by William Paul
‘That’s fine then.’
She watched Fyfe step ashore at the jetty. The media pack descended and did to him what they had just done to her.
‘Don’t worry, Ma’am,’ Simpson said. ‘They’re bound to use you. You’re much more photogenic.’
Chapter Thirty-Three
Friday, 08.12
He was waiting for her when she got out of her car on the second floor of the multi-storey beside her office. He came up behind her, tapped her on the shoulder and jumped to one side so that there was no one there when she looked round.
‘Surprise,’ he said.
Janet Dunbar turned the other way to be confronted by Simon Wright’s smiling face. A sense of imminent danger rooted her to the spot. She felt as if she was standing on the edge of a sheer drop and there was no escape from the steady pressure that was pushing her over. She had left Wright hurriedly the night before, after the news of his estranged wife’s death had been broken to him. She had been glad to get away and back to her own family, who were collectively slumped in a darkened living-room in front of the television set. They looked up as she opened the door to acknowledge her presence then went back to the film. She went to the bathroom and quietly bounced her head against the wall, cursing herself for ever getting involved with an obvious weirdo.
‘You left before we had a chance to decide last night,’ he said.
‘Decide what?’
‘Decide my alibi.’
She had read the morning papers. Laura Lambert, mystic and clairvoyant, was the mysterious lady of Loch Maree found dead on an island in a flowing white robe. Shades of ritual sacrifice and hints of black magic, only slightly detracted from by the suicide pact theory since this guy had been found hanged in a nearby cottage. It said Laura had been dead at least twenty-four hours. That meant she had been killed on Tuesday night. A photograph of her dominated most front pages. She stared accusingly out at Janet who had never seen her before. She really was beautiful.
‘Why do you need an alibi?’
‘I didn’t kill her, Janet.’
‘Then why do you need an alibi?’
‘To keep the police off my back. I need you to say I was with you on Tuesday night.’
‘But you weren’t. You didn’t turn up.’
‘I had business. I need your help. Janet. You’ll help me, won’t you?’
‘What about my family?’
‘If you back me up they need never know. It’s the way the police work. If they can eliminate me from their inquiries that will be the end of it. There will be no need to take it any further. I know. I’m a lawyer remember.’
‘What was the business?’
‘When?’
‘On Tuesday. What was the business?’
‘It was business. Not strictly legal business but certainly nothing like murder. That’s why I need your help, Janet.’
‘You didn’t kill her then?’
‘No. I hadn’t even seen her for weeks. It was suicide. They found her partner hanging from the rafters.’
‘Really.’
‘It’s true, Janet. It’s in the papers. You must trust me.’
Cars swept past on their way up the ramps to other floors. The regular thump of closing doors echoed through the frigid air. Janet was terrified that Wright might be about to grab her by the throat and strangle her. Surely they were in too public a place for that to happen. Yet there was no one around. She could hear the sounds of people but there was no one in sight.
‘If you don’t back me up our affair is bound to be exposed,’ he said. ‘Your family will find out. Be my alibi and they need never know. It will save your marriage.’
She bit the knuckle of her index finger and felt herself pushed a few more inches towards the point where she would not be able to stop herself falling. Wright had always frightened her, that had been a big part of the attraction. She had liked it. But now he was frightening her too much.
‘It’s in your own interests, Janet,’ he said. ‘I’m not a murderer. If I was, why would I bother arguing with you? Why wouldn’t I just kill you too?’
He raised a hand and Janet flinched backwards instinctively. He grinned and reached out slowly to stroke her cheek.
‘Tuesday night,’ he said. ‘You and me. It was a good one, wasn’t it?’
Janet nodded weakly.
Chapter Thirty-Four
Friday, 09.29
Eddie Illingworth watched the sand running through the giant hourglass. The bottom bulb was almost half-full now. Grains of sand ran down the sides from the peak of a constantly crumbling pyramid to settle against the glass. The tumbling grains were making a hellish racket, one that thumped and banged inside his head. Only gradually did he realize that the source of the sound was not the hourglass but somewhere else completely. Somebody was hammering on the front door.
They had to hammer on the door because he had disconnected the bell, and taken the telephone off the hook so he wouldn’t be disturbed. They had been at it for more than ten minutes. It didn’t look as if they were going to give up either. Their perseverance would be rewarded out of Illingworth’s curiosity. Whatever it was, he decided, it must be important.
He threw off the covers. The room was like a sauna, hot and airless. His tongue was stuck to the roof of his mouth and left an unpleasant taste when he peeled it free. The first thing he did was light a cigarette and suck some smoke into his lungs. The second thing he did was have a good scratch all over. A bottle of vodka was beside the bed, already watered down and with pieces of orange peel stuffed into the neck to give it a fruity tang. It washed his mouth clean and took the coating off his teeth. He didn’t swallow but sprayed it onto the old newspapers stacked in the fireplace.
