Hunt, Hunted.

Murder, Murdered.

by

Michael McBride

Published in 2008 by YouWriteOn.com

Copyright © Text Michael McBride

First Edition

The author asserts the moral right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the author, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

This publication is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or events is entirely coincidental.

Published by YouWriteOn.com

January 2007

Dev Coulding wiped the final beads of rain from his furrowed brow and threw the hankie down on the passenger seat. One riddle leading to another, but he had to get to the final solution before the others did or he’d be the butt of their jokes again. The car in motion he sped off through Townhill onto the back roads of West Fife towards Saline. Full beams tracking the road ahead, hedgerows and fencing snaked along the horizon. A treasure hunt, for fun, but tonight he had a mission. Alone, lonely but desperate to keep in with his mates, the only thing he had left.

With every turn he is faced a new piece of sodden road, in a state of disrepair, damaged with hard standing loosened by a tractor’s unapologetic movement during the agricultural close season. More hedgerows, not really stock fencing as holes gaped through, and it would be likely a lamb or 2 had been lost in previous times. But the sheep would be wallowing in the hollows away from the wind and rain tonight, not looking for the greener grass across the track.

Lights up ahead, police vehicles force a quick dropping down of gears and Dev sits pushing the car along in third, while the rain covered country coppers wave him down.

He hoped they hadn’t been watching his erratic headlights dipping and flowing through the bends before, as the officer approached.

‘Good evening sir, can I ask where you are heading off to?’

‘Just out for a drive’

‘On a night like this?’

Dev realized he would be better off telling the embarrassing truth.

‘I’m on a treasure hunt – it’s a game which me and the mates have set up’

‘A Treasure hunt?’

‘You know, you get clues and go looking for the next one’

The policeman wiped some rain from the front of his cagoule and bent over towards the window.

‘OK, whatever. Listen, a wee lass went missing a few nights ago. Do you recognise her?’

The photograph was fairly small, no bigger than a passport image, and in the patchy torchlight it could have been anyone.

‘No, I don’t think so’

Dev looked again at the girl. She could only have been in her early teens, but it was so hard to tell. Blond hair. Green or blue eyes. A school uniform gave it away. Must have been Queen Anne's High, he recognised it from the maroon and black tie.

‘OK, but if you do, let us know. Her parents are distraught’

Window wound back up in his early 90’s Escort. He really needed to get a new vehicle, but it was difficult. Money didn’t always come easily, and truth be known, if the motor packed in he probably wouldn’t be in a position to replace it.

Back on track the police lights faded away behind the trees and knolls as the road turned towards Steelend. Still another 6 or 7 miles to get the next clue.

‘The shepherd won’t go out without his stick;

Ask what’s missing

Another clue should

Lead you to the correct wood’

Dev knew the answer. The Shepherds Crook leads him to the Crook of Devon, and if the Shepherd won’t go out – he’ll stay in.

The Crook Inn.

The car was doing 60 again across the central lines of the unmarked roads leading up past Knockhill, where the racing of vehicles is allowed. Can’t and won’t fail this time. Dev needed and would get to the end of tonight’s enigma and return to the others.

His mate, Bob, and his wife Marie would be scooting around North Queensferry and Rosyth; Spiv and his latest flame would be checking out clues along by Crossgates; and Tom and Emma would have various clues leading them west to Cairneyhill and Oakley.

Aidrian and Monica would be walking the streets of Dunfermline as their part of the challenge – and they would all meet up in the Seven Kings to enjoy the craic and to share the adventure they had just endured.

The Powmill Milk Bar lay in darkness, as the digital clock showed 7.57pm. The road was wide and empty as Dev hit 70mph past the Rumbling Bridge turn off, and only seconds now before the Crook would be in sight. Nearly 8pm. Get the last part of the clue, out of the pub by 8pm, and off to find the last piece of the puzzle. Back to the pub for 8.30 at the latest and see if he’s managed to get back first… or anywhere but last. Always more fun to hear about the others trials and tribulations when you weren’t in last place.

Down to 50 in the 30 zone, and quickly reducing speed as the pub appeared on the left. Car parking to the rear, but Dev parked at the door, and got out, car still in gear.

The Crook Inn lay fairly empty and deathly quiet. A grey faced woman sat on a bar stool behind the bar, a dark, but graying man at her side, chatting to a couple at the bar. All heads turned when the door opened.

‘I’m looking to find out what’s missing’, Dev burst out, desperate to get out of here as quickly as possible. All faces turned to him, scrutinizing his manner.

‘What did you say?’ the broad Scots tone was harsher than expected from the barman.

‘I believe that you have something missing here. Can you tell me what it is?’

The barman's face turned a shade of scarlet, and the woman wept. The rest of the clientele murmured angrily to each other as the barman started at pace to work his way from the bar towards Dev.

‘What do you mean by that, you sick bastard? Do you know about my daughter? Have you done something to her? Do you know where she is?’

Dev realized his error, or had he been set up?

‘Listen I’m sorry I was told to come in and ask.’

‘By who?’ The man was closing in on him and Dev backed towards the swing doors of the bar, remembering the car outside.

‘Listen, I’m sorry, OK’, and with that Dev turned, bolted out the door and, scraping his back end off the car bonnet, found himself in his car again. Looking out to the left the barman tried the passenger door, but luckily this car was devoid of central locking and unlocking.

‘You bastard, you tell me what you know.’ The voice boomed as the bar owner made his way round the front of the car towards Dev's door. The others were coming out of the bar now, too. Dev forced the car into reverse, praying that tonight it would continue to perform. Praying he would get of this mess intact and praying he would not become the scapegoat of their misery.

‘I’m sorry OK. I don’t know anything’, and with a glance back, the Cro_k _nn disappeared, and Dev spun the car on the empty street to make his escape.

In the rear view mirror he saw the bar personnel pointing and racing towards their own vehicles, so Dev pushed on, down Naemoor road and hopefully to the safety of the darkness. He’d stop down the farm lane off Muckhart Golf course, and see if there was anymore activity. But then he’d progress slowly back to Dunfermline – and tell the story. Bloody hell, what a story.

Dev pulled up. The lack of activity on the roads was eerie, but understandable as the rain was still falling and the winds still gusted around the trees. Take a breath. These were the little girl’s parents, and he had just caused them no end of upset. Shit. Why would the guys send him there tonight. Maybe they hadn’t realized. Likely the clues had been written days before. Just a mistake, and all would end peacefully, happily ever after. What was the clue again.

‘The shepherd won’t go out without his stick;

Ask what’s missing

Another clue should

Lead you to the correct wood’

Ask what’s missing? That’s what started this mess. But maybe that isn’t what they meant. The Crook Inn had been missing the O and the I. O___ I____. That’s what was missing. So Olive Island, the woods that they had used for courting in their younger days, and not far from here, that was the next venue. Dev considered staying, but the road that he was on led away from the Crook and it would not be likely that anyone would follow him to Olive Island, deep in the Ochil hills, off the main track.

There were some cars on the Dollar road, but going east. Dev crossed over the track and found the obscure entrance, and the memories flooded back. Nights with various girls in this car. Good memories. A small farmhouse just off the track was in darkness, although a light flicked on to the rear, probably because the wind blew a branch across the motion sensor from the trees that surrounded the premises. A car in the drive, but no-one home. The track ended with the rusty old gate and the parking place that he’d spent past evenings with Monica, with others. Steamy windows being wiped down with white cotton knickers on the journey home to Dunfermline.

Dev opened the car door and walked up to the gate. So where was the clue? It was dark where there were no street lights, although to the south the cars still streamed past and the rain kept falling. Dev pulled his V- neck up and over his head, and started to climb the fence. Olive Island was a patch of trees, like a wee oasis in a field which was used as a grazing meadow. They always called it Olive Island – an island of trees often surrounded by flooded marshland, but in the summer it was lush green. Tonight it was sodden. Bastards making him trample across this muck. He felt like phoning in and telling them he wasn’t going through with the clue – again. But tonight he had to. He was not going to give up and take the flak again.

The mud seeped into his Nike trainers and over the bottoms of his designer jeans. Bastard. But there was no other way to Olive Island. So, squelching and leaving a trail of muddy tracks, Dev made his way over the meadow. The rain felt so cold. He’d left his jacket in the car. Stupid. The trees from Olives Island rose and fell like shadowy flames across the backdrop of the Ochil Hills and he hoped beyond hope that the clue would be here and he could get back. A very small light shone from the ground in the undergrowth. A torch. That must be the clue to return with. Dev scrambled through the twigs and branches and reached the torch. Lifting it up it felt sticky to the touch, and shining the torch onto his own hand he discovered the sticky substance was red. Blood red. This was sick.

He shone the torch shining down towards the ground at his feet where a small trail of blood led to the bottom of an old oak. A girl. Gagged and tied. Eyes staring. Deathly stare. Dev's heart raced in panic and thoughts of the girl’s parents and this situation began to haunt him. An envelope sat on the body. Dev started to weep. Who would do this? How could he explain? Maybe he could find out from the envelope. He wiped his hand and picked up the envelope using his jumper to prevent any fingerprints, but the blood was on his jumper already. He felt it harder to breathe. The letter was out of the envelope and he forced it open.

It was a clue.

‘Devalue life I am the start

Could it begins, and ending’

Someone had set him up. Dev at the start, Could – it begins, and end – ing. Dev Coulding. But now he had the clue, and he could discover who did this.

A crack of a branch and Dev's torch fell to the ground.

Dev Coulding was dead. A figure disappeared into the shadows, as a dad came looking for his daughter in Olive Island.

1

Jan 2008

It’s 1955 and the 8 bodies sit around the recently furnished room. Wallace Squaregut, a policeman with an attitude puffs, on a pretend cigarette blowing fake smoke out of its plastic sheath. His blond walrus moustache is poised like a dead rat, ready to fall off his top lip if he is asked to speak. Pretence is the name of the game. His closest companion is Lady Ratzenberger, a harlot dressed in scarlet, cigarillo in its holder, pointed to the ceiling. She is now owner of Heighley Manor since her husband’s tragic death hours earlier in this fictitious place. Everyone an actor, but in this false reality the characters in this room indulge in good humoured discussion to find out who the murderer is, why they did it and with what. A reality Cluedo game.

‘Any of you cocks for anymore beverages?’ Bob laughed as his character slipped down from high class toff to housing scheme scum.

‘Bob!’ A shrill young maid shouted across the room,

‘Stay in character or you’ll spoil it’. The maid was Bob’s fiancée of 5 years, Marie, sounding as though the wait for a wedding date played constantly on her mind.

‘I can’t when Emm keeps asking for Bacardi Breezers – its hardly the drink of the 50’s’

Slight mirth and merriment erupted, but cautiously from the visitors to this apartment.

‘Lager?’ Bob stood holding his arms aloft, each hand containing a can.

Two hands rise towards the sky as if two late night partygoers thought they saw a taxi light in the distance.

‘Mind yer cigarettes, this is a new carpet’ Bob quips.

‘Stay in character!’ Marie continued in the same vain.

‘I am, I’m pretending those fags are real’, Bob hands a cold tin of Tennents to his mate on the sofa.

‘Cheers bud’ said Cllr Frank Bresner, aka Spiv aka Simon Deuchar, of Camdean, Rosyth, as the newspaper had stated when he was done for GBH in his late teens. His girlfriend was sitting at his lap, kneeling comfortably on the floor, chest heaving through fifties negligee.

‘Pam, you wantin owt?’

‘No thanks Bob, I’ve an essay to write up tomorrow’, Dorothea Pandrop aka Pamela Watters looked out of place – an 18 yr old in the midst of some late twenty-early thirty something’s.

Marie rolled her eyes. ‘In… character….Bob.’

‘I’m no fuckin Bob then, am I.’ He pushed his face towards the pretty maid. Its Gerald Ratzen frigger to you!’ The deep red lining of his jacket flashed as he turned quickly and guffawed in a deliberate, insulting tone. All part of the game. Marie threw him daggers that he could feel in his spine but he didn’t care. He was the host, the life of the party and feeling mighty fine and plenty drunk.

Bob staggered through towards the kitchen for more beers passing an army general at the door. The General touched his arm whispering, ‘Tell ye what, your wife’s patter is murder…’ He smirked and swigged his beer. Cigar rounding the near empty can.

Elias Godfrey, the general, played by Tom McAndrew kept his eye on Spiv's new tart, ogling her fine breasts before catching the glare of his wife. Her disapproving look was not unusual. She knew what he was like. A ladies’ man if ever there was one.

‘I say, forthwith and wherewithal, I think I’ve got it!’

Wallace Squaregut, under normal circumstances known as Aidrian Burgess, rose from his seat. He was a rotund fellow, his policeman outfit being a little on the small side.

‘I think I might have done it!’

1.1 Aidrian Burgess

The doorbell rang. Saturday morning.

‘Dad, can I answer the door’, sang 8 year old Ellie.

‘Hmmph’ Aidrian lay in his pit. Saturday mornings were blissful. Kids could dress and wash and feed themselves now. Only their fighting over MTV v CITV kept him awake.

Last nights sleep had been full of angst. Worry about work, worry about Monica, worry about the kids. Work should be an easy one, but he was having difficulties. Working long hours wasn’t helping at home, but then the money had to be found to pay for the mortgage or they could lose the house… and how could he face telling Mon that?

The door clicked open.

‘It’s the postie’

The postie? What’s Monica been buying now? He thought. It’ll be something incredibly useful from E-bay, a new dress that she won’t wear or something he was meant to have bought last weekend up the town. Not a dash or sprint, but a slounge from the side of the bed and into navy slippers, he headed towards the bedroom door.

Monica had left to take Stephen to his football match, and then she had 2 appointments before lunch. Her hairdressing kept her out of the house much of the time that Aidrian was at home. What was the point of money if there was no time to spend it?

The out-dated carpet on the stairs led him down to the front door where an eager Ellie waited impatiently, guarding the house from the stranger, but keen to learn what the package contained.

‘Morning dad’

‘Morning’

‘Just this package here and here’s your mail’. The postie handed Aidrian a clipboard to sign off. No clever quips. Just straightforward duty to sign off, hand back, cheers and cheerio. The door closed.

‘What are we going to do today dad?’ Sleep? Aidrian looked at the cuckoo clock on the wall. The cuckoo had died after a couple of days when he had allowed Stephen to ‘play’ with it. But the hands still worked and, through bleary eyes, he could see it was coming on 10.

‘Don’t know darling, what do you want to do?’ He put the package down on the sideboard and ambled through to the kitchen without looking, switching the sound down on the telly as he passed it. The kitchen was a good size. When they had bought this place, he and Monica were well pleased. They were the first out of his mates to buy a place and, instead of living in the council estate, they had moved to the new houses behind the woods – a place they had dreamed of moving to when they were younger.

He leafed through the mail.

The kitchen was bright with a breakfasting corner and a huge dining area to the back, with patio doors leading to their greenery beyond. A south facing garden with no properties overlooking. The thrill was so great for the couple when they got the keys that they put Stephen down and stripped off, making love on the newly laid turf.

Now he was lucky if he was able to paw playfully at Monica at all. They hardly spoke and when they did it usually ended up in an argument of some sort.

Mr Aidrian Burgess. A Rust coloured envelope.

Ms Monica Delaney. Another Rust coloured envelope.

‘Dad.’

‘Uh huh’, Aidrian started to open the letter, catching the envelope edge under his nail making him wince.

‘Can I make you a coffee?’

‘No. I’ll do it’. Ellie made to argue, but they had been here before, and this time she backed down, crawled into the corner seat with her bowl of Cheerios, and mouthed them down, watching ‘Hider in the House’.

The envelope was intriguing. Not a bill (and they were coming thick and fast) or junk mail, but an actual letter. Please let it be a cheque….

‘Please be advised that Lady Elizabeth Ratzenberger invites you to attend Heighley House with a view to discovering the truth behind the mysterious death of her late husband Vincent.’

A party. Drink. A laugh. Maybe even some drunken fondling with Mon, or someone!

‘Please be told that food will be provided, but if you desire to drink alcoholic beverages, you are cordially asked to bring these with you!’

Interesting. Very interesting. And maybe just the lift he needed. Bob and Marie would make great hosts.

Aidrian dropped the letters into the letter rack and puts Monica’s to the front, so that she didn’t accuse him of hiding it. The package forgotten, he ascended the stairs, slightly happier, a little more exhilarated, found his bed, and lay down again.

1.2 Monica Delaney

The car purred. She had been sitting for 10 minutes, but she knew Stephen would appreciate her more for not coming out to get him from the changing rooms. She could wait. A gap between the corrugated sheets surrounding the pitch showed her the game had finished. No one remained except some hoodies necking. Hopefully boy-girl, but who knew in this day and age. It’s amazing how difficult it was to look away as a hand touched a thigh, and then a bum cheek. She looked away from them into her rear-view mirror. Her hairdressing appointment after costs netted her about 15 pounds. The shoes she wanted for going to the pub with Emma tonight cost £125. She would get the shoes though. This was just a hairdressing gig today. Sometimes her clients wanted more than a comb over. The money helped. She could hide it easily from Aid by saying new shoes cost less than they did. I’m so materialistic, she thinks. The sex meant nothing when it wasn’t with Aidrian. But lately there had just been no interest in the bedroom at home. Not from Aidrian. Every time it was the same. Aidrian doted on her, that’s why they had been together so long. He had chased her until he got her. They fell in love and now they acted like a whole.

Stephen was just like his dad. He played games. He was big and athletic. He would make the girls swoon in years to come. It’s just his dad wasn’t Aidrian. She would never tell Aidrian this of course as they had him when they were only kids themselves and Stephen must never find out. But she had been living a lie that had lasted 14 years and would last a lot more so long as those who knew could keep their mouths shut. Stephens’s dad never knew. He must have had an inkling though, when he was still involved in their lives – as he had been Aidrian's friend.

After 14 years she wished that these thoughts would die away, but somehow they got stronger as she waited for the secret to come out. But it hadn’t yet.

‘Hi Mum’ – Stephen bellowed in the door and Monica shook herself out of her daydream. ‘Can Raj get a lift back?’

’Of course. Hi Raj’

‘Hi Mrs Burgess’.

Of course she still wasn’t Mrs Burgess, but what was the point in saying anything. Stephen was a Burgess now in every way. Aidrian had been his Dad and was his Dad in all but blood. But she remained a Delaney. It wasn’t a problem. When they had the money they would get married. If they had the money…

Raj dispatched home, Stephen out of sight up to his room, listening to the SPL on the radio, rather than looking at nude pictures on his internet or magazines she found under his mattress, she hoped. They are all the same. Men.

Kettle on. Washing out of the machine, and folded for ironing. Another load on. It was never ending. Aidrian can work all the hours for cash, yet Monica still felt she deserved more for all the work she put in.

A parcel sat on the sideboard. Monica picked it up and walked through to the kitchen.

Relax for a minute. She took off her top. Better go for a wash before Aidrian returns. The parcel was unopened. FAO Aidrian Burgess. Intriguing. Nothing special most probably, but intriguing... she pushed the parcel aside a little frustrated. Monica sat comfortably amid the cushions pillowed up the walls of their breakfasting area. The rust coloured envelope to the front of the letter rack was beautifully written in calligraphic font. Monica Delaney. Another open envelope. Aidrian must have got one, too.

1.3 Bob Reilly

‘Think fast!’ a 5” drill bit flew past Bob’s ear.

‘Bastard!’ laughter boomed from his workmates. The factory ceiling acts as an amplifier, round and deep. He picked up the bit, and pocketed it. Revenge would be sweet.

Still morning, but only a half day work, so back home by lunchtime on a Saturday. The craic was good though. Already stories of last night had filtered through. A night with the lads was always welcome and on Friday nights Bob had a night off from Marie.

There was nakedness, there was touching, there was kissing at some point, but not necessarily by Bob. Marie found him starker’s lying on the doormat at 2am, dragged him in, closed the door, and headed back to bed. A normal Friday night in the world of Robert Reilly.

His head was beginning to swell, but for Saturday morning this was tame. The overtime hours were often missed. For instance the two guys he had left behind at Ricardo’s night club/ strip joint, last night - no sign of those boys today! Maybe it was the drink. Maybe something a wee bit stronger. Laxatives in the late night curry won’t have helped them, Bob grinned to himself.

