Chapter 30
Jake stood just the other side of the door, uncertain about what to expect or what he was doing there.
At first glance, the room appeared empty. It was not how Jake would have imagined such a room would be – clinical, like a hospital. In fact, the room was just how Jake had imagined it would be before the receptionist had said the word hospice ; it was totally in keeping with what Jake had seen so far of the house. The delicate rose print wallpaper, large oak furniture and soft-cushioned, old-fashioned sofas and high-backed chairs harked back to another era and suggested that the benefactor had donated the property lock, stock and barrel. The charity on the receiving end had had the sense not to change a thing, which strangely pleased Jake. He didn’t see a bed, so he guessed this was more like an apartment than the single bedroom he’d been anticipating.
He didn’t know why he felt so relieved that they’d clearly kept so much of the original interior; after all, the property had nothing whatsoever to do with him, although he felt he had been there before. Not in this room, but he had walked up the staircase; he was sure of it. He’d had the strongest feeling of déjà vu.
He vividly remembered looking out of that same picture window overlooking the grounds. There was something else; Jake was almost certain he had been there with his mother. Beyond that, he drew a blank. With many childhood memories, it was difficult to distinguish the real from the imagined, but Jake felt certain about his memory of the beautiful arched window.
He wondered how long Cedar Grove had been a hospice. If it had not been a hospice all those years earlier when he was a child, then whom had his mother taken him to visit there? Jake was very interested to find out what connection his mother might have had to the fine old house and its generous benefactor.
Jake’s eyes roved to the far end of the room, where two high-backed red leather chairs were positioned in front of a latticed, leaded window overlooking the grounds. One of the chairs was occupied.
‘Mr Wright?’ Jake ventured, moving into the room, his eyes fixed on the back of Mr Wright’s head. ‘I’m Mr Campbell-Ross. Mr Jake Campbell-Ross; we spoke yesterday on the phone.’
The last word had barely passed his lips when the old man leapt from his chair and whirled towards Jake at such a velocity that for a minute Jake thought he was hallucinating. Jake took a step back in surprise as the old man approached; he could feel his back up against the door.
‘Good heavens, did I give you a fright?’
Something in his tone made Jake wary, as if giving him a fright was exactly the man’s intention. Nevertheless, Jake took a step forward and, feeling just a little foolish at being afraid of an old man, extended his hand. ‘Are you Mr Wright?’
‘None other – call me Arnold.’ Mr Wright looked down at Jake’s bandaged hand. ‘Nothing serious, I hope?’
Jake stared at Mr Wright, wondering whether he saw the irony in that observation. For someone nearing the end of his life – which Jake presumed was the case, if he lived in a hospice – he looked quite the picture of health; a rotund little man whose bright blue eyes twinkled mischievously under a full head of wiry white hair. He sported a ruddy, red face, as though he’d just feasted on a hearty meal and had been relaxing in his chair with an after-dinner brandy. Jake eyed him, and suddenly realised he’d jumped to conclusions. If he was living here with his wife in this apartment, that didn’t mean he was ill too. He clearly wasn’t.
‘Do you want a fresh dressing? I could call a nurse.’ Mr Wright pointed at the door.
‘No,’ Jake said quickly. ‘Thank you.’ He didn’t want to hang around this place any longer than he had to.
Mr Wright looked as pleased as punch to see him. The feeling wasn’t mutual. Jake wished he hadn’t agreed to travel to Scotland to see him, and Martha. At first he’d been curious, after Arnold had mentioned she knew William. Now he wished that his curiosity hadn’t got the better of him.
They stood in awkward silence; Mr Wright positively beaming, Jake offering an uncomfortable smile. ‘Sorry I couldn’t make it yesterday; my plane was delayed on arrival.’ Jake brushed aside the mental image of Marcus being escorted across the tarmac to a waiting police van.
Mr Wright waved it away. ‘Arnold – please,’ he insisted. ‘Besides, I’m not going anywhere,’ he said brightly.
Arnold returned to the window but did not resume his seat in the high-backed chair; instead, he motioned to the chair next to his.
Jake walked over, intending to sit in the other chair. He froze. Jake looked across at Arnold in surprise.
‘Before we talk about Martha’s letters,’ he said in a whisper, ‘I’d like you to meet her.’
Jake looked down at Martha. She was asleep, her head tilted on one side, resting on the wing of the chair. Her features were barely discernible through a fountain of long blonde hair that cascaded over her face in a silky, pale flow.
