The Unkindest Cut (6 page)

After the perfunctory ceremony, and the obligatory newly-married kiss, Jane accepted that she'd have to recount her earlier experience to the inspector before he forcibly tried to haul her off to the police station. The manager's office, just inside the double doors, was made available and Jane, clinging to her share of the quiche and another large glass of her own champagne, but with a borrowed sheepskin coat over the nightdress, found herself recounting her adventure to Ian Fellowes.

‘No, I can't tell you the name of the boy who called me about the puppy,' she said, ‘but I've seen him around Newton Lauder and I believe his mother's here now, so I can probably point her out. The puppy was beyond saving so I put it to sleep to end its suffering. I told the boy how to hold it but he was overpowered by the thought of death and he let his grip shift and I got sprayed with blood, that's where all the time went. I told him to go and get me some salt – soda would have been better but I didn't want to waste more time explaining what sort of soda I wanted. He went to get salt and, next thing I knew, I was being robbed.' Jane looked as though she was going to end her story there, but she was encouraged to continue by the detective's expectant expression and vigorous note-taking. She felt she had to make more of an effort to be a useful witness, wedding day or not.

‘The robber was wearing jeans and what I took to be a T-shirt but it could have been any loose, short-sleeved cotton shirt. He was about my height, quite slim, and he had a woollen mask over his head. I think it was a woollen cap in the local football colours but eyeholes had been cut in it and hemmed with red wool. He had what looked like the help-yourself plastic gloves they have at the garage to protect your hands if you're filling up with diesel. Oh, and it may have been somebody I know, because they used a disguised voice, a sort of rasping whisper.

‘He had what looked like the sort of large kitchen knife that you could buy in the ironmonger's shop here. It looked brand new, unused and very sharp. He used the back of the blade to sweep the drugs off my shelves into a carrier bag. Then he told me to open the steel box under the counter, which showed that he already knew about that. After a bit of argy-bargy I told him the combination rather than get my face sliced. And a fat lot of good that will do him,' Jane said, ‘because I paid cash into the bank yesterday and he'll have got credit card slips and one or two cheques only. In cash, probably about twenty quid if he's lucky.' Here Jane paused again, but this time not out of a desire to end the conversation, but to gather her thoughts so she could be as accurate as possible about what happened next.

She continued, ‘But after I told him the combination of the lock he stooped to look at it and a gap opened between his jeans and his shirt. And I meant to shoot a sleeping draught into him, because I still had half a syringeful handy from putting the puppy to sleep, but what came to my hand was the syringe that puts in microchips. I had already loaded another microchip out of habit because a lot of dogs get restive if they see you fiddling with a syringe. It has a much fatter needle than the usual hypodermic needle and I believe it hurts like hell. Anyway, it hurt him. He gave a high-pitched yelp. I told him that nobody could take the microchip out again or he'd end up on dialysis for the rest of his life, which isn't true but he seemed to believe it. He went out and ran off. And I can give you the number of the microchip. I suppose I should really register him with the Kennel Club,' Jane added reflectively.

Ian Fellowes had been making rapid notes on some typing paper borrowed from the desk. Now he looked at her severely, but apparently he decided that she could be allowed a little latitude on her wedding day. ‘Wait here quietly for a couple of minutes,' he said as he quickly slipped out of the room and left Jane to her own thoughts.

Jane felt that she had been engaged in frantic activity for several weeks past, so she was quite happy to relax in the comfortable desk chair and wait for things to happen. Sounds of disco music filtered in; there was laughter and an occasional cheer. It seemed that a good time was being had by all whereas ironically at her own wedding celebration, here she was, on her own in the building manager's office, waiting to be interrogated again. The adrenaline rush wore off and the events of the day so far, as well as the past few days' manic preparation, suddenly caught up with her and she began to fall asleep. She woke with a jump when Ian Fellowes returned, carrying a plate of
hors d'oeuvres
and two large glasses of elderflower champagne. He pushed the door to with his behind and the noise diminished again.

