Secret Sins: A Callie Anson (46 page)

Just a minute later she heard him. ‘Lassie!’ he called. ‘Where are you, lassie?’

There were wide gaps between some of the boards; within a few seconds she could see a light through the gaps. A torch! He had a torch, its beam swinging round as it drew closer.

Why hadn’t she opened the glove box and looked for a torch? Now he had the advantage. And he would find her.

Alex held her breath and kept herself very still, conscious of the sound of her pounding heart. Surely he would be able to hear her heart.

The torch was getting closer now. It glanced off the side of the shed. His voice was closer as well. ‘Lassie? Lassie?’

The noise of her heart was deafening, filling the tiny shed.

Involuntarily she screwed her eyes shut, waiting for the worst.

And then he tripped over the shrubbery. Over the clamour of her heart she heard it: the stumble, the involuntary curse.

Alex’s eyes flew open and she saw that it was dark again. He must have dropped the torch. She could hear him scrabbling about for it, cursing under his breath in a continuous stream of words. Some of them were words she’d never heard before, but she could tell that they were bad.

Then…silence.

She held her breath; she strained her ears. The next sound she heard was the car engine starting, and then it moved away.

Still Alex didn’t move. Perhaps it was a trick, and he’d be back. Waiting for her to come out.

Eventually, though, her legs grew cramped and her arm went to sleep. She crawled out of her hiding place, stretched her limbs painfully, and started walking.

The first phone call Neville made was to the Roxburghshire police, who promised their co-ooperation and assured him that they were as good as on the way.

Then he contemplated the phone, steeling himself for
ringing
Angus Hamilton. He hadn’t had any direct contact with Hamilton since that first night; everything had gone either through Evans or the Assistant Commissioner. But Evans was unavailable and Neville wasn’t about to skip up the chain of command to the AC. They’d promised to keep Angus Hamilton informed, and this was a major breakthrough.

‘Mr. Hamilton, we have reliable information that Alex is in Scotland,’ he said.

There was a huge sigh on the other end of the phone: pure relief, Neville interpreted. ‘Tell me,’ Hamilton demanded. ‘Where? How do you know?’

‘She was seen in Edinburgh yesterday afternoon. Some time between half-past three and four. I’ve spoken to a reliable witness.’

Inevitably, Hamilton immediately jumped on the aspect of the situation that Neville was most uneasy about. ‘Yesterday afternoon? But where is she now? That was hours ago, man.’

‘We’re not sure where she is now,’ he said reluctantly. ‘There was some indication that she was planning to go to Kelso.’

‘Kelso!’

‘I’ve talked to the police up there,’ he assured him. ‘They’re on their way to—’
‘To Lochside! So am I. I’ll use the company jet and I’ll
probably
get there before they do.’

Neville wasn’t at all surprised that, thwarted and constrained up till now, Angus Hamilton was ready to take action at the earliest possible opportunity; he had no doubt that Hamilton was already halfway out of the door. ‘If you could just wait a minute, Mr. Hamilton,’ he said quickly. ‘I think it would be best if we waited to hear from them. And if you’re going to make your own arrangements to go to Scotland, perhaps one of our officers could accompany you.’

‘I’ll take DS Lombardi, of course.’

‘That’s fine,’ said Neville. ‘But I was thinking of one of the investigating officers as well.’

An investigating officer. Was he going to have to do it himself? Neville sincerely hoped not: a trip to Scotland, in the company of Angus Hamilton, was not high on his wish list.

Cowley hovered at his elbow, and as soon as he’d procured Angus Hamilton’s agreement to proceed no further than putting the pilot on standby, the sergeant spoke. ‘Can I go to Scotland, Guv?’ he said, to Neville’s amazement.

‘Scotland? Why on earth would you want to go to bloody Scotland?’

Sid Cowley gave him a sheepish grin. ‘Well, Guv, you know I’m signed up with findagain.co.uk? That first girl I made contact with was a wash-out, you remember, but this week I’ve been
emailing
someone in Edinburgh. A girl from the year below me at school. Really hot. I figure if I can get up to Scotland, I’m in with a chance.’

Neville shook his head, bemused. He should have known it would be something like that, though he could hardly imagine how Sid could think that if he was there on official business he would have an opportunity to pursue his own private passions. But why not? If Sid wanted to go, so much the better. ‘Findagain. co.uk?’ he couldn’t help saying. ‘After everything that’s happened, I would have thought you’d have bloody learned your lesson.’

Alex felt as though she’d been walking all night. Maybe she had been. It wasn’t quite light yet, though there was a glimmer of brightness on the horizon. Morning couldn’t be too far away.

She hoped that Kelso wasn’t far away, either. Alex knew she was on the right road; the last signpost she’d passed had said that Kelso was three miles, and that had been a while ago. Alex had never been to Kelso, and didn’t know where to begin to look for Lochside. That wasn’t, she knew, a very specific address—apart from the clue in its name about proximity to water. She followed the road into the town and discovered that the most prominent body of water was in fact a river. There were signs to the Abbey, to Floors Castle, but nothing to do with a loch.

It was Sunday morning, she realised, and most of the shops were closed. Then she spotted a board on the pavement in front of a newsagents which indicated that it was open.