Three more bolts to torque. Hard work could be dangerous. But you had to have a laugh, the older colleagues told them, showing them the joints that used to house fingers after past mistakes and horseplay. If he was honest with himself he would tell Marie that one of the main reasons he wouldn’t get married was because of fear of being found with a tarring of his privates, or a cock up his arse on his stag night, thanks to his so called friends…!

Marie was a lovely girl, now more of a wife – as the nagging never seemed to end. If she had a pet maybe that would fulfill her, the thought came and went quickly. A kid? No way. Then it really would all be over. Bob thought about Aidrian's life since he found himself a dad at 18. The last time they got drunk together Bob discovered that it had been over 2 months since Aid had last had a shag with his missus. That was no life at all. And then, with the kids harping on, needing lifts and money and clothes and fed… Not a starter. Not at all. No way.

Shift over. The bike sat gleaming in the near empty car park by the waters edge. Ducati. It’s yellow and white torso covering a pristine stainless steel frame beneath. The River Forth lapped at the dockside. A lovely spring morning lost to the factory, but the day was still young. There was football to watch, bookies to beat and surely Aid would be up for a bit of that.

‘Aright mate?’

‘Aright Bob, you finished?’

‘Pub?’

‘I’ve got the littl’un the now, but I’ll see you there.’

‘Where are you?’

‘At the Glen…, you know.’

‘Seven Kings – 1 hour, Oh and yer horse, Namir, is running in the 2.40 at Haydock.’

He closed the mobile and shoved it in his shirt pocket. Afternoon sorted. Marie would understand. He was a listening ear and a shoulder to cry on. Bob told Marie about all his mates’ worries… OK normally half a story when drunk, and having to explain again when sober, and not really wanting to talk. She would understand OK, but it would be Bob who was buying the pints.

1.4 Marie Smith

The mobile buzzed. The text read. ‘Goin 2 7 kings wi Aid. Cum f u like. Back l8r.’

The gym was quiet. Marie did her classes on a Saturday morning. No sex to hinder her early morning since Bob rarely performed after a night out. She got her kicks from the adrenalin rushing during a spin class, watching the customers ogling her rear end, while she forced them to work harder. Like the bondage queens she watched on TV documentaries, she had power and used it.

Quiet now. Sweaty men of various shapes and sizes traipsed off to showers thinking about her. Bulging in their shorts. She felt good.

So what to do this afternoon? Go and see Bob? Why? She would be ignored and bored.

Bob was a nice guy, mainly, but they had reached their equilibrium with each other, and life was stale. The gym was a good get away from it all, but the feeling was only temporary. Marie needed more. Much more. She dreamed of the early days. They really were loved up, although not without their own faults – she had had one relationship she could call an affair… and dreamed of those feelings, as they did happen and were real. But Simon, Spiv, was a complete loser… he still flirted with her though, and she always thought if there was a time and place, she would lose herself to him. Again.

The bikes sat empty in the mirrored hall. The mats were being moved onto the floor now by a couple of 40 year old, naturists whose yoga class was popular with the blue rinse brigade. Marie wondered how long it took to get their piss-drenched pants off the floor at the end of the class. Last year one of the ‘customers’ had died during the session… no-one noticed until it was over. Even the deceased’s partner hadn’t noticed, or didn’t want to make a fuss. She just sat next to him, propping him up. People might exaggerate, but it was said that the beardy naturist ran and grabbed the defibrillator regardless of the fact that the corpse was cold and blue.

‘just goin 2 shops. U want 2 go out 2 night. Or will I just c u at home.’

Bob probably wouldn’t answer the text, but at least she had replied. She now had the freedom of the afternoon. Juice machine and Diet Irn Bru, gulp down a little, burp privately. ‘Bye’ to reception, and into the car park. Seems a joke but she took the car to the gym despite the 400yds walk it would have been from the back door of her 2 bed house. Unnatural sports car, sunshine yellow and bulging with spunk. She couldn’t really afford it, but it went with the territory. If you have a car parked outside the Gym, it’s got to look as good as the owner. Sunglasses on. ‘It’s a bright day’. Back to the house. Bob’s bike in the close. He had bought that yellow bike only days after she bought the car claiming, in some way, that it showed her how much he loved her. Stupid yellow bike. Car parked out on the street. Some kids playing kerby down the way. Grass needs cut. Too early in the year, it will just grow quicker if you cut it. It will just cut up the soil… any excuse. Front door locked, as predicted. Mail sitting on the sideboard. At least Bob took a telling, and he didn’t just leave it lying. Toilet. Not flushed. The shit! Why does he do that?? Phone bill, already know what it says from the online account. Junk mail, why do they insist on sending me this shit? No responses from the gang yet. She only sent them out yesterday, but maybe someone would have left a message on the answer machine. Marie made her way through the hall, avoiding boxes of bike parts and tools – which would eventually reach the shed, Bob assured her, and looked across the kitchen to the digital display. 1 message.

‘Hi Marie. Just Mum. What are you doing this afternoon? Are you working? (I never work on a Saturday afternoon and she knows that). If you aren’t could you come over and see the paint I bought for the back room? I just want a second opinion and I know you have good taste. (Clever, very clever). Oh well, that’s the afternoon gone. An afternoon discussing the colour and listening to how little time her mother would have to do the painting, and her father’s bad leg and back, and her illness last week, and if only Bob had more time around the place, when were they going to get married…. And that would be when she caved in, put on the overalls and painted the fuckin room…

A knock on the door. Oh god, its Tom.

1.5 Tom McAndrew

‘Hi Marie, I got your letter’

‘You going to come?’

‘If you’ll let me’. Tom was not Simon or Bob. Nothing Like. Not even like Aidrian, who at least seemed to care about people. He was sleazy, and it was only the danger that came from getting caught that turned her on. At the moment it was like the worst of both worlds. Tom’s desires pawing at her, or her mother’s usual shit…

‘Listen, Bobs on his way back. I just got a text from him’ Tom fed his foot inside the door.

‘Without his bike? That’s not like him.’ Tom wanted sex. It was in his head, and it turned him on more that Bob might be back at anytime. It would be awful to be caught in your mate’s bed with his lady, but then again Tom felt above pretty much everyone. He stroked Marie's arm, and saw the goosebumps rise. Her nipples stood to attention through her sports bra. She wanted him, or so he thought. Her gut wrenched at the thought of this encounter, her mother’s decorating becoming a more than welcome diversion.

‘Tom, my mum’s expecting me at hers soon. Bob’s meant to be coming. I just texted to see if he remembered. He was only along at the bus stop. Tom took his eyes off her chest and looked at her face which was flushed. Even if she was lying, he wanted her, and now. She was fit and pretty. She was energetic and even without touching her he was becoming aroused. He stepped into the vestibule.

‘Let’s see what we can get up to until he gets back’ and, with that, he closed the door on the Yale lock.

Marie stood still. She didn’t have any more excuses. She shouldn’t have let it happen the first time, and now she was torn up with worry every time that Tom returned from one of his long haul trips. He leaned over her and kissed her neck, the nausea tinged with lust for a moment. His hand was already inside her top and soon he would have his way.

Tom felt his way up and down the inside of her clothing, first along her top and then round to her bra clip. As it came away he kissed her lips and then around her neck. His hands moved down to her pink shorts and as she moaned, he pulled them down and turned her towards the couch, his hand touching her hair, and searching for her moistness. His other hand moved across her breasts, pawing and squeezing. Marie felt so awful, but so good. If only Bob made her feel this way, but they had grown so stale. She wanted to yell out his name. Tom had been told that Bob would be here shortly. He didn’t care. He would be inside her soon and if Bob walked in, she didn’t think that would stop him. He would finish first, and then make his excuses to go. Probably back home to his wife.

The mobile rang. Tom fidgeted in his pocket trying to turn it off, but dropped the phone at his feet. Marie turned and picked it up. It was Emma.

She slid the phone open, grabbing the opportunity to halt Tom’s advances.

‘Hi Emma, Tom’s just at the toilet. How are you?’

She moved away from the sofa, replacing her shorts.

Toms face turned to ash, unsure of Marie's next move, his passions diverted to sudden realism of the situation. He still wanted Marie, but it would have to wait. He looked into Marie's eyes indicating for her to pass the phone over.

‘Here he comes now. Speak later’.

Marie pulled at her T-shirt and wandered through to the kitchen.

‘Hi hon. I was just over to see what Bob and Marie are playing at with this murder mystery thing. Aye, you have one too. Very interesting. Listen I’ll be back soon ‘cos I know this pair are heading out. OK. Love you. Bye the now.’

Tom shook a little. Maybe too close when it was his life that could have been upset. He looked in the kitchen door but Marie had gone out the back with the washing.

‘I’ll catch you later Marie, I better go’.

‘OK, see yerself out’.

1.6 Emma McAndrew

Emma sat on her bed and replaced the handset. Tom was an enigma. He stayed away with work all week and, rather than zoom back into her arms, he shot off to see friends and relatives, always with a valid excuse for spending hours away from home, before collapsing in a heap onto the couch or bed and snoring through to the next trip away.

He had been caught out once. And that would never happen again without repercussions. They had discussed it, and Emma would be out of here before he could get out of the next whore’s bed.

But the mistrust was horrible. She could not chase these feelings and had ended up with a stranger one night just to make sure he couldn’t make her feel bad again. Getting the revenge in before it happened. This was not the life and she had to change it. Monica would say she was imagining it and that Tom was a good man really. He was a jack-the-lad, a bit shifty, a ladies’ man – but he loved her and would always be there. But did she want that? Just that? She wanted change. Was she being unfair?

Then there was last summer when Dev died. That was horrible, as much as she didn’t like Dev. Tom changed. Where had he ended up that night when they had meant to be out on the Treasure Hunt? Too embarrassed to say they hadn’t been together, she had lied for him. He would never have killed Dev. Why would he?

She came down the stairs and walked through to the living room. The rust coloured envelope to Tom opened. Again a valid excuse. Maybe she should just lighten up. Anyway Tom would be home soon. Maybe he’d be full of passion, full of compliments and give her the warmth and longing she was denied when he was traveling.

Often he would return with gifts and flowers or woo her with a song he had written for his guitar while he was traveling. Then all would be well. OK at first this was the norm. Less so now, unless they had fought, or she had been off with him.

Maybe he was just a nice semi-romantic. She pushed the envelope aside and looked at the other mail. She had been applying for work in the city. Bored of the call centre and the same people she saw everyday in the office, then at the store, then at the post office, then at the gym and finally at the pub. Small town, small talk. They had talked about her during Tom’s affair and she knew they would – because she and Mon often talked about the others! Listening intently to what they heard about Spiv with his young partners, and anything about Marie - or Pamela. What was there to say – she was almost too young to understand right from wrong, but now she was part of their group and they would all meet up next weekend for some more friendly chat and get - together, before Emma and Mon would be on the phone early Sunday to snipe and bitch again about the other 2.

It was routine. It was norm. It was dull. But this letter looked promising. PA in a small lawyer’s office on Coates Crescent in Edinburgh Centre. An interview and the dreams could take over from the mundane reality.

1.7 Simon Deuchar

Spiv sat in a drunken stupor. 4pm and his team was beat. He’d been following the Pars since he was a laddie and watched them fall from grace, rise from the ashes and fall again to mediocrity. And on a cold January afternoon, along with 2 thousand hearty souls, he sat as his team ran out to a lukewarm second half welcome.

‘Come on ti fuck Dunfermline’

‘Come on ye Pars, Come on ye Pars’ sailed in the frozen air momentarily before the team was forced onto the defensive in a game which would end in another home defeat.

Spiv, bleary-eyed, spoke to a neighbour in the crowd.

‘Hoy, what’s the score noo?’

‘2 nil to Hamilton’.

‘Fucksake’.

Spiv had been at Rory’s bar from 11 until 10 mins before kick off. It was time to get back to the pub to meet the others, he felt.

‘Nothing more to see here. Screw you guys, I’m going home.’ His shouts warranted a glance from the Pars’ full back who turned back to see Hamilton race away with the ball again.

The second half. What was the point when you couldn’t remember the first half? But a fish supper and a vodka red bull and he’d be back on track. Tomorrow he may even read about their miraculous recovery. Where’s Pam today? Studying again. This was the time he thought about going back to the drawing board and chatting up one of the other students at the College where he worked Monday to Friday 7 til 2.30. Brilliant hours. In the pub by 3 and no responsibilities other than to make sure Pam knew he cared. And he did. So meal and sex at least twice a week. She had enjoyed coming to the fitba too. But it was an expensive day out when she tagged along and good drinking time was eaten into while she straightened her hair. And he had to behave at the pub instead of fondling the staff in the pubs where he hadn’t already been barred.

East End Park to the town centre in 10 minutes. No much crowd when you are out of the SPL, but they were sleeping giants, and they’d be back to the top soon. All football fans are the same. Living with their dreams.

Spiv took a short cut across the roundabout to the disgust of various drivers.

‘Prick!’, one of the many drivers called out a side window.

Spiv responded with the bird signal and continued to walk nee stumble, towards the central reservation. Here he sat on the grass, wondered if Pam would have sex with him here, and searched for the fags in his pockets. This could take some time in his state. Eventually he gave up and lay behind the barrier. Cold would soon get him back on his feet and he’d find himself propping up the bar with Bob and Aids. But for now they would have to wait.

1.8 Pamela Watters

Simon hadn’t called, but she knew he’d be in the bar by now. Dunfermline had lost again and he’d be drowning his sorrows. If they’d won he’d be celebrating fully. Regardless he would be enjoying himself, as usual. Pam was still dressed in her robes, but had managed to get through 2 essay questions for her next assignment. A good day’s work and this would allow her a night off to spend with her love.

Simon was a silly man. But sexy. Dammit he was sexy and when he wooed her at first it was like a dream. Now 18, she had been seeing him for 2 years and she was still so glad to have him. She had watched others in awe of her. She was lucky.

She would only see him a couple of times a week, because she was keen to get her degree and, as a bright girl, she already had a head start on her peers, leaving school to go directly into her degree course. She had even been in the Dunfermline Press as the youngest student at Lauder. Now, a wee bit older and wiser, she doted on her boyfriend. The age gap didn’t bother her (although it had irked her mother and she wouldn't tell her dad!).

The straighteners gave out a burning smell. She would preen herself as best she could; hiding her unsightly hips and bum beneath a sarong, switching the light off before Spiv could see her glory. She would one day earn enough to get rid of her monstrous thighs and ass. She hoped. Simon couldn’t be allowed to see these embarrassing features. The state she was in. Instead she would concentrate on showing off her best assets. Her bust was superb, even if self praise was no praise. Her tits were great and when she wore her best clothes out she would turn heads and make men take notice. She wasn’t interested in them, although the attention made her feel good. But Simon was proud of her and he would always give her all the attention that she needed when she needed it.

The party next week would be fun. Everyone still saw her as a wee lassie, but she was becoming more and more accepted into their group. They were a close bunch. Well the blokes were. But each of the girls had been nice and had given her time during the past 2 years. So now, instead of it being a chore, it sometimes turned into a nice girly night as she discovered more about them and their past.

She would wear a basque and her voluptuous body would spill out. But that’s what they wore in the 50’s wasn’t it? Simon would fondle and arouse her. He did everything right.

He would be dressed in a 50’s suit with Stetson and fake moustache for comedy value. She would dress him and everyone would appreciate the effort.

Tonight it would be a drunken night at the bar, though, and then coping with drunken fondlings until she was drunk enough to appreciate and reciprocate the attentions. Possibly some back alley action or some stroking in the disabled toilets. But that was something she enjoyed. Not something she worried or felt bad about. It was part of the excitement of being with Simon. She loved him and she would do anything for him.

2

Ian Ingram lay staring at the pale ceiling in his cell. It had been a year already. He shouldn’t be here. His thoughts over the past year had often reduced him to tears. His wife hadn’t coped and had been put on suicide alert after being taken into Gogarburn hospital. She would remain there. There was nothing he could do to help her. His world had been turned upside down and all that was left to Ingram was to think.

The cell door lay open. Exercise time. Ingram lay a bit longer. Staring. Thinking. He knew what he had done was wrong, but what hurt most of all was that his actions had not avenged his little Olivia’s death at all. He pushed himself from the wafer thin mattress, moving towards the openness of the large hall in front of him. The bars overlooking the mezzanine gantry of Barlinnie Z section had been painted a rusty red colour. Forth Bridge Red. His thoughts had moved from anger to deep sadness, to anger, to deep sadness. Positivity was difficult here and a deep screamed shout was followed by two officers dragging a suited con away after another skirmish. It was not something that made him jump anymore. It was the norm. It was Ian Ingram’s life. But still he thought. About the night he found his little girl lying in the mud. A dirty body lying on top. He had plunged, he had lunged. Thrown the body off. It was him. From the bar. It was him. Looking for something. A treasure hunt they said. Looking for a clue.

He cracked each knuckle and put his hands in his pockets looking down the cold steel stairs towards the exercise ring. He needed more information about the people who were on that treasure hunt. He was sure of this now. The man known as Dev Coulding was there, it was true. But he was lifeless. He was still warm, but lifeless. He needed more information and there was still a clue that those people were not looking for. He knew it and it was there. He had found his little girl with the biggest clue because she was wearing it around her on that horrific, cold night.

A bell sounded. No time to go to the ring. No worries. Some more time to think. He had one person who still believed in him. His solicitor had not done well for him. He lacked spirit and they got into a dogfight. It was easy for the prosecution to say Ingram had the weapon in his hands. Had been seen by others storming after Coulding. Had been found dripping fresh blood from Couldings body. Had no reason to be there, but no recollection of why he had chosen to search up the lane towards Olive Island. Car headlights. Something turned him off the main road towards his daughter. A father’s love. A faint cry. A subconscious knowledge that something just was not right.

He turned back towards his bed again. Bad, grey fabric covered the home comfort of his criminal life. He had been able to dream some nights, and felt the freedom that allowed before he would again awaken and open his eyes to the scratchings of previous tenants on the breeze block wall beside him. He pushed his hand under his pillow, feeling for an envelope. A guard moved past his cell, glaring at him through the bars, before continuing with his patrol. Same old, same old. Ingram pulled the envelope out from the bed. It carried the prison stamp. He had worked favours, cigarettes aplenty for this. It was something he needed and it might just work. Might just get him out of here. Might just help him to find out who stole his daughters life from her.

2.1 Aidrian

The first letters had arrived in November. The postmark showed they were from the Prison Service in Glasgow, from a post office box there. The Inspector in charge, David Duffel was not familiar to Aids but the request seemed reasonable and who was going to argue with the authenticity. The letter asked for further information regarding the night when Dev died. Where he was, who had set up the game, who had written the clues, which couples had gone where. He would speak to Bob before responding. They had all been through this. Did they want more turmoil? Hadn’t they been through enough over this horrible event?

Finding out a good friend was dead was bad enough. But that he had been a paedo and a murderer was too awful to comprehend. Aids had thought about how he could or should have helped Dev. Instead he had kicked him to the kerb after getting together with Monica and having the kids. Dev seemed lost. A little directionless and unfocused. Sometimes he would appear after weeks of no contact announcing huge ambition and creativity then once again lose himself in it all and disappear once more. Next time he saw him he would be drunk at the bar spouting shit and telling Aids how much he loved him and that everything would work out. Aids had a big heart and wished he had been more caring – but Mon always made him feel bad about having Dev about. She had once dated him and it obviously had not ended well. But if it hadn’t been for that he would not be with the woman he loved and who shared his life.

Then on top of the worries about Dev had come the financial worries. One huge bill had come in and it was make or break. A 20 to one shot had meant the gas and electricity stayed on and gave a little more for Aids to play with besides! It had been a little miracle and as he watched the unfancied filly romp home, he had pledged to use this good fortune to get out of his mess. A few weeks later the bills needed paying again and he took a gamble too far. A cheque had come in, unsigned, from a customer at work. Aids had put it aside and requested a duplicate be sent over. Meantime he had accidentally written off the cheque when trying to update the database and, all of a sudden, a company was free from debt with a 10,000 pound cheque to spare.

