2007 - The Dead Pool

by Sue Walker; Prefers to remain anonymous

  Sat 12⁄8⁄06

  I am almost ready. The backpack is supplied: logbooks (2 including the ‘alternative’ one), flask (with a wee dram in it!), mini-binoculars (in case the dipper makes an appearance), pen and torchon string, sketching pencil (in case of creative urge), sandwich box, baseball cap. AND my new digital camera. How kind of Ross. Such a practical gift for an old man.

  The old·fashioned way of catching them out is gone. The Polaroids had their limitations but showed enough: the disgusting lona Sutherland and her consort, Craig Irvine. Faithless swine! Indulging in a repulsive embrace and worse! By the wall at the weir of all places. Sacrilege! Mouths and bodies locked together. Poor innocent, naive Morag. Surely it’s time for someone to care. Should I show her these? She is far too good for Irvine. He and his bit of skirt—disgusting, filthy, repulsive pair —are making a fool of her.

  But no matter. There are far better pictures to be taken tomorrow of the whole shower. They’ll be sitting ducks, insensible from their bacchanalian indulgences. Unequivocal evidence of them sullying my river.

  I WILL CATCH THE DESPICABLE WRETCHES THIS TIME. THEIR GAME IS UP.

  Nine

  Kirstin knew Glen was waiting for some reaction. She stood, scooping up the notebook as she rose, and walked to the far corner of the office. It was her turn to look out at the distant view of the hills, and to listen to the rhythmic burbling of the river a few yards below.

  Eventually, she wiped at a tear and looked away from the beauty of the vista outside, turning the notebook over in her hands. Part of her wanted to hurl the thing into the Water of Leith. Let the river takeit away to where it belongs! Another part of her wanted to hold it for hours, know every word within it, and see if somehow she could intuit what had transformed a dear old man into a ranting, obsessive, peeping Tom. What had made him curdle like this? Or was this a part of Jamie that had always been there but he’d never let her see it before? The thought chilled her.

  She’d been unaware of Glen standing up and walking towards her. Gently he eased her fingers from the notebook.

  ‘Come on. Please, sit down.’

  His strong hands settled her back in the chair and he moved round the desk. Slowly, he gathered the sheaf of photographs, his hand covering the near-naked bodies of lona Sutherland and Craig Irvine caught in writhing passion by the weir. Jamie had dated the snaps on the back and this encounter was long before their final, fatal coupling. It seemed these two had been enjoying each other’s company for quite some time.

  Glen began putting the file back together. ‘I’m wondering if I should have shown you all this. I suppose I had a selfish motive, in that I’ve not been able to share it with anyone. It’s been burning a hole through me. Especially after Jamie died. So, in an odd way, your appearance here has been something of a godsend. I can share the…guilt, I suppose, the overriding feeling that maybe I should have seen more, done more. I don’t know. And yet, the real guilt is in eventually having to deceive.’

  ‘De—‘ She could barely find her voice. ‘Deceive?’

  He’d finished with the file and slid it to one side. ‘Because after Jamie died, I did have to lie to the police. And I don’t know if I’ve done the right thing. By Jamie, by his son. And now, by you.’

  She sat up, straining to compose herself. ‘Go on.’

  This time, his direct look had gone, his gaze straying past her. Seeing something else? In the past?

  ‘After Jamie died, they came to see me. Asked if I could think of any reason why he might have been distressed. The suicide theory was obviously the one they favoured.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And I told them everything was fine, that Jamie had been absolutely normal. They mentioned the Cauldron killings. Did they upset him? I said that they upset everybody. They obviously didn’t appreciate how obsessed he was with Morag’s case. But in a way that didn’t matter. What I couldn’t have them knowing about was the logs, the photos, the hatred of lona Sutherland. It would just have made everything…messy. And hurt people. Ross, the dead people’s families…it would have been complicated.’

  She felt unaccountably cold. ‘Complicated.’ The word Ross had used.

  Glen glanced back at her, waving a hand over the file. ‘I should have got rid of all this ages ago. I don’t know why I kept it. But at least it may have helped you. Painful as it might be, you can see a bit of what was going on. Jamie changed all right. I’m just not really sure why. I think he eventually found life too hard once his career and his wife were gone. Circumstances overwhelmed him. The river work might have helped but the clash of personalities with lona’s group, then the killings, then the accusations against the only one of them he liked.’

