Dead And Buried

‘How old was that?’

‘Eighteen. I handled it fine: I didn’t feel rejected, I felt lucky to have such a great mum and dad.’

‘And your natural mother?’

‘She seems to have handled it as well. She went south to find work.’ Trudi Friend smiled. ‘In those days “south” in Forres meant Aberdeen, but she went much further than that. She went to Edinburgh, where jobs were plentiful. She found one in the Academy, in the junior school.’

‘Ah,’ the chief constable exclaimed. ‘I thought we’d wind up there.’

‘Yes. My mother settled in well: she got herself a room in a house and she made friends. At least that’s what she told Aunt Magda, for although she went back to her and Sandy for holidays, they never visited her. It was on her last visit that she told them about her new man. His name was Claude Bothwell, and he was on the staff of the senior school. She said that he was very handsome, very eligible and that they were engaged. This was at Easter. The way it was left, she was going to bring him up to meet them during the summer holidays. Only they never turned up. They were expecting a letter or a postcard from my mother to say when they’d be arriving . . . they didn’t have a phone then . . . but nothing came. They waited until the holidays were over, but still nothing. Eventually, Aunt Magda wrote to the address they had for Mother: after a few weeks the letter was returned, marked “gone away”. That worried them enough for Sandy to go to the public phone box and call the school. The secretary told him that neither Mr Bothwell nor my mother had returned after the break, and that as far as the headmaster was concerned, they no longer worked there. From that time on, until I got in touch with them, they heard no more of my mother. When my grandparents died, they even put death notices in the Edinburgh papers in the hope that she would see them and get in touch, but she never did.’

Proud scratched his chin. ‘That’s what happened, was it? Very interesting.’

‘So you knew Claude Bothwell?’

‘Yes, but first, can you tell me how you came to contact me?’

‘I went to the school, and I looked up the record, back to the year of their disappearance. I assumed that most, if not all, the staff would be dead or retired by now, so I looked through the senior pupils. Yours was the only name I recognised.’

‘If you’d done a little digging you’d have found a few High Court judges, but they’re all called Lord Something-or-other now, so it’s understandable that you wouldn’t have known them.’

‘What can you tell me about Bothwell?’ she asked him.

‘Not very much, I’m afraid. He taught French and German, and was unwise enough to wear a small moustache, so inevitably we all called him Adolf. I don’t remember him being especially handsome, but we tended not to think of our teachers in that way . . . at least we didn’t in those days. As for being eligible,’ he hesitated, ‘I’m afraid the same applies. I’m sorry I don’t remember your mother at all, but I’d have been long gone from the junior school by the time she arrived.’

‘Do you remember anything about their disappearance, or his, at least?’

‘A little. I was head boy when it happened; I was also doing a crash course in German in my final year. Our first class was on the opening day of term and we were supposed to have Adolf, but one of the other teachers turned up instead. Afterwards, the rector called me in and told me, as a courtesy, that he wouldn’t be coming back. But that’s all he told me, I’m afraid.’

Trudi Friend could not keep the disappointment from her face, although he could see that she was trying. ‘Thank you, Sir James,’ she said, with a sigh. ‘I should have known that it was too much to expect any more than that, given all the time that’s passed.’

‘You have no other leads?’

‘None. I’m afraid I’ve hit the wall. My daughter will be disappointed, but that’s too bad. There’s no more I can do.’

‘Let’s not be so hasty,’ said Proud. ‘Now I know more about the situation, I may be able to do some digging. Most of my classmates are still around. Let me make a few enquiries and see how far I can get. I’m not proposing an official investigation, you understand, but I am a policeman, after all. Can you give me your date of birth, and your mother’s?’

‘Yes. I have a folder with all the information in it, including the genealogist’s report, and copies of my birth certificate and hers. I brought it with me today, just in case you wanted to see it.’

‘Excellent. I know the general manager of the Balmoral well enough to borrow his photocopier. Let me make duplicates of your material, and we’ll see how far I can run with it.’

‘Are you sure? It’s really very good of you. I didn’t expect anything more than . . .’

‘Of course I’m sure. I’m quite looking forward to it, in fact. It’ll be just like being back in action.’

Eleven

By any measurement, James Andrew Skinner was a handful. He was also a very perceptive little boy. It was not lost on him that he never did things with both his mum and dad together any more. His older brother Mark was less observant: he was a child of the Internet generation, and he had to be persuaded to leave his computer for an afternoon, even to see a special pre-Christmas morning showing of the newest Shrek movie. Happily, he was also a child of the pizza generation, and the mention of lunch afterwards at Benny and Jerry’s swung the issue.

‘It’s too bad Seonaid couldn’t come,’ James Andrew said, as he picked up a wedge of his mozzarella, tomato and pepperoni selection.

‘She’s too young, Jazzer,’ his father replied, ‘you know that.’

‘She watches Shrek on the DVD at home.’

‘Yes, but that’s different. She never sits still all the way through, plus she gives us a running commentary. You can’t do that in a cinema.’

‘When will she be old enough?’ he said, as he took a bite.

‘In a couple of years I guess. How old were you when we took you to your first movie?’

‘Four,’ the boy mumbled, through a mouthful.

‘There’s your answer.’

‘Why didn’t Mum come with us?’

Bob shot a glance at his son. ‘She’s looking after Seonaid,’ he replied.

‘Trish could have done that.’

‘Mum doesn’t like Shrek,’ Mark pointed out. ‘She thinks Mike Myers’s accent is silly and she can’t stand the man who does the donkey voice.’

‘Dad can. Dad likes him, don’t you, Dad? You like Eddie Murphy, you laughed all the way through.’

Bob wound the last of his spaghetti round his fork. ‘I like what he does in Shrek, and I like some of his early stuff, like Forty-eight Hours.’

‘And you like Mike Myers?’

‘Only when he’s a green ogre.’

‘So you like him.’

‘In that part, yes.’

‘So why don’t you and Mum like the same things?’

‘Jazz, shut up!’

Bob’s fork had stopped halfway to his mouth at the question: when his older son spoke, he laid it back down on his plate. He had never heard Mark raise his voice to his brother, or to anyone else for that matter. James Andrew’s fists bunched, and for a moment it seemed that he was going to use them, until he caught his father’s eye and subsided back into his chair, his expression sullen, but not cowed. ‘I’ll ask what I want,’ he muttered.

‘No, you won’t,’ his brother shot back at him. ‘It’s a silly question, it’s none of your business, and it’s upsetting Dad. Married people don’t have to like the same things all the time. Isn’t that right, Dad?’

‘That’s true,’ Bob replied gratefully. ‘We’re all different, boys; every one of us is a unique individual, with our own likes and dislikes. It would be virtually impossible for two people, even people who are married to each other, to have exactly the same tastes.’

‘Tastes?’