Cold Secrets (Chapters 4 & 5)
Your next instalment of this Scottish murder mystery...the team opens a strange package.
Recap:
After Mirabella Rowley followed Robert home in the last chapter, she claimed that the death of her daughter, Clara, had never been solved.
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Chapter Four
‘What do you mean, “just outside”?’ Justine asked. She was surprisingly chipper, given the amount of alcohol she’d consumed the night before.
The same could not be said of Eilidh. ‘For crying out loud, Justine,’ she grumbled. ‘He’s explained it a hundred times.’
‘On the steps.’ Robert pointed to the front of the bar. ‘She must have come straight here from my place and left it there.’
‘She’s gone in the head,’ suggested Hammy, flicking the top of his pint glass with a fingernail. Robert knew what the signal meant, although he was reluctant to give Hammy a third pint before 1.00 p.m.
The four of them were huddled around the bar, looking at a tightly packed A4 envelope that was stuffed with photographs, dates, computer printouts, newspaper cuttings and general musings relating to Clara Rowley’s murder. It had also contained a smaller envelope, addressed to Robert, which he had yet to open. He had told them almost everything about his two encounters with Mirabella, aside from her suspicions about his father’s death. He didn’t like the way she had brought him into all this, and there was no need to upset the others.
‘I remember it on the news,’ Hammy said. ‘It was everywhere back then.’
‘Imagine what it was like here in Findrussie,’ said Eilidh. ‘My brother told me I’d be murdered in my sleep.’
‘That’s horrible,’ said Justine distractedly as she scribbled notes on a play script. ‘“I would rather stand beside my shield three times in battle than give birth once,”’ she recited quietly, peering deep into the page.
‘What’s she saying?’ Hammy asked, nodding at Justine.
‘Lines,’ said Robert. ‘First read-through is tomorrow, apparently.’
‘Apparently?’ Justine’s eyes flicked up from under her glasses. ‘You’d best be there, Robbie. It’s a good one this year. I’m taking us in a whole new direction.’
‘Stole Mr Tiggs. Told me he’d been taken by the murderer.’ Eilidh shook her head, lost in memory.
‘Mr Tiggs?’ Hammy asked.
‘My teddy,’ explained Eilidh. Her eyes were glassy and bloodshot.
Robert slid her another pint of water over the countertop. ‘Of course she wants to believe her son didn’t do it,’ he said. ‘Who could live with that? If I were her, I’d be searching for any reason that might prove his innocence, too.’
‘Who?’ Eilidh asked.
Robert groaned. This conversation was proving impossible.
‘Any mother would do the same,’ Justine agreed, turning a page and running her index finger down the lines. The she looked up with a start, as if she had just remembered something important. ‘My God, I remember it like it was yesterday. The noise that woman made.’
‘Who?’ asked Hammy.
Robert needed no explanation. Mrs Rowley’s terrifying, banshee-like screams could be heard from this very bar.
‘The mother,’ Justine said patiently. ‘Mirabella Rowley. It must have been terrible for her. Closest I’ve come to that sort of grief is losing Pickles.’
‘He was a good little cat, Justine,’ said Hammy, patting her arm.
Justine’s eyes welled up as they normally did whenever she thought of her bygone pets.
‘What’s the play, Justine?’ Eilidh asked.
Justine grinned through her wet eyes and sniffed, pushing her glasses to the bridge of her nose. ‘It’s a good one this year, sweetheart. Ancient, but very good. If you don’t mind, I’d like to leave it as a surprise … announce it tomorrow. Don’t worry, though, there’s definitely a juicy role for you.’
‘He was definitely guilty?’ interrupted Hammy. ‘This Toby?’
‘I’m certain,’ said Eilidh. ‘They found him in the bothy, standing over the body, weapon in hand, blood all over him. I’m sure you’ll find it all in there.’ She gestured to the large envelope.
There was an awkward pause as Eilidh, Hammy and Justine eyed the smaller envelope in Robert’s hands. He raised his eyebrows. ‘She’s a very sad and misguided individual,’ he said. ‘There’ll be nothing of any substance in here. Probably just more delusional rubbish, like last night.’
