Her heart started to race, accompanied by a shortening of breath. She recognized the symptoms immediately: the beginnings of a full-blown panic attack coursing through her system. She squeezed her eyes tight shut behind the sunglasses, swaying slighdy from the exhaustion of yet another tortured and sleepless night. For God’s sake! Let it stop! Let it stop!
The phone’s ring had her scurrying, gratefully, back inside. She stood rigidly to attention over the answering machine and went through her ritual. On the fourth ring, the digital readout reported that it was in ‘screen’ mode as the familiar voice began her message.
‘Morag, it’s Isobel Lockhart. Are y—’
She snatched up the cordless handset and inched her way back towards the patio, the sunglasses still wrapped protectively round her eyes.
‘Dr Lockhart. Yes, I am screening. You didn’t expect me to be out, did you? Not at this time of day. Although I am on my patio as we speak. And facing the garden, would you believe?’ The fact that she’d received a visitor, and such an interesting one at that, she’d keep to herself for now. Dr Lockhart didn’t need to know all her business.
‘That’s good, Morag. Really, really good. A small step forward?’ The gentle, soothing voice sounded genuinely pleased.
Morag settled herself on the metal garden chair, the frame under her thighs already warmed by what was going to be another day of sweltering heat.
‘Yes, but I’ve just been pushed a hundred steps back. The court papers have arrived. I’m going to lose the house.’ She paused to let the news she’d been expecting for weeks sink in. But Dr Lockhart was going to let the silence be. A familiar tactic. ‘But, you know what, Dr Lockhart? Maybe it’s a blessing in disguise because this isn’t living. I love this house but I can’t live here any more. Too many memories. Too many enemies about.’
She could hear her voice moving up a register nearer to panic mode and took a deep breath, the phone clamped against her clammy cheek. Then she felt the tears. Only noticed as they trickled halfway down her face.
‘Morag. I think you should come in and see me today. I can always make room for an emergency session. Ten past two. Okay?’ Dr Lockhart’s voice sounded firmer now, having the force of an order, rather than an offer.
‘Yes, yes, fine. Thank you, Dr Lockhart.’
She sighed, moved back into the kitchen to replace the phone, almost managing a smile, but then caught sight of her reflection in the window. She’d forgotten to take off the sunglasses. Slowly, reluctantly, she removed them, immediately blinking against the sunlight bouncing off the white walls. She risked another look at herself. Yesterday she’d looked haggard, unkempt, hair a mess—she’d forced herself to dye it. Today was a distinct improvement. She should try to keep up some semblance of normality, for what it was worth.
On the upstairs landing she paused, not knowing why today of all days she felt the urge to go to the telescope. Hesitantly, she lowered herself on to the comfortable chair behind it, easing the long barrel down from its sharp heavenwards angle, and scanned away to her left. Should she? Could she? Her quivering eyelid made it tricky to get a focus. And then she had it.
The shimmering silver ribbon had lengthened and widened. The river walkway was quiet. One lone jogger, his bright yellow shorts shooting waves of colour back up the lens to her squinting eye. Reluctantly but irresistibly she inched the telescope further to the left. Over the treetops she could see the light froth of the weir’s tumbling waters. Shallow and slow on such a warm, dry day. She could almost hear their steady, comforting lilt. Then, just below the weir, in her line of sight, the fringes of the Cauldron appeared. Not a ripple today. Glassy. Smooth. Deceptive. Seductive. But deep, surely still deep. Luckily, the summer trees permitted no view of the nearside bank. All that was left to the imagination.
But she’d seen enough for one day. She returned the telescope to its heavenwards view and sat back in her chair, staring unseeingly through the window. A familiar wave of anger gripped her. The irony of it. The unfairness of it. If the truth be known, she’d almost not gone to the wretched party. It had seemed a good enough idea at first. But come that Sunday morning, she knew by the closed look on Craig’s face that he didn’t want to go. Or, at least, he didn’t want to go with her. Bastard. He hadn’t even the guts to say as much. So, why had she even bothered? Simple. To be bloody-minded. Why should he be given free rein to drink and flirt his way through the day without her? On her territory. With her friends. Except, he had become more at home at the river, more at ease with the crowd than she’d ever been. His territory, his friends. More unfairness.
