Dead Girl Walking (17 page)

As he drove slowly along the single track, he could see white heads of surf rolling towards the shore. He recalled Angus’s remark about the next pub west being in Canada, and thought of what he’d learned about the woman he was planning to doorstep.

Flora Blacklock was an Islay native who had been a champion solo sailor back in the eighties. This had led to her being the subject of a painting by Ramsay Gunn, as part of a series of portraits that depicted women triumphant over their corresponding elements: air, stone, fire and, in Flora’s case, water. Of all his models and muses, it seemed she was the only one who had developed a lasting relationship with Ramsay’s daughter.

It must have been difficult for her growing up, Parlabane thought: watching these women move in and out of her father’s life, wondering why they didn’t stay. Flora, at least, had never left the island.

The house was a low, L-shaped stone building in grounds that stretched back towards an inlet bay. He could see a sailing boat tied up at a jetty, and recognised it as the same vessel from the painting he’d seen online. These days Flora ran boat trips around the Hebrides for bird-watchers and other adventure-minded wildlife lovers, but these were advertised as leaving from Port Charlotte, so this wasn’t her commercial vessel. Had she taught Heike some seacraft, he wondered. If so it would be the ideal way to drop off the radar. She could be anywhere from here to Shetland and there would be no way of tracing her.

The wind whipped at him as he climbed out of the car and walked towards what he couldn’t decide was the front or back garden. As he passed through a gap between dry-stone dykes in lieu of a gate, he saw the woman he had come to speak to, striding from the house towards a flat-bed Toyota Land Cruiser. She tossed an armful of ropes into the back, then finally noticed him as she was slapping her hands together to dust them off.

She looked late-fifties, her silver hair tied back and tucked under a blue cap. She was dressed in jeans and a polo shirt revealing taut and wiry arms.

‘Can I help you?’ she asked, an openness in her tone suggesting she actually would if she could. She regarded him with a smile of patient curiosity, like she was pretty sure he was in the wrong place but interested to know what had brought him here.

‘Hi. You’re Flora Blacklock, aren’t you?’

‘That’s right,’ she confirmed, dangling her car keys absent-mindedly in her right hand.

‘My name is Jack Parlabane. I’m a journalist and I’m doing a feature on the band Savage Earth Heart. I realise this is a bit of a Hail Mary, but would you happen to know where I might find Heike Gunn?’

His heart leapt as he noticed she was nodding, but there was something apologetic about her smile that told him his celebration was premature.

‘Yes. She’s in America,’ she said, her tone almost pitying that he could have failed to be aware of this. ‘On tour.’

‘No,’ he corrected her, ‘that’s not for another couple of weeks.’

‘Oh. I was sure she said June, but she must have meant the end of the month.’

He tried not to think about the distance he had travelled in order to hear this. The woman hadn’t spoken to Heike in weeks. Still, she was one of the few people who might be able to offer some insight into the real woman behind the public persona, so the trip could yet prove worthwhile. He had to be delicate, though. It wouldn’t do to worry the woman by letting her know Heike was missing, not least because it wouldn’t be long in going public after that.

‘Do you mind if I ask you a few questions?’

‘Not at all,’ she said. ‘But I’m just on my way out. I’ve a boat down in Port Charlotte and I need to prep her for tomorrow. If you don’t mind following me down the road we can talk while I work. That’s unless you’re any good with ropes, in which case you can make yourself useful.’

Parlabane got back in the hire car and trundled behind the Toyota, which he guessed she was driving slowly as a courtesy to his axles. Ironically the pace slowed further not long after they hit proper tarmac, as they got stuck behind a tractor. He noticed from the dashboard display that his Bluetooth-connected phone had recovered a signal, and as his car crawled along, the modern time-to-kill reflex prodded him in its usual way.

Call her.

He could see water less than half a mile away. He might only be two minutes from the port. It would be sod’s law if this was the one time she picked up, when he didn’t have long to talk. Then he thought that maybe sod’s law could work
for
him, because if now was the one time she picked up, then at least they’d get to speak.

He tried not to dwell on how desperate that logic sounded as the ringing tone pulsed through the car’s stereo. There was a familiar click as it diverted to voicemail: not even her voice either, just a standard network recording.

Fuck.

