Murder in Adland (26 page)

‘Aye
– it’s a treasure hunt.’  DS Findlay glances over the rim of his
reading glasses at his two colleagues.  ‘These are clues, see.’

‘We
know
that, Cam!’  Skelgill sounds uncharacteristically exasperated.  ‘We
need you to decipher them.’

DS Findlay
takes a second look, muttering under his breath as he reads.  He pats the
papers with the back of his hand.

‘This is
gobbledegook, Danny.’

Skelgill
lets out a hiss of frustration – but DS Findlay cannot be blamed. 
He might have a good knowledge of Edinburgh, but he cannot be expected to
understand the cryptic clues.  The three of them now pore over the first
page – DS Jones leaning forward from the back seat, and Skelgill and DS
Findlay in the front.  Rain drums on the roof of the car and streams down
the windscreen.  Inside, the glass is steamed up all around them. 
Skelgill wrings his hands.

‘We need to
get ahead of the first group – then we can intercept the lot of them.’

DS Jones
points to the top of the page.

‘Look
– it’s supposed to last about two hours – it says they start
getting penalty points if they take longer – so they’re probably not even
halfway yet.’

‘So where’s
halfway?’

DS Findlay
turns the page.  There are twenty clues in all.  He jabs a sturdy
index finger at item number eleven.

‘What about
this?’  He reads aloud the clue:

“
At the
pretty crossing below the weir, how many flags fly on the castle – my
deer?”

DS Jones is
first to comment.

‘Think
that’s a typo?  Deer spelt with two e’s?’

They shake
their heads uncertainly.  Now Skelgill pipes up.

‘The
weir
,
Cam – how many rivers are there in Edinburgh?’

‘Just the
Water of Leith – and it’s not far fae here – barely five minutes’
walk down to Stockbridge.’

‘What about
a weir?’

‘There are
several – all the city’s flour mills used to be water-powered – so
they needed the weirs to build up a head of water – then that would feed
into the lades that served the mills.’

‘Aye, aye
– okay.’  Skelgill’s patience is tested.  ‘We need the one upstream
of the
“pretty crossing”
– what does that mean?’

DS Findlay
shakes his head.

‘Dinnae ken
– I’ve never heard of it.’

‘I know
that, Cam – it’s disguised – but it must ring some bell –
come on Cam, think!’

‘Well
–
“crossing”
must mean bridge – the most spectacular one’s
the Dean Bridge.  And you can probably see the castle fae there.’

‘Okay
– let’s try that.’

They fasten
seatbelts and DS Findlay sets his jaw determinedly.  He employs his local
knowledge to avoid the shopper-traffic on Queen Street, and instead takes a
winding, sliding route over the cobbles through Royal Circus, crossing the
Water of Leith at India Place, giving them a glimpse of the rushing burn,
stained brown by the flood, rippling urgently through the heart of the old
city.  At Dean Bridge, Telford’s great sandstone viaduct that soars twelve
stories above the water, DS Findlay bumps the car halfway up onto the high
kerb.  DS Jones volunteers to jump out to perform a reconnaissance.

‘Under your
seat – there’s an umbrella.’

She heeds
DS Findlay’s offer – it proves to be a sturdy golf umbrella with a tartan
pattern.  She peers over the parapet, and looks all around.  Then she
jogs a little way beyond the city end of the bridge, before returning to the
car.

‘I can’t see
anything, Guv – no sign of them – and nothing to fit with the clue
– you can’t see the castle – even from beyond the bridge.’

DS Findlay
is knitting his brows.

‘There’s
another bridge – much older.’  He gestures across in an upstream
direction.  ‘There’s a wee lane to it – Bell’s Brae – just
past the end here.  You might call it pretty.’

Skelgill
nods his assent.

DS
Findlay’s next couple of manoeuvres are not taken from the Police Driving Handbook,
and earn him reproachful honks from affronted motorists whose path he illegally
crosses.

‘Aye
– up yer erse.’

