Poisoned Pens 25

Chapter 25

It had been a long hard drive, and he was relieved to see the lights of the Skye Bridge looming ahead.  He’d thought about taking the car ferry from Mallaig, but the ferry times were few and far between and he decided he’d arrive quicker if he went across the bridge.  None of this over the seas to Skye romantic tosh that his wife had been so excited about.

His wife.  He had to sort things out with her, persuade her that she’d leapt to the wrong conclusion, and that nothing was endangering their marriage.  Lana had been annoyed when he’d told her he was heading up to Scotland, and needed to make the journey alone.  He’d said it was something to do with a distant member of the family and helping them to settle a legal problem, but he didn’t think he’d fooled Lana.

“I’m starting to feel like the other woman,” she’d said to him.  He hadn’t liked to tell her that she was, in fact, the other woman.  And that was how he planned to keep it.  No reason to upset the status quo.  It suited him to be living with Ros in their nice mock Tudor detached house in Walton on Thames.  The golf course was within easy reach, and he enjoyed passing the time with the other chaps at the local pub and sometimes on the river itself.  He and Ros rubbed along all right.  She understood his needs, and he was generous to her.  This trip to Scotland was a case in point: he’d paid for several for her this year.  Why not?  It was good for her to have a creative outlet, especially as they hadn’t managed to have children.  Shame that.  He’d have liked to have had a kid or two, a boy to carry on the family name, a girl who’d look up to him and tell him he was the best daddy in the world.  But it hadn’t happened.  He thought Ros would have been a different person if she’d had children: fulfilled, and not always feeling the odd one out when all her women friends were producing babies like they’d gone out of fashion, and her sisters too.  He’d seen the auntie act start to wear thin.  She’d spent years trying to persuade anyone who questioned her childlessness that it was infinitely preferable to be an auntie, to let others ruin their pelvic floors in giving birth and grow haggard through sleepless nights.  As an auntie, she could have all of the pleasure and none – or very little – of the pain.  But as the nieces and nephews grew into their teens and drifted away, the mantra began to lose its power.  I think we need some pain to make the pleasure feel more special, she’d once said to him, after her youngest sister’s second child had swanned off to university.

That had been several years ago.  Now they lived companionably enough together, but when Lana had arrived at work as the new secretary, he had recognised in a dazzling flash what he was missing in his life.  She was gorgeous, but didn’t quite know it.  And she willingly accepted his invitations to discuss their cases over a glass of wine in the local wine bar.  He’d listened to her tales about the unfaithful boyfriend, and if she’d seen his attention as being somewhat avuncular at the beginning, things had changed when they’d gone to Nottingham to represent a particularly complex case that had required two overnight stays in a Holiday Inn.

Ros’s writing courses had provided him with opportunities to further his relationship with Lana, and he’d seen it as a win-win situation: Ros always came home happy and energised, and she found him to be most attentive and loving, glad to see a glimpse of the cheerful, sexy man she’d married.

But now the proverbial shit had hit the manically whirring fan, and it was up to him to get it all sorted out, limiting the damage as far as he possibly could.  He’d started out early that morning, driven into the night, fuelling his journey with black coffee and motorway service station junk food.  His only hope was that she’d be so pleased to see him, and so convinced of his sincerity, that she’d drop these silly notions of divorce.

 

Pamela slipped along the corridor, trying to avoid the creaky floor boards.  She failed, and her footsteps told out loud the story of her mission to minister to Max.  She felt a chill draft as she approached his door, and was struck by the arctic feel of the room as she crept in.  Silly man must have left his windows open!  She’d soon sort that out.  The moon was bright, the curtains blowing into the room revealing a starry night.  She could discern his huddled shape in the bed.  She tiptoed across to the window to close it.  And then Pamela screamed.  She screamed with her whole, huge, petrified being.  She unleashed an unearthly, off-scale, eardrum-shattering scream that caused Max to wake with a terrified start, and the rest of the house to wonder who on earth had been killed.  And as Max’s sleep-heavy eyes adjusted to the moonlit gloom, he watched a ghostly figure brandishing a glinting dagger flit across the room and vanish out of the door.  Pamela clutched at her chest and sank to the floor, her translucent nightdress splayed around her, giving an impression of a beached jellyfish.  What the fuck? Thought Max.  Suddenly someone flung open his door and switched on the light.  Tessa stood there, looking grey, leaning on her crutches.

“Oh Jesus, Max,” she said, as she took in the chaotic scene, windows flung wide open, curtains blowing like angry sprites, Pamela large and senseless on the floor.

“It’s not what it seems,” said Max.  “I don’t know how she got here.”

“You must be desperate,” said Tessa, leaning her crutches against the chair so as to crouch down and check whether Pamela was breathing.

“What’s she doing here?” asked Max.

“You don’t know?”

“I didn’t ask her, that’s for sure.”

“Was she waiting for you when you got to bed?”

“I don’t know.  Don’t think so.  I just crashed.”

Pamela was stirring and started to moan.  “Oh Maxi,” she said, “why didn’t you warn me about the ghost?” and then she seemed to lose consciousness again.

“I’ll get a cold towel to put on her head,” said Tessa, hobbling to the bathroom.  “Why don’t you put some clothes on?” She pulled on the light cord and then screamed.

“Fuck Max!  Fuck! Oh Jesus, that’s so gross…”

“What now?”  Max felt increasingly that he was immersed in some surreal nightmare from which he’d soon awaken.  A bit like Leon and his daft character, Major whatever.  This couldn’t be real.  Still naked, he followed Tessa to the bathroom.  She was pointing at the basin, and he saw, with disgust, what it was that had shocked her.  He was a seasoned thriller writer, his research took him into all sorts of gruesome forensic reports; but he was appalled at the sight of the dead bird, the slit cavity of its breast alive with maggots, in his sink. “How the fuck did that get there?”

“You didn’t put it there?”

“Of course I bloody didn’t.”

“Christ, Max, look at the size of that spider!” There, crouched on the tiled wall of the shower cubicle, was the largest spider that Max had ever seen.  It was Amazonian in its size and menace.  And he knew that there would be nothing he could do about it.  For it was a little known fact that Max Logan suffered from acute arachnophobia.

 

Pamela came out of her swoon to find Tessa Birnie patting her hand.

“Come on Pamela, time to wake up,” she said, as if Pamela was some infant who’d dozed off.

“Did you see it?” said Pamela.

“See what?”

“The ghost.  It was here.”

“You saw a ghost?” Pamela could tell by Tessa’s tone that she didn’t believe her; but she knew what she’d seen.

“It was behind the curtains,” she said.  “Lunged out as I went to shut the window.”

“What were you doing here in the first place?”

“There’s no need to talk to me like that,” said Pamela.  “I wanted to check that Max was all right after his long drive.  I thought it was simply wonderful of him to go to your rescue after you’d been arrested.”

“You didn’t think to knock?  Or maybe to wait until the morning?”

“It’s ok Tessa,” said Max, “leave her to come round.  I think there was someone else.  I saw them flash by as I woke up.”

“I told you there was a ghost,” said Pamela.

“I don’t think it was a ghost,” said Max, pulling on his trousers.

“But it came from behind the curtains,” said Pamela, who had struggled into a sitting position, “and it was so thin.  Ethereal.  What else could it have been?”

Max was sure that another person had been in his room.  He wondered if it had been Leila Morris, whether Leila had come to him as he’d been sure she would, only Pamela had frightened her off.  He’d have to have a quiet word tomorrow.  Encourage her to come back, let her know that he hadn’t invited Pamela in.  But would Leila have been wielding a dagger?

 

Dee had been woken by Pamela’s sharp cry.  She pulled a sweatshirt over her purple and green pyjamas, the lovely satin pair that Nuala had bought her last Christmas.  Suffragette jimjams! She’d said, as Dee had unwrapped the plump parcel.  She put on her slippers – for Dee never felt quite dressed enough without something on her feet – and padded down the corridor towards the light and a buzz of voices.  To her surprise, and embarrassment, the commotion was coming from Max’s room, and lying on the floor in a puddle of silky negligee was Pamela.  Dee was no prude, but she felt shocked to find her fellow student in such a compromised position; and her opinion of Max Logan sank further than it had been before. There were things that shouldn’t happen between tutors and students.  She believed in maintaining appropriate boundaries.  And besides, how could he be so obvious over his lust for Leila (which Dee quite understood: if it wasn’t for Nuala, she’d be pursuing Leila herself) and then invite Pamela into his room at night.  It was disgusting.  And he’d obviously hurt her, she didn’t look at all well.  Bastard!  Just like all men.  It didn’t occur to her that Pamela might have invited herself.  Tessa Birnie was there too, patting at Pamela’s hand.  “Can’t you keep the noise down?” Dee asked.

“Bit of a crisis,” said Tessa, “but would you mind making a cup of tea for Pamela and Max?”

“I don’t need fucking tea,” growled Max.  “Get me that bottle of Talisker that Marcus has for emergencies.”

Dee headed for the stairs.  She couldn’t very well say no, but she was well pissed off.  She liked her sleep and didn’t take kindly to being disturbed.  She was surprised to find the kitchen light on and the back door open.  Who’d be so careless as to leave it wide open on such a cold night?  She called outside, in case someone had gone for a cigarette or to gaze at the stars.  No-one answered, so she pulled the door shut and turned the key to lock it.  She didn’t notice the blade that glinted in the moonlight on the path that led to the studio.  Then she set about making tea, banging the mugs down on the working surface with a fair amount of feeling.  She’d have to tell Nuala about this.  She’d go into the village to use the call box tomorrow, that was for sure.  She was already missing her partner with her quick smile, haywire curls, and sharp mind.  Nothing like a little time apart to appreciate what was waiting at home.  And being with this strange group certainly made Dee appreciate her life back in Bristol.

 

Leon sat up in bed.  He’d been jolted out of his sleep by Pamela’s scream.  Marcus Dean had been fiercely fucking Major Gonzales.  He was almost grateful for the rude awakening.  Gonzales would never allow that to happen, he’d have killed Marcus rather than have him do those things to him.  But Leon was more turned on than he could remember being.  No way could he get up and investigate what was happening outside.

 

Ros heard the racket and sighed.  This course was proving to be far from restful and conducive to creativity.  She hadn’t been asleep.  Her mind had been hyperactive with thoughts about Alastair and what she’d do about his treachery.  Was she really cut out to be a murderess?  Even if she was able to get away with it?  Probably not, let’s face it.  So she’d need to find a shit hot lawyer to screw him for every penny she could.  She thought she knew just the person – had met him at the golf club a couple of months ago.  Probably more sensible than risking prison.  She’d never been overly fond of the close company of other women.  The noise outside died down.  Probably Pamela trying to seduce Max again, she thought.  She wouldn’t bother to go out to find out.

 

Marcus heard a piercing scream followed by the muffled sounds of activity in the house from his bedsit in the attic.  He’d been watching late night porn on a cable channel. He pressed the pause button.  God, this group was the worst to date.  Worse even than the poets that had come last summer, and he hadn’t thought that was possible.  No, the sooner he could pack up his things and move back to Edinburgh, the better.  Or maybe he’d try Glasgow for a change of scene.  Not too many people knew him there.  He waited to see if the noise would die down.  The scream was a one-off, but he could tell that there was still activity.  He supposed he’d better go down and investigate.  But on second thoughts, they knew where to find him, they were all adults.  He went back to his movie.  Firefighters getting it on.  Big, butch firefighters, muscles rippling, faces streaked with grime from the fire they’d just subdued.  You could almost smell the sweat.

 

Pamela’s scream had woken Leila, too.  God!  She was hating this retreat.  It was a real nightmare, and certainly wasn’t helping her to finish her novel.  She’d tell Dinah Tannenbaum what to do with her ideas when she got back to London.  It wasn’t even as if there was anything happening that would give her inspiration for her next novel.  It was all way too banal, and her fellow students were amateurish bores.  Still she’d better see what was happening.  She wrapped a striped dressing gown around her baby doll pyjamas and stood outside her bedroom door to ascertain where the sound was coming from.  It sounded as if something was happening in Anna’s old room, the one that Max had taken over.  She went to investigate.  Seeing Pamela, that dreadful, coarse woman from Croydon with her clichéd book and plastic jewellery, sprawled out on Max Logan’s floor initially filled her with disgust; but then she saw the funny side and burst out laughing.

“What’s so funny?” said Max.

