No Suspicious Circumstances Read online

  Another rustle, this time from the clump of rhododendrons to my right. Another branch trembled and swayed. It was not likely to be Mackenzie. From what I had seen of him in action, he wouldn’t be creeping about on hands and knees patiently waiting his chance. He’d be homing in on his tin of haggis with all the subtlety of an iron filing clamping itself to a magnet. Whoever it was, I had better get rid of the evidence. With a quick flick of the wrist, I lobbed that incriminating tin into the shrubbery.

  Two things happened. From the bushes in front of me skirled a high-pitched shriek followed by a stream of unladylike remarks. At precisely the same moment, Gorgonzola stepped daintily out of the undergrowth, tail held high. She crouched, looked up at me with narrowed eyes and growled the growl of a half-starved cat whose breakfast is long overdue. The bushes surged, billowed, parted as a plump lady of majestic proportions, wild-eyed, indignant, erupted through the greenery brandishing the tin of haggis.

  ‘That could have killed me. I could have been brained by that missile. I demand an explanation of this hooligan conduct! And don’t insult my intelligence by telling me that you were teaching that cat to fetch.’ The Plump One paused, her ample bosom heaving in agitation.

  G twitched the tip of her tail, dangerously offended at being downgraded to the level of a puppy under training. Searching was a skill, a professional challenge. In no way could it be compared to a dog bounding after a stick.

  I took a deep breath. ‘I…er, have no explanation. At least,’ I gushed, ‘none that excuses hitting you with a projectile.’

  The formidable lady seemed on the point of launching a nasty assault on my person.

  I improvised hastily. ‘You will have heard, however, of the Scottish Highland Games?’

  An impatient nod.

  ‘And of the sport of tossing the caber?’

  Another impatient nod.

  ‘Well, instead of tossing that great heavy lump of wood,’ I continued smoothly, ‘ladies can compete in tossing something much lighter, a half kilo tin of haggis. I was just indulging in a little practice. I had no idea, of course, that there was anyone nearby. I’m most awfully sorry. I hope the tin didn’t strike too painfully?’ I pinned on a worried frown.

  Yikes, the virago still seemed firmly intent on GBH.

  I tried a distracting gambit. ‘Of course, though I’ve…er…thrown a haggis, I’ve never actually eaten the stuff. I believe it’s an acquired taste.’

  I seemed to have found the magic formula. The angry features softened.

  ‘I can assure you that the haggis – at least as served here – is ab-saw-loot-ly delicious. I’ll let you into a secret.’ Her eyes raked the shrubbery for potential eavesdroppers. ‘I’m writing an article about the culinary pleasures of this establishment. In my report I intend to award it a five-fork rating. This delicacy is served the local way with tatties and neeps—’ seeing my look of mystification, she added, ‘potatoes and turnips. Or alone with a glass of whisky. Quite the gastronome’s delight. The vegetables are all grown, organically of course, in the Kitchen Garden over there.’

  ‘Could I be speaking to…?’ I allowed a note of awe to creep into my voice.

  ‘Yes, Felicity Lannelle, the food writer of Gastronome Monthly. When I was almost brained by your tin, I was researching the Scottish truffle, normally thought of as a French delicacy. But would you believe it, a prize-winning one was found hereabouts last year!’

  ‘No!’ I exclaimed genuinely unimpressed. ‘Well, I’ll certainly take the opportunity to try the haggis while I’m here, coming as it does with the highest recommendation.’

  The deep resonant echoes of a gong drifted across lawn and pond.

  ‘Ah, breakfast.’ She handed me the tin. ‘I recommend the porridge. Taken with sugar and cream, though, of course, true aficionados take it without sugar and standing up.’

  Felicity Lannelle, truffle researcher, headed purposefully for the hotel intent on savouring another gastronomic delight. At which point, Gorgonzola forcibly reminded me of her presence by treading heavily on my foot. I stuffed the tin back into my tracksuit. One female placated, time now to placate a second.

  It was 8.30 a.m. and breakfast was well underway. The airy conservatory, all white paint and cream muslin curtains, held a dozen circular tables set for two or four. Elegant little vases of summer flowers stood on crisp white cloths. I stood in the doorway trying to spot an empty seat. There was one beside Ms Lannelle in the corner, but she had spread the whole surface of the table with a variety of dishes and a large notebook. Research was obviously in progress. Another presence would certainly be unwelcome. Better not to incur her wrath again so soon.