The man at the till was busy sorting out Sunday papers and scarcely glanced at Alex as she put a chocolate bar on the counter. ‘That’ll be thirty-five p,’ he said, holding out his hand for the coins.

‘Could you please tell me where I could find Lochside?’ Alex asked.

He scratched his head. ‘Oh, that’ll be that place for daft people. Outside of town. Artificial lake, not a proper loch. Don’t suppose the dafties know the difference, mind you.’ He pointed. ‘Out towards Eden Water, it is. About a mile. Off the road.’

She thought she’d seen a sign for Eden Water. ‘Thank you,’ she said, taking her chocolate bar.

The man raised his head and looked at her properly, then glanced at the pile of newspapers on the counter. ‘Hey, aren’t you the lassie they’re looking for?’

Her heart lurched. ‘No, I don’t think so,’ she said calmly, walking out of the shop.

In case he was watching, she resisted the temptation to break into a run. She was too tired for that, anyway.

After all the distance she’d travelled, the last mile seemed to be the hardest. It was uphill; the angle of the winter sun was cruel, blinding her so that she had nearly passed the discreet sign to Lochside before she realised what it said. And ‘off the road’ was an understatement: the drive, frozen underfoot, seemed nearly as long as the road out of town.

At last, though, she was there. It was a large stone house sitting behind the sweep of a circular drive, the water behind.

A car pulled up behind her and stopped; a door opened.

At last Neville went home. Cowley had gone to Scotland, Evans was doubtless enjoying the extended christening festivities, and the Assistant Commissioner was getting ready for his next press conference.

He didn’t even want to think about how many hours it had been since he’d slept in his bed. Far too many. He wouldn’t need drink to put him to sleep, and all the coffee in the world wouldn’t keep him awake.

Neville didn’t even bother to undress; he just threw himself down on the bed and was out like a light.

Then it was like a re-run of early that morning: the phone, ringing and ringing.

He struggled to consciousness. ‘Bloody hell,’ he muttered as he reached for it. Was he never going to be allowed to sleep? This was worse than a nightmare.

It was someone at the station. ‘We’ve had a call from the hospital regarding Rachel Norton,’ he said. ‘She’s about to be released, with her baby. They said she could go home, but that you wanted to be notified. What would you like them to do?’

Neville didn’t hesitate. This was his case; it had been since the moment they pulled Trevor Norton’s body out of the canal, and he was going to see it through to the end. It was his duty. His job. ‘Tell them to keep her there until I arrive. Tell them I’ll be there as soon as I can.’

‘Alex, lassie!’

Alex spun round at the sound of the familiar voice. ‘Granny!’

There was Granny’s funny old car, the Flying Scot, and Granny was getting out of it, running towards her, scooping her up into her arms. ‘Oh, wee Alex! It’s that glad I am to see you, lass.’ Granny cried. There were tears on her cheeks,
running
down her face.

Alex discovered that there were tears on her own face as well. Granny! She said it, over and over again. ‘Granny, Granny, Granny.’

And Granny was saying her name. ‘Alex, Alex.’ Crying,
hugging
, their tears mingling on each other’s cheeks.

Once the initial surprise was over, it seemed natural and right to Alex that Granny should be here.

But then there were other people there as well. Police cars appeared out of nowhere; policemen surrounded them. All
talking
at once, to each other and on mobile phones.

‘She’s safe,’ Alex heard one of them say. ‘We’ve got her.’

Frances Cherry was wrapping Christmas presents on the dining room table with a sense of real anticipation. Only a couple of days before her daughter Heather came home, for the first time in over a year. Never mind that Heather had married an aged hippy whom Frances and Graham had yet to meet; never mind that the newlyweds were strict vegans and turkey was off the menu. She was going to see Heather, and it was going to be a good Christmas.

Advent Three. The penultimate Sunday before Christmas. At Graham’s church that morning they’d sung her favourite Advent hymn, ‘Lo, he comes with clouds descending.’ She hummed it to herself now as she snipped ribbon and fashioned it into a bow.

When the phone rang, she ignored it. Probably one of Graham’s parishioners, anyway. He’d pick it up on the phone in his study.

‘Fran,’ Graham called a minute later. ‘It’s for you.’

She went out into the entrance hall and grabbed the receiver. ‘Frances Cherry speaking.’

‘I’m sorry to bother you,’ said a hesitant voice: hesitant, yet clearly distressed.

It was Rachel Norton, who had just been informed that she and her baby were ready to be released from hospital. ‘But they’re not going to let me go home,’ she said tearfully. ‘They said that the police were coming. I think maybe they’re going to arrest me. I don’t know what’s going to happen to my baby.’

There was no question of what Frances’ response would be. ‘Would you like me to come and stay with you until they arrive? I can be there in a quarter of an hour.’

‘I wouldn’t want to ask that. Not on your day off.’

‘You’re not asking. I’m offering. I’m leaving now.’

So the police had found out somehow, or at least they had reason for strong suspicions. Frances hoped that Rachel didn’t think she’d told them.

She was already reaching for the coat draped over the
bannister
, calling out to Graham, ‘I have to go to the hospital. I’ll give you a ring when I know how long I’m likely to be.’