The Interpretations Read online

  Again he lowered the loud hailer. For a few seconds he could hear nothing that was close by. At the far end of Proby Street a garden gate squeaked as someone stepped out into the road. Then the siren of a distant ambulance could be heard as it began its journey across the new bridge and headed for the Royal Infirmary in North Treshie.

  For a moment Crathie thought of Tom Kingsmill, the man Gilfedder had attacked. Another daftie. Wanted to organise a race across the new bridge. Fucking daft.

  Then the curtain of one of the windows in Gilfedder’s house was yanked to one side. The window itself was pushed open violently. But it was the wrong window; it was downstairs, not upstairs, and Gilfedder’s shotgun, the barrels at least, appeared with remarkable and frightening ease. Crathie experienced fear rushing into his body, taking it over immediately and totally. He tried to throw himself down to the tarmac as if this body of his was something separate from him. But he was just a little bit too slow.

  Gilfedder fired the first shot.

  The loud hailer exploded. The index, middle and third fingers on Crathie’s right hand were blown off and his thumb and little finger severely damaged. Several square inches of flesh covering his right hip were stripped away. His right arm was lacerated by flying shards of plastic and metal from the loud hailer.

  There were two more shots. The first of these was Featherstone’s. His shot smashed the downstairs window and grazed Gilfedder’s left shoulder. It also blew glass into his face.

  The third and final shot, less than half a second after Featherstone’s, was from Andrews’ rifle. The bullet entered Gilfedder’s head just below his left ear and removed a couple of square inches of his lower cranium.

  2

  The new Duie Bridge, the one that the local minister, the Reverend J P McFarren, objected to so much, was completed in 1980. It linked the north and south banks of the Duie Firth making access, from the south, to the small town of Dalmore, much simpler and more direct. The previous ‘new’ bridge, still known as such, crossed the River Skiach, three miles inland. That one had been built in 1932 and, in turn, had superseded a much earlier construction – the Drumdyre Bridge – built by General Wade in 1729.

  Up until the completion of the new Duie Bridge the only other method of crossing the Duie Firth was by using the car ferry that shuttled half-hourly between North and South Mossfield. Apart from the ferry captain and his crew, who all lost their jobs when the new bridge opened, and the Reverend McFarren, who railed against it because it was expensive and unnecessary and, even more to the point, murderous, most of the local inhabitants thought the bridge was a good idea.

  But it was a monster. Its two towers were each three hundred and forty-five feet tall and the road suspended between them was a hundred and fifty feet above the high tide level of the firth below. The distance from tower to tower was two thousand seven hundred feet and if you added in the secondary spans from tower to shore and the northern and southern approaches then the entire structure was just under a mile and a half long. And this evening it was to be the scene of the first ever Duie Bridge Race.

  ‘Not running yourself?’ Brian Mitchell asked.

  ‘No, not tonight,’ Mike Delvan said. ‘I’m officiating.’ He smiled. ‘Officially.’

  ‘Oh, right.’

  ‘I have the technology.’ He held up a stopwatch. Then he patted the saddle of his racing bike. ‘And here’s my special machine.’

  ‘So, starting us off, or what?’

  ‘Yes, that’s it. Me and Geoff.’

  ‘I see. Well . . .’

  The two men were standing a few yards away from the main group of about thirty-five runners congregating close to the start in South Mossfield. The race was due to begin in ten minutes’ time. The western hills beyond Dalmore, their smooth tops interrupted by a few saddles and gullies, were beginning to disappear in the fading light as evening approached and the street lights came on.

  Mitchell was still in his track suit because he was deemed to be the fastest in the field and therefore would be starting last.

  ‘Tom running?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes. Desperate to run. I mean, after all the bother of organising it and so on.’

  ‘Better is he, then? I mean from all that business . . .’

  ‘Oh, pretty much.’

  ‘What do you mean by that?’

  ‘Well, he’s just . . . I don’t know . . . a bit distant, maybe.’

  ‘Understandable, I suppose. He must be worried.’

  ‘Worried?’

