by Shana Frost
‘That’s not what the record says about you, Percy.’
Richard’s expression turned from cynical to surprised for a single heartbeat, then he quickly turned it into an impatient one.
‘Richard – my name’s Richard.’
Callan flashed a sinister smile. ‘Richard.’ He snorted. ‘Percy Winston suits you better.’
‘You’ve lost your mind. I don’t know who you’re talking about.’
‘You bought this dagger, didn’t you?’ Callan spoke as if he hadn’t heard him.
Richard sat back in his chair. He kept his fury in check, instead showing an air of confusion. ‘You aren’t making sense. I’m calling my lawyer.’
‘Where’s your lawyer from, Percy Winston?’
Slamming both his beefy hands on the table, Richard stood. ‘That’s not my name.’
‘Oh but it is.’ Callan was enjoying this. ‘Why, that’s who owns this dagger. The dagger that pierced Dave Smith’s heart and took his life. That robbed a woman of her husband.’
Like a toddler throwing a tantrum, Richard Grant, aka Percy Winston, banged the table again. This time his disdain and anger oozed from every pore. He clenched his teeth and spoke every syllable clearly. ‘I didn’t kill him.’
Callan called his bluff.
To that all Percy Winston said was, ‘Lawyer.’
Chapter 13
Aileen paced the closet-like room.
Callan walked in. ‘Screamed lawyer but my gut tells me he’s speaking the truth.’
‘You didn’t figure out what he was threatening someone about?’
He shook his head.
‘It was after the murder and the other voice I heard was male.’ Callan began to pace as well.
‘Could it be Jake?’ Aileen asked.
Callan scratched his scruff and nodded. ‘Aye, I think so, and I think they were arguing about the dagger. But Percy threatened his son. He threatened to go to the police – said he knew what Jake had done.’
Aileen understood perfectly what Callan was saying. ‘But we can’t place Jake at the murder scene nor in the room where Percy threatened him. And Percy isn’t talking.’
Callan nodded. ‘I hope his lawyer’s level-headed and cooperative. But I can’t wrap my head around this. I heard the other voice say he’d sold it.’
‘A good lawyer will weave him out of this mess. We’ll just have to see what Percy says, especially about his son.’
‘Aye, a decent lawyer could get him out. We just don’t have enough evidence.’
Aileen hummed and stared at the wall behind Callan. It was as plain as Callan’s all black attire.
‘Callan, what do you think about the dagger?’
‘That it killed that twat, Dave Smith.’
Aileen waved her hands, ‘I mean, we traced it to Percy Winston, didn’t we? But could a murderer use such a...differentiable murder weapon and leave it behind for the police to find?’
Callan shrugged, ‘Either he is idiotic or cocky. It could be his downfall.’
‘Somehow I doubt that...’
Thudding the coffee mug on his desk, Callan turned to the laptop. ‘I heard the other voice say they sold it.’
Aileen clarified, ‘I didn’t find any such transaction.’
Callan pointed at his computer screen, ‘My colleague just emailed this to me. An anonymous bidder purchased the same dagger almost a month ago...’
‘So Percy Winston-’
‘Could either have set up the ruse of selling it or could truly have sold it.’
CALLAN AND AILEEN BOTH sat in that cramped office and tried to make sense of the situation.
Callan stared at his murder board. ‘Tell me, what do you know about Samantha Grant and Susan Knight?’
Aileen raised a questioning eyebrow but answered nonetheless, ‘They are both guests at my inn. Personable ladies, I must say.’
‘Have ye seen them together— in a friendly sort of way, I mean?’
Drumming her fingers on Callan’s overcrowded desk, Aileen said, ‘Can’t say I have. In fact, Susan never came down for dinner the night Dave was murdered. And apart from when all of us had gathered, they haven’t been together. Why do you ask?’
Callan began to pace, as he reported what he’d seen the day Aileen’s tyres were slashed. ‘I wonder what they were doing standing there?’
Aileen cleared her throat, ‘Was that the last time you saw Susan alive?’
