Murder at the Castle

by M. B. Shaw

  His Kathy. His treasure. His reward, God damn it, for all that had happened, all that he’d lost.

  Turning on his heel, he walked back to the castle and to the one woman he hoped could still save him.

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  ‘Morning, gorgeous.’ A calloused hand snaked around a sleeping Iris’s belly, then upwards to cup her right breast. ‘Happy Birthday.’

  ‘’S not the morning,’ Iris mumbled groggily. Reluctantly opening one eye, she was able to confirm this from the fact that it was still pitch-dark and her bedside clock said 4.45 a.m.

  ‘It is for me.’

  Iris sighed contentedly as Jamie Ingall nuzzled her neck, hopefully pressing his impressive erection into the small of her back. She waited to feel regretful about last night. About going to the Fisherman’s Arms after her run-in with Jock MacKinnon, having far too much to drink, running into Jamie and pretty much hitting him over the head and dragging him back home for sex like a horny cavewoman. Not that he’d needed any persuading. But the guilty feelings refused to come.

  God, she reflected now, half-heartedly pushing him away as he tried to slip back inside her. I must have been very drunk if I told him today was my birthday. That probably meant she’d also divulged exactly how ancient she was. What was I thinking?

  ‘You’re so fucking sexy,’ Jamie whispered, sighing as she turned around to face him. ‘But I have to go.’ Reluctantly throwing back the duvet, he crawled out of bed and started pulling on his clothes. ‘We said we’d put out by six. I’ll ring you later, OK?’

  Will you? Iris thought, mumbling something incoherent as he pulled on his boots and clumped down the stairs, closing her front door with a thud behind him. We’ll see.

  Fishermen kept ridiculous hours, she reflected, staring at the clock again. Another reason to add to the hundred and fifty or more that meant she and Jamie were a bad idea. A ridiculous idea, really, even though the sex was great and sort of hard to argue with at the moment. Happy Birthday to me.

  A hot shower helped to wake her up, and three slices of toast and Marmite washed down with strong Italian coffee made a modest but noticeable impact on her hangover. By nine o’clock, Iris felt strong enough to turn on her phone and check her birthday messages. She’d never been big on birthdays, her own or anybody else’s. They were fine for children, of course, but the idea of grown adults insisting on fuss and cake and presents had always seemed a bit pathetic, especially after forty, and very few people knew that today was Iris’s special day. Even so, she couldn’t help but feel a tad disheartened to see that almost all her ‘birthday wishes’ seemed to be junk mail – Starbucks offering her a free latte, Space NK plugging the latest hope-in-a-jar face cream on her ‘special day’. The only actual human being who’d remembered her was Greta Brun, her agent, which somehow felt like a rather damning reflection on her life generally.

  Kathy Miller had also left a voice message, but only to follow up on her apology for Jock’s ‘temper’ yesterday and to try to arrange a date for their next sitting.

  ‘Maybe we could do it at your place next time,’ she suggested. ‘I know it’s not an excuse for how he spoke to you. But he truly has been under a lot of pressure recently. I think it might be better if you steer clear of the castle, just until the dust settles.’

  Iris was pleased Kathy wanted to finish the portrait. She hated leaving work half done, and the commission gave her a reason to stay on in Pitfeldy. A real, professional reason, besides the murder case, and a certain trawlerman whom she could not allow to become her motivation for staying.

  After the way Jock had thrown her out of the castle yesterday, Iris had half expected Kathy to pull the plug completely. Understandably, Kathy’s feelings were torn between her friendship with Iris and loyalty towards the man she was about to marry. Iris sensed it was the latter that was gaining the upper hand. But perhaps that was as it should be. In any event, finishing the portrait bought her some time to work on the myriad unanswered questions still haunting her about the Girls in the Wood.

  On that subject she had a late lunch arranged with Stuart Haley today. Apparently, there’d been some ‘developments’ in Italy he wanted to fill her in on, although Iris suspected he might also just want to have lunch with her, given how maddeningly cryptic he’d been over the phone. She hadn’t told Haley it was her birthday, but the thought occurred to her that somehow he might have found out – he was a detective, after all – and be planning some sort of surprise, an idea that filled her with dread. She and Stuart were firmly back in the friend zone since their dinner the other night. But even so, Iris was not a person who liked surprises, even platonic ones.

