One Perfect Witness: a gripping psychological suspense

by Pat Young

  ‘Excuse me, our son’s not an idiot. He’s a hero, if you don’t mind.’ Her jokey tone works and Eric smiles, properly this time.

  ‘I’m going to send him another text. Each time I phone it goes to voicemail and I don’t want to leave another message – I’ve run out of things to say.’

  ‘Have you tried the two hardest words?’

  ‘If you mean have I said I’m sorry, the answer’s yes. I’ve said it so many times in so many ways, and I’ve told him how much we love him, just in case he’s forgotten.’

  ‘Have you asked him to please come home soon because you’re driving his father crazy? That might work.’

  66

  Supposed to be eating my Coco Pops, to please Mum, but I’m not hungry. Dad comes in and throws a pile of newspapers on the table.

  ‘Fame at last,’ he says, spitting out the words like there’s dirt on his tongue. ‘Whoever said there’s no such thing as bad publicity is a total arsehole.’

  ‘Language, please.’ Mum points at me.

  ‘I’m watching my language, believe me.’ He kind of collapses on the chair beside me, leans on the table and covers his face. ‘Oh, Viv,’ he says, so sadly that I think he’s crying. ‘Read them. No, don’t. It will upset you.’ He looks up and gathers the papers into his lap. ‘I couldn’t face going to the wee shop. I drove to Alloway, so no one would know me. Folk were talking about it. Somebody said it was drugs related. One guy I’ve never seen in my life actually says, wait for it, “I know the owners and between you and me, they think it was a revenge killing.” A revenge killing? Jesus! It’s Ayr, not the bloody Bronx.’

  ‘Oh, Richard, you know what folk are like. If they don’t know the facts, they make something up.’

  ‘Wait till you hear this.’ He flicks through the papers. ‘The Herald is ok. Not saying much.’

  ‘Cos there’s not much to say, that’s why.’ Mum comes and looks over his shoulder, touches a headline and reads it out. ‘Murder mystery at idyllic holiday camp. That’s okay. Idyllic is good.’

  ‘Yeah, but look at this crap.’ Dad flicks the top of one of the smaller papers so hard it tears the front page. He points to the huge letters of the headlines and reads them out. ‘Brackenbrae – more like Pack ‘n’ Pray! Thinking of holidaying here? Better pack your bullet-proof vest and pray you don’t get caught up in a shoot-out. “I thought we were coming to the beautiful west of Scotland not the Wild West,” says Jason Morton, 37, from Leeds, who claims he heard gunshots.’

  ‘How did they get those photos?’

  ‘Long lens. The paparazzi can be miles away nowadays and still get pictures.’

  She points to someone in a white hooded suit holding something up. ‘That could be anything he’s lifting out of the bracken. A stick, anything.’

  I try to get a better look at the photo. Dad pulls the newspaper away but I get enough time to see. It’s the gun he’s holding up. Got to be.

  ‘You might as well tell him, Richard. He probably heard us talking last night.’

  ‘The police were searching the hillside for clues, Charlie, and they found a shotgun.’

  ‘Tell him the rest. He’s going to find out anyway.’

  Dad blows out air. His top lip vibrates. ‘Okay, they found one of my guns.’

  ‘Ask him.’

  ‘Charlie, this is a daft question, because you don’t even know where I keep the keys to the gun cabinet, but…’ he hesitates, as if he doesn’t want to ask me.

  ‘Did you take Dad’s gun, Charlie?’ says Mum. ‘That’s what we need to know.’

  I stare at her. Keep my head steady so it doesn’t give me away.

  ‘No wonder he looks shocked.’ Dad turns to me and takes my hand, ‘Sorry, son. We’ve got to ask.’

  I’m still wondering how to respond when the doorbell chimes. Miss Lawson sometimes says, ‘Saved by the bell,’ if somebody’s in trouble just before home time. That’s what I’m thinking about as Mum goes to answer the door.

  She comes back with a man and a woman and kind of shows them into the room, like they’re important visitors. They say hello and introduce themselves. Dad holds up a mug and says, ‘Coffee?’

  They say they’re here for a ‘wee chat’ with me and to get some fingerprints. When she hears this, Mum goes ballistic, asking what business they have with me and how could I possibly have anything to do with what happened.

