with them from Kent. The choice of location hadn’t been difficult to make. All three of them had experienced happiness there and it was a place where there would always be other children to keep him company, even if they went home afterwards and he remained behind.
McBride tried to imagine how Caroline might be spending Christmas, but couldn’t.
He stayed on the swing until his hands and feet had lost all feeling and darkness dropped over him.
12
The next morning, while the cleaners and chambermaids were still doing their best to remove the debris of the night before, McBride checked out of the Apex. He drove the short distance along the shore to the airport, dropped off his hired car and bought a seat on the London flight that departed twenty minutes later. He was one of only three passengers on the plane. The other two were obviously together but had apparently fallen out. They did not speak to each other or to McBride, which suited him – he had things to occupy his mind.
He had to decide, for instance, how he would explain to the news desks of at least three national papers why he would not be accepting any assignments for the foreseeable future and that he would be moving out of London to live in Dundee again. Whatever explanation he gave, he knew it would not be the truth, which was that he had become convinced an innocent man was languishing in prison for a murder he did not commit, though he had absolutely no evidence for that belief.
And nor could he tell them that he had examined the details of the case many months earlier when he was doing the research for a book and yet had found none of the circumstances exceptional. It would be safer, if he wanted to be offered well-paid employment in the future, to find a more acceptable excuse.
He would tell them he was taking a short sabbatical. Some would see that as a euphemism for laziness, of course, but at least it sounded semi-professional. Besides, if the best possible scenario – reporter springs convicted killer – came to pass, he would have one helluva story to sell them. McBride smiled wryly at the thought.
When he arrived back at the Maida Vale flat, which he had never considered home, he exhaled with relief. Nothing seemed to have been smashed and a quick inspection of his wardrobe revealed that no sleeves had been cut off his jackets. More importantly, the Trek still hung gleaming and unmarked on its hook in the small room that doubled as an office and bike shed. Sarah had evidently moved on to pastures new, taking her promise of destructive reprisals with her.
He was still checking for damage in the more obscure parts of the apartment when his mobile sounded ‘Strangers in the Night’, the song he shared with Caroline.
McBride did not recognise the caller’s number but the voice on the line was instantly familiar. Adam Gilzean was apologetic. ‘Mr McBride? Sorry to trouble you on Boxing Day, while you’re probably still recovering from a riotous Christmas, but it’s about the visit to Bryan. I went to see him yesterday and he can’t believe you might be prepared to speak to him. Actually, he’s ecstatic at the thought and said I couldn’t have taken him a better Christmas present. Will you go?’
It was a plea, not a question. McBride could sense Adam Gilzean’s anxiety as he silently awaited a response. He replied with matching gentleness. ‘Yes, of course, Mr Gilzean. I meant what I said. Can you give me a few days to sort things out? I’m back in London – I’ve got some stuff I need to do – after that, I’ll be heading back up as quickly as I can. We can get everything organised then.’
‘That’s wonderful. Thank you, thank you.’ Gilzean rang quickly off, as though any delay might bring a change of mind from McBride.
It did not take McBride more than forty-eight hours to temporarily close down his life in Maida Vale. In fact, it surprised him just how loose the connections were. Everything he required to transfer his
McBride tried to imagine how Caroline might be spending Christmas, but couldn’t.
He stayed on the swing until his hands and feet had lost all feeling and darkness dropped over him.
12
The next morning, while the cleaners and chambermaids were still doing their best to remove the debris of the night before, McBride checked out of the Apex. He drove the short distance along the shore to the airport, dropped off his hired car and bought a seat on the London flight that departed twenty minutes later. He was one of only three passengers on the plane. The other two were obviously together but had apparently fallen out. They did not speak to each other or to McBride, which suited him – he had things to occupy his mind.
He had to decide, for instance, how he would explain to the news desks of at least three national papers why he would not be accepting any assignments for the foreseeable future and that he would be moving out of London to live in Dundee again. Whatever explanation he gave, he knew it would not be the truth, which was that he had become convinced an innocent man was languishing in prison for a murder he did not commit, though he had absolutely no evidence for that belief.
And nor could he tell them that he had examined the details of the case many months earlier when he was doing the research for a book and yet had found none of the circumstances exceptional. It would be safer, if he wanted to be offered well-paid employment in the future, to find a more acceptable excuse.
He would tell them he was taking a short sabbatical. Some would see that as a euphemism for laziness, of course, but at least it sounded semi-professional. Besides, if the best possible scenario – reporter springs convicted killer – came to pass, he would have one helluva story to sell them. McBride smiled wryly at the thought.
When he arrived back at the Maida Vale flat, which he had never considered home, he exhaled with relief. Nothing seemed to have been smashed and a quick inspection of his wardrobe revealed that no sleeves had been cut off his jackets. More importantly, the Trek still hung gleaming and unmarked on its hook in the small room that doubled as an office and bike shed. Sarah had evidently moved on to pastures new, taking her promise of destructive reprisals with her.
He was still checking for damage in the more obscure parts of the apartment when his mobile sounded ‘Strangers in the Night’, the song he shared with Caroline.
McBride did not recognise the caller’s number but the voice on the line was instantly familiar. Adam Gilzean was apologetic. ‘Mr McBride? Sorry to trouble you on Boxing Day, while you’re probably still recovering from a riotous Christmas, but it’s about the visit to Bryan. I went to see him yesterday and he can’t believe you might be prepared to speak to him. Actually, he’s ecstatic at the thought and said I couldn’t have taken him a better Christmas present. Will you go?’
It was a plea, not a question. McBride could sense Adam Gilzean’s anxiety as he silently awaited a response. He replied with matching gentleness. ‘Yes, of course, Mr Gilzean. I meant what I said. Can you give me a few days to sort things out? I’m back in London – I’ve got some stuff I need to do – after that, I’ll be heading back up as quickly as I can. We can get everything organised then.’
‘That’s wonderful. Thank you, thank you.’ Gilzean rang quickly off, as though any delay might bring a change of mind from McBride.
It did not take McBride more than forty-eight hours to temporarily close down his life in Maida Vale. In fact, it surprised him just how loose the connections were. Everything he required to transfer his
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