  Just then her phone buzzed loudly to life in her hand. It was Kathy’s number.

  ‘Good morning,’ said Iris brightly. ‘I just got your message. I was going to –’

  ‘Oh, Iris!’ Kathy sobbed, her usual zen, Californian drawl replaced by raspy, gulping tears. ‘I didn’t know who else to call.’

  ‘What’s happened?’ Iris stiffened. Despite her penchant for drama, Kathy wasn’t given to hysterics, or tears. Had the vile Jock done something? Finally snapped and hit her, or worse?

  ‘It’s Sam Sam,’ Kathy gasped.

  ‘Oh,’ Iris said lamely, too surprised to think of anything more constructive to say.

  ‘He’s dead!’ Kathy wailed.

  ‘What?’

  ‘He’s dead,’ Kathy repeated, between shuddering breaths. ‘The vet thinks both dogs have been poisoned. Milo might not make it either, apparently.’

  ‘Oh, Kathy. I’m so sorry,’ said Iris, painfully aware of how inadequate the words sounded. She knew how much those animals meant to Kathy.

  ‘They’ve given him some shots, but – we’re waiting to see.’

  ‘When you say poisoned,’ Iris asked, ‘do you mean accidentally?’

  ‘We don’t know yet,’ Kathy sniffed. ‘They’re still doing blood tests. But it looks like it might have been Bromadiolone. It’s an anticoagulant people use to control rats and mice. You can buy it over the counter, apparently.’

  ‘So, ordinary rat poison?’

  ‘Basically, yeah,’ Kathy sniffed.

  So it was probably an accident, thought Iris.

  ‘But the thing is, according to the vet, for it to have this sort of effect on dogs Milo and Sam Sam’s size, and with so many weeks of symptoms, they would have to have been exposed to multiple small doses, increasing over time,’ said Kathy, reading her mind. ‘So it wasn’t something they randomly found one day and ate. I think it was deliberate,’ she said after a pause. ‘But I mean, who would do such a thing?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Iris. ‘Whoever wrote you the letters, perhaps?’

  ‘Right,’ said Kathy bitterly. ‘That was my first thought too. But who would hate me enough to – to –’ She started crying again.

  Iris’s mind raced. Despite their best efforts, neither she nor the police had been able to find the author of the threatening letters. And now it had come to this. Kathy had plenty of enemies, of course, both in Pitfeldy and up at the castle. And perhaps elsewhere, too. But poisoning her dogs obviously went way beyond writing a few notes designed to scare her off from marrying Jock MacKinnon. It spoke of a deeper, more dangerous hatred.

  ‘Are you going to report it to the police?’ Iris asked.

  ‘That was partly why I called you,’ Kathy sniffed. ‘I can’t prove it was deliberate. Jock’s convinced it wasn’t, and he’s just so edgy about the police at the moment generally, as you know.’

  ‘Hmmm,’ said Iris, biting back her anger for Kathy’s sake.

  ‘I don’t think I can report it. But you could. I wondered if you might “unofficially” mention it to DI Haley? With the two of you being friends and all.’

  ‘I’d be happy to,’ said Iris.

  ‘I did wonder,’ Kathy swallowed hard, ‘if maybe someone was trying to punish me, or the poor dogs, for finding those bodies? For finding Beatrice and – whoever
it was with her?’

  Iris hadn’t considered this. But in an awful, cruel, psychopathic way, it did sort of make sense.

  ‘Let me talk to Haley first,’ she said soothingly. ‘I’ll let you know if anything comes of it. And maybe give me the name and number of the vet?’

  Kathy did.

  ‘You just try to focus on Milo and stay calm,’ said Iris. ‘I really am very sorry, Kathy.’

  She hung up, feeling troubled.

  Poisoning those dogs was a wicked thing to do, an act of malice that smacked of a vendetta more personal and private than the unearthing of a decade-old murder. Who hated Kathy enough to risk doing something so spiteful, and why? She was curious as to what Stuart Haley would make of it.

  * * *

  ‘Gamekeepers use rat poison all the time up on these big estates. It might have been an accident.’

  Haley talked rapidly between mouthfuls of fish and chips, shovelling down his battered haddock like a man who hadn’t eaten in days.

