The Interpretations

by David Shaw Mackenzie

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘And . . . and let’s see . . . the course is about two and a half miles long, from South Mossfield across the bridge and then finishing at the Broadleet junction.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘OK. Well, I’ve got a list of the official results here . . .’ McCall pulled open a drawer in his desk and took out a couple of sheets of paper that had been stapled together in the top left-hand corner. ‘Let’s see . . . We’ve got actual start time, actual finishing time and then the net time for the distance. And then the overall position. You’ve seen this, I suppose?’

  ‘It was me that produced them.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘In fact you got that copy from me.’

  ‘Did I? Did I?’ McCall looked up from the desk. ‘Oh, right. Yes, of course I did. Well . . . so you obviously know how they finished, then?’

  ‘Of the three of them,’ Mike said, ‘Patrick finished first and Brian finished a minute and forty-three seconds later. And Tom didn’t finish at all. That is, he didn’t pass Patrick, who was ahead of him, and he wasn’t passed by Brian, who started behind him.’

  ‘Right, so . . .’

  There was a light knock on the door and a woman wearing a pale blue kitchen coat came in carrying a tray with two mugs of coffee on it and a plate on which were displayed three digestive biscuits. She placed the tray on McCall’s desk and left the room without saying a word. To her departing figure McCall said, ‘Thanks, Janice.’ To Mike he explained, ‘Standard issue, white without.’

  ‘Fine by me.’

  ‘Might be a problem here,’ McCall added, looking at the three biscuits on the plate.

  ‘Don’t worry.’

  ‘Well . . . Anyway, as I was saying, there’s only three ways to get off the bridge – you can go north, south or over the side. Now, we’ve established that he didn’t go back to the start because Mitchell, behind him, never saw him . . .’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘. . . and he didn’t cross the finishing line because you were there, timing them in, weren’t you, and you didn’t see him. And no one else saw him either. I mean, there were people along the route, from the north end of the bridge up to the finishing line at Broadleet. Not lots of people, but enough. And we interviewed them all and not one of them reported any runner leaving the route. I mean, nobody darted off to the side just past the end of the bridge or anything like that. Now he could have got into a car . . .’ McCall picked up his mug of coffee and took a sip. ‘. . . but there’s two problems here. First, he’s got to get over the fence that separates the footpath from the carriageway. Not impossible, I grant you, but it’s ten feet high.’ He reached out and took one of the biscuits from the plate. He broke it in two, dipped one half quickly into his mug of coffee and put it in his mouth. After a few seconds of chewing he said, ‘And then there’s the cameras.’

  ‘Cameras?’

  ‘On the bridge, to monitor the traffic. We’ve been through the tapes and found nothing. There weren’t many cars on the bridge that evening and none of them stopped to pick up anybody on the carriageway. No sign of anyone walking on the carriageway either.’

  ‘Are there cameras on the footpath?’

  ‘Unfortunately not.’

  ‘Pity.’

  ‘Yes, well, anyway . . . it all points to one thing, in my opinion. I mean . . . Look, we know he didn’t run or walk off to the north or to the south and he wasn’t driven off . . .’

  ‘So he must have jumped off?’

  ‘It’s the only logical conclusion. He got far enough ahead of . . . who was it . . .’

  ‘Brian Mitchell.’

  ‘Mitchell, yes. Got far enough ahead of him to be out of sight.’

  ‘There’s lights, aren’t there?’ Mike said.

  ‘Yes, but they’re at . . . what is it . . . fifty yard intervals. Get three or four of them between you and the next man and you can’t see anything for the glare.’

  ‘So he climbed over the outer barrier and jumped and nobody saw him go.’

  ‘That’s right.’

  Mike shook his head. ‘No, that’s not right.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘No. You’re concentrating on How and ignoring Why, which is far more important.’

  ‘Not ignoring it,’ McCall said. ‘Putting it in its place. How first, Why later.’

  ‘Wrong way round,’ Mike said. ‘Why will give you clues about How. Because he didn’t kill himself. He had no reason to.’

  McCall sipped his coffee. ‘Fine, fine,’ he said. ‘So, if he didn’t kill himself, what did he do?’

  ‘He made himself disappear.’

