2007 - The Dead Pool

by Sue Walker; Prefers to remain anonymous

  Now it was Donald’s turn to apologize. He sat forward, hands held out. ‘No, no, no. I didn’t mean to criticize. It was a kind thing to do, coming here. Frankly, I don’t know what I’d have done if the police had just turned up here with that sort of news about Jamie. It was bad enough when he died. But this? It would have just about killed me.’

  Kirstin gave Donald’s hand a final squeeze and stood up. ‘I must go now. I’m going to see Glen and then, after that, well, it’ll be time to talk with the police.’

  As he escorted her to the door, one hand lightly on her shoulder, Donald slowed his pace and then stopped. They were standing in the hallway. He moved back from her, a look of worry on his face. ‘I should have thought more about this at the time, and especially after his death. But I put it to the back of my mind. I was actually going to tell you about it when you first came to visit a couple of weeks ago.’

  Kirstin frowned. ‘Tell me about what?’

  In answer, Donald moved to a small wedge-shaped door positioned under the stairs. He opened it and disappeared down some concrete steps. Two minutes later he emerged, clutching a slightly battered cardboard box, sealed with brown packing tape.

  ‘See this? Jamie left it with me. Under strict instructions never to give it to anybody unless he said so. He was very firm, very secretive, very obsessive, almost hysterical about it. It was when he was acting at his oddest. When he died, I felt very strange about having this. But a promise is a promise. He didn’t give me permission to look inside. Nor have I. I was going to destroy it. Chuck the whole damn thing on a bonfire come the winter.’ He paused, shaking his head at the box. ‘Now I’m going to break my vow. Here. Have it.’

  Reluctantly he held out the box. Kirstin took it, feeling faintly bewildered. He moved swiftly to open the door for her.

  ‘Goodbye, Kirstin dear. We’ll meet again. But please, unless you have to, don’t ever tell me what’s in that box.’

  Thirty-Eight

  Kirstin was relieved to be sitting in the quiet lay-by off the Ayo. The rain had, at last, arrived. Its steady hammering, as the deluging stair rods hit the roof of the car, was strangely soothing. The break in the oppressive weather seemed, uncannily, to match her mood. A cathartic outpouring, but also the sort of dull grey light you could hide in. A cocoon.

  Donald’s farewell words had remained stubbornly with her as she’d driven out towards Glen’s offices. Once she’d placed the box on the back seat she’d decided she wasn’t going to open it here, alone. She put the car into gear and prepared to pull away, taking a final glance at the notebook and the bundle of photographs lying beside her. Glen was the last person she had to show them to before the police saw them. Then she could relinquish all responsibility for them. God, how she looked forward to that moment. There would unquestionably be some raised eyebrows when it emerged that she’d withheld evidence for a day. But she’d face that one when it came to it.

  The reception desk was deserted. No Rory, struggling with the switchboard. She stood stranded in the middle of the floor, casting around for any sign of life. But along the corridor all the office doors were firmly shut. Then she heard the click of one opening.

  ‘Hi.’

  He was strolling towards her, smiling.

  The next moment she had collapsed into his arms, the sobs that had been held in for so long at last finding their voice.

  She’d awoken to the smell of cooking. She could hear the reassuring sounds of Glen moving about his kitchen as he prepared dinner. From the bed she could see the rain, still in stair-rod formation, sheeting down outside, the battering on the iron balcony rising and falling as the downpour periodically lessened and strengthened again. And underneath, the whoosh of a now swollen Water of Leith as it swirled by. A flash of what the Cauldron must be like at this moment—perilous, as on the night of Jamie’s death—passed through her mind. She pushed the image away.

  Resting back on the pillows, she thought over the last hours. Following her collapse at Glen’s office, he’d given her a drink that had been, temporarily, restorative, allowing her to unfold the story, complete with notebook and photographs. Oddly, she couldn’t recall much of his reaction. This fourth retelling had just poured out of her between uncontrollable sobbing. He’d looked stricken, for sure. But he’d been gentle and calm. Driving her back to his home, he’d held her hand constantly, cooing reassurances at her. ‘It’ll be all right, Kirsty. It’ll be all right.’

