Poisoned Cherries

by Quintin Jardine

  The tub was full almost to overflow point. Natalie was beneath the surface. A big strip of gaffer tape had been slapped over her mouth, her arms were bent behind her and her legs were doubled beneath her. Her wrists were lashed tight to her ankles, and lying on her back as she was, she was helpless. She was also on the point of drowning, she was moving, but only slightly, and I couldn’t see any bubbles coming up.

  I plunged my arms into the bath … the water was no more than tepid… and lifted her out, then laid her on her side, in the middle of the floor. She had been tied with a satin cord, which might have been the sash of a dressing gown. Whatever it was, it was sodden and the knot would not budge. Luckly, I still had Oliver’s big clasp knife in my pocket. I produced it and cut her free, then I ripped the tape from her mouth.

  She had stopped moving altogether, and her lips had a bluish tinge to them. I rolled her on to her back, and was about to begin mouth to mouth, when she coughed, and spluttered. Quickly, I turned her over… and jumped clear as she vomited all over the tiled floor. As I did, I saw an empty vodka bottle, and a glass, on the floor by the bath.

  “Do we need a medic?” Ricky was in the doorway.

  “I’ll tell you in a minute,” I replied. “How’s Glen?”

  “He thinks it’s Christmas. I told him that if it is, the fairy on top of the tree just kicked the shit out of him. He’s okay, though.”

  “And how about Mandy?”

  He surprised me; he laughed. “Come and see,” he said.

  We left the naked Natalie to puke in private, and I followed him into the living room. It was lit by a fancy, modern, five-bulb halogen arrangement. The figure on the floor was still out; although as I looked down, her right leg twitched, involuntarily, as if she was dreaming about kicking some bloke in the head.

  Ricky had ripped off her helmet. I looked down, and whistled, as I realised why he had been laughing. “I think we’d better get Ewan up here,” I told him. “Mrs. Capperauld’s got some explaining to do.”

  Fifty-Four.

  We paid Margaret Capperauld plenty of respect; when she came round a couple of minutes later, she was tied into the swivel chair with the same cord she had used to bind her would-be victim.

  Natalie herself was sitting on the couch, wrapped in a to welling robe, shivering with a mixture of cold, fright, and alcohol. She must have drunk all that vodka; she was completely pissed.

  Ricky had vetoed the idea of Ewan coming up; correctly, when I thought about it. He’d have wigged out. Instead he had sent Glen Oliver down to sit with him in the car, and to call Ronnie Morrow’s home number and dig him out of bed. There would be credit going, he had pointed out, and he wanted his protege to get it.

  It took another minute or so, but, eventually, Margaret’s eyes were fully focused. When she realised where she was, she strained against her binding for a moment, then gave up.

  “Olympic gymnast, eh,” I murmured. “And them some.”

  “And free-style climber,” she replied, ‘and martial arts student.”

  ‘.. . And vengeful wife?” I suggested. She glared at me.

  I had already worked out the climbing part; on the terrace outside I’d found a coil of rope and a heavy hard rubber grappling hook. She’d got up to Natalie’s penthouse by scaling the whole damn block, floor by floor, taking the stairway balconies one by one.

  “David spilled the beans, didn’t he?”

  She looked at me again, as archly as her husband might have, then she winced in pain from the big lump that had sprouted about an inch above her nose. “What did you hit me with?” I held up my right fist. “That’s no way to treat a lady,” she murmured.

  Then she nodded. “Yes, he did. He came to see me in London and told me the whole story. He said that he had asked Ewan for money to forget about his adventure with Natalie, and that all he had got was a threatening phone call from her uncle.

  “He told me that he guessed I would do anything to protect Ewan’s reputation and his career, so he proposed that I pay the money instead.”

  “And did you confront Ewan?”

  “Absolutely not!” she snapped. “I love him. He can have all the bimbos he wants … not that he has before, to my knowledge … and I’ll overlook them, as long as he comes back to me. No, I confronted this bitch here. First I told her that if she ever looked at my husband again, I would kill her, and then I told her that I would take care of the problem myself.”

  She frowned; it made her wince again. “David was right, you see. I would go to any lengths to protect Ewan.”

  “So when you went to see him, that Wednesday, he thought you were going to pay him off?”

  Margaret gave a cold smile. “That he did … and that I did.”

  “But why implicate Alison?”

  “I needed someone to take the blame quickly, to avoid any chance of the police looking in our direction. She was the obvious person… and anyway, I was sure, I still am sure, that she was in on the blackmail attempt.”

  I waved a finger at her. “No she was not, but we’ll let that pass. Okay, so you killed David, then Natalie, here…” on the couch, the drunk rolled her eyes at the mention of her name,”… let you into the office so you could kill Anna Chin, and have Alison caught red-handed, as it were. Only the last part didn’t quite work, thanks to a random accident.

