No Suspicious Circumstances

by The Mulgray Twins

  ‘We talked about it all the way back in the car, didn’t we, Edith?’

  ‘We did, Harry.’ She nodded her agreement.

  ‘Then Edith said to me, “Harry, you’ll just have to go to the police. Let them sort it out.” So when we got back, off I went straightaway.’

  And that was all the information I gleaned from them. No, they couldn’t describe Kumiko’s companion. No, they hadn’t seen her again. On the plus side, the Isle of May was now a definite lead. And that golf-shoe-wearing companion just had to be Hiram J Spinks.

  I made a show of looking at my watch. ‘I really must go.’ I rose from the couch and moved purposefully towards the door.

  The dog sat up, scratched vigorously, and looked at Edith and Harry enquiringly.

  Together they ushered me out. Edith opened the gate for me, ‘If we see her again, we’ll let the police know.’

  Harry neatly dead-headed a red geranium. ‘Yes, we will. Right away.’

  ‘That’s very good of you,’ I said.

  But there wouldn’t be any chance of them seeing Kumiko again. At Anstruther, or anywhere else.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Back at my seaside B&B, I sprawled on the floor and spread out the east of Scotland map. Gorgonzola stirred, then stretched out a paw towards her empty food dish, lazily extending and retracting her claws as she calculated how much she could extract from me in compensation for her recent traumatic experiences in the Mackenzie garage. It was a trauma from which she had completely recovered. I knew it. She knew I did.

  ‘It’s no use. I’m not going to give in, G,’ I said.

  I smoothed a crease out of the map. Anstruther was…here. I marked the spot with my finger. So the Isle of May must be… Yes, there it was, a lonely speck guarding the wide mouth of the Forth estuary, not easily accessible from anywhere. The dog’s head peninsula of the Fife coast was the nearest land. Which explained why Kumiko had been sighted there.

  G manufactured a piteous mew.

  ‘Nice try,’ I said cheerfully, my eyes on the map.

  Inchcolm, Cramond, Tantallon, Fast Castle, Isle of May, I lassoed each of them with a red marker pen. Five red circles on the map, just like a magnified version of a child’s Join-Up-The-Dots game. I took my pencil and linked them up. They formed a triangle, with the Isle of May at its apex. Significant?

  I got up and stared out of the window for inspiration. At this hour, the promenade beneath my window was almost empty. A cool sea breeze had sent all but the hardiest holidaymakers scurrying home. Waves broke gently on the yellow sand in little crispy lines of foam, like lace-edging to a ruffled garment. Off to my left, and just visible if I craned sideways, the grey shape of Inchcolm smudged the blue waters of the Forth. I pushed up the window and leant out. To my right, purpled by distance, lay the peak of Berwick Law, my marker for Tantallon.

  I left the window open and went back to pore over the map again. The western point of the triangle was Cramond, where the tidal estuary narrowed to meet its feeder river, the Forth. The apex of the triangle, the Isle of May, lay at the mouth of the estuary, almost in the North Sea. An ocean-going ship could easily drop a cargo there and go on its way without exciting undue attention. And then… I drew a series of somewhat wobbly red lines radiating from the Isle of May to each of the ringed places. I sat back on my heels and admired my work of art. The rays of the rising sun, the Japanese flag. Rather appropriate, really.

  The map rustled and crinkled, the Isle of May was obliterated by a large ginger paw. When she saw that she had my undivided attention, Gorgonzola collapsed slowly onto her side and closed her eyes in quite a passable imitation of a dead cat, a cat who’d starved to death.

  I capitulated. ‘You win, G.’ But I wasn’t going to give in completely. I rummaged through her tins till I found my favourite, salmon and trout mixed chunks. Hmm, supplies were getting a bit low. I’d have to do something about it soon. ‘Salmon and trout,’ I said loudly.

  She lay motionless but a tell-tale drool of saliva glinted at the corner of her mouth.

  I dug in the side pocket of the bag. My searching fingers found the spoon but no tin-opener. I scrabbled among the tins, tossing them out onto the floor, upended the empty bag and shook it. Not a sign of the opener.

  A furtive glance revealed that Gorgonzola had raised herself from her recumbent position to a predatory crouch. Two slitty copper eyes, a twitching tail. I recognised the signs of an aggrieved cat.

