I'll Keep You Safe Page 30

  She sat in the front of the Audi with Donald. Ruairidh’s parents sat in the back. And they drove in silence down the hill behind the hearse. When they turned at the bridge, Niamh saw Seonag and her husband, and their two children, getting into their SUV to join the procession. For the briefest of moments their eyes met, before Seonag turned away to say something to her husband. And Donald accelerated up the hill on the main road towards the turn-off to Dalmore Beach, little more than half a mile away.

  The car park at the beach was inadequate to accommodate all the vehicles in the procession, and most of them were forced to park in a line all the way up the hill, perched precariously on the verge, leaving the road clear for mourners to walk down to the cemetery.

  The undertakers unlocked the door of a small concrete hut by the gate to slide out the bier on which the coffin would be carried. As well as half a dozen or more shovels to be taken to the grave for use by the family to fill it in afterwards.

  Niamh could see where the grave had been dug at the far end of the cemetery, almost overlooking the beach, and only a few feet from where her brother lay.

  Flowers and wreaths were carried from cars and laid by the gate, too many for the undertakers to carry to the grave themselves. And Niamh decided to break with convention. She stooped to gather up as many of the flowers as she could, and started off on the long walk through the cemetery herself. A lone figure. The coffin had not even been taken yet from the hearse. Others, who had no idea of the conventions, followed suit. Catwalk models in hopelessly inappropriate footwear, picking their precarious way across the uneven sandy soil, bearing bouquets and wreaths, like some procession of funereal fashionistas at a dark autumn collection. The coffin and all the male mourners followed on behind. A funeral the like of which had never before been seen on the island.

  When Niamh reached the grave and looked back, she saw that Seonag was among the carriers of flowers. But that her mother, and Mrs. Macfarlane, and many of the older women remained behind. Whatever else they might disagree upon, they remained punctilious in their adherence to the old ways.

  The wind whipped the rain in off the sea, umbrellas abandoned or blown inside out. The gathering in black around the grave seemed drawn together in a collective huddle against the elements. But it was so exposed here that there was no protection to be had, and even the pages of the minister’s bible were stuck together by the wet, so that he had to peel them carefully apart to avoid tearing the delicate paper. And in an ultimate irony, his final words were lost in the roar of the sea and the howling of the wind, as if Nature herself were determined to have the last say.

  When it was over, most of the mourners hurried off towards the shelter of their cars. Donald and several friends lifted the spades brought by the undertakers to start shovelling sand over the coffin, stooped by the weight of grief and sand and weather.

  Niamh wandered away to the fence where a wooden bench provided a view across the beach. The crescent of sand was deserted, the sea thundering angrily over it in wave after wave of white breaking water. Off to her right she saw a lone figure standing watching from the far side of the cemetery. It took her a moment to realize that it was Iain Maciver. Peanut, as she had always known him. No longer the boy she remembered with his twisted, angry face as he sank his boot time and again into Ruairidh’s prone form on the ground. A man now, old before his time. Almost completely bald, a dark beard greying in streaks of silver. Strangely, he too was dressed in black, though he had not stood among the mourners.

  Satisfied that Niamh had seen him, he turned and walked away, strangely bowed, hands plunged deep into his pockets. And she wondered why he had come. Not to mourn, she was sure.

  Beyond, on the headland, stood two more figures, watching proceedings below. Even as she spotted them, they turned and headed back down the slope towards the car park. Only then did she recognize who they were. Detective Sergeant Gunn, and Lieutenant Braque of the Paris Police Judiciaire. What, if anything, could they possibly have gleaned from this sombre gathering in the rain? Somehow, she felt, it was not here that Ruairidh’s murder would be resolved.

  A hand on her shoulder startled her, and she turned to find herself gazing into the rain-streaked face of Lee Blunt. She wondered if it was eyeliner he was wearing. Whatever it was had smudged all around his eyes in the rain, tears of black, creating the illusion of sunken sockets. The eyes at their centre had an oddly glazed quality, pupils dilated unnaturally, even in this light.

