Requiem (41 page)

If she took Campbell straight back to Loch Fyne now and stayed somewhere up there, on the other hand, she could interview the pilot’s landladies in the morning. But then there’d be absolutely no chance of getting to the office in time to prepare the charts for Thursday. Given enough notice there was no reason why Alan couldn’t have done the charts himself, of course. Maybe still could …

She had been stopped at the junction for some moments. Now a car was approaching from behind.

With a sigh of dread but also an indefinable clutch of excitement, she turned west onto the Loch Fyne road.

The low cloud that had darkened the sky all day had lifted. On the drive along the west bank of Loch Lomond first one star then another began to gleam through the layers of darkness. By the time she had urged the car up the long pass of Glen Croe to the summit at Rest And Be Thankful the mountains were etched black against a brilliant sky.

They reached Inveraray at one thirty. Campbell, who responded to her prodding with a massive groan, eventually directed her to a white-fronted hotel in the main street. It was ten minutes before the proprietor answered, looking far from pleased, and his displeasure was not mollified by the sight of Campbell, whom he seemed to know well.

Daisy took the key but did not go up to the room. Her brain was suddenly alive, almost feverish; she knew she wouldn’t sleep.

She asked for a street-door key, and went out to the car with Campbell. He took some persuading to let her drop him off and keep the car.

‘There’s nothin’ to see, not in the dark,’ he grunted, adding superfluously: ‘Be light by mornin’.’

‘I’ll come and pick you up first thing.’

‘Is it Glen Ashard you wish to see?’

She gave a shrug, not quite sure of the answer herself.

‘I can take you there, you know, right up behind the house. But best wait till day.’

‘No. It’s not that.’ She couldn’t explain.

‘You could take away some earth, like you did for Adrian. See what it contains.’

‘Yes, I know.’ She pushed the gear in and moved off.

Campbell sighed, accepting defeat.

‘I’ll get the car back to you first thing,’ Daisy repeated.

‘Och no, no,’ he declared. ‘Keep it at the hotel here. I’ll get a ride in, fine.’

His home was a mile or two out of town to the north, on a glen road that snaked up into the high lands. It was a squat cottage sitting on the ledge of a windswept hillside. She had no idea what Campbell’s domestic arrangements were, but she rather assumed he lived alone.

As soon as she’d dropped him she headed back towards the town and, rejoining the main road, turned west. The houses thinned to a straggle then ceased altogether as the road ran close by the side of the loch. Though the stars shone as brilliantly as ever, the waters were very dark and it was impossible to see where the loch ended and the hills began.

Soon the road turned away from the water, deflected by high ground, and passed between fields and plantations of conifers. Occasionally there was the twinkle of a light in the distance and once a car came speeding past in the opposite direction, but for the most part the land was as dark as the night.

She briefly thought of turning back, but even as she considered it she knew she wouldn’t. It couldn’t be far away.

She passed one set of gates on a bend and reversed back to take a look at the sign, but it was some other house. After a mile or two the road left the loch again, passing through an arid landscape of newly felled forest, and she began to think she must have missed it. But then the road dipped into thickly wooded country again, tunnelling under a canopy of giant overhanging trees, and a wall appeared on the right, the sort of proprietorial wall reserved for parklands and large estates.

The gateposts when they finally appeared were prominent enough – fortified mediaeval-style towers, abutted by two gatekeepers’ lodges. There was a conspicuous sign:
Ashard House. Strictly Private
, and tall wrought-iron gates which were firmly shut.

She drove slowly on, hoping for a glimpse of the house, but either the screen of trees was too thick or the place was set too far back, because no lights showed above the wall surrounding the estate.

She slowed down, feeling tired and slightly foolish, and looked for a place to turn. Eventually she came to a break in the wall where it curved in two arcs towards an entrance. She turned in and found herself on a rough track barred by a metal five-bar gate.

