by EJ Lamprey
They moved their elevenses out to a table on the grass to enjoy the unusually good weather. Donald offered help, was turned down, and took a chair in the sun, donning shades and stripping to the waist. Edge put the tray of coffee mugs on the table, gratefully took one to a chair in deep shade and slowly revived as the coffee worked its magic.
'Patrick?' Donald was watching her behind his shades, and his lips twitched as she recovered enough to reach for a biscuit encrusted with sugar balls.
'What? Oh, yes, tonight. There’s a new place he says is very good, over in Linlithgow. Why?'
'Just wondered, you said an old friend.'
'Well, he is. We usually go out several times a month but with all the convalescent business I haven’t been out for dinner in an age. I can’t tell you how much I’m looking forward to it. Jayenthi, this is heaven, like a fudge brownie, but I think I gained back everything the workout burnt off.'
'Try this,' Jayenthi urged, holding out the other plate invitingly. 'Batter twisted into shape, deep-fried and then soaked in syrup; they are called jalebi, they are very slimming, because you can’t eat again for hours afterwards.'
She giggled at her own joke and Olga laughed. 'Jayenthi is an excellent cook, but yes, Edge, you vill have put on at least a pound. Ve vill definitely be seeing you at class tomorrow, I think.'
Donald picked up a jalebi and looked at it suspiciously. 'Deep fried, you say? Come up with a Scottish name,' he nibbled, then bit, chewed and swallowed. 'Aye. Come up with a Scottish name for this and you’ll be selling them by the hundredweight.'
'Something birl,' Edge suggested and picked the smallest one on the plate. She moaned slightly as she swallowed. 'Okay, that’s my dinner cancelled. This is evil.' Jayenthi looked anxious and she laughed. 'Evil is good in this case! Just bad for my hips!'
'Oh, like the youngsters say sick, and mean not sick at all!' Jayenthi offered seconds all round and Donald, looking sardonic, took another jalebi.
'I hate myself,' he remarked. 'Who was it who said he could resist anything except temptation?'
'Probably Oscar Vilde.' Olga poured herself more coffee, refused seconds, and settled back gracefully in her chair. 'I thought it vas Scottish tablet that vas your only vice, Donald. And you are going a bit red in the sun, did you know?'
'I’ll be brown by tomorrow. You’ll have to put up with me looking like a peeled shrimp for a day, two at the most. I don’t approve of sunbeds but I’m not turning down actual sunshine. You girls will faint when you see me sun-bronzed and gorgeous. Jayenthi will call me wicked sick. Talk about your dating sites – I’d scoop the pool.'
Jayenthi didn’t laugh with the others. 'Oh, but there are some very wicked sick people on the dating sites, not in the way Donald means, but bad men. Not the Asian ones! I meant the ones for older people. A friend of mine died.'
Edge looked up alertly and Donald promptly asked for details.
'Well, I have been living in another retirement place, mainly couples. I became friends with the only other single woman who was there and she was dating on-line. She told me she had met a real man, that was what she called him, very masterful. He was visiting her quite often, sometimes just turning up and pressing her buzzer. Once she had to cancel lunch plans we had made because he came by. One time he was so angry because there was no reply, he rang my buzzer and shouted at me on the intercom– she must have told him we were friends. I told him she was out, and the next time I saw her she had a black eye. She was wearing dark glasses and make-up, but I could still see it. She didn’t want to talk about it, she said everything was going well, but she stopped making lunch plans or going out except with him.'
Jayenthi put down the plate she was still absently holding, and took a deep breath. 'Not long after that, the cleaner found her very badly beaten in her apartment, and she died in hospital without ever waking up. No one at that place cared at all; they were only angry that an outsider had been able to come in, as though she had put them at risk too.' She paused for a moment, then lifted her slim shoulders. 'It was one reason, when Mr Kirby phoned to say there was a vacancy here, I decided to try it. This is a much nicer place. I am putting my apartment at the other place on the market.'
