Never Go Back (14 page)

Shona assured Harry that he would be welcome to stay with her as long as he needed to. But if, on the other hand, he and Chipchase felt safer quitting town…

‘You lads had better do what you think is best. The polis don’t always see past the ends of their noses. That Ferguson fellow struck me as all fast-track management training and no real experience. Somebody murdered Mr Dangerfield and they’ll get away with it if it’s left to the likes of him.’

‘So, tell me,’ said Chipchase, after Shona had taken herself off to bed, leaving the lads, as they were charmed to be described, to their late-night whisky. ‘When do we leave?’

‘I’m not sure. I want to speak to Erica if I can before we go. But she still hasn’t phoned back. I’ve no address for her. Or any phone number other than her mobile. It’s odd she hasn’t called. I don’t understand it.’

‘Simple enough, Harry old cock. We’ve had our collars felt. We’re unclean.’

‘She wouldn’t shun us.’

‘Don’t you believe it.’

‘Well, I do believe it. And there it is.’

‘Tried the phone book?’

‘Ex-directory.’

‘Aren’t they always?’

‘Hold on, though.’ Harry jumped up and hurried out into the hall, where a battered copy of the Aberdeen phone book was stored on a shelf under the telephone. He grabbed it and returned to the sitting room.

‘I thought you just said she isn’t listed.’

‘She isn’t. But I’m hoping… Yes. Here he is. Starkie, Dr D. At least we can pay him a visit.’

‘Starkie? You’ll get nothing out of that old Dryasdust.’

‘We’ll see, won’t we? At the very least, he can hardly deny knowing where Erica’s to be found.’

‘Yeah? Well, I suppose so. But just remember: the answer could be nowhere.’

—«»—«»—«»—

True to Chipchase’s prediction, a night on Shona’s sofa-bed was an experience not to be recommended, other than to someone with a keen interest in medieval torture instruments. To add interruption to likely injury, one of Harry’s few spells of sleep was ended by the flinging open of the door. The hall light was on, initially blinding him. For a few seconds, he believed he was about to be set upon by the person or persons who had done for Dangerfield. Then, as his eyes adjusted, he saw a tall, spectacularly thin, grungily dressed young man, with long hair sprouting from beneath a condom-tight beanie hat, swaying in the doorway. Benjy he had to be.

‘Who the fuck are you?’ came the slurred question.

‘Harry. A… friend of Barry’s.’

‘Harry and Barry. A regular fucking… rhyming couplet.’

‘Didn’t your mother mention me?’

‘Who knows, man? Who cares? She can screw who she likes — and ask his mates round. It’s… fuck all to me.’ Benjy turned and stumbled off up the stairs, mumbling inaudibly as he went and conspicuously failing to turn off the light.

Harry struggled out of the pitiless embrace of the sofa-bed, staggered into the hall and flicked the light switch off, then staggered back into the sitting room, slamming the door shut behind him and savouring the thought that Benjy might meet with an accident on the suddenly darkened stairs. But, though accident there was imminently to be, Benjy was not the victim.

—«»—«»—«»—

‘Why are you limping, Harry old cock?’ Chipchase enquired as they left Shona’s house next morning and headed for her car, which she had generously said they could borrow. ‘All this running around getting to you, is it? Can’t say I’m surprised. If they had MOTs for humans, you’d need a lot of work in the body shop even to scrape a pass.’

‘Since you ask, I bashed my knee on the TV stand when I got up in the night.’

‘Ah. The old bladder can’t manage eight hours’ kip without a toddle to the lav, hey? It’s a bugger, isn’t it, living past your prime?’

‘You’re chirpy, I must say.’ Harry could not help wondering if Chipchase’s cheery mood had anything to do with Shona, Benjy having succeeded in planting a suspicion in his mind that their relationship might be closer than he had supposed.

‘Don’t worry,’ said Chipchase with eerie ambiguity as he flung the passenger door open for Harry. ‘It won’t last.’

—«»—«»—«»—

They started away, heading for the bridge over the Dee. Harry was on the point of describing his nocturnal encounter with Benjy, minus a few conversational details, when Chipchase asked, ‘Why didn’t you phone Starkie before we left to make sure he’d be in?’

‘To be honest, I thought he might make some excuse not to see us.’

‘Give us the cold shoulder, like Erica?’

‘I just didn’t want to give him the chance.’

‘But we could find he’s simply not at home.’

‘He doesn’t strike me as the type to stray far.’

‘Are you saying we might have to lie in wait for him?’

‘It’s possible, I suppose.’

‘Great. That should make for a really exciting day.’

—«»—«»—«»—

Starkie’s address was a ground-floor flat in a converted Georgian house in Old Aberdeen, close to the University, where cobbled quadrangles and ancient college buildings preserved an Oxbridgian atmosphere of studious separateness.

There was no response to several rings on Starkie’s bell and a squint through his window revealed many signs of him — a disorderly desk, books and magazines piled here and there, a glass on a side-table with what looked like whisky still in it — but not so much as a glimpse of the man himself.