“You and Pamela!” shrieked Leila.  “God!  You must have given her a really good time for her to make all that noise,” and Leila doubled up with laughter.

“Grow up,” said Tessa.  “If you can’t do anything useful then fuck off back to bed.”

“And that’s how you talk to your students?” said Leila, suddenly looking serious.  “Well, that’ll be something to tell Dinah when I get back.”

“Judging by the standard of the work you’ve brought here, I’d say your days of being in favour with Dinah Tannenbaum are limited,” said Tessa.

“Bitch,” said Leila, “just because you’re a has-been and no-one ever reads your books any more.  And you can’t even teach!”  She turned away before Tessa could muster a response and went back into her bedroom, slamming the door behind her.  That was it.  She’d head back to Muswell Hill tomorrow morning, and insist that Dinah reimburse her for the money she’d wasted in coming to this sub-standard travesty of a writing programme.

 

Tessa limped over to the windows to close them, for the room felt freezing.  As she drew shut the window and pulled the curtains together, she noticed something on the floor.  It was a purple plastic bag that had once contained a comforting measure of chocolate buttons.  Max had never liked chocolate, but clearly someone had been here who did.

“I’d like you to go back to your room now,” Max said to Pamela.  There was something he needed to say, and he could only say it to Tessa.

“I’m not sure I’m well enough…”

“I think you are,” said Max.  “You’ll feel much better back in your nice warm room.  Won’t she Tessa?”

“Oh yes,” said Tessa.  “I’ll help you back if you like.”

“No, that’s all right,” said Pamela, rising from the floor.  “Are you sure you don’t need me to stay, Maxi?”

“No Pamela.  I didn’t need you to come, and I certainly don’t need you to stay.”

“Well you don’t have to be like that,” pouted Pamela.  “I was just trying to help.”

“You can help by going now,” said Max.

“Well, as long as you’re sure,” said Pamela.  “You know where I am if…”

“Yes, thank you,” said Max, his anxiety about the monster in the bathroom growing by the second.  At last she was gone, and he was alone in his still cold room with his ex-wife.

“Who’s doing all this?” he asked.  He was sure now that it couldn’t be Tessa.

“Well, Pamela seemed to have invited herself in,” said Tessa.

“I don’t mean Pamela.  I mean the bird, the trashed room, the other person in here tonight.”

“Leila?”

“I’m beginning to wonder.”

“Not likely to be any of the others.  The oldies are busy having it off with each other; Ros is plotting to kill her husband; Leon’s struggling with his alter-ego, and Pamela’s got the hots for you.”

“What about the girl who works with Marcus?”

“Megan? No, she’s tending to that homicidal postman, God help her,” said Tessa.

“Only it seems he wasn’t homicidal…”

“So they say.”

“Tess, I can’t do it.”

“Do what?”

“Go into the bathroom.  With that spider.  Could you…”

“You want me to go into that bathroom with the dead bird and look for a genetically enhanced spider?”

“I did help you out, old girl.”

Tessa remembered similar scenes throughout their marriage.  He came across all suave alpha-male until faced with a creature that had eight legs.  And then he was transformed into something altogether opposite.  Catapulted back to scared little boy.  She’d used it against him before now.  Called him stupid and sissy.  Right now she didn’t have the heart to.  And much as she loathed spiders, she was capable of catching them and relocating them to their natural habitat if she needed to.

“You’ll have to deal with the bird,” she said, “and the maggots.”

“And you’ll relocate Frankenstein?”

“It was the monster was the problem, not Dr F.”

“You’ll get rid of the spider?”

“If you help me up.”

“Look Tess, this whole thing’s got me a bit rattled, and this room’s freezing.  I don’t suppose…”

“What?”

“You’ve got that big bed…”

“You’re asking to share my room?”

“Just for tonight.  It won’t kill you.”

Tessa sighed.  She looked around the shambles of this room, his second in two days, and almost as wrecked as the first,  “No, I don’t suppose it will,” she said.

 

Finally the house settled back into slumber.  Even Ros drifted off, and Max and Tessa lay as far apart from each other as was possible in the king-sized bed, the dead bird and its maggots having been bundled into a plastic bag and relocated to the bin outside, and the oversized arachnid having been tossed vigorously out of the window so that it could return to the depths of the woodland.  Marcus remained ignorant of the details of the evening’s drama, and his film having ended, went to sleep fantasising about naked firefighters finding ingenious things to do with hoses.

 

She’d escaped out of the back door without being seen.  That dreadful woman in her frightful nightwear wouldn’t have recognised her and she didn’t think Max Logan had seen her either.  He’d seen enough to know that someone had been in his room, and he’d find the second little tableau she’d set up soon enough.  Good, they’d be nicely spooked, which is how she wanted it, even though things were far from perfect: the woman coming in had ruined her plan.  She’d had to abandon the best part, and she cursed the fat woman from Croydon.  She’d have to complete her revenge another time. It wasn’t safe for her to stay in the studio any more.  That girl Megan had been snooping around, and she’d probably be back in the morning.  She’d need to go first thing in the morning, take the morning ferry.  She wondered if her CPN had noticed that she’d missed a couple of appointments.  They’d look for her before long, she wasn’t supposed to go away without telling them.  She just had one final thing to do before her work here was finished and she could return.  She’d turn up for Wednesday’s appointment as if nothing had happened.

Poisoned Pens 24

Here you are, because you’ve all been so good…

 

Chapter 24

“You say you didn’t assault Mr Craig, Ms Birnie?”  Andy MacLeod was interviewing Tessa, and Lindsay Lennox was taking notes.

“I acted in self-defence,” said Tessa.  “He’d abducted me, taken me to this dank, dilapidated cottage.  The way he was talking about his collection, I felt sure he was going to harm me.”

“But he didn’t physically attack you?”

“No, no he didn’t touch me.  Only to help me up, and get me in and out of his car, that sort of thing.”

“So he was being helpful?”

“Well, I thought he was, but then this dreadful house…and his collection…”

“Did you actually see his collection?”

“No, I escaped before he was able to do anything.”

“And you don’t think your assault on him was unprovoked?”

“No!  He was threatening me.”

“How exactly?”

“Well, with his collection.  And that house.  It was his mother’s.  His dead mother’s.  You have seen Psycho, haven’t you?”

 

 

Max and Marcus didn’t talk much as they drove up the island.  Max was wondering what kind of state Tessa would be in, and Marcus was hoping that no-one who knew him had been posted to Skye from Edinburgh.  It wasn’t hard to find the police station once they reached Portree.  Somerled Square wasn’t far off the main road.

“Will I wait here for you while you fetch her?” asked Marcus.  He was relieved when Max agreed.

Max walked into the police station.  “I’ve come for Tessa Birnie,” he said to the sergeant on duty behind the desk.

“There she is,” said the sergeant, nodding towards the area behind Max.  He had to look twice.  There was only one woman in the waiting area, and it was Tessa; but he’d never, even in the worst days of their marriage, seen her look so desperate and dirty.  A pair of crutches lolled behind her, and the sprained ankle, despite its strapping, looked even more swollen than it had that morning.  He felt a pang of something in his belly.  It was a strange feeling, not one he was used to experiencing, or certainly not in relation to Tessa.  He thought it might be pity.

“Prince Charming to the rescue,” he said.

Tessa looked up at her ex-husband with something close to affection.  “I didn’t think anyone would come,” she said.

“Couldn’t leave you here,” Max said.  “I’d have had to run the rest of the course by myself, and you’re bloody well not getting away with dumping that on me.”

“Prince Charming indeed,” said Tessa with a sniff.  “Just get me out of here.  Get me home.”

“Are you free to go?”

“Tell you about it in the car.”  She rose with difficulty and reached for her crutches.

“Has anyone looked at that ankle?”

“Just Dr Mackintosh earlier on.  He didn’t do much, just strapped it and gave me pills.  I lost them at the mad postie’s house.  It hurts like hell.”

“There was a sign to a hospital.  We’d better stop by.  Tell you what, you’ve a great plot for a story.”

 

The Portree Community Hospital was a couple of minutes away, and the accident and emergency department was still open.  Max helped Tessa out of the minibus and into the harsh glare of the hospital strip lights.

“You’re lucky it’s a Monday,” said the triage nurse.  “Not many people drink on a Monday.  Not to excess, anyway.  We’ll soon get you seen.”

Tessa sat in the waiting area, her injured ankle resting on a chair in front of her.

“So tell me, one time light of my life,” said Max, “just how did you manage to pull off your little vanishing act?  You know they’ve been whispering about my having done away with you.”

Tessa told him about Malcolm the postie and his bike, and getting a lift into the village and seeing the doctor.

“It was all going fine until he took me to his mother’s house,” she said.  “It was like the house in Psycho, you know, where the dead mother’s still sitting in her chair, and Norman Bates kills the girl in the shower.”

“He kills her in the motel,” said Max.  “The shower’s in the motel room.”

“I know, but he was going on about showing me his collection, and we were miles from anywhere, and I thought he was going to rape me and then kill me.”

Max bit back an uncharitable comment about needing to be desperate, and Tessa’s current unattractive state.  “So you finally put all that kung fu to some good use?” he said.

“Tae Kwondo,” she said.  “Yes.  Rather well, it seems.”

“Rather too well if they’re charging you with assault.”

“He’s not pressing charges,” said Tessa.  “For some reason, part way through their grilling of me, they stopped, while someone brought in a message.  Apparently it said that he wasn’t going to press charges.”

“You know he’s that girl Megan’s boyfriend?”

“Megan from the Creative Hub?”

“The same.”

“Oh,” said Tessa.  “So maybe she talked him out of it.  I think she likes my books.”

“Or maybe he’s just a decent man who doesn’t want the hassle,” said Max.

“Well he needs to learn not to take vulnerable women to his own personal house of horrors!” said Tessa.  “I mean, what does he expect?”

“The doctor will see you now,” said the nurse.  Tessa hopped along behind her into a cubicle.

 

Tessa’s x-ray showed there was no fracture.  The doctor re-strapped her ankle, gave her strict instructions to keep it elevated, chastised her for not putting ice on it straight away, and sent her off with a pocket full of painkillers.

Marcus started up the engine of the minibus, and the three of them drove back in silence.  Tessa fell asleep, stretched out on the back seat.  Max covered her with a rug.  He was wondering how to run the rest of the week, because he couldn’t see Tessa functioning at her usual level.  Actually, it would be a lot easier if he could just get on and finish the course, despite what he’d said to her earlier.  No more arguments or having to negotiate with the wretched woman.  Yes, he could see advantages.  Marcus was thinking he’d had a lucky break, having such close encounters with the polis, but still managing to maintain his conveniently low profile.

They arrived back at the house some time after two, but well ahead of the time they’d thought it might take.  Tessa was groggy from her deep sleep, and cold, in the way that you always are after a long journey through the night.  She fumbled with the crutches.

“I’ll help you up,” said Max.

“Thank you,” said Tessa, for once glad that he’d been there.

“I’ve got the room next to you,” said Max.  “If you need anything, just yell.  Right, I’m off for a fag.”

 

Tessa shut the door behind her and sank onto her bed.  She desperately needed a shower, but she was too exhausted: it would have to wait until the morning.  She stripped off her clothes, slipped a nightshirt over her head, and headed for the bathroom.  A pee, a cursory wash, a clean of her teeth, and she limped back towards the big bed and fell back onto it, pulling the covers over herself and falling asleep almost instantly.

 

She’d waited for an hour.  And then for another.  There were no more chocolate buttons.  She felt her legs grow heavy and her eyes start to close.  Where was he?  She looked out of the window.  There’d been no movement out there for an hour or so, after that elderly couple had gone into the annex.  The house was quiet.  There’d been footsteps on the stairs earlier, the flushing of distant toilets, the opening and closing of doors; but there’d been no sound other than the soughing of trees for an hour, or maybe two.  She would hear him come in, that was for sure.  She could afford to curl herself up on the floor behind the curtains.  She’d wake as he approached the room, and then she’d spring into action.

