No Suspicious Circumstances

by The Mulgray Twins

  I made another show of checking my watch. 21.30. Twilight was not long off. I struggled to remember those tide tables. Had I left it too late? Even if the tide had begun to cover the causeway, perhaps I could still wade across. There was no other option.

  ‘Deal’s off, Spinks,’ I bawled. ‘My organisation won’t like being messed up like this.’ The unspoken threat wouldn’t do any harm, might even do some good.

  While waiting out my ultimatum, I’d been covertly studying my immediate surroundings. Past the block of buildings where he almost certainly lay concealed, a flight of steps in surprisingly good condition led up to raised ground. To my left was a narrow tarmac road edged by brambles and stunted elderberry trees. It would have to be that way. I couldn’t risk going closer to him, and I could move a lot quicker on level ground.

  Without a backward glance, I set off casually, yet purposefully. Fast, yet not at a tell-tale run. I half-expected a shout or even a bullet, but there was no reaction, no reaction at all. Worrying. I hurried past more ruined buildings, more shapeless lumps of concrete, the flotsam and jetsam from a half-forgotten war.

  I was making good progress, but it was definitely twilight now. A sharp turn in the road unveiled a spectacular view of the Forth Bridge, its tracery of iron girders silhouetted against the darkening sky. Soon the light would be gone. I increased my pace. It couldn’t be far to the causeway.

  Where was Spinks? He hadn’t enticed me here only to let me walk away. He must have something in mind. And that very moment I found out what it was.

  I had subconsciously noted an unusual density about one of the bramble bushes ahead. Now my heart leapt into my throat as a grotesque scarecrow figure loomed from the tangle of undergrowth. Poised for flight, with dry mouth, I stared at it. Then I let out my breath in a long sigh. It was nothing but an old anorak hood stuffed with twigs, and a hand fashioned from a pink rubber glove, pointing to a clump of trees a short distance ahead. A rough cardboard notice crudely lettered in black paint hung round the scarecrow’s neck. A large red R had been inserted between the O and the P.

  TO THE CORPSE.

  I swallowed hard. He was trying to soften me up with scare tactics. He must have counted on me coming by this more direct road back to the causeway, in fact probably had something similar arranged whichever route I’d decided to take. The road ran close by the trees indicated by that grisly pink finger. I’d have to pass within a few yards of the little wood. But I didn’t have time to turn back.

  Trying not to think about what might be in there, I set off. Of course, the effigy might not be Spinks’s work. Just part of some childish game. By the time I drew level with the trees I had almost convinced myself. One thing for sure, I’d definitely not be investigating…

  Nevertheless, I couldn’t help a quick sideways glance as I hurried by. Thick brown trunks, a tangle of undergrowth – and in that darker darkness under the canopy, a splash of scarlet. Resolution forgotten, I slowed, came to a stop. Above the red patch, a paler blob. Someone in a red jacket was crouching at the base of a tree. I saw again Kumiko Matsuura in her red jacket crossing the mist-shrouded courtyard of Tantallon Castle… He’d stationed her here to ambush me.

  In a surge of anger, I stooped, picked up a stone, and flung it as hard as I could, aiming to hurt. I heard the soft thump of it hitting its target and tensed myself for a reaction. But there was none. No startled cry, no convulsive leap forward. I hurled another stone. Again it struck home.

  Curiosity triumphed over self-preservation. And that was exactly what he wanted. I knew it, but couldn’t stop myself going over to investigate. Out in the open, there had been just enough light to see. Here under the trees I had to use my torch. Holding it in my left hand, I unzipped my jacket and used the cloth to shield the beam.

  The bright spot moved over the rough undergrowth. Fireweed, nettles, a rotten branch – and a soft low-heeled shoe. I let the pool of light rest on it for a long moment before I could steel myself to inch the beam slowly forward and up. A stockinged foot, tight black trousers, red jacket – the ray of light hesitated, then moved on upward.

