An Unfolding Trap

by Jo A. Hiestand

  “Not at all. But I still can’t believe any of it.” She leaned forward, resting the teacup on her thigh. She seemed impervious to the heat of the china, as though all she could feel was her grief. “All I see is Hurd and that car. It was—” She broke off, turning her head so he couldn’t see the tears in her eyes.

  “I know.” McLaren handed her a facial tissue. “It was a hell of a thing to happen.” He eyed her as she nodded and faced him again. “Can I phone someone to stay with you? A friend or relative?”

  She shook her head and forced a smile. “I’ll be fine. It’s just the shock, the rapidity of the whole thing. You know.”

  “Yeah. Bloody awful way to die.”

  “The worst thing is I can’t remember anything about the car.” Her voice quivered and she grabbed the arm of her chair. It was modern and sleek, as was the other furniture in the room. Black, lime green, and silver. Solid splashes of color against white walls. Uncluttered surfaces for an uncluttered life. Her muffler was the only incongruous item there, the tartan’s bright colors of red, green, and blue stating her link with a long ago Highland life. “It came right at us and I don’t remember what it looked like. How can I not remember?” Her voice broke as tears streamed down her cheeks. “How can I help the police find Hurd’s killer if I can’t remember anything about the car?” She dabbed at her eyes and looked at McLaren. “Do you recall the car?”

  “No. I’m angry that I don’t.”

  “I guess it all happened too fast.” She nodded slightly and averted her gaze to her hands. “Like deer in the headlights. I don’t mean to sound flippant…sorry.”

  “I didn’t take it that way. But I think it’s true. We stared at it without it registering on our consciousness. I won’t be surprised if someone has a video of it, taken on their smart phone. Even if they don’t turn it in to the police, it’ll pop up somewhere on the internet. Everything of a sensational nature seems to, eventually.” He leaned forward, looking as though he would take her hand, but merely clasped his hands and rested his forearms on his thighs. “Maybe we’ll recall something later, when we’re over the initial shock—”

  “Sure. We’ll remember then.” She said it slowly, half-heartedly, as though she were repeating a poem she’d memorized or learning a mantra she didn’t really accept. Or reassuring him in order to convince herself. “I don’t know what the driver looked like, either. I suppose it’s the same reason I can’t remember him, I mean.”

  “Don’t force it, Liza. From what I’ve always heard, it’ll come back. It’s bound to.”

  “Like in the middle of the night or when you’re doing something else. Yes.” She gave him a half smile and leaned back in her chair. The sunlight fell on her face and McLaren saw the redness in her eyes and the wet streaks down her cheeks. They were the only flaws in her otherwise china-smooth skin. “But I’ve got to remember! I can’t let the driver get away with this! Hurd was such a brilliant man, so talented. It’s indecent he’s killed and no one knows who did it.”

  “There were too many people there for him to escape detection. We can’t recall any descriptions because we were so closely involved in it. But people standing farther away, on the edge of the crowd, may’ve seen something that will prove beneficial. Don’t give up hope just yet. It’s just happened.”

  “I can’t help but think I might’ve been lying there instead of Hurd.” Liza shook her head and moved slightly. The sunlight fell on a small brooch. It looked to be a clan crest badge. He could just make out an arm, the cloud where the shoulder should be. The hand held a crown. The clan Skene. She shifted and the badge slipped into the shadows. “Thank you again for pulling me out of the way, Mr. McLaren.”

  “I was lucky. Anyone would’ve done that. And our experience was a bit too personal for you to keep calling me Mr. McLaren. My name’s Mike.”

  “Thank you. The point is, Mike, you did it. I’m not likely to forget your bravery.”

  “We were both lucky, then.”

  She looked around the room, her eyes holding the vacant stare that comes with concentrating on something else. Her gaze rested just to McLaren’s left, as though something on the other side of the window fascinated her.

  He turned, wanting to know what held her attention. Nothing presented itself but a vacant street and bare-branched trees.

