So Much Blood (19 page)

There was no question in the police's mind of investigating anyone but Martin. Like the Laird, they reckoned that his behaviour was suspicious and, unlike Charles, they were not held up by vague woolly liberal notions that the boy was misunderstood and must have other explanations for his actions. Charles felt as he had in Oxford when, after an elaborate midnight climb back into college over walls, across roofs, down drainpipes and through dons' bedrooms, he had discovered that the main gate was open.

He also felt rather out of it, though at the centre of operations. At least on his own abortive investigations he could maintain the illusion of doing something important in his own right. Here at the police headquarters he was just a source of information, politely asked to wait, filed for reference when necessary. They were interested in what he knew, not what he thought.

So rather than stage-managing dramatic denouements himself, he found out at second hand what had happened. The search at Nicholson Street had provided plenty of evidence to convict Martin. It was a positive bomb factory, chemicals and components scattered around on tables without any attempt at concealment. There was also an unpleasant collection of knives and other weapons, including a meat cleaver. The boy's fantasies of violence took a disturbingly tangible form.

What the police did not find at the flat was Martin Warburton himself. And, though they found a bottle of spirit gum substitute and a brush, there was no sign of his false beard or glasses. So it was possible that he was somewhere in Edinburgh in his disguise.

They tried the obvious places, which were Coates Gardens and the Masonic Hall, but he was not at either. Apparently he had left the theatre after a disagreement with Plug over some lighting effect. That was shortly before three, and nobody had seen him since.

The case had changed from a whodunnit to a manhunt.

Charles was thanked courteously for his co-operation by the police and asked to keep them informed of where he would be contactable if he left Edinburgh.

It was then about seven o'clock. Frances, he knew, had got a ticket for the Scottish Opera's
Alceste
at the King's Theatre. Denied her calming therapy for his shattered nerves, he saw no reason to change his plans of earlier in the day, and got drunk.

At the Police Headquarters James Milne and Charles had arranged to meet for coffee in the flat the next morning to talk through what had happened. Charles had found the truth of Dr Johnson's dictum about the proximity of death concentrating a man's mind wonderfully, and regained his flagging interest in the case.

About eleven on the Sunday he arrived at Coates Gardens. ‘Do you mind if I have something a bit stronger than coffee?'

‘Still in a state of shock? So am I.'

‘Well, mine's only an indirect state of shock, James. I was so shocked yesterday that I had to have a great deal to drink for medical reasons. That's why I need something stronger now. Hair of the dog.'

The Laird chuckled and reached for the malt whisky bottle. ‘Well,' he said when they were sitting and the first gulp was irrigating Charles' dehydrated head, ‘it seems that I was on the right track.'

‘About Martin?'

‘Yes.'

‘Hmm. Of course, I knew there was something wrong with him right from the start. Now I come to think of it, the first night I was here, I heard someone crying in the bathroom—I'm sure it was him. Obviously in the throes of a nervous breakdown. A schizoid condition, aggravated by overwork for his finals.'

‘All work and no play . . .'

‘Makes Jack a nutter, yes.'

‘“Much study had made him very lean . . .”'

‘“And pale and leaden-eyed.”' Charles completed the quotation automatically without thinking. Martin's case seemed more relevant than literary games. ‘What surprised me was that all his fantasies manifested themselves in a real way. Usually with that type all the action's in their minds.'

‘Not, it seems, in this case, Charles.'

‘No.' He paused for a moment, ruefully. ‘Poor kid. He was so mixed up. He seemed so much the obvious suspect that I never really considered him.' He laughed. ‘I must get a less subjective view of criminals.'

‘What do you mean?'

‘Look at me—on this case I miss out the obvious solution just because Martin's someone I like and feel sympathy for. Instead I go off into wild suspicions of more or less everyone else I meet.' The atmosphere between them was friendly enough for a confession. ‘Do you know, I even suspected you at one point.'

‘Really? Why?'

‘God knows. My mind wasn't working very well. I suspected everybody. Still, even if we didn't know about Martin's bomb factory, I think I'd have to cross you off my list now. The average murderer doesn't deliberately try to get himself blown up.'