 

Max savoured his cigarette.  What a day.  What a night, come to think of it.  But no further harm had come to him, and Tessa was back safe.  He still wondered what had happened to the girl with the teeth – Anna, they called her.  She must have gone home.  And anyway, the police had her details: if anything had happened to her they’d have found out by now.  And he hadn’t needed to answer any awkward questions.  But Max didn’t believe his own reassurance.  He knew all too well, from his research for his books, that people did disappear, and often it was years before they were found, and sometimes they remained lost forever.  Look at Fred and Rosemary West: they killed scores of women, and weren’t caught for years.  Some of the women they’re thought to have killed have never been found.  So anything could have happened to Anna.  He hoped she had simply gone home, and that there wouldn’t be any further complications.  Now, how was he going to move things on with luscious Leila?  Maybe Tessa’s indisposition could work in his favour.  He stubbed out the cigarette and went back into the house.  He locked the French windows behind him – Marcus had asked him to do so if he went for a late smoke.  The house was quiet, almost peaceful.  Max went into the kitchen and switched on the light.  He’d have another drop of Marcus’s whisky.  He swigged from the bottle, then turned out the light and headed for his room.  The stairs creaked as he ascended, but otherwise there was no sound.  He entered his bedroom and shivered.  He didn’t remember leaving all the windows open, but the curtains were blowing and the room was icy. He needed a shower, but he decided to go straight to bed: the dramas of the day, and being nice to Tessa had exhausted him.  He undressed and threw his clothes in a pile on the chair.  He thought about cleaning his teeth and decided not to bother.  He couldn’t even be arsed to close the windows – some fresh air would do him good, and the bedding was almost too warm.  Naked, he slipped between the sheets.  He’d forgotten to lock the door, couldn’t remember where he’d put the key, but it was too bad.  In seconds he was asleep and snoring loudly.

 

Beryl and Jack were sound asleep in a companionable spoon arrangement.  Earlier, Beryl had been reading a novel by her second favourite Indian writer, Rohinton Mistry.

“Who’s your favourite then?” asked Jack.

“Vikram Seth.  A Suitable Boy has to be one of the most perfect novels ever written.  Not that Tessa Birnie would recognise fine literature if it leapt off the page and smacked her.”

Jack was enjoying the new Ian Rankin.

“Is there life after Rebus?” asked Beryl.

“Looks like it,” said Jack.

“Jack,” said Beryl.

“Mm?”

“What will you say to your wife?”

“What about?”

“About this.  Us.”

“Don’t think I’ll say anything,” he said.  “Why? D’you think I should?”

 

Pamela had heard the minibus return.  Thank heavens, she’d thought to herself.  Max was back, safe and sound.  Peeping around her curtains, she’d watched Max help Tessa into the house.  She’d heard the creak of the stairs as they made their way to their bedrooms, and she’d heard one door open and close, and then footsteps head downstairs.  He’d be going for his cigarette.  It wasn’t long before she heard him come up again, his door opening and closing softly.  She’d give him time to undress and wash, to get himself comfortably into bed, and then she’d go and give him the comfort she was sure that he would need after such an arduous day.

 

Leon woke in a cold sweat.  Jesus Christ!  What the fuck was going on?  He could just about accept Major Gonzales cross-dressing, especially if he was going undercover and it was all in the best interests of the overall mission; but in his dream tonight, what Major Gonzales had been doing to Marcus Dean was utterly out of character, and Leon was mightily disturbed.  Having gone to a public school, not much surprised Leon about what boys and men did to and with each other; but Mother had always warned him about bullies and big boys, and on the whole, apart from a rather nasty phase in the third year, he’d managed to keep himself to himself.  Yes, that was a pretty apt way of describing it.  He’d found there was a knack to making oneself invisible, and he’d perfected it.  He’d spent his teen years waiting to escape the school and evolve into the strong and fearless man that he knew was the real Leon Waterson.  He saw his boyhood self as a chrysalis, a feeble persona that masked his true, fierce self.  In reality, Major Gonzales and he were one and the same, which is why this latest twist in his rather active dreamlife was so bizarre and disturbing.

 

This was not how it was meant to be.  She cursed herself for having fallen asleep and having to hide herself in a hurry.  Then she cursed him for his slovenly ways and lack of personal hygiene.  Things were not going to plan, and that made her feel very angry indeed.

Poisoned Pens 23

Chapter 23

 She thought about turning his new room over, but it felt too unoriginal.  She didn’t want him getting used to a particular form of disruption.  What if he became blasé about it?  Oh, hi guys, someone’s trashed my room again.  Anyone got a light?  No, she needed to turn up the heat.  She could leave the dead bird she saw in the shrubbery in his bed.  He’d get a nasty shock when he went to settle down for the night.  Or something with more blood and wetness: but she’d have to find something to kill, and there wasn’t any obvious prey.  She’d noticed a black and white cat skulking around, but it never went near the house and she guessed it was either feral or lived elsewhere.  And she’d never killed a cat.  And then she thought about a more subtle approach which might achieve her aims rather more dramatically.  She’d need to be stealthy, and she’d need to be prepared to exit as soon as she’d done it, and there was a chance she’d be caught: yes, it was risky, but worth it.  And she’d use the dead bird too.

 

Andy MacLeod and Lindsay Lennox were sitting in Malcolm’s cosy sitting room.  He was sporting a nasty bruise on his head and there was still a trace of blood around his chin.

“Is this where it happened?” asked Lindsay.

“No, I’d taken her to my mother’s bungalow,” said Malcolm.  “It’s away up the road.”

“We’ll need to take a look,” said Andy.

“I can take you,” said Megan.  “You’ll be all right on your own while I go, won’t you?” she said to Malcolm.

“If you’re sure,” said Malcolm.

Andy and Lindsay indicated that they were happy for Megan to show them the site of the assault.  They left Malcolm nursing a cup of tea.

“Where’s Tessa Birnie now?” asked Lindsay as they all got into the police car.

“I left her at the pub with Rob,” said Megan.  “He’s the barman at the Ardvassar Hotel,” she explained.

“We’ll go there after we’ve seen the house,” said Andy.

 

Tessa wondered how much longer she’d have to wait.  The barman was wholly absorbed in the football game that was being played out by the Old Firm.  She’d long finished her whisky, and he’d made it clear that there was no more unless she had the means to pay for it.  She thought about trying to escape as customers entered and left the bar, but she couldn’t move quickly enough, and she definitely couldn’t walk all the way to the Creative Hub.  She’d just have to wait for the police to come, and then she’d be able to explain about being abducted and held against her will.  And then they’d take her home.  Zak would say something upbeat: Well think of it this way, Tessa: if you’d twisted your ankle in London, you’d have spent the day in A and E at an NHS hospital  in meltdown.  At least this way you’ve had fresh air and met some new people. Zak encouraged her to take the glass half full approach.  There are two types of Scrabble players in the world, he’d once said, those who see Z, Q, J, and X as opportunities, and those who see them as the worst letters you can pick out.  Tessa liked to see herself as a Scrabble optimist, but as far as her current situation went, she was struggling to find anything positive in it at all.  Except, perhaps, the fact that she had escaped Malcolm’s collection, and had evaded a potentially untimely end.

 

Marcus had served dinner, and the group had sat together, eating quietly.  Everyone was worried now about what could have happened to Tessa, and no-one was in the mood for casual chat.  Dee helped Marcus to clear the empty dishes away.

“Has this happened before?” she asked, wiping dry a plate.

“Och no,” said Marcus.  “Sure we have our share of dramatics, but we’ve not had people going missing.  Never had the polis up at the house.”

“And it’s really not part of the programme?”

“No, it’s for real.”

“Tessa couldn’t have slipped back down the bank into the stream, could she?”

“We looked.  She’d just gone.”

Leila brought a half full salad bowl into the kitchen.  “No-one’s got much appetite,” she said.  “I think I should call our agent, Tessa’s and mine, that is.  Can I use the phone?”

“Sure,” said Marcus.

 

Leila rang Dinah Tannenbaum’s number.  The agent picked up after the fourth ring.

“Leila, darling! How wonderful to hear from you!”

Leila told her about Tessa’s disappearance.

“That’s very strange,” said Dinah.  “She just vanished?”

“Yes,” said Leila.  “No-one’s heard from her all day, and we’re getting really worried.  I think you should let her next of kin know.  Do you know who they are?”

“I don’t, I’m afraid,” said Dinah. “Of course, she was married to Max Logan.  Toxic relationship Have you read any of his books?  They say that the corpse in Death in the Mall was the image – literally speaking – of Tessa.”

“He’s here too,” said Leila.  “He’s the other tutor.”

Leila heard a sharp intake of breath, and then there was a long silence.  “Dinah?  Are you still there?”

“Yes, yes, I’m here.  Look, Leila, where was Max Logan at the time of Tessa’s disappearance?”

“He was one of the ones who found her, when she was sitting injured in the woods, but he didn’t go back to help her back to the house.  Said he didn’t want to risk putting his back out – he’d had an accident the night before.”

“So could he have slipped back without anyone knowing?”

“He was teaching for most of the morning,” said Leila.  “He wouldn’t have had much time.”

“Well, if you ask me, Max Logan has the answer,” said Dinah.  “Their marriage was famously brutal.  It wouldn’t surprise me if he’d found a way of getting rid of her.”

“He’s foul, it’s true, but…” said Leila, shuddering as she thought of how Max had started to pursue her, of his lecherous leer.  But was he capable of hurting, or killing, his ex-wife?”

“Are the police involved?” asked Dinah

“They’re looking for her,” said Leila.  “We haven’t heard anything, though, so I guess they haven’t found her yet.”

“Make sure they know about Max,” said Dinah.  “I do know someone who may know how to contact her family, if she has one. I’ll make a call.  And stay away from Max Logan until all this is sorted out.”

After they’d ended the call, Dinah Tannenbaum searched out the number she was looking for.  Then she phoned Zak Summers to tell him that he should be very concerned for his most lucrative client.

 

Beryl went to Jack’s annex with him.  He poured them each a generous measure of the single malt.

“I’ll have to go shopping soon!” he said, pointing to the bottle, which was almost empty.

“We’ll take some time out tomorrow,” said Beryl.  “Go to the village.  That’s if all this mess is sorted out.”

“Eh?”

“Have to wait for this mess to unravel,” said Beryl, raising her voice.

“D’you think there’s been foul play?”

“I’m not sure, Jack.  It’s very odd that she just disappeared like that.  And Anna too.  We all seem to be forgetting about her in our panic about Tessa.  But I’m not convinced that she ever left.”

“Why?”

“Just a feeling.”

They sipped at their whisky, and took stock of the strange and disturbing day.

“Max’s session was good, I’ll give him that,” said Beryl, after a while.

“He knows his stuff.  Did you read Blood in the Mall?”

“I did.  It wasn’t up there with Rendell and James, but he kept you guessing until the end.  Nice use of forensic science.  Application of DNA was ingenious.”

“So if he wanted to commit a crime and get away with it, he’d know how to do it.”

“He would.  But I’m not convinced he’s the type.”

Night had fallen and the clear sky was twinkling with stars.  The moon was big and bright.  The air was cool and fragrant.

“You staying?” asked Jack.

“Yes,” said Beryl.  “Mind you don’t snore.”

Jack laughed.  “I’m too deaf to notice whether you snore or not!”

“Perfect,” said Beryl.  “And I’ve brought my own toothbrush.”

 

Leila, Dee , and Leon decided to stay up to critically appraise each others’ work.  They huddled in the library, a bottle of red wine in the centre of the table.

“I still think they might be testing us,” said Leon.  “You know, making strange things happen and seeing how we react, as writers.

“I don’t think so,” said Leila.  “Tessa was really hurt: she couldn’t have faked that ankle.”

“Marcus insisted that this wasn’t some kind of game to get us all plotting.  I’m still wondering what happened to Anna,” said Dee.

“What if Max has done something to Tessa?” said Leila, thinking back to her conversation with Dinah.

“They hate each other,” said Dee.

“That doesn’t mean he’d hurt her,” said Leon.  “Not all men are violent.”

“They all have the potential to be,” said Dee.

“And women don’t?” said Leon.

“I think we should stay away from him,” said Leila.  “Until we know.”

“But he couldn’t,” said Leon.  “He was here, with us.”

“Yeah, that’s true, but what if he ran back down during one of his smoking breaks, did her in, raced back in time for our next session?”

“Max Logan?  Racing?  Get real!” said Leon.  And although she didn’t say anything, Leila was inclined to agree.

