Murder at the Castle

by M. B. Shaw

  ‘I said you’re free to go,’ said Haley lightly, gathering up his things and leaving the room. ‘I’m not charging you. Thank you for your help. Goodnight.’

  After he’d gone, Jock sat for a moment alone with his lawyer, too surprised and emotionally drained to move.

  ‘Well,’ he said eventually, getting creakily to his feet. ‘I didn’t expect that.’

  ‘No,’ said John Mills. ‘Nor did I.’

  And I don’t like it. Not one little bit. What the hell are the police playing at?

  * * *

  It was almost dawn when Jock walked into the castle, but winter darkness still clung stubbornly to the low Scottish sky, the night’s blanket unwilling to be peeled back by a pale, useless December sun that would bring no warmth, no comfort.

  Inside, the house itself was just as cold, dark and empty, a sad shadow of the warm, welcoming home it had been yesterday evening, just a few short hours ago. Walking stiffly across the stone floors towards the stairs, Jock was surprised to see Eileen Gregory emerge to greet him. Still in last night’s clothes and with her mascara streaked in ugly black lines beneath exhausted eyes, she looked ill and broken.

  ‘They released you, then?’

  He nodded. ‘Yes.’

  ‘So it was all a misunderstanding? You’re not being charged?’

  He looked at her curiously, too tired to ask any of the myriad questions flying through his brain, as to where his housekeeper fitted into all of this. All he wanted right now was to collapse into Kathy’s arms. To be with the one person who understood, who loved him unconditionally.

  ‘No.’ He kept walking. ‘Not being charged. But I’m tired, Mrs G. I’m going to bed.’

  ‘Of course, baron. Goodnight.’

  As an afterthought, Jock asked, ‘How was Kathy after I left, by the way?’

  Mrs G looked awkward. ‘She was very upset.’

  ‘Poor thing,’ he sighed. ‘I take it she’s asleep now?’

  ‘Actually, baron, she – she’s not here,’ the housekeeper stammered nervously.

  Jock froze. ‘Not here? Well, where is she?’

  Mrs Gregory winced, as if it caused her physical pain to break the news.

  ‘She’s with Iris Grey.’

  Jock gripped the bannister for support.

  ‘She packed a bag and left soon after the police – soon after you did. I believe she left a note for you, baron. It’s on your bed.’

  ‘I see,’ said Jock, in a small, strangled voice, staring straight ahead. ‘Thank you, Mrs Gregory. Goodnight.’

  * * *

  At Murray House, in bed beside Iris and wearing a spare pair of Iris’s pyjamas, Kathy sat up suddenly, waking them both.

  ‘No,’ she panted, sweat coursing down her face and chest.

  ‘It’s OK,’ said Iris, sitting up groggily and wrapping an arm around her. ‘It was just a dream.’

  The poor girl had been too traumatised last night to sleep by herself, even in Iris’s spare room, so Iris had given her a sleeping pill and had lain down beside her until, finally, she fell asleep.

  As soon as Haley said the name ‘Paola Contorini’ out loud last night, and started reading Jock his rights, something had snapped inside Kathy. The tenuous string holding together the fragile pieces of her mental health and her frayed hopes of a normal, happy married life up at the castle broke in spectacular style. The death of her dogs, Rory’s arrest and now this, all on the night of her wedding rehearsal dinner, had combined to catapult her over an edge. Iris had done what she could to break the fall.

  ‘No,’ Kathy said again. ‘It’s not a dream. It’s true. It’s all true!’

  ‘What’s true, love?’ Iris asked gently.

  ‘Jock. He did it, didn’t he? I asked him, asked him to his face, if he’d hurt those women, and he swore he didn’t. But he lied, Iris. He lied.’

  ‘We don’t know what happened yet,’ said Iris, still reeling herself from the news about Paola and desperate for a chance to talk to Haley. All of a sudden Mrs Gregory’s envelopes didn’t seem remotely important, but at least they gave Iris an excuse to report back to him, and hopefully find out what had happened in the last twenty-four hours. It wasn’t a stretch to imagine that Jock was guilty of killing one of his mistresses. But at the same time, she suspected there was more to the story than that. Not least the fact that it could hardly be a coincidence that Jock MacKinnon’s erstwhile ‘girlfriend’ was the mother of Angus Brae’s. ‘Try and get some more sleep. We’ll find out in the morning if he was charged, but until then –’

  ‘It doesn’t matter.’ Kathy cut her off, her face a picture of anguish. ‘Don’t you see? It doesn’t matter anymore. The trust is gone, Iris. It’s gone and I can’t get it back. I loved him!’ she ended passionately, willing Iris to believe her.

