North Sea Requiem (28 page)

They washed up together, went to bed. Like an old married couple, Joanne thought as McAllister was in the bathroom brushing his teeth. Here we are, like we're already married. But I'm not even finally divorced.
Fornication, my father would have called it. My father was certain about everything, had a name for every sin.
The thought made her sad.
I suppose I'll be married in a registry office, like the first time
. She told herself she didn't care, but she wasn't certain she was certain about anything anymore.

•   •   •

The decision to arrive separately to work was not something they discussed; it had just evolved. Joanne would leave early to take the children to the bus stop down the hill on Eastgate. McAllister would walk, leaving ten minutes later. They met when they met. Today it was on the doorstep.

“Good morning, Mrs. Ross. Morning, Fiona,” McAllister said, winking at Joanne.

“Morning, Mr. McAllister, Mrs. Ross.” Fiona replied. “Mrs. Forbes phoned and left a message for you. Mr. Forbes had the flu and won't be in for a day or so.”

“Right. Show me the advertising bookings this afternoon so I can make up the dummy.”

“Can I do it with you?” She immediately went bright red, mortified at her boldness.

“Great idea,” Joanne said. “I'd like to be involved too.”

“I can see you two doing it without me.” McAllister smiled. Joanne knew he was only half joking; like all journalists, he hated advertising, seeing it as a necessary evil. “And ask Mr. McLeod if you have any problems.”

Five o'clock and the dummy finished, Don made a final check of the pages. “A fine job the lassies have done,” Don said as he approved the layout. “It's a wee bit different. They didn't need me or you at all.” He nodded at McAllister.

“How different?” Joanne wanted to know.

“It's somehow more . . .” He was searching for a word, rare for him. “It's elegant.”

That was what Joanne had been hoping for.

“Can we do it again next week?” Fiona asked.

“Anytime,” McAllister said.

“I'm not sure Mr. Forbes would like that.” Joanne was smiling at Fiona. But the answering smile, so small, so fake, made her ask, “Fiona, is there something you're not telling us?”

“I don't know anything.” The emphasis was on
know
.

“I'm away out. Men's business,” McAllister said.

“And I have to get home to my girls.” Joanne looked at Fiona. “You live not far from me; would you like to come over this evening? Once the girls are in bed we can have a good blether.”

“I'd love to.”

Fiona was thrilled. She'd always wanted to see inside Mrs. Ross's house. She'd been by on her way to the Islands to meet Hector. She'd walked slowly, peering at the gingham curtains, which she thought unusual, gingham being for wee girls' dresses or the aprons and bags you made in primary-school sewing class
where you did cross-stitch edges using the squares to make sure the stitches were even.

The girls were not shy with Fiona.

“You're Hector's girlfriend,” Annie said, and Fiona said, “I am.”

When Annie continued,
McAllister is Mum's boyfriend,
and Fiona said
I know,
everyone relaxed, secrets out in the open.

“How do you know about Hector and Fiona?” Joanne asked Annie, not wanting to admit that she hadn't noticed.

“ 'Cos Maraidh told me. She really likes Fiona and wants her to be Hec's girlfriend and for them all to live together with Granny Bain.”

Fiona didn't look so sure but she smiled and said, “We'll see.”

And again, Joanne was reminded what a small town she lived in.

Fiona was happy to have cocoa with Annie and Jean, happy to read Jean a story whilst Annie struggled through
Jane Eyre
by herself, and when they were alone, she was happy to discuss events with Joanne.

Mrs. Ross treated her like a grown-up, so her natural caution melted. It was not that Fiona didn't love her mother, but she'd never thought about it. If asked, she would have been astonished. Of course you love your parents. That didn't mean she was unaware of her mother's faults;
could talk the hind legs off a donkey
was her father's phrase.
An auld fishwife
was her granny's (on her father's side) less charitable phrase.

It's working in the baker's shop with all the other women,
Fiona decided when as a thirteen-year-old she became aware of her mother's insatiable appetite for the minutiae of everyone's business, customers, neighbors, strangers alike. She determined then she would not be a gossip.

Joanne was saying, “I'm not asking you to spy or to tell tales,
but we—McAllister, myself, and Mr. McLeod and Rob—we want to help find whoever threw the acid at Nurse Urquhart.”

“Aye, Hector told me you were trying to help the Urquharts.” Since she was friends with Morag Urquhart, she wanted to help too.

“The letters, we're trying to work out how they were delivered.”

“And you want to know who wrote them,” Fiona corrected her, “and if the same person killed Nurse Urquhart.”

Joanne jerked back. It was like talking to Rob at his most direct, something she hadn't expected from Fiona. As the conversation went on, it was also obvious that Fiona had thought hard, analyzed the events, and had some clear ideas of her own.

No wonder she's good at accounting,
Joanne decided.

“Mrs. Bell might have written the letters and put them in the
Gazette
post box.” Fiona was sitting differently. Her voice was not louder, but clearer, her accent less, the thoughts logically organized. “Hector showed me the photos of Mrs. Bell's room again. I see what you're saying. Them clothes is all wrong. Plus she took a wee suitcase with all her good stuff with her. Why? Then I remembered.”

It was barely perceptible, but Joanne noticed Fiona nodding to herself as she told the next part of her story.

“I can see clearly the people coming and going from the library through the glass in our doors, so I don't take heed o' them anymore, except if it's a stranger. I'd seen this woman a couple of times and there was something about her. I said that to Hector, and he said it's not the clothes you look at, it's the way people walk, hold their heads, you know . . .”

