The DCI David Fyfe Mysteries

by William Paul

  ‘Does he have a name?’ Fyfe asked.

  ‘Not yet,’ the nurse replied in a hoarse whisper.

  Fyfe looked down on the baby and thought how, at the moment, it would have been more at home in the womb than in the real world. Yet it would not be long before it developed and grew strong, ready for the transformation from baby to child to adult in a few short, accelerating years. All weekend he had been dealing with death and dying. Now he was witnessing the beginning of a pristine new life with a future that was impossible to know stretching ahead like an endless corridor. He wondered where its soul had come from, where its soul had been. It made the skin of his face sting as if it was being pricked all over by a thousand needle-sharp points.

  ‘Good luck to you, kid,’ he muttered quietly before turning and walking away.

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Monday, 20.42

  David Fyfe had to lean all the way across the wide bed to grope for the softly burring phone. Not yet properly awake, he misjudged the distance and fell on his face. His clumsy fingers pushed the receiver off the table and it vanished down the side of the bed. He gritted his teeth, bracing himself for the clatter when it hit the floor. When none came his fuzzy brain could not understand. He crawled the extra six inches over the bed to look down over the side. There he saw the main part of the phone lying, almost floating, on a blue carpet with a lavishly deep pile. The bone-shaped receiver was floating too, connected by its spiral cord. A tiny voice was speaking from it, a distant whisper, thin as a wisp of smoke. He scooped it up and held it to his ear.

  ‘Your wife is on her way up, Mr Fyfe,’ it said.

  ‘But I’m not married,’ he blurted out.

  A delightfully feminine peal of laughter, reminiscent of giggling teenage girls on a sunlit hillside, ended the brief exchange that reminded him where he was and what he had done. Hilary, unseen just like the downstairs receptionist, had been the last woman to laugh like that when he had propositioned her.

  It all came back in a rush as he rolled off the bed and reassembled the phone before putting it back on the bedside table. He was at the Gleneagles Hotel, making quick use of his golf outing raffle prize of a free night. When he arrived through the blizzard in his battered Volvo the staff couldn’t do enough for him. He had been gratuitously upgraded from standard double room to luxury suite with bedroom and sitting-room. There was a complimentary bottle of good champagne in an ice bucket, an overflowing fruit basket, and a bathroom stuffed with sweet-smelling toiletries. He was told a full meal would be served in the room whenever he wanted it. He had showered, shaved, and wrapped himself up in the fluffiest dressing-gown he had ever seen. He had got carried away and unwisely raided the mini-bar. He had mixed himself a large whisky and bitter lemon, toasted John Sapalski’s new-born son and Sandy Ramensky’s dying daughter, and almost immediately crashed out on the king-size bed.

  Fyfe helped himself to another whisky and emptied the bitter lemon bottle into it. He sat in a chair facing the door to the lobby and waited for his wife to join him. He worked out that it had been less than forty-eight hours, a mere two days, since his first encounter with Hilary yet it already seemed like an episode from ancient history. He seemed to have known her and been kissing friends with her all his life. The pace of events since she materialised in front of him at the Saturday night party had been fast and ferocious. He had hardly slept since then, always conscious that while he was drinking in the sight of Hilary in her clinging black dress, Angela was looking up his number in her address book, Zena McElhose’s skull was being cracked open with the meat mallet, Valentine Randolph’s heart was beginning to beat irregularly, and guilt was getting a grip on Gregor Runciman. The following chain of unpredictable consequence claimed the lives of Maureen Gilliland and John Sapalski, but for some inscrutable reason didn’t permit Sandy Ramensky to throw himself to his death off the parapet of a high bridge. Fyfe in his professional analysis of the situation got the workings utterly and totally wrong but thankfully nobody need ever know that he was the world’s worst detective. Didn’t time pass quickly when you were enjoying yourself?

