The freezing January gales blew Ian Baxter down snow-covered Canongate Street to old Mrs. Allan’s house to deliver the daily edition of The Scotsman. He rolled up the newspaper and placed it in her postbox as he did every morning. Inside the box were Mrs. Allan’s weekly payment for the newspaper and an extra tuppence for his services. Ian delivered newspapers in Jedburgh for the past five years and he had Mrs. Allan to thank for £5.20 of the £32,440.20 in his savings account.
In addition to delivering newspapers, Ian took on odd jobs such as potato picking, grass cutting, dog walking, baby-sitting, snow shovelling, and window washing to make money. What he earned from delivering newspapers was spent on CD’s, video games, and scientific magazines. He deposited the money he earned from other endeavours into the bank. His savings account was meant to see him through university and his postgraduate studies. Well aware that the Scottish Executive would pay for his first degree, Ian wanted to earn a doctorate and he thought they might not pay for that. Ian wanted to cover his yardarm and wasn’t taking any chances with his future. A letter from Strathclyde University had come in the post earlier that week offering him a place in September. It was the happiest day of his life.
Ian wanted to be a scientist like Dr. John Robertson, the Lothian and Borders Police’s forensics expert. The Baxters and The Robertsons were neighbours, and Ian enjoyed talking to Dr. Robertson about science in general and forensics in particular. Ian, fascinated with the human body, begged Dr. Robertson to describe in detail the cases he worked on. No detail was too gory for Ian. Dr. Robertson told Ian what he could because he knew the lad was sincere in wanting to follow in his footsteps. They had long conversations about life at university, physiology, and the field of forensics. Dr. Robertson loaned his biology textbooks to Ian and spent many hours answering his questions and drawing diagrams to illustrate bodily processes. “I’ve got to get him talking about the Mackenzie murder case,” Ian said to himself. He had an appointment with Dr. Robertson after school and didn’t want to forget the most important question he wanted answered. First, though, he had to see Mr. Thompson at his estate.
Mr. Thompson owned Craigmede Hall and was the wealthiest person in Jedburgh. He had over 150,000 acres of grazing and farmland and 5,000 head of cattle. Although Mr. Thompson employed several farmhands and administrators to help run his estate, he preferred to ask Ian to do what he called “sensitive jobs”, jobs that he didn’t want anyone else to know about. The jobs ranged from posting letters to delivering the local gossip. Mr. Thompson was interested in the local gossip – who was sleeping with whom, who had a problem with the drink or with the wife, who was made redundant, who was having a baby, who got a new job, and so on. If it happened in Jedburgh, Mr. Thompson wanted to know about it and he paid Ian handsomely for information about the town’s people.
Ian turned the corner onto the High Street and ran into Jimmy Farquar. Jimmy delivered several tabloid newspapers to the people of Jedburgh and was Ian’s closest friend. “If you want an earful, Ian, rest a minute outside Bill MacDonald’s. He and Agnes are having a palaver!” said Jimmy. “Is it about the Babe?” asked Ian. “Aye. Bill just got home and Agnes is having a go at him.” “Thanks, Jimmy! See you at school,” said Ian waving to his friend.
Jimmy didn’t know about Ian’s arrangement with Mr. Thompson, but he, like most Borderers, was interested in local gossip. News, especially gossip, got around the Scottish Borders at the speed of light. When Jimmy got home, he would recount the news to his mum who would phone her friends in Kelso, Peebles, Galashiels, and Hawick. They, in turn, would phone their friends and relatives all over Scotland and embellish the stories until there was only a grain of truth left in them. Outsiders, known to remark on the gossip telegraph, said that Scotland was safe from terrorists because everyone was clocked, talked to and about, and watched behind sparkling, white, lace curtains.
