive a little way along the track until I reached cabin number six.’ He grinned and downed the last of the whisky.

‘This isn’t six?’

‘Nope.’ He stood and walked past Carrie, the smile still there. He put his glass in the kitchenette sink. ‘The number plaque’s a little weathered. This is number eight.’

‘Do you know who I am?’ When he realised, he’d be sorry.

‘Nope again.’ He was right in front of her now, all big and tanned with his Scottish accent weighing down his words so Carrie could hardly understand him. No wonder wires had been crossed.

‘I’m Carrie Kent, for God’s sake, and you have entirely ruined the start of my break.’

‘Pleased to meet you, Carrie Kent. I’m Jason McBride.’ He held out his hand. ‘I own the estate. My family have lived at Kinlochburn Hall for three centuries.’

Carrie was vaguely aware of her hand being drawn into his, only half conscious of him explaining why he lived in the cabin for part of the year, how he needed the solitude, but fully alert when his mouth suddenly came down on hers.

As he kissed her, she was already reading the trashy headlines:
Carrie’s Secret Snog
. . .
One-Night Stand For
Reality Check
Star
. . .
Kent’s Secret Lover Spills All
. . .

Despite what was going on in her head, she didn’t immediately pull away. She listened to the voice telling her all the things that she’d come to Scotland to do – be alone, relax, unwind, escape, recharge – but her resolve was waning with every inch more of him that pressed against her.

‘Stop!’ she managed, gasping for air. ‘I can’t do this. Do you know who I am?’ She knew she sounded ridiculous. Briefly, she was reminded of Brody, felt a pang of regret as she recalled their first passionate night together seemingly a lifetime ago.

‘You just told me. And you know who I am. So we’re even.’

Oh no we’re not
.

And he pulled her close again, attempting a further kiss.

 

‘Turns out,’ Carrie said to Leah just before the next show went to air, ‘that he doesn’t even own a television. Imagine, in that great mansion. So he hadn’t got a clue who I was.’

Leah glanced over the top of her glasses and shook her head. A smile threatened but she fought it back. ‘And you’re honestly telling me that you didn’t sleep with him?’

‘Not even a little bit. But we swam together. We fished. Cooked and ate the catch. We went for walks and he showed me the big house.’

‘I thought you wanted to be alone.’ Leah handed over several files to her assistant as she passed through the set.

Carrie was about to defend herself, but there wasn’t time. She paused for a moment then walked out on stage. There was applause from the studio audience. She stared at them – hundreds of people all here to see
her
.

Then it hit her, beneath her ribs in a spot so sore it hurt right up to her throat.

It was true. She
had
wanted to be completely by herself, to enjoy the solitude, just as Jason McBride did for a few months each year. Technically, she had failed on every level. And Leah clearly didn’t understand. Whether live on air being watched by millions, or in the company of just one other person, Carrie Kent was
always
alone.

‘What do you mean . . . no?’ It came out as a squeak, she was so unused to being refused. The phone was hot against her ear. Sun cut across her right cheek, magnified by the glass. The engine was ticking idly, her foot poised to hit the accelerator, but he’d said
no
. It appeared she wasn’t going anywhere.

‘Look, Dennis . . .’ God, she hated that name. It reminded her of cardigans and golf. ‘Detective Chief Inspector,’ she tried. ‘This has been arranged for over a week. I have a film crew on standby. I have slots to be filled. A show to produce.’ Carrie felt the beginnings of a sweat break out. This family were box-office news at the moment. She had to see them. Wait another couple of days and it would all be over. Or, worse, someone else would get to them first.

‘Listen, Dennis darling, unless you can conveniently arrange another stabbing for me by ten thirty tomorrow then I’m going to have to find myself another friendly det—’

Grim laughter drowned the line. Then there was silence. ‘Just kidding.’

A pause. ‘What?’ She jammed her foot on the accelerator and, before she snapped the phone shut and threw it on to the passenger seat, she called him a stupid fuck.

The car was hot and airless, even though it was a cool day. Carrie sat in the front while DCI Dennis Masters drove. He’d put on the siren because he knew she loved it. Another detective sat in the back with his knees pressed into Carrie’s spine.

She opened the window and leant her arm out, enjoying the wind as they pushed through the tide of cars that bumped up on to kerbs and panicked on to the central reservation as they approached.

