An Unfolding Trap

by Jo A. Hiestand

  “I didnae call ye up north and I didnae book ye a room.” The voice and stare matched the wintry wind’s chill.

  “Can’t we talk, Grandfather? I’ve come all this way.”

  Neill turned slowly, his cane serving as the compass’ spike and marking the center of his arc. He remained facing away from McLaren, his gaze on something beyond the window.

  “For my father’s sake,” McLaren added, grasping at anything that might soften the older man. “Can’t I talk to you for a bit?”

  Neill’s words bounced against the stone wall, sounding as hard as the man’s resolve. “Get out, ye bloody Sassenach. Get out before I set the dog on ye.”

  Chapter Two

  The drive back to the guesthouse contrasted sharply with the good humor and hope that filled McLaren on the journey up. He drove in silence, the radio and CD player turned off, the hum of the tires on the road echoing the questions that plagued him. It was unlike him not to sing in the car or at least listen to music. It was a part of him as much as his Scottish ancestry. Yet, music didn’t interest him now. Any sad song would heighten his looming despondency.

  He left the portion of the A90 hugging the Firth of Forth and turned onto the street leading to the guesthouse. The smell of approaching snow, unmistakable in the air, normally lightened his spirit. Right now it merely emphasized his anxiety. He had faith in the car he’d hired in Edinburgh—a metallic black Land Rover Defender with four-wheel drive—and knew he’d get around even if it did snow. But the darkening sky mirrored his darkening hope of visiting with his grandfather. Why such a turnabout in three weeks? Was the old man forgetful, or was he lying?

  McLaren climbed the steps of the bed-and-breakfast, the cold air sharp in his lungs. The guesthouse sat a mile from the Royal Mile, the town center comprised of the stretch of the High Street and Cannongate bookended by the castle and Holyrood Palace. Clumps of snow and ice clung to the north side of buildings, lampposts, and tree trunks, remnants of last week’s early snow. Most had melted and run off in cold trickles or lay in puddles on the pavement. Water dripped from eaves, splattering onto the concrete below or hitting pedestrians’ heads and shoulders. Seagulls soared overhead and seemed not to mind the cold, taking it as a part of life. McLaren watched two birds fight for a discarded slice of bread on the pavement before hurrying inside.

  The Saltire Guest House on Minto Street echoed its name, for the blue and white Scottish flag hung from the entryway’s high ceiling. In case the visitor still did not associate the name of the national flag with the bed-and-breakfast, bunches of smaller flags crowded glass vases on the dining room sideboard and on a side table in the guest lounge. The common areas were painted sky blue with white woodwork, and photos of the flag in many events adorned the walls. Jean MacNab, the owner of the establishment, appeared to be fiercely proud of her country.

  “You find your way, then, luv?” The female voice brought McLaren to a stop.

  He turned on the stairs, quickly eyeing the two flights he had yet to climb, and nodded. He had no intention of sharing the catastrophe with a stranger, so he stuck to noncommittal replies. “Yes, thanks. Your directions were spot on.”

  “I hope you had a chance to stop at Callander. It’s a lovely town. Those row houses are so classic. Did you pop into the fudge or the antiques shops?” Jean raised her eyebrows, and McLaren wondered if she expected an enthusiastic recital of the shops’ merchandise. Her black hair and eyes caught a shaft of sunlight angling through the round window over the front door. Before she moved out of the light she looked younger than her forty-five years, for the blush in her cheeks showed clearly. Her hands, though, betrayed her middle age and the hard life of a guesthouse owner. Too many dishes to wash, bed linens to launder, and tile floors to scrub. Yet, she held herself straight, and she still had a spring to her step. Perhaps the hard work would betray her later.

  “No. I didn’t get a chance to stop this time.”

