Twenty Twelve (33 page)

‘A technical problem, a glitch in the network,’ she said. ‘Computers are like that.’

Clem threw up his arms in despair.

‘If you knew anything about computers, you’d know that glitches are what they do best.’

‘Show me then, woman,’ he said.

Carole-Ann clicked into the forum of Platformnow and navigated into a thread called ‘Anyone Up For An Image-Sharing Thread?’ started by Hawk himself.

I’m uploading some nice pictures to share with you guys.

Clem clicked the link and it was a photo of Waco, the buildings burning, smoke plumes rising into the sky.

Good one, man. How do you like this?

The link took Clem to the charred remains of one of the victims of the Waco siege. It was curled into a foetal ball.

Back at ya, big guy.

There was a photo of the Weaver family outside their farmhouse at Ruby Ridge, squinting against the sun.

Can anyone play?

Gunshot’s image was the mugshot of McVeigh staring remorselessly into the camera, his serial number on display. What the hell was all this about?

Clem’s phone rang. ‘Yeah,’ he growled.

‘Mr Clement?’ The woman’s voice was soft, with the sugar twang of the Deep South of America. ‘This is Nancy Clayton. You asked me to call you about our adopted daughter, Veronica.’

‘Oh, thank you so much for getting back to me, Mrs Clayton,’ Clem replied.

‘I’m afraid it’s been a very long time since I’ve seen Veronica,’ she said.

‘Could you tell me a little bit about the adoption?’ Clem asked.

‘Well now, my husband and I wanted children for a very long time but sadly it was not to be, so we applied to adopt.’

‘And Veronica was placed with you?’

‘That’s right. She was orphaned at nine.’

‘Were you aware of the circumstances in which she came to lose her parents?’

Mrs Clayton coughed. ‘We were not told the exact whys and wherefores but this little girl came to us unable to speak and with a large bullet hole in her back. We did the math.’

‘Why did you move to Scotland?’ Clem asked.

Mrs Clayton sighed. ‘My husband Jim had a brother in Glasgow and Veronica, well, she was always so very angry.’

‘You thought a move might help?’

‘Uh huh.’

‘And it didn’t.’

‘No. Veronica’s behaviour just got worse and worse. Do you know she wouldn’t even change her name to Clayton? I said we needed to go to a doctor and get her some help but Jim – he was so old-fashioned, you see, raised in the Deep South on discipline and respect – he said we needed to show Veronica some tough love.’

‘What did you do, Mrs Clayton?’

‘We put her in a residential unit for children like her,’ she said. ‘Disturbed.’

‘The Orchard?’

‘Yes. It seemed like a nice place, not at all what you’d expect. I didn’t want to leave her, of course, but Jim said it would teach her to value what she had.’

Clem raked his scalp with his nails. What had these people done?

‘Anyway, a few months after she’d been in there we got a letter from Social Services saying she didn’t want to come home,’ she said. ‘I went to see Veronica but she was adamant, so . . .’

‘So you left her in there.’

Mrs Clayton didn’t reply and a pause stretched out between them. ‘We made a big mistake,’ she said finally. ‘We should never have adopted her. She hated everything about Scotland. And us.’

‘I’m sure you did your best,’ Clem said mechanically.

‘I really did try. Do you know, the only time I ever saw that child smile was when we went on holiday to the islands?’

Clem’s heart beat a little faster. ‘Where did you go, Mrs Clayton?’

‘The Outer Hebrides,’ she said. ‘A tiny little place. I didn’t like it all, but Veronica loved the quiet. She spent hours just walking those hills on her own. There were only a few people living there and I heard they all left in recent times.’

‘Do you remember the name?’

‘Let me see now, it was such a long time ago. If I recall correctly we had to fly over there in the smallest plane you ever did see. I thought I would die of fright.’

‘The name?’ Clem interrupted. ‘It’s very important.’

‘Well, it sounded like something you’d call a girl,’ she said. ‘Tara? No, that wasn’t it. Mara, perhaps?’

