No Suspicious Circumstances Read online

  An American voice interrupted the half-doze, ‘Waal, hi there, ma’am!’ Looming above me was Hiram J Spinks’s hideous yellow and black tartan cap in Macleod tartan, or perhaps more accurately, MacLoud. He was staring at my steaming clothes with undisguised curiosity.

  ‘Fell in the pond,’ I said quickly, before he could ask. ‘I overbalanced while trying to feed the ducks. Don’t ask me more. I’m too embarrassed. And it would be simply awful if anybody at the hotel heard about it.’

  He clucked sympathetically, ‘You can sure rely on me, ma’am.’ He put a finger to his lips.

  I hoped I could. It wouldn’t do at all if Hinburger, Mackenzie and the Signora heard that I had visited the Botanics at precisely the same time as themselves. As the yellow and black cap vanished behind a giant clump of pampas grass, I raised my face to the sun again, vaguely wondering why, on such a perfect day, Hiram J Spinks had preferred to come here rather than tramp round one of his beloved golf courses.

  Much later, water-stained and crumpled, but nearly dry, I drove back. An ambulance shot out of the hotel drive just as I was about to turn in, forcing me to brake sharply. In the mirror I watched the receding blue light. Had there been an accident in the kitchen? Had a guest suffered a heart attack? I drove slowly up the drive.

  A knot of people stood in an animated huddle in front of the house. I parked the car and, conscious of my bedraggled appearance, made for the door, hoping they would be too engrossed to notice me.

  As I sidled past, I caught snatches of conversation.

  ‘…perfectly OK last night.’

  ‘…found in her room.’

  ‘…unconscious and white as a corpse. She was breathing in a very funny way. Botulism, I shouldn’t wonder…’

  ‘My God! What was she eating last night?’ A tubby little man stared wildly round. His eyes lit up as they fell on me sneaking past. ‘I say, weren’t you sitting at her table last night? Did she eat—’ his voice quavered, ‘—the mussels?’

  Five pairs of eyes skewered me.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I stammered. ‘I don’t know what…who…?’ I tailed off.

  ‘Miss Lannelle. We’re talking about Miss Lannelle. Haven’t you heard?’

  ‘What’s happened?’ I hoped I sounded only mildly interested. ‘She seemed to be in good health last night in the lounge.’

  ‘Well, she would, wouldn’t she? It can take several hours for food poisoning to strike.’ The tubby man clutched desperately at my arm. ‘Well, did she eat the mussels?’

  I looked him straight in the eye.

  ‘Why, yes,’ I said untruthfully, calculating correctly that the resulting consternation would enable me to slip quietly away.

  As I made my way through the hall, through the open door of the dining room conservatory I caught a glimpse of an uncharacteristically flustered and agitated Mrs Mackenzie supervising the setting of tables for the evening meal.

  Once in my room, I went over to the window to let in Gorgonzola. On the far side of the pond, I could see that the door of Felicity’s cottage was open. Was she suffering from food poisoning? Her build, lifestyle and occupation made her a prime candidate for a coronary. Could she have had a heart attack? As I watched, Mackenzie came out and pulled the door shut. He seemed to be having some difficulty with the lock because he was holding something in his left hand. Shit, I’d left my binoculars in the car. I narrowed my eyes in an effort to focus better. Yes, there was definitely something in his hand, something white, but his body was screening it from view as he walked briskly along the path that led through the shrubbery back to the hotel. Concealed behind the filmy curtain, I waited for him to reappear.

  When he did, his hands were empty. Whatever he’d been carrying, he didn’t have it now.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Dinner that night was a sombre and silent affair. Eyes suspiciously scrutinised Mrs Mackenzie’s best culinary efforts, making a careful forensic examination of each plate of food. By nine o’clock the dining room was empty, the lounge deserted. Those who had not already checked out had retreated behind the closed doors of their rooms to await in fearful anticipation the first symptoms of the dreaded botulism. I, too, had sought the privacy of my room, but for a very different reason – to await the reply to my urgent email request for priority analysis of the haggis sample and a medical report on Ms Lannelle’s collapse.