  Padding through to the kitchen, she caught him unawares, humming along to the delicate strains of Vaughan Williams’s The Lark Ascending. His choice of music left her with mixed feelings. It had been one of Jamie’s favourites.

  Hearing her, Glen swung round, wooden spoon in hand, a look of surprise and joy on his face. ‘Well, well. You look a billion times brighter.’

  She moved forward to hug him. ‘I am. I feel a bit…wobbly. But I’m fine. I think I’ll take a shower. Oh, but before that, I need to go down to the car. Where are my keys?’

  He frowned. ‘They’re on the hall table. You going for the box?’ She nodded. ‘You sure?’ She smiled. ‘Yes, I’m sure.’

  She sat cross-legged on Glen’s bed, the unopened box before her. Glen had understood and left her alone. He’d switched on a bedside lamp for her and shut the door gently behind him as he returned to his kitchen duties.

  The tape peeled away easily. She noticed the trembling in her hands as she pulled back the flaps. Part of her had an almost irresistibly powerful urge to package the thing back up again. Hide it. Have someone else do the dirty work. But no. Now was the time.

  Her first reaction was disappointment. Stuffed on top was the familiar blue-and-green fabric of one of Jamie’s uniforms. She pulled it out, the faint scent of Old Spice floating upwards, catapulting her back to countless hugs and embraces over the years. For some reason, the memory of an exceptionally happy Christmas six years before stayed with her for a moment. Jamie, smart and spruce as ever, with a silly tinsel scarf swirled round his neck, beaming at her as he plied her with more champagne. ‘You’re the best thing that ever happened to Ross. You’re a bit ofa miracle.’

  She peered down into the box. A couple of buff cardboard document wallets lay flat at the bottom. But it was the small black zipped bag that caught her eye. As she lifted it out she saw the word and knew immediately what she was holding.

  Nikon.

  Thirty-Nine

  The camera wouldn’t work. She’d tried all the buttons, and then she realized. The battery. Fumbling with the case, she unzipped a side pocket and found a spare one. The particular model of camera was unfamiliar to her, but in a couple of minutes she’d worked it out. The rectangular viewing screen came to life.

  Nothing.

  There were no images. The camera’s memory card was blank.

  She shrugged and sat back, staring at the box. A moment later, she leant forward and delved into it. Running her hand over the top of one of the document wallets, she felt a bump—or was it two? Her fingers latched on to something. Pulling it out, she nodded. Another memory card. She found herself fumbling again with the unfamiliar equipment. But this time, when she brought the screen to life, there was something there.

  Thumbing through the initial images, she recognized the terrain. There was the viaduct. After that, long shots of the path leading to the Cauldron. And then the weir. The next ones were unfamiliar. At least, in their camera angles. She squinted at them. It was the weir all right. But…What angle?…Yes! They were taken from the other side. There was the wall by the weir, and the Cauldron as seen from the opposite side.

  The next photographs offered a flurry of images. She caught her breath as she recognized the subjects. He’d caught them all. In groups and individually. The attractive woman in the bikini had to be lona Sutherland, leaning on her brother. Bonnie Campbell was next, throwing stones into the Cauldron. And…yes, that was Craig Irvine. She’d seen photographs of him at Morag’s house. He was swigging from a large beer bottle with…E
raser Coulter, presumably.

  Kirstin paused. What were these photos? How often did Jamie try to film the group? And why? To catch them out? Tentatively, she thumbed forward. At last, there were some images of Morag. At the wall, looking blank. On her own. Then she was leaning against it. Finally, she had her eyes covered with some kind of blindfold, her lips open, mouthing something.

  Numbers.

  One to a hundred. The hide-and-seek game. So that meant…Kirstin flicked back through the images. She’d not been paying attention. But now it jumped out at her. The burnt-in time code was there. As was the date: 13.08.2006

  Kirstin dropped the camera on to the bed, suddenly aware again of the rattling from the kitchen, the battering of the rain on the balcony, the rush of the river below. She shut her eyes tight, predicting what was to come. Preparing herself for the next images. Not a pencil sketch. No. Rather, the fleshed-out, technicolour-bright depiction of ghastly reality. Still with eyes closed, she felt for the camera and found the button, pressing it to bring up the next image. Painfully slowly, she opened her eyes and found the rectangle of light. Her breathing stopped. What? What the hell was that? Frantically, she flicked forward a couple of frames and then back again. The vantage point still the far side of the weir.

