2007 - The Dead Pool (25 page)

He fumbled with the ignition key, revved the engine three times, and then switched it off again. Tentatively, he reached for the backpack on the passenger seat, slowly unzipping the main pocket. The camera felt cold to the touch. He pushed the ‘on’ button. And then pushed it off again. Not here. He had to get away. Drive normally. Even too slowly. You’re an old codger. People will expect it
.

As he swung round into his drive, he knew he’d been lucky. No police car had flagged him down. The only other worry was if he’d been caught by a speed camera. Unlikely. He’d come by the back roads. Christ, let me get inside. I need a drink, need something
.

‘
Damn!
’

He stabbed the key into the front-door lock. Once. Twice. Got it! He was in and heading straight for the kitchen, tearing off his uniform jacket and cap, suddenly feeling overheated. The whisky, the whisky! Where had he put it after filling the flask? Over there! He dragged the bottle noisily across the worktop, sloshing the first nip into the tumbler. Then another. He found the nearest chair and slumped down, lowering his head into his hands. He needed his heart to slow down, his breathing to ease. He’d forgotten the pain in his hip. In fact, it seemed to have disappeared. Or was it the explosive effect of the drink as it hit his brain, eclipsing what should now have been agony? He welcomed the fuzzy sensation in his head, the burning heat coursing through his innards
.

He snapped his head up. What was that? Something at the window? He peeredintently. But only his reflection gazed back. It was dark now. He must have been sitting here, trance-like, for ages. Easing himself to his feet, he wandered over to the back door and stared out through the glass towards the river, now in darkness. He turned his head to the left, imagining he had the long-range, X-ray vision of a superman. All hell would have broken loose a mile downstream an hour or two ago. He could imagine what the scene had looked like
.

The emergency services converging on that most inaccessible of areas. The shattered group of friends huddled nearby, the men with their arms round the women. The bloodied mass at their feet…no more! He closed his eyes, hoping against hope to regain composure
.

He’d be fine here now. Where he’d been all evening. In his own home. Minding his own business. With his sore hip. Indisposed. No patrols
.

S
itting at Jamie’s desk, Kirstin rested her head in her hands, the possibilities swimming around her mind from the morning’s encounter with Jules. He’d had no idea of the bombshell he’d dropped about Jamie, let alone his suspicions about Ally. Jules had seemed to think an old man rushing by after a brutal murder had every right to be there, particularly if he worked on the river. He’d not thought to mention it to Ally at the time, or to anyone else. Jules had been adamant; he just wanted to forget about the whole wretched day. Somehow, Kirstin had succeeded in hiding her shock and surprise from Jules at his news, but it was devastating. The simple fact was that Jamie had denied being anywhere near the river on the Sunday. Yes, Glen had shown her evidence from Jamie’s notebook that he had
planned
to go there that day. But his transcripts confirmed that he didn’t make it. She had been relieved to read that.
No patrols
. But Jules’s story told another tale. Jamie had lied. Why? What did it mean? Should she tell Ross? Speak to Glen? Donald? So much was conflicting now. Ross and his friend Harry had Morag as the guilty party. Jules had Ally—not very convincingly in her view—filling that role, though she gave his theory considerably more credence than Ross and Harry’s. And what of Jamie? Playing devil’s advocate,
if
Jules was right, and it was a big ‘if, then could Jamie have seen Ally? Over there, in the wooded area? But he would have told the police. Or did he see
something
, but didn’t know what he was seeing…until later, much later perhaps? Was that why he was so convinced of Morag’s innocence? Because he saw who
was
there? But still, he’d have gone to the police. And what if someone else knew Jamie was there? Knew what he saw…and six months later, he was
gone. Jamie, Jamie. Whatwere you doing there? What did you see? Why did you die?

The light had long gone and it was only now that she was aware of the silence. Even through the open window, she could pick up only the faintest of murmurs from the river. She’d shut herself off in this room, ignoring messages from Ross, Glen and Morag, who’d left the inpatient unit and was now resting at home. The past few hours had been strangely therapeutic for Kirstin as she skim-read and sifted through ream after ream of river-related material: internet printouts, flyers, ideas for new walks, proposals for the volunteer programme. The clear-out was almost complete, but had left her pitifully short of answers.

