Past lying, p.18
Past Lying, page 18
Karen and Daisy found Bethan Carmichael outside the back entrance to the National Library, sheltering from a flurry of rain beneath a golf umbrella. The two police officers had opted for hats and raincoats; it was always a good idea to keep your hands free. You never knew what you might be walking into. Even on the deserted streets of lockdown. Karen introduced Daisy, reminding the librarian that they were a bubble. Carmichael gave a knowing smirk. ‘That’s handy,’ she said.
Karen couldn’t be bothered explaining their domestic circumstances. It was none of the woman’s business. Let her imagine what she liked. ‘I appreciate you organising this for us. I know it must have been complicated, in the present circumstances.’
Carmichael sniffed. ‘We have a very efficient organisation here, even in lockdown. It was simply a case of moving the archive boxes from one location to another, more appropriate one.’
So why the fuss on the phone? Karen’s smile was stiff. ‘DS Mortimer and I can get straight to work, then.’
Carmichael dug into her satchel with her free hand and pulled out a laminated A4 sheet. ‘I’ve drawn you a plan of the route from the back door here to the room you’ll be working in.’ Daisy took it. ‘I’ve also marked the nearest toilet.’ She stepped inside the door, where the security guard sat on a high stool, masked and gloved in bright blue latex. She pointed to a hand sanitiser dispenser. ‘Please use the sanitiser regularly. I’ll let you make your own way.’ She stepped back, leaving the regulation two metres between her and the security guard. ‘And be very careful with the materials you’ll be inspecting.’
‘I think we can manage that,’ Karen said. ‘Thanks.’ She took the map from Daisy and led the way down a long corridor leading into the bowels of the building. Down a flight of stairs, round a corner, two doors down. They opened the door on a gloomy room with a stack of archive boxes along one wall. A table and two chairs facing each other across it. The only natural light came from a pair of long windows at ceiling level, both currently cracked as wide as they would go. Daisy snapped the lights on, and the room brightened.
‘Let’s get started then. How are we going to divide this up?’ Karen studied the wall of boxes. ‘Meera told Jason she was doing a preliminary organisation of Jake Stein’s stuff. So I’m guessing the numbers on the boxes indicate a timeline?’
‘That’d make sense. I mean, they might decide ultimately to group the papers by other criteria – novels, short stories, letters, diaries. But the first step would be to sort them into date order.’
Karen nodded approvingly. ‘I knew your misspent youth in the world of academia would come in useful one of these days.’ She walked the length of the room. It was daunting. ‘Twenty-two boxes. Let’s start with the last ones first. And make a note of his friends and correspondents and anybody he’s worked with. Radio producers, journalists.’
They took a box each and started working their way through. Karen’s began with a small pile of flyers for events in the months before Stein’s death. With a sigh, she took out her phone and photographed each one. ‘I know Jason’s been talking to his publicist about the events Stein was doing, but there are maybe some that came through a more direct route. We need to double-check, just in case.’
Daisy nodded. ‘Will do, if I come across any. So far, all I’ve got is a bundle of Christmas cards and a pile of royalty statements.’
‘Check the cards, there’s always a chance Lara might have sent him one.’ Karen moved on to a cardboard file of letters and emails between Stein and his erstwhile publisher. It was an ill-tempered exchange, covering the period after the showdown with Marga Durham. The publisher made it clear that once they’d published the second book in his current contract, there would be no more. They were done with him. Stein argued that they were killing the goose that laid the golden egg, that readers were even more interested in his books now he had the whiff of scandal about him. ‘They love a bad lad,’ he argued in one lengthy email. ‘I’ve earned you a fucking fortune over the years, and this is how you thank me?’ Wounded elephant syndrome, Karen thought. How was it that men who were outed for their appalling misogyny still managed to feel entitled?
Next she came to some manuscript pages. Written in tight block letters, each page consisted of a brief outline of a short story with a possible title and destination for the finished article. Karen skimmed them, but none seemed to have any connection to Lara Hardie’s life or writings.
