No Suspicious Circumstances

by The Mulgray Twins

  ‘What the hell was that?’ Mackenzie’s voice, thin and edgy. ‘It came from over there.’

  ‘For Chris’sake, Mac! Never heard of methane gas? That sheep’s belly’ll be full of it.’

  ‘I tell you, somebody’s there!’ His voice was much closer.

  I lay, heart pounding like a sledgehammer. Pounding so loudly that I was sure they’d hear it. Even the pain and the indescribable stench had faded into the background. Adrenalin, I suppose. I sensed him standing there directly above me.

  ‘Methane gas, I tell ya. Quit bitching and give a hand here,’ the voice was full of menace. ‘We’ve gotta be back at the van before the moon rises. Now move your ass!’

  Mackenzie muttered an imprecation. A cigarette stub arched through the air in a shower of sparks and soft footsteps reluctantly retreated.

  After fear comes overwhelming relief, then a draining exhaustion that shuts out everything else. I managed to lie still for what I calculated to be another ten minutes. Till, that is, my eyes adapted to the dark and I saw the maggots. Fat, glistening, loathsome. My stomach churned, muscles tightened, and I threw up. Copiously and noisily, an involuntary reaction that I could not control. No question of secrecy now. Weakly, I waited for retribution. None came. No cries of alarm, just the silence of the night, the gentle wash of waves against the shore. They’d gone.

  There was no need now to worry about noise and discovery. I wriggled free from that awful clinch with the dead sheep, propped myself upright, and thought hazily about how best to drag myself out of the fissure. What else was in the cleft apart from the mouldering sheep – and now myself? Nettles, I could recall nettles. And quite steep, rocky walls. Falling in had been easy, climbing out was going to be a bit more of a problem. I was weak and dizzy and probably suffering from a touch of concussion. I sat there among the nettles and the stench, summoning up enough reserves to claw my way upward.

  It took a long time, but at last my hand was reaching for the edge. I was gathering myself for the effort of pulling my aching body over the top when I remembered the package. Getting hold of the damn thing had nearly cost me my life. How could I have forgotten all about it? That touch of concussion must be worse than I’d thought. I grabbed a handful of tough wiry grass to steady myself, and looked down. From above, the bottom of the cleft was an inky pool of darkness. I could see nothing. The very factor that had saved me from Mackenzie’s searching eyes was now working against me. I gritted my teeth and slid all the way back down.

  I found it in the end. Though by the time I was sitting with my back against the castle’s worn sandstone blocks, well away from the noxious perfume of my friend the sheep, I was too exhausted to feel any elation. A full moon was now peeping over the black land mass behind me. I peered at my watch, but my eyes refused to focus properly. At a guess, it was now well after one a.m. I eased myself to my feet, and clutching my prize, began the long trek back to the road.

  The moon was well risen by the time I reached my car. I threw the precious package onto the back seat along with the balaclava and gloves, and wearily slid behind the wheel. Before switching on the ignition, I tilted the rear-view mirror. A deathly white face stared back at me. Below the lavatory-brush haircut was a bruise, already turning an interesting shade of purple, and a bump the size of the proverbial duck’s egg. A jagged cut crusted with dried blood zigzagged across my cheek. Altogether, I was a truly ghastly sight. I wished I hadn’t looked. It had made me feel worse than I did already. I slipped the car into gear and set off.

  Five miles outside Edinburgh, my blissful contemplation of a long hot shower and a soft, soft bed was rudely disrupted by a waving torch. As I slowed, my headlights picked out a yellow-jacketed figure with its arm raised. Drawn up on the other side of the road was a police car. There must have been an accident of some kind. I lowered the window, selfishly hoping that I wouldn’t be held up too long.

  The figure with the torch stepped towards me and bent to peer in the window. ‘Just a routine check of…’

  With an awful sinking feeling I realised his torch was illuminating my suspiciously battered features.

  ‘Good evening, officer,’ I said brightly. ‘Has there been an accident?’

  There was no answering smile. His narrowed eyes were taking in the dried blood, the bruise, the bump. ‘Are you reporting one, sir…er, madam?’

  The package. Suddenly, I remembered the package on the back seat.

