Chapter 5.01
It wasn’t a good day for a funeral.
Funerals should be dreich, wintery affairs, full of rain and tumbling leaves. As if the whole world was mourning.
Instead, the sun beamed down from a clear blue sky – birds chirping and warbling in the trees and bushes that bordered the cemetery.
At least it had the decency to be a bit nippy . . .
The Kirkton of Skene graveyard had a good view too: green, undulating hills giving way to purple-sloped mountains.
A newish cemetery, barely a third full, on the outer edge of a small village caught in Westhill’s ever-expanding gravitational well.
Waiting for the day the larger suburb swallowed it whole.
Roberta leaned on her walking stick, squinting against the inappropriate sunshine, dressed all in black. As were Tufty and Barrett, Lund, and even Harmsworth.
Her Queen Street Irregulars, hanging back a few rows from the graveside.
They weren’t the only mourners here, though. Most of the crowd was distinctly younger – early-twenties, maybe – shuffling about the surrounding graves. Talking in shuttered whispers. Not quite knowing what to do next.
Probably the first time they’d ever buried a friend.
The minister wiped dirt from his hands, bowed his head, and left the field of play. Sweeping out in his shroud of raven black.
The youngsters shuffled after him, heading off to the Red Star Inn for a funeral tea: little sandwiches, sausage rolls, and ‘I can’t believe she’s really gone . . .’
With the kids out of the way, that left Mr and Mrs Lockheart, standing beside the dark hole they’d committed their daughter to for all eternity. Wrapped in each other’s arms, heads bowed, shoulders quivering as the tears flowed.
No headstone yet – the grave would have to settle first – but there were heaps of floral tributes, and a display board with a huge photo of Megan on it. Looking impossibly sweet and innocent.
But then, those were the lies that got families through the darker days.
Lund grimaced. ‘I hate these things. Not the showing-our-respects bit, the fact we’ve . . . You know.’
A shrug from Barrett. ‘Can’t prevent every death.’
‘Look at it this way,’ Harmsworth pointed, ‘at least we stopped Abercrombie killing anyone else. That’s something.’
Tufty shuffled his feet, in his black work boots and black fighting suit, even though this was officially a rest day. ‘You guys going to the wake?’
‘Can’t.’ Barrett hooked a thumb over his shoulder at the car park. ‘Gotta get back to work.’
‘Guv?’
Hard to imagine what it would be like losing a daughter.
If Jasmine or Naomi just . . . didn’t come home one day.
What would hurt more: thinking they’d run away because they didn’t love you anymore, or finding out some bastard had taken them from you?
Dumped them in the bin like yesterday’s rubbish.
And the Lockhearts got to suffer both.
‘Guv? Hello? The wake?’
‘Hmmm . . .?’ Roberta blinked the world back into focus, and there was Tufty staring at her. ‘Oh. Right. No. I think the family deserve some space without police officers hoovering up all the mini-Kievs.’
Through the scattering flock of funeral crows, a flash of bright-red hair stood out like a robin.
Roberta blinked again. ‘’Scuse me.’ She hobbled off and left her team standing there. Making her way between the headstones, past the open grave, and over to where Billie Nesbit slouched, all on her own. Keeping a safe distance between herself and Megan’s parents.
Her skin was ghost-pale, dark-purple bags slung beneath her eyes. Hunched and shrunken. As if she’d aged a decade in the last few months. But at least she was upright – no more tubes and machines and hospital beds.
Roberta nodded. ‘You’re looking better.’
‘Am I?’ The two words flat and grey as a granite slab.
Over in the car park, doors clunked shut, engines starting as the crows took flight.
Roberta leaned on her walking stick. ‘Want to tell me the truth this time?’
Wrinkles deepened on that pale brow as Billie frowned at the open grave. ‘You know, I look at her picture and all I feel is . . . sad. There was a time I’d have bashed her skull wide open, just to spend a minute with the illustrious Sir Norman Fordyce.’
Mr Lockheart sank to his knees, hands over his face. And Mrs Lockheart knelt beside him, holding him tight.
‘And then, all of a sudden, Megan was gone. And I was so glad, because that meant he was all mine.’ A small laugh slipped through those thin lips.
‘Frank tried to tell me – “this is what Sir Norman’s like with all the pretty girls” – but I thought I was special.
’ Her face tightened. ‘Until Vivian came along.’ Billie put a hand over her stomach, where the knife had been. ‘I just wanted him to notice me again.’
Oh for God’s sake . . .
Roberta groaned. ‘Frank Abercrombie didn’t stab you, did he.’
‘Does it matter now? He killed Megan. He’s going to prison for the rest of his life anyway.’
‘You really are a stupid wee girl. You could’ve died! You nearly did!’
‘Was only meant to be a tiny stab wound.’ A sickly smile. ‘Turns out, it’s not as easy as it looks.’
‘And you’re going to let Abercrombie take the blame.
’ Roberta shook her head. ‘Suppose it’s up to you.
Maybe yours is the kind of conscience that’ll let you forget all about it: get on with your life.
Or maybe it’ll torture you every single day and night till there’s nothing left but a hollow bitter shell, no one will ever love.
’ Roberta gave Billie’s shoulder a wee pat. ‘Something to think about, anyway.’
Then hurpled off.
And with any luck, Billie would be staring after her, lamenting every decision that ended with . . . this.
What was it with heterosexual women, mooning about over men? How self-destructive did someone have to be to stab themselves because of a bloody man? A married man. A grey-haired titting wank of a man, who chased after every bit of skirt that crossed his arrogant, misogynistic, lecherous path.
Tufty was waiting for her, outside the cemetery gates, leaning back against the shiny red bonnet of her freshly valeted MX-5. Top down, ready to roll. ‘All good?’
A sniff. ‘Depends on your definition of “good”.’
Roberta opened the passenger door, and looked back across the headstones.
There was Billie, still standing where she’d left her.
Watching.
‘Let’s go home.’