  “But why Torrent? Why kill him?”

  Margaret hesitated. “I don’t think I’m going to say any more.”

  “You might as well; none of it’s admissible in court.”

  She thought about it. “I suppose you’re right. Okay. Torrent was smart, you see. He twigged at once, after he heard of Anna’s death, that something was up. He asked Natalie what she knew, and the stupid woman caved in and told him. So he had to go too; simple as that. I had already stolen the knife from the Goodchild woman’s office. I had intended to use it to kill the girl, only it wasn’t necessary. So when we were all at Miles’s dinner party, I slipped a ground-up Mogadon into my husband’s last brandy, then, once he was sound asleep, crept out and took care of the problem.”

  “And that left only Natalie knowing what had happened?”

  “Exactly.”

  “And she, overcome with grief at her beloved uncle’s death, horses a bottle of Stolychnaya in the bath, flakes out and drowns.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Which is where we came in.” I smiled at her. “Would you like something for that headache, Margaret?” I asked.

  “I’ll get over it; I’ve had worse.”

  “No you haven’t, lady. It’s going to get really bad when the police get here.”

  “Why? What’s my problem? I was visiting my friend Natalie when you people broke in and assaulted me.”

  “What? You were visiting her dressed like the Milk Tray Woman?”

  “I have an exotic taste in nightwear. The police will assume we’re lezzies, and we won’t deny it.” She had a point there. “Natalie’s too drunk to be interviewed just now, but when she sobers up she’ll confirm it all. She doesn’t have any choice; she’s in it up to her neck.”

  “Indeed!” I exclaimed. “I’m impressed. You really do think on your feet… or on your arse in this case… don’t you, Mrs. Capperauld? There’s only one small problem about that; no, sorry, one big one.”

  For the first time, she looked slightly uncertain. “What’s that?” she challenged, bras sing it out.

  “My pal Mr. Ross here; nothing is safe from him. He’s the worst eavesdropper in Edinburgh. Do you know, he even has his own house bugged! He’s so bad that he carries a bloody pocket recorder with him everywhere he goes. Isn’t that right, Ricky?”

  He stepped round from behind her and waved a small device in the air. “Mini-disc,” he said. “Broadcast quality; it’s the same kind radio reporters often use. Would you like to hear?” He reviewed the recording, listening through an earpiece, made an adjustment, then paused and pressed a button.

  I had already stolen the knife from th
e Goodchild woman’s office. I had intended to use it to kill the girl, only it wasn ‘t necessary. So when we were all at Miles s dinner party I slipped a ground-up Mogadon into my husband’s last brandy, then, once he was sound asleep, crept out and took care of the problem.

  Margaret Capperauld went dead white as she listened to the sound of her own confession through the tiny, but effective speaker. “But that won’t be allowed in court,” she snarled, when Ricky switched off the recorder.

  “Don’t wager your life on it,” I told her, ‘for you’d lose. But of course, you’ve placed your bet already, haven’t you?”

  Fifty-Five.

  As soon as Greg Oliver saw Ronnie Morrow’s car arrive, as per orders from Ricky he got Ewan to hell out of there. No way did we want him to be around when his wife and his mistress were huck led into a police car.

  We went with them, of course; not as suspects, but as witnesses.

  It was almost eight by the time we finished making our formal statements. Ricky did a deal with Morrow for Alison to come in later that day, so that the charges against her could be formally binned. The young sergeant gave us a lift back to the Mound after that, and after I had called Miles and advised him to stand down the extras for another day at least, suggesting that he shoot Liam’s bedroom scene instead.

  Ricky came up to the apartment with me, but only to collect Alison, break the good news to her and take her home for what he hoped would be a bit of a celebration.

  Tough luck, Richard. “But I can go back to my own place now, can’t I?” she said. “I don’t need minding any more, do I?” The way she chopped him off was pretty brutal; I could see why she had such a bright future in the PR business.

  Just before nine, they left me on my own… almost. I was just beginning to think about a long sleep, when Liam appeared; from my bedroom. He looked at me, in a way I could only describe as shifty.

  “All right then?” he asked.

  “It is now. What about you? You don’t look so good. Rough night?”

  “Mmm. The thing is … I don’t know if I should tell you this. Fuck, I don’t know if I believe it. I was lying there trying to sleep, and then I hear you lot leave. Thank Christ, I thinks to myself, then five minutes later this Alison woman comes into my room and gets into bed beside me.

  “I thinks about it… give her that… but then I says, “No thank you very much,” gets up and goes across to your room.

  “The light bulb’s jiggered, but I thinks So what? and goes into the toilet to bleed the lizard. Then, when I came out… Whizz! Bang!