On they plodded, through newspaper cuttings, notes that meant nothing to either of them in the same cramped block capitals, printed-out emails from fans and other writers, a couple of short stories, bundles of receipts for travel and restaurant meals, VAT returns. An hour and a half in and Karen felt she was losing the will to live. She was certainly losing the power of concentration. She stood up and stretched her back. ‘You’d have to wonder who’s ever going to be interested in all this crap.’
‘There’ll be people queuing up to use it in their PhDs,’ Daisy said. ‘So many more MA and PhD students these days, all scrabbling around for something fresh to write about.’
‘I get that but, his restaurant receipts?’
‘I can see it now. “The role of Nando’s in the composition of Jake Stein’s fiction.” ’ They both laughed.
Karen pressed her palms against the wall and did some calf stretches. ‘How far down your box are you?’
‘About halfway. You?’
‘A bit more. This is going to take forever.’ She returned to the table and continued the tedious task. The minutes dragged by but then, suddenly, sandwiched between a contract for a BBC radio comedy quiz and a brochure for a crime festival in Inverness, she came across a couple of pages that made her sit up and take notice. The first was a list of names. The hand was, by now, familiar.
LARA
LAURA
LAURIAN
LORI
LAUREL
HARDIE
LAUREL AND
STANLEY LAUREL
OLIVER HARDY
LAUREL OLIVER
It read like a free association on Lara Hardie’s name, moving step by step till he arrived at Laurel Oliver. The Vanishing of Laurel Oliver. This was more than circumstantial. This felt like solid evidence.
20
For a long moment, Ronan stared incredulous at the contents of his brother’s wardrobe. He imagined Jason would never wear most of the items again. Hell, Ronan wondered, why had he ever worn them in the first place? But right at the back, beyond the garish Hawaiian shirts Jason had loved in his late teens, beyond the terrible cords he’d once thought stylish, beyond his first proper suit, was the thing that had knocked him back on his heels.
It was the last thing he’d expected. Though, if he’d thought about it, it made perfect sense. Jason almost never needed it these days, so of course he’d dump it in their mum’s house. But now, it felt like the answer to a prayer. Jason’s police uniform, pristine in a bag from the dry cleaner, hanging there, calling his name. On the shelf above, the peaked cap with the familiar black and white checked band.
Ronan reached out tentatively, as if he expected the Police Scotland uniform to disappear in a puff of fluff. The plastic squeaked as he dragged it out of the wardrobe and threw it down on the bed. He ripped the covering away, and there it was.
They were roughly the same size, him and Jason. Ronan was maybe more muscled across the shoulders and an inch or so shorter in the leg. But who was going to notice that? He found a pair of elastic-sided black Chelsea boots. Ronan pulled on the trousers and squeezed his feet into boots that were a size too small. He didn’t care. It wasn’t for long and it was in the best possible cause.
Next came the black short-sleeved top, then the fleece jacket, zipping it up to the neck. Then he realised he didn’t have the standard utility belt. Without it, he wouldn’t look the part. The first genuine polis who saw him would know instantly he was an imposter.
He thought for a moment. Where the fuck was the high-vis jacket Jason had been issued during his brief stint on Traffic? Surely that was long enough to cover his hips and disguise the absence of the Batman belt? Where would his mother have it tidied away? He didn’t like the obvious answer one bit.
Ronan didn’t know whether he could face his mother’s bedroom. If he didn’t go in there, he could kid himself she was still around, maybe having a wee lie-down. Denial was a comfort that would be shattered as soon as he went into her bedroom. But he had to find the high-vis jacket.
Steeling himself, Ronan pushed open the door to Sandra’s bedroom. The imprint of her head was still on the pillow, the covers thrown back where the paramedics had made her ready for the ambulance. What was almost as bad was that the room smelled uniquely of her. That combination of hairspray, perfume, the familiar mix of toiletries that said ‘Mum’ to him. Ronan clenched his fists and wrapped his arms around himself so tightly he couldn’t give way to tears.
