When Murder Comes Home

by Shana Frost

  ‘Detective Cameron,’ she greeted him, the fragrance of coffee hitting her as she stepped inside.

  CALLAN TOOK HIS TIME, sipping the coffee he’d just brewed and assessing Aileen from under his lashes.

  He wasn’t sure they’d work out as a team, but he’d realised that if he wanted to solve this quick, he’d need an assistant. And from the research he’d done on her – the extensive research – he’d found out she was good at her job.

  Why, there’d been an article about how she’d gone out of her way to investigate the financial anomalies of a company she’d been assigned to audit. She’d found what her bosses hadn’t, essentially exposing a big fraud.

  He wanted to ask her why she’d left such a successful career behind, but Callan didn’t get personal. All he cared about was that they found the killer.

  ‘Ye’re here quick.’

  ‘The sooner we get this done, the better.’

  Callan nodded and let out a long breath. ‘Ye came here this morning to discuss the case – do ye have any data?’

  ‘Are you agreeing to let me help in the investigation?’

  Callan wasn’t sure but he said, ‘I’d like the data.’

  ‘I’d like an assurance that you won’t steal my data.’

  ‘Don’t argue with me.’ Callan’s temper shone through.

  Aileen held her ground and gave him a look. ‘We’ll work together. You need my skills, I know. You’re short-staffed. And you’ve got access to records. I need your resources,’ she deadpanned.

  Callan looked away. He didn’t have time to argue with a stubborn woman.

  ‘We’ve a computer in that room. No one uses it.’ It seemed like a good way to start this pseudo partnership. Callan had no interest in sharing his thoughts about the investigation with her – she was still a suspect as far as he was concerned.

  Though, if he was honest, he thought it was unlikely she was the killer. To encourage such a scandal attached to her inn, which she’d just spent a cartload of money to renovate, seemed like self-sabotage.

  Or a good marketing gimmick.

  The computer room was smaller than a closet and windowless. The room offered no distractions.

  A desk that looked older than Arthur’s round table sat against one wall, along with a chair more ancient than the Celts, and Callan caught Aileen rolling her eyes when her gaze fell on the computer, which in all fairness did look like the first prototype Charles Babbage might have created.

  ‘First,’ Callan said as he led Aileen back into his office, ‘tell me what ye know.’ He’d turned the murder board around before she’d arrived and stuffed his files into an empty drawer in the cabinet by his desk.

  He watched as she assessed his office, her eyes lingering on the papers peeking out his drawers as if seeing such a lack of organisation pained her. Then her gaze moved to the turned-around murder board and she smirked. ‘Don’t detectives make murder boards?’

  She caught on quick, Callan thought, but he merely shrugged.

  ‘As my partner, you need to share too, you know,’ Aileen reminded him.

  ‘Ye tell me first, partners or not. I’m the detective – the one in-charge.’

  Fair enough, Aileen seemed to concede as she sat down quietly on the uncomfortable visitor’s chair. She obviously didn’t want to risk pissing him off.

  ‘You’ve got to share too. Just remember that.’ Callan heard her mutter.

  When she’d opened up her own computer, Aileen began her ‘presentation’.

  ‘Louis Legrand,’ she explained, ‘is a jeweller who caters to the ultra rich. He’s done some major trades...’ Aileen explained it all to him then moved on to the husband.

  ‘Beaulieu was a professor before. And now they have a successful business together. Legrand started it; Beaulieu contributed to it. No over the top, scandalous controversies, though there are some complaints, as you’d expect.’

  Callan stood by the window, staring out. He was paying close attention to what Aileen was telling him, even if he wasn’t looking at her. She’d found out a lot in such a short amount of time and with the meagre resources she had. Maybe she could be an asset after all.

  ‘So what can you tell me?’ she asked.

  Callan cast a pointed look at her. ‘Finish what you started first. What about the other guests? Dave Smith himself?’

  Aileen pursed her lips. ‘That’s the catch. I’ve got zip on Dave Smith. He doesn’t exist!’

