Dead but not Buried

by Iain North

  ‘We’re closing the flight now, sir,’ the girl urged.

  Jim thrust his hand into his back pocket and pulled out his passport. He couldn’t leave Ron alone, not in the state he was. God knows what he would do when he got back to Scotland.

  Ron slapped his Mastercard back down on the desk and they waited as a second airline ticket printed out.

  ‘It’s boarding at gate four.’ She pointed across the packed lounge.’

  Jim stopped at the first payphone he found and Ron punched in the number for the villa. It rang just once. Jenny’s voice: ‘Hello?’

  ‘It’s me. I’m at the airport.’

  ‘What?’ She sounded confused. It was hardly any wonder. ‘Why are you at the airport? What about Ron?’

  ‘He’s here too.’

  ‘What about the wedding?’

  ‘It’s off. Look, it’s a long story. Pack your bags and get the next flight out. The credit cards are on the table by the bed. There should be enough money for a taxi there too.’

  ‘And what do I tell Debbie?’

  ‘Just say goodbye. She knows the rest. I’ve got to go. I love you.’ Jim plonked the receiver down.

  Ron grabbed his elbow. ‘Come on.’

  The plane took off on time. Their seats were at the back, the ones that don’t recline.

  ‘This is going to be comfortable,’ Jim grumbled.

  ‘I don’t care.’ Ron unclipped his seatbelt and sighed. ‘Not the best wedding you’ve ever been invited to, I bet. ‘

  ‘I was looking forward to a few days in the sun.’

  ‘I was looking forward to the rest of my life in the sun. ‘

  ‘At least you found out before it was too late.’

  ‘I should have know really. I knew what Debbie was like. Always have. But I honestly thought she’d changed this time.’

  Jim didn’t say anything. He knew what Debbie was like, because he’d done exactly the same thing to Jenny.

  *****

  ‘Where are we going?’ Ron peered through the rain-soaked windscreen as he pulled into Bellefield Avenue.

  ‘My house keys are still in Majorca. This is our only option.’ Jim pointed to a parking space on the right. ‘Put it in there.’

  Usually you couldn’t get a space in Bellefield Avenue. But for once they were in luck. At least something had gone right today.

  ‘So who do you know here?’ Ron asked, nudging the front wheel of his rental car against the kerb.

  ‘Amber.’

  ‘Fuck,’ Rom mumbled.

  ‘I don’t like to ask but we haven’t really got any other option.’

  ‘We could stay in a hotel.’

  ‘We could. But your credit card must be pushing the limit and my wallet is with my house keys’

  ‘We could have broken into your house. It wouldn’t be too difficult.’

  ‘We had a new alarm put in after the last break -in. ‘

  Ron turned the engine off. ‘Whatever. Will she be in?’

  ‘There’s a light on.’ Jim pointed up at the flat.

  Ron winked. ‘From what you tell me, she’s an accommodating sort of lass.’

  Jim glared at his best friend. ‘Shut it. Or you can go and stay in a hotel, by yourself.’

  ‘Sorry, mate.’

  Jim stepped out into the drizzle and sprinted across the street to the close entrance.

  ‘I’ll go and make sure it’s okay.’

  Light from the hallway illuminated the glass above the flat door. Jim pushed the bell and waited. He could hear not one but two voices on the other side. One was Amber, the other sounded like a man.

  She opened the door. ‘Jim.’ Surprise. ‘I thought you were on holiday.’

  ‘So did I,’ he said. ‘Look, I need a favour.’

  Amber smiled. ‘What, you missed your plane?’ she teased.

  ‘No. My mate’s had a bit of a domestic. We need some place to spend the night. I wondered...’

  ‘If you could stay here?’ She looked back over her shoulder to the closed lounge door. ‘It’s a bit difficult right now.’

  Jim followed her eyes. ‘Sorry, you’ve got company.’

  ‘Sort of.’

  ‘I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t desperate.’ She paused for a second. ‘Okay, then, as it’s you.’

  She stepped back from the door and let him in. Ron was on his way up the stairs, carrying his overnight bag. ‘Hi, you must be Amber. ‘

  ‘This is Ron,’ Jim added.

  ‘Hi Ron.’

  She closed the door behind them and they followed her through to the living room.

  There was a young man sitting uneasily on the sofa by the window. The sofa where Jim and Amber had... He quickly put the clandestine memory from his mind.

  She introduced them. ‘This is Rory.’

  Ron shook the boy’s hand warmly before depositing his bag on the floor. ‘Sorry to impose on you like this.’

  ‘Are you on your way out?’ Jim asked.

  ‘We were,’ she said.

  Rory stood up. He extended his hand to Jim. ‘Mr Harris.’

  Jim glanced at Amber. She nodded. He shook Rory’s hand. The lad’s grip was limp.

  ‘Look, we can do it another night, if you want to spend some time with your dad,’ Rory said.

