by Iain North
Jim ignored the jibe. ‘I’m going to have a look round the back again.’
He wandered off and Amber quickly followed. She didn’t relish the possibility Bennet might just answer the door to her.
The grass at the back of the cottage sloped up to more flower beds, behind them a couple of stone outbuildings, then rough ground scattered with yellow primroses leading into the woods. Jim scouted round the sheds, pushed the wooden doors open and peered into the gloom. A lawnmower, some plant pots, garden tools in one. Stacked firewood and a rusty axe in the other. There was nothing out of the ordinary in either.
He returned to the rear of the cottage. The roller blind in the kitchen was still down.
Jim chapped the back door. He tried the handle. To his surprise, it opened.
‘You can’t just go wandering in.’ Amber frowned her displeasure at what was clearly his intention.
But he dismissed her concerns. ‘Look the other way if you don’t like it.’
Jim pushed the door in. There was no resistance. It led into the kitchen. Modern units, aluminium sink and drainer, a gas central heating boiler, all spotlessly clean. A tin of baked beans and a sliced white loaf sat untouched on one of the surfaces. Next to the food, there was box of pills. Jim examined the label: Providon. He’d never heard of it.
He wandered across the lino, slow and uncertain. He called out, in an effort to reassure himself he wasn’t breaking and entering: ‘Hello?’
But the greeting drew no response. The door into the living room stood open, a tea towel draped over the handle.
He heard footsteps behind him and turned sharply. Amber was standing in the doorway.
‘Don’t touch anything,’ he warned.
‘You can’t just wander in,’ she whispered sharply.
‘Ever heard of a drug called Providon?’
‘No. Did you hear what I said?’
‘Go and sit in the car if you’ve a problem. I’ll be out in a minute.’
She looked cautiously into the garden behind her. She didn’t want to be here, but she didn’t want to be by herself.
‘What if he comes back?’
‘I’ll worry about that if and when it happens.’
The lounge was bathed in darkness. A beige three-piece suite huddled round a television set perched on a marble plinth next to the open fireplace. There was a stack of wood on the other side, but the grate was empty. Again, everything was spotlessly clean. The only blip in the good housekeeping was an over-flowing ashtray on the mantelpiece and a part-drunk bottle of whisky.
There was a newspaper on one of the chairs, a copy of the Daily Record, open at the quick crossword. Jim picked the paper up. Some of the boxes had been filled with blue biro. Around the box there were doodles. The word ‘Baby’ was scrawled in the margin several times, each with several question marks after it. Jim shook his head in disgust, mouthing the words: ‘Fucking kiddie fiddler.’
‘What are you looking for?’ Amber asked in a soft whisper.
Jim didn’t really know. Perhaps he just enjoyed tiptoeing through other people’s lives.
‘That must be the bedroom,’ he muttered, pointing to a closed door on the far side of the room.
‘You can’t go in there.’ Amber’s tone was insistent this time.
‘Give me two seconds. I just want to have a quick look.’
He pulled his jacket sleeve down over his hand and clasped the knob. A little turn was all it took and the door crept open silently.
‘Fucking Hell!’ he cried.
His throat contracted, cold sweat engulfed his forehead. He felt himself wretch.
Amber was behind him in a second.
‘Get out!’ he shouted, placing his body between her and the door. ‘Get the fuck out!’
‘What is it?’
He grabbed her shoulders, tried to push her back. But he wasn’t quick enough and she saw it all. The body before them lay sprawled across the bed, legs splayed, one over the side, the other hanging off the end. A hand on his chest, the other raised over his head in a fist. The duvet was crimson, as were Maurice Bennet’s pyjamas.
Amber closed her eyes and screamed for what seemed like an eternity.
‘Get out!’ Jim pushed her back through the living room and kitchen, tripping, falling, out into the garden. She slumped to her knees on the grass. He dropped down and held her tight. He needed her as much as she needed him.
*****
Jim slumped against the bonnet of the Insignia. The fearful sweat was gone but there was still a tremor in his hand. Amber was sitting in the back of a police car giving her statement to one of the officers.
‘What the fuck were you thinking?’ Inspector Macdonald was standing over him. ‘You can’t just go wandering into someone’s house.’
Jim remained silent, another wave of nausea swept through his arid gullet as he pictured the blood soaked Bennet stretched out across his bed.
‘The sooner you fuck off back to the city, the better,’ Macdonald scowled. ‘I should arrest the pair of you.’
Jim hesitated for a moment before speaking. ‘The door was open.’
‘I don’t care if he put a fucking welcome mat down and laid on fucking tea and biscuits.’
