by Shana Frost
No one could have entered or exited after she’d locked the doors. So the murderer would have had to break in to enter. But there had been no signs of splintered glass or locks... That meant it was a guest who’d committed murder or...
It took Aileen a few minutes to process it all. She was a suspect too! Being adventurous was one thing; being looked at for murder was something else – something far more dangerous!
She jogged out into the reception area, fumbled into her coat and ran outside.
Callan stood talking to a member of the forensic team. The woman turned as Aileen approached, nodded at her and went back inside.
‘Aye, Ms Mackinnon?’
‘I forgot to tell you, I heard noises last night.’
‘Is that so?’ Was he mocking her?
Aileen imagined punching Callan in the gut. She was just being honest to the police, as the law dictated!
‘Footsteps, and a door closing. I think. I thought it might’ve been Martha at the time, or that I’d imagined it, but now I’m sure it was someone moving about.’
Callan folded his arms over his chest, looking sceptical. ‘And what time was this?’
Aileen looked at him, mildly annoyed. ‘I spoke to my gran last night. We spoke well up to midnight. I went to bed around fifteen minutes after. I heard footsteps and a door being shut. I waited for a while to see if I could hear anything else but it was silent.’
‘I’ll keep that in mind,’ Callan said, before turning towards his car.
Aileen shrugged frustrated. He wouldn’t listen to her, would he? Typical Callan Cameron!
It looked like she’d have to do some digging herself. What if he wasn’t good at his job and something terrible occurred? Like he pointed the blame on her... Or worse, never caught the actual killer.
Her inn would be doomed from the get go.
THE FORENSIC TEAM DID what they always did at a murder scene, and people swarmed in and out of Dachaigh well into the late afternoon.
All of Aileen’s guests remained indoors, the Grants and Jean Beaulieu trying to console a heartbroken Martha.
Knowing that she was the last person who could help console others, Aileen took to cooking high tea instead.
Isla bustled in, full of worry but supportive and with a patient ear.
‘You know, I could help you,’ she said, once Aileen had revealed her plans to investigate. She wanted to stand by her friend. Even if that meant hunting a murderer. Besides, scandalous affairs were hard to come by when you were happily married and had a toddler at home, so Isla informed her.
‘I know you would, Isla. And thank you for that. But I have no clue where to begin.’
Isla thought for a moment. ‘You know who Callan would divulge secrets to?’
‘Who?’
‘The one person who has control over his morning coffee.’
Aileen raised her eyebrows. ‘You can’t threaten a police officer! Besides, he’s a tough nut to crack.’
‘Police officer? Threaten? Why, I shall do no such thing!’ Isla waved her hands. ‘But you’re right about the other thing: he is a tough nut.’
Silence descended except for the sounds of movement and scraps of conversation drifting from upstairs. The people walking up and down her stairs in the background were just a harsh reminder of what had transpired.
All because of a murder...
Is this how it felt, to have a murderer in your midst?
She’d read thrillers and felt uneasy, but reality was different. Her emotions ranged from fear to anxiety to excitement, sometimes all at the same time! Adrenaline spiced up the cocktail and wired her brain to work furiously at the problem.
As if struck by lightning, Aileen snapped her fingers. ‘I know! We need to look into the supporting documents.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Let’s do some digging into my guests’ personal lives.’
Isla smiled devilishly. ‘Now that idea I like.’
Apparently solving a murder was more interesting to Isla than running her bakery. She’d called Daniel and asked him to look after the wee one. When he’d guessed something was cooking, he’d asked his wife what she was up to.
‘I know you; I know that glee in your voice – you’re scheming or plotting.’
‘Daniel! I don’t scheme; I merely help.’
‘Right ye do,’ came Daniel’s sarcastic reply.
Aileen smiled at the side of the exchange she could hear. Apparently Daniel knew his spouse too well but he let it go.
Isla had a small smile on her face as she clicked off. ‘I have resources – gossip ones. I can tap those; you can use the tech.’
With that Aileen found herself studying the register.
As per policy, she had had checked the passports of all the Grants and both of the Frenchmen. Their ID had seemed genuine. Could one of them have lied?
A murder needed planning, and surely it would be easy for someone who’d commit murder to forge their ID.
Her suspicion landed first on Louis Legrand. He was just snooty enough to think no one could hold him accountable for murder. And where had all his wealth come from?
But what motive could he have had?
Aileen shook her head and looked back at the register. Dave Smith had been a doctor, so he’d claimed, and her gaze moved to the near-illegible entry he’d made in the register. He wrote like a doctor alright. She strained her eyes to decipher what he’d scrawled there. He’d come down from Edinburgh – that much she understood.
It had been foolhardy not to ask the rest of her guests for their IDs. They’d had booking numbers from Dachaigh’s website. How could that number have been sufficient?
The only information she’d collected were their names, the number of people who’d be staying with them, the days they’d be staying and the payment information – which for the most part was in cash.
With a frustrated frown, Aileen hunched over her laptop. She knew how to dig and find information where there was none available.
In the search bar, she typed in ‘Dr Dave Smith’.
