Kirstin raised an eyebrow. ‘Who were this lot?’
Donald leant back. ‘They were all a fair age, in their thirties, had good jobs, well off by all accounts, and had homes in the area.’ He began counting off his fingers one by one. ‘First of all, there was…Alistair, ‘Ally’ as he was called, and then lona Sutherland. She and this Ally were brother and sister. He’s a financier, or some such, and she was some sort of artist and gallery owner. Then Eraser Coulter. He was a bit of a ruffian and a vulgarian, Jamie said. A builder-cum-property developer. Lots of money.
Was in business with the Sutherland lad. Then there was Bonnie Campbell, a New Agey type. Did massage and meditation, that sort of thing. She runs a homeopathy clinic. I think Sutherland was also financing that. And then there was Craig Irvine and his girlfriend, Morag. Irvine was a scientist. Clever, doing well in the world of pharmaceuticals, and Morag worked for a big headhunting firm. So they were far from being a bunch of useless nobodies.’
‘But why did Jamie get himself involved with these people?’
‘For the simple reason that he couldn’t ignore them or their behaviour. I said to Jamie at the time, it was as if they were all going through their second flush of youth. Behaving in unruly ways. Wine bottles all over the place, camp fires into the evening, abusive language and…well, lots more besides. Like I said, I think they were trying to grab the last of their youthful freedom before settling down. It’s not an unknown phenomenon.’ Donald shrugged. ‘Anyway, Jamie was appalled. Said if Ross had behaved like that, and he was near enough the same age as this lot, then he’d disown his son. Though Ross, as y—’
She didn’t want to get back on to the subject of Ross, and cut across the old man’s thoughts. ‘But couldn’t Jamie have just got the police to have a word, if these people’s behaviour was that bad?’
The old man slid the teapot away from him. ‘Well, that was just it. Apart from setting fires, and the police would want actual proof of that, it was suggested that Jamie relax about the other things. The police were, shall we say, not going to get too exercised over the antics of a few overgrown adolescents. Jamie took the whole matter to the committee that oversees the care of the river, its conservation, the volunteers, all that. The offenders were sent letters on several occasions, but they just went on doing what they pleased. I told him they’d grow out of it, but Jamie had the bit between his teeth. He was livid and got worse the more they ignored his admonishments. I think baiting Jamie became a sort of game for some of them.’ Donald gave a pitying shake of his head. ‘And, to be frank, it became a bit of an obsession with him.’ Kirstin frowned. ‘In what way, an obsession?’
‘Oh…you know, doing regular patrols day and night. Just to keep an eye on things. But, in reality, it was far beyond the call of duty. He kept a sort of record, or ‘surveillance logs’ as he liked to call them, of the entire goings on, all of it charted in various notebooks that he’d type up on his computer. And, as if that wasn’t enough, he would fire off emails for posting on the river association’s website. Quite the…what do they call them?…yes, quite the ‘silver surfer’, our Jamie. Incredible really. He was an old dog who certainly could learn new tricks. And that’s what kept him going. He thought of little else until…until the Cauldron killings.’
‘Cauldron killings?’
‘You mean, you don’t know? Didn’t Ross tell you?’ She shook her head. ‘I only saw him for a short while today. What on earth are the Cauldron killings?’
Donald sighed. ‘Well, brace yourself. I wouldn’t have dreamt of telling you about this in our occasional postcards. I assumed Ross would have filled you in as soon as he saw you. But never mind.’ He paused to take a long breath, obviously readying himself for an unpleasant task. ‘I don’t think anyone will ever know exactly what went on, but one day last summer—Sunday the thirteenth of August, to be precise—they were down at the Cauldron and weir area having an all-day party. Jamie had got wind of it and was all fired up. Morag Ramsay had told him about it. She’d asked him to turn a blind eye, just for once. Mainly because, after that, the friends were all going their separate ways for the rest of the summer. Jamie had no intention of letting them get away with it, but he was thwarted. When it came to it, he couldn’t get down there on patrol that day. His hip was playing up. Nor could he get any other volunteer, or his boss, Glen, to attend. Maybe it was just as well. Those deaths left a terrible mark on the community and on Jamie.’
