Death in Dalkinchie

by Carly Reid

  He really was the perfect boss, Jessica had begun to realize, her only previous employment experience being as a barista in a campus coffee shop. This had been fine, and she had enjoyed the camaraderie of having colleagues and the pleasure that comes with mastering new skills and delivering a good service, but as a bookish young woman with introverted tendencies, she and Grant had fallen into a companionable rhythm of working where they both could intuitively sense the other’s need for focused time. Jessica used hers today to write up the previous day’s primary school visit, the steady tapping of the keyboard and the sorting of her notes and impressions into logical paragraphs soothed and calmed her.

  “Time for tea?” Jessica looked up. Grant was standing, tea already made, steam rising invitingly from a mug in each of his hands. Yes, truly the perfect boss.

  “Yes please. I’m just coming to an end of this. Good timing!”

  As was their habit, Grant and Jessica took their tea on the battered old leather sofa in the outer office.

  “Are you still following the McScunnered leads, Jessica?”

  “I don’t know. Magnus and I were out of luck yesterday. And then when I came back here to the village, there was all that news about Patricia Wilcott’s arrest and it kind of put it out my head. Did you hear?”

  Even as she asked, Jessica knew what the answer would be. Although Grant Mack could not in any way be described as a gossip, his local connections and professional expertise meant he was as plugged in to local news as anyone could be. He would know about the developments in the case, and he would have heard from several different sources already. Jessica still could not believe the speed with which news travelled in Dalkinchie, and as the old saying said, the fastest of all was bad news.

  “I did indeed. Quite a development, although as I understand it, initial reports of the arrest were perhaps a wee bit on the hasty side. Have you spoken to Patricia since?”

  “No, I – ” Jessica stopped herself. Just the thought of trying to describe what had happened in Donald Donaldson’s office was enough to make the heat rise up in her cheeks again, and the resurgent panicky feeling of imposter syndrome. She wasn’t ready to try and explain it to anyone yet, not even Grant. “No, I haven’t. I don’t have her number anyway, although I’m hoping she might try and get in touch with me.” Jessica left it at that. The information she had received about the Wilcott’s marriage had thrown her for a loop, and she was unsure whether she was quite so ready to continue to vouch for Patricia’s innocence.

  “I was asking about McScunnered because I have Nicholas Pringle coming in shortly, and he is very well versed in local land, boundaries, conversions, zoning and so on – and the history as well. I’m not saying he will definitely be able to assist with identifying Abbotsford Farm, but if anyone local could help, he probably can. In any event, you are welcome to join us and ask some questions if you would like. I have yet to decide whether I will print the latest McScunnered letter next week – I held it back from the most recent issue. I feel there’s enough of a question hanging over it to hold fire.”

  Jessica nodded. There could be no harm in hearing what Nicholas Pringle had to say.

  In the event, he was late for his appointment with Grant, and Jessica was already getting ready to head down to Lissa’s for her lunch, meaning that she only had the briefest of exchanges with him as they crossed paths in the stairwell.

  “Miss Greer! The gaffer in, is he?”

  The shirt was blue today, and his pants a sickly mustard colour, but the man was as eye-catching as ever.

  “Hello, Mr Pringle. Grant’s waiting for you in the office.”

  “Thank you.”

  Jessica continued down the stairs. With events overtaking the case the way they had, she too no longer felt that the pursuit of McScunnered was a priority.

  * * *

  It was a relief to head to Lissa’s for lunch. That is, it was a relief until Ealisaid spoke. “Jessica! I’ve a message from Murdo and DI Gordon for you. Give me a wee minute and I’ll pass it on.”

  Ealisaid no longer had to ask for Jessica’s order. She had automatically began to prepare her regular latte as soon as she spotted her through the window, and handed it directly to her friend as soon as she reached the top of the line. Jessica took the mug and placed it on her customary table closest to the counter, hooking her backpack over one of the chairs. She knew that Ealisaid would follow up the coffee with a grilled cheese sandwich, or ‘toastie’ as it was known in Scotland. This small thing – a regular lunch order at a local coffee shop – was one of the many and varied reasons that Scotland in general, and Dalkinchie in particular, was beginning to feel more and more like home for Jessica. She waited until the line behind her had cleared and went back up to the counter to speak to Ealisaid.

