The Magdalena Curse (12 page)
Read The Magdalena Curse Online
Authors: F.G. Cottam
He thought about the specifics of how she looked. Her hair was cut into a shorter style than Lillian had worn, but the colouring was the same and he knew if he stroked it with his hand, the texture would be too. The eyes were the same shade of green and had the same feline upward slant. She had the same generous mouth. He knew how her lips would feel against his in a kiss. And she had the same appraising expression, with the eyebrows subtly arched, that he had never learned to read in his wife. She was an inch or two taller than Lillian had been and shared his dead wife’s slender figure. It was as natural he felt attracted to her as it would be unnatural to try to do anything about it.
If he was honest with himself, it was not revulsion he had really felt when Elizabeth had briefly held his head and then taken his hands in hers. He had become a very lonely man. The intimacy he had enjoyed with Lillian had been taken from him suddenly and for ever. He had missed it too much either to try to reconcile himself, or to attempt to replace it. He was worried to distraction about his son. He was greatly afraid for Adam and, though fear was not a new emotion to him, helplessness in the face of fear was something he had never felt before. When Elizabeth had held him, he had
actually felt a surge of pleasure and relief so strong it was as though for a moment his heart had slipped unbreakable chains. The revulsion had swiftly followed. And it had all been felt not for her, but for him. He had felt it for his own self-deluding weakness. And he had torn himself away and climbed the stairs to his bed shackling his heart again in harsh confinement as he took the ascending steps.
actually felt a surge of pleasure and relief so strong it was as though for a moment his heart had slipped unbreakable chains. The revulsion had swiftly followed. And it had all been felt not for her, but for him. He had felt it for his own self-deluding weakness. And he had torn himself away and climbed the stairs to his bed shackling his heart again in harsh confinement as he took the ascending steps.
He had endured nights of cold solitude in remote and sometimes hazardous places throughout his entire professional life. He had done so willingly and without ever entertaining a single self-pitying thought. At whatever distant and hostile spot he found himself in the world, there had always been, after all, the prospect of Lillian and home, of warmth and welcome and the love of his wife and the intimacy of their sleeping embrace on his return. That was gone now and its absence was a thing he knew a part of him had always dreaded the prospect of confronting. It was his solitary fate and there was no relief or escape from it.
Walking through Geneva airport it felt strange to Hunter not to have a strategy. This was a mission more important to him than any he had undertaken in his long and sometimes distinguished military career. But there was nothing he could do, beyond turning up on time, to prepare for it. He had not really thought about the woman who called herself Miss Hall between his last, sinister sighting of her at the window of the house in Magdalena and his recounting of the story of the Bolivian incursion on the previous Friday evening. Before Friday, he had not spoken about what happened in Bolivia for better than a decade. In that time he had occasionally thought about Mrs Mallory. She had faded in some of the more disquieting particulars, over the passing interlude, like a bad dream. But her more prosaic partner, or protagonist or whatever she had been, had slipped from memory completely. It was odd, he thought
now, because he was still very wary of Rottweiler dogs. Hunter always gave the breed a cautious distance on the pavement. And he was always very aware of precisely where Adam was in relation to the dog if he saw one in a park or on a beach or common. He was on his guard in the presence of the breed of canine that had almost cost him his arm. But he had never reminisced for a single moment about the woman whose strange and querulous intervention had certainly saved it.
now, because he was still very wary of Rottweiler dogs. Hunter always gave the breed a cautious distance on the pavement. And he was always very aware of precisely where Adam was in relation to the dog if he saw one in a park or on a beach or common. He was on his guard in the presence of the breed of canine that had almost cost him his arm. But he had never reminisced for a single moment about the woman whose strange and querulous intervention had certainly saved it.
He did not have a plan. Her self-styled emissary had been very clear on the urgency of the meeting but very opaque about its purpose. Without knowing precisely what it was Miss Hall wanted from him, he could not decide how he was going to react. A long time ago she had said she was more good than bad. As the aircraft taxied and the seatbelt sign went off, he unfastened his and he looked at his watch. It was just after noon. Their meeting was scheduled for eight. In slightly less than eight hours, he suspected he was destined to discover whether hers had been an honest boast or not.
He had boarded the flight with nothing but a single item of hand luggage. He would be through the formalities and into Switzerland quickly. He sighed, despite himself. Geneva was not an easy place to come to. Most of the places he had travelled to in the world reminded him of missions he had undertaken. But this one reminded him above all else of family holidays. His family had skied as often as they had been able to. He walked past the baggage carousels and saw his own ghost with his dead wife and Adam and his much-missed daughter, Kate, waiting excitedly for their bags and skis and boots to appear through the rubber curtain and approach them, Kate in her dungarees with her blonde hair in ballet dancer’s braids. He sighed again and dragged his eyes away. God, he missed his wife and precious daughter.