‘A hairdresser comes once a week. They even colour it, you know,’ said Arnold. ‘It’s the first thing people notice about her. She was very proud of her locks; said they were her best feature.’ Arnold turned away from her to look out of the window.
Jake continued to stare at the woman with the beautiful hair. Jake thought that she looked so still, she could almost have died.
‘She has.’
Jake shot Arnold a look. ‘Pardon me?’
‘I guessed what you were thinking,’ said Arnold. ‘That she looks as though she could have passed.’
Jake was surprised that Arnold had guessed his thoughts.
‘She has, in a way,’ he said softly, turning from the window to look at Jake. ‘You understand what I’m saying, don’t you, Jake?’
Jake stared at him long and hard. Shaking his head, he said, ‘No, I do not.’
Arnold sighed heavily. Then he crossed the room to take a seat beside the bed.
Jake left the sleeping woman and followed Arnold. There were two low sofas positioned opposite each other in front of a fireplace. They both sat opposite one another.
‘Alzheimer’s.’ Arnold shifted his gaze to Jake. ‘It’s not that uncommon, apparently, for someone in their sixties. People just assume it only afflicts those of advancing years. But it doesn’t,’ he said sadly.
‘I’m sorry.’
‘So am I,’ he paused. ‘I don’t want her to suffer. And this is suffering, being locked inside like that, knowing things, wanting things, but just not being able to … to …’
‘At least she has you,’ Jake offered.
An uncomfortable silence followed in which Jake sensed he had said something wrong. Jake stared at the man, who looked a picture of health, and suddenly had a thought. ‘You’re not a resident here, are you?’
‘Resident, here?’ a twinkle of understanding flickered across his face. ‘Oh, you thought …’ he chuckled, surprising Jake by his light-hearted demeanour under the circumstances. ‘Dear me, no.’
‘Ah, I see now how I’ve confused you. I didn’t give you my home address because …’ He trailed off.
Jake followed his gaze to the window. He understood; Arnold would be right there, spending every waking moment that he could with his wife, while there was time.
‘I lost my wife,’ Jake said suddenly, impulsively, surprising himself by sharing such an intimate, painful detail with a stranger. He had never shared his thoughts, not even with Faye, refusing to open the door to a topic he did not want to discuss; refusing to open the door to feelings he wanted to keep buried.
Jake silently cursed himself for opening that door. He knew what was coming; he waited for the inevitable battery of concerned questions that masked people’s morbid curiosity. Instead, Arnold simply said two words. ‘Did you?’
Jake stared at him. What did he mean – did you? Jake didn’t understand the question. Was he referring to whether she actually died up there, on the mountain? As far as Jake was concerned, that was beyond question. Or was it simply the case that Arnold, quite bizarrely, had not heard about the accident that had claimed her. That made no sense. He couldn’t fail to have heard about it on the news, or read about it in the paper – unless he was from another planet. It had been the top news story in town at Christmas.
‘Anyway,’ Arnold slapped his knee with the palm of his hand as though he had been listening in on Jake’s rambling thoughts and had heard enough; it was time to move on. He pointed at a lady’s black leather handbag perched on the bedside table and asked Jake to fetch it. Jake passed Arnold the bag.
Arnold did not make a move to take the bag. ‘You open it.’
Jake sat down on the bed and undid the clasp. He glanced at Arnold’s wife and hesitated; despite Arnold’s presence, Jake still felt uncomfortable opening her handbag. What if someone walked into the room and saw what he was doing?
‘Go ahead – it’s all right.’
Jake gingerly put his hand in the bag and brought out a crumpled brown envelope.
Jake turned the envelopes over and noted the names written on the fronts – William Ross and Ralph – but there were no addresses.
‘She has moments of lucidity when she knows who I am. Lately, when I thought she was having one of her more lucid moments, she talked to me as though I was somebody else.’ He lowered his voice. ‘Sometimes she calls me Ralph.’
‘Ralph. Is it a name from her past, her first husband, perhaps, if she was married before?’
Arnold slowly shook his head. ‘It could all be irrelevant. I just don’t know anymore.’ He sighed. ‘The only thing of which I am certain is that when she sees the letters,’ he dropped his eyes to the envelopes in Jake’s hand, ‘she gets very agitated.’ He sighed heavily. ‘I want to help, I really do. But I don’t know what she’s trying to tell me. All I know is that it had something to do with those, and the two people’s names on the envelopes – William Ross and Ralph.’
‘No surname?’ Jake asked.
