by M. B. Shaw
‘You didn’t know her, did you?’
Donnelly shook his grey head slowly. ‘Me? No. I don’t think so.’
‘Nobody seems to, so far,’ said Charlotte, reaching over the bar for her tray of drinks and crisps, and pocketing her change. ‘But this artist is convinced she must have come to Pitfeldy before she died. Must have had some connection here. Anyway, I’d better go. Harry’ll be dying of thirst by now. Nice to see you. You can keep that, if you like.’
‘Oh, no – thank you. It’s fine,’ said Donnelly, holding out the paper, but the Tillings woman was already halfway across the snug and surrounded by a noisy sea of people. Scrunching up Iris Grey’s flier with an anger he didn’t know he was feeling, he tossed it into the wastepaper basket behind the bar.
Iris had seemed nice enough when John had met her. But what on earth had persuaded her to take up this macabre crusade? Why couldn’t she leave people alone? Leave the dead buried and the past in the past?
‘A lemonade, please.’
It was Hannah Drummond, standing at the bar not three feet away from him. Not to acknowledge her would be churlish, so John Donnelly raised a tentative hand in greeting.
‘Hello, Hannah.’
She blanked him, staring straight ahead.
Sod this, thought Donnelly, deciding to take the bull by the horns. He had nothing to be ashamed of; or at least, he refused to be broken by shame, just to make Angus bloody Brae feel better.
‘How’s Angus?’
‘He’s at home in bed with a crippling migraine,’ Hannah said stiffly, still not looking at him. ‘Not that you care.’
‘On the contrary,’ said Donnelly, sipping his beer. ‘I’m sorry to hear it.’
‘Doctor says it’s PTSD,’ hissed Hannah. ‘That’s what brings on the attacks. Traumatic events from his past.’
‘Again,’ muttered Donnelly. ‘I’m sorry.’
Taking her drink, his former pupil turned and looked right at him. To his dismay, John Donnelly saw there were tears in the girl’s eyes.
‘Not sorry enough,’ she said bitterly.
* * *
Two days later, Iris was at home, engrossed in her dolls’ house, when her phone rang. She was meeting Stuart Haley for dinner in a couple of hours, which she was really looking forward to, so when she saw the caller ID, she almost didn’t pick up. But then she decided that was cowardly and pathetic, and that two wrongs didn’t make a right.
‘Jamie?’
‘Hi.’
Even in that single syllable she could tell he sounded nervous. Good. As well he should be.
‘I was going to come round, but then I thought it might be better if I rang.’
‘Right,’ said Iris. She was determined not to give any ground. If they were going to be friends again – on any level – then it was up to him to make all the running. ‘So what is it?’
He cleared his throat. ‘I saw your flier, when I got back last night. You know, with the picture of the girl?’
It was the last thing Iris had been expecting him to say. For a moment she felt on the back foot.
‘Oh?’
‘I recognised her.’
The silence went on for so long that Jamie thought the line must have gone dead. ‘Iris? Are you there?’
‘Yes, yes, I’m here,’ Iris croaked. ‘Are you sure?’
‘I’m sure I’ve seen her before, aye,’ said Jamie.
‘Because it’s very important.’
‘I know that. I wouldn’t have called if I wasn’t certain. The only thing is,’ he hesitated, ‘I cannae remember exactly where it was, or when.’
‘It was in Pitfeldy, though?’ Iris pressed him, her heart in her mouth.
‘I suppose it must have been,’ said Jamie. ‘I mean, if I’m not out at sea, then I’m basically here, aren’t I? And I don’t think I met her fishing for herring.’
‘No,’ Iris agreed.
‘Anyway, if anything more comes back to me, I’ll let you know.’
‘OK,’ said Iris.
‘But I thought I should tell you… what I just told you.’
‘Thank you.’
Neither of them hung up as a second excruciating silence ensued.
‘I hope you catch the guy who did it,’ Jamie said eventually.
‘Me too,’ said Iris.
‘I miss you.’
Me too, said Iris – but only to herself.
‘Take care, Jamie.’
She hung up.
* * *
DI Stuart Haley dashed into the restaurant shaking the rain off his coat and unleashing a volley of apologies.
