Finding Fraser (17 page)

I pulled the bike into a stand at the front
door and headed inside.

The bike-renter guy sat atop a high stool,
doing some kind of puzzle in the newspaper.

“Hiya,” he said, looking up. “Brought me
bike back, have yeh?”

“Yes. I’m afraid I returned last night after
you’d closed.”

He strode over toward the cash register.
“Nae worries, nae worries. Didja have a good ride?”

“Yes. We made it to Culloden, and then I
carried on to Clava.”

“Ach, the stones at Balnuaran. Lovely,
aren’t they?” He leaned on the glass counter-top. “I’ve heard they’re a wee bi’
haunted. Didja see a ghost, then?”

“I’m not really sure, to tell you the
truth,” I said quietly, but he was hitting buttons on his cash register, and
the ringing may have drowned out my response.

“Righ’ then—it’ll be fifty quid
altogether, with the VAT, an all.”

I was sure I hadn’t heard him correctly.
“Fifty quid—that’s fifty pounds, right?”

“Righ’ you are, little lady!”

Hmmph. Suddenly I was a
little
lady? I decided to let it drop, and deal with the more worrisome
issue first.

“I think there’s a mistake, somewhere. My
friend should have paid for me yesterday when she dropped her bike off. They
were twenty pounds each, to rent for the day?”

“Aye, they were, plus tax, o’course. But
your friend left her bike as promised, and said you’d be coverin’ the costs
when you returned.”

The skin of his neck had gone an interesting
shade of red when Susan’s name came up, but I didn’t have time to think about
anything but the fact that the last of my cash was going to have to go to this
man.

I looked through my wallet. “I’m sorry—there
must be some mistake,” I repeated. “I gave her the cash to pay you yesterday.
I’ve only got forty-five pounds on me—will that do until I can find her?
I promise I’ll bring the rest back when I do.”

“Aye,” he said, slowly. “I reckon that’ll be
awrigh’, but … well, be as quick as ye can, aye? Me boss is in—ah—a
bit of a mood t’day, and I’d rather stay on her good side, ye ken?”

I handed over the last of my cash and
hurried back to the hostel. Mrs. Henderson sat at her place near the front
door. She lifted her head as I walked in.

“Ah, there ye are, dear. Ready to pack up
and head on wi’ yer partner, then?”

I held back an impatient sigh. The last
thing I had time for was a leisurely discussion of how she had mixed me up with
another patron.

“No— no, I don’t have a partner, Mrs.
Henderson. I’m here on my own, remember? Listen, have you seen Susan—ah—Susan
O’Donnell this morning? She’s staying in one of the other rooms here. I need to
find her to straighten something out.”

“The other American girl? Well, o’course I seen
her. She checked out this mornin’ bright an’ early. I thought ye were off after
her.”

“No— not an American. This girl is
Irish. Susan O’Donnell. Short, dark hair, about this tall? The one I …” Surely
Mrs. Henderson had seen us riding off together the previous day?

“Aye, she’s a bonnie one, isn’t she? But she
left long before breakfast. Did she no’ leave ye a message?”

I stared at Mrs. Henderson’s face, and a
terrible feeling of unease began to sweep over me. “Just a sec,” I said, and
took the stairs up to my room two at a time.

“Got all the time in the world, luv,” she
called up the stairs after me.

And there, with the warm light of a Scottish
morning shining brightly through my window, I saw what the darkness and my
exhaustion had hidden from me the night before.

Everything I had brought with me was gone.

Everything I hadn’t carried in my pack, anyway.
My laptop. My travel cash cards. Even my contact lenses. My little coil
notebook and pen still lay where I’d dropped them on the pillow.

I felt like I’d been punched in the gut.
What kind of depraved thief steals someone’s contact lenses?

After a few moments of anguish, it was clear
there was no use standing and staring at my empty room. I trailed back down the
stairs.

“Mrs. Henderson,” I said slowly. “All my
stuff is missing from my room. I think it’s been stolen.”

“Ach, nonsense, girlie. It was yer partner
‘at gathered it all up for yeh. She said ye’d decided to stop hiding and let
the world know the truth.”

“I don’t have a partner, Mrs. Henderson. I
came here alone, remember?”

“Aye, and a sad-faced thing ye were, too. I
was delighted to see ye perk up when yer friend arrived.” She leaned across the
desk and whispered, “There’s nae shame in it, luv. She’s a dear one, that
Susan. The two of yeh make a sweet couple. She told me all about your plans to
return to California and set up a bed and breakfast there.”

“We are
not
a couple!” I spluttered, and a light came on in Mrs. Henderson’s eyes. She
nodded understandingly.

“Aye, I see the way of it then, luv.” She
touched a finger to the side of her nose. “I were young once meself—had
more one night stands than I’d care to have Mister Henderson know!”

“Oh my god,” I said, slowly. “It was
not
a one-night stand. I just went out sightseeing
with her. We talked about the Battle of Culloden all day!”

“Weel … as you say, o’ course, as ye say,”
she said, still smiling. “Our customers allus have the right to complete
privacy, o’course. But ye know we are verra broad-minded here. No prejudices at
all, for anyone.”

“I’m not gay!” I practically yelled. I
realized my fists were clenched and the kind lady had actually been quite
startled by my outburst.

For the first time, her face darkened. “Aye,
there’s no call for homophobia, either,” she said warningly. “I’ll hold no
truck with that sort of thing under my roof.”

“Mrs. Henderson,” I said, trying to keep my
voice calm. “Let’s just take the whole sexuality thing out of it, okay? I
believe Susan stole all my things. Did you allow her the key to my room?”

Comprehension was beginning to dawn on the
woman’s face, but I could see where it was still at war with what she had
clearly believed was a sweet little love story unfolding under her roof.