  “But you’ll be returning, I’m guessing. What with your grandfather close by in Auchtubh, and you coming up to see him.” She let the sentence dangle, as though hoping McLaren would fill her in on his itinerary. When he didn’t respond, she picked up a brochure from the wooden rack near the front door. She crossed the floor and handed it to him. “You won’t be with the old gentleman every minute of your stay, no matter how fond of him you are. If you’ve a mind to, here are a few suggestions of events and sights around the area. St. Giles Cathedral is worth a visit. Or, if you’re not of a religious or architectural bent, there’s the Scotch Whisky Heritage Center and the Writers’ Museum. But perhaps you’re the one for the outdoors. The Trossachs and the lochs can more than take up your week.” She turned toward the door, as though she could see through the frosted glass inset. “You’ve the transport for it. I’ve seen your Defender. You doing a lot of off road exploration?”

  McLaren nodded. The Trossachs, a wild yet beautiful spot where the Highlands and Lowlands met, was one of the more picturesque areas in Scotland. Rough hills and serene lochs epitomized romantic folk songs and poems. “I really don’t know right now, Mrs. MacNab. My plans are quite flexible.”

  Jean straightened the stacks of brochures in the rack, squaring all the corners. Everything correctly in their place evidently was the motto for the house. “Aye, it’s best to be that way. Fewer ulcers in the long run.”

  “I am interested, though, in the area around Auchtubh. The village of Balquhidder, in particular, and Balquhidder Station. I hear that’s no longer a train depot, that it’s been developed as accommodations for people on holiday. Is that correct? Seems a pity, if it is…about the discontinuance of the train, I mean.”

  “Aye. It closed in the mid sixties, I believe. I’m not that familiar with it, being as it’s not really a tourist destination. Will you be wanting tea later?” She looked like she would run into the kitchen that moment and put the water on to boil.

  “Better not count on me, Mrs. MacNab. I’m not sure where I’ll be at four.”

  “Just as you like. Well, I’d best be getting on with my baking. Call out if you need anything.”

  He thanked her and climbed the stairs to his room.

  He shut the door and leaned against it. The heavy wooden slab muted sounds of the vacuum cleaner and conversation of a couple talking on the landing. On top of the dresser the gentle tick of a wind-up clock faded under the sharp clicking of the radiator as it turned on. He resisted the urge to warm his hands on the heated surface, too emotionally tired to give up the door’s support.

  The room lay in a half-light, the sunlight from early morning long gone. McLaren looked around the space. Spartan seemed the best word to describe it. Or tired. Someone had chosen brown and orange for the color scheme: neither cheery nor restful. Two bedside cabinets sat along the sides of the twin beds, while a plastic wood-veneer wardrobe claimed the opposite wall. A small sink nestled in one corner, an equally small back splash across the back. Chairs were nonexistent. The electric kettle, teacups, packets of milk and sugar and teabags sat on a metal tray on the window seat.

  The facility had probably been a closet before the fashion for en suite accommodations took over. The toilet was jammed between the sink and the shower. Worse than that, the seat had no lid, so items were in danger of falling into the open bowl. It was impossible to fully open the bathroom door; the edge of the sink stopped it. To access the sink and the towel rack beside it, McLaren had to squeeze through the door, close it, and then shuffle past the toilet to get to the sink. Standing a bit over six feet tall with broad, muscular shoulders, he wondered how a heavier person could manage. Perhaps all the rooms weren’t as confined.

  He slid out of his gray suede jacket, draped his tartan muffler over the back of a chair, and rolled up the sleeves of his blue shirt. The room was overly warm, close to stifling. He cracked the window open and stood there, breathing in the cold, crisp air, and looking down at the street. It was dressed with Georgian townhouses as far as he could see; all of the same
tan stone; all three stories, with large windows peering out from the cupolas lining their roofs. Individuality asserted itself in the colors of the doorways and fences running along the pavement. Other than that, the smear of tan presented nothing extraordinary, hinted at no life inside. It was as if everyone were away at other guesthouses in other cities.

  The sides of the curtains fluttered faintly, and he abandoned his fantasizing. He pressed his right palm against the windowpane, feeling the swirls of etched ice beneath his flesh. He withdrew it and ran his other hand over his palm, scraping off the flakes of frost. After brewing a cup of tea he returned to the window, sat on the window seat, and stared outside. His breath created foggy patches on the cold pane. Nothing made sense. Why would his grandfather invite him, pay for a room at the guesthouse, and then deny he’d done so? Had he changed his mind after he mailed the letter, regretting the olive branch he extended? Had someone else extended the invitation, either to aggravate Neill or to embarrass McLaren? But that meant both men had an enemy willing to do that, and the letter sender knew it.

