A spurt of rage brought me fully awake, my mind suddenly crystal clear. He’d trapped the claustrophobic Gina, induced panic, left her the one way of escape that was in reality a journey to death. He’d trapped me, made me panic. My swim out to sea was to be my journey to death. He’d got rid of Waldo, Gina, Madame Butterfly, but not, definitely not, DJ Smith. I still had a chance, if I could fight off this overpowering lethargy. Stoke that rage, fuel those flames of anger, and I’d beat that bastard yet.
I blinked the water out of my eyes, straining to make out the dark shape of the next marker. Where was it? There it was – off to my left. But with every second I was being carried further away. All I could manage now was a clumsy doggy paddle, but after only a few strokes even that seemed too much effort. The tide had me in its grip and I didn’t have the strength to fight it. Or the heart. I might as well surrender to that persistent tugging. If I lay back, let the tide carry me, perhaps I’d be washed ashore… No need to struggle anymore. Rest. Just relax… Being Ophelia wasn’t so bad after all…
My head knocked painfully against something hard. It bumped again. My fingers touched wood, rough, barnacle-covered wood, then seaweed as soft as silk. I opened my eyes and saw a row of jagged, dark shapes half-blotting out the stars. I’d been snagged, a piece of human flotsam, against a line of posts stretching out from the shore, some ancient jetty, the planking long gone.
My numbed fingers scrabbled for a hold, slipped. Sobbing hot tears of frustration, I tried again. Again my hand flopped back into the water. I summoned up all my failing energies for one final desperate attempt. There’d be no other chance.
I managed to hook an arm round the slimy wood. The next post was now just within reach. Slowly, oh so slowly, I worked my way shoreward till at last my feet sank first into mud, then touched firm sand. Clinging to the posts for support, I lurched out of the water, stumbled up the narrow beach, and collapsed face down in a patch of spiky grass. Death by natural causes. No suspicious circumstances. That was what Hiram J Spinks had planned. And that’s what he’d very nearly achieved. Still might, if I wasn’t found soon…
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
‘It’s ab-saw-loot-ly essential,’ the voice fluted, ‘yes, ab-saw-loot-ly essential. Three minutes exactly from the time the first bubble rises. Yesterday’s egg was quite disgusting. Consistency of the inside of a golf ball.’
I heard a muttered reply, then the clack clack of receding heels. Without opening my eyes, I pulled the sheet up over my head. A battle-royal was obviously in progress between Felicity Lannelle and the redoubtable Mrs Mackenzie.
‘I don’t want to know,’ I thought drowsily. All I wanted to do was sleep.
‘One wouldn’t believe the number of ways there are of ruining an egg!’ The tones of shock horror were audible through the layer of scratchy cotton sheet.
Mrs Mackenzie’s Egyptian cotton bed linen had deteriorated remarkably. After that unfortunate Gorgonzola episode, I had obviously been issued with inferior quality sheets.
‘And my researches prove it.’ A great rustling and shuffling of papers drove me crazy. ‘Firstly, there’s the temperature of the raw egg…’
I scrunched the sheet into my ears and slithered further down under the blanket. Why couldn’t Ms Lannelle give her lecture in her own room? I gave a querulous twitch to the sheet. Mrs Mackenzie reacted badly to complaints, but I’d have to have a word with her about that too…
…I woke with a start and lay there, eyelids closed against the bright light. Felicity’s fruity voice was now droning on about toast. The sheet and blanket had fallen away from my head, and her voice had the intensity of a pneumatic drill beating at my eardrums. I bore it for another five seconds, then shouted through clenched teeth, ‘Shut up, Felicity.’ At least, that’s what I attempted to do, but all that my dry throat managed was a husky groan.
The monologue stopped abruptly. I heard a creaking of springs, closely followed by the long-drawn-out thud thud thud of an avalanche of books and papers slithering to the floor. A slap slap of slippered feet, then a hand light as choux pastry stroked my forehead. My eyes flew open. An anxious face hovered above me.
‘I’m so glad you’ve woken up at last, dear. You’re looking so much better now. Less like a prime piece of chicken.’
‘Chicken?’ I croaked.
