Trading Reality Page 6

  ‘I’m sorry Mr Fairfax. It’s horrible in there. Let’s go back to the MacAllisters’ house.’

  He took me by the arm, and led me to the neighbours’ cottage. The man had pulled on a shirt and some trousers. The woman was fussing round the kitchen. They both had their teeth in. They welcomed us, and let us sit at the kitchen table.

  The sergeant asked me quickly when and where I had found the body, where I had come from, whether I had seen anyone, whether I had touched anything. Then he told me to wait until the CID arrived.

  I sat at the table sipping cups of tea while Mrs MacAllister fussed over me and stuck her head outside to discuss events with neighbours. Mr MacAllister was taking generous doses of the medicine he had offered me. I didn’t touch any more whisky. I wanted to get my whirling brain into some sort of order.

  I was numb. I was only dimly aware of what was happening around me, of the bustle in the road outside.

  Richard was dead.

  It didn’t seem real. It seemed like a late-night television film, watched from the hallway into a darkened room.

  I was suddenly aware of a figure sitting at the table opposite me. He was crumpled, wearing a bad brown suit and a brown and yellow tie. He had longish dull hair, and a full moustache, which could have done with a trim. Folds of fat hung over his collar, and thrust out beneath his shirt. His bulbous nose was criss-crossed with an intricate design of veins. ‘Mr Fairfax,’ he said. ‘Can I have a word?’

  He asked more questions. The same stuff as the sergeant earlier. The questions were asked softly. I think I answered them. All I can really remember is the pattern on that nose.

  Finally, he said, ‘Do you have anywhere to stay tonight?’

  ‘No. Er, I don’t know. I thought I would stay in Richard’s house.’

  ‘I’m sorry, son, you can’t do that. We need to look over it. But Sergeant Cochrane has fixed up for you to stay at the Robbers’ Arms. He’ll take you there.’

  They found me a room. I shut the door behind me with a sigh. It was on the hill above Inch Lodge. Through the window, I could look down on the house, surrounded by shadows thrown off by the floodlights that had been rigged up around it. There was a jam of cars back along the quayside, many with their blue lights flashing impatiently.

  Standing there, alone, looking at Richard’s house, the numbness went. My eyes stung with tears, and the sobs came. I threw myself on the little bed. Someone knocked on the door, opened it, and then shut it again quietly.

  I cried for a while, huge great sobs, but eventually they abated. I stood up, took off my clothes, brushed my teeth and crawled into bed. But I couldn’t sleep. I couldn’t even shut my eyes – whenever I did, I saw Richard there on the floor of the boathouse.

  After a few minutes, I stood up and began pacing up and down, throwing glances towards Inch Lodge below. Things had quietened down now. Fewer people were milling about, spectators had gone home to bed.

  Disconnected thoughts exploded in my brain. Painful fragments, spinning wildly, smashing into each other. I paced faster and faster round the little room, getting angrier and more confused. My brain was tiring, but all through my body chemicals were pumping furiously, primed by the shock of what I had just seen.

  Eventually, I stopped in front of the window, took several deep breaths and then lay down.

  The assault on my mind didn’t stop, but it did slow. After a long while, the window turned from black to grey. I got up, pulled on some clothes and went outside.

  The light came in low from the east, lighting up the cream-, yellow-and white-painted houses of Kirkhaven in a watery northern glow. I walked down the narrow streets, past a masonic temple, and a row of brightly painted shops waiting for the summer tourist trade. My Fiesta was still parked outside Richard’s house. Tape flapped in the wind all round it. Two constables stood guard.

  ‘Morning,’ I said to one.

  He must have known who I was. ‘Good morning sir,’ he said, and looked the other way, not wanting to face grief at this hour of a Sunday morning. I couldn’t blame him.

  I stared at the house, remembering the many times I had been here. It jutted out into the tiny estuary of the Inch Burn. Black rocks clustered around its foundations, and the ebbing tide had revealed an expanse of dark yellow sand. The window-and door-frames were blue lines, none of which was quite straight. My brother had bought the house several years before, with the money that our mother had left him. It was a peaceful place, a place where my brother had liked to think, where he had come up with some of his best ideas.

