With My Little Eye (10 page)

His muscles had become unused to the exercise but it felt good to stretch them again. They tired more quickly than they used to. He followed his favourite track up the hill, enjoying the sights and sounds and smells of the countryside while Rowan ranged to and fro, hoping to put up a pheasant but settling for the occasional rabbit. At the top of the hill Douglas was glad to take a seat on top of a dry stone wall, on a flat stone that he had used many times for the purpose. It was comfortable and warmed by the sun.

He was sitting upright but close to dozing off when a man's voice said, ‘Mr Young?'

Before even opening his eyes he made up his mind that if this were another policeman there would be a short and blunt exchange of words, but when he opened his eyes the man was quite unpolicemanlike, being short, thickset, more than his own age and nervously pacific. He was dressed in rough tweeds. He came forward with his hand outstretched. ‘I'm Norman Eastwick.'

Douglas had been aware of a faint sensation of
déjà vu.
This was now explained. ‘I take it that you're the son of one of the Eastwick brothers.'

‘I'm George's son. I … my parents never married although they lived together for some time, but I took his name for my mum's sake. I came through to see if he was all right, my uncle being dead and all like that. There was only one lady to be seen at the house and she said that you'd gone for a walk in this direction. So I followed you up.' His skin, Douglas noticed, was tanned as if from an outdoor life. His accent was faint and local.

‘Why me in particular?' Douglas asked. ‘Would she not have done? Allowed you to wait for your father to come home?'

‘I didn't like to ask her – she seemed a bit of a hard nut.' (Mrs Jamieson, then, Douglas decided.) ‘And from what I'd heard from my dad, you're the leader around here.'

Douglas was only slightly flattered. It was not a group in which it was difficult to be the leader. He got to his feet. ‘I was going to head for home. Come along and you can wait for your father in my place.'

‘That's good of you.'

They set off down the hill. Underwood House could be seen peeping through the treetops in the distance.

‘I think you can take it that your father is quite all right,' said Douglas. ‘He's staying in his brother's flat and gives the impression that he rather expects to inherit it. Maybe it will come to you eventually?'

‘I hope so. It looks and sounds attractive.'

Douglas decided to fish a little. ‘Stan got a favourable price on the condition that he would keep the gardens in order.'

‘You won't get Dad to work in a garden. I'd take it on like a shot, I love gardening and Uncle Stan taught me a lot. Well, I'm glad to know that Dad's all right. But I think I'll wait and see him all the same. Set my mind at rest. What … what can you tell me about what happened to my uncle?'

‘Nobody knows for sure.' Briefly, Douglas explained the terms of Stan's purchase of the basement flat, the discovery of his body and the general uncertainty as to what had caused his death.

‘I see,' Norman Eastwick said. ‘Thank you. I'd better go and speak to the police if you'll tell me who to contact. What you've told me makes me rather glad that I was abroad just then. I had a bit of holiday to come and I went on my motorbike and got pinched for speeding in France.'

‘The French aren't so very disapproving of speed. You must have been going at some lick.'

‘A hundred and thirty,' Norman said proudly. ‘Miles an hour, not kilometres.'

They walked on in respectful silence. Underwood House vanished behind the trees. ‘What do you do for a living?' Douglas enquired.

‘I'm the keeper on a small estate the other side of Edinburgh.'

Douglas pricked up his ears at the mention of that profession. He was tempted to raise the practicability of turning out a few pheasants in the Underwood House gardens with the intention of pursuing them on the adjoining farmland, but he put the subject aside for later discussion. ‘How old were you when your parents separated?' he asked. He quickly added, ‘Forgive my nosiness but I never knew that there was any family …'

‘That's all right. My mother took me away when I was almost too young to remember. But then she died and George, being my father, took over. They were good to me, the two of them, my father and Uncle Stan. I only moved out when I wanted to marry, about five years ago. Uncle Stan had left by then to buy a flat nearer to his work. I have a wife now and a young son.'

The conversation rambled. Norman expressed his satisfaction with his present life and prospects. They came down to the fringe of the Underwood House policies. The late Stan Eastwick had used his chainsaw to sculpt a bench complete with seatback out of a fallen tree trunk where the sitter could enjoy a view of the gardens and the house and they took a seat.

‘It's a handsome old place,' Norman said.

Douglas agreed but this was not the time for discussion of the merits of Underwood House. ‘George was helping Stan with the finishings to his flat in the semi-basement, but there was occasional friction. Did the two of them always get on well together?'

‘I think they tried hard not to quarrel in front of me. Dad had a temper, there's no doubt about that. I suppose he still has it. But it was always kept just under control.'

‘Do you think that your presence was why he kept it like that?'

Norman considered the question carefully. ‘You could be right. I never thought of it that way. But they did argue sometimes and when they did it was usually a jealousy thing – a squabble, not a blazing row.' He paused and blinked at Douglas. ‘I shouldn't be talking about them like this to a stranger but I suppose the police will want to know all about it and then it'll become public knowledge. They had something in common, an interest or a hobby or some such thing. That seemed to hold them together and if they quarrelled it was about that. But I've no idea what it was and I must admit that I'm as curious as anybody. They were much too secretive about it. They always made out that I was too young to understand – and that seemed to keep me from asking more questions. But I do still wonder what it is. You'd have to ask Dad, or the police will.'

Douglas was trying to think of an oblique way of fishing for more details when George's van (as it had become) came to the back of the house and stopped at the door of the basement flat. Once George had dismounted, his son, recognizing him even at a distance, shook hands with Douglas and hurried across the grass to intercept his father. Douglas sighed. If only Norman had been Stan's son instead of George's, he would have inherited the flat and have been a much better neighbour than George.