Chipchase was in the midst of a semi-serious suggestion that they try the post office, in case it was the good doc’s pension day, when the front door was flung open by a plump, pinch-faced woman of indeterminate age, trussed up in a raincoat and headscarf (though it was neither raining nor blowing a gale), who gave them a thin, cautious smile as she emerged, carefully closing the door behind her.

‘Is it Dr Starkie you’re after?’

‘It is,’ said Harry, smiling ingratiatingly.

‘He’s no in.’

‘Apparently not. We, er, met him at the weekend and, er…’

‘At the Kilveen do?’

‘Oh, he mentioned it, did he?’

‘Aye. He did.’

‘So, where do you, er, think he might…’

‘You’re out of luck, I’m afraid. He had to go away.’

‘Away?’

‘His sister died. Down south, somewhere. Manchester, I believe. It was awful sudden.’

Harry cast a wide-eyed look of sickened astonishment at Chipchase, who responded in kind.

‘Did you know the lady?’

‘No. Er… We didn’t.’

‘Only you look upset.’

‘You could say we are.’

‘Och, well, I’m sorry, but there it is. I must be about my business.’

‘Sure.’ As she moved past them a thought struck Harry — half hopeful, half despairing. ‘Oh, by the way…’

‘Aye?’ She turned back and looked at him.

‘I wonder if you know a former pupil of Dr Starkie’s. She’s probably visited him here. Erica Rawson.’

‘No. I canna say I do.’

‘She teaches at the University.’

‘Rawson, you say?’

‘Yes. In the Psychology Department.’

‘I don’t think so.’

‘Sorry?’

‘There’s no-one of that name on the academic staff.’

This could not be, Harry told himself. This was not possible. ‘How can you be… so sure?’

‘I work part-time in the University office. There’s definitely no Rawson on the payroll. I can tell you that for a fact.’

‘But…’

‘You’re sure you’re thinking of Aberdeen University? People get confused since they upgraded the old Institute of Technology. Though I doubt that has a psychology department.’

‘I’m positive. Aberdeen.’

‘Some misunderstanding, then.’

‘Some sort. Yes.’

‘Sorry I can’t be more helpful.’

‘That’s all right. Actually, you’ve been very helpful. Thanks.’

‘You’re welcome. Goodbye now.’

“Bye.’

—«»—«»—«»—

They watched her walk away along the street. A few moments of reflective silence passed. Then Chipchase cleared his throat. ‘Ever been had, Harry old cock?’ he enquired lugubriously.

The North Sea was grey and turbid, heaving to a slow, queasy rhythm. Harry stared out through the windscreen of Shona’s car at its chill, blurry expanse from a parking bay on Aberdeen’s esplanade, with Chipchase alternating heavy sighs and muttered curses beside him.

‘Got a fag?’ Chipchase asked suddenly.

‘I gave up years ago.’

‘Bloody hell.’

‘Haven’t you got your cigars with you?’

‘I never smoke cigars before lunch, Lunchtime, anyway. A man buffeted by the cruel winds of fate as I’ve been can’t be sure of—’

‘Put a sock in it, for God’s sake.’

‘No need to be so tetchy.’

‘Really? I’d have said there was every need.’

‘The dead sister in Manchester was a low punch, it’s true. I’d never have thought old Starkie had a sense of humour, albeit a sadistic one. Just shows how wrong you can be.’

‘What are they up to, Barry?’

‘Him and the now-you-see-her-now-you-don’t Miss Rawson? Christ knows. Something deep and dark would be my guess. Bloody deep. And bloody dark.’

‘Danger must have known all along Erica wasn’t what she claimed to be.’

‘So he takes a header from his own landing. And she disappears. Along with Starkie. Q. E. bloody D. We’re Conference against Premiership here, Harry. Way out of our league.’

‘We’ve got to do something.’

‘You could try her mobile again.’

‘Very funny.’

‘Or we could just… head for the hills.’

‘Which hills, exactly?’

‘I don’t know. We could make it to Ireland without passports. Lose ourselves out west. Hope they don’t come looking for us.’

‘But they would.’

‘Not such a bright idea, then. Besides, I hear all the bars there are non-smoking now. Bloody savages.’

‘We should head for the hills, though. The Aberdeenshire ones. I’ve just had an idea.’

‘Here we go.’

‘Start driving, Barry.’

‘Where to?’

‘Lumphanan.’

—«»—«»—«»—

The Clean Sheeters were scattered. Starkie and Erica Rawson had fled. But one horse, if Harry was any judge, would still be in his stable.

‘Stronach knows something,’ he said, as they sped west out of Aberdeen. ‘I’m sure of it.’

‘He was just the castle handyman, Harry. What could he know?’

‘He kept his eyes peeled. He missed nothing.’

‘If you say so.’

‘He called the reunion risky.’

‘Anything seems risky to a man like him. He’s spent his whole miserable life in that village. Can you imagine how bloody narrow-minded that must make him? He’s probably never been to Edinburgh, let alone London.’

‘I’m not interested in his take on the Zeitgeist, just his pin-sharp memories of Kilveen Castle fifty years ago.’

‘Sharper than ours, you think?’

‘I’m betting on it.’

