Poisoned Cherries ob-6

by Quintin Jardine

  ‘Then that’s where you and I are going to spend the morning. We’ll get you healed there.’

  My friend was as good as his word. We headed down to the Edinburgh Club, where Liam put me through his own training routine. While he’s small for a wrestler, around my height, he’s maybe fifteen pounds heavier than my one-ninety-five, and fast and exceptionally strong with it. He worked each piece of apparatus flat out and he made me keep up his pace all the way. He made me press weights I’d never even attempted before, with my arms and legs, until I screamed out loud with the effort. When we were done with that, he made me put on the gloves and held the heavy punch-bag while I hit it, harder and harder, combinations at first, then single punches, big booming shots, every one of them aimed at a bearded guy, wearing shades. Finally, I nailed the red leather bag with a huge right-hander that broke Liam’s grip on it and sent him rolling over backwards. ‘Jesus,’ he grinned as he got to his feet, ‘I’m glad that was between me and you.’

  To wind up, he took me on the judo mat and showed me some new moves, and other stuff he had been working on himself, not necessarily for use in the ring, more the type of throws and holds that had won him his world championship medal. When we were done with that, he sat down in the middle of the mat, and told me to do the same.

  ‘Close your eyes,’ he instructed, ‘cleanse your mind of all but the most peaceful thoughts. Take the biggest lungful of air you can, and release it slowly, then breathe shallow, quietly, so you can’t even feel it. Then find what’s dearest to your heart and focus on that alone.’

  I did as he said. As I exhaled I had a vision, behind my closed eyes, of Jan, my dead soul-mate. She’d come to me before in times of need and she did so again, wordlessly this time. I could hear nothing but the sound of my own heart, its beat slow and steady. As I concentrated on the picture in my mind I seemed to close in on its centre on something within her. It grew and became clearer until two figures formed; Susie and the baby.

  I sat there motionless for I know not how long, looking at my child and her mother, aware only of them and of the violence draining out of me. I’d probably have stayed in my trance all day, had not Liam broken it by touching me gently on the shoulder.

  ‘Okay, boy,’ he said. ‘Time to be moving.’

  As I took my second shower of the day, I felt cleansed in every sense. As I towelled myself dry and dressed, I realised just how strung out I had been, and how close to the edge I’d come. I took a look in the mirror, and couldn’t see a trace of the guy who’d been there a few hours before.

  ‘You have to master yourself, Oz,’ Liam said to me, quietly, as I drove back to the apartment on the Mound. ‘There’s something dangerous about you; it needs to be driven out and kept out. What we did this morning should be your standard work-out from now on, but the most important part of it is the part at the end. If you can’t do anything else, none of the physical stuff, at the very least you should commune with the peaceful side of your nature every day in life.’

  Since then, I’ve taken that advice to heart and followed it, religiously; it works, most of the time. I still find it strange to think of the GWA champion as a man wholly cleansed of aggression, but I understand completely why that has to be. These people are trained professionals, kids; don’t try their stuff at home.

  We were dropping our gym gear at home. . straight into the washing machine. . when my hard-won serenity was put to its first test. I had missed my morning check of my e-mail, so in the few minutes that were left before we had to head for George Street, I switched on my laptop, plugged in my modem, and set up an AOL flash-session.

  Even if there’s mail, normally it takes seconds to run, unless there’s an attachment to download; this time there was, an untitled JPEG file. It took just under a minute until it was complete and Joanna’s voice said ‘Goodbye’. I opened my off-line filing cabinet and looked at the ‘incoming’ folder. There were two new messages; one was a cheery ‘hello’ from Susie, saying sorry that she’d given me a hard time the night before, and assuring me that everything was okay in Glasgow.

  The second was from a source I didn’t recognise; it was on Hotmail, untitled, and the sender address was no more than a jumble of letters, ‘mzrimnmeal92’. I opened it, thinking that it was junk mail, expecting someone to be offering me free insurance, promising me a bride from St Petersburg, or trying to sell me a magic pill that would make my dick three inches longer. . I’ve had all of those and more in my mailbox in my time.

