The Woman on the Cliff Page 12

  “No.”

  I look at Innes. There doesn’t seem much point in prolonging Isla Farrell’s misery. We’ve established that Stuart Brogan had no alibi for the weekend Moira was murdered. Not the best of news. To my surprise, Innes now brings up something that I told him earlier.

  “Mrs Farrell, were you aware that your brother hit Moira?”

  “Who told you that?” Her eyes flash with anger.

  “I did,” I say. “Moira came home one night after a date with Stuart. He’d punched her in the face.”

  “That’s a lie.”

  “I’m sorry, but it’s the truth.”

  “You saw him hit her, then, did you?”

  I glance at Innes, not knowing how to respond. “Er . . . no. But I’d been with them earlier in the evening and witnessed Stuart being a bit aggressive towards her. He did have a temper.”

  “I’m no sayin’ he didn’t. But Stuart would never hit a woman. Anyway, you’ve got it all wrong. It wasn’t our Stuart who gave her that black eye. It was me.”

  “I don’t understand,” I say.

  “I knew about her and that Andrew Kelso. I’d found out just that afternoon. I saw them together, standing under the fire escape of one of those big buildings on the Scores, out of view of the windows. They were kissin’. It made my blood boil.”

  “You didn’t say anything to Stuart?”

  “I hadn’t seen him all day. He’d been out on the boat and when he got back I was out with my friends. I remember it was a birthday do. I got drunk and I was on my way to the chippie with one of my friends when we bumped into Stu and Moira. I punched her one in the face. Stu was furious.”

  I’m confused. Is Isla saying that she told Stuart that Moira was seeing Andrew Kelso before he caught them in Moira’s bedroom?

  Apparently not. “I didn’t tell Stuart why I did it. I just told him I didn’t like his girlfriend. He probably thought I was jealous of her.”

  “Why didn’t you tell him, Mrs Farrell?” Innes asks.

  Isla gives a shrug. “Wasn’t up to me, was it? I didna want to interfere. Wish I had though. He’d have left her a sight sooner. And maybe . . .” There’s no need for her to finish her sentence.

  “I have some photographs of them. Would you like to see?” she says, unexpectedly.

  I glance at Innes. Isla clearly wants to share her memories of her brother. And it might make her remember something.

  Isla crosses to an old-fashioned oak sideboard and opens a levered door. Inside I can see albums and cardboard wallets bursting with photographs. I hope there’s some sort of order to them or we could be here a while. Isla selects a red leather-bound album and brings it back to the sofa. It’s one of those where you slot several photos into pockets. She flicks over some pages, stops about halfway through and moves the album closer so that I can see.

  “That’s Stuart when he was a boy,” she says wistfully, pointing to a tousle-haired toddler on a red and yellow tricycle. I smile, hoping that she’s not going to show me every single picture of Stuart in the family collection. To my relief she skips several more pages, then stops. I lean closer. Moira’s face stares out at me across the years and I give an involuntary shudder.

  She looks exactly as I remember her. Even her clothes are familiar: faded jeans pulled in with a belt to emphasise her tiny waist, a pretty white blouse with tiny pink rosebuds embroidered on the front, the navy blazer with the striped lining that I remember coveting. She’d bought it in the Oxfam shop one day when I was with her and I wished I’d found it first. Stuart is in the picture, too, his arm around her.

  “I took that picture,” Isla tells me. “It was down by the harbour. You can see the pier in the background.” She turns the page. “Looks a bit like Princess Di there, doesn’t she? Who could have predicted their lives would be so short?”

  The next photograph is of Moira standing alone at the end of the pier, gazing poignantly out to sea. Looking like she knows what’s coming.

  “You know that professor she was seeing was a bit of a commie, don’t you?” Isla says suddenly. “Moira could be a bit opinionated herself. I was always worried she’d fill our Stuart’s head wi’ all that socialist rubbish. He had no interest in politics until he met her.”

  As I remember, Stuart had no interest in politics after he met her either.

  “Don’t get me wrong. I was no lover of Maggie Thatcher, but that other lot were worse.” It is unclear whether Isla is referring to the Labour opposition at the time or to some wider communist threat.

