The Sideman Page 2

  ‘Is there anything missing that you notice?’ she asked in her snippy voice. ‘We have a comprehensive list of the items that Mr Haggerty has removed and we have the crime scene photographs and …’ That earned her an elbow in the ribs from Archie, now standing beside her. Nobody wanted to be reminded of that.

  ‘Anything missing?’ confirmed Valerie, thinking that her sister’s smile was ‘missing’, the hugs from Malcolm were ‘missing’. The house was a mausoleum.

  ‘Anything?’

  Valerie looked around, climbed the stairs to the half landing and Primavera, resplendent in coloured glass on the west-facing window. The view east was totally obliterated by the monkey puzzle tree. It was an easy escape route; this window, down to the roof of the porch, a short slither to the ground. It was reported Malcolm had tried to escape that way once after an argument with his father. This was actually an easy house to gain entry and exit without being observed; the monkey puzzle tree hid a lot. She turned to look down at her companions, then up through the balusters to the upper landing, with its expensive Persian rug on an expanse of oak flooring. And a plain magnolia wall. Valerie screwed her eyes up to concentrate on what she wasn’t seeing.

  ‘Well, there was a picture there, a pastel. I suppose George took that, he always liked it.’

  ‘What was the picture? I don’t think he has mentioned it.’ Bannon checked his iPad.

  ‘A painting, it was a painting. A rowing boat on a canal, under willows, weeping willows. How fitting is that?’ She turned to the other three. ‘Uncle Archie? Did you say there was music playing when you … found them?’

  Archie nodded, teary. ‘Yes, that kid’s song, it was on repeat on the CD. It had been playing for hours. “The Clapping Song”, the one w-where …’Archie stuttered. ‘Where the monkey got choked and they all—’

  Valerie stared at the gap on the wall. ‘They all went to heaven in a little rowing boat.’

  Kieran Cowan drove along the loch side, through the dark night and the streaming rain. The engine of Ludwig, his 1977 Volkswagen Camper, hummed along nicely as the windscreen wipers beat a regular tattoo on the glass. The left one squeaking at the end of its sweep, the right one responding a millisecond later with a resounding thunk. He had been intending to fix that, but after a fortnight of constant rain, he had got used to the noise. It provided an irregular backbeat to ‘Life in the Fast Lane’, which blasted out the old Clarion cassette player at full volume.

  He was used to this road. He would be able to drive even if the wiper gave up the ghost and fell off completely, spinning over the top of the van and flying into the night sky. He had driven Ludwig to Ardnamurchan once with a cracked windscreen, sticking his head out the driver’s window until he could pull over and punch the crazed glass out.

  Cowan kept his eyes on the road, the narrow stretches where he had to slow, the wider stretches where he could put his foot down and the nasty bends where he needed to hug the rock wall in case he met a HGV over the white line.

  The clock on the dash was saying it was half eight. He wasn’t in a hurry per se; he was a little concerned about time. As long as it was dark.

  The job needed to be done, sorted and over with.

  He drove confidently now, one hand on the steering wheel and the other steadying the rucksack that rolled and yawed in the passenger seat. The camera had been borrowed from the university. He had signed it out on Friday night to be returned Monday morning. It was an expensive bit of kit, a Macro Scub 4 underwater video camera. It was fully charged and ready to go, safely tucked in the rucksack along with his flask of tomato soup and some sandwiches. He had no idea how long he was going to be here. As someone with a gift for stating the obvious once said, ‘It took as long as it took.’

  Cowan drummed his fingers on the steering wheel in time with ‘Life In The Fast Lane’ as he waited for a short procession of traffic to pass, and when the road was clear he put his foot down. Ludwig’s air-cooled engine whirred in protest. He turned onto the road that hugged the North-West side of the loch and accelerated, cruising along, singing tunelessly with Glen or Don, as he checked the clock again. He was probably a little early. He could have stayed at his laptop and got a more of his essay done but he wanted to be there first and check out the lie of the land, get a good spot where he could stay hidden.

  Covert breeds covert.

