by M. B. Shaw
‘Is that why you dropped out? Why Edwin made you come back here?’
The wind blew harder, carrying Angus’s mumbled reply with it. None of this would be admissible, if, by some miracle, Haley and Iris ever managed to get this case to court. But Stuart Haley felt in his bones that if he could just get Angus to open up, then the dam would break and the truth would come gushing out. There’d be time enough for formal statements later. Today was about breaking that dam.
‘Did you kill her, Angus?’ He pushed harder. ‘Did you murder Beatrice Contorini?’
‘No!’ With a wild, animal roar Angus turned around, raising his hands and looking for all the world like he was about to attack Haley. But then at the last moment he stopped, like a clockwork toy suddenly running out of time, stuck in suspended animation.
‘Then who did?’ Haley challenged him. ‘Who are you protecting?’
‘No one,’ Angus said quietly, slowly lowering his arms. Haley could see in his eyes that he’d missed his chance. The dam had held. ‘None of what you said is true. I never knew this girl. I told you.’
‘Aye, you did. You told me. But I don’t believe you,’ Haley replied slowly.
‘That’s your problem.’ Angus shrugged. He was doing his best to sound like Jock, arrogant and disdainful, but it wasn’t working. Heartless nonchalance was not an easy look to pull off when one actually had a heart.
‘We know you had a girlfriend in Edinburgh,’ Haley continued, not ready to give up, even now. Once Jock got on the blower to the chief constable, he might not get another chance to speak to Angus.
‘Not true.’
‘We also know she was pregnant.’
‘You’re mistaken,’ said Angus.
‘Our witnesses say otherwise,’ said Haley.
‘Well, then, they’re mistaken.’ Another shrug. ‘I have to get back to work, detective inspector. I hope you get to the bottom of things. With the dogs.’
‘They also say that this girl you lived with was a foreigner. Probably Italian,’ Haley called after him as Angus started to walk away, back to his tractor. ‘You know it’s only a matter of time before we get someone to positively ID Beatrice,’ he shouted into the wind. ‘You lie about this now, that’s obstruction of justice. That’s jail, Angus, whether you hurt anybody or not. Talk to me.’
But the tall, upright figure kept walking.
‘Damn it,’ Haley muttered under his breath. He’d blown it, scared the boy off and put Jock MacKinnon back on the warpath, just when they were making some headway.
He needed to talk to Iris. And Kathy Miller. And he needed to come up with something to mollify the chief inspector, sharpish. That last part, he suspected, was not going to be easy.
* * *
Father Antonio Corromeo was at home in his apartment behind San Cassiano, watching reruns of Vivere when Iris Grey called.
‘Who told you Paola was dead?’
‘I’m sorry?’ Switching off the television, it took him a few moments to register who she was, never mind what she was talking about.
‘Paola Contorini. Beatrice’s mother.’
‘Yes, I know who she is,’ said the priest.
‘You told me she had died in Rome.’
‘That’s right.’
‘No, it isn’t.’ Iris filled him in on Haley’s conversations with the Italian police. The lack of a death certificate, or any matches on the Jane Does. ‘We don’t know where she is, but the police are now working under the assumption that Paola’s still alive.’
‘That’s – wow. I’m astonished,’ Father Antonio stammered.
‘Who told you she’d died?’ Iris asked again, a note of impatience creeping into her voice.
‘I – perbacco – I’m not sure. I feel like I heard that from many people. Parishioners, here in Venice. Maybe one of my brothers in Rome, but it was a long time ago. I can’t really remember.’
‘Hmmm.’ Iris sounded unimpressed. Father Antonio couldn’t tell if she was disbelieving or just disappointed. Either way, her reaction made his stomach churn unpleasantly.
‘If anything comes back to me, I’ll let you know.’
‘Please do,’ said Iris. ‘And in the meantime, I’ve posted some new pictures of Paola up on my Facebook page. As I said, she’s officially been listed as a missing person by the Italian authorities, but maybe you could circulate those photographs to anyone you know who might be able to help us? Other priests or whoever?’
‘I will. Of course.’