Fortunately for Jim, George Cameron’s battered Ford Fiesta spluttered towards them and rattled to a standstill behind the Insignia.
Macdonald shot him a glare. ‘Have you been listening to that fucking scanner again?’
‘I was just passing,’ George lied.
‘It’s as well you did. You can take your fucking friend away before I do him.’
Macdonald stomped off to his Land Rover, parked at the far end of the assortment of squad cars scattered untidily down the side of the narrow lane.
‘And you two were getting along so well,’ George smirked. ‘What happened?’
Jim shook his drooping head. ‘I think I over-stepped the mark this time.’
George looked over to the cottage. ‘Bennet still in there?’
‘Aye.’
‘Dead?’
‘Very.’
Amber appeared by his side. Her face was pale and drawn. ‘Can we go?’
‘I need a drink,’ Jim groaned.
*****
It was a fine afternoon. They sat at one of the picnic tables on the grass in front of the Marine Hotel, overlooking the Kyle where Jim remembered the old Calmac ferries crossing before the Skye Bridge was built. He couldn’t face going inside. He needed fresh air. So did Amber.
George set the tray of drinks down on the table.
‘A double whisky, mate.’ He handed Jim the first glass.
‘And a vodka and orange for the lady.’
Jim emptied his glass in one go. He stared out at the clean white concrete arch that linked island with mainland.
‘What was it like?’ George asked.
‘Horrific,’ Jim sighed. The scenery helped cloud the vision in his head.
‘So no chance it could have been an accident?’
Jim ran a trembling finger round the rim of his glass. ‘Hardly.’
He turned to Amber and spoke more softly. ‘I’m really sorry.’
She shook her head, suggesting an apology was unnecessary.
‘You shouldn’t have had to see that,’ he continued.
‘I told you we shouldn’t have gone in,’ she said softly.
‘I didn’t expect...’ Jim broke off. His throat was dry and sore. ‘I didn’t expect to see that.’
‘It was only a matter of time, if you ask me,’ George said bluntly. ‘And I’ll tell you why Macdonald was so pissed off. It wasn’t you mate, it’s because he’s going to have a bloody hard job drawing up a short list for this one.’
Jim looked up from his empty glass to confirm what the old hack was hinting at. ‘No shortage of suspects.’
*****
Chapter 8
George chucked a copy of the Daily Record down on top of Jim’s slumbering form.
‘Did
you have to go into such graphic detail?’
Jim rubbed his eyes and sat up on the sofa that had been his bed for the night. ‘Eh?’
‘You made the front page, but did you have to put in that bit about his balls being cut off?’ George winced.
‘That’s what sold it, mate.’ Jim ran a hand through his greasy, dishevelled hair. ‘Any chance of a coffee?’
He and Amber had spent the night in George’s house. Jim was wrong about him. He didn’t live in his office. He lived in an equally untidy bungalow on the edge of the village.
Amber said it lacked a woman’s touch. But then George pointed out, quite matter-of-factly, that Mrs Cameron had died six years earlier. Breast cancer.
George was in the kitchen. Jim heard the kettle click. ‘I even bought a fresh pint of milk, as I had guests in.’
‘Very hospitable.’
Jim pulled himself up and wandered through.
‘Any sign of Amber?’
‘She was up at the crack of dawn. Went out running.’
Jim was surprised. ‘Running?’
‘I don’t think she slept too well. I heard her tossing and turning all night. Unless...’
‘Unless, nothing,’ Jim scowled.
George was at the fridge. ‘Bacon and eggs do you?’
Jim nodded. ‘Fine.’
‘How was the couch?’ George dropped a lump of butter into the frying pan. It spat it back at him rather ungraciously.
‘I didn’t sleep much, either. But it wasn’t the couch.’
George shot him a sly look.
‘And it wasn’t Amber,’ Jim added hastily.
The old man lowered rashers of bacon into the pan before continuing the conversation.
‘Did he really have his balls cut off?’
‘It wasn’t the most professional attempt at a sex change operation.’
Jim was trying to make light of the memory, but the vision still haunted him.
‘Do you think that’s what killed him?’
‘Whoever did it left the knife sticking out of his ribs.’
‘And his balls?’
‘In a glass on the bedside table.’
‘Nah?’
Jim shook his head. ‘They were lying on the floor.’
George returned his attention to the frying pan. ‘Do you want me to do you a couple of fried tomatoes?’
Jim’s stomach turned. ‘Just bacon and eggs.’
He spooned some Nescafe into a two mugs and added boiling water.
George spun the bacon over. ‘You’re doing pretty well out of this. Two national splashes so far. That buys you a few beers.’
