No Suspicious Circumstances Page 10

  I was making good time back to the hotel when a long queue of cars at road works ahead forced me to a halt. I drummed my fingers on the wheel in frustration. The mist had at last thinned to a high ceiling of cloud, though the occasional grey pocket still loitered, reluctant to go. I eyed the dashboard clock impatiently. I was cutting it fine. It would be a black mark to arrive at the hotel after the meal had finished. But when the lights changed, only five cars made it through. I had crawled twenty yards nearer dinner.

  The realisation struck me that I hadn’t eaten since breakfast. Even a toffee or boiled sweet would be more than welcome. I rummaged in the glove compartment for some form of sustenance. As the red light changed to green, the car first in line leapt eagerly forward – and stalled. The lights changed back. I resigned myself to Mrs Mackenzie’s displeasure.

  I resumed my foraging in the glove compartment. Tapes, map-reading light, assorted petrol vouchers, tin of sardines, couple of crumbling cat biscuits and a crumpled cellophane bag that had once (but no longer) contained toffees.

  Red turned again to green. There was much revving of engines, much inching forward, a lot of tense anticipation and very little progress. A tussle of opinion between an advancing car and one that had jumped the lights from the other direction seemed to be giving rise to some interesting recriminations and heated exchanges. A lengthy delay was definitely on the cards.

  I switched off the engine and eyed the tin of sardines, emergency supplies for Gorgonzola. She would be miffed if the emergency supply was needed, but when the cat’s away… I made a mental note to buy a replacement, tugged off the lid and tucked into the contents. I was licking my fingers appreciatively when the guilty thought intruded that this was the second of my little moral lapses today.

  The first had been when I had sneaked off to Gina’s car. That was after the fire brigade had managed to break their way through the tower door. I’d made my way to where her car was standing forlornly in the car park. I knew I’d not have long to find any personal papers before the police turned their attentions to her mode of transport to the castle.

  I had the lock picked in three seconds. The door swung open. A leather bag was lying on the passenger seat, where Gina, with her disorganised ways, had abandoned it in full view of any passing thief. A rapid search revealed only the same assortment of junk that for weeks I had been meaning to clear out of my own bag. Nothing in the glove compartment, or in the door pocket. Disappointed, I made to close the door.

  Then, mindful that untidy people drop things on the floor, I peered under the front seats, but fished out only a tattered cigarette packet. I turned it over. Eureka! She had torn it open to use as an emergency notepad for a list of places and times. I stuffed it in my pocket and slipped away from the scene of the crime…

  Peeeeeeep The insistent blaring of a horn from the car behind blasted into my thoughts. The vehicles ahead were passing the lights. I made it through, but the car behind didn’t. I didn’t dare look back. I suppose that counted as my third lapse from grace today.

  It was as I had feared. Mrs Mackenzie did not take it well when I appeared in the dining room doorway just as the last guests were finishing off their desserts. After a moment’s pregnant silence, her eyes swivelled pointedly to a notice on the dining room wall. Guests are requested to inform the Management IN ADVANCE if they make other eating arrangements. For some moments she stared hard at the notice as if to refresh her memory, then marching over to the two tables with their place settings still intact, pounced on the cutlery and carried it off in the direction of the kitchen. Too craven to do more than mumble an abject apology to her retreating back, I fled upstairs to my room.

  When I bent down to stroke her, Gorgonzola’s eyes narrowed. Her welcoming purr metamorphosed to something remarkably like a snarl as she detected the tasty whiff of sardines on my hand. Then, like Mrs Mackenzie, she stalked petulantly off to stand with swishing tail beside the red YOURS holdall. An understandable reaction, I decided charitably, when you’re starving and someone has blatantly helped herself to your meal.

  I studied the tins in the holdall. What would make the tastiest peace offering? Salmon. That picture on the label looked so enticing. Gorgonzola’s mouth was already dripping in anticipation of the gourmet meal to come. An empty rumble from my stomach reminded me that I hadn’t eaten for nearly twelve hours, apart from that little snack of sardines, of course. I gazed speculatively at her. Perhaps I could filch her food from under her very nose… No, this was not going to be my fourth moral lapse of the day.