He fell to his knees beside her bed and reached underneath for the plastic storage boxes she kept there for clothes that weren’t in the current cycle. He hit the jackpot in the third box. Folded neatly into a bundle was Jason’s high-vis jacket. Ronan groaned with relief and pulled it out of the box. To put the cherry on the cake, the epaulettes were still in place, Jason’s number in reflective silver.
He yanked the jacket on, zipping it up far enough to disguise what was missing and checked his look in his mother’s cheval mirror. All he needed now was a radio to slot into the jacket. Ronan went through to his own teenage bedroom and rummaged around in the drawer where he dumped stuff he didn’t use any more. Right at the back of the drawer, his fingers brushed against something he’d forgotten about. He’d had a brief spell as a bouncer at a local nightclub. The job had lasted until the management found out he was taking bribes from underage lassies who wanted to break the law. But he still had the lumpy walkie-talkie he’d been issued with and hadn’t bothered handing back. It more or less fitted the slot on the jacket, and it looked the business, he reckoned.
Ronan took the cap from the shelf. With a mask on, none of the polis he’d ever had a run-in with would recognise him.
One last thing. He rang the hospital and put on his most polite voice. ‘Hi. My auntie’s been admitted with COVID. We wanted to send a get well message but we don’t know what ward she’s on. Can you help? Her name’s Sandra Murray . . . yes, I’ll hold . . . ’ Within a minute, he had the answer.
Jason might have bottled it. Ronan wasn’t about to.
Blissfully unaware of what his brother was planning, Jason was ploughing on through Jake Stein’s events diary. Late in the afternoon, he finally managed to contact the organiser of a writers’ workshop in Dundee who apparently didn’t believe in voicemail. Susie Donaldson was the senior administrator for the creative writing module at Invertay College. She made it sound as if it was only one step below being the national Makar. ‘You’re lucky to catch me. I don’t believe I should be at anyone’s beck and call outside office hours,’ she told him imperiously.
‘I assumed you’d be working from home,’ Jason said, trying to keep the weariness from his voice.
‘You know what they say, Constable? To assume makes an ass out of you and me. Now, what can I do for Police Scotland today?’ She managed to imply that she was a constant source of help to the force.
‘I work for the Historic Cases Unit and we’re opening a new line of inquiry into a missing person. This is confidential, of course, but we’re trying to establish where she may have crossed paths with someone involved in her disappearance. So we’re backtracking through her movements. We have reason to believe she may have attended a writers’ workshop at Invertay.’
‘I see. I can’t imagine someone with ulterior motives attending a writers’ workshop, Constable. You’d soon be found out if you weren’t committed to the work.’
Jason closed his eyes and tried not to sigh. ‘Still, we have to pursue every possibility. I understand you ran a workshop led by Jake Stein a while ago?’
‘That’s right, yes. It was completely sold out. I suppose some people were made curious by his notoriety. I’ll be honest, I had my doubts about hiring him, after his disgrace, you know. But on the plus side, his rates were much lower than anyone else with his track record.’ She sounded very pleased with herself. Sure, why not put a sexual predator in a room with vulnerable egos?
‘Do you have a list of the people who attended his workshop?’
‘Of course I do. Good heavens, what kind of Mickey Mouse operation do you think we run at Invertay?’
‘I’m sure you’re very efficient. But it was a while ago.’
‘What’s the name of the woman you’re interested in?’ The acoustic had changed, as if Susie was looking away. Jason could hear fingers rattling on keys.
‘I’m afraid I can’t tell you that. What I’d like is for you to send me the list.’
A pause. ‘I’m not sure I can do that. Data Protection Act, and all that.’
Jason wanted to crawl down the phone and scream in her face, but he took a breath instead and said, ‘I’m not asking for any data. Simply a list of names. There’s no issue of privacy. I’ve spent all day on the phone to events administrators who think that helping solve a young woman’s disappearance is more important than just about anything else.’
