by EJ Lamprey
Kirsty shrugged and half smiled at her aunt’s baffled expression. 'That’s all. Really. Iain got me pulling records for any other incidents of a rose, or rosebud, in a glass of water in similar deaths, and that’s what sparked off the whole investigation. All the victims were beautifully made up and nicely dressed, which is where he got the idea to check whether they’d been on a blind date. Ken, ‘I’ll be the man with a rose in my buttonhole’ – boutonnières, is that the name? I told you he’s a top copper. Everything we’ve found since supports the theory – like in three cases the victim’s car was missing, and each time it turned up in a restaurant or pub car park. A taxi driver came forward after one death was reported to say she was a regular of his and he had dropped her off at a restaurant. She’d even told him she had a date, and was all excited about it, though she didn’t say if it was a blind date. The thing is, always one rose, half-opened. In Susan’s case there was a whole vase of them lying on the floor.'
'Couldn’t she have bought them herself?'
'No, that’s the thing, she didn’t like roses. Didn’t like any cut flowers, only living ones. Her colleagues knew not to give her flowers on her birthday.'
'Yes, all right, but you’re not having the cream off my scone!' Edge hastily pulled a slightly threadbare cushion onto her lap as Mortimer flowed down from the window ledge to put an enquiring paw on her knee. Kirsty’s somber face lightened in appreciation of this unexpected twist in the conversation, and her aunt smiled ruefully at her, then returned to the matter in hand. 'So, what’s happening about the ongoing stuff?'
'Actually, Iain wants to know if you’ll – well, keep it going. For the time being. The conversations, not the investigation itself. The thing is, you and she weren’t that different in looks. People kept thinking she and I were related, and anyone can see at a glance that you and I are. She was plumper than we are, but otherwise most of the differences were cosmetic; she wore her hair down socially, not up the way you do, and had heavy glasses. I brought photos.'
Edge studied the three photos thoughtfully. It’s usually a shock to see someone for the first time when you’ve been told you look alike, but in this case it flattered. The first photo was Susan’s police one, very rigid and a little intimidating, her reddish-brown hair pulled tightly back to make her cheekbones look particularly dramatic, and her black-framed glasses dominating her face. The second showed her relaxed and laughing, the glasses in her hand. She was very like Kirsty, with the same large eyes, slightly tilted nose, full-lipped mouth and firm chin. She was definitely heavier in the hips but that didn’t show at all in the third photo. This was the head and shoulders shot used for the dating websites. She was looking directly at the camera with a little smile playing about her lips and her hair in soft waves around her face. She’d been skillfully made up to look ten years older, with deeper creases from nose to mouth and penciled laugh lines, and her likeness to Edge was clear. It would certainly be enough to identify her to a stranger.
'Okay, I can see it. With my hair up – and everyone uses flattering photographs – to explain the differences, it would be close enough. I wouldn’t mind doing it, if it was safe. It would be safe, right?'
'Oh aye, you’d be fitted with listening equipment, as she would have been, and there’ll be plainclothes polis in the place. I’m not happy about it but everyone’s taking this really seriously. Kill a copper, you’re not going to walk away. The only reason I’m not refusing pointblank on your behalf is that this lunatic, whoever he is, has his own twisted schedule – the killings are almost exactly a month apart.'
'Now there’s a point. Lunatic?' Edge looked alert. 'Have you checked a lunar calendar?'
Kirsty shook her head regretfully. 'One of our guys tried that, but he said not even close to the full moon. There’s definitely roughly a monthly pattern. We checked HOLMES and CHS entry by entry, pulling the files on every death of an older woman, and then checking the photos taken at the scene for a single rose. What is it today, the eighteenth? The next one, in theory, is due between the eighth and the eleventh. He’s either casting about or already grooming his next victim. Several of the victims told their friends about the men they’d met and were seeing again, but there aren’t many matching descriptions cropping up yet. We don’t want to lose momentum at this stage, if there’s any chance.'
'I’ll borrow Buster,' Edge said lightly. 'He should be a police dog. He’s never been wrong yet about someone, Vivian swears by him. I’ll take him along, job done.'