‘Sorry, sorry, sorry! Have you been here ages? I hope you’ve ordered a drink at least. I just couldn’ae get away.’ He sat down, shaking his hair like a wet dog, while Iris offered reassurances. It did feel a little strange, sitting here at the same restaurant she’d been to with Jamie. But Pitfeldy wasn’t exactly awash with fine-dining options, and Maria’s felt slightly more private than the pub.
They ordered pasta and two glasses of Maria’s rather disgusting Lambrusco, which was the closest they could get to champagne, ‘to celebrate your safe return’, as well as a decent bottle of Chianti. Still unsure whether this was a ‘date’ or a sort of unofficial business meeting, Iris waited for Haley to open the conversation. She wasn’t sure whether she was relieved or disappointed when he jumped straight to Beatrice Contorini.
‘The progress you’ve made has been fantastic,’ he told Iris. ‘But it still bothers me to think that whoever killed her is still out there.’
‘True.’ Iris looked into her wine glass thoughtfully.
‘Probably enjoying a nice glass of red as we speak,’ said Haley bitterly. ‘Just like us.’
‘Oh, I don’t know about that,’ said Iris. ‘Imagine if you’d buried those girls under a remote bothy, more than a decade ago. You’d be certain you’d got away with it, wouldn’t you, by now? And then all of a sudden, boom. There are skeletons and dental records and a name; police forces in two countries raking over what’s left of the evidence.’
‘Not to mention a nosy-parker portrait painter with a stubborn streak,’ Haley said wryly, raising his glass.
‘Well, quite,’ said Iris. Was he being flirtatious? It was hard to tell. Hard, also, to tell if she felt any sort of attraction towards him, other than on a personality level. He wasn’t unattractive. A little pale, maybe, but he had pleasant features and really quite striking pale blue eyes, now that Iris stopped to look at them. Then again, if you had to ask yourself whether or not you fancied someone, didn’t it automatically mean that you didn’t? That you were just divorced and lonely and clutching at straws, trying not to think about unreliable trawlermen who…
‘So, any more leads to tell me about?’ Stuart broke her self-indulgent reverie with his usual down-to-earth bonhomie. Which, ironically, was exactly what Iris liked about him. ‘I’ve seen your fliers, with Beatrice’s picture. Have you had any bites?’
‘Funny you should ask that, actually. I had my first one right before I came here.’ She told him about Jamie Ingall’s phone call. ‘He was convinced he knew her. Which, I think, means she must have spent time in Pitfeldy before she died.’
‘I agree,’ said Haley.
‘The problem is, no one else remembers her,’ said Iris. ‘Not so far, anyway. So maybe Jamie’s mistaken?’
Haley rubbed his jaw thoughtfully. ‘Maybe. We need to figure out the Scotland connection. Because there is one.’
‘I agree,’ said Iris. ‘But at the same time, I can’t stop thinking that there’s something I missed back in Italy. Something important enough for Massimo Giannotti to have me literally thrown out of the –’
She stopped, dead, pressing both hands against her temples.
Haley looked concerned. ‘What? What’s the matter?’
‘I just remembered something,’ said Iris excitedly. ‘Fiona MacKinnon. Jock’s ex-wife.’
‘What about her?’
�
�You remember I went to visit her in Edinburgh?’
‘Aye.’
‘Before Father Antonio contacted me, before I went to Italy?’
He nodded again. ‘I remember.’
‘Well, when I was there – how did I forget this? – she told me about a young Italian au pair girl who’d worked for her and Jock up at the castle when Rory and Emma were teenagers,’ said Iris. ‘Some “Eurotrash aristocrat” friend of Jock’s introduced her. That was what Fiona said.’
‘OK,’ said Haley patiently, still waiting for the punchline.
‘Isabella!’ Iris snapped her fingers, delighted that the name had come back to her. ‘That was the name. Anyway, according to Fiona, there was some unpleasantness, some sort of row with Jock, and he shipped this girl back to her father – in Rome. The father was furious about the whole thing, threatening to take Jock to court and whatnot, although he never did.’
‘So, you’re thinking…’
‘Rome?’ said Iris, as if it were obvious. Which to her, apparently, it was. ‘The “Eurotrash aristo” friend could be Massimo. I knew he had a connection to Pitfeldy,’ she added excitedly. ‘When we spoke and I mentioned it, he went as white as a sheet. I thought it was something to do with Kathy, but perhaps it was this Isabella? What do you think?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Haley.