  ‘I know you deserve it, G, but what can I do?’ I spread my hands placatingly. ‘Now just let me fold up that map.’

  I tugged at the corner. She made no attempt to rise, bracing her sturdy front legs and digging her claws into the smooth paper. A pink toothy yawn made it clear that a battle of wills was in progress.

  A soft tap at the door broke the impasse.

  ‘Come in.’ I gave the map a surreptitious tug in the futile hope that her attention had been diverted, then another tug, more forceful this time.

  To the sound of ripping paper Jim Ewing poked his head round the door. ‘I was wondering if the cat would like some fish?’

  Gorgonzola responded by bounding across and twining herself ingratiatingly round his legs, her allegiance pointedly transferred.

  ‘You’ve got your answer, Jim.’ She had won that round. I gave in gracefully. ‘I’ve mislaid the tin-opener. Can you lend me one? I’m getting a bit of aggro from the cat for not opening the tin.’

  ‘No problem. I’ve got a spare one downstairs.’ He glanced at the ragged map still clutched in my fingers. ‘Bring that down and I’ll rustle up some sticky tape.’

  Gorgonzola stepped daintily down the stairs in front of us. ‘Perhaps she’s ready to do another painting.’ An excited look came into his eye. ‘I’ve left her easel up and the paints ready.’ He pointed to a large piece of paper taped to the kitchen wall.

  But Gorgonzola Van Gogh had other ideas. She marched over to the fridge, stood on her back legs, and pawed at the handle.

  While she noisily wolfed down the fish, I fixed the tape to the back of the map.

  ‘Heard of a place called Fast Castle?’ I asked.

  ‘Been there on a walk.’ Jim raked in the drawer for the spare tin-opener. ‘Funny to think that it was so important five hundred years ago. There’s nothing much there now, though.’

  ‘Not worth going to then?’ I folded the map and stuck it in my pocket.

  He leant on the worktop watching G’s tongue chasing a last flake of fish round the bowl. ‘Only if you’re an artist or one of those historian types.’

  ‘So not many people go there?’ I dropped in the question casually.

  ‘It’s pretty well deserted nowadays. When I was there last, I didn’t see a soul – apart from a couple of fishermen, that is. Why anybody would want to fish from the top of a cliff, beats me.’

  ‘From the top of the cliff?’ I said. ‘That’s unusual.’

  ‘Must be the challenge, I suppose. They’ve got special rods.’

  Thoughtfully, I slipped the tin-opener into my pocket. Curiouser and curiouser, as Lewis Carroll’s Alice said.

  Back in my room with the bedside radio tuned softly into the Classical channel, I chewed on a soft mint and thumbed through the East Lothian tourist guide till I reached the section on castles.

  Fast Castle. Ruined 14th century castle dramatically positioned on the cliff edge one hundred feet above the sea. The Wolf’s Crag of Sir Walter Scott’s novel, The Bride of Lammermuir. Cross to it from the main cliff by a small wooden bridge. Danger of vertigo.

  Gorgonzola, energetically engaged in cleaning the last of the fish dinner from her whiskers, was eyeing me speculatively. I tossed my mint wrapper at her, just to remind her not to chance her paw.

  The radio music faded on a long violin note to be replaced by a male voice murmuring indistinctly, ‘…tonight’s concert…weather forecast…’

  I leant over to turn up the volume, and helped myself to another mint.

  ‘A
high pressure system is stationary over the British Isles. Tomorrow, everywhere can expect high temperatures and sunshine, except for a narrow band along the east coast stretching from Fife to the Lothians, where an onshore breeze will keep the temperature down, and there is a strong likelihood of sea mist…’

  Spinks and castles, DJ Smith and east coast haar. I moved over to the window and, chin in hand, propped my elbows on the sill and studied the distinctive triangular shape of Berwick Law. Beyond it lay Fast Castle, and the next round in the no-holds-barred combat with Spinks. I mulled over Jim Ewing’s remark about the fishermen and their special rods. Now, that sounded promising.

  Linda’s scissors flashed, and dark chunks of my hair fell to the floor.

