Poisoned Cherries Read online

  Poisoned Cherries

  QUINTIN JARDINE

  headline

  www.headline.co.uk

  Copyright © 2002 Quintin Jardine

  The right of Quintin Jardine to be identified as the Author of

  the Work has been asserted by him in accordance with

  the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced,

  stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any

  means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be

  otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that

  in which it is published and without a similar condition being

  imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  First published as an Ebook by Headline Publishing Group in 2008

  All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance

  to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  eISBN : 978 0 7553 5372 9

  This Ebook produced by Jouve Digitalisation des Informations

  HEADLINE PUBLISHING GROUP

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  Praise for previous Quintin Jardine novels:

  ‘Perfect plotting and convincing characterisation . . . Jardine manages to combine the picturesque with the thrilling and the dream-like with the coldly rational’ The Times

  ‘Deplorably readable’ Guardian

  ‘Jardine’s plot is very cleverly constructed, every incident and every character has a justified place in the labyrinth of motives, and the final series of revelations follows logically from a surreptitious but well-placed series of clues’ Gerald Kaufman, Scotsman

  ‘If Ian Rankin is the Robert Carlyle of Scottish crime writers, then Jardine is surely its Sean Connery’ Glasgow Herald

  ‘It moves at a cracking pace, and with a crisp dialogue that is vastly superior to that of many of his jargon-loving rivals . . . It encompasses a wonderfully neat structural twist, a few taut, well-weighted action sequences and emotionally charged exchanges that steer well clear of melodrama’ Sunday Herald

  ‘Remarkably assured . . . a tour de force’ New York Times

  ‘Engrossing, believable characters . . . captures Edinburgh beautifully . . . It all adds up to a very good read’ Edinburgh Evening News

  ‘Robustly entertaining’ Irish Times

  Acknowledgements

  The author’s thanks go to the real Ewan and Maggie Capperauld, of Thistles, North Berwick, for allowing themselves to be immortalised, and for their generous support of Riding for the Disabled.

  This one’s for Stewart and Susie, Mr and Mrs Baxter.

  One.

  Sometimes I think that if I was ever depressed enough to jump out of a window, I’d fall upwards.

  We made a show of making our marriage work, my second wife Primavera and I, once I rejoined her in the States after our troubles in Spain. The deal was that I tried to put her past behind me, and she tried to do the same with mine … the parts of my past that she knew about, that is. I sold my flat in Glasgow, the one that had been Jan’s and mine, to a willing buyer at a quick-sale price. Prim never even asked who it was; that’s how keen she was to cut herself adrift from Scotland. We thought about getting shot of the Spanish villa at the same time, but put that on hold for a while and rented it out instead, for six months, to a Scots actor I had met on my first movie. That was just about as long as our reconciliation lasted too; not much more than half a year.

  I suppose it was okay at first; after all, we were living a dream. After cruising my way through my thirties, fate and a trusting in-law had thrown me into an acting career. My confidence… never in short supply at the worst of times… had been boosted by some half-decent reviews for my performance in my debut film, and by some one-on-one coaching from an old theatre pro who taught me plenty about phrasing, timing, relaxation, and script retention… the stuff you can either learn or you can’t… so I moved positively into my second role in a Miles Grayson production.

  This one was supposed to be set in Chicago, but most of it was shot in Toronto, for a very good reason. Miles, who was, is and always will be married to Prim’s actress sister, Dawn Phillips, as well as being the world’s top box office attraction, is also a very sharp man around a pound note, dollar bill, yen, euro, or whatever currency happens to be appropriate at the time. When it comes to dollars, he knows that the Canadian version buys a hell of a lot more than its long green neighbour, hence his choice of location.

  The downside of this selection was that Miles is not alone in knowing that. In fact, Toronto’s new nickname is ‘the Hollywood of the North’, and on any given week in the year, there are so many American film crews roaming its streets that bumping into each other could be a real problem. Fortunately, thanks to our director’s clout with the mayor, who was on a one-man crusade to round up as much big-name support as possible for his Olympic bid, that didn’t happen to us.

  The other problem with Toronto is its mooses, or mice, or meece… I never did find out what the plural is; let’s just call them a herd, because there are more than enough of the things to qualify. The moose is the civic mascot… I asked many people why this is, but nobody could tell me … and they have really gone overboard on it. Life-size replicas of the gormless animals are everywhere, on just about every street corner, and outside every public building; replicas, save for one thing. Very few of them have horns; those have become a collectable item in the city by the lake.

  Miles’s movie had a long production schedule, since he was running a documentary project simultaneously, for Australian television. It didn’t overrun, but I was committed to Canada on and off for more than six months. Whenever I could, on weekends and off-weeks, I went back, as was expected of one half of a happy couple, to Prim in Los Angeles, and to the beach-front house we were renting. When I was in Toronto, camping out in the spacious and elegant Royal York Hotel, I played the faithful husband to perfection. Almost. I won’t say I never looked at another woman, but I certainly didn’t touch. In fact, I spent most of my spare time in the gym, or watching baseball in the Sky dome.