It was not a difficult decision, no matter how gut wrenching it was for him to swallow. For Mon, for the kids, he had to make sure they paid the bills. The cheque cleared in his personal account days later and that was it. A few months later a letter had come through from the customer. They had requested receipt of the cash. One falsified receipt later, explained away as a mistake, and a valid receipt number disappeared from Fleck and Fraser office and back to the customer.

He would not have thought about doing it again until a quote came in which was for a new security system in their office. The quote had been for 60,000 pounds. It had been pushed through by the MD. He just had to send out the order.

The letter he sent declined the offer. Bob had helped him to get a good system for 15K and with 3K labour costs, they had managed to make 42,000 profit. 21K each. Both schtum with the girls and any of the others. But this time the bosses had become wary. They wanted assurances. They had paid for an around the clock, 24hr call line and were waiting for the attention of the company. Aidrian had managed to talk around the issue at various monthly meetings, but time was growing thin. It would come out - and how. It was fraud. He would be found out, especially when they traced some of the money going to his bank account.

So Dev had died at a time when things were bad… but to some extent this improved Aid’s situation. His company gave him leave of absence on full pay. Without the name of the company they had dealt with they did not have a direct lead, and so long as he and Bob said nothing, they would not. Unless F and F checked their own employee bank accounts.

Aids tugged on the bedsheet, wrapping it up to his ears like a child hiding away from a scary film. Mon was already out with the kids. It was Monday morning and after nine. He should have been at work. The phone had not rung yet and Mon said she was not phoning in on his behalf. He could do it himself if he was just going to fanny about the house all day getting under her feet. He felt bad enough and now Mon was on his back. He would have to tell her. Even if it made matters worse.

Dev had known about his problems. Dev had a good ear. But maybe it was just as well he was dead. Because things were just about to be opened up and Mon wouldn’t rest until she heard everything from everyone who knew anything.

‘Hi it’s Aidrian. Listen I’m really under the weather. Something I’ve picked up from the kids. Hopefully I’ll be in tomorrow, but I’ll see how I feel. Might just go to see what the doctor thinks.’

2.2. Monica

What would she do now? She sat holding the steering wheel. Children away to school for the day. Monica had an appointment in the house at 10. It was well paid, too. Aidrian was spoiling her life. It was hard to be harsh on him. He worked hard and something was bugging him. If he said it was nothing she believed him though – so be it. She would have to cancel. Shit.

She picked up the phone.

‘Hello’

‘Hi it’s Monica’

‘Hi there, I’m just on my way’

‘I’m sorry, but we can’t ok’

‘Oh. Ok. Just this week or …’

‘Oh, just this week… it’s difficult

‘OK, no problem’

‘Unless…’

‘….’

‘…there’s somewhere…’

‘It’s difficult. People know me at the hotel’.

‘No problem, I understand’.

‘I’ll see you next week all being well’.

He was good money, but the councillor was a friend of her Dad, and she had been loathe at first to offer her ‘extra services’, but really needed the money. Now she depended on him and he wasn’t so bad. Never an affair, but there was tenderness and mutual respect. Not like the others. And then, of course, there were those she still needed to pay off…

Monica pushed the phone into the pocket of her handbag. Mirror, signal, manoevre and left the car park.

2.3 Bob

Bob smiled to himself. The squeals from the cupboard were stifled by something. He glanced across the floor at the other blokes, while starting to turn another bolt into a piece of sheet metal, positioning the washer into place at the back. One guy laid his head on the work surface, tears streaming down his face and couldn’t hold back any more. The laughter boomed through the factory floor. Bob felt a little awkward. This prank could get him into real trouble with the superiors. He could see them peering from the top offices down to the floor. He walked off towards the cupboard.

Through flashes from molten steel, screams continued. A terrified dark haired man tried to pull himself away from violent sparks as molten liquid flashed up the side of the container. The heat was stiff. Bob smirked at the victim.

He pulled a Stanley knife from his pocket and began to remove the tape from the man’s ankles and wrists. The man grabbed at the tape over his mouth.

‘You shits – fuckin hell, I thought I was going to die’

Bob slapped his victims back.

‘Just a laugh eh?’.

Bob stood laughing as the door opened.

Murray Johnson, the shift manager walked in with a white shirt on. No overalls for him today. He also wore a tie. Credibility cloth meant something was up. Suddenly Bob began to think whether today was the wrong day to exact some workplace revenge. This looked serious.

‘You two. With me. NOW’. He opened the fire exit door out to the yard.

Bob knew this was not good. A couple of hours later while sitting on his bike down by the scrap yard in Inverkeithing, he thought about ending it Evil Kneivel style, throwing himself over the salvaged ship and into the mudflats which would see the end of him. No. It was bad enough losing the job. He would need another job fast and, in the meantime, it was the bike that would have to go.

2.4 Marie

‘Marie’. She stopped in the gym corridor, and swigged from her isotonic drink.

It was Matt Henson the Gym owner.

‘I’ve been getting good feedback about your classes’

‘That’s great’

‘More than that’, Matt opened the office door and indicated for Marie to go through before closing the door behind her. The office was typical leather desktop and chairs. Professional, clean and impressive.

‘I’ve been talking to my Dad about expanding the business’, Marie was ushered into the seat across from Matt’s desk.

‘I don’t want to be too forward, but you have talent. You are an asset here, and you probably know more about the running of this place than I do.’ It pleased Marie, to at last get some praise for her efforts.

‘It’s good of you to say that Matt. I appreciate it’.

Matt blurted out ‘How would you feel about managing a new gym for me?’ He sat up on the outside of his desk and looked directly at Marie. ‘Or better still, buy in to the business’

What could she say? This was an unbelievable opportunity for a lass from Fife who had only ever ‘got by’ in anything she had done.

Bob and Marie had some savings and he would support her with this surely.

‘I don’t know what to say Matt. That’s unbelievable’

‘I think you’d be a great asset for the Gym and the business going forward. I really want you to say yes’.

‘That would be great, of course, yes’

The morning passed with a couple of classes. Not her best with other things on her mind. But enough time to help some punters with their steps, and to get another ego-boost from a couple of hunks who she assisted with some aerobic positions.

She couldn’t wait to get home to share the news. Should she text Bob? No she would spoil him and then share the news. The rest of the day was a blur. What a dream! What an opportunity! This was more amazing to her than any dream.

2.5 Tom

The radio blared in the Service restaurant. Some indie crap Tom thought. The truck had been sluggish and he was about an hour behind schedule, but the fucking rules meant he had to take a break before he got to Preston and that meant an unavoidable turn off at Abington. On the road days on end he was used to eating in these places, snoozing in the cab and showering in the ‘pay as you go’ facilities. It wasn’t much of a life, but it did the job. He knew the places he liked and the services he didn’t and he worked his hours to fit in with Premier Inns and familiar local village stops, where the talent was better than the hairy arsed truckers he found surrounding him here.

The olive green paint followed the wall around over the canteen area. To the right there was a paper shop. No interest. Listening to the radio all day you don’t need to read about it, it’s repeated on the hour every hour.

Driving had always been a passion. Driving HGVs was more a status thing than anything and, of course, it gave him the cash to allow him to do what he loved: racing cars and riding girls. One day he heard through a mate that there was a real ride of a woman up in Dunfermline and he went to meet her – only to find out it was Aidrian's wife Monica. More than shocked he gave her the money and rode her. When he was done he picked up the money and walked out. She didn’t argue. The fact was she obviously felt guilty. So she should, but that wasn’t enough for Tom. He arranged to meet her again, and this time told her that this would continue until he decided it would stop. What could she do but agree? But he was never there and felt it was like unspent cash having her at his beck and call, but then being unable to use her as he would. She even seemed unable to see him when he wanted her which led him to the current situation. When she didn’t see him she had to pay him what she had charged him that first time, and it wasn’t cheap. She must be at it regular to be able to afford it, and he wouldn’t tell Aids – I mean it would look bad on her. So after a while he stopped pestering her and waited for the cash, and it continued to arrive. They didn’t even talk much now, but he had plenty cash to play with when he was away, so it was a means to an end.

The bacon butty cost £4.25, and wouldn’t have been worth two pound. Boredom. The waitress came by wearing a blue checked shirt and short skirt. What the hell. He got up from the unclean orange plastic table and followed the girl to the kitchen area.

‘Excuse me’ the girl turned. Pretty.

‘Do you want to earn 30 quid?’ The girl looked concerned.

‘Listen, I just think you look like a great girl and I was looking for some company’

He didn’t care if she wanted to or not. He would have her and legitimately too.

‘Nah, I don’t think so’, she turned away.

‘Sorry, darling. I didn’t want to upset you.’

‘OK’, she walked away from him.

‘200 quid. It’s my final offer.’ It must have sounded like desperation, but he knew she would have a price with her short skirt and working for pennies in a dump like this.

She paused.

‘OK, I’ll meet you in the car park’.

He would have to show her the money of course, so he made a point of taking out a sum of cash from the autoteller before placing it in his wallet. He glanced towards her as she cleaned another table and walked out towards the front of the building. He would have put a cigarette in his mouth just to prove how smooth he was, but it would spoil the few moments of pleasure he was about to enjoy with young nameless waitress from Abington or close by.

She followed as he knew she would, and he opened the cab door to allow her to come in to his den. The bed through the back was useful. Very useful. He moved his Gibson guitar onto the front seat and positioned himself around the back. She climbed in without any encouragement and went down so easily it was if she had done this before. The smell of money was too much for her but, after consenting, and moaning and sweating in the back of the cab for him, Tom would not be paying her a cent. He knew this and he lay back as she straddled him til orgasm. He had done this before and he would do it again.

2.6 Emma

The train was packed. The earlier train was cancelled and this meant she would have to run from Haymarket to get to the office in time for the interview. Fucking trains.

The sweaty, wet people created a musty smell and the trains were used so regularly they would never lose it she guessed. But this was what she wanted - a chance to get away from Fife and the familiar – an adventure with the other side, on the other side of the water.

The train crossed the Forth Bridge in all its glory, albeit the views were limited along the river by low cloud and heavy rain. Standing holding on to the luggage rack Emma became aware of two eyes staring at her from a raincoat clad man close by. Embarrassed by this eye contact she turned away, leg pressed against one of the luggage-rack legs. She rolled her hand down it to tidy her skirt, before realizing that it wasn’t the luggage rack at all.

Her eyes looked straight at the gentleman she had fondled. He seemed a little shocked, but quite happy.

‘I’m sorry’

‘Never worry’

She turned back towards the luggage rack as the train stopped at Dalmeny on the South side of the river. Few bodies got off, but more got on, and this time the people crammed around her. She thought of potential answers for the interview. Why she wanted the position. Why she would rather have a job which meant having to commute each day. Even without the pressure of the interview at this point she still found it difficult to answer them. She would never get it. The bodies were tight, but suddenly there was a tug at her waist, and a warmth across her midriff. A hand had appeared, straying from a coat sleeve. Emma's eyes looked up and around her. Many eyes were looking at the ceiling, or at books held high out of the way of the others. One set of eyes looked at her. They seemed kind, the man was mid twenties, with a boyish charm. Good bone structure.

‘Sorry’, he said.

‘Never worry’ Emma replied. The hand did not move. She gulped but found it hard not to stare at the blond gent who would not have looked out of place in a fashion magazine with his wide collar and purple sheen tie. The hand moved down to her waist and across the front of her skirt. His eyes were still on hers. The train had been moving, and was now stopping again just outside South Gyle. She could feel a strange nervous feeling within. Horror and delight in equal measure. The train headed off and the blond man continued to stare at her. The hand moved down across the top of her thigh, and rubbed for a second. She looked down to see the hand there. She looked up again quickly. The blond man had turned away. The hand remained. She pushed her hand down upon it and it moved quickly away as the people started bustling for position. The blond man followed his guide dog away, and Emma felt sick and squeezed into a seat which had been left by a passenger who had reached his stop.

Her heart beat quicker. What the hell was going on in the world? She had been attacked. Yet she did nothing. She was so disillusioned by Tom she almost wanted to be taken away. This wasn’t the way though. The job would be the way out.

2.7 Simon

The College corridors gleamed behind Spiv. A job well done. The 50 metres or so which faced him were like the Wall of China awaiting a coat of paint. The students cared not for his job. Many students treated him like shit, lower than a piece of shit even. One spat at his feet. His reaction was sudden. He had been provoked. That’s all that saved him from the sack. If he lost this job he wouldn’t get another – it would be the start of the rocky road to ruin. He was quite capable of doing that even with a job. He drank far too much, smoked like a chimney, and drugs were a recreation he partook of too often. Being around students made it too easy to be presented with opportunities.

He dipped the mop into the bucket - the cleaner’s duty. He was the janitor, but what with cut backs the Facilities manager gave him the ultimatum. Do it or leave. No option really.

Still, the hours suited and it was only a couple of hours until he would enjoy a few pints in the Union bar, before heading up the town to spend his earnings in the pub again – reliving past footballing glories with Kelty Hearts and the time he was given trials with Dunfermline. Too old now to dream about it. Injury put paid to it, but realistically it would never have happened. He didn’t have the head or heart for it. Too intent on self destruction on and off the pitch, too many brushes with the wrong side of the law and a marked man in the toun. Happy to stay below the parapet, but he still got his thrills when he could. A sly snog and fondle with a fresher for a few years - until he met Pam. Even then it didn’t stop him being entirely faithful. But it was as close as dammit for Spiv.

Spiv had secrets. He was friends with all the guys, including Dev. In fact he was probably closer to Dev at the end than anyone. But then again that wasn’t a surprise.

About 18 months before Simon Deuchar’s dad had told him a secret. He had told him that Dev Coulding was his brother. Simon didn’t know what to do about this. In fact it seemed pointless doing anything, but it was becoming more and more difficult when he was out – because every time Dev was there he felt it would come out. But why shouldn’t it?

Pointless now. Simon's dad died a couple of months after Dev of lung cancer. A slow lingering death, ending abruptly one night when Spiv found him choked on blood pouring out of his mouth. Horrific find and another reason why Spiv kept drinking and smoking. To forget about it all. Now he was alone in the world...

Except for Pam. Sweet little Pamela who had come onto the scene 2 years ago and been actively involved ever since. Times with her were the only special times and she even adjusted just to make sure he was OK. She was innocent. She was good. She was his judgment and his life. She had helped him out so much during the time his dad was really ill and, obviously, when Dev had been killed.

The mop sploshed along the wall. Pools of dirty water falling and then soaking up again. It looked cleaner, but was it? Who cared? The good thoughts turned away again, and Spiv looked across at 2 student girls in their hockey uniforms coming closer.

‘Mind yer feet ladies’.

They smiled at him. He was handsome after all and could be a gent.

One of the girls slipped slightly. Spiv held her arm to prevent a fall.

‘I did warn you’.

‘My hero’, the giggling girl laughed, before walking on.

‘Maybe you can repay me later’, Spiv called on.

The girl disappeared from view before a muted shout of ‘Maybe’ came through.

Still got it!

2.8 Pam

The lecture hall was half empty. Those that remained were wrapped up warm. These halls were murder in the winter months. So scarves and gloves were like personal protection. The subject was commercial law. The literature was dry. The questions would be fairly simple to gain a good score for, and it would certainly help her as she progressed into business. She didn’t see herself becoming a court lawyer. Perhaps commercial or contracts manager for a big firm, with a good salary and big benefits and less stress and no need to work the longest of hours.

The lecture would be followed by a trip to the library to follow up with the correct notes and to ensure that she had the head start on the rest of the class. Perfection was not easy, but she had lived up to this all her life and was not going to stop now.

When Dev was killed she had blipped. It was her first blip and it really hurt. She dropped to a B grade for the semester and didn’t know what was happening as her focus diminished and her thoughts and principles changed in importance. It was a huge blow losing Dev. He had been fairly supportive of her, although he had tried it on with her originally. However she had turned to him for help when she found herself pregnant not 3 months after getting together with Simon. Simon still didn’t know about the abortion. With Dev gone he never would.

She could not believe the stories that came out about Dev after his death. Pam had been working with the Ingram's P/T, living in the Crook Inn to pay the rent, and it was working out well. After young Ollie disappeared she helped a little more than usual, to the point that her grades suffered. The police really attacked her when the bodies were found. She had a direct link to both victims. But there was never any motive with either. Still she hid the truth about Dev though, to protect herself and to make sure she didn’t lose Simon. She was only 17 then, still a girl herself, but so much in love.

The night of the treasure hunt she had been with Simon, but left early to go back for her shift. When she had got to the Crook Inn the place was in uproar. Ian Ingram had shot off looking for some bloke who he thought had Ollie. Everyone was agitated and trying to work it out. Pam took over at the bar. Next thing the police were there, and Pam had to tell Simon of the news. By this time he was back at the bar with Bob and Marie and the others. No Dev, but Simon just said that Dev was always last. Bob and Marie had sent him up to Kinross Market with his clue. So why he ever came into the Crook, or ended up with Ollie….

The Crook closed for a few weeks and with all the questioning Pam couldn’t stay. Initially they all supported her, and then they attacked her too. When it was discovered that she had a direct link to Dev – who it appeared had killed Ollie, the shock set in, and it was all a blur. But it was the right decision for her to get out, and a place in the halls of residence at Halbeath was granted by the College. It was all huge news. Children just don’t get kidnapped and murdered around here. People don’t get bludgeoned to death because of it. Not in these parts. Not here.

The lecture notes that the students were all waiting for were finally distributed. The time lost to the lecture may be minimal but the time it gives you to go over things in your head can be priceless. Or costly. Depending on how you look at it.

Pam leaned on her elbow looking down at the lecture hall. She would think again about her Simon. Her love. Positive mental attitude takes her and Simon away to sunnier climes, holding hands, bathing in the sea, a marriage maybe….

3

The murder mystery would take more organising than they thought, but Bob had worked out that the money saved by drinking the booze his friends would bring might offset the food costs - certainly if his contact came through with the cheap meat cuts he had offered – and that’s why Bobs nose was pressed to the front window now. Wednesday morning. He had left before Marie so not to have to tell her about his job loss…. Hoping that a news article on industry cutbacks could allow him to pretend it was normal redundancy. When he came home he had wandered down Primrose Lane, just to make sure her car sat in the Gym car park. Then he could go home to the quiet of the house. And here he sat. Waiting.

Everyone had agreed to come on Saturday. It would give them all a chance to enjoy themselves. To reminisce. To get so drunk that they would talk freely about Dev. To go over the letters Aid had been getting. To go over what happened that night. They had not spoken about it all together. They had each had to speak with the police that night and subsequently, but it was mainly informal and, as the evidence was so pointed towards Dev, and then to Ian Ingram, there had been little point in flogging a dead horse. From dead horses to prime cuts, a silver grey car pulled up to complete one of today’s non-work related tasks.

His mind reverted to the letters. Aid was worrying about them. That they seemed to insinuate. They appeared to question what was already known to the police. Bob had had time to look into this. He had to be out of the house if Marie came back, and he had to do something other than drink and gamble…or she would find out his situation… so maybe it was about time to find out what the hell was going on. He had only one lead and that was a PO Box in Glasgow. Bob grabbed his jacket off the banister, locked the front door, and moved through the hall to the back kitchen. A horn sounded.

Spiv had brought his red convertible sports car to the back door as requested. Top up of course. Bob shut the back door to his house and jumped the waist high back garden fence. Then, as a guilty knot festered in his stomach, he looked back along Primrose Lane towards the Gym. A silent sigh came out as he ambled into the passenger seat.

‘Aright mate’

Spiv looked through his redundant shades, revved hard in first and with wheels spinning took off, narrowly avoiding a collision with a Vauxhall Corsa whose driver cursed as Bob glanced back.

‘Woah there Lewis, lets get there in one piece’, said Bob slinging on his seatbelt

‘So what’s all this about?’ Spiv looked at Bob, although he should have been concentrating on the road.

‘I’ll tell you in a minute. Watch the road’

‘It’s fine. What letters has Aids been getting then? Formal letters?’

‘Looks that way. I just want to see where they were sent from, as the postal return is to a PO box at Bar L rather than an address. Strange though. Seems to be authentic.’

‘Isn’t that where most police stuff would come from though?’

‘Maybe. But why not addressed to a person. Like the Inspector or someone.’

A pause follows, Spiv silent in thought, Bob concentrating on the road and clenching the door handle as the car took another tight bend.