  After a few minutes of watching Gorgonzola wolfing the salmon, I felt my resolution weakening. I took myself firmly in hand. This would not do. An official of Her Majesty’s Revenue and Customs could hardly descend to eating cat food. Anyway, fat chance of being able to wrest what remained of the salmon from an outraged Gorgonzola’s tigerish jaws.

  Like the mirage of cool blue water materialising before a thirst-crazed traveller lost in the desert, an alluring vision rose up before my hungry eyes. Delicious, crusty, soft-centred rolls and pats of butter. Mrs Mackenzie had meanly snatched the cutlery away, but perhaps she had not yet got round to removing the rolls from the table. I’d make a quick sortie into the dining room and spirit them away. As long as I was careful not to leave any tell-tale crumbs in my room…

  I sauntered casually down the stairs, ready to change direction for the lounge if Mrs Mackenzie should appear. I poked my head round the door. The room was deserted. She was obviously still in the throes of tidying up, but could return at any moment. There, only a couple of yards away, lay the tempting basket of rolls and a small dish of foil-wrapped butters.

  My mind ranging over some plausible excuses if challenged, I pondered the best method of retrieval – slow noiseless tiptoe, or fast headlong rush. I’d rely on speed. Five or six quick strides took me to the table. I snatched up three of the rolls and a handful of butters. Too late now to regret not bringing a bag to carry them away. I clutched my booty as best I could and beat a hasty retreat, just as the door from the kitchen began to open.

  I had reached the turn of the stairs and was congratulating myself on my little victory, when I lost my precarious grip on the rolls. One slipped from my arms and bounced merrily on each step down to the foot of the stairs. It came to rest nestling cosily up against an outsize pair of yellow golfing shoes. My eyes travelled slowly upwards, past the black trousers, past the vivid yellow jersey, and came to rest on the face topped by the yellow and black golfing cap.

  ‘Mighty fine chip shot, ma’am.’ Hiram J Spinks raised an amused eyebrow and smiled, but his eyes were cold and calculating. He picked up the roll and held it out to me. ‘Guess you missed dinner?’ The questioning note in his voice was unmistakable.

  I felt a coldness in the pit of my stomach.

  ‘Er, yes,’ I said, mind racing. I knew with awful certainty what his next question was going to be.

  ‘You been someplace interesting I should see?’ The tone casual, the intent deadly.

  It was a Catch-22 situation. If I said that I’d been at Tantallon, and he wasn’t aware of this, he would be on red alert. If I said I’d been somewhere else, and he had seen me at the castle…

  I debated, dithered, took a chance. ‘I went shopping in Edinburgh. You know how it is when a woman gets the chance to browse among all those boutiques.’ I forced a laugh and took the roll from him. ‘I’m counting on you not to tell Mrs Mackenzie about this little foraging expedition of mine.’

  He chuckled and winked conspiratorially, but a steel shutter had descended behind those chilly eyes.

  Suddenly, I recalled Tantallon, the dipped headlights attempting to stab their way through the thick mist and reflecting on the leaves as I pressed myself against them, the hunched figure at the wheel. He had seen me – and recognised me. My presence there must have strengthened any lurking suspicions over the incident at Inchcolm. Looking into those cold eyes, I knew that if I hadn’t instinctively pressed myself against
the dripping bushes to avoid that approaching car, if I had continued walking in the middle of the road, he would have crushed me under his wheels with no more compunction than he’d brush aside an offending worm-cast on the putting green. Just another terrible accident in the fog. Nobody really to blame…

  And my lie about shopping in Edinburgh revealed that I had seen him at Tantallon, and didn’t want him to know.

  I had made a fatal mistake.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Back in my room, I sank down onto the bed with no appetite for the hard-won rolls and butter. Legs strangely weak, heart thumping uncomfortably fast, I was under no illusion as to the danger that now threatened me. Spinks had killed twice. A third murder – mine – was definitely on the cards.

