The Death Of Ronnie Sweets Part 9

I nodded.

"You could hang around here, maybe, keep me company?

I threw her a wink before I walked back out.

Out on the street, my mobile started to bleat. When I looked at the caller ID, I guess I was more than a little surprised.

The Howff cemetery is in the centre of town, next to Ward Road and Barrack Street. Walking around the centuries-old path-ways of this intimate resting place, winding among gravestones that date as far as the 1300's, there is an intense sense of peace that cannot be found anywhere else in the city. Despite the fact one end of the Howff exits directly onto a main road the sound of the traffic becomes muted inside, as though trees that grow from the burial places absorb the sound, allowing their charges to sleep in peace.

Cameron sat on a wooden bench, looking at a worn burial marker inscribed with a crude skull and crossbones. I sat next to him and looked at the stone.

"Have ye spoken to your sister?" he asked me.

I shook my head. "Not for a few days."

"I got a letter this morning," he said. "No from her, likes, but her lawyer. About splitting shared property and aw that."

"I'm sorry" I said.

"It's no that that bothers me," he said. He didn't look at me; his eyes were fixed firmly on the crude skull. "It's that she dinnae even talk tae me herself y'know?"

"It's painful for her," I said.

"I loved her."

"She loved you."

"No always enough, is it, Sam?"

I didn't say anything.

He shifted his weight. "So what I wanted tae do, you see, likes, I called... What I mean is, you and me are still cool?"

"Sure, man, we're still cool."

"You're no just saying that 'cause you could use a friend who works fer one of the local rags?" .

I shook my head.

"No like we were ever the best of friends, anyway," he said. "You were, like, my brother-in-law."

"We got on good," I said. "We'll still get on good." I looked at the skull and crossbones. Normally skulls seem to be laughing, as though in death they finally realise how much of a joke life really is. This skull, however, looked deadly serious, as though it understood that life was more tragedy than comedy.

"Aye, man," he said.

"And Gem loved you," I said. "Just because things didn't work out for you doesn't make it any the less true."

He sighed. "Aye, whatever, Sam." He laughed. "What's it that b.l.o.o.d.y bunch of longhairs sing about on the radio? I Believe in a Thing Called Love? Hah, well I'll tell ye something, man, I dinnae think I'm a believer any more."

Gillian waved the manila folder as I walked into the registrar's reception. She was smiling broadly. "So tell me," she said, "why ye want this?"

"You know I don't want to do that."

"Client confidentiality?" she said. "The poor b.a.s.t.a.r.d's dead anyway." She thought for a moment, then she nodded sagely. "Suspicious death, right? The family want you to look into it?"

"No," I said.

"Tell me," she said, pulling the folder away out of my reach.

I leaned across the desk. Her face was inches from mine. She moved in closer and smiled. I reached out and grabbed the folder from her hand. She yelped as I pulled back. I wagged a finger at her and she laughed. "Ye'd better have that back by tomorrow, Bryson," she said. "The only reason I'm letting ye take it out is that I'm a fool for a pretty face"

She laughed brightly as I left the building.

"I just wish we had a picture," I said to Jamie. We were in my office. I was behind the desk. Jamie lounged on the ratty old sofa.

He nodded. "But it's enough tae match- up to the information I got us on the living Mister Sanderson."

"They say disappearing is easy to do," I said. "They're right."

"Easy to do, but it's no easy staying hidden," said Jamie. "Christ, all it takes is someone determined tae find out what you've been up to."

"You know what I can't work out," I said, "is why. Why take on a dead man's name and disappear so suddenly?"

"Cold feet," said Jamie decisively. "That'd dae it for me." He laughed. "Things a man'll do when he gets scared."

It didn't sit right with me, still. "Where is Mister Sanderson living these days?"

"Burnton, a wee village dpwn in the Borders. He's been a car salesman at a nearby dealership, but he retired this year." He looked pleased with himself. "So what's the next move, Sam? Tell his old fiancee we've managed to find her long-lost love? It'll be sweet, I bet."

"Maybe," I said. "But I want to go down and have a word with our Mister Sanderson. Check out what's going on, if he is who we think he is."

"Aye, like that's going tae work!" said Jamie. "You're just going to chap on his front door and say, 'Excuse me, mate, you didn't hap- pen to steal a dead man's ident.i.ty back in 1975?'"

I smiled. "You never know. It might just work."

I left the office early and went over to Ros's pad, smiling apologetically when she answered the door.

"Okay, buddy," she said, letting me inside. "You're going to let me down tomorrow so the excuse is gonna have to be a good one!"

"It's the case I'm working on," I said. "It involves a bit of traveling. So, you know, things aren't going to go quite as planned."

She sighed heavily. "Is it going to be like this every year?"

"I hope not," I said. We were still standing in the hall. I moved in and kissed her quickly. "Go and get changed," I told her. "Wear something nice."

She raised an eyebrow. "Why?"

"Because you don't think I'm that daft I wouldn't try and make it up to you with some half-a.r.s.ed gesture?"

