Red Alert, page 13
‘Go on, Kirsty,’ he’d urged. ‘You don’t look at all well yourself. You’re needing a change. It’ll do you the world of good to get out.’
And indeed, the ride in Greg’s car and the visit to his cheerful flat did help to take her mind off things, and to make her feel much better.
‘Glad you came?’ he asked in the car on the way back to Botanic Crescent later that night.
‘Mm.’ Snuggling close to him, she felt almost happy. She strained her face round so that she could see her mother in the back seat, propped up with cushions and swathed in a tartan travelling rug. ‘You enjoyed yourself too, didn’t you, Mum?’
‘Yes, indeed I did, dear.’
‘Here we are.’ Greg drew the car up at the front door of the house. ‘Back again. I’ll help Mum out, Kirsty, if you open the door.’
It was then, with the thought of stepping back into the house, that all the fear, all the strain, returned. She didn’t want to go in. And she certainly didn’t want Greg to go in with her. She stood holding the key in the lock, too terrified to move a muscle.
‘Wake up, darling,’ Greg called out good-humouredly. ‘You mustn’t sleep yet. It’s too cold out here.’
She turned the key and pushed the door open.
‘I’ll go through to the kitchen and put the kettle on,’ she called out in a loud voice, as much for Johnny’s benefit as Greg’s. ‘You take Mum into the sitting room.’
She was just passing the sitting room as she uttered the words. Then suddenly she halted in her tracks. The door lay wide to the wall and the mess it revealed was incredible. The place had been ruthlessly ransacked. Chairs were upturned, and cushions and ornaments strewn all around. Books had been flung onto the floor, the carpet torn up, and furniture hauled around.
Just in time, Kirsty jerked the door shut.
‘No, on second thoughts, Mum,’ she turned to her mother and Greg who was helping her into the house, ‘you’d better go straight to bed and I’ll give you your hot drink there. The sitting-room fire’s out and it’s bitterly cold. I’ll switch on the electric fire in your bedroom. You’ll be nice and cosy there.’
‘Yes, all right, dear. It’s long past my bedtime. And I must admit, I am a little tired.’
Her mother safely installed in the bedroom, Kirsty pulled the bedroom door shut and beckoned to Greg. ‘Just look in the sitting room,’ she whispered. ‘Thank goodness Mum didn’t see it.’
‘Whew!’ Greg whistled as his grey eyes took stock of the upheaval. ‘You’ve had a visitor. And by the looks of things, he’s given this room such a thorough going-over that he hasn’t had time to do anywhere else. At least your mother’s room wasn’t touched. But I’d better check the other rooms. Hey! He could still be hiding somewhere in the house.’
Before Kirsty could stop him, he suddenly raced upstairs, his long muscular legs taking two and three steps at a time.
‘Greg …’ In sudden panic she flew after him.
‘Greg …’
28
The plate of salmon Betty had left out for her mother had gone. At least that was a relief. Her mother was not going to starve. Though why should she care? Because, she supposed, she was not as bad as she thought she was, and certainly not as bad as her mother thought she was. The television was still on. That meant, as she suspected, that her mother had acquired a taste for it while watching it in the hospital. That was a relief as well. As long as she left enough food in the house and the television on, she didn’t need to feel guilty about leaving her mother while she was at the Art School or out with her friends. And one day her mother would probably make a full recovery. By that time, hopefully, Betty would be able to cope with the tirade of vicious words of hate her mother would bombard her with.
Meantime, it was part of her own recovery to be honest with the others in her group at the Art School. She had even told them that she wrote poetry. They were intrigued.
Tommy said, ‘Of course, it’s another branch of creativity. And if you are truly creative in one area, you will be creative in others.’
‘Bring your poems in and read them to us,’ the others pleaded.
Betty blushed. ‘Oh no, I couldn’t do that.’
‘Why not? They can’t be that bad.’
‘It’s not that.’
‘What then?’
‘It’s … It’s because they’re a bit sexy.’
‘Ooh! Now you definitely must let us hear them.’
