Whirligig

by Andrew James Greig

  VII

  SUNDAY 18:20

  Margo straightened, pulling her shoulders back to relieve the ache that had been building as she tended to the small vegetable plot outside the cottage. The sound of a diesel engine had alerted her, the mechanical noise an alien note in the soundscape she inhabited. A Land Rover approached, bumping up the rough track and leaving a cloud of dust in its wake. Her eyes narrowed, recognising the laird’s vehicle – this was going to prove difficult.

  She’d returned to the cottage immediately after leaving the police station, squandering what little money she possessed on a taxi to avoid a wait for the last bus and the 2km walk back along the single track down the glen. She had also wanted to avoid walking under the tree, blue police tape lending a carnivalesque feeling to the scene of a particularly gruesome death. The taxi driver had quizzed her as they had approached, and she fobbed him off with “Oscar has had an accident, and yes, he’s dead.” That had put an end to the conversation, the driver processing the information and impatient to disperse the news far and wide like a modern-day town crier. Margo was still in a state of shock, attempting to process the events of the last few days and coming to terms with what Oscar’s death meant for her. His presence haunted the deserted cottage as if he lay in wait behind every closed door, and, unable to settle, she had headed outside to work off her nervous energy attending to the garden.

  The Land Rover came to a halt on the stone track beside the cottage and a florid-faced driver extricated himself with some difficulty. He wore the tweed jacket and sensible trousers that were de rigueur for a country gentleman. In place of a deerstalker his hair hung in listless strands from around a balding pate, the constant breeze funnelling down the glen unable to raise more than a flicker of movement from his greased mane. Two dogs started barking at her from the back of the vehicle, big brown animals with oversized jaws. Margo started at the sound, afraid he was going to let them out. What was it Oscar had said? Rhodesian Ridgebacks or something, used for hunting lions.

  “Shut up!” The dogs quietened at the sound of their master’s voice, intelligent brown eyes watching him warily through the glass as if expecting violence. He turned away from them, focussing a calculating gaze on Margo. He gave her what he fondly imagined was a comforting smile, wet lips stretching across dimpling cheeks as he approached, eyes wandering freely over her legs and chest. He stopped so close to her she could see the tributaries of burst blood vessels snaking across his fat cheeks, smell the whisky on his breath.

  “Margo. I’m so sorry to hear about Oscar.” His voice was a poor actor’s attempt at expressing concern, insincerity surrounded every word. “Is there anything I can do?”

  She had a reasonable idea of what he would like to do. His eyes held that same single-minded intensity that Oscar’s eyes had exhibited when he wanted sex. Eyes the crows had eaten.

  “That’s very kind, sir, but I’m alright for the moment. It’s come as a bit of a shock, as you can imagine. I think I just need some time on my own to come to terms with everything.” Margo added the last bit as a hint for him to fuck off.

  “Aren’t you going to invite me in for a cup of tea?” His face adopted an overly eager expression, and she wondered what part of fuck off he didn’t understand. Trouble was, he was Oscar’s boss, and the cottage came with the job. Margo knew there would have to be some sort of negotiation to allow her to stay on, for a while at least.

  “Of course, I’m sorry. Not up to my usual standards of hospitality. Come in.” She felt his eyes following the sway of her hips as she entered the cottage. The thought made her feel sick.

  “Tell me everything that happened. I could only get the slightest information from the police.” He sat down at the table as if he owned it. “Things ran a lot more smoothly when Brian Rankin was in charge.” Margo put the kettle on, realising he not only owned the table but used to own the police as well. She wondered if he imagined he owned her too?

  “There’s not much to tell.” Cups were retrieved from a kitchen cabinet and she was relieved to see him looking around the kitchen rather than at her as she placed them on the table. “He’d not returned last Friday. I waited up all night for him.” She adopted the tone of the dutiful and concerned wife, omitting the fact that she had been holding a knife all night in case he came home drunk. “The next morning when he still wasn’t here, I went into town in case he was locked up. You know, causing a disturbance or some shite. When I got as far as the tree I saw him hanging there, his neck was sliced by the wire or whatever.” She paused pouring dark tea into the two cups, seeing his face in her mind, twin bloodied dark holes where his eyes should have been. “I could see he was dead,” she continued, pushing a mug towards the laird. “So, I ran to the police station as fast as I could.”