She stood up, suddenly craving the darkness of her bedroom. The ever-persistent questions returned to persecute her. Why did you go? Fool!Just think hoiv different itwould all have been if you’d stayed away.
With stiffened shoulders and white-knuckled fists, she made her way towards the welcome darkness.
Six
‘I’m sorry. You can’t see him without an appointment. Glen’s very busy.’
The receptionist looked young. Kirstin guessed he was new to the job; he’d already needed to check the extension list twice as calls had come in.
She tried again. ‘Please, can you just ring through and tell him Jamie Munro’s daughter-in-law is here. Only a few minutes of his time. Please?’
It was clear Jamie’s name meant nothing to him. ‘Now, look. I’ve told you. Gle—‘ Kirstin saw the boy’s face freeze as he looked over her shoulder. ‘I’m sorry, Glen. I told this visitor that she needed to have an appointment be—’
‘It’s fine, Rory. Really.’
She spun round to see a tanned and beaming face.
‘Hi, I’m Glen Laidlaw. Welcome.’
His hand was outstretched, waiting for her to clasp it. A cool, firm handshake. She’d heard a good bit about Jamie’s boss at the river association and had envisaged a much older man, in a suit, maybe nearing retirement. Instead, here was a smiling man in his mid-thirties with sun-bleached tousled hair, casually dressed in three-quarter surf pants, a red Abercrombie T·shirt and Birkenstocks.
‘Please, come into my office. Rory, can you rustic us up some drinks? Coffee? Water, sparkling or still?’ He looked at her for a decision.
‘Oh, eh. Water, please. Still. Thank you.’
‘Please, take a seat. I’ll be with you in a minute.’
The room wasn’t large but seemed double its size thanks to the enormous windows on her right. The entire wall was made of glass and the oudook was spectacular. Panoramic views towards the Pendand Hills rolling gendy into the distance, and, just a few yards away, the Water of Leith flowing past, its current swift. She glanced at the other two walls facing her. Behind the desk was a giant map of the river, charted from its source deep in the Pendands, down through the heart of Edinburgh, to the port of Leith. Along the map’s length were various sidebars, dotted at irregular intervals, containing unintelligible symbols and dense unreadable text. The wall to her left held an array of framed photographs: Glen Laidlaw in baseball cap and lumber jacket, leaning out of a Land Rover with a snow-covered pine forest providing the backdrop; waving from a canoe; bare-chested in shorts on a beach that had to be in East Lothian, given the unmistakable outline of the Bass Rock in the background. And finally, a long shot of white-water rafters—including Glen, presumably—with the boat and its occupants tilting perilously down towards some frothing rapids.
She heard the door click and turned round to see him balancing a cup of coffee and a glass of water as he tried to close the door with a backward kick of his foot.
‘Done. There we go. By the way, sorry about Rory. He’s here on work experience. Shouldn’t actually be on reception on his own, but we’re short-staffed today.’ He placed the water gendy in front of her and sidled round the desk to take his seat, still smiling. He nodded at the photos. ‘I’m not quite the action man they imply. Those just capture some special memories.’
He took a sip of his coffee and then sat back, his face
unsmiling now but still welcoming, eyebrows raised. ‘You’re Jamie Munro’s daughter-in-law?’
She shifted in her seat. ‘Yes, well…ex-daughter-in-law. I’m sorry, I…I should’ve introduced myself properly. I’m Kirstin Rutherford. I was married to Jamie’s son, Ross. I saw Donald Ferguson yesterday and he said I should talk to you. That you and Jamie got on well?’
He smiled. ‘Actually, dear old Donald rang me today. Told me about your meeting, and gave me your number. I was going to phone you. I’m really glad you stopped by. Jamie talked a bit about you. Now…what was it he said that stuck in my mind? Yes. That he liked to take you on river walks after lunch? Have a good old blether. And then you went away. Left the country.’
