I'll Keep You Safe

Chapter Thirty-Five

Braque and Gunn drove in thoughtful silence from Dalmore back up the west coast to Barvas before turning off to head across the moor to Stornoway. There wasn’t much to say. No one unexpected had turned up at the cemetery, except perhaps for Iain Peanut Maciver, and he certainly couldn’t be arrested for attending a funeral.

They were both drenched. Although Gunn’s anorak had protected him from the worst of the rain his trousers were clinging to his thighs. Braque’s sodden jacket lay across the back seat, filling the car with the smell of wet denim. Her jeans and boots were almost black with the rain, and even her T-shirt was soaked down the front, half-revealing her bra, which Gunn tried not to look at. She had come hopelessly ill-prepared for the island weather.

He said, ‘I checked with air traffic control. Lee Blunt’s plane is due for take-off at midday tomorrow — if you want to talk to him before they fly out.’

She nodded, and he seemed uncertain whether that was an affirmative or otherwise.

‘Have you booked a flight for yourself yet?’

‘No. I’ll do that when I get back to the hotel.’ A depression had fallen over her. Deep and penetrating. Hurrying back to the car park with Gunn, she had examined each and every face as the mourners returned to their vehicles, wondering which, if any of them, was capable of the murder of Ruairidh Macfarlane. Earlier she had watched Niamh from a distance, felt her grief in the tension of her shoulders. Her sense of isolation and loneliness. Even among the crowd of mourners she stood out on her own. Only now, really for the first time, did Braque fully empathize with her, identifying in her the sense of loss that she felt buried somewhere inside herself.

As they had stood watching her carry flowers across the cemetery, ahead of the coffin and the male bearers, Gunn had remarked with barely concealed incredulity how much it went against every convention of island funerals. And Braque had thought it was exactly what she would have done.

Off to their left, a tiny dwelling with a green tin roof sat in a fold of the moor, and the road climbed towards a plateau that would carry them south-east, descending eventually into Stornoway itself. Gunn said, ‘We can go straight to the police station and view that video, if you like.’

Braque held out her hands, palms up. ‘Look at me, Detective Sergeant. I am soaking wet. I think I need to go to the hotel and change first.’

‘No problem, Ma’am. I’ll drop you off, then go to the police station and get it all set up. I’ll give you, say, half an hour, then call back to pick you up.’

‘Perfect.’

It was mid-afternoon by the time they drove down through Newmarket and Laxdale, past the hospital, and along Bayhead to the harbour. The rain had increased in its intensity, and the sky lay black and bruised all across the land behind them. The wind was up, tearing leaves prematurely from trees. The air seemed filled with them, like large golden snowflakes, as Gunn pulled over at the top of Castle Street. ‘I’ll see you shortly, Ma’am.’ And he glanced up at the sky, pulling a face. It could hardly have been darker. ‘Looks like we’re in for a bad one.’

At reception the girl said to her, ‘Your husband has phoned several times, Madam Braque.’

Braque was startled. It was rare for Gilles ever to phone her. Why hadn’t he called her mobile? Then she remembered that she and Gunn had turned their mobile phones to airplane mode at the cemetery. She had forgotten to switch it back. On the stairs she fumbled with trembling fingers to restore it, and stood outside her door looking at the screen, waiting for the phone to find a signal. Immediately it did, it beeped and alerted her to the presence of messages. There were three.

She slipped into her room, shutting the door and leaning back against it to listen to the most recent.

‘Sylvie, where the hell are you? Call me as soon as you get this.’ She could hear the stress in Gilles’s voice, and it sent her own heart-rate skyrocketing. She tapped the Call Back button and stood listening, aware of her own breath quivering in her chest. ‘Jesus, Sylvie, I’ve been trying to get you for hours.’ There was anger now in his voice.

‘What’s wrong?’ She wasn’t interested in explanations, or excuses. She heard him sigh.

‘They think Claire has meningitis. She’s been taken into hospital.’

Braque’s hand flew to her chest. ‘Oh, God! What are they saying?’

‘I don’t know, I’m waiting to hear.’

‘Where are you?’

‘In a waiting room outside the children’s ward.’

‘What about Jacqui?’

‘She’s here with me.’

‘Is she alright?’

‘Pretty upset. But seems okay otherwise.’

‘Let me speak to her. Put her on FaceTime.’

She called up the app and the screen flickered momentarily before a tearful Jacqui appeared. ‘Maman, where are you?’ Too distressed to play the which twin am I game.

‘Baby, I’m coming home. I’ll be there just as soon as I can.’

‘Jacqui’s sick, maman.’

‘I know, darling. Are you okay?’

The little crumpled face nodded. ‘Is Claire going to be alright?’

‘She’s going to be just fine, sweetheart. Dad’ll take care of you till I get back.’

‘When? When will you be back?’

‘Just as soon as I can, darling, I promise.’