Skelgill
grins, happy at least to see his colleague getting into the spirit of
things.  He knows that once DS Findlay is roused, he is a man you would
want on your side.  The route takes them bumping down more slippery cobbles,
a steep and narrow causeway that leads into the Dean Village, the historic
community improbably crammed into the gorge.  This bridge, low and rugged,
is of an altogether more rudimentary construction, and is only wide enough for
one vehicle at a time to pass.  They halt just before it.

‘Thing is,
Danny – there’s no way of seeing the castle fae down here.’

‘What if
it’s not
the
castle?’

This
suggestion comes from DS Jones.  DS Findlay shakes his head doubtfully.

‘But there
isnae another castle – we’ve only got the one.’

Skelgill is
looking at the buildings around them – more akin to the Old Town, their
stones appear hand-hewn and irregular.  The planked door of a seventeenth
century portal swings open, and a young woman wearing a short fur coat and
leather trousers makes a high-heeled dash for a silver 4X4 parked nearby.

‘What’s on
your mind, Danny?’

Skelgill
furrows his brow, his eyes narrowing.

‘High
bridges – deep waters – I don’t like it, Cam.’

DS Findlay
nods.

‘Aye
– we get the odd jumper.’  He shakes his head.  ‘Mainly off the
Dean Bridge.’

Skelgill
seems to gather himself.

‘Okay
– they’re not here.  Where’s the next bridge?’

‘Next one’s
a wee footbridge – just by the old ford.  Couple of hundred yards
– you’ll see it if you get out here and look upstream.  That was the
way into the city before there were any bridges – you can see the cobbles
disappearing intae the water and coming back out the other side.’

‘Cameron.’ 
DS Jones’s voice suddenly sounds a note of optimism.  ‘You just said
ford
– what if crossing means ford?’

‘Aye
– could be.’

DS Jones
persists, her crossword-solving skills coming to the fore.

‘Is there a
pretty ford – a
scenic
ford – a
beautiful
ford
– a
belle
ford?’

‘Aye
– there’s
Belford
– that’s the name of the next main
bridge.  Aye – and now you mention it – it’s got these stone
coats of arms with the castle on it.  And there’s a weir just beyond it.’

Skelgill is
already tearing off his seatbelt and simultaneously wrenching open the door of
the car.

‘How do I
get there, Cam?’

‘Aye
– well – ye can go along beside the river – or we can just drive
round to the top – the road crosses by the old
Dragonara
–
the hotel.’

‘I remember
it – I did a gig there, once.’

Skelgill
slams shut the door, and DS Findlay has to lower the electric window to
complete the conversation; Skelgill is itching to run.

‘D’ye want
the brolly, Danny?’

‘It’ll slow
me down – I’ll meet you there – if you see any of their crowd, round
them up – keep them safe.’

And
Skelgill sprints away.

*

It takes
Skelgill a minute to get his bearings.  From Dean Path the riverside
walkway is accessed either via the footbridge to which DS Findlay referred, or
a small detour around an old Victorian school, now converted into
apartments.  Following his nose he takes the latter course, and finds
himself sliding down to the water’s edge where the ancient cobbled ford submerges. 
As he swings right to pass under the footbridge, he realises that the level has
risen above the path – but he plunges in and wades until the ground
rises.  Starting to jog again, the route now brings him past a huge weir,
ten feet high or more, its thunderous roar drowning out the hollow metallic
ring of his footsteps as he runs up the angled pontoon that forms the walkway
at this point.  In the maelstrom beneath the fall a mass of objects bob
and leap, trapped by the backwash – luminescent tennis balls, punctured
footballs, branches, an
Irn Bru
can.  Clumps of discoloured foam occasionally
break away and sail downstream.  He tops the weir and increases his pace
– now the footpath is almost level, a thin ribbon of slick tarmac that
winds beneath the stretched ashes and sycamores that inhabit this section of
the gorge, ivy-clad and straining to the heavens for light.  He rounds a
bend and suddenly comes upon a woman in a Mackintosh walking some kind of
doodle.  The woman steps back to let him pass, but the unfortunate dog
needs a haircut and its rain-soaked ringlets obscure its vision.  Skelgill
has to hurdle it – he mumbles an apology but does not break stride. 
What looks like a good ironing board sails past – as if to remind him of
a much-postponed task that awaits him back home – and an unopened charity
bag featuring a picture of a guy in a wheelchair, wearing a climbing helmet and
being precariously raised up a rock face.  For a second this image grabs
his attention – perhaps it feels like a portent of things to come.