‘Makes me laugh,’ she said, unwilling to admit that she’d felt helpless when Dennis had said the meeting was off. ‘Such a thrill, all these people getting out of our way.’ She spent the rest of the journey pondering how she could achieve this effect with the rest of her life, but, just before they arrived, she came to the conclusion that she already had.

‘This is it,’ Dennis said grimly. He peered beneath the sun visor, looking at the row of council houses. He pulled the keys from the ignition and glanced at Carrie. ‘Whatever you may think, Ms Kent, these people have just lost their only son. Be—’

‘I will be nice. I’m not completely without feeling.’ Carrie pulled a sympathetic face and pushed her sunglasses on top of her head. Deep in her chest, she felt something – was it sympathy? she wondered – as she fleetingly tried to put herself in the position of the bereft mother sitting within those grim walls. She shook her head. It was too awful to contemplate. ‘OK. Let’s get this over with.’

Without these meetings, the exploration into the homes and lives of her victims, as Carrie called them,
Reality Check
wouldn’t be the show it was. It was infamous for its unforgiving style of reporting – a journalistic gash into lives ripped apart by tragedy. The production team also prided itself on the aftercare and counselling offered, as well as the usefulness of the police hotline that was always onscreen to offset the gawping at misery. Carrie had once described her show as a car crash. People just couldn’t help but stare.

‘Is he coming in with us?’ Carrie asked. She’d not seen this young detective before. Carrie had what she called a special arrangement with the Met. ‘Don’t ask,’ she’d urged Leah when the first show aired. ‘It’s complicated.’ She meant her relationship with Dennis and the benefits that afforded. That was nearly ten years ago now. A heated fling – him wanting more, her killing it dead before he got too needy. Soon she would reach her five hundredth show. Carrie suddenly felt incredibly old; incredibly lonely.

‘Let’s go, Mr Plod.’ She tapped the young cop on the shoulder.

‘My mate used to live around here.’ He was doleful, suddenly grey-faced, staring around the desolate rows of pebble-dashed buildings. ‘Got killed. Drugs deal screw-up. Fifteen, he was.’

Carrie smiled. This was good. A cop with a conscience. ‘Then you’ll have lots in common with Mrs . . .’ She glanced at her notes. ‘With Mrs Plummer, won’t you? Her kid was stabbed in the neck when he refused to give up his mobile phone to a gang of youths.’ She walked off, shaking her head, wishing she had a pair of those plastic shoe covers that surgeons used. The path was littered with dog muck and she didn’t reckon the house would be much better, if the outside was anything to go by.

It was as the door eased back by a couple of inches, while Carrie was focusing on the thinnest, most gaunt and unbearably sad woman she had ever seen, that her mobile phone rang. Automatically she pulled it from her jacket pocket. She glanced at the screen. It was her son. With a swallow, she cut him off. Now was really not the time.

 

Max Quinell liked to be on his own. With parents like his, he figured it was OK to escape for a few hours. No one knew the shed was down here.

Inside, as his eyes adjusted to the dimness, he glanced around as always. Nothing was missing. It was all in perfect order, unlike the rest of his life. OK, so the shed was dilapidated, the wall timbers clinging to each other with rot, and the roof dry-lined with an old tarpaulin, but for Max it was a home away from his homes.
This
was his real home. No one bothered him, no one else had yet staked a claim on the ten-foot square shack that sat forgotten beneath the railway bridge – a workers’ store once, he presumed – so therefore, by rights, Max considered it his. One day, he thought to himself, I might move in for good.

He sat down in the old car seat that he’d dragged up from the canal bank. Ford, he reckoned. He pulled a packet of fags from his pocket and lit one, using the same match to light a scented candle on a wooden crate. It had been part of a set – lavender bath oils, face mask, the candle in a blue glass jar. He was going to give them to his mum for Mother’s Day, but really . . . He laughed, coughing as the smoke coursed into his lungs. That particular runner’s-up gift pack would have been better off going to Oxfam – or not, he thought, as he remembered how the face mask had stung his skin. Crap quality, he reckoned. It had given him a crop of spots for a week.

‘So,’ he said, gazing lovingly at his stuff. ‘Who and what next?’ He pulled the list out from under the crate. It ran into six pages now. Thirty items per page, that’s what he reckoned – going on two hundred items. Two hundred strokes of luck – or genius and skill, he preferred to think. Especially the ones with the captions. He usually won those; had always been good with words.