Читать книгу Perfect Death: The gripping new crime book you won’t be able to put down! - Helen Fields - Страница 12

Callanach threw his keys down and went into the kitchen, reaching instinctively for a coffee pot and fighting his desire to open the bottle of single malt he’d had in the cupboard for months. He wasn’t usually much of a spirits drinker but if ever there was cause to change that, he was entitled now.

His mother, Véronique, was sitting on the couch, coat buttoned to the chin, handbag on her lap with both hands gripping the handle as if it might fly away. Callanach stared at her silhouette against the picture window of his apartment in Albany Street, just a couple of minutes’ walk from the busy restaurants and bars of York Place, not that he went out much. He’d spent fifteen months making the apartment his own since beginning work with Police Scotland in Edinburgh. In all, it had been two years since his suspension from Interpol when a colleague had made the rape allegation that had stopped his career in its tracks. A few friends had stood by him, fewer colleagues, but what had hurt most was being abandoned by his mother. Even so, he still loved her. That was why he couldn’t let her back into his life. It was hard enough getting over the pain she’d caused him the first time. He couldn’t risk going through it all again.

He stirred the coffee, wondering if his mother still took milk in hers. She was painfully thin, that was the first thing he’d noticed. The last time he’d seen her had been in Lyon. He’d been on bail with severe restrictions on where he could go and who he could see. She’d turned up at his door with an overnight bag and a speech about how it would all turn out all right, how the allegations would vanish into thin air. Her prediction had been wrong. Even now, his world was still askew. His mother had stayed with him for two weeks, each day more tense than the one before as they’d waited for the French prosecutor to see sense, to realise it was all a vicious lie, borne of a woman’s obsession with him.

His mother had withdrawn from him, in person at first, growing quieter each day, the hope draining from her almost visibly, then she’d left and he’d heard nothing more from her. Even when Astrid Borde had decided against attending court to give evidence and a not guilty verdict had been entered, his mother still had not contacted him. It was as if he was dead to her. Callanach had grieved for the loss of her from his life. Now here she was, a ghostly, diminished version of the woman he remembered, barely able to meet his eyes, even her voice a whisper of the confident, laughing person in his memories.

‘Milk? Sugar?’ Callanach asked her in French, translating back to English in his head as if he’d never lived in France at all.

‘Neither, thank you,’ his mother responded politely.

He carried two mugs into the lounge and put them on the coffee table between them, choosing the chair opposite her, keeping a barrier between them. He took his phone from his pocket and left it on the arm of the chair. He’d left Ava to brief the squad but had agreed to meet her at the city mortuary at 10pm. That gave him just one hour, not that he was concerned. Whatever his mother had to tell him after all this time could be said in the space of sixty minutes. It wasn’t as if anything would change now.

‘I like your apartment,’ she said, sipping her coffee, holding the mug as if it were an anchor. Callanach didn’t respond. Back at the police station he’d walked down the stairs from his office to reception in a daze, convinced there had been a case of mistaken identity or that it was some stupid prank by his team who had no idea what minefield they were treading in. But there she had been. Dressed in black, her dark hair still long but streaked with grey. She had been a beauty in her youth, but now dense shadows hung under her eyes, and her mouth was turned down as if pegged to her chin. She had stared at her shoes as she’d greeted him.

‘Luc,’ she’d said. ‘Can we talk?’

‘All right, Véronique,’ he’d replied, holding the door to the street open for her, knowing he had to get her out of the station. She had no place in his new life. He didn’t want the memory of her in his office, and he couldn’t bring himself to address her as mother. She was not that any more, that had been made quite clear to him through her desertion. He had walked her to his car and they’d driven through the dwindling rush hour without sharing a word. Now here she was and he had no idea what to say to her, and no sense of what she could possibly want from him.

‘Are you staying in Edinburgh?’ he asked, glancing out of the window.

‘At the Radisson,’ she said. ‘I’ve booked in for a week.’

‘Are you in Scotland on holiday, then?’ Callanach asked.

‘No,’ she said, finally setting her bag down on the floor. ‘I’m only here to see you, Luc. I’m glad it worked out for you. Do you like Scotland?’

‘I miss France,’ he said. ‘But I’m used to it now. It rains a lot, and it took me a year to get used to the accent.’

Véronique allowed herself a half-smile at that, reaching her right hand across her left to take hold of her wedding ring. She still wore it, in spite of the decades since his father had died. Callanach had been only four years old at the time and had no more memory of him than a large man, soft voiced, always warm, constantly laughing. It was a blur.

‘When your father spoke too fast I couldn’t understand his Scottish accent, even after years together. It’s still hard coming back here,’ she said.

‘Why have you come back?’ Callanach asked.

Véronique rubbed one hand across her eyes. He waited. That wasn’t difficult. He’d waited so long already that a few more minutes was nothing.

‘I never wanted this to happen,’ she said. ‘If I could take it all back, I would.’

‘Is that it?’ Callanach asked, his voice cold and low. ‘You’ve come here to tell me you wish it had played out differently?’

‘It was complicated,’ his mother said, picking at the hem of her skirt. ‘You were so closed off, you wouldn’t talk to me about what was happening, then the medical evidence came out. And you didn’t comment when they first interviewed you …’

‘That didn’t mean I was guilty,’ he said.

‘It wasn’t just about you,’ she said, tears forming as she reached a shaky hand into her bag to find a handkerchief.

‘Who else was it about? You? Were you embarrassed of me? Exactly when was it you tried me and found me guilty? Before you even came to Lyon, or did you wait to hear my version of events before writing me off?’ He was raising his voice, keeping the words slow, making sure they impacted as hard as they could. He had waited the best part of two years to have his say and he wasn’t going to rush it now.

