No Suspicious Circumstances Read online

  I craned forward for a better view of the bizarre procession. At that same instant, perhaps attracted by the slight movement, the urchin swung his rifle up and round as if tracking a moving clay-pigeon target. His eyes met mine, widened, then narrowed calculatingly. He mimed pulling the trigger. Instinctively, I jerked back.

  With a sharp report, as if a rifle had indeed been discharged, the branch under my right hand snapped, sending my body lurching forward. Frantically, I scrabbled, clutched, flailed at branches, twigs, leaves, anything to prevent a headlong plummet to the ground twenty feet below. Debris showered down onto the astonished heads of the temporarily silenced creatures of MacDonald’s farmyard. Then my shoulder thudded painfully against something solid, and my arms circled a thick branch in a desperate bear hug.

  ‘Sir, sir!’ The young voices were strident with excitement. ‘Norrie’s just shot a woman out of that tree!’

  ‘What’s she doing there, sir?’

  ‘Is she trying to steal birds’ eggs, sir? Can we call the cops?’

  Eyes closed, I pressed my forehead against the rough bark and waited for my heart rhythm to subside to normal.

  ‘Why’s she not moving, sir? Is she dead?’ The note of hope was tangible, the word dead savoured to the full.

  I heard the sigh of disappointment as I levered myself gingerly upright. With as much dignity as I could muster, I brushed assorted twigs from my hair and smiled down at the upturned faces and the goggling eyes. It was going to be difficult to explain my presence twenty feet above the ground in a horse chestnut tree… Then inspiration – all that DVD and video-watching makes kids see people from the US of A as oddballs who do crazy things. If they thought I was American, maybe I wouldn’t have to explain a thing.

  ‘Hi there, kids!’ I directed a particularly warm smile at the skinny redhead. ‘That sure was a swell shot, pal. Drilled me right between the eyes. But just let me tell you guys how the Amazon Indians hunt without guns, and kill with poison-tipped arrows.’

  I scrambled my way down, my lurid descriptions of sudden and violent death in the jungle cunningly designed to prevent any more probing questions. When my feet at last touched the ground, my youthful audience was hanging spellbound on every word, desperate to hear yet more gruesome details. The group leaders, less impressed, were eyeing me warily.

  The man carrying the rubbish cleared his throat, ‘Well, what exactly were you doing up there?’ His grip on the box shifted a fraction, the ghetto blaster wobbled dangerously.

  ‘Just a bit of bird watching.’ I made a grab for the blaster before it could slide to the ground. ‘Hey, I reckon you guys could use some help, so I’ll tote this along for you. I’m making for the parking lot myself. Let’s go!’

  Swinging the ghetto blaster, I turned in the direction of the car park and launched into a spirited rendition of ‘Ol’ MacDanald.’

  Surrounded as I was by my diminutive bodyguards, there was no chance of Spinks getting his hands on me now.

  ‘Ee-i-ee-i-o,’ I trilled triumphantly as I marched along.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  The wave of euphoria had ebbed by the time I reached the gates of the White Heather Hotel. As I swung into the drive, I slowed the car to a crawl. What if Spinks had gone straight back to his car? What if he had not stalked me for hours among the scrub and bushes of Longniddry? My hands clenched the wheel in a vice-like grip. Was he now lying in ambush in the dimly lit hall, or behind the door of my room? I brought the car to a halt and rested my forehead on my folded arms.

  The voice of commonsense reasserted itself. It was most unlikely that he would be lurking with murderous intent anywhere in the White Heather Hotel. Another accident there would certainly take some explaining away.

  But how was I going to handle our next meeting? Spinks would almost certainly take his cue from my reaction. I stared hard at a brown smear on the windscreen and tried to think myself into his shoes. I had shown too persistent and close an interest in his affairs, so in his eyes, I would not be an innocent bystander, but a police officer…or from a rival drugs syndicate trying to muscle in on his territory. Ye-es, that could be it.

