When The Devil Drives (49 page)

‘At two years old that model goes for up to twelve grand. You’re advertising at ten for a quick sale. You get the money to Jasmine within seven days and we don’t take it any further.’

Liam looked up with a scowl.

‘CCTV footage proves nothing. It would take more than that to convince the polis I had anything to do with it.’

Fallan gave a quiet little laugh. It sounded like knuckles cracking.

‘I’m not worried about whether it convinces the polis. It’s enough to convince me. Jasmine, would you give us a minute? I just need to explain some of the complexities to Liam here.’

Jasmine went outside to the Land Rover and Fallan followed a minute or so later. She didn’t know what he did or said, but five days later O’Hara turned up at the office and handed her an envelope containing ten thousand pounds in cash.

Shoppiness ensued.

She toured a few showrooms, even did some test drives on other makes and models, but she always knew what she’d be buying.

Another few days and it would be hers.

The Laguna was a smooth ride, ideal for a long trip such as this one. She put on some music, soft and low, something to cover the silence. It was plain before they’d even made it to Erskine that there wasn’t going to be any conversation.

As they crossed the great span of the bridge Jasmine glanced at the plunging forty-metre drop to the Clyde and wondered about Julian Sanquhar’s final moments. By that time Mrs Petrie was already in another place, alone with her thoughts.

How did you prepare yourself for something like this?

Jasmine and Fallan had joked about how they might break it to her.

‘Well, Mrs Petrie, the bad news is, you’re going to have to attend your sister’s funeral. The good news is, it won’t be your sister you’re burying.’

Ah, yes.

Sharp Investigations: conspiring to pervert the course of justice since …

It was Sanquhar’s suicide that made it possible, together with the confession he left behind. Otherwise the real Tessa Garrion would be going to jail, belatedly punished for the desperate acts of a frightened young woman in the aftermath of being raped.

‘Why would he say he killed you and not Saffron?’ Jasmine had asked her.

‘Looking at his career knowing what I do now,’ Tessa said, ‘I think Julian spent his whole life trying to compensate for what he had done. He was at his best, probably at his happiest, when he was making things happen for other people: selfless and pragmatic. Perhaps this was his last chance to do that.’

‘A final act of decency and yet a final act of deceit.’

‘Yes. He’s given me the only reparation he could, but it means there will never be any justice for poor Saffron.’

‘There is no justice for the dead,’ said Fallan. ‘Sometimes that troubles us, but the truth is I’ve yet to hear one of them complain about it. In this case, all that truly matters is what’s best for those who are still alive.’

Jasmine could see Tessa already waiting in the back garden as the Laguna crested the final spur, the small figures of three children buzzing around her like electrons as she stood and watched the road. From the rear of the house it was possible to spot a vehicle’s approach from quite some distance, but Jasmine doubted she would have been able to see this one coming a few short weeks ago.

At the sight of the car making its final approach an attractive young woman came out and ushered the children indoors: Tessa’s daughter-in-law, Fiona. She entered the house just as Jaffir Khan left it, striding out to stand next to his wife for support.

Jasmine pulled into the driveway behind three other vehicles and climbed out of the Laguna. She was about to walk around and open the passenger-side door for her client, but Mrs Petrie was already out and walking towards her sister.

The last time Jasmine arrived at this garden, Tessa Garrion had collapsed under the weight of revelation. This time it was Mrs Petrie who stumbled, breaking down in tears as she fell against Tessa and threw her arms around her.

‘My wee girl,’ Alice Petrie said, sobbing, clinging, eyes shut tight. ‘My wee girl. My wee girl.’

Jasmine felt the world freeze-frame for a moment. All of the evidence had been before her from the start, but only now did she understand.

The age difference of sixteen years. The resentment of the freedoms encouraged in Tessa but denied to her. The bitterness, born of harsh consequence, towards Tessa’s confidence and ambition, her ‘passion and impulse’. The easeful temptation of gradually losing touch and pretending as though she’d never existed.

And then the desperate, aching need to make this right while there was still time.

Tessa wasn’t her sister.