Morag had wanted to go back to the Cauldron to see what had happened to Ally. Kirstin couldn’t think of a worse idea and suggested a compromise: that they drive over to his house to see if he’d come home. But they’d been waiting for twenty minutes and still there was no sign of him. Kirstin glanced outside. She was worried they might attract the wrong sort of attention in this sparsely populated and exclusive area. Two women, one in a clearly distressed state, parked late at night, seemed to be asking for trouble. But all was quiet. She looked again at Ally Sutherland’s property, hoping to see some signs of life.
The house was of a modern, split-level design, like something out of a luxury car advert. The garage door was open, and, sure enough, there it was; the rear end of a top-of-the-range BMW. At least he wasn’t in his car, then. The entire place was in darkness except for the faintest glow coming from somewhere on the ground floor.
‘Kirstin!Kirstin! Look!’
She followed Morag’s outstretched finger as it pointed through the windscreen and down the lane. Their wait had paid off.
‘Ifshim! He’s alive! I must talk to him.’
Morag had released the passenger door, illuminating the interior for a second, before Kirstin had time to switch it off. ‘No, Morag! Shut the door! Now! Think what’s happened, for goodness’ sake. No one’s going to talk to him tonight. Look at him!’
The tall shambling figure approached. Kirstin touched Morag’s arm, indicating that they should both slide down out of sight behind the dashboard. It was an unnecessary precaution, since Ally Sutherland was keeping his eyes directed firmly down towards the ground. Kirstin peered through the darkness, grateful that streetlights were few and far between in this area. Another couple of faltering paces and he’d reached his front door, where the porch light held him in its dim yellow pool.
Kirstin heard Morag’s loud intake of breath and knew what had caused it; the state that Alistair Sutherland was in, plain for all to see. His clothes stuck to him, obviously still damp. His head had a deep gash near one temple, and there were a number of scratches around his shorn scalp. The left arm seemed to be causing him some pain and both knees were bleeding. He had certainly come off worse in his encounter with Morag. That apart, he had been lucky to reach home at all, and apparently without attracting attention. Presumably his homing instinct had taken over and got him back safely. He’d know the back routes and deserted streets of this quiet area. Now he was fumbling with a zipped pocket at the side of his shorts.
Kirstin thought it would have been comical under other circumstances. ‘He must be looking for his key.’
Morag nodded in agreement, her eyes terrified, but she seemed transfixed by the swaying figure a few yards away. His repeated curses of frustration filtered down the drive and through the open driver’s window, rising in volume with every failed attempt to undo the pocket. The struggle was obviously hurting his left arm and forced him to make a one-handed attempt. At last the zip gave and he wrenched out the jangling bunch of keys. Kirstin was waiting for the next stage of the pantomime. But by the second attempt he’d undone the locks and disappeared with a slam of the door.
Morag turned to her. ‘What if he calls the pol—’
But Kirstin was already getting out of the car. ‘I know. I’ve thought of that. Stay here. I’m going to see if I can hear or see what he’s doing. If he’s going to call the police, he’ll do it straightaway. Now, wait. And lock the doors!’
She scurried up the short drive, half running and half crouching, until she reached a side window, praying that he’d not turned on some fancy security system that would suddenly flood her in its unforgiving glare. But there was nothing, only the continuing glow from the porch and a trace of faint light coming from somewhere deep inside the house. The window she’d settled by looked into what had to be a games room. A pool table held pride of place, cues neatly lined up in order of length, standing in a rack on the far wall. The door to the room lay to her right. It was ajar and the light was coming from what looked like the main hallway.
His sudden appearance in the doorway had her almost tumbling backwards into the shrubbery. He stood naked except for a white towel round his waist. After a moment, he turned to his left. The bar was small with two high stools situated either side. With his back to her, he switched on a wall light, immediately illuminating an array of bottles. Through the closed window she could still hear the clanking of bottle against glass. Without warning he turned round, forcing her to duck. With her back pressed hard against the wall, she was struggling to control her breathing. What the hell had she got herself into? This was sheer madness. It was time to go. If Ally Sutherland was going to call the police surely he wouldn’t be behaving so damned casually, would he? She raised her head for the final time. He’d lit a cigarette and was standing at the far end of the pool table, slowly rolling the cue ball back and forth to the far cushion with his right hand. In his left, with some difficulty, he held a whisky tumbler and cigarette. She watched as he carried out the ritual five, six, seven times.
