by Tom Clancy
Gorrie shifted in his chair, his frown deepening. What had her husband done to turn things bad?
Gorrie stared at his sleeping wife in the silence. Shadows crowded him. There hadn’t been a passing car for a while, and the corner traffic signal flashed meaninglessly at an empty street. He had wondered at the absence of a suicide note. In the bungalow, he’d noticed that the wee’un had been fine attended. His room was small but tidy, his pajamas and linens freshly washed, the closet shelves stocked with nappies, cotton bobs, and the like. There were toys and stuffed animals in his crib, bright-colored mobiles hanging above it. Fine attended. Yet in the time between Claire’s putting a shot in her husband’s head and turning the gun on herself, she’d seemingly given no thought to what the consequences would be for the child. Not even to snatching up a piece of paper and scribbling the name of a family member, godparent, friend, some preferred or appointed guardian who would see to his welfare. Instead, she had abandoned her responsibility, left the state to decide what was to become of him.
Gorrie had seen a lot in his twenty-five years on the job. More than he wanted. He knew better than to make assumptions. Still, this affair seemed curious. And there were some further peculiarities he wanted to straighten out in his head when the forensic reports arrived from the lab. That wouldn’t be for another couple of weeks, he’d been told… but Gorrie knew how to put on the hustle.
He meshed the fingers of his hands, stretched his arms above his head, heard vertebrae popping along his neck and spine. The illuminated clock on his nightstand told him it was almost 3 A.M. Och, well. Gorrie had hoped he might get tired enough to catch a nod before the kitty sprang from her basket alongside the bed. But it wouldn’t be long now till the troublesome bugger started a rumpus. He would sit cozily another few minutes, then go into the kitchen, open a can of Felix, put the teapot on the burner…
“Frank? You in that creakin’ monstrosity again? Woke me from a fast asleep.”
Gorrie looked at the bed. Nan had flipped the blankets from her head and propped herself up slightly on her elbows. He couldn’t see her features in the dark, but knew she was scowling at him just the same. He was certain he hadn’t made a sound with the chair.
“Sorry,” he said. “I was about to get up and prepare a small bit ’a breakfast… ”
She leaned toward the bedside clock. “Breakfast? Are you real? It’s not yet three in the morn.”
“Couldn’t sleep much,” he said.
“Losh! Frank, this can na’ go on. Sittin’ up night after night, all the night, then takin’ yourself off to work. I thought you said you’d try’n get some rest… ”
“I tried.”
“You’re no youngster, d’you ken?”
“Sure enough.”
“Then what of it? What’s the matter?”
“I don’t know,” he said. It was mostly a truthful answer.
“Frank, if it’s that business on Eriskay got you gutted, we should bring it out in the open… ”
“Steady on,” Gorrie interrupted. He got up from his rocker, ignoring the loud complaint of its springs, and went over to crouch at Nan’s side of the bed. “Look, Nan. Suppose I give staying under the blankets a better effort after I come home tonight. Ought to be a breeze with some wifely inspiration,” he said, then abruptly bent forward, cupped her chin in his hand, and planted a long, full kiss on her lips.
She sighed. Up this close, Gorrie had no problem whatsoever making out her features. They were crinkled with surprise, exasperation, and affection.
“What was that show of tenderness about?” She gave him a soft nudge on the chest. “Lookin’ to keep me quiet, are you?”
“Maybe I am, sweets,” he said, still crouching over her. “And maybe it just struck me that it’s good to be among the lucky ones.”
* * *
The tall firs lining the path to the estate house watched Gorrie come up the drive with the resolute solidity of guards protecting the approach to a castle, pikes and swords at the ready. The tires of the inspector’s Ford Mondeo plowed through the thick bed of stones as he circled the drive to the large house, the path designed to give the visitor a clear impression not so much of the house but the owner’s good taste in having it built. The structure dated from the eighteenth century, a time of relative peace if not absolute prosperity for the Cameron who had first occupied it. Had DI Gorrie cared to inquire, he would have been quickly supplied a thick pamphlet with small type documenting the exploits of the Highland Camerons. The booklet was available at several places in the nearby town; several copies were on the shelves of the local library as well as in all the churches and schools, though in the latter case the edition omitted a few of the more questionable stories from the past.
The place’s ancient history was of no interest to Gorrie; to be truthful, he wasn’t entirely sure that its more recent history was of interest either. The report on Ewie B. Cameron’s death was rather clear and precise: hit by a medium-to-large-sized truck in the early morning hours. Death almost instantaneous from a selection of internal and external wounds. The fog and winding, narrow road would have made it difficult to see the victim, who habitually took the walk as part of his daily exercise. The investigation was open as no one had come forward to claim responsibility; it was possible that the driver hadn’t seen what he had hit, and thought the noise an animal such as a dog, or even one of the deer that wandered the nearby woods.
Not likely, thought Gorrie, but the driver’s solicitor would undoubtedly make the claim if it came to that. A good number of juries might agree, if things were handled just right. Not even the frown of the magistrate would sway them if the accused looked downtrodden and had wife and kiddies in tow.
