Chapter 9 #2
‘Ha. Barely anything. I’m not even sure how my next film will be funded.’
‘Could your folks help?’
‘My family? They’ve never had any money. My upbringing was the exact opposite to Holly’s.’ I hesitated. ‘To be honest, I find it all a bit intimidating. I’ve never been around rich people before.’
For the third time, she touched my arm. ‘You and me have a lot in common, Patrick. I grew up dirt poor, too. Smallest trailer in the park. But you know what? People like us, we’re hungry, right? Prepared to work hard for what we want. Like you with your movies. I think it’s awesome.’
It was lovely to get a reaction that wasn’t condescending or disinterested.
It was easy to see why Charles had fallen for her, and not just because she was young and beautiful.
She had an energy – an optimism – that was infectious and that made me think that yes, if I worked hard I could achieve anything.
She was right. I was hungry, in a way people born with privilege could never be.
I was confident that, after she’d spent some time with her, Holly would like her, too.
Susan’s house was a forty-five-minute walk from where we had spoken to Morag, much of it uphill.
As we got closer, I got a better view of the huge building on the opposite hill.
I could see now that it was in a state of disrepair, holes in the roof, an air of abandonment surrounding it.
I made a mental note to ask Holly about it.
We reached Susan’s front door and I pressed the bell. She answered within moments, as if she’d been standing there, waiting for us.
‘Can I help you?’
She was in her fifties, I guessed. A small, wiry woman with brown hair streaked with grey. She was wearing an apron and the smell of baking bread wafted from the house.
We introduced ourselves and noted her reaction when I told her we were with the Grants. Raised eyebrows. Something else. Sympathy?
‘Would it be possible to come inside?’ I asked. ‘I’m starting to turn into an icicle.’
Without a word, Susan disappeared into the house. I guessed this meant she wanted us to follow.
We found her in the kitchen, sliding a loaf of bread out of the oven.
She set it on the side and put a tea towel over it, then stood with her back to the counter, waiting for one of us to speak.
She reminded me of one of the scariest teachers at my school, a pint-sized woman who had managed to control a class full of thirteen-year-old kids by employing terror and sarcasm.
‘Do you mind if I use the bathroom?’ Jasmine asked, and Susan told her where it was.
‘I’ll cut to the chase,’ I said, after Jasmine had left the room.
‘Please do.’
As she stood there with her arms folded, I told her I’d heard about Samir and was hoping she’d be able to tell me more about the police investigation.
The moment I mentioned Samir, her shoulders sagged. ‘So you’re a journalist?’
‘Not exactly.’
‘Don’t tell me. A podcaster. We’ve already had one of them sniffing around here. I do not understand this obsession with true crime.’ There was something hypnotic about the way she said ‘true crime’. The two rolled Rs.
‘I’m not a true-crime reporter,’ I said. ‘My last film, it wasn’t about solving the case, as such. It was about shining a light on the story around what happened.’ She didn’t react. ‘I was hoping you would be able to tell me how far the investigation got.’
A fluffy cat strolled into the room, heading straight for Susan, who scooped him up and kissed his head. ‘Hamish, you are a beauty.’
‘Hamish?’ I said. ‘He’s famous around here. He brought a snake into Charles’s house.’
‘What? When?’
‘Yesterday, when we arrived.’
Susan furrowed her brow. ‘He can’t have. He was at the vet’s all day yesterday. I only picked him up this morning.’
Jasmine returned. ‘Oh, wow,’ she said, spying Hamish. She’d missed the conversation about snakes, which had left me unnerved. If Hamish wasn’t responsible, that meant the adder must have got in on its own.
‘What makes you think I’m going to give you any information?’ Susan asked, putting Hamish down. Hadn’t Morag said he was Brenda’s cat? He seemed very at home here.
‘Isn’t it in the public interest?’
‘One of my favourite phrases. May I suggest you contact the Scottish Police press office. I can also direct you to the coroner’s report.’
‘What did it say?’ I asked. ‘Death by misadventure?’ I already knew this was the case from the newspaper reports.
‘That’s right.’
She was starting to look annoyed, and I did feel a little guilty.
