2007 - The Dead Pool (3 page)

Slowly, he got to his feet and wandered over to the window. He stood with his ramrod straight back towards her, a stance which in other circumstances he would have considered uncommonly rude. But she knew he was thinking about more important matters than social etiquette. Still with his back to her, he stared unseeingly towards the golf course, his voice a quivering whisper.

‘Frankly, Kirstin, I’ve not had a proper night’s sleep since he went. The thought of him out there, in a place he loved, where he felt happy and secure, suddenly finding himself struggling against the waters, helpless, in terror. It’s left me worried, very worried.’ He turned to face her, eyes pleading, body rigid. ‘And, if truth be known, a bit frightened.’

T
he sun would be setting soon, but Kirstin knew she had time before dark. She paused at the Roseburn Cliff entrance to the river path. She was always amazed at how, within moments of leaving this bustling area of shops, flats and a main road, she could be down on the walkway and enjoying the quiet, riverside bliss. As if she were in the middle of the countryside. From here she could make it to the Cauldron in a few minutes if she hurried. Kirstin breathed in the evening air gratefully, glad to be free of the stuffy golf club atmosphere. There were still a handful of dog-walkers, joggers and evening strollers about.

The last time she’d been along here had been with Jamie, on a crisp autumn day, so unlike now. After her divorce from Ross and well after Jean had gone. Jamie had enjoyed showing her his latest enthusiasm. His voice had held an almost childish excitement…’
This river work is going to save me from old age and despair. I find it so hard to manage without Jeannie but all this beauty around me, and showing it to others, will help. It’s got to
.’

And had it? Jamie was certainly rejuvenated and enlivened that day, reaching out to her with an intimacy she now missed. He’d shared an acute insight into his son and had been brutally honest as they’d strolled along the riverbank.

I didn’t want to raise anything like this with you when you were married, but I always thought Ross wasn’t good enough for you. That may seem wrong coming from his father, but…
’

He’d looked directly at her then. Seeking permission to go on?

‘
But I think he’s far more
driven
than I ever was or, rather, driven by the wrong things. Ambition can be a fine quality if it’s kept separate from ruthlessness and selfishness. But too often it turns into a callous, self-seeking crusade. Not good. I’ve always hoped he’d mellow with time…
’

The strain of doomed hope in his voice seemed to oscillate round her head as she walked the last few yards to the Cauldron. At this point she had a choice. Turn left over the wooden footbridge and up the steps to the art gallery high above. Or follow the river as it turned right towards the weir. Tonight, like every summer evening, the waters moved sluggishly under the footbridge, coming almost to a complete halt at the Cauldron.

A shiver suddenly took hold of her. The temperature had dropped. The sun’s rays were hitting the top of the hill above but wouldn’t make it any further down into the river valley tonight. She sat by the pool’s edge, keeping both the glassy smooth surface of the Cauldron and the gentry flowing waters of the nearby weir in sight. But disturbing images of what Donald told her had happened here ate into any momentary enjoyment of her surroundings.

What the hell had Jamie been doing here? In February. In the pouring rain. In a flood. It was madness. Both Ross and Donald had said that Jamie had been different in the weeks before it happened. Obsessive, secretive. Certainly, once interested in something, Jamie would become utterly captivated by it, trying to convert others to his latest passion. The river work had been the most recent, and final, example. Still, she’d always thought that to reach his age and still be enthused by the world was a quality to be treasured. However, there was a fine line between passionate enthusiasm and obsession…

And what of this secretiveness that Donald had remarked on? That was something completely new to her. Jamie had always seemed open, never one to hide his feelings. Yes, he could have a sharp tongue. She’d seen him tick off junior members of staff from time to time. And he could be a formidable complainer, especially when it came to the quality of service in restaurants or shops. Jamie had been an old curmudgeon on occasions, though always with reason. But secretive? No. What you saw was what you got with Jamie. In fact, that very notion was a bit of a badge of honour for him…’
I’m a plain speaker who believes in straight dealings, Kirstin
.’

