by William Paul
Sandy was lying on the sloping ground behind the crags in the soaking wet long grass. His damp clothes were like another person clinging to his back. He was watching the scene more than fifty yards ahead of him. His nose was running. He could not feel his fingers or toes and he was shivering uncontrollably as he silently cursed his brother Billy sitting in the warmth of the van. ‘You follow them,’ Billy had said. ‘I’ll stay here in case they come back to the car.’ There was a brief, whispered argument but Sandy was already resigned to being the loser. There was no time to waste. He had to keep Adamson and the priest in sight. So he went out into the cold and wet and hurried after them into the darkness.
He had to sneeze again. He muffled the outward noise but it made his head buzz inside. When he looked up Adamson was moving downhill, a shadow sliding across the dark. He had no time to think, no time to worry what had happened to the priest other than a vague idea that he might have gone over the edge. He had to keep up with Adamson.
Sandy hauled himself to his feet and, still crouching down, began to run after him.
28
David Fyfe rang the bell of Sylvia’s flat and heard it jangle tinnily in the distance beyond the huge black door. The front windows were in darkness. The walk from the pub in the cold air had more or less sobered him up. If he was lucky Sylvia would be out and he would be able to turn round and go away. That would be the best thing. Otherwise he would just make a fool of himself trying to tell her she was doing the wrong thing. This way at least he would have tried to speak to her. He would have made the effort. Honour would be satisfied.
But she was in. Light suddenly leaked from under the door, making the toes of his shoes gleam. He heard the sound of footsteps and the lock turning loudly. He was confused to be confronted by an old man with a shock of silver hair. He was wearing tweed trousers and an open-neck shirt. He was holding a brandy goblet and had a fat cigar in the corner of his mouth. The upward trail of smoke from the cigar forced him to have one eye shut. He peered at Fyfe curiously from the other.
‘I’m sorry,’ Fyfe said. ‘I thought this was Sylvia Cranston’s address.’
‘It is,’ the old man replied. ‘She’s just popped round to the shops. She’ll be back in a second.’
‘Ah. Right.’
Realisation began to dawn on Fyfe. He took a step backwards. Without his judge’s wig and robes Lord Greenmantle looked like a pensioner exhausted from a session on his allotment.
‘Any message?’
‘I was just calling round to… Sylvia had invited my wife and myself to her engagement party tomorrow night. I was just passing by and I thought I would make my apologies. We can’t make it.’
‘And you are?’
‘David Fyfe.’
‘Ah. Right.’ Greenmantle straightened and took the cigar from his mouth. He stared at Fyfe unblinkingly from two bright eyes before transferring his glass to the cigar hand and holding out the other in welcome. ‘Good to meet you. I have, as they say, heard a lot about you.’
Fyfe shook hands. ‘Nothing bad, I hope.’
‘Badness is relative. But no, nothing bad. Come in and wait. Sylvia will be back soon. I’ll get you a drink.’
Fyfe was trapped. He could have made his excuses and left but that would have been impolite and, anyway, he was fascinated to find out what this old man had to say for himself. He shuffled nervously, unsure of how to act, asking himself once more what he thought he was doing there. Greenmantle seemed pleasant, wise even. His handshake was firm. His bony hand had freckles the size of five-pence coins on it but he was not the shrivelled bad-tempered old husk Fyfe had somehow expected. That made it even worse that Sylvia was going to marry him.
Greenmantle led him through to the back sitting-room. Fyfe knew the layout of the flat intimately. He and Sylvia had made love in every room at one time or another. Regularly they had lain naked in front of the real coal fire where Greenmantle was poking a long spill so that he could relight his cigar with much puffing and exhalation of smoke.
‘You’ve known Sylvia quite a long time,’ he said. It was not a question so Fyfe didn’t bother to answer. He sat down in one of the wing armchairs as directed. ‘Of course, I’ve known her even longer.’
