Gillian Galbraith - No Sorrow To Die

Thinking of Thomas Riddell, a picture of his anguished face as he heard the news of Heather Brodie’s confession appeared before her, and she could hear his impassioned words ringing in her ears. Not very professional of him, she thought to herself primly.

And then, slowly, realisation dawned. That was the answer. Of course, he had not been professional, because his relationship with Heather Brodie went far, far beyond that. It was personal, possibly very personal. And he, obviously, like the rest of them, would know every single detail of the investigation, however obscure, however unlikely, and if he knew it, then so, too, might she. If she had asked him about it, then he, in his susceptible, over-enamoured state, might well have told her. Told her everything.

And that momentary hesitation when hearing about the insurance policy, the flicker of surprise, had been genuine. Because, as she had said, it was not her desk but her husband’s. The files had become increasingly disordered, not because she had lost interest in them, but because her accountant husband could no longer attend to them, with the disease getting its claws further and further into his flesh. So, she might not even have known about the policy.

But one question remained: who the hell was she protecting with her false confession? Who had actually killed Gavin Brodie? Suddenly, and from nowhere, Una Reid’s chilling question came into her head, her throaty, smoke-scarred voice sounding eerily triumphant: ‘Why’d I bring his suffering to an end?’

Only someone who loved him would do that. His children or his mother. And, immediately, the answer came to her. She had no doubts, that must be it. Heather Brodie had broken the news to her son, rather than her daughter, because it was intended not for onward transmission to the others, but to let him know that she had confessed, was now shielding him and protecting him from the consequences of his crime. And how would he react to such tidings? Jesus Christ. What a God-awful muddle!

When Alice finally reached the door of the basement flat in Raeburn Mews, it was ever so slightly ajar, and loud music could be heard inside. She knocked sharply, then called out, but got no response. With trepidation she pushed the door further open and slipped inside. Unaccompanied drum music was reverberating in the small space, played at a volume high enough to hurt the ears, making the boy’s flat feel like a mad house.

As she entered the sitting-room, the first person she saw was Harry Brodie. His thin torso was bare and he was holding a bread knife in his hand. He looked up as she came in, startled, and she noticed his knuckles blanch as he tightened his grip on the knife.

‘What on earth are you doing in here?’ he demanded.

‘The door was open. We need to see you.’

‘What?’ he shouted, then he turned down the volume on the nearby speaker. ‘What did you say?’

In the silence she repeated, ‘We need to see you.’

‘OK,’ he said, moving towards her, the knife still in his hand.

‘Could you put it down, Harry?’

‘You mean the knife… sorry, it’s just for the bread though – to cut the bread,’ he replied, putting it down on a breadboard on the low coffee table beside her. A loaf, together with a pot of jam and a packet of butter, was also on the board. He looked at her calmly, expectantly, waiting for her to explain herself.

‘Did you get a call from your mother?’

‘No – why?’

‘Sure about that? She said she was going to call you. I saw her do it.’

‘No. I could have missed it I suppose, I’ve been having a shower. Maybe she called then. What did she want to speak to me about?’

There was no easy way to break the news.

‘Because… she’s just walked into the station and confessed to the murder of your father.’

‘Fucking hell!’ the boy said, dropping onto a chair as if his legs had buckled under him.

‘You had no idea?’

‘Of course I had no fucking idea!’ he shouted, shaking his head. ‘No fucking idea. I knew she was planning to put him in a home. I knew she had found another man. I knew she didn’t love him… but, no, I didn’t know that. It never crossed my mind that she’d do that. Ella, for sure… but not Mum. She just didn’t care enough about him. All his pleading was just water off a duck’s back, I thought, and God knows, she wouldn’t have had long to wait. Not Mum, though…’

‘You talked about it – you, your mum and Ella? About taking your father’s life?’

‘Yes,’ he said angrily, ‘and don’t look so surprised. We talked about it, but not with Mum any more. It didn’t affect her, she’d somehow managed to stop “hearing” it. But Ella and I talked. Sometimes about very little else. Every time I saw him, every single time, he asked me to kill him. Ella too. Granny, probably, for all I know. Can you imagine that? I doubt it. But, yes, we talked about it. I think you’d find that anyone, anyone in that hellish position, would talk about it. And… think about it. Eat, bloody sleep and breathe it too. Jesus,’ he said, hiding his face in his hands.

‘Why would your mother phone you to arrange things… a lawyer, that kind of thing, not Ella?’

‘What d’you mean? Why wouldn’t she phone me? Maybe she rang Ella too, are you sure she didn’t?’ he paused before continuing. ‘Probably not, though, because I won’t crumble, but Ella will. She and Mum are really close, always have been. She’ll not be able to cope. Anything happens to Mum and she goes to pieces, can’t take it. It happened when we had a cancer scare, when Mum had a car crash too. Mum is Ella’s Achilles heel, you see, and Mum knows that better than anyone.’

As Alice stood watching the boy, the door slowly opened and Ella slipped in with the child, Katy, holding her hand. Her face was red, tears streaming down her cheeks. The stealthiness of her entrance suggested that she had been outside, listening to her brother’s words.

‘It can’t be true… not Mum,’ she said, looking first at Alice and then at her brother, waiting for either of them to deny it.

‘I’m afraid it is,’ Alice said. ‘She came to the station and told us this morning.’

‘But… but why? I don’t believe she could do it. Mum couldn’t kill him. She just couldn’t bring herself to do it, even if she wanted to. I could, but not her. I even told Aunt Pippa that I was going to, and I meant it, I would have… if Dad was going to go into a home, and you said that he was, Harry, that he’d rot in there, it would be even worse for him… but Mum could never have killed him, any more than you, Harry.’

‘When – when did you tell her that?’

‘Who?’ the girl asked, her voice quavering.

‘Your aunt Pippa?’

‘On the Friday… before he died.’

‘What did she say?’ Alice asked.

‘She said not to be silly, not to think about such a thing. She kept saying that I was a mother now, had Katy to look after. She said that I mustn’t worry, all would be well in the end.’

Pippa Mitchelson, Alice thought to herself. The one person left who had no alibi. And they had all known that and done nothing about it. Had somehow completely overlooked the timid spinster, seeing her only as a foil for the others.

‘Only for a few minutes,’ Thomas Riddell said, ‘otherwise I’ll be for the chop. I’m just letting you in to comfort Heather, nothing else. She needs somebody from her family. She was worried the boy might hurt himself when he got the news.’