‘Morag Ramsay?’ The woman said nothing. Kirstin tried a smile and knew immediately it had failed; her nerves were getting the better of her. ‘Look, I’m sorry, I know it’s a bit early in the day. But I wanted to see if I could get hold of you. I…I’ve just come back. I’ve been out of the country for a while and…well, I’ve only recently heard about Jamie. I was…very, very fond of him. I didn’t even get to go to his funeral and…and I’ve been talking to his best friend, Donald. Donald Ferguson—I think you met him once or twice? In fact it was Donald who told me where your house was and about the terrible thing that happened at the river. And what happened to you, and how Jamie wanted to help, and well…’
She was sounding ridiculous. Her breathless delivery was making no sense, even to herself. She stood back. ‘Look, I’m sorry. I probably shouldn’t have come. It’s too much, I know. I really should g—’
‘Why did you?’
Kirstin frowned. ‘I’m sorry?’
‘Why did you come here?’
The voice was low, the Edinburgh accent strong. Stronger than her own. The delivery was clipped and the blank gaze of the woman’s sunglasses was disconcerting. Kirstin took a step forward again and noticed the protective reflex before it was checked. Morag Ramsay’s inclination had been to push the door to, keeping it firmly in place between her and any intruder. Kirstin retreated, trying to appear relaxed.
‘I need to talk to someone about Jamie.’
‘I thought you said you’d talked to Donald Ferguson. And what about your husband? Why didn’t you hear about Jamie’s death until now? None of this makes sense.’
The comment sounded like an accusation. Kirstin immediately felt tense again, as if she’d been caught out in a lie.
‘Well, actually, Ross and I are divorced but Jamie and I, we still kept in touch, until the past year or so. And that’s just it. I…I didn’t get the chance to see what might have been wrong with him, maybe to help him.’ She stopped abruptly, feeling the rush of suppressed grief. ‘I never even got to say goodbye.’
Kirstin looked down at the ground, wishing that she too had employed the protection of sunglasses. She heard the door creak as Morag Ramsay pulled it wide and nodded an invitation to enter.
Kirstin was amazed. She’d been here, what? Twenty minutes? And still the woman hadn’t removed her sunglasses. She could obviously negotiate her darkened kitchen wearing them, despite every window being obscured by blinds. And now, thankfully, here they were, sitting on her sun-flooded patio, rays bouncing off the deep cobalt-blue lenses. Throughout their entire conversation, Kirstin had noticed how, despite the glory of the view past lawn and trees, down to the glistening Water of Leith far in the distance, Morag Ramsay had kept her back firmly towards the garden, her face resolutely turned towards the house. She seemed excessively self-contained, tense, her bearing upright. Kirstin couldn’t help but notice the clenched fists that were moved quickly from tabletop to knees as she began to speak.
‘I heard about Jamie’s death when I was in prison on remand. It was a bolt from the blue. He had recently visited me. Said he was keen to help. Assumed automatically that I was wrongly accused, which is more than I can say for my other so-called friends. Jamie’s support was unexpected though welcome. But sadly short-lived. As with everything else in that hellhole, the news of his death was delivered by a particularly sadistic warder, with premeditated cruelty and callousness. I asked if I could attend the funeral. My request was turned down point-blank.’ She paused to give a low harsh laugh. ‘Hah! No surprise really. Let ‘The Witch’ show her face at such a spectacle of public grieving? That would only serve to humanize her, and that could never be permitted. So. There you have it.’ She paused again, her face still unreadable. ‘But I am sorry for your loss.’
Morag Ramsay sat back and raised the now looser fists to the table. The oration, infused with dramatic quality, had been articulate, perceptive, honest and dignified. But Kirstin couldn’t help feeling alarmed at the clearly painful, iron self-control it had taken to divulge so much. There was obvious, and understandable, anger there, bitterness too, underpinning the clipped, formal mode of speaking. Kirstin had visited her fair share of prisons in her time as a paralegal. On each and every occasion she’d found herself practically sprinting to the front gate, gasping for a breath of freedom. Whoever said there was no punishment in being sent to prison should try visiting one.
