by M. B. Shaw
‘Edwin Brae. His room,’ Iris said excitedly, pulling on her coat. ‘I know what it is. What I was missing.’
‘Hold on a minute,’ Haley protested. ‘Slow down, would you?’
‘I can’t. I have to go. There’s someone I need to see.’
‘Iris,’ Haley called after her as she headed for the door. ‘For God’s sake –’
‘I’ll ring you tonight,’ said Iris. And with a blast of cold air, she was gone.
* * *
Angus Brae was outside his cottage, loading logs into a wheelbarrow when he saw Iris approaching. In a bright red puffa coat and clashing orange woolly hat, with her skinny legs tucked into big, fluffy white boots, she looked like a particularly determined Christmas elf, power-walking her way towards him.
‘Hello!’ He waved cheerfully. He was surprised to see her on the estate, given her blow-up with the baron yesterday. Everyone up at the castle was talking about it. Gossip was thin on the ground in Pitfeldy and as a result tended to go from nought to sixty in a matter of seconds. ‘What can I do for you?’
‘You lied to me.’ She said it so matter-of-factly, and without anger, that at first he thought he’d misheard her.
‘I’m sorry?’
‘You lied to me. You said you’d never been to university. That you never went away to study. But you did. There’s a picture of you in your dad’s room at the home, at Edinburgh. You’re leaning against a wall outside Old College. You were a student there, weren’t you?’
She watched his expression change from shock, to denial, to a sort of grim acquiescence. ‘You’d better come in.’
The gamekeeper’s cottage was messier than the last time Iris had visited, with dirty washing-up in the sink and the remnants of last night’s takeaway strewn around the living room.
‘Hannah’s away at her mam’s,’ Angus offered by way of explanation, taking Iris’s coat and clearing aside a pile of newspapers so that she could sit down on the couch.
‘Why did you lie to me about Edinburgh?’ Iris asked, in the same gentle, probing tone as before.
‘Because I felt guilty, I suppose,’ said Angus, looking guilty as he sat down opposite her, picking at his frayed shirt cuffs with bitten-down fingernails.
‘I don’t understand,’ said Iris. ‘Why would you feel guilty about having gone to university? That’s an achievement.’
‘Not for me it wasn’t.’ He looked away miserably. ‘It was a really bad time. My dad – wasn’t well. I should never have left him. But I was young, you know? I felt trapped.’
‘I can imagine,’ said Iris, looking around her. ‘You’re artistic, creative. I daresay you had dreams of your own, beyond spending the rest of your life fixing the baron’s fences.’
Angus looked wounded. ‘I’m proud to work for the baron,’ he insisted. ‘I was then, too, I just… I don’t know. I was restless. I got offered a place at the art school and my teachers thought I should go. I really wanted to, but dad wouldn’t even discuss it. He just said “no, no way”. I felt he shut me down without even really listening. And I think mebbe, you know, that was the last straw. So I took the place. I went off to uni. And then everything unravelled.’
‘Unravelled?’
‘Dad got worse,’ Angus said bluntly.
‘His illness, you mean?’ asked Iris.
‘Aye. Me leaving, I think it pushed him over an edge.’
Even now, clearly, it was hard for him to talk about. The disjointed rhythm of his sentences spoke of the pain these memories still caused.
‘Anyway, he drove to the city. Came to my halls. That would have been the day he took the picture you saw, in his room. I’ve no idea why he kept it.’ Angus pressed his fingertips against the bridge of his nose. He’s trying not to cry, thought Iris. ‘Dad begged me to come home.’ Angus went on, his voice dropping almost to a whisper. ‘My father’s a proud man, Miss Grey. He doesn’t beg.’
‘So you decided to drop out?’
Angus nodded. ‘I came back to Pitfeldy. We never really spoke about it afterwards, but I think, you know,’ he cleared his throat. ‘The damage was done.’
‘Angus.’ Iris leaned forward, looking at him kindly. ‘You do realise that your father’s illness isn’t your fault? By your own account, he’d already begun to deteriorate long before you left for college.’
‘I know that.’ Angus smiled weakly. ‘But it wasn’t his illness that broke him. Not alone, anyway. It was the abandonment. First my mother and then me.’
