When Murder Comes Home

by Shana Frost

  ‘Yer wife?’

  ‘What is it?’ came a sleepy feminine voice he recognised as Samantha’s.

  ‘Please stay put.’

  With that he knocked on the next door. But it was already open a crack.

  He knocked again loudly, but no one responded. Then the door next to it pulled open.

  ‘What’s all this hullabaloo?’ Jean Beaulieu’s heavily accented yet irritated voice halted Callan’s knocking.

  The door opened farther and an annoyed Louis Legrand stepped out in a jade-silk night robe.

  ‘Don’t we pay enough to get a peaceful night’s sleep?’

  ‘Who stays in this room?’ Callan demanded, gesturing to the other door.

  ‘Ask the innkeeper,’ Legrand growled, muttering curses under his breath.

  Samantha Grant cleared her throat. She and her husband now stood in their doorway. ‘As far as I know, it’s empty.’

  ‘Room number nine,’ Callan noted. Another empty room mystery.

  ‘Stay put,’ he repeated to both couples.

  Drawing out his gun, he pushed open the door. The room was a dark abyss.

  He took out his torch and flashed it around...

  Then Callan’s broad shoulders slumped, and he let out a breath between clenched teeth. Death had dipped its claws into Dachaigh again.

  HE WENT IN, KICKING the door close behind him and assessed the scene. Just like room four, this one was unfinished, though the walls had been cleared of wallpaper and painted.

  The closet doors were unhinged and rested against one wall, while the bathroom was untiled and unfinished. Like room four, there was a bed frame with no mattress on it, but this time there was no lamp.

  Satisfied that there was no one around, he approached the body.

  He could tell immediately that it was a woman. She was slumped halfway out the window, as if balancing on the edge of the windowsill.

  Her heel-clad feet barely kissed the ground, and her torso was tethered to the window frame. Callan couldn’t see her face, nor her hands – they were both out of the window.

  But he didn’t need those to know who it was. Everyone else he’d already seen tonight so it was clear – as clear as water – that Susan Knight was the dead woman.

  Callan closed the door to the room behind him and led the two couples to the library. Thankfully they didn’t ask any questions.

  The rest of the guests – and Aileen – were waiting as per Callan’s instructions in the library.

  ‘Please wait here. All of ye.’ Callan emphasised the ‘all’.

  ‘Where’s Susan?’ John Cook asked, looking around. His hands had left their permanent home in his pockets.

  Callan assessed the group, then pierced John with a look. ‘Stay here. I mean it.’

  It took him fifteen more minutes to assess the prone corpse from the outside. The window of room nine faced the other side of the inn from the library.

  Just below the window there was a small pool of blood. A flash of his torch on Susan’s pale face told him the blood dripped from her forehead, but that wasn’t where the injury was. There seemed to be something sparkling near her ear – almost on her neck.

  He called in the forensic team and woke up Robert Davis – he needed his kit.

  Knowing nothing could be done till the team arrived, he went back into the library.

  John Cook was pacing, his hands back into his pockets.

  They all turned as Callan came through the door, John glaring at him with barely controlled fierceness. ‘Where is she?’

  Callan didn’t want to tell him yet. ‘I cannot confirm at this point.’

  But John wasn’t in control. He charged head first at Callan.

  ‘Sir...’ Callan shut up when John fisted his hands into his shirt.

  ‘Where’s Susie?’

  ‘Sir, please—’ Callan broke off as John tried to push past him.

  He wrestled the man to the ground as the dark landscape around Dachaigh was once again lit by dancing red and blue lights. His team was here.

  ‘I’M SORRY TO INFORM you that Ms Knight is dead.’

  Aileen hated this. Of course, she’d hated murder and its brutality before, but being in such close proximity to it? Knowing how the taking of a life broke down the lives of others? She shook her head. What gave someone permission to rob a person, one who was hale and hearty, of their breath?

  She shuddered. It had been like a well-rehearsed play – just like the previous time. Only it wasn’t a wife who had fallen apart this time, it was a man who’d raged and collapsed, entirely defeated. And Aileen didn’t know how to console him.

