She stood up to close the patio doors against the rain and approaching thunder. The lock secured, she stood gazing out at the blackness. The unseen river. The Cauldron would be living up to its name tonight. A seething whirlpool. Grasping her glass and the champagne bucket, she wandered through to the front of the house. The rain was flowing freely through the living room’s open windows. So what if it soaked a wall? She needed to let go of this house. Starting tonight. Leaving the lights off, and curtains open, she lay back on the settee.
She saw the flickering of headlights first, followed by the roar of an engine as the car skidded round the driveway. Jumping up, she peered through the curtains. Kirstin! Damn! Hurriedly, she drained the remnants of her glass and tucked the half-drunk botde of champagne behind the settee.
She raced to the front door to release the lock, just as Kirstin, wielding a cardboard box, almost fell through the door, her face an ashen mask.
Kirstin stared down at her hands. They were still trembling. Even though she’d been settled in Morag’s comfortable kitchen for some time, the effects of her encounter with Glen had left her badly shaken. She looked towards the window. The rain was relentless, its steady downpour set for the night, for days maybe. A summer monsoon. At last the thunder and lightning had arrived. Directly overhead, the noisy rumbles and flashes were making themselves known above the house. Kirstin was relieved. The oppressive humidity, which so closely matched the claustrophobia of her anxiety, worry and fears, had been broken. She glanced back at Morag, sitting straight-backed at the kitchen table. Only now did she take in the change. Morag seemed like a different woman; physically altered. Though still slightly wan and tired, she was well groomed and…yes, there was a hint of radiance. That was it, the inner strength and confidence were beginning to shine through. Thank God, at least one of them was improving.
Morag was still nursing the camera in her hands, a look of doubt on her face.
‘For your sake, I don’t want to believe that Glen’s involved in any way. I understand your worries. But let’s look on the optimistic side. Or the least worst-case scenario, if you like.’
Kirstin gave a slow shrug. ‘Please do. I…I just can’t go there. I can’t afford to believe that he’s involved.’ She wiped away a tear and watched Morag continue fiddling with the camera as she spoke.
‘It’s true that Glen has lied to you about so much. Or kept so much from you, which in my book’s just about the same thing. He kept quiet about being there that day, about Jamie being there, the logbooks, even knowing Ross when they were kids. It all adds up. A mindset of deceit. And the violence. Laying into Ally. That’s bad. But not all-incriminating. And the sketch issue. We have only his word for it that he never wore an association uniform, but it would be easy enough to check up on. So, whoever Jamie was drawing it wasn’t Glen. It was…and I’m sorry…it had to be himself.’ Morag looked from the camera to Kirstin, her face stern. ‘Tell me, truthfully, before this, this camera episode, you were having some doubts about Glen but only about his…how can I put it…his macho side coming out. It was a bit of a surprise, yes? But you didn’t really believe Glen wanted to kill Ally in that horrible fight?’
Kirstin turned back to look at Morag. ‘No. I’ve been over that again and again in my mind. Glen just lost it. But I didn’t think then that he had any real murderous intentions. He did admit to going over the top. And that made me feel odd for a while. But I’d more or less got over it. We were getting on okay, and then…the camera and his being there…the pact with Jamie. It was, is such a shock. What do you think? Really think?’
Morag sighed. ‘All right, if you want my true opinion, it’s this. I don’t think you should worry about Glen being a raging psychopath. Nor do I think you should worry about any conspiracy theory. It sounds much simpler than that.’ She laid the camera down on the table. ‘Glen’s been a bloody fool. Protecting Jamie is one thing. Not telling the police he was there that day is another matter. And quite simply idiotic.’
Suddenly restless, Kirstin stood up and walked over to the patio doors to watch the sheeting rain. ‘I’ve no idea what to make of it. But I’m sure of one thing. I certainly made a very bad error of judgement about Glen. I’ll never be able to trust him again. I’ve been the idiot.’
Morag let out a harsh laugh. ‘Yes. But he is a pretty face, so I wouldn’t be so hard on yourself. Anyway, whatever the truth, Glen’s going to be in for it from the police. They’ll grill him good and proper. And I suppose he’ll lose his job?’