  The oriental face was a waxen theatrical mask, the almond eyes sightless dark wells. The thin gold streak in the black hair shimmered in the wavering light as, involuntarily, my hand shook. I swallowed hard. Lightly, I touched the back of my fingers to the marble cheek. Cold, but not icy. Indisputably dead. But how had death come? Slowly, I let the beam of light travel over the crouching figure. No blood, no horribly distorted features – and no visible means of support against the Law of Gravity. Someone was giggling uncontrollably, and I realised it was myself. Reaction, of course, but not altogether seemly when face to face with a corpse.

  Several deep breaths brought my nerves back under control. I put out my hand and gave the limp body a gentle push. As her head tilted slightly to the side, the dead eyes glittered balefully in the torchlight. I jumped back, barely managing to stifle a scream. I’d allowed Spinks to get under my skin again.

  Irritation overcoming revulsion, I made a closer examination of Kumiko. Like the invisible strings controlling a marionette, the strands of her wiry black hair stretched tautly between the lolling head and a thorny-stemmed bramble. That, and the savage thorns of the bramble thicket hooked into her clothes, explained the upright head and the half-crouching position of her body. Poor Madam Butterfly, betrayed by her American. A sudden sharp pressure on the carotid artery would have been enough… All he’d have to do was shelter the body under a dark raincoat, and by the time she was found it might very well appear to be a tragic case of a tourist having been taken ill, death hastened by hypothermia in the damp and chilly Scottish summer.

  Moral – don’t let Hiram J Spinks get too close. And wasn’t that exactly what I was now doing? He’d killed because it suited him to set all this up, to delay me while he moved in closer for another kill. It was more than time I got out of here. To use my torch would give away my exact position. I snapped it off.

  With the torch extinguished, it was pitch black in the little copse. Every sound seemed magnified, every rustle and creak a threat. The hair on the nape of my neck bristled. I spun round. Only the wind. I stumbled through the long grass in the direction of the road.

  When at last I felt the smooth tarmac underfoot, I glanced back at the red smudge of jacket, no pale blob above it now. What had been Kumiko Matsuura’s last thoughts? The still figure under the trees must have felt secure in the knowledge that I was to be the next victim. Instead, she had been the one to die.

  Self-preservation must be my priority. Fighting down increasing unease, I hurried on, trying to take some bearings. The banks of cloud had cleared from the west, revealing a sky bright with afterglow. There was perceptibly less daylight now than before. Far from heading towards the causeway, the road was twisting back on itself. I seemed to be retracing my steps.

  There was no doubt about it. The road was taking me back to a point just above those abandoned army huts. Somewhere ahead was Spinks. On the rising ground three hundred yards off to my right, my peripheral vision caught a flicker of movement. There, then gone. I stood stock-still, mouth dry, eyes straining. Nothing. I closed my eyes briefly to rest them. When I looked again, on top of the small hill ahead, black against the greenish-yellow sky, a figure stood silhouetted. Waiting.

  My first instinct was to run, the next to drop to the ground. I compromised. Crouching low, and turning my face away, I scuttled sideways into the cover of the long grass that bordered the road. I didn’t look back. That waxen face above the red jacket had been visible from some distance. No tell-tale white blob would give away my position. Of course, if he had a nightscope… I tried to visualise the layout of the island as I had seen it in daylight. If I cut downhill at this point, it should bring me out at the ruined cottage. From there, it was only a short way back to the causeway.

  But an easy cross-country ramble by daylight proved in the semi-darkness to be a nightmare. After crashing to the ground over a boul
der and then into a bramble thicket, I had to slow my headlong rush. Grazed knees and scratched arms were painful, but a twisted ankle would spell disaster. I scurried through the long grass, knowing now what it felt like to be a mouse hunted by an owl, a mouse fearful of the cruel eyes watching from the heights, a mouse cringing as a dark shape blotted out the stars before the kill.

  That denser patch of blackness ahead could be the trees sheltering the ruin in the hollow. A clump of trees, and that should mean… Without warning, the ground under my feet dipped, and I pitched forward, rolling and sliding, rolling and sliding… Winded, I lay on the damp earth for a moment, staring up at the dark sky slashed by the luminous green and blue of the afterglow. The acrid smell of wood smoke was unmistakable. I’d found the ruin.