Only the drawers were left, two on either side. She began pulling them open. Jamie didn’t seem to have much use for drawers. The upper ones had a selection of pens and pencils. Tucked away at the back of one was a spare river association baseball cap. She pulled it out. It made her think of Glen. She needed to talk to him. The truth was, she’d missed him. The third drawer was stuck…no, locked. Definitely locked. Perhaps there was money in there, or some other valuable item? The last drawer opened freely, revealing a half-empty bottle of single malt rocking to and fro.

Maybe it was time to call it a day. She’d finish the job in the morning. As she leant forward to replace the baseball cap in the drawer, she felt something hard round the seam. The tiny pocket had been custom-made with a Velcro seal. Gently, she pulled. And out it fell. The key to the third drawer. Her heart rate picked up as she turned the stiff lock.

She slid out the thick hardbacked A 5 notebook, involuntarily stroking a palm across the front cover. The handwritten label was still pristine white:
Alternative⁄Backup Logbook. Year 2006
.

The book fell open at a well-creased page.

12⁄8⁄06

ALISTAIR SUTHERLAND
:
he is alone. He shares many traits with his sister or, at least, those that have led himto keep a busy but lonely life. I have seen what he does and who he does it with. He is a sad man. A weak man. VERDICT: NOT PROVEN (YET
)

FRASER COULTER
:
he is largely an unknown quantity to me, although I know he can be rough and boorish. He is often away from his rather grand house up there on the hillside. When he is in residence, he drinks to excess on his own. I am told (by Morag) that Coulter has some creative talents. Hard to believe. I suspect Fraser Coulter is also essentially alone. VERDICT: NOT PROVEN (YET
)

BONNIE CAMPBELL
:
seems unknowable. I have not felt it proper to watchher. It would be intrusion rather than surveillance. I think she is a genuine if rather strange person. I hope she will be able to help Morag when she needs it, as she undoubtedly will soon, I fear. VERDICT: NOT GUILTY

CRAIG IRVINE
:
I care little about this specimen. I know what Mr (he’s not fit to own the title ‘Dr’!) Irvine is doing and he is an abomination. I care not if he is alone. I do care, however, that he will leave Morag a lonely and sad person. Swine! Swine! Swine! VERDICT: GUILTY

IONA SUTHERLAND>: she is alone. I know. I’ve seen how she lives. A busy but empty life. A people-using, exploitative, self-serving life. She, like me, abhors her own company. I’m sure of it. I’ve seen her. Watched her. She is a restless and devious being. But she is alone, alone to hercore. VERDICT: GUILTY

Alone. Alone. They are all alone, I am all alone. In that, and only that, we are together
.

I will keep my eye on them all. Some to protect. Others to CONVICT
.

Sentences hould be SEVERE
.

She shoved the notebook away from her, as if its very proximity would contaminate her. But as she did so, a page fell out. A sketch. In pencil. No colour. Thankfully. The representation was unmistakable. The two bodies intertwined. In sex. In death. Around them, details of trees and foliage, those in the foreground picked out with extreme, detailed accuracy.

And then there was the third figure. Pointed hiking stick raised. Ready to deliver another, unnecessary blow. A tall figure. In uniform. Complete with baseball cap, and emblazoned on it the familiar logo: WLRA.

A self-portrait.

A
shaft of pain pierced behind her right eye. Kirstin pushed her seat back, out of the glare of the lamp and away from what lay on the desk.

How long she had been here, she had no idea. A deep chill had taken hold of her and what had started as a dull pain had turned into a full-blown headache. She moved stiffly and painfully to shut the windows despite the balmy night. She hugged herself, trying to get warm, and began wandering aimlessly through the house, eventually stopping to pour herself a drink. The smell of alcohol immediately turned her stomach, and she threw the nauseating liquid down the kitchen sink before switching on the kettle. Tea. Strong, sweet tea. She moved robotically around the kitchen, revisiting the sketch in her mind as she drank.

She’d lost track of time. Then, throwing what she could scrabble together of her belongings into two plastic carrier bags—to hell with the rest of her things—she checked for the keys to her flat. Safe in a side pocket. All she wanted was to get away from this place. Except, she had nowhere to go now that her flat had been rented out.

