Driftnet (9 page)

There was an
awkward silence, then he told her he would be staying on for a
second week.

‘Why?’ she
asked, her voice small.

‘The guy I’m
filling in for has met a rich divorcee in Florida.’ He was trying
to joke, cover the awkwardness. ‘He doesn’t want to leave yet. So,’
he said, and she could hear the caution in his voice, ‘you could
come out the second week.’

‘Sean...’

‘I’m sleeping
on someone’s couch at the moment but I could get us a hotel room.
I’m off during the day. Springtime in Paris and all that.’ He was
waiting for an answer.

‘I’m not
sure.’

‘I see.’

‘I mean I’ll
need to check with work.’ Silence.

He gave her a
number.

‘You can try my
mobile or this number.’

‘Is that where
you’re staying?’

‘No it’s the
club.’

‘Right.’

The call ended
as badly as it began. As she hung up, the thought crossed Rhona’s
mind that Sean was not used to being turned down.

After tea Rhona
put on a video and sat down with a glass of wine. The cat resumed
its favourite perch on her lap. The phone rang at nine o’clock. It
was Edward.

‘Rhona?’

‘Yes.’

‘There will be
an envelope in tomorrow’s post,’ he said.

‘Thank
you.’

‘As you’ll see,
the murdered boy has nothing to do with you.’

‘With us,’ she
corrected him.

He ignored
that. ‘I hope this is the end of the business.’

Rhona put down
the phone without answering.

Of course,
Edward would prefer to deal with this by letter. Speaking directly
he might have to use Liam’s name, or worse, refer to him as our
child. Edward would never do that. Edward had always distanced
himself from the event like a bad smell. And so it was. A bad smell
come back to haunt him.

Rhona swallowed
the remains of her wine and poured another glass. The cat grunted
with displeasure and jumped off her tense body, opting for the more
reliable comfort of the hearthrug instead.

Outside, the
sky had cleared. Evening sun shone through the open curtains. The
room looked comfortable and empty. Like my life, she thought.

Strange to look
back and see emptiness where once she had seen success. Getting her
degree. Studying for a PhD. The freedom to choose where she wanted
to work. The delight in being given the responsibility for her own
lab. Buying the flat. Money in the bank. Nothing. I have just been
putting in time, she thought... until now.

The phone rang
again. Rhona cursed herself for not switching on the ansaphone.
Then it struck her that it might be Edward, calling back with
something he’d forgotten to tell her. Something important.

The phone rang
again more insistent this time. Rhona lifted the receiver.

‘Is that Dr
Rhona MacLeod?’

It was a man’s
voice.

‘Yes?’

‘This is going
to sound really silly,’ the man hesitated, then cleared his throat
nervously. ‘We met yesterday in the rain. My name’s Gavin
MacLean.’

‘We shared a
taxi.’

‘I wonder
whether you would like to come out with me tomorrow night to see a
film,’ he went on, before she could answer. ‘I quite understand if
you think I’m a nut and say no.’

‘No.’

‘Right.’ He
sounded disappointed.

‘I mean I don’t
think you’re a nut,’ Rhona laughed.

‘That’s a
relief. So you’ll come?’

‘I don’t know
if I can.’

‘Look. Just a
film. No strings.’

She thought
about it. She would have the letter tomorrow. She didn’t need to
stay in any more. She needed to be normal again. He seemed nice. It
was just a film.

‘Okay.’ What
was she doing? ‘Just a film.’

‘Great. I’ll
pick you up about eight?’

‘Right.’

It wasn’t until
after Rhona had spent half an hour convincing herself why she’d
agreed to go out with a strange man (she would have reason to
celebrate tomorrow, because she would know where her child was),
that she suddenly began to wonder how Gavin MacLean knew her name
and her home number.

Chapter
10

The night that
Rhona phoned had begun well for Edward. He and Fiona were holding a
dinner party with Sir James Dalrymple among the guests. Edward knew
he could count on Fiona’s support. Unlike Rhona, Fiona understood
the importance of playing the game. He stood at the door and
surveyed his sitting room. June sunlight shone in through the
French windows and danced across the deep blues and pinks of the
Chinese rug, the chintz covered sofas and the polished mahogany
furniture. This room symbolised everything he had worked for, from
the silk framed windows overlooking the trim lawn, to the flower
vases (expensive vases, expensive flowers), and the well stocked
drinks cabinet.

