No Suspicious Circumstances E-Book

The Mulgray Twins

• Herausgeber: Allison & Busby
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 454

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2013

Beschreibung

Meet the world's most unusual undercover team... It can be tough working undercover for HM Revenue & Customs, but DJ Smith has more than a little help from her trained sniffer cat, Gorgonzola, a moth-eaten Persian with gourmet tastes and a mind of her own. This first investigation finds DJ and Gorgonzola on the trail of a heroin smuggling ring operating in and around Edinburgh. Here DJ meets a cast of memorable characters including American golfing fanatic Hiram J Spinks, the glamorous Italian Signora Gina Lombardini, and the not so glamorous self-styled gastronome extraordinaire Felicity Lannelle. Beneath the innocent surface of the country house hotel eddies a sinister undercurrent. As one death follows another, who among the guests specialises in making murder look like accident?

Leseprobe

No Suspicious Circumstances

THE MULGRAY TWINS

For Alanna in thanks and friendship

Contents

Title PageDedicationAcknowledgementsCHAPTER ONECHAPTER TWOCHAPTER THREECHAPTER FOURCHAPTER FIVECHAPTER SIXCHAPTER SEVENCHAPTER EIGHTCHAPTER NINECHAPTER TENCHAPTER ELEVENCHAPTER TWELVECHAPTER THIRTEENCHAPTER FOURTEENCHAPTER FIFTEENCHAPTER SIXTEENCHAPTER SEVENTEENCHAPTER EIGHTEENCHAPTER NINETEENCHAPTER TWENTYCHAPTER TWENTY-ONECHAPTER TWENTY-TWOCHAPTER TWENTY-THREEEPILOGUEAbout the AuthorCopyright

Acknowledgements

Our grateful thanks to our friend Irene Fekete who started us on the road to publication, and our agent Frances Hanna of Acacia House Publishing, Brantford, Ontario, who over the years never lost faith in DJ Smith and Gorgonzola.

To Edith and Harry for being themselves.

In research matters we are indebted to the following: Cherry and Ray Legg for matters nautical, in particular the properties of inflatable boats and drowned bodies.

Linda of Headstart hairdressing salon, Joppa, Edinburgh, for her invaluable advice on the awful pitfalls of amateur hair dyeing – and disaster recovery.

Elizabeth Scott who kept us right on matters feline.

For those readers interested in the phenomenon of cats that paint (or find the idea totally incredible), we refer you to the amazing works of art in Why Cats Paint – a theory of feline aesthetics by Burton Silver and Heather Busch. Published by Seven Dials, Orion Publishing Group, London. Pocket edition published by Ten Speed Press, California and Toronto.

CHAPTER ONE

My closest friends know me as DJ Smith, investigator for Her Majesty’s Revenue and Customs (Drugs Division). My enemies, I hope, don’t know me at all. In my line of work I try to keep the lowest of profiles. Cloaked in secrecy. Under wraps. Undercover. That’s me. For the kind of enemies I make would be glad to see me dead. It’s always at the back of my mind.

That was why I should have paid more attention to the bell-boy with a couple of suitcases on his trolley. I’d summoned the lift to take me down from one of the penthouse suites. A sudden violent blow on the back slammed me against the stainless-steel shaft doors. They shouldn’t have opened. But someone had made sure they did. I pitched forward and down…

Whoever made the attempt on my life hadn’t taken into account the position of the lift, which was at the floor below. So my fall was not the intended twelve storeys, but a mere six feet; my injuries were a few cuts, bruises and more than a little shock to the system. I survived, but I can’t say the same for my undercover career as leisure hostess cum personal shopper.

The Department were quite good about the fact that I’d screwed up that carefully set up operation. My next assignment was, thankfully, not to Siberia but to Scotland.

‘Just a routine nose around, Deborah. Treat it as a holiday for you and the cat. It’ll be a rest for you after that last little bit of bother.’ Jim Orr, my Head of Section, selected a slim file from the neat stack on his desk.

A bit of bother! I’d almost been killed. But a six-foot fall instead of twelve storeys – if you look at it that way, I suppose you could call it ‘a bit of bother’…

He held the file out to me. ‘We’ve had a tip-off about a country house hotel not far from Edinburgh. It’s all in there, such as it is. The East of Scotland Drug Squad have been reporting a big increase in heroin traffic over the past year. They suspect the stuff’s coming in somewhere along the coastline between Edinburgh and the English border.’