  He couldn’t know that I was an undercover Revenue and Customs Officer, but I was obviously taking an excessive interest in his affairs. He’d seen me at the Botanics and Inchcolm, and today at Tantallon, and the clincher for him would be that I had lied to him about my presence there. He would now be sure that my turning up at those locations was not a mere coincidence.

  Gorgonzola, ever tuned to my moods, uncurled from the comfortable nest she had made in the duvet, stretched lazily, and patted gently at my arm. As I stroked her tufty coat, I grew calmer. That list I’d filched from Gina’s car looked promising, and the police enquiry into the identity of the Japanese woman might well provide another lead. With that distinctive gold streak in her hair, it shouldn’t be difficult for them to pick up her trail at the group’s hotel. As for my own personal safety, forewarned was forearmed. That meeting with Spinks had been unfortunate, but he still would have been suspicious, even if I’d admitted to being at Tantallon. I’d just have to get in there first and pin something on him.

  That decided, I suddenly felt hungry, broke open one of the rolls, and spread a thick layer of butter over its soft white centre with the aid of a teaspoon from the tea-making equipment. As I prepared to sink my teeth into the soft bread, I found myself drooling in anticipation…

  Hunger at least semi-satisfied, I nudged G away from prime position on the bed, and almost immediately fell fast asleep.

  …My head was level with his feet. I had a worm’s eye view of the studs of his golf shoes. Hiram, unmistakable in an enormous yellow and black golfing cap that floated on the top of his head like some vast hot air balloon, smiled pleasantly at me. Still smiling, he reached into his golf bag and drew out a gigantic butter knife stamped Made in Japan. Holding it in a two-handed golfer’s grip, he took up a teeing-off stance with my head as the ball. As I stared up at him, he swung the knife high in the air behind his shoulder and brought it down in a slashing power drive…

  My eyes snapped open. My forehead was beaded with sweat, my body rigid with fear. For a terrifying moment, I stared uncomprehendingly at the alarm clock on the bedside table. 4.30 a.m. The room was already bright and filled with the chirping trill of birdsong. The white net curtains billowed gently in a light dawn breeze.

  Apprehensively, my eyes roved round the room. Nothing. Nobody. Not even Gorgonzola. Relax, it had been only a dream, but I would take it as a warning. No Jacuzzi baths, no wandering alone round treacherous old castles. All Spinks’s other killings had been designed to appear accidental. If I kept to crowded, busy places, what could he possibly do? Plenty, a small voice inside me whinged. Drowsily, I listened to its craven whine. I would keep out of Spinks’s way today by having breakfast in bed…

  A few hours later at 7.30 things didn’t seem quite so simple. I lifted the phone. ‘I wonder if I could have breakfast in bed today, Mrs Mackenzie.’

  There was a long silence at the other end of the line. Then, speaking slowly and clearly so that there should be no misunderstanding, she replied, ‘I’m afraid it is not hotel policy to offer room service unless there are truly exceptional circumstances.’ A tinny laugh underlined just how preposterous was my request.

  I bit back what I really wanted to say – I’m afraid too, and desiring to avoid a would-be murderer in the dining room must fall under the category of exceptional circumstances. Instead, I feigned a humility of which Uriah Heep himself would have been proud.

  ‘I’m so sorry, Mrs Mackenzie. I realise I am asking you to go to enormous trouble, but I’m feeling so unwell. It must be delayed shock after my accident, I suppose.’ I played a mean trump card. ‘You see, I wouldn’t like to alarm the other guests by being taken ill in the dining room. They might find it a bit upsetting if I had to be carried away like poor Ms Lannelle.’ A wobble of suppressed laughter made my voice sound convincingly tearful and shaky.

  There was a sharp intake of breath at the other end of the line.

  I pressed home my advantage. ‘I shall, of course, expect to be charged a bit more to recompense you for all the extra trouble.’

  Mrs Mackenzie knew when she was beaten. ‘My dear Miss Smith,’ she cooed, her voice suddenly dripping honeyed concern, ‘of course feeling unwell rates as an exceptional circumstance. Why didn’t you say so at first? I myself shall bring you up a tray.’