She was off duty, baking bread, and here were two strangers asking questions in her kitchen.
But something told me that she actually wanted to talk about it.
After all, she wasn’t kicking us out. Maybe, I hoped, she was dissatisfied with the outcome of the investigation, too.
‘What did the report say?’ I asked again.
She sighed. ‘It said that this young man, like so many before him, went into the elements without realizing how fast the temperature can drop around here. There was no indication of foul play.’
‘But don’t you think it’s strange that he came here without telling anyone what he was doing? And that no one knows how he got here?’
As I asked these questions, a scene formed and played out in my imagination.
This was always how it worked for me; it was why I had wanted to become a film-maker in the first place.
When I heard stories that affected me, I saw it play out in my mind’s eye.
It was happening now, as if I was watching a movie in my head.
A young man crawls across stony ground. Bitter rain stings his face and soaks his T-shirt. His limbs are numb and he can’t feel his hands or feet. His wet clothes cling to his wet skin.
‘I was expecting him to appear for his dinner.’ In the scene in my head, Samir’s mother was sitting in a chair in front of a black background that accentuated her grey hair. Her name appeared in a caption on the screen. ‘I knew something was wrong, you know? Mother’s instinct.’
‘Are you okay?’ Susan asked me. ‘You look like you’re miles away.’
I snapped back into the room. I needed to be careful. I didn’t know if this was a story I would set out to tell yet, and I had to stop myself from caring too much. It was hard, though. As soon as I’d seen Samir’s parents in my head, it was as if the mystery had implanted hooks in my skin.
Susan hadn’t answered me yet, so I repeated the question. ‘Isn’t it weird how no one knows how he got here?’
‘Of course it is. But believe me, people do strange and stupid things every day. Like you two, walking here despite the weather forecast.’ We all looked towards the window.
The sky had grown awfully dark out there since we’d started talking and, right on cue, the heavens cracked open.
Not rain, nor snow, but sleet: long white streaks that splatted against the window and slid down the glass.
Susan stared at it impassively. ‘I hope you brought an umbrella.’
‘Are you really not able to tell us anything?’ I asked, aware she was about to usher us out. ‘What about witnesses? Is it true that nobody saw him? That he didn’t stop off in the pub? No one saw him arrive or head into the hills?’
‘Correct.’
‘Did he have any injuries? Any sign that someone had harmed him? That he’d been in a fight? What about drugs and alcohol? Did he have any of that in his system?’
‘Like I said, this is all in the coroner’s report.’
‘Can you at least give me the name of the podcaster who was here asking questions? Maybe they found something.’
‘I don’t remember their name.’
Maybe I had been wrong about her secretly welcoming this discussion. She had clammed up.
‘Brenda told me there was another death at the caves, some time ago.’
‘There was an accident back in 2006. But that was before I moved here.’
‘Were any of the Grants involved?’
Jasmine’s eyebrows shot up at this.
‘Why don’t you ask them yourself? I think it’s time for you to go home.’
‘Can I at least leave you my card?’ I offered it to her, but she didn’t take it, so I left it on the counter, next to the cooling bread.
‘I’m going to give you a lift back,’ Susan said, not promising to make any effort to find the name of the podcaster. ‘I don’t want anyone else freezing to death here. Let me find my car key.’
She left the room and Jasmine immediately leaned towards my ear. ‘I’m sure she’s hiding something. Don’t you? Why—’
She stopped as Susan re-entered the room and said, ‘Come on, then.’
She drove us back, the windscreen wipers on her car barely able to keep up with the sleet, so Susan had to lean forward and drive slowly.
‘Can I ask you something?’ I said.
‘Another thing?’
‘The Grant family. I get the impression they’re not very popular around here.’
There was a long silence. I could tell I had surprised Jasmine and that she wanted to ask more, but she waited for Susan’s response, which came as we pulled up outside the house.
‘I’ve only been here a few years – moved here during the pandemic – so I don’t know much about them. But aye. If you do decide to go ahead and make a film here, I don’t know how much cooperation you’ll get, if you’re one of them.’
‘But why?’
Another long silence. ‘I’m not sure. All I can tell you is people around here have long memories.’ She opened the car door. ‘They bear grudges.’