'Works for me. So, if you’re really up for helping? I brought some folders, and it’s all on this USB stick but I printed off some stuff. I wasn’t sure if you had a colour printer.'
Edge pulled across a side table and Kirsty collected her carrier bags, dipping into them to spread out several stapled sheets of paper.
'We’ll be supplying more all the time, as we confirm other cases, but these ones I’ve printed off were in regular contact with two victims or more. Susan pulled off photographs, their bio details, and every communication she’d had with them. I’ve got her passwords, too, for the email account she was using, and all the website details, so you’ll be able to log in as her.' She reached into the carrier bag again. 'I’ve also brought the mobile phone she was using. Obviously you wouldn’t give that number out too freely but she said you reach a point where you have to give a number or you come across as a time-waster.'
'I won’t get police calls, will I?' Edge eyed the phone dubiously, but Kirsty shook her head.
'It was a regular one, she transferred the SIM card into a special issue police phone, shielded against tracking. You won’t have any awkward calls from friends who haven’t heard, either, as it was bought for this investigation. Don’t forget, when you do go on the dates, to switch your own phone off! There are nine files. Three of the men appeared for most victims, only this one – Nick – has met every one so far. He seems to have been and gone from their lives before they died, but still – every single one! We’re very keen to get a real name and address for him.'
She picked up the top stapled copy and handed it across.
Chapter 7 – New beginnings
'Ooh!' Edge said appreciatively as she stared into the soulful eyes of the handsome man in the photograph. 'This job could be fun! Oh, Kirsty – I’m joking. I’m just trying to cheer you up. I’ve never seen you so subdued.'
'I’ve never felt so down,' Kirsty agreed. 'I love my job but this whole Susan bit has shaken me to the core. Also, there’s a chance I’m trying to make up my mind about –'
'Work? An opportunity? Get me more tea, darling, this cat’s got me pinned down.'
Kirsty obligingly topped them both up, then perched tensely on the edge of her chair.
'It’s an opportunity, yes. Not work. The thing is, Susan was trying to sell the house to pay out her ex-husband. She’s had it on the market for nearly a year but the market is really slow. We checked out anyone who might have viewed the house recently, then come back on his own, because we thought she might have let in a potential buyer. But there’s only been a handful of viewers in all, none in the last three months. So her ex, in Aberdeen, now wants rid of it as fast as possible before he has to start paying council tax and maintenance on it. He was still listed as her sole heir, which means he gets her death-in-service payout – that’ll be huge – and of course the mortgage will be paid off by her insurance, so financially anything the sale makes will be clear profit.'
She looked enquiringly at Edge, who nodded.
'The thing is, it isn’t his to sell yet and there’s also the faint chance – although he does seem to have a rock solid alibi – he could have killed her himself, and wouldn’t inherit at all. So nothing’s going to be paid out until the case is solved. Even if he is in the clear, the ESPC agent told him that by law they have to tell potential buyers there was a murder there. He then halved the price and still nothing. He can’t even find a tenant.'
She lifted her cup to her lips and breathed in the hot steam, then went on,
looking troubled. 'He rang yesterday to see if anyone in the polis would be interested in a deal. Not the nicest man; he was girning that we’d got her killed and we might as well do him a bit of good. The thing is, I would like the house. He’d already told ESPC he’s prepared to sign a lease guaranteeing he’ll sell to the tenant, at a price agreed up front, as soon as probate goes through. The rent is only a little more than I’m paying now and he’ll sell at a hundred thousand. Susan had dropped her price to two hundred for a quick sale, and the valuation is two twenty. It’s not a chance I’d get again, at that price, but I feel a ghoul benefitting from her death. I’m also terrified that if he does turn out to be the killer, it could make the polis look bad and land me on a bribery and corruption charge.'
'But if you’re fairly confident he isn’t the killer, it is a really good chance. If he’s already dropped the price with the agent, and they’ve already told him it may not sell because of the murder, I don’t think a bribery charge would stick for a second. Very few people would be interested at any price. You’re not going to be bothered by the fact she died there, are you?'