  She smiled. ‘Thanks Rory. I’ll see you tomorrow?’

  He nodded, picked up his leather jacket from the arm of the sofa and wandered out into the hall. He turned to Jim and Ron. ‘Good to meet you.’

  Amber followed him and pulled the door shut behind her.

  ‘Mr Harris?’ Ron smirked.

  ‘Fucking cheek! Do I look old enough to be her father?’

  Ron nodded. ‘Face it, she is young enough to be your daughter.’

  Jim sank into the settee. The flat had changed since his last visit. Gone was the double bed slung against the back wall of the room. Instead there was a pinewood dining table and chairs. The antique desk lost under piles of paper was still there, as were the two sofas sitting face to face across a smoked glass coffee table under the bay window. Amber had invested in some new throws.

  The student posters were down, replaced by colourful ethnic drapes and black and white art prints, dolphins and a whale’s tail rising from an oily ocean. And she had bought a fancy new TV and DVD player. The frills of a career girl, Jim thought to himself.

  ‘Which one are you having?’ Ron asked, reclining on the sofa opposite Jim.

  ‘I wish I was in my own house,’ he sighed.

  She came back into the room. ‘So what’s the story?’

  ‘My wedding didn’t quite go as planned,’ Ron smiled sadly.

  ‘Who was that?’ Jim asked.

  ‘Rory? He’s just a friend.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘Thanks for putting us up,’ Ron interrupted. ‘We had nowhere else to go.’

  ‘That’s okay.’

  Jim continued his line of questioning. ‘Is he a close friend?’

  ‘Sort of.’

  ‘Were you going out?’

  ‘Just to the pictures.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘But we can do it another night. Now, do you want something to eat?’

  ‘We don’t want to put you out,’ Ron said.

  ‘It’s no trouble. I’ll put some pasta on.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  Amber left the room.

  ‘What’s with the third degree, mate?’ Ron whispered once she was safely out of earshot.

  ‘What?’

  ‘You sounded like a jealous boyfriend. Get a grip’

  Jim starred out of the window. He was uncomfortable at the thought of Amber with another man. Maybe he was jealous. Not that he would admit that to himself or anyone else.

  *****

  Chapter 11

  Amber tossed the newspaper down in front of Jim at the breakfast table.

  ‘You’ve been scooped.’

  He hated those words. He didn’t hear them often. But once was more than e
nough. He turned the paper round to read it.

  ‘Page five,’ she added.

  He leafed forward.

  ‘Kishorn Body Count Rises,’ read the headline. Underneath: ‘By Grant Bell.’

  ‘Fuck,’ he muttered. ‘The bastard.’

  ‘What is it?’ Ron asked through the crackling of Cornflakes in his mouth.

  ‘Grant bloody Bell, that’s what. He’s nicked my story.’

  ‘Another death at the yard,’ Amber said. ‘I read it on the way back from the shop. Anyone want a croissant?’ She flicked the oven on. ‘I stopped off at the deli.’

  ‘Please, love.’ Ron spooned up the last of his flakes.

  ‘Jim?’ But he wasn’t paying her any attention. He was engrossed in the newspaper.

  ‘It says police are investigating another death at Kishorn. Scaffolding collapsed. The dead man is in his 40s. They’ve not named him yet.’

  ‘Have you got any marmalade?’ Ron ignored him. His attention was fixed firmly on his stomach.

  ‘Here you go.’ Amber handed him a jar, before slipping the croissants on to a baking tray. ‘They’ll be ready in a couple of minutes.’

  ‘Police last night declined to comment on whether they are treating it as suspicious or whether it is linked to the death of Billy Reid or the murder of convicted paedophile Maurice Bennet.’ Jim stopped reading and looked up. ‘Can I borrow your phone?’

  Amber pointed to the far corner of the kitchen, a white handset attached to the wall by the fridge.

  ‘Come on, mate,’ Ron said. ‘It’s Sunday. Day of rest, and all that.’

  ‘I just need to make a call.’ He got up, dialled and waited. ‘Damn!’ No answer, just George’s answering machine. He left a short message and hung up.

  ‘That’s that, then,’ Ron said. ‘Now sit down and have your breakfast.’

  ‘I haven’t got time. I need to get up there.’

  ‘How do you plan on doing that?’ Ron asked. ‘You haven’t got any money. You haven’t got any credit cards, and you’re dressed like a Spanish waiter.’

  ‘Fuck!’

  ‘Language!’ Amber scolded.

  ‘You’ve got a car,’ Jim said, turning to Ron. ‘You can drive me up. It will just be like old times.’

  ‘Count me out. I’m done with all that.’

  Jim turned to Amber. ‘Tell me you’ve got a car.’

  She shook her head.

  Jim looked at his watch. ‘I wish I knew when Jenny was flying in.’

  ‘Give her a call on the mobile.’ Ron was tucking into a croissant loaded with butter and marmalade.

