by Iain Colvin
‘Morning!’
He turned towards the familiar voice and his brain finally caught up with itself. He snapped awake.
‘Hi. What time is it?’
‘A quarter past eight. Did you sleep okay?’
‘I must have. I don’t remember going to sleep.’
‘You’ve got a busy day today. Go and have a shower and I’ll make us some tea and toast.’ She threw a sweater at him. ‘There’s a towel in the bathroom, and you can wear this.’
Craig caught the sweater and held it out to look at it. It was grey, crew neck, far too big for Fiona.
‘This is mine,’ he said.
‘I know, you left it here last time you visited.’ Fiona arched an eyebrow and tightened her lips at him as if to say ‘And let’s not revisit what happened that night’. She breezed into the kitchen and Craig could hear her getting in to full morning mode, radio switched on, tap running, drawers opening, switches clicking. He got off the couch and made his way through to the bathroom.
Ten minutes later he was showered and dressed. He made a mental note to buy himself some fresh underwear today. He looked like he’d slept in his suit trousers (which he had), but at least he was ready to face the world. When he put on the sweater he was pleasantly surprised to smell Fiona’s perfume. She’d been wearing it recently. He kidded himself on that it might be a sign but he shunted the thought to the back of his head. He walked through to the living room where Fiona was already sitting at the table with a pot of tea and a small mound of buttered toast. Craig sat down and poured a cup.
‘What time do you need to get off to uni?’
‘I don’t have a lecture till eleven o’clock. I thought it would be an idea to try to get hold of Doctor Irving early. I’ve already looked up the number.’ She slid a piece of paper across to him with a telephone number written on it.
‘Thanks,’ said Craig. He took a sip of tea then moved to the couch, picked up the phone and dialled the number. Fiona watched him as he waited a few seconds then spoke into the receiver.
‘Oh, hello. I wonder if you could put me through to the department of political science, please?’
Pause.
‘Yes, I think that must be it. Thanks.’
Pause.
‘Hi, could I speak to Doctor Irving please?’
Pause.
‘Craig Dunlop. I spoke with Doctor Irving a couple of weeks ago. He was looking into something for me.’
Long pause.
‘Really? Do you know where he is?’
Pause.
‘And no one’s heard from him at all?’
Another long pause.
‘Of course.’ Craig looked at the telephone dial. ‘It’s 276 5963. Thank you.’
He put down the receiver and looked at Fiona. ‘He’s disappeared. He took some time off and they were expecting him back at work yesterday but he hasn’t shown up.’
‘What?’
Craig was deep in thought. He was counting back the days since Claire last spoke to him. ‘No one’s heard from him for over two weeks, nearly three. Claire heard from him on the 18th of February to say he’d received the letter, then apparently he took a fortnight’s annual leave from the 28th. He was due back yesterday but didn’t turn up.’
‘Well that settles it, you have to go to the police now.’
‘Hold on. I’m thinking.’
‘What is there to think about?’
‘Give me a minute.’
Fiona sighed, muttered under her breath, took her mug of tea through to the kitchen, made some banging noises then walked through the living room and into the hall. Craig could hear more banging noises coming from her bedroom. Then they suddenly stopped. She appeared at the doorway to the living room.
‘I’ve got an idea. I know someone who might be able to help.’
Craig looked up in surprise. ‘Who?’
‘I know someone who used to be a journalist and now works for a publisher in Edinburgh. Specialises in historical non-fiction. I thought that she might be able to help, or still have contacts at the paper who could help. It can’t do any harm to contact her, what do you think?’
Craig couldn’t hide a smile. ‘You mean you thought she might be able to talk some sense into me?’
Fiona smiled back at him. ‘Well, that too.’
Fiona was born and raised in Edinburgh and her parents still lived there. They were both successful professionals, a solicitor and a doctor, which explained where Fiona got her brains. She checked the time on her watch then picked up the telephone and phoned her mum’s office.