  Above the low hum of breakfast conversation, the nasal drawl of Hiram J Spinks held forth. The words ‘putter’, ‘iron’, ‘bunker’, drifted my way. The recipient of his discourse was an olive-skinned young woman, dark-haired, sophisticated. Could she be the Italian, Gina Lombardini? She was looking slightly bored in a polite kind of way.

  The only other vacant place was beside a large potted palm. At a table for two, the Grouch of the Jacuzzi, now clad in an expensive lightweight suit of American cut, was tucking into a plate of bacon and eggs while reading a copy of the New York Times propped up against the coffee pot. The Waldo M Hinburger on the hotel register?

  ‘Fine morning,’ I remarked pulling back the chair and sitting down opposite. ‘You don’t mind if I join you?’

  I hoped he was in a better mood now. He wasn’t. I was rewarded with an uncommunicative grunt. I spotted the corner of the menu, just visible under the folds of the newspaper.

  ‘Excuse me,’ I reached across and tweaked it out.

  The only response was the irritated rustle of newsprint from the other side of the table.

  In keeping with the country house ambiance of the hotel, the choice for breakfast commenced with fruit juices, continued through cereals and Swiss muesli, porridge and cream, and Loch Fyne kippers, and culminated in the authentically Victorian dish of bacon, eggs, and devilled kidneys.

  My usual breakfast is orange juice, toast and coffee but that little jog round the grounds had built up quite an appetite. I addressed the New York Times. ‘Anything you can recommend? Did you try the porridge?’

  The American waxed eloquent. ‘Nope.’ He turned to another page.

  So, I would have to order without the benefit of his advice, but if the porridge was good enough for the gastronome, it was good enough for me. I ordered porridge and cream.

  While I waited, I gave the nearest guests the once over. At the next table was a family with two well-behaved children. Mrs Mackenzie, of course, would not tolerate any rowdy behaviour. They seemed to be in deep discussion of holiday plans. Beyond them sat a newly married couple with eyes only for each other. At regular intervals they blew little kisses and fed each other morsels of toast.

  ‘Your porridge and cream, madam.’ The waitress set down a bowl and a jug. ‘Some of our guests like to take it with a sprinkling of sugar. I’ll bring the coffee and croissants later.’

  I poured the cream and looked for the sugar. There it was. Just out of reach beside Old Grouch’s coffee cup.

  I leant forward. ‘Please—’

  The newspaper twitched violently, the coffee pot rocked, brown spots spattered over Mrs Mackenzie’s pure white tablecloth.

  ‘Cops give me a pain in the ass. What rap are ya trying to pin on me?’ The American’s eyes bored into mine, pupils large and black like the twin barrels of a sawn-off shotgun.

  Shit. How had he blown my cover? Operation Scotch Mist seemed over before it had even begun.

  ‘Er, what—’

  ‘Y’ said y’ were a cop, didn’t yuh?’

  ‘Cop? Don’t know what you mean.’ Well, it was worth a try.

  ‘Police,’ he snapped impatiently.

  ‘No, no, I was just about to say please pass the sugar.’ I gave a nervous giggle.

  A grunt, ‘If y’ ain’t the cops, who are ya?’ Suspicion st
ill glinted in the black eyes.

  When faced with a question like that, my usual fall-back is to reply that I am in the insurance business, an effective turn-off for most people. But this time, perhaps not wise. Being in the insurance business to a gangster means only one thing – the protection racket. So I said smoothly, ‘DJ Smith, Cat Food Wholesale Supplies.’ I fished in my pocket, and with a flourish produced a business card illustrated with a smiling cat, napkin round neck, knife and fork poised.

  It had the desired effect. He visibly relaxed, his lip curling in instant contempt. DJ Smith dismissed as a patsy, no threat, no danger.

  ‘Guess it takes all sorts,’ he grunted. He folded his newspaper. ‘Have to call New York. Got unfinished business with some guys.’

  I looked at my watch, feigning bewilderment. ‘But it’ll be after midnight there.’

  ‘Yup’. The twin-bore barrels swivelled towards me, daring me to ask more.

