Be Still My Bleating Heart (A Scottish Highland Mystery Book 4)

by Hannah Reed

  Chapter 14

  I had nothing constructive to show so far. I burrowed into a back warren at the Kilt & Thistle with a cup of black tea, booted up my laptop, and checked the time. How quickly twenty-four hours passes when you’re watching the minutes. My cell phone rang.

  “Brenda Findlay was a nurse,” the inspector said, no less abruptly than usual. “This was before she quit tae assist her husband with his accounting practice.”

  “A surgical nurse?” I asked, tapping down the excitement I felt building inside.

  “General medical. I went over and brought that up. She claims we never asked; that it wasn’t a secret, and simply an oversight on her part. O’ course, Derrick backed her up.”

  “And she has an alibi,” I pointed out, wondering how the inspector would go about cracking open an alibi like that, with husband and wife collaborating on each other’s whereabouts.

  “Aye.” Jamieson snorted. “The clock on holding the doctor ran down, if yer wondering.”

  “I’d noticed. Have you charged Dr. Teague?”

  “I applied fer an additional thirty-six hour hold due tae the seriousness o’ the crime and was granted approval.”

  So, we’d bought some time.

  “I’m about to do a little online searching at the pub,” I told him. “See what turns up regarding the supper guests.”

  “Keep me apprised,” And he rang off without a proper goodbye.

  Minutes turned into hours as I entered names, beginning with the easiest to trace and the least likely suspects.

  Dallas Irving’s second-generation bookshop had excellent reviews, earning her a four-and-a-half out of five stars, and equally high praise from readers who had enjoyed her shop and shelves. One of those great reviews was my own, as the bookstore was a favorite of mine. Everything about her online referenced the shop, which I guessed was her great passion. That, and her cats.

  Nothing came up for Morag Lisle, but that didn’t strike me as unusual, especially if she’d lived a quiet and unassuming life. No award-winning achievements to make her stand out from the pack. No scandals to grace the social media pages. In fact, I didn’t find any signs of social media activity on her part.

  After a brief search, I learned that Brenda Findlay, maiden name Sutherland, had attended the University of Stirling based in the Western Isles Hospital in Stornoway, which, I read, was the largest town in the Hebrides. There, twenty-odd years ago, Brenda received her adult nursing degree and remained on at the hospital for several years post-graduation, before marrying Derrick Findlay, who worked in accounting at the hospital.

  They appeared to be a perfectly regular couple, moving to Glenkillen while still newlyweds and establishing a private accounting practice. Below that slick exterior was anybody’s guess. But I couldn’t help making an observation in the couple’s favor. It would have been unlikely that they had been acquainted with Stuart prior to meeting in Glenkillen through the Sir Walter Scott Club. There was a vast distance between the Hebrides and Edinburgh.

  Brenda was certainly addicted to social media, as the inspector had learned earlier. She posted several times daily, mostly trivial activities. I scrolled through prior days but saw no status updates involving Stuart’s demise, although I did find her reference to the Scott Supper and comments from others, none of whom I recognized.

  Next, I turned my attention to Dr. Teague, and realized how little I knew about the man, including his first name, which I discovered was Glenn. Dr. Glenn Teague came up quickly in local news sources when he’d bought out Dr. Keen two years ago.

  According to reports, he’d given up a successful career in Glasgow in exchange for a quieter setting and a chance to really get to know his patients.

  “I’m pleased to be away from the hustle and bustle and rat race of Glasgow and able to concentrate on what I love best – attending to patients on a personal as well as professional level,” he’d stated in one of the articles.

  But when I tried to delve deeper, trace his roots back to Glasgow, I hit a solid wall. Nothing came up.

  I called the inspector and explained the problem. “Can we find out whether Dr. Teague practiced under a name other than Glenn? I found an Irvine Teague at Glasgow Royal Infirmary, but no photograph of the doctor on his profile page.”

  “I’ll see what I can do.”