It was hardly the ringing endorsement Iris had been hoping for. ‘Come on. It can’t be a coincidence,’ she cajoled him.
‘Why not?’ asked Haley, playing devil’s advocate. ‘Rome’s a big city, and Massimo Giannotti’s not the only aristocrat playboy who lives there.’
‘He’s the only one accused of being our victim’s father,’ Iris pointed out, reasonably. ‘I met him, Stuart, and I’m telling you, when I told him I was painting Kathy Miller’s portrait – Jock MacKinnon’s fiancée – alarm bells went off. He knew something. I don’t know what, or who, but he knew something. This girl Isabella was from Rome and she knew one of Jock’s aristocrat friends. Meanwhile, Beatrice Contorini, potentially Massimo’s illegitimate daughter, just happens to turn up dead in Jock MacKinnon’s back garden?’
Haley rubbed his brow, confused. Iris was talking at nineteen to the dozen, and it was no mean feat to keep up.
‘OK, OK, slow down. So Beatrice believed this Massimo was her father.’
‘Yes.’
Haley raised a hand patiently. ‘Talk to me about that. What did Father Antonio have to say about the whole paternity thing?’
Reluctantly, Iris took a deep breath and explained again, slowly, the story of Paola Contorini’s rape accusation against Massimo, as relayed by Father Antonio.
‘And you believe this story, I take it?’ asked Haley.
‘I believe Paola was raped,’ said Iris. ‘She may have been unstable, and an addict, but you don’t make up something like that. And you don’t forget it either.’
‘Well,’ Haley cautioned. ‘People do make these things up. I mean, not often. But it happens, especially when there’s money involved. Women aren’t all saints, you know, Iris.’
‘Yes, yes,’ Iris said crossly, irritated because she agreed. But she just felt in her bones that Paola Contorini had not been that kind of woman.
‘Let’s forget about this Isabella for now,’ said Haley. ‘And let’s just say Massimo did rape Paola, and he was Beatrice’s father.’
‘OK,’ said Iris.
‘Well… so what?’
‘I don’t follow.’ Iris frowned.
‘It’s hardly a motive for murder, is it? If what you say about Italian society is true, and I’ve no reason to think it isn’t, then a man like Massimo Giannotti was never in any danger of being done for rape. It would have been his word against a chambermaid’s, and we all know how that goes.’
‘True,’ admitted Iris.
‘So then think it through. What would have happened next? The rape case is a non-starter. So let’s say there was a blackmail attempt. Beatrice asks him for money, Massimo says no. What was the worst she could do to him? Accuse him of being a philanderer? A dead-beat dad? What does he care? People already knew those things about him, and his high-society mates obviously don’t care. Nah,’ Haley shook his head. ‘I’m not buying it. Giannotti may be an arsehole, but I don’t think he’s our man. He had no need to kill Beatrice, whether he knew this mysterious au pair girl or not.’
Iris digested this for a minute. She didn’t disagree, but at the same time there was something there, something she didn’t want to let go.
‘If Massimo’s one hundred per cent innocent in all this, why go to all the trouble of getting rid of me?’ she asked. ‘Of having me deported, bundled onto a plane back to the UK, like I’m some sort of terrorist?’
‘You don’t know that was him,’ Haley pointed out.
‘Who else?’ Iris shrugged.
‘Well, I’m not sure,’ Haley admitted. ‘Someone who didn’t want you sniffing around the Contorini women.’
‘OK, but who?’
‘Whoever broke into your apartment in Venice, maybe?’ said Haley, thinking aloud. ‘The really interesting question is why were they so threatened. I’ve a feeling this may go deeper than Beatrice’s murder. That there’s more to it than that.’
‘Such as?’
‘Maybe her death was incidental.’
‘Incidental to what?’ asked Iris.
‘Well, that’s just it, I don’t know,’ said Haley, muttering to himself between forkfuls of pasta. ‘Perhaps this Romanian gang connection…? What was the name of the fella? Barbu?’
