Michael Ridpath - Amnesia

She would do what she could for Jerry, as he now called himself. Although Bill Paxton, the family lawyer, would never involve himself with false identities and safe hiding places, she was hopeful that he would put her in touch with someone else who would, for the right amount of money. Bill would know not to ask questions. Like his father before him, from whom he had inherited his practice, he knew never to underestimate Madeleine.

Clémence, the old man and Callum rode to Wyvis in silence. The taxi driver tried to make cheery conversation, but soon gave up. The old man sat in the front passenger seat, staring out at the snow-streaked Glen Glass. Clémence sat in the back with Callum, her fingers curled around his. She had interpreted his glance correctly at lunch with Madeleine; he had thought that they should go to Wyvis with the old man before calling the police. She felt bad that she had dragged him into such a dangerous situation, but so relieved that he was there. He was a year younger than her, yet he exuded a calm competence that she and the old man lacked.

But he was no match for a man armed with a rifle who was willing to use it. None of them was.

Callum leaped out of the taxi to open the gate at the entrance to the estate. As the taxi drove through, Sheila MacInnes rushed out, arms folded against the cold.

Clémence wound down her window.

‘Clémence, pet, are you OK? Did you really spend the night on the mountain?’

‘We did,’ said Clémence. ‘And it wasn’t much fun.’

‘You radge! You could have killed yourselves. Are you all right, Alastair?’

‘I’m fine, now, Mrs MacInnes,’ said the old man. ‘I had a hot bath in Dingwall. I can’t wait to get home.’

‘Shouldn’t you be in hospital?’ said Sheila.

‘Alastair’s much too tough for that,’ said Clémence.

‘Someone vandalized your car yesterday,’ Sheila said. ‘Callum probably told you. Broke a window and let down the tyres. Terry has pumped them up again. Did you leave anything valuable in there? Terry said they didn’t take the radio.’

‘No, nothing,’ said Clémence.

‘It’s worrying,’ said Sheila. ‘We haven’t seen any strangers about, apart from this young man, of course. You gave him a scare. And us.’

‘I’m sorry, Sheila,’ said Clémence. ‘Did Jerry see anyone?’

‘Jerry’s off somewhere. His car is gone.’

That was good to know.

‘You will report it to the police, won’t you?’

‘I will,’ said Clémence. ‘See you later, Sheila.’

The taxi drove on through the woods towards the loch.

‘Callum? Can I ask you something?’ the old man said.

‘Sure.’

‘Do you know what atelier means?’

‘It’s French, isn’t it? I should know, but I don’t.’

‘Hah! Hear that, Clémence? He says it’s French. Smart lad, your boyfriend.’

‘No he’s not, he’s ignorant,’ said Clémence, jabbing Callum in the shoulder. ‘We’ve got to find that dictionary!’

It was a sunny day and the snow was melting, at least down by the loch. They passed Corravachie, and Clémence was pleased to see that Jerry’s car had indeed gone. The cottage looked shut up: no smoke from the chimney.

Culzie appeared to be empty too. Clémence glanced at the Clio and noted the smashed window on the driver’s side. She paid the taxi driver and opened the front door.

‘Let me, Clemmie,’ said Callum.

Although Jerry was in theory away from the estate, Clémence was happy to let Callum go first.

‘Hello?’ he shouted. No reply. The house creaked as Callum stepped on ancient floorboards, but there was no sound in response. It felt empty. He put his head into the kitchen and the sitting room, before climbing the stairs. Clémence followed him, and paused halfway up as he checked the bedrooms.

‘There’s no one here,’ he said.

Clémence hurried up the steps and into the study. The desk stood waiting for her in front of the view of the loch. She remembered exactly where she had seen the black exercise book with the red binding.

She ripped open the drawer and there it was!

Carefully, she lifted it out on to the desk, noticing as she did so that underneath it was a second exercise book, identical to the first.

She flicked open the cover.

A blank page.

She riffled through the exercise book. Blank pages. She seized the second book. Same. Empty. They were both empty!

‘They must be spares. The one Alastair wrote in must be gone.’

‘Let me see!’ said the old man who had arrived at the top of the steep staircase panting. ‘Yes, that’s the right type of exercise book,’ he said. He, too, leafed through the empty pages.

‘I’m sorry,’ said Clémence. ‘I was sure it was here. We’ve wasted our journey!’

The disappointment rested heavily on the old man, adding a further burden on to an already exhausted body.

‘Where can it be?’ said Clémence. ‘Any memory of what you did with it?’

The old man shook his head. ‘I can remember writing it just here. And I did keep it in that drawer on top of those two others. But what I did with it? No idea.’

Clémence fought to control her frustration. She knew it wasn’t true, but sometimes she felt the old man chose what to remember and what to forget just to exasperate her.

‘What are these?’ said Callum. He was holding two opened envelopes. ‘One was on the desk, and I found the other under that bottom exercise book.’

Clémence looked at them. ‘That’s from Madeleine,’ she said, pointing to the one with the United States stamp, which she had noticed on the desk before.

‘And that’s from Stephen,’ said the old man. ‘And yes, I do remember his handwriting somehow.’

Callum handed them to the old man. He stared at the two envelopes, and then passed them on to Clémence. ‘You read them,’ he said.

‘Are you sure?’ said Clémence. ‘They might be private.’

‘They will certainly be private,’ said the old man with a rueful smile. ‘And there will be things in them that are humiliating. But I’ve got used to you reading that kind of thing to me.’ He gave Callum a wry smile. ‘You can listen too. The more the merrier.’

The old man pulled back the desk chair and collapsed into it. Clémence rested against the desk. She hesitated, and picked out the letter from Stephen first. She began to read.

Talbot Road

W11

3 December 1998

Dear Alastair,

I got your letter. I suppose I should thank you for discovering who did kill Sophie. I am sure that now we finally have the answer.

As to your questions, no, I do not want you to go to the police. And I certainly don’t want you to publish another edition of that damned book. It’s caused enough trouble already.

Drop it, Alastair, you interfering old bugger. Do you understand me? Drop it! Just let me live the rest of my shitty life in some peace, will you?

‘Well that’s pretty clear,’ said the old man. ‘Poor chap.’

‘It implies you told him the name of Sophie’s killer,’ said Clémence. ‘I wonder who it was? That means it wasn’t you, doesn’t it?’ She badly hoped the old man wasn’t a killer after all. ‘You’re innocent! Don’t you see?’

‘Maybe Madeleine’s letter will say,’ said Callum.

‘Read it,’ said the old man.

Clémence thought he was very calm, given he had just discovered he was not a murderer. ‘Aren’t you pleased?’

‘I’m not taking anything for granted until I am absolutely sure. Now, tell me what Madeleine has to say.’

Clémence slid a couple of thin blue sheets of paper out of the second envelope, the one with the US stamps.