After he hung up, Father Antonio sat for a long time, thinking. About right and wrong, truth and lies. And about consequences. Keeping secrets – confidences – was part of a priest’s job. More than that, it was part of his vocation, ordained and sanctified by God. It’s not wrong, he told himself. You’ve done nothing wrong.
A part of him still believed it. But another part, the part of him that wasn’t a priest, but a man; the part of him that had loved Beatrice Contorini with all his heart, body and soul; that part twisted and turned painfully inside him, its stifled voice screaming from within.
Oh God. He put his head in his hands. What have I done?
* * *
Back at Buckie station, the festive mood of the morning had evaporated, and apparently been replaced by a palpable sense of foreboding.
‘The chief’s called for you, sir. Twice,’ said the constable on the desk. ‘He didn’t sound too happy.’
‘No, I imagine he didn’t,’ Haley sighed.
‘He wants you to call him back right away.’
‘OK,’ Haley said grimly, heading into the private, Perspex-walled ‘office’ in the corner of the room, really more of a see-through cubicle, and closing the soundproofed door behind him. He may as well get it over with.
By the time he emerged, a full fifteen minutes later, Haley looked like he’d just run up Ben Nevis. Red-faced and sweating, and with his hair sticking up at all angles from having run his hands through it so many times, he nevertheless managed to crack a smile.
‘He’s giving us a week to conduct inquiries on the dog poisoning,’ he announced to the five-strong team of men and women huddled over their desks, furiously pretending to work, ‘and an unofficial green light to pursue any genuinely active leads on the Girls in the Wood.’
‘That’s amazing, sir,’ Karen Downey, one of the newly minted sergeants, piped up. ‘I thought he was going to sack you.’
‘So did I, Karen.’ Haley chuckled. ‘So did I. But it turns out even Sir William has his limits when it comes to being pushed around by Jock MacKinnon. Who knew, eh? Just goes to show you never can tell.’
‘Sir.’
‘There are some conditions, though, and it’s vital that we all work within them,’ Haley went on. ‘Number one, we turn over anything and everything we may find to the Italians. This is still their investigation.’
The group nodded.
‘And I’ve promised, personally, to steer clear of the castle and the baron. Turns out I’m not top of his Christmas card list. Although I may need one of you to go up there eventually, depending on how things progress. So,’ he clapped his hands together eagerly, ‘does anyone have any good news for me? Any actual good news?’
At the back of the room, a slow hand made its way into the air, its owner still glued to his computer screen as he spoke.
‘Andy?’ Haley looked over at PC Brookes, the youngest member of the team and Banffshire police’s resident IT wizard.
‘Immigration, sir,’ the pale, spotty young man answered cryptically. ‘I’ve been trying a new cross-referencing software. By matching data inputs from the BIA and ECO, and scanning for overlap between HSMP and ISG entrants between 2000 and 2010.’
‘OK,’ Haley interrupted, ‘and in English now, if you don’t mind, son.’
‘Sorry.’ PC Brookes blushed. ‘I’ve got a hit for Beatrice Contorini. Look here, she entered the UK at Stansted Airport on a student visa. She’d taken a direct flight from Venice Marco Polo. easyJet, flight EZY18
2.’
Haley raced over to look at the boy’s screen for himself. Then he laughed out loud, clapping Andy on the back.
‘You little genius. You little bloody genius. Right, boys and girls.’ Rolling up his sleeves, he clapped his hands and addressed the rest of the team. ‘It’s action stations. Everybody listen up and I’ll tell you what you’re going to be doing. And if any of you had social plans for the next few nights, you’d better cancel ’em. Things are moving fast here, but we need to move faster.’
* * *
‘I need to talk to you.’
Eileen Gregory stood on Iris’s doorstep casting anxious glances over her shoulder, as if she were afraid she was being followed. Her voice trembled and her face looked pale and drawn. She sounded nothing like her usual, capable self.
‘Can I come in?’
‘Of course,’ said Iris, bundling the jumpy housekeeper into Murray House’s living room and offering her a seat on one of the tartan sofas. ‘Can I get you a cup of tea? Or a hot chocolate?’ she offered kindly. ‘You look frozen.’
‘No. Thank you.’ Mrs G sat with her hands in her lap, wringing the hem of her cardigan in a manic, miserable manner. ‘Would you mind closing the curtains, though? We’re awfully visible here.’