  I tore myself away and walked along the quay past the small baked potato and fish and chip shops. The town was virtually deserted. There were a few fishing boats tied up in the harbour, but nobody was to be seen at this early hour.

  I followed the harbour wall towards the lighthouse perched on the end, pointing out at the North Sea. Picking my way past lobster pots, coils of thick rope, and an old Maestro, I stopped by a red dredger moored twenty yards from the entrance to the harbour, it’s engine chugging gently to itself. The grey sea sparkled in the morning sunshine. Over the Firth of Forth, I could see the low waves of the hills of East Lothian. In front of them were a couple of rocks, one grey, one chalk-white.

  I turned back towards Kirkhaven, a crowded little town of pale houses, crammed together on the hillside. The muffled sounds of the sea soon became a lulling, soothing background to the odd cry of seagulls. Every now and then I could hear an old car engine straining to negotiate the narrow winding streets and steep hills of the town. Three church towers rose proudly above the houses; not for nothing was it called Kirkhaven. To the left of the harbour front, I saw the mouth of the Inch, winding its way through rocks and sand between my brother’s house and the graveyard of the church opposite. Daffodils lined the bank.

  That’s where I would bury him. Within sight of his beloved workshop, in the peace of this small Scottish village.

  I closed my eyes. Immediately, I saw his body, lying sprawled on the boathouse floor. I opened them. Would I never be able to shut my eyes again?

  His left hand had lain open, clutching at something, the stubs of his two missing fingers pointing upwards. Those fingers had become by their absence a totem of our friendship, our dependence.

  I was six, Richard eleven. My father was laying a terrace in the garden. I was clambering about on the paving stones, piled five feet high. The pile wobbled. Richard dived over, and pushed me out of the way. He slipped, the stones fell on his outstretched hand. There was nothing the hospital could do with what was left of his fingers.

  He had saved my life. Could I have saved his?

  Grief often brings with it two strong emotions: anger and guilt. This morning, I felt guilty as hell.

  I thought about FairSystems. The company was at the forefront of the most exciting new technology in the world. It had stolen a lead over companies much larger and better funded. With half a dozen other geniuses in America and England, Richard had made virtual reality a reality. I had griped at him for the financial shortcomings of his company, but did that really matter?

  I thought about the last time we had seen each other, at dinner at my house. We had parted then on bad terms. I couldn’t remember my exact last words to him, but I could remember the tone in which I’d spoken them: anger. Oh God, how I regretted that!

  And then, only the day before, I had had a chance to go up to see him, to talk to him, to help my brother who had helped me so much in the past, and I had said no. If I had come, would he still be alive? I had let him down. It would take me a long time to forgive myself.

  I owed Richard. I owed him a lot. I would look after what was left of him, his house, his possessions. And I would look after FairSystems.

  I was getting cold. I stood up and walked back to the Robbers’ Arms. As I entered through a small hallway, a voice called out, ‘Morning.’

  I paused. A tall thin man with a neat white beard stooped beneath the narrow doorway. He was wearing a jacket and
tie. ‘Did you sleep all right?’ he asked.

  ‘Not really,’ I mumbled.

  He looked me up and down, and then said, ‘Let me get you some breakfast?’

  Food suddenly seemed a very good idea. I nodded my head. ‘Take a seat in there. I’ll be through in a moment.’ I sat in the small dining room, and in a few minutes the smell of frying bacon drifted through.

  Ten minutes later, the man returned with a cup of tea, and a big plate of eggs, sausages, bacon, tomato, the works. ‘Here you are. Get your teeth into that.’

  He left me to it. I appreciated his discretion, and quickly cleared my plate.

  Although the fresh air and the food made me feel a lot better, my brain was fuzzy from a night without sleep. I went upstairs to my room to use the phone.

  It was still only eight o’clock on a Sunday morning, but Daphne Chilcott answered as though she had been awake for hours. Which she probably had. She was the type of woman who is up pruning roses before six.

  ‘Good morning, Daphne. It’s Mark. Can I speak to Karen.’

  It took her a moment to work out who I was.