‘Hi, could I speak to Mrs Rankin please if she’s in yet? It’s her daughter here. Thanks.’
The secretary put the call through and Valerie Rankin’s voice was bright and cheerful when she picked up.
‘Hi darling, this is an unexpected pleasure, how are you? Everything okay?’
‘Hi Mum, yeah I’m fine ta, how’s things?’
‘All the better for hearing from you. What’s up?’
‘I’m looking for a wee favour. Do you still have Lynn Simon’s number? I said I’d put a friend in touch with her.’
‘Yes of course I do, give me a second.’ Fiona heard the sound of rustling, then the receiver being picked up from a desk.
‘Here it is, got a pen?’
‘Yep.’
‘031 225 1212.’
‘Got it. Thanks Mum.’
‘You’re welcome. Give her my best when you speak to her and remind her that it’s her turn for lunch. Speaking of which, will we have the pleasure of your company soon?’
‘Maybe in a couple of weekends’ time, Mum. Chris and I have got stuff on this weekend. But say hi to Dad for me and give him my love.’
‘I certainly will, darling. Ring soon, love you.’
‘Love you too, Mum. Bye.’
She looked up at Craig and saw his hangdog look.
‘What?’
‘Nothing.’ But he couldn’t help himself. ‘Have you been seeing Chris long?’
Fiona snorted. ‘What if I have?’
‘No reason. Sorry, it’s none of my business.’
‘You’re damn right it’s not. Anyway, shut up, I’ve got to make another call.’
Lynn Simon walked along the cobbles that formed Edinburgh’s narrow Hill Street. Her car was in the garage because it had been making some unusual and disconcerting noises, and then suddenly it died at the weekend. A truck came and took it away and the garage wasn’t sure when Lynn would see it again. So it was back to the good old maroon and cream Lothian Regional Transport buses, which to be honest wasn’t such a hardship for her. She had worked at Hamilton Dunbar for five years now, after leaving The Scotsman where she’d worked, woman and girl, for fifteen years. Lynn fell into her new career as a literary agent almost by accident. A features writer for the paper, she’d also written a couple of books about Scottish history and it was through that connection that she’d been approached by the agency to join them. They’d convinced her that making the leap would give her more time to write, plus the ‘what’s in it for them’ was that they’d benefit from her journalistic ability to sort the wheat from the chaff. But they admitted that the main reason for wanting to have her on board was the clout her name would bring them. They wanted to attract more non-fiction business and Lynn Simon would help to do that. And so it proved. It had been a mutually satisfying five years and Lynn loved her job. She actually felt five years younger, not older, and at forty-seven she still attracted admiring glances in the street. She was wearing a smart blue skirt suit and her shoulder length auburn hair was in a high pony tail. Her winter mane, as she liked to call it, was auburn, although in the summer months she usually went a shade or two blonder. Today in her suit and her heels and with the merest hint of makeup she could pass for ten years younger.
‘Morning, Julia.’
‘Morning, Lynn. Coffee?’
‘You read my mind. Thank you.’
Lynn picked up some papers fro
m the receptionist’s desk and climbed the few stairs to the main landing where the offices were. Hamilton Dunbar was based in a long Georgian terrace that was typically Edinburgh New Town. The history of the city being such, the area to the north of the famous castle was called the New Town even though it was conceived and built over two hundred years previously. The New Town had a solidity and a grandeur that suited firms of solicitors and banks and consulates, and it suited Hamilton Dunbar too. Lynn shared an office with her young assistant, David Halliday, who came on board as a YOPer eighteen months ago and whose enthusiasm and attitude had impressed them so much they kept him on.
David was already at his desk looking through some mail when Lynn came in.
‘Good morning, Davie.’
‘Morning, boss.’
‘How was your date last night?’
‘It’s the last time I let my pal set me up on a blind date. She was a total munter.’