  He pulled into the deserted car park of the Inveruglass visitor centre, putting his lights off first so as not to disturb anybody already there. The car park was not entirely empty, there was a Mini parked at the front, looking out over the water. Cowan gave it more than a passing glance, his heart thumping, in case this was who he was looking for. But the windows of the other car were steamed up. He judged it had been there for some time and it looked as though there was still somebody in it. Or it might be two heads in the driver’s seat, a lovers’ tryst, a quiet night out on the lochside.

  But he was mindful there was somebody there and he wished that Ludwig did not have such a distinctive engine.

  Tonight could be the night.

  He drove Ludwig into the far corner of the second car park, beyond the café that led to the other exit road. Nobody driving into the main car park would see Ludwig; he would be safely obscured by the dark and by the screen afforded by the single line of trees. He switched the engine off, letting the camper roll forward, closer to the pathway that went up the hill to the viewing point. That was where he needed to be. He lifted his rucksack and climbed out into the driving rain, glancing over his shoulder to see if he could memorize the registration of the other car. But at this time of night, at this distance, he couldn’t even make out the plate but the car was of those new fancy Minis with the doors at the back, like his granddad’s old Morris Traveller. They had tried to recreate a classic. A car that had been built as cheap transport for the masses had been reinvented as a lifestyle choice of the upwardly mobile professional with deep pockets, no soul and even less imagination.

  As Cowan closed the door, he patted Ludwig as if parting with a faithful old horse. He tugged his hood up, pulled the rucksack onto his back and set off through the dark, rainy night up to the viewpoint to find a place to hide.

  Valerie lay on the bed in the hotel. The banality of her surroundings leeched every bit of vitality from her.

  She had felt the pressure since visiting Abigail’s house.

  It had left her unsettled, more depressed, but there was some comfort in knowing that this was the last day of her life. The knowledge many of us think we would like to have, but very few are brave enough.

  Imagine Abigail not realizing that this was the last time she would stack the dishwasher, Malcolm not thinking that this was the last time he would do his teeth, pull on his Star Wars pyjamas and argue about staying up for another half hour. If they had realized that, they might have spent their final moments doing something less mundane.

  Like saying goodbye.

  Valerie had spent most of the morning rolling on the floor, lying on the tiles in the bathroom, or being sick down the toilet. Then out to the house before a sneaky foray to the off licence for cheap vodka, the quick consumption of which totally erased any memory of the walk round the house. But tomorrow the empty bottles would be lying in the corner. Silent, but ever present in their condemnation of her.

  Well, she wouldn’t be here to be condemned.

  She lay for a few minutes on top of the bed staring at the ceiling, gradually pulling together the information she needed to place herself in time and space. Judging from the lunatic screeching of revved-up enthusiasm she could hear from the room next door, it was Saturday evening. X Factor. Or Strictly. Something awful. Anything.

  On the ceiling was the familiar smoke alarm, the water sprinkler.

  The last day of her life. She had done her duty, she had gone round the house. The feeling was one of overwhelming relief, all was as it should be.

  She had a gun.

  And a bullet in the chamber.

  She
turned on her side, pulling the pillow over her head and stared at the bland beige hotel room wall, thinking about the cleaner who was going to open the door to her mess, walking in to the room pulling her Henry hoover behind her then looking up to see a woman with her skull blown apart.

  The bullet would do a lot of damage. Valerie knew it wasn’t like in the films where the head lay intact, a neat trickle of blood delicately running down a sculptured cheekbone to leave a crimson teardrop on the pristine white sheets. The eyes, each lash point perfect with the mascara, the pupils open and staring into the sunset. Ready for their close up.

  No, it wasn’t like that at all.

  Her head would open up like a flower, blood and brains would spatter all over the room, behind the headboard, behind the curtains. Over the fire alarm. Not pretty.

  The crime scene pictures of Balcarres Avenue had been burned onto her retinas. Her sister and her nephew, bloodied and torn flesh entangled. And Abigail, her arms round Malcolm, a final, desperate attempt to protect him.