Iris did as she asked. It was obvious this wasn’t a social call, but Iris didn’t push, sitting down and waiting patiently for Mrs G to explain.
Eventually, after much heavy sighing, she did. ‘I’ve wrestled and wrestled with my conscience about coming to see you,’ she began. ‘The baron’s always been a fair and generous employer to me, and I hate to do anything to betray his trust.’
‘I understand,’ said Iris.
‘If he knew I was here –’ She twisted the hem again. ‘But I felt I had to say something. Because the thing is, well, this is murder, isn’t it?’
Iris cleared her throat. ‘Do you have some information, Mrs Gregory?’ she prodded gently. ‘About the bodies?’
‘Not about the bodies, exactly,’ the housekeeper explained, looking more pained with each word. ‘I don’t even know if it’s relevant. But I do look at your Facebook page from time to time. And the photograph you posted yesterday – the mother of the dead girl – I recognised her.’
‘You recognised Paola Contorini?’ Iris tried not to show her excitement.
‘Yes,’ Mrs Gregory said firmly. ‘She came to the castle on a few occasions. Once just for dinner, but usually she stayed the night. Her visits were always very secretive. All of the staff but me would be dismissed when she came. I don’t even think that Edwin knew about her.’
‘When was this?’ Iris leaned forward.
‘Oh, a good number of years back,’ said Mrs Gregory. ‘Rory and Emma were away at boarding school. The baron would pack Lady Pitfeldy off for a few nights, usually to her parents’ estate in Fife. And then she, that woman, would show up.’
‘So, you’re saying Paola Contorini was Jock’s mistress?’ Iris sounded suitably stunned.
‘I assume she was. One of them.’ Mrs Gregory rolled her eyes heavenward. ‘There were a lot of girls in those days, but this one was different. Important in some way. He was discreet about her.’ She bit down on her lower lip nervously. ‘Almost as if he felt guilty. Like I say, I would never normally discuss the baron’s private life. I never have before.’
‘Not even with Fiona?’ Iris ventured. ‘I know the two of you have remained friends.’
Mrs G looked astonished that Iris would know this – astonished and annoyed – but she didn’t deny the relationship, although she did qualify Iris’s description.
‘I wouldn’t describe us as friends, exactly. Lady Pitfeldy was my employer for many years and I felt sorry for her. We all did. But in answer to your question, no, I never spoke to her about the baron’s behaviour. That wasn’t my place.’
God, she’s stiff, thought Iris. Even now.
‘I’m only here now because two women are dead,’ Eileen Gregory insisted. ‘And when I saw that picture…’
‘I understand,’ said Iris, whose mind was still racing. Jock and Paola? How? When? ‘You’ve done the right thing, Mrs Gregory.’
‘I hope so,’ said the housekeeper, getting to her feet. ‘Will you tell the police what I’ve told you?’
‘Yes,’ said Iris, trying to imagine what Stuart Haley was going to say to this little bombshell. ‘But they’re going to want to talk to you directly eventually.’
‘He mustn’t know it was me,’ Mrs G blurted out, grabbing Iris’s hand. ‘The baron. Please. You mustn’t tell him.’
‘I won’t tell Jock anything,’ Iris assured her. ‘And I’m sure the police will handle things sensitively. Try not to worry.’
She was afraid of him, she thought, showing Eileen Gregory out and watching her scurry off into the darkness. Not just of losing her job. Of him.
The net was tightening; more, it seemed, with every hour. But what, exactly, they were about to catch, Iris still didn’t know.
Chapter Thirty
Jamie Ingall peeled back the wet tea towel from over Iris’s frying pan to reveal the charred remnants of her breakfast. ‘I don’t think your Michelin star’s in the post for this one,’ he said, waving his arms to waft more of the acrid smoke out of the kitchen window. ‘Maybe stick to cereal in future?’
Iris nodded glumly. Jamie had stayed over last night, and the sex had been as good as ever. But something had shifted between them, something intangible but very real. And, Iris suspected, mutual. They’d both woken up this morning realising that whatever there was between them couldn’t last. That it had been a bright and lovely flame, but one which was burning out – just like Iris’s bacon and eggs.