Kirstin leant forward. ‘In what way?’
‘Well, human nature being what it is, everybody was absolutely horrified and, simultaneously, captivated by the terrible killings. I don’t particularly want to go into every distressing detail.’ He paused to gulp greedily at his tea, as if knocking back hard liquor. ‘There had been a lot of drinking, drug-taking and other horsing around throughout the day. Eventually the group decided to play some sort of hide and seek game with Morag Ramsay as the seeker. She found them. The bodies. To put it bluntly, Craig Irvine and lona Sudierland had been battered to death while having sexual intercourse. It happened in the wooded area on the other side of the Cauldron. They were naked and he was sprawled on top of her. It was very bloody, apparently. Catastrophic head injuries.’
Kirstin felt suddenly chilled. ‘My God!’
‘Quite. It was awful.’ Donald looked away towards the window, clearly uncomfortable with what he’d had to report. ‘And Jamie felt terrible. Guilty about all the trouble and arguments, now some of those same folk were dead. And then they arrested Morag.’
Kirstin leant back, trying to force down some of the now cold tea, struggling to wipe from her face the horror at what she’d just heard.
Donald was looking directly at her again. ‘Jamie took an active—morbid, even—interest in Morag’s case. Visited her in prison. Offered to help out on the legal side of things. Used to say she was the only one of that shower who had any substance to her. Morag had apparently helped him by talking about Jean and his loss. I think he felt he owed her. And, of course, he believed her to be wrongly accused and Jamie couldn’t abide injustice of any sort. And to add to it all, she tried to commit suicide when on remand. Apparently she made some sort of garrotte from her clothing, attached it to the sink in her cell, and tried to strangle herself. Jamie was appalled by that and swore to help her if he could.’
‘That sounds like Jamie.’ Kirstin smiled. ‘And what’s this Morag like? Have you met her?’
Donald gave a quick nod of the head. ‘Only briefly. Said hello to her once or twice when I was out on the river with Jamie. She seemed a bit stand-offish to me. Not that forthcoming. To be honest, I was quite surprised that they had clicked. And I know Ross was suspicious of her motives in befriending his father. He thought she might be manipulating Jamie, getting him to look less sternly on her group in order to gain some gratitude from them. I’m not sure I’d go that far. But anyway, Jamie was adamant. He liked her. Described her as a ‘lost soul’. Unhappy, depressed but trying to hide it. I know he thought her boyfriend, Craig, was leading her a merry dance. And that she didn’t fit in with the others perhaps? And I think he saw something of himself in her. Like him, she could be a bit sharp-tongued, appear cold and snooty. You know how Jamie could get if he was upset or outraged by something. So, that was it. They got on. It was only last year that he started regularly doing the patrol that takes in the Cauldron. That’s when the trouble began. Before that he’d been on perfectly civil terms with the group, as far as I know.’
Donald looked tired now. The conversation, and perhaps the memories it had brought up, seemed to have visibly drained him. ‘I’m an old man now, Kirstin. At that age when people, the police and suchlike, don’t take me too seriously. However, I knew Jamie very well. We saw each other through most of life’s ups and downs, joys and sadnesses, and I’m ninety-nine per cent certain of one thing. Jamie would not take his own life. There would have to have been some unimaginably appalling reason for him to do something like that. It must have been an acci
dent. And yet, he knew every inch of that stretch of river. ‘It’s a living thing,’ he used to say.’
Kirstin shifted in her seat, feeling chilled to the bone. ‘So, what do you think happened that night? I could only get the bare bones out of Ross.’
Donald paused, a look of hopeless despair on his tired face. ‘I really don’t know, even though I went to the inquiry. It’s all supposition. It looks as if he went out that evening, sometime after nine. I know that because I spoke to him on the telephone shortly before to arrange a game of golf. Is that the action of a suicidal man? I ask you. I told the inquiry this but…’
He stopped to brush a hand over his thinning hair. ‘All I know is that he was found the following morning. His body was caught on the weir. In those conditions—heavy rainfall, flooding—it would be expected to go over, but his clothing had snagged on broken tree branches for some poor dog-walker to find. The so-called forensic experts reckoned that he’d fallen or let himself be swept into the Cauldron just after the entrance to the footbridge. It’s a bad spot in high water. They thought he’d been pulled under by the current and then hit his head on some of the stones and rocks that pepper the Cauldron’s bed. They surmised that he was unconscious by the time he reached the weir. I pray to God that’s true.’ He slumped forward, head drooping, in a pose of utter hopelessness.