  Fifteen minutes later, Jamieson had an answer. “The doc’s middle name is Irvine.” The inspector pronounced the name as Er-vin, where I’d said Er-vine. But in both cases, whatever the proper pronunciation, I’d found another link in our doctor’s past employment history. And briefly wondered why he’d used his middle name then and his first name now at his surgery in Glenkillen.

  I didn’t have to ponder for long, because I found the answer. As Sean might say, Dr. Teague had been in a pickle and a stew. The Glasgow Daily Times reported that he had bungled a keyhole surgery to remove a gallbladder, wrongly cutting the patient’s main bile duct and right hepatic artery. The patient, Callum Woodward, age 34, developed sepsis, failed to recover, and shortly thereafter died of complications.

  Two weeks later, an updated report followed.

  An investigation was conducted by Crown Prosecution Services. Criminal charges were considered, but dropped, after determining insufficient evidence to prosecute. During this same period of time, Dr. Teague resigned from the hospital staff, with speculation that he’d been forced to leave.

  A few more searches and I read that his wife divorced him within the year.

  I closed the laptop, stunned by this new revelation, this tiny peek into the dark corner of Teague’s career. The doctor, only in his forties, should have been enjoying the prime of his life and career. Instead he was washed out in the big city by a careless mistake. A fatal one for Callum Woodward.

  I phoned the inspector.

  “How am I tae get anything done when yer demanding that I play assistant tae ye?” he asked lightly. “What can I do fer ye now?”

  “Just listen to what I found.” And I filled him in and finished with, “Poppy Smith said Stuart barged into the surgery and called him a quack. Now we know why.”

  “Aye, McKay might o’ found out about the botched surgery and used it against the doctor.”

  I sighed heavily. All I’d wanted to do was clear the doctor. Instead, I’d further incriminated him. “His reputation would be ruined if that got around Glenkillen. Do you think Dr. Teague killed him to silence him?”

  “I have enough tae charge him. We’re still lacking direct evidence, and we’ll have tae resort tae circumstantial tae prove intent, but that’s the way it usually goes in murder cases such as this. We don’t need the extra time I requested.”

  I wasn’t quite ready to give up on the doctor. “You have him in custody. He isn’t going anywhere. Let me do more digging. See what turns up. Has he requested a lawyer?”

  “He’s meek as a lamb. Isn’t confessing. Isn’t denying. It’s almost as though he’s accepted whatever happens next without any fight at all.”

  “Give me that extra time.” As long as I was digging Dr. Teague’s grave I might as well continue. “You wouldn’t want to charge an innocent man. Even if a jury ended up acquitting him, the fact that he was charged in the first place would ruin his career here. He’s already lost one practice and his marriage.”

  After a pause, the inspector spoke, “Another day won’t hurt. And let’s keep his past tae ourselves fer now. No one needs tae know about his troubles, including yer friend Vicki and her fiancée.”

  “I hope no one ever finds out. A man should be able to start over. Unless he goes to trial. Then everyone would know.”

  We’d barely disconnected when Sean entered the pub and spotted me. “Writing during a murder investigation, are ye?”

  I’d never train the man to respect my privacy in my public writing spot. “How did it go?” I asked, closing the laptop.

  Sean didn’t take a seat this time, and I didn’t offer one.

  “Dallas Irving
and Morag Lisle are innocent bystanders, if ye ask me. They cooperated, didn’t behave suspiciously, and fer the record, I can’t imagine a woman stabbing a man tae death.” Sean frowned. “It’s almost as though the boss is making me chase me tail while he deals with the real killer. The doc did it. No point in sending me on wild goat chases.”

  “First of all, that’s sexist. Women are perfectly capable of real bloodshed. I’ve wanted to stab certain unnamed individuals a few times myself.” Wasn’t that the truth? “Second, maybe Morag or Dallas saw or heard something that might be valuable to the case. The real work begins once we have a suspect in custody. Like now.”

  “Ye don’t have tae scold me over facts I already know,” Sean said. “I’m on my way tae make Andy Morris give a full confession with all the details including where he tossed the handbags.”

  “That sounds like a great idea. I’m going with you.”

