Fenton's Winter (13 page)

Charles Tyson was as shocked as
Fenton had been when he heard the news.

"Jenny needs a lawyer," said
Fenton "I wondered if perhaps you could recommend anyone?"

"Of course," said Tyson,
opening his address book. "Phone this firm." He copied down a name
and a telephone number on to a piece of scrap paper and handed it
to Fenton. Fenton thanked him and said that he would keep him
informed of developments. He returned to his own lab and dialled
the number. They would send someone round to the police
station.

Fenton found that lack of
information was the main obstacle to his coming to terms with the
situation. Jenny had said that Jamie was dead but he had to know
more, he had to find out when, where and how and that might be
difficult in the circumstances. The circumstances were that
Fenton's contacts with Jenny's family were few and far
between...and not that cordial. Her sisters-in-law regarded Jenny
as something of a scarlet woman for living in sin, as they saw it.
Her brothers, although a little more tolerant of the situation than
their wives, did not have much time for a man who did not work with
his hands and, therefore, did not conform to their notion of what a
real man should be. He had detected a certain coolness in Grant
Buchan when he had met him briefly the week before. But there was
no alternative, Fenton decided. He would have to phone the Buchans;
the number would be in Jenny's address book in the flat.

Fenton grounded the near-side
foot rest as he swung the Honda out of the hospital grounds and on
to the main road. The lurch from the machine served as a timely
warning to him that he would be no good to Jenny dead. He forcible
restrained himself and bit the bullet at every set of traffic
lights.

The phone seemed to ring for
ages before a woman with a strong north-east accent answered and
Fenton said who he was. There was a silence then the receiver was
put down, but not on its rest, on a wooden table by the sound of
it, thought Fenton. A few moment later a man said, "Yes, what is
it?"

Fenton recognised the voice as
that of Grant Buchan. "Grant? I'm phoning to say how desperately
sorry I am about Jamie. But something awful has now happened down
here. They're holding Jenny in connection with Jamie's death!"

The expected outburst did not
happen. Instead, Buchan said, "I see."

"What do you mean, you see?"
Fenton exploded. "Did you hear what I said? The police are holding
Jenny! They think she had something to do with Jamie's death!"

Buchan was unmoved by Fenton's
outburst. He sounded as if he was under some kind of sedation as he
said, "My boy cut himself playing down by the harbour. By the time
he had covered fifty yards he was dead, every drop of his blood was
on the stones, I can still see it in the cracks, it won't wash
away.

Fenton felt the man's agony, he
rubbed his hand on his forehead and said softly, "I'm sorry,
believe me, I know what it's like to lose a child, but you must see
that some awful mistake has been made. No one in their right mind
could think that Jenny was a murderer."

After a long pause Buchan said,
"No but my son died because his blood wouldn't clot. He had been
poisoned with anti...anti..."

"Anti-coagulants."

"Anti-coagulants. The method
used by the Princess Mary Slayer."

Fenton winced at the tabloid
jargon.

Buchan continued, "My laddie
was never anywhere near the Princess Mary Hospital but Jenny works
there and we stayed with Jenny when we were in Edinburgh."

"You can't seriously believe
that Jenny had anything to do..." Fenton broke off in mid-sentence.
"It's crazy!" he protested. "The thought of Jenny being involved is
just too ridiculous for words!"

"People get sick some
time...sick in their heads."

"No way," said Fenton
decisively. "Jenny is not sick. Jenny is the sweetest, nicest,
sanest person who ever lived. She did not kill Jamie; she did not
kill anyone else. Let's get that straight!"

There was silence from
Buchan.

Fenton was filled with the
frustration. "Look Grant," he said, "We can't talk properly over
the phone, I'm coming up there."

"I don't think that's a very
good idea..." began Buchan.

"I'm coming," said Fenton and
put the phone down. He thought for a moment before picking it up
again and dialling the lawyer's office. Yes, their Mr Bainbridge
was still at the police station and no, they did not have any
further information.

Fenton paced up and down the
flat like a caged tiger, he opened the drinks cupboard then closed
it again without taking anything out.That wasn't what he needed. He
opened another cupboard and took out his running shoes.

