Ken McClure - Fenton's winter

"Are you all right?" came Jenny's voice from the bedroom.

"Sorry, did I wake you?" said Fenton.

"No, it's always the same when I get a night off. I waken up anyway."

For two days the question had to wait like a garden gnome with a fishing rod. Fenton had almost decided to phone the police when Saxon called at seven in the evening and said, "I know who killed Munro and tonight we can prove it."

The word 'we' rang out loud and clear in Fenton's head. He asked what Saxon meant.

"I want you to be here in the flat when he admits it," said Saxon.

"Who's he? What flat?" asked Fenton.

"I am back in Edinburgh. I have a flat here that nobody knows about. Will you come?"

Fenton felt distinctly uneasy. "What's the plan?" he asked.

“ I want someone here, quietly concealed in the flat, to witness what is said when my visitor comes."

"All right," said Fenton, feeling that he was jumping in with both feet. "Where are you?"

"Do you promise? No police?" asked Saxon.

"I promise," said Fenton.

Saxon gave an address in the New Town. It had the suffix 'a'.

"Is it a basement?" asked Fenton

"Yes."

Fenton was scribbling down the address on the phone pad when he sensed Jenny at his shoulder. "You haven't forgotten what you agreed to do?" she asked.

"I said that I would not contact the police but I did not say I would be alone," said Fenton. He picked up the phone again and called Steve Kelly. They arranged to meet in a bar near the west end of Princes Street.

"Whisky?" asked Kelly when Fenton arrived.

Fenton nodded and looked around to see if there were any seats free. There were not so they stayed standing at the bar. "What's going on?" asked Kelly, handing Fenton his glass and sliding the water jug towards him. "I thought this thing was all over."

Fenton added meat to the skeleton of the story that he had given Kelly over the phone and ended by saying, "That's as much as I know."

Kelly let his breath out through his teeth and whispered, "Good God, how do I let myself in for these things?"

"In this case, you didn't. I let you in for it and I'm grateful," said Fenton.

"Where is this place exactly?"

Fenton told him.

"At what time?"

Fenton told him.

"Then we've got time for another one?"

Fenton ordered two more whiskies.

As they left the pub Kelly pulled up the collar of his overcoat and thumped his fist into the palm of his hand. "God, it's cold."

He was right. Frost hung in the night air and painted haloes round the street lights as they walked east along Rose Street, once the haunt of the city's whores but now appropriated by the bars and boutiques of the trendy.

They had to step off the pavement as a crowd of young men spilled out of one of the bars full of liquored bravado. By their clothes and accents they were from well to do families. One of them bumped into Kelly who ignored him but the drunk put his hand on Kelly's shoulder and said aggressively, "Who do you think you are shoving?"

"Go play with your train set Alistair," said Kelly with a look that made the drunk back off.

"How did you know my name was…Alistair," asked the drunk, looking more confused than dangerous.

"It always is," said Kelly. They walked on.

The streets quietened suddenly as they took a left turn and walked down into the New Town. Solid Georgian frontages guarded by black iron railings lined their way, presenting their credentials on brass plaques as they passed. Architect followed solicitor followed surveyor. An occasional interloper from North Sea Oil, an occasional dentist for the private mouth.

"They say," said Kelly, "That on dark nights…you can hear the dry rot sing."

"Here it is," said Fenton, looking up at the street sign. "Lymon Place." They were standing at the top of a steep hill that curved elegantly down to the left in quiet darkness, the pavement slabs glistened with frost as he checked a few numbers. "It's on the right," he said.

24a was half way down and it was in complete darkness. Fenton opened the iron railed gate at pavement level and descended the stone steps to the basement area. Kelly followed and they skirted round a blue painted barrel which, in season, would contain bedding plants.

The brass knocker sounded loud and hollow but there was no reply. Fenton tried again and they waited in silence while their breath rose visibly in the freezing air.

"I don't think there's anyone there," said Kelly, sounding less than disappointed.

"He said nine o'clock," said Fenton.

Kelly checked his watch but said nothing. Fenton tried turning the handle of the door. It swung open with surprising ease and quietness and the street lights were reflected in an inner, glass door. Fenton tried that too.

"Isn't this burglary?" whispered Kelly as it opened.

Fenton ignored the question and stepped quietly inside. "Saxon?" he called out softly, repeating it as he moved along the passage. There was still no reply.

"I smell burning," said Kelly.

Fenton sniffed and agreed. "As if someone had singed their hair," he said.

The flat appeared to be completely empty. "I don't get it," complained Fenton after he had tried the last room. "Why the hell did he ask us here?"

"What's this?" asked Kelly tugging at a door in the hallway.

"Cupboard?" suggested Fenton.

Kelly pulled it open and a yellow light shone up from the floor.

"Stairs!"

"A sub-basement," whispered Fenton.

They descended the spiral stone steps, steadying themselves with their hands on the white washed walls.

"God, what a stink," said Kelly as the burning smell got stronger and threatened to overpower them.

"Look at this," said Kelly. He was standing in front of a large door that had been tooled in leather and inset with heavy brass studs.

"Try it," said Fenton.

"I feel like Jack and the Beanstalk," said Kelly as he turned the heavy ringed handle. The door swung slowly back to reveal a stone floored dungeon lit exclusively by wall torches set in wrought iron holders. In the middle of the floor lay the black smouldering remains of something they both recognised barely as the body of a man.

Fenton covered his face with a handkerchief and approached slowly. He knelt down beside the bundle as smoke rose from charred flesh like the pall from burning leaves on an autumn day. He recoiled in revulsion as he suddenly realised something. Kelly looked at him and then the corpse and saw the same thing.

"He's…not dead," said Fenton, unwilling to believe what he himself was saying.

Kelly saw the smoke come from the man's blackened mouth in short regular breaths. "He must be," he whispered. "Is it Saxon?"

"Yes," murmured Fenton, steeling himself to kneel down again. "Saxon?" he whispered. He looked for some part of the man that he could touch without hitting raw nerves, some way he could make contact but it was useless. A groan came from Saxon's throat and threatened Fenton's own nerves. "Die man, for God's sake…die." he murmured. As if in response a convulsion quivered through the burned flesh and a hoarse gurgle came from Saxon's throat. It culminated in a brief sigh and his head moved to one side.

"He's dead," said Fenton.

"Thank God," said Kelly.

Kelly looked round the room and said, "Will you look at this?"

Fenton could see what he meant for the dungeon theme had been pursued in meticulous detail. The bare stone walls were decked with manacles and other articles of bondage. Whips of varied size and material stood erect in a long chain link rack next to some kind of table equipped with stirrups and iron wrist clamps. The whole place was the manifestation in wood and iron of some medieval nightmare.

Kelly found a leather bound book and opened it. It was a photograph album. "Jenny was right," said Fenton as he saw the photos. "She thought that Saxon was bent, sounded too macho, tried too hard, she said."