by William Paul
Eames went over and folded himself down into his little MG. It took several shimmies back and forward to get the car pointed in the right direction to exit. Its red tail-lights shone briefly like animal eyes among the black mass of the forest and then were gone.
Fyfe looked at Moya and killed a midge on his forehead. The slap made his injured eye throb painfully.
‘As I was saying,’ he said. ‘Let’s keep all our options open.’
Chapter Twenty-Six
Thursday, 21.31
Ron’s dead. There was no painless way to break the news. They came to the door. They said they were sorry but Ron’s dead. From wife to widow in a fraction of a second. Patricia Gilchrist examined her new self in the tall mirror. There was too much grey in her hair. She would have to dye it. Black was the proper colour of mourning.
The policewoman had stayed when the others left. She was a small, dumpy young girl with a surprising amount of hair bundled on the back of her head beneath her cap. She made sweet tea and Patricia couldn’t understand where she had found the sugar because she was sure there was none in the house. Neither of them took sugar in their tea anyway. They sat and drank it by the light from the lamp with a picture on the shade of the coach and horses racing past an inn.
‘I’ll have to identify the body,’ she told the mirror.
‘I’m afraid so,’ the young policewoman confirmed.
Murder they said. Someone had murdered Ron. She had got up from her armchair in the almost suffocatingly warm living-room. She had put down her glass of mulled wine and her romantic novel and uncurled her legs from beneath her. She had gone to answer the doorbell. Ron’s dead, they told her. He’s been murdered.
In the mirror behind her she could see the armchair where Ron would normally have been sitting. He had gone north on business, called away suddenly that afternoon. He had warned her he might have to stay overnight. Now he wasn’t coming back. Opposite the empty chair she could see her own chair, also empty. The cushions still held the moulded shape of her body.
‘Take a seat, Mrs Gilchrist.’ The policewoman tried to nudge her towards the armchair. ‘Why don’t you sit down?’
‘I answered all their questions, didn’t I?’ Patricia asked.
‘Yes you did.’
‘They’ll want to ask me more.’
‘Probably.’
Laura had not been mentioned. Not yet at least. But she had heard the news on the radio about the woman found dead at Loch Maree. The old fool had slavered and lusted after Laura. It had been so pathetically obvious, even if he had never actually done anything and she could safely ignore it. Now he had been found dead in her cottage in the Highlands. O God, what had he done. What an embarrassment this was going to be. How was she going to face people?
‘I have to make some phone calls,’ she said.
‘Of course.’
‘Private calls. I’d like to be alone.’
‘Naturally. I’ll be in the kitchen if you need me.’
Patricia picked up the phone. The number was so familiar she did not have to look at the dial as she punched it out. Three double rings then she hung up and dialled again immediately. It was answered on the first ring the second time.
‘Ron’s dead,’ she said.
‘I know,’ said the voice at the other end of the line. ‘Didn’t I tell you everything would be all right?’
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Thursday, 21.33
Janet Dunbar gathered up her clothes frantically and darted into the kitchen just before they entered the living-room. What the hell was Simon playing at inviting whoever-it-was into the house? She had tried to get him to ignore the doorbell. They were, after all, rolling in well-lubricated carnal abandon on the carpet when it began to ring. It was easy enough to shut out the sound at first. But it kept going, stridently and insistently, demanding a response. Finally, Simon couldn’t stand it any longer. Anyone could see the lights in the house and the cars in the drive, he reasoned. They weren’t going to go away until somebody answered the door.
He got up, pulled on his trousers and his sweat shirt and went bare-footed to see who it was. She was left lying on her back staring up at the ceiling in silent frustration.
Janet couldn’t believe it when she heard him bringing them in. He talked loudly as they got closer. He was banging the doors, moving slowly, sending a warning that she should make herself scarce. So she scooped up her clothes and headed for the kitchen where the coldness of the floor made her hop from foot to foot. She got dressed hurriedly, standing by the slightly open door to be able to listen to what was going on in the lounge. She wondered if she should make an entrance now that she was decent and brazen it out. The dinner-table was laid for two after all. The dessert plates were still in place, the candles guttering low. It would be fairly obvious he wasn’t alone.
But she was a married woman and her affair with Simon hadn’t been going long enough for her to be sure of her ground. A mere four weeks was their track record, and most of that had been taken up with the sharing of physical needs rather than the sharing of confidences. She didn’t know him well enough to judge how he would react if she walked in on some kind of delicate situation. And it certainly must be delicate for him to interrupt a love-making session in full flow.
She didn’t know his friends, didn’t know his enemies. All she knew was that he was quite wealthy, quite good-looking and separated from his wife. She screwed her eyes tightly shut for several seconds and opened them again. She kicked at the door, making sure she missed it. Good God woman, she raged at herself. What are you doing here?
There was more than one visitor. A woman was talking. Somebody else was moving round the room, casting a shadow over the edge of the kitchen door. Janet flattened herself against the wall inside.
‘We don’t know the full facts yet, sir, but we wondered if you could help us in any way.’
‘We have been separated for several months.’ He hesitated, looking round the room as if to ensure no one else was there. ‘I haven’t seen her for weeks now.’