The statement felt like an accusation. Once again, the familiar sensation of guilt gripped her. ‘Yes, I’ve been having a bit of a…a gap year. Nearer two, as it happens. Jamie and I lost touch and I left the country, so I had no idea about his death. Until just a few days ago. It’s…frankly, it’s been awful. I still find it so hard to believe. Look…I’m sorry about just turning up here. But after talking to Donald, it left me…confused. Like I said, he was struck by how well you and Jamie got on and I wondered if you had any idea wh—’
She felt the sting of tears and grasped the water, taking a deep gulp, grateful that she had the glass as a distracting prop. He leant forward, one tanned hand splayed palm downwards on the desk in a calming gesture, a smile still lingering on his face. ‘Please. It’s okay. I miss Jamie too. A lot. Listen, you wondered if I knew why he’d died? I’m not entirely sure. But, I think I might be able to help you understand his last year or so.’
She recovered herself quickly and, replacing the glass, sat back. ‘Really? That would help me so much. Because, you see, from what Donald and Ross have said, it seems like Jamie underwent some sort of personality change.’
‘Change.’ He stretched out the word as if pondering its meaning. And then his features altered. All trace of a smile had gone.
‘Okay, three years ago, Jamie came to us here at the association. He was just what we wanted. An injection of enthusiasm from an able volunteer. He transformed the whole volunteer programme, improved the guided walks that, up until then, had been occasional one-offs. He was just great and undoubtedly raised our profile, which brought us new donors. We have charitable status so that sort of thing’s important. He’d go on local radio and even TV once or twice. Livened up our website too with lots of information and articles. The trustees loved what he was doing. We all did.’
He came to a sudden halt and shifted his eyes from hers.
She leant forward. ‘But? I sense there’s a ‘but’ coming.’
The faint smile was back. ‘What I’m telling you here is, I suppose, what journalists call ‘off the record’. I can see how important it is for you to find out what you can. And Donald says you’re all right—very all right. So that’s good enough for me. And, speaking of Donald, I’ve not gone into great detail with him about this. He was too close to Jamie. I don’t want to hurt him. But by speaking to you in this way, I’m trusting you. Do you understand?’
She began to feel anxious at his change in tone. What was coming? ‘Of…of course. I just want to know what was going on.’
He held up a hand. ‘Right. Things started to go ‘off’ when Jamie got into an ongoing dispute with the group that Donald told you about. They were, frankly, a bunch of shits but they were self-confident, well-off local residents connected. At least, lona Sutherland was. And she became their…how can I put it? Their cheerleader, their shop steward, in the dispute with Jamie. She could pen a particularly poisonous letter when she liked. And, towards the end, she was threatening Jamie, me, the association, all of us, with legal action.’
Without warning he stood up and moved over to a filing cabinet, unlocked it, and returned with a bulging suspension file. He flicked rapidly through and stopped to pick out what looked like a lengthy handwritten letter. He offered her the last page.
‘This’ll give you a flavour of the late Ms Sutherland.’ Kirstin cast her eye over the slender script, picked out with a fine-nibbed fountain pen. The ink was an unusual, idiosyncratic choice: brownish red, like watery, dried blood.
Finally, while it is understandable that an organization such as yours might wish to use the elderly in the community—if nothing else they have the time and the wherewithal to work for free—it really is incumbent upon you to understand the limitations of such people. Infirmity of body and mind are commonplace after a certain age. And while the most infirm would be unable to fulfil the duties of a river association volunteer, the relatively physically fit older person can be masking serious mental health issues such as senility, dementia, depression, delusions, or perhaps just a deep-seated, long-harboured frustration and disappointment with his life. Such a person may find it intolerable to see younger generations enjoying life in the way he never could and never will. Bitterness and envy are deeply unattractive and, at times, dangerous qualities.
In closing, I would like to say that if I, or my friends, experience any further harassment, unfounded allegations, or any impugning of our characters, either verbally from Mr Munro or in writing from you, I will have no hesitation in handing the matter over to my legal advisers and talking to my local contacts in the media.
I understand that Mr Munro’s son is a senior lawyer, like his father once was before him. Perhaps Mr Munro junior may be able to offer some wise filial and professional counsel before an already unsavoury matter becomes irrevocably unpleasant.