  But the lens was looking away from the Cauldron and the picnicking area, up towards the hill behind. A figure. That was it. There was a figure. She flicked forward again. Each frame brought the shape closer and closer. Binoculars. Holding binoculars to their eyes. Looking down at the Cauldron. Next: male, the figure was definitely male. Next: bare arms and red clothing. A T·shirt, the wording on it indistinct. Next: arms lowered, binoculars in hands. Next: each piece of visual data assaulted her simultaneously. The red T·shirt. Abercrombie. The sun-bleached hair. There he was in close-up.

  ‘Kirstin?’

  She yelped as the door opened. The camera dropped from her hands, bouncing off the bed to land on the carpet at his feet.

  Face up.

  Fourty

  Head tilted, Glen peered at the object on the floor. Then, as if in slow-motion, he lowered his body to a squat. One strong hand reached out to grasp the camera and hold the viewing screen in front of his eyes. He seemed to take forever, scrutinizing and studying the image, an expression of puzzled interest creasing his features. And then she saw a look of recognition flutter across his features. He knew exactly what he was seeing. And what it meant.

  Kirstin shifted. The bed gave out a complaining creak, and Glen snapped his head up. Unhurriedly, he stood to his full height and approached her. Immediately, she leapt off’ the bed but found herself marooned. It was like the Alistair Sutherland episode all over again. Glen was between her and the door. The bed lay between them. The balcony, and a sickening drop into the tumult of the river, was her only means of escape.

  He stopped and took a step back, holding the camera out in front of him. ‘Look, this is not what you think. I…I had no idea…is this…this from the box? Jamie’s box? Is it?’

  She nodded, and her eyes began scanning around the room, searching hopelessly for another way out.

  He was staying put. ‘Please, Kirstin. I didn’t know Jamie had this. I can explain, please.’ He was inching forward again.

  ‘Keep away from me!’ She was aware of something sticking out from under the bed. With her eyes fixed on him, she allowed herself to bend slightly at the knees. She sneaked a quick glance, reached out, and grasped her weapon: a canoe oar.

  Raising both hands in submission, he backed off. She used the breathing space to pounce forward and snatch her mobile phone from the bed.

  ‘What the hell are you doing, Kirstin?’

  Her immediate panic had subsided. She had a lifeline. Two. The oar and the phone. ‘I’m doing what I should have done last night. Calling the police.’

  At that, he let the camera fall, and moving with breathtaking speed, leapt across the bed to imprison her in a bear hug. ‘No, please don’t do that. Don’t! Let me explain.’

  Her scream ripped through the rain’s incessant hammering on the iron balcony, drowning out the rush of the river below. The mobile and the oar fell from her hands as she began lashing out, kicking and scratching. For a moment, she thought his grip was going to snap her spine and then, without warning, he released her.

  Quickly, he backed off to resume his place by the door. ‘Please, wait. I admit, I was there that day. Like Jamie was. He raised the issue with me a few days later. He’d seen me. I think he thought I’d seen him. I hadn’t. He told me he’d been determined to catch them out. And that Sunday was going to be his best, probably his only chance for the rest of the summer. They were all going away after that. I laughed when he told me. Because that’s exactly why I was there. I deliberately never told him what I was going to do. I didn’t want him there that day, perhaps losing his rag, spoiling my chance to sort those…little shits out. I believed him when he called me to say he wasn’t going to be able to go out, because of his hip. Thinking back, I wonder if he was just checking to see who else might be about.

  ‘The truth is, Kirstin, I left before anything happened. I’d seen what I needed to. With my own eyes. The booze, the drugs, the littering, the whole bloody shooting match.’

  He let out a half laugh. ‘I was even going to call Jamie when I got back that Sunday to tell him what I’d done. I knew he’d be pleased as punch. But I changed my mind. I’d had enough of work for a Sunday. I just wanted to chill out. You can believe it or not. But it’s true. It’s true!’

  The oar was back in her hands, but the mobile was out of reach somewhere under the bed. ‘Why didn’t you tell anyone? You should have gone to the police.’