The knocking had lapsed into a regular pattern, like a morse code message. The volume waxed and waned. He grabbed the boxer shorts hanging on the hourglass and pulled them on as he stumbled out into the corridor. There were three safety chains on the inside of the door, all were hanging loose. The only thing keeping it shut was a flimsy Yale lock. It couldn’t be that drastic then or they would have kicked it in by now. Illingworth bent down and picked up a half-smoked cigarette from where it had burned a hole in the carpet. There was lipstick on the tip. He couldn’t remember bringing anyone home with him but he checked the rest of the flat, just in case. Then he tossed the fag-end in the toilet and peed on it. Whoever was outside heard the sound of running water and redoubled the hammering.
Illingworth squeezed some toothpaste from a tube and ate it. He went back into the corridor and unlocked the door. His sister Norma stood in front of him with one arm raised as if she was about to throw a spear and a thick bundle of newspapers under the other. She didn’t look happy.
‘Big sister,’ he said, throwing his arms open in mock welcome. ‘What a delightful surprise. Forget your keys did you?’
She went straight past him into the kitchen and started banging about, filling the kettle and cutting lumps from a stale loaf of bread to make toast. He followed her and stood in a corner with his arms folded, knowing from long experience that it was not a good idea to try to be clever with her when she was in one of her moods. She obviously wanted to tell him something. He waited patiently for the message to be delivered.
‘Good news,’ she said with her back to him.
‘Good news,’ he echoed. ‘Always start the day with good news.’
‘The good news is you are out of a job.’
‘I am.’
She turned to face him. ‘Me too. Our owner is dead apparently.’
The shock effect caused more of a buzz in his head than any alcohol he had consumed. ‘Ron? Our Ron?’
Norma took hold of her neck with her hands, stuck her tongue out the corner of her mouth, and rolled her eyes until the whites showed.
‘You’re kidding,’ Illingworth said.
She shook her head. The kettle started to get excited and blow steam. ‘And there’s more.’
‘More?’
‘Who? Laura?’
‘Yes, Laura. She warned you, didn’t she?’
‘She did?’
‘Of course. In her latest column. It was all predicted there.’
‘It was?’
‘Didn’t you read it?’
He had read it but he couldn’t actually remember what it said. It had been the usual meaningless guff, quite elegant in its way but full of insubstantial references to life and death and mysterious boatmen and girls on swings. Laura looked forward to her death on the page every month, as far as he was aware. That was what she was paid for, fulfilling her destiny and passing through portals. It went with the territory. Illingworth didn’t take any of it seriously. Only the daft subscribers did. And Norma who was sold on the spiritual dimension. She would only work for people with compatible auras. His aura was a bit wonky, she had told him, but he qualified on a genetic basis. She had got him the job on the magazine when no one else would employ him. It didn’t mean he had to take it seriously though.
‘Was Ron shagging her then?’
‘Naturally. Didn’t you know?’
He genuinely hadn’t realized. He stood, open-mouthed in astonishment until an appreciative smile spread slowly across his face. The bastard was old enough to be her father. If Laura was that desperate he might have had a chance there himself. Who would have prophesied that? Too late now.
He wiped the smile from his face when he noticed Norma’s disapproving look. She always seemed to know what he was thinking, but that was one quality he didn’t share with her. The female mind was a complete mystery to him. He began to read the accounts of Laura’s suicide pact death in the various papers thrown onto the worktop, amusement turning to sympathy as the reality and finality of the deaths sank in. He thought about the trance Norma had been in the day before and her vision of a drowning woman. Laura hadn’t drowned but she had been found on this rock in the middle of a loch and then they had dropped the body in the water and been obliged to retrieve her with divers. He wondered if Norma remembered anything about it. He wouldn’t tell her if she didn’t. It might upset her.
‘Get dressed then,’ she said.
‘Right.’
He went to his bedroom and began to hunt for clothes. He took another swig from the vodka bottle and held it in his mouth for several seconds before swallowing it. He stared at the thin waterfall of sand streaming through the belly of the giant hourglass on the floor beside him. Ron dead. Laura dead. Bloody hell. He wondered if they had been alive when he upturned the hourglass and started the sand running.
‘Why am I getting dressed? he shouted.
‘To go to the office,’ Norma shouted back.
‘Why am I going to the office?’
‘Because the police will want to see you.’
‘Why will the police want to see me?’
‘Because of what was written in the magazine.’
‘But why me?’
‘Because you’re the editor.’
‘So I am.’
Chapter Thirty-Five
Friday, 10.32
‘Who are you?’
‘David Fyfe.’
‘Are you a policeman?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Where are you taking my mum?’
‘We’re going to Edinburgh on an inquiry.’
‘Are you her boss?’
‘Not exactly.’
‘Is she your boss?’
‘Not quite.’
‘What are you then? Just good friends?’
‘Colleagues. That’s what we are.’
Isabel McBain had her mother’s big eyes and the same quirky little upturn at the corners of her mouth. She was an attractive teenager with long legs, small breasts and ample attitude. She paraded round Fyfe in the living-room of the house studying him as if she was thinking of buying him at an auction sale. Moya was upstairs packing a fresh overnight bag. Fyfe hadn’t shaved. He was worried that the dirty tide mark on the collar of his shirt was visible. Combined with his bruised eye he must have resembled some kind of thug or dosser off the street. He ran a hand between shirt collar and neck and sat down in the big armchair.
