An Unfolding Trap

by Jo A. Hiestand

  In his room, he sat on his bed and rang Liza Skene once more. The woman still didn’t answer her phone. He glanced at his watch. Just gone nine o’clock. He rang up the library and asked to speak to her. Again he was informed that Liza had neither phoned in nor appeared for work. He rang off concerned something was definitely wrong. Where was she? What had happened? She hadn’t been physically injured, so a hospital stay was unlikely. If she were with a friend or family member, as he’d first surmised, wouldn’t she have informed her boss? Just walking off like this had the aroma of three-day-old fish.

  Not knowing what else he could do about Liza, he punched Jamie’s number into his mobile. His cop’s sixth sense about the photograph niggled at him, and he’d been in the job long enough to realize he shouldn’t ignore it.

  Jamie answered the phone with a sleepy “Hello?” but forced a bit more life into his voice when he realized it was McLaren phoning. “Mike?”

  “Yeah. Did I wake you?”

  “Just coming off nights.”

  “Sorry.”

  “That’s all right. You didn’t know. What’s going on?”

  McLaren described the photo of Harvester and Lanny, and of Harvester’s multiple stays at the guesthouse. “What’s it sound like to you?”

  “Sounds like they’re all chummy, for whatever reason. Kind of coincidental you staying in the same bed-and-breakfast your mate Harvester frequents.”

  “Glad you’re of the same mind. I thought I might be making too much of the link.”

  “With Harvester involved? You’re joking.”

  “So, what’s it mean?”

  “You’d have a better idea of that than I would. I hardly know the man.”

  “You don’t know when you’re well off, Jamie.”

  “Look, Mike. Something’s rotten in Edinburgh. That man you were standing next to is hit and killed by a car; that girl, Liza, is missing; you trailed Lanny Clack to Mary King’s Close and he magically disappears. Now you see that your landlady, toughie Lanny, and Mr. Personality Harvester all know each other. What’s it take to convince you you’re in the enemy camp?”

  “You forgot my grandfather’s invitation that wasn’t an invitation.”

  “More proof. How much more do you need?”

  “Before I learned that Harvester is involved in some fashion with Jean MacNab, I couldn’t make heads or tails of my grandfather’s surprise at seeing me, but now I believe Harvester set up the entire thing, got me up here with that fake binding-of-the-family-wound thing, and booked me into this place.” McLaren chewed on his bottom lip as he thought through the last few days. “It’s Harvester’s style. He steps over obstacles in his way, eliminates perceived problems. He did that in police school and he did that when we worked together. Got a problem with a witness? Get rid of him or apply the strong arm stuff.”

  “I’m surprised he’s on this side of the law.”

  “His inclination is more like a criminal’s, I’ll admit. He’s a thug in a copper’s uniform.”

  “You always told me he was a control freak, never trusting anyone to follow through, wanting to do everything himself. Sounds more and more like a dictator all the time, even down to arranging your and your grandfather’s meeting.”

  McLaren stretched. “I’ll say this for the man: it took a lot of planning.”

  “But what’s it in aid of, Mike? Why would Harvester lure you up there and pay for your room?”

  “Perhaps I’ll discover that before I leave here.”

  “I think you can eliminate a joke. He wouldn’t spend that kind of money just to laugh at you.”

  “Then we’ve more in common than I thought. I’d not spend one pence on him. Now, the reason I phoned you… Could you call your police pal again?”

  Jamie yawned vocally before replying to the question. “Ross Gordon? Sure. What do you want?”

  “I want to know what the connection is, if any, between Lanny and Jean.”

  “You think something illegal is going on at the guesthouse?”

  “Not necessarily. But Lanny’s a criminal with a long history of robbery, gang association, and violence. He hasn’t changed in the ten years he’s been in and out of prison, so I see no reason for him to suddenly change his spots now. What’s he doing with a supposedly reputable person as Jean MacNab? Especially now that Harvester’s in the group.”

  “If he gets suspicious about all these phone calls I’ll tell him the earlier information on Lanny didn’t help, that it must be another bloke we’re after.”