 

Max was weary.  It had been a long, tough day.  Not knowing what had happened to Tessa was almost worse than having to put up with her nasty presence.  And then there was the wretched, omnipresent Pamela, and trying to shake her off was no joke.  He didn’t want to give up on Leila – once Tessa was back and things had got back to normal, he’d offer her some one to one help with her book.  She’d soon come round and fall for his charms, they always did.  Well, almost always.  Not so often these days, if he was honest.  He went to the kitchen to see if there was any drink lying around.  He needed something sweet and strong, and if he couldn’t have Leila, whisky would have to do instead.  Marcus was writing out a menu.

“Heard anything?” asked Max.

“Not a thing,” said Marcus.

“Worth putting in a call to the police, don’t you think?”

“They would have called us, I’m sure; but I’ll try them just in case.  Never had much faith in the polis, and they usually post the dead losses of the force on the islands.”

“Any chance of a drink?”

Marcus reached into the cupboard for the Talisker.  “One of those days,” he said, pouring Max a generous measure, and then doing the same for himself.  “I’ll go and call the polis,” he said and went to the office.  Lindsay Lennox had left a card with their number on it.  He dialled.  Max hovered by the door.

“It’s Marcus Dean, Skye Creative Hub,” said Marcus.  “I just wondered…you have?  Where?  She what?  You’re going to what?  Is that necessary?  I see.  Aye, I know….aye, I’ll tell them.  Goodnight.”

“What was that about?” asked Max.

Marcus stroked his chin and shook his head in disbelief.  “You’ll not credit it,” he said.

“What?”

“They’ve arrested her.  They’re taking her to the cells.”

“Tessa?”

“Aye, Tessa Birnie.”

“What do you mean?  What’s that stupid woman done?”  He was so relieved to hear she was alive, he began to be angry with her all over again.  Things could go back to normal.  Almost.

“She’s charged with assaulting our postie,” said Malcolm.

Max burst out laughing.  “Assaulting a postie!  Whatever next!”

“It’s no funny,” said Marcus, indignantly.  “He’s a fine young man, is Malcolm.  Wouldnae harm a fly, let alone a woman.”

“We’ll have to tell people,” said Max.  “Let them know she’s ok.”

“Aye, but she isnae all right,” said Marcus.  “She’s heading for the cells with that nasty ankle.”

“You think we should go…”

“Well, I think I should.  I’m paid to take care of folk while they’re here.”

“Now?”

“After we’ve told everyone.”

“I suppose I’d better come with you.  Nearest thing to next of kin.”

 

Marcus found the little trio in the library and shared his news.

“Assaulting a postman?” cried Leon.  Maybe the woman did have balls after all.  And he’d been right about women being potentially violent too.  Sort those bloody feminists out!

 

Max was surprised to find Beryl in Jack’s room, for it was she who answered the door, and she had toothpaste around her mouth.  Well, at least someone was getting lucky.  Or maybe not, he thought, wondering what Jack could see in the old woman – or what she’d see in him.  Mind you, he’d choose Beryl over Pamela any day, despite the tweedy skirts and sensible shoes.  Although of course, he’d choose neither if Leila stopped playing hard to get.

“She’s not been hurt, then?” Beryl was saying.

“No more than she was when we last saw her,” said Max, “as far as we know.  I’ll go with Marcus to try to bail her.”

“Good.  Now we’ll all sleep,” said Beryl.

 

Ros and Pamela were in the computer room, working on their books.  Ros had started a new one.  For the first time, she was writing a contemporary story, and a crime story at that.  Pamela was testing some plot ideas that had to do with a new shopping centre – yet another – being built in Croydon, and the unearthing of bones which may be human.

“Oh thank God,” said Pamela on hearing the news.  “You must be relieved, hun, what with her being your ex and all that.”

“You’re going to get her now?” said Ros.

“With Marcus,” said Max.

“You drive carefully,” said Pamela.  “Make sure you take your phone and put a couple of blankets in the car.”

Insufferable, thought Max.

 

Marcus and Max climbed into the Skye Creative Hub minibus.  It would be a long drive to Portree, which was where the police had taken Tessa.  They’d be lucky to be back by dawn.  Yet both set off with lighter hearts than they’d had earlier that day.

 

She had prepared everything, put her bag where she could easily collect it and make her swift departure.  She wished she’d been brave enough to go to the village shop to buy some more chocolate buttons.  She’d only got a few left.  She’d eke them out. The dead bird was in his washbasin.  As a bonus, she’d found an outsized spider, and she’d placed that in the shower tray.  The windows were open, and the room was already chilly.  Now she just had to wait.  Had Max not moved rooms, she would have heard the minibus engine start up and she would have turned to see the two men leave the Hub.  But she was in the quiet room facing the garden, and she heard nothing.    She waited.

Poisoned Pens 22

Seeing as you’re all being so good, and I’m actually on the home stretch and about to write 27, here’s 22…

 

Chapter 22

“Thank God you’re here, Megan,” said Malcolm.  “There was this crazy woman.  I tried to help, but she attacked me.  Kneed me in the nuts, Megan, then battered me with her crutches.  Honestly, people nowadays…”

“Don’t try to speak.  I’ll call Dr Mackintosh right now,” said Megan, reaching into her coat pocket for her mobile.

“Bugger!  No signal,” she said.  “Is the landline working?”

“No, I had it cut off after Mother died,” said Malcolm.  “I’ll be ok, I just need some paracetemol.”

“I’ll away to the surgery,” said Megan.  “Will you be ok for five minutes?”

“I think so,” said Malcolm, feebly.  What was the world coming to, he wondered, when you did everything you could to help someone and by way of repayment they assaulted your manhood and knocked you unconscious with a crutch?  He’d been brought up to be a good citizen.  He could have just left that woman in the woods, but no, he had to play the hero and try to rescue her.  Well, he thought, never again.  No more mister nice guy.

 

Megan got back on her bike and cycled back to the village, peddling as fast as she could.  She hoped she’d reach the surgery before it closed.  She was in luck: three people sat in reception waiting to see Dr Mackintosh.  Hazel McLure was tidying up and getting ready to close for the evening.

“Mrs McLure, it’s Malcolm,” said Megan.

“Hello there Megan,” said Hazel, peering over the top of her reading glasses.  “What’s the matter then?”

“Someone’s attacked him,” said Megan, still breathless after her rush from Malcolm’s mother’s house to the surgery.  “I think he’s concussed.”

“Oh dearie me, whatever next,” said Hazel, who blamed the Skye Bridge for all the crime on the island.  It was just too easy for all these crazies from the mainland to get to Skye – and get off again evading justice.  “Can you get him along here?”

“I don’t want to move him,” said Megan.  “Could Dr Mackintosh come to the house? His mother’s house?”

“It’ll be after surgery,” said Hazel, “But I’ll make sure he comes along.”

“Thank you,” said Megan.  “I’ll get along back to him.”

“You do that,” said Hazel.  The girl had been going out with Malcolm for the past month or so, but she came from Glasgow or somewhere unsavoury on the mainland.  Who was to say it wasn’t her who attacked the young man?

 

Tessa decided to risk going into the pub.  She had to get back to the Creative Hub.  She was cold and exhausted, and the day had been hellish from the moment she set out for her run.  She was surprised that no-one had been sent out to look for her.  But then who would have guessed that she’d been abducted on a postie’s bike, bundled into a barely roadworthy Fiesta, and then hustled into a psychopath’s dead mother’s bungalow.  She hauled herself up onto the crutches and stood on the edge of the pavement, checking that the road was safe to cross.  Just as she was about to step out, a girl on a bicycle hurtled around the corner and had to swerve to miss her.

“Ms Birnie?” The rider had dismounted and now turned to stare.

“Megan,” said Tessa.  “I’m glad to see you!  Can you help me to get back to the house?”

“What happened to you?” asked Megan, shocked to see the usually neat and elegant Ms Birnie bent over a pair of crutches, her hair dull and matted with some kind of debris, her running outfit stained and torn.

“Long story,” said Tessa.  “I fell, I thought this man was trying to help me, but he wasn’t.  I managed to get away, now I need to get home.”

“You!” cried Megan, “It was you attacked my Malcolm!  Well I’m calling the polis and getting them to arrest you.”

“Megan, you’ve got the wrong…”

“Oh, don’t you try to talk your way out of it.  I know about folk like you.  Think you can get away with hurting a decent, kind man.  Well you cannae!”

And before Tessa could interject, Megan had swung herself back onto her bike and was heading for the pub, where there was a public telephone that actually worked.  Tessa didn’t know whether to follow Megan and try to explain, or whether to hop back into the bus shelter.  She decided to carry on towards the pub, and propelled herself across the road.  Megan was talking animatedly to whoever was on the other end of the phone.  As Tessa walked in, she looked up.

“Aye, she’s here now,” she said.  “That’s right, Tessa Birnie. Thanks.  Cheers.”  As she replaced the receiver, she pointed at Tessa as she looked at the barman.

“This is the one,” she said.  “This is the mad cow who attacked my Malcolm.”

The barman lifted the counter and came around.  “Best lock the door, then,” he said, and lowered the catch on the front door.  “Can’t have you running off, now, can we?” he said.

“What the fuck’s going on?” yelled Tessa, now frantic with pain and confusion.  “Just call me a taxi.  I need to get back to the Creative Hub.  I’m a writer.  Tessa Birnie, maybe you’ve read my books?”

“Never heard of you, darling;” said the barman.  “But Malcolm, he’s a mate of mine, and I don’t like to hear of him being hurt, you get what I’m saying?”

“But he’s the one who attacked me!” cried Tessa.  “He kidnapped me.  Took me to some derelict house, said he had a collection to show me.  God knows what he was planning to do!”

The barman looked at Megan, and Megan looked back at him.  Suddenly they both began to laugh.

“Malcolm was going to show you his collection?” said Megan.

“God knows what he was going to do!” cried Tessa, thinking that everyone on this island was stark raving mad.

“Did ye no see his collection, then?” asked the barman.

“What collection?” asked Tessa.  “I don’t believe there was a collection.  It was all just a ruse.”

“There’s a collection, all right,” said the barman, and burst out laughing again.

“I’ve got to run,” said Megan.  “I left him there, and the doctor will be up soon.  He’s not in a good way.  The polis’ll be here for her.”  Throwing one more accusing glare at Tessa, she unlatched the door and slipped out.

“Please get me back to the house,” said Tessa.

“Cannae do that,” said the barman.  “Got to wait for the polis.”

“Well then at least give me a drink,” said Tessa, sinking onto a chair.  “And tell me where the toilet is.  I’ve been dying to go for hours.”

 

Dr Mackintosh was not a happy man.  He seldom was.  But he was more convinced than ever that the Skye Creative Hub was the devil’s work.  Here was a decent local boy in a state of concussion – not life-threatening, he was glad to find – because some hysterical writer had taken it upon herself to assault him with a crutch.  And with a crutch that he, Dr Mackintosh, had issued to her only that afternoon.  How she could have behaved so wickedly after all that boy had done for her, he couldn’t fathom.  Well, at least young Megan seemed decent enough.

“You’ll feel better in the morning,” said Dr Mackintosh.  “Now, can you get yourself home?”

“Aye, I think I could get back now,” said Malcolm.  Seeing Megan had worked wonders.  They only had to go the length of the village.

“Come and see me tomorrow evening,” said Dr Mackintosh, “and call me straight away if you start to feel ill or vomit.”

“I’ll stay with him,” said Megan.

“Just you make sure he rests,” said the doctor.  “There’ll be time enough for the other stuff when he’s better.”

Megan felt the colour rise in her face, but she nodded her agreement to the silver-haired man who was old enough to be her grandfather.

“Shall we go?” she said to Malcolm, and the two prepared to follow Dr Mackintosh out of the funny little bungalow.

“I only came here to show her my collection,” said Malcolm.  “I thought she seemed nice.  Thought she’d be interested.”

“Her loss,” said Megan, closing the door behind them.

 

Andy Macleod picked up the call during the constables’ lunch break.  They’d stopped at a nice little pub near Broadford.

“So we’re going back?” said Lindsay Lennox, a touch of weariness in her voice: it had been a long day and she wanted to get home to feed the dog and put her feet up.

“Afraid so,” said Andy.  “Alleged assault, we may need to make an arrest.”

“But how did she get there?”

“Who knows?  But we’re about to find out.”