  Callan nodded and gave her a wide smile; Aileen narrowed her eyes. ‘What?’

  ‘We have nothing on him. There are a few Dave Smiths in the system – it’s a common name, after all – but nothing that matches the dead man. There’s no match for his DNA either.’

  Callan gestured for Aileen to finish her piece.

  ‘John Cook,’ she continued. ‘He’s a lawyer and a volunteer at a woman’s shelter. His partner, Susan Knight is a female rights activist and also works at the shelter. I think they met there.’

  ‘Where did you get information about Cook and Knight from?’

  ‘The official website of the shelter. I was about to call them before you texted. It’s a Monday so they should be open for business.’

  Callan nodded.

  ‘The Grants and Martha Smith: they’re a challenge,’ Aileen continued. ‘I found nothing on the Canadians or on the new widow. There’s no name match, nor anything about their gallery. They were talking about it at dinner one night.’

  ‘They spoke about their professions?’

  ‘Yes, the night Smith was alive.’

  ‘Hmmm.’ Callan tapped his chin thoughtfully. ‘And Martha Smith?’

  Aileen shrugged. ‘Same as her husband – it’s like she doesn’t exist.’

  Callan nodded again. He had to stick to his word now. He walked over to the murder board and turned it around to face his new... partner.

  He’d done a thorough job, listing every last detail he knew, and he watched as she studied it all carefully. She looked vaguely disturbed at seeing her own face on the board, but her expression changed when she got to the photos of the murder scene. She’d seen it first-hand of course, but a lot of the detail had probably been lost in the aftermath of her shock.

  ‘It’s always so vague in the movies. Not that much...destruction,’ she observed, swallowing. Her skin had turned pale.

  ‘It’s not the movies. Ye have to deal with it.’ Callan had thrown up a week’s worth of food the first time he’d seen the devastation deliberate death caused. But now, no emotions tickled his throat. It was almost as if murder was normal, as much of a fact as breathing.

  He angled the board and pointed at a photo of Dave Smith’s cleaned pale face on the medical examiner’s steel table.

  ‘That’s the only picture of him we have. According to the report from the medical examiner, he died at around 3 a.m. We ran him for data, including fingerprints, and as I said before – nada, not a single name.’ Callan sighed. ‘The facial recognition software might take some more time.’

  Aileen digested the information before she spoke. ‘Is this search across the UK?’

  ‘Pretty much, but we focused more on Scotland.’

  ‘And Martha?’ Aileen questioned.

  Callan didn’t answer; Aileen gulped, clearly unsettled.

  Both of them turned quiet then, thinking.

  ‘You said the murder took place after three in the morning,’ Aileen said eventually. ‘Does that mean the footsteps I heard are irrelevant?’

  ‘You’re the only one who heard them.’

  ‘That’s preposterous! They were muffled, not loud enough to wake someone up, but there were ten other people in that inn and you expect me to believe not a single one heard anything?’

  Callan snorted out a laugh at that. ‘Something to keep in mind, aye? Ye should’ve heard them the next day. Humbugs the lot of them, I say.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I can spot a liar from a mile away. And all of them lied.’
He fixed Aileen with a stare. ‘And so did you.’

  ‘Me?’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘I didn’t lie,’ Aileen retorted with a shake of her head.

  ‘Maybe “withheld information” would be the correct phrase?’ Callan was enjoying himself. The prim and proper innkeeper might be good at detection but she was pathetic at lying.

  Why, wasn’t she sitting there now, blushing red and squirming in her seat!

  Aileen seemed to battle with herself for a moment, and then gave in – for the sake of their partnership he supposed.

  ‘I didn’t think it was relevant at the time,’ she began to explain. ‘It didn’t make sense either.’

  She jingled a pair of keys in her pocket.

  ‘I’ve always been a responsible person, never lost a thing. But that day, when I was locking up, I couldn’t find my keys to start with.’

  Callan stuffed his hands in his pockets. ‘That’s unusual?’