‘No.' They laughed.

Then Charles sighed. ‘I wish I'd got it all a bit more sorted out in my mind. I mean, it's now clear that Martin planted the bomb, and presumably planned Willy's death as well, but I still don't see exactly why.'

‘He was unbalanced.'

‘Yes, but . . . I don't know. I suppose I've got a tidy mind, but I'd like to find some sort of method in his madness, some logical sequence.

‘What about the Mary, Queen of Scots thing I suggested a few days ago?'

‘That would explain the Mariello stabbing, I suppose. Willy was playing Rizzio, so there might be some identification there, but what about the bomb?'

‘Darnley was blown up with gunpowder, Charles.'

‘Was he? Good God.'

‘Yes, I'm sure he was. At the instigation of Bothwell, as I recall.'

‘Bothwell? But that's who Martin's playing in
Mary, Queen of Sots
. And . . . yes . . . he talked to me once about how easy it was to identify with people from history.'

‘There you are then.'

‘Let's work it out. He's in this show about Mary, Queen of Scots and gets obsessively involved with her life . . .'

‘A life surrounded by intrigue and murder.'

‘Exactly. He identifies with Bothwell and—I say, it's just struck me. I bet there's a portrait of Bothwell in the Scottish National Portrait Gallery.'

The Laird nodded excitedly. ‘There is. It's a miniature. And it's the only extant picture of him.'

‘Yes.' Charles pieced it together slowly. ‘Right. Martin identifies so completely that, in his confused mind, he becomes Bothwell and Sam Wasserman's awful play becomes reality. And that reality suits his existing obsessions about violence.'

‘So Rizzio has to be stabbed. Willy Mariello doesn't exist for Martin; he actually is David Rizzio. And Martin must have said something that made Willy afraid of him, which explains what Willy told me in the Truth Game. By a stroke of luck, the stabbing looks like an accident, and so Martin is free to plan his next murder, that of Darnley . . .' His racing thoughts were suddenly brought up short. ‘But that's strange. If he was living the reality of the play, why did he identify me with Darnley and not the bloke who's actually playing the part?'

‘Perhaps he was just getting a bit confused,' the Laird offered.

‘That's a bit lame. I'm sure if the obsession's as complicated as it seems to be, there must be some logic behind it, some sort of crazy justification for his action.'

‘You don't think there's anything missing in the historical Mary story?'

‘I don't know. What happened to Bothwell in the end?'

‘I think he died in prison. Insane.'

Charles smiled grimly. ‘I'm afraid that part of the identification could be horribly apt too. No, there's something we're missing. Why does he turn on me as Darnley?'

‘Because he thinks you're on his trail?'

‘Doesn't really fit the historical obsession bit. Unless . . .' The solution flashed into his mind. ‘Good God! Anna!'

‘What?'

‘Anna Duncan. She's playing Mary. And Willy Mariello had an affair with her. Martin must have seen them together and killed him out of jealousy. And then me. He saw us together downstairs a couple of days ago.'

‘You and Anna?'

Charles felt himself blushing, but the picture was developing too quickly for him to be discreet. ‘Yes, we were having an affair, and after he saw us together, he started to identify me with Darnley. So I had to be blown up.'

‘Leaving Anna to him?'

‘I suppose so. But don't you see, James, this may give us a lead on what he's likely to do next.'

‘Why?'

‘Who's the next person to be murdered in the Mary, Queen of Scots saga?'

The Laird pondered with infuriating slowness. ‘Well, I think actual murders are a bit thin on the ground after Darnley. There are plots and battles, but I don't think any more major figures were actually murdered.'

‘None at all?'

‘No. Well, not until Mary herself had her head cut off. There are a lot of Scots who still regard that as a murder.'

Charles sprang to his feet with a feeling of nausea in his throat. ‘No! I must get to the Lawnmarket.' All he could think of was the fact that among other weapons in the Nicholson Street flat the police had found a meat cleaver.