‘You’re right, pet,’ said Justine. ‘Don’t let it bother you.’ She returned to scribbling her notes.
‘Always worth a look, though, no?’ Hammy huffed. ‘I’d be happy to—’
‘Hammy!’ Justine exclaimed, jabbing her pencil towards his chest, although her interest had clearly been piqued.
‘Eilidh!’ Robert shouted and nudged her in the ribs.
She gingerly raised her forehead off the bar. ‘What do you want?’ she asked, looking more than a little green.
‘You know what you need, lassie?’ Hammy said, draining his glass. Justine giggled; Robert sighed. ‘Hair of the dog.’
‘Oh, no,’ Eilidh replied, as if even the thought made her nauseous.
‘Suit yourself. But I’ll take another. It’s New Year after all.’ This was met with muted cheers from a few of the other customers.
Robert slid off his stool to grab a clean glass. He was in two minds regarding the envelope: he had no interest in reading any more of Mirabella’s desperate fantasies, but he still felt compelled to open it. Perhaps it was simply a case of morbid curiosity. Then again, he liked the thought of opening a handwritten envelope. When had he last done that? The walkers in his books always enjoyed receiving letters, too. He handed Hammy the beer and picked up the envelope again, rubbing it between his fingers. ‘She doesn’t like Brian, that’s for sure.’
‘Ha! Who does?’ laughed Justine. ‘Less we say about him, the better.’
‘Something you and Mirabella have in common, then,’ said Eilidh, still struggling to keep her head upright.
‘I say open it,’ Hammy persisted, after a deep swig. ‘Worst that happens is we burn it, forget it ever existed. Go on …’
Robert shrugged and, blowing through his teeth, tore open the envelope. Inside was a single sheet of fine writing paper, headed with an elaborately printed ‘Mirabella Rowley’ above an address and a mobile number.
‘That paper probably cost more than the shoes on my feet,’ Justine said.
Robert read the words slowly but seemed unable to process them. He read them again and instructed his eyes to convey some sort of coherent message to his brain, yet still he failed.
‘Come on!’ urged Hamish, leaning forwards.
‘Robbie, are you okay?’ asked Eilidh.
Robert noticed his hands were shaking as he lowered the letter onto the counter. The message it contained had finally sunk in.
‘Robbie, my God, what is it?’ Justine reached for the letter.
He lowered his voice and steadied himself against the countertop. ‘She’s offering us money in exchange for information about who murdered her daughter.’
‘What?’ Eilidh peered over Justine’s shoulder.
‘He’s right,’ Justine said. ‘Says here: “Thank you for meeting with me last night … trust you appreciate the gravity … I know you will now understand the loss of a family member … blah, blah … ample remuneration.”’
‘Remuneration?’ Eilidh repeated.
‘Cash, Eilidh,’ Hammy said, rubbing his hands together excitedly. ‘Now that makes this interesting.’
‘What’s this about your dad, Robbie?’ Justine asked, tapping halfway down the sheet of paper.
‘She said she knew him, remember?’ Eilidh muttered, massaging her forehead. ‘When she came to the bar last night.’
‘But she’s quite specific here,’ replied Justine, flicking her eyes over the letter again. ‘It says, “I’ve kept an eye on news from Findrussie over the years and, like I said, your father’s death struck me as peculiar.” What does she mean by that, Robbie?’
Robert realised he had to tell them. But he supposed there was no harm in it, as none of them would think for a second that it was true. ‘She has some stupid idea that Dad’s death is linked to Clara’s murder.’ He was pleased that it sounded even more unlikely in his own words. ‘I didn’t want to tell you because … well, it’s hardly worth entertaining, is it? The police said there were no suspicious circumstances. I was annoyed she brought it up, to be honest.’
Eilidh rolled her eyes and blew through her lips. ‘Right …’
‘Don’t listen to a word of it,’ Hammy said, stretching out an arm to pat Robert’s shoulder. ‘She’s a crackpot.’
‘Half-gone, if you ask me,’ agreed Justine. ‘Although that’s understandable.’