  He slipped his arms around her and drew her tightly against him, turning her head to press it to his chest, and resting his chin lightly on top of it. “You don’t still think that Ruairidh was having an affair with Irina, do you?”

  “I don’t know that I ever did, Lee. In spite of evidence to the contrary. I’m even less inclined to believe it now. Back here with all my memories of him, and everything we shared.”

  “You’re quite right,” he said. “I never believed it either. She was such a little nothing. Couldn’t hold a candle to my Niamh.” He stepped back, still holding her by the shoulders. “Jake tells me he called at the house yesterday.”

  She nodded.

  “So you know we’ve taken over Amhuinnsuidhe Castle for a couple of days? Me and everyone else on my plane.”

  “Yes.”

  “We’re having a party tonight, Niamh. What do you Scots call it, a wake? A celebration of the life rather than a mourning of the death.” Apparently he had given up numbering himself among the Scots. “I’d like you to come. We all would.”

  Niamh shook her head. “I couldn’t, Lee. Honestly. I couldn’t.”

  “Of course you could. What else are you going to do? Go home alone and cry into your pillow? Too many tears already. You need to come and get drunk with us. Raise a glass or ten to Ruairidh and Ranish.”

  “Lee . . .” she started to protest, but he placed a forefinger on her lips. “Shhhh. I’m not taking no for an answer. You’re coming with us girl. Today is the first day of the rest of your life.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  Braque and Gunn drove in thoughtful silence from Dalmore back up the west coast to Barvas before turning off to head across the moor to Stornoway. There wasn’t much to say. No one unexpected had turned up at the cemetery, except perhaps for Iain Peanut Maciver, and he certainly couldn’t be arrested for attending a funeral.

  They were both drenched. Although Gunn’s anorak had protected him from the worst of the rain his trousers were clinging to his thighs. Braque’s sodden jacket lay across the back seat, filling the car with the smell of wet denim. Her jeans and boots were almost black with the rain, and even her T-shirt was soaked down the front, half-revealing her bra, which Gunn tried not to look at. She had come hopelessly ill-prepared for the island weather.

  He said, “I checked with air traffic control. Lee Blunt’s plane is due for take-off at midday tomorrow—if you want to talk to him before they fly out.”

  She nodded, and he seemed uncertain whether that was an affirmative or otherwise.

  “Have you booked a flight for yourself yet?”

  “No. I’ll do that when I get back to the hotel.” A depression had fallen over her. Deep and penetrating. Hurrying back to the car park with Gunn, she had examined each and every face as the mourners returned to their vehicles, wondering which, if any of them, was capable of the murder of Ruairidh Macfarlane. Earlier she had watched Niamh from a distance, felt her grief in the tension of her shoulders. Her sense of isolation and loneliness. Even among the crowd of mourners she stood out on her own. Only now, really for the first time, did Braque fully empathize with her, identifying in her the sense of loss that she felt buried somewhere inside herself.

  As they had stood watching her carry flowers across the cemetery, ahead of the coffin and the male bearers, Gunn had remarked with barely concealed incredulity how much it went against every convention of island funerals. And Braque had thought it was exactly what she would have done.

  Off to their left, a
tiny dwelling with a green tin roof sat in a fold of the moor, and the road climbed towards a plateau that would carry them south-east, descending eventually into Stornoway itself. Gunn said, “We can go straight to the police station and view that video, if you like.”

  Braque held out her hands, palms up. “Look at me, Detective Sergeant. I am soaking wet. I think I need to go to the hotel and change first.”

  “No problem, Ma’am. I’ll drop you off, then go to the police station and get it all set up. I’ll give you, say, half an hour, then call back to pick you up.”

  “Perfect.”

  It was mid-afternoon by the time they drove down through Newmarket and Laxdale, past the hospital, and along Bayhead to the harbour. The rain had increased in its intensity, and the sky lay black and bruised all across the land behind them. The wind was up, tearing leaves prematurely from trees. The air seemed filled with them, like large golden snowflakes, as Gunn pulled over at the top of Castle Street. “I’ll see you shortly, Ma’am.” And he glanced up at the sky, pulling a face. It could hardly have been darker. “Looks like we’re in for a bad one.”