He grabbed a handful of ropes from the back of the flatbed and followed Flora aboard her tourist tub, the
Hecate
. She dumped her bundle on the foredeck and sat down on a bench, where she began cutting heavy-duty plastic tape into even lengths with a short-bladed knife.

‘All these years Heike’s been in the limelight,’ she said brightly. ‘And you’re the first journalist ever to come and ask
me
about her.’

She spoke with an odd mixture of pride and disappointment.

‘An untapped resource,’ he replied.

‘And all yours. So what would you like to know?’

‘When did you last speak to her?’ he asked.

‘In the flesh or on the phone? She was last here for a couple of weeks just after Christmas, but the last time I spoke to her must have been, let me think, a few weeks back when the band were playing in Glasgow. I was supposed to travel down to see the show but I had a bad cold and couldn’t face the trip. Why did you think she might be here, incidentally?’

‘Eh, it was Angus Campbell who suggested it. I’ve been interviewing all the members of the band for a piece, but Heike’s proving a little elusive. He said you and she were close, so if she was laying low before the American tour he thought this might be where I’d find her.’

‘Angus. Yes. Not seen him in years. He couldn’t wait to leave, to be honest. Always wanted to travel.’

She smiled at the thought, presumably picturing a younger version of the shaggy-headed road-dog. Then she sighed.

‘I’m sorry he gave you a duff tip. Have you come far?’

‘Edinburgh.’

‘Oof. At least you got a dry day for it.’

She picked up another length of rope and began whittling at the frayed end of it with the knife. Her fingers were rough and callused, criss-crossed with a thousand nicks and scratches.

‘I gather you’ve known Heike a long time.’

‘Since she was a girl.’

‘You must be very proud of what Heike’s achieved.’

‘Proud, aye. Though not surprised. She was always very strong-willed, and a grafter. They say hard work only beats talent when talent doesn’t work hard, so she had the perfect combination to succeed. Young Angus not so much. It always bothered Heike that he never made the most of himself. He had the gifts: his father was a fine musician, great accordion player.’

‘Heike’s father must have been a high bar for her to measure herself against,’ Parlabane suggested. ‘I imagine that could easily have been intimidation as much as inspiration. Do you think that’s why she went into music rather than art?’

He knew this was a bloody stupid question, but reckoned it would boost his music-journo cover to pose a query that indicated no understanding of the creative process.

‘Och, that’s the kind of thing you’d really have to ask Heike herself. I can recall with a fair degree of accuracy the things she did and said when she was nine years old, but as for what goes on inside her head, you might as well ask me about quantum theory.’

‘So what was she like as a child? Was she precocious? Withdrawn? Huffy?’

‘Robust,’ Flora replied. ‘On the outside, at least. She was sensitive, but she didn’t like anyone to know. She preferred to put on a brave face than have anybody notice she wasn’t indestructible.’

He was surprised by her candour. She really wasn’t kidding about never having talked to a journalist before. Parlabane’s phone buzzed on the bench beside him. He saw the name ‘Jenny Dalziel’ flash on the screen. He’d have to call her back. This woman was opening up to him and he couldn’t let an interruption break the spell.

‘Do you think that came from not having a mother around?’

‘Undoubtedly. Heike never likes to lean on anybody: it’s both a sign of strength and a sign of vulnerability. She doesn’t like the idea of being dependent on anyone, and that definitely comes from the way she was raised. She likes to gives the impression she doesn’t need anybody else, but anyone who has known Heike or even just paid attention to her songs would know that she’s been looking for her mother all her life. I mean, that’s hardly a scoop for you, is it?’

‘And do you think she looked for her mother in you?’

Flora glanced out to sea for a moment, a wistful mixture of regret and affection in her face.

‘Part of her may have, but I’m not sure she’d allow herself to find her. For the reasons I’ve just mentioned, she doesn’t like anybody getting too close. I’m there for her, she knows that, but she still puts on the brave face even for me. I think that’s why she’s comfortable with the adulation of crowds, which would have other people scurrying for cover: me in particular. It’s anonymous and impersonal, and she doesn’t have to expose her real self to them.’

She picked up a length of tape and began wrapping it around the frayed end of a rope, goose-pimples on her arm as the breeze caught her skin.