  ‘Why was he so eager to help Morag? What made him so convinced of her innocence?’

  He frowned, as if pondering the question for the first time. ‘Actually, I don’t know. He just judged people, didn’t he? Took a position on them—for good or ill—and stuck by it. You must know that?’

  She nodded, a smile involuntarily returning for a fleeting moment. ‘Yes, he was quite a one for first impressions. And he was usually right.’

  Glen was trying a faint smile back. ‘He was loyal, I’ll say that about him. But…everything I’ve just outlined…I think it was all too much. I believe it led to a downward spiral. A chain reaction.’

  She didn’t want to vocalize the thought, but it was there in the air. ‘You think he took his own life? I’m sorry, I find that so hard to believe. And it’s not what Donald thinks either…though he hasn’t seen what you’ve shown me, thank God. But it just doesn’t fit with the Jamie I knew. Not suicide.’

  Glen’s sad half smile was fading. ‘I don’t know if it was intentional as such. But he would have known the danger of going down to the Cauldron in those conditions. There had to be some self-destructive impulse involved. I’ve thought about that every day these past five months.’

  Without warning, he sat up straight and banged a palm on the desk, making her jump. ‘It’s left me sad but, from time to time, so angry. Whatever happened to Jamie, some of those bastards that made his life a misery are responsible. At least in part. To that extent, you could say that the river work killed him. If he hadn’t met that lot…but maybe that’s too simplistic. I can’t afford to think that way. I couldn’t live with myself.’

  He slumped back again, the momentary spurt of fiery energy gone. ‘And, as for those sods, it’s pointless trying to get back at them. Two of them are dead. And I suppose the rest of them don’t really matter. Initially, after his death, I had fantasies of telling all, and then shaming those that are still living. I’m thinking of Alistair Sutherland and Eraser Coulter in particular. They led Jamie a merry dance. But,’ he splayed his hands over the file, ‘but this makes it all too…well, as I say, complicated. By shaming them, you forever taint his memory.’

  The impulse grabbed her without warning. She needed to get away, breathe some outside air.

  ‘I…I’m sorry. I must go. I want to think about all this. It’s…not what I expected to hear today.’

  ‘I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have told y—’

  She raised a hand. ‘No, no, don’t apologize. I’d far rather know what was going on, whatever it was. It’s just…I need to go now.’

  He was at the door before her, opening it and gently placing something in her hand. ‘Here. My card. My home number, mobile, everything’s on the back.’

  He walked past the deserted reception area and back into his office. At least she’d allowed him to escort her to the car park. He sat back down at his desk, hands clasped, as if in prayer. It had been a lot for her to take in. But he had done the right thing. He’d thought long and hard about it after Donald’s call.

  His hands dropped on to the desk and, slowly, he retrieved the notebook. There had been nothing to worry about. Kirstin Rutherford wouldn’t have stumbled on it during a cursory look. But he knew exacdy where the entry was.

  Man 14⁄8⁄06
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  All hell has broken loose. I am utterly at a loss. I feel sick all the time. I can concentrate on nothing. Every minute of the day I try to blot out the memories. But they are seared into my brain. That is my punishment and I cannot escape it. Ross is worried about me, keeps coming round, phoning. Has offered to come and stay or has offered me the option to stay at his house for a while. I don’t want that. I want to be alone. Away from everyone.

  Tues 15⁄8⁄06

  The police are still swarming over everywhere, interviewing everyone again andagain.

  Wed 16⁄8⁄06

  Bad news. Two officers turned up this afternoon. I am to be interviewed tomorrow.

  Thanks be. Glen has agreed to withhold the logs-or, rather, the ‘difficult’ logs. ‘It’s best all round.’ He’s right. We need to stick together. Anyway, he has little choice. Not only would the logs reflect badly on the association (and Glen) if they came to light, but there is a deeper worry. So I, inturn, will help him.

  Gently, Glen turned the page, running a finger down the little notebook’s spine.

  I will not tell anyone that Glen was there on Sunday.

