“That’s what the police think. They’re trying to convince me not to do this show, but I’m hoping the show will draw the killer out into the open.”
“Sounds risky,” I said dubiously.
“The place will be crawling with cops, but I don’t have much faith in them. You, on the other hand, have a reputation for being tough and discreet. I want you to be my eyes and ears. Find out who is stalking the Rebels and why.”
Rory Hendricks wanted me to be his eyes and ears. At one point in my life I’d have been anything he wanted, but a private investigator? The idea was ridiculous. “I’d love to see the show, and taking photos for you would be an honor, but I’m not sure how much help I can be finding a killer.”
“Just do your reporter thing. Interview people. Trust me, they’re far more likely to talk to you than to the cops. Get a few drinks into them and they’ll tell you more than you ever wanted to know. You can even sell the pictures if you want. Just help me sort this out.”
I was honestly at a loss for words. The whole thing seemed crazy and a bit dangerous, not unlike my usual assignments for work, and I was supposed to be getting some rest and catching up on the things I needed to do here. I tried to find the words to say no, but who was I kidding? This was Mickey Dawson, the six-pack king, the heartthrob of my youth, looking at me with that insanely intense face of his. No way I was going to refuse, even if I couldn’t be of much help.
“Alright, I’ll give it a try,” I said. I thought for a moment. “Do the police have any suspects?”
“Far as I can tell, only the ones I’ve given them.” Rory rummaged through the newspapers on the kitchen table and pulled out a crumpled sheet of notepaper, which he handed to me. “They asked who might have a grudge against the Rebels…”
“Wow. That’s a long list.” It was at least thirty names. I looked up at Rory. “Are all of these folks serious contenders?”
“Police are looking into all of them.”
“Anyone you’d suspect in particular?”
“You mean who hates me most?”
“That’s one way to look at it.”
Rory took the list from my hand and circled the name Bruce Penrose. “He was the Rebels’ business manager till we fired him for fiddling the books. He ended up going to jail. Did five years of a ten-year sentence, then buggered off to the States. The police were interested in him because he came back to the UK at the beginning of this year. Then there’s Tina Doyle”—he circled another name—“my ex-wife.”
“I can see her having issues with you, but what’s her beef with the rest of the band?”
“Guilt by association?” Rory reached for the guitar pick again and began rolling it round his fingers with one hand. “Under the divorce decree she had a right to almost half of my share of the Rebels’ earnings. When we broke up she was getting forty percent of bugger all. She blamed us for slaughtering the cash cow.”
“Seems a long time to stew over a financial issue. Like I said, why wait till now?”
Rory shrugged and continued circling. “Simon Moye. He was a member of the band until just before we signed with our record label. No idea what he’s been doing the last few years.” Rory added a question mark next to Moye’s name. “We haven’t spoken since he left the band. The rest of these names are folks that might have petty professional squabbles. Who knows how many of them are even still around?”
“Do you have any idea who’ll be there tomorrow night?”
“No idea, but I can get you a list of the backstage passes.”
“That’ll help. Has the London Met put someone in charge of the case up here?”
Rory rolled his eyes. “Bloke named Michaelson. Some detective inspector out of Stirling.”
“I know Michaelson,” I said. “He’s a bit dour, but he’s good.” Michaelson had taken charge of the inquiry into the murder at the Glen. Given Balfour’s tiny size, we relied on the regional authorities in Stirling on the rare occasion we needed forensics or coroners. In the weeks following his investigation, we’d developed a cautious relationship based in equal parts on mutual respect and vague suspicion. Michaelson had actively discouraged my involvement in the investigation, even though I was the one with the most at stake, but when all was said and done I overheard him admit to Bill Rothes that my sharp eyes and sound instincts had been helpful.
I looked back at the list. “Anyone you haven’t mentioned to the police? Other old girlfriends, ex-lovers?”
“If you’re going down that path, it’ll be a long haul.”
“Can you give me a list of people that were particularly memorable?”