  ‘I know that,’ said Iris, easing her back down onto the pillow. ‘I know you loved him. I think he loved you, too.’

  She lay back herself, thinking and stroking Kathy’s head until she slipped back asleep.

  Why am I defending Jock MacKinnon? Iris asked herself. Was that what she was doing? Or was she merely comforting a friend? She wasn’t sure herself anymore. But she did know that something felt wrong. Missing. And that ‘something’ made her deeply uneasy.

  Chapter Thirty-three

  ‘I can’t stay long,’ Stuart Haley told Iris, before ordering a full English breakfast and a large coffee. ‘I’m up to my eyes, as you can imagine.’

  ‘I can, and I appreciate you seeing me.’

  ‘Ach, get on with you.’ He waved a hand dismissively. ‘I wanted to see you. Needed to, in fact. What a bloody night, eh?’

  They were in Mel’s, a greasy spoon café down by the harbour popular with the trawlermen. Iris usually avoided the place, partly because she didn’t want to run into Jamie Ingall – there were no hard feelings, but it was still awkward – and partly because the coffee famously tasted like mud, the breakfasts were deep-fried, and she strongly suspected that Mel’s fryer contained rodent remains. But it was close to the station, Haley had suggested it, and beggars couldn’t be choosers.

  ‘Before I forget,’ said Iris, reaching into the pocket of her puffa coat with mismatched fingerless gloves, and pulling out the envelope from Eileen Gregory’s office. It was snowing outside, the air so cold it hurt your face, and she’d dressed accordingly. ‘Not a priority now, I know. But I found this on Mrs G’s desk yesterday. It looks like she was our threatening letter writer. Check out the thistle seal on the back.’

  ‘Hmmm,’ Haley said contemplatively, turning the envelope over in his hands. ‘That woman’s an enigma. I’m still not sure what game she’s playing.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ said Iris.

  ‘Well, for one thing, I’m starting to wonder whether she lied to you about Jock and Paola.’

  ‘What?’ Iris’s eyes widened. ‘Why?’

  Haley filled her in on the salient points of Jock’s confession. His vehement denials of any sort of a relationship with Paola Contorini, ‘which, apart from the housekeeper’s “confession” to you, we have bugger all evidence for, by the way’, and, more importantly, Jock’s admission that Angus Brae was in all likelihood his son.

  ‘That explains a lot,’ said Iris.

  ‘Aye. It does,’ agreed Haley.

  ‘But do you really believe Mrs G made up the affair with Paola?’ Iris asked.

  Haley frowned. ‘I’m not sure.’ He told Iris his theory about the rape. How Jock knew Massimo Giannotti, and how the two of them had been in Venice, staying together at the Danieli Hotel where Paola worked at around the time she claimed the attack happened. ‘If she was drunk and it was late, she could have confused Massimo for Jock.’

  ‘You mean… Jock could have been Beatrice’s father?’ asked Iris, putting the pieces together.

  ‘Or not,’ said Haley. ‘But Paola might have believed he was, the same way she did with Massimo. Maybe, when Massimo’s paternity test came back negative… I do
n’t know. Thanks for your suggestion about the paternity test, by the way,’ he added, smiling. ‘That was how we identified Paola, you know.’

  ‘I’m glad,’ said Iris. ‘So what’s happening with Jock?’

  Haley took a big slug of truly rancid coffee before answering. ‘We released him a few hours ago.’

  Iris looked astonished. ‘You’re not charging him?’

  ‘Not yet,’ said Haley. He explained about John Mills’s intervention, and how he’d decided to cut the interview short and quit while he was ahead. ‘Bottom line, I could charge him with obstruction for all the lies he’s told, about Venice and where he was, when. But I don’t have enough for a murder charge yet. Not without a confession. Plus, I don’t see any harm in letting him sweat it out over Christmas, and I know where to find him if I need him. At his age I can hardly see him legging it to Brazil.’