‘Going away to university isn’t abandonment,’ Iris said gently.
‘It was to my dad,’ said Angus.
‘I’m not sure that leaving an abusive marriage is abandonment either, other than in the most technical sense,’ she added. She knew the comment about Angus’s mother was a risk and his reaction was instant. He sat back, shoulders stiffening, his features resetting themselves into a cold, emotionally closed mask.
‘Is that all you wanted?’ He got to his feet. ‘Because I need to get back to work. And no offence, but the baron wouldn’t be happy if he knew you were here.’
‘Yes.’ Iris took the hint and reached for her coat. ‘That was all. So you came back to Pitfeldy out of concern for Edwin’s welfare. There was no other reason?’
‘No.’ Angus’s jaw seemed to have locked so tight, he could barely force the word out.
Hurrying back to the warmth of her car, Iris’s mind raced, the cogs of her consciousness clicking almost audibly as she processed everything she’d just witnessed.
There was still so much that confused her about the weird emotional triangle that bound Angus Brae, his father and Jock MacKinnon. But there was now one thing she knew for sure.
Angus was lying. Lying through his clenched, frightened teeth.
* * *
‘Where have you been all afternoon? Did you no get my messages?’
Haley’s voice was half irritated, half concerned. Iris made an effort to placate him as she pulled two burned crumpets out of the toaster and started scraping off the black bits, pushing aside her own disappointment that it was Stuart and not Jamie who’d rung her four times.
‘I went to see Angus Brae,’ she told him, taking her first, hot bite. ‘He lied to me about going away to university and I wanted to know why. It would have been right around the time that the two girls were killed.’
Haley fell silent for a moment. ‘What did he say?’
‘That he lied because he felt guilty about leaving his dad. But I know there’s more to it than that. He’s hiding something, I’d bet my life on it.’
‘OK, well, I got a call after you left the pub today, for what it’s worth. Massimo Giannotti wasn’t Beatrice Contorini’s father.’
Iris put down her crumpet. ‘How do you know?’
‘He took a paternity test at the time, after Paola first started making accusations against him.’
‘But…’ Iris frowned. ‘That makes no sense. Why wouldn’t he have told me that when I met him?’
‘No idea,’ said Haley. ‘But the Venice police have a copy of the test. I’ve seen it. It’s legit. Oh and by the way, I’d prefer it if you stayed away from the castle for the next few days, including the gamekeeper’s house. I’ll be going up there myself at some point to look into this business with the dogs. I’d rather not have to arrest you for trespassing.’
‘Don’t worry,’ said Iris. ‘I’ll either be here or in Edinburgh. I thought I might ask around at the university, see if anybody remembers Angus Brae being there.’
She hung up feeling dispirited, and more confused than ever. Settling down in front of the fire she’d lit earlier, that for once was blazing successfully in the grate instead of spluttering away into nothing the moment she turned her back, she attempted to get her thoughts into some sort of order.
Where did Massimo Giannotti fit into this?
Massimo knew Jock. They were members of the same London club, back in the days of his marriage to Fiona, and Iris mentioning Pitfeld
y Castle had scared the living shit out of him when they spoke. He might have raped Paola Contorini decades ago in Venice; but he wasn’t Beatrice’s father. And yet, somehow, Beatrice had ended up murdered and buried under the ruined bothy in Jock MacKinnon’s woods.
Right now, as far as Iris could work out, Massimo remained the only link they had between Venice and Pitfeldy. And yet there was nothing actually to connect him with Beatrice’s death.
Then there was Paola Contorini, Paola whose grave nobody seemed able to find and whose neighbours in Rome apparently barely remembered her. What exactly had happened to her after she’d dared to challenge the powerful Massimo and lost? How had she died, and what secrets had she taken with her to her lonely resting place?
Finally, Iris’s thoughts turned to Angus and Edwin Brae, and to Jock MacKinnon himself. All three protested their complete innocence, and ignorance, about the women buried up on the estate. But all three were lying, or at best revealing only half-truths about what they knew, Iris felt sure of it. And through it all, the dark cloud of the two abandoning wives, Linda and Alice, and the dead baby Mary, hung over this unholy triumvirate.