  The laird’s small eyes squinted into her face, looking for what she wasn’t telling him. “Had he said anything to you? Was anyone out to get him, or was it suicide?” He slurped his tea, leaving thin lips wetter than they were before. Margo shivered in disgust. “There, there, I realise this must be difficult for you.” He stood and made to put an arm around her shoulder, misunderstanding the reason for the quiver in her, and Margo moved quickly to the other side of the kitchen, pretending to look for sugar. He sat down again, looking displeased to have been rebuffed. “I’m only trying to help, you know.” His voice carried a peevish tone that had been absent before, a little boy’s selfish whine when every wish wasn’t instantly gratified.

  “I know, I’m sorry.” Margo dabbed at an imaginary tear. “It’s all been too much.” She made a show of regaining her composure, allowing her time to think. “The police don’t think it was suicide. They had me in for questioning – as if I was capable of anything like that!”

  The laird’s expression returned to calculating. Was she capable of murder? Quite possibly, in his view. “Well, the police will find whoever was responsible, I’m sure.” He stood up, banging his half-full cup back down on the table top. Margo watched a wave of black tea wash back and forth: a mesmerising miniature tidal system enclosed in cheap china. Turning back from the door, he faced her and issued an ultimatum. “You can’t stay here, Margo. I’ll need to find another gamekeeper and, when I do, you’ll have to leave.” He attempted a kind smile, it looked to Margo as if he was salivating over a fresh steak. “I’ll let you stay here as long as I can. We’ve always been good friends, haven’t we, Margo?”

  She nodded wordlessly, horrified at what might be the unsaid message in that exchange.

  He looked satisfied, for the moment. “Good. I’m glad we can help each other through this difficult time.” His smile remained as insincere as it had been when he first arrived, and he turned away to leave. The laird hesitated in the doorway, blocking the only exit from the cottage. “Does Oscar keep any papers here, any records?”

  She looked at him in puzzlement. Oscar kept bullets, snares and knives – and poison. She’d never seen him with any paperwork. “No, sir, none that I ever saw.”

  The laird frowned briefly, then made light of his query. “Well, if you do find anything, be sure to let me know. They’ll just be recordings of grouse numbers – boring things like that. Probably look more like meaningless squiggles that won’t mean anything to you, but I need the records to pass onto the next gamekeeper. I’ll come back tomorrow afternoon after court and have a rummage through the sheds in case he’s left it all there. Will that be alright?”

  She nodded again. “Yes. Of course. No problem at all. I’ll check through his things, see if there’s a notebook in his pockets.

  The laird smacked his lips together in a sound of wet satisfaction. “Good. That would be a help. See you tomorrow then.”

  The Land Rover made its way back down the glen and the sick feeling she’d felt earlier receded. Margo wasn’t sure if the source of her nausea was due to the laird or morning sickness. Either way, he was worried about something, perhaps something Oscar
may have had on him. She shut the door firmly behind her and locked it for good measure. If Oscar had some paperwork the laird was desperate for, it sure as hell wasn’t going to be about grouse numbers. With a sudden sense of purpose, Margo started searching the small cottage for anything that she might be able to use as leverage with the laird, or even exchange for hard cash.

  An hour later and she admitted defeat. There was nothing to be found in Oscar’s pockets, shirts or hidden in his socks. Nothing on top of the wardrobe or under the chest of drawers. She’d taken each drawer out, looking carefully underneath and behind each one. Every floorboard had been checked, none were loose. Think, Margo, think, she admonished herself. Where does he spend time away from me when he’s not in the glen? Her eyes were drawn to the two stone sheds that hemmed in the courtyard, providing some shelter from the wind that incessantly blew up the glen. Grabbing a searchlight, she crossed over to the first shed which served as the woodstore. The door wasn’t even locked, just a bent nail served as a clasp to secure the door in place. The shed was already full of logs seasoning in preparation for the coming winter. If he’d buried anything under there she’d never be able to find it. Clambering carefully over the stacked logs she cast the flashlight beam over the rafters, looking in corners and under eaves for any possible concealed documents. Nothing. She stood outside, wiping the dust from her nostrils and pulling old cobwebs from her hair. It had now gone eight, just the one shed left and dusk beginning to fall. Margo looked at the sky, she had just over an hour before she lost the light.