‘Sorry,’ she said, watching him toss he contents of the frying pan into her bin and starting to wash it up on autopilot. ‘I was distracted.’
‘That’s OK,’ he said, keeping his eyes fixed on the sink. ‘This isn’t going to work, is it?’
‘No,’ Iris said quietly. ‘I don’t think it is.’
‘It’s been nice, though,’ said Jamie, turning off the water and methodically drying the pan.
‘It has,’ agreed Iris. ‘Very. But we’re too different. Our lives are too different.’
‘Aye.’
‘And we can’t survive on sex and… burned bacon for ever.’
‘No, we can’t,’ Jamie agreed, finally putting the pan down and turning to look at her. ‘You don’t need to explain. I’m the one who fucked things up in the beginning. I should ha’ been more –’
‘Don’t,’ said Iris. ‘It wouldn’t have mattered, in the end. We wouldn’t have worked anyway.’
Jamie smiled ruefully. ‘You’re probably right. Listen, there’s something I wanted to tell you. It’s not about us. I meant to tell you last night, actually, but then things sort of – took another turn, you know.’
‘Yes,’ said Iris, blushing. ‘I know.’ God, she would miss having sex with him.
‘It’s about the dead girl, Beatrice,’ said Jamie. ‘I remembered where I saw her before. And it wasn’t in Pitfeldy.’
‘What?’ said Iris, all memories of last night’s lovemaking flying out of her head in an instant in her excitement. ‘Where was it?’
‘In Italy,’ said Jamie. ‘Venice. When we were at school. There was a trip,’ said Jamie.
‘The art history trip, that Angus Brae went on,’ said Iris. ‘You were on that too?’
‘How d’you know about that?’ asked Jamie, surprised.
‘Hannah Drummond told me. Angus’s girlfriend.’
‘Aye, well, that’s where I saw the girl. She was working as a helper to one of the Italian art teachers who was showing our group around.’
Julia Mantovani? Iris wondered. ‘Was the teacher a woman?’
Jamie nodded.
‘And you’re sure about this? Sure that the girl helping her was Beatrice?’
‘One hundred per cent,’ said Jamie. ‘I also remember that Angus liked her. I didn�
�t actually notice anything at the time. Angus and I weren’t friends, particularly, so I didn’t hang out with him. But after we got back to school, some of the kids used to rag him about fancying the helper.’
‘Didn’t you say kids at school used to think he was gay?’ queried Iris.
‘Aye, they did, but you know what teenagers are like. They’ll tease you for being a poof one week and for liking a girl the next. I mean, I don’t think it was anything serious, you know. Just a bit of a laugh at Brae’s expense. Anyway, that’s where I saw her. So I thought I should tell you. In case it’s important.’
‘Thank you,’ said Iris, still reeling. ‘It is important.’
‘All right, then.’ Walking over to her, Jamie planted a kiss on her cheek. ‘I’ll say Happy Christmas.’
‘Happy Christmas,’ said Iris, kissing him back.
‘And I’ll see you around.’
‘Yes,’ she nodded, smiling, ‘I hope so.’
After he’d gone, she sat down at the smoky kitchen table, shivering in the cold draught from the open window. It was the wedding rehearsal dinner tonight up at the castle, an event that Iris was already nervous about, given Jock’s current feelings towards her. But Kathy had insisted on inviting her, and now she was glad she’d accepted. Angus would be there too, and Iris might get a chance to speak to him.
She needed to talk to Stuart Haley first, though. Let him know what Jamie had told her. Because they now knew for sure what Iris had long suspected. That sweet, shy, kind Angus had been lying through his Mr Nice Guy teeth. He did know Beatrice. They’d met on the fateful school trip. More than that, he’d been in love with her. Angus must have been the foreign ‘boyfriend’ Father Antonio had hinted at. And Beatrice was the girlfriend who had lived with him in Edinburgh, and been pregnant with his baby when his father Edwin turned up and demanded that he return to Pitfeldy.
Iris didn’t want to believe it. But it was hard to come to any other conclusion than that the Pitfeldy Estate gillie was in this up to his pasty white neck.