  This one was different, though; the message was two words, that’s all. ‘Hello, Oz.’ At the foot of the screen, an icon indicated an attachment.

  I have my computer set up so that all my downloads go straight to my desktop. I clicked three times, and the folder was open. I found it, easily; ‘u’ for ‘untitled’ with the JPEG symbol. I opened it and watched as it unrolled on the screen.

  It was another photograph of Susie and the baby from our Saturday outing, this time taken inside the Kelvingrove Art Gallery. So much for my powers of observation; I’d been wise to the man yet he’d still been able to follow us inside and take the second photograph. Stupid, Oz, rushing off to the gents like that to play detective. You could have come out and they could have been gone.

  But they weren’t, I answered myself, which means, surely, that the man’s intentions aren’t violent.

  Don’t be daft. The next e-mail will ask for money.

  ‘What’s up?’ Liam asked.

  I showed him the screen. ‘The guy’s been playing silly buggers again.’ Inside, I was strangely pleased with myself. I didn’t feel a trace of anger.

  I picked up the phone, called Ricky, and told him what had happened. ‘Give me the sender address,’ he said; I read it out letter by letter, number by number. ‘I’ll try it on Mark Kravitz. He has contacts with the thought police. Mind you, given that it’s Hotmail, they might be able to tell you where it was sent from, but as for identifying the sender, there’ll be little or no chance of that.’

  ‘Maybe he sent it from his home phone?’

  ‘Nah. He’ll have used a public internet access for sure.’

  ‘Have faith, Richard,’ I told him, ‘in the inherent stupidity of your fellow man. This guy’s been daft enough to stalk two of the most protected people on the planet. Maybe he’s been daft enough to lead us to him.’

  ‘He’d have signed his fucking name if he was going to do that.’

  ‘Maybe so. Anyway, he’s letting us know he’s still there; that’s the main thing.’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Ross sourly, ‘look on the bright side; make my fucking day.’

  ‘What’s up with you?’

  ‘I get like this when I lose a client.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Torrent. The fat bastard called me into his office this morning and fired me. He blames me for leaving Anna Chin open to attack. I pointed out to him that it was his niece who instituted the Friday evening call-in system for the reps, and that it was the two of them who left her vulnerable by fucking off to Gleneagles for the weekend, when normally at least one of them would still have been there when she finished.

  ‘Didn’t do any good, though; Ross Security’s contract is terminated from this date for dereliction of duty.’

  ‘I’m sorry about that, Ricky.’

  ‘He may be too; I may sue the fat fucker.’

  ‘You do that. But it won’t help us catch our killer, will it?’

  ‘Ah, but I’ve made progress on that. I was in there through the night. I made photocopies of all the Health and Safety sign-in sheets. I know everyone who’s been in there since the company moved into that building five months ago. I also took what I could from Anna’s desk.

  ‘You never know, the killer might have signed his fucking name too.’ He gave a short bitter laugh. ‘Oh, by the way, Torrent’s been really busy this morning. He called your co-director, Alison, in too.’

  ‘Is she at work?’

  ‘She insisted. Don’t worry, she’s
covered.’

  ‘Did he fire her too?’

  ‘No, nothing like that; but he did ask her to draft a letter to Ewan Capperauld, putting his invitation on hold. In the light of Anna’s death, he feels that it wouldn’t be appropriate to proceed at this stage with something that might be seen as a celebration.’

  ‘That’s unusually sensitive of him.’

  ‘Maybe, but he’s still postponed it, indefinitely.’

  ‘He’ll get his reward in heaven.’

  ‘Soon, I hope. While we’re waiting, I’m off to look at those lists.’

  He hung up and I turned back to my computer. ‘Yes, pal,’ I said to the screen, as I reached for the track-pad to begin the close-down process, ‘pity you didn’t sign your name, isn’t it.’ I looked at the address. . and my hand froze.

  All at once, I couldn’t see anything but those letters and numbers. . mzrimnmeal92. I focused on them, totally, as if I was back on the mat, meditating. They seemed to swim before my eyes as I rearranged them in my mind. And all of a sudden, I knew who my stalker was. . the stupid bastard really had signed his name.