‘Have a seat,’ said Isabel.
‘Thanks.’
‘That’s a nasty eye. Did somebody hit you?’
‘Yes.’
‘Did you hit him back?’
‘I didn’t get the chance.’
‘Did you shoot him?’
‘No. He’s under arrest now.’
‘Did he hit my mum?’
‘No.’
‘When are you going?’
‘Who? Going where?’
‘You and mum. To Edinburgh.’
‘As soon as possible.’
‘What about me?’
‘You look as if you’re big enough to look after yourself.’
‘Appearances can be deceptive.’
‘Very true.’
‘What’s the inquiry?’
‘Murder.’
‘The bodies at Loch Maree? The one that’s in the papers this morning?’
‘That’s the one.’
‘I reckon it’s a lover’s tiff turned nasty.’
‘Do you now? That’s what the papers seem to think.’
‘A dead man, a dead woman? Together? What do you think?’
‘I think appearances can be deceptive.’
Isabel smiled and Fyfe smiled back. Empathy was emerging from the combative cross-examination. She sat opposite him and crossed her legs. She was wearing tight jeans and a loose T-shirt with a tiger pattern on it. A thin black silk scarf was tied round her throat. ‘Don’t even start to think about it,’ Fyfe told himself silently. He looked round the room so that he wouldn’t have to look at her. It was tastefully furnished, feminine flourishes everywhere.
‘How long will mum be away?’
‘A couple of days perhaps.’
‘Are you her boss?’
‘You’ve asked me that already.’
‘I only got a wishy-washy reply. Are you her boss? You can tell me. I can take it.’
‘Actually, she’s my boss in this inquiry.’
‘Is she now? How do you feel about taking orders from a woman?’
‘Depends what the orders are.’
‘Good answer. Are you going to arrest somebody?’
‘Hopefully.’
‘Will you use guns?’
‘I doubt it.’
‘Why not?’
‘No need.’
‘But he’s a murderer?’
‘How do you know it’s a he?’
‘I jump to conclusions.’
‘I thought you might.’
‘Do you know who you are going to arrest?’
‘Not yet.’
‘How did they die?’
‘She was bashed on the head. He was hanging from the rafters.’
‘I told you. Star-crossed lovers.’
‘Suppose that’s what somebody wants us to think.’
‘Smart. Who?’
‘The real murderer.’
‘And that’s why you’re going to Edinburgh?’
‘Correct.’
‘To find him.’
‘When you grow up you should join the police force like your mum.’
‘I’m going to be an accountant. There’s more money in it.’
‘Clever girl.’
‘I take after my mum.’
‘You could do worse.’
Moya came into the room carrying a bulky shoulder bag. The short skirt had been replaced by a pair of plain black trousers. Isabel’s presence seemed to give her an air of maternal wellbeing that contrasted with the brisk efficiency of the person at the loch that morning who had set up and delegated all the routine investigative and forensic tasks before informing Fyfe they were heading south. He stood up and offered to take her bag.
‘You’ve met my daughter then?’<
br />
‘Charming girl. Just like her mum.’
‘God, I hope not. You’ll be all right on your own for a few days, won’t you Isabel?’
‘Oh, I think I might survive. The big question is will you be all right in the care of your colleague.’
She was looking straight at Fyfe. When he bent down to pick up the bag he got the impression the two women were winking at each other across his back. He fingered the collar of his shirt again as he straightened up and followed Moya out. In the driveway he loaded the bag into the back of the Volvo. The dogs pressed their noses against the glass.
‘Nice colour,’ Isabel said, wrinkling her nose and touching the purple paint with a fingertip as though it was red hot.
‘I chose it to go with my damaged eye.’
Fyfe acted the gentleman opening the passenger door for Moya. She slipped in and wound down the window.
‘No wild parties.’
‘Same to you.’
‘No boyfriends staying the night.’
‘Same to you.’
‘Be good.’
‘Same to you.’
‘And if you can’t be good be careful.’
Chapter Thirty-Six
Friday, 11.27
Douglas Lambert looked down on the face of his dead daughter and wondered why he couldn’t cry. It had been the same with his wife Lorraine, her face all withered and shrunken from illness. And again with his own teenage son Tony, not a mark on the outside of his shattered body when they cut him free from the mangled wreckage of the car crash. There were no tears, just an overwhelming sense of sadness that was like a drug injected directly into his veins. The grief soothed him. It didn’t matter what she had done to him, how she had treated him. She was his daughter and he would never see her again after this moment. The grief insulated him from the ordinary world and allowed him to function normally so that no-one would ever guess that he was the victim of bereavement.
The police had been predictable. An apology, a brief explanation, a sense of compassion, a cup of hot sweet tea. The three of them had handled it well. Their training had been thorough. Their concern seemed genuine. They were patient and understanding, aware that there was no formula reaction to the news of bereavement. Its effect was unpredictable, sometimes weakening the strong, at other times strengthening the weak. The death of a child can kill a human personality, and a son or daughter is always a child no matter how old they grow.