  “Just make the story believable. And rehearse it so you don’t stumble.”

  “I’ll ring you back when I’ve got it. Could be a while. I don’t know if he’s working right now.”

  “Thanks. I owe you.”

  “Your tab’s getting awfully long, Mike. You better start paying it off soon.”

  “Soon as I get back.”

  “When’s that?”

  “Oh…” He glanced at the date on his smart phone. “Today’s Wednesday. I’ve got a few places I want to see before I leave but they won’t take long. I ought to be on the train Saturday evening.”

  “If you don’t answer your home phone Sunday I’ll have Ross call out the sniffer dogs.” He signed off with the assurance he’d call back soon.

  McLaren had had every intention of checking out in a few minutes. There was really no reason for him to stay. But discovering that Jean knew Harvester and Lanny altered everything, not only his feeling toward the woman but also about his personal safety. Surely Lanny wouldn’t try anything here: there was the chance a late-returning guest would see Lanny and identify him later. And it was ludicrous to imagine Harvester here. The man would have to be hidden for fear that he’d be seen.

  If Harvester had set all this up, and McLaren assumed he had, what was the man’s next step? If he had wanted Lanny to run him down, and that had failed, would Harvester personally try something, his faith in Lanny gone? Harvester was not one to delegate important jobs lightly. He liked to control every possible thing. So did that mean Harvester was in Edinburgh?

  McLaren rang up the station where Harvester worked. Detective-Inspector Harvester wasn’t in, wouldn’t be in the rest of the week, but if the caller would like to leave a message…

  He closed his phone and slipped it into his pocket. Just because the man was on holiday didn’t mean he was here. There were a million places he could be, but none of them made as much sense as Edinburgh.

  McLaren glanced at his watch. Nearly nine thirty. Sighing, he got up, slipped into his jacket, and left the guesthouse. It was going to be a long day.

  He breathed in a lungful of cold, dry air and stepped off the porch. A bank of gray clouds clung to the western horizon but the sky overhead was clear. Perhaps it boded well.

  His confidence faded quickly, however, when he spotted one of his business cards on the pathway. He picked it up, staring at his handwritten name sprawled across the card’s face. The ink had feathered slightly, the paper stock damp from the wet walkway, but “Mike” was unmistakable. As was the card. It was one of his. Probably the one he’d signed before giving it to Liza. He wrote on cards only when he gave them out, fitting the signature or additional information to the recipient.

  He straightened up slowly, as though he’d suffered a jab to his stomach. As if he still harbored a doubt about the card, the date in the upper left hand corner confirmed it belonged to Liza. But why was the card here, and where was Liza? Perhaps more importantly, he thought as he strode down the street, whose blood was smeared over the white surface?

  The corner café was busy with breakfast customers dining in or picking up orders. The air was thick with low-volume conversations, the ring of the cash register, and recorded classical music. The air also held the scents of hot coffee, hot apples and cinnamon, and pine boughs.

  He stood in line, his mind trying to sort through the recent events. He didn’t hear the cashier call “Next, please,” and was nudged into taking his tur
n at the counter.

  “Yes, sir. Good morning. What may I get you?” The soft Scottish burr tore his mind from the card in his jacket pocket.

  “I’d like…a coffee.” He said it quickly, needing an excuse for his visit and feeling he’d get more cooperation if he were a customer.

  “Very good, sir. White or black? Which blend?” The cashier stepped to the left so McLaren could see the menu on the wall.

  Not really caring, he read off the first choice that he saw. “Flat White.”

  “Perfect choice, sir.” The clerk grabbed a small ceramic cup and turned to the espresso machine. The whir masked the music and nearby conversations until it was shut off and the steamed milk poured into the coffee. McLaren watched the clerk move the jug as she created the latte art. She set the cup in front of McLaren, careful not to disturb the spiral-caged heart floating on the coffee’s surface.