‘It’s doing nothing for my marriage, I’ll tell you that. I promised Jenny I would only be away for a couple of days. And I’m supposed to be in Majorca...’ He paused to check the date marker on his wristwatch. ‘Tomorrow.’
‘You’ve got plenty of time.’
‘But there’s more to do up here.’
‘If you don’t go Jenny will be out that door. And she won’t come back this time.’
Jim leaned against the worktop and slurped his coffee. ‘I know.’
‘And you didn’t do yourself any favours bringing her with you,’ George added accusingly.
‘Amber?’
‘I bet Jenny doesn’t know the full story, does she?’
‘There’s nothing going on,’ Jim retorted adamantly.
George looked him straight in the eye. ‘But you would like they’re to be?’
Jim dropped his gaze to the floor and didn’t answer. But George continued regardless.
‘You’re a fool. You’ve got a lovely wife and a great pair of kids at home. And whether there’s anything going on or not you’re putting everything you’ve got in jeopardy. Get a grip, man.’
‘I’ll be back in time for the wedding.’
‘You’re avoiding the question.’
‘Not now, eh George.’ Jim stepped back into the lounge and flicked on the television.
‘You’re not going to get away from it,’ George shouted over the sizzling frying pan.
‘Take it from one who knows, growing old alone is no fun.’
Jim picked up the Daily Record and read his by-line on the front page. It made him feel a little better. But George soon brought him back down to earth.
‘The first thing you need to do is go to that wedding. Have your holiday in Majorca.’
‘I’ve still got a day. There are some people I need to see.’
George appeared at the doorway with a wooden spatula in his hand. ‘Just leave the police to do their job. If you get in the way again Eddie’s going to have your arse.’
‘That’s a risk I’m willing to take.’
They sat down at the kitchen table with their breakfast.
‘You should have been a cop,’ George muttered.
‘Does it not make you curious?’ Jim asked. ‘Four people are dead. Samantha and Gary O’Brien. Billy Reid and now Maurice Bennet.’
‘How is Maurice Bennet linked to the other three?’ George enquired sceptically as he lifted a fork of pig meat smothered in ketchup to his mouth. ‘From what I can see, the motive for his death is pretty clear. It might be difficult pinning it on someone, but there’s no doubt why it happened.’
Jim prodded his fried egg with disinterest. ‘There is a connection. Bennet was working at Kishorn. Billy Reid was there and there is every chance Sam O’Brien was there too. The fact she had Billy Reid’s car indicates that much.’
‘Maybe coincidence,’ George mumbled through a mouthful of food. ‘Bennet has no link to the O’Brien girl or her uncle.’
George was right. Bennet was just the night watchman. He found a body and he called the police. It was the action of any civic-minded individual.
‘If you want my opinion,’ George continued, ‘Quit while you're ahead. Take Amber back to Dundee. Leave her there and go to Majorca. Get your own life in order.’
‘Did I hear my name?’ Amber was standing at the kitchen door. Sweat was pouring from her forehead.
George looked up from his plate. ‘I didn’t see you there, love. Do you want some breakfast?’
‘Have you got some orange juice?’
He pointed with his fork. ‘In the fridge.’
‘You were up early,’ Jim observed.
‘I needed to clear my head.’
Amber found a carton of Del Monte on the bottom shelf, checked the sell by date and decanted some into a glass.
‘Did you go far?’
Few miles up the coast.’
‘She puts us to shame,’ George coughed, gulping down another mouthful of fat.
After breakfast Jim showered. Unfortunately Amber had already used all the hot water. But he didn’t mind. Cold was fine. It helped clear his head, revived him for the day ahead. He had no idea what they would do. George said there was a police press conference at ten in Kyle of Lochalsh police station, but his first thought was to give it a wide berth. He knew enough and he doubted Inspector Macdonald would welcome his presence. Besides, George would go. He could pass on anything new. Time was precious and there were better ways to spend the day. He wanted to speak to the security guard, maybe visit Katrina McBurney on the way back to Dundee. And he had to find Bennet’s other victim. Hopefully Katrina would point him in the right direction.
After all that, Jim had to go to Majorca. There was no way out of it. The wedding was at noon on Saturday. He was Ron D’All’s best man. He couldn’t let his best mate down. Perhaps he could leave Amber in Kyle of Lochalsh with instructions. She was capable enough, and George would look after her until he got back. But would she want to stay by herself? And did he want George looking after her?
*****
For once it wasn’t raining when they reached the gates of the Kishorn yard. The guard immediately recognised the car and casually sauntered over.
‘Where were you last night?’ he asked. ‘I was looking forward to a free pint.’
‘S
omething came up.’
‘I read all about it. Must have been some sight.’