by Ian Simpson
Baggo’s thoughts kept returning to Cilla Pargiter. He sensed something about her that was good. It could not have been a coincidence that she happened to be driving along Bayswater Road just after Robertson was killed, so, despite Margaret’s certainty that she did not, she must have known the identity of her father. But, despite the evidence that was building against her, he could not believe that she was Crimewriter, or that she was capable of firing a nail gun into her father’s back then scraping a message on his forehead. He knew Osborne wanted to pin the murders on Johnson, but if the evidence pointed clearly to Cilla, the Inspector would go with that and find some other way of getting his enemy behind bars, this time in a secure prison.
Baggo stared at the whiteboard, but inspiration failed to strike. Impulsively, he got up and rubbed out the green ink under Cilla’s photo. Jane Smith had asked all the ‘shortlist’ to provide photos of themselves. Now the police could put a face to each suspect’s name. Cilla’s blurred Facebook photograph had been replaced by one that showed her enigmatic smile and the long hair that had helped identify her from the CCTV.
The phone on his desk startled him.
‘Detective Constable Chandavarkar?’ Fred Willetts at reception sounded unusually formal.
‘Speaking.’
‘I have a Mr Chapayev here. He insists on seeing someone on the Crimewriter inquiry. As Inspector Osborne is away, will you see him?’
Baggo stifled a groan then his brain began to work.
‘Can I say you’ll see him?’ Willetts repeated.
‘Yes, I will see him. Could you please get someone to show him up to the CID room?’
* * *
Osborne had his eyes closed as Flick drove their hired car off the dual carriageway and through Pitlochry. In the back, Danny Peters squirmed to find some leg-room. The Pride O’ Atholl Hotel lay a couple of miles to the north of the town, just short of Killiecrankie. The old A9 was a twisty road, ill-suited to the increasingly heavy traffic that pounded up and down until the 1980s. After one double bend, a smart red and gold sign pointed left down a pot-holed drive flanked by oaks, aspens and the ubiquitous silver birch. Lower than the road, but with a fine view to the west, the hotel occupied a plateau half way down the steep, tree-lined slope from the old road to the white waters of the River Garry. Built out of grey granite as a fishing lodge for a Victorian merchant, the two round towers on the west wall suggested an importance the building had never actually achieved in an area rich in castles and ancestral homes.
‘I hope I’m not staying somewhere like this,’ Osborne muttered as Flick parked on the sparse gravel at the front. ‘I bet it’s cold as bloody charity.’
‘It’s got style.’ Flick was fed up with Osborne’s moaning. It had started at Heathrow, where flights to Scotland were unusually busy because of the Scotland-England Rugby International the following day, and had carried on through the car hire at Edinburgh and the drive north. Now they were to meet Jane Smith and the other two ‘judges’ as well as the officer from Tayside who would be staying anonymously in the hotel. She climbed out of the car, stretched, and breathed in cold fresh air.
‘Welcome to Scotland,’ Jane Smith trilled as Flick pulled open the heavy door into the wood-panelled hall. ‘Come and meet Cameron and Tara.’ Flick, Osborne and Peters followed her into the lounge, where a log fire and the aroma of coffee beckoned.
At the table nearest the fire, the only two people in the room stood up. Tara Fisher, the editor, looked barely old enough to have left university. Her olive skin, pale and sun-starved, and almond-shaped, brown eyes suggested Mediterranean blood. Those eyes widened as she shook hands with the officers. ‘This is so exciting,’ she said to Flick.
Beside her, a square-shouldered man with a face the colour of bricks, a nose like a misshapen giant raspberry and a mop of wiry, salt-and-pepper hair was less enthusiastic. ‘Ye soon come to us when you need help,’ he said to Osborne. ‘But we’ll dae what we can,’ he added.
‘Cammy’s a Scot Nat,’ Jane said, as if that explained everything.
‘If you lot really want independence, you should put up candidates in the South of England,’ Osborne said, sticking his jaw out. ‘We’d soon vote you out of the UK.’
‘And we have every confidence in the ability of the English people to govern themselves,’ Cameron McCrone shot back.
Osborne scowled then grinned. He threw himself into a leather armchair, scratched his crotch and pulled out his cigarettes.
