Unfinished Portrait (28 page)

‘I bet Max knows,' Lindsey muttered darkly.

At the Jolly Wagoner, Avril and Guy were enjoying steak and kidney pie.

‘Sarah says they're moving in during the holidays,' Avril began diffidently. ‘Does that mean she won't be with you?'

Guy made a rueful face. ‘Shades of things to come. They're sharing Christmas between relatives, and I've been allotted Boxing Day.'

‘Oh, Guy!' Avril put down her fork and looked at him. ‘What will you do?'

‘Survive, I don't doubt.'

‘Come to that, I'm not sure what I'm doing, either. Max and the girls always came to us, but last Christmas Tom and I had just separated, and Max organized a civilized lunch at the Clarendon to break the mould. He's not likely to do it again, though. Tom might well be with Catherine and her family, and for that matter, Lindsey might be with Dominic. For good or ill, time moves on and I suppose we have to move with it.'

‘Then make your own arrangements,' Guy said quietly, ‘with me.'

She looked at him quickly.

‘Only if you want to, of course, but it would pre-empt any awkwardness. And it would only be for Christmas Day.'

‘On the other hand,' Avril mused, ‘if Rona and Max invite me there, you could come, too.'

He said quickly, ‘Oh, I wouldn't want—'

‘They were saying they'd like to meet you; this would be the ideal opportunity.'

‘Things are in a state of flux, aren't they?' Guy said. ‘You and I, Tom and Catherine, Sarah and Clive, even, from what you say, Lindsey and Dominic. By
next
year, it should all have settled down. Your divorce will have come through, for one thing, which should simplify things considerably.' He looked up, suddenly serious. ‘You
are
going to marry me, aren't you, Avril?'

‘You haven't asked me yet,' she reminded him.

‘I'm asking now.' He took her hand. ‘Not very romantically, perhaps, over steak and kidney, but very, very, sincerely. Please, darling Avril, will you marry me?'

‘Yes,' she said, on a caught breath. ‘Oh, yes!'

He turned her hand in his, and kissed the palm. ‘That's settled, then.' He grinned suddenly. ‘Must be something in the air – first Sarah and Clive, now us!'

‘In which case,' Avril said, surprised at the steadiness of her voice, ‘there's no question but that we'll spend Christmas together, wherever it is. Also – ' she flushed – ‘it seems silly my looking for a new lodger, and you looking for somewhere to live.'

‘Daughter moves out, and father moves in? The perfect solution! You're a genius, Mrs Parish! But while that's fine for now, once we're married, we should look for somewhere new to both of us. Agreed?'

‘Agreed,' Avril said on a wave of happiness.

Back in the study, Rona dispiritedly switched the computer on again, but instead of returning to her notes, she went on line and googled Craiglea.

Immediately the screen opened on the town's website, listing hotels, sailing club, golf club, and a host of other attractions. A small map in the left hand corner showed a neat little town stretching out along the water. Cautiously, Rona clicked again, enlarging the map to show street names. And there, picked out in orange and running the length of the coast, was The Esplanade.

57, The Esplanade
. She felt a rising tide of excitement. Eyes still on the screen, she reached for the phone and tried the number yet again. And still the ringing tone rang out unanswered.

Right, she thought; it seems Mahomet will have to go to the mountain.

‘You're
what
?' Max demanded, turning to stare at her.

‘Only for a couple of days, to have a look round.'

‘Rona, for God's sake! Talk about wild goose chases!'

‘If nothing else, it would satisfy me it
was
a wild goose chase.' She paused. ‘I suppose there's no chance of your coming with me?'

‘Absolutely none. Look, love, you can't just go barging in. If she
is
there – which I strongly doubt – she certainly won't want you turning up on her doorstep. She's entitled to her privacy, and she's shown often enough that she values it.'

‘I'm not going to
molest
her, Max,' Rona said sharply, ‘and if you think I'm wasting my time, at least it's
my
time. Anyway, it'll be good to get a bit of sea air.'