‘Your skin had that delightful blue and purple translucence of fresh chilled chicken, ready for the chef’s best culinary efforts. Unlike that awful deep-frozen stuff from the supermarket.’ Felicity shuddered with distaste. ‘Let me tell you, my dear, never…’ she settled herself comfortably on the chair beside my bed and launched into an interminable tale of the horrors of factory-farmed chicken.
I gazed dreamily at her. Watching her lips move was incredibly soothing. My eyelids slowly closed. I slept.
‘Are you awake?’
Felicity’s voice had become quite mannish. Curious. Maybe it had something to do with gender-benders in factory-farmed chicken.
I was tempted not to reply, to remain cocooned forever in warm torpor, but the voice was insistent.
‘Are you awake?’
Reluctantly, I opened my eyes to see the solidly reassuring figure of DCI Macleod standing beside my bed.
‘Good.’ He dropped onto the chair. ‘We won’t be disturbed.’ With a wave he indicated the curtains that had been pulled round my bed. ‘And don’t worry about Miss Lannelle listening in. I’ve arranged for the dietitian to interview her. I’d love to be a fly on the wall for that. She’s one formidable lady.’ He produced a large brown paper bag and extracted a bunch of grapes. ‘Here, munch on one of these.’
I struggled to a slightly more upright position and took one. Macleod popped a couple into his mouth. ‘I’ve pulled some strings. The hospital will tell any enquirers that you’re critical. That’ll buy us a bit of time.’
‘Time?’ I croaked, my mind more on the ties of the hospital gown digging uncomfortably into my back.
‘Time for you to decide whether you’re going to die or not.’
‘You sound exactly like Hiram J Spinks,’ I said, helping myself to another grape.
‘I take it that gentleman had more than a little to do with your being fished out of the waters of the Forth more dead than alive?’
I didn’t answer directly, reluctant to relive that cat-and-mouse game on the island. ‘Who found me?’
He shot me a glance from under his dark brows, and didn’t press for an answer to his question. ‘When you didn’t signal for the Customs boys to make their move, we knew something had gone wrong. We didn’t want to jeopardise anything you were up to, of course, but I asked all shore patrols to keep an eye open for any unusual objects or any unusual activity. Not that you were very active when they found you,’ he added dryly.
‘Yes, he’d expect me to be dead.’ I stopped. The silence lengthened. The distant clatter of metal on china, the faint trill of a telephone came faintly from the corridor outside. I took a deep breath. ‘Dead like Kumiko Matsuura. She’s on the island… I found her body…’ I couldn’t go on.
‘Take your time,’ he said gently. He set a small recorder running as, haltingly, I told my story.
‘…I realise now that it was all a set-up,’ I finished. ‘I did exactly what he wanted.’
‘Except drown.’ Macleod clicked off the recorder. ‘Well, like I said before, are you going to die? Could be an advantage.’
‘Ye-es,’ I crunched on the last of the grapes. ‘Let me think about it. Death is so final, isn’t it?’
I shouldn’t have to wait much longer for Felicity to reappear. It had been more than an hour since Macleod had left, promising to send someone to collect a bag of clothes from my B&B and check that Gorgonzola was being looked after. I was anxious to get going, do something to nail that bastard Spinks, as the late unlamented Waldo M Hinburger might have put it. I’d decided to ‘die’, and there was something I wanted Felicity to do for me. Again I glanced over at her empty bed. She’d bee
n a long time closeted with the dietitian. Like Macleod, I’d have loved to be a fly on the wall. As if on cue, Felicity surged pinkly through the door on a tidal wave of indignation.
‘It’s been ab-saw-loot-ly ghastly, frightful! When they told me that the dietitian,’ she managed to invest the word with scornful contempt, ‘wanted to see me, I naturally assumed she was going to consult me about how to improve the quality of the food served in this place. Well, who better to give advice than I, Felicity Lannelle, gastronome extraordinaire? But what happened?’
I shook my head, though I had a pretty good idea.
‘The silly woman actually wanted me to go on a diet! Subjected me to all sorts of insufferable investigative indignities. Can you believe that?’ Without waiting for my reply, she flounced down on the bed and lay there quivering like a giant pink and white blancmange.
‘It just shows how out of touch they are,’ I said diplomatically. ‘Whoever heard of a gourmet writer on a diet?’ I delivered the final comforting clincher, ‘Anyway, you’re due to go home tomorrow, aren’t you?’