  Sunday, 13 August 2006

  Bonnie Campbell ambled along the ground floor of the Scottish National Gallery of Modem Art, easing her way through the throng, and turned right, back out of the main door. She wasn’t really enthused by any of it today. Not by art, not by the prospect of a picnic, not by anything. The idea of spending long hours with that lot had depressed her from the moment of waking. She thought of pleading illness —calling Fraser, who was the most likely to be sympathetic without flushing out her lie.

  ‘That was a short visit, Miss. Thanks for coming anyway. Enjoy the rest of your day.’

  She smiled at the elderly security-guard and walked out into the grounds, choosing a shaded, corner bench. The mobile had been left at home intentionally. To keep her choices open. If she did decide to opt out, then she’d use a payphone and no one could call her back to persuade her otherwise. What was the time? Damn, they’d all be there by now. She listed the options in her mind. Go home? No, she wanted to be out and enjoy some of the day. Go back into the gallery? Go to the picnic? Mentally, she plotted her journey. All she had to do was go round the back of the gallery, down the steps past the wooded area, over the footbridge and she’d have arrived.

  Slowly she got to her feet, pushing her sunglasses firmly back into place. The sun’s glare was merciless today. She approached the first flight of steps, peering to her left to see when the river came into view. She caught a glint of the Cauldron and veered off the pathway steps to her left. Then she picked her way carefully through undergrowth, trees and fallen branches, until she was satisfied with her vantage point. Ally and lona were just arriving. Kisses and hugs all round. Morag looked tense, unhappy. Ally seemed in cockier mood than usual. lona was already taking her clothes off in as close proximity to Craig and Fraser as possible.

  ‘Darling Fraser, spread that rug out for me, would you? Morag that sarong is absolutely gorgeous. It’s new? You must tell me where it’s from. I shall copy you. I need one for my hols.’

  Her overloud, super-confident tones were carrying easily across the still waters of the Cauldron. Bonnie sighed. Could she hear it? A whole day with lona, with them all?

  She began to stand up from her crouching position, and froze halfway. Surely Ally couldn ‘t have heard her? Nor seen her behind all this foliage. But he was staring directly over to where she was. She caught his frowning look of puzzlement before he turned away to accept a glass of wine.

  As she rejoined fellow path-users and gallery visitors on the steps, she made up her mind. She’d go to the picnic. But not yet. Not without emotional preparation. She badly needed a meditation. Somewhere in the gallery grounds there would be a quiet spot.

  An hour later, Bonnie paused just before the wooden bridge. This was her last chance. She could flee back up the steps to the gallery grounds. Or step on to the bridge and be swallowed up by the revelry, deafened by the drunken yells of greeting. She could hear them clearly now. Fraser was singing a guttural rendition of ‘Flower of Scotland’, at the top of his voice like some oafish football fan, Ally egging him on at every chorus. lona’s bray could be heard somewhere in the distance, with Craig’s answering laughter floating across the water. Only Morag’s voice was absent.

  Bonnie took up her surveillance position again, peering through the foliage. They were all in sight. Fraser’s football was stranded halfway across the Cauldron. She could hear him simultaneously curse and laugh as he stumbled, thigh deep in water, on his way to retrieve it. She smiled. Maybe it wouldn’t be that bad after all. Fraser seemed on a high today and…well, he was at his best then. She watched his slim, bronzed torso twist as he reached for the ball and turned to throw it back to shore. With a firmer step than before, she moved out on to the footbridge and caught his eye.

  He tried a wave. ‘Yo! At last. My day is made!’ At that, his footing eventually gave way and he fell back, the waters of the Cauldron momentarily enveloping him. She felt a fleeting tug of anxiety as his waving arm disappeared under the water. But, within seconds, he re-emerged, the soaking tendrils of his shoulder-length hair plastered over his face. Laughing and spluttering, he shook his head violently, the halo of spray radiating off him, refracted by the still searing rays of the late-afternoon sun into a rainbow of liquid colour. Bonnie stopped halfway across the bridge, amazed. He looked like some Greek god today. She should be glad to be here.