A point of light blinked through the undergrowth ahead. Switching off the headlights, she got out and went up to the gate, which was heavily padlocked. She stood for a while, undecided, tempted, drawn.

Feeling conspicuous despite the darkness, she climbed over and crept along the edge of the track.

After fifty yards or so the undergrowth became thinner, the trees more scattered until at last she was able to see the house. It was large with numerous tall uncurtained windows, several wings and a turret or two. She had no trouble in making out the size of the place, the number and shape of the windows: the two pinpricks she’d glimpsed from the road had been a mere sample of what was to come. Ashard House was a blaze of lights.

There was something sad in the sight of the bright house. When she crept away, it was in the certainty that she would stay for the inquiry.

‘W
AKE UP, SPORT
.’

Nick, in depths black and heavy, senses obliterated by sleep, brain obliterated by chemicals legal but plentifully administered, heard the voice at the far end of an echoing tunnel.

‘Nick, come on. Wakey-wakey.’

Someone was gripping Nick’s shoulder, shaking it gently but relentlessly. Focusing on this sensation he used it to haul himself into the light.

It was Mel. Nick closed his eyes again and began to examine the messages his waking body was sending him. None of them was pleasant.

‘It’s three,’ Mel announced. ‘David’s arrived. And the lawyer.’

Three. It took him a moment to realize it was afternoon. He felt a moment’s resentment for not having been woken earlier, then remembered that it had been ten that morning before he had finally slept.

He muttered: ‘I’ll be down.’ When Mel had gone he swung his feet to the floor and waited for his brain to catch up with his body. A nightmare still racketed round the edges of his mind and it was a moment before he was able to shake himself free of it. The half consciousness between sleep and waking was always the worst, worse even than jerking awake in the night, heart pounding, or lying with no hope of sleep, listening to the wailing of the wind.

He took a shower, dressed and went downstairs unshaven.

Mrs Alton was in the kitchen, looking flustered. She had risen to the challenge of preparing ready-to-heat food for all-night rehearsals, but she had not quite adjusted to finding Mel and Joe frying steak and chips at seven in the morning. ‘Would you like something?’ she asked tentatively.

‘Coffee and toast, please, Mrs Alton.’

On his way across the hall he saw the envelope propped against a vase on the side table. It was marked urgent, in large letters. He scooped it up and carried it into the drawing room.

He found David and the lawyer either side of a roaring fire. David was sitting in a wing chair with Mrs Alton’s full afternoon tea, complete with silver service, on a table in front of him. He had a scone half-way to his mouth but, on seeing Nick, put it down.

‘How are you, Nick?’ His expression was a blend of concern and faint alarm, and Nick realized that he was reading the full spectrum of bad news into his unshaven bleary-eyed appearance.

The lawyer rose from the seat opposite. He was a Glasgow solicitor called Bennett, a mousy little man with a mild manner and soft deferential voice which concealed a sharp mind.

‘I was wondering if you’d given any more thought to what I suggested?’ Bennett said as soon they were sitting down. ‘It’s rather late in the day but, given the circumstances, I’m sure we would find favourable consideration.’

Nick lit a cigarette and said nothing. He’d become adept at silences.

‘The inquiry will be exactly what it says it is,’ Bennett continued in patient tones. ‘That is, a public enquiry. The press will not miss a moment, Mr Mackenzie, and if there’s anything’ – he paused to choose his words – ‘if there’s anything worth reporting – well, they will be bound to use it. It will all be very
exposed.
Very trying for you.’ He paused then, getting no response, continued: ‘I’ve been looking into precedents and it is perfectly possible that the Lord Advocate might consider withdrawing his recommendation for an inquiry, even at this late stage, since it was you yourself who pressed for it. I don’t think he will take much convincing that, despite everything, it is not after all a matter of public interest and concern.’ He looked across to David as if for support. ‘Then the whole matter could be left to rest, Mr Mackenzie. In peace, one might say.’

