message?"
"About Tina? I suppose he just wanted me to know she had agreed to cooperate. It was likely she may not have wanted to get involved." He took another sip. "You're young, Ronald. It may surprise you to learn that some prostitutes are shy of our friendly police force."
"Mr. Hope," Ronald Brewer said. "If anybody saw you that night and can place you at a location other than Tina's residence, a guilty verdict is likely to be a formality."
"And if not?" Joe asked.
SIXTEEN
Adam Wright stared out of his bedroom window. In the distance, sea tangled with sky in threads of grey. Rain fell like dust shaken from a sheet of dark cloud. To the west, an island (Shapinsay, maybe, the one with the castle — there were sixty-odd islands, none of which Adam had visited yet) poked through the stormy water like the head of a drowning giant. Inland, new houses — in various states of completion — lined the suburban end of Berstane Road. From there, a series of fields — a couple used for grazing, one recently ploughed — rolled towards Wrighters' Retreat, this monstrous but cheap edifice he'd bought after his parents' fatal accident five years ago. Below, at the edge of the nearest field, was an ever-expanding pile of rubbish the council wouldn't pick up for reasons almost entirely beyond Adam's comprehension. For once, he observed the disgusting mess without a flicker of anger.
He'd had the opportunity to tell Monkman everything. But he'd chosen not to. Far from certain he'd made the right decision, he pressed his forehead against the rain-spattered windowpane, wishing Gem was still here to ask. What did she expect from him? It was a big effing secret. The glass was cool against his brow. His breath was shallow, hardly misting the glass. He stepped back from the window and stumbled towards his unmade bed. He unlaced his shoes and kicked them off. Snatching Gemma's diary from the bedside table, he lay down. Why the hell had she left it with him? He didn't want it. The damn thing dug into his chest like a sharp stone.
The last days of her life were recorded in the book he held in his hand. He had found it stuffed in the top drawer of his desk, resting on top of a pile of unpaid bills. Curious, he had opened the book. Stuck inside the front cover was a handwritten note. It read: Please make sure Daddy gets this. Thank you for everything, Adam. I'm sorry. I don't know what else to say.
Her name appeared in red ink in a floral bordered box in the center of the diary's title page. He flicked over. The first entry was dated Sunday, 8 th September. Seven weeks ago. I'm in Orkney! I can't believe it! Daddy saw me off at the airport. The flight was all taking off and landing and not much flying in between. Adam was waiting for me. He'd broken out in a sweat when he'd realized that this was her diary, that it might be the suicide note she had failed to leave. Instantly he had turned to the end of the book. Fingers shaking, he'd flipped back through several blank pages. And there it was. Monday, October 26 th . The day she killed herself. It will soon be over.
She must have visited the office in the early evening. Slipped her diary in his desk. Returned to her room. Swallowed the pills. At that point the sequence of events reached an impasse in his head. He still couldn't believe she'd done it.
He opened the diary once again. He skimmed over several pages dealing with her arrival. The book was full of vivid, poetic descriptions of Orkney scenery. She expressed delight at her room, excitement at discovering new friends. A trip she made to Skara Brae and Yesnaby. Another to Maeshowe. All written in a neat, backwards sloping hand. No mention of home, of missing it, or her parents. Like her bedside table, her diary was absent of all reminders of her past. Adam carried on turning the pages, glancing over the words, pausing only to scrutinize the occasional sentence where he saw his own name. Vanity. Hey, nobody's exempt.
She described
"About Tina? I suppose he just wanted me to know she had agreed to cooperate. It was likely she may not have wanted to get involved." He took another sip. "You're young, Ronald. It may surprise you to learn that some prostitutes are shy of our friendly police force."
"Mr. Hope," Ronald Brewer said. "If anybody saw you that night and can place you at a location other than Tina's residence, a guilty verdict is likely to be a formality."
"And if not?" Joe asked.
SIXTEEN
Adam Wright stared out of his bedroom window. In the distance, sea tangled with sky in threads of grey. Rain fell like dust shaken from a sheet of dark cloud. To the west, an island (Shapinsay, maybe, the one with the castle — there were sixty-odd islands, none of which Adam had visited yet) poked through the stormy water like the head of a drowning giant. Inland, new houses — in various states of completion — lined the suburban end of Berstane Road. From there, a series of fields — a couple used for grazing, one recently ploughed — rolled towards Wrighters' Retreat, this monstrous but cheap edifice he'd bought after his parents' fatal accident five years ago. Below, at the edge of the nearest field, was an ever-expanding pile of rubbish the council wouldn't pick up for reasons almost entirely beyond Adam's comprehension. For once, he observed the disgusting mess without a flicker of anger.
He'd had the opportunity to tell Monkman everything. But he'd chosen not to. Far from certain he'd made the right decision, he pressed his forehead against the rain-spattered windowpane, wishing Gem was still here to ask. What did she expect from him? It was a big effing secret. The glass was cool against his brow. His breath was shallow, hardly misting the glass. He stepped back from the window and stumbled towards his unmade bed. He unlaced his shoes and kicked them off. Snatching Gemma's diary from the bedside table, he lay down. Why the hell had she left it with him? He didn't want it. The damn thing dug into his chest like a sharp stone.
The last days of her life were recorded in the book he held in his hand. He had found it stuffed in the top drawer of his desk, resting on top of a pile of unpaid bills. Curious, he had opened the book. Stuck inside the front cover was a handwritten note. It read: Please make sure Daddy gets this. Thank you for everything, Adam. I'm sorry. I don't know what else to say.
Her name appeared in red ink in a floral bordered box in the center of the diary's title page. He flicked over. The first entry was dated Sunday, 8 th September. Seven weeks ago. I'm in Orkney! I can't believe it! Daddy saw me off at the airport. The flight was all taking off and landing and not much flying in between. Adam was waiting for me. He'd broken out in a sweat when he'd realized that this was her diary, that it might be the suicide note she had failed to leave. Instantly he had turned to the end of the book. Fingers shaking, he'd flipped back through several blank pages. And there it was. Monday, October 26 th . The day she killed herself. It will soon be over.
She must have visited the office in the early evening. Slipped her diary in his desk. Returned to her room. Swallowed the pills. At that point the sequence of events reached an impasse in his head. He still couldn't believe she'd done it.
He opened the diary once again. He skimmed over several pages dealing with her arrival. The book was full of vivid, poetic descriptions of Orkney scenery. She expressed delight at her room, excitement at discovering new friends. A trip she made to Skara Brae and Yesnaby. Another to Maeshowe. All written in a neat, backwards sloping hand. No mention of home, of missing it, or her parents. Like her bedside table, her diary was absent of all reminders of her past. Adam carried on turning the pages, glancing over the words, pausing only to scrutinize the occasional sentence where he saw his own name. Vanity. Hey, nobody's exempt.
She described
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