  ‘Dogs sniffing around in a shed or stable or whatnot, swallowing something they shouldn’t have.’

  ‘Yes, but on top of the letters, and everything else that’s happened?’ said Iris, dipping warm bread into her bowl of broccoli-and-stilton soup. ‘I don’t think this was an accident. Besides, the vet told Kathy that the massive amount they ingested meant it probably happened over several days. It smells fishy to me.’

  ‘I’ll look into it,’ Haley promised, through a mouthful of mushy peas. ‘How did your chat go with old Edwin Brae?’

  Iris sighed. ‘Frustratingly. I mean, we talked. He was open with me – or, at least, I felt he was. But he didn’t recognise Beatrice, and Jock MacKinnon threw his toys out of the cot big time that I’d gone to see him.’

  Haley raised an eyebrow. ‘Did he now?’

  Iris filled him in on what happened yesterday at her sitting with Kathy. ‘I’m going to finish the portrait, but our next session will be at my place, as I’m definitely persona non grata up at the castle. Jock made that crystal clear.’

  ‘D’you think he’s hiding something?’ Haley asked, finishing the last of his chips and pushing his plate aside.

  ‘He’s certainly very defensive,’ said Iris. ‘But I also sort of got the feeling that a part of that was for Edwin, rather than himself. I mean, he’s an arsehole. But I think his concern for Brae is genuine.’

  Haley nodded, taking this in.

  ‘You know it’s odd,’ Iris went on. ‘While I was talking to Edwin, something kept bothering me. But I can’t seem to put my finger on what it was. He talked about his ex-wife, and Jock and his son. Sometimes he was lucid, sometimes less so, but’ – she shook her head, frustrated – ‘have you ever had that feeling, when you interview a witness, that you’re missing something? That they’re giving you the answer, that it’s right in front of you, but you aren’t putting the pieces together correctly?’

  Haley smiled. ‘Frequently.’

  ‘I mean, I know it sounds nonsensical,’ said Iris, ‘but I keep dreaming about Edwin and that afternoon. His room, his nurse. It’s like there’s something there that I’m not seeing. Anyway.’ She changed the subject. ‘Tell me about Italy. You said you had news?’

  ‘I do. Quite a bit, actually.’ Rolling up his sleeves, he leaned forward eagerly, grabbing one of Iris’s bread rolls without asking and starting to eat it as he spoke. ‘I’ve been speaking with Vice Questore Mancini of the Polizia di Stato in Venice.’

  ‘You do know your Italian accent’s awful,’ said Iris.

  ‘No it’s not.’

  ‘It is. And you don’t need to wave your arms around all the time either, like you’re in a Cornetto advert.’

  ‘Shut up and listen.’ Haley grinned. ‘I’ve been talking to my counterpart in Venice, OK? And doing a wee bit of my own research as well. Turns out the Romanian Beatrice used to knock about with, Andrei Barbu, is in prison in Milan. He was done for armed robbery in Genoa less than a month after Beatrice went missing. Barring a few months of freedom about seven years ago – so long after our girls were killed – he’s been inside pretty much constantly for most of his adult life. And he hasn’t left Italy since he arrived with his family from Romania as a child. He’s never been to Scotland, and was almost certainly inside when the murders took place.’

  ‘So he’s not our man,’ said Iris.

  ‘He’s not our man. And I actually don’t think his relationship with Beatrice Contorini was a big deal either, at least not from his side. According to the Italians, Barbu doesn’t even remember who she was. I’ve no reason to think that’s not true.’

  ‘OK,’ said Iris. ‘So what else?’

  ‘That art teacher your priest fella mentioned, Julia Mantovani.’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ Iris perked up. ‘Beatrice’s friend. The one who worked at the Istituto Venezia?’

  ‘Yes. But I’m not so sure they were friends. I know Father what’s-his-name told you they were close, but no one else I’ve talked to seems able to confirm that.’

  ‘All right, well, anyway, what did Julia have to say?’ asked Iris.

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Nothing?’

  ‘She’s dead, unfortunately,’ said Haley, finishing off the last of the bread roll and eyeing what was left of Iris’s half-eaten one. ‘Pancreatic cancer. She passed away a few months ago.’