  More fool me.

  In spite of our director star’s split commitment, we wrapped the movie two weeks ahead of schedule. The champagne corks were popped on set, I said goodbye to the lady publisher who had offered me serious bucks for US distribution rights to my ghosted autobiography … yes, that’s how bizarre my life had become… and headed home to LA, to the warm and welcoming arms of my wife and full-time dedicated matrimony.

  As the Beatles sang, I should have known better.

  It was a classic scene; you know it from a thousand movies and telly soaps. I actually did shout “Honey, I’m home!” as I closed the door behind me. There was no sign of Prim in the big living room, and so I walked out onto the deck, which looked south over the beach and the Pacific.

  There had been a new compact Jaguar in the driveway, but I’d simply assumed that my wife had been shopping again. So I frowned when I saw who was waiting for me; I knew right then that something was wrong. Still, I had an image to protect.

  “Shit,” I murmured. “What a memory I’ve got. I’m in the wrong house.”

  I cannot imagine anyone less fitted for the breaking of bad news than my sister-in-law Dawn. She’s a lovely Scots girl in every sense, and one of the kindest people I’ve ever met. She’s the ultimate collector of waifs and strays, a trait that led her into some odd relationships before she met Miles. She cannot watch a charity ad on television without writing
a cheque, or phoning in with a credit card number. She sponsors, personally, five hundred African children, and her own kid is well on the way to being spoiled rotten.

  But she is flakier than a summer’s worth of 99 ice cream cones. Dawn will panic at the drop of a hat. The first time the baby burped up some feed she wanted to call a paediatrician.

  My nephew, Bruce … well, he’s half Aussie, half Scots so what did you expect them to call him? .. . was in her arms as she turned to face me. As a matter of fact, he was plugged into the mains, as my old Dad would say. Dawn is an enthusiastic breast feeder . and so, I realised as I watched him tuck in, is the boy Bruce.

  She opened her mouth to speak but, inevitably, her pretty face wrinkled up and her chin started to tremble. Incongruous is too gentle a word to describe the way she looked, with her child sucking on her right nipple and tears streaming down her cheeks. Bruce paused and looked up as the first big drop landed on his forehead. LA babies aren’t used to rain; it always gets their attention.

  “It’s P… P… Prim, Oz,” she stammered. “She’s …” And then she cracked up again. She didn’t have to say any more, though. I’m no mind reader, but she’d told me the whole story in that one brief blubber. Besides, I knew my wife well enough by that time, just as she knew me.

  My first thought was one of regret… not about Prim, but about what I’d passed up in Toronto with that publishing lady.

  “Who is it?” I asked her, taking Bruce from her as she tucked herself back in, and struggled to get herself back under control.

  “She’s not dead,” I went on, not giving her a chance to answer, ‘or the cops would probably be here, and she’s come to like this lifestyle. So if she’s gone there’s a reason. What’s his name?”

  It was Dawn’s turn to frown. Until then she’d only known the laughing-boy side of Oz Blackstone, everyone’s favourite clown. She’d never seen the guy who was looking at her then. I think she expected me to cry too; she certainly expected me to care. Either way, I must have been a big disappointment to her.

  “Nicky Johnson,” she whispered.

  I actually smiled, as I held Bruce up to my shoulder and rubbed gently between his shoulder blades … I’m a well experienced uncle. Dawn’s frown, and no doubt her disappointment, deepened. “Ah, him. Nicky, the flying actor.” Nicky Johnson, the guy who’d given Prim a lift from California to Barcelona in his private jet, a few months before. He’d probably had it on autopilot for a good chunk of the way.

  “Where have they gone?”

  “Mexico. Puerto Vallarta, I think. Oz, you’re not going to do anything reckless are you?”

  This time, I laughed out loud at her concern; I wasn’t trying to take the piss, I just couldn’t help it. “What, you mean like go after them with a shotgun? Nan, I won’t bother. I’ll probably punch the guy’s lights out, the next time I see him… maybe on Oscars night, that would be good for a story… but only because it’s expected of me.

  “No, if he wants her, he can have her. Christ, whether he wants her or not, he’s having her; that’s the best revenge I can think of. Next time you talk to her, tell her to get a divorce when she’s down there. I’ll give her a million-and-a-half sterling, without haggling, less if she wants to argue about it.”

  Bruce burped contentedly, and barfed a small amount of his mother’s finest down my back.

  “How can you be so calm about it?” Dawn asked, looking at me as if I was a stranger… and, at that time, I probably was.

  “Easy.” I stroked the baby’s head. “It’s better now than later, when there might be one of these guys to get hurt by it. Your sister would fuck anything in trousers, love; you must have known that.”

  “My sister? Who, Prim?”

  “Who else?”

  “That’s not fair!” she protested, showing some Perthshire spirit at last.

  “Maybe not, but it’s true.”