  Shutting the window to prevent an untimely entrance by Gorgonzola, I propped myself against the pillows in a suitably feeble invalid’s pose and waited. Ten minutes later, there was a tap at the door and the handle slowly turned. I experienced a pang of alarm. Was that yellow and black cap about to appear round the door? Lying in bed, I’d be a defenceless target for an attack.

  Then a tray pushed the door open, followed by Mrs Mackenzie’s angular features. I let my breath out in a quavering sigh, not entirely feigned.

  ‘I’ve brought you a light breakfast, not too heavy, feeling as you are.’ She placed the tray on the bedside table and with suspicious eyes inspected my recumbent form for signs of health.

  I gazed with dismay at the very small boiled egg and two tiny triangles of toast. ‘How thoughtful of you,’ I quavered, my voice faint with hunger at the mere thought of a large plate piled high with tasty bacon, egg and sausages. The memory of last night’s soft buttered rolls rose tantalisingly before me.

  ‘If you’re still feeling unwell at lunch time, just let me know, and I’ll make you up a special light meal.’

  The realisation that she could charge a high price for very little food had brought an avaricious gleam to her eye. It gave a whole new meaning to the phrase Making Much Out Of Little. With an air of quiet satisfaction she surveyed the tray, artistic in its minimal simplicity. A final tweak at the cloth, a precision realignment of teaspoon and knife, and she turned to leave.

  Halfway towards the door she abruptly changed direction, crossed to my carefully closed window and flung it wide open. ‘A little fresh air will do you the power of good.’ Her brisk tone brooked no opposition.

  I smiled weakly, hoping fervently that a hungry Gorgonzola would not choose this inopportune moment to make her entrance.

  I felt that some comment was required. ‘It’s very good of you, Mrs Mackenzie,’ I whispered, ‘to take all this trouble when you have the other guests to consider.’

  Inclining her head in gracious acknowledgement, she swept regally from the room.

  I left the hotel later that morning, hiding behind a huge pair of dark sunglasses that I hoped lent me an air of wan paleness in keeping with my invalid status. I have to admit, however, they did make the negotiation of the dim recesses of staircase and hall a trifle difficult. At the foot of the stairs a sharp pain razored through my shin, and for a long, heart-stopping moment I thought I was under attack from Spinks crouching in the shadows. I wrenched off the glasses to discover I’d been the victim of an ornate Victorian umbrella stand.

  A familiar discreet cough revealed the lurking presence of Mrs Mackenzie.

  To forestall the inevitable cross-examination, I called out, ‘I’m just taking your advice and stepping out for a little fresh air.’

  My real intention was to drive towards Edinburgh and treat myself to a huge meal. After that, I planned to call in at Lothian & Borders Police Headquarters and se
e if they had made any progress towards tracing the Japanese woman. Nestling in my pocket was the cigarette packet I’d found in Gina’s Lombardini’s car. I would study it over a heaped plate of – well, anything.

  When I stepped outside, I found that early sun had given way to low grey clouds with more than a hint of rain, a typical Scottish summer’s day. Mrs Mackenzie might find it a trifle odd that a supposed invalid was choosing to take the air wearing sunglasses when rain threatened. I whipped off the glasses and thrust them into my pocket. In the car, I sat for a few moments behind the wheel. There was no sign of Spinks’s car in the heather-bordered car park, but as I drove along I kept a wary eye on the rear view mirror. Just in case.

  After my long fast, I was obsessed with the thought of a gourmet meal, so I didn’t stop at the first eatery I spotted, but drove on to find somewhere more likely to provide that special experience.

  I picked up the heavy leather-bound menu and took my time studying it, determined to exercise control and discipline. My eyes scanned the main courses… Each dish seemed more mouth-watering than the next.

  Branade of Jerusalem artichoke with aubergine caviar

  Pickled herring in Madeira brine with side salad

  Watercress and mushroom consommé

  Grilled fillets of lemon sole with avocado and lemon butter

  Delice of Scottish salmon with a fine leek and

  mushroom cream

  Noisettes of Border lamb with a mint and

  cucumber dressing

  Panfried supreme of chicken in a bed of sweet peppers and

  garlic sauce

  Entrecôte of prize Aberdeen Angus garni with mushrooms