‘Did she have another partner?’
‘Probably. Laura wasn’t the sort of person who liked being on her own.’
‘Can we ask if that contributed in any way to the break-up of your marriage, Mr Wright?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Her relationship with another man?’
‘No. There was no other man. Not that I was aware of. It was an irretrievable breakdown. I didn’t understand her any longer. She didn’t understand me so she went home to her father.’
‘Was it an amicable separation?’
‘Not really. There was lots of shouting and bitching.’
‘Bad?’
‘Not pleasant. But there was no violence if that’s what you’re getting at. I didn’t kill her.’
Janet’s curiosity had her almost putting her head round the corner but she resisted the temptation. It was making sense gradually. The visitors were police. Laura was dead. Laura, the estranged wife she had never met but whose perfume never seemed to fade. Her photograph was on the back of the bathroom door, the face riddled with holes from the set of darts that was kept there in the basket with the bars of sweet-smelling soap. Whenever Simon was in the bathroom she would hear the darts thumping into the wood. Janet was secretly self-conscious about her resemblance to Laura; not so dark, nose a different shape, but close enough. Simon never talked about her. Janet didn’t like to mention it. What had Laura done to him?
The policewoman spoke. ‘We’ll be able to provide you with more information tomorrow, sir.’
Then the policeman. ‘And we’ll be asking you more questions as well. You’re not intending going anywhere, are you?’
‘No. I’ll be here or at my office. Have you told her father yet?’
‘We’re just on our way there now,’ said the woman’s voice. ‘Unless you want to contact him first.’
‘No. It will be better coming from you. We never got on.’
They were going. The outside door banged. Janet risked peeping round the kitchen door. The living-room was empty. One candle had burned itself out and a thin line of smoke was rising straight up to the ceiling. The other sustained only the tiniest of flames. Simon’s socks were half concealed by the cushion under which she had hurriedly stuffed them. Simon himself came back into the room. A broad grin was on his face, but it was not a smiling grin, it was more a shocked sort of grin. He held his arms wide and cocked his head to one side.
‘Marry me Janet,’ he said.
‘I beg your pardon.’
‘Marry me Janet. I’m a free man now.’
He embraced her, squeezing her firmly against his body. When he stepped back his face had collapsed into an expression of pure grief and his eyes were brim-full of tears. Janet was frightened by the incongruity of his actions. Her whole body was cold despite the warmth in the room. She had to get away as quickly as she could.
‘What do you mean?’ she asked knowing exactly what he meant because of what she had overheard.
‘I’m a free man. I’m no longer married.’
‘How come?’
‘That was the police. They came to tell me my wife has just been found dead. I’m a widower.’
Janet didn’t know what to say. All she could think of was the heavy thud of the darts tearing into Laura’s photograph. She took him in her arms so that she didn’t have to look at him. He was sobbing now, a heavy weight on her shoulder. Good God woman, she told herself. Get the hell out of here quick.
‘How did it happen?’ she asked tentatively.
He shook his head. She felt his nose squashed against her collar bone. He said something but she couldn’t make it out.
‘Pardon,’ she said.
He moved back to look at her. The strange grin was back. His cheeks were wet with tears, his eyes blurred with pain. ‘Murder,’ he said.
Janet swallowed the excess saliva that flooded into her mouth. The gulping sound seemed inordinately loud. He embraced her once more, resting his head on her shoulder. His steady sobbing made her body tremble as well. She patted the back of his neck.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said.
‘Don’t be sorry,’ he replied, giving that disarming little smile of his. ‘Be my alibi?’
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Thursday, 21.35
After the police had told him about his daughter’s death and gone away Douglas Lambert went downstairs from his flat to the funeral parlour. In the workroom at the back Mr Beaumont’s corpse lay on the table covered by a single plastic sheet. His coffin, an oak top-of-the-range, satin-lined affair, had been delivered in the late afternoon but Robbie had gone by then so the transfer had been put off until the next morning. The coffin stood waiting on a pair of trestles.
The police asked questions about Laura and he had answered them as best he could. She had been back staying with him for about six or eight months since leaving her husband. He took them up to Laura’s bedroom and watched them go through the drawers and wardrobes. He knew there was nothing to be found.
Did Simon know? Yes. Good. No, he hadn’t known where she was. He hadn’t seen her for a few days. Nothing unusual in that. She came and went. Yes, there was a man in her life, but it was a delicate subject. Name of Robert, he believed. Bob. But he had never met him, never asked about him. No idea of an address. Yes he knew about the cottage in the Highlands. He had stayed there himself, gone fishing. Ron Gilchrist? Yes. They had served short-term commissions in the Gordon Highlanders together. Of course Ron knew Laura. He was a family friend. Dead? Ron? In the cottage. How strange. He could think of no reason why Ron should be there. None at all. Had Ron’s wife been told? Yes. Good. Poor Patricia. She would take it badly.
Lambert stripped back the sheet and Beaumont’s gently smiling dead face shone waxily in the lamplight.
The grieving widow had called. She had changed her mind. Didn’t want an open coffin any more. Didn’t want to see her husband in that state. Could the coffin be sealed please. Sorry for any inconvenience.