The pavements were wet but the
wind had dropped as Fenton pounded out the first mile at a pace
designed to replace tension with physical pain. Every time he found
his mind straying to thoughts of the police or Grant Buchan he
would lengthen his stride till the surge of anger was quelled
inside him. By the end of the third mile his mind was calm and he
had become more relaxed. He slowed to an easy jog and thought about
what he was going to do.

He had told Grant Buchan that
he was coming up to Morayshire but was that really the right thing
to do? he wondered. What good could come of it? What could he hope
to find out? A sudden gust of wind caught the bare branches of the
trees above him and made giant raindrops fall like diamonds under
the street lights. Several hit him on the face making him wipe them
away with the back of his hand. He moved off the pavement to avoid
running directly beneath them. The answer! That was what he could
hope to find out. Jamie Buchan's death must hold the key to the
whole affair. There must be a link between Jamie and the Princess
Mary. The police thought that Jenny was that link but he knew that
she was not. Find it and he would have the answer to the whole
nightmare. The sweat was trickling freely down his neck as he
turned for home.

Fenton lay awake in the
darkness watching the reflection of raindrops on the ceiling of the
bedroom. The run had pleasantly stretched his muscles and the bath
had relaxed him but the flat was so empty and lonely without Jenny.
Where was she now? What were they doing to her? The police would
not give out anything other than the clockwork statement that they
were still holding her. Sleep was out of the question and he still
had a long night ahead of him before travelling north... But did
he? Fenton saw the alternative. He could leave right away! If he
rode through the night he could be there by morning. That would be
better than lying brooding in the darkness. He dressed quickly,
donned his leathers, and collected a few odds and ends and tip-toed
downstairs to rock the Honda off its stand.

Fenton kept the revs to a
minimum as he turned in and out of the streets of Comely Bank at
two in the morning for he had no wish to disturb the sleeping
citizenry. He pulled out on to the main Queensferry road and headed
for the Forth Bridge and the motorway.

Fenton closed the throttle for
the first time to negotiate the toll barrier at the South end of
the bridge. The man in the booth raised the boom without comment
while high up on top of the main towers red lights flashed at
intervals to warn aircraft of their presence. Far below lay the
dark waters of the Forth.

Fenton could feel the
temperature dropping as reached the north shore and entered Fife.
The wind sought out every weakness in his clothing as he pointed
the Honda towards Perthshire.

An alarming numbness in his
hands brought him to a halt at a service station at the head of the
M9 motorway which spilled out inviting yellow light on to the wet
tarmac. He went directly to the men's room and filled up a basin
with warm water, resting his hands in it as it filled. He cupped
them and bathed his face slowly, gasping involuntarily as the warm
water soothed his raw skin.

"It's no' much o' a night fur
the bike," said a lorry driver behind him, noting Fenton's
leathers.

"You're right," said Fenton,
continuing his love affair with the basin.

"They're a'right in summer they
things," said the man.

Fenton grunted in reply and
began to dab his face dry with a succession of coarse paper towels.
He caught a glimpse in the mirror of his companion, short, round
and dressed in green bib overalls with a company logo which he
failed to read backwards.

A largely one sided
conversation continued over tea and bacon sandwiches, the driver
having followed Fenton to the table and sat down beside him. In the
circumstances it had seemed the natural thing for him to do for
they were the only two customers in the place.

They both turned to look out of
the window as an articulated lorry lumbered into the car park
outside. The arrival of new custom prompted the man behind the
counter to turn on the juke box and fill the place with electric
noise. The bass notes made the salt cellar vibrate on the red
Formica table.

The grey morning light was highlighting the white tops of the
waves as Fenton reached Buchan Ness and stopped to rest his aching
limbs. He coaxed the Honda off the winding road and paddled it with
his feet over a stretch of shingle to lean it against the petrified
stump of some long dead tree. It made contracting metal sounds as
he walked stiffly over the scree to reach the water's edge and
stretch his arms up to the colourless sky. He picked up a handful
of pebbles and threw them aimlessly into the rough water as
seagulls screamed overhead in protest against the intruder. It was
a cold, grey world, he decided and thoughts about the day ahead
held nothing at all to colour that view.