  So why wasn’t she? What was really bothering her? It wasn’t just the irritation factor of some of the others. No, that was an excuse. She felt something more significant than that…wary? Afraid. How foolish. Today would be tense at times. She was certain of that. Surely nothing more than that. But the feeling was there. Niggling away somewhere deep in her mind. A premonition of something fearful?

  If so, of what?

  ’Friends’

  Ten

  ‘You still enjoy coming here, don’t you? I think that’s a bit weird. But then that’s you all over, isn’t it, Bonnie lass?’

  She ran ahead with a laugh, skipping away from his grasp, and then came down to earth again. Fraser had a habit of doing that to her. Making her momentarily joyful, and then leaving her annoyed, furious even. And guilty. Guilty that she could let out even one little giggle. At this of all places! She watched as he booted a bit of old tree branch along the river path, lost in thought now. In football shirt, shorts and trainers, she could imagine he was half his age. An unruly adolescent, instead of the self-made builder and property developer he now was, with an ex-wife and young son somewhere in the past. She looked at him more closely as he scuffed the branch along the path. His face had changed. He looked downcast, sad, older.

  They were at the Cauldron now. She wandered over to the wall by the weir, kicked off her litde fabric Chinese slippers, and sat down, bare feet dangling above the water, the golden polish on her toenails causing an array of spangles to sparkle in the sunlight. She wriggled her toes and blurred her eyes, imagining the spangles were shiny-scaled litde fishes, leaping salmon-like out of the river. Then she lifted her head and watched as Fraser gave the tree branch one final boot that pitched it into the centre of the Cauldron with a loud splash. He manoeuvred himself on to the low wall beside her, discarding his trainers over his shoulder with a flourish. They watched the ripples from the branch make increasingly wide circles on the previously unspoilt surface of the water. She felt momentarily happy again. Just the two of them. Like children, their two pairs of suntanned legs swaying in unison, relaxed, as if they hadn’t a care in the world. All was quiet except for the gentie shushing of the weir, the water low even by summer standards. His eyes were fixed on to the tree branch and she matched his stare. The effect was mesmeric as the branch glided its slow way towards them. Bonnie waited until it reached the weir, where it tumbled over to meet deeper waters, and caught the current for its final journey downstream.

  She picked
some loose stones from the wall and began tossing them randomly at the weir. ‘I’ve been thinking about Ally, about how it’s getting near the anniversary and everything. And I thought it’s important to get down here again. I used to come out here quite a lot before I went away. What about you? How many times d’you think you’ve been here since…since last year?’

  He didn’t answer. Just continued staring at the spot where the branch had gone over. She felt him tense up and noticed that the previously carefree motion of his dangling feet had come to a halt.

  ‘Look, I’m sorry, Eraser. It’s just that I haven’t seen you for ages and I won—’

  Without warning he reached a hand out to her and laid it on her shoulder, his eyes not shifting from the spot on the weir that so transfixed him. ‘Ssh, Bonnie. Enjoy the moment.’

  She sat, her legs stilled now too, enjoying the light but firm touch of his warm hand. It had been too long since he, since anyone, had touched her. She strained against the urge to turn towards him, to lift that welcome hand and place it elsewhere.

  Alistair Sutherland stood up from the low log, the movement causing a flurry of scuttling insects to and from the peeling bark of his makeshift seat. A stone’s throw away he could see Eraser, head hanging, with a hand on Bonnie’s shoulder. He looked nothing short of miserable. As for her? Well, she looked surprised and…and, what else? Almost happy, the hint of a smile playing round that surprisingly generous mouth. Yes, for someone so slim, so bird-like, she would have some unexpected charms to offer the right kind of man. To hear what she’d said had been impossible. But, whatever it was, Eraser wasn’t responding. Not verbally anyway.

  It was a surprise to find them here. Yet, by the law of averages, given how often he visited, it was only a matter of time before he bumped into one or the other. It wouldn’t really matter if they saw him, should they decide to cross the bridge into the wooded area. He wasn’t exactly hiding. Just making his pilgrimage. But he preferred to do that, had to do that, alone. What he was certain about, though, was that he didn’t want to see Morag Ramsay here. Fat chance. From what he’d heard, she wouldn’t dare cast her shadow. But what he’d do should she turn up…