Naming the Bones

Chapter Thirty-Four

‘I’VE GOT TWO boys, terrific wee fellas. Six and eleven, they are.’ Murray was alone in the dark, watching the expression on his father’s face switch from eager to anxious. ‘I’ve no seen them in a long while. They telt me they were fine, but how do they know? Have you seen them, son?’

Jack’s voice was warm and reassuring.

‘I’ve seen them, they’re absolutely fine. .’

‘Aye, well, that’s good.’ Their dad regained his happy aspect. ‘On their holidays, aren’t they?’

‘That’s right.’ Murray heard the smile in his brother’s voice. ‘Away with the BBs.’

Murray leant forward, elbows on knees, chin resting on his clasped hands.

Jack was asking his father if he recognised him and the mischief was back in the old man’s face. ‘If you don’t know, I doubt that I can help you out.’

Up on screen the two men laughed together.

‘No idea at all?’

Their father’s stare was intense.

‘I don’t think I know you, son.’ He hesitated and a ghost of something that might have been recognition flitted across his face, bringing a smile in its wake. ‘Are you yon boy that reads the news?’

Jack said, ‘You’ve rumbled me.’ And the old man slapped his knee in glee.

Murray got to his feet. He pushed through the black curtains and out into the brightness of the white-painted gallery. Jack was standing where he had left him, his face anxious.

Murray gave him a sad smile.

‘Maybe you can let me have a copy.’

His brother reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a DVD. Murray took it from him and shook his hand.

Murray wasn’t sure how he had got through his first police interview. Jack’s roll-neck had covered the marks of the ligature and Murray had blamed the croak in his voice on a cold combined with a night on the batter, but he couldn’t imagine that his faltering performance had been convincing. Perhaps it helped that the Oban police were too overwhelmed by the clues they already had to want any more.

The morning had uncovered empty petrol cans in the boot of a distinguished professor’s recently abandoned Saab. The professor himself was suspected to be somewhere in the depths of a newly breached sinkhole. There also seemed a probable link between him and the razed cottage no one had seen burn down, and from it to the cottage’s owner, dead in her car with a vial of poison at her feet and a baby’s disarticulated skeleton beneath the blanket covering her lap.

Murray’s story that Christie hadn’t answered her door, despite his appointment, appeared to be believed, and his connection with Fergus picked over, but not unkindly. Eventually two detectives from Strathclyde police had called at his Glasgow flat to thank Murray for his cooperation.

If they were surprised by the boxes of Jack’s possessions piled in the hallway, or the unmade bed-settee in the sitting room, the officers managed to hide it. The four of them gathered in the small kitchenette. The policemen seemed to occupy twice the space the brothers did, and it was a squeeze. Jack, canny as ever, had stationed himself in the open doorway, leaving the detectives and Murray to squeeze together in the little galley with their backs against the kitchen units.

The officers accepted the offer of a cup of Jack’s over-strong coffee. The making and pouring of it proved a palaver, but eventually it was done and they each held a steaming mug in their hands.

The elder of the detectives favoured Murray with a stern smile. ‘I’ve got to say, Dr Watson, your face was in the frame when we found out you and Professor Baine were colleagues, especially once we discovered your relationship with his wife.’

He glanced slyly at Jack, as if checking for his reaction.

Murray said, ‘It’s all right, I already told my brother.’

‘Ah.’ the policeman sipped his coffee, grimaced, and set it on the kitchen counter at his back. ‘Your brother.’ He looked at Jack. ‘I gather you were there too?’

Jack gave one of his winning grins.

‘My girlfriend had just shown me the door. I was feeling a bit sorry for myself and decided to visit Murray. I ran into a crowd of archaeology students on the boat over, we got talking, had a few drinks together, and then I stumbled down to the But ’n’ Ben. The fire at the cottage must have been well under way by then, but sadly my route didn’t take me anywhere near it.’

‘Aye,’ the policeman nodded. ‘That’s what your statement said.’

The knowledge that their statements had been circulated as far as Glasgow bothered Murray. He asked, ‘So what wrapped up the investigation? Or aren’t you allowed to say?’

This time it was the younger detective who spoke. His face was impassive, and he might have been talking about a jumped red light or a stolen bicycle.

‘DNA samples taken from his house indicate that the baby whose bones Ms Graves was found with were those of a daughter she’d had with Professor Baine.’

‘Christ.’ Murray wiped a hand across his face. ‘So where does that leave things?’

The younger detective shrugged. His tight smile gave away nothing.