  I reviewed the afternoon’s happenings in this new light. I had run away after that second lethal golf ball, indicating that I knew an attempt was being made on my life. How would a rival organisation react to an attack on one of its own? I drummed my fingers on the steering wheel… That smear was irritating me. A quick squirt of screen wash to the windscreen, a brisk movement of the wiper blades, and the accumulation of squashed bugs had almost gone. Yes, attack was the best form of defence. I must make him feel threatened…but how?

  Frowning, I stared up the tree-lined drive. The squashed body of a fly was still stuck firmly to the windscreen at eye level. After another pump of the windscreen-wash, another sweep of the wipers, it was still there, superglued by impact. To Spinks, I must appear like that; an irritating insect obscuring the way ahead. I got out, and with a flick of my finger dislodged the obstinate husk. That was how he dealt with people who got in his way. That was how he would deal with me if he felt threatened. So…make him think of me as an ally, or at least as someone useful to him and his plans.

  By the time I reached the car park, I had worked out a plan of action. There was no sign of him or his car. Good. He’d find a message waiting for him when he collected his keys. I rummaged about until I found the notepad in the glove compartment. The wording would be crucial. After a moment’s thought, I wrote in a bold and heavy hand, How about a meeting to do business? That would imply I had the backing of a big drug cartel. I hoped.

  The rendezvous would have to be somewhere we’d both feel secure. Somewhere quiet. And for my own safety, not too isolated…a place where there’d be plenty of people close by…somewhere in Edinburgh?

  I scrabbled once more in the glove compartment and found the Edinburgh guide with its fold-out map. Big green splodges marked parks and open ground in the centre of town. I considered the possibility of a meeting in the Botanic Gardens. I dismissed it – too many opportunities for another little drowning accident. I shut out the memory of Waldo’s staring eyes and discoloured face. What about Princes Street Gardens? That would be too public for Spinks…

  The most promising looked to be the biggest green area on the map, the Queen’s Park and its mini-mountain, Arthur’s Seat with its three little lochs. That was certainly big enough to give privacy for our meeting, yet crowded enough on its necklace of roads, and the adjacent Royal Mile and Holyrood Palace, to discourage any ideas Spinks might have. The best place should be a landmark, easy of access, but hopefully not too frequented, and nowhere near anywhere that could become an ‘accident’ zone. So, not the lochs, nor the Salisbury Crags. Hunter’s Bog? That name wasn’t propitious. Gutted Haddie. Weird! And as for Haggis Knowe, I sniggered, if I asked him to meet me at either of these places, he wouldn’t take me seriously…

  My finger hovered over St Anthony’s Chapel (ruin), isolated, but only a couple of hundred yards from the safety of one of the main routes through the Park. It was on the edge of a small loch, certainly, but Spinks was unlikely to try to eliminate me in full view of a steady stream of passing cars. I’d meet him there.

  I looked again at the message I had written on the notepad. How about a meeting to do business? Not assertive enough. I nibbled thoughtfully at the end of the pen, then wrote quickly before any niggling doubts could arise about the wisdom of doing this. Our organisation could use a guy like you. Meet me in Edinburgh at St Anthony’s Chapel in the Queen’s Park. 11.30 tomorrow morning. Smith.

  That should hook him.

  The hotel hall was empty, though from the dining room there came a murmur of voices and the clink and scrape of cutlery. Should I leave the note in Spinks’s pigeon-hole to collect with his keys, or should I slip it under the door of his room? I swithered. Though his car wasn’t in the car park, he might have put it round the back. So he might be in his room and catch me in the act. At this moment, I didn’
t feel up to acting out the role of hard-bitten henchman of a powerful drug baron. But…if his key happened to be hanging up, I’d risk it.

  I leant over the reception desk and peered at the rows of pigeon-holes. In the gloom of the hall, it was difficult to see if his key was there. I grabbed the faraway edge of the broad counter and levered myself nearer. One foot maintained a precarious contact with the floor, but the other swung wildly in the air like a novice ballet dancer practising at the barre. I still couldn’t quite make out whether… I grunted with the effort of edging that little bit closer… Just as well there was nobody to see this indecorous display.

