No Suspicious Circumstances Read online

  Then it was Jenny’s turn for the cheese test. I slipped the leash. ‘Search!’

  Tail wagging, she made straight for the bookcase. Nose down, rear in air, snuffle, sniff, frantic wagging. I had my pencil poised to rate Jenny as a pass, when she lost interest in the bookcase. Off she rushed to investigate the easy chair by the fire, then a cushion on the settee. She completed a second tour round the room, but made no return to the bookcase. Regretfully, I wrote, Jenny – Fail.

  ‘Just goes to show,’ I thought. ‘You never can tell.’ I’d been pretty sure that Jenny would find the cheese. It was really disappointing. I’d give them both a second chance tomorrow.

  I took the dogs to their kennels, and went back to the lounge to retrieve the cheese. To save too much scrabbling and peering, I’d placed it directly in line with the Complete Guide to Dog Care, but when I reached in, my fingers touched only carpet. I made a sweeping motion to right and left. Nothing. I stretched out full length and squinted into the gap. Two eyes peered back. Two copper eyes and a self-satisfied ginger smile. Hanging from a whisker were two crumbs, all that was left of the cheese.

  It didn’t take me long to figure out the chain of events. Kit had known it was training time and had wanted a part of the action, so while I was away collecting the dogs, she’d sneaked into the lounge. Beneath the strong scent of lavender polish was the cheesy smell that had been on my hand when I’d stroked her. She’d recognised it – and tracked it down. The dogs hadn’t failed their test. There had been no cheese left to detect.

  Intrigued by her exploit, I reran the cheese test. Only this time there were three participants. Roger failed, Jenny locked on in 60 seconds, Kit in 30. After that, I allowed her to join the dogs in their sniffing games. Time after time, she proved that her sense of smell and intelligence were outstanding. What else could I do but recommend her for training?

  On the day she passed her final test, I decided that her new role deserved a new name and called her after the cheese that had triggered her change of status.

  ‘Welcome to HM Customs, Gorgonzola,’ I said, and gave her a hug. The unwanted ugly duckling, left to drown, had matured into a swan. We’d been a team ever since.

  I didn’t have to wait long at the open window of the White Heather Hotel. Two minutes later, there was a scrabbling in the tree over the conservatory and Gorgonzola, looking rather like a bedraggled dish mop, stepped daintily over the sill, leaving a trail of wet paw prints across Mrs Mackenzie’s pristine carpet. ‘Haar,’ she spat petulantly.

  I was impressed. She had already set herself to learn the local lingo. Slamming the window shut, I delved in the red YOURS holdall and pulled out her fluffy towel – like all prima donnas, she expected to be cosseted.

  I enveloped her in the towel and rubbed gently. ‘There, that’s better, isn’t it?’ I crooned.

  Tap tap on the bedroom door. I hadn’t locked it. To have done so would have aroused suspicion, and I had to assume the Mackenzies were guilty till I found otherwise.

  The handle turned at the same moment as Mrs Mackenzie’s sharp, ‘Can I trouble you a minute, Miss Smith?’

  With one swift movement, I rolled up G in the towel and hurled the swaddled bundle under the bed. She gave a surprised squeak, then silence. She’d recognised an emergency. And that’s what there’d be if Mrs Mackenzie threw me out of the hotel for entertaining an expressly forbidden pet. A quick glance at the open holdall reassured me that she’d see nothing more incriminating than the sheepskin rug.

  Mrs M’s angular body appeared in the open doorway. ‘I just came up to ask if everything was all right.’ Her eyes swivelled round the room, raking it for evidence of anything untoward.

  ‘Everything’s fine, thank you, Mrs Mackenzie.’

  Her glance flicked to the open holdall, but she seemed satisfied. She gave the room a final once-over, and turned to go. ‘Guests are expected to keep reasonable hours. The hotel is locked at midnight.’ With a curt nod she went out. The door clicked shut behind her.

  So…she’d checked up on me. Interesting. I stepped softly to the door and stood there with my ear pressed to the panelling. Three seconds, four, five… Then I heard her moving away and the creak creak as she descended the stairs. Quietly, I turned the key in the lock.