  Mitchell checked his watch. He began jogging on the spot. ‘About Gilfedder, I mean.’

  ‘Shouldn’t you be stretching?’ Mike asked.

  ‘Done that. Now it’s just keeping warm, gathering energy for an assault on the world record.’ He winked.

  ‘Oh, the world record. Well, good luck with that.’

  ‘He’s going to die, isn’t he?’

  ‘What? Who?’

  ‘Gilfedder.’

  ‘Oh, Gilfedder. I don’t know. Maybe.’

  Mitchell upped the tempo for a few seconds. Still running on the spot he lifted his knees high and swung his arms vigorously. Then he slowed down. ‘Well, that’s what they’re saying. So . . . so what’s better for Tom now, eh? Gilfedder dying or Gilfedder living in a coma for twenty years?’

  ‘A good question,’ Mike said. ‘I haven’t quite managed to ask him that one yet.’

  Mitchell looked at his watch again. ‘A gentle jog, maybe,’ he said.

  ‘And I’d better get over to the start.’

  Mike wheeled his bike towards the small group of runners standing by the banner that proclaimed START. Held up by two aluminium poles it was positioned directly above the white line on the pavement that marked the official start of the race. The grass verge was thirty feet wide at this point, bordered by a fence on the other side of which was a small ploughed field, the soil readied for the first planting of the year. The nearest houses of South Mossfield itself, a village of only a few hundred people, were visible a couple of hundred yards from the START banner, back down the road, away from the bridge.

  It was the bridge that imposed itself on the landscape, a huge inescapable presence rendering even the western hills insignificant – from this vantage point, anyway. The gun grey of its huge towers, the girders, suspension cables, the giant anchor knuckles all becoming silver for a few moments as the sun, low in the west, flared and then fell away.

  Close to the start banner there was a flimsy foldaway table with a young man sitting at it. Taped to the table edge was a sign on three pieces of A4 card which read: TIMES AND CUSTOMS.

  ‘Like it, eh?’ the seated man said to Mike Delvan. ‘The sign, I mean.’

  ‘Oh, not bad, not bad,’ Mike said. ‘And have you got them, then? The starting times?’

  ‘Right here.’ He pointed to the table top. Two sheets of paper lay there.

  ‘I see, yes.’ Mike took a look. ‘There’s nobody else, then, is there? I mean, this is the same list that I’ve got, is it?’

  ‘The very same.’

  ‘Good, good. Seen Tom, by the way?’

  ‘I was going to ask you. Is he running?’

  ‘Certainly is. I couldn’t persuade him not to. Anyway, he’s in good form right now. Starting at the back.’

  The young man looked down at the list on the table. ‘Second from last. I suppose he’s had a few weeks to recover.’

  ‘Well . . .’ Mike shrugged. ‘He says he’s fine . . .’ He looked round at the small group of runners. ‘Must be here somewhere . . . And where’s Geoff?’

  ‘Over there.’

  ‘Right. I’ll be off then. You’d better give me that . . . that hailer thing.’

  There was a cardboard box underneath the table. The young man reached down and drew out a battery operated loud hailer. ‘Give ‘em hell,’ he said as he handed it to Mike.

  The runners, all thirty-eight of them, were now close to the starting area. Some were stretching or loosening
up, others were jogging up and down the grass verge. Although April was still a few days away it was very mild. Some of the runners had already taken off their track suits and were jogging in singlets and shorts. Some of them would have several more minutes to wait before they set off.

  Mike addressed the small crowd using the loud hailer. ‘OK, good evening,’ he said. ‘We’ll be under way in about five minutes. Let me just remind you how this is going to work. You’re going off at thirty second intervals. If you’re not sure of your starting position, Alan over there’s got a list. OK? But Peter will call you forward in plenty of time and Geoff’ll start you. Keep to the pavement here and then the walkway on the bridge. The finish is at the Broadleet Junction and that’s a distance of two and a half miles. I’ll see you there. Oh, and I’m the sensible one, by the way. I’m going by bike . . .’

  ‘You lazy bastard!’ someone shouted to general laughter.

  ‘OK, OK. Best of luck.’