  “Ye can if ye keep yer bossy ways out of it. I’m the lead on this one.”

  “Okay, sure.”

  Chapter 15

  “Ye need tae tell us a bit more about the robberies,” Sean said to Andy from the head of the table in the interrogation room.

  “What’s in it fer me?” Andy said, effecting an exaggerated slouch and a tough guy attitude.

  “We can’t guarantee anything,” I told him. “But I’ll put in a good word for you, explain how you cooperated.”

  Andy scoffed.

  “Or,” Sean added, “we can tap ye fer the murder of Stuart McKay.”

  Andy shot up straight, “Ye can’t d…do that! And I’m taking b…back my confession. It was made under duress. Y..Ye saw what they did tae me.”

  “You did the right thing by telling the truth,” I said, trying to soothe him before he clammed up and refused to speak at all. “And we have your knife and the mask you wore during the robberies to prove you did it.”

  Sean shot me a stern look, reminding me that he was supposed to be in charge. Bungling it, if you ask me. I hurried on before he could interrupt. “What did you do with the women’s purses?”

  “Threw them in a rubbish b…bin behind the pub. The r…rubbish has been picked up. They’re gone.” Andy smirked, pleased with himself.

  “All right.” I’d expected that. “So, let’s talk about the most current robberies and how you changed your method of operation by confining them in the trunk twice in the same day.”

  Andy simply stared at me.

  Sean cut in, “The very same day that Stuart McKay was murdered, I might add.”

  Andy opened his mouth, but it wasn’t to clarify any details of his robberies. “I want my lawyer!” he demanded.

  After that, he refused to talk.

  “Progress,” Sean said on the way out.

  “Progress? He’s lawyering up. If you hadn’t badgered him about the murder, we would have all the information we need.”

  “He isn’t getting real legal representation,” Sean said. “His uncle, Bill, has been advising him.”

  I was astonished at the absurdity. “Bill Morris. Our Bill Morris?”

  “Aye, the drunk. He fancies himself a bit of a legal mind.”

  “And exactly what is Bill advising?”

  “Bill told him to own up tae it and get his arse back tae work at the inn.”

  “But confessing isn’t going to get him back to work,” I said. “And that’s hardly what an attorney would advise.”

  Outside, the sky had suddenly turned black and the wind howled, bending trees and lashing the plantings outside Glenkillen’s businesses.

  “Best get inside someplace tae weather this out,” Sean called, holding onto his cap as we exited the station.

  I ran to my car and sat inside for a few moments, watching Mother Nature’s incredible power as Sean pulled away. Violent storms came up quickly in the village, first forming over the sea then spiraling inland. Lights up and down the street flickered and went out. There was no reason to return to my online search at the pub unless power was restored momentarily.

  Lights remained out as I waited.

  Then I remembered Leith. He was out to sea, and this time, he’d had no warning of a brewing storm. I drove to the harbor, windshield wipers beating as fast as they would go, peering through the sheets of rain as best I could.

  The North Sea was an angry, swirling, black beast with enormous waves crashing into the lighthouse that guarded the harbor entrance. Our inlet, Moray Firth, raged as well.

  Fear gripped me. How could a boat the size of Bragging Rights survive this driving wind and rain? Leith was a seasoned sailor and had emergency gear on board, but would that be enough? On an afternoon excursion, Leith had given me the tour - life vests, flares for distress signals, anchors, oars and paddles in case of engine failure, radios.

  Radios! Perhaps he’d used a marine frequency to make a distress call. But in this weather, no one in their right mind would attempt a rescue. What about all the other fishermen out there?

  Feeling helpless, I drove cautiously back to the farm. Torrential rains continued with driving winds. I ran for Vicki’s door and was drenched before I made it inside. Power was out there, too, and Vicki had lit candles. She handed me a towel. Sean poured tea for me.

  “Leith is out there!” I said in dismay, sinking into a kitchen chair.

  “He’s seen the likes o’ this before,” Sean reassured me, then to Vicki, “Remember the Eyemouth Disaster?”