  She was right, though, it wasn’t fair. When Prim and I met up, she’d been on the straight and narrow. It was only after the first time I did the dirty on her that she started casting her eye around. After the second time, it was second nature to her, so I wasn’t surprised that she’d gone off with Johnson. What did nark me slightly was that I’d been trying to behave myself. I didn’t like the man I’d become … no, let’s be honest, the man I realised I’d always been… and I’d been trying to clean my act up. Well, bugger that for a game of soldiers.

  Love is blind, they say. It’s also very stupid at times.

  “Does Miles know about this?” I asked her. If he had, I’d have been major-league angry with him, for we’d travelled back from Toronto together.

  “No,” she said at once. I believed her, of course; she couldn’t lie to save her baby’s life. “I left a message with the maid, telling him where I was and that I’d be bringing you back for dinner.”

  “Maybe I don’t want dinner,” I suggested.

  “Oz, you must look after yourself; I couldn’t possibly leave you here to brood on your own.”

  The fact is, I hadn’t been thinking about brooding. No, I’d begun to mull over the possibility of calling Carmen Summers, who’d played opposite me in the Toronto movie, and trying my luck there. When it came to it, though, I couldn’t say no to Dawn. You can’t; it’s impossible.

  So I agreed. “Let me wipe the sick off my shirt and I’ll be with you,” I said, handing her son back to her. “I’ll follow you in the Corvette… that’s assuming it’s still there. I’ll need to drive back later.”

  “No you won’t,” she replied, still snuffling a bit. “You’re staying with us tonight; just pack a bag and come in my car.”

  I almost told her that this was nothing new to me, that I’d lost a wife before, big-time. But that was something else I couldn’t have said to Dawn. It would have been too brutal, even for me. So I simply nodded, and did as I’d been told.

  Miles was almost literally pacing the floor when we arrived at their place in Beverley Hills. On the outside it’s every movie mega star house you’ve ever dreamt of, but inside it’s part spacious family home and part corporate headquarters. Naturally, Miles being Miles, the floor that he was pacing… almost literally… was that of his office, as he caught up on his mail and messages, but he was worried nonetheless.

  “What’s up?” he asked as soon as we walked in, sounding like an Aussie beer commercial. “Where’s Prim?”

  The way that his jaw dropped when Dawn told him banished any last suspicion I had that he’d been in the know.

  “That son-of-a-bitch Johnson,” he barked, when he could speak. “He was a fucking hot-dog vendor when I found him, and he’ll be a fucking hot-dog vendor again, when I’m finished with him.”

  “Leave the sad bastard alone,” I advised him. “He’ll have enough to worry about. Please.”

  “If you say so, buddy, but he’ll never work on one of my projects again.” He looked at me, with those kind eyes of his. “But are you all right? Oz, man, I’m really sorry; I was hoping that you two had yourselves sorted out for life. While I was waiting for you here, I thought that something had gone bad with Elanore. This never crossed my mind.”

  “It’s Mum I feel sorry for,” said Dawn, mournfully. “She’s only just got over her cancer scare, and now this… She’ll take it very badly.”

  I had to shake my head at that one. “Elanore’ll take it in her stride. Prim’s a force of nature like her, in that respect at least. She can’t be controlled or confined, and your mother knows that. I was wrong for her from the start; we should never have got back together after Jan died.”

  “Of course you should have! You were an ideal couple, two peas from the same pod.”

  ‘.. . Which is exactly why it hasn’t worked.”

  Miles laid a brotherly hand on my shoulder. “I admire the way you’re taking it, but you don’t have to put on a show for us. You can let it out if you want.”

  If I was a better actor I might have summoned up a tear for him, but that was beyond
my skills. “You know me,” I said instead, with what I hoped was an appropriately half-hearted grin. “Laughing boy Oz; smiling on the outside, crying on the inside. It’s my way.”

  I thought to myself that if he had known the whole truth, my acting career might have hit a roadblock right there and then. As it was, he gave a sympathetic nod, and led me through the small kitchen beside his private office, and out to the pool, stopping to pick up a rack of cold beer on the way.

  I don’t drink the stuff much any more; I’ve become a wine buff since I bought a fully stocked … in fact, slightly overstocked… wine cellar with my Spanish villa. But to please Miles, I took one…

  they were Victoria Bitter, imported from Australia … ripped off the ring pull and swallowed most of it in a gulp. It might have been bitter to an Aussie, but it tasted like damn fine lager to me. I finished it and held out my hand for another; all of a sudden it seemed like a good idea.

  After the fourth, I began to realise just how tense I’d really been; and I knew why. It was sheer relief.

  I hadn’t really wanted to go back to Prim in the first place; I had only done it because of the leverage it gave me with Miles. Now she and that idiot Johnson had given me the perfect out. As my sympathetic in-law handed me another VB, I decided I’d play the part he wanted.

  I took out my hand phone found Prim’s stored number, and keyed it in. As I expected, it rang; she’s embraced cellular technology more keenly than anyone I know.