Rory raised an eyebrow and tilted his head, giving me the look that had tantalized a generation of women. “Memorable?”
“Not during,” I said, flushing from the tips of my ears to my toes in spite of my best efforts not to, “after. Bitter breakups, any wild threats, legal action, paternity suits, you know the kind of thing.”
“I’ll give it some thought and let you know.”
As I pulled away from the house I could see Rory in the rearview mirror, leaning against the doorframe, watching me depart. His shoulders looked as if they were carrying the weight of the world.
For such a small out-of-the-way village, Balfour certainly attracted its share of lost and troubled souls, and they all seemed to be drawn to me.
Chapter 4
By the time Liam and I drove back through the village the sun had disappeared behind the clouds and a chill wind was billowing down from the hills, blowing a faint mist in my face. This morning had felt like summer, and now there was a decided chill in the air that whispered of the autumn to come. I wrapped my scarf tighter around my neck but continued to drive with the windows open to accommodate Liam’s desire to ride with half his body hanging out the passenger-side window.
I had to keep pinching myself to believe that my meeting with Mickey Dawson wasn’t just a dream. “What do you think, boy-o? I could have a whole new career as a tour photographer.” Liam looked unperturbed. “You may not be excited, but I am. Tomorrow night me and Mickey Dawson!” Suddenly the harsh reality that it might be a deadly encounter washed over me and I began to shiver in the cold. Had I just fan-girled myself right into a nightmare scenario? What if the police weren’t able to protect Rory? What help could I be?
I was lost in my own crisis scenarios as we approached the five-bar gate that connected the neighbor’s fields to the backside of the Glen. I was forced to pull over by a large black pickup truck that had stopped halfway across the narrow lane. In London this kind of obstruction would be greeted with a flurry of honking and expletives, but in Balfour it was an invitation for conversation. A portly man in overalls and a pair of scuffed green boots was hauling a large wooden FOR SALE sign from the back of the deck to lean against the fence.
I’d never really met my elderly neighbor, but Hunter mentioned that he’d passed away recently. “Family’s selling the place, then?” I asked, drawing up alongside.
“No family to speak of,” green boots replied. “Place is going up for auction next week.”
“Not a private sale?”
He shook his head and leaned against the side of the truck, wheezing slightly and wiping the mist off his glasses with a handkerchief. “Not much call for old farms like this these days. Be lucky to shift it at all.”
I looked across the short-cropped grass field at the black-faced sheep grazing in peaceful oblivion. “Will the new owner buy the sheep as well?”
“Ach no. Knackers should’ve been here by now to clear ’em out.”
“The knackers…why?” I whispered.
“No one else to take ’em, is there? Anyroad, there’s less than a dozen of the little beggars left. Nae even good enough for mutton, I’d guess,” he replied, turning back to his work.
“But they’re so sweet…”
Green boots looked at me as if I was mad. He’d probably heard stories about the crazy Londoner next door. “Maybe someone would be
willing to adopt them.”
“This is a farmin’ community, miss. We donnae keep livestock as pets. It’s just the way of it. Jensen here’ll tell ya,” he said, gesturing to the driver of the trailer truck pulling up alongside us.
The driver leaned across the front seat and spoke through the open window. “Hiya, Jim. Sorry I’m late. I’ll get this lot out your way in a jiffy.”
“Wait a minute,” I said. “Surely there’s somewhere else they can go. A petting zoo or a park somewhere?”
“There awd the lot of ’em. Nae worth the fleece on their backs,” Jensen said.
“But…” I was at a complete loss. I had a ridiculous affection for sheep, with their fat round cotton-ball bodies and their little tails that flopped up and down in time with their hooves as they ran.
“Nowt else for it, lass, unless you plan to take ’em on yerself,” the man named Jim said reasonably.