  At reception the girl said to her, “Your husband has phoned several times, Madam Braque.”

  Braque was startled. It was rare for Gilles ever to phone her. Why hadn’t he called her mobile? Then she remembered that she and Gunn had turned their mobile phones to airplane mode at the cemetery. She had forgotten to switch it back. On the stairs she fumbled with trembling fingers to restore it, and stood outside her door looking at the screen, waiting for the phone to find a signal. Immediately it did, it beeped and alerted her to the presence of messages. There were three.

  She slipped into her room, shutting the door and leaning back against it to listen to the most recent.

  “Sylvie, where the hell are you? Call me as soon as you get this.” She could hear the stress in Gilles’s voice, and it sent her own heart-rate skyrocketing. She tapped the Call Back button and stood listening, aware of her own breath quivering in her chest. “Jesus, Sylvie, I’ve been trying to get you for hours.” There was anger now in his voice.

  “What’s wrong?” She wasn’t interested in explanations, or excuses. She heard him sigh.

  “They think Claire has meningitis. She’s been taken into hospital.”

  Braque’s hand flew to her chest. “Oh, God! What are they saying?”

  “I don’t know, I’m waiting to hear.”

  “Where are you?”

  “In a waiting room outside the children’s ward.”

  “What about Jacqui?”

  “She’s here with me.”

  “Is she alright?”

  “Pretty upset. But seems okay otherwise.”

  “Let me speak to her. Put her on FaceTime.”

  She called up the app and the screen flickered momentarily before a tearful Jacqui appeared. “Maman, where are you?” Too distressed to play the which twin am I game.

  “Baby, I’m coming home. I’ll be there just as soon as I can.”

  “Jacqui’s sick, maman.”

  “I know, darling. Are you okay?”

  The little crumpled face nodded. “Is Claire going to be alright?”

  “She’s going to be just fine, sweetheart. Dad’ll take care of you till I get back.”

  “When? When will you be back?”

  “Just as soon as I can, darling, I promise.”

  The image of the child swung away, and Gilles’s face appeared on the screen. He looked tired as he raised his eyebrows. She heard the sarcasm in his voice. “More promises?”

  Braque clenched her teeth and tried to hang on to control. “Soon as I get off the phone I’ll book my flights. Should be home by tomorrow night. Keep me in the loop. Please. I want to know what’s happening.”

  He sighed and nodded. “You should have been here, Sylvie.”

  “I will be.”

  And he hung up before she could say any more. Even goodbye to Jacqui. She slumped on to the edge of the bed and sat, head bowed, hands clasped around her phone between her thighs, consumed by guilt. Yes, she should have been there. So many times she should have been there. And so many times she wasn’t. She remembered George Gunn’s words. Sometimes you just have to make choices. Exactly what she hadn’t done. If anything she had chosen the status quo, a means of avoiding making those impossible choices. Career or family. It had been clear to her very soon after the break-up of her marriage that she could not have both. And all she had done was put it off, and put it off. Until now it was too late. She should have been there. She should never have left her girls.

  She spent the next hour on the phone and the internet, booking herself on the first flight from Stornoway to Glasgow in the morning. Then on to London, and from London to Paris. Flight schedules too tight to offer smooth connections, leaving her with no option but to sit fretting in Glasgow and London waiting for onward flights. Two hours in the case of Glasgow, three in London. Arriving in Paris at rush hour. The Périphérique at a standstill if she took a taxi or a bus, the RER jam-packed beyond capacity.

  Her stress levels by the time she concluded her bookings left her shaking. She wanted to call Gilles again. She wanted to hear the verdict on Claire’s diagnosis, and the prognosis if the news was bad. But there was no point. He would call her if there were any developments.