 

The barman relented.  Where was the harm in showing the woman the toilet?  No way she was going to escape out of that wee window.  Tessa was relieved as she sat to pee.  She thought about locking the door and staying in the toilet until Max or someone civilised came to rescue her.  But she was thirsty, too, and the barman had promised her a drink.  She flushed and went to wash her hands.  Glancing in the mirror, she was shocked at her image: wild, dishevelled, dirty: thank goodness Zak wasn’t around to see her like this.  What would he say about it all?  She couldn’t think of any suitable Zak-type platitudes.  She washed her face and dried in as best she could with the roller towel.  Back in the bar, she sat back in the chair she’d been occupying.

“What’ll ye have?” said the barman.

Tessa was torn between whisky and a large mug of tea.  “Whisky and a glass of water please,” she said.

“Just a single, mind,” said the barman, pulling the amber liquid from the optic and then pouring a glass of water from the tap underneath the bar.  He walked them over to Tessa’s table, taking care not to get closer than he needed to: she clearly couldn’t be trusted with those crutches.

Tessa drank down the whisky and felt its warmth soothe her.  “I need to ring the Creative Centre,” she said.

“Phone’s over there,” said the barman.

“I don’t have any money,” said Tessa.

“How are you planning to pay for yon dram?” asked the barman

“Well…I thought…given the circumstances…it would be on the house,” said Tessa.

“Don’t know where you got that idea,” said the barman, “but I’ll no be paying for your phone call on top.  I’ve a living to make here, you know.”

“Could you ring them from the pub phone?” asked Tessa.  People in London, she thought to herself, were so much more friendly and helpful than these backwoods Scots.

“Polis will ring them for ye,” said the barman.  He switched on the large television and turned away from Tessa as the screen filled with a football match.

Poisoned Pens 21

Chapter 21

Marcus drove to the ferry station thinking about what Megan had said about the studio.  Something wasn’t right.  He was more rattled than he’d let on about Tessa’s disappearance, because it didn’t seem possible that she’d got herself out of those woods.  And if, somehow, someone had come along and got her out before he and the students got back, how come they hadn’t brought her back to the house?  He’d feel better once he had confirmation that Anna Meredith had left Skye, and Angus was the man to ask.

 

“Good day, Angus!” called Marcus, as he walked towards the pier.  He could see the MV Coruisk  crossing the narrow channel from Mallaig.  The crossing was a mere twenty-five minutes, so he’d get straight to the point with Angus.

“I’m wanting to pick your brain,” said Marcus to the young man in the smart, Caledonian MacBrayne uniform.  “Do you remember who took the boat across to the mainland on Sunday?”

“Aye,” said Angus.  “Weather was fair and we ran almost exactly to time – the boat in was two minutes late, and there was a thirty second delay on the return journey.”

“And were there many passengers?” pursued Marcus.

“Eighteen,” replied Angus.

“Was there a wee lassie with long fair hair, teeth that stuck out, thin, say five four?”

“No,” said Angus.  “There was Mrs MacBride, Mr and Mrs Lowther, Miss Francis….”

“You’re sure you didn’t see anyone you didn’t know?”

“Only the Farradays, they were tourists, stayed up at Portree for a week.”

“Thank you,” said Marcus.  Angus was known to have a photographic memory, and his knowledge about boats, ferries, and steam trains of the world was encyclopaedic.  He’d been a strange boy, never one to have many friends, but the job he’d landed at Caledonian MacBrayne suited him perfectly.  As far as Marcus was concerned, if Angus hadn’t seen Anna Meredith, she hadn’t been on the ferry.  That meant she was either still on the island, or she’d left by going the long way round and going by road over the Skye Bridge.  He didn’t know how to start checking out whether she’d made that journey.  He’d have to leave it to the police now.

 

Tessa was getting tired, and she stopped at the end of the lane where the houses began.  She must be safe now.  There was a pub a little way ahead, so she headed towards it; but then she had a terrifying thought: what if there was some kind of conspiracy?  She’d heard about the kinds of things that happened in small, isolated communities.  Suppose whoever was in the pub was in cahoots with Malcolm, and conspired to give her up to him?  There was a bus shelter with a seat inside.  She hopped in and sat down, taking care not to put any weight on the still painful ankle.  Had she not gone into the shelter at that particular moment, she would have been visible to Marcus, who was driving back to the Creative Hub from his meeting with Angus, and he would have been mightily relieved to have found one of the missing guests, and she would soon have been sitting comfortably in the warm house.  Instead, Tessa took shelter inside the solid little structure, and Marcus drove on by.

 

“D’you mind if I take a couple of hours off?” said Megan, when Marcus returned.  “Lasagne’s all ready, I’ve made some salad, there’s cake for dessert.”

“No, you go, hen,” said Marcus.  She’d been going out with her boyfriend for just a few weeks, and he remembered what that was like: yearning to see each other at every opportunity, and lots of sex.  He felt wistful for Edinburgh when he thought about it, but knew that he needed to bide his time, despite his earlier thoughts about abandoning the Creative Hub and going back to face the music in his native city.

“You’ll be back tonight?” he said, as Megan buttoned up her coat.

“I’ll be back in time to do breakfast, is that ok?” she said, pulling a striped woollen hat over her head.

“Go on, then,” said Marcus.

 

Megan took her bike from the rack around the side of the house.  She didn’t have far to go.  It was downhill from the Creative Hub, and she was outside the little house in the village in fifteen minutes.  She was looking forward to a cosy evening with her wonderful new man.  He should be in by now, she thought as she knocked on the door.  But there was no reply, and she was pretty sure he wouldn’t be sleeping.  There was only one other place he was likely to be at this time of the day, so she got back on her bike and cycled through the village, and out along the lane towards the hills.

 

Max had led the afternoon sessions, tackling criminal mindsets and how to integrate forensic science into the plot.  Ros had not at first thought that this was of any use to her at all; but as Max presented various real life case studies, she realised that this was exactly what she needed, if she were to dispose of Alastair efficiently and without being detected.

“Never underestimate the usefulness of alcohol,” said Max.  “Not only does it make it a lot easier to manipulate the victim into risky situations, but it will almost always seem that the death was accidental, and caused by the victim’s own carelessness.  Even better if they’re a smoker.”

“Like you?” said Leila.

Max laughed nervously.  “Yes, like me.  If anyone was really out to kill me, the most obvious thing to do would be to get me drunk, add some drugs for potency, and then have me light up a cigarette just before passing out, preferably on a bed or foam mattress.”  He’d have to be careful, he thought.  Suppose it was one of these people who had trashed his room?”

 

Ros didn’t say anything, because she was busy processing these new ideas.  Alcohol seemed to offer a wide range of possibilities: she could get him drunk, and then stick a lit cigarette in his mouth, go out and let fire and inflammable furniture do the rest; only he’d given up smoking over two years ago, so that might look suspicious.  And it was her home too: she liked it, and planned to stay in it after Alastair’s demise.  Maybe something with a candle?  Or a nasty accident with something flammable from his workshop: he did so love his solvents and gases when we was pottering with his model-making, and he did that in the garage rather than the main house.  Yes, this session was definitely proving worthwhile.  What if she could get him drunk on the journey home, create an argument at a motorway service station so that he went off without her – for she was certainly not intending to die with him – and then met his death on the motorway?  Only problem with that was the likelihood that there would be other victims, and Ros was quite clear that the only person she wished dead was Alastair.  She didn’t even want Lana to die – just to have acquired a nasty sexually transmitted infection that lingered and mutated and led to permanent pain and the death of libido.

 

“Then of course there’s always the leg of lamb approach,” said Max.

“Poisoned Sunday roast?” asked Pamela, “a bit obvious, I’d have thought.”

“Not poisoned,” said Max.  “Batter the victim over the head with the frozen joint, making sure the meat’s well wrapped in cling-film.  Once they’re dead, remove the plastic, dispose of it making sure no-one can find it, and cook the joint.”

“Oh, I like it,” said Pamela.  “Do you think you could do it with one of those reconstituted meat things that they grill in kebab shops?  Croydon’s full of them.  Kebab shops, that is.”

“Quite possibly,” said Max, thinking that he really shouldn’t be giving her any more ideas.

“Stabbing your victim with an icicle’s pretty classic,” said Jack.

“How does that work?” asked Dee, thinking it sounded like the kind of revenge action that might appeal to Lou.

“Stab your victim with an icicle through the eye,” said Jack, then put it somewhere where it’ll melt.  No weapon, you see.  The perfect murder.”

Ros was tempted, but the thought of poking something through Alastair’s eye was just too gruesome.  What if his eyeball fluid squirted out, or there were bits of brain on the icicle?  No, that one wasn’t for her.

Leon was intrigued, but he found Max’s approach far too earth bound and conventional.  It was about time, he thought, that they got some younger people teaching these programmes.  People who were clued up about sci fi and fantasy, the sorts of things that most people wanted to read about these days.  Major Gonzales would never resort to anything so underhand, anyway: his mission was to do good and to eradicate evil.  And the Deathorians were more likely to use biological warfare or toxify the oceans by turning them radioactive.

Beryl was rather impressed at the way Max had prepared for the session, and it was clear that he’d stimulated the imaginations of the students.  She rather wished she’d thought about the icicle when she’d been writing Dear Departed.

 

“Dinner will be ready in half an hour,” said Marcus, as the session was coming to a close.  The students headed towards the bedrooms, all going towards the stairs, except for Jack, who accessed his annex through the French windows.

As Max passed the door to Tessa’s room, he found himself wishing she’d turn up.  Where on earth could she be?  She’d been gone now for most of the day.  If it was some kind of joke, or her way of getting back at him because he’d laughed at her, then she’d had the effect she desired, and needed to come back.  Max decided not to go to his room, but to seek out Marcus to find out if he’d had any more information.

“Heard any more about Tessa?” he said, trying to sound casual.

“No, not a thing,” said Marcus.  “I expect the police will be asking at the hospital on the mainland.  That’s the only thing I can think of: someone came by and took her off, and she hasn’t been able to let us know because she didn’t have her mobile.”  It was thin, Marcus knew: surely Tessa would have used someone else’s phone, or even a call box; but he felt that he needed to do what he could to reassure Max.

 

Megan reached the house and went to knock on the door.  To her surprise, it was already open.  She went in, calling as she went.  She was used to the gloomy entrance, by now.  She hoped someone would buy the bungalow soon and do it up: it needed complete refurbishment, and then it would be a lovely little home.

“Malcolm?” she called, and then gasped as she walked into the sitting room.  “Malcolm!  What on earth’s happened?” she said, running to tend to her boyfriend who was lying on the sofa looking pale, sick, and dazed.

Poisoned Pens 20

Happy weekend, faithful readers!  I’ll try to post a bumper crop this weekend – only got until Wednesday!

 

Chapter 20

Under normal circumstances, Tessa would have legged it.  She was lean and fit and she ran at least five miles most days.  Just her luck to find herself in the house out of Psycho with an unhinged postman and a badly sprained ankle.  She could, of course, turn her crutches into weapons, knock him unconscious, hobble out of the house, and hope for a passing motorist.  Maybe one would pass before the sun went down, before Malcolm regained consciousness.  She didn’t hold out much hope, though.  If Max were here, he’d think of something: he was ingenious at concocting plots, and he’d got his protagonists out of worse fixes than this.  But Max was probably celebrating her disappearance and thinking about how to seduce Leila Morris.  There was no way on earth he’d find her at this place.  No, she’d have to rely on her wits.  Try to outsmart him.  He was probably deluded, psychotic, or else he had some kind of personality disorder that required her to make him think he was in control.  She’d need to play along until her chance for escape arose.  Strange that she hadn’t picked up anything untoward.  Strange that he seemed so at home with the doctor, and with the receptionist, Hazel she seemed to remember her name as being.

Malcolm led her to a dusty sofa and went to help her to sit.

“I’m happier standing for now,” said Tessa, knowing that she’d never get up unaided from that sofa with its long dead stuffing.

“No, you’ve got to sit.  Rest that ankle,” insisted Malcolm, starting to take her crutches.

“I’m fine,” said Tessa, getting ready to swing.  “I don’t need to sit down.  Thank you,” she added.

“Oh, but your ankle,” said Malcolm, moving again as if to take the crutches.

Everything that Tessa had ever learnt in every martial art she’d dabbled in came rushing back.  Raising the knee of her bad leg, she jabbed it into Malcolm’s crotch, causing him to double up in pain.  Balancing on the other leg, she brought one of the crutches crashing down onto the back of his head.  Malcolm crumpled into unconsciousness, and Tessa swung her body as fast as she could towards that green, flaky front door.  Soon she was outside, the soft afternoon light dazzling her after the gloom of the house. Hopping on the good leg, and using her crutches to propel her body forwards, she swung down the lane, not daring to look back.