  She’d stood stock still when others had tried to help, burst into tears of hopelessness or spurted gasps of shock.

  The forensic team had arrived again, and Callan had taken over the kitchen for interviews. A few minutes later, a care officer arrived and led John Cook away.

  All Aileen wanted to do was collapse onto the floor herself, but she wouldn’t let panic swallow her, and she wouldn’t overthink.

  Aileen reminded herself to believe – in the future and in her own abilities.

  IN THE OTHER ROOM, Callan stood with his hands on the kitchen counter, listening to Martha Smith.

  ‘Anne and I came down to discuss recipes.’ Her hands trembled slightly and she sniffed back tears.

  Callan waited a beat. ‘John Cook?’

  ‘He came down a few minutes later, saying he wanted a fresh bottle of water.’ After a weak shudder she continued. ‘He asked me how I was – if I was okay.’

  ‘He doesn’t seem like a considerate man—’

  ‘Oh what a horrid thing to say! In fact John – Mr Cook – said he could help me sort it out. He’s – he’s a lawyer who helps women and I – I don’t know a thing about our legal things: the investments, the mortgage and such.’ Martha waved her hands. ‘Dave looked after it all.’

  Callan smiled a crooked smile. There had been some truth to that, he thought. Finally, Martha was being honest.

  Anne Grant confirmed Martha’s story.

  ‘We didn’t know what went wrong. John was with us – he asked Martha if she needed help. But then the lights went off. And we all called out to each other. And then the front door opened and we panicked a bit...’

  ‘And?’ Callan urged her on.

  Anne Grant was at least coherent this time. She held a handkerchief in her hand, which she pulled at constantly.

  ‘John asked us to stay put, when we saw the silhouette of your car out the open door. Then the lights came on and we went upstairs to check out what happened.’

  The rest of the guests had been oblivious, fast asleep. They hadn’t noticed that the lights were out, nor had they heard anything unusual.

  ‘Slumbering like the beast,’ Beaulieu had informed him. Richard Grant had seconded that. Their respective spouses had agreed.

  When the medic called him, Callan went back to the murder scene and crouched by the body, which had now been laid out on a stretcher.

  The medic nodded at him. ‘Got our murder weapon.’ He pointed at a thick shiny belt with studded stones on it.

  ‘What’s this?’

  ‘Ain’t an expert at this but it’s a belt – an exotic sort where you pay a lot for the same functionality.’

  ‘A jewellery piece?’ Callan asked.

  The medic nodded. ‘Of sorts. It’s the kind of thing people with a lot of money might buy. The crystals you see are diamonds. Diamonds studded on a belt!’ He shook his head.

  ‘And how did she die?’

  ‘Strangulation. But there are no signs that she fought back. Leads me to believe I’ll find something else in her system – drugs maybe. I’ll send you the toxicology report’

  ‘And the report on the previous murder?’ Callan reminded him.

  The medic looked down at the dead figure and let out a breath. ‘Just sent it to you before you called. I had to take some time off yesterday, taking Mum to the hospital.’

&n
bsp; Callan nodded. ‘Some things are inevitable.’

  The medic agreed, bagged up the body and rolled the gurney out.

  Aileen intercepted Callan on his way out. She looked distraught, battling to maintain her control.

  ‘I can’t tell you much now. Tomorrow,’ he promised. Lord knew she needed the night off and he needed to think.

  Aileen cleared her throat. ‘They said it was room nine. What was she doing there?’

  ‘Tomorrow,’ he repeated.

  ‘They were all shocked – a killer wouldn’t be shocked. And if it was anything like Dave, the murderer would have had no opportunity to clean up.’

  Yes, last time there had been plenty of blood, but this was a different weapon; a different approach. Perhaps because the killer had known they had little time?

  After all, what if the husband had returned to the room and found his wife gone? Though why kill the lights?

  Too many questions. Callan had to sort through them soon.