  Vicki gave him a warning glance, her hands wrapped around her teacup for warmth. “Not a story for right now.”

  But Sean was already relating it. “1881. The worst fishing disaster. 189 lives lost at sea, either capsized or crashed into the rocks at the harbor entrance.”

  “Sean!” Vicki said, her voice warning him.

  “They referred tae it as Black Friday.” One glance at Vicki’s expression and Sean said, “All right. I’ll stop.”

  Vicki leaned forward and covered my hand with hers. “No sense working yourself up about a thing you can’t control. Leith’s isn’t the only boat out there. The fishermen will look out for each other. He’d be wise to ride out the storm rather than rushing toward home against the forces. Trying to escape the storm would be the worst thing he could do.”

  A little later, I went to my own cottage to hole up with Snookie. I made a fire to ward off the chill and it created enough light to read by. But I couldn’t concentrate.

  Late afternoon turned into evening and the storm continued to rage, leaving me wondering how long the power would be out. I couldn’t stop thinking about Leith and what he was enduring. Whether he was still alive or if he’d gone to an underwater grave. If his boat had capsized, what would have happened to Kelly, who always accompanied him on his excursions? And what about the fishermen he’d taken out?

  I was almost physically ill from apprehension.

  This was exactly the scenario he’d described when giving me reasons why he didn’t want to have a woman waiting for him at home. What he hadn’t considered was the effect his disappearance would have on the rest of us – his friends and his family. What about his daughter, Fia?

  Sometime through the night I fell asleep in the chair. When I awoke, the fire had gone out, the storm had passed, power had been restored, and dawn had broken.

  Chapter 16

  After a cup of coffee, I attempted to call Leith, but got no answer. Slipping on a thick fleece and a pair of old Wellingtons donated to me by Vicki, I set out for the moor for a brisk walk to clear my head before facing whatever the day would bring.

  I was worried about Leith, but debated what to do next, if there was anything at all to do. Carry on, I guess. Work on the case. Stay busy until word came.

  Sheep are naturally inquisitive and an entire flock turned and watched me as I marched down the lane and turned up into the heathered hills.

  I struggled to force my attention to the murder case. Sharing one of my theories and casting suspicion amongst the club members hadn’t produced a single shred of
new evidence. None of them had come forward to point an accusatory finger at another.

  Derrick may or may not have told Stuart he was no longer welcome in the club, perhaps inciting anger in the professor, thus possibly coming to blows and death. Brenda’s background as a nurse would have given her the skill to place the knife in exactly the right position for an immediate kill. Whether she had or not was unknown.

  Dallas had no motive. Nor did Morag, who was the only one with a solid alibi.

  Everything pointed to Dr. Teague.

  So why was I resisting filing criminal charges?

  The flame that had kept me in pursuit of the truth had dimmed with the storm and my friend’s unknown fate at its hand. The day seemed bleak, even as the sun broke over the ridge, illuminating the lush vegetation surrounding me.

  Leith’s friendly coo didn’t make an appearance either, shrouding the hills in even more gloom.

  Back at the cottage, I fed Snookie, ate a stale scone and washed it down with several more cups of coffee. After a quick shower, I headed out. The Peugeot steered in the direction of the harbor as though I were merely a passenger.

  Locals had congregated at the dock. Joining them on the weathered wooden planks, with the sun above and the sound of riggings filling the air, it might have been a regular day by the sea. Sparkling sun danced on the waters of the firth. Many fishing boats were docked, but several slips were vacant, including Leith’s.

  Two weathered sailors huddled together at the end of one of the piers and I made my way over to them to request news.

  “Search party went out at first light,” one of them told me. “Three boats didn’t come in. The rest made it back following the storm. We’re monitoring radio channels for distress signals. Two of them reported in.”

  “Was one Leith Cameron?” I asked, anxiously.

  Two heads shook in unison, giving me my answer. Leith was the only one not heard from.

  As much as I wanted to stay at the harbor and wait it out, this was the last day to investigate before Dr. Teague was formally charged, and I wanted to make a good showing. If only I knew where to start.