‘You worry about her being in the public eye, don’t you?’ he suggested. ‘Everybody wanting a piece.’

‘I think that’s what the kids call “first-world problems”, but sure. I mean, I don’t worry about whether she can handle it. I worry about the cost to herself
of
handling it: of never letting the cracks show.’

His phone buzzed again, this time with a text. Jenny’s words scrolled across the screen: ‘Call me ASAP. Beyond urgent.’

Shit.

He apologised to Flora and walked towards the prow of the boat as the phone auto-dialled.

Jenny picked up after one ring.

‘Where are you?’ she asked.

‘I’m on Islay. Looking for Ms Gunn.’

‘Well, you’re not going to find her there. According to the Border Agency, she never came back to the UK. But I was kinda hoping you were gonna say you’re somewhere further than that.’

‘How come?’

‘You didn’t get this from me, Scoop, but they’re turning up the gas on Westercruik. I just heard from a strong source that the Met have sought a warrant for your arrest.’

I had one of those hangovers where you kind of see yourself from the outside, and it’s really not pretty. We were in Bordeaux, with the bus for Barcelona leaving in about half an hour. I needed some air. I needed some coffee too, but I couldn’t face the breakfast room. All it would take was the sight of a plate of someone else’s food and I might spew.

All things considered, it probably wasn’t the best time to take a call from Keith.

I had last spoken to him on the bus to Dover, the morning after Brixton. It had felt great to talk to him then, just to hear his voice. Part of me wanted to bail and run away, back to him, back to Shetland, back to normality. We talked like we hadn’t done the whole UK tour, like two people who were really missing one another. He even hinted he might fly out to meet me on one of the European dates. I suggested a few destinations.

‘Maybe I’ll surprise you,’ he said.

I knew he wouldn’t, but that didn’t matter so much: it made me feel closer just to hear him talk about it. Keith never did anything spontaneous. Okay, strictly speaking he had
once
, but the circumstances weren’t something either of us liked to dwell on, and I wasn’t sure if the definition of spontaneity stretched to things done during a massive loss of temper.

I think we both knew he wouldn’t fly out, and he definitely wouldn’t surprise me, but it was progress that we could have a bit of fun talking about it.

We had shared less of a cosy chat as I stood outside the hotel in Bordeaux.

His tone was off from the start: even the way he said ‘Hi’ told me he was feeling huffy.

‘I was starting to think you’d lost your phone,’ he said. ‘You haven’t called for days, and whenever I call you I get diverted to voicemail. Do you even switch the thing on?’

I wasn’t in the best mood to be moaned at.

‘Of course it’s on: it’s just I can’t hear it while I’m doing a soundcheck or a show.’

‘Yes, you told me, which is why it would make sense for you to be the one calling
me
now and again.’

‘You don’t like me phoning you at work. You’ve told me enough times you’re not supposed to take personal calls.’

‘Yes, but what’s wrong with first thing, before I go in? Or lunchtime?’

‘First thing? What, you mean like eight o’clock? I’m not on a school trip over here. I can’t remember what eight o’clock looks like.’

‘You’re too busy living it up with that band to make time for a phone call?’

That
band.

‘Christ, Keith, don’t act like a wean. It’s not always easy, that’s all I’m saying. It doesn’t mean I’m not thinking about you.’

Except that I mostly wasn’t.

‘It’s not easy for me either, wondering where you are and whether you’re okay.’

‘Well, you can always come out and see for yourself how I’m doing. Did you look into getting flights yet?’

I knew he hadn’t. Part of me hated myself for using this against him, as by making it a big deal, it seemed even less likely he would do it.

‘I’m having to stay on top of a lot of things at work. There’s opportunities I have to make the most of right now because they won’t come round again. I’m trying to lay down the foundations for a solid career, Monica.’

‘And what do you think I’m doing?’

‘I’m not sure you even know yourself.’

Yeah, cheers, Keith. Thanks for that. Self-doubt always goes really well with a stinking hangover, and this was the worst of what was fast becoming quite a collection. Every morning I told myself I’d stay on the soft stuff tonight, that I couldn’t be hammering it after every show, especially with the schedule that was rolling out in front of us, and every night I decided: What the hell, I’m twenty-two and if this all falls apart I don’t want to look back and think I didn’t live while I had the chance.