  Sample – Negative. I pursed my lips in disappointment. Perhaps the medical report would be more illuminating. I stared at the screen…a massive heroin overdose. I switched off the ‘iPod’ and mulled over the information. Felicity Lannelle, a heroin addict? No way! That overdose must somehow be linked to her midnight feast. But the haggis she’d eaten came from the same container as the sample that had tested negative… I couldn’t figure it out.

  G tapped softly on my foot, ready for her dinner. In view of the current seafood scare in the Mackenzie establishment, it would be insensitive to choose anything even slightly fishy. I busied myself spooning out succulent chunks of Dawn-shot Highland Grouse while I pondered the riddle of Felicity’s overdose. There must be an answer. I watched idly while Gorgonzola rapidly demolished her heaped plate. A final rasping at the empty plate with her tongue, then she looked up, eyes wide and appealing, all part of her well-tried can-I-have-some-more Oliver Twist routine. Pretending I hadn’t noticed, I moved over to the window and looked over to the self-catering cottage. The answer might lie there.

  ‘You’re going to have company on your midnight stroll tonight, G,’ I said.

  The hotel was a black shape against the faintly luminous night sky. A dull light glowed from behind the tightly drawn curtains of one window of the hotel. The full moon had not yet risen to silver lawn and pond, and my dark jeans and jacket merged with the night. I was still edgy, but once Felicity’s cottage shielded me from the hotel, I relaxed a little. I’d sent Gorgonzola out wearing her working collar. Now I summoned her with the cat whistle, and, while I waited, inserted my pick-lock in the chalet door.

  Click. I pushed open the back door into the kitchen and played the narrow beam of my pencil torch over an overturned chair. On the table stood a bottle of wine and a half-full glass, Felicity’s pen and open notepad beside them.

  A tail curling round my legs announced Gorgonzola’s arrival.

  ‘This could be Flannan Isle or the Marie Celeste, eh, G?’

  I pulled the door shut behind us. Though the curtains were drawn over the windows, I couldn’t risk putting on the light. In the bedroom my torch picked out Felicity’s voluminous nightdress, neatly folded, lying on a chair. The bed had not been slept in.

  ‘She must have been taken ill pretty soon after eating the haggis. What do you think, G?’

  Gorgonzola ventured no opinion, merely scratched her ear and yawned.

  I moved back to the kitchen. Mackenzie had definitely taken something from the chalet. And disposed of it. A tablecloth was on the table, but no dishes or cutlery. I pulled open cupboards till I found the one where the pots were stored. A rack held two pots and a frying pan. There was one empty space. A cooking pot was missing – and the bowl I had used to carry the haggis from the kitchen. A room maid might have washed up, but she wouldn’t have removed pot and bowl. And surely she’d have picked up the overturned chair. I checked the other cupboards in case she’d stacked the bowl with the other crockery. No bowl.

  It seemed pretty clear that Mrs Mackenzie’s hen-pecked spouse had removed the tell-tale evidence of Felicity’s midnight feast. He’d carried it away in a kitchen bin liner from the spares under the sink. And disposed of it in the shrubbery. That’s what I’d seen from my window. Perhaps he’d been afraid that Public Health Inspectors would come to investigate a case of food poisoning.

  ‘Well, G,’ I scooped her up, opened the door and deposited her outside on the step. ‘It’s up to you to find out if it’s still there.’

  I was halfway along the path back to the hotel when I heard her crooning call. Only a few minutes of searching
the shrubbery and she’d sniffed out the bin liner bag. Behind me and off to the left. I started to feel my way through the shrubbery. A faint glimmer in the sky from the rising moon silhouetted the tops of the bushes, but under foot it was pitch black. The torch remained in my pocket, unused. Every window at the rear of the hotel was a potential eye to observe its beam or the reflection of its light on leaves and ground.

  ‘It’s all right for you, G,’ I muttered as I stumbled over roots and low branches. ‘You can see in the dark. And you’re—’

  I could just make out a denser rounded patch of black ahead, a low mound topped by a smaller ball, like a giant’s woollen hat with bobble. A crooning bobble.

  ‘That didn’t take you long, clever cat. That deserves a little reward when we get back. How do you fancy a bit of roast duck?’

  The croon changed to a deep reverberating purr. The bobble heaved, grew four legs and a bushy tail, and detached itself from the mound. I edged forward, one step…two… My foot caught on something sharp and metallic, and I pitched forward, landing heavily on the soft earth. As I lay there winded, disorientated by the sudden shock of the fall, I was treated to a mouse-eye view of Gorgonzola’s concerned face. She reached out an enquiring paw and gently patted my nose.

