1 2 7
cated taste of the neighbourhood. Above the ornate Edwardian fireplace, with its
Isabel was pleased that Rose Macleod had invited her in. It seemed trusting, these days, to ask a stranger in, but it was still done in Edinburgh, or parts of Edinburgh at least. She took a seat on a small tub chair near the fireplace.
“I’m sorry to descend on you like this,” Isabel began. “We haven’t met, of course, but I know about . . . about your son. I’m so sorry.”
Rose inclined her head slightly. “Thank you. That was some months ago, as you know, but . . . but it still seems very recent.”
“Do you have other children?” asked Isabel.
Rose nodded. “We had three sons. Rory was the oldest. The other two are away at university. One in Glasgow. One in Aberdeen. Both studying engineering.” She paused, appraising Isabel with piercing blue eyes. “I lost my husband some years ago. He was an engineer too.”
There was silence. Isabel had clasped her hands together and felt the bony outline of her knuckles. Rose looked at her expectantly.
“The reason why I came to see you,” Isabel began, “is to do with the accident. I was wondering whether the police had made any progress. I saw something in the
something in which they called for witnesses. Did anybody turn up?”
Rose looked away. “No,” she said. “Not a squeak. Nothing.
The police have said now that although the case remains technically open, it’s very unlikely that they will get anything further 1 2 8
A l e x a n d e r M c C a l l S m i t h to go on.” She reached out and took a coaster from a table beside her chair and fiddled with it. “What they’re effectively saying is that we shouldn’t expect them ever to come up with an answer as to what happened. That’s more or less it.”
“That must be difficult for you,” said Isabel. “Not knowing.”
Rose put the coaster down on the table. “Of course it is. It leaves things up in the air—unresolved.” She paused and looked at Isabel again. “But, may I ask, why have you come to see me about this? Do you know something, Mrs. . . . Mrs. Dalhousie?”
“Miss,” said Isabel. “No, I don’t know anything definite, I’m afraid, but I might have some information which could have a bearing on the incident. It’s just possible.”
The effect of this on Rose was immediate. Suddenly she was tense, and she leant forward in her chair. “Please tell me what it is,” she said quietly. “Even if you think that it’s unimportant. Please tell me.”
Isabel was about to begin. She had worked out what she was going to say, which would effectively be the story of her meeting with Ian and the story that he had told her. She was not going to say much about the other case— the case which Ian had told her about—but would be prepared to say something about that if Rose appeared unduly sceptical.
She started to speak. “I met a man completely by chance . . .”
Outside the room there was the sound of a door opening.
Rose raised a hand to stop Isabel.
“Graeme,” she said. “My partner. Could you hold on a moment? I’d like him to hear what you have to say.”
She rose from the chair and opened the living-room door, which she had closed behind her when they had entered the room. Isabel heard her say something to somebody outside, and F R I E N D S, L OV E R S, C H O C O L AT E
1 2 9
then a man entered. He was a tall man, about the same age as Rose. Isabel looked at him. She saw the high brow, with the scar, and the eyes, which were hooded, markedly so. And she knew, immediately and with utter certainty, that this was the man whose face had appeared to Ian.
She took the hand which was proffered to her and shook it.
The act of introduction, the formality of the handshake, at least gave her some time to think, and her mind raced through the possibilities. She could hardly go ahead and say what she had proposed saying now that Graeme had come in. She could hardly sit there and give a description of the man on the other side of the room. Nor could she suddenly claim that she had forgotten what she was going to say.
For some inexplicable reason, Grace came to her mind, and Isabel knew what she would say. As Rose explained to Graeme that Isabel had come with some information, she refined her story. She would keep Ian out of this now, and would claim the vision herself.
“I know you’ll think this rather ridiculous,” she said. “People often do. I’m a medium, you see.”
She saw Graeme glance at Rose. He does think it’s ridiculous, thought Isabel. Good. But Rose declined his look of complicity. “I don’t think that,” she said softly. “The police have often used mediums. I’ve read about it. They can be quite useful.”
Graeme pursed his lips. He clearly did not think so. But was he anxious? Isabel wondered. If he was the hit- and-run driver, would he be anxious about some eccentric medium coming up with something which might just throw suspicion upon him?
And why, she asked, would he have left Rory in the street if he had knocked him down inadvertently? The answer occurred to her immediately. If he had been driving under the influence of 1 3 0