  ‘Damn it,’ muttered Iris. These weren’t ‘developments’. These were yet more closed doors.

  ‘But I’ve spoken to her husband and numerous friends and no one remembers ever hearing the name Beatrice Contorini,’ said Haley. ‘So I’m wondering a little bit about this priest of yours. Could he be sending us down some dead ends?’

  ‘He could be,’ Iris sounded sceptical. ‘But why would he? Given that he was the one who gave me Beatrice’s name in the first place. He contacted me, remember? And don’t forget, if there was a friendship between Julia and Beatrice, it would have been ten to fifteen years ago. That’s a long time. People forget.’

  ‘True,’ Haley conceded. ‘But I still have my doubts about this priest. I’ve found nothing more to corroborate his story about Massimo Giannotti raping Beatrice’s mother either, and believe me, I’ve been digging. Although I will admit I agree with you about the Italian police being in the guy’s pocket. Are you going to eat that?’ He nodded towards Iris’s last remaining bread roll.

  ‘When was the last time you ate?’ Iris asked, handing it to him while she spooned up the dregs of her soup.

  ‘Yesterday some time,’ Haley said vaguely, between mouthfuls of bread. ‘I forget sometimes, since Jean died, especially when I’m busy.’

  ‘You should eat,’ said Iris, frowning. ‘You need to take care of yourself.’

  ‘Yes, Mum,’ said Haley, and Iris thought simultaneously how much she liked him and how completely she didn’t fancy him. ‘Anyway, I do have some good news, which is that Massimo did know Jock MacKinnon back in the day. They were both members of the same wanky gentlemen’s club in London in the eighties and nineties, and they frequently gambled together at Aspinalls.’

  Iris’s eyes lit up. ‘But that’s brilliant. That connects both of them to Pitfeldy, and to Beatrice.’

  ‘Sort of. It’s pretty tangential,’ cautioned Haley.

  ‘Oh, come on,’ said Iris. ‘That’s a link.’

  ‘It’s a start,’ said Stuart. ‘I’m still working on it. One other thing I wanted to mention to you in the meantime, though. I’ve been making a few calls in Rome, about Paola Contorini, Beatrice’s mum. But apart from that one old address that you gave me, I can’t seem find a single thing about her. Not even where she’s buried.’

  ‘Hmmm,’ Iris mused. ‘Are there no public records on that sort of thing?’

  ‘Aye, there are, and I’m still making calls on that,’ said Haley. ‘The Italians don’t make things easy, mind you. There’s a lot of city and state bureaucracy to get through. But in the meantime, I’ve contacted neighbours, Catholic charities, even re
habs, anything I can think of. I’ve found no trace of her.’

  ‘That’s weird,’ Iris admitted. ‘And she was never reported missing?’

  ‘Nope. I mean, after her daughter took off, she had no one to report her, did she? People do drop off the grid, especially if they become homeless or what have you. But even so, if your priest knew that Paola had died in Rome – if that news made it back to Venice – then surely it stands to reason someone in Rome must have told him.’

  ‘Another priest, probably,’ suggested Iris.

  ‘Right. And if they knew, then there should be a grave in one of the Catholic parishes. But if there is, I cannae find it. Which leads me back to good old Father – what was his name again?’

  ‘Antonio.’

  ‘Right, Father Antonio. I’d like to talk to him myself. Ask him who told him Paola was dead. How that even came up, you know?’

  ‘What are you thinking?’ asked Iris. ‘Do you suspect Father Antonio of something?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ Haley sounded uncomfortable. ‘Something doesn’t sit right, that’s all. All I know is I’m banging my head against a brick wall, and I think maybe Father Antonio knows more than he’s –’

  He stopped in his tracks, eyeing Iris curiously. She was sitting stock-still, barely breathing, and staring past him at a painting on the pub wall. She looked as if she’d seen a ghost.

  ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘That’s it,’ Iris mumbled to herself, still fixed on the painting. Haley turned to look at it. As far as he could tell, it was a rather poorly executed watercolour of Edinburgh University’s Old College.

  ‘Hello? Mystic Meg?’ He waved a hand slowly across Iris’s line of vision. ‘What is it?’

  ‘Brick walls,’ muttered Iris, still in a world of her own.

  ‘OK, so I’m gonna have tae ask you to explain that.’