‘Andrei Barbu,’ Iris confirmed. ‘His whole family were dodgy, according to Father Antonio. I wondered if he might have been Beatrice’s boyfriend. Apparently, she’d fallen in love with some foreigner.’
‘Who else knew you were in Italy, asking questions?’ Haley asked Iris, having apparently lost interest in the Barbu thread already.
‘Well, Father Antonio,’ she replied. ‘But he invited me, so I highly doubt he was the one behind getting me deported, or ransacking my apartment and attacking poor Kathy. He told me about an art teacher, Julia Mantovani, who was close to Beatrice. I need to ask the school for her address.’
‘OK. And who else? Other than Massimo?’
Iris thought about it. ‘The Italian police.’
‘And?’
‘That’s it.’
‘It’s like everything fits, but nothing fits.’ Iris sighed, exasperated. ‘Like two hands reaching across a river, and the fingertips touch but you can never quite get a grip.’
‘Welcome to my world,’ said Haley.
For a while they ate and drank and discussed other things. Iris’s plans once she was finished with Kathy’s portrait. The upcoming MacKinnon wedding. Eventually, the conversation turned to Haley’s thoughts about his own future.
‘I have thought about moving,’ he told Iris. ‘You know, now that Jean’s gone. Making a fresh start. But then I think, where would I go? You can’t outrun grief, or memories, and I wouldn’t want to, even if I could.’
‘Of course not,’ said Iris, sympathetically.
This isn’t a date, she realised. Maybe he’d wanted it to be, when he first asked her to dinner. But the truth was the poor man was clearly not ready to move on. He’s still in love with his wife.
‘Plus, truth be told, I do still really enjoy my job,’ Stuart went on.
‘That’s because you’re good at it,’ said Iris, truthfully.
‘Look,’ he said, pushing his empty plate to one side. ‘I’m due some leave. Maybe, if I keep my head down, we could work on this together?’
‘That would be great,’ said Iris, ‘if you’re sure it won’t get you into trouble with the chief constable?’
‘It won’t if he doesn’t hear about it.’ Haley grinned. ‘Maybe, for now at least, you should keep looking into all the local leads here in Pitfeldy. In the village and up at the castle. Keep pushing on Beatrice; maybe see if you can find out any more about this Isabella girl.
And meanwhile, I’ll get in touch with our Italian friends. Go softly-softly, see what I can dig up at that end. The polizia will respond better to a fellow copper asking for favours off the record, than they will to…’
‘A nosy-parker portrait painter with a stubborn streak?’ Iris offered, wryly.
‘I was going to say a woman,’ said Haley, teasingly. ‘But I suppose that would offend your feminist sensibilities? Always the victim, you lot.’
‘Kiss my arse, Braveheart,’ Iris shot back, smiling broadly. ‘You SNP whingers have “poor me” down to a fine art.’
God, it was nice to feel relaxed with a man. To be able to banter and joke around without feeling anxious or fearful or embarrassed about what might come next. Tonight’s dinner had been easy. Ian, Iris’s husband, had always been an interesting conversationalist, at least when he was sober. But dinners with Ian, even the good ones, had never been ‘easy’.
And more recently, with Jamie Ingall, everything had seemed easy, until suddenly it wasn’t. What she’d thought of as his triple-F agenda – Food, Fucking and Fishing, which seemed to be the only three things he cared about – had made a refreshing change, until she realised they actually came with a fourth ‘F’ – Fear of commitment. That was the zinger, the sting in the tail, and it had hurt her more than she cared to admit.
‘Penny for ’em?’ Haley looked at her curiously.
Blushing, Iris realised she’d been lost in thought for some minutes.
‘I think your plan’s a good one,’ she said, coming back to the present. ‘You do Italy and I’ll focus on things here. I can’t promise not to get Jock MacKinnon’s back up, though.’
‘Fine by me,’ said Haley, studying the menu intently. Lava cake or sticky toffee pudding. That was the big question.
‘I’m already firmly on his shit list,’ said Iris. ‘And I’ve a feeling that might be about to get worse.’
‘Oh?’ Haley looked up at her. ‘How so?’
‘Because unless Beatrice’s photo suddenly prompts a flood of jogged memories down in the village,’ said Iris, ‘I’m afraid I’m going to have to pay a visit to his old friend Edwin Brae.’