  “I suppose I should call someone at work.” Her voice sounded flat and mechanical. Perhaps she couldn’t think, McLaren reasoned. She grimaced and avoided his gaze. “You know. Let our boss know what happened to…” Her hand went to her forehead, as though it could stop the pounding of her headache. “It’s unreal. Hurd and I were just talking together. He’d just shown me his latest photographs last Friday.”

  “Photos?”

  “Yes. A hobby of his. Nature and landscape things. They’re quite nice. He’d been to the Trossachs the previous weekend and took…” She exhaled slowly and looked at McLaren, perhaps aware she was rambling, aware she was about to become hysterical. But talking helped, not only to release her emotions but also to make sense of the tragedy. “As I told the police, Hurd lived alone. He was divorced, no children. Still, that doesn’t make him less mourned, does it?”

  “Not at all. His friends will certainly miss him.”

  Liza nodded, her expression blank. Perhaps she hadn’t really taken in McLaren’s words, the grief numbing her to everything but her own thoughts. “We worked together for little over a year. At Charles II Library. He was senior research librarian. I just came on staff.” She took a sip of tea, holding it as an anchor in this nightmare. “He was working on a large project. I don’t know who’ll get it now.”

  “Were you working on it with him? Might you oversee it?”

  She stared at her fingers gripping the cup. The knuckles were white. “It’d be nice to think so, but I doubt it. I haven’t the experience.”

  “And the project calls for experience? You can’t just look up information?”

  “I don’t know. Hurd worked in private sometimes. Other times he’d ask me for help. I don’t know what our boss will do.”

  “It’s from an important client, then.”

  “I never heard. A man would come in weekly to confer with Hurd and see how the work was going. But I don’t know his company or business.”

  “If it’s that important, your boss will probably request that you continue on it. You know a bit about it and he wouldn’t want to break the continuity. Someone new would have to be brought up to speed.”

  She nodded and set the cup on the side table. “He had smaller projects. Perhaps I’ll get one of those. Not that they were all confined to business hours. He’d work on some during his off hours. You know. Any extra income is nice.”

  “Smaller projects…like what?”

  “Oh, individuals or civic groups would hire him to work on things in his free time. He’d just finished a current job and was about to tackle one for Mary King’s Close. Something about digging into a particular aspect of the place’s history. Maybe it was a resident of the Close, like Robert Fergusson.”

  “The poet?”

  “Yes. You know of him?”

  “Just that he influenced Robert Burns.”

  “It’s things like that, history of people, that Hurd liked to work on outside his normal job hours. He was quite good at it, and he was well known among the city.”

  “He’ll be sorely missed by many people.”

  Liza sighed heavily and blotted her eyes. “I hope the police catch that maniac. They have to put him in jail, make him pay for what he did. He didn’t even stop after…what he did. He knew he hit someone. Couldn’t help but know, with all of us at that bus stop. And he didn’t even stop to help.” She wiped her cheeks but her eyes still glistened with tears. “Do you think the police will find him?”

  McLaren hesitated. She wanted assurance and comfort, wanted a storybook ending. How could he guarantee the car driver would be caught and convicted? He flashed a smile and patted her hand. “They took
our statements, Liza. They talked to everyone else there, people at the bus stop, pedestrians, and shopkeepers. They’ll get the thing pieced together.”

  “I suppose so. Hopefully the CCTV cameras caught it. They can get the car plate number from that, I guess.”

  “That will help, of course. Try not to worry. I know it’s easy for me to say it, but the police can work miracles.”

  “Sometimes, yes.” She nodded, as if controlled by a puppeteer.

  McLaren glanced at his watch. The afternoon was slipping by. “Well, if you’re sure you’ll be all right on your own…”

  His words seemed to snap her out of her reverie. She smiled, wiped her cheeks again, and nodded. “Perfectly fine. I’ll be right as rain tomorrow. Or the next day.”

  “You’ll keep in touch, let me know how you’re getting on?” He meant it purely in regard to her health and hoped she didn’t take it incorrectly.

