The Interpretations

  Jim smiled, replaced the passport on the table and then picked up his glass of coffee carefully by the rim. ‘To special occasions,’ he said.

  ‘Yes, special occasions.’ Tom raised his coffee and they clinked glasses.

  ‘Actually,’ Jim said, ‘the shoes puzzled me. Why did you buy a new pair the day before the race? I mean, it seemed so odd. If you wanted to kill yourself, or give the impression, at least . . .’

  ‘I know, I know. McCall wasn’t best pleased when he saw them but . . . well, actually there’s a very simple explanation. You see, I just needed a new pair. The old pair . . . one of the soles split.’

  ‘But you had more than one pair of running shoes, didn’t you?’

  ‘I know, but . . . well, they just weren’t right. I wanted a good pair to race in. And I know you shouldn’t race in a brand new pair but it was only a couple of miles. Anyway, that’s what I did.’

  Jim shook his head. ‘Always the simplest explanation, eh? McCall used to say that. When Mike was coming up with theory after theory to prove you were still alive. Never thought of Archie, though.’

  ‘Archie Gilfedder?’

  ‘Yes. He was going to kill you, wasn’t he? Or try to.’

  ‘That’s what McCall said, yes. But . . . if you figured that out, why didn’t you get to me sooner?’

  ‘We only figured it out after Archie died,’ Jim said.

  ‘Now you’ve lost me.’

  ‘Well, this is where McCall comes in again.’

  ‘McCall? But he’s been dead for years.’

  ‘True, but he had a little plan. Or you might say he wanted to set us a puzzle. You could even call it a practical joke.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘Well, he left a package for Mike.’

  ‘In his will, you mean?’

  ‘Yes, but there was a condition attached which was that Mike should only be given it after Archie Gilfedder died.’

  For only the third time since he arrived, Tom smiled. ‘Crafty old bugger, eh?’ he said. ‘McCall, I mean. What was in the package?’

  ‘Two things,’ Jim said. ‘There was a running shoe which we guessed was the other one from the pair you were wearing when you ran the race.’

  ‘Bright and shiny and new?’

  ‘And no salt water added. Didn’t look like it, anyway.’

  ‘And he kept it all these years, eh? Well . . . what was the second thing?’

  ‘This.’ Jim reached to his top pocket once more. He took out the Peter Clinghurst postcard and handed it over to Tom.

  ‘Yes, I sent this, didn’t I,’ Tom said as he turned it over to read the message.

  ‘Well, let’s put it this way, we knew Peter Clinghurst didn’t send it because he was already dead when this was sent.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘And I got someone to look at the handwriting, got it compared with something I knew you’d written. Perfect match.’

  ‘Well, there you go.’ Tom placed the postcard, picture up, carefully on the table, next to the photo of his gravestone. ‘Good detective work. But how did you know I was still getting the Herald?’

  ‘I didn’t. That was just a guess – Mike’s guess, actually. He reckoned that if Archie was the key then his death would mean it was safe for you to come home, if you wanted to. And if you were waiting to come home then the easiest way to find out would be to read the Herald. I did a bit of sifting through the subscriptions history and took a gamble.’

  ‘Which worked.’

  ‘Well . . .’ Jim shrugged. ‘I had a bit of luck. But I just can’t . . . can’t imagine . . . all this time waiting for one man to die . . .’

  ‘Two, actually,’ Tom said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Not just Archie Gilfedder.’

  ‘There was someone else? Now you’ve lost me.’

  Tom said, ‘A man called Tulloch.’

  Jim looked at him in confusion. ‘Tulloch? Not Gordon Tulloch?’

  ‘That’s him. Used to have the butcher’s shop on the High Street.’

  ‘But he . . . Good God. Yes, he just died a few days ago, didn’t he?’

  ‘That’s right. Archie and Tulloch both. Within a week or two of each other.’

  ‘But what’s Tulloch got to do with any of this?’

  ‘Well . . .’ Tom picked up his glass of now cold coffee and finished it off.

  ‘How about another of those?’ Jim suggested.

  ‘Well . . .’ He looked into the empty glass.

  ‘Oh, go on.’

  ‘OK then.’