Without Fiona,
her contacts and her family, he might never have got this far. He
was good at his job, but there were many others who were just as
good. Fiona had made the difference.

Through the
open double doors to the dining room he could see her, still in her
dressing gown, putting the last touches to an already perfect
table. As she bent to rearrange the centre-piece, Edward admired
both his wife’s attention to detail and her exposed thigh.

Edward had
already poured Fiona two whiskies, ostensibly with plenty of water,
but in reality rather strong, being hopeful that some time between
arranging the table centre and the donning of her little black
number, she would let him make love to her.

Fiona was
looking over at him, wanting him to give the table arrangement his
final approval. Edward gave her the response she was looking for.
Then he inclined his head towards the stairs and their bedroom
above. Fiona smiled.

Edward had met
Fiona at a drinks party held by his firm and a Corporate client, in
the client’s luxury offices overlooking the Clyde. He was feeling
pleased with himself that evening, having completed an overseas
cash transaction that had saved this particular client a fortune in
UK tax. And the truth was, he was glad to be out of the apartment.
The situation between himself and Rhona had hit rock bottom.

Fiona looked so
good in black. It was something about the combination of upmarket
blondeness (that one can only get from a good public school) and
lightly tanned skin. That particular evening the black dress was
cut to show the outline of Fiona’s buttocks.

Rhona and he
had not had sex in a long time. Edward suddenly felt like a
teenager with his first erection.

Halfway through
the evening, she had invited him to come up to her office, two
floors above the party. As Executive Secretary to one of the
principal Directors, she enjoyed an elevated and well paid
position.

Edward had
leaned Fiona against the imposing mahogany desk and slipped down
the thin straps of her dress. Her breasts were small and firm.

Fiona released
herself from his mouth to slide down and rest her face in his
crotch and Edward had a terrible desire to let his prick erupt
there and then.

But Fiona’s
timing had been perfect.

She had turned
from him and bent over the table, raising her soft black hill into
the air. And so Edward had his wish. Across the leather-topped desk
he opened Fiona’s tight little buttocks and slid inside. And if the
party below didn’t hear his cries of delight, it meant they had the
eminently suitable music turned up much too loud.

Even now, all
these years later, Fiona had the same effect on him. There had been
other women since then, as he knew there had been men with Fiona.
But they had stayed together. They both knew they were stronger
together than apart.

The hum of
conversation around the dining table confirmed the success of
Fiona’s seating plan. There were eight guests, all involved in one
way or another with the by-election campaign. Opposite Edward,
Fiona was deep in conversation with Judge Cameron MacKay. Fiona had
already told Edward that the 65-year-old had difficulty locating
his own knee at times and his hand was often to be found stroking
the female thigh next to him, which tonight was Fiona’s.

Edward had
already dropped his napkin in order to see just how energetic Judge
MacKay’s hand was that evening. What he saw made him marvel at his
wife’s calm demeanour.

The rest of the
group was made up of two business clients (Party supporters) and a
number of activists, the most attractive of whom was Sarah
Anderson. Sarah, Edward had decided, was a dyke, since she had
never given him the slightest indication she found him attractive.
Still, he thought, looking appreciatively across the table at her,
even dykes have breasts and there was something rather enticing
about the shape of hers beneath the green silk dress.

On the left of
Sarah sat Ian Urquhart, Edward’s Private Secretary. Ian wasn’t
interested in Sarah. His inclinations lay elsewhere. Tonight Fiona
had placed him beside Sir James Dalrymple.

And, thought
Edward, it looked as if Fiona had been right about Sir James after
all.

When the phone
rang, the party had been about to adjourn to the conservatory for a
nightcap. Fiona gave Edward a nod and went to answer it, annoyed,
he could tell, that Amy hadn’t got there already. By the time she
came back, Edward had ushered their guests into the conservatory
and settled them with their drinks. It was just as well, or they
would have seen Fiona’s face.