  Mike returned the loud hailer and joined Geoff at the starting line. A car crept by slowly and the driver tooted his horn in greeting. There was little traffic through the village. Even the traffic on the bridge was light. The runners would have pavement all the way, the road swinging right, away from the firth, to join the bridge approach on a gentler slope. A sharp left turn would take them up onto the approach and then the bridge itself.

  Mike looked at the runners preparing themselves at the start – stretching, jogging, chatting with other members of Dalmore Dashers. He spotted Tom who was talking to Patrick Thomson. ‘Tom!’ he called out and waved but his voice didn’t carry across the nervous, noisy chatter of the runners. And Geoff, close by, said, ‘We’d better get started.’

  They checked their stopwatches. The system they had devised was that they would start the first runner together. Mike would then leave, cycling over to the finish to clock everyone in. Geoff would stay and set the runners on their way at thirty second intervals. When Geoff and Mike got together again, calculations would be made to subtract start time from finish time and so determine the actual time taken by each runner.

  It would have been so much simpler if they’d had a mass start but even with only thirty-eight runners this wasn’t feasible because the walkway on the bridge was too narrow. Some months before, Tom Kingsmill had lobbied the police for closure of the bridge so that runners could run on the main carriageway. They’d need only one carriageway, Tom had argued. And just for an hour or so.

  For reasons never made plain to Tom, the man instructed to respond to this request was Inspector Alex Crathie, and he’d said no. And then, after the incident at Wattways and the shooting of Donald Gilfedder, Alex Crathie found himself in hospital for two weeks. He needed surgery to his badly damaged right hand and to his right hip. Then, after a further couple of weeks at home, he’d gone on his long delayed trip to Orkney with the instruction that it should be a long holiday, not a short one. But less than a fortnight later he was back in his office at Police Headquarters in Dalmore. Within five minutes the Chief Superintendent asked to see him. He welcomed Crathie back and suggested that he might like to consider early retirement. Crathie said no. The Superintendent then indicated that his suggestion wasn’t really a suggestion after all, it was an instruction: consider taking early retirement and say yes. Two days later, Crathie said yes.

  His replacement was Sergeant, now Inspector, McCall who’d been with Crathie when Gilfedder was shot. McCall was said to be less ruthless than Crathie, with smoother edges. Tom, now recovered from his encounter with Gilfedder, approached McCall about closure of the bridge in order to hold a bridge race. The answer was still no.

  Then, a couple of weeks ago, Tom told Mike Delvan that he’d had a phone call from the new Inspector to suggest a compromise. There was no need to close the bridge. Surely the walkway was sufficient? Tom was fully recovered by this time, back at work and running again. McCall’s suggestion was disappointing. Tom wanted a big race with hundreds of runners from all over the North. The walkway was narrow and could not accommodate such numbers. But it might be OK for a club race. There would be organisational difficulties but it might be worth it, a marker for future races.

  Mike was sceptical about the offer when Tom told him about it. Why the change of mind by McCall? He wondered if it had something to do with the recent tragic events connected with the bridge. There had already been five suicides. Three men had jumped from the centre of the bridge and died a hundred and fifty feet below, either drowned in the firth or broken on the shingle at low tide. None of these three was known locally. But early in March, only three weeks ago, a young girl called Eileen Tulloch, daughter of the butcher in Dalmore, had killed herself by jumping from the bridge. She was seventeen. Three days later her fiancé had done the same thing.

  There were many rumours surrounding these events but the chief protagonist in all of them was Eileen Tulloch’s father. He was seen as the villain, angrily opposed to his daughter’s engagement and driving her to despair and then suicide.

  Whatever the truth relating to the Tulloch girl’s death, perhaps McBride, the Dalmore County Councillor, who knew about the bridge race request, had had a word with McCall and said that maybe he should let it go ahead. Surely it was a good idea to get something positive about the bridge into the Dalmore Herald? Of course the Reverend McFarren would be outraged – shocking disregard for local feelings following this great tragedy, and so on – but neither McBride nor McCall would be too put out by that. Whatever the reason, Mike was sure that McCall hadn’t suddenly found a new interest in distance running.