‘Do you think that Aids has anything to do with Dev's murder?’ Spiv blurted this out, but to Bob it appeared like a random rambling.

He hadn’t given it a moment’s thought.

‘No. Of course not. I guess it’s just admin - stuff they didn’t write up at the time’

Spiv didn’t seem convinced.

‘Maybe he thinks Ian Ingram didn’t do it’

‘Spiv. The man’s in jail. I think he did it – he was found battering in Dev’s skull with a torch handle!’ An uncomfortable silence.

‘I guess…. What a fuckin caper’, Spiv sped up as the roundabout appeared, and he flew across, inside wheel clipping the kerb as he did.

The road to Kincardine seemed like a quicker route to the Central Post Office in Glasgow, than attempting the Forth Road Bridge. Despite the removal of tolls it still seemed better to take a chance on the bridge further up the river - less likelihood of congestion. Bob wondered how Spiv would have coped if they were prevented from moving at warp speed on this journey. Spiv continued to fly along the road overtaking various ‘law abiding’ road users.

The sun shone low in the sky and Bob wished he had Spiv's sunglasses shielding his eyes from the glare as it poured in through the front windscreen.

‘I just dinnae ken why they are picking on Aids now? Do you think he knows more than he admitted to last year?’ Spiv's concern was obvious.

‘What do you mean by that?’

‘Mebbe he knows more now than he did then, and mebbe he has spoken or written to someone, and has to make out that its THEM that have contacted HIM’

Bob, a little confused, just grunted agreeably. But what could Aids know? Why would he contact anyone?

‘I don’t think so Spiv. I think Aids is as worried about this as you or me.’

‘So what’s he going to do about it?’

Bob felt the letter in his jacket pocket. He would tell Spiv, but not yet.

‘I guess he’ll just answer the questions again, just as they ask.’

The letter in Bobs pocket was written by Aidrian in response to the questions he had been asked. It was addressed to “Letter ID 234.22.178.II, PO Box 84, Glasgow, G1”. This was the address they were going to check out and then they would know if the questions were serious.

“Please give further explanation regarding the events of the night of Jan 29th 2007 - the night that Dev Coulding was found dead.

- We would often play these games. There was nothing unusual about the night. The game required couples to look for the clues. Dev Coulding was the only ‘team’ with just one member. I was with my partner Monica. The game started and ended at the Seven Kings pub.

Can you confirm the names of all those who were involved in the ‘Treasure Hunt’ game being played that evening.

- Aidrian Burgess, Monica Delaney, Robert Reilly, Marie Smith, Simon Deuchar, Pamela Watters, Tom McAndrew, Emma McAndrew

Can you confirm who wrote the clues for the Treasure Hunt and who issued the clues to the individuals involved in the game?

- The clues were written up by each of us. One per couple. You just made sure that no-one took the clue they made up themselves. The couples took one each and the game began. The game started at seven so if anyone was late we left the clue at the bar. Dev was last in, but this time he got the clue off the table. This was discussed at the time of the investigation and can be confirmed by all the others who were there as recorded in question above.

Can you confirm where you were and who you were with on the day prior to, and evening during, the treasure hunt game on Jan 29th 2007?”

3.1 Aid and Mon

Aidrian held onto Mon’s hand. She smiled at him. He held tight, and she rubbed the top of his hand gently.

They made their way down Bruce Street towards the Abbey, where they expected to find the second clue.

'Love you Mon'

'Love you too'. They snuggle together and walked across the cobble street. The street lights shone off the wet ground and Aidrian pulled his jacket collar up to keep out the cold. Monica shivered, and they released hands. Aidrian put his arm around her and they walk on.

His financial worries were troubling him. He had gambled away too much of their holiday fund. Mon hadn't found out yet.

'Mon'

'What is it with you tonight?'

'Nothing. Why?'

'Are you OK?' Monica turned Aidrian to look at her hazel eyes, moist with the cold air.

Aidrian held her hands and then pulled her close to him.

'Nothing. I'm just so happy to be with you. You know. I never say. Sometimes I just think I don't say it enough'.

'Aw, hon'. She smooched Aidrian, and they kissed for a moment.

'Yeah. I'm a lucky man'.

They crossed the road again to the cemetery gate. Aids held it open for Monica and they walked in. The dark eerie feeling was lost to some football chants from nearby, as some smokers stood about outside the Gillie's pub. The clue had led them here.

'Where Bruce can be seen, the bench is warmed

Across from Thomas Anderlund'

There were only 4 benches in the Abbey grounds where you could see the 'Bruce' writing on top of the Abbey turret. The next clue would be on one of these - near to the gravestone of Thomas Anderlund they surmised.

Aidrian glanced at his watch.

'You late for something?' Mon grabbed his coat, 'or someone?'

'No. Nothing. Just habit', Aidrian was nervous of his work situation, and this made him fidget frequently. He knew that it would all come out sooner or later. Or maybe it wouldn't, but the guilt was killing him.

'Thomas Anderlund...' Sure enough the gravestone was found across from a statue of a large bird, the peacock, which had been given the freedom of the town.

'There's the clue'. A paper envelope was stuck onto a tin under the wooden bench.

'Its a bloody tin of beans, Choice Beans...'

'Well open the clue. The sooner we get back to the pub the better and the warmer.' Mon rubbed her hands together, breathing out white air.

"Where do you think I came from? A little way away,

Did you think we'd let you get back to the pub first today?"

'Bastards! Who made up these clues?'

'I need the loo', Monica did a little dance, bouncing from foot to foot.

'Bastards', Aidrian threw the beans at the bucket.

'That'll be Farm foods. That’s miles away'.

'Can we go to the pub first?'

'Yeah, sure. Come on.'

They made their way out of the cemetery, leaving the Abbey basking in darkness and dripping with icy cold raindrops from earlier. They held hands and walked off towards the pub.

'Listen. You get the drinks in and I'll run up and back'

'You sure?' Monica wasn't really up for another cold walk tonight.

'Yeah. I need the exercise and you look awfy cold'

'I love you', she kissed him, and walked off down in the direction of the Glen gates.

'Hurry up, mind'

'Sure. Sure.'

Aidrian's large frame ran off up Bruce Street.

3.2 Bob and Marie

'Fuck sake Bob!' Marie gripped the door handle as Bob tore off down from Inverkeithing and across the first roundabout, avoiding traffic from the park and ride. He grinned at her.

'What?'

'I want to get to the pub in one piece thanks'. On the straight Marie folded her arms disapprovingly as Bob grinned out the front windscreen, wipers taking away the spit of rain.

Traffic passed freely onto the Forth Road Bridge, and Bob sped under the motorway looking for the next exit up towards North Queensferry. Headlights flashed across the road barriers and then off to the woods.

They had already got the first clue which presented them with the next.

'Overlook the Rusty Red,

Over the ____ blue ____

Where in the 'world'?

Stick your head in!'

Deep Sea World. Further away than Bob had hoped. It would take ten minutes to get back up to the centre where they would leave the car til tomorrow.

The road wound past the Ferry Lodge, and onwards and downwards beneath the bridge again. The Forth Bridge came into view, lit up to show all its 100 years of engineering glory.

'What does 'stick your head in' mean?' Marie quizzes.

'We'll see in a minute'

'It'll no be open'

'It'll no mean stick yer head in the door ya daft besom', Marie slaps his thigh.

Through the town and into the emptiness of the car park for Deep Sea World, Bob slowed the car, thinking to himself that maybe they would have to run down to the door after all.

'There'. Bob drove across towards the barrier that prevented folk from falling into the sea-water filled quarry below. There were a couple of benches, some bins and a seaside photo opportunity. A big fat woman in a red stripy swimsuit, a skinny bloke with long johns and a dog, all with missing faces, were in front of them on a large hoarding awaiting the tourists and day trippers when the summer came around again.

Bob stopped the car. Marie opened her door.

'Where you going?'

'To see if the clue is there'

'I'll get it', Bob undid his seatbelt.

'Whats the point in that?' Marie gets out. Bob stayed put feeling peeved as Marie walked in her high heels towards the board.

'I can't see anything'

Bob rolled his eye, turned off the engine and opened his door again.

'Open yer eyes then', he said while jogging over to be with her.

'Bob, there isn't any clue'

'It won't be a clue. It'll just be something to take back so they know we got all the clues'.

'Like what though?' Marie turned and looked over the edge of the barrier.

Bob stood by the board with light streaming from the car, puzzled.

'Like a welly?', Marie asked.

'A welly?'

Marie pointed over the barrier. An old wellington boot was hanging off a bit of string.

'That’s it'. Bob began to pull it up.

'How do you know?' Bob pulled it up and over the barrier.

'Because of this'. The welly had 'Back to 7 Kings' written on it in what looked like Tippex.

Bob ran back to the car. Marie toddled back.

'Come on Marie!'

'I'm coming'. She got in the car.

Bob turned the key. The car tried to tick over.

'Oh don't!' He turns the key over again, but the engine failed to start.

'That’s because you left the light on. You should have left her ticking over.’ Marie stated the obvious. For a Sporty car it was an unreliable bastard!

'Thanks for that'

'I'm just saying'

Bob heard the click as the key failed to spark any response and then tried again. A little rev. Again. A bigger rev. Longer this time.

'Don't you break my car’ The car powered into life.

'Ha ha!' Bob laughed in relief.

'Well get going then'

Out of the car park. 10 minutes to the 7 Kings and the start of the session. The car took off across the roundabout up towards Rosyth and a quick way back to the centre. Bob put down the pedal and attempts to fly up the hill. The front tyre clipped the inside of the road, and the car spun away to the right.

'Bob!' Marie screamed. Bob adjusted his hands, focusing on the road ahead and trying not to veer off towards the motorway and the traffic beyond. They were going to crash. The car screeched on full brake, the tyres locked, and the car slid across the damp surface and up onto the side of the road where it came to a halt.

'You OK?' Bob turned to Marie.

'You fuckin loony', Marie smacked Bob on the leg over and again.

'Sorry love', Bob leant over the steering wheel panting, shaking and sweating.

"You OK?' Marie asked Bob.

'I'm fuckin fantastic!' Marie rubbed his back and he turned and smirked at her. She hit him again lightly on the back.

'You are going to get us killed one day'.

'But not today. That was well close though.' Too close he thought, and he grinned at the prospect of telling the others about tonight’s adventure.

'You better not have broken my car you shit!'

'Sorry love'. He pouted in pretence of kissing her. She pushed him away.

'Let’s just go before someone comes along'. Bob, still pouting, closed his eyes waiting for a kiss.

She kisses him lightly and quickly. ‘Let’s Go!'

Bob turns the key. Nothing. Again. Nothing. One more time. Nothing!

'Fucks sake Bob'.

'Have you got the RAC number?' Bob asked more in hope than belief.

'No'

'What about your phone?'

'No I left it in the house' Bob rolled his eyes and Marie hit him again. 'You don't get any reception in the pub anyway. Do you have yours?'

'Left it on charge'

'Well?'

'I guess we better start walking then'

'I don't think so'

Bob took off his seatbelt.

'You coming?'

'I'm not leaving the car here'. She pushed the switch on the radio, remembered the problems with the car and turned it back off.

'It's only 10 mins walk to the pub down the hill. I dinnae want to leave you here yerself'

'I think I could look after myself.'

True, Bob thought, she did all that karate stuff right enough.

'I'll lock the doors until you get back.'

'Sorry Marie. I'm a dick.'

'I know. Just hurry up and get back.'

'Ok, Love you, see ye in a minute.' Bob trudged up the hill and eventually out of sight.

3.3 Spiv and Pam

'Pish!' Spiv looked at the clue.

'What?' Pam sat in the passenger seat. The drizzle on the windscreen glistened under the car park lights.

'I forgot I was to go to my ma's'.

'Well go then or we'll never get back'. Pam had noticed some of her college buddies in the bar, and felt she could do without these stupid games. ‘You know I haven’t got long tonight. I need to get back’. Spiv knew he had to get over to his mums tonight. He was sober, and had to speak to her while with a fresh head. So much had been happening with his Dad, that he needed her confirmation of details.

'Naw, listen, you get in there I'll go get the clues after I've been to my mum's'.

With one hand already on the door, Pam replied, ‘You sure?’

'Yeah, just go and I'll see you in a bit'

'Ok', she kissed him on the cheek. ‘Do you want me to help you with the clue first?'

'Eh, no. It's fine. I'll be fine. I'll be back soon.'

Pam left and, holding her hood to her hair, she jogged towards the back door of the pub and was soon inside in the warmth.

She watched from the back window as Spiv got out of his car and disappeared from view up the back steps. She felt in her pocket and found her own car keys there. He would be going to his mothers. He would be a while. She could always head back home herself if necessary. She turned to see the bustle of people across the bar.

3.4 Tom and Emma

Emma sat in the car, waiting. Tom had been gone for a good few minutes. The clue should have been simple enough to ensure this was a quick visit.

'Wait there, I'll just be a minute', he had said. But something didn't feel right, so she opened the car door and made her way to the bar entrance, which was situated up the right hand side of the alleyway. It was cool and she was not well attired for this. She folded her arms and walked steadily up to the pub entrance. Two blokes were leaving as she arrived and one held the door while looking her up and down. She smiled kindly, and hoped Tom was on his way out of there.

The pub was dry and bright. Some football screens on the TV to the left and about three folk discussing the game. Quiet. To the right two couples at different tables. No hilarity, half drunk pints and two small whiskies. When they got the clue they would be able to comment on just how sad this little pub was – and this used to be Tom's local. But where the hell could he be?

There didn't appear to be anyone serving, so Emma made her way back out the doors without speaking to anyone. A giggle up the alleyway stopped her in her tracks as she glanced around into the darkness. A whisper, a light moan and a giggle. Some footsteps and 2 shadows close together came out of the shadows.

‘You bastard Tom!’

‘What?’ The shadowy figures kept walking towards her, but Tom had spoken to her from towards the car. ‘What’s up with you shouting?’

‘I thought…’

Tom pieced the thought.

‘Oh fuckin great. I go off for one minute and you fuckin thought that I was away getting off with some fat old bird.’ Toms raised voice was heard by the couple who had emerged from the shadows and they whispered to each other in disgruntled disparagement as they strolled down the slope.

‘I’m away all fuckin week, I come home and you are thinking I’m away off with someone when I’ve only been away for 2 minutes. You have a problem Emma. A serious fuckin problem.’ Tom stormed off.

‘Where are you going? Tom, answer me.’

‘The fuck away from you.’ He disappeared into the shadows.

“I’m sorry. Tom. Did you hear me?’

Emma wept in the car for a while. So many thoughts ran through her mind. Should she wait here for him? It didn’t look like he was going to come back. But maybe he would and she could show him how much she loved him. Embrace and warm him up from the cold night in the car or somewhere else. She felt sick to the pit of her stomach. She didn’t want to feel alone. She sat alone.

---

The journey had been a long one for Bob. Gripping the inside of the door for dear life as Spiv turned more and more aggressive towards him - like he was with all the other commuters.

'Fucksake' Spiv bellowed again, undertaking another car as the road shrank back to one lane, wheel trim clipping the kerb, speedometer reading over 80, and this was heading into Kincardine.

'What’s the hurry?'

'Fuckin amateurs, man, I'm tellin ye.' Spiv had not been happy when they had found out that it was almost a certainty Ian Ingram had been sending the letters to Aid. His car flew past another one, which flashed it’s headlights at him. Spiv still had time to direct an extended middle finger in the direction of the far side traveller, who had to brake to reduce the risk of collision.

'How long has Aid been getting these letters for?'

'Why are you so bothered?'

'I'm not, it's just shit getting this all dragged up again'

'I think Aid just wants Ingram to know we have nowt to do with this.'

Spiv slowed the car slightly on approaching another roundabout, Bob grabbed the passenger door again, this time with his right hand too.

'Fuckin hell man!'

'I just want to get back. Sorry. Listen, Bob, this just gies me the willies. It makes you think that maybe we dinnae ken everything eh? I mean we were given the full monty when it came to questioning I think, but maybe one of us hasn't been entirely honest. Maybe there is something else.'

Bob sat nodding. Spiv was quiet again. They were both thinking to themselves. Bob’s thoughts were split between speaking to Marie on the subject of his sacking and about who had killed his friend Dev Coulding but mainly about holding on tight to the door handle and praying he would get home in one piece.

4

4.1 Marie and Bob

The fridge was full of fine foodstuffs. Appetizers and snacks adorned the shelves and there were 30 odd cans of lager and cider under the table. ‘What else do we need?’ Marie thought. The party was now only a couple of days away, after all, and she needed to get everything right. Bob was at work, so she took a half day to tidy the place up. The carpets had been laid earlier in the day (her mum had been over to let the fitters in) and now, after sharing some small talk about Auntie Bessy's piles (why her mother had to share such stories was beyond her) over a latte frappe, she was now able to dad on with the housework. Polishing knobs and mantles, washing handles of doors, and frames. It was always in her mind that someone would rub a finger over the frame and wipe a fingerful of dust down with a grimace in her direction. She would be mortified, so she would not let it happen. Now it was time to get the hoovering done, but no sooner had she switched it on than the phone erupted into life. The house phone. Probably an International call centre, with a 'Meesees Smeeth, you haf won a purize.... ' She turned the hoover off and lifted the receiver.

'Hello'

'Hello, is Bob Reilly there?'

'No, no he's not. He's at work.'

The caller stalled 'OK, can you tell me when he'll be back?'

'About 5.30 usually. Can I ask who's calling?'

'It's Murray Johnson from Johnston Willis Steelworks. Bob used to work for us. We just need him to give us a call.'

'Used to... You telling me he's not working with you anymore?'

'I'm sorry Mrs Reilly.'

'It's Smith. Miss Smith. When did he finish up?’

'Just a couple of days ago'.

Marie ended the call. She had more questions, but not for Murray Johnson. Where was Bob and what the hell was going on?

Bob turned the key in the lock and walked in. The carpet looked lovely. All that moaning about the cost for nothing...

'Ahem' a small cough brought him to life.

'Oh hiya'.

'Shouldn't you be somewhere?' It was a knowing question.

'Aye. I need to speak to you...' A cushion was thrown across the room.

'We are meant to be a couple. You are meant to tell me if there is a problem'.

'I know. I know. Sorry. Who told you?'

'No-one yet. Your ex-boss phoned looking for you'

'Are they going to take me back?'

'I don't fuckin know. Didn't sound like it. What did you do to lose your job?'

'I was just being an idiot. I've been looking for something else. Honestly we'll be alright.' He tried to sound convincing, but he didn't feel that convinced himself. Marie sat down on the couch, still fuming.

'We'll be alright'. Repetition would maybe convince her.

Nothing. Bob sat looking at her while she looked into her lap.

'Marie?'

She eventually looked him in the eye. She let out a gentle laugh with a tear in her eye. ‘I don't know how we are still together Bob.'

'Because we love each other?'

'Is it enough for you. This? I mean is it? Because it isn't for me'

Bob looked around him for inspiration.

'But I thought you liked this house. We even got new carpets ‘cause you wanted them.'

She smiled at this dopey man. He really didn't understand.

'Well you have made it easy for me at least.'

Bob grew wary. This did not sound good.

'I'm sorry Marie. I'll do better. I'll get another job. Don't leave me. I know I'm stupid, but I'll grow up. I promise.'

Marie looked at him blankly.

'What you talking about. I'm not leaving you. I wouldn't make it that easy for you. Christ, Bob. I love you. Even though we still ain't married, I believe in for better for worse.'

Now it was Bob’s turn to look blank.

'Bob, I've been given a really good job opportunity through my work. But it will mean relocating...'

This did not sound so bad, when in his mind the alternative was losing her forever. Bob could see this was what Marie wanted and maybe this was what would make him grow up. It was all about compromise.

2. Aidrian

Another sick day call made, and Aid knew he would have to go to work tomorrow or else try and get a sick note from the doctor. He trundled through from the kitchen with his coffee and newspaper. Monica had been off with him again this morning. But he could not go to work with all the shit flying. He settled down to relax and read about the football from last night and to forget all the worries he had. Back page showed some rumours of transfers for Celtic and Rangers and there was even a wee mention about Dunfermline Athletic. Spiv would be happy. He was a big fan and would be delighted that they had managed to get an old SPL pro playing with them as they pushed for promotion from the First Division. But the relaxed air was short lived as the postman delivered some more bad news. As he approached the doorway he foresaw the bad news which was within that envelope. Suddenly it had become real. Aidrian knew he would have to speak to Mon and all of this would have to come out. He had been suspended on full pay pending inquiry into financial irregularities. His bosses had found out and now he would need to speak to Bob and let him know that they were both in trouble. No more secrets. No more lies. They would have to be straight...