  I’m up in the air and on my arse and there’s a bloody great naked woman lying on top of me!”

  I kept my face straight. “So what did you do about that?”

  “What the hell could I do? I tell you, Oz, there’s no bloody security in this building, none at all’

  Fifty-Six.

  The Capperauld scandal hit the fan twenty-four hours later, when Margaret was charged with the murders of David, Anna and Uncle James. Natalie was released; the crown office was going to need her as a prosecution witness.

  Ewan was devastated; he really had known nothing about it, and, like the rest of us, suspected nothing.

  With Miles’s agreement he withdrew from the project, and the boss himself took over the part of Skinner. Okay, he’s a bit short for it, but he has the charisma to carry anything off.

  We finished the production on time; an achievement considering everything that had happened. Liam and I were even able to sleep easy in our beds, once Ricky had obliged us by sending Mandy O’Farrell on a temporary assignment as security chief on an oil terminal in the Orkney Islands.

  We had a big close-down party of course. Everyone was there, even Nula, Liam’s air stewardess, who fixed her schedule to accommodate it. Prim was not. She paid me one brief visit in Edinburgh to tell me, to my great relief and to confound Susie’s suspicions, that she’d put her signature alongside mine on the divorce petition, and had it lodged with the court.

  She surprised me then by telling me that she’d taken my advice, and decided to go back to basics. She had signed a six-month contract as a senior staff nurse in Ninewells Hospital, in Dundee, and she was planning to move back into Semple House, in Auchterarder, beside her parents, to draw breath, and do some serious thinking about what she wanted to do with the rest of her life.

  She told me that although we’d been rotten at marriage, we’d been good at being friends, and hoped that would still be the case. I told her that as far as I was concerned, it would. Her new spirit of openness didn’t extend to owning up to having it off with Mike Dylan, but I let that go. That, and he, were both history.

  I was happy at closing off that chapter, but it didn’t mean that there was nothing but roses in my garden. I had some serious thinking of my own to do. I was due in Vancouver in less than a month, and the central question of my life was still unresolved.

  I was pondering hard, in my last few days in the apartment, about what it really meant to be my own man. When it came to it, there was only one place I could find an answer to that. So I went back to life, back to Enster, to see my Dad.

  I told him what was at the core of it all. I reckoned that I loved Susie as much as I could ever love another woman, and that wee Janet was all my Christmases come at once. But I was scared, I said, plain scared about taking a chance on marriage again; even if my heart told me to do it, my head asked whether I could ever give up even a part of my independence.

  Mac the Dentist thought about this for a while, and then he pronounced.

  “Son,” he said, “I’m a fucking backwoodsman, as you well know. I have a backwoodsman’s simple attitudes to life, and his simple beliefs. And the way I see it is this. When you and the right woman have kids, you’re not your own man any more; you’re theirs and you’re each other’s, and that’s how it should be.

  “You don’t actually have this independence that you talk about, not any more. Janet will be dependent on you, for the next twenty years and more. And Susie is now too, as you are on her. Whether you live together as a couple or not, you have a duty to bring that baby up together, unless death takes one of you out of the equation. So no, you are not independent, either of you; you ceased to be so the moment you made that child.

  “What you are talking about is freedom. It’s being the centre of your own universe, giving yourself the licence to do what you like, say what you like, go where you like, fuck who you like, without a thought to the consequences for anyone but yourself.

  “Maybe you’ve done that for long enough, Oz. If you want to continue down that road, now that you’re rich and famous, the opportunities to indulge yourself in such pleasures will be endless. But compared to the love that flows into you from your children, when you come home at night and sit them in your lap, the rewards of such a life are ashes, just ashes.

  “What you’re afraid of, son, is of finding out about yourself. You’re asking yourself, and now me, whether if you choose family life, you’ll

  be able to stay the course. I’m not a fucking fortune teller; some do, some don’t. In my judgement, I’d say that you and Susie will make a go of it. Still, as you and I both know, nothing in life is certain but death and taxes, and a skilled accountant can avoid a good chunk of the latter.

  “The last couple of years have made you a fatalist, Oz. They’ve developed a side in you that was latent, but lurking, before things went sour on you. And along the way, you’ve lost your belief in your own inherent goodness.

  “Well, I haven’t. Trust me if you don’t trust yourself, and do what I would do if I was standing in your shoes right now.”

  I looked into my Dad’s coal fire, and for some reason I thought of wee Anna Chin, and her bowl of cherries. Maybe it is, I thought. Maybe life is just that.

  I leaned over my father as he sat in his big comfy chair, and for the first time in around twenty-five years, I kissed him on the cheek. Then I climbed into my nice, shiny Mercedes and headed off to
Glasgow to find out for myself whether, indeed, it is.