  ‘Do you still think he did it, though? Do you think he killed them?’

  Haley pulled a face. ‘Probably. Maybe. Ach, Iris, I don’t know. I think he’s involved. But I also think he’s covering for someone, and I’m not sure who or why.’

  ‘I had exactly the same feeling this morning,’ said Iris. ‘Not about Jock specifically, but just about the case in general, those two poor women and all the ways this ties together.’ She told him that Kathy Miller had come home with her last night, and spent a fitful night’s sleep in Iris’s bed.

  ‘I take it the wedding’s off?’ Haley mused.

  Iris nodded. ‘I think she still loves him. But I wouldn’t run out and buy a morning suit, no.’

  ‘Somehow I don’t think I’d have made the guest list anyway.’ Haley grinned. ‘All right,’ he said, wolfing down the last morsel of fried bread and looking at his watch. ‘I’d better go. We’re releasing Rory MacKinnon on bail and I want to be there when he leaves.’

  ‘You’ve charged him, then.’

  Haley nodded. ‘We had a formal interview with his solicitor present a couple of hours ago. Lots of ‘no comments’ and a denial, but nothing to actually counter our evidence, which is strong. We’ve got a signed statement from the maid that he paid her to poison the animals, plus CCTV of him buying the rat poison. What does a London barrister need with two kilograms of rat poison?’

  ‘Rats in his garden?’ Iris played devil’s advocate.

  ‘He lives in a fourth-floor flat.’

  Pulling on his coat, Haley left a ten-pound note on the table and kissed Iris on the cheek. ‘Take care. And keep an eye on Kathy Miller, would you? If MacKinnon’s told her anything, you’re the one she’ll confide in.’

  * * *

  ‘Are you sure I can’t get you anything, love? A cup of tea?’

  The WPC on the front desk looked anxiously at the young man in the waiting room. Something about the way he stared blankly ahead, and the stillness of his body, gave her chills. She wasn’t sure what a suicidal person might look like, but the young man gave her the distinct impression of a person teetering on the brink. He’d sat there almost two hours now, waiting for DI Haley – he wouldn’t speak to anyone but Haley, not even to give his name – and in all that time he had barely moved a muscle.

  He didn’t respond now, either. Not a ‘yes’ or a ‘no’ or even an acknowledgement that he’d heard her question. So it was a huge relief when the double doors opened, letting in a blast of arctic air, and DI Haley came barrelling back into the station.

  ‘Where’s MacKinnon?’ he asked the WPC, without stopping to draw breath or even take his coat off. ‘Is he still in Room Three?’

  ‘Yes, sir, but there’s someone here waiting to see you,’ the girl blurted, nodding towards the desolate young man. ‘I think it’s urgent.’

  Haley turned around. ‘Angus?’

  The young man jumped to his feet.

  ‘Are you going to charge him?’ he demanded.

  ‘Am I going to charge who?’ Haley’s eyes narrowed.

  ‘You know who.’ The young gillie’s voice cracked. ‘The baron. I know he came home this morning. But are you going to charge him with murder?’

  ‘Angus, you know I can’t talk about that,’ Haley said, his voice softening. ‘The case is still ongoing and we –’

  ‘I did it,’ Angus cut him off.

  The WPC froze.

  ‘I beg your pardon?’ Haley said quietly.

  ‘I did it. I killed them,’ said Angus. ‘I buried them. It was me.’

  Haley looked at him intently, cocking his head to one side.

  ‘Angus.’ He cleared his throat. ‘I know Jock MacKinnon means a lot to you. But do you not think there’s a point where loyalty ends? And where the truth has to begin? I don’t need to remind you that two innocent women are dead.’

  ‘This is the truth,’ Angus insisted, holding DI Haley’s gaze. ‘I did it. I want to make a statement. I want to confess.’

  Chapter Thirty-four

  ‘What d’you reckon?’ the girl from BBC Scotland news leaned over to Gavin Douglas, her opposite number at STV, offering him a piece of gum. ‘D’you think they’re gonna give us a name?’

  ‘They won’t name the suspect, if they’ve got one,’ said Gavin, fiddling with his earpiece. ‘But mebbe the victims? I tell you what, they’d better give us something after dragging us all the way up here at five minutes’ bloody notice.’