And then, without warning, he paused the white ball, trapping it under his palm. She noticed the shoulders first. Shaking. Then his upper body bent over the snooker table as he half collapsed on to the green baize. The whisky tumbler slid from his hand as he stubbed out the cigarette in an ashtray perched on the edge of the pool table.
The light behind him made it impossible to see his face, but she could guess at his expression. His entire body was wracked by powerful yet silent sobs as he pressed both palms against his eyes to staunch the flow of tears.
Kirstin’s tired eyes squinted against the late-morning sun. Hard to believe that eleven hours ago, she had been peering nervously into Ally Sutherland’s house and observing the most unexpected sight of him breaking down. Kirstin had kept that piece of information from Morag, for the simple reason that she had no idea what it meant. Had he just experienced the fright of his life and was sobbing with relief at his narrow escape? Or, was it a deeper expression of grief at the loss of his sister and his meeting with the person he genuinely thought had killed her? She didn’t know what to think.
But now, here she was, back at Jamie’s grave. Morag was bending down to place a loose bunch of white lilies, clutched tightly in both fists. Kirstin tugged gently at her shoulder.
‘C’mon, Morag. Let’s sit down. There’s a bench over that way, in the shade.’
The wrap-around sunglasses were back, hiding the eyes, and Kirstin watched as, almost painfully, Morag got to her feet and stood hugging herself, fists still clenched. A muscular tension seemed to encase her entire body as she stood ramrod straight. Kirstin gave her a moment and then guided her towards the nearby bench, settling her down carefully, as if she was an infirm old woman, before taking her own seat. It was clear to her that Morag was in a bad way. Perhaps she should suggest they go round to her GP immediately and get an emergency appointment?
But Morag seemed to sense her concern, and turned to her, offering the hint of a smile.
‘I’m okay now. Much better this morning.’ The clipped, defensive delivery was back.
Kirstin nodded. Shedoesn’t want to appear vulnerable. Okay, let her be.
‘But I want you to know, Kirstin, to believe me. The truth is, I really thought he meant me harm. I know what you must think. The look of him last night. What I did. But Ally’s a different person now. I can see why that should be, given the level of his grief. But, I think he might wish me real harm.’
‘I do believe you, Morag. It was just the worst thing that could have happened. Him turning up like that. But…from what he said to you, it seems that he wants you charged with murder…that implies he wants to do things the official way. He may wish you ill, but that’s a far cry from taking matters into his own hands. And he obviously hasn’t reported last night’s incident to the police or you’d have heard from them by now.’
Morag turned down her mouth in a doubtful moue. ‘Or, he’s waiting to get his own back in some other wa
y. I wish you could meet Ally. You might understand what I mean. But…mmm…maybe not. Anyway, I want to thank you. For bringing me here but also, mainly, for last night. We’re effectively strangers, I know, but…I…just thought of you and I remembered having your number and…to be honest, I had no one else to call.’
Kirstin sighed. Morag was confusing her. One moment she seemed fully in control, the steely exterior deflecting any attempt at sympathy, yet the next moment she seemed to be worrying obsessively, adamant that Kirstin should believe her.
‘It’s fine, Morag. You did the right thing. Really. Just steer clear of Ally and try to forget about last night. It’s over.’
But those few hours of the early morning had stayed stubbornly with Kirstin, the traces of fear and anxiety still clinging to her. Added to that was her sheer puzzlement at Morag’s excessive behaviour and Ally’s tearful reaction. But she was determined to hide her feelings and tuned back into Morag’s voice, trying to shrug off the image of Ally Sutherland’s injured, sobbing figure.
‘…I do feel ashamed to say I had nobody else to call. It’s…it’s barely believable, but true. I used to have a wide circle of friends, far beyond the river crowd. But now? Who would want to befriend the ‘Cauldron Killer Witch’?’