  McLaren commented on her skill, paid for the drink, and sat at a corner table. He sipped the beverage, considering what he’d do. The blood did nothing more than suggest Liza had been hurt. Running a DNA test against hair strands in her brush, for example, was as ridiculous as it would be expensive. Besides, even if he got a court order allowing the police to collect samples from her house, the lab results would take months. He hadn’t that much time; Liza needed his help now. And even supposing he got the lab results in a day or so, what good would it do? She would still be missing, with no clue as to where she was. No, the card held no significance other than hint at someone’s injury.

  The Christmas carol “God Rest Ye Merry, Gentlemen” filtered through the café noise. Should I take that as a hint, he wondered. Give this whole thing a rest, stop imagining spies and crooks in every alley and bus stop? But he couldn’t deny events had turned odd the minute he’d knocked on the family home door. His grandfather hadn’t sent for him; he’d been the target of a botched hit-and-run; the woman he’d been with had gone missing; a phone call from her had ended abruptly; and now he had his business card decorated with a bloody smudge.

  He withdrew the card from his pocket. The partial thumbprint was well defined closest to the card’s interior. It turned into a smear near the edge, as though it’d been yanked from the holder’s hand. Yet, if that were so, did that suggest the two people had been on the walk of the guesthouse? Or had Liza run from her abductor, getting as far as the porch and leaving it as a clue before she was recaptured?

  He rubbed his forehead, listening briefly to the carol. Yes, he should give it a rest. This whole thing didn’t make sense. If Liza had run from her kidnapper, why hadn’t she screamed? Surely someone, if not he, would’ve heard that and come to her rescue.

  The carol ended and he finished the last of the coffee. He got up, shoved the card back into his pocket, and walked up to the cashier.

  She smiled and asked if he’d like something else.

  “Yes, but not another coffee. My friend and I were walking around last night and she lost her ring.”

  “Sorry to hear that, sir.”

  “Sorry to have to say it. I know you weren’t open, but we did pass the café and the outdoor section. I wonder if anyone found the ring this morning and turned it in? It’s gold, rather small, with…” He took a breath, biding for time, thinking wildly. What could he say? “With a clan crest on it. Skene. The writing’s very small, but it’s of a dexter arm coming out of a cloud.” He looked hopeful, wondering if he’d sounded convincing. Dena always said he lied more smoothly than anyone she knew. Must be his police training…

  “Nothing was given to me, but perhaps one of the other staff members received it. Let me look.” She walked over to the counter behind her, stooped, and opened a door. After rummaging through several articles and looking into a drawer, she closed the door and came back to him. “There’s no gold ring here, sir.”

  “Perhaps it’s not been found yet. Would you mind if I looked in the courtyard area?”

  “Not at all. Good luck.” Her voice faded under the explosion of Manheim Steamroller’s drums and the whine of the espresso machine.

  One hardy soul sat at a courtyard table in the sun, his newspaper spread before him, a coffee cup in his hand. A plate, empty except for crumbs, had been shoved away from the paper. Several sparrows appeared to be eyeing the leftovers from their perches on a nearby tree.

  McLaren walked around the patio, peering beneath the tarps covering the chairs and tables, using a tree branch to poke through the few remaining clumps of snow. When he finished one length of the area, he returned, covering a new section.

  Except for some patches of snow, the patio held nothing foreign. Several depressions in the snow had thawed into irregular shapes, some exposing the flagstones, but he couldn’t swear if they were footprints or merely melting clumps. He found no indication that anyone had hidden there last night, and he began to wonder if he’d imagined it.

  A slight movement attracted his gaze and he walked over to the far corner. A bird’s feather stuck vertically in a lump of snow, pale gray against the dingy whiteness, twitching in the breeze. He jammed his fingertips into the cold mass but felt nothing suspicious.

  He moved on, searching the remainder of the courtyard. He found no other items connected with Liza. The clan brooch was still his only clue she’d been there.

  Or someone had been there. Skene kin other than Liza could lose items just as easily as she could.

  He silently cursed the brooch and the business card and walked back to the guesthouse.

