Seven Eight Play It Straight (Grasshopper Lawns Book 4) Page 9

  PART TWO – DEVELOPMENT

  Grasshopper Lawns

  ‘Where’s your shy and retiring stepdaughter today, Edge?’

  Donald put his breakfast tray down carefully and dropped into the chair opposite hers. She looked up with a slight frown between her brows. Over the last six months they’d drifted into the habit of breakfasting together, but strictly on the understanding that it was a silent and peaceful meal, at least until after the first cup of coffee. The arrangement suited both admirably, not least because it kept anyone else from coming over to be sociable with a lone breakfaster. This was the first time he’d joined her since her return from Florida, and chattiness was not at all a change she was willing to approve.

  ‘No idea. Probably out walking.’

  He nodded and without rancour at her abrupt tone propped up his newspaper and addressed himself to his kippers. She spread her second slice of toast liberally with honey and turned her attention back to her own newspaper, relieved. It had been quite a late evening, and Brian had taken the huff when she refused to stay the night in his apartment. She’d woken feeling particularly heavy and listless, despite sleeping with only a sheet thrown over her and having the ceiling fan twisting languidly overhead, and not realized why until she emptied her mailbox on her way through the hall to breakfast. Five greeting-card envelopes. They were hidden in her handbag, but adding another layer to her dark morning mood.

  Coffee slowly worked its usual magic and she looked across at Donald, who was frowning over something in his paper, with a sudden rush of affection. He really was the ideal breakfast companion, easy on the eyes, light on the ears—no loud crunching of toast or slurping noises—and, usually, even more taciturn than she was. He felt her glance and looked up, his intensely blue eyes crinkling slightly in a half smile before he returned to what he was reading and she sank back contentedly in her chair, cradling her coffee cup between her fingers. Maybe he could have a word with Brian . . . Fortunately, because of his training schedule, Brian usually ate breakfast as soon as the room opened and then disappeared for several hours, but they had breakfasted together in Florida and he had been depressingly cheerful and full of plans for each day. He even found it amusing that she was so grumpy before her coffee, which was simply infuriating. Donald would understand, and he would be able to explain to Brian that the secret to a successful day was to start it in absolute silence. Conversation was something to be worked up to.

  On cue, Donald folded his paper neatly, put it aside, picked up his cup and drank deeply.

  ‘I wasn’t sure if you would expect chatter. After being a houseguest for nearly a month.’

  ‘No, thank heavens Anne and Trevor aren’t morning people either. She and I drank orange juice, and glared at him for breathing heavily over his waffles. Throwing Brian into our merry mornings was a bit of a shock.’

  ‘He talks?’

  ‘He probably talks more in the mornings than at any other time of day. It certainly feels like more. I was just thinking I’d ask you to have a word with him.’

  ‘And say what, exactly? Don’t talk to Edge until she’s had her coffee?’ His eyes crinkled again as she nodded.

  ‘Don’t laugh at me. Isn’t that why you asked where Fiona was, in case there was any risk of her joining us?’

  ‘Pretty much. There are things I can face over a martini that are out of the question over morning coffee. She strikes me as the type to chatter gaily into any silence and think she’s doing everyone a favour. What she said last night, about the Tobias Murdochs inviting her to stay, is that likely to happen soon?’

  ‘I don’t know. Maybe tomorrow, if Jamey isn’t out of hospital, because the campsite is fully booked. The main attraction seemed to be that they’re on the Mile, and the house is rumoured to have cellars that will tie into the whole old town thing.’

  ‘She mentioned that,’ he said drily, and finished his coffee. ‘You’ll have to sort out your issues with Brian yourself. That’s not something I would be able to do. I’m sure you’ll manage.’

  She blinked, surprised and slightly indignant. ‘That’s rich, considering you practically pushed us together, telling him to keep wearing me down—oh yes, he told me all about that. I feel it’s the very least you can do. You should handle the fine-tuning if you want to see the contract through.’

  He half-smiled in response to her teasing tone but said instead, ’Coming to class today?’

