Surprisingly, the first thought that struck Gary hadn’t been Ingrid’s whereabouts, but more how much the stranger reminded him of Little Red Riding Hood.
His next thought was that in spite of his impending operation, he knew he was now completely and utterly screwed. A thought that was confirmed, as the dulcet tones of his boss echoed around the inside of the minibus…
“Gary! Gary! Gary! … Pick up the bloody phone or I’ll make sure you lose your bollocks as well as your manhood next week, you skiving little prick! GARY! ...”
The man having the apoplectic fit screamed his name out just as Gary, resigned to his fate and his fucked-up life, picked up the phone, pressed the off button and tossed the offending mobile into the rear of the bus.
They’d found what was left of Ingrid two miles down the line. The driver had explained that he’d not really seen what had happened except there was what he could only describe as a red flash, which was followed immediately by the sickly sound of the woman’s body hitting the front of his cab before it fell under the train.
Traumatised, he couldn’t really say if there had been anyone else on either platform and anyway it had all happened in such a split second that even if there had been a crowd of passengers, he’d have probably not noticed them with the speed he was travelling. The interview had been interrupted by the doctor, who’d explained to the transport police inspector that the driver was in no fit state to answer any further questions and was to be sent home immediately to rest, in line with the train operators health and safety policy.
“Suicides can have a terrible effect on some people inspector.” He’d explained as politely as possible. “Some people never recover from the experience.”
“Well it’s certain that the girl won’t doctor.” The dour inspector had quipped, annoyed that he’d not been able to quickly wrap up what was so obviously a suicide.
Donald sat in his room, stared out of the window and repeatedly replayed the final conversation they’d had in the library. Something had been troubling her but he couldn’t believe it had anything to do with what they’d talked about earlier. Yes, he blamed himself and yes, he’d been an idiot, maybe even crass and certainly insensitive but he knew Ingrid was stronger than that. She’d had worse said and done to her and she’d always bounced back. There was no way she would go and kill herself just on the basis of their disagreement.
Dr Atkinson had found Donald in his room. She’d wanted to break the news of Ingrid’s death to him personally, but Gary’s babbling call to his boss and then the clinic’s own rumour mill had beaten her to the unenvious task.
Seeing how her patient had reacted to the devastating accident, she’d decided to sit with him for a while in case he wanted to talk about his friend or maybe just ask questions… questions that she knew she wouldn’t be able to answer... but that wasn’t always necessary, most times grieving people answered their own questions, they just needed someone to listen to them.
“And there were no witnesses to what happened?” Donald asked determinedly.
“No one… well no one except Gary.” Dr Atkinson said, almost as an afterthought. “He told the police that he’d taken her to the station to meet someone.”
“Who? She didn’t know anyone from around these parts, did she?” Donald pressed, as his suspicions mounted.
“I don’t think so but he was adamant that’s what she said. He also mentioned something about a letter which had been left at reception for you. It would appear that when he couldn’t find you, he left it with Ingrid…” Dr Atkinson made her statement sound more like a question.
“Letter? What letter? Ingrid never gave me a letter.” Donald replied, astounded at the idea that Dr Atkinson might think something as innocuous as a letter might drive anyone with Ingrid’s zest for life to suicide.
“Apparently, it was left by someone calling themselves Martha… I just assumed it was the same Martha that you knew… the receptionist said that she clearly remembered the woman because she was wearing a bright red coat…”
The suddenness of her own mental revelation took Dr Atkinson by surprise. Until that moment she’d not made the connection but now it was obvious.
“Actually… you know Gary told the police that there was someone else on the platform at the same time as Ingrid.”
“So?”
“It may be nothing of course… just pure coincidence, but he remembered seeing a woman walking away from the station. A woman who he described to the police as having the appearance of Little Red Riding Hood.”
Even before Dr Atkinson had finished her revelation, Donald’s mind was racing back to their last visit to Oxford and Ingrid’s obsession about being followed. That first time in the Botanic Gardens he’d doubted her reasoning and then later he’d just assumed, like Dr Atkinson, that it was all some great big coincidence. But now after Ingrid’s supposed mysterious suicide, he knew there were too many sightings of the red coated spectre for coincidence to be the determining factor.
“I too thought it might have been a coincidence once… but not any longer. Neither do I think that Ingrid committed suicide. I think that whoever murdered her, wanted to kill me and she just got in the way.”
~~~~~
As soon as Inspector Langford and Patrick Fitzgerald had disappeared back through the door marked private, John McGovern seized his chance and approached the reception under the watchful eye of Langford’s bulldog sergeant.
“That looked serious.” He said mournfully, nodding in the direction of the door. The girl appeared flustered over the pair’s sudden vanishing act. Normally the hotel was such a haven of respectability and so anything that disturbed its aura of peace and tranquillity put the girl on edge.
“Yes… possibly…I don’t know.” Her eyes remained fixed on the door, as if she was waiting for Fitzgerald to reappear and tell her everything was alright. She’d worked at the Atlantic View since leaving school and during those two years Patrick Fitzgerald had been like a father to her… from the moment she’d walked into her interview when’d he’d greeted her with his warm charming smile, to just now when he’d returned from his trip to Scotland and he’d placed his hand on her shoulder and told her how beautiful she looked… in a fatherly sort of way.