 

Megan wondered who could have opened the studio door.  She and Marcus always kept it locked in case of travellers or passing thieves.  Not that crime was a problem on Skye.  They had their fair share of motoring offences, a few domestics and arrests for drunkenness, but the community was largely peaceable and the tourists who visited came for the quiet and the countryside.  Megan opened the door.

“Hello?” she called.  There was no reply.  She could smell soap, and the scent of a recently peeled orange; yet they hadn’t hosted a fine arts group for at least a fortnight.  Megan turned on the light.  The surfaces wore their usual fine coating of dust, usually red or grey from the ceramic workshops; but she noticed a clean patch along the working surface near the sink, and looking down, she saw footprints on the dusty floor.  On one of the tables there was an empty packet of Cadbury’s chocolate buttons.

Ok, that was it: first thing tomorrow she’d be off.  This place was too creepy for words.  Her boyfriend would be happy for her to go and stay with him – he’d been asking her to move in for weeks.  She’d go up to his house after dinner, and then she’d tell Marcus that she quit.  He wouldn’t be very happy, but it was tough.  She stepped back towards the door and out of the studio.  She heard a car driving off, and thought it must be the polis.  Good, it would be safe for her to go back into the house.

 

Leon had told the police all that he knew which, he thought, amounted to very little.  Now they seemed as interested in Anna Meredith as they were in Tessa Birnie, and he too wondered if there was a connection.  They’d all been told not to leave the house, and to phone with any additional information that may occur to them.

 

Pamela trotted after Max as he went to smoke on the terrace.  She looked around to make sure they wouldn’t be overheard.

“I didn’t tell them, Maxi,” she said.

“Tell them what?” asked Max, annoyed that his few moments of peace were yet again being interrupted by this ungainly female.

“About us!” whispered Pamela.

“What about us?” asked Max.

“You know, you looking for me, and coming to make love with me.”

“Oh that,” said Max.  “Well that was a mistake.”

“No it wasn’t,” said Pamela.  “You were just overcome by passion.  I know there’s probably a rule somewhere about tutors not becoming lovers with students, but sometimes you just have to follow your heart.  Especially when you’re an artist, like we are.”

“I wasn’t overcome by passion, Pamela,” said Max.  “I went to the wrong room.  End of.”

Pamela looked so hurt that he wished he’d kept his mouth shut and let her have her little illusion.

“You’re a lovely lady, don’t get me wrong,” he said.  “But I was …sleepwalking. “  He sneezed.  Her perfume was causing him to feel as if he was suffocating.  “And I should never have compromised you in that way,” he added.

She looked at him as if she almost believed him.  The thing was, whether he knew it or not, he really did need her, only he just didn’t realise it.

 

“Marcus, someone’s been using the studio,” Megan said, after she’d closed the door to the office.

“We tell them they can go anywhere, what’s the problem?” asked Marcus, who was still relieved that the polis hadn’t delved too deeply into his past.

“I don’t think it’s one of the group,” said Megan.  “I’d be surprised if they even know it’s there.  And we always keep it locked.”

“You found it open?”

“Yes.  There was a smell of food, footprints, remains of a snack.  They’d left a chocolate button bag on the table.”

At this, Marcus started to pay attention.  What was it about chocolate buttons?  Hadn’t that constable asked him if he’d noticed anyone with a particular liking for them?  “Chocolate buttons, you say?”

“There was an empty packet,” said Megan.  “What did the polis say?”

“They spoke to everyone.  I didn’t mention you.  They might come back and need to talk to you later.

“Were they worried?  I mean, did they think something had happened to Ms Birnie?”

“They didn’t say.  They looked at Max’s room, and they were interested in Anna Meredith’s disappearance.”

“We should go and talk to Angus.  We’ve been saying we would,” said Megan.

“You’re right.  At least we’d know if she’d left the island.  Are you happy to take care of dinner?”

“It’s easy enough tonight – lasagne.  I can cope.”

“Do a veggie one for Dee, then.”

“They can all have veggie tonight.”

 

“What do you reckon?” Andy MacLeod asked his partner as they drove away from the Skye Creative Hub.

“Not sure,” said Lindsay Lennox.  “There might be a simple explanation – Anna Meredith decided it wasn’t for her and hurried off home, and Tessa Birnie was rescued by someone; but then again, there could be something very sinister going on: why didn’t Anna tell anyone she was going, and why is Tessa still missing?”

“Writers, eh?” said Andy.

“The worst,” agreed Lindsay.

Poisoned Pens 19

Chapter 19

It took Tessa some seconds to adjust to the gloom inside Malcolm’s hallway.  There was a dank smell about the place that she hadn’t expected.  Somehow she’d pictured him living in a light, airy flat or cottage with cheery neighbours nearby; yet here they were in this squat little bungalow, a mile or two out of the village.  How easy it would be to find yourself snowed in.  She shivered.

“This way,” said Malcolm, and she hopped after him, leaning heavily on the crutches, and through the farthest door.  It led into a sitting room that looked as if it hadn’t been sat in for a decade.  The surfaces were dull and dusty.  Everything looked old.  The windows were opaque with ancient grime, and cobwebs dangled from the picture rail.  No way was this a young man’s home.

“Who lives here?” asked Tessa.  “Surely this isn’t your house?”

“It’s my mother’s,” said Malcolm.  “I want to show you my collection.”

Tessa was suddenly afraid.  She was very, very frightened.

 

“We’ll talk to the students now,” Andy MacLeod said to Marcus.  “Do you have a list?”

Marcus produced the guest list and handed it to the constable.

“We’ll start with Dee Brannigan,” said Andy.  “By the way, do you know who’s got a liking for Cadbury’s chocolate buttons?”

“No, I can’t say I do,” said Marcus.  He went to fetch Dee, and saw, for the first time, the ghoulish set piece on the table – on the Skye Creative Hub’s beautiful Victorian polished oak table.  “What the hell’s going on in here?” he shouted.  “Who’s done this to my table?  And look at my carpet!  Look what you’ve done!”

Beryl stood and went over to Marcus.  “We don’t know who’s done it,” she said.  “We’ve been trying to work it out – it wasn’t any of us, and we don’t see how it could have been Tessa.”

“Christ!” said Marcus, “Jesus Christ!  I mean, how am I going to explain this to the Hub’s owners?  Oh shit.”

“We’re about to clear it up,” said Dee.

“You’re wanted by the polis,” said Marcus.  “They want to talk to everyone, and you’re first.  Get off to the library.”

Dee was pleased to get out of the room. Anything was better than putting up with the atmosphere in there, even being interviewed by the police.  She doubted if there was anything useful she could tell them, anyway.

 

“Are you looking for Anna Meredith too?” asked Dee, after she’d told Andy and Lindsay everything she knew about Tessa’s disappearance, which amounted to very little.

“Who is Anna Meredith?” asked Lindsay.

“One of the students.  She vanished after the first evening,” said Dee.  “We think she decided the course wasn’t for her and caught the next ferry to Mallaig.  It’s just that some of us thought you should have been told, seeing as no-one’s heard from her.”

“I think we need to find out more about this,” said Andy.  “What else can you tell us?”

“Not a lot,” said Dee.  “She was quiet, liked Stephen King, that’s about it.”

“Thank you,” said Lindsay.  “We’ll be in touch if we want to ask you anything else.”

Dee couldn’t face going back to the seminar room.  She’d take her laptop and sit in the rose garden for a while, see if she could make some progress with her book.  If Lou didn’t resort to cutting herself, what would she do?  What options did she have?  She went upstairs to her bedroom to fetch the laptop.  Something caught her eye, and she turned to the window.  It was fast and fleeting, but she was sure she’d seen someone vanish into the shrubbery.

 

“So this is your mother’s house,” said Tessa, trying to keep her voice even and hide her terror.

“It was my mother’s house,” said Malcolm.  “It’s mine now.  She left it to me.”

“But you don’t live here?”

“No, I don’t live here.  Too many memories.  Not all of them good memories at that.”

“Well, it’s very interesting, but I wonder if we could go to the house that you live in?  I’m dying for a cup of tea.”

“All in good time,” said Malcolm.  “I have to show you my collection first.”

“And what’s it a collection of?” asked Tessa, knowing as she asked the question that she dreaded hearing the answer.

“You’re about to find out,” said Malcolm.

 

Beryl had come clean with the constables.  They’d been sympathetic, and agreed to say nothing to the others.

“Did you notice anything about Tessa Birnie’s behaviour?” asked Lindsay.

“I can’t say that I did,” said Beryl.  “She’s very driven to complete her own book, and she didn’t seem to be one to socialise with us all that much.  I can’t say that I rate her knowledge of English literature, or her sense of what’s good, for that matter.”  She explained about the extract she’d given Tessa to read.  “I’d have expected her to pick it up,” she said, “but she didn’t.”

“How would you describe the relationship between Ms Birnie and Mr Logan?” asked Lindsay.

“Fractious,” said Beryl.  “They seemed incapable of exchanging a civil word.  They really are most unprofessional.  Very disappointing.”

“Did you notice Mr Logan’s movements this morning?”

“He was down for breakfast.  He and Marcus went to look for Tessa, but he didn’t go back when Marcus took the wheelchair down.  Leon and Leila went with Marcus.  I’m not sure where Max Logan went.  He said he was going to change rooms.  I didn’t see him leave the building.”

“Thank you,” said Andy.  “We’ll let you know if we need to ask you anything else.”

 

Megan slipped on her coat and went down to the studio.  It was cedar wood outbuilding that they used for the fine arts groups.  They rarely opened it up for the writing groups, as there was plenty of room in the main house for the tutorials and seminars.  No-one would think of looking for her there, she could tidy it up a bit in readiness for the pottery group due to arrive next week, and then return to the house once the police had gone.  Members of this group probably didn’t know it existed.  She’d picked up the key from the collection in the hall, but when she reached the studio, she found, to her surprise, that the door was already unlocked.

Poisoned Pens 18

Chapter 18

Marcus took a deep breath and headed for the front door.  Two police constables stood on the step.  The man was a redhead, well-built and ruddy with large, freckled hands.  The woman was shorter, slimmer, brown hair clipped neatly back.

“We’ve come about the missing person,” said Andy MacLeod.

“Aye, Tessa Birnie, one of the tutors,” said Marcus.  “Come on in.”

The constables followed Marcus into the office.  He indicated the two visitor chairs and then moved a safe distance away to take his place behind the desk.

“She went for a run down to the woods, fell and hurt her ankle.  We found her sitting there around 10.00am.  We came back to the house to fetch a wheelchair, and when we got back she’d vanished.”

Lindsay Lennox took down notes in her pad.

“Who’s we, if you don’t mind my asking?” asked Constable MacLeod.  “You said we found her.”

“I did,” said Marcus.  “And Max Logan, who’s also teaching on the programme.”

“So what happened when you went back?”

“I went back with two of the students.  Leon Waterson and Leila Morris.”

“Max Logan didn’t go with you?”

“He’d hurt his back and didn’t want to risk putting it out by lifting Ms Birnie or pushing the chair.”

“And how was she when you found her?”

“In pain.  I’d guess she’d sprained her ankle.  She couldn’t stand on it and she couldn’t walk.”

“But when you went back she’d gone?”

“Vanished.  No trace of her.  We looked everywhere.”

“Have you searched the house?”

“We’ve looked in all the obvious places; but she couldn’t have got back here without our noticing.”

“We’ll need to look at her room.”

“Of course.”

“And talk to the staff and visitors.”

“That shouldn’t be a problem.”

“Does she know anyone on the island?” asked Lindsay.

“I don’t know,” said Marcus.  “I don’t think so.”

“Right, let’s take a look,” said Andy, and the two constables stood up to begin their search.

Marcus led them upstairs to the garden room.  He opened the door with his master key.  Tessa’s room was tidy.  Her laptop sat closed upon the desk, and her pilates mat was rolled up and neatly placed in the corner.  Her i-phone was on the bedside table next to the bottle of Jo Malone body lotion.  Lindsay Lennox picked up the phone and looked at the screen.

“Useless for signals, this place,” she said, noting that there was no signal and no waiting messages.