She laughed. "Now I know why I keep you around," she said.

"Like a scruffy little dog." She winked at me and. disappeared into the bedroom.

I went to the bathroom and splashed water on my face. I looked at myself in the mirror and thought I didn't look too bad at all. As I stood there looking at myself my mobile began bleating. I answered it quickly.

"Hey, big bro," Gem said. .

"Hey, yourself, how are you?"

"I'm fine," she said. "Just thought I hadn't heard from my brother the big, bad PI in a while. Figured I'd give you a call."

"Life is good," I said. "Business fine."

"And Ros?"

I didn't have to think about it. "Ros," I said. "Ros is great."

"Ah, at least it's all working out for someone. My advice, though, Sammy, is don't get married. Too much ha.s.sle."

"So I heard. I saw Cameron today."

"Oh," she said, her voice quite empty. "How is he?"

"He got the letter froM your lawyer. He says he's still in love with you."

Her voice softened. "I was still in love with him, even at the end. But . . ." Her voice trailed off, and I remembered what Cameron had said today in the cemetery, Sometimes, love just isn't enough.

I hoped to G.o.d that wasn't true. With Ros and me, some days it seems like love is the only glue we have to keep us from falling apart.

I said, "How are you doing with it all?"

"Fine," she said. "A little lonely; you know, stuck out here in the capital." Just after she and Cameron had made the decision to split, Gem had taken a new job out in Edinburgh, running a small gallery.

"You'll be fine," I said. "With that famous Bryson charm you won't be able to move for new friends and acquaintances." .

She laughed. "Sure," she said.

Ros was knocking on the bathroom door. "You okay in there, babe?"

"Sure," I said. Then, to Gemma: "Look. I have to run"

"Hot date?"

"Aye."

"You're a day early. For your anniversary. It's tomorrow."

I sighed. "I know that," I said. "I'm not completely incompetent!"

She made a clucking noise down the other end of the line and then laughed. We said goodbye and she hung up first.

Out in the hall, Ros was waiting for me in a white blouse and a long, flowing skirt that reached to her ankles. Her dark hair was loose. She twirled and said, "How's this?"

"Perfect," I told her.

I'd made reservations at an intimate little French restaurant down the Perth Road. Dundee is a city of contradictions in many ways. For many Scots it has this reputation as a working-cla.s.s city a place of grime and soot. Yet these days, it is beginning to build a. new reputation as a small city with a cosmopolitan atmosphere.

Ten years ago an exclusively French restaurant would have never survived in Dundee. No with scientists and researchers and a soaring student population coming into the city these smart, sophisticated and unexpected places pop up in the most unlikely venues.

We ate slowly, taking our time Over the food. We talked and we laughed and everything in our lives seemed weightless, somehow.

Maybe it was the wine, maybe it was the company, maybe it was just something in the air.

By the end of our meal, we'd both drunk too much wine. The waiter called us a taxi and we went back to my place. We fell together through the front door and stumbled as we closed it behind ourselves. Ros steadied herself against the wall, and I looked at her. I wanted to tell her how beautiful she was, but there was no need for words.

The next morning, I woke up early and hopped into the shower. I had a long drive ahead of me, and I knew I needed to get a good start. I made sure I wasn't pounding about like an elephant, and somehow I managed not to wake Ros.

As I drove the BMW out of the city I called in to the office Using the hands-free. Babs answered, and said that she'd call me if there was an emergency. I was confident enough that she and Jamie could handle things for a few days anyway.

I hit the motorway and started rooting around to find CDs I'd discarded about the car. I found a copy of The Clash's London Calling and slipped that into the player. As the riffs kicked, I let my foot slip onto the accelerator. Beneath me, the car shivered gently and surged forward.

I arrived outside the village of b.u.mton as evening was drawing close. It was a picturesque little place, all white-walled houses with wooden beams on the outer walls, large gardens, and roads without markings. I slipped down to the thirty-mile speed limit and kept an eye out for Mr. Sanderson's residence. It didn't take me long; the village was small and easy to navigate. It was clearly a centre for commuters to the nearby towns, however, as there was a railway station just outside the village.

I parked on the street outside Sandersons house and watched it carefully. The garden was kept neat and tidy, but was bare in comparison to others in the area. I guessed, even though he had a small garden shed, he wasn't really the green-fingered type. The small wooden structure was there for storage and maybe even just appearance.

I waited five minutes before getting out of the car. I tugged at my suit jacket and ran a hand through my hair. It wouldn't do any good to appear at his front door looking like a discarded sack of potatoes.

I walked up the path and rang the doorbell. It sang a succinct and pleasant tone. After a few seconds, the door opened a few inches and Mr Sanderson peered out at me. "What?"

"Mr Sanderson," I said. "My name is Samuel Bryson. I'd like to have a word with you."

"What are you selling?" His voice was plummy and educated, with just a hint of Dundonian roughness lurking below the surface.

I smiled. "Nothing. This is a personal matter."

"I don't know you."