Mrs. MacDonald was still going at Bill when Ian reached their house. The Babe, Karen Higgins, a hairdresser up from Manchester, had taken a fancy to Bill the moment he walked into her shop for a haircut. From what Mrs. MacDonald was saying, Bill and Karen spent the night at a hotel in Edinburgh and hadn’t arrived back in Jedburgh until 6 am. Agnes MacDonald didn’t really care if Bill cheated on her because the love had gone out of their marriage years ago, nor did she mind if he stayed out all night. What made Agnes angry was that Bill and Karen were observed registering at the hotel by their son, Colin, the night manager. Colin phoned his mum after the couple went up to their room, and he was livid. How could his father bring that slapper to his hotel? Just what did he think he was doing? Mrs. MacDonald had to calm her son over the phone to keep him from barging into their room and evicting them. “Aye, I ken there’s laws against it, but it wi do ye nay good turfing your father and his slag. Just calm down the noo and get on wi yer work.” Everyone knew there was no love lost between Colin and Bill MacDonald but Bill taking his latest girlfriend to a hotel where his son worked was over the top. “What made ye take her there?” Agnes demanded. “It was the nearest hotel and we were bothered. I didn’t think,” was his excuse. “Aye, that would be right! Ye didn’t think! Ye ken I dinnae care what ye do, but for god’s sake, dinnae rub the boy’s nose in it! ” “Oh, shut it, Agnes. He taint my son and I dinnae care what he kens. I canna believe the scunner actually phoned you!” Bill slammed the door to the lounge and went into the kitchen for a cup of tea to calm his nerves.
Ian gleaned as much information as he needed to satisfy Mr. Thompson and continued on his way down to the A68. The deserted stretch between Jedburgh and Bonjedward on the A68 was Ian’s favourite part of his rounds, and the sight of the trees lining both sides of the street never failed to thrill him. Tall pines provided welcomed shade in the summer, and the snow-laden boughs leant an air of enchantment in the winter. The nearly gale force winds chilled Ian to the bone and his thoughts turned towards home. He could almost smell the bacon, eggs, and porridge his mother would have waiting for him.
Flashing headlights jolted Ian back to reality, and he broke into a run when he recognised Mr. Thompson’s Discovery. Ian jumped into the car and Mr. Thompson handed him a cup of coffee. “Got time for a natter?” he asked. Ian nodded and they parked off the road at the entrance to the Jedburgh Sevens rugby pitch. Instead of drinking the hot coffee, Ian held it to warm his hands. When Ian finished relating the conversation he overheard at the MacDonald’s, Mr. Thompson said, “I wondered when that would come out. Well, I’m off to London for a few days on urgent business and I wanted to ask you to do something for me.” Mr. Thompson handed over a manila envelope with £500 in it. “You’ll get the other half when I get back. Now here’s what I would like you to do for me.”
Eileen Baxter phoned Ian on his mobile to tell him his breakfast was getting cold and to ask when he’d be home. She got his voicemail and left a message. “He’s probably blethering with one of his friends or forgot to turn his phone on,” she said to her husband. “I can’t wait much longer. I’ve got to catch the train in Berwick for Leeds,” Frank Baxter said. The Baxters ate in silence, waiting for Ian to come through the door. “I’ll drive through the town and keep an eye out for him,” Frank said as he put on his overcoat and picked up his briefcase. “ I daren’t miss this meeting because too much hangs on it. I’ll phone you if I see him.” When Ian failed to return home after delivering his newspapers, Eileen phoned the school. They had not seen him. She phoned Frank to let him know and she burst into tears when he suggested phoning the police. “There’s nothing I can do now. Phone the police and let me know when they get there. I'll switch trains in Newcastle and get back home as soon as I can. Now let me go and I’ll phone Leeds to say there’s an emergency.” They both knew something was wrong. It wasn’t like Ian to miss breakfast, and it certainly wasn’t like him to skive school. Drying her eyes, Eileen did her best to speak in a normal voice to the police. “We’ll send somebody out quickly, Mrs. Baxter, but you know teenagers. He’ll probably be home before we can get someone over there.”
Eileen, not comforted by the officer’s words, felt she had to do something. She phoned the Robertsons to see if Ian had stopped there on his way home because she knew that when Ian and John Robertson got to blethering, they both lost all sense of time. Kate Robertson answered the phone and told Eileen they hadn’t seen Ian since the night before when he stopped by to ask John if they could have a natter the next day. “I’m holding surgery in Edinburgh today, Eileen, but I’ll send John over. He may know some of the stops Ian makes, and he can keep you company until Frank gets home.”
Fiona and Mike Simpson jogged along the A68 every morning with their dog before they went to work at the high school. Scamp, their Border Collie, ran past them and came to a halt in the small strip of land between the water treatment plant and the rugby pitch. He howled like an injured animal and they both ran over to see what was wrong. Fiona screamed. Lying in a pool of crimson blood was Ian Baxter, his throat cut from ear to ear.