And now he
comes upon Belford Bridge.  Though only half the height of the Dean Bridge,
it towers a good sixty feet above him – high enough for its parapet to
seem indistinct through the sheeting rain and the mist thrown up by the
succession of weirs.  Indeed, he can hear the roar of the next waterfall, obscured
by the great pier on his bank.  He slows to a walk, wiping with both hands
the rain and perspiration from his eyes and forehead.  Overhead, sure
enough, one on either side of the centre, there is a stone crest – an
heraldic representation of a castle, flanked by the figure of a woman and an
animal of uncertain genus – the deer, it must be.  On each of the
three turrets of the castle flies a pendant.  How many flags?  Answer:
three.  He has found the site of the clue.

But of a
living soul there is no sign.

To his
right a series of uneven steps held in place by cut lengths of railway sleeper
evidently leads to the road.  Up there, standing opposite, is the hotel
– though he knows there is also a river-level access beyond the bridge
– the establishment has a kind of pub attached – an old converted
granary, in fact – where
Against The Grain
once were booed off
stage.  He seems in two minds – now the walkway becomes a raised shelf
around the pier of the bridge.  If only to gain some shelter from the
downpour, he moves beneath the soaring arch.  His shirt is plastered to
him like a second skin.  The sound of the weir intensifies, yet as he
stands watching the river rush by a familiar Lakeland bird – a Dipper
– arrows upstream, its metallic
zzzit
penetrating the wall of
white-water noise from the weir.

Perhaps it
is this birdcall that sharpens his senses, for suddenly he stiffens. 
There is another sound – high-pitched, irregular, and plaintive. 
What was it he said to Ronald Macdonald – a damsel in distress?

*

And perhaps
curiously – given the circumstances – Skelgill tiptoes to the end
of the studded metal section of walkway and rounds the sharp angle of the
pier.  Nobody – nothing, in fact.  Immediately on his right,
set back about fifteen feet, is the rear of the hotel, its basement that comes
right down to river level.  From here it rises seven floors, the upper ones
overlooking the bridge itself and Belford Road.  Skelgill walks on a few
paces, his eyes narrowed as he listens.  Then suddenly he swings about
– the cry for help – for that is what it is – comes from
behind and above him!  Where the wall of the hotel meets that of the
bridge, a narrow chimney has been formed, by accident or design.  Open at
the front, it is faced with stone on its other three sides.  It is the
sort of feature over which rock climbers drool.  Except, near its top
– perhaps seven or eight feet below the parapet of the bridge – is
a figure who is clearly not a rock climber.  Indeed, it is Julia Rubicon.

Though she
is clad in the anonymous long black plastic rain cape supplied by the hotel,
one look at her great mass of tangled hair tells Skelgill her identity. 
And then – again – comes the cry in confirmation.  Her eyes
are screwed tightly shut – as though she cannot bear to look upon her
predicament – and her crimson nails are digging for all their worth into
a jutting stone above her head.  Her feet have the tiniest of footholds,
off which they keep slipping, one as soon as she replaces the other.  As a
startled Skelgill takes in the situation, he might well wonder by what miracle
she has not yet fallen.

‘Julia!’ 
He bellows with all of the air his lungs can muster.  ‘I’m coming for you
– hold on, lass!’

Rock climbing
has never been Skelgill’s bag.  A little cliquey for his liking –
and illogical to be looking
in
at the mountain when the view is
out
– he has nonetheless acquired the basic skills as part of his Mountain
Rescue training.  So it is with no hesitation that he springs to the foot
of the chimney and begins to ascend.