  ‘Yes, a blonde, spiky cut.’ I smiled. The hairdresser looked at me, then schooled her expression into one of polite attention. ‘I’m in a show at the Festival, and I’ve got to get into the part,’ I explained.

  With a mixture of satisfaction and consternation, I watched the transformation of my neat hairstyle into something that resembled a bleached lavatory brush. My only trump card in this deadly game with Spinks was the fact that he’d written me off as dead. And dead I was going to stay. He wouldn’t recognise me now, even if I had the bad luck to meet him on my daylong stake-out of Fast Castle.

  She dabbed away industriously at my roots. ‘Fringe, is it?’

  ‘Fringe?’ My thoughts had been miles away. Momentarily at a loss, I stared at her reflection.

  ‘You know, the unofficial side of the Festival. Amateurs, and students and such like.’

  ‘That’s right,’ I trilled, and launched into a totally fictitious account of my dramatic career.

  ‘How’d you come to pick up a male part, then?’ She stood back and surveyed her handiwork with a critical eye, then with a mutter of satisfaction drew off her rubber gloves and dropped them neatly into the sink.

  ‘Oh, um,’ I wasn’t prepared for this one. ‘Bob dropped out at the last minute,’ I flannelled.

  She chatted brightly on, but I listened only abstractedly. I must have been a bit off-beam in one of my replies, for she’d paused and was looking enquiringly at me in the mirror.

  ‘Sorry,’ I waved an apologetic hand. ‘What was that? My mind was wandering there for a moment. I was just thinking about something you’d said.’

  And I was. Male part. What a great idea! Why hadn’t I thought of that? A change of sex as well as hairdo. That should definitely fool anyone, even the wary Spinks.

  I left a lavish tip for Linda and made a beeline for the nearest theatrical costumier.

  The bearded young man with the spiky hairdo stared unblinkingly at me in the bathroom mirror. He put up a hand and tugged thoughtfully at his wispy blond beard. It didn’t come away in his hand. I smiled. He smiled.

  When I flung open the bathroom door, Gorgonzola arched her back and hissed, then crept forward and cautiously sniffed at my trouser leg.

  ‘Same old me, G,’ I reassured her.

  I sat down on the bed and pulled on a pair of hiking boots. In front of the wardrobe mirror I shrugged on the large rucksack with artist’s board and sketchpad prominently displayed. I was now the hiking artist, suitably clad in baggy red-checked shirt, faded jeans fraying in the right places. That was to be my protective shield.

  I bundled Gorgonzola out of the window to fend for herself till my return, and clumped somewhat noisily down the stairs in my new boots. Jim Ewing emerged from the breakfast room carrying a tray loaded with dirty dishes. Bowls and glasses clinked and rattled as he stopped short in surprise.

  ‘Good morning, sir. How can I help you?’ The tone translated to, ‘What the hell are you doing here in my establishment?’ He manoeuvred his bulk between the front door and me, making it plain that this stranger owed an explanation for his intrusion.

  ‘Er, hello, Jim. It’s just me, DJ Smith.’ I’d asked for a breakfast tray that morning and had hoped to exit unseen and unquestioned.

  He took a step forward and peered closely at my face. ‘Good God! What have you done to yourself?’ His mouth hung open in utter astonishment.

  ‘There’s a friend I’ve not seen for ages. I’ve made a bet with him that he’ll not recognise me when he sees me again.’ I gave an embarrassed laugh. ‘A substantial bet.’

  ‘Well, my money’s on you!’ he moved slowly aside.

  With a cheery wave, I strode down the path into the early morning sun. When I looked back, he was still standing there, a stunned look on his face.

  As usual, the forecasters had got it all wrong. No mist, no haar, just the pale sky of early morning. A few fluffy clouds drifted lazily across the expanse of blue. I heaved the rucksack into the car and stood for a moment on the promenade gazing at the flat expanse of damp sand left behind by the retreating tide. Lanky sea birds paddled and poked at the water’s edge and Berwick Law was a smoke-grey cone on the horizon. It was definitely an artist’s scene. Any artwork I did at Fast Castle would definitely have to be in the naïve style. My attempts at drawing even simple things, like houses or cats, never turned out right. I had to admit that, as far as ability in painting went, Gorgonzola had a head start.