“Everything looks in order,” said Andy.  It seemed clear to him that Tessa had expected to return.  He peered into the en-suite bathroom.  The woman was neat, that was for sure.  Towels folded neatly, basin clean, toilet lid down.  “We’ll go and talk to the others,” he said.  “Let’s talk to Max Logan first, as he was one of the last to see her.  Then we’ll have a chat with those two students who went out with you.”

Marcus went to look for Max.

 

Beryl had helped Max to sit down while Pamela went to fetch him some water.

“If this is someone’s idea of a prank, it’s gone beyond funny,” said Max.

Leon thought that Major Gonzales would have an ingenious plan to catch the trickster, and he wished he could think what it would be.  He thought that maybe Gonzales would keep everyone in the room and refuse to let them out, refuse them access to food or drink until the culprit confessed.  Leon’s money was on Pamela: she was so unlikely that she just might have done it, possibly as research for her Croydon murder story.  And she had looked upset earlier on.  If not Pamela, then Leila.  She hated Max.  But was she bothered enough to go to these extreme and dramatic lengths?

Jack rather fancied mousy Megan for the prank: there was something about that girl.  She looked the innocent with her discrete little nose piercing and her tie-dye headband; but he sensed that she wasn’t quite what she seemed.

 

Everyone was occupied: Marcus with the police, Max and the group with the splendid scene she’d set up in the seminar room.  No-one noticed her flitting past the French windows.  She’d found a way of exploiting being invisible to her advantage: it was almost like being a magician.  Things were working out very nicely, she thought, as she popped a chocolate button into her mouth.  She waited until Megan had gone into the garden to cut some herbs, and then she slipped into the house.

 

Andy MacLeod and Lindsay Lennox found Max surrounded by students in the seminar room.  Three appeared to be ministering to him, with the others sitting around a table on which was displayed a grim tableau.

“Mr Logan?” said Andy, “Mind if we have a word?”

Max sighed, brushed his floppy fringe out of his eyes, stood up, and followed the constables into the library.

“We’re looking into Ms Birnie’s disappearance,” said Lindsay.  “It seems that you were one of the last to have seen her.  What did you notice?”

“She’d hurt her ankle, she was making a fuss, we said we’d come back to call the doctor, but decided to take a wheelchair down there ourselves.  Or rather, Marcus Dean was to take the chair down with a couple of the students.”

“And what did you do after getting back to the house?” asked Andy.

“I changed rooms,” said Max.  “Someone vandalised my room, so I moved into one that had become vacant.”

“Who do you think vandalised your room, sir?” asked Lindsay.

“I assumed it was Tessa, but she denied it,” said Max.

“Why would Ms Birnie want to vandalise your room?” asked Andy.

“We were married,” said Max, and immediately wished he’d said nothing:  both constables’ heads jerked up, and he knew that they were thinking that this may turn out to be more than a missing persons enquiry.

“A long time ago,” continued Max.  “Water under the bridge.  Both moved on.”

“But you thought she might have vandalised your room?”

“I couldn’t think who else would,” said Max.  “It’s not what you expect when you come to teach on these programmes.”

“Would you mind if we had a look at the room you left?” asked Andy.

“Be my guest,” said Max.  “But I’m not so sure now that it was Tessa.  I confronted her when we found her in the woods – Marcus will back me up – and she didn’t seem to know what I was talking about.  Can’t stand the woman, but I think she was telling the truth.  I know when she’s lying, and I don’t think she was.”

“So who else feels strongly enough about you to want to vandalise your room?” asked Lindsay, thinking that this case was getting interesting and could lead to a promotion for her and Andy, if they played their cards right.

“No-one that I can think of,” said Max.  There was no way he was going to tell them about the girl with the teeth and Vibrant Waters, and he certainly wasn’t going to mention the unfortunate incident with Pamela on the first night.

“Shall we take a look at the room?” said Andy.

Max led the way.  At the door, Lindsay said, “Thank you sir, that’ll be fine.  We’ll take it from here.”  Clearly dismissed, Max headed back to the seminar room.  He hadn’t got around to telling the police about the latest happening, and as they hadn’t asked about the girl, he assumed that they didn’t yet know that Tessa was the second person to go missing in the short time that they’d all been together.

 

The two constables looked around the room.

“Someone likes playing with toothpaste,” said Andy.

“It’s pretty superficial,” said Lindsay.  “It looks like whoever did it was in a hurry – there’s not much cut up, just these cigarettes.”

“Almost like a kid,” said Andy.

“Maybe it was a kid,” said Lindsay, stooping to pick something up from the carpet.  “Whoever it was liked chocolate buttons.”

Andy went to look at the chocolate button held gingerly in Lindsay’s latex-gloved hand.

“Aye, that’s a Cadbury’s chocolate button, right enough,” he said, holding out an evidence bag for his colleague.

“Writers, eh?” said Lindsay.

“Just have to hope this lot aren’t poets,” said Andy.

 

Poisoned Pens 17

Chapter 17

Malcolm helped Tessa into his Fiesta.  He put the crutches in the back seat.

“You won’t mind if we stop off at my place?” he said, once she was belted in.  “There’s something I need to pick up.”

“Ok,” said Tessa.  She didn’t care if the others were worrying about her.  In fact, she hoped they were.  It would serve Max right, and the students might appreciate her a little more if they had to suffer an extra session or two with him.  They’d realise how lucky they were that she was the lead tutor on the course.

Malcolm drove out of the village in the opposite direction to the Creative Hub.  He pulled up in front of a small, squat cottage that sat on its own in a garden that looked only partially tended.  A bed of lettuces had bolted, and there were dandelions in the straggly lawn.  He got out of the car and went to open the passenger door.  He took the crutches from the back and held them for Tessa.

“Shall I just wait in the car for you?” she said, tired now.

“There’s something I’d like to show you,” said Malcolm.  “And wouldn’t you like a nice cup of tea?”

Tessa was torn between wanting to get back to her room so that she could lie down and rest, and the tempting offer of tea.  Besides, she didn’t want to offend this kind young man, who’d been her Good Samaritan.

“Ok,” she said.  “Just a quick one.”  She followed him up the path to the front door.  Its green paint was flaky and he seemed to have trouble with the key.  She was awkward with the crutches, and hobbled slowly behind him.  He held the door open.

“Welcome,” he said, and ushered her into a dark and dusty interior.

 

 

“Phone call for you,” Megan said to Ros.  “It’s a man.”

“It’ll be Alastair.  I don’t want to talk to him,” said Ros.

“Well, you’ll have to tell him,” said Megan, holding out the phone to her.

Ros sighed heavily and marched up to the desk, snatching the phone from Megan.

“I’ve got nothing to say to you,” Megan heard her say, before discretely leaving the office.  Yet it was several minutes before Ros herself emerged.  Megan had busied herself in the kitchen, tidying up after lunch.  She looked up as Ros came in to fetch a glass of water.  Her hand shook as she turned the tap.

“Everything ok?” asked Megan.

“No, everything is not ok,” said Ros, who felt like slapping the silly young woman who clearly didn’t have a clue about the havoc wreaked by an unfaithful spouse, especially when you, the one who had been betrayed, were in your early fifties and feeling as if you were long past your sell-by date.  In fact, she felt that she was surrounded by people who simply didn’t understand.  She had never felt lonelier.  She needed to talk with someone about what to do next, about how to deal with her husband’s insistence that she’d misunderstood the situation, that there was a perfectly innocent explanation as to why Lana had been at the house, and how he was on his way to Skye to talk with her in person.

“I don’t want you to come,” she’d said to him, dreading such a public confrontation.  “It’s over, as far as I’m concerned, Alastair, and I shall be seeking legal advice as soon as I return to Walton on Thames.”

As usual, he hadn’t listened to her, and had continued to insist that his bag was packed and he would be with her by lunch-time tomorrow.

She went to sit in the library where she hoped to be left alone to compose herself; but no sooner had she settled into a leather armchair than Pamela swept in.

“There you are, hun,” said Pamela.  “I heard that you’d had a phone call.  Not bad news I hope?”

“Just Alastair,” said Ros.

“Called to apologise?” asked Pamela.

“Called to deny that there was anything to apologise about,” said Ros.

“Well, that’s good news, then,” said Pamela.

Ros didn’t reply.  Some people were beyond stupid.

“It is good news, isn’t it?” asked Pamela.

“No, it isn’t,” said Ros.  “He’s on his way here, and I don’t want to see him and I most certainly don’t want to listen to any more of his lies.”

“What if he’s telling the truth?” asked Pamela.

“Are you really that stupid?” said Ros.  “Of course he’s not telling the truth.  He’s having an affair with his secretary.  He’s trying to limit the damage that a divorce will lead to.  He knows he’ll lose the house and half of his money, so he’s trying to persuade me that nothing’s going on, it’s all about me having a vivid imagination, and Lana was helping him with a complicated case.”

“I don’t think you need to be rude to me, Ros,” said Pamela.  “It’s not called for.  I’m only trying to help.”

“What on earth do you think you can do to help?”  Ros was shouting now.  “Have you been in my situation?  Did you ever have a husband cheat on you repeatedly until he overstepped the mark and you reached the point where you couldn’t – wouldn’t – take any more?  No, I shouldn’t think your relationships have ever extended beyond one night stands.”

Megan had heard the shouting and come to the door.  She watched as Pamela turned white, tears forming in her eyes and then streaming down her face.

“At least your husband’s still alive,” said Pamela, and hurried from the room.

 

Max was getting ready for the afternoon session.  He hadn’t felt very hungry, so had a nicotine lunch in the rose garden.  He hardly wanted to admit it to himself, but he was worried about Tessa.  The woman was abominable, and he loathed almost everything about her (although she’d been quite the little tigress in her youth before she stopped smoking); but he didn’t wish her any harm, or at least no more than the odd public humiliation or book flop.  There was still no sign of her, and the police were taking their time in getting to the house.  Still, he’d better keep things going and teach this lacklustre group of students something.  Of course the anticipation of an afternoon in Leila’s company was very pleasant, and he looked forward to hearing her read some more from her novel.  He also had an exercise for them involving kitchen implements and newspapers.  He’d got Marcus to lend him a couple of different sized knives, a bottle of wine, and some newspaper.  He intended to get the group thinking about plot in crime scenes.  He laid the newpapers on the chair and the knives alongside each other on the large table around which everyone would be sitting.  He set the bottle of wine – a rather nice burgundy, he noticed – on the table, and went out for a last smoke before calling everyone together.

When he got back to the rose garden, he was annoyed to find Pamela on his favourite bench; but as he approached her, he saw that she had been crying.  She’d looked up and seen him, so he felt he had to say something.

“Anything wrong, Pamela?”

“Hello Max.  No, nothing really.  Just something Ros said.”

“Sorry to hear that.”

“I don’t suppose you could give me a cigarette?” she said.

“Didn’t know you smoked,” said Max, handing her the packet.

“I don’t,” she said.  “Not any more.  Not often, anyway.  Thanks.”

He lit the cigarette for her and wondered what that snooty woman from Walton on Thames could have said to have deflated Pamela so.  For once she made no effort to flirt with him.  God!  These women!  A chap never knew where he stood with them.  They were, on the whole, nothing but trouble, and totally incomprehensible.

“Time to get started,” he said, after they’d finished smoking.

 

Max was first into the seminar room, and the sight that met him filled him with horror.  Someone had spread the newspapers across the table.  In the middle, was a photograph of Max himself, a rather handsome publicity shot of which he was quite fond; but whoever had set up this scene had slashed across it and left the knife – the larger of the two he’d borrowed from Marcus – stabbed through the centre.  All around was red, giving the appearance of blood having leaked from the photograph; but Max realised that it was the red wine that he’d brought in: someone had poured it across the table and left the bottle on its side, empty, as the liquid soaked into the newspaper, spread, and dripped onto the floor, spoiling the old carpet with a bloody stain.

The students started to arrive.  Leon was the first.

“Hey, Max, that’s brilliant!” he said.  “Do we have to guess who dunnit?”

“God that’s horrible,” said Leila.  “Look what a mess you’ve made of the carpet, Max.  Don’t you think it’s a bit much?”

“Quite a tableau, Max,” said Beryl, thinking that maybe the man did have some enthusiasm for his task after all.

“Bloody waste of good wine,” said Jack, peering at the label on the overturned bottle.  “Hope you decanted it and this is just cochineal.”

Dee didn’t say anything as she came in.  She didn’t know what to make of the scene, and in fact found it rather disturbing.