The stone steps to the front door had slight indentations, scuffed down by three centuries’ worth of soles. Ewie had lived here alone, without even live-in help. A cook came to do his meals, and two maids to keep the place tidy; a gardening service trimmed the grass and attended to the hedges. But at nights the place was empty except for Mr. Cameron; there was no Mrs. Ewie Cameron.
There was, however, a sister, Miss Ellie Cameron, who had come up from Edinburgh to attend to matters after her brother’s demise. And it was she who came to the door as Gorrie approached.
“Inspector Gorrie?”
“Yes.”
“Please.” She turned at the door and headed down a long hallway at the right. Gorrie pulled the door closed behind him, then followed. Ms. Cameron’s heels clicked on the stones, her pace steady. In some homes the entrance hallways were festooned with historical mementos, some pertaining to the family, many not. But these corridors were bare. No thick Oriental carpet covered the floors, and the walls were plaster, not paneled. Somehow that made him feel more at ease, and even respectful.
Family history notwithstanding, Ewie Cameron had not cut a large swath in life, even according to the obituary Gorrie had read. He was a relatively modest and quiet man, keen on doing his duty and otherwise remaining private. He observed the unwritten code of conduct applying to all well-born Highlanders, and most certainly descendants of such noble men as Sir Ewen, seventeenth clan chieftain, Major Allan Cameron, founder of the bold 79th Highlanders, and Air Captain “Hick” Cameron, double ace and hero of the Battle of Britain. He contributed to the proper charities, was unfailingly sober when in public, and golfed twice a week, weather permitting.
Ms. Cameron stopped at the doorway on the plastered side of the hall, extending her arm and trying a smile. She wore thick wool pants and a heavy, severe coat; despite the smile, she reminded Gorrie of the woman in charge of payroll and expenses at the Constabulary area, a grouchy and disagreeable woman who was suspected to routinely apply fingerprint and DNA tests to chits that came across her desk.
“I apologize for the dust,” said Ms. Cameron, following him into the sitting room. He guessed she was about thirty, though her pudding complexion and heavy eyes could easily belong to someone ten years older. “My brother’s maids — yo
u understand.”
Two couches faced each other in the center of the room, each flanking a pair of elaborately carved mahogany tables. Various pieces of furniture were arrayed around the outer edges. All seemed very old, but none looked the least bit dusty.
“There’s news?” asked Ms. Cameron.
“Ah, no news about your brother, I’m afraid.” Gorrie hadn’t explained the reason for his visit when he called. “I’m here on another matter. To my ken at the moment it is unrelated, though I may revise my opinion. It is a coincidence to be investigated, you understand.”
“I’m afraid I don’t, Chief Inspector.”
“It’s just Inspector, miss,” said Gorrie.
A slight young woman appeared at the door with a tray of tea and store-bought cookies. Her red hair flowed down her shoulders; she wore a white sweater that stopped about an inch above the waistband of a long, blue skirt. She seemed to glide into the room, moving as no servant would ever move in a house.
“Inspector Gorrie,” said Miss Cameron, emphasizing his title. “This is my friend, Melanie Pierce.”
“Hello,” said the woman. Even when she spoke the single word, it was obvious she was a Yank. “Tea?”
“Aye,” said Gorrie.
As Melanie poured the tea, Miss Cameron raised her hand gently to the young woman’s side, and suddenly Gorrie understood.
Well, to each his own, or her own, as the case may be, he thought. Nessa would have had something to say about this, were she still his partner. Certainly the American was a beauty, with a face that would shine for decades before fading to a soft, misty glow. A more poetic mind would compare her to a fairy goddess come down from the hills.
Aye, and Nessa would have snorted at that, for all her talk of artists and paintings.
“I am working on another case, a murder and suicide,” said Gorrie after a sip of the tea. “A sad one. Left a baby.”
He told them about the Mackays, running out the main details and then getting to the meeting Payton had mentioned.
“A drink in the pub?” said Miss Cameron. “My brother?”
“It seemed odd, their gettin’ together,” said Gorrie. “It’s a wee bit out of the way for Mr. Mackay to come up here. They were not chums, were they?”
“Chums, Inspector?”
“I would nae think they were acquaintances,” offered Gorrie.
The dead man’s sister obviously didn’t know her brother well enough to account for all of his friends. The thought occurred to Gorrie that perhaps homosexuality ran in the family, but he dismissed it; there seemed no chance of that on Mackay’s account. The man was hetero to a fault.
“Your brother was never married?” Gorrie asked.
“No. There were some, a few women, but gradually I think Ewie came to decide he liked the single life.” Miss Cameron slipped her hand onto the couch, lacing it over her friend’s.
“Perhaps there’s an address book?” Gorrie prompted. “Or if it was on official business of some sort—”
“We can look in his study,” said Miss Cameron, rising. “My brother was very organized, Inspector, so if it was a formal contact, I’m sure it will be recorded in his appointment book.”
It was not; the book indicated his night was free. Edward Mackay’s name was not in the large Rolodex of contacts on Ewie Cameron’s Victorian-era desk, nor could any reference to him be found in the collection of white pads in the top right-hand drawer where the council member apparently kept notes on current business.