The remark roused a spasm of jealousy in Fyfe. Irrational possessiveness was one of his bad failings. When Greenmantle asked what he wanted to drink he named twelve-year-old oak cask Glenfarclas because he knew it was Sylvia’s favourite and she always kept a bottle handy. The old man knew about their affair. It had been no secret.
‘A good choice,’ Greenmantle said. ‘I would love to join you but I’m afraid I cannot. This isn’t brandy, you see, but warm water with a little brown paste stuff my doctor prescribes. It is the most my digestive system can cope with. I like to pretend it’s brandy though. Makes me feel healthier. No harm in it, just as there is none in the water. I shouldn’t smoke either, but what the hell.’
‘Appearances can be deceptive,’ Fyfe said, taking the whisky he was offered.
Greenmantle sat in the identical armchair on the opposite side of the fire and rested his ankles on the brass fender. ‘Yes, they can, David. Inspector is it?’
‘Detective Chief Inspector.’
‘DCI, of course. You have given evidence in my court before now. Catch any criminals today?’
‘Not a one.’
‘Never mind. There are plenty out there and you’ve always got tomorrow.’
He must know about me and Sylvia, Fyfe decided, wondering what exactly Sylvia had told him. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat, regretting being alone with the old man, wishing Sylvia would come back. He drank whisky and avoided eye contact.
‘Thank you for being a friend to Sylvia,’ Greenmantle said.
‘That’s okay,’ Fyfe replied, hugely embarrassed.
The curtains were open on the window that looked out on to the back gardens. In front of it was a chest of drawers with an antique willow pattern bowl and jug washing kit on top. It had used to be in the bedroom. The jug’s pouring lip was badly cracked and stuck together after being knocked over during one energetic afternoon of run and chase sex. Behind the jug Fyfe and Greenmantle were reflected in the dark, star-speckled glass. The fire between them was a mass of writhing red. Greenmantle blew a perfect smoke ring and spoke.
‘Isn’t it fascinating to think that as we sit here crimes are being committed out there at this very moment which shall be the subject of proceedings in court in due course?’
‘Yes. Life goes on,’ Fyfe said.
Greenmantle waved his cigar at the window. ‘All sorts of things are happening out there; deliberate, accidental, circumstantial. The wonder is that we ever make sense of all the chaos.’
‘We don’t make sense of it. At least I’ve never managed to.’
‘You arrest them and I send them down.’
‘A simple system.’
‘I worry sometimes that I am going soft in my old age. Do you remember the Mike Barrie case? It’s a long time ago now.’
Fyfe remembered. This was decent man-to-man talk he could cope with. He had good reasons to remember the Barrie case. Reasons that neither Greenmantle nor Sylvia could be aware of. Real secrets he had never shared.
‘I remember it well,’ he said. ‘Mad Mike Barrie held up a security van taking old banknotes to be destroyed. The incinerator had been out of commission for several weeks for repairs and the van contained three times the normal amount of cash, well over one million pounds. They got away with the money but were trapped the next day in a flat at the East End and Mike topped himself rather than surrender. He burned the cash too so nobody else could get it.’
‘You were involved in the case?’
‘I was a sergeant at the time. I attended the siege and the subsequent questioning. I had to break the news to Mike Barrie’s widow.’
Angela. A beautiful woman of his own age, all legs and backside, big breasts and pouting lips. She had tried to act the hard-faced bitch but that did
n’t last long and she had collapsed into his arms weeping inconsolably for fully half an hour. He couldn’t do anything with weeping women. He just held her tight and waited for her to come round. After that they discovered an affinity for each other. It was a time when he was drinking too much, working too little, beating up suspects, using dodgy evidence, generally not caring what happened to him. The affair with Angela was passionate, very, very physical, and short-lived. It lasted ten days. He had never told anyone. He drank whisky to hide his smile.
‘What a hero Barrie was,’ Greenmantle said. ‘A criminal martyr was created in that hour for a new generation to identify with. Do you believe the money was burned?’
‘We never found it. Just a pile of ashes. Some money had been burned.’