  McLaren slumped against the windowpane, his head pounding. The cold glass kept him focused on reality. It was easy to believe he was walking through a nightmare. All he needed was the appearance of the monster.

  He shut his eyes, shifting his head position, his thumb massaging his forehead. Dena was good at doing this. He pictured her brown eyes smiling at him. Dena Ellison, his fiancée, who’d stayed with him during his years near hermitage, who waited patiently for him to make up his mind about marriage.

  He sighed heavily as her image faded, then swallowed the last of his tea, yet held on to the cup. If someone had played a trick on Neill, why involve McLaren? Surely the prankster could’ve used someone nearer to Neill than McLaren. He lived in Derbyshire, a good two hundred fifty miles. A week’s lodging at a guesthouse seemed an expensive joke.

  But was it? Logic pointed out how daft that was just by common sense. No one targeted Neill; they were targeting McLaren.

  Chapter Three

  McLaren lunched at Oink, a small sandwich shop on Victoria Street in the Old Town of Edinburgh. He’d been aimlessly walking, thinking through the new scenario, when he saw the whole pig roasting in the window. It intrigued him, hinted at a different type of fast food, so he went in. The establishment was crowded with diners, but he got a place just as a man left his seat. While McLaren ate his pork and applesauce sandwich he scribbled his thoughts in his notebook.

  He eliminated Neill as the focus of the prank. The older man hadn’t been inconvenienced, just annoyed with seeing McLaren again. So that left himself as the butt of the joke.

  But why and who would have set it up? The Edinburgh postmark guaranteed some local hand in this. So, who had the means and the motive to lure him to the city and make it look authentic?

  McLaren took another bite of the sandwich but nearly choked on it as Charlie Harvester’s grinning face hovered before him. Charlie Harvester, McLaren’s former colleague when they worked for Staffordshire Constabulary in England. The sniveling whiner, the conniving Daddy’s boy, incapable of making a career for himself, needing his father’s high rank and tacit threats so son Charlie could make Inspector rank. And to make McLaren’s life a misery.

  He forced down the bite with a swallow of his drink. The years of frustration and envy over McLaren besting Harvester erupted one night on a case. Harvester arrested McLaren’s friend, a seventy-year-old publican who defended himself, his wife, and his property from a burglar. The injustice of the situation so angered McLaren that he assaulted Harvester and resigned from the Force. Since then, the two men saw each other sporadically, were marginally polite. But McLaren never trusted Harvester, never forgot the underhanded tricks he pulled to gain the spotlight or his superior’s praise. Using McLaren’s grandfather as bait had some deeper purpose than a mere laugh.

  But motive aside, it rested on the Edinburgh postmark. Did Harvester know anyone in Edinburgh who would do him that sort of favor? Could he have gone to Edinburgh to post it? That seemed far-fetched, though. Travel two hundred fifty miles to post a letter.

  But Harvester had a colleague. Derek Parry, an inspector with the Lothian and Borders Police. They had worked on a case two years before McLaren left the job. They’d been quite chummy, even visiting each other on holidays. This letter prank seemed just the sort of thing Parry would do for cohort Harvester. He might not have known what he was posting. Harvester could’ve had someone write the note, enclosed it in a large envelope along with his own letter to Parry asking the colleague to pop it into a convenient letter box. Harvester could’ve told him anything about the letter; it wouldn’t have made any difference to him.

  Of course, Parry could’ve written the letter. McLaren wouldn’t have known his handwriting any more than he knew his grandfather’s hand. What might Harvester have told his cohort? That he was playing a joke? But was it? Was there something sinister behind it? Why bring him to Edinburgh? To involve him in a crime? If so, that meant setting something up and making absolutely certain McLaren was charged with the crime. Not impossible, but why do that in Scotland and not in England?

  The speculation was getting him nowhere. Nothing made sense. Even if Harvester had done something like that, he’d want his hands on the reins, to be close by to oversee the operation.

