Michael Ridpath: Amnesia

‘How’s your memory?’

‘It’s improving,’ the old man said. ‘Jigsaw pieces keep on turning up and I slot them into place. I’ve remembered a lot about Australia, and some of living in Yorkshire after the war. Oddly, still very little about the last year since I decided to come back to Britain.’

‘Will the rest come back?’

‘They don’t know. It may.’

‘You certainly look a lot better.’

‘I feel a lot better. I can feel that a burden that has been weighing on me for most of my life has been lifted. It’s strange, I couldn’t remember or identify exactly what that burden was, but that didn’t make it any less heavy. And it’s gone now.’

‘What are you going to do now?’ Clémence asked. ‘Will they let you stay on at Culzie?’

‘Until September.’

‘And after that?’

‘I’ve been talking to people in Australia. Turns out I have friends there. And an accountant and a lawyer. I didn’t sell my house in Mundaring, I rented it out, but the tenants are moving out in August. It sounds as if I was a pretty good doctor. People seem to have liked me. Still like me.’

‘That’s wonderful!’ said Clémence. ‘So are you going back there?’

‘Yes,’ said the old man. ‘In September. It’s like starting up a new life.’ He frowned. ‘Unfortunately, the one neighbour I do remember as a good friend, Mike, died last year. The eagle man. But that’s what happens when you get to my age.’

‘I’ll miss you,’ Clémence said.

The old man smiled. ‘Perth isn’t that far from Hong Kong, is it?’

‘It’s thousands of miles,’ said Clémence.

‘I’m sure it’s on the way to Scotland. You should drop by. You’re a student. You’ve got a backpack.’

Clémence laughed. ‘Yes, of course it is. I’d like that.’

Their steaks came, and Clémence tucked into hers with gusto.

‘How’s Callum?’ the old man asked.

‘He’s fine,’ she said. She felt herself blushing again, but this time the old man didn’t say anything. ‘He says hello.’

‘I thought of giving him my toaster. You know, if he needs a weapon to protect his house. You don’t need a licence for it.’

‘I’ll tell him. He’ll be thrilled.’

‘Have you heard anything more from the police?’

The legal situation had turned out to be very complicated. The police in Arizona naturally wanted Fabrice and Madeleine extradited, but the Scots wanted to charge Fabrice with attempted murder, or some other legal definition which encompassed running around the Highlands with a gun trying to shoot people. There was also the question of the death penalty. Fabrice had a prior conviction for murder, which made Nathan’s homicide a capital crime in Arizona. But it also made extradition from Scotland much more difficult.

‘Nothing recently,’ said Clémence. ‘Madeleine’s lawyer came to see me on Monday. He told me she plans to plead guilty to everything. She’s going to Arizona next week. Bail is unlikely, even at her age, so she’s probably going straight to jail. But at least with a guilty plea there is no chance of the death penalty.’

‘I’m glad of that,’ said the old man. ‘Did he tell you anything else?’

‘She has set up a fund to pay for the rest of my education. Apparently she owns Grandpa’s flat in Notting Hill and she’s giving it to him. The lawyer said she was planning to leave me something in her will. I said I didn’t want it.’

The old man raised his eyebrows. ‘That might be a lot of money. Wakefield Oil is a big company.’

‘I know. But I really don’t want it. It’s all Alden’s, isn’t it, originally? It’s tainted. Bad karma. Very bad karma.’

‘I’m not entirely sure what bad karma is, but you are probably right.’ The old man reached into a canvas bag by his feet. ‘I’ve brought something too.’ He pulled out a black exercise book. With a red binding.

‘Is that what I think it is?’ asked Clémence.

‘The police found it in Fabrice’s car. He hadn’t destroyed it.’

‘Can I read it?’

‘Of course,’ said the old man.

Clémence hesitated. She wanted to reach out and grab it, but that seemed rude.

‘What are you going to do with it? Are you going to try to publish a second edition of Death At Wyvis ?’

‘Actually, I have another idea, but it requires your help.’

The old man’s eyes were twinkling. He was excited.

‘Oh, yes. What is it?’

‘I thought you and I could write a book together. A new book. Incorporating Death At Wyvis and adding your story to mine. After all these years, I finally know what really happened, and I need to set the record straight.’

‘And you want my help? You’re the one who has written all the books before.’

‘I think it would be fun to write it together. And to give your point of view. We could have a crack at it over the summer before I go back to Australia. You could come and stay at Culzie. Bring Callum. We could play Scrabble. I’ll let you win again.’ The old man smiled slyly. ‘Of course if you have to go back to Hong Kong, I would understand.’

The idea grabbed Clémence. She was dreading going home; she wasn’t even sure whether her mother would let her back in the house. This sounded fun. She really liked the idea of spending the summer with Callum, and Madeleine’s money would fund it.

Then a thought struck her. ‘We wouldn’t mention Patrick jumping on me, would we?’

‘Oh, I think we should, don’t you? I think your side of the story will be very convincing. And it would serve him right.’

Clémence hesitated. The old man was looking at her steadily. She trusted him. ‘OK,’ she said. ‘Patrick is in the book. I assume we’d say it was a novel?’

‘Of course. Why break with tradition?’

‘And what would we call it? Death At Wyvis Two? ’

‘I thought Amnesia .’

‘So you get star billing?’

‘We could be joint authors.’

‘You mean ditch Angus Culzie?’

‘Yes. That was just me.’

Clémence hesitated. ‘Wouldn’t one name be better? Another pseudonym?’

‘Maybe,’ said the old man. ‘But what?’

Clémence’s mind was blank. ‘I don’t know.’

‘I do,’ said the old man, after a moment’s thought. ‘We can use Mike’s name. You know, my friend with the eagles.’

‘OK,’ said Clémence. ‘What was that?’

‘Michael Ridpath.’

Clémence thought it over. She liked the idea. She liked it a lot.

‘All right,’ she said. ‘Let’s do it.’

There is a Wyvis Estate on the shores of Loch Glass in Easter Ross, although I have rearranged some of the dwellings there. The various owners of the estate over the years and their families are entirely fictional, with the exception of the nineteenth-century proprietor. The bed and breakfast outside Dingwall run by a vet and his wife is entirely real. The name is Kildun Cottage, and I warmly recommend it.

I should like to thank a number of people who have helped me with this book: Andrew Botterill, Kevin Anderson, Alasdair and Gill Macnab, Aline Templeton, Kate Penrose, Julia Ridpath and Richenda Todd. Also Louise Cullen and Sara O’Keeffe at Atlantic Books, Nicky Lovick, Liz Hatherell, my agent Oli Munson and, as always, Barbara.