‘Officially, it’s accidental death and suicide. As to what actually happened, your guess is as good as mine.’ He levelled his gaze to Murray’s. ‘Better perhaps.’

The older officer’s expression was grim. ‘The bottom line is, we’re not looking for anyone else in relation to their deaths.’

Murray looked down at his feet, sinking into one of the silences he’d always been prone to, but which seemed to be affecting him more frequently. Jack filled what threatened to become an awkward pause.

‘We both appreciate it. Like you say, I guess the whole story will remain a mystery.’

‘You never know.’ The young detective turned to go. His coffee sat cooling in its cup. ‘Cases that have been dead for thirty or forty years can suddenly get resurrected.’ He looked at Murray. ‘Like old bones.’

The exhibition didn’t open until the following day, and they were alone in the small Glasgow gallery except for the curator busy on her laptop at the front desk. The place was less prestigious than the Fruitmarket, but this time it was a solo show, and according to Jack that made it okay.

They walked side by side through the exhibition, their father’s face shining from every wall. It was still hard, but Murray found he could look now. The montages devised from photos of their dad when he was young were his favourites; the Glasgow boy superimposed on the American landscapes he’d admired so much. There were even a couple of him with his arms around their mother, the pair of them relocated to a 1950s consumerist utopia. After her death his father had abandoned thoughts of emigration. Strange to think they could have become Americans. Strange too to remember that Jack had never known her, that he didn’t even possess the shadowy memories Murray had nurtured.

He asked, ‘Did Lyn call you back?’

‘Yes.’ Jack stared at a line of photographs and he might have been checking they were straight. ‘She’s going to let me come to the birth. It’s a start.’

‘The baby isn’t due for three months. Maybe things will have moved on by then.’

‘Maybe.’ Jack didn’t look convinced.

‘Is she coming tomorrow?’

‘I don’t think so. Her own opening’s at the end of the week, there’ll still be things to prepare. It’s a while since she’s exhibited. She never had time when she was working at that place.’ He glanced at Murray. ‘Did she send you an invite?’

‘I can give it a miss if you like.’

‘No, go. Put in a good word for me.’

This was how they were with each other these days — polite, considerate — not like brothers at all, it sometimes seemed. Murray supposed it was a consequence of their sharing his small apartment. There was too much of a danger that in the cramped space their usual banter might descend into acrimony. But it was more than that. They had talked a lot in the weeks after — about their parents, Lyn, Cressida, Murray’s strange adventure — and now it seemed there was nothing much left to say. It didn’t matter. There was time.

He said, ‘Do you fancy a pint?’

‘Maybe later, I’ve still got a few things to do here.’ Jack put a hand on Murray’s arm and nodded towards the young curator. ‘Why don’t you ask Aliah? She’s big into books and I happened to let slip you’re a doctor of English literature.’

‘Ach, I don’t know, Jack. I’m meeting the university press tomorrow.’

‘You don’t have to get wellied.’

‘All the same, it took a while to set this up.’

Jack shook his head.

‘Amazing you can be sure the poems were Lunan’s.’

‘Surely it’s the same with visual art? You can tell who made a work even if they didn’t sign it.’

‘Nah,’ Jack laughed. ‘The art world’s full of frauds, but most of them take the money and run, unlike your professor. Imagine buying up second-hand editions for all those years, trying to suppress the work in case someone clicked that it belonged to Archie. Does Baine’s wife know her husband was a poetry thief?’

‘Yes.’ Murray looked away. He tried to avoid thinking of Rachel these days.

He’d phoned her at home after his return and been met with the shy English tones of her mother, who’d thanked him for his concern and promised to pass on his condolences. His letter had taken days to write. It said nothing and remained unanswered. It was a Sunday morning in the third week of spring term when Murray noticed that the door to Rachel’s office was ajar. He’d hesitated for a beat, then knocked softly and pushed it wide.

For a second he thought the woman filling the cardboard carton with books from the tall shelves that edged the room was Rachel. Then she turned and he saw that although she had the same slight build and gleaming hair, she was a little older, her features different.

‘I’m sorry.’ There was an apologetic tremor to his voice. ‘I thought Dr Houghton might have dropped by.’

The woman glanced towards the gloomy corner where a neglected cheese plant drooped, its wilting leaves blocking the light from the window. Rachel straightened up from behind the desk where she had been crouched, a book destined for the box she was packing still clutched in her hand. She was dressed casually in jeans and a rough-knit sweater that looked several sizes too large. Murray realised it had probably belonged to Fergus.

‘Murray.’