  She gazed now at the phone in her hand, and knew she had to make the call she had been putting off for so long. A call she should have made months, if not years ago. But even as she selected the number and touched Call, she realized she was going to fudge it. She asked switchboard to put her through to Capitaine Faubert’s office.

  “Faubert.”

  She couldn’t tell from that one word what kind of mood he was in. Whether he had just been for a cigarette or was suffering from nicotine withdrawal.

  “Capitaine, it’s Lieutenant Braque. I’m coming home.”

  “I’ve been wondering why the hell you haven’t called, Braque. What’s happening?”

  “Nothing’s happening, Capitaine. The funeral’s over. One of my twins has suspected meningitis and has been admitted to hospital. I’ve booked flights home tomorrow.”

  “Putain!” she heard him mutter under his breath. But she knew, too, that he could hardly argue. “I want your report on my desk first thing Friday morning.” Which would mean an all-nighter Thursday night.

  “Yes, Capitaine.”

  “And we’ll talk then, Braque.”

  “Yes, boss.” She understood perfectly well that “talk” was code for “lecture.” A lecture on her failure to prioritize, to make a decision one way or another. Mother or cop. And she would be faced, finally, with the choices that Gunn had spoken of.

  Two simple words would put an end to it all. I quit. So easy to say, but how hard might it be to live with the consequences? Especially if it turned out that Jacqui was okay, or made a full recovery. In fifteen years, when the girls left home for university, or got married, or grabbed whatever other opportunities life might offer them in adulthood, what would become of Braque? Alone and unfulfilled. Left with a life on which the clock was counting down, a life filled only with regrets for all the might-have-beens. How would she feel then?

  She stood up and realized she had not changed out of her wet clothes. They were now nearly dry. But she decided to change them anyway, divesting herself of damp jeans and T-shirt, and slipping into the shower to wash away the salt and sand carried on the wind at Dalmore. It wasn’t until she was dressed, and drying her hair by the window, that she remembered the CCTV video footage waiting to be viewed at the police station. Gunn had said he would pick her up in half an hour, but that was hours ago.

  She glanced from the window across the choppy waters of the inner harbour, boats rising and falling on a heavy swell, rolling in the wind that blew down the hill from the castle. Rain hammered against the window, and the sky was black as night. One of those equinoctial storms that the Atlantic threw at the island this time every year. Brutal and unforgiv
ing. Shrugged off by islanders who were used to it by now. Had seen it all before. And tomorrow, in all likelihood, the sun would be out, shining on wet streets and houses, as if they had just been painted and everything was brand-new again.

  Braque felt her jacket, which was draped over the back of a chair. Still damp. Her hair still wet from the shower. So what the hell? She decided just to make a dash for the police station. It wasn’t that far.

  In the event, it was much further than she remembered. Especially in the rain. And by the time she had run breathlessly up Church Street from the harbour, and ducked into the warmth and shelter of reception at the police station, she was soaked to the skin once again. She shook the rain from her jacket, to the amusement of the duty officer, and swept rat’s tails of hair out of her face. “Better indoors on a day like this, Ma’am,” he said.

  She took out her ID to show him. “Lieutenant Sylvie Braque of the Police Judiciaire in Paris. I’ve been working with Detective Sergeant Gunn.”

  “Ah yes,” he said. “George was trying to call you earlier.” And she remembered the phone in her room ringing twice while she was talking to someone on her mobile about booking flights. By the time she got off the phone she had forgotten. Gilles would have called her mobile. “I believe he left a message.”

  She took her phone from her pocket and saw that there was indeed a message. She replayed it and heard Gunn’s voice. “Sorry to mess you about Ma’am. I’ve been trying to reach you. I’m afraid I’ve been called away to an unexplained death down at Uig. More than likely a suicide, but it’s a three-hour round trip, and I’ll probably not have a signal for most of that time. I’ve left a terminal set up for you in the interview room. Any of the duty officers will show you how to use it. I’ll see you when I get back.”

  She looked up from her screen and the duty officer smiled. “This way, Ma’am.”