‘I’d think so. It’ll be a blow. But…well, I get the impression that Glen’s a survivor. I’m sure he’s been in scrapes before. He’ll probably land on his feet, if…’
The unsaid words lay between them as they sat listening to the thunder move away at last. Kirstin finished the sentence off in silence: if he’s not involved. She wanted to believe his explanation, that he was protecting Jamie and his own job. But Jamie was now dead. And the association would be looking for a new head of conservation. A short while ago, she could have felt sorry for Glen, but not now. If Morag was correct, the overriding truth was that he had brought the situation on himself. And there was one final aspect of his behaviour that had stuck with her. Tonight, when she’d been so terrified that she’d armed herself with a weapon, his response had been to physically restrain her. Those were not the actions of a man who could understand a woman’s fear. He shouldn’t have laid a finger on her. And that insensitivity gnawed away at her. Even if he was guilty of only: lying, being foolishly protective of his job and Jamie, that act of physical insensitivity alone was enough to have driven her away for good. It was clear that Glen didn’t understand physical boundaries. She prayed his lack of control was limited to just that. But despite Morag’s upbeat assertions about Glen, Kirstin still felt the dull ache of doubt.
Still restless, she moved towards the kitchen door. ‘You know what? I’m going to drive over to Mill House and collect the rest of my things. Want to come?’
Morag nodded towards the window. ‘In this rain? No, thanks.’
Kirstin shrugged. ‘I want something to do. I’m a bit jittery.’
Morag followed her through to the hall. ‘Here, take my waterproof jacket or d’you want the sou’wester and oilskin? That big yellow bugger over there?’ She raised her eyes to look upwards. ‘You might need it. Sounds like the thunder’s going to be following you. It’s heading east. Here, take my mobile. Hang on, I’ll just…okay…done it. I’ve put the landline number here in the phone book under ‘my house’. If you’re having any problems, or feel scared or anything, call me. Okay?’
Kirstin nodded her thanks and chose the lightweight jacket, placing the phone in a side pocket. It was like the blind leading the blind. Kirstin sighed as she readied herself for the outdoors. Tomorrow was another day. She would have her power back. Especially once she and Ross had gone to the police. With a quick wave of farewell to Morag, the door was closed behind her.
Morag listened to the sound of Kirstin’s car fading into the distance before moving slowly back to the living room. She retrieved the champagne bottle from its ice-filled bucket, and topped up her glass as she wandered back to the kitchen. She set the botde and bucket down on the worktop, her hand hovering over a drawer handle. Why not? Slowly, she slid out a packet of cigarettes, ashtray and disposable lighter. Then she took her seat at the table and stared at the camera, frowning. She pressed the ‘on’ button and began reviewing the images. Those of her blindfolded and counting to one hundred made her jaw muscles tighten. She turned it off and slid the camera away, spinning it round and round on the scrubbed wooden table. Mentally she replayed the images, her mind’s eye stopping at one in particular: lona, bikini-clad, tanned, fit, flirtatious. A good imitation of a sex goddess. Any straight male would look more than once. And try to touch? Suddenly, she slammed a hand down on to the spinning camera. A fresh thought occurred to her, one that apparently hadn’t occurred to Kirstin. Would Glen have taken a second look at lona? lo
na would have had a pleasing pair of studs in Craig and Glen. The bitch!
Morag took a long sip of her champagne and dragged the box that was on the floor towards her. She pulled open the flaps and placed the camera inside the box. Tilting her head, she paused. Kirstin hadn’t said what else was in here. Had she even been through it all once the panic of finding the camera had taken over? Probably not. Morag’s hand hesitated over the flaps. Lifting the box on to her lap, she emptied the contents carefully on to the table, spreading them out evenly with her hands.
‘Hell!’
Something had fallen on the floor. She scraped back her chair and craned her neck under the table. With stretched fingers she slid it towards her. Got it! She frowned. The memory card had been marked with an orange fluorescent dot. Odd. She retrieved the camera and began swapping the cards over. She thumbed the ‘on’ switch and the tiny screen lit up. She flicked through a sequence of badly composed images, and then stopped.
It took several seconds for her to understand what she was seeing. What it meant. Then realization hit.
‘No. Oh, God. No!’