Was that emotion he heard in Aileen’s voice?
‘Yes, I think so. And that got me thinking...’ Callan suddenly trailed off.
‘What?’ Aileen urged him.
‘Coincidence.’
‘Aye, it’s too much of a coincidence that the lights went out that same night as Susan was killed.’
Callan plopped down on his uncomfortable chair, trying his best to hide the grimace of pain.
‘It could’ve been a local vendor irked by your return. But as you said, it wasn’t just the car tyres but also the blackout, your gran’s ring going missing and the murder. Coincidence? That’s bollocks! So what’s the link between all these?’
Aileen nodded, ‘There has to be some significance.’
Callan plopped his hands on his desk and saw Aileen grimace at the piles of crumpled papers littering his desk.
‘Ye’re a snob.’
Aileen sat back, derailed by that comment, ‘Excuse me?’
‘You just wrinkled yer nose at my desk-’
‘Because it’s disgusting.’
Callan smirked. ‘I’m a very busy man. After all, I’m the one cleaning up the mess ye created.’
‘Me? What did I do?’
‘Revamped the inn and invited guests in without a background check. And yer pathetic security-’
Aileen slammed her hands on his desk. ‘I never asked for this! Besides you file like a five year old-’
‘You fight like a toddler.’
‘Stuffing crumpled papers into a folder.’
Callan cackled with amusement.
‘Oh god Aileen, it’s such fun arguing with ye! It doesn’t take long to get ye riled up!’
Aileen brandished her teeth at him. ‘You don’t rile me up.’ She muttered defiantly before turning her attention towards her laptop screen.
His amusement settled, Callan went back to the evening before Susan Knight’s murder.
‘You were out the entire day. And Susan, as I said, was alive and breathing. The only reason someone would want ye to get “hung up” would be the thief.’
Her voice a little piqued, Aileen said, ‘You think they stole Gran’s ring then?’
Callan pointed a finger, ‘You couldn’t have driven back to Dachaigh, even if ye were at that vendor meeting. Ye’d be late and that’s plenty of time to locate the safe and steal the ring.
‘Golly’ Aileen muttered. ‘Could Samantha and Susan have slashed my car tyres?’
‘They saw me and walked away...You know what bugs me?’ Callan spoke as if to himself. ‘None of them heard the sounds you did that night Dave was killed.’
‘Well they would all be asleep? What’s that got to do with my car?’
‘Asleep? Bah Humbug! I think they were all expecting those footsteps! And that’s the crux of this puzzle.’
AILEEN WALKED BACKED into Callan’s cramped office with a steaming coffee pot, her head churning.
‘My keys,’ she began with no preamble. ‘Why were they picked twice?’
Clearly in a rough mood, Callan looked at Aileen through tired eyes. He reached towards his right knee, unconsciously massaging it.
‘What are yer theories?’
Huffing, Aileen plopped in the visitor’s chair. ‘I could only come up with one: the person who wanted to copy them, got something wrong and needed the keys again.’
Callan rubbed his eyes. ‘Plausible except, it was two different people who must have done this.’
‘I can’t believe two of my guests are crooks!’
The vicious smi
le on Callan’s face made Aileen shiver, ‘The second one seems to be more cautious. He or she at least returned the keys back to yer pocket.’
‘Do you think that is significant?’
‘To be honest, yer keys are a means to commit the crime. It can be a possible explanation how the killer got into Dave’s room that night.’
Aileen shook herself. ‘The fault of having old lock and key doors.’
Callan snorted. ‘Hotel keycards are a mess! But aye, if Dave had locked the door the killer could have easily unlocked it.’
‘I don’t understand this man, Dave Smith. I mean, who is he?’
Callan only shrugged, placing a sheet of paper in front of Aileen.
‘My admin contacted the police in Edinburgh. We just got this email from them.’
Aileen gasped. They’d found the man she’d known as Dave Smith.