  The man interrupts her. ‘You do understand we’re being as accommodating as possible here? This is not standard practice. We’re only coming to you because of your son’s, erm, handicap.’

  ‘Charlie’s not handicapped,’ says Mum in her snippy voice. ‘He just doesn’t speak.’ Wish she would shut up. It sounds like Dad’s arranged for me to be interviewed here, but if she’s not careful, I’ll get taken to the police station. Imagine that in the paper.

  ‘He doesn’t speak?’ The policeman looks at Dad. ‘We were led to believe your son can’t speak. There’s quite a difference.’

  Mum says, ‘Charlie hasn’t said a word for five years. His school will certify to that, if you want.’

  Snapping at them won’t help.

  ‘Viv,’ says Dad, ‘this isn’t helpful. Come on, let’s leave these good folks to do their job.’

  ‘What? I’m not leaving my son alone with two policemen, sorry, police-people, whatever you call them.’ She waves a dismissive hand towards the inspector and his female colleague. ‘He’s only twelve, for God’s sake.’

  ‘In Scotland that makes him old enough to be legally prosecuted if he commits a crime.’

  This is news to Mum. I can tell by her face.

  ‘Therefore, it’s quite appropriate for Charlie to be interviewed, informally, on his own. So, if you wouldn’t mind?’ He gets up and holds the kitchen door open.

  ‘I do mind, actually,’ says Mum. ‘Do you want Dad or me to stay with you, Charlie?’

  Think for a minute then shake my head. Don’t want to look as if I’m scared of the police. That will just make them suspicious.

  Mum sniffs.

  ‘Come on, Viv. He’s in good hands. Let’s go. We’ll be right here, Charlie, just outside the door.’

  ‘Right, Charlie,’ says the policeman, once they’ve gone. ‘Just a few wee questions for you. No need to be frightened. My colleague, DS, that means Detective Sergeant, McManus will ask you and you can nod or shake your head.

  The policewoman smiles at me and I can tell she’s trying to get me to relax so I’ll say something that incriminates me. I’ve seen Taggart on TV.

  ‘Charlie, you’re twelve years old, is that right?

  Nod.

  She beams at me as if I’ve answered the winning question on Mastermind or something. ‘You’re quite happy to speak to us today?’

  Nod again. She asks a lot of that kind of stuff and I just keep nodding. I’m beginning to wonder if she’ll ever ask me anything interesting when she says, ‘Did you know we found a gun, belonging to your dad, which was lying hidden in the bracken?’

  I pretend I didn’t know by trying to look surprised.

  ‘Did you hide the gun there, Charlie?’

  That one’s easy. I didn’t.

  ‘Okay. Do you know who did hide the gun?’

  Shake my head.

  ‘The gun had been fired, Charlie. Did you know that?’

  Know that? It nearly blew my ears off.

  The other cop, the man, sits down beside me and leans in close. His breath smells of coffee and I sit back in my chair to get away from it. ‘This isn’t really helping us much, Charlie, and see, we could do with some help, to tell you the truth. We’ve got a dead body, a nice young man, by the looks of it. Not doing anybody any harm as far as we know and now, not only is he dead, but he looks as if’s been shot. We’ve also got a gun. A gun which has been recently fired. That gun belongs to your dad and it’s got some fingerprints on it. Can you see where I’m going with this?’

  He’s going to say he’s arresting Dad.

&
nbsp; ‘Right, young man, you’re absolutely sure you don’t know anything?’

  Nod. I know everything, but even if I could tell him that, I wouldn’t.

  He opens the door to let Mum and Dad in. Dad flaps the newspaper in the air. ‘Have you seen this?’ he asks the detectives, then reads from the front page. ‘Sources say he was shot once in the head. Was it a drug deal gone sour? Or just a stupid prank gone wrong?’ He throws the paper down as if it disgusts him.

  ‘Ach, you don’t want to worry about that. Wrapping for tomorrow’s fish supper we used to say, but now it’s all polystyrene containers. Makes the batter soggy.’ He turns to the woman and laughs.

  ‘Can you tell me how they get their information and why they’re allowed to publish this stuff?’

  ‘Believe me, sir, it pains me as much as it does you.’

  ‘I somehow doubt that.’