‘Astrid came to see me. I never found a way to tell you,’ his mother said. ‘By then you seemed not to be talking to me anyway, and I couldn’t find the words. So I left. Then there were those photos of her injuries. Someone put them in the post to me.’

‘You spoke to Astrid and never told me? Did you arrange it with her?’

‘No, no Luc, I would never have done that. She must have followed me from your apartment one day. I was going shopping and this woman stopped me in the street. She said she needed to talk to me about the case. At first I thought she was a journalist, or perhaps even someone from the prosecutor’s office. I thought I might be able to speak on your behalf, make them change their minds, so we went for coffee. We were already sitting down when she told me her name. I got up to leave but she said that if I went she would make it even worse for you. I was so concerned that I sat back down and told her I’d listen.’

‘I don’t think I want to hear this,’ Callanach said. ‘How could you have been so stupid?’

‘She seemed so calm. I couldn’t reconcile the woman you’d described with the person talking to me. She was quiet, conservatively dressed, hair tied back, no makeup. I remember thinking this can’t be her. She told me that all she wanted was to explain what had happened from her perspective, to get it out of her system. I kept thinking that maybe if I let her, she would drop the prosecution. It seemed worth ten minutes of my time.’

‘After everything I’d told you about how manipulative she was? About her obsession with me?’ Callanach asked, walking to the window, staring into black nothingness, trying not to watch his mother in the reflection.

‘All the evidence was against you. You’d told your best friend the scratches to your neck had happened at the gym. You’d told no one about Astrid attacking you. The neighbour had heard you swearing at her before walking out of her apartment. Bit by bit, the case was building against you and nothing you said was improving the situation. I just wanted to help,’ Véronique said, wrapping her arms around herself and rocking gently backwards and forwards.

‘So what happened?’ Callanach asked. ‘Because whatever you’d intended, it certainly didn’t get any better for me. Astrid didn’t drop the case until the day of the trial and even then she didn’t tell the truth and admit she’d invented it. I suffered through another four months of being regarded as a sexual predator.’

‘I know,’ Véronique stuttered. ‘I know. And I’m so sorry. If I could go back …’

‘You know what, I can’t do this,’ Luc said. ‘I thought I could, but it’s just too hard. I’m not sure what you thought would be achieved by telling me this but it certainly isn’t helping me. If you came all this way to ease your own conscience, you misjudged.’

‘It’s not that,’ Véronique said, throwing her handbag onto the couch and standing up. ‘Easing my conscience, yes. I know you have no reason to forgive me. I don’t think I could ever expect you to. But when I spoke to her it … it hurt me, Luc. She was so believable. She was like an animal that had been hit by a car, crumpled, broken. I couldn’t bear to be in the middle of it. You were so aloof and angry.’

‘What the hell would you expect from someone falsely accused?’ he asked.

‘Luc, I’m trying to explain that I’m not the best judge in those circumstances. I knew I couldn’t tell you that I’d talked with her. Then the medical report came, all about the internal injuries she had, the bruises to her body. Your skin under her nails. I didn’t know what to think. So I ran away. I knew I wasn’t the person you needed me to be and I left. There’s no good enough reason. There’s nothing I can say to make it better. But I am sorry.’

‘You’re sorry? Supposing I accept that. Say I recognise how good an actress Astrid is, how dangerous. But after that, after you’d dropped me to face the possibility of years in prison alone, you stopped emailing. You didn’t phone. When I was finally told I was free to go, I wrote to you. Even my letters were returned unopened. Was half an hour of listening to Astrid really all it took for you to abandon your child?’

‘I was a mess by then. Please believe me, I wanted to speak to you. I wanted to race back, to hold you in my arms and be the mother I should always have been, but I was ashamed. I hadn’t been strong enough. I’d let my own needs, my own feelings overwhelm me. I’d put myself before you and … how do you face your child once you’ve done that? I couldn’t. I knew I didn’t deserve you anymore.’

‘You’re right,’ Callanach said. ‘You don’t. I won’t let myself be dragged into this black hole again. I closed the door. To Astrid, to the nightmare of being arrested, to the disloyalty of my friends. To you. I won’t relive this just so you can purge your guilt. I picked myself up, even though it was the last thing I wanted to do. I moved country, retrained, forced myself to look in the mirror, and I’m just starting a new life. Whatever you need, whatever it is you thought I could give you, I can’t. We should go. I’ll drop you to your hotel. I have a late conference regarding an autopsy.’

‘Luc, I just need a little more time,’ his mother said, picking up her bag but keeping her feet planted between the coffee table and sofa. ‘This isn’t easy.’

‘I’m sorry but you’ve had all the time in the world,’ Callanach said. ‘I really do have to go.’ He held the door open for her, checking his mobile phone messages as he waited for her to put on her coat.

Véronique looked around the apartment. ‘There are no photos here,’ she said.

‘I had to rebuild my life without memories. There’s no point staring at images of falsehoods,’ he said, stepping outside into the corridor, holding the door open at a distance.

‘Not even of your father?’ Véronique asked. ‘He would have hated this.’

‘Do you mean he would have hated you?’ Callanach asked.

Véronique turned away, sliding fists into her pockets and hunching her shoulders. She walked briskly past Callanach and took the stairs. He caught up with her on the pavement, opening the car door for her to get in.

‘No need,’ she said. ‘I’ll walk. That’ll be easier on us both.’

‘Yes,’ Callanach replied. ‘It certainly will.’ He steeled himself and left his mother for the last time.