2007 - The Dead Pool Read online

  A sound from behind had him swivelling round. Someone was coming down the steps from the grounds of the art gallery high above. Time to disappear. He moved swiftly off to his left, picking his way through the foliage until he was deeper into the wooded area. He could have found his way blindfold to the spot. There was no evidence of anything untoward now. Just the images in his mind. There day and night. lona. Gone. In an instant. Gone.

  He parted the branches in front of him. To his right he spied a solitary walker crossing the footbridge from his side of the river. A gallery visitor enjoying a post-culture stroll?

  After a brief glance at the figures of Bonnie and Fraser, the walker turned to the right and marched briskly away. Alistair smiled to himself. The two of them hadn’t even looked up. Lost in their own thoughts. Thoughts of what exactly?

  She couldn’t stand it any longer. Shifting to face Fraser, Bonnie put her hand over his and moved it down to her lap. ‘Why won’t you talk to me? I’ve been phoning and phoning and phoning. Ally too. You’ve both been ignoring me. Like I don’t exist!’

  He was allowing her to keep his hand. At last he’d decided to look at her. ‘I told you. I’ve been in Spain, working on a couple of properties. And…and I needed to get out of here for a while. Get some sun. Put some distance…’ He looked away from her and turned back to his river-watching. ‘I’m surprised you have to ask. You’ve been playing the disappearing act too. The only one who hasn’t is Ally, and he’s just doing the ‘I want to be alone’ thing. You’re not the only one he’s been ignoring. He won’t answer my calls, emails, anything. It’s absolute shit, Bonnie.’

  She sensed he wasn’t finished and stayed silent, watching his breathing quicken, his face tighten. He looked close to tears. Suddenly, he wrenched his hand away. Without a word, he raised his legs, spinning his body rapidly through a hundred and eighty degrees, until his back was facing the Cauldron. He reached down for his trainers, hurriedly shoving one on and fumbling with the laces. ‘And now they’ve let that bitch Morag go.’

  His outburst had taken her aback. She’d seen him angry, furious, only a handful of times.

  ‘What’s been going on, Fraser? With Morag—your statement, or evidence, or whatever it’s called? What’s happened? Tell me. Please.’

  The frantic edge to her pleading had stopped him. He dropped the other trainer and turned towards her, lifting his leg to straddle the wall as if on horseback. But he wouldn’t meet her eyes, merely looking past her into the distance.

  ‘It’s all complete crap. I’ve been fucked around by everybody. The police. Clients have gone funny with me. Ally. Everybody.’

  ‘Ally? I thought you hadn’t seen him?’

  Well…I…I haven’t as such. We talked a wee bit. Just about the Morag thing. He’s livid about them letting her go. Absolutely beside himself.’

  Tentatively, she reached a hand out and touched his arm. ‘Please, Eraser. Calm down. Tell me what’s been going on. Why you’ve been telling all these stories to the police. I don’t understand. About that day, about Morag, about any of it. I don’t see how you could have said…known she’d done it in the first place. You weren’t with her. You were with me for most of the time during that…stupid bloody game. This is all making me scared.’

  He shrugged off her hand. ‘Leave it, Bonnie. Just leave it.’

  She was near to tears, and there was something else. She felt fear. His erratic behaviour was more than unsettling. She sat in silence for a minute and then turned to him.

  ‘Eraser, I don’t know if you know, or if you care, but Morag is in a bad way. We all know that she’s become a recluse in that big house of hers. And I, for one, don’t blame her. But things are much, much worse than that.’

  She noticed the quiver of his upper lip and thought that he was going to say something. But, instead, he turned his head away from her. The action hurt. Not only was it a rejection of her, but he was, literally, turning his face from the truth. But she wanted, needed, for him to hear her out.

  ‘I may not have seen much of Morag lately, but what I saw was enough. She’s…well, she’s having mental and emotional problems. They’re well hidden, but I can tell. Add to that the fact that she’s broke. Morag’s going to lose that house. She’s going to get out, leave Edinburgh completely. Oh, she told me in that typical Morag, cavalier, devil-may-care, cold way of hers, almost in passing. But I can read between the lines. What’s happened to her has finished her off.’ Bonnie paused again, hoping, praying, that something of what she’d said would penetrate Fraser’s now icy exterior. But still he remained silent. She looked down towards the sparkling waters. ‘I know it’s very late in the day to admit this but…but I don’t believe Morag deserves what she’s got. Unless you know, really know something about her that I don’t. If you do…please, please tell me.’

