Read Murder on Page One Online

Authors: Ian Simpson

Tags: #Matador, #Murder on Page One, #Ian Simpson, #9781780889740

Murder on Page One (30 page)

BOOK: Murder on Page One
5.01Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

‘There’s a deep pool below here. If she survived the fall, she’d have swum to the nearest rock and grabbed it,’ Flick said.

‘There’s an over-hang, so we won’t be able to see the rocks on this side. I can’t see her on the other side. If she got swept downstream to the rapids there’s very little hope.’ Fergus sounded gloomy.

‘I am going to go down on the rope,’ Baggo said.

Flick said, ‘I’m lighter. I’ll go.’

‘I am stronger.’ Baggo looked to Fergus for support.

‘Can you abseil?’ Fergus asked him.

‘I’ve done it a couple of times. I know what to do.’

‘We don’t have the right equipment and strength is going to count,’ Fergus ruled. ‘Sorry, Flick.’

Fergus had assumed command. First, he tied one end of the rope round Baggo’s waist then he tied the other end round his own. ‘I shall be the anchor. We’re going to lower Baggo down slowly. If he reaches Cilla he will grab her and we will all pull them up, like a tug o’ war team.’ He allocated everyone a place on the rope, Peters at the front, followed by Liz and Tara. McCrone he placed in front of himself. Flick, still scowling, was to check Baggo’s progress and relay messages.

After a quick prayer to Ganesh, the elephant god, Baggo put his trust in his colleagues and leaned back over the river, his feet against the rock. Slowly and carefully, he moved down the rock face. The rope bit into his back and his hands, making his eyes water. Past the bulge of the over-hang, his feet slipped and he dangled vertically. Anxiously, he looked down at the cauldron of melted snow, now swirling, treacherous and brown. He searched for Cilla on the rocks at its edge.

She was there. She had hauled herself up into a cleft below the over-hang, so was out of the water from her waist up.

‘Cilla, Cilla,’ Baggo shouted, but saw no reaction. He looked up at Flick, gave her the thumbs-up, and pointed to his right. ‘Two metres right,’ he yelled, and was relieved to see her acknowledgement.

It took time and patience to lower him into a position from which he could wrap his arms round Cilla. By the time he did so he was frantic, and soaked from the waist down by cold, numbing water. She had not moved and he feared she was dead. Barely noticing the blood from his hands that stained her coat, he grasped her securely round the waist, and pushed back from the rocks so they swung on the rope, their legs tugged by the current. He looked up to Flick, who gave the thumbs-up.

The moan Cilla gave as they were lifted was one of the sweetest sounds he had heard. When they reached the over-hang he realised they had a problem: unless he could protect her somehow, she was going to be scraped against the rock face, and his arms would have to withstand the grazing contact with the rock and still hold on. He kicked out with one leg then the other, but could not get the leverage he needed. Eventually he managed to turn sideways so his left shoulder was punished by the rock. There were only a couple of metres to go.

Above him, Danny Peters noticed that the bit of rope passing through his fingers was badly frayed. Several strands had broken and the precious burden was hanging by only a few threads. Immediately, he went forward, grabbed the rope below the flawed section and pulled. Flick threw herself to the ground and also seized the rope. Guessing what was wrong, Fergus shouted to McCrone, who went to help Peters.

A few strong tugs and the emergency passed. Some more, and Baggo and Cilla lay on the rock like newly-caught salmon, one exhausted, the other barely conscious and moaning. Baggo’s chilled hands were so tightly clasped together that he had difficulty in freeing Cilla from his embrace.

Green-suited paramedics arrived, wrapped Cilla in reflective foil, and took her away in an ambulance. Flick went with her to obtain her version of how she had come to fall. As her stretcher was placed in the back, she repeated, ‘She pushed me. She pushed me.’ Baggo refused treatment; he was determined to see Dalton brought to justice.

When they returned to the hotel, they found Osborne and Dalton side by side on a sofa in the lounge. Both were red-faced and looked angry. A small table near them lay on its side.

‘She tried to escape, but I was way too fast for her,’ Osborne explained.

While Fergus arranged for their prisoner to be detained in Perth, Baggo, wearing borrowed clothes, sat next to the fire and described how he had identified Dalton as the killer. He concluded, ‘And I expect that her mobile records will show that some time after two am today she received a call from Lena Vannet. Once she knew I was onto her, she decided to kill Cilla and try to make out that she had been Crimewriter.’

‘Good, old-fashioned police work,’ Osborne commented.

‘And Jane’s psychology hit the back of the net, too,’ McCrone said.

‘Yes,’ Jane said. ‘Candy is a classic narcissist, desperate for approval, manipulative and incapable of reacting rationally in the face of criticism. We saw that several times during our workshops. And her composition was most revealing. It was a story about someone who should have been head girl of her school, but the mother of another girl started false rumours about her taking drugs, so her daughter became head girl. The protagonist arranged for drugs to be planted on this other girl so she replaced her as head girl for the summer term. The interesting thing was that gaining revenge was more important than becoming head girl.’

Tara said, ‘It had a really autobiographical feel to it. I suspect she was describing what actually happened.’

McCrone nodded. ‘When one agent after another rejected even her bonking book, she wisnae going to take it lying down.’

‘And her favourite classic was The Count of Monte Cristo,’ Tara said. ‘It’s all about revenge, meticulously planned and carried out,’ she explained.

‘There’s someone I must see before they go,’ Baggo said.

He found Sidney Francis alone in his room, all traces of arrogance gone.

‘It was me that found out,’ Baggo said, then he described what he had seen and heard.

‘It’s been a nightmare,’ Francis said. ‘Matilda couldn’t cope very well before the boys arrived or when they were babies, and she certainly couldn’t when they started being naughty. She would do nothing, ignore bad behaviour for ages, then completely lose control, sometimes over nothing. You saw the sort of thing that could happen. So I decided to be a strong disciplinarian, insisting on good behaviour all the time. I punished them often, but it was controlled, never too heavy. I got worse thrashings myself as a boy. And it had started to work. When I went away at weekends it was partly for my writing, partly to see if she could cope on her own. And she was doing well, very well. Then you came and warned me, told me not to use the stocks.’ He glared at Baggo. ‘Soon afterwards the boys started being naughty again. Matilda broke Harold’s arm, not me. She used a broom handle. I grappled with her, as you did, and she fell. Hence the bruise on her forehead. What will I do? What will happen to them?’ He held his head in his hands.

‘It is up to Social Services,’ Baggo said. ‘But remember this and hold onto it: you may not be great parents, but you are the only parents your boys have, and they have been consistently loyal to both of you.’

Francis looked up. ‘Thank you,’ he said.

‘Good luck,’ Baggo replied.

Downstairs, Fergus was celebrating the news that Chapayev had been caught after a car chase. Faced with a tractor pulling a wide load, he had driven into a ditch near a village called Methven. In his car there had been a Russian-made revolver and a commando-style knife. He was in custody and had been tested for gunshot residue. The officer administering the test had been optimistic.

‘I think I’ll drop into Perth Royal Infirmary to check on Ms Pargiter,’ Fergus said as he left.

‘I think you mean Sergeant Fortune,’ Osborne said loudly, and was rewarded by a red flush that spread up the back of the Scot’s neck.

27

It was a hot, stuffy day and Wimbledon was the centre of the tennis world. Baggo got home late and found Cilla sitting beside an open window, sipping champagne.

‘The book, darling!’ she cried. She poured a second glass and gave it to him. They clinked glasses.

‘You’ve found an agent?’

‘Better than that.’

‘Not a publisher? I thought you needed an agent first?’

‘I had the best agent I could have, my dad.’

‘What?’

‘You know how Dad got in touch with me without Mum knowing and we met regularly in London?’

‘Yes, of course.’

‘And how he said about my book, it wasn’t the best time to try submitting it?’

‘Yes.’

‘Well all the time he had given it in hard copy to a friend who is a publisher. That friend got in touch with me this morning, and he’s going to publish it! He said it’s entirely a commercial decision, and he thinks it will sell.’ Her voice caught. ‘He said Dad hadn’t told me he was submitting it as he didn’t want me to be disappointed.’

‘Well, congratulations. I am very, very pleased. You deserve this.’ They clinked glasses again and drank.

Cilla’s face clouded. ‘Every time I think of Dad, I can’t stop myself remembering that horrible, twisted little bitch. I’m glad she hanged herself, you know. I don’t buy this “She’d have been so miserable in jail” crap. She’d have found a way to make life bearable.’

‘She could not bear to lose control of her life.’

‘I’ll never forgive her for saying I was Crimewriter in her suicide note, that I had killed Dad.’

‘You know that was never going to work. By the time we had amassed it all, the evidence against her was overwhelming. Her suicide note was the final throw of a desperate woman. Come on, cheer up. This is your day of triumph.’

‘There’s just one thing. I have to make one or two minor changes to the book, but they’re easy.’

‘Such as?’

‘The opening. You remember I start with the priest being buried alive?’

‘Of course. It’s brilliant.’

‘Well, I’m going to have to give it a build-up. Apparently people are fed up with every crime book having a murder on page one.’

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

While a few literary agents treat aspiring authors with arrogant rudeness, I am happy to say that I have found most to be courteous and professional in their dealings. Some go the extra mile to help newcomers, and I gratefully acknowledge the generous encouragement and wise counsel I have received from Andrew Lownie. I would also like to thank Tara Wigley for patiently teaching this old dog some new tricks. David Roberts has boosted my confidence and given me the benefit of his experience.

This is entirely a work of fiction and any resemblance to real people is coincidental. I have never been anywhere near Wimbledon CID Room and I hope no one there minds my (ab)use of their workplace. The Pride O’ Atholl Hotel does not exist, and could not exist in the place I have imagined it. However, those readers who have visited the wonderful Knockendarroch Hotel, in Pitlochry itself, may notice some similarities to my creation.

I am most grateful to all at Matador, who have steered me through the publishing minefield. Special thanks go to Michael O’Shea at Tayburn for a brilliant cover design. My wife, Annie, and sons, Richard and Graham, have constantly encouraged and helped me make the transition from lawyer to writer and I cannot thank them enough.

BOOK: Murder on Page One
5.01Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

Other books

Cop Appeal by Ava Meyers
Butcher by Campbell Armstrong
Murder by Mocha by Cleo Coyle
Two Boys Kissing by Levithan, David
Second Game by Katherine Maclean
Mad Dog by Dandi Daley Mackall
Deadly Justice by Kathy Ivan