Murder on Page One (25 page)

‘Well, thank goodness you’ve told me now,’ Flick said, her displeasure obvious. She revved the engine and set off, ignoring the horn blast from the rear.

* * *

‘It seems we have a warm suspect.’ Osborne sounded less than excited as he greeted them. ‘Danny’s found something interesting on the CCTV.’

‘It’s the usual grainy rubbish, but the registration’s fairly clear.’ Danny Peters beamed at them.

‘What is it?’ Flick asked.

‘The CCTV on Bayswater Road. Coming away from Robertson’s murder at three minutes past six, we have the car belonging to Lesley Mortimer. The driver looks like a girl with long hair. If her photo on the board is anything to go by, it could be Cilla Pargiter.’

20

Baggo sat with his head in his hands then looked round the empty CID room. The Pitlochry team had left, none of them impressed by his delay in spilling Margaret Pargiter’s secret. He feared he might soon be back in uniform. The previous evening he had met a friend from schooldays, Olly Norman, who was doing well in the Foreign Office. Years ago, he had introduced Olly to hot, spicy curries, while Olly had organised rite-of-passage, under-age, drinking sessions. Out on the town, they had rolled back the years, and, at mid-morning, Baggo still had a sore head and a churning gut. He wondered if Olly felt much better; as a schoolboy, he had always been the last to throw up.

Baggo’s thoughts kept returning to Cilla Pargiter. He sensed something about her that was good. It could not have been a coincidence that she happened to be driving along Bayswater Road just after Robertson was killed, so, despite Margaret’s certainty that she did not, she must have known the identity of her father. But, despite the evidence that was building against her, he could not believe that she was Crimewriter, or that she was capable of firing a nail gun into her father’s back then scraping a message on his forehead. He knew Osborne wanted to pin the murders on Johnson, but if the evidence pointed clearly to Cilla, the Inspector would go with that and find some other way of getting his enemy behind bars, this time in a secure prison.

Baggo stared at the whiteboard, but inspiration failed to strike. Impulsively, he got up and rubbed out the green ink under Cilla’s photo. Jane Smith had asked all the ‘shortlist’ to provide photos of themselves. Now the police could put a face to each suspect’s name. Cilla’s blurred Facebook photograph had been replaced by one that showed her enigmatic smile and the long hair that had helped identify her from the CCTV.

The phone on his desk startled him.

‘Detective Constable Chandavarkar?’ Fred Willetts at reception sounded unusually formal.

‘Speaking.’

‘I have a Mr Chapayev here. He insists on seeing someone on the Crimewriter inquiry. As Inspector Osborne is away, will you see him?’

Baggo stifled a groan then his brain began to work.

‘Can I say you’ll see him?’ Willetts repeated.

‘Yes, I will see him. Could you please get someone to show him up to the CID room?’

* * *

Osborne had his eyes closed as Flick drove their hired car off the dual carriageway and through Pitlochry. In the back, Danny Peters squirmed to find some leg-room. The Pride O’ Atholl Hotel lay a couple of miles to the north of the town, just short of Killiecrankie. The old A9 was a twisty road, ill-suited to the increasingly heavy traffic that pounded up and down until the 1980s. After one double bend, a smart red and gold sign pointed left down a pot-holed drive flanked by oaks, aspens and the ubiquitous silver birch. Lower than the road, but with a fine view to the west, the hotel occupied a plateau half way down the steep, tree-lined slope from the old road to the white waters of the River Garry. Built out of grey granite as a fishing lodge for a Victorian merchant, the two round towers on the west wall suggested an importance the building had never actually achieved in an area rich in castles and ancestral homes.

‘I hope I’m not staying somewhere like this,’ Osborne muttered as Flick parked on the sparse gravel at the front. ‘I bet it’s cold as bloody charity.’

‘It’s got style.’ Flick was fed up with Osborne’s moaning. It had started at Heathrow, where flights to Scotland were unusually busy because of the Scotland-England Rugby International the following day, and had carried on through the car hire at Edinburgh and the drive north. Now they were to meet Jane Smith and the other two ‘judges’ as well as the officer from Tayside who would be staying anonymously in the hotel. She climbed out of the car, stretched, and breathed in cold fresh air.