Callan’s cocky smirk lifted some of the tiredness from his eyes, ‘This detective has been looking for our man for a few months now. Our killer got Dave good, apparently. Dave Smith-’
‘Was a black market dealer—a con man...’ Aileen lost her words as she went through the list of identities Dave Smith had taken on.
Finally she put the printed email down and said, ‘Good Lord! That man changed identities like clothes.’
Callan made a tsk sound. ‘He did. And so obviously did his wife. But that doesn’t explain what I saw.’
Raising a questioning eyebrow, Aileen asked, ‘What did you see?’
‘I saw the two of them, early one morning by the loch-side. And it had to be them, it corroborates with Martha’s mood and Dave’s disappearance that entire day.’
‘What could they be doing there? Are you sure it was them?’
Callan pouted, ‘Beats me...Although I can tell ye it ain’t one of the locals. So it’s got to be one of yer guests.’
Pacing with his hands in his pocket, Callan continued, ‘Martha Smith is the only one with that wild hair. I saw the hair, and I didn’t know who it could be then. But Dave and Martha were fighting.’
‘Oh god! Oh god!’ Aileen said pulling her hair and sank into the chair a bit more. ‘I know now where I saw that! Dave and Martha; when he came down for dinner the night before his death—I saw Martha flinch as if she were scared of her husband.’
Callan stomped his feet. ‘Damn it! She couldn’t have done it.’
‘Her alibi’s strong for the second murder-’
‘There’s no vengeance.’
Aileen raised a questioning eyebrow before standing to pour herself another cup of coffee. She needed something strong to keep her brain from exploding.
Callan breathed in the bitter fragrance, savouring it for a moment.
‘Dave Smith’s killing blow, delivered at around three in the morning was a simple kill. The killer knew he wouldn’t move; he’d been overdosed on sleeping pills. It’s a cold blooded murder. Now Martha— being the wife and an abused one at that— would want to rage at her husband. But we have one killing blow, no combat wounds.’
‘So the sleeping pills: what’s their significance?’
‘Aye, the sleeping pills- our killer’s a coward. He or she doesn’t want their victims to hold up a fight. Besides it’s risky in an inn full of people. But simple overdose is boring. So the sleeping pills make the victim pliant yet a little coherent.’
Aileen shivered. ‘Cold...so cold’ As if struck my lightening, Aileen straightened, ‘We have two killers?’
‘Perhaps— one to kill and one to help.’
A COUPLE OF HOURS LATER, a bloke suited up in a sharp blazer and trousers arrived at the police station. It was Steve Johnson, Percy Winston’s lawyer. He must have been an important client indeed for him to rush out to a town in the middle of nowhere.
He requested some privacy with his client.
CALLAN RETURNED TO his office and tried to make heads or tails of the situation.
The dagger bugged him and so did the belt. Suppose it was Percy Winston who owned these two very distinctive items. Would he be stupid enough to use them to kill?
No, this killer had planned everything carefully. The belt might be an aberration but the killer would’ve had to have got the dagger along somehow.
Had Susan threatened the killer? Maybe she’d seen something and figured it out and the murderer had had less time to plan his second kill.
But why sound the alarm the night before? Cutting the lights the night of the murder could’ve helped the killer slip unnoticed from the murder scene, but the alarm...
Callan scratched his prickly beard. And slashing Aileen’s tyres—was that significant in some way to the murder?
His gut told him these events weren’t connected. There was something more happening here, undercurrents. Besides, Percy would have known the police could use fingerprints to find his identity. It wouldn’t have taken them long to discover he’d owned the dagger.
Someone who’d planned everything so carefully wouldn’t make that kind of slip. He wouldn’t implicate himself by using a weapon that belonged to him and then leave that weapon behind for the police to see.
Callan stared out the window at the quiet village of Loch Fuar, lost in his thoughts.
Reaching for that infernal handset, he dialled the detective with the Edinburgh police who’d been on the lookout for “Dave Smith.” It didn’t take long for the detective to answer.
‘Detective Inspector Cheryl Spiers’
‘Detective. I got yer email. I had a few questions for ye.’