Betty managed a weak laugh. ‘Well, actually, they’re very sexy.’
‘Bring them in tomorrow, do you hear?’
‘Well, all right,’ Betty agreed reluctantly. ‘But I’ll give you a copy each to read to yourselves. I couldn’t possibly read them out loud or listen to them being read out loud. I’d die of embarrassment.’
They were all alight with excitement and glee and assured her that they could hardly wait until the next day. Meanwhile, Betty took some of her poems to PDC Copyprint in Douglas Street and had copies made so that she could give one to each of her friends. That night she couldn’t sleep for hours, wondering what on earth they’d think of her once they’d read the poems.
Even when she did sleep, her mind was whirling with feverish words: ‘His hands. His skin stroking the skin on my arms, providing a harmony of heat. Not a moment too soon, his hand moves to other parts of me, not stopping until the final sharp, hot gasp.’
The next morning she left some breakfast for her mother in the kitchen and something in the fridge for lunch. A large tin of mixed biscuits that she’d bought the day before also lay ready for use if necessary. It contained some rich tea and digestives, her mother’s favourites.
Betty told her mother, ‘I don’t know when I’ll be back. We’re very busy at the Art School just now. We’re working hard to have enough ready for the show. I need to try very hard to get a degree. That way I could get a regular job as a teacher and be financially independent.’
Her mother just glared back at her. No change there then, Betty thought. No matter what she did, her mother would go on hating her until the day she died.
As soon as she arrived at the Art School, all her friends pounced on her and demanded a copy of the poems. Blushing again, she obliged. Very soon, there were cries of, ‘They’re really good, Betty. Really, really good.’
Hamish Ferguson said, ‘Good? They’re bloody wonderful. Talk about hiding your light under a bushel! Fancy you being able to write poetry like that. You’ve real talent, Betty.’
Her embarrassment was overwhelmed by delight. ‘You honestly think so?’
‘Of course,’ everyone agreed.
‘I enjoy writing poetry. I always find it such a happy release. Especially when I was so dominated and made so miserable by my mother. But I never thought it was any good.’
‘Well, it is,’ Hamish assured her. ‘It’s good enough to be published.’
Betty could have hugged him. She had never paid any attention to him, or to any of the male students, before. The only man she ever had eyes for was Greg McFarlane. Now she saw a young man with short brown spiky hair and brown eyes. He was a bit on the plump side and he had a few pimples but they were set in a kind face. She remembered how he had been badly beaten up and she had been so caught up in her own problems at the time that she’d never even given him a word of sympathy. She felt guilty about that now.
‘Thanks, Hamish, but I’d have to write a lot more of them before I’d have enough to be published. Maybe I will after we get all the work done for the show. That has to take priority now, hasn’t it?’
She began setting up her easel and the others followed suit. This time, Betty looked over at Hamish’s easel. He had put it up next to hers.
‘You’ve plenty of talent yourself, Hamish.’
‘You think so?’
‘Definitely.’
He looked pleased as he turned his attention back to the canvas. They worked in concentrated silence after that until break time. Then, as they all crowded over to the rec with students from all the other departments, Hamish chatted to Betty about what he wanted to do after the course finished and the show was over.
‘I’d like to travel overseas for a few months before I settle down. Get a bit more experience of the world.’
‘Gosh, that sounds great. I’ve never been out of Glasgow.’
‘Never been out of Glasgow?’ Hamish echoed incredulously. ‘Not even to Edinburgh or Oban or the Highlands and Islands?’
‘No, honestly. My mother always had this awful routine and never went further than Sauchiehall Street. But she even stopped going there because it had become so common, she said. All the high-class, respectable shops she used to know had gone.’
‘Gosh, I’ve had just the opposite experience. My mother was always moving me around. But your experience is soul-destroying, Betty. You’ve got to start getting out and around.’ He hesitated, then blurted out, ‘How about us going through to Edinburgh on Saturday? Spend the day there. I could show you around.’
Betty could have danced with joy. ‘Oh Hamish, that would be great. I’d love to see Edinburgh.’
