Stonemouth

Fraser’s got a multiply fractured jaw, a broken nose and missing teeth.

I sustained mild concussion after being whacked twice on the head with a clip of nine-millimetre rounds.

One of the wolfhounds wasn’t quite dead and had to be put down.

They came and took the hire car away. I wouldn’t have been fit to drive the next day anyway. Plus, of course, there was the matter of helping the police with their inquiries.

That’s all done with for now and it’s highly doubtful any of us will have to give evidence; Fraser is being strongly advised to plead guilty by the very best legal brains money can buy in Scotland. They’ll plead mitigating circumstances to try to get the sentence reduced. These might include, but will not necessarily be limited to: grief relating to his grandfather, continuing grief relating to his brother Callum and, perhaps, familial shame regarding my seeming reinstatement in his sister’s affections.

Donald and Murdo needed hospitalisation too; they really did tear lumps out of each other during their fight. Don got a broken nose; Murdo lost an earlobe and broke a finger.

Powell Imrie just got up and went, immediately after the fisticuffs up at Hill House. It all started after a few more drinks with the relations, when Murdo accused Don of being soft and stupid for not just decking me in the function room of the Mearnside a couple of hours earlier, and said they should have stood up to Ellie and just dealt with me their own way, in London or wherever, five years ago, and Don was starting to lose it. They started shouting, some things — a lot of things — were said, and then Don slapped Murdo and off it all kicked.

Fraser decided all this brawling was my fault, disappeared into the garage and got a gun that nobody else even knew he had and said he was off to settle this once and for all. Powell had only just got Don and Murdo to stop fighting each other and breaking the furniture. When he did the Don’t be crazy, give that to me thing to Fraser, Fraser told him to keep out of it, he wasn’t even family anyway, and pointed the gun at him.

Powell had always told the boys if they ever pulled a gun on him, he’d go without a second thought or a parting word, and that’s exactly what happened; he just turned and walked away, got into his Rangie and drove. Nobody even knows where he is now.

Norrie had gone for a wee lie-down earlier and claimed to have slept through all the excitement.

Mrs Murston has gone to stay at her sister’s place in Peterhead for the week, and is under sedation. Donald told the police Fraser must have got the gun somewhere in town, between leaving the house and arriving at the beach, and so far hasn’t had to suffer a proper mob-handed police search-party visit, plus Hill House — kept pretty clean normally anyway — must be totally spotless now. Probably not so much as an illegal download to be found.

Grier tried to leave the country, go back to her photo shoot in the Caribbean. She cleared Dyce but they turned her back at Heathrow. She had to come back, give a statement, stick around.

There’s been what you might call a summit meeting between Don and Mike Mac, and apologies made. Don will be pleased to pay for Phelpie’s funeral and to make a generous donation to his family or a charity of their choice, as well as coughing for another pair of pedigree dogs. Order has been restored in Stonemouth.

So there’s still Phelpie’s funeral to come. That might be a while off yet, while the murder case is squared away, but of course I’ll be coming back for it.

I had to abandon the return half of my air ticket. I’m going to be taking the train back south, stopping off in Dundee with Ferg’s keys to water some plants in his flat, then staying a night in Edinburgh to see some friends, then London the next day and back to work the day after that, though maybe just to hand in my notice.

‘He probably miscounted,’ Ferg said, the first day I visited him in hospital.

‘Who?’

‘Phelpie. Probably counting the rounds Fraser fired and thought he was out. Just got it wrong by one.’

‘Jeez.’

‘He used to get it wrong all the time playing poker. Counting never was his strong suit.’

‘Yeah, but, still.’

Ferg sighed, wincing as he did so, and looked out the window at the day. The doctors have had words with him about the size of his poor, abused, punctured liver and politely suggested he might want to reconsider the extent of his alcohol intake, not to mention this bizarre and effectively semi-suicidal desire to draw clouds of carcinogenic smoke into his lungs. Ferg, at the moment at least, seems morosely resigned to complying. We’ll see.

‘By the way?’ I said.

‘What?’

‘Thanks.’

‘You’re welcome. What for?’

‘Throwing the phone, having a go at Fraser? Taking a bullet for me, basically.’

Ferg grinned. ‘Well, quite. And you are indeed welcome. But don’t imagine that I’ll ever stop reminding you of it.’

‘As if.’