Another sup of coffee wouldn't make this go away. No wonder some people turned to drink. Bob was not going to be happy, but it was too late to change their minds. They had taken the cash when it seemed like easy money, so they would have to take the medicine now. He picked up his mobile to speak to his friend. It was not going to be an enjoyable conversation.

4.3 Aid and Bob

The Job centre had been in the town centre for years, and Aid had walked past looking at the smokers gathering outside as the desperate looked for any job going, and the chancer's looked at the jobs they could not get. Bob was walking up the High Street, face like fizz. The news he received from Aid had not been greeted with much response, mainly because Marie was in the background when the phone rang. So they needed to talk.

'I'm no going in there yet. We need to go over this. Surely there is a way out. If not Marie is going to kill me. Or worse...leave me!'

Aid considered fleetingly the possibility that death might be best and least painful option. But suicide was no option for him nor for Bob. They just needed to get used to what they had to do; and face up to their partners.

'Right. What’s the options?' Bob started.

'I don't think we have any'.

Silence gripped them. They supped double shot Starbucks Grande lattes, looking at each other with stony faces. Then Bob’s expression began to change, and a smirk appeared.

'Maybe we'll be in the same cell!'

Aid took a humoured breath and smiled back.

'It’s the right thing to do'. Bob nodded. They had been foolish and as they gripped each other by their right hands across the table they felt strong.

'When you gonna tell Mon?'

'When you gonna tell Marie?'

A sigh and a deep breath out. They both knew it was coming.

'Well if I'm heading to jail there’s something I need to do before I get there!'

'What’s that then?'

'Get a fuckin’ job for a start!'. The Job Centre awaited them.

4.4 Emma and Tom

Tom was showering. Emma was snuggled into the corner of the easy chair. Daytime TV blared unique domestic problems at her and she popped a malteser into her mouth as she flicked over a magazine page. The post had been, but no word of the job. Hmmph. No text or phone call. No news is good news, she thought. The interview had gone OK. She had entered without nerves and had answered questions she had been told to by the job advisor.

'So why do you want this job Emma?' she had been asked.

'I have experience working in an office, I have good computer skills, and I really want to work in the city. It is my ambition to work for a good employer, which I believe you are from the information you have on your website, and from the agency I spoke with.' They had been impressed. There was even some light relief when the manager spilled her coffee and Emma had quickly got her paper hankies out of her bag and mopped up the mess. 'I've also got good housekeeping skills' she added. The phone buzzed. Not her mobile, but Tom's. He was still upstairs. He slept late on his days at home and then pissed off to play golf or to see his mates. Emma sometimes felt like a Navy wife, like lots of the other women round here. Some of them kept themselves to themselves, others were out and about and some, worse still, had a reputation. But it was boring sitting at home waiting for your man to come back, and worrying when you were glad to see him going off to work for days and weeks at a time. Who was calling Tom? She flicked open his mobile. Text from Jack. Who's Jack? Emma put the phone down again. Tom and his secrets. She popped another chocolate treat into her mouth, still looking at the phone. The shower went off upstairs.

'Where's ma Ben Sherman shirt?'

'Should be in the wardrobe' Emma shouted back. Tom would be a while tarting himself up. She admitted to herself that she was still attracted to him. He always looked presentable, and smelled nice, but she worried that this preening wasn't always for her. She picked up his phone again. Text from Jack. She moved her finger across the screen and the message opened up.

Look 4ward 2 c u l8r. x

The shit. The utter shit. Emma stayed seated. She would have it out with Tom.

'I can't find it', Tom shouted again.

'Who is Jack?'

There was a moments silence before Tom responded.' What?'

'Jack just texted you. Who's Jack?'

'Just a mate'. The lying shit.

'OK'.

Tom hurriedly came downstairs looking for his phone.

'It's over here'. Emma handed him the phone.

'You read it?'

'Yes'

Tom read the message and laughed.

'He's a clown. What a guy'.

'A guy. You picking up guys now?'

'Just a guy I drove up from Carlisle one time. He gives me a shout when he's in Dunfermline so we can catch up and have a drink.'

Emma said nothing.

'What you reading my texts for anyway?'

'I wasn't. I was just seeing who was texting'.

'Well it's nowt to do with you. Nosy bitch'.

'Whatever'.

'Emm, don't start. I don't go looking at your phone'

'No you don't. You don't see all the secret people I have on my phone'. Emma got up and walked through to the kitchen.

'Whats your problem?'

Emma stood back in full view of Tom.

'So you are telling me Jack is a guy. You are full of shit'.

'Fuck sake Emma, I just told you'.

'Do all your mates look forward to seeing you and leave a wee kiss? Eh'.

'You’re a loon. You have been reading my texts. I don't know. You have nae trust at all. Why are you here? You are a fuckin’ loony. A lunatic. Give me some credit. You think I would put girls’ names in my phone.'

'Jack? Jack’s a boy’s name. So tell me, where are you going this afternoon?'

'Out'

'With?'

'Jack. He's only up for the day'

'He?'

'Fuck off Emm. I don't need to justify myself to your make-believe world'.

Tom stormed out of the room, and up the stairs. Emma came back through from the kitchen with a family size bag of crisps, opened it and sat back in her chair.

She heard Tom slamming drawers and cursing after stubbing a toe against the bed end. Then he rumbled down the stairs. Emma listened as he paused outside the living room. The front door slammed and Emma sat alone again.

4.5 Pam and Simon

Pam lay on the bed breathing in the fumes coming from Spiv. Beer and vodka had been in abundance at the College Student Bar last night. She had joined him after finishing some class work, and had to pull him away from a dark-haired fresher who had tabs on her man. He had been so drunk that he probably didn't even notice the little trollop’s advances, Pam had thought. But she taught her a lesson, grabbing her hair and giving her a warning with a swift slap across the face in the toilets before carting her Simon back to her room. Pam was worried. Si had been away with Bob all day, and he was vacant when they had spoken on the phone.

'Whassat', Spiv growled and turned over in the single bed.

'Morning', Pam chirped. She could tell he was struggling. He would have a bad head for a while, so she could tinker and shower and preen and prettify. She could watch him lying there and plan for him - and her. Live out dreams in her head. She smiled and rubbed his back. Spiv growled or grunted again.

Pam got up and, in the dim light of the morning sun creeping in through the tiny lodging window, she searched quickly for a towel and her housecoat in case Spiv caught glimpse of her horrible frame. He could see her bust but not her fat butt, she thought. She held the towel round her waist, looking over at her man lying in deep slumber. She held a pose with her breast hanging out, but no movement, so she dropped the towel and quick as a flash she had the housecoat on, and was strolling through to the shower room.

'I'm going for a shower OK?'

No grunt. Nothing. Pam hoped Spiv wasn't in any trouble. She knew that he couldn't be in too much trouble. She would always protect her man. She shut the shower room door while Spiv continued to snore gently.

5

‘I think I might have done it!’.

Everyone laughed and Bob tossed a cushion across the room at Aid, who chuckled and slumped back into the comfort of the sofa.

'You fanny, the game tells you if you are the murderer. I guess it isn't you then'

'Don't throw the cushions, you'll end up spilling someone’s drink', Marie perched on her seat anxiously.

'Don't worry, OK', Bob reassured her. Marie gulped down her large vodka and diet coke and made for the kitchen, followed by Tom’s stare as she did. She glared over at him before disappearing from view.

'So who's next?' Bob clapped his hands together as he tried to keep the game going, but everyone had lost interest now as the alcohol took hold.

'To be honest Bob, I thought it was a bit distasteful havin a murder night after what happened to Dev', Tom spoke out then guzzled some more beer.

'It was meant to be a bit of fun'

'Just saying...'

'Well just don't!' Marie stuck her head round from the kitchen, Mon stepped forward to make her way to Marie, sensing something was about to kick off.

'I mean Dev is lying 6 feet under efter murdering a poor wee lass, and here we are laughin and jokin about something no a kick in the arse off it'

'It was meant to be fun, Tom, Ok'. Bob tried to smooth things over, but it was too late as Marie stormed through armed with a sharp tongue and alcohol for munitions.

'Well, Tom, at least we can laugh when we are all here together – instead of crying and cowering in a corner when we end up left alone in a room wi you'.

Tom was taken aback, and momentarily lost his usual swagger, looking briefly at Emma before making his attempt at a retort.

'What d'you mean by that?'

Marie turned away saying loudly enough 'You know fine and well, and I'm surprised Emm just sits there takin it. Prick.' Marie's voice rang through the room as she again found solace in the kitchen, tearfully embracing Monica. The company became uneasy. Tom stood up looking for some support, which was not forthcoming as eyes looked at the floor.

Bob reluctantly went to Marie. “What was all that about?'. She pushed him off, as Mon re-entered the living room. Aid looked up from his can, catching Tom’s eye. 'Fuckin hell, yer all in it together', Tom shouted at no-one in particular, but aimed directly at Aid.

'If you weren't all so scared of your secrets, maybe we could all enjoy a night out instead of this shit'

'Fuck off Tom', Bob held Marie back as she made for Tom. 'Your fuckin secrets have cost me, and Mon and probably hundreds of others. But no more. Get out of my house.'

'Calm yer missus down Bob. It's getting embarrassing'.

Bob spoke to Marie, who was distraught and slumped to her knees in the kitchen doorway. 'What you saying to me Marie?' Tom pulled at his coat from behind a chair, and glanced over at Emma who sat quietly looking at the wall.

'Fuck this shit. If I told ye anything you just wouldn't believe me. Yer a shallow bunch. Aid, look at ye. You’re the fuckin brains of our wee group of friends and yer a miserable sod who has gambled away a good life so yer wife has to go on the game just to make ends meet.'

'That’s enough', Bob stormed over and lamped Tom in the jaw, the hit taking him down onto his knee - 'Get out. Now.'

Monica stood mouth agape, before heading purposefully off to the toilet out the back.

'Gladly', Tom got back to his feet.

'Ye know, we are all guilty here. Not just me. Take a look at yerselves and tell me you have no reason to feel guilty. Bob? Spiv? Marie? Go fuck yersels'. With that he left, slamming the door behind him, and leaving Emma sitting while reality bit.

'You alright Emm?'

'Maybe I should go...'

'Don't be stupid... stay.'

The group stayed fairly quiet. Marie followed Monica to the loo.

'You alright Mon?'

'Yeah. Fine' she snivelled from behind the door.

'He's away now'.

'Yeah. I know. But it's all coming out. I'm so stupid for ever getting involved with Tom. It was just stupid.'

'Listen. No-one is asking you to justify anything. You are with friends.'

'What about Aid though. I really love him. I don't want to lose him', Marie hadn't noticed Aid standing nearby.

'It's alright Mon. Everything will be OK. I'm so sorry you have put yourself through this because of me.'

'Oh god, Aid. I'm so sorry. What can I do?'

'You don't have to be sorry. Everything will be OK. We all make mistakes. We can all mend our ways. So long as you are alright.'

Mon still wept behind the door, while Marie walked away, gesturing to Aid.

'I know Mon. I've always known that Stephen isn't my boy'.

Mon stopped sniffing.

'Truth is, it doesn't make a blind bit of difference to me. Don't get me wrong, I used to think about it. About Stephen being Dev's boy, but it doesn't change the way I look at him. My lad. Or the way I think about you. I just always wanted to be with you, and I was so pleased you learned to love me.'

The door unlocked and Aid stepped back. 'I love you Mon, always have and always will'. She grabbed at him, snuggled in tight to his chest and wept freely.

Spiv sat supping his can. 'This has been a blast Bob. Anything else we should know?'

Bob cleared some drinks away, removing Tom’s can and sweeping some crumbs onto the floor.

'I don't have anything else. You?'

'You know me. Live the life of a devout Christian. Ha ha.’ Spiv kissed Pam's head and she smiled a false smile, looking like she wished she was somewhere else.

' What about Dev then?' Bob said and turned around to face the crowd, not pointing the question at anyone in particular.

Spiv sat in silence. Emma looked at Bob waiting for him to finish the story.

'What do you mean?’ Pam asked.

'All I'm throwing out there is that I have reason to believe Dev did not kill that girl'. His nonchalant manner had opened a wound, but no-one followed up immediately.

Emma finally broke the silence. 'But the police obviously went through all the evidence and must have had a good reason to claim that he did'.

'The police had a crime scene and an easy opportunity to tie up loose ends'

'Mebbes aye, Mebbes naw, but what's the point in going there again?' Spiv joined in.

'Well one - Dev was a mate. Two - I knew Dev and he was no killer – albeit he liked the younger females. Three...' Spiv interrupted. ‘Three - Dev was a patsy killed by a rampaging father who'd already killed his own daughter... why can we not leave it there and get on with our lives?'

'Because after all that time, we know more than we are letting on. At least someone here does because the game pointed Dev to his fate and that was not an accident.'

Aid and Mon returned to the room, Marie touching Mon’s arm.

'We're gonna hit the road. Cheers Bob'.

'Just a minute mate. Mind what you said about Dev. Remember we talked about it.'

'Yeah, what?'

'What was it you said about the whole thing being wrong?'

'All I said was that Dev couldn't have done it.' Aid bent behind the couch to grab a couple of coats. ' Ian Ingram killed him, or maybe even didn't kill him, as he maintains, and maybe someone else had it in for Dev – for whatever reason, and set him up for it. But then, maybe Ingram did it all...'

'But maybe not – that’s the thing. And', Bob turned to all who are listening, 'if it wasn't Ingram, then it could only have been someone who played the treasure hunt, since we were the only ones who made up the clues.’ He paused for added effect.

’Someone definitely changed a clue'.

'Could that have been someone in the pub?’ Pam asked.

'Christ’, Spiv got involved again, ‘that could have been Ingram trying to blame someone else. Let’s just forget this. Dev's dead. Us getting het up about it isn't going to bring him back'.

Things quietened down, kissed cheeks and cheerios followed, and Aid lead Mon hand in hand away from Bob and Marie's. Emma followed and they escorted her home, leaving Spiv, Pam, Bob and Marie stewing with late night booze.

Music and chat followed, until inebriated persons started to nod off.

'That’s the thing though. The thing Aid has'.

'Whassat?' Spiv slurred

'Ingram's letters'

'Yeah, but he's just looking for an early release'.

'Not just those letters though. The parcel. He sent a parcel too.'

Spiv appeared to become more alert and Pam tugged at his arm, ‘Can we get going soon, I think I need my bed'.

'What parcel?'

6

6.1 Aid and Mon

Monica turned to look at Aidrian. She felt visible to him and free from all the baggage she had for the first time in years. She smiled and touched his face. 'Wha...?' Aidrian stirred, then relaxed back into sleep.

'I love you Aid'. '..Love you too..' Aidrian slept and beneath his eyelids he knew Mon was happy. They had enjoyed closeness and love for hours last night. Already his worries seemed to be closing off. Maybe honesty was the best policy after all. No, he would enjoy the present and see what developed. He felt Mon's arm across his belly, and soon they would be cuddling and kissing again until the door latch clicked open and the kids were returned by Mons mum.

An hour or so later the door latch lifted, and the kids burst in. Naked under the bedsheet, Mon decided to take her warm feeling with her and went to get the kids, wrapping her night gown around her waist.

'Hiya, we had a long lie for once'.

'Hi Mon, is it OK if I have a coffee?’ A bustle of noise and baggage scraping off door frames meant Mons mum had followed the kids into the house.

'Yeah ‘course, Mum. I'll be there in a minute.' Aid lay staring at Mon as she peered past the bedroom door. He felt good - really good - and forgot for a moment the parcel he had opened and left in the kitchen. Forgot until moments later when Mon brought the letters to him.

‘What’s this?’

‘I was going to tell you…’

‘When? How long has this been going on for?’

Aid sat up and looked at his Monica.

‘Mon, I didn’t want to scare you. It’s probably nothing. I mean, Ingram probably did it all, and unfortunately Dev got involved. It’s probably nothing.’

Mon held a letter up and started to read.

‘…I know that someone who played that Treasure Hunt game is to blame for the death of my daughter. If you do not help me I can only imagine that you yourself must have a guilty conscience…. Aid. Is he serious….? ’

Aid raised his voice, ‘ …and that’s why I didn’t want to tell you. Mon, I know, it’s worrying. A murderer is writing me letters and might even be plotting to harm me, or you or our kids. Do you think I don’t know this? Do you think I don’t care? But what can I do? Tell me, because I have so many worries, Mon, and I just can’t seem to talk to you anymore.’

Mon grew pale.

‘Were you involved?’

‘Fuck no.’

A pause followed, Aid couldn’t believe she even doubted him.

‘How could you think…. Christ here I am worrying that one of my friends might be involved in this, involved in the murder of a girl – and here you are thinking it’s me.’

‘I’m sorry Aid. I want to believe you, but the last year has been so hard. You have changed. I always have the feeling you are keeping something from me.’ She was right, Aid thought, but not this.

‘Anyway I am not going to risk my kids over some loony threats’.

‘Mebbe that’s best’

She packed a holdall which she took from the bottom of the cupboard and filled it with various clothes and accessories. It took a while and not much more was said. The kids came in for a cuddle from Dad. They would be staying with Mum at Gran's for a while. Stephen wasn't sure what was going on, and wanted to stay with his Dad. Aid assured him that everything would be OK. He grabbed him and gave him a man hug.

Everything would be OK.

Aid sat on the side of the bed, his forehead in his hands. He needed to get this out, to get everyone involved, and find out the truth. He glanced at the clock. He would have to go to work soon. He had yet to mention to Mon that his company had let him go pending investigation. It was genuinely the least of his worries now. He had managed to get a bar job in the Crook Inn of all places. A little too close to home with all the shit that was going on, but needs must. Ingram obviously wasn’t caring too much about the pub and no-one had asked about or mentioned Dev or Ollie Ingram. So he had taken on shifts – earlies mainly, to reduce suspicion from the missus, and only a few lates. He had got Bob to cover him for any nights he needed to close up. To be honest it was treading water until he would have to tell Monica. There was no way out now.

But for now he needed to speak to Bob, and as he picked up his mobile from the bedside table, he hoped they would be able to get Tom and Spiv together as well and have this out... because if Ian Ingram was right, one of their group of friends must be to blame for the death of Ollie Ingram.

6.2 Bob and Marie

Bob’s face and what he had been saying on the phone shocked Marie. She held her hand over her mouth as Bob finished the conversation.

'Fuck. That’s not good. I knew there was something going on, but not that. You should have said man. You should have fuckin said. I mean, me and Spiv went fuckin lookin for where that other letter came from – and right enough it was Bar-fuckin- Ell'

Marie sat motionless on the edge of the sofa, as Bob paced about in the dining area.

'I'll call him now. No, he left with Pam about 1 or half 1 last night. He's bound to be at his mum’s or her place. I'll go up there if I can't get him. We'll just have to look for him.'

Bob said little more as Aid continued to speak. Marie no longer felt safe. She felt sick. Breakfast could wait now, as there were so many questions that needed answers.

'Well?' Marie asked as Bob signed off with Aid.

'I'll tell you in a minute. I've got to speak to Spiv'

'What is it? What has happened?'

'I'll tell you the noo.' A pause while the phone rang, then clicked onto answer machine…

'Spiv? Spiv? Pick up if you are there...', it clicks on.

'Hello...'

'Hi, Mrs Deuchar. Sorry to bother you, but is Simon there?'

'No, I'm afraid not. He was out last night and didn't come back here, I think he was at Bob's'

'Yeah that’s right. This is Bob'

'Oh, sorry Bob. No, I take it he's at Pammy’s'.

'Yeah, no problem. If you could ask him to give me a call. Much appreciated'

'Yes, I will, is everything OK?'

'Yeah, I'm sure it will be.'

Bob hung up, Marie tried questioning him again, but he needed to focus, and Marie would have to wait.

'Wait a minute! Would you? Please?' his outstretched hand was meant to be protective, but just appeared rude.