  McCall shook his head. ‘Now we’re back to How. We’ve come full circle. Because, take it from me, disappearing is a damn sight more difficult than killing yourself. A living body can survive in fewer places than a dead one.’

  ‘Travel’s a bit easier, though.’

  ‘Actually, movement’s the big problem,’ McCall said. ‘You move anywhere, someone’s bound to see you. How many sightings of Tom have there been, eh? Let’s suppose for a moment that he did get off the bridge somehow. Who’s seen him since? Here’s some daft bugger haring about the country in his running kit and who’s seen him? Nobody. Not a solitary soul. No, no . . .’ McCall lowered his voice. ‘No, I know he was your friend, Mike, and I’m sorry . . . I know you want him to be alive, it’s only natural. But what can I say?’ He shrugged. He raised the mug of coffee once more to his mouth and drank. ‘He’s dead, Mike.’

  6

  Mike was sitting in a corner of the saloon bar of a Dalmore pub called the Wade Inn waiting for his friend, James Fisher, a journalist, to arrive. The Wade Inn was known locally as the Din and James Fisher had acquired the nickname, Weet. Mike was rereading a report in the Dalmore Herald that Weet himself had written some weeks before.

  Gunman Shot in Dalmore Siege

  25th February 1982

  In scenes usually associated with Detroit in the 1930s rather than a small Scottish town in the 1980s, police were drawn into an armed siege of a house in Proby Street, Dalmore, on Friday evening.

  Police were initially called to WattWays Ltd, following an earlier incident. One of the men involved, Donald Gilfedder (33) fled to his Proby Street address and when police arrived to question him at 10.30pm, they were met with gunfire.

  Using what appeared to be a shotgun, Gilfedder held police at bay into the early hours of Saturday morning. He fired a total of five shots and damaged two police cars. Neighbouring houses were evacuated as a precautionary measure.

  Gilfedder’s wife Avril (29) was in the house with him when the police arrived. After a short time, Gilfedder was persuaded to let his wife leave the house. Though shaken she appeared in good health but was taken to the Royal Infirmary in North Treshie as a precaution.

  At approximately 12.30am Gilfedder fired at the police negotiator, Inspector Alex Crathie. Police marksmen returned fire and the house was stormed.

  A man, believed to be Gilfedder, was later removed from the premises and taken by ambulance to the Royal Infirmary.

  At a press conference at 9am, Deputy Chief Super­intendent Southbank of the Dalmore Constabulary gave the following statement:

  ‘At 10.32pm yesterday evening a 999 call was received at Dalmore Police Station requesting police to attend an incident at WattWays Ltd. When police officers arrived four minutes later it was ascertained that an incident had taken place which had resulted in injury to one of the staff at the plant. The alleged perpetrator of this injury had already left the premises. The police officers immediately set off for this individual’s home address. As they arrived a shotgun was discharged in their direction, narrowly missing one of the officers.

  ‘It rapidly became clear that the individual wanted for questioning was in possession of a weapon or weapons and was prepared to use them. Police reinforcements including police marksmen were called to the scene.

  ‘Just after midnight, the chief police neg
otiator was shot while attempting to reason with the wanted man.

  ‘Police were left with no alternative but to take whatever steps were necessary to ensure the safety of the residents in the surrounding area. The incident ended at 12.30 at which point police entered the building. It was discovered that the individual wanted for questioning had sustained an injury to his body which required surgery. In due course we hope to interview the man about the events in Proby Street as well as the earlier incident at WattWays.’

  Deputy Chief Superintendent Southbank would not confirm that the man was Donald Gilfedder. However, Gilfedder is an employee at WattWays and the house in Proby Street where the siege took place is registered in his name.

  Mystery surrounds what happened in the original incident at WattWays Ltd and the identity of the other man involved. Mr J Dundas, Chief Supervisor at the plant, refused to be drawn. However, a member of WattWays staff, who asked not to be named, confirmed that the man injured in the original incident is Thomas Kingsmill (32) a native of Dalmore. Hospital staff refused to give details but it is believed that Kingsmill is also at the Royal Infirmary where he is recovering from a head injury.

  To Weet Mike said, ‘Chicago.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Not Detroit. You were thinking of Al Capone, weren’t you?’