  Someone coughed sharply in the shadows. Embarrassed, I wriggled back to the proper side of the counter and looked round. Mrs Mackenzie, in funereal black, had materialised from nowhere, her angular features tinged with a mixture of unease and alarm.

  ‘Still feeling a little unwell, are you, Miss Smith?’ she asked with a look as black as her dress. Sick guests were bad for business, especially those who seemed to be about to vomit on the far side of the reception desk.

  ‘Oh yes, I mean, no,’ I stammered. ‘I’ve completely recovered. I just thought I saw er – something, er – scurrying past…’

  Her face turned a most pleasing shade of puce.

  I babbled on. ‘But, of course, there was nothing there. Nothing at all. No. As I said, I’ve completely recovered, thank you.’

  Defrosting now that both her establishment and I had received a clean bill of health, she eyed the paper in my hand. ‘How can I help you, Miss Smith?

  If I gave her the note to put in the pigeon-hole, she’d almost certainly read it, but I couldn’t avoid that now.

  I waved the folded piece of paper in her direction. ‘I see Mr Spinks hasn’t come in yet, but I don’t want to be late for dinner.’ That neatly skipped over the fact that I was already ten minutes late. ‘So could you just slip this little note into his pigeonhole?’

  She lifted the flap of the reception desk, lowering it behind her like a miniature drawbridge, and tucked the flimsy piece of paper under Spinks’s keys.

  ‘I’ll see he gets it as soon as he comes in, Miss Smith.’ The words smooth, the eyes sharp, already x-raying the contents.

  With a gracious smile in return, I moved off in the direction of the dining room. Ten seconds, I reckoned, before those calculating eyes were scanning the words I had scrawled. I quickened my pace. By handing that note to Mrs Mackenzie I’d certainly burnt my boats. No going back now. I just hoped I could handle the forces I had unleashed. With an uncanny sense of timing, as I passed the swing-door that led to the kitchen, the air was heavy with the acrid smell of burning.

  I did not have long to wait for developments. Just as I was finishing the soup, Murdo Mackenzie, sparse hair slicked down, and otherwise spruced up for evening service in the dining room, delicately edged his way towards me through the cluster of tables. With some difficulty, he manoeuvred his heavy tray past jutting elbows and handbags lying in wait to ensnare the unwary foot. He stopped beside my chair. On the tray stood a very expensive eleven-year-old Chateau-bottled red Bordeaux, its austerely simple label proclaiming its quality.

  I was more than a little annoyed. So Mrs Mackenzie thought she was going to pull a fast one by making me pay for wine I didn’t want?

  ‘There must be a mistake.’ I let the irritation show. ‘I didn’t order this wine.’

  The frown-line between Mackenzie’s eyes deepened. He seemed nervous, continuously rubbing one hand over the other like a surgeon cleansing his hands before a difficult operation.

  ‘Er…if you would prefer something else… Morag thought…’ He swallowed, ‘As you ordered the duck…she thought you might care for something to wash it down. On the House, of course…’

  At the word wash, his hands unconsciously sped up their soaping motion. Taking my astonished silence for assent, he seized the bottle, uncorked it, poured a little of the contents into my glass, then stood back, anxiously awaiting my approval.

  Enlightenment dawned. Mrs Mackenzie must have lost no time in reading my note to Spinks and telling her husband. This was a blatant attempt to ingratiate themselves with somebody more powerful than Spinks.

  I picked up the glass and swirled the liquid, colour a warm red, bouquet of ripe redcurrants with a hint of mint. After an appreciative sniff, I graciously nodded my acceptance with the thinnest of thin-lipped smiles, in the manner of Mafia godfathers. Cool, emotionless. That’s how they played it, at least according to Hollywood.

  My performance had the desired effect on Mackenzie. He stepped eagerly forward to fill my glass, then backed away, nodding and smiling obsequiously. I held up my wineglass to the light and admired its clarity. I took another appreciative sip. As the kitchen door swung behind him, I caught a glimpse of Mrs Mackenzie peering anxiously in my direction. I’d made my mark with the owners of the White Heather Hotel. But I had the nasty feeling that my note would not impress Spinks quite so easily.

