'Two days, then I tell the police.'
'Thanks.'
'Where are you?'
The phone went dead.
Fenton returned to the bedroom, half afraid to meet Jenny's eyes. She said, 'It was him, wasn't it?'
'It was him.'
'Why? What in God's name did he want?' asked Jenny in exasperation.
Fenton told her.
Jenny held her head in her hands and said, 'Oh my God, what next?' She slapped down her palms on the bedcovers and looked up at him. 'Promise me one thing,' she said. 'If Saxon suggests any kind of meeting, you won't go alone. Take Ian Ferguson or Steve Kelly, or better still tell the police but don't go alone.'
'I promise.'
Fenton fell asleep but woke at two and was unable to drop off again. He lay in the darkness listening to the sound of the wind but felt so restless that he was obliged to get up before he woke Jenny with his constant changing of position. He pulled on a dressing gown and went to the kitchen to make coffee.
When he came through to the living room it was icy cold so he relit the gas fire and huddled over it while he faced up to the old questions. A stream of doubts turned up again like unwelcome relations on the doorstep. Why could real life not be like the films with a beginning, a middle and an end? Goodies and baddies and never any doubt which was which. Things had just appeared to have resolved themselves nicely when this had to happen. The arch villain turns up pretending to be innocent and the big question now was, was he pretending?
'Are you all right?' came Jenny's voice from the bedroom.
'Sorry, did I wake you?' said Fenton.
'No, it's always the same when I get a night off. I waken up anyway.'
For two days the question had to wait like a garden gnome with a fishing rod. Fenton had almost decided to phone the police when Saxon called at seven in the evening and said, 'I know who killed Munro and tonight we can prove it.'
The word 'we' rang out loud and clear in Fenton's head. He asked what Saxon meant.
'I want you to be here in the flat when he admits it,' said Saxon.
'Who's he? What flat?' asked Fenton.
'I am back in Edinburgh. I have a flat here that nobody knows about. Will you come?'
Fenton felt distinctly uneasy. 'What's the plan?' he asked.
“ I want someone here, quietly concealed in the flat, to witness what is said when my visitor comes.'
'All right,' said Fenton, feeling that he was jumping in with both feet. 'Where are you?'
'Do you promise? No police?' asked Saxon.
'I promise,' said Fenton.
Saxon gave an address in the New Town. It had the suffix 'a'.
'Is it a basement?' asked Fenton
'Yes.'
Fenton was scribbling down the address on the phone pad when he sensed Jenny at his shoulder. 'You haven't forgotten what you agreed to do?' she asked.
'I said that I would not contact the police but I did not say I would be alone,' said Fenton. He picked up the phone again and called Steve Kelly. They arranged to meet in a bar near the west end of Princes Street.
'Whisky?' asked Kelly when Fenton arrived.
Fenton nodded and looked around to see if there were any seats free. There were not so they stayed standing at the bar. 'What's going on?' asked Kelly, handing Fenton his glass and sliding the water jug towards him. 'I thought this thing was all over.'
Fenton added meat to the skeleton of the story that he had given Kelly over the phone and ended by saying, 'That's as much as I know.'
Kelly let his breath out through his teeth and whispered, 'Good God, how do I let myself in for these things?'
'In this case, you didn't. I let you in for it and I'm grateful,' said Fenton.
'Where is this place exactly?'
Fenton told him.
'At what time?'
Fenton told him.
'Then we've got time for another one?'
Fenton ordered two more whiskies.
As they left the pub Kelly pulled up the collar of his overcoat and thumped his fist into the palm of his hand. 'God, it's cold.'
He was right. Frost hung in the night air and painted haloes round the street lights as they walked east along Rose Street, once the haunt of the city's whores but now appropriated by the bars and boutiques of the trendy.
They had to step off the pavement as a crowd of young men spilled out of one of the bars full of liquored bravado. By their clothes and accents they were from well to do families. One of them bumped into Kelly who ignored him but the drunk put his hand on Kelly's shoulder and said aggressively, 'Who do you think you are shoving?'
'Go play with your train set Alistair,' said Kelly with a look that made the drunk back off.
'How did you know my name was…Alistair,' asked the drunk, looking more confused than dangerous.
'It always is,' said Kelly. They walked on.
The streets quietened suddenly as they took a left turn and walked down into the New Town. Solid Georgian frontages guarded by black iron railings lined their way, presenting their credentials on brass plaques as they passed. Architect followed solicitor followed surveyor. An occasional interloper from North Sea Oil, an occasional dentist for the private mouth.
'They say,' said Kelly, 'That on dark nights…you can hear the dry rot sing.'
'Here it is,' said Fenton, looking up at the street sign. 'Lymon Place.' They were standing at the top of a steep hill that curved elegantly down to the left in quiet darkness, the pavement slabs glistened with frost as he checked a few numbers. 'It's on the right,' he said.
24a was half way down and it was in complete darkness. Fenton opened the iron railed gate at pavement level and descended the stone steps to the basement area. Kelly followed and they skirted round a blue painted barrel which, in season, would contain bedding plants.
The brass knocker sounded loud and hollow but there was no reply. Fenton tried again and they waited in silence while their breath rose visibly in the freezing air.
'I don't think there's anyone there,' said Kelly, sounding less than disappointed.
'He said nine o'clock,' said Fenton.
Kelly checked his watch but said nothing. Fenton tried turning the handle of the door. It swung open with surprising ease and quietness and the street lights were reflected in an inner, glass door. Fenton tried that too.
'Isn't this burglary?' whispered Kelly as it opened.
Fenton ignored the question and stepped quietly inside. 'Saxon?' he called out softly, repeating it as he moved along the passage. There was still no reply.
'I smell burning,' said Kelly.
Fenton sniffed and agreed. 'As if someone had singed their hair,' he said.
The flat appeared to be completely empty. 'I don't get it,' complained Fenton after he had tried the last room. 'Why the hell did he ask us here?'
'What's this?' asked Kelly tugging at a door in the hallway.
'Cupboard?' suggested Fenton.
Kelly pulled it open and a yellow light shone up from the floor.
'Stairs!'
'A sub-basement,' whispered Fenton.