The road traced the edge of the
shore and wound between trees that were naked after a winter of
rape by winds howling in off the North Sea. Fenton was relieved
when the barren monotony of the landscape was broken by a neon sign
advertising a transport cafe, open to service the early morning
fish trade. He swung off the road and followed the arrows.

The tea was hot and sweet and
Fenton felt it travel all the way down to his stomach, making him
think of sword swallowers. He rubbed the back of his neck where the
leather had been chafing and kneaded the backs of his thighs which
were threatening cramp.

The road turned inland to cut
across a stretch of barren headland and Fenton had to stop and
check his map as he came to a junction with no sign posting. He
made his decision and turned right to find himself, after a few
minutes, heading towards the sea again. He stopped as he came to
the top of a hill and looked down on the village where the Buchans
lived. Pulling off a glove, he took a card from his top pocket and
checked the address on it, 8, Harbour Wynd.

He let the bike free wheel
silently down the hill and brought it to a halt on the cobblestones
in front of the harbour. He let his foot rest on a pile of fish
boxes while he looked down at the smooth oily surface of the water
as it rose and fell against the slimy green stonework.

Three lanes radiated out from
the hub of the harbour; one of them was Harbour Wynd. Fenton put
the Honda up on its stand and walked slowly up over the cobbles to
find number eight. He found the heavy brass knocker surprisingly
muted by the thickness of the door.

"Oh it's you," said Grant
Buchan with no trace of pleasure in his voice, "I suppose you had
better come in." Fenton had expected no better.

"Who is it?" cried a woman's
voice.

"It's Jenny's..." Buchan's
voice trailed off as he sought a suitable description.

"Fancy man," said the frosty
faced woman who emerged from the kitchen to dry her hands on her
apron.

Fenton's heart sank. He had
only met Grant's wife once before and that had been when the whole
family had been together. He remembered that she had maintained an
air of prim disapproval throughout the entire meeting. Mona Buchan
stood in the doorway like an angel of the Lord, hair tied back
severely in a bun, the shapeless cardigan buttoned up to the neck,
eyes shining with self righteousness from a fair skinned face that
had never known make-up.

"I'm very sorry about your son
Mrs Buchan," said Fenton ignoring the jibe.

"What do you want here?" hissed
Mona Buchan. "Haven't you and that...that..."

Grant Buchan stopped the
situation getting out of hand. He put his arm around his wife's
shoulders and said, "Easy woman, make us all some tea eh?"

Mona Buchan disappeared into
the kitchen. "I'm sorry," said Buchan, "She's very upset."

"I understand," said Fenton,
sitting down where Buchan indicated.

"But she's right. I can't see
why you came here either," said Buchan.

"Because the answer is here! It
must be. Jenny did not kill your boy. You must know that? The idea
is just too ridiculous for words." Fenton looked hard at Buchan who
held his gaze for a moment then he sighed and looked away. "I just
can't think straight any more..."

Mona Buchan brought in the tea.
She clattered the tray down with bad grace and turned on her heel.
"I'm afraid I have work to be getting on with," she announced. The
kitchen door closed again and Buchan continued, "But why should the
killer pick on Jamie? It just doesn't make any sense."

"I know," said Fenton softly,
"I think Jenny must have been the unwitting link between the killer
and your boy. That's what we have to find out."

"What do you want me to do?"
asked Grant.

"Tell me everything you did in
Edinburgh, everyone you met, everywhere you went."

Fenton took notes as Buchan
spoke, not that there was much to record, a fact which made him
more and more depressed as time went by. The Buchans had gone from
the train to the flat, from the flat to the clinic and from the
clinic to the train. They appeared to have met no one save for the
staff at the clinic but the fact remained that at sometime during
these twenty-four hours Jamie Buchan had been poisoned so that a
week later the blood would drain from his body to leave him a pale
corpse on the cobblestones of his own village. If the answer did
lie in the brief notes in front of him Fenton could not see it.
"Did anyone give him sweets?" he asked.