Her eyes looked bigger than he remembered. Their lids had a bruised look. The sense of guilt that had shadowed him since the final night on the island took on a darker hue. He stood awkwardly on the threshold, not quite able to bring himself to enter the room.

‘I saw your door was open.’

‘I’m collecting the last of my stuff.’

The other woman glared at him.

‘A car’s on its way for us.’

Rachel dropped the book she was holding into a box and said, ‘Maybe you could go and check whether it’s there, please, Jenny.’

It was more of an order than a request. The older woman paused. For a moment Murray thought she was about to refuse, but then she let out a sigh and pushed past him without a word.

Rachel said, ‘You may as well shut the door. Who knows who else might be lurking here on a Sunday morning.’

Murray closed it gently, hearing the soft click of the latch as it sank home.

‘Maybe the rest of the department have a life.’

Rachel turned away, lifting more books from the shelf and fitting them neatly into the box.

‘Thanks for your letter. I’m sorry I didn’t get time to answer it.’

‘No one mentioned you were leaving.’

‘No, I’m afraid I’ve been a bit indecisive lately. I only posted my resignation today.’

Murray nodded, not daring to speak for a moment, then asked, ‘Where will you go?’

‘My sister has a house near Fontainebleau. She and her husband have persuaded me to stay with them for a while.’

Her voice was devoid of inflection. It gave her words a vague, robotic quality.

‘Will you come back?’

‘To Glasgow?’ Her eyes met his for a moment. ‘I doubt it.’

He wanted to ask if he could write to her, but instead said, ‘How are you?’

‘As well as can be expected.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘Yes, everyone is. It was a great loss. To me, if not to literature.’

Once again the flatness in her voice rendered everything insincere. He watched as she added more volumes to the box, then said, ‘I was on Lismore at the same time as Fergus.’

He waited for Rachel to ask what had happened, unsure of what he would tell her. But she merely nodded.

‘I was going to leave him. I told him before he left for the island. The photographs he sent you were the last straw. Well,’ she gave a small smile, ‘not the photos themselves, the fact that he sent them to you.’

‘He never mentioned you were leaving.’

‘Why would he?’ Rachel slid another stack of books from the shelf and set them in the box at her feet. She turned back to Murray. ‘I couldn’t help wondering if it had anything to do with what happened.’

He felt stupidly out of his depth, standing by the door, his ears straining for the return of her sister.

‘What?’

‘The fact that I was going to leave him. You knew Fergus. He wasn’t a clumsy man. He was graceful, cautious despite his recklessness.’

‘Fergus was the least suicidal person I can think of.’

‘Perhaps. But he was distracted. Maybe, just for a moment, he forgot to be careful.’

‘I was told you’d tried to kill yourself.’

‘Did you believe it?’

Murray nodded, and for the first time Rachel’s voice took on some colour.

‘You should have known better. I may occasionally be unwise, but I’m rarely stupid.’

Murray faltered. The door behind him opened and Rachel’s sister said, ‘Ralph’s downstairs, parking the van.’

Murray asked, ‘Can I help?’

‘No.’ Her voice was curt. ‘We’ll manage, thank you.’

He turned to go, but Rachel called him back.

‘Murray, remember — take good care of yourself.’

‘You too.’ He gave her a last smile and stepped back into the familiar darkness of the department corridor.

Jack said, ‘You did what you set out to do. You resurrected Archie Lunan. Two posthumous books in the same year, that’s bound to make a splash. Remember you said you’d let me have a look at the sci-fi novel as soon as you’d made a copy.’

‘Sure. Shall I photocopy the poems for you too?’

Jack shrugged. ‘If you like.’

It was the answer he’d anticipated, and Murray smiled in spite of himself.

Christie had dismissed the science-fiction novel Archie had been writing as worthless, but the poet’s apocalyptic vision might yet turn out to be a classic of the genre, with the potential to attract more readers than the poems ever would.

His brother was still talking. ‘I guess if this poetry collection’s as good as you say, people will take another look at his early stuff.’

Murray shrugged. ‘What does it matter who wrote the poems? It’s the work that counts, right? The art, not the artist.’

Jack laughed. ‘I’m not sure I can agree with you on that one.’

He raised his hand in a wave and walked swiftly towards the reception desk where the curator sat, her long hair falling across her profile like a black satin curtain. ‘Aliah, this is my brother Murray, who I was telling you about. He’s the clever one in the family.’

The woman looked up from her computer, her brown eyes dubious behind her stylish spectacles.

‘Really?’

Murray put a smile on his face and walked towards her. The smile was forced, everything was forced, but for the moment that was just how it had to be.