  I recall my parents’ paranoia about the Soviet Union, their fear that another war was coming. The Cold War wasn’t a distant memory then. In 1988, despite glasnost and perestroika, it was still an ever-present threat. But none of this had anything to do with Moira’s death, so I don’t comment.

  A small voice calls from upstairs. “Granny!”

  “We’d better go.” I can see that Isla wants to get back to her granddaughter. “We’ve taken up too much of your time already.”

  She sees us to the door.

  “That wasn’t very helpful, was it?” I say to Innes when we are back in the car. “Though I didn’t know it was Isla who punched Moira that time.”

  I assume she would have come forward if the case against her brother had gone to trial, to prevent the incident being cited as an example of Stuart’s violent behaviour towards Moira. “I must admit, believing that he hit her made it easier for me to accept his guilt. Moira said it wasn’t him, but we all thought she was lying. I suppose she was too embarrassed to come right out and say it was Isla.”

  What else might have been uncovered, had Menzies not concocted evidence to damn Stuart Brogan? The truth, a small voice whispers inside my head. Whatever that was. “Isla was wrong about something though,” I say.

  “What?” Innes asks.

  “Moira didn’t give two hoots about politics. She pretended she did because Kelso was into all that. Sometimes she used to talk the talk, but she didn’t believe a word of it. It used to annoy Elspeth. Back then she was really into politics. I imagine Moira liked to wind up Stuart’s family by exaggerating her left-wing leanings.” I pause to buckle my seatbelt. “Anyway, none of this has any bearing on her murder.”

  Innes looks thoughtful. I remember him telling me that in a murder investigation nothing can be considered insignificant.

  As soon as we return to his house, Innes takes Bronn for a much-needed walk. I stay behind to catch up on my emails. First, though, I make some coffee and settle into an armchair for a ten-minute read. The room is cosy and I feel my eyelids begin to droop. The words on the page start to blur. Rousing myself, I stand up and stretch.

  I go through the kitchen into the small lean-to conservatory at the back of the cottage. It is chilly in here, but the view is spectacular. Several gulls are perched on the wooden fence at the end of the garden. One cocks its head and eyes the house sideways on. I have a sudden memory of a predatory gull I’d seen down by the harbour side, pecking at the eyes of a dead fish in the sludge when the tide was out. The image makes me shudder. I think of Moira, lying exposed on the cliff path, her face turned upwards to the bright moonlight, her killer’s face mirrored in her unseeing eyes.

  I hear my phone ringing in the kitchen. I don’t manage to reach it before it stops, and it switches to voicemail. It’s Izzy, her voice sounding thin and strained. “Mum. Something’s happened. Can you come?”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Izzy.

  In my haste to call her back, my fingers turn into thumbs. I fumble through my contacts, thoughts racing through my mind. Something’s happened. Is she ill? Hurt? Please don’t let anything bad have happened to my baby.

  The sound of her voice makes me gasp.

  “Mum!”

  “Darling? What’s happened? Are you alright?”

  “Don’t freak out when I say this, okay?” I assure Izzy I won’t, knowing I can guarantee no such thing.

  “I’m in hospital.”


  “But why? Are you hurt?”

  “I had an accident. It’s okay, nothing serious. Mainly bruises. They’re worried I might have concussion, so they’re keeping me in for observation.”

  “An accident? What sort of accident?” There’s the slightest pause before she answers.

  “I . . . I’d rather not say over the phone. Look, how soon can you get here? It’s better if I tell you about it in person. And don’t go worrying yourself silly. I’m alright.”

  You don’t sound alright, I want to say. Despite her assurances to the contrary, Izzy really doesn’t sound at all like herself. There’s an edge to her voice. Is it fear? Tiredness? Maybe she’s in shock.

  Calm down, I tell myself. She’s been in an accident. She’s shaken. Anyone would be. She’s away from home for the first time and she’s had an accident. She needs reassurance. It’s not going to help if I freak out.

  I take a deep breath, regain control. Or, let me put that another way, I sound more in control. I tell her I’ll be with her in about twenty minutes.