She sat bolt upright. ‘You’re right, my dear. Forgive, and Eat to Forget.’ She rummaged in the depths of her locker. ‘I’ve something in here for just this sort of nasty shock to the system.’
A voice from the doorway interrupted her foraging. ‘Excuse me, Miss Lannelle. The dietitian said you forgot to take this with you.’ The nurse held up a sheaf of papers. ‘It’s your personal diet plan.’ With a bright smile she deposited the mini-tome on the bed, and effected a strategic and rapid withdrawal.
‘Pshaw!’ Felicity snorted. Thump, the offending object hit the bottom of the waste bin.
The rummaging resumed. My stomach rumbled in anticipation. She’d be bound to turn up something edible. With an exclamation of triumph Felicity’s hand emerged from the locker holding a small box. In the box were two of the largest chocolate liqueurs I had ever seen, each the size of a quail’s egg, each cocooned in a soft green nest of protective tissue. I watched her bite delicately into the top of one of the eggs. The rich bouquet of brandy drifted over.
She looked up, saw me watching every move, and through a mouthful of chocolate and five-star brandy murmured, ‘But I’m so rude, dear.’ The pudgy hand waved the box with its sole remaining treasure in my direction. ‘With all my troubles I forgot about you!’ She took another tentative nibble at the rich dark chocolate. ‘You know, this afternoon, when someone came and looked at you and then drew the curtains round your bed, I feared the worst.’ She tipped up the egg and sipped appreciatively. ‘Especially when they packed me off in such a hurry to see that woman. If it’s not too personal, dear, just how did you—?’
‘Well,’ I licked my delightfully sticky fingers, ‘I was silly enough to go exploring on Cramond Island and got cut off by the tide. Then to make matters worse, I stupidly tried to wade back.’
‘We all do foolish things that we regret, dear.’ She paused to let the last piece of brandy-encrusted chocolate melt slowly in her mouth. ‘But I’ve never allowed my mistakes to get me down.’
‘Not even when you nearly died after eating that haggis?’
Felicity considered carefully, head on one side. ‘No-o-o,’ she said slowly. Then decisively, ‘No, definitely not. The haggis episode that brought me here must have been due to an unfortunate allergy. In my line of work, field tests are essential. I pride myself on the accuracy of my reports. Unfortunately, I can’t remember what my verdict was. But it will be in my notes, of course. I’m quite looking forward to reading them when I go back to collect my belongings tomorrow.’
This was the moment. I cleared my throat. ‘I work for the Government, Ms Lannelle, and I was wondering if you would consider helping us in a little matter?’
A spasm of alarm flickered over her plump face and she shifted uneasily on her bed. ‘Not for the Inland Revenue? I can assure you that my rather large claims under Expenses, for food, wine and hotel accommodation, are totally justified by the need for quality in my line of business. If—’
‘No, no,’ I broke in. She was beginning to look quite flushed. ‘Not for the Inland Revenue. I work in the Public Health Department, and we’re running an investigation of the White Heather Hotel. You see, the hospital can’t find a medical reason for your collapse, so the possibility is that the food was contaminated in some way.’
I hoped Felicity would be concentrating so much on the food poisoning angle that she wouldn’t wonder how I knew all this. It was a calculated risk and I held my breath.
‘Contaminated? Food poisoning?’ A deep frown creased her forehead. ‘But all Mrs Mackenzie’s food is ab-saw-loot-ly above reproach. She shook her head dismissively. ‘No, dear. I have to say I gave her a full five-fork rating. Everything is immaculately presented. All cutlery spotless…’
I leant forward. ‘That’s just it, you see.’ My voice was earnest, my eyes impressively frank. ‘It’s not the food from the dining room we’re interested in. I checked that out for myself. It’s the food in the tins.’ I lowered my voice. ‘Confidentially, we think the serious contamination might have originated with the canning machines. It’s situated in the garage, you may recall. Now, the garage comes under the Factories Act. So we have to give advance warning of an inspection. As you probably know.’ I popped in this handy phrase. It invariably gives a ring of truth to the weakest and most mendacious of statements. People don’t like to admit their ignorance. Felicity was no exception. She nodded vigorously. ‘With advance warning, of course,’ I continued, ‘any evidence completely disappears. So we desperately need some help. Someone to mount a diversion, and keep Mrs Mackenzie occupied.’