There were many across the country, so she narrowed the search to Edinburgh. That brought the search results down to a few.
Now all she had to do was find out which one of them was the murdered man.
A FEW MINUTES AWAY, Detective Inspector Callan Cameron sat in his uncomfortably small chair. He clutched his right leg, massaged it for a while and sighed. It had been a while since he’d seen murder or smelled brutal death.
Callan drummed his fingers on the arm of the chair. Eleven people inside the inn, and no one had gone in or out, according to the security cameras. The rest of the windows had been fastened shut, and none were broken. If someone had climbed up to the first storey, they’d leave footprints on the windowsill, and there were none.
And who would murder a tourist? Smith hadn’t ever been to Loch Fuar, nor had any altercation with anyone in the couple of days he’d been here.
No, the murderer had to be one of the eleven people inside the inn.
The rapping of a knuckle on glass broke the silence. It was his superior officer.
‘I’m leaving. Let me know where you get with the investigation.’ And with that the elderly Rory Macdonald, the head of a three-member police force, clomped off.
The investigation had fallen to Callan because he had some experience. He’d also been first on scene.
Callan set up his murder board, the first since... well, since a while.
He liked to get his chronology right. Flipping through the reports, Callan assessed what the forensic team had told him so far. The medical examiner had gauged the time of death to be around early morning. Aileen had said she’d heard footsteps at about midnight. No, that didn’t get down with the TOD. Still Callan made a note of it. No other person inside the inn had heard anything.
He scratched the prickly scruff that had grown on his chin.
The medical examiner’s report should come in soon, so he hoped.
His chair protested as he plopped back into it with some force and shut his eyes.
He brought the scene into focus.
Everyone had always complimented him on his photographic memory. So now he thought back, his nose scrunched up as it tinkled with the awful smell of blood. Callan remembered how the curtains looked and the body – prone and lifeless.
The bed had been queen-sized, a little rumpled by a man in sleep. Dave Smith had been in the exact centre of the bed, spreadeagled. He’d worn striped pastel-green pyjamas and was barefooted, his body cold and stiff.
The T-shirt of the pyjama had been in place – no buttons broken or undone as far as Callan could recall. The bedside lamp had stood just where it ought to be, and even the deceased doctor’s spectacles lay untouched.
A man who’d been stabbed would put up a fight. But nothing looked disturbed, not even the bedspread. Perhaps he’d been incapacitated first.
Callan shuffled his legs, then lifted them over his desk in a relaxed gesture. He rested a hand on his chin, eyes still firmly shut.
He brought the pliant corpse into focus— caucasian, with dark brown hair, slightly on the heavier side and 6 feet in height. The dead man would never see the bright sun nor feel the breeze that played with his eye lashes.
What had killed him?
The murder weapon – Callan could see that. That was the real eye catcher. A long blade, the kind which usually had a scabbard. And its hilt, that was the interesting bit: a glowing jade green, well polished and shiny, the design of a Celtic symbol etched upon it in gold.
Was the symbol significant? Callan had no knowledge of Celtic symbols. He’d only seen them in old church ruins.
The blade that came with the elegant hilt was sinister: as sharp as shark’s teeth. Callan knew how it would have felt in the hands of the killer, like a knife scooping up soft butter.
He shook his head. Focus on the scene, he told himself.
All guests had kept their windows shut – at least that’s what his external analysis of the inn had told him. Everyone except Dave Smith. He’d worn light pyjamas, but the temperature had dropped to single digits that night. Why open the window?
The killer could have opened it perhaps. They’d found no fingerprints though. And the window could only be opened from the inside – one of the meagre security features Aileen Mackinnon had installed. This proved the killer had to be one of the eleven people who had spent the night at Dachaigh.
And yes this was premeditated murder.
Callan opened his eyes; they shone bright. He hurriedly penned down his notes.
Next he scrutinised the wife. She’d been asleep in the library, all alone with no one to alibi her, but she’d been distraught and surprised when she found her husband, just as an unexpectedly widowed wife would be. Or was it just good acting? Callan scratched his beard again. Something about Martha Smith smelled foul; something wasn’t quite right.
As alibis went, how did the others stand? They’d all gone to sleep – so deeply in fact that no one had heard a thing.
Callan smiled a devilish smile. An inn full of eleven people, and everyone except for the innkeeper slept like a baby... Humbug!
He rose to this feet and began pacing, when the front door of the small police station opened. He stepped out of his office and came to a halt in front of the invader.
‘Isla,’ he greeted.
‘I’d like a word.’
‘Sure, why don’t we go into the waiting area?’
‘Why not your office?’
‘I’ve sensitive items in there, and I’m no fool. Aileen Mackinnon sent ye.’
‘She didn’t,’ came the indignant reply. ‘I was here to ask if you found anything. No one in the village feels safe!’
‘There’s no need to be anxious. The police are here, aren’t we? We’ve got it under control.’
‘For all the good it did the dead tourist!’
Callan gave Isla a look, but she only shrugged.