“My laptop and my cash card were in my room.
I need them to pay your bill, Mrs. Henderson. And they’re missing.”

She stood up and brushed her hair back
nervously. “I—I, well, she said you wanted discretion, and I saw the two
of you head off to the battlefield together. It just made perfect sense— two
dear young American girls, and yerself clearly lookin’ for love. You tol’ me so
when you arrived! And she was just so …”

“Convincing,” I said. I slumped in a plaid
chair that looked far more comfortable than it turned out to be in reality.
“You thought she was American, I thought she was Irish. I wonder which is the
truth? You
did
give her the key,
then?”

I looked up at the horrified expression on
the hostel-keeper’s face. “I think I need to go talk to the police, Mrs.
Henderson.”

She nodded. “Aye. I can see that’s the way
of it, now. Try not to fret, luv. The station’s not far. Gi’ me a quick moment
to lock up and I’ll walk wi’ ye there.”

She shook her head sadly, pushing one arm
through the sleeve of her coat. “Tis allus worse when they love ye and leave
ye,” she said.

I followed her out through the door. “There
was no loving, Mrs. Henderson, okay? NO loving.”

“‘At’s what they allus say,” she said,
turning her key in the lock. “Accordin’ to Mister Henderson, anyroad.”

11:00 am March 16

Inverness Police Station, Scotland

List of stolen items

•
 
Laptop

•
 
Visa
Cash cards, total value $975 US

•
 
6
prs underwear

•
 
6
prs socks

•
 
2
white t-shirts, One with Grateful Dead logo, one plain

•
 
Sweatpants

•
 
Shampoo/conditioner,
toiletries

•
 
Contact
lenses, case, solution

The police officer was kind, but
preoccupied. Mrs. Henderson was ushered away, and I was brought into see
Sergeant Milton Garda in his diminutive office. He looked my list over, and
then slapped a pen on the paper in front of me and had me write the whole story
down. I did my best, leaving out the bit about the hunt for Jamie, of course.
Afterwards, he read it over silently before setting the page gently down on the
table.

“She said ‘Faith and Begorrah’ and you
bought it?” he said, incredulously.

“Well—yeah. I’ve heard it before from
Irish people, I’m sure of it.”

He shook his head. “Well, mebbe in a cereal
commercial …” he muttered.

“She called the truck driver who nearly ran
over me a
feckin’ eejit
,” I said,
stubbornly. “
That
sounded Irish.”

He nodded. “Mebbe so. But it ain’t the truck
driver who’s the feckin’ eejit here, is it?”

I had to agree with him.

He picked up my statement again. “So, ye
spent most of the day at the battlefield, aye?”

I nodded. “We headed over around ten o’clock
or so, and stayed until after lunch. Maybe mid-afternoon?”

The officer leaned back in his chair and
flicked the door open with the tip of one finger. “Allie!” he bellowed. “I need
Dav!”

By the time he returned all four chair legs
to the floor and clicked his pen once, another young officer was knocking on
the door.

“Emma Sheridan, meet Special Constable Dav
Dosanj. Dav, this young woman has been taken in by some besom going by the name
of …” he checked my statement, “… Susan O’Donnell. A young, brunette woman.
Robbed her blind, ye might say. AND the two of them spent the day at the
battlefield.”

The second officer shot a look at his
Sergeant. “Is she clean, sir?”

He nodded. “Aye. Got rube written all over
her. The perp stole all her money, laptop …”

“Contact lenses,” I muttered, hanging my
head.

I looked up in time to catch the sergeant
rolling his eyes at the new guy.

“Well, what kind of a weirdo steals a
person’s contacts?” I asked. “Maybe it’s a part of her M.O., and it’ll help you
track her down.”

“Whatever you say, Miss,” said the sergeant.
“Now tell the special constable here anything you can remember about your trip
to the battlefield.”

“Look, I don’t know what this has to do with
anything,” I said, my exasperation growing. “I don’t remember anything special.
We rode over there on the rented bikes—which I ended up paying for twice,
thanks to Susan—and toured around the place.”

“Were you with her at all times?” Dosanj
asked.

“Yeah … or maybe, okay, not at
all
times,” I said, slowly, remembering.
“Someone had their pocket picked, just as we were leaving. You think she …?”

“With your permission, sir?” said Dosanj,
and his sergeant nodded. The special constable stepped over to a side desk that
held a computer with an ancient monitor. He flipped the on-switch, tapped a few
keys and stepped away from the screen.

There, in grainy black and white, was a
closed circuit view of the visitor’s center gift shop. A few people milled
about including— the back of Susan’s head. She’d pulled up her hoodie,
but there was no mistaking the backpack she had slung over one shoulder.

“That’s her!” I cried, involuntarily.

“Wait for it …” Dosanj said, then leaned
forward and hit the space bar. The picture froze with Susan’s hand slipping
into the back pocket of a man bent over examining a collection of snow globes.
The officer tapped a computer key several times, and each time the picture
moved forward a frame, as Susan smoothly pulled something dark out of the
pocket and slipped it into the open zipper of her pack.

“Her name’s not Susan O’Donnell,” said
Sergeant Garda. “And she’s as Irish as I am Indian. No offense, Dosanj.”

“None taken, sir.”

“The bike guy told me she was American,” I
whispered.

“Well, we’re not sure. We reckon she may
actually be a Canadian national, or p’raps a dual. At any rate, she’s
travelling on an American passport, under the name of Gail Lee Duncan.”

“Gail … Duncan?” I repeated.

“Aye. That shot from the CCTV camera was
taken yesterday morning,” Dosanj said, snapping the computer off. “We have a
dozen more like it.”