Kirsty hesitated, then shook her head and Edge shrugged. 'Rather you remembering her fondly, than some speculator leaping in for the profit to be turned on it, don’t you think?' She glanced down and flicked Mortimer’s ear affectionately with a finger. 'I’m wheeler-dealing like mad to keep Sylvia off my back, but one complaint from her or anyone else and I’ll not be allowed to keep him, you know. It would be great if he could go back to his own house instead of yet another upheaval. How about the finance, could you manage that?'
'Thanks to Uncle James, aye, no problem at all. I’ve saved about forty grand from the allowance he left me, so no problem getting a mortgage on the rest. I talked it over with Iain, too, I had to. Of course, it would look bad if I seemed to be benefitting from a case we were investigating, but he said the same as you; I’m not taking advantage of inside information, the price is already out there. What do you think?'
'I think at worst you get to rent a really nice little house for a few months. At best, you’ll never get a better chance to buy. What a pity you’ve got to drive, we should be breaking open a bottle of bubbly! Or at least a celebratory glass of wine.'
'We’re in luck there.' Kirsty’s face finally lost its shadow and she looked mischievous. 'I never said I drove here today. Drew dropped me off, and he’s collecting me,' she glanced at her watch, 'around quarter past five. I thought it was time for you to meet him. So if you have some spare wine in your vast cellar…'
'Wow, meeting the aunt, that’s a big step.' Edge was impressed. 'And no danger of running out, I’ve always got Chateau Cardboard. I’ll decant some and pop it in the fridge to chill. So, you told me everything else about him but you never commented on his looks. Flawless bone structure with hollowed cheeks again, or have you beefed up towards a Chippendale gobsmacker?'
'More a chipmunk than a Chippendale,' his loving girlfriend said affectionately. 'In fact, that’s a very good way of describing him. Definately a chipmunk.'
'He sounds lovely,' Edge said politely, not believing her for a minute. Kirsty wasn’t conventionally beautiful, but she was very attractive. It was a pity, in her aunt’s opinion, that she had always picked men heavy on brooding good looks, but light on personality and humour, from the ranks of her admirers.
She changed the subject. 'I didn’t get in anything else to eat with our tea, because there’s a farewell do up at the house. Open invitation. You remember auld Crabbit? He’s away soon, so this is his way of introducing us to his future bidey-in and getting out of inviting us to the wedding. The house teas are always good, and I am determined to see this poor deluded woman for myself, so you don’t have a choice.'
'What, Mr Crossley? Getting married!' Kirsty’s jaw dropped. 'Isn’t he the genius who recovered that report on my laptop, but made me feel like the rankest eejit into the bargain?'
Edge sputtered with laughter. 'That’s the boy. Crabby is as crabby does. Now you see why I want to see the lucky bride?'
'I wouldn’t miss this for the world.' Kirsty was awed. 'I’ll get changed right now; luckily the dress I brought is just the thing for a party. Didn’t you tell me Miss P had a bit of a Heathcliff thing for him as well?'
Edge grinned. 'She told me yesterday he was her image of Mr Rochester. I think she might have had hopes of being his Jane Eyre. She was certainly the only person who ever stuck up for him. She was a bit tremulous about his news, but being allowed to worship someone is disastrous for a relationship. The chosen one is twenty years his junior, and hopefully a lot tougher. She’ll need to be!'
'That was fun, I do envy you living here.' Kirsty headed for the little kitchenette as they re-entered the apartment shortly after five. 'That Major Horace is something else.'
'His face, when he realized you were a police officer!' Edge gave a whoop of laughter as she hung up her jacket. 'What on earth had he said to you, that you were ticking him off?'
Kirsty giggled. 'He said he’d offer me cupcakes, but I already had the best in the room. Then he leered down my front and put his hand on my butt.'
'Vintage Horace. Honestly, appealing to me that in his day it wasn’t considered offensive to give a pretty woman a compliment. If I find myself on a date with someone like that, I’m resigning.'
'Too right. The wine should be chilled by now, shall I pour?'
'Do, darling,' Edge called from the bathroom and peered in the mirror above the basin, tucking a strand of hair back into place and refreshing her lipstick. She blotted her mouth carefully, checked her general appearance, and shrugged. Old bag special.