  This one was locked. The padlock was fairly new and too substantial for the contents. “Where does he keep the bloody key?” Margo spoke aloud in an urgent whisper, still afraid that Oscar could hear her. She looked around her, even when he was dead he was still able to frighten her. “Get a bloody grip!” She thought furiously, all the house keys were kept in one of the kitchen drawers – there was nothing that would fit the padlock. She’d never even seen a key that might be the one. Where else could he keep any keys? The answer came to her as she imagined his body hanging in the tree. Keys in his pockets? No. He kept the only other set of keys on his quad bike. The same keys that copper had handed over at the station.

  Margo ran back into the house, checking her coat pockets before pulling out Oscar’s set of keys – that one looked like it might fit the padlock.

  Hurrying back, she almost forgot the pain in her ribs that had slowed her down before and ran to the locked shed, fumbling to present the newest key on the ring to the padlock. A turn and the lock opened. She pushed the door and a smell of petrol and oil escaped. At first sight she was disappointed, just more gamekeeper paraphernalia – fuel cans, strimmers, place markers for the shooters, ropes and wire. A set of steps leaned against one of the stone walls. She pulled them out, set them up and started exploring the roof. And there, inexpertly concealed behind a loose stone was a metal box, the flashlight revealing the gleam of metal in the shadows. The lid opened easily; inside were rolls of £50 notes held in tight cylinders with rubber bands. There must have been a few thousand pounds at least. With hands that were beginning to shake, she tipped the contents onto the flagstone floor. At the bottom of the tin was a notebook and some old photographs of children she didn’t recognise. Margo opened the notebook, only to read indecipherable scribbles that looked more like Egyptian heliographs than any writing she recognised.

  She closed it in disappointment, then recoiled when she saw what was written on the back cover – June Stevens, The Chronicle. What was Oscar doing with the reporter’s notebook? The woman who’d been found hanging in the tree, back in 1997. The sick feeling returned and she vomited against the wall. This time she couldn’t blame morning sickness, just a dawning realisation that Oscar knew more about that death than he had ever let on. She wiped her mouth, letting out a long, shuddering breath. The laird was looking for something – did he know about the money? A more sinister thought occurred to her – did he know about the notebook? If he did, then he was implicated as well. She had thought with Oscar gone her life would improve, that there was nobody else who could threaten her. The laird could be a bigger problem than Oscar ever had been. He had money, he was a sheriff and he owned the land she lived on. There had always been something funny going on between Oscar and the laird, she had realised it ever since he’d been given the job. Theirs wasn’t the normal laird/gamekeeper relationship – they circled each other warily like dogs getting ready to fight. On the surface Oscar paid due deference to his boss, but it struck her that Oscar held a Royal Flush and the laird didn’t dare call him out. Was the notebook Oscar’s hold over him?

  Margo gathered the money, photos and notebook together, jamming them back into the tin and took it outside into the courtyard. She needed to find somewhere to hide it, somewhere the laird couldn’t find it. The spade still stood upright in the vegetable patch and Margo dug a hole deeper than was strictly necessary for seed potatoes. Before burying the box, she helped herself to one roll of £50 notes with a rare smile – perhaps things were looking up for once in her life.

  VIII

  MONDAY 12:30

  Margo called a taxi around midday, handing the driver a handful of coins and her last tenner as he dropped her in the town. She’d left a note on the cottage door, inviting the laird to let himself in and have a look around while she was out shopping. A rare smile made an appearance as she imagined his fruitless search around the cottage and outbuildings. Whatever the notebook represented, it was safely buried in her vegetable plot where he’d never think to look. She congratulated herself in managing to avoid meeting him again, alone in the isolated cottage. A shiver went down her spine – he gave her the creeps.