  He bent down to pick up the camera, one hand raised in a gesture of surrender, and moved forward to perch on the far end of the bed. She had the advantage of height over him now. He let out a long sigh. ‘With hindsight there are so many things that I should have gone to the police about. The logs, for one. I should never have hidden them. But I didn’t want Jamie getting into trouble. And yes, before you say it, I was worried about my job and the association. Of course that was a consideration. But that was nothing compared to being there that day. Me and him. Shit! It was enough, me deciding not to tell the police I was there. But when Jamie came to me, I knew what had to be done. The two of us would have to lie. Yes, I admit again, I did wrong. I lied. But I felt I had nothing to tell. I didn’t see anything. Jamie claimed the same thing. I believed him. I had no reason not to.’

  He paused to wipe a finger across his face. He was sweating heavily now. ‘So, yes, we made a sort of pact. To protect each other. And what a fool he made of me.’

  He shifted further along the edge of the bed. She was tracking his every move with suspicious eyes.

  Her grip tightened on the oar. ‘Pact. That’s a funny word ‘ to use. It implies conspiracy. Were you accomplices? Is that what was going on? You and Jamie. All cosy together. And is that what the bequest was all about? He gives you Mill House in some perverted quid pro quo arrangement? And, you know what else? Maybe that…that wretched sketch wasn’t a self-portrait of Jamie after all. Maybe…maybe it was

  He jumped to his feet, shaking his head. ‘No! No, no, no! For fuck’s sake, Kirstin. Listen to yourself. That’s…delusional nonsense!! did nothingto anybody. No harm. I swear it!’

  He tossed the camera towards her and retreated to the door. With a firm tug, he opened it. ‘There’s nothing else I can say or do. You either believe me or you don’t. I’m sorry, I should have told you I was there that day. I’ll obviously tell the police everything. It’s the least I can do. Oh, and by the way, I’ve never worn a river association uniform in my life. So why the hell would Jamie sketch me in one, tell me that?’

  He disappeared through the doorway. Her body was still trembling and she collapsed on to the bed, the oar falling at her feet. She looked around the room. Suddenly she was aware of the hammering rain outside, the gushing river below. But everything was crowding
in. Trapping her. Hurriedly, she stuffed the camera back into the box and folded down the flaps. In the hallway, she found her shoes and bag. For a moment she stood listening. Where was he? Not a sound. No music. No television. No signs of life. But he was somewhere. Heaving the box under her arm, she turned to go, clicking the front door gently behind her. As she tip-toed down the steps, she heard it. The sound of a mobile ringing. Her mobile. She cursed as the memory hit her. Her second lifeline was lying out of reach under Glen’s bed.

  Pray she wouldn’t need it.

  Fourty-One

  Morag was grateful, happy even, for the rain. She sat in her darkened kitchen with the patio doors open, allowing the spatters of spray to shower her bare legs and feet. The heatwave had broken. The thunder had started its rumbling overhead and she could just about make out faint lightning flickers far into the distance. She sighed and sipped at her champagne. She had known one day there’d be a use for that last bottle, hidden at the back of the fridge.

  The remnants of a solitary but satisfying dinner lay at her elbow. It was a good sign that she was eating. That she had actually cooked. And there were other signs of improvement. She’d had her hair done. Actually walked boldly into a top salon in town and paid for a makeover. And then splashed out on new make·up;. She felt like a lottery winner.

  Her spirits had lifted into the stratosphere. But—and she had to be careful in admitting these feelings of exultation, especially to Kirstin—the bombshell about Jamie was a blessed relief to her. All day she’d fought the urge to run outside, jubilant, proclaiming her news. ‘I’m innocent! I’m innocent! To hellwith you all!’ And then she’d fallen back to earth. Her salvation would come too late. She had to be resigned to losing her home. That was imminent, unstoppable, though bitterly unfair. The thought drove her to near fury. But exoneration would be hers eventually, if not fast enough. She could sell her story, seek compensation perhaps? And then use the spoils to bury herself in anonymity. Starting a new life, making a fresh start, would still be the only answer. She should be cheered by the thought. Either that, or she could sink back into her recent despair.