No Suspicious Circumstances Read online

  No Suspicious Circumstances

  THE MULGRAY TWINS

  For Alanna in thanks and friendship

  Contents

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  EPILOGUE

  About the Author

  Copyright

  Acknowledgements

  Our grateful thanks to our friend Irene Fekete who started us on the road to publication, and our agent Frances Hanna of Acacia House Publishing, Brantford, Ontario, who over the years never lost faith in DJ Smith and Gorgonzola.

  To Edith and Harry for being themselves.

  In research matters we are indebted to the following: Cherry and Ray Legg for matters nautical, in particular the properties of inflatable boats and drowned bodies.

  Linda of Headstart hairdressing salon, Joppa, Edinburgh, for her invaluable advice on the awful pitfalls of amateur hair dyeing – and disaster recovery.

  Elizabeth Scott who kept us right on matters feline.

  For those readers interested in the phenomenon of cats that paint (or find the idea totally incredible), we refer you to the amazing works of art in Why Cats Paint – a theory of feline aesthetics by Burton Silver and Heather Busch. Published by Seven Dials, Orion Publishing Group, London. Pocket edition published by Ten Speed Press, California and Toronto.

  CHAPTER ONE

  My closest friends know me as DJ Smith, investigator for Her Majesty’s Revenue and Customs (Drugs Division). My enemies, I hope, don’t know me at all. In my line of work I try to keep the lowest of profiles. Cloaked in secrecy. Under wraps. Undercover. That’s me. For the kind of enemies I make would be glad to see me dead. It’s always at the back of my mind.

  That was why I should have paid more attention to the bell-boy with a couple of suitcases on his trolley. I’d summoned the lift to take me down from one of the penthouse suites. A sudden violent blow on the back slammed me against the stainless-steel shaft doors. They shouldn’t have opened. But someone had made sure they did. I pitched forward and down…

  Whoever made the attempt on my life hadn’t taken into account the position of the lift, which was at the floor below. So my fall was not the intended twelve storeys, but a mere six feet; my injuries were a few cuts, bruises and more than a little shock to the system. I survived, but I can’t say the same for my undercover career as leisure hostess cum personal shopper.

  The Department were quite good about the fact that I’d screwed up that carefully set up operation. My next assignment was, thankfully, not to Siberia but to Scotland.

  ‘Just a routine nose around, Deborah. Treat it as a holiday for you and the cat. It’ll be a rest for you after that last little bit of bother.’ Jim Orr, my Head of Section, selected a slim file from the neat stack on his desk.

  A bit of bother! I’d almost been killed. But a six-foot fall instead of twelve storeys – if you look at it that way, I suppose you could call it ‘a bit of bother’…

  He held the file out to me. ‘We’ve had a tip-off about a country house hotel not far from Edinburgh. It’s all in there, such as it is. The East of Scotland Drug Squad have been reporting a big increase in heroin traffic over the past year. They suspect the stuff’s coming in somewhere along the coastline between Edinburgh and the English border.’

  I opened the file. The first plastic pocket held a photograph of a big grey-stone house in the Scottish Baronial style of architecture.

  ‘The White Heather Hotel, your base while you’re up there.’ He hummed a snatch of ‘The Bonnie Banks of Loch Lomand’. ‘Proprietors Murdo and Morag Mackenzie. They’ve no previous convictions.’

  I studied the mug shot. A harmless-looking couple, but that didn’t mean a thing. Murdo Mackenzie’s heavy features frowned back at me. That deep line between the eyes showed him to be one of life’s worriers. One of those anxieties seemed to involve premature hair loss as he’d combed dark strands of hair across his scalp in a vain attempt to disguise a receding hairline. Morag was four years older. Her black hair was flecked with iron grey, and tied back in the severe hairstyle of an old-fashioned bun at the nape of the neck. Her hard face and thin lips gave the impression that she was the more dominant of the two.

