Murder on Page One (26 page)

‘What about the retreat? How are the sessions going?’

‘Fine, as far as I can tell. They get them to do exercises, like showing them a picture of a house and asking them to imagine who lives there and weave a story round the people and the house. Funny what some of them came out with. The judges didn’t hold back in their criticism, that man Cammy McCrone in particular.’ He paused as he overtook the caravan then looked sideways at Flick, a shy grin on his face. ‘He told Francis: “Yer story widnae stand up if ye gie’d it Viagra.” I don’t think Mr Francis was very pleased.’

Flick laughed. ‘This is crazy. I’m enjoying myself,’ she said. ‘How many points are we going to beat you by?’

‘Oh, we’ll win,’ Fergus said.

‘I’ll pay you now for the ticket,’ she said, taking notes from her wallet.

‘Put it away. This is on me.’

‘For heaven’s sake. At least let me pay if Scotland wins.’

‘All right, then. And I’ll accept English notes.’

For the rest of the journey they talked rugby. Fergus had played Number Eight for Stirling County, which impressed Flick, and she was happy to meet some of his old team-mates for pints in Edinburgh’s Murrayfield Hotel. ‘This is Flick. The poor girl’s English but she likes rugby,’ was how he introduced her. When it was time to join the horde leaving for the ground, she swallowed half a pint in one, reminding herself to ask for lager, not heavy, the next time she drank in a Scottish pub.

Their seats were in the West Stand. Amid the good-natured pushing and bustle of the capacity crowd, Fergus exchanged shouted greetings with Kenny Logan and Gavin Hastings. At one point, Flick grabbed his arm, and it was a good feeling. They reached their seats in time for the anthems. Flick’s voice rose above all around her for God Save the Queen. Booing, patchy but loud, reminded her that she was, to many there, a foreigner. She had always considered Flower of Scotland to be an atrocious dirge, but, sung by deep, passionate voices, accompanied by pipes and drums, it made the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end.

The match itself was a poor, drab affair, full of scrums and kicks and short on tries, but at least it could not have been closer, finishing fifteen-all. The queue for the bar at the Murrayfield Hotel was sticking out of the door. They decided to head north. ‘Hope to see you again, Flick,’ one of Fergus’s friends called as they said their goodbyes.

The journey was quick and they talked little. On reaching Pitlochry, Fergus went with Flick to meet Osborne and Peters in the bar of Scotland’s Hotel.

Standing at the bar, an unhappy-looking Danny Peters gazed into a pint glass. When he saw Flick and Fergus, he pulled a face and nodded towards a dark corner where Osborne and McCrone lolled, an armada of whisky glasses on the table in front of them.

‘Felicity! Tell me we won!’ Osborne’s shout turned the heads of the few in the bar.

‘Well, I’m not putting him to bed,’ she muttered. ‘Come on,’ she said to Peters, and was pleased when Fergus came too.

‘A draw,’ she said as she pulled up a chair.

‘A draw? How honourable.’ He looked to his new friend for confirmation. ‘So did he pay for your seat on your first date, then?’

‘As it was a draw, I paid half.’ Drunks had always annoyed her, but she knew she must will herself to be patient.

‘So he pays for one bum cheek and you pay for the other?’ Osborne started to laugh and McCrone joined in. ‘Worth every penny, her bum, I assure you,’ Osborne wheezed.

Gagging at the alcoholic fumes, Flick put her face up to Osborne’s. ‘This was not a good idea,’ she said.

Osborne pointed unsteadily at McCrone. ‘It’s his fault. We bumped into each other by accident. Cammy has this saying, “A drink’s nice, two’s enough and three’s not nearly enough.” Unfortunately, we’d already had four when he said it.’ He started laughing again.

‘Yer man, here needed educating. We’ve gone up and doon the West Coast and we’re daeing the Highlands. Will ye join us in an Edradour? It’s the local drop. Very smooth.’

‘No, thank you,’ Flick said, steel in her voice. ‘My two colleagues are going to take Inspector Osborne up to his room and make him coffee. You and I will sit here and then Sergeant Maxwell will drive you to the top of the drive of your hotel. He will go ahead of you, as you should not be seen together, and the fresh air will do you good. When you get to the hotel, please go to bed and on no account spoil this operation. If you do, someone might get killed and that person could be you. Understand?’

