Michael Ridpath - Amnesia

She took the book down off the shelf; it had been read. She flipped open the pages. Passages were underlined with little notes scribbled in the margin. Had Jerry written those? Or had they been inscribed by a previous occupant of the cottage?

Just then Jerry bustled in with two mugs of coffee. He raised his eyebrows when he saw the book in Clémence’s hand. She could feel herself blush. She tried to stop herself, but you can’t do that — her face just felt hotter.

She tried to brazen it out. ‘This is the book I’ve been reading to Alastair,’ she said.

‘Oh. I should take a look. Here’s the coffee.’

‘Mmm. Smells delicious.’ She took a sip. ‘Tastes good too.’ Was that Jerry’s handwriting? Clémence had an idea. She drifted over to his desk and picked up one of the sheets. ‘Is this a new song?’ she asked.

It was his handwriting!

‘Yeah, it’s coming on nicely. I think I’m going to come up with some really cool material while I’m here.’

‘ The Wyvis Album ?’ said Clémence, replacing the sheet.

Jerry smiled. ‘Hey! That’s not a bad title.’

‘Shit!’

Jerry watched Clémence walking back to Culzie, his earlier complacency shattered.

Alastair Cunningham was remembering fast. And there was a lot he knew that Jerry could not afford to come to light.

He poured himself the rest of the coffee and took it outside to the rock by the shore of the loch. It was cold, but he didn’t care. He needed to make a decision. Fast.

All right. There was a chance that Alastair would remember Jerry visiting him the week before. Remember being pushed down the stairs. But then again, there was a chance that would never come back. Jerry couldn’t be sure what the old guy would remember and what was gone for ever. And even if he did remember, it would be difficult to prove murder in court. The forensic evidence would be messed up by now. Jerry could claim he had visited Alastair the day before he fell, and that Alastair was confused. It would be Jerry’s word against Alastair’s, a befuddled old man with a head injury.

But then Jerry’s own criminal record would come to light. Would that matter? Because Jerry had already spent time in jail, for manslaughter. It had happened in 1973 in the dive in Echo Park he shared with his girlfriend. He and Wendy were fighting, as usual. Then they had patched it up in the usual way, with heroin. Except she had somehow taken it twice. Or, rather, Jerry had given it to her twice. Or maybe three times. That was what he thought, and that was what he had stupidly told the police. The DA had offered manslaughter and Jerry’s dumb lawyer had persuaded him to plead guilty. But sentencing hadn’t gone as planned: the judge didn’t like long-haired song-writing drug addicts and thought Los Angeles would be better off without Jerry for a while. A long while. He hadn’t gotten out of the state penitentiary until 1984.

He had gotten to know a lot of other manslaughterers inside. And murderers. Some of them were evil, many of them weren’t. It was surprising how many men you met who had shot their wives with the gun kept in the bedside drawer and then regretted it for ever afterwards. Those were the kind of guys Jerry liked to hang out with inside. That was the kind of guy he was.

He really didn’t want to go through all that again.

OK. So there was a chance that he might avoid a murder rap for the fall on the stairs. But then there was all the other stuff that Alastair knew. That he might want to tell the police about. There was a lot a diligent Scottish detective could discover if he put his mind to it. And Jerry hadn’t liked the look on the girl’s face when she had been leafing through that book. She would soon start putting two and two together herself.

The previous fall, Jerry had decided to take action. He couldn’t back out now. There was a job to finish. And to finish quickly before it was too late, preferably before the aunt arrived.

There was the rifle locked in the gun cupboard at Culzie. Since Jerry didn’t have a British firearms certificate, in theory he was only supposed to use it under the supervision of Terry, the stalker. And if he did use it to kill Alastair, it wouldn’t take a Sherlock MacHolmes very long to figure out who was responsible.

That was a last resort. There was still his other idea that might work if he was lucky. But he would have to be quick.

He checked his watch. It was about twenty minutes since Clémence had left — she should be almost back to Culzie now, so he wouldn’t pass her. He made a quick phone call, then grabbed his binoculars, jumped in his car and drove to the spot he had occupied earlier that morning.

The clouds were building ominously above Ben Wyvis. Alastair liked to walk — he usually ventured outside at least twice a day — but snow would stop him. Jerry just had to hope that the old man decided to get a walk in before it started to snow.

Stephen rewound the video and pressed ‘Play’ for the third time. On the screen Sophie smiled at him, and little Rupert waved at Daddy. Then he ran across the lawn kicking a blue football, Sophie walking along after him. Then came the moment that hurt most. She turned and smiled at him. Just at him, the man holding the camera.

God, she was beautiful. And she loved him. How could he ever have lost her?

Of course, it wasn’t directly his fault, which was something he had always known even if no one else had. But there were things he could have done. He should have treated her better. He should have dealt with Alastair. He should never have suggested that they all went to Wyvis. So many things he should have done differently.

The tears ran down his cheeks. These phone calls the last couple of days from Clémence and from Rupert had opened up old wounds.

But if Madeleine and Clémence and Alastair were all reading that damned book together, there would be trouble. Perhaps he should face it. Perhaps he should go up to Scotland and face it — face them.

No, damn them! They didn’t need him, and he didn’t need them. Sophie was just a set of images on a VHS tape transferred from old eight-millimetre film. She was gone. In a few years, maybe only a couple of years, he would be gone too.

In the meantime there was a crossword to be done.

Half an hour later, he was sipping his Guinness in the Sherry Bar at the Windsor Castle.

‘Will you bloody concentrate, Stephen?’ Maitland said. ‘Three across. “Bachelor girl in Spanish-speaking country”. Seven letters. I thought “senorita” but that’s eight. Is it an anagram of somewhere in South America?’

‘Sorry, Maitland,’ said Stephen. ‘My mind was wandering. I think I’m going to get on a train to Scotland.’

‘What the hell do you want to do that for?’ said Maitland. ‘It’s March. The weather is abominable in Scotland in March.’

‘Bloody children,’ said Stephen. ‘And grandchildren. And interfering sisters-in-law.’

‘Sod the lot of them,’ said Maitland. ‘In the meantime, what about this senorita?’

Sheila had been and gone by the time Clémence got back to Culzie. In that time she had cleaned the kitchen and bathroom and put some soup on the hob. Clémence felt grateful, embarrassed and irritated in equal measure — she had fancied a ham-and-cheese toastie for lunch.

‘What’s it like out?’ the old man asked.

‘Cold,’ said Clémence. ‘I think it might rain. Or maybe snow.’

‘Did you see anything?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I don’t know. Deer? An eagle, perhaps?’

‘I saw your neighbour, Jerry Ranger.’

‘How is he?’

‘Fine.’

Clémence wasn’t sure what to think about Jerry, but she didn’t want to discuss him with the old man. There was something not right about the American. Who was he? And why was he interested in Death At Wyvis ? And, most importantly, why hadn’t he admitted his interest when Clémence had shown him the book the day before?