  If they were going to arrest Dad they’d be telling him not to be cheeky and putting handcuffs on him. Instead, they just say, ‘Right, let’s get these fingerprints sorted out. You too, please, madam.

  Mum goes ballistic again.

  67

  South Africa

  Wednesday 15 August

  Gus knows he’s being watched. He can feel their eyes on him and each time he looks over he catches one of them staring. The others are trying to look cool and casual. Not very subtle.

  He sneaks another look and sure enough, he’s under scrutiny. This time by the short one with the blonde hair.

  Undercover cops? Not under much cover in those tops, that’s for sure. Nah, he’s being paranoid. Nothing’s going to happen to him now. He’s home and dry. Picking up his life as if he’s never been away. Pity it’s still a bit chilly for the beach but hey, winter’s over and the hot days will be here again soon enough. Anyway, the sky is clear and the ocean’s blue – a bit different from the steely grey water and leaden skies he left behind in Ayrshire.

  When he makes eye contact with Blondie, she blushes and giggles. He leans back on his arms to show off his shoulders and biceps in his tight white T-shirt. Blondie giggles even louder and her two friends turn to stare at him. Quite openly this time. It’s clear they fancy him.

  He reaches into his jeans pocket and pulls out his phone. Another missed call. Same number and another voicemail. He listens for a moment to the pleading and apologising on the other end then presses three to delete.

  There’s a text from her too. Sebastien. We know you want to travel but please, can you come home soon? We miss you.

  He gave up replying a while ago, before he left Scotland. Might be time to block all contact from the woman. He should probably have got rid of the phone, but it’s an iPhone 8, all glass.

  ‘Nice phone.’

  Exactly. He takes his time putting the phone away before he looks up. ‘Hey, gorgeous girls! Come over here where I can see you better,’ he says, pushing his Ray-Bans up onto his forehead.

  Timid as kittens, they sidle across and stand in an admiring circle around him. They look a lot younger close up. Jail bait, his Dad used to say.

  ‘Haven’t seen you at the beach before.’

  ‘No, we’re supposed to be at school,’ says the blonde.

  ‘Shut up, Lizelle!’

  So he was right. Pity.

  He flirts a little, just to make them feel good. Then, because he’s a bit too tempted by the curvy brunette, who doesn’t look like any girl he ever went to school with, he stands up. ‘Bye, babes,’ he says. ‘See you around.’ He jogs off down to the water’s edge. When he turns to see if they’re watching, he gives a little wave and keeps running.

  He picks up a pebble and throws it, watching it skim across the surface then disappear into a wave. Things aren’t as bad as he feared. He’s got it all sorted. Place at college arranged, back on the steroids, back on the team, and a different girl every night, if he wants one. Yeah, life will be good. He’s gonna be okay.

  His journey back to South Africa was easy. He was overjoyed to make it into the air without being arrested. He had a few drinks on the plane to celebrate, but was careful to have no more than a few. He didn’t want to risk drawing attention to himself when the plane landed. He saw that as the final hurdle – getting past immigration and customs. He didn’t want anything to stop him getting home.

  There was one scary moment when a grim-faced, female official stepped in front of him in the queue at immigration and held out her arm. ‘This way, sir,’ she said. He started to panic till he realised everyone behind him was changing queues too. Safely through to the other side, he walked away a few steps then punched a victorious fist at the sky. He’d made it. He was home.

  Now it’s as if he’s never been away.

  Well, apart from the nightmares. He thought they’d stop once he got away from that place, but he had one again last night. It’s always the same. He’s walking through those yellow, coconut-smelling bushes. It’s a beautiful day and he feels happy. Suddenly, right at his feet, a rotting corpse rears up out of a makeshift grave. He wakes up, lashing sweat and panting like he’s just sprinted the length of a rugby pitch.

  In the daytime, out here at the beach, it all seems too bizarre to be true, as surreal as if it never happened. Maybe it never did.

  68

  Scotland

  Thursday 16 August

  Mum says I’ve to get some sleep. But how can I? I sneak to the top stair and listen.

  Been picking up wee bits through the day, but mostly Mum and Dad try not to discuss it in front of me. Dad doesn’t buy the newspaper any more, and we’re not important enough to be on the telly.