  I just couldn’t make myself believe it, that’s all.

  Chapter 45

  I carried the name in my mind all through lunch and into the afternoon rehearsal. The scenes which we were shooting were relatively easy for me; all I had to do was look alert, shout a few words and fire a pistol convincingly.

  Any other director in the world would have hired an ex-soldier to teach the gun-toting members of the cast how to use them in an authentic way. Not Miles; he was an ex-soldier, and in his young days in the Aussie army he had learned the true marksman technique himself. . along with a few other things which would not be needed in this project.

  We could have used empty magazines, and dubbed the gunfire noises on to the soundtrack, but Miles had decided that we would fire blanks, so that the weapons would react properly in our hands when we pulled their triggers. So he spent a good part of that afternoon teaching us individually. . Ewan, me, Bill Massey, Liam, and a few bit players. . how to handle the weapons we’d be using, and letting us feel for ourselves how it felt when they were fired, almost for real. Mine was a big heavy Colt automatic, and I was really glad that there was no business end on the cartridges; the thing was so clumsy that I’d have blown out half the lights on the chandelier by the time I was through.

  While I’ve never fired a gun in anger myself, I’ve seen it done close up; I understand the power of the things, physical and psychological, and I’ve seen their after-effects. I do not like firearms, not at all, and I’m glad that in my country at least, their ownership is restricted.

  By the time we’d finished for the day, my earlier conviction that I knew my follower had gone more than a bit hazy. It was a coincidence, sure, but that’s all it was; it had to be. Strange, though; when we left the rehearsal room to walk back to the Mound, I didn’t feel threatened any more. I knew that he was still there, and I guessed that he and I would come face to face pretty soon now. I was looking forward to it; not for what I was going to do to him, for Liam had pounded most of that out of me, but because actually I wanted to meet him.

  Miles and Dawn had invited Liam and me to join them for dinner at the Caledonian that evening. I found myself looking forward to that too; I had trouble remembering the last time I had sat down to a formal meal. Grazing had become my norm.

  By the time we had checked the news and were ready to go, time was getting a bit tight, so we took a taxi down to the hotel. As we hailed it, I had a fleeting thought that the driver might be my stalker and that he might flood the back of the cab with gas, then whisk us off to parts unknown. As it happened, he was an old bloke with a flat cap and a hacking cough; he did try to whisk us off on a convoluted route to the Caley, but I was wise to that and made him drive straight down the hill and along Princes Street.

  Miles had a couple of surprises in store for us when we were shown into the private dining room he had booked; we weren’t his only guests. Ewan Capperauld was there too, with a pleasant, dark-haired, bright-faced lady; I wouldn’t have known her from Eve, but he introduced her as his wife, Margaret. She was about his age, tall, athletic. . from the back of my mind, I dredged up an old piece of showbiz trivia I’d read once; in her teens she’d been an Olympic gymnast. . and very attractive in an understated way. I could understand why young David had made a pass at her ten years back.

  The Capperaulds’ fame as a couple was based on their privacy, rather than their public face. They were never to be found in the pages of Hello or OK, and they seldom attended film events together. Having got to know Ewan, I had come to understand that he viewed his wife as his business partner. She handled all the stuff off-screen and off-stage, and he did everything else. I thought of the two agents I’d employed in my short career; they were all right, but I wouldn’t have wanted to sleep with either of them.

  The second surprise arrived a couple of minutes after we did. It was Susie; there was a light in her eye, and she was dressed to kill. ‘Wow,’ murmured Liam, as she walked into the room. ‘If I didn’t know whose girl she was. . ’ Even Ewan’s head turned, and he’s seen more than a few glamour queens in his time.

  She walked right up to me and took my arm, stood on tiptoe and kissed me. I felt myself smiling awkwardly, and I knew why. Susie and I, having dinner with my sister-in-law and her husband; I looked at Dawn, checking for any frost in her expression, but I saw none.

  Miles read my mind; he walked over to us. ‘After yesterday,’ he said, ‘we thought we should make it clear where we stand as far as you two are concerned.’ He took Susie’s hand and kissed it. ‘Welcome,’ he murmured. ‘You’re among friends.’