  She crossed over the road, heading for the cut price supermarket. As she entered, her eyes were drawn towards the newspapers and the headline ‘Gamekeeper Snared in Tree’ sharing the front page with an old picture of Oscar jumped out at her. Margo’s breath caught in her throat as blood drained from her head, leaving her to clutch wildly around for support in case she fainted.

  “Watch where you’re going!” A young mother took avoiding action with a pushchair, her pinched face changing from anger into concern as she caught sight of Margo’s expression. “You alright, love?”

  Margo nodded, taking a few deep breaths to compose herself. “Yeah, just feeling a bit faint for a moment. I’m OK now.”

  The woman gave her an interrogative stare until her child shouted for a sweetie and she moved swiftly off down the aisle, scolding the child as she went. Margo watched her go, wondering if that would be her in a few years. Not if she could help it. There must be a way of making money out of that tin of Oscar’s, something about that notebook she could use on the laird. She grabbed a trolley and started filling it with essentials, then added a few luxuries. Her life was going to change. Every fucking cloud has a silver lining, she told herself, and grinned manically as she deliberately rephrased another of her mother’s favourite sayings. In for a penny, in for a fucking pound. She added the newspaper at the checkout, offering a £50 note which the cashier studied with suspicion before running it past the supervisor. She caught the tell-tale purple glow of an ultra violet tester, checking the note wasn’t a forgery. The cashier returned to the till, counting out three £10 notes and a handful of change as Margo filled a plastic bag with her purchases.

  “Thanks,” Margo uttered without meaning it.

  She stood outside, bag in hand, and the first glimmer of an idea entered her head as she looked up at the fascia with The Courier in foot-high letters decorating the building above the supermarket. Papers pay for stories and Oscar was still in the news. “Strike while the fucking iron’s hot,” she told herself and rang the intercom at the Courier’s door. A rasping buzz invited her to push it open and she climbed stone stairs to the upper floor.

  “Please take a seat. What can I do for you?” The woman must have been around the same age as she was, long, dark hair tied
back into a ponytail and exposing her high cheekbones to their best advantage. Margo instantly disliked her, and her French accent. She felt the frown before it showed on her face, eyes closing to present angry slits to the world.

  “I’m Margo McDonald. Your paper has my boyfriend’s picture plastered all over the front page. How much will you pay me for my story?”

  Josephine leant back in her chair, openly appraising Margo. “You’re direct, I like that.” Her cool brown eyes took in Margo at a glance, saw the bruising, the victim. “Let me be direct in return, we don’t pay for stories – unless you’ve something that will help sell newspapers.”

  Margo was taken aback, she’d thought the paper would offer her a few hundred pounds for her take on Oscar, provide her the opportunity to play the grieving widow.

  “I lived with him for years in that cottage, we were like husband and wife.” She said this defensively, not liking the way the reporter stared directly into her eyes, understanding too much.

  “Then maybe you can tell me who killed him, and why?”

  “How do I know? Oscar had a knack for pissing people off – take your pick of anyone in this town.”

  Josephine reached for her notepad and pen, laying her phone on the table to record the conversation. “Tell you what, Margo. Why don’t you tell me about you and Oscar, and how you discovered his body? Then we’ll see if we can make an offer for your contribution to the paper.”

  Margo stared back at her, feeling the bundle of £50 notes pressing through her jeans pocket. “Sod it. I’ll tell you what I know, then you better pay me something.”

  Josephine smiled in encouragement and Margo began speaking.

  “I knew Oscar all the way through school. He was always the coolest kid, not too bright but the other kids treated him with respect. I didn’t really pay much attention to him until high school, then I noticed how good looking he was. I knew he was trouble, even then, but you know how it is – there’s something about a rebel.” Margo had trouble describing what she did like about Oscar, what had drawn her to him like a primeval force when hormones first started blazing through her body. Oscar represented all those film stars she fantasised over, the rock stars that sneered out of the TV when her parents let her watch what they supposed was an innocent music show. She would tame him, make him her own – and all the other girls would be jealous the day they got married. Of course, it hadn’t worked out quite that way.