Robert nodded and looked at each of their faces in turn before finally resting on Justine’s. ‘Anyway, she’s offering a hundred grand. That’s what she says, see?’ He pointed to the foot of the letter. ‘Fifty thousand now, fifty thousand later. I have until tomorrow to decide.’
‘I’m telling you, she’s crazy,’ Hammy declared, rocking backwards on his chair, laughing.
‘Do you think she’s got that sort of money?’ Eilidh asked, staring at the letter.
‘Aye, I’d say so, judging from that accent,’ Hammy replied.
‘And that paper,’ Justine agreed, eyeing it suspiciously.
‘A hundred grand, though,’ said Eilidh. ‘Seems a bit excessive.’
‘Would do a man for life,’ said Hammy, swirling the beer in his glass.
Robert cast a quick glance at the bar’s most frequent patron and wondered how much he knew about its finances. ‘All right,’ he said, calling a halt to the chatter. ‘This is ridiculous. I say we forget all about it, put it down to New Year madness. Clearly, Mrs Rowley needs some kind of help.’
‘Sounds sensible,’ said Justine, nodding. ‘No need to start a wild goose chase.’
Justine and Robert nodded, but Hammy drummed his fingers on the countertop until he finally exclaimed: ‘On the other hand, she is offering fifty grand for nothing.’
A few of the punters turned their heads towards them. Robert felt flustered as he tried to stuff the letter back into the bulging A4 envelope.
‘Keep your voice down, Hammy,’ said Justine in a faux-whisper that was just as loud, if not louder. More heads turned and they both started to chuckle.
‘Well, I’m glad you two are enjoying this,’ said Robert.
‘I’m just saying it might be worth exploring.’ Hammy held Robert’s gaze, which meant he was about to impart something he, at least, considered to be deep wisdom. Robert braced himself. ‘Your dad loved this place, Robbie. I reckon that kind of money could spruce it up, give it a once-over, you know? It might not be the worst idea.’
Once again, Robert wondered how well he had concealed the bar’s dire financial straits. It was true it had been his father’s pride and joy. It had been just a shack when he’d bought it, before Robert was born, so he had literally built the business with his own hands. The thought of losing it was not only sad but terrifying. Selling the bar would almost feel like losing his father all over again. The final let-down.
‘But I don’t know what this woman expects me to do,’ Robert replied. ‘I’m no private investigator. I can’t believe we’re even discussing it. This was a murder’ – he lowered his voice – ‘that happened decades ago … and it was solved. Mrs Rowley can’t possibly know anything that the police haven’t already discovered and dismissed. It would be cruel, not to mention insane, to entertain her … theories. She’ll believe anything to convince herself that her son didn’t do it.’
‘Fine.’ Hammy shrugged, draining the rest of his pint. ‘Would have been something to do, that’s all.’
Eilidh laughed. ‘Fancy yourself as a detective, Hammy?’
‘Aye, me and the dogs. It would have been good to have a wee distraction. Something to turn the cogs, you know? Anyway’ – he patted Robert on the back – ‘I trust you’ll work out what to do for the best. I’ll be seeing you tomorrow.’
Robert felt a twinge of guilt. Hammy had lived alone ever since arriving at Findrussie from the West Coast some fifteen years earlier. He had bought a plot of land near the green loch with a plan to set up a seasonal sledging business. He still did the occasional excursion during the winter season, but otherwise his life seemed to revolve around walking the dogs, sitting at home, and drinking at the bar. Despite his twinkly disposition, Robert suspected he must be very lonely.
Justine slid from her stool and wedged the script under her arm. ‘Duties beckon.’ She waggled a finger at Robert and the semi-conscious Eilidh. ‘Half-past six … sharp!’
‘I’ll be there,’ Robert assured her with a grimace after his mind had tried and failed to come up with a plausible excuse.
‘Oh, I know you will,’ Justine chuckled as she disappeared into the kitchen.
‘I need a nap,’ moaned Eilidh, pushing herself from the counter. ‘I really need a nap.’
‘Use the office if you like,’ said Robert, trying his best to sound disapproving. He handed her the envelope. ‘And take this with you, will you? We don’t want the customers seeing it. It’s hardly appropriate New Year’s Day reading.’