On the drive before the front door there stood a very handsome Japanese motorbike, sparkling chromium and polished stainless steel surrounding an engine that would have done many a small car proud. Douglas sighed again. If he had not settled into quite so respectable a lifestyle, he too might have worn black leather and blasted around sitting on several litres of raw power.

G
eorge was understood to be staying in his own flat in Falkirk while the police had possession of Stan's semi-basement flat in Underwood House. Occasionally he could be seen visiting the basement flat. He seemed to have reached an informal compromise – he would come and ‘help the police with their inquiries' in exchange for being allowed to give some attention to preparations for the fitting-out of the kitchenette. Empty cartons from flat-pack kitchen units were piling up around the door.

A week after Norman's visit, Douglas's spirits fell when there was a knock on his inside door and he found George on the threshold. Apparently George was only a messenger on this occasion, but he never brought good news.

‘There's somebody wants to see you. Something about Stan.'

This was Douglas's quiet Sunday and he did not want to waste it on worrying about the late Stan. He had been contentedly surfing the Internet and thinking about Tash. ‘Tell him to –' there was a pause while Douglas moderated his language ‘– log off. Unless he wants property surveyed, that is.'

‘He's from the university and he seems to be in a bit of a tizzy. You'd better see him.'

‘If it's to do with Stan, you should see him. Stan was your brother.'

‘I said that. He wants to see you.'

‘Oh, all right,' Douglas said peevishly. The weather outside was foul, cold rain borne on a lashing wind, but he had been engrossed. ‘I thought you'd gone home,' he said to George.

‘Had to get out, the buyers wanted in and the police had finished here. This will be home as soon as they let me stay. I'll fetch your guest up.'

Douglas had just enough time to skip to the end of what he was reading and shut down the computer before George was back. George seemed to have appointed himself butler for the moment.

‘Dr Stone,' he said, and with that for introduction he slipped away, leaving behind a thin, nervous looking, red-haired man.

The least he could do, Douglas felt, was to offer the newcomer a seat, so he did so. He was much less inclined to welcome the uninvited interruption to his weekend leisure. ‘What brings you here?' he asked.

The abrupt enquiry seemed further to unsettle the visitor. He coloured so that the freckles which so often go with red hair faded from sight. ‘I've only just heard that Stan Eastwick is dead. I had some dealings with him which are left up in the air.'

‘I suppose they would be. But why come to me about it – me in particular?'

‘You're the one who's at home,' Dr Stone said simply.

‘That was Stan's brother George who brought you to me. I would have thought that he would have been the best person to approach.'

Dr Stone showed even more confusion. ‘I – I didn't know that. He didn't let on and I asked who was the senior resident here …'

Although slightly flattered, Douglas was still not appeased. ‘I know nothing about Stan's affairs. Two of the university staff live here, if we're talking about the same university. They may know something.'

‘They would be just the people I don't
want
to know anything. Let me explain. This can be in confidence?'

‘As far as I'm concerned, totally.'

‘I'm senior lecturer in the Department of Botany. I've been running a research project into the use that plants make of carbon dioxide. The carbon element is quite clear but there's a small amount of oxygen not accounted for. I've been trying to find out where it goes and how and why. But we share facilities with Zoology, and they have a bigger and better funded research project running which has a practical application. Something to do with locusts. I couldn't get any intelligent help. Stan might not be trained in scientific methods but he did know plant biology and he offered to grow and record some specimens for me. All I wanted was certain samples, with readings taken at regular intervals. I was going to pay him out of my own pocket, because to arrive at something new and to get published about it would be my next step towards promotion.'

To Douglas it seemed that an academic career was a precarious ladder to climb. ‘So what's the problem?'

‘The problem is that I had to lend him some expensive pieces of equipment for which I'm responsible and nobody seems to know where they've gone.'

From being an annoying intruder on a par with a buzzing bluebottle, Dr Stone suddenly became interesting. ‘Would those pieces of equipment have included cylinders of carbon dioxide?'

‘Yes. At least one.'

‘Then,' Douglas said, ‘I'm afraid you're going to have to tell the police.'

‘But—'

‘There are no buts. There seems to be a high probability that Stan's death may have involved what they call foul play and what you've just told me could be relevant. I am not going to be responsible for withholding evidence in a murder case. If you don't tell them I shall have to rescind my promise and tell them as much as I know. And I'm sure you can see that it will look much better coming from you. You could ask them to respect your desire for confidentiality.' And, Douglas thought to himself, a fat chance you've got.

Dr Stone must have taken Douglas's admonition to heart because DCI Laird made his appearance shortly after lunch on the day following. Douglas and Tash were doing the tedious job of transferring the files to the new system and it had seemed to be an appropriate occasion for altering the categories of the contents. It was boring work and they were glad of the excuse to stop. The three settled around the big desk.

‘I gather,' said the DCI, ‘that you advised Dr Stone to report to me. That was very sensible of you. But a problem follows on. There is no sign whatever of any research tools or notes around Stan Eastwick's goods and papers unless you include one medium or medical sized cylinder, which, if we go by the colour coding and a paper label, had been intended for carbon dioxide. It's in the greenhouse. What have we missed?'

Douglas said that he was sorry. ‘I would love to be able to say the magic words and solve your problem, but life is rarely that easy and in this instance it's impossible. An old building like this had all kinds of holes and corners but I had most of them closed in and plastered over during the alterations. I can't believe that anybody was daft enough to plaster over a niche containing some expensive equipment, but there's nothing in the world so stupid that you can be sure that nobody's ever done it. However, Stan was a competent craftsman and George is much the same, quite capable of opening some of them up again if they knew where they were, or even of making new hidey-holes. But why should they do that, just to hide research material? He was helping out on a research project with instruments loaned by the university. If he wanted to keep them safe from a passing thief …'