To say that Alicia Penfold was infatuated with her boss would be an understatement. What she felt every time the man walked into the same room or brushed past her in reception, was so much more than a young naïve girl’s infatuation… Alice Penfold was utterly and completely in love with Patrick Fitzgerald and had been since the first day they’d met and whilst he’d never encouraged her, neither had he dissuaded her from getting too close. To Patrick it was all part of ‘the game’ and he’d always been of the opinion that if the right time and opportunity presented itself… well who knew what would happen… Alice was a very attractive young woman with a body that was suitably trim and firm in all the right places.
Up until now the frisson that they’d both felt every time they were close had been nothing more than a touch of hands, a pat on her back or an accidental bump that might have been avoided but never was… then there had been the kiss at the last Christmas party and the gift… for Alice that moment had sealed their emotional secret affair… at that point, she knew that Patrick Fitzgerald was as much in love with her, as she was with him.
“Sorry, what did you say?” Alice asked solemnly. Her normally bright and cheery personality had changed in an instant. It was as though her own appearance was merely a reflection of Patrick’s… whether he was happy or sad, it always showed on Alice’s face. She didn’t know what the problem was but when he looked like that all she wanted to do was cradle his head in her arms and comfort him.
“Nothing really I was just making the comment that Mr Fitzgerald and Inspector Langford looked serious… as if there was a problem.” It wasn’t really a question but McGovern had seen that look before… when he’d gone to speak with loved ones after a bereavement and he knew that at such emotiona
l times people, in his experience, could say some very strange and revealing things.
“Do you know Mr Fitzgerald?” Alice asked, regaining some of her composure. “It’s just that I’ve not seen you around the hotel before.” She deftly started to pull up the drawbridge and retreat into her keep.
“Well I know of him and of Mrs Bouchet… that was Mrs Bouchet who went upstairs with him earlier wasn’t it? I gather they’ve just been away for a few days together.” It was said in such a way that not even the most insensitive person could misinterpret the meaning… and just for good measure, McGovern finished with one of his most salacious grins and a knowing wink.
“If that’s all sir. I have worked to do and actual guests to look after.” Alice said coldly from behind her solid fortifications.
“Well there is one thing you can do for me… I need to speak to the manager of your hotel in Scotland, could you connect me from your phone there?” The insurance man nodded in the direction of the telephone on the reception and waited. Alice remained tight lipped, picked up one of the hotel’s brochures and slid it across the desk.
“The number’s on the back and there’s a public call box outside the Anchor pub. Now if that’s all.”
McGovern didn’t take the receptionist’s intransigence, nor her icy glare to heart, as he pulled out his mobile and took a seat directly opposite the desk. Neither did he require the brochure… The Black Isle Hotel’s number was already preprogramed into his phone but the girl’s show of defiance did confirm what he’d already suspected… the girl was more than just loyal to Fitzgerald, she had some sort of crush on the man and that made him wonder who else might have more than a passing interest in the hotelier but more importantly whether the person he’d been sent to investigate…Rachel Bouchet, had any reason to want her husband involved in an apparent accidental ‘hit and run’.
“Hello can I speak with Patrick Fitzgerald please.” He asked rather innocently, as the soft highland lilt greeted his call.
“I’m sorry Mr Fitzgerald isn’t here but may I take a message?” The lady offered in a manner that would soothe even the most irate caller.
“Really? He told me he would be there… said he was getting away for a short break with Helen.” McGovern lied, adding an air of surprise and incredulity for good measure.
“He did… I mean he was… here that is. You’ve only just missed him, he’s been here for the past couple of days but Helen… sorry Mrs Fitzgerald wasn’t with him. He was here on business with a friend of the family.” The lady was unsure just how much to tell the caller, even though he was obviously a close family friend.
“Ah yes now I remember, it wasn’t Helen that was going with him but Rachel wasn’t it? One of these days I swear God that I’ll forget my own name.” He cunningly let the information take effect. “Did she enjoy her stay? …Rachel that is… did she like the area? I told her she would but you know what it’s like, not everyone has the same tastes.”
“I’m sure she did but we didn’t talk that much, she mainly kept herself to herself whilst Mr Fitzgerald was busy with hotel matters.” The receptionist answered without knowing where the call was going. Obviously there’d been tittle tattle amongst the staff as to why the woman had come with Mr Fitzgerald and one of the house maids had even suggested that they must be sleeping together because the woman’s bed had been amateurishly roughed up every morning but not in a way that told her experienced eye it had been slept in.
Suddenly, she thought that discretion might be the order of the day…what if Mr Fitzgerald was checking up on his staff by having a stranger call and ask awkward questions. Perhaps the call was all part of the on-going training program and staff assessments that Mr Fitzgerald had mentioned during one of his staff briefing sessions. That thought and the possible consequence of making a complete fool of herself made the receptionist adjust her posture and clear her throat so that she could disconnect the caller in the most appropriate and polite way possible.