Eilidh shook her head slowly. ‘It’s a lot of money, Robbie.’
‘She’s probably not even serious. If she wants the case reopened, there are plenty of people she could ask.’
Eilidh yawned, nodding, ‘True,’ she agreed. ‘But she’s asking you, Robbie.’
Chapter Five
The Findrussie Amateur Dramatic Society was a phenomenon no mortal could fathom. Never exceeding twenty players – of varying degrees of acting ability – the performances had acquired a somewhat legendary status, with people travelling from as far as Glasgow to see the annual productions. Justine had been at the helm for the past five years, and she had proven herself a surprisingly competent director. Robert wasn’t sure where or how she had gained such an in-depth knowledge of the dramatic arts between her various cleaning jobs, but every year she bedazzled the players with new and exciting ventures.
The entire company was sitting in a circle on the village hall’s blue plastic chairs, clutching flasks of tea, listening intently. ‘Now, you may think me a mad old whatsit,’ began their leader, ‘but I’ve chosen a play which I think will really stretch us – emotionally, technically and as a team.’
Robert smiled as he watched her in full flow, wondering how many times she had rehearsed this speech.
‘It’s a story about love, really – just as all stories are in the end.’ Justine winked at Ruth McLuckie, Robert’s old Primary Six teacher, who jumped obediently from her seat and started handing out the scripts. ‘But it’s also about anger,’ Justine continued, ‘the terrible anger only a woman scorned can feel … and what she decides to do with that anger.’
‘Media?’ asked one of the players.
‘Medea,’ Justine replied, with passionate relish.
Robert flicked through his script, feeling a rising panic as he saw that one male role involved a lot of long, heartfelt soliloquies.
‘Bit serious, isn’t it, Justine?’ piped up Colin, shuffling in his seat.
Justine, clearly prepared for such questions, simply shrugged and shot him a proud pout. ‘The Findrussie Am Dram is a serious business.’
‘Right …’ replied Colin, glancing about the room.
‘When are the auditions?’ asked Eilidh, who was practically standing, seemingly ready to burst into a monologue.
‘I suggest we familiarise ourselves with the script tonight, then you can submit your preferences to me. We’ll run the auditions later this week.’
Eilidh nudged Robert in the ribs. ‘Who’ll you go for?’
‘No idea.’
‘Jason?’ Eilidh jabbed an index finger at the script. ‘He’s got some cracking lines. Here, look at this …’
Robert frowned at the lengthy speech. ‘Absolutely not.’
Eilidh rolled her eyes. ‘You’ve got to go for someone.’
‘Is there a character who spends most of his time off-stage? Perhaps all of his time?’
Before Eilidh could respond, there was a shout from the back of the hall. ‘Robert Begg! I said Robert Begg!’
Justine stood up and retrieved the glasses that hung about her neck so she could see who it was. ‘Excuse me! This is a private rehears—’
‘Oh, don’t mind me. Please, remain seated.’ Mirabella Rowley made her way towards the circle.
Her appearance was in stark contrast to the last time Robert had seen her. She was wearing a pale pink cashmere jumper tucked into a pair of tight, blue chinos, and her hair was styled into an immaculate bob. The rest of the Findrussie Am Dram Society watched her with an odd sort of reverence as she glided towards them. Robert merely sighed deeply. How on earth had this woman not got the message? Although, now he thought about it, something about the way she held her head, with the chin tilted slightly upwards, suggested that she had heard him loud and clear. She had simply chosen to ignore him.
‘Robert Begg!’ she repeated, as if she had never met him.
‘This is Robert!’ Ruth almost squealed, pointing at him deferentially.
Mirabella made a great show of resting her eyes upon him. ‘There,’ she purred.
Robert looked desperately at Eilidh, who shrugged and stood to make room for the new arrival.
‘Can we help you?’ Justine was watching Mirabella intently through the thick lenses of her glasses.
Mirabella spun gracefully on her heels to respond. ‘Why, yes, you can. You see, I have been in discussions with this young gentleman,’ she gestured towards Robert, who felt his cheeks glow, ‘about a business proposition that has the potential to affect the whole community. The thing is, he had until today to inform me of his decision.’ She cocked an eyebrow at Robert. ‘Tick-tock, tick-tock,’ she said, wagging a finger back and forth, then clasped her hands tightly in front of her narrow waist. Most of the group leaned forwards with interest; a few sat back, arms tightly folded.