Kirstin attempted a smile. ‘Thank you. I’m sure you miss Jamie too. But…he wasn’t a specialist in criminal law. I just wonder what he thought he could do?’
Morag offered her what looked like a wry smile in return. ‘Oh, little or nothing of any practical use, I’m sure. But the thought was there. Anyway, as my own legal advisers admitted, the case was complicated. The prosecution couldn’t make a case against me for murder and so tried manslaughter.’
Kirstin frowned. ‘Why?’ She noticed Morag’s fists tighten again as she prepared to answer.
‘You want to know the details?’
‘Please.’
The fists were unclenched. ‘Very well. From the outset it was clear that the police didn’t have a clue. After the obvious lines of inquiry, which included all of our group, others who were at the river that day, and various associates of both Craig and lona, the police drew a blank. Then they looked at the killings as a random event. They brought in some silly criminal profiler to help, and still nothing. There was even talk that the killings might be linked to a similar attack years ago in Northumberland.’
Kirstin nodded. ‘I see. But what made them change their minds and settle on you?’
‘Two words. Eraser Coulter.’ The wry smile had returned. ‘One of my party ‘friends’ there that day. He gave a new statement to the police, saying that I had admitted carrying out the killings. I don’t intend to go into the details of my previous group of ‘friends’ but what I will say is that he was lying. lona’s brother, Ally, thought I’d done it and was using his little gofer, Fraser, to do his dirty work. Plus, there were other complications…’
‘Like what?’
‘Quite simply, I had lied to the police in my early statements. But not in the way you might imagine. Let me make clear that we had all had a lot to drink, smoke, snort that day. Frankly, my memory was shot to pieces by the time it came to playing our ludicrous game of hide and seek. Much is blank or fragmentary up to the point where I stumbled across Craig and lona lying there, and ‘woke up’ as it were.’
Kirstin watched as the fists were returned to their previous position under the table. ‘In the immediate aftermath of it all, I was reluctant to admit to the police the state I had been in. Drinking to excess, using illegal drugs. Despite the shock of the deaths, I still had my life, my career, my future to consider. To admit what we’d been doing was unthinkable. So, I made the earlier part of the day up. Fabricated, guessed what I was doing and when. Later, when I became the subject of closer police scrutiny, this became apparent. And looked highly incriminating.’
She paused, and Kirstin heard the long intake of breath as Morag composed herself for what was to come next. ‘I have recently discovered, thanks to Bonnie actually having the guts to admit something to me, that some of these so-called friends had been spiking my drinks for quite a while. To allow Craig and lona to enjoy themselves behind my back. Nice, eh? Anyway, that is all by the by. I despise all these people now and, Fraser’s lying apart, had they not interfered with my memory, I might not be in this position today. A grim fact that would test the equanimity of a saint. But, as regards my useless recollection that day, the police thought I was faking it. After that, I was doomed.’
Tm…I’m sorry. That’s horrible. About your friends, I mean. And the police?’ Kirstin leant forward. ‘They had nothing else on you?’
Morag shook her head slowly. ‘They had no forensic evidence against me. Most of us were nearly naked after sunbathing and being in and out of the river all day. So our clothes were no use to the police, although lona had
helped herself to my sarong, which she and Craig were lying on when they died. The police tried to make something of that. You know, there they were, your boyfriend and his other woman, fucking on your sarong. Enough to make you snap, etcetera, etcetera. Crudely simplistic, I know. But that’s police thinking for you.’
The corner of her mouth twitched. In a smirk? A grimace? Then, after another long intake of breath, she went on. ‘What else…oh, yes. No weapon was found, which was doubtless a source of constant frustration to the police. But they did try to hit me with one other thing. In my initial statement I’d said that I thought Craig and lona had been attacked only minutes before, and that one of them may even have been breathing their last as…’ She faltered momentarily and then rallied, ‘As I came upon them. That was confirmed by forensics and, no doubt, added to the circumstantial evidence against me.’