‘Not, surely, at this time of the year. You'll freeze your socks off!'

‘Again, they're my socks.'

‘Added to which, the hotels are probably all closed for the season.'

‘They're not, actually. I've booked a room.'

He sighed. ‘There's no talking you out of it, then?'

‘Sorry, no; I'm going up tomorrow, for two nights. It'll mean missing our Friday evening, but I'll be back on Saturday. And Max . . .'

‘What?'

‘If Lindsey phones – or anyone else, for that matter – don't say where I've gone.'

‘Fair enough. You'll phone when you get there?'

‘Of course.'

‘Then I suppose all I can say is take care, and happy hunting.'

The flight was quick and uneventful, and the hired car she'd booked on line awaited her. According to Multimap, Craiglea was an hour's drive from Glasgow airport, and as an added precaution Rona had brought Max's sat-nav, which she stuck on the windscreen.

With its help, she manoeuvred herself out of the airport, and within minutes found herself on the rain-and-wind-swept M8. She was on her way.

The hotel she'd booked into was on the Esplanade, though how near the Ryder house remained to be seen. She was shown to her room overlooking the front, but what must be a pleasant view in summer was now obscured by a curtain of rain as it continued to lash the windows. Had Elspeth really buried herself here for the past eighteen months?

By the time she'd unpacked her few belongings and made herself a cup of tea, the rain had stopped and a watery sun appeared, so, since she'd no time to waste, Rona changed into appropriate clothing and set out on a voyage of discovery.

The wind caught her breath as she stepped through the swing doors and turned right, in the direction of number fifty-seven. The pavements were wet and shining, and a few hardy souls were about, padded against the vagaries of the weather.

Interspersed with the hotels and boarding houses along the front was a selection of shops – jewellers, gift shops, the Edinburgh Wool shop. Presumably the more plebeian stores and supermarkets were further inland.

The wind in her face was bracing, and Rona fell into an easy stride, keeping track of the numbers as she went. After a while the shops petered out, giving way to residential houses, solid and sturdy in grey stone. Several had vacancy signs in their windows and B&B notices at their gates.

Her footsteps slowed as she approached her goal, while she tried to take in as much as possible without staring at the house too obviously. There was little to distinguish it from its neighbours; no signs or notices here, just a gate, a neat front garden, and a path leading to the door. The windows to either side were screened with net curtains, and Rona wondered, with a tightening of the throat, if Elspeth was inside, watching her.

She continued walking until she came to a street leading inland, and turned into it. Here, the houses were mainly bungalows, hunkering down, Rona thought, against whatever the winter storms might throw at them. At the next corner she again turned right, and, as she'd supposed, found herself in the main shopping street, boasting familiar names like Morrisons and Boots, as well as small, independent establishments – a butcher, a fishmonger and a fruit shop among others.

Most had Christmas decorations in the windows – artificial trees, swags of holly, coloured baubles. It was already getting dark – earlier than at home – and coloured lights strung across the road blinked suddenly into life, turning the puddles on the pavement into rainbows of gold and green, red and blue.

The festive atmosphere reminded Rona that although she and Max intended to invite the family for Christmas lunch, she'd not actually issued invitations – an omission she must rectify on her return home. Perhaps, tomorrow, she'd also take a closer look at the gift shops; one had a display of Rennie Mackintosh-style jewellery and clocks.

At the next crossroads she turned back in the direction of the front, and now she could see lights shining across the water. She'd forgotten it wasn't the open sea that bordered Craiglea, but the Gare Loch, a fairly narrow strip of water that, lower down, opened into the Firth of Clyde.

With the onset of darkness the air had grown colder, and Rona was glad the hotel was only a hundred yards or so down the road. Its warm air enveloped her as she pushed her way inside and took the lift to her room. She stood for several minutes looking at the improved view from her window, the rippling dark water and the lights reflected in it. Then she drew the heavy curtains, sat down on the bed, and phoned Max.

‘What's it like?' he asked.