  I got shakily to my feet and risked playing the beam over the ground. Sunk into the grass was an ornate metal sign bearing the words Hermit’s Grotto. Set into the mound was a low doorway, and inside, tucked behind a clump of ferns, a plastic bag containing the cooking pot, spoon and bowl.

  As the contents were pretty much dried and crusted, it was easy to collect a scraping of each into my sample containers. I stored each carefully labelled canister in an inner pocket. By confirming the presence of heroin in Felicity’s haggis meal, G had given me the hard evidence I’d needed of a connection between the Mackenzies and the drug.

  Gorgonzola was waiting for me when I got back to Room 4, sitting beside the YOURS holdall, metaphorical knife and fork in paw, napkin under chin.

  ‘I wasn’t forgetting, G.’ I picked out a tin of roast duck in gravy and ladled out the promised reward.

  She crouched there daintily eating, muted slurps punctuated now and then by rumbling purrs of satisfaction. Her tail twitched gently from side to side, a swingometer of enjoyment.

  ‘All that eating’s putting on the fat, Gorgonzola. Shall I cut out tomorrow’s breakfast?’ This said with kindly concern, one female to another.

  She stopped in mid-chew and looked up, a glistening drop of gravy clinging to one whisker.

  Gravy. I made the connection. Last night I had taken the haggis sample. And then I had added gravy to Felicity’s bowl. That innocent-looking sauce in the Mackenzie’s fridge was nothing other than heroin in liquid form. Concentrated, deadly. Otherwise known as ‘Polish Soup’.

  I scooped up an astonished cat and planted a triumphant kiss on her nose.

  The soft buzz of the alarm woke me at seven a.m. Tentatively, I opened one eye. No bright sunlight this morning. What I could see of the sky through a gap in the curtains was grey and stormy. Was that the sound of rain pattering against the window? Last night’s intention to rise early for another investigative jog no longer seemed such a good idea. I pulled the duvet over my head. What a day! I snuggled down and decisively closed the opened eye. No need, really, to get up for another half hour…

  Gorgonzola had other ideas. The bed shuddered and creaked as a heavy weight landed on my legs. An impatient paw pushed aside the duvet and an indignant furry face peered in accusingly at me. She was ready for her early morning jog. I groaned and gave in.

  After I’d shut the window behind her, I reluctantly made up my mind to face getting dressed. My eye fell on the soft white bathrobe hanging behind the door. A soak in a warm tub would be just the thing on such a morning. Keeping my fingers crossed that the disgruntled Grouch would not already have taken up residence, I slipped the robe over my swimsuit and made my way down to the Jacuzzi.

  As I turned the corner of the stairs, I heard the click of the front door quietly closing. Through the door’s patterned glass, I glimpsed a tall shadowy figure and the unmistakable yellow and black of Hiram J Spinks’s golfing cap. I had to hand it to someone who could face that awful weather just to knock a little ball about. There was no one else around at that early hour, and it looked as if I would have the Jacuzzi all to myself.

  I poked my head round the door. If the bad-tempered American was there, I might reconsider. The room was satisfyingly empty, though someone had left a bathrobe in a crumpled heap on the tiled floor. Probably that slob, the Grouch, hadn’t bothered to take it back to his room. I virtuously made a point of hanging up mine on one of the hooks.

  The green waters boiled and frothed invitingly. I dipped a foot in, feeling for the step invisible under the turbulence. I found it and stood there for a moment in the welcoming warmth. Lowering myself in, I lay along the seat allowing the jets to pummel my legs. The bubbles foamed against my shoulders. I closed my eyes. Utter relaxation. I must make a point of doing this more often. No wonder people went in for Jacuzzis in a big way, even installing them in their gardens.

  A droplet splashed in my eye. I sat up, swinging my legs down off the seat. My foot touched something soft. I explored further with my toes. They touched fabric. And what felt horribly like skin.

  I jerked my legs away, jumped to my feet – and stood on what was definitely a face. Arrrgh, I leapt out of the Jacuzzi, and leant against the tiled wall, trembling, eyes closed.