Clem hung up and ran to his office. He grabbed a thick black book from his shelf and blew off the dust. Then he thumbed the pages until he found what he was looking for and raced back to Carole-Ann’s desk.

‘Here.’ He plonked down the atlas.

She wafted her hand through the cloud of dust.

‘I think this is where Ronnie has taken Jo Connolly,’ he said.

Carole-Ann peered at the page. ‘The Outer Hebrides?’

‘Cara.’ He circled a small speck with his thumb. ‘The island of Cara.’

Carole-Ann sniffed at his puffed-out chest. ‘In the meantime, Hercule Poirot, are you the least bit interested in this?’

‘What?’

‘The website.’ Carole-Ann pointed at the thread they’d been reading.

R1234, if you’re out there, man, this one is especially for you.

This time the link was to a photograph of two hands almost touching, an electric current between them.

I’m here.

Good to see you, friend. I want you to look at the photograph, man. It’s from me to you. You got to look deep, man, to see what I’m telling you.

Okay.

‘Do you think it’s important, Clem?’ asked Carole-Ann.

‘I don’t know,’ he said, leaning in to look more closely. ‘I really don’t know.’

When we reach the crofter’s cottage again, Ronnie pulls over. ‘I’m going to check if there’s anything in there we can take,’ she says and jumps out.

When I’m sure she’s safely inside, I open the glove box and take out the iPhone. To my surprise I can get a signal so I tap in a number I’ve memorised.

‘Yeah?’

‘Clem, it’s me.’

‘Jo?’

‘Call me Miss Connolly,’ I say. ‘Everyone does.’

‘Holy cow, are you okay? Are you hurt?’ he asks.

‘I’m fine.’ I look down at the wound on my thigh. ‘I’m in one piece, anyway.’

‘Where are you?’

‘You’ll never believe me,’ I tell him.

‘Yes I will, Jo – you’re on an uninhabited island in the Outer Hebrides.’

‘How the hell do you know that?’

‘It’s my job to know these things,’ he says. ‘What I need is your exact location.’

I look around. ‘I don’t know. I’m on a hill not far from the beach.’

‘North or south part of the island?’

‘Dunno.’

‘Don’t worry, we’ll find you. What about Ronnie?’ Clem asks.

‘You don’t need to worry about Ronnie,’ I say. ‘She had nothing to do with the bombings.’

‘Listen to me, Jo.’ Clem’s tone is urgent. ‘Whatever she’s told you, Ronnie is very much involved. She’s manipulating you.’

‘I don’t think so.’

‘This is how she works, Jo. She and a person called Hawk orchestrated the entire operation. They used people with learning difficulties, groomed them, then got them to plant the bombs.’

I picture Ronnie with her friend Rory and feel sick. Could it be true? Was she planning to use him?

‘We’re watching Hawk right now,’ says Clem. ‘We think he’s planning something else.’

‘Hawk’s dead,’ I tell him.

‘Are you sure?’

‘I shot him myself.’

Ronnie comes out of the cottage, arms laden. ‘I have to go,’ I tell Clem.

‘Jo, you need to stay on the line so we can lock in your location.’

I hang up.

Ronnie swings back to the pickup, opens the door and is about to drop cans of Coke and family bags of crisps into my lap when she sees the iPhone. ‘Jo?’

‘I called MI5,’ I say.

She drops everything onto the ground. ‘Why did you do that? I told you I’d make sure you got back.’

‘I didn’t tell them where I am.’

‘It doesn’t matter, Jo, they can track phone signals.’

‘I’ll get out now. You get to the plane.’ I slide out of the car and stand opposite Ronnie, cans at our feet. ‘Answer me one question,’ I say.

‘What?’

‘Did you have anything to do with the terrorist attacks?’

She groans through her teeth. ‘I told you I didn’t.’

‘What about Hawk?’

She falters.

‘Well?’ I demand.

‘At first I had no idea he had anything to do with it.’

‘What about later?’ I ask.

‘I began to suspect.’

‘Did you help him?’

‘No,’ she says.

