Eleven

Perched above the treetops on a hill of black volcanic rock rising above Princes Street, Ramsay Garden boasted enviable views and a central location by Edinburgh Castle. Town planner Patrick Geddes, who as a botanist had discovered chlorophyll in plants, had expanded on the original Scots Baronial design in the late nineteenth century, and nowadays the landmark cluster of red-roofed town homes, replete with whimsical towers, balconies, and half-timbered white gables, could fetch upwards of half a million pounds sterling apiece.

Rex had not been back here since visiting an old friend and erstwhile professor at the university, whose oriel window in the main reception room had looked upon the esplanade of the castle. They had sat at the window on long summer nights enjoying the stirring sound of bagpipes from the Royal Edinburgh Military Tattoo as men in kilts and bearskins marched in unison beneath the flood lights. Rex concluded Pruitt must be a highly successful stamp dealer to be able to afford a flat on prestigious Castlehill in spite of the adversity that had befallen him, justifiably or otherwise.

He parked his Mini Cooper in the residents’ courtyard and crossed to Pruitt’s block, burrowing his hands in the pockets of his camel hair coat. The weather had turned chilly with the onset of evening.

Finding the number he was looking for, he rang the bell and was immediately buzzed through to an internal stone stairway leading to a small terrace and a front door. It opened before he could knock and Pruitt, in a blue pullover and jeans, greeted him with a shake of the hand.

“Find the place all right?” he asked, ushering Rex inside a flat full of nooks and alcoves.

“Aye. I had a friend who lived around the corner. Redecorating, I see,” Rex commented upon noticing pictures missing from the wall in the hallway, which left behind hooks and ghostly shapes amid the framed glass cases of what Rex assumed were rare postage stamps, some of them crinkled and bearing smudged markings.

“Just switching some stuff around. You know how it is.” Pruitt showed him into the sitting room where one entire wall exhibited anthropological artefacts of warlike aspect, deadly spears and painted masks among them, from remote parts of the world. The man was obviously an avid and diverse collector.

“Where are these from?” Rex asked. “My friend collected such pieces.”

“Indonesia, New Guinea … Wherever I can find them.”

The remaining walls, of pale pearlescent grey crowned with crisp white moulding, gave the space a sophisticated and airy feel and offset the choice antiques to perfection. Rex could not but notice that his host looked out of place in it, his dress not as dapper as the décor, aside from the rings on his fingers, and he appeared to have put on weight since his arrest many years before.

Pruitt invited him to take the window seat, even though the shades were drawn over the view, and offered him whisky. Rex willingly accepted, saying a dram would warm him up nicely.

“Aye, winter will be upon us before we know it,” Pruitt said cheerily as he left the room.

Rex removed his coat and tartan scarf and placed them beside him. Pruitt returned shortly with the drinks on a tray. The gemstones on his pinkies drew Rex’s attention back to his fingers, thick and red as raw sausages. After serving him, Pruitt sat down on a striped silk Regency chair, separated from his guest by a midnight blue rug. The recessed lights in the ceiling were set low, the flat peacefully quiet and comfortably heated.

Rex took a generous sip of his single malt. “How is the stamp business these days?” he asked, commencing the topic of conversation he was here to pursue.

“Up and down,” Pruitt said. “A lot of foreign buyers.”

“I don’t know if I mentioned it on the phone, but one of the judge’s albums went missing from his daughter’s house. Not the one with your stamp in it. A new collection he had begun.”

Pruitt started in surprise at the mention of his stamp. “Oh, aye. Glad it’s still there. And how is the legal business these days?” he countered.

“Up and down,” Rex replied, and they both drank.

“Must be satisfying to help put criminals away,” Pruitt said, “And then be able to go home to dinner.”

“I can live with it so long as I’m convinced they’re guilty. Which wasn’t the case with you,” Rex hastened to add. “You were going to fill me in on your suspect in the April Showers murder in Skinner’s Close,” he prompted.

“Found in Skinner’s Close, not murdered there.”

“Right. You said you found the body. I don’t think the police ever discovered the actual scene of the crime, did they?”

“No.”

They both drank some more. Rex began to wonder why Pruitt was more reticent about discussing his suspect in person than on the phone, when he had seemed so anxious to exonerate himself by pointing a finger at someone else.

Rex loosened his tie. “You said the case has had a negative impact on your stamp business. I’m glad to see you seem to be doing all right for yourself, nonetheless.” He felt he was not expressing himself as precisely as usual, his thoughts fleeing and losing focus.

Pruitt raised his tumbler. “To Judge Murgatroyd. His equal will never be among us again,” he added in Scots Gaelic.

“Aye, slàinte!” Rex toasted in turn and sipped more slowly of his whisky, soon realizing it was the drink that was making him drowsy, not simply the pleasant warmth of the room and a busy day in chambers. He perceived his host watching him from across the blue carpet.

“Aye, it’s easy to be holier than thou when you’re living in a nice part of town like Morningside and not in a slum,” Pruitt was saying through an emerging fog.

Was he referring to him or to Judge Murgatroyd, who had also lived in Morningside, before he moved to Canterbury? “Did you grow up in a slum?” Rex asked. He had never had cause to probe into Richard Pruitt’s background. April Showers’ murder had not been his case.

“Aye, but I’ve come a long way since then,” his host replied, a meaty hand sweeping the air and indicating the refined surroundings.

His voice sounded rougher than on the phone that afternoon, or perhaps Rex was imagining it. And yet he’d had a similar impression upon arriving at the flat, before dismissing it almost instantaneously. After all, people often did sound different on the phone, projecting their voices or sounding more formal, especially in business situations.

“Indeed you have. Come along way.” Rex began to get an uncomfortable feeling over and above the sleepy sensation that was sweeping over him. He pulled back his shoulders and stretched open his eyes in an attempt to wake himself up. “This is potent whisky,” he remarked. “I’m literally seeing double!” There appeared to be two of Pruitt on the far side of the blue Oriental rug.

“It must indeed be potent to put a big man like yourself oot,” Pruitt said with what Rex took to be a smirk. He couldn’t be sure since the light on the other side of the shades was dim and the room not much brighter.

He felt he was losing control of his mental and physical faculties but made a concentrated effort to stand up. “I should be going,” he blurted. “I think I might be coming down with something. I’ll return another time to discuss the … You know.” He had forgotten exactly what he was here to discuss.

“Och, sit yourself down. It’ll pass. I’ll make some coffee.”

Rex had no option but to sink back into the window seat. He felt almost too sluggish to move, let alone drive. “Aye, thanks. Coffee would be grand.”

Pruitt got up from his chair and left the room. Rex leant back against the padded bench rest. He wrestled his phone from the pocket of his trousers and called Alistair to see if he could get a lift home, expecting to go through to voicemail. His friend answered immediately.

“Something’s amiss,” Rex slurred into the phone, but that was as far as he got. Pruitt had returned to the room with a thick coil of rope in his hand. “I’m at … ”

Rex tried speaking again, but he could not recall the house number, and before he could remember it, Pruitt swiped the mobile from his hand and sent it tumbling to the floor. Rex heard it crunch under his boot. He fought to keep his wits about him, but it was a losing battle.

And yet he knew he could not give up. He had seen that soulless look in a man’s eyes before.