I opened the file. The first plastic pocket held a photograph of a big grey-stone house in the Scottish Baronial style of architecture.

‘The White Heather Hotel, your base while you’re up there.’ He hummed a snatch of ‘The Bonnie Banks of Loch Lomand’. ‘Proprietors Murdo and Morag Mackenzie. They’ve no previous convictions.’

I studied the mug shot. A harmless-looking couple, but that didn’t mean a thing. Murdo Mackenzie’s heavy features frowned back at me. That deep line between the eyes showed him to be one of life’s worriers. One of those anxieties seemed to involve premature hair loss as he’d combed dark strands of hair across his scalp in a vain attempt to disguise a receding hairline. Morag was four years older. Her black hair was flecked with iron grey, and tied back in the severe hairstyle of an old-fashioned bun at the nape of the neck. Her hard face and thin lips gave the impression that she was the more dominant of the two.

Jim flicked a hand at a fly about to make a six-point landing on a stack of files on his desk. ‘The woman’s in the clear, but her husband’s distinctly shady. The local police have been interested in him for the last couple of years. Nothing ever proved, though.’ He gazed pensively at the fly, undeterred and now nosing through a pile of confidential papers. ‘Our source reckons there’s a possibility that Mackenzie might be involved in the distribution of the heroin. It shouldn’t take you long to check the place out. The Operation code name is Scotch Mist.’ He whipped a canister of fly-spray from a drawer. Pssssssh. The fly flopped on its back, one leg waving a final farewell, lips sealed forever. ‘But I don’t think this will come to anything.’ I was treated to another snatch of ‘The Bonnie Banks of Loch Lomand’. ‘Yes, just treat it as a holiday for yourself and the cat.’

It was the middle of June, but all the way from the border with England that notorious Scottish east coast mist made driving difficult. Cold and dismal, it hung low over the fields and hills, bleaching out the summer colours of the countryside and reducing the famed beauty of the landscape to grey, indistinct shapes that loomed, then vanished quickly behind. I peered through the windscreen. If I’d taken the main dual carriageway instead of the scenic route, I’d have checked into the White Heather Hotel an hour ago. I’d now be putting my feet up and having a coffee, or sampling one of Scotland’s pure malts. I rolled the names over my tongue. Glenmorangie, Laphroaig, Cragganmore, Dalwhinnie, Macallan, Royal Lochnagar, Tallisker…

That mist was thicker than ever. The insides of the car windows were steaming up too. I grabbed for the cloth lying on the back seat. In the driving mirror my eyes met Customs Officer Gorgonzola’s copper ones. She gave me her Cheshire Cat grin, designed to show off each sharp tooth to perfect advantage.

In case you’re wondering, Customs Officer Gorgonzola, extraordinarily gifted sniffer-out of drugs, is a cat, a large Red Persian of tatty and disreputable appearance. She has the typical sweet nature of the breed, the copper eyes, but not the long luxuriant coat. Some Don Juan of an alley cat must have seduced her mother, hence the moth-eaten appearance. At times, for no apparent reason, her eyes narrow into slits, she sheathes and unsheathes her claws and hisses quietly to herself, perhaps dwelling upon the harrowing circumstance of her near-drowning at birth.

The White Heather Hotel couldn’t be far away now, but visibility was very poor, only a couple of hundred yards or so. I lowered the window and stuck out my head. A low dry-stone wall loomed to the right, and beyond it I could hear the faint crash of waves on the shore. A little way ahead, insubstantial in the mist, a huge monkey-puzzle tree spread a dark tangle of arms. As I crept level, a puff of wind swirled and eddied the mist to reveal a white signboard suspended from a branch overhanging the road. On it in fancy lettering:

WHITE HEATHER COUNTRY HOUSE HOTEL.

I’d reached my goal. I brought the car to an abrupt halt, depositing Gorgonzola in an astonished heap on the floor.

‘It’s your own fault,’ I growled unsympathetically. ‘You should have let me clip you into your harness instead of poncing about on the back seat.’

Ignoring such coarseness, she leapt back onto the seat and curled up. One open eye watched me sulkily as I stepped out of the car.

WHITE HEATHER COUNTRY HOUSE HOTEL SELF-CATERING COTTAGES JACUZZI, SOLARIUM, SAUNA NO PETS. Proprietors Mr & Mrs M Mackenzie

Beneath hung a smaller notice: Vacancies.