  “I’ll ring you daily with my progress. Cross my heart and swear on a stack of Bobbie Burns poems.” She smiled but he felt the sincerity beneath her jest. “Thanks for taking an interest in my wellbeing.”

  “Things can develop later. Things you’re not expecting. It’s best to have…someone you can report to on a regular basis.” He left unsaid in case she suffered from a concussion or other life-threatening event.

  “I won’t forget. Every morning until I’m my old self again.” She got up and escorted him to the door. “And thanks for being so thoughtful and seeing me home. The police didn’t seem to—”

  “The police were busy with the scene. They hadn’t time to—” He stopped, aware he almost said they hadn’t time to babysit emotional witnesses. He’d come close to losing his emotions, too. But fear hadn’t threatened to engulf him as it had Liza. Anger gripped him, and he had difficulty shaking it off. Not only from the senseless violent act but also from the disturbing suspicion that the driver had meant to kill him. McLaren took a deep breath and continued. “The police hadn’t time to see to anyone other than the victim. He’s top priority. It was nothing personal.”

  But as he left the house, he thought it was personal. Besides the lack of squealing brakes, the car had left no tire skid marks. The driver seemed to change direction as McLaren dodged, aiming straight for him.

  ****

  He took a taxi to Blackwell’s, a bookshop on South Bridge in Old Town Edinburgh. South Bridge, the northern end of the A7, was a section of a main artery that changed names through the city. He had a cup of coffee and a sandwich downstairs in the shop’s café, an airy space separating two sections of the building. Light conversation and aromas of warm bread and soup filled the air, and McLaren found himself relaxing and thawing from the chill that stiffened his body. People around him chatted or read, and he jotted a few things in his notebook. Although situated in a popular store, the café gave the feeling of an independent establishment, for it sat in a corner of the bookshop, several steps below the main floor level, several steps above the neighboring section. Perfect for a relaxing meal or perusing a book purchase. He preferred the store’s environment and busyness to his lone room at the guesthouse.

  It had just gone five o’clock, several hours after Hurd Dowell had been killed, but already the television newscasts carried the news; the video of police statements and witness concern played out on the telly above the food counter. The newspapers no doubt would have an article about it.

  McLaren finished his meal and browsed through the books on local travel. He chose one on the Trossachs, determined to stay a few more days and see the area, and left the store.

  Outside the streets were dark and choked with workers and shoppers making their way home or perhaps to an after-work event. Evening settled at four o’clock at this time of year, giving the wintry landscape more hours of frosty temperatures. He ignored the urge to catch a bus or taxi, and walked back to the guesthouse, his shoes crunching on the re-freezing puddles of water and cracking them into shards. The patches of snow still clinging to the northern sides of the roofs stood out in ghostly contrast to the dark surroundings, the streetlamps’ glow throwing amber-colored orbs onto the puddles uncovered by other feet. Great clouds of frozen breath rose briefly before dissipating into the black night. Ahead of him, rooftop high, the moon shone intensely, illuminating the edges of the neighboring clouds.

  Minto Street appeared to be wrapped in sleep. No cars traveled the artery; no pedestrians strolled along the pavement. He glanced at the windows of the townhouses as he passed, curious to see if the inhabitants were still up. Several rectangles glowed with yellow light but no black silhouettes implied residents within. There were enough dark areas along the street to imply people were elsewhere.

  He pushed open the wrought iron gate of Saltire Guest House, aware of the resistance of the rusty hinges, and eased it shut behind him. The catch clanked firmly and echoed sharply against the building’s face. Someone had cleared the pavement to the front door during his absence, the concrete merely damp now. Clumps of snow still snuggled against the house foundation in spots, but the soil was nearly free. He wiped his shoes on the doormat, walked into the residence, and up to his room.

  He sat on the window seat, busying himself with the book he’d bought, making a list of potential things he’d see in the next few days. Then he made a similar list of places in Edinburgh. At six o’clock he turned on the telly for the news. The hit-and-run was the second story.