‘What about the widow?’
‘We questioned her obviously,’ Fyfe said, biting the inside of his lip. ‘We staked her out for a while. I personally don’t believe she got away with it. Of course when she decamped to the Costa del Sol there were those who said “Told you so.”’
Their last night together before she flew out to Spain had been a steamy, no-chance-to-sleep session in a hotel room. If Angela had the money he would have known. They did talk about the crazy idea of him following her abroad but, despite everything, he knew the difference between fantasy and reality. Sally, still his wife at that stage, was the reality. Sylvia was a few years in the future. Angela was a present fantasy.
‘Do you remember John Adamson?’ Greenmantle asked.
‘Barrie’s sidekick? Yes. He survived the suicide with Barrie’s blood all over him. You sentenced him to a fair whack.’
‘Twelve years. I assumed he knew where the money was hidden and was keeping quiet so he could come back and get it afterwards.’
Fyfe shook his head. ‘There was the Spanish widow route for the money and the Adamson hidey-hole route. I didn’t subscribe to either. Barrie was mad and too much in charge. That money belonged to him. Adamson was a loser. Barrie didn’t want anyone else getting it if he couldn’t. I think he did burn it.’
‘You don’t think Adamson had the savvy to hoodwink his mate?’
‘If he did we would have got it out of him. He had a dependent personality that was fairly easy to manipulate. His psychiatric report labelled him mildly schizoid, some psychopathic tendencies. Nothing debilitating but cracked enough to be noticeable. Trust me. The money went up in smoke.’
‘Stuck to his right of silence at the trial and smirked at me when the jury returned their verdict. I added on a few years on the strength of it. I wanted to make sure he paid for the cash if he was ever going to get it.’
‘I’m sure there must be plenty of legal precedents.’
‘Anyway, the whole point of this story is that a couple of weeks ago a parole recommendation for Adamson landed on my desk at Parliament House. As the sentencing judge I have to approve any such recommendation and I had refused eighteen months earlier and a couple of times before that as well. Now if I had been my normal, crusty self I would have left the swine to rot for his full term. But as fickle fate would have it the previous day Sylvia had agreed to become engaged to me. Therefore, imbued with the heady spirit of human magnanimity, I duly signed the document with a flourish.’
‘So Adamson is out now.’
‘Yes. But if it wasn’t for Sylvia he would still be inside. Random circumstance, you see, David. My favourite theory of life. Progress through random circumstance.’
‘A lucky man.’
‘Just like me marrying Sylvia, don’t you think? That sounds like her at the door now.’
29
Still alive. Messages of pain came from every part of Byrne’s body to overload his central nervous system. Intolerable. Unbearable. Inescapable.
Every breath of air was like acid pouring down his throat. Nerve ends shorted against each other and made sparkling lights dance in front of his eyes. Beyond the lights he could see the grey mist and the vertical rock face and the black shapes of the long blades of grass overhanging his face. And beyond the miasma of pain he was aware that he was alive. Still alive.
Donald Byrne was lying on his back, half on the gravel roadway, half on the grass, at the foot of Salisbury Crags. He had twice hit the rock during his fall. The first contact had dislocated his shoulder. The second had smashed the left side of his skull and his right kneecap. The impact with the ground had broken his back and both legs. He could not move. He could only lie motionless, staring up at the brown rock, weathered and scored by centuries of exposure, unable to see the top of the precipice because it was lost in the luminous mist. Soundless words came from his twitching lips.
Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us now and at the hour of our death.
Pain screwed itself into a thumping crescendo. Then it subsided, an outgoing tide to leave him stranded on a senses-barren beach. His mind was capable of rational thought but it was trapped inside a useless, shattered body. He found the only movement he had was in the fingers of his left hand. He was just able to feel the loose gravel under the fingertips. But even moving the tiny pebbles drained him of precious energy because they seemed to be infinitely heavy.
Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us now and at the hour of our death.