Arnold shook his head. ‘Afraid not.’
Jake imagined that now Martha’s condition had advanced, there would be few lucid moments in which to organise her affairs herself before she died. Arnold clearly had no choice but to step up and sort out her private affairs now.
All the same, Jake thought that it was all rather strange, being married to someone and having secrets from them. Jake glanced at the letters. That was how this felt; almost as though there was something Martha wanted to hide.
He wasn’t quite sure what Arnold expected him to do for Martha now that he was there, although he understood why Arnold had contacted him. He imagined Arnold didn’t just want to send the letters on to their intended recipients, in case the letters didn’t reach them, and went astray.
‘The worst thing is she pleads with me, with her eyes …’
Jake stared at the envelopes.
‘… as though she knows her faculties are going.’
He no longer wanted to read the letters. Perhaps it was best if he just gave them to William or, better still, Aubrey to sort out. Aubrey would know what to do. He always knew what to do. But this wasn’t business, Jake reminded himself. This seemed personal. Perhaps, in hindsight, it was better that he had not got through to Aubrey on the phone about this. What if Martha was someone from William’s past that he’d rather Aubrey knew nothing about?
‘… but deep down, there’s a part of her still trying to reach me.’
He suddenly felt as though he couldn’t breathe.
‘Are you alright, Mr Campbell-Ross? You look a little pale.’
Jake stood up. ‘I’ve got to go,’ he said abruptly. He didn’t even make a show of looking at his watch or offering an excuse.
Arnold looked up at Jake in surprise. ‘Oh, of course. Sorry, I do tend to chat,’ he said apologetically as Jake strode to the door. ‘I’m always here. Come back – anytime.’
Jake paused in the doorway on his way out and took one last look at the two high-backed chairs by the window before closing the door.
He walked along the galleried landing – fast. He took the stairs two at a time and was relieved to find the reception hall deserted. He headed full pelt for his car.
Jake hadn’t bothered to lock the car, so he got straight in. He struggled to get his bandaged right hand into his coat pocket to retrieve his car keys. ‘Oh, for heaven’s sake!’ When he finally got them clear of his pocket, they slipped out of his hand and onto the floor. ‘Dammit!’
Jake was about to reach down when he noticed it; he was still holding the crumpled manila envelopes in his left hand. How had that happened? He tried to recall handing them back to Arnold before he left. He could not. He must have walked out without realising it. Jake closed his fingers around the envelopes and turned his attention on the hospice.
Staring through the windscreen at the building’s entrance, Jake toyed with the idea of just handing the envelopes in to reception, but that seemed callous; after all, the letters seemed to hold a great significance for Martha. He doubted that Arnold would have let him leave with them if he hadn’t thought Jake would return, hopefully with some answers. Well, he was wrong. Jake stuffed the envelopes into his coat pocket. He’d send them back by recorded delivery with his apologies for wasting his time. Cowardly – yes. But it wasn’t until he’d arrived, and seen Martha, that he realised he’d bitten off more than he could chew. All this just brought back painful memories of Eleanor.
Jake leaned forward to retrieve his car keys from where he’d dropped them. They weren’t visible, so Jake reached under the seat until his fingers brushed the key fob. He grabbed the car key and felt something else under the seat.
‘What’s this?’ Holding up the bag he’d found under the seat, Jake had a mental image of Marcus shuffling into the lift at the police station that morning, carrying his belongings along with this small plastic bag. He realised that when Marcus had fallen asleep in the back of the car, his grip must have loosened on the bag, and it must have fallen to the floor and slid forward under the seat.
Jake examined the contents – there were phials of greenish coloured liquid.
What were they? And more to the point, Jake wondered with a pang of concern, when did he need to take them?
Jake opened the plastic bag and took out one of the phials, handling it carefully in case he dropped the small bottle. Jake held it close in an attempt to read the label. The writing on the label was poor, barely legible, but even so, Jake immediately recognised the generic term for methadone.
This was bad. This just confirmed Jake’s suspicions. This wasn’t just Marcus using drugs for recreation – he was in deeper than Jake had thought. Marcus would be climbing up the walls if he woke up and found there was no heroin and no methadone. Jake threw the bag on the passenger seat and started the engine. Forcing himself to manoeuvre slowly past the parked cars, Jake sped down the drive. With a brief glance left, he threw the car in the direction of Aviemore. By the time Jake passed the first Cedar Grove billboard, he had forgotten his intention to stop and take a closer look.