‘This is hardly the pla—’ Justine began, shooting Robert a nervous look.
‘I am very fond of this village,’ Mirabella interrupted, holding up a polite, yet stern, hand. ‘I find it has an original, unique beauty. My family used to visit often.’ She spoke with such poise that you never would have guessed that one of those visits had ended in such appalling tragedy.
Robert squirmed in his seat. Mirabella’s new-found composure was unnerving.
‘Like most visitors, we enjoyed the Pine Needle Bar very much.’ She paused to ensure that everyone’s attention was still firmly focused on her by studying each of them in turn from beneath coy eyelids. ‘That is why I was so disheartened to hear of its demise.’
‘Demise?’ Colin asked, followed by a chorus of similar questions and exclamations.
Robert stared at his knees, sure that he must be scarlet by now. These people had all been close with his father; the Pine Needle was their social hub. The idea that Robert would let it crumble was nothing short of shameful.
‘Oh!’ Mirabella placed a manicured hand in front of her mouth. ‘It seems I have put my foot in it. Silly me.’
‘Well, if you’re quite finished,’ Justine said, pushing herself up from her chair, ‘I’d like to get back to our read-through.’
‘You mentioned a business proposition?’ Colin prompted.
‘Oh, yes.’ Mirabella took a dainty step forward. ‘I think that’s for Robert to share with the rest of you.’
Eilidh leaned sideways and whispered in Robert’s ear, ‘For God’s sake, say something!’ Her eyes were wide and expectant.
Robert knew what she was thinking: everyone wanted an explanation. He thought back to the early hours of New Year’s Day, when he had heard someone in the bar. Mirabella must have rifled through the office, seen the accounts, found his weak spot. She was more ruthless than he had realised.
‘Is it true, Robert?’ asked Ruth. ‘Your dad’s bar?’ The question sent another round of mumbles through the group.
Robert shook his head, unsure whether his legs were twitching through anger or embarrassment. He clutched the sides of his chair, sat upright, and admitted, ‘There have been some …. cashflow issues.’
‘But it’s always full!’ exclaimed Colin.
‘That’s true. Unfortunately …’ Robert closed his eyes, wishing he could be anywhere else but here.
‘What’s she got to do with it, though?’ Colin pointed at Mirabella, who looked like she might take issue with the gesture, but then let it slide.
‘I’ve offered Mr Begg some money,’ she explained smoothly. ‘Enough to tide him over for a few months, at least.’
This was met with a chorus of mixed emotions: a few appreciative murmurs, some suspicious grunts.
‘Consider it a donation to an area I have grown to love. Trouble is, I am having real trouble convincing him to accept it.’
‘Take it, Robert!’ insisted Ruth without hesitation, beaming at Mirabella. Most of the group started to nod in agreement.
‘No room for pride, Robert,’ added Colin. ‘Don’t look a gift horse and all that.’
‘You see’ – Mirabella was still addressing the room – ‘when Robert’s father di—’
‘We can speak in private!’ Robert cut her off abruptly and rose to his feet. These people had been some of his father’s closest friends. He didn’t want them to hear Mirabella’s ridiculous fantasies just as they were starting to recover from their grief.
‘Of course,’ said Mirabella, nodding to the group and shooting Robert a smug smile. ‘Wonderful to meet you all.’
‘You too!’ called Ruth.
Robert led Mirabella out of the hall and into the car park. They walked in silence past the flower boxes that the village committee had planted the previous spring to brighten up the space. Now they were just dry, hard mounds of earth.
‘I’ll call the police,’ he said suddenly, rounding on her, his fists clenched inside his coat pockets. ‘I don’t know what you want from me. I’ve told you I can’t help you. This is way over the line. Too much!’
‘Too much?’ Mirabella raised a bored smile. ‘How do you mean?’
‘You are practically stalking me,’ Robert exclaimed, forcing himself to meet her eyes. ‘I haven’t done anything to you.’