The No Pets edict was not a problem. I’d often faced this sort of tricky situation. ‘Nothing that our well-rehearsed routine can’t cope with, eh, G?’

Never one to hold a grudge for long, she stepped daintily out of the car and wound herself round my legs in affectionate agreement.

The hotel was miles from anywhere – a breakdown would provide an excellent excuse for not having booked ahead. I turned off the ignition, propped up the bonnet, and sawed vigorously at the drive belt with the scissors kept in my bag for ‘emergencies’. A minute or two of effort, and I surveyed the ragged cut with satisfaction. I pulled the severed belt off its pulley and threw it into the nearest clump of bushes.

Now for the luggage. I leant into the boot and whipped out a large blue holdall inscribed MINE, and an equally large red one, surprisingly heavy for its size, inscribed YOURS, containing a fluffy towel, a soft sheepskin rug (G’s bed, she liked her comforts), and fifteen large cans of an obscure but expensive brand of cat food, her favourite. I locked the car, gathered up the two holdalls, and set off. Gorgonzola, moth-eaten tail held high, stalked ahead.

Despite the hampering mist I could see that the grounds of the hotel were extensive and well-kept – lawns of billiard table smoothness, silvery with moisture, lapped two huge beds of heather (white, of course). Half a dozen cars were parked on the gravelled forecourt from which wide stone steps led up to the front door of the house, its rather grim grey stone softened by the finely sculptured leaves of a rampant Virginia creeper. Of Gorgonzola, there was no sign. She always knew when to make herself scarce.

I scrunched over the wet gravel and up the steps. An elegant potted plant in a classy white jardinière graced the large vestibule. Beside it on a small spindly legged walnut table reposed a tastefully designed card bearing in copperplate script a glowing description of the hotel. A well-polished brass plaque introduced a somewhat curter note.

THE MANAGEMENT REGRETS NO PETS CAN BE ENTERTAINED.

Entertained? An audience of cats and dogs in the drawing room solemnly listening to a string quartet? Mustn’t laugh, I could be on CCTV.

Through the glass door, I could see carpeted stairs and, standing guard at their foot, an imposing grandfather clock with yellowed dial. I pulled open the door, and deposited the holdalls in front of the polished reception desk. Spread open before me lay an open ledger and, beside it, a porcelain hand bell with the notice Please ring for attention. I rang as requested. No response. I seized the opportunity and swivelled the ledger to scan the entries.

‘Can I be of assistance…madam?’ The cold, steely voice paused perceptibly before the madam. The speaker had noted my action and did not approve.

I spun round guiltily, as if I’d sneaked a quick glance at a doctor’s notes and been caught in the act. Confronting me was a tall angular woman, her black hair flecked with iron grey. Mrs Morag Mackenzie.

‘You have a vacancy?’ I asked.

She inclined her head in aristocratic assent. ‘Hotel, or self-catering cottage?’

‘Oh, hotel!’ I said. ‘I do like my little luxuries!’

Her gaze rested on the two holdalls. ‘A single or a double room, madam?’

‘A double,’ I replied blandly. ‘Though I’m by myself, I prefer the extra space.’

Her eyes scrutinised me for a long moment, as if to x-ray my morals. ‘Sign here, please.’ She pushed the register towards me and selected a key from the board behind her.

I signed my name with a flourish. My real name, that is. Using an alias, I’ve found, only leads to unnecessary complications.

‘Ms Deborah Smith. Smith…’ She pursed her thin lips, savouring the word as if it was something rather nasty she had found in the salad. Again her eyes homed in on the YOURS holdall like an Exocet missile on its way to its target.

‘Yes, it’s plain Smith, not spelt with y or e, I’m afraid, Mrs…er…’ I smiled disarmingly.

‘Mackenzie.’ There was no reciprocating smile from the Gorgon. ‘I’ll show you to your room. It’s number 4 on the first floor.’

I picked up the holdalls. Now to dispel any lurking suspicion that my arrival was anything other than chance. ‘Is there a phone in the room? I’m afraid my car’s broken down just outside your driveway, and I’ll have to contact a garage.’

‘Room telephone, madam? Of course. This way.’ She stalked ahead of me up the ornately balustraded staircase.

The weather should be a safe enough topic. ‘Do you often get mist as thick as this?’