  She could feel tears of near panic rising up in her as he continued to stare away from her, unnervingly still.

  Eleven

  With stabbing fingers Eraser Coulter closed the spreadsheet. He stared for a moment at the glowing computer screen and then logged off. Exhausted, he sat back, welcoming the blackness that the extinguished screen had plunged him into. The afternoon’s encounter with Bonnie had been wearing and the evening’s grim work trying to balance the books had just about finished him off. He topped up the gin tumbler, his unsteady hand causing the bottle to clink repeatedly against the glass, and then leant back, looking into the darkness of his study and sipping at the drink. A wind had been whipping itself up as he’d worked and now he let himself listen to it ripple through the trees and shrubbery in his back garden. He loved this house. Similar in design to Morag Ramsay’s, an acre or two away to the west. The same architect, in fact. But while she’d left hers untouched, he’d made his own modifications. He’d been proud of the work, much of it accomplished by his own sweat and toil plus that of a few skilled craftsmen. Yes, he’d proved to himself that he could still get his hands dirty.

  His own home was as good an advert for his skills as any of his commissioned work, and he wasn’t averse to displaying countless digital images of it to attract clients, offering them a virtual tour via his website, or even inviting them to see the place in person. There was no doubt. He’d done well for himself over the years. From humble labourer with a burning aim to better himself, his achievement graph over the past ten years had been more or less a vertical rocket.

  Except for his marriage. Something was bound to give for the twenty-five-hour days of two-hundred-percent effort. And his marriage had been unable to take the strain.

  After the birth of Sam, his wife had hung on for a couple of years and then boom! She’d gone. Now she was more than comfortably off with another husband, living in Truro. One not in the trade. Some dullard who came home for dinner at the same time each evening. Someone who was winning, if he hadn’t already won, Sam’s six-year-old heart.

  He’d got over it, thanks in large part to this place and his decision to settle here. Ally and lona had quickly made themselves known. Done a rapid social assessment of him—a clever bit of rough made good, with a useful skill. He’d cleaned up on commissions from their circle of well-heeled acquaintances. Then Ally had bestowed on him the ultimate compliment; he wanted to invest in his next development. Two developments, in fact. One in Scotland, the other in Spain. Yes, he’d arrived! His memory of that celebratory evening sealing the deal hadn’t survived beyond three in the morning. But he had remembered lona’s form of congratulation sometime before that. Hurriedly but satisfyingly offered and gratefully received over this very desk. An offer occasionally repeated but never to be experienced again. He pushed away the ever-persistent image of her final day and refilled his glass, trying to rally himself and recapture happier memories of those breathtaking couplings.

  Christ, if Ally had ever found out! lona said it would have infuriated him, though she hadn’t explained why. It seemed okay for Ally to know about her and Craig. In fact, Ally had approved of her liaiso
ns with Craig. Encouraged them even. Partly, or mainly, because he couldn’t stand Morag. He’d been reasonably friendly when Bonnie had first introduced Morag to them all as a new neighbour. But, once Craig had been brought into the circle, Ally had made it plain that he only tolerated her because Craig was such a hit. A funny, clever guy. And yes, there was no doubt his good looks had turned Ally’s head. Ally had been jealous of Morag in that department. But he’d never stood a chance with Craig. Craig was one hundred per cent straight. It was a wonder Ally didn’t go through the roof when lona stuck her claws into him. But maybe he got a sort of kick out of it. Keep Craig in the family, as it were.

  One row in particular, between Ally and Morag, still stuck in his mind. It had happened a couple of months before the killings, at one of lona’s lavish private views. Ally and Morag had been down in the basement strongroom, shouting at each other. He was telling her that Craig was too good for her, and that she was too old for him. That she should let him go. Eventually, Ally had emerged with a bleeding lip, which he’d lied about and laughed off to everyone else. But he’d let his real feelings rip when they were alone. ‘I’m telling jou, Fraser. She’s neurotic, uptight. And dangerous. I pity Craig. I think she could be a real bunny-boiler.’