Kirstin reached across the table to take his hand. ‘Donald, I’m sorry, so sorry.’
He gave hers a gentle squeeze in return. ‘Something’s amiss. Jamie was different in the weeks before it happened. Obsessive, secretive. I should have paid more attention. I thought he might have been going through another stage of grieving over Jean. But, when I think about it now, there was something else bothering him. I don’t know if anything untoward had occurred. But if anyone or anything caused us to lose Jamie before his time, I think we should know, don’t you?’
Slowly, he got to his feet and wandered over to the window. He stood with his ramrod straight back towards her, a stance which in other circumstances he would have considered uncommonly rude. But she knew he was thinking about more important matters than social etiquette. Still with his back to her, he stared unseeingly towards the golf course, his voice a quivering whisper.
‘Frankly, Kirstin, I’ve not had a proper night’s sleep since he went. The thought of him out there, in a place he loved, where he felt happy and secure, suddenly finding himself struggling against the waters, helpless, in terror. It’s left me worried, very worried.’ He turned to face her, eyes pleading, body rigid. ‘And, if truth be known, a bit frightened.’
Three
The sun would be setting soon, but Kirstin knew she had time before dark. She paused at the Roseburn Cliff entrance to the river path. She was always amazed at how, within moments of leaving this bustling area of shops, flats and a main road, she could be down on the walkway and enjoying the quiet, riverside bliss. As if she were in the middle of the countryside. From here she could make it to the Cauldron in a few minutes if she hurried. Kirstin breathed in the evening air gratefully, glad to be free of the stuffy golf club atmosphere. There were still a handful of dog-walkers, joggers and evening strollers about.
The last time she’d been along here had been with Jamie, on a crisp autumn day, so unlike now. After her divorce from Ross and well after Jean had gone. Jamie had enjoyed showing her his latest enthusiasm. His voice had held an almost childish excitement…’This river work is going to save me from old age and despair. I find it so hard to manage without Jeannie but all this beauty around me, and showing it to others, will help. It’s got to.’
And had it? Jamie was certainly rejuvenated and enlivened that day, reaching out to her with an intimacy she now missed. He’d shared an acute insight into his son and had been brutally honest as they’d strolled along the riverbank.
I didn’t want to raise anything like this with you when you were married, but I always thought Ross wasn’t good enough for you. That may seem wrong coming from his father, but…’
He’d looked directly at her then. Seeking permission to go on?
‘But I think he’s far more driven than I ever was or, rather, driven by the wrong things. Ambition can be a fine quality if it’s kept separate from ruthlessness and selfishness. But too often it turns into a callous, self-seeking crusade. Not good. I’ve always hoped he’d mellow with time…’
The strain of doomed hope in his voice seemed to oscillate round her head as she walked the last few yards to the Cauldron. At this point she had a choice. Turn left over the wooden footbridge and up the steps to the art gallery high above. Or follow the river as it turned right towards the weir. Tonight, like every summer evening, the waters moved sluggishly under the footbridge, coming almost to a complete halt at the Cauldron.
A shiver suddenly took hold of her. The temperature had dropped. The sun’s rays were hitting the top of the hill above but wouldn’t make it any further down into the river valley tonight. She sat by the pool’s edge, keeping both the glassy smooth surface of the Cauldron and the gentry flowing waters of the nearby weir in sight. But disturbing images of what Donald told her had happened here ate into any momentary enjoyment of her surroundings.