Yours sincerely, lona Sutherland
Kirstin shook her head, letting out a long sigh of disbelief. ‘That is nasty, truly nasty. She must have really hated Jamie. Why? He was just a harmless old man.’
Glen slid the letter back across the desk and replaced it carefully in the file. ‘lona Sutherland died in a terrible way. No one should suffer like that. But I will say this. I met her on numerous occasions, and she was an arrogant, spoilt woman, clearly used to getting her own way, even if she was in the wrong. As she most certainly was over the river and Jamie. But he had his answer for her.’
He stopped to fish out a small hardbacked A 5 notebook from the file and opened the front cover. ‘By the way, did you know Jamie was such a good artist? He seemed to like to have a sketch or two at the beginning and end of each notebook.’
The pencil drawing he showed her was of a little bird, the pale chest plumage picked out with delicacy, sitting midstream on a rock. Underneath, Jamie’s familiar handwriting.
White-throated dipper. Spotted first on June 2nd. Several sightings. Obviously s⁄he has found new territory along this stretch. Hope s⁄he stays! Welcome little dipper!
The page opposite had a sketch of a plant. Both were reminiscent of some illustrated Victorian almanac of flora and fauna, designed for genteel ladies of leisure as they promenaded about the countryside. The second sketch, equally delicate in its representation, was of a tall flowering plant, instandy recognizable to her even though Jamie had provided its name underneath. On their first river walk together, he’d pointed it out to her.
Himalayan Balsam. (Impatiens glandulifera.) I look forward to your glorious pink blossoming!
She lifted her eyes from the notebook, shaking her head in wonderment. She had no idea Jamie had been such a gifted artist. It wasn’t as if his house had been festooned with paintings and drawings, as was often the case with those amateurs who had little or no talent but were unashamedly happy to put their efforts on display. The tears stung her eyes again. This was a side of Jamie he’d never revealed.
Glen slid the notebook back towards himself and thumbed through to the page he wanted. ‘As I said, Jamie had his answer for lona Sutherland. Here it is.’
She accepted the opened notebook again.
The bitch! The absolute bitch! How dare she write such a letter to Glen! But I know lona Sutherland’s type. I’ve had many a client like her. A spoilt bully. Thought they’d bought you body a
nd soul to do their dirty work in court. Morality and ethics alien concepts to them. So, she has contacts, has legal advisers, knows people in the media. Well, thatd oesn’t surprise me. What does she call herself? An ‘artist’ and ‘gallery owner’. Well, you have to have money to swan about doing that at her age. Family money. Old money. Not earned. I’d wager she’s never done a day’s real work in her life. And that bit about Ross! How does she know about him, about his job? She’s been nosing about, but she’d better stay out of my life. I’m trying to get a job of work done and she has shown me nothing but contempt. It’s too much. Too much. SHE MUST BE STOPPED.
Glen Laidlaw nodded his head towards the window and the flowing waters outside.
‘Strong stuff, but I can’t blame him. She and her friends were using and abusing this most beautiful of natural resources as their private playground. Matters would have come to a head eventually.’ He turned back to look at her, making a pinching gesture with his finger and thumb. ‘I was this far from engaging our own legal advisers on matters. And then lona and Craig died. After that, I felt wretched. And Jamie felt far worse. Especially after what he’d written about her.’
Kirstin was still staring at Jamie’s words, trying to process what she’d just read and heard. The contrast between the gentle delicacy of Jamie the artistic nature lover and the violence of his written words had the force of a physical blow. She deliberately kept her voice even and low.
‘It…it is very sad and I’m sure anyone would feel uncomfortable—guilty, even. I am a bit surprised at the vehemence in what Jamie says.’ She paused. A bit surprised was an understatement. ‘But Jamie had a strong sense of right and wrong. If he was in the right about her and the group’s behaviour, surely he shouldn’t have felt so guilty about it all.’
Once again, she felt there was more to come. Slowly, Glen allowed the thick file to drop open as he looked up at her.
‘That’s true, if it had stayed at just that. But I’m afraid he had very good reason to feel guilty.’
2007 - The Dead Pool Page 4