She slumped down on to the bottom of the stairs.
I need time, a place to think!
Moments later, she jumped up, grabbed her bags and headed out to the car. She breathed deeply…and then again…trying, willing herself to find some composure. The night air was warm with a hint of welcome humidity. She tumbled her bags into the back seat and moved behind the wheel. As she lifted her hand towards the ignition key, she noticed the shaking, and she struggled to insert the key. Now what? Where in God’s name was she going to go? Ross was out of the question.
God, Ross! How am I going to tellyou? How?

She fumbled with her phone and, falteringly, her trembling fingers found Glen’s number. Surely she could go round to his place tonight? She was a fraction away from pressing the call button, when she let the phone drop into her lap. No, not Glen. He wasn’t the right person to discuss this with first. He must have hidden the other logs from the police for good reason. To protect the association, and to protect Jamie. Now what was she going to tell him? That Jamie had duped him, had duped them all.

She leant forward, head pressed against the steering wheel, and closed her eyes as if that very action could negate the last hour. Numbness. A cold, anaesthetizing numbness. To her core. No tears. No cries of unimaginable pain, shock, horror. Just shaking. Trembling. And a feeling of nothingness. She was aware of her own laboured breathing, the one sign that her body was responding to trauma.

The rat-a-tat on the driver’s window was thunderous.

‘Kirstin?
Ktrstin!
What are you doing?’

Morag’s scowling face was inches away from her own, separated only by the glass. Kirstin stared back, making no immediate attempt to open either window or door. Morag took the initiative and wrenched at the door handle.

Kirstin sipped greedily at the warm tea. Sitting in front of her, Morag was turning the notebook over and over in her hands. Eventually she dropped it on to the coffee table and reached for her drink. She ignored her own tea and grasped the brandy, throwing a mouthful down and grimacing. ‘I cannot understand this, Kirstin. I can’t believe…’

Kirstin nodded as Morag trailed off into incredulous silence. ‘I know, I know. But look at the sketch. Why? Why would he do that if…? I mean, it’s a sick thing to draw under any circumstances. If he drew that and he…well, and he wasn’t
involved
, that would be unforgivable in itself. But…the whole
tone
of the log. There’s no other explanation.
Jesus
. I need to speak to Ross. And the police.’

Matching Morag, she swapped the tea mug for her brandy glass. ‘You’ve been vilified all this time. It’s been so wrong.
So wrong!
’

‘Indeed.’ Morag was nodding her head, surprisingly unflustered. ‘It also offers a clearer idea of why Jamie died. It must be looked at as suicide, surely?’ She sipped slowly at her drink. ‘I find it baffling. Jamie wanted to help me. So he said. Why? Why do that?’

Kirstin offered a sad smile. ‘Because he didn’t want you, of all people, to get into trouble for what he’d done. Remember, he must have believed, given what was probably going through his mind at the time, that he was ridding you of a menace. Craig.’ She paused, feeling surprisingly refreshed, lucid and composed. She couldn’t afford to lose control just yet. For Morag’s sake, even though she seemed to be holding up well. Of all the people to turn up at that moment, she’d been the one to come over, frustrated at her phone messages being ignored. And what had she found? A practically catatonic Kirstin, unable to function. Morag had taken the wheel and driven them back to her house, provided tea, booze, and eventually extracted the truth from her, remaining remarkably calm throughout.

Kirstin leant forward. ‘Look. This is all too new to take in. I don’t think we’re ever going to know exactly how it happened. But I’m convinced now—and I think Ross was right on this—that Jamie was ill. Mentally ill. I tried to deny that before, when Glen showed me some of the logbook entries. But, it was like another Jamie. Full of bitterness, fury, hate. And one who could unleash terrifying violence. I suppose…well, they say we’re all capable of doing that, given the appropriate circumstances.’

She caught Morag’s frown—of disagreement? Disapproval? And quickly she held up a hand.

‘I’m not, and please be clear on this, Morag, I am
not
excusing the inexcusable. I’m just casting around for some sort of explanation. I can’t begin to know what this news must feel like, what you’ve suffered. Losing Craig, losing your freedom, the persecution, everything.’ She paused for a second time. ‘I think that whatever Jamie did was done on the spur of the moment. He lashed out. I don’t know why. Maybe there was a row. Perhaps he was…well, appalled at finding them there, in that position, and it all escalated. I don’t know and…frankly, I can’t believe I’m sitting here trying to justify bloody murder.’