The image of the child swung away, and Gilles’s face appeared on the screen. He looked tired as he raised his eyebrows. She heard the sarcasm in his voice. ‘More promises?’

Braque clenched her teeth and tried to hang on to control. ‘Soon as I get off the phone I’ll book my flights. Should be home by tomorrow night. Keep me in the loop. Please. I want to know what’s happening.’

He sighed and nodded. ‘You should have been here, Sylvie.’

‘I will be.’

And he hung up before she could say any more. Even goodbye to Jacqui. She slumped on to the edge of the bed and sat, head bowed, hands clasped around her phone between her thighs, consumed by guilt. Yes, she should have been there. So many times she should have been there. And so many times she wasn’t. She remembered George Gunn’s words. Sometimes you just have to make choices. Exactly what she hadn’t done. If anything she had chosen the status quo, a means of avoiding making those impossible choices. Career or family. It had been clear to her very soon after the break-up of her marriage that she could not have both. And all she had done was put it off, and put it off. Until now it was too late. She should have been there. She should never have left her girls.

She spent the next hour on the phone and the internet, booking herself on the first flight from Stornoway to Glasgow in the morning. Then on to London, and from London to Paris. Flight schedules too tight to offer smooth connections, leaving her with no option but to sit fretting in Glasgow and London waiting for onward flights. Two hours in the case of Glasgow, three in London. Arriving in Paris at rush hour. The Périphérique at a standstill if she took a taxi or a bus, the RER jam-packed beyond capacity.

Her stress levels by the time she concluded her bookings left her shaking. She wanted to call Gilles again. She wanted to hear the verdict on Claire’s diagnosis, and the prognosis if the news was bad. But there was no point. He would call her if there were any developments.

She gazed now at the phone in her hand, and knew she had to make the call she had been putting off for so long. A call she should have made months, if not years ago. But even as she selected the number and touched Call, she realized she was going to fudge it. She asked switchboard to put her through to Capitaine Faubert’s office.

‘Faubert.’

She couldn’t tell from that one word what kind of mood he was in. Whether he had just been for a cigarette or was suffering from nicotine withdrawal.

‘Capitaine, it’s Lieutenant Braque. I’m coming home.’

‘I’ve been wondering why the hell you haven’t called, Braque. What’s happening?’

‘Nothing’s happening, Capitaine. The funeral’s over. One of my twins has suspected meningitis and has been admitted to hospital. I’ve booked flights home tomorrow.’

‘Putain!’ she heard him mutter under his breath. But she knew, too, that he could hardly argue. ‘I want your report on my desk first thing Friday morning.’ Which would mean an all-nighter Thursday night.

‘Yes, Capitaine.’

‘And we’ll talk then, Braque.’

‘Yes, boss.’ She understood perfectly well that ‘talk’ was code for ‘lecture’. A lecture on her failure to prioritize, to make a decision one way or another. Mother or cop. And she would be faced, finally, with the choices that Gunn had spoken of.

Two simple words would put an end to it all. I quit. So easy to say, but how hard might it be to live with the consequences? Especially if it turned out that Jacqui was okay, or made a full recovery. In fifteen years, when the girls left home for university, or got married, or grabbed whatever other opportunities life might offer them in adulthood, what would become of Braque? Alone and unfulfilled. Left with a life on which the clock was counting down, a life filled only with regrets for all the might-have-beens. How would she feel then?

She stood up and realized she had not changed out of her wet clothes. They were now nearly dry. But she decided to change them anyway, divesting herself of damp jeans and T-shirt, and slipping into the shower to wash away the salt and sand carried on the wind at Dalmore. It wasn’t until she was dressed, and drying her hair by the window, that she remembered the CCTV video footage waiting to be viewed at the police station. Gunn had said he would pick her up in half an hour, but that was hours ago.

She glanced from the window across the choppy waters of the inner harbour, boats rising and falling on a heavy swell, rolling in the wind that blew down the hill from the castle. Rain hammered against the window, and the sky was black as night. One of those equinoctial storms that the Atlantic threw at the island this time every year. Brutal and unforgiving. Shrugged off by islanders who were used to it by now. Had seen it all before. And tomorrow, in all likelihood, the sun would be out, shining on wet streets and houses, as if they had just been painted and everything was brand-new again.

Braque felt her jacket, which was draped over the back of a chair. Still damp. Her hair still wet from the shower. So what the hell? She decided just to make a dash for the police station. It wasn’t that far.

In the event, it was much further than she remembered. Especially in the rain. And by the time she had run breathlessly up Church Street from the harbour, and ducked into the warmth and shelter of reception at the police station, she was soaked to the skin once again. She shook the rain from her jacket, to the amusement of the duty officer, and swept rat’s tails of hair out of her face. ‘Better indoors on a day like this, Ma’am,’ he said.

She took out her ID to show him. ‘Lieutenant Sylvie Braque of the Police Judiciaire in Paris. I’ve been working with Detective Sergeant Gunn.’