I’d seen enough death and destruction of late; I didn’t need to see more on my own doorstep. In situations of great stress—war zones, minefields, sniper attacks—I’m a model of levelheaded lucidity, but in this moment every shred of common sense deserted me, and I heard myself saying, “Okay. I’ll take them.”
Jensen frowned, scratching the bristle on his chin. “But I have my orders. I’m bein’ paid to haul these sheep away.”
“Fine. I’ll pay you double if you load them up and drive them over to my place.”
“You cannae be serious, lass.”
I stared him down with a fierce glare that I’d picked up from Liam. “You bet I can.”
Jensen shrugged at the madness of city folk. “Right y’are, then.” He maneuvered the truck back to the field gate and began rounding up his charges. Liam leapt from the car and joined in as if he was born for this. He probably was. I counted eight woolly backsides as I stood off to the side desperately trying to figure out where I was going to house my new charges.
“What now?” Jensen asked.
“Follow me back to the Haven and I’ll write you a check.”
I was relieved that there was no sign of Grant or Cam as we rumbled through the distillery yard. They’d be sure I’d lost my mind this time.
Back at the house, I had no alternative but to turn the sheep loose in the garden. A temporary solution at best, but it was all I had for the moment. Hunter had put up a small fence around the yard for when I needed to keep Liam close to home. It would do for my flock for now.
I left Liam out back with his new friends and went into the house to find Hunter, who was cleaning up in the library.
“How’d it go with the geriatric rocker?” he asked.
“You knew who he was all along, didn’t you?”
“We had rock and roll up here too, missy. We aren’t totally in the dark ages.”
I rolled my eyes heavenward. “You could’ve warned me.”
“He didn’t say nowt. I figured he wasnae lookin’ to be noticed.”
Away from the heady influence of Rory’s personality I thought to ask, “Why did he choose to move here?”
“Told me he were lookin’ for a bit o’ peace and quiet. Used to come up here with his folks when he was a lad. Brings back memories of happier times, I reckon.”
“Floss said he was some kind of artist?”
“Aye, he had a kiln delivered up to the barn. I helped set it up a few weeks back. He makes pottery. Coffee mugs and such.”
“Hmm.” It still struck me as odd that he would choose to hide up here. Lost in thought, it took me a moment to realize that Hunter was looking at me expectantly.
I steered Hunter to the window and nodded in the direction of the ewe munching on one of my hydrangea bushes. “Got time for a spot of fence building tomorrow?”
“Lord, I’ll round the wee beggars up and get ’em back to old Potter’s place…”
“We just came from there,” I admitted. “And they aren’t going back. I bought them.”
Hunter looked skeptical. “Ye donnae say. And who’ll be takin’ care of ’em?”
“One thing at a time, Hunter, one thing at a time.”
—
I left Hunter cordoning off an area of grass to be fenced in and headed back to the feed store in Balfour to stock up on food for the crew, along with a water trough and sheep treats. Already this was looking to be an expensive hobby. It was like feeding eight additional monster dogs. Worse still, the news of my new hobby would be all over the village in minutes, and by teatime I’d be the laughingstock. Not the first time, though, and probably not the last.
I crammed all of the basic necessities of ovine husbandry into Hope’s backseat before stopping at the vet’s to see if Dr. McRae could come by the house to check out my new guests. I’d noticed that one of them was coughing badly and I wasn’t at all sure what to do. On an impulse, I stopped at the chemists and bought a humidifier. It might not help, but it couldn’t hurt.
As I drove past the Stag I saw Patrick’s car in the lot and pulled in. The construction pit was stilled cordoned off with yellow tape and there were now two people bending over the site of the remains, taking notes and pictures. Siobhán’s ordeal continued for a second day. I clipped a leash onto Liam’s collar and dragged him into the pub and away from the grave site.
As my eyes adjusted to the dim interior of the Stag, I saw Patrick leaning on the counter of the exquisitely carved mahogany bar. A product of Hunter’s earlier days, it was a real showstopper with spiraled pillars and tartan swags framed with branches and leaves.