He was so relieved to see Anna open the door of the flat that it took a moment before he realised the situation's inherent awkwardness. She looked at him and the Laird without emotion. ‘Good morning.'

Urgency overcame Charles' embarrassment. ‘Have you seen Martin?'

‘Yes.'

‘What, here?'

‘Yes, he was here.'

‘When?'

‘He left about half an hour ago.'

‘And how long had he been here?'

A hard look came into the navy blue eyes. ‘Listen, if you're playing another of your elaborate games—'

‘I'm not. This is serious. We've got to find Martin. He's in a dangerous state.'

‘Certainly in a strange state. He was babbling on about the police being after him or something.'

‘That's true.'

‘Why?'

‘They want him for the murder of Willy Mariello and the attempted murder of Charles Paris.'

Her mouth fell open and an expression of frozen horror came over her face. Charles realised it was the first spontaneous reaction he had ever seen from her.

‘Where is he now?'

‘I don't know, Charles. He came here last night in an awful state and begged to stay. I thought he was mad, so I didn't argue.'

‘Just as well. I think you were next on his list.'

‘What?' She started to cry with shock, and looked human and ugly. But Charles did not have time to notice. ‘Have you any idea where he was going?'

‘No, but he was dressed up.'

‘Disguised?'

‘Yes. I thought he was joking when he suggested it, but he was so fierce and insistent that I let him have the stuff.'

‘What stuff?'

‘A smock and a handbag of mine. And a curly dark wig I've got. And my sunglasses.'

‘He was wearing all that when he left?'

‘Yes.'

‘Thank you.' He turned to rush away.

‘Charles?' she whispered.

‘Yes.'

‘Do you think he really might have murdered me?'

‘Yes, Anna. I do.'

As he ran down the steps from Lady Stair's Close towards Waverley Station, he knew it was a long chance, but he could not think of anywhere else to go. If Martin wanted to get out of Edinburgh, that was the quickest way. Charles had a feeling that there was a London train at two o'clock. In twenty minutes.

The cold sweaty feeling of his hangover mixed with the hot sweaty feeling of running. Ambling tourists turned bewildered faces towards the middle-aged man pelting down the road in the calm of a Sunday afternoon. James Milne was a long way behind him, doing the ungainly penguin run of a man with things in his pockets.

Charles sped down the taxi-ramp into Waverley Station and halted in the sudden cool shade, gasping to get his breath. Then he moved slowly towards Platform 1/19 where the London train would leave. It had not yet arrived.

He stalked along the railings that ran the length of the platform and peered through at the passengers, who stood waiting with their luggage. They all looked extremely ordinary. He walked on. The women were very womanly.

He stopped and looked at one back view again. The clothes were right. Red smock, blue jeans, curly hair, handbag dangling casually from one hand. It must be.

But he hesitated. There was something so feminine about the stance. And no trace of anxiety.

But it must be. Martin's chameleon-like ability to take on another personality would enable him to stand differently, to think himself so much into the part that he was a woman. Any actor could do it to a degree and a psychopath could do it completely.

Charles moved with organised stealth. He bought a platform ticket and walked through the barrier. Then he advanced slowly towards the ‘woman'. People peered along the line and started to gather up their luggage. The train was coming. He quickened his pace.

He was standing just behind his quarry when the train slid protesting into the station. Even close to, the figure looked womanly. Charles waited a moment; he did not want to risk a suicide under the oncoming wheels. But as the passing windows slowed to a halt, he stepped forward. The curly head was close to his face. ‘Martin,' he said firmly.

The violence of the blow on his chest took him by surprise. He had time to register the skill of the boy's make-up as he fell over backwards.

The shove winded him and it was a moment before he could pick himself up again. By that time Martin had charged the barrier and was rushing through the dazed crowd in the main station. Charles set off in gasping pursuit.

The boy was at least two hundred yards ahead when Charles emerged into the sunlight, and running up the hill which the older man had just descended. Martin was young and fit and moving with the pace of desperation. Charles was hopelessly out of condition on the steep gradient and could feel the gap between them widening.