  ‘It’s a ritual. That’s how I never forget. Living in the city, I always locked everything before heading to bed. I’m extra particular about the keys. I have them on me at all times, like now.’ She patted her right pocket. ‘But that night, I couldn’t find them at all. I looked everywhere. Eventually I found them at the reception counter.’

  ‘So?’ Callan asked.

  ‘I’d never do that! The reception is near the front door. I’d never keep the keys out for everyone to see, especially when I have to account for the safety of ten other people.’

  ‘You’re a safety freak?’ Callan mocked her. The pitiful number of security cameras she’d installed sure hadn’t given him that impression!

  ‘It’s a habit my mother instilled in me as a child. We’d always lock up and she taught me to keep keys away from areas in the house where other people could easily access them.’

  Callan considered for a moment. ‘Where did ye remember last seeing them?’

  ‘I could’ve sworn I dropped them into my right trouser pocket that morning.’

  After a moment of hesitation, Aileen added, ‘It happened again. Not so drastic but after the murder – that night – I found them in my left pocket. But I remember slipping them into my right.’

  ‘What sort of keys do you have on the ring?’

  ‘All of them.’ Aileen twiddled her fingers. ‘I know, for someone crazy about keys, I don’t take enough security measures.’

  ‘You think? You’ve barely installed security cameras, you’ve got a room with sensitive data like the security tapes with no lock and you carry your keys with you everywhere!’

  ‘Why would someone pickpocket my keys? Dachaigh is an inn, not a bank!’

  Callan ordered himself to remain calm. ‘Data is the new currency, Aileen. Ye surely don’t need me to tell ye that. And an inn has data from their guests.’

  She looked like she hadn’t considered that.

  ‘Have ye got a safe in the inn?’ he continued.

  She nodded. ‘It’s Siobhan’s. I haven’t opened it up for a while.’

  By the time Aileen left his office to work on the other computer, Callan’s head ached with rage.

  You could be a novice, you could be naive but who in their right minds thought like Aileen? She’d not even thought about the safe! And when he’d suggested she should have a look, she’d said she’d do so that night.

  But in this gut, Callan knew it was already too late.

  He looked at the murder board. The best way to get through the rage and get some time to think was to work out. Lord knew he needed the physical exertion.

  His day had begun and remained as shitty as it could possibly get.

  A SHORT WHILE LATER, Callan was jogging through the old narrow streets of Loch Fuar.

  As he rounded a corner, he saw them: Susan Knight and Samantha Grant – or at least that’s what they’d called themselves. They stood outside the bakery, looking at the breads inside. They said something to each other in hushed voices, then one of them cast a slanted look Callan’s way.

  Abruptly, they turned as one and walked briskly in the opposite direction.

  What was going on?

  Callan hissed out a breath and continued down the street.

  Susan Knight and Samantha Grant – what did they have in common except that they were lodging at the same inn at the same time? Were they friends?

  Callan panted as he increased his pace. His right leg protested, but as always he ignored the dull ache.

  Mingling with people wasn’t his forte. He liked to stay away from anything that could breathe and speak. But he knew, no matter what, a sane person wouldn’t associate themselves with a stranger at an inn where a murder had just taken place.

  He had to look into it – or perhaps Aileen could. She was much better placed to keep an eye on her guests.

  An hour later, he was calm and truly at peace. The positive energy gave him the gusto to add to his murder board: Aileen’s information about her guests as well as the big question plaguing him – the relationships between them all.

  AILEEN’S BODY CRAMPED as she blinked and stretched. This chair was so uncomfortable! And this computer. She rolled her eyes.

  Perhaps it would be best if she used her phone. That way her tired eyes could take a break.

  Would it help to call the shelter? Or would John and Susan call her out if they found out she’d been snooping?

  She worried her lips, contemplating.

  No, Aileen! she told herself firmly. Adventurous, courageous; it was time to follow her mantra now.

  Tapping her fingers on the old desk, she dialled the shelter’s number.

  The phone rang once and her heart told her ‘abort mission’. On the second ring, her heart told her ‘this is a bad idea’. On the third, her heart began thudding in her chest.