'I’m so sorry about your friend, but that is very good news,' Olga said warmly, and the conversation turned to Jayenthi’s chances of moving to one of the studio apartments, with a smaller living room but a proper kitchen, instead of staying in the bachelor one. Donald produced sun cream and smoothed it carefully onto his leanly muscled shoulders and chest, and Edge had another jalebi and wondered what on earth she would find that would still fit for her evening out.
Chapter 5 - Dinner with Patrick
There had definitely been a touch of bravado in Edge agreeing to date on behalf of the police, because since her operation she’d been battling with her confidence. Good health and physical vitality were pretty much restored, but her serene faith that they were hers by right had been shaken far more than by her original hysterectomy, ten years earlier. She had been, for a while, frail and dependent on others, had even been in Matron’s sick bay for the first week, and had gone through a stage of feeling very sorry for herself. Patrick, her accountant, friend, and regular date, had come to lunch twice at the Lawns during her convalescence and been solicitous rather than his usual self, and she dressed for the evening with care but depressingly low expectations.
All, however, was well. He was as openly attentive, teasing, and admiring as he ever had been, and she could feel herself blooming with relief as much as appreciation. Their relationship was, at her insistence, friendly flirtation rather than romance. She knew for a fact that he was hotly pursued by at least four determined women, but tonight she was happy to bask in his undoubted Irish charm and enjoy his company. Heavily built and one of those fortunate men who starts to tan effortlessly at the first glimmer of sun, he was attracting not a little interest from every woman over forty in the restaurant, and she was enjoying that, too.
He was telling her a long and mildly funny story over their post-dinner brandies when he broke off to half-raise a hand to a woman entering the restaurant with a man Edge didn’t know at all.
'I know her; she’s one of your harem, isn’t she?' Edge teased. 'Do you let them date other men?'
'I do wish you wouldn’t call them my harem.' Patrick went a little ruddier. 'But yes, that’s Grace. Don’t know the man, though. I hope she’s being careful.'
'Well, you won’t let me call them your coven. I’m running out of collective nouns. Why should she be careful?'
'Ah, she said she would be signing up with an introduction agency. I did warn her. One of my clients got royally ripped off by an investment broker she met through such an agency. He convinced her to invest fifty thousand pounds in a really dodgy company, and would she listen to me? She would not.'
'And she lost it all?' Edge was wide-eyed and Patrick shot her a defensive glance under his brows.
'Not yet. Not yet. It’s one of those companies that use new investments to pay good premiums to existing investors – they roll their investments, do you see? That kind can sometimes pay off but it’s very high risk indeed. Borderline legit. I told her that and she said she knew, he had already warned her of the risk, but that high rewards never come with playing it safe.' He snorted gently. 'True enough, but being besotted with the agent is not a good reason to invest, eh? What’s done is done, and if – probably when – she does lose it, it won’t cripple her financially. She wanted to put in most of her capital but that I wouldn’t allow, not without seeing the books myself. That ended that. Plus he went off the scene soon after.'
'You’re very protective of us,' Edge grinned at him. 'The fuss you made about my Toussaint-Wendall shares and look how well they did when they listed!'
Patrick opened his mouth indignantly, caught her dancing eyes, and squeezed her hand instead. 'No comment. But actually I didn’t only mean financially, when I hoped Grace would be careful. I had another client who inv
ested through the same chap, met him the same way, through some kind of website. She confessed in floods of tears that she’d sunk thirty thousand into an even dodgier company through him. Next thing she was found dead. Those websites can be dangerous. I’m convinced she died as a direct result of meeting the wrong man, but there was no proof it was murder. I think the police officially decided she had a heart attack when she came home and realized she’d been robbed. If nothing else, the robbery was linked. Somebody, to be sure, knew she would be out that night.'
Edge opened her mouth to quiz him more closely and he hastily beckoned to the waiter. 'Two more brandies – no? You’re sure? One of those sticky cream liqueur things you like? Coffee? Just the bill, then, please.' As the waiter moved away he shook his head at Edge. 'Forget it, not another word. I forgot I was talking to Nancy Drew and I’m not saying another syllable on the subject. I’m very pleased indeed that you’ve given up this new murder hobby of yours and nothing would get me to put you on another trail. Tell me about The Several Seasons, instead. Their last few episodes have been rubbish. Why aren’t you writing scripts for the show any more?'