  She would have been fascinated by it if it hadn’t been so personal. The whole room was a gaudy abstract of cream and crimson, matching the stained-glass rose on the door.

  That was another memory that wasn’t going to go away.

  She felt the weight of the gun in her hand.

  No. She had to time this right, so it wasn’t the cleaner who discovered her body.

  Archie Walker? Yes, she’d time it so Uncle Archie would find her.

  He could explain it to red-lipped Fascist and Beardy dogsbody,

  She sat back up, looking at herself as her face passed in the mirror. A haggard young woman stared back out at her, seeming to move slower than she herself moved. A pale face haunted by the loss of her family, the loss of her career. Her loss of self.

  Getting up and walking across the floor, she noticed she still had her boots on.

  She should pick up the empty bottles of vodka from the carpet.

  Why bother? She’d be dead. Oblivion was better than another AA meeting where they looked down at her, because she had lived a dream life. She had had it all. Yet they would stare at her as if she was some stupid addict, like she was one of them.

  She pulled the curtains over the window, blocking out the night sky as she tried to remember. Glimpses of being wet, walking down the street, her hand had been sore. She had stumbled against the wall at some point, remembering the stinging pain as she grazed the skin on her palm. She looked at it now, seeing the bloodied scrape, a dark scab starting to form. Was that yesterday? Or this morning? This afternoon?

  She had no bloody idea. This was the way of her life. Flashes of this. Glimpses of that. Nothing that ever made any sense. It was like listening to a foreign language, recognizing words here and there but never enough to pull together a sentence, never mind enough sense for it to form a story.

  Memory lapse.

  And she had no memory of what she was doing the day her sister was murdered.

  But she had visited the house. It was over, closed. She could end it all now.

  Sitting down on the side of the bed she took her boots off. Nobody committed suicide with their boots on. She wanted to be comfortable, lie down, and not leave the duvet dirty.

  Dirtier.

  She lay down again. Relaxing. Life owed her nothing except this one thing – this little bit of peace and quiet, save the whipped-up hysteria being broadcast from next door. Picking up the gun, feeling the weight of it in her hand. It was far heavier than she had expected. It smelled of oil, it covered the skin of her hands in something foul.

  She wanted her last thoughts to be of Abigail. Of Mary Jane. And of Malcolm. She wanted to remember them as they had been in life. Abigail with her prim, controlled smile. Mary Jane pouting for the camera as every teenager had done for the last twenty years. And Malcolm laughing, both hands holding onto his most prized possession: his Lego Millennium Falcon.

  All gone.

  Had they all gone to heaven in their little rowing boat?

  And what had happened to the Lego Millennium Falcon? It hadn’t been at the house; well, she hadn’t seen it. She had bought it for Malcolm last Christmas. Good times.

  She felt the tears fighting to escape her eyes, but she refused to cry. There was nothing to cry about, not now. She looked back at the water sprinkler and the smoke alarm. Then heard footfall, somebody walking along the hotel corridor passing her door. They walked quickly with the quiet jangle of a key. A car key most likely, as all the rooms in the hotel were card operated, so he, she presumed, was going out to the car park.

  Then the footsteps paused. The jangling stopped. Valerie’s eyes fixed on the corner of the room, at the door, willing it to open, or not open. It seemed a long time before the feet moved away, going back the way they came. He had forgotten something. She wondered what.

  Valerie tightened her grip on the gun, allowed herself a weak smile. Was that going to be her last thought on this earth? What had that man forgotten that was so important he went back for it?

  She’d wait until he went away.

  She made herself comfortable on the pillow, thinking about pulling it round and using it as a silencer. But it would be better if they all heard. Then they might be careful about who opened the door, especially if her forgetful friend outside happened to recognize a gunshot when he heard one.

  She lay back and closed her eyes. The muzzle was cold against her temple, it jiggled around a little, the tremor of her finger round the trigger, the weight of the gun itself was heavy and unstable, holding it made her wrist ache.

  She ignored a guffaw of laughter from next door. She said goodbye to the water sprinkler and the smoke alarm.