‘Not in any shape or form?’

She falters again. ‘I gave some friend of his a fake ID, but I had no idea at the time what he intended to do; I had no idea about the Plaza bombing and that’s the truth.’

I stare at her. Is she lying? I still can’t tell. ‘What about Sean? Why is he heading to London?’ I raise my voice. ‘What is he going to do?’

‘I don’t know,’ she shouts. ‘Maybe he’s taking a holiday.’

‘Jesus Christ, Ronnie. Do you think he went to plant another bomb?’

‘I don’t care!’ she screams. ‘I just want to leave.’

‘People’s lives are at stake, Ronnie. You can’t just walk away. Hawk was right about one thing. Sometimes you have to do what’s right, however hard it is.’

‘Fuck you,’ she says, gets into the pickup and drives away.

There’s a gentle smattering of summer rain as Isaac steps through the prison gates. He puts his face to the sky and lets the drops fall onto his face like tiny kisses
.

‘Hey, Pearson,’ one of the guards calls out. ‘We’ll be seeing you real soon.’

Isaac shakes his head
.

‘A leopard can’t change its spots,’ says the guard. ‘I’ll give you a month, two at tops.’

Isaac picks up the transparent plastic sack that contains his belongings. Not much to show for twelve long years. He’ll throw it all away, first chance he gets. Today is the first day of the rest of his life and he can’t wait to get on and live it
.

Not far away in the field, a mouse scampers past, his little pink nose twitching. Then out of the sky swoops a bird of prey; his beak fastens around the mouse and snatches him away. Poor thing was no match for the mighty hawk
.

Isaac smiles. Yes, sir, he just can’t wait to get on with his life
.

I sit at the side of the road, sipping a Coke, staring at the iPhone. I still haven’t called Clem back. Given everything that Ronnie’s done, am I really prepared to let her get away? I dial a number.

‘Highfields.’

‘Could I speak to Paddy Connolly?’ I say.

I wait while they fetch my dad. I hear him grumbling before he gets to the receiver.

‘Is that you, Jo?’

‘Hi, Dad.’

‘Where’ve you been?’

‘Long story.’

‘Listen, Jo, this is just the time you should be getting yourself known,’ he says. ‘You should see the amount of coverage the Olympics is getting since this handicapped boy got himself shot. It’s twenty-four-seven and you need to milk it for all it’s worth, then you might get promoted to something half decent.’

‘It’s disabled, Dad.’

‘What?’

‘The person is disabled. It’s society that handicaps him.’ Dad of all people should know that.

‘I don’t know what you’re bleedin’ going on about, Jo.’

Anger swells in me. Why won’t he ever recognise what he’s done? ‘Why did you send Davey away, Dad?’ I ask.

‘Come again?’

‘You heard me.’

He doesn’t speak but I can hear his raspy breath down the phone. ‘Why do you want to talk about this after all these years?’ he asks.

‘I’ve always wanted to talk about it,’ I say. ‘I just didn’t dare bring it up.’

‘It’s not important,’ he says.

‘Davey was important.’

‘Your career is what matters now.’

‘Does it matter more than the truth?’ I ask.

He sighs. ‘Just let sleeping dogs lie.’

But I can’t. I think about Davey every day. I need to know. ‘Why did you do it, Dad? Why did you send him away?’

‘It was for the best, Jo,’ he says at last.

Typical. All about him, as usual. I imagine it was pretty inconvenient for the great Paddy Connolly to have a son with Down’s syndrome. Not likely to have a glittering career, was he? That sort of thing could ruin a man’s image.

‘Best for who?’ I ask.

‘Best for all of us,’ he replies. ‘Your mother couldn’t cope.’

I do remember Mum spending days in bed and the fits of crying.

‘She was depressed, Dad,’ I say. ‘She needed help.’

‘I know that, but the way I saw it, Davey would never be independent, he’d always need looking after and if anything happened to me and your mum, it would fall to you. You had your own life to lead. We couldn’t expect that of you.’

‘What are you saying?’ I feel my chest constrict.