  ‘I need to write my report tonight,’ he told Aileen. ‘I expect to have a report on the fingerprint by tomorrow and need to read Dave’s autopsy report as well. We’ll discuss it all tomorrow.’

  ‘I won’t be able to sleep,’ Aileen muttered. ‘They might’ve been quarrelling but he loved her. He’s broken.’

  ‘What do you mean quarrelling?’

  Aileen shook her head, looking at her feet. ‘Tomorrow’ she echoed.

  Callan only shrugged and walked off, leaving her and the inn alone beneath the starry sky.

  THE NEXT MORNING DAWNED with annoyingly cheerful sunshine gleaming in through the windows and a throbbing headache. Aileen snorted. She must be the first Scotswoman in history to find sunshine annoying.

  She had tossed and turned for hours before giving up on sleep. She’d tried to research the dagger again, but felt so ill thinking about it that she’d quickly taken to pacing the room instead – and then switched on a movie when her legs had protested.

  So when dawn broke the dark sky and cast its spell of a brand new day, Aileen wasn’t ready for morning, but she went on autopilot and got breakfast ready. No one was in the mood to chat though, and the whole thing ended quickly, just like every meal since the first murder.

  Aileen had asked Isla not to come over, but her loyal friend had turned up anyway, just after breakfast, and driven her to the police station. Isla’s patient ear had allowed Aileen to vent, and her encouraging words – along with a chocolate chip muffin – helped Aileen feel alive again, so she walked into the station with fresh determination. She would get to the bottom of this if it was the last thing she did!

  CALLAN WAS AT HIS DESK when she arrived.

  ‘Morning.’ He didn’t look up.

  ‘If you can say that.’ Aileen had bags under her eyes. He’d had those too, when he’d witnessed murder the first few times...

  No use dwelling on the past, Cameron, Callan warned himself. Instead he focused on the case. ‘Tell me about the ring.’

  Aileen’s shoulders slumped. ‘My grandfather gave it to my grandmother. He wasn’t rich and had no money but he wanted to give her a token. So he found a stone – I think it’s semi-precious – designed the ring himself and proposed.’

  ‘Who knows about this ring?’

  She considered for a moment. ‘Her sons and their families – that’s my mum and me. My uncle never had any children. Growing up, my father told me this story.’

  ‘And what do you think about the ring?’ Her answer would tell them whether the thief was an amateur, stealing a cheap ring by mistake, or whether he knew something they didn’t.

  Aileen laughed. ‘That’s the thing, I haven’t ever seen it. And judging from the story my father told, he hasn’t either.’

  Callan gestured, as if asking her to share more.

  ‘Siobhan was young when my grandfather died. He was the love of her life, and it crushed her. So she moved to Loch Fuar and placed her engagement ring under lock and key. I think it reminded her of him too much to bare. But her wedding ring she still wears around her neck.’

  Aileen lost herself in thought as Callan scratched his beard. There was something in that story, he thought.

  ‘I have to tell you, Robert looked at the security footage, all those days and nights. It’s just ye and yer guests, with the exception of Isla and yer housekeeping contractors, who enter and exit. So—’

  Aileen cut Callan short. ‘The murderer has to be the thief! The housekeeping contractors don’t have access to my chambers. They’d need the keys for that.’

  ‘It’s best not to jump to conclusions. What we do know for sure is that it’s someone who doesn’t know how OCD you are about your things.’

  ‘Hey, I’m not! But you’re right. Isla’s the only one who knows how I am about things – that I need them in their right place at all times. I can’t see how my guests – or the killer – would know.’

  But the killer knew quite a lot – like how to drug their victims.

  Callan turned his laptop so she could see the screen and opened up two files.

  He’d asked the teams – one from the next town, who he’d asked to help with the admin, and the other one medical – to send in their reports via email. He’d yet to print them out.

  Callan had scoured the reports, updated his murder board and thought about the new information but knew he had to run it all by Aileen and get her opinions. That’s what partners did, after all.

  He showed her the first report and then took two long strides to the murder board.

  ‘The autopsy report says Dave Smith never felt the dagger pierce him. He was asleep – deeply but not dead. He’d consumed pills for insomnia – Zopiclone to be exact.’