  I stooped to look under the bed, ‘OK, you can—’

  I heard the crunch of tyres on gravel and crossed to the window just in time to see a van disappearing into the depths of the enormous double garage set back at a little distance from the rear of the house. The door swung down silently behind the van. Concealed by the curtain, I waited. Murdo Mackenzie, co-owner of the White Heather Hotel, emerged from a small access port carrying a plastic-wrapped package. Was it my imagination, or was there something shifty about the way he was glancing around? He moved towards the house and I lost sight of him.

  From the holdall I drew out a rather old-fashioned mobile phone, in reality a state-of-the-art encrypted camera-phone. Holding it close to my mouth, I began my report.

  ‘June 19th, 20.00 hours. Operation Scotch Mist. In position at target. Double garage at rear looks interesting. Blue transit van just arrived. Driver M, in possession of plastic-covered package.’

  I switched off and moved back to the window. The mist seemed to be thinning a little, for I could now see, on the far side of the damp lawn, a large pond and the outline of two small buildings that might be the self-catering cottages. I opened the window and listened. Silence, except for muffled dripping from the saturated tree that had served as G’s entrance route.

  She was still under the bed. I lifted the valance sheet and peered beneath. A pair of furious copper eyes glared back at me. It took much wheedling and coaxing, and a dish piled high with her favourite salmon flakes, before, mollified, she condescended to emerge.

  I waited till her tongue had rasped up the last morsel. Then, ‘Sorry, G, it’s time for work. You’re on duty.’ I reached into the holdall for the broad black collar she wore when on drug-detecting duty. Incorporated in it was a miniaturised transmitter.

  The awful realisation struck that she was about to be sent out into the damp grey world. One moment she was grooming her coat, the next she’d flopped into a relaxed heap, eyes closed, heavy breathing, denoting a deep and exhausted slumber that not even the most cold-hearted taskmaster would dream of interrupting.

  ‘Nice try, Gorgonzola.’ Unfeelingly, I snapped the collar round her neck. ‘Remind me to nominate you for an Oscar, Actress of the Year award.’

  Training won. With only a token protest, she allowed herself to be bundled up in my arms and carried to the window. I pointed at the garage. ‘Search!’

  Moth-eaten tail twitching to indicate deep and continuing displeasure, she leapt lightly into the branches of that conveniently placed tree. Rustling leaves and the patter of displaced mist droplets marked her progress to the ground. With a final expressive twitch of her tail, she disappeared round the side of the garage.

  I turned from the window and tuned an innocent-looking iPod to receiving frequency, then lay back on my bed, hands behind my head, waiting. Five minutes…ten minutes… The collar-transmitter was sound-activated, so there would be nothing from the receiver unless her search was successful. My eyelids grew heavy… It had been a long drive from London and that mist had made the stretch from the Scottish border particularly tiring. My thoughts began to drift…

  Rrrrrrr rrrrrrr. The low crooning call from the ‘iPod’ brought me fully awake. It looked as if the Mackenzie establishment would indeed merit further investigation.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Bright sunlight filtering into the room woke me at 6.30 a.m., half an hour before the time set on my alarm. I yawned and threw back the duvet. There was no sign of Gorgonzola, who had already left on her early morning stroll. Cool air billowed out the thin curtains as I padded to the window.

  The mist had cleared. For the first time I could see the full extent of the grounds behind the house. A broad green lawn stretched
past the garage with its interesting contents to where, in the middle distance, a large irregularly shaped pond glinted in the pale sunlight. On the far side were two chalet-style buildings, the shapes I’d glimpsed from my window last night. A dense shrubbery of rhododendron and laurel screened them from the drive.

  Sun at last. I whistled cheerfully as I made leisurely preparations to go down to breakfast. I locked the MINE holdall against prying eyes. I left unsecured the YOURS holdall with its large stock of assorted cat food and pile of sales leaflets and order forms designed to mislead anyone of an inquisitive disposition – and Mrs Mackenzie certainly fell into that category. When I was ready, I closed the window, a sign to Gorgonzola that she was expected to stay outside.

  It was 7.15. That gave me almost an hour to reconnoitre the grounds under the guise of a pre-breakfast stroll. I made my way downstairs. The early morning sunshine slanting through the Victorian stained-glass window carpeted the parquet flooring of the hall in patches of red and blue. As I had hoped, there was nobody about, though the distant clatter of dishes showed the kitchen staff was already busy.