‘No’ in here ye can’t,’ McCrone said. After Osborne stomped out to the front door to light up, he shook his head and added, ‘Mair’s the pity.’
While Jane ordered more coffee the rest sat down. Peters smiled at Tara, but with his stubbly face he looked to Flick as if he was leering. She frowned at him but he paid no attention.
‘How did you two meet?’ Flick asked. McCrone was from a different planet to Jane.
Jane said, ‘Harrogate, the Crime Writers’ Association weekend. A couple of years ago, wasn’t it, you introduced me to Lagavulin?’
‘And you’ve never looked back.’ McCrone had a twinkle in his eye.
‘It’s hard on the liver, but marvellous fun,’ Jane said. ‘We crime writers tend to get on terribly well together, not like the romantic novelists, who are at each others’ throats.’
‘United against our common enemies,’ McCrone growled.
‘Who are?’ Flick asked.
‘Publishers and agents.’ McCrone laughed. ‘Whoever your Crimewriter is, they’re doing us a favour.’
‘Cammy, behave,’ Jane chided.
Outside, a car drew up beside Flick’s, a man driving. As they peered to see who it was, the lounge door swung open and a smiling lady carried in a coffee tray. ‘These are friends from down south,’ Jane explained.
‘Nice to see you. Make yourselves at home. I’m Liz Morrison, by the way. It’s my hotel.’
‘Thanks,’ Flick said. ‘It’s lovely and full of character. Do you mind if we have a quick look round? Jane has offered to show us, if that’s all right.’
‘I don’t mind at all,’ Liz replied.
As Jane poured the coffee, Osborne returned. With him was a tall, broad-shouldered man with short, fair hair and a round, ruddy face. He introduced himself as Sergeant Fergus Maxwell of Tayside Police. Flick noted his firm, dry handshake, strong jaw and cauliflower ears.
He refused coffee. ‘I think we should get down to business before any of the suspects arrive,’ he said.
Osborne nodded to Flick, who ran through the suspects, including Francis, who had not confirmed his attendance until the previous day. Then Jane outlined her plans for the weekend.
‘How are you going to tell which one is the murderer?’ Osborne asked.
Jane looked at him earnestly. ‘Whoever is doing this must have a very strange personality, which they will conceal, but I am sure that some aspects of their quite aberrant psychological make-up will appear when they have to mix with others, compose short pieces and take criticism.’
‘Jane’s big on her psychology,’ McCrone said.
‘There’s just one thing,’ Maxwell said. ‘I took this on with one condition, that I get away to watch the match tomorrow.’
‘At Murrayfield?’ Flick asked.
‘Yes. I’ll leave at twelve and won’t be back till about seven, but if the suspects are writing essays then, there shouldn’t be a problem, and I’ll have a word with the local guys. They’ll know to come at the double if any of you call. Anyway, the suspects will think it odd if I’m constantly drifting round the hotel.’ His accent, though clearly Scottish, was not of the full-blown variety. It was a trustworthy voice, Flick thought.
Osborne shrugged. ‘Don’t see that it matters,’ he said.
‘Do you think you’ll score any tries?’ Flick heard herself ask.
Maxwell turned to her, eyebrows raised. ‘I hope so. It depends on whether you kill the game like you usually do.’<
br />
‘At least we don’t get all our points, every game, from our kicker.’
‘Have you ever been to Murrayfield?’
‘No, but I’ve been to Croke Park and the Millennium Stadium.’
Suddenly hesitant, Maxwell said, ‘I happen to have a spare ticket. Er, a mate couldn’t come.’
Flick glanced at Osborne, who seemed to find the exchange funny. McCrone also smiled. Tara sat back, her arms folded, an expression of astonishment on her face.
‘I’ll get by without you - if he asks you,’ Osborne said.
The redness of Maxwell’s face deepened.
Flick saved his embarrassment. ‘I’d love to. Thanks. And I’ll pay for my ticket.’
‘That won’t be necessary. We have a reputation for meanness to live down, you know. You’ll be surrounded by Scots,’ he added.
‘As long as I can shout for England.’
‘Dalton and Pargiter are coming by train, and they might be here in an hour. We should have our tour of the hotel now,’ Jane said.