I nodded in greeting to several of the locals settled companionably next to the open hearth. The scent of the fragrant curry special wafted through the air, making my stomach growl.
“I thought you were in Edinburgh,” I said, giving Patrick a nudge in the ribs.
“I was,” Patrick said, leaning over to scratch Liam’s head. “Just came back to check on things here for an hour or two.”
“Got time for a late lunch? I need to talk.”
We ordered a curry from the girl behind the counter and went outside to grab a table overlooking the river. Liam gave me a dirty look when I tied him to the railing instead of letting him wander free as usual. He never roamed too far away when there was food in the offing, but I couldn’t risk it until the bones were finally removed.
“Any luck with Grant?” Patrick asked before we’d even got our drinks.
“You owe me one.”
Patrick leapt up from the table and came round to hug me. “You’re the best.”
“Just the one low-key event,” I said, pointing a finger in his direction, “and you really owe me.”
“One event’s a start. And as ever, your wish is my command.”
“Good, ’cause I’m about to cash in.” I told Patrick about my meeting with Rory Hendricks.
“I’d heard about Ian Waters, but I didn’t realize there was a question about Hamish Dunn’s death. Everyone figured the Trippy Hippie would go down to drugs,” Patrick mused, “but murder?”
I buried my head in my hands and sighed. “I’m starting to wonder why I said yes to this gig. I must’ve been out of my mind.”
“How could you say no?” Patrick sighed. “He always had that primal animal appeal. Does he still? What does he look like these days?”
“Older and a bit of gray creeping in, but still charismatic, very sexy, and a bit mysterious.”
“Why mysterious?”
“I don’t know. I just have this sense he’s not telling me everything. He may’ve felt compelled to come to me for help, but he doesn’t trust me yet. I can see it in his eyes.”
“What are his three words?”
Patrick relied, sometimes too heavily, on my three-word verbal sketches. I’ve always made a mental note of the first three words that pop into my head to describe someone I’ve interviewed or photographed. I didn’t always understand the significance of the words when they came, but the meaning usually slipped into focus in the end. Instinct or insight, it hadn’t failed me yet
and the best of my photographic portraits always captured the essence of the crucial three words.
So far Grant was the only one I’d ever met whose three words continued to elude me. The only thing I had was passionate.
For Rory I got gifted, volatile, and jaded.
Patrick nodded thoughtfully. “No doubt gifted. In spite of all the Mickey Dawson claptrap he was a brilliant guitarist, but the way the tabloids dogged him down the years I’m not surprised he bolted.”
“And that’s where you come in. I need you to try to fill in some of the gaps. Help me figure out what I’ve gotten into.” Even in our early days in the press corps Patrick’s skills as a researcher were legendary. There’s a fine line between research and hacking, and Patrick danced a merry jig on both sides of the wire when he needed to. “See if you can find out why Rory came back to the UK. He says it was for his daughter, but let’s just see if there were any troubles in Brazil that might have driven him out—or followed him here, for that matter. I’d also like to get some info on a guy named Bruce Penrose and anything you can find on Hamish’s death and Ian’s accident.”
Patrick rolled his eyes. “That all?”
“Oh, I’m sure there’ll be more after the show tomorrow night, but you owe me, remember.” I grinned at Patrick as the young girl from behind the bar served up two steaming bowls of curry and a breadless roast beef sandwich for Liam along with a couple of beers. We tucked in with gusto. Liam was mollified by the offering and had regained his good spirits by the time we saw Grant approaching across the lawn.
“What are you two plotting now?” he asked.
“The fall of Western civilization,” I replied. “What’re you up to?”
“Checking on Siobhán.”
“How’s she doing?”
“She’s been happier, but according to the coroner the bones are a couple of hundred years old. Middle-aged man. Took quite a beating in his earthly form. It’s all good news for Bill, but not for Siobhán. Now the university’s sent someone over to take a look in case there’s some sort of archaeological significance.”
Death Distilled Page 4