‘It’s a woman,’
she said coldly. ‘She wants to speak to you.’

Edward used one
of his, ‘probably a constituent’ sort of smiles, but Fiona wasn’t
convinced that easily.

‘You’re not an
MP yet,’ she reminded him as she swept past and into the
conservatory.

When Rhona
spoke Edward knew she had been crying. It struck him as strange
that after all these years something inside him hurt because of
that. She was rambling on about a birthmark and a dead boy.

When she paused
for breath, Edward found himself promising to find out what she
wanted to know. Anything to shut her up and get her out of his
face. He said goodbye and lifted the whisky glass from where he had
laid it a few minutes before, when life was sweet. His hand was
actually trembling. The jolt of straight whisky failed to dissolve
the feeling of dread that gripped him. Edward made an effort to
organise his thoughts, trying to get things into perspective. Rhona
had always been neurotic, especially after the baby was born. Fiona
had never been like that. Fiona had taken birth in her stride. Had
been out playing tennis a few days later. But not Rhona. Months of
coldness and rejection. It had been torture. Edward flinched at the
memory. Thank God he had moved on. And now the scene in the Art
Gallery - all he’d done was make a simple request. He should never
have gone near her. It had been a mistake. Now of all times!

Edward downed
his whisky and returned to the dining room to refill it from the
decanter. Then he took a deep breath and walked into the
conservatory.

He nodded
serenely at his wife and sat down next to Sarah Anderson, who for
once gave him a welcoming smile. He smiled back, making a mental
note that certain priorities must be addressed: nothing (not
babies, dead boys or even seduction) must stand in the way of the
conversation he meant to have with Sir James Dalrymple tonight.

Chapter
11

The bedroom was
untidy. There were discarded tee-shirts on the floor and three
empty glasses on the bedside table, sticky with diet coke. His sock
drawer sat open and there was the smell of old cigarette ash. He’d
been hiding the fag ends in the drawer along with his socks. Now
there were too many of them in the box and every time he opened the
drawer to get clean socks, Jonathan could smell them. Since his
mother had ‘handed over his room to him’ as she put it, it had got
easier to hide evidence of his smoking. Now Amy, their housekeeper,
didn’t bring the clean washing into the room any more. Instead she
left it in a pile on the floor outside the door. Since she’d
stopped coming in he didn’t need to dispose of the fag ends one at
a time. But now if he put them in the kitchen bin, Amy would notice
the smell and tell his mother.

Jonathan took a
last drag, stubbed the cigarette out on the ledge and closed the
window, adding the dog end to the overflowing box. Thinking about
what he would do with them was about all he could manage at the
moment.

He went over to
his wardrobe and rummaged about at the back. Below him the party
had moved into the conservatory. He’d heard the dining room chairs
being scraped across the parquet floor and the rumble of
conversation as they all moved out. Then the phone rang and
Jonathan hoped for a brief moment it might be Mark. A glance at the
clock told him Mark would be out and about by this time. Phoning
Jonathan would be the last thing on his mind. You wouldn’t catch
Mark staying in on a Saturday night.

The hall was
directly below Jonathan’s bedroom, so he always knew when someone
was coming up the stairs. It also meant he could listen in to phone
calls. Tonight he could tell his father was pissed off with the
caller from his clipped tone.

Jonathan found
the vodka bottle stashed in a boot at the back of the wardrobe and
pulled it out. He had agreed, when they acquired it from the drinks
cabinet, to share it with his sister Morag. But despite being only
ten months older than him, she seemed to be able to get drink when
she was out, anyway. Jonathan walked over to the three glasses,
selected the least sticky one and poured himself a shot. The fresh
orange he’d mixed it with didn’t smell too good and he wondered
whether it had gone off.

The lights from
the conservatory lit up the garden. If he stood very close to his
window and pressed his face against the glass, he could make out
the two seats closest to the French windows that opened onto the
lawn. The young woman he’d let in earlier was there. Jonathan
squirmed, remembering how friendly she had been when he’d opened
the door to her and how, once he’d noticed she had no bra on, he’d
been too embarrassed to answer any of her questions.