TWENTY-EIGHT

Shona assured Harry that he would be welcome to stay with her as long as he needed to. But if, on the other hand, he and Chipchase felt safer quitting town…

'You lads had better do what you think is best. The polis don't always see past the ends of their noses. That Ferguson fellow struck me as all fast-track management training and no real experience. Somebody murdered Mr Dangerfield and they'll get away with it if it's left to the likes of him.'

'So, tell me,' said Chipchase, after Shona had taken herself off to bed, leaving the lads, as they were charmed to be described, to their late-night whisky. 'When do we leave?'

'I'm not sure. I want to speak to Erica if I can before we go. But she still hasn't phoned back. I've no address for her. Or any phone number other than her mobile. It's odd she hasn't called. I don't understand it.'

'Simple enough, Harry old cock. We've had our collars felt. We're unclean.'

'She wouldn't shun us.'

'Don't you believe it.'

'Well, I do believe it. And there it is.'

'Tried the phone book?'

'Ex-directory.'

'Aren't they always?'

'Hold on, though.' Harry jumped up and hurried out into the hall, where a battered copy of the Aberdeen phone book was stored on a shelf under the telephone. He grabbed it and returned to the sitting room.

'I thought you just said she isn't listed.'

'She isn't. But I'm hoping… Yes. Here he is. Starkie, Dr D. At least we can pay him a visit.'

'Starkie? You'll get nothing out of that old Dryasdust.'

'We'll see, won't we? At the very least, he can hardly deny knowing where Erica's to be found.'

'Yeah? Well, I suppose so. But just remember: the answer could be nowhere.'

—«»—«»—«»—

True to Chipchase's prediction, a night on Shona's sofa-bed was an experience not to be recommended, other than to someone with a keen interest in medieval torture instruments. To add interruption to likely injury, one of Harry's few spells of sleep was ended by the flinging open of the door. The hall light was on, initially blinding him. For a few seconds, he believed he was about to be set upon by the person or persons who had done for Dangerfield. Then, as his eyes adjusted, he saw a tall, spectacularly thin, grungily dressed young man, with long hair sprouting from beneath a condom-tight beanie hat, swaying in the doorway. Benjy he had to be.

'Who the fuck are you?' came the slurred question.

'Harry. A… friend of Barry's.'

'Harry and Barry. A regular fucking… rhyming couplet.'

'Didn't your mother mention me?'

'Who knows, man? Who cares? She can screw who she likes — and ask his mates round. It's… fuck all to me.' Benjy turned and stumbled off up the stairs, mumbling inaudibly as he went and conspicuously failing to turn off the light.

Harry struggled out of the pitiless embrace of the sofa-bed, staggered into the hall and flicked the light switch off, then staggered back into the sitting room, slamming the door shut behind him and savouring the thought that Benjy might meet with an accident on the suddenly darkened stairs. But, though accident there was imminently to be, Benjy was not the victim.

—«»—«»—«»—

'Why are you limping, Harry old cock?' Chipchase enquired as they left Shona's house next morning and headed for her car, which she had generously said they could borrow. 'All this running around getting to you, is it? Can't say I'm surprised. If they had MOTs for humans, you'd need a lot of work in the body shop even to scrape a pass.'

'Since you ask, I bashed my knee on the TV stand when I got up in the night.'

'Ah. The old bladder can't manage eight hours' kip without a toddle to the lav, hey? It's a bugger, isn't it, living past your prime?'

'You're chirpy, I must say.' Harry could not help wondering if Chipchase's cheery mood had anything to do with Shona, Benjy having succeeded in planting a suspicion in his mind that their relationship might be closer than he had supposed.

'Don't worry,' said Chipchase with eerie ambiguity as he flung the passenger door open for Harry. 'It won't last.'

—«»—«»—«»—

They started away, heading for the bridge over the Dee. Harry was on the point of describing his nocturnal encounter with Benjy, minus a few conversational details, when Chipchase asked, 'Why didn't you phone Starkie before we left to make sure he'd be in?'

'To be honest, I thought he might make some excuse not to see us.'

'Give us the cold shoulder, like Erica?'

'I just didn't want to give him the chance.'

'But we could find he's simply not at home.'

'He doesn't strike me as the type to stray far.'

'Are you saying we might have to lie in wait for him?'

'It's possible, I suppose.'

'Great. That should make for a really exciting day.'

—«»—«»—«»—

Starkie's address was a ground-floor flat in a converted Georgian house in Old Aberdeen, close to the University, where cobbled quadrangles and ancient college buildings preserved an Oxbridgian atmosphere of studious separateness.

There was no response to several rings on Starkie's bell and a squint through his window revealed many signs of him — a disorderly desk, books and magazines piled here and there, a glass on a side-table with what looked like whisky still in it — but not so much as a glimpse of the man himself.

Chipchase was in the midst of a semi-serious suggestion that they try the post office, in case it was the good doc's pension day, when the front door was flung open by a plump, pinch-faced woman of indeterminate age, trussed up in a raincoat and headscarf (though it was neither raining nor blowing a gale), who gave them a thin, cautious smile as she emerged, carefully closing the door behind her.

'Is it Dr Starkie you're after?'

'It is,' said Harry, smiling ingratiatingly.

'He's no in.'

'Apparently not. We, er, met him at the weekend and, er…'

'At the Kilveen do?'

'Oh, he mentioned it, did he?'

'Aye. He did.'

'So, where do you, er, think he might…'

'You're out of luck, I'm afraid. He had to go away.'

'Away?'

'His sister died. Down south, somewhere. Manchester, I believe. It was awful sudden.'

Harry cast a wide-eyed look of sickened astonishment at Chipchase, who responded in kind.

'Did you know the lady?'

'No. Er… We didn't.'

'Only you look upset.'

'You could say we are.'

'Och, well, I'm sorry, but there it is. I must be about my business.'

'Sure.' As she moved past them a thought struck Harry — half hopeful, half despairing. 'Oh, by the way…'

'Aye?' She turned back and looked at him.

'I wonder if you know a former pupil of Dr Starkie's. She's probably visited him here. Erica Rawson.'

'No. I canna say I do.'

'She teaches at the University.'

'Rawson, you say?'

'Yes. In the Psychology Department.'

'I don't think so.'

'Sorry?'

'There's no-one of that name on the academic staff.'

This could not be, Harry told himself. This was not possible. 'How can you be… so sure?'

'I work part-time in the University office. There's definitely no Rawson on the payroll. I can tell you that for a fact.'

'But…'

'You're sure you're thinking of Aberdeen University? People get confused since they upgraded the old Institute of Technology. Though I doubt that has a psychology department.'

'I'm positive. Aberdeen.'

'Some misunderstanding, then.'

'Some sort. Yes.'

'Sorry I can't be more helpful.'

'That's all right. Actually, you've been very helpful. Thanks.'

'You're welcome. Goodbye now.'

"Bye.'

—«»—«»—«»—

They watched her walk away along the street. A few moments of reflective silence passed. Then Chipchase cleared his throat. 'Ever been had, Harry old cock?' he enquired lugubriously.