‘I was sure you'd still be hungry and thirsty. And obviously you've been very brave.' Ian was suddenly acting like the compassionate friend (as he was in his role of the husband of her maid of honour Deborah) rather than a serious police inspector, and Jane, who had not been feeling at all brave, suddenly felt like getting the shakes. ‘You said that the voice was disguised,' Ian continued, once again the detective. ‘And you said that he was slim and that his yelp was high pitched. Could it have been a woman?'

Jane felt her insides settle down while she had something to puzzle over. She sipped her champagne. This was definitely her best batch ever. Of course, with a larger batch it was easier to keep the temperature constant, she mulled. After a few moments contemplating the merits of the champagne, she caught the detective's questioning and slightly impatient expression and her thoughts returned to the question at hand.

‘Possible,' she said. ‘Definitely a possibility. I didn't notice it at the time because he or she was flat-chested; but the voice was what in today's jargon they would probably call gender unspecific or unisex or something, rather gruff for a woman's but if it had been above a whisper I think it might have been high-pitched for a man. I didn't see the face or notice the bum. I didn't really see he, she, or whatever walking as they ran off when making their escape, which gives less indication of sex, I always find. In the surgery itself, during the burglary I was concentrating on not getting hurt rather than on my attacker's physique!'

Ian nodded an acceptance of this last comment and while he finished his note-taking there was silence in the office. The music had stopped. Jane could hear a voice and occasional bursts of laughter. The traditional speeches had begun. The programme for a normal wedding had been resumed – without the bride, which Jane thought was really rather odd, but she supposed the planned schedule was being followed religiously and she should be pleased about that considering she'd organized it all in the first place …

‘Happily nobody was injured,' Ian continued. ‘But we can't just let the matter drop because the next attempt might be more determined and the outcome more serious. Now let's talk about drugs. What drugs did he get away with?'

‘Not much to interest an addict unless he wanted to cure his kennel cough. Some morphine. I can list the rest when I get the opportunity to check my cupboards and my files,' Jane offered.

‘That would be very useful, thanks. Did anything about him suggest that he was an addict?' Ian asked.

Jane put down her plastic champagne glass so that she could shrug more expressively. ‘How in God's name would I know?' she enquired rhetorically. ‘His head was covered, his eyes were shadowed and there was no other flesh showing except where I stuck in the needle. If it's any help, he – or she – didn't have any twitches or shakes or look particularly sweaty.'

Ian Fellowes refused to take offence. He nodded. ‘You haven't given us much to go on. Just a very approximate size. We don't even know what sex. Unless he – or, as you say, she – makes a habit of it, we're up a gum tree. I'll put the word around, we'll put a formal statement on record and hope that it's a one-off, but somehow I doubt it. Go and do your duty dances, Mrs Fox. If you can point out the mother of that boy, do so. And I wish you a long and happy marriage.'

T
he immediate honeymoon of the happy couple took place at home over a period of several hours, the honeymoon proper being planned as a sunshine holiday in Mauritius, some time about the following Christmas if Roland's share of the film advance arrived in time.

The next day being Sunday they would usually have had a ‘long lie in'. To a young couple following divergent careers, Sunday morning is usually sacred; but Jane was torn between the needs to do something magical with the borrowed wedding dress, to give Whinmount the cleaning and tidying that had been neglected in the run-up to the wedding day, to restore order to her surgery or to go and help put Kempfield back into some sort of useable state. She was spared the need to choose between all the competing demands by a message from Detective Inspector Ian Fellowes inviting her, in terms not open to refusal, to attend a discussion in his office forthwith. So that decided her and she instead called Helen Maple, the local factotum and sometime cleaner, to spruce up the surgery for the usual fee. That did at least make a token start to her responsibilities.

Roland's introduction to the married state, therefore, consisted of being left alone with a long list of instructions, these to be implemented during the absence of his bride. He set his word processor to boot up and fell asleep in his chair. Honeymoons can be hard work, especially when champagne is involved.