—«»—«»—«»—

‘Barnett,’ said Stronach by way of expressionless greeting when he opened the door of his cottage. ‘And Chipchase. A well-matched pair, if ever there was. What can I do for you?’

‘You can call this bloody dog off for a start,’ shouted Chipchase, who had retreated towards the gate in the face of the Jack Russell’s barking proximity to his ankles.

‘You canna keep a good ratter down.’

‘What the hell’s that supposed to mean?’

‘Don’t make such a fuss, man. He won’t bite, and, if he did, it’d only be a wee nip.’

‘Can we come in?’ Harry asked.

‘You’re no fugitives, are you?’

‘No, we are not.’

‘I just wondered. The P and J said the polis had taken in a couple of suspects for questioning after Dangerfield’s murder. You two came straight into my head.’

‘Did we really?’

‘I told you you shouldn’t have had any truck with a reunion.’

‘So you did.’

‘Och, well, come in, then, if you want. You’ll have to take me as you find me, though, I warn you. I’m not exactly geared up for entertaining.’

—«»—«»—«»—

The degree of understatement in Stronach’s warning was evident as he led them into a kitchen equipped in an antique style the National Trust would be proud to preserve, but not maintained in a fashion they would be pleased with. Most of the metalwork of the range was invisible under a crust of dried spillages and the table looked to be permanently laid for one, with a drift of breadcrumbs, tea leaves, bacon rind and tobacco covering most of its surface. At one end a pipe, pungent even though unlit, was propped in a saucer next to an egg-smeared plate and a grease-stained copy of the Press and Journal.

Stronach poured himself a cup of some treacle-coloured liquid from a teapot on the range and sat down at the table. He did not offer his guests any refreshment, for which Harry for one was grateful. The dog followed them into the room, paying close attention to Chipchase but no longer barking at him and not seeming to pose an immediate threat.

‘What’s brought you out here, then?’ Stronach asked, eyeing them hardly less suspiciously than the dog.

‘Why was the reunion such a bad idea?’ Harry responded bluntly.

‘You tell me.’

‘We don’t know.’

‘What makes you think I do?’

‘You said it was risky. Why?’

‘I sensed it, you might say.’

‘How about saying a bit more?’

‘I know nothing, man.’ Stronach loaded some tobacco into his pipe. ‘For a fact.’

‘Forget facts. What do you sense?’

‘I’m not sure. I never have been.’ The pipe was lit in what seemed a deliberately protracted procedure. ‘But something wasn’a right up at Kilveen. You know that as well as I do. Probably better. Why were you there in the first place, for instance?’

‘An experiment in teaching techniques.’

‘Aye. Well, that was the story, wasn’t it?’

‘It was the bloody reality as well,’ said Chipchase. ‘We should know. We sat through it.’

‘Did you? Sure of that, are you now?’

‘Of course we’re bloody sure.’

‘Aye. I’d have said the same. I didn’a see so much of you, but Mrs Stronach cooked for you every day. Regular as clockwork. The whole time.’

‘Yeah. I still get indigestion thinking about it.’

‘What are you driving at, Stronach?’ Harry asked, trying not to become impatient.

‘Just this. You’re not the first of your Clean Sheet band to come here, asking me questions about your spell up at the castle. No, no. Not by a long chalk. Nor by a long time. It must be more than twenty year since the black boy called round to see me.’

‘The black boy? You mean Leroy Nixon came here?’

‘He did that.’

‘When?’

‘Like I say. More than twenty year ago.’

‘It’d have to be. He died in 1983.’

‘And how did that happen?’

‘He drowned.’

‘Did he now? Do they have that down as suicide, accident — or another murder?’

‘We don’t know the circumstances.’

‘Well, I’m sorry to hear it, anyhow. He was a good lad. Though far from a lad when I last saw him.’

‘Do you think that was the year he died? Or earlier?’

‘I canna say. He mentioned he was living in Brixton. There’d been race riots reported there. I asked him about them. You could place it from that, I dare say. It was this time of year, though. Spring. I’m sure of that.’

‘What did he want to know?’

‘It was… vague stuff. Like with yourselves. Something niggling at him. Some… doubts that wouldn’a go away.’

‘He came all the way here from bloody Brixton to share a few doubts with you?’ snapped Chipchase. ‘Pull the other one.’

‘It wasn’a just that.’ Stronach paused for a puff at his pipe. ‘Maybe I shouldn’a tell you. It could get us all into a lot of trouble. It might have got him drowned. And these other men killed. But at my age…’ He smiled crookedly. ‘I’m risking death every night just by going to sleep.’

‘What did he want to know?’ Harry repeated.

‘Whether any of you had ever left the castle. Whether there were times I went up there and some of — or even all of — you were gone.’

‘We were stuck there for the bloody duration,’ said Chip-chase. ‘Bar a fortnightly booze-up in Aberdeen.’

‘Aye. I know. That’s what I told him.’

‘How did he react?’ Harry asked.

‘He seemed pleased at first. Relieved, I suppose you’d say. But I don’t know that he wasn’a just… acting that way… for my sake. It’s a strange thing, but, looking back, I don’t think he really believed me. I don’t think I told him what he wanted to hear.’