  Fast Castle. The notice pointed along the cliff top to my right. I eased the rucksack to a more comfortable position on my shoulders. Perhaps I shouldn’t have been so authentic with the artist’s gear. Already it seemed to be weighing a couple of kilos more than when I’d started off. At least the walking boots were a good buy for the rutted and uneven path. ‘Not much frequented,’ Ewing had said. Except by Spinks’s henchmen – if I had an accident, I certainly wouldn’t want first aid from them.

  I had descended quite a distance from the main road to reach the cliff top path. It now meandered across grey lichen-covered rocks, only to disappear again over the shoulder of the hill. I paused at the top of the rise and looked down. From my vantage point I could see for miles along the coastline. Fingers of red sandstone poked their way inquisitively into the ocean, and gulls drifted lazily midway between soaring cliffs and wrinkled sea.

  I’d scanned the tumbled outcrops of rock on the steeply sloping hillside for some time before I spotted the remains of the castle, grassy undulations barely distinguishable from the grey boulders. Only one ragged fragment of wall had survived six hundred years of weather and war.

  It was certainly a lonely spot. Six hundred years ago the air must have echoed with shouts and cries, the whinny of horses, the clang of metal on metal. Now, the piping call of a sea bird, the faint whisper of the sea against the rocks far below, the noise of my own laboured breathing, served only to emphasise the silence.

  The path plunged steeply down the grassy slope that lay between me and the still distant ruins. At times when it narrowed to the width of a sheep track or to nothing more than a ledge over a dizzying drop, it took all my concentration to place my feet safely, but at one point, steps had been cut into the hillside and I was able to unglue my gaze from the path immediately in front of my feet and look up.

  Less than three hundred yards in front of me, the surviving fragment of wall reared skywards, its weathered red sandstone merging with the surrounding cliffs. I caught my breath. Even in its ruined state, the castle still had a brooding presence, with the power to shock and send a shiver down the spine. The long-dead builders had chosen their site well. The castle was perched, not on the cliff edge, as I had supposed, but on a piece of ground split off from it by some ancient cataclysmic event. To bridge the gulf, wooden planks and heavy chain handrails guarded against a headlong tumble to the rocks and crystal-clear water far below.

  I crossed quickly, feeling safer when my boots trod again on firm ground, skirted past the remains of the castle and moved out onto the exposed cliff top. Just as well the weathermen had got the forecast wrong. In mist or haar the place would be a veritable death trap.

  My nostrils twitched as they were assaulted by a pungent rancid odour. Death. The unmistakable stench of death. Over to my left was a deep fis
sure. At the bottom, half-hidden in a cushioning bed of nettles, I could make out a loose scattering of white wool and bleached bones, the putrefying carcass of a dead sheep. What had I expected as I steeled myself to look into that cleft? Something a good deal more sinister.

  With a sharp intake of breath – definitely not a good idea in the circumstances – I turned away. Better finish exploring and find a place to set up my artist’s sketch-board before I had company. And I was sure there would be company. Gina’s list had proved accurate for Tantallon and Longniddry, and Fast Castle had also been on her list. Perhaps I was already under scrutiny through high magnification lenses.

  The thought galvanised me into tourist mode. Ostentatiously, I rubbed my fingers over the ancient mortar binding the worn stones. Delightedly, I peered at the bright yellow lichen and the colourful carpet of pink thrift at the cliff edge. Hand shielding my eyes, I followed the swooping flight of birds circling and drifting in the thermals against a cliff white with droppings and tufted with old nests.

  It would not do to spend too long staring at one spot, but I was increasingly convinced that Fast Castle, for a drug consignment, was indeed the perfect drop site with its grey shingle beach, inaccessible except by boat. The 180 degree arc-of-view eastward was seascape, unbroken to the horizon, empty except for a solitary fishing boat bobbing gently in the swell. To the north, dimmed by distance, lay the hills of Fife – and the Isle of May. I took it all in.

  I shrugged off the rucksack and untied the sketch-board. Holding it up, I slowly turned full circle, as if seeking the best viewpoint. Near the top of the hill a quarter of a mile away, a brief flash of sunlight on glass hinted at a possible watcher. It could, of course, be the sun reflecting off harmless window glass. I didn’t think so.