Kirstin shifted in her seat. ‘And they eventually dropped the manslaughter charges?’
Morag seemed to grimace to herself again before replying. ‘Yes. Eraser made a third statement. I don’t know why. By then he was a busted flush, his credibility as a witness shattered. Indeed, should I ever be charged with murder, his antics will be a gift to my legal team. Eraser’s recanting, coupled with a lack or weakness of supporting evidence, clinched it. But my lawyers have made it plain, I’m not out of the woods yet. No one has been charged with murder and the police still view me as their chief suspect.’ She sat up even straighter. ‘All in all, it’s an intolerable position and one I fear Jamie would have been unable to help me with.’
At last, Morag leant back and seemed to relax the muscular tension that had been holding her rigid. Kirstin let the silence lie between them, looking past Morag towards the river. If there truly was no reason why this woman should have been incarcerated, then Kirstin felt overwhelmingly sorry for her. And the actions of her so-called friends were unforgivable.
Morag stood up. The visit was over. Kirstin felt surprisingly disappointed. Her need to talk about Jamie had been far from satisfied. She’d been here for more than an hour but, not surprisingly, as far as Morag Ramsay was concerned, her sorry plight had taken up most of that time. Still, Kirstin felt some vestige of hope. She had made a connection with someone who had known Jamie at the time of his apparent personality change. Although, given the predominantly closed nature of Morag Ramsay, could she gain her trust? Encourage her to open up about how Jamie had seemed during the weeks and months after the Cauldron killings? Face whatever the truth was?
If so, maybe, just maybe, she could lay Jamie to rest.
Sunday, 13 August 2006
Brilliant! Just as forecast. It was going to be a scorcher. All day to mark on that tan. Fraser Coulter bundled the last few items into his backpack, adding an extra bottle of wine for luck. It was getting on for noon. He’d probably be the last there. Best plan was to walk down to the viaduct and cross the river on foot. To hell with going the long way round by the official footpath. With luck that old tosser Jamie Munro would spot him and they could have a long overdue set-to. Clear the air before the party began.
Twenty minutes later he had the Cauldron in sight. Only ananxious-looking Morag and a distinctly sullen Craig had arrived. Christ, had they had a row or something? Craig was swigging at a bottle of San Miguel, between puffs of a spliff, while she was two-thirds of her way through a bottle of white wine. It was going to be a party all right. Blankets and mats had been strategically placed to deter other footpath users from coming too near their area. Great! They’d booked the place.
He raised a hand in greeting. ‘Hey, well done. We’re all set then, eh? Where are the others?’
Morag shrugged and turned away to fiddle with something in her bag. Craig wandered over to welcome him with a handshake and a beer. ‘Hi there. Don’t know where they are. Thought Ally would be here staking our claim hours ago. You know what he’s like. Bet he’s first with the towels on the loungers when he’s on his hols, eh?’
Fraser twisted the bottle cap, breaking the seal, and slugged down a deep gulp. ‘You okay, pal? You and her seem a bit…?’ He finished the sentence with a nod towards Morag.
Craig gestured for them to move a few feet further away.
‘Yeah. To be honest, this was the last thing I felt like doing today. We’re…well, it’s not so much that we’re not getting on. We’re…petering out, you could say. Though that’s what I feel. I don’t know about her. I think she’s refusing to see or feel anything at the moment.’
Fraser shook his head at the proffered joint and nodded again towards Morag. ‘Time to be cruel to be kind.’
Craig frowned. ‘What’s that?
‘Finish it. Clean cut. Move on.’
‘Funny you should say that. I’ve been thinking about that all morning. For weeks, actually. But look at her mood. I tell you, I’m beginning to lose my nerve.’ Craig finished off the remainder of his bottle with a final swig. ‘I can’t take female histrionics, least of all Morag’s. You know how unbelievably temperamental she is. Call me a coward but she’s going to need careful handling.’