  ‘No, no,’ I babbled nervously. ‘Oh, I see what you mean. No, no. All this is just make-up that I didn’t have time to wash… I’ve been at a first aid accident course…as a victim.’ I gave a rather too high-pitched laugh. Confronted by his look of scepticism, my voice faltered and trailed off.

  He straightened. ‘I’ll just check your rear lights.’ He moved away.

  In my mirror I could see the discreet signal to his colleague seated in the car opposite. Mesmerised, I watched the driver’s door open and the bulky figure ease itself out from behind the wheel. I knew what was coming next. The polite invitation to leave my vehicle. The hallo-hallo-hallo-what’s-this-then routine when he spotted the incriminating balaclava and gloves. The discovery of the drugs. Alluring visions of shower and soft bed imploded to a pinpoint faster than you can say Lothian and Borders Police. It was going to be a long, long night.

  Just how long, I underestimated. Not that it took much time for them to whisk me into headquarters. The questioning lasted all that night and most of the next day, in fact. Only one person knew my true identity, and that was Macleod, not contactable by phone, landline or mobile, or even carrier pigeon. He had nipped off with his fishing gear to some misty, rain-soaked Highland loch. He was incommunicado. And so was I. An undercover agent, undercover, and under arrest.

  The thick finger stabbed down again on the record button. Tape hissed quietly as the spools revolved.

  ‘I’m asking you once more. Where did you pick up that packet of drugs?’ The grey eyes were as hard as the voice.

  I stared at the bare walls of the interview room. Was that drab paint part of psychological warfare to cow the spirit? Or due to sheer lack of funds and imagination? I found it hard to believe that this same wishy-washy hue was this year’s fashionable colour for kitchens and bathrooms.

  I cleared my throat. ‘OK, I’ll talk—’ I paused. Those trendy young designers who make over other people’s houses on television, what would they do to those boring walls? Slap on black and white stripes to represent the prison gates about to close? ‘Yes, I’ll talk.’ They leant forward expectantly. ‘But only to DCI Macleod. Alone.’

  I’ll say this for them. They were persistent. Eventually, though, I wore them down. After the tape machine had recorded an hour of silence, they gave up. They marched me off to the cells. The key turned in the lock and I resigned myself to a longish spell in durance vile.

  But the summons came late that evening. Fishing, it seemed, had been good on the remote highland loch – so good that Macleod had headed back a day early to stash his catch in the freezer, and workaholic as he was, had popped into the office on his way home. That unscheduled return got me off the hook.

  Neither the name I’d given nor the drugs charge had prepared him to meet the DJ Smith he knew. When I was escorted in, it took him quite a few seconds to register that the Debbie Jones on the charge sheet was myself. His mouth gaped as wide as one of his dead fish, and he darted frequent sideways glances at me as the minion recounted my misdeeds.

  ‘God, you look awful!’ he burst out when we were left alone.

  ‘Are you referring to the hair style or the bruises?’ I collapsed gratefully into the chair in front of his desk. I fingered the tender lump on my forehead. ‘It was worth it. We’ve got a new lead.’ I pointed at his fishing gear propped against a filing cabinet. ‘And that’s it. No, I’m not suffering from concussion. I’ve been fishing too. And my catch is worth a lot more than yours. “Found in possession of a packet of a Class A drugs”, wasn’t I? Well, here’s how I ac
quired it.’ I filled him in with all the details.

  It was round about midnight when I quietly let myself into the B&B and tiptoed upstairs. As soon as I opened the door to my room, I knew I was in trouble. Even before my hand hit the light switch, a loud hissssss followed by a soft thud heralded a confrontation with a very irate Gorgonzola. Though I’d left the window open for her and a dish of water handy, I had expected to return before dawn, so I’d not left any food. As the light came on, we sized each other up. Straight legged, tail swishing, eyes narrowed to menacing slits, she fluffed up her fur into spiky tufts.

  ‘Come off it, G,’ I murmured. ‘You know it’s me, and I know you’ve been fed by Jim Ewing. You’ve been down at the back door piteously asking for food at least three times today. Come on, admit it.’

  She had the grace to look just a tiny bit ashamed. I scooped her up in my arms and pressed my face into her soft moth-eaten coat.