In a rare gesture of vulnerability, Morag raised a hand to wipe under her sunglasses with her fingertips. The last sentence had been said without trace of melodrama or self-pity. Indeed, Morag had almost whispered it, as if to herself.
Kirstin shifted in her seat, trying to see Morag’s eyes. ‘I know there’s not a lot I can do to help, but I’m going to be around for a while longer. We can meet up, talk any time. Tell me, what’s next for you?
Well, there’s a hypnotherapist who is going to try to help me with my memory.’
‘Really?’
Morag nodded. ‘Yes. An initial session has been arranged for next week. I’m dubious, though.’
‘Dubious?’ Kirstin frowned.
‘I’m not convinced about it. I just want to get away from here and start a new life. With what, as what, I don’t know. I don’t even know if that’s possible. The shadow of what’s happened is not going to miraculously disappear. The police won’t give up trying to get me. They just won’t. It may sound a bit dramatic but I’m thinking of changing my name, my appearance, and then trying to get a job somewhere. England, maybe. Or I could go to one of the cities up north. Maybe not Aberdeen. Craig had links there. Possibly Inverness? I don’t know. It all sounds so…so unachievable. Maybe it’s an outlandish notion, d’you think?’
Kirstin shrugged. ‘Not really. It’s what you need, isn’t it? To start a new life? But…with this hypnotherapy thing…don’t you want to know what happened, find out what you can remember and wipe the slate clean, as it were? Then you can move on to your new life.’
Morag leant forward, elbows on knees, and stared at the ground. She wasn’t answering. Kirstin caught her breath. Had she offended her by prying too deeply?
At last Morag looked up. The sunglasses were still locked in place, keeping her eyes invisible. ‘I think I’m reaching the stage where I just want to run away from it all. The thing with Ally has pretty much decided me. I’d probably be better off trying to put everything behind me. And yet…he and the police will never be off my case. It’s bloody hopeless.’ She let out a sharp, bitter laugh. ‘Hah! Even though I don’t have bars on the windows, I’ve pretty much been given a life sentence anyway, haven’t I?’
‘Yes, and I’m sorry for that. But if the hypnotherapy works, and even if the police won’t recognize the outcome, at least you’ll know, within yourself, what happened that day. Isn’t that the most important thing?’ Kirstin tilted her head and smiled, trying to encourage Morag to open up about the memory issue.
Without warning, she stood up. ‘The bastard! How dare Ally threaten me! Say I can’t go to the river! If he and the rest of them hadn’t buggered about with my drinks and all the rest of it, I wouldn’t be in this wretched position.’ Anger at the memory of their betrayals almost crackled like an electrical current around her. ‘I tell you this, I know now that Jamie was trying to be more of a friend than I realized at the time. And certainly more than all the rest of them put together. Bastards!’
She paused to take a deep breath, clearly trying to control her fury. ‘You know, when Jamie visited me in prison, he said, ‘I’m no longer in touch with her, but I wish you’d known my former daughter-in-law. She had a firm sense of what was just and unjust. Shame she’s not here right now. We would have made a good team.’’ Morag straightened her hair and pushed the sunglasses more firmly into place. ‘But it’s too late for all that now. Far too late. Look, I want to make my own way back home. I’ll…I’ll see you.’
To Kirstin’s astonishment, Morag bent stiffly and gave her a tight hug before pulling away and wandering along the dusty path. She gave a last turn of her head. Was that a half smile trying to cover the sadness and anger? It had been too fleeting to be sure. The mask of brittleness had been drawn down again before her final wave of farewell. Kirstin tracked the slim figure’s progress, the warm breeze catching at Morag’s light summer shirt, her words from Jamie’s prison visit still hanging in the air. ‘We would have made a good team.’
Kirstin slumped back on the bench, overcome by an overwhelming sadness that caught in her throat. She glanced over towards Jamie’s gravestone shimmering in the morning heat. The tears came easily once she let them. She pitied Jamie, whatever change had overtaken him. She pitied Morag. And some compassion had to be left over for that wretched couple. What a way to die.