Hamish shook his head in disbelief. ‘I can hardly credit that you’ve never even seen our capital city. It’s so beautiful and fascinating, Betty. There’s so much there to see.’
‘Oh thanks, Hamish. I’ll really look forward to Saturday now.’
She had been dreading it before. The thought of not having to go to the School and instead being shut up with her mother all day had been the stuff of nightmares. Now she could hardly wait for Saturday to come.
They met at Queen Street Station quite early in the morning. Betty was a bit nervous, but Hamish gently took charge. He’d already got return tickets, so he ushered her to the platform. They boarded the train and searched through the carriage to get a seat with a table all to themselves. Shyly they squashed in side by side. Betty chattered at first, but gradually relaxed as Hamish pointed out the various views and detailed his plans for the coming day. They shared a bar of fruit and nut chocolate and she happily realised that there was a definite rapport between them. To her surprise, they really got on and there were no awkward silences.
The train slowed as it drew through the outskirts of the city. Breathlessly, Betty craned her neck to see the huge bulk of the castle rock looming on the right as the train slowly pulled into the station.
‘The New Town has lots of interest as well, but for your first trip, I think we need to have a wee stroll up to the Castle.’
They ambled up the steep curving street crammed with interesting boutiques, pubs and little shops that catered to a wide variety of cult groups. Goths and punks, students and tourists mingled as they wandered along. When they reached the Royal Mile, they turned right up towards the Castle, the shops here awash with tartan. Buskers playing everything from pipes to didgeridoos were on every corner, vying for the attention of the thronging crowd. Occasionally, little passages could be seen leading off between the ancient buildings, leading to all sorts of mysteries.
As they approached the esplanade in front of the Castle, the whole panorama of Edinburgh lay before them. The view was spectacular, and the strong wind that tugged at clothes and hair gave added depth to the dramatic views.
Hamish told her that William Wordsworth had said when he’d gazed out at the city’s dramatic outline, ‘Stately Edinburgh, throned on crags.’
The castle dominated the skyline from all sides. It towered high above everything else.
‘You should see it at night,’ Hamish said. ‘When it’s floodlit.’
‘Oh, I can just imagine. It must look wonderful.’
‘We’ll come some time at night and see it if you like.’
‘Oh yes.’
‘Right, let’s go up to the Castle just now and look down at the view of Edinburgh. Especially the Royal Mile. It leads down from the Castle to Holyrood Palace and of course the Scottish Parliament.’
More than that, on the way up, they came to what Hamish said was an outlook tower, and a small pipe protruding from its white domed roof was in fact a periscope.
‘It’s called Camera Obscura. You can see a wonderful bird’s-eye view of the city projected through a series of lenses and mirrors.’
After walking around inside the Castle and seeing the Scottish crown jewels, they walked down again to the Royal Mile. They went into the Writers’ Museum in Lady Stair’s Close, where the works of Robert Louis Stevenson, Robert Burns, Sir Walter Scott and Robert Fergusson lived on.
Stevenson wrote of Edinburgh, ‘The delicate did die early, and I, as a survivor, among bleak winds and plumping rain, have been sometimes tempted to envy them their fate.’
Across the road in Riddle’s Court was where the eighteenth-century philosopher David Hume once lived. Then there was Brodie’s Close, the house of William Brodie, the real-life basis for Robert Louis Stevenson’s story of Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde.
Hamish decided it was time to go for something to eat.
‘Come on, I know a wee French restaurant down by the Grassmarket that’s not too expensive, but really good.’
The restaurant was really small, with natural stone walls and old, distressed wooden flooring. All the furniture was stained a faded pale blue. Tea lights and candles were scattered randomly around the two small rooms. Betty was entranced at the decor and the ambience.
Hamish suggested the set two-course meal, and it looked lovely. Betty realised of course that part of the attraction for Hamish would be the discounted cost, so she quickly agreed that it did seem to be the tastiest option. They were both delighted with the duck and cranberry pâté served with thick flaky home-made oatcakes and a side salad. For the main course, they had medallions of venison with a rich, fruity sauce, and fennel and garlic potatoes, all washed down with a glass of house red.