They had been over all this before, Nick thought with bemusement. Perhaps Bennett hadn’t listened properly when they’d first discussed it – when was it? A month ago? Two months? Last week? Time had become strangely elastic and shapeless, until whole images were wiped out or transposed. But he could see this particular scene all right: they had been in this room, the two of them, the fire burning brightly in the cavernous fireplace, Bennett sitting on the settee, Nick where David was now. Nick had explained it to him, carefully, at length. Bennett had argued, Nick had held his ground. In those weeks immediately after the accident he had felt a curious energy, he remembered, an extraordinary clarity of mind which had carried him forward, allowing him to tackle things in the most minute detail; he had even garnered an odd sort of pleasure in getting everything done in the correct and proper manner – in the way Alusha would have approved. Her presence had had form then; a bright living speaking thing. It was different now. Her face was fading. He could no longer see it clearly, could no longer hear her voice.

‘It’s not as if the inquiry would have gone ahead without ourselves specifically requesting it,’ Bennett repeated, giving it one last shot. ‘It’s not as if the Lord Advocate had recommended it off his own bat, so to speak.’ Casting an appraising look at Nick, he gathered himself to approach from another tack. ‘What concerns me,’ he began carefully, ‘is the ambiguities that are bound to creep in, the ones I outlined to you.’

‘Ambiguities?’

‘Concerning the manner of your wife’s illness. The differences of opinion. The uncertainties. Would you not agree that they might be best avoided? They could be very – disturbing for you.’

Nick roused himself to an argument for which he had little enthusiasm. ‘But the evidence from the Boston man. There’s no ambiguity there.’

Bennett dropped his head briefly over his clasped hands. ‘I have to say as I’ve said before, Mr Mackenzie, that I believe it would be unwise to put too much reliance on Gravely’s affidavit. Being an alternative practitioner, his opinion will not be viewed in the same light as an orthodox practitioner’s. His views may well be – how shall I say? – put into question. And not being present in person, he won’t be able to defend those views. It would be a different matter if we had some other opinion or opinions to back him up. Like those of a toxicologist, for example. Without what one might call hard evidence it is going to be almost impossible to establish our theory.’ He broke off as Mrs Alton came into the room and put a tray of coffee and toast beside Nick. ‘Of course there’s always an adjournment,’ he continued when the door had closed again. ‘I am not sure whether the Lord Advocate would be persuaded to consider such a thing at this late stage, but I could but try. And given some extra time, then perhaps we could renew our enquiries among the toxicologists …’

He left the suggestion hanging hopefully in the air.

Nick drew on his cigarette and fiddled with the unfilled coffee cup at his side. ‘No. No … I don’t want a delay. No delay.’

There was a silence. Bennett clasped his hands more tightly and drew breath. ‘The procurator fiscal’s finding – is it that which concerns you, Mr Mackenzie? Is it that which you feel must not be allowed to rest?’

Hardly trusting himself to speak, Nick said: ‘Well, of course, of
course
it is! What d’you expect me to feel when it’s
wrong
! Wrong and dangerous.’

‘It’s natural that you should be upset, anyone would be. It’s always hard to accept something like that …’

‘She didn’t kill herself.’ The quietness of his voice did not conceal its tension.

‘No, no. I accept that, Mr Mackenzie …’ Bennett used a kindly, humouring tone. ‘… But since the finding was not published, since the procurator fiscal’s finding – erroneous though it may be – is to all intents and purpose a private matter, can the whole business not be put behind you?’

‘No.’

‘Mr Mackenzie, sometimes grief … the emotions … can colour our better judgement.’

‘No.’

Nick was suddenly gripped by such a wave of despair and confusion that he had to get up and stand at the window until he regained the ability to speak. He longed for an enormous drink, a great big golden Scotch, just like the one he’d had yesterday at about this time and had followed with regular top-ups through the night. But he couldn’t bring himself to go openly to the drinks trolley, not with David in the room. Already he could feel David’s eagle eye on him, sizing up the situation, wondering whether he’d succumbed.