Fraser smiled his sympathy and slapped Craig on the shoulder. ‘I don’t envy you, pal. Let’s get you another drink. And listen, come hell or high water, we’re going to have a great day.’
Five
Morag stood on her front doorstep, tracking Kirstin’s progress down the cul-de-sac until she disappeared round the corner. Then she removed her sunglasses and headed back to the patio, risking a seat facing the river.
The visit from Jamie’s daughter-in-law had left her shaken. Yet, in another way, relieved. She’d surprised herself at how calm, cool, logical she could portray herself to be with this stranger. And the encounter marked something new, or at least long overdue—that she could have direct contact with another human being. Recent weeks had seen her relating to only one person: her psychotherapist, Dr Lockhart.
Morag cleared the coffee cups from the table and moved back into the kitchen, picking up Kirstin’s scribbled phone numbers that were lying on the worktop. Her visitor had been somewhat dramatic in her need to find out why Jamie died. The hunger for an answer was written all over her. She didn’t fancy the woman’s chances. Accident or suicide? Either one would leave her feeling guilty that she hadn’t been there for him.
Nevertheless, by the end of their conversation she had decided that the woman was likeable. Trustworthy? Well, she’d let her into her fortress in the first place, hadn’t she? And Kirstin had seemed genuine when she’d expressed her regret at all that had happened. The killings, the arrest, the aftermath.
Morag stepped back on to the patio, looking more boldly at the distant ribbon of river. It was very, very early days, but she needed to build a relationship with someone real, not just a shrink. For the first time in ages she thought it might, just might, be possible to break out of this twilight world in which she existed.
With a firm nod, she turned and made her way back inside. As she replaced Kirstin’s scribbled details on to the worktop, she heard the sharp rat-a-tat. Swiftly, she moved to the front door, carefully peering through the spyhole and then opening the door six inches.
‘Delivery for Ramsay. Sign here, please.’
Morag pulled the door wider, scrawled a barely legible signature and then closed it quickly, turning over the registered letter in her trembling hand. When every second delivery brought final demand letters she couldn’t hope to meet, and the occasional anonymous piece of hate mail, she could congratulate herself that there wasn’t a stack of unopened envelopes stashed behind the radiator. However, today’s delivery had been expected. Court papers. There would be no holding back the repossession proceedings any longer. And with that, the inevitable: bankruptcy and personal ruin. She smiled to herself. Since any vestige of optimism was fast disappearing, what about opting for the sink and the garrotte again?
She threw the letter on to the hall table and moved slowly back through to the kitchen. But this time, the searing radiance of the summer sun h
ad her retreating into the hallway. Hesitating, she searched in a pocket for her sunglasses. Protected by the dark lenses, she walked out on to the patio once more.
She turned to look upwards, taking in the full splendour of the building. She’d miss this house. Situated on a hill overlooking a wide valley where the Water of Leith snaked through a near rural area of outstanding beauty, she’d adored the location on first sight. Who would believe that less than two miles away Edinburgh’s city centre bustled and vibrated with life? But this area was special. No one had been allowed to build here for years. The conservation brigade had thankfully ring-fenced it for good. There were only a handful of houses scattered across the valley. Further behind her, atop the hill and shielded by the woods, was Scotland’s premier modern art gallery, converted from a building of faded grandeur that had once housed a private school. Culture on her doorstep, should she want it. And once she had. The area was a true idyll. Best of all, she could stand, sit, drink, eat, relax out here and not be overlooked. No one could see her. Not on her patio and not anywhere in her hillside garden. Nature, this part of the world, was there for her, and her alone, to admire. And that was the problem. That was why she hid indoors. Because what couldn’t be hidden even in summer, no matter how abundant the foliage, was the glinting silver ribbon of the river below, in the distance. Once the source of breathtaking, uplifting views, the vista was now a source of perpetual torment.
2007 - The Dead Pool Page 3