  She gleamed with delight; I smiled a bit myself. Why wouldn’t I? There I was with a partner who was the brightest light in a room full of movie stars and their consorts. I’d made the jump from a bad marriage to a new relationship with a ready-made family. So why did I feel just a wee bit boxed in?

  Ewan and his wife came across and I made the introductions. ‘You’re Susan Gantry?’ Margaret exclaimed. ‘I’ve read a lot about you. I can’t tell you how much I admire what you’ve done with your business.’ That was it; the ice wasn’t just broken, it was shattered.

  ‘How did you get here?’ I asked Susie quietly, when eventually we were seated at the rectangular table.

  ‘Mandy drove me through.’

  ‘You going straight back after dinner?’

  She shook her head and grinned. ‘Ethel’s given me an overnight pass. We’ll go back in the morning.’

  ‘Any scares through there?’

  ‘I was never scared; but no, it’s been all quiet. What about you?’

  I told her about the second photograph, via e-mail; I did not tell her about my wild flight of fancy about the sender. No way did I tell her that.

  That dinner party was the best night I’d had, we’d had, since Janet was born. Susie was treated not as a newcomer, but as a member of the cast. As for Liam, his girlfriend is an air steward, and she was en route for Miami, but even on his own, he fitted in; he’s like that. I noticed that Miles was watching him from time to time, and I guessed that if he handled his not-too-taxing part reasonably well, it might not be his last.

  Looking back, one of the reasons for the evening’s success was that there was no centre of attraction. Miles was the perfect host; he said very little all night, letting the rest of us chat as we liked about whatever we liked. The only thing that was off limits was our current project. . and quite right too.

  More and more, I found myself watching the Capperaulds. Apart from my parents, I’d never seen a couple who complemented each other so well and who were as relaxed and confident in each other’s company. I like to think that Jan and I would have turned out that way. Round that table I found myself thinking that maybe Susie Gantry and I would. Maybe.

  The evening was over too soon; Miles ordered a round of liqueurs for those who wanted them, and that was th
at. As we broke up, Susie asked Miles, Dawn, Ewan, Margaret and Liam to sign her menu; she surprised me slightly, but I supposed that even the most confident among us can be a punter at heart. I was slightly huffed that she didn’t ask me to add my name, but she told me that she had something else in mind for me to sign.

  ‘What?’ I asked.

  ‘You’ll find out soon enough.’

  Liam was just a bit awkward about being in the spare room with Susie in the apartment; he even volunteered to move into a hotel.

  ‘Don’t be daft,’ she told him. ‘Just you think of yourself as a nanny. We’re used to them; you can be a big Irish version.’

  ‘We could always call Mandy on her mobile,’ I suggested, ‘and ask her to sleep over, for added security.’

  He grinned at my jest. ‘Sure. And I could teach her some new holds, yes?’

  I almost retorted, ‘No, she could teach you some.’ Good sense made me put the brakes on the words, right on the edge of my tongue. I had got away with murder once with Susie; I didn’t fancy pushing my luck any further.

  Chapter 46

  There is a myth that movie-making is all early starts and late finishes and that the other side of the coin for guys like me is that we earn our vast sacks of gold by being dumped in arduous locations for weeks and months on end and are then screamed at from six a.m. till midnight by neurotic directors who are overly jealous because we can act and therefore are recognisably famous while they can’t and therefore aren’t.

  I believe that’s true on occasion, but it’s never happened to me yet. My experience is of filming in attractive cities and countryside, under the guidance of a mentor who explains how he wants a scene to look and sound once it’s shot, rehearses until he’s happy it’s going to turn out that way, then completes in a minimum of takes and with no histrionics at all.

  But then, so far, I’ve only worked with Miles Grayson. No, as I’ve come to appreciate, the people who really work hard on movie projects are those behind the cameras. . and there are a hell of a lot of them. Every one seems to look after his or her own bit of the business, and most of them seem to have exotic titles. For example, there’s someone called a focus puller; I assume that her job is to pull focuses, but how she pulls them, and with what, is and always will be completely beyond me.