  For the first time since my discovery of Spinks’s latest victim, this moment of inactivity gave me the chance to think clearly. It didn’t seem such a good idea, now, to hide in the ruin. These tumbledown walls, even with their thick covering of ivy, would provide little in the way of concealment. At this moment he would see no need to hurry, would enjoy playing with his little mouse. Later, when daylight came, the hollow would become nothing but a trap. He only had to stand on the lip, watch for movement, and…

  My only chance lay in making it to the causeway. From here it wasn’t far, only about ten minutes – or would have been in daylight. Time was running out. I had to cross before the tide rose above the causeway and made escape impossible. To move quickly I would have to use the torch. And that would tell Spinks exactly where I was. But I had no choice.

  The broad beam of the torch played over the tangle of undergrowth as brightly, and as visibly, as a searchlight. I was certainly betraying my position and there could be no turning back. What I was looking for was the outcrop of rock that marked the path down to the causeway. There – over to my left.

  Sounds carry clearly on the night air. Behind me, I couldn’t judge how far, but it seemed frighteningly close, came a shout and the crashing of a heavy body forcing its way through the scrub. Grouse-beaters use the same tactics to flush their quarry. Ignoring the sharp twigs and branches that plucked and tore at clothes and unprotected hands and face, I scrambled up the steep slope. The wavering beam picked up beaten earth. The path at last. I hurried along it, grateful for the easier going.

  As I rounded an outcrop of rock, the lights of Edinburgh sparkled, yellow and white pinpricks against the dark land mass. Lights, people, safety. All so near, yet they might as well have been on the moon.

  Only eight minutes or so should take me to the causeway. Fighting down an overwhelming compulsion to glance back, I ran on, the bobbing torch pinpointing my position all too accurately. No matter how close he was, there was nothing I could do. The pool of light danced before me along the path, sending black patterns flickering over the knee-high grass and bracken on either side. I tried to keep my mind clear of any thought other than where best to place my feet on the uneven ground… The going had been steeply downhill for quite a few minutes… I risked a glance upwards and ahead. The causeway should be in sight now.

  There was no causeway, just water stretching from one shore to the other. Black water under a black sky. I stopped, heart in mouth. Perhaps it was a bit further on… No, there was the squat building, and the small stretch of sand, narrower, much narrower now. My boots sank into the shingle as I raced along the beach. Panting, I scrambled over the rocks and dropped down into ankle-deep water. I heard more shouts from behind. Desperately, I began splashing my way towards the nearest causeway-marker, a good hundred yards further out.

  It may have been summer, but the water was icy cold. I had to force my legs forward against the pressure, and by the time I was waist deep my progress had been reduced to a nightmarish slow motion. Small waves sent the water surging chest high. I eyed the ten yards that still separated me from the concrete pillar that marked the causeway. Impossible. I’d have to go back and find a hiding place among the rocks.

  A wave splashed up into my face, then another. Salt stung my eyes. My teeth were already chattering, and the cold that was numbing my body began to creep into my brain… Better to take my chance among the rocks than to die of hypothermia here in the water. My mind made up, I began to wade back towards the beach.

  A couple of yards in front of me, the water erupted in a fountain of spray. Another fountain, to my left, and closer. A third beside my right shoulder sent water spurting up into my face. Slowly, my dulled brain grasped what was happening. Someone was hurling stones at me from the shore. The creeping effects of hypothermia must have been further advanced than I’d realised, for it took a few seconds longer to work out that the someone must be Spinks. The stones were as efficient as bullets to drive me away from the shore. And there’d be no tell-tale gunshot wound. He was giving me a choice. Drowning after hypothermia, or drowning after concussion, a slow slipping into unconsciousness or a sudden sharp oblivion.

  I considered the options and rejected them both. I wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of yet another neatly arranged fatality. A stone splashed alarmingly close. There was another choice, and that was to swim out to sea, using not a fast crawl but a slow breast stroke. With luck, he’d fail to spot my head against the dark water and think that he’d scored a hit.