  Jim flicked a hand at a fly about to make a six-point landing on a stack of files on his desk. ‘The woman’s in the clear, but her husband’s distinctly shady. The local police have been interested in him for the last couple of years. Nothing ever proved, though.’ He gazed pensively at the fly, undeterred and now nosing through a pile of confidential papers. ‘Our source reckons there’s a possibility that Mackenzie might be involved in the distribution of the heroin. It shouldn’t take you long to check the place out. The Operation code name is Scotch Mist.’ He whipped a canister of fly-spray from a drawer. Pssssssh. The fly flopped on its back, one leg waving a final farewell, lips sealed forever. ‘But I don’t think this will come to anything.’ I was treated to another snatch of ‘The Bonnie Banks of Loch Lomand’. ‘Yes, just treat it as a holiday for yourself and the cat.’

  It was the middle of June, but all the way from the border with England that notorious Scottish east coast mist made driving difficult. Cold and dismal, it hung low over the fields and hills, bleaching out the summer colours of the countryside and reducing the famed beauty of the landscape to grey, indistinct shapes that loomed, then vanished quickly behind. I peered through the windscreen. If I’d taken the main dual carriageway instead of the scenic route, I’d have checked into the White Heather Hotel an hour ago. I’d now be putting my feet up and having a coffee, or sampling one of Scotland’s pure malts. I rolled the names over my tongue. Glenmorangie, Laphroaig, Cragganmore, Dalwhinnie, Macallan, Royal Lochnagar, Tallisker…

  That mist was thicker than ever. The insides of the car windows were steaming up too. I grabbed for the cloth lying on the back seat. In the driving mirror my eyes met Customs Officer Gorgonzola’s copper ones. She gave me her Cheshire Cat grin, designed to show off each sharp tooth to perfect advantage.

  In case you’re wondering, Customs Officer Gorgonzola, extraordinarily gifted sniffer-out of drugs, is a cat, a large Red Persian of tatty and disreputable appearance. She has the typical sweet nature of the breed, the copper eyes, but not the long luxuriant coat. Some Don Juan of an alley cat must have seduced her mother, hence the moth-eaten appearance. At times, for no apparent reason, her eyes narrow into slits, she sheathes and unsheathes her claws and hisses quietly to herself, perhaps dwelling upon the harrowing circumstance of her near-drowning at birth.

  The White Heather Hotel couldn’t be far away now, but visibility was very poor, only a couple of hundred yards or so. I lowered the window and stuck out my head. A low dry-stone wall loomed to the right, and beyond it I could hear the faint crash of waves on the shore. A little way ahead, insubstantial in the mist, a huge monkey-puzzle tree spread a dark tangle of arms. As I crept level, a puff of wind swirled and eddied the mist to reveal a white signbo
ard suspended from a branch overhanging the road. On it in fancy lettering:

  WHITE HEATHER COUNTRY HOUSE HOTEL.

  I’d reached my goal. I brought the car to an abrupt halt, depositing Gorgonzola in an astonished heap on the floor.

  ‘It’s your own fault,’ I growled unsympathetically. ‘You should have let me clip you into your harness instead of poncing about on the back seat.’

  Ignoring such coarseness, she leapt back onto the seat and curled up. One open eye watched me sulkily as I stepped out of the car.

  WHITE HEATHER COUNTRY HOUSE HOTEL

  SELF-CATERING COTTAGES

  JACUZZI, SOLARIUM, SAUNA

  NO PETS.

  Proprietors Mr & Mrs M Mackenzie

  Beneath hung a smaller notice: Vacancies.

  The No Pets edict was not a problem. I’d often faced this sort of tricky situation. ‘Nothing that our well-rehearsed routine can’t cope with, eh, G?’

  Never one to hold a grudge for long, she stepped daintily out of the car and wound herself round my legs in affectionate agreement.

  The hotel was miles from anywhere – a breakdown would provide an excellent excuse for not having booked ahead. I turned off the ignition, propped up the bonnet, and sawed vigorously at the drive belt with the scissors kept in my bag for ‘emergencies’. A minute or two of effort, and I surveyed the ragged cut with satisfaction. I pulled the severed belt off its pulley and threw it into the nearest clump of bushes.