  She nodded and he pushed back his chair, picked up his tray, gave her a friendly nod and left. She finished her coffee and walked slowly back to the apartment. It was hotter than ever, heavy clouds trapping heat like a thick grey blanket, and she reluctantly pulled on her comfortable old leotard. So not in the mood . . . She hesitated, then spilled the envelopes from her handbag onto her desk and picked up her letter opener.

  Birthdays, after a certain age, were not happy, as far as she was concerned. It wasn’t that she was in denial, she liked being where she was in her life. However, she resented putting a number to it, particularly a number that changed the way people reacted to her. Age was an attitude of mind; she had plenty of neighbours who were ten, even twenty, years her senior and who were young at heart, but the calendar didn’t care. Time, it insisted, was marching on, and the sands were running out. At least it wasn’t a milestone birthday, although it had taken some serious arguing to persuade Katryn not to put an announcement up on the board, and to suppress the usual birthday tea and gifts. If Katryn kept quiet, and if Vivian could be silenced, then the worst was over. The day could slip quietly by, unmarked, no-one cheerily telling her how good she looked for her age, or worse, looking surprised. Not even sixty yet? Heavens, I just assumed, as you’re living in a retirement village, you were at least sixty-five. It was a comment she’d heard more than once, but it would be unbearable today.

  Kirsty had sent a card which said tactfully ‘For no particular reason, just glad you’re in my life’, and that made her smile. Patrick’s card made her laugh out loud. He’d used one of the personalized cards websites and chosen a photo taken at a party a year ago, where they were cheek to cheek and mugging it up for the camera. He knew full well that Brian resented him jealously, and was both annoyed and amused by it. The card would infuriate Brian, if he ever saw it, but it did briefly cheer her up. The party had been a Grease fancy-dress and she was dressed as Sandy, her close-fitted leather outfit made decent by a Danny hip-length letter jersey and her wig pushed askew by Patrick’s mock-fervent embrace.

  The last three cards were from her bank, the friends in Florida, and a friend in Australia. After a moment’s consideration she swept them into her drawer. Having cards out, if Brian got over his huff and dropped by unexpectedly, would be disastrous, and Vivian might even have forgotten. She certainly hadn’t commented on the date not being broadcast on the message board. She was even more likely than Brian to pop by for a visit, and would be mortified.

  Feeling very old, she picked up her neck towel and let herself out of the apartment to collect Vivian on the way down to class.

  Onderness Police Station

  Detective Inspector Iain McLuskie, Kirsty’s superior officer and, before the Police Scotland reshuffle, her division head at the Onderness police station, no longer came in there very often. The division was a small one, now part of Central, and he was usually at Central Headquarters, enjoying a fairly high profile after the successful solving of several murders in the Onderness area. His ability was unquestionable: he had been the first to pick up on a serial killer preying on senior singles, and had recruited her aunt in apprehending the killer, but he had always been generous about sharing credit and Kirsty missed working with him. She was pleased to see him arrive unexpectedly, but he looked uncharacteristically sombre when he invited her through to one of the small glass-walled interview rooms, shutting the soundproof door to give them some privacy. There was no hint of his usual cheerful manner and she felt a prickling of unease as he waved her to the other side of the table.

/>   ‘I’ll have to tape this, Kirsty, for the record. I probably shouldn’t even be talking to you about it, and certainly not just the two of us in private. It’s going to be a difficult conversation, so if you feel uncomfortable at any time, or want another officer here, tell me and we stop, ken?’ He put a blue USB stick on the desk and nodded at it. ‘I wouldn’t want to lose that. It’s all my recorded notes of the case. Ready to start?’

  Kirsty, bewildered and hastily searching her conscience, nodded. Iain took the seat opposite and started the recording, briefly giving his own rank and putting on record that the discussion to follow with Sergeant Kirsty Cameron related to the Murdoch murder investigation. In a few swift sentences he brought her and the recording up to date with the latest development. The man who had killed Timothy Murdoch had been arrested before he could make an attempt on the life of Fiona Bentwood, and following his interview, during which he had cooperated fully with the police, it had become likely that the intended targets of the original attack were James Bentwood and his sister Fiona.