  Forty minutes later, I pushed back my chair with a sigh of contentment. The food had been excellent. Jitters had certainly not been allowed to spoil what was definitely a gourmet meal.

  Back in the (comparative) safety of my room, those jitters surfaced like some time-delayed indigestion pangs. I pulled up a chair to the mirror and studied my reflection. Where was the permanent scowl, the small mean eyes, the cruel mouth of a godfather, or godmother for that matter? Behind my left shoulder, a sleepy Gorgonzola opened one lazy eye. She was curled up on the end of the bed, her stomach swollen and distended after her gourmet meal of duck and salmon. How about… I pressed my lips together into a thin line and subjected her reflection to a cold hard stare. Would she sense the naked aggression, arch her back, spit, hiss? Her eye stared thoughtfully back, and ve-ery slowly closed. Verdict delivered.

  So much for the hard-bitten look. I’d had a lot more success with the written word, at least as far as the Mackenzies were concerned. I frowned at my reflection in the mirror. Spinks, unfortunately, would take a lot more convincing. He saw people as puppets, to be manipulated by cold-blooded killers like himself. I should be safe enough until tomorrow, though. He would want to find out what I had to offer… After that, I had no illusions about the danger I would be in. He’d had no qualms about ridding himself of his other would-be partners, Hinburger and Lombardini. Up to now, any evidence I had against him was merely conjecture, or purely circumstantial. I was no heroine. Just get something definite on him, I told myself, retreat, then call in reinforcements. So… I stared into the mirror and practised my mean smile.

  Gorgonzola’s paw patted my cheek and brought me out of a troubled sleep. I lay there, drowsily trying to piece together the disjointed fragments of my dreams. Not for long. She had taken lessons from Attila the Hun, and soon indicated her impatience by parading back and forth, each weighty paw placed with malice aforethought in the middle of my stomach.

  Forcing one eye open, I stumbled out of bed and picked my way across the room to the window, where G, tail swishing, had already taken up position. The air coming through the narrow gap at the bottom was cold. Yawning, I pushed up the sash just enough for her to slither through. The early morning sun was already glinting on the surface of the small pool and sending long black shadows across the lawn.

  What was the time? I peered at the alarm clock on the bedside table. It was still only six a.m. Far too early to get up. Without a twinge of guilt, I climbed back into bed and wrapped the duvet tightly round myself. I’d just lie here a moment and plan…

  Trr…trr… I put out a sleepy hand and groped for the switch of the alarm. Trr…trr… I fumbled with the switch again. That irritating trill went on and on. I propped myself up on an elbow and managed to get my eyes wider open. The ringing wasn’t coming from the alarm, but from the bedside telephone. Who could be ringing me at this early hour? I struggled upright, glancing at the time as I reached over to pick up the receiver. 7.30 a.m. The alarm should have gone off half an hour ago. I g
roaned. G must have been at it again. She took a perverse pleasure in patting the alarm-off button with her paw.

  ‘Hello,’ I said warily.

  ‘Oh, gooood mo-o-rn-ing, Miss Smith.’ It was unmistakably Mrs Mackenzie, but the sweet honeyed tones were totally unfamiliar. ‘I was just wondering, Miss Smith, if you would again care to take your breakfast in bed?’ There was the genteelest of stresses on the word again.

  ‘Uh…’ my sleepy brain tried to come to terms with this new Mrs Mackenzie.

  My lack of response misinterpreted, she redoubled her efforts to please. ‘You could, of course, Miss Smith, state the time you wish Mr Mackenzie to bring your breakfast up to you.’

  With some dismay, I visualised yesterday’s two tiny triangles of toast. I remained silent.

  The same minimalist vision must have also occurred to her, for she hastily added, ‘If you feel you could manage the full breakfast this morning, Miss Smith, that will be no trouble, no trouble at all.’ The honeyed tones were now definitely forced.