  “You said you have a message for me? Are the police looking for me?” As she spoke a jolt of adrenaline to her stomach made Jessica realise that she had not, in fact, completely recovered from her earlier experience in Donald Donaldson’s offices. She was instantly on the alert again, feeling the flush creep up her cheeks. What was the cause of this uncomfortable feeling? She had nothing to hide!

  Ealisaid, steel milk jug in one hand, the other on her green tartan apron-clad hip, smiled with amusement at her friend. “Well. Not exactly. You are not the subject of an international manhunt or anything like that! I just mean they were in anyway for coffees and cakes but they asked if you were about, and to say that if I saw you, could you go up to the Hall and have a wee chat.”

  What now? Jessica wondered to herself. It wasn’t as if she had shared any information about her own suspicions with anyone. DI Gordon had told her to leave the McScunnered leads alone, and he had been right, tempting as it was – she was looking no further. They couldn’t have known that she had been to see Donald Donaldson, could they? Had he been in touch with them? What could he have told them? She hadn’t spoken a word of the overheard phone conversation to anyone apart from Reenie and Ealisaid, but in the light of further information she had begun to wonder whether it was significant enough to tell the police. Would it be seen as covering up if she didn’t?

  Jessica took a deep breath. She was getting paranoid. “Can I take the toastie to go, please Ealisaid? I guess I had better head up there right now and find out what they want. Murdo didn’t tell you?” She hoped that his customary loose-lippedness might have given a clue to what was going on.

  “Surprisingly, he did not. And there was something else I was going to ask you as well. Give me a wee minute while I remember what it was. In fact, give me back your coffee and I’ll put it in my own cup for you to take out.” Jessica retrieved her latte from where it had been awaiting her on the table, and Ealisaid expertly poured it into a reusable takeaway cup. She glanced at Jessica as she did so. “You need to get yourself one of these Jessica…I’m going to start offering rewards to people who bring in reusable cups. Anyway, I have remembered what I was going to ask. What are you doing on Friday night?”

  “This Friday?” Jessica didn’t really have to think about it. Even during her student days she had never been big on Friday nights out, and now in Dalkinchie her life had settled into occasional drinks at the local pub with either Reenie or Ealisaid and once, particularly memorably, a delicious meal out for Reenie’s birthday at Gillespie’s, Dalkinchie’s fine dining establishment where she had eaten wild salmon and locally grown potatoes. She still savored that memory.

  “Not a thing, apart from whatever you are going to ask me to do!” She smiled widely at her friend.

  Ealisaid smiled back. “Good, that’s what I was hoping you would say. Hear me out though, before you agree to this. It’s a little weird.”

  “Okay, now you’ve got me intrigued.”

  Ealisaid followed up. “I have had an outside catering job booked for a while. It’s at the Golf Club, and it’s a sort of an award ceremony for the Donaldson cup winner.” Her eyes searched Jessica’s face for any sign of the penny dropping. She was
n’t disappointed.

  “The Donaldson cup…that’s the one that Desmond Wilcott won this year?”

  “He won it more than just this year, Jessica. In fact it was the tenth time in a row that he had won it, and as a celebration they commissioned a portrait to be painted and hung in the clubhouse with all the other celebrated golfy men of Drummond and Dalkinchie. It was to be this Friday evening, and I contacted them yesterday to check what they wanted to do, assuming that they would be canceling. Turned out I was wrong – they are going ahead with the event and with the unveiling, although now it’s going to be a memorial rather than a celebration. So I’m still needed; and I could do with help with setting up, serving drinks and so on. It’s a buffet, so no serving food, should be pretty easy once it’s running. Just wine, orange juice and water, they can go to the bar for anything stronger.”

  Jessica took this in. “Will Patricia be there?’

  “I should think so, provided she hasn’t been chucked in jail by then!”

  Jessica knew Ealisaid and her sense of humour well enough not to take this too seriously. “Count me in. I’ll definitely help. Just tell me when and where to turn up and I’ll be there!”