  ‘Ah, Mark. How are you? It’s a little early don’t you think? Karen’s still asleep. Perhaps you could telephone again later on.’ What she meant was ‘What the bloody hell are you doing ringing at this hour of the morning?’ but being Karen’s mother, she couldn’t say that.

  ‘I would very much like to talk to her now, Daphne. It’s important.’

  ‘Very well.’

  After a moment, I heard Karen’s voice, heavy with sleep. ‘Mark, what’s up?’

  ‘Richard’s dead.’

  ‘No! What happened?’

  ‘He was murdered. Last night. At his house.’

  There was silence at the other end of the phone. I heard a whispered ‘Oh God’. With a jolt, I suddenly realised that I would get no support from Karen this morning, she would need support herself. I wouldn’t be the only person grieving Richard, just one of many.

  ‘How?’

  I told her. The tears came. I could hear her weeping and sniffing four hundred miles away. ‘Karen, Karen. It’s all right,’ I said uselessly. I heard her try to speak, but she couldn’t. The sobs became uncontrolled, as though she was having trouble breathing.

  Suddenly, I heard her mother’s crisp voice, ‘I don’t know what you’ve said to Karen, but it has upset her. Now goodbye,’ and the phone went dead.

  The old cow! I would call Karen back later, when she had calmed down.

  The next call was going to be even more difficult. I dialled the number.

  It took several rings before there was an answer. ‘Frances Fairfax.’

  I didn’t recognise the voice. It was a woman’s voice, a young woman’s voice. I felt cold. This was the woman who had torn my family apart.

  ‘Can I speak to Dr Fairfax?’

  ‘May I say who’s calling?’

  ‘It’s his son.’

  ‘Oh, Richard. It doesn’t sound like you.’

  ‘It isn’t,’ I said grimly.

  There was silence as she fetched my father.

  ‘Mark?’ Hearing his voice gave me a jolt. It sounded the same, only different. There was a guttural hoarseness that had not been there before. The voice of a man approaching sixty.

  ‘Hello? Is that Mark?’

  ‘Yes, Dad. Yes, it’s Mark.’

  ‘How are you? It’s good to hear your voice.’ He did sound pleased to hear from me.

  There was so much I wanted to say to him. But keep it brief.

  ‘I have bad news, Dad.’

  ‘Yes?’ The enthusiasm disappeared. It was replaced by fear.

  ‘Richard’s dead,’ I blurted.

  Silence. ‘Oh, no! Um . . . What happened?’

  ‘He was killed.’ Silence. ‘Murdered.’

  ‘God. When?’

  ‘Last night.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘He was hit on the head. I found him lying in the boathouse. He . . .’ The image of Richard’s shattered skull flashed back before my eyes. I couldn’t continue. I took a few deep breaths. ‘I just thought you ought to know,’ I finished.

  ‘Yes, thanks for telling me.’ My father’s voice had suddenly aged another ten years. I wanted to share my grief with him, but it was impossible. Too much, all in one phone call.

  ‘There will be things to sort out,’ I said. ‘Funeral, the will, that sort of thing. His house. FairSystems. His bits and pieces.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I’ll do it.’

  ‘No, it’s all right. I can do it.’

  ‘Please, Dad. Please, let me deal with it. I’m here in Kirkhaven now.’

  ‘I’ll come up as well.’

  ‘No!’ I said sharply. That, I couldn’t handle. ‘Look, I’ll sort everything out, and you can come up for the funeral. We can talk things over then.’

  A pause. ‘OK, Mark, we’ll do it that way if you like.’

  ‘All right then. Goodbye.’

  ‘Goodbye.’

  I stared at the phone. I was glad Richard had made peace with my father. We hadn’t spoken for ten years. How would he have felt if I had died? More to the point, how would I feel if he died?

  Morbid thoughts. Not surprising. After all, someone had been killed. Some bastard had cold-bloodedly murdered my brother! I knew that most murderers were caught. I hoped to God they caught this one.

  There was a knock at the door. It was the sergeant from the night before. He looked tired, but his uniform was immaculately pressed.

  ‘Mr Fairfax? Could you come with me to the station, please, sir. It’s probably easier to talk there than here.’