  Now for the luggage. I leant into the boot and whipped out a large blue holdall inscribed MINE, and an equally large red one, surprisingly heavy for its size, inscribed YOURS, containing a fluffy towel, a soft sheepskin rug (G’s bed, she liked her comforts), and fifteen large cans of an obscure but expensive brand of cat food, her favourite. I locked the car, gathered up the two holdalls, and set off. Gorgonzola, moth-eaten tail held high, stalked ahead.

  Despite the hampering mist I could see that the grounds of the hotel were extensive and well-kept – lawns of billiard table smoothness, silvery with moisture, lapped two huge beds of heather (white, of course). Half a dozen cars were parked on the gravelled forecourt from which wide stone steps led up to the front door of the house, its rather grim grey stone softened by the finely sculptured leaves of a rampant Virginia creeper. Of Gorgonzola, there was no sign. She always knew when to make herself scarce.

  I scrunched over the wet gravel and up the steps. An elegant potted plant in a classy white jardinière graced the large vestibule. Beside it on a small spindly legged walnut table reposed a tastefully designed card bearing in copperplate script a glowing description of the hotel. A well-polished brass plaque introduced a somewhat curter note.

  THE MANAGEMENT REGRETS NO PETS CAN BE ENTERTAINED.

  Entertained? An audience of cats and dogs in the drawing room solemnly listening to a string quartet? Mustn’t laugh, I could be on CCTV.

  Through the glass door, I could see carpeted stairs and, standing guard at their foot, an imposing grandfather clock with yellowed dial. I pulled open the door, and deposited the holdalls in front of the polished reception desk. Spread open before me lay an open ledger and, beside it, a porcelain hand bell with the notice Please ring for attention. I rang as requested. No response. I seized the opportunity and swivelled the ledger to scan the entries.

  ‘Can I be of assistance…madam?’ The cold, steely voice paused perceptibly before the madam. The speaker had noted my action and did not approve.

  I spun round guiltily, as if I’d sneaked a quick glance at a doctor’s notes and been caught in the act. Confronting me was a tall angular woman, her black hair flecked with iron grey. Mrs Morag Mackenzie.

  ‘You have a vacancy?’ I asked.

  She inclined her head in aristocratic assent. ‘Hotel, or self-catering cottage?’

  ‘Oh, hotel!’ I said. ‘I do like my little luxuries!’

  Her gaze rested on the two holdalls. ‘A single or a double room, madam?’

  ‘A double,’ I replied blandly. ‘Though I’m by myself, I prefer the extra space.’

  Her eyes scrutinised me for a long moment, as if to x-ray my morals. ‘Sign here, please.’ She pushed the register towards me and selected a key from the board behind her.

  I signed my name with a flourish. My real name, that is. Using an alias, I’ve found, only leads to unnecessary complications.

  ‘Ms Deborah Smith. Smith…’ She pursed her thin lips, savouring the word as if it was something rather nasty she had found in the salad. Again her eyes homed in on the YOURS holdall like an Exocet missile on its way to its target.

  ‘Yes, it’s plain Smith, not spelt with y or e, I’m afraid, Mrs…er…’ I smiled disarmingly.

  ‘Mackenzie.’ There was no reciprocating smile from the Gorgon. ‘I’ll show you to your room. It’s number 4 on the first floor.’

  I picked up the holdalls. Now to dispel any lurking suspicion that my arrival was anything other than chance. ‘Is there a phone in the room? I’m afraid my car’s broken down just outside your driveway, and I’ll have to contact a garage.’

  ‘Room telephone, madam? Of course. This way.’ She stalked ahead of me up the ornately balustraded staircase.

  The weather should be a safe enough topic. ‘Do you often get mist as thick as this?’

  ‘Haar,’ replied Mrs Mackenzie, ‘haar.’

  West Country accent, Devon or Cornwall. Orr’s briefing on the hotel and its owners had not included any such connections. Perhaps this was going to be a lead worth following up.

  ‘Haar?’ I echoed encouragingly, hoping she would reveal more.