‘Are you enjoying it all?’ Hamish asked when they eventually left the restaurant.
Betty linked her arm through his and hugged it tight. ‘Oh yes, thank you for bringing me, Hamish.’
He had never felt so happy before in his life. He patted the hand that was clinging to his arm. ‘I’m so glad.’
Betty’s heart was full of gladness too.
29
Her eyes stretched wide with anxiety, Kirsty listened to Greg purposefully striding in and out of all the bedrooms. She reached the top of the stairs in a matter of seconds, but so out of breath that she found herself unable to utter a word.
He didn’t see her at first, standing speechless and white-faced on the landing. He had come to a halt in the doorway of Johnny’s room, his whole attention riveted on the scene inside.
Kirsty’s heart thumped loudly and painfully. What was Greg staring at? Surely Johnny wouldn’t have been so foolish as to come down to his room for anything? She’d warned him not to and he’d promised. But no, it couldn’t be Johnny. He’d be sound asleep. Hadn’t she given him one of her mother’s sedatives for this very reason?
‘Greg,’ she managed at last, ‘for pity’s sake, don’t just stand there. Tell me what’s wrong.’
Thoughtfully, he looked around at her. ‘That’s odd.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Look in here.’
Kirsty approached the bedroom door. Just like the sitting room downstairs, Johnny’s room had been completely turned upside down and ransacked.
‘Why should a burglar …’ Greg murmured to himself, ‘… walk past these two rooms on the landing, then that first one along the corridor and choose instead the one at the end?’
Kirsty cleared her throat. ‘Oh, I shouldn’t think it was a matter of choice, Greg. He just happened to go into that room, that’s all.’
‘What?’ Greg scoffed. ‘He “just happened” to go into the furthest away and most inaccessible room in the house? No, it looks to me as if this crook was searching for something … Something he imagined he would most likely find in one of two rooms – the sitting room or Johnny’s room.’ He hesitated. ‘But what? What could it be? That’s the odd thing. Have you any idea?’
Kirsty shook her head, anger for the moment snatching away fear. The identity of the burglar had suddenly occurred to her. Who else would it be but Paul Henley searching for the money? Her nails dug into her palms. Of course, Paul would know that she couldn’t do anything about this despicable afternoon’s work.
He’d wasted his time, though. For he hadn’t found the money.
As she followed Greg back downstairs, her mind groped towards the whole truth. It was as she’d suspected from the start. Paul didn’t care about Johnny. He had no intention of getting him out of the country. All Paul wanted was the money.
Her brow puckered. And yet, as Johnny said, Paul couldn’t just leave him here. The safety and success of the whole plan depended on everyone believing Johnny was dead and that the manager was the one who’d run off with the contents of the safe.
Then gradually everything fitted into place and made sense. Paul had boasted from the start that he’d thought of the perfect plan to get away with the robbery and murder. All Paul needed to do was to murder Johnny. Only one thing was keeping Johnny alive – knowledge of where the money was hidden. If Paul found it, Johnny wouldn’t stand a chance. Here indeed was the perfect crime. Johnny Price was already dead and buried.
‘Kirsty, you look as white as a sheet. Not that I’m surprised,’ Greg said grimly. ‘You’ve had more than enough to face recently without this.’
‘What are you doing?’ Dazedly she watched him snatch up the telephone and begin punching out numbers.
‘Phoning the police, of course.’
‘No, you can’t. You mustn’t.’ She rushed towards him. ‘Greg, please. Think of Mother. She can’t have crowds of policemen milling all over the house. She’s tired. You heard her say so yourself. Oh please, Greg.’
He cupped the receiver against his ear but clamped a broad palm over the mouthpiece. ‘Calm down.’ His voice was gentle, yet she detected a very firm undercurrent to it. ‘There isn’t going to be a crowd. A detective and perhaps a fingerprint man, two or three at the most. I’ll speak to Jack.’