‘Welcome to Scotland,’ Jane Smith trilled as Flick pulled open the heavy door into the wood-panelled hall. ‘Come and meet Cameron and Tara.’ Flick, Osborne and Peters followed her into the lounge, where a log fire and the aroma of coffee beckoned.

At the table nearest the fire, the only two people in the room stood up. Tara Fisher, the editor, looked barely old enough to have left university. Her olive skin, pale and sun-starved, and almond-shaped, brown eyes suggested Mediterranean blood. Those eyes widened as she shook hands with the officers. ‘This is so exciting,’ she said to Flick.

Beside her, a square-shouldered man with a face the colour of bricks, a nose like a misshapen giant raspberry and a mop of wiry, salt-and-pepper hair was less enthusiastic. ‘Ye soon come to us when you need help,’ he said to Osborne. ‘But we’ll dae what we can,’ he added.

‘Cammy’s a Scot Nat,’ Jane said, as if that explained everything.

‘If you lot really want independence, you should put up candidates in the South of England,’ Osborne said, sticking his jaw out. ‘We’d soon vote you out of the UK.’

‘And we have every confidence in the ability of the English people to govern themselves,’ Cameron McCrone shot back.

Osborne scowled then grinned. He threw himself into a leather armchair, scratched his crotch and pulled out his cigarettes.

‘No’ in here ye can’t,’ McCrone said. After Osborne stomped out to the front door to light up, he shook his head and added, ‘Mair’s the pity.’

While Jane ordered more coffee the rest sat down. Peters smiled at Tara, but with his stubbly face he looked to Flick as if he was leering. She frowned at him but he paid no attention.

‘How did you two meet?’ Flick asked. McCrone was from a different planet to Jane.

Jane said, ‘Harrogate, the Crime Writers’ Association weekend. A couple of years ago, wasn’t it, you introduced me to Lagavulin?’

‘And you’ve never looked back.’ McCrone had a twinkle in his eye.

‘It’s hard on the liver, but marvellous fun,’ Jane said. ‘We crime writers tend to get on terribly well together, not like the romantic novelists, who are at each others’ throats.’

‘United against our common enemies,’ McCrone growled.

‘Who are?’ Flick asked.

‘Publishers and agents.’ McCrone laughed. ‘Whoever your Crimewriter is, they’re doing us a favour.’

‘Cammy, behave,’ Jane chided.

Outside, a car drew up beside Flick’s, a man driving. As they peered to see who it was, the lounge door swung open and a smiling lady carried in a coffee tray. ‘These are friends from down south,’ Jane explained.

‘Nice to see you. Make yourselves at home. I’m Liz Morrison, by the way. It’s my hotel.’

‘Thanks,’ Flick said. ‘It’s lovely and full of character. Do you mind if we have a quick look round? Jane has offered to show us, if that’s all right.’

‘I don’t mind at all,’ Liz replied.

As Jane poured the coffee, Osborne returned. With him was a tall, broad-shouldered man with short, fair hair and a round, ruddy face. He introduced himself as Sergeant Fergus Maxwell of Tayside Police. Flick noted his firm, dry handshake, strong jaw and cauliflower ears.

He refused coffee. ‘I think we should get down to business before any of the suspects arrive,’ he said.

Osborne nodded to Flick, who ran through the suspects, including Francis, who had not confirmed his attendance until the previous day. Then Jane outlined her plans for the weekend.

‘How are you going to tell which one is the murderer?’ Osborne asked.

Jane looked at him earnestly. ‘Whoever is doing this must have a very strange personality, which they will conceal, but I am sure that some aspects of their quite aberrant psychological make-up will appear when they have to mix with others, compose short pieces and take criticism.’

‘Jane’s big on her psychology,’ McCrone said.

‘There’s just one thing,’ Maxwell said. ‘I took this on with one condition, that I get away to watch the match tomorrow.’

‘At Murrayfield?’ Flick asked.

‘Yes. I’ll leave at twelve and won’t be back till about seven, but if the suspects are writing essays then, there shouldn’t be a problem, and I’ll have a word with the local guys. They’ll know to come at the double if any of you call. Anyway, the suspects will think it odd if I’m constantly drifting round the hotel.’ His accent, though clearly Scottish, was not of the full-blown variety. It was a trustworthy voice, Flick thought.