‘Charming. I’m sure she speaks very highly of you too.’
David laughed as he stood up and waited for Lynn to take her seat, before laying a manuscript on her desk.
‘This came in for you this morning, it’s the one you’ve been expecting.’
‘Brilliant. Is there a covering letter?’
David handed her a letter. ‘He says there’s no hurry but it would be good to get your thoughts at your earliest convenience et cetera, et cetera.’
‘Excellent. Thanks Davie.’
At that, the receptionist came in with Lynn’s coffee, and left after giving David a wink. Lynn read the letter and then turned to the manuscript. It was the latest book from Edward Hart-Davis, one of the authors who had been attracted to Hamilton Dunbar by Lynn’s good offices. For the past two years he’d been writing what he considered to be the definitive work about England at the time of the Black Death and if it was as good as his previous titles it would be another feather in Hamilton Dunbar’s cap.
‘I know how much you love a good book full of mayhem, pestilence, intrigue and death,’ said David as she began to read.
‘Can’t beat it, Davie, you should try it.’
The phone rang on David’s desk and he answered it.
‘It’s for you Lynn, a Fiona Rankin. She says it’s urgent or I’d have taken a message.’ He pushed a button and the phone on Lynn’s desk rang.
‘Hi Fiona, it’s Lynn. Long time, no speak.’
‘Hi Lynn, thanks for taking my call, I know you’re busy.’
‘What can I do for you?’
‘Have you got five minutes to spare? I’ve got a bit of a story to tell you, and I was hoping you could offer some advice.’
‘Fire away.’
Fiona kept the story brief and to the point. She told Lynn about Craig and the letter and about the approach to Doctor Irving, and Claire’s death and how suspicion was now falling on Craig, and finally that Doctor Irving hadn’t returned to work and no one knew where he was.
Lynn had been expecting Fiona to ask about the best place to take her parents for a nice meal, or if she could recommend a place to stay in London, or maybe even to help her track down a rare book. This conversation was unexpected to say the least and Lynn struggled to grasp everything Fiona was telling her.
‘Fiona, hang on. So you’re saying that your friend found a letter that belonged to Rudolf Hess, approached a Doctor Irving to help authenticate it, and this Doctor Irving is now missing? And meanwhile, a friend of his was killed?’
‘Yes.’
Lynn was struggling to grasp what Fiona was asking her. ‘I’m sorry, Fiona, I’m not sure what I can do. If the two things are connected at all, it sounds like a police matter to me.’
‘I know, Lynn. But Craig has hit a brick wall and he’s scared to go to the police. He just wants to find Doctor Irving so he can back up Craig’s story. And that’s when I thought of you because of your connections.’
‘My connections are all in the newspaper or publishing business, as you know.’ Through the earpiece Lynn could hear Fiona whisper briefly to someone else in the background. ‘Is your friend with you just now?’
‘Yes he is.’
‘Can I speak to him for a second?’
‘Hold on.’
Fiona passed the receiver to Craig.
‘Hello Mrs Simon? It’s Craig Dunlop here.’
‘Hello. I’m afraid to say I’m not sure how I can help you. I’m very sorry about your friend, but if this person you approached is missing then that’s also a matter for the police. If you want my advice I would let them deal with it and offer them whatever help you can.’
Craig realised that he’d allowed his hopes to build and now he couldn’t disguise the disappointment from creeping into his voice. ‘I understand that. And I will go to the police, thank you for your time.’ He handed the phone back to Fiona.
‘Hi Lynn.’
‘Hi, listen I’m sorry Fiona. Under other circumstances it would be fascinating to get involved, but to be honest the best thing your friend can do is let the police handle it.’
‘I know, thanks anyway. Oh, my mum says hi and says it’s your turn for lunch.’
Lynn laughed. ‘I can take a hint. Okay, I’ll give her a ring. Nice speaking to you and sorry again.’
‘No problem, thanks Lynn. Bye.’