Marie slunk into the kitchen and, without thinking, put on the kettle and gathered the bottles and cans from last night and put them into a recycling bin.

Bob tried Spiv's phone. It rang out. He tried again. It rang out. Once more.

'Hi, is that you Bob?'

'Yeah, Pam, thank god. Is Spiv there?'

'No, sorry, he just left here and he's left his phone. What’s up?'

'Where is he going?'

'I don't know – his mum’s?'

'Shit. Listen if he comes back, get him to call me. It is urgent. We need to meet up.'

'Bob, whats happening? This sounds serious'.

'It appears so.'

'What is it?'

Bob spend a few moments explaining the seriousness of the situation. There are details which just don’t add up, and they needed Spiv to give them good reason why.

'Just get Spiv to phone, because I think there is a real chance that the police will be reopening Dev's murder case – if Ingram appeals - and we all need to know exactly what happened last year.'

'OK Bob, I will. Listen, I have to go but I'll get him to call.'

'Cheers. Speak later'.

'Now are you going to tell me what’s going on?'

Bob sat at the dining room table staring, deep in thought at the walls around him, knowing he couldn't get Spiv unless he walked the streets looking for him.. They would catch up with him sooner or later.

'It appears Ian Ingram is inventing stories that one of us killed his daughter. He has all our names. He has information about us all. You, me, Aid, Mon, Tom, Emm, Pam, Spiv.‘

‘Inventing stories?’

‘That’s what we thought. What we think?’

‘Who?’

‘Me and Aid’

‘So how did you and Aid come up with this?’

‘From the letters’

'Wait. Run this by me again. How did this all come out?'

'Aid. The parcel he got. It had letters in it. Lots of letters. Letters he had been holding back. Ingram has it all worked out. He thinks. We thought maybe it was just the scribblings of a mad man. But there is a timeline. There is a knowledge. There is reason behind it.’

Bob walks away from Marie, pushing his hand through his short tufts of hair. She sits in silence as though waiting for a sick punchline.

‘Ingram thinks he knows who killed his daughter and Dev’

These words held in the air. Ingram, the guilty man, was putting it out there that one of them was guilty.

'So who does he think did it? '

The doorbell went.

6.3 Simon and Pam

Pam laid Spiv's phone back down on the bedside table. She needed to speak to him. She glanced at herself in the mirror and fixed her early morning hair quickly.

'Who was that?' Spiv shouted through from the en suite.

Pam failed to answer and rubbed her hand over the crown of her head until she was happy that she was presentable. Spiv entered.

'It was Bob'. She perched herself on the bed, looking up into his eyes.

'What did he want?' As Spiv dried his armpits with a tiny towel, Pam looked at his crotch which was in full view. She smirked, before getting back to the matter at hand.

'He thinks you are in trouble. Aid got another letter. Ingram thinks you were the last man to see Ollie alive'.

'What? That’s ridiculous.'

'It says you took her to Olive Island. That you were there with her.'

Spiv tried to find words. He had thought – hoped – that this would never come out.

‘Shite. It’s obvious he is trying to get an appeal, an early release’.

‘Maybe. But Bob says Ingram has evidence. A scarf.'

'A scarf?'

'Your Pars scarf?' Pam threw the question at him knowingly and with little sympathy. It was just fact. The silence was short lived, as there was no more thinking to do.

'I never killed her. She was fine when I left her. I’m sorry Pam. I never wanted to hurt you. I love you, I do, really. But I was stupid.’

Spiv paced the floor, genuinely vexed.

‘Then I didn't know what to do when she went missin. I thought she must've wandered off. I never told nobody this though, so how the fuck does Ingram know?'. Spiv continued to wander the bedroom aimlessly, as if looking for something to make all this better.

'I'm sorry Pam, I'm really sorry. This is a mess, a real mess.'

Pam comforted him with her hand across his naked shoulder and then kissed his cheek.

‘We'll get through this. I'll help you.' She turned his face to hers.

'I love you.'

There was a moment. A moment that made it all better. That made all his worries ease. But it was only a moment, as Spiv slumped back onto the bed.

'Shit! What am I going to do? He’s probably got the police onto me already.' Panicking, eyes glancing around the room, Spiv got up and frantically searched for the clothes he had strewn down the night before, wallet, keys and phone.

' I knew this would come out, and I look so fuckin guilty… but I’m not. I’m not. I promise you. Shit!' He poked wallet into one pocket, keys into the other. He slumped down onto the bed again.

'Simon, it's OK. Stop worrying. If you listen to me, I will get this whole thing sorted out. I promise.'

Spiv breathed out a huge sigh and stopped to listen.

'How can you help me?'

She took his hand and removed his mobile phone from it. Once again they eyeballed each other, this time with Pam squatting down in front of him as he sat on the bed.

’Just listen to me and do what I ask you to do’.

6.4 Tom

‘Alright, Bob’

Tom stood in last night’s clothes, sticking out like a sore thumb with his corduroy green jacket and laced shirt.

‘I just came to apologise for last night’.

Bob ushered him over the threshold.

‘I was just going to call you’.

They arrived in the front room as Marie made to leave.

‘Marie…’ Tom starts on a well practiced speech..

‘I can’t deal with you just now Tom. Leave it.’ She passes and mounts the stairs out of sight.

‘You can understand…’ Bob finished, and invited Tom with an open hand to sit.

‘You were going to call me? What for?’

‘I need some answers Tom. About Dev and that poor lass.’

‘What d’you mean?’

‘This isnae easy. But we need to know if you know more about the disappearance of that wee lass, Ollie Ingram.’

‘What!? We have an argument and you decide that I’m to blame for that wee girl, for Dev’s death? Fuckin hell. I told you and I told the police the truth’.

‘No, that’s not what I’m saying. But here’s what I am saying. Someone who was playing our treasure hunt game knows more than they are telling, and Ian Ingram knows it too’.

‘Knows what?’

‘Knows that Dev didn’t kill his daughter. In fact he says he is sure he knows who did.’

They paused. Tom finally looked up into Bob’s eyes.

‘Spiv!’

‘What makes you say that?’

‘He said he had been off wi a lass, a schoolie. I bet it was her. I’d make it odds on that the school lass was Ollie Ingram.’

‘Do you know this, or are you guessing.’

Tom stands up.

‘It makes absolute sense now. About 2 days before the treasure hunt, the night that lass was supposed to have disappeared, Spiv arrived back at the pub all flash like - you know what he’s like - and I said ‘You been getting some?’ He looked at me with a broad smirk on his puss. ‘Aye, nice and fresh’, he said and sniffed at his finger.’ Tom finished, and Bob curled his lip at the imagery.

‘That means nowt’.

‘No. Maybe not. But then again, he was up there at the Crook dropping off Pam plenty times. And he had opportunity. Who else has used Olive Island but us lot when we were courting?’

‘Mebbe you’re right. And even if your not, it’s what Ian Ingram thinks.’

He paced across the living room, then turned back towards Tom.

‘It’s what Ian Ingram knows. He says he has a Pars scarf which he is going to have analysed. It’s Spiv's. It has to be.’ Tom nodded in agreement as another light bulb illuminated in his mind.

‘I mind him losing it. He couldn’t remember when he lost it. He made a fucking huge meal of it, then never mentioned it again.’

‘Feelin guilty?’ Bob asks.

‘Maybe he was. So what do we do now?'

Bob laces his shoes, and goes out to the hall, returning with his overalls.

'Well I have to go to work...'

'You found something else - another job?’

'No, they took me back.’ Bob adjusted his blue collar. ‘Just need to keep my nose clean this time'

'Good stuff. You want me to look for Spiv?'

'To be honest wi you, Tom, I don't want owt to do with you again. I just needed to know what you knew. I know now, so whatever you do, to be honest, I couldn't care less.'

'Bob, I told you, I was sorry man'

'Sometimes it's just not enough. If you have any sense it will be Emma you start apologising to.'

There were no more words and there was no sense of loss from Bob as Tom left.

7

7.1 Aidrian

Aid hadn't heard anymore from Bob, so texted him again to find out if he had managed to catch up with Spiv. The bar sat empty and Aid felt as though he would be adding more value by being anywhere else. Marge, the interim bar manager, was going through the accounts across from him and she did not like anyone skiving off.

'I'll go and get some more bottles out of the stables,' Aid called over, but Marge just sat in the natural dim light over by the window. He veered off through to the other bar. The stables area was only used for functions and still held a musty, stale smoke smell, regardless that the smoking ban had been in place for a good while. So Bob hadn't got Spiv yet, or at least hadn't let on.

Aid glanced through and saw Marge still sitting calculating losses he assumed, for this quiet country bar. The phone illuminated and lit up his eyes as he typed in S..P..I..V. It started to ring, but no answer. Spiv wasn't taking calls by the looks of things. One last try before getting the bottles through and not have to face the bar manager’s wrath. P...A...M.

'Hello'

“Hi Pam. It's Aid'

'Why are you whispering? I can't hear you very well'

'I'm at work. Listen, I need to speak to Spiv. Is he there?'

There was a pause. A definite and noticeable pause.

'No, sorry Aid. He's not with me.'

'Do you know where I can get him?'

'Sorry Aid. I don't think I can help you.'

'OK, you have no idea where he is?'

'I think he is going to be away for a while.'

'What do you mean a while?'

'Just that’s what he said. He needed a break from everything. Needed to get away. '

'Can you get him to call if you speak to him. It's pretty important. We need to speak to him.'

'Yeah, Bob said'

'Did you speak to Bob? Oh. Ok. Listen just, please, get him to call'

'OK. I said I would’

'It's really important Pam.'

‘Only if you don’t believe him. But I do. I thought you were his friends’.

‘Pam. I… I want to. I just want to speak to him. Ok’

The call was brief and unhelpful. Why would he run off now? Unless...

Another quick text to Bob to update him. A loud cough from through in the bar clocked his senses again and he chinked a few bottles together on the bunker before he gathered a few more, tucking the phone back into his breast pocket.

'Is there anything else I can do right now Marge?’

Marge said nothing, in mid calculation, while Aid realised his error.

'5, 500 and 12, 50', Marge counted aloud to make sure Aid could hear. He acknowledged it with a palm mouthing sorry at her. Then he picked up some glasses from the drainer, looked for a dishtowel to dry them with and started thinking about the Spiv situation.

What could he do to help out here? Was there anything that they still just didn't understand? They couldn’t just jump on a letter and blame Spiv. The scarf story was pretty scary, but maybe it was just a story. Whatever it was Ian Ingram had made the whole situation change. Aid’s opinion had changed. Suddenly things just didn’t fit as neatly as they had last year. He put down the pint glass and accidentally nudged a wine glass onto the floor. It shattered immediately.

'Sorry, that was me. Is there a brush.'

'Second door from the end of the back corridor'. Marge didn't look up. She was probably deducting the 30 or 40 pence damages from Aids pay cheque.

Aid wandered off through the back corridor which led into the workers’ quarters, mainly offices and stores. The kitchen was off to the left and the larder within it. Then there was the main office and across from that was the wee office, where he imagined Ian Ingram spent most of the day when he had staff on. TV, PC, DVDs....

Second from the end there were 2 doors opposite each other. One looked like it needed a Yale lock. That would be the one, so he flicked through the keys until he found the right one – a particularly stained affair – and unlocked the door. The room was dark, so Aid flashed his hand up and down the inside wall to find the light switch. It flickered on, and immediately he discovered that this was not the broom cupboard but a single bedroom. An employee’s pad – unoccupied, with nothing much in it. He switched off the light and the door began to swing closed when Aid stopped it – just open. Was this Pam's room? Was that why it remained bare? After she left no-one else had stayed here. The relatives all stayed in the Ingram's main house across the back from the bar.

Aid switched the light back on and searched with his eyes for any details the police may have missed. What would they miss though? They would have had a damn good idea about what they needed to look for – much more than Aid did. He moved the bed and opened the drawers in an old desk that sat there. Nothing - but what did he expect? Something Pam had which indicted or freed Spiv? Maybe his head was running away with him. Maybe he shouldn't have taken this job, but with all the letters coming from Ingram maybe there was truth in some of it or all of it. He sat back on the bed trying to clear his thoughts. He would get out of here, out of this job and get back down to Rosyth to help Bob find Spiv. His phone jingled. A text – from Bob.

‘On the road. Goin 2 C Spiv. He's in Dumfries. I'll text you the postcode for your satnav.’

A further jingle confirmed the satnav detail.

‘I'll b there soon. Take care.’ Aid replied

Aid decided he would give back the bar keys and get out of there. He got up from the bed and stumbled over a waste basket, spilling the contents onto the floor. Clumsy day. Receipts from various shops in town, female purchases, and a note block. Nothing obvious on it but, using amateur detective skills acquired at an early age to read his sisters secret notes, he took the bar pencil which was tucked behind his ear and scribbled across the page to reveal the last message written on the pad.

7.2 Tom and Emma

It was late when Tom arrived back at the house. He took off his jacket revealing a striped jumper that Emma had bought him for his last birthday.

Emma had slept in the spare room the previous night and was gone when he awoke in the morning. All day he had been texting her, and calling her folks. She would get over it... eventually. Never once did it cross his mind to change his ways. He would make up with Emma. He knew he would have to woo her and egg her into submission, but would ultimately get her onside and the sex would feel different, like it does with all those different women. It was a challenge he would relish. And he would, as always, succeed.

Tom pushed the glass paneled front door closed, then immediately bumped into the side table. The noise of a vase tumbling acted like a switch as a light went on at the top of the stairs. So she had returned home.

'Hello? Emma?'

Footsteps above him, movement from the bedroom to the landing, and eventually Emma stood before him in an enticing, sexy black negligee, her blond hair wet and slicked back to the sides. This was not the norm. This was exciting in a different way and Tom’s heart pumped hard.

'Hi honey'. Her voice was smooth and emotionless. Not in a cold way. She seemed fine. She appeared to have been healed.

'Wow, is this for me?'

'Who else?'

Tom tossed down his jacket and started to climb the stairs.

'But there is a catch'. She still spoke with that calm collected voice and looked amazing as she turned from him, baring her pert bottom.

'Anything. I love you. Anything.'

In the bedroom some candles burned on the window sill and the scent was warm and aromatic. Josticks had been burned, and the light from the flickering candle was sensual and inviting. He grabbed Emma's waist and she pushed him off.

'I said that there is a catch. There will be no touching - yet. There will be some rules that you will abide by'

'Anything'. He pushed her bra strap across her shoulder toppling it over her arm slowly while looking deep into her eyes.

'I said no touching'. Emma pushed his arm aside and pointed to the bed.

The bed had been stripped. Only a deep crimson satin sheet remained, and some cushions that Tom recognised were from the living room. Emma had really excelled herself here and he would obey tonight to get his love back. And what a way to do it. Emma picked up some ribbons.

'Now strip for me'.

Tom pulled his jumper up over his head. Nothing on below it. His torso rippled and looked good in the chilled air. He looked at Emma, eagerly awaiting a response. She just pointed at his lower regions.

'And the rest'. Soon trousers, socks and boxers were lying on the floor and Tom, happy with his body as ever, stood in full glory while Emma bit at her lip and smiled a crooked smile. She was oozing sexuality to Tom. He made to move.

'Hold on soldier'. She pushed onto his chest with one hand, and held a red ribbon in the other.

'I am not ready yet. I need you to think about what you have done. I need you to beg for forgiveness'

She pushed him onto the bed and walked alongside it. Then she grabbed Toms arm, tying the ribbon around it and the middle metal bedpost. She picked up another ribbon.

'I love you Emma and I'm so sorry'. She leant across Tom’s face and the skin above her breast touched it, as she tied the other ribbon to the post. She paused on the return, allowing him to nibble at her bra. A third ribbon appeared, and Emma stroked Tom’s chest, groin and thigh as she moved towards his feet. Tom was in heaven. Having tied the final ribbons in place, she left Tom lying like Da Vinci’s Vitruvian man before he started his star jumps..

'Now, lie still'

She released a set of handcuffs, and they fell down from her hand. She walked around the bed securing Tom’s hands with the cuffs, and checking the ties on his feet.

'Are you really sorry?' She lay emotionlessly across him. He squirmed a little but felt himself getting aroused.

Emma made her way off the bed to the en-suite.

'Where are you going?'

'To change into something more comfortable. You have some thinking to do.'

She was right and she had made her point. He hadn’t been fair to Emma and he would have to work harder to make sure that any straying he ever did from now on was hidden, much more than before. She was right. He would have to do better. No more pawing young students and feeling up old mares just for the kicks. He would have to be less casual and give her some respect. But not if it meant not getting his end away.

The bathroom door closed and Emma moved about in there preparing herself. The ties on his feet felt tight. He couldn’t move. Tom grew increasingly aroused and excited.

The light in the bathroom went off, and the door opened. Tom stared across from the bed and saw Emma in her dressing gown. He wanted to rip it off her now. But in his position she had all the aces. She stepped into the dim candlelight, and opened up the gown towards him.

'What the fuck?'

Emma dropped the robe, standing fully dressed in blouse, jacket and a short skirt. She walked off to the closet and pulled out a pair of sleek black shoes.

'What’s going on Emm?' Tom pulled at the bed trying to turn over, but found himself firmly fixed in place with the handcuffs and ribbons.

'I'm getting my end away'

'Emm, I'm so sorry. I never wanted you to find out like that. I promise you'

'I know. You never wanted me to find out at all.' Shoes on, she sat on the side of the bed.

'I'm sorry too'.

She pulled a guitar string out of her pocket, and stretched it out.

'What’s going on Emm?' Tom’s voice grew louder. The reality of the situation was beginning to dawn on him – he wasn’t getting it his way after all.

Emma touched Tom’s semi-hard penis caressingly.

'Aw, isn't it cute'. She smiled her crooked smile again. Tom craned his neck to see what she was doing.

'Emm. We can work this out. I promise you' Emma pushed her hand under Tom’s penis and meticulously placed a loop of guitar string over it, and rolls it down to the base. She pulled on it a little and held the string up in the air, watching Toms willie moving like a puppet.

'No, Emm.’ Tom started to move about, sweating now - the cold sweat of fear.

Emma chuckled faintly staring at the helpless man she had given too much of her life to. She kissed his chest - and stood up.

'Where are you going Emm?'

Emma walked towards the door still holding the other end of the guitar string.

'I am not prepared to let you one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight or nine time me Tom'. She said this as she glanced over to him and fixed the other noose end of the guitar string over the bedroom door handle.

'And I'm not prepared to let anyone else have to put up with you either!'

She slammed the door behind her.

8

Aidrian flicked his phone open and speed dialed his mate again. No answer. No reception in some areas of the borders, but he needed to speak to him.

He looked at the phone and with nimble fingers scrolled down the phone list to 'Bob and Marie'.

'Hi Marie, I can’t reach Bob. Is he with you?’

‘No Aid, he’s working'

'Working?'

'Yeah, overtime'

'I don't think so Marie. Unless he's back already, but he cannae be..'

'Back from where?'

'Dumfries'

‘Better no be in Dumfries, he’s got my car’.

‘He texted me to say that Spiv was in Dumfries’.

‘What would Spiv be doing in Dumfries?’

‘Fuck knows, but that’s what he texted me and I can’t get him on the phone’

‘I’ll try and get him on mine’.

‘Did he tell you about Ingram's letters?’

‘Yes. Some. Do you really think Spiv could do that though?’

‘I don’t know. I don’t think so. I hope not. I’ll give him friends’ benefit of the doubt until further notice’

‘You are a good friend, Aid.’

‘I try.’

‘How’s Mon?’

‘She went to her Mums’

‘You didnae kick her out did you?’

‘No, no. She just panicked a bit about the letters, and the fact I hadn’t said anything. You know what she’s like.’

‘I’ll go and speak to her.’

‘That would be good. I didnae mean to upset her. It’s actually why I didn’t tell her. Cannae win.’ Marie was about to sign off. ‘Before you go, Marie, I need to tell you something. It’s a big thing.’

‘Go on’.

‘I found something in the Crook Inn. Don’t ask me why I was there.’

‘Ok. What is it?’

‘I don’t trust Pam, that’s all. If you get Bob, just tell him. I’ve texted him why, but I might be wrong. ’

‘Ok. I will, but why don’t you trust Pam? What did you find?’