  ‘I missed you, G. Really I did.’ I mumbled into her fur. Truce was declared. Gorgonzola’s rough tongue rasped at my cheek, and a throaty purr indicating forgiveness vibrated deep in her chest, as relief at my return overcame an indignation fuelled by anxiety. To celebrate our reunion, we both tucked into a midnight feast, G of duck, me of a couple of chocolate hazelnut bars kept for emergencies.

  I’d slept most of the day in the cell waiting for Macleod’s return. Mental and physical exhaustion had made the narrow bed with its coarse grey blanket seem almost comfortable. So now, after my feast of choc bars, instead of slipping beneath the duvet, I subjected my lavatory brush hairdo to a close inspection in the mirror above the basin. The spikes of bleached hair glinted brassily in the strip light. I pursed my lips. If we chanced to meet again, it wouldn’t do to jog the memory of those two thugs I’d encountered during my artistic endeavours on the cliff top. There wasn’t anything I could do about the length, but I could definitely do something about the colour.

  No time like the present. It shouldn’t take more than half an hour. On the way back I’d bought some dark brown hair dye at a 24-hour store. Opening the packet, I pulled out the plastic gloves and rapidly skimmed through the instructions. Towel round neck…apply to damp hair…use liberally… Easy! I seized the bottle and splashed it on. I soaked each strand thoroughly, as per instructions, until brown drips trickled down my forehead and splattered into the basin. Even so, my hair was so short that I used less than half the bottle. When I looked in the mirror, my hair still shone golden and undulled.

  Through the drips I squinted at the instructions. Do not worry about the colour. It is no indication of the final result… Of course. The colour had been bleached out of my hair. It would need a lot of dye to return it to its former self. Repeatedly, I massaged the lotion into each strand until I had used up every last drop. Now what? Wrap hair in towel and wait 30 minutes. I did as instructed and sank onto a chair. Well, that had taken a bit longer than I’d anticipated, but a quick burst of the hair dryer, and in three quarters of an hour all that yellow would be gone.

  I might as well read up on the Isle of May while waiting. Edith and Harry’s sighting of Spinks and the late unlamented Kumiko had got to be an important lead. And it was the only lead I had. The boat they’d been on had been heading for the Isle of May and that meant they had business there as Spinks wasn’t one for sightseeing.

  What info did I have about the island? I padded over to the shelf by the window and rummaged through my multi-coloured collection of leaflets. Golf Courses of East Lothian, Castles of the Lothians, Historic Edinburgh, Excursions from Edinburgh. Shopping in Scotland’s Capital… Reluctantly, I put that last one down. Perhaps when I’d finally nailed Spinks and his gang…

  Another leaflet fluttered to the floor. Edinburgh Botanic Gardens and The Glasshouse Experience. ‘I don’t think lurking in their tropical pool was meant to be part of the experience, do you, G?’

  Gorgonzola paused in mid-postprandial wash, stared consideringly at me, yawned, then resumed her clean-up more vigorously than before.

  Islands of the Firth of Forth. Bound to be something in here. But there was only a brief paragraph about the Isle of May and a distant picture of the cliffs. And that was it.

  I subsided into the chair, nearly dislodging my towelling turban. Absent-mindedly, I tucked in a loose end. I poked my tongue round a tooth, trying without success to dislodge a crumb. That was the trouble with chocolate hazelnut bars…

  I closed my eyes in concentration. Hadn’t Macleod given me something about the Isle of May? He’d shoved some sort of nature magazine into my hand after I’d told him what Edith and Harry had said. I’d given it a quick glance and stuffed it into my bag. I got up and pulled the bag out of the wardrobe. Yes, the magazine was still there. The picture on the front was of a cheeky-looking black and white bird with a fat beak. A toucan? No, puffin, that’s what it was. I scanned the contents page. Isle of May National Nature Reserve in the Firth of Forth. This month’s cover: Puffin colony at Pilgrims’ Haven, Isle of May. Quite a big article – and a map.

  Gorgonzola had seized the opportunity of my temporary absence from the chair to curl up on the warm cushions. Easing her aside with a murmured, ‘Move over, Fatty!’ I settled down to mug up on Spinks’s destination.