He looked quite determined, and she laughed ruefully and accepted the change of subject. They gossiped idly about the flagging TV show until the bill arrived. While he was settling it she glanced across at Grace, who was laying a single long rose carefully by her plate.
'That rose reminds me, I don’t think I ever thanked you for my lovely Valentine’s Day roses. They were the best you ever sent.'
'Not me.' Patrick was emphatic. 'Roses in mid-February are extortionate, I couldn’t do it this year without taking out a mortgage. I sent you a card, though, didn’t you get it?'
'I did, but then who sent the roses?' She looked puzzled and he patted her hand.
'You’re drop-dead gorgeous, pet. I’m surprised you only got one bunch. No card at all?'
'Oh, Patrick, don’t stop, I love it. Yes, there was a little card, but it was blank – I think the back was printed ‘Secret Admirer’ with a commercial website and a phone number. Well, now that I know they weren’t from you, I can tell you I gave half of them away to a friend who was in particularly dire need that day. I hated doing it, they really were spectacular. I wondered at the time how you could afford them for so many of us.'
'Just the card.' He was plaintive. 'A really nice card, very expensive. Beautiful, even.'
She laughed aloud. 'It really was. The most beautiful card I ever got, I was absolutely knocked over when I opened it. You eejit!'
'That’s me.' He looked pleased with himself. 'Anyway, if you’ve still got the Secret Admirer card, have another look on the back, there should be some kind of code number written there as well. Silly idea, in my opinion, because what happens if someone – like you – doesn’t know to look? But the theory is you phone them, quote the code, and they give you a clue as to who sent the gift. Or tell you outright – depends what the sender arranged. Hunt out the card.'
'I think I sent it up to Sick Bay with the roses. Pretty sure there wasn’t a code, though, I think I’d have noticed.' She shrugged regretfully, then dismissed it from her mind. 'Are you really worried about Grace? Want to go over and say hello as we leave?'
Chapter 6 - Picking up the reins
Kirsty was very subdued when she came by, still in uniform, slightly after four on Thursday, having had to work on her usual Tuesday afternoon off.
'Sorry it took so long, I brought all the cat stuff – bowls, his tray, two more harnesses and a carrier. And his toys.'
She peeled off her rain cape and hung it outside Edge’s door to drip in the covered walkway, piled a blue travel bag and two bulging carrier bags inside the door, and sat heavily on her favourite chair. Mortimer gratefully bounced up onto her lap and she winced as he kneaded and purred. Edge grinned at her.
'If you try to push him off he digs his claws in, so I’ve found it best to let him get bored. Resting a cup on him also works.' She brought the kettle back to the boil, and wrestled with a small cake tin to produce her last scone which she split, buttered, and topped with jam.
It was so unlike Kirsty to be other than cheerful that she forced a note of extra brightness into her own voice. 'Is this official? When you said you were coming by, I didn’t expect you to arrive in uniform. I rather got the impression you were going to be off-duty.'
'My shift,' Kirsty twisted her wrist to look at her watch, 'ended six minutes ago. Iain said I could leave at three since my visit was semi-official, but it’s been really busy. I was lucky to get away when I did. I’ve got a dress and shoes in that blue bag; I’ll change in a minute.' She leaned back and closed her eyes, looking exhausted, her hands resting on the ginger cat as he rubbed his cheek against her knuckles. Getting no reaction, he needled for attention and she jumped. 'Ouch. I nearly nodded off. Don’t let me, keep me talking.'