McCrone’s bloodshot eyes focused on Flick’s face. She hoped he would not respond badly, but knew she must show no weakness. He looked belligerent, then resentful, then accepting. ‘So the game’s a bogey,’ he muttered, and slumped back in his chair.

It took more than half an hour for Peters and Fergus to get Osborne settled. By the time they rejoined Flick, McCrone was snoring loudly. With difficulty, they steered him into the passenger seat of Fergus’s car.

‘Thanks for a great afternoon,’ Flick whispered as Fergus prepared to drive off.

‘Pleasure’s all mine.’ The way he said it made her think he wanted to kiss her. It was a pleasant thought.

She watched his rear lights disappear round a corner then turned to Danny Peters. ‘Are you up for dinner?’ she asked. ‘It’s on me.’

22

On Sunday morning, Flick woke early and dressed. She rang Danny’s room and found him showered and ready to go. ‘You’d better check Osborne,’ she said. A silence followed. ‘Please, Danny. I did buy you dinner. And a nice claret.’ He reluctantly agreed and said he would phone her back.

Ten minutes later, her phone rang. ‘It could be worse. His room stinks like a distillery, but he’s awake and sensible. And he’s got plenty of peppermints. He’s not keen on breakfast and says he’ll meet us in the hall in three quarters of an hour.’

‘See you for breakfast in a few minutes?’

‘You bet. It’s the best bit about staying in a hotel.’

Fuller than she normally was when starting the day, Flick drove the car to the front of the hotel, where a pale-faced Osborne was taking deep breaths and puffing at a cigarette. ‘Good morning, Flick,’ he said in a cheery voice, as if the previous evening had not happened.

By arrangement with Jane, using mobiles, the police entered the hotel and went straight upstairs while the suspects were having breakfast. From the dining room, McCrone’s voice could be heard. ‘Five point five metres. That’s eighteen feet tae dinosaurs like me. Donald McBean jumped that and escaped wi’ his life no’ half a mile frae here. Nane of Bonnie Dundee’s men dared follow him.’

‘Cammy’s telling them about the Soldier’s Leap,’ Jane explained once they were in one of the front bedrooms. ‘There’s a walk from the end of the hotel garden to the car park. It’s a National Trust property, and you can go down a steep path to the rock from where a government soldier jumped right across the River Garry to safety. 1689, I think it was, after the battle of Killiecrankie. Have you heard of Bonnie Dundee? No, well he was killed in the battle.’

‘How’s Cammy?’ Flick asked.

‘He went AWOL yesterday, but he’s fine this morning. He was stuffing his face with black pudding with the others when last I saw him. Why?’

‘No reason. How are things going?’

‘Very well, after an awkward start. Sidney Francis got a phone call that upset him last night. I think it was about his children. He’s still with us, anyway, and will fly down with the others late this afternoon.’

‘Do you suspect anyone in particular?’ Osborne asked.

Jane shook her head. ‘We’d rather not say anything until we’ve seen what they’ve written, but we have some ideas. Tara should be up soon with their essays.’

‘Essays?’ Flick asked.

‘“The most emotional day in my life.” It can be fact or fiction, about five hundred words. I hope that will show us right inside their psyches.’

‘Do they write them out longhand?’

‘Good heavens, no. We asked them to bring laptops if they could, but we have a few old ones to lend out if necessary. Liz is good about letting us use the hotel printer.’

A knock on the door startled them.

‘Who is it?’ Jane shouted.

‘Me, Tara.’ Her manner hesitant, she came in carrying a sheaf of papers. ‘They’re all here. Cammy will be up shortly. He ordered more toast. Mr Maxwell’s just behind me.’

As she set down the essays, Fergus entered quietly. He gave a shy smile that lingered over Flick then sat on a wooden chair in a corner.

As the officers waited, Jane and Tara began to read the essays. Ten minutes passed then McCrone swung the door open. He went straight up to Osborne and shook his hand. ‘Good morning, old freend. How are ye today?’

‘Well, Cammy. Very well.’