  ‘Were they his?’

  ‘Yes, we found the bottle. It had his and his wife’s fingerprints on it. But that doesn’t necessarily mean anything – she might simply have picked them up of the shelf.’

  ‘Did you confirm with Martha that he had a prescription?’

  ‘Yes. She told us he often suffered from insomnia.’

  Aileen nodded. ‘And the dose?’

  ‘Usually one tablet an hour before bedtime, but only two or three times a week,’ Callan told her. ‘But Dave had more than that in his system. Even if he hadn’t fallen asleep yet, the medicine would have compromised his reflexes.’

  ‘You mean to tell me someone administered the extra dosage?’

  ‘Unless he was suicidal.’

  They went back and forth, discussing the dosage, the knife and the other details of the murder.

  ‘What about the fingerprint you lifted?’

  Callan grinned. There he had had success – a key breakthrough.

  ‘It’s a match to a Percy Winston – aka Richard Grant.’

  Aileen couldn’t believe it. ‘Why would someone from across the pond lie about their name?’

  ‘No, he isn’t from Canada – or any part of that continent. He’s Percy Winston from Cheshire, England.’

  ‘Samantha Grant? Their son – his wife? Jake Grant looks very much like Richard.’

  ‘The connection’s real enough. All four of them are from Cheshire. I’m looking into it. But guess what? They do have a business – a business that helps sell pricy vintage items.’

  ‘Like an auctioneer?’

  Callan nodded and Aileen started reading what he’d found about Percy Winston. He had two centres: one in Cheshire and another in London. The Percy Winston Gallery.

  Percy pocketed a handsome commission for pricy artefacts. And his company had indeed carried out a few auctions after an exhibition.

  ‘You’re right. He runs the company with his family. Samantha, Jake and Anne go by the same names; it’s just that their surname’s Winston. It sounds familiar... Wait!’ Aileen clicked her fingers and strutted into the next room, back to the prehistoric computer she’d been using the day before.

  She was back a few minutes later. ‘The Percy Winston Gallery participated in a blind auction on the da
rk web. I found this name last night.’ Aileen tapped a few keys on Callan’s computer and brought up the page. ‘I’d almost put the company at the end of my list but something held me back. They did purchase a dagger but it didn’t fit the description of our murder weapon.’

  Callan caught on. ‘They rigged the auction?’

  ‘No!’ Aileen scrolled. ‘They bought it alright, but it was a hush deal.’

  She was good, Callan thought, and set Aileen to work on the second murder weapon: the belt.

  AILEEN RETURNED AN hour later with a defeated look on her face. The Percy Winston Gallery hadn’t purchased such a belt, and their names weren’t mentioned under any topic to do with the buying or selling of such an item.

  ‘How difficult is it to find a belt studded with diamonds?’

  Aileen laughed. ‘Surprisingly tough as it turns out.’

  With that Aileen bid him adieu. She had to get lunch ready. And her computer at home would suffice for the time being.

  Isla was able to drive Aileen home before she had to get back to baking her afternoon lot.

  Aileen stared out the window as the incredible Highland scenery whisked by. It looked so beautiful, so peaceful – nothing like the turmoil inside her or her inn.

  Two murders at Dachaigh! Who would have thought this could ever happen? It still felt like a nightmare her subconscious refused to wake up from.

  The best Aileen could do was fix her reluctant guests some sandwiches. None of them seemed to have much of an appetite, but they all picked at the sandwiches except John Cook, who’d retreated in his shell. He looked utterly heartbroken.

  Legrand and Beaulieu had worried expressions on their faces. They muttered something to each other and retired to their bedroom.

  Aileen checked the safe again but the ring was still gone.

  Sudden flames of anger ignited her blood. How dare someone bring murder to her house? Dachaigh literally meant home; it was her home. And who would dare steal her grandmother’s beloved ring? A ring made only with a semi-precious stone?

  Like fuel to an engine, blood zinged through her veins, urging her to get back to her investigation.