Poisoned Cherries

Chapter 18

Ethel knocked on the bedroom door just after seven-thirty, but she didn’t really have to. Wee Janet had wakened the household by then.

Susie took the baby from her and plugged her into the mains once more. I tried to go back to sleep, but it was no use; there was too much gurgling and slurping going on.

‘Do you two want breakfast?’ Ethel called, once the process was complete and I was doing my burping bit. ‘It’s not part of the service, mind, but I’m making my own anyway. It’ll be ready in half-an-hour if you want to get up for it.’

She makes bloody good scrambled eggs, does our Nanny; plus, she knows how coffee really should be made. I asked her if she’d spent any time in the States. ‘No,’ she said, ‘but I did spend some time in Canada, when I was younger. I’m very fond of maple syrup as a result, but it’s hard to find over here.’ The woman was growing on me by the minute.

Susie wanted to get back into a working routine, so she was at her desk by nine-fifteen, sorting through the letters that the postman had delivered, and another bundle that had been couriered from the Gantry Group head office on the south side of the city. She was engrossed in it, and I felt a bit superfluous, so after I’d played with Janet some more, I said my goodbyes and headed back to Edinburgh.

I had nothing planned for that day, other than maybe another session in the gym, so I killed some time in the monster new shopping centre at the top of Buchanan Street. On a whim, I bought myself a new Rolex to celebrate my impending divorce and who knew what else, then headed for Queen Street Station.

I was almost there when my cellphone rang. I had put the apartment phone on divert to its number, so it could have been anyone, but part of me hoped it was Susie, saying, ‘Hey, do you want to stay for lunch?’

It wasn’t, though. It was Ricky Ross.

‘Oz, where are you?’ he asked tersely. No banter, no funny lines; he sounded like a copper again.

‘Glasgow; I’m just about to get the train back through.’

‘Okay; get off at Haymarket. I’ll meet you there.’ He hung up.

I must be getting too old, or too prosperous, for mysteries. I was more narked than curious; a couple of years before it would have been the other way around. I checked the incoming number on the phone and called it back, but there was no answer. Maybe Ross was heading for the station already.

I picked up a Scotsman at the station news-stand; it was just the right length of read for the journey. There wasn’t much in it; a row in the Scottish Parliament, a Tory split over Europe, and President Dubya had pissed off his allies again. I didn’t see any of that as news, but I’m not a journalist. . even if I am cynical enough to be one.

There wasn’t a lot on the back page either; Scottish football clubs were on their way out of Europe and Rangers had signed yet another striker. We were almost in Edinburgh when I saw the small story on page five about the discovery of David Capperauld’s body. Star’s cousin in sudden death tragedy, the headline read.

I glanced over the story.

The well-known parliamentary lobbyist and public relations guru David Capperauld (29) was found dead in his Edinburgh flat late on Sunday night.

The tragic discovery was made by Mr Capperauld’s fiancee and business partner Alison Goodchild, when she called to see why he had failed to turn up for meetings. Police and medical services were called to the scene but Mr Capperauld was found to be dead.

A police spokesman said that it appeared that the victim had succumbed to a brain haemorrhage. Ms Goodchild (30) was said to be distraught. She was being comforted by relatives and was not available for comment.

‘They should have phoned the office,’ I muttered as I read on.

Goodchild Capperauld has grown into one of the most prestigious lobbying and PR groups in Scotland in the two years since its foundation. It blue-chip clients include banks, insurance companies and leading Scottish businesses, including Torrent, the office equipment giant which is said to be heading for a flotation.

James Torrent, group chief executive, said yesterday; ‘I was shocked to hear of David’s death. I will have to talk to Alison and see how it will affect our association.’

‘Nice man indeed.’ I growled, loud enough for the passenger across the aisle to glance my way.

Mr Capperauld was the cousin of film star Ewan Capperauld (41), who last night issued a short statement expressing his sorrow at the death. The actor is expected in Edinburgh this week to begin work on the film version of Skinner’s Rules, to be directed by Miles Grayson, and featuring his wife, Auchterarder’s Dawn Phillips.

Among Mr Capperauld’s other co-stars is up-and-coming Fife actor Oz Blackstone (34), a former boyfriend of Ms Goodchild.