He missed them so. There were just two of them now. He wondered whether Adam would ever ski with him again.
He missed them so. There were just two of them now. He wondered whether Adam would ever ski with him again.
He had no plan. But Hunter did have his instinct. His hotel was outside the city, on the southern shore of Lake Geneva, a few miles from the address the emissary had given him for the rendezvous. And he was sure that he was not followed from the airport in the taxi he took there. But he was equally certain that he was seen as he emerged through the gate into the arrivals area. The terminal building did not seem especially busy and one man in particular caught his attention. He was about fifty yards away and seated, apparently engrossed in a magazine. Even seated, Hunter could see that he would stand about six-three and run to maybe three hundred pounds. He wore wrap-around sunglasses with pale yellow lenses. His shaven head was bare. As Hunter passed him, just beyond the point of closest observation, he glanced back casually, just a momentary flicker of study. And he saw that the man wore make-up. Thick panstick or foundation covered his face and scalp. He remembered Abel Gaul then, with his tobacco discoloured teeth and the gentle, North Carolina lilt of his country dialect. Hunter did not think it fanciful to suppose the make-up on the man watching him might conceal a facial tattoo. He sniffed the air. But it carried no trailing taint of corruption. It smelled of nothing at all.
The window of his hotel room enjoyed a pretty view of the lake. The room itself was as characterless and antiseptic as they always were. Switzerland was no longer the pristine country of his own youth. They had litter and graffiti now. But there was still an underlying precision and order about the place that seemed a bit joyless and defeating to Hunter. The mountains were the mountains. But the country that lay beneath them, he had always found slightly clinical and depressing.
He kicked off his shoes, discarded his coat and jacket and
unbuckled his belt, then lay on his back on the bed. He still had hours to kill. He thought of Abel Gaul again, with his open face and the feral alertness that had failed to save him in Bolivia. They had all died. He was the only one left alive. Of course he was. What was the point of Mrs Mallory’s curse, if he was not still around to witness his son’s torment and destruction?
unbuckled his belt, then lay on his back on the bed. He still had hours to kill. He thought of Abel Gaul again, with his open face and the feral alertness that had failed to save him in Bolivia. They had all died. He was the only one left alive. Of course he was. What was the point of Mrs Mallory’s curse, if he was not still around to witness his son’s torment and destruction?
He thought about Bolivia, about the specifics of the mission and its aftermath. He had told Elizabeth every detail he had been able to recall. But now he searched his memory for anything important he might have missed. It was not pleasant to do this. And it was exhausting. But it was necessary, he knew. He pictured every scene as the mystery and horror of it unfolded and he heard in his head afresh every spoken word. When he had done this and knew that his mind offered nothing further to discover in the past, he slept where he lay for two oblivious hours.
Elizabeth’s home was a small cottage overlooking a stream about four miles south of the village where she rented the two room breeze-block building that housed her surgery. The surgery was functional, utilitarian. Her cottage was stone with ivy clinging to it and leaded windows, and a heather descent that grew quite steeply down to the run of the water. The cottage had been vacant for a long time before she had bought it, on her return to Scotland and home after her disastrous period with the Red Cross. It had been somewhere between badly run-down and completely derelict. Restoring it had been a full-time job for the six months after Grozny. And the distraction of that had been exactly what she needed.
Then, after she moved into her new home and acquired her surgery and started to practise as a GP, the sound of the stream had been just what she needed. When she got into bed at night, she discovered its watery trickle had a narcotic
rhythm that lulled her gently to sleep. Her mother had lent her the money for the cottage deposit. And her mother had lent her the money to buy the lease on the building that became her surgery. Both sums had long been repaid. But the total loan had not been without risk. Not everyone in the vicinity responded positively to their family. There were those who would rather endure illness than have someone with her bloodline treat them. Highland memories were long and sometimes unforgiving. That was something Elizabeth was reminded of as she approached her door at dusk on the Monday evening, a few hours after Mark Hunter passed on his way out of Geneva airport.
rhythm that lulled her gently to sleep. Her mother had lent her the money for the cottage deposit. And her mother had lent her the money to buy the lease on the building that became her surgery. Both sums had long been repaid. But the total loan had not been without risk. Not everyone in the vicinity responded positively to their family. There were those who would rather endure illness than have someone with her bloodline treat them. Highland memories were long and sometimes unforgiving. That was something Elizabeth was reminded of as she approached her door at dusk on the Monday evening, a few hours after Mark Hunter passed on his way out of Geneva airport.