  ‘Fiona Bentwood,’ Iain went on in the same unnervingly formal voice, ‘was contacted while out on a walk this morning, and her companion drove her through to the nearest polis station where she was apprised of the situation. She became hysterical, and has accused her stepmother, Beulah Edgington Cameron, previously Bentwood, of being behind the attacks. She also refused to leave with her companion, as he is a friend of her stepmother’s, and insisted on a polis car taking her back to the Lawns so she could collect her things. She has now moved to the house of Tobias Murdoch, uncle of the murder victim, Timothy Murdoch.’

  Colour flooded Kirsty’s face as Iain was talking. When he stopped, she bit back a furious retort, very aware of the recording, and said tightly instead, ‘Why are you telling me this way, as a formal record?’

  Iain gave her a sympathetic look, but kept his voice completely neutral. ‘I have to advise you that in view of the closeness of your relationship to the accused, your access to the investigation has been revoked. However, we were hoping you could explain some of the confusing comments Miss Bentwood made. You are not required to, but any help you can give would be appreciated.’

  She stared at him. No wonder he had said the discussion would be difficult.

  ‘Such as?’ she asked in the same tight voice, and he lifted his shoulders slightly.

  ‘She implied that her stepmother had a direct financial interest in ordering her murder, and that of her brother, but that was the point where she became fairly incoherent. The officer interviewing her couldn’t understand her explanation. Something about a—tonty?’

  The colour drained from Kirsty’s face, and she felt suddenly faint. Speak, and instantly become a suspect? Refuse to comment, and when it did come out her position would look even worse?

  ‘I do understand, and I can explain it. But,’ she cleared her throat, ‘the explanation gives me a motive for the murder as well. My Uncle James, Fiona’s father, left quite a large estate when he died, and he had arranged that the bulk of it be put into a central fund, which everyone refers to as a tontine. Every year, it pays out equal dividend cheques to his surviving heirs. If anyone dies during the year, the survivors get a bigger cheque. I’m one of his heirs, along with Fiona, JJ and my aunt.’

  Iain raised his brows and waited, and she tried to think of the others.

  ‘His mother was one, and his sister still is, she’s also Fiona Bentwood. His South African housekeeper, who has just died. His PA for twenty years, Patricia Fraser. The manager who took over and ran the business in Africa when they returned to Scotland, John Henry.’ She was counting on her fingers. ‘I meet them every year. The last three are called Colin, Sandra and Mary. I don’t know their surnames and have no idea what the relationship is, I think they’re cousins. They’re very nice, though. Everyone’s nice, apart from his foul daughter. No one is the type to go round murdering people. My aunt is no more likely to be involved than I am; this is Fiona’s insane jealousy. She’s always hated Edge. It was her mother who wanted the divorce, to marry someone else, but Fiona has always believed Edge was responsible, even though she only met my uncle two years later. Fiona pure worshipped her father and she’s been foul to Edge from day one.’

  Iain glanced expressively at the microphone, and she struggled to get her furious indignation back under control. There was a jug of water on the table, and he poured her a glass and handed it over in silent sympathy. She sipped, and indignation was replaced by the despairing realization that with a powerful motive of her own she would undoubtedly be suspended altogether for the duration of the investigation, and who would be able to help Edge then? Iain, who owed at least part of his current status to her aunt and seemed to have completely forgotten that, was standing up, thanking her, confirming her suspension on full pay, ending the recording, asking her to meet him at the front desk to hand in her Airwave and warrant card for the duration, but she hardly heard through the roaring in her ears. Then the door was closing behind him. She stood up numbly to follow and a flash of blue caught her eyes. A blue USB stick, left next to the jug of water, where she couldn’t miss it.

  Grasshopper Lawns

  Vivian had, quite obviously, forgotten, and seemed quite abstracted during their walk to and from their exercise class. Edge was perversely disappointed, and didn’t go back to Vivian’s for tea after the class as she normally would. The phone was ringing as she entered her apartment. The caller was Kirsty and not, it seemed, in birthday mode. She said without preamble, ‘Have you heard? Has the CDI been in touch yet?’