  I busied myself dabbing cravenly at the damp spots of coffee on the tablecloth.

  The waitress bustled up. ‘Did you enjoy your breakfast, Mr Hinburger?’

  This was met with another ambivalent grunt. He squared his broad shoulders under the expensive suit and headed purposefully out of the breakfast room.

  I stared thoughtfully after him. Waldo M Hinburger’s affairs would undoubtedly bear investigation. This afternoon I’d send his name and description to London with the rest of my report.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Hot afternoon sun blazed from a blue sky. No trace today of that awful mist. Tourists thronged the pavements of Edinburgh’s Royal Mile. Boutiques, craft galleries, restaurants, and cafés all jostled for position on the narrow street. Hung around with camera and laden with guidebooks, I strolled up towards the castle, shopping for a store of experiences to swap with the other guests in the lounge after dinner.

  Kit Yourself out in a Kilt. There’s one for you!!! I paused at one of the many tartan shops, its window awash with every conceivable tartan garment to clothe man, woman, and child from head to foot as a member of the Clan Macdonald, Stewart, Buchanan or Campbell. Not for me. I’d leave that sort of thing to Hiram J Spinks. As I turned away, my eye caught a quirky notice on a basket by the door. Accessorise your Pet. Match your Tartan. Coats, Hats, Bootees, Collars and Leads – His, Hers, and Its. Gorgonzola and I like teasing each other. This would be just the thing to send her up the wall. I rummaged till I found the very thing – a pet’s coat of a particularly virulent violet, red, and yellow, designed to fit a small dog – or a very large cat. I smirked. This would be something to get out on the occasions when she was being deliberately perverse. I went in and bought it.

  Opposite the shop was an interesting house with its upper floors jutting precariously over the street. I crossed the road to read the plaque at the door.

  Gladstone’s Land. National Trust for Scotland.

  17th century tenement home of a prosperous Edinburgh Merchant.

  Half an hour of wandering round the panelled rooms with their ornately painted ceilings would give me plenty of ammunition for after-dinner conversation in the lounge. I added it to my ‘shopping basket’.

  When I came out, it was nearly 3.30 p.m. I’d just have time to collect one more ‘piece of shopping’. Should I voyage through Scotland’s turbulent past in the Scottish Whisky Heritage Centre’s barrels? Or eyeball the Scottish crown jewels and Coronation Stone of Destiny in the castle? What about visiting the 140-year-old Camera Obscura to marvel at the views in the revolving rooftop mirror? Yes, I’d do that. It wouldn’t take more than quarter of an hour. Then I’d catch a bus back to the hotel. By then, the local garage should have turned up to repair the damage I’d inflicted on my car, and I’d be in good time for dinner and a chat about my ‘shopping’.

  One of a small group, I climbed the steps in the Camera Obscura tower to a small room at the top where lenses reflected the outside scene onto the concave surface of a circular table. Spread before me was the Royal Mile and the Tartan Shop in which I’d purchased G’s coat. We all oohed and aahed as the white surface pulsed and glowed with lifelike colour in the darkened room. The faces of the passengers on an open-topped bus at the traffic lights stood out as sharp and clear as if we were standing on the pavement. I didn’t like the thought that unseen eyes had watched me on my way up the Royal Mile.

  The camera panned to the upper part of the High Street to focus on tourists consulting maps and reading the sign outside the entrance to the Whisky Heritage Centre. One of them looked up, and the shotgun eyes of Waldo M Hinburger bored coldly into mine. For one heart-stopping moment I thought he could see me. Beside him in a distinctive bright red jacket was the dark-haired, sophisticated young woman I had seen at breakfast, the bored recipient of Hiram J Spinks’s golfing experiences. Hinburger turned towards her, the heavy jowls moving in earnest conversation.

  ‘That’s all, ladies and gentlemen.’ The camera operator pulled a lever. Hinburger’s image faded. ‘Hope you enjoyed the show.’

  By the time I’d hurried down the stairs two at a time to emerge blinking into bright sunlight, Hinburger and the woman had disappeared. Perhaps they’d gone into the Whisky Heritage Centre? Cautiously, I pushed open the door. Inside, a small queue waited to buy tickets. There was no trace of Hinburger and his companion.