  He did. But it was switched off. ‘It’ll be at the bottom of the bloody suitcase.’

  ‘You could get a train,’ Amber suggested.

  Ron scoffed. ‘On a Sunday? You’ll be bloody lucky.’

  ‘A fat lot of good you pair are. I can see I’m going to have to break into my own house.’

  The walk up to Glamis Road took three quarters of an hour. It was a good leg stretch after the flight and a night on Amber’s couch. His house had that occupiers-are-on-holiday look about it. The curtains were half drawn; the drive gates were shut, and the lawn overgrown. But then the lawn was always overgrown.

  Jim skirted round to the back door. From the street, it was hidden from view. He pushed the wheelie bin up against the kitchen window and scouted out a suitable stone from the rough ground by the back of the garage.

  Smash! Fragments of glass tinkled down on to the metal sink drainer. Jim waited, breath held, for the alarm to go off. It didn’t. He cleared the jagged pieces of glass away with shirt cuff pulled over hand and reached in. The latch for the window below was just within reach, if he stretched his arm until it ached. He eased the handle up with his fingertips and it opened out.

  ‘Thank God.’

  As he stepped into the kitchen sink, the motion detector sensed his presence and a high-pitched siren began to wail. Jim climbed in, knocking a plant pot on to the lino. He kicked the debris aside, crunching through the scattered compost as he sprinted through to the control box in the hall. He punched in the deactivation code and the deafening noise stopped. He paused for a moment, his heart beating so loud he felt the rhythmic pounding in his head. Slowly it subsided.

  Jim was back in Bellefield Avenue within half an hour of his unorthodox entry. He had showered, shaved, found a change of clothing and his spare bankcard and boarded the broken window up.

  The Mazda MX6 started first time, although one of the back brakes had locked up, tearing a streak across the gravel on the drive before it freed itself. He made a mental note to book that service.

  Amber had packed her overnight bag.

  ‘You just look like a well dressed Spanish waiter now,’ Ron observed, standing in the doorway of the flat dressed only in his underpants and a frayed T-shirt emblazoned with the words ‘Scuba - Majorca welcomes careful divers’.

  ‘Cheers mate.’

  ‘You don’t mind if he stays here for a few days? He’s says he’s house trained.’

  Ron picked his nose and rubbed the snotty trophy down his front.

  ‘I guess he’ll scare any burglars away,’ Amber sniggered.

  Soon they were out of the city, heading north on the A9.

  ‘Back to Kyle of Lochalsh?’ Amber asked.

  ‘Aye,’ Jim nodded.

  ‘What about your wife? Are you not meeting her from the airport?’ Jim shrugged his shoulders. ‘I don’t know when she’s getting in.’

  ‘But shouldn’t you be there for her?’

  ‘Why all the questions about my wife?’

  Amber took out a cigarette and lit up. ‘If I was your wife I’d be pretty pissed off.’

  ‘Well, you’re not my wife. I’ll give her a call. When we get there.’ He pulled out to overtake a lorry.

  ‘What about Roy?’ Jim asked in retaliation.

  ‘Rory,’ Amber scolded.

  ‘Rory, then.’

  ‘He’s just a friend.’

  ‘Boyfriend?’

  Amber shook her tousled locks and giggled. ‘Maybe.’

  ‘Either he is or he isn’t.’

  ‘Are you jealous?’

  ‘Of Rory?’ Jim scoffed at the very idea.

  ‘And what if he was my boyfriend?’ She was teasing him.

  Jim didn’t answer.

  She drew long and hard on her cigarette and exhaled. ‘Rory and me, we work together, that’s all.’

  ‘Like we work together?’

  ‘Something like that.’

  Jim pulled back in and continued to accelerate. He thought about Jenny. If only he had his mobile phone he could give her a call, find out when she was coming back. But he couldn’t wait around. He had a story to cover. He knew she would be angry if he wasn’t at the airport to meet her and the kids. But he would have to live with that.

  It was early afternoon when they arrived in Kyle of Lochalsh. The main street was busy with tourists mulling about. The good weather had brought them out.

  Amber checked her watch. ‘I suppose George will be in the pub.’

  ‘I don’t know why you had to check the time. He’s always in the pub.’

  Jim parked the car behind the Marine Hotel. They got out and wandered into the bar. All the tables were taken. Sunday lunch was in full swing. True to form, George was perched on a stool by the bar. He was eying up the optics with a predatory glare.

  ‘You pair can’t keep away from this place,’ he brayed as they approached. ‘How’d you find me?’

  Jim smiled. ‘Lucky guess.’

  ‘I could have been out chasing a story.’

  ‘Or you could have been sat at the bar.’

  ‘What you having?’

  ‘A pint and...’ he turned to Amber.

  ‘A bottle of Becks, please.’

  ‘So what’s the story?’ Jim asked, sitting down next to George.