‘About the man you call Dave Smith?’
‘Aye, I wanted to know if he had an accomplice.’
There was a brief pause before Detective Spiers replied, ‘Aye, he had a female partner. We aren’t sure if they were romantically linked. You see, they each changed identities so very often, we couldn’t keep tabs. They’d be married, brother-sister, colleagues...’
‘The woman, his partner, what did she look like?’
‘It’s a futile attempt to decipher her physical appearance, Detective Cameron. When I mean they changed identities they also changed appearances. His partner can alter her looks really well, whether that’s a wig, eye contacts, or changing the shape of her ears or adding a fake nose. We haven’t been able to identify her features but we know her name.’
At the pause, Callan took a breath, stealing himself. ‘What’s her name?’
‘Jocelyn Spencer, the surname I gather, is post marriage.’
‘You wouldn’t know her maiden name then?’
‘No, she only got onto our radar after she’d married him.’
Callan drummed his hands, trying to take this information in. Was Martha, Jocelyn? Or was it Susan? That was an interesting thought.
‘Where did you trace Dave Smith last?’
Detective Spiers thought for a moment, ‘London, around the area known as Canary Wharf.’
Someone in the background, called for Spiers. The sound of shuffling and the bustle of a busy office came through the speaker. He’d been a part of that dance once. Now, here he was in an office where you could hear angel’s whispering nothing but sermons of peace.
The line crackled before the detective came online again. ‘Sorry about that...So about Smith, he was last seen in London looking the same as he did then. He was alone, without his partner. But, what drew our attention to him was the number of people he was meeting.’
‘What do ye mean?’
‘Your pal was seen meeting a few renowned names as well as some ordinary people. They always had secretive meetings, our people couldn’t get too close to know what they were discussing. He could sniff our people out.’
‘Would you tell me any names?’
‘Well, one of our officers recognised one of his acquaintances. It’s a jeweller by the name of Jean Beaulieu.’
HALF AN HOUR LATER, Callan sat in interview with Percy Winston and his lawyer, Johnson.
He turned to Johnson first. ‘Fancy you being a Brit and able to get here so
quickly. Our friend Richard here persists that he’s from Canada, here on holiday.’
Johnson dismissed the question. ‘Ask what’s relevant, Mr Cameron.’
‘Why did you lie about your name?’
No answer.
‘Who did you threaten the evening before the second murder?’
‘My client threatened no one.’
‘Why were your fingerprints on the bedside lamp in an unfinished room at Dachaigh?’
‘Can we see the evidence?’
Callan presented the report to the lawyer. All he did was request some more time with his client.
Stupid, sleazy lawyers, Callan cursed as he tapped his leg on his desk, with their pressed suits and their beady eyes and their gelled hair... They always got on his nerves. They’d fight for the Devil in court if he paid them enough.
Callan needed more evidence to tie the Grants to the crime scene. But the scene was clean, the murder well planned.
Had the killer killed before? That was unlikely, but killing at Loch Fuar? That was certainly an important piece of the puzzle. A small town with a negligible police force was a good place to kill.
That was the reason Siobhan had sought refuge here, away from prying eyes.
But the killer would know soon enough that Callan was no fool. He was good at his job, especially when it came to murder.
Keeping People Safe – Callan always stuck by those words.
CHARLES WYATT WOULD be easy to find. The location of his cottage was available for anyone to find. He enjoyed posting pictures of the fish he hauled in that area on social media.
Aileen sought out Isla. ‘Fancy a quick road trip?’
‘Twenty minutes!’
If Callan was preoccupied, the least Aileen could do was find information about the diamond belt. And Isla was the perfect partner – pushy enough to get blood out of a stone.
The tiny cottage stood by the loch, barely visible amidst the mountains that surrounded it. There were no other settlements that Aileen could see; it was a haven of privacy.
A maroon jeep coloured the damp landscape. It stood in front of the whitewashed stone cottage. The rest of the Highland scene was drenched in hues of blue and green.