  “Okay. That’s great. Thanks, Mum. See you soon.” Her voice sounds brittle and I wonder if she’s trying not to cry.

  “You bet, sweetheart. I’m leaving right now.” It’s a wrench to end the call, but somehow I manage it.

  I scramble around, gathering up keys, handbag, coat and scarf. Now I’m outside in the porch. In my haste to leave, I fumble with the lock. There is the sound of friendly barking, footsteps on gravel. I turn around and am instantly blinded by the glare of a torch. Innes and Bronn are back.

  Innes squints at me, keeping the torchlight off my face. “Ros? Are you okay? Has something happened?”

  “It’s Izzy. She’s been in some kind of accident. She’s in hospital.” My words are punctuated by breathless gasps. I realise I’m shaking. Tears blur my vision.

  “Right,” Innes says, pointing his remote at his car. The lights flash on and the lock clicks. “You’re in no state to drive. I’ll take you.”

  I’m about to protest, but he’s right. It’s not my panicked breathing, or even my trembling hands, but the thought of having to concentrate on anything other than Izzy that convinces me. I hurry to the passenger side. “Thank you.” Bronn is already in the back seat.

  “Do you know what happened?” Innes asks as he turns the car round.

  “She didn’t want to say over the phone. That’s worrying, isn’t it? Do you think that’s worrying?”

  “Not necessarily. She probably didn’t want to upset you.”

  “You could be right. I hope it’s that and not something . . .” My voice trails off. Something what? Something so bad she can’t tell me until she sees me? My chest feels tight. I’ve never had a panic attack, but it feels like I’m about to have one now.

  “Ros.” Innes stops the car. His voice is calm, steady. I look at him, embarrassed at my lack of control. “Breathe,” he says. Easier said than done.

  “S . . . sorry. I promised Izzy I wouldn’t freak out, and just look at me.” Slowly, my breathing eases.

  “She’s your daughter,” Innes states simply, putting the car back in gear.

  We don’t speak during the journey to the hospital. Innes focuses on the road ahead and I concentrate on remaining calm. Again, I remind myself that I’ll be no help to Izzy if I’m a basket case when I arrive at her bedside.

  “You go on inside,” Innes says when we pull into the hospital car park. “I’ll find a parking space, then I’ll wait for you in reception.”

  Panic seizes me again as I approach the woman at the desk. I take a deep breath, determined to be the strong woman Izzy needs me to be.

  “Your daughter’s in a side ward, Mrs Maitland. There’s a police officer with her.”

  “Where? I’d like to see her now. Please take me to her.” Her eyes look over my shoulder, and I turn to see a young woman standing behind me, stethoscope slung around her neck. She offers me her hand.

  “Mrs Maitland, I’m Dr Patel. I’ve been taking care of your daughter.”

  “Where is she? Can I see her, please?”

  “Isabella—” Dr Patel says.

  “Izzy. She prefers to be called Izzy.”

  “Izzy is doing very well. We’ve treated her for some minor injuries and she’ll be staying overnight purely as a precaution, because she had a rather nasty bump on her head.”

  “What happened to her? Did she fall off her bike?”

  “I am very sorry to say that your daughter was attacked.” Dr Patel couldn’t have sounded more apologetic if she’d beaten up Izzy herself.

  “Was she . . .?”

  “No. Your daughter was not raped.” Relief floods through me. Followed swiftly by anger.

  “Who did it?”

  Dr Patel looks apologetic again. “I’m sorry, I don’t know all the details. The police have taken a statement from her. I’m sure they’ll answer all your questions. Now, shall I take you to Izzy?”

  I give a grateful nod and follow her, leadenly, down the corridor. She stops at the door to a side ward, a single room. The curtains are drawn so I can’t see inside. Hand on the door knob, Dr Patel pauses, turns to me and says, “Please be assured that your daughter’s injuries are superficial. They look much worse than they actually are.”

  I swallow, take a deep breath and nod. Dr Patel opens the door.

  On seeing Izzy’s face my first instinct is to recoil.

  “Mum,” she says, tears welling over the baggy slits of her eyes and onto the swollen mounds of her cheeks.

  “Oh, Izzy.”