And speaking of secretiveness, she’d not been aware of this at the time. But now, thinking over the encounter with Donald, it came home to her. Donald had seemed hesitant, reluctant at times. Perhaps wanting to say more about Jamie? But then pulling back. Or had she imagined it? He was obviously still very upset at the death of his lifelong friend. And maybe feeling, albeit without reason, a bit guilty. Could he, should he have done more?

She closed her eyes, trying to picture this summer idyll as it must have been a mere five months ago. Radically changed. Unwelcoming, uninviting—savage, even. Savage to Jamie. But strangely, her thoughts kept drifting further back. To last summer. Two young people…partying with their friends by the river…laughing…enjoying life…falling for the aphrodisiac beauty of their surroundings…

The screech of a wild creature roused her. An owl venturing out early perhaps? She opened her eyes and the light seemed to have all but gone, leaving the Cauldron in gloom. The last golden tints had disappeared from the top of the hill above. Time to go. As she headed away from the burbling weir, she quickened her pace and cast a last glance behind her at the now black waters of the Cauldron and the wooded bank opposite. The image she’d been seeing behind her closed eyelids returned. She could almost make them out over there. Two bodies…suntanned and naked…clinging to each other in hot desire…writhing in shared passion…

The creature’s screech interrupted her thoughts for a second time. Looking away from the river, her pace turned into a jog. But the worst part of the image remained stubbornly with her. Two lovers forever entwined.

In a bludgeoned, bloody mass.

K
irstin tried to suppress a yawn as she approached the house. Sleep had not come easily after the previous evening’s visit to the Cauldron. She’d spent a fevered night tossing and turning; images of Jamie, the Cauldron, bloodied corpses, infusing what litde slumber she had found.

Two minutes later, she’d reached her destination. It was a lovely house. And unusual. Detached, brilliant white, art deco style, with the front garden wild and untended but a true riot of summer colour. Kirstin pressed the bell once. No answer. She smiled to herself, gendy shaking her head at a familiar feeling. It was odd. Sometimes when you visited a house, knocked on the door, rang the bell but got no answer, you knew, just
knew
, there was someone in. Kirstin tried the bell again and stepped back, craning her neck as she strained to look upwards. Nothing. Curtains drawn and blinds down, on upper and ground floors. She’d already had a look at the side gate. Stout, secure, firmly locked. The whole place shouted ‘stay away’. Hardly surprising. If she’d been Morag Ramsay, she too would have lived in a fortress.

She moved towards the front door and bent down to the letter box. It didn’t have much give and she flinched as the flap pinched her fingers.

‘Hello! Morag Ramsay! Hello! Please, my name is Kirstin Rutherford. I’m Jamie Munro’s daughter-in-law! Can we talk?’ She took a breath, wondering at her present-tense use of ‘daughter-in-law’.

She bent to call one last time and then she heard it.

The flip-flop sound of sandalled feet on a wooden floor. She stepped back again, suddenly nervous. There was a cacophony of clickings and clankings as multiple locks were released and then the door opened halfway. The woman
was
wearing sandals, brown leather ones, and a cool linen shirt with trousers, and, oddly for what looked to be a darkened house, wrap-around sports sunglasses. The eccentricity added a glamorous, almost retro touch, as she had her hair piled up high on top of her head. She might have walked out of a Hollywood fashion magazine from the forties or fifties. Kirstin tried not to stare. What had she expected? A stressed-out, rumpled mess? According to Donald’s account of what Morag had been through, the answer was a firm ‘yes’.

‘Morag Ramsay?’ The woman said nothing. Kirstin tried a smile and knew immediately it had failed; her nerves were getting the better of her. ‘Look, I’m sorry, I know it’s a bit early in the day. But I wanted to see if I could get hold of you. I…I’ve just come back. I’ve been out of the country for a while and…well, I’ve only recently heard about Jamie. I was…very,
very
fond of him. I didn’t even get to go to his funeral and…and I’ve been talking to his best friend, Donald. Donald Ferguson—I think you met him once or twice? In fact it was Donald who told me where your house was and about the terrible thing that happened at the river. And what happened to you, and how Jamie wanted to help, and well…’

She was sounding ridiculous. Her breathless delivery was making no sense, even to herself. She stood back. ‘Look, I’m sorry. I probably shouldn’t have come. It’s too much, I know. I really should g—’

‘Why did you?’