Osborne shrugged. ‘Don’t see that it matters,’ he said.

‘Do you think you’ll score any tries?’ Flick heard herself ask.

Maxwell turned to her, eyebrows raised. ‘I hope so. It depends on whether you kill the game like you usually do.’

‘At least we don’t get all our points, every game, from our kicker.’

‘Have you ever been to Murrayfield?’

‘No, but I’ve been to Croke Park and the Millennium Stadium.’

Suddenly hesitant, Maxwell said, ‘I happen to have a spare ticket. Er, a mate couldn’t come.’

Flick glanced at Osborne, who seemed to find the exchange funny. McCrone also smiled. Tara sat back, her arms folded, an expression of astonishment on her face.

‘I’ll get by without you - if he asks you,’ Osborne said.

The redness of Maxwell’s face deepened.

Flick saved his embarrassment. ‘I’d love to. Thanks. And I’ll pay for my ticket.’

‘That won’t be necessary. We have a reputation for meanness to live down, you know. You’ll be surrounded by Scots,’ he added.

‘As long as I can shout for England.’

‘Dalton and Pargiter are coming by train, and they might be here in an hour. We should have our tour of the hotel now,’ Jane said.

The tour did not take long. One bedroom, which had disabled facilities, was on the ground floor next to the dining room. The remaining eleven bedrooms were upstairs. On the way up, Flick paused to admire the huge, stained-glass window throwing different shades of light over the half landing. The two unoccupied rooms overlooked the front, and had been reserved for the ‘judges’. Any police activity would take place there.

‘Will Liz not wonder about what’s going on?’ Flick asked.

‘She may, but we have a good relationship, and she knows that our retreats involve a bit of coming and going. Any awkward questions will come to me.’

After exchanging mobile numbers with their new colleagues, Osborne, Flick and Peters got back into their car and located Scotland’s Hotel, where they were all booked in. Osborne and Peters agreed to meet in the bar at half past six. Flick excused herself and went for a walk round the town, looking forward to the solitary luxury of a fish supper out of the paper and a Lavinia Lenehan mystery.

21

‘I thought it was going to go pear-shaped after half an hour.’ Fergus Maxwell brought Flick up to date as he tried to see past an early-season caravan on a slow stretch of the A9.

‘How so?’ she asked, sensing impending disaster.

‘Rachel Lawson is some battleaxe. They were all introducing themselves at the first session, and Johnson says he’s a convicted but innocent murderer who was released on parole that morning. Mrs Lawson had a fit; “I’m not mixing with murderers,” “Who allowed this?” “I’m going home and anyone with any sense will come with me,” and so on. Jane Smith should be in the United Nations. She took her out and had a long talk with her. Back they came and Lawson was quiet as a mouse till dinner, when she sent back her venison as it was undercooked. Actually, it was perfect, beautifully moist and tender. The food’s very good, you know.’

‘Don’t tell Osborne or he’ll gate-crash a meal. He thinks of his stomach full-time. How did you get to spy on them?’

‘I don’t know if you noticed, but the lounge is two rooms with the dividing wall removed. In its place they have a sliding door. It’s shut as they’re just using the front room at the moment, so I go in the back one and sit next to the sliding door. I can hear almost everything, but it’s bloody cold. When they were closing their first session, I slipped into the dining room and got my order in ahead of them.’

‘What do you make of them?’

‘The wee woman, Dalton, I like. She talks to everyone, including Johnson. She fusses Wallace, in the wheelchair, and he doesn’t like that because he’s cussed and independent, but I suspect she’ll back off him. Pargiter, who arrived first with Dalton, doesn’t say much. Kinda dreary-looking, really. Johnson is one hard, vicious thug. I wouldn’t like to cross him. Wallace is very bitter. I’ve watched him sizing up Johnson. They’ve both killed more than once, I’d say, and I sense a weird thing between them, almost a bond, but it’s not that.’

‘And Francis?’

‘Oh, him. A long drink of water looking for a glass. He doesn’t talk much, but when he does, he lectures. Spends all the time he can in his room. Doesn’t mix. Everyone else hung about in the lounge following the after-dinner session but he bolted straight upstairs.’