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘This report here. “In scenes more reminiscent of Detroit in the 1930s . . .”, something, something . . .’

  ‘Did I write that?’

  ‘A few weeks ago. It was Chicago, not Detroit.’

  ‘Aw, who cares.’

  ‘Ah, but Weet, you’re a journalist. You care deeply. Accuracy is all.’

  ‘Accuracy is bollocks. Anyway, it’s James, right . . .’

  ‘James?’

  ‘From now on it’s James. Let’s drop the Weet business.’

  ‘God, you are in a bad mood. What’s got into you?’

  ‘Well, so far, not enough beer.’

  In the saloon bar, dark wooden furniture sat on bare floorboards whose original polish had been much molested by the stout agricultural footwear of the majority of the clients. The lunchtime crowd was buoyant and noisy. There was a lot of talk about Dalmore United’s recent poor form in the Highland League. Two men in white overalls streaked with paint were playing a game of bar billiards at a small table in one corner. Their movements round the table became increasingly restricted as more and more people entered the bar. Eventually they gave up and replaced their cues on the rack on the wall. ‘I would’ve won anyway,’ one said. ‘No chance,’ said the other. ‘No chance. Your round.’

  From where Weet sat the bar was partially hidden by intervening pillars. He followed Mike’s progress as he weaved his way between these and between the mostly thickset, heavily clad farmers and labourers who made up the greater part of the Din’s clientele. Mike was being observed, or apparently so, by one other. This was General, later Field-Marshall, George Wade, the man after whom the pub was named.

  The General’s portrait hung on the wall behind and above Weet who enjoyed having this strength, this force, at his back. It was Weet who had purchased the portrait, a copy of one held in the National Portrait Gallery in London, had it framed and then presented it to Farquar Bohespic, the current landlord, when he had taken over the pub five or six years before.

  For Bohespic had never even heard of Wade. ‘Some English bastard, I suppose,’ he’d said.

  ‘Irish, actually,’ Weet informed him.

  ‘So what was he doing up here then?’

  ‘He built a lot of roads in the Highlands,’ Weet explained, ‘and bridges. Opened the place up.’

  ‘Oh aye? Worked for the Tourist Board, did he?’

  ‘Not really no. Part of the plan was to make it easier for the English to pacify the wild Highlandmen.’

  ‘Pacify? What?’

  ‘This is pre-45 we’re talking about,’ Weet said.

  Bohespic shrugged.

  Weet shook his head. ‘You don’t know what the fuck I’m talking about, do you?’

  Bohespic leaned forward. ‘No swearing in the bar, if you don’t mind,’ he said quietly.

  Insincerely, Weet said he was sorry. Then he went on, ‘Wade came up here in the seventeen twenties and thirties. Some of his roads are still used today – well, tarmacked over, of course. And he built the Drumdyre Bridge as well.’

  ‘That heap of stones in the river there?’ Bohespic said.

  ‘Look,’ Weet responded, beginning to let his impatience show, ‘it only collapsed in the seventies sometime so it managed to survive for the best part of two hundred and fifty years. I can’t see this pub lasting as long.’

  ‘Finest breeze blocks,’ Bohespic said. ‘What’s the problem?’ Then he added, ‘Is there maybe a picture of him?’

  ‘Who? Wade?’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘Suddenly you’re a scholar of history, is that it?’

  ‘Nice picture,’ Bohespic said. ‘Put it up somewhere. Bit of local interest, you know?’

  Weet sighed but said, ‘I’ll see what I can do.’

  Several weeks passed before he was able to get hold of a copy of the portrait and by that time Bohespic had forgotten all about his request. He seemed taken aback, too, by the man in the picture. General Wade, in full wig, seemed strangely lop-sided, curls piled high above his left ear. His features were thick, undistinguished. Even Weet would have admitted this. But then, what was a general supposed to look like? Wade was placed in a corner, the distant corner where Weet now sat waiting for Mike Delvan to return from the bar with the drinks.

  ‘Dark in here or what,’ Mike said as he placed the two pints of beer on the table between them.

  ‘It’s the scaffolding.’ Weet pointed to the two large windows at the front, that gave onto the street. A network of iron poles could be seen outside each one.