  One of the waitresses was standing by the front door of the café, barely six feet away. Jim called to her and ordered one more coffee. Then he said, ‘So tell me about Tulloch.’

  Tom hesitated. ‘You’re not going to write any of this down, are you?’ he said.

  ‘I didn’t come here for a story, if that’s what you mean,’ Jim said. ‘I came here looking for you.’

  ‘I just needed to be sure, you know.’

  ‘Be sure. I promise.’

  ‘It’s just speculation, you see. That’s all.’

  Jim shrugged. ‘No harm in speculating. They’re all dead now, anyway – Tulloch, whatever he had to do with it, McCall, Archie Gilfedder . . . Speculate as much as you like.’

  Tom said, ‘I don’t know. The thing about Tulloch is that maybe he’s not involved at all. I just don’t know. I really can’t prove anything. Nothing at all. I’ve been thinking about this for eighteen years and I still can’t come to a conclusion.’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘About some things I saw.’

  ‘Before you left Dalmore?’

  ‘Yes. It was about ten days before the bridge race so, you know, it was well after all that business in WattWays between me and Donnie Gilfedder. I was out of hospital and more or less back to normal. And Donnie was . . . well, he was already in a coma and not expected to last much longer. Anyway, one night I went out for a run. I can’t remember now exactly why I was so late but it was after dark. I was running across the bridge and there was hardly any traffic but I saw a car pull up.’

  ‘On the bridge itself?’

  ‘Yes. It was near one of the towers and it was on the other side from me. I was running north and the car was going south so there was a fence and the best part of two carriageways between us and I couldn’t see anything very clearly. I think maybe some of the bridge lights weren’t working either. But anyway, I stopped to take a look. I mean, why would a car stop like that in the middle of the bridge? And . . . and I saw two men get out. They went very quickly round to the back and pulled something out of the boot, something that it needed the two of them to lift. Then they went through the fence that separates the carriageway from the footpath . . .’

  ‘They went through it?’

  ‘Yes, they . . . Oh, thank you, thank you,’ he said to the waitress as she placed his second glass of coffee on the table before him. She took the empty glasses away with her. ‘Where was I?’

  ‘The fence,’ Jim said.

  ‘Yes. Well, there must have been a hole in the fence. It was vandalised or something. But they were able to step through and onto the walkway on the far side. Then they tipped whatever it was they were carrying over the parapet and into the firth.’

  ‘This was on the other side from you?’

  ‘That’s right. That’s why it was difficult for me to see. Then they got back in the car and drove off. And it was all done very quickly. I suppose they had to do it before another car came along. It was all very quick, anyway. So, when I got home, I rang the police. I asked to speak to McCall, in fact.’

  ‘Why did you ask for him?’

  ‘Because I’d been speaking to him about the bridge race – the arrangements and all that – so I’d got to know him a bit. I thought, I might as well ring him. And that’s what I did. I told him what I’d seen and he said he’d send someone along to investigate but he told me it wouldn’t be the first time someon
e had dumped rubbish off the bridge.’

  ‘Bit of a risky way to get rid of your rubbish.’

  ‘That’s what I thought.’

  ‘So, did he investigate?’

  ‘I don’t know. I didn’t hear from him for a couple of days. But I decided to do a bit of investigation myself.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Well, the car, for a start. When I saw the car on the bridge, I couldn’t . . . I couldn’t see it very clearly but I was pretty sure it was a dark blue Ford Escort. So the next day I had a look round Dalmore. Nothing very scientific, just a quick look round in my lunch break.’

  ‘And you found a blue Ford Escort?’

  ‘I did. Two, in fact. But one of them was jacked up in Muirden’s Garage and I remembered seeing it before. It’d been sitting there for a few days.’

  ‘And the other one?’

  ‘It was parked outside the butcher’s on the High Street.’

  Jim said, ‘Tulloch.’

  ‘Yes. While I was there he actually came out and drove away. His car all right.’

  ‘So was it the one you saw on the bridge?’

  Tom sipped his coffee. ‘Well, there’s no way I could prove it. I mean, I’m not even sure myself. But it was the same model and colour. I’m pretty sure of that. The trouble was, I couldn’t see the men clearly either. They weren’t much more than shapes. So I thought, just forget it. I was . . . I was just being overly suspicious. But then, that evening, I switched on the TV and . . .’