Fourty-Two
Sprinting from the car to Jamie’s front door, Kirstin began scrabbling for the house keys. As the latch gave way, she shook the rain from her hair and sucked in one long deep breath. Be calm. It’s just a quick in and out. Pack the bags and then go. No hanging around. The familiar smell of Jamie’s house brought memories rushing back. As she hit the hall switch, the spotlights lining the walls came to life, illuminating the photo gallery. Head down, she made for the stairs and the spare room she’d been using, determined to avoid eye contact with anything that reminded her of Jamie. She bundled various items of clothing into one holdall and moved into the en suite bathroom to scoop her toiletries into another.
She dumped her luggage at the bottom of the stairs, then went down to the study. The lightning flashes were playing blue and silver across the carpet. She jumped as a bolt earthed somewhere out in the garden, and the trees outside the window danced eerie shadows over the desk. Flicking on the overhead light eased her anxiety. She scanned the room. Only one diing of hers: a light summer shirt hanging over Jamie’s chair. Quickly she stepped over to grab it, flicking the light off again as she left. The temptation to hold both hands to her ears was hard to resist. She could almost hear Jamie’s voice calling out to her from his desk. ‘Cmon, Kirstin, my dear. Come in here and keep an old man company. How about a wee dram before you go?’
She slammed the study door shut, and ran down the hallway. Tugging open the front door, she gathered up her luggage. Then she heard it. The mobile’s shrill tones jolted her to a halt. Dropping a bag, she fumbled in the roomy pocket of Morag’s waterproof. The mobile’s glowing screen cut through the darkness, letting her know who was calling.
My house.
‘Morag. Hi. I’m on my way ba—’
Weird. It had sounded like a hang-up. Or maybe it was the mobile cutting out. She dumped the other bag by her feet and began fiddling with the unfamiliar phone to call 1 Morag back.
Four rings. Then straight to the answering machine.
‘Morag? You there? You just tried to call me. Hello? 1 Hello?’
Damn! Kirstin hung up and rang again. Four rings. The same thing happened. She hung up and redialled immediately, trying to override the answering machine before it reset. Maybe Morag had gone to have a bath or something. If the phone kept ringing, she’d have to answer it eventually.
After two more attempts, Kirstin gave up. It was time to go. With a final glance down the darkened corridor, she grabbed her bags and stepped out into the rain.
‘Hi! I’m back. It didn’t take me that long, did it? I tried calling you back.’
Odd. It felt like no one was home.
‘Morag? Morag!’
The answering machine’s digital readout told the story of her repeated attempts to call back. Plus one. Kirstin hit the replay button. Again and again she heard the strains of her own voice and fast forwarded. Then, the tones changed.
‘Hello, eh…Morag. It’s Glen Laidlaiv here. I wondered if, eh…if Kirstin was back at yours yet. She’s left her mobile here and…I…I wanted to organise getting it back to her. I could drop it off. It would be no problem an —’
She stabbed a finger at the ‘off’ button to stop the machine. Glen could wait for his answer. And no, he couldn’t drop by. The kitchen was in darkness. It was much as she had left it. Except, on the table there was an empty glass and an ashtray with a single cigarette stub. The acrid stench of cigarette smoke still lingered in the air. Funny? She was sure Morag didn’t smoke. But…wait! Where was the camera? And Jamie’s box? Both had gone. Maybe Morag had tidied them away to another room, or…? Kirstin turned on her heels and jogged towards the stairs, taking them two at a time. The anxiety was back now. What if Morag had…no, she mustn’t think like that. Morag’s troubles, or the worst part of them, were over. She had no need to harm herself, did she? Did she?
‘Morag, you upstairs? Morag!’
She could hear the quiver of stress in her voice as she kicked each door on the landing open. Nothing. She raced up to the top floor. Nothing. Christ, where the hell had she gone? And with no bloody mobile. Was her car in the garage?
Within seconds she was back down on the first-floor landing. As she turned towards the last flight of stairs, her peripheral vision caught sight of a flickering light. But the lightning had moved east, hadn’t it? She stepped towards the full-length window that housed the telescope. Cupping her eyes with her hands, she peered out through the glass. Impossible. Nothing but sheeting rain. She’d imagined it. And then she saw it again. Flickering light coming from the river! She manoeuvred herself round behind the telescope and bent her head to the eyepiece. Damn! It was too dark. Inch by inch she swivelled the long barrel to her right.
