Walker? Yes, she’d time it so Uncle Archie would find her.
He could explain it to red-lipped Fascist and Beardy dogsbody. She sat back up, looking at herself as her face passed in the mirror. A haggard young woman stared back out at her, seeming to move slower than she herself moved. A pale face haunted by the loss of her family, the loss of her career. Her loss of self.
Getting up and walking across the floor, she noticed she still had her boots on.
She should pick up the empty bottles of vodka from the carpet.
Why bother? She’d be dead. Oblivion was better than another meeting where they looked down at her, because she had lived a dream life. She had had it all. Yet they would stare at her as if she was some stupid addict, like she was one of them.
She pulled the curtains over the window, blocking out the night sky as she tried to remember. Glimpses of being wet, walking down the street, her hand had been sore. She had stumbled against the wall at some point, remembering the stinging pain as she grazed the skin on her palm. She looked at it now, seeing the bloodied scrape, a dark scab starting to form. Was that yesterday? Or this morning? This afternoon?
She had no bloody idea. This was the way of her life. Flashes of this. Glimpses of that. Nothing that ever made any sense. It was like listening to a foreign language, recognising words here and there but never enough to pull together a sentence, never made enough sense for it to form a story.
Memory lapse.
And she had no memory of what she was doing the day her sister was murdered.
But she had visited the house. It was over, closed. She could end it all now.
Sitting down on the side of the bed she took her boots off. Nobody committed suicide with their boots on. She wanted to be comfortable, lie down and not leave the duvet dirty.
Dirtier.
She lay down again. Relaxing. Life owed her nothing except this one thing – this little bit of peace and quiet, save the whipped-up hysteria being broadcast from next door. Picking up the gun, feeling the weight of it in her hand. It was far heavier than she had expected. It smelled of oil, it covered the skin of her hands in something foul.
She wanted her last thoughts to be of Abigail. Of Mary Jane. And of Malcolm. She wanted to remember them as they had been in life. Abigail with her prim, controlled smile. Mary Jane pouting for the camera as every teenager had done for the last twenty years. And Malcolm laughing, both hands holding onto his most prized possession: his Lego Millennium Falcon.
All gone.
Had they all gone to heaven in their little rowing boat?
And what had happened to the Lego Millennium Falcon? It hadn’t been at the house; well, she hadn’t seen it. She had bought it for Malcolm last Christmas. Good times.
She felt the tears fighting to escape her eyes, but she refused to cry. There was nothing to cry about, not now. She looked back at the water sprinkler and the smoke alarm. Then heard footfall, somebody walking along the hotel corridor passing her door. They walked quickly with the quiet jangle of a key. A car key most likely, as all the rooms in the hotel were card operated, so he, she presumed, was going out to the car park.
Then the footsteps paused. The jangling stopped. Valerie’s eyes fixed on the corner of the room, at the door, willing it to open, or not open. It seemed a long time before the feet moved away, going back the way they came. He had forgotten something. She wondered what.
Valerie tightened her grip on the gun, allowed herself a weak smile. Was that going to be her last thought on this earth? What had that man forgotten that was so important he went back for it?
She’d wait until he went away.
She made herself comfortable on the pillow, thinking about pulling it round and using it as a silencer. But it would be better if they all heard. Then they might be careful about who opened the door, especially if her forgetful friend outside happened to recognise a gunshot when he heard one.
She lay back and closed her eyes. The muzzle was cold against her temple, it jiggled around a little, the tremor of her finger round the trigger, the weight of the gun itself was heavy and unstable, holding it made her wrist ache.
She ignored a guffaw of laughter from next door. She said goodbye to the water sprinkler and the smoke alarm.
Valerie Abernethy closed her eyes and pulled the trigger.
Valerie Abernethy heard a click.
DONNIE MCCAFFREY SAT IN his Mini Clubman on the northwest bank of Loch Lomond, at Inveruglas, alone in his car, slowly steaming up the windows. He was parked right at the waterside, the most obvious place. During the day, even on a cold winter’s day, this place was alive and buzzing, but now, on a dark evening, it took on the mystical aura of shape shifters and moving shadows; the subtle movement of the water deceiving the eye into seeing things it had not seen.
Or had it?
There could be anything up here, hiding away from lights and prying eyes. He looked around again, cursing himself for having a good imagination.
Inveruglas car park was hidden by high trees, shrubs, a small signpost on the main shore road pointing to a concealed entrance that led to the observation viewpoint. He had been here a few times with Isla and the boys. A family day out at the waterside, time for a paddle and an ice cream. But now, waiting, he looked around the car park with different eyes. An easy drive to Glasgow. And easy drive up north. An easy place to find. But why here? Once through the thick bank of trees, the narrow entrance opened up to allow access to the small vehicle car park, the café and the lower viewpoint that looked over the metal pontoons and the plinth with its brass map of the water and every one of the fifty-four islands.
He looked at it now through the eyes of a criminal, an obvious entrance and exit, with the smaller secondary route at the rear, accessed through the narrow line of trees, well hidden in this dense dark night.
When he was here before, he had climbed to the upper level of the viewing point with his eldest on his shoulders, sweating his way up to the large wooden sculpture, An Ceann Mor, with its seats and standing areas. He remembered the sign, hanging at an angle, from a single nail, that said barbecues not permitted. The wood underneath was charred to ebony cracks you could see the grass through.
That day the car park had been bustling: tourist coaches stopping for comfort breaks and photo opportunities, boat tours dropping off passengers on the pontoon, bikers meeting for coffee, kids eating ice cream, little old ladies resting their swollen ankles and drivers stretching their legs, but everybody stopped to take in the breathtakingly beautiful sight of the long view of the loch. His middle boy had eaten so much ice cream he had been sick on the way home. Twice. The new car had been three weeks old. He pressed the button to drop the window a little at the memory of the smell.
But this evening, Inveruglas was as cold and deserted as a Soviet winter. At 9 p.m. on the 25th of November there were no tourists enjoying the view, no lights casting a shadow over the dark and still water. There were no coaches sitting with idling engines, no caravans tucked away behind the trees. The hills were silent against the dark tumbling sky, and the rain was pissing down as usual, battering on the roof of the Mini where Donnie was trying to listen to ‘Stay’ by David Bowie, with the melodic shapes of Earl Slick on guitar, sideman par excellence.
He