What the hell had Jamie been doing here? In February. In the pouring rain. In a flood. It was madness. Both Ross and Donald had said that Jamie had been different in the weeks before it happened. Obsessive, secretive. Certainly, once interested in something, Jamie would become utterly captivated by it, trying to convert others to his latest passion. The river work had been the most recent, and final, example. Still, she’d always thought that to reach his age and still be enthused by the world was a quality to be treasured. However, there was a fine line between passionate enthusiasm and obsession…
And what of this secretiveness that Donald had remarked on? That was something completely new to her. Jamie had always seemed open, never one to hide his feelings. Yes, he could have a sharp tongue. She’d seen him tick off junior members of staff from time to time. And he could be a formidable complainer, especially when it came to the quality of service in restaurants or shops. Jamie had been an old curmudgeon on occasions, though always with reason. But secretive? No. What you saw was what you got with Jamie. In fact, that very notion was a bit of a badge of honour for him…’I’m a plain speaker who believes in straight dealings, Kirstin.’
And speaking of secretiveness, she’d not been aware of this at the time. But now, thinking over the encounter with Donald, it came home to her. Donald had seemed hesitant, reluctant at times. Perhaps wanting to say more about Jamie? But then pulling back. Or had she imagined it? He was obviously still very upset at the death of his lifelong friend. And maybe feeling, albeit without reason, a bit guilty. Could he, should he have done more?
She closed her eyes, trying to picture this summer idyll as it must have been a mere five months ago. Radically changed. Unwelcoming, uninviting—savage, even. Savage to Jamie. But strangely, her thoughts kept drifting further back. To last summer. Two young people…partying with their friends by the river…laughing…enjoying life…falling for the aphrodisiac beauty of their surroundings…
The screech of a wild creature roused her. An owl venturing out early perhaps? She opened her eyes and the light seemed to have all but gone, leaving the Cauldron in gloom. The last golden tints had disappeared from the top of the hill above. Time to go. As she headed away from the burbling weir, she quickened her pace and cast a last glance behind her at the now black waters of the Cauldron and the wooded bank opposite. The image she’d been seeing behind her closed eyelids returned. She could almost make them out over there. Two bodies…suntanned and naked…clinging to each other in hot desire…writhing in shared passion…
The creature’s screech interrupted her thoughts for a second time. Looking away from the river, her pace turned into a jog. But the worst part of the image remained stubbornly with her. Two lovers forever entwined.
In a bludgeoned, bloody mass.
Four
> Kirstin tried to suppress a yawn as she approached the house. Sleep had not come easily after the previous evening’s visit to the Cauldron. She’d spent a fevered night tossing and turning; images of Jamie, the Cauldron, bloodied corpses, infusing what litde slumber she had found.
Two minutes later, she’d reached her destination. It was a lovely house. And unusual. Detached, brilliant white, art deco style, with the front garden wild and untended but a true riot of summer colour. Kirstin pressed the bell once. No answer. She smiled to herself, gendy shaking her head at a familiar feeling. It was odd. Sometimes when you visited a house, knocked on the door, rang the bell but got no answer, you knew, just knew, there was someone in. Kirstin tried the bell again and stepped back, craning her neck as she strained to look upwards. Nothing. Curtains drawn and blinds down, on upper and ground floors. She’d already had a look at the side gate. Stout, secure, firmly locked. The whole place shouted ‘stay away’. Hardly surprising. If she’d been Morag Ramsay, she too would have lived in a fortress.
She moved towards the front door and bent down to the letter box. It didn’t have much give and she flinched as the flap pinched her fingers.
‘Hello! Morag Ramsay! Hello! Please, my name is Kirstin Rutherford. I’m Jamie Munro’s daughter-in-law! Can we talk?’ She took a breath, wondering at her present-tense use of ‘daughter-in-law’.
She bent to call one last time and then she heard it.
The flip-flop sound of sandalled feet on a wooden floor. She stepped back again, suddenly nervous. There was a cacophony of clickings and clankings as multiple locks were released and then the door opened halfway. The woman was wearing sandals, brown leather ones, and a cool linen shirt with trousers, and, oddly for what looked to be a darkened house, wrap-around sports sunglasses. The eccentricity added a glamorous, almost retro touch, as she had her hair piled up high on top of her head. She might have walked out of a Hollywood fashion magazine from the forties or fifties. Kirstin tried not to stare. What had she expected? A stressed-out, rumpled mess? According to Donald’s account of what Morag had been through, the answer was a firm ‘yes’.
2007 - The Dead Pool Page 2