Lynn was about to hang up when a bell rang in her head and she stopped her hand in mid-air.
‘Hello? Fiona?’
‘Yes?’
‘Could I have another quick word with your friend?’
Craig took the receiver.
‘Hello?’
‘Which university is it?’
‘Pardon?’
‘Where this Doctor Irving works?’
‘Strathclyde.’
Lynn racked her brain. Scotland was a fairly small pond in the academic world and she had rubbed shoulders with a fair number of Scottish university professors in her time. Irving. Irving. Irving. After a long moment a name came to her.
‘Was it Brian Irving you spoke to?’
‘Yes it was.’
‘I think I know him. I’m sure we met at an industry dinner once.’ Lynn thought for a moment, her journalistic cogs turning.
‘Does he have your letter?’
‘Yes.’
‘And you sent him the letter before your friend died?’
‘Yes, it was Claire who sent it to him.’
‘And how long was it between him receiving the letter and Claire’s death?’
‘Just under a fortnight.’
‘How was your friend killed?’
‘The police say she disturbed a burglar who then stabbed her.’
‘She was murdered? I assumed from what Fiona said that it was some kind of accident. Where was this?’
‘In Stranraer.’
Another bell rang in Lynn’s head. She’d read about it in the papers.
‘The murder that was in the news recently?’
‘Yes.’
Lynn’s old journalist’s radar was pinging like a pinball machine but as hard as she tried she just couldn’t make the connection she needed to.
‘I need you to help me here Craig. I’ve written about the Hess affair in the past, a long time ago when I was on the paper, but I’m a bit rusty to say the least.’
Craig was thinking hard too. Was this a waste of time or could Lynn Simon actually help? He began thinking out loud.
‘You’re a publisher?’
‘A literary agent.’
‘So you know authors and publishers?’
‘Yes.’
‘And your specialism is historical non-fiction?’
‘That’s right,’ said Lynn.
Craig followed his own train of thought. ‘Did Brian Irving also write books?’
‘Yes, one or two I believe.’
‘And his specialism was?’
Lynn couldn’t recall, or decided that she didn’t know.
‘I don’t know. History perhaps. Maybe politics.’
Crai
g rubbed his forehead with his free hand. ‘Brian told me that he was going to do some more research. Where would the overlap be between politics and historical non-fiction? If you were going to research Rudolf Hess where would you go?’
Lynn followed his reasoning but nothing came to her. She looked down. The manuscript was still on her desk. Her eyes widened.
‘I don’t know, but I know a man who might.’
‘Who?’
‘Another author.’ The journalist in her took over. She looked at the clock on the office wall, then consulted her desk diary even though she knew it was empty till one-thirty. ‘Where are you at the moment?’
‘Glasgow.’
‘Can you get through to Edinburgh this morning?’
‘Well, yes.’
‘Okay, can you come to my office? Eleven Hill Street. Hamilton Dunbar is the name of the agency.’
‘Of course, I’ll get there as soon as I can. Thank you so much Mrs Simon.’
‘Don’t thank me yet. The chances are this could probably be a dead end but we can see where it takes us.’
‘That’s funny.’
‘What is?’
‘That’s almost exactly what Brian Irving said to me a month ago. I should see you in a couple of hours or so.’
Craig hung up. He couldn’t help himself and threw his arms round Fiona in a bear hug.
‘What’s that for?’
‘For being clever as well as beautiful.’ Their eyes held each other’s gaze for a second too long. Fiona looked away and stood up.
‘Come on then.’
‘What?’
‘Well I assume from your conversation that you’re going through to meet Lynn. You’ll need someone to introduce you.’
‘No I won’t.’
‘Well you’ll need someone to frog march you down to the police station afterwards. Your mum would never forgive me if I didn’t.’ She padded through to the hall. ‘And we’ll stop off at Boots to get you a toothbrush before you meet Lynn. Your breath’s honking.’