  “That’s wonderful, Jessica. I really do need the extra pair of hands, and I’m assuming that Murdo will no’ be available now. This is the first time they’ve hired me at the Golf Club and I’m hoping to impress them – I’d love to get more work there, lots of people wi’ money who might be throwing their own parties and in need of a caterer! I’ll be handing out cards, that’s for sure.”

  Jessica wasn’t going to miss the chance to speak to Patricia, even if she had to wait two days to do it, especially when as a bonus she could help out a good friend at the same time.

  She would rather do it sooner, though. A lot could happen in two days.

  13

  A Bit Hingy

  “You cannae put that there!”

  DI Gordon looked around helplessly as his coffee cup was removed from his grasp and sailed away behind his right ear. He instinctively began to apologize without really being clear what his crime was.

  “Aye, well, that’s one of our wooden tables. If ye start sticking your coffee mugs on it, you’ll likely mark it. You can do that on they other tables, they just have a vinyl finish, but no’ these ones. They were original from back when the Hall was built and we dinnae want them ruined. I’ll away and get you a coaster. I’ll get you a wee plate for your cakes as well while I’m at it.”

  “We’re awfy sorry, Mrs Menzies. We’ll no’ do it again.” Murdo, not yet seated, placated the caretaker, taking the DI’s coffee cup from her hand. He towered over her by at least a foot, and despite the air of authority his Special Constable police uniform gave him, anyone watching the scene would be in no doubt that the diminutive woman in dark green overalls was in total charge of the situation. She bustled away, Murdo following behind her offering to help out.

  “Och, you’re fine Murdo laddie – I dinnae need any help with a couple of coasters and a plate or two! You can scrub the floor in the main hall if you want – no, didnae think that would appeal to you.” Clearly mollified by his offer, Sheila Menzies twinkled at the young man although it didn’t stop her muttering to herself as she shuffled towards the door of the small room. “Over a hundred years old those tables…they’ll no’ be damaged on my watch! Honestly, you’d think people had forgotten that coasters existed these days…it’s no’ them that would have to get the french polishing done…”

  DI Gordon rolled his eyes at Murdo, but if he had been expecting any solidarity there he was disappointed. Murdo, loyal as ever, was firmly backing up Mrs Menzies’ stance. “She’s no wrong, it can be a right pain in the bahookie to try and get cup rings oot of polished wood. My wee granny told me that, there was a mark on her old press once and she said you could try salt and bicarb, although that’s a wee bit rough so you’d have to go very gently and use a soft cloth, or you can do lemon oil I think but I dinnae know where you would get that, or she even said she’d heard tell of mayonnaise mixed wi’ ashes but she didnae like mayonnaise you see, she always preferred salad cream so that wis a no go – plenty of ashes, right enough, she always enjoyed a proper wood fire…”

  The Detective Inspector waited as patiently as he could. He was beginning to learn that there was no point in interrupting Murdo in full flow, and anyway, today he felt particularly tired and just not up to the task. He and his partner had recently welcomed twins to their family, and the broken nights were beginning to take a heavy toll. They had been repeatedly told that it would ‘get better’, but for a man who liked precision, procedure and predictability this offered little reassurance. No-one seemed willing to offer a detailed timeline. When exactly would they sleep through the night? He yawned.

  Murdo was drawing to a close. ” – and she never smoked again, just like that. Cold turkey. I wonder why they call it that? What’s cold about a turkey? – ”

  This time DI Gordon did think he should intervene, before Murdo could start on a whole new cycle. Luckily there was no need, as Mrs Menzies returned to the room, cutting off this new train of thought. She was carrying the promised coasters and plates, but also, over one arm, a neatly folded and pressed snowy white tablecloth.

  “I jist thought that it would be a bit nicer if you had it made up properly. Shift oot the way there, would you.” Mrs Menzies used her free arm to unceremoniously brush DI Gordon’s notes to the edge of the table where he quickly grabbed them before they slid off completely, and she shook out the tablecloth with a quick one-handed flick, letting it settle smoothly over the length of the table.