‘Ah yes,’ he said. ‘George was trying to call you earlier.’ And she remembered the phone in her room ringing twice while she was talking to someone on her mobile about booking flights. By the time she got off the phone she had forgotten. Gilles would have called her mobile. ‘I believe he left a message.’

She took her phone from her pocket and saw that there was indeed a message. She replayed it and heard Gunn’s voice. ‘Sorry to mess you about Ma’am. I’ve been trying to reach you. I’m afraid I’ve been called away to an unexplained death down at Uig. More than likely a suicide, but it’s a three-hour round trip, and I’ll probably not have a signal for most of that time. I’ve left a terminal set up for you in the interview room. Any of the duty officers will show you how to use it. I’ll see you when I get back.’

She looked up from her screen and the duty officer smiled. ‘This way, Ma’am.’

He took her upstairs to an interview room at the back of the building. A computer with an external disk drive attached, a keyboard and a mouse sat on a plain white table with a single chair drawn up to it.

‘It’s quite simple, Ma’am.’ And the duty officer showed her how to scroll back and forth through the CCTV video using the time-code as her guide. ‘I’ll leave you to it.’

For all her training, Braque had never been comfortable with computers. Her girls were more adept with a keyboard and a touch screen. It took her a while to master the scrolling process, and then she found herself absorbed by the images. The familiar frontage of the library, and Bayhead stretching away beyond it. People passing below, oblivious of the eye in the sky watching them from the corner. Stopping, chatting. In and out of shops. In and out of the library. The images were poor if the weather was bad, amazingly sharp in sunshine.

She went first to the earlier date, when the emails had been sent to Niamh and Georgy Vetrov. Then scrolled as quickly through the hours as she could until the time, mid-afternoon, when they had been fired off into the ether from computer terminal three in the library. User unknown. A guest. How far back, she wondered, should she go before the time of their sending? But it was possible the sender could have spent some time at the computer first. She could waste an hour or more if she wound back too far watching for someone going in. So she set the time code to the exact hour and minute, and started the video running at normal speed, banking on the sender leaving immediately after they had finished.

It was a bright, blustery day. She saw coats flapping in the wind. People hanging on to their hats. But bright sunlight slanted down across the street, and although shadows were deep, detail was sharp. Traffic in and out of the library was light. A clutch of giggling schoolgirls in uniform pushing inside. Two elderly ladies emerging with books under their arms, then standing talking for what seemed like an eternity. A young man stopping to exchange a few words with them before hurrying on. And then a familiar figure pushing between them to exit the library and turn right towards the harbour.

Braque nearly jumped out of her seat. She fumbled with clumsy fingers to stop the video. Then rewound it to the point of exit, and managed finally to slow it right down. She had only caught the merest glimpse of the face, but now she held it in a still shot, and had no doubt who it was.

She spooled backwards, then, at speed, knowing who she was looking for, watching carefully as Charlie Chaplin figures retraced their footsteps at a ridiculous tempo up and down the street. Then, suddenly, there it was again, and Braque slowed right down to get a much clearer shot of that familiar face as it came down the street. Past Argos and the Fast Food Chinese Takeaway, to turn into the library and disappear from view.

She sat back breathing hard, sweating now and uncomfortable in her wet clothes. This was not, she knew, proof of anything. That would only come if she could tie the same person to the same time and place for the sending of the second email. The one received by Ruairidh on the RER on the day of his murder. See you in hell.

She entered date and time into the computer, advancing the video nearly three weeks to the afternoon of the previous Thursday, and then scrolling through to the exact moment that the email had left computer terminal twelve inside the library. Hardly daring to breathe, she set the video running and watched as again people came and went up and down the street. In and out of the library and Argos next door, and the Baltic Bookshop opposite. The weather was less good, but it was at least dry.

And then there it was. The face she had seen before. She hit the pause key, then manipulating the arrow keys, managed to zoom in on it, frozen in time as the killer exited the library and turned towards the CCTV camera. Not a single doubt remained.

Braque shook her head in disbelief and sat back again in her chair. What to do? She took out her phone and called Gunn. But it went straight to voicemail and she hung up. He had warned her that he would likely be out of signal for some time. She thought quickly, her mind and her pulse racing, then called his number again. When the beep came to leave her message she said, ‘Detective Gunn, I think I know who our killer is. I’m leaving first thing tomorrow, so I don’t have much time. I’m going to drive up to the Macfarlane house to speak to Niamh tonight. Look at the video when you get back and tell me if I’m right. I’ve left a note of the time-code.’

She closed her eyes and tried to remember where she had parked her hire car. She had barely driven it since her arrival. And then she remembered leaving it next to Gunn’s in the harbour car park the night she arrived. She would, she realized, have to drive it very gingerly on the road out to Taigh ’an Fiosaich, or she would rip the sump from its underside.