‘I was a bit disenchanted when I arrived,' she admitted, ‘but that was down to the rain. I've had a walk now, and the town has quite a lot going for it. There are municipal gardens somewhere, though I haven't come across them yet, and what's known as a maritime museum. Not that I'll have much time to explore, since Elspeth's my main objective.'

‘And how do you propose to achieve that?'

‘I thought I'd write a note, explaining who I am and giving my mobile number, and drop it through her letterbox.'

‘You mean the Ryders' letterbox,' Max corrected. ‘Remember, you've really no reason to believe Elspeth's there, as I tried to point out before you took off.'

‘Oh ye of little faith!' she mocked. ‘Anyway, not much to report as yet, but it's early days. I'm now going to change and go down for dinner. I only had a sandwich at the airport and I'm absolutely starving!'

He laughed. ‘Well, Gus and I are missing you. Take care, sleep well, and I'll speak to you tomorrow. Bye, darling.'

Rona was surprised to see how full the dining room was, though whether the diners were residents or people coming in from the town, she couldn't tell. The menu offered pretty standard fare: a roast, ‘catch of the day' – since they were on the coast – pork chop with apple sauce and red cabbage, and a vegetarian option. She ordered cockaleekie soup, followed by the chop and a glass of Merlot.

Then she sat back and looked round the room, surreptitiously inspecting each table in case Elspeth should be among the guests. But unless she'd dyed her hair grey, black or red, there appeared to be no sign of her, and, abandoning her search for the evening, Rona propped up the paperback she'd brought and settled down to enjoy her meal.

Later, back in her room, she took a sheet of the hotel notepaper from its leather folder and, after some thought, composed a brief note to Elspeth, requesting an interview. Knowing her opposition to personal publicity, she wasn't hopeful, but having come this far, she had to justify the trip.

She watched the ten o'clock news as she prepared for bed, read for a few minutes until her eyes felt heavy, then put out the light and fell into a deep and dreamless sleep.

The increasing coldness of the previous evening had brought a thin coating of frost, which, with clear skies and sunshine, promised a more pleasant day. Rona ate the full cooked breakfast before setting off, with more optimism than was justified, to retrace her steps, the sealed envelope in her bag.

More people were about this morning, and she crossed the road to walk along the railings that bordered the beach, breathing in the strong, salty air. Down on the sand, dogs were dashing in and out of the waves, shaking themselves over anyone within radius. Rona felt a pang for Gus; he wasn't used to sand and water, and would have enjoyed the experience.

When she came level to the last of the shops, she crossed back to the landward side, and, her heartbeat accelerating, took the envelope from her bag.

Fifty-seven The Esplanade: the address that had leapt at her out of her computer, and was now literally within reach. Before her courage failed her, Rona opened the gate and walked briskly up the path. But as she leaned forward to post the note, the door opened suddenly, and she found herself face to face with a woman in coat and scarf, who seemed as startled as she was.

Elspeth? Surely it must be, though she looked completely different. Gone was the trademark fall of hair, and with it, Rona's chief means of identification. The figure in front of her could be anyone, with her close crop and small, unfamiliar features.

Rona said hesitantly, ‘Elspeth Wilding?' And, as the woman's eyes widened, knew she had struck home.

‘Who are you?' she demanded, her fingers gripping the door.

Rona swallowed. ‘My name's Rona Parish. I'm writing—'

‘Ah!' Elspeth broke in. ‘Then I know all too well what you're writing. What I
don't
know is what you're doing here?'

‘I was hoping to speak to you,' Rona said lamely.

‘Who gave you this address?'

‘No one. I just . . . worked it out.'

Elspeth frowned. ‘I can't imagine how.'

‘If you could spare me just a few minutes?' Rona pleaded. ‘You've occupied my mind for the last I don't know how long, and it would be so good actually to speak to you.'

‘You appreciate I didn't give permission for this biography?'

‘Yes, but I do hope you'll agree to it. I've interviewed quite a few people, but it's not the same as—'