‘Me?’ Felicity breathed, her eyes large and round as dinner plates.
I nodded. ‘So that I can make a quick inspection of the canning machines, collect some samples, and that sort of thing. I’d need about half an hour.’
There was a long pause while Felicity thought things out. Then a calculating look crept into her eyes. ‘If you were to find any evidence, I might be able to sue…’
I’d phoned the B&B to let Jim Ewing know when my taxi would be arriving, so I wasn’t surprised when the front door opened as I made my somewhat wobbly way up the short path. What I hadn’t expected was for him to rush out and grab me by the arm.
‘I don’t know how to tell you this, but Gorgonzola—’ he stuttered to a halt.
I stared at his flushed face and over-bright eyes. ‘Gorgonzola? What’s—?’
He hustled me through the doorway into the hall. ‘No time to explain. Quick! You’ll catch her in the act!’
Not another eviction from a boarding establishment because of my delinquent cat. My heart sank. The thought of having to trail round Edinburgh looking for somewhere to stay was more than I could bear.
He flung open the kitchen door. ‘She’s in here.’
I closed my eyes, unable to look.
‘She started with the fridge. And now it’s the walls!’
Reluctantly, I eased open an eye. The fridge was tastelessly splodged with red and black, the walls splotched and splattered waist-high with red, blue, and yellow paint. As I watched, Gorgonzola leapt in the air and brushed a paint-laden front paw along the wallpaper. A smeary red trail now curved across five vertical blue streaks.
Jim’s voice behind me said, ‘What do you say to that, eh?’
‘Oh God, I’m so sorry! I’ll pay for redecoration, of course.’
‘I’ll be leaving it exactly the way it is.’
I spun round. He was standing, arms folded, smiling as he watched my cat wrecking the décor of his kitchen.
‘Don’t look so horrified. You’re watching a cat artiste at work.’ Gorgonzola was now dabbing random white paw prints among the blue streaks. ‘I’ve waited for years to see this. Never thought I would.’
‘Cat artiste?’ Stunned, I pulled out a chair and collapsed on to it.
‘Some, of course, dismiss it as mere territorial marking, but that doesn’t explain the
selective use of colour.’
I was only half-listening. I was staring at the yoghurt pots arranged in a neat row along one wall. ‘You mean you encouraged her? You filled these with paint, and she dipped her paws in and started daubing the walls…’ I trailed off as words failed me.
‘I moved her blanket down to the kitchen while you were in hospital, and when I came in the next morning, I found she had hooked the magnetic alphabet off the fridge and put all the letters of one colour together. She was sitting there, eyes half-closed, purring over them. Well, I knew that was significant.’ He edged carefully round G, now standing, tail vertical, gazing fixedly at her abstract work of art. ‘It’s the sign of a cat with artistic leanings.’
I tried to convert a snort of disbelief into a cough, but failed.
‘No, really. I’ve a shelf of books on the subject. I’ll make you a cup of tea. I can see you’ve had a bit of a shock.’
While he busied himself with cups and teapot, I stared at her handiwork. Should I repeat my offer to have the kitchen redecorated?
Jim handed me my tea. ‘When she’s finished, she’ll make one more mark, a sort of seal of approval, the artist’s signature.’
‘But your kitchen,’ I wailed, ‘it’s a—’ I hesitated to say mess.
‘A gallery of cat art,’ he said. ‘I’m going to frame all the compositions. Each one will have an appropriate title. This one, now,’ he pointed at the red crescent smeared over the streaks of blue and dabs of white, ‘I think I’ll call it Sun Sinking in the Forests of Siberia.’
G dipped a paw in the blue paint and smacked it squarely on the lower right hand corner of her latest oeuvre.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
From my hiding place in the rhododendrons I watched the taxi turn in through the gates of the White Heather Hotel. Time to let the cat out of the bag. While Felicity was paying the driver, I bent down and took hold of the YOURS holdall lying at my feet. I unzipped it, just a little. Gorgonzola’s moth-eaten head emerged. She crossed her eyes meanly and gave a sharp-toothed yawn, a pointed reminder that being shut up in a bag was one of her pet hates. I ignored this prima donna display, ran my finger round her collar to emphasise that she was on duty, then turned my attention back to Felicity Lannelle.
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