number for him?’ Harry was more than slightly interested in the answer to that question.
‘No. He left in such a rush. I… forgot to ask. But I thought you might…’
“Fraid not.’
A few wordless seconds expanded in the darkness around them. Then Lloyd said, ‘He did have a sister in Manchester, didn’t he, Ossie?’
Harry weighed his answer as carefully as he could. ‘I don’t know. For sure.’
‘A sister anywhere?’
‘If you’d asked me before today… I’d have said no.’
‘Oh, great. Bloody great.’
Dangerfield cleared his throat. ‘Let’s go in.’
And in they went.
TEN
Donna’s wake-up call the following morning was literally that, rousing Harry from seldom-plumbed depths of unconsciousness. No-one had hurried to bed after Dangerfield’s announcement of Askew’s death. Reactions had varied from the numb to the disbelieving, but all had taken time to be articulated. Harry had finally reached his room around two o’clock and had been unable to sleep for another hour or so after that.
For reasons he did not completely understand, he failed to pass the news on to Donna. Sparing her unnecessary worry was no longer the point. Now it was necessary worry he was determined not to inflict. She seemed to blame his lack of obvious jollity on a hangover, which strangely he did not have. But he was happy to let her believe he did.
‘You didn’t drink enough water, did you?’
‘Guilty as charged.’
‘Promise me you won’t spend the whole weekend in a dehydrated haze of alcohol.’
‘I promise.’
And somehow he suspected this was a promise he could be confident of keeping.
—«»—«»—«»—
He made himself some coffee, then took a bath and, skipping the communal breakfast, headed out on foot. He needed to think and hoped some bracing lungfuls of Deeside air would aid his efforts. He left the hotel, walked downhill towards the village, then struck out along the footpath behind the church. It had formed part of the cross-country route WO Trench had insisted they flog round twice a week, ‘to stop you going any softer than you already are’. But there was no question of Harry breaking into a commemorative trot. A steady walk would serve his purpose.
The path curved round the hillside ahead of him as he went, the pale trunks and branches of the still leafless silver birches casting an illusion of frost across the surrounding woodland. He tried to recall what Askew had said to him on the platform at Edinburgh and earlier on the train, but could retrieve only snatches of disconnected phrases. He had been anxious about something. That at least was clear. And it concerned Operation Clean Sheet. ‘It depends on how you remember things,’ he had said. Yes. Those had been his very words. ‘And how you forget them.’ What had he meant? What could he have meant?
A figure appeared suddenly on the path ahead, a dark shape moving fast. Harry pulled up in surprise, then recognized Erica Rawson, running lithely towards him in tracksuit and trainers. She smiled and waved, slowing to a halt beside him, where she jogged on the spot, breathing hard, her face flushed, her hair damp with sweat despite the chill of the morning.
‘I’m running off last night’s food and drink,’ she panted. ‘How are you feeling?’
‘OK. I… needed some air myself.’
‘Plenty of it out here.’
‘We used to…’ He smiled ruefully. ‘Never mind.’
‘Thinking about Peter Askew?’
‘Hard not to.’
‘Especially as the last person to speak to him.’
‘Thanks for reminding me.’
‘Sorry. I didn’t mean…’ She stopped jogging. ‘Really. I’m sorry. It was a terrible thing.’
‘We never know what’s going on in someone else’s head, do we? I mean, why come all the way to Scotland just to…’ He looked past her into the ghostly grey depths of the wood. ‘It doesn’t make sense.’
‘Everything makes sense, Harry. It’s just that sometimes it takes a while to figure out
‘No. He left in such a rush. I… forgot to ask. But I thought you might…’
“Fraid not.’
A few wordless seconds expanded in the darkness around them. Then Lloyd said, ‘He did have a sister in Manchester, didn’t he, Ossie?’
Harry weighed his answer as carefully as he could. ‘I don’t know. For sure.’
‘A sister anywhere?’
‘If you’d asked me before today… I’d have said no.’
‘Oh, great. Bloody great.’
Dangerfield cleared his throat. ‘Let’s go in.’
And in they went.
TEN
Donna’s wake-up call the following morning was literally that, rousing Harry from seldom-plumbed depths of unconsciousness. No-one had hurried to bed after Dangerfield’s announcement of Askew’s death. Reactions had varied from the numb to the disbelieving, but all had taken time to be articulated. Harry had finally reached his room around two o’clock and had been unable to sleep for another hour or so after that.
For reasons he did not completely understand, he failed to pass the news on to Donna. Sparing her unnecessary worry was no longer the point. Now it was necessary worry he was determined not to inflict. She seemed to blame his lack of obvious jollity on a hangover, which strangely he did not have. But he was happy to let her believe he did.
‘You didn’t drink enough water, did you?’
‘Guilty as charged.’
‘Promise me you won’t spend the whole weekend in a dehydrated haze of alcohol.’
‘I promise.’
And somehow he suspected this was a promise he could be confident of keeping.
—«»—«»—«»—
He made himself some coffee, then took a bath and, skipping the communal breakfast, headed out on foot. He needed to think and hoped some bracing lungfuls of Deeside air would aid his efforts. He left the hotel, walked downhill towards the village, then struck out along the footpath behind the church. It had formed part of the cross-country route WO Trench had insisted they flog round twice a week, ‘to stop you going any softer than you already are’. But there was no question of Harry breaking into a commemorative trot. A steady walk would serve his purpose.
The path curved round the hillside ahead of him as he went, the pale trunks and branches of the still leafless silver birches casting an illusion of frost across the surrounding woodland. He tried to recall what Askew had said to him on the platform at Edinburgh and earlier on the train, but could retrieve only snatches of disconnected phrases. He had been anxious about something. That at least was clear. And it concerned Operation Clean Sheet. ‘It depends on how you remember things,’ he had said. Yes. Those had been his very words. ‘And how you forget them.’ What had he meant? What could he have meant?
A figure appeared suddenly on the path ahead, a dark shape moving fast. Harry pulled up in surprise, then recognized Erica Rawson, running lithely towards him in tracksuit and trainers. She smiled and waved, slowing to a halt beside him, where she jogged on the spot, breathing hard, her face flushed, her hair damp with sweat despite the chill of the morning.
‘I’m running off last night’s food and drink,’ she panted. ‘How are you feeling?’
‘OK. I… needed some air myself.’
‘Plenty of it out here.’
‘We used to…’ He smiled ruefully. ‘Never mind.’
‘Thinking about Peter Askew?’
‘Hard not to.’
‘Especially as the last person to speak to him.’
‘Thanks for reminding me.’
‘Sorry. I didn’t mean…’ She stopped jogging. ‘Really. I’m sorry. It was a terrible thing.’
‘We never know what’s going on in someone else’s head, do we? I mean, why come all the way to Scotland just to…’ He looked past her into the ghostly grey depths of the wood. ‘It doesn’t make sense.’
‘Everything makes sense, Harry. It’s just that sometimes it takes a while to figure out
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