‘I haven’t accused you of anything.’
‘Then why are you doing this?’ He knew he sounded desperately childlike. He checked the door over Mirabella’s shoulder and was grateful that no one had followed them outside. ‘Why bring my dad into it? He was a good man, respected. We’re all only just getting over his death. You can’t just show up here and begin talking nonsense about how he died, no matter how upset you are. And he certainly had nothing to do with your daughter’s death. The police knew what they were doing. You don’t have any right to overrule them.’
She remained silent for a moment, standing like a sculpture in the stony air. ‘No right? You think you know about rights? You know nothing. I have had everything – everything – stolen from me, without just cause, without justice.’ She stepped closer, until he could feel her hot breath against his face. ‘You loved your father?’
‘Of course I did,’ he said, trying to suppress the tremble in his bottom lip.
‘Good,’ she snarled. ‘Then listen to me. After twenty-two years of watching this place – where, I think you’ll agree, nothing, and I mean nothing, normally happens – I read that Bennie Begg has died suddenly. In the loch, wasn’t it?’
Robert tried to nod through the dizziness he suffered whenever he thought of that day. He closed his eyes, wishing he could dispel the flickering images from his mind. He could still hear his own screams, the crunch of the pebbles beneath his feet.
Mirabella continued, ‘The loch that he swam in every day, more or less. He was fit and healthy, wasn’t he? No reason to suppose his body might fail him.’
‘Stop …’ Robert pleaded.
‘But no questions were asked, am I right? Everyone just accepted that your father suddenly – magically – drowned, out of the blue. Do you know what I think, Mr Begg?’
Robert knew by now that there was no point in protesting. He held his hands tightly against his sides.
‘I think he discovered something. I have always thought that the secret behind my daughter’s murder lay buried here. Someone must have known something. I believe that your dad stumbled across—’
‘You can’t be serious,’ Robert interrupted, stepping away from her. ‘It’s all in your head, Mrs Rowley.’
‘Perhaps,’ she acknowledged. ‘But if that’s the case, how do you explain this?’ She reached into her purse, extracted her mobile and held the screen in front of Robert’s face.
He frowned as he stared blankly at the call log. ‘What’s this?’ he asked.
She said nothing. Sighing irritably, Robert started to look at the list of calls more closely, then caught his breath as he recognised one of the numbers.
‘That’s the Pine Needle’s landline,’ he said, snatching the phone from her hand. ‘This says that you were called on …’
Mirabella nodded slowly as Robert’s voice trailed away. He expected her to be smug, but instead her eyes were inflected with pity. ‘The day your father drowned,’ she said softly. ‘I had a strange message from him. It was a short one, I thought it was a mistake at the time. All he did was introduce himself before the line went dead. I forgot all about it for a while. Then I saw the announcement of his death in the local news; I follow the news of Findrussie meticulously to this day. Something clicked. So, I Googled his number and it showed up at the Pine Needle and … well, here I am.’
Robert blinked at the screen and bit his lip. It was certainly peculiar, but didn’t necessarily indicate anything untoward. ‘I … I don’t know why he would have—’
‘I’m sure it was your father,’ Mirabella insisted.
He shook his head. ‘I’m not sure that this means anything, Mrs Rowley. We can pass the information on to the police, but otherwise I’d rather just move on with my life.’ Then he paused as a question occurred to him. ‘How would my dad have got your number, anyway?’
‘That’s simple,’ said Mirabella, in the now-familiar tone that suggested he really ought to keep up. ‘My number has been in your visitors’ book for years and it’s never changed. I’ve drunk at your bar for decades, on and off.’
Bennie Begg had insisted that they must maintain the visitors’ book, no matter how much Robert had insisted it was an antiquated system. To this day, it was still in the top drawer of the office desk, precisely where it had always been.
‘Mr Begg, let me get this right,’ she said. ‘I have evidence that casts suspicion over your father’s death, and you are telling me that you’d prefer to do nothing about it?’
‘I … I don’t know …’ Robert winced at his own indecision as well as the fact that he was clearly losing this argument.
Then she delivered the coup de grâce. ‘And I’m sure your friends would be very disappointed to learn that you had turned down my kind offer to save the village bar.’