As Isla left, Callan knew there was truth in what she’d said. Forced death had come to Loch Fuar after decades of welcomed drought. How could he assure the people that they were safe? And were they safe? He hadn’t a clue.
Chapter 8
Aileen rubbed her tired eyes. It had been a stressful day. The sullen atmosphere at the inn had turned almost macabre when a red-eyed Martha Smith had made an appearance in the evening.
On Samantha Grant’s insistence, she managed to gulp down some chicken soup. Aileen had been tongue-tied, not knowing what to say, but she thought tomorrow would be far worse: it would have been Dave’s birthday.
When Aileen had asked what they’d like for supper, almost everyone had said they hadn’t the appetite. Legrand retired early, clearly miffed at being told to stay in Loch Fuar till the killer was caught. Apparently he had urgent business in London.
Business more important than bringing the person responsible for a man’s death to justice? Aileen scoffed. What a piece of work!
When everyone had retired to their respective bedrooms – a new one for Martha; one that hadn’t been fully renovated yet – Aileen began to lock up. She checked the windows thrice this time; there was no room for errors.
But when it came to locking up the doors, it felt like a repeat of last night. She’d slipped the keys in her trousers’ right pocket that morning, but once again she found herself patting the pocket – then squeezing it to make sure it was empty.
Her heart started beating frantically. No – not again! And then her hand landed on her left pocket. There – she heard the jingle of keys – and a grateful breath whooshed out of her lips.
But Aileen drew her eyebrows together; she could have sworn she’d put the keys in her right pocket.
Why, she’d picked them off her nightstand with her right hand and heard them tinkling as she’d slipped them in. She hardly ever used her left pocket...
Aileen sighed. She must be remembering wrong. The day had been a strange one. She rubbed her fingers over the dull ache in her head. When would she learn to handle emotions: not just hers but others as well? They simply drained her empty.
And as an innkeeper, having a high EQ would stand her in good stead. Just like her ability to work ungodly hours. But sometimes this job seemed tougher than her former one.
Aileen’s shoulders spasmed, a yawn slipping out of her lips.
No, Aileen. We need to investigate, she urged herself on.
An hour longer, she promised herself and sat with her computer in the small room adjacent to her bedroom. She’d converted the space into a study of sorts.
It didn’t seem that tiny, but when Callan had stood in here asking questions, he’d looked like he was standing in a child’s playhouse.
There were books piled on shelves behind her, and a few boxes she’d yet to sort through, plus some memorabilia her friends had brought back for her from their trips. Aileen had always wanted to travel, but there had been so many obstacles, like her job and her ambition.
Shaking these tangential thoughts, she peered at her notes. An entire afternoon of digging had got her nowhere. She hadn’t found anything about the Dave Smith that had stayed at her inn. There wasn’t any picture on the internet, nor was there an address.
She’d headed straight towards a dead end. Maybe it was time to try another line of investigation. She turned the events of last night over in her mind again.
The doors had been locked; there had been no windows broken. What were the chances that the killer was an outsider?
Absolutely none. It had to be one of her guests. Aileen shuddered to think she housed a murderer.
Had she heard him last night? But how could she be sure it was a man and not one of her female guests?
Aileen rubbed her forehead again. She needed another approach. Maybe...
Her thoughts abruptly halted as a shrill scream reverberated through the old walls of the inn. The sound was so piercing, so unexpected, that Aileen slapped her hands over her ea
rs. Her heart thudded against her throat in abject terror.
The screaming continued like a call from hell. The snap of the chair smacking on the floor was barely audible as Aileen made a beeline for the stairs and ran down as fast as she could, trying her best not to break her neck.
The entire inn seemed to be in an uproar. Doors leading up to the guest rooms scraped opened, slammed shut; someone shouted. It was chaos.
Just like that morning, when an entirely different scream had shaken them all.
‘What’s the alarm for!’ a voice shouted at her.
‘Is this the bloody time for a drill?’ That was John Cook.
Another wave of terror hit her. Who’d sounded the alarm? Why was it ringing? Was it a distraction?
The killer. Had he – had he struck again? She shivered as the chill ran through every nerve in her body. No, she warned her system, now was not the time to go completely lax with cold horror.
With a firm shake of her head, she took charge: of her body and her surroundings.
‘The drawing room – now!’ she bellowed above the alarm, like the slap of a whip.
Footsteps tumbled haphazardly over the wooden stairs, and Aileen crossed over to the control room and scampered to shut off the alarm.
The police would be here soon but first she had to make sure everyone was accounted for.
A plethora of facial emotions greeted her in the drawing room: some sleepy, some annoyed, some confused, some even terrified or angry.
‘Is this a joke? After what we’ve been through this morning, an alarm—’
Aileen’s resolute hand stopped Richard Grant’s rambling complaints. She looked around and sighed with relief: nine faces stared back at her.
The roar of a car’s engine splintered the fragile glass of calm.
Before whoever it was broke down her front door, she yanked it open to find an irritated yet slightly concerned Detective Cameron.
‘A false alarm,’ she began to inform him as Callan pushed past her.