  I looked up and down the High Street. The throng on the pavement thinned momentarily and I caught a flash of red disappearing down a narrow alleyway. By the time I’d pushed through the hampering crowds, the passageway stretched emptily ahead. The gold lettering on the wall announced that this was Lady Stair’s Close. Pretending to consult a guidebook, I slowed my pace to a stroll.

  A few yards down the Close, the rough walls opened out into a spacious split-level courtyard. It was deserted. I hesitated, looking round as if to get my bearings. To my right, a Y-shaped stone staircase gave access to four doors, all firmly shut. Directly opposite me, below the inscription Feare the Lord and depart from evil, was an open door. I read the sign on the wall, Lady Stair’s House is a museum open to the public. I looked inside, but saw no red-coated figure.

  Stymied. I looked about me uncertainly, but the small-paned windows gazed blindly back, and the studded wooden doors kept their secrets. If I lurked here in the courtyard, and she had gone down those steep steps at the other end, she’d be walking away from me with every second that passed. On the other hand, she might be behind one of these firmly closed doors. Should I linger on the chance she might emerge, or should I hurry on? I tossed a mental coin and plunged on.

  Abruptly the Close ended, and I found myself halfway up the hill that leads from Princes Street to the castle. Eureka. There Gina was, walking briskly down the hill towards Princes Street. Alone. I followed at a discreet distance, the crowded pavements providing good cover, though she didn’t once look back.

  She made a beeline for the Tourist Information Centre near the railway station and the Balmoral Hotel. The Centre’s big room was crowded with people, so I did not feel the same need for caution now. What could be more natural than two tourists meeting in such a place? Nevertheless, I thought it better not to advertise my presence. I picked up a holiday newspaper and hid behind it, watching her as she waited in a long queue at a counter with the sign Excursions. At last, it was her turn. As she stepped forward, I moved closer, taking up position behind a conveniently placed leaflet rack.

  ‘The Inchcolm Island boat trip?’ the assistant’s voice carried clearly. ‘Yes, it runs every afternoon, but it would be advisable to book in advance. It’s very popular, you know… Shall I reserve you a place?’

  An inaudible mutter from my quarry.

  ‘Your name and the hotel where you’re staying?’

  Another inaudible mutter.

  The assistant thumbed through a book of tickets. ‘Right then, Ms Lombardini, there are a few places left for Thursday and Friday. Which would you prefer?’

  Speak up, I wanted to shout. I leant forward… The carrier bag containing G
orgonzola’s new coat nudged against a stand of precariously stacked leaflets. As they began a silent slither to the floor, I made an ineffectual grab at them. The trickle became a rush, then a cascade. I peered apprehensively at the counter. Gina was turning round.

  ‘Mon Dieu! Quelle catastrophe!’ I cried, turning my head away and scrabbling for the leaflets.

  A young assistant was bearing down on me. ‘N’importe, madame. Puis-je vous aider?’ she asked helpfully.

  By the time we’d tidied up the leaflets and restored them to their proper position and I could look around once more, Gina Lombardini had gone.

  Why was she going to the island of Inchcolm? Because I’d seen her speaking with Hinburger, I was definitely interested in finding out.

  The young assistant was still hovering helpfully. ‘Madame? Vous voulez prendre un billet d’excursion?’

  Merde, I’d have to keep up this pretence of being French.

  ‘Oui.’

  She directed me to stand in the queue and was still within earshot when it was my turn to be served, so I summoned up my best French-accented English for the red-head behind the counter. ‘I like to go on boat journey to ze island Eenshcoom. Ven eez ze first joorney possible?’

  ‘Thursday – there – are – still – tickets.’ She spoke the words slowly and carefully.

  Had Gina decided on Thursday, or Friday? I played safe, ‘You have anozzer time thees week?’

  She consulted her computer. ‘There – are – also – tickets – for – Friday.’

  ‘Bon. I zall book for zee two days.’ I announced firmly.

  Her voice rose in astonishment. ‘You wish to book for Thursday and Friday?’

  ‘Mais oui. In ze case that ze sea is…’ I hesitated as if searching for the right word. I made up and down motions with the hands and clutched my stomach, more polite than making throwing-up noises. ‘I have ze mal de mer, ze sickness of the sea, you understand?’