  Dad says, ‘It’s my gun, Viv. There’s no denying it. Doesn’t matter if I haven’t clapped eyes on it for months. My gun.’

  ‘I know, but with Charlie’s fingerprints on it.’ Mum’s crying, I think.

  ‘Yes, but surely there must be a few traces of mine?’

  ‘What are you saying?’

  ‘I’m saying I’ve come to a decision. I’m going to confess and say it was me.’

  ‘You can’t do that. You’ll go to jail.’ Mum’s definitely crying.

  ‘So will Charlie.’

  ‘But he’s a child.’

  ‘Yes, a good child.’

  ‘However, that gun got out there and whatever happened, we know Charlie didn’t kill that young man.’

  ‘I wish the police could find out who he is. Then at least, they might work out a reason for what happened.’

  ‘One that puts you and Charlie in the clear and puts his parents out of their misery. Surely they must be dead too, or they’d have come forward to claim him. Can you imagine if it were Charlie buried out there and we’d no idea where he was or what had happened to him? Oh, please don’t let them take him away, Richard. I’d die if he got sent to one of those terrible residential centres with a crowd of criminals.’

  ‘Shh, don’t cry, Viv. It’ll be okay.’

  ‘How will it be okay? They’ll blame Charlie and take him away or they’ll send you to prison. Maybe both. Why did this have to happen?’

  That’s what I keep thinking. How come the bad guy gets away with it? I know he saved my life and all, and I know he says he’ll come back and get me if I don’t stay quiet, but that was before the digger disturbed the body. He thought we’d never get found out but he was wrong. Now Dad’s going to take the blame for something he never did. That’s not fair. It’s time I stopped being such a coward.

  I run to my room and put my hand under the mattress. Before I can change my mind, I run down the stairs, shouting, ‘Wait. I know who he is.’

  When I burst into the kitchen Dad jumps to his feet and Mum gives a wee scream.

  ‘Who’s doing all the shouting?’

  ‘Me.’

  ‘My God,’ says Mum, all breathless. ‘Charlie, you spoke.’

  I nod and hold out the passport to Dad.

  Mum grabs me in a hug. I push her away and watch Dad’s face. He says, ‘I don’t understand.’


  ‘Look at the name.’

  ‘Sebastien Lamar? I don’t get it. I don’t understand why you’ve got Seb’s passport?’

  ‘Richard, Charlie’s speaking. Oh my God.’

  ‘Look at the photo.’

  ‘You can speak, son,’ says Mum.

  Smile at her, so she’ll stop saying I can speak. ‘Yes, Mum, I can.’

  She bursts into tears and wails, ‘You called me Mum.’

  ‘I think we all need to sit down,’ says Dad, putting the passport on the coffee table, ‘and I need a brandy.’

  I tell them I took the passport out of the dead guy’s pocket so he couldn’t be identified. Before I buried him, accidentally, when the river bank collapsed under my feet and covered him. After I threw away the gun. To hide it because it was a murder weapon, even though I didn’t mean to shoot him. It was an accident. Tell them I thought the bracken would hide it, even when it all withered down. I thought the rain would wash away my fingerprints. Tell them I’m sorry for taking the gun. But I only did it to get them to pay me some attention.

  Mum tries to cuddle me but I don’t want to be hugged. If she’d hugged me more instead of worrying about her stupid house and her stupid campsite and her stupid weddings, none of this would have happened. But I don’t say any of that.

  Even though my voice is wobbly, I tell them, ‘You were always too busy, both of you. I’d follow you, Dad, carrying my ball, hoping you might give me a kickabout, but you’d not notice me or you’d see me and say, “Sorry, Charlie. Not right now.” You were always going shopping for stuff, Mum, or having important meetings, and then you both got so worried about the business and you always seemed angry at each other and I was scared you were going to get a divorce and it was as if I was invisible because I didn’t speak.’

  ‘But now you do,’ says Dad, in a quiet, calm voice.

  It’s as if, now I’ve remembered how to talk, I can’t stop. I tell them I knew how to get into the gun safe because I was watching the day the firearms officer came to check Dad was following the rules. I explained that I thought Dad would either be pleased with me for shooting some rabbits or he’d be mad at me for taking the gun, but at least he wouldn’t ignore me any more.