Flick kept silent. She went to a window that overlooked the front door. It was a stunning morning. A heavy dew glistened in weak sunlight and the trees swayed gently in the breeze. Beneath her, Rachel Lawson held the front door for Wallace then bumped him down the low step on to the gravel. They spoke briefly then went towards the drive, Lawson striding ahead as Wallace struggled to push his chair over the shifting stones.

Behind them, Dalton and Pargiter emerged wearing coats, and set off briskly across the lawn towards the bottom of the garden. As they reached the end of the grass, Francis came onto the front step and stared after them. Flick could see his chest heaving as he gulped fresh air into his lungs.

Jane tapped her on the shoulder. ‘Do you mind if we leave you here and go into the next-door room to discuss things amongst ourselves? Tara’s gone downstairs to order coffee and fetch the Sunday papers for you.’

The next hour passed slowly. Flick read the rugby pages while Peters took the football reports. Fergus had the news and Osborne closed his eyes. Peters soon gave up. ‘Scottish,’ he muttered, offering the pages to Fergus.

There was a knock on the door and Jane came in. She handed an essay to Flick. ‘In view of something you said about Cilla Pargiter, this might be of interest,’ she said. ‘I’ll leave it with you.’

Flick read it carefully.

THE MOST EMOTIONAL DAY IN MY LIFE

CILLA PARGITER

Hi! My name is Mandy and I had a twin. I’ve never told anyone the whole story, but I want to tell you, my reader. Your anonymity makes it easier to unburden. A bit like a confessional, I suppose, though I’ve never been in one.

Three years ago, in the summer, Marsha, my twin, and I had finished second year at uni. Mum was living with a man called Hector. We, Marsha and I, didn’t much like him, but he was good to Mum and he took us all on holiday to Skegness. There was a restaurant, Bernardo’s, where we had dinner the first night.

A young waiter called Sandy worked there. Marsha and I couldn’t take our eyes off him. We liked tall, brooding men. He had incredibly sexy, hooded eyes that were as deep and brown as a pool in a mountain stream. We waited outside the restaurant till he came out, and we both chatted him up. He walked us to our hotel and we swapped mobile numbers.

The evenings were really boring. Marsha and I took turns to meet Sandy after restaurant service was over. We’d go for a walk and a snog. To make it more of a game, I’d pretend I was Marsha, so he thought he was going out just with her. We were totally identical, as you’ll have guessed. We’d pulled that stunt before, with other guys. It was a right laugh, but we had to be really careful, specially when using the phone. After each date, we’d have a de-brief, so the other one wouldn’t make a mistake the next night.

On the last day of the holiday, Marsha and I were sun-bathing on the beach, and we started talking about Sandy. To cut a long story short, we both wanted to shag him. We knew he was up for it, as we’d both had to fight him off. It was part of our game that we wouldn’t go the whole way till we’d worked out which of us it would be. There was a bay where, quite far out, there was a rock we called the Pirate Rock. We were both strong swimmers and Marsha challenged me to a race to the Pirate Rock and back. The winner would meet Sandy that night and shag him. It was Marsha’s idea, and we could both do the swim, I promise. It wasn’t that stupid.

It was late afternoon when we set off. I was just ahead at the rock and I turned for home. Marsha was about five metres behind. But the tide started going out, so it was tougher than we’d expected. I was fine but I heard a shout behind me. ‘Cramp’ was all I heard. I turned back. I swear I did, but she was gone, so I saved myself.

You won’t understand how I could keep the date with Sandy, who’d heard a girl had been drowned, but never suspected it was the girl he was supposed to meet.

Marsha and I were really close. One knew what the other was thinking, feeling. It was uncanny. For the rest of that day it was as if we were back together in the womb, living yet not living. That evening, Marsha was still with me. And I knew, with total certainty, that she wanted me to keep that date. She wanted to live again through the child I would conceive that night.

I lied to Sandy, of course, said I was on the pill when Marsha and I always insisted on condoms. But not that night. Three times, Sandy and I did it. At the same place on the beach where Marsha had challenged me hours earlier. And I felt her presence. Her spirit sort of floated in the air as my body ground into the sand. Each time we did it, I tried to draw his seed deeper inside.