  Time to do a little snooping. A few steps and I was behind the reception desk scanning the most recent entries in the ledger, still in position. Miss F Lannelle from London. Two Americans, Hiram J Spinks from San Francisco, and Waldo M Hinburger Jnr from New York. A Signora Gina Lombardini from Milan, Italy. An English couple, Mr and Mrs John Smythe from Liverpool. Had Mrs Mackenzie treated Smythe with a y, pronounced, of course, Sm-eye-th, with the same scepticism she’d accorded to a plain common Smith? That’s the trouble with my surname. It sometimes arouses more attention and comment than a much more exotic name like…like Lombardini or Hinburger…or…

  Distracted by these thoughts, I failed to hear the soft scrape of a footfall behind me. A shadow fell across the open page.

  An American voice drawled, ‘I wouldn’t like to be in your shoes, ma’am, if the old battleaxe, Mackenzie, catches you eyeballing that book of hers.’

  A strangely clad figure was regarding me with a wide and friendly grin. A yellow and black tartan cap sat at a jaunty angle on his crew-cut head, a green T-shirt printed with a map pinpointing the major golf courses in Scotland was tucked into a pair of tweedy plus-fours. Yellow socks colour coordinated with the tartan cap.

  I returned the grin. ‘I can see you take the ancient art of golf seriously.’ I indicated the putter he was carrying. ‘Out for some early morning practice, Mr er…’

  ‘Hiram J Spinks from San Francisco, US of A. Gotta get forty putts in before breakfast.’ With a cheery wave he made for the front door, slipped the latch, and went out.

  I gazed thoughtfully after the cheerful Spinks and changed my mind about that pre-breakfast stroll. If one guest was engaging in early morning golfing activity, another guest could jog without comment. A jogger blends innocently into the background. The Mackenzies had something to hide. I might arouse attention by wandering through the grounds, but jogging…

  It took only a few minutes for me to return to my room and emerge clad in a rather scruffy black tracksuit reserved for the occasions when I desire to blend in with the landscape. I passed once more through the hall, but paused with my hand on the latch of the front door. My eye had been caught by a dainty ceramic hand pointing along a carpeted corridor. Underneath were the words, This way to the Jacuzzi, Sauna, Solarium. Curious to see the kind of facility offered by Mrs Mackenzie’s northern establishment, I put on hold the early morning pleasure of investigative jogging and followed the pointing finger.

  Two other plaques, equally tasteful, adorned the door at the far end of the passage. The first cooed, We hope you enjoy our Jacuzzi – Sauna – Solarium. Guests may partake of these facilities between the hours of 7a.m. and 9.30 p.m. The second admonished in stern Scottish Presbyterian vein, ever mindful of human frailty, GUESTS ARE REQUESTED TO DRESS IN A SEEMLY MANNER AT ALL TIMES.

  I pushed open the door and was enveloped in warm, humid air, heavy with the fragrance of pine. I had envisaged a plain, white-tiled room, vaguely Victorian, the tub a modernised version of a hip-bath. Instead, I made the pleasant discovery of fashionably classical tiles on walls and floor, and a Jacuzzi of the latest design.

  In a proprietorial gesture, the sole occupant of the tub had flung a soft white towelling bathrobe carelessly over both of the stylish white loungers. He glared at me, patently resentful of the intrusion. I didn’t fancy sharing the tub with that thickset heavy-jowled Grouch, and abandoned the temptation to have a relaxing soak in the warm bubbling waters.

  ‘Back in a minute,’ I lied, giving him a warm smile. That should keep him on edge and spoil his enjoyment. I closed the door and beat a leisurely retreat.

  Outside in the open air I took a deep invigorating breath, and for the benefit of eyes that might be watching from one of the windows, did a few warm-up exercises before commencing a circuit of the grounds. My main aim was a closer examination of the garage, but before that a carefully casual jog round the front lawn would allay any suspicion. I set off, steering well clear of the intensely concentrating figure of Hiram J Spinks, head down over his putter, oblivious of anything except the white ball in front of him and the small flag he had planted a few yards away.