What were the common threads?
Silent, missing women, thought Iris. Alice and Linda. Paola and Beatrice.
And frightened, lying men. Edwin and Angus. Massimo and Jock.
Perhaps Jock’s adult children, the prickly Rory and the vacuous Emma, had more to tell than they had thus far? Apart from Haley’s initial interview when the bodies were found, no one had questioned the younger MacKinnons again. Iris had spoken to their mother, Fiona – which reminded her that the au pair lead was still out there, this mysterious ‘Isabella’, also from Rome – but Iris had rather let the ball drop on Rory and Emma.
Maybe now was the time to pick it up again?
Chapter Twenty-eight
It was a bright, clear morning when Iris drove into Edinburgh, and the city seemed positively to sparkle with life and cheer. Coloured lights and gaudy decorations lifted the famous grey stone streets, and the blue sky above and white-frosted ground below gave everything a Christmas card feel that seemed to raise everybody’s spirits. Iris had counted several cheerful ‘good mornings’ before she’d even arrived at Pollock Halls of Residence on Holyrood Park Road, which was pretty much unheard of in Scotland as far as Iris could tell. In Pitfeldy it was a red-letter day if the lady at the village stores made eye contact and gave you a grunt when you came in for your milk and paper. But at the Starbucks near Old College it was smiles all round. Iris had even been offered one of yesterday’s mince pies for free (‘we have to chuck them out, otherwise, so you may as well.’) She hoped this boded well for her interview with the Pollock Halls warden.
It didn’t.
Sour-faced, underpaid and miserable, Mrs Claire McCready was a pinched, grey-haired harridan who made it clear from the beginning that she had little time for Iris, and zero interest in answering her questions about Angus Brae.
‘I’ve only been working here seven years,’ she told Iris tersely, handing back the copy of the photograph of Angus as a student that Edwin’s nurse had kindly copied for Iris. ‘This young man would ha’ been well before my time.’
‘I understand,’ said Iris. ‘But I wondered if perhaps your predecessor…?’
‘My predecessor died of a heart attack on the job,’ Mrs McCready snapped, glaring at Iris through thick, bottle-lensed glasses as if this untimely death were somehow her fault. ‘Forty-five he was, poor man.’
‘I’m so sorry to hear that.’
‘Even if he hadn’t died, he couldn’t tell you about a specific student.’
‘Couldn’t he?’
The old woman shook her head. ‘Data protection. We can’t even talk to the police,’ she added, folding her arms self-importantly across her drooping chest. ‘Not without a court order.’
‘I see. Well, thank you,’ Iris said politely. Clearly there was no point flogging a dead horse. She would have to ask around informally, see what she could find out at the art school, or maybe even at the local pubs. Angus hadn’t been at Edinburgh long, but he was a handsome lad and a talented one. She only needed one person to remember him.
* * *
‘Oh, yes.’ Laila Davenport held the photograph of Angus between her charcoal-stained thumb and forefinger. The life-drawing teacher had a mane of long grey hair that cascaded down her crooked back like mist down a mountainside, and the sort of craggy, characterful face that Iris instantly wanted to paint. ‘Yes, I do remember him. Shy boy. He had a gift for landscapes.’
Laila, it turned out, had been teaching at Edinburgh for over thirty years and was a living legend within the art department. Helpfully, she had also heard of Iris, and was only too happy to offer what help she could to a fellow artist.
‘I’ve seen a number of your portraits,’ she told Iris eagerly, as the two of them took a seat in Laila’s studio. ‘You’re terribly good. I’m afraid I first came across you during the Wetherby murder case,’ she confided guiltily, ‘you know, when there was so much media coverage. I’m not normally one for gossip, but it was rather gripping.’
‘Oh, that’s all right,’ said Iris, instantly warming to this woman. ‘Dom Wetherby loved a gripping story. He wouldn’t have minded the attention, or the fact that all the coverage ended up helping my career. He was nothing if not an opportunist.’
‘And you solved his murder.’ Laila wagged a finger admiringly at Iris. ‘Well done you.’
‘Oh, no,’ said Iris modestly. ‘I turned over a few stones, that’s all.’