  As for Ally and lona? They had had their fair share of standup rows. Jesus, the fireworks when Ally had been caught at a Christmas party getting it on with the latest in a long line of gallery assistants. Dom…Dominic, some poncy name like that. Spectacular! Typical lona when she was in fiery mode.

  God, Ally could be an arrogant sod at times. But that was all gone now. Buried. Under a cloak of something far darker. Fraser shivered as the night’s breeze rustled through his garden. What a shitty day it had been. It wasn’t just the business worries. He’d had yet another visit from those two detectives just as he was settling down to dinner. They were fast becoming his tormentors. ‘As you know, we’res till determined to pursue our inquiries into the deaths of jour friends. We’ve been looking at the timings again…’

  Like hell they had. It was just another excuse to have a go at him about his statements. It had been a tense, almost threatening, twenty minutes. He had ended up throwing away his uneaten dinner and settling for a liquid one as he wrestled at his computer with the depressing figures. Should he get his solicitor to make noises? Waste of time. They were just rattling his cage. Issuing a warning. We’ve still got our eye on the ball, on Morag, and we haven’t finished with you.

  He shoved his chair back and walked towards the patio doors. All was black outside with just the faintest glow of light seeping round from the front of his house. Gin glass still in hand, he reached to close the shutters.

  A rat-a-tat at the furthest window had him recoiling, the glass tumbling on to the soft carpet underneath, the liquor pooling and spreading beneath his bare feet.

  ‘Wh—?’ His peripheral vision caught a movement.

  Standing out in the garden was the last visitor he’d expected, or wanted, to see tonight.

  In the space of half a minute his visitor strode confidently in, flicked on the light and took a leisurely glance around the room. Then he helped himself to a stiff gin and tonic before perching on the corner of the desk, to begin fingering the printouts.

  ‘So, Fraser, I’m glad to see someone’s working. How are our mutual business interests coming along? Sit. Let’s hae a wee chat then, pal.’

  He knew Ally was in belligerent mood, putting on that exaggerated tough-nut Edinburgh accent that felt like, and was probably intended to be, a mockery of his own. Fraser decided to ignore the needling. Ally was just too strange nowadays. Immediately after lona’s death, he’d gone into a deep, brooding, silent depression. That was understandable. But over time, and particularly since Morag’s release, he’d remained uncommunicative. When he did engage in conversation, it was often a tetchy exchange. He’d frequently ‘go missing’ for long periods, refusing to answer phone calls or emails. To make matters worse, whatever inner turmoil had taken hold of him was now being reflected on the outside. A previously snappy, immaculate dresser, these days he looked scruffy. The polo shirt and shorts he was wearing were badly crumpled, as if they’d been slept in, and Ally’s usual fashionably close-shorn head showed signs of growth. As did the goatee beard. But it was the eyes that gave it away. Bleary, exhausted, reddened. From sleepless nights, from weeping—or both? And he seemed to be losing weight by the day. As Ally brought out his cigarette packet, Eraser noted the tremor in his hands. Join the club.

  He shook his head at the proffered packet, and quickly snatched up the gin glass from the floor, rubbing a handkerchief over the damp patch of carpet. Then he grabbed another tumbler and poured himself a drink, before wheeling his office chair towards Ally. He sat back, feet on the desk, cradling his gin as if he hadn’t a worry in his head. He didn’t like giving Ally the advantage of being seated above him. But he was sending out the message he wanted. I’m okay. Okayenough to let you tower over me. I’m not intimidated, pal.

  Ally leant towards him. ‘How’s Bonnie, then?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I saw you both today. By the Cauldron. Deep in thought.’

  Shit! This was all he needed. Where the fuck had Ally been? Not skulking on the other side of the river, not at the scene? He wasn’t still doing that, haunting the place? For weeks, months, after his sister’s death, Ally had spent days, and even nights, wandering about the Cauldron. It had been unsettling behaviour. But surely all that had stopped? Evidently not. The realization confirmed Eraser’s suspicion that Ally was on a downward slope. He took short sips of the gin, playing for time, before finally deciding to feign an unruffled, casual approach with Ally.