---

Bob blared some Fratelli’s through Marie's souped up speakers. The car rocked as he flew down the motorway.

‘After 1 mile.. take the next junction on the left.’ The satnav boomed through the speakers, the only way Bob would hear it over the heavy guitar and drums. He had no clue where he was heading. Spiv told him to get off the motorway and head towards a village called Dalswinton. The postcode would get him there and Spiv's red beamer would indicate to him which cottage he was at.

Spiv had been spooked into leaving the town. He had been coy with Bob, but wanted to speak to him before he fled for good. Bob had asked if Spiv was guilty. ‘Fuck no,’ was the reply, ‘but those bastards will frame me. My record is shit and, to be honest, I’m surprised they havenae tried to get me for it already.’

‘After 200 yards take the next junction on the left.’

Bob veered off the slip road and round and under the motorway onto a clear stretch of open road, left vacant by all those people who took only trunk roads to get to their destination.

Spiv was no killer. He knew Spiv and he wasn't like that. Why would he tell Bob about Dev being his brother and about being with Ollie Ingram if he had then gone on to kill them both – or either of them. No, Bob believed Spiv and he would use the time they had together down in deepest darkest Dumfries and Galloway to get to the bottom of it. He would encourage Spiv to stay and clear his name, instead of running and looking guilty.

But then they would have to face up to the truth of what did happen last year. Because Ian Ingram still had what he believed was evidence against one of them. And if it wasn't Spiv....

The road twisted and narrowed over stone bridges which passed with a flicker of the headlamp and then back to more open stretches up hill to blind summits and down again through the wondrous valleys. Sheep stood on the slopes and watched. To Bob they were a blur of white foam flashing by him.

---

Lauder College was quiet. It was a Sunday evening after all. The windows of the overlooking flats were lit to varying degrees as students got ready to go out or were studying behind closed curtains.

Mon had picked up Marie. Emma hadn't been around when they visited her home. No sign of her there, although Marie swore she saw Emma's car as they passed the train station in Rosyth. So it would be up to them to confront Pam. The exterior of this new build student accommodation looked grandiose - turreted apartments in cream and gold, large shining letters telling you the wing names and directions to room numbers above brass arrows, some of which had been stripped off and redirected or just removed. Bloody students. Room 178 was where Pam resided and while Marie clambered out of Mons mum’s car, Mon made a confident b-line in that direction.

Enough had been said on the phone when Marie had told Mon what Aid found at the Crook Inn. Her head was full of why Aid was there and what he had found - but worse than that – the uneasiness she felt that the person she had trusted for a long time had, over the past year been untruthful and worse, could have threatened her safety and had caused the death of a friend and the father of her son.

Stairs led the girls up to a landing. Metal bars attached to a wooden banister used for support. Newly painted black frame preceded windows overlooking the car park and yard. Some students were sitting on the landing, one girl had been crying. Over a boy, they thought, fleetingly and they stormed through the main landing door into the hall which would lead them to Pam's room.

'What you's doing?' a mouthy youth, her hair tied up with neon ribbon, confronted them.

'What’s it to you?' Monica broached the teenager, who retreated to her group at the far end of the corridor with a sarcastic 'wooo'. Mon was in no mood for any nonsense as she clocked the 178 on the door and battered it, before trying the handle.

'She's not in', one of the mouthy lot called out. Marie glanced at Mon, who in turn looked at the group, and then at Marie, before making the decision to crash her size 6 onto the door.

The crowd turned to see the door crash open, while one of the group ran off in the opposite direction. To get security - Marie thought. If it had been Bob the roll of her eyes would follow. Monica was in Pam's room. Marie looked over to the girls who still buzzed about and stared. She gave a wry smile and followed Mon, closing the door as best she could.

'She's not here Mon. What are we looking for?’ Mon was moving items across the desktop over at the window.

'Dunno, dunno. There must be something.'

'We are going to get into big trouble for this.'

'I know, sorry. I just think we need to help Aid and Bob.' Mon paused. ‘For Dev'. They both searched in silence for the thing they didn't really know. Whatever it was that would help.

'Right lets go.' Marie turned to see Mon heading for the door. She made her way over. Opening the door, they crept like criminals into the corridor. No need to try and hide themselves from those who had gathered in the hall. Word had spread that Pam Watters room had been busted.

'There they are!' One girl called out, as Mon and then Marie coasted along the hall. A couple of large football-type boys stood at the far door. They looked at each other and voices called out. 'Don't let them go!' and 'Stop them!' They positioned themselves across the door but Mon was not for stopping. She approached the two men, the first one buckled over with a knee in the groin. There was no break of stride as she continued into the stairwell.

Marie could only muster a 'Sorry' to the other lad, who was not going to get involved now, as she rode on Monica's tailwind.

---

'You are now at your destination', the satnav called out. Not such an accurate address. Spiv had told Bob that when you got to the village, which was like an inland Tobermory with its multicoloured doors and frames, you kept on going until a construction entrance with large steel framed gates appeared on the left. This led to the Wind Farm at Dalswinton and to the cottage where he would find his mate.

'How will I find out which cottage it is?' Bob had asked.

'Well it'll be the one wi’ ma car outside it for a start.' So Bob would find it alright. The road was more track than road, and Bob was glad he had Marie's car, although it gave him light butterflies in his stomach to think what Marie was going to say or do when she realised he was away in it to Dumfries. Flowers and chocs? Shouldn't have to explain. It was for the good of a mate. His mate who if he said hadn't killed a wee lass and his mate, he was going to believe. Surely Marie would be OK. Surely. The track twisted and turned, and as one dip in the road lead to another rise, the first of many Wind Turbines came into view. They stood high and proud, majestic and modern on this remote land. As out of place as the red sports car that caught Bob's eye. A white painted cottage with some smoke billowing from a chimney. Picturesque from a distance, Bob imagined it would be all show and no heart. As he drew closer the shattered dream became reality as the potential dream house showed signs of worn timbers and missing frames.

As he turned into the driveway Bob saw Simon Deuchar puffing on a cigarette arm raised towards him, like someone trying to catch the attention of a mate in a bar, only there was no-one else near here, so Bob acknowledged him with a wave. This was their friendly embrace, or as close as they would get to one. Spiv had grown into character in the short time he had been away. Red lumberjack jacket and a woolen hat. Bob had had the heating on full in the car, while he sat in his work overalls, his own woolly hat lying on the passenger seat.

Bob pulled down the window on the passenger side.

'Where can I park round here?' Ironic laughter made Spiv almost drop the fag end from his lip as he stuck his head in to greet him. A large puff of smoke or frozen air blew across Bob’s face.

'Ah ken, like fuckin Piccadilly round here int it!' The ice was literally broken and Spiv was in good form.

'You want a coffee or a beer or something?' Spiv walked back over towards the cottage while Bob positioned the car beside Spiv’s in front of the doorway. 'Aye, coffee would be grand'

Spiv opened the cottage door, poking his head around the door frame.

'Pam! Go and pit the kettle oan and make Bob a coffee', he bellowed.

---

'Are we going to get out of here?' Marie watched Mon as she leafed through the book taken from Pam's room. It was the first time that either of them had spoken since leaving the Halls of residence.

'What?' Mon was preoccupied, then returned to reality momentarily, passing the book to Marie in the passenger seat. 'Take a look'. She turned the ignition on. People gathered outside the halls in the evening dusk. Lampposts flicked on as the car revved and Mon took them away from their crime scene.

Marie looked out of the window as fingers pointed their way - at the getaway vehicle - she mused.

'Are you looking?'

Marie leafed through the pages of what was Pam's student diary. August to August.

'What am I looking for?'

'What does it say?' Mon stared at the road, but her mind was focused on the book.

The car tore across the road towards Halbeath roundabout. 'Where are we going?'

'To have a look at the diary'. The car barely slowed as Mon pushed it into 4th gear and accelerated towards the out of town shopping area. They were less than 500 yds away from Pam's apartment, but pulling up in the busy car park, Mon felt that this would do as a place to study Pamela Watters diary.

Aid had found a message. A message that they would always remember from when Dev was killed last year. He had found it in the Crook Inn. He had found it in the room where Pam Watters had been staying.

---

The light was dimming and these unfamiliar roads helped little as Aid attempted to get down to Dumfries. The headlights flashed across stockfencing and broken gate posts. Bright light showed a signpost and Aid knew he was a bit closer to Bob and Spiv. He just hoped he would get there in time to tell them what he knew.

‘Devalue life I am the start

Could it begins, and ending’

Pam Watters. Little Pammy. An add on. Really a non-entity in the whole scheme of things. Not a certainty. But what did they know of Pamela Watters? Certainly they knew more about their mate Spiv. And between them, one of them knew more than they were letting on. One of them had sent Dev to Olive Island. One of them, at the very least, sent Dev to the place where Ollie Ingram’s body was found and, later, where Dev Coulding’s last breaths would be taken.

These thoughts had been hard to figure out – a long drive it had been from Fife to Dumfrieshire. The car had reached Dalswinton village. No lights from shops or pubs here. Just a row of houses in the middle of farmland at the foot of the hillside. Aid pulled into the side of the road outside one of these white houses which fronted the road. Some light remained in the sky, but it was fading fast, and the house lights indicated that someone would be home. There was no sign of Spiv’s car. Or Marie’s. So it was unlikely he was in the right place - yet. He tried his phone. No reception. Had anyone been trying to contact him? When had he last used the phone? Certainly no-one had called since he left or, at least, he had received no calls since the reception had died. The bright green door adjacent to the car was probably as good a bet as any, so he got out of the car and proceeded to click the doorbell. Chime.

It was cold in these southern climes, and he wasn't really dressed for this in his jumper and jeans.

'Whae is it?' an older man's voice quizzed from behind the door.

'Sorry to bother you. I'm just looking for a friend of mine. He’s staying down this way.'

'Uh hu', the voice stood just behind the door and the silhouette of a short man appeared through frosted glass as a curtain was drawn back from the door.

'Simon Deuchar? Do you know him?'

The door unlatched and a key was turned in the lock. Not a Yale. One of those old locking keys with their various sized heads.

'Deuchar?' The old man wore a scarf despite having been locked inside, but Aid said nothing, 'There's no Deuchar’s in the village. Sorry.' He looked Aid up and down. Perhaps to answer police enquiries later should someone in the village report misdeeds at a later date, Aid thought.

'OK, thanks. I don't suppose I could borrow your phone. I can't seem to get any reception.' The old man looked him up and down again.

'No. You'll get no reception down in the village.' Aid nodded and took a step toward the door, which started to shut as soon as he moved.

'You'll get reception about 200 yds up the road. Goodnight son'. And with that the door was closed and Aid stood still for a second feeling a bit foolish. 200yds in what direction? He got back into the car.

---

The coffee smelled good - warm - which was the most important thing.

'I'm sorry Bob. I just got spooked eh? I mean if Ingram thinks I've done this, I'm a dead man. I mean, I did see Ollie Ingram. I did take her to Olive Island, but I'll tell you the same as I told Pam. I didnae kill her man. No fuckin chance.' Spiv puffed on another cigarette, and slumped back again in the couch, while Bob perched forward on the armchair in silence. Pam was clinking the cups in the kitchen.

'But why didn't you tell the police this?'

Spiv rolled his eyes, taking in a long drag, and as he spoke the puff billowed out.

'You think I did it. Fuckin hell man. You do.'

'No Spiv. I want to believe you, but you have just gone and told me that you lied to the fuckin police man. It's difficult to believe someone when they’ve just told you that.'

'I didn't do it', Spiv’s speech was slow and deliberate as he looked straight at Bob.

Bob knew he was not lying this time.

'I believe you Spiv.'

'I believe you'.

The coffee arrived, thankfully, just at the right time. Pam brought through three steaming cups and a plate of scones, a butter dish, a rams horn handled kitchen knife and a smaller dish which contained what looked like home-made raspberry jam.

‘Listen, I better try Marie. I havenae told her I’m away wi her car’

Spiv laughed at this ‘Ho, ho. You’ll be strung up man.’ They shared a laugh as Bob pointed his mobile into the air searching for any kind of signal.

Pam Watters put down the tray on a glass coffee table, condensation appeared as the cup was set on the glass. Bob looked at this and saw Pam and Spiv's reflection in the table surface as he bent over to take hold of his hot drink at last.

Spiv said, 'Ta love'. He lifted the cup to his mouth and without tasting the coffee, he felt warm liquid on his shirt as Pam embraced him. Bob continued to look down at the table and saw Spivs cup rise up in the reflection from the glass. He raised his eyes and saw the white of Pam Watters eyes. The blow was immediate and exact. The force was similar to something he had felt before - a boxing match at school. A punch to the side of his face had left him flailing. His legs weakened and he lost grip of his phone. Although he was conscious, all he could see was Pam Watters taking aim again, teeth clenched. There was a ringing sound in Bob’s ears. He thought that there must be other sound, but he heard nothing more.

---

'Marie?'

'Ai.. whe.. you?', the reception was still patchy, but it was a reception at least.

'Marie, good, listen I've not been able to find them yet. How did you get on?'

'W.. foun... .. ary?’

'What?'

'We .... a diary. It does..... good...she's ...uckin... ..co.'

'I didn't get that. You found a diary? At Pams?’

'...'

'Listen if you can hear me, just answer Yes or No. OK'

'Ye..'

'Did you find a diary at Pams?'

'Ye..Yes..yes', Marie got what Aidrian wanted.

'Did you get to speak to her?'

'No. n.. no'

'Do you know where she is?'

'No. No. .....'

'Shit, whats in the diary?'

'... say's a loa... fuckin scary......'

'Sorry, Is there anything about Dev in it?'

'Y...Ye...es'

'Did Spiv do it? Did Spiv kill him?'

'...o....No...No...', Aid was relieved. At least Bob wasn't going to meet Dev's killer.

'Was it her? Did Pam kill Dev?'

'Yes..w.. thi...so.. Ha..you spo.. to Bob?'

Bob. No. No, I haven't been able to. I'll try again.'

'.... ob.....'

'Listen, Marie, I can't hear you. Stop speaking for a minute. Please. I need to find Bob and Spiv.' Aid paused and the line was quiet.

'Do you know if it says in the diary where Spiv is?'

'It..... he is aw... to Pam's....'

'Marie, can you repeat that. Pams…?'

‘Pam.... day...ome.'

'Sorry Marie, it's breaking up.'

' ...am's hol...home...near wi ..farm.'

“Pams home, near a farm.

'...winton ...ind farm'

'A wind Farm'

'Yes...es.......'

The phone went silent.

'Marie?'

'Marie?'

Aid was alone in the dark again. He walked towards the village again, then started to jog and, despite his large frame, moved into a more vigorous run as he spied the car in front of the house with the green door.

The old man was at the green framed window of his home as Aid approached and made towards the door. He unlocked it quickly this time without question.

'Can a help ye son?'

'Sorry to bother you again', Aid panted, ' What about a Watters family? Do you know if a Watters family have a holiday home round here?'

'Watters? No. No Watters, but there are plenty of holiday homes across the hills and I couldnae tell ye the names of all the owners. Sorry son.' Aid took some deep breaths as his heart pounded through his chest. His lack of fitness showed. Thinking. Thinking.

'What about..... a wind farm?'

---

Spiv sat motionless on the chair as Bob came around.

The window behind Spiv’s head had turned from grey to black in the time he had been out cold. Spiv groaned. Thank god he wasn't dead, but they were still in a shit situation, and at this moment in time Bob had few ideas as to how this would be successfully resolved.

Still groggy, Bob made to move before realising his hands, arms, body and legs had been taped to the armchair he sat in. He couldn't use his mouth to get him out of this one. He didn't know if he still had his phone in his pocket. There was no noise, except the pulsing in his ears and the throbbing of his blood through bruised veins in his forehead ringing through the silence of this barely lit living room. And only one question remained in his head.

Where was Pam Watters?

---

Marie just stared at each page as she flicked through the diary, not really taking in what she was reading anymore. Mon tore along the City Bypass and not even the car's own warnings that the speed was excessive flinched her anymore. Marie read the excerpts again.

Simon and Pamela Deuchar.

Pamela Alice Deuchar.

Mrs P.A Deuchar.

Mr S and Mrs P.A. Deuchar.

A schoolgirl’s scribblings......

Then there were her entries. It felt wrong to read, but they needed to know what was going on.

August 30th 2007

Simon and I shared a 'moment' in the bar. He was sitting with some slapper and I casually asked her to leave. Slag. I positioned myself around him on the barstool and gripped him in full view of the little cow. She turned and fled. My man! Just mine.

Si has been strange recently. I think it's because of Dev. Maybe the whole thing was a mistake. But we are still together and I guess that's what's important. He loves me. No-one else. No schoolgirl will take my man.

Poor Dev, though. Still, if it came down to him or me, would I change anything? Exactly.

Si's taking me out tomorrow. Nice meal at Foggia’s then some rampant sex. It's kinda routine, but it's just great spending time with him. He's the one. The only one.

November 5th.

Bonfire night. I feel weird. I haven't seen Si today, and he's not answering his phone.

November 6th.

All good. Went to Simons mum's at 11 last night. She let me in and we had a nice chat, she isn't too attached to Si, so she can stay. For now. Si turned up at 2. He was all kisses and stories. He is so gentle with me. He is getting over Dev and his Dad's deaths I think. Makes me think it's all going to work out fine. He says he needs me. I feel so good. I want to be the only thing he needs. He is soooooo sexy.

November 30th.

That’s 2 years Simon and I have been together. I think he forgot until I said, but he bought me flowers and we went out. I was thinking about my folks today. I think Simon would have grown on them. But I guess I don't need to worry about that now. I do miss them sometimes. But again, what do you choose? I couldn't let them be my guardians forever could I?

Another page another implicit statement. Another clue. Another question that raised more concern. Pamela Watters was Pamela Watters, but it appeared the Law student was on the wrong side of the law. Christ, she was on the wrong side of the wall to the prison for the criminally insane!

January 28th 2008

It’s over. Simon and I can’t stay here. Not with all this. We are going to try and get away together. That’s what he wants. He only wants to be with me. He tells me this. We will be together and then we will go together. We will be eternally together.

Mon took the Biggar road and the police siren sounded as she failed to observe the roundabout, taking the 180 degree crossing instead of the curved approach. It would not have been difficult for a dozing copper to spot her since the national speed limit had been broken – and then some.

9

Aid turned up towards the house which stood off to the right. The curtains were open and firelight flickered. Another gate to open, Aid decided to take the pedestrian gate, nearly falling through the cattle grid, before regaining his footing with only a minor nick to his right ankle. He stood about 100 yards away but felt an impending nervousness about this meeting. There was Marie’s car. There was Spiv’s car. No sign of any other vehicle, so maybe it was just going to be the three of them discussing the revelations brought about by Ian Ingram’s letters. He hoped Spiv wouldn't take it badly that Pam appeared to be involved in the death of Dev Coulding.

His feet crunched lightly on the farm track pebbles - the only thing to break the silence of the cold dark, night. The land would have been empty of people for so many years, Bothies had appeared and disappeared over centuries. Some had been demolished, new ones had been built. The house he approached was a newer build, with wooden frame and plasterboard - and damp. He walked past the car Bob brought down to this place. Maries yellow beemer. Light frost was appearing on the windscreen. It was luminous on such a darkening day. He peered in. The keys were still in the ignition. ‘I don't suppose there are many folk to steal vehicles in these parts’, he thought.

The front door of the house stood ajar.

Aid paused. He would have called out, but he did not feel comfortable. Something wasn't right. He pulled a piece of paper from his pocket.

‘Devalue life I am the start

Could it begins, and ending’

The words reflected the night.

Cold.

And in these conditions no-one, but no-one, would leave a front door standing ajar.

The firelight flickered across the track in front of the house. Aid walked slowly and deliberately. Precise movements to minimise impact. Minimise sound. His breathing slowed and halted at times. Listening. Looking for signs. His heart thumped again. Nothing to do with fitness this time.