Kirstin frowned. ‘I’m sorry?’

‘Why
did
you come here?’

The voice was low, the Edinburgh accent strong. Stronger than her own. The delivery was clipped and the blank gaze of the woman’s sunglasses was disconcerting. Kirstin took a step forward again and noticed the protective reflex before it was checked. Morag Ramsay’s inclination had been to push the door to, keeping it firmly in place between her and any intruder. Kirstin retreated, trying to appear relaxed.

‘I need to talk to someone about Jamie.’

‘I thought you said you’d talked to Donald Ferguson. And what about your husband? Why didn’t you hear about Jamie’s death until now? None of this makes sense.’

The comment sounded like an accusation. Kirstin immediately felt tense again, as if she’d been caught out in a lie.

‘Well, actually, Ross and I are divorced but Jamie and I, we still kept in touch, until the past year or so. And that’s just it. I…I didn’t get the chance to see what might have been wrong with him, maybe to help him.’ She stopped abruptly, feeling the rush of suppressed grief. ‘I never even got to say goodbye.’

Kirstin looked down at the ground, wishing that she too had employed the protection of sunglasses. She heard the door creak as Morag Ramsay pulled it wide and nodded an invitation to enter.

Kirstin was amazed. She’d been here, what? Twenty minutes? And still the woman hadn’t removed her sunglasses. She could obviously negotiate her darkened kitchen wearing them, despite every window being obscured by blinds. And now, thankfully, here they were, sitting on her sun-flooded patio, rays bouncing off the deep cobalt-blue lenses. Throughout their entire conversation, Kirstin had noticed how, despite the glory of the view past lawn and trees, down to the glistening Water of Leith far in the distance, Morag Ramsay had kept her back firmly towards the garden, her face resolutely turned towards the house. She seemed excessively self-contained, tense, her bearing upright. Kirstin couldn’t help but notice the clenched fists that were moved quickly from tabletop to knees as she began to speak.

‘I heard about Jamie’s death when I was in prison on remand. It was a bolt from the blue. He had recently visited me. Said he was keen to help. Assumed automatically that I was wrongly accused, which is more than I can say for my other so-called friends. Jamie’s support was unexpected though welcome. But sadly short-lived. As with everything else in that hellhole, the news of his death was delivered by a particularly sadistic warder, with premeditated cruelty and callousness. I asked if I could attend the funeral. My request was turned down point-blank.’ She paused to give a low harsh laugh. ‘Hah! No surprise really. Let ‘The Witch’ show her face at such a spectacle of public grieving? That would only serve to humanize her, and that could never be permitted. So. There you have it.’ She paused again, her face still unreadable. ‘But I am sorry for your loss.’

Morag Ramsay sat back and raised the now looser fists to the table. The oration, infused with dramatic quality, had been articulate, perceptive, honest and dignified. But Kirstin couldn’t help feeling alarmed at the clearly painful, iron self-control it had taken to divulge so much. There was obvious, and understandable, anger there, bitterness too, underpinning the clipped, formal mode of speaking. Kirstin had visited her fair share of prisons in her time as a paralegal. On each and every occasion she’d found herself practically sprinting to the front gate, gasping for a breath of freedom. Whoever said there was no punishment in being sent to prison should try visiting one.

Kirstin attempted a smile. ‘Thank you. I’m sure you miss Jamie too. But…he wasn’t a specialist in criminal law. I just wonder what he thought he could do?’

Morag offered her what looked like a wry smile in return. ‘Oh, little or nothing of any practical use, I’m sure. But the thought was there. Anyway, as my own legal advisers admitted, the case was complicated. The prosecution couldn’t make a case against me for murder and so tried manslaughter.’

Kirstin frowned. ‘Why?’ She noticed Morag’s fists tighten again as she prepared to answer.

‘You want to know the details?’

‘Please.’

The fists were unclenched. ‘Very well. From the outset it was clear that the police didn’t have a clue. After the obvious lines of inquiry, which included all of our group, others who were at the river that day, and various associates of both Craig and lona, the police drew a blank. Then they looked at the killings as a random event. They brought in some silly criminal profiler to help, and still nothing. There was even talk that the killings might be linked to a similar attack years ago in Northumberland.’