  ‘Oh, so you were down there too? You should’ve said hello. Yeah, Bonnie and I were just catching up, what with me being in Spain. And she’s been away too. She was asking after you. Said you weren’t answering her calls. I said I hadn’t seen you much either. She’s doing all right.’

  Ally had shuffled the printouts into a neat pile and was resting them in his lap, hands clasped on top. The now familiar sarcastic stare was there, taunting, goading. Eraser broke off eye contact as he wiped an imaginary drop of gin from his lap. He felt Ally move, the desk creaking under his shifting weight.

  ‘What’s been goingon, Fraser…? What’s happened? Tell me. Please? Ally’s tone was a high-pitched caricature of Bonnie’s voice.

  Fraser whipped his head up. ‘What?’

  Ally gave a brief smile, stubbing out the half-smoked cigarette before answering. ‘You could’ve heard her bloody wailing and whining down at Dean Village. ‘I could only hear her loudest and most irritating shrieks, but I assume she’s been bleating on about Morag.’

  Fraser couldn’t bear the power imbalance any longer and stood up, moving back towards a side window.

  ‘Look, Ally, Bonnie’s far from being on an even keel. Not that she ever was, mind. But this has blown her to pieces. She’s a nervous wreck. You know she’s talking of leaving? And she was asking about Morag. What am I meant to say?’

  He risked a glance at Ally, who was shaking his head, a twisted smirk on his tired face. ‘You can tell her that you were once a friend, but one that eventually chickened out when things got tough.’

  ‘That’s not true. I helped you as much as I could. But it’s got out of hand now. At this rate, I’m the one who’ll end up in prison! For attempting to pervert the course of justice.’

  Eraser waited for a response but Ally just sat in silence, his head bowed. Then, there was the faintest shuddering of his shoulders. Was he crying, laughing, or what? The sight was unnerving. A moment later, and with slow, careful precision, Ally slid off the desk, placed the printouts in a neat pile and moved over to the patio doors, his back towards Eraser.

  ‘I feel utterly let down by you. Betrayed. I believed in you as a friend. Gave you everything. Contacts, money, a welcome into my world. Now all you’ve succeeded in doing is making Morag feel safer. That silly, jealous
, insecure, drunken, drug-crazed fool of a woman.’

  Eraser felt stung by the accusation of betrayal. He moved back towards the desk and began fussing with the paperwork.

  ‘Look, Ally. What do you want? Did you come here specifically to pick a fight? You’ve been ignoring me for ages, now you suddenly pop up at dead of night and saunter in like old times. I don’t have a clue what’s going on with you these days and, frankly, I’m beginning not to care. Besides, I don’t feel like company right now. I’ve got a lot on my mind.’

  More silence. Eraser turned in time to see Ally’s fists clench before he spoke.

  ‘And I’ve not? I just want to know why you didn’t stand by your statement, I always said she was guilty. You always did.’

  Eraser turned back to his paper-shuffling, wishing he had the guts to fling Ally out of the door. He didn’t need this, not tonight. ‘You’re doing a fair bit of rewriting of history here, Ally. You didn’t always think Morag was guilty. None of us did. The police’s random-nutter theory seemed to suit us all at first.’

  Ally raised a hand at him. ‘Oh, please. The police were useless. We were all in shock, incapable of rational thought. But the police should’ve known better. They were incompetent. They should’ve done their job. Looked at those closest to the victims—it’s usually one of them—and locked Morag up straightaway.’

  Fraser gave up on the paperwork and turned round again, gesturing for Ally to sit down. ‘All right. Here, have your drink.’ He handed over the glass and pulled his office chair forwards, straddling it, his chin and hands resting on the back. ‘Look. My second statement to the police, the one that got Morag into trouble, was a pack of lies and you know it. Yes, you’d won me round to thinking she could have done it. Yes, I was happy to do you a favour to get her put away. But…but as the thought of standing up in the witness box got nearer and nearer, I…I just thought, no way. I’m not up to that, and…and I don’t know about Morag any more…her being guilty, I mean.’