‘Fucking hell!’ I barked loudly enough to have attracted the attention of everyone in the carriage, but for the sound of brakes as the train slowed into Haymarket. I didn’t mind them getting my age wrong, but I did take exception to a gratuitous mention in a story like that.

As I stepped down onto the platform, I ran through the list of people who had known about Alison and me, and who might have spoken to the Scotsman about us. I came up with a few possibilities from the Edinburgh days, and decided that the likeliest was one of my Tuesday football crowd who’d been going out with a radio reporter when I’d seen him last. I took a quick glance at the story, but there was no by-line.

Ricky Ross was waiting at the top of the stairs that led up to the exit; he saw the paper in my hand, and he saw the page I had been reading.

‘All publicity’s good publicity, Blackstone,’ he began. ‘Is that the way it goes?’

I glared at him. ‘Not this. It’s pure fucking cheek.’ I took a deep breath. ‘Mind you, it could have been worse.’

‘Aye, I bloody know.’ I looked at the ex-detective, in surprise.

‘Come on,’ he said, heading for a red Alfa Romeo parked in the station forecourt, ‘get in my car.’

I hadn’t time to wonder what it was all about; I simply followed him.

‘Young Ron Morrow,’ Ricky grunted. ‘He was a DC in my division when I resigned. He’s a detective sergeant at Gayfield now, and he keeps in touch. He asks me for advice every so often and he tells me things in return.’ I knew what was coming. ‘Like for example he told me that when the Goodchild girl found her boyfriend stiff and cold on Sunday night, you were with her.’

‘That’s right; and he said he’d keep my name out of it, too.’ I waved the paper.

‘He did. That in there had nothing to do with Ron. The quote in there came from the press office; he didn’t speak to any journalists.’

‘If you say so, fair enough.’

‘Aye, but he wants to speak to you now. I said I’d take you to see him; otherwise he was going to pay you a visit up at the flat, and that might have been a bit public. I take my job seriously, son. I’ve been hired by Mr Grayson as security consultant as well as technical adviser; that covers a lot of ground.’

I felt a bit uneasy. I’d been on Cloud Nine for the best part of a day; now when I looked down it looked like a hell of a fall. ‘Should I be worried about anything here?’ I asked.

‘You tell me,’ Ross answered. ‘Can you think of a reason why you should be worried?’

‘No,’ I said at once. ‘No, I can’t. So what the fuck’s this about?’

‘Young Ron asked me not to tell you, so I said I wouldn’t. He wants to tell you himself, and see your face when he does. The boy’s a good copper and he’s going to be even better; I’m training him well.’

He swung the car out of the station and headed east, through the lights, then left into Palmerston Place; the quickest way to Gayfield, I recognised.

We sat in silence for a while, till Ross broke it. ‘Is it true, what it says in the Scotsman? You and the Goodchild girl; were you and she. .?’

‘We went about for a while; it was four or five years ago though. It’s ancient history; it’s pure fucking mischief to bring it up now.’

‘No it’s not, son. It’s news. Get used to it.’ I thought about my pending divorce, and wondered if that would reach the press.

‘So what were you and she doing together on Sunday?’ Ricky asked.

I gave him a version of the story without going into the detail of Alison’s business problem, but when I got to the part about opening Capperauld’s door he stopped me.

‘There was nothing wrong with it,’ I protested. ‘She was his fiancee and she had a key, even if she was bloody slow in bringing it out.’

‘Fine. Just leave it at that for now.’

It took us over fifteen minutes, even taking the short route, to get to the Gayfield Square police office. The traffic’s murder in Edinburgh, and getting worse; every daft management scheme the people on the council introduce just adds to the chaos.

There was a female constable on duty at the enquiry desk. She was only a probationer. . as I was once, a long time ago. . but she recognised Ross straight away. She even called him sir, when he told her to fetch DS Morrow.

The sergeant and I had met briefly a few years before when I’d given him a witness statement. He had remembered it straight away when he’d turned up in Union Street.

He was still friendly enough when he appeared from his office, but there was an air of formality about him that was new; it was as if he was keeping me at a distance. He called me ‘Mr Blackstone’, and asked me to come with him to an interview room. Ricky started to follow, but Morrow shook his head. ‘Better not, sir,’ he said.