Robert was left in awe of her verbal dexterity. Her voice was low and ominous. She cocked her head towards the hall, which was, sure enough, full of people who would be more than a little annoyed if Robert allowed the bar to fold.
‘You’ve already made sure of that,’ said Robert, narrowing his eyes.
Mirabella shrugged casually. ‘So, do you accept my offer?’
Robert stared up into the night sky and considered his options. Mrs Rowley would surely keep pestering him until he agreed to her proposal. She had also proven herself well capable of calculated manipulation, which was not something he wanted to experience again. And although he felt it was neither here nor there, he would like to know why his father had called her on the day he’d died. He assumed that there would be a reasonable explanation for that, at least.
‘I’m still not entirely sure why you think I can help you but … fine. It seems I don’t have much choice, anyway,’ he said, thinking of Colin’s reaction were he to reject Mirabella’s lifeline.
‘Oh, you have a choice,’ she said. ‘Just not the sort of choice you want to make. I’m accustomed to those myself.’
‘I’m just a barman, Mrs Rowley. I can’t promise I’ll find anything.’
‘Call it a hunch,’ she said. ‘I feel you might have more to you than meets the eye.’
Robert shifted uncomfortably on the spot. Did he detect the tiniest compliment buried somewhere in there?
Mirabella continued, ‘There’s a kindness in your eyes. That’s something else I have learned over the years: how to distinguish between the honest and the duplicitous. It’s now a finely tuned skill.’
‘I’ll look through the notes you left at the bar,’ Robert assured her.
‘In your own time,’ she replied, although the implication was clearly ‘As soon as is humanly possible,’ especially as she added: ‘We’ll meet tomorrow at the Pine Needle. I’ll come after closing. Ten o’clock on Tuesdays. That’s right, isn’t it?’
Robert nodded, speechless. This was not how he had expected his New Year to begin.
‘Splendid,’ she said, and with that brushed past him, stalked through the car park and headed onto the main village street.
‘Wait!’ he shouted.
‘Yes?’ She stopped and turned, silhouetted beneath the orange glow of a streetlamp. It made her hair seem translucent.
‘Can I bring some friends along?’
***
Later that night, Robert stared at his bedroom ceiling and watched a spider make its way from one corner to the other. The book he had planned to read lay unopened; his tea was cold on the bedside table. He had exhausted his list of ‘t’ animals, which would normally have sent him straight to sleep, but not tonight. The faces of the Am Dram Society revolved around his bedroom, looking down on him through the pale moonlight. Each person was wearing a different expression, some smiling, some frowning, disappointed in him.
He sighed and kicked the duvet off his legs. He had planned to save Mirabella’s notes for the morning on the assumption that they would make poor bedtime reading. But the knowledge that they were sitting in his wardrobe drawer made sleep impossible. He fetched them, carried them downstairs, and boiled the kettle.
As expected, the details were shocking. The report of Clara Rowley’s face being unrecognisable due to the ragged wound that sliced right through the middle of her skull was terrible. Robert gulped and took a sip of tea. The envelope also contained copious notes on all of those who had been involved in the case. Inevitably, Brian McCrae – and especially what Mirabella viewed as the shortcomings of his investigation – featured heavily. Several meticulously constructed sections – some more convincing than others – attempted to explain why Toby could not possibly have killed his sister.
The final item in the envelope was a scrap of paper with the Pine Needle’s telephone number and a short note – ‘Called on October 28th’ – written alongside it. Robert’s eyes began to sting as he pored over reports of blood spatters, descriptions of Kinlogie House, maps of Findrussie, photographs of almost all of the locals. But after two hours of intense study, he couldn’t understand how Mirabella had reached the conclusion that Toby had not murdered his sister. Her whole case seemed to be based on nothing more than a mother’s intuition.
He massaged his temples and, with a heavy sigh, dragged his feet back up the stairs. Just before he fell into a broken sleep, he pictured his father. His beard was longer than Robert remembered, but his eyes were the same: bright and full of promised fun. ‘Dad,’ he whispered. ‘What’s going on? What on earth have you got me into?’