Just Last Night(60)

“How do you think your dad will react?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know how he’ll respond to the disorientation. He’s rationalized and explained his surroundings to himself, here. This is traveling back to a past that he’s living in and expects to find unchanged. It’s his present.”

“Have you told the police?”

“Yes, and they’ve notified the police up there, but being realistic, given my dad’s unlikely to be visibly out of his senses, they’re most likely to identify him if he walks into a police station. Nothing I’ve seen in my father, so far—and I include his life, pre-senility—makes me think he’s going to be telling any stranger in a uniform he’s not in control of a situation.”

Finlay Hart is very bright, I concede. Coupled with his nature, this makes me wary, rather than impressed.

“. . . Even if they pick him up because he’s confused, there’s not a lot they can do other than talk him down and alert me,” Fin continues. “He’s not been committed. He’s free to go if he wants to.”

Finlay pauses and blinks those dark blue, opaque eyes at me.

“I was supposed to have a care worker come and give him a mental capacity test this week. That’s not likely to happen now.”

“You really think he’s not alright to be here?” I say, gesturing at the house.

“I’m not sure. That’s why I want the tests. The cleaner found a kettle in the bath on one visit.”

“What? In water?”

“No, the bath was empty. She says he said he’d gone to fill it because the downstairs tap wasn’t working and forgotten about it. I think my dad knows something is up and is working hard to cover for himself. I’ve been researching dementia and this can be a thing. Verbally adept patients presenting as more ‘with it’ than they are, thinking on their feet, talking a good show. He’ll need a care home or assisted living at some point and so I have to set the wheels in motion now. It’s not fair on the cleaner to be my eyes and ears, as it is.”

I nod.

“I’m going to go up to Edinburgh to look for him. If he ends up in a pub, talking to a stranger at the bar, they may spot he’s not in his right mind. Aside from his personal safety, my father has a house, a car, savings, a working credit card, he wears a Patek Philippe watch. He could be taken for a lot.”

Hmm yes, also, that’s your inheritance, I think, ungenerously.

“But no mobile?”

“No. He had one years back and never turned it on and now it’s missing entirely, probably in a drawer somewhere with fifteen defunct cables.”

“Ah.”

“However, when it comes to recovering him if I find him, he has no idea who I am. He thinks I’m a neighbor who’s got him mixed up with someone else.”

“Yes . . .”

“And if this annoying neighbor turns up on the Royal Mile, saying hey, how about you come home with me, I don’t envisage that going at all well. To the point of hostilities breaking out.”

“Yeah . . . ,” I say, in a sympathetic tone.

“If I pay for all your costs, your hotel room, could you come to Edinburgh and help me look for him?”

“What?” I say, face heating. I hadn’t anticipated this. “How would I help?”

“He responds really well to you. That note shows he even remembers your conversations after you’ve left. That’s a power pretty much no one has.”

“I don’t know . . . ,” I say. I know I have to get out of this, I’m not sure how. “Can I think about it?”

Finlay’s eyes narrow. He’s way too smart for Can I think about it? ploys.

“OK, look. You helped create this problem. I’m asking you to help fix it, at no financial cost to yourself. That’s not unreasonable? You involved yourself, when I asked you not to. Uninvolving yourself at this point is pretty selfish.”

I make an indignant gasping noise at the word “selfish,” even though it is more or less a fair summary.

“Plus, if you do this . . . ,” Fin says. “I’ll let the diaries and letters thing drop.”

“Really?”

He has me. The appeal of escaping that drama, when I’ve obliterated the items of value, is undeniable.

“Yes. I’m upset about it but I’m willing to let it go, if you help me.”

I lick dry lips.

“When do we need to go? For how long?” I say.

“Tomorrow. I’ll hire a car, drive us up, book us rooms somewhere central for a few days. Ann, the cleaner, has my number to call me if he appears back here in the meanwhile.”

“Tomorrow?! I have a job.”

“You can’t swing time off?”

“Hmmm. Maybe?”

Actually, our area manager Kirsty has been giving us strict orders about one of us booking holidays this month. No one wants crappy November when they could have party-filled December, and we’d been eyeing each other, wondering who’d break first.

And my neighbor Greta is always delighted to feed Roger, in return for a bottle of Prosecco and a box of chocolates.

I chew my lip.

An old-fashioned grandfather clock ticks behind us.

“I guess I could help. If it’s for a few days.”