  She paused beside a magnificent Victorian stained-glass window on the half-landing. Her thin lips compressed into what might have been a condescending smile. ‘Haar,’ she spoke slowly and clearly as if explaining to a person of limited understanding, ‘is the local word for the sea mist that tends to linger for several days after a spell of hot weather.’

  ‘How interesting,’ I said truthfully.

  Room 4 faced to the rear, just above a small tree whose branches overhung the sloping roof of a conservatory running the length of the building. I wouldn’t have to smuggle Gorgonzola in under my jacket as I sometimes had to do if access proved beyond her mountaineering skills.

  When I was alone, I threw up the lower half of the sash window with as much noise as I could decently make. In anyone’s books, this dreadful weather counted as winter. I was confident I wouldn’t have to wait long.

  G couldn’t bear being wet or cold – not surprising in view of her near-death experience as a kitten. After a misalliance, pedigree breeders can be unforgiving. I’d found her late one autumn afternoon, a wet and shivering ball clinging desperately to an old log jammed against the river bank. Beside her floated the drowned bodies of her brothers and sisters. I’d scooped her up and taken her home wrapped in my woolly hat. No alternative, was there? I couldn’t leave her there to die.

  I dried her, made up an intensive care unit from a hot water bottle and an old jersey, and started a regime of two-hourly feeds from a pipette. There wasn’t much sign of life. She was so weak that I had to put the tip in her mouth and stroke her throat so that she would swallow the slow trickle of warm liquid. Then it was retire to bed, set the alarm, stagger up, eyes glued with sleep. Each time, to my surprise, the little ball of ginger fur was still alive.

  The next morning a pink tongue licked my finger. ‘Welcome to the world, Kitten,’ I’d said. ‘You can stay here till I find you a good home.’

  I didn’t give her a name, just called her Kitten. Keeping a cat was really out of the question for me, so it was better not to become too attached to this tiny creature. At the time I trained dogs for HM Revenue and Customs, taking three or four home and testing them by hiding an object in the house. That way I found out which of them had potential as a Sniffer.

  I kept her out of the way of the dogs at first, but she soon showed she could take care of herself. Any dog that overstepped the mark received a sharp r
eminder to behave. Puppies came and went. Kitten stayed. She played with the dogs, ate with the dogs, slept with the dogs. I suppose she grew up thinking she was a dog. I shortened her name to Kit and didn’t try too hard to find her that good home.

  Training sessions may look like games, but they’re a serious business. The dogs mustn’t be distracted, so I shut Kit in her basket, when I could catch her, but more often than not the process became a game of hide and seek. She hid. I’d seek. Sometimes I shut her out in the garden, and then she would peer in at us, gingery face pressed disconsolately against the glass.

  Kit’s career with Revenue and Customs began the day I chose a ripe cheese as my test for the dogs. To make it a tough one, I liberally squirted a can of lavender-scented polish on every wooden surface in the lounge, paying particular attention to the bookcase. In the six-inch gap between carpet and base I laid my pongy morsel of cheese, pushing it as far back as I could. Only a dog with the very best ‘nose’ would pass a grade A test like this.

  Before going to fetch the dogs, I went in search of Kit. She was lying on my bed curled up, face buried in tail in her Do Not Disturb posture. I gave her a quick stroke and left her to it. No need to put her in her basket today. I let the puppies, Jenny and Roger, out of their kennels, attached a leash to each collar and led them into the house.

  I tied Jenny securely to the stair rail and knelt down beside Roger. In my hand I held another piece of the smelly cheese.

  When he’d had a good sniff, I slipped the leash, and pointed at the open lounge door. ‘Search!’

  The puppy bounded forward, barking with excitement, tail wagging, while I stood in the doorway, stopwatch and notebook in hand. Chair, settee, cupboard, chair again, pawing and sniffing. Bookcase. A cursory sniff underneath, then back to the settee again and another scamper round the various pieces of furniture. He trotted back past the bookcase again, but showed no interest in it. In the end I had to write, Roger – Fail.