“If that will be all sir?” She said ready to pull the plug on the phone call.
“Yes thank you, I’m sorry to have troubled you. When I speak to Rachel I’ll tell her how helpful you were… sorry I didn’t catch your name and if I know Rachel she’ll want to know who I’ve been speaking to, especially if she knows the person concerned.” The lady who was sat in the hotel’s office paled at the thought that any comment, however small or insignificant might be associated with something she’d said.
“Oh no that’s fine sir, thank you. I don’t know Mrs Bouchet personally, in fact until yesterday I don’t think anyone here had ever seen her before, so I’m sure she wouldn’t remember my name.”
“Well I’m not being funny, but how do you know it was Rachel Bouchet that stayed there?” McGovern finally got to the point of his call and subterfuge.
“Mr Fitzgerald obviously… he introduced her to everyone.”
“But she could have been anyone for all you know, couldn’t she?” It was a gamble to ask such a direct question, but when his nose could smell a whole nest of rodents, his motto was… ‘Press on regardless.’
“She could yes… hello… hello.” The receptionist, annoyed at the man’s apparent rudeness at not saying either thank you or goodbye, flicked the switch on the panel in front of her and put an end to her misery.
The English, she told herself, could be so ignorant and annoying at times.
~~~~~
John McGovern wasn’t surprised to learn that the police weren’t looking for anyone else in the case of the double killing. Inspector Langford’s experience, supported by all the available forensics placed both murders in the ‘crime of passion’ bracket.
“No John, you listen.” Langford shouted down the phone, just as his sergeant was about to enter the office. Understanding when to make a sensible retreat Denise Morris dextrously spun on her size five heels and like an accomplished ballet dancer headed for the canteen instead. What she had to say would wait and if experience counted for anything, it told her never to interrupt her boss when he was blowing a gasket.
“Forensics haven’t found anything to contradict our first thoughts. Henri Bouchet shot Helen Fitzgerald and then she managed to return the favour before collapsing herself. Of course we’ve checked out the firearms and spoken to both Patrick Fitzgerald and Helen Bouchet! What do you take us for? …Both of their alibis are as watertight as a duck’s arse.” The tip of his pencil snapped, as the pressure built up in his hand and erupted through the delicate graphite point. In a childish fit of pique he threw the writing implement, like some mini-javelin, across the office into the waste bin.
“They are each other’s alibi!” John McGovern shouted back from the comfort of his own desk and leather chair. Ever since his call to the Black Isle Hotel his case against paying out on Henri Bouchet’s medical bills and now his life insurance policy had slowly and inexorably fallen apart. Even his boss had told him to forget it and authorise the payment but McGovern was as stubborn as a pack of mules and when he had a nagging doubt about a case it took more than a lack of forensics, two perfectly good alibis and an order from his bosses to stop his bloodhound nose twitching.
“Look Dick…” McGovern softened his approach. “All I’m saying is check out the alibis a little more.”
“We have John. Fitzgerald travelled up to Scotland in his helicopter with Helen Bouchet. They both stayed at the hotel together… and in separate rooms before you start implying anything untoward… then they came back together. Which means that at the time of the killings they were both hundreds of miles away. End of story.”
“Who says they were?” The insurance investigator asked cockily. “The hotel? When I checked, I was told that nobody had ever seen Mrs Bouchet before. They only knew it was her because Fitzgerald introduced the woman as Rachel Bouchet.”
“And that’s it? That’s your case? How much is the pay-out this time?” Langford cut to the chase.
“Close on one and a half million.” That was the t
rouble with the inspector, he never appreciated McGovern’s help and was always looking for an ulterior motive.
“And your bonus… if you don’t have to pay out?” Langford finally played his trump card.
“Five per cent… but that’s not what this is about. Just send them a photograph of Rachel Bouchet and get them to confirm her identification. I mean what do you have to lose?”
“Tell you what, you’re the one that stands to lose… seventy five thousand if my maths are as good as my detective skills, so why don’t you send them a photograph and let me know what you find out. That way at least you’ll earn that fat bonus and you’ll be able to say... ‘I told you so’!”
Trisha MacPherson, who’d always been an ardent SNP supporter, read the email and immediately remembered the telephone call, which had so irked her. She didn’t know if the man who’d sent the email to the hotel was the same rude man who’d phoned and had spoken to her about Mrs Bouchet and Mr Fitzgerald but irrespective of whether it was or it wasn’t, she didn’t like the tone of the man…
‘Please confirm that the woman in the attached photograph is Mrs Rachel Bouchet.’ Without opening the attached file, Ms Macpherson promptly replied to John McGovern’s email with a single word… ‘YES’ and then deleted the entire email from her computer.
Sometimes, she thought, the English still thought they were dealing with Rob Roy and William Wallace and that Scotland was merely another English county.
John McGovern thumped the desk with his clenched fist and cursed his luck, as the seventy five thousand pounds slipped through his fingers. He’d have staked his life on the fact that Rachel Bouchet had not travelled up to Scotland, but even with the positive identification of the photograph, he still couldn’t shake the nagging doubt that the woman had somehow been involved in her husband’s death.
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