“Maybe this man ran into him in the pub and asked about getting a traffic sign or something,” suggested the American.
“He’s not a constituent,” said Gorrie. “Different district.”
“Maybe for the power plant,” said Miss Cameron.
“Very possible,” said Gorrie. He looked over the white pads. The notes were rather cryptic, perhaps taken in response to phone conversations. The top pad, for example, had something to do with lights:
Lts. 3x
Fifty yards- 100.
No budg
Croddle Firth
Gorrie guessed it had to do with a request to add lights along a roadway in a small village about a quarter mile from here — a guess aided by his memory of a recent news item to that effect.
The second pad down had a phone number from London above the words “Lin Firth Brdge.” Halfway down the pages was another line, a question. “Hgh Spec Trprt?”
A small, stone structure that stretched the definition of bridge, Lin Firth Bridge had been repaired six or seven months before. It had been the subject of several news items itself, as the delays there had managed to snarl traffic considerably. The roadway had been completely closed off. Drivers traveling from Black Island south or west had to first go north and east, adding in most cases a good hour if not more to their travels. A headache that, and sure to have caused the poor council member assigned to the oversight committee a fair sight of grief.
Another pad had a note about an upcoming fair. The last two were blank. Gorrie returned the pads to the drawer. He looked through some of Cameron’s files and the rest of the desk without finding anything of note. There was no obvious connection between Cameron and Mackay, save for the alleged sighting in an obscure pub by a man who under other circumstances might be judged a suspect in the murder.
Miss Cameron had left Gorrie to explore the study on his own. He closed the desk, glancing around the room at the bookcases with their neatly aligned leather-clad volumes. Here and there a framed photograph stood in front of the books — Ewie with his parents, Ewie with a dog, Ewie receiving a certificate of some sort from a local vicar. Unlike the sitting room, here there truly was dust; obviously the maids were not allowed to enter.
A man’s life ran to this — dusty photographs, odd notes on a pad, an empty house. Gorrie made sure he had closed the desk drawers, then went to say good-bye to Miss Cameron and her friend.
Inverness, Scotland
Running late to his appointment with Cardha Duff, Inspector Gorrie stopped at a pub near Walder Street to ring her and tell her of the delay. The phone rang and rang, which made him uneasy; he hadn’t thought she’d supply much in the way of information, but wouldn’t know what to think if she skipped the interview. Maybe the whole thing would be too much for her, he thought — cause of the murder and suicide, all that — but she hadn’t sounded particularly distraught on the phone the other day.
The coroner wouldn’t be preparing his report on the deaths for another few days yet, but the head of CID had left a note on Gorrie’s desk asking when the case might be wrapped up. The tabloid chaps had come up from London as well as Glasgow and Edinburgh, and now were calling him every few hours to see if there were new developments. At least he shielded Gorrie from the rabble.
Gorrie wended his way from Rosmarkie through Inverness, off toward Clava Cairns and the hamlet where Cardha’s flat lay. He turned off the main road into a small set of apartment buildings, then took another turn and found his way blocked by an ambulance.
“Inspector — we were just sending for you,” yelled a voice from the other side of the ambulance.
It belonged to Robertson, the constable who had changed the nappies on the Mackay child.
“What’s going on here, Sergeant?” he asked the constable.
“Another suicide, looks like, Inspector, according to the ambulance people. Been dead since sometime last night, they think.” Robertson frowned deeply and shook his head. Handling three deaths in less than a week might rate as a record for a constable in the Inverness Command Area as far back as the war.
“Wouldn’t be at 212?” said Gorrie.
“It is, sir. A Cardha Duff, going by the license. Not a good photo.”
“Rarely are,” Gorrie told him, walking up toward the building.
* * *
The thing that struck Gorrie immediately was that Cardha Duff could in no way be considered beautiful, especially in comparison to Claire Mackay. Few people looked good in
death, and this woman looked especially bad, her nose and eyes swollen red, her mouth frozen in what might have been an agonized shout for help. But even allowing for all that, it was clear that she offered no challenge to Ed Mackay’s wife in the looks department. The most attractive thing about her was her red hair, which even Gorrie, no expert, could tell spent most of the week frizzed into unmanageable odds and ends.
Just now the hair lay matted to one side of her head, a twisted dirty tangle that pointed away from her ghost-white face. Cardha Duff’s body sprawled face-up in front of a TV, a few feet from the couch. Her left arm lay out as if in supplication. She had a bandage at the inside joint of the elbow; she’d obviously given blood the day before she died.
A final act of charity before death.
“Has forensics been called?” Gorrie asked the constable who’d been watching the door.
“On the way, sir. Sergeant Robertson took care of it straightaway.”
The ambulance people stood at the side of the room, waiting to hear what they should do. Gorrie wanted to know how the body was when they found it; they assured him they’d only moved it a little, ascertaining she was dead.
“The neighbor, she saw us,” volunteered the driver.
“Which neighbor was that, son?”
“Gray-haired woman, Mrs. Peters. 213. She thought something was amiss because she didn’t answer to the knock. Came in with us.”
Gorrie nodded. “Now tell me why you think it’s a suicide.”