  ‘Fixing the roof?’ Mike asked.

  ‘Exterior decoration. And then the inside. Bohespic’s got grand plans.’

  ‘Just as well. It’s dire in here.’

  ‘I hate this fucking place,’ Weet said.

  ‘Well, I wouldn’t go that far . . .’

  ‘No, no, I don’t mean here, right here . . .’ He prodded the table top with his finger. ‘I mean this part of the fucking world. It’s just . . . shite . . . all of it.’

  Weet drank half of his pint of beer and brought the glass down a little too heavily on the table. He was tall and gangly, a man of elbows and knees. His brown tweed jacket was slightly too small for him, its elbows patched with leather. His fair hair continually flopped over his face and was recovered by agitated hand movements.

  ‘You’re in a bad way, Weet – I mean James,’ Mike said. ‘Anything particular brought this on or can we assume this is your prevailing mood these days?’

  ‘Prevailing mood,’ Weet said and drank another quarter of his pint of beer. ‘Though it could change for the worse.’

  Mike shook his head. ‘Come on then, tell me what it is and I promise to call you James . . . well, at least till two o’clock.’

  ‘Fucking Dalmore Herald,’ Weet said. ‘They want me to be Miss Crystal.’

  ‘Miss who?’

  ‘Miss Crystal. Horoscopes.’

  Mike laughed. ‘Horoscopes, well . . . Does that mean they’ve taken you off reporting?’

  ‘Oh no, it’s in addition.’

  ‘Ah. Miss Crystal herself not well then?’

  ‘No he isn’t. He’s called Jimmy, he’s seventy-three and he’s in the Royal for an operation.’

  ‘Serious?’

  ‘Hip replacement.’

  Mike shrugged. ‘They’re pretty much routine these days.’

  ‘Come on,’ Weet said. ‘How long have I been working for this fucking rag? Nine years now, is it?’

  ‘You tell me.’

  ‘Nine years. Nine years and they ask me to do horo­­­scopes.’

  ‘For God’s sake, it’s not that bad. Just
make it up. I mean that’s what Miss Crystal does, isn’t it? And that’s what you do most of the time anyway.’

  ‘I do not!’

  ‘Chicago.’

  ‘Aw hell, Chicago, Detroit, who gives a toss. I couldn’t be bothered looking it up. I didn’t have the time. And I certainly don’t have the time now to write fucking horoscopes.’

  ‘Give yourself a time limit,’ Mike said. ‘Each day, say to yourself half an hour. It’ll take no more than half an hour. And then . . . no wait, wait, I’ve got a better idea . . .’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Now, you owe me a pint for this . . .’

  ‘Better be good.’

  ‘Listen, listen. Go to the library and get them to fish out copies of the Dalmore Herald from . . . well, I don’t know . . . say five years ago? Ten? Just photocopy a month’s worth of horoscopes and type them up at home, at your leisure. Who’s going to know?’

  Weet finished his drink. ‘Mike, you’re a genius.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Let me get you that pint.’ He pushed himself up from his chair.

  ‘Before you go,’ Mike said, ‘have you got the photos?’

  ‘Oh yes. Right.’ From an inside pocket of his jacket he retrieved a white envelope which he passed to Mike. ‘Have a look through these.’ He set off for the bar.

  Mike opened the envelope. Mostly they were shots of finishers. Brian Mitchell was there, Alec Moy, Jennifer McHugh . . . He recognized most of the runners. No Tom, of course, not finishing. But there were a couple of shots of the start. All thirty-eight runners, some crouching down at the front, had packed themselves together to produce what resembled a team photo. To Mike’s surprise, still no Tom. But the number of starters had been thirty-eight, he was sure. He examined the photo again and carefully counted the heads on show. Thirty-eight.

  ‘So where’s Tom, then?’ Mike asked as Weet returned with the drinks.

  ‘Tom?’

  ‘In this one here.’ Mike pointed. ‘The start.’

  Weet put down the two pint glasses. ‘There he is, there,’ he said, pointing.

  ‘That’s Tom?’ Mike looked at someone whose head was thrown back and whose mouth was open. ‘He’s either laughing his head off or someone’s just shot him in the back.’