The tour did not take long. One bedroom, which had disabled facilities, was on the ground floor next to the dining room. The remaining eleven bedrooms were upstairs. On the way up, Flick paused to admire the huge, stained-glass window throwing different shades of light over the half landing. The two unoccupied rooms overlooked the front, and had been reserved for the ‘judges’. Any police activity would take place there.
‘Will Liz not wonder about what’s going on?’ Flick asked.
‘She may, but we have a good relationship, and she knows that our retreats involve a bit of coming and going. Any awkward questions will come to me.’
After exchanging mobile numbers with their new colleagues, Osborne, Flick and Peters got back into their car and located Scotland’s Hotel, where they were all booked in. Osborne and Peters agreed to meet in the bar at half past six. Flick excused herself and went for a walk round the town, looking forward to the solitary luxury of a fish supper out of the paper and a Lavinia Lenehan mystery.
21
‘I thought it was going to go pear-shaped after half an hour.’ Fergus Maxwell brought Flick up to date as he tried to see past an early-season caravan on a slow stretch of the A9.
‘How so?’ she asked, sensing impending disaster.
‘Rachel Lawson is some battleaxe. They were all introducing themselves at the first session, and Johnson says he’s a convicted but innocent murderer who was released on parole that morning. Mrs Lawson had a fit; “I’m not mixing with murderers,” “Who allowed this?” “I’m going home and anyone with any sense will come with me,” and so on. Jane Smith should be in the United Nations. She took her out and had a long talk with her. Back they came and Lawson was quiet as a mouse till dinner, when she sent back her venison as it was undercooked. Actually, it was perfect, beautifully moist and tender. The food’s very good, you know.’
‘Don’t tell Osborne or he’ll gate-crash a meal. He thinks of his stomach full-time. How did you get to spy on them?’
‘I don’t know if you noticed, but the lounge is two rooms with the dividing wall removed. In its place they have a sliding door. It’s shut as they’re just using the front room at the moment, so I go in the back one and sit next to the sliding door. I can hear almost everything, but it’s bloody cold. When they were closing their first session, I slipped into the dining room and got my order in ahead of them.’
‘What do you make of them?’
‘The wee woman, Dalton, I like. She talks to everyone, including Johnson. She fusses Wallace, in the wheelchair, and he doesn’t like that because he’s cussed and independent, but I suspect she’ll back off him. Pargiter, who arrived first with Dalton, doesn’t say much. Kinda dreary-looking, really. Johnson is one hard, vicious thug. I wouldn’t like to cross him. Wallace is very bitter. I’ve watched him sizing up Johnson. They’ve both killed more than once, I’d say, and I sense a weird thing between them, almost a bond, but it’s not that.’
‘And Francis?’
‘Oh, him. A long drink of water looking for a glass. He doesn’t talk much, but when he does, he lectures. Spends all the time he can in his room. Doesn’t mix. Everyone else hung about in the lounge following the after-dinner session but he bolted straight upstairs.’
‘What about the retreat? How are the sessions going?’
‘Fine, as far as I can tell. They get them to do exercises, like showing them a picture of a house and asking them to imagine who lives there and weave a story round the people and the house. Funny what some of them came out with. The judges didn’t hold back in their criticism, that man Cammy McCrone in particular.’ He paused as he overtook the caravan then looked sideways at Flick, a shy grin on his face. ‘He told Francis: “Yer story widnae stand up if ye gie’d it Viagra.” I don’t think Mr Francis was very pleased.’
Flick laughed. ‘This is crazy. I’m enjoying myself,’ she said. ‘How many points are we going to beat you by?’
‘Oh, we’ll win,’ Fergus said.
‘I’ll pay you now for the ticket,’ she said, taking notes from her wallet.
‘Put it away. This is on me.’
‘For heaven’s sake. At least let me pay if Scotland wins.’
‘All right, then. And I’ll accept English notes.’
For the rest of the journey they talked rugby. Fergus had played Number Eight for Stirling County, which impressed Flick, and she was happy to meet some of his old team-mates for pints in Edinburgh’s Murrayfield Hotel. ‘This is Flick. The poor girl’s English but she likes rugby,’ was how he introduced her. When it was time to join the horde leaving for the ground, she swallowed half a pint in one, reminding herself to ask for lager, not heavy, the next time she drank in a Scottish pub.