  ‘Hold on,’ Jim interrupted. ‘This was the evening after you saw the car on the bridge?’

  ‘Yes. About twenty-four hours later. There was this report on the local news: body found in Duie Firth.’

  ‘Ah,’ Jim said. ‘Eileen Tulloch.’

  ‘No, no. That was a few days before.’

  ‘So it must have been Peter Clinghurst.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But . . . you’re not suggesting . . .’ Jim leaned forward. ‘What exactly are you suggesting?’

  ‘Nothing,’ Tom said quickly. ‘Nothing at all. I shouldn’t be suggesting anything. It’s just that I couldn’t hold back my . . . my . . . what should I call it . . . my over-active imagination. Then I thought, don’t be daft, it was just two guys dumping rubbish, just as McCall said. But then . . . well, I couldn’t help doing a bit more investigation, just a little bit more. So, for the next two or three days I got hold of all the papers I could find – including the Herald, of course – and read the reports about Clinghurst. And . . . for the most part there was a lot of repetition, which wasn’t much of a surprise, really, because they all had pretty much the same sources for their information. But I did come across a couple of interesting things.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘Well, first of all, Clinghurst didn’t drown.’

  ‘What do you mean? He jumped into the firth, didn’t he?’

  ‘Well, you’re half right. He was pretty smashed up, you see – broken neck, broken arm, a few ribs and so on. The theory was that he’d jumped too close to the north tower and actually hit the rocks on the edge of Inchduie Island and then, as the tide rose, his body drifted off into the water.’

  ‘So you started thinking . . .’

  ‘No, wait a minute,’ Tom interrupted. Then he apologised. ‘Sorry,’ he said quietly. ‘Just one other thing first . . .’

  ‘No, my fault. I’m racing ahead here. Go on.’

  ‘Well, I wanted to check out the bridge, so I went out for another run but on the other side, the downstream side, because that’s the side they reckoned he’d jumped from. I wanted to find the exact spot if I could.’

  ‘And it was where you’d seen the car?’

  ‘Yes. I’m . . . well, ninety-nine percent certain. North tower, Inchduie below. That was it.’

  ‘And what about the fence?’

  ‘Mended.’

  ‘Really? Are you sure?’

  ‘Well, there was no break,’ Tom said. ‘And there seemed to be extra sheets of netting. You know, it kind of overlapped. Looked as if it had been repaired. Very recently. But then, of course . . .’ He picked up his glass of coffee, saw that there was only a little left. He drank it and replaced the glass carefully in its saucer. ‘You see, all of these things,’ he went on, ‘the car, the place the body fell from, the repair to the fence – even that because, after all, I’d reported it, hadn’t I? What I’m saying is that all these things are perfectly explainable in a very reasonable, logical way. They could all be quite separate events, totally unconnected.’

  ‘But you don’t believe that, do you?’

  ‘I don’t know. Honestly. Even now I don’t know what to believe.’

  ‘OK,’ Jim said, ‘but let’s just say we’re allowed to speculate for a moment, eh? What do you think might have happened?’

  ‘Well . . .’ For a moment Tom looked unsure, a little troubled.

  ‘Go on,’ Jim said. ‘It’s just a theory, after all.’

  Tom said, ‘Peter Clinghurst was murdered by Tulloch who dumped his body in the firth.’ Then he smiled. ‘Absurd idea, isn’t it?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Jim said. ‘But what about the other man? You saw two men on the bridge, didn’t you?’

  ‘That’s right. Well, there’s only one man it could be, really. The person best able to help Tulloch out in this kind of fix and, coincidentally, his best friend.’

  ‘And who was that?’

  ‘McCall.’

  ‘What!’ This came out louder than Jim intended and Tom expected.

  ‘Well, you’re right, of course,’ Tom said. ‘Crazy idea, completely daft.’

  ‘I mean,’ Jim said, more calmly, ‘McCall was . . . well, he could be a tricky customer at times, even a bit of a bastard, but accessory to murder?’

