Michael Ridpath - Amnesia

She left the album and ran down the stairs. It was a taxi with a Dingwall phone number emblazoned on its side.

She flung open the front door and saw a small old lady, with black hair and a walking stick, being helped out of the back seat by the driver.

‘Tante Madeleine!’ she cried, and threw herself into the old lady’s arms.

‘Clémence, my dear!’ Madeleine exclaimed as she hugged her great-niece. ‘My, that was a welcome!’ she said in French as they eventually broke away.

Clémence hadn’t seen her aunt for a couple of years. She looked a little older, a little frailer with the walking stick. But she still had the big friendly brown eyes, and the wide smile. Under a fur-lined coat, she was dressed in trousers, a plaid waistcoat and her trademark Hermès scarf around her neck. Discreet jewels glimmered from her ears and on her fingers and the myriad of wrinkles across her face were softened with careful make-up.

‘Shall I tell Davie here to come back and fetch me at five?’ Madeleine asked.

‘Do you want to stay here? We have room.’

‘Oh, no,’ said Madeleine, shuddering at the thought. ‘I’ll be much better in a hotel in Dingwall. I’ve already checked in.’

‘Then five will be fine.’

Madeleine gave instructions to the taxi driver, who seemed happy to do anything his passenger asked, sensing that he would be making a lot more than whatever was on the meter from the afternoon’s work.

‘Let me show you the cottage,’ said Clémence.

Madeleine admired Culzie’s warmth and cosiness, Clémence put another log on the fire, and they sat in the sitting room.

‘Where is Alastair?’ Madeleine asked.

‘He’s gone for a walk. He should be back in half an hour or so.’

‘That’s good he can go walking. How is he?’

‘Physically, he is fine. He just needs some stitches out of the back of his head. And his memory is coming back. Slowly.’

‘So he really has forgotten everything? The poor man!’

‘Yes,’ said Clémence. ‘The poor guy doesn’t know who he really is. But, as I said, it’s beginning to return.’ She picked up the book by her chair. ‘We’ve been reading this.’

Madeleine’s hand flew to her mouth. ‘Oh, my dear! What a place to start! That is a horrible book!’

Clémence had been pinning her hopes on Madeleine arriving, taking over from her, and making everything all right. But for the first time the reality of Madeleine’s role in the story they had been reading became clear. Sophie was Clémence’s grandmother, whom she had never met. She was also Madeleine’s little sister, with whom Madeleine had grown up.

Oh, God. Two old people who were going to flip.

Clémence thought she had better explain. ‘I found a manuscript in this room written by Alastair. It was written in the first person, and the title was Death At Wyvis . Then I found this published book on the bookshelf, written by an Angus Culzie. Same book, but the protagonist is a man called Angus. But that’s Alastair, isn’t it?’

‘Yes, it’s him,’ said Madeleine. ‘How much of it have you read?’

‘I’ve read the prologue. Where Sophie... your sister... gets killed. By Angus. Or Alastair. Or whoever he is. But I have only read to Alastair from the beginning of chapter one, which takes place in Paris. He doesn’t know about the murder, or at least I think he doesn’t.’

‘Have you got to the last section. In Wyvis?’

‘Just about to read it. This afternoon.’

‘Oh, my poor Clémence! When I sent you to look after him, I didn’t mean that you should have to go through all this.’

‘Is it true?’ said Clémence.

Madeleine nodded.

‘All of it?’

‘Yes.’

‘Then Alastair killed your sister?’

Madeleine hesitated, and then nodded again.

Clémence sighed. ‘It has been very hard this last couple of days knowing that Alastair is a killer. He seems like a sweet old man.’

‘I’m sure,’ said Madeleine. ‘But—’

‘I am learning a lot about my family. My grandmother. And grandfather for that matter. And you.’

‘Not all of it good, I’m afraid.’

‘Why didn’t any of you tell me anything? I knew nothing!’

Madeleine’s big brown eyes were full of sympathy. ‘Your father forbade me to. As did your grandfather.’ She winced. ‘When you read the rest of the book, perhaps you will understand.’

‘It gets worse?’

‘It does.’

Clémence blew air through her cheeks. The book scared her, but at least now she had an ally in her aunt. ‘Do you hate Alastair? For killing your sister?’

Madeleine reached for the scarf at her neck and twisted it. ‘I used to. I probably still do. Maybe I have forgiven him, I don’t know. When the hospital called and said he had no one, I thought I should come over and help. And thank you for doing what you have been doing yourself, my dear.’

‘When did you last see him?’

‘Last autumn. He visited us in New York.’ She hesitated. ‘It was a painful visit. It upset Nathan.’

‘I’m sorry about Uncle Nathan,’ Clémence said.

‘Thank you.’ Madeleine smiled quickly. ‘We were married a long time. He was a wonderful man. Life is different without him.’

‘Aunt Madeleine? Before Alastair comes back, can I show you something?’

‘Certainly, my dear,’ said her aunt, grateful for the change of subject.

Clémence nipped upstairs and grabbed the photograph album. She brought it back downstairs and opened it at the picture of Alastair and Stephen in a quadrangle in Oxford. ‘Who does that remind you of?’

Yes! He had been waiting and watching for over an hour, but then Jerry saw the old man emerge from the woods and strike out across the hillside. Immediately, Jerry set out on foot along the loch towards the woods, clutching his binoculars as alibi. A beaten-up Land Rover drove past and Jerry waved to its occupant, Terry MacInnes, the stalker, on his way to Wyvis Lodge at the head of the loch.

Slow down. Jerry had to time this accurately. He followed the smaller track that branched uphill from the loch towards Culzie, but a hundred yards or so before the cottage he broke off into the woods and cut across the slope. It was hard work — the slope was steep, there were stones and boulders everywhere and every surface was covered in a variety of mosses and lichens in shades of green ranging from grey to bright yellow. Jerry had to cling on to branches to prevent himself from slipping.

Good.

He passed the first path directly down to the boathouse from the cottage, but fought his way through the wood to a second narrower route, which Jerry knew the old man liked to take. Having read Death At Wyvis many times, it didn’t surprise Jerry that Alastair wanted to avoid the boathouse.

When he reached the second path, he scrambled up it for a few yards until he arrived at a slightly flatter point, just above some rocks. Perfect.

He sat on a fallen trunk, took out his field glasses, focused on a non-existent woodpecker and waited.

After about twenty minutes he heard the sound of boots on rock and heavy breathing below him. He peered down and saw the top of the old man’s head making its way slowly up the slope, the scar clearly visible through his close-cropped white hair. The old man was finding it difficult, but he was determined. He slipped and swore, then continued his climb until he was almost upon Jerry. The old man was concentrating so much on where he was putting his feet that he hadn’t noticed him.

‘Alastair! Hi! That’s some climb you’re doing there.’

The old man looked up, saw Jerry and smiled. He continued the last few steps, panting heavily, and joined Jerry.

‘Whew!’ he said. ‘That’s not easy at my age.’