  After two token circuits I veered round the side of the house, making towards the back lawn and my target, the garage. I was in luck. Its main door was fully raised, allowing me to see that the walls were lined with large cardboard boxes stacked from floor to ceiling. I slowed to a halt and commenced some running on the spot, followed by energetic arm and leg exercises designed to let me see as much as possible of the interior. Slow motion t’ai chi would have been less exhausting, but to have pranced up to the open door, arm fully extended like some figure from an ancient Egyptian wall painting, would certainly have been a lot more obtrusive. The blue van I’d seen last night was still there, its rear doors open. Loading – or unloading?

  From inside the garage came whistles and grunts of effort and the sound of heavy boxes being dragged across the floor. My exercises halted in mid-swing. Stepping boldly to the open door, I stuck my head round the jamb. Stretching right to the back of the garage were more large cardboard boxes, stamped MACKENZIE’S TASTE OF SCOTLAND. I squinted through the gloom and could just make out Murdo Mackenzie hauling a heavy packing case across the floor. Swearing and cursing, he braced himself, knees bent, to heave the box into the back of the van.

  ‘Hello there, Jimmy! No haar the day, then,’ I called cheerfully. Two expressions in the Scots lingo – and before breakfast. I was proud of myself.

  ‘What the f—’ he swung round. The weight he was carrying caught him off balance and the box crashed to the floor spilling its contents in all directions. A large tartan tin rolled to my feet. His face contorted and flushed a rather alarming shade of purple. Even his scalp, visible through the combed and plastered hair, turned an interesting colour.

  ‘My fault!’ I cried. ‘Do let me help you pick them up.’

  Without giving him the chance to refuse, I pounced on the nearest tins and returned them to the box. They bore the same slogan as on the cardboard packing cases.

  ‘Oh, there’s another over there,’ I squeaked.

  I rushed to the front of the van, knelt, and picked up two cans. When I turned to face him I was holding up only one. The other was wedged somewhat uncomfortably under the waistband of my tracksuit.

  ‘Terribly sorry if I startled you, Jimmy, but I see that van’s a Ford. I was wondering if you would happen to have a spare drive belt?’

  That vertical frown line between his eyes deepened, lengthened. Incomprehensible guttural sounds issued from his lips. I waited politely until he stopped to draw breath.

  ‘Sorry. Didn’t quite catch that. I have a little difficulty making out the Scottish accent,’ I soothed.

  The purple flush of his face darkened to aubergine. The guttural sounds increased in ferocity. Time to leave.

  ‘But I see I’ve caught you at a somewh
at inconvenient time, er… Jimmy,’ I added hastily. ‘If you find a spare drive belt, just give me a shout. Room 4. The name’s Smith, without a y or an e.’

  I ducked back through the doorway and jogged away in the direction of the distant clump of rhododendron bushes, elbow pressed to side to keep my prize secured. In a couple of minutes I was passing the two wooden chalets beside the pond. One, all its curtains closed, looked unoccupied, the other’s window and door were open. At this early hour, somebody else was up and about.

  I stopped as if to admire the view, but in fact to hitch up the tin that was threatening to escape from its precarious position and slide down my leg. I kept the pond to my left and jogged on till I reached the shrubbery to the right of the cottages.

  An ornate metal signpost offered a choice of route along grassy paths. Cottages, Walled Garden, Dovecote, Hermit’s Grotto. I took none of them, but threaded my way through to the middle of the dense clump of rhododendrons and laurels to examine my trophy. It was a tin of haggis… Had Mackenzie flown off the handle because half a kilo of haggis had landed on his toe? Or was he overreacting because I’d interrupted something shady? It could be worth sending a sample of the contents to forensic. I sniggered. At being asked to test a haggis, the boys at the lab would be sniggering too. If the results were negative, I’d never live it down. Haggis Smith, and all that…

  I heard a faint rustle from the bushes behind me. I changed the snigger into a throat-clearing cough and swung round in time to see the lower branches of a rhododendron spring back into position as if released by an unseen hand. The unmistakable feeling of being watched sent a prickle down my spine. I never ignore this sixth sense. It has saved my life more than once. There I was, the stolen tin of haggis in my hand. Was the unseen watcher Mackenzie planning an ambush to retrieve his stolen property? A jumble of excuses spilt into my mind. Just fell over it. Doing some weightlifting exercises. I’m a haggis freak on a secret binge. All equally far-fetched.