  Beside me, the tub bubbled and seethed. Unexceptional, familiar, its grim secret hidden. With shaking hand, I leant over and pressed the stop button. Slowly the effervescence subsided. The seething surface stilled. Through the clear green waters, the shotgun eyes of Waldo M Hinburger delivered a final heart-stopping blast. His mouth gaped wide, as if in surprise and outrage that Death had served a subpoena from which there was no escape.

  In a career as investigator for the Drugs Division of Her Majesty’s Revenue and Customs, dead bodies are an occupational hazard I usually can handle, but to share a Jacuzzi with a corpse… A wave of nausea swept over me, my knees buckled, and I collapsed onto a lounger.

  I had seen no obvious signs of violence, but I couldn’t rule out foul play. The local police would investigate that. Meanwhile, what was the best thing to do? My first instinct was to creep away and leave the discovery of the body to someone else. Cowardly – and impracticable. On my way here I’d seen the golfer Spinks, though he had not seen me. So there was a strong possibility that I too might be spotted as, clad in the tell-tale bathrobe, I made my way back to my room.

  After a moment, I took a deep breath and steeled myself for another look into the Jacuzzi. Mistake. One more blast from those shotgun eyes and I fled the scene. I pulled my robe from the peg, wrapped it round me, flung open the door, and heedless of the damp trail on the carpet, ran along the corridor towards Reception.

  At this early hour the hall was still deserted. The greyness of the sky and the sombre ticking of the grandfather clock made the place unusually gloomy. From below stairs, massed voices droned a mournful Scottish psalm, some early morning radio programme the Mackenzies had tuned into – quite well-timed as a funeral service for Waldo M Hinburger, and definitely all the mourning he would get.

  It didn’t take any acting ability to bang the bell hysterically and gasp out my story to a frowning Mrs Mackenzie.

  ‘I think poor Mr Hinburger must have had a heart attack,’ I finished.

  Her frown deepened. Her lips compressed into a thin hard line. ‘The Management takes no responsibility for misuse of the Jacuzzi. There is a notice to that effect.’ Her hand hovered over the phone. ‘There’s no chance that you could be…mistaken?’ Her tone indicated that I might be indulging in some tasteless English practical joke.

  I shook my head, as if not trusting myself to speak. She gave a long-suffering sigh and vanished downstairs to reappear a moment later with her grumbling husband in tow. He hurr
ied sullenly off in the direction of the Jacuzzi.

  The proprietress of the White Heather Hotel stood grim and silent. One hand tapped out an impatient tattoo, the other pinned the telephone receiver down onto its rest as if to prevent the transmission of Bad Publicity. Her narrowed eyes homed in on the damp trail on the carpet.

  It was a shaken Mackenzie who reappeared a few moments later. In answer to her unspoken question, he nodded his head. ‘I’ve locked the door, Morag,’ he grunted.

  Without another word, he disappeared downstairs. The mournful Scottish psalm was turned up to full volume.

  Mrs M released her imprisoning grip on the receiver to point with a reproving finger at my wet handprints marring the polished surface of the counter. With the soft sleeve of my bathrobe, I scrubbed apologetically at the wet patches while she set about the distasteful task of reporting to the police the sudden early morning checkout of guest Waldo M Hinburger.

  ‘…Yes, discovered by another of the guests, a Ms Smith… Yes, he’s definitely dead… And none of your sirens and blue lights,’ she snapped. ‘Come in by the rear entrance. I don’t want my guests disturbed.’

  Guiltily aware of the pool that was forming beneath my feet, I beat a hasty retreat, while she was still occupied. I had time to dress and send a report before I was called for questioning. The police were very solicitous about my shocking experience. I didn’t feel the need to reveal my official status, and the interview didn’t take long.

  Later, from behind the curtains of my room, I admired the discreet way the whole business was handled as Hinburger’s bulky white-sheeted form was whisked into the ambulance waiting at the rear beside the garage. Mrs Mackenzie was right, of course, to insist on secrecy. Only yesterday, guests had watched the prostrate form of another guest being carried away. Seeing an obvious corpse carted off today would have emptied the hotel quicker than the time it took to say Waldo M Hinburger. And that would have left me dangerously exposed to the suspicions of Gina Lombardini and the Mackenzies.