  ‘I’m fine, thanks, darling, how are you? Heard what? Good news?’

  ‘Far from!’ Kirsty gave an angry little laugh that was almost a sob. ‘That bloody Fiona. I’ve been suspended. Have you not heard from the polis at all?’

  ‘The message light on my phone is blinking, but I’ve only this moment walked in. What do you mean, you’ve been suspended? For putting Fiona up that night? I didn’t even think she was a serious suspect!’

  ‘No, she wasn’t, but now thanks to her, you are! And because of our relationship I’m not exactly a suspect, but I’ve been suspended. Oh God, I probably shouldn’t be telling you at all, but I’m not feeling hugely loyal to my job right at the moment.’

  Edge sat down abruptly, her legs suddenly shaky. ‘Tell me what you’re talking about.’

  ‘No.’ Kirsty made an obvious effort. ‘The phone message is likely from a chief detective inspector in Edinburgh, who is in charge of the case. Iain’s also on the case, and asked to be the one who spoke to me, considering I used to report directly to him. With any luck he’ll be assigned to your interview as well. Phone them, and then phone me back. And remember, you don’t have to do anything unless you’re charged, but cooperating makes a good impression.’

  The call was indeed from a Chief Detective Inspector Hamilton, who was pleasant, but neutral, when she phoned him back. There had been a development, he said, in the case involving Timothy Murdoch’s murder and there were some questions they’d like to ask. Would she be able to come in to Edinburgh to the police station?

  ‘Not easily,’ Edge matched him for pleasantness, and gently tested the water. ‘Edinburgh’s a bit of a nightmare in August. Can I not go to the local station?’

  ‘You’re at the Grasshopper Lawns retirement village, is that correct? We’ll come to you, if that’s easier.’

  ‘We?’

  ‘That would be myself and Detective Inspector McLuskie, who was the division head at the local station. I know you know him.’

  ‘Yes, I do.’ Edge relaxed fractionally and thought quickly. The police coming here would definitely cause comment as Iain was well known at the Lawns after the murders over the previous winter. ‘I’d rather you didn’t come here. When do you want me, and where do I go?’

  She rang Kirsty back. ‘I’m going in now, seeing them in an hour. He said Iain would be there as well.’

  Kirsty gave a sigh of relief. ‘I think
Iain’s on our side, but to stay on the investigation he’s playing it very neutral, so don’t greet him like a long lost buddy, or expect him to be friendly. I’m pretty sure he is, but he wants to stay in the loop, so he will seem very different.’

  Lothian & Borders Police Station

  Edge was glad Kirsty had warned her, although it seemed to her that Iain, under the circumstances, was okay. CDI Hamilton was a big man with clever eyes and a manner which gave nothing away. After a few general questions he bored into specifics which seemed bewilderingly random. He was particularly interested in her cash flow, and asked if she could have raised a large sum of cash fairly quickly.

  She stared at him, then shook her head, completely puzzled.

  ‘Actual cash? No. I have an ISA which I can draw on if I ever need to transfer a few thousand pounds in a hurry over and above my monthly allowance. My accountant, Patrick Fitzpatrick, pays my expenses at the Lawns, and he pays my credit card and any other accounts.’

  ‘So you have no other money of your own?’

  Edge raised her brows at him. ‘I don’t need any other money. I already told you about the ISA. I’d never make a purchase of more than that on the spur of the moment. I get hold of Patrick if I do need more.’

  ‘You trust him, then? Do you check your accounts frequently?’

  ‘I trust him implicitly and have done for many years. And yes, I get copies of bank and share statements. He’s always insisted I keep myself familiar with them, especially as he gets closer to retirement age. He’s a friend of long standing as well as my accountant.’

  Hamilton wanted to know more about the friendship and Edge, starting to feel slightly resentful, explained that they saw each other socially a few times a month.

  ‘A little less so now,’ she added unguardedly. ‘I’m in a relationship with someone else.’