Dead And Buried

Eighty-one

Edinburgh is a city of seasons. It is most famous for its summer festivals, which span the month of August, but when Christmas approaches it takes on a special atmosphere. As night falls it seems to come alive, its centre taking on a funfair atmosphere, with its Ferris wheel, skating rink and attractions, which seem to grow in number every year.

As the CAJ party spilled out of the Dome into the brightly decorated George Street, it was caught up in the Saturday-night mêlée, and swept towards Princes Street. Pippa had appointed herself entertainments convener, and had determined that they would head for a nightclub in Market Street, on the other side of Waverley Bridge. Alex tagged along, although she had rarely felt less like celebrating: several times during the meal she had found herself staring into space, hearing that creepy voice in her head. . ‘I hate cats too’. . or picturing herself dropping the dead animal over the terrace rail. She had spent much of the evening working out how it had got there, and had decided that it must have been thrown from the walkway on the other side of the river. There could be no other answer.

On reflection, she was glad that she had allowed her father to persuade her to reinstate the telephone tap. What had been a nuisance before had been raised to a new level. She was not afraid, as such, but deeply unsettled, and it was reassuring to know that Stevie Steele and his team were watching over her, even if it was from a distance. She had considered giving the evening out a miss, and staying locked up in the fortress of her flat, the one place she felt truly safe. When she had bought the place she had doubted whether the monitored alarm system that came with it, first year free of charge, was really necessary in an apartment block, but it had proved itself. Nonetheless she had been so freaked out earlier that she had actually phoned Guy Luscomb. With her father on his American assignment, he was the closest thing to a man in her life. She had called his London number, and had actually been pleased when he had answered.

‘Hello, Alexandra, lovey,’ he had gushed. ‘What a surprise, and what a coincidence: I was just thinking of you. To what do I owe this sublime pleasure?’

‘Oh, nothing really: I picked up your call on my answering system, and, well, I just thought I’d return it.’

‘Missing me, eh?’

‘You could say that,’ she had lied. ‘I’m feeling a bit lonely, that’s all. I suppose I needed to hear a familiar voice.’

‘Any time, darling. Catch a flight and you can see its owner, face to face.’

‘I’m not that lonely,’ she had said, and had regretted it immediately. It was unnecessary: it wasn’t Guy’s fault that he was a prat.

It had rolled off him, though. ‘Any time you are, then.’

‘Thanks. Got to go now.’

‘Big night out, what? Who’s the lucky chap?’

‘I don’t know yet. ’Bye.’

At one point during the evening, she had actually considered picking up a guy in the Dome who had given her the eye all through the meal, but that would have been the stuff of which office gossip was made, and so she had put the notion aside.

She was still thinking about him when she felt an arm link through hers, and someone move into step alongside her. ‘Alex, boss,’ said Pippa, ‘all your colleagues, me included, have reached a conclusion. You are working too damned hard. If you don’t mind me saying so, it’s turning you into a really wet blanket. So here’s what we’re going to do about it. When we get to this club, we’re going to get you rat-arsed. Are you up for that?’

She looked down at the pert face. ‘You know, Pipster,’ she said, ‘I rather think I am.’