23 Cyrus

23

I'm driving too quickly along the road that follows the natural contours of the land like water running downhill. Trees arch overhead, the canopies almost touching, showing only glimpses of blue and white behind the leaves. Cloud and sky. We emerge from woodland onto a ridge with a wide view of the western horizon. I look for somewhere to pull over. The engine ticks as it cools.

Evie hasn't said a word since we left Glengowrie. She fainted on the floor of the library and regained consciousness as I carried her to the car. Now she's hugging her knees, rocking in place, staring into the distance.

‘I'm sorry,' she whispers, lifting a hand to wipe her eyes.

‘What happened?' asks Florence.

‘I remembered.'

‘What did you remember?'

‘The chandelier, the room upstairs, the man in the painting.'

‘What painting?' I ask.

‘It was in the library; he had two dogs. Golden retrievers.'

‘Are you sure it was the same house?' I ask.

Evie nods.

‘How long were you there?'

‘I don't know.'

‘Days? Weeks? Months?'

She shakes her head.

‘Tell me why you remember this painting.'

‘The same man was there in the library, standing beside the fireplace, only he was younger than in the painting. How is that possible?'

I look at Florence. ‘What do you know about David and Simon's father?'

‘Not much. He inherited wealth from his father, who had made a fortune buying and selling property in the poorer parts of Liverpool and Manchester after the Second World War.'

‘When did he die?'

She takes her phone and types in a search. ‘Ten years ago.'

‘That means he was alive when the Arianna II caught fire and sank. Is there a photograph?'

She hands over her phone. The image is in black and white, showing a middle-aged man with curly grey hair swept back from his forehead. He's wearing a blazer and a wide seventies tie and is gazing skyward, letting the natural light fall on his face.

‘It's in the National Portrait Gallery,' says Florence.

I show the image to Evie.

‘That's the man in the painting,' she says.

‘Did he . . .?' I stop myself.

‘No, not him,' says Evie. ‘I met the younger one. He was lighting a fire.'

‘Have you seen him since?'

‘No.'

My mobile begins singing. DI Carlson's name lights up the screen.

‘Where are you?' he asks but doesn't wait for an answer. ‘Angus Radford has been granted bail on compassionate grounds to attend his brother's funeral. The surety is half a million pounds. His father lodged the paperwork ten minutes ago. Radford will be free within the hour.'

I begin to calculate how long it would take Angus to get here. Seven, maybe eight hours by road from Grimsby. He could fly to Edinburgh, but that would take almost as long with transfers and waiting around.

Carlson is still talking. ‘Radford's barrister has made a complaint to the Independent Office of Police Conduct, alleging that his client was interviewed without his lawyer being present. You're named.'

‘It wasn't a formal interview.'

‘That hasn't stopped them. You're also accused of harassing and intimidating his family.'

‘That's ridiculous.'

‘I'm not arguing, Cyrus, I'm telling you. Leave Scotland.'

‘OK, but I need something from you.'

Carlson stifles a complaint, letting me continue.

‘Twelve years ago, Angus Radford skippered a trawler that was smuggling migrants into Britain. That boat sank off the Scottish coast. Only one migrant survived. She can identify Radford and the crew.'

‘This is your friend, Evie Cormac.'

‘Yes. After the boat sank, Evie was taken to an estate that belongs to the Buchan family.'

‘Hold on, hold on. Are you talking about Lord David Buchan?'

‘The estate belonged to his father.'

‘Christ!' mutters Carlson. ‘Be careful what you say to me. I'm required to act upon any information that you give me and take it to my superiors. And I'm not sure they're going to want to hear this.'

‘There's something else. The gamekeeper at the estate is Angus Radford's maternal grandfather, Wallis Collie.'

‘OK, that's it. Stop talking.'

‘This has to be investigated,' I say.

‘OK. But be quiet. Let me think.'

‘You're scared of Buchan.'

Carlson loses his temper. ‘No, I'm careful and methodical because I'm a professional investigator, not some amateur, poor man's Poirot, who randomly hurls criminal accusations at politicians and public figures. How did you ever get a job with the police?'

‘You're right,' I say to Carlson. ‘I'm a liability. Thanks for cutting me loose.'

I hang up and sit in silence, gazing at the countryside. Florence and Evie have been listening.

‘How could they let Radford go?' asks Evie.

‘Without Arben, the case against him has fallen apart,' says Florence.

‘But the messages . . . his statement?'

‘It's not over,' I say. ‘He's on bail, that's all. They'll find more evidence.'

In the meantime, we need to leave, but I don't relish the idea of driving eight hours back to Nottingham, and Evie isn't in the right mindset to share the wheel. Florence must be exhausted.

‘When was the last time you slept?' I ask her.

‘I'm fine.'

‘No, you need a shower and a decent meal and a comfortable bed.'

‘Do I smell that bad?'

‘I love how you smell.'

‘Ugh!' grunts Evie.

‘Aberdeen is less than an hour away. We could find a nice hotel and rest up,' I say.

‘With a restaurant,' says Evie.

‘And a bath,' says Florence.

‘And a bar,' I add.