Died in the Wool

by Melinda Mullet

  “Colin would go in for anything that makes money,” Gordon went on. “He’s shrewd. He jumped on the organic bandwagon at just the right time. Restaurants want to be able to tout their green credentials and they’re willing to pay for the privilege and so are their patrons.” Gordon lowered his voice. “Twenty-three quid a plate for a fresh salmon appetizer because I can tell you which loch it came out of. No better or worse really than the farmed stuff, but people think it is. Daft, really, but who wants to look a gift horse in the mouth.”

  True, I suppose, for all of us in the food and drink business. We’d be able to charge a premium for the Abbey Glen single cask and yet, if anything, it took less effort to produce than our usual product.

  Gordon was summoned back to the kitchen by an underling. He excused himself, promising that dessert would be following shortly. I looked at my watch. Ten o’clock and the place was still hopping, a sure sign of success. We were about a fifteen-minute walk from the drop zone. I certainly didn’t need a pudding, but we did have time.

  “See what I mean? Can hardly get a conversation started before he gets pulled away again,” Patrick lamented. “Did you find out what you wanted to know about your board mate?”

  “I asked for you as much as me,” I shot back.

  “Doesn’t look much like a farmer to me,” Patrick pointed out. “That shirt alone must have cost a couple of hundred pounds.”

  “That black t-shirt?”

  “Capaldi. Italian silk blend. Doubt you could even buy it around here.”

  Trust Patrick to notice that sort of detail. Funny how different twins could be. I was distracted from that thought by the arrival of the dessert. A whisky and dark chocolate mousse with a raspberry coulis. It was lovely but my mind was too preoccupied with the twenty thousand pounds sitting in my purse waiting to be delivered. We still had thirty minutes to go, but I couldn’t sit still any longer. We paid the bill, and Patrick told Gordon I was trying to avoid an old boyfriend and asked if he could sneak us out through the kitchen. He seemed tickled by the idea, and made an elaborate show of giving us a tour of the place before shunting us out into the alley. We only had a couple of minutes this time, I’d guess, before muscles realized my tail had been had again. The real test of Urquhart’s involvement with this potential kidnapping would be if my shadow knew where to find us next.

  We hustled away on foot, making a wide circle around the Meadows and back through George Square Gardens till we drew near the top of Nicolson Street. It was quiet on the university grounds. A Saturday night and the students were out carousing. The cafés and bakeries on Nicolson Street were silent and shuttered. The Ramen Shoppe was open till midnight, but it seemed a wasted effort, as the place was empty.

  At least it should be easy to see whoever made the pickup. I left Patrick in the park watching for anyone watching me. I walked down the silent street, my nerves on edge, the sound of my heels echoing loudly in my ears. I tried to comfort myself with the knowledge that somewhere in the shadows, Edinburgh’s finest were watching my every move. It was ten forty. I walked up the steps to the noodle shop and placed the envelope in the metal milk delivery box and strolled away. No sign of company. Either he was being more careful or he didn’t know in advance where we were going tonight.

  I returned along the street and took a left at the park. Patrick and I had arranged to meet in a bar just around the corner. As I stepped in the door, he immediately ushered me up a flight of stairs and into the loo at the end of the hall. “What are we doing?” I demanded.

  Patrick pushed me into the end stall, shut the door, and opened the window on the outside wall. “Look.” I didn’t want to know how he’d figured out the view from the ladies’ toilet, but it looked across the café on the corner of Nicolson Street next door and straight at the front door of the Ramen Shoppe across the street and two doors down. “Clever you,” I said.

  Patrick drew a pair of opera glasses out of his jacket pocket and handed them over. “You think of everything, don’t you?” I trained the glasses on the milk box on the top step. The lid was still slightly ajar and I could see the envelope resting inside. I looked up and down the street, but saw no sign of my shadow.