There! The beam from a torch! Held by an invisible figure. But in front of the beam she could clearly make out the second figure.
Dressed head to foot in a yellow oilskin and sou’wester.
The Dead Pool
Fourty-Three
As Kirstin hurtled the car through sheeting rain towards the river, she replayed the scene in Morag’s house. The cigarette, the smell of smoke. Ally! Jules had been right in one thing. All his feelings, intuitions about Ally being dangerous, about teetering on the edge, had been right. She shouldn’t have dismissed them so easily and stuck by her belief that Ally was sad rather than bad or mad. Now Ally had gone over the edge and was taking Morag with him.
The options were racing through her mind as she skidded to a halt under the viaduct. Her trembling fingers struggled with the phone. Quickly, she tapped in Ross’s number. Cmon, c’mon! Straight to his answering machine. Another damn answering machine! And then she remembered the state he’d been in when they had talked about Jamie’s guilt. If he was hell-bent on getting pissed tonight, by now he’d be out for the count and have switched off the phone in the bedroom. But…maybe, just maybe, he’d forgotten about his mobile. Ross was umbilically tied to it. She waited, heart racing, as Ross’s mobile rang out. Please answer. Please.
Voicemail. No! She beat the palm of her hand against the steering wheel, willing the outgoing message to end…at last! The hysteria was building up in her and, with a split second to spare, she pulled back from screaming uncontrollably down the phone.
‘Listen, Ross. It’s me. Morag’s in trouble. Ally Sutherland’s taken her from her house. They’re heading for the Cauldron. He won’t believe a word she has to say about your dad. He’s out of control now, Ross. He’ll think she’s making it up. She’s in danger! We need to help her. I’m at the river. Under the viaduct. I’m going to try and cross on foot. Save time. Can you come? I don’t want to call the police. If Ally sees them, it’ll just make him do God knows what. But we need to help Moragf
She stopped to take a badly needed breath, and released the central locking system.
The wind tore the car door from her grip as soon as
she opened it. Body bent at the waist, she staggered round to the back of the car and unlocked the tailgate. She had no idea if the Wellington boots from Morag’s would fit. They looked as if they would. At least the chunky waterproof camping torch worked, its strong yellow beam cutting through the rain with ease to bounce off her intended destination, so near yet so far. The other side of the river glistened back at her a tantalizing few yards away. At least it wasn’t cold. Just an unseasonal summer storm. Thankfully, the wind brought no deep chill. Otherwise she’d have had to rethink her strategy.
Securing the torch to her wrist by its carrying cord, she headed for the gap in the fence that had been there for years. Would it still be there? Yes! Once through, she immediately lost her footing in the wet foliage and mud at the top of the riverbank. Slithering at frightening speed, she managed to stop herself by tugging on a tuft of strong grass, the jolt to her shoulder socket sending agonizing waves of pain down her left side. She lay back, trying to let the agony wash away, and shone the torch down to her crossing point. Fucking hell! The sight caught her breath. The water was running almost as deep as any winter deluge, and the rapids at this point, usually much slower in summer, seemed just as deadly. She’d have to go back to the proper entrance at Roseburn Cliff. But that would waste time. Time that might be critical. Time that Morag might not have.
Kirstin stood, stranded on the bank, feeling her heart rate speeding up to panic levels. Her options were narrowing by the second. If Ross got her message, he’d move heaven and earth to get to the Cauldron in super-quick time. Despite his self-centredness, after hearing such an urgent message from her, he would never leave her to face this alone. But it might still take him fifteen, twenty minutes. It was too long. She could save precious time by crossing here. But she needed one other prop: a long, stout stick. It would help her keep balanced as the rapids tried to dislodge her footing. The rocks underneath would be slippery, and invisible under the murky silt-churned waters. The rubber soles of her Wellingtons wouldn’t hold her. And once she lost her footing…well, her next stop would be down at the weir. Probably drowned.
2007 - The Dead Pool Page 22