  Tom was just pleased that the race was going ahead. This one was to be a trial effort, restricted to members of the club, with the aim of testing out the organisation so that bigger races could be held later.

  At seven exactly the first runner started. This was Archie Grangemouth, sent on his way with a cheer from all the others. Mike Delvan got onto his bike and set off in pursuit. He got a wave from someone in the crowd – was it Tom? – then he slipped down a couple of gears to begin the ascent towards the bridge approach.

  ‘Come on, Archie, put a bit of effort into it, eh?’ he called out as he passed the first runner.

  ‘Oh, I’ll get there, don’t worry. Maybe not till tomorrow, though.’

  Mike continued up the hill and then turned left onto the bridge approach. He cycled along the walkway, knowing he was unlikely to meet anyone. Within seven minutes he reached the Broadleet Junction where the race was due to end. There was a white line across the pavement and a FINISH banner. Alice Rattray was there, too. The club secretary, she was ready to log in the finishers.

  ‘All alone, Alice?’

  ‘For the time being, yes.’

  Mike put his bike to one side, leaning it against the fence that ran all the way up to the bridge, separating the walkway and then pavement from the grass embankment on the other side.

  ‘Who d’you reckon’ll come in first?’ Mike asked.

  ‘Well, it won’t be Archie, that’s for sure. No, there’s . . . well, Deborah’s starting fifth and she’s quick.’

  ‘Two minutes faster than Archie?’

  ‘More than likely. Then there’s Angus, of course . . .’

  Mike checked his watch. ‘A few minutes yet,’ he said.

  At seventeen minutes and twenty-eight seconds past seven, Deborah McGillis crossed the line. She was two seconds ahead of Angus Farness in second place. By this time a crowd of twenty people had appeared, friends and relatives of the runners, and they cheered every runner home. Mike was to reflect later that both Deborah McGillis and Angus Farness finished a minute and a half before Tom was due to start.

  There was quite a gap to third place. Archie Grange–mouth, running faster than he’d ever done before, finished ahead of a group of six runners who all arrived within ten seconds of each other. From then on there were long intervals punctuated by runners finishing in twos and threes. Patrick Thomson, who started third from last, overtook seven runners and fi
nished the course in just over ten minutes. Brian Mitchell, usually the fastest in the club, had a poor night by his standards, taking nearly eleven and a half minutes. Nevertheless, he did manage to overtake three runners. The last of these trotted in at twenty-five to eight.

  Two minutes later, Mike stepped to the middle of the pavement and looked back towards South Mossfield. The road curved away from the end of the approach road so he couldn’t look directly onto the bridge walkway. But even in the gloom he was aware of the huge structure of the bridge – the vertical suspension rods, the thick cables, the anchor blocks which were twenty-foot high monuments in themselves. He could see up to the start of the walkway, the first two or three of the lights that illuminated it. Anything more was lost in the conjoined fuzz of the glare from the remaining lights. South Mossfield was just a sprinkling of tiny silver dots on the other side of the firth.

  Mike glanced at his list. Everyone had now finished. He walked back to where Alice Rattray still stood with her clipboard raised.

  ‘All in now, Alice?’

  ‘No. One left.’

  ‘Is there?’

  ‘Your flatmate.’

  ‘Tom?’

  ‘Well, I haven’t seen him.’

  Mike checked his list again. No, Tom hadn’t finished yet. ‘Well, that’s odd,’ he said.

  ‘He did start, didn’t he?’ Alice asked.

  ‘Well, he intended to.’ He looked at his stopwatch, still counting time from the start of the race. It was now forty-one minutes after Archie had set off. Tom was due to start at seven nineteen, which was over twenty-two minutes ago. Twenty-two minutes for two and a half miles? No. Either he’d pulled a hamstring or twisted an ankle or something like that and was now limping towards the finish line or he hadn’t started.

  ‘All in?’ This from Geoff who’d just arrived, having driven over from the start.

  ‘No. Well, I don’t know, actually. Did Tom start?’