  I struck out in the rough direction of the markers, each moment anticipating the stone that would come smashing into the back of my skull. Any splash would betray my position, but too much caution spelt certain death. I set myself a target of strokes. Eighteen…nineteen…twenty. Then another twenty. My clothes dragged in the water and lead weights seemed to have attached themselves to my arms and legs. Strangely, I no longer felt so cold. Eighteen…nineteen…twenty. Must be close, must be. I was.

  Immediately in front of me the first marker reared up into the night sky. I lowered my feet and they grounded not on soft sand but on stone. As I moved forward, the water fell to my waist, then my knees. I’d found the causeway. On legs that weren’t quite under my command, I waded towards the next marker, and the next, and the next…

  …I stopped, chest heaving. I must be a third of the way across. The lights of Cramond seemed a little closer. But the water was deeper, much deeper now. Waist deep. My right foot stepped on nothing and I lurched forward. Cold water filled my mouth, my ears, surged over my head. I rose spluttering to the surface. Bloody fool. I’d walked off the causeway. I flailed towards the dim shape of a marker and sobbed with relief as a knee grazed painfully on the causeway’s raised edge.

  It was no use. My strength was ebbing away. It was time to admit that without help I wasn’t going to make it to the mainland. I reached into my pocket and dragged out the transmitter. As I fumbled to pull off the top, the thin cylinder slid from my clumsy, numbed fingers and splashed into the sea. I made a desperate lunge for it…but it had gone.

  Tears of weakness and exhaustion coursed down my face. I couldn’t continue. I couldn’t. Spinks had won. No, he bloody well hadn’t. In a surge of adrenalin-fuelled rage, I plunged recklessly forward, my target another marker. Then another. Staggering blindly on…

  …The cool night air sliced through my soaked clothes. Violent shivers shook my body. When the shivers stop, that’s the time to worry. Behind me, the northern sky still retained a faint greenish glow. I must concentrate, not let my mind wander. Ahead, the pencil line of markers merged with the darkness. I’d have to make sure I was in line with them, or I’d stumble off the causeway again. I passed another one. How many to go? I could vaguely remember counting them on my way across to the island. I hadn’t thought it would really matter then. It had just been something to do. How many? It suddenly seemed desperately important. 180… 250… 300…? It couldn’t be 300. I’d never make it. How long between them? I started counting the seconds… One second, two seconds…eight seconds… Level with the next marker. Keep a count. Then I’d know… Know what? I’d reached the next one. Know…my sluggish brain delivered the answer… Know how many I’d passed.
Something wrong there. I tried again. Know how many there were… I waded past another two while I thought that out. I’d counted them, hadn’t I? On the way to meet that American gangster. What was his name…? Hamburger, Hiramburger…? Two Hiramburgers with tomato sauce, please. I laughed uproariously at my witticism.

  It was not so cold now. I was hardly shivering at all. That was good, wasn’t it? But I must concentrate on the markers, start counting again. Seconds or Hiramburgers? I giggled. One Hiramburger…two Hiramburgers…ten Hiramburgers. Another marker. Was I going faster or slower? I struggled to work it out. Couldn’t. Gave up… How many were behind? More than 150 anyway. 150 out of… I had counted them on the way across. Same as someone’s birthday. Mine? July the 28th, seventh month. 728. There couldn’t be so many. No feeling in my feet. Legs not functioning much either. Dark water swirling shoulder deep, pulling, tugging…

  Half swimming, I pushed forward in a peculiar high-stepping walk like some slow-motion replay. 28th of the 7th. That was it! 287 markers. And I’d already passed… Couldn’t quite remember… But it was a lot, definitely a lot. Can’t be many more now, can’t be. Yes, the town lights were really close, no longer just pinpricks. Street lamps, lighted windows. My splashes and the slapping of the tide against the markers were drowned out by a roaring whine overhead, a plane on the flight path to the airport. Its landing light spilt a silvery imitation moonlight across the water. Tourists and businessmen were cocooned and warm in their little capsule, while I…

  Too many markers. Might as well give up. Tired, eyes closing… Mouth filled with water. Choking, spluttering. I must have blacked out. I was drifting, no longer resisting the tide, drifting on the current like a modern Ophelia, but without the flowers, of course. Hiramburger’s latest victim.