Their seats were in the West Stand. Amid the good-natured pushing and bustle of the capacity crowd, Fergus exchanged shouted greetings with Kenny Logan and Gavin Hastings. At one point, Flick grabbed his arm, and it was a good feeling. They reached their seats in time for the anthems. Flick’s voice rose above all around her for God Save the Queen. Booing, patchy but loud, reminded her that she was, to many there, a foreigner. She had always considered Flower of Scotland to be an atrocious dirge, but, sung by deep, passionate voices, accompanied by pipes and drums, it made the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end.
The match itself was a poor, drab affair, full of scrums and kicks and short on tries, but at least it could not have been closer, finishing fifteen-all. The queue for the bar at the Murrayfield Hotel was sticking out of the door. They decided to head north. ‘Hope to see you again, Flick,’ one of Fergus’s friends called as they said their goodbyes.
The journey was quick and they talked little. On reaching Pitlochry, Fergus went with Flick to meet Osborne and Peters in the bar of Scotland’s Hotel.
Standing at the bar, an unhappy-looking Danny Peters gazed into a pint glass. When he saw Flick and Fergus, he pulled a face and nodded towards a dark corner where Osborne and McCrone lolled, an armada of whisky glasses on the table in front of them.
‘Felicity! Tell me we won!’ Osborne’s shout turned the heads of the few in the bar.
‘Well, I’m not putting him to bed,’ she muttered. ‘Come on,’ she said to Peters, and was pleased when Fergus came too.
‘A draw,’ she said as she pulled up a chair.
‘A draw? How honourable.’ He looked to his new friend for confirmation. ‘So did he pay for your seat on your first date, then?’
‘As it was a draw, I paid half.’ Drunks had always annoyed her, but she knew she must will herself to be patient.
‘So he pays for one bum cheek and you pay for the other?’ Osborne started to laugh and McCrone joined in. ‘Worth every penny, her bum, I assure you,’ Osborne wheezed.
Gagging at the alcoholic fumes, Flick put her face up to Osborne’s. ‘This was not a good idea,’ she said.
Osborne pointed unsteadily at McCrone. ‘It’s his fault. W
e bumped into each other by accident. Cammy has this saying, “A drink’s nice, two’s enough and three’s not nearly enough.” Unfortunately, we’d already had four when he said it.’ He started laughing again.
‘Yer man, here needed educating. We’ve gone up and doon the West Coast and we’re daeing the Highlands. Will ye join us in an Edradour? It’s the local drop. Very smooth.’
‘No, thank you,’ Flick said, steel in her voice. ‘My two colleagues are going to take Inspector Osborne up to his room and make him coffee. You and I will sit here and then Sergeant Maxwell will drive you to the top of the drive of your hotel. He will go ahead of you, as you should not be seen together, and the fresh air will do you good. When you get to the hotel, please go to bed and on no account spoil this operation. If you do, someone might get killed and that person could be you. Understand?’
McCrone’s bloodshot eyes focused on Flick’s face. She hoped he would not respond badly, but knew she must show no weakness. He looked belligerent, then resentful, then accepting. ‘So the game’s a bogey,’ he muttered, and slumped back in his chair.
It took more than half an hour for Peters and Fergus to get Osborne settled. By the time they rejoined Flick, McCrone was snoring loudly. With difficulty, they steered him into the passenger seat of Fergus’s car.
‘Thanks for a great afternoon,’ Flick whispered as Fergus prepared to drive off.
‘Pleasure’s all mine.’ The way he said it made her think he wanted to kiss her. It was a pleasant thought.
She watched his rear lights disappear round a corner then turned to Danny Peters. ‘Are you up for dinner?’ she asked. ‘It’s on me.’
22
On Sunday morning, Flick woke early and dressed. She rang Danny’s room and found him showered and ready to go. ‘You’d better check Osborne,’ she said. A silence followed. ‘Please, Danny. I did buy you dinner. And a nice claret.’ He reluctantly agreed and said he would phone her back.