  McLaren pitched the sandwich wrapper into the trash bin, zipped his jacket, and left the shop. Victoria Street was crowded with workers and tourists, all seemingly eager to find lunch. He crossed to the Christmas shop. Someone’d had a brilliant idea, painting the shop front red. It screamed the holiday and its location in the neighboring facades of gray stone. Finding a spot out of the flow of the pedestrian crush, he opened his mobile phone. He turned his back, trying for a bit of privacy, and punched in Jamie’s phone number. He’d barely had time to examine the shop window display of ornaments, snow globes, and nutcrackers before his friend answered.

  “Mike.” Jamie’s voice sailed into McLaren’s ear with a hint of surprise. “You’re not home already, are you?”

  “No. I’m still in Edinburgh.”

  “You meet up with your grandfather? How’d it go?”

  McLaren exhaled slowly. It wasn’t that he minded giving Jamie a play-by-play of what had transpired. Lord knows the two of them had done that often enough in their men’s nights out and poker games. Shared over a pint at the local or while either man helped the other with some physical labor. Jamie and McLaren had been best mates since childhood, had gone through police school together, had worked their first year after graduation in Staffordshire Constabulary. It’d been a learning year for them both, with numerous phone calls and discussions over meals. Then Jamie transferred to Derbyshire Constabulary in Buxton, and McLaren felt as though he was stumbling through the darkness. They still were best buddies, still downed a pint and fished, but the immediacy of advice was missing.

  He waited until a group of chattering teenagers passed before he spoke again. “Where are you?”

  “Where am I? You in trouble?” The question wasn’t flippant. McLaren frequently had run-ins with less than cooperative witnesses and suspects. Although he wasn’t investigating a case in Scotland, that didn’t preclude him from ending up in some situation that called for Jamie’s help. “Why’d you ask? What’s going on?”

  “Everything’s just smashing. I’m over the moon.”

  “Yeah? I’ve heard better lies from first time offenders. Something’s wrong, Mike. What?”

  McLaren related the morning’s scene at his grandfather’s front door, pausing frequently for Jamie’s expressive comment, and added his suspicion about Harvester planning it as a joke.

  “He’s the type who thinks a rubber crutch is hysterical.” Jamie’s voice grew bitter.

  “That and unscrewing the cap on the salt cellar. I think I’ve been set up. That’s why I rang you.”

  “Sounds rather odd, I admit. As you said, who’d play that type of joke on you?”

&nb
sp; “And, as I said, where are you? Can you talk without being overheard?” McLaren envisioned the station’s open room of desks, the close working conditions, the police constables and sergeants walking around. He’d worked in similar environments; everything said bounced off the walls and into everyone’s ears.

  “Sure. I’m walking to my car.”

  “You just finishing up your day?” He glanced at his watch. One o’clock wasn’t the normal time to start or end a shift.

  “No. I’m on my way to interview a witness. What can I help with? I assume that’s why you rang me.”

  “Can you give me Harvester’s work and home phone numbers?”

  “Are you serious?”

  “Better yet,” McLaren said, not wanting to be that close to Harvester, even if it was only the man’s voice, “could you ring him?”

  “Sure, but what’s this in aid of?”

  “I’ve a feeling Harvester’s behind it all. I don’t think he’s here, but I want to make sure.”

  “Seeing him in a dark alley isn’t my idea of a delightful surprise either, Mike.”

  “It won’t eliminate his hand in setting it up, but at least I’ll know if I should expect to see him at the guesthouse or on the street. Can you do it now and ring me?”

  “Give me a minute. I’ll call you right back.”

  “You better. If you don’t get an answer, ring up the local Edinburgh nick. I’ll probably be there.”

  Which wasn’t far from the truth, McLaren thought as he rang off. But he stood there, his mind conjuring a dozen scenarios. If Harvester had engineered the elaborate hoax, the reason was either to ridicule or devalue him. To make his name a laughing stock, a person who could never be trusted again. If that happened, McLaren’s job of delving into cold cases would dry up, along with the accompanying fees. Worse than that, the idea suddenly frightened him. He’d lose the dry stone wall work. He’d have nothing coming in, nothing on which to live.