  Like most of the journalists in attendance at today’s press conference in Pitfeldy Village Hall, Gavin Douglas had been taken by surprise when the head of the STV news desk told him that ‘major developments’ were to be announced imminently on the Girls in the Wood case.

  ‘Those old skeletons they found up at the castle?’ Gavin scratched his head. ‘Wasn’t that case closed?’

  ‘Aye, well, now it’s open, and the chief constable’s holding a press conference in’ – Gavin’s boss looked at his watch – ‘two hours’ time.’

  ‘Two hours?’

  ‘That’s what I said. So you’d better get your arse up there.’

  ‘OK,’ Gavin sighed, grabbing his car keys and phone. ‘Up where, exactly?’

  ‘Pitfeldy.’

  ‘Pitfeldy? But that’s the arse end of nowhere.’

  ‘Then I suggest you stop farting about here and get bloody going,’ the head of the news desk observed robustly.

  Gavin had made it on time, just, but he was relieved to see stragglers from the BBC and ITN also puffing and panting their way into the hall. All of the good seats had already been taken by the local radio and newspaper guys who hadn’t had to belt up the A90 to get here.

  ‘Aye, aye, here we go,’ said the BBC girl, as the immense figure of Chief Constable Sir William Roebuck stomped and creaked his way across the stage in full uniform like a pantomime giant. In his wake came Detective Inspector Stuart Haley, as small and physically unassuming as his boss was larger than life.

  ‘Roebuck looks pleased with himself,’ said the BBC girl, as the big man eased his vast frame into the first of two chairs on the dais.

  He does, thought Gavin. But the other bloke doesn’t. DI Haley had entered the room with the look of a man about to undergo root canal surgery, and his pained expression only worsened as the chief constable began to speak.

  ‘Thank you all for coming,’ Sir William boomed. ‘I’m going to read a prepared statement, after which Detective Inspector Stuart Haley will take some of your questions.’ Having heavily emphasised the ‘some’, he cleared his throat. ‘Last night, as a direct result of diligent policing by DI Haley and his team, a thirty-year-old man came forward to police and confessed to the murders of two women whose remains were found buried beneath a ruined bothy on the Pitfeldy Castle estate last August. These were the victims commonly referred to online and in the wider media as the ‘Girls in the Wood’.

  A low buzz of excitement reverberated around the room.

  ‘As you know,’ Sir William went on, ‘when the bodies were first found, despite exhaustive inquiries, we were unable initially to establish the identity of either of the v
ictims. A few weeks later, thanks to new information from a member of the public, we confirmed that one of the bodies belonged to a young Italian woman who went missing from her home in Venice over a decade ago. At that point the Italian authorities assumed the lead role in the investigation and they have remained in close contact with DI Haley and his team throughout. However, neither they, nor we, were aware of the identity of the second victim. Until now.

  ‘Today, I am able to announce that the two murdered women were Paola and Beatrice Contorini, and that they were mother and daughter.’

  He paused to allow the import of this to sink in.

  ‘Earlier today, the individual who made himself known to us yesterday as the killer was formally charged by my colleague, DI Haley with two counts of murder and one count of the illegal disposal of human remains. The suspect has been remanded in custody and cannot be named at this time. That is all the information we’re able to share with you at the moment, but DI Haley will be happy to answer select questions in regards to the above statement.’

  Haley, who’d sat uncomfortably throughout his boss’s triumphant speech, now looked as if someone had squirted lemon juice in his eyes as the big man sat down and let him do the spadework.

  ‘Yes. Lisa.’ Haley pointed to one of the many raised arms. It belonged to a journalist he knew and liked from one of the local papers. The BBC and STV rabble could wait their turn.

  ‘Can you tell us, detective inspector, why Jock MacKinnon, Baron Pitfeldy, was arrested less than forty-eight hours ago and then released? Did you suspect him of involvement in these murders?’

  ‘I can’t comment in any detail on that, I’m afraid,’ Haley said cautiously, aware of Roebuck’s eyes boring into him. ‘However, I can confirm that Baron Pitfeldy has been questioned under caution on matters related to this inquiry. Yes –’ He pointed to another hand.

  ‘Gavin Douglas, STV. Can you tell us any more about the two Italian women? What were they doing in Scotland? And did they have any connection to the estate, or to the MacKinnon family?’