  The pickup hadn’t been made yet. I was starting to feel optimistic. This was an amateur move and a trusting one. There was no one around. The courier would stand out like a sore thumb and be dead easy to trail. Time ticked on painfully slowly. Ten forty-five came and went. Ten fifty and still no sign of a pickup. I was starting to worry that I’d managed to get the location wrong. Eleven o’clock. I was getting antsy.

  “Let’s give it till eleven fifteen,” Patrick said.

  “What then? Do we go and reclaim the money, or just leave it there?”

  “Leave it. The note was clear and the drop spot is being watched.”

  “I suppose.” I continued to fixate on the stoop.

  “Oh jeez,” Patrick said.

  “What?”

  “Look.” Patrick pointed down the street to the right.

  I pulled back from the glasses and saw at least two dozen young people making their way down the street, laughing and goofing around.

  “The kidnapper’s not so stupid after all,” Patrick said. “The pub around the corner just closed and I’m betting the Ramen Shoppe is the only place open at this hour for food. There’s a hoard of hungry students about to descend on the place.” Sure enough, the crowd made their way up the steps and were soon joined by another noisy group coming down from the other end of the street. The takeaway was suddenly a seething mass of drunk college kids filling the shop and spilling out onto the street. I lost sight of the milk box for several minutes, and when I finally caught a glimpse through the jean-clad legs, the envelope was gone.

  Chapter 16

  My sense of optimism seeped away like air from a punctured balloon. Thank God I’d involved the police or we’d have been royally screwed. It would be down to Elliot’s men now to try to sort the courier from the crowd. “Damn.”

  “What now?” Patrick asked.

  “There’s nothing we can do, but hope the police were at a better angle than we were. I’m going back to the Rest to wait with Amanda to see if we hear from the kidnapper again. I may just have lost twenty thousand pounds and our victim.”

  “It’s not over yet,” Patrick soothed.

  The rich food from earlier was churning around in my stomach and I felt nauseous. “What am I supposed to tell Amanda? She was counting on me. And Nora. She may be without a mother after this.” If the police weren’t on top of this, it could be a disaster. And if they were, the kidnapper could’ve been tipped off that I’d called the authorities in. Either way, not good.

  “You did the best you could. Come on. I’ll drive you back to the Rest.”

  We retraced our steps back to La Mer, retrieved Patrick’s car, and drove through the quiet residential streets to the shelter. Patrick dropped me at my car. I saw a familiar black sedan parked along the block with the driver slumped down behind the wheel. I didn’t mention it to Patrick and insisted he go home to bed. There was nothing more to be done tonight. I texted Trish to see if she was still at Ross’s place. She replied immediately, as if she’d been waiting to hear from me.

  Back at Rest. Need to chat. Where are you?

  Outside. Meet me in the backyard.

  On my way.

  I was frustrated, tired, and angry. This day hadn’t gone at all according to plan. I was tired of dodging the shadow. He was lousy at what he was doing and I’d climbed in and out of enough windows for one day. I walked along the street, heading straight for the driver’s window, intending to challenge him head-on. As I caught his eye, he realized he’d been sussed. He waited until I was almost on top of him before flinging his door open violently and catching me full force in the chest, knocking me to the ground. I saw stars for a moment before everyt
hing went black.

  * * *

  —

  The next thing I saw was Trish peering into my face. Subtle as always, she was wearing trainers, pink flannel pajama pants, and a hooded sweatshirt with a cat wearing reading glasses on the front. “What happened? I was waiting for you,” she demanded, helping me to sit up in the middle of the road.

  “Ran into a car door,” I muttered, feeling my ribs for signs of damage.

  “This sleuthing business’s all go, isn’t it,” she enthused. “No wonder you like it so much.”

  I wasn’t enjoying it so much at the moment. I had a headache from hitting the road and I’d had the wind knocked out of me, but all in all it could’ve been worse. I wish I could say the same for the rest of the night’s events. It had been a fiasco and I felt like a rank amateur; worse, a failure.