‘There’s no need to be like that.’ Her voice was frosty. He could imagine what she looked like and it wasn’t an appealing thought. ‘Very well. Send me a photo of your ID and give me your email address and I’ll send you the list with all the contact details redacted.’
The call over, Jason folded his arms on the desk and laid his head on them. He was trying to block out all thoughts of his mother’s predicament, but nothing was working. Not even a jobsworth like Susie Donaldson could silence his fears.
21
The ban on hospital visits meant that for once it was easy to find a parking space. Ronan tucked his car between a couple of SUVs and made sure there was nobody around to see him emerge from his souped-up Audi with its spoiler and its custom alloys. He walked briskly to the A&E entrance and went in. Nobody gave him a second look as he made his way through the department, following the signs to the ward he was looking for. He didn’t want to risk the close quarters of the lift so he took the stairs, forcing himself to keep to a steady pace and not run up two at a time.
It wasn’t hard to figure out where the COVID wards were. For a start, there were a lot more people encased in full PPE. He couldn’t tell the difference between nurses, doctors, auxiliary staff and porters. They were all so focused on what they were doing, it was as if he were invisible.
He slowed a little, checking the signs for the ward his mother was on. But before he could go any further, a small Asian woman stepped in front of him, blocking his path. ‘You can’t come in here, officer,’ she said, her voice authoritative and firm.
‘I’ve to do an identity check on a patient,’ he said. ‘Somebody that was brought in earlier. There’s some confusion as to whether the paramedics got the right name.’
‘I’m sorry. That’s just not possible. You’ll have to go back. This is a quarantine area.’
‘I’ve got a mask on,’ he protested.
‘Not good enough.’
‘But if somebody’s here under the wrong name, would that maybe not be dangerous for them? Underlying medical conditions, and that? The family are worried.’ They were all familiar with the terminology these days.
The woman took a couple of steps forward, forcing him to move back. ‘I tell you what I’ll do. Tell me the name of the person you’re interested in. Give me your phone’ – she held out her hand – ‘and I’ll go and take a picture of them. And I’ll make sure I wipe down your phone afterwards. You can take that back and make whatever checks you need back at the station or wherever.’
Ronan had been doing well up to that point. But now he reverted to form and panicked. He pushed the woman to one side and hurried down the hallway as she stumbled against the wall. Now people were paying attention to him. He made it as far as the door to his mother’s ward before a burly man wrapped his arms around him from behind.
‘What do you think you’re playing at? This is hospital, not a rammy in the street.’
‘I’m doing my job,’ Ronan snarled. ‘Let me go or I’ll arrest you.’
And now the Asian woman was in his face again. ‘Get out. Right now. Are you deliberately trying to catch COVID? You want me to call your colleagues and have them throw you out? Andy, show this idiot the way out.’
The man unwrapped him from the bear hug but held tight to his arm. Half-leading, half-dragging Ronan he got him away from the wards and barred the way back. ‘Just go,’ he said gently. ‘There’s people seriously ill in there. We’re trying to look after them. We don’t need this.’
But Ronan was fired up with self-righteousness. He took a step forward and punched the man in the throat. He made a strangled gasp and fell to his knees.
And Ronan was off and running, pushing his way past anyone who tried to stop him. He was dimly aware of shouts of alarm, but he was past caring. At the door to the ward, he brushed the Asian woman aside as if she was a small child and burst into the room.
For a moment he was disorientated. At first glance, the occupants of the four beds looked the same. Old, grey-faced, features obscured by breathing equipment, like scuba divers on land. Then his vision cleared and he recognised his mother’s faded brown hair on a pillow, stringier than he’d ever seen it before. He ran down to her bedside, ignoring the nurses trying to stop him. ‘Mum,’ he said. ‘Mum, I’m here. We love you, Mum.’ Sandra’s eyelids fluttered but stayed closed. ‘You’ve got to keep fighting, Mum.’ He reached for her hand but before he could touch it, a strong arm gripped his other arm and twisted it viciously up his back.