'Darling, I don’t mind if you sleep. Well, okay, if you insist – bring me up to date. You know, whether Drew’s still besotted, Rory still hanging around – or,' she added tentatively, 'the latest on the investigation …'
'Rory is being a pure pain. I don’t want to talk about him. As for the websites, we put on the Suzi-cute profile that she had a touch of amnesia after a fall at home, and was away for a short holiday to recuperate. Easier than trying to keep the correspondence going in her emails and websites, they absolutely flood in. She had a dedicated email address for them and of course we have all the passwords. The problem is that we still can’t be sure her death wasn’t just incredibly bad timing.'
She accepted a cup of tea and, as predicted, Mortimer removed himself with a slightly offended air to his favourite seat in the window.
'I thought for sure she’d found the killer and he’d lashed out?' Edge left the scones to one side and sat opposite with her own tea.
Kirsty shook her head. 'We don’t know how he could have found her. She hadn’t got to the point of meeting targets although she was talking to a couple on the phone already, and had two meetings penciled in which she was going to discuss with you, but both in public places. She’d never have given the house address.'
She sipped her tea and revived enough to kick off her heavy official shoes. 'We’re still unearthing cases – now three suicides at hotels have turned out to not be suicides at all. As best we can establish, the first of those was also the first killing, nearly exactly two years ago; there’s nothing that fits the profile before that. The room was booked in the name Mrs Smith and the hotel clerk said at the time that the key was collected by a good-looking man, but she thought nothing of it. Or rather, she assumed – and at the time everyone assumed – that was exactly why the room had been booked. Mr Not-Smith goes back to his wife and Mrs Not-Smith takes an overdose. It does happen, after all.'
Edge nodded and Kirsty drank again, then cradled her cup between her hands.
'Some deaths have looked like suicides, some like accidental overdoses, some seemed absolutely natural. In every suspicious one the victim was seen by neighbours coming home with a bloke in a dark car. One neighbour said a Merc, another wasn’t sure if it was a BMW or Audi. There’s never any obvious violence, which is why it has taken so long to be picked up, but valuables – jewellery, laptop, valuable ornaments, mobile phone if it was a good one – were often missing. In one case the officer called in for a ‘natural’ death was accused of taking stuff as no-one else would have had access to the apartment. Anyway, there was a dark blue Merc outside Susan’s house, according to the neighbour across the way, but she was still wearing her rings, and the place wasn’t robbed that efficiently.'
The strained look came back into her face. 'Not only that, she – well, there were all the signs of a struggle. There’s never been a struggle before, not with the ones we’re fitting into the pattern. She must have known the killer, because she would never have invited a stranger into the house, so we have to consider it is a separate issue altogether. It looks as if our guy kills to a fairly regular timetable, and there is a possible
over in Polmont a day later which might fit. The only thing is that the poor woman was strangled. And that matches another from a year ago, which opens up a whole new can of worms. One bawbag killing every month, and another with an annual addiction. Our victim could still be lying in the dark somewhere waiting to be found, and not be Susan at all.'
'How did Iain even pick up on it, if the deaths looked natural?' Edge added a puff of instant cream to the scone halves and slid one onto a small separate plate for Kirsty, taking the other one back to her chair. 'And honestly, Kirsty, I’ve never breathed a word yet when you asked me not to. Plus if I’m still to help – and I want to now, more than ever – you really will have to tell me the secret detail sometime.'
'Oh, ken, and Iain agrees. It’s such a wee thing. In the Grangemouth case, the second one Iain was called to, the woman was beautifully dressed, and he noticed a half-opened rosebud in a glass of water next to her. It had been months, but he remembered the earlier victim also looked smart and also had a rosebud in a glass. Remember that usually different polis would be investigating in the different areas and it’s hardly enough of a detail to set off warning bells. He did a quick cupboard check and she had any amount of vases, including those slim ones exactly for single flowers.'
She finished her scone and wiped her fingers as she went on. 'Her friend, who had called us in when the victim didn’t phone her to report back, said she always wore pearls, really good ones, and a two-carat ring, and both were missing. That time we were called in really quickly; some of the cases have gone days without being reported, but the friend lived two houses away and had been absolutely avid to hear why the victim had gone out in her own car, but come back with a tall dark stranger in a long dark car.'