A cross had been crudely daubed upon her front door. The door was original, as old as the cottage, gnarled and knotted and weathered by time. The cross was about three feet high and had congealed and was turning a brown colour in those thinner stretches where it had dried. Elsewhere it was still red and sticky and, up close, carried the odour of the abattoir. It was relatively recent, this work. She looked at her watch. She had returned home for a change of clothes for tomorrow. She was on her way to the Hunter house to take care of Adam overnight. The nanny finished at six. Elizabeth could spare the ten minutes or so it would take hot water and a hard bristled brush to scrub off the offending symbol. Not that the symbol itself was offensive, of course. But the sentiment that had inspired this piece of spiteful mischief was very offensive. Oh, well. She had lived in rural Scotland for too many years to be traumatised any longer by its prejudices. A cross daubed in animal blood was still some way off an arson attack carried out while she slept inside. She had taken her keys out of the ignition on parking her car. They were looped by their key ring over her thumb. She resisted the temptation to look behind her like someone spooked and afraid. A strong breeze gathered at her back
and she felt its force push her towards the wood and its new sign, glistening where it had been painted thickest in the last of the twilight. It was recent and cowardly work. Everyone knew the hours she was away from home. Everyone knew that she lived in the cottage alone. She found the key to the door and let herself in to get her change of clothes.
and she felt its force push her towards the wood and its new sign, glistening where it had been painted thickest in the last of the twilight. It was recent and cowardly work. Everyone knew the hours she was away from home. Everyone knew that she lived in the cottage alone. She found the key to the door and let herself in to get her change of clothes.
The timing of the attack left little room in her mind for doubt. But she wanted whatever reassuring corroboration she could get. So Elizabeth drove well beyond the speed limit on her journey to the Hunter house, making time for a quick diversion to the Black Boar, the pub to which she had sent Mark on Friday evening for his less than jolly night out. The landlord, Andy McCloud, was behind the bar as he always was, polishing a glass, his cheeks red in the glow of his generous fire and with a plaid lumberjack shirt rolled to his elbows. Behind him, arcane and curious whisky brands were lined up on a shelf ready for the tourists who never came. He saw her and approached the spot she chose at the bar cautiously. There were only two other customers present this early in the evening, both regulars, and they were out of earshot. He knew something. He knew everyone and everything, she thought.
‘What’s your pleasure, Doctor?’
She would get to the point. ‘Someone left a message for me at my home. It was unwelcome. A serious insult totally uncalled for.’
‘Unless it was a warning,’ he said.
‘Meaning what?’
He hesitated. When he spoke, his voice was a murmur. ‘Not everyone thinks a woman with your ancestry a fitting antidote to the troubles of the family on the hill.’
‘What’s the word, McCloud?’
He leaned forward. He had been a policeman before he had been a publican. He was honest and fair to a point, but
he was local to his core. He would betray no names, she knew.
he was local to his core. He would betray no names, she knew.
‘You are treating our war hero, Colonel Hunter, for depression, yes?’
‘No. I am not.’
McCloud blinked at this contradiction of what someone had told him and he had clearly believed to be the truth. ‘That’s the story. He is depressed as a consequence of losing his wife and his little girl. What man would not be? He cannot reconcile himself. It has made a recluse of him. You are treating him. And ever since you’ve been doing so, the boy has been having nightmares so bad he’s too disturbed to attend to his lessons at school.’
‘That’s the rumour?’
‘It’s what I’ve heard.’
‘And spread?’
He put his towel down, placed his polished glass carefully on the bar. ‘I would have hoped you knew me better.’
Elizabeth stood straight. She blew a stray strand of hair away from her face. Her voice was not discreet, now. It was loud. ‘If that nonsense is what people really believe, wouldn’t calling ChildLine be more effective than painting my door in fucking pig gore?’
McCloud just looked at her. But she was fairly sure she had got her message across. Her response would reach the perpetrators. She did not think it would halt their campaign. Her mother had once endured something similar and she knew how the story unfolded. Poison pen letters would come next. Excrement would arrive through the post. Her car might be vandalised. They might nail the head of their slaughtered pig to her door or daub a pentagram. Windows would be smashed in the depths of the night. A bit of shouting and sarcasm would not stop it. Mark Hunter might help her do that, though, when he got back from Switzerland. He was
the sort of man who would repay a favour. And she thought him truly formidable. Most important, though, his son was her patient. And no amount of bigotry and physical interference would prevent her doing all she could to enable Adam’s recovery.
the sort of man who would repay a favour. And she thought him truly formidable. Most important, though, his son was her patient. And no amount of bigotry and physical interference would prevent her doing all she could to enable Adam’s recovery.
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