  “You sure you’re okay?” Trish asked as she helped me limp across the street to the shelter.

  “I’m fine, I just need to rest for a minute—out here,” I insisted as Trish tried to lead me through the back door into the kitchen. I wasn’t ready to see Amanda just yet. I sank down onto a stone bench by the potting shed. “Tell me what you found out.”

  “A lot. It was pretty quiet around the house this afternoon, so I had a bit of a snoop around my fellow inmates’ rooms while they were out.”

  “I hope you were careful.”

  “ ’Course I was. Wasn’t much to see, though. Poor kids don’t have much. Most walked off with nowt but the clothes on their backs. Beyond that, booze and tranquilizers seem to be the common thread.”

  “How did it go at the Rosses’?”

  “Her ladyship bolted out the door as soon as I got there. Seemed to be in a big hurry.”

  “Don’t suppose she said where she was going?”

  “Not a chance. She looked right through me like I was part of the furniture. Clearly not bothered one bit about who was staying with the bairns, who, by the way, are a right royal pain in the arse. Twenty quid an hour’s nowhere near enough. You should get hazard pay for that crew. One of the little darlings wacked me over the head with a replica light saber. I saw stars, I can tell you.”

  I could relate. “Did you get a chance to look around the house?”

  “I talked the kids into playing hide-and-seek. Me and the daughter against the two boys. By the end I think they’d shown me most of the best hiding spots in the house. Cupboards, attic, secret closet in their dad’s office, hidey-hole under the stairs. No sign of anyone being held there.”

  I was impressed. Trish had shown more gumption than I would’ve credited her with. “Well done. I think it would have been risky to hide Sheila there, but you probably saw more than the police would’ve.”

  Trish looked pleased. “I finally wrestled them into bed and got a few minutes to meself, and started to do a bit of lookin’ around on me own.”

  Trish took a quick breath and then barreled on with her story. “The wife’s space was unbelievable. Never even imagined anyone could hav’ so many clothes and shoes. She had two giant closets, each of ’em bigger than me and my sister’s rooms combined. Racks and racks of clothes and shoes and bags. Get this, she had four pairs of red pumps that were identical. Four. Why would a person do that? I mean, I can see if you really like the style gettin’ it in different colors, but the exact same shoes?”

  “Putting the fashion notes aside for a bit,” I insisted—knowing Trish, we could be in for a number of digressions from the topic de jour—“what did you find out?”

  Trish seemed a bit bleary. She leaned back against the wall of the shed. “Right, well, I started in his room. Separate rooms, never a good sign,” she noted. “His space was very organized. Unnaturally so, if you ask me. All the hangers in his closet matched perfectly and they were spaced exactly the same width apart. Almost like someone had taken a ruler and measured. Creepy.”

  “Did you find any pills anywhere?”

  “You bet.” Trish pulled out her phone and consulted her notes app. “Propecia. I looked that up, supposed to grow hair.” She chuckled softly. “If you believe that I’ve got a bridge to sell ye. He also had the little blue middle-aged man candy, if you get my drift. Think they’re all at it. And the same cholesterol tablets me dad takes. That was it.”

  “Nothing that said ‘Rohypnol’?”

  “I saw that alright, but not in his bathroom.” Trish paused for dramatic effect. “In hers.”

  “In Lila Ross’s bathroom? Was it her prescription?”

  “Her name was on the bottle. So I figure it was hers.”

  “Did you look at the dosing?”

  “One tablet before bedtime. I looked that up, too. Apparently, doctors are giving it as a sleep aid in low doses.”

  So Duncan Ross had ready access to the pills if he needed them. “Was the bottle full?”

  “Aye and sealed, but I figure if there was an open one, the police probably took it, don’t ya think?”