A few more steps and he could see inside the room. A figure sitting on a chair. He peeked in. The figure had tape on his face. It was Bob. He looked at Bob and Bob stared at him before his eyes pivoted slowly to the side of the window. Where was Spiv? Where was Pam? Bob stared at him again, and again directed his eyes towards the side of the window. The house was made from wooden panels and plasterboard – not suited for this terrain, and it had grown damp, and was in need of repair. Aid calculated. The doorway lay ajar. Light from the fire flickered, and in places he could see it flickering on the walls - holes, gaps. Not suited for this climate even. Aid peered in again. Bob quickly glinted his staring eyes across towards the side of the window again.

There was urgency this time in Bob’s eyes. Aid had to act quickly. The light flickered through the wall where gaps lay and a shadow made slowly for the door. Someone was waiting for him, and by the look of Bob, would not be wasting time with niceties.

Aid stepped back and leaned silently on the car.

His mobile phone was in his pocket, soon in his hand and thrown towards the decking at the front door. The art of deception. It clunked and skidded towards the front door. The shadow moved for the door. Aid was in the car, the light shone for what seemed like an age above his head, but enough time to find the key in the ignition. He turned it. There was life in the engine. There was no visibility as the frost covered the windscreen. But Aid needed no reminder of where he was, or any landmark to tell him where he was going. He had no time to think of anything except what he needed to do.

Foot down. First gear. Accelerate. Forward. Head down was just instinctive as metal sped forward 20 metres and met with wooden panels. Met with glass shattering from house windows and, over the revving of the engine, there was a scream.

The car continued to rev as it was forced to stop by the staircase. Aid continued to press his foot down for moments after, before raising his head to look at the damage - before raising his head to look around for Pamela Watters. Muffled screams come from the room to the right. He eased the car door open, taking out more plasterboard paneling and wooden frames left hanging from the impact.

Aid rubbed his shoulder, where a dull aching pain had emerged, and stepped out of Marie’s car. It didn’t look good. Well, Bob wouldn’t be driving it home anyway. It was a car that had ceased to be. The floor was covered with planks and dust, dust floating around the night air and the wind failing to help out as it gusted briefly to provide more cover. But just within the limits of Aid’s visibility there lay a body. It lay on the stairway in front of the car. He stood and looked. Had he killed her? Did that make him just like her? Aids head was spinning, but he hurried on to see to Bob.

Bob’s eyes were red with tears and angst. The dust made Aid cough and he wafted it about, wincing as his shoulder gave him pain again. Seatbelt. Should have belted up.

‘Bob, you OK?’ Bob nodded, staring at Aid. Maybe there was a smile beneath that tape. Maybe there was just relief that he was not going to be another murder statistic in Scotland.

Aid urgently ripped the tape off Bob’s mouth and then turned to see Spiv lying with bloodied top. He moved over to him and knelt at his side.

‘Spiv? Do you hear me?’ Aid tapped his cheek. Then felt for a pulse.

‘I think he’s OK man. He was breathing a few minutes ago. Thanks Aid. Fuckin Hell. Thanks.’ Bob sat, still tied to the hair. Aids eyes darted around the room.

‘You got her good, man. I saw her fly up in the air when you battered in. I had no idea what the fuck you were going to do. I mean she was going to fucking have you man. She was going to have us all.’

Aid started to look about the room.

‘I need something to cut the ties’

‘There’s a knife’

‘Where?’

‘Table?’

Aid looked around the room. Spilled coffee cups and scones lay scattered across the glass table. Butter dish. Jam.

‘I don’t see it.’

‘Can you get these off me?’

Aid hurried behind Bob’s chair and found a bit of loose tape hanging. He starts to pull at it, but it ripped before the first arm could be freed.

‘Fuck!’

‘What is it?’

‘Thing snapped.’

He continued to pull and tug at the tightly wrapped tape. Eventually he found another loose end and, within a few moments, Bob was able to get his left arm out.

‘Cheers mate.’ Bob twisted himself round, and tugged at the tape on his right arm, while Aid tried to slacken the grip of the tape around his legs.

The tape ripped. The two friends breathed hard, tugging and pulling. Their hearts pounding, breathing nervously as the adrenalin buzzed in their ears, they were two men mutually intent on liberty. To save Simon Deuchar and to get out of here. The floor creaked as someone approached. Neither man sensed the new danger – the approach – the thrust – the gleam of blade. Not until Bob screamed out.

Aid pushed Bob’s chair over to prevent a further frenzied attack, but now the headlights or the glint from the firelight were on him, as the knife flew towards him. He ducked down behind the sofa and ran along behind it - but this unwanted visitor was relentless in her pursuit. Pam Watters was out of control.

Another throw. The knife caught the chair and Aid lunged at this girl whom they had welcomed as one of their own. Her eyes were different. Hate filled and beady, staring and anarchic. She grabbed Aid to pull away from him. The knife is dislodged from her hand and is thrown across the couch. Aid could now only think of stopping the madness and threw his 16 stone frame directly at Pamela Watters.

The scramble was untidy, but Aid was only reacting to the situation. He had to think fast. They rolled on the wooden floorboards and across the rug which wrinkled and finally knocking over the remains of the afternoon tea prepared earlier. The silence was deafening. What words could change anything? There could only be one winner. Aid felt it had to be him.

He lay across Pam’s body, as she squirmed

‘Get off you fat shit. I’ll kill you. I’m going to kill you’

Aid tried to suppress her, but punches rained in on his nose and eyes. He winced again as a foot released itself from beneath him and Pam freed herself with a kick to Aid’s shoulder. He lay in pain momentarily and looked up to Pam who stretched her hand back to the knife and picked it up.

There was a pause - a definite pause as she stood there. Was this the end? Does everything slow down when it’s nearly over? Her premeditation, her composure now collected again as she shrugged this mishap off. She was ready to go again. Aid looked up at Pam. Pam looked down at him and raised her arm, her hand clenching the ram horned knife handle. Aid closed his eyes and thought about his Mon - his Monica who he loved so much - his family - his little girl and her elder brother - the man hugs, the Saturday morning TV, Namir in the 2.40 at Haydock, drinks with friends.

It might have been slow motion. How Bob got those remaining ties off heaven only knew. His fingernails were bleeding, but he managed to grip the wrist of Pamela Watters. It happened so unexpectedly that it appeared she slowed down just to give Bob a chance of saving his friend. A chance to stop the madness.

But again Pam rallied. She had much more to lose. She tore at Bob with her fingernails – first his hands, then his face and eyes. Bob screamed in pain, but he would not fail again. Blood soaking his back and side, he would hold on to this hand. Still Pam scratched and screamed.

Aid opened his eyes and positioned himself on the rug. He was under starters orders. He ran and charged into Pam Watters.

There is a crash of people. Three bodies tumble towards the front window. Arms grab arms, teeth gnash. Eyes stare at each other. Embraced with pain. Limbs break on wooden frames, glass shatters. Three bodies fall as one onto the decking outside. A knife pierces skin. A knife pierces flesh and scrapes at bone. An arterial vein is pierced. Black blood spurts out.

Deep cut.

Deep Red.

Dark blood.

Dark sky.

Aid found himself under two bodies.

He stared up to the night sky.

10

Police sirens sounded again as Monica and Marie ran from the vehicle. Mon looked across the darkness and saw torchlights, vehicle headlights shining across and so many officers milling around.

A body bag.

Marie let out a scream and made to run to the scene but was restrained by a burly constable who was attaching police tape to the fence posts.

‘Sorry, love, you can’t go through’

‘But it’s my husband.’

Still he restrained her, but Marie screamed out

‘Bo-----b!’

Monica just stood, hand over her mouth. Disbelief setting in. Eyes tearful. Fearing the worst.

'Marie! I'm over here.’ The voice from the ambulance led to an acknowledgement from the policeman that Marie could run over to her fiancé.

Aidrian looked up and searched the horizon for Mon. He would be OK now the paramedics were here. Still in a daze he prayed for a beautiful sight. No more secrets. He held his stare as the blur became a person, became a beautiful sight, the most beautiful - his Mon. She turned and he could see her eyes glistening. She saw him as she turned, despite the mass of police and emergency service crew who were purposefully moving about, doing their jobs, taping the crime scene, wearing the necessary white coats and surgical gloves, and she smiled. For him.

One tear ran down her face and before more could follow Aidrian felt her embrace as she forced her head, with deep sobs, into his shoulder.

‘Are you OK?’

‘Yes. A wee bit sore. But I’m fine’

‘What about the others?’

‘I think Spiv is going to be OK, now, but he was in a pretty bad state. Bob’s fine, but I guess you can hear that.’

Mon looked at him through tear filled eyes, gave a chuckle, then fell silent again, her head back against Aid’s shoulder.

'Why didn't you tell me about the letters?'

'I couldn't worry you. I didn't want to scare you.'

'You need to talk to me Aid. A problem shared...'

'I know. I know.' He held her tight and she reciprocated. 'No more secrets.'

'No more secrets'. Mon stared into his eyes with her wet, red eyes. The truth was going to hurt, but no more than all the stuff that had come before.

'Bob and I did something stupid, and we are going to have to pay for it.'

'It's OK. Whatever it is. I'll be here for you.' She held his cheeks softly with her hands.

‘I was just doing it for you and the kids.

I'm so sorry. I promise that I'll never keep anything from you anymore'

There was a shout from nearby.

'You stupid fucker!' Marie's voice was loud and shrill. She jumped down from the back door of the ambulance, looking at Mon in despair.

'Did you hear what Bob did?'

Aid looked into his lap. Mon was still holding onto him warmly.

'Just went and lost his fuckin job.....again!'

'How?'

'By being a twat!'

'Marie, I'm sorry. I'm an Idiot. Marie? Come back and talk to me; I never finished the story...'

Hearing Bob’s voice echoing from the back of the ambulance, brought a wave of happiness to Aid. He caught Mon's eye, and he laughed. He laughed hard, so hard that tears welled and words couldn't form. Mon laughed too, and her tears of worry and sadness turned to cries of hilarity.

'Fuck sake. I don't believe you two!' Marie paused by them.

Aid couldn't get the words out quick enough.

'And that’s you before you hear what else we got involved in.' Aid continued to laugh.

'Oh don't Aid. Just don't'. Monica warned him, but the laughter was contagious.

'What you all laughing at?' Bob quizzed from within the medics cabin. No-one answered. They just continued to laugh together.

'Aid? What’s happening? Marie, are you OK. Marie? Talk to me. Please.'

Mon cuddled in tight to Aid again.

'I'm glad I'm with you, Aidrian Burgess, and when you get home I'll be glad to become your missus.'

'Really?'

'Really.' They snuggled together and kissed.

'Oh get a room!’, Marie chirped up arms still folded tight..

'What’s happening? Marie? I'm sorry. Please talk to me, I cannae move. I’m sorry about your car'. Bob once again shouted from out of their view.

‘What about my car?’ Marie asks Aid. He nods towards the house, where the rear end of Marie’s car is barely visible beneath debris.

She needed no words. Marie rolled her eyes, sighed heavily, turned and walked back to Bob.

'What made you want to be my wife?' Aid looked into Mons eyes, holding her firmly round the waist.

'Well, I couldn't say for sure my Aidrian, but I think they may just let wives in to prisons for consummation!' She smirked cheekily, as police officers gathered round.

11

The Last Moments of Ollie Ingram

Ollie loved sitting listening to the jukebox in the bar. 60’s were her dad’s favourites. 70’s the preference of her mum. She liked them all, but particularly love songs at the moment. She laid her books out on one of the old wooden tables and sat up on her knees to finish off Maths and Chemistry work. So much homework meant less time to email her friends about the new man in her life. At 13 she was in love. Not puppy love. True love. Just he didn’t know it yet.

Ian Ingram worked days at the golf club and, being the club pro, had invested in this picturesque bar on the Stirling – St Andrews road. It had had a great reputation for food and functions, which helped it to survive - as did the loyal patrons of the village who paid their way with daily investments of lager, whisky, scampi fries and fags.

He wiped down the bar, glanced over at his daughter and left her to her homework and day-dreams.

Pam Watters came in from the cold to start her shift. The bar extended through from the area which had once been occupied by the stables. She put her coat and bag through the back so she didn’t appear late and busily got on with her work, cleaning glasses and making sure the stock was prepared for tonight. Quiz night. Of all the nights in the week Thursday night was the busiest. Pam would work, then get picked up by her boyfriend Simon, who would take her back to his – so she could get to an early lecture next day. Ollie Ingram looked up, smirked over at Pam, and got back to doodling on her workbook. Pam walked off. No patrons to serve, but they would start appearing soon.

A vehicle crunched over the loose pebbles on the driveway and passed the pub to the rear. The quiz master would be getting his night gig materials in place.

Ollie knew the area would be filling up shortly and pre-empted this by packing up her things and, throwing her schoolbag over her shoulder.

‘I’m going to my room Dad’ was followed by a muffled response from her father who was busily searching for something in the cellar. Her room was in the main house - an outhouse away to the back and side of the pub. She left by the front door. A familiar car pulled up and she went weak at the knees and breathless.

‘Hi Ollie. You OK?’

‘Yeah. Hi. Yeah, I’m good. Fine.’

‘Where you off to?’

‘Nowhere, just hanging out.’

‘Want to go for a ride?’

‘Sure.’

Ollie got in the car, giggling like the schoolchild she was, and the car took off out of the village.

Ian Ingram called through. ‘We need lime cordial’

Pam walked back into the bar, scooping the car keys off the counter.

‘I’ll go Mr Ingram’

The car was warm, Ollie was quiet. Simon talked to her, and she answered quickly and politely. She didn't want to make a fool of herself. She had heard about Simon from Pam when they were talking about boyfriends in the bar. She had listened to her stories and how nice Simon was to her. How he had kissed her for the first time and how excited she had been. How excited she always was. Simon was the only man she had wanted and now here she was – Ollie - lucky enough to be sitting with him now. Making small talk. Was this foreplay? It had passed the flirting stage, and when he touched her knee and rubbed his hand up her school skirt, she had feelings inside she had never felt before, anxiety and excitement. Terrified but completely besotted, she watched him as he drove away from town and towards Olive Island. She knew of Olive Island. It was not too far from town and was a well known hot-spot for courting couples. Her friends had boasted of good times, but Ollie had been saving herself. Only a kiss or two under the mistletoe at the school disco, which had led to embarrassing morning-after discussions, wolf whistles and sneered laughter from jealous boys and jealous girls. This was not embarrassing though. Simon was 30. A man. And he would be her first. Maybe her only. In the back of her mind she thought about how Pam might feel, but it was only fleeting. If Pam knew how much she loved Simon, she would understand. She would understand.

The car drove up to a gate and parked. Simon turned and stroked Ollie's face. He was smiling at her. Did he love her too? She would find out soon. She moved forward to kiss him. He kissed her back roughly and she felt his tongue in her mouth. His skin was jagged with stubble, but she didn't mind. She would tell her friends about her first kiss. It was going to be memorable.

'Want to go for a walk?' Simon asked

'OK', Ollie responded. They were quickly out of the car, and Simon climbed the gate first, holding Ollie's hand to help her to climb. A car was coming up the lane and Simon squinted. He gripped her hand and waist to bring her down safely over the gate, and Ollie kept hold of Simon's hand as they walked from the trees into the open field. It was January and it was dark - really dark. So crossing the field felt free and Ollie ran, with Simon leading the way across the grass. The mud would be noticed by her mum and she would have to lie. She would not be telling her mum about her first time. She could only see Simon's profile now - very masculine, big cheekbones, slight face - but to her he was the one. He was gorgeous.

Simon looked back to the road. The car must have pulled into the cottage. He was comfortable - and as they reached the first batch of trees which made up Olive Island he grabbed Ollie's waist and embraced her. Again tongues touched tongues. It felt like forever and Ollie wished it would never end. Soon he was unbuttoning her jacket, asking always if she was OK, not too cold. Ollie said she was fine and tried to open his jeans. He laughed that his belt was on. Maybe they should take things slow. Ollie agreed and let him under her top and inside her knickers with his hand, but nothing else would happen. She was excited and felt good, but also relieved as she didn't want to disappoint him. They cuddled and talked for a little while. She chittered, and he put his scarf around her to keep her warm. Small talk only. But Ollie felt warm and could have lived forever there in his arms. She felt safe. But soon he had to leave.

They soon went back to the car.

'Do you want a lift back?' Ollie wanted nothing more than to talk to her friends about her night.

'No, it's OK. I'm going to pop into Helen's on the way back'

'You sure?'

'Yeah. I’ll be fine.'

'OK', Simon kissed her cheek and looked her in the eyes. 'Well, I'll see you soon'. He winked at her as he made his way to the driver’s seat.

She wanted him to embrace her again, but that would have to wait and, as she waved him off, she looked in her schoolbag for her mobile. As she rummaged in her bag she was unaware of someone approaching.

'Hello Ollie', the familiar female voice spoke to her as Simon's car veered off to the right and out of sight.

'Oh hello', Ollie was nervous and held her illuminated telephone in her hand having identified the person as Pamela Watters.

'I think we need to have a little talk, don't you?'

12

Ian Ingram stepped out of the courtroom door and the low winter sun shone right across him. A tear appeared in the corner of his eye. He left it there as he breathed in some air. Fresh and free.

A microphone had been set up in the corner of the platform. Photographers called for him to look at them. 'Mr Ingram, how do you feel about your release?' was asked in various guises. 'Can you tell us what you think of Aidrian Burgess and Bob Reilly who helped you out'. He would answer no questions, he was no celebrity and only wanted this stage for his Ollie. His angel.

'Eighteen months ago I was sitting talking to my daughter about her school work. Twelve months ago I found my daughter, and the body of a man who appeared to have killed her, close to our home. Today I am free to re-enter society having spent a year of my life thinking only of the daughter who was so cruelly taken from me, my wife, her friends, our family. My crime is that I allowed myself to trust another and I have more than paid for my crime. My Olivia also paid for the same crime. Today I thank those people who helped me to clear my name. Friends of the innocent man who died the night I found the lifeless body of my wee girl. I thank them and apologise to them for what they also have had to go through.

Finally I want to say sorry.

Sorry, Olivia Jane Ingram,

For allowing the devil to come into our lives,

For letting evil take you away from us,

For letting a dark angel in to take you away.

That's all I have to say.'

13

The doorbell rang. Saturday morning.

Little Ellie bounced to the door.

‘Mum? It’s the Postie’

Monica was showered and sat staring at herself quite motionless in the dressing table mirror.

Today she would become Mrs Burgess.

‘It’s a parcel’, Ellie shouted up again.

‘OK, I’ll be there in a minute’

Aidrian was home again. Not now, he wasn’t at home right now, in fact he was at his mothers, spending his last night as a bachelor in his family home. But Mon and Aid had planned all this. The wedding planning and organization had taken up time and made Aid’s jail term pass quickly. And now the big day was here.

‘Mum? Can I wear my pink high heels?’

‘Ellie. Just wait. I’ll get you sorted in a minute.’ She was just as excited as her mum. Mon puffed out an anxious sigh. Not nervous, just anticipation for the overwhelming day that she faced and would remember for evermore. She stood up and walked out of the room.

CITV played from the TV on the kitchen unit, and Ellie danced on her seat as another boy-band shook their bums and sang an inoffensive tune. She’d be dancing to it later. Kettle on, mug out of the top cupboard. No need to rake for clothes. All new, apart from the borrowed and blue.

Now she spots the parcel. It is brown paper wrapped and unusual. It is intriguing. She is not nervous. Anxious maybe. Excited, certainly. She peels back the top paper layer, and exposes further layers below. She rips at it. Tears the paper until it is exposed.

Monica stares at a white box. It has a gold trim. It is unfamiliar. It is new to her. She opens it. Slowly the box contents emerge, and a small square card sits on top of the item. She opens the envelope. A card. A blank card that sits on top of a light blue band. A band of material, shaped like a hoop. A scarf? A strap? No, a garter.

Mon reads the card.

‘Miss you Mon. Sorry I’ve not been in touch. This is for you. Hope it brings you better times than it brought me. Something old for your big day. Love you guys, Emm. X’

Acknowledgements

With thanks to my family and friends who have always supported me.

Special thanks to my mum, Margaret, for correcting my grammar. Thanks also to my friends Paul and Ros who hosted the murder mystery night where this story was formed.

Last but not least a huge thank you to my wife Hilary. You may have to put up with me talking to you again in the evenings now this story is finished. But as you know, there are many more stories to be told.

Michael McBride can be contacted at

mikeandboys@tiscali.co.uk