  That wasn’t really true. Kirkhaven’s police station was tiny, being not much more than a corral of portakabins. There was plenty of activity. Cars were pulling up, spilling policemen out into the tiny car park. Some wore uniforms, many didn’t.

  I was ushered into a cramped little office. The crumpled man with the ravaged nose was there, looking even more crumpled. Next to him, rising, as I entered, from the main chair behind the little desk, was a tall, bald man with an impeccable tweed suit, worn just like Sergeant Cochrane’s uniform.

  ‘Good morning, Mr Fairfax. Detective Superintendent Donaldson. I believe you have already met Detective Inspector Kerr?’ I had, but the name hadn’t sunk in. ‘Take a seat.’

  We all sat down, Kerr perched on an uncomfortable stool.

  ‘I’m in charge of the investigation into your brother’s murder,’ the big man went on. He had a clear, crisp Scottish accent. Very businesslike. ‘First, let me say how sorry I am about your brother’s death.’

  I nodded. I realised I was going to receive a lot of these awkward condolences over the next few days. Difficult to give, difficult to receive.

  ‘Let me start by asking you a few questions.’

  ‘I’ve already answered two lots of questions in the last twelve hours,’ I said irritably.

  Donaldson held up his hand. ‘I know, son, but we’ve got a few more. We’re going to find whoever did this. We had nine murders in Fife last year, and we cleared up every one. And this will be no exception. But I need your help.’

  I saw he was right. ‘OK, I’m sorry. I’ll do anything I can to help you catch him. Anything.’

  ‘That’s good. Just answer some simple questions for now. The doctor places the time of death within a couple of hours of noon on Saturday. Where were you then?’

  ‘What do you mean where was I?’ I protested. ‘Surely you don’t think I did it?’

  Donaldson flinched. The crumpled man, Kerr, leaned forward ‘Of course not, son,’ he said in a kind voice, thick with fatigue. ‘But most murders are committed by people who knew the victim. That’s why we need to eliminate everyone who knew him. We just want to start with you. The Super likes to be very thorough about eliminating people, right sir?’

  Donaldson coughed. ‘Quite so. Now where were you?’

  ‘At home in London, until about eleven. Then I
went racing at Ascot.’

  ‘Did you go with anyone?’

  I gave them Greg’s name and number. Kerr wrote them down. I also showed them the stub of my boarding card for the eight o’clock shuttle from Heathrow to Edinburgh.

  Donaldson took up the questioning again. ‘Do you know anyone who bore a grudge against your brother? Anyone at all now? Think carefully.’

  I had already thought. ‘No one that I know of. He wasn’t the sort of person to have enemies.’ My voice shook. My eyes stung. I took a breath. ‘No, no one.’

  Donaldson waited a moment for me to recover my composure. ‘Do you know if your brother was worried about anything.’

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘He was. In fact, that’s why I came up here.’

  Donaldson raised his eyebrows.

  ‘He rang me last week, and said he wanted to talk to me. He didn’t say what about. He said it was important, and he didn’t want to talk on the phone.’

  Donaldson leaned forward. ‘And do you have any idea what he was concerned about?’

  ‘No, not really.’

  ‘You must have some idea,’ he urged. ‘Guess.’

  ‘Well,’ I hesitated. ‘It might be one of two things. His company might be days away from bankruptcy. When I last saw him he said that he was running out of cash again.’

  ‘Again?’

  ‘Yes. FairSystems had a cash-flow problem last year, and I bailed it out. Or Karen, my girlfriend, and I did. It could have been the same problem again.’

  ‘And would you have helped him out a second time?’

  I paused. ‘I don’t know.’ I knew the honest answer, but I didn’t want to say it out loud. I had had no intention of throwing good money after bad. I winced at the thought.

  Donaldson was watching me closely. He understood. ‘And the second possibility?’

  ‘He thought FairSystems’ stock was being manipulated. He had spoken to Karen and me about it. He had all sorts of statistical analyses which he said suggested FairSystems’ stock was behaving strangely.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘He didn’t know,’ I said. ‘He had just spotted a pattern that was inconsistent, and, like a good scientist, he wanted to find out why.’

  ‘Do you have any ideas?’