  The police had the car number plate information, attained from a CCTV camera, but they appealed to the public for help in identifying the driver. The car, a Ford Kuga SUV, midnight blue, had been stolen, and the car’s owner had an alibi that cleared him of any involvement in the incident. In fact, Stuart Forbes, owner of Arthur’s Seat Insurance Company, had recently bought the car and was shocked at his car’s involvement. A photo of the driver showed a man probably in his early twenties, with dark hair and mustache, wearing a dark-colored jacket with a skull design. Anyone having information about the driver… McLaren clicked off the set.

  There it was again: the man behind the wheel and he had fostered as much recognition as a blank sheet of paper. McLaren had stared at the television screen when the CCTV still photo came on, had looked at the mustache and the hair as he tried to recall if he’d seen it around the city before the incident. But nothing had flashed across his mind.

  He gave up forcing a recognition, exhaled sharply, and threw the television remote onto the other bed. Nothing connected. Not the face or the car or even the reason for the mishap. Had the police accepted it as a hit-and-run, a tragic accident? Had the driver been ill, drunk, or on drugs, as sometimes happens, and was scared to turn himself in? Had he just got his driving license and feared that he’d lose it? The newscast hadn’t mentioned alcohol, drugs, or a possible medical condition, but it wouldn’t until police could find the driver. Still, the car had come at him, Hurd, and Liza straight enough. If the driver hadn’t had a seizure or been unable to distinguish the crowd at the bus stop, perhaps that’s what would happen.

  McLaren cursed the situation and the driver’s disappearance, and brewed a cup of tea.

  Of course the car was stolen, he thought. Expressly to run him down. But was he the target? He’d thought so earlier, yet perhaps Hurd Dowell’s research fingered him as the intended victim after all. Which would mean that Hurd’s project was important. But important to whom? And enough to kill him? Which meant some rival company, if that were correct.

  McLaren sipped his tea, his long legs propped on the edge of his bed. It didn’t quite add up. If the project were that sensitive, why take it to an outside, public source for research help? Why not hire someone and have the work done at the firm?

  He leaned his head against the windowpane and shut his eyes. Faint sounds from the street seeped into the room and mingled with the sounds of the car incident. Nothing made sense, not his grandfather’s invitation, not Hurd as intended victim. He opened his eyes, his gaze falling on his wallet. He’d given one of his cards to
Liza, telling her to phone him. She’d mentioned Hurd’s hobby of photography. Was he well known? Could that be connected to his death?

  McLaren thumbed through the Edinburgh phone book, found Liza’s number, and rang her up. After a dozen rings and no answer, he rang off.

  He finished the tea and rinsed out the cup. He flipped open his notebook, grabbed a pen, and punched Jamie’s phone number into his mobile. Seconds later Jamie answered.

  “Mike. Two calls in the same day. I thought you were on holiday to leave all the dreary daily grind behind.”

  “If wishes were horses,” he began, doodling in his notebook.

  “So what can I do this time? I assume that’s why you rang me up.”

  “You still semi matey with that constable in Central Scotland Constabulary?”

  “Don’t tell me. You’re in the nick and want me to pull strings. What did you do? No, don’t tell me. Ignorance is bliss and I’d like to sleep tonight. Anyway, I didn’t think you were there on a case. Something happen?”

  “Something happened.” McLaren related the hit-and-run incident, ignoring Jamie’s sporadic exclamations. “You never told me your cohort’s name. I need to talk to him.”

  “Why? You’ve no authority in Scotland, Mike. Leave the investigation to the police.”

  “I will. I just need to ask a question. Now, your mate’s name, Jamie.”

  Jamie knew when he was beat. “I think I better ring him up. He’ll talk more readily to me than to a private party.”

  “Are you really going to phone him, or is this just a way to get out of it?”

  “Daft question. When have I ever let you down?”

  “All right. You’ve got me.”

  “You’re not in any trouble, are you, Mike?”

  “Not that I know. Other than disturbing my grandfather’s peace.”

  “What do you want to know?”

  “If they have a name for the driver of that car.”