‘Haar,’ replied Mrs Mackenzie, ‘haar.’

West Country accent, Devon or Cornwall. Orr’s briefing on the hotel and its owners had not included any such connections. Perhaps this was going to be a lead worth following up.

‘Haar?’ I echoed encouragingly, hoping she would reveal more.

She paused beside a magnificent Victorian stained-glass window on the half-landing. Her thin lips compressed into what might have been a condescending smile. ‘Haar,’ she spoke slowly and clearly as if explaining to a person of limited understanding, ‘is the local word for the sea mist that tends to linger for several days after a spell of hot weather.’

‘How interesting,’ I said truthfully.

Room 4 faced to the rear, just above a small tree whose branches overhung the sloping roof of a conservatory running the length of the building. I wouldn’t have to smuggle Gorgonzola in under my jacket as I sometimes had to do if access proved beyond her mountaineering skills.

When I was alone, I threw up the lower half of the sash window with as much noise as I could decently make. In anyone’s books, this dreadful weather counted as winter. I was confident I wouldn’t have to wait long.

G couldn’t bear being wet or cold – not surprising in view of her near-death experience as a kitten. After a misalliance, pedigree breeders can be unforgiving. I’d found her late one autumn afternoon, a wet and shivering ball clinging desperately to an old log jammed against the river bank. Beside her floated the drowned bodies of her brothers and sisters. I’d scooped her up and taken her home wrapped in my woolly hat. No alternative, was there? I couldn’t leave her there to die.

I dried her, made up an intensive care unit from a hot water bottle and an old jersey, and started a regime of two-hourly feeds from a pipette. There wasn’t much sign of life. She was so weak that I had to put the tip in her mouth and stroke her throat so that she would swallow the slow trickle of warm liquid. Then it was retire to bed, set the alarm, stagger up, eyes glued with sleep. Each time, to my surprise, the little ball of ginger fur was still alive.

The next morning a pink tongue licked my finger. ‘Welcome to the world, Kitten,’ I’d said. ‘You can stay here till I find you a good home.’

I didn’t give her a name, just called her Kitten. Keeping a cat was really out of the question for me, so it was better not to become too attached to this tiny creature. At the time I trained dogs for HM Revenue and Customs, taking three or four home and testing them by hiding an object in the house. That way I found out which of them had potential as a Sniffer.

I kept her out of the way of the dogs at first, but she soon showed she could take care of herself. Any dog that overstepped the mark received a sharp reminder to behave. Puppies came and went. Kitten stayed. She played with the dogs, ate with the dogs, slept with the dogs. I suppose she grew up thinking she was a dog. I shortened her name to Kit and didn’t try too hard to find her that good home.

Training sessions may look like games, but they’re a serious business. The dogs mustn’t be distracted, so I shut Kit in her basket, when I could catch her, but more often than not the process became a game of hide and seek. She hid. I’d seek. Sometimes I shut her out in the garden, and then she would peer in at us, gingery face pressed disconsolately against the glass.

Kit’s career with Revenue and Customs began the day I chose a ripe cheese as my test for the dogs. To make it a tough one, I liberally squirted a can of lavender-scented polish on every wooden surface in the lounge, paying particular attention to the bookcase. In the six-inch gap between carpet and base I laid my pongy morsel of cheese, pushing it as far back as I could. Only a dog with the very best ‘nose’ would pass a grade A test like this.

Before going to fetch the dogs, I went in search of Kit. She was lying on my bed curled up, face buried in tail in her Do Not Disturb posture. I gave her a quick stroke and left her to it. No need to put her in her basket today. I let the puppies, Jenny and Roger, out of their kennels, attached a leash to each collar and led them into the house.

I tied Jenny securely to the stair rail and knelt down beside Roger. In my hand I held another piece of the smelly cheese.

When he’d had a good sniff, I slipped the leash, and pointed at the open lounge door. ‘Search!’

The puppy bounded forward, barking with excitement, tail wagging, while I stood in the doorway, stopwatch and notebook in hand. Chair, settee, cupboard, chair again, pawing and sniffing. Bookcase. A cursory sniff underneath, then back to the settee again and another scamper round the various pieces of furniture. He trotted back past the bookcase again, but showed no interest in it. In the end I had to write, Roger – Fail.

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 somewhat 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.

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 GastronomeMonthly. 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 still 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.