He was terrified at the prospect of dying in a state of mortal sin, but anxious that he should die before pain overwhelmed him again. Conflicting emotions made the sky darken above him. The wind sighed mournfully through the grass around him. Blood flowed into his mouth, blocking his throat, making him cough. Blood sprayed into the air and fell back on to his face in warm, pinprick drops.
Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us now and at the hour of our death.
Pain walloped into him, making him quiver and groan. The sensation of feeling in his legs disappeared. He imagined they were becoming invisible, disappearing from sight. Soon his upper body and then his head would follow and he would vanish entirely. Then no one would find him. No one would know he had ever been there. He would dissolve and reappear at another place, at another time before he had ever met the sad-eyed Father Quinn and the rapacious Lillian.
How pathetic, how foolish he had been. How weak to be distracted from spiritual truth by the temptations of earthly flesh and possessions. He had no excuse to offer his maker, other than that he was a hopeless sinner like so many that had gone before him. Heaven was out of bounds. Hell would be ready for him.
Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us now and at the hour of our death.
The pain swarmed over him again, the sharp teeth of wild animals tearing at his bones. Blood again in his mouth, choking him, coughing wracking his body. A foretaste of hell. Of what was to come for him.
Raw fear scrabbled like horny claws tearing at his guts and made him struggle to stay alive. He spat out blood and gulped at the air. His heart beat erratically. He could only move his fingers, scratching at the gravel like a climber searching for a hold. Only his mind seemed to be in proper working order and even it was beginning to play tricks on him.
The smell of incense filled his nostrils. And he heard the rustle of stiffly starched altar robes. The chant of the Mass. Bread like paper on his tongue and sweet red wine. His mother embracing him at the ordination ceremony. His father shaking his hand. Aunt Ethel wiping away a tear. Then flame-haired Lillian in figure-hugging clothes, cloth-wrapped nipples and thighs. The smell of her, a corporeal female incense and the rustle of white cotton sheets. The wickedness and the evilly efficient lubrication of their coupling. The intensity of pleasure and the black depression of subsequent guilt before he went back for more. The vanity. The selfishness. The calculated decision to steal the Church’s money while he sat in judgement of good, ordinary people who had committed the least of sins. The ingenuity he used once Quinn showed him how, the simplicity of it all. And the final desperate determination to get enough money to escape, to get out and begin a new life.
God saw everything, knew everything, accounted for everything. Despite all he h
ad done, Byrne still retained his faith in God. It was deep and unshakeable. He believed in life after death. He believed in heaven and in hell. Oh God, how he believed.
Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us now and at the hour of our death.
Another surge of pain, less acute now, provoking barely a whimper. Somebody approached, looming out of the mist. An impossibly tall person, a hazy silhouette lit from behind. Unreal. Faceless. Insubstantial. A wraith. The stealer of souls come to collect a fresh one.
Byrne’s fingers dug deeply into the gravel roadway. Stones shifted over them like rosary beads. He watched the silhouette grow taller, the light behind it grow brighter. Byrne gurgled on the blood in his throat and swallowed some of it. Hell was peopled by creatures such as these, he thought. Perhaps he was already dead.
Holy Mary, Mother of God. Pray for us now and at the hour of our death.
The darkness disintegrated into impenetrable black.
30
Adamson was hyper-ventilating as he ran back across the park. Headlights approached far away to his left. Red taillights glowed even further away on his right. He thought he saw somebody or something ducking behind bushes to his right. He dodged to the left and missed the path, stumbling on a steep grassy bank and plunged forward, landing awkwardly on his shoulder. He rolled over and over and kept sliding as he tried to dig his heels to stop himself. At last he did and was back on his feet running, letting the slope carry him down to the level ground. He was over the road in two strides and into the empty carpark beside Holyrood’s boundary wall, restraining himself, slowing to a fast walk along the shadowed path. His shoulder ached. The hairs on the back of his neck prickled at the knowledge that behind him was the dark slab of Salisbury Crags with the dead body lying at its base.