  ****

  “The infuriating thing about this,” McLaren exhaled sharply into his mobile, “is that I know Liza’s in trouble, but I can’t prove it.”

  Jamie’s reply was slow in coming. “You can’t go to the police with what you have, at any rate. That’s for certain. Did she say anything about visiting a friend? Maybe she decided to go off somewhere to get over the trauma.”

  “I thought of that, but she didn’t say. I need to find out what happened to her, Jamie. I need to do it now, not tomorrow. If she’s hurt, she needs help. I can’t just wait around. I have to do something to find her, and do it now.”

  “Short of going on the telly to ask if anyone’s seen her, I haven’t a clue as to what you could do.”

  “If I could get into her house and look at her address book—”

  “First of all, how many people do you know who still have an address book? They keep all that contact info on their mobiles or on their computers. Second, I’m not going to ring up the constabulary so they’ll let you inside. Third, you don’t know the woman last night was Liza and you don’t know a bloody thing about the circumstances of the tossed business card.”

  “But you said it’s damned weird.”

  “I can say the sun rises in the north but that doesn’t make it so, Mike. Sure, this is all very odd, but you said it yourself—you can’t prove a thing.”

  McLaren muttered that he’d get better results from a sniffer dog than from Jamie. “Isn’t it weird, though, that these two people last night didn’t say a thing and rushed right by me, and I find a brooch like Liza’s after they leave? And isn’t it odd that the card I give her ends up where I can conveniently find it a few blocks from the café?”

  “I grant you it’s weird, but maybe you interrupted a drug deal last night. Or they were about to do a lift.”

  “A burglar wouldn’t react like she did. The woman screamed.”

  “Maybe her male accomplice stepped on her toe in their hurry to leave the crime scene. Hell, I don’t know, Mike. You’ve got to give it a rest.”

  “This is the second time I’ve heard that today,” he mumbled, thinking of the carol in the café.

  “Then follow the advice. I’m not saying you shouldn’t be concerned about Liza, but you can’t do a thing if you don’t know where she is or what’s happened to her. When you know something definite, ring up Ross Gordon at the Stirling police station and get some help. Better yet, play the tourist and visit some places. Like the city’s Old Town Jai
l. I hear it’s quite interesting.”

  “If you’re not in the nick, it might be.”

  “Anyway,” Jamie yawned, the clink of a spoon sailing into McLaren’s ear, “you’ll know what to do and do it when the time comes. That’s your second best quality, Mike.”

  “What’s my first?”

  “Patience.”

  McLaren rang off, unsure if he felt better from talking to his friend. He considered talking to Ross Gordon to get the man’s view on Liza’s disappearance, but quickly abandoned the idea. As Jamie said, without any evidence, he’d come off looking a right nerk.

  He checked his notes, debating about the rest of his day. He wondered if he could ring up the house and meet his uncle somewhere for lunch or a pint, but the way his day was going his grandfather would probably answer. And that would fuel his frustration.

  He’d just about decided to disguise his voice and phone the family home when his mobile pinged. An email from his sister. He sat on the bed and read her message.

  From:GwenHulme
  Subject:granddad info

  Date:10 December 10:54:52 AM

  To:Mike McLaren

  Mike—I’ve had to root around but I found the old journal I wanted. Dad must’ve packed it by mistake when we left Auchtubh for England. At least, I can’t figure out any other reason why he and not granddad would have it. I doubt he would’ve willingly parted with it or given it to dad as a keepsake. Gran was extremely dejected when we left and although that doesn’t match granddad’s anger, it must’ve made for a gloomy household. Be that as it may, perhaps he didn’t even know it was gone. He doesn’t seem the type to bring out the Auld Reminders to reminisce over, but I haven’t seen him since I was a teenager, so what do I know?

  Anyway…you sounded so frustrated and confused the day we spoke that I thought this might help you understand granddad and thereby clear up some of your hurt. Not that I condone his treatment of you in all this, but perhaps knowing him better will shine some light into the darkness. Let me know if the attachment doesn’t come through—I scanned it, and we all know the limitations of my technology knowledge.