Dead And Buried

‘Nobody goes to the Wild West innocently, man.’

‘I know that and you know that, but a gullible jury might not.’

‘They’re not going to let him walk, are they?’

‘No, they’re going to trial, but what they are saying is that, just to make sure, we need a witness.’

‘We had three, but they’re all dead.’

‘Yes; that’s why they don’t count. The Crown Agent wants one who still has a pulse.’

Seventy-eight

The good thing about Friday was that everyone had left the office on time to prepare for the corporate department Christmas do in the Dome. The arrangements were in the hands of Pippa, one of the secretaries, who had organised for everyone to be collected by taxi; in Alex’s case the pick-up time was eight fifteen.

Before letting herself into her apartment building, just after five, Alex checked her letterbox to find a bill, a credit-card statement, a Christmas card with a Tayside postmark, and her waiter’s friend corkscrew, wrapped in a note of thanks from Griff and Spring. Damn, she thought, I was hoping he’d return it in person!

There were messages waiting on the red-blinking phone, but she ignored them as she opened her mail. The card was from ‘Andy, Karen and Danielle Martin’: she smiled at the baby’s inclusion in the greeting, then realised that it was the first she had received from Andy since their split. She went straight to the Christmas list she had left lying on her desk and added the family’s name.

As she finished, she glanced through the window: night had fallen, but there was enough light from the living room to let her see her narrow terrace, which stood out above the Water of Leith, fast-flowing with the recent snow-melt that flowed down from the Pentlands. In one corner she could make out a strange shape. Curious, she flicked on the weatherproof bulkhead light; involuntarily, her hand flew to her mouth as she saw that it was a sleeping black cat. How the hell did that get there? she asked herself.

As she opened the glass door and stepped outside, she expected the animal to stir, but it stayed motionless. She bent to touch it, and as she did the light above her head was caught and reflected by its open eyes, shining on them as if on twin pools, tiny but unfathomably deep. She had seen such eyes before, when she was fifteen and had insisted on staying with her elderly and ailing Siamese, Shorty, as the vet put him to sleep. ‘It’s best like this,’ he had said. ‘Sometimes an old cat will creep from its home and hide when it senses it’s going to die. You wouldn’t have liked that, Alex, because you’d never have known for sure.’

Yet this did not look like an old cat. ‘You poor wee thing,’ she whispered. She stroked its head, feeling no movement in return. She touched its collar; it was strange and rough on her fingertips. She frowned and tried to lift up its head, but it had stiffened in death, so instead she rolled it on to its side, and saw that it was no collar but a length of twine knotted round its neck. The animal had been garrotted.

She jumped to her feet, shivering, stifling the urge to scream. ‘How the hell did it get there?’ she gasped. There was no way on to the terrace other than through her apartment, or through that of Griff and Spring, with which it adjoined. She backed away, into her living room, thinking as fast as she could. Could it have been theirs, her neighbours’?

She shuddered at the idea of living next door to animal torturers, until she remembered something that Spring had said in the only conversation they had had, that they were sad because they had had to leave their pets behind in Cape Town . . . That was it, they were from South Africa.

Could it have come from one of the four flats above, none of which had terraces? Maybe someone had had a bad-hair day, throttled the cat and chucked it out of the window without waiting to hear the splash as it hit the river. Hardly, but if so, what to do about it? Put a notice on the small bulletin board in the entrance hall? ‘Found, on Alex’s balcony, one deceased moggie. Will the owner please reclaim it.’ She stifled a slightly hysterical giggle.

What to do? Should she call the police? And have them interview everyone in the place, with all the bad feeling that could create? Hell, no. She switched off the light and stepped back outside. She took a quick look across the river to make sure that there was no one on the walkway on the other side, then stooped quickly, grabbed the animal by the scruff of the neck, picked it up, and dropped it over the railing. ‘God bless you,’ she whispered; in her eyes, every creature deserved a benediction.

Back inside, in the warmth, she locked the door and drew the curtains, shutting out the night. ‘I reckon drink is called for,’ she muttered, ‘but first . . .’ She walked through to her bathroom and washed her hands as thoroughly as she ever had, then headed for the kitchen. The cava had been returned to the fridge the night before, less the glass she had poured to go with her pizza, only to pour most of it down the sink before driving to Gullane; it was past its best, but there were still a few bubbles to be seen as she filled a flute to the brim.

The red light was still blinking, insistently, annoyingly. She pushed the play button; the synthetic voice told her that the first message had been received at ten thirty-two; she started as she heard the voice.

‘Alex, this is Raymond Weston. My idiot cousin Gina sought me out last night. She told me you’ve been having breather calls, and without putting it in so many words, she left me feeling like I’m top of the list of suspects. So I’m calling to cross my name off: it wasn’t me. I don’t feel bad about you. Why should I? You’re still the best shag I ever had.’

She hit the replay button and listened to the message again, trying to read his voice, as if she could measure his sincerity level, then played it a third time before moving on.

‘Ho, ho, ho!’ the second message began, scrambling her frayed nerves for a moment. ‘This is Santa, telling you that you are the lucky winner of a trip to Disney World.’ She allowed the computer-dialled, taped American voice to prattle on for a few seconds, before muttering, ‘Fuck off, Santa,’ and pushing the delete button.

The third call had come in at four minutes past three. She recognised the breathing at once; she was on the point of wiping it, when he spoke. ‘I hate cats too,’ he hissed. Then the line went dead.

An uncontrollable shiver ran through her. She sat in her swivel chair and hugged herself, as if she was trying to hold the warmth within her body. She stared at the red light, until her eyes misted over, and, for the first time in longer than she could remember, she gave in to tears.

She was still trying to banish them when the phone rang again. ‘Hi, kid,’ said her father when she answered. ‘How’re you doing?’

With a great effort, she stopped herself from telling him what had happened. ‘I’m fine,’ she replied.

‘No more crap? I’ve been worrying about you.’

‘Honest, I’m okay. Dad, hold on for a minute: there’s something on the cooker and I need to turn it down.’ She covered the microphone with her hand for a few seconds, until she had composed herself, then returned to the call. ‘Really,’ she continued, ‘it’s all right. Where are you?’ she asked, getting off the topic of her trouble as quickly as she could.

‘At the moment, we are just getting off a plane in Washington DC. That’s all I can tell you right now.’

‘When will you be home?’

‘As soon as I can. Are you really sure you’re all right?’

She made herself sound annoyed by his persistence. ‘Dad, I’m fine. How are you? You sound tired.’

‘Jet-lag, kid, that’s all. I didn’t sleep much last night, and not at all on the plane; I guess I’m not as young as I used to be.’

‘Now you’re worrying me. That’s the first time I’ve ever heard you say anything like that. I wish you’d just turn around and come home now: with everything that’s happening in your life, you don’t need this.’

‘Maybe not, but I can handle it.’

‘I saw Sarah last night,’ Alex blurted out.

‘You did?’ Bob sounded surprised.

‘She invited me out for a chat. On reflection, it was a good idea: we’re fine now.’

‘How was she?’

‘Anxious to be off, I’d say. Pops, it must be awkward for the two of you living in the same house. I was