Ross frowned, but stopped. ‘You’re right, Ron. Better do this by the book.’ That got my attention. I won’t say I was nervous, but I had a keen interest in whatever was about to happen.

Another officer, a woman, was waiting for us in the inevitably grubby room; she deferred to Morrow, so I knew she was a DC before he introduced her. ‘This is Gemma Green; she works with me.’

‘Nice to meet you.’ I nodded to her then turned back to him as I sat in a hard steel-framed chair. ‘Now, sergeant, what’s this about?’

‘David Capperauld,’ Morrow replied. ‘When you found him on Sunday, did you touch the body?’

‘I told you at the time what I did; basic first aid stuff. I checked for a pulse, but he was as cold as the floor, stone ginger; I knew it right away.’

‘Did you notice anything unusual about him? Anything at all?’

I began to see where this was headed, but I could do nothing but think back, and answer. ‘His face was purple and he was dead; that’s pretty unusual in my book.’

Morrow gave me a flicker of a smile. ‘I’ll be more specific. Did you notice any marks on him?’

‘Nothing caught my attention.’

‘Did you touch anything in the hall?’

‘No.’

‘Did you remove anything from the house?’

‘Only myself, as soon as I could.’

‘Fair enough. Now, when you found the body, how did Ms Goodchild react?’

‘She was shocked. She screamed, sort of.’

‘Did you scream?’

‘Not that I recall. I think my exact words were “Fucking hell”.’

‘Her reaction; it was instinctive, yes?’

I glanced at the young DC, then back at Morrow. ‘Remember when you got there, the floor was wet?’ He nodded. ‘She wet herself; that strikes me as pretty instinctive.’

‘It would seem so; yes. She changed clothes, didn’t she?’

‘Yeah. You saw what she was wearing when you got there; his dressing gown. She took her clothes with her in a bag when she left with your people.’

The young sergeant leaned forward, a lock of dark hair fell over his forehead. ‘That was my recollection too; I’m glad you confirmed it.’

‘Why?’ I asked.

He replied with another question of his own. ‘Did you ever meet David Capperauld when he was alive?’

‘I never even heard of him when he was alive.’

‘Before last Sunday, when was the last time you saw Ms Goodchild?’

‘Four years ago.’

‘Did it strike you as odd when she contacted you?’

‘Yes it did, until she explained that she wanted me to do her a business favour.’ I told him about Torrent and his ultimatum, and about David’s feud with his cousin.

‘So how did you come to go with her to Union Street?’

I shrugged my shoulders. ‘She told me her troubles. She and the boy hadn’t been hitting the high notes, and she was worried about him not having turned up at the office for a few days. I told her that if she wanted to have another go at fronting him up, I’d come with her. It was a game, really, to see if he’d answer the door to me, rather than her.’

‘I see.’ Ron Morrow nodded and stood up; the silent DC Green, who had been taking notes all through the conversation, did the same. ‘Okay, Oz, that’s fine. Thank you very much for agreeing to talk to us. We may need you to make a formal statement. I’ll call you if we do.’

I laughed. ‘No, no, no, Ron. I’m not walking out of here till you tell me what this is all about.’

Morrow looked at me for a long time, as if he could tell by looking at me whether it was safe to trust me.

‘Okay,’ said the young detective, finally, ‘but in strict confidence. Don’t tell anyone about this. .’ He held my eye with a stare which I took to be meaningful. ‘. . Especially anyone involved.’

I knew what, and who, he meant. ‘Fair enough.’

‘We got the PM report on David Capperauld this morning; he died of a cerebral incident all right. It was caused by someone ramming a needle-like implement into his brain through the base of his skull. He was killed instantaneously; that’s why there was no blood. There wasn’t a mark either, other than the puncture wound the pathologist found above his hairline.’

I’d guessed it had to be something like that, but I still whistled. ‘When?’ I asked.

‘The time’s been fixed as last Wednesday evening. Just for the record, can you tell me where you were then?’

I thought back. ‘Sure, I was in Glasgow, with my baby daughter, my girlfriend and her father.’

‘That’s fine. You understand I may have to check that out.’

‘Feel free.’ I gave him Susie’s phone number.

As I stood there, I found myself hoping that Alison had an alibi too.