Becky gives a tight smile. ‘She suffers from car sickness. Has to take tablets that make her drowsy, so she can’t drive.’
I feel a sick sensation in the pit of my stomach. ‘What kind of tablets?’
Becky shakes her head in exasperation. ‘How should I know?’
‘But you’re sure she takes the kind that make her drowsy?’
‘That’s what Turner said. That’s why she needs him to drive her.’
Suddenly my head seems too heavy for my body and my legs weaken. I perch myself on the stone wall that borders the fountain and think back to the conversation I had with Grace only a few months before.
‘You’re the nurse. You’re the one who told me that cyclizine causes drowsiness.’
‘Michael didn’t suffer from travel sickness. There’s absolutely no reason he should have been taking that sort of medication.’
Becky sits down next to me. ‘Are you all right, Mrs Hardy?’
I fight for control, but the knowledge that time is running out threatens to overwhelm me.
Becky takes a long, shaky breath. ‘She’s always fussing over him, you know? Touching his arm, chatting to him like they’re mates or something. I know they were drinking together in the boathouse the other night; I saw them …’ She absent-mindedly scrapes a speck of moss off the side off the wall with her fingernail. ‘But it doesn’t mean that they’re …’ she glances at me. ‘Well, you know. Does it?’
‘I don’t know,’ I say. ‘But if I did know, or even suspect, I would have to do something about it.’
‘Because it’s not right, is it?’ Becky says, almost to herself.
I’m operating on autopilot, still stunned by the realisation that Desra McKinley may have supplied my son with the medication that contributed to his death. ‘No, it isn’t,’ I reply. ‘Have you asked Turner about it?’
She gives a bitter laugh. ‘Do you really think he’d tell me?’
‘Maybe, maybe not. Have you asked her?’
Becky’s eyes narrow and a fiendish smile plays at the corner of her mouth. ‘Now that would be interesting, wouldn’t it, but maybe asking isn’t quite the way to put it.’
39
A tangible sense of energy and excitement hangs in the air as the final touches for Findlay Cardew’s lecture are put into place. A marquee has been erected and extra staff have been called in to help with security and to direct parking. The mobile catering van is now standing under a large oak, offering food ranging from haggis to vegan curries, and tables and chairs are being set up for early arrivals from Edinburgh or Perth who may require a bite to eat or a gin and tonic. I barely take in the activity as I make my way from my meeting with Becky towards the senior dormitories. Becky’s revelation that Desra took travel sickness medication, possibly containing the same chemicals that were found in Michael’s bloodstream the night he died, has unnerved me more than I can say. It’s time to act. I’ve dithered long enough.
On my bed the pile of A4 envelopes I bought at a post office in St Andrews yesterday, along with photocopies I made of everything I have on Desra: photos, emails, texts, and also including my own notes on my meeting with Alistair, and Turner’s questionable relationship with her. They are addressed to the head teacher and the eleven members of the governing council, including the chair, the Very Reverend James Simpson. All will be attending Cardew’s lecture this evening.
‘There’s nothing like bringing down the mighty,’ I whisper, as I seal and address the envelopes. There is a knock at the door, and I hurriedly slip the envelopes under my pillow, next to Michael’s diary.
‘Yes?’
The door eases open and I’m surprised to see Sally’s smiling face.
‘I was wondering if you might need a little help getting ready.’
‘Getting ready?’
‘For tonight, you daft thing.’ She sits down on the bed. ‘I was a beautician in one of my previous incarnations. I can do your hair if you like?’ I stare at her in amazement. ‘You want to look your best, don’t you?’
Sally has arranged my hair in a messy bun which looks both elegant and informal. I paint my lips a deep, blood red, imagining myself as a fair-haired Lady Macbeth. I had originally planned on wearing a floral summer dress, but instead I opt for a dark maxi dress with a low-cut back. I apply perfume to my wrists, behind my ears and in the groove between my breasts. Finally, as if lifted from a trance, I inhale deeply as I put on the pearl earrings Michael bought me. On the bed next to me is the bag with the envelopes containing the evidence I need to destroy Desra McKinley. All I need to do is find the right moment to hand it over. I imagine standing at the drinks reception, glass in hand, laughing with Marie-Claire and Julia, kissing Caleb on the lips. Desra will be waiting anxiously for the press to arrive. She will be so full of – almost overflowing with – self-importance. There will be the sound of footsteps and a door slamming. The headmaster and the Very Reverend Simpson will storm into the room, followed by a police inspector waving the brown envelopes accusingly. One by one, he will expose her catalogue of sins: her misconduct; her abuse.
‘And what about this?’ the headmaster will yell, forcing her to read the coroner’s report. ‘Cyclizine in his bloodstream? And you knew very well, didn’t you, that mixed with alcohol it becomes a very dangerous drug indeed. Did you watch as he struggled? As he sank into the water? And then as he surfaced before he went under again? Did you hear his cries for help, the last sound he would ever make, before turning away in cruel abandonment?’
Desra will collapse to the floor, hysterical and remorseful, pleading for forgiveness. All around her the other guests will stare, their mouths open in disbelief; but I will be laughing. I