Lambert placed his thumbs against Beaumont’s cheek bones and slid his fingers round the sides of the skull. He began to massage, pulling at the corners of the mouth, pressing hard. The smile disappeared. A frown replaced it temporarily. Lambert eased the lips apart, exposing the teeth. He prised the eyes open, showing only the cloudy whites. As he massaged the face took on the form of a snarl and then a succession of different expressions like a kaleidoscope of moods that had come and gone during his life. Satisfied at last, Lambert lifted the stiff body in his arms and carried it over to the coffin.
Beaumont’s dead eyes stared upwards. His mouth gaped in a frozen rictus of death, caught in a silent scream of abject terror.
‘That’s more like it,’ Lambert said as he slammed the lid.
Upstairs again, he went into Laura’s bedroom and thought about the last time he had seen her alive. The picture was vivid and detailed, the very pattern of the wallpaper with its flat forest of red and green flowers was intimidatingly familiar. Laura his little girl, turning before his eyes into a sullen, uncommunicative teenager, and then a beautiful woman. And as her body changed and matured so did her mind, from respectful admiration to spitting contempt and hatred. Dazzled by her good looks, few people seemed to realize just how much of a slut she had become before the end. A father couldn’t stop loving his daughter but he could stop believing in her. He had long ago reached that stage. It was very sad.
Laura had been standing by the edge of the bed holding Bobby’s head against her stomach underneath her T-shirt. It had been a private moment, a terrible moment. He knew then that they must have succeeded in their self-centred plan. Laura regarded him with undisguised scorn. Bobby sneered, blowing bubbles from tongue-wet lips. It was the last time he had seen Laura alive.
The phone rang three times and then stopped. He recognized the code and knew who it was. Pat would need consoling. So did he. He snatched the phone up on the next ring. Everything would be all right.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Friday, 00.05
Somewhere in the hotel a grandfather clock struck midnight. The chimes sounded crystal pure in the distance. Fyfe sat on the chair by the dressing-table with a glass of whisky in one hand and a damp cloth pressed to his eye in the other. Jill and Number Five were flat out beside the bed. Moya lay on her back on top of it with her legs crossed demurely at the ankle and an opened-out proof copy of Ethereal magazine covering her face.
‘Is that the time?’ she asked from under the pages.
‘No,’ Fyfe replied. ‘It’s five minutes slow at least. It’s later than you think.’
‘My daughter’s hijacked my watch, you see.’
‘That’s what daughters do. What’s your daughter’s name?’
‘Isabel.’
‘Does she look like you?’
‘A bit.’
‘She must be lovely then.’
‘Right that’s it.’ Moya lifted the magazine from her face and swung her legs off the bed in the same motion. ‘Time for bed.’
‘I thought you’d never ask,’ Fyfe said.
‘Your own bed. We’ve got work to do in the morning.’
Fyfe tossed the cloth into the wash-hand basin and sat back. He held up the whisky glass to indicate that he would go as soon as it was finished. She relented and reached for her own half-full glass of gin and tonic. She took off her ear-rings and shook them in her free hand like a pair of dice.
‘I’ve got a daughter,’ Fyfe said. ‘Her name’s Kate.’
‘Does she look like you.’
‘Not a bit.’
‘Lucky girl.’
Moya laughed raucously and collapsed back on the bed. Jill looked up curiously, then put her head back down on her paws. Moya was slightly drunk. She hadn’t eaten much of the food Fat Joe had scraped together when they got back from the cottage, leaving it to the recalled forensic team who would have to travel out from Inverness aga
in in the morning. They ate with Charlie Simpson and Isotonic. She was too excited, too full of the personal experience of finding Gilchrist’s body hanging on a rope in that darkened room, too concerned about analysing the various possibilities and assessing the odds.
Case conference over a couple of bottles of Hungarian Bull’s Blood and heated up chicken kiev brought them back to earth. Forget the supernatural and the paranormal. The explanation for Laura Lambert’s column describing her own death down to the last detail was obvious. The murder was predicted because the murderer, not Laura, wrote the script. Therefore, find out who had written the column and you had your murderer. Simple. Case closed.
Fyfe and Moya had agreed they should go to Edinburgh as soon as possible to follow up that line of inquiry. She would stay at the flat he and Sally owned in the New Town. The lawyers were still chasing the last tenants for rent arrears. Soon he intended to sell it and put the proceeds in yet another, much smaller, biscuit tin under his garden shed.
It was then Moya rather shamefacedly produced the evidence bag with the note in it. She had forgotten all about it in the flurry of activity caused by Robert Ross’s bid for freedom and then the journey through the forest to find the hanged man. But here it was on the table alongside the half dozen rough copies of Ethereal magazine that had been found in the back of Gilchrist’s Range Rover. It was another element. Another possibility, and a very useful one too. A comparison of writing would be critical in building a prosecution case against somebody.
‘I can see how you were taken in by Bob Ross,’ Fyfe said.
‘The name fitted. It just all fell into place.’
‘And straight out again. Never mind. This is either a deliberate false trail or a cry for help.’