  ‘No, when you put it like that,’ Tom said, ‘no, I can’t see it either.’ He made a small gesture to dismiss the whole idea. ‘Daft altogether.’

  For nearly half a minute the two men sat without speaking. It was nearly noon and even warmer than it had been earlier. The sun made the silvered table top shine. The waitress cleared away Tom’s empty coffee glass.

  Jim looked at his watch. ‘Does this qualify as lunchtime?’ he asked. ‘They do good sandwiches here. I can recommend them.’

  Tom said, ‘No, I . . .’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘I haven’t got enough money.’

  ‘My treat.’

  ‘No, I couldn’t.’

  ‘Oh, for Christ’s sake, Tom, I’m only offering to buy you a sandwich. Lighten up, eh?’

  After he’d said this, Jim realised that the man sitting opposite him might just get up and walk away without saying another word. So he softened his tone. ‘Half a sandwich, maybe?’

  Tom smiled. ‘OK, OK.’

  ‘Good.’

  They ordered cheese and tomato sandwiches on Italian bread and two glasses of apple juice. Then Jim said, ‘Let me hear the theory. All of it. Convince me.’

  ‘I’m not trying to convince you,’ Tom said. ‘I can’t even convince myself. I’ve never . . . I just don’t know what to believe.’

  ‘Try it anyway.’

  ‘OK, OK. So . . . let’s say Clinghurst went to Tulloch’s house after he heard that Eileen was dead. He’s furious with Tulloch because he blames him for what happened. And, of course, Tulloch blames Clinghurst. There’s a huge row and even a bit of violence. Maybe Tulloch didn’t even start it, though he had a nasty temper by all accounts. Anyway, Clinghurst is dead and Tulloch needs help. He turns to his best friend, McCall, who immediately takes charge. He decides to fake a suicide. Clinghurst is so heartbroken about his girlfriend’s death that he kills himself too. That sort of thing. It’s tremendous Romeo and Juliet stuff. Everyone falls for it because everyone wants to fall for it. You know, in all the reports I read, nobody suggested foul play.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘No. And remember, when the body’s found, McCall will most likely be the investigatin
g officer . . .’

  ‘And he was, in fact.’

  ‘Yes. It’s almost perfect. But there’s just one potential problem. And that’s me. After all, McCall knew I saw something but he didn’t know how much I saw or if I’d try to take it any further. He knew I couldn’t call him . . .’

  ‘So what happened?’

  ‘He called me.’

  ‘He did? To tell you he’d arrested the men who dumped the rubbish in the firth?’

  ‘No, hardly. No, he rang . . . he rang the day after Clinghurst’s body was discovered. In the evening. Said he wanted a private chat and asked me to come round to his house.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes. Not the station. So I went along and he told me about Archie Gilfedder. He said Archie was due out in a couple of weeks’ time and the governor of Barlinnie had passed on a message to say that Archie’d been overheard talking about how I was responsible for Donnie’s death and . . .’

  ‘Hold on. Donnie wasn’t dead at that point, was he?’

  Tom shrugged. ‘As good as. In a deep coma and not expected to survive.’

  ‘Well, I suppose you’re right.’

  ‘Anyway, Archie’d been overheard saying he was going to kill me. That was the message.’

  ‘True, d’you think?’

  ‘I don’t know. McCall made it sound convincing enough. Got me a bit rattled, anyway. So he said he’d offer me protection of course but I had to remember that nothing was one hundred percent sure. Then he suggested that maybe I’d like to go away for a while. He could arrange that, too. And then, when he saw I didn’t . . . well, I didn’t dismiss the idea out of hand, he went a step further and said perhaps I’d like to disappear altogether.’

  ‘And he could arrange that too?’ Jim asked.

  ‘Oh yes. That was the whole point. He said the police sometimes had to provide new identities for people in danger and he could fix that for me if that’s what I wanted. He asked me to think about it but if I did want to do it, it’d have to be soon.’

  ‘So you thought about it?’

  ‘No, I didn’t. I didn’t have to. I said yes straight away.’

  ‘No hesitation?’

  ‘None. I said I wanted to do it and it was McCall who came up with the idea of another suicide . . .’