As she emerged there was a knock at the door and she opened it automatically. For a moment, she thought the young man shaking out an umbrella on the doorstep must have the wrong address. He wasn’t tall – not much above her own height – and decidedly plump, with twinkling eyes, wildly unruly hair, and a mischievous, cheek-pouched, definitely-a-chipmunk, smile which was so infectious she couldn’t help but smile in response.
'Drew?' she asked disbelievingly and looked over her shoulder at Kirsty, who lit up.
'Don’t say it like that, as if you can’t believe I finally have some good taste. It gives a bad impression.' Kirsty joined them at the door and glowed at her lover. 'Drew, dear heart, no pressure, but if you don’t impress my aunt she’ll go all polite and make chilly comments about you every time I see her.'
He twinkled and offered his right hand. 'I’m very pleased to meet you, Mrs Cameron. Oh, I’m sorry, you probably aren’t Cameron at all?'
She laughed and shook hands firmly. 'As it happens, my second husband was a Cameron. We turned out to be distantly related at least twice on the family tree, but far enough back that no eyebrows could be raised.'
His infectious grin flashed again. 'All Scots are related somewhere along the line. I’m McKenzie, but my grandmother was a Cameron. Kirsty wanted me to bring my school reports and credit record, but I think she was joking. You were joking, right?'
She giggled and stepped back to draw him into the apartment. Edge, closing the door, nodded slightly to herself. This one would do!
But once again she had to firmly banish the tinge of regret from her mind, that there was no-one in her own life who made her sparkle and bloom merely by walking into the room, the way Kirsty was sparkling and blooming.
Chapter 8 – The first blind date
Edge folded her coat carefully on the stone seat, then sat on it and wriggled slightly. The courtyard of the popular restaurant was enclosed by the buildings around it and trapped warmth very effectively. Between that and the whitewashed walls it was possible to imagine oneself somewhere the sun shone more often than it did in Scotland. She turned her face up gratefully to the sunshine, which had been conspicuous by its absence for several days, and closed her eyes.
She was about ten minutes early, and apart from a couple smoking and poring over newspapers in the far corner, the courtyard was empty. For a few m
inutes she could enjoy the change in the weather, forget about the microphone concealed in the lapel of her light jacket, the policeman watching through the window in the Bistro, the discreet speaker disguised as a hidden hearing aid tucked in her ear – forget them all and for a few minutes, relax.
'Edge, is that really you?' her long-dead husband asked, sounding surprised, and she actually jumped with shock, briefly dazzled as her eyes shot open. Of course it wasn’t James, just Brian from Grasshopper Lawns, standing against the light so she had to shade her eyes to look at him.
'Brian.' She tried to put a little enthusiasm into her voice. 'My goodness, what are you doing here?'
'Well,' he looked a little sheepish. 'Meeting someone, actually. I’m early.'
'Not someone called Suzi, by any chance?' Blast and damn, she thought, and also knew a moment of slight indignation that the photograph he’d used was so very misleading, but he shook his head.
'No, Cheryl. Are you Suzi-cute? You don’t look much like your photograph but I suppose it’s mainly the hair. You’ve got it down in the photograph, not tied up like that. Makes a big difference.'
'Oh, this hot weather, I prefer my hair off my neck.' Edge was vague. 'So you’ve seen my profile?'
'Every profile within twenty miles and twenty years.' He sat on the opposite bench, uninvited. 'I’m Mountain Bob. On my profile, I mean.'
'Oh, right. I don’t think you’ve ever sent me a message, though.'
'Well, no. I tend… I go for the women who look as if they don’t mind getting mussed up.' She raised one eyebrow and he added hurriedly, 'Uh, I mean there aren’t many Carmen curlers on the side of a mountain.'
He looked slightly embarrassed, as if afraid of offending her, and ridiculously she did feel momentarily miffed. Rejected by a mountaineer.
'You really are a period piece,' she teased instead. 'Carmen curlers? You’ve never heard of portable hot brushes, obviously. I think –' but what she thought would remain unsaid. A very capable-looking woman, who from the look of her could not only climb a mountain but probably scrub it and lift it to sweep out the dust from underneath, had entered the courtyard and made a beeline for Brian’s eye-catching cast.