Joanne did know. It was one of Hec's pet theories that you tell more about a person by their walk than their face.

“She was wearing a head scarf, I couldn't make out her hair,
and wearing a horrible old coat, but the sand shoes were brand-new and she had on nylons, not socks. It was right cold, and wet, so you'd think she'd have on wellies—anyone can afford wellies. I didn't know why I thought I knew her until Hector said
watch her walk
.” She took a deep breath. This was the longest she'd talked to anyone apart from Hector, and Joanne was listening to every word.

“So this one morning, I saw her heading for the stairs that go under the castle walls down to the river. I thought, she's not been visiting the library 'cos it's not open for another hour.”

She looked at Joanne, her young face free of pimples for this week, telling her earnestly, “Many of the older people, they've nowhere to go 'specially in the rain, and they stay in the library for hours. Sometimes they call in for an old copy of the
Gazette
and I give it to them for free—I hope that's all right?”

“Of course it is.” Joanne toes started to twitch.
Get on with the story, Fiona.

“I think the person I saw was Mrs. Bell.”

Joanne was about to ask, how can you be sure?

“The clothes were the same as in Hector's picture, the coat, the shoes—that's what bothered me as I couldn't see Mrs. Bell wearing plimsolls. I'm pretty sure it was her, and that same morning, there was another o' them letters.”

After Fiona left, Joanne wanted, needed, to talk to McAllister.
I wish we had a telephone,
she was thinking, then remembered that McAllister hated talking on the telephone.

As she was reading in bed, she put the book down, thinking,
This is when I need McAllister; I can talk to, talk at, him, and he listens whilst I ramble on, letting the thoughts out, the ideas, and the replies—or not—but when needed, he says just the right phrase, or word, and then I can sleep, my brain emptied out, nothing left to bother or worry me. I wish I were with him right now.

M
al Forbes was off work all week. McAllister checked and there were no cancellations in the advertising bookings, and with the help of the part-time bookkeeper, Fiona was working well.

He decided to pay Mal a visit.
Flu can be bad, but the worst should be over,
he was thinking, and as editor, he needed to know if other plans should be made. He was also curious about Mal's home circumstances, as the man had never shared his personal life with his
Gazette
colleagues.

Face it, McAllister, you're hopelessly inquisitive,
he told himself, knowing
suspicious
was the more accurate word.

He didn't know this part of town. The single-story granite-block houses with bay windows were set back from the road, some with high hedges, others with low walls, most with smart gravel pathways, all showing a stolid, respectable exterior. He was surprised how secluded the Forbeses' house was. It was the tall, abundant, wild cherry tree with pink blossoms and new rusty-green leaves, the privet hedge long overdue a good clipping, the overhanging elder and lilac bushes, the windows with curtains tight shut as though a death had occurred in the family, that made McAllister wonder if sun ever reached into the lives of the Forbeses.

Stepping onto the front porch with black and white checkerboard tiles and a coconut mat, he rang the doorbell. A girl about Annie's age answered.

“Hello, I'm Mr. McAllister from the
Gazette
. I'd like to speak to your father.” He wondered why she was not at school.

“He's not here. Mum's not here either.” The child was nervous, her story instantly betrayed by the sound of clashing metal from the back of the house and the voice shouting, “Maureen, come and help me.”

The voice was muffled but unmistakable; Mal Forbes hadn't heard the doorbell.

Maureen was examining McAllister, taking in his appearance. She knew who he was—not from her father but from Annie Ross, who was maybe not her best friend, but one of the few she was friendly with, and who, like herself, was an outsider in the school-playground popularity stakes.

“Glad to see you're better,” McAllister said when Mal appeared. He held out his hand; Mal Forbes shook it, but didn't ask him in.

“I'm wondering will you be back at work next week?”

“Dad, I can stay home and look after Mum,” Maureen said.

“It's fine, Maureen, you go off and check the oven, the gingerbread is smelling ready.” He smiled at the editor, a rare sight. “Ma wee hobby, I like baking cakes. Look, I'm sorry, Mr. McAllister, a wee bit o' a white lie; it's ma wife who's poorly. But don't you worry about the advertisers; when Moira's sleeping I make ma phone calls. Checking up on the customers and the like.”

McAllister doubted it was only Mrs. Forbes who was ill. Mal himself was looking distinctly pale. “Of course. Give your wife my regards, and if there's anything we can do to help . . .”

“Not at all. We're managing just fine. I'll see you at the Monday morning meeting.”

The front door was closed before McAllister was one step down the path. He walked past the narrow flower borders on either side, fading daffodils still in brown melting clumps, smelling
of decay. He knew nothing about flowers but had a vague idea these should have been tidied up by now. Wild-cherry blossoms covered one corner of a bare, straggly lawn, reminding McAllister of grass that had been decimated by numerous games of football.

As he turned to latch the garden gate, he saw a lace curtain fall back into place. As he looked again at the house and garden, he wondered at the height of the side fence, new-looking, a larchwood construction of parallel strips in a solid frame. The back garden seemed entirely enclosed, as though the Forbes family kept a ferocious dog.
Wasn't there a rumor his son is disabled? That must be why they want privacy,
he thought.

On the walk back to the office, he was reassured by the ordinariness of Mal Forbes and his daughter and particularly by the gingerbread but was thinking,
Why didn't he admit his wife is unwell? And his son, why hide his condition? He could tell me privately so we can make better working arrangements.
He realized that was unnecessary; Mal Forbes had already arranged his work around his family and McAllister thought better of the man for that. He also knew what stopped people, particularly men, from admitting there was anything wrong in their family life—pride.