  Once again, Trish was right. The police would’ve taken an open bottle as evidence. Sleeping pills would be low dose, but if Ross used multiple tablets, it might do the trick. He must’ve used the Rohypnol on Burley to get the pictures he and Urquhart wanted. Did he give Jenny the same dose? What made Burley incoherent may well have been enough to kill Jenny, especially when combined with liquor and her Prozac.

  “I’ve been reading about these date-rape drugs in the papers lately,” Trish added. “Did you know there’s a nail varnish you can use, and if you stick your finger in your glass it’ll change color if someone slipped you a mickey in a bar? Isn’t that wild? I should get us some for casework.”

  I needed to head this conversation back to the rails. Trish and I were not about to be heading out on repeated casework.

  “Did any of the girls say they couldn’t remember how they got back to the shelter, or what happened after being at the Rosses’?”

  “When I got back from the gig at the Rosses’, Cheryl offered me a drink and we sat on her bed and chatted for a while.” Trish wrinkled her nose and looked up at the sky like she was trying to force the memory. “I don’t remember her sayin’ that anyone other than Jenny was woozy or nothin’. She did say that Randy Ross’s shenanigans really upset some of the girls and they wouldn’t go back. Others went ’cause they needed the money. Wouldn’t make sense to pay good money for services if your victims weren’t gonna remember the next day anyway, would it?”

  “That’s a good point.” Trish’s storytelling style was rambling, but there were nuggets of truth buried in there. “What else did Cheryl have to say?”

  “She was askin’ about me at first and I stuck to my story, but after the gin started to sink in, she started to talk about Jenny.”

  That sounded promising. “What about her?”

  “She showed me how she’d written Jenny’s mantra, ‘No More,’ on her own mirror as a tribute. She said she was going to try to be more like Jenny. Stronger and more in control of her own life. She’s still very cut up about the whole thing. While we were talkin’, Karen came in and joined us.”

  “Did either of them mention sharing any secrets with Jenny?”

  “No, they really only talked about that last night. Cheryl mentioned that Jenny had complained about Ross being all over her, but then she started crying again. Karen’s a tougher sort. Told Cheryl to buck up. Said all that blubbering wasn’t going to bring Jenny back. Karen seems real sure it was Ross’s fault. Don’t blame her. After all the shite they put up with, it must be nice to see him getting his comeuppance.”

  “Did the girls have anything to say about Sheila?”

  “All the girls are worried about her. No one’s tellin’ them anythin’, but they know somethin’s very wrong.”

  “I hear the police have been asking questions.”

  “Weird stuff about her and Ross. Like, if any of t
he girls’ve seen the two of them together, or if Sheila ever made babysittin’ arrangements for Ross. Choosin’ who goes to the house and such.”

  Sounded like the police were still trying to link Sheila to Jenny’s death, but maybe things had change since the ransom note arrived. “Did the girls have anything to say about the other board members?”

  “That Urquhart bloke they avoid like the plague. Don’t much like him. They all like Greer and Colin, but when Colin’s there he only has eyes for Amanda.”

  “Is he there often?”

  “Aye. Past month or so he’s stopped by most days either at the shop or the shelter. Amanda thinks no one knows, but the girls say you can see a mile away how they feel. They’re kind of protective of the two of them.” Trish’s voice was fading out. “I think it’s romantic,” she murmured.

  I caught her yawning and she leaned her head back against the wall. One too many gins and a lot of excitement. For all my doubts, she’d actually dredged up some worthwhile information. If she could manage to not tip her hand, she could be a real asset.

  As I sat debating whether to go in or wait for a bit, my cellphone rang. Michaelson’s number lit up the dial and I grabbed it, hoping for news.

  “Where are you?” he demanded without preamble.

  “Sitting in the yard at the shelter trying to figure out where my life went wrong,” I replied peevishly.

  “I called Patrick’s and I called the Haven. We all thought you’d run off and done something stupid.”

  “Thanks for the vote of confidence. I’m doing nothing but waiting as instructed. What else can I do? What happened with Elliot and his men?”