High above the city, Richard Richardson stood at the long window of his flat and gazed absently down at the early evening traffic heading out of the centre of town. He took in the familiar panorama for several minutes, looking but not seeing as the usual tailback of cars built up on the road bridge stretching over the river. Finally, he turned away.
First he went to his bedroom where he selected a fresh shirt and trousers. He dressed quickly and entered the room at the rear of the apartment which had been converted into an office. Sitting at his laptop, he moved his fingers rapidly across the keys, opening up a familiar internet site and accessing a life that existed only within the walls of the room and boundaries of his mind.
He remained hunched over the keyboard for almost an hour. For much of the time, he breathed normally but, when his fingers were at their most animated, he inhaled sharply and a small hammer beat out a quickening rhythm in his chest. Sometimes the saliva dried in his mouth but he was unaware that such a thing had occurred for he was not required to communicate vocally but with keystrokes. When the strokes became sensual, his breathing, like his desire, was urgent. His composure returned only after he had removed his hands from the scrambled alphabet of plastic letters to place them upon himself. His satisfaction invariably came swiftly.
That evening, the two women who sat at home computers in other towns sharing his silent conversations had no idea who their communicant had been. Like him, they also used assumed names to explore their fantasies.
When he had finished, the occupant of the top-floor flat on the slopes of the Law carefully closed the lid of the electronic box that stored his best and worst dreams and returned to the bedroom. He changed clothes again and walked back to the long window of the sitting room.
Once more Richard Richardson stood looking out over the city without absorbing much of what was before him.
After ten minutes had elapsed, he called Campbell McBride with the casual suggestion that, if he had no better way of spending his evening, they should meet a short time later in The Fort. McBride, who had been contemplating ringing Richardson, agreed with the same pretence of nonchalance.
When they met, their conversation was only briefly light-hearted. Richardson made a few desultory attempts at humour but gave up before he had finished his first drink. It was apparent the topic foremost in his mind was the death of Claire Bowman. McBride felt the same but hoped he was being less obvious.
‘How did things go in Aberdeen, then?’ Richardson asked, trying to make it sound like an afterthought. ‘Kate says you bumped into each other.’
McBride wondered if he was being uncharacteristically euphemistic but immediately dismissed the thought. When it came to discussing sex, Double Dick was never anything less than direct. He appeared not to know where his female reporter had spent the previous night – either that or he did not care.
Before McBride could respond, he launched forth, ‘Funny business by the sound of it.’
McBride assumed he meant the murder of Claire Bowman. He nodded in agreement and wondered just how much his drinking companion knew about the precise circumstances of the lecturer’s demise. ‘You could say that,’ he replied noncommittally. ‘It’s anybody’s guess what it was all about.’
Richardson drained his glass and called for another round. ‘I hear it was pretty messy,’ he said, looking directly into McBride’s face for a reaction. ‘A lot of blood, by all accounts.’
‘You’re well informed,’ McBride replied. ‘The cops weren’t saying much in Aberdeen. So, how did she die?’ He wanted to test the man seated next to him.
‘God knows. Stabbed, probably, if it was as bloody as some are making out.’ It was impossible to tell if Richardson was being disingenuous.
McBride said nothing but waited for the chief reporter of The Courier to continue.
Richardson stayed silent for a few moments before changing direction. ‘I was a bit surprised to hear you were up in Aberdeen, actually. Good to see we provincials still have the kind of murders to excite the hotshots from London.’ Coming from anyone else, it might have sounded like a compliment – from Richardson it was unquestionably sarcasm.
McBride shrugged it off. ‘Always happy to help the local press,’ he said.
Richardson did not smile or respond with a smart crack. Instead, he said quickly, ‘I’ll be happy to take you up on that. What about keeping me posted with anything decent you turn up? We won’t give you a byline but we’ll pay you … quite well.’
McBride laughed. ‘Sure you will. If memory serves, “quite well” is Courier code for a pittance. I’ll probably just about manage to survive without it.’
Richardson tried again. ‘OK, for old times’ sake, then?’
McBride made no attempt to keep his face straight. ‘Like that, is it? Desperation must be setting in.’
He was wondering how to get off the subject when John Black called out to him from behind the bar. ‘A friend of yours was asking for you a few nights ago,’ Black said, trying to sound mysterious. ‘Said her name was Carol.’
McBride looked blank.
Black paused, enjoying the thought of what he was about to say. ‘Well, she described as herself as “Christmas Carol”, to be exact.’
The memory of Christmas Eve and the soulless sex he had shared with the woman he met in the bar returned to McBride. It was the first time he had thought about their encounter since walking out of the home of the small blonde who wore too much make-up. Unexpectedly, he felt a small surge of affection for her, more than he had experienced at the time.
Black held up a piece of paper with her phone number on it.
McBride waved it away. ‘Give it to Richard,’ he said, jerking a thumb in the direction of Double Dick. ‘He looks as though he can do with it more than me.’
‘Arrogant bastard,’ Richardson said without smiling.
McBride deliberately turned his back to the bar so he would not see whether his old friend took the scrap of paper.