Michael Ridpath - Amnesia

Madeleine gave Clémence six fifty-pound notes from her purse.

‘I’m not sure I’ll get all the way to London by tonight,’ Clémence said. ‘I might have to stop over somewhere on the way. Or get the sleeper.’

‘What about Callum?’ said Madeleine. ‘Do you want to come with Clémence?’

‘That’s all right, Mrs Giannelli,’ said Callum. ‘I think I’ll go straight back to Glasgow. I’ve got a shift in the pub tomorrow lunchtime.’

They all looked at the old man. His face was still pale, but his cleft chin was jutting out proudly. Clémence realized that this was what he wanted. To be left to face his past alone, even if he might die for it.

The train pulled into Dingwall station, and Stephen stepped onto the platform with his small bag. It had been an early start and a long journey, but he knew the day was not over yet.

He checked into the hotel over the road, dumped his bag and asked directions to Madeleine’s hotel. He took a taxi up a hill behind the town, through a housing estate to a castle. It was now one of those fancy country-house hotels that Stephen read about in the Sunday papers, but in which he could never afford to stay. Besides, he had no intention of sharing a hotel with Madeleine.

She had checked out.

Which left Stephen only one option.

So, when he returned to his waiting taxi, he had a question for the driver.

‘How much is it to go to Loch Glass?’

Madeleine dropped Clémence and the old man at the vet’s farmhouse; Callum was following on his bike. Madeleine instructed Davie to take her on to the airport, making Clémence promise to call her at the Connaught as soon as she arrived at King’s Cross, whether it was that night, or, more likely, the following day.

‘What now?’ said the old man. Clémence’s heart went out to him. He looked both desolate and determined at the same time, and so frail.

He straightened up. ‘I know what you are thinking. But you promised Madeleine you would leave and leave you must.’

‘All right,’ said Clémence. ‘Let me just have a quick word with Callum, and I’ll see you upstairs.’

The old man went into the house as Callum freewheeled down the farm track. Clémence trusted Callum to see things more objectively than her, and she needed to check that she had read his thoughts correctly.

She had.

She went up to the room. The old man was sitting on his bed, staring into space. Clémence picked up the telephone and dialled the number from the card that Davie had given her.

‘Yes, I’d like a taxi please...’

She watched the old man watch her.

‘Yes. That’s for three people... the Wyvis Estate by Loch Glass... as soon as possible.’ She hung up.

The old man frowned. ‘The Wyvis Estate?’

She smiled at him. ‘As soon as we’ve found and read that exercise book, we call the police, OK? Just don’t tell Aunt Madeleine.’

He raised his eyebrows and then grinned. ‘All right, Clémence. We’ll do it your way.’

Jerry was seated at a table in the corner of the Inverness Public Library, poring over a map of Scotland and scribbling in the notebook he had bought that morning from WH Smith. Smith’s was one of the few things in this country that hadn’t changed since his childhood.

His initial thought had been to find a remote spot off a minor road in which to lie low. But the more he thought about it, the more he felt he was vulnerable in the countryside if the police launched a major search operation. Wherever he was hiding, there was the chance that a local shepherd, or ghillie, or forester would find his car and wonder what it was doing there. And, unlike the countryside of southern England which was criss-crossed with a network of minor roads, the Highlands were traversed by a limited number of through routes, all of which could be easily monitored by the police.

But in a city, he could blend in. No one would know that he was a stranger, and now he had shaved his beard and his hair, there was no description or photograph that the police could issue that would enable him to be recognized. He could easily lose his American accent and resurrect his old one. The Peugeot was parked on a residential street not far from the centre of town, where no one would remark on it. Also, a city gave easier and more anonymous access to public transport.

Inverness was a city, but a small one. It wasn’t quite anonymous enough for Jerry’s purposes; after wandering around its few main streets for an hour or so, he realized that people might begin to recognize him. He considered fleeing to Glasgow, where they would never find him, but he might be spotted on the way. Besides, he wanted to remain within striking distance of Wyvis or Dingwall, in case he had an opportunity to finish what he had started.

He had spent as long as he decently could in a coffee shop, and then wandered the streets again. As he passed the public library, he ducked inside. It didn’t seem the natural place for the police to look for a suspect on the run.

He was thinking through an escape plan. He needed a new vehicle; he would have to assume that his Peugeot had been identified. There were two difficulties: he didn’t know how to hot-wire a stolen car, so he would need keys, and he had to be sure that the theft wouldn’t be discovered for a few hours. Maybe break into an unoccupied house, steal the keys and then the vehicle? That way he should have an hour or two before the theft was reported. But he would need to find the right house.

The phone he had bought from the supermarket buzzed in his pocket. He answered it, ignoring the filthy glance of a prim woman reading the racing pages a couple of tables away.

The murmured conversation only took a minute.

Jerry stuffed the phone into his pocket, left the library and strode rapidly to the residential street just outside the centre of town where he had parked his car. He opened the trunk, and checked that the rifle was where it should be.

He switched on the engine, and headed out of town and north towards Wyvis, grinning to himself. The job would soon be done. Now he knew the police were not on his trail, he should have enough time to get away, maybe even as far as Glasgow, before they discovered the crime, let alone figured out which car he was driving.

Once he got to Glasgow, he should be able to disappear. It would be impossible to leave the country on his passport. But he had help and access to funds. Between them, they would figure something out.

Things were looking good.

Madeleine hung up the phone in the booth and surveyed the small departure lounge of Inverness Airport. The porter stood a short distance away with her two bags, looking discreetly in the other direction as she made her call.

She didn’t like what she had just done, but she had had little choice. This was just like Alden’s murder, just like Sophie’s. Their deaths set in motion treacherous eddies and undercurrents which dragged down everyone near them for years afterwards.

She wished she hadn’t gotten Clémence involved. At the time it had seemed necessary — Clémence was the only person Madeleine could think of to look after Alastair and get him out of the hospital until Madeleine could get to Scotland herself. She had wanted to make sure that Alastair was out of the clutches of any physical therapists or psychiatrists if he did start remembering things; much better if he was in a lonely cottage with only Madeleine there to listen to him, once she had sent Clémence back to university. If the old man really had forgotten everything permanently, Jerry could have let him live.

She had still thought of Clémence as a pliable schoolgirl. She should have anticipated that Clémence would ask questions about the old man’s life and get answers, especially since it was quite likely that Death At Wyvis would be lying around his house. A couple of years ago, Madeleine would have foreseen all that. Age was slowing her down, blunting her mind which had been so sharp. She hated that.