  “It looks worse than it is,” she assures me, echoing Dr Patel’s words. And then, “Ouch!” I’ve embraced her too tightly.

  “I’m so sorry, darling.” There are bruises that I cannot see then. “Who did this to you?” I ask.

  “Mrs Maitland?” I turn around and see a young woman rising from a chair by the window. I hadn’t noticed her when I came in, all my focus was on Izzy. “My name is Nadia Fraser. I’m a police constable.”

  “Police?”

  “Yes. My DS took a statement from your daughter about the assault.”

  “Do you have any idea who did this to her?”

  “The short answer? We don’t know. Yet. But Izzy has been very helpful in providing us with information that might help identify her attacker.”

  “Who would do such a thing?” I turn to Izzy. “Was it someone you know? A boyfriend?” She hasn’t told me she’s been seeing anyone at St Andrews.

  Izzy shakes her head. “No . . . at least, I don’t think so. I didn’t see his face. He was wearing a . . . a mask.” It’s upsetting to imagine my daughter’s ordeal, and to know that I wasn’t there to protect her.

  PC Fraser notices my distress. “It seems to have been a random attack. Izzy was out running in the park when a man grabbed her from behind and pulled her into some bushes. She was lucky—”

  “Excuse me?” In what world does PC Fraser think a young woman lucky who has been so severely beaten that her own mother can barely recognise her? But I haven’t even allowed PC Fraser to finish her sentence.

  “Lucky someone else was in the park and heard her screaming.”

  “My hero,” Izzy says, for once not mocking. All I can think of is Izzy screaming, me not being the one to rush to her rescue. It makes me feel like I’ve failed her. I’m her hero. I shake my head. There are so many things I want to ask, but I realise that now is not the time.

  Izzy has already given PC Fraser a statement. She doesn’t need me making her relive her ordeal all over again. I must put her first. There will be time for questions later. Izzy’s eyelids are drooping. She must be on pain medication.

  “The main thing is that you’re alright. You’re safe now.” It’s the right thing to say. Izzy gives me a weak smile. PC Fraser and Dr Patel exchange approving nods.

  Dr Patel excuses herself, saying that I can find her on the main ward if I need to speak with her again. PC Fraser straightens her uniform and heads for the door. “
I’m just outside in the corridor. I know you have more questions.”

  “Thank you.” She seems so young. The sight of her brings to my mind Innes as a young, inexperienced officer. The thought that his older self is waiting for me somewhere in the hospital is a source of comfort.

  Left alone with my daughter, I resist the urge to ask any more questions. It’s enough to sit by her bedside, holding her hand and stroking her hair until she drifts off to sleep. I watch her for a while, worried that she might suddenly wake from a nightmare of her recent experience, but her face — her lovely face, beautiful to me despite being battered and bruised — is a vision of peacefulness. Slowly, and with great reluctance, I untwist my fingers from hers, rub the stiffness from them, and step outside to join PC Fraser.

  “You look exhausted,” she says.

  I have a vague idea that I should contact Innes and tell him he should go home — I’m planning to spend the night here at Izzy’s bedside. But first I want to ask PC Fraser more questions. Suddenly, a thought occurs to me: Innes will know the right questions to ask. I need to find him.

  “I have a friend waiting for me. Do you mind if he joins us?”

  “Of course not.” PC Fraser looks relieved. She thinks I mean a partner. She must be glad I’m not having to deal with this alone.

  We find Innes sitting in the waiting area. There’s no one else there. He looks uncomfortably big and awkward in the orange plastic chair. He stands up as we approach, concern on his face. I love him for that. I introduce them. “My friend, Innes Nevin. Innes, this is PC Nadia Fraser.” Innes nods, asks after Izzy.

  “She’s okay,” I tell him shakily. “She was attacked. Beaten up.” His mouth opens to ask a question. I know what it is. It’s the same thing I feared.

  “No,” I say, “it wasn’t a sexual assault.” Innes frowns, looks at PC Fraser.

  “We can’t rule out a sexual motive. A young man came to Izzy’s aid within minutes, so it’s possible . . .” There’s no need for her to complete her sentence.

  “Who’s your DI?” Innes asks.