‘And is that what you’re doing now? Stone turning?’ the older woman asked.
‘In a way, I suppose,’ said Iris. She explained her interest in Angus, and her connection to the bodies found up at Pitfeldy. ‘Angus’s father, Edwin, managed the castle estate during the period when those girls were murdered and their bodies were buried up there. We can’t be certain of exact dates, but there’s at least a chance that it happened around the time when Angus was up at Edinburgh.’
‘And you think that’s significant?’ Laila asked, pushing a stray strand of silver hair out of her eyes.
‘Honestly, I’ve no idea,’ admitted Iris. ‘That’s why I’m here, trying to glean whatever information I can.’ She explained that Edwin’s Alzheimer’s and Baron Pitfeldy’s reluctance to cooperate with either her or the police made reliable evidence hard to come by. ‘Angus has given me his own version of events. But I’m not convinced I got the full story.’
‘Well, I’m not sure how much I can add,’ said Laila apologetically. ‘I recognised him from your photograph, but I wouldn’t even have remembered his name if you hadn’t told me.’
‘You remembered his work, though?’
‘Oh yes. Vividly.’ She leaned forward, eager to help where she could. ‘As I said, he had real promise. And I remember he was very eager, you know. Serious, not like most of the freshers.’
‘Serious in what way?’ Iris asked, interested. ‘About his work?’
‘Well, yes, that. But he was also just much more mature than most of my students. He had a job, I believe, at one of the restaurants they all went to. What was it called, now?’ She rolled her eyes up, searching her memory, then looked back at Iris, delighted. ‘Oh yes, I’ve got it! The Rib Shack. He worked at the Rib Shack to support himself.’
Iris made a note.
‘There was no “Mummy and Daddy’s money” involved, as I recall,’ Laila went on. ‘He paid his own bills. And he was in a serious relationship, I believe. Not married but, you know, living with someone. He was just a lot more grown-up than the others.’
‘Did you ever meet his girlfriend?’ Iris asked, intrigued. Angus hadn’t mentioned any sort of partner, although, to be fair, she hadn’t asked.
‘Or boyfriend,’ Laila said archly. ‘It could be either nowadays.’
Hadn’t Jamie mentioned something once, ages ago, about people at school thinking Angus was gay? thought Iris. The art teacher ha
d only meant it as a throwaway comment, but something about it resonated.
‘I’d try the restaurant he used to work at, if I were you,’ Laila suggested helpfully. ‘There might still be staff there who remember him. I’m sure they could tell you more.’
‘Thank you,’ said Iris, looking at her watch before shaking the woman’s hand. ‘I will. And thank you so much for your help. You’ve an extraordinary memory.’
‘Not at all,’ said Laila. ‘Good luck. I hope you find whoever did it.’
So do I, thought Iris. Although it struck her at that moment just how far-off a prospect that seemed. They didn’t even know who the second victim was yet. And apart from herself and Stuart Haley, nobody seemed to care.
* * *
‘Sorry, love. We don’t have anybody here who’s worked for that long. Hospitality tends to have a lot of turnover.’
The manager of the Rib Shack restaurant on Morrison Street was a friendly, whip-thin Danish girl with heavily dyed black hair and an impressive set of tattoos running up both her arms. Either she was remarkably young to have reached a managerial position, or Iris was getting old. Sadly, Iris suspected the latter.
‘Oh! You know what?’ the girl corrected herself suddenly, grabbing Iris’s wrist. ‘There is one person you could talk to. Steve. One of our bouncers.’
‘You have bouncers at a restaurant?’ Iris looked surprised.
‘You should see this place on a Saturday night.’ The Danish girl rolled her eyes. ‘Drunks as far as the eye can see. I’m not knocking students, they’re our bread and butter, but the state some of them are in by the time they roll up at our door – staggering around, puking. Steve stops the worst of them from getting in. He works at a few places, and I don’t know exactly how long he’s been here. But I know it’s a long time.’
‘Brilliant,’ said Iris. ‘I don’t suppose he’s here now by any chance?’
‘Sorry. His first shift’s not till Wednesday night,’ said the manager. ‘I can give you his number, though, if you like,’ she added cheerfully.