Pamela gasped as she looked at the table.  “When did you do that, Max?” she asked.  “It’s certainly gruesome.  Is it from your next book?”

 

Ros didn’t come to the session – she’d gone to lie down and think about the possibilities that driving back to Walton on Thames with Alastair might give her.  A misadventure at a motorway service station, or a staged carjacking in a minor road opened up a whole new range of choices.

 

“Which one of you has done this?” Max asked, his voice devoid of its usual bluster.

No-one answered.

“Come on,” said Max.  “It’s very clever, and you’ve got the session off to a lively start, but it’s time to come clean.”

“You set it up, didn’t you?” said Pamela.  “Didn’t you do it before going for your cigarette?”

“No,” said Max.  The room was silent. “Someone’s idea of a joke?” asked Max.  He was beginning to feel nervous.  First his room, now this.  And it couldn’t be Tessa.  At least, he didn’t think it could.

Beryl watched the group.  Each face looked troubled.  None looked guilty, or satisfied, or mischievous.  She feared that things were getting seriously out of hand.

Poisoned Pens 16

Chapter 16

Malcolm the postie liked to take a short cut across the Creative Hub’s land.  He knew he shouldn’t, but the folk who worked there were nice enough and didn’t seem to mind.  It reduced the time his round took, and put him in a mellow mood, because woodland was like that.  It always made you feel better to be amongst trees.  It was a shame that more people didn’t know that, Malcolm thought.  The world might be a more peaceful place if people just went and hung out in forests more often.  He liked the little stream and the dippers that flitted from rock to rock.  If he was lucky, he’d catch sight of a goldfinch or two.  He didn’t often meet anyone as he cycled the path through the woods.  Occasionally, one of the centre’s visitors was down by the lake, but he generally had the place to himself.

He almost fell off his bike when he saw the woman sitting on the tree stump.  She was crying and looked like she’d been attacked.  He stopped, dismounted, and went over to her, though he was careful not to get too close, in case someone had…well, in case the last thing she needed to see right now was a man.

“Hello,” he said.

“Hello,” said Tessa.

“What happened to you?” said Malcolm.  “”

“Tripped and fell,” said Tessa.  “Stupid, isn’t it?  They said they’d come back with a chair, but they’ve been gone ages.”

“That ankle doesn’t look good,” said Malcolm, who’d done a bit of volunteering for the St John’s Ambulance when he was at school.

“It hurts,” said Tessa.  “It hurts a lot.  And I’m so cold.” She started to cry again.

“We’d better get you away from here, then,” said Malcolm as he took off his jacket.  “May I put this around you?”

“Yes please,” said Tessa.  He was very kind, this young postman, but she didn’t see how he planned to get her away.

“Now, I’d like you to put your arm around my shoulder,” said Malcolm, “so that you’re standing on your good leg.  That’s it.”  Tessa allowed him to pull her into standing, so that she was leaning into the sturdy stranger.  “Ok,” said Malcolm, “now we’ll hop over to my bike, and you’re to sit on it.”

“Are you sure?” said Tessa.

“It’s the only way,” said Malcolm.  “Then I’ll wheel you straight to the doctor’s.  It’ll take us half an hour, will that be ok?”

“Oh yes,” said Tessa.  Anything was better than sitting here waiting for that useless Marcus to take her back to the house for Max to gloat at her.  Besides, she didn’t see how she’d get upstairs to her room.  “Do you have letters to deliver?” she asked, as an afterthought.

“Only to the Creative Hub now,” said Malcolm, “and I can do that once I’ve made sure that you’re being looked after.”

“You’re being very kind,” said Tessa.  “Thank you.”  It wasn’t often that she had reason to express gratitude to anyone, but this young man was saving her life.  “I’m Tessa.  Tessa Birnie.  Maybe you’ve read my books?”

“Glad to meet you, Tessa Birnie.  Malcolm,” he said.  “What kind of books?”

“Literary fiction,” said Tessa.

“I’m more of a sci-fi man myself,” said Malcolm. “Still, you never know, maybe they’ll have one of yours in the library.  I’ll give it a go.”

She watched Max moving from one room to another.  Of course she maintained a discrete distance and could only see shadows through the window.  But it was clear enough what was happening: it was all going to plan.  She smiled, and popped a chocolate button into her mouth.

“I really don’t have an choice, Megan,” said Marcus.  “I have to call the polis.”

“We don’t want them crawling all over the place, though,” said Megan.

“Why, d’you have something to hide?”

“Not really…”

“Look, they won’t be interested in your little stash.  Just stick it in the herb cupboard, they’ll never know the difference.”

“It’s not that…”

“Well what?  They’re more likely to be interested in me than you, that’s if they make the connection.”

“And they might.”

“Yes, they might; but there aren’t any bodies, unless there’s something you’re not telling me.  It’ll just be a missing persons thing.  Sorry Megan, but I think we have to take the risk.”

Megan gnawed at a cuticle.  It was all going wrong.  That wretched woman and her lecherous ex-husband were spoiling it all.  Well, Megan had no intention of letting them succeed.  No, they’d soon find out Megan Innes was made of, and they wouldn’t like it.  They wouldn’t like it one tiny bit.

Ros was thinking about how she’d do it.  She wasn’t good with blood, so stabbing was out.  She wouldn’t know where to get a gun, still less what to do with one.  Poison was an option, she could cook him a nice beef casserole, laced with lethal mushrooms; she was sure that the woods hereabouts were full of fungi that would finish a person off; but the result could be messy.  Suffocation with a pillow appealed, in that it would lead to a fairly quick death without blood or vomit.  She could do it while he was asleep.  But Alastair worked out and he’d be strong enough to push her off if he awoke.  She could fake a burglary, bash him over the head with one of his golf clubs, then set up the scene, smash a window, call the police, play the grieving widow; but then there was the problem of blood again.  And besides, the police usually saw through faked burglaries.  Something about the way the glass fell.  She could cut the brake cables on his BMW, only she didn’t know what a brake cable looked like, and she didn’t know where you’d find them.  Cars these days seemed full of wires and electronic gadgets, or so she’d gleaned from that awful motoring programme he insisted on watching on television.  She could wait until he was in his bath and drop in an electric heater, or better still, her hairdryer; but suspicion would fall upon her immediately.  She could make it look like suicide and fake a note – she was good at forging his signature; but the problem remained: how to do it?  Wrist slashing was out – blood again – and overdoses were messy: she didn’t want to risk vomit on her nice new carpet.  They’d only had it fitted last month.

“Penny for them,” said Pamela, finding Ros lost in thought.

“Just wondering what to do about Alastair,” said Ros, annoyed at the interruption.

“There’s always marriage guidance,” said Pamela.

“I think we’re past that,” said Ros, wondering how those poison tipped umbrellas worked.

“Then you need a good lawyer,” said Pamela.  “Get out, get as much as you can screw out of him, start again.”

“Hmm,” said Ros, mostly to shut Pamela up.  Death had to be the answer.  She had to come up with an effective and efficient way of dispatching him.

“How about bunking off this afternoon?” Jack said to Beryl.

“What did you have in mind?” asked Beryl.

“A siesta,” said Jack.

Beryl couldn’t remember when she’d last been propositioned at all, let alone with such seductive charm.  Unfortunately, she had her job to do.

“Not today,” she said.  “I’m interested to see how the afternoon pans out, and what Max does with the archetypes.”

“Spoilsport,” said Jack.  “You should take your chance, you know.  Who knows if we’ll still be here tomorrow, what with our age and all the disappearances.”

“I love it when you’re cheerful,” said Beryl.

He wheeled her back along the path the way he’d come.  Where Tessa would have turned right and back into the Creative Hub’s gardens, Malcolm turned left, crossed the stream by a little bridge, and then steered his bike and Tessa onto a narrow lane that led into the back of the village.  He was very careful not to knock her injured leg.

They arrived at the doctor’s house, which doubled as his surgery, after half an hour.  Tessa dismounted slowly, holding on to Malcolm for balance.  He helped her to hop into the house.

“Good morning, Hazel,” he said to the woman sitting at the reception desk.

“Now what have you got there, Malcolm?” Hazel McLure sat behind the desk, reading glasses dangling from a gold chain below her breasts, tight grey curls cut sensibly short.  She’d known Malcolm since he was born.

“This is Tessa Birnie,” he said.  “She was running in the woods and tripped and fell.  I think her ankle’s sprained.  She’s from up at the Hub.”

“Oh, I see,” said Hazel, as if Tessa’s being resident at the Creative Hub had something to do with her misadventure.  “Well Malcolm, you’ve brought her to the right place.  Now tell me, how’s your mother?”

“She’s fine, right enough,” said Malcolm, easing Tessa into a chair, and placing another one in front of her.  “Can I lift your leg onto the chair?” he asked.  “It’s best to elevate it.”

This man is an angel! Thought Tessa.  “Yes, of course,” she said, and then winced as he lifted the injured leg, by now inflamed and stiff, onto the chair.

“Do you have any ice, Hazel?” he asked the receptionist.

“You’ll get some at the Hotel,” she said.

“Right-o,” he said.  “I’ll away to get some.”

“What a nice man,” Tessa said to Hazel, after he’d left.

“Aye, he’s one of the best,” said Hazel.  “Known him since he was a wee boy, and he’s always been the same.”

Moments later, Malcolm was back with a bag full of ice.  He placed it on Tessa’s ankle.  “That’ll help the swelling,” he said.  “I’ll wait with you ‘til you’ve seen the doctor.”

“Don’t you need to finish your round?” asked Tessa.

“No, it’ll wait,” he said.

Dr Mackintosh sighed.  Another casualty from that house full of weirdos.  If he got paid for ministering to them, he’d be a rich man by now; but no, it was all on the National Health, he wouldn’t get a penny extra.

“Let’s have a look now,” he said, rolling up Tessa’s trouser leg and untying her trainer.  She cried out as he took her shoe off.

Dr Mackintosh felt around the swelling and got Tessa to wiggle her toes.

“Good,” he said, “nothing broken.  We’ll just strap it up for you.  Have you used crutches before?”

“I’ll take you back,” said Malcolm.

“I don’t know if I can manage the bike again,” said Tessa.

“I’ll fetch my car, I’ll just be five minutes.”

“I don’t know how to thank you,” said Tessa.

“We’ll think of something,” said Malcolm.

Marcus dialled the number for the local police station.

“So you’ll come to the house?” he was saying, as Megan came into the office.  “Aye, we’ll see you this afternoon.  Yes, I know you’re out at Portree.  Aye, we’ll call if she turns up.”

“Will we tell them about Anna Meredith?” asked Megan.

“I guess we should,” said Marcus.  “D’you think the two disappearances are connected?”

“I just don’t know,” said Megan.

Max had moved his belongings into the room that Anna Meredith had occupied for such a short time.  The room was smaller than his other one, but it was sunnier and looked onto the garden.  If Tessa failed to materialise, he’d move into her room with the big bed.  He couldn’t be doing with single beds, he’d have to have words with the programme organisers about the lack of appropriate facilities.

There was a fine layer of dust on the dressing table, shown up by the midday sunshine.  He found himself thinking about Anna Meredith.  He had met her before, he remembered it all too clearly now.  That summer at Vibrant Waters had been his last there before the regime change.  Anna had seemed to soak in every word he’d said in the tutorials, wherever he looked, there she was.  The other girls were either spoken for or even plainer than Anna.  He thought he’d been doing her a favour.

Beryl sat with Jack on a bench on the lawn.  The day had turned warm, unseasonably so, and they were both enjoying the sun on their faces.

“You’ll not be short of material,” said Beryl.

“Oh no, the book’s coming along very nicely,” said Jack.  “But you still haven’t told me what you’re doing here.  Something tells me you’re not here to learn about novel writing techniques.”

“There’s always something interesting to glean on these courses,” said Beryl.

“Well, if you don’t come clean, you’re sleeping on your own tonight,” said Jack.

“You’re a hard man,” said Beryl, laughing.  “All right, I’ll tell you.  But you’re not to breathe a word.  Promise?”

“I think I already did, but we got interrupted,” said Jack.

Beryl looked around to check that no-one was within listening distance.

“Well, you see,” she started, but was cut short by the sight of Leon running out.

“They’ve called the police,” he called.  “Tessa’s disappeared.”

“We’d better go and see what’s happening,” said Beryl.  “Let’s finish this conversation later.”

They rose and turned towards the house.