  He sipped his whisky and smiled. Now he could afford to sit back and draw breath. Maybe he should attribute his failings to lack of sleep, he thought, or maybe lack of wakefulness. He had dreamed it all and then woken up to a different reality. Wait a minute though, he was still sleepy. Perhaps he was still dreaming. Never mind, there would be other weekends.

  Fyfe crossed his legs and arranged the dressing-gown decorously over them. He examined the embroidered monogram on the breast pocket and brushed some stray flecks from it. She should have reached the room by now. He estimated it should take two minutes, no more, by either stair or lift. He stared at the wall and imagined her coming along the corridor, her footsteps muffled by the thick carpet. The knock on the door was right on cue. He jumped up to answer it. Sally stood beaming on the other side. There was snow on her shoulders and in her hair. She stepped forward, kicked off her shoes, and kissed him on the lips in intimate greeting.

  ‘So you do have romance in your soul,’ she said.

  ‘Did you ever doubt it?’

  ‘Of course not, darling. But at such short notice.’

  ‘Come into my parlour.’ He waved a hand at the interior. ‘Welcome to the combat zone. Monday nights may never be the same again.’

  ‘This is great.’ She handed him an overnight bag with the change of clothes he had asked for. ‘I’m really glad you invited me.’

  ‘Well, my other lover couldn’t make it.’

  ‘No. I mean it.’ She kissed him again before walking past to begin a detailed inspection of the suite. ‘I’m really glad.’

  ‘So am I.’

  Fyfe closed the door. There was no point in spoiling what was left of the evening by telling Sally that she was there because Hilary had turned him down, probably not quite believing he was serious. The drunken philosopher at the Saturday night party had not revealed the logic-busting solution to old Zeno’s paradox so Fyfe had not yet managed to cover the distance between him and Hilary. Maybe he had got half-way, but they remained as far apart as ever.

  Sally knew him better, however. He and Sally had been travelling together for a long time. He reached out and stroked her arm as she passed. They had been through a lot. There was no longer any distance between them that any philosopher would ever be able to measure. She did not have to be asked twice when he asked her to drop everything and come to Gleneagles. She dumped the dogs with her cousin Catriona on the way north but he kept thinking he saw them running about the room. They were a team, him and Sally and the dogs. He watched her move round the room touching things here and there to check they were real. He loved her, didn’t he? Yes, he did. Then why ruin a beautiful relationship by letting the truth intrude? He went to the ice bucket and began to unwrap the foil from the cork on the champagne.

  ‘Sally.’

  ‘What?’ She turned in the bedroom doorway, looking back questioningly, leaving her body facing the other way.

  ‘Will you marry me?’

  ‘What? Again?’

  ‘Sure. Why not?’

  ‘Let’s talk about it in the morning.’

  He didn’t want to spoil the mood so he didn’t argue. She went into the bedroom and dived head first on to the bed. The cork popped. The champagne foamed and Fyfe caught most of it in a tall flute glass. Sally came hurrying back and grabbed the other one of the pair. The contact of bottle neck on glass rim made a clear ringing noise. Sally laughed. All good things come in threes, Fyfe thought. He waited until the champagne bubbles settled and then drank a mouthful. It tickled the back of his throat and his nose. The alcohol hit him like a slap on the back from an old friend, slackening his hold on reality. He was tired and drunk but at least he was safe. The snow was falling silently outside, whirling through the air, spinning a temporary cocoon where they could curl up in perfect safety.

  ‘Cheers,’ said Sally.

  ‘Likewise,’ Fyf
e said.

  ‘You certainly know how to treat a woman.’

  ‘I have a masters degree in it.’

  ‘And you’re still learning.’

  ‘Here’s to the future.’

  Sally put her arms round him and hugged him close. Fyfe rested his chin on her shoulder and filled his glass behind her back. He could feel her soft breasts pressed against his chest and the firm beating of her heart. He could taste the bubbles fizzing on his tongue. He closed his eyes and enjoyed the dream.

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