  “We really don’t need – ” this was fruitless. DI Gordon may as well not have spoken.

  “Well now, that’s a bit better, isn’t it.” As she spoke Sheila Menzies deftly set out the coasters and placed the coffee mugs on them. In a trice, the cakes were unboxed and presented on the floral plate, with two smaller plates laid in front of the men. DI Gordon began to wonder if he was in fact dreaming. Was he working, or was he out for afternoon tea? Pulling himself together, he thanked the caretaker, who nodded. He wasn’t completely forgiven, however. “Well, it’s just as I say, those are old tables, and just a few wee touches will protect them for the future, last another 100 years they will, dinnae fancy trying to get cup rings oot of wood today, I’ve the Brownies starting back after school and need to get the big Hall set up and I’d never gie them the wooden tables, not wi’ all the glitter and glue they use…”

  Off she went.

  All James Gordon had wanted was somewhere quiet in Dalkinchie to collect his thoughts and try to make some progress with this case. None of it made any sense to him at all. He tended to go back to first principles in times like this, but with this case that wasn’t helping. Means – well, they had been advised that liquid nicotine was widely available to purchase now due to the rise of vaping, and there was nothing distinctive about the vial they had found. If that indeed was the murder weapon. Opportunity was a lost cause. The room had been locked, so really no-one had the opportunity. However, the keys were widely available, so in fact almost everyone had had the opportunity, although it would have taken some nerve. The Hall had had its busiest day all year and at least 150 people had been through its doors. It had been fruitless to try and narrow that down. Motive – the wife Patricia appeared to have the strongest motive, as was often the case, but why would she voluntarily draw their attention to the nicotine?

  He couldn’t make it make sense. Perhaps the forthcoming conversation with Jessica Greer would shed some light on the situation. James knew that the young woman had been the first person to meet Patricia Wilcott as she arrived at the Hall following her husband’s collapse, and he wondered if she could have insights into her frame of mind or any action that had seemed out of place, or peculiar. It was a little unusual, and not routine, but he had been impressed by Jessica’s prescience and persistence, and felt that she was in possession of a shrewd mind and some fine
observational skills.

  It couldn’t hurt to have her take.

  * * *

  When Jessica arrived at the Village Hall, Mrs Menzies directed her towards the side room where DI Gordon and Murdo had set themselves up.

  “Miss Greer.” Once again, Jessica noticed how tired DI Gordon looked, and wondered what could be the cause. This case, while complicated, was surely pretty standard for him. She waited as he flipped open his notebook, frowned, moved it to one side, rubbed his eyes and then looked at her again.

  “I was wondering if you had anything additional to tell us…ah…anything you might have noticed that was perhaps a little out of the ordinary? Perhaps with regards to Mrs Wilcott?”

  Jessica froze. The way he had phrased the question sounded as if he knew that there was something she hadn’t told him. Her mind flitted wildly back to the Saturday morning at the top of the stairs in the newspaper offices. There had been no one else there, she was sure of that. Patricia had not seen her, and hadn’t mentioned it since. Even if the police knew that Patricia had rearranged her single flight just hours before her husband’s death, there was simply no way they could know that Jessica knew that fact. She took a deep breath. Her nerves were still jangling and she was beginning to feel a little hot as well, although the weather outside was dry and cool. She glanced at the windows in the small room. Closed. Murdo’s face gave nothing away, his expressive, open face wore its usual calm, happy expression.

  James Gordon watched the young woman opposite him. His own words repeated themselves in his ear, hardly his most incisive questioning ever. Still, it would probably do the job since he wasn’t really sure what he was asking for – he was just hoping that Jessica might present a fresh perspective on a case that was becoming stuck, without actually inviting her to join the force.

  He suppressed a small shiver. It wasn’t cold, he knew that – the August day outside was warmer than was typical for late Scottish summer, but sleeplessness seemed to have brought with it a lack of ability to regulate his own body temperature. He glanced at the windows in the small room. Already closed. Murdo’s face gave no indication that he had an opinion about the phrasing of the question. He looked exactly the same as he always did, and as DI Gordon watched, he selected a cake from the plate on the table and began to eat it.