Despite her steely, defensive exterior, Morag had no power—it had all been lost long ago. No friends or supporters. Indeed, she seemed to have lost control over everything. Even the will to live. After all, hadn’t she tried to end it all in prison? All in all, it was a surprise that Morag wasn’t a gibbering wreck. And yet, wouldn’t it be best if she tried to remember? But…who was she to say what was best for Morag? Thank God, she wasn’t in her shoes.
Kirstin eased herself up from the bench and wandered over to Jamie’s gravestone. Gently, she laid her fingers on the deeply chiselled letters of his name and began tracing them one by one. If Jamie had lived, Morag would have had a worthy ally in him, fearlessly championing her cause. No doubt he’d have ruffled feathers. Morag’s cause would likely have become an obsession to replace his river work, irritating everyone: Morag’s lawyers, Ross, the police. But so what? That was his nature. Jamie would have given his all. And perhaps that was the point. Discovering how or why he died might not be possible. But helping Morag was. Therefore, in honour of Jamie—the Jamie she wanted to remember—maybe that should be where she directed her energy?
She bent down to rearrange the lilies that Morag had left. An elusive thought that had been niggling away since last night returned to her mind. It was that frantic phone call from Morag. The first words. About Ally. ‘Kirstin! Kirstin! I’ve killed him. It’s happened. Again!’
Again.
Sunday, 13 August 2006
Ally pulled his T·shirt on over his head. It had cooled down. The sun would be leaving their picnicking spot in shadow soon. Still, everyone seemed happy to play on. He checked his watch. Jules would be well on his way. Good. Time to get this party going.
He jogged up to the group, clapping his hands. ‘Okay, you lot! Enjoy your last bit of indulgence for now. It’s games time! Right Morag, this’ll be base, here at the wall. You count to a slow hundred.
The first one caught takes us all out to dinner after the holidays. Or you do, Morag, if you can’t find us!’
He watched as Morag gave a half nod and finished her drink. Wearily, she got to her feet, helped by Bonnie and Fraser. Ally moved back as lona stepped forward, swinging something from her hand.
‘And just in case you feel like cheating…’
He smiled as his sister tied a soft cotton napkin across Morag’s eyes. ‘There you are. Oh, and can I borrow your sarong? Don’
t want to get my legs, or back, scratched up. Thanks.’
Ally waited for some reaction to lona’s cheek, but Morag’sonly answer was a shrug and another nod. Boy, was she out of it. He moved forward again and began turning an already unsteady Morag round and round.
‘Herewe go!’
Morag immediately staggered on beingreleased, but somehow kept herbalance. With both hands outstretched behind her, she found the wall and managed to lower herself on to it. Ally swivelledback towards the others, a forefinger held to his lips.
‘Ssh. Right, Morag. Start counting!’
He was relieved to see that his childish pantomime actions seemed to have infected the others with equal mirth. Even Bonnie was stifling a giggle as Fraser held a hand over her mouth. About time. She needed to lighten up. lona was evidently enjoying herself, leaning against Craig, pointing exaggeratedly and repeatedly between them and the area beyond the footbridge, having no doubt about when they intended to hide.
Slowly, Ally backed away from the others, nodding down the path towards his rendezvous, and mouthed a ‘good luck’ at them all. Then he was off. As he sprinted away, he heard Morag begin to drone a slow, monotonous count. By the time he was nearing the bend in the path, he risked a final glance back. Morag was rocking herself to and fro, like a small child, as she recited the numbers at a snail’s pace. Beyond her, in the distance, he could see lona and Craig, hand in hand, skipping over the bridge.
He smiled after them. Fine, off you go, as far away from meas possible. Enjoy yourselves. For now. It’II be short-lived.
Sixteen
Ally Sutherland looked at himself in the bathroom mirror. A hot bath and long-overdue shave had made him feel a shade better. But he was looking old, and very much the worse for wear. He knew the cause. It wasn’t just the nightmare-infused sleep or the encounter with Morag Ramsay. No, the root cause was Jules. Yet another relationship had bitten the dust. But this one had hurt hardest of all. He’d lost him. The final blow had been delivered in the early hours of the morning. He recalled making it through the front door and ridding himself of his damp clothing. Thirty seconds under an icy shower had pummelled some sense back into his aching mind and body. But not enough.
2007 - The Dead Pool Page 10