  Valerie Abernethy closed her eyes and pulled the trigger.

  Valerie Abernethy heard a click.

  Donnie McCaffrey sat in his Mini Clubman on the north-west bank of Loch Lomond, at Inveruglass, alone in his car, slowly steaming up the windows. He was parked right at the waterside, the most obvious place. During the day, even on a cold winter’s day, this place was alive and buzzing, but now, on a dark evening, it took on the mystical aura of shape shifters and moving shadows; the subtle movement of the water deceiving the eye into seeing things it had not seen.

  Or had it?

  There could be anything up here, hiding away from lights and prying eyes. He looked around again, cursing himself for having a good imagination.

  Inveruglass car park was hidden by high trees, shrubs, a small signpost on the main shore road pointing to a concealed entrance that led to the observation viewpoint. He had been here a few times with Isla and the boys. A family day out at the waterside, time for a paddle and an ice cream. But now, waiting, he looked around the car park with different eyes. An easy drive to Glasgow. And easy drive up north. An easy place to find. But why here? Once through the thick bank of trees, the narrow entrance opened up to allow access to the small vehicle car park, the café and the lower viewpoint that looked over the metal pontoons and the plinth with its brass map of the water and every one of the fifty-four islands.

  He looked at it now through the eyes of a criminal, an obvious entrance and exit, with the smaller secondary route at the rear, accessed through the narrow line of trees, well hidden in this dense dark night.

  When he was here before, he had climbed to the upper level of the viewing point with his eldest on his shoulders, sweating his way up to the large wooden sculpture, An Ceann Mor, with its seats and standing areas. He remembered the sign, hanging at an angle, from a single nail, that said barbeques not permitted. The wood underneath was charred to ebony cracks you could see the grass through.

  That day the car park had been bustling; tourist coaches stopping for comfort breaks and photo opportunities, boat tours dropping off passengers on the pontoon, bikers meeting for coffee, kids eating ice cream, little old ladies resting their swollen ankles and drivers stretching their legs, but everybody stopped to take in the breathtakingly beautiful sight of the long view of the lo
ch. His middle boy had eaten so much ice cream, he had been sick on the way home. Twice. The new car had been three weeks old. He pressed the button to drop the window a little at the memory of the smell.

  But this evening, Inveruglass was as cold and deserted as a Soviet winter. At nine p.m. on the twenty-fifth of November there were no tourists enjoying the view, no lights casting a shadow over the dark and still water. There were no coaches sitting with idling engines, no caravans tucked away behind the trees. The hills were silent against the dark, tumbling sky, and the rain was pissing down as usual, battering on the roof of the Mini where Donnie was trying to listen to ‘Stay’ by David Bowie, with the melodic shapes of Earl Slick on guitar, sideman par excellence.

  He was enjoying himself in an exciting kind of way. He knew he had been early, leaving more time than necessary for his journey up from Glasgow and he was appreciating the solitude and the music. He had been happy to leave Isla muttering about starting her Christmas shopping, sitting there in her PJs with the Argos catalogue open and a worryingly long spreadsheet printed off at the ready. She had got as far as her brother-in-law’s yearly subscription for What Camera magazine when Donnie’s mobile had bleeped. He had read the text and had been intrigued, and a little frisson of excitement had brightened up his Saturday night in front of the TV. Isla hadn’t questioned it; she had merely looked up from the spreadsheet and asked, ‘Are you going out to work?’ then a quick glance at the clock. ‘You had better wrap up. It’s chucking down out there.’

  He had nodded, kissed her on the cheek and left the warmth of the family home, shouting goodbye to the three kids playing quietly upstairs, then closed the door of his three-bedroomed semi and climbed into the Mini; a man with a mission.

  McCaffrey looked around him. It was a lovely, lonely site at the north of the loch, deeply inhospitable in this bloody weather. Why here?

  Costello would have her reasons.

  He checked his phone again, then the clock on the Mini’s dashboard. Ten minutes to go, he gave some thought to Christmas; all that cooking, all that potato peeling, Isla’s dad.