  What if she irritated her guests more than they already were?

  They were under investigation, for God’s sake! They had to be annoyed. And her business! She didn’t—

  ‘Queen Mary’s Shelter for Women,’ came a kind voice.

  Aileen took a breath. ‘Hello.’

  ‘Hello! How may I help you?’

  ‘Ah, um...’ Aileen shut her eyes and took a breath. ‘I, um, my friend wanted help.’

  She hated lying but she had to. Her fingers drummed so fast she could barely see them.

  ‘Help, Miss? Can you tell me what you mean by that?’

  Aileen had to go with the flow. ‘Yes, my friend. Um, she says it’s nothing but I saw bruises on her yesterday. She doesn’t come to our weekly yoga lessons anymore either – says she’s preoccupied. I know she’d never missed those. And’ – Aileen sent a prayer up to apologise for the deception – ‘yes, she flinched when she saw her husband the other day. We were in the supermarket—’

  Flinched when she saw her husband... Who’d done that? Aileen could swear she’d seen it happen. That wasn’t her imagination. Last night? In the—

  ‘We can help your friend out, Miss...?’

  ‘McHugh!’ Aileen hissed out the last part. Terrible! She was terrible at lying! ‘I wanted Ms Knight to help my friend. I read on your website she consults?’

  The person on the other side of the line seemed kind enough. ‘Ms Knight? Yes, she’s one of the best we’ve got.’

  ‘And John Cook? Um, he’s the lawyer, yes?’

  ‘Mr Cook?’ The lady hesitated. ‘That’s a little tricky to arrange, Ms McHugh.’

  ‘Tricky?’

  ‘Yes, um, the two of them don’t work cases together anymore. In fact...’ The lady cleared her throat and whispered, ‘Mr Cook doesn’t work much with our shelter either these days.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I shouldn’t be saying this but, for your friend...’ The lady had gone into gossip mode. After a pause, she whispered, ‘They’ve been involved romantically for a number of years and you know how most of those things end.’

  ‘Oh.’ Aileen’s surprise was truly genuine.

  ‘Yes,’ the lady cont
inued, ‘I don’t know the details but there was some kind of fight and now the two don’t work together, and Mr Cook doesn’t come in much.’

  Aileen frowned as she rang off. She’d told the kind lady she needed to consult her friend again before wasting the shelter’s time.

  The call had paid off. But where did the information lead them? A domestic feud had nothing to do with Dave Smith. She’d think about it later; for now, she had to get back to the inn.

  CALLAN WAS ENGROSSED in his work, glaring at the report from the forensic team. Their sweep had turned up nothing.

  At a soft knock on his door, Callan turned around to find Aileen. Callan frowned at her wide eyes. Before he could ask what was wrong, she said, ‘Someone slashed my tyres!’

  Chapter 10

  Slashed had been a kind word. Someone had destroyed her car tyres – all of them.

  ‘I’m so sorry. I thought if I got everything sorted in the bakery, I could come and visit you later.’ Isla had come out of her shop after hearing all the commotion. ‘I didn’t see anyone by your car but,’ she sighed, ‘I was in the back, baking. No one comes over before I bake the latest batch. And we have no leftovers to sell either!’

  ‘When’s that? You sell your latest batch at...?’ Callan interrupted.

  ‘Five sharp – and always have.’

  Callan glanced at his watch; it was nearly five. But there weren’t many people around.

  ‘It was alright when I passed by earlier,’ he observed.

  He was naturally observant anyway, but his training had made him exemplary. Anything out of the ordinary would have drawn his attention immediately. He thought briefly about Susan Knight and Samantha Grant but they didn’t look like the sort to do this. Besides they'd fled after he’d seen them together. What was that about?

  ‘CCTV footage?’ he asked Isla.

  ‘You can check it out, although I’m afraid it doesn’t look out on the car, just the front door from this angle.’

  The last thing Callan needed was for his time to be taken up by mindless security-footage hunting.