  My head fell forward with a jerk. I must have nodded off there. I yawned. Full of best duck, Gorgonzola had also succumbed, her head turned to the side, pink tip of tongue protruding, one paw dangling limply over the edge of the chair. I yawned again. Hair-dyeing time must be up. A quick wash through, and I’d be ready for bed. I rubbed my eyes and reached for the alarm clock. I’d left the stuff on my hair half an hour over the recommended time. Well, that shouldn’t make much difference. It would just be a bit darker than normal.

  I trotted blearily over to the basin and unwound the towel. I wouldn’t mind a shade of brown so dark it was almost black. It would be—

  Aaargh. I couldn’t hold back the involuntary shriek. I stared at the mirror. A punk, Frankenstein-featured with scar, bump and vibrant acid-green hair, stared back open-mouthed. I closed my eyes and clutched the edge of the basin for support. Slowly, I counted to ten, eased one eye open to the thinnest slit, and darted a sly sideways glance at the mirror. The green-haired punk swivelled her eyes sideways. A streak of brown ran like war-paint down the side of her face.

  I shut my eyes. I opened my eyes again. It was no trick of the light. Without doubt, my hair was a vibrant and shimmering green. And despite a whole bottle of shampoo, vigorously and desperately applied, so it remained.

  Before nine next morning, hair discreetly under wraps, I paced up and down outside Linda’s salon waiting for her to appear. At last her car swung into the parking bay. Head down, fumbling in her bag for her keys, she didn’t notice me until I placed myself squarely in front of her.

  She looked up, startled. ‘What fantastic make-up! I didn’t recognise you for a minute. What play did you say you were in?’

  ‘Not make-up. I fell off the stage,’ I gabbled. ‘I need an appointment. I must have one.’

  She shook her head doubtfully. ‘I’ll look at the book but I don’t think…’

  I followed her into the salon. ‘It’s an emergency.’ Dramatically, I whipped off the balaclava, converted for my present purpose into a pudding bowl hat.

  To her credit, Linda kept a straight face, though the twitching corners of her mouth and the firmly pressed-together lips betrayed inner whoops of mirth.

  ‘Oh dear.’ A guffaw was barely converted into a cough. She ushered me into a seat and whipped a multi-coloured salon cloth round my shoulders. ‘The first customer’s not here yet. I’ll see what I can do.’

  She busily sorted through various bottles of lotions and liquids. Little snorts and burbles of suppressed mirth rose above the sound of running water.

  ‘What went wrong?’ I whinged. ‘I was only dyeing my hair back to its original colour.’ I stared gloomily at the awful apparition in the mirror.

  ‘Don’t worry about it.’ Linda pa
tted my green spikes. ‘Red dye. That’s the answer.’

  ‘Red!’ I yelped. Had I delivered myself into the hands of a madwoman? I threw off the covering and tried to rise from the chair.

  Linda pressed me back down. ‘Trust me. I’m a hairdresser! You know, you really shouldn’t have attempted to dye bleached hair yourself. But you’re not the first. I’ve seen it all before.’ She gave a peal of unseemly laughter as she recalled previous DIY hair disasters.

  ‘Well,’ I sulked, ‘there wasn’t a warning on the packet.’

  ‘People usually don’t read instructions, anyway. That’s where I get a lot of business,’ said Linda, cheerfully dabbing at my hair.

  ‘Voila!’ she cried, whipping off the towel with a flourish like a magician unveiling his favourite trick.

  A slow smile spread across my face. No more eye-stopping green. My hair was just an ordinary nondescript dark brown. Now I was ready for that dangerous trip to the Isle of May. With the aid of a little make-up – well, a lot of it – plastered over bump and scar, I wouldn’t stand out amongst the scores of other day-trippers to that bird sanctuary in the River Forth.

  From the sea, the tall cliffs were scored with clefts and fissures deep enough to swallow a boat and hide it from prying eyes. It was easy to understand just why Spinks might be interested in this windswept island. The launch nosed into the little natural harbour and was tied up at the concrete jetty. I shrugged on the photographer’s gadget bag and, as my fellow passengers surged ashore, allowed myself to be swept along in their midst. A Court of Law needs hard evidence, and I aimed to get it. My surveillance equipment – binoculars and camera with its powerful zoom lens – was nothing more than the essential gear of the enthusiastic wildlife photographer. It should arouse no comment.