As Jane, dressed in what she thought of as suitably sober garb for a session with the police, drove down the hill and into the town, she had a view of the streets. The whole place was emptier than usual and had a slightly hung-over look about it. Church services would have finished but perhaps the congregations were lingering in prayer for forgiveness of any sins that might have been committed at the wedding party under the influence of elderflower champagne. She parked outside her surgery as usual. Helen's scooter was already stationed there and she could see a shadow on the glass as a female figure could be seen scrubbing up the bloodstains. Jane walked across the Square to where the old police building frowned reprovingly at the empty spaces. Behind it the tall extension of the newer building towered more cheerfully.

Newton Lauder had grown into the policing centre for that part of the Borders but the CID presence was still small. She entered by the old doorway and was escorted by DS Bright to Ian's new office on the sunny side of the new building. Ian was waiting alone. In keeping with the usual pennywise policy of bureaucracy, his office was not quite large enough for its purpose. Through his window she could almost see her home in the distance, peeping through the trees. Evidently this was to begin as a threesome discussion. She was offered coffee and although she had taken breakfast within the previous hour she accepted gratefully. It turned out to be much better coffee than on her previous visits, or else she was much thirstier. She placed a box on a desk that left barely adequate space around it for three chairs. Bright put a tape recorder beside it and set it working. Then she had to wait while Ian went through the routine of recording the date, time, place and those present. It was a drill that she had encountered previously when she'd been involved in the search for a missing boyfriend of her sister's years ago. Back then she'd been the heroine of the piece, but this time was a different matter.

Ian was looking serious, no longer the jolly wedding guest. ‘There have been no more occurrences involving knives so far,' he said, ‘thanks be, although it's still early days, being only twenty-four hours or so since your burglary. With luck that may be the last of it; but in my experience these incidents often turn out to be the openers for something more serious. The whole of a boozy evening, if you don't mind me referring to your wedding in those terms, went past with remarkably little trouble. Kempfield seems to be more than fulfilling its purpose in keeping the younger and wilder set occupied without recourse to mischief. Of course he – for the sake of simplicity let's go on thinking of the culprit as male – may have decided that crime isn't so easy after all, especially once you're carrying a microchip under your skin; but the first venture into robbery usually happens at a time of desperation. An addict going without, breadwinner losing his job and seeing his family hungry, that sort of thing.' He paused, expecting a comment, but Jane decided to take what he said as a statement of fact requiring no answer. She bowed gravely and waited.

‘In case we get a wounding with a sharp blade,' Ian resumed, ‘or another knifepoint robbery, I want to be ready to move immediately. I'm asking the uniformed branch to tell all officers to be alert and call in any incidents that might be leading towards knife crime and also to stop and search, very cautiously, anyone of either sex who appears to be carrying a hidden knife or other weapon. Now, let's return to the matter of your statement. Have you thought any more about the person who threatened you? Can you add anything to your description?' Ian asked hopefully.

‘No, nothing,' Jane admitted, wondering if her visit to the police station had been in vain. She had been hoping for news of a possible arrest at the very least.

‘Did you perhaps notice any aroma that might give us a clue? Perfume? Aftershave? Unpleasant body odour?'

‘Nothing that I can recall. I only had the intruder's company for barely a couple of minutes, remember, during which I was a trifle overwrought.'

‘Yes, of course. Now, we haven't yet identified the youth who brought you the puppy. Have you been able to identify his mother yet? Do you think that this boy could possibly have gone outside, donned the mask and returned?'

‘Not in the time available,' Jane said. ‘Quite impossible. Anyway, he went ahead and pushed a packet of salt through the letter box and I really can't see an attacker doing that. Or might he see not doing so as perhaps looking suspicious? Anyway, I was being attacked at the time he pushed the salt through the letter box, so it couldn't have been him. And I'm afraid I haven't been able to match up mother and son yet